Banu Mushtaq began writing within the progressive protest literary circles in Karnataka in the 1970s and 1980s. The Bandaya Sahitya movement gave rise to influential Dalit and Muslim writers, of whom Mushtaq was one of the few women. In her long literary career, Mushtaq has published six short story collections, a novel, an essay collection and a poetry collection.
Besides being the first Kannada-language author to be shortlisted for the new format of the International Booker Prize for Heart Lamp: Selected Stories, her debut appearance in English. In addition to this, Mushtaq’s honours include the Karnataka Sahitya Akademi and the Daana Chintamani Attimabbe awards.
Published originally in the Kannada between 1990 and 2023, the stories stand out for their dry and witty observations of the traditional family and community systems. Which, in turn, are testament to Mushtaq’s illustrious career in journalism, law, and social activism.
In their praise for the book, the jury of the 2025 International Booker Prize said, “[…] These stories speak truth to power and slice through the fault lines of caste, class, and religion widespread in contemporary society, exposing the rot within: corruption, oppression, injustice, violence. Yet, at its heart, Heart Lamp returns us to the true, great pleasures of reading: solid storytelling, unforgettable characters, vivid dialogue, tensions simmering under the surface, and a surprise at each turn. Deceptively simple, these stories hold immense emotional, moral, and socio-political weight, urging us to dig deeper.”
In a conversation with Scroll, Mushtaq spoke about collaborating with translator Deepa Bhasthi, why she chooses not to write in the “prestige dialect” of Kannada, and why the short fiction form is so dear to her.
Ms Mushtaq, how does it feel to be living the dream? Your first book in the English language and it’s a finalist for the International Booker Prize. That’s an extraordinary achievement by any standards.
Thank you. What is “living the dream”? What a great question! The idea of “living the dream” can feel surreal, exhilarating, and even a little overwhelming. I am full of gratitude and disbelief.
Tell us about your first interaction with Deepa Bhasthi. Have other translators reached out to you in the past?
Before contacting Deepa Bhasthi, I had contacted a journalist named Basava Biradar and asked if he could translate some of my stories into English. In response, he provided me with the contact details of his friend, who was also a journalist, Deepa Bhasthi. I called Deepa and sent her my complete story collection, “Hasina and Other Stories”. Before Deepa, a few other translators had contacted me, but I couldn’t reach an understanding with any of them.
What was it about Deepa that made you want to collaborate with her? Were you familiar with her work?
Before translating my stories, I learned that Deepa had already translated two other Kannada books. However, I had not read those translations. Until then, I had not even met her in person. In September 2022, she called me to ask for my permission to submit one of my translated short stories in a competition. I agreed, I don’t know why, but I developed a strong trust in her abilities at the time.
In a way, your fiction in English was sampled by readers in the West first and then in India. A sort of outward–in journey. What were some of the more memorable responses to your writing?
You are partly right. Almost all my work has been published in Kannada, and many Kannada readers have admired my writing. The Government of Karnataka and the Sahitya Akademi, among many other organisations, have honoured and appreciated my work. My work is recognised and translated into many regional languages of India, like Malayalam, English, Urdu, and Punjabi. Further, a renowned director, Girish Kasarvalli, has adapted one of my stories, which won three national awards and was screened at international film festivals. But Heart Lamp was published in the West. People of Karnataka are celebrating, and other writers and journalists are continuously contacting me. I am getting global attention, and I am thankful for the appreciation and attention I am getting.
While writing in Kannada, I suppose you are addressing a familiar readership. That readership expands slightly when it is translated into and published in India. And then, the readership expands manyfold when the book travels to the West and is recognised by prizes such as the PEN or the International Booker Prize. How interesting has it been to see your own stories take such interesting shapes every time they gain new readers? Did you discover something about your own writing that you hadn’t till now?
Yes, I have my readership in Kannada. But now, my work was the winner of an English PEN Award and the prestigious International Booker Prize. I have gained readers who transcend borders and empathise with the common human experiences in my writing. These new readers have expanded my perspective and creative expression. This is an increasingly joyous process. Through their engagement, my stories are being reimagined, and their interpretations offer me diverse reactions and unique insights that continue to enrich my craft.
Deepa describes you as a “bandeya”, a rebel. That is aptly evident in the themes and style of your fiction. You practised law, you fought for the right causes. How did the writing happen? Was it always the plan?
