Prakash Parienkar’s Rich Literary Harvest (O Heraldo, 1/11/2025)
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V M
Nov 1, 2025, 4:29:29 AM (8 days ago) Nov 1
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https://www.heraldgoa.in/cafe/the-bitter-fruit-tree-prakash-parienkars-stories-bring-goas-sattari-forests-to-life-in-english/451502/
The Bitter Fruit Tree and Other Stories by Prakash Parienkar is an excellent addition to our burgeoning shelf of first-rate Konkani literature in English translation, and an invaluable expansion of the literary-cultural imagination of Goa far “off the grid” into the Sattari forests, where the Mhadei powers unpredictably down from the Western Ghats towards the Arabian Sea.
This nicely-produced new volume from Niyogi Books derives mostly from the veteran versatile writer and widely respected Goa University professor’s debut collection Varsal – it won the 2023 Sahitya Akademi award – and it has been quickly followed by Igadi Bigadi Tigadi Tha, another wonderful work by Parienkar now available in English and Hindi for the first time (with Marathi on the way). A delightful allegorical environmentalist play for young readers which won the Sahitya Akademi Bal Sahitya Puraskar in 2010, it has been printed by Sahitya Akademi in an attractive large-print format that merits inclusion in every Goan home and school.
Both new books by Parienkar were translated into English by Vidya Pai, the remarkable Kolkata-based native of South Canara, whose self-effacing bio says she “stumbled on to the field of translation” after winning a Katha-British Council translation prize in 1993. Since then, the 69-year-old has contributed mightily to Konkani literature – and indeed Goa – by translating some of our most iconic works: The Upheaval (Acchev) by Pundalik Naik, Age of Frenzy (Yug Sanwar) by Mahabaleshwar Sail, and Karmelin by Damodar Mauzo. Early reviews of The Bitter Fruit Tree rightly praise Pai, as Geetanjali Roy put it in Scroll, for “her translation is an act of deep love for Konkani.”
The collection begins with its unforgettable title story, which was made into the fine (and National Award-winning) 2021 film Kaajro, directed by Nitin Bhaskar and produced by Rajesh Pednekar, where one single tracking shot follows its protagonist into the forest for almost 100 minutes. This is Tilgo, who occupies the lowest social position in his village, with his family allotted just enough space for one hut – in exchange they beat the drums at Dussehra and the Shigmo – but after his wife Goklem died, no one was willing to allow her burial on any other patch. Finally, digging her grave on forest department land, the bereaved husband addresses his spouse’s corpse, “Take a careful look at the vegetation in this forest, Goklya, there are so many different types of plants growing here. The leaves and flowers and fruits and colours are varied, but they don’t look upon each other as different. It is we human beings who emphasise differences. Different types of plants grow in close proximity to the forest but there is no strife. Human beings are different. Caught up in issues of caste, they are always ready to pick a fight.”
In her insightful Translator’s Note, Pai mentions that Varsal carried an introduction by Parienkar about “the sheer diversity of life and flora and fauna [in Sattari} and of the range of folk customs and religious traditions and the tough life faced by the villagers as they eke out a living even as they face Nature’s fury or revel in her bounty.” Sadly, that text has not been included in this book, which regrettable omission should definitely be corrected in future editions.
There are only 13 stories in The Bitter Fruit Tree – it is a slim volume – and several of them will stay with me for a long time. For just one example, I found The Crucifix on a Chain – originally published in Jaag in 2007 as Gallyantlo Khuris – a rather beautiful and compelling evocation of the syncretic Goan soul, where we experience the crisis of conscience of Caetano Fernandes, sole holdout as his clan is “converting back” to being 'Konknno'. His authoritarian ‘Titeev’ even warns him that “no one will step into your house. No one will come to your aid if you are in trouble.” But he remains resolute, thinking “I’ve been thinking of converting to Hinduism because my uncle wants me to do so, but that is not right. Mother Mary and Goddess Santeri are the same. Both are deities worshipped by men. [Then he] placed the altar on the table and set the picture of Goddess Santeri beside it. He placed the lamp before the picture, filled it with oil and set it alight. The light from the candle and the lamp mingled and cast a bright glow all over the table. Caetano stared at the glow for a while. I shall not remove the picture of Goddess Santeri even if the priest comes here and bids me to do so, he thought. He made the sign of the cross on his forehead, and joined his palms before the picture of the Goddess. He sat on the reed mat and waited for the break of day.”
Vidya Pai says “what strikes me most about Parienkar’s work is the amount of information he conveys. He is a man with a mission, to preserve the fast-disappearing lifestyle, and religious and social traditions of Sattari, and to present his views as an activist for conservation of Nature and the Mhadei river through his writing.” When I congratulated and thanked her via email for translating this terrific oeuvre, she responded with these thoughtful recommendations: “I wish people conversant with Konkani writing were connected to major publishing houses so that they could direct commissioning editors to important works in the language, as happens in other Indian languages. I wish that the Translation Cell proposed to be started in Goa University starts functioning soon, and the works of young translators groomed there are published by the University. I wish that the new publishing venture Hyphen, to be started by the Bahuvachana Trust in Bangalore to promote translations from Indian languages, provides an opportunity for young translators from Konkani to showcase their talents. I wish that the new emphasis on translating knowledge texts gets an impetus, and suitable works in Konkani are identified, and avenues offered by organizations like The New India Foundation are made use of.”
