Showing posts with label SSC ENGLISH. Show all posts
Showing posts with label SSC ENGLISH. Show all posts

March 24, 2020

A TRIBUTE (SAVITRI)



A TRIBUTE (SAVITRI) 

The Indian film industry has completed a hundred years in the year 2013. It is a fitting tribute to the world of cinema to recollect our favourite films, producers, directors, actors, and music and art directors. 

Telugu audiences are proud of many great producers, directors and artistes. Savitri is one such prestigious artiste. Ever since she was eight, she evinced interest in learning dance. Later she associated herself with the theatre. She formed a theatre organization as well. She had little difficulty in entering the film field. When Savitri was twelve, she was offered a role in the film, Agnipareeksha, but finally dropped as she looked too young for the role.

She was given a song sequenceRanante rane ranu- in 'Pathala Bhairavi'. Savitri's part in it was brief, but the effect of her performance was considerable. Her expressions were beautiful. A lot of film makers recognized 'a potential artiste' in her. 

As a result, she was elevated to the role of a heroine by the noted director L V Prasad in the film 'Samsaaram'(1950). On the sets, she was nervous; she had to repeat many takes and this proved a setback for her. The role was given to someone else and she was given a small role of less import. 

In the film 'Devadasu' (1953), [one of] the best picturisation[s] of Saratchandra Chatterjee's novel 'Devadas', Parvathi comes alive in Savitri. The young Parvathi with curly hair, a lock of hair straying to her forehead, the large round black berry eyes looking out from an innocent face left an indelible imprint in the minds of all cine lovers. She portrayed Devada's love and the role of rich man's wife marvellously. Savitri left her mark in this evergreen Telugu classic.

Savitri established her credentials with 'Ardhangi'(1955) . She gave an exceptionally brilliant performance as a woman forced to marry a mentally retarded person (ANR). She nurses him back to health. She also teaches a lesson to her in-laws who conspire against her husband. 

Savitri captured the audiences with her charm and magnificent acting. She was able to convey a wide range of feelings through her expressive eyes. Her mischievous look - it captivates anyone; the look of fake anger provokes, the look filled with real anger pierces the heart. The look of passion while waiting for her lover; the pain filled look when her love fails; the confident look that seems ready to face any situation, all these myriad emotions are hidden in her eyes .The dimensions are endless and pages can be filled to describe the magic spell of her eyes.

Savitri's amazing talent was in full form in 'Missamma', a hit comedy that established Savitri's place firmly as a star. Mary in the film comes into an agreement with a Hindu youth, M T Rao (NTR) to pretend as a couple in order to get a job in a school. Mary was a Christian to the core, whereas Rao was a tolerant Hindu. What results in is a three hour pure comedy for the audience! 

Savitri was adored for the matchless ease in expression. Meena Kumari,the heroine of Hindi films said, “when I watch Savitri's acting, I usually get doubts about my own acting". Her strikingly expressive eyes and her superb sense of timing made her one of the greatest actresses. Amitabh Bacchan felt, 'Savitri was one of the first actresses with unbelievable spontaneity'.

Maya Bazaar is another film that brought fame to Savitri. She played the role of Sasirekha. Recollecting the 16- annas Telugu lass clad in parikini, in the song 'allibilli ammayiki…' reminds us of the rich Telugu culture of yesteryears. In the final part of the film, Savitri plays the role of maya(not real) Sasirekha(Ghatotkacha in disguise).She walks in a masculine manner imitating the legendary SV Ranga Rao acting as Ghatotkacha in the film to perfection.

The theatre rocks with laughter when Lakshmana Kumara (Relangi) is teased by maya Sasirekha. She switches from the feminine to the masculine in the twinkling of an eye and needless to say, a female artiste displaying masculine demon qualities with a club in hand has no parallel. 

Savitri gets totally involved in whatever role she plays. 'Chivaraku Migiledi' is one such film. She played the role of a nurse in a psychiatry ward. In a particular scene the nurse has a nervous breakdown and cries uncontrollably. The shot was over. "CUT", the director said, but Savitri who played the role could not stop crying! Everyone in the set had to run to her and pacify her. The film became a milestone in her career!!

Savitri was awarded the title 'Mahanati' (the Supreme artiste).She also received the Presidential award for her performance in 'Chivaraku Migiledi', the magnum opus of Savitri. She was the recipient of 'Kalaimamani' and 'Nadigayar Tilakam' from Tamil film industry. Savitri had nearly 300 films to her credit. Her career was nearly 30 year long. She was equally admired by Telugu and Tamil film lovers. She also acted in a few Kannada and Hindi films. She had a lion's share of films when she was at the zenith of her career. Her passion for films was so strong that she directed and produced a few films, in spite of certain adversities. 

Savitri was a humane artiste. She was generous to the people who were in need. Once, she donated all the jewellery she was wearing to the then Prime Minister's fund. Her rise as a star was like a meteor. She left the world in 1981 leaving an envied and unsurpassed legacy behind her.

Savitri is no more. But she is among us with her unforgettable roles. Her versatility lives on and on and on. Paying tribute to her, the director and producer Dasari Narayana Rao said:

"... Many artistes are forgotten soon after the death. But, it is not so with Savitri. SHE WILL BE REMEMBERED AS LONG AS CELLULOID LIVES ON. 'All her films would amount to an 'Album of life' due to their range of themes; they encompass human lives and passions in their full diversity. What is cinema? Is it a fiction or a reality? Many people say many things. But Savitri gave a different definition. She said that cinema is ' Life'. Life is eternal. So is cinema because life runs through it. AND SAVITRI IS ETERNAL SINCE SHE GAVE THAT LIFE TO CINEMA."


MAYA BAZAAR



MAYA BAZAAR 

K. V. Reddy's 'Maya Bazaar' has been voted as the 'Greatest Indian Film' in an online poll conducted by a television news channel. The poll was conducted to find out India's greatest film till date, on the occasion of 100 Years of Indian Cinema and people chose 'Maya Bazaar' over other Indian classics. The film is considered one of the enduring classics of Indian cinema and was christened as a landmark achievement in Indian film's cinematography, art direction and VFX with the available technology during that time. The following is a review on the film when it celebrated the Golden Jubilee in 2007.

'Maya Bazaar' forever!



Fifty years ago, director K.V. Reddy or for that matter, producers Nagireddy and Chakrapani, would not have imagined what they were unleashing when they decided to make Maya Bazaar- a bilingual in Telugu and Tamil. 

The finished product hit the screen in 1957 to become a landmark movie in the Telugu film industry. It became a hit not only for the sterling performances of the star-ensemble that it had right from S.V. Ranga Rao, Savitri, NTR, ANR, and Gummadi, but also because K.V. Reddy was in full control over every frame of it.

There is little else one could expect when all time greats like Marcus Bartley (cinematography), Ghantasala (music), M.L.Vasantha Kumari, Leela, Suseela and Madhavapeddi (playback), Gokhale (art), Pasumarthy(choreography) and Pitambaram(makeup) got together to weave magic around an episode from Mahabharatha, Sasirekha Parinayam.

