Per Tess - Raymond Carver
Giù nello Stretto le onde schiumano come dicono qui. Il mare è mosso e meno male che non sono uscito. Sono contento d'aver pescato tutto il giorno a Morse Creek, trascinando avanti e indietro un Daredevil rosso. Non ho preso niente.Neanche un morso. Ma mi sta bene così. È stato bello!Avevo con me il temperino di tuo padre e sono stato seguito per un po' da una cagnetta che i padroni chiamavano Dixie.A volte mi sentivo così felice che dovevo smetteredi pescare. A un certo punto mi sono sdraiato sulla sponda e ho chiuso gli occhi per ascoltare il rumore che faceva l'acqua e il vento che fischiava sulla cima degli alberi, lo stesso vento che soffia giù nello Stretto, eppure è diverso.Per un po' mi son concesso il lusso di immaginare che ero morto e mi stava bene anche quello, almeno per un paio di minuti, finché non me ne sono ben reso conto: Morto.Mentre me ne stavo lí sdraiato a occhi chiusi,dopo essermi immaginato come sarebbe stato se non mi fossi davvero potuto rialzare, ho pensato a te.Ho aperto gli occhi e mi sono alzato subito e son ritornato a esser contento.È che te ne sono grato, capisci. E te lo volevo dire.
For Tess (Raymond Carver)
Out on the Strait the water is whitecapping as they say here. It's rough, and I'm glad I'm not out. Glad I fished all dayon Morse Creek, casting a red Daredevil back and forth. I didn’t catch anything. No bites even, not one. But it was okay. It was fine!I carried your dad's pocket knife and was followedfor a while by a dog its owner called Dixie.At times I felt so happy I had to quit fishing. Once I lay on the bank with my eyes closed,listening to the sound the water made,and to the wind in the tops of the trees. The same windthat blows on the Strait, but a different wind, too.For a while I even let myself imagine I had died--and that was all right, at least for a couple of minutes, until it really sank in: Dead.As I was lying there with my eyes closed,just after I'd imagined what it might be likeif in fact I never got up again, I thought of you.I opened my eyes then and got right up and went back to being happy again.I'm grateful to you, you see. I wanted to tell you.
martedì 28 aprile 2009
lunedì 27 aprile 2009
Gianrico Carofiglio "Il passato è una terra straniera"
“I giochi di prestigio-o il barare delle carte-sono una metafora della realtà quotidiana, dei rapporti fra le persone. C’è qualcuno che dice delle cose e contemporaneamente agisce. Quello che succede davvero è nascosto tra le pieghe delle parole e soprattutto dei gesti. Ed è diverso da quello che appare. Solo che l’attore ne è consapevole e controlla il processo. La sostanza delle cose, la loro verità è quasi sempre diversa da quello che viene percepito. Le cose accadono realmente in posti e momenti diversi da quelli che crediamo, guardiamo o percepiamo.
Le intenzioni vere sono diverse da quelle dichiarate. Per esempio : prova a indagare sulle vere spinte che inducono le persone a fare le cosiddette buone azioni. Quello che scoprirai non ti piacerà. La verità è difficile da sopportare, ed è per pochi”.
Le intenzioni vere sono diverse da quelle dichiarate. Per esempio : prova a indagare sulle vere spinte che inducono le persone a fare le cosiddette buone azioni. Quello che scoprirai non ti piacerà. La verità è difficile da sopportare, ed è per pochi”.
Johan Galtung-Daisaku Ikeda "Scegliere Pace"
"il messaggio più semplice e supremo è l'amore.dobbiamo scoprire e incoraggiare la positività nei bambini.gli errori dovrebbero essere individuati ma non sottolineati eccessivamente.le ricompense dovrebbero avere precedenza sulle punizioni.dobbiamo amare non per essere amati ma per permettere ai bambini di sentirsi amati e di amare i loro propri figli quando arriverà il momento.in questo modo possiamo creare fili d'amore da tessere in reti che si dipanino attraverso la storia. forse questo è il modo per contrastare l'orribile brutalità-solitamente perpetrata dai maschi-nascosta dietro molti matrimoni di oggi. Forse la famiglia in generale e il matrimonio in particolare sono esami attraverso i quali dobbiamo passare per contribuire alla pace in una visione più larga della società mondiale".
giovedì 23 aprile 2009
Maximum City by Mehta Suketu - Bombay
‘ADJUST’
Bombay is a fast-paced, even hectic city, but it is not, in the end, a competitive city.
