Is it a home if it only exists in the imagination?
'Delhi is awfully dry,' explained a Belgian man who had lived and worked in the city for many years when asked why he was moving back home. When a friend told me this anecdote, I could instantly relate. The enforced greenery was oxymoronically brown, the leaves never glistening with the bounty of the monsoon or the much-maligned rains that nourish the beauty of the English countryside of my teenage years.
There were other sorts of dryness, too: The local branch of a famous Chennai-based eatery whose masala dosas — too crisp, with an entirely alienated filling sitting awkwardly somewhere inside — lacked what an empathetic friend described as 'the creamy oneness of the masala and the dosa'. The mausoleums of kings long gone, who had never conquered as far as the land of my ancestors, rose detached from the unartful, modern cityscape. The sea was further away than it had ever been. Even the heat was, perhaps fortunately, dry. The only relationship to be had with such a place was an equally dry one: Purely transactional, for the sake of a job.
Chennai for a few years, Amsterdam for a year were, metaphorically and literally, wetter; there was certainly more perspiration in the former. But varying degrees of linguistic and cultural alienation, and above all, reclusiveness and a life lived internally, put paid to any notion of forging a connection. There was much to explore, much that was genuinely of historical, cultural or aesthetic interest, and most of it was left unexplored. There was no inspiration, no capturing of the imagination. Just as one can have an intimate relationship with a city, it's also possible to have none at all.
It may be a question of belonging. In the back alleys and crevices of my mind, paved by the cobblestones of one medium-sized town after another — the successive homes of my childhood — there was always a faint but insistent pull towards half-mythical rural roots. Towards family and forefathers, and neighbours who could tell stories of them all. Temples built in time immemorial, always with a pond and a banyan tree, where I might never venture but which should certainly be there. The smell of the Arabian Sea and its waves lapping at the shore. The white sands of my father's home, the tall trees he had planted and the second-hand memory of the paddy fields he crossed to get to school, which I was born too late to see. The thought of living permanently in that place — no longer truly rural but built up, just another grey, traffic-ridden speck in the giant conurbation that runs the length of Kerala — was always a mere velleity.
Growing up, family and the occasional visit to the family home were the only constants. There were no permanent friends, schools or hometowns, and many years were spent abroad as a 'Generation 1.5' immigrant — those who move as children after having spent a few years in their country of birth, but come of age in the host country. Assimilation wasn't easy; there was an accent, among other things, in the way. National identity evolved, went to war with itself and eventually dissolved into something less proud and more global. What remained was an affinity for a village imagined from afar, a region, a culture, a language and its history; all this became something to cling to in the absence of anything more definite.
Cities barely figured, either in life or the imagination. Even when they rudely shoved their way into my life by way of the exigencies of work, they remained peripheral to my thought. My experience of them was that of a transient, flitting through and making do for a few years. There was certainly no sense of belonging to one, of knowing all its ways and secrets. I can live in a city for years without making a true home. Does that mean one can have a home that exists only in the imagination, and that there are other ways of belonging, beyond urban and rural, of in-betweens and might-have-beens?
rohan.manoj@expressindia.com
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The Hindu
4 hours ago
- The Hindu
Beyond Heart Lamp's success: Are translators getting the credit that's due?
