Saaz: What
drew you to this book and to translating it into English for a wider audience?
Rita: I’d known of Ittehad for at least 20 years. I’d come across references to it and always found it intriguing. I remember wondering, is Vimmi Sadarangani related to the writer Guli Sadarangani? And why doesn’t she appear anywhere? Not even in the two-volume 1993 anthology Women Writing in India: 600 B.C. to the Present edited by Susie Tharu and K. Lalita. That included Popati Hiranandani, Sundri Uttamchandani, and others – but not Guli Sadarangani.
And
every small entry I came across called the book controversial. To me, that
should have made her better known, not less. Why was this pioneering woman, who
wrote such a courageous book in 1941, missing? I felt this was a historical
imbalance. I wasn’t surprised when I learnt that even her son Kishore hadn’t
read her work.
Finding
a copy was a challenge, I finally got one from Sahib Bijani, Director of the
Indian Institute of Sindhology at Gandhidham. And then finding a publisher – this
was done through a collaboration between the Ashoka Centre for Translation and
Zubaan. It’s called Women Translating Women. Zubaan is bringing out many
other books in this series – and there will be other languages. I’m thrilled
that this Sindhi novel is part of a community of women’s voices,
Kannada,
Malayalam, Tamil, Bengali, Sindhi and others, not standing alone as an outlier.
Translation
can be a small gesture, but it can have larger ramifications. At the very
least, it was my way of paying homage to a pioneering and courageous woman
writer, the first woman novelist of our language. Not many people know of
Sindhi literature, let alone a woman writer in pre-Partition Sindh. So it’s a minoritization
at several levels – woman, language, region, era.
Saaz:
What were the problems that this
1941 novel, offering love and equality between religions as a social and
political strategy in the years leading up to Partition, face when it was
published and over the years?
Rita: Ittehad was ignored in its own time, the
theme was distasteful. It wasn’t widely read or discussed, and over the years,
it didn’t feature in literary histories in English.
What I found compelling was how Guli Sadarangani managed to
be both conventional and subversive. There’s a clear valuing of romance and
relationships, yes – but also a questioning of institutions like marriage,
property, and patriarchy. The protagonist, Asha, isn’t looking for salvation
through marriage. She’s invested in her friendships, in her own selfhood, in
the idea that love can’t survive without independence.
There’s also a certain tenderness and idealism in how
religion is portrayed – not as dogma, but as a journey. The book feels radical
in its insistence on mutual respect and understanding, both between individuals
and between communities.
Perhaps it was too gentle to be taken notice of, or too
idealistic, or perhaps it didn’t fit the more strident narratives that came to
dominate after Partition.
Saaz: What could it be about Guli Sadarangani’s life and background that led to her producing a book with ‘woke’ themes?
Rita: Guli Sadarangani was from an Amil family; the
Amils are a Sindhi community with several generations of education. They tend
to be more liberal, ahead of their time – as is this book, remarkably ahead of
its time.
Her brother, Krishna Kripalani was an English professor at
Shanti Niketan; in 1941 when Tagore died, he was appointed director. He is well
known – but no one talks about the sister.
Guli also studied at Shantiniketan, which I believe was
formative for her. That’s where her character Asha also goes to study, in the
novel. Guli translated Gora, and I assume Tagore’s ideas influenced her.
Another character, Aruna comes from a Brahmo Samaj background too – that’s the
Bengal connection which was common among liberal Sindhis before Partition.
Clearly, her family was progressive. Sending a young woman
across the country to study at Shantiniketan – those values must have shaped
her deeply. She translated Gora, and wrote other novels too, which I
haven’t worked with. But Ittehad felt like an important landmark.
Saaz:
Russia
comes across a shadowy ideal in this book, could you please tell us what made
it special to Sindhi writers?
Rita: Most people in India see Sindhis as purely mercantile, without a cultural or intellectual life. But the truth is, prior to Partition, Sindh had a thriving intellectual scene. Many educational institutions were run by Hindu Sindhis. After Partition, that cultural identity appears to have drained away.
