In his last years, writer and critical thinker UR Ananthamurthy drew much attention for his ‘radical’ political statements, but one must not forget his firm grounding in Kannada literature and his intimate association with the modern Indian literary discourse.
Even when he was undergoing dialysis in 2014, the year of his death, Ananthamurthy actively took interest in using words to bring about change; so deep was his love for literature. It is this feverish passion for language that sustains his works and keeps them meaningful at a time when everything turns irrelevant in moments.
Bara, reborn
Originally published in Kannada in 1976, his novella Bara , which describes the dynamics of a drought-stricken district in North Karnataka, was recently translated into English by Chandan Gowda, Professor of Sociology, Azim Premji University. The book has retained Ananthamurthy’s distinct style of writing and everything he believed in, a feat that Chandan says was not too difficult.
“My father was a student of his in Mysuru in the 1960s, so I’ve known him since I was in high school; he would visit our home on occasions. After I started academic work, my relationship with him changed; I went from being his student’s son to someone actively interacting with him on various issues,” he explains.
The decision to translate Bara was the outcome of one of these conversations and his growing familiarity with the writer. “He mentioned that the book had not received enough attention and asked if I would like to translate it. He thought this would be a good way to revisit it, and for critics to reconsider it. I agreed and took up the project.”
Published and released by Oxford University Press this year, the book includes an interview and an afterword, where Chandan tries to tease out the multi-layered significance of the story.
Anticipating the future
Bara , as Chandan describes it, is a story with literary as well as theoretical importance. Written during the Emergency, it anticipates many of our recent academic concerns about why India’s political culture is different and needs to be understood outside of a secular ideology. The title itself, which means drought, but also introduces ideas of infertility, barrenness and shortage, is suggestive.
It is the story of an Indian Administrative Service officer in a drought-hit district of northern Karnataka and the challenges he faces at work and within himself. Satisha, an embodiment of the urban, elite youth, is filled with theoretical ideals that are juxtaposed with the reality in the form of characters like Bhimoji, a political player who understands ground realities, and Govindappa, the secretary of a ‘Cow Protection Group’. In one part, Govindappa justifies why the life of a “ gau maate ” is more important than a starving human’s, to the complete astonishment and anger of a ‘logical’ Satisha. This, I think, resonates with the present more than we’d like.
While a part of Satisha enjoys and revels in his privilege, another is bent on revolutionising Indian politics and empowering the people, even though he doesn’t completely understand either. It is these facets of our society that Ananthamurthy explores, using various characters, each of whom plays an important role in creating the story.
Certain paragraphs bring the author’s and the translator’s voices to the fore:
Had I starved like these people, I’d be holding an aluminium plate along with them and waiting my turn, depressed. It’s only because I’m not in the line that I’m able to see all the rows. And therefore I’m able to think about hunger, drought, the waning of humanity, and what I could do to alleviate them. Their eyes swollen and listless, no one in the lines notices the shrivelled hands and legs and the parched tongues trying to moisten dry lips.
Early attempts at translation
The first time Chandan attempted to translate Bara was in 2005. “It was also my first translation,” he says. As he was unhappy with the outcome, he disowned the project and came back to it only in 2014, after gaining more experience in the field. “In wanting to make the translation sound like the original, I had to make myself minimally present. The work of translation results from your decisions, so the way in which you work matters in a fundamental way. You try doing it without drawing attention to yourself.”
Calling translations an “act of diplomacy”, between doing justice to the author and the readers, Chandan says, “I tried to make it sound like the original. After I did it, I read it out to him (he heard it with his eyes closed) and he liked it. Translating is a task that has something unsaid about it; you can’t codify it precisely… It’s a way in which you work it out on your own. Just you, the text and how you feel about conveying it adequately.”
A translator may succeed with some authors and may not with others, is what Chandan believes. Going by this translation, Bara is definitely a success. The beauty of Ananthamurthy’s writing and reflections, delicately woven with the translator’s voice, keep the reader engaged till the end.
Time spent with the author
Describing his time with the eminent author as “memorable”, Chandan says, “He was a charismatic presence and a great conversationalist. He was very energetic till the end; literature mattered to him deeply.”
It is this understanding of Ananthamurthy and his ability to be critical of situations and people through his writing that helped Chandan stay true to the original. “There was no scope for small talk with him; and the range of the conversations was often very wide. He truly enjoyed talking with people.”
Another quality that set Ananthamurthy apart, says Chandan, was his ability to change and adapt. Always smiling, he was alive to the present without letting the past be a burden. “I’ve never seen him being cynical or pessimistic.”
Sharing such memories, Chandan keeps Ananthamurthy and his ideas alive.