Mahendra Martin Raskolnikov

Back in the day, Mahendra Martin Raskolnikov worked at Rupavahini. I believe he was an intern there. He was young, as was I. He was partially employed, I was unemployed. I can’t remember if universities were open or closed, but one night we walked along the railway line from somewhere near Bambalapitiya to Wellawatte.

Mahendra Martin Raskonikov and I had not exactly lived parallel lives, but there were commonalities when it comes to matters of the heart. It was as though we were destined to be confronted by all manner of love-facets. What faces we saw were jagged-edged. They reflected unbelievable light, they cut deep without warning.

We talked much in those days and less in recent years. Some conversations are remembered for they are so memorable to warrant re-telling. Over and over again. Among them are a few that have made their way into various articles. Mostly stories he related. Some of his own and others of people he knew.

A young boy once received a note from a girl. ‘I love you, boy; send me 18 yellow roses.’ He was 18 and she was 14. He didn’t know anything about girls. Or roses. Or the color codes of roses. He had to ask around and was told, ‘You are still in school.  Roses are expensive. Yellow roses are very expensive.  You can’t afford it. Forget it.’ He did.

Time passed and pathways crossed. There’s a story there worth telling, but then all his stories are tell-worthy anyway.

But today I remember that evening somewhere in Wellawatte, watching and listening to the ocean. I remember telling him that I was reading Dostoyevsky’s ‘Crime and Punishment.’  Mahendra Martin Raskolnikov, a voracious reader, immediately brought up what to him was the telling moment of the novel. It so happened that from what I had already read, it was this particular moment that had captured me most.

More than thirty years later, the very same moment came back to me. This time, in an observation made by Martin Wickramasinghe in his biography, ‘Upan Da Sita’ or ‘From the beginning’ (or, better still, ‘From the cradle’). I was re-translating the book, an exercise which began as a would-be edit of an effort made more than twenty years previously, in segments, for the ‘Sunday Island.’  

Here goes:

‘As a young man, there was no novel that troubled my mind as did Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. I felt as though someone was running a rasp across my brain while reading it. Unable to figure out Dostoevsky's mysterious notions of the human mind at the time, I read the book like one who was trying to find his way in the dark.

'Raskolnikov, who murders an old woman who made a living out of usury, suffers much pain. I felt that the book contained nothing else but the vivid description of his suffering mind. Finding no one to alleviate his pain, the educated murderer finally encounters a word of comfort from a prostitute named Sonia. He finds relief like a thirsty man who drinks a sip of water. Moved by this, he falls at her feet.

‘“I kneel down not to you, but to the untold suffering of humanity that finds expression through you.”

‘When I reached this point of the narrative, I was extremely disturbed. This turbulence acted like a bolt of lightning illuminating for a moment certain mystical points that are found in Buddhist stories and then disappearing altogether. My mind was a vessel that was filled by compassion. It was because of Dostoevsky's stories that certain mystical ideas in the Buddhist stories became clear to me.’

And I remembered something I had forgotten: I had, upon the invitation of Dr Ranga Wickramasinghe, written a foreword to a new publication of his father’s book ‘Buddhist Jataka Stories and the Russian Novel.’ I can’t remember what I wrote though.

I remember Mahendra Martin Raskolnikov, who, not having read ‘Upan Da Sita’ had somehow been as perturbed as the great writer by the very same passage of play in the novel. I had too, but I had not the keen and analytical mind of my friend and of course not of the great man of letters, Martin Wickramasinghe. We shared the same sentiments. Mahendra’s words that night were almost a one-to-one quoting of Wickramasinghe.

Mahendra’s story is a novel that he won’t write. Neither could I. I know only this: there’s untold suffering and inexpressible delight that finds expression through him. Not in what he says, but the way he lives his life.

Mahendra is a Roman Catholic. He knows a lot about other philosophies. He might be one of the very few people I know who could from THAT point of the narrative obtain something that he could (but would not) describe, following Martin, as follows:

‘‘When I reached this point of the narrative, I was extremely disturbed. This turbulence acted like a bolt of lightning illuminating for a moment certain mystical points that are found in the parables of all religious doctrines and then disappearing altogether. My mind was a vessel that was filled by compassion. It was because of Dostoevsky's stories that certain mystical ideas in all religious parables became clear to me.’

That’s how Mahendra Silva, at this moment of writing, I re-christened as Mahendra Martin Raskolnikov.

