On Translating Joopaka Subhadra’s “Kongu”

Academic essay

Joopaka Subhadra’s Kongu Na Bochche Meeda Kavalunde Bontha Peggadhu was first published as part of the Telugu Madiga poetry collection Kaitunakala Daṇḍem and later translated into English by Naren Bedide for the literary magazine Danse Macabre. Subhadra’s poem engages deeply with Dalit feminist themes, depicting the kongu as a tool of labor, dignity, and resistance against the patriarchal and casteist burdens.

Born in Damaranchepalle, Telangana, in 1962, Subhadra’s life has been one of negotiating caste and gender oppression while striving for literary and social emancipation. Her roots in the Madiga community and her extensive activism inform the texture of her poetry. Through her writing, Subhadra asserts the agency of Dalit women, transforming their everyday struggles into symbols of resistance and resilience.

Photo by Martin Jernberg on Unsplash

Kongu, a Telugu word denoting the loose end of a saree, is at once a personal and political metaphor. The poem redefines the Kongu as an active, transformative presence in the life of a Dalit woman. Unlike the pallu, a marker of modesty for upper-caste women, the Kongu serves as a companion, a tool, and an emblem of survival. Subhadra’s poetic treatment of the Kongu challenges societal narratives that devalue Dalit labour and identity. The Kongu is not a passive object but an enduring witness to the speaker’s toil and a silent bearer of her joys and sorrows. This distinction underscores the Dalit woman’s rejection of imposed cultural norms, embracing instead the agency of her lived experiences. The Kongu, marked by its utilitarianism, starkly contrasts with symbols of upper-caste femininity, which are often framed as delicate and ornamental. Through this differentiation, Subhadra critiques the systemic inequalities that dictate women’s roles based on caste and class, emphasizing the dignity and resilience of Dalit women in the face of systemic neglect.

The poem’s imagery is both earthy and transcendent, as the Kongu is likened to maternal care, a comforting breeze, and the shade of a tree. This anthropomorphism imbues the cloth with a nurturing and protective essence, symbolizing the Dalit woman’s relationship with her tools of labour and survival. Subhadra skillfully juxtaposes this tenderness with the unyielding reality of exploitation. The Kongu becomes a “dirt rag,” absorbing sweat, blood, and tears, yet remains steadfast and indispensable. Such imagery highlights the systemic invisibilization of Dalit women’s labour, portraying the Kongu as a testament to their unacknowledged contributions.

The poem’s political undertones are evident in its unflinching critique of societal hierarchies. The Kongu, an extension of the Dalit woman’s body, is a silent repository of violence, grief, and labour. Subhadra’s reclamation of this symbol asserts the visibility of Dalit women in a system that thrives on their erasure. Her poetic tone oscillates between reverence and defiance, celebrating the Kongu’s steadfastness while demanding justice for its overburdened existence. The question of when the Kongu will find rest is a poignant reminder of the unending cycles of exploitation that Dalit women face.

The poem’s strength lies in its ability to transform an ordinary object into a profound symbol of resilience, making Kongu a cornerstone of Telugu Dalit feminist literature. Through its exploration of labour, identity, and survival, the poem resonates far beyond its immediate cultural context, offering a universal testament to the dignity of marginalized lives.

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The following is the translation by Naren Bedide, first published in the literary magazine, Danse Macabre:

Kongu isn’t a rag that stands guard over my head

(Translation by Naren Bedide)

