The Everydayness of Rural Bengal

Translating fiction is an exercise commonly fraught with unsavoury prospects. Readers with access to the original text are disposed to grumbling about the imprecision of the translation – it is not authentic, they say. Whereas, the intended consumers of the translated text judge the original solely on the basis of the translation as they may not have access to the original text.

Nonetheless, translation is a necessary act. And literature, like any other art, is not the sole patrimony of the culture that gives birth to it. It belongs, in full measure, to all who nourish and attend to it.

Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay’s Stories, therefore, may not be claimed by Bengali speakers as theirs alone. I have read him in Bengali, and this is only the second time I have pored over his work in English. It would be dishonest of me to declare that reading him in translation was a more agreeable experience than reading him in the original. But that is beside the mark. Any reader is entitled to assess and interpret a text in his or her own way. It would be perfectly valid for someone to maintain that Bandyopadhyay is more enjoyable in English than in Bengali.

In the introduction to this collection of Bandyopadhyay’s short stories translated by Rani Ray, Tathagata Banerjee, the author’s grandson, tells us that no assemblage of Bandyopadhyay’s work may be said to be representative of him – as the writer was anything but typical. Bearing this in mind, I proceeded to read and reread the tales that make up this anthology of the great writer of modern Bengali prose from the last century.

The eight stories in the volume depict rural, mofussil and urban Bengal in an unvarnished style that is, I dare say, so typical of Bibhutibhushan. In both the first (Paitrik Bhita, or Ancestral Homestead) and second (Ahoban, or The Call) stories, we see the central characters making a return to their respective villages. They welcome the promise of ‘home’ but remain unconvinced about the potential of rural life to accommodate their aspirations.

What is convincing, though, is the affectionate hospitality extended to both Radhamohan and ‘Gopal’ by fellow villagers. It is even more remarkable in the instance of Gopal in Ahoban as the person who habitually looks in on him – much to his irritation – is an old, penniless Muslim woman. Her granddaughter’s husband does not care to feed her but she, Jamir the carpenter’s widow, cares enough for her ‘Gopal’ (her name for the narrator) to bring him mangoes, cucumbers and milk. This is a kind of hospitality that those who have not escaped the glass and granite existence of our urban centres cannot fathom.

Kuashar Rang’s (The Colour of Mist) Protul has eyes for Kana, Sashadhar Ganguli’s younger sister. He pursues her even after learning that she, an 18-year-old, is a widow – “I can rebuff society and all its norms…,” he tells her. In this moment, Protul, we might suppose, is channeling the spirit of Pareshchandra Bhattacharya (from Rabindranath Tagore’s Gora) who believes that “[i]t can never be right that man should remain narrow and confined out of regard for society – rather society ought to become more liberal out of regard for the individual.”

At the end of the story, however, we learn that this streak of progressivism was out of character for Protul, who is all too glad to escape the malaria-infested Nathpur after his fresh encounter with miserable Kana long years later. She has, we are told, aged horribly.

Bandyopadhyay also makes it a point to play up the Bengali Babu’s pretensions to cultural superiority. In Benigir Phoolbaree, Lalitmohan Ghoshal, a writer past his prime, complains about being confined by lowly “chhatu-eating” Hindustanis. He threatens to leave Monghyr (Munger), Bihar, and return home to Bengal where he can relish some rice pudding once more. His own inadequacy is lost on him – he cannot make a living and is wholly dependent on Monia, a local, for his upkeep.

Francesca Orsini in The Hindi Public Sphere 1920-1940: Language and Literature in the Age of Nationalism alerts us to the appearance of Bengalis in north India – from Bihar to Punjab – in the 19th century as, primarily, the support system of the colonial state. They came to work as bureaucrats and professionals from Bengal which, by this time, had a booming publishing industry, theatre and press. Educated and culturally sophisticated as they had become, their adopted home in the Hindi belt – which could not boast of such advancements – seemed primitive to them. Lalit Babu’s attitude may, therefore, be read as part of the process of the ‘enlightened’ Bengali interpreting his surroundings as such in this context.

Unlike Lalitmohan Ghoshal, travelling salesman Krishnalal in Canvasser Krishnalal redeems himself at the end of his story and, with that, secures his future in Calcutta. If Purnima makes your blood run cold in Tiroler Bala, or Bangle From Tirol, Icchu Mandal overwhelms you with his integrity and piety in Fakir.

The narrator, Nirmala, in Nasu mama ebong ami, or Nasu Mama And I, is content with her lot in life despite being widowed at a young age and forced to abstain from that Bengali staple – fish. The window that Bandyopadhyay provides into rustic Bengal – deprived, yet great-hearted – inspires admiration and humility. Ultimately, it is characters such as Nirmala and the hapless widow in Ahoban who sustain one’s interest in his stories.

As this is a text in translation and, as such, principally meant for non-Bengali speakers, a note on its quality may be registered. While the translator, Rani Ray, has admirably translated Bandyopadhyay’s short stories into English, her publisher ought to have done a more thorough job with its copyediting as there are obvious grammatical oversights in a few places.

Also, there is no glossary appended to the stories explaining italicised native words in English; expressions like mamabaree, niombhanga, pishima and kabuliwallah might cause some inconvenience to those not versed in Bengali and other related languages. Be that as it may, this is an enjoyable collection of stories that those wishing to familiarise themselves with the everydayness of rural Bengal will find appealing.

Arko Dasgupta is with the Centre for Political Studies at Jawaharlal Nehru University.