Read 15 of 2023. Hospital by Sanya Rushdi. Translated from the Bengali by Arunava Sinha

I read “Hospital” with trepidation. I was apprehensive about getting triggered regarding my mental health issues, but if anything, I am glad I read it, because while it may seem that the book is about descent into madness and maybe to some extent it is, but it is also about so much more. It is primarily about language, and Arunava Sinha being the translator par excellence that he is uses it sometimes playfully, sometimes using melancholia, mostly matter-of-fact, and sometimes as a means of self-exploration for the protagonist Sanya (yeah, it is a metanovel inspired by real-life events). He is in absolute sync with the mindset of the writer, the protagonist, and more than anything else with where the story unfolds – that in a hospital in Australia.

The story is told from the perspective of a patient – all in first person – of Sanya’s feelings, of what is unravelling slowly yet surely, of what is hidden behind a wall of caution when it comes to giving away too much, of safeguarding oneself and seeing the world as an enemy by and large, Hospital asks big questions: What is sanity? Who is sane? What is the societal parameter of someone being sane or not? And all of this is questionable a little more than ever, because you as a reader are made aware from the first page that the narration could be unreliable, but you cannot help it – you have to read it, you have to know how is it going to be for Sanya – what her life is going to turn out like – how her world is constantly shifting and changing.

Arunava’s translations are always a delight to read. He gets into the skin of language, and what emerges is something extraordinarily unique only to what he has translated from the source. Hospital cuts like a knife and makes you so uncomfortable as a reader, which I think should be one of the objectives of literature – to shake the reader, to get us to spaces that are suffocating, and make us see things – whether we trust them or not, rely on them or not, that is secondary – in fact should not even be considered, given how the story propels us further.

Hospital by Sanya Rushdi quietly takes you by the hand, and then leaves you to your own device in the mind of the protagonist. We live with her, and see the world through her, the places we know, and the places we are made aware of. The titular place then becomes most ordinary, turns extraordinary, lets us in, and makes us see all the failings and sometimes joy of living.

Read 14 of 2023. Greek Lessons by Han Kang. Translated from the Korean by Deborah Smith and Emily Yae Won.

Greek Lessons is something that needs to be savoured, and taken in slowly. You cannot read it in one sitting, and while it may seem a deceptively small book, do not be fooled. Its ideas, expression, emotions, and thoughts are huge, and take time to process, to understand, to make sense of, and ultimately connect with.

Greek Lessons also grows on the reader. I must admit that initially I thought it was going nowhere, but as the relationship between the two protagonists develops, takes a certain unnameable form and shape, you begin to see the layers Kang lays out for the reader – the several emotions that are in conflict, and done in both first person, for the man and third person, for the woman.

The woman has lost her mother, and is still processing the loss of her son to the custody of her ex-husband, and in all of this, she loses her ability to speak. The man is on the other hand trying to make sense of his life, of identity, of belonging, and to come to terms with the loss of his eyesight, that will eventually blind him. It is with all of this happening that the woman begins attending ancient Greek lessons taught by the man at a private academy, and their relationship forms shape from thereon.

There is no definite plot. There is no definite structure. The characters are unnamed, even though the entire book is about them. The discourse on language and what remains and what leaves during translation is almost meta, given the book is a translation from the Korean by Deborah Smith and Emily Yae Won – so it is almost surreal to see how language sometimes fails in expression of grief – to the point of learning a new one and yet not being able to express. In how ideas that come through by the use of language maybe aren’t enough – of how a man who has the words, doesn’t have the emotions, and the woman who has all the emotion, is short of words.

Greek Lessons is everything and nothing at all – all at the same time. You can clearly see the woman struggling with space – physical, metaphorical, and mostly when it comes to language. Han Kang’s women whether it is in The Vegetarian or even in Human Acts are constantly struggling with themselves and the world, and this beautiful translation depicts it in more than one way.

Read 12 of 2023. Byobu by Ida Vitale. Translated from the Spanish by Sean Manning

I tried a lot to like this book but couldn’t. While the sentences, and the words that join them are sheer poetry, they somehow do not make any sense, and when they do, those moments are rare (or were for me at least). We know that there is a protagonist named, “Byobu” and things are happening to them, and the blurb also mentioned that “Byobu” is more of a spiritual character, and their experiences are somewhat other worldly but honestly, I couldn’t feel any of that.

The writing gets too self-indulgent at most times, leaving the reader hunting for scraps to hold onto. I honestly had a tough time trying to get through the 120 odd-pages. Like I said, the writing is to some extent excellent, but I needed a plot and something more as a reader, which I didn’t find at all. As for the translation, I wish it were made easier for the reader’s sensibilities. It seemed way convoluted and in over its own head.

Read 8 of 2023. Children of Paradise by Camilla Grudova

I was really looking forward to reading this one, and I absolutely enjoyed it as well. Vignettes of a time gone by, of a place you don’t know, though it could be any place at all in the world, since it is set in a dilapidated cinema hall – a recollection of how it used to be – and how it also is in some parts of the world, where the multiplex culture hasn’t seeped in.

However, having said this, “Children of Paradise” is for me about life and fiction merging beautifully, through a medium we all can relate to – that of illusions, of what we see on the screen, of how that becomes life for those couple of hours, and we get a chance to escape all drudgery, till we realize that the lives on-screen are also pretty much the same.

“Children of Paradise” is an homage to cinema, to the yesteryears perhaps, and also to the people who live on the margins – on the sidelines, watching it all go by, as though their lives are cinematic too – almost fictional, and sometimes way too real. The chapters started with movies that I guess Grudova has loved over time, or as a reference to the protagonist, or in some way connected to the plot, which I could not fathom.

Having said all of this, “Children of Paradise” is simply about the people who inhabit the space “Paradise Cinema” – the ones who were banished to Earth, each searching for their own share of paradise – each of them not wanting to let go, each trying so hard to form their own realities, in a world of smoke and screen.

Read 6 of 2023. The Possession by Annie Ernaux. Translated from the French by Anna Moschovakis

Jealousy. The rawness of this emotion perhaps cannot be compared to any other. It slices you open, and you lay bleeding – for all to see, because it is visible – that’s what this emotion ensures – to come in plain view. It is as though you are different person under its spell, and hence you are possessed – as Ernaux was when jealous of an ex-lover’s current partner.

There is no timeline in this very slim work about this emotion. And like all Ernaux’s books, this memoir feels as though it belongs to the reader – it is always that close to home (at least for me). “The Possession” made me see myself as that person in love – the one that is obsessed with the other – the one that will not let go, the one that seeks closure but is unable to find it, the one that seethes in his own agony and suffering, day after day, wanting the same for the lover that once was.

She wants him back (is it because someone else has him now?). She years. She longs. She wants. “I want to fuck you and make you forget the other woman”, she says, and you know that everything before and after doesn’t matter. Ernaux’s writing is not only lucid but also it is the story of writing this book – how she wants to pour her emotions on paper, how that is perhaps the only way she will find some comfort – she may have given up everything else in the name of love or desire, but not her writing.

Anna Moschovakis’ translation is stunning, and you can tell by every sentence and every word used in all its glory, and brevity. Ernaux’s emotions I think may not have been easy to put on paper even in the original, and for Moschovakis to translate it the way she has is commendable.

The Possession entered me through its pages, and I have a very strong feeling that it will not let go for a while now. And I also feel the same way. I also want to be the other. The one who has him. The several others who are now with my several hims.