THE ONLY REVOLUTION INDIA PART 4
《唯一的革命》 印度 第四篇
Meditation is the unfolding of the new. The new is beyond and above the repetitious past - and meditation is the ending of this repetition. The death that meditation brings about is the immortality of the new. The new is not within the area of thought, and meditation is the silence of thought.
冥想是那崭新之物的呈现。那崭新之物超越不断重复的过去之上，冥想是这种重复的终止。冥想带来的死亡是那崭新之物的不朽。那崭新之物不在思想的领域内，而冥想是思想的安静。
Meditation is not an achievement, nor is it the capture of a vision, nor the excitement of sensation. It is like the river, not to be tamed, swiftly running and overflowing its banks. It is the music without sound; it cannot be domesticated and made use of. It is the silence in which the observer has ceased from the very beginning.
冥想不是一项成就，不是捕捉到某种景象，也不是刺激的感官享受。它就像河流，无法被驯服，迅捷地流过并溢出它的堤岸。它是无声的音乐；它无法被驯养和利用。正是在寂静中观察者从一开始就止息了。
The sun wasn't up yet; you could see the morning star through the trees. There was a silence that was really extraordinary. Not the silence between two noises or between two notes, but the silence that has no reason whatsoever - the silence that must have been at the beginning of the world. It filled the whole valley and the hills.
太阳还未升起；透过树丛你能看到晨星。有一种真正非同寻常的寂静。不是两个声响或两个音符之间的寂静，而是那种毫无因由的寂静——这种寂静必定在世界开始之初存在过。它充满了整片山谷和丘陵。
The two big owls, calling to each other, never disturbed that silence, and a distant dog barking at the late moon was part of this immensity. The dew was especially heavy, and as the sun came up over the hill it was sparkling with many colours and with the glow that comes with the sun's first rays.
两只大猫头鹰呼唤着对方，却从未打扰那寂静，远处有条狗在吠叫着晚月，这也是这无限的一部分。露珠显得特别沉重，当太阳爬上山坡时，露珠闪烁着七彩的光芒，伴随着那亮光，太阳的第一缕光到来了。
The delicate leaves of the jacaranda were heavy with dew, and birds came to have their morning baths, fluttering their wings so that the dew on those delicate leaves filled their feathers. The crows were particularly persistent; they would hop from one branch to another, pushing their heads through the leaves, fluttering their wings and preening themselves. There were about half-a-dozen of them on that one heavy branch, and there were many other birds, scattered all over the tree, taking their morning bath.
紫薇树的嫩叶被露珠坠得沉甸甸的，鸟儿们飞来做清晨的沐浴，拍动着翅膀，这样嫩叶上的露珠就能打湿它们的羽毛。在这一点上乌鸦们显得特别坚持；它们从一个树枝跳向另一个，头钻过树叶，扑打着翅膀，用嘴整理着自己的羽毛。在那个粗树枝上，大约有半打乌鸦，还有很多别的鸟儿，散栖在树上，各自做着晨浴。
And this silence spread, and seemed to go beyond the hills. There were the usual noises of children shouting, and laughter; and the farm began to wake up.
这种寂静蔓延开来，似乎越过了群山。然后有了孩子们通常的喊叫声和笑声；农场开始苏醒过来。
It was going to be a cool day, and now the hills were taking on the light of the sun. They were very old hills - probably the oldest in the world - with oddly shaped rocks that seemed to be carved out with great care, balanced one on top of the other; but no wind or touch could loosen them from this balance.
今天会是个凉爽的日子，现在群山正披上太阳的光芒。这些山非常古老——也许是世界上最古老的——有着形状古怪的岩石，它们似乎是被精心雕琢出来的一样，一块稳稳地堆砌在另一块上，没有风或者碰触能松动它们的这种平衡。
It was a valley far removed from towns, and the road through it led to another village. The road was rough and there were no cars or buses to disturb the ancient quietness of this valley. There were bullock carts, but their movement was a part of the hills. There was a dry river bed that only flowed with water after heavy rains, and the colour was a mixture of red, yellow and brown; and it, too, seemed to move with the hills. And the villagers who walked silently by were like the rocks.
这是个远离城镇的山谷，穿过它的道路通向另一个村庄。这里道路崎岖，没有小汽车或公共汽车打扰这片山谷的古老宁静。有些牛车，但它们的运动是群山的一部分。还有一条干涸的河床，只有大雨后才会有水流过，那时会有混合了红色、黄色和棕色的一种颜色；而这条河似乎也和群山一起运动着。而静静走过的村民们就像岩石一样。
The day wore on and towards the end of the evening, as the sun was setting over the western hills, the silence came in from afar, over the hills, through the trees, covering the little bushes and the ancient banyan. And as the stars became brilliant, so the silence grew into great intensity; you could hardly bear it.