However, the greatness of Maya Bazaar, about which much is said and written, is not just because of these facets alone. It is a tribute to Telugu culture, language and customs of the land. The film was watched repeatedly soon after its release because people identified every character of the film with someone they knew in their immediate vicinity and the audience still do the same now.

The dialogues written by Pingali Nagendra Rao (as well the lyrics) were the same that the people were hearing or using in their conversations every day - if not, those became a part of Telugu life thereafter.Sasirekha, nay Ghatothkacha's Manadi Sodara Prema… became immortalized as much as Suryakantam's antha alamalame kada which has become a way of life in greeting people. As for songs, Aha naa pelli anta still reverberates in marriages and Vivaaha bhojanambu is yet another must.

An entire repertoire was added to the Telugu dictionary by the film. Take for example Talpam used for denoting a cot or a bed. Were Telugus using Gilpam as an antonym of it till the movie's advent? Nor did anyone tell so emphatically until Ghatothkacha that Evaru puttinchakunte maatalela pudathayi and hence if friends are to be called Asamadiyulu then enemies could be termed Tasamadiyulu. Will anyone forget the expression veyandira veediko veeratadu? No exception to hai hai sodara and hai hai naayaka . The story itself is woven around the love of SasirekhaAbhimanyu. With Krishna and Balarama having difference of opinion over it, their wives too take sides as is inevitable in any family. To introduce the theme , the director uses a magic box, (an equivalent of a TV screen) which displays whatever is dear to the viewer's heart.

Sasirekha naturally sees Abhimanyu and Balarama gets to see his sishya, Duryodhana on it. His wife laps up the sight of an array of jewellery and the audience laughed heartily because they knew that someone back home was equally attached to the riches. When Balarama curtly tells his sister, " Subhadra! Aagadalu,aghaayityalu naaku paniki raavu", when he confronted with latter's indignation at his decision to separate Sasirekha and Abhimanyu , womenfolk among the viewers sighed recalling their own tribulations in the hands of such brothers.

Frame after frame impacts viewers with similarities. The greatness of director lies here- he successfully reduces all characters to ordinary mortals displaying all the follies of human beings except Ghatothkacha or Krishna. And then he injects into the Yadava household a Telugu atmosphere, full with its simile, imagery, adage, sarcasm and wit.

The result-a feast for the eyes and soul. That is Maya Bazaar for you. Mind you, this is a story of Paandavas and Kauravas with the Yadavas pitching in. But one never sees the Paandavas throughout the film. We only hear of them.

If any NRI asks you to suggest ways to teach Telugu culture just ask him or her to introduce them to Maya Bazaar first. Further, if they seek to know about their uncles, aunts and cousins back home, bring in their names , “look, this is your Balarama…...

” Any better way of doing it? 

Then onwards it's all Laahiri, laahiri, laahiri lo…….


RENDEZVOUS WITH RAY



RENDEZVOUS WITH RAY 

It was a unique friendship that developed between a French-Canadian priest and one of the world’s greatest film directors, and had a singular impact on Bengali films both academically and practically. It was en-route to India in1961, at a stopover in New York, that 26-year- old Fr. Gaston Roberge was acquainted with the works of Satyajit Ray through the Apu Trilogy. He found the world of Apu so fascinating that he saw all three films in one sitting; and there began his longstanding love affair with the people of India and Bengali cinema and culture, which led to path-breaking work in those fields. In his latest book, Satyajit Ray, Essays1970-2005, a compilation of his essays as the name suggests, being published by Manohar Publishers, New Delhi, Roberge provides a scholarly, original analysis of Ray’s works, giving an insight into the greatness of Ray both as a person and as an artist.

“The Apu Trilogy was, in fact, my first portal to West Bengal and its people,” he told Frontline. In his youth , all he knew of Bengal was through Mircea Eliade’s La Nuit Bengalie, some of Tagore’s poems, and a Reader’s Digest article on Mother Teresa. If the harsh image of poverty brought out by the article on the “Saint of the slums” haunted him, Apu’s world came as a reassurance. “No. Apu, Sarbajaya, even Harihar did not need my help-but how not to love them? I thought it was fortunate that I would soon be among them,” he wrote.

Roberge does not endorse the accusation of Ray’s detractors that the master director made his reputation selling India’s poverty to the West. “What struck me most was not the material poverty depicted in the films, but the enormous spiritual poverty of some rich people is much more deplorable than material poverty,” he said. Roberge does not speak with the arrogance of the West. “ I was here on a quest to know the world and in the process know myself. I did not come here to convert. In fact, I am the one who got converted,” he said.

But it took him nine years after reaching Calcutta (now Kolkatta) and joining St. Xavier’s College, to muster up the confidence to meet Ray in person. “Although I wanted to meet him right away, I didn’t want to just go and see him like he was a living museum piece. I wanted to prepare myself, get to know his works more, so that when we met, there could be a worthwhile dialogue,” he said. When they finally met, it was the beginning of a close friendship that lasted 22 years- until Ray’s death in 1992.

It was a very quiet friendship that developed over the years. Manikda [as Ray was affectionately called by his friends] was a shy person and always very discreet about displaying his emotions,” said Roberge. Though to outsiders, Ray’s massive stature- physical and intellectual- might have made him come across as cold, aloof and even intimidating, he was in reality a very simple and unassuming man with a subtle sense of humour. It was an unspoken arrangement between the two of them to meet on Sundays at 9 a.m. at Ray’s residence on Bishop Lefroy Road, Kolkata. Ray would invite Roberge over for private screenings of his latest films and welcomed comments on them. But this happened only after the friendship had cemented, for in the early days of their dialogue Ray’s shyness prevented him from talking about his own films.

“He was even shy of receiving compliments,” said Roberge. To Roberge, the greatest mark of Ray’s appreciation for him was that he often addressed the French-speaking priest in Bengali, “in spite of my lack of elegance in that language, and the fact that Ray knew both English and Bengali so well.”

Ray’s screenplay manuscripts were an art by themselves, Roberge says, “hand-written in Bengali, with notes in English for his set-designer, with sketches here and there, and occasional staff notation of fragments of music”. One Sunday morning, Roberge found Ray in a disturbed mood. A few well –known personalities of the city had visited him earlier to go through some of his manuscripts. After they left Ray found the Charulatha screenplay missing. Ray was almost sure who the culprit was. “I asked him whether he was planning to take any action, and he said no, and explained to me that he did not want to hurt the reputation of the person. I was absolutely stunned by his humane concern,” said Roberge.

Like Rabindranath Tagore, Ray strode his time like a colossus. Roberge writes, “It is as if all Bengal was in Manikda: the rich and the poor, the powerful and the humble, the peasants and the city persons, children, teenagers, adults and old people, men and women.

” Philosophically too, Roberge feels, Ray took off where Tagore signed out. If one compares the last major prose piece by Tagore, “ Shabhyatar Sankat” ( Crisis of Civilisation), which he wrote at the beginning of the Second World War, which contains his immortal dictum that in spite of what was happening it would be a sin to lose faith in Man, and the last three films of Ray- Ganashatru, Shakha Prashakha, and Agantuk- the analogy becomes clear.

