PARIBhasha Team

Labani Jangi

Illustrations

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Let us
start at the very beginning… 



The epic
tale of this nation’s diversity that the People’s Archive of Rural India (PARI) has
been chronicling since 2014, begins with Indian languages – 833 million people
in the countryside speaking in well over 700 different tongues, using 86
different scripts. These languages, including those without any script, lie at
the heart of India’s cultural diversity. Without them, an archive of the people
cannot be imagined, let alone actualised. Translations across Indian languages play
a pivotal role in the journey of every single PARI story. 



“This archive has been a pioneer in the realm of journalism;
it looks at translation through the lens of social justice,” says Smita Khator.
“It ensures that production and dissemination of knowledge do not remain the privilege
of English-educated, English-speaking classes, not when a majority of rural
Indians still live light years away from the English language.” 



Our team of language editors and translators frequently
share, debate and discuss the cultural context of words, the appropriateness of
phrases and more. Just the other day…

Smita: Remember that Purusottam Thakur <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/trying-to-go-to-sleep-only-half-hungry/">story</a> where he describes a scene
when the migrants from Kurumpuri panchayat working at the kiln in Telangana
were so happy to see him? One of the older men tells him, &quot;After a long time I
have met someone who speaks Odia. I am very happy to see you!”



And <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/learning---lost-in-translation-and-migration/">one</a> from Maharashtra by Jyoti Shinoli about
this boy of migrant labourers called Raghu, whose biggest challenge was to get
used to a new school where the teachers and friends spoke in a language he did
not understand. Gayatri, the mother of the boy in the story says, “After
attending the Chennai school for just three weeks, he returned home crying one
day. He said he didn&#39;t want to go to school anymore. That he didn’t understand
anything there and felt everyone spoke angrily with him.”



Linguistic
identity is critical to people in rural India, especially when they are forced
to migrate to faraway places in search of livelihood.

Shankar: But Smita, sometimes words
also migrate. When I was working on Senthalir’s <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/in-haveri-ratnavvas-life-of-hopes-and-seeds/">story</a> on hand-pollinators, I realised that the
women in the field use an English word - ‘cross’ or ‘crossing’ - to refer to their
work of cross-pollinating flowers by hand. An English word has now become a part of
their spoken language. You will hear a lot of such words in the countryside. 

This is both, exciting and challenging. There are also
times when I read some of the stories from my own state, Karnataka, reported in
English, and the voices of the working people there sound like they don’t belong
there. They are like imaginary characters in a book. They lack life and colour.
So, when I sit down to
translate, I often make sure I listen to the people, the way they talk, making
sure that the story really belongs to them, and does not become a work of reported
‘art’.  



Pratishtha: The process is not always easy or straightforward. I
often struggle with the copy of reporters writing in their mother tongue. A
story, originally written in Gujarati or Hindi reads really well. But when I
faithfully translate that into English, the organisation, the sentence
structure, the diction can feel quite contrived. And then I wonder where my
loyalties should lie in such situations. Do I remain faithful to the spirit of
the story, invoking the experience of the marginalised communities in the
translation, or do I remain true to the original script, the words used, the
structure? Do I edit in the Indian language, or do I edit in English? Finally, it
ends up being a long process, exchanging ideas and sometimes an argument with
back and forth.



Translation is possible because there are ways of connecting and
communicating across languages. But the close-knit relationships among the
images, sounds, diction, the knowledge repertoire of a language and its
cultural universe, its distinct character – is something I have come to
appreciate only after working with PARI. There are times when we have carried
the same story in two versions in two languages – not as different stories but
different enough for me to hesitate in calling one version a translation. Joshua: Pratishtha di, isn’t translation always a re-creation – a
transcreation? When I work with <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/gsp-masterpage/">grindmill
songs</a> in Bangla, I am actually transcreating. Recreating the ovis in my mother tongue forces me to
learn and unlearn prosody and parlance repeatedly. I used to think being a poet is tough but translating
poetry is harder! 



How does someone reforge Marathi oral literature while keeping the
whole gamut of expression, idea, imagery, diction, rhyme, rhythm, and metaphors
intact? Inspired by rural singer-songwriters, I push my poetry to think like a
woman and flow like hapless grains getting crushed in the grind mill of the caste
system, patriarchy, and class struggle. Each time, I search for corollaries in
rural Bengal&#39;s own spectrum of feminine musico-poetic oral traditions, like tusu, bhadu, kulo-jhara gaan, or brotokotha.



Frustrating
and fascinating at the same time.

