光 學
瑪尼尼 . 娜婭
在我七歲那年，我的朋友蘇爾被雷電擊中而死。慘劇發生時，他正在屋頂安靜地玩著彈珠遊戲。都燒成渣了，左鄰右舍的長舌婦們如是說。他當時被火團包圍，她們很確定地說，但象沒事人一樣。我隻記得嘈雜急切的救護車聲及悠長而清晰的警報聲劃破了那個潮濕的十月之夜。那晚稍後，我父親走過來坐在我身邊。這事兒發生的概率隻有幾百萬分之一，他說，就好象了解單單這麽一個統計數字後就能緩解我內心的恐懼。他隻是想幫助我，我想。或者他認為我擔心這事兒也會發生在我身上。到那時為止，蘇爾和我分享著生活的點滴：小秘密，巧克力，朋友，甚至出生日期。我們承諾對方，我們將在十八歲結婚，生六個小孩，養兩條奶牛，臀部還要紋上帶有 “ 永遠屬於你 ” 字樣的心型圖案。但是現在蘇爾去了另外的世界，七歲的我隻能躺在被單下麵數著眼前黑暗中的光點。
此後，我清空了我的玩具櫃，清出了我的泰迪熊係列及圖畫書們。取而代之的是一片虛空，那些橡木隔板兀自閃著清光。這塊我清理出的近乎於神聖的地盤，對於我母親來說隻是浪費精力和胡鬧。空櫃子不會比空杯子好到哪兒去，她低聲嘟嚕著這天啟般的句子。母親總是習慣於用東西 --- 注滿杯子，水壺，花瓶，填滿盒子，手臂 --- 對她而言，好象色彩和重量能等同於優質的生活。母親永遠不會明白這空櫃子是我尋夢的地方。我可以躲進櫃子，櫃門在身後輕輕滑攏，緊閉雙眼然後進入另一個世界。當我睜開雙眼，孤單的壁櫃燈光照得四壁閃閃發亮。我可以體會到蘇爾的感覺，突如其來的眩目以及無盡的黑暗。我仍可以一如既往地和他分享著這一感受，就象以前一樣。我仍將知道他所知道的，看到他所看到的，他也明白這一點，無論他身在何處。但我對母親說我清空櫃子隻是因為我不再喜歡那些泰迪熊和圖畫書了。母親是怎樣想的我說不上來，但當時她用力地攪動著湯鍋。
幾百萬分之一，我對自己重複了很多次，仿佛所有線索及答案都在那裏。這些詞重若千斤，徘徊於我的唇上，固守遲疑使我久久不願承認。有時我故意說同類的詞語來看看是否有偏差，就象醫學上所說的怪癖，幾百萬分之一所代表的事實會突然向我襲來。謝謝你給我豆子，媽媽，午餐時我對母親說，你太不平凡了。母親奇怪地看著我，嘴唇緊皺著，她添給我更多飯。在俱樂部裏，當父親在退休者巡回杯賽裏占明顯上風時，我向父親指出他太不平凡了，啊，這一輪真是太不平凡了，父親謹慎地掩飾道，但我可以看出他是高興的。但這仍不是我所尋求的，有時這些詞語會太輕易從我唇邊溜出，從而失去了它的魔力，淡而無味就如同說 “ 把鹽遞過來 ” 或者問“洗澡水熱嗎？ ” 。如果蘇爾是萬裏挑一，那麽我就太普通了，隻是一打人中的一個。瞧，他是被選中的那個，而我則太平凡。他被一股不為我所知的力量觸及並轉化了。而我被留下來清理櫥櫃。一定有辦法橋接這死生兩重天，將蘇爾帶回我身邊，我等待著嚐試著直到這最不可思議時刻的來臨。我等待著那最恰當及眩目時刻的來臨，那時蘇爾會回到我身邊。這是我的秘密武器，無人知曉，母親也一樣不知道，即便是她緊皺雙唇看著豆子。這一切就隻有蘇爾和我知道。
當冰雪消融春光初現時，父親病了。一個早春二月的早上，父親坐在他的椅子上，他蒼白得象壁爐裏的灰燼。他揚起手臂，嘴裏說著什麽，然後，頹然倒下。一切發生得如此突然，如此清晰，仿佛經過了數周的預演已至爐火純青。同樣的，警笛聲，輪椅尖銳的吱吱聲，白衣救護人員無休無止的跑動。心髒病發作的機率並非百萬分之一。但父親的突然犯病給我的打擊與蘇爾的不幸帶來的打擊是一樣的，一樣黑暗但沒有眩目，一樣長長的等待。
此時我意識到萬事不可逆轉，這是最好的時機。我必然毫不遲疑地這麽做，不能再浪費時機了。當他們將父親送走，我衝進櫥櫃，用力緊閉雙眼，再在眩目的燈光中睜開眼睛，大聲呼喊：“蘇爾！蘇爾！蘇爾！”。我盡力保持頭腦一片空白，就象人死亡一樣，但是父親和蘇爾在我腦中幻化成一片混亂的圖片。樹葉在雨中顫抖，而我是那冷靜的軸。父親在屋頂上玩著彈珠，蘇爾在玩著牌，父親和兩頭奶牛，蘇爾在餐桌前用早餐，這些圖片在我腦海裏象渦流般洄轉，洄轉得越瘋狂，我的聲音卻更清晰可聞，就象鍾鳴一般：“蘇爾！蘇爾！蘇爾！”。聲音在櫥櫃裏回蕩，一些是我的，一些是回音，另一些仿佛來自另一個世界 --- 也許是蘇爾所在的地方。整個櫥櫃好象在呻吟及回應，就如同在閃電和雷聲中顫動一般。突然之間，我會發現自己置身於青蔥翠綠的山穀，清澈見底的溪流蜿蜒而過，紅色的扶桑花開滿山坡。我在瘋長的青草裏奔跑，涉過小溪水，看見蘇爾正在采摘鮮花。我睜開我的雙眼後，他一定會在那兒，懷裏滿抱紅紅的扶桑花，向我微笑。你跑哪兒去啦？他會說，就仿佛被燒成灰燼的那個人是我。我無法自製地陷入如此強烈的 --- 就象慶祝一般 --- 真實的啜泣中，我睜開我的雙眼，隻看見燈的清光在四壁閃耀。
