Saturday, June 21, 2008

Memoirs of a Russian Interpreter: Part I


Without my realising it, my career as a Russian interpreter began in 1984 with a phone call from someone who didn’t know what interpreter meant.
“The USSR consulate gave us your name. A delegation from Russia is coming to Bombay. We would like you to work as a translator.” The clerk from ICCR (Indian Council for Cultural Relations) said over the phone.
“Do you mean interpreter?” I asked, my heart thumping. Until then, I had read about that species only in fiction. My mind recalled the story of a Greek interpreter who was coerced to help a kidnapper talk to his victims.
“They said you are a translator.”
“Would I need to translate written material, or do you want me to accompany your delegation so that they can talk at their meetings?”
“Yes, we want you to go everywhere with them. It’s a small delegation; only three people, all musicians. I’ve got their names here. Two girls and a man – Nurilla, Nuri and Jan.” He paused and in a that-was-the-good-news-now-here-is-the-bad-one tone added: “We can only pay sixty rupees a day (about four dollars then). We are a govt organisation, you see.”

I was working with a chartered accountants’ firm, an occupation that I detested wholeheartedly. I applied for short leave and two days later was at the airport waiting for the two girls and a man to emerge.
***
I could not see two white girls and a man – with or without musical instruments. The only foreigners I saw were three elderly men who looked lost. One of them had Mongolian features. Where was my delegation? As I walked around, I heard the elderly men speak in Russian. Even the man with narrow eyes spoke in Russian. Quite a coincidence this. I thought they might know something about my group. I went and greeted them.
“Where is Ravindra?” One of the men asked me in Russian.
“That’s me. My name is Ravi. Ravindra is the official name.”
“Oh, hello! We’ve been waiting for some time.”

The three introduced themselves.
“I’m Nurilla Zakirov.” Said the youngest of the three men. As I learnt later, he was in his early forties, but I thought of him as an elderly person since I was only twenty-two. (Now-a-days, I don’t consider people in their forties to be all that old). Plump, short and half-bald, Nurilla had a very round face. Though he wore glasses, you could clearly see how piercing his eyes were. He was a composer from Tashkent, Uzbekistan.

Nuri Mukhatov, the oldest, looked like Onassis (Anthony Quinn) in The Greek Tycoon – but without his wealth. He came from Turkmenistan. The third person who hardly spoke was an Estonian composer – Jan Raats. In 1984, blue jeans – an American symbol – were disapproved by the USSR authorities. The three gentlemen wore formal trousers and full-sleeve shirts. Age and enthusiasm had dictated Nurilla to be the natural leader of the group.

“Please tell ICCR not to call us a Russian delegation.” Nurilla said. “None of us is Russian.” Calling Soviets from the other republics Russians was as great an offence as calling a man from Scotland an Englishman. 
***
One of the planned visits was to the Sangeet Mahabharati conservatory. It was founded by Nikhil Ghosh, a Bengali musician with a long beard. His family welcomed us. His sons Nayan and Dhruv Ghosh, already well-known instrumentalists, were ready with their tabla and sitar tuned.
“Please tell our guests I don’t see them carrying any instruments.” Said the patriarch Ghosh.
“We are composers, not players.” Clarified Nurilla.
“Please tell them… in our country composers normally play on some instruments, at least the harmonium.”
“Yes, we play a bit… but we can’t carry grand pianos with us on our travel.” I translated what Nurilla said and everyone laughed.
Nikhil Ghosh then began a discourse on Indian music and instruments.

In India, we’re not accustomed to working with interpreters. He started each sentence with “please tell them…” which quite annoyed me. I was going to tell them everything that was said. Professional interpreters use first person when translating. For example, when Nikhil Ghosh said “these are my two sons.” I said in Russian “these are my two sons” rather than “these are his two sons.” The job of an interpreter is to replicate what’s being said in the right tone and emotions. One school considers that if the speaker is crying while speaking, the interpreter should cry as well. I’ll discuss this in detail in one of the future diaries.

