Bridges. One may even call them sethus, without causing the slightest ripple. They're taken for granted. Nobody gives them more than a casual look, or wonders at their metaphoric value. They are only means to an end. The end always dominates one's thinking, not the means.

No wonder, then, that no quizmaster, as far as I know, has ever exercised the grey cells of the contestants with the poser, ``What is the name for the fine art of bridging languages?'' (Ah! You have the answer. `This is the art of translation,' you say. Give yourself five points. That didn't exactly pose a challenge, did it?)

However, the art itself is not for the uninitiated or the untrained. It is no respecter of persons or their dignity, be they kings or presidents or prime ministers or professors or high officials. The art judges anyone who courts it by the most rigorous of standards. Those who stumble and fumble expose themselves most pitifully and rue their encounter with the art, even to their deaths.

Men die, but if they are famous, their triumphs and travails live, despite their attempts at translation. Kennedy Platz, in Berlin, marks the site where the late President Kennedy delivered a historic speech in 1963 during his tour of what used to be West Germany. The president had come prepared with the German for `I am a Berliner', `Ich bin Berliner'. But he slipped up when the time came to deliver the words. An uninvited ein sneaked in and the president informed the huge crowd: ``Ich bin ein Berliner,'' which changed the meaning rather drastically. For the phrase he uttered, translated into English, means, ``I am a jelly doughnut.''

My friend Dr Kejariwal, a senior member of the Indian Information Service, once shared with me the story of a last-minute reprieve from a faux pas, while he was in charge of the news desk at All India Radio. He was on duty when news of the Narora atomic plant going critical came over the ticker tape, in English. The Hindi news was due to go on the air shortly. There was very little time for Dr Kejariwal to consult anyone before translating the news into Hindi. But he had a good mastery over Hindi and English and decided to go ahead and get the job done.

Alas, he did not know the true import of the word `critical' in reference to atomic power plants. He assumed, going by the workaday meaning of the term, that the atomic plant had run into serious trouble. So he wrote out the news headline, `Narora atomic plant ki durdasha.'

This would have gone on the air but for the timely arrival in the newsroom of one of his colleagues. Dr Kejariwal drew his attention to the headline. The colleague scowled and pointed out, ``My friend, here `critical' has a different meaning. It means that the atomic plant is ready to go into operation.''

Dr Kejariwal thanked his stars. He had been saved by the bell. But for the chance arrival of his colleague, he would have had egg all over his face.

In 1993, I came across a story from West Africa. The dark beer, Guinness, had just been introduced into the market and the advertising campaign was in full swing. The English slogan provided by the producers to the campaign managers to be translated into the local language, read, ``Guinness gives you power.''

The campaign managers sought the help of a translator. Unfortunately, he wasn't exactly an adept in the art. So what he presented in the local language actually meant, ``Guinness gives you virility.'' But his mistake turned to be a blessing in disguise. The sales figures of the beer scaled record heights. The people literally went mad over the product.

Are people who go mad always lunatics? I can't answer that question. I would rather share a story I read, years ago, in a book titled That's Life. A Russian interpreter translated `out of sight, out of mind' into Russian. The Russian version, translated back into English, read, `invisible lunatic'.

Copyright © 1997 Indian Express Newspapers (Bombay) Ltd.