Banu Mushtaq

Heart Lamp

Jemima Scott

Material things had become priceless, and human beings worthless.’

mint

Karen Johnson

Heart Lamp is a collection of short stories by the Indian writer and activist Banu Mushtaq, first translated from the Kannada and made available in English in 2025 by Deepa Bhasthi. From my understanding, these stories, written over a few of the last decades, were first anthologised and translated for the first time to English in this collection. It contains 12 stories, all being around an average of 10-20 pages long. While the stories are not linked, they are brought together by some common threads—surely stemming from Mushtaq’s life as an activist and lawyer—with each story prominently featuring Muslim women in India, often exploring the subjugation of women under men who abuse positions of religious and familial patriarchal power. Many of the women’s struggles also intersect with class and caste in Indian society, and the novel explores the differences between rich and poor families in the treatment of women.

In these stories you’ll find tales of polygamous and abusive men, quarrels between in-laws, corrupt religious leaders, wonderful and sacrificial mothers and their innocent children, and social and economic strivers who would sacrifice anything to get what they want. Although every story shares similar themes, there’s a great deal of different topics and intersectional relationships explored that each story gives you something new, and—once the initial awkwardness of getting used to names and terms wears off—I found myself consuming the stories with ease.

Mushtaq’s writing style surprised me with its (for lack of a better word) conventionality, and the short stories I read reminded me much of classic Russian stories in the vein of Anton Chekhov. Stories have defined characters who purely serve aspects of the plot and are given no real depth in of themselves, and often each story has a highly implied moralistic element that serves to illustrate the perseverance of women in difficult times. It is, therefore, a highly political book, with a message that seeks to provide women everywhere with the language of resistance, no matter their country of residence or status. It is noteworthy that Mushtaq wrote as part of the ‘Bandaya’ literary movement, a movement that emphasised a resistance to upper-class and upper-caste literary establishment in Kannada and Indian literature. Resistance is in this book’s veins. Mushtaq points it, like a spotlight, on the patriarchal structures of religion and family in India.

In terms of the prose itself, Mushtaq is never too daring, at points letting the horrors of abuse speak for themselves. There’s an acquiescence in some of the female narrators and implied points of view, an inability to escape the structures that bind them. But from story to story there exists some level of cheekiness and conversationality to the writing, with Indian slang and conversational quirks thrown into sentences. Stories often take on the aspect of oral retelling, and I could imagine vividly the same words being spoken to me by some expressive and gesticulating Indian relative of mine. 

At the time of me writing this (but not at the time of reading), the book has now won the 2025 International Booker Prize. After finishing it, alongside some of the other books shortlisted, it was pretty clear to me that this was going to be a top contender. Not only is its translation from Kannada—a definitely underrepresented language in the tastes of Western literature enthusiasts—its ethos of translation is boundary-pushing and humanistic. As noted in Deepa Bhasthi’s translator’s note, Indian languages, especially regional ones, often borrow and mix words, in this case from Hindi, Urdu and Arabic, and Bhasthi consciously chooses to leave many words untranslated. The experience of reading this, for me, an English language speaker and non-Muslim, was to look up many of the terms mentioned. In doing so, I learned so much about Islam and Indian culture, much more so than if words were translated to English literally. This educational aspect of translation—of bringing cultures together—is wonderful, and Bhasthi’s translation allows the reader to fully inhabit the world that Mushtaq grew up in.

So it is the winner, and a well-deserved one at that. There’s no better time to read this than now, and I would recommend it to someone, especially if you’re looking for Indian feminist literature.

shain

Heart Lamp is a collection of short stories by the Indian writer and activist Banu Mushtaq, first translated from the Kannada and made available in English in 2025 by Deepa Bhasthi. From my understanding, these stories, written over a few of the last decades, were first anthologised and translated for the first time to English in this collection. It contains 12 stories, all being around an average of 10-20 pages long. While the stories are not linked, they are brought together by some common threads—surely stemming from Mushtaq’s life as an activist and lawyer—with each story prominently featuring Muslim women in India, often exploring the subjugation of women under men who abuse positions of religious and familial patriarchal power. Many of the women’s struggles also intersect with class and caste in Indian society, and the novel explores the differences between rich and poor families in the treatment of women.

In these stories you’ll find tales of polygamous and abusive men, quarrels between in-laws, corrupt religious leaders, wonderful and sacrificial mothers and their innocent children, and social and economic strivers who would sacrifice anything to get what they want. Although every story shares similar themes, there’s a great deal of different topics and intersectional relationships explored that each story gives you something new, and—once the initial awkwardness of getting used to names and terms wears off—I found myself consuming the stories with ease.

