The Global Boom in Literary Translation

Recent international attention to Indian writing demonstrates the possibilities. Works by authors such as Perumal Murugan, Geetanjali Shree, Vivek Shanbhag, Banu Mushtaq, S. Hareesh and numerous other writers have travelled well beyond their original linguistic and geographical homes. The potential readership is also far larger than the familiar category of the Indian diaspora. 

Translation can reconnect second- and third-generation Indians with literary and cultural worlds they may know primarily through family memory. A reader in London, Toronto, Melbourne or New Jersey may have an ancestral connection to Bengali, Malayalam, Punjabi or Assamese but no longer possess the linguistic ability to read contemporary literature in that language. Translation becomes a bridge not simply to language, but to memory, history and imagination.

But, as novelist, translator and columnist Mitra Phukan points out, this need exists within India itself. “Not just the diaspora reader,” she observes. “Even readers living in the same state, same town can only access literature of their state through translations.” Her example of Bodo poetry is telling: living in Assam does not necessarily mean being able to read Bodo literature in the original. Translation, therefore, is not merely an export mechanism. It is one of the fundamental ways in which India can discover itself.

Dharini Bhaskar, Publisher, Fourth Estate and Perennial, HarperCollins India, takes the argument beyond the question of linguistic access. For her, translation is ultimately about the human impulse to enter worlds beyond our own. “Translation literature speaks not just to the diasporic reader,” she says, “but to everyone.” By opening up other ways of being and witnessing, translation can make readers “less insular, more empathetic, more open to other ways of being”.

The question, then, is what makes a story travel. There is no simple formula. A book cannot become internationally resonant merely because it contains recognisable markers of Indian life. Indeed, the danger is that publishers may privilege works that conform to an easily marketable image of India — poverty, exoticism, spirituality, caste or political conflict — rather than literature that possesses genuine artistic individuality.

For Phukan, the answer lies in the relationship between the local and the universal. A successful work must possess “cultural, local specificity, but also deal with universal concerns”. The translator has to negotiate a delicate balance: “Not exoticise the work, but also work in cultural aspects.”

Dharini approaches the same question from the emotional rather than the geographical end. “A story travels if it carries a beating heart,” she says; if it makes the reader feel and involves them in “the concerns and fears, hopes and joys of someone else”. A book travels, in other words, when the experience of reading becomes transformative, when the reader comes away seeing the world “with more nuance; with greater compassion”.

This places enormous responsibility on the translator. A good literary translator is neither an invisible conduit nor simply a linguistic technician. The translator interprets tone, rhythm, humour, cultural references and silences. They must decide what needs explanation and what should remain unfamiliar. The finest translations allow readers to enter a world without flattening its differences.

But translation remains an undervalued form of literary labour. Translators frequently spend as much, or more, time on a book as its author spent writing it. Phukan notes that translations take her longer than original writing. Although revenue-sharing arrangements have become more common, compensation remains a concern because the labour involved is substantial and often invisible to readers.

Visibility, however, is beginning to change. Translator names are increasingly appearing on book covers, a development that represents an important shift in publishing culture. Dharini points to the approach at HarperCollins, where, she says, author and translator are given front-cover visibility and fair compensation. “A translated book belongs to both the author and translator; they are co-creators,” she argues.

Recognition cannot stop at the cover. Phukan points out that reviews often devote too little attention to the translation itself. If translation is an act of literary creation, the translator’s choices should form part of the critical conversation around the book.

There are lessons here from countries that have developed stronger translation ecosystems. Japan and Russia, for example, have long been widely read internationally through translation, while Nordic noir has garnered immense popularity over the past decade and more. European countries have built sophisticated networks of literary agencies, translation grants, cultural institutions, prizes and publishers that support the movement of books across languages. Such ecosystems recognise that international readership does not happen automatically. It requires sustained investment.

India, however, may not need to look too far outward. Dharini argues that the country already possesses “an excellent translation ecosystem that is finally gaining recognition”, a consequence of its extraordinary linguistic diversity and the quality of its translators. The success of Indian books at the International Booker, she suggests, is evidence that India itself can be studied as a successful translation ecosystem.

There is nevertheless considerable room for greater coordination. Government and cultural institutions, publishers, literary festivals, universities, agents and translators could work more systematically to identify important works, fund translations, organise workshops and create international networks. Translation prizes and fellowships can help, but so can something more basic: rigorous editorial standards. Phukan points out that Indian-language literary communities themselves sometimes accept poor translations too readily. Translation workshops and greater critical engagement could help raise standards.

The global boom in literary translation ultimately offers India more than a new export opportunity. It offers a chance to rethink the country’s literary map. Translation can allow an Assamese reader to encounter Bodo poetry, a Bengali reader to discover Malayalam fiction, and a reader in Berlin or Boston to enter the imaginative universe of a language they have never learned.

The goal should not be to make Indian literature less local so that it becomes more global. Quite the opposite. The most powerful translations may be those that preserve the texture of a particular language, landscape and culture while revealing emotions and questions that cross borders. Literature travels best not when it abandons its home, but when translation gives that home a wider world.