Takako Arai
A RIVER’S TWISTS AND TURNS
Rivers do not belong to you. Even if one flows through your land, it just keeps coming of its own accord. As it flows along and dries up, it doesn’t listen to a thing you say. It’s always the same, even though the river flows from your own eyes.
Water wells up. Sad, sad sobs rise up, one after another. But how can we describe this sadness? It simply flows, inevitably flowing along, doesn’t it?
It connects. Like a river, like a river’s twists and turns, the lachrymal gland ties you and me together, ties us with him, ties us with her.
If anything, it’s human nature to be buffeted around by things we cannot see. That’s always been true. Invisible rivers flow along—if a bird were to look down from above, the rivers would trace transparent labyrinths,
Filling all available space.
That’s why our eyes are so wet. Why they’re wet right now.
So when someone passes away, a single false step can send a person plummeting downward, unable to swim, unable to fly, unable to claw or climb their way back up. They plummet downward, sending ripples outward like a pebble thrown into a pond.
That’s why
Weeping always involves
Stepping into the place of another who can weep no more.
Tumbling into this river of tears, the surging ripples of those who have drowned draw close and overflow, pouring from our eyes.
When my mother died, I wept. I sobbed. She wanted to live, wanted to live, so every morning, every night, she clung to life, to dry katsuobushi flakes.
She grew irritated, impatient, frightened of her own thinning blood. In fact, she strayed from her path,
Underwent a metamorphosis,
And became a tabby cat.
Lying under the plane I used to shave off the flakes of dried fish, she stretched out on her belly and stuck out her tongue. She stuffed her mouth so full that the katsuobushi flakes fell out of the corners of her mouth. With her claws, she grabbed onto the bulwark along the river’s edge.
Shaking her whiskers, she demanded, “Gimme lots of that dark meat!”
Every day that summer, as the cicadas sang, I shaved off some katsuobushi for her as a kind of blood transfusion. But even so, she grew thinner and thinner.
She hurled abuse at me as the flakes caught in her uneven teeth. “Damn it, you’re being hissssss-stingy today. I told you get me the top-of-the line brand, but this was just some mark-down from the general store-mraaowwwrrrr.” Even now, I can’t forget her eyes, blue-black irises surrounded on three sides by white.
Then, finally, on the thirtieth day, the waters carried her away.
Gyaaaagoro, gyaaaagoro—meow-purrrrrrrr, meow-purrrrrrrr. Even the river was calling out. What could I do but cry? I stood on the riverbank weeping, gyaaaagora, gyaaaagora— meow-purrrrrrrr, meow-purrrrrrrr.
When someone passed away
It was in that same voice
Everyone recited the phrase
Gyaaade, gyaaade—Gone, gone to the far shore
It was in that same voice they mourned my mother, tears profusely flowing.
’N BOCHT IN ’N RIVIER
Da’s nie’ van u hè, ’n rivier. Als die bijvoorbeeld over uwe grond loopt, dan komt se hoe dan ook, toch. Sij luistert nie’ naar wat er wordt gesegd hè, of se nu volgt of opdroogt. Da’s ’tselfde, ook al lekt se uit uwe ogen.
Se sijn nat, hè. Ge treurt en ge treurt, dan komt ’t snikkend omhoog, hè. Wat is dat toch, dat verdriet. ’t Stroomt en ’t stroomt maar, is ’t nie’?
Omdat ’t verbindt, daarom. Net als ’n rivier, net als ’n bocht in ’n rivier, u, mij, om ’t even wie, om ’t even wie weet se te verknopen hè, de traanklier.
Maar ’t sal hunne aard sijn gemanipuleerd te wesen omwille van wat u nie’ kan sien hè, de mensen. Da’s altijd so, hè. ’n Onsichtbare rivier die stroomt, als ge er met vogelogen op neerkijkt dan draait se rondjes door ’n doorsichtig doolhof, over ’t volledig oppervlak.
Daarom worden se wat nat hè, uwe ogen, nu ook.
So komt dat bij gestorvenen voor, dat mensen misstappen en ba-am! vallen, daarom. Se kunnen nie’ swemmen, nie’ vliegen, nie’ aan hunne nagels omhoog kruipen, daarom. Se ba-am! vallen, en in ’n patroon soals ’n kiesel maakt ontstaan dan golven.
Daarom,
is ’t ’n plaatsvervanging hè,
’t huilen.
Golven van op ’n rivier rondtollende, verswakte mensen rollen aan, sij stromen over, uit uwe ogen.
Toen moeder stierf, heb ik gehuild, tranen met tuiten huilde ik. Se wilde leven, wilde leven, elke ochtend elke avond, hield se ’t stevig vast, ’t bonito-blok.
Se werd steeds bleker, in haar aansien, se raakte geërgerd, ’t was angstaanjagend. Nu ja, al was sij eigenlijk al misgestapt,
se veranderde
in ’n cyperse kat.
