Heritage: Vali Ram Vallabh

[Gul Agha <agha@CS.UIUC.EDU>]

[forwarded from a posting by Irfan Qureshi in sanalist.  Original cite
is missing.. probably from daily Dawn newspaper]

Vali Ram Vallabh is not an everyday name in modern Sindhi
literature. Yet he has done a yeoman's service by extending the
horizon of his readers. A man of letters in the old-fashioned sense of
the term, he has written fiction, poetry and general prose in addition
to his voluminous work as a translator and editor. As a cultured
scholar of Sindhology, he is one of the few people who can never have
enough of or give enough to literature. Modest and unpretentious as a
person, he is mild-mannered and sincere as he greets me each time we
meet and sit down to talk. We begin by exchanging notes on diabetes
but slowly move onto more stimulating discourse. On a lengthy
sabbatical from his regular work, Vali Ram is furiously supervising
construction on a new portion of the rooftop at home.

Before we start to talk about his literary passions, he triumphantly
takes me on a tour to survey the construction work. "The upper storey
becomes unbearably hot in the long summer. The RCC structure absorbs
and retains the heat, so I am using these bricks," he points to a heap
of kiln-baked bricks in the corner.  "The roof is a simple one with
beams," he informs that it will soon be awaiting the plastering
process. This extra portion will be converted into classrooms for the
school downstairs which is run by his son. "This may appear different
from the other houses in the neighbourhood, but it is practical." With
such inexpensive materials, Vali Ram Vallabh has constructed a house
of literary magnitude where he works energetically at his writing.

He was born in Mithi in Tharparkar in 1941. "The small town appeared
to me as if it was a wide world in itself and it still does. Whatever
I have seen is keeping in perspective with my village." He cites his
schoolteachers as having a formative influence on his
life. "Lachmandas, our headmaster, was an idealist and a benign
person. He was so soft-spoken that it seemed as if he never wanted to
raise his voice so as to inflict any pain or discomfort through his
words. Bhagat Khemchand had already retired by the time I saw him but
he was a committed lecturer who would get to the classroom come rain,
come storm. He would reach the venue for his lecture at the exact time
and begin his talk even if there was only one member in the
audience. He was a samaj sudharik and a dharmatama, always wanting to
spread the word of good wherever he went. He emphasized on the moral
and ethical aspects of education. We would get up early in the morning
and go out in the streets of the town singing a pirbhati to rouse the
sleepers: jo sowat hai so khowat hai."

"The teacher who inculcated the love of books in me was Chaudhry
Zia-ul-Haq.  He was one of the few Muslim teachers in a
Hindu-dominated town so we were not sure how he would relate to us. He
was tall and imposing with his huge eyes filling us with a strange
terror. In his first lecture, he told us not to have any misgivings
about the name Zia-ul-Haq, because it is nothing but an equivalent of
Om Prakash! Haq means the truth, which is also the meaning of Om while
Zia means light, the same as what Prakash implies. I was moved by his
words. He taught us the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam and for each lesson,
he would bring in the work of many other Urdu and English poets,
enriching the lesson and filling us with knowledge. He stacked the
library with wonderful Urdu books and magazines so in my schooldays I
was able to read the stalwarts of Urdu literature from Krishan Chandra
to Qurratulain Hyder, many of whose works I read without even fully
understanding them. He was also a friend of the writer Mohammed Khalid
Akhter, whom I first encountered in my school days."

Residing in Hyderabad for the past number of years, Vali Ram recently
spent two days in his ancestral birthplace and found it to be a much
changed place. But early one morning when he climbed up a sandy
hillock at the edge of the town, he recognized that the tranquillity
and haze hadn't disappeared after all these years. He returned
satisfied. "Mithi for me still remains a romantic place, its sights
and sounds are very much a part of me. Wherever I go, I carry Mithi in
my heart."

Born in a barren desert town, he began yearning for the world. Vali
Ram entered his adult years after completing his education. "My life's
journey was not planned. My parents had a modest education and our
community was mainly interested in trade, belonging mostly to the
lower middle class. I got involved with literature while still at
school and started writing small skits and plays which were performed
with friends. Bhagat Khemchand coaxed us to establish a small library
and we collected nearly 400 books. So all that I had read, had to come
out one way or another. I completed my education whilst working at a
number of odd jobs. I graduated whilst working as a clerk in the
Forest Department. After this I wanted to do my masters in Sindhi
literature, but my examination form was rejected as my attendance was
short. I commuted daily from Mirpur Khas to Hyderabad, and there were
days when I just could not make it to the class.

Dr Ghulam Mustafa Khan was the head of the Urdu department and he
patted me on my shoulder, asking me to enrol in his department. I had
taken Urdu as a subject during my BA course, so I did my masters in
Urdu from Sindh University. I was helped by Professor Karimuddin
Ahmed, who was frowned upon in official quarters because of his
Progressive leaning. Since I felt that I did not have a base in the
language, I had to study hard to understand many things. I read nearly
150 books while preparing for my examinations. I am always a stickler
for details and like to go into the depth of things." Later Vali Ram
went on to earn a doubleMasters as well as an MPhil. At the same time
he was working in cinema advertising, touring all over Sindh and
Balochistan. He later joined the Institute of Sindhology at Sindh
University [Jamshoro, near Hyderabad], where he is currently working
as the Deputy Director of the Sindh Anthropological Research Centre.