Mushtaq’s writing style surprised me with its (for lack of a better word) conventionality, and the short stories I read reminded me much of classic Russian stories in the vein of Anton Chekhov. Stories have defined characters who purely serve aspects of the plot and are given no real depth in of themselves, and often each story has a highly implied moralistic element that serves to illustrate the perseverance of women in difficult times. It is, therefore, a highly political book, with a message that seeks to provide women everywhere with the language of resistance, no matter their country of residence or status. It is noteworthy that Mushtaq wrote as part of the ‘Bandaya’ literary movement, a movement that emphasised a resistance to upper-class and upper-caste literary establishment in Kannada and Indian literature. Resistance is in this book’s veins. Mushtaq points it, like a spotlight, on the patriarchal structures of religion and family in India.

In terms of the prose itself, Mushtaq is never too daring, at points letting the horrors of abuse speak for themselves. There’s an acquiescence in some of the female narrators and implied points of view, an inability to escape the structures that bind them. But from story to story there exists some level of cheekiness and conversationality to the writing, with Indian slang and conversational quirks thrown into sentences. Stories often take on the aspect of oral retelling, and I could imagine vividly the same words being spoken to me by some expressive and gesticulating Indian relative of mine. 

At the time of me writing this (but not at the time of reading), the book has now won the 2025 International Booker Prize. After finishing it, alongside some of the other books shortlisted, it was pretty clear to me that this was going to be a top contender. Not only is its translation from Kannada—a definitely underrepresented language in the tastes of Western literature enthusiasts—its ethos of translation is boundary-pushing and humanistic. As noted in Deepa Bhasthi’s translator’s note, Indian languages, especially regional ones, often borrow and mix words, in this case from Hindi, Urdu and Arabic, and Bhasthi consciously chooses to leave many words untranslated. The experience of reading this, for me, an English language speaker and non-Muslim, was to look up many of the terms mentioned. In doing so, I learned so much about Islam and Indian culture, much more so than if words were translated to English literally. This educational aspect of translation—of bringing cultures together—is wonderful, and Bhasthi’s translation allows the reader to fully inhabit the world that Mushtaq grew up in.

So it is the winner, and a well-deserved one at that. There’s no better time to read this than now, and I would recommend it to someone, especially if you’re looking for Indian feminist literature.

The stories themselves are raw, unapologetic and authentic and I absolutely love what the author has done. 

But the translation had me groaning in frustration on every other page. I did read the translator’s note and I do understand the choice to not use italics. As someone who was familiar with the cultural nuances, I didn’t mind those. But the translation itself felt lazy and poorly done. I wouldn’t have minded if the awkwardness in the translation had been deliberate—a conscious challenge to the colonial fixation on “correct” English grammar. But, Intentionally writing phrases like “That time itself,” “What for you,” or “melt even stomach water” could have effectively shown that meaning and storytelling surpass linguistic rules. But instead, these phrases come across as unintended parodies, reminiscent of insensitive stereotypes about how Indians speak English. Rather than thoughtfully subverting linguistic norms, the translation unintentionally reinforces the colonial attitudes it might have otherwise critiqued. The translation completely ruined the book for me despite me loving the stories and the characters.

The stories themselves are raw, unapologetic and authentic and I absolutely love what the author has done. 

But the translation had me groaning in frustration on every other page. I did read the translator’s note and I do understand the choice to not use italics. As someone who was familiar with the cultural nuances, I didn’t mind those. But the translation itself felt lazy and poorly done. I wouldn’t have minded if the awkwardness in the translation had been deliberate—a conscious challenge to the colonial fixation on “correct” English grammar. But, Intentionally writing phrases like “That time itself,” “What for you,” or “melt even stomach water” could have effectively shown that meaning and storytelling surpass linguistic rules. But instead, these phrases come across as unintended parodies, reminiscent of insensitive stereotypes about how Indians speak English. Rather than thoughtfully subverting linguistic norms, the translation unintentionally reinforces the colonial attitudes it might have otherwise critiqued. The translation completely ruined the book for me despite me loving the stories and the characters.

"You gave me the strength to bear a lot of pain. But you should not have given him the cruelty to cause so much of it."

Soars at times in telling these stories. Mostly fell flat.

c0up

"You gave me the strength to bear a lot of pain. But you should not have given him the cruelty to cause so much of it."

Soars at times in telling these stories. Mostly fell flat.

Heart Lamp

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