“In these three films Ray was at his most personal and when some critics saw the films as didactic and verbose, he felt deeply hurt. For, in these last films, Satyajit was directly talking to us, conveying his personal message on society and civilization. If the impulse that motivated his earlier films was aesthetics in the last three it was self-expression. And there we were denying him his right to speak. As the saying goes, no one is a prophet in his own country,” said Roberge. An agnostic throughout his life, it is possible, Roberge feels, that in the face of death Ray was searching for an answer. This was suggested by some of the music that he used in Shakha Prashakha.

The last time the two friends met, Ray was in hospital, on his deathbed. It was a Sunday and Roberge, true to habit, arrived on the dot at 9 a.m. “He had grown so weak that he looked frail as a child. I did not stay long, and as I was leaving, Manikda said, ‘Bhalo laglo’ [it was nice]. Those were his last words to me,” said Roberge. 

One important fallout of this friendship was the establishment of Chitrabani, a communication and film institute, the first of its kind in West Bengal, which Roberge founded in 1970 and to which Ray, as a token of friendship, lent his name as co-founder. Ray was in the first governing body and after a few terms readily agreed to be the institute’s adviser. Roberge arranged most of the initial funding from Canadian agencies. “I had no reservations applying for them, for I feel richer countries in the West are indebted to countries like India,” he said.

For 26 years Roberge was the director of Chitrabani and under him the institute not only produced important documentary features, but also became breeding ground for local talent for film-making………..

THE NEVER-NEVER NEST BY CEDRIC MOUNT


THE NEVER-NEVER NEST BY CEDRIC MOUNT


Characters: JACK, Jill (his wife), Nurse and Aunt Jane 

Scene: The lounge of JACK and JILL'S Villa at New Hampstead. The essential furniture consists of tables on which are writing materials, and two chairs. As the curtain rises the lounge is empty, but JACK and JILL come immediately, followed by AUNT JANE.

Jill : And this is the lounge.

Aunt Jane : Charming! Charming! Such a cosy little room! And such pretty furniture.

Jack : (modestly) We like it, you know, handy place to sit in and listen to the radiogram.

Aunt Jane : Oh, have you got a radiogram as well as a car and a piano?

Jack : Why, of course, Aunt Jane. You simply must have a radio set nowadays.

Jill : And it's so nice for me when Jack's away at business. I even make him

move it into the kitchen, so that I can listen to it while I cook.

Jack : Sit down, Aunt Jane, You must be tired-and we've shown you everything now.

Jill : What do you think of our little nest, Aunt Jane?

Aunt Jane : I think it's wonderful, my dears. The furniture-and the car-and the piano and the refrigerator and the radio-what's it- it's wonderful, really

wonderful!

Jack : And we owe it all to you.

Aunt Jane : Yes, Jack, that's what's worrying me.

Jack : Worrying you, Aunt Jane?

Aunt Jane : Yes. That cheque I gave you for your wedding present-it was only two hundred

pounds, wasn't it? I- didn't put two thousand by mistake?

Jill : Why no, Aunt Jane. What on earth made you think that?

Aunt Jane : (relieved) Well, that's all right. But I still don't altogether understand. This houseit's very lovely-but doesn't it cost a great deal for rent?

Jack : Rent? Oh, no, we don't pay rent.

Aunt Jane : But, Jack, if you don't pay rent, you'll get turned out-into the street. And that would never do. You've Jill and the baby to think of now, you know.

Jack : No, no, Aunt Jane. You misunderstood me. We don't pay rent because the house is ours.

Aunt Jane : YOURS?

Jill : Why, yes; you just pay ten pounds and it's yours.

JACK : You see, Aunt Jane, we realized how uneconomic it is to go on paying rent year

after year, when you can buy and enjoy a home of your own for ten pounds-and

a few quarterly payments, of course. Why be Mr. Tenant when you can be Mr. Owner?

Aunt Jane : I see. Yes, there's something in that. Even so, you must be getting on very well to

keep up a place like this.

Jill : Oh, he is, Aunt Jane. Why, only last year he had a five shilling rise-didn't you,

Jack?

Jack : (modestly) Of course that was nothing, really. I'm expecting ten this Christmas.

Aunt Jane : (suddenly) Jack! I've just thought of something. That car-is it yours?

Jill : Of course it's ours.

Aunt Jane : All yours?

Jack : Well, no, not exactly all.

Aunt Jane : How much of it?

Jill : Oh, I should say the steering wheel-and one of the tyres -- and about two of the cylinders. But don't you see, that's the wonderful thing about it.

Aunt Jane : I don't see anything wonderful about it.

Jill : But there is, Aunt Jane. You see, although we could never buy a car outright, we

can enjoy all the pleasures of motoring for a mere five pounds down.

Aunt Jane : And the rest by easy installments, I suppose.

Jill : Exactly.

Aunt Jane : Exactly. And what about the radio-what's it?

Jack : Well, that's the Aunt Jane : And the piano?

Jill : Well, of course Aunt Jane : And the furniture?

Jack : I-I'm afraid so Aunt Jane : I suppose all you own is this leg. (She points to one)

Jill : Well, no, as a matter of fact, it's that one. (She points to another.)

Aunt Jane : And the rest belongs to Mr. Sage, I suppose?

Jill : Er-Yes.

Aunt Jane : Well. I'm not going to sit on-Mr. Sage's part for any one. (She stands up.)

Now, tell me, how much do all these installments come to?

Jack : Well, actually-(He takes out his pocket-book and consults it.)- actually to

seven pounds eight and eight pence a week.

Aunt Jane : Good heavens! And how much do you earn?

Jack : As a matter of fact-er-that is-six pounds.

Aunt Jane : But that's absurd! How can you pay seven pounds eight and eight pence out of

six pounds?

Jack : Oh, that's easy. You see, all you have to do is to borrow the rest of the money

for the payments from the Thrift and Providence Trust Corporation.

Jill : They're only too glad to loan you any amount you like, on note of hand alone.

Aunt Jane : And how do you propose to pay that back?

Jack : Oh, that's easy, too. You just pay it back in installments.

Aunt Jane : Installments! (She claps her hand to her forehead and sinks back weakly

into the chair. Then realises that she is sitting on Mr. Sage's piece and

leaps to her feet again with a little shriek.)

Jack : Aunt Jane! Is anything the matter? Would you like to lie down?

Aunt Jane : Lie down? Do you suppose I'm going to trust myself in a bed that belongs to

Mr. Sage, or Marks and Spencer, or somebody? No, I am going home.

Jill : Oh, must you really go?

Aunt Jane : I think I'd better.

Jack : I'll drive you to the station.

Aunt Jane : What! Travel in a car that has only one tyre and two thingummies! No thank

you-I'll take the bus.

Jack : Well, of course, if you feel like that about it....

Aunt Jane : (relenting a little) Now, I'm sorry if I sounded rude, but really I'm shocked to

find the way you're living. I've never owed a penny in my life-cash down, that's

my motto and I want you to do the same. (She opens her handbag.) Now look,

here's a little cheque I was meaning to give you, anyway. (She hands it to Jill.)

