ഈ ബ്ലോഗ് തിരയൂ

2015, മേയ് 31, ഞായറാഴ്‌ച

ഒനൊനൊന്നില്ലെന്ന നിണവികിരണം

Inspiration from Peter Carey's essay " LETTER FROM NEWYORK"  He wrote this only day after 9/11 (September Eleven)disaster..?. (Terrorist Attack).Essay included in "THE NEW WORLD READER"  which is collection of essays combile by Gilbort H Muller. Peter Carey won Booker Prize in1988.
Hari OmPranam (salute)to Sree Adhi Sankaraacharyar regarding third stanza.

നിണോന്മത്തനായ കൊതുക്
 നിറവയറും പേറി
ഉടഞ്ഞു ചീറ്റിയപ്പോൾ
സമയവും തകര്ന്നുപോയ്

രാപ്പകൽ ഭേദം ചോദ്യം ചെയ്‌താൽ
പ്രാതസ്സന്ധ്യയും സായംസന്ധ്യയും
യുഗ്മങ്ങളുടെ മന്ത്രോച്ചാരനത്തിൽ
മുഗ്ദമായ പുലരികൾ തന്നെ

 ഒന്ന് എന്ന ഒന്നില്ലെന്നു *
ഒരേസ്വരത്തിലും
രണ്ടല്ലെന്നു രണ്ടുപക്ഷത്തിലും
ഒന്നിനൊനനോണം ഒന്നുമില്ലെന്നും
എല്ലാം ഒന്നുതന്നെയെന്നും
സ്വരുക്കൂട്ടിയ വിചാരങ്ങൽ

പരാദാപരാധം
രക്തസാക്ഷ്യപ്പെടുത്തിയ പോലെ ,
പരാദമേ ....
ആറ്റം പിളർന്നതേക്കാൾ ഭയാനകം
നിന്റെ രക്തപിളർപ്പ്
ചോരയൂറ്റുൻപോൾ
ഏതു പനി കുത്തിവെക്കാൻ മറന്നില്ല ...?

രക്തം രണ്ടായ് പിരിഞ്ഞു പടിയിറങ്ങുന്നു
രകതമായും ബന്ധമായും ,
വികിരണമായ് വീണ്ടും
രക്തമായും രക്തമായും .