And I hereby offer this, in lieu of 18 yellow roses, as something he can offer to whoever has captured his heart at this moment, more than 30 years after our Dostoyevsky Moment and probably almost 40 years after that first rose-petalled palpitation referred to above.

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Translators and Translations

 

My first attempt at translation was in the last 1990s while I was taking a class titled ‘Marx, Nietzsche and Freud,’ taught by  Professor Geoff Waite of the German Studies Department at Cornell University. The course requirement for graduate students was simple: maintain a journal reflecting on the required reading, lectures and class-discussion. I can’t remember the particular journal entry now, but there was a passage in Simon Navagaththegama’s ‘Sansaaraaranyaye Dadayakkaaraya’ that seemed relevant and which I felt should go into my reflections for the week. 

Geoff didn’t read Sinhala. So I translated the relevant paragraphs.

Emboldened, I proceeded to translate the entire book, with much encouragement from Liyanage Amarakeerthi who was reading for his PhD at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, at the time. A fun exercise and that was it, or so I thought.

Not too long after, I joined ‘Sunday Island.’ Then, as now, that paper was heavy with serious political commentary. The features, in contrast, were weak. Zanita Careem, who was in charge of that section, lamented that we didn’t have enough people to write. She was correct. So I got used to picking interesting stories from our sister paper, ‘Divaina,’ and translating the same.

It was probably in early 2003 that I became serious about the exercise. Dr Ranga Wickramasinghe wanted me to translate ‘Yuganthaya’ (End of an Era) written by his late father Martin Wickramasinghe. I told him that I am not equipped to undertake such a task and that I didn’t have the time either. Instead, I proposed that I translate Martin Wickramasinghe’s ‘Upan Da Sita’ (literally, ‘From the day of [my] birth.’  It was a biography and therefore episodic; ideal for serialising in a Sunday paper.

It took more than a year, but it got done. A decent draft, I told myself then. I believe this even today as I pour over the manuscript to get it ready for printing on commission for the Martin Wickramasinghe Trust. It’s almost a re-write!

The downside of translating a few pages each week for a newspaper is that it happens while attending to regular newspaper work. Deadline-pressure can make one careless and even flippant. There were occasions when I understood neither word nor sentence. I had glossed over such things or left them out altogether. Then there was the issue of language. I can safely say that I knew less about the Sinhala language and Sinhala culture then that I do now. That ignorance corrupted the exercise.

Now, as I go from word to word, sentence by sentence, it’s a new text that unfolds. It’s a new Martin Wickramasinghe that speaks to me. I am delighted for new reasons. Amazed at times as well. I haven’t read him at all, I am compelled to conclude.

This is of course not an essay about Wickramasinghe’s life, world-view, literary endeavours etc. There are many gems on many subjects in this book which a discerning reader will no doubt pick, marvel at and learn from. For me, right now, there’s this:

‘The colloquial language of the village brings together both language and life. Descriptions that bring together the life of the villager and the village environment are often found in the work of folk poets who employ this language. The meaning of such descriptions cannot be captured by the mind alone.’

The colloquial is not always read correctly by the pundits, especially if they are less conversant with it. It can, theoretically, make for even worse aberration when translated.

Martin Wickramasinghe was referring to a set of people who took issue with certain descriptions. He wrote ‘If a certain feeling is inspired within someone who read that description which is a blend of village life and the landscape of the village, it is because the description has the power to excite not just his eyes and mind, but other sensory organs as well.’

He concluded: ‘I don't believe that a person who does not make the effort to “hear” the sound of a bat flapping its wings, the cacophony of insects, the occasional barking of a village mutt, or the mooing of a calf, would be able to imagine village life or village language.’

He explained, further:  ‘Only someone who has some notion of the relationship between the language and life of the village would think that the syllables that make up the words “aththatu gæseema (flapping of wings),” “biruma (bark),” and “umbææ (mooing)” simultaneously raise the sounds of bats, dogs and calves. In order to feel the meaning of sayings such as “the air in the garden contained a certain wetness along with the cool” and “The vehi andura had rendered the air heavier than on other days,” not only the mind, but the body also has to be employed. I think all these pundits found fault with this description because theirs was only a mental exercise.’ 

How do we translate, then? Can we translate?