Anyone who has a ‘reservation’ on an Indian train is familiar with this word: adjust. You might be sitting there on your seat, the prescribed three people along it, and a fourth and a fifth person will loom over you and say, ‘Psst. Adjust.’ You move over. You adjust.
It is a crowded city, used to living with crowds. In our building in Manhattan, people found it strange when Sunita’s parents came to live with us for six months in our one-bedroom apartment. Our landlady withheld part of our security deposit for ‘excess wear and tear’ caused by the presence of two more adults. Nobody in Bombay asked us how many people were going to live with us in our apartment; it was taken for granted that we would have relatives, friends, and friends of friends coming to stay with us, and how we would put them up was our problem.
A recent magazine advertisement for an Ambassador car, the sturdy workhorse of the Indian roads, illustrates what I mean. The car, an unadorned version of a 1950’s Morris Oxford, is trundling along a rain-drenched street. The ad copy doesn’t devote the usual lascivious attention to leather seat covers, digital dashboards, electronic fuel injection, or the trim lines of the car’s design. The Ambassador is actively ugly but ugly in the way elephants are, with a jaunty visor and a wide grin. Instead, there is a snatch of dialogue from within the car. Three people can be seen together on the front bench seat. A man crosses in front of the ungainly pachyderm, holding a briefcase over his head to ward off the downpour.
‘Arrey…isn’t that Joshi?’
‘Yes. Let’s take him also.’
‘But we are so many.’
‘Have a heart, we can always adjust.’
Car ads in most countries usually focus on the luxurious cocoon that awaits you, the driver, once you step inside. At most, there might be space for the attractive woman you’ll pick up once you’re spotted driving the flash set of wheels. The Ambassador ad isn’t really touting the virtues of space. It’s not saying, like a station wagon ad, that it has lots of spare room. It’s saying that the kind of people likely to drive an Ambassador will always make more room. It is really advocating a reduction of personal physical space and an expansion of the collective space. In a crowded city, the citizens of Bombay have no option but to adjust.
I am on the Virar fast train during the evening rush hour, possibly the most crowded of the locals. I am clutching the strip at the top of the open door with both hands, my only other connection the front half of my feet. Most of my body is hanging substantially ouside the speeding train. There is a crush of passengers. I am afraid I may be pushed out by their pressure, but I am reassured. ‘Don’t worry, if they push you out they also pull you in.’
Someone says, ‘This is a cattle shed.’
Girish once drew for me on a piece of paper a diagram of the dance, the choreography of the commuter trains. The Bombay Central contingent stands in the centre of the train from Borivali to Churchgate. The people around them move clockwise around the BC contingent like this: first are the Jogeshwari batch, then Bandra, then Dadar. If you are new to the Bombay trains, when you get on and are planning to get off at, let’s say, Dadar, you must ask, ‘Dadar? Dadar?’ And you will be directed to the precise spot where you must stand to be able to disembark successfully at your station. The platforms are on different sides of the train. There are no doors, just two enormous openings on either side of the compartment. So when the station arrives, you must be in a position to spring off, well before the train has come to a complete stop, because if you wait until it’s stopped, you will be swept back inside by the people rushing in. In the mornings, by the time the train gets to Borivali, the first stop, it’s always chockful. ‘To get a seat?’ I ask. Girish looks at me, wondering if I’m stupid. ‘No. To get in.’ This is because the train in from Dadar has started filling up from Malad, two stops ahead, with people willing to loop back.
It doesn’t help to travel in first class, which is only marginally less crowded during rush hours. Girish’s brother Dharmendra has a first-class season pass. But when the train is really crowded, he’ll go for the second-class coaches. ‘In second class they are more flexible. First class, you’ll have some Nepean Sea Road type. He won’t move, he’ll stand where he is.’
