Scent of the Nameless: A Voice for the Ordinary Man

If you are reading this, Geet, I want to tell you—you are gifted.

Scent of the Nameless is the story of an ordinary middle-class man caught in a spiral of debt. Set against the backdrop of the global financial crisis, stock market crashes and growing consumerism, the novel explores how financial manipulation and economic policies reach ordinary households, leaving common people to bear the consequences of a system they barely understand. It is a modern-day testament to the financial and social crises inflicted upon ordinary people by the market and its machinery.

Cow's urine is considered sacred in Hinduism. Traditionally, owning a cow signifies prosperity, social status and religious virtue. Premchand's Godan is worth mentioning here, as the cow occupies an important place in its social and cultural landscape. In Chaturvedi's novel, however, the sweat emanating from the narrator's body, which smells like cow's urine (called Gomutra in Hindi, and the title of the original Hindi version), represents something altogether different. The unbearable and inescapable stench becomes an identity of its own—the smell of the tired, downtrodden and fatigued, of people pushed to the margins, helpless and nameless, much like the narrator himself.

The narrator is an ordinary middle-class man who takes a credit card from a bank and gradually falls into the habit of spending. Initially, the idea of using the bank's money to invest in the stock market fascinates him. He begins reading the pink papers, following the market and its promises. But the market does not reward him. He loses heavily, his savings disappear, and the credit card debt keeps mounting. Unable to repay the installments, he begins looking for ways to escape his creditors. Eventually, the bank's recovery agents manage to track him down, making an already complicated situation unbearable.

The novel begins with dark humour, but that is only the beginning. After reading a newspaper, the narrator believes that planting a neem tree at home might help him get rid of his debts. Of course, it does not work. His ordinary life becomes a succession of mundane, troublesome and often absurd experiences. He works as a store coordinator for a construction company, has no savings left, struggles with mounting expenses and finds himself increasingly cornered by the bank's recovery agents. The sweetness of everyday life is invaded by the sour reek of cow's urine.

Baba, the narrator's boss, is another elusive character. The narrator initially looks towards him for support and perhaps even a way out of his predicament. But Baba gradually comes to represent a peculiar form of authority—one that can offer shelter, exercise control and eventually disown you at will.

One of the most striking passages in the novel reads:

"It was a time when the whole office was turning pink. My neighbourhood, my city, my country, everything was turning pink..."

The pink papers refer to the financial newspapers that cover the stock market, investments and market economics. The narrator witnesses the stock market boom, only to see it crash later, taking countless investors along with it. He is one of its victims. But the commercialization of everything around him is equally suffocating. The constant noise of celebrities, glamorous lifestyles, mindless laughter, sensational news and the mania of being known to everybody becomes unbearable. The narrator feels increasingly alienated from a world that seems obsessed with consumption, visibility and superficial happiness. Chaturvedi's observations feel remarkably prescient. He seems to recognize the impending dangers of a society in which visibility and public attention gradually become commodities in themselves, something that later finds its fullest expression in social media.

The narrator's life slowly begins to fall apart. Reality turns into something resembling a dreamy nightmare, a world he can barely withstand with a sane mind.

The chapter The King Was Caught reminds me of the opening of Kafka's The Trial. The bank's recovery agents find a way to trick the narrator into revealing his address. He is months behind on his credit card payments, and the bank executives who once persuaded him through pleas and promise to accept a credit card now have become part of the machinery pursuing him. The irony is unmistakable. The customer is king, but the market is the kingmaker. And our narrator, once treated as a king, is now on the run before finally being caught.

His loneliness is perhaps the most devastating aspect of the novel. The narrator begins having troubled dreams, and the voice through which he shares his isolation is so compelling that we almost feel ourselves becoming him. Sometimes eerie and surreal, the narration nevertheless has pain firmly rooted at its core. This is a man wronged by a failing economy and pushed to the brink of his existence. There is sadness, terror, defeat and restlessness in his world. He even begins to doubt Baba, the very person he trusts to help untangle his complicated situation.

"Completely, hopelessly, devastatingly alone. I, an ordinary and insignificant man of my time, was profoundly solitary."

The chapter Time Is an Earthworm takes the novel into another territory altogether. The narrator frequently addresses the reader directly, creating poetic pockets and sudden explosions of thought. Reality and dreams begin to overlap, and the narration moves into a hallucinatory territory where the narrator becomes a critic, a satirist and, at times, an unreliable voice. The transformation of a watch into an earthworm is one such extraordinary moment.

"We're living in worm-like times. Our only job is to eat and excrete. And what we eat, what we excrete, makes someone else's land fertile. They make a killing of it. We're all earthworms, knowingly or unknowingly, enriching someone else's soil."

It is a sharp criticism of consumerism and the economic system that thrives on the labour and consumption of ordinary people. We work, consume and produce, yet the real beneficiaries are elsewhere. At one point, even when there is no human being around, a mobile network and a car service station remain. The absurdity of the situation is striking. The narrator begins to feel that his life itself has become a translation of the absurd. There are moments when the text feels like a passage from a Dostoevskian novel. The horror of the financial crisis, as experienced from the narrator's vantage point, is painful, suffocating and equally absurd. Yet it is also an uncomfortable reality.

Consider this encounter:

"Suddenly, the bank guy was in front of me. I panicked. He grabbed my hand and said, 'The joys you missed in childhood, the youth you lost to duty—we'll give them back in old age. Just sign up for our pension plan.'"

The humour is evident, but so is the cruelty. Even in his most vulnerable moments, the narrator cannot escape the market's attempts to sell him another product. The market does not recognize his suffering; it sees another potential customer.

Baba, meanwhile, becomes increasingly eccentric. The narrator suspects that his boss is playing with his mind, perhaps even treating him as a guinea pig for his strange ideas. He looks towards Baba for reassurance, but even he cannot offer a solution. High inflation, mounting household expenses, unpaid installments and the absence of any further source of credit leave the narrator utterly helpless. The people surrounding him—his relatives and office colleagues—are either unable or unwilling to help him out of his financial trouble. His condition makes us sad. He feels low, desperate and incapable of thinking clearly.

The novel also plays with the philosophical idea of Advaita, the principle of non-duality. The narrator tries to make sense of his circumstances through the idea that seemingly opposing things are, in fact, one and the same.

"Truth and Illusion are one and the same... The prey is the predator. The predator, the prey."