Medha: I will tell you people what is more
challenging? Translating humour. Sainath’s pieces! I
couldn’t stop smiling but also scratching my head when I read, <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/elephant-man-and-the-belly-of-the-beast/">Elephant man and the belly of the beast</a>. Each line, each word, creates a fascinating picture of three men
sitting atop Parbati, a docile elephant, and chatting with her loving caretaker
Parbhu. Their effort to understand how this beast has a belly full of food goes
in vain.

I
had to translate its flavour in Marathi without compromising on the details and
maintaining the rhythm and pace of the elephant ride. 

The
challenge started from the headline itself, as it often does with most of PARI
stories. In the end, the constant need to feed the giant led me to the famous
character of ‘Bakasur’ who had to be fed by the entire village every day. So in
Marathi I titled it:  <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/%E0%A4%B9%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%8D%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%80-%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE-%E0%A4%86%E0%A4%A3%E0%A4%BF-%E0%A4%AC%E0%A4%95%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%B8%E0%A5%81%E0%A4%B0%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%9A%E0%A4%82-%E0%A4%AA%E0%A5%8B%E0%A4%9F/">हत्ती</a><a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/%E0%A4%B9%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%8D%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%80-%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE-%E0%A4%86%E0%A4%A3%E0%A4%BF-%E0%A4%AC%E0%A4%95%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%B8%E0%A5%81%E0%A4%B0%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%9A%E0%A4%82-%E0%A4%AA%E0%A5%8B%E0%A4%9F/"> </a><a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/%E0%A4%B9%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%8D%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%80-%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE-%E0%A4%86%E0%A4%A3%E0%A4%BF-%E0%A4%AC%E0%A4%95%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%B8%E0%A5%81%E0%A4%B0%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%9A%E0%A4%82-%E0%A4%AA%E0%A5%8B%E0%A4%9F/">दादा</a><a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/%E0%A4%B9%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%8D%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%80-%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE-%E0%A4%86%E0%A4%A3%E0%A4%BF-%E0%A4%AC%E0%A4%95%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%B8%E0%A5%81%E0%A4%B0%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%9A%E0%A4%82-%E0%A4%AA%E0%A5%8B%E0%A4%9F/"> </a><a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/%E0%A4%B9%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%8D%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%80-%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE-%E0%A4%86%E0%A4%A3%E0%A4%BF-%E0%A4%AC%E0%A4%95%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%B8%E0%A5%81%E0%A4%B0%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%9A%E0%A4%82-%E0%A4%AA%E0%A5%8B%E0%A4%9F/">आणि</a><a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/%E0%A4%B9%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%8D%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%80-%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE-%E0%A4%86%E0%A4%A3%E0%A4%BF-%E0%A4%AC%E0%A4%95%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%B8%E0%A5%81%E0%A4%B0%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%9A%E0%A4%82-%E0%A4%AA%E0%A5%8B%E0%A4%9F/"> </a><a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/%E0%A4%B9%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%8D%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%80-%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE-%E0%A4%86%E0%A4%A3%E0%A4%BF-%E0%A4%AC%E0%A4%95%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%B8%E0%A5%81%E0%A4%B0%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%9A%E0%A4%82-%E0%A4%AA%E0%A5%8B%E0%A4%9F/">बकासुराचं</a><a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/%E0%A4%B9%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%8D%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%80-%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE-%E0%A4%86%E0%A4%A3%E0%A4%BF-%E0%A4%AC%E0%A4%95%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%B8%E0%A5%81%E0%A4%B0%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%9A%E0%A4%82-%E0%A4%AA%E0%A5%8B%E0%A4%9F/"> </a><a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/%E0%A4%B9%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%8D%E0%A4%A4%E0%A5%80-%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%A6%E0%A4%BE-%E0%A4%86%E0%A4%A3%E0%A4%BF-%E0%A4%AC%E0%A4%95%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%B8%E0%A5%81%E0%A4%B0%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%9A%E0%A4%82-%E0%A4%AA%E0%A5%8B%E0%A4%9F/">पोट</a>. 

I
feel it is important to find terms, concepts, characters known to
our language readers while translating phrases like belly of the beast or
Pandora’s box, or theatre of the optics.

Pratishtha:
I do see myself never taking such liberties while
translating poetry from another culture. But I do understand why one would do
that in a PARI story. I think part of the meaning of translation is defined by the
reader for whom one is translating the piece.

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Kamaljit:
Let me tell you what happens in Punjabi.
There are times when I have to twist the rules of my language, making my own as
I translate!  I often get criticised for doing
this. 

