Understanding the Vernacular Through Body and Space
The vernacular, when translated, is often made to conform. Its excess is reduced, its irregularities corrected.
The term vernacular can be understood as something domestic. This domesticity is not metaphorical alone — it comes into being through two conditions: space and body. It is through the movement, or stillness, of these that the vernacular begins to take shape. Neither space nor body remains fixed. They travel, they shift, they encounter.
With each such encounter, the vernacular alters. To approach the vernacular, then, is to begin with a space: a house, a street, a locality. These are not passive backdrops, but active sites where language is formed and performed. The body, within this space, carries the language. It speaks, listens, repeats, modifies. The vernacular resides here without needing to give itself a name. It functions fully, without recognition. This is where the first condition must be held: the vernacular exists before it is called as such. It is only when an external gaze is introduced that the term begins to take hold. With naming comes hierarchy. The vernacular is placed within a system where it is measured, often against a standard. It becomes marked as local, informal, limited. But this marking does not originate within the language itself — it is an imposition. If the body moves outside its original space, the vernacular moves with it. It does not remain intact. It adjusts, encountering other languages, other forms of speech, and other expectations. In this process, it does not lose itself; rather, it accumulates more. What emerges is gain rather than loss. The vernacular is not diminished by contact. It expands through it.
This is where translation becomes relevant — not as an isolated act, but as a condition the vernacular already exists within. Each movement of the body, each shift in space, produces a form of translation. Meaning is not transferred cleanly. It is negotiated. What is carried over remains partial, altered, sometimes resisted. The vernacular, in this sense, is always in translation.
At the same time, translation introduces its own hierarchies. Decisions are made: what to retain, what to discard, what to modify. These decisions are not neutral. They are shaped by power, context, and emotion. The vernacular, when translated, is often made to conform. Its excess is reduced, its irregularities corrected. Yet even within this process, something remains that resists full containment.
If the vernacular is to be understood further, it must be seen in relation to belonging. Words that come close to it — vatni, desi, makaami, mulki, boli, zubaan — all point toward this condition. The vernacular belongs, and it carries belonging with it. It is tied to a place, but not confined by it. When the body moves, this belonging travels too, and in doing so, it comes into contact with other forms of belonging. It is here that the vernacular begins to resemble something fluid, something capable of taking shape, according to the conditions it encounters.
Attempts to define the vernacular often fall short because they try to stabilise what is inherently in motion. To work through the vernacular, then, is not to fix its meaning, but to follow its movement — between spaces, across bodies, through acts of translation, and within systems that attempt to name and contain it, but ultimately fail.
