‘I am incapable of writing fantasy’: Shanta Gokhale on literature, translation and eight decades at Shivaji Park

Excerpts from the interview.

Eight decades in Shivaji Park. Tell us about the change that you have witnessed as a resident?
The change is constant. My family moved from a wadi to a fully developed locality here. It had strict regulations regarding building heights, and the surrounding space. It was the Shivaji Park that stayed with us for 40 years — from the late 1940s to the 1990s. Then, development began. Some buildings were allowed to construct external lifts, or build two extra floors. A decade had elapsed. People began to question the CRZ (Coastal Regulation Zone) rules. Those rules had kept heights down because of the proximity to the shore but they got bent, eventually. Dadar Sea Face became Mahim Bay, leading to another set of rules. Developers had a field day. Many original buildings have been razed, and in its place 20-22-floor towers have emerged.

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The loss is not just for us, old residents. We will soon pass on, and fewer will be left with those memories. New residents will never experience the sense of openness that we did. Every building in this neighbourhood had one regulation — a view of the park. Progressive builders and architects ensured we lived in an airy, healthy, green and beautiful neighbourhood.

How did Shivaji Park become a cultural nucleus for theatre wallahs, literary voices, and musicians?
Many Shivaji Park residents were originally from Girgaum, which was the hub for educated Marathi people, as well as mill workers. There were two classes: mill workers with strong cultural roots in villages, and clerks who had their culture. They were huge followers of classical music and theatre. Theatre has always been a part of Marathi culture. So, when they came here, they brought that culture. They couldn’t live anywhere unless it had a library, and venues for concerts and plays.
Shivaji Park residents didn’t sit back and wait for things to happen. They raised funds, and set up venues. I recall three residences that hosted some of the finest music concerts. I’ve attended a few shows as a child because my parents were extremely fond of classical music, and were regulars at these concerts. I have fond memories of those performances. It was an invigorating time to interact with likeminded people in this neighbourhood.

The Engaged Observer 

This neighbourhood and parts of Mumbai have inspired your writing…
Writers like me prefer to have a lot of concrete detail in our writing. I should have personally experienced this concrete detail, which occurs only in your little part of the city. Many of my stories are located in places that I knew, like Girgaum, Lamington Road, and South Mumbai, including the iconic Jehangir Art Gallery and Rhythm House, and old bookshops. They were our beats when I was a lecturer at Elphinstone. And then, this other culture was around me [Shivaji Park]. I was lucky to have been exposed to different Mumbais.

Crow Fall

Hat Ghalnari Bai has an unconventional storyline. How did you approach the translation?
I read it as a classic. It was on my wishlist of translations I wanted to work on. Being a slim novella, I wasn’t sure if putting it out by itself made sense. On a visit, Ravi Singh (Speaking Tiger) mentioned publishing a set of five translated novellas from various languages, and asked me to suggest a Marathi title. I obviously suggested this book!

The book had challenged me even as a reader. None of the characters are stereotypical; her [Kamal Desai] style is unconventional, and can create actual hurdles to understanding it, so translating it meant interpreting what she meant.

I’ve always said, “Kamal tai, you want to deliberately prevent us from understanding what’s on your mind!” Despite reading it several times, and also poring over discussions and analyses, I couldn’t decode the novel. The final way of cracking it was to translate it because when you translate, you are literally getting under the skin of the author and their work.

Nirmala Patil Yanche Atmakathan

…And, were there any un-learnings from the translation?
Your word [un-learning] is important, because I have a very logical mind. Cause and effect are critical to me. That’s why I cannot let myself go in my writing (laughs). I am incapable of writing fantasy. So, I had to unlearn that aspect to be faithful to the book. It was a huge challenge. It took me about three months to write the first draft; it was a struggle every day, every line, every word. To this day, there is one line where I am unsure about what she meant! And there is no way to find out since she has passed…

Smritichitre, The Memoirs of a Spirited Wife, for which she received the Sahitya Akademi For English Translation (2021)

Do all translators face this dilemma?
Writers want to be clear, unlike her.

How do translators retain the original story’s sanctity?
The question is of inviting these characters to acquire as close a life as to the ones that she [Kamal Desai] created. So, it means understanding them, loving them, and bringing them to life in another language.

It is almost the same kind of process followed by the author and translator. Characters don’t pop up in their mind fully; maybe, a gesture or a line of conversation emerges, and then, the character takes shape. For the translation, the character has to be created such that you can feed it the kind of English it would speak. There is a lot of creative joy to craft this without interfering in the way the original character was envisaged, which is sacrosanct.

