An Epitaph of Lost Words

SOMETIME last year, I saw a frail old man at a literary gathering at the British Council. I went up to him, touched his feet and asked for his blessings for my writing efforts. Then I told him that I wrote in English. Bhisham Sahni seemed taken aback that I had read his work in the original, not translation. And even more surprised that a writer in English could be a fan of Hindi literature.

For a fan of Hindi literature, and especially of the short story, the current collection ought to have been the book of the year. The table of contents reads like a veritable who's who of Hindi literature. Premchand, Chandradhar Sharma Guleri, Manu Bhandari, Mohan Rakesh, Dharamvir Bharti, Nirmal Verma, Bhisham Sahni... they are all here. Instead, this book is the proverbial double whammy: indifferent translations kill some of the finest Indian prose of the past century while reaffirming that Hindi writing, if not dead, is surely dying.

The problem with the anthology is not the selection of stories or writers. Indeed, it contains some of the finest short stories ever written, not only in Hindi but in any language. However, the translations are often downright shoddy, the editing even worse. For example, do we still need to render beta or bhai into English?

Given the craze for Indo-Anglian writing, we should indeed be grateful for any attempts to translate vernacular works that are ignored in the original by the English-reading public. But when Usne Kaha Tha (translated unidimensionally here as The Pledge), a story of love in times of war that rivals Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms, is rendered soulless, gratitude is replaced by fury.

The opening passages of the story, which count as some of the most colourfully evocative descriptions of Amritsar, are wooden, forgettable and boring. One of the most memorable lines of the past century—Teri kudmai ho gayi?—loses all its linguistic, cultural and emotional resonance in the trite: "Have you been betrothed?" The response is even worse: a puccah "tut" replaces the lively "dhat". Makes one wonder if these translations were intended for the Angrez sahibs or non-Hindi reading Indians. Other stories fare no better, although in case of Mrinal Pande's The Meeting, the author herself is to blame for the lacklustre translation.

Which brings us to the second part of the double whammy. A few years ago, when Salman Rushdie dismissed vernacular writing of the past 50 years, I had laughed at his ignorance. After reading the anthology, the laughter has given way to dread. Where are the young writers, in their 30s and 40s?

The youngest writers included in the anthology are Chitra Mudgal, the least of the greats included here, and Mrinal Pande, who isn't a patch on her genius mother. And they are both in their 50s. Where are the enfants terribles (or just enfants) of Hindi literature? Worse still, I can't think of any that ought to have found a place here. "All the bright minds are now monolingual," as Mrinal Pande candidly admits, blaming the "socio-linguistic accident of defecting to greener pastures in English" for the paucity of young writers in Hindi.

Bhisham Sahni may disagree, insisting as he does that there is a "large number of talented young Hindi writers today". But even he is forced to admit that they are all struggling. "Hindi does not reach out to as large a number of the reading audience as English writing," he confesses.

Not so long ago, Manu Bhandari and Rajendra Yadav (both included in this anthology) wrote a sparkling novel together in an amazing display of marital unity and creative ingenuity. Today, such energy seems sadly lacking. Of course, there is little money, even fewer quality publishers and practically no forum for literary expression in Hindi. It would seem that when the literary mainstay publication in Hindi, Dharamyug, was buried in the graveyard of magazine publishing, it took most of the young writers with it. And that may be the greatest tragedy of all.

However, if you can't read Hindi and translations are the only access to Hindi literature, read this collection. Even with a fraction of their greatness distilled into stilted English, this anthology is a reminder of the best of Hindi fiction. As for me, it compelled me to go back to the Hindi originals, to grieve over what may soon have ceased to exist: great Hindi literature.