What kind of a Kannada story doesn’t work well in English translation?

Okay, let me give you an example. In her 2023 collection, there is a short story based on a well-known folktale in Karnataka. There is a drought in a village, so a new pond had to be dug. Some elder person says that a human sacrifice has to be made to mark this occasion. The person to be sacrificed is a young bride. There are many different iterations of this story. Banu’s retelling is more contemporary. I think that this story would not work at all in English translation, unless the readers already know the context and nuances specific to the culture. It is very layered, and you cannot have long paragraphs of explanation in a translated story. It made sense for me to pick stories written by Banu that are more universal in their appeal.

Do you mean universality in terms of market demands or human emotions?

I meant universality in terms of what moves people when they read a story though I would not pretend that there is absolutely no element of saleability. Of course, I had no idea that things would blow up like this, and Heart Lamp would be longlisted for the International Booker Prize. Universality is a consideration not only for the US market, the UK market, and the European market, but also within India because people from states other than Karnataka and people who do not speak Kannada may also not get the cultural nuances embedded in this story. I am instinctive as a translator, and that involves having to make decisions like this one. When I look at Banu’s work in its entirely, I see that universality in the themes that she writes about and also the way she treats her characters. The buzz around her work is because of this.

After the longlist was announced, Karnataka’s Chief Minister Siddaramaiah called it “a proud moment for Kannada literature” and tweeted that “this recognition will pave the way for global appreciation of Kannada storytelling”. What are your thoughts on this?

He is absolutely right. Knowing that Heart Lamp is the first translation from Kannada to be on the International Booker longlist is a huge honour for Banu, me and the Kannada language. Unfortunately, unlike Tamil, Urdu, Bengali and Malayalam, very few short story collections and books get translated from Kannada though the language has a history of more than a thousand years. We hope that this will change in times to come.

In your translator’s note at the end of Heart Lamp, you write, “This sisterhood to which those of us who identify as women belong is the cushion I place my translation on.” What does sisterhood mean to you?

There is, obviously, a female gaze. If a male translator had decided to translate Banu’s work, he might have chosen an entirely different set of stories. Also, he would have translated differently. There are very subtle nuances that women pick on. While the characters in her stories have Muslim names, Banu writes about issues that are faced by women from across communities. All women struggle under patriarchy, regardless of their background, and this shared experience of oppression is what makes Banu’s characters very relatable.

READ MORE: Banu Mushtaq: “My feminism seeps into the language that I use

In the story High-Heeled Shoe, the narrator notes, “He began to flare up like a mustard seed dropped in fire”. In Soft Whispers, the narrator remarks, “my sleep was already thick as the cream that sets over hot milk”. Would you say that such writing could only come from someone who spends a lot of time in the kitchen?

There is a female language too, not just a female gaze. These lines did not surprise me because labour in the kitchen is a common experience for women. I cook as well, and do a lot of my thinking when I am cooking. It is natural for food-related metaphors to creep into the writing of women who have to cook. Most women I know do it grudgingly as a chore. There is no energy or time to romanticize cooking when it has to be done on a daily basis.

In your 2023 essay, To Translate with An Accent, you write, “While she (Banu) is a respected figure in literature, the names most widely recognised in Kannada writing are those of men. I would redistribute some of this fame, if I could redo the list.” Why are women’s names not as widely recognized?

This is a familiar problem that exists in all languages, not just Kannada. It is a struggle for women writers to get published in the first place. And then to have their work translated into a different language is even more difficult. It is for this very reason that making it to the Booker longlist is a huge achievement. There are so many women who have been writing for decades but haven’t got the visibility they deserve. Hopefully, the recognition for Banu’s work will open doors for other women who write in Kannada.

You locate Banu’s writing in the Bandaya Sahitya movement of the 1970s and ’80s. Please describe the movement for those who are new to Kannada literature?

‘Bandaya’ means dissent or protest. Bandaya Sahitya, as a literary movement, came into existence because the literature that was popular in Kannada until then was mostly written by upper caste male writers. It represented their experiences and worldview. The voices of women, oppressed castes and religious minorities was missing. Bandaya Sahitya emerged against this backdrop. It challenged the hegemonic discourse at the time by celebrating writers from the margins who had their own stories to tell. These stories came from their lived experiences, and did not stick to using formal, standardized Kannada. While the movement itself was short-lived, Banu continues to write about issues faced by women, Dalits, and Muslims. She is not only a writer but also an activist and a lawyer. There was a fatwa against her for the story Be A Woman Once, Oh Lord! People who interpreted it as her critique of Islam wanted her to stop writing forever but she did not back down. Her intention was to expose patriarchy, which is entrenched in all religions. She has got herself into trouble with Muslim clerics and Hindu right-wing groups. None of them like her. This shows us how fierce she is, and the kind of power that her writing holds within itself.

In your translator’s note, you describe yourself as “a lapsed Hindu and an upper-caste person translating a minority voice into our shared alien language”. Why is it important, for you, to acknowledge the socio-political location that you come from? How did you translate despite the guilt that people often associate with their privilege?

The acknowledgement is important because of where we are as a country at this moment. It took a long time for me to grapple with all this in my head. I wanted to be aware of the environment that I was translating in, and what it means to translate Banu’s work. I did not grow up in a Muslim household. The Kannada that I speak is different from Banu’s. I wanted to do the work responsibly and sensitively. Meeting Banu in person, getting to know her lived experiences, and immersing myself in her cultural context, helped me translate better. I also found myself listening to the music of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Ali Sethi, and Arooj Aftab. I watched a lot of Pakistani dramas on television. All of this helped me.

What are your thoughts on how Heart Lamp will be received in Karnataka? Just three years ago, several educational institutions in the state were denying entry to hijab-wearing women and girls. To what extent can literature change people’s minds?

The controversy around the hijab is patriarchy at its finest best. Speaking of Banu’s writing, I appreciate how subtle her criticism is. Because it is not in your face, it has more power to influence hearts and minds. Her stories get under your skin and into your head.

What translation projects are you working on?

I am reading for my next project, which is a very exciting novel. I cannot reveal more at this stage. After translating writers like Kota Shivarama Karanth, Kodagina Gouramma and Banu Mushtaq, I would say that 2025 is my year of reading extensively in Kannada so that I can discover and learn more about writers that I am not familiar with.

Chintan Girish Modi is a Mumbai-based journalist who writes about books, art and culture. He can be reached @chintanwriting on Instagram and X.