Hace apenas un mes estuve en Hiroshima, en la Plaza de la Paz. Ya sabes, el sol a 4.000 grados en la plaza de la Paz, los cuerpos abrazados con un poco de ceniza en las espaldas, esa imagen rom\u00e1ntica de Marguerite Duras.<\/p>\n
M\u0101y\u0101<\/strong><\/p>\n Hoy es d\u00eda 4 y estoy con Sunu en Varanasi porque escribo esto hoy. Sunu y yo somos de la misma altura, cuando caminamos juntos llevamos el mismo paso, peque\u00f1o, diligente, decidido, prieto, acorde, al un\u00edsono. En la orilla del r\u00edo el aire es denso, de una densidad c\u00e1lida, como de hoguera de San Juan y a m\u00ed todo me recuerda a Venecia y a mi tierra de cenizas un eterno 19 de marzo, con esa sensaci\u00f3n de que todo acaba y todo empieza, en Varanasi. Las manos de Sunu son finas, delicadas, suaves, m\u00e1s peque\u00f1as que las m\u00edas, est\u00e1n acostumbradas a dar fuego, varias veces, a diario. Est\u00e1n fr\u00edas hoy. Entiendo muy bien su perfecto ingl\u00e9s.<\/p>\n Sunu es el encargado de preservar el fuego sagrado de Shiva. El fuego sagrado de Shiva se mantiene encendido desde hace 4.000 a\u00f1os. Duerme junto al fuego, en verano y en invierno, en un peque\u00f1\u00edsimo templo con rescoldos y lanzas, preservado del aire, la lluvia y las vacas. Sunu y su familia hacen turnos velando el fuego, como las Vestales. En Varanasi, hoy.<\/p>\n Sus ojos est\u00e1n rojos al amanecer, me espera en el muelle de Shivala Ghat. No ha dormido. Los muertos han llegado incesantemente a su Ghat, el Harishchandra, en camillas de bamb\u00fa, bajando las escaleras desde la colina al r\u00edo. \u00c9l pensaba que iba a ser una noche tranquila, pero -mucho trabajo, dice mirando lejos, mordi\u00e9ndose el labio.<\/p>\n Todos los muertos arden a partir del mismo fuego sagrado de Shiva. De los sticks<\/em> que Sunu le ofrece al hijo mayor para que prenda la le\u00f1a que la familia apila junto al cuerpo. La familia de Sunu trabaja as\u00ed, desde hace cuatro generaciones, asegur\u00e1ndose de que el cuerpo arda por completo, buscando oro al amanecer entre las cenizas para proporcionar madera a quien no puede pagarla. -Ya no es como antes, dice, -que quedaban restos sin arder navegando por la madre Ganga.<\/p>\n Sunu tiembla, tomamos juntos un t\u00e9 que arde y calienta sus manos. Su pashmina huele a colonia fresca, no se ha casado. Est\u00e1 contento por hacer una entrevista, tiene fr\u00edo, est\u00e1 temblando. Me habla de \u00e9l, de su familia, de su oficio. Veinticuatro horas al d\u00eda, todos los d\u00edas del a\u00f1o. A mi regreso a las s\u00e1banas del hotel, enterrada en la dulce luz de las diez de la ma\u00f1ana, liberada de mis tradiciones familiares y por lo tanto ahogada en una eterna b\u00fasqueda de mi lugar en el mundo, entiendo que vuelve a abrirse el canal a los designios del universo y que esa sinton\u00eda al caminar juntos me habla, de nuevo, de un nacimiento.<\/p>\n Samsara<\/strong><\/p>\n Sin embargo, esa noche, la noche despu\u00e9s de celebrar el n\u00famero 44, la c\u00e1mara se queda en el aeropuerto de Kolkata. La c\u00e1mara queda perdida, robada, abandonada qui\u00e9n sabe en qu\u00e9 rinc\u00f3n de ese no lugar, ese limbo, ese purgatorio. Y esta foto tambi\u00e9n. La foto de Sunu al amanecer, la foto prohibida en el Manikarnika\u00a0Ghat, frente a las ascuas de las piras funerarias, en Varanasi. El sufrimiento, el sufrimiento es lento. Su cara en mi memoria, permanentemente mordi\u00e9ndose el labio, mientras a medianoche el polic\u00eda se pone el uniforme encima del pijama y escribe a mano una denuncia, sujetando el ca\u00f1\u00f3n del rifle con el h\u00edgado. Esas cuatro oficinas de polic\u00eda en India borrando la ilusi\u00f3n de un encuentro que existi\u00f3. \u00bfExisti\u00f3?<\/p>\n Esta l\u00ednea breve que lees equivale a cuatro d\u00edas de b\u00fasqueda sin palabras en la que los muertos y los vivos nos acompa\u00f1an por igual. Lloro porque quiero que la c\u00e1mara vuelva a m\u00ed y esta foto y sus palabras sigan entre los vivos, y su temblor y su maravilloso testimonio no llegue a\u00fan al Nirvana. Lloro e inmediatamente dejo de llorar. Decir \u00abel coraz\u00f3n en ascuas\u00bb es hacer una frase f\u00e1cil.<\/p>\n Sunu rompi\u00f3 su m\u00f3vil. Lo estrell\u00f3 contra el suelo. Solo puedes encontrarlo all\u00ed, en su Ghat. Cuatro, d\u00edas despu\u00e9s, la c\u00e1mara me ha sido devuelta intacta. Voy a repetirlo: cuatro d\u00edas despu\u00e9s, en India, la c\u00e1mara me ha sido devuelta intacta. Y esta foto tambi\u00e9n. Esta foto de Sunu que est\u00e1s viendo en el d\u00eda 4, caliente y g\u00e9lida, es la foto resucitada. Ahora mismo he recibido la noticia de que nadie va a financiar mi proyecto, y es por eso que tengo la certeza absoluta de que est\u00e1 vivo.<\/p>\n \u201cThe Mother an the Seeds\u201d. Gracias.<\/p>\n TREMENTINA LUX<\/p>\n Just a month ago I was in Hiroshima, in Peace Square. You know, the sun at 4,000 degrees in Peace Square, the bodies embraced with a little ash on their backs, that romantic Marguerite Duras’s image.<\/p>\n Maya<\/strong><\/p>\n Today is day 4 and I am with Sunu in Varanasi because I write this today. Sunu and me, we are of the same height, when we walk together we\u00a0walk lockstep, same small, diligent, determined, tight, chord and unison step. On the riverbank the air is dense, warm density, like the bonfire of San Juan and everything reminds me of Venice and my land full of ashes in an eternal March 19, with the feeling that everything ends and everything starts, in Varanasi. Sunu’s hands are thin, delicate, soft, smaller than mine, they are accustomed to give fire, several times, daily. They are cold today. I understand his perfect English very well.