Suppose you take it and pay off just one of your bills- so that you can say one

thing at least really belongs to you.

Jill : (awkwardly)Er-thank you. Aunt Jane. It's very nice of you.

Aunt Jane : (patting her arm)There! Now I must be going.

Jack : I'll see you to the bus anyway.

Jill : Good-bye, Aunt Jane-and thanks so much for the present.

Aunt Jane : (kissing her)Good-bye, my dear.

(She and Jack go out. Jill looks at the cheque and exclaims 'Ten pounds!'

Then she hurries to the table, addresses an envelope, endorses the cheque

and slips it inside with a bill which she takes from the bag and seals the

envelope. Then she rings the bell. In a moment the nurse comes in with the

baby in her arms.)

Jill : Oh, nurse. I want you to run and post this for me. I'll look after baby while you're gone.

Nurse : Certainly, madam. (She hands the baby to Jill, takes the letter, and goes.)

(A second later Jack comes in again.)

Jack : Well, she's gone! What a tartar! Still, she did leave us a bit on account-how much was it?

Jill : Ten pounds.

Jack : (with a whistle) Phew! That's great! We can pay off the next two months on the car with that.

Jill : I-I'm afraid we can't Jack : Why ever not?

Jill : You see, I-I've already sent it off for something else. Nurse has just gone to post it.

Jack : Well that's all right. Who have you sent it to?

Jill : Dr. Martin.

Jill : (nearly in tears) There! Now you're going to be angry with me.

Jack : I'm not angry! But why waste good money on the doctor? Doctors don't expect to get paid anyway.

Jill : (sobbing a little) But-but you don't understand -

Jack : Understand what?

Jill : Why; just one more installment and BABY'S REALLY OURS! (She is holding out the infant, a little pathetically, as we black out.)

 

ANOTHER WOMAN (POEM) BY MS.IMTIAZ DHARKER



ANOTHER WOMAN BY MS.IMTIAZ DHARKER


This morning she bought green 'methi'

in the market, choosing the freshest bunch;

picked up a white radish,

imagined the crunch it would make

between her teeth, the sweet sharp taste,

then put it aside, thinking it

an extravagance, counted her coins

out carefully, tied them, a small bundle

into her sari at the waist;

came home, faced her mother-in-law's

dark looks, took

the leaves and chopped them,

her hands stained yellow from the juice;

cut an onion, fine and cooked

the whole thing in the pot

over the stove,

shielding her face from the heat.


The usual words came and beat

their wings against her: the money spent,

curses heaped upon her parents,

who had sent her out

to darken other people's doors.

She crouched, as usual, on the floor

beside the stove,

When the man came home

she did not look into his face

nor raise her head; but bent

her back a little more.

Nothing gave her the right

to speak.


She watched the flame hiss up

and beat against the cheap old pot,

a wing of brightness

against its blackened cheek.

This was the house she had been sent to,

the man she had been bound to,

the future she had been born into.

So when the kerosene was thrown

(just a moment of surprise, A brilliant spark)

It was the only choice

that she had ever known.

Another torch, blazing in the dark.

Another woman.

We shield our faces from the heat.

BY MS.IMTIAZ DHARKER

Ms.Imtiaz Dharker was born in Lahore in Pakistan in 1954 and brought up in Glasgow, Scotland. She is ranked on par with some of the famous women poets of India such as, Kamala Das, Sujatha Bhatt and Tara Patel. She is not only a poet but also a painter and an accomplished documentary film maker. Her collections of poetry include Purdah, Postcards from God, and I Speak for the Devil, The Terrorist at My Table and Leaving Fingerprints.

THE JOURNEY BY YESHE DORJEE THONGCHI (TRANSLATED BY D P NATH)



THE JOURNEY BY YESHE DORJEE THONGCHI (TRANSLATED BY D P NATH) 


After spending a leisurely Sunday at home, the very thought of returning to work on Monday is tiring. Lethargy creeps in if the holiday continues over an extended period. That is how I felt when I was preparing to return to my place of work after spending six months at home. The fact that I was to leave behind my newly-wed wife and go to a far-off place did not help either. Obviously I did not want to go. 

However, I finally did decide to go. I did not have much to carry by way of luggage – just a trunk. Ours is a hilly terrain, without any motorable roads – and there is no certainty that we are ever going to have any roads. In any case, while coming home we do not carry bedding. Besides, I had come home this time round for a special purpose: to get married. My parents had arranged my marriage according to the customs of our tribal society. Time flew, and five months into my marriage I realized it. Initially I thought of extending my leave – even taking unpaid leave. But after some dilly-dallying I finally decided against it because marriage had increased my responsibilities and I had got into debt.

On my way home from the bus stop my trunk had been carried by a porter. The problem now was we couldn’t find anyone who could help me carry the trunk to the bus stop. At another time of the year we would have easily found someone to help me, but now most of the villagers were busy in the fields. Nobody had time to spare for me. In fact, carrying the trunk should not have been such a worry for me except that my education had made me shun physical labour. After all I was a government officer and the idea of people seeing me carry my own luggage was not at all amusing. Otherwise for a young man like me it should not have been an issue to carry a 20- kilo chest on my back. 

Finally, my father came up with a solution. ‘Don’t worry. I myself will see you off at Dirang.’ 

I protested. How could I allow my old father to carry my trunk? What would people think? What would they say? But I failed to dissuade him. It was decided that Father would carry the chest.

A large crowd gathered at our place the day I was to leave. People had come to wish me luck. It was 10.20 when I left for Dirang. My father had already left. As I had to do a bit of catching up, I walked fast. Three kilometres down the road I caught up with my father. Father said, ‘You are late. Would you like to rest for some time?’

Having walked fast I was tired. Moreover, I had to cross two hills on the way up to the spot. I quickly sat down on a rock. My father laughed at my plight. 

‘So this little distance has tired you? Rest for a while. But we have to be in time for the bus.’ 

Father was quiet for some time. He thoughtfully looked at the sun for a moment, and then his eyes fell on the can of home-made wine that I was carrying. Wetting his lips with his tongue he said in a matter-of-fact manner, ‘I am thirsty’.

I gave him the can of wine. He poured himself a mug and handed me the can. He drank all of it at one go. He then arranged the belt that was attached to the trunk carefully on his forehead. So, this was the picture: my father carrying my luggage on his back and me following him with a tiny bag in my hand. We were walking up a narrow hilly road, and neither of us uttered a word as if we were strangers who spoke different languages. I did not know what was going on in his mind. From time to time it crossed my mind that it was improper for me to let Father carry the luggage. I wanted to tell him that I would like to carry the trunk myself, but my guilt and shame did not allow me to do so. This self consciousness had probably to do with my education, the white-collar job that I had, or quite simply my pride. Somehow, I had the feeling that if I carried the luggage, my father and my people, in fact the whole world would laugh at me and I would be belittled.

