“米糊之启示”
作者:(印）安那巴安班纳吉（Anirbaan班纳吉）
翻译：逸风
当我还是懵懂而美丽的女孩子的时候，我的母亲递给我一件富于想象力的容器，一碗米糊
母亲告诉了我如何使用这种如银般的纯正液体在地板上设计图案、去美化这间房屋、迎接财富女神的莅临
今天，我再次坐到了这里，操练这种隐秘的艺术，我抚摸着有疤痕的地板，用有点变质的银色的米糊修补它的疤痕
我让米糊从我的指缝里漏掉，它还未成白色的线条，但是这个家，不，是这座房屋，就位于我指间黑魆魆的间隙当中
沐浴于黄昏里的一个帝国的黑暗的创造和历史；帝国的昏暗的脸庞被设计的可以牢记。房间里黑暗凹槽，曾经是我所画的洁白纯洁的鲜花所躺卧的地方
我是多么傻呀！早产来到人世间，还没有在这里绽放就登上了虚幻之路，只有兄弟们的支离破碎的躯体为伴；对他们而言，我就如同猎枪击中的一个心形的松果
我全部荒谬的快乐，就是用米糊写下我的名字，用我目不识丁的大脑去嘲弄无知和忍耐自觉的蓄意行为的痛苦
我画不出白色的内心，但是，我看到有毒的爱情以及背叛的和无私的爱情，从互相猜忌的俨然缝隙中慢慢地显现出一点希望
当我完成后，假如我还没有完成，似乎累积了多少代人的刺眼的辛辣味仍然粘在我的手上，提醒我记住鲜血的咸味；
米糊的粗糙晶粒，随着时间的推移凝结成完美的一体；但是米糊脆性的本性，会粘到我的头颅上，就如一个荆棘的冠冕！
Revelations of a Rice Paste
By Anirbaan Banerjee
When I was
Of a beautiful oblivious age,
My mother handed me
A receptacle of imagination,
A bowl of rice paste.
She told me to paint designs
Upon the floor
With this pure liquid silver,
Beautifying the house
Welcoming the Goddess Of Prosperity.
Today I sit here once again,
Practicing the art of concealment.
I touch the scabbed floor
And suppress its scars
With tainted silver.
I let the paste escape my fingers.
Yet it is not the lines of white,
But the gaps of darkness in between
Wherein lies this home,
Nay, this house.
The dark creation and history
Of an empire basking in twilight,
The dark face which schemes
To be remembered,
The dark recesses of the room
Where once innocence slept shrouded in white.
I would paint flowers.
What a fool was I!
Giving premature birth to life,
Nothing blooms here
Upon the path of hallucinations,
Only broken corpses of brothers lie,
As a heart pines for them,
Beats like gunshot.
I would write my name with paste
Across the fallacies of happiness,
Mocking the ignorance
Of an illiterate mind
Impervious to the pain
Of conscious acts of malice.
I would paint little white hearts.
But I see poisoned love,
Unfaithful, unrequited love,
And hope seeps slowly
From the solemn fissures of doubt.
When I am done,
If I am ever done,
The pungency of tears
Amassed over generations
Will still cling to my hand
And remind me
Of the saltiness of blood.
The coarse grains
Of the rice paste
Over time
Congeal into a flawless unity,
But their brittle origin
Will still stick to my head,
A crown of thorns.
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