(Rashmi Terdal is the translator of SL Bhyrappa’s two novels: Uttara Kaanda and Kavalu. The following article was published in 2020 in the book: ‘Giant Genius Bhyrappa and Mirrors of His Novels’ ed: Vijaya Haran)

My love for reading began early in life, cultivated in my father’s home library. We had hundreds of precious books that ranged from mythology to modern literature. The first novel I ever read was Dr. S.L. Bhyrappa’s Dharmashree, published in 1961. Interestingly, this novel and his last one, ‘Uttara Kaanda’, published in 2017, have both significantly shaped my literary journey. While Dharmashree enabled me to cultivate an elevated taste in literature in my teenage years, I later had the pride of fulfilling a task assigned to me by Bhyrappa himself: translating Uttara Kaanda into English. Published by Westland, the English version carried forward his final epic to a wider audience.

Uttara Kaanda by Bhyrappa is a brilliant retelling of the Ramayana of Valmiki from Sita’s perspective. The greatness of Valmiki’s Ramayana is that few works of literature in the world are as popular or influential as this ancient Sanskrit epic. To quote 20th-century Oxford scholar AA Macdonell, “Probably no work of world literature has ever produced so profound an influence on the life and thought of a people as the Ramayana.” However, when compared to other epics like Vyasa’s Mahabharata and Homer’s Iliad, and the protagonists of the contemporary novel, the central characters in Valmiki’s Ramayana lack inner conflicts and human frailty, qualities essential for any work to be called fine literature. Most of the poetry goes into elaborate descriptions of nature and events without paying much attention to the human psyche.

Like many children in India, I grew up on the fascinating tales of the Hindu mythology, and Ramayana always held a very special appeal. During my school days, I even won a gold medal at a state-level examination on the Ramayana. Looking back, it seems as though the epic’s association with my life was predestined. With all my reverence for Lord Rama, what bothered me all along was the iconography of his legacy pervading Indian society: Rama the virtuous scion of the great Ikshvaaku clan, Rama the ideal king of Ayodhya. ‘Rama Rajya’ appeared to be an absurd ideal for any nation to aspire for, given the king’s readiness to abandon his pregnant wife to secure his reputation from the malicious gossip of ignorant and ignoble citizens. How could Rama, held up as the very embodiment of dharma, strike at Vali so deceptively, hiding himself behind a tree? How could this maryada purushottama question his wife, suspect her chastity, in full view of his army and the enemy's men, after his triumph on the battlefield of Lanka?  

“That is because power changed Rama,” said Bhyrappa as I interviewed him at his Mysuru residence in January 2017, for a write-up to be published in the Times of India, soon after the release of the Kannada original of Uttara Kaanda. “Rama was a loving and caring husband. He looked after Sita well in the forest. But after the battle in Lanka, we can see a discernible transformation in his character.  He knew that he would go to Ayodhya in six months and ascend the throne. So, he was worried about the accusations that might be hurled at Sita and taint his image. He even suspected her and allowed the agni pareeksha to take place on the battlefield.” In the interview, the author, who is one of the foremost thinkers of our time, spoke with utmost authority on mythology, history and philosophy, about his travels and extensive study of the historicity of the Mahabharata and the socio-political and anthropological aspects of the Vedic age that gave incredible authenticity to the narrative in his magnum opus ‘Parva’ (1979), and came handy to him while writing Uttara Kaanda. When I asked him as to why he felt the need to strip the characters of Mahabharata and Ramayana of their divine, mystical and supernatural powers, he said, “Unless we do away with mythological elements, we cannot objectively scrutinise the characters at a human level. If we consider Krishna and Rama as Gods, we tend to overlook their faults. Also, we conveniently think that their virtues and achievements are beyond our reach because, after all, they are gods and we are mere mortals. Either way, we fail to get the true message from these personalities. Mythification is nothing but escapism.”

No one who meets Bhyrappa and has had a conversation with him can return without a sense of awe for his amazing memory power and profundity of thought on topics ranging from ancient civilisation to modern politics and local issues to global affairs. I returned to Bengaluru, reorganising in my mind the points of discussion, my heart deeply touched by the warm hospitality extended by Bhyrappa and his wife and full of admiration for their love of and zeal for life even at their ripe age. I also decided what would be the pull-quote of my article: “Rama, Yudhishtira and Satya Harishchandra are not mere mythological characters. We have made them our national heroes. They wield immense influence on our social, cultural and political thinking. It is dangerous to follow them without questioning their extreme idealism.”