The Bitter Fruit Tree and Other Stories by Prakash Parienkar is an excellent addition to our burgeoning shelf of first-rate Konkani literature in English translation, and an invaluable expansion of the literary-cultural imagination of Goa far “off the grid” into the Sattari forests, where the Mhadei powers unpredictably down from the Western Ghats towards the Arabian Sea.
This nicely-produced new volume from Niyogi Books derives mostly from the veteran versatile writer and widely respected Goa University professor’s debut collection Varsal – it won the 2023 Sahitya Akademi award – and it has been quickly followed by Igadi Bigadi Tigadi Tha, another wonderful work by Parienkar now available in English and Hindi for the first time (with Marathi on the way). A delightful allegorical environmentalist play for young readers which won the Sahitya Akademi Bal Sahitya Puraskar in 2010, it has been printed by Sahitya Akademi in an attractive large-print format that merits inclusion in every Goan home and school.
Both new books by Parienkar were translated into English by Vidya Pai, the remarkable Kolkata-based native of South Canara, whose self-effacing bio says she “stumbled on to the field of translation” after winning a Katha-British Council translation prize in 1993. Since then, the 69-year-old has contributed mightily to Konkani literature – and indeed Goa – by translating some of our most iconic works: The Upheaval (Acchev) by Pundalik Naik, Age of Frenzy (Yug Sanwar) by Mahabaleshwar Sail, and Karmelin by Damodar Mauzo. Early reviews of The Bitter Fruit Tree rightly praise Pai, as Geetanjali Roy put it in Scroll, for “her translation is an act of deep love for Konkani.”
The collection begins with its unforgettable title story, which was made into the fine (and National Award-winning) 2021 film Kaajro, directed by Nitin Bhaskar and produced by Rajesh Pednekar, where one single tracking shot follows its protagonist into the forest for almost 100 minutes. This is Tilgo, who occupies the lowest social position in his village, with his family allotted just enough space for one hut – in exchange they beat the drums at Dussehra and the Shigmo – but after his wife Goklem died, no one was willing to allow her burial on any other patch. Finally, digging her grave on forest department land, the bereaved husband addresses his spouse’s corpse, “Take a careful look at the vegetation in this forest, Goklya, there are so many different types of plants growing here. The leaves and flowers and fruits and colours are varied, but they don’t look upon each other as different. It is we human beings who emphasise differences. Different types of plants grow in close proximity to the forest but there is no strife. Human beings are different. Caught up in issues of caste, they are always ready to pick a fight.”
In her insightful Translator’s Note, Pai mentions that Varsal carried an introduction by Parienkar about “the sheer diversity of life and flora and fauna [in Sattari} and of the range of folk customs and religious traditions and the tough life faced by the villagers as they eke out a living even as they face Nature’s fury or revel in her bounty.” Sadly, that text has not been included in this book, which regrettable omission should definitely be corrected in future editions.
There are only 13 stories in The Bitter Fruit Tree – it is a slim volume – and several of them will stay with me for a long time. For just one example, I found The Crucifix on a Chain – originally published in Jaag in 2007 as Gallyantlo Khuris – a rather beautiful and compelling evocation of the syncretic Goan soul, where we experience the crisis of conscience of Caetano Fernandes, sole holdout as his clan is “converting back” to being 'Konknno'. His authoritarian ‘Titeev’ even warns him that “no one will step into your house. No one will come to your aid if you are in trouble.” But he remains resolute, thinking “I’ve been thinking of converting to Hinduism because my uncle wants me to do so, but that is not right. Mother Mary and Goddess Santeri are the same. Both are deities worshipped by men. [Then he] placed the altar on the table and set the picture of Goddess Santeri beside it. He placed the lamp before the picture, filled it with oil and set it alight. The light from the candle and the lamp mingled and cast a bright glow all over the table. Caetano stared at the glow for a while. I shall not remove the picture of Goddess Santeri even if the priest comes here and bids me to do so, he thought. He made the sign of the cross on his forehead, and joined his palms before the picture of the Goddess. He sat on the reed mat and waited for the break of day.”
Vidya Pai says “what strikes me most about Parienkar’s work is the amount of information he conveys. He is a man with a mission, to preserve the fast-disappearing lifestyle, and religious and social traditions of Sattari, and to present his views as an activist for conservation of Nature and the Mhadei river through his writing.” When I congratulated and thanked her via email for translating this terrific oeuvre, she responded with these thoughtful recommendations: “I wish people conversant with Konkani writing were connected to major publishing houses so that they could direct commissioning editors to important works in the language, as happens in other Indian languages. I wish that the Translation Cell proposed to be started in Goa University starts functioning soon, and the works of young translators groomed there are published by the University. I wish that the new publishing venture Hyphen, to be started by the Bahuvachana Trust in Bangalore to promote translations from Indian languages, provides an opportunity for young translators from Konkani to showcase their talents. I wish that the new emphasis on translating knowledge texts gets an impetus, and suitable works in Konkani are identified, and avenues offered by organizations like The New India Foundation are made use of.”
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