Contradictory to mostly
non-ambitious and somewhat disinterested approach to nearly all aspects of
life, when it comes to writing, I tend to overcompensate with too much ambition
and dread of mediocrity, perhaps an inadvertent precipitate of classic literature
reading. I am truly intrigued with the confidence of so many modern Indian English novelists cranking out love stories like parathas in our canteen (what? I can't use sausages in Indian context). This
might be an ill-disguised attempt to display my hatred of this love story mass
production machinery as a whole, but I have to admire the tenacity with which,
for example a mixed double of love story vendors (names are irrelevant), they
come up with the same story-lines on what I believe is monthly basis. The sheer
audacity and belief that the potential readers will read the same thing again
and again is not only inspiring in some sense to some people but is also repaid
by our readers. But judging and criticizing pot-boilers just because one has
read classics is hardly a real contribution to literature. But the reason I do
it is a desperate attempt to distance myself from the brand I dread that seems
to be enveloping all popular Indian literature.
To be honest, the writing part
has hardly been difficult. What has been really a real dilemma ridden phase is the
time I spent deciding to do something about my urge for writing. Writing is the
truly the only thing I sincerely do and immaturely enjoy, but the apprehension
of being the part of inconsequential crowd has always been overwhelming. But
then I came up with a solution: that why start with an original story! All I
had to do was to pick up a Hindi story, translate it for readers unfamiliar
with Hindi Literature while trying the hardest to preserve its essence.
And boy, preserving the essence
of a Premchand story has been a Herculean task and midway through the process I
began to question whether I am even equipped to do this. Having been familiar
with English classics as a part of my passion for literature, Premchand’s
stories have taught me that not every style of prose needs to be Joyce or
Hemingway-like in its approach. Not every emotion has to be turned inside out
to reveal the complexity of human feelings, as he candidly assumes that most of our emotions
are just there and don’t need dramatic questioning. For instance, in this story
titled Bade Bhai Sahab the younger
brother in the story is not a Stephen Dedalus wondering through Dublin
lamenting the lack of understanding and respect of intellect of a budding
artist by inferiors around him, but rather a simple minded boy in a colonial
era sleepy town who finds heavenly delights in nuanced rebellions against an
elder brother who he has been taught to respect. The innocence of the Premchand
style prose is so dramatically lost in the translation that it makes me wonder
that either I am a horrible writer or Premchand is seriously underrated in International
literature. I am guessing the true reason is a healthy mixture of both the
factors.
I have not read any of the prior translations
which would have undoubtedly been attempted before, as it would have
adulterated my own experience of the story. And most importantly I would like to think that I have grown as a writer and hope that this translation does not turn out to be a KP Thakur one (Biharis will understand!). With that I would like to conclude
my rant that included an ill disguised hatred of ‘you know what’ and a sob
story of an aspiring writer. Although, to be fair even Nathaniel Hawthorne was
known to….I should shut up now.