Today’s stereotype of Sindhis in India as only money-minded
is post-Partition; in Pakistan, people acknowledge the role Hindu Sindhis
played in creating cultural institutions.
My own father was not from an elite background, but names of
Russian thinkers, communism – meant something to him. In his lifetime, he swung
from attending communist meetings in Kalyan to eventually admiring the BJP. But
those multiple ideological influences coexisted, it wasn’t just Russia.
You see those same ideological streams in the novel – Gandhi,
Tagore, Brahmo Samaj, communism. At the heart of it is always the question: how
does one become a good, ethical citizen? The novel doesn’t always make clear
where its moral compass lies, so it feels utopian at times. Yes, the 1940s were
a critical time in Sindh – communal tensions, the Muslim League, Hindu
Mahasabha, RSS, and so much more. To write a novel like this during that time –
it meant something.
Saaz:
Translating
across cultures is never easy – which parts of the book did you find difficult
to convey in English?
Rita: Most of the language in Ittehad was
urban and familiar to me, so not especially hard. But there were moments that
gave me pause. One passage stands out: when Hamid tells his mother he doesn’t
want to marry and she asks if he’s in love. He says he is, and she asks, who is
she? “Khudaji bandi,” he replies, “A devotee of god!”
“Aren’t we all that?” she asks. “Tell me more, what abour
her zaat-paat?”
And he says, “So now you want to know her zaat-paat!”
“Yes!” she replies, and when he reveals the girl is Hindu,
her reaction is so interesting.
She says, “Really? Those people who consider us to be
untouchable, who won’t even accept food from us, you’re going to marry one of
those?”
Words that are used for a sect, or a caste, have become of
huge interest to me in the act of translation. It shows how the vocabulary we
assume is about religion is often really about caste. Words like zaat, sampradaya,
panth – we use them across different contexts, and they often blur
categories of religion, caste, and sect. This overlap has become a major area
of interest for me, especially in translation.
So there were interesting aspects – but nothing really
challenging in the act of translation.
Saaz:
That
couldn’t have been the case with your translation of Shah Abdul Latif into
Hindi?
Rita: No it wasn’t – and I’ll admit that was a project I care about even more. It’s called Kahé Latif and comes out next month. I selected about 450 of his poems. The translation felt like a lifetime wish – something I didn’t have the confidence to take on for a long time. It’s coming out from Vani Prakashan.
As you know, Sindhi is one of India’s important literary
languages, with a 600–700 year-old tradition. This is almost unknown in India,
even amongst Sindhis. If you ask an average person to name a Sindhi writer,
they won’t know anyone. Popati Hiranandani may be translated, but how many have
heard of her? And there are so many other fine writers, writing on a range of
themes.
So my Kahé Latif is another attempt at reclaiming our
literary tradition. It’s a Hindi translation, done directly from Sindhi – not
from English, and not as a prose rendering, but in poetic verse. There are many
English translations of Shah Latif, but we don’t have versions that retain the
alliteration and rhythm of the original. Hindi allowed me to do that. I hope
people will read it aloud in Hindi, quote it the way Latif is meant to be
quoted.
Saaz: You once told me that you find the Sindhi community very
patriarchal. My experience has been quite different. What could be the reasons
for this?
Rita: That’s interesting, and I think it points to how diverse and
heterogeneous the Sindhi community is. My sense of the community comes from
growing up in Kachchh, where I saw strong male dominance – in trusts,
institutions, and family decisions. Patriarchy was embedded in everyday life.
But in your experience, perhaps among Sindhis in urban centres or in the
diaspora, there’s more fluidity and exposure to other ways of being.
It’s a difference worth thinking about. Maybe there are
multiple Sindhi worlds – and they’re
shaped by region, class, mobility, and memory in very different ways.
First appeared in HT Premium on 3 November 2025 on https://www.hindustantimes.com/books/rita-kothari-the-vocabulary-we-assume-is-about-religion-is-often-about-caste-101762174156436.html
