I MET A MAN WHO WASN’T THERE 

Translated from the original Bengali (SESH MRITO PAKHI) by Arunava Sinha

A thriller within a thriller...

Translation is the only way we have of showcasing our racial and national history. It is essentially an attempt at communication, on behalf of a culture, a tradition and a literature. The choice of an author and, more precisely the most significant areas of his/her work are the first steps towards this communication since translation should be a valid exercise. The choice of a target language is equally important, for the wider the usage the larger the scope of dissemination. The use of certain languages as filters raises questions of power and hierarchy. For example, a translation from Bengali to English will serve as a measure of the growth and perception of a regional Indian language, as well as the extent of domination of a universal language over it. The translated work then becomes the representation of a small provincial culture for a powerful international readership. At another level, the very process of transference reconstructs cultural identity and reframes the boundaries of its linguistic depth. The operation, however, is fraught with challenges. The more diverse the two literary traditions, the greater the skill required to bring them together in a meaningful way.

No one has displayed this skill better than Arunava Sinha. From his first, the award-winning translation of Shankar’s Chowringee to this last one, many of which have received prestigious awards or been shortlisted, he holds a record output of a hundred successful translations ranging from old Bengali classics to the work of contemporary writers. These include novels, novellas, short stories and poetry.

Reviewed by Aruna Chakravarti

The title ‘Sesh Mrito Pakhi’ intrigued me. Who, in the novel, was the last dead bird? Till I found an equivalence. In Sakyajit’s book, two writers, Arun Chowdhury and Amitava Mitra, share an ambiguous, uneasy relationship somewhat like the one between Rabindranath Tagore and Saratchandra Chattopadhyay. Parallels in terms of difference in wealth, family status, life span and professional success are also observed in the lives of both pairs of litterateurs. Saratchandra was hailed as kathashilpi (artist with words) by the Bengali public, an appreciation denied to the former. Yet Rabindranath addressed him as bihanga, a mythical storyteller bird, in his poem Jadi o sandhya ashichhe manda manthare. Rabindranath is believed to have written it on receiving the news of Saratchandra’s last illness. The poem is not only an acknowledgement of the latter’s talent. It contains a plea. The older writer urges his younger contemporary not to give up; to fight death and reach greater heights. Here is my translation of the first stanza.

Though twilight creeps with slow uncertain steps
And music ceases gently at a sign.
Though friendless is the vast unending sky
and weariness descends upon the being.
Though mighty sky is lost in meditation
the darkening sphere enshrouded in a veil
Oh Bihanga! Beloved Bihanga mine
Shut not your eyes; stop not your soaring flight.

In Sesh Mrito Pakhi, the author spins a narrative around another storyteller bird silenced too soon. It is a thriller within a thriller, or more precisely a novel carrying another in its womb. Yet it is not a simple crime story. It has another dimension. Throughout the narrative, the reader senses a presence; a presence defined by its absence. Two mysteries mirroring each other, one revealed in Arun Chowdhury’s drawing room in Darjeeling; another in his dead friend Amitava Mitra’s manuscript, are played out in tandem.

Written in the first person, the novel begins with the arrival of a young woman, Tanaya Bhattacharya, to the house of a best-selling crime novelist, Arun Chowdhury in Darjeeling. She is an investigative journalist who writes a column on closed cases. The case she has picked up this time is of the murder of Amitava Mitra, a popular poet of his times. The prime accused was the dead man’s friend Arun Chowdhury, but he was released for lack of evidence. The case has remained unsolved and lies buried in police archives for the last four decades.

Arun Chowdhury is an old man now and lives a secluded life in Darjeeling. He declines meeting Tanaya at first. Then suddenly, out of the blue, he agrees. He greets her pleasantly enough, offers her coffee and, taking her completely by surprise, announces that it was he who had murdered Amitava. He refuses to say anything more. But before she leaves, he hands her the manuscript of an unpublished crime novel written by the victim himself, leaving her to find the solution by herself.

After meticulous research, interviews and field work, Tanaya reconstructs the sequence of events that led to the murder. The clues get more intricate as the narrative meanders here and there. Bengal politics of the sixties and seventies, the literary scene of the times, and the lives of other writers get woven into the main plot leaving the reader confused and bewildered; even exasperated. Nothing seems to make sense. But finally, when the solution is presented, everything comes together. And like all good detective stories, the reader is left convinced.

The characters are well drawn. The eager beaver Tanaya, with her stubborn tenacity in ferreting out the smallest detail of the case is convincing as is the vague, shadowy Arun Chowdhury who seems to be living in another world with his equally shadowy wife. The reader is baffled by his confession and cannot take him at his word. Is he guilty or not guilty? This anxiety shapes the reader’s response swinging from one point to another like a pendulum. But there is no doubt that people like him, people whose actions and motives cannot be fathomed, exist in the world. Sidhartha, with his casually careful manner, is also true to type.

Arunava Sinha’s translation brings out the essence of the book in all its aspects with an expertise seldom seen even in the best of translators. In flawless, elegant English, he evokes the atmosphere of the sleepy mist-wrapped hill station of Darjeeling and gives us glimpses of its local culture in rich visual detail. He introduces some Bengali words and expressions, not too many, which serve to reduce the alienness that is inherent in a translation from a local Indian language like Bengali to a universal language like English. Many translators believe in flattening untranslatable words into a seamless flow of the target language in the name of reader friendliness. But the result is often strained and awkward. Sinha’s translation reads like a creative work which is what a good translation should be.