Rating: 3/5
I am someone who ran away from mythological fiction, until a few months ago. When I started dabbling in the genre, what intrigued me most were the Mahabharata retellings. However, to understand the perspective of these modern retellings, I had to go back to the roots of the original texts. Now I am not familiar with Sanskrit, the language the original texts are in, and honestly, nor do I have the patience to read the archaic language. So I did the next best thing; I asked the people around me for the best English translation and Bibek Roy’s translations topped the list. This book is his latest release, and its about a person who translated the same books in his time that Debroy has now, and it’s the story of that man.
This is a memoir of a person about whom not much has been said in history. He was a writer, a translator, an entrepreneur, a publisher in his own right, and yet all that are available are fragments of his existence which somewhat make sense if you make some intelligent guesses. Needless to say, a lot of research went into this book and it shows!
What attracted me the most about the book was the sheer coincidence of it. Every book that Debroy has translated now, was once translated by this man. Yet, his existence is lost in the pages of our history, except when it peeks out in some corner or the other.
The story starts with zeroing in on who this person was. In 19th-20th century Calcutta, Manmatha Nath Dutt wasn’t a very unique name. But keeping in mind the timeline and making some accountable assumptions, it became possible. Further on, the books he translated, the ones he authored, his own magazine, his family and his printing press and everything has been talked about.
What I also liked was how the book portrayed British India and all we went through as a country in a whole different light. Not just the British era, this thing applies to all of history as a whole. There were so many people who once lived like us, working decent jobs and walking on roads and making a life for themselves, and how they are now just unnamed souls forgotten from pages and memories alike. There is no proof of their identification, nor existence. Yet we know they were here. I don’t think I have ever come across something like this in any other book.
It is important to understand that the genre of this book is to its very niche – the story of a man who translated books and his name is not widely well known. There are various reasons (rather could-be reasons) for why that was, but that’s beyond the point.
Honestly, there were multiple points in the book when I did not really connect with what was given. The book is highly data driven, as expected out of a memoir, and the fact that the premise is partially built on assumptions made me uneasy. I have a lot of questions about Manmath Nath Dutt for who he was and there is no way to get any answers for that.
I would recommend this book only if you’re someone who is either very engrossed in reading Indian mythology translations or in knowing the story of a man from British-ruled India who translated books and wrote some and was forgotten for the longest time upon his death.
Reviewed by Muskan Rajani
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