INDIA is, and always has been, a ‘bahubhashit’ multilingual society. The Vedas, the earliest remembered expression of our literary culture, record a moving prayer which urges invoking the Gods in many languages. Today, with 22 national languages, 122 regional languages and 1726 mother tongues, India is engaged in an act of constant, ongoing cultural and literary translation.

Like democracy, translation must seek equity. There should be no dominant bias between the two languages, and the cultural cues and subtexts within the work need to be projected for effective literary translation. This is naturally not an easy process, requiring intensive dual-language skills and cultural knowledge. However, while it is generally easier to translate between cognate rather than non-cognate language clusters (Marathi to Gujarati being easier than Marathi to Mizo), the link language for translation in the Indian literatures still often tends to be English. This middleman role is a mixed blessing and, while opening up more translations, can sometimes result in a double-distortion and distancing in the translation process.

Colonialism impacted and manipulated translation in many ways. Missionaries, who were often pioneers and unsung heroes of regional language translation, imposed their own built-in system of censorship. On the positive balance, the genre of the novel (which by definition is always new) became available via translation to the Indian reader. This in turn influenced the classical language traditions, and the many glorious avatars of the Indian novel in Bangla, Malayalam, Oriya and, of course, English, emerged as a result.

It is also important to remember that the colonial project and the Euro-centric worldview created its new Indian canon, inevitably promoting that body of literature which it found accessible or familiar. The ‘exoticising’ of India was a parallel but not unconnected activity. The Orientalists were high-minded, well-intentioned men, and all the recording and archiving they attempted was important, especially in retrospect. However, as they endorsed India to the world, she in turn lost the ability of the inward gaze, and became victim to a significant loss of self-esteem about the value of her literatures.

Sir William Jones’ 1789 translation of the classical drama Shakuntala by Kalidasa, was eagerly embraced by the western world. The first rendering of a complete Sanskrit text without Persian intermediation, this first translation set a trend and was followed by at least 46 translations of Shakuntala in 12 languages in the next hundred years. In 1791, George Forster published the German version of Shakuntala, leading to a distinctive though short-lived Indian moment in German romanticism. Indeed, it is said that Goethe used the concept of the sutradhar in the opening scene of Faustus, as inspired by Shakuntala. Kalidasa was then officially validated by being dubbed the ‘Indian Shakespeare’.

 

It’s important to remember that plays like the canonical ‘Shakuntala Abhigyanam’ negotiate both Prakrit and Sanskrit. Barring the king, the minister, and the vidushak or jester (who is Brahmin), the others would speak in Prakrit, with contextual translations to make both languages accessible. And this, roughly, in my understanding, is the linguistic theorem which works in India even today. Consider the nuanced creative genius of Bollywood dialogues which assimilate and annex from many Indian languages, and from Indian English as well. Bollywood is the great leveller as far as Indian languages are concerned. Occasionally, celluloid translations forefront great writing from the shadows of regional fame onto a larger multiplex, as was the case with Rajasthani writer, Vijay Dan Detha’s short story, ‘Duvidha’ that was adapted into the film Paheli by Amol Palekar or Sarat Chandra Chatterjee’s Parineeta that received great critical acclaim from the non-Bengali speaking audiences as well.

 

At the Neemrana Literature Festival, 2002, at a session titled ‘Many languages, one literature’, U.R. Ananthamurthy had this to say: ‘I cannot live only in one language. I live in English, I live in Kannada, I live in Sanskrit, I live in so many translations…’ He referred then to the Kannada/Sanskrit word ‘anusandhan’, which means annexation, and to the continuous and joyous anusandhan in play between Indian languages. Kannada, a language with a venerable literary history, had to do this anusandhan with Sanskrit a thousand years ago; it had to adopt and adapt to Sanskrit, and yet resist it. Sanskrit too had to cede to the desi or indigenous, to find its level. So the marga or classical language and desi or folk languages and cultural practice had to go together, to adjust and accommodate with each other, always.

