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Sample translations submitted: 2
Spanish to English: Rayuela, Chapter 21 General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - Spanish Crevel desconfía y lo comprendo. Entre la Maga y yo crece un cañaveral de palabras, apenas nos separan unas horas y unas cuadras y ya mi pena se llama pena, mi amor se llama mi amor... Cada vez iré sintiendo menos y recordando más, pero qué es el recuerdo sino el idioma de los sentimientos, un diccionario de caras y días y perfumes que vuelven como los verbos y los adjetivos en el discurso, adelantándose solapados a la cosa en sí, al presente puro, entristeciéndonos o aleccionándonos vicariamente hasta que el propio ser se vuelve vicario, la cara que mira hacia atrás abre grandes los ojos, la verdadera cara se borra poco a poco como en las viejas fotos y Jano es de golpe cualquiera de nosotros. Todo esto se lo voy diciendo a Crevel pero es con la Maga que hablo, ahora que estamos tan lejos. Y no le hablo con las palabras que sólo han servido para no entendernos, ahora que ya es tarde empiezo a elegir otras, las de ella, las envueltas en eso que ella comprende y que no tiene nombre, auras y tensiones que crispan el aire entre dos cuerpos y llenan de polvo de oro una habitación o un verso. ¿Pero no hemos vivido así todo el tiempo, lacerándonos dulcemente? No, no hemos vivido así, ella hubiera querido pero una vez más yo volví a sentar el falso orden que disimula el caos, a fingir que me entregaba a una vida profunda de la que sólo tocaba el agua terrible con la punta de pie. Hay ríos metafísicos, ella los nada como esa golondrina está nadando en el aire, girando alucinada en torno al campanario, dejándose caer para levantarse mejor con el impuso. Yo describo y defino y deseo esos ríos, ella los nada. Yo los busco, los encuentro, los miro desde el puente, ella los nada. Y no lo sabe, igualita a la golondrina. No necesita saber como yo, puede vivir en el desorden sin que ninguna conciencia de orden la retenga. Ese desorden que es un orden misterioso, esa bohemia del cuerpo y el alma que le abre de par en par las verdaderas puertas. Su vida no es desorden más que para mí, enterrado en perjuicios que desprecio y respeto al mismo tiempo. Yo, condenado a ser absuelto irremediablemente por la Maga que me juzga sin saberlo. Ah, dejame entrar, dejame ver algún día como ven tus ojos.
Translation - English Crevel mistrusts me and I understand. A reed-bed of words grows between La Maga and myself, we barely separate for a few hours by a few blocks and already my sorrow is called sorrow, my love is called love… I keep feeling less and remembering more, but what is memory if not the language of emotions, a dictionary of faces and days and fragrances that become like the verbs and adjectives in discourse, underhandedly advancing toward the thing within themselves, the pure present, saddening us or instructing us vicariously until being itself becomes vicarious, the face that looks backwards opens its eyes wide, the true face erases itself little by little like in old photos, and Jano is suddenly one of us. I go on telling all this to Crevel but it is with La Maga that I speak, now that we are so far apart. And I do not speak with the words that have only served to hinder our mutual understanding, now as it is already late I begin to choose others, hers, ones wrapped up in that which she understands and which has no name, auras and tensions that set the air crackling between two bodies or fill a room or a verse with gold-dust. But have we not lived like this the whole time, lacerating ourselves sweetly? No, we have not lived like this, she would have wanted it but I once more felt the false order that dissimulates into chaos, to imagine I would be handed over a deep life, the terrible water of which I only touched with the tip of my toe. There are metaphysical rivers; she swims in them like that swallow is swimming in the air, spinning stunned in a turn toward the bell tower, letting itself fall to better lift itself with momentum. I describe and define and desire those rivers; she swims in them. I look for them, I find them, I look at them from the bridge; she swims in them. And she does not know it, just like the swallow. She does not need to know like I do, she can live in disorder without any consciousness of order restraining her. That disorder is her mysterious order, that bohemia of the body and the soul that opens the real doors little by little. Her life is not disorder other than for me, buried as I am in prejudices that I distain and respect at the same time. I, condemned to be absolved inevitably by La Maga who judges me without knowing it. Ah, let me in, let me see just one day as your eyes see it.
Hindi to English: Foreign Rooms General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - Hindi वहाँ विदेशों में
कई बार कई कमरे मैं ने छोड़े हैं
जिस में छोड़ते समय
लौट कर देखा है
कि सब कुछ
ज्यों-का-त्यों है न!-यानी
कि कहीं कोई छाप
बची तो नहीं रह गयी है
जो मेरी है
जिसे कि अगला कमरेदार
ग़ैर समझे!
किसी कमरे में
मैं ने अपना कुछ नहीं छोड़ा
सिवा कभी, कहीं, कुछ कूड़ा
जिसे मेरे हटते ही साफ कर दिया जाएगा
क्यों कि कमरे में फिर दूसरा
कमरेदार भर दिया जाएगा।
सभ्यता : गति है
कि हटते जाओ अपने-आप
और छोड़ो नहीं
ऐसी कोई छाप
कि दूसरों को अस्वस्तिकर हो;
थोड़ा कूड़ा-अधिक नहीं, इतना कि हटाने वाला
(और क्रमेण फिर हटने वाला) मान ले
कि सभ्यता नवीकरण है, प्रगति है।
और यहाँ, देस में मैं
रेल की पटरी के किनारे बैठा हूँ
और यहाँ लौट-लौट कर देखता हूँ
कि सब कुछ
ज्यों-का त्यों है न!
यानी कि हर चीज़ पर मेरी छाप बनी तो है न
जिस से कि मैं उसे अपना पहचानूँ!
यह मेरी बक्स है, यह मेरी बिस्तर,
यह मेरा झोला, मेरा हजामत का सामान,
मेरा सुई-धागा, मेरी कमीज़ से टूटा हआ बटन
यह मेरी कापी, जिस में यह मेरी लिखावट
और यह यह मेरा अपना नाम।
तो मैं हूँ, न!
यहाँ, देश में, मैं हूँ न!
Translation - English Away, in foreign countries
I have abandoned many rooms, many times,
to which, when leaving
I return
to be sure:
Everything is in its place, right? – I mean,
Does anywhere, any
mark remain
of mine
that the next guest will find
out of place?
I have never left anything of mine
in any room.
Except sometimes, some places, some scraps
which as soon as I leave will be cleared away
because that room, then,
another guest will fill.
It’s courtesy: quickly
clear yourself away
and do not leave
any sign
that may offend the other guests;
A few scraps, nothing more, just enough that whoever cleans
(and whoever leaves in turn) will believe
courtesy is renewal, progress.
And here, at home, I
sit by the side of the railway tracks.
Returning here time and again, I look
to see that everything
is in its place, right?
I mean, that
I have left my mark on everything,
so that I can recognize myself, right?
This is my room, this my bed,
this is my bag, my shaving things,
my needle and thread, my shirt with a missing button,
this is my journal, inside, my writing,
and this,
this is my name.
So I am, right?
Here, home, I am, right?
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Years of experience: 7. Registered at ProZ.com: May 2017.
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