When one November morning
Octavio Paz came to Bombay by boat,
he wept. Doves screeched loudly.
Out of the morning a new sunny day was rising.
Warm wind coddled the city's coastline.
Once there was an island there. A few words
exchanged by the poet and the traveller,
Auden's brother, as it turned out later,
sufficed for a glorious entry into the port.
An Indian standing nearby thought: Not the English again.
It was 1951. The island's empire crumbled,
the hatred between the Hindus and the Muslims
blossomed like battles in an old Indian epic.
Midnight's children had found their legs
and Salman Rushdie turned four.
The incensed mob slaughtered the innocent,
thousands fled to a new homeland.
The hungry searched for food that was nonexistent.
The dreams of a great nation that never was great
slowly began to tumble. Myths were dying and
began to move onto the pages of unread books.
Nehru thought about the economy,
Gandhi's inscription in blood on the wall
My life is my message had finally paled.
Almost half a century later my foot
left its first invisible imprint in the red-hot
asphalt of January midday.
Bombay was ablaze, spirits flared.
Everything was perfect as in an Indian film.
I didn't cross the line. I didn't take it all in.
All the imperative ills at once became
part of my baggage: the cultural shock, diarrhoea,
the fear of the city, the gnashing teeth of poverty.
Then the frail groping after space
where I could settle my presence.
If at all. Too dense, too vibrant.
I didn't cross the line. And I never will.
At night I would ask myself quietly
why is it Bombay reminds me of New York,
of the scraping of the unclean sky,
of everyman who had lost his umbrella
and imperceptibly wasted his life.
Little time had passed, and yet years
seemed to have gone by, years in another life.
The cosmic matrix was dying out
with my vision of India.
For the first time I felt death behind my thoughts.
And my legs shook. And it came over me:
India's enormity was the cause of it all,
her intimacy with the cosmos,
with nature and man
who undulates in the dharmic cycle,
at one with everything living and dead.
A peculiar chill came over me,
though for us it is never really cold here.
European sentimentality sank
into the fathomless depths of an Indian night.
The city walked into a dream.
In the distance the last lights lit up,
in the suburbs fireplaces were set ablaze,
Bombay's monolith came to a halt.
translated from the Slovene by Ana Jelnikar
Ko je nekega novembrskega jutra
Octavio Paz z ladjo prispel v Bombay,
je jokal. Galebi so bučno skovikali.
Iz jutra je vstajal še en sončen dan.
Topel veter je razvajal obalo ob mestu.
Tam je bil nekoč otok. Nekaj besed,
ki sta jih izmenjala pesnik in popotnik,
kasneje se je izkazalo, da je Audenov brat,
je zadostovalo za veličasten prihod v pristanišče.
Indijec poleg njiju je pomislil, spet ti Angleži.
Bilo je leta 1951. Otoški imperij se je zrušil,
sovraštvo med hindujci in muslimani
je vzcvetelo kot boji v pesnitvi stare Indije.
Otroci polnoči so že shodili
in Salman Rushdie je bil star štiri leta.
Množice razjarjenih so klale nedolžne,
stotisoči so bežali v novo domovino.
Lačni so potovali za hrano, ki je ni bilo.
Sanje velike nacije, ki to nikoli ni bila,
so se počasi začele valiti. Miti so umirali
in se začeli seliti na strani neprebranih knjig.
Nehru je razmišljal o gospodarstvu,
Gandijev napis s krvjo na zidu
My life is My Message je dokončno zbledel.
Skoraj pol stoletja kasneje je moja noga
prvič odtisnila neviden pečat v razgret
asfalt januarskega opoldneva.
Bombay je žarel, duhovi so plapolali.
Vse je bilo popolno kot v indijskem filmu.
Nisem prestopil praga. Nisem obšel dogajanja.
Vse obvezne nemilosti so takoj postale
del moje prtljage: kulturni šok, driska,
velemestni strah, kruti zobje revščine.
Nato rahlo tipanje za prostorom,
kamor bi lahko naselil svojo podobo.
Če sploh. Preveč gostote, preveč utripa.
Nisem prestopil praga. In nikoli ga ne bom.
Zvečer sem se potiho spraševal,
zakaj me Bombay spominja na New York,
na dotikanje umazanega neba,
na majhnega človeka, ki je izgubil dežnik
in neopazno zapravil življenje.
Malo časa je prešlo in vendar se mi zdi,
da so pretekla že leta, leta drugega življenja.
Kozmična matrica je ugašala skupaj
z mojo predstavo Indije.
Prvič sem za svojo mislijo začutil smrt.
In so se mi tresle noge. In sem pomislil,
da je za vse kriva indijska gromozanskost,
njena nerazdružljivost s kozmosom,
z naravo in človekom,
ki valovi v krogotoku dharme,
izenačen z vsem živim in umrlim.
Obstopil me je čuden mraz,
čeprav je tukaj za nas vedno toplo.
Evropska patetika je tonila
v globino neke indijske noči.
Mesto je odhajalo v sanje.
V daljavi so se prižgale zadnje luči,
v predmestjih so zakurili ognjišča.
Bombayev monolit je zastal.
