Hunchback by Saou Ichikawa

Saou Ichikawa’s Hunchback, translated from Japanese by Polly Barton and published by Viking (2025), is a daring, compact novel longlisted for the 2025 International Booker Prize and winner of Japan’s prestigious Akutagawa Prize in 2023. As the first author with a severe physical disability—congenital myopathy—to receive this accolade, Ichikawa crafts a narrative that is both a literary phenomenon and a subversive critique of ableism and societal norms. Described as “a thriller of the body” (The New York Times, 2025), the novel follows Shaka Izawa, a disabled woman in a Tokyo care home, whose unapologetic exploration of sexuality and autonomy challenges conventional narratives. Hailed as “one of the most important Japanese novels of the 21st century” (The Booker Prizes, 2025), Hunchback is a raw, witty, and unflinching work that resonates globally, particularly with Indian readers. Its themes of marginalization, desire, and resistance echo the feminist critiques of Kamala Das, Ismat Chughtai, and Dalit writer Bama Faustina, aligning with India’s struggles against gender, caste, and disability-based exclusion.

This review argues that Hunchback is essential reading for its bold confrontation of ableism, its celebration of individual agency, and its provocative narrative structure, offering Indian readers, especially those from marginalized communities, a powerful lens to reflect on autonomy, societal barriers, and the transformative power of storytelling.

Hunchback is a concise, 97-page novella centered on Shaka Izawa, a wealthy woman in her forties with severe spine curvature and myotubular myopathy, living in a care home named Ingleside outside Tokyo. Confined to an electric wheelchair and reliant on a ventilator, Shaka’s physical world is limited, yet her mind is boundless: “Of course, the tweetings of a hunchbacked monster would be more twisted than those of someone with a perfectly erect spine” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 3). She engages in e-learning courses, writes explicit erotic fiction under the pseudonym Mikio, and posts provocative tweets anonymously: “In another life, I’d like to work as a high-class prostitute” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 20). Her online presence is a rebellion against a society that renders her invisible: “Japan… works on the understanding that disabled people don’t exist within society, so there are no such proactive considerations made” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 45).

The novel opens with one of Shaka’s erotic stories: “The place in question was just ten minutes’ walk from Shibuya Station. Spotting the rose slanting across the sign, I knew I’d made it to the Castle of Desire” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 1). This sets a provocative tone, blending fantasy with her lived reality. Shaka’s daily life is marked by physical challenges: “Holding in both hands an open book three or four centimetres in thickness took a greater toll on my muscles” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 27). Her interactions with care workers, like Suzaki, who serves her dinner—“‘One of the relatives of Mr Tokunaga on the ground floor brought us a great big bag of grapes,’ the care worker Suzaki informed me” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 33)—highlight her dependence and isolation. Yet, her sharp wit shines through: “With my eyes on the effortlessly straight spine of the young man pressing a peeled Kyoho grape into the mouth of the man who could only move from the head upwards, I snapped the backbone of the miso mackerel I’d just eaten cleanly in half with the tips of my chopsticks” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 34).

The narrative shifts when Shaka meets Tanaka, a new male carer who has read her online work: “A male careworker, Tanaka, hints that he’s been reading her tweets and erotic stories” (The Guardian, 2025). Their dynamic is complex, marked by power imbalances: “Both have power and are powerless, and, in different ways, hold each other in contempt” (The Guardian, 2025). Shaka proposes a sexual arrangement, offering money: “I offered him money to have sex with me” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 67). The encounter is raw and unsettling: “Faced with a real live penis, I had the urge to cut a long strip of flavoured nori to size and stick it on top, to serve as the censoring black bars” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 69). Shaka’s fantasies, like her desire to “get pregnant and have an abortion, just like a normal woman” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 82), reflect her yearning for experiences denied by her disability. The novel’s frame narrative, bookended by Shaka’s erotic fiction, culminates in a fever-dream ending: “The novel delivers with a fever-dream ending that Ichikawa pulls off beautifully” (Kirkus Reviews, 2025). Shaka’s story is a defiant cry against ableism, as she muses: “Able-bodied Japanese people have likely never even imagined a hunchback monster struggling to read a physical book” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 28).

Hunchback is a literary triumph, its brevity amplifying its impact through sharp, vivid prose and a subversive narrative voice. Polly Barton’s translation masterfully captures Shaka’s mordant humor and raw honesty, as seen in the opening line: “The place in question was just ten minutes’ walk from Shibuya Station. Spotting the rose slanting across the sign, I knew I’d made it to the Castle of Desire” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 1). This cinematic tone resonates with the surreal intensity of Kamala Das’s My Story, captivating readers in Delhi’s literary circles or Kolkata’s bookstores. Shaka’s voice, as in “Of course, the tweetings of a hunchbacked monster would be more twisted than those of someone with a perfectly erect spine” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 3), is defiant and darkly funny, echoing the unapologetic heroines of Ismat Chughtai’s The Crooked Line and Bama Faustina’s Karukku.

