இலக்கிய எழுத்தாளர் ’கேளிக்கை சினிமா’ நடிகர் என இரண்டு பேர் ஒரு விழாவில் இரண்டு கதைகளைச் சொல்கிறார்கள். இரண்டுமே அவர்கள் படித்த (அல்லது கேள்விப்பட்ட) கதைகள் எனும்போது நம் எதிர்பார்ப்பு என்னவாக இருக்கும்?
படித்ததைப் படித்தபடி அல்லது தான் படித்ததை இன்னமும் மெருகேற்றி உண்மைக்கு அருகில் நின்று சொல்பவராய் யார் இருப்பார்கள் அல்லது இருக்கவேண்டும் என்று எதிர்பார்ப்போம்? இலக்கியவாதியையா? அல்லது கேளிக்கை சினிமா நட்சத்திரத்தையா?
ஹான்ஸ் கிறிஸ்டியன் ஆண்டர்சன் கதையை எஸ்.ரா வாயால் கேளுங்கள்.
Hans Christian Andersen
A MOTHER sat by her little child; she was very sad, for she feared it would die. It was quite pale, and its little eyes were closed, and sometimes it drew a heavy deep breath, almost like a sigh; and then the mother gazed more sadly than ever on the poor little creature. Some one knocked at the door, and a poor old man walked in. He was wrapped in something that looked like a great horse-cloth; and he required it truly to keep him warm, for it was cold winter; the country everywhere lay covered with snow and ice, and the wind blew so sharply that it cut one's face. The little child had dozed off to sleep for a moment, and the mother, seeing that the old man shivered with the cold, rose and placed a small mug of beer on the stove to warm for him. The old man sat and rocked the cradle; and the mother seated herself on a chair near him, and looked at her sick child who still breathed heavily, and took hold of its little hand.
"You think I shall keep him, do you not?" she said. "Our all-merciful God will surely not take him away from me."
The old man, who was indeed Death himself, nodded his head in a peculiar manner, which might have signified either Yes, or No; and the mother cast down her eyes, while the tears rolled down her cheeks. Then her head became heavy, for she had not closed her eyes for three days and nights, and she slept, but only for a moment. Shivering with cold, she started up and looked round the room. The old man was gone, and her child- it was gone too!- the old man had taken it with him. In the corner of the room the old clock began to strike; "whirr" went the chains, the heavy weight sank to the ground, and the clock stopped; and the poor mother rushed out of the house calling for her child. Out in the snow sat a woman in long black garments, and she said to the mother, "Death has been with you in your room. I saw him hastening away with your little child; he strides faster than the wind, and never brings back what he has taken away."
"Only tell me which way he has gone," said the mother; tell me the way, I will find him."
"I know the way," said the woman in the black garments; "but before I tell you, you must sing to me all the songs that you have sung to your child; I love these songs, I have heard them before. I am Night, and I saw your tears flow as you sang."
"I will sing them all to you," said the mother; "but do not detain me now. I must overtake him, and find my child."
But Night sat silent and still. Then the mother wept and sang, and wrung her hands. And there were many songs, and yet even more tears; till at length Night said, "Go to the right, into the dark forest of fir-trees; for I saw Death take that road with your little child."
Within the wood the mother came to cross roads, and she knew not which to take. Just by stood a thorn-bush; it had neither leaf nor flower, for it was the cold winter time, and icicles hung on the branches. "Have you not seen Death go by, with my little child?" she asked.
"Yes," replied the thorn-bush; "but I will not tell you which way he has taken until you have warmed me in your bosom. I am freezing to death here, and turning to ice."
Then she pressed the bramble to her bosom quite close, so that it might be thawed, and the thorns pierced her flesh, and great drops of blood flowed; but the bramble shot forth fresh green leaves, and they became flowers on the cold winter's night, so warm is the heart of a sorrowing mother. Then the bramble-bush told her the path she must take. She came at length to a great lake, on which there was neither ship nor boat to be seen. The lake was not frozen sufficiently for her to pass over on the ice, nor was it open enough for her to wade through; and yet she must cross it, if she wished to find her child. Then she laid herself down to drink up the water of the lake, which was of course impossible for any human being to do; but the bereaved mother thought that perhaps a miracle might take place to help her. "You will never succeed in this," said the lake; let us make an agreement together which will be better. I love to collect pearls, and your eyes are the purest I have ever seen. If you will weep those eyes away in tears into my waters, then I will take you to the large hothouse where Death dwells and rears flowers and trees, every one of which is a human life."
