"Instantly" by Pravinsinh Chavda, translated with an introduction by Mira Desai

Introduction: Giving shape to the silences

Translations. How did I stumble upon the art? Neither education nor work prepared me for the skills or perseverance that this work requires. I trained as a pharmacist, and in the course of a working day, have little to do with words of a literary nature. Till I tried, I lacked acquaintance with this tantalizing form, that of looking for the right words to match, stretching one’s vocabulary to give a tale a new life in another language, yet staying loyal to the essence of the original work. I’d had missed out on the thrill of respecting the bounds of both tongues, deciphering their cadences. The joy of creating the same mood and temper in another language, one with completely different social nuances, for an audience that lacks the background which, in the original, is a “given”. Conveying the same meaning- despite these limitations. I guess I got lucky.

Gujarati is one of the 1600-odd Indian languages, of which 22 are officially recognized. Like most Indians, I am multilingual. I wish I had a well-argued theory as to why I chose Mr. Chavda’s works in particular. I wish I had a rationale based on a comparative study of published authors, and selection of the best in class. But I don’t. Perhaps his unusual style drew me in-more often than not, the story is inspired by events typical to middle-class Gujarati families, the stories are free of spectacular events, they are free of a sunshine-and-happy-endings sentimentalism that is the norm in Gujarati stories. His work is outside the box, it sounds authentic. At times, he sounds harsh, but this is the way it is.

There is silence between the lines in Mr. Chavda’s stories. His stories are real, drawn from life. The setting is traditional, even conservative. The background is typically Rajput, a warrior clan from the Western India with its own code of honor. This is the background the author is most familiar with. But instead of the clamor of war, his work gently hints at what I choose to call the silences, the spaces between the lines. To quote from his signature work, Trimurti;

When I stand in that no man’s land with Bapuji I see that the wise historian, the authority and the man of letters transforms into a mere child in this land. Where have the pride of learning and the distinguished veneer of knowledge gone? All this expertise, all this wisdom about humankind, the individual, the universality of nature, the pervasiveness of human emotions…why did all this not help him in his own case? I used to firmly believe that a learned man, an authority stays aloof from sorrow and grief; he stands beyond the pale of mundane human emotions.
But Bapuji could not do this.

Translating his work into English was like putting together a giant puzzle, making sure that all the pieces fitted into a cohesive, near seamless whole that did justice to the original finished work. His stories are admired for their economy of words. A trademark polish and flow set these tales apart. Mr. Chavda is a feted author with half-a-dozen novels and story collections. There was always the pressure of trying to do justice. Translating to a clarity that was fair to the original, took up hours. It demanded a fluid switch between languages, and this is particularly difficult when patois is used. In the story The Neighbors, there is a hint at the obsessive shyness observed in the girl next door, the word “wild mare” doesn’t really capture that mad, colt-like scared skittishness that the original “rosedey” represents. Working on his stories required words to be pulled out from the far reaches of one’s vocabulary, and much internal debate before any form close to acceptance could be cobbled together, and sometimes the original word stayed. There were many drafts.

With a great deal of motherly affection, Kanchanben would force some snacks on Viraj’s plate. “One can count the bones on your face. I’ll have to tell Kashmiraben about this. Does she feed her daughter anything or not?” Isha would feign anger and say “Mummy, don’t keep butting in, just go! We’re reading the poetry of Robert Frost.” Kanchanben would counter, “What will this rose understand of a poem?” And Viraj would say, “This rosedey understands everything. Don’t repair the walls. Break them down.”

It was not easy, there are so many equivalents to a word. For most Indian languages the choices are vast, there are equivalent words that have a different weight, each with a different nuance. Yet the translation must look seamless, it must not seem patchworked, the story must stay true to its roots and sound the same, pitch wise, it must capture the silences and abruptness of the original.

Gujarat is a conservative state, even though it borders the sea, and has had a history of trade and immigration. New ideas are tempered, they are made to fit the existing social mores, but the underlying thread is patriarchal and conforming.