Today, as Ananthamurthy suggested, English may have replaced Sanskrit in its status as an elite marga language, but desi or bhasha languages continue to assert themselves. Indian literature lives therefore in this constant realm of anusandhan, of negotiation, and anuvad or translation, which empowers and creatively layers it. So, to quote Ananthamurthy again, ‘The notion of one race, one language, one religion, does not work in India…’

Another phrase, employed by Gujarati poet Sitanshu Yahashchandra to describe the translation process, is ‘sethubandhan’ or the building of bridges. Translation itself refers really to ‘transrelation’ and ‘sethubandhan’ is perhaps an exceptionally appropriate word. In India, these bridges began to be built with a special energy somewhere around and after the 12th century, when the radical poet saints began bridging priestly barriers and directly addressing both God and society. From the 12th to the 16th century, Sant Tukaram, Jnaneshwar and Eknath in Marathi; Basava in Kannada; Lalla, Habba Khatoon in Kashmir; Amir Khusro in Delhi, and so many others, wrote and sang in different languages, connecting and revitalizing society and culture. Although Guru Nanak wrote in what might be characterized as old Hindi, the writings of the seers were compiled into the Guru Granth Sahib in Gurmukhi.

 

Urdu, one of the greatest literary languages in the world, transmuted from a language of the invading military camps to the zenith of stylistic sophistication. It evolved from Persian via intermediate phases like Hindawi and Dakhnawi and North Indian Hindustani dialects such as khari boli to develop its own precise lyrical style, finding sublime expression in poets like Mir Taqi Mir in the 18th century, Mirza Ghalib in the 19th century.

To cite a line from Amir Khusro, penned alternatively in lines of Persian and Awadhi, where this process shows up in delightful poetic play, and translation as a possible metaphor for mystic union:

‘Je Haal Miskin Makun Tagaful…

Duraye Naina Banaye Batiya

Ki’ taabe Hijra Na Darame Ja

Na Lehu Kahe Lagaye Chhatiya’

** (Persian) Don’t forget my miserable state

(Awadhi) You hide your eyes and talk

(Persian) I can no longer bear this separation

(Awadhi) Why don’t you embrace me and hold me to your breast?

 

The linguistic diversity and cultural connectivity of India can perhaps be exemplified by the great collection of stories called the Katha Sarita Sagar. Originally written in Paisachi, the language of the demons or bhoothas, by Gunadhya, in the first century B.C., it was originally named Brihat Katha. This was lost, according to legend, but a Sanskrit translation survived. Attributed to the Kashmiri Pandit Somadeva, it had 22000 stanzas and 124 chapters. Although translated into English in 1884, it had already found its way through Persian and Arabic versions to Constantinople and Venice, and into English and French folklore. ‘Katha Sarita Sagar’ translates literally as the River and Ocean of Stories, and this apt title and metaphor really needs no further explanation.

While people all over the world use English in their daily lives, the subcontinent has uniquely embraced it as a literary language. Novels like G.V. Desani’s All About H. Hatterr, Raja Rao’s Kanthapura, Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children which won the ‘Booker of Bookers ’ located and co-opted English into another linguistic framework. The Queen’s Hinglish belongs to India now, as much as to anyone else.

The publishing industry in India is moving into the multilingual space. Penguin India co-publishes in Hindi, Marathi and Urdu with Yatra Books (of which I am one of the founder Directors). It was the first time that Penguin ventured into other languages, and it is gratifying to see publishers like Random House and Harper Collins following the same path in India. There is extraordinary and evocative literary activity in all the bhasha languages. All 22 recognised languages, the regional languages, the dialects, carry the mantle of established literary tradition, and are in dynamic interaction with modern realities.

Translations are happening in all directions, and adding value and resonance to the literary process. Geeta Dharmarajan of Katha nurtured a vision in her publishing programme, and the Katha Prize Story series did enormous work in alerting Indians to the wealth of literary treasure available to them. Mini Krishnan, too, laid the foundations for sound translation practice, and the Sahitya Akademi, the Translation Mission, and several other institutions work with dedication and passion towards mainstreaming neglected literary languages.

