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Book Review Pages

The Kathmandu Post Review of Books

14 February, 1999
Vol. 3, No. 20
Issue Coordinator: Manjushree Thapa

Produced by
Martin Chautari for
CSRD and The Kathmandu Post

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Contents of this Issue


Essay

Reviews


The Translation of Nepali Literature

Bhaskar Gautam

What do the books The Faulty Glasses, Sugata Saurabha and The Window of the House Opposite have in common? All three are Nepali writings that have been translated into English, and in each case, it is not the original authors - B.P. Koirala, Chittadhar Hridaya and Govinda B. Malla respectively - but the translators who hold the copyright for the translations.

Surveying a range of translated Nepali literary works, it becomes clear that translators and original authors have been left to their own devices in terms of working out the legalities of their enterprise. In some of the most equitable cases of literary translation, the original Nepali writer and the translator both share the rights to the translated work. For example, the poets Manju Kachuli and Benju Sharma shares copyright with the translators for their poetry collection Two Sisters. In most cases, the translator alone holds copyright. In yet other cases, the publisher holds copyright; this is true for the translated version of Laxmi Prasad Devkota's Muna Madan, for which the publisher Sajha Prakashan has reserved copyright. In many other translated works, like Shankar Koirala's Khaireni Ghat, an "all rights reserved" notice is found after the copyright symbol, leaving open the question of who actually owns rights to the translation. And in some of the worst cases, the original authors are not even aware that their work has been translated. This has been the case when the copyright for the original-language work remains with the publisher; the translator is obliged only to seek the publisher's approval before beginning translation.

Despite recent amendments made to the 1965 Copyright Act of Nepal, the Act still lacks some important provisions on authors' economic and moral rights, neighboring rights (referring to protection granted to performers, producers of phonograms, and broadcasting organizations) or other related rights. The Copyright Act also has no clear provision regarding the ownership of copyright for translated works.

While such oversights may not seem urgent when considering literature - for there is hardly any money to be made in writing, or translating, Nepali literature - the problems they create become clear when considering more lucrative intellectual enterprises in the entertainment, computer software, and business industries. Snail-paced initiatives in the development of Nepal's copyright industry have hampered not only the creation of many kinds of intellectual works, but have created obstacles to other initiates such as the development of collecting societies (organizations which help coordinate the rights of users and creators) and the provision of fair use (involving permissions and acknowledgments). This problem has prompted a study by the Center for Economic Development and Administration on the problems of the copyright industry in Nepal.

Though some South Asian countries, especially India, were against joining the International Copyright Act till the 1970's, some experts involved in the research of copyright acts have claimed that Nepal's joining the International Copyright Act would help boost not only the copyright industry, but the economic conditions of creators and authors, as well as translators. They have called for concerned authorities to prepare to join the Berne Convention, since it is already going to be mandatory for Nepal to be affiliated with the Trade Related Aspect of Intellectual Property Rights (TRIPS) agreement ten years from now. Their argument was that intellectual property rights, one of the determinants of foreign investment in a country, automatically becomes protected after joining the Berne Convention. After a country becomes a signatory to Berne, its creators of intellectual works need not register their works in the concerned premises of the Copyright Registrar.

But while there are clear benefits to Nepal's becoming a signatory to the International Copyright Act, there are also some potential risks. For example, the translation of international writings into Nepali - an urgent need for Nepal's intellectual growth - may be hindered by the high costs of international royalties. The unequal economic positions of local and international publishing industries can serve to deprive Nepali readers of much needed access to translated international creative works.

In the absence of clear copyright laws protecting the interests of both native or foreign original authors and their native or foreign translators, the undertaking of Nepali literary translations will remain haphazard. While those in more lucrative intellectual industries search for equitable laws pertaining to their own trade, it is urgent for Nepali writers, translators, and publishers of literature to consider possible amendments to the Copyright Act to protect the interest of literature in Nepal.

