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.

Paging Dr. Sunny

There were many things wrong with the place I moved into in Thiruvanthapuram. There was no fridge, no gas stove, and the flush didn’t work properly. Still, I could overlook most of this because the people renting it to us were friendly: a sweet young mother and her two kids. Then, there was my hilarious, laugh inducing roommate with a tragic present, in whom I saw an older sister. I’m in the mindset if the environment is good, then you can overlook all the little stuff. Some of my friends would beg to differ though.

So when I was asked by my friend G, “How’s the new place?”

I said, “it’s awesome” right off the bat.

She was like, “Girl, even if you lived in the gutter, you’d say it was awesome.”

I laughed along with her because it was true. I didn’t mind roughing it. 

It was around this time something strange begin to happen.

That night, long after everyone had fallen asleep, I awoke, startled. I had heard something. Something strange, horrible... Yet I wasn’t completely sure if I imagined it or not. As I pondered in the dark, the possibility of the sound being real or not, I heard it again. It was a strangled scream which echoed the style of theyam performers. I gulped and nudged awake my sleeping roommate. She leapt up, fearing the worst. When I described what I heard, I would assume she looked at my figure in disbelief and irritation. But then, the sound came again, and this time, we both jumped.

“Wha-what was that?”

We pinpointed the direction of the sound. It was coming from the neighbouring house. Their lights were on too. When we went to our landlady, P, she drowsily told us there was nothing wrong and to go back to sleep. By that time, the sounds had gone and the lights were off.  We grudgingly made our way to bed, thoughts focused on the screams next door.

The next morning we were told that it was a religious thing. Apparently, the next door patriarch has screaming matches and randomly starts spouting samskritam. It’s called anugraham (blessing). Since my roommate and I both were not Hindu, we couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Later, when I asked my co-worker A, he started laughing.

He was like, “Athu anugraham alla. Athu bhaathaya.” (That’s not a blessing, it sounds like a spirit.)

Needless to say, his explanation didn’t make things better. It only increased our anxieties at night. It reminded us of movies like Manichithrathazhu and The Exorcism of Emily Rose.

Things began to deteriorate when the neighbours continued to burn organic waste in front of the house. Our landlady has asthma and the smoke makes her really sick. She had continuously told them not to do it in front of the house, but to no avail. The funny thing is they actually have a bit of a lawn so they could totally make a compost pit. One evening, she caught them in the act and started asking why they would keep doing something which is not only detrimental to people’s health but the environment as well. They began to talk back and we were witness to the samskritam and theyam-esque screams again.

That night was what Malayalees would call a kaalarathri. The steps to their terrace were right near our room and we could hear him running up and down the stairs, screaming till one a.m. 

     

The fights continued as did the sleepless nights. In desperation, the police were called. The neighbours were disciplined like children, but threats soon followed. The neighbour patriarch claimed the Attukal Amma would help him kick us all out as soon as Pongala finished.

It so happened that my awesome roommate soon moved out due to some conflicts with P (a story for another day). And suddenly, I was alone. When someone is by your side, you can make jokes and ignore the crazy. However, when you’re all by yourself, everything seems a whole lot scarier. To keep my mind off the screams, I would stay up late texting friends, making funny facebook statuses with the hashtag #livingwithabaadhaneighbour.

One night, there were no screams and I had finally started to doze off. I was dreaming I was in a forest or something when it started raining. The dream rain woke me up in real life. For a second, I thought I was in Inception because it was raining in my room! I shook away my sleep and jumped out of bed. I thought the roof was leaking. Luckily for me, that particular night was Shivarathri and P and children were awake.

I open the door and literally freak out. The children calm me down and tell me that the maama (uncle) next door was watering the garden, and that perhaps the water accidentally came through the window.

“But the windows were closed.” I point out.

They come into my room and they see that. We look around and see that the only opening is the air hole which is way near the ceiling. There is no way he mistook his garden for the roof. There is no way. When I complained to P, she shrugged it off. I think she was tired of fighting with them. But I was also tired. For me, this was the last straw.

So exactly how long did I last in my first accommodation in Thiruvanthapuram? 8 weeks and 4 days.