9/11 September 11-2001 LETTER FROM NEW YORK by Peter Carey

September 11, 2015 at 10:49am

 9/11 September 11-2001
PETER CAREY Wrote this piecein the form ofan open leter to his friend Robert McCrum, the literary editor of the BritishObserver, only days after the 9/11 disaster.Peter Carey have won the Booker Prize twice.Carey has won the Miles Franklin Award threetimes and is frequently named as Australia's next contender for the Nobel Prize in Literature.[3]
LETTER FROM NEW YORK
September 23 2001 Dear Robert
The last week is agreat blur withnodivision between night and day.Time isbroken.The events of the first daybleed intothe next and all the powerful emotions and disturbing sights are nowso hard to put in the proper sequence.
I was sitting here in this office which youknow so well,looking out over that little garden. I heard a passendger jet flyover ,very large, very low.I did feel momentarily alarmed.Air disaster crossedmy mind, but only for amoment.It was probably 10 minutes before I went out tothe street,and then only to buy a can of food for the starving cat.I wanderedup to the corner deli.As Ientered, a young Asian American woman smiled at me,as NewYorkers will when something weired is happening.I was puzzled.I wonderedif she was a student Ihad forgotten.
I got the cat food,and suddenly realisedthat the deli radio was playing very loud.What is it?I asked the girl,She said: aplane has crashed into the Word Trade Centre.Of course it was a terroristattack.I never doubted it..Crows were now gathering around the loudspeaker inthe little doorway.They spilled into the street and looked down to theWTC.Smoke was already pouring from the upper floors.
In retrospect it seems an innocent andoptimistic moment.We had no idea how huge this disaster was.I knew my wife wasin that building,not because she had told me,or told the kids where she wasgoing,but because all three of us males knew that this was her favourite timeto pick up discount clothes at Century21, just across the street from the northtower.You go through the 1& 9 subway in the Trade Centre concourse to getthere.Of course you know Century 21 from TV-that blackened broken jigsaw ofdisaster that has not yet fallen down.
I wanted to wait by the phone forAlison.But I wanted to be in the street. I wanted to see my wife coming downfrom 6th Avenue,carrying those big plastic shoping bags filled withchildren’s clothes. On the landing of our building I found my neighbour,Stu,crying.He had seen the plane crash into the building.So many friends werelooking at the World Trade Centre at this moment.They now have this nightmarebranded into the issue of their cerebral cortex.
My friend Caz was jogging down the west side highway and witnessed it.Pureevil.Rocky was working on a roof on 11 the street.He ducked as the 757 flewover his head, then stood to see hell arrive just down the road.Now he can notsleep..now one of us can sleep.rocky thrashes and moans all night long.Charleyour 11 –year-old cannot sleep.He didn’t see the plane but he was at schoolat Brooklyn Heights and his friendslooked out the window and saw what they should never have seen and then theManhatan kids all went through the difficulty, the uncertainty, ofevacuation.Manhattan was burning.The bridges were closed.They didi not knowwhere their parents were.Now Charley faces the morningsexhausted,tearful,leaving a soggy bowl of half-eaten cereal on the table.
Our street drew us all outside.Ourcommunity was far more important than the television.We huddled together, onour landings, in the Laundromat, at the corner deli.
From my doorway I saw Mary Ann from across the street.She was walking up anddown with her baby in her arms,You could see, from the way she kissed her babyin her arms.You could see, from the way she kissed her bab’s head, that shefeared her husband dead.Feeling her agony, we looked up towards 6thAvenue where the fire engines were already appearing in huge numbers.They drovethe wrong way down the avenue,soon followed by black4WDs with lights clamped ontheir roofs.
MaryAnn’s husband entered the street.We wereso happy to see him alive. ”Lloyd,Lloyd.” We called to him but he didi not evenhear us.He was a man who had seen something evry bad. Now we started to hearabout the attack on the second building, then the Pentagon.I ran back and forthbetween the silent phone and the street, like a madman on a leash.I could notbe anywhere.I could not miss the phone.Could not be away from my neighbours.
Finally; A CALL.It was our friend Beaphoning from her apartment on lower Broadway, jus near City Hall. She had heardfrom my wife.Alison had buzzed from the street just as the second plane hit theSouth Tower, almost next door.Bea was going to try to find my wife, but thestreet below was chaos, billowing malignant smoke, stretching to engulf whoeverfell or stumbled.Bea said she would try to make her way to our house, a 15minute walk, just north of Houston.
So I now knew that Alison had escaped the first building, but was she safe? Howcold I know? I placed like Mary Ann had paced but outside the street wascrowded.Pedestrians were fleeing from downtown. You could recognise thesepeople straight away, the stark, seared horror in their eyes, the blankness,but also sometimes the frank appeals for human contact. They now begin tostream along Bedford Street in ever increasing numbers.Thease people have felthorror, they are like no other crowed I have ever seen.
Among them, finally, comes my wife,remarkable for the lack of trauma her face reveals. It takes a little while forme to understand she was in the building when it hit.Only when I read her ownaccount do I appreciate the extraordinary escape she has made, how lucky we areto have her alive.

