Guest Editor’s Note: Women and Translation: A study

Nabanita Sengupta

Each year, August is observed as the Women in Translation (#WIT) month. When I came across this concept of #WIT, it set me wondering about the reasons that could have prompted the need for dedicating a month to women in translation. It was only then that I became conscious of the serious lack of translation of women’s literature worldwide. Working with women’s literature of nineteenth century Bengal, I was initially not very much aware of this gap. Due to a strong academic interest in the nineteenth century British Bengal interface and also in the position of women during that period, there is comparatively a better availability of nineteenth century women’s writings from Bengal. Though there is a lot of work that has to be done in that area as well, still the situation there is marginally better than other fields of women’s writing.

According to a report, in 2016 only thirty percent of the new books translated into English were by women. This is what led the young book blogger Meytal Radzinski to start with her project of Women In Translation to refocus attention on women’s writing from across the world. Though initially, there was not much of a response to her call, over the last few years the movement has been gaining strength steadily. There is a specific interest that has developed regarding women’s writing and consequently in translation of works done by women.

My tryst with women in translation began with my PhD project of translating a nineteenth century Bengali women’s travel writing into English. It was in the times when Translation Studies was slowly gaining a foothold in the academia and an English translation of a vernacular work could be a PhD dissertation from the department of English. Since nineteenth century has been an area of academic interest and a lot of research work has been done on the position of nineteenth century women, quite a number of women’s writings from Bangla is available in English. But the same is not true for other spheres. Women’s works have not gained much of attention either from translators or from publishers. One of the reasons of course is the availability of women’s work. In most of the societies women’s education had remained a taboo for long, so it is only natural that texts by male authors will be more in numbers and more easily available. But along with that there is also a conventional apathy towards women’s writings in general. Just as translation had occupied a secondary position in the literary world, women’s writings too have remained a grossly neglected area.

Why should translating women’s writings be such an important area of concern? Translation is an important tool that can bring marginalized voices into the centre. In the postcolonial context translations can be seen as one of the ways of the Empire writing back, questioning the hegemony of the West and challenging the binaries of White/Coloured, European/ non-European, male/ non male worldview.  Similarly, translation of works by women then can be a strategy of making the marginalized voices heard. Moreover, ‘woman’ is not a homogenous category, their experiences, sufferings, social positioning, exploitation, socio-economic condition, everything differs. The degrees and means of marginalization also differ. In such a situation, to challenge the concept of a universal homogenous categorization of women, translations are important. The exchange of literature between various language systems allows for a communication between linguistically different societies. As Mokkil and Jha say in their introduction to Thinking Women: A Feminist Reader, “for women from socially marginal locations, the very act of writing may be constitutive of a claim for recognition”. Similarly, translations of women’s writings in various languages, extends the domain of that ‘claim for recognition’ by making a literary work accessible to a wider range of readers. The marginalised voice, by its presence in multiple languages, gains strength. Translation can become a strategy of empowerment in a world of hierarchies and marginalization.

This volume of Women in Translation does not limit itself only to the works translated by women, but extends its scope to include women translators, translating both men and women authors. The gendered nature of language leads to a number of concerns such as: “can men translate women’s texts or women men’s? Does a translator need to be gay in order to successfully translate a gay writer’s work? How have women translators in the past fared with the male authors they translated; how have gender issues affected the work of male writers and translator” (Flowtow). The concerns are many more such as politics of selection, representation of texts, reception and even marketing of the translated texts. As Meytal Radzinski says, “The impression I got from those rare publishers who admitted their bias (through the thinly-veiled guise of “aesthetic” differences between men and women’s writing) was that they simply viewed all women’s writing as lower than men’s”. Translations from more marginalized languages, and from more marginalized communities of women are important from the perspective of gender studies as well as to emphasize on the plurality of voices. 

This issue of women in translation explores the concept from various perspectives. The first section is a medley of various essays on translation. While Sanju Thomas and Paromita Sengupta speak of their journey as translators, Trishna Basak delves into the world of Maithili translation in a personal essay. Readers are introduced to one of the most important poetic voices of Sri Lanka, Anne Ranasinghe, through the words of the noted novelist Ayathurai Santhan. Anne Ranasinghe through her own translations and being oft translated is an example herself of how the role of translation is significant in the exchange of literature across world. Though it has been mostly observed that women’s texts are translated more by women authors, Shyamal Bhattacharya, a multilingual translator speaks of his experience of interacting with the noted Punjabi author and poet Amrita Pritam. He has translated Amrita Pritam’s works from Punjabi to Bengali.

Each translation requires its own politics and strategies. Aparna Singh focuses on the translation of Dalit women writers. Like the gender of the translator, caste of the translator too comes into question as she explores the existence and possibilities of translation of Dalit women authors by upper caste women. This section also consists of two very important interviews of prominent translators, Prof Sanjukta Dasgupta and Jaya Choudhury. Poet and translator Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca’s conversations with Jaya Choudhury explores the circumstances that turned latter into a Spanish translator. On the other hand, Basudhara Roy’s interview with Prof Sanjukta Dasgupta is more concerned with the politics of translation and language and the role of the translator. She highlights the concerns of this volume by focusing on the issues of gender in translation. The section ends with a book review of an English translation of Lamikant Bezbaroa’s 'MorJibon Xuworoni' (My Life’s Reminisce) by Navamalati Chakraborty.

The second part of the issue consists of a diverse range of translations. While Anju Makhija presents translations of an eighteenth century Sufi poet, Mandakini Bhattacherya presents a translation of an extremely contemporary poem by Prof Jharna Sanyal. While Ratna Guha Mustafi’s translation of Suchitra Bhattacharya’s short story also highlights a present-day concern regarding Kashmir and Kashmiris, Oindri Roy translates a short story by an early twentieth century Muslim women. The short stories and an excerpt from a novel enrich this volume further. Lopamudra Banerjee, Oindri Roy and Sriparna Das’ Translators notes at the end of these prose translations add important dimension to the translations and contextualize them for the readers. Averi Saha translates Panchali with an interesting note on the subject that delves into the socio-cultural concerns found within these texts. Barak Valley and its concerns come across to the readers through Suranjana’s translation of Jhumur Pandey’s essay ‘People Suffer Still’. Sudeshna Chakravorty explores the path breaking relationship between Amrita and Imroz through her translations of a few letters exchanged between the two. The importance of Amrita Pritam in the context of Indian literature and the interest she has generated among authors across languages has made the editor include two pieces on her.

Women translators do not always translate only women authors. Hence we have Mitali Chakraborty’s translation of Tagore’s poems and Sutanuka Ghosh Roy’s translation of Gopal Lahiri that are included in this volume. All these pieces together add to the richness of translation and also focus on the multiple roles played by women in the field of translation. This issue celebrates the visibility of women both as a translator as well as translated and ends with a hope that more women’s voices will be heard.

