by Anita Desai
Prema brimmed over and shone, gleamed as never before. Tara began to search for other titles to publish under the new imprint. Sometimes Prema was included when she discussed another literary gem she had discovered or consulted regarding a suitable translator. Prema became so light-hearted, she smiled and laughed even with her students who began to speculate as to whether she had a lover. The idea made them sputter with laughter, it was so ridiculous, and Prema occasionally caught them at it and felt a twist of suspicion.
Then, through her new contact with the publishing world, she learned there was to be a conference of writers in the 'indigenous languages' who had no outlet to the larger market and a wider readership.
'Tara,' she found herself saying with a new-found confidence and optimism that made her push back the (invisible) white strand in her hair and the non-existent dark designer glasses, 'we must make sure Suvarna Devi is invited to attend!'
The publication of her book was hurried along so that it could be brought out in time for the conference. Prema could think of nothing else—college, students, exams, all receded page by page, face by face, into a blur in the distance. The central place in her mind was occupied by the beautiful little moss-green book with the Kangra painting of a forest glade on the cover and Suvarna Devi's name in elegantly Sanskritised roman letters. The young man who had burst into Tara's office at their first meeting was the 'genius' behind the design. Inside were the words: Translated by Prema Joshi, not in the same painterly script but in print nevertheless, black on white, irrefutable.
When she arrived at the convention hall which was hung with purple and orange bunting for the occasion, Prema went straight to the stall set up in the foyer for the books by authors who had come from all over India for the conference, almost trembling with the anticipation of seeing the book she—well, she together with Suvarna Devi—had created.
Surely this was the crowning moment of her life even if there were no golden bugles to proclaim it. She had prepared for it as nervously as if for a party. Taken out a sari she had bought to wear to the wedding of a young cousin but never worn since; it had a broad red border with a gold trim and was certainly an assertion in itself. But, on putting it on, draping it carefully fold by fold around her middle, she became bitterly critical of the foolishness of dressing up, and changed it for everyday garb. This made her late. She arrived at the convention hall in a fluster with no time to comb her hair, and rushed straight to the bookstall. Her eyesight blurred for an instant as it alighted on the book but that may have been because it was somewhat obscured by other titles in bigger letters, on brighter, glossier and, she thought, rather vulgar covers. After taking in this slight, Prema reached out surreptitiously and quickly reordered the books so that Suvarna Devi's lay on top, others beneath, then moved on: the conference was due to be inaugurated by the Minister of Education, and all were requested to be in their seats before he entered with his entourage.
The loudspeaker whined excruciatingly. Then sputtered, then brayed. Harassed men ran around trying to fix it, alternately shouting 'Stop, stop' and 'OK, go'. The minister slumped into his chair, looking disgusted. The 'honoured guests' who occupied the front rows sat very stiff and upright, waiting for things to be fixed and proceedings to start. Prema found herself embarrassed that things were not going more smoothly but of course this was how all such affairs began, and probably in the regions from which the writers came things were no different.
Eventually the minister made his speech. He read it slowly—as if he did not think the honoured guests, representing so many different languages, could possibly follow, or perhaps he just was and always had been a slow reader (the speech was, after all, written for him by someone else). Then a younger man, perhaps a junior minister, spoke, very rapidly so as to get the greatest number of words into the allotted time—which still seemed to most of the audience far too long. Everyone had come not to hear the bureaucrats but the authors after all, and most of them had travelled a great distance to come to the capital, bringing papers to read which they had written themselves. They were staying at various government hostels scattered about the city and had come together for the first time with much to say for themselves and to each other.
Prema, seated further back, stared at the backs of their heads, wondering which one belonged to Suvarna Devi, her protégée, as she thought of her fondly, protectively. But there were quite a few women among the delegates, none of whom Prema knew by sight. She had to wait till the official speeches were over, the minister escorted out into the foyer, to prowl among the delegates and try to guess who was hers— her trophy.
She had never seen a photograph of Suvarna Devi, had been told she was reclusive, that she rarely left her home town and environs, and that was all. So Prema searched the outer edges of the crowd which was made up of the more social and animated delegates of whom there were many. In fact, the roar of voices was rising rapidly into the great pink sandstone cupola above them till it was interrupted by an announcement: the conference would now continue.
If anyone was interested in the spectrum of languages in India, this was certainly the place to be—the place, the day and the time. One after the other the delegates stepped up to the podium to be met by the applause of their particular, and separate, readers, editors and publishers. Bengalis in the audience applauded the Bengali author, Gujaratis the Gujarati, Punjabis the Punjabi and so on. To begin with, the simultaneous translators tried valiantly to keep up with the babel, then faltered, then fell aside.
Providentially a lunch break was announced, when everyone could assemble in the foyer once again, to lift the lids off great serving dishes of stainless steel and dip into bubbling and aromatic concoctions, then go on to little glass dishes of syrupy sweets.
It was very late in the long day when finally Suvarna Devi's name was announced as the next speaker. By then many delegates had visibly succumbed to the soporific effects of the large meal and the warm afternoon.