一天慢慢过去，傍晚快结束的时候，当太阳从西方的山上落下，那寂静又远道而来，跨过群山，穿越树丛，覆盖着矮小的灌木丛和古老的榕树。而当群星闪耀时，那寂静就变得无比浓厚；你几乎承受不了。
The little lamps of the village were put out, and with sleep the intensity of that silence grew deeper, wider and incredibly overpowering. Even the hills became more quiet, for they, too, had stopped their whisperings, their movement, and seemed to lose their immense weight.
村庄里微弱的灯光熄灭了，伴着沉睡，那寂静的浓度变得更深、更广以及不可思议地压倒一切。连群山都变得安静，因为它们也停止了自己的低语和运动，似乎失去了它们那庞大的重量。
She said she was forty-five; she was carefully dressed in a sari, with some bangles on her wrists. The older man with her said he was her uncle. We all sat on the floor overlooking a big garden with a banyan tree, a few mango trees, the bright bougainvillaea and the growing palms. She was terribly sad. Her hands were restless and she was trying to prevent herself from bursting into speech and perhaps tears. The uncle said: "We have come to talk to you about my niece. Her husband died a few years ago, and then her son, and now she can't stop crying and has aged terribly. We don't know what to do. The usual doctors' advice doesn't seem to work, and she seems to be losing contact with her other children. She's getting thinner. We don't know where all this is going to end, and she insisted that we should come to see you."
她说她四十五岁了；她的纱丽精心穿着，腕上带着几只手镯。与她同来的年长男人说自己是她的叔父。我们都坐在地板上俯瞰着一个大花园，花园里有一棵榕树，几棵芒果树，生机盎然的九重葛和茁壮成长着的棕榈树。她极度悲伤。她的双手无所适从，她努力控制着自己的话语或许还有眼泪不喷涌出来。她叔父说：“我们来和你谈谈我的侄女。她的丈夫几年前去世了，然后她的儿子也去世了，现在她无法停止哭泣，并且衰老得很厉害。我们不知道该怎么办。医生通常的建议似乎不起作用，她看起来与她其他的孩子也失去了联结。她越来越瘦。我们不知道这一切将如何结束，而她坚持我们应该来见你。”
"l lost my husband four years ago. He was a doctor and died of cancer. He must have hidden it from me, and only in the last year or so did I know about it. He was in agony although the doctors gave him morphine and other sedatives. Before my eyes he withered away and was gone."
“四年前我失去了我的丈夫。他是个医生，死于癌症。这点他肯定瞒着我了，直到差不多最后一年我才知道。尽管医生给他开了吗啡和其他的镇定剂，但他还是很痛苦。就在我的眼前，他慢慢憔悴然后死去。”
She stopped, almost choking with tears. There was a dove sitting on the branch, quietly cooing. It was brownish-grey, with a small head and a large body - not too large, for it was a dove. Presently it flew off and the branch was swinging up and down from the pressure of its flight.
她停下来，含着眼泪几乎哽咽。有只鸽子停在树枝上，安静地咕咕叫着。它棕灰色，有个小小的脑袋和大大的身子——也不太大，因为它只是只鸽子而已。很快它飞走了，那个树枝因为它飞走时的一推而上下摇晃着。
"I somehow cannot bear this loneliness, this meaningless existence without him. I loved my children; I had three of them, a boy and two girls. One day last year the boy wrote to me from school that he was not feeling well, and a few days later I got a telephone call from the headmaster, saying that he was dead."
“我有些无法承受没有他的这种孤独，这种毫无意义的生存。我爱我的孩子们；我有三个孩子，一个儿子，两个女儿。去年的一天，儿子从学校写信给我说他觉得不舒服，几天后我接到校长打来的一个电话，说他死了。”
Here she began to sob uncontrollably. Presently she produced a letter from the boy in which he had said that he wanted to come home for he was not feeling well, and that he hoped she was all right. She explained that he had been concerned about her; he hadn't wanted to go to school but had wanted to remain with her. And she more or less forced him to go, afraid that he would be affected by her grief. Now it was too late. The two girls, she said, were not fully aware of all that had happened for they were quite young. Suddenly she burst out: "I don't know what to do. This death has shaken the very foundations of my life. Like a house, our marriage was carefully built on what we considered a deep foundation. Now everything is destroyed by this enormous event."