Kongu ties up my hunger,
tucks my stomach in and keeps watch
for me like Katta Maisamma while sleeping;
When I turn into a canal of sweat at work
she mops it up like a cool breeze,
like the moon clutching together the stars
she glistens as the sack
that holds roots, vegetables, grains
and the komati's groceries on my head;
In the fields and the fallow plots, when I grow tired
she spreads out a bed to give me rest,
when my grief streams from my eyes to the skies
she draws my eye babies towards herself
like a mother, and hugs them close, my dirt rag;
When my husband reaches out in love or anger
like a ball of butter she always gets caught before I,
to aggression or violence, from those at home or outside,
my kongu rag always succumbs first...
Kissing my ears and cheeks
she holds up an umbrella of senna flowers
over the dawn of my face the sapphires of my hair;
From chilly weather and searing looks
from the blasts of heat waves
from the sneakiness of rain drops
she offers cool relief like the shade of a tree,
becomes a warm fire that covers my shoulders.
She becomes a pad for cool pots
that slake your thirst from a mile away,
burns her fingers
handling vessels on the stove,
comforts my crying babies
hugging them like warm baby clothing.
Though she works cheerfully by my side all day in the dust
she stems the life streams
flowing from my body's sluices all night;
Like a cow nursing a new-born calf
she licks all dirt off my body,
like a wicker wall
she hides the modugu stain spreading through my cloth;
Only when she becomes the snake charmer's been at my waist
do planting, harvesting, weeding and threshing,
chores and songs screech into motion.
My dirt rag that rolls in my hands, sweat, bed, bones, limbs
in pleasure and sorrow,
my kongu rag that sticks to me
in work and song, in crisis and comfort,
like the filth that clings to my feet, the companion
of my life path...slaving like the washerman's stone,
when does my perspiring kongu find the time for rest?
She’s not the patchy pallu that stands guard over my head
nor the hobbling stone... over my breast
how can I drag her into the bazaar
set fire to her honour and lose myself?

In the footnotes, Bedide explains the Telugu nouns and adjectives he’s not translated and gives a short note on the poem.

• Katta Maisamma: Village goddess, goddess of water bodies, tanks etc.

• Komati: Shopkeeper, Bania.

• Modugu: Here, it refers to the colour (bright orange-red) of the Butea monosperma tree (called ‘Palash’in Hindi).

Jupaka Subhadra, in this poem, discusses how the Kongu, the free end of the sari, doesn’t just stand guard over the Dalit working woman: it’s a tool, a companion, a comrade-in-drudgery. Much unlike the ghunghat (the Hindu equivalent of the veil) draped over the head of an upper-caste woman.

The following is my translation of the poem:

Kongu is not a patchy rag that watches over my breast

Kongu ties up my hunger,
tucks in my stomach and keeps watch
like Katte Maisamma1, while I sleep.
When I am a canal of sweat after coolie work,
she is a gentle breeze that comes to wrap me.

For roots, vegetables, grains,
and for Komati2 spices,
she is the bundle on my head,
glistening like the moon clutching together its stars.

In fields and fallow plots, when I grow faint,
she spreads out a bed to give me rest.
When my grief streams from the eyes to the earth,
like a mother she brings my wee eyes close
and pacifies them, my dirt rag.

When my husband reaches out in love or anger,
like a slice of butter in hand, she slips
and gets caught before I could.
To those at home or outside, to friendships or fights,
my Kongu rag always succumbs first…

Kissing my ears and cheeks,
she holds up an umbrella of thangedu3 flowers
over the dawn of my face,
the locks of my hair.

From the clawing winter, the glaring sun,
from hot spells and heat strokes,
from the sneakiness of the piercing raindrops,
she offers cool relief like the shade of a tree,
becomes a warm fire that blankets my shoulders.

For the lake pots that slake your thirst from a kosu4 away,
she is a coil-pad on the head;
for the cooking vessels, burning her finger,
she is a soot rag on the stove.

For my wailing babies,
she is a soft swaddling blanket;
for the life streams dripping out of my lamp-sized nostrils
that joyfully wrestle with dust all day,
she is a sluice gate.

Like a cow cleaning its newborn calf,
she licks the dirt off my body;
like a wicker wall,
she hides the monthly modugu5 stain on my cloth.

My Kongu rag—only when she becomes a nagasaram6 at my waist
do planting, harvesting, weeding, and threshing,
chores and songs screech into motion.

My dirt rag that rolls in my hands, sweat, bed, bones, limbs
in pleasure and sorrow,
my Kongu rag that sticks to me
in work and song, in crisis and comfort,

like the filth that clings to my feet, the companion
of my life path... slaving like the washerman's stone,
when will my perspiring Kongu find the chance to rest on a shoulder?

She is not the patchy rag that watches over my chest,
nor the hobbling stone... over my breast.
How can I drag her into the bazaar,
set fire to her honor, and lose myself?

1. Katta Maisamma: Village goddess, goddess of water bodies, tanks etc. believed to be sitting on a ledge near water bodies and watching over the village.

