Today we’re shining a light on the dynamic fiction writer and translator Tanvi Srivastava. Her masterful story ‘A Fall’ grabs ahold of its reader and assaults their senses – the character demands it. You’re in for such a treat at our showcase on 6th November where we’ll celebrate the journey and successes of Tanvi and her fellow Write Beyond Borders mentees.
A Fall
Tanvi Srivastava
Today, like most days, you awake hungry, to the sickly-sweet smell of an overflowing latrine. You are sprawled on the floor of a crowded train between beggars and baskets, thieves and ticketless travellers. An old man sits on his haunches a few feet away from you, his twigged fingers curled around a beedi. You see his black spindly legs carpeted with white hair. They remind you of the forest behind your village, of nights spent among trees splintered by moonlight.
You left Howrah station a few nights ago. Or weeks ago. You were travelling westwards towards Delhi when a ruthless ticket collector threw you out somewhere in between. You spent a few nights on the steps of an overhead bridge before a policeman woke you, called you a dog and moved you on. So you boarded another train.
You make your way into the adjacent compartment. A learned Muslim man and his wife sit opposite each other. She’s short, egg-shaped, head-to-toe in a black burka. He’s tall, lean, toe-to-head in a white pyjama-kurta. He stares at a gold-lettered book on his lap, she stares out into the sunburnt fields.
Your stomach gnaws. Another meal of sympathy and salt. You approach them, arm stretched, face stone. Your routine practiced over and over, engraved into the lines of your palm. But today something is amiss; that sorrowful face essential to your work eludes you.
You rattle your hand. Three coins rumble and tumble against each other. She looks at you from the corner of her eye. Fight for it, you little bastard, she says in her head. Lick the floor and I’ll spare you one rupee.
Not today. You are just about to move away when you smell it. The heady, intoxicating smell of the rich.
You see them. Two boys and a girl, dressed like actors, laughing freely. You lean in towards them. Too close. Hand out. Hand to head. Hand stretched. Count one-two. Repeat. The beauty of any job lies in its rhythm.
Ah. You spot it. The look of discomfort, the squirm. Their eyes look away; their heads shake ever so slightly. The guilt, that beautiful guilt.
You walk on. They breathe again and you can feel their sighs of relief; it tingles the hair on your arm. You smile, still jangling the coins in your hand. One rupee, two rupee, 50 paisa. Say nothing. Let the coins do your talking.
You let a coin slip through your fingers. It falls towards the compartment floor in cinematic slow motion, spinning and skirting out of control, a dervish in a trance.
The fall, the crash, the attempt to bounce back, the lashback, the violent shivering, the quivering, the silence. It is a very violent dance, one small 50 paisa coin falling to the ground.
One of the rich comes running up to you. It is the girl. She bends down at your feet.
For you, that is enough.
(This story was first published on PureSlush.com.)
Tanvi Srivastava has been scribbling unintelligible lines into empty notebooks since she was a child. Some of the more legible lines evolved into short stories that have published in online magazines (Gulmohur Quarterly, New Anthology of Asian Writing) as well as in print (The Reading Hour, An Anthology of Goan Short Stories).
The Write Beyond Borders program has been a transformative experience for Tanvi. As she interacted with other writers on their incredible literary journeys, she realised she was no longer alone in this wretched writerly world; this led to the further realisation that nothing gives her greater pleasure than to write. She aims to use the skills she has learnt both from the mentors and mentees of the program to hone her fiction writing skills.
At around the same time Tanvi was selected for the program, she read the following line in an article by Jhumpa Lahiri: ‘Translation is the most productive and illuminating form of literary apprenticeship.’ As she browsed through her bookshelf wondering what to translate, Tanvi found a copy of the diary written by her grandma-in-law during the Second World War. The diary, originally written in Japanese and then translated to Hindi, captures the story of young Asha Sahay as she leaves her home in Tokyo to join the Rani Jhansi Regiment of the Indian National Army to fight for the freedom of India.
The experience of translating the book from Hindi to English was revelatory for Tanvi: she loved every moment of the process, especially when she had to dig into the words, into the nuances of the language, fleshing out meaning, blurring the lines between being a translator and a writer. The translation, tentatively titled The War Diary of Asha-san, is currently seeking a publisher.
In the meantime, Tanvi is completing a thriller and exploring other potential stories she can translate from Hindi into English.
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