Works Cited:

1. Flotow Luise von. ‘Gender in Translation’ in Handbook of Translation Studies. Ed. Gambier Yves and L V Doorslaer, John B Publishing Co, Amsterdam/ Philadelphia. 129-133
2. Mokkil Navaneetha and Shefali Jha. Thinking Women: A Feminist Reader.Kolkata. Stree. 2019
3. https://www.thenationalnews.com/arts-culture/books/women-in-translation-month-the-movement-trying-to-get-more-books-written-by-females-translated-into-english
4. https://www.literarytranslators.org/blog/women-translation-interview-meytal-radzinski

Nabanita Sengupta

Guest-Editor 

Setu, November 2020 issue   

Guest Editor's Bio: Nabanita Sengupta is presently working as assistant professor in English at Sarsuna College, affiliated to the University of Calcutta. Her areas of specialization are 19th century travel writings, women's studies, translation studies. She has participated as translator in workshops of Sahitya Akademi, Viswa-Bharati, and others. She has presented papers in various national and international seminars in India and abroad. Her recent publication is A Bengali Lady in England, a translation of a nineteenth century travel writing by a woman from Bengal. She has co-edited a volume at Café Dissensus on women displacement in South Asia. A co-edited anthology on similar issue is shortly to be published. Her creative writings have also been published at various places like Muse India, Coldnoon, Café Dissensus, NewsMinute.in, Kitaab.org, SETU and others. She may be contacted at nabanita.sengupta@gmail.com.

Women and Translation: A study (Setu Special, November 2020): Authors

Essays Aparna Singh Ayathurai Santhan Paromita Sengupta Sanju Thomas Shyamal Bhattacharya Trishna Basak Interviews Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca interviews Jaya Choudhury Basudhara Roy interviews Prof Sanjukta Dasgupta

Translations Anju Makhija Averi Saha Lopamudra Banerjee Mandakini Bhattacharya Mitali Chakravorty Oindri Roy Sriparna Das Ratna Guha Mustafi Sudeshna Chakravorty Suranjana Choudhury Sutanuka Ghosh Roy Book Review Aziza Ahmed: My Life’s Reminisce – Tr. Navamalati Neog Chakraborty

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Setu, November 2020

The Nocturnal Attack (Nandita Bagchi) - Translated by Sriparna Das

Sriparna Das

These days it became increasingly difficult for Mandira to get up from the bed in the mornings. A strange lethargy engulfed her body. Chills in the hands … shivers in the knees … unsteadiness in the back! Hundred and one varieties of aches from arthritis, spondylitis, and what not! And they were all sending her the age old signal, ‘Mandira, you are getting old!’

How many times had Dr. Haldar suggested her not to sleep on a soft bed? ‘Mrs. Kahali, please stop sleeping on a soft bed. Start free-hand exercises also, a little at a time. Otherwise you will suffer when old age will approach. You will also make other family members suffer along with you.’ But did she pay any heed to that?? No. Mandira, as indulgent as always, could never sleep on anything but on a six-inch foam mattress.

Nor did she have the patience to put any effort to do exercises. That apart, where was the time? It was always rush-hours from the word go. From the second she left bed in the mornings, there was always doing this and that for the children in the morning, and then their father’s necessary things to attend to, a little help here and there regarding their son’s studies! It was always midnight when she would get to bed. Between all these chores, there are items like saas-bahu, news, ghar-ghar-ki-kahani, etc. And how could one forget about all those piles of answer-sheets! It was truly a headache to teach subjects like mathematics. The girls probably had only cowdung instead of grey cells inside their brains. Sometimes, it is she who risked her mental faculties while explaining some problems to her students. And to top all these, the nuisance of checking the answer-papers! Can one really blame the spondylitis?

But even if she didn’t do her exercises regularly, she was very serious on one account. She never forgot to take her daily intake of calcium and vitamins prescribed by Dr. Haldar. She also used the lumbo-sacral belt with precision. She had actually wanted to take the H-R-T. But the thoughts of the horrendous side effects were enough to discourage her. Instead she had started using anti-oxidants recently. It seemed that anti-oxidants helped to retain youth. Limping, fat, aged women were a horror for her. Her son, Rit, would always comment, ‘Mom, you are hypochondriac number one! You can always make a hit film with Govinda. Want to give it a try?’

But why did the index finger on the right hand have a burning sensation today? Mandira removed the curtain and lifted her glasses from the bedside table. Yes! She was right. There was a small, reddish wound of the size of a methi-seed, again. Why didn’t she realize it at night? It was the fifth or sixth time this was happening!

Thrice she had got up from her sleep at night. As soon as she had moved her hand —thapas—that was the sound on the floor. Then there was that rushed affair … switching on the lights, running after them and finally crushing them under her sandals and sending them to the same hell from where they had been let loose. In spite of all these, why could she not feel it at night? Was she very tired? She felt as if she had a deep sleep last night. Even if it was the case, so what? Some animal would dig at her flesh and have a feast of it and she would not feel? How was that possible? ‘Shame on you, Mandira’, she chided herself.

This became a family joke, she knew that. She was not so slow that she would not notice her children’s winks and smirks or her husband’s glimmer of a grin hiding behind the moustache. And that was natural too; she was also wise enough to expect that. After all, the beasts bite her and no one else, did they not? Rit said, ‘Mom, I’m sure you don’t wash your hands properly with soap after dinner. They come to lick your fingers, tempted by the smell of mutton gravy. Most probably they are meat lovers like me.’

But they had no way of knowing that Mandira, being the paranoid that she was, washed her hands thousand times a day. Would they not start teasing her by calling her a maniac if they knew that? Hubby darling had suggested using the mosquito-net. Mosquito-net!! The very thought of it suffocated her. Weren’t all the companies, that produced those commercial insect-repellents, flourished and made money because of people like Mandira? Everything was being tried — mats, liquidators, sprays, powders, chalk lines — everything. The house was full of all kinds of chemicals that were available in the market, thanks to the advertisements on the T.V. channels and the newspapers. They served to kill one or two here and there, but did not wipe them out totally. No, that was certainly not the case as was claimed by the advertisements. An old slipper was ever-present behind their bedroom door. If once, somehow, one could manage to aim properly—the END. The most effective cure of all! Bhavani, the cook, said, ‘Boudi, they come to take revenge on you, you know. Look at the way you kill them!’

What else could she do? She just could not stand those creatures. So many beautiful species became extinct, why could this one not go that way too? She was not the kind of delicate darling to be scared of insects and lizards and things like that. But, these creatures? She felt a kind of vendetta. Her hands simply grew restless. They roamed everywhere … from kitchen to store-room to every single corner of the house. When one went to the toilet, with sleep-laden eyes at night, they would simply fly on to you or slip inside your nightie the moment you switched on the light…frrrr….frrr….impossible, totally intolerable! How could anybody tolerate them?