The novel’s structure—bookended by Shaka’s erotic fiction—enhances its thematic depth: “The frame narrative stars Mikio, a persona Shaka uses to write erotic fiction, which we get to sample in the first few pages” (Reading in Bed, 2025). This mirrors the layered storytelling of Bama’s narratives, where personal and societal struggles intertwine. Shaka’s critique of ableism—“Japan… works on the understanding that disabled people don’t exist within society” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 45)—parallels India’s exclusion of disabled and marginalized groups, making it a powerful text for Indian readers. Her physical struggles, like “Holding in both hands an open book three or four centimetres in thickness took a greater toll on my muscles” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 27), ground the narrative in lived experience, evoking the visceral realism of Dalit literature.

Shaka’s exploration of desire—“In another life, I’d like to work as a high-class prostitute” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 20)—is radical, challenging taboos around disability and sexuality, much like Kamala Das’s bold exploration of female desire or Chughtai’s subversive narratives. The novel’s vivid imagery, such as “Faced with a real live penis, I had the urge to cut a long strip of flavoured nori to size and stick it on top” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 69), and its “nihilistic humour” (The Guardian, 2025) captivate readers seeking unconventional narratives. Its brevity, at under 100 pages, ensures accessibility, while its critique of systemic exclusion and celebration of agency make it a vital read for Indian audiences, aligning with the feminist critiques of Kamala Das, Ismat Chughtai, and Bama Faustina.

Despite its strengths, Hunchback has limitations for Indian readers. Its brevity, while impactful, leaves some elements underdeveloped: “I found it ironic that many reviewers criticize the book for being too short, with underdeveloped characters and plot” (Reading in Bed, 2025). The lack of backstory, as in Shaka’s past beyond her disability—“Ichikawa has said that about 30 percent of Hunchback is based on her life” (Reading in Bed, 2025)—may frustrate readers accustomed to the detailed narratives of Premchand’s Godan. The provocative elements, like Shaka’s proposal to Tanaka—“I offered him money to have sex with me” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 67)—and her fantasies—“My ultimate dream is to get pregnant and have an abortion, just like a normal woman” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 82)—may alienate conservative Indian readers, particularly in rural areas like Uttar Pradesh, where such themes are taboo.

The Japanese setting and cultural references, such as “the miso mackerel I’d just eaten” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 34), may feel distant to Indian readers unfamiliar with Japan’s context, unlike Heart Lamp (2025 Booker winner), which addresses South Indian women’s lives (The Hindu, 2025). Shaka’s unlikable traits—“The character isn’t always likable” (Amazon, 2025)—and her provocative tone may clash with the moral clarity preferred by some Indian readers. The surreal ending, while praised, may feel abrupt for those seeking the resolution found in more traditional Indian narratives.

Why Indian Readers Must Read This Book

Hunchback is a must-read for Indian readers, particularly those from marginalized communities, because its unflinching portrayal of disability, desire, and societal exclusion resonates profoundly with India’s feminist and subaltern literary traditions, offering a transformative lens to challenge systemic barriers and embrace personal autonomy. Its alignment with the feminist critiques of Kamala Das, Ismat Chughtai, and Bama Faustina makes it a vital text for Indian readers seeking narratives of resistance. Shaka’s bold voice—“Of course, the tweetings of a hunchbacked monster would be more twisted than those of someone with a perfectly erect spine” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 3)—echoes the defiant tone of Kamala Das’s My Story, where women assert their desires against patriarchal norms, inspiring Indian readers in cities like Delhi or rural areas like Bihar to confront societal constraints, from arranged marriages to workplace discrimination. Similarly, Ismat Chughtai’s Lihaf challenges sexual taboos, and Shaka’s unapologetic exploration of desire—“In another life, I’d like to work as a high-class prostitute” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 20)—offers a parallel rebellion, encouraging women to reclaim their agency in spaces like Mumbai’s feminist collectives or Hyderabad’s literary circles.

