A mini post on language.
I went on a hike yesterday with another language school student who is also from the states. It was a rather steep path that we were taking to another village named Kulti, about 10 kilometers away.
Well this other student, let's call him George, he has been at the language school for about three weeks and he is what you would call an overzealous student. The typical Landour Language school student takes about four classes each day. George takes 6. I felt very privileged to be on this hike with him; to be able to pick his brain on the Hindi language, and his experiences thus far.
A gem from our conversation:
To ask, "where does this path/road go?" the direct translation from Hindi would be, "this path tends to usually reach where?"
-The word order aside, I like this comparison in particular because it highlights a story we tell ourselves in the West. On the English side of things, there is an assumption within the question itself that this path always goes to one place- that if I am to follow this road, I WILL, undoubtedly get to one particular destination. The question is, in and of itself, destination-oriented.
My sister told me a story once from a conversation she had with a South African man close to the village in which she works. He told her that it upsets him when Europeans or Westerners come to his village and ask him, "How do I get to_____?" because, he said, it's the wrong question. One should ask, "Where is _____?" and then, based upon where they are and the context in which they find themselves, determine how they would like to get there. Asking, "How do I get to____?" assumes, first of all, there there is only one way to get there, and secondly, ignores the context of the individual.
The Hindi question, which uses the habitual tense, understands that this path may or may not get you to where you want to go; that it may have a tendency to reach to a particular village, but depending on various conditions, may not actually deliver you there. Furthermore, it almost seems to give the path a personality, a recognition of the ability for everything in nature to respond with subjectivity to its surroundings. This path is conscious- to what extent is clearly up for debate, but it seems that Hindi gives the path the benefit of the doubt, unlike English.
The best translation for hiking in Hindi is "to wander." (घूमना, "ghoomna")
All of this became particularly poignant on our return hike back from the village, as the path definitely does NOT always wind in the same direction; we were most certainly wandering through the river, and bushwacking up the hills on hands and knees. I have 10 leech bites to prove it.
A poem from Antonio Machado:
Caminante, son tus huelas,
el camino, y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace camino,
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino,
sino estelas en la mar.
-translated-
Wanderer, your footsteps are
the road, and nothing more;
wanderer, there is no road,
the road is made by walking.
By walking one makes the road,
and upon glancing behind
one sees the path
that never will be trod again.
Wanderer, there is no road--
Only wakes upon the sea.
I went on a hike yesterday with another language school student who is also from the states. It was a rather steep path that we were taking to another village named Kulti, about 10 kilometers away.
Well this other student, let's call him George, he has been at the language school for about three weeks and he is what you would call an overzealous student. The typical Landour Language school student takes about four classes each day. George takes 6. I felt very privileged to be on this hike with him; to be able to pick his brain on the Hindi language, and his experiences thus far.
A gem from our conversation:
To ask, "where does this path/road go?" the direct translation from Hindi would be, "this path tends to usually reach where?"
-The word order aside, I like this comparison in particular because it highlights a story we tell ourselves in the West. On the English side of things, there is an assumption within the question itself that this path always goes to one place- that if I am to follow this road, I WILL, undoubtedly get to one particular destination. The question is, in and of itself, destination-oriented.
My sister told me a story once from a conversation she had with a South African man close to the village in which she works. He told her that it upsets him when Europeans or Westerners come to his village and ask him, "How do I get to_____?" because, he said, it's the wrong question. One should ask, "Where is _____?" and then, based upon where they are and the context in which they find themselves, determine how they would like to get there. Asking, "How do I get to____?" assumes, first of all, there there is only one way to get there, and secondly, ignores the context of the individual.
The Hindi question, which uses the habitual tense, understands that this path may or may not get you to where you want to go; that it may have a tendency to reach to a particular village, but depending on various conditions, may not actually deliver you there. Furthermore, it almost seems to give the path a personality, a recognition of the ability for everything in nature to respond with subjectivity to its surroundings. This path is conscious- to what extent is clearly up for debate, but it seems that Hindi gives the path the benefit of the doubt, unlike English.
The best translation for hiking in Hindi is "to wander." (घूमना, "ghoomna")
All of this became particularly poignant on our return hike back from the village, as the path definitely does NOT always wind in the same direction; we were most certainly wandering through the river, and bushwacking up the hills on hands and knees. I have 10 leech bites to prove it.
A poem from Antonio Machado:
Caminante, son tus huelas,
el camino, y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace camino,
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino,
sino estelas en la mar.
-translated-
Wanderer, your footsteps are
the road, and nothing more;
wanderer, there is no road,
the road is made by walking.
By walking one makes the road,
and upon glancing behind
one sees the path
that never will be trod again.
Wanderer, there is no road--
Only wakes upon the sea.
Ahhh! This is so beautiful and healing for me!
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