I mention to Girish a statistic I’d read, about the ‘super-dense crush load’ of the trains being ten people per square metre. He stretches out his arm, says,’One metre,’ and makes a calculation. ‘More,’ he says. ‘More. In peak time, if I lower my arm like this, I won’t be able to raise it.’ Many movements in the train are involuntary. You just get carried along; if you’re light, you might not even have to move your legs. In 1990, according to the government, the number of passengers carried in a nine-car train during the rush-hour in Bombay was 3,408. By the end of the century, it had gone up to 4,500. According to a letter to The Times of India by G.D. Patwardhan:
This is a mockery of our statutes, which lay down the precise number of live animals – cows, buffaloes, goats, donkeys, and so forth – that can be carried in a wagon of specified dimensions. Any breach of such rules is an offence punishable under the railways’ own disciplinary action procedures and also under the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals legislation. But no such rules and legislation govern the transport of human beings.
When I ask people how they can bear to travel in such conditions, they shrug. You get ‘habituated’. You get ‘used to it’.
The commuters travel in groups. Girish travels with a group of some fifteen people who take the same train from stations farther down the line. When he gets on, they make space on their laps for him and have a pot-luck breakfast together; each of them brings some delicacy from home – the Gujaratis batatapauua, the Telugus upma, the Bhaiyyas alu-poori – and they unwrap their contribution in the cramped space of the compartment. They pass the hour agreeably, telling jokes, playing cards or singing, sometimes with castanets on their fingers. Girish knows where the best singers are on each train. There is a group on the 8:15 that sings nationalistic and anti-Muslim songs very well. There are others who specialise in bhajans, and in call-and-response chanting. Thus the journey is made bearable for those who get a seat, and diverting for those standing. When Girish worked for Kamal right there in Mira Road, he continued taking the train to Bombay Central once a week, just for the pleasure of breakfast with his train group.
The trains are a hive of industry. Women sell underwear in the ladies’ compartment, huge abdomen-high knickers that are passed around and inspected, the money passed back through many hands for those bought. Women chop vegetables for the family dinner they are going to cook immediately on reaching home. The ads on the Bombay locals are the same as the ads in the New York subway, dealing with indescribably private subjects: haemorrhoids, impotence, foot odour. In this safely anonymous mass, these ads can be perused; there is comfort in knowing that these afflictions of the body are universal, shared by the flesh pressing all around. They too need these pills and potions, this minor surgery.
The western branch of the train terminates in beauty, the eastern branch in horror. On the Churchgate train, past Charni Road station as it sees the sea, past the gymkhanas – Islam, Catholic, Hindu, Parsi – as the shacks fade away, Bombay becomes a different city, an earlier city, a beautiful city. All of a sudden there is the blue sky and the clear water of Marine Drive, and everybody looks towards the bay and starts breathing.
The eastern branch, the Harbour Lie, towards its end passes slowly through people’s bedrooms: in stretches the shacks of the poor are less than a metre away from the tracks. They can roll out of bed and into the path of the train. Their little children come out and go wandering over the tracks. Trains kill more than 1,000 slum dwellers a year. Others, who are on the train, are killed by electricity poles placed too close to the tracks as they hang on the the train from the outside of the windows. One such pole kills about ten commuters a month as the train comes rushing around a curve. One of Girish’s friends on the 9:05 from Jogeshwari was killed when he was hanging from the window and a pole loomed up, too close, too fast. Just the previous year another of that group, playing the daredevil by riding on top of the moving train, was hit by an arch and survived. Girish muses on the injustice of the two accidents. The showoff survived and the shy window hanger, to whom Girish had only minutes before offered a place inside the train, died.
Paresh Nathvani, a kite dealer from Kandivili, performs a singular social service: he provides free shrouds for those killed in train accidents. About a decade ago, the kite merchant saw a man run over by a train at Grant Road. The railway workers tore down an advertising banner to cover the body. ‘Every religion dictates that the dead be covered with a piece of fresh white cloth,’ he realised. So every Thursday, Nathvani visits four railway stations and supplies them with fresh shrouds, two metres each. The biggest station, Andheri, gets ten shrouds a week. The stationsmaster initials a ledger that Nathvani maintains and stamps it with his seal. He runs through 650 metres of cloth a year. But it’s not enough; it’s a long way from enough. The trains of Bombay kill 4,000 people yearly.