For
example, all stories in English use a uniform pronoun for all individuals regardless
of social distinctions. In Punjabi, as in most other Indian languages, the
pronouns change depending on the rank, age, class, social status, gender, and
caste of the person. So, while translating a PARI story from English to Punjabi,
if I were to follow the social-linguistic norms of my language, it would conflict
with our ideological beliefs. 

Therefore,
we decided from the very beginning that in the process of translating we will
treat all human beings with equal respect, whether a guru, a politician, a
scientist, a sanitation worker, a male, or a transwoman. 

So
when we published the <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/my-head-aches-from-carrying-all-the-weight/">story</a> in Punjabi of Manjit Kaur, a Dalit woman, who picks up cow dung in
the houses of landlords in Tarn Taran, I started getting messages from readers
asking me, “why are you giving so much respect to Manjit Kaur in your language.
 Manjit
Kaur Ik Mazhabi sikh han. Oh zimidaran de gharan da goha chukdi han?”  Many
readers thought I was doing a machine translation because I did not observe the
rules and used ‘han’ in place of ‘hai’. 

Devesh: Arre, even Hindi lacks words that talk about marginalised
communities with respect. Words which do not ridicule their realities are hard
to find. But the process of translation forces us to tackle this problem and
coin new words by taking a cue from other languages.

I have also found problems in finding the right words
related to nature, science, gender or sexuality, or even disability. The Hindi
lexicon is bereft of appropriate words. Sometimes through sheer glorification of
language, fundamental questions are forced to simply disappear - such as women
being described as goddesses or people with disabilities being termed as &#39;divyang&#39;; But when we look at the
ground reality, the condition of people seems worse than before. When we translate a<a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/i-walked-off-alone-to-get-my-tubes-tied/">
story</a> like Kavitha Iyer’s <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/%E0%A4%AE%E0%A5%88%E0%A4%82-%E0%A4%A8%E0%A4%B2%E0%A4%AC%E0%A4%82%E0%A4%A6%E0%A5%80-%E0%A4%95%E0%A4%B0%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%A8%E0%A5%87-%E0%A4%95%E0%A5%87-%E0%A4%B2%E0%A4%BF%E0%A4%8F-%E0%A4%98%E0%A4%B0-%E0%A4%B8%E0%A5%87-%E0%A4%85%E0%A4%95%E0%A5%87%E0%A4%B2%E0%A5%80-%E0%A4%B9%E0%A5%80-%E0%A4%A8%E0%A4%BF%E0%A4%95%E0%A4%B2-%E0%A4%97%E0%A4%88-%E0%A4%A5%E0%A5%80/">‘मैं नलबंदी कराने के लिए घर से अकेली ही निकल गई थी’</a> we realise that despite an enormous body of literature,
the non-literary genres in Hindi hardly have a vivid depiction of people&#39;s
suffering. A vocabulary that addresses issues of knowledge, science, medicine
and health and society has simply not been developed enough.

Swarn Kanta:
Same story with Bhojpuri. Or worse, because it is a
language that has more speakers than writers. Not being an official medium of
education, Bhojpuri lacks terms related to newer occupations like medicine,
engineering, internet, social media, etc. 

One can coin new terms as you suggest, Devesh, but it
is confusing. For words like &#39;transgender&#39;, traditionally we used words such as,
&#39;hijra&#39;, &#39;chhakka&#39;, &#39;launda&#39;,
which are extremely offensive vis-à-vis the terms we use in English. Similarly,
no matter how much we try, translating names, like Women&#39;s Day, mental health,
names of acts or statues (Healthcare Act), names of sports tournaments (Men&#39;s
International World Cup) etc. is simply impossible. 

I remember translating a <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/he-says-if-i-keep-studying-who-will-marry-me/">story</a> of a 19-year-old Shivani from
Bihar’s Samastipur district, a Mahadalit girl fighting her own family and the
outside world against caste and gender-discrimination. I realised that though I
had intimate knowledge of such discriminatory practices, these kind of stories
from real life were never available for us to read. 

Translations, I believe, contribute to the
intellectual and social growth of a community. 

Nirmal:
As also of a language when working in the
absence of a standardised one. There are more than two dozen different forms of
the Chhattisgarhi language in the five parts of Chhattisgarh – North, South,
East, West and Central. So, while translating into Chhattisgarhi, the absence
of a standard form is a challenge. Often, I am very confused about choosing a
particular word. I seek help from journalist friends, editors, writers,
teachers, and refer to books. 