He searches for explanations, trying to understand what leads him into this situation and whether there is any larger meaning behind his suffering. But his frustration keeps growing. The unbearable smell of his sweat, the humiliation and the mounting psychological pressure eventually push him towards an outburst. Some of these episodes are funny, but they are also tragic when we try to put ourselves in his shoes. His mental condition deteriorates, and he gradually loses control over his thoughts and actions.

The symbolic massacre in the novel speaks volumes about the suppressed individuals who are ground down by the system. They keep moving along with it, working day after day, yet remain economically deprived. They cannot openly defy the machinery that makes their lives miserable because they know they will be defeated. The desire to rebel exists in every suffering individual, but the ability to do so does not. The narrator embodies this helpless contradiction.

His hallucinations become increasingly disturbing. The finance minister's warning about his imminent murder, for instance, reads as a symbolic representation of a national economy betraying the very ordinary people it is supposed to serve.

In the chapter Error and Omissions Excepted, Chaturvedi turns his attention to the absurdity of consumerism and the devaluation of things. The narrator reflects on how an object loses much of its value almost immediately after we purchase it. Why does a second-hand product sell for so much less than a brand-new one? What exactly constitutes wealth when everything we own is destined to lose its value?

The narrator's inability to think clearly becomes particularly apparent:

"... I had not thought like that. In fact, I had not thought about anything. In fact, I did not know how to think. In fact, I could not remember the last time I had thought at all."

He goes on to reflect:

"My wealth is an illusion. Maya. Nothing more than objects meant to be consumed and discarded. Wealth lives only on the other side of the fence."

And perhaps one of the sharpest observations about the market comes in the following passage:

"The one who can sell run the economy—they shape it, they drive it forward. The ones who can't sell become its prey."

By the middle of the novel, we begin to feel that the narrator is drifting into delusion. His circumstances become increasingly unbearable. The recovery agents reach his office, threaten him with further action and make his already unsettled life even more miserable. He finds no refuge among the people around him. First, he is attacked by a pack of dogs; then he becomes the target of a group of people playing a cruel prank on him. Each incident leaves him more devastated, humiliated and defeated.

There is an existential quality to the narration that shifts between the Dostoevskian and the Kafkaesque. The narrator's encounters with the world seem to reveal their meaning only in sudden, painful flashes of understanding.

"My life was full of such incidents—encounters that revealed their meaning only in sudden flashes of clarity when understanding ran deep."

Dream sequences introduce figures such as Sant Gyaneshwar, whose lead the narrator follows. The novel also brings in the Eight Immortals, who are destined to live until the end of everything. These figures deepen the novel's preoccupation with existence, invisibility, mortality and the human condition.

The narrator continues to play with Advaita, sometimes treating it as a profound existential idea and sometimes turning it into biting satire. Consider his declaration:

"Aham Brandasmi! I am a brand! But chasing power or being broke—hunger or lack—they're the same thing. Advaita."

His thoughts become increasingly wild, so much so that even Baba no longer wants to listen to him. At one point, he makes a particularly provocative observation:

"When they were crafting the idea of Shiva, the market was the hidden agenda baked into it. And to make people endure it, internalize it, they spun religion around it like cloth around a flame."

These are not merely eccentric thoughts. They reveal a mind desperately trying to make sense of the forces that govern its existence. Even when Baba, his only refuge, becomes dismissive, the narrator continues to search for someone who might understand him. The passages often feel like arrows shot directly at our consciousness.

What makes Scent of the Nameless so compelling is the way it combines metafiction, satire, philosophical reflections and psychological disintegration without allowing us to forget the human being at its centre. The writing may sometimes feel surreal, fragmented and disorienting, but we always remain inside the tunnel of the narrator's problems, sharing his suffocation. It is difficult to read this novel without feeling his pain.

He is, after all, an ordinary family man looking for peace and happiness for his family. Yet the very things he works towards keep slipping out of his hands. The economy fails him, the market exploits him, his surroundings offer little comfort, and even the people he trusts gradually become distant. He is neither particularly powerful nor important. He is simply an ordinary man trying to survive in a world that seems determined to make him disappear.

And perhaps that is what makes the title so meaningful. He is nameless not because he does not exist, but because the system does not recognise his existence. His suffering is real, his exhaustion is real, and his desperation is real. Yet he remains invisible.

Geet Chaturvedi gives this nameless man a voice.

And, finally kudos to Translator Anita Gopalan for this superb translation and a brilliant Afterword.

Original Text: Hindi
Translator: Anita Gopalan
Front Cover Art: Amogh Bhatnagar
Pages: 224
ISBN-13:  9789377307776

Publisher: Penguin Random House India

The Seekers - A Quest to the Questions

The Seekers is a one-of-a-kind story collection by Gautamiputra Kamble. Originally published in Marathi in 2004, the collection is translated into English with remarkable brilliance, care and delicacy by Sirus J. Libeiro and published by Blaft Publications. 

The five stories of the collection are: The Story of a Story, Parivrajak, Shilpasan, Tales of Viroopnagar, and The Search for the Sixth Sense. Kamble himself identifies the central concerns of these stories in his Author’s Note: the clash between Buddhist and non-Buddhist philosophies, conflicts between cultures, the making of myths, the process of artistic creation, and the struggle between ideologies of violence and non-violence 'ahimsa'. The insightful Translator’s Note and Author’s Note are particularly helpful in understanding Kamble’s experimental and refreshingly unconventional approach to storytelling. 

What makes these stories remarkable is how carefully Kamble avoids over-characterizing, over-imposing or over-explaining. His conflicts do not arrive fully formed; they develop gradually, often through the choices, beliefs and discoveries of his characters. He does not rush to prove an idea. Instead, he lets it emerge naturally through people who are always searching for something – a discovery, a truth, an answer, or struggling with conflicts of their own making.

At times, the reader may feel lost in the opening pages of some stories. The narratives take unconventional turns, connections appear strange, and the world Kamble creates does not always reveal itself immediately. But perhaps patience is one of the things these stories ask us to learn: to stay, to observe, and to witness the unfolding rather than demand immediate understanding.

The Story of a Story

Our narrator is a writer in search of characters. Unable to find anyone sufficiently unusual among the people closest to his town, he sets out on an adventure, determined to discover characters worthy of his story. At the foot of a hill, near a new town he reaches for the perfect character, he encounters a mysterious man of unknown identity who has been living in a cave for decades. Eventually, we learn who this man is and how he comes to live there. The writer is desperate to end his search, and his desperation find ways to more complications.

