२०१६/२०१७ साली पुन्हा एकदा मोठ्या प्रमाणात जगभरात बेस्ट सेलर ठरलेली, जॉर्ज ऑरवेल (शीर्षकातील G O aka George Orwell) यांची 'नायन्टीन एटीफोर', १९४९ ही कादंबरी मी अजून पूर्ण वाचलेली नाही.
पण ब्रेनपिकिंग्ज.ओरजी वरील जोनाथन बर्टन यांची तिच्याकरिता काढलेली चित्रे बघून मी फार खूश झालो.
आता होणार जो संभोग आहे तो साधासुधा नाही, तर ती एक राजकीय कृती आहे, बंड आहे.....कसे ते वाचा:
पण ब्रेनपिकिंग्ज.ओरजी वरील जोनाथन बर्टन यांची तिच्याकरिता काढलेली चित्रे बघून मी फार खूश झालो.
'He knelt down before her and
took her hands in his'
ऑरवेल यांची दामू व कमळी आणि आजूबाजूला आहे पेरवाची बाग
कलाकार : जोनाथन बर्टन
वरील चित्र पहा.कलाकार : जोनाथन बर्टन
आता होणार जो संभोग आहे तो साधासुधा नाही, तर ती एक राजकीय कृती आहे, बंड आहे.....कसे ते वाचा:
"...Quickly, with an occasional crackle of twigs, they threaded
their way back to the clearing. When they were once inside the ring of saplings
she turned and faced him. They were both breathing fast, but the smile had
reappeared round the corners of her mouth. She stood looking at him for an
instant, then felt at the zipper of her overalls. And, yes! it was almost as in
his dream. Almost as swiftly as he had imagined it, she had torn her clothes
off, and when she flung them aside it was with that same magnificent gesture by
which a whole civilization seemed to be annihilated. Her body gleamed white in
the sun. But for a moment he did not look at her body; his eyes were anchored
by the freckled face with its faint, bold smile. He knelt down before her and
took her hands in his.
"Have you done this before?"
"Of course. Hundreds of times—well, scores of times,
anyway."
"With Party members?"
"Yes, always with Party members."
"With members of the Inner Party?"
"Not with those swine, no. But there's plenty that
would if they got half a chance. They're not so holy as they make out."
His heart leapt. Scores of times she had done it; he wished
it had been hundreds—thousands. Anything that hinted at corruption always
filled him with a wild hope. Who knew? Perhaps the Party was rotten under the
surface, its cult of strenuousness and self-denial simply a sham concealing
iniquity. If he could have infected the whole lot of them with leprosy or
syphilis, how gladly he would have done so! Anything to rot, to weaken, to
undermine! He pulled her down so that they were kneeling face to face.
"Listen. The more men you've had, the more I love you.
Do you understand that?"
"Yes, perfectly."
"I hate purity, I hate goodness! I don't want any
virtue to exist anywhere. I want everyone to be corrupt to the bones."
"Well then, I ought to suit you, dear. I'm corrupt to
the bones."
"You like doing this? I don't mean simply me; I mean
the thing in itself?"
"I adore it."
That was above all what he wanted to hear. Not merely the
love of one person, but the animal instinct, the simple undifferentiated
desire: that was the force that would tear the Party to pieces. He pressed her
down upon the grass, among the fallen bluebells. This time there was no
difficulty. Presently the rising and falling of their breasts slowed to normal
speed, and in a sort of pleasant helplessness they fell apart. The sun seemed
to have grown hotter. They were both sleepy. He reached out for the discarded
overalls and pulled them partly over her. Almost immediately they fell asleep
and slept for about half an hour.
Winston woke first. He sat up and watched the freckled face,
still peacefully asleep, pillowed on the palm of her hand. Except for her
mouth, you could not call her beautiful. There was a line or two round the
eyes, if you looked closely. The short dark hair was extraordinarily thick and
soft. It occurred to him that he still did not know her surname or where she
lived.
The young, strong body, now helpless in sleep, awoke in him
a pitying, protecting feeling. But the mindless tenderness that he had felt
under the hazel tree, while the thrush was singing, had not quite come back. He
pulled the overalls aside and studied her smooth white flank. In the old days,
he thought, a man looked at a girl's body and saw that it was desirable, and
that was the end of the story. But you could not have pure love or pure lust
nowadays. No emotion was pure, because everything was mixed up with fear and
hatred. Their embrace had been a battle, the climax a victory. It was a blow
struck against the Party. It was a political act...."
पेरवाच्या बागेत, दुपारी संभोग करून, तसाच ठोसा लागावतात, जी. ए. कुलकर्णींच्या 'कवठे', १९७४ या कथेतील, समाजाने वेडसर ठरवलेला हरकाम्या दामू आणि कष्टकरी कमळी.
