Language as Culture, History, and Stories: Deepa Bhasthi on the Heart of Translation | Metaglossia: The Translation World | Scoop.it
In an interview with PEN America, writer and translator Deepa Bhasthi shares what translation means in a multilingual society like India.

"Language as Culture, History, and Stories: Deepa Bhasthi on the Heart of Translation
Translation
Writing as Craft
Amulya Hiremath
August 26, 2025


The hillside town of Madikeri, India, where Deepa Bhasthi was born and continues to reside, does not have a single bookstore, but her grandfather had left her a rich inheritance — his library. And her grandmother was a fantastic storyteller. Spending her days reading Russian classics at 10, it was long before Bhasthi realized they were actually works in translation. “Forget finding the translator’s name on the cover, you wouldn’t find it anywhere in the book, in most cases,” she said in conversation with PEN America.


Bhasthi, a writer and translator, won the 2025 International Booker Prize, along with writer Banu Mushtaq, for Heart Lamp, a collection of short stories originally written in Kannada, a southern Indian language. This was the first time the prestigious prize had been awarded to a short story collection and a first win for the language. The same work had won an English PEN’s PEN Translates award supported by PEN Presents, a program designed to give publishers better access to titles from underrepresented languages and regions.


Talking to PEN America’s communications consultant, Amulya Hiremath, Bhasthi shared what translation means in a multilingual society like India, the politics of language amidst growing mother tongue extremism, and who gets to translate what text.


What brought you to translation? Do you remember the first translated work that you read?
It has to be something from Russian, and it took me many years to even understand that all the Tolstoys and Pushkins I was reading were in translation.


What brought me into translation was entirely by accident. In 2012, [it was] Kodagina Gowramma’s birth centenary year. I knew her name but had never read her stories. I was absolutely ignorant about what translation entailed, and thought I wanted to translate her stories. It was 10 years when the book actually came out. In the process, I realized that my relationship with Kannada, which is my mother tongue, was changing. Those of us who study entirely in the English-medium education system, we end up turning to English more than we do our own languages. While translating I was thinking a lot more in Kannada, using words which I hadn’t used in a long time. I might have stumbled upon translation accidentally, but I stay because it brings me closer to my language than anything else could have.


Congratulations on the International Booker! Tell us about Heart Lamp and how it came about. What was challenging and what surprised you the most about the project?
Banu and I have a mutual friend. She asked him if he knew someone, and then he connected us, and she got in touch, asking if I was interested in translating. I read a few of her stories, and I thought these were stories I wanted to work with.


The entire practice of translation itself is a bit of a torture. Banu and I are from very different cultural and religious backgrounds. I’m not a practicing Hindu. But then caste in India is inescapable, and it colors everything that you do. I wanted to be extra, extra careful about not messing up the cultural nuances that are in her stories, especially given where we are as a country right now, where the minorities othered to such an extent that they are either caricatured or reduced to a non-existent, non-human, dehumanizing project. I spent a great deal of time familiarizing myself with Islamic culture, as much as I could as an outsider—I read a lot, I watched a lot of television series, I listened to a lot of music. This is what Daisy Rockwell, the American translator, calls invisible force fields that go around. So a language, yes, it’s a tool of communication, but it’s also culture, it’s also history, it’s also the stories of a community. There’s so much that goes into the making of a language. So these are the force fields that get into the translation as well, because it’s not about finding a substitute for each word in one language to the other.


What does it mean to translate in a society where everyone is multilingual?
It’s very interesting. One, because of the way socio-linguistics work. Secondly, the place that we are in as a country today, where everything can spark a conflict or a war. Language has always been a very touchy subject—it’s easily within reach for politicians and for activists and for the establishment, to use and abuse it as a weapon. It is a weapon. Language has been always used as a weapon. Right from the time of the British, when Macaulay brought in the English education practice, through now, when we have this imposition of Hindi. It is a very interesting field, but it’s not as innocent as one would like to think of it as. And because for us multilinguality is such a common occurrence at least in Karnataka—people understand five, six, languages, it’s not a big deal—it took me aback when I first realized that people find this strange. Which is why, in Heart Lamp, the idea that Banu uses several languages did not come across as a very unusual occurrence, because these are our everyday lived experiences to pick words and phrases from different languages and use them, sometimes in the same sentence. But I understand it makes for a very unusual reading experience, for a Western reader, which is also saying that they need to read more.


