Anukrti Upadhyay, a Sushila-Devi-Award-winning author, is one of India’s few bilingual writers; working in both Hindi and English, she has always looked at writing as a form of translation. In Hindi, she has published a collection of short stories called Japani Sarai and a novel called Neena Aunty, both hailed as pathbreaking in Hindi literature. She is, however, best known for her books Bhaunri and Daura—perhaps the only English-language novels set in rural Rajasthan, telling stories of the desert and its folks.
I first met Anukrti in Udaipur at a writing workshop organized by the Rama Mehta Trust. Over a three-day workshop, we spoke about translation, writing, and she discussed the works of her favorite Hindi authors. I caught up with her later and we conducted this interview over email; in our conversation, she talks about being a bilingual writer, whether language affects form, and what transcreation means to her.
Suhasini Patni (SP): What does being a bilingual writer in India mean to you?
Anukrti Upadhyay (AU): I have written poetry in Hindi for as long as I can remember—and if my mother is to be believed, even before that! Fiction, on the other hand, I began writing only a few years ago, and in English. The how and why of this occurrence, which had seemed organic to me at the time, I can now parse with hindsight; Hindi, the language of spontaneous expression, is the natural choice for poetry and English, the acquired medium, provides room for distance and synthesis which are essential for building stories. Of course, like everything else in life, this is not a complete explanation, nor one that is accurate on all points. After writing prose in English for a couple of years, I began writing fiction in Hindi as well, deriving a deep and unique satisfaction in the freedom and maneuverability I have in the language.
It is very important to me that I practice writing in both Hindi and English. I use “practice” here advisedly, for writing is a practice, just like law or medicine or running a triathlon. Writing fiction in two languages offers me the opportunity to observe and explore in different ways, each offering its own unique range and challenges, its muteness and volubility. These two languages, both mine in different ways, nurture and, I’d like to believe, enrich my writing.
SP: Does a story tell you what language it should be written in? Does language affect genre or form? Do you dream bilingually?
AU: Aha, what an interesting bouquet of questions! Yes, a story tells me which language it wishes to emerge in. The first rumblings of a story, the first words—a sentence or a phrase—come to me like birds coming home. Whichever language those words are in, that’s the one I work with. I have noticed that the language does not seem to have any overt or discernible connection with the plot or setting or characters. Perhaps there are certain times when I think in one language and other times in another?
No, my language has not, till now, impacted genre or form. To me, the first and foremost condition for a story is that it should hold my interest, and language has never acted as a barrier in that; it has always been only a receptacle for the story.
And do I dream in two languages? Shouldn’t the question first be—do I dream?! Yes, and yes, and I wake up to jot down the vague or sharp images that remain with me in either language.
SP: Your work explores feminism, caste, and the folklore of Rajasthan—women-centric stories with strong and uninhibited characters. Does feminism look different in Hindi and English? For example, Bhaunri (written in English) and Neena Aunty (written in Hindi) certainly have their similarities, but while Bhaunri is set in rural Rajasthan with one headstrong protagonist, Neena Aunty is about an urban family at the brink of change.
AU: I won’t say feminism looks different in the two languages; however, the unfortunate class divide that the two languages denote sometimes makes feminism different for those who speak them. Where some women are seeking equality in relationships and workplaces, others are struggling for indoor bathrooms and basic control over their own bodies. The divide between the two is a chasm, a vertiginous abyss. My two languages allow me to explore it a little. You can see this divide a bit in Bhaunri and Neena Aunty—the former is demanding fidelity in relationship, whilst the latter successfully exercises her freedom in myriad ways. However, both come up against the same thwarting, hurtful patriarchy.
SP: Do you usually find bilingual readers?
AU: Interestingly, I have come across some. There are those who have read my works in one language and then in the other as well. A number of readers have said that they reclaimed their connection with Hindi by reading my works, especially Neena Aunty.
SP: In an interview with Purple Pencil Project, you said: “At the end of the day, you as a writer are only translating—other people’s language, their collective experiences, or a collective subconscious.” Can you talk more about this?
AU: My writing emerges from triggers—verbal, visual, overheard, glimpsed momentarily. Its seed is in what is happening, or what could/should happen in the present and its possibilities. As a writer yourself, you’d understand how these seeds fall in a fortuitous, fecund moment in imagination, and then grow. I try to channel experiences and imagination that are beyond my own.
I often transcreate my own work from one language to another; I find it interesting to take an English story and rework it in Hindi, or vice versa. In the transcreation process, I see the story differently, more objectively, at a distance. My aim while writing has always been to winkle out my views, my presence, the “me-ness” in my writing, leaving the story alone so the reader will be able to read into it whatever they think or wish or believe. Working and reworking stories from one language to another seems to help this process. A few of the short stories that are included in my forthcoming collection, titled The Blue Women, are a result of this linguistic transformation. I am also planning to translate Daura into Hindi soon.
SP: In your Hindi fiction, you retain a lot of words in English, sometimes transliterating full sentences. In Neena Aunty, there is a lot of dialogue in English, especially for “modern” conceptions or certain “insults.” I’m thinking of words like molest, judgmental, scandalize, and insults like tattletale, lemon drop, etc. Is there a thought process for what words to retain?