After two days, when the article was published in the Times of India, Bhyrappa called me to express his appreciation. I was happy to know that he had liked my article. I thanked him and resumed the rigmarole at the office, and at home, convinced that my association with Uttara Kaanda would not extend beyond a meditative reading of it. But I was wrong. My tryst with Uttara Kaanda was far from over. A week later, when I was on my way to the office, Bhyrappa called me again. It so happened that when I had met him, I had handed him a copy of my just-released English translation of ‘Mohanaswamy,’ a collection of short stories by eminent Kannada writer Vasudhendra. Bhyrappa expressed his admiration for the translation, having completed reading the book. The next thing he asked me was: “Would you translate Uttara Kaanda into English?” It came so unexpectedly, I was happy and hesitant at once, because translating Bhyrappa’s work would be an honour as well as a challenge, given the depth and complexity of the theme and nuances of language. Sensing my apprehension, Bhyrappa asked me to translate a few pages first, to test the waters, as it were.

  After a fortnight or so, I sent him the translation of the first chapter. He approved it whole-heartedly and gave me the go-ahead. It took me over two years to complete the translation, with intermittent breaks as I juggled work and family. There is more to being a translator than proficiency in the languages concerned. Translation of fiction from the vernacular to English has its own set of challenges. What Raja Rao, (Foreword to Kanthapura) said about writing in a foreign tongue applies to Indian translations in English as well: “One has to convey in language that is not one’s own the spirit that is one’s own.” The translator needs to transcribe a whole story, context, world and environment into another language, each language having its own metaphors, dialects and idiolects. The responsibility is to transfer cultural values and traditions, emotions and feelings using the right terms and expressions while remaining true to the original work and maintaining its beauty.

How far I have been successful in this endeavour can only be judged by the readers of the book. However, I can say that the work has been the most edifying and enriching experience for me. Uttara Kaanda took me on an overwhelming journey as Bhyrappa artistically bridges the psychological gaps in Valmiki’s Ramayana with his unparalleled ability to peer into the minds of the characters and logically restricts the events.

I recalled that a lawyer in Bihar had filed a petition in 2016, demanding action against Lord Rama for mercilessly abandoning his pregnant wife Sita based on false accusations, and seeking justice for Sita, who suffered untold miseries for no fault of hers. While no court of law can provide justice for Sita, a profound literary work can, and when one reads Bhyrappa’s Uttara Kaanda, one is certain to exclaim, “Yes, justice has finally been done to Sita!” Bhyrappa gives the leading lady of the Ramayana such a powerful voice that the piteous image of Sita of the Threta Yuga, who prays Mother Earth to swallow her in, fades from the minds of readers; in her place emerges the picture of an empowered Sita, who places her self-respect above everything else and walks out of the dharma sabha and goes back to her agricultural field where she continues to eke out a living with dignity, vowing never to return to Ayodhya. Sita’s equanimity is in stark contrast with Urmila’s playfulness, but both equally win our hearts, and so does Lakshmana, whose subservience to his elder brother is anything but unconditional and unquestioned in Bhyrappa’s retelling. 

It is no exaggeration to state that by reconstructing the Mahabharata through Parva, and Ramayana through Uttara Kaanda, Bhyrappa has created parallel epics for the modern era. The women in these novels appear contemporary and timeless at once as the author divests the mammoth Sanskrit epics of their mystical and divine aura, bringing the otherwise celestial heroes and damsels closer to our comprehension.

Translating Uttara Kaanda also took me on a highly rewarding inward journey. Verses from the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad, which the author has very deftly used in the context of the tragic tale of Rama and Sita, elevate one to a spiritual and philosophical plane. I am immensely grateful to Bhyrappa, the stalwart of Kannada literature, for allowing me to translate this literary gem, and to my father, who kindled my interest in mythology and Sanskrit literature right from my childhood, which served as a guiding force as I translated this reinterpretation of the Ramayana, a true masterpiece crafted by a true master.  

- Rashmi Terdal