Then again, most of Mr. Chavda’s stories are set in a Rajput background, and this presents its own set of challenges for a translator. Rajputs are the warrior clan, with their own mores and protocol. This is the clan that princes and statesmen once belonged to, and their behavior reflects this.

To quote from Wikipedia:
The Rajput ethos is martial, in spirit, and fiercely proud and independent, and emphasizes lineage and tradition. Rajput patriotism is legendary, an ideal they embodied with a sometimes fanatical zeal, often choosing death before dishonour. Rajput warriors were often known to fight until the last man.

The women stay veiled, they stay quiet. The women exert their influence from the shadows, and their silences. Perhaps in their collective memories they still carry the memories of self-immolation before dishonor. Centuries of conditioning, of expected behavior influences their reactions. A reader who’d be reading the original story would be aware of the culture expectations, the backstory. He would not need an explaination in fine print. He would know how inappropriate it is for an adult son to question the authority of an elder, and that when the author shows this, it is close to a polite rebellion.

But how can a translator capture this influence in a story that will now be read by those from a completely different context? After all, it is a story one is translating, it cannot have a history lesson as a preface!

How does one do justice to the background in a language that is far angular, even strident? How does one capture the essence of the unspoken in a foreign language with its peculiar blunt edges, where so much is stated upfront, even blatant? This is a cross I’ve had to live with.

For instance, consider this exchange from The Battle of Manekgadh:

The next evening, Father said, “He has ruined his health and come here, he should rest, take medicines, it’s his home…”

Grandfather cleared his throat thrice in a row. Whenever he did this, the silence that followed was scary. Father stiffened and stared at him.
“Was it necessary to clarify that it is his house? Is that a matter of some argument?” Grandfather asked.

Father laughed. He quickly moved to Grandfather’s armchair and sat by it, pressing his feet, “I liked this a lot, Father.”
Grandfather laughed. “You’ve become quite the businessman, I must say. I’ve been watching for some time…”
“All I’m asking - is this an auspicious hour to begin inscribing history?”
Grandfather laughed, “He is a free spirit.”

Getting the uniformity of the words- ensuring all the words and lines and the dialogue are in the same plane, in the context that they belong, was one of the key challenges.

I was fortunate in having Mr Chavda vet these stories, and in a few instances guiding me to a clearer interpretation, particularly if a layered meaning was involved. But largely his approach has been hands off and trusting, which puts even greater pressure on the translator to give her best. His emphasis has been on meaning, at times liberty has been taken with the language to bring in the right shade of understanding, to color the words so that they flow with the story seamlessly, and issues that have a cultural bearing, are addressed fairly. In the story “ the Battle of Manekgadh,” a single word in acceptance “ji” has been free form translated to a crisp, acquiescing “ Yessir” While the starting point is the base story, the translated story has a form and cadence that is completely new, true to the target language.

Issues of sentence structure and expression have often been a stumbling block, particularly if a subtle satire were involved. Gujarati tends to be liberal with adjectives, the lyricality of the language is different. English is direct and to the point, blunt. How does one capture the essence and still keep the flavor of the original?

These are some of the challenges I’ve worked with. I hope these stories bring you a whiff of the flavors of Gujarat.


Devshankar Maharaj’s lips, cheeks and nose were made of rubber, and when he took a pinch of snuff, his nose would stretch to his left ear. Today is Sunday, and sadly there is no auspicious hour for a discourse before Thursday, my dear disciples- this is the manner he’d address a gathering of sundry shepherds and farmers, they’d flash their teeth and gratefully listen to his words. Lifted on this effusive wave of words someone would ask- Oh really Devshankar bapa, all creation emerged from Lord Brahma’s navel, is that true? And long ago, in ancient times they say an enormous ocean covered the earth? In our times will everything be submerged again? The space outside shops or the benches of tin-roofed wayside hotels were not deemed inappropriate for such philosophical discussions. Stimulated by the questions of the inquisitive, that rubber mass would tremble and erupt in laughter. His reply would be prefaced with- you fools!

