What is the next big thing that brand India has to offer to the world after IT? Auto components? State of the art electronic equipment?? Satellite launch vehicles???
If the buzz in the market is anything to go by, ‘translation’ – of all things - is all set to catapult India to the top of the heap in this particular segment of the global market in the near future. The size of the Indian ‘market’ for this supposedly lazy pastime of people with a little flair for languages and plenty of time on hands is, by one estimate, already over $ 500 million. Given the Indians’ penchant for languages, the country has a real possibility of cornering a sizeable chunk of the global market worth over $ 15 billion.
The icing on the cake: it also has the potential to generate more than 5, 00, 000 jobs in the country. Coming as it does from no less a person than Dr. Sam Pitroda, Chairman of the National Knowledge Commission, the figure can hardly be dismissed as idle speculation or ‘castles in the air’.
The one thing that did the trick for the Indian IT industry – ‘cheap labour’ (Yes, you heard right; it was not the much vaunted Indian capacity for patience and facility with the intricate) – is also fuelling the growth in the ‘translation industry’. The best part is: much of the market will be cornered by the vernacular translators (those who translate to and from any Indian language) rather than their ‘elite’ English counterparts, given the increasing tendency among multinational companies to ‘go local’.
This exponential growth in the translation industry will open up vast employment opportunities for Odias – as for their counterparts in other vernacular languages – with some command over their mother tongue and English or any other foreign language. At least some of these Odias can hope to emulate in the none-too-distant future Sandeep Mulkar, Chairman cum Managing Director of the Pune-based (Pune, by all accounts, has emerged as the ‘translation capital’ of India) Bureau for Interpretation and Translation Services, which already has big names like Volkswagen, Mercedes-Benz, John Deere and SAP, Infosys and Bharat Forge among its clients.
Right? Wrong. I would tell you why.
Shortly after the anti-Christian riots in Kandhamal last year, a well known activist from Mumbai was on a mission collecting FIRs filed by the victims of the riot (no prizes for guessing what purpose the FIRs served). Since the overwhelming majority of them were in Odia, they had to be translated into English to be ‘useful’. So, this woman activist took all the 190 odd FIRs to Mumbai to get them translated.
But a few days later, she called up a senior journalist friend in Bhubaneswar and requested him to get the documents translated by somebody here as the ‘mercenaries’ in Mumbai were quoting an ‘astronomical’ price for the job. The journalist friend obliged and the lady got her job done for one tenth [Or was it one twentieth? Or even one fiftieth?? There is really no way of knowing] of what she would have paid in the Maximum City. Meanwhile, the two young translators in the Minimum City burnt midnight oil for nearly a fortnight to meet the deadline.
It transpired that translation from Odia to English or vice versa costs significantly more than translation to and from most other Indian languages in Mumbai. A little digging up revealed that this is so because there are very few in the city who are competent in both the languages (no surprise this, given the typically Odia trait of ‘forgetting’ their mother tongue at the first available opportunity) and hence the few that there are have to be paid a fat amount by the ad agencies that handle almost the entire business of translation in the city (unless, of course, you happen to know somebody personally).
So, notwithstanding the enormous reach and power of the internet and wonderful innovations like the PDF and scanning, all that the Odia translator can hope to get is a few crumbs left over by the sharks of the trade. Some of the agencies engaged in the translation business in the big cities (that is where the moolah is) may appoint local franchisees and share a minuscule part of their whopping profit with them. But the poor translator, like the poor kendu leaf collector, will continue to earn a pittance unless s/he has the ways and means of setting up shop in the cities where such work is generated. Those who cannot are condemned to ply their trade for as little as Rs. 30, 20 or even Rs. 10 for an A4 size page!!!
Friday, January 29, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
The Pen and the Mouse
Ah, the romance of writing in the longhand!!!
The geeks of today cannot fathom this fascination for the longhand in an age when the mouse and the keyboard rule the world. But it has proved too overpowering for many old timers like this senior of mine who, even after becoming the Editor of a leading Odia daily, has steadfastly refused to run his fingers over the keyboard and has – surprise of surprises – gotten away with it.
This senior may be too much in love with his own handwriting - which, I must say, is outstanding. But there was no such factor influencing my hatred for the ‘mouse’. For well over a decade after computers started invading the workplace, I resisted the pressure – from peers as well as my employers – to abandon the good old pen in favour of the monstrous machine called the computer.
I still remember the day when the Editor-owner of the first newspaper I worked for issued a fiat asking all subs to start learning computers. “I would banish pen and paper from the news desk”, he was fond of bragging. If he could not have his way – at least for the period that I stayed with the newspaper – it was largely because of the stiff resistance that I and a few others of my persuasion put up to the ‘idea’, which the loyalist brigade hailed with a collective “What an idea, Sirji?”.