She would be content if she could kill at least one of them a day, even without doing a single one of her regular chores. It felt like doing a noble work, almost the feeling of a soldier at war! But she could not remember how, where and when this enmity started.

The sound of the ringing door-bell broke into her thoughts. The young doctor from the flat next-door had come by to give the keys. He was going to his chamber. The wife had gone for her management classes. They kept the key with Mandira-auntie when they went out for the day. He also knew about the incidents of ‘cockroach-bites’. Mandira took a risk. She told him, though after much hesitation. The young man asked very seriously, ‘Auntie, have you ever seen them?’

Mandira’s antennas were more sensitive than the cockroaches’. But what was the point in arguing? It would be just a battle of words. Was he going to drop his ‘I-am-the-best’ attitude? So her antennae talked to themselves, ‘Hmm! So kiddo, you think I am a case of mental disorder? You young people have too much of an ego problem. You think you know everything?’

An oblique smile and an arch of her eyebrows were enough for the young doctor to walk away as fast as possible. Terrible lady, he thought!!

Bhavani and Mandira were watching T.V. in the evening when Deepti’s call came. Deepti’s husband, at this age, had been posted to Pune again. There was no provision to take the family along with him. Poor thing! She was very lonely. Her daughter was also married off. So they talked regularly over the phone. Since they were children they had shared all their secrets. So they knew everything about each other. Deepti had a peculiar problem.

She could not stand lizards. She practically became hysterical when she spotted one. With eyes popping out her head, Deepti would start making funny sounds. She would simply start jumping up and down the place.

Did Mandira suffer any less of her share of scratches and bites? No! After her marriage, Deepti’s in-laws had tackled this problem quite sympathetically. But now, being all alone on her own, she faced the real challenge! First thing that she did in the morning was to open the kitchen door with a big bang. All nuts and bolts almost fell out of their places. Then she clapped her hands very loudly. They had been to the zoo once in their childhood. That was really a scene, as Mandira recollected their trip to the crocodile section. Deepti and her elder sister had vomited and done what not! And what about that incident when they had gone to Nandan to watch Jurassic Park? That was another story altogether. Deepti was so scared and did such things that they had to come out of the movie hall. Mandira sat next to her in the hall and her saree was almost torn to bits. Such were the heights of Deepti’s terror.

After that incident, and after Sandip’s suggestion, they had taken Deepti to a psychiatrist. He had laughed the matter away. ‘This is a small mental problem’, he had said. ‘This is called reptile phobia. There is no need of medicines. Only take care to avoid the animals in question.’ That was his suggestion.

But, Mandira’s case was completely different. How was it connected to psychology? She did get small reddish wounds on her fingertips. It did have physical evidences.

After dinner, all the members of the Kahali family usually get together. This was the only time of the day to be with each other. Everybody interacted with the other at this time. Rai had become quite an extrovert since she had joined college. She always caricatured her teachers. At the same time, she christened her juniors with nick-names. Like, Pinki…the boy wearing the pink shirt, Subodh…the boy who oils his hair and parts it in the middle…! And many more like these!

But today, she entered like a hurricane and announced, ‘There’s some news today’.

It seems today Rai had worn a black skirt with a black top to the college. As accessories, she had chosen a pair of black platform shoes and a black bag of micro-fiber. And, at the entrance to the department, one of the juniors gave cat-calls and had commented, ‘Black diamond’.

Rai was very excited.

‘We couldn’t spot the culprit among the crowd. But tomorrow, we have to take actions. After all, we are seniors. No respect for that? How dare they? They know that the ragging session is going on! In spite of that… …!’’

Rit quipped, ‘Hey didi, never mind. I think they referred to your matching complexion. Nothing more.’ That started it. The siblings started fighting among themselves. Bhavani came to clear the dinner table. For the time being, their quarrel was postponed. Bhavani went to bed after finishing the chores for the night and finishing the preparations for the breakfast in the morning. The children also went to their respective rooms. Mandira did not approve of the ruckus of the music system after ten in the night. The sound of this hi-tech machine irritated her like anything. Maybe that was another sign of her approaching middle age. That apart, this was a multi-storied building. There were many elderly people and small children in the building. So, now Rit would have a head-phone stuck to his ears. This was another fashion of the times…listening to pop-jazz and what not kind of music in high volume. Very soon, this generation will become deaf.

They would be awake for a long time now. Rit had his board examinations approaching. He had some extra pressure from studies. But Mandira failed to understand how he managed to synchronize this music and math! And Rai was an owl too. She was now deeply absorbed in some Robin Cook thriller. Mandira changed into her nightie. She started applying cream on her face after taking all the necessary medicines. Then she switched off the light and went to bed. For Sandip, this was mid-night: he was snoring in a very grave tune, maintaining a perfect rhythm like some classical music concert.

She was into a dream of some kind. It was after mid-night. A feeling of childhood, like the vaccination taken during small-pox, came back to her in her sleep. Then she sensed it … drifting in and out of sleep, the antenna of her sixth sense perceived it! She jumped up from the bed and switched on the light. Yes! The dark brown creature was running away on the white marble floor. But Mandira was not the person to let it go. She started running after it with a pair of sandals. She even forgot her back pain. Sandip was very irritated as his sleep was disturbed. He shouted, ‘What is this? I’m not going to tolerate this for nights together. I am going to take you to an asylum tomorrow. That will be the end of everything.’

Mandira also got angry. She too raised her voice and said a thing or two to Sandip. And taking the advantage of their quarrel to the fullest, Mr. Brown slipped in to their wardrobe. How did they manage to go through such small holes!

She went to the bathroom and splashed some water on her face. She tried to sleep again. But it was not that easy. Like a very attentive student, Sandip had resumed snoring with full concentration. What a beautiful sense of timing and rhythm, really! Tossing and turning on her bed while thinking about that cockroach, Mandira suddenly recalled her grandmother’s death. She had gone to their ancestral house in Behala after her grandmother’s death. The corpse was kept waiting for somebody. There was no ice. When Mandira had reached, she had seen the corpse covered with millions of small red ants. How horrible! Did the cold silence of death attract the ants?

The wall-clock screamed five. She had to get up in an hour or so. Sleep finally eluded her. She would have a bad temper today. Poor students!

Turning to the other side, curling her knees, Mandira turned into the fetal position. One gets a very pleasant sensation by lying down like this. But nothing could be soothing now. Some wood-pecker was droning on kattar…rrrr….katt…rrr. She started thinking about other things…the ants served a link to the thoughts. Nowadays, this was another thought that caught her fancy. The thought of death! She never forgot to read any of the ‘sad demise’ items in Bengali newspapers or the obituaries in English dailies. One morning, the electric toaster, as soon as it was started, made a peculiar noise and conked. Mandira saw that a lizard had hugged the coils with its four legs in a mortal embrace. She had not been able to take out the lifeless body of the dead animal by any means. It had a tight grip on the deadly wires … why… did it grab it with the fear of death in its mind? She had let the toaster be like that. She had to rush to school. Bhavani never touched electric machines. What if it gave her a shock!