When such heated exchanges of knowledge were in progress, the listener’s faces would show a sense of wonder, but they’d smirk as well, because they knew of a major problem. Devu Maharaj, what you say is true. The saga you’ve shared about the creation and destruction of the universe is of the highest order and above all dissent, the printed language is the highest truth, but in all this where do we fit in Vasu- misshapen, bent and dark-skinned- do let us know. If you don’t unravel one or two mysteries of the universe, it will do.

Vasubhai! Oh Vasudev Maharaj!

People treat the junior maharaj with great respect. Kindly grace this seat. Someone pulls his brahmin’s knot and questions- you want tea? Someone prods his navel with a finger. Sing that one Vasu Maharaj- my begging bowl is dry, no one cares to fill it, oh why…. Suddenly Vasudev Maharaj asks- can I get a steel dish or an empty case? After the instrument is produced, he closes his eyes, sways, and sings in a tinny voice - Oh my love, he is a wanderer… He sways like a dervish and all the people assembled there fold their hands with devotion at this spectacle. The junior and the senior Maharaj, praise upon them! When the song is complete, the balladeer wipes sweat and demands his prize. That tea you were talking about- where is it now? Give me half a cup. This demand for tea too, prompts a song request- I am mad after tea, I cannot do without tea - sing that one, and then you’ll get your tea.

In the meanwhile, a fight has cropped up in the last row of spectators. Oye there- don’t serve him tea in a cup which someone else has previously used- no matter what, but his body is still that of a Brahmin. Half a cup of tea is rotated before the statue like a prayer offering. Vasudev Maharaj reaches out to grab the cup, but the offering is moved away. First tell us about that one, the silken one. Maharaj forgets his tea and his entire being is preoccupied with being shy, abashed.

Have patience, scriptures! For a while let us attend to worldly matters - whenever someone mumbles and mentions Vasudev to Devshankar Maharaj, he pulls his pouch-like nose to his knee, wipes it clean with his dhoti edge, and says- he’s a child, he’s immature….

Oh behold and the one thought to be omnipotent, turned out to be omnipresent too! What is he upto in this old house in Kalupur, in the old part of the city in far away Ahmedabad? He sits in a yogic posture, ardhpadmasana, with one leg lifted and placed on the other, his white cap has been folded and placed carefully on his knee; since his turban has been taken off, his topknot is askew- like a cobra’s hood- and he is speaking to the ill-witted widow seated before him. Then I do not see any need for further discussion in this matter! He had this knack of conveying a tone of conclusion at a discussion’s start. In a corner of the room, a young girl sits with an array of books, her eyes are closed and she mumbles as if she is casting a magic spell, then she quickly records the notations she remembers into a book. Her mother signals to her, and whisks her to the kitchen. Look at me! Listen- says the mother, as she pats her daughter’s face and arranges strands of hair by her ear. Do you think you look good this way in front of your father-in -law, dressed in just a frock, running about with your head uncovered, flinging your braids like a hedgehog? The girl abandons an essay on the benefits of democracy, stops reciting half-learnt sentences about equality and absentmindedly asks- whose father-in-law? Her mother is greatly amused at this naiveté. “My little dove. My little one. You sit in the kitchen. I’ll go and get your books. You can read them prettily for a few days.”

After she returns to the other room the mother sits by the wall, draws her veil, and complains.
“She’s a little childish.”
Devshankar Maharaj adds to this litany of complaints about offspring. Moving his trunk about, he says, even our Vasubhai is, you know, what you’d call unconventional.

After he says this, he pleads defense - I must admit he didn’t care much for education- but he’s free of an iota of laziness. He’s constantly occupied.
Hai hai!
Devshankar Maharaj got a girl for his Vasuda all the way from Ahmedabad, did you see her? Oh ho ho what beauty! A linguistic correction is called for. She can’t be called Vasuda’s wife. Whatever it may be, she is Gorani- the priest’s wife. The entire village chants, Gorani. Gorani steps about the village with her veil pulled low, sits beneath the awning, scrubs vessels, fills water from the village well, and traipses through the bazaar. The awe that this beauty inspires, wipes out the impression of the scriptures and the clowning of the fool. Devabapa’s home has been blessed with light after all these years.

