Mahua Sen’s English rendition of The Dead Fish (Rupa 2025) resurrects Rajkamal Choudhary’s once-forgotten Hindi novel Machhli Mari Hui (1964) for new and old readers. This is the first time Choudhary’s mid-20th-century classic has been translated, and Sen’s handling of the text has already drawn high praise.
The novel itself is lauded as “a fearless anatomy” of “identity and emotional tumult” set in 1950s Kolkata. In Sen’s translation, the novel’s unkemptness comes through undiminished. Her version aims for fidelity and finesse. It transmits Choudhary’s daring themes and lyricism without discrimination.
Rajkamal Choudhary’s Legacy
Rajkamal Choudhary (1929–1967) was a literary firebrand of his time. He wrote in both Maithili and Hindi, earning the reputation of “a bold leader of new poetry.” In a brief lifespan of 37 years, he produced over a hundred short stories, numerous novels and poems, becoming “one of the most iconic literary figures of his time.” Machhli Mari Hui (The Dead Fish) is widely regarded as one of Choudhary’s finest works. It was viewed as decades ahead of its time, thematically. The novel’s spotlight on unorthodox desires, besides the psychological depth of its characters, is formidable to reckon with. Its protagonist, Nirmal, is often seen in a league of literary figures like Mephisto, Othello, and Heathcliff. This reinforces the novel’s ambition to transport Indian literary traditions into a broader context. Such cosmopolitan daring, coupled with Choudhary’s Maithili-Hindi oeuvre, makes The Dead Fish both historically significant and rich in cultural texture. Thus, it was doubly challenging for Sen, who undertook the patient task of birthing the novel anew.
Mahua Sen’s Co-creative Effort
Sen’s achievement lies in resurrecting Choudhary’s vision for English readers without diluting its originality. Critics have been vocal in their admiration. Professor Malashri Lal (an eminent author, scholar, critic, and former Delhi University faculty) writes that Sen’s “first-ever translation of this controversial Hindi novel is laudable for its accomplished narrative” and even “sets a new direction for gender studies.” The well-known poet-novelist, Anamika similarly praises Sen for finding a “middle way between a tiresomely faithful and beautiful rendition,” striking exactly the balance needed to please both purists and new readers. Noted Hindi poet Arun Kamal calls Sen’s rendition “eminently readable … faithful and flawless.” These endorsements highlight Sen’s rare combination of devotion and creativity. She preserves Choudhary’s voice and psychological insight while rendering it in clear, elegant English. (Sen herself is an award-winning poet and writer, and that lyric sensibility clearly infuses her translation). Sen has arguably become a co-creator of Choudhary’s classic; her English prose carries the same intensity, provocativeness, ambivalence, and energy as Choudhary’s vision.
Sen’s English seems like a deliberate, uneven potpourri. It is, occasionally, spare and prosaic; though startlingly imagistic, on other occasions. The overall effect is not the lilting, continuous lyric of a literary translation, but of a staccato lyricality that emerges from short, bright shocks of image, and repetitive tropes piercing otherwise blunt narrative passages. Sen seems to let single images carry weight, and often those images are visceral, paradoxical, concentrated metaphors that read like miniature modernist verses:
- “Like a bride switching off the light in her bedroom on the first night”—presents an audible simile that is crisp, physical, and melancholy; it is brief but resonant.
- “Love dies. Lust dies. Not compassion. Only compassion never dies”—another short, declarative series with internal alliteration, with the cadence of an epigram; it is stark, aphoristic, almost biblical!
In moments such as these, the translation becomes distinctly lyrical in its sparse diction, compressed syntaxes, and image-centered rhetoric designed for a poetical aftertaste. However, interlaced with those images are flat, factual stretches—legal/financial descriptions or expositions—translated in a straightforward, even with a bureaucratic register in hand:
- “He paid the income tax and penalty amount with the money received from the sale of National Jute Mill and the shares of West Bengal Bank. It was a massive sum of around thirty-five lakh rupees.”
- “Nirmal Padmavat had chosen the path of dishonesty for the first time in his life. For the first time, he had misappropriated his accounts.”
This literalness anchors the novel in realism. The juxtaposition—bureaucratic plainness against compressed imagery—creates a productive friction; the lyric snapshots feel more shocking against this pedestrian background. Besides, the translation shifts registers. This mixture is not a flaw, necessarily. For, it mirrors Choudhary’s subject matter (class, urban harshness, personal shame), and it creates moments for the reader to feel jolted rather than be stagnated in a sea of smoothly lyrical sentences.
Sen often uses short, clipped sentences, and fragments in her imagistic passages; and longer, more expository sentences when describing money, property, or social mechanisms. This ostensibly conscious variance creates a rhythmic breathless compression followed by explanatory pauses. This could be pointed out as one of the greatest flaws and, at the same time, one of the greatest assets of The Dead Fish—the fact that its translator and co-creator is also a poet. And so, Sen’s poetical side takes over in flashes, as her brief, intense images and reiterations impel the book’s lyrical moments to linger, even though her prose, as a whole, is considerably stark and fragmentary. For readers of Choudhary’s original writing, who would have hoped for a translation that preserved rawness, cultural specificity, and sudden imagistic jolts—poetry in shards, so to speak—Sen’s rendering succeeds. To those who have not read Choudhary, Sen’s translation can read like a pared-down poem that occasionally steps back into the ledger and lets the crude social and psychological realities of an Indian past (if not also present) render themselves in prose. More importantly, Sen does not distract attention from Choudhary’s bitterness, compassion, and wisdom.
The Novel’s Currency in India Today
The Dead Fish was originally written in an era when Indian society still silenced conversations about the major themes of the book. Its very title is a haunting metaphor: the symbolism of dead fish augurs themes of sterility, entanglements, and repressed dreams. In Sen’s hands, all of Choudhary’s symbolism and searing critique remain vivid. The novel’s skillfully embroidered subplots emerge clearly in translation. The book feels especially timely now. In an India where rights of loving are still tiptoeing into mainstream debates, Sen’s translation of The Dead Fish feels more quintessential and resonant than ever. The novel’s depictions of censored bonds, social hypocrisy, psychological realism, and mental turmoil are bound to thrill both young and mature readers of today. This translation is a delicate literary accomplishment and, more strikingly, a concrete cultural causeway. It unearths a hidden chapter of India’s past and enfolds twenty-first-century conversations into it.
Mahua Sen’s version of The Dead Fish is a heartening specimen of literary labour that shines a light on Rajkamal Choudhary’s bold literary heritage. The novel’s fierce examination of suppressed human experiences and Sen’s devotion to its spirit combine to remake a modern classic. For readers interested in Indian literature, identity and history, this English edition will provoke, educate, satisfy, and stimulate.
Arup K. Chatterjee 