“We have that at home,” I tell my sister, pointing at the copy of The Rainbow Runners in her hands. “Don’t buy it again. Just read mine!”
“But I want my own,” she replies, furrowing her eyebrows in irritation. “It sounds intriguing.”
Somehow, all our visits to the bookstore end the same way. I throw a fit because her entire basket is already on my shelves. It’s a waste of money. I try knowing that it won’t work, I follow up by drawing attention to the ever-growing mountain of books in our reading room. She doesn’t listen and returns home with a bunch of books that my mother recognises from the room. My sister’s hoarding betrays my mother’s confidence in us, and then I become a casualty: she doesn’t let me buy any paperbacks. I cannot let her get away with it this time. At any cost. I don my armour (I keep my shopping basket down), I strap on my sword (I swipe my hair away from my face and cross my arms haughtily), and I put on my war paint (If worst comes to worst, I will call my mother).
“How about this?” she asks with a playful smirk and twinkling eyes. “You tell me what the book’s like, and I’ll decide if I want to buy it or not. Honest reviews only, don’t scam me.”
“It’s not a matter of the content –” I realise that my tirade is falling on deaf ears and stop myself. “Fine, if that’s what you want…” So I explain to her, silently wondering how she plans on deriving any joy from reading once she would already know the details of the book before breaking its spine – that it’s written by Dhrubajyoti Borah, a well-respected Assamese novelist; that it’s a translation from his Assamese original, Artha. I tell her that it follows the tale of Sriman as he navigates being an unwelcome witness to a murder on the banks of Brahmaputra. The fact that Assam is struck by insurgency and that he finds himself working as a journalist does not help his state of mind. He eventually lands himself into the world of underground leaders and discovers the teachings of the Tathagatha Buddha and love in all its glory, one that can redeem him from his pitfall.
The effects of an insurgency
“It’s a wonderful exploration of Sriman’s growth and his struggles with trauma, you know,” I say. “Like, Borah explores how people living in such conflict-stricken areas are affected by their environment with the sharp, controlled skill of a seasoned storyteller. He forms a loving relationship with this Tibetan woman, which forces him to rethink his past.” I pause, thinking that I’m losing her. “It pushes him to find his ‘meaning’ as he runs through life.” Nothing but a blank stare from her. “You know, life and stuff. Artha? Meaning?” Still nothing.
“What?” I ask, not bothering to hide my disgustingly smug smile. “Too much for your little brain? Do you want to keep it back on the shelf now?”
“No,” my sister responds, her chest puffing up at the uncalled-for attack. “I was just disappointed. I don’t need you to regurgitate the blurb for me. I can do that myself. Tell me what you felt. How did you like it?”
Ouch. She’s quick.
“Don’t blame me if you get an existential crisis later, little one,” I press on. “Anyway, I thought Borah had a wonderful story to tell – it’s as interesting as it sounds, no betrayal there. I think it’s another book that’s right up his alley, you know? It’s part of his Kalantarar trilogy, which explores insurgency and how it affects everyday people. He’s tackled history, Buddhism, and philosophy before, so this book fits right in with his usual existential themes. But…” I hesitate.
She tuts, rolling her eyes. “What are you beating around the bush about? Just spit it out.”
“Look, I think the story’s great, but it hasn’t translated well into English.” I pause, but she just stares at me expectantly. I continue. “It just…didn’t carry the poetry over. What I mean is, the original’s lyricism, the flow of it, feels flattened here. I get the sense that in Assamese, it’s probably beautiful and layered, but in English, it comes off as mechanical. Phrases get repeated a lot – names, places, emotions – and soon, it takes away from the essence of the story. It’s like the beauty that’s supposed to be there is drowned out by a rough translation.”
She lifts her eyebrows, a silent question hiding behind her persistent silence.
“And another thing,” I say. “The dialogue – there are many incomplete sentences, and I’m sure that in Assamese, it makes sense, keeping in mind cultural references and ways of speaking. But here? It feels flat. It dulls the emotion that’s supposed to be there, you know? I’m sure it’s more impactful in Assamese, but in the translation, it just felt clunky.”
“What?” she asks, as if bursting to ask. “You think you’re a literary genius?”
“This is what I was afraid of,” I say simply. “I knew you wouldn’t get it… But, come on, you asked for honesty.”
“I’m just pulling your leg,” she says, abashed. “Fine, I’m sorry. Seriously, you’re insufferable when you’re right.”
She chews her lips, clearly mulling over what she wants to say next.
Translating into English
“But you know,” she starts after a few moments have passed. “Sometimes, when it comes to languages that aren’t as popularly read and translated by the masses, it’s more important to get the literature out to the public. Even if a little is lost in translation, it still opens the door for more readers to appreciate the work.”
“I get where you’re coming from,” I say. “But don’t you feel like we’re settling? Why assume it can’t be translated well? It almost feels like you’re giving up on the possibility of doing it justice. Sure, it deserves recognition and respect, and we also need to be sensitive to such differences in popularity, but that shouldn't come at the cost of quality, right? I was looking this up and found that Rita Chowdhury had discussed this with Outlook sometime back.”
“Oh? Do tell?”
“She’s also an Assamese writer, and she said that it’s much easier to translate Assamese to languages like Bengali because there are lots of linguistic similarities between the two. You can’t say the same for English. A lot of the essence gets lost in translation because they are so differently structured, linguistically speaking. You’ll need a really good translator who’s well-versed with every nook and cranny of both languages to get something that works. I’m not really placing blame, but I don’t agree with simply settling either.”
“Fair enough,” she says, scratching at her head as she stares at the book in her hands. The blue and brown of the cover reflect on her thick reading glasses. “I see this is self-translated. That might have had an effect too, right? Jhumpa Lahiri talks about this in Translating Myself and Others. She calls the process doomed from the start. Writers live with their stories for so long, so revisiting them in another language can be like reliving the whole experience once again, which honestly, sounds like quite the task. While it gives the writer a chance to re-engage with their work, it definitely has its own downsides…”
She pauses, flipping through a few pages absently.
“‘The Second Act’ of the book, which I think is really clever by the way, can end in missed cultural nuances and references or lost originality and authenticity. Every language has its own layers, and that just complicates everything.” She shuts the book with a snap, adjusting her glasses.
“And then there’s also the emotional side of it,” she adds. “The second-guessing and re-evaluation – it’s a whole process. But I don’t think we need to go down that rabbit hole right now. The real question is: does the book do anything for you in the end?”
“I mean, definitely. Despite everything, it’s a beautiful exploration of Sriman’s life and his resilience. The storytelling may not have shined as brightly in English as it did in Assamese, but the characters and the weight they carry with them still resonate.”
“Alright, I’m getting the book,” my sister declares. I don’t like the way she’s looking at me. That face of hers never means anything good.
“You know, I would’ve bought it anyway, right?” she says with a grin, walking toward the cash counter. “I just needed to buy some time and cool you down.”
The Rainbow Runners, Dhrubajyoti Borah, translated from the Assamese by the author, Thornbird/Niyogi Books.