Discussing his literary career, Vali Ram says that "there were a
number of things which occupied my thoughts but I had learned to be
careful." He gives his reasons: "I was married when I was studying in
class 5 and a married man somehow gets caught in a shikanja that he
should not say or do anything which is inappropriate. Furthermore
scanning the prevailing situation in the country and my own position
as a minority, I unconsciously began to move away from the original
writing. While a number of stories which I wrote were published,
others were put on hold. In 1959-60, I translated a short story by the
Gujrati writer Dhomketo, which was published in the prestigious
magazine Mehran and I received many letters from readers saying how
much they had enjoyed it." This was the beginning of many a
translation. In translations Vali Ram discovered a way of
circumventing himself from writing.

Vali Ram's original literary productivity has been minute. When his
first collection of poems was published, he was hailed as "a fine
addition to Sindhi poets." He wrote a dozen short stories in all, less
than half of which were published. The rest were submitted for
publication but never saw the light of the day. The manuscripts could
not be recovered and "Shamsher-ul-Haideri would keep telling me that
they were hait mathey, somewhere up there, and Tariq Ashraf would say
he needed a few more days to search. The remaining stories, scattered
in magazines, make interesting and prestigious reading. The last two
stories (the titles would roughly be Lines which could not be skipped
and A life out of focus) both deserve a slot in a textbook of creative
writing for the skillful handling of the subject as well as its simple
and effective technique.

Written in a period of firebrand political awareness with strong
undercurrents of emotionally charged nationalism, Vali Ram's low-key
stories focus on personal tribulations and stand somewhat apart from
the mainstream.  He deliberately chose themes from lower middle class
life, based on his own observations. The story of a young man being
helped financially by his married, elder sister to met the demands of
her own in-laws is deceptively simple, but "it made my hair stand on
end when I was writing it," he says.  Written in a subdued manner, it
is subtle, the sort of story which grows on you rather than
immediately dazzles with its brilliance. "This was the period when
Amar Jaleel, Agha Saleem and Naseem Kharal were at the height of their
popularity and my stories could not stand alone when set against their
work." Vali Ram agrees that this may be the reason for the lack of
enthusiasm with which these stories were meet. This may also have
contributed to his less than adequate output. "My creative potential
got suppressed," he says. Haunted by the stories he never got around
to writing, he says that he gets up in the middle of the night and
phrases and ideas pursue him. For Vali Ram there are many more
unfinished stories. He has written a number of articles, prefaces and
memoirs of encounters with literary persons.

Vali Ram is another caller in the company of literature. He achieved
early success with a translation of Krishan Chandra's Ghaddar, a
post-Partition novel uncannily relevant in an era when both India and
Pakistan's nuclear confrontation has gained international media. His
translation of Qurratulain Hyder's 'Sitaharan' has just been reprinted
while that of 'Aakhir-e-Shab Kay Hamsafar' is still in the press. He
has also translated works of Intizar Hussain as well as numerous Urdu
and Hindi writers. For many his greatest achievement is a translation
of Camus' novel, variously entitled Outsider or The Stranger in
English, which he has rendered as 'Dhario', a title with more
implications than the English one. He has also translated Sarweshwar
Diyal Saxena's two novellas in Sindhi as well as in Urdu.

With around 300 translations of short stories and many more poems to
his credit, he introduced a number of international writers to Sindhi
readers and can be credited with having done more than any writer to
expand the horizons of his readers. He would agree with W.H. Auden in
recognizing and celebrating the "double function of translation". In
Auden's words, translation is "fruitful in two ways. First, it
introduces new kinds of sensibility and rhetoric - and fresh literary
forms - Second, and perhaps even more important, is the problem of
finding an equivalent meaning in a language with a very different
structure from the original, which develops the syntax and the
vocabulary of the former." Auden even goes further to say that "the
only political duty (of a writer) - in all countries and at all times
is to translate the fiction and poetry of other countries so as to
make them available to readers in his own." Commenting on Auden's
remark, Anthony Burgess has said that which might also apply to Vali
Ram as he too "thinks of translation as a means of serving the
language - and hence literature - of an absorbent culture."

The translator supports the essential work of the creative writer,
says Vali Ram, and without the translator's self-effacing service we
would not be able to appreciate the work of many a writer. He thinks
of translators as "the blood donors of literature," who remain in the
background but make a vital contribution. "Whenever I read something
which I like in another language, I want to share it with my readers,"
he says. Many of the selections emerged out of his reading while
others were assignments. Some were even done under assumed names. An
unfinished project was a translation of Anna Karenina for the Sindhi
Adabi Board. He translated and handed over nearly 200 pages but the
Board stopped paying the instalments and also lost the manuscript. He
hopes that translations from global literary works could be done in an
organized and planned manner and very much regrets that this has not
been done in Sindhi. "Somebody has to perform the task of doing
translations and I am content to think that perhaps this was ordained
for me."

Vali Ram was associated with a number of literary magazines, beginning
with Tariq Ashraf's Sohni, a leading literary journal of the day. He
assisted the editor even though this was acknowledged in a few
issues. There he encountered Naseem Kharal and Zafar Hassan. "The
latter was efficient at planning but failed where implementation was
concerned," and he narrates how the two of them pooled resources to
bring out Aarsi, an anthology of international writing which proved to
be a trend-setter. Emulated to this day by a number of other
publications, it folded up operations after only five issues because
of unsuccessful marketing. He laments that many creative writers are
side-lined by publishers who want to run after big names. He envisages
an establishment where writers could be paid for their work and
professional standards maintained in publishing. He has no regrets or
complaints about recognition and awards and he says that he is content
with the response from his readership base.

While we lament about the deficiencies within the publishing scene, he
stops short in mid-sentence to draw my attention to the cry of the
koel. In need of no translation and beyond words, the metallic note of
the bird's cry renders the whole atmosphere fluid and I see how Vali
Ram's face is lit up with a beam beyond words.

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