'Just come with me, and don't make me suffer your refusals. Otherwise, I'll have to shackle you up with my words and carry you away. You don't realize the strength of my words.' With this strange threat, the cave-dweller finally surrenders to the writer and follows him home. The writer also brings a woman into his house under equally mysterious, almost eerie circumstances. Now he wants both of them to tell their stories.

The premise immediately reminds me of Luigi Pirandello's Six Characters in Search of an Author. Here, however, the direction is reversed: the author goes out searching for his characters. But does he really get what he wants from them? Can we create and comprehend a story for someone who merely holds their words? How much of the stories we tell is rooted in truth? Are words powerful enough to represent another person's existence – to free them, or to capture them?

The story can therefore be read as a metaphor for the making of a story itself, and perhaps as a metafictional doorway into the collection.

“If only I could write a line for them, with words that have never been used before…” This line, I think, hints at what follows. The remaining stories are unusual, unconventional and unlike anything I have encountered, as though Kamble deliberately searches for new ways of telling them.

This is also perhaps the most scenic story in the collection, with descriptions that occasionally carry an enticing sense of terror. The writer's restlessness and the growing tension are palpable. It is the shortest story in the collection, but returning to it after finishing the other stories reveals traces and connections that seem to lead into the larger literary universe of Gautamiputra Kamble, until, slowly, some of its puzzles begin to fall into place.

Parvrajak

Parivrajak, or The Seeker, is the title story of the collection and perhaps the story that most clearly brings together Kamble’s recurring concerns with tradition, belief, identity and the search for meaning.

Naiser and Anisha, each leaving everything behind for a different reason, find each other in the middle of a barren land, or malraan, beneath the shade of a lonely tree. Naiser is on a quest to reach Dandgiri; the reason for his journey and what he discovers there slowly unravel. Anisha, meanwhile, ventures out in search of a “two-legged person,” the meaning of which is also revealed only towards the end. But are they really searching for different things, or their personal interpretation are in fact different ? And when they find what they seek, does the discovery satisfy their understanding? (Perhaps, it is better you discover them on your own.)

Dandgiri is a mysterious place where “few people who had dared to go there have never returned.” It is merely the "name of a hill" that has "become synonymous with death." Surrounded by rivers on both sides, it remains inaccessible not simply because of the landscape but because tradition forbids people from crossing the streams. One character captures the danger of such inherited beliefs: “You people imagine yourselves to be lovers of tradition, but in truth, you are afflicted by it.” These traditional barriers, rooted in different beliefs and fears, recur throughout the collection.

Naiser and Anisha become companions on their arduous journey, each seeking revelation and relief. They travel through barren landscapes, desolate and ancient villages, forests and streams. In one village, a single event can turn people into mortal enemies; in another, they encounter people who accept that they are “not developed enough yet to kill.”

What they discover in the hills eventually leads Naiser to narrate the story of a prince who becomes a parivrajak. Though the story never names him, we recognise the figure as Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha.

I think Parivrajak lies at the heart of Kamble’s work. It reflects his underlying philosophical concerns, shaped by Buddhist thought and the Phule-Ambedkarite intellectual tradition. Yet Kamble never imposes philosophy directly; he has openly expressed this in his author's note. Instead, he breaks taboos, challenges inherited norms and places the quest at the centre: the quest to understand the self, its presence and the meaning of existence. Perhaps what the central characters need to understand is the unspoken Dhamma, expressed beautifully in the story: “There is a world of difference between looking at something and seeing it.” This is how Naiser puts it.

What makes his blending of these ideas so sublime is its delicacy. Different individuals come with different purposes, struggle towards their own discoveries, and encounter meanings and philosophies along the way. Searching and seeking are what make Kamble’s stories adventurous - an adventure that ultimately moves inward, towards the greater self.

Shilpasan

Imagine, in an endless desert, finding two stone figures carved as if from a single rock: a man bent forward, pressing his thumbs against the toes of a standing woman. Who are they? How are they related? What does this strange gesture mean? How did they end up in an uninhabited desert? These and many other questions arise immediately. The Shilpasan, the third story of the collection, is a blend of fantasy, magical realism, legend, and a quest.

Idfra and Monark, two travellers, venture into the desert to see the stone figures, or shilpasan. Idfra has visited the place before, but its enchantment brings him back, this time with a friend. The 'stone figure was so sublime that it made the whole arid wasteland feel like a lush greenscape. Seeing it had transformed Idfra,' – such was the magnificence of the shilpasan. Their almost silent passage, marked by sparse conversations, quiet remembrance, stories and realizations, gives the narrative an aura of mystery.

Idfra begins telling Monark the legend of how the figures come to exist. The woman of the shilpasan, Sanruta, comes from Kigypt, a strange, almost magical land where 'the sky is always gray, and the air perpetually muggy,' and where the sun rarely shines. Almost every family there makes stone sculptures, including Sanruta’s. Soon, the story takes us into a world where staring at the Sun can transform a person into stone, and, astonishingly, that person can be brought back to life.

Araj and Tejsan are two eccentric and enigmatic figures whose presence raises questions that unsettle Sanruta and turn her into a 'seeker' like in other stories of the collection. Who they are, and how their lives connect with hers, is something the story allows us to discover.

Like the other stories in the collection, The Shilpasan revolves around an individual possessed by an urgent, relentless quest. Art becomes a means of seeking answers, while mysterious people and unexplained events leave behind more questions. Reverence, doubt, fear, shame, magical transformations, adventure, desire, beauty and spiritual self-realization come together in a story unlike anything I have encountered before.

Kamble’s writing is intricate without being excessively detailed. Its strange turns take us into an unfamiliar landscape of existence. Personally, I cannot recall another author who has given me quite this feeling of travelling through such an artistic and mysterious world, except perhaps Herman Hesse.

There is always a quest in Kamble’s stories, and a trail of questions that moves the characters forward. At times, I find myself wishing these stories are real, simply because I want there to be a way to meet these people and visit these places.

Kamble has a rare talent for taking the reader into another zone, where one can sometimes feel lost even when everything seems to be right in front of us, only to be uplifted by the end. The Shilpasan captures the solitude of identity, and the questions that follow us like shadows, especially when we are searching for answers to the mysteries of life.