My opposition in this particular case, however, had less to do with my love of the longhand and more with my own idea of ‘division of labour’. I could feel a distinct sense of unease among the colleagues in the DTP room when they were asked by an official order to teach us the basics of operating the computer. They felt – and not without reason – they would lose their jobs once the subs started writing and editing their copies on the computer and made no secret of their unwillingness to teach us. Thanks to the support of subs like me, they did not lose their jobs immediately. But today, most of them are in a pitiable situation, slogging for a pittance at a DTP centre. Some have been forced by circumstances to take up jobs they had no previous experience of. They were the people who ushered in the computer revolution in the state. But, as they say, “the revolution devours its child’.
Many of my erstwhile colleagues later changed sides and took to the computer. My resistance to computers, however, remained long after I had left this particular newspaper. For years, I would write my stories in longhand, serpentine arrows and all, and then give it to a commercial DTP operator for composing, sitting with him during the entire process to ensure that typographical errors do not creep into the copy, before couriering it to the office.
It went on even after my wife, a hardware maintenance engineer herself, brought and installed a computer at home for my use. [She had precious little use for the computer while at home, given all the chores that a working woman in a nuclear family has to look after.] But my daughter, who was in her middle school at the time, took to the computer like the proverbial fish to water - writing, painting, playing games and doing sundry other things on it.
For years, mother and daughter would take turns trying to drag me to the computer. But I would always cook up a ready excuse not to sit before it. I later realized that I was cooking up excuses and alibis not just for them, but for me as well. “The thoughts just do not flow with the computer” (a statement that I now realise has no basis whatsoever), I would tell myself.
Today, as I write this piece, I am convinced that the computer – and the internet, its inseparable companion – is the best thing to have happened to mankind in the last century. I am now truly a convert to the cult of the computer (though rather late in the day) and wish that some day, my longhand-obsessed senior would discard his pen in favour of the ‘mouse’. Like me.
The geeks of today cannot fathom this fascination for the longhand in an age when the mouse and the keyboard rule the world. But it has proved too overpowering for many old timers like this senior of mine who, even after becoming the Editor of a leading Odia daily, has steadfastly refused to run his fingers over the keyboard and has – surprise of surprises – gotten away with it.
This senior may be too much in love with his own handwriting - which, I must say, is outstanding. But there was no such factor influencing my hatred for the ‘mouse’. For well over a decade after computers started invading the workplace, I resisted the pressure – from peers as well as my employers – to abandon the good old pen in favour of the monstrous machine called the computer.
I still remember the day when the Editor-owner of the first newspaper I worked for issued a fiat asking all subs to start learning computers. “I would banish pen and paper from the news desk”, he was fond of bragging. If he could not have his way – at least for the period that I stayed with the newspaper – it was largely because of the stiff resistance that I and a few others of my persuasion put up to the ‘idea’, which the loyalist brigade hailed with a collective “What an idea, Sirji?”.
My opposition in this particular case, however, had less to do with my love of the longhand and more with my own idea of ‘division of labour’. I could feel a distinct sense of unease among the colleagues in the DTP room when they were asked by an official order to teach us the basics of operating the computer. They felt – and not without reason – they would lose their jobs once the subs started writing and editing their copies on the computer and made no secret of their unwillingness to teach us. Thanks to the support of subs like me, they did not lose their jobs immediately. But today, most of them are in a pitiable situation, slogging for a pittance at a DTP centre. Some have been forced by circumstances to take up jobs they had no previous experience of. They were the people who ushered in the computer revolution in the state. But, as they say, “the revolution devours its child’.
Many of my erstwhile colleagues later changed sides and took to the computer. My resistance to computers, however, remained long after I had left this particular newspaper. For years, I would write my stories in longhand, serpentine arrows and all, and then give it to a commercial DTP operator for composing, sitting with him during the entire process to ensure that typographical errors do not creep into the copy, before couriering it to the office.
It went on even after my wife, a hardware maintenance engineer herself, brought and installed a computer at home for my use. [She had precious little use for the computer while at home, given all the chores that a working woman in a nuclear family has to look after.] But my daughter, who was in her middle school at the time, took to the computer like the proverbial fish to water - writing, painting, playing games and doing sundry other things on it.
For years, mother and daughter would take turns trying to drag me to the computer. But I would always cook up a ready excuse not to sit before it. I later realized that I was cooking up excuses and alibis not just for them, but for me as well. “The thoughts just do not flow with the computer” (a statement that I now realise has no basis whatsoever), I would tell myself.
Today, as I write this piece, I am convinced that the computer – and the internet, its inseparable companion – is the best thing to have happened to mankind in the last century. I am now truly a convert to the cult of the computer (though rather late in the day) and wish that some day, my longhand-obsessed senior would discard his pen in favour of the ‘mouse’. Like me.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Three cheers for 'Udisha'
“A rose by any other name would smell just as well”, they say. But I have my doubts. Every time somebody spells or pronounces my beloved Odisha as Orissa or Udisha, I get worked up. I was naturally thrilled when the Union Cabinet approved the Odisha government proposal to rename the state and its official language.
But to my consternation, I find that not every Odia shares my jubilation. Many feel this is much ado about nothing. “Do you seriously believe any outsider to start calling the state Odisha hereafter?”, asked a friend. “Odias have never really distinguished between ‘sa’ and ‘sha’ in their pronunciation. So, what is the big deal?”, queried another, who would rather have the state’s name pronounced as Odisa.
