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作者简介
维德·梅塔 （Ved Mehta,1934—2021），美国印度裔作家，生于英属印度时期的拉合尔（Lahore）（今巴基斯坦旁遮普省）的一个印度教家庭。他在三岁时因患脑膜炎不幸失明，五岁时被送到达德盲校（Dadar School for the Blind）学习盲文和英语。十四岁时来到美国，进入阿肯色州的盲人学校（Arkansas School for the Blind）接受正规教育。1956年梅塔在加州波莫纳学院（Pomona College）获得文学学士学位，1959年在牛津大学贝利奥尔学院（Balloil College， Oxford University）获得学士学位（现代历史专业），1961年获得哈佛大学（Harvard University）文学硕士学位。梅塔自学生时代起就为《纽约客》（New Yorker）撰稿，成为其长期特约作家，并在许多机构兼职客座教授。
梅塔著作颇丰，包括自传、小说、报告文学及散文等。第一本自传《面对面》（Face to Face,1957）出版后，梅塔于1972—2004年陆续发表纪念性自传集《流亡大陆》（Continents of Exile）。该系列包括《父亲》（Daddyji,1972）、《母亲》（Mamaji,1979）、《新世界的声音阴影》（Sound-Shadows of the New World，1984）以及《红色字母：我父亲的魔法时期》（Red Letters: My Father’s Enchanted Period,2004）等11本自传。1966年出版小说《少年恰恰》（Delinquent Chacha）。此外，他还出版了二十多本关于印度的报告文学、散文，其中包括《印度街头漫步》（Walking the Indian Streets,1960）、《印度肖像》（Portrait of India,1970）和《圣雄甘地和他的使徒》（Mahatma Gandhi and His Apostles,1977）以及其他一些关于探索印度哲学、神学和语言学的作品。
梅塔是自传体文学的大师，也是印度英语文学的先驱，他荣获许多重要奖项，包括1971年的古根海姆奖（Guggenheim Fellowships），1982年的麦克阿瑟基金会（MacArthur Foundation）“天才奖”（Genius Grants）。他于2009年当选为英国皇家文学学会（Royal Society of Literature）的成员。梅塔被誉为“20世纪以来，向美国读者介绍印度的最重要的作家”。他的作品以直率、清爽的文风，既有对印度社会的敏锐洞察，又有弥合东西方鸿沟的努力，揭示了美国和印度社会的复杂性及其不为人知的黑暗面。
《新世界的声音阴影》是梅塔具有代表性的自传作品之一，被收录在《生活在美国：美国南亚裔作家的诗歌和小说》（Living in America: Poetry and Fiction by South Asian American Writers,1995）、《隔壁的世界：美国南亚裔文学》（The World Next Door: South Asian American Literature,2004）等文学选集中。梅塔在书中讲述了他在美国阿肯色州盲人学校的前三年的经历。选段讲述了梅塔初入美国，在机场被美国移民官员质询的场景。
作品选读
(excerpt)
At the airport, I was questioned by an immigration official. “You’re blind—totally blind—and they gave you a visa? You say it’s for your studies, but studies where?”
“At the Arkansas School for the Blind. It is in Little Rock, in Arkansas.”
He shuffled through the pages of a book. Sleep was in my eyes. Drops of sweat were running down my back. My shirt and trousers felt dirty.
“Arkansas School is not on our list of approved schools for foreign students.”
“I know,” I said. “That is why the immigration officials in Delhi gave me only a visitor’s visa. They said that when I got to the school I should tell the authorities to apply to be on your list of approved schools, so that I could get a student visa.” I showed him a big manila envelope I was carrying. It contained my chest X-rays, medical reports, and fingerprint charts, which were necessary for a student visa, and which I’d had prepared in advance.
“Why didn’t you apply to an approved school in the first place and come here on a proper student visa?” he asked, looking through the material.
My knowledge of English was limited. With difficulty, I explained to him that I had applied to some thirty schools but that, because I had been able to get little formal education in India, the Arkansas School was the only one that would accept me; that I had needed a letter of acceptance from an American school to get dollars sanctioned by the Reserve Bank of India; and that now that I was in America I was sure I could change schools if the Arkansas School was not suitable or did not get the necessary approval.
Muttering to himself, the immigration official looked up at me, down at his book, and up at me again. He finally announced, “I think you’ll have to go to Washington and apply to get your visa changed to a student visa before you can go to any school.”
I recalled things that Daddyji used to say as we were growing up: “In life, there is only fight or flight. You must always fight,” and “America is ...’s own country. People there are the most hospitable and generous people in the world.” I told myself I had nothing to worry about. Then I remembered that Daddyji had mentioned a Mr. and Mrs. Dickens in Washington—they were friends of friends of his—and told me that I could get in touch with them in case of emergency.
“I will do whatever is necessary,” I now said to the immigration official. “I will go to Washington.”
