Translation as Rubato

The Italians have a saying, traduttore traditore, which translates to “the translator is a traitor.”¹ It refers to the fundamental belief that every act of translation betrays the original text, as there is no such thing as a perfect translation. However, I find this perspective to be dismissive of the art of interpretation itself. If a poem written in Urdu can move a reader in the same sublime way as its English translation, then isn’t that the whole point? Where is the betrayal? In this light, nothing is lost. The energy and the intention are still felt. And maybe the ‘losing’ in translation is a charm of the craft itself, the attempt to build a bridge between the different languages, and the almost perfect translation. The entire ‘traduttore tradittore’ phrase is inverted upon itself; there is no traitor in translating, but a new form of art. George Woodcock writes about this very idea in his essay, More than an echo: Notes on the Craft of Translation, where he rejects the cynical view of translators as traitors and views them rather as contributors. He says, “It is the spirit and intent, and the structural form, that can be carried over, and the skin of words is shed like a snake’s and replaced by that of a translator’s own language.”²

Translation is born from the most basic human longing: the desire for recognition, and the need to be fully understood. It is innate. It is an art form. A craft for connection, and to understand this craft, we must look at its technical definition. According to Newmark (1981, p.7), translation is “a craft consisting in the attempt to replace a written message and/or statement in one language by the same message and/or statement in another language.” There is also a loop here; the very definition of the word ‘translation’ is, in itself, a translation. Interestingly, we can find parallels to this in human biology. Our bodies have a protein machinery, the ribosome, which itself is a product of the very proteins it translates. And paradoxically, the process of protein making is called ‘translation’³

While we often imagine translation as a strictly linguistic model, the reality is that this process is all around us. However, for this essay, I attempt to explore translation through the lens of music. Both music and movement are said to be the world’s truly universal languages. But maybe these aren’t strictly “universal languages”; in his Substack essay, Alejandro Graciano writes, “music may not be a universal language in the same way that mathematics or programming might be, but it is a universal human activity. Every culture has it. Every brain can respond to it. Its power lies not just in shared sound, but in how it carries memory, ritual, identity, and feeling.” ⁴ Music and movement as a language have more fluidity. A language of feelings that rebels against a structured system with vocabulary and grammar rules. There are occasions where this dynamic flips, and music or dance is seen as a strict confinement with its own set of rules and parameters. Among all these factors, there is still a core similarity: both require the inner person to look through these confinements and push towards the human emotion.

For a translator to master his craft requires years of practice. Just as it takes a musician years to master their instrument, both are learning how to translate internal emotions, as well as the intended message, into a medium that can be received and felt by another person in the same way they feel it. And as different languages and music are in terms of translation, one cannot exist without the other. Often, when making music with different musicians, it is important to discuss what you want the music to encapsulate; this is where words take on immense significance. Making music is a conversation. You hear and process someone’s musical idea and respond in a way that expresses your awareness of that idea.

And vice versa, I listened to Noor-e-Nazar when it came out, and I was already moved to tears by the music that, when I watched the making of it, I was completely immersed.⁵ I realised that explaining the music, translating their music, and talking about the process which that piece went through, that was when the music really took hold. Xulfi Khan, the co-founder and main music producer of the project, talks about it in “The Noor-e-Nazar Story” sharing how the name of the project, Humnava, which means companion, was inspired by a ritual in Hunza, where on the first day after the wedding, the bride and the groom prepare Roti (flatbread) together. A simple ritual to symbolize teamwork and friendship. To go through the ups and downs of life together.

He also shares how he returned after a jamming session to find the co-lyricist, Shjr Hussain, singing a delicate lyric that moved him so much that it is now the first verse of the song. Yet one of the most beautiful parts of the song, for me, was that it was all recorded live, and Xulfi intentionally kept the subtle background shuffling of the camera and sound crew. The teams whose traces are usually taken out to make the music look and sound professional. But keeping it in makes them a part of the music, which they are. Xulfi says, “If it is part of that day, tou theek hai.” It belongs there. This is seen in the literary world as well. How translators, who help bridge the gap between two languages to allow the art to reach more people, might not get the recognition they deserve, simply because they are not the original authors of the piece.

What’s also interesting is that at times, it will not be you writing music but the music that writes itself. When I asked Zallard, a Lahore-based singer-songwriter and visual artist, about how, when creating and translating your emotions into lyrics and music, in time, does it lose the original emotion and feeling when different people hear it, and how your intent might not get across. He puts it as:

“I think, as a songwriter, you just have to let it feel right and sound right without worrying too much about defining the exact emotion behind it. When you allow something to happen naturally, the emotion and energy will for sure remain present in it, and it’s going to resonate with the people, even if you, as the artist, become numb to it after making it.”

Here, he also shares a new perspective on how, after repeated exposure to the same melody and lyrics, the piece eventually loses its meaning; how creators can get ‘numb’ to their craft after being in that environment, yet a new listener would still appreciate that craft. How we still appreciate and resonate with music that is decades old. It shows how energy doesn’t depend on time, and how art moves you regardless of it. And while translation in both mediums, music and language, seem similar, some elements reveal how big a gap there is between the two.

