Godot, in Samuel Beckett’s play Waiting for Godot becomes a metaphor for someone who will never arrive or whose arrival is uncertain, yet for whom people wait indefinitely. But when people like Sahil go missing, there is a definitive judgment on their identity, presence and absence. His people live with the hope that Sahil will come, and Sahil must come to prove himself against the stigmatized branding by socio-cultural and political agencies.
Sahil Will Come and Other Stories, a collection of eleven stories written by Afsar in Telugu and translated into English by Alladi Uma and Sridhar, introduces the readers to people who are there and yet not there, people who are constantly pushed to migrate, and people who are compelled to get lost in their search for places and people. Characters become memories, experiences, narratives, locations, attachments, battles, and ideologies silently and sometimes in absentia, turning into an overwhelming presence. Anwars, Munirs, Sahils and Gorimas from the past emerge like shadows and become mirrors for the protagonist to look into himself and the changing social dynamics. Sahil is narrated, but how to hear him narrate his story! Curiously and mystically, everyone else except the absent one speaks about his absence, while he is the only one who can talk about his absence.
These stories explore a range of themes, including forced relocations, destabilized social relations, caste-related violence, harsh political realities, and larger identity questions. They are all deeply rooted in cultures and belief systems that have been lost, redefined, defied, and reclaimed. The protagonist, who narrates most of these eleven stories, revisits his village, his childhood, and his people from a different perspective, in the light of not only his personal experiences but also the general, larger, and global changes that have influenced even the minutest details of everyday life. This journey back is more intense than his migration from one place to another, particularly because he admits that of all the places where he grew up, as his father was transferred every three years, this one left an indelible mark on his mind and life. He could see the smiles, tears, and fears in his childhood, but not the people who like streams dashed against rocks and flowed over boulders. This journey, as a learning experience for him, prompts readers to reflect on their own growing-up memories. A strange combination of nostalgia, loss, pain, disappointment and trauma is what the protagonist, for whom migration or relocation is not a choice, shares with the readers.
Like Sahil, Gorima is a presence throughout the collection as a voice, a memory, a metaphor, and an inspiration. A child constantly chided and put down by teachers and students as alif be in school regains his confidence with Gorima’s encouragement and guidance. Gorima stands as an example of the stories of isolation, displacement, and violation. Symbolic of the larger context, the legal war that Gorima fights for her house reminds us of the claims to the historical places, the unfair demolition of which caused irreversible damage to societies and communities. As the protagonist says in one of the stories, ‘Gorima, you are the history that this country cannot write. You are the revolution. You are the struggle that our generation does not know and cannot understand. You have fought a lone battle against all of society for the sake of your land. Even in defeat, you have in truth won. You have your feet still planted firmly on the ground.’
The haunting comparisons, metaphors, and images, such as the Chamki-Flowered Horse, which can be perceived as both a god-doll and a play doll, leave us pondering the shifting meanings and significance of images. Darkness can be sweet and comforting for the two friends in the story ‘Saheli’, with no doubts or questions, but only a stable, serene mood, weaving a light between the two. But, the same darkness can be nightmarish for those who, as a community, are looked upon as outsiders, called names, suspected, and shown ‘their place’.
In his insightful discussion on the satisfaction and dissatisfaction of writing a story in his foreword, ‘Before Sahil Arrived’, Afsar, like his protagonist, states that the village remains a significant part of him. His stories focus on migration and the resultant confusion, both linguistic and cultural, in his experiences of migration within and outside the country. As he points out, his journey has been parallel with other identity movements, but he has his own individual trajectory. He says, ‘If I could not communicate to my readers the daily predicament, turmoil and anguish of Indian Muslims, I would fail as a poet, a short-story writer, a researcher and a teacher, but more importantly as a human being.’ He draws our attention to a delicate, wonderful and magical bond between the writer who weaves the story and the reader who reads, interprets, and identifies with the life in the stories.
As the author and the translators emphasize in their forewords, the writer-translator discourse is always ‘a collaborative endeavour’, but more so in this context as the writer is familiar with the target language and strongly engages with the politics of language in his writings. He has been writing and publishing in English, but these short stories are rendered into English by Alladi Uma and Sridhar, of course, in consultation with him, as the translators’ note discusses. The translators, like the author, are also much acclaimed for their work. They say in their introduction that Afsar’s writing technique intrigued them. ‘The stories raised questions that made us sit up and think…’ The translators say that the writer was not interested in including the short story ‘Adivi’ (Forest) in this anthology, but they convinced him. This sheds light on the choices and options in anthologizing and the translators’ perception of an author and their writings as they present them to readers in the target language. Similarly, they retained the Urdu text but translated Urdu and English into Telugu, which gives rise to an intriguing discussion around the source text and source language. They say, ‘We wanted to retain the flavour of the Telugu original with its Urdu flavour. If the text does not sound proper “English” , so be it! No apologies given.’ It is heartening to read about the translators’ choice but one wonders if ‘no apologies given’ is not an apology (explanation/justification) in itself! The translators invite us to struggle to understand and journey through the intricacies of this seemingly simple rendering of life, and enjoy them as much as they did in bringing them to us. The shared journeys of the writer and the translators become the shared journeys of the writer, translators, and readers.
As Muneer, one of Afsar’s characters in this collection, says, ‘We ourselves have to force an ending to some stories.’ However, some stories may resist being forced into a conclusion. They would live on, haunt us, remind us, and make us relive. Such are the stories in this collection.
K. Suneetha Rani is Professor of Women’s Studies and Dean, School of Social Sciences at the University of Hyderabad, Hyderabad.