父親回家

我的父親乘晚班列車
站在沈默的通勤者之間，在黃色光線中
郊區掠過他視而不見的眼睛
他的襯衣和長褲濕透而黑雨衣
沾著淤泥，他塞滿書本的背包
正在解體。他的眼睛因年齡而黯淡
在潮濕的季風之夜向家逝去。
現在我看見他下車
像一個詞從長句中滴落。
他匆匆穿過灰色站臺的距離，
穿過鐵路，進入小巷，
他的涼鞋泥濘，但他繼續趕路。

又到家了。我看見他喝淡茶，
吃隔夜的烙餅[1]，讀一本書。
他走進廁所思考
人與一個人造世界的疏離。
出來時他在水池邊打顫，
冷水流過他棕色的雙手，
幾滴還沾在他手腕的汗毛上。
他陰郁的孩子們總不願與他
分享笑話和秘密。現在他要睡了
聽著收音機裏的雜音，夢見
他的先人和孫輩，想著
經一條狹窄的通道，遊牧民進入次大陸。


[1] chapati，一種粗面烙餅，印度最常見的主食之一



Father Returning Home

My father travels on the late evening train
Standing among silent commuters in the yellow light
Suburbs slide past his unseeing eyes
His shirt and pants are soggy and his black raincoat
Stained with mud and his bag stuffed with books
Is falling apart. His eyes dimmed by age
fade homeward through the humid monsoon night.
Now I can see him getting off the train
Like a word dropped from a long sentence.
He hurries across the length of the grey platform,
Crosses the railway line, enters the lane,
His chappals are sticky with mud, but he hurries onward.

Home again, I see him drinking weak tea,
Eating a stale chapati, reading a book.
He goes into the toilet to contemplate
Man's estrangement from a man-made world.
Coming out he trembles at the sink,
The cold water running over his brown hands,
A few droplets cling to the greying hairs on his wrists.
His sullen children have often refused to share
Jokes and secrets with him. He will now go to sleep
Listening to the static on the radio, dreaming
Of his ancestors and grandchildren, thinking
Of nomads entering a subcontinent through a narrow pass.


Dilip Chitre（1938-2009），印度詩人，畫家，導演。主要使用馬拉提語和英語寫作。