Currently listening to: The Best of Bob Marley.

Currently reading: 100 Years of Solitude, Kahlil Gibran and a Hindi biography on B.R. Ambedkar.

I can’t particularly judge the quality of the translation that I’m reading at the moment, but considering its Marquez, I feel obliged to bow my head in respect. Lately, any and every stimulus leads me to thinking about identities and the way they’re shaped, especially by language. We adhere to language as the last straw of hope. I know I do. For me, language crosses all barriers that seem to be imposed by living in a foreign country and creates zones of comfort where I can finally “let it (insert preferred cliché here).” Whether I stick with English or revert back to Hindi or any of its dialects that I’m familiar with, my speech and my writing help me jump the good fences that good neighbors seem to erect around themselves.

So what exactly do we lose in translation? The fact that there is an interpretation standing between Garcia and myself is a given. When I imagine a hot, lazy summer day, I’m not sitting on the porch, talking to Garcia between sips of coffee. I’m quite possibly at loggerheads with the translator, disputing the direction of the winds billowing from east to west or whichever direction that they were given. My point? I feel as though I’m being manipulated. But I’m a long way from reading 100 Years in its original language. Thoughts?

On the other hand, how cool is Bob Marley? No really. Here’s to breaking barriers and just chilling on the floor with over stuffed pillows, good friends, good books and good food. I like being back. For the nonce.