Suvarna Devi too seemed tired by the proceedings that had gone before. That was Prema's first impression—how tired she seemed, how apart from the rest of the pleased, satisfied crowd. Wrapped about in her grey cotton sari and wearing a shawl that was clearly a sample of her region's weaving, incongruously bright, and steel-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose, in a small, hurried voice she spoke a few lines in the language she wrote in but which only a segment of the audience understood.
Of course Prema did. And Prema, after an initial disappointment at how unimpressive, how unprepossessing a figure her writer cut on the stage during her five minutes of public fame—she would have liked her to be more assured, more flamboyant, more like Tara, she admitted—began to feel an unaccustomed urge to take this elderly, unassuming woman under her wing, protect her and support her as she might a sister or an elder. She hardly paid attention to the speech, so involved was she in taking in Suvarna Devi's presence, trying to connect it to her writing, out of which she had constructed an image that was not quite corroborated by the reality.
Then the proceedings for the day were over and everyone poured out of the auditorium into the foyer. Prema went scurrying around agitatedly like a beetle ahead of a broom, trying to find her author and have at least one private moment, or two, with her. When she finally found her, she was in conversation with Tara who had managed to locate her and welcome her before Prema could do so. This was upsetting; Prema was upset. Was she not the one to have a word with the author she had discovered and come to know so well during the arduous labour of going over, line by line and word by word, the author's work in a way no one else could claim to have done?
And there was the shy grey person she had hurried to protect and chaperone, conversing with Tara who did not know a word of the language she wrote in and would never have heard of it if it had not been for Prema who now broke in with a cry: 'Suvarna Devi! Oh, at last we meet!'
Suvarna Devi, a little startled, looked from her to Tara. It was Tara who introduced them, formally, instead of t
he other way round as Prema had imagined the introduction.
'Prema Joshi, your translator, and we hope you are pleased with her—'
Hope? That was all Tara felt, hope? Prema found she could barely speak for outrage. She hardly knew how to place herself, how to draw away Suvarna Devi's attention and make Tara leave them alone to discuss what they had in common, author and translator, sisters in spirit.
It looked as if the moment would elude her and the author vanish with barely a word of recognition of who and what her translator represented. She had already folded her hands and bowed, turning away to leave, when Prema flew after her, confronted her and insisted they have a few moments together, to discuss—didn't she know there were matters to discuss?
Suvarna Devi seemed taken aback. Perhaps she had not realised how large a role Prema had played in getting her book accepted by Tara's firm, in making her book available to a larger audience by translating it into English. She seemed like a creature who had been startled out of her forest hiding, one of those well-camouflaged speckled birds that will dart under the bushes on being surprised, and now she was flustered, at a loss as to how to respond. But once Prema had made clear the need to meet again, in private, and talk, she asked Prema to come and see her—if she wished, if she could, if it was not too much trouble, in which case she would quite understand and write a letter instead—at her nephew's house where she was staying. And now she had to go ... There he was, come to collect her in his car.
It was not what Prema would have planned—in place of a meeting with the author alone so they might have an intellectual discussion about books, translation and language. Suvarna Devi's family—the nephew, a young married man and a dentist, his wife, his little daughter and baby son, his wife's parents, all seated on the veranda of their small house in one of Delhi's outer colonies, having tea together, did everything they could to make Prema feel welcome. Suvarna Devi herself seemed entirely relaxed and happy in their midst, quite unlike her shy, apprehensive public persona the day before.
The nephew, a rotund and affable young man, seemed the most at ease, conversing with Prema in English, asking her about the college where she taught, in between popping a biscuit in the baby's rubbery mouth, then turning to some family gossip with Suvarna Devi in their own language. 'She has never been to visit us before,' he told Prema. 'This is a rare occasion for us. I used to live in her house when I was a schoolboy—there was no school in my village, you see—but since coming to Delhi I have only been back a few times. So now she has to give me all the news from there.' This made Prema feel uneasy and an intruder, in spite of being plied with cups of tea and plates of fried snacks by his wife and her parents. She wondered how long she could behave politely in the circumstances. (It was a long time since she had lived with a family, after all; not since her father had remarried.)
It was only when Suvarna Devi rose to her feet and accompanied Prema down the short drive to the gate where her autorickshaw stood waiting (its driver, asleep on the back seat, having to be woken) that she was able to put some of the questions she had come to ask, at least the most urgent ones.
'Now that the short stories have been published—I hope you liked the translation?' she felt compelled to say, rather desperately.
'Yes, yes, very much, very much,' cooed the woodland bird, soothingly.
That was disappointingly vague, but Prema pursued. 'What do you suggest we do next? Are you working on anything new?'
Suvarna Devi did not seem to have given that any thought. Just as clearly, she had had no discussion with Tara on the future of her writing. She seemed genuinely confused and only on lifting the latch of the gate to let Prema out, she admitted, 'Maybe I will write a novel next, I am thinking about it,' and gave an uncertain laugh at her own temerity.
