光 学
玛尼尼 . 娜娅
在我七岁那年，我的朋友苏尔被雷电击中而死。惨剧发生时，他正在屋顶安静地玩着弹珠游戏。都烧成渣了，左邻右舍的长舌妇们如是说。他当时被火团包围，她们很确定地说，但象没事人一样。我只记得嘈杂急切的救护车声及悠长而清晰的警报声划破了那个潮湿的十月之夜。那晚稍后，我父亲走过来坐在我身边。这事儿发生的概率只有几百万分之一，他说，就好象了解单单这么一个统计数字后就能缓解我内心的恐惧。他只是想帮助我，我想。或者他认为我担心这事儿也会发生在我身上。到那时为止，苏尔和我分享着生活的点滴：小秘密，巧克力，朋友，甚至出生日期。我们承诺对方，我们将在十八岁结婚，生六个小孩，养两条奶牛，臀部还要纹上带有 “ 永远属于你 ” 字样的心型图案。但是现在苏尔去了另外的世界，七岁的我只能躺在被单下面数着眼前黑暗中的光点。
此后，我清空了我的玩具柜，清出了我的泰迪熊系列及图画书们。取而代之的是一片虚空，那些橡木隔板兀自闪着清光。这块我清理出的近乎于神圣的地盘，对于我母亲来说只是浪费精力和胡闹。空柜子不会比空杯子好到哪儿去，她低声嘟噜着这天启般的句子。母亲总是习惯于用东西 --- 注满杯子，水壶，花瓶，填满盒子，手臂 --- 对她而言，好象色彩和重量能等同于优质的生活。母亲永远不会明白这空柜子是我寻梦的地方。我可以躲进柜子，柜门在身后轻轻滑拢，紧闭双眼然后进入另一个世界。当我睁开双眼，孤单的壁柜灯光照得四壁闪闪发亮。我可以体会到苏尔的感觉，突如其来的眩目以及无尽的黑暗。我仍可以一如既往地和他分享着这一感受，就象以前一样。我仍将知道他所知道的，看到他所看到的，他也明白这一点，无论他身在何处。但我对母亲说我清空柜子只是因为我不再喜欢那些泰迪熊和图画书了。母亲是怎样想的我说不上来，但当时她用力地搅动着汤锅。
几百万分之一，我对自己重复了很多次，仿佛所有线索及答案都在那里。这些词重若千斤，徘徊于我的唇上，固守迟疑使我久久不愿承认。有时我故意说同类的词语来看看是否有偏差，就象医学上所说的怪癖，几百万分之一所代表的事实会突然向我袭来。谢谢你给我豆子，妈妈，午餐时我对母亲说，你太不平凡了。母亲奇怪地看着我，嘴唇紧皱着，她添给我更多饭。在俱乐部里，当父亲在退休者巡回杯赛里占明显上风时，我向父亲指出他太不平凡了，啊，这一轮真是太不平凡了，父亲谨慎地掩饰道，但我可以看出他是高兴的。但这仍不是我所寻求的，有时这些词语会太轻易从我唇边溜出，从而失去了它的魔力，淡而无味就如同说 “ 把盐递过来 ” 或者问“洗澡水热吗？ ” 。如果苏尔是万里挑一，那么我就太普通了，只是一打人中的一个。瞧，他是被选中的那个，而我则太平凡。他被一股不为我所知的力量触及并转化了。而我被留下来清理橱柜。一定有办法桥接这死生两重天，将苏尔带回我身边，我等待着尝试着直到这最不可思议时刻的来临。我等待着那最恰当及眩目时刻的来临，那时苏尔会回到我身边。这是我的秘密武器，无人知晓，母亲也一样不知道，即便是她紧皱双唇看着豆子。这一切就只有苏尔和我知道。
当冰雪消融春光初现时，父亲病了。一个早春二月的早上，父亲坐在他的椅子上，他苍白得象壁炉里的灰烬。他扬起手臂，嘴里说着什么，然后，颓然倒下。一切发生得如此突然，如此清晰，仿佛经过了数周的预演已至炉火纯青。同样的，警笛声，轮椅尖锐的吱吱声，白衣救护人员无休无止的跑动。心脏病发作的机率并非百万分之一。但父亲的突然犯病给我的打击与苏尔的不幸带来的打击是一样的，一样黑暗但没有眩目，一样长长的等待。
