Translator Translated_ A Novella - Anita Desai [17]
Frowning heavily, Tara wondered if he was pointing out serious flaws or if he was just nit-picking the way some readers were sure to do, more to prove their superior knowledge than for any other reason. But, she had to conclude on rereading the list several times, he appeared to have reason for complaint. According to him several pages had been cut out of the translation, the role of some of the characters—e.g. the grandfather—had been abbreviated, and the language itself diverged wildly from the original text. As a native speaker of the language, he felt a responsibility and wished the translator and the publisher to know that he objected strenuously to this 'cavalier attitude' to his aunt's work. He was debating whether to inform her; he did not wish to disturb or upset her, knowing how gentle and sensitive a person she was, but he demanded an explanation for the way she had been treated by Tara's press. What did Tara propose to do? Was she going to continue to bring out these 'spurious' equivalents for the English-speaking elite of what was so much more powerful and beautiful in the original? He advised her against putting out any more of them 'to hoodwink the public'.
Tara put off all meetings for the day and sent for her secretary in order to dictate two letters, one to the nephew to apol-ogise for 'any errors and shortcomings in the translation' and another to the leading newspaper in his aunt's home town to assure them 'appropriate measures were being taken to ensure that in future only rigorously supervised and faithful translations' would be published by her press. cc Prema Joshi.
Eventually Tara's secretary forwarded a packet of letters to Prema sent by other readers with the same objections—not very many since those who read the original did not necessarily read the translation as well. Also a letter that arrived from Suvarna Devi, written on her yellow stationery with the red rose imprint, thanking her for sending the copies of her book which she said 'looked very nice', and making no mention of the translation. Nor was there any hint of suspicion or attack. Either her nephew had not informed her of his findings or she had chosen to overlook them; she did, after all, have other, possibly more compelling interests in life. Tara did not withdraw the book nor did she ever order a reprint.
The Association of Indian Publishers sent Prema, c/o Tara, an invitation to its next gathering of authors and translators. Prema declined, pleading illness.
So I haven't given up teaching. I continue to go through the same texts with my students. I know they are bored by me. I know they make fun of me behind my back. And I know the principal is waiting for me to retire so she can bring in someone new, someone who will arouse enthusiasm among the students. But, if I do that, what would I do with the rest of my life? That stretches out before me like an empty, unlit road.
Sometimes, on the bus going home from work, I look at the others seated beside me and across from me. Or, rather, since I don't like staring at people's faces, I look down at their feet, shod in slippers or sandals or dusty shoes of cracked leather, and the packages they are holding on their knees, and I think: that is how I must look to them—a tired woman going home from work with nothing to look forward to, nothing to smile about. Whyever did I imagine I was different, and could live differently from them? We are all in this together, this world of loss and defeat. All of us, every one of us, has had a moment when a window opened, when we caught a glimpse of the open, sunlit world beyond, but all of us, on this bus, have had that window close and remain closed.
It is not that I did not try to open that window again. I gave up, of course, the idea of translating another book, though it meant giving up the language I had acquired with such ardour. In the course of those sleepless nights I spent, a thought did come to me—that I might write a book of my own. It would be an original work, it would draw