RM: Congratulations Purnima on the publication of your translation On the Banks of the Pampa. At the very outset I would like to ask you, how do you choose your texts for translation? What made you choose this one?

PT: Thank you. My usual answer to how I choose texts for translation is that I select some stories, and some stories select me. At the heart of it, though, it’s always about how deeply I connect with a work and how relevant it feels to our times and our lives.

On the Banks of the Pampa, like all great literature, holds many layers. When I first read it in the original, it struck me as an ecological reimagining of myth. In this age overshadowed by climate change, I felt a quiet urgency to translate it. The text challenges our human-centred ways of thinking, our definitions of knowledge and dharma, and instead, gently invites us to listen, to belong, and to see ourselves as part of the living world.

RM: I was quite taken with the conversation you and the author have at the end of the book as a postscript. It is not something that is usually found in a work of translation. What did you hope to achieve by its addition?

PT: The credit for including our conversation at the end of the book goes entirely to the editorial team at HarperCollins. They’ve been doing this for several of their translation projects, and I think it’s a lovely practice.

You’re right—most translated books typically include a translator’s note or a foreword discussing the work, but a conversation between the writer and the translator is still quite rare. I thought it made for a beautiful addition.

There were a couple of things that pleasantly surprised me about how that conversation took shape. First, the usual hierarchy between writer and translator felt blurred—we shared the space equally, as collaborators. Second, we were able to go beyond just this particular book and speak about the larger practice of translation: the process, the challenges, and what it means to bring stories across languages.

I hope it offers readers not just a glimpse into our decisions and dilemmas, but also a sense of the mutual respect and deep love for literature that both Volga garu and I bring to our work.

RM: In the postscript, you interestingly mention how we are becoming parts of ‘echo chambers’ that hinder productive dialogue. How much do writers and translators in the present publication landscape need to deal with this phenomenon and yet retain an identity in showcasing their work?

PT: When I referred to ‘echo chambers’ in the postscript, I was thinking about the increasing polarisation we see today—especially how people often remain confined to specific ideological or linguistic spaces, limiting meaningful exchange. This applies just as much to the literary and publishing landscape.

One echo chamber I notice quite often—as a writer and publisher working in an Indian language—is the dominance of English in the discourse around translations. While it’s encouraging that more attention is being given to Indian language writing, the conversations are still largely happening in English, and often among English-language translators alone. Very rarely do we see events or platforms that bring Indian language translators into conversation with one another, or with those working into English. That lack of cross-dialogue can be limiting.

Another issue that comes to mind is the persistent idea that translation is simply a labour of love. While passion is undoubtedly part of the process, without fair compensation and meaningful recognition, it’s difficult for many translators—especially those working from marginalised languages or regions—to sustain this work. If we don’t challenge these assumptions, the field risks becoming accessible only to those who already have resources or privilege.

As for retaining one’s identity while navigating such a space, I think it’s about staying rooted in the stories we believe in, and being in community with others who share that commitment. For me, translating is not just about the words. It’s about bridging gaps, holding space for nuance, and listening across differences. That, I believe, is how we resist echo chambers: by continuing to engage, even when it’s difficult, and by insisting on multiplicity—in languages, in viewpoints, and in voices.

RM: From the very first chapter, the description of the forest reveals that the original text must have been very musical. How challenging was it for you to transfer some of that lyricism in English which is a very stress-timed language?

PT: Yes, absolutely. Right from the first chapter, the forest in On the Banks of the Pampa feels like a living presence—humming with rhythm, breath, and a quiet charm. The original Telugu carries a gentle, almost meditative lyricism. It’s richly textured, and the language flows in a way that feels deeply rooted in the landscape it describes.

Bringing that kind of musicality into English—which works very differently as a stress-timed language with its own cadences—was definitely a challenge. But one of the distinctive qualities of Volga garu’s prose is that it isn’t ornamental or overly Sanskritised, as many myth-based narratives tend to be. Her writing is simple, accessible, and powerfully visual—almost cinematographic in places. That clarity actually made my work a little easier, because I could focus more on conveying the imagery, rather than wrestling with dense prose.

Of course, the innate musicality and cadence of her Telugu is a special gift for Telugu readers. English readers may only get an echo of that in translation—but I hope even that echo carries something of the mood and spirit of the original.

RM: Indeed. You have retained certain regional words, especially those which have a philosophical underpinning. What drove you to choose and retain some of the words while leaving out others? How do you build the text around those words for lucid comprehension?