Onder de schaaf waarmee ik ’t bonito-blok tot vlokken schaafde kroop se op haar buikje, stak se haar tong uit, en vrat se ’t tot de vlokken uit haar bekje vielen hè. Se sloeg haar nagels uit, en klauwde sich vast hè, aan die kademuur.
“Hé, geef me van ’t beste stuk, ’t bloeddonkere”, sei se met trillende snorharen.
In de somer wanneer de vette cicaden singen, schaafde ik voor haar als was het ’n bloedtransfusie, elke dag elke dag. Moeder die met sprongen vermagerde sei:
“Vandaag ben je weer voor het goedkope spul gegaan, miauw. Ik sei je nog van ’t chique merk te kopen, maar ’t is uitverkoopspul uit de Aldi, miauw, dese bonito-vlokken.” Terwijl se verstrikt raakten in haar slagtanden, schold se me uit. ‘t Donkerblauw in haar vele oogwit sal ik nie’ vergeten.
En so dreef se op de dertigste dag uiteindelijk weg.
Kya-âh-grr, kya-âh-grr: ook nog in de rivier schreeuwde sij ’t uit, en kon ik niets anders dan huilen, terwijl ik aan de oever stond: kya-âh-grr, kya-âh-grr.
Die stem
toen een ander doodging en boeddha werd
sal gij dat ook gesongen hebben:
gyaté, gyaté
Toen we voor moeder een dienst ter nagedachtenis hielden, toen sal ook gij ’n boel gehuild hebben.
Publisher: 2022, ,
川曲
あんたのものでァねァでしょう、川は。たとえ敷地サ流れておっても、どうしても来るわけでしょう。言うことなんぞ聞かんでしょう、つたうときも枯れるときも。同なしだよ、あんたァのから漏れでたけれども。
潤むよねぇ。悲しゅうてしゅうて、しゃぐりがってくるよねぇ。だァども、その悲しみって何ですか。ただただ流れておるのでねぇのかや。
繋がっておるのだァもの。川みだいに、川曲みだいに、あんたと、あたしと、だれかさんと、だれかさんと、結んでおるがよ、涙腺は。
なァに、見ぇないものばがりのために、振りまわさィるサガでしょう、にんげんァ。いつだって、そうでしょう。見ぇない川バれてて、鳥の眼で見下ろしゃァ、透きとおった迷路が巡る、
いちめんに。
だァもの、いぐらかれておるがや、瞳というのァ、いまだって。
ほうして、亡くなるモンのあるときゃァ、人なんて、踏みはずしゃァ、パ――ッと落ちてしまいますから。泳ぐことも、飛ぶことも、爪立てで這い上がるのもできんのだァもの。パ――ッと、落ちて、小石の広げる波紋のごとく波が立つ。
だから、
だれかの身代わりなんだよ、
泣くというのは。
なみだの川サ転がって、溺れたモンらの人波が、寄せて、溢れてくるのだァもの、あんたァのその目から。
母さんが死んだとき、泣きました、号泣しました。生ぎたくてぎたくて、朝に晩に、むしゃぶりついてたひとだから、鰹節に。
薄すくなってくじぶんのが、焦れったくて、おっかなくて。なァに、ほんとうはもう踏みはずしておったども、
げたがよ、
虎猫に。
あたしが削る鉋のしたへ、腹ぼうて、舌ツッ込んで。口の端からオッこぼすほど、喰らっておったっきゃぁ。ギィッと爪立て、しがみついでおったがですよ、その岸壁サ。
「血合いバたんとの背節ゃァよこせぇ」って、髭ゃァらしてねぇ。
あぶら蝉の鳴く夏に、輸血みだいにィとったの、あたしァ、くる日もくる日も。そィでもそィでも、しんしん痩せる母さんは、
「きょうも、おまいはケチしたにゃぁ。にんべんのとうたのに、よろず屋の見切り品にゃぁ、この鰹節ゃァ」。八重歯サそれを絡まして、毒づいて。三白眼の青ぐらさが忘っせらィねァ。
ほうして、とうとう三十日めに、流さィてしまったったぁ。
ぎゃあごろ、ぎゃあごろ、川でも叫ぇでおったれば、あたしがぐほかねァがしょう、岸辺に佇って、ぎゃあごら、ぎゃあごら。
その声だよ、
仏さんバたときゃァ、
あんたァもィたがしょう。
羯諦、羯諦、
うちの母さんろうて、ぎょうさん泣いでくれしゃったがしょう。
A RIVER’S TWISTS AND TURNS
Rivers do not belong to you. Even if one flows through your land, it just keeps coming of its own accord. As it flows along and dries up, it doesn’t listen to a thing you say. It’s always the same, even though the river flows from your own eyes.
Water wells up. Sad, sad sobs rise up, one after another. But how can we describe this sadness? It simply flows, inevitably flowing along, doesn’t it?
It connects. Like a river, like a river’s twists and turns, the lachrymal gland ties you and me together, ties us with him, ties us with her.
