Becoming a translator of Bengali
12 Oct 2012 4:07 AM IST
Sometimes life springs a surprise on us, bringing a completely unanticipated new turn. Something like that happened to my friend, Rama.
In March of 2005, he was at a cousin’s wedding reception. There he met his brother-in-law, a well-known writer. By way of polite conversation, he asked the writer what he was working on, and learnt that he was preparing an anthology of writings on Kolkata. That reminded Rama of the writer Sasthi Brata, and his book, My God Died Young, which we had read as college students. So he asked whether anything from this was being included, and the writer said he had been unable to find the book. So after Rama returned home, he googled Sasthi Brata, and among the search results was a link to an article by one Mrinal Bose. The article was an appreciative one, reminding readers of the apparently forgotten name of a writer who had been a star of sorts, 30 years ago. The article carried the author’s email id – and so Rama wrote to him.
And thus began their email friendship. Bose was a physician and a bibliophile, and also himself a writer. He lived and practiced in Sodepur, in the northern fringes of Kolkata, far away and completely removed from Rama’s circuit, and he rarely came into the city. And so they didn’t meet, but exchanged many long emails, about … anything and everything, all rooted in a certain sensibility, relating to literature. In August of that year, with the Independence Day holiday coming up, Rama made an appointment to finally meet. And so, he made the long trip across the city, picked Bose up from Sodepur, and on his suggestion, they went to a bar in nearby Barrackpore.
Rama asked Bose what he was reading, and whether he read any writing in Bengali. He replied that while he used to be an avid reader of contemporary Bengali writing earlier, he hardly read anything now. Asked why, he said that he thought much of what was written now wasn’t worth reading. Rama knew next to nothing about Bengali literature, despite having lived in Kolkata all his life. He asked Bose whether there wasn’t at least one writer he could think of, who was worth reading. He thought for a moment and said, yes, and mentioned a name, Subimal Misra. Rama had never heard the name. He said, right then, I’ll translate him into English.
Bose kept reminding him about the declared intention to translate Misra, and urged Rama to begin. Two months later, after lunch on Dashami, the last day of Durga Puja, when Rama was home during the Puja break and feeling idle and somewhat restless, he picked up one of the anthologies of Misra’s stories and began reading the first story. And then he began translating. In a few hours, it was done. He gave it to his wife and asked her to read it, and tell him what she thought. She read the translation and said it was good, that it was like watching film sequences. Rama rang up Subimal-babu and reminded him that he had spoken to him earlier, told him that he had finally begun translating, and had just completed the first story, had his wife read it, and then called him. He said he would courier the story to him the next day.
And thus did he embark on his journey as a literary translator. Thus also did his friendship with Subimal Misra begin, a most unlikely friendship, between two people who, on the surface, had nothing in common. Rama knew nothing about Misra or his writing, or about Bengali literature. He had never read a book in Bengali. He wasn’t even Bengali. But he had learnt Bengali for three years in junior school, was married to a Bengali [albeit one who grew up outside Bengal], and had worked for over twenty years in Kolkata, hearing and speaking mostly Bengali, and in the process become fluent in the language and even something of a barefoot sociologist of Kolkata and of spoken Bengali in the city. Perhaps his background and sensibilities, as an urban activist working with the labouring poor, drew him to Misra’s work.
That was in 2005. In the seven years since, my friend has completed translating two collections of Misra’s short fiction. The Golden Gandhi Statue from America was published in 2010, and the second is scheduled for publication next year. And Rama has now begun working towards a third volume. But more significantly, in this period he became aware about Misra and his writing, by reading and through interaction with Misra readers.
Subimal is a unique writer. Born in 1943, he began writing in 1967, stubbornly shunned mainstream and commercial publication, and wrote exclusively for small, limited circulation literary journals, or little magazines.
Although he could easily write brilliantly constructed and eloquently expressed ‘stories’, he deliberately sought to depart from the narrative form, and thus became known for his ‘anti-stories’. He is said to write ‘with venom instead of ink’, because he attacks social mores, and especially middle-class values and hypocrisy. He is an anti-establishment writer if there ever was one, one who paid in every way to practice his writing mission. the imperative project – of his work being translated and thus getting out, becoming known about, reaching the uncommon reader.