她开始抑制不住地啜泣。很快她拿出了男孩的那封信，信上说他想回家，因为他觉得不舒服，并希望她一切安好。她解释说他很关心她；他本不想去上学而是想跟她待在一起。而她担心自己的悲伤会影响他，就或多或少地强迫他去上学了。现在太晚了。她说，两个女儿还没有完全意识到发生了什么事，因为她们还很小。突然她爆发出来：“我不知道该怎么办。亲人的去世动摇了我生命最根本的基础。我们的婚姻就像一座房子，小心翼翼地构建在一个我们认为深厚的基础上。现在一切都被这件大事给毁了。”
The uncle must have been a believer, a traditionalist, for he added: "God has visited this on her. She has been through all the necessary ceremonies but they have not helped her. I believe in reincarnation, but she takes no comfort in it. She doesn't even want to talk about it. To her it is all meaningless and we have not been able to give her any comfort."
那位叔父肯定是位信徒，一个传统主义者，因为他补充道：“为此神曾降临在她身上。她经历过所有必要的仪式，但是这些没能帮到她。我相信转世，但是她并未从中得到慰藉。她甚至不愿意谈起这点。对她来说那毫无意义，我们也没能给予她任何安慰。”
We sat there in silence for some time. Her handkerchief was now quite wet; a clean handkerchief from the drawer helped to wipe away the tears on her cheeks. The red bougainvillaea was peeping through the window, and the bright southern light was on every leaf.
我们在那儿静静地坐了一会儿。她的手帕现在已经很湿了；从抽屉里拿出来的一块干净手帕帮她把脸颊上的眼泪擦干。红色的九重葛从窗口偷偷观望着，而明亮的南方阳光洒落在每片树叶上。
Do you want to talk about this seriously - go to the root of it all? Or do you want to be comforted by some explanation, by some reasoned argument, and be distracted from your sorrow by some satisfying words?
你想认真地谈谈这件事——深入到它的最根源吗？抑或你只是想要某种解释、某种合理的说法给你带来安慰，用一些令人满意的说辞把你的注意力从悲伤中分散出来？
She replied: "I'd like to go into it deeply, but I don't know whether I have the capacity or the energy to face what you are going to say. When my husband was alive we used to come to some of your talks; but now I may find it very difficult to go along with you."
她回答道：“我愿意深入其中，但是我不知道我有没有能力或者能量来面对你将要说的话。在我丈夫活着的时候，我们经常来听你的讲话；但是现在我发现可能很难跟上你了。”
Why are you in sorrow? Don't give an explanation, for that will only be a verbal construction of your feeling, which will not be the actual fact. So, when we ask a question, please don't answer it. Just listen, and find out for yourself. Why is there this sorrow of death - in every house, rich and poor, from the most powerful in the land to the beggar? Why are you in sorrow? Is it for your husband - or is it for yourself? If you are crying for him, can your tears help him? He has gone irrevocably. Do what you will, you will never have him back. No tears, no belief, no ceremonies or gods can ever bring him back. It is a fact which you have to accept; you can't do anything about it. But if you are crying for yourself, because of your loneliness, your empty life, because of the sensual pleasures you had and the companionship, then you are crying, aren't you, out of your own emptiness and out of self-pity? Perhaps for the first time you are aware of your own inward poverty. You have invested in your husband, haven't you, if we may gently point it out, and it has given you comfort, satisfaction and pleasure? All you are feeling now - the sense of loss, the agony of loneliness and anxiety - is a form of self-pity, isn't it? Do look at it. Don't harden your heart against it and say: "I love my husband, and I wasn't thinking a bit about myself. I wanted to protect him, even though I often tried to dominate him; but it was all for his sake and there was never a thought for myself." Now that he has gone you are realizing, aren't you, your own actual state? His death has shaken you and shown you the actual state of your mind and heart. You may not be willing to look at it; you may reject it out of fear, but if you observe a little more you will see that you are crying out of your own loneliness, out of your inward poverty - which is, out of self-pity.