To return to the Sangeet Mahabharati, Nikhil Ghosh continued to talk about Indian classical music and instruments. After I translated, he would once again explain the same thing. As a faithful interpreter, I continued to translate whatever he said, but eventually I grew tired of the repetition.
“Excuse me, but I’ve already translated what raga is.” I said.
“I know. But these are difficult concepts to understand for you. Unless you understand well what I’m saying, you won’t be able to translate for them. I want…”
“Sorry, but…” I interrupted. “… I was born in a musician’s family. My father, Shankar Abhyankar is a sitarist, vocalist and composer.”
“Oh,” his eyes glistened, “you are Shankar’s son! You should have said that in the beginning. Then of course you know all this very well.”
The talk moved smoothly after that.
***
The three composers stayed at hotel Ritz, Church Gate. One afternoon, after lunch, I said to Nurilla we could visit a bank as he had wished. Nurilla immediately changed the subject. Later, he took me aside and said,
“I don’t want those two to know about it. I’m carrying some money – of my own. I would like to change it into Rupees so I could do a bit of shopping.”
While the Turkmen and the Estonian enjoyed a siesta, Nurilla and I went hunting for a place that would change Soviet roubles into rupees. Everywhere, at the banks and Thomas Cook, they looked with wonder at the notes Nurilla was carrying and said they couldn’t convert those. In those days, black-market moneychangers operated across Khadi Bhavan. For each US Dollar, they normally offered two rupees more than the official rate. The man would take you to the staircase of a nearby building. The operation would be effected on the stairs. If the amount involved was big, he first made you wait until his accomplice brought the required sum from an unknown ‘head office’.

Looking left and right for any signs of police, I talked to one such street moneychanger. He was from Kerala. Nurilla, he and I went to the staircase and he inspected the notes. On his pocket calculator, he rapidly pressed some keys.
“Nobody deals with Russian money.” He said. “I’ll offer two rupees for each rouble. You have… two thousand? Ok, you get four thousand rupees.”

“Listen Nurilla, this is daylight robbery. Officially, you should get something like 25 rupees for each rouble, he is offering just two.”
“But I’ve many roubles in Tashkent. I need Rupees here. I would like to buy something for my children, my wife. The exchange rate doesn’t matter.” The moneychanger looked at us blankly, unable to understand a word.
I took Nurilla away from the black market. The following morning, I went to his hotel room and opened my wallet.
“I’m not rich. But from my savings, I can offer you this.” I took out 2000 rupees. “You can buy things for your family.”
“No, why are you giving your own money? I can’t take it. Or you can take the roubles I am carrying.”
“What am I going to do with Roubles here?”
We talked in circles. Finally, it was agreed Nurilla would take the rupees. I wouldn’t take any roubles from him – they were useless anyway. (Also it was illegal to take roubles out of the USSR or bring them in). When I went to the USSR, he could pay me back in roubles. At that time, I thought it was unlikely I would ever go to the USSR.

In this manner, my first assignment as an interpreter resulted in a net monetary loss for me.
***
Despite the financials, I enjoyed working with the Soviet composers. At the airport, we exchanged postal addresses.
“It was good fun, thank you.” I said. “I’ll be honest with you. Nurilla and Nuri are female names in this part of the world. That was the reason, you know, why I was looking for a… different composition… when you arrived.”
The three composers exchanged glances. Nurilla burst out laughing.
“Now that you say this… we were told our interpreter was some ‘Ravindra’. As you know, in Russia, every name ending in –a is a female name. We expected a beautiful Indian girl to work with us, and not someone in a goatee beard.”
***
Nurilla remained in my debt only for two years.
In 1986, I landed in Moscow as a student. House of Friendship, my sponsor, was willing to organise subsidised trips for us. Even with subsidies, travelling to Uzbekistan was expensive. A three-hour flight from Moscow to Tashkent, another couple of flights to Samarkand and Bukhara and staying at hotels everywhere. It was beyond what I could afford.

In those days, people still wrote letters. I had exchanged a few with Nurilla. I now queued at the post office to call him. After exchanging pleasantries, I came to the point.
“I can come to Tashkent, but I’ve no money.”
“Ravi, I’ll pay for your trip. I owe you money.”
“I’ve calculated. I need more than what you owe me. I propose barter. I’ve certain things you don’t get in the USSR. I’ll give them to you.”
“That’s not necessary. You just take as much money as you need.”
“No Nurilla, I would prefer it this way.”
I then temporarily borrowed from my Austrian roommate for the Uzbekistan trip. On my first evening in Tashkent, (after seeking permission from the accompanying KGB escorts) I took my university-mates for dinner at Nurilla’s house. When we left, Seth, my American friend remarked: “It’s some kind of magic. Ravi, I thought you were carrying a blue suitcase when we reached the house. Now I see your hands are empty.” I simply blinked my eyes and smiled mysteriously.