AU: The English words are an organic part of the story’s language, just as the Rajasthani words are of Daura and Bhaunri. In Neena Aunty, they appear in the dialogues of her young nieces and nephews—there is a reason for that. I have tried to align the dialogues with the way urban people—urban youth in particular—speak. Hence, the young men and women in Neena Aunty use English words or even whole sentences. However, I am conscious of the essential integrity of the language, and have avoided them in other parts of the text.
SP: What does essential integrity of a language mean to you?
AU: To me, a single language is sufficient and capable of telling stories on its own. When writing in either Hindi or English, I always hold this principle close. If one or other, or a third (such as Rajasthani), appears in the text, it is because those words were irreplaceable in giving a sense of place, time, character, action. Forcing words for any other reason or employing them out of laziness is, to me, disrupting the integrity of the language. A language with broken integrity runs the risk of losing its wholeness, of becoming its own creole or pidgin version, and there is nothing sadder than a language reduced to less than itself because its writers are lazy or uninterested in maintaining its integrity.
SP: Although you have a formal education in literature, you’ve also studied law and worked in investment banking. As someone who grew up with a writer as a parent, you’ve talked about how you’ve always written poetry, but the publishing world came much later. What made it happen? Is your writing is influenced by your father’s works?
AU: Publishing happened through a series of fortunate coincidences which led to the manuscripts of Daura and Bhaunri landing at the desk of Rahul Soni, now my editor at HarperCollins. I had been writing fiction for a few years by then and wanted someone to read my work, to critique it and offer advice, and Rahul did just that. My gratitude towards him and my excellent publisher at HarperCollins, Udayan Mitra, is immense. The Hindi short stories too had a fortunate journey; Meera Johari, proprietor of Rajpaand Sons, read some of my work—which Prabhat Ranjan very generously presented on his well-regarded webzine, Janakipul—and offered to publish them.
As to my writing being influenced by my father—my life, my thoughts and beliefs, are influenced by him. I hope my writing is too. My father was a professor of Hindi literature and a very fine poet, writer, and critic. I grew up reading the books in his library, discussing texts and writers and writing with him every day. We spoke every morning on my way to work and his first question would always be—did you write anything new or read anything new? In many ways, my writing is a tribute to him.
SP: I notice your English writing gets more visibility—what do you feel about the two different publishing environments?
AU: The English publishing world is better organized, has professional editors and other trained professionals involved in the process, and hence the publishing and post-publishing experience is smoother. However, something that haunts both the Hindi and English world is a lack of funds for publicizing books. Publishing is an important service culturally, socially, and intellectually, but at the end of the day, it is a business. The publishing houses need to make money and therefore tend to invest their limited resources in products that sell, perpetuating the cycle. It is a tough cycle to break, but break it we must. I am not crusading against the capitalist system, I worked in it for a long while; I am just saying we need to find innovative, disruptive ways to get literary works across to people. It is up to us—people, citizens, readers. This topic merits a whole long conversation on its own!
SP: I’ve asked you a lot about what changes through different languages—but what remains the same? Where do Hindi and English meet, linguistically and culturally? I also imagine how diverse your English must be, considering you’ve spent a lot of time in Singapore, Hong Kong, and New York. Does the shape of English keep changing, and does Hindi remain static?
AU: What remains the same is us; we remain the same in every language, our feelings, our needs, our wishes, dreams, imagination. Our compulsion to tell stories remains the same. The two languages are two paths to approach our complex soul—an amalgam of the ancient culture that has existed for thousands of years and the young nation brought into being by colonial rulers, united by our desire for freedom and divided by our hankering of a storied past. Hindi and English are uniquely suited to telling the stories of this nation of ours. They provide ingress into the lives and worlds of those who are surviving or thriving, aspiring or despairing.
That’s an interesting question you’ve asked about the shape of language in different places. It has given me much to reflect upon. I found English in Asia a tad more formal, a bit less pliable compared to the western countries. There is always an awareness that for some, however familiar the language might be, it is still a foreign implant. The local cadences of the Cantonese accent in Hong Kong, Singlish in Singapore, or the Mumbai slang does add a kind of piquancy, but one can enjoy it only if they are prepared to give up the purist view of language.
Anukrti Upadhyay has post-graduate degrees in Management and Literature, and a graduate degree in Law. She writes fiction and poetry in both English and Hindi. Her English works, twin novellas Daura and Bhaunri, and novel Kintsugi have been published by the 4th Estate imprint of HarperCollins in India, and has been awarded the Sushila Devi Award for the best work of fiction written by a woman author in 2020 for Kintsugi. Her Hindi works—a short story collection, Japani Sarai, and novel Neena Aunty—were published by Rajpal and Sons. Her writings have appeared in Scroll.in, The Bombay Review, The Bangalore Review, The Bilingual Window, and several Hindi publications.
Suhasini Patni is a freelance writer based in Jaipur and Delhi.
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