Close Encounters: The Writer And Her Translator

A writer's legacy depends not only on the books they write but also on the translations that carry those books across languages, cultures and borders. Few writers embody this truth more powerfully than Shahrnush Parsipur. For most readers beyond the Persian-speaking world, Zanan bedun-e Mardan remained an unknown title until Faridoun Farrokh's English translation, Women Without Men, brought the work to an international readership, culminating in its longlisting for the 2026 International Booker Prize. Three decades after it first appeared in Persian, the novel found a new life in another language and a new generation of readers.

For decades, Parsipur gave voice to the desires, frustrations and acts of resistance of Iranian women, which failed to find expression in official narratives. Her fiction challenged patriarchy as well as political authority, but had to face censorship, imprisonment and finally exile from her home and country for her candour. Although respected as a writer within Iran’s literary circles, her work remained unfamiliar to English-language readers. Farrokh's translation, Women Without Men, changed that, opening a window to one of the most original voices in modern Persian literature. In doing so, Farrokh reinforces my belief that translators facilitate the journey of a book beyond national borders and cultures.

I interviewed Farrokh a few weeks before Parsipur’s death. The conversation was centred around the craft and challenges of translation that Farrokh faced while translating Parsipur's book. However, after Parsipur’s passing, I realised that the conversation also alluded to how writers and their worldviews continue to live through their translators.  

Women Without Men pivots around the lives of five women, who by a sleight of fate find themselves in an enchanted garden. The women have been ravaged by a patriarchal and authoritarian society. The garden for them becomes a refuge as well as a motif for regeneration. One of the women turns into a tree, another gives birth to a plant, creating a world of surreal fantasy. But beneath this magical surface is a blistering critique of patriarchy. Farrokh sees the novel's political force in precisely this subtlety. He says, "Her political commentary, though not overt, examines the inferior treatment of womanhood in Iranian culture and inspires change."

What gives the novel its universal appeal is the way it transcends the personal tragedies of a handful of Iranian women to become a metaphor for every society in which women's freedom is denied. In doing so, the novel asks questions that are contemporary: Who owns a woman's body? Who controls her choices? In articulating questions that are relevant even today, the book resonates with readers across the globe. For a woman’s yearning for dignity and independence has no geographical boundaries.

Although questions about patriarchy may travel across borders, the language in which these are enunciated may not. It is here that the role played by the translator acquires significance. The translator recreates the book in another language, making it accessible to readers of a different milieu. Translation is not just about linguistic fidelity but also about the ability to reproduce the cultural ethos and emotional nuances of the original text. As Farrokh noted during our conversation, the translator's task is not to reproduce every linguistic detail but to achieve what he calls a conceptual or experiential equivalence that enables readers in another language to experience the work with the same emotional and intellectual force.

This challenge is perhaps greater for Women Without Men as the original book inhabits several worlds simultaneously. Rooted in Persian culture, it draws on folklore while speaking to universal questions of freedom, identity and political power. Every page asks the translator to negotiate between cultures ensuring that its ethos is not stifled. Farrokh believes that with ongoing world conflicts between races, cultures, and religions today, the translation of literature is vital.  “It illustrates the universality of life, its shared human traits, and as such, provides a much needed path to understanding and empathy among humans.” Listening to Farrokh describe this process, I was struck by the fact that translators are a literary text’s closest readers. While an ordinary reader moves through a novel once or twice, translators inhabit it for months or years. They learn not merely what a writer says but how that writer thinks.

When the writer is gone, the translator becomes one of the last custodians of their voice. A writer leaves behind manuscripts and books. The translator’s role, on the other hand, is to reach out to more readers. Long after the author’s passing, the translated work continues to cross borders and inspire conversations, keeping the writer's voice intact.

As my introduction to Parsipur’s writings happened through Farrokh’s translation, I feel that despite her passing away, Parsipur’s voice lives on through this translation. It has opened a doorway to her writings and to a voice that questioned patriarchal structures that sought to stifle the voices of women. So, contemporary readers can now finally find their way into Parsipur’s enchanted garden.

The beauty of a literary translation lies not just in its ability to carry words across languages, but in preserving the cultural ethos of the original work. Its greatest gift, perhaps, is that it gives the work a second life, allowing it to find new readers long after the voice of the writer has fallen silent. As long as readers continue to discover Women Without Men through Farrokh's translation, Parsipur's voice will continue to find new listeners.

(Rachna Singh is an author and the Founding Editor of The Wise Owl, a literary and art magazine)