Shaka’s critique of ableism—“Japan… works on the understanding that disabled people don’t exist within society, so there are no such proactive considerations made” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 45)—mirrors the systemic exclusion faced by disabled and marginalized groups in India, as powerfully depicted in Bama Faustina’s Karukku. For Dalit women in Maharashtra or Adivasi communities in Jharkhand, Shaka’s struggle for visibility resonates with their fight against caste-based erasure, urging reflection on accessibility in India’s public spaces, from inaccessible public transport in Bengaluru to limited educational opportunities in rural Odisha. Her physical challenges—“Holding in both hands an open book three or four centimetres in thickness took a greater toll on my muscles” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 27)—ground the narrative in lived experience, akin to Bama’s visceral accounts of Dalit life, offering Indian readers a lens to advocate for better infrastructure and societal attitudes toward disability.

The novel’s raw depiction of sexuality—“Faced with a real live penis, I had the urge to cut a long strip of flavoured nori to size and stick it on top” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 69)—and Shaka’s provocative fantasies—“My ultimate dream is to get pregnant and have an abortion, just like a normal woman” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 82)—challenge taboos around disability and female desire, aligning with Chughtai’s subversive narratives in The Crooked Line. This is crucial for Indian women, particularly queer or disabled women in cities like Chennai or Kolkata, navigating societal stigma post-Section 377’s repeal in 2018. Shaka’s yearning for agency resonates with Kamala Das’s exploration of forbidden desires, inspiring readers to embrace their identities, whether as queer women in urban centers or disabled individuals in rural Rajasthan seeking equal rights.

Shaka’s interactions with care workers, such as Suzaki—“‘One of the relatives of Mr Tokunaga on the ground floor brought us a great big bag of grapes,’ the care worker Suzaki informed me” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 33)—and her sharp wit—“With my eyes on the effortlessly straight spine of the young man pressing a peeled Kyoho grape into the mouth of the man who could only move from the head upwards, I snapped the backbone of the miso mackerel I’d just eaten cleanly in half with the tips of my chopsticks” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 34)—highlight her dependence and defiance, resonating with the resilience of marginalized women in India, from urban slums in Delhi to rural self-help groups in Gujarat. Her confrontation with power dynamics—“I offered him money to have sex with me” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 67)—parallels the subversive agency in Bama’s narratives, where marginalized voices challenge authority, encouraging Indian readers to confront systemic inequalities, from caste oppression in Uttar Pradesh to gender bias in corporate Bengaluru.

The novel’s critique of ableism—“Able-bodied Japanese people have likely never even imagined a hunchback monster struggling to read a physical book” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 28)—aligns with India’s growing disability rights movement, resonating with activists in Delhi or NGOs in Kolkata advocating for inclusion. Its exploration of mental health, as Shaka navigates isolation and societal judgment, connects with India’s increasing awareness of psychological well-being, particularly for women facing societal pressures or domestic constraints, offering solace to readers in therapy groups or urban support networks. The novel’s vivid imagery, like the opening of Shaka’s erotic fiction—“The place in question was just ten minutes’ walk from Shibuya Station” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 1)—and its fever-dream ending—“The novel delivers with a fever-dream ending that Ichikawa pulls off beautifully” (Kirkus Reviews, 2025)—evoke the poetic intensity of feminist literature, captivating readers seeking unconventional narratives.

The novella’s brevity—under 100 pages—makes it accessible for busy readers, from students in Bhopal to professionals in Hyderabad, while its Japanese setting introduces a global perspective on marginalization, broadening the worldview of Indian readers, as noted by Caribbean audiences for On a Woman’s Madness (The New York Times, 2023). Its resonance with the feminist critiques of Kamala Das, Ismat Chughtai, and Bama Faustina makes it a vital text for Indian readers seeking narratives of resistance, particularly those from marginalized communities. Hunchback echoes the spirit of festivals like Navratri, where resilience and defiance are celebrated, and Kabir’s teachings of inner truth, urging readers to challenge societal barriers, embrace their full potential, and advocate for a more inclusive society.

Hunchback by Saou Ichikawa is a provocative, unforgettable novella that earns its place on the 2025 International Booker Prize longlist. Its raw prose, captured in quotes like “Of course, the tweetings of a hunchbacked monster would be more twisted than those of someone with a perfectly erect spine” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 3) and “Able-bodied Japanese people have likely never even imagined a hunchback monster struggling to read a physical book” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 28), delivers a powerful critique of ableism and a celebration of autonomy. For Indian readers, its resonance with the feminist critiques of Kamala Das, Ismat Chughtai, and Bama Faustina makes it an essential read, despite its occasionally underdeveloped plot and provocative tone. Its vivid imagery, like “The place in question was just ten minutes’ walk from Shibuya Station” (Ichikawa, 2025, p. 1), and bold exploration of desire inspire reflection on India’s societal barriers. Highly recommended, Hunchback is a transformative call for Indian readers to confront ableism, embrace agency, and celebrate the power of defiant storytelling.