In the late nineties, when Manohar Shyam Joshi's The Perplexity of Hariya Hercules was published, we lived in Delhi. And we were avid fans of Buniyad, a very popular Indian TV serial. Apparently, Joshi authored it. And so I had certain expectations from the slim red book I picked up last week. It was a translation into English by a certain Robert Hueckstedt.
The book narrates the routines of a devout son serving an invalid father. The greater part of this devotion has him cycling around Delhi to gather news for the bedridden parent - Lodhi Gardens, Lajpat Nagar... They are named but that is about all. We have no idea how they look. Perhaps this is because Hariya is not particularly bright. Therefore, he might not be observant. And, thus, we get to see nothing.
We do not get to see the roads Hariya cycles down, his house or its rooms, nor the houses of those he visits. We do not see the faces or bodies of people, nor their clothes nor expressions. The cover of the book is red. I cannot recall a single colour from the book's narrative though.
There is no sight, sound, nor smell - not even of the excreta of Hariya's father - a major subject of the story.
There is nothing, really, to tell you anything about when this is all happening either. It is a perplexing world where the reader suspects she or he is a blind deaf-mute.
My personal perplexity is at the choice of the work translated. It would certainly impress one negatively about my country. However, since I know no Indian regional language, I cannot, also claim that this is but one random sample. A very unfortunate one at that.
I do have other perplexities after attempting to read the book: what is the literary diet of those in India who subsist on regional language offerings?
I have meagre knowledge about Indian regional fiction. I was raised in English and am better acquainted with English and other European literature than with writings from India. Especially those in Indian languages. It was only somewhere in my college years that I became aware that there existed a marvellous body of fiction in Indian languages but I had no way in. This was in Tamil Nadu, to the south of India.
Yet it was only years later that I came upon translations of those works. However, that was only a random case. Though good as initiative, it has not snowballed into anything of significance.
This is the tragedy: Not everything gets translated. And not everything gets translated into languages that count. And even then much is lost in translation.
Happily, with the young in India drawn to manga in increasing numbers there is hope that Indian literature will soon receive a shot in the arm to vaccinate it against the refined flour diet that has ruled our tastes for far too long.
It is also urgent that the Government undertake translations into Indian regional languages of contemporary literature from around the world. Otherwise our literature will be as constipated as Hariya's father.
We do not get to see the roads Hariya cycles down, his house or its rooms, nor the houses of those he visits. We do not see the faces or bodies of people, nor their clothes nor expressions. The cover of the book is red. I cannot recall a single colour from the book's narrative though.
There is no sight, sound, nor smell - not even of the excreta of Hariya's father - a major subject of the story.
There is nothing, really, to tell you anything about when this is all happening either. It is a perplexing world where the reader suspects she or he is a blind deaf-mute.
My personal perplexity is at the choice of the work translated. It would certainly impress one negatively about my country. However, since I know no Indian regional language, I cannot, also claim that this is but one random sample. A very unfortunate one at that.
I do have other perplexities after attempting to read the book: what is the literary diet of those in India who subsist on regional language offerings?
Herculean Perplexity
"Every story arises out of perplexity," said Manohar Shyam Joshi:"I started writing and found that composing a story about perplexity was itself a perplexing and troubling thing, partly because perplexity is beyond words and partly because words themselves produce perplexity. Even by being written down, no final form and no fixed denouement could be given the story of the perplexity of Hariya Hercules. Every story arises out of perplexity and it is the responsibility of every story to explain that perplexity in the idiom of everyday language. But where in the idiom of everyday language is there any scope for perplexity?"
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| These colourful magazines house many short stories in diverse genres - they appear to be produced in amazing numbers and consumed with equal fervour |
Yet it was only years later that I came upon translations of those works. However, that was only a random case. Though good as initiative, it has not snowballed into anything of significance.
Happily, with the young in India drawn to manga in increasing numbers there is hope that Indian literature will soon receive a shot in the arm to vaccinate it against the refined flour diet that has ruled our tastes for far too long.
It is also urgent that the Government undertake translations into Indian regional languages of contemporary literature from around the world. Otherwise our literature will be as constipated as Hariya's father.
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