She recalled it again at afternoon, after she came back from school. As she opened the toaster to clean it, she found hundreds of thousands of ants feasting on the dead creature. It did not have three-fourth of its flesh left. The skeleton came out. Mandira literally shivered. Did death have smell? How did the ants get to know?

No, she did not have any more time to indulge in such fantasies. She turned restlessly. It was six. She had to get up. Bhavani came to give the bed-tea. Her head felt heavy. The vein behind her ear also sent messages of migraine. Bhavani’s guilt-stricken statement did it all.

           ‘Boudi, there is no cheese. We have run out of it’.

Rit couldn’t do without cheese for breakfast. Otherwise it was generally a battle royal. He was an adolescent now. It was impossible to reason with them at this age. And the maid-servants! Really, there should be a limit to everything! How careless they were! The thing had to finish completely and only would then they inform you!!

The driver, Manik, received a severe scolding for being late. If she did not leave by quarter past seven, she would surely be stuck in the traffic jam at Beckbagan-Minto Park crossing. Mandira had to drop Rit at his school before going to her school. Sandip would leave for office sharp at nine but only after the car returned. Rai commuted to college by mini-bus. She had used the car in her early days to college but had stopped using it since the boys teased her too much about it.

And today, of all days, Mandira had a double period for class XI in the first hour. The girls were very subdued today; maybe madam’s foul mood had elicited it from them. Poor Piyali though had to face the punishment for being late to the class; she had to stand outside the classroom for one full hour. And that was not enough. All the junior girls’ comments were an extra to it. The comments were no milder than the fiery weapons of the Ramayana or the Mahabharata. The break for the tiffin came as a real relief to the poor girl.

The break came as a relief to Mandira too. She started feeling better after stepping to the staff-room. Today was Anindita’s, one of her young colleague, marriage anniversary. There had been an abundance of cake-pastry-doughnuts-patties from Kathleen. Everybody seemed to be talking to her at the same time… … ‘What did your husband give? Was it a surprise? What’s your plan for the evening? Are you going out? Or… … is it an evening only for the love-birds?’ It went on.

Saturdays were scheduled for Mandira’s weekly shopping. This was the only available day to do other household chores. The evening was for socializing. There was no dearth of relatives in the city. Today, of course, there was a party at Sandip’s boss’s house. There were lots of perks and then some extra for a senior executive of a multi-national company. All her style and extravaganza were due to Sandip’s job only. Otherwise, the meager amount that she earned as a teacher would have never sufficed to maintain this kind of a life style. But then, the risks were also many. Sandip never risked his boss’s good-will.

After finishing her shopping, Mandira paid a visit to her regular beauty parlor. Today she did henna for her hair and facial too. A couple of strands of grey hairs had started announcing themselves nowadays. Pedicure and manicure were a real waste of good money. She would rather use the pumice stone during bath and apply the petroleum jelly. And then, remove the old nail-polish and wear any shade that would match the saree. That would be enough. Who was going to lift the saree up to her ankle and notice anyway?

The evening was a success. The feeling of buoyancy could almost be equated with the soap bubble! The Thapars were very hospitable. One needed to learn the art from this community. Food and drinks and jokes and laughter wafted throughout the evening. Mandira really liked this couple. They had stayed in Delhi for a couple of years after her marriage, of course in connection to Sandip’s job. Since then, she had always admired this community’s style of life. Really, they knew how to enjoy the present! Why could we not be like that? Why could we also not glide through the bubbles of happiness in life? Why did we always sit on the stack of gunpowder? And why did we, only we, always let the future bother us so much? Was it some kind of genetic disorder or a deep-rooted feeling of financial insecurity? But then you needed to know how to earn money! That was really an important aspect. And what was the need of so much honesty anyway?

Sandip’s voice, thick with liquor, broke into her thoughts. ‘Darling, should we make a move?’

Sunday morning dawned with a cloudy sky. Every year, around this time, the depression in the Bay of Bengal sought the untimely rains, and clouds in the sky, for some unknown reason, mirrored the dark clouds of Mandira’s mind. That was a recent trend too. Her mind had turned very mushy and sentimental these days. Problems of middle-age perhaps! Who knew what happened and why! All her mental wires were tangled with one another. The result was a short-circuit of the mental faculties. And then, only groping about in the darkness! Blurry eyes!!

Sandip woke up really late in the morning. Anyway it was a Sunday morning and added to that, last night he had had one drink too many. He had a horrible hangover. Mandira called out for Bhavani in the kitchen, ‘Make a cup of black coffee for Dada, Bhavani.’

The coffee had its effect. The head had just started to feel normal when the telephone rang. Sandip was overjoyed to hear Sukomal Chaudhary’s voice from Salt Lake. ‘Hello. What a pleasant surprise! So, finally you remembered us! What took you so long?’ And then, suddenly, he sobered. ‘Oh! Is it? When? Very sad!’ An anxious Mandira tried to catch his attention waving her hands. What was it? Who? What happened?

Their very old friend Mr. Ahmed had suffered a cerebral attack. He had been in deep coma for a couple of weeks. There was no response. Immediately, Mandira’s mind acted like a vulture. Death was approaching Mr. Ahmed. The news had traveled to the other world.

Last night’s rich and spicy Punjabi food was still having its effect on Mandira. The news had a more serious effect on her mind. She called up everybody who was supposed to come for adda and asked them not to and instructed Bhavani to cook only rice, with potato and bitter gourd in it and a plain fish curry.

She went to the drawing room and sat there for some time. Some Hindi movie was going on. All the house maids were watching it very attentively. She could not sit there. The thorn in her mind was making its presence felt very effectively.

She took an old issue of Readers’ Digest from her son’s room and went to her bedroom. She removed the rubber-band from her hair, loosened her petticoat at the waist and lay down on the bed. She tried to read an article or two from the book. But her restlessness did not let her concentrate. The letters and words were taking Mandira’s eyes forward but her mind was not grasping anything. Suddenly one paragraph caught her attention.

A group of boys and girls were sailing in a boat through the Amazon in South America for some research work when their boat capsized and one of the girls fell in the river. The girl, who was an expert swimmer, did not even stand a chance to use her knowledge of swimming. She was unconscious when she was dragged out of the water after two to three minutes only. Both her legs and her thighs had been eaten away by the infamous piranhas. The scent of her menstrual blood had madly attracted those silver beauties to her. A bunch of ten-inch demons!