If anything, it’s human nature to be buffeted around by things we cannot see. That’s always been true. Invisible rivers flow along—if a bird were to look down from above, the rivers would trace transparent labyrinths,
Filling all available space.
That’s why our eyes are so wet. Why they’re wet right now.
So when someone passes away, a single false step can send a person plummeting downward, unable to swim, unable to fly, unable to claw or climb their way back up. They plummet downward, sending ripples outward like a pebble thrown into a pond.
That’s why
Weeping always involves
Stepping into the place of another who can weep no more.
Tumbling into this river of tears, the surging ripples of those who have drowned draw close and overflow, pouring from our eyes.
When my mother died, I wept. I sobbed. She wanted to live, wanted to live, so every morning, every night, she clung to life, to dry katsuobushi flakes.
She grew irritated, impatient, frightened of her own thinning blood. In fact, she strayed from her path,
Underwent a metamorphosis,
And became a tabby cat.
Lying under the plane I used to shave off the flakes of dried fish, she stretched out on her belly and stuck out her tongue. She stuffed her mouth so full that the katsuobushi flakes fell out of the corners of her mouth. With her claws, she grabbed onto the bulwark along the river’s edge.
Shaking her whiskers, she demanded, “Gimme lots of that dark meat!”
Every day that summer, as the cicadas sang, I shaved off some katsuobushi for her as a kind of blood transfusion. But even so, she grew thinner and thinner.
She hurled abuse at me as the flakes caught in her uneven teeth. “Damn it, you’re being hissssss-stingy today. I told you get me the top-of-the line brand, but this was just some mark-down from the general store-mraaowwwrrrr.” Even now, I can’t forget her eyes, blue-black irises surrounded on three sides by white.
Then, finally, on the thirtieth day, the waters carried her away.
Gyaaaagoro, gyaaaagoro—meow-purrrrrrrr, meow-purrrrrrrr. Even the river was calling out. What could I do but cry? I stood on the riverbank weeping, gyaaaagora, gyaaaagora— meow-purrrrrrrr, meow-purrrrrrrr.
When someone passed away
It was in that same voice
Everyone recited the phrase
Gyaaade, gyaaade—Gone, gone to the far shore
It was in that same voice they mourned my mother, tears profusely flowing.
A RIVER’S TWISTS AND TURNS
Rivers do not belong to you. Even if one flows through your land, it just keeps coming of its own accord. As it flows along and dries up, it doesn’t listen to a thing you say. It’s always the same, even though the river flows from your own eyes.
Water wells up. Sad, sad sobs rise up, one after another. But how can we describe this sadness? It simply flows, inevitably flowing along, doesn’t it?
It connects. Like a river, like a river’s twists and turns, the lachrymal gland ties you and me together, ties us with him, ties us with her.
If anything, it’s human nature to be buffeted around by things we cannot see. That’s always been true. Invisible rivers flow along—if a bird were to look down from above, the rivers would trace transparent labyrinths,
Filling all available space.
That’s why our eyes are so wet. Why they’re wet right now.
So when someone passes away, a single false step can send a person plummeting downward, unable to swim, unable to fly, unable to claw or climb their way back up. They plummet downward, sending ripples outward like a pebble thrown into a pond.
That’s why
Weeping always involves
Stepping into the place of another who can weep no more.
Tumbling into this river of tears, the surging ripples of those who have drowned draw close and overflow, pouring from our eyes.
When my mother died, I wept. I sobbed. She wanted to live, wanted to live, so every morning, every night, she clung to life, to dry katsuobushi flakes.
She grew irritated, impatient, frightened of her own thinning blood. In fact, she strayed from her path,
Underwent a metamorphosis,
And became a tabby cat.
Lying under the plane I used to shave off the flakes of dried fish, she stretched out on her belly and stuck out her tongue. She stuffed her mouth so full that the katsuobushi flakes fell out of the corners of her mouth. With her claws, she grabbed onto the bulwark along the river’s edge.
Shaking her whiskers, she demanded, “Gimme lots of that dark meat!”
Every day that summer, as the cicadas sang, I shaved off some katsuobushi for her as a kind of blood transfusion. But even so, she grew thinner and thinner.
She hurled abuse at me as the flakes caught in her uneven teeth. “Damn it, you’re being hissssss-stingy today. I told you get me the top-of-the line brand, but this was just some mark-down from the general store-mraaowwwrrrr.” Even now, I can’t forget her eyes, blue-black irises surrounded on three sides by white.
Then, finally, on the thirtieth day, the waters carried her away.
Gyaaaagoro, gyaaaagoro—meow-purrrrrrrr, meow-purrrrrrrr. Even the river was calling out. What could I do but cry? I stood on the riverbank weeping, gyaaaagora, gyaaaagora— meow-purrrrrrrr, meow-purrrrrrrr.
When someone passed away
It was in that same voice
Everyone recited the phrase
Gyaaade, gyaaade—Gone, gone to the far shore
It was in that same voice they mourned my mother, tears profusely flowing.
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