We have two sons at different schools inBrooklyn and today we are both very happy they are there. She’s safe.But his daughter wants to come home and he is herfather and he sets off into the chaos of midtown traffic.
Although we believe that our kids are safein Brooklyn, they are, just the same, suffering their own traumas in theirseparate schools, knowing their mother is probably in the building, seeingweeping friends whose parents had office in the WTC..Some of these stories willhave happy resolutions, but not all..
Our neighbourhood is now cordoned offfrom the city. You needed ID to getbeneath Houston, to get back from above 14th Street.John succeede inhis insane trip across the 59th Bridge and up the Brooklyn Queens Expressway to Brooklyn Heights.He gothis daughter,Leah,back home on a train that the news said was not running.Beasad Jhon and Leah would not be able to return to her apartments for days.Wecooked them pasta and made them beds and in the evenings that would followlistened to Bea as she arrived home after a traumatic day of grief counsellingat Bellevue-it was she who talked to all those people looking forhusbands,wives,children,lovers.
Late that night we discoverd the F trainwas running.Charley came back to Manhattan with his best friend Mathew.I walkedhim home.He said the empty streets ”creeped him out”
Our Brooklyn friend Betsy was caught inManhattan with her beat-up car and her cat and she too headed out on the 59thStreet Bridge just as John had, but now the expressway was closed down and soshe started a low meandering journey through the side streets of Queens andBrooklyn ubtil she found herself-ah,Bonefire of the Vanities- a white Jew alonein the tough black area of East New York.””They were so sweet to me,” shesaid.”Thease young men guided me to safety, getting this little white girl backto her own people.”
Now our neighbourhood has become a commandcentre. That evening we are standing on the corner of Houston and 6thAvenue watching the huge earth-moving equipment and heavy trucks rolling,bumper to bumper, in a never-ending parade towards the devastation.Here is theendless might and walth of America.Here are the drivers,like soldiers,heroes.These are not military vehicles but huge trucks from small companies inConnecticut and New Jersey,from Bergen and Hackensack.Seeing alltheseindividuals rise to the crisis, with their American flags stuck out of windowsand taped to radio aerials, I am reminded ofDunkirk. I am moved. We are allmoved.The crowds come out to cheer them. I do too, without reserve.
This is the same corner where we will soonbe lighting candles for the dead and missing, where 11-year-old Charley and Iwill stand for silent minutes watching those photographs, of lost firefighters,wives, mothers, father, sons.It’s hard not to cry.We watch the tender way ourneighbours lay flowers and arrange the candls. We do not know all these peoplein the pictures, but we do know our firefighters. We shop with them. We wait inline at the supermarket while they buy Italian sausage and pasta for theirdinner.
Pleasant, hoarse-voiced Jerry from thelaundromat is there on the corner.He is always on the street, but tonight hewears a stars and stripes bandanna and he cannot be still. He has threegrown-up sons downtown right now, working in that perilous pile of deadlypick-up sticks.Jerry and I embrace, because what else is there to do? When oneof his sons almost loses his hand, it is miraculously sewn on by microsurgery.I am praying, says Jerry, there is just a lot of praying to do.
Everywhere people are touched by death.Ourfriend David across the road has lost his best friend, the father of a newbaby.Silvano the restaurateur has lost a fireman friend, and Charley and I aredismayed to see the huge piles of flowers outside that tiny station on West 3rdStreet. The station was always so small, it looked like a museum.But now westand, Charley and I, and we close our eyes and say a prayer, although I don’tknow who I am praying to.There is no God for me.
Alison needs to say home.She nests, tidies,spends several hours on small domestic tasks. Then, finally, she begins towrite a powerful piece about her escape.She works all day, all night, shecannot stop.As for me, I have to be outside, among the peope.It is all thatgives me any peace. I WANT TO STAND IN THE DELI BY THE RADIO.Thee I can be withmy neighbours.We touch,embrace, cry,are half wild with anger.Emotions are closeto the surface.
One night 15-years-old San says he wants towalk around the city.He wants to see Union Square where is the biggest massingof candles and memorials. We walk along Houston Street which is now a warzone.Huge trucks from the New York Housing Authority stand in readiness toremove the rubble.We head east and then north.He is taller than me now, andlikes to put his arm paternally around my shoulder.As we walk he says to me,apropos of nothing: “I love this city.”
We walk to Union Square and I am proud ofthe complex, multifaceted way Sam is taking about these events. He is concernedthat local Muslims may be victimised because of our anger, cautious aboutretaliatory bombing, mad too, like I am. We stand among the extraordinary shrine at Union Square wherenuke-crazed groups stand next to pacifists, all united by their grief.Thesearing, murderous heat of that explosion has brought us all together.
We see so many people whom we know.Thesweet-faced man from our post office,whose continually lowered eyes have alwaysgiven him a rather bemused and almost beatific expression,comes out of the darkto embrace me.
I am more vindictive than my son.I want tostrike back,pulverise,kill,obliterate anyone who has caused this harm to mycity.I have become like the dangerous American the world has most reason tofear.This phase passes quickly enough.It has passed now.But on those first daysand nights, I was overcome with murderous rage.
We are all changed by what has happend.Someof the changes have been totally unexpected.Once, a year or so ago,I heard myson saying: “When we bombed Iraq.”
“No,” I said,”when they bombed Iraq.”
“No,” he said, “we.”
It put a chill in me.i was very happy forhim to be a New Yorker, but I wasn,t sure I wished him to be American.
But on the second day after the attack onthe WTC, the day Sam turned 15, I bought him a large white T-shirt for, but heput this one on immediately, and then we went out together again, out among thepeople, giving ourselves some strange and ather beautiful comfort in the middleof all the horror that had fallen on our lives.
‘’ I love this city,Dad. I love it morethan ever.” I did not disagree with him.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
PETER CAREY
Born in VictoriamAusralia,in 1943 PeterCarey attended Monash University briefly before working part-time in a advertising and starting a literarycareer,first as a sshort story writer and then as a novelist.His second collectionof short fiction,War crimes(1979),received numerous prizesmincluding Australia’sNational Book Council Award.In1988,he wonEngland’s most prestigious literaraward,The Booker Prize, for his novel OSCAR AND LUCINDA;the novel was adaptedas a film starring Cate Blanchett and Ralph Fiennes.Carey has written a numberof other award winning novels, including the acclaimed historical novel TRUEHISTORY OF THE KELLY GANG(2000).In his fiction Carey is a dazzling stylist andinventive formalist, often producing quirky and bizarre narratives in whicheccentric characters cope with the mysteries ofexistence.Carey now lives in NewYork City with his wife,Alison Summers.eho is mentione in the followingarticle.He wrote this piece in the form of anopen letter to his friend RobertMcCrum,literary editor of the British Observer,only days after the 9/11disaster.



