Contributed to CBC Diversity by Uma Krishnaswami
My Personal Connection
Back in
the last century, when I dreamed of writing for young readers, the conventional
wisdom about weaving foreign languages into fiction written in English went like
this:
Don’t.
The
stories I longed to write spanned continents. My characters often spoke in two
languages, sometimes with varying degrees of fluidity. My narratives demanded a
mixing of languages, reflecting the hybridity I was trying to show.
I plunged
in, wanting to find my own answers. I wrote a lot of bad stories that earned
the rejections they deserved. I kept asking myself, how can I represent this linguistic
and cultural material while being truthful to the stories I’m trying to tell?
Stereotypes/Cliches/Tropes/Errors
Over the
years, I’ve tried many ways of weaving in snatches of the languages of India
into the narrative in my books. I’ve settled on a few guidelines that make
sense to me:
1. Avoid
stepping out of the story to translate a word or phrase. Instead try to make it
clear in context.
2. Avoid parenthetic comma phrases. More on this
in my 2009 blog post, Parenthetic Comma Phrases, Anyone?
3. Read
the work aloud and listen—really listen—to it. Is there meaning constructed
from the linguistic overlaps that would be missing without it?
4. Trust
the reader.
I want to emphasize that this is about narrative, not
dialogue. Sprinkling foreign languages in dialogue—that’s for another
conversation.
Things I’d Like to See
Revisiting this subject now, I thought of books I’d loved in
my childhood and teenage years—books that seemed to whisper to me
confidentially, as if they’d been written for me alone. Was there something to
be learned from revisiting those texts?
To find out, I took a look at two texts that were
formative in my young reading life: The
River by Rumer Godden, and “Rikki Tikki Tavi,” from Kipling’s The Jungle Book.
Here is a passage from The
River in which young Harriet, living in India, is battling with Latin
declensions. Talk about hybridity!
It is strange that their first Latin declension and conjugation should be of love and war:--
Bellum Amo
Bellum Amas
Bellum Amat
Belli Amamus
Bello Amatis
Bello Amant
“I can’t learn them,” said Harriet. “Do help me Bea. Let’s take one each and say them aloud, both at once.”
“Very well. Which will you have?”
“You had better have love,” said Harriet.
There is no translation. Sufficient that the subject is
love and war. The Latin words are a litany of opposing forces. They can be
thought of as music. Literal translation
is irrelevant. In a sense, the lyrics are yet to come, in Harriet’s own story
of longing and ambition, carelessness and betrayal. Elsewhere in The River, Godden scatters words like
bazaar, ayah, and Diwali, unitalicized, trusting readers to understand them
contextually. To contemporary readers, they may be no more alien than English
words like bauhinia and jute. Most importantly, Godden limits the mixing of languages
to suit her young viewpoint character’s perspective. European in India, Harriet
would be privy to some elements of local language and culture but not others.
In “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi,”
Rudyard Kipling names his animals with Hindi descriptors:
This is
the story of the great war that Rikki-Tikki-Tavi fought singlehanded, through
the bathrooms of the big bungalow in Segowlee cantonment. Darzee, the
tailor-bird, helped him, and Chuchundra, the muskrat…
By ducking
the need for translation, the narrative creates the illusion that all readers
are privy to a hybrid English in which animals have names—itself a conceit—and
those names are borrowed easily from the subcontinent. Illusion, in fiction, is
everything.
In “Toomai
of the Elephants,” Kipling relies more upon the narrative conventions of his
time:
Kala Nag,
which means Black Snake, had served the Indian government…
His
mother, Radha Pyari—Radha the darling—who had been caught in the same drive…
Both
stories boast a strong narrative voice, but the little mongoose’s journey is
far more compelling.
Surprisingly,
we still seem to rely upon Victorian conventions of parenthetic translation. But
there are alternatives.
Look how
the word “pakora” occurs in the opening pages of Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni’s novel,
The Conch Bearer:
“…maybe, thought Anand with a
grin, it was just his boss, Haru, the tea stall’s owner, frying onion pakoras
once again in stale peanut oil!”
Later:
“The smell of the hot pakoras he
was carrying was driving Anand crazy. He was so hungry! He had to clench his
teeth hard to resist the urge to sneak a pakora—just one—into his mouth.”
We’re engaged
by sensory markers like food smells, clenching of teeth, and hunger. Defining
the pakora is beside the point.
Suggested Reading
- In The Wild Book, Margarita Engle scatters words like reconcentración, indio, guajira through delicate verse stanzas. She uses italics but clarifies contextually and without sacrificing rhythm and pacing.
- Rickshaw. Longyi. Mua. Peh. These few words serve to pin the Burmese setting in place in Bamboo People by Mitali Perkins.
- In Kashmira Sheth’s The No-Dogs Allowed Rule, the first person narration invites the reader to engage with the family’s food, habits, and culture, with Hindi words thrown in like dashes of turmeric.
These
books would not be the same without their linguistic blends. Hybridity seems best
achieved when the dream world of the story is maintained, when the author’s
intention is not overly visible, when the writer trusts the reader enough to resist
the impulse to explain everything.
Uma Krishnaswami is the author of The Grand Plan to Fix Everything and The Problem With Being Slightly Heroic, both from Atheneum Books for Young Readers.
Uma Krishnaswami is the author of The Grand Plan to Fix Everything and The Problem With Being Slightly Heroic, both from Atheneum Books for Young Readers.
This is so helpful. Great insights on the micro level, and very useful for a current project in which I'm using Korean words, including raising some questions I hadn't gotten to yet. Thanks.
ReplyDelete