7 must-read translated Indian novels that retain their soul

Indian Express

12 hours ago

Written By Prachi Mishra
In India, the landscape changes every few hundred kilometres, and so does the language. A phrase uttered in one village might sound completely different a district away. At times, it's a new dialect. At times, it is an entirely new language. Thus, in a nation woven together by its multilingualism, translation is not merely a creative decision; it's a cultural imperative. But with each act of translation, there is a silent risk attached to it, the risk of something slipping between the cracks. It may mean losing nuance, humour, agony, the rhythm of a sentence or simply the weight of a silence.
But, as Ken Liu reminds us, 'Every act of communication is a miracle of translation.' And that's exactly why, when translation succeeds, it is rather more than ability. It is more like alchemy. Let us take a look at few Indian books that have traversed linguistic boundaries without diluting their emotional and literary content.
Srinath Perur translated this book from Kannada to English in 2015. Ghachar Ghochar shows how unexpected wealth changes a family in ways people don't notice. The story's main character, who doesn't have a name, lives well in Bangalore now. He sees how money breaks down his family's sense of right and wrong. The made-up phrase 'ghachar ghochar' means a mix of feelings, values, and how people connect. Shanbhag writes without extra words, and Perur keeps this style in the translation. This helps readers feel the tight calm mood of the book. The main character asks, ''When the house is on fire, do you waste time chasing rats?' In just over 100 pages, this book shows how respectability can conceal rot, cutting straight to the heart of familial dysfunction.
Against the backdrop of Partition, Tamas is a sobering portrayal of how communal violence is engineered. Translated into Hindi and published in 1974, the novel begins with the sight of a pig's carcass hurled outside a mosque, a minor action that has disastrous fallout. Bhisham Sahni himself translated the book into English so that nothing was lost in terms of tone or emotion. Through various characters – Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, and colonial officials, he reveals how riots are more planned and less spontaneous. 'The riots had not erupted,' he writes, 'they had been ignited.' With understated prose and unflinching honesty, Tamas remains one of the most haunting literary documents of Partition.
Published in 1974, With the translation into English by Samik Bandyopadhyay, the novella stands as an intimate portrait of political violence that soon casts an enormous shadow across the reader's consciousness. Written in Bengali, it begins with Sujata, a middle-class homemaker, being asked to visit a morgue to identify her son who was murdered for being with the Naxalite movement and was given the designation, 'Corpse No. 1084.' Saddened, Sujata embarks on questioning her own position and privilege; she questions inaction on her part as well as society's gruesome acceptance of this injustice. 'I gave him birth. And the state gave him death,' she says, encapsulating the novel's emotional and political weight. The translation is stark and elegant, echoing Mahasweta Devi's fiery critique of state repression and class apathy.
Moustache, a dark folk story set in Kerala's backwaters first came out in Malayalam in 2013. Jayasree Kalathil translated it later. The book tells the story of a man from a lower caste who grows a moustache. This facial hair, a symbol of upper-caste male power, causes wonder, jealousy, and dread. As the moustache gets bigger – like something out of a myth – Hareesh looks at caste, manhood, and fighting back. He does this through a dreamlike tale full of rich details. Kalathil's translation won the JCB Prize for Literature in 2020. People praised it for keeping the poetic feel and political punch of the original work. In the book, the moustache 'comes to life – growing rebellion.' By doing this, it becomes a story about getting back one's honor.
This peculiar short Bengali novella from 1993, which Arunava Sinha translated to English, features a deceased aunt who lingers in the family's thoughts, both as a spirit and a symbol of resistance. The tale intertwines the experiences of women across three generations as they grapple with rich male dominance, and the weight of tradition. Mukhopadhyay's writing has a whimsical touch but also contains many depths blending the with everyday gender bias and pointed social commentary. Sinha's translation keeps the wit and closeness while bringing out its feminist undertones. 'It's not death that scares me,' says the aunt, 'it's forgetting.' It is a book that keeps reverberating after the slim volume is set down.
Published for the first time in 1889, Indulekha is regarded as the first full-fledged Malayalam novel and continues to be remarkably forward-thinking for its era. Written in the midst of British colonial times, it is a narrative of an educated, smart Nair woman who goes against the norms to exercise her right to choose. O. Chandu Menon's incisively ironic voice and social commentary come into English translation through Anitha Devasia, whose translation maintains the Victorian-era vocabulary but brings the text to within reach of contemporary readers. The novel lightly challenges orthodoxy without discounting cultural identity. Its eponymous heroine's announcement, 'A woman with learning is feared by men who do not understand her', rings like a call across the ages.
The Bride, written in Maithili in the 1950s, is both comical and sharp in its satirical thrust from the rural heart of Bihar. Harimohan Jha satirizes social customs of dowry, arranged marriages, and Brahmanical pride through the narrative of an overloaded scholar trying to cope with the absurdities of wedding negotiations. Translated into English by Lalit Kumar, the novel's humor and cultural particularity survive translation without sacrificing readability. Its appeal lies in how lightly it wears its satire, never compromising humor for sermonizing. 'Perhaps you know Panini's grammar,' remarks one of them, 'but unless you know how to please your wife's father, you are lost.' This Maithili gem is gently comic, sharply observed, and deeply rooted in cultural detail.
In a land of many voices, these eight books remind us that translation is not just an act of language, but also an act of faith. When done with devotion, it enables stories to traverse not only geography but into new hearts, new readers, and new lives. Because the finest stories, wherever they start, need to be heard everywhere.