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