He hesitated, as if he were thinking something, and then stamped my passport and returned it to me. “We Mehtas carry our luck with us,” Daddyji used to say. He is right, I thought.
The immigration official suddenly became helpful, as if he were a friend. “You shouldn’t have any trouble with the immigration people in Washington,” he said, and asked, “Is anybody meeting you here?”
“Mr. and Mrs. di Francesco,” I said.
Mrs. di Francesco was a niece of Manmath Nath Chatterjee, whom Daddyji had known when he himself was a student, in London, in 1920. Daddyji had asked Mr. Chatterjee, who had a Scottish-American wife and was now settled in Yellow Springs, Ohio, if he could suggest anyone with whom I might stay in New York, so that I could get acclimatized to America before proceeding to the Arkansas School, which was not due to open until the eleventh of September. Mr. Chatterjee had written back that, as it happened, his wife’s niece was married to John di Francesco, a singer who was totally blind, and that Mr. and Mrs. di Francesco lived in New York, and would be delighted to meet me at the airport and keep me as a paying guest at fifteen dollars a week.
“How greedy of them to ask for money!” I had cried when I learned of the arrangement. “People come and stay with us for months and we never ask for an anna.”
Daddyji had said, “In the West, people do not, as a rule, stay with relatives and friends but put up in hotels, or in houses as paying guests. That is the custom there. Mr. and Mrs. di Francesco are probably a young, struggling couple who could do with a little extra money.”
The immigration official now came from behind the counter, led me to an open area, and shouted, with increasing volume, “Francisco!... Franchesca!... De Franco!” I wasn’t sure what the correct pronunciation was, but his shouting sounded really disrespectful. I asked him to call for Mr. and Mrs. di Francesco softly. He bellowed, “Di Fransesco!”
No one came. My mouth went dry. Mr. and Mrs. di Francesco had sent me such a warm invitation. I couldn’t imagine why they would have let me down or what I should do next.
Then I heard the footsteps of someone running toward us. “Here I am. You must be Ved. I’m Muriel di Francesco. I’m sorry John couldn’t come.” I noted that the name was pronounced the way it was spelled, and that hers was a Yankee voice—the kind I had heard when I first encountered Americans at home, during the war—but it had the sweetness of the voices of my sisters.
We shook hands; she had a nice firm grip. I had an impulse to call her Auntie Muriel—at home, an older person was always called by an honorific, like “Auntie” or “Uncle”—but I greeted her as Daddyji had told me that Westerners liked to be greeted: “Mrs. di Francesco, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
作者简介
G. S.沙拉特·钱德拉 （G. S. Sharat Chandra,1935—2000），美国印度裔诗人、小说家，出生于印度迈索尔（Mysore）。1962年前往加拿大学习法律，然后移民到美国，获得艾奥瓦作家工作室（Iowa Writers Workshop）创意写作硕士学位（M.F.A）。在他职业生涯的大部分时间里，钱德拉在密苏里–堪萨斯城大学（University of Missouri-Kansas City）担任创意写作和英语教授（1983—2000年）。
钱德拉因其诗歌和小说获得了国际认可。他的作品发表在许多期刊上，包括《美国诗歌评论》（American Poetry Review）、《伦敦杂志》（London Magazine）、《国家》（The Nation）和《党派评论》（Partisan Review）等。他曾担任富布赖特研究员（Fulbright Fellow），并获得NEA创意写作奖学金（NEA Fellowship in Creative Writing）等奖项。
钱德拉共出版了九本诗集，包括《婆罗多·纳蒂亚姆舞者和其他诗歌》（Bharata Natyam Dancer and Other Poems,1968）、《这会是森林吗》（Will This Forest,1968）、《留下来的理由》（Reasons for Staying,1970）、《南瞻部洲的四月》（April in Nanjangud,1971）、《一两次》（Once or Twice,1974）、《意义的幽灵》（The Ghost of Meaning,1978）、《传家宝》（Heirloom,1982）、《镜子之家》（Family of Mirrors,1993）和《失落的移民》（Immigrants of Loss,1993）。此外，他还著有一部短篇小说集《神的纱丽》（Sari of the Gods,1998）。诗集《镜子之家》获得1993年普利策奖诗歌奖提名。《失落的移民》获得1993年英联邦诗歌奖（Commonwealth Poetry Prize）和T. S.艾略特诗歌奖（T. S. Eliot Poetry Prize）。钱德拉的诗歌语言凝练而形象性强，具有鲜明的节奏、和谐的音韵和新鲜的音调，极具跳跃性和感染力。
诗歌《兄弟》（“Brother”）、《地震后的印度》（“After the Earthquake in India”）选自诗集《镜子之家》。《兄弟》表达了诗人在生活经历变迁之后对亲人的思念之情。在《地震后的印度》中，诗人运用拟人等手法描述地震后的印度惨状，刻画出萦绕在他心中的无力与悲伤情绪。