A language, yes, it’s a tool of communication, but it’s also culture, it’s also history, it’s also the stories of a community. There’s so much that goes into the making of a language. So these are the force fields that get into the translation as well, because it’s not about finding a substitute for each word in one language to the other.
Tell us a little bit about how many languages were involved in Heart Lamp, because in India, it’s not just about translating from language A to language B?
So there is Dakhni, which is a kind of Urdu, but it is a mix of Kannada, Persian, Telugu, and all kinds of different languages. It’s often seen as an uncultured version of Urdu, but that’s certainly not the case. It is a language in itself. So there is Dakhni, which is the language that Banu speaks at home. The Kannada that she uses is more from the plains, so there were words and phrases which I didn’t immediately understand. There is a difference in the way Kannada is spoken in the region where she lives and where I live. But again, it’s not really unusual, because every 50 or 100 kilometers, there is a huge difference in the language. Her set of languages were different from the set of languages that I would typically have access to. But the idea of living in these multiple linguistic cultures was not really unusual, so that part was not challenging.


You’ve talked about the universality of the female experience and how that appealed to you in translating this, what’s the universality of the experience in translation?
I suppose, the idea that English is, whether we like it or not, a global language now, and once you take something into the English language experience, there is a greater accessibility that people have to the work. That is an unavoidable truth, mainly because of the nature of how the English language itself has evolved. Although English, the way it is spoken in Karnataka is widely different from the English that is spoken in some country in Africa, yet we somehow invariably end up sharing the language in all its textures and all its accents. We can still read a text from Africa and they can read something from Karnataka because it is in English. So the language itself brings in the universality.


You also talk a lot about decolonizing the language, and one of the ways you do that is by rejecting the italicization of words from Kannada retained in the text. Tell us more about that.
This is something I’ve been thinking about a lot, I might call it the decolonization of English, but it’s also an argument of who is an outsider and who is an insider when it comes to migration, whether it is of people or of cultures or language, when does someone become native? It’s to reject English as this foreign object that is spoiling Indian culture. Language is such an easy weapon to pick up for political projects, because it is such an emotional subject for so many people. But English, whether we like it or not, is the language that we use to reach not just a global audience, but to allow a global audience to reach us as well. It is rather silly and defeats the purpose of a modernizing, developing world to say that we don’t need English. A lot of countries which were previously colonized, we have made language so much of our own. English has been bent and molded and twisted and turned to suit what we want to say. There are a lot of Indianisms. Like, for example, “you do one thing” is a very Indian way of saying.


That’s where the idea of translating with an accent also came from. Because you could feel terribly guilty about using English, which came to this country under such violent circumstances, but at the same time, languages have always had violence ingrained in them. Every time a language came, whether with invaders or with merchants, there’s always been an exchange between languages. Languages have always conversed with each other. That’s how we have so many words borrowed and lent to each other. To reject English just on the basis of the fact that it wasn’t born within Indian boundaries is a rather silly way to look at it. If we completely removed Persian and Arabic words from several languages, half of Hindi wouldn’t exist. English does have an intensely cannibalistic quality to it. But at the same time, languages are not weak entities. They will survive. That’s how culture has always worked throughout history. I can’t remember where I read this, but it said, language is way greater than any of us who want to preserve it.


It’s always been changing, borrowing and lending words from other languages. So language will survive. I think the best that we can do as individuals is to embody whatever language you supposedly want to preserve and conserve. Unless something is used, it doesn’t remain; it’s as simple as that.
There is a growing language extremism in South India. What does it mean to protect the language and why does this sentiment run so high?
Kannada has a written history of some 1500 years. And language constantly changes—we use a lot more English words these days in Kannada than our grandparents did, but that’s the nature of language. This idea of purity, which we Indians are obsessed with, is ridiculous, because there is nothing called a pure Kannada or a pure Tamil. It’s always been changing, borrowing and lending words from other languages. So language will survive. I think the best that we can do as individuals is to embody whatever language you supposedly want to preserve and conserve. Unless something is used, it doesn’t remain; it’s as simple as that.


I don’t think it is okay to completely reject the language and say you’ll stick to your mother tongue—we can be equally good in English and equally good in our mother tongues, or multiple languages. That is where this idea of decolonizing English also comes from, saying that with time, we accept this language as something that is born from and used in India. It doesn’t have to make sense to people in the UK or the US. I think the problem comes because we like to think of every language as just one. There are several Kannadas and not just one Kannada, which is the same for English as well.