(B. Gautam is a Kathmandu-based journalist)

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Laxmi Prasad Devkota: Selected Poems
Translator: Murari Madhusudhan Thakur
Publisher: Kathmandu: Sandesh Griha, 1998.
Price: Rs. 150 (Rs. 300 Hard Cover)

Translating Devkota

Geeta Khadka

Murari Madhusudhan Thakur, who has published several books and translated Tulsidas' Hunumanbahuka from Hindi into English, has recently published Laxmi Prasad Devkota: Selected Poems. But being a gold medalist, and hailing from a 'most illustrious family of scholars dedicated to the study and teaching literature' does not seem to make a person the most suited to translate Devkota. Even for a native speaker, translating from Nepali into English is a difficult task. It is therefore very important for interpreters to realize the complexity of such an undertaking. It is not easy to interpret meanings without knowing the essence and feel of what is being said. Devkota, like the English Romantic poets, sought to rise above the lethargic customs of daily life, he was very conscious of earthly problems, and the main subject of his poetry was humanity itself. Poetry came to him as naturally as "the leaves of a tree" emerge. Thus, a good reading of this celebrated Nepali poet requires an eye and taste for his complex expressions, deviant structures, and inventiveness.

Several foreign scholars have now translated Devkota's poems, the most well known of which is David Rubin's effort. Translating Nepali literature into English was a subject of interest for Devkota too. A desire to be known outside Nepal was a strong motivating factor, as well as the fact that he was himself well versed in literature written in foreign languages, especially in English and French from the West, and Hindi and Bengali from India. As early as 1956, six years after Nepal's interaction with the outside world, the writer felt the need to internationalize Nepali writings. In his introduction to the translation of some well-known Nepali poems, he writes, "The present translations are in English, because of its extensive use in India, especially in the Deccan and the different parts of Asia and the world." Devkota, who had a good command of English, was one of the greatest native translators of Nepali poems into English. He translated several of his own poems, as well as the poems of other writers, into English, and published them in the mid-50's in the bilingual literary periodical Indreni. His own proficiency as a translator makes it problematic for non-native translators to grasp the essence of his poetry.

Thakur's translations, and the poet's own translations of these same poems, give some insight into the challenge of translating Devkota. These insights may be considered in light of translation as a creative practice, or as an effort to break from what Devkota asks of translation: respecting the "limits set by differences in the genius of two different languages." Devkota uses English for a creative rendering of his poems, and as such, these translations require special treatment. His translations are very close to Nepali, and he conveys through translation a concept of his, and his native poets', values. His translations of his own poems are transcreations, which come from the depth of his inner being and his Nepaliness.

Though Thakur has done a commendable job, and must to be appreciated for accomplishing such a task, I take the liberty of criticizing the rush to publish such an important work without more careful study. His haste to publish the book has led to some very gross mistranslations. He has also liberally used the poet's own translation, adding minor changes and major flaws. Thakur might have done a better job if he had read Devkota's poems with a native scholar or a writer. Instead, he has opted for the easier, more literal aspect of translation. In spite of 'knowing Nepali very well and publishing some original articles in the language' he has failed to translate Devkota's creativity. The question involved is not his English, but his authenticity. How authentic is Thakur's translation of the poems that the poet has himself translated? I would like to review Thakur's translation by examining them alongside Devkota's.

A precise understanding of the work is necessary for a good translation. Devkota gives his readers more space, and allows a greater range of possible responses. Thakur, however, strictly follows the method of literal translation, with often uses the poet's translations liberally. Several examples of the differences between the two follow. To begin with, in Nepali, Devkota uses exclamation marks at the end of practically each line, as does Thakur in his translation. Yet the poet's own translation of "The Lunatic" uses full stops instead of exclamation marks.