Well it was possibly true that the day was brighter, but what about the night? At night, Devshankar bapa leads Vasudev by the hand and sits by him in the courtyard. Sit here and listen carefully to what I’m saying. Now, both of us are of the same age. Now, you no longer are a child. You’re a man, and you have to abide by your duty as a man. Covering the language of the scriptures with a cloak of worldly wisdom he ladles several pieces of advice, after imbibing these, his son opens the door to his room. He does enter, but stands in the dark doorway watching his wife by lantern light. Both are curious. The Gorani sits with her head uncovered on the bed in the corner, she watches her lord and master with a shy smile. She too, has been gifted a bundle of advice by her widowed mother, so she remembers her duty, and with sundry gestures of her eyes and hands invites her master. She shows self-confidence. In school prayer assemblies she has driven home many a debating sword with an impatient toss of her head . That energy will help her pierce this darkness and bridge the ocean of life, of that she is sure. Sleep has eluded a tottering Devshankar Maharaj who sits on the dark verandah. As an alternative, he pines for a maiden named sleep from some story. Oh sleep, come to me! Ashamed at his condition, he wipes sweat and introspects. Does such frivolity befit a learned man? What are the reasons; and if the reasons may not be disclosed, what is the solution? The solution strikes him at about midnight. A scared Vasu sneaks out from his room. In accordance with some law of motion, that very instant Devshankar Maharaj morphs into a tiny infant and slips into the bedroom. Sounds of lip-smacking wisdom are heard from different corners of the room.
Gorani’s days are not dull either. A troop of young village women swoops down. They examine the redness of her city-bred palms. They caress the beauty’s face with their coarsened hand and chipped nails. The entire village is content. The old women of the village say- just the mirror image of our late Goranima. Exactly the same beauty. The ones who’d earlier stop Vasu Maharaj, lead him to overturned crates of lemonade and beguile him to sing songs that are usually sung by women; they’d now drench their locks with oil, shape it in a question or exclamation mark; and smooth-shaven, loiter about the pond or village well . Oye there! You can’t whistle! Whatever it may be, she is Gorani, a Gorani, right? Sparkling eyes that pierce the veil are curious and bright. She beckons to Vasu some afternoon. Come here, O’ master. Sit here a while. Why are you shy? You’re my lord, why are you afraid? C’mon, lets run away to Ahmedabad. Hold my hand, I’ll tie a lifeline and steer you past the ocean.

This speech has to be halted mid-sentence because the person to whom this is addressed has slipped away to the bazaar with a hay hay. His friends drag him to the village pond and begin negotiations. Tell me, Vasiya, how about an exchange deal?

During this period in her married home, a total of two messages reach Gorani from the world outside. The widowed mother has scribbled an original message on a post card addressed to her daughter and son in law Vasudevkumar- live happily. The other letter is cruel. A friend named Komal writes- we’d just been to Bangalore with the Girl Guides. From Bangalore, we went to see the palace of the Mysore Maharaja. Since we’d gone all the way there, how could we resist the famous garden? We were a bit tense about exams, else this tour was fun and we learnt a great deal. During the journey everyone remembered you a lot, we all imagined what would you be doing now. If you’d been with us, we’d have had such fun! Please convey our regards to Jijaji.

The letter had drawn to a sudden end about here. Perhaps a wall stretched across further comprehension.

But as such, there was no reason for concern. Preparations for fleeing this prison had been put into place. Banesang had decorated his tractor. He would pat his huffing tractor affectionately. A room had been decorated in the berry farm. A new bed had been made to order. The hedge that enclosed the farm had been sealed, made opaque. Furthermore, for added protection, three dogs had been let loose. When Banesang crisscrossed Devshankar Maharaj’s home, the village well, and pond a good seven times or more, his tractor would shamelessly stick its tongue out - tell me, what have you decided? His tractor was a bird. Amongst birds, it was an eagle. Boards with freedom slogans were affixed on its wide wings. What are you waiting for, Gorani? Get up!