We can try. We must, I feel. And so we interject explanation in the text itself or as footnote and end note. We compile glossaries. We struggle not only to be faithful to the source text but to do justice to the reader as well, ever conscious of the reader’s shadow falling on the keyboard and a voice murmuring, ‘make sure it flows, make sure I am not overly taxed to flip to your glossary or glance at footnote and end note, and make sure you don’t butcher the meaning in any other way either.’

Back to ‘Upan Da Sita.’ A few more chapters to work on or rather re-write. Riches await, and not only about the life and times of Martin Wickramasinghe. I am privileged.

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer. malindadocs@gmail.com.

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The continuing relevance of Martin Wickramasinghe

This was first published in the Daily News on September 23, 2009, almost 6 years to the day.  Posting here since this is the 'reading month'.  

And I write today after attending a book launch at the International Book Fair. The books: ‘Maha Gathkaru Vatha’, a biography of Martin Wickramasinghe, authored by W.A. Abeysinghe; ‘Uprooted’ (English translation of Wickramasinghe’s ‘Gamperaliya’ by Lakshmi De Silva and Ranga Wickramasinghe), ‘Selected Short Stories of Martin Wickramasinghe’ (translated by Ranga Wickramasinghe) and Tamil translation of the last two books. 

W.A. Abeysinghe, commented on the necessarily ‘unfinishing’ nature of the task he had undertaken: ‘Martin Wickramasinghe avasan karanna behe’ (One cannot ‘complete’ him). True. The man was a colossus, as literary genius, sociologist and philosopher and other things besides. 

It occurred to me that there are other things that are of an ‘unfinishing’ nature in terms of description, particularly the answer to the question, ‘Who are we?’ or, in common Sinhala parlance, ‘ape kama’ (‘ourness’ if you will). Martin Wickramasinghe’s life can be described (in part) as an investigation of this question. 

He did not give us a definite answer but the description of that journey is all over his extensive writing; and so too the necessarily indescribable understanding that he obtained in the course of his travels. 

He has been described as the pioneer in our search for who we are, for our roots, what made us what we are. True. 

For decades we have tried to understand ourselves in opposition to perceived enemies. First it was the then Velupillai Prabhakaran. Today, with Prabhakaran dead and gone, the spectre resumed its haunting role. Martin Wickramasinghe was an exception in that his search was independent of that kind of intellectual, ideological and psychological baggage. 

This is why he neither feared the ‘other’ nor responded in anger. This is the only way that one can meaningfully and effectively engage the other. 

When we know where we came from, we realize where we are and where we are going and most importantly where we should be going. Take any ‘lost’ nation or community and I am convinced that the cause of ‘lostness’ can be traced to a refusal to explore self (in its broader, societal, sense).

The importance of translating Martin Wickramasinghe also derives from this same exercise; not only should we know who we are, we have to state the fact to the world. If not, we open ourselves (as has been the case) to be defined by others in accordance to their particular objectives. We must never forget the telling definition of power proposed by the author of ‘We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed along with our families’, Peter Gourevich: ‘Power lies in the ability to make someone inhabit your version of their reality’. 

For too long, we’ve let the Sudda define who we are. And this is why we have our kalu-suddas turned into veritable echos of Suddha-wish: ‘Sri Lanka is a failed state’ (for example). But let’s forget the Sudda. Have we had that conversation with our nearest relative yet? Have we stated who we are to our closest neighbour? I am thinking of the Tamil Community and I am writing as a Sinhalese. 

Sure we have, in political terms, which, I am convinced is several times removed from the living, eating, breathing, love-making reality of our social all. Language can be a bridge, yes, but a language heavy with politics and ideology is but a chasm disguised as a bridge. Literature and art are the true bridges, the true instruments that make meaningful conversation possible. 

If all modern Sinhala literature derived to a greater or lesser degree from the pages of ‘Gamperaliya’ and if literature is a truer reflection of social reality including history, heritage, culture, sensibility and world-view; then translating the novel into Tamil is a crucial first step. 

The problem is there are a million more steps to take along a million different pathways. 

And in this we have to understand that the reverse is also true. We must read the Tamil equivalent of all the Gamperaliyas of that community. 

I applaud this effort of the Martin Wickramasinghe Trust, therefore. It teaches all of us in post-LTTE Sri Lanka an important lesson by way of ‘methodologizing’ our political and social practice. 

It is a necessary extension of the lifetime efforts of that inimitable father of modern Sinhala literature, Martin Wickramasinghe.

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