In her preface to the novel, Jhumpa Lahiri describes Michael F. Moore’s Translation, and how beautifully Michael Moore keeps the structure and ‘lyrical listing’ of the work he translates.⁶ This specifies how important it is to keep the architecture of the translation pieces. How, certain poetry is memorable because of how it was written as much as the words and substance of the writing. Like a basket; what it holds and carries depends on the structural design and shape it is made with. The structure of writing is its own dimension; it gives depth. It lets the words sing. But if the basket is poorly made, the words start to slip out. They seep through the gaps, and in that leaking, they start to lose their meaning. Words need a good basket, a good skeleton to hold them.

“It is one thing to revel in this amalgam of elements as a reader, quite another to translate it.”⁷

Now, from the view of music, the translation is more flexible as it is done entirely by the listener, giving a certain sound its own meaning based on their psychology, environment, and culture in their experience of music. But one thing that is not unique is the feeling when music moves you in that intense way. I believe it has happened to every one of us, when music is everywhere in your body, mind, and soul.

There is a fundamental law in physics, the Law of Conservation of Energy, which states that energy cannot be created nor destroyed; it can only change from one form to another. So when a melody or tune brings such intense emotions within us, the energy remains conserved, and it has only moved from one form to another. This energy is not just a metaphor. One person’s internal emotional state that they’ve poured into their art, which they express through the movement of their vocal cords when they sing or the way their hands move as they play an instrument. The air pressure waves travel through different mediums, carrying the same energy but taking various forms.⁸ These waves send impulses to the brain, which interprets them as music. Then lastly, it’s the individual’s experience, lifestyle, and history that further translates the melody into emotions. This is translation.

A beautiful example of this musical translation’s power can be seen in the making of Noor-e-Nazar.⁹ Watching that project was a journey in itself, as it brought together musicians from across the globe. Amine Laroug, a guitarist from Algeria, spoke about how the team would gather in the studio, improvising together, often moved to tears by a simple melody. Noorima Khan, the vocalist, described how in those moments, language seemed unnecessary; they communicated through their musical notes.

The French violinist, Blaise Merlin, spoke on the challenge of it all. He said, “I think it’s always a challenge to create music together, from different cultures and different universes. You always have to find that good balance between who you are and where you come from and where you go together. I think music may be one of the best solutions to this question.”¹⁰

This highlights what craft is: a physical and deliberate act. An act of converting an internal thought into a physical arrangement. In the context of translation, this craft is felt most through movement, whether it is the movement of the tongue to form words that carry a thousand stories and emotions, the movement of a musician’s hands to shape a melody, or even the rhythms of the diaphragm as you take in the music. What’s constant is the movement of the muscle. This is defined by Roman Jakobson in his 1959 essay ‘On Linguistic Aspects of Translation’ as Intersemiotic Translation.¹¹
“From one system of signs into another, e.g., from verbal art to music, dance, cinema, or painting.”

And we see this form of translation clearly in the sign language community, through movement. Of course, it is also seen in the hearing and speaking world, but expressing and communicating in the space around them solely through gestures is the main form of communication for people who use sign language. The continuous swaying motion that holds the same meaning as spoken words. The excited talking is replaced by springing and hurried motions, as if the words are bouncing in the air. The steady speaking is replaced by confident, fluid motion. The tremble in the voice is swapped for shaking hands. All preserving the same beautiful energy. Christine Sun Kim, in her TED Talk, signed that

“in deaf culture, movement is equivalent to sound.”¹²

Where this movement intersects more in the musical world is observed by the music director of the NAC orchestra, Alexander Shelly, who teaches the foundations of conducting, using only their hands or, most of the time, a baton.¹³ He shows how the baton is an extension of the movement of our arms and fingertips and describes the broad use of it as,

“If we use it correctly, the baton offers us an almost unending palette of different ways to express ourselves as conductors.”

Much like sign language, conducting music through the movement of hands is a world in itself; it guides, it gives depth, it asks, it shapes the sound. The right hand, mainly led with a baton, focuses more on keeping the tempo and rhythm of the sound. It translates the speeding up and slowing down, and even the loudness and softness in the piece. The left hand, in conjunction with the right hand, is the artistic, expressive hand. Guiding the musicians with either impulses or fluid motions and moods, or welcoming a new instrument into the piece. Together, the movement from both hands, in addition to the posture and eye contact of the conductor, forms a bond with the musicians that helps widen the depth of the musical piece.

Together, movement brings thoughts and music to life in the space around a person. Making it seen, and then felt, and heard. There is an experiential nature to this music, what the sociologist Émile Durkheim termed “collective effervescence”: the feeling that a group of people at a concert all experience the same emotion at the same time.¹⁴ Amplifying and intensifying what a single person would feel. During the production of Noor-e-Nazar, the artists experienced this in the studio. They cried together while producing music because they were communicating through a shared energy that went beyond everything else. This is why concerts are much more powerful than listening to the same music on your phone. In that live setting, the translation expands tenfold. In an interview with Big Think, Michael Spitzer says music animates us; how, during concerts, we move the same way.¹⁵ The melody and feeling are also being translated into light displays and sometimes olfactory experiences. It intensifies the music. Creating a multisensory environment that allows a person to reach their full human capacity for feeling. Which results in tears, in goosebumps, in movement. A translation. Music is expressive, but its meaning is fully experiential.