'Against Italics' - Deepa Bhasthi's translator's note for Heart Lamp, which won the International Booker Prize 2025, made headlines. The translator's note section, which is usually skipped, drew attention this time. 'Setting aside the futile debate of what is lost and found in translation', Ms. Bhasthi talks about her deliberate choice to not use italics for the Kannada, Urdu, and Arabic words that remain untranslated in English. Ms. Bhasthi ends the translator's note saying, 'Italics serve to not only distract visually, but more importantly, they announce words as imported from another language, exoticising them and keeping them alien to English. By not italicising them, I hope the reader can come to these words without interference, and in the process of reading with the flow, perhaps even learn a new word or two in another language. Same goes for footnotes – there are none'. While talking to The Hindu, Ms. Bhasthi says this translator's note has been met with a lot of love and care, and attention by readers as well. One of the reasons why words are italicised in translated texts is that there may be no exact equivalent in the target language of translation ~ seen as untranslatability. Until some years ago, this idea of untranslatability was the prominent discourse in translated literature, viewed negatively. Conversations about translated texts have, however, become more nuanced now, and translation is coming to be seen as a creative process as much as writing. As translators claim creative agency and push back against conventions like italicisation, the way a translator's role is perceived is evolving. From what's lost to what's found Ms. Bhasthi prefers the term writer-translator over just translator, which reduces the translator's job to one less than the writer. She says translation is as much a creative practice as writing, and autonomy in translation is important, as without it, her job would be no different than ChatGPT. 'That said, of course, if the author is living, it is always nice to be in conversation with them about their stories and, you know, get insights', she says. Moutushi Mukherjee, Commissioning Editor at Penguin Random House India, states that translators are now able to talk more about the tremendous impact a translation can have on expanding a literary heritage to wider audiences. She notes that there is a growing number of enthusiastic and resourceful translators in the country, which she sees as a very positive development. Ms. Mukherjee adds that the translators themselves are now more vocal about their role, putting themselves out there, so to speak, and emphasizing their contributions. According to Ms. Mukherjee, wins like Tomb of Sand (for Daisy Rockwell) and Heart Lamp (for Deepa Bhasthi) have also, obviously, changed the way readers perceive the translator. Translator visibility on book covers The book cover for Heart Lamp, published by Penguin, features an artwork at the top, followed by the book title and subtitle in red and sky blue-colored fonts, respectively. The next prominent feature is the author's name, Banu Mushtaq, spaced across the centre of the cover. It is then followed by Ms. Bhasthi's name in a smaller font, highlighting her 'Winner of the English PEN Translates Award 2024' achievement. A similar pattern of book covers is visible in the Perennial translation series by Harper Collins, and their back covers provide a brief introduction to both the author and the translator. This wasn't always the norm. Ms. Bhasthi says this visibility on the book cover is much better than until a few years ago, as translators' names would be somewhere inside the book and not on the cover. But now nearly all publishers put the translator's name on the cover. In a 2016 opinion piece for The Hindu, translator S. Krishnamurthy writes, 'Except on the title page and the cover, nowhere else will you see your name or any other details about you (translator). If your name is an ubiquitous sort, as is mine, nobody will even know you are the translator, unless you tell them'. Ms. Bhasthi says there still needs to be a lot of awareness about this, and it needs to start with the media. She states that there is an attitude that continues to persist in the media, especially, where somehow it is enough to just name the writer of the original work and not name the writer-translator who has brought the work into English or whatever other language. Ms. Bhasthi says we have certainly come a long way, but she thinks we still have a very long way to go before writer-translators are also seen on an equal footing with the writers in the original languages as well. Stepping aside from India, the research paper, 'Examining Intersemiotic translation of book covers as a medium of culture transfer,' was published in 2018. Among other aspects, it attempts to concentrate on the elements and criteria that are directly related to the visibility of translators. It takes into account five translations of Ernest Hemingway's, 'The Old Man and the Sea', in Iran, one of the most translated books in the country. The research paper finds that the title is designed with the biggest font, and then the name of the author in a quite smaller font, and lastly, the name of the translator is printed in the smallest font. 