I had thrust into Nurilla’s hands the suitcase, an alarm clock, an umbrella – all from Singapore, and an Indian shawl. I took Roubles from him. The account opened in 1984 was now settled.

In later years, both Nurilla and I would look back at this whole business with amusement.
***
From the beginning of 1990, I lived in Moscow and could afford to make phone calls to Tashkent. As a consultant to the Menon group of companies, I was responsible for their USSR (and later ex-USSR) operations and was “obliged” to visit every republic to explore business opportunities. The first republic I flew to was Uzbekistan. Nurilla was at the Tashkent airport to welcome me.
I can now live in a hotel, I said.
No, in Tashkent you can’t live in a hotel, said Nurilla.

Nurilla owned a four-bedroom apartment on Navoi Street. Independent sources confirmed it was the biggest house in Tashkent.
“My great-grandfather, Abdullah, owned the whole of Tashkent. In the 19th century, Russian troops attacked us and captured the city. Now I am left with this – a four bedroom apartment.”
I don’t know whether this was the reason why Nurilla was never particularly fond of Russians.
“In private, I can hate them. But in public I must take a party line. Had I not joined the communist party, they wouldn’t have allowed me to compose for ballets or operas. My symphonies would never have got published. Why, I couldn’t have travelled to India. All three of us who came to India were party members. Party members first, composers later. You know in this country, we have to create literature in the socialist spirit, write music in the socialist spirit.”

Nurilla also held strong views (expressed mildly) about his own culture disappearing. He and his wife talked in Uzbek, but his children in Russian. Zakirov was not the family name of his ancestor who lost Tashkent to Russians. The imperialists had managed to Russify all Muslim names by adding ‘-ov’ to them.
“You see this?” Nurilla once took me to see a Tashkent mosque. “Only the oldest. Those near their death. No young people ever come here. The Soviets have made us into an atheist nation. It’s my dream to visit Haj. Every Muslim is supposed to go there once in life. I don’t think with my party ticket I’ll be able to do it – ever.”

Our meetings became more frequent as I joined British American Tobacco. I was part of BAT’s acquisition team for Tashkent and Samarkand. I went to Tashkent every couple of months. On some evenings, I went to Nurilla’s house – ate Uzbeki plov made by his wife, played chess with his son Iskander, ate juicy Uzbeki cherries endlessly while listening to Nurilla’s latest compositions. With Nurilla on the side, entrance to Tashkent theatres and ballets was free for me.

Life began to change faster than he had expected. In 1991, Uzbekistan had become a free country – no longer ruled from Moscow. Nurilla’s joy was short-lived. Islam Karimov’s rule made him feel that the Soviets were better. The bomb blasts and other activities by Uzbekistan’s Islamic movement made him feel that atheism was better. He became disillusioned and sought to move away in search of a better life for his children. If earlier, he was forced to compose in socialist spirit; now he became spiritless and his music output stopped.

In 1999, I was transferred to Poland. I decided to call Nurilla only in 2001, when one of my colleagues was posted to Tashkent. I tried the phone several times. It didn’t work. Country and city codes change so often in the modern world; it didn’t surprise me at all. I gave my colleague Nurilla’s address, told him about the biggest apartment in Tashkent. Since he would be based in Tashkent for the next four years, he must meet this friend of mine. I sent a small polish souvenir for Nurilla. 

Only a month later, my colleague e-mailed to say the Zakirov family had migrated to the USA. No, he didn’t leave behind any address or phone.

Finally, Nurilla had succeeded in fleeing – not from the Russians, but from the Uzbeks. I didn’t know how or where to look for him. For me, Nurilla was associated with Tashkent. I wouldn’t like to visit Tashkent again, I thought.
***
In 2005, in one of my diaries I wrote an Uzbeki story (Open diary 42, 2005). I remembered Nurilla and thought I would Google him. Try to find his whereabouts in the USA and call him. I was surprised to find an entry on him in Wikipedia. The entry was fairly accurate and said ‘in 2000, he moved to the USA for political and professional reasons.’
Only after reading the entry, I saw its heading.

“Nurilla Zakirov (1942, Tashkent, Uzbekistan – 2003, Atlanta, USA)”.

I had to read it a couple of times before I understood its meaning. I wish I hadn’t searched the web for his name. For once, I was annoyed with Wikipedia for supplying me with information I hadn’t asked for.                                                                                   


Ravi

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