The manager of Bombay’s suburban railway system was recently asked when the system would improve to a point where it could carry its six million daily passengers in comfort. ‘Not in my lifetime,’ he answered. Certainly, if you commute into Bombay, you are made aware of the precise temperature of the human body as it curls around you on all sides, adjusting itself to every curve of your own. A lover’s embrace was never so close.
Asad bin Saif works in an institute for secularism, moving tirelessly among the slums, cataloguing numberless communal flare-ups and riots, seeing first hand the slow destruction of the social fabric of the city. Asad is from Bhagalpur, in Bihar, site not only of some of the worst communal rioting in the nation but also of a gory incident where the police blinded a group of petty criminals with knitting needles and acid. Asad, of all people, has seen humanity at its worst. I asked him if he feels pessimistic about the human race.
‘Not at all,‘ he responded. ‘Look at the hands from the trains.’
If you are late for work in the morning in Bombay, and you reach the station just as the train is leaving the platform, you can run up to the packed compartments and find many hands stretching out to grab you on board, unfolding outwards from the train like petals. As you run alongside the train, you will be picked up and some tiny space will be made for your feet on the edge of the open doorway. The rest is up to you. You will probably have to hang on to the doorframe with your fingertips, being careful not to lean out too far lest you get decapitated by a pole placed too close to the tracks. But consider what has happened. Your fellow passengers, already packed tighter than cattle are legally allowed to be, their shirts already drenched in sweat in the badly ventilated compartment, having stood like this for hours, retain an empathy for you, know that your boss might yell at you or cut your pay if you miss this train, and will make space where none exists to take one more person with them. And at the moment of contact, they do not know if the hand that is reaching for theirs belongs to a Hindu or Muslim or Christian or Brahmin or untouchable or whether you were born in this city or arrived only this morning, or whether you live in Malaba Hill or New York or Jogeshwari; whether you’re from Bombay or Mumbai or New York. All they know is that you’re trying to get to the city of gold, and that’s enough. Come on board, they say. We’ll adjust.
Bombay is a fast-paced, even hectic city, but it is not, in the end, a competitive city.
Anyone who has a ‘reservation’ on an Indian train is familiar with this word: adjust. You might be sitting there on your seat, the prescribed three people along it, and a fourth and a fifth person will loom over you and say, ‘Psst. Adjust.’ You move over. You adjust.
It is a crowded city, used to living with crowds. In our building in Manhattan, people found it strange when Sunita’s parents came to live with us for six months in our one-bedroom apartment. Our landlady withheld part of our security deposit for ‘excess wear and tear’ caused by the presence of two more adults. Nobody in Bombay asked us how many people were going to live with us in our apartment; it was taken for granted that we would have relatives, friends, and friends of friends coming to stay with us, and how we would put them up was our problem.
A recent magazine advertisement for an Ambassador car, the sturdy workhorse of the Indian roads, illustrates what I mean. The car, an unadorned version of a 1950’s Morris Oxford, is trundling along a rain-drenched street. The ad copy doesn’t devote the usual lascivious attention to leather seat covers, digital dashboards, electronic fuel injection, or the trim lines of the car’s design. The Ambassador is actively ugly but ugly in the way elephants are, with a jaunty visor and a wide grin. Instead, there is a snatch of dialogue from within the car. Three people can be seen together on the front bench seat. A man crosses in front of the ungainly pachyderm, holding a briefcase over his head to ward off the downpour.
‘Arrey…isn’t that Joshi?’
‘Yes. Let’s take him also.’
‘But we are so many.’
‘Have a heart, we can always adjust.’
Car ads in most countries usually focus on the luxurious cocoon that awaits you, the driver, once you step inside. At most, there might be space for the attractive woman you’ll pick up once you’re spotted driving the flash set of wheels. The Ambassador ad isn’t really touting the virtues of space. It’s not saying, like a station wagon ad, that it has lots of spare room. It’s saying that the kind of people likely to drive an Ambassador will always make more room. It is really advocating a reduction of personal physical space and an expansion of the collective space. In a crowded city, the citizens of Bombay have no option but to adjust.
