Ministhy S. interview: ‘Malayalam script has pristine originality, poetry and lilting melody’

The novel seemingly leapt off the shelf and into her hands, pulling her into its world of profound introspection. Its Biblical title piqued her curiosity, and the blurb sealed the deal. Written by James, a scientist and engineer at Vikram Sarabhai Space Centre, the book was no ordinary debut — it had taken James 13 years to bring his vision to life; the novel had won the DC Books Award in 1999. Ministhy, drawn in by the book’s lyrical simplicity and the author’s deep knowledge of scriptures, was enchanted by its depiction of an era when humans lived in harmony with nature.

She reached out to V.J. James via email, expressing her wish to translate the novel into English. Little did she know then that this single email would spark a literary collaboration that would span years and result in the translation of multiple books. Besides The Book of Exodus, their ongoing partnership has seen the publication of Anti-Clock (2021), Nireeswaran (2022), and Dattapaharam (2023) — all by Penguin Random House.

In this interview to The Federal, Ministhy S. underlines how she views translation as a spiritual journey, a means of serving as a medium for the writer’s voice. She discusses the challenges of translating the novel’s rural dialect and cultural specifics, particularly in conveying the mystique of Potta Thuruthu — The Isle of Reeds — and its religious and philosophical references. Excerpts from the interview:

Translation is often seen as an act of interpretation. While translating The Book of Exodus, did you ever feel the text pushing back against you? How did you navigate its ambiguities without over-defining them?

There is a beautiful quotation about spiritual gifts in the Holy Bible (Corinthians 12: 10), “…to another the working of miracles, to another prophecy, to another the ability to distinguish between spirits, to another various kinds of tongues, to another the interpretation of tongues”. Translation can be understood as the gift of interpreting tongues. I find translation a spiritual journey, where I serve as a medium for the writer’s oracular voice to reach the audience. My ego should not come in between.

Translation is also an art of reading the text in multiple ways: catching the tone, tenor, music and rhythm; along with the essence and meaning. The Book of Exodus definitely does not fall under the category of what you would call an ‘easy script.’ Did the text demand the best of me? Yes. Did it push me back at certain portions? Yes.

James quotes the rarest of rare Hanuman mantras using the character of Ezhuthassan. I am a Hanuman bhakt — who has done the transliteration of Goswami Tulsidasji’s Sundar Kanda from Awadhi to English — but I was encountering some of those Sanskrit shlokas for the first time. Ezhuthassan, Kunjootty’s first guru, is also the one who asks him to read the second and third chapters of ‘The Epistle to the Romans,’ the sixth book in the New Testament. I was caught in a thrall of intellectual delight, along with amazement.

Also read: V. J. James interview: ‘Literature must forewarn about consequences of human actions’

The chapters about Ezhuthassan, especially the chapter called ‘Metamorphosis’ was perhaps the toughest portion to translate. Here, the text challenged me to carry the descriptions to the non-Malayali audience, without losing the luminosity. I tried to stay true to the spirit and also prayed unceasingly.

The dialect and rhythm of the original Malayalam are integral to its texture. Were there moments where you consciously chose to privilege the spirit of the text over a literal fidelity? Can you give an example where this tension was most pronounced?

While handling different dialects, or songs from the vernacular language, the translator faces the question of ‘what and how’. Creating one’s own “Elvish and Dwarfish tongues” might be somebody’s preferred way. I endeavour to capture the spirit of the text.

The chapter, ‘Memories of the Clan’, where Chirutha’s wedding rituals are depicted, was fascinating to translate. The whole tempo of the ‘Poli’ rite and the Bhimanattam performance had to be carried over to another language without losing the essence. The Malayalam script has pristine originality, poetry and lilting melody. My translation simply stands with folded hands at the altar of that beauty.

The novel seems to question the permanence of language itself. As a translator, did you sense a dissonance between the author’s relationship to Malayalam and your responsibility to render it in English? How did you mediate this?

The Book of Exodus questions the permanence of everything. It is a deeply philosophical book. As the character of Diwakar Menon concludes, quoting Ecclesiastes, ‘Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.’ The Malayalam novel is an example of lyrical, crystalline prose. James re-wrote more than four thousand pages in hand, correcting his script for 13 years. His relationship with the language is like a flowing river. My responsibility was to render it as faithfully as I could in English. That journey took seven years, too.

Much of the novel’s power lies in what is left unsaid. How do you decide how much to illuminate for an English-speaking audience versus how much mystery to retain? Was there ever a fear that too much contextualising would dilute the narrative?