2015, മേയ് 31, ഞായറാഴ്‌ച

ഒനൊനൊന്നില്ലെന്ന നിണവികിരണം


നിണോന്മത്തനായ കൊതുക്
 നിറവയറും പേറി
ഉടഞ്ഞു ചീറ്റിയപ്പോൾ
സമയവും തകര്ന്നുപോയ്

രാപ്പകൽ ഭേദം ചോദ്യം ചെയ്‌താൽ
പ്രാതസ്സന്ധ്യയും സായംസന്ധ്യയും
യുഗ്മങ്ങളുടെ മന്ത്രോച്ചാരനത്തിൽ
മുഗ്ദമായ പുലരികൾ തന്നെ

 'ഒന്ന്' എന്ന ഒന്നില്ലെന്നു *
ഒരേസ്വരത്തിലും
രണ്ടല്ലെന്നു രണ്ടുപക്ഷത്തിലും
ഒന്നിനൊനനോണം ഒന്നുമില്ലെന്നും
എല്ലാം ഒന്നുതന്നെയെന്നും
സ്വരുക്കൂട്ടിയ വിചാരങ്ങൽ

പരാദാപരാധം
രക്തസാക്ഷ്യപ്പെടുത്തിയ പോലെ ,
പരാദമേ ....
ആറ്റം പിളർന്നതേക്കാൾ ഭയാനകം
നിന്റെ രക്തപിളർപ്പ്
ചോരയൂറ്റുൻപോൾ
ഏതു പനി കുത്തിവെക്കാൻ മറന്നില്ല ...?

രക്തം രണ്ടായ് പിരിഞ്ഞു പടിയിറങ്ങുന്നു
രകതമായും ബന്ധമായും ,
വികിരണമായ് വീണ്ടും
രക്തമായും രക്തമായും .












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