Encountering Mirabai through Translation

By Chloe Martinez

I was a college sophomore in an introductory Hinduism class when I first encountered Mirabai, a sixteenth-century Hindu mystic. Her poems felt alive and immediate to me. I remember staring at the page, wondering, “How am I just now hearing about this person?” She could be erotic and funny, angry and mystical, and her work spoke sharply about gender, power, love, and spiritual experience. My own preoccupations were reflected back to me in a voice from long ago and far away.

Decades after first reading Mira, I began to make new translations of her poems, a project that would become my book, Blue Like My Beloved (New Directions, 2026). I think the most basic motivation for any translator might be the most selfish one: In the deepest possible way, when translating we get to keep encountering a writer we admire. We are confounded, transformed, and taught by the texts we translate. It has been this way for me, translating Mira.

In that first meeting, I had no access to the original text, which Mira composed in Braj Bhasha—a literary dialect of Hindi still spoken in some parts of north India. Through translations, I met this singular figure whose fame continues in poster art, Bollywood films, literary adaptations, countless musical renditions, and at least one comic book, not to mention Mira statues and images in temples to Krishna, the beloved object of her devotion. I listened to sung renditions of Mira and realized music was central to her poetics. To get a better sense of her voice, I sought more translations, reading several side by side.  

I went on to learn Hindi, Sanskrit, and Braj Bhasha, and to do a PhD in Religious Studies. I also pursued poetry seriously, earning two creative writing master’s degrees and publishing two books of poetry. I kept coming back to Mirabai. Some translations seemed accurate in their meanings but were a bit dated as English-language poems. Others were more lyrical but presented Mira as a decontextualized mystic for an American New Age readership. Still others were out of print or offered just a few poems.

Poet and translator Arthur Sze writes, “As language is always evolving, speech patterns, syntax, and vocabulary always shifting, translations are by nature ephemeral.” Just as we need Robert Fitzgerald’s Homer and also Emily Wilson’s, we need new Mira translations in language fitting each generation.

When I sat down to translate Mira myself, I saw the true complexity of her work. Mira’s language can read as plainspoken, even folksy at times. But the poems are dense with polyvalent words, sonic and metrical effects far beyond a rhyme scheme, and mythic references coded for Krishna devotees.  

Consider a line from a poem I translate in my book. I title the poem “Mira Goes Out Walking,” though it has no title in the original. The line reads: jyan jyan karan dharanam dharani dhar, tyan tyan nirat karan ri. A literal translation might be “Wherever the earth supported [Krishna’s] feet, right there [is where] I’ll dance.” That conveys the basic meaning, but it’s stilted. Nobody speaks like this in English! It also misses the rhythmic alliteration of the original. A translator can never replicate the sonic texture of a linguistic original, but we can work to find parallel effects—in the case of Mira, a strong sense of musicality and spokenness are needed.  

A translation generally can’t capture the layers of meaning in the words of the original, either. The Braj Bhasha word “karan,” for example, means “foot or feet,” but in Mira’s context, the word invokes the devotional acts of touching or washing the feet of a respected figure or deity, and it recalls the revered footprint images representing Vishnu (of whom Krishna is an avatar) in temples and homes. These connotations are absent in English, but a knowledgeable translator can work with them in mind. For the most important meanings, paratextual apparati such as footnotes, glossaries, and prefaces can help when all else fails.  

The final version I came up with for the line above is “Wherever his feet have touched the ground, I start dancing.” It certainly fails to capture all the layers and textures of Mira’s poem, but my choices reflect the qualities I thought it was most urgent to convey to contemporary English-language readers.  

I want the line to sound natural in English, reflecting Mira’s condensed, effective language. I also want my translation to convey joy and immediacy, capturing the mystical knowledge that lets Mira feel god’s presence (as well as his absence) in the ground itself. Mira’s bhakti encounter with Krishna takes place not just in the temple, but everywhere.  

In translating Mirabai for a new generation, I hope to give many more readers the chance to encounter this exceptional, distinctive voice.