你为什么身处悲伤？不要做出解释，因为那只会是对你的感受的一种文字说明，而不是真正的事实。所以，当我们提出一个问题，请不要回答它。只是聆听，然后自己去发现。在每座房子里，不管富有还是贫穷，从这片土地上最有权势的人到乞丐，为什么都有着对死亡的悲伤？你为什么悲伤？是为了你丈夫吗——还是为了你自己？如果你在为他哭泣，你的眼泪能帮到他吗？他的故去无可挽回。无论你做什么，你永远无法让他回来。眼泪、信仰、仪式或者神都无法让他回来。这是一个你不得不接受的事实；对此你完全无能为力。但是如果你在为自己哭泣，因为你孤独、你生活空虚，因为你曾经拥有肉体上的欢愉、曾经有人陪伴，那么你哭泣就只是出于你自己的空虚、出于自怜，不是吗？也许你第一次意识到自己内心的贫乏。如果我们可以温和地指出的话，你投资在你丈夫身上，而这给了你慰藉、满足和快乐，不是吗？你现在感受到的一切——缺失感、孤独和焦虑的痛苦——是一种自怜的形式，不是吗？好好看看这一点。不要对此硬起心肠说：“我爱我丈夫，我丝毫没有想到自己。我想要保护他，即使我经常试图控制他；但那都是为了他，我从来没有为自己考虑过一丝一毫。”既然他已经故去，你正意识到自己的实际状态，不是吗？他的死动摇了你，指出了你头脑和心灵的实际状态。你可能不愿意去看这一点；你也许出于恐惧而拒绝承认，但是如果你更多地观察一下，你会发现你是因为自己的孤独、自己内心的贫乏——也就是因为自怜而哭泣。
"You are rather cruel, aren't you, sir?" she said. "I have come to you for real comfort, and what are you giving me?"
“你相当残忍，不是吗，先生？”她说。“我来向你寻求真正的慰藉，而你给了我什么？”
It is one of the illusions most people have - that there is such a thing as inward comfort; that somebody else can give it to you or that you can find it for yourself. I am afraid there is no such thing. If you are seeking comfort you are bound to live in illusion, and when that illusion is broken you become sad because the comfort is taken away from you. So, to understand sorrow or to go beyond it, one must see actually what is inwardly taking place, and not cover it up. To point out all this is not cruelty, is it? It's not something ugly from which to shy away. When you see all this, very clearly, then you come out of it immediately, without a scratch, unblemished, fresh, untouched by the events of life. Death is inevitable for all of us; one cannot escape from it. We try to find every kind of explanation, cling to every kind of belief in the hope of going beyond it, but do what you will it is always there; tomorrow, or round the corner, or many years away - it is always there. One has to come into touch with this enormous fact of life.
这是大多数人抱有的一种幻觉——认为有内心慰藉这样一种东西；认为别人能给你或者你自己能找到。恐怕没有这样东西。如果你在寻求慰藉，你就必然生活在幻觉中，而当幻觉破灭时，你就变得悲伤，因为慰藉被从你那里拿走了。所以，了解悲伤或者超越它，你必须真实地看到内心发生着什么，而不去掩盖它。指出这一切不是残忍，对不对？这不是一件需要感到羞愧而逃离的丑事。当你非常清晰地看到了这一切，你即刻就从中解脱了，毫发无伤，丝毫没有被生活中的事件所玷污或影响，崭新如初。死亡是我们所有人都无法避免的事；你无法逃避死亡。我们试图找到各种解释，抱守着各种信仰，希望能超越它，但无论你做什么，它还会一直在那儿；明天，或者就在转角，或者很多年后——它始终在那里。一个人必须与生命中这个巨大的事实联结在一起。
"But..." said the uncle, and out came the traditional belief in Atman, the soul, the permanent entity which continues. He was on his own ground now, well-trodden with cunning arguments and quotations. You saw him suddenly sit up straight and the light of battle, the battle of words, came into his eyes. Sympathy, love and understanding were gone. He was on his sacred ground of belief, of tradition, trodden down by the heavy weight of conditioning: "But the Atman is in every one of us! It is reborn and continues until it realizes that it is Brahman. We must go through sorrow to come to that reality. We live in illusion; the world is an illusion. There is only one reality." And he was off! She looked at me, not paying much attention to him, and a gentle smile began to appear on her face; and we both looked at the dove which had come back, and the bright red bougainvillaea.
“但是……”那位叔父说道，接着就讲出了对阿特曼 、灵魂、永续存在的实体的传统信仰。现在他站在了自己的领地上，一路机巧地辩论着并引经据典。你看到他突然坐直了身子，战斗的光芒——语言上的战斗——出现在他的眼睛里。同情、爱和了解消失了。他站在了他的信仰和传统的神圣领地上，背着深受局限的重负步履沉重地一路踏来：“但是阿特曼就在我们每个人的内心！它继续重生下去直到意识到自己就是婆罗门 。我们必须经历悲伤才能到达那真相。我们生活在幻觉中；这世界是个幻觉。只有一种真相。”然后他停了下来！她看着我，并没有太注意他，一个温和的微笑开始出现在她的脸上；我们都看着已经飞回来的那只鸽子，以及鲜红的九重葛。
There is nothing permanent either on earth or in ourselves. Thought can give continuity to something it thinks about; it can give permanency to a word, to an idea, to a tradition. Thought thinks itself permanent, but is it permanent? Thought is the response of memory, and is that memory permanent? It can build an image and give to that image a continuity, a permanency, calling it Atman or whatever you like, and it can remember the face of the husband or the wife and hold on to it. All this is the activity of thought which creates fear, and out of this fear there is the drive for permanency - the fear of not having a meal tomorrow, or shelter - the fear of death. This fear is the result of thought, and Brahman is the product of thought, too.
