Translator Translated_ A Novella - Anita Desai [16]
In the interval between handing over the manuscript to Tara and the appearance of the published book, Prema returned to teaching, much to her students' regret. They found her more harsh and ill-tempered than ever and were certain that if she had had a love affair, it must have come to a bitter end. In the staff room, Prema's colleagues asked her how her work had gone during her leave of absence; she answered curtly and seemed unwilling to speak of it. The college librarian asked her to be sure to give her a copy when it was published, and Prema only nodded.
When Tara telephoned to let her know the advance copies had arrived, she did go across to collect them, and Tara found her oddly subdued. Not elated as she might have been at the sight of the beautiful little volume with its cover of pale ochre like the clay of a village wall, a painted window frame in the centre for illustration, arresting in its simplicity.
'Don't you like it?' Tara asked, looking curiously at Prema's grey and drawn face. The arduous labour of translating it through the summer had aged and fatigued her, Tara thought.
'I do, I do,' Prema roused herself to say but, curiously, did not open a copy to look inside. Instead she asked, 'Have copies been sent to Suvarna Devi? And the critics?'
'Of course,' Tara assured her. 'Of course. Now we have just to wait to see what they say.'
Prema carried her copy home, laid it on the table, made herself tea, then sat down to open it finally. She could not help feeling moved by the sight of her name in it, under Suvarna Devi's. Then, with increasing tension, she let her eyes drift over the sentences, from one to the other. Together they had made this book, its text, its lilt and rhythm, its images and metaphors. Would Suvarna Devi approve? Then she came across a phrase she knew had not been there in the original, and the gaps where she had deleted what had seemed to her unnecessary repetitions: the death of the grandfather, the weeping and wailing. Would Suvarna Devi notice? If she did, what would she think? Would she acknowledge the improvement Prema had brought about, or would she oppose it? And the critics, would anyone notice? Would she hear from them?
What she could hear was the raucous cawing of the crows outside, balancing on the telephone wires, and they sounded to her more mocking and scolding than ever.
Then there was a long and difficult silence. Reviews of translations were always scant, Tara reminded her. It was this new breed of authors writing in the colonial tongue, English, who hogged all the attention, not only in England but even here in India, disgracefully. The one review that appeared, in a little read but serious political journal, commended Tara's noble venture in commissioning translations and calling attention to so far 'unknown' writing (as though there were no readers of regional languages). The critic called Suvarna Devi's novel an 'important' one but made no reference to the translation.
'We'll have to wait till the regional press reviews come in,' Tara said and, seeing how anxious Prema looked when she came in to enquire, added kindly, 'I'm sure they will be good. It is a good translation after all.'
It was not Tara's way to be effusive and she did sound sincere. In fact, she was. So it was a shock when, a few days later, a letter arrived at her office from someone who informed Tara he was Suvarna Devi's nephew. He came at once to the point, which was that he had read the original text written by his aunt and bought a copy of the translation. On reading it, he had found innumerable