Room # 5

When I first saw the room, I thought the chechi was showing us a place to put away our luggage. Small, dusty and clattered with old furniture, what else was I supposed to think? I would have never imagined that this was the home-away-from-home they had described. Then, she said something which made me question my whole idea of moving to a different country. Apparently, I had to share it with-

“Say what? Four of us have to fit in here?” 

Of course, I knew there would be roommates beforehand. It is a universal college experience after all. I believed I was mentally prepared, but that was before I saw the the room. 

Our room was on the ground floor. We were lucky since we didn’t have to trudge up the stairs constantly and because “the store” was right outside our room. I use the term store lightly for it was a book shelf filled with snacks, stationary, and bath items. And we weren’t so lucky because we got first dibs on mosquitoes and the pleasant odor from the toilets outside. 

Inside the room, there were four beds, a shelf, two thin racks for laundry, four tables and accompanying stools. The beds were all jammed together side by side to make this one big bed. As someone who valued her personal space, I just knew this was a nightmare waiting to happen. Later on, we moved the beds around in all sorts of positions and angles (well as much as we could with the limited space we had) only to finally put it back the way we found it. It turned out personal space could easily be sacrificed for relief from the heat.

In retrospect, the relief was a pretty lousy one. The ancient fan which towered over our four beds had literally one speed and sounded as if it would spiral down on us at any moment. The original cream color was gone due to the dust it had accumulated over the years. Initially, we were probably breathing dust from 1970. We ended up cleaning it by ourselves with a makeshift ladder: a wobbly stool placed on top of a bed. Boy, did the air smell sweeter then. Unfortunately, it did not do much for the heat and we had to resort to other methods for cooling. 

The strangest thing I found about the room was a little gap from the ceiling that seemingly connected us to our neighbors. What I thought was a lack of privacy turned out to be a saving grace. We ended up sharing a lot more than a dim light that year. And that is a story meant for another day.

But the worst part wasn’t the smallness, the lack of personal space and privacy or even the creaky old fan, the worst part was an annoying morning ritual. The hostel had an interesting way of waking up students. In my personal opinion, this routine could easily rival any boot camp. I still vividly remember waking up my first morning in the hostel.

First of all, it had taken me a long time to sleep the night before because of the different environment. The heat was torturous, the mosquitoes bit through our clothes and the mattress could hardly be called a mattress. It was this long, thin cushion. I mean, I could feel the wood underneath it. Not to mention, it was small. I was one of those people who turned clockwise in their sleep (Key word: was) so I was  making a conscious effort not to bulldoze my roommates since the beds were pushed together. Remember? One giant bed. And then, my mind just would not calm down. I was nervous, excited, sad, curious- a whole whirlwind of emotions. My mind couldn’t make up it's mind.  

Exhausted, I finally fell asleep around two or three am. The next thing I know some guy is screaming in my ear “POKAM, POKAM, JEEVAN.... POKAM!”  

And I promptly fall off the bed, tangled in my sheets. Disoriented, I’m wondering if it’s a earthquake drill or something until my roommate tells me it’s the wake up call. And we were especially lucky because the speakers were right next to our windows. Although I now know the lyrics of that particular Christian devotional song from the first morning, back then, I could’ve sworn the voice was telling me, "POKAM, POKAM, JEEVAN EDUTHONDU POKAM!”  

We soon grew immune to the loud blaring and the wardens had to come up with some other devious schemes to get us up at six in the morning. There was knocking, threats, turning on the lights and the one that worked for a little while was switching off the fans. That was the worst. The heat we could get over, the mosquitoes not so much. As soon as the fans slowed down, they swarmed us. 

Despite all of this, I was surprised how quickly I adjusted. Perhaps I’m an optimist? Is that where you see the beauty in everything? Or maybe it was the writer in me? Anyway, this was certainly not the place I imagined spending my first year in India, but I am so thankful that I did. This is the place where I transitioned from a shy, gullible, ignorant teenager to a young woman who is confident, opinionated and worldly. 

I believe everyone should at least once in their lives live outside their comfort zone, live with people outside their immediate social group, travel... It’ll allow you to learn about yourself, others, relationships, class, culture, religion, and life. It’ll do you a lot of good.