Lost in translation

The nostalgic reminiscences of the past bring vivid memories of some of the experiences long past and gone. Every time I hear translators appointed by some of the politicians making a mockery of the language, I am reminded of my own experiences with alien languages.

Most of us think in our mother tongue and translate it. I was in the same groove, but there was only one difference: I delivered a speech by mentally translating one language to another. It was the year 1995 when my husband, a colonel in the Indian Army, took over as the commanding officer (CO) of a regiment whose soldiers were from the Hindi-speaking areas.

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As is the custom, I, as an officer’s wife, had to look after the welfare of the soldiers’ wives. I wasn’t twiddling my thumbs when I knew I had to make my first speech as the CO’s wife at the welfare centre, since it was a regular one at the Ladies Club. I was ready, but the catch was that I had to speak to the ladies in Hindi at the welfare centre.

I had barely learned Hindi at school as my third language, and it was limited to the barest minimum. I had the typical South-Indian accent, which made people ask if I was a Madrasi, though I am from Coorg. My vocabulary and grammar were atrocious, yet I took the plunge into speaking because I wanted to deliver value and build credibility with the women whose husbands were my husband’s pillars of strength.

When D-day approached, I put up a chirpy front and “switched” on my mind’s translator. I spoke in a bindas (carefree) manner, enjoying the crowd’s rapt attention.

After a while, I had the feeling that they were watching the nuances of my expression rather than listening to me, which I was trying to weave painstakingly. At this point, I did ask a couple of times if they understood me. Their haan in chorus made me stand like a politician, refusing to let go of the microphone.

Seeing their cheerfulness, I wanted to tell them to attend the welfare meeting with the same fervour and be happy with themselves. The translator within me was now working at an alarming speed, and that must have broken down the train of my thoughts just as they were transitioning to words. And I said: Aap sab log (all of you) khud khushi karke (be happy within yourself) aana (come).

Little did I realise what I said literally meant “commit suicide and come.” But there was not a murmur in the group; the same attentive, keen-eyed
ones seemed like they were in awe of
my speech.

On the way back, my friend told me about the faux pas. Did that deter me from speaking again? Of course
not. Instead, I honed my skills at mental translation!