At a literature festival in India some months ago, during a session devoted to an author writing in one of the world’s oldest languages, I noticed five people in the auditorium. That’s all there was. Five, including the three festival volunteers. And the writer was a noted novelist, poet, short story and screenplay writer from South India. The audiences at the festival were thronging to sessions where well-known authors – even those writing in “Indian” languages other than English – were speaking to packed halls.
The difference was that their books were available in English translation. Perhaps the audience didn’t know this particular author. Here he was, marginalised and assigned to a venue where nobody showed up. Unintentionally, perhaps, for I’m sure the festival organisers meant well by inviting this author. However, the fact that nobody there knew him was evident.
Would the availability of his books translated into English have made a difference? It is an undeniable fact that translating into a common language unites a multilingual public. It could’ve resulted in more readers accessing his works, and therefore, more turning up to listen to him.
After all, as Susan Sontag says, “The purpose of translation is to enlarge the readership of a book deemed to be important.” She goes on to say that translation is the circulatory system of the world’s literatures, and it mirrors and duplicates the role of literature itself: To extend our sympathies; to educate the heart and mind; to create inwardness; to secure and deepen the awareness (with all its consequences) that other people, people different from us, really do exist.
Yet, there was no single, credible translation of this particular author’s works into English, barring a short story here and a badly translated poem there. And this is someone who has more than four novels and a fairly large volume of short stories and poetry, to his credit. Like him, there are many incredibly talented voices waiting to be discovered by the world, forgotten or sidelined by the mainstream literary world in India. This provokes an entire set of questions.
Why is this happening? Why do only certain writers get translated into English?
What motivates a translator? How do books get chosen for translation? What goes into the selection of a particular author? How do translators and publishers deem a particular book to be important enough for translation into English?
Indeed, this is the age of translations. Indian writing in translation is winning international prizes. Translators are getting the due credit they deserve. All the more reason to ponder over these questions, because there are many writers waiting to be discovered.
When I started to translate from Malayalam into English, it was my desire to rediscover my roots in Kerala that motivated me. I felt like an outsider in Kerala and I wanted to get as close as possible to the language of my ancestors – Malayalam.
Paul Zacharia was the first author I translated. Translation was an education. A conversation. A voyage of discovery. But more than anything else, it was hard work. The difficulty was not in finding literary equivalents but in situating myself in the text, to understand even its first layer. As someone who had not studied Malayalam, having grown up outside Kerala, I struggled with the linguistic and cultural nuances of his stories. I laboured over phrases and proverbs. But it helped that the author lived in the same city that I did. We had several discussions. Over time, thanks to a friendship that took years to cement, I started feeling more at home with Zacharia’s world.
Gradually, the act of translating took on larger connotations. I also felt responsible and accountable to bring the social and political undercurrents of Zacharia’s works to a larger reading public.
So this brings me back to the question – what motivates a translator – especially if she were to choose what she translates? Is it a personal desire? Is it a social responsibility because the author deserves to be read by a country/countries due to the relevance of her work? Is it, as Sontag says, to enlarge the readership of “an important” book? If that is the case, who decides which book is important? What are the guidelines for being important? Which author is eligible? Which language? Even as we have a growing number of Indian writers in English translation and concerted efforts towards promoting translation in India, we still have many brilliant authors writing in Indian languages, whose works are unknown outside their respective states.
Perhaps the solution lies with writers who also translate. Those of us who write in English, who feel drawn to the need to translate from time to time. I believe it’s our responsibility to discover those voices, translate them into English and get them to the wider audiences they deserve. We need to be aware of the new and unheard voices in the literatures of our regions, and fulfil our roles as translators. And we need more publishers willing to invest in the new voices. Those who believe in the translators’ choices. We should not have to wait for another Banu Mushtaq or a Perumal Murugan to win international acclaim.
And then, we can rejoice in the day when we have writers from across India, writing in their countless languages, enjoying packed halls and enthusiastic audiences, as much as the writers writing in English. India with its vast languages. India, which is a mini world.
Source for ideas quoted from Susan Sontag: The St Jerome Lecture on Literary Translation by Susan Sontag.
Anupama Raju is a poet, literary journalist, communications professional and translator. She is the author of Bitter Gourd, a poetry collection, Copper Coin; C, a novel, Aleph Book Company; and Nine, a poetry collection, Speaking Tiger.