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How do you shift from being a writer and translator?
Sometimes, they run parallel. Because, even as I translate, I get ideas for something else that I could do, which might not have a direct link. Right now, I am inspired by a set of stories by Hindi writer, VK Shukla, who passed away recently. A stream of thought has taken shape, built around moments, and has stayed with me.
Meanwhile, I’ve finished translating 250 pages of the work of Marathi progressive writers of the early 20th century, which is heavy-duty Victorian-like prose, and here I was, diving into these snapshot-like stories (chuckles).

It offers creative relief because you are constantly tied to a way of writing, which isn’t yours but you are immersed in it. You do feel bound [by translations], and this offers escape.

Hat Ghalnari Bai was a feminist novel. What is your take on writing such novels?

There is women’s writing and feminist writing. Women are writing a lot, and automatically, if they are basing it on personal experience, something ephemeral can wean into it. Every woman writer is not necessarily feminist. Some writers who are feminist aren’t able to get away from theory and ideology into seeing it translated into real life, to make those lives real. So, you constantly feel that this is being written with a theory in mind.

[With this book] you have to be the kind of writer whose feminist belief is so completely part of herself that she is hardly conscious of it, and yet it is that consciousness that comes into her writing. But she is thinking of stories. It’s organic. She [Kamal Desai] is a creative writer – she thinks of stories and characters but when she writes about them, her beliefs enter by default.

The manner in which the unnamed protagonist challenges those five men is remarkable just by being the kind of person who doesn’t seem to care that she has no family, no memory.

Writing for books and for theatre…how do you approach both?

The reader and audience don’t exist. I like to challenge myself. I want to try, irrespective of if it works. The idea tells me what I should do with it. I see it as a play or as a novel.

From college lecturer, to Arts Editor and a PR professional — you dabbled in many professions. What did each teach you?
All the other jobs were part of my upbringing. It grew within the space that I knew well. But Glaxo was alien to me. Many writers don’t experience how the cogs in the business wheel work. It was necessary to understand this process — the priorities in corporate life, and what is important to me – the moral part of life. The ethics of living are so far away from profit-making. And then, to realise that if we have chosen this system [capitalism], it has to be part of our life. I will not be judgemental about it because the bottom-line is that I chose to do it to earn money. If Glaxo offered it, I was happy because my children were growing up, and it was a requirement. Back then, some journalist friends pooh-poohed the idea.

What about Shivaji Park makes you smile every day?
On my walks, I notice a ‘gang’ of Gujarati women who chat all at once; they enjoy themselves by talking about money while passing around farsan. Some of their husbands also walk around the park. In my private life, there is no place for fafda or for money, so I am amused each time I pass by this group.

I am also constantly amused by our idea of beauty. Each time they decide to beautify a section [of the park], I wonder what’s in store. There is an obsession with statues at the gate posts; these are of a cricketer, a footballer, and so on. I see these people in action, so why the statues? 

Then, in the name of ‘art’, there are paintings of grass, flowers, toadstools and frogs. Where do they [toadstools] figure in our lives? Only those who read Enid Blyton’s books would know, and I’m sure not many of them live in Shivaji Park! It makes me laugh all the time.

Rapid fire

An author you’d love to interview: Amitav Ghosh. I have lots of questions to ask him after having read his work.

A recent read that excited you: Please Look After My Mother by Korean writer Kyung-sook Shin that was well translated into English by Chi-young Kim. It’s a beautifully written, moving book.

Advice for upcoming writers: I don’t give advice. People have to learn by themselves the way we did.

AI in writing

AI is the enemy of good human work. I believe in the human struggle, which has brought us this far. If we are going to have it ready-made; if we are going to trust [it] completely that we don’t bother to find things out for ourselves, it’s a different kind of human life. Those who participate in it will have to deal with it, resist it, and do what they think is best. I am worried for young people, like my grandsons who are growing up firmly about certain values [of avoiding its use], but they will constantly be challenged by the outside world.

The Glaxo years

While working as a PR professional at Glaxo [1979-88], I directed plays for employees during lunch breaks. I would choose one-act plays, and cut it to 30-minute durations. We had staggered lunch breaks, where each break was for 45 minutes. Rehearsals were done at that time. The actual staging was half-an-hour. Ms Jane Swamy, HOD of my department, warned me that it wasn’t part of my job so I couldn’t ask for extra time, or budgets! It was a huge responsibility but an enriching experience. Employers would have 10-minute lunches, rush to the auditorium, watch plays, and rush back to work. I’m still in touch with a few actors from that time. 

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