Tales of Viroopnagar

Tales of Viroopnagar has one of the finest openings in the collection. Kamble begins by creating an ancient, mysterious and almost mystical town settled along the banks of the Aakashnadi. With a river on one side, mountains on another, an ocean of desert in one direction and forest in another, Viroopnagar is a small settlement of roughly two hundred houses, 'obsessed with its old traditions and the remnants of its ancient past.' Its stone ghats, inscribed pillars, sculptures and surrounding caverns give the town a fading historical identity. At times, its landscape even feels supernatural. In my view, Viroopnagar could also represent India itself, although I doubt Kamble intends such a direct allegory.

The open square at the centre of the town becomes the stage for its rituals and, eventually, its divisions. Power rests with the mukhiya, the rtvij, protector of tradition and ritual, and the sarvar-mhatara, the oldest and wisest man in the town. Before the conflict begins, Kamble takes time to establish the town and its idiosyncrasies through multiple tales of its origins, almost like Jataka tales.

We hear of the settlement's beginnings, the reason some houses face south; the five youths lost in the desert; Mukhiya Salvan and his fascination with a flower field, his daughter Kalma, a mysterious rider; events of floods and storms. These stories preserve Viroopnagar's history and perseverance but also leave behind unanswered questions. And unanswered questions, passed through generations, eventually become beliefs, while beliefs become traditions and fears.

The real conflict begins when an arhat stops the ritual sacrifice of a kalvad (sacrificial calf). His questioning of a violent tradition divides the town. Politics, fear and the desire to establish one's own truth gradually turn difference into hatred. The arhat tries to bridge the growing chasm through non-violence, but reason can hold the town together only temporarily.

As tensions rise, disaster finally strikes. The dramatic ending brings destruction, followed by remorse, and only then do people come to their senses.

That, perhaps, is the tragedy Kamble captures so well: nobody has time to reflect; everyone wants to be right. We shelter ourselves in the comfort of inherited beliefs and ignorance, and when those beliefs are threatened, they become weapons.

The presence of the arhat, non-violence and mention of 'uposathi' may make the story appear Buddhist, but its concerns are much larger. Tales of Viroopnagar is ultimately a story of humanity: of tradition, fear, ignorance and our tendency to create hatred out of difference. Its beautiful open-ended conclusion leaves Viroopnagar lingering in the mind, because its stories feel less like tales of a distant town and more like stories of ourselves.

The Search for the Sixth Sense

Let me ask you a question.

Have you ever felt the need to follow something to its very end? A quest that might fill some incompleteness within you, satisfy a desperation, clear the fog around your strange understanding of the world, or perhaps make you question that understanding altogether? And if the search demands loneliness and desolation, would you still be willing to bear it?

Is anything worth dedicating your whole life to? And if not, is there something you can believe in and still remain free? The Search for the Sixth Sense sparked these questions in me.

The Search for the Sixth Sense is an unusual adventure of two individuals, Salvina and Nikay, who meet on a train under equally unusual circumstances. Both are searching for something: an escape, a solution, relief, perhaps even a revelation after having endured enough.

Salvina has a peculiar condition. Whenever she sees someone crying, she feels an uncontrollable urge to laugh. She cannot control this opposite emotional response, and it eventually brings an end to her school life. Now living in isolation, she tries to escape her past through travel.

Nikay, on the other hand, is talented and restless. He too leaves his village school under unusual circumstances. What follows is a remarkable journey through different forms of art and experience, first driven by curiosity and fulfilment, but later driven by one question: does the sixth sense really exist? And if it does, how can one find it, and, more importantly, experience it?

His search sometimes feels like a vortex and at other times like an endless quest.

Eventually, Nikay and Salvina set out to meet an arhat (a perfected being who, in Buddhist thought, has escaped the cycle of rebirth). They hope that this person might have answers to their questions and perhaps free them from the burdens they have accumulated over the years.

But do they meet the arhat? Do they find what they are looking for? I shall not spoil that part of the journey.

Both Nikay and Salvina have, in their own ways, departed from their old lives and begun something new. Nikay's attempt to detach himself from the everyday crises of life raises an intriguing question: can we simply relinquish our claims over our troubles? Can we disown or renounce our burdens?

What makes Kamble's narration particularly interesting is that he does not depend on dramatic events or constant plot twists to keep the reader engaged. The story unfolds much like life itself. Extraordinary events are sparse, but seemingly ordinary incidents, encounters and realizations gradually change the direction of the characters' lives.

The story also touches upon caste-based discrimination, casteism even within the world of art and communal violence. These elements do not dominate the narrative, but their occasional appearance has consequences. A single incident, an encounter, a realization, or even a person with a different way of looking at things can alter someone's life, or at least their understanding of it.

At its heart, the story is about departure and seeking: leaving behind what exists in search of something that might bring fulfillment.

Kamble's knowledge is wide-ranging, and that depth is evident throughout the book. He brings considerable breadth and depth of knowledge to his stories, but he does not impose that knowledge on the reader. The details scattered across the narrative often feel experiential, as though they come from someone who has closely observed and lived through the worlds he describes. Although the story is deeply influenced by Buddhist philosophy and carries traces of Phule-Ambedkarite ideas of progress, justice and equality, Kamble never forces a religious or philosophical conclusion upon the reader. The ideas remain part of the world of the story rather than becoming lectures directed at the reader.

His narratives require patience. There were moments when I felt the story was moving slowly, almost as if it had no destination. But perhaps that is precisely the point. Kamble does not rush toward an ending. He allows the questions, experiences and realizations to unfold at their own pace. They do not take you on a whirlwind ride; instead, they invite you to take a slow walk through life and examine it closely. It is therefore, the ending is satisfying without feeling artificially conclusive.

That, perhaps, is the most beautiful idea in The Search for the Sixth Sense: the burden may be lifted not because the world changes, but because we finally realize that the burden was never quite what we thought it was. And somehow, the complexity is eventually resolved through something remarkably simple: a change in the way we look at life. Sometimes the troubles surrounding us are not waiting for a grand solution. Perhaps they are simply waiting for us to change our thoughts about them.

***

Kamble's stories are not dramatic in the conventional sense. Yet they are as strange, unforgiving and revealing as our own personal and social lives. We are all surrounded by conflicts, and every conflict demands questions. Without asking the right questions, without having the courage to immerse ourselves in a quest, we risk remaining forever lost in the chaos of our own making. We must question our beliefs, challenge traditions, break through taboos and search for a way forward – the way of Dhamma.

