by Samvartha ‘Sahil’
Prizes, however trivial they may seem, reflect something of the world’s temper. Language politics, with its entrenched hegemonies, often reduces regional tongues to marginal status. The Booker’s recognition affirms that Kannada is no shadow language but one that belongs to the world. The cultural confidence it instils is profound.
When Banu Mushtaq won the International Booker Prize, I felt a quiet, uncomplicated joy. It was not the pride of linguistic or national allegiance but something purer, like the warmth of winter sunlight or the relief of cool water from an earthen pot in summer. Her acceptance speech moved me in ways I did not immediately understand. Only after transcribing it and tracing the lines that resonated most did I grasp why her victory mattered so deeply.
She spoke of building bridges, celebrating diversity, resisting division, and treating literature as sacred ground. More than that, she offered a necessary reminder: the world must be one where every story holds weight, every voice finds an audience, and every person belongs. It was this gentle insistence that elevated the moment beyond mere national pride.
Later, a journalist asked what Mushtaq’s win meant to me as a Kannadiga and a translator. Three thoughts came to mind.
First, to the wider world, Kannada literature has long been represented by Girish Karnad, UR Ananthamurthy, AK Ramanujan, and more recently Vivek Shanbhag. These writers undeniably shape the cultural landscape. Yet Kannada literature stretches far beyond them. Mushtaq’s recognition signals a shift.
The global acclaim of those earlier figures stems not only from literary merit but also from their social capital and linguistic access. Their ability to engage with English-speaking critics and publishers widened their reach. Mushtaq, by contrast, has operated outside such networks, making her Booker win all the more remarkable.
Second, her triumph arrives at a moment when the Muslim community in India faces relentless othering, reduced to crude stereotypes that deny them complexity or creativity. Mushtaq’s success fractures this reductive narrative.
Finally, she is a product of the Bandaaya movement, which rejected art for art’s sake in favour of literature as a tool for dissent and social change. Even as the movement faded, her work retained its defiant spark.
Banu Mushtaq’s journey extends beyond fiction into non-fiction and journalism, much of it published in Lankesh Patrike, edited by P. Lankesh, father of the late Gauri Lankesh. These works reveal a sharp, unyielding radicalism. In an era where intellectuals, dissenters, and subversive voices face suppression, her Booker win transcends mere literary recognition. It disrupts the systematic demonisation of such voices by the state and media.
Though her fiction centres on Muslims and women, she has never abandoned universalism as both principle and vision. Her victory serves as a necessary corrective for younger writers who have seen this ideal obscured by the rise of aggressive identity politics.
The journalist listened patiently as I spoke. Later, he clarified that he sought my perspective not on Mushtaq’s win in general, but on what it meant to me as a Kannadiga and translator. I asked for time to reflect, but distractions left little room for contemplation. When the moment came, I spoke without premeditation.
Prizes, however trivial they may seem, reflect something of the world’s temper. Language politics, with its entrenched hegemonies, often reduces regional tongues to marginal status. The Booker’s recognition affirms that Kannada is no shadow language but one that belongs to the world. The cultural confidence it instils is profound.
There is a well-known Kannada folk song that opens with the lines: dharani mandala madhyado lagey, mereyutiha karnaata deshad lu, “In the centre of the earth lies a land called Karnataka.” It is stirring to think that the minds behind these words envisioned Kannada’s homeland as the world’s heart.
Any point on a sphere may claim to be its centre. To have been raised with this vision of the local as the world’s heart, yet conditioned to view one’s own culture as peripheral, creates a peculiar dissonance. Global recognition alters this. When the world’s gaze turns to Kannada, it affirms what the folk song proclaimed: this too stands at the centre of human experience.
For bilinguals like myself, Kannada long remained the language of home, English the tongue of the outward-facing courtyard. Booker’s acknowledgement has not erased this division but made the boundary permeable. Where before the winds of English blew unchecked into Kannada spaces while our world struggled to be heard beyond its walls, now there is an exchange. The movement between these realms has lost its former friction.
As a translator, I have always understood my work as bridge-building. What I had not considered was its capacity to dismantle barriers. Mushtaq’s achievement reveals translation’s latent power to reshape hierarchies of language and attention.
Finally, with some reluctance, I confessed a private thought to the journalist. Where Aravind Adiga’s Booker win and UR Ananthamurthy’s nomination felt like triumphs for individuals “one among us” gaining wider recognition, Mushtaq’s victory carries the weight of collective possession. This time, it is “we” who have won.
A striking divergence emerges when comparing autobiographies across genders. Men’s narratives typically frame their coming of age as individual triumphs, measured by external achievement. Women’s stories, by contrast, present maturation as a collective experience, defined by fulfilment rather than accomplishment.
Banu Mushtaq’s victory carries this collective weight. It does not feel like one among us has succeeded, but rather that we all have. This quality stems from her particular fusion of political creativity and creative politics. For an aspiring writer who teaches screen storytelling, this distinction matters.
In a pointed Instagram post, Jasmine Hafiz, a writer and scholar, noted how the book’s original blurb referenced “the exquisite, everyday lives of women in Muslim communities,” while the prize announcement recast this as “lives of women in patriarchal communities.” The shift reveals telling assumptions. While Western perspectives may indeed view Muslim communities through reductive lenses, this should not obscure the real battles Mushtaq and her characters face. Their struggles hold profound significance within their social context, both as women and as Muslims.
This echoes discussions surrounding Farha Khatun’s documentary Holy Rights when it won the National Award. The film’s examination of triple talaq remains vital, yet the current regime’s enthusiasm for honouring it raises questions. The world is divided along messy, not neat, lines. The most vulnerable wage unequal battles that rarely leave tidy resolutions. There exist no clear hierarchies determining which fights matter most.
In such circumstances, the immediate struggles of marginalised groups risk losing credibility. Dominant forces often co-opt these very battles to reinforce their narratives. Yet no victory proves insignificant, just as no story lacks importance. However small the battle may appear, its worth persists.
(The author is a writer, educator and translator. An FTII alumnus in Screenplay Writing and a JNU graduate in Theatre and Performance Studies, he teaches screenwriting at FTII’s Centre for Open Learning. A 2022-23 Charles Wallace India Trust fellow, his work spans creative writing, translation and performance studies. Ideas are personal.)