In your essay “ante”, you ask, “Why translate at all? In fact, in the face of so many complexities, translating in India means dealing with the hierarchies of who gets to translate and what gets translated?” How did you arrive at answers for this in translating Heart Lamp?
I think it’s an ongoing negotiation that one needs to do with the language and the text in question. Everything is class and caste oriented in India. If I were to translate a Dalit text, I know I would get criticized for having a savior complex, or if I didn’t do it, then I would be criticized for working only with people from my community. For me, it is language that leads me, that sparks my first interest in possibly translating a work. The politics of the author and the politics of the book are certainly important. I don’t think I would ever translate something I’m vehemently against. But at the same time, if I feel like there is a possibility for me as a writer/translator, to do something with the language, to push the boundaries of both Kannada and English, then that’s something that I would take up.


Heart Lamp was supported by English PEN’s grant and prize before the big Booker. How important are grants, prizes, and recognition for literature in translation?
Certainly important because it brings the attention of publishers who would otherwise have probably no access to these stories as well the readership in the pre-publication stage. A grant or a prize is always very, very welcome. Writing itself is such a labor of love, and translation is even more so because there’s nothing by way of financial support for any of these things. A grant or prize buys you time, so they are superbly important. At the same time, I think it’s important to be aware of the very arbitrary nature of these grants and prizes. Just because something wins a major prize, it doesn’t mean that it is the absolute best in the world. There’s so many other things that go into it, for example, the jury—it is down to what they think and what their reading preferences are. It is important to be aware that not every work is about the prize it might potentially win.


What does the Booker mean for a language like Kannada, and what has surprised you the most about people’s response?
It has been wonderful, because it is one thing to be recognized internationally or by a readership that does not entirely know the history of the literary history of the language, but to come back home and have these people celebrate the win as if it’s a personal win for each and every one of them. I think that has been very overwhelming in a very wonderful way. I think that has its roots also in how Kannada often gets the short end of the stick compared even with just the southern part of the country—we are not as vocal about our language as the neighbors are, for example. Which is why I think there is this outpouring of love, because suddenly you have this language which is ignored, not just by its own speakers, but also on a national narrative. I don’t want to be very optimistic and say that there’ll be a lot more translations from Kannada because we know the extraordinary works we have in the language. But it has to come from a new generation of translators.


Translation and writing itself is a very isolating job, but then the writer is never in isolation entirely, we’re always reaching out into the world to read other things or to listen or immerse ourselves in other art works. And then you carry all the experiences of these various art forms, sit at the desk, and what happens is the weight of these forms also seep into the art that you make.
What would you say is a snapshot from India with regards to free speech, and have you experienced any censorship?
No, I haven’t experienced any. But I think the larger trend in the country has been going against the idea of cultural freedom and freedom of expression. It feels like the noose is kind of tightening around all our necks. It’s a very worrying trend. But I think cultural censorship has been around in one form or the other. When the censorship is at its worst, that’s when the dissent is also at its strongest. I think that the culture of dissent in India has been wonderful across centuries, and that is one of the things that I hold on to when I desperately need a sliver of hope—you read the news in the morning, and then you reach for whatever little bit of hope you can muster. And this culture of dissent that we’ve had is what I reach for.


In his interview with The Paris Review, Henry Miller said, “Most writing is done away from the typewriter, away from the desk.” Where does translation happen? What does your process look like?
It’s chaotic, I don’t really have a process. Miller was right, a lot of the work actually happens outside of the desk. What happens at the desk is very functional—you type out the words. I’m of the firm belief that everything that we learn, listen to, we or watch or experience in life, seeps into the creation that we shape. So in this case, a translation, or my own piece of writing comes from life, from having lived. And these things color the cultural productions that we make. Translation and writing itself is a very isolating job, but then the writer is never in isolation entirely, we’re always reaching out into the world to read other things or to listen or immerse ourselves in other art works. And then you carry all the experiences of these various art forms, sit at the desk, and what happens is the weight of these forms also seep into the art that you make. And this is where something like machine-led translation will never win, because a machine would just look at the language and then vomit out something in the other language. It doesn’t experience life. Which is why AI translations will not have the heart and the soul that humans bring into their art making. AI has its uses, certainly, no one is denying that. These are passing trends. Maybe I’m very old school and stupidly optimistic. I’m sure different iterations of these passing trends have always been around in history, but good art has always found ways to thrive, not just survive."
https://pen.org/deepa-bhasthi-on-the-heart-of-translation/
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