Father had provided for my education, and I had been able to realize his dreams. My parents were truly proud of me. It was through me that they had earned a greater degree of admiration and respect from the villagers. My father would not like to see me carrying a trunk on my back and would be very hurt if I did so. I concluded that it would be better to let him carry it. Father was used to carrying luggage anyway. He was stronger and more skilled than me in these matters. I had never got used to physical labour having stayed in hostels right from my childhood. So, in spite of my youth and strength, I was physically useless. I continued walking silently with Father. We rested at two places on the way and had our tiffin but we hardly talked. Finally, we reached Dirang. The bus from Tawang had not yet reached Dirang and so we had some time in hand. We entered a tea shop and sat facing each other. Father appeared tired. I felt sorry for him but couldn’t bring myself to say anything. I asked the waiter to get us two cups of tea. Just as I was going to take my first sip, I heard Father’s voice, ‘Do you have a pair of old shoes?’ 

‘Why? I asked.

‘The road is uneven and full of pebbles. It hurts while walking.’

I looked at Father’s bare feet. Never having worn shoes, his feet had developed cracks and somehow resembled those of an elephant. I noticed this for the first time. I hadn’t noticed that the road was uneven. I didn’t have to since I was wearing a pair of hunting boots. I checked my wallet and saw I still had around Rs.40 with me. A pair of canvas shoes would cost around Rs.12 and the remaining amount would be enough for me to get to Bomdila. 

My father protested. ‘Give me an old pair. You don’t have to spend money on new shoes.’ I couldn’t convince him to buy a new pair. Reluctantly I gave him the hunting boots I was wearing. I then took out my pair of leather shoes from the trunk, and noticed my father’s face lighting up with contentment. Suddenly he looked at me and said, ‘Take care. Write to us...’

Father wanted to say something but the bus started moving. I saw my father gradually receding into the distance. I saw that the road we had come by looked like a giant motionless rope. Father would use the same road to go back home. Simultaneously our journeys started in two opposite directions, with me seated in the luxurious seat of a bus and Father walking back with weary legs on the pebble-strewn road.

BY YESHE DORJEE THONGCHI (TRANSLATED BY D P NATH)

Yeshe Dorjee Thongchi (born in May, 1952) is a prominent name in Assamese literature. Though he grew up in poverty, he studied well and entered Arunachal Pradesh Civil Service and was later elevated to the Indian Administrative Service. He writes fiction, drama and essays in Assamese and English. He has received national recognition with his novel ‘Mouna Ounth Mukhar Hriday’, which won the Sahitya Academy award in 2005. Many of Thongchi’s novels, including Sonam, deal with the cultural life of the Monpa and the Sherdukpen tribes of Arunachal Pradesh.

THE BRAVE POTTER BY MARGUERITE SIEK



THE BRAVE POTTER BY MARGUERITE SIEK 

Marguerite Siek has chosen a very well-known Indian folktale for retelling in English. Children and adults alike are fond of folktales, which are often amusing and sometimes instructive. 

It was dark. Thick black clouds covered the evening sky. The thunder roared and the strong wind shook the branches and leaves of the trees in the forest. Pit. . . pat . . . pit, drops of rain fell. Then the lightning flashed and split the black sky with its blinding light. Soon it was raining heavily. 

An old tiger ran through the rain looking for shelter. He was wet and cold and his cave was far away. While hurrying to his shelter he saw an old hut. With a sigh of relief the tiger crawled under the thatched roof and lay down by the door. Except for the sound of the rain all was quiet. Before he could nod off, however, he heard something heavy being dragged inside the hut. This was followed by the voice of a woman.

'Oh, how terrible this leak is!' she complained. 'How terrible! I would rather meet a tiger in the forest than have this leak in my house!' 

'A leak?' the tiger thought. 'What is a leak? It must be very dangerous and strong or the woman would not be more frightened of the leak than of me. Am I not rightly called the king of the forest? Aren't they all afraid of me? I wonder what a leak looks like . . .? 

Soon afterwards the tired tiger fell asleep. He was suddenly awakened by an angry voice shouting in his ear. He felt heavy blows fall upon his head and shoulders.

'You horrible beast!' a voice screamed angrily. 'How dare you run away? How dare you make me walk about in the middle of the night trying to find you! Be careful, one of these days I'll kill you! Now, go home!' 

The old tiger shivered. 'This must be the leak who has come out of the hut. I'd better do as he says or he will kill me.' 

So the tiger allowed himself to be bound around the neck with a thick rope. The mysterious creature then climbed onto the tiger's back and pulled at the rope. 'Come on, head for home!' shouted the voice. The tiger felt a sharp kick on his side. The tiger was terrified and he ran through the dark forest. The creature pulled hard on the rope to tell him which way to go. At the same time it scolded, cursed and kicked the poor tiger. Soon they stopped in front of a small hut on the edge of the thick forest. The creature climbed down from the tiger's back and bound him with an iron chain to a nearby tree. Then he went inside the hut. The tiger could not free himself from the chain; so he had to spend a miserable night under the tree. Who was this creature who was able to capture such a large and dangerous tiger? Let's find out.

On the afternoon of that day, a potter had arrived home after a hard day's work. He was tired and thirsty. He had asked his wife for some palm-wine. The more he drank, the better he felt. When he had drunk all the wine he no longer felt tired. When the storm began the potter suddenly remembered that he had left his donkey tied under a tree. He rushed out of his hut to take the animal into the stable. You can imagine his anger when he discovered that the donkey was not there anymore -- the only thing left was its chain! 

'My stupid donkey must have run off into the forest,' he grumbled. 'When I catch him I'll give him a good beating!'

The potter walked through the wet forest. When it became dark he often stumbled over roots and fallen branches. With each step the potter felt angrier and angrier with his donkey. 

'When I catch him, I'll tie him up under the tree all night,' he muttered to himself. 

Hours later, the potter reached the old woman's hut. There he saw an animal sleeping in front of the door.

'There he is!' he shouted. 'There he is, the stupid animal!' 

The drunken potter did not notice the difference between the donkey and a tiger. He kicked and beat the sleeping tiger. He then jumped onto the frightened animal's back, rode it home, and then tied it up with the iron chain.

Next morning the villagers who passed the potter's house looked in amazement at the tiger tied to the tree. Soon the news spread throughout the village that the potter had caught a tiger and tied it to a tree in his yard. All the villagers praised his courage. They also thanked him because the tiger had eaten many of their goats and buffaloes. They had tried to catch him for many years but had failed. Of course, the potter said that he had done nothing of the sort. He said that he had only brought his donkey home. He did not understand how a donkey could change into a tiger! When he saw the tiger, he fainted. 

Nobody, however, believed the potter's story. The villagers even praised him for being modest. Soon the potter became famous. Everybody who met him called him the brave potter. The simple potter himself never understood why.

A few years later war broke out between the potter's country and a much stronger neighbour. The king immediately gathered a large army. But he realized that it was not strong enough to save his country from defeat. He needed a hero to lead his army. Where could he find such a brave man? The king hurriedly called his ministers together and asked their advice.

One of the ministers remembered the story of the brave potter. 

'Your Majesty,' the minister said, 'I know someone who can lead our army.' 