खर म्हणजे दामू अजिबात हिंसक नाहीय पण त्याने संभोगानंतर त्यांना हटकणाऱ्या रखवालदाराचा नुकताच गळा दाबून जीव घ्यायचा प्रयत्न केलाय. कमळीमुळे तो रखवालदार वाचलाय. दामू समाधानाने कमळी ला सांगतोय की बाग छान होती. त्याला कमळी ठसक्यात उत्तर देतीये:
"… बाग छान नव्हती. आम्ही छान होतो. आम्हाला काय बागच पाहिजे, होय रे आडदांडा ? आयुष्यभर बागेतच पेरवे खात हिंडायला आम्ही काय खुळचट पोर आहोत की बडबड पोपट आहोत ? आम्ही जिथ बसू त्या ठिकाणी आमची बाग. ती बाग म्हणजे काही सगळ जग नव्हे. अरे, एवढ्या मोठ्या मातीत मरायला चार वाव जागा कशीही मिळते, मग चार वाव जागा जगायला मिळणार नाही होय?"
ती जणू समाज व्यवस्थेला सांगतीय: आम्हाला तुमचा गळा दाबायची गरज नाही, कुठल्याच हिंसेची गरज नाही कारण आमचा पेरवाच्या बागेतला संभोग हेच आमच त्या व्यवस्थेच्या विरुद्धच बंड होत.... It was a political act... Not merely the love of one person, but the animal instinct, the simple undifferentiated desire: that was the force that would tear the Party to pieces. ... Our embrace had been a battle, the climax a victory... तुम्ही कदाचित आम्हाला तुमच्या व्यवस्थेच्या परिघावरती कायम ठेवाल, आम्हाला बावळट ठरवाल, हसाल, पण तुम्ही आमचा आनंद कधीच हिसकावून घेवू शकणार नाही..
इथे ऑरवेल यांचे आणखी एक सुंदर अवतरण आठवते:
पेरवाच्या बागेत, दुपारी संभोग करून, तसाच ठोसा लागावतात, जी. ए. कुलकर्णींच्या 'कवठे', १९७४ या कथेतील, समाजाने वेडसर ठरवलेला हरकाम्या दामू आणि कष्टकरी कमळी.
खर म्हणजे दामू अजिबात हिंसक नाहीय पण त्याने संभोगानंतर त्यांना हटकणाऱ्या रखवालदाराचा नुकताच गळा दाबून जीव घ्यायचा प्रयत्न केलाय. कमळीमुळे तो रखवालदार वाचलाय. दामू समाधानाने कमळी ला सांगतोय की बाग छान होती. त्याला कमळी ठसक्यात उत्तर देतीये:
"… बाग छान नव्हती. आम्ही छान होतो. आम्हाला काय बागच पाहिजे, होय रे आडदांडा ? आयुष्यभर बागेतच पेरवे खात हिंडायला आम्ही काय खुळचट पोर आहोत की बडबड पोपट आहोत ? आम्ही जिथ बसू त्या ठिकाणी आमची बाग. ती बाग म्हणजे काही सगळ जग नव्हे. अरे, एवढ्या मोठ्या मातीत मरायला चार वाव जागा कशीही मिळते, मग चार वाव जागा जगायला मिळणार नाही होय?"
ती जणू समाज व्यवस्थेला सांगतीय: आम्हाला तुमचा गळा दाबायची गरज नाही, कुठल्याच हिंसेची गरज नाही कारण आमचा पेरवाच्या बागेतला संभोग हेच आमच त्या व्यवस्थेच्या विरुद्धच बंड होत.... It was a political act... Not merely the love of one person, but the animal instinct, the simple undifferentiated desire: that was the force that would tear the Party to pieces. ... Our embrace had been a battle, the climax a victory... तुम्ही कदाचित आम्हाला तुमच्या व्यवस्थेच्या परिघावरती कायम ठेवाल, आम्हाला बावळट ठरवाल, हसाल, पण तुम्ही आमचा आनंद कधीच हिसकावून घेवू शकणार नाही..
इथे ऑरवेल यांचे आणखी एक सुंदर अवतरण आठवते:
“...At any rate, spring is here, even in London N. 1, and
they can’t stop you enjoying it. This is a satisfying reflection. How many a
time have I stood watching the toads mating, or a pair of hares having a boxing
match in the young corn, and thought of all the important persons who would
stop me enjoying this if they could. But luckily they can’t. So long as you are
not actually ill, hungry, frightened or immured in a prison or a holiday camp,
spring is still spring. The atom bombs are piling up in the factories, the police
are prowling through the cities, the lies are streaming from the loudspeakers,
but the earth is still going round the sun, and neither the dictators nor the
bureaucrats, deeply as they disapprove of the process, are able to prevent it...”
(‘Some Thoughts on the Common Toad’, 1946)
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