Nilakantha Chandra is a business executive in Kolkata.
In March of 2005, he was at a cousin’s wedding reception. There he met his brother-in-law, a well-known writer. By way of polite conversation, he asked the writer what he was working on, and learnt that he was preparing an anthology of writings on Kolkata. That reminded Rama of the writer Sasthi Brata, and his book, My God Died Young, which we had read as college students. So he asked whether anything from this was being included, and the writer said he had been unable to find the book. So after Rama returned home, he googled Sasthi Brata, and among the search results was a link to an article by one Mrinal Bose. The article was an appreciative one, reminding readers of the apparently forgotten name of a writer who had been a star of sorts, 30 years ago. The article carried the author’s email id – and so Rama wrote to him.
And thus began their email friendship. Bose was a physician and a bibliophile, and also himself a writer. He lived and practiced in Sodepur, in the northern fringes of Kolkata, far away and completely removed from Rama’s circuit, and he rarely came into the city. And so they didn’t meet, but exchanged many long emails, about … anything and everything, all rooted in a certain sensibility, relating to literature. In August of that year, with the Independence Day holiday coming up, Rama made an appointment to finally meet. And so, he made the long trip across the city, picked Bose up from Sodepur, and on his suggestion, they went to a bar in nearby Barrackpore.
Rama asked Bose what he was reading, and whether he read any writing in Bengali. He replied that while he used to be an avid reader of contemporary Bengali writing earlier, he hardly read anything now. Asked why, he said that he thought much of what was written now wasn’t worth reading. Rama knew next to nothing about Bengali literature, despite having lived in Kolkata all his life. He asked Bose whether there wasn’t at least one writer he could think of, who was worth reading. He thought for a moment and said, yes, and mentioned a name, Subimal Misra. Rama had never heard the name. He said, right then, I’ll translate him into English.
Bose kept reminding him about the declared intention to translate Misra, and urged Rama to begin. Two months later, after lunch on Dashami, the last day of Durga Puja, when Rama was home during the Puja break and feeling idle and somewhat restless, he picked up one of the anthologies of Misra’s stories and began reading the first story. And then he began translating. In a few hours, it was done. He gave it to his wife and asked her to read it, and tell him what she thought. She read the translation and said it was good, that it was like watching film sequences. Rama rang up Subimal-babu and reminded him that he had spoken to him earlier, told him that he had finally begun translating, and had just completed the first story, had his wife read it, and then called him. He said he would courier the story to him the next day.
And thus did he embark on his journey as a literary translator. Thus also did his friendship with Subimal Misra begin, a most unlikely friendship, between two people who, on the surface, had nothing in common. Rama knew nothing about Misra or his writing, or about Bengali literature. He had never read a book in Bengali. He wasn’t even Bengali. But he had learnt Bengali for three years in junior school, was married to a Bengali [albeit one who grew up outside Bengal], and had worked for over twenty years in Kolkata, hearing and speaking mostly Bengali, and in the process become fluent in the language and even something of a barefoot sociologist of Kolkata and of spoken Bengali in the city. Perhaps his background and sensibilities, as an urban activist working with the labouring poor, drew him to Misra’s work.
That was in 2005. In the seven years since, my friend has completed translating two collections of Misra’s short fiction. The Golden Gandhi Statue from America was published in 2010, and the second is scheduled for publication next year. And Rama has now begun working towards a third volume. But more significantly, in this period he became aware about Misra and his writing, by reading and through interaction with Misra readers.
Subimal is a unique writer. Born in 1943, he began writing in 1967, stubbornly shunned mainstream and commercial publication, and wrote exclusively for small, limited circulation literary journals, or little magazines.
Although he could easily write brilliantly constructed and eloquently expressed ‘stories’, he deliberately sought to depart from the narrative form, and thus became known for his ‘anti-stories’. He is said to write ‘with venom instead of ink’, because he attacks social mores, and especially middle-class values and hypocrisy. He is an anti-establishment writer if there ever was one, one who paid in every way to practice his writing mission. the imperative project – of his work being translated and thus getting out, becoming known about, reaching the uncommon reader.
Nilakantha Chandra is a business executive in Kolkata.
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