Making of the sisterhood of a writer, her translator

Hindustan Times

6 hours ago

The collection Heart Lamp: Selected Stories has riches, and some repetitive moments. That said, it is undeniably one of the very few examples of its kind, available in English. Like the Tamil writer Salma, Banu Mushtaq takes us to a different geography and gives us a linguistically heterogeneous, domestic world of Muslim men and women — markedly different from the North Indian fare of an Attia Hosain or Khadija Mastoor. However, my thoughts today are not so much about the original but the translation, and it involves not a comparison with the original (for I can't read Kannada) but how it comes over to us. In other words, how do I read this text as a non-Kannadiga woman reader/translator and respond from that twin-ness. This is also to foreground the translator's role who, unlike many translators has been rewarded, but like most translators, not engaged with. Like translators, readers also translate, fill gaps, and sometimes don't. (AP)
When you open the book, you move directly into the first story. There is no introduction to the writer, or the translator's note — the opening paragraph in Deepa Bhasthi's translation makes a luminous start — the long sentence is done sharply, going from the 'concrete jungle' through 'people, people, people' and ending with the introduction of Mujahid. The voice is that of Zeenat ('Stone Slabs for Shaista Mahal') who then tells us how absurdly few choices there are for educated and intelligent women to introduce husbands. Mushtaq's comment on the limited language of kinship and intimacy and its repeated failure to sustain equality is picked up by Bhasthi who brings us to a witty voice, playful options such as ganda or pati and ending with how for women, Muslim women in particular, husband-as-God is sanctified in language. So, what can a Zeenat-like person do in such circumstances? Zeenat who notices the 'labour' of both Shaista and Asifa. Mushtaq, Zeenat, Bhasthi – all of them show a keen ear for what is not said, and push the conventions of language. The first striking impression is that the writer had found her translator and we have entered a world of women whose myriad spoken and unspoken words have found a place.
Women translators have often found thick histories behind women's few words, told in seriousness or in play. Every once in a while, (not always), you can't help feeling that when you read a translation that only a woman could have written this; translated this — both acts intertwine, interchange, and become inseparable. Does writing carry the gender of its creator? Perhaps. It is more evident on some days.
Bhasthi's use of the words, 'arey, I forgot' or 'Che! I have made a mistake' also helps define Zeenat conversationally. There's comfort with which Bhasthi makes rules and breaks them as she pleases. Her use of Indian repetitions such as 'hot-hot' samosa sparkles, and does not feel oriental or gimmick-like. Bhasthi has a light touch, she does things but also lets them be allowing for intrigue as well as familiarity. For instance, the song about pigs in 'Fire Rain'. 'Handi yendeke heegaleyuve...' which she does not translate, instead builds its meaning into the interpretative sentences of the next paragraph. 'The meat of a pig is haram. Likewise anger. Devout Muslims believe that they become impure if they even see a pig', and so on. As a non-Kannadiga reader who didn't understand the song, I saw the word handi several times and knew that to be the pig. The corrosive effects of this prohibitive food on the body, at home? I wondered. It was much too important to let it go, so I confirmed it with a Kannadiga friend.
However, take another instance in the same story, 'Shavige payasa'. I do not know what 'shavige' means. The word payasa is close to payasam which I do know. So I fill in the gap and tell myself it is some kind of kheer, an analogical element that helps me get through. The sentence also has some context: '…that sister had come and asked for a share in the family property, and made the biryani and shavige payasa prepared in her honour taste bitter'.
On the other hand, the word 'Rii' used in this collection by the women to address their husbands made me wonder if it was an elevating word of respect or an endearment. The relationships between husbands and wives in Heart Lamp make little room for endearments so I stayed with that ambivalence, without an anxiety to find out. The word seragu refers to the head-covering by women, but is it like a dupatta? Perhaps it is. Bhasthi would not appreciate this north Indianisation I am doing! It would have helped a little to know 'Rii' more than seragu. Is it untranslatable because it's too intimate or not intimate at all? My discomfiture with somewhat monochromatic conjugality in the book comes to my aid in making some assumptions here.
Like translators, readers also translate, fill gaps, and sometimes don't, knowing that it may not be possible or even necessary. The odd Urdu word, the question tag, the Kannada word that is sometimes translated and sometimes not — is there a coherent philosophy here? It is, by Bhasthi's admissions, a 'sisterhood' and if I may add, one that also involved the writer and translator playing with multiple languages throwing words back and forth — Dakhini, Urdu, Telugu, Kannada and so on. The combination of shared understanding on one hand, and a rich repository of multilingual practices of speech by both women have created, I believe, a highly nimble, unapologetically 'itself' and sparkling translation. What goes as the translator's note appears at the end, titled 'against italics'. Bhasthi's translation philosophy is not only against italics, it is against taming. But so is Mushtaq's book and all the women in and around.
Rita Kothari is professor of English, Ashoka University, and co-director, Ashoka Center for Translation. The views expressed are personal.