The king immediately sent a messenger to the potter's house. When the potter realized that he had been made General of the Army, he became frightened. The king had ordered him to go to the palace the next day. How could he, a poor ignorant potter, become the General of the Army? He had never carried a sword, nor had he ever ridden a horse. 'Oh, I shall die because of that stupid donkey,' groaned the potter to his wife. 'He has only brought us trouble.'

The next day he went with his wife to the capital. The king was pleased to see him and ordered the potter to lead the army into battle the next day. The enemy were not far from the gates of the city. A splendid house had been prepared for the potter and his wife. The horse which would carry him into battle was ready in the stable. That night the potter could not sleep. He was nervous and worried because he did not know how to ride a horse.

'If I fall off, everybody will laugh at me,' he thought. 'I will get up very early tomorrow and practice riding the horse.' At dawn the potter woke up his wife and they went to the stable. They saw the beautiful black horse ready for its new master.

'Oh, how tall he is!' sighed the potter. 'I shall never be able to climb onto his back.’

'Put this bench beside him', said his wife, 'and use it as a step. 

Even with the help of the bench the potter had much difficulty climbing onto the horse's back. When he was finally seated, he found that the saddle was very slippery. 'Please tie my feet to the stirrups, dear wife,' said the potter, 'otherwise I shall certainly fall off.'

His wife found some rope and bound her husband's feet tightly to the stirrups. She then passed the rope underneath the horse and tied the two stirrups together. She also passed a length of rope around the potter's waist and tied him to the saddle. 

'Now please tie my hands to his neck,' said the potter. Meanwhile the big black horse was impatiently pawing his hooves on the ground. When the potter's wife tried to pass another rope around its neck, the horse suddenly jumped free. It galloped out of the stable with the potter hanging like a sack of rice on its back. Only the ropes kept him from crashing to the ground. The potter held tightly to the horse's neck and prayed to all the gods to save his life. After galloping through the quiet streets, the horse crashed through the city gates and raced across the open fields. It leapt over fences and streams, and began to head for the enemy's camp. When the potter realized where they were going he tried harder than ever to stop the horse. He pulled wildly on the reins but it was no use; the horse galloped on.

When they passed a young tree the potter grabbed a branch. But the horse did not stop. Instead the tree was pulled out of the ground. A sentry from the enemy camp saw the potter galloping towards the camp with a tree in one hand and his reins in the other. 'That must be the General who captured a tiger with his bare hands,' he thought. 'Now he has uprooted a tree with only one hand! He is not an ordinary man-he's a giant!' 'Run, run, save yourselves! The famous Tiger-General is coming at the head of a large army to attack us. He has the strength of a giant! He has uprooted a tree with one hand!' 

The frightened soldiers fled. Their king was left by himself in his tent. Hurriedly he wrote a letter begging for peace and apologizing for attacking the country. He left this letter in the tent. Then he jumped on his horse and followed his soldiers. When the potter's black horse reached the deserted camp it stopped. With shaking hands the potter untied his feet and fell to the ground. When he looked around he was surprised to find the camp empty. He looked in the king's tent and found the letter. The puzzled potter walked back to the city with the letter in his pocket. He went to his wife and gave her the letter.

'Dear wife,' he said, 'never in my life will I ride a horse again. Please take this letter to our king and tell him that the enemy has run away. I am going to bed.' His wife ran towards the palace with the letter. When the king read the letter, he was full of praise for his new. 

General He asked the potter's wife where her husband was. 'My husband is tired, Your Majesty. The servants have put him to bed,' answered the wife respectfully.

'Let him rest today. Tell him to come tomorrow to receive his reward,' the king said. 

Next morning the potter went to the king's palace. He left the black horse in the stable and walked to the palace with his wife. The streets were filled with cheering crowds. They had all heard about his brave action. 

'Look how humble he is,' they said to each other. 

'Any other man would ride to the palace on a horse but he is walking like an ordinary man. He's truly a humble and brave man.' 

The king rewarded the potter so well that he did not need to work again. The country was peaceful for the rest of his life and the potter never rode a horse again.

BY MARGUERITE SIEK

Marguerite Siek was a great story teller. He was very much interested in telling folk and mythological stories of Asia. He travelled across many Asian countries and collected interesting short stories from various countries and published them in English. He translated many famous Indian folk stories into English. The present short story 'The Brave Potter' is a very popular Telugu one collected by him from India.

THE DEAR DEPARTED BY WILLIAM STANLEY HOUGHTOR

THE DEAR DEPARTED (PART - I)

 

THE DEAR DEPARTED (PART - II)

 


THE DEAR DEPARTED BY WILLIAM STANLEY HOUGHTON

CHARACTERS:

SISTERS : Mrs. Amelia Slater / Mrs. Elizabeth Jordan

HUSBANDS OF AMELIA AND ELIZABETH : Henry Slater / Ben Jordan

Victoria Slater - a girl of ten (Amelia's daughter)

Abel Merry weather - (father of Amelia and Elizabeth)

(When the curtain rises Mrs. Slater is seen laying the table. She is a vigorous, plump, red-faced, vulgar woman prepared to do any amount of straight talking to get her own way. She is in black. She goes to the window, opens it and calls into the street)

Mrs. Slater: (sharply) Victoria, Victoria! D'ye hear? Come in, will you? 

Mrs. Slater: I'm amazed at you, Victoria. I really am. Be off now, and change your dress before your Aunt Elizabeth and your Uncle Ben come. It would never do for them to find you in colours with grandfather lying dead, upstairs. 

Victoria: What are they coming for? They haven't been here for ages.

Mrs. Slater: They're coming to talk over poor grandpa's affairs. Your father sent them a telegram as soon as we found he was dead. (A noise is heard) 

(Henry Slater, a stooping, heavy man with a drooping moustache, enters. He is wearing a black tailcoat, grey trousers, a black tie and a bowler hat.) 

Henry: I'm wondering if they'll come at all. When you and Elizabeth quarreled she said she'd never set foot in your house again.

Mrs. Slater: She'll come fast enough after her share of what our father's left. You know how hard she can be when she likes. Where she gets it from I can't tell.

Henry: I suppose it's in the family. (pause) Where are my slippers? 

Mrs. Slater: In the kitchen; but you want a new pair, those old ones are nearly worn out. (Nearly breaking down) You don't seem to realize what it's costing me to bear up like I am doing. My heart's fit to break when I see the little trifles that belonged to father lying around, and think he'll never use them again. (Briskly) here! You'd better wear these slippers of my father's now. It's lucky he'd just got a new pair.

Henry: They'll be very small for me, my dear. 

Mrs. Slater: They'll stretch, won't they? I'm not going to have them wasted. (She has finished laying the table.) Henry, I've been thinking about that bureau of my father's that's in his bedroom. You know I always wanted to have it after he died. 

Henry: You must arrange with Elizabeth when you're dividing things up.

Mrs. Slater: Elizabeth's that sharp she'll see I'm after it, and we'll drive a hard bargain over it.

Henry: Perhaps she's got her eye on the bureau as well. 

Mrs. Slater: She's got her eye on the bureau as well. 

Mrs. Slater: She's never been here since father bought it. If it was only down here instead of in his room, she'd never guess it wasn't our own.

