A Chutney of Languages

First Draft is a column in our features section where we invite translators to give us a glimpse into their process. They share a first draft of a single paragraph – no more – from a translation they are currently working on, accompanied by a brief reflection on the decisions, challenges, and discoveries that shaped that particular version.

The first draft occupies a unique place in the life of a translation: it is where intuition meets craft, where meaning begins to find its form, and where the translator's voice first enters into conversation with the original text. It is provisional yet revealing, carrying within it the possibilities and tensions that later revisions may smooth over.

We think of this column as a translator’s diary: a space where translators let readers into the negotiations, dilemmas, interpretations, and choices that shape the work of translation.

The pandit’s wife arrived at the scene. She said, “How will he feed off his daughter if he finds her a husband? She parades shamelessly through the village, corrupting the boys. Can’t you see that? Ants will line up for a cube of sugar. It hasn’t been a minute since these lowlifes started ruling and they are already shitting on our heads. Such audacity! Turning up at our homes! Brandishing sticks!”

“Go inside right now,” Dharmu pandit thundered at his wife.

Pyaare was livid too. He said, “Don’t forget yourself, panditain. We’re no longer running around with tails between our legs. The ants will have to pay for a taste of sugar.”

Dharmu, trying to calm Pyaare down, said, “Low or high born… Everyone deserves to be treated with respect. Let the bastard get home; I won’t let him enter without planting ten kicks on his ass first.” Lowering his voice, he added, “No point in milking a dry cow, Pyaare. Think carefully before you do anything.”

Pyaare stood in confused silence for a while before walking back home. Dharmu pushed his wife inside and lambasted her. “Not only is your son a scoundrel, you’re also making matters worse. There’ll be nowhere to hide when the chamars land at our doorstep.”

“It is you who has made him a scoundrel. You’ve got your eyes on the honey, haven’t you? Whom has he taken after if not you?”

Halfway home, Pyaare suspected that Dharmu had got rid of him with a few sweet words. He had not been able to do anything. He had lost a wager and this was his walk of shame.

But what was he to do?

He did not know what it was like in the cities, but in the villages, being the father of a young girl, especially if you were a poor man, was rather grim. A man without a daughter would not know how much patience and tact it required.

He did not wish to see anyone or share his woes. He did not wish to eat and would have much liked to cover his face and go to sleep. That was not to be. All the chamars had gathered at his house, their shadows swaying in the lamp’s flame.

While Pyaare was away, everyone decided a complaint had to be filed at the police station. A similar incident had happened with the bricklayer’s sister four or five years ago. People from nearby villages held them in high esteem. The protest for better wages might have started in another village but it was they who ensured that the demands were honoured. Ever since then, counsel would be sought here whenever trouble erupted in other villages. A couple more days and the news would spread like wildfire. Not just one man; this was a matter of an entire community’s honour.

An excerpt from the first draft of Sayari Debnath’s translation of “Tarpan”, by Shivmurti.

Hindi writer Shivmurti’s “Tarpan”, a slim novel of 115 pages, is about a chamar community’s determination to avenge the molestation of fifteen-year-old Rajpatiya by Chander, a brahman man. This incident occurs shortly after the opening paragraph. Rajpatiya is driven by a child’s instinct to “steal” sugarcanes and, unbeknownst to her, Chander is hiding in that very field, waiting to grab her. He manages to do that but before he can cause further damage, she starts screaming for help. Two women working in nearby fields rush to her aid. They overpower Chander and rescue Rajpatiya.

Chander is unable to cause any physical harm to Rajpatiya; nevertheless, her honour is at stake. The chamars are frustrated with the upper-caste’s impunity. The excerpt alludes to this discontent – the “protests” and “stick brandishing” are new, disturbing the scales of power ever so slightly.

The world that Shivmurti creates is not unfamiliar. For urban readers, such as myself, these are scenes they have watched in movies; but this is reality that unspools many times every day in every part of the country. Irrespective of our geographical location, inequalities occupy a central position in society, and violence becomes necessary to preserve them. Resistance in such circumstances must be forceful, yet irreverent.

The writer understands this dichotomy of protest-speak; therefore, the translator must too. His whip-smart prose mixes Hindi, Hindustani, Bhojpuri, and broken English, making for a rewarding reading (and translating!) experience. Even the most shocking scenes are written with levity and musical lilt, perhaps hinting at the commonplaceness of such injustices. The language appears to be dancing to a unique rhythm – a chutney song – and as a translator, I had to tune my ears to listen to it. The profusion of languages in the text is so overwhelming that oftentimes, two sequential sentences sound completely different. Very early on, I recognised that, unlike before, I would have to translate “Tarpan” in collaboration with the author. I sent him the first 5000 words; he then sent them back to me with extensive notes. There were diagrams, the etymological structures of certain words, and light reprimands about terms I had misunderstood.

I’m fairly confident in my work and most of my first drafts emerge without much internal tussle. But “Tarpan” proved to be a unique challenge, which began with me realising that my understanding of dehat Hindi is not the best. As someone distant from the Hindi language (meaning, I do not encounter it in everyday life) and whose mother tongue is Bengali, I believe it was important to acknowledge this, so I could find ways to overcome the “problems”. Like many translators, I agree that continued interference from an author might lead to some bitterness, but in this case, it was imperative to seek the author’s help. The first paragraph, which probably had a couple of errors, would not have drastically altered the fate of the rest of the translation; but two errors in every paragraph thereafter might have compounded into an entirely different text, cheating the author, and worse still, the readers of the text’s true merits. I hope that allowing the author to intervene at the very outset has prevented me from committing this unforgivable error. “Tarpan” will be my first truly collaborative translation, and accepting my limitations and making peace with them will be the greatest learning of this project.