The Seekers feels like the result of philosophy and art coming together. Kamble wants to say things in ways that have not been used before. As one of his characters says, “I prefer the one my footsteps create.” Perhaps this is also Kamble's own artistic philosophy. The author himself is the Seeker, in a literal sense.

His characters can be read as projections of that seeking self, bringing together the ancient and the modern, art and alienation, tradition and taboo, violence and survival. What makes Kamble's approach brave is his willingness to place these seemingly opposing ideas beside one another – and then question all of them.

The stories do not necessarily give us answers. They leave us with questions, and perhaps that is their greatest strength. Kamble's way of telling stories stays with the reader long after the stories end: not as a conclusion, but as an invitation to keep searching.

Original Text: Marathi
Translator: Sirus J. Libeiro
Front Cover Art: Sanjeev Sonpimpare
Pages: 186
ISBN-13:  9789380636856

Publisher: Blaft Publications Pvt. Ltd.

Bengali Fairy Tales Get An Un-Fairy Tale Ending: Children’s Book Review (Guest Book Review by Nupur Maskara)

Once Upon the Queens has translated stories from the iconic Thakurmar Jhuli, a collection of Bengali rural folk tale stories. Written by Satabdi Das, and translated by Nadia Imam, this book deconstructs some of the original stories, to give them a feminist twist. Beautifully illustrated by Paramita Brahmachari, this is a collection that takes you back to childhood, and introduces the new generation to classics, but updated to reflect contemporary times.

Das has introduced each tale with a rhyming verse, like Dakshinaranjan Mitra Majumder did when he compiled Thakumar Jhuli in 1907. He had divided the stories in three sections, and Das has chosen a few from each section to translate in English. She concludes with a translation from Thakumar Jhuli’s sequel, Thakurdadaar Jhuli.  The sequel was for the girl who used to listen to Thakumar Jhuli stories, grew up and needed to be reminded of her place in the patriarchy.

The first story, from the ‘Dudher Sagar’ section, is called ‘The Sleeping Kingdom,’ and was similar to Sleeping Beauty originally. Das makes the princess the protagonist instead, and gives her agency as an adventurer. She reverses the reasons for sleep, switches the sleeper and the savior, and revises the roles others play in the story too.

Das has revised the famous story ‘Kalawati’ similarly. In ‘Kachanmala and Kakanmala’ Das adds shades of grey to both the titular characters, rather than keeping one as good and the other bad, like it was in the original.

‘Seven Brothers Champa’ does away with the cruelty of the original, which was about infanticide. By creating a sisterhood instead, Das shows another way for women to co-exist, rather than vying among each other for male attention.

Other famous tales Das has translated include ‘Prince Red Lotus, Prince Blue Lotus’ and ‘The Golden Stick and Silver Stick.’ Das questions why the demon, as the Other, is often defeated by deception and asks whether that is morally correct. She revises the ending to be more open.

In ‘One and a Half Finger,’ Das highlights the issue of caste, changing the protagonist’s gender to underscore the plight of the girl child. ‘Malanchamala’ originally centred the protagonist around marriage, but Das creates a new Malanchamala, who girls today are more likely to identify with.  

This collection is one that will bring parents or grandchildren closer to young ones, as they tell these stories to them at bedtime. Considering feminist retellings of tales like Cinderella have already happened, this was long overdue.

Hopefully children reared on tales like these, which are set in more egalitarian societies, will also then think that girls and boys are more equal, and can make their dreams come true. However, they must see what they read about reflected in the world around them as well, otherwise fairy tales will stay fairy tales, and they will replicate the reality they see.

Still, books like these are a step in the right direction, for only when the youth sees possibilities can they learn to think differently, rather than repeat history.

Original Text: Bengali
Translator: Nadia Imam

Illustrator: Paramita Brahmachari
Pages: 124

ISBN-13:  9788197684890

Publisher: The Antonym Collections

‘A Gentle Intoxication of Music’: Poetry Book Review (Guest Book Review by Nupur Maskara)

Italian is a musical language, and poetry in Italian would be the cherry on top. Sometimes the beauty of language gets lost in translation, as is often the case with Urdu ghazals. However, the translators of The Grace of My Home by Julio Monteiro Martins (Donald Wang and Helen Wickes) have successfully captured his vivid images and wordplay.

The Grace of My Home is the first time Martins’ poems are available as a collection in English. As the title suggests, Martins’ poetry evokes his homes – Brazil and Italy – evocatively. The book is an insight in his mind, his proclivity for wordplay, and his skill in employing poetic devices.

‘By the Grace of Words’ is one poem in this book that caught my attention. The narrator talks candidly about how he ‘used to have such a fear/of abstract nouns/’ that he ‘even felt safe/among the adjectives. Language is often a refuge for some of us, a home for our thoughts. Others who think visually, may consider images to be their sanctuary.

The poem goes on to talk about how ‘nouns would parade inside’ him, within reach of his ‘verbs.’ Towards the end, the poet talks about how there were ‘Too many subjects/without a predicate.’ Such poems translate well, as they have strong images and metaphors.

Martins’ gift for irony is clearly seen in ‘Elective Affinities,’ where he talks about how he should stop writing about friends, ‘(or writing about anything).’ That leaves out a great deal of material, which he lists – controversies, lies ‘(but there are so many…how will I remember them all?)’ This would resonate with readers, as we all have mental filters, on what we can share with which group, no matter how close we may be to a friend.

The poem touches on a common worry - friends often wonder if they are going to end up in their author friend’s book. As Nora Ephron said, ‘everything is copy.’ The poet ends by saying he ‘will give them the maximum/ of every bit of my minimum.’ What will become then of him and his art, the reader wonders.  Tennyson’s depiction of the artist’s dilemma, whether to be part of the world or write about it, that he showed in ‘The Lady of Shalott,’ comes to mind.

The next poem, ‘Melania’ paints a detailed picture of domestic life, where the actress wife is physically present but always mentally in her world of theatre, and so has no time, space, or energy for her husband. Martins’ versatility is displayed here, in this narrative poem, with its strong characterisation of both the husband and wife.

In the poem ‘Eclipsing the Taj Mahal,’ Martins wonders whether Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal as a monument to love rather than Noor Jahan. He contrasts himself with the king, saying that he would not build the Taj Mahal. He would see himself ‘dissolve/like a pat of butter/in the center of the pan.’ This contrarian view of love was refreshing.