PT:  In my first draft, I had translated almost all the philosophical terms into English—except for something like dharma and jaati, which is already widely familiar. My reasoning was simple: since the book is short and intense, I didn’t want to interrupt the reader’s experience with footnotes. Also, a word like nagarikata, although present in many Indian languages, carries different connotations in each. I didn’t want to risk misleading readers by leaving it open.

But when I submitted the draft, Volga garu suggested that we retain some key Telugu words, as the crux of the novel lies in those words. The editorial team was open to the idea, and I then had to go back and rework the manuscript to bring those words back in.

Of course, reverting doesn’t just mean replacing one word with another. Literary translation is rarely that straightforward. I had to revise the surrounding sentences to ensure these Telugu words felt organic to the flow and rhythm of the English narrative. One particular challenge was when such a word appeared first in a line of dialogue. In the narrative, you can gently gloss a word, but in dialogue that would sound unnatural. So I had to find ways to carry the meaning—not just in the word itself, but also in how the sentences build up to it, letting the weight of the idea come through gradually.

My editor, Rinita Banerjee, was wonderfully generous during this stage of revision. She helped me shape those moments with care and balance.

Since this is a novella, and the reader has limited space and time to absorb everything, we decided not to retain every culturally rooted word. For example, a word like sadgati wasn’t carried over. Instead, we chose to retain only those Telugu terms that were central to the novel’s key arguments and philosophical depth.

RM:  You mention in the postscript that translating a text set in the ancient mythological age is a challenge because one has to move away from contemporary linguistic influences. How have you navigated this challenge? Can we really escape language in the age of digital media?

PT: Yes, it’s a real challenge. When you’re translating a work set in a mythological time, you can’t lean on everyday, contemporary idioms. The tone has to evoke a world that feels older, more elemental, without sounding artificially “ancient.” In On the Banks of the Pampa, the original Telugu naturally carries that sense because of its cultural and linguistic roots. My task was to choose English that could suggest that atmosphere without slipping into a stiff, archaic language.

Of course, we live in a time when our language is shaped every day by social media, memes, and fast-moving digital exchanges. I don’t think it’s possible — or even necessary — to fully escape that influence. What matters is to be conscious of it. In this translation, I kept my sentences tighter, with a more deliberate rhythm, and avoided words or turns of phrase that felt too modern or casual. It’s not about shutting out the present-day language, but about letting the world of the text decide the register and tone.

RM: You are a writer as well as a translator. How has your own writing and experience with publication influenced your translation? How much of one’s own writerly self can a translator bring to the table?

PT: Being a writer has certainly helped in how I translate. When you’ve lived inside your own sentences, you develop a sensitivity to rhythm, pacing, and the emotional weight of every single word. That instinct naturally carries over into translation — you’re not just matching meaning, you’re listening for the breath of the text.

At the same time, I’m careful not to let my own style overshadow the author’s. A translator’s “writerly self” can’t take centre stage, but it’s always present — in the choices of cadence, in how you untangle a tricky sentence, in the decision of what to retain from the source language. It’s a balance: you bring your sensibility, but always in service to the original voice.

Wearing my publisher’s hat adds another layer. I think not only about fidelity to the text, but also about accessibility — how to present the work so it meets the reader halfway. Translators are often asked why they chose a particular word or phrase, and the assumption is that it must be the most beautiful or inventive option. But often the real challenge lies in finding the word that is faithful both to the spirit of the original and to the reader’s world.

RM: Since you translate from and to Telugu, I am curious, how far is retention of Indian words while translating between Indian languages possible? What can you tell us about this from your experience of translating Manto and Amrita Pritam in Telugu? Does your translating experience change with the change of the linguistic medium?

PT: As I’ve said in the interview at the end of the book, English does pose a different set of challenges than our Indian languages—but translation into any language is no cakewalk. Even when we share cultural context as Indians, and even when certain words share the same Sanskrit root, their connotations can differ sharply.

Take the word nagarikata. In Telugu and Kannada, it primarily means ‘civilization’ or ‘cultured-ness’. In Hindi and Bangla, however, it carries the meaning of ‘citizenship’. In a novel like Pampa’s, where the term is central to the ideas being discussed, such shifts matter. Anyone translating it into Indian languages will have much to deliberate on.

Another example: in Manto’s Khol Do, there’s mention of razakars—volunteers rescuing abducted women during Partition. For Telugus, especially Telanganites, the word is deeply loaded, recalling the violence unleashed by the Nizam’s razakars. As a translator, do I use the word because it exists in my target language, or avoid it because of this charged history? In the end, I chose to retain it, trusting that a discerning reader would understand its import in Manto’s context.

