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By:

Dr. Kailash Atkare

24 June 2025 at 1:30:23 pm

Fakira in Translation: Preserving a Revolutionary Legacy

The sublime ideology of translation is aptly expressed by R. Parthasarathy, who describes translation as the oxygen of language, and by Walter Benjamin, who states that translation is not merely a matter of words but of making culture intelligible. This philosophy is exemplified by the eminent translator, distinguished academician, administrator, and humanist Prof. Dr. Baliram Gaikwad through his artistic English translation of Fakira, the groundbreaking Marathi novel by Sahitya Ratna...

Fakira in Translation: Preserving a Revolutionary Legacy

The sublime ideology of translation is aptly expressed by R. Parthasarathy, who describes translation as the oxygen of language, and by Walter Benjamin, who states that translation is not merely a matter of words but of making culture intelligible. This philosophy is exemplified by the eminent translator, distinguished academician, administrator, and humanist Prof. Dr. Baliram Gaikwad through his artistic English translation of Fakira, the groundbreaking Marathi novel by Sahitya Ratna Lokshahir Annabhau Sathe. India has a rich tradition of translation, deeply rooted in its multilingual and multicultural fabric. Mulk Raj Anand explored this tradition in his essay The Importance of English, presenting a perspective free from colonialism. This view aptly justifies the translation of Fakira. Annabhau Sathe was a great social revolutionary, writer, reformer, and people's activist, educated in the school of experience. Fakira, his magnum opus, portrays both an individual and a symbol of resistance against systemic oppression. The narrative traces Fakira's transformation from a victim of caste-based exploitation into a rebel challenging the feudal and colonial order, echoing the spirit of social justice movements inspired by Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar. Deeply rooted in the lived realities of marginalised communities, particularly the Dalit experience in colonial India, Fakira stands as a groundbreaking work. It narrates the class and caste struggle of a hero committed to the welfare of ordinary people while unfolding a saga of social, political, economic, and spiritual awakening through a humanitarian approach. The novel reflects Dr. Ambedkar's philosophy, his struggle against slavery and untouchability, and the spirit of rebellion. Through Fakira, Sathe upholds moral integrity, a strong code of ethics, respect for women, social values, justice, courageous leadership, and the pursuit of freedom. One memorable episode illustrates these ideals. During a raid to seize hoarded wealth, a frightened woman pleads, "Take whatever wealth you want, but please do not dishonour my daughter." Fakira replies, "I am not that kind of man. We are not here to touch anyone's honour. We only take what is unjustly hoarded. Your daughter is like our own sister." Translation is a challenging undertaking, and Dr. Baliram Gaikwad has done full justice to Fakira. By crossing linguistic and regional boundaries, he has made this remarkable work accessible to readers worldwide without diluting its cultural specificity. Translating a work so deeply rooted in regional idiom, folklore, and socio-political context is no easy task. The translator successfully retains the earthy texture of Sathe's prose. Artistic creation, translational finesse, and aesthetic values—the pillars of translation—are reflected throughout his work, enabling readers to experience the emotional intensity and narrative vigour of the original. The rustic dialogues are translated with sensitivity, preserving both authenticity and clarity. The novel stands as a counter-narrative to mainstream literary traditions that have historically marginalised voices from the lower strata of society. Fakira is not merely a character but a collective consciousness representing the aspirations and struggles of an oppressed community. By exposing caste discrimination, poverty, and injustice, the novel challenges romanticised notions of rural life and may be regarded as a precursor to the assertive voice of Dalit literature in modern Indian writing. Although certain nuances of Marathi—its rhythm, cultural connotations, and oral storytelling tradition—are inevitably difficult to reproduce, Dr. Gaikwad addresses these challenges through careful lexical choices and contextual framing. Fakira explores resistance, dignity, and identity, moving far beyond the Robin Hood archetype. The protagonist wages a multilayered struggle against British rule, feudalism, caste oppression, and poverty. Despite enduring caste discrimination, economic exploitation, and humiliation, Fakira and his community fight with dignity, courage, and exceptional nationalist fervour. This layered portrayal elevates the novel from a socio-political document to a profound literary work, while its straightforward narrative effectively sustains dramatic tension and emotional engagement. Dr Gaikwad's balanced use of language, rustic idioms, folk expressions, and region-specific dialect creates a simple, lucid, and accessible English style, making the translation ofFakira a successful bridge between regional literature and global readership. As Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak observed, a translator must surrender to the text. Dr. Gaikwad has fulfilled this responsibility with sincerity, making a valuable contribution to Indian literature in translation. Fakira is a manifestation of India's rural revolution. The protagonist joins the freedom movement and contributes to the larger struggle for social change.
(The writer is an assistant professor of English literature. Views personal.)