此时我意识到万事不可逆转，这是最好的时机。我必然毫不迟疑地这么做，不能再浪费时机了。当他们将父亲送走，我冲进橱柜，用力紧闭双眼，再在眩目的灯光中睁开眼睛，大声呼喊：“苏尔！苏尔！苏尔！”。我尽力保持头脑一片空白，就象人死亡一样，但是父亲和苏尔在我脑中幻化成一片混乱的图片。树叶在雨中颤抖，而我是那冷静的轴。父亲在屋顶上玩着弹珠，苏尔在玩着牌，父亲和两头奶牛，苏尔在餐桌前用早餐，这些图片在我脑海里象涡流般洄转，洄转得越疯狂，我的声音却更清晰可闻，就象钟鸣一般：“苏尔！苏尔！苏尔！”。声音在橱柜里回荡，一些是我的，一些是回音，另一些仿佛来自另一个世界 --- 也许是苏尔所在的地方。整个橱柜好象在呻吟及回应，就如同在闪电和雷声中颤动一般。突然之间，我会发现自己置身于青葱翠绿的山谷，清澈见底的溪流蜿蜒而过，红色的扶桑花开满山坡。我在疯长的青草里奔跑，涉过小溪水，看见苏尔正在采摘鲜花。我睁开我的双眼后，他一定会在那儿，怀里满抱红红的扶桑花，向我微笑。你跑哪儿去啦？他会说，就仿佛被烧成灰烬的那个人是我。我无法自制地陷入如此强烈的 --- 就象庆祝一般 --- 真实的啜泣中，我睁开我的双眼，只看见灯的清光在四壁闪耀。
我想我是睡着了，因为我在更深的黑暗中醒来。当时很晚了，早就过了我的睡觉时间。我慢慢地爬出橱柜，我感觉舌头长满舌苔，脚步发沉，头象灌了铅一样。然后我听到我的名字。母亲坐在她靠窗的椅子上，淡淡的月光勾勒出她的身影。你父亲会好起来的，她平静地说，他很快就会回来。母亲坐在那淡淡的静止不动的光线中，如果苏尔幸运的话他也能被这光线触及。月光笼罩着降福而仁爱的圣母，也眷顾着六条街之外医院病床上的父亲。我奔向母亲怀里，母亲的手臂温暖如浴缸的洗澡水，她的皮肤有着如扶桑花一般的质地。
母亲和我一起静静地待了一阵子，被夜间的小响动和蟋蟀振动翅膀的声音所打扰，然后我起身回房。母亲神色奇怪地看着我，你感觉还好吧？她问道。我对她说我还好，我要回房间去收拾一下。然后我来到我的玩具橱柜前，重新用泰迪熊和图画书将它填满。
许多年过后我们搬到了诺卡拉，那是靠近东北部城市 詹谢普尔的一个矿区小镇。那个夏天我将满十六岁，我迷失在那无尽的树林里。事实上，林区并不算太大，最多只有三英里长。我骑行在那条肮脏的通往小镇的路上，树叶间的微动让我停了下来。
我跳下单车，站着倾听那声响。树木拱形的长枝就象从头顶伸下的爪子。天空在白云的肚皮间爬行。灰色和黑色的阴影交互填成棋格。一阵微弱的竖琴声在四周回荡，仿佛空气变成了琴弦，正被弹奏成一支序曲。然而，四周什么也没有，有的只是静静移动的阴影，灯的清光在四壁闪耀。我记起苏尔，好久以来我不曾想起过他。再一次，我傻傻地等待，一个和弦接着一个和弦，那声响就象不和谐的乐章，我等待不是为了答案，单单只是为了将这无尽树木带给我的恐惧终结。当那声响越来越刺耳以至于不能忍受时，我迅速跳上车疯狂地踩着踏板，巫女们在我耳边尖叫，我的双脚象上了发条一般踩着单车前行。没有路的地面上满是树叶与石头，尘土飞扬。当我冲到阳光下，感到空气凉爽而沉静。
---试译于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.
未经本人同意，谢绝转录。