<\/p>\n Sunu is the keeper of the sacred fire of Shiva. The sacred fire of Shiva has been kept burning for 4,000 years. He sleeps by the fire, in summer and in winter, in a tiny temple with embers and spears, the fire is preserved from the air, rain and cows. Sunu and his family take turns watching the fire, like the Vestals. In Varanasi, today.<\/p>\n His eyes are red in the sunrise, he waits for me at the quay of Shivala Ghat. He has not slept. The dead have come incessantly to his Gath, the Harishchandra, on bamboo stretchers, going down the stairs from the hill to the river. He thought it was going to be a quiet night, but: -\u00abA lot of work\u00bb, he says, looking away, biting his lip.<\/p>\n All the dead burn from the same sacred fire of Shiva. From the sticks that Sunu offers the eldest son to light the firewood that the family piles next to the body. Sunu’s family has been working like this for four generations, making sure that the body burns completely. They look for gold at sunrise among the ashes to provide wood to those who can not pay it. \u00abIt’s not like it was before,\u00bb he says, \u00abthat there were remains left without burning through Mother Ganga.<\/p>\n Sunu trembles, we drink together a tea that burns and warms his hands. His pashmina smells like a fresh colony, he has not married. He is happy to do an interview, he is cold, he is trembling. He talks to me about him, about his family, about his job. Twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year. On my return to the hotel sheets, buried in the sweet light of ten o’clock in the morning, freed from my family traditions and therefore drowned in an eternal search for my place in the world, I\u00a0understand that the channel is open again at the wishes of the universe and that this harmony when we walking together speaks to me, again, of a birth.<\/p>\n Samsara<\/strong><\/p>\n However, that night, the night after celebrating the number 44, the camera stays at the Kolkata airport. The camera is lost, stolen, abandoned who knows in what corner of that no place, that limbo, that purgatory. And this photo too. The photo of Sunu at dawn, the forbidden photo in the Manikarnika Ghat, in front of the embers of the funeral pyres, in Varanasi. Suffering, the suffering go slowly. His face in my memory, constantly biting his lip, while at midnight the policeman puts on his uniform over his pajamas and writes a report by hand, holding the rifle’s barrel with his liver. Those 4 police offices in India erasing the illusion of this encounter that existed. Did it exist?<\/p>\n This short line you read is equivalent to a week of searching without words in which the dead and the living people accompany us equally. I cry, because I want the camera come back to me and this picture, and its words continue among the living, and its trembling and its wonderful testimony, do not yet reach Nirvana. I cry and immediately I stop crying. To say \u00abthe heart in ashes\u00bb is to make an easy phrase.<\/p>\n Sunu broke his cell phone. He crashed it on the ground. You can only find him there, in his Ghat. 4 days later, the camera has been returned intactto me. I will repeat it: 4 days later, in India, the camera has been returned intact to me. And this photo too. This photo of Sunu that you are seeing now, in day 4, warm and cold, is the photo resurrected.\u00a0Right now I have received the news that nobody is going to finance my project, and that is why I have the absolute certainty that he is alive.<\/p>\n \u00abThe Mother an the Seeds\u00bb. Thank you.<\/p>\n TREMENTINA LUX<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" De Hiroshima a Varanasi. \u00bfMe das fuego, por favor?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":5195,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[8,330],"tags":[288,329,328],"class_list":["post-5189","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-arte-y-otras-delicias-vindicativas","category-the-mother-and-the-seeds","tag-india","tag-the-mother-an-the-seeds","tag-varanasi"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/trementinalux.com\/Blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/12\/VARANASI.jpg","jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/trementinalux.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5189","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/trementinalux.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/trementinalux.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/trementinalux.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/trementinalux.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5189"}],"version-history":[{"count":20,"href":"https:\/\/trementinalux.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5189\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5211,"href":"https:\/\/trementinalux.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5189\/revisions\/5211"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/trementinalux.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/5195"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/trementinalux.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5189"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/trementinalux.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5189"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/trementinalux.com\/Blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5189"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}From Hiroshima to Varanasi. Can you give me fire, please?<\/strong><\/h3>\n