我想我是睡著了，因為我在更深的黑暗中醒來。當時很晚了，早就過了我的睡覺時間。我慢慢地爬出櫥櫃，我感覺舌頭長滿舌苔，腳步發沉，頭象灌了鉛一樣。然後我聽到我的名字。母親坐在她靠窗的椅子上，淡淡的月光勾勒出她的身影。你父親會好起來的，她平靜地說，他很快就會回來。母親坐在那淡淡的靜止不動的光線中，如果蘇爾幸運的話他也能被這光線觸及。月光籠罩著降福而仁愛的聖母，也眷顧著六條街之外醫院病床上的父親。我奔向母親懷裏，母親的手臂溫暖如浴缸的洗澡水，她的皮膚有著如扶桑花一般的質地。
母親和我一起靜靜地待了一陣子，被夜間的小響動和蟋蟀振動翅膀的聲音所打擾，然後我起身回房。母親神色奇怪地看著我，你感覺還好吧？她問道。我對她說我還好，我要回房間去收拾一下。然後我來到我的玩具櫥櫃前，重新用泰迪熊和圖畫書將它填滿。
許多年過後我們搬到了諾卡拉，那是靠近東北部城市 詹謝普爾的一個礦區小鎮。那個夏天我將滿十六歲，我迷失在那無盡的樹林裏。事實上，林區並不算太大，最多隻有三英裏長。我騎行在那條肮髒的通往小鎮的路上，樹葉間的微動讓我停了下來。
我跳下單車，站著傾聽那聲響。樹木拱形的長枝就象從頭頂伸下的爪子。天空在白雲的肚皮間爬行。灰色和黑色的陰影交互填成棋格。一陣微弱的豎琴聲在四周回蕩，仿佛空氣變成了琴弦，正被彈奏成一支序曲。然而，四周什麽也沒有，有的隻是靜靜移動的陰影，燈的清光在四壁閃耀。我記起蘇爾，好久以來我不曾想起過他。再一次，我傻傻地等待，一個和弦接著一個和弦，那聲響就象不和諧的樂章，我等待不是為了答案，單單隻是為了將這無盡樹木帶給我的恐懼終結。當那聲響越來越刺耳以至於不能忍受時，我迅速跳上車瘋狂地踩著踏板，巫女們在我耳邊尖叫，我的雙腳象上了發條一般踩著單車前行。沒有路的地麵上滿是樹葉與石頭，塵土飛揚。當我衝到陽光下，感到空氣涼爽而沉靜。
---試譯於2008年9月
附原文：
Optics
Manini Nayar
When I was seven, my friend Sol was hit by lightning and died. He was on a rooftop quietly playing marbles when this happened. Burnt to cinders, we were told by the neighbourhood gossips. He'd caught fire, we were assured, but never felt a thing. I only remember a frenzy of ambulances and long clean sirens cleaving the silence of that damp October night. Later, my father came to sit with me. This happens to one in several millions, he said, as if a knowledge of the bare statistics mitigated the horror. He was trying to help, I think. Or perhaps he believed I thought it would happen to me. Until now, Sol and I had shared everything; secrets, chocolates, friends, even a birthdate. We would marry at eighteen, we promised each other, and have six children, two cows and a heart-shaped tattoo with 'Eternally Yours' sketched on our behinds. But now Sol was somewhere else, and I was seven years old and under the covers in my bed counting spots before my eyes in the darkness.
After that I cleared out my play-cupboard. Out went my collection of teddy bears and picture books. In its place was an emptiness, the oak panels reflecting their own woodshine. The space I made seemed almost holy, though mother thought my efforts a waste. An empty cupboard is no better than an empty cup, she said in an apocryphal aside. Mother always filled things up - cups, water jugs, vases, boxes, arms - as if colour and weight equalled a superior quality of life. Mother never understood that this was my dreamtime place. Here I could hide, slide the doors shut behind me, scrunch my eyes tight and breathe in another world. When I opened my eyes, the glow from the lone cupboard-bulb seemed to set the polished walls shimmering, and I could feel what Sol must have felt, dazzle and darkness. I was sharing this with him, as always. He would know, wherever he was, that I knew what he knew, saw what he had seen. But to mother I only said that I was tired of teddy bears and picture books. What she thought I couldn't tell, but she stirred the soup-pot vigorously.
One in several millions, I said to myself many times, as if the key, the answer to it all, lay there. The phrase was heavy on my lips, stubbornly resistant to knowledge. Sometimes I said the words out of con- text to see if by deflection, some quirk of physics, the meaning would suddenly come to me. Thanks for the beans, mother, I said to her at lunch, you're one in millions. Mother looked at me oddly, pursed her lips and offered me more rice. At this club, when father served a clean ace to win the Retired-Wallahs Rotating Cup, I pointed out that he was one in a million. Oh, the serve was one in a million, father protested modestly. But he seemed pleased. Still, this wasn't what I was looking for, and in time the phrase slipped away from me, lost its magic urgency, became as bland as 'Pass the salt' or 'Is the bath water hot?' If Sol was one in a million, I was one among far less; a dozen, say. He was chosen. I was ordinary. He had been touched and transformed by forces I didn't understand. I was left cleaning out the cupboard. There was one way to bridge the chasm, to bring Sol back to life, but I would wait to try it until the most magical of moments. I would wait until the moment was so right and shimmering that Sol would have to come back. This was my weapon that nobody knew of, not even mother, even though she had pursed her lips up at the beans. This was between Sol and me.