2. Komati: A telugu-speaking trading community, a sub caste of vaishyas. Komati people are usually merchants and retailers that farmers often sell to and buy from.

3. Thangedu: Thangedu is the state flower of Telangana (botanical name, Senna auriculata). These flowers form the base layer in a Bathukamma and are believed to reflect the many realities of the poor and the underprivileged.

4. Kosu: Ancient Indian subcontinental standard unit of distance, in use since at least 4 BCE. According to the Arthashastra, a krośa or kos is about 3,000 metres (9,800 ft). In the Telangana Telugu speech, typically used to refer to a length as far as the eye can see.

5. Modugu: Butea monosperma, a bright orange-red flower, said to be God Shiva’s favourite and used in his worship.

6. Nagasaram: double reed wind instrument played to initiate any ceremony or invoke the gods. Also used by snake charmers to manipulate snakes.

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Naren Bedide is a scholar and translator (Telugu – English) focused on Dalit-Bahujan literature. He has rendered this Telugu poem into English with a deliberate strategy of making it accessible to a Hindi-English-speaking audience and international English speaking audience, particularly one that might lack an intimate understanding of Dalit women’s lived realities. However, translation, as Derrida asserts, “lives on only if it is at once translatable and untranslatable” (Derrida 1979: 102), meaning no translation can entirely escape the paradox of preserving the original while engaging with the otherness of the target audience.

Bedide’s translation demonstrates a deliberate negotiation between cultural fidelity and accessibility. For instance, he retains culturally significant terms like Katte Maisamma and Komati while glossing them to aid non-Telugu readers. His approach reflects Derrida’s notion of linguistic “bleeding,” where languages enrich one another through borrowing and interaction (Derrida 1985a). Yet, Bedide simplifies other cultural imageries, such as translating nagaswaram to “snake charmer’s been,” which effaces some of the term's cultural specificity while ensuring clarity for his audience. Similarly, the literal translation of the title, “Kongu Na Bochche Meeda Kavalunde Bontha Peggadhu,” as “Kongu isn’t a rag that stands guard over my head,” introduces an interpretation referencing the ghunghat, a North Indian custom alien to the poem’s South Indian cultural context. Subhadra’s original critique contrasts the kongu with the ornamental pallu of upper-caste women in her own South-Indian context, a cultural marker of chastity and delicacy. In doing so, Bedide universalizes the critique of patriarchy but risks obscuring its localized specificity.

Ricoeur’s concept of “faithfulness and betrayal” aptly describes the inherent contradictions of Bedide’s translation (Ricoeur 2006). By prioritizing the intelligibility of the text for a global audience, he remains faithful to the reader but, in turn, betrays some of the text's cultural intimacy. His diction—utilitarian and grounded—eschews the anthropomorphic vibrancy of Subhadra’s Telugu, evident in phrases like “mops it up like a cool breeze” or “like a ball of butter she always gets caught.” While effective in highlighting the pragmatic and immediate resilience of the kongu, this tone diminishes the poetic intimacy embedded in the original. As Ricoeur suggests, translation involves a dialectical “linguistic hospitality” where the translator mediates between “bringing the author to the reader” and “the reader to the author” (Ricoeur 2006, 10). Bedide leans toward the former, reshaping the text for readers unfamiliar with its cultural idiom.

In contrast, my translation engages with the text’s untranslatable aspects by preserving comparatively more of its linguistic and cultural texture, assuming a target audience that requires and appreciates being prompted or being elicited into inquiry at the least. For example, where Bedide translates “nelabatta masina” as “modugu stain,” I retained its raw, specific connotation as a stained period cloth, reflecting the gritty intersection of caste, gender, and bodily taboo in Dalit women’s lives. This approach aligns with Derrida’s view that translation operates in a space where “meanings change… only when understood in light of existing ones” (Derrida 2001). My translation leans into Subhadra’s vivid anthropomorphism, preserving the kongu’s portrayal as a nurturing, maternal presence while avoiding excessive simplification. However, this strategy risks alienating readers unfamiliar with the intricate symbolism of terms like modugu or the socio-economic realities of coolie labour referenced in the line Bedide simplifies to “When I turn into a canal of sweat at work.”