What Deepa has said is correct. Bandaya (rebellion) is a highly influential social movement that emerged during a crucial period in Karnataka's literary history. Bandaya is a mindset. Bandaya writers do not merely sit comfortably in their zones and write, they also fight for oppressed communities suffering social injustice and exploitation. Thus, my rebellious tendency is rooted in resistance, social movements, legal advocacy, and creative writing. These aspects of my experience are mutually complementary and inspiring. Social struggles and the inner emotions of legal practice serve as the raw, real-life material for my writing. Writing is a gift I have honed since birth.
Even though you are a lawyer and activist, your fiction (at least those that have been translated) does not have anything to do with the courts or any formal setups. Most of them are confined to the space of the home. Is there a reason why the domestic space in your fiction is untouched by the courts, laws, and lawyers?
I have written numerous stories concerning the courtroom and judicial processes. Moreover, I have also written about the love, hatred, and anguish that arise between different castes and communities due to the political and social circumstances and issues of contemporary India. Six of my short story collections have been published so far, with over 65 stories in print. Among them, the stories selected by Deepa primarily revolve around family dynamics. The remaining stories explore many other themes. Perhaps, in the future, if another collection of my stories is published in English, you will encounter different narrative choices that may surprise you.
I got a strong feeling while reading the collection that a woman was telling me her stories. I could hear her. When you write, do you think of yourself as a woman telling a story or a lawyer pointing to the ills of our society? Perhaps it’s a mix of both… But what’s usually going on in your head?
Thank you. I am a woman. I think, grieve, rejoice, and face challenges as a woman. Yet, alongside this, I harbour immense discontent towards the hierarchical social order, inequality, as well as social prejudice and humiliation. Personally and socially, I deal with these discriminations, yet I continue to strive in every way to live with dignity as a human being. To live with dignity is my fundamental and constitutional right as a woman and as an Indian citizen. Yet, at every moment, in every breath, this right of mine is violated. Both personally and socially, I consciously and relentlessly strive to reclaim this right through my social struggles, my legal profession, and my writing.
Deepa writes in her Translator’s Note that you do not write in the “prestige dialect” of Kannada. She mentions your use of Urdu and Dakhani, among other languages. How did you develop this multilingual voice? Has it ever posed a problem within the more formal structures of publishing?
Yes, I do not write in formal language. I write in the language of the people, in colloquial speech. Because my writing must reach the common person.
I am capable of writing in an excessively ornate, wordy, and complex language, one that the ordinary person may not understand. But I choose not to. My writing is a dialogue with the masses. It is like sitting with them on a courtyard step, speaking heart-to-heart about the world’s happenings, the joys and sorrows of family life, with compassion and understanding.
For this reason, I seek intimacy with my readers. They must understand my words, hold them in their hearts and minds for a while, and then learn the wisdom in my texts. Additionally, my mother tongue is Dakhni Urdu. The language of the Quran is Arabic and Hindi, which allows me to communicate across many parts of India. I can speak each of these languages separately, and in Kannada, traces of these languages have also blended in. This fusion and intermingling of languages is the cultural legacy of history and my writing.
In my writing, metaphors, proverbs, and sayings emerge effortlessly and organically. This process enriches my work without burdening me in the least. The natural beauty of language comes across, remaining eternally in my words.
You write poetry, essays, novels, and short stories. What’s the form that you are most fond of?
I have cultivated my craft across many literary genres. For nearly a decade, I served as a reporter for Lankesh Patrike, a pivotal historical publication in Karnataka, which allowed me to engage deeply with significant events and societal narratives. This experience led me to write many essays, many of which have since been compiled and published.
Yet, among all literary forms, the short story remains my most cherished medium. There is an artistry in weaving intricate twists within its compact canvas, conveying all one must say with precision and finality. At times, my short stories take on the essence of poetry. Other times, they emerge as avant-garde works, layered with strange complexities. Regardless of form, the profound satisfaction and serenity I derive from writing a short story remain unmatched compared to any other genre.
It must be noted that I have never formally studied literature. As a science student, I did not approach the subtleties of literature or my style of writing through academic training. Instead, I regard this creative force as something that has been granted to me, a kind of bestowed clarity, a divine calling.
Also read:
‘Women need their own rooms in their own worlds’: Deepa Bhasthi on translating the female language
‘With an accent’: How Deepa Bhasthi translated International Booker Prize-shortlisted ‘Heart Lamp’
‘Heart Lamp’: Banu Mushtaq’s International Booker Prize-longlisted book is charged by women’s anger
