I once happened to see a translator’s first drafts. Her (Tamil-English) manuscript was a revelation. To make sure she did not overlook or misread a word or a possible nuance, she had written down every line of the Tamil text in red and followed it (line by line) with her first drafts in English in blue. Only then did she start to polish and redraft.
I was reminded of this when a literary publisher launched a movement inviting anyone who knew two languages to try their hand at translation. Is anyone who knows two languages qualified to translate? Is “He held a sword made of wood in his hand” as effective as “He held a wooden sword”? Likewise, “He tied a silk turban on his head”: where but on your head would you tie a turban? Bilingualism is a start, the base, yes, but its force has to be manoeuvred and tinkered into transmitting meaning smoothly.
Now this is rarely understood and, therefore, unsurprisingly, I am often approached by those who cannot translate but need a translation. “Do you know a translator who won’t overcharge? The work isn’t much… just 55 pages. I need it in a week’s time.” The tone is casual, the offer breezy, with no awareness, concern or respect for the effort or knowledge involved. Even if the project is not literary in nature, the translation will still call for energy transfers from one part of the brain to another involving context and meaning — arguably among the most fatiguing exercises. Will this disrespect based on pure ignorance ever change?
Every language is a vast, intricate constellation of ideas, a self-organising, evolving system. Each has its unique logic that dictates structures of words and sentences. Since no two languages do this in the same way, the shadowy form of the two-language, do-bhasha , dwi-bhashi phenomenon moves in and out of history, barely remembered and certainly not celebrated.
A carving on an Egyptian tomb has a double image of a bilingual go-between. The translator-interlocutor is on his knees, turning obsequiously from one dignitary to another, as he absorbs and relays not just language but meaning, rhetoric and tone. A little further to the right, relying on this nameless translator to help him understand the emissary’s case, is Tutankhamen (1350 BC). The Pharoah’s decision and therefore the fate of the visitor’s mission hinges on the skill of this unknown interpreter.
Yet, there have been instances in history when those who knew two languages were viewed with respect, even fear. Among the young women given to Hernán Cortés, when he conquered Mexico in the 16th century, was Malinalli, born between the Aztec-ruled Valley of Mexico and the Mayan states of the Yucatan Peninsula. Baptised as ‘Marina’, she accompanied Cortés as his interpreter. She knew Mayan and the language of Montezuma’s emissaries — Nahuatl. When she learnt Spanish, she was the sole link between multiple groups. She thwarted ambushes, divined the true intentions of her master’s adversaries, and informed Cortés of rivalries between tribes. She was his trusted lieutenant and adviser. Cortés’ allies and supplicants showed her almost the same respect they offered the Spanish conqueror. Yet, no monument marks Dona Marina’s memory except an extinct volcano in Mexico.
The difficulties of translations spoken and written — though linked — form different domains of effort. Not only can the spoken (translated) word not be revised like a written one, but the primacy of the written word over the spoken makes it easier for the latter to find its way into history books, while the grand successes of spoken brokering fade from records.
Interpreters have always been essential to make and keep allies, to infiltrate opposing camps, to overhear plans while feigning ignorance of the other’s language, and to negotiate peace agreements and surrenders. Today, when two heads of state meet, it is common for each to have an interpreter at his elbow whispering a simultaneous translation, matching eloquence and subtlety from the other side, beat for beat.
Higher up the scale are those who not merely know and speak two languages but also write creatively in both. In the younger generation of literary artists, their numbers are thin, but Manoj Das, K. Satchidanandan and U.R. Ananthamurthy come easily to mind. Do two languages fight for dominance in a writer’s psyche? When I asked Nabaneeta Dev Sen if she could write something about her early life, she said, “I have to decide whether to write it in English or Bangla. Because I change depending on the language I use. I’m not the Bangla me when I write in English.”
Mini Krishnan is Consultant, Publishing, OUP India.