One afternoon, as if it were scratching at the ground, the tractor slowed down near the banyan tree near the village well. Gorani quietly put aside Devumaharaj’s brazen dhoti and Vasudev’s lame pajamas, wiped dry her soapy hands on her saree edge, pulled her veil low over her chest , strode barefoot with dignity, and climbed on the tractor. No goodbyes or farewells were exchanged in any direction, to anyone, or to the village pond or well. As the tractor took flight, her veil flew askew, off her face and chest.

Not a city, not even a village, but a farm. In such natural habitat, what is Gorani’s life like? Far from the main road, by the river bank, a double fence of wire and cactus enclose sixty bighas. There is a horse on the farm, then there are dogs and the tractor. A maid is in place to protect and serve Gorani. Whenever he has the time Banesang sits on a charpoy in the courtyard and cleans the barrel of his gun. Out of respect to the smooth -skinned Gorani, on alternate days he rides his horse into the village and defies the village folk, then he orders Ganpat the barber to give him a shave. Every two or three days he goes into Patan and brings home a mountain-load of shikakai soap, herbal oil and such other accessories for his city-bred woman. He also orders a parcel of dabeli, or pau bhaji or such other fast food. You rest easy, Gorani, no one dare look this way! When other people are present and even when they’re not, Banesang addresses her with respect. Feel completely free to move about. Don’t care about anyone. Your reign extends till the river and in that direction to the jambu tree. Gorani hides a smile surveying her domain. That student’s sense of humor is now sharper. She can imagine Devu Maharaj sitting amid a crowd, clenching fists and hitting his head against a wall.

The maid’s name is Sharda. As such, there is no practice of hiding anything, so Gorani learns about her history too. Three years ago, Banesang had abducted her on horseback from the bazaar in Deesa. After wear and tear in the ensuing years, from a beauteous maiden she’d turned into a maid. In this farm, free of the limitations of time, she lacks a history past her Deesa origins.

When Banesang is away, Gorani sits by the window on the upper floor. Else, with Sharda, she loiters in the chicku orchard or in the wheat-rayda fields. She shivers as she moves her palms over the dried wheat-ears.
“Yes, Gorani-ma.”
“Where does this dry river lead to?”
“The desert of Kutch, Gorani-ma.”
“How far d’you reckon the sea is, Shardi?”
“Oh, that’s rather far, Gorani-ma.”

Thinking that she still has something to add, Sharda says- Thakor is a gentleman. He stands by his word. He can take on the Congress government; such is his valor.
Gorani says- right, Sharda, right.
A jeep brakes to a standstill. “Where is Thakor? Who are you?”
The police inspector is energetic. He does not take the seat offered. He paces the courtyard. Out of respect to this government authority the dogs stand at a distance and bark. “Where is Banesang ?!” He is middle-aged. His belly is held in with a leather belt. His eyes dance with authority.
Gorani looks dignified as she sits, and smiles, “Shardi, serve tea, snacks to the visitor. Shardi, tell sir that the Thakor does not inform us where he is going.”
“When will he return?”
“He does not consult us about his return either. Tell me, constable, who put in a complaint? Who felt shortchanged by our departure? Who ordered you here, wagging your tail this manner…”
The inspector swirled his baton “This girl chatters too much!”
Gorani got to her feet, her head held high, “Watch your tongue, constable. Call me Gorani. Gorani.”
The inspector laughs and folds his hands, “I bow to thee, Gorani-ma”
The next time that he visits after four days or so, he’s put on a yellow T-shirt. He plays with a shining red apple as he talks. As he talks, he takes turns licking the apple and biting it. Gorani, you are difficult to fathom. I can’t understand you- but this inspector has ripped off masks of experts. Tell me, what do you think? You must be missing Ahmedabad. When is Thakorsaheb likely to visit? As such my hometown is Idar.
“When Thakorsaheb is not here, is that the only time your government machinery wakes up? What will happen the day the two of you encounter each other? Where will the scuffle break out, in the courtyard, or the river bed? When the swords ring out and there are cloud-showers of blood, will I stand between the two heroes and get drenched?”
One afternoon, a swarm of locusts attack. Gorani sits under a mango tree, looking through some book. She rushes, “This is too much! Shardi, these will destroy the entire crop.” The horde is in after creating or sniffing out cracks in the hedge, it is devouring green pods. Half of them brandish dark glasses. Dupattas are wrapped around their heads for protection against the sun. The mob rushes, it encircles Gorani and Sharda. “What is your name, sister?” Bean clumps are stuck between their teeth. ”Where is that horrid rascal? Just see, how miserable the poor girl looks!” Gorani replied, “Thakor does not ask anyone where he goes, but who are all of you ladies?”