Then, in both translations, the first six lines of "The Lunatic" are exactly the same, while the other lines have little or no changes. Yet in this poem, Thakur is quite unable to capture and fathom the depth of what the poet is saying, and at times mistranslates the feelings and expressions of the poet. His changes do not render the same effect of the poet's own translation. For example, 'Those things I touch-' (Devkota) and 'I touch things' (Thakur) covey quite different things. While Devkota experiences the sounds, visions, and fragrances whose existence the world denies, Thakur's 'I touch things' lacks intensity and reads very stiffly. The poet sees 'a flower in the stone-' and contemplates it, while Thakur sees a 'flower in the stone/In the moonlight.' When the poet says, ' Ripple by ripple' he shows the movement of the river and the reader can feel and visualize the water. 'Ripple on ripple,' (Thakur) creates a sense of stagnation, and the translation becomes hurtful to the eyes and the ears! Devkota:

'They exfoliating, mollifying,
Glistening and palpitating,
Rise before my eyes like tongueless thing insane,
like flowers,
A variety of moon birds.

Thakur's translation of the same lines is:

They burst into leaf, mollified,
Glistening, palpitating,
They rise before me like mute insane creatures,
Like flowers, a variety of chakor-blossom!

Though the translator has used the same adjectives, 'exfoliating,' 'mollifying,' 'glistening,' and 'palpitating,' 'unintelligible,' and 'ineffable,' the essence and the intensity of the poet's imagination is missing.

The poem "Spring" provides another opportunity to compare Thakur's translation with Devkota's. The poet conveys an urgency, in vivid and pulsating rhythms:

Earth-rainbowing, hare maddening,
Bee-buzzing, bird-quickening,
Pulse-palpitating, heart-agitating

This vision and pulsation, Thakur is unable to capture in his translation:

Making a rainbow of the earth, making the hare mad,
Making the bee to buzz,
Quickening the birds, the pulse itself,
Stirring up the heart.

However, in spite of these flaws, Thakur has also accomplished a good degree of success. Though he is not the first to fill 'a long- felt need for the poetry of the great poet in a world language,' he has contributed towards this. It is not easy for a non-native speaker to perfectly translate one of the greatest poets of Nepal, but Thakur deserves to be congratulated for the broad range of Devkota's poetry that he has chosen, and the actual translation that he has accomplished.

(G. Khadka is a Reader at the Tribhuvan University Department of English, Kirtipur)

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The Faulty Glasses and Other Stories
Author: B.P. Koirala
Translator: Kesar Lall
Publisher: Delhi: Book Faith India, 1997

BP and the Western Reader

Siobhan A. O'Riordan

The Faulty Glasses and Other Stories (B.P. Koirala; transl. by Kesar Lall)

Translations - of language and culture - are slippery as morning eggs, fish in a stream, a monsoon-washed path; and so it is with the English translation of The Faulty Glasses and Other Stories by Nepal's esteemed BP Koirala. Originally published in 1950, this collection of stories translated by Kesar Lall offers a public reflection of Koirala's inner attempts to both understand and change the society he lived in and clearly loved. Though the English translation is efficient, and at times illuminating, it is the cultural reading that Faulty Glasses offers which both enlightens and confuses the western reader.

The collection is varied in both what it attempts and how effectively it translates. The complex, pluralistic nature of Nepali culture, and the altogether different expectations of the western reader, makes Lall's task of reaching his audience difficult. For example, when a westerner thinks of Nepal she/he may either "see" it - wax prolific about the spectacular peaks, sculpted valleys, and misty lowlands - or turn an eye towards the mystic. Yet in the Faulty Glasses, only "A Story," about the old man who meditates, takes a turn at the mystic. Throughout the collection, physical description of the land, places, and people, is sparse - though there are moments of beautiful and earthy language where the fluidity of Koirala's Nepali transfers in to the English.

