Lost in Translation: Phrases
When it’s simply awkward to an English tongue
Things do not always sit right in a second language. Expressions feel clunky, words feel misplaced. Sometimes, it is better said in our mother tongues. Here are four phrases that are simply awkward to an English tongue.
Yukta Matai: Juagaad, the art of making things work
In Hindi, Jugaad (जुगाड़) refers to a non-conventional, innovative quick-fix. That’s the closest this sentiment can be translated into English, but it’s so much deeper. Back home in India, jugaad is the unspoken art of finding a creative solution when resources are limited. It’s not about perfection; it’s about problem solving. Think using tape to hold your charger together, turning a cardboard box into a laptop stand, or propping up a wobbly desk leg with a stack of textbooks.
Jugaad is creation borne out of necessity.
People who embody this spirit have a resourceful mentality. At its core, the phenomenon is improvisation. To believe that there’s always a way, no matter the odds.
The word is used ubiquitously across Northern India. Didn’t have a speaker? I placed my phone in a bowl to amplify the sound. That’s technological jugaad.
Can’t afford therapy? Talk to your plants. That’s emotional jugaad.
Whether you’re a student trying to stretch your last $5 till pay day, or someone fixing your adapter to the wall with duct tape and determination, jugaad captures the universal urge to make things work…somehow.
So, innovate, adapt—and just wing it.
Maryam Raheel: Takalluf, a gentle depth English can’t carry
Like many Urdu words and expressions, emotional depth is often lost when translated to English. The Urdu word takalluf commonly translates to formality or pretension, describing an act of excessive politeness that may feel forced or artificial. However, in its native tongue, the word carries a more delicate meaning.
Takalluf reflects respect demonstrated through gentle restraint for the sake of others. It describes moments of conscious politeness where people hold back, not to be dishonest, but to maintain grace.
This etiquette appears in everyday interactions.
At gatherings, a guest might politely refuse a second serving of food, even if they’re still hungry, not to burden the host. A host might go to great lengths to accommodate visitors, even if inconvenient. This display of manners can seem performative on the surface, but it’s part of a well-established ritual of hospitality.
Commonly heard as part of the phrase “takalluf mat karein,” spoken amongst friends or guests; the literal translation would be “don’t be formal.” In English, this one-dimensional meaning seems superficial or even a little harsh. On the contrary, it’s an invitation to let go of social performances and be at ease. The phrase signals an emotional connection between people; a type of reassurance that the person is not a stranger and formalities can be set aside.
Despite the English translation’s inability to capture the depth of takalluf, its meaning is understood in practice as a quiet expression of care and respect.
Mariana Dominguez Rodriguez: Échale ganas!, words that remind me to keep going
Born in Mexico city, I hold onto the phrase échale ganas! dearly despite being away from home. It doesn’t quite have an equivalent here. Though people say it suggests “give it your all,” it feels like so much more. It embodies a heritage, brimming with the tenacity, spirit, likewise optimism ingrained with Mexico.
In Mexico, you hear it everywhere—right before tests, while kicking a ball into the net, or when someone down the street is having a rough time.
A little boost, yes, yet also understanding. It admits that things are hard and doesn’t overlook when they are weighing you down. It acknowledges hardship yet urges continued effort. This blend, seeing difficulties alongside a push to carry on, fuels the saying’s impact.
Mexico’s story of colonization, revolt, hard times alongside close families and neighbors, birthed the phrase échale ganas.
It doesn’t mean “just stay positive.” Instead it’s a shared understanding: trying matters, regardless of outcome; continuing shows worth. Échale ganas was said by my mother when I was learning how to ride a bike, by my father when I was writing entry essays for university, by close friends when I complain about mundane things.
I realize now that English lacks a similar phrase. Simply wishing someone “good luck” doesn’t capture the spirit, nor does telling them “you got this.”
Because échale ganas comes from a tradition where strength isn’t solitary, but communal, valuing the act of trying itself. Success isn’t the point; acknowledging the effort is.
Jia Bawa: Sabh moh maya hai, a quiet acceptance that beauty and suffering coexist
Sabh moh maya hai, a phrase that floats through Indian households like the chirp of sparrows in the spring.
Literally, the term encourages detachment, taking on a tone that’s almost cold. “Moh” means attachment, or desire, whereas “maya” signifies magic, mystery, illusion. Taken together, this phrase refers to the glimmering unreality of the material world; all attachment is an illusion. No matter how dazzling or enticing something may be, in the end, everything is fleeting and nothing stays.
Over time, however, the phrase has softened. It has taken on a more humorous, affectionate tone; a kind of cultural balm, a way of saying: “don’t stress yourself out, this too shall pass.” With time, everything falls into place.
Growing up, it was used for almost every situation: got a horrendous grade on an exam you studied really hard for? Sabh moh maya hai. Going through the worst breakup ever? Sabh moh maya hai.
It’s both a spiritual truth and a coping mechanism; a reminder in a culture where detachment isn’t denial but perspective; that nothing, not even heartbreak, is permanent.
There is something achingly human about this contradiction. We toil day after day. We chase our dreams, love deeply, feel endlessly; and then laugh it all off with a line that admits how powerless we really are in the grand scheme of things. Yet, even with that knowledge, keep trying. We love, without knowing how long it will last, only that it will certainly end.
Sabh moh maya hai is a quiet acceptance that beauty and suffering coexist. All the things we desperately hold on to—be it love, beauty, success, or control—are as transient as the dark, monsoon clouds.