I am on the Virar fast train during the evening rush hour, possibly the most crowded of the locals. I am clutching the strip at the top of the open door with both hands, my only other connection the front half of my feet. Most of my body is hanging substantially ouside the speeding train. There is a crush of passengers. I am afraid I may be pushed out by their pressure, but I am reassured. ‘Don’t worry, if they push you out they also pull you in.’
Someone says, ‘This is a cattle shed.’
Girish once drew for me on a piece of paper a diagram of the dance, the choreography of the commuter trains. The Bombay Central contingent stands in the centre of the train from Borivali to Churchgate. The people around them move clockwise around the BC contingent like this: first are the Jogeshwari batch, then Bandra, then Dadar. If you are new to the Bombay trains, when you get on and are planning to get off at, let’s say, Dadar, you must ask, ‘Dadar? Dadar?’ And you will be directed to the precise spot where you must stand to be able to disembark successfully at your station. The platforms are on different sides of the train. There are no doors, just two enormous openings on either side of the compartment. So when the station arrives, you must be in a position to spring off, well before the train has come to a complete stop, because if you wait until it’s stopped, you will be swept back inside by the people rushing in. In the mornings, by the time the train gets to Borivali, the first stop, it’s always chockful. ‘To get a seat?’ I ask. Girish looks at me, wondering if I’m stupid. ‘No. To get in.’ This is because the train in from Dadar has started filling up from Malad, two stops ahead, with people willing to loop back.
It doesn’t help to travel in first class, which is only marginally less crowded during rush hours. Girish’s brother Dharmendra has a first-class season pass. But when the train is really crowded, he’ll go for the second-class coaches. ‘In second class they are more flexible. First class, you’ll have some Nepean Sea Road type. He won’t move, he’ll stand where he is.’
I mention to Girish a statistic I’d read, about the ‘super-dense crush load’ of the trains being ten people per square metre. He stretches out his arm, says,’One metre,’ and makes a calculation. ‘More,’ he says. ‘More. In peak time, if I lower my arm like this, I won’t be able to raise it.’ Many movements in the train are involuntary. You just get carried along; if you’re light, you might not even have to move your legs. In 1990, according to the government, the number of passengers carried in a nine-car train during the rush-hour in Bombay was 3,408. By the end of the century, it had gone up to 4,500. According to a letter to The Times of India by G.D. Patwardhan:
This is a mockery of our statutes, which lay down the precise number of live animals – cows, buffaloes, goats, donkeys, and so forth – that can be carried in a wagon of specified dimensions. Any breach of such rules is an offence punishable under the railways’ own disciplinary action procedures and also under the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals legislation. But no such rules and legislation govern the transport of human beings.
When I ask people how they can bear to travel in such conditions, they shrug. You get ‘habituated’. You get ‘used to it’.
The commuters travel in groups. Girish travels with a group of some fifteen people who take the same train from stations farther down the line. When he gets on, they make space on their laps for him and have a pot-luck breakfast together; each of them brings some delicacy from home – the Gujaratis batatapauua, the Telugus upma, the Bhaiyyas alu-poori – and they unwrap their contribution in the cramped space of the compartment. They pass the hour agreeably, telling jokes, playing cards or singing, sometimes with castanets on their fingers. Girish knows where the best singers are on each train. There is a group on the 8:15 that sings nationalistic and anti-Muslim songs very well. There are others who specialise in bhajans, and in call-and-response chanting. Thus the journey is made bearable for those who get a seat, and diverting for those standing. When Girish worked for Kamal right there in Mira Road, he continued taking the train to Bombay Central once a week, just for the pleasure of breakfast with his train group.
The trains are a hive of industry. Women sell underwear in the ladies’ compartment, huge abdomen-high knickers that are passed around and inspected, the money passed back through many hands for those bought. Women chop vegetables for the family dinner they are going to cook immediately on reaching home. The ads on the Bombay locals are the same as the ads in the New York subway, dealing with indescribably private subjects: haemorrhoids, impotence, foot odour. In this safely anonymous mass, these ads can be perused; there is comfort in knowing that these afflictions of the body are universal, shared by the flesh pressing all around. They too need these pills and potions, this minor surgery.