To the western reader, Nepali customs of marriage take on a poignancy in several of Koirala's stories. The young bride begrudgingly married to the old colonel in "The Colonel's Horse" finds a moment of happiness when his horse becomes hers, responsive to her commands and touch. The end however is tragic, and as she raises her hands to cover her face as it goes "black and blue instantly." Koirala drives home the trap marriage frequently is, and, in this story, Lall captures this moment in its stillness and its horror, with the smoking gun and blood pouring from the horse's belly.

Some of these cultural translations are more effective than others. In "The Marriage" Koirala subtly attacks the arranged wedding of a child-bride of 14 with a widower. Koirala reveals his agenda through the storyteller's reflections: isn't the child a school girl, shouldn't her bridegroom be worrying like a father who should marry off his own daughter? This is one of the more difficult stories to translate culturally; in a western novel, the relationship of a child to an old man would explore issues of pedophilia and living outside social norms. Koirala's success here comes from his subtle attempt to encourage the questioning, and not blind acceptance, of tradition.

The recurring theme of marriage has less success in the story "The Bet." Koirala's attempts here seem less clear - though certainly the position of women within marriage and Nepalese society is a concern - and the language, more reportorial than descriptive, fails to direct the reader. Is the story intended as a parody, a mocking of a man's manipulation and a woman's jealousy? The protagonist Padma declares early on that "all women are alike. They have feeble hearts that float constantly on short-lived joys.... They are accessory to the happiness of men. They are by nature weak and without strength of character." The language, roundly chauvinistic, seems almost implausibly simple to a western reader. Padma's wife Laxmi refutes his assertions, and the couple arranges a bet in which Padma must seduce within fifteen days any woman Laxmi names. Predictably, before the fifteen days are up, Laxmi is consumed with anger - their marriage bed once so playful is now shared with jealousy. Resigning to Padma's victory, Laxmi accepts that women lack "strength of character." This conclusion, which was likely intended as parody, is not played hard enough. The problem seems less a translation of character - the battle of the genders is world-wide - than that of language; this is a story that needs a forceful and even sarcastic tone to highlight the hypocrisy of such a judgment, such a "bet."

The stories in Faulty Glasses also touch on other aspects of social etiquette bound in the caste system which leave foreigners tripping over their jutho feet. Nepal's myriad social rules can only be successfully learned by the very young who imbibe such knowledge with their mother's milk. Koirala's title story "Faulty Glasses" concerns the preoccupation's of Keshavraj whose very subsistence, and certainly self-worth, relies on the Rana General's benevolence. Having not recognized the General's car, and therefore failing to give proper obeisance, Keshavraj is wracked by guilt, and a foreshadowing of doom. "If the misunderstanding cannot be cleared up, it will be my own ruin, and I will have to face starvation. Should we little men stand up to such great personalities?" Koirala's answer would have been yes, yet in this story Keshavraj receives the pardon he requests from a confused and somewhat annoyed General. Again, something of the appropriate ironic tone doesn't translate in the conclusion. Keshavraj's relief doesn't seem to highlight Koirala's own efforts to overturn this system of chakari, but instead confirm that a man's happiness should be so easily given, and taken away.

The success of Nepali fiction translated into English is dependent both on the original intent of the work and the translator. Such an attempt begs a comparison to the success of both translated and English-written works in India. As a long-time colony of England, India is more familiar territory to the western reader than the valleys and tribes of Nepal. Yet Indian writing in English succeeds in reaching its audience because of the attention to explaining, within context, the details that render India full and colorful on the page. Translators too insure their success by nesting what is Indian within language that explains how it is to be Indian.

Ultimately Koirala's stories in Faulty Glasses read like his public reflection on the society he cared for and changed so much. For this reason, these stories may generate interest in a selective group of English speakers, particularly those familiar with Nepal. Though this collection can not be dismissed, it is also not the best effort in explaining, through the clarity of fiction, what life in Nepal is all about.

