Odra: The River Parable

Marilyn Silverstone, lotus head bent over by snow in Srinagar, Kashmir, 1968. Source: magnumphotos.com

Before a river stands a peasant.

Earlier he had the simple objective of traveling to another village. He was a man of plain speech, for him to be “overwhelmed by a river” simply meant drowning, but there he is, standing, stunned, gaping at a river, overwhelmed by some ineffable attribute.

He passed other rivers before, never had he stopped and felt so enthralled by one. “Only booze can make it any better,” he thought, so he camped near the river bank.

That night he drank to excess: he accumulates hubris and greed in his inebriation, and merely observing the river was not enough for him now. So he waded through the river. Then he realizes what he has done when the water slushes his jaw; he has grimed the river, he couldn’t bring but filth to it, he panicked. At first, he thought drowning would be the only resort from the overbearing remorse that awaits him. But that would only defile it more, leaving a decaying bloated corpse for the river to deal with. He floundered helplessly out of the water, and ran as far as he can before trembling and perching in his place.

He slept. And the next morning he couldn’t resist going back to the river, this time making a pact with the gods: “O gods I shall only observe.” But this can only last for a week before he misjudges his capacity to control the urge to drink, and he falls for it again, and he staggers in panic out of the river again. Only this time he tries to cripple himself by jumping off a cliff nearby, and that only added blood to the filth he brought to the river after.

The peasant wondered why the river seemed so inviting, he’s so certain it was only his imagination when he’s sober, looking at all the filth he brought and still bringing. “Only if the river stopped me,” he consoles himself.

Now the peasant keeps wading through the river begging it to rebuff him.

أودرا: زرعة محجوب

Joris Hoefnagel, “Mira Calligraphiae Monumenta”, late 16th century. Source: getty.edu

تشققت حبة فول الآن في غرفة محجوب، كانت داخل علبة حلاوة طحينية بها كُدَاس من قطن مبلول.
يحب محجوب التحديق في البحر يرى البحر يبادله التحديق لائمًا وإن لم يطأه أبدًا. يضبط نفسه أحيانًا متخيلًا أنه توربيد ضربته غواصة، أُطلقٌ في أحد المحيطات ويدور إلى الأبد حول لب الأرض. مازحه أحد أصدقائه مرة سائلًا ولماذا لا تكون طلقة في الهواء، تصحبك الطيور. ابتسم بمرارة وطوّح يده مشيرًا إلى النافذة أو إلى الفراغ الكاذب للهواء ربما. يظن أن أقرب طرقه إلى السكون هي في انغمار أشد وطأة، في الأرض لا في السماء؛ في قبر يحتوي حركته لا على طريق يسحب ظلاله عليه، أو على الأقل فيما بينهما؛ أحيانًا يريد فقط أن يختبر ما بينهما قبل أن يعود خازيًا في الأرض، أن يبحث عن آخر حياة له عليها ربما، أو أن يختبئ مغمورًا إلى الأبد، بلا ناظرين أو رغبة في الظهور. كان يخبرنا إننا أقل حتّى من موتانا، أن نستلقي جميعًا على الشواطيء إلى أن تتحلل ملابسنا ومعها جلودنا؛ أن نختبئ خلف ضجر البحار.

استمر في القراءة

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