Martins’ irony is seen again in the poem, as he ends with the reason why he would not erect the Taj Mahal – to protect others from the ‘crater-like feeling/left by love,’

‘To protect those who do not love/from viewing the crater, /the vertigo of seeing all the way to the very bottom.’ His unusual metaphors for love catch the reader’s attention, and make them view love in a different light.

My favourite lines were in the closing poem ‘Music,’ where Martins says ‘Beauty/had entered in me. /A gentle intoxication of music.’ That indeed, is music, and music literally enters us via our ears, so this was a skilful turn of phrase.

Martins’ circumstances – Brazil and Italy - are evident in his poems. He was born in Brazil and worked as a lawyer there. He was one of the founders of the Brazilian Green Party and also co-founded an environmental movement.

A prolific writer with a diverse range, he published nine books in Brazil – novels, short stories, and essays. He also founded a publication press and taught creative writing.

The Grace of My Home is worth a read, and reminds us of cultures other than American, which have taken over our consciousness to a great extent in recent times. Martins’ poetry may even nudge some of us (a la Jhumpa Lahiri), to learn Italian, so that we can appreciate its musicality in the original.

Original Text: Italian
Translator: Donald Wang and Helen Wickes

Pages: 134

ISBN-13: 978-8196395926

Publisher: The Antonym Collections

Author's Image Ref: https://blackbird-archive.vcu.edu/v18n2/poetry/monteiro-j/index-monteiro.shtml

From the Vault - Rashid Jahan's Short Stories

Who is the Culprit and Other Stories is a collection of five short stories written by Rashid Jahan, one of the foremost writers of the Progressive Movement in India. She wrote short stories and plays that primarily addressed issues such as social injustice and oppression, the condition of women, and the lives of marginalized people at the bottom of the social and economic hierarchy. She is regarded as one of the fiercest writers of her generation.

Rashid Jahan also contributed to the short-story collection Angaaray, which was banned and publicly burned by British authorities because of its bold attack on conservatism, hypocrisy, and colonialism. These five stories reflect her lifelong activism, feminism, and unequivocal voice against male-dominated power structures and British colonial rule.

Who is the Culprit? (Mujrim Kaun)

The story is set in British-ruled India, where people gather at a club to celebrate the farewell of Judge George Robinson, who is soon to be married and is leaving India.

The story highlights the inequality in perception, treatment, and legal judgment when similar actions are committed by those in power—the British rulers—and by ordinary Indians. George Robinson, a celebrated judge, is involved in an illicit affair with a colonel’s wife. Yet, in a dramatic turn of events, he is allowed to marry the woman, and the law conveniently makes way for him without any prosecution.

.… you could say that nobody could interpret the English laws that they had created for the slaves better than him…

… These people are emotional like animals…

In contrast, Bhola, a simple shepherd boy, falls in love with a married woman, Gujariya, and the affection between them is mutual. However, Bhola is sentenced to three years of hard labor by the court. By connecting the stories of George and Bhola, the narrative becomes a sharp satire on social and legal disparity under colonial rule.

… If there were no death sentence, there would be bloodshed and murder all day long in this barbaric country. It is our laws that have kept peace among them…

… We believe the law I the same for everyone…

At its core, Who is the Culprit? is an anti-colonial story that exposes how colonial rulers often enjoyed legal protection, privilege, and even immunity for their wrongdoing, while ordinary Indians faced harsh punishment. Colonial laws were designed primarily to protect imperial authority rather than to ensure equal justice.

Asif Jahan's Daughter-in-Law (Asif Jahaan Ki Bahu)

Asif Jahan wanted to marry her only son, Noor Al-Hasan, to Kubra’s daughter, which would please both her husband’s family and her own family back home. However, the problem was that Kubra always gave birth to sons.

… may Khuda never grant a daughter even unto our enemies…

One of the best depictions of tension and emotional intensity, marked by fear, prayer, exhaustion, and anticipation during a home birth, is presented in this story. The prolonged labour, midwifery details, and the case of retained placenta have been skillfully portrayed by the author, Rashid Jahan, who herself was a medical doctor. The details of a birth room where a mother struggles through childbirth are complete and vivid in themselves.

The story also serves as a significant reflection on the practice of betrothal before birth or infancy, which was prevalent in the past. It can further be seen as a strong critique of patriarchy, where sons were preferred above all else. In contrast, the story places the birth of a girl at its emotional center.

Her (Woh)

Her is a story of an ex-prostitute who is now diseased and a victim of social hatred, expulsion, and mistreatment. She may be suffering from syphilis, and her face is severely disfigured; she has already lost her nose and one eye, which evokes fear in those who encounter her. In fact, the author, being a medical doctor, may have come across such women in real life.

In the story, the narrator is a teacher in a girls’ school. Unlike others around her who call the woman “whore,” “evil,” “devil,” and “wretched woman,” she is open to meeting her in a more humane way. However, the silent tension created by the woman is heavy, intense, and almost palpable to the narrator.

In fact, the narrator herself has some reservations, if not contempt, which she eventually acknowledges. The woman’s repulsive appearance also makes her uncomfortable, yet she maintains a calm demeanor. The story highlights the narrator’s inner struggle between acceptance, indifference, and latent hatred for the woman. It shows how hatred can emerge even among the most educated and seemingly compassionate individuals

.… What does she think? Was she ever just like me?...

… Does she believe I think of her as nothing more than a malady?... What does she feel when she comes to me, is it pain, or is it peace?

The story may have been considered revolting at the time it was written, as the mere mention of a prostitute was a taboo, and portraying such characters in literature would have disturbed many readers. Rashid Jahan was a writer of the Progressive Movement, and this story likely drew attention to the treatment of sex workers and the prevailing social hypocrisy in the name of justice.

The Thief (Chor)

In The Thief, the narrator, a doctor, faces a moral dilemma when she comes face to face one night with a thief who had recently robbed her house but has now returned as a desperate father whose daughter needs urgent medical attention.

The God of the Poor (Ghareebon Ka Bhagwan)

The God of the Poor is another piece of progressive writing. The story highlights the fact that those who are socially and economically disadvantaged are often at the mercy of the society in which they live. No god, of any religion, can rescue or help them except people themselves. Justice begins and ends with society and its people.

Rashid Jahan left behind a body of work that represents a fierce act of defiance. We thank the publisher and the translator, Himadri Agarwal, for giving new life to these stories through translation and for bringing them back from the vault. Because history is never silent, and so are the stories.

