The Trials and Tribulations of Translation

Samskara, by U.R. Ananthamoorthy, is a novel that all first year Literature students remember. Set in a Brahmin agrahara in Karnataka, the story takes a critical look at the orthodox beliefs and rigid rules of the community. It was, I believe, my first foray into Indian English writing, or translation for that matter. For a girl who mostly read YA fantasy books, it was definitely an interesting change. The lecturer, who took Samskara, allowed us an in-depth look at the culture and lives of the community.   

The story in brief from memory: There’s a death in the small agrahara of Devasapura. The deceased is Naranappa, a wayward fellow who does all that a Brahmin should not be doing. He drinks, eats meat, catches fish from the sacred pond, and has relations with a prostitute named Chandri. His death sparks a debate of whether he can be considered a Brahmin which later turns into a row of who will do the cremation. No one wants to do it because they are afraid they will be polluted.

Praneshacharya is the exact opposite of Naranappa, a devout Brahmin and leader of this small community. He is so set on his goal of attaining moksha that he has even married someone who is invalid. It is he who is given the task of figuring out a resolution for this problem. As he sets forward on his quest for answers, he is pulled away from his goal by an unexpected encounter with Chandri. The rest of the story follows his journey of whether or not he should tell the villagers of what had transpired.

So imagine my surprise when I saw Samskara on our syllabus for a general literature subject during post graduation. This time, I didn’t spend much time on the novel. I touched it once in the beginning of the semester and once at the end. Once everyone realised I had already studied the novel, I suddenly became the official translator for my roommate and friends. Let me reiterate, during the week before exams and late night cram sessions, I was orally translating an original Kannada novel translated into English by A.K. Ramanujan, into Malayalam. It did help me remember the story. However, when I reached the exam hall the following day, I realised just how problematic it was...

As I was writing my essay, I came to realise I was thinking in Malayalam and translating to English. This was a first for me. Did that mean I had become so proficient in the language? I was pleased for a good while until I reached a stand still mid-exam.

Praneshacharya Chandrine kandapol Pranescharyude niyanthranam vittu poi.

I translated it on to paper. When Praneshacharya saw Chandri, he lost his-

And for the love of God, I couldn’t remember the English equivalent of niyanthranam. I sat there for fifteen minutes trying to figure out the word. I didn’t. In the end, I rewrote the sentence.

When I exited the exam hall, I immediately went up my classmates and asked them. They burst out laughing. One of them managed to wheeze out, “control” before toppling over.

I was later advised by my classmates to take English remedial lessons.   

And that’s the story of how Praneshacharya lost his control and I lost my command over the English language.