Mandira started to sweat profusely. A nagging pain started at the left side of her chest! Her throat became dry from some unknown fear. Would the cockroaches also eat her up like that some day? Why did they come to her? What scent attracted them? Did they too think that she was dead?

Translator’s Note

Reading Loneliness: Translating ‘Souptik’

“God, but life is loneliness … despite the false, grinning faces we all wear”.

                                            The Unabridged journal of Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath

This short story, titled ‘Souptik’ in Bangla, (‘The Noctural Attack’ in translation) appeared in an anthology titled Iti tomar Moni (Yours, Moni). This is the first published book of Nandita Bagchi, published by Punascha in the early 2000s. Nandita Bagchi was a relatively unknown name at the time, unlike today when she is a well-known writer, published by many publishers including the leading mainstream publisher Anando, in Bangla.

This note begins with the assertion that reading is translation^[1]. Since experience and transformation lie at the heart of both the performances^[2], being a more intense critic, a reader-translator’s encounter/s with the text represent an enhanced critical intimacy that stems from a continuous process of engagement with the text, through dynamic experiences of life that open up new and more possibilities of meanings. Unraveling of these meaning/s, and the choice of validating the same is the political stay of this note.

Reading ‘Souptik’ in the early 2000s as an urban, educated woman was an experience that could never deliver the full potential of the possibilities of meanings. It was difficult to negotiate the nuances to understand Mandira, the protagonist, mainly, because the context to read the text was not fully available to the reader-translator. The text remained intriguing simply because the achievement of the ‘complete’ (seemingly) meaning could ‘not’ be performed. Taking well into account the fact that meaning formation is never a complete performance, it could not be denied that even in its incomplete scope, ‘Souptik’ represented a located experience. The experience of an educated, urban working woman, with a loving family, lacking nothing in life suffers from anxiety and feels choked with all the certainties in her life.

The politics of translating this story resided in this choice -- the choice to read an engaged literature and add agency to the narrative of women who are trapped in the monotony of their everyday life. The ‘partial’ konkretisation^[3] of this experience gathered further momentum as all the known apparatus to cope with ‘normal’ life came crashing down with Covid19. Revisiting the story now as an urban, educated and working woman, opened up a new form of konkretisation. The experiences of ‘stay-at-home’ and the social restrictions induced a better understanding about the anxiety of structures and phobia/s of entrapment.

The politics of choosing this text for a vertical translation resides not exactly in the manipulation of the language as such, but more on the politics of the expressed narrative. It absolutely becomes the reader-translator’s choice to add visibility to the relatively invisible syndrome of women’s loneliness in serious literature. The translated text aims to voice located narratives of multiple women who suffer from unhappiness and just like Mandira in the story are either ridiculed, mocked at or face indifference from family and larger society. The purpose translating this narrative is to recognise the fact that loneliness becomes a political condition to filter gendered experiences. The tendency to judge, attribute negative characteristics or to ridicule a woman’s unhappiness or anxiety is also the politics of patriarchy to ask the same woman to ‘fit’ in to the normative permissible characteristics.

This translation is an attempt to delineate, primarily, a woman’s everyday encounter and engagement with such anxieties that constantly push her to question the validity of her experiences. Further, this translation is also an act of reading into the politics of reading until the text presents the reader with the context that eventually allows her to recreate the meaning, to the best of her present sensibility.

 

References:

● Biguenet, John and Rainer Schulte eds. The Craft of Translation. Chicago and London. Chigaco University Press. 1989. PDF.

● Cook, Deborah. ‘Translation as A Reading’. The British Journal of Aesthetics, Vol 26, Issue 2, Spring 1986, pp 143- 149. Accessed 16 Mar.2012.

●  Gadamer, H.G. Truth and Method. London New York. 2004. Pp 389. PDF.

●  Iser, Wolfgang. ‘The Reading Process: A Phenomenological Approach.’ New Literary History, Vol 3, No 2, 1972, pp279 – 299. JSTOR.www.jstor.org/stable/468316. Accessed 7 Jan.2010.

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^[1]Rainer Schulte. Hans Gadamer, Deborah Cook

^[2] Rainer Schulte

^[3] Wolfgang Iser 
***

Bionote: Sriparna Das teaches Translation Studies at the University of Hyderabad. Her research interests includes areas of Translation Studies, Gender Studies, Multilingualism, Folk Culture and Media Studies.

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Setu Special 2020 :: Setu, November 2020

Gopal Lahiri’s Poems Translated by Sutanuka Ghosh Roy

Sutanuka Ghosh Roy

An Imaginary Planet

 

People who had come to slaughter

was driven away by the ice-cold North Wind.

The hands of the plunderers were severed by the bright rays of the Sun.

Revenge, hate, and fear has been wiped by the sudden drops of rain

the doubt-stricken mind is tip-toeing

the journey of light and wind.

The black and white bird has craned its neck to

sing the prelude of the song

The yellow and green leaves are swirling fromone address to the other.

The morning mist is wiping the morose visage

War and revenge have long been dabbed away

In the sepia-coloured pages of history, the pain is documented

No one here is famished, there are no fights

The common masses never bend their heads

This is a surreal time! A dreamlike experience!

Amid a dark sky an imaginary

Planet has just been born!

 

 

Bliss

 

Two, three raindrops are falling on the earth

sleeping in the dump, I hear

the temple bells weave out the dreamy yarn

of word-playing with virtue and vice.

Life is waiting for a new leash

the afternoon siesta is broken by a whip

the mob is trying to trample down…

 

Nobody is cocksure of my shortcomings

have to break the barricades of dehumanized humans

this is one resolution.

The fire from the hearth engulfs my body, my entails, my ash-smitten bones

waiting for the Bliss

come let us absolve by the water of Ganges!

***

 

Gopal Lahiri is a Kolkata- based bilingual poet, critic, editor, writer and translator with 21 books published, 13 in English and 8 in Bengali, including three joint books. His poetry is also published across various anthologies as well as in eminent journals of India and abroad. He has been invited in various poetry festivals including World Congress of Poets recently held in India. He works have been published in 12 countries and in 10 languages.

Note: Translation like many other fields too has been the domain of men who have voiced opinions of women A man voicing /translating the voice of a woman is appreciated or rather applauded while a woman being the voice of a man is looked upon with disdain. While translating these two poems of the noted bilingual poet Gopal Lahiri I have tried to capture the essence of poetry not as a woman but as a human being.

Bionote: Sutanuka Ghosh Roy is Assistant Professor English in Tarakeswar Degree College, The University of Burdwan, WB, India. She is currently engaged in active research and her areas of interest include Eighteenth-Century Literature, Indian English Literature, Postcolonial Literature, Australian Studies, Dalit Literature, Gender Studies, etc. She has published widely and presented papers at National and International Seminars. She is a regular contributor to research articles and papers to anthologies, national and international journals of repute like Muse India, Setu, Lapiz Lazuli, The Statesman, Life and Legends, Kitaab etc. She has guest-edited the July 2020 Issue of SETU on Children’s Literature. Her poems have been anthologized and published in Setu, Piker Press, Harbinger Asylum, etc. The title of her book is Critical Inquiry: Text, Context, and Perspectives. She is also a reviewer, a poet, and a critic.