"Oh, what would I not give to reach my child!" said the weeping mother; and as she still continued to weep, her eyes fell into the depths of the lake, and became two costly pearls.
Then the lake lifted her up, and wafted her across to the opposite shore as if she were on a swing, where stood a wonderful building many miles in length. No one could tell whether it was a mountain covered with forests and full of caves, or whether it had been built. But the poor mother could not see, for she had wept her eyes into the lake. "Where shall I find Death, who went away with my little child?" she asked.
"He has not arrived here yet," said an old gray-haired woman, who was walking about, and watering Death's hothouse. "How have you found your way here? and who helped you?"
"God has helped me," she replied. "He is merciful; will you not be merciful too? Where shall I find my little child?"
"I did not know the child," said the old woman; "and you are blind. Many flowers and trees have faded to-night, and Death will soon come to transplant them. You know already that every human being has a life-tree or a life-flower, just as may be ordained for him. They look like other plants; but they have hearts that beat. Children's hearts also beat: from that you may perhaps be able to recognize your child. But what will you give me, if I tell you what more you will have to do?
"I have nothing to give," said the afflicted mother; "but I would go to the ends of the earth for you."
"I can give you nothing to do for me there," said the old woman; "but you can give me your long black hair. You know yourself that it is beautiful, and it pleases me. You can take my white hair in exchange, which will be something in return."
"Do you ask nothing more than that?" said she. "I will give it to you with pleasure."
And she gave up her beautiful hair, and received in return the white locks of the old woman. Then they went into Death's vast hothouse, where flowers and trees grew together in wonderful profusion. Blooming hyacinths, under glass bells, and peonies, like strong trees. There grew water-plants, some quite fresh, and others looking sickly, which had water-snakes twining round them, and black crabs clinging to their stems. There stood noble palm-trees, oaks, and plantains, and beneath them bloomed thyme and parsley. Each tree and flower had a name; each represented a human life, and belonged to men still living, some in China, others in Greenland, and in all parts of the world. Some large trees had been planted in little pots, so that they were cramped for room, and seemed about to burst the pot to pieces; while many weak little flowers were growing in rich soil, with moss all around them, carefully tended and cared for. The sorrowing mother bent over the little plants, and heard the human heart beating in each, and recognized the beatings of her child's heart among millions of others.
"That is it," she cried, stretching out her hand towards a little crocus-flower which hung down its sickly head.
"Do not touch the flower," exclaimed the old woman; "but place yourself here; and when Death comes- I expect him every minute- do not let him pull up that plant, but threaten him that if he does you will serve the other flowers in the same manner. This will make him afraid; for he must account to God for each of them. None can be uprooted, unless he receives permission to do so."
There rushed through the hothouse a chill of icy coldness, and the blind mother felt that Death had arrived.
"How did you find your way hither?" asked he; "how could you come here faster than I have?"
"I am a mother," she answered.
And Death stretched out his hand towards the delicate little flower; but she held her hands tightly round it, and held it fast at same time, with the most anxious care, lest she should touch one of the leaves. Then Death breathed upon her hands, and she felt his breath colder than the icy wind, and her hands sank down powerless.
"You cannot prevail against me," said Death.
"But a God of mercy can," said she.
"I only do His will," replied Death. "I am his gardener. I take all His flowers and trees, and transplant them into the gardens of Paradise in an unknown land. How they flourish there, and what that garden resembles, I may not tell you."
"Give me back my child," said the mother, weeping and imploring; and she seized two beautiful flowers in her hands, and cried to Death, "I will tear up all your flowers, for I am in despair."
"Do not touch them," said Death. "You say you are unhappy; and would you make another mother as unhappy as yourself?"
"Another mother!" cried the poor woman, setting the flowers free from her hands.