Henry: (startled): Amelia! (He rises) Mrs. Slater : Henry, why shouldn't we bring that bureau down here now? We can do it before they come.

Henry: (stupefied) I wouldn't care to. 

Mrs. Slater: Don't look so daft. Why not?

Henry: It doesn't seem delicate, somehow. 

Mrs. Slater: We could put that shabby old chest of drawers upstairs where the bureau is now. Elizabeth could have that and welcome. I've always wanted to get rid of it. (She points to the drawers.)

Henry: Suppose they come when we're doing it. 

Mrs. Slater: I'll fasten the front door. Get your coat off, Henry. We'll change it. 

(Mrs. Slater goes out to fasten the front door. Henry takes his coat off. Mrs. Slater reappears.)

Mrs. Slater: I'll run up and move the chairs out of the way. 

(Victoria appears, dressed according to her mother's (instructions) 

Victoria: What have you got your coat off for, father? 

Henry: Mother and I are going to bring grandfather's bureau down here. 

Victoria: Are you planning to pinch it?

Henry: (Shocked) No, my child. Grandpa gave it to your mother before he died. 

Victoria: This morning?

Henry: Yes. 

Victoria: Ah! He was drunk this morning. 

(Mrs. Slater appears carrying a handsome clock under her arm.)

Mrs. Slater: I thought I'd fetch this down as well. (She puts it on the mantelpiece) Ourclock's worth nothing and this always appealed to me.

Victoria: That's grandpa's clock. 

Mrs. Slater: Be quiet! It's ours now. Come, Henry, lift your end.

(Henry and Mrs. Slater, very hot and flushed, stagger in with a pretty old fashioned bureau containing a locked desk. They put it where the chest of drawers was, and straighten the ornaments, etc. There is a knock at the door. The knocking is repeated.) 

(Victoria ushers in Ben and Mrs. Jordan. The latter is a stout, complacent woman with an irritating air of being always right. She is wearing an outfit of new mourning. Ben is also in complete new mourning. He is rather a jolly little man, but at present trying to adapt himself to the regrettable occasion. Mrs. Jordan sails into the room and solemnly goes straight to Mrs. Slater and kisses her. The men shake hands.)

Mrs. Jordan: Well, Amelia, and so he's gone at last. 

Mrs. Slater: Yes, he's gone. He was seventy-two a fortnight last Sunday. (She sniffs back a tear.) 

Ben (chirpily): Now, Amelia, you mustn't give way. We've all got to die some time or other.

Mrs. Jordan: And now perhaps you'll tell us all about it. 

Mrs. Slater: Father had been merry this morning. He went out soon after breakfast to pay his insurance. 

Ben: My word, it's a good thing he did.

Mrs. Jordan: He always was thoughtful in that way. He was too honourable to have 'gone' without paying his premium. 

Henry: And when I came in I found him undressed sure enough and snug in bed.

Mrs. Slater: And when we'd finished dinner I thought I'd take up a bit of something on a tray. He was lying there for all the world as if he was asleep, so I put the tray down on the bureau-(correcting herself) on the chest of drawers - and went to waken him. (A pause) He was quite cold.

(A pause. They wipe their eyes and sniff back tears.) 

Mrs. Slater: (Rising briskly at length; in a business-like tone) Well, will you go up and look at him now, or shall we have tea?

Mrs. Jordan: What do you say, Ben? 

Ben : I'm not particular. 

Mrs. Jordan: (surveying the table) Well, then, if the kettle's ready, we may as well have tea first. (Mrs. Slater puts the kettle on the fire and gets tea ready.)

Henry: One thing we may as well decide now is the announcement in the papers. 

Mrs. Jordan: I was thinking of that. What would you put? (A pause) 

Mrs. Jordan: Well, we'll think about it after tea, and then we'll look through his bits of things and make a list of them. There's all the furniture in his room.

Henry: There's no jewellery or valuables of that sort. 

Mrs. Jordan: Except his gold watch. He promised that to our Jimmy. 

Mrs. Slater: Promised your Jimmy! I never heard of that. 

Mrs. Jordan: Oh, but he did, Amelia, when he was living with us. He was very fond of Jimmy

Mrs. Slater: Well, (Amazed) I don't know! 

Ben: Anyhow, there's his insurance money. Have you got the receipt for the premium he paid this morning? 

Mrs. Slater: I've not seen it. (Victoria jumps up from the sofa and comes behind the table.)

Victoria: Mother, I don't think Grandpa went to pay his insurance this morning. 

Mrs. Slater: He went out. 

Victoria: Yes, but he didn't go into the town. He met old Mr. Tatters all down the street, and they went off past St. Philip's Church.

Ben: Do you think he hasn't paid it? Was it overdue? 

Mrs. Slater: I should think it was overdue. 

Mrs. Jordan: Something tells me he's not paid it. 

Ben: The drunken old beggar.

Mrs. Jordan: He's done it on purpose, just to annoy us. 

Mrs. Slater: After all I've done for him, having to put up with him in the house these three years. It's nothing short of swindling. 

Mrs. Jordan: I had to put up with him for five years.

Mrs. Slater: And you were trying to turn him over to us all the time. 

Henry: But we don't know for certain that he's not paid the premium. 

Mrs. Slater: Victoria, run upstairs and fetch that bunch of keys that's on your Grandpa's dressing-table.

Victoria: (timidly) In Grandpa's room? 

Mrs. Slater: Yes. 

Victoria: I - I don't like to. 

Mrs. Slater: Don't talk so silly. There's no one can hurt you. (Victoria goes out reluctantly) We'll see if he's locked the receipt up in the bureau.

Ben: In where? In this thing? (He rises and examines it.) 

Mrs. Jordan: (also rising) Where did you pick that up, Amelia? It's new since last I was here. (They examine it closely.) 

Mrs. Slater: Oh - Henry picked it up one day. (Victoria returns, very scared. She closes the door after her.)

Victoria: Mother! Mother! 

Mrs. Slater: What is it, child? 

Victoria: Grandpa's getting up. 

Ben: What? 

Mrs. Slater: What do you say?

Victoria: Grandpa's getting up. 

Mrs. Jordan: The child's crazy. 

Mrs. Slater: Don't talk so silly. Don't you know your grandpa's dead?

Victoria: No, no; he's getting up. I saw him. (They are transfixed with amazement; Victoria clings to Mrs. Slater.) 

Ben: (Suddenly) Hist! Listen.

(They look at the door. A slight chuckling is heard from upstairs. The door opens, revealing an old man clad in a faded but gay dressing-gown. He is in his stocking feet. Although over seventy, he is vigorous and well coloured. His bright, malicious eyes twinkle under his heavy, reddish-gray eye brows. He is obviously either the old man ABEL MERRYWEATHER or else his ghost.)

Abel: What’s the matter with little Vicky? 

(He sees Ben and Mrs. Jordan) Hello! What brings you here? How’s yourself, Ben? 

(Abel thrusts his hand at Ben who skips back smartly and retreats with Mrs. Jordan to a safe distance below the sofa.) 

Mrs. Slater: (approaching Abel gingerly)Father, is that you? (She pokes him with her hand to see if he is solid.)

