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Bridging time Krishna Sobti whose “Mitro Marjani” and “Daar Se Bichhudi” are releasing this Thursday in English translations

Shut to sunlight, her Mayur Vihar apartment is aglow with memories. She enters from the bedroom, donning a blue gown enroute, like a magician seizing his wand before a performance.

“Mitro Marjani”, is being translated into English for the first time after it was published in 1966. Sobti discusses the hazards of translation, “There are many layers of place and culture to a text.” But with convincing humility she continues, “Translations make us writers anxious. When translating, a writer’s limitations come up…” Adept in English, the veteran author says she never considered translating her work herself. She believes she does not have sufficient familiarity with the texture of English.

“Tohellwithyou Mitro”, based on a woman unapologetic about her youth and desires, created a stir when released. But the author believes it was not misinterpreted. “Hindi areas are very conservative. The book was called bold and sexy. But people didn’t miss the point. When I saw NSD’s production of it (in 1984), I thought people would laugh. But no…people realised that the inner space of the story was different.”

Early one morning, Sobti saw an umbrella on a wall and below it an old man lying on a bed. “Tohellwithyou Mitro” rose from this single image of a joint family. “I have a great weakness,” says Sobti, with a twinkle, “If I know the storyline I can never write.” She is more an explorer than a creator. She discovers characters. “I never interfere with my characters. I could never have written that language. Mitro came up with that elemental sexual expression. The language she created for herself is very unique.”

Time has not dimmed Sobti’s memories of Partition. She narrates the genesis of her first short novel “Daar se Bichhudi” published in 1958. “Those were abnormal times. Trains were travelling back and forth with not a single living person. There was a rule at that time…” Suppressing her emotions with limejuice-sips, she continues, “If you met a person you did not ask them how others were. A distant uncle once reached our house. He didn’t stay long. He announced he was returning to the camp. I followed him to the bus stop. He looked like his own negative. As he boarded the bus I saw there was something wrong with his legs.” She looks you in the eye, “I was suddenly trapped in a voice of hatred. That was the first and last time I lost that neutrality. I was losing my faith in humanity. But then suddenly I got an image of a young girl in my head.” This was to become Pasho, the hero of “Daar se Bichhudi”, set in the strife-torn Afghan wars.

If she remembers her past eloquently, she plans the future precisely. “If I find lapses,” she says simply, “I will stop writing.” With charm she says she has found none. But writing for half a century doesn’t make writing any easier. Previous projects don’t help the cause of future ones. “Every new project is a challenge. The linguistic idiom, the cultures are all different.” Her new projects include “Gujarat se Gujarat”, based both on the recent riots and on her experiences as the governess to the then Maharaja of Sirohi, in Mount Abu. She is also working on “Power of Attorney”, based on happenings in the State.

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