Winters used to be cold in England. We, my parents especially, spent them watching the wrestling. The wrestling they watched on their black-and-white television sets on Saturday afternoons represented a brief intrusion of life and colour in their otherwise monochrome lives. Their work overalls were faded, the sofa cover—unchanged for years—was faded, their memories of the people they had been before coming to England were fading too. My parents, their whole generation, treadmilled away the b... See more Winters used to be cold in England. We, my parents especially, spent them watching the wrestling. The wrestling they watched on their black-and-white television sets on Saturday afternoons represented a brief intrusion of life and colour in their otherwise monochrome lives. Their work overalls were faded, the sofa cover—unchanged for years—was faded, their memories of the people they had been before coming to England were fading too. My parents, their whole generation, treadmilled away the best years of their lives toiling in factories for shoddy paypackets. A life of drudgery, of deformed spines, of chronic arthritis, of severed hands. They bit their lips and put up with the pain. They had no option but to. In their minds they tried to switch off—to ignore the slights of co-workers, not to bridle against the glib cackling of foremen, and, in the case of Indian women, not to fret when they were slapped about by their husbands. Put up with the pain, they told themselves, deal with the pain—the shooting pains up the arms, the corroded hip joints, the back seizures from leaning over sewing machines for too many years, the callused knuckles from handwashing clothes, the rheumy knees from scrubbing the kitchen floor with their husbands' used underpants.
When my parents sat down to watch the wrestling on Saturday afternoons, milky cardamon tea in hand, they wanted to be entertained, they wanted a laugh. But they also wanted the good guy, just for once, to triumph over the bad guy. They wanted the swaggering, braying bully to get his come-uppance. They prayed for the nice guy, lying there on the canvas, trapped in a double-finger interlock or clutching his kidneys in agony, not to submit. If only he could hold out just a bit longer, bear the pain, last the course. If only he did these things, chances were, wrestling being what it was, that he would triumph. It was only a qualified victory, however. You'd see the winner, exhausted, barely able to wave to the crowd. The triumph was mainly one of survival.
我的译文如下：
英国的冬日，通常寒冷。因此，我，尤其是我的父母，通过观看电视摔跤比赛聊以度日。每在周六的下午，他们看着那台黑白电视里的摔跤比赛，藉以在原本单调的生活中，增添些许色彩与变化。总的来说，他们的工作业已失去光彩，如同那沙发套，经年未换，业已褪色，而他们的记忆，曾眷顾着的来英国前拥有的那些朋友们，亦已成云烟。我的父母啊，他们那一整代人，仅为那微薄的工资，流金岁月便耗散于那些个辛苦与枯燥的工厂中。那是一种充斥者压弯的脊梁，慢性关节痛与残缺的双手的艰难岁月。而他们，只能咬紧双唇，忍受痛苦，别无选择。他们总是试图，将脑海中那些情绪挥去，以便忽视同事的轻蔑，不顶撞工头的油嘴滑舌，喋喋不休，并且，对印度妇女而言，不因为她们被自己的丈夫扇耳光而焦躁不安。 手臂的刺痛；臀关节的磨损；经年伏案于缝纫机而来的腰肌劳损；赤手洗衣而来的指节老茧；因跪地使用丈夫的旧内裤擦洗厨房地板，导致的风湿性膝关节炎；面对这些痛苦吧！忍受这些痛苦吧，他们对自己说。
当我父母亲坐下来，手捧乳白色的豆蔻茶，观看周六下午的摔跤比赛时，他们希望的，是快乐，希望的，是开怀一笑。但他们也同样希望，哪怕只有一次，好人战胜坏人。他们希望傲慢嘶叫的恶徒遭到报应。他们为好人，那个正摔倒受困在摔跤场帆布上的，被双指扣紧或在剧痛中腰部被抓住的好人祈祷，不要屈服！再坚持一会儿，一小会儿，忍住剧痛，完成赛局。如果那好人这样做了，那么正如摔跤的真谛所在，他就有机会赢得胜利。当然啦，这也不过是一个合格的胜利者应该做的嘛。再看那胜者，筋疲力尽，向观众挥手的力气都快没了呢。当然啦，所谓的胜利，只不过是一次幸存而已。 ▲ Collapse
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