Someone opens up a ledger. Someone opens a file.”C’mon, tell us your name”
“Women’s shelter. What is that?”
All of them speak, explain its objectives and activities.
Shardi, all these kind women have come from afar. And see how they talk of such good, lofty matters! Shall we offer them some tea? After tea is served, Gorani stands and stretches. Upliftment and all that is fine, but you must have not seen ears of wheat and tender chickoo leaves. C’mon, I’ll give you chickoo, eat as much as you want, pack the rest in your clothes, and get going. Run! Thakor is away on a hunt- he’ll return thirsting with anger, anytime now.

Without any niceties of departure, these heavy bodies leave a dust trail as they flee, and in a race to rush headlong from the hedge cracks, they tear each other’s clothes - Shardi bursts out in laughter at this spectacle.

When he visits, the inspector is in a state of surprise. “Gorani rani, you laugh a great deal!”
“Do I? Oh I didn’t know that!”
“You’re still as impish as a child.”
“Inspector, where does this river lead?”

The fifth time that he drops in to meet her one afternoon, the car is not a government vehicle, nor is he accompanied by a policeman. He parks the car near the well. “Sharda, pick me some ripe chickoos from the orchard.”
“Are you in a hurry Inspector? Are you afraid? Are you looking for something?”
“In Ahmedabad, in the Bopal area I have a 250 sq yard, 3- bedroom apartment on the eighth floor. Here is the key. My family is in Kalol. Tell me, what do you think?”
Gorani stands up, lifts an arm in farewell to the slender Sharda visible in the far distance with armfuls of fruit, and sits in the car. She touches the fields of wheat and rayda with her eyes and she says, “Let’s go.”
That night, Gorani sits by the window of the flat in Bopal.
Several miracles have happened after she has left her mother’s home. That last bit of magic happens as soon as she enters the flat- she’s seen this herself. The prince who swirled a baton, spirited the woman from the fields, drops her in his cave, dons a pair of Bermudas and a T- shirt-and transforms into an aging court jester. As she looks upon a sagging belly, a face lined with wrinkles, and jowly cheeks, Gorani feels like clapping. It is now past midnight. The inspector, sits naked, preparing a whisky-soda mixture with great concentration, and Gorani stands by the window trying to determine which part of the sky could possibly be right above a certain locality in the east part of Kalupur.

If the episode with Devshankar Maharaj and Vasu are counted as one event, then those make forty-four, add to them Banesang’s thirty-six days, so all in all that takes the total to eighty; and in this span she’s stepped out from a hemmed-in valley in Kalupur, and reached the high eighth-floor luxurious apartment in Bopal.

She was swift; now she must have raced far ahead.

Pravinsinh Chavda is an established author in Gujarati, with six short story collections and a novel to his credit. A literary autobiography and a travelogue are currently at the press. A few stories have been translated into Hindi and Marathi as well. He has been a member of Gujarat Public Service Commission, has worked in the Gujarat Educational Services, and has taught for about a decade at the undergraduate level. His began writing when he was at school and about fifty short stories and essays were published in reputed Gujarati magazines.

Mira Desai writes,works and lives in Bombay. As a translator, she has been published in Indian Literature, Pratilipi and Muse India. As austere, she has written for Six Sentences Vol 2, and on sixsentences.blogspot.com. She is an active member of the internet writing workshop. Reach her at: miradesai@gmail.com


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