Original Text: Urdu
Translator: Himadri Agarwal
Publisher: Chowringhee Press

Source: Review Copy from the Publisher

Rashid Jahan's works in Urdu could be accessed here: https://www.rekhta.org/authors/rasheed-jahan/stories

From the Vault - Subhadra Kumari Chauhan's Short Stories

I Murdered Mine is a collection of five short stories written by Subhadra Kumari Chauhan. She was an Indian poet, short story writer, and freedom fighter during the British rule in India. She died shortly after India gained independence in 1947. These five stories have been selected from her two short story collections: Seedhe Saadhe Chitra and Bikhre Moti. Her other published short story collection is Unmadini. She is best known for her poem Jhansi Ki Rani (The Queen of Jhansi).

These five stories give us a glimpse of the range of topics Subhadra wrote about. From women’s resilience and struggle to human devotion and guilt, some of these stories were far ahead of their time in their strong portrayal of the true colors of society and its psyche.

Kailashi Nani (from Seedhe Saadhe Chitra)

In Kailashi Nani, the narrator is a girl who recalls Kailashi Nani—a woman from her maternal uncle’s village who earned her living by grazing the villagers’ cattle. The narrator and her family lived in the city, and she met Kailashi Nani only during visits to her uncle’s home in the village. She enjoyed village life, but even more, she cherished Kailashi Nani’s company, affection, and care. Though she appears to be a simple, affectionate village woman who loves children, Kailashi Nani does something that baffles the narrator and her family, transforming her into a figure of selfless loyalty. She ultimately proves her love and devotion by saving the narrator and her sister from a treacherous marriage scheme. The story serves as a reminder of a recent past when child marriage was practiced, and of how certain people leave a lasting, unforgettable impact on our lives.

Sacrifice (from Bikhre Moti)

Babu Radheshyam loses his wife, who dies after giving birth to a child. Initially, he is determined not to remarry, but he changes his mind after meeting Kuntala—an educated young woman whose family is too poor to arrange her marriage. Kuntala’s new life, largely consumed by household responsibilities, begins to affect her health. Domestic life stifles her youth, brilliance, and talent. But, how worse can this get? The ending is crushing.  

Perspective (from Bikhre Moti)

This is the story of Nirmala, a true humanist. She is kind, compassionate, and altruistic. Many learned humanists cannot go beyond the idea of thinking good; they are unable to act well when it is required. Nirmala’s husband, a learned professor, does not appear to be the opposite, given his social stature and sense of nobility. However, cynicism can take root even in the greatest minds. A good human being, in fact, can also be an extreme misogynist, sexist, and a fervent follower of patriarchy.

The clash between these two natures and two ideologies becomes evident and defining when a child widow becomes pregnant, and Nirmala wishes to shelter her for a few days.

In the absence of evidence and action, even human characters can hide behind their true beliefs. We come across this in The Perspective when people's beliefs are put to test.

Roopa (from Seedhe Saadhe Chitra)

The narrator of Roopa is a woman prison inmate. One day, a woman named Roopa is brought into the prison, sentenced for killing her own child. The narrator gets to know how Roopa is sentenced to life imprisonment for murdering her own child, a child with speech-impairment, and whether it was even a murder or something else. The title of the story collection is taken from this story.

Paapi Pet (from Bikhre Moti)

When government forces launch a crackdown on peaceful protesters with brute force, have you ever wondered what happens to the police who return after beating unarmed people, severely injuring some who could even lose their lives? And what about those who ordered the charge, or the legal system that can throw people in jail? What is greater than conscience—hunger? Do the means of survival outweigh a human's ability to decide, to distinguish right from wrong? In Paapi Pet, we get close to the lives of a policeman, a jailor named Barkatula, an inspector, and a magistrate in the aftermath of a recent lathi charge on unarmed, peaceful protesters.

We are very grateful to Sakshi Agarwal for translating these forgotten stories, staying very close to the original text and preserving their vigor. After all, old stories are, in part, a reflection of our history and collective memory.

Original Text: Hindi
Translator: Sakshi Agarwal
Publisher: Chowringhee Press
Source: Review Copy from the Publisher

Subhadra Kumari Chauhan's works in Hindi could be accessed here: https://hindi-kavita.com/HindiSubhadraKumariChauhan.php

A Dive That’s Deep, A Water That’s Translucent (Guest Book Review by Kabir Deb)

We are familiar with how power, patriarchy and possession redefine themselves every day to stay relevant. But sometimes, society becomes intimidating and forces people to adhere to them or to face the consequences of negating their existence. The consequence may come in the form of isolation, cornering and accusations. Mahua Sen’s debut work of translation The Dead Fish written by Rajkamal Choudhary in Hindi, speaks about the buoyant nature of power, gender fluidity, vulnerability and the necessity of freedom from anything that holds us back. The story equally dilutes the story with metaphors, images and a constant underplay. What goes beneath the layers of these images Choudhary builds is chaotic, dark yet tempting. The writer builds the story on the mind by keeping the body as its pedestal as both of them have to be in unison to create a balance. 

The novel has an eros but it isn’t loud. It is a hum that’s constant but continuous. The characters are flawed and, at the same time, humane. The story has a body of its own, which makes it complex in its telling such that if readers want to get attuned to it, they must attend it with sincerity. It is a chaotic novel since the timeframe of the story keeps on changing from past to present without putting a pause beforehand. It is a form of telling which many storytellers have followed in their works of art to give them a potion of life. Art is an emulation of life. What we experience turns into our work of art. The telling of this novel identifies with life and how it urges us to seek our own identity. It mirrors how most people’s behaviour and languages changes with power. But, at the same time, Choudhary also keeps in mind that, in times of discomfort, power does not help. But those who arrive with love prepare comfort for us, but it can grow only with our acceptance.

Nirmal Padmavat, a man of impressive demeanour, formidable presence, and charismatic personality, is the axis of this novel. He gets to reveal his true nature, which is strong yet vulnerable, before Kalyani, Shirin and Priya since like most women, they get to carve Nirmal’s artificial covering. But, at the same time, the writer cleverly gives us a reality check as well. He writes how the protagonist’s surrender is bolted with a price – expectations – which if not fulfilled forces him to put his pretence back on. The writer tells us that once we wear a certain personality, it limits our freedom. We get to find it in Tony Soprano, the protagonist of the David Chase created show Sopranos, who deals with mental health issues, which he cannot project before anyone else because, for the rest of the world, vulnerability is a sign of weakness. But before Jennifer Meiti, played by Lorrain Bracco, his real ‘self’ comes out effortlessly because of the latter’s affection and kindness. Nirmal sheds his veil off before Kalyani, Shirin and Priya since they look at him with a different kind of prowess in mind – one which is sensual, wholesome and liberates all of them effortlessly.