'It is also worth mentioning that in two works, the name of the translator is not even printed on the front cover, i.e., Manzoori and Parsay translations. In other words, the mentioned pattern prioritises the importance of each item: first the work, then the author, and last the translator. These covers also don't provide specific information in the book for introducing the translator or his/her other translated works to the interested readers', the paper says. In the Indian publishing industry the scene has changed. Urvashi Butalia, publisher, teacher and activist, says, 'There is greater acknowledgement and this is evident in all the things such as larger fonts, better placement, and also in including translators in media events. By contrast, I've not seen many reviews that mention names of translators, although again I could be wrong'. Ms. Mukherjee says credit is very important. She states that a simple act of giving credit to the translator on the cover of the book, and yes, equal weightage inside the book, has gone a long way, in her personal experience. Ms. Mukherjee also says we should expand that credit in a broader sense: include the translator in all marketing and publicity details, retail campaigns, and general discussion about the book. She emphasizes giving the translator the visibility they deserve across festivals and awards. According to Ms. Mukherjee, if we want to give visibility to translators, we must do so collaboratively, across all stakeholders. Promoting translated literature Translators are being acknowledged as co-creators in the literary process and not as secondary personas. There is a drive for better visibility of translators through book publicity campaigns, panel discussions, and other media. 'However, broader industry support and consistent credit across marketing, media, and events are still needed. I do think it's not enough for a few publishers and award ceremonies to promote translation literature. We need more publishing groups, more juries, and certainly, more of the mainstream media, supporting and recognising the significance of literature in translation', says Dharini Bhaskar, Associate Publisher, Literary at HarperCollins India. It helps to keep translation central to all conversations to do with books and literature. For instance, on World Book Day, Harper Collins had a full translation panel—which included Mini Krishnan, Sheela Tomy, Jayasree Kalathil, and Ministhy—and they spoke about the challenges faced by translators and the space translation literature occupies in the literary firmament. On how they bridge this gap, Ms. Bhaskar says, 'For one, we give literature in translation as much prominence as the poems and novels, and non-fiction originally published in English. Translation literature not only gets equal editorial care and attention but also has the full support of both the sales and marketing teams. We promote our works of translation—and not just when they're nominated for awards—and back translator and author equally. For they're a team. The book belongs to both of them'. Ms. Mukherjee says their publicity campaigns include the translator along with the author; this is without exception, and they will never have it any other way. She states that they make it clear at the outset to the author as well as the agent that the translator is going to be equally involved in the editing process, in planning publicity, and even on decisions pertaining to the cover of the book. Ms. Mukherjee says the translator has equal space (and equal say) on the journey of the book, both during and after its publication. Zubaan recently began a translation collaboration with Ashoka University called Women Translate Women. Every event for the books in this series has had translators present. Ms. Butalia says, 'This is also the case with many other publishers – in fact, several mainstream publishers now employ editors whose main task is to source translated manuscripts. This is a very positive development'. Are readers more willing to buy translated books? Publishers say winning the International Booker does drive sales of translated works. Though publishing houses have been increasingly taking steps to highlight the work of the translator alongside the author, the media lags in giving translators due credit. Readers, too, are increasingly open to buying translations, though Western approval still influences Indian buying habits. Ms. Bhasthi says there has been a lot of love that the translation of Heart Lamp has received, apart from the stories, and she is very grateful for that. She highlights the importance of the International Booker Prize giving equal emphasis to both the writer-translators and the writers from the original language. 'So, I think that attention is very important for translations and writer translators as well', she says. Talking about the media coverage Heart Lamp received, Ms. Bhaskar says there is immediate media coverage once a book is longlisted or shortlisted for a prestigious award, and such coverage doubles if the book wins. She adds that this kind of visibility has a direct impact on sales. 'This, in turn, has a direct impact on sales', she says. Ms. Bhaskar says they have seen sales numbers of books spiralling the moment they win prestigious awards. She notes that the ripples spread far, and that major wins typically benefit all literature coming out in a certain language. She emphasizes that such recognition also helps literature in translation overall, and sometimes even specific genres like poetry or short fiction. It also bodes well for literature in translation (as a whole), and sometimes, it bodes well for certain genres. Ms. Bhaskar points out that very often, in India, readers look for approval abroad before buying a book published locally. She stresses the need for Indian readers to start recognising the wealth of literature already available in the country—in English, in translation, and in regional languages—and to start supporting these books without necessarily waiting for validation from the West. Ms. Butalia says readers are more willing to buy translated works in general, perhaps this is because translated books are also more visible now, both in offline and in online bookshops. And they are better marketed, as books in their own right and not as poor cousins of an original. Ms. Bhasthi says that compared to other literary fiction, translated fiction is still not as widely read as it should be in a diverse country like India. She expresses hope that readers show more interest in translated fiction, and specifically mentions Kannada as one of the more under-translated languages in South India. Ms. Bhasthi says'I hope more translators bring forth some of the extraordinary works that we have in my language.'