While
working on  Sainath’s story, <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/beware-of-contractors-bearing-gifts/">Beware
of contractors bearing gifts</a> I came across many Chhattisgarhi words which
are not in common use. Surguja area of Chhattisgarh is adjacent to the border
of Jharkhand where Oraon Adivasis are a majority. Words related to forests are
common in their spoken Chhattisgarhi. Since the story focused on a woman from
the same community, I tried to connect with the Adivasis, deployed words they
use in daily life in their area. However, the people in the community speak in
Kurukh.

It
was simply amazing to know how words like sukurdum, kauvva, hanka, hanke, landa,
phanda, kheda, alkarha that were once ingrained in the daily life are no
longer in use because communities do not have access to their water, forests
and land.

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Pankaj: I realise how important it is for a translator to get into
the world of the people that one is translating. Working on the<a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/love-and-a-place-of-ones-own-in-a-metropolis/">
story</a> of Arush  did not just
introduce me to the intensity of love between a transgender man and a woman,
but also to the complexity of their struggle. I learnt to think carefully about
the terminologies to find the right one, for example, to place &#39;reassignment
surgery&#39; within brackets and highlight &#39;gender affirmation surgery&#39;.

I found terms representing transgender persons that are not
derogatory or demeaning:  rupantorkami
purush or nari, or if gender is affirmed, we call it rupantorito
purush or nari. That&#39;s a beautiful word. Again, we have a word for lesbian
or gay – somokami. But till date we do not have a standard term that
upholds the dignity of queer people, so we simply transliterate.

Rajasangeethan: Pankaj,
I am thinking of another story that dealt with sex workers in the time of covid-19
pandemic. I was quite moved on reading it. When the world was trying to tackle
this newfound disease, with a systematic arrogance and indifference towards the
poor, the problems of ordinary Indians just multiplied. At a time when life was
hard even for the privileged people, who was there to pay any heed to those on
margins of the society?  Aakanksha’s Kamathipura
<a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/everyone-knows-what-happens-here-to-girls/">piece</a> forced us to face
the sufferings of people, who had never entered our consciousness before. 

The little
suffocating rooms where they lived and had their clients come, now had to accommodate
young children home from school in the wake of a nation-wide lockdown. What would
this new situation do to the children in the family? As a sex worker and mother,
Priya was being torn between her own emotions and struggles for survival. And her
son Vikram was struggling to find meaning in his life among the gloom that
surrounds their existence.  

The ideas about
family, love, hope, happiness and nurture take shocking forms in this story,
but surprisingly retain the same societal meanings. It is only when I
translated these stories that I came to appreciate the inner quest of all human
beings for hope against hope. 

Sudhamayi: I
cannot agree more. I had no idea at all about the LGBTQIA+ community before I
started translating their stories. To be honest, I feared the people and the
subject. When I saw people from the trans community on the roads, near the
signals, or when they came to our houses, I was afraid to even look at them. I too
used to think that they behaved in some unnatural way. 

I had to look
for people who knew the subject and would do justice to the terminologies when
it came to translating stories on the community. And in the process of reading,
understanding and later editing those stories, I gained more knowledge and got
rid of my transphobia. Now wherever and whenever I see them, I exchange a few words
with them, and quite fondly. 

I would say, translation is a way of getting rid of
one’s own prejudices, a way to grow.

Pranati:  I felt that way about many of the cultural
stories that we translated. There is ample
scope for a translator to learn about various cultural practices by just reading
closely and carefully translating the content that comes from varied cultural
sources. It becomes imperative to understand the cultural nuances of a given
content in the original language. 



In former British colonies like India, English has
become the connecting language. Sometimes we do not know the original language
of the people and depend on English for our work. But a conscientious translator, working diligently and patiently
learning different cultural practices, histories, and languages, can deliver a good
result.



Rajeeve:
No matter
how patient I am, sometimes I just cannot find an equivalent word in my
language, especially when I am doing a story that relates to specific
occupations. It is a challenge to describe those intricate processes in detail
with the right names for the tools and all. In the Ufaq Fatima <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/pattu-weaving-is-fraying-at-the-edges/">story</a> about weavers from Kashmir, I struggled to translate the names of weaving
patterns, like charkhana and chashm-e-bulbul. There were no equivalent
terms in Malayalam and so I ended up using a couple of descriptive phrases.
Even the word pattu was interesting. In Kashmir, it was a woven woollen
fabric, while in Malayalam pattu is a silk cloth.



Qamar: Vocabulary is a weak point even in Urdu, especially
when one is to translate pieces on <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/chronicling-climate-change-everyday-lives-extraordinary-stories/">climate change</a> and <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/pari-series-on-womens-health/">women’s reproductive rights</a> on PARI. The story of Hindi
is a bit different. It is a language sponsored by the central government; it
enjoys state government support. They have institutions dedicated to it. So new
terminologies come into the language quickly, unlike in Urdu, where we continue
to use English terms for many things in translations. 