 

There have been several milestones in terms of quality translation. These include Those Days and First Light by Sunil Gangopadhyay, translated by Aruna Chakravorty, Raag Darbari by Srilal Shukla translated by Gillian Wright, Mahabhoj by Manu Bhandari translated by Ruth Vanitha and Ilango’s Tamil epic poem, Silappadikaram translated by Lakshmi Holmstrom. Sankar’s famous Chowringhee, first published in Bangla in 1962, arrived in an eloquent and heartfelt English translation by Arunava Sinha in 2008. It immediately became a surprise best-seller, and continued this winning streak at the 2009 London Book Fair, where it was widely reviewed and admired.

Indian language writing is poised at an important moment in international perception. It’s not only the quality of literary translations that counts, but also the receptivity of the market, and the doppelganger identification of the reader with the translated work. A year when Mahasweta Devi is short-listed for the Man Booker International Prize along with Sir Vidya Naipaul, and after the resounding success of the India Market Focus at the London Book Fair (which presented India ‘Through Fresh Eyes’) may provide breakthrough ‘success’ for many deserving writers. Aravind Adigas’s Booker was much debated in India, but it followed the success of Kiran Desai’s Inheritance of Loss and Arundhati Roy’s God of Small Things. Famed Assamese writer Indira Goswami, ‘Mamoni’ to her fans, got the Principal Prince Claus Award last year. And the Oscar winning success of Vikas Swarup’s Q&A, born-again as ‘Slumdog Millionaire’, celebrated another form of translation of Indian culture and reality for international audiences.

 

The multi-phonic caravan of Indian literature is moving ahead in many voices, many directions. Take the Jaipur Literature Festival which has established itself in just four years as Asia’s leading literature festival, and one of the most visible literature events in the world. This has happened because it showcases both the international, regional and local writing, in a variety of languages and dialects. And it has to do with the range and quality of local audiences which, in a city like Jaipur, can respond at different levels to English, Hindi, French, Bengali or Malayalam writing.

Or to quote a great contemporary Indian writer and poet, A.K. Ramanujan: ‘By a curious perversity I read Tamil constantly in the Kannada area, Kannada in the Tamil area, studied and taught English in India, and India and Indian languages in the US.’ In his fictional autobiography, the protagonist, an Indian with an American wife teaching history in a small Iowa college recollects his childhood. ‘In my early years, I spoke Madras Tamil to Amma, I switched to Mysore Tamil with our Iyengar housemaids who cooked for us; outside the house, I spoke Kannada with friends. Upstairs in his office, Appa conversed in English… Thus, upstairs-downstairs, inside-outside, I grew accustomed to three languages.’

The critic Meenakshi Mukherjee responded in this manner to Ramanujan.

‘A.K. Ramanujan’s statement, often quoted in different contexts, about how he spoke Kannada on the streets, Tamil in the backyard, and English upstairs, touches a chord in all of us. Ramanujan was, of course, exceptional in his use of languages – translating with equal ease and elegance from ancient Tamil poetry, vachana poets from medieval Kannada, prose fiction from contemporary Kannada, and writing original poems in English. He was a man of unusual talent and his literary range is quite unparalleled.’

‘But Ramanujan’s initial linguistic situation was not unique, because most of us lead parallel or simultaneous lives in more than one language without being self-conscious about this plurality. (I do not know whether I should change this statement from the present tense to the past, because it is pointed out that very few among the younger generation today, even if they speak in two languages, have the linguistic competence to write in two languages. Whether literary bilingualism has been sacrificed at the altar of globalization is something that needs to be discussed separately.)’

I would like to conclude this rambling discourse with a tribute to the ‘curious perversity’ of our multilingual literary culture, and the conviction that it will persist, and flower to greater glory, in its unaccountable upstairs-downstairs, inside-outside trajectory.