(SA O'Riordan teaches history in Kathmandu)

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La La Kha: Kabita Muna
Author: Purnabahadur Vaidya
Publisher: Samyojan Guthi, Khwapa, 1996

Water Poems

Wayne Amtzis

Purna Vaidya, the Newar poet, has written a remarkable collection of poems in Nepal Bhasa: La La Kha (Water is Water). These intently crafted poems written over twenty years reflect a mind intimately involved with its own reflection refracted through the manifest and various forms of a single element.

From "My Image":

Upon water an image,
proof of being I,
...By that stance
I read my very substance
..If stones strike,
puzzled, by ripples shaken,
..fearing to be torn
from me, he grasps my leg
This I know, yet stand unmoved
No surge displaces
nor water sinks -- he sets himself above all
Where a drop remains
so lasts my image

Water is Vaidya's element. He sings water as Walt Whitman sings the self. Unlike St. John Perse of France and Derek Walcott of the West Indies, two modern poets who made water a vehicle of their singing, Vaidya is drawn to water with the curiosity of an amateur naturalist and the sensibility of an innocent lover. Perse and Walcott praise the elemental and historical force of the Seas, and poets of all times have spoken metaphorically of water as they have of the other elements. Vaidya, however, speaks of water with the mirroring clarity of a single moment and a single drop.

Water Is Water

Water --
never blocks the light --
its ever moving skin
radiates; its single vision parsed into colors
explicates what's embodied
within light

That rainbow
water sketches on a blue slate
is a disquisition --
-- what is and what is seen
borne forth in their fullness
by light

Me? -- That very drop!
that attempts to write of light:
self emergent; the enlivened heat of it,
and the gentleness
resplendent on its surface
To express that
outside itself

Feeling with our own hands and seeing with our own eyes, we shift shape and shine, as water does, yet as readers we stand apart. If we were those drops spoken of, what would we be? Not I, not we. Were we simply drops of water, before undoing our separateness, we would be gone. Vaidya recognizes our dilemma. Out of the dialectics of involvement with self and other, he offers an inner dimension of experience. What he expresses we share, and if we learn to look at the world as he does, we know what it is to feel revelation at hand in each moment of living. With him (The River Has Not Sung For Nothing) as with the current: "Striking (our) head so many times/ in life's moveable struggles/ overcoming many hindrances/ with each step--Yell! Jump!/(we) strike the stones of the real."

To say that Vaidya is a religious poet, a celebrator of the spirit made incarnate, and on that basis a revolutionary poet, is to name what he is not. The political subtext is there, as is the religious, but it is subservient to the artist's unwavering attention and clarity of mind. Whether we let our separate selves fall away and take on the force of that which moves us, whether we reshape what we live by or are shaped by it, there is experience, exposure, pain.

The Surface Of The Water Rises With Each Blow

Struck by stones
the silent sleeping water
suddenly crying spreads

like a pigeon in a cat's paws
fluttering, its anxious
waves flee in all directions

But water held by its own banks
where could it go!

Hitting out here and there
it returns again to the very place
it had escaped from in fear

Terrified by its death am I
like one who leaps
yet cannot escape the earth

But, with the hardness of each blow
which must be swallowed,
with the diet of each blow the surface rises

its experience increased

Vaidya recognizes our mortality; he observes what is endured and taken from us, and reclaims from our threatened humanity the assuredness of its having been. He does this by transmuting the tension between What are we? and This is what we are. Disquiet initiates the poems. In the moment of looking the world flees from him; his words are the afterimage of seeing. One phrase leads to another--question reverberates in answer--one poem to the next. This is what we are is never spoken without echoing What are we? With his subdued avowal to continue, as if with the persistence of water, our knowing deepens; his questioning becomes ours. Through Vaidya's poems we re-learn to see. If we hear them spoken, read them aloud, think them through, separateness momentarily overcome, we speak ourselves whole.

Vaidya is one of many contemporary poets working in Nepal Bhasa. Their poems, like his, deserve a wider audience both in Nepal and internationally. The effort and talent behind La La Kha should not go unrecognized, and the restrained quality of Vaidya's voice, his insight and expressiveness in his native tongue, will surely enrich the languages, through Nepal Bhasa, Nepali or English, and their listeners.