Abel: Of course it’s me. Don’t do that, Melia. What the devil do you mean by this tomfoolery? 

Mrs. Jordan: You took us by surprise, father. Are you keeping quite well?

Abel: (trying to catch the words) Eh? What? 

Mrs. Jordan: Are you quite well? 

Abel: Aye, I’m right enough but for a bit of a headache. (Looking at Melia) Melia, what the dickens did I do with my new slippers?

Mrs. Slater: (confused) Aren’t they by the hearth, father? 

Abel: I don’t see them. (Observing Henry trying to remove the slippers) Why, you’ve got ‘em on, Henry

Mrs. Slater: (promptly) I told him to put them on to stretch them; they were that new and hard. Now, Henry. 

(Mrs. Slater snatches the slippers from Henry and gives them to Abel, who puts them on and sits in armchair.) 

Mrs. Jordan: (to Ben) Well, I don’t call that delicate, stepping into a dead man’s shoes in such haste.

(Victoria runs across to Abel and sits on the floor at his feet.)

Victoria: Oh, Grandpa, I’m so glad you’re not dead. 

Mrs. Slater: (in a vindictive whisper) Hold your tongue, Victoria. 

Abel: Eh? What’s that? Who’s gone dead?

Mrs. Slater: (loudly) Victoria says she’s sorry about your head. 

Abel: Ah, thank you, Vicky, but I’m feeling better. 

Abel: Why, Ben, you are in mourning! And Lizzie too. And Melia, and Henry and little Vicky! Who‘s gone dead? It’s someone in the family. 

(He chuckles.)

Mrs. Slater: No one you know, father. A relation of Ben’s. 

Abel: And what relation of Ben’s? 

Mrs. Slater: His brother. 

Ben: (to Mrs. Slater) Damn it, I never had one.

Abel: Dear, dear. And what was his name, Ben? 

Ben: (at a loss) Er-er. (He crosses to front of table.) 

Mrs. Slater: (Right side of table, prompting) Frederick. 

Mrs. Jordan: (Left side of table, prompting) Albert. 

Ben: Er-Fred –Alb-Isaac

Abel: Isaac? And where did your brother Isaac die? 

Ben: In-er-in Australia. 

Abel (rising): Well, I suppose you’ve only been waiting for me to begin tea. I’m feeling hungry.

Mrs. Slater: (taking up the kettle) I’ll make tea. 

Abel: Come along, now, sit you down and let’s be jolly. 

(Abel sits at the head of the table, facing spectators.)

Abel: (suddenly recollecting) Ay, ‘Melia and Henry, what the devil did you mean by shifting my bureau out of my bedroom? (Henry and Mrs. Slater are speechless.) D’you hear me? Henry! Melia!’ 

Mrs. Jordan: What bureau was that, father? 

Abel: Why, my bureau, the one I bought –

Mrs. Jordan: (pointing to the bureau) was it the one, father? 

Abel: Ah, that’s it. What’s it doing there? Eh? 

(A pause… The clock on the mantelpiece strikes six. Everyone looks at it.) 

Drat me if that isn’t my clock, too. What the devil’s been going on in this house? 

(A slight pause)

Ben: well, I’ll be hanged. 

Mrs. Jordan: (rising) I’ll tell you what’s been going on in this house, father. Nothing short of robbery. 

Mrs. Slater: Be quiet, Elizabeth. Mrs. Jordan : I’ll not be quiet. Oh, I call it double-faced. 

Henry: Now, now, Elizabeth

Mrs. Jordan: And you, too. Are you such a poor creature that you must do every dirty thing she tells you? 

Abel: (rising; thumping the table) Damn it all, will someone tell me what’s been going on? 

Mrs. Jordan: Yes, I will. I’ll not see you robbed. 

Abel: Who’s been robbing me?

Mrs. Jordan: Amelia and Henry. They’ve stolen your clock and bureau. 

(Working herself up) 

They sneaked into your room like thieves in the night and stole them after you were dead. 

Henry and Mrs. Slater: Hush! Quiet, Elizabeth! 

Mrs. Jordan: I’ll not be stopped. After you were dead, I say.

Abel: After who was dead? 

Mrs. Jordan: You. 

Abel: But I’m not dead. 

Mrs. Jordan: No, but they thought you were. 

(A pause... Abel gazes round at them.) 

Abel: Oho! So that’s why you’re all in black to-day. You thought I was dead. (He chuckles.) That was a big mistake. (He sits and resumes his tea.) 

Mrs. Slater: (sobbing) Father

Abel: It didn’t take you long to start dividing my things between you. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. Since your mother died, I’ve lived part of the time with you, Amelia, and part with you, Lizzie. Well, I shall make a new will, leaving all my bits of things to whoever I’m living with when I die. How does that strike you? 

Mrs. Jordan: You know, father, it’s quite time you came to live with us again. We’d make you very comfortable.

Mrs. Slater: No, he’s not been with us as long as he was with you. 

Mrs. Jordan: I may be wrong, but I don’t think father will fancy living on with you after what’s happened today. 

Abel: It seems to me that neither of you has any cause to feel proud about the way you’ve treated me.

Mrs. Slater: If I’ve done anything wrong, I’m sure I’m sorry for it. 

Mrs. Jordan: And I can’t say more than that, too. 

Abel: It’s a bit late to say it, now. Neither of you cared to put up with me. 

Mrs. Slater and Mrs. Jordan: No, no, father.

Abel: Aye, you both say that because of what I’ve told you about leaving my money. Well, since you don’t want me I’ll go to someone that does. 

Ben: Come, Mr. Merry weather, you’ve got to live with one of your daughters.

Abel: I’ll tell you what I’ve got to do. On Monday next I’ve got to do three things. I’ve got to go to the lawyer and alter my will; and I’ve got to go to the insurance office and pay my premium and I’ve got to go to St Philip’s Church and get married.

Ben and Henry: What! 

Mrs. Jordan: Get married! 

Mrs. Slater: He’s out of his senses. (General consternation)

Abel: I say I’m going to get married. 

Mrs. Slater: Who to?

Abel: To Mrs. John Shorrocks who keeps the ‘Ring-o-Bells’. We’ve had it fixed up a good while now, but I was keeping it for a pleasant surprise. (He rises.) I felt I was a bit of a burden to you, so I found someone who’d think it a pleasure to look after me. We shall be very glad to see you at the ceremony. (He gets to the door.) Till Monday, then. Twelve o’ clock at St. Philip’s Church. (Opening the door) It’s a good thing you brought that bureau downstairs, Amelia. It’ll be handier to carry it across to the ‘Ring-o-Bells’ on Monday. (He goes out.)

THE CURTAIN FALLS……………….

BY WILLIAM STANLEY HOUGHTON

William Stanley Houghton (1881 - 1913) was a famous English dramatist. He was one of the best of a group of realistic playwrights often called the Manchester School. In every play he sought to present an idea. He had a remarkable gift for dialogue that is evident in 'The Dear Departed'. The Dear Departed was first produced in Manchester in 1908. Here Houghton satirizes the degradation of moral values in the British middle-class.