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Setu Special 2020 :: Setu, November 2020

People still suffer: Jhumur Pandey

Suranjana Choudhury

Translated by Suranjana Choudhury

Those who had partitioned this country had committed a crime. 

Though two-nation theory was cited as its cause, it was essentially a religious division. How could they think that one religious group would be on one side and the other group would remain on the other side?It was not a practical possibility and it never did become one. People are suffering its consequences till today. 

Whenever we think about partition, we refer mainly to East Pakistan (now Bangladesh). We have hardly followed any news about thousands of people who were displaced from West Pakistan(now Pakistan) and were categorized as refugees to be dispersed across Delhi and other places. 

In the recent times, some intellectual Hindu Bengalis have raised concerns that around 164 tea gardens have remained with Bangladesh because of this partition. We are all aware that the British in 1932 had brought in people from Southern India, Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, West Bengal, Orissa and even some Chinese mechanics to work in these tea gardens. But these people from 164 tea gardens did not leave East Pakistan to be here in this country. They lost their loved ones forever. This plight is also another consequence of partition. The voting that took place in Kazi market to decide if Sylhet would remain with India or go to East Pakistan was primarily a communal process. This kind of petty politics and greed for power keep playing with people's lives. Ordinary folks continue to suffer, they are being constantly exploited. They are repeatedly used-as one would use utensils-by some greedy, manipulative people. 

One tends to forget that they are human beings made of flesh and blood, they too possess some self respect and honour. One day they too might suddenly rebel. The voting did take place but these unfortunate tea garden workers did not have voting right, otherwise Sylhet would have been a part of Assam in India. Communal riots sparked, houses were burnt and people crossed borders in desperation. There were cases of death, rape, sleeplessness and starvation everywhere. People out of acute starvation searched for starch to feed themselves. And amidst this scenario some politicians were dreaming - yes, they were dreaming of power. Power renders people shameless and heartless. They played with people's lives without any sense of remorse or sadness. 

The tea garden people who did not have voting right were mostly Hindus, a very few were Christians too. Naturally Muslim votes were cast in large numbers and Sylhet went to Pakistan. People of Assam and erstwhile Cachar (now Barak Valley) had marital and other forms of relationships with the workers of tea gardens. Everything ended there, visits stopped on both the sides. Such levels of pain and grief were caused to the people. Partition lead people nowhere. Many composed songs, Ritwik Ghatak made films on partition. Huge number of people crossed Kushiara to arrive here, many died on their way. 

My grandfather Harendra Kumar Bhattacharjee was a Swadeshi, later he became a Communist. He had to serve prison sentences several times in his life. He worked tirelessly arranging food and shelter for the people who came here. My younger aunt Neela Bhattacharjee (later Pandey) constantly helped my grandfather. She was engaged with social service throughout her life. Mother Leela Pandey and patetnal grandmother Bilassundari Pandey also worked for the refugees. They spoke to the British officials to arrange for their stay, they also helped in getting plots of land. They provided shelter to these refugees in their own house for several months. When my grandfather was working for the refugees, he would not visit home for days together. It was really sad that during his absence my grandmather Prathiba Bhattacharjee fell ill and passed away when she was only twenty eight years old. My mother during her stay in Kablicherra would cry narrating this episode. My grandmother would have survived if she had received proper medical treatment. Irony is that my grandfather was a doctor. Again in '71, the war between East and West Pakistan began. Once again people started coming, schools and colleges were crowded with refugees. 

Finally, war torn East Pakistan gave birth to the free nation of Bangladesh with help from Indian Prime Minister Mrs. Indira Gandhi and Russia. A lot of people went back, many stayed back too. All these were primarily consequences of partition. Today NRC causes another kind of harassment. It is not just Hindu Bengalis, but Hindus, Muslims, Manipuris, Dimasas, Khasis, Jaintias, Chakmas, Rias, Kukis, Rajbongshis, Ruknis, Mizos, Hmars and many other communities residing in tea gardens are being harassed because of NRC. All these are ploys of some politicians and intellectuals. No one cares to know about the opinion of common folks. Media could have done a better job, but they don't do so. However, there are few rational and sensible people who must be saluted. It is important to forget differences based on community, religion, caste and class and support humanity. People continue to bear the wounds caused by partition; it hasn't healed yet. A lot of literature has been written about it. I have also written a short story titled "Mokkhoda Sundarir Harano Prapti" and its translation has been published in Debjani Sengupta edited collection Looking Back (The 1947 partition of India)

When Adhir Biswas, the proprietor of Gangchil, had approached me for editing a volume on partition I was not very sure if I could do it. He is one person who knows how to get a literary work completed. And actually, when I was asked to edit something on partition, I realised that I too had a responsibility. I progressed slowly out of this sense of responsibilty. I am thankful to all the contributors for their writings. Partition has been very tragic and painful. There is absolutely no room for forgiveness. There remains unending pain and suffering. People have not been relieved of this searing pain even today.

About the Author: Jhumur Pandey was born to a progressive and culturally conscious family in Katlicherra tea estate of Hailakandi district, Assam. Her father Binay Kumar Pandey and mother late Leela Pandey were actively involved in social work. She started writing at an early age and her writings have been published in various journals and magazines. Pandey mainly writes about the predicament of tea garden workers and other marginalised communities. Her works have been published in many languages including Tamil, Telugu, Oriya, Marathi, English, Hindi, Assamese, Manipuri, Sadri. An avid Sitar player, she is also engaged in women's rights movement and other social welfare activities. She also works in urban slums and tea gardens.

Translator's Note- Many of us do not know how partition had impacted India's northeast. The dominant narratives of partition focus on Punjab and Bengal and fail to record this crucial dimension of history and geography. Partition is still a compelling reality here in the northeast affecting lives of many communities in more ways than one. However, in the recent times some serious efforts have been made to investigate the unexplored chapters of partition here. One must note that the factors and processes that initiated partition of northeast were very complex and layered. The onus is on artists, writers and researchers to bring forth different dimensions and insights concerning this historical episode. Jhumur Pandey edited collection on partition writings from India's northeast is a significant contribution in this regard. By including diverse voices and views, Pandey succeeds in highlighting the plurality of experiences related to partition dynamics in India's northeast. Her introduction to the volume (the one which I have translated) is a valuable commentary on the need to look back and preserve partition memories. 
***

Bionote: Suranjana Choudhury teaches literature at North Eastern Hill University, Shillong. Her essays, translations and reviews have been published in different journals and magazines including Scroll.in, The Wire, Biblio, The Statesman, Café Dissensus, Humanities Underground, Coldnoon Travel Poetics and Elsewhere. She may be contacted at suranjanaz@gmail.com 

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Setu Special 2020 :: Setu, November 2020

An Epistolary Trail... Few selections from Khaton ka Safarnama (Amrita Pritam & Imroz’s correspondence)

Sudeshna Chakravorty

Translated from Hindi to English by Sudeshna Chakravorty

Letter 1

Amrita’s letter (29.03.1962):

Jeeti,

What kind of a road is my life?