The winter had almost guttered into spring when father was ill. One February morning, he sat in his chair, ashen as the cinders in the grate. Then, his fingers splayed out in front of him, his mouth working, he heaved and fell. It all happened suddenly, so cleanly, as if rehearsed and perfected for weeks. Again the sirens, the screech of wheels, the white coats in perpetual motion. Heart seizures weren't one in a million. But they deprived you just the same, darkness but no dazzle, and a long waiting.
Now I knew there was no turning back. This was the moment. I had to do it without delay; there was no time to waste. While they carried father out, I rushed into the cupboard, scrunched my eyes tight, opened them in the shimmer and called out 'Sol! Sol! Sol!' I wanted to keep my mind blank, like death must be, but father and Sol gusted in and out in confusing pictures. Leaves in a storm and I the calm axis. Here was father playing marbles on a roof. Here was Sol serving ace after ace. Here was father with two cows. Here was Sol hunched over the breakfast table. The pictures eddied and rushed. The more frantic they grew, the clearer my voice became, tolling like a bell: 'Sol! Sol! Sol!' The cupboard rang with voices, some mine, some echoes, some from what seemed another place - where Sol was, maybe. The cup- board seemed to groan and reverberate, as if shaken by lightning and thunder. Any minute now it would burst open and I would find myself in a green valley fed by limpid brooks and red with hibiscus. I would run through tall grass and wading into the waters, see Sol picking flowers. I would open my eyes and he'd be there, hibiscus-laden, laughing. Where have you been, he'd say, as if it were I who had burned, falling in ashes. I was filled to bursting with a certainty so strong it seemed a celebration almost. Sobbing, I opened my eyes. The bulb winked at the walls.
I fell asleep, I think, because I awoke to a deeper darkness. It was late, much past my bedtime. Slowly I crawled out of the cupboard, my tongue furred, my feet heavy. My mind felt like lead. Then I heard my name. Mother was in her chair by the window, her body defined by a thin ray of moonlight. Your father Will be well, she said quietly, and he will be home soon. The shaft of light in which she sat so motionless was like the light that would have touched Sol if he'd been lucky; if he had been like one of us, one in a dozen, or less. This light fell in a benediction, caressing mother, slipping gently over my father in his hospital bed six streets away. I reached out and stroked my mother's arm. It was warm like bath water, her skin the texture of hibiscus.
We stayed together for some time, my mother and I, invaded by small night sounds and the raspy whirr of crickets. Then I stood up and turned to return to my room. Mother looked at me quizzically. Are you all right, she asked. I told her I was fine, that I had some c!eaning up to do. Then I went to my cupboard and stacked it up again with teddy bears and picture books.
Some years later we moved to Rourkela, a small mining town in the north east, near Jamshedpur. The summer I turned sixteen, I got lost in the thick woods there. They weren't that deep - about three miles at the most. All I had to do was cycle for all I was worth, and in minutes I'd be on the dirt road leading into town. But a stir in the leaves gave me pause.
I dismounted and stood listening. Branches arched like claws overhead. The sky crawled on a white belly of clouds. Shadows fell in tessellated patterns of grey and black. There was a faint thrumming all around, as if the air were being strung and practised for an overture. And yet there was nothing, just a silence of moving shadows, a bulb winking at the walls. I remembered Sol, of whom I hadn't thought in years. And foolishly again I waited, not for answers but simply for an end to the terror the woods were building in me, chord by chord, like dissonant music. When the cacophony grew too much to bear, I remounted and pedalled furiously, banshees screaming past my ears, my feet assuming a clockwork of their own. The pathless ground threw up leaves and stones, swirls of dust rose and settled. The air was cool and steady as I hurled myself into the falling light.
未經本人同意，謝絕轉錄。
