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.