(W. Amtzis's translations from Nepal Bhasa appear in "A Representative Collection of Nepal Bhasa Poems." Translations in this review are by Amtzis with the assistance of Vaidya.)

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The Window of the House Opposite
Author: Govinda Bahadur Malla
Translator: Larry Hartsell
Publisher: Delhi: Book Faith India, 1998
Price: Rs. 168

The Academic Translation

Manjushree Thapa

First published in Nepali in 1961, Govinda Bahadur Malla's novel Pallo Gharko Jhyal has recently been translated into English as The Window of the House Opposite. As the book's title indicates, translator Larry Hartsell has opted for straightforwardness in his translation, transcribing from Nepali into English dutifully, but, often, artlessly. What has resulted is a book that reads erratically, in flat, unnatural rhythms and tones; but which does succeed in making the content of Malla's well-known novel accessible to an English readership.

Malla's protagonist Misri is an exceedingly sheltered twenty year-old who finds herself to be the object of interest for Hiraman, a neighborhood hooligan. Married three years to an insipid, sickly man, she spends much of the novel fluttering from room to room alternately cursing Hiraman, wondering about him, and fearing that word of his interest in her has spread. She is a very young character, indecisive, restless, impetuous, petty, quick to cry, and, in Freudian terms, so frustrated that she seems on the verge of hysteria. Hiraman's glances from the window of his nearby house are enough to make her frantic. When he begins to send letters, and even to wrangle his way into her parents' house to meet her, she is so overcome by guilt, curiosity, and excitement that she begins to relent to Hiraman's aggressive stalking, and to fall in love.

Never an agent of her own free will but a pawn controlled by the dictates of social stricture, Misri is a character to pity, rather than admire. She belongs to a genre of sexually suppressed Nepali heroines who suffer for the sake of the reader's liberal enlightenment. Gender constructs her entire being. She is trapped in her roles as daughter, wife, daughter-in-law and object of sexual prey, either conforming to these roles or rebelling in reaction to them. So devoid of reasoned, rational thinking is she that she even envies a woman whose husband used to beat her: unlike her husband, at least this man was a man, and had some passion.

Translating this story for a millennial English-reading audience cannot be an easy task. One runs the risk of presenting the struggles of a Madame Bovary at a time when such sexual mores seem melodramatic, of putting forward Freudian theories at a time when "that Viennese quack" has been discredited, and of making a tale that was new in its time sound very traditional. Much of the meaning of the book comes from its social and historical context.

And so much depends on the treatment of the story, the nuances of its language, the beauty of its prose. Much depends on the reader's being able to feel, through the writing, Misri's confusion. But The Window gives the reader no such chance to feel. Hartsell prefers the academician's approach to translation to the poet's approach, and, for the most part, he faithfully transcribes the content of Malla's novel from one language to another, caring little about subtleties of tone, pitch, and art. His translation does not fail at literary elegance because it never aims to achieve it.

There is, of course, a respectable tradition of this kind of arid, academic translation: perhaps most famously, VN Nabokov refused any artiness in his translation of Pushkin's five-thousand tetrameter long poem Eugene Onegin and condemned other more literary attempts. In Nepali literature, Michael Hutt's anthology may be the most successful academic translation. The benefits of such scholarly translations are that the contents of the original become available to literary specialists. But the disadvantage of a translation in which the literary is sacrificed for the literal is that it tends not to appeal to a general audience. And so The Window raises a question that must be asked of all translations: who is the intended audience for this work: a narrow group of foreign specialists and "Nepal experts" or a wider audience who will read anything, from any culture, that is moving and well-written? In this book, Hartsell has made his choice, and it may be revealing for translators, and for Nepali authors who authorize translations of their own writing, to study it for its successes and failures.

(M. Thapa is a writer based in Kathmandu)


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