Indian Express
5 hours ago
- Indian Express
Is it a home if it only exists in the imagination?
'Delhi is awfully dry,' explained a Belgian man who had lived and worked in the city for many years when asked why he was moving back home. When a friend told me this anecdote, I could instantly relate. The enforced greenery was oxymoronically brown, the leaves never glistening with the bounty of the monsoon or the much-maligned rains that nourish the beauty of the English countryside of my teenage years. There were other sorts of dryness, too: The local branch of a famous Chennai-based eatery whose masala dosas — too crisp, with an entirely alienated filling sitting awkwardly somewhere inside — lacked what an empathetic friend described as 'the creamy oneness of the masala and the dosa'. The mausoleums of kings long gone, who had never conquered as far as the land of my ancestors, rose detached from the unartful, modern cityscape. The sea was further away than it had ever been. Even the heat was, perhaps fortunately, dry. The only relationship to be had with such a place was an equally dry one: Purely transactional, for the sake of a job. Chennai for a few years, Amsterdam for a year were, metaphorically and literally, wetter; there was certainly more perspiration in the former. But varying degrees of linguistic and cultural alienation, and above all, reclusiveness and a life lived internally, put paid to any notion of forging a connection. There was much to explore, much that was genuinely of historical, cultural or aesthetic interest, and most of it was left unexplored. There was no inspiration, no capturing of the imagination. Just as one can have an intimate relationship with a city, it's also possible to have none at all. It may be a question of belonging. In the back alleys and crevices of my mind, paved by the cobblestones of one medium-sized town after another — the successive homes of my childhood — there was always a faint but insistent pull towards half-mythical rural roots. Towards family and forefathers, and neighbours who could tell stories of them all. Temples built in time immemorial, always with a pond and a banyan tree, where I might never venture but which should certainly be there. The smell of the Arabian Sea and its waves lapping at the shore. The white sands of my father's home, the tall trees he had planted and the second-hand memory of the paddy fields he crossed to get to school, which I was born too late to see. The thought of living permanently in that place — no longer truly rural but built up, just another grey, traffic-ridden speck in the giant conurbation that runs the length of Kerala — was always a mere velleity. Growing up, family and the occasional visit to the family home were the only constants. There were no permanent friends, schools or hometowns, and many years were spent abroad as a 'Generation 1.5' immigrant — those who move as children after having spent a few years in their country of birth, but come of age in the host country. Assimilation wasn't easy; there was an accent, among other things, in the way. National identity evolved, went to war with itself and eventually dissolved into something less proud and more global. What remained was an affinity for a village imagined from afar, a region, a culture, a language and its history; all this became something to cling to in the absence of anything more definite. Cities barely figured, either in life or the imagination. Even when they rudely shoved their way into my life by way of the exigencies of work, they remained peripheral to my thought. My experience of them was that of a transient, flitting through and making do for a few years. There was certainly no sense of belonging to one, of knowing all its ways and secrets. I can live in a city for years without making a true home. Does that mean one can have a home that exists only in the imagination, and that there are other ways of belonging, beyond urban and rural, of in-betweens and might-have-beens?
India Today
6 hours ago
- India Today
Girls' school from Haryana among world's top 10 for supporting students' health
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