Keerti Ramachandra is a Katha AK Ramanujan Award-winning translator who works out of Marathi, Kannada, and Hindi. She has translated Vishwas Patil’s Sahitya Akademi Award-winning novel Jhadajhadati (A Dirge for the Dammed), which was shortlisted for the Crossword Prize.
This interview was conducted in two parts. I first met Ms. Ramachandra in her house on Residency Road, Bangalore, where she talked about her journey into translation. We continued the conversation over email where she discussed the various books she’s worked with, the process of collaboration, how her work as an educator and editor seeps into translation, and the state of Indian publishing.
Suhasini Patni (SP): You’ve been translating for several years now. Can you talk about how you came into translation?
Keerti Ramachandra (KR): I come from a bilingual family and a multilingual society. Every day, I would come home from school and report to my mother the events of the day in Marathi. Then repeat it all for my grandparents in Kannada, and then argue vociferously about the veracity of my stories with my brothers in English. Every now and then, our nanny used to ask me in Dakhani (her variety of Hindi): “Kya hua, bibi? Humkobhi bolo tho!” (What happened, baby? Tell us also!). And I would. Isn’t that true of so many Indians? We inhabit several languages simultaneously and travel between them easily and unselfconsciously.
Formal translation happened much later. Until 1994, I was a complete Anglophile. With a background in English literature and the extensive use of English in everyday life, I claimed English was my mother tongue.
Though we spoke all the languages at home, I had never studied Marathi, my mother’s tongue. I could read and write Kannada, my father’s tongue, since it was compulsory until matriculation, but knew only the classic “textbook” inclusions. I had better acquaintance with Hindi because it was a compulsory subject in school and college. Therefore, it seems outrageous, foolhardy, or audacious for me to get into translating Marathi literature!
Funnily enough, it was the word mad that brought me into the world of translation. I joined Katha as a project coordinator. Katha was a publishing house that brought out an annual series called Katha Prize Stories, which was a collection of the best translated short fiction from almost all regional languages. One day, I happened to hear some of my colleagues trying to make sense of the English word mad used repeatedly by the young hero of a Marathi short story, Sharada Sangeet by Prakash Sant. I knew that mad was a word used by kids, in pretty much the same way as weird or awesome or cool is used today. I trespassed into their territory, but since my explanation made sense to them, I was co-opted into Katha Vilasam, the translation and editing arm of Katha.
I was thus introduced to regional language literature, albeit in the short story genre. A whole new world opened up for me. Having lived in the four metros and being forced to pick up Tamil and Bangla to survive, I had more than a nodding acquaintance with these two in addition to Konkani and Gujarati, which were widely spoken in my hometown. Geeta Dharmarajan, the founder of Katha and my mentor, believed I had a sensitive ear and a flair for languages. She encouraged me to exploit my multilingualism by asking me to translate Jayant Kaikini’s Kannada story Amritaballi Kashaya and Dr. Shirish Dhoble’s Hindi story To Make Amends, both published in Katha Prize Stories 5. These translations won the Katha AK Ramanujan Award. There has been no looking back since!
SP: Not only do you balance many professions as a translator, teacher, and editor, but you also translate out of three languages (Hindi, Marathi, and Kannada). Can you talk about this process? Is there a “switch” you need to make from one language to another?
KR: Teaching is my first love. As a teacher, I tried to make every text come alive for the students. But before that, I had to be sure of everything that the text was saying to me and what I was asking of it. My students were often surprised when I got emotional while reading a poem or story in class! Perhaps it helped them appreciate the power of language!
As an editor of translations and texts in English, that’s pretty much how I approach the manuscript. Has the author been able to create in me the same responses to situations that her characters experience? Has she been able to move me, touch my core, stimulate my mind? How has she done it? How far has the translation succeeded in recreating that experience for me? In the early years, I could sense if something was not coming through in the translation, but I was not able to put my finger on what it was. So I often requested the translator to read the original and paraphrase it for me. I would then suggest alternatives. Either they would be accepted or if not, I had to be convinced why not! Ultimately of course, it was the translator’s call. Invariably though, we worked together to come up with a close and accurate translation. From being an editor, I have learnt to look beneath the word, between the lines, and beyond the stated. I have also learnt to recognize the difference between interpretation and representation in a translation.
As a translator, I look upon the text as the master. Understanding the ethos, the culture, the society, and the period of the story is vital for me. Then it is the characters, into whose heads and mouths I must get, because their language indicates to me geographic location, their worldview, their relationship with other characters, nature and God, their socioeconomic status, and their place in our predominantly hierarchical society. I often struggle to depict the variations in dialect, the code-switches that happen so naturally, the idioms and proverbs that slip off tongues, in just the one standard English that I have at my disposal!