Urdu was once important. History
tells us that institutions like Delhi College and Osmania University, Hyderabad
were famous for translations of Urdu texts. The primary purpose of Fort William
College in Calcutta was to train British officers in Indian languages, to carry
out translations. Today all those places are dead. We have all seen the fight
between Urdu and Hindi that has continued beyond 1947 and the focus on Urdu has
completely disappeared.

Kamaljit: Do you think the Partition led to a
language divide? I don’t think languages can be divisive, although people are. 



Qamar: There was a time when Urdu belonged to the entire
nation. It was there even in the south. They called it Dakhani (or Deccani) Urdu.
There were poets writing in the language and whose works were a part of
classical Urdu syllabus. But with the end of the Muslim rule all of it came to
an end. And in modern India Urdu survived in what we call the Hindi belt
including Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, Bengal. 



Here
people were taught Urdu in schools. And this had nothing to do with being a
Hindu or a Muslim. I know of people, Hindus, senior people working in the media,
who tell me that they know Urdu. They studied the language in their childhood,
in school. But now they do not teach Urdu. How will a language survive if you
do not teach it anymore? 



Earlier
one could secure a job by studying Urdu, but not anymore. There were still a
few newspapers, and people who wrote for Urdu media a few years ago. But after
2014 even newspapers have died as their funding dried up. People do speak the
language but the number of those who can read and write in this language has fallen
dramatically. 



Devesh: This is such a true and tragic story of language
and politics, Qamar da. But then today who reads the stories you
translate here? What meaning do you see in your work? 



Qamar: Oh, I said that the first time I was at an annual
meeting of PARI soon after I had joined. I felt that people here were
interested in preserving my language. This is why I am with PARI even today. It
is not just about Urdu, but the archive is committed to save each and every endangered
language from extinction and erasure.This
story is written by PARIBhasha team Devesh (Hindi), Joshua Bodhinetra (Bangla),
Kamaljit Kaur (Punjabi), Medha Kale (Marathi), Mohd Qamar Tabrez (Urdu), Nirmal
Kumar Sahu (Chhattisgarhi), Pankaj Das (Assamese), Pranati Parida (Odia),
Pratishtha Pandya (Gujarati), Rajasangeethan (Tamil), Rajeeve Chelanat (Malayalam),
Smita Khator (Bangla), 

Swarn Kanta (Bhojpuri),
Shankar N. Kenchanuru (Kannada), and Sudhamayi Sattenapalli (Telugu). And edited
by Pratishtha Pandya with support from Smita Khator, Medha Kale and Joshua Bodhinetra. Layout: Binaifer Bharucha.

In the beginning was the word: a story in translation

لسانی فاصلوں کے درمیان ترجمے کی اہمیت

ఆదిలో ఒక పదం: అనువాదంలో ఒక కథ

வார்த்தையே தொடக்கம்: மொழிபெயர்ப்பின் கதை

ਪਹਿਲਾਂ-ਪਹਿਲ ਇੱਕ ਸ਼ਬਦ ਉਪਜਿਆ ਹੋਣਾ

ଆରମ୍ଭରୁ ଶବ୍ଦ ଥିଲା: ଅନୁବାଦର ଏକ କାହାଣୀ

शब्दांच्या पलिकडलेः गोष्ट अनुवादाची

ആദിയിൽ വചനമുണ്ടായി: പരിഭാഷയിൽ ഒരു കഥ

ಭಾಷಾಂತರದ ಸುಖ-ಕಷ್ಟಗಳು: ಒಂದು ಅನುವಾದ ಸಂವಾದ

भाषा की नदी पर अनुवाद का पुल

આરંભમાં હતો એક માત્ર નાદ: એક વાર્તા અનુવાદની

एक आखर, कतको अवतार

एगो समाज से दोसरका के जोड़े वाला खिड़की बा अनुवाद

অনুবাদ: ভাষার পাকদণ্ডি বেয়ে চলেছে শব্দেরা

শব্দৰে উদ্ভাসিত এই জগত: অনুবাদৰ আঁৰৰ কিছু কথা

Mumbai

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In the beginning was the word: a story in translation

Every story published on PARI sees a reincarnation in 14 Indian languages. The pleasures and pains involved in the process often remain unarticulated. On International Translation Day celebrated on September 30, our Indian language editors engage in a conversation about their experiences

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