Kalyani, in this novel, is written as a glamorous, power-abiding libertine. She has necessities and a desire to be on the top of the system, which she wants to fulfil by any means possible. But she is not a parasite. She has her own way to give back whatever she takes. But she can be unkind and cruel, which most people are and it is a flaw and a weapon. Cruelty acts as a sword for women who have to stand beside womanizers. Their unkindness should not be glorified but cannot be annulled either since it is a defence mechanism against power. Her physical demeanour is not like Nirmal, but her tease and words are. The translator keeps that tease alive in her craft since everything that Nirmal does or approaches is a creation of Kalyani’s effect on his male chauvinism. Even his altered behaviour is significantly associated with his association and dissociation with Kalyani. We find this trait in Nellie LaRoy, played by Margot Robbie, in the film Babylon, who hunts down parties to figure out a place the glamour she possesses is noticed. Similarly, in the novel, Kalyani moves from one party to another, to be the centre of attention because amidst patriarchs she must use her own ways, without getting oppressed by the idea, to get her work done.

Rajkamal Choudhary gives us a backstory to Nirmal to allow us to process his hunger for power, arrogant attitude and being a contrasting figure before those he falls in love with. His past sets a tone which is bitter and hence, sweetens the actions of his present time. In the Anandi Gandhi directed film Ship of Theseus, we can relate to Maitreya, played by Neeraj Kabi, because his decision of becoming a Jain monk stemmed from the exhaustion, he felt by living around money, hateful humans and unanswered questions. His choices may not align with ours, but his philosophy cannot be discarded without putting any thought. Similarly, Nirmal’s past is full of horrifying incidents and the choices he makes after earning money and gaining power can be justified. Some may say that what he does is devilish, but the devil has always been questioning whatever is moral, godly and blindly holy. Through Nirmal Padmavat’s actions and behaviour, the writer is not searching for justifications. Rather, he is putting questions in our mind and wants us to answer them as well.

The philosophy of the novel mirrors our complex reality where we trying to accept ideas which many are hesitant to address. But the society around us creates a cage around us to restrict our attempts towards humane development. Nirmal Padmavat is effectively wild, but even in his careless attitude of what others think about him, he is reminded that as a member of the society he has to follow certain customs. The capitalism that Nirmal follows is not hardcore and quite conventional. It is the consequence of the wounds on his masculine ego. Choudhary does not address the wounded Nirmal directly. He follows the arc of several other characters to address his complex masculinity. Normally, hurt is often coined as a driving force for people to grow, which itself is patriarchal and suppresses an individual’s development automatically. Choudhary keeps the story open-ended to make the readers process the idea. For a wider audience, the translator maintains the telling by putting Choudhary’s idea in a string without stitching its ends completely.   

The story of Nirmal with Kalyani does not form the core of this text since both these characters form a medium for the writer to criticize capitalism, industrial oppression, a dreadful fear of modernity, patriarchal hullaballoo, and faith on monoamory or monogamy. Nirmal’s obsession for Kalyani is not directly related to gender. It is also related to the comfort that he found once in her presence. The latter’s libertine nature does not take Nirmal away from her story. Her experience around him has been both satisfying and discontenting. Yet, in the novel, Nirmal Padmavat is written as a seeker of companion, credibility and unequivocal validation. Both these flawed characters are drawn towards two extremities, and the writer leaves their shadows to spread for their world in-between. Choudhary does not refrain from highlighting the fact that even with love, people have certain expectations and get cornered when they are not met. In the novel, when Kalyani finds out the reason of Nirmal’s vulnerability, she leaves him without putting any effort in healing his heavy heart. Nirmal, like most men, choose to adhere to his demeanour and puts every effort to traumatize other people who Kalyani is associated with. The possessive nature of both these characters have been written with metaphors, but these images project the reality of control.

The novel’s take on queer relationship is different and not cheesy. Shirin (Nirmal’s wife) and Priya (Kalyani’s daughter) cross each other’s lives as a source to identify what they truly are. In physics, an electrical circuit’s model can be identified by the switch’s position, but its effectiveness is inferred by the battery. Similarly, the psychological proximity of Shirin and Priya is written in a complex manner, but if read with an objective lens, has certain boosters which nudge them to identify their true identity. The translator does not vent out the chaos since it is essential in a relationship, which has not been normalized by the society and has a beaming effect on people. Choudhary’s writing of queer relationship tries to have a modern structure but with the eros, he incarnates the traditional perception which is not needed, but is commendable since other than Ismat Chugtai, rarely has any Hindi or Urdu writer tried to explore the dynamics of queer relation.

Mahua Sen’s translation is sharp, tight and visceral. It has a flow that reads like an original work but, at the same time, the constant travel from past to present takes the reader away from even the passionate portions. These situations read good in regional languages since we speak them in our daily life and have its innate flow solidified in our minds. Even then, the translator does good work in keeping the images without maligning what they try to say. Rajkamal Choudhary’s Machhali Mari Hui, has been hailed as a masterpiece but controversial work of literature. An English translation of this novel was much needed since we still are not familiar with queer relationships on a very basic and regional level. The stories which come in our forefront are adhered with certain looks, lifestyle and class making them a stereotype. The Dead Fish brings us characters that are modern, belong to the upper class, but has a tone that is Indian and deals with issues which are not unfamiliar to us. A dark, erotic and questioning novel that does not dwell on the surface. It gets deep within our flesh, but can only crawl if we allow it to do so. A complex book that will have its own audience, but those who get to join its characters would enjoy something refreshing.

Original Text: Hindi
Translator: Mahua Sen
Publisher: Rupa Publications
Source: Review Copy from the Publisher
Author Photo Source: Wikipedia

Book Reviewed by Kabir Deb as a guest contributor

Also Read: https://worldtranslationsreview.blogspot.com/2023/08/a-slithering-world.html Book Review of Traces of Boots on Tongue by Rajkamal Chaudhary, Translated by Saudamini Deo