My own experience has been quite different when translating into Telugu versus English. Between Hindustani and Telugu, I could often keep my ‘unit of translation’—the chunk of text I work with—at the sentence level. What the writer says in Hindustani is usually enough, because in our languages, you can say a lot by saying very little. In English, however, the unit often stretches beyond the sentence. What is implied in Telugu, I’ve had to make explicit in English.

Much also depends on the text itself. Both Manto and Amrita Pritam were writing when the wounds of the partition were still raw—their works are trauma-heavy, but linguistically accessible. The two books I’ve translated into English, though, are different: Pampa’s novel, steeped in philosophical terms and set in mythical antiquity, and Mallu Swarajyam’s memoir, rooted in a hyper-local people’s movement with its own vocabulary. Comparing my experience of translating into Telugu and into English, then, is really like comparing apples to oranges.

RM: Translation seems to be having its moment under the sun. Yet there still exists a wide gap between the writer and translator and how these two writing positions are viewed in the publishing industry. What are your views on this matter?

PT: I’m thankful that translation into English is having its moment in the sun. While I’ve said earlier that the limelight on English translations alone can limit the greater good, I must admit I have benefitted immensely from it as someone with access to English. I owe much to accomplished translators like Arshia Sattar, Rakshanda Jalil, Vanamala Vishwanath, J Devika, Kalyan Ram, and Arunava Sinha, who have generously shared their knowledge in public forums, especially outside academic spaces. During the pandemic, many translation sessions on Zoom were made public, and their recordings became a treasure trove. These not only deepened my understanding of literary translation but also offered practical insights on navigating publishing as a translator.

Over the past decade, I believe the gap between writers and translators has begun to close. Personally, as a reader, J Devika is as much a hero to me as KR Meera. Within India, awards like the JCB Literary Prize—which places translations from Indian languages on an equal footing—have been game changers. And with Geetanjali Shree–Daisy Rockwell and Banu Mushtaq–Deepa Basti winning the International Booker Prize, the critical role of translators in bringing our stories to global readers is being recognized as never before.

We must acknowledge the persistent efforts of translators who brought us to this stage. Much more sustained work will be needed to further close the gap between writers and translators. But at the end of the day, we are in the business of making and selling books. If we can build readership for translated works and make writers from any Indian language household names across the country, that gap will continue to collapse is my hope.

RM: You have worked with Volga Garu ji who is herself a translator. How has your experience been working with her? Also, how collaborative does a work of translation need to be?

PT: I’ve worked with Volga garu in two different capacities — first, as a translator of her work into English, and second, as an editor and publisher of two of her translations into Telugu (from English) through Elami Publications. Because she is herself a translator, with a deep understanding of both the workings of English and the challenges translations can pose, working with her has been both a joy and a rich learning experience.

For the Pampa book, our collaboration was especially close. We brainstormed translation strategies together, navigating one of the novel’s central challenges — its brevity. In Telugu, so much is implied without being stated. My task was to carry that subtlety into English while still making the text accessible. Volga garu’s inputs on when to make something explicit and when to refrain from explanation or self-glossing were invaluable. Our many discussions on the very ideas the text proposes were themselves a kind of education.

This book was also special to me because I had never before translated a text in consultation with its author. With Manto, Amrita Pritam, and Mallu Swarajyam, I was working with the words of our ancestors — I could only hope and pray they would bless me and the translation from above.

How collaborative a translation needs to be depends entirely on the text and context. For instance, I recently translated a short story by Volga, set in contemporary times, and it was relatively straightforward — hardly any debate or extended discussion or revisiting was needed.

RM: What are the works that you have recently read that have stayed with you? What can we look forward to from you in the near future?

PT: Ever since I started Elami, I’ve had very little time to read purely for pleasure. Most of my reading now revolves around texts I’m translating or selecting for publication. That said, Samantha Harvey’s Orbital, which I managed to read early this year, struck me with its meditative prose. And Frederik Backman’s Anxious People has been an absolute delight—both are rare exceptions in recent times.

My translation of Mallu Swarajyam’s memoir is forthcoming from SouthSide Books and Zubaan. Another work slated for release this year is my Telugu translation of Vadivasal, the graphic novel by Perumal Murugan and Appupen. And then there’s the nearly 600 pages of Manto’s short stories and essays that I’ve translated—sitting with me, waiting to be published under Elami. I keep hoping (and praying) that I’ll manage to bring it out by next year.