One of the most significant elements of Kongu that defies translation is the language Subhadra employs, which encapsulates the culture, worldview, and vernacular of the Madiga community. Words like bochche (breast), peyyi (body), and semata (sweat), while central to the imagery and rhythm of the poem, are not commonly found in other regional versions of Telugu, making them culturally and linguistically rooted in a way that resists direct translation. These terms carry connotations and textures of lived experience unique to the Madiga community, and both Bedide’s and my translations could not approximate their essence, losing nuances inherent to Subhadra’s original lexicon.

Equally challenging to convey in translation are Subhadra’s literary devices, particularly her use of alliteration and assonance, which lend the poem a rhythmic and sonic quality deeply tied to its oral tradition. For example, the line “sendlalla, selkalla alasi solasi pullaseelithe” carries a lilting cadence and phonetic interplay that neither Bedide’s translation—“In the fields and the fallow plots, when I grow tired”—nor my version—“In fields and fallow plots, when I grow faint”—could fully replicate. The musicality of Subhadra’s Telugu is intricately linked to its cultural and performative context, and while translations can strive for rhythm, they often fall short of recreating the linguistic artistry of the original.

Similarly, the enumeration in the line “naatlu, kothalu, kalupulu, kallalu...” exemplifies Subhadra’s evocative repetition and alliteration. The translated versions—“planting, harvesting, weeding and threshing”—attempt to capture the functional meaning but miss the lyrical resonance of the source text.

These elements underscore the profound cultural embeddedness of Subhadra’s poem, where language serves as both a medium of expression and a marker of identity. The alliteration, assonance, and regional specificity are not just stylistic choices but integral to how the poem communicates its themes and emotions. As Derrida reminds us, translation is always an “economy of loss and gain”, and the inability to fully preserve these nuances highlights the inherent tensions in translating a work so deeply rooted in its linguistic and cultural milieu.

Both translations engage with the liminality of the translator’s role, situated between the source and target languages, as well as their respective cultural frameworks. The source text’s rootedness in the socio-economic realities of rural Telangana confronts the elite, colonial connotations of English as a global language. Bedide’s translation strategically universalizes the text, situating Dalit struggles within broader discourses of oppression. This approach broadens the poem’s reach but risks losing its regional specificity. Conversely, my translation preserves these local nuances and the intimate feminine, retaining terms and imagery that sustain the cultural and personal integrity of Subhadra’s vision. However, I took the liberty of breaking the freeverse poem into different stanzas or verses to assist the flow of reading and sound in the translated text, altering the format of the original for the reader’s convenience. As Derrida reminds us, “the question of translation is through and through a question of difference” (Derrida 1988). Both Bedide’s and my translations grapple with this difference, offering distinct interpretations shaped by the translator’s location, audience, and priorities.

The process of translating Kongu underscores the generative tensions inherent in translation as both an art and an ethical act. Bedide’s version functions as a bridge, facilitating cross-cultural understanding, while my translation resists homogenization, emphasizing the poem’s intimate particularities. Ricoeur’s insights on the translator’s dilemma remind us that all translation involves compromise, balancing fidelity to the original with accessibility for the audience. Yet, in navigating these tensions, translation does more than mediate meaning—it creates new spaces for dialogue, inviting readers to engage with the alterity of the source text.

Reflecting on these processes, I am reminded of Ricoeur’s assertion that “to understand is to translate” (Ricoeur 1981). In translating Kongu, I not only grappled with linguistic differences but encountered a profoundly human story of resilience, labour, and love. Translation, then, is not merely an act of rendering words across languages but a journey into the heart of the other. As Derrida might suggest, it is a space where language and identity are forever in flux, haunted by the impossibility of perfection yet enriched by the possibility of connection. Perhaps it is this interplay of impossibility and possibility that makes translation not just a linguistic task but a profoundly creative and transformative experience.

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Works Cited

Derrida, Jacques. “Living On / Borderlines.” Deconstruction and Criticism, edited by Harold Bloom et al., Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1979, pp. 75–176.

Derrida, Jacques. “What Is a ‘Relevant’ Translation?” Critical Inquiry, vol. 27, no. 2, 2001, pp. 174–200.

Ricoeur, Paul. On Translation. Translated by Eileen Brennan, Routledge, 2006.

Ricoeur, Paul. Hermeneutics and the Human Sciences. Translated by John B. Thompson, Cambridge University Press, 1981