Last time I wrote about learning Urdu, with a special focus on Ismat Chughtai’s writing. For me, 2024 has been the year of translation. After nearly a half-decade of work, I can now read the originals of previously out-of-reach texts.

I’ve been thinking about translation as political praxis. With the sociologist Ipek Demir, in May I brought out an edited collection, Translation and Decolonisation: Interdisciplinary Approaches. Ipek and I are proud the volume is bookended by classic essays on the topic from Indian scholar Kenyan author Gayatri Spivak and Ngugi wa Thiong’o. In between are 11 original chapters, in which we argue that for all its overlap with colonialism, translation has positive insurgent aspects.

Our contributors, who include such social scientists, translators and literary experts as Paul F Bandia, Kathryn Batchelor and Maureen Freely, aver that translation can be transformative for decolonial resistance. By challenging imperial systems and fostering South-to-South dialogue, translation has the potential to redefine cultural exchange on a more just basis.

Peiyu Yang’s essay explores a 1965 travelogue by the Palestinian author Ghassan Kanafani about China. Bilingual in Mandarin and Arabic, Yang shows the narrative’s mix of anti-colonial solidarity and gender-blindness. Kanafani was killed by Mossad in 1972.

Haider Shahbaz discusses Fahmida Riaz’s Awaz magazine. From 1978 to 1981, Awaz published Urdu renditions of texts by authors, including Pablo Neruda, Rabindranath Tagore and Mahmoud Darwish. The magazine promoted Afro-Asian solidarity and anti-colonial thinking, countering dictatorship in Pakistan while encouraging non-aligned ideals.

With this academic work in mind, I experimented with my own translations. I have always loved creative writing. However, without facts to draw on, my imagination falls short. Translation allows for creativity within a seemingly rigid structure. In this it is like non-fiction writing, so it is perfect for me.

In her brilliant novel The Centre (discussed in my chapter), Ayesha Manazir Siddiqi writes of the “flexibility” inherent to translation. This flexibility, Siddiqi’s narrator declares, allows her to remain “loyal to the text,” while bringing out “the language’s strengths through subtle emphases and rearrangements.” Like a poet’s disciplined yet visionary crafting of a ghazal, translation invites creativity within constraints and may unearth a language’s depths.

Chughtai was Saadat Hasan Manto’s friend. Karachi-based novelist Bina Shah calls Manto “the chronicler of the Subcontinent’s pain.” ‘Tamasha’ was the Urdu writer’s first story, as it was to be my debut translation.

I worked with the Pakistani translator Sana R Chaudhury, who’s won such prestigious awards as the Jawad Memorial, Mozhi and the Armory SV prizes. We decided to publish the story as ‘A Spectacle’ in the Bombay Literary Magazine. Not only is this a great online journal, but its location is also apt. Bombay was the city closest to Manto’s heart.

To our knowledge, ‘Tamasha’ hasn’t been carried across to English before, although there are several Hindi reworkings. Manto’s great-niece Ayesha Jalal presents it in The Pity of Partition, but as review and analysis rather than a translation.

The story gives a chilling glimpse of the bloodshed engendered by colonial rule. Written in 1934 when Manto was in his early twenties, it is set against the backdrop of the Jallianwala Bagh massacre and the British aerial bombing of Gujranwala in 1919. Through the eyes of six-year-old Khalid, Manto explores the devastation of state violence, highlighting the generational trauma wrought by such brutality.

Our translation of ‘Tamasha’ is more than a linguistic exercise; it showcases the story’s historical and contemporary resonance. Manto’s depiction of the colonial state’s merciless violence against its subjects finds eerie parallels with modern-day conflicts, particularly the ongoing oppression of Palestinians. The narrative illustrates the persistent suffering of those under imperial rule.

Manto’s story begins in an atmosphere thick with tension and foreboding. The British planes overhead serve as an omen of impending disaster. Khalid’s distress conveys the confusion and terror that such aggression inflicts on the most innocent of society.

A key challenge we faced in translating ‘Tamasha’ was preserving the affective intensity and cultural resonances of Manto’s Urdu while making it accessible to English-speakers. The tale’s diction seems light, yet its emotional freight is heavy. This required careful consideration of word choice, tone and rhythm.

For instance, we used the terms “jets” as well as “planes” to make the story fresh and intimate a stronger link to Gaza. The word “jets” would be historically anachronistic for both 1919 and Manto’s 1930s context, as these high-altitude aeroplanes only started appearing in the 1940s. The deadly tactics used against civilians in Gujranwala involved slow-moving biplanes flying low.

However, “jets” for the Urdu word tayyare helps to evoke Palestine. There distant, unseen F-16s attack with overwhelming force. In mingling this with the more generic “planes”, we were influenced by Manto. Though not known for his cautious nature, in ‘Tamasha’ he refrained from specifying the affiliations of the oppressors or subjugated.

By calling the story ‘A Spectacle’, our intention was to stress the performative aspect of the violence. Manto’s tamasha is part of the father’s futile efforts to shield his son from the horrors of their situation. He tells Khalid the bazaar is deserted and school shut because there will be a show. The boy thinks “the spectacle must be exceptionally interesting” and gets excited to watch it.

Our title reflects the public, almost theatrical nature of the atrocities perpetrated by the colonial state. The spectacular impacts the way in which violence is internalised by its recipients. In colonial and other authoritarian contexts, “the showing of the instruments” is an influential idea. The mere presence of a weapon entices a prisoner to imagine their torture, resulting in fear and sometimes capitulation.

If 2024 is my year of translation, I realise this pursuit has sharpened my understanding of language as both a creative force and a political tool. Studying amid what has been a terrible 12 months for the world has affirmed translation’s capacity to amplify silenced voices.

Translations of resistance literature can illuminate shared human experiences across time and space.

The columnist is a Professor of Global Literature at the University of York and author of three books. X: @clarachambara

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, September 8th, 2024