As soon as I learnt that the 2026 Nobel Prize in Literature had been awarded to poet, translator, essayist, and author Anne Carson, I felt a sense of joy in my bones. Prizes do not usually reach me this way. So, the joy took me by surprise.
For some years now, the Nobel in Literature has felt like the weather in another country. Part of that distance is structural. More than a century on, Rabindranath Tagore remains the only laureate to have written in an Indian language. Some of the most inventive writing in English today is being produced in India, by writers who have made the language bend to the rhythms of the places they write from.
That writing travels, is read, taught, and argued over across the world, yet it never seems to arrive in Stockholm. And those of us who translate from Indian languages know how much more waits at that threshold, read and loved at home, and almost unknown beyond it.
So why the joy this time? Because when I first met Carson, I did not meet her alone. She came with Sappho, carried carefully across 26 centuries and two languages. An unlikely kinship formed between the three of us –...
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