"There are your eyes," said Death. "I fished them up out of the lake for you. They were shining brightly; but I knew not they were yours. Take them back- they are clearer now than before- and then look into the deep well which is close by here. I will tell you the names of the two flowers which you wished to pull up; and you will see the whole future of the human beings they represent, and what you were about to frustrate and destroy."
Then she looked into the well; and it was a glorious sight to behold how one of them became a blessing to the world, and how much happiness and joy it spread around. But she saw that the life of the other was full of care and poverty, misery and woe.
"Both are the will of God," said Death.
"Which is the unhappy flower, and which is the blessed one?" she said.
"That I may not tell you," said Death; "but thus far you may learn, that one of the two flowers represents your own child. It was the fate of your child that you saw,- the future of your own child."
Then the mother screamed aloud with terror, "Which of them belongs to my child? Tell me that. Deliver the unhappy child. Release it from so much misery. Rather take it away. Take it to the kingdom of God. Forget my tears and my entreaties; forget all that I have said or done."
"I do not understand you," said Death. "Will you have your child back? or shall I carry him away to a place that you do not know?"
Then the mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and prayed to God, "Grant not my prayers, when they are contrary to Thy will, which at all times must be the best. Oh, hear them not;" and her head sank on her bosom.
Then Death carried away her child to the unknown land.
கதையை தப்பும் தவறுமாய்ப் படித்து, இலக்கியம் பேசுகிறேன் பேர்வழி என்று சம்பவங்களை உளறிக்கொட்டிக் கிளறி மொழுகி, கதையின் அசல் முடிவை சந்தர்ப்ப சாதுர்யத்துடன் வெட்டி ரஜினிக்கு ஏற்றார்போல் தைத்து மாட்டி ஜொள்ளுவிட்டு அழகு பார்த்துக் கொள்ளுவதுதான் இலக்கிய காரியமா?
இதை ஒப்பிட்டால்,பேசக்கிடைத்த சந்தர்பத்திலெல்லாம் இளையராஜாவைப்போலவே ரஜினி செய்யும் கடவுள் ஆன்மீகம் பற்றிய பிரச்சாரத்தை ஒருவர் ஏற்கலாம் அல்லது திரஸ்கரிக்கலாம், பொய் என்று சொல்ல முடியுமா? அவற்றின் நம்பகத்தன்மையைக் கேள்விகேட்க முடியுமா?
தாமஸ் ஆல்வா எடிசன் பற்றி ரஜினி படித்ததும் (அல்லது கேள்விப்பட்டதும்)இயல் விருது பெற்றமைக்காக உயிர்மை நடத்திய எஸ்.ராமகிருஷ்ணன் பாராட்டு விழாவில் அதைப்பற்றிப் பேசியதும் கிட்டத்தட்ட ஒன்றாகவே இருப்பதைப் பாருங்கள்.ஏழைக்கேற்ற எள்ளுருண்டையாய் பாவம் அவருக்குத் தெரிந்த வாசிப்ப்பும் சிந்தனையுமே அவ்வளவுதான். எஸ்.ரா போன்ற ஆழ்ந்த வாசிப்பை அவரிடம் எதிர்பார்க்க அவரென்ன இலக்கியவாதியா?
உலக சினிமா பார்த்து உலக இலக்கியம் படித்து உலக இலக்கியத்தை உபன்யாசித்து உலக இலக்கியம் படைக்கும் லட்சணம் இப்போதேனும் பிடிபடுகிறதா?
எதையும் அடைவதற்காக எதையாவது செய்ய வேண்டும் என்கிற அவசியமோ மறைமுகமான ’இலக்கு’களோ எனக்குக் கிடையாது. இலக்கியத்தில் பயிர் எது களை எது என்பதைப் பிரித்துக்காட்டுவதில் மட்டுமே என் அக்கறை. இதன் பக்கவிளைவாய், ஊதிப்பெரிதாக்கி வர்ணஜாலம் காட்டிக்கொண்டு திரியும் இலக்கிய பலூன்கள் உடைபட்டால் அதற்கு நானா பொறுப்பு?