Each language has its own dharma, and I make every effort to understand what it is. While being true to the dharma of the source language, I must also adhere to the conventions of the target language. For which I call upon all the linguistic devices I have to make my translation faithful and also beautiful.
About making a switch when translating from Marathi, Kannada, and Hindi, I do have to get into a different mindset. While there is a physical proximity between Kannada and Marathi, translating Joginder Paul from Urdu and Hindi required a complete reorientation of my approach. I realised first of all that being exposed to Punjabi, Hindi and Urdu over a period of eighteen years does not familiarize you with the language or the people Paul writes about.
Attempting to translate Joginder Paul, one of the most complex writers, was an act of bravado! But I was fortunate for the help, encouragement, and appreciation I received from my dear friend, his daughter Dr. Sukrita Paul Kumar. She guided me through negotiating the colloquial and unfamiliar both linguistically and culturally. Also, the fact that I had come to translate Joginder Paul’s short stories after having edited three of his novellas made my task less daunting.
SP: You said your first ever translation was a short story by Jayant Kaikini. Can you talk about your journey with translation since that happened? What kind of books do you seek out? Do you prefer to translate out of a genre? Is there a book you want to translate but haven’t gotten to yet?
KR: I will start with your last question first. Every time I read about an interesting book in any language, I want to translate it! I would have liked to finish translating Durdamya, the biography of Bal Gangadhar Tilak, which had to be abandoned halfway through. No, I do not choose the genre. I have translated the experiences of a young woman’s early years in Saudi Arabia from Konkani; a biography of a well-known industrialist, Vasantrao Ghatge; an autobiography of Madhu Limaye, an eminent Socialist leader; a book addressed to his son from Aguada jail; and of course, U R Ananthamurty’s last book, Hindutva or Hind Swaraj, with Vivek Shanbhag. It’s by coincidence that most of my translations are short fiction. Longer works require a different kind of energy and stamina! I realised that when I undertook the translation of A Dirge for the Dammed and Mahanayak.
I am now translating a collection of essays on an eminent modern Indian artist and the autobiography of a woman from one of the tribes of Maharashtra. I wish I could do more varied work from Hindi and Kannada, as well.
From Jayant Kaikini’s story Amritaballi Kashaya to where I am today has been a long and eventful journey. Over the years, my views on translation have changed. What is beautiful, what is faithful, can a translation be both, who does one owe responsibility to—the text, the author, or the reader—these are issues I still grapple with. Also, the question about who can translate. Should one translate only from one’s mother tongue? Or into one’s mother tongue? Is it because we translate from our mother tongue into what is an acquired language—even if we consider it our first language, in which we have core competency—that Indian translations of regional language texts into English do not have ready acceptability in the English-speaking world?
Is there a final, definitive, perfect translation? I think not. Translation is a matter of choices, therefore subjective, and no matter how hard a translator tries to stay out of the work, the baggage she carries will be reflected in the translation even while she strives to let the author’s voice come through.
Today, I feel less intimidated by the author’s reputation, the density of a text, and my own sense of inadequacy in the original language. I realize that a sensitive reading, a humble approach, and the willingness to ask for help, however simple the sentence, phrase, or word, goes a long way in making a better translation. I read about how other people translate, do some background reading, interact with the author wherever possible, and never sit down to translate without a couple of comprehensive dictionaries at my elbow.
SP: You’ve co-translated books, like The Dying Sun by Joginder Paul and Hindutva or Hind Swaraj by U R Ananthamurthy. Can you talk about this process of collaboration? How does it affect your own practice?
KR: As they say, two heads are better than one most of the time, but it requires a high degree of trust and respect for each other, and generosity of spirit to give and take when you do a collaborative translation. It is a subjective act and no matter how committed we are to the text, there is more than one way of reading it! Personally, I would prefer to work with a sensitive editor who would help me refine the translation. With The Dying Sun, Dr. Usha Nagpal translated some stories while I worked with the others and we exchanged translations. Most of the time we were in sync, and wherever there were doubts, we resolved them after discussion.
With Shanbhag, it was quite different. He knew the author and the background to the text extremely well, so his input was invaluable in getting into the spirit of the book. He left the choices of structure, register, and vocabulary to me, and though we did have differences, they were sorted out amicably!
SP: I’m interested in your work with Saniya, considering she’s a translator herself. She translated Shashi Deshpande’s That Long Silence into Marathi. What is it like working with an author who is also a translator? Does it change your process in any way?
KR: Well, Saniya is an extremely easy person to work with. I did not interact with her as a fellow translator, but since she had translated into Marathi an English novel, she was aware of my dilemmas and doubts when I translated her work. Since she is fluent in English as well, she could pinpoint the inaccuracies in my reading and offer suggestions to set them right. I had a similar experience when translating Hindutva or Hind Swaraj. Vivek Shanbhag is himself a writer and translator. He explained to me the backstories, the allusions, and the literary and cultural references that I was not familiar with before I did the translation. Again, his command over English made it easy for us to get the right structures, the exact words, and the voice of the author.