Year ago, I remember seething with rage when an anchor on good old Doordarshan made the announcement that the next programme was the Oriya (not Odia as it is now set to become) film “Niraba Jhada”, pronouncing the name in a way that made the second word – meaning storm – mean human shit.
Storm in a cup? Not when you are at the receiving end of an endless series of howlers, making you wonder at times if there is a pattern to it. Television news anchors would take great pains to pronounce the most tongue-twisting of names – be they Tamil, Tibetan, French, Spanish or whatever – correctly. But when it came to an Odia name, they would make sure that they mispronounce it. And thus, ‘Kandhamal’ would become ‘Khandamal’, ‘Swain’ ‘Swine’ and so on.
Ironically, the man responsible for getting the Centre’s nod for correction of the official name of the state and its language has left the television anchors far, far behind when it comes to mispronouncing Odia names. He has regaled crowds by turning Baripada, the headquarters of Mayurbhanj district, into the rural woman’s favourite term of abuse reserved for men in villages of coastal Odisha. But to give the devil his due, it was he – and not the supposedly quintessential Odia Chief Minister, who also ruled the state for three terms – who managed to do the unthinkable - getting a seemingly hostile UPA government to endorse the change of name. Perhaps aware of the repercussions of his move, he has even stopped pronouncing his state as Udisha as he used to do till a few months before the last elections.
I have always felt very strongly about misspelling or mispronunciation of names. I get terribly irritated each time somebody writes my name as Sandeep Sahoo, Sundeep Sahoo or Sandip Sahoo, even when s/he is merely copying from a document which has my name spelt correctly. So, I was a little amused when the change of name of the state and its language led to a furious debate about the desirability of such a change in much of the national media, which is usually very reticent about giving space to Odisha and Odias. I don’t remember any such debate when Bombay was renamed Mumbai, Madras became Chennai, Calcutta Kolkata and so on.
If the preceding paragraphs smell of a persecution complex and sound too parochial or jingoistic, here is something that should absolve me of all these sins. Even as I hate somebody mispronouncing my name, that of my state or my language, I know for sure that we Odias will continue to pronounce Odisha as Odisa, as my good friend had rightly pointed out, long after the cabinet decision gets formal parliamentary approval. And the rest of the world will continue to pronounce Odisha as Orissa or Udisha. Three cheers for Udisha!!!
But to my consternation, I find that not every Odia shares my jubilation. Many feel this is much ado about nothing. “Do you seriously believe any outsider to start calling the state Odisha hereafter?”, asked a friend. “Odias have never really distinguished between ‘sa’ and ‘sha’ in their pronunciation. So, what is the big deal?”, queried another, who would rather have the state’s name pronounced as Odisa.
Year ago, I remember seething with rage when an anchor on good old Doordarshan made the announcement that the next programme was the Oriya (not Odia as it is now set to become) film “Niraba Jhada”, pronouncing the name in a way that made the second word – meaning storm – mean human shit.
Storm in a cup? Not when you are at the receiving end of an endless series of howlers, making you wonder at times if there is a pattern to it. Television news anchors would take great pains to pronounce the most tongue-twisting of names – be they Tamil, Tibetan, French, Spanish or whatever – correctly. But when it came to an Odia name, they would make sure that they mispronounce it. And thus, ‘Kandhamal’ would become ‘Khandamal’, ‘Swain’ ‘Swine’ and so on.
Ironically, the man responsible for getting the Centre’s nod for correction of the official name of the state and its language has left the television anchors far, far behind when it comes to mispronouncing Odia names. He has regaled crowds by turning Baripada, the headquarters of Mayurbhanj district, into the rural woman’s favourite term of abuse reserved for men in villages of coastal Odisha. But to give the devil his due, it was he – and not the supposedly quintessential Odia Chief Minister, who also ruled the state for three terms – who managed to do the unthinkable - getting a seemingly hostile UPA government to endorse the change of name. Perhaps aware of the repercussions of his move, he has even stopped pronouncing his state as Udisha as he used to do till a few months before the last elections.
I have always felt very strongly about misspelling or mispronunciation of names. I get terribly irritated each time somebody writes my name as Sandeep Sahoo, Sundeep Sahoo or Sandip Sahoo, even when s/he is merely copying from a document which has my name spelt correctly. So, I was a little amused when the change of name of the state and its language led to a furious debate about the desirability of such a change in much of the national media, which is usually very reticent about giving space to Odisha and Odias. I don’t remember any such debate when Bombay was renamed Mumbai, Madras became Chennai, Calcutta Kolkata and so on.
If the preceding paragraphs smell of a persecution complex and sound too parochial or jingoistic, here is something that should absolve me of all these sins. Even as I hate somebody mispronouncing my name, that of my state or my language, I know for sure that we Odias will continue to pronounce Odisha as Odisa, as my good friend had rightly pointed out, long after the cabinet decision gets formal parliamentary approval. And the rest of the world will continue to pronounce Odisha as Orissa or Udisha. Three cheers for Udisha!!!
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