the kriticulture blogspace is the interspace of cultures.
the space for what can, or cannot, be said in a universe of disciplinary boundaries and disciplining borders. literature, philosophy, theory, politics, film, theatre, photography, art, anar(ch)t . . . sheer writing, scratching, screaming.
geo-cognitively situated in the 21st century Punjab, India, it is a nomadic, amorphous and anarchic interspace of free dialogue of cultures, disciplines, people, and worlds.
What this translation means
On Daljit Ami’s
translation of Amandeep Sandhu’s novel Roll of Honour
By Rajesh Sharma
There are books with souls and
there are books without souls. Amandeep Sandhu’s Roll of Honour is a book with a soul.
a book with a soul is the writer’s capacity to undergo the baptism of truth. To
bear witness. To submit to the knowing that truth entails. The novel bears out
that those who side with truth take no sides. Sandhu tells a very Punjabi story
without succumbing to the baneful provincialism of today’s decadent cultural
to translate the novel’s title as Gawah
de Phanah Hon ton Pahilan (Before the
Witness Ceases to Be) could only have been made because he was able to peer
into the novel’s soul. And that happened because the ways of the two witnesses,
Ami and Sandhu, crossed. Ami saw himself in the novel, saw his own life, saw
his own experience of history. As a historian and documentarist reading and
translating a novel, he demonstrates a felt grasp of Sandhu’s profound sense of
the way history enfolds us even as we carry history.In fact, Ami’s ‘form’ of the novel—as he
describes the translation—has a longer timeline: it incorporates events that
happened after the novel was published in 2012. The reason they are
incorporated is that they belong to the same body of signification. History is
a luxury—and a potential IED—if we refuse to identify and recognize it in the
Sandhu is very
happy with the translation. He even asks, ‘Which is better, the English or the
It is a rare
acknowledgement of the quality of the translation: the large-hearted man that
he is, Sandhu probably feels he wrote a Punjabi novel in English which has been
‘brought home’ (as he says) into Punjabi by Ami. Perhaps he wrote two novels,
one actual, the other potential. And the potential has now found incarnation in
ghosts are hovering.
probably sniff a plot here: Once upon a time there was a translation which
preceded the original…
But would Sandhu
allow the same latitude to another translator? From another language or
continent? From another history?
perhaps, never be a final word on this unprecedented experiment in literary
translation. One thing, however, is clear: the novelist’s magnanimity and the
translator’s courage had to meet for this miracle to happen.
A timely article, a semi-obituary. . . But I still have hope that the history of cultural studies might matter to the university—and to the world beyond it. My hopes aren't quite as ambitious as they were 20 years ago. I no longer expect cultural studies to transform the disciplines. But I do think cultural studies can do a better job of complicating the political-economy model in media theory, a better job of complicating our accounts of neoliberalism, and a better job of convincing people inside and outside the university that cultural studies' understanding of hegemony is a form of understanding with great explanatory power—that is to say, a form of understanding that actually works. Link: http://chronicle.com/article/Whats-the-Matter-With/48334/
Seven Poems of Pash Translated from Punjabi by Rajesh Sharma Of all things the most terrible to be robbed of one ’ s labour is not the most terrible of things to suffer torture by the police is not being sold off for a fistful of greed – no, no, it ’ s not bad it is to be taken unprepared and bad to freeze in silence from fear yet it is not of all things the most terrible to see your truth go down to deceit is bad and bad to have to read in a glow worm ’ s light yet it is not the most terrible of things more terrible than anything is to have a corpse ’ s dead peace to possess no discontent to endure it all to be always leaving home for work and work for home . . . no more the
Translated from Punjabi by Rajesh Sharma you don ’ t know how I ’ m counted in poetry: like some carcass-eating dog that has strayed into a full-blown mujra perhaps you wonder what I write late into the nights in the light of a lamp for some party engaged in dangerous things you don ’ t know how I go to poetry: like a rustic woman in new clothes of outworn fashion who steps, bewildered, into city shops I ask of poetry nail polish for you coloured embroidery thread for my younger sister bitter medicine to treat father ’ s cataract poetry sees mischief in such demands every month night after night it sends for me its sentinels carrying batons of cane and guns with polished butts they take away my beloved books my childhood picture from the shelf and my first love ’ s cry that slipped on the stairs and, hurt, was broken into a disconsolate rainbow you don ’ t know that the policemen who know me