'You are?' Prema cried with enthusiasm, partly sincere and partly affected to encourage the reluctant author. 'Please send it to me, as soon as you have anything to show. That way I could start work on it immediately. Tara will be so happy to hear of it. Just send me a chapter, or even a few pages at a time, it doesn't have to be the complete work.'
But the shy bird had withdrawn again. She looked almost afraid as she folded her hands to say goodbye, murmuring, 'I will, I will try,' before she hurried back up the drive to the family on the broad, sheltered and hospitable veranda again.
Prema has barely got home—discarding her satchel, pouring herself a glass of water—when the telephone rings. It is Tara, to inform her that the Association of Publishers has called for a press conference as a coda to the writers' conference.
In a panic, Prema: 'A press conference? What is that?'
She will find out, Tara suggests tersely. 'Be there.'
It is too much, coming so hard on the heels of the conference and the meeting with Suvarna Devi, too much at once. She would like to have a little time to sort it all out before she goes on. She can barely eat or sleep that night, fretting till it is time to leave for the venue.
With almost no transition, it seems, there she is, tired from the sleepless night, on a podium with Tara and people she assumes are publishers and translators too, inquisitorial lights shining into her eyes, making her flinch and blink. For a while she is so discomfited that she can barely pay attention to what is being said or by whom. She is still fidgeting with her papers, her books, adjusting to what she finds is literally a spotlight when, far too soon, the dread moment of interrogation arrives.
A pudgy man in a sweat-stained shirt is standing up somewhere in the hall, holding a microphone and saying, 'I would like to address my question to Prema Joshi, translator of Suvarna Devi's stories.'
Sitting up, tight as tight with fright, out comes a croak: 'Ye-es?'
'What made you decide to translate these stories into a colonial language that was responsible for destroying the original langauge?'
Blank, blank, blank.
Then, blinking, and under an expectant stare from Tara, she stammers out the words, 'But the stories—the stories prove—don't they?—it is not destroyed. It exists.'
A flash from Tara's dark glasses, approving, encouraging. So Prema goes on: 'And isn't the translation—the publication of the translation—a way of preventing it from—ah, loss? And proving it exists to, to—the public?'
'What public are you addressing?' The pudgy man adopts a more belligerent tone now that he has found the person at whom he can direct it. 'The English-speaking world?' he asks rhetorically. 'The international public? Why? Doesn't it already have a readership here?'
'Isn't it—isn't it important,' Prema flusters on as if she were one of her own students being interrogated, 'to make it more widely known?'
'To whom is it important? To the writer? To the reader? To what readers? Here in Hindustan? Or in the West? Employing a Western language indicates your wish to win a Western audience, does it not?'
Tara, sitting forward, tapping impatiently on the tabletop: 'I would like to inform you that a press such as mine—'
Prema sits back in relief, letting Tara take over.
'—aims to reveal the writer to a wider public here in India too. Writing that so far has not been accessible to them. Because I, and my colleagues, believe it is our mission—'
'Ha!' the pudgy man explodes with sarcasm. Now that he is on his feet, with a captive microphone, nothing will make him give it up or sit down. 'Who needs to have this revealed to them? The English speakers in this country? Why? Why are you catering to them? Why not to the speakers of the many native languages of our country?'
Laughter and applause, both approving.
Tara, very upright and fierce: 'If there are publishers in those languages willing to commission translations, as I have done into English, where are they and why are they not coming forward? They are needed, certainly.' Looking around with raised eyebrows, arousing approving murmurs, she repeats, 'Where are they?'
Prema, in gratitude, turning to convey her appreciation to Tara. Argument has erupted. Terms proliferate that ind
icate the large number of academics in the audience: Subaltern. Discourse. Reify. Validate.
Prema crouches low, fearing some of them will be flung at her. Wasn't 'subaltern' a military term? She feels like the lowliest of students in her class instead of its leader and hopes none of them is present to observe her shame. Where has she been all this time, reading Jane Austen with them, and George Eliot? What has she been doing, talking of Victorian England and its mores? What has stalled her and kept her from joining the current that is now surging past, leaving her helplessly clinging to the raft of The Mill on the Floss, the rock of Pride and Prejudice?
The chapters of the promised novel began to come in during the course of that summer, in large Manila envelopes that were always torn around the edges and had to be held together with string. They looked as if they had travelled a long and dusty road and suffered many misadventures along the way—and they probably had. At first I fell upon them as soon as I returned from work and found them lying upon the doormat, then immediately settled down to read them. But quite soon I found myself disappointed and dismayed by what I read.
Instead of the artless charm and the liveliness of the short stories, the novel seemed by contrast slow, almost sluggish, as it followed the fortunes of one family from grandparents to parents to children in a not very interesting town—in fact, very like the dusty, ramshackle one where I had first come across Suvarna Devi's work. I found myself growing increasingly impatient with the noble, suffering grandparents, the quarrelling parents, the drifting children, all of whom seemed to follow predictable paths under the effects of changing circumstances: an increase in wealth followed by a dispersal of property, higher education foundering in lost opportunities—and too many births, marriages and deaths. Stories recounted, time and time again, in different ways, all over the world.