All the milestones here are made up of accidents.

When you were here- there was no house.

Now that there is a house- you are not.

The distance measured by miles is very little, but one small seal- that of legal recognition- turns into the distance separating two worlds.

A strange anxiety grips me and it feels as if this restlessness is as long as my life—or maybe this restlessness is the actual moniker for my life.

(90)

 

Letter 2

Imroz’s letter, Feb 1961 (p-86)

...

I have just returned after seeing off Avatar at the Station.

Received your letter, my eyes immediately lowered, the man bowed down, the man’s pride too.

Everything inside me is bent over, crying, right now.

And the only thing I wish for at this moment, may these eyes keep getting lowered like this, may this man and everything he has or is, bows down for ever, gets annihilated...

Your wound, my own darkness

Jeeti

(written during the period 1960-1963, when Amrita was miffed with Imroz, as he had earlier gone off to Bombay to pursue a career in films. Though he did not stay long, Amrita’s fear of losing him to tinsel town, as she had lost Sahir Ludhianwi, caused her to be cold and distant with him for some time. Amrita’s awareness of being 7 years older to Imroz also led to her attempts at staying away, for she felt Imroz should have the opportunity of meeting and knowing women closer to his age, and settle down to conventional domesticity. But that, of course, was not to be.)

 

Letter 3

Amrita’s letter (27.4.65)

 

Jeeti,

Something seems amiss today, Jeeti, Time seems to have come to a standstill.

It is ten in the morning now. Anytime now, the post will come in- then the time will start ticking again.

Avatar is visiting.

Last night Avatar, Sally, Kandla and me watched a movie- ‘My Fair Lady’.

I really wish I could have seen this film with you.

Jeeti, whether or not your film ever gets made, whether or not your paintings are ever put on exhibition...irrespective of whether your inner talent and beauty comes before the masses, via the screen or your canvases- but I will always admire and salute that depth and beauty residing within you.

My sole friend, no one has truly ‘known’ me in this whole world, except you. And the satisfaction of being understood by you, far overrides any complaints of being misunderstood by everyone else.

Just now, Avatar was telling me that Bedi sahib [filmmaker Rajinder Singh Bedi] goes around telling everyone that Amrita only understands and loves money; she measures everything and everyone on pecuniary grounds alone.

Please do burst out laughing on reading this.

People are so superficial and hypocritical!

I did not think Bedi to be like this. I used to feel that he understood human nature better, his beliefs and viewpoints were different.

But everything is superficial.

Hardly anyone understands the pride and satisfaction that comes with being able to earn through one’s labours.

People believe in grants and doles, and in free-loading. Both of these are just thinly veiled forms of ‘loot’/thievery- lacking the dignity inherent in ‘earnings’.

Those people who take pride in earning, hardly ever bring those other words on their lips.

Taking the just payment for one’s hard work, and paying out the same—both originate from the same mindset. But unfortunately, many people have a lop-sided belief—they are more than happy to take, but unwilling to pay.

I have chosen the word ‘pay’ as opposed to ‘give’, deliberately, so that it does not give off the odour of ‘charity’. Dole/charity is most pejorative, it reeks foul; but ‘earning’-now that spreads sweet fragrance.

Lots of love to your fragrant hands.

Maaja.

[context: Filmmaker Rajinder Singh Bedi had asked Amrita Pritam to compose a lyric for his film Raano, and promised to pay her five hundred rupees for her services. Amrita completed the song and sent it to Mr. Bedi as per their agreement; but even after the passage of considerable time, Amrita did not receive her payment. When she let this fact be known to some people, Mr. Bedi started bad mouthing her and painting her in unflattering colours.]

 

Letter 4

Amrita’s Letter (24.4.67) (p-118)

...

Have received an invitation to visit Germany for a week. Will finalise the dates, once I reach Belgrade. There’s another invite too, from Tehran, sent via our Embassy; for a three-day stop. But am undecided—after all, the travelling will become very long-drawn...

Maaja.

 

Letter 5

Imroz’s letter (23.8.67) (p-119)

Maaja,

Please entrust all the household responsibilities to us for these three months.

These three months are meant for Amrita to be with Amrita- that Amrita who is exclusively a writer- wholly and uninterruptedly, a writer.

Bhopi [Amrita’s daughter Kandla] is just as she was- very sweet. And in this uncle of Bhopi’s, now a part of her mother too is merged. This merging of selves, this feeling of belonging, of involvement, is quite new; the first experience of its kind.

Like Jeeti, I work the whole day; and like you- I stay at home, the whole day. For the house- and for my two daughters.

Each one of my letters will raise a toast to your name.

Yours

Jeeti.

 

Letter 6 (last letter in the collection)

Amrita’s. (04.01.76) (p-215)

My Ima,

If you— the way you think, the person that you are- had you not existed, then tell me, where could I have gone? How would I be?

And now, Please just come back home, soon.

Yours

Maaja.

 

Translator’s Note:

“All the world loves a lover!”—and the love story of Amrita Pritam and Imroz is one of the rare real life love-stories that is more awe-inspiring and heart-warming than most fables and fairy-tales.

The fiery, out-spoken, immensely talented and unapologetically authentic Amrita Pritam (born Amrit Kaur) was an artist, and person, far ahead of her times. Her poems, novels and other creative outputs broke new grounds in the vernacular literature scene of her times; and the unconventional way she chose to conduct her personal life drew scandals and admiration, alike. For this particular article, however, I have chosen to focus (through the above translations) more on her personal life; or rather on works that are at once a fascinating insight into a very inspiring relationship and also a glimpse at the mind and thought-process of the public figure- the Amrita Pritam who authored such forceful works like Pinjar, Kagaz te Canvas (novels), Ajj aakhaan waris Shah nu or Sunehade (poems) and the very evocative autobiography Raseedi Ticket.

Married off at an early age to an incompatible partner, Amrita fell in love with the noted urdu poet Sahir Ludhianwi and took the bold step of walking away from her unhappy legal union with Pritam Singh (though the official divorce came much later). Her relationship with the charishmatic Sahir too, however, was cause more for loneliness and heartbreak; as she lost him to the glitz of the (then) Bombay Film world. It was at this vulnerable juncture of her life that a professional requirement brought her face to face with the talented painter (and poet, in his own rights), Imroz.