One should never underestimate the intelligence of the reader. I explained certain terms which are locally used. At other junctures, I let the silence speak. I chose to elucidate the meaning of the Sanskrit shlokas praising Lord Hanuman. The popular quote in Malayalam, inspired by the Upanishads, was also given an interpretation. But the Vedic quote at the end was not elaborated upon. Didn’t T.S. Eliot refer to Indian philosophy in The Waste Land? The reader, I am confident, will understand.

Potta Thuruthu is more than a setting — it’s almost a character in the novel. How did you approach translating its spirit, particularly for readers unfamiliar with Kerala’s backwaters? Was there an effort to make the island feel universal or to keep it defiantly local?

I did not make any extra effort to portray Potta Thuruthu as local or universal. The isle encapsulates the mystery of both at the same time, does it not? We can so easily relate to Marquez’s Macondo. Where a human being lives, becomes the reader’s world.

This is not the first time you’ve translated V.J. James’s work, but The Book of Exodus is particularly complex. Did familiarity with his voice give you greater creative freedom, or did it make you more conscious of the responsibility to capture it faithfully?

As I have written in the Translator’s Note, The Book of Exodus was the first book of James which I translated, way back in 2017-18. However, it became the fourth book of our published projects: after Anti-Clock, Nireeswaran and Dattapaharam. The translator who completed the first manuscript also evolved during the seven years of the translation journey. Yes, my familiarity with James’ voice became stronger and the responsibility too became formidable. By the way, James is meticulous as a creative partner. He checks every nuance, every word, every sentence. That dedication is truly inspiring. And he always gives me full creative freedom.

The novel frequently alludes to acts of erasure — whether of individuals, places, or histories. How do you see the act of translation fitting into this framework of erasure and recovery? Does the process risk losing something even as it seeks to preserve?

Words/letters are referred to as ‘akshara’, as James beautifully writes in the preface. Something indestructible. Whether we write or translate a book about the ephemeral nature of everything- thought, word and deed — the powerful gift of words comes into play. The enchantment created is beyond ‘kshara’ or annihilation. Translating to English creates the wondrous possibility of many more readers accessing the book, cutting across geographic boundaries. Either directly or through further translations. Translation is a silent service to literature in my view. So even at the risk of never attaining Ithaca, the effort itself becomes the destination.

Also read: ‘First Flood’: Nandini Krishnan on translating Kalki’s Tamil magnum opus Ponniyin Selvan

In literature, exile is often depicted as physical displacement, but here it feels more existential. How did you navigate this abstract sense of exile while ensuring it remained grounded for readers?

We grew up reading world classics in translation. Exile, existential crisis, or their interplay, are concepts or even experiences that many readers can relate to, in a visceral sense. Recently, I was in a discussion with Hon. Firat Sunel, Turkish Ambassador to India, on the topic of exiles and translations. His book, The Lighthouse Family, originally written in Turkish language (translated by Feyza Howell), is a powerful work on exile; capturing the physical and metaphorical shades so poignantly. An acquaintance with literature in different languages — where the theme has been skilfully handled by brilliant translators — came to my aid while working on The Book of Exodus.

Translation often amplifies a text’s subtext in unexpected ways. Were there elements of The Book of Exodus — themes, motifs, or images — that revealed themselves to you more fully in English than in the original Malayalam?

When you translate, you also have to do significant research about various topics. James writes about the mysterious ‘Chiramallan’, the fascinating art of fishing in a brilliant jugaad called a ‘Pachu vanchi’, and other myths associated with the backwaters. I had to first understand these strange stories. The feudal history of Potta Thuruthu, with the age-old, harrowing stories of exploitation, was something I could connect with easily. While translating these aspects — myth or history — the images would come alive vibrantly to me.

The novel’s relationship with time is deeply layered, moving fluidly between past, present, and mythic time. How did you maintain this temporal fluidity in English? Did any specific moment or scene pose unique challenges in preserving its timeless quality?

The chapter, The Sacrament of Penance, and how it made me toil, captures your question beautifully. The Vedic quotation, ‘Poornamadah, Poornamidam’ appears next to a floating bit of paper inscribed with ‘0’. Some readers might wonder whether the nameless river — which witnesses so many endings — refers to ‘Punarjani’, ‘Vaitarani’ or ‘Styx’? Or is it ‘Lethe’, the river of forgetfulness? The river, a metaphor for the never ceasing flow of time, can be crossed by the reader anyway he or she likes. James’ clarity on what he wished to say in the chapter was very helpful.