The Soul of Bharat on the Big Screen

Mumbai: April 4, 2025, my heart feels heavier than it ever has. The news hit me like a monsoon storm—Manoj Kumar, the towering legend of Bollywood, the man who painted patriotism across our screens, is no more. At 87, he slipped away at Mumbai’s Kokilaben Dhirubhai Ambani Hospital, leaving behind a reel of memories that flicker in my mind like a projector that won’t stop spinning. As a movie fan who grew up with his films, I’m not just mourning an actor—I’m grieving the loss of a piece of my soul, a piece of India itself. They called him "Bharat Kumar," and oh, how he earned that name.


I remember the first time I saw ‘Upkar’ (1967). I was a kid, sprawled on the living room floor, eyes glued to our old TV. Manoj ji played Bharat, the farmer who gave everything—his dreams, his love—for his country’s soil. That song, “Mere Desh Ki Dharti,” wasn’t just a tune; it was a heartbeat, pulsing with pride and sacrifice. I’d hum it walking to school, feeling like I, too, could be that noble, that selfless. He won a National Film Award for that one, and rightly so—it wasn’t acting; it was living.

Then there was ‘Shaheed’ (1965), where he brought Bhagat Singh back to life. I’d sit there, popcorn forgotten, as he roared defiance against the British, his eyes blazing with a fire that could’ve lit up the darkest colonial night. It wasn’t just a film—it was a revolution on celluloid, a call to remember the blood that bought our freedom. Manoj ji didn’t just play the martyr; he became him, and every time I watch it, I feel that lump in my throat, that sting in my eyes. It’s no wonder it snagged three National Awards—his passion was a gift to us all.


Oh, and ‘Purab Aur Paschim’ (1970)—how do I even begin? He directed and starred as Bharat again, this time wrestling with the clash of East and West, showing us the beauty of our roots while the world tried to pull us away. I’d laugh at Saira Banu’s antics, then choke up when Manoj ji stood tall, singing “Hai Preet Jahan Ki Reet Sada.” It was a blockbuster, sure, but it was more—it was a love letter to India, penned in his signature hand-over-face style. That move, mocked by some, was his shield, his quiet strength, and I adored it.

And who could forget ‘Roti Kapda Aur Makaan’ (1974)? He directed and starred as Bharat—again, because who else could?—tackling poverty, injustice, and the gut-wrenching struggle for the basics of life. I’d watch, fists clenched, as he fought for the everyman, his voice cracking with raw emotion. It wasn’t just a movie; it was a mirror to our society, a cry for change. Seven Filmfare Awards across his career, they say, but this one felt like it carried them all—his heart bled through every frame.


Then there’s ‘Kranti’ (1981), the epic that had me on the edge of my seat. Manoj ji as the freedom fighter, leading Dilip Kumar and Hema Malini through a storm of rebellion—it was grand, it was gritty, it was everything Bollywood could be. “Zindagi Ki Na Toote Ladi” still echoes in my ears, a reminder of the battles he fought on screen, battles that felt so real I’d dream of joining the fight. He didn’t just direct that film; he sculpted a monument to resilience, and I’d cheer like a fool every time he outsmarted the British.


As I sit here, flipping through these memories, I can’t help but feel cheated. Manoj Kumar wasn’t just an actor or director—he was family. Born Harikrishan Goswami in 1937, he carried the Partition’s scars from Abbottabad to Delhi, turning pain into purpose. He gave us over 50 films in a career spanning four decades, snagging the Padma Shri in 1992 and the Dadasaheb Phalke Award in 2015—honors that felt too small for a man who gave India its cinematic soul. His last role in ‘Jai Hind’ (1999) might’ve flopped, but it didn’t dim his light in my eyes.


I’d read how he met Bhagat Singh’s mother before ‘Shaheed’, seeking her blessing—can you imagine the weight of that? Or how PM Lal Bahadur Shastri urged him to make ‘Upkar’ after the 1965 war, handing him “Jai Jawan Jai Kisan” like a sacred torch? That’s who he was—a man who didn’t just entertain but carried a nation’s dreams.


Manoj ji, you weren’t just “Bharat Kumar” to me—you were the uncle who taught me pride, the friend who shared my anger, the poet who sang my hopes. Your films weren’t movies; they were my childhood, my rebellion, my tears. I’ll miss you like I miss the India you dreamed of—flawed, fierce, and forever ours. Rest in peace, sir. Om Shanti.

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