03 July 2011

மக்கள் கவிஞனும் மலம் சுமக்கும் பெண்ணும்

இடதுசாரிகளால் மக்கள் கவிஞனாகவும் இலக்கியவாதிகளால் மகாகவிஞனாகவும் ஒருசேர கொண்டாடப்படும் வாழ்வைக் கொண்டாட்டமாய் வாழ்ந்த பாப்லோ நெரூதாவின் நினைவுகூறல்களே இந்தப் புத்தகம்.

பொருளாதார நிர்பந்தம் காரணமாக அரசாங்க கவுன்சில் வேலையை ஏற்று பல நாடுகளில் வேலை பார்த்திருக்கிறார் நெரூதா. கீழே உள்ளது, 1929ல் சிலோனில் நிகழ்ந்த அனுபவப் பதிவு.

சரி தப்பு சதுரங்கமாடி புரட்சிப் பொங்கல் வைக்க வாழ்வை தத்தம் கொடுத்திருக்கும் ஐசிஐசிஐ அக்கவுண்ட்ஹோல்டர்கள் சங்கத்தினர் மற்றும் ஆதரவாளர்கள் படித்துவிட்டுப் பொங்கலாம்.
My solitary bungalow was far from any urban development. When I rented it, I tried to find out where the toilet was; I couldn't see it anywhere. Actually, it was nowhere near the shower, it was at the back of the house. I inspected it with curiosity. It was a wooden box with a hole in the middle, very much like the artifact I had known as a child in the Chilean countryside. But our toilets were set over a deep well or over running water. Here the receptacle was a simple metal pail under the round hole. 

The pail was clean every morning, but I had no idea how its contents disappeared. One morning I rose earlier than usual, and I was amazed when I saw what had been happening. 

Into the back of the house, walking like a dusky statue, came the most beautiful woman I had yet seen in Ceylon, a Tamil of the pariah caste. She was wearing a red-and-gold sari of the cheapest kind of cloth. She had heavy angles on her bare ankles. Two tiny red dots glittered on either side of her nose. They must have been ordinary glass, but on her they were rubies. 

She walked solemnly toward the latrine, without so much as a side glance at me, not bothering to acknowledge my existence, and vanished with the disgusting receptacle on her head, moving away with the steps of a goddess. " 

She was so lovely that, regardless of her humble job, I couldn't get her off my mind. Like a shy jungle animal she belonged to another kind of existence, a different world. I called to her, but it was no use. After that, I sometimes put a gift in her path, a piece of silk or some fruit. She would go past without hearing or looking. That ignoble routine had been transformed by her dark beauty into the dutiful ceremony of an indifferent queen. 

One morning, I decided to go all the way. I got a strong grip on her wrist and stared into her eyes. There was no language I could talk with her. Unsmiling, she let herself be led away and was soon naked in my bed. Her waist, so very slim, her full hips, the brimming cups of her breasts made her like one of the thousand-year-old sculptures from the south of India. It was the coming together of a man and a statue. She kept her eyes wide open all the while, completely unresponsive. She was right to despise me. The experience was never repeated.