What followed was a union that braved everything- from a big age difference (Imroz being seven years younger), to the demons and baggage of past relationships (Amrita’s) and the absence of any legal recognition- to last for close to five decades. Though the couple never married, they lived together in Amrita’s Hauz Khas residence till her demise in 2005. Even decades after her death, the bond remained strong as ever, as Imroz channelized all his memories of Amrita into his poetry:

“tere saath jiye

saare khubsurat din raat

ab mere naghmein

bante ja rahein hai”

 

(“...the beautiful days and nights

I spent with you

Are now becoming

My songs”)

 (‘Imroz, the abiding love in Amrita Pritam's life’. Hindustan Times 31^st Aug. 2018).

 

Poet, novelist, lyricist, Dr. Uma Trilok, a friend of both Amrita and Imroz, collected many of the letters that this extraordinary duo wrote to each other, translated them from the original Punjabi, and published them in book form as Khaton ka Safarnama. The first letter in this collection is one by Imroz, dated 2^nd October 1959, where he addresses Amrita as his own (‘meri apni’). But this salutation is not that of a man declaring proprietorship over the woman in his life, but an acknowledgement of the affinity of understanding and emotions between them. He begins by praising her solid command over language (‘pukhta zubaan likhne wali’) and her unconventional thinking (‘anokha sochna wali’), goes on to urge her to give up on ‘fear, and ‘shame, as they do not suit her personality (‘tumhare sath darr aur saham jaise lafz lage hue ache nahi lagte’) and offers himself to her, heart and soul (‘meri saari intensity, meri saari dhadkane tum samet lo’). The future (‘mustakbil’) that he calls her to is not one of willing secondarity of a woman to her man, as is conventionally expected and accepted; but of mutual admiration and care. There is no sense of entitlement in his words, and he signs of the letter as someone intensely aware of his fate hanging in balance, awaiting his lady love’s all-important consent (‘kismat ka intezaar kar raha’). This letter, in many ways sets the tone of all the letters to follow; and is defining of their relationship too. The letters that follow, capture myriad moods- the restlessness brought about by distance, the uncertainty and pain of negotiating an unconventional relationship, without legal sanction, in extremely conservative times; lovers’ tiffs- they all find their place. At the same time, these letters are testimony to the comfort shared by the two artists, the shared confidences, the constant encouragement and admiration and support that served as the bed rock of this union.

Keeping in mind the space constraints that any academic writing has, I had to be very prudent as to which few letters to choose to translate from the scores they exchanged (and were consequently documented by Dr. Trilok). And I chose those letters which I feel best showcase the two individuals and the dynamics of their extraordinary relationship. The first letter I have translated shows the vulnerable side of the fiery Amrita, who is pining for Imroz, as well as ruminating on the emotional price extracted from women daring to live on their own terms, in our society.

The third letter I have translated, is one that Amrita wrote to Imroz when she was disturbed by rumours being spread about her as being greedy and money-minded. The true story, as the letter reveals, however, was that Amrita was being deprived of her rightful earnings. I chose this letter because I feel it illustrates very well the way women’s labour is devalued in patriarchal cultures/societies. Women’s labour, whether outside the home or inside, is always seen as either a ‘labour of love’ or ‘duty’ that they are bound to do without expecting any returns; or at best much inferior to a ‘man’s’ work and hence to be paid meagrely or not at all. This intensely personal letter, confiding in the man she loved, thus becomes a social document, as well as a testimony of the clarity and originality of Amrita’s thoughts regarding these issues, despite the conservative surroundings she lived in.

But while her surroundings may have been stifling and conservative, the man in her life, the recipient of these epistles, definitely was not. The second of the letters which I have translated is testimony to this. Written in response to an emotional and mildly accusing letter by Amrita, when she was miffed with him and in her fear of losing him, was pushing him away even more- Imroz displays immense poise, grace, love and understanding. There is no anger in his words, no flexing of the wounded male pride; but a warm acknowledgement of his muse’s pain and a confession of how her pain was hurting him as well. In a culture of toxic masculinity, where to express one’s softer emotions is considered ‘unmanly’ to say the least- here we see a man mature and emotionally intelligent enough to not only understand his partner’s feelings, but to reveal his own vulnerability, in a very natural manner.

This paved the way for their later interactions, and the comfort that grew between them. As the fourth piece of my translations above, I have chosen a very short and ‘homely’ letter where Amrita talks of her worries about leaving the house and daughter unattended for long; even while her heart wishes to fly from country to country, to soak in new experiences, to gather inspiration for her creative pursuits. Imroz responds with the assurance of taking up every responsibility (letter 5 above). Not only does it lack any trace of rancour or of bestowing a ‘favour’ on her; but rather is a very poetic expression of his glee at getting this opportunity of being included in the everyday business of Amrita’s life.

Authors,artists, doctors, business person- whatever be the profession-we all need support from our closest ones in our journey to excellence; or that just becomes an added battle to fight. Amrita’s talent and creativity are definitely her own; but much of what she ultimately achieved and became is definitely because of Imroz, the man who continues to speak of her in the present tense, more than a decade after her demise.

And in the last letter that I have translated for this article, which is also the last letter in Trilok’s compendium, Amrita acknowledges the same, in no uncertain words- “tumhare jaisi soch, tumhare jaisi shakshiyat agar iss duniya mein nahi hoti, toh tumhi batao, kaha jaati mai.” The letter ends with a simple request, that he come back home to her soon. Posterity knows that he did, and stayed on- caring for Amrita till the last days of her life, and beyond.

 

Works Cited:

Trilok, Uma. Trans. & Ed. Khaton ka Safarnama. New Delhi: Hind Pocket Books. (2011) 2018.

Kumar, Manoj. ‘Imroz, the Abiding Love in Amrita Pritam’s Life.’ Hindustan Times (Chandigarh). 31.08.2018. 
***

Bionote: Sudeshna Chakravorty is currently working as Assistant professor of English, Susil Kar College, Champahati (affiliated to the University of Calcutta). She is a member of the Editorial Board of Sarvodaya: A Journal of Human Development, the in-house interdisciplinary ISSN no. awarded journal of Susil Kar College. She has chaired sessions at conferences, most recent of them being at the International Conference on Emergence of Globalisation: Towards Transnationalism organised by the ISCS in February 2017. She has presented papers at several National and International Seminars and Conferences, She is a Life member of the Shakespeare Society of India and the Jadavpur University Society for American Studies (JUSAS) and makes regular contributions to the latter’s seminars, workshops. She has acted as Resource Person in several of their seminars, most recently at a colloquium at the 20th Anniversary Seminar in March 2017. Her areas of interest include Gender Studies, Folklore and Culture Studies.

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Setu Special 2020 :: Setu, November 2020