不管在世界上还是在我们内心，没有什么东西是永恒的。思想能赋予它思考的某种东西以延续性；它能赋予一句话、一个想法、一个传统以永久性。思想认为它自己是永恒的，但它是永恒的吗？思想是来自记忆的反应，而记忆是永恒的吗？它能建造一个意象并赋予那意象以延续性、永久性，称之为阿特曼或者无论你喜欢叫什么，它能记起丈夫或者妻子的脸庞并紧抓住不放。所有这些都是产生恐惧的思想的行为，出于这种恐惧就有了需要永恒的动力——对明天没有食物或住所的恐惧——对死亡的恐惧。这恐惧是思想的结果，而婆罗门也是思想的产物。
The uncle said: "Memory and thought are like a candle. You put it out and re-light it again; you forget, and you remember again later on. You die and are reborn again into another life. The flame of the candle is the same - and not the same. So in the flame there is a certain quality of continuity."
那位叔父说：“记忆和思想就像蜡烛。你熄灭了它，还会再次把它点燃；你忘记，随后你又会记起。你死去又会在另一世重生。蜡烛的火焰是一样的——又不一样。所以在火焰中有某种延续性的品质。”
But the flame which has been put out is not the same flame as the new. There is an ending of the old for the new to be. If there is a constant modified continuity, then there is no new thing at all. The thousand yesterdays cannot be made new; even a candle burns itself out. Everything must end for the new to be.
但是已熄灭的火焰与新点燃的并非同一簇火焰。旧的结束了才能产生新的。如果存在的是一种不停调整下去的延续性，那么就根本没有新东西可言。千万个昨天无法变得崭新；即使蜡烛也会燃尽自己。一切事物都必须终结才能有新生。
The uncle now cannot rely on quotations or beliefs or on the sayings of others, so he withdraws into himself and becomes quiet, puzzled and rather angry, for he has been exposed to himself, and, like his niece, doesn't want to face the fact. "I am not concerned about all this," she said. "I am utterly miserable. I have lost my husband and my son, and there are these two children left. What am I to do?"
现在那位叔父无法依赖引用、信仰或者别人说的话了，所以他退回到自己那里，变得安静、困惑并且相当愤怒，因为他把自己暴露给了自己，就像他的侄女一样，他不愿意面对事实。“我对这一切都不关心，”她说。“我极其悲惨。我失去了我的丈夫和我的儿子，还剩下这两个孩子。我该怎么办？”
If you are concerned about the two children, you can't be concerned about yourself and your misery. You have to look after them, educate them rightly, bring them up without the usual mediocrity. But if you are consumed by your own self-pity, which you call "the love for your husband", and if you withdraw into isolation, then you are also destroying the other two children. Consciously or unconsciously we are all utterly selfish, and so long as we get what we want we consider everything is all right. But the moment an event takes place to shatter all this, we cry out in despair, hoping to find other comforts which, of course, will again be shattered. So this process goes on, and if you want to be caught in it, knowing full well all the implications of it, then go ahead. But if you see the absurdity of it all, then you will naturally stop crying, stop isolating yourself, and live with the children with a new light and with a smile on your face.
如果你关心那两个孩子，你就不能只关注你自己和你的痛苦。你得照顾她们，正确地教育她们，不以通常的平庸之道把她们抚养长大。但是如果你被自己的自怜，也就是你称为“对你丈夫的爱”的东西所消耗，如果你退缩到孤立之中，那么你也在摧毁另外两个孩子。不管有意识还是无意识，我们都极其自私，只要我们得到了我们想要的，就觉得一切都很好。但是当发生了一件事粉碎了这一切的那一刻，我们绝望地哭泣，希望找到其他的慰藉，而这种慰藉必然会再次被粉碎。于是这个过程继续下去，如果你愿意受困于其中，完全知道其中的所有含义，那么就继续吧。但是如果你完全看清了其中的荒谬，那么你自然会停止哭泣，停止隔绝自己，你的脸上会带着崭新的光芒和微笑与孩子们生活在一起。 |
发表于 2010-12-7 02:11
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