Xulfi Khan, in the Humnava Podcast hosted by Haroon Rashid, spoke about how his intention in creating music has always been to build a space where these talented people can come together and be perceptive and open and create music.¹⁶ And in Hunza, surrounded by mountains, it was the perfect place for that. He says, “nature makes you surrender, that there is no way you can’t surrender,” which is so pure. To create music in the most musical place humans once learnt music from. From the winds, the water, the leaves, and the animals.

Michael Spitzer also states how naturally musical nature is, how the world is already so musical that certain species, going from birds, whales, and elephants, have vocal learning, and certain insects use musical rhythm to communicate. How they creatively learn new sounds. David Attenborough, in his documentary “Attenborough’s Wonder of Song”, shares his favourite songs of the Earth.¹⁷ He includes sounds from 5 different bird species, the indri lemurs, and the humpback whale. He shares how these different animals beautifully communicate, learn, and alert through their musical songs.

Humans weren’t born musical, but we have learned and made music. Michael Spitzer calls humans “the great synthesisers” and explains how humans connected with music and have used this music to try to communicate with others.¹⁸ He also talks about NASA using this musical connection by sending a record into space, with multiple forms of ‘Earth music’ that use sounds of the Earth as a means of communication.
This goes above and beyond the language barrier because even in space, to whoever may hear, there’s Earth music out there. The language is music. In Spitzer’s words, it is an “umbilical cord” back to Mother Nature. In this sense, translation is an art of expressing one kind of sensory experience through another entirely, where music is a language that doesn’t need to be translated because music is the translation.

Notes:

1. George Woodcock, “More Than an Echo: Notes on the Craft of Translation,” Canadian Literature, no. 117 (Summer 1988): 72. ↩︎
2. George Woodcock, “More Than an Echo: Notes on the Craft of Translation,” Canadian Literature, no. 117 (Summer 1988): 72. ↩︎
3. Newmark, Peter. Approaches to Translation. Pergamon Press, 1981:7 ↩︎
4. Graciano, Alejandro. “Is Music a Universal Language or a Cultural Activity?” Substack, 20 May 2025. Is Music a Universal Language or a Cultural Activity? ↩︎
5. “Noor-e-Nazar” YouTube, uploaded by Humnava, 23 April 2026. Noor-e-Nazar (feat. Amine Laroug) ↩︎
6. Jhumpa Lahiri, Afterword to “The Betrothed”, by Alessandro Manzoni, trans. Michael F. Moore (New York: Modern Library, 2022. ↩︎
7. Jhumpa Lahiri, Afterword to The Betrothed, by Alessandro Manzoni, trans. Michael F. Moore (New York: Modern Library, 2022. ↩︎
8. “Music and Noise” The Physics Hypertextbook, https://physics.info/music/ ↩︎
9. Humnava, “The Noor-e-Nazar Story” YouTube, uploaded by Humnava, 25 April 2026, The Noor-e-Nazar Story | Humnava | Season 1 | Hunza ↩︎
10. Blaise Merlin, interview in The Noor-e-Nazar Story, YouTube, 25 April 2026, The Noor-e-Nazar Story | Humnava | Season 1 | Hunza ↩︎
11. Roman Jakobson, “On linguistic aspects of translation,” In On Translation, ed. R. A. Brower (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1959, 238.09 ↩︎
12. Christine Sun Kim, “The Enchanting Music of Sign Language,” TED, August 2015, video, ted.com The enchanting music of sign language | Christine Sun Kim ↩︎
13. “The Right Hand” YouTube video, 101[Part 2 of 6] uploaded by National Arts Centre, November 29, 2019, The Right Hand | Conducting 101 [Part 2 of 6] ↩︎
14. Émile Durkheim The Elementary Forms of Religious Life. (1912) ↩︎
15. Michael Spitzer, “The Ancients Thought Music Mirrored the Cosmos. The Truth Is Stranger,” YouTube video, posted by “Big Think”, May 14, 2026, The ancients thought music mirrored the cosmos. The truth is stranger | Michael Spitzer ↩︎
16. Humnava Podcast, YouTube, uploaded by Humnava,1 July 2026 Humnava Podcast | Episode 1 | Haroon Rashid & Xulfi ↩︎
17. Attenborough’s Wonder of Song. David Attenborough, directed by Beth Jones, BBC Studios, 2022. ↩︎
18. Michael Spitzer, “The Ancients Thought Music Mirrored the Cosmos. The Truth Is Stranger,” YouTube, Big Think, May 14 2026, The ancients thought music mirrored the cosmos. The truth is stranger | Michael Sp… ↩︎

Bio note:
Minahil Murtaza is a pre-medical student currently on a gap year to explore new recipes for sandwiches and sauces. Apart from music (which has always interested her), she has a million new interests every day.