SP: You said it was “outrageous, foolhardy, or audacious” to translate out of Marathi. Can you talk about your experience of translating texts like Of Closures and New Beginnings by Saniya, The Song of Life by Vijaya Rajadhyaksha, and A Faceless Evening by Gangadhar Gadgil?
KR: These three collections of Marathi short stories were very different from each other. I took up Gadgil’s stories because I was fascinated by “Prarambh,’’ ostensibly a history of the Jagannath Shankarsheth family, but in fact a biography of the city of Mumbai. Gadgil was known for his tongue-in-cheek humour, his impatience with human foibles, his annoyance with people’s inability to stand up for themselves, his sardonic description of human relationships, and his scathing commentary on the prejudices we all harbour. All of this is reflected in his stories. The sheer variety of themes made his stories interesting to translate. Besides, the middle-class mentality of the typical Mumbaikar is very familiar to me, being half-Maharashtrian myself!
I had read a few of Vijaya Rajadhyaksha’s stories while in Katha and found her story Videhi quite extraordinary since it was written from a man’s perspective on the matter of pregnancy and the miracle of childbirth. Another powerful story from a man’s perspective was Renunciation. Getting the tone and voice right without sentimentalising issues, bringing out the vulnerability of the strong women characters without enervating them, suggesting the underlying theme of the importance of family ties, and finding appropriate words for her lyrical description of a woman exploring her sexuality and desire without making it sound titillating or ugly were tough challenges to overcome.
Saniya’s stories touch you on two levels, the cerebral and the emotional. There is poignancy, there is heartbreak, there is loneliness and alienation, but no rush of powerful feelings. Only a silent tear slips out. And for a long time after, the mind keeps asking: “But why?” In a very understated way, Saniya brings out the conflicts in her character’s mind, as she tries to come to terms with the role assigned to her by society without compromising her identity and individuality. To get that fine balance in her narration called for reticence and restraint in the translation.
SP: Vishwas Patil said of your work: “Only if a translator is as involved with and emotionally invested in the characters as the writer can the translation be as close to the original as possible. The translator needs to live with the characters, which Keerti did.” Does this feel true to your process? Do you find that an emotional investment in the characters is important for you? How does that change when you work with nonfiction?
KR: I get completely involved in the world of the book I am translating. Only when I can visualise the topography of the region and familiarise myself with the flora and fauna, the climate, the social structure of the community, their deities and beliefs, and fairs and festivals, do the characters walk out of the pages of the book. I realised this very early on when I translated Kaikini’s story. I lived in Mumbai soon after the riots and experienced the kindness, the humaneness, and the generosity of spirit despite the devastation.
A chance visit to my cousin’s farm in Akole brought alive the characters from Patil’s A Dirge for the Dammed. Their speech patterns, the rhythm and intonation, and their body language helped me bring the characters alive. I still see them in my mind’s eye. With nonfiction, as you say, it was very different. There I found it necessary to be objective and impersonal. However, even in nonfiction, there is an element of the subjective and personal, especially when the voice of the author is polite and persuasive or arrogant and rude. When that happens, the translation becomes a lot less pleasurable. But it is a learning experience. I find myself enriched by the nonfiction works I have translated.
SP: What do you make of the publishing industry in India currently? Translators are certainly receiving more recognition, but most believe a lot more needs to be done.
KR: While many publishers are bringing out translations from regional languages into English, some are working to get translations directly from one regional language into another. Such books are gaining popularity. Twenty out of the thirty-five students of my last translation workshop were fluent in two languages besides English! We need to exploit our multi- or bilingual nature to make inter- and intralingual translation a career option.
Sometimes those who are bilingual are sceptical about an English translation since they believe a translation can never compare with the original. They question the choice of register, the use of Indianisms, and finally say, “Why should I read a translation when I can read the original!” Whether they do or not is another matter!
We translators are like tourist guides taking the reader through a region, a culture, a way of life that is unfamiliar, and it is our duty to make their journey exciting and worthwhile! We do our best. It is the readers who must have an open mind and give the translators the appreciation they deserve!
Finally, the hierarchy of languages that get translated needs to be dismantled. There is a wealth of literature from lesser-known languages waiting to be discovered!
Keerti Ramachandra is a teacher, translator, and editor. She was a guest lecturer at Mount Carmel College, Bangalore, and has conducted translation workshops in Mumbai, Delhi, and Kolkata. She works with Hindi, Marathi, and Kannada, and has translated several notable authors. Her translation of Vishwas Patil’s A Dirge for the Dammed was shortlisted for the Crossword Prize.
Suhasini Patni is a freelance writer based in Jaipur and Delhi.
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