The western branch of the train terminates in beauty, the eastern branch in horror. On the Churchgate train, past Charni Road station as it sees the sea, past the gymkhanas – Islam, Catholic, Hindu, Parsi – as the shacks fade away, Bombay becomes a different city, an earlier city, a beautiful city. All of a sudden there is the blue sky and the clear water of Marine Drive, and everybody looks towards the bay and starts breathing.
The eastern branch, the Harbour Lie, towards its end passes slowly through people’s bedrooms: in stretches the shacks of the poor are less than a metre away from the tracks. They can roll out of bed and into the path of the train. Their little children come out and go wandering over the tracks. Trains kill more than 1,000 slum dwellers a year. Others, who are on the train, are killed by electricity poles placed too close to the tracks as they hang on the the train from the outside of the windows. One such pole kills about ten commuters a month as the train comes rushing around a curve. One of Girish’s friends on the 9:05 from Jogeshwari was killed when he was hanging from the window and a pole loomed up, too close, too fast. Just the previous year another of that group, playing the daredevil by riding on top of the moving train, was hit by an arch and survived. Girish muses on the injustice of the two accidents. The showoff survived and the shy window hanger, to whom Girish had only minutes before offered a place inside the train, died.
Paresh Nathvani, a kite dealer from Kandivili, performs a singular social service: he provides free shrouds for those killed in train accidents. About a decade ago, the kite merchant saw a man run over by a train at Grant Road. The railway workers tore down an advertising banner to cover the body. ‘Every religion dictates that the dead be covered with a piece of fresh white cloth,’ he realised. So every Thursday, Nathvani visits four railway stations and supplies them with fresh shrouds, two metres each. The biggest station, Andheri, gets ten shrouds a week. The stationsmaster initials a ledger that Nathvani maintains and stamps it with his seal. He runs through 650 metres of cloth a year. But it’s not enough; it’s a long way from enough. The trains of Bombay kill 4,000 people yearly.
The manager of Bombay’s suburban railway system was recently asked when the system would improve to a point where it could carry its six million daily passengers in comfort. ‘Not in my lifetime,’ he answered. Certainly, if you commute into Bombay, you are made aware of the precise temperature of the human body as it curls around you on all sides, adjusting itself to every curve of your own. A lover’s embrace was never so close.
Asad bin Saif works in an institute for secularism, moving tirelessly among the slums, cataloguing numberless communal flare-ups and riots, seeing first hand the slow destruction of the social fabric of the city. Asad is from Bhagalpur, in Bihar, site not only of some of the worst communal rioting in the nation but also of a gory incident where the police blinded a group of petty criminals with knitting needles and acid. Asad, of all people, has seen humanity at its worst. I asked him if he feels pessimistic about the human race.
‘Not at all,‘ he responded. ‘Look at the hands from the trains.’
If you are late for work in the morning in Bombay, and you reach the station just as the train is leaving the platform, you can run up to the packed compartments and find many hands stretching out to grab you on board, unfolding outwards from the train like petals. As you run alongside the train, you will be picked up and some tiny space will be made for your feet on the edge of the open doorway. The rest is up to you. You will probably have to hang on to the doorframe with your fingertips, being careful not to lean out too far lest you get decapitated by a pole placed too close to the tracks. But consider what has happened. Your fellow passengers, already packed tighter than cattle are legally allowed to be, their shirts already drenched in sweat in the badly ventilated compartment, having stood like this for hours, retain an empathy for you, know that your boss might yell at you or cut your pay if you miss this train, and will make space where none exists to take one more person with them. And at the moment of contact, they do not know if the hand that is reaching for theirs belongs to a Hindu or Muslim or Christian or Brahmin or untouchable or whether you were born in this city or arrived only this morning, or whether you live in Malaba Hill or New York or Jogeshwari; whether you’re from Bombay or Mumbai or New York. All they know is that you’re trying to get to the city of gold, and that’s enough. Come on board, they say. We’ll adjust.
domenica 19 aprile 2009
martedì 14 aprile 2009
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