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.
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.
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.
He was short. He was sharp. He was the brightest boy in his class. His seniors used to ask him to solve their difficulties in science. He could have gone unnoticed in a crowd, but once you asked him a question related to Physics or Maths, there was a spark in his eyes. He could grasp theories of science faster than the speed of light.
He came from a poor but educated family. His father was a high-school teacher and an avid reader of English literature. He, like all the boys in his class, was trying to get admission into some engineering college. The brighter ones wanted to study in the Indian Institutes of Technology, or the IITs. There was an entrance test for IIT. This boy, along with his friends, applied to appear for the test. They did not have any special books or coaching. All these IIT aspirants would sit below the shade of a stone mandap close to Chamundi Hills in the sleepy town of Mysore. He was the guide for the others. While the others struggled to solve the problems in the question paper, he would smile shyly and solve them in no time. He sat alone below a tree and dreamt of studying at IIT. It was the ultimate aim for any bright boy at that age, as it still is today. He was then only sixteen years old.
D-Day came. He came to Bangalore, stayed with some relatives and appeared for the entrance test. He did very well but would only say 'ok' when asked. It was the opposite when it came to food. When he said 'ok' it implied 'bad', when he said 'good' it implied 'ok', when he said 'excellent' it implied 'good'. His principle was never to hurt anyone.
The IIT entrance results came. He had passed with a high rank. What a delight for any student! He was thrilled. He went to his father who was reading a newspaper.
‘Anna, I have passed the exam.’
‘Well done, my boy.’ ‘I want to join IIT.’
His father stopped reading the paper. He lifted his head, looked at the boy and said with a heavy voice, 'My son, you are a bright boy. You know our financial position. I have five daughters to be married off and three sons to educate. I am a salaried person. I cannot afford your expenses at IIT. You can stay in Mysore and study as much as you want.'
Indeed it was a difficult situation for any father to say 'no' to his bright son. But circumstances were like that. It was common then for the man to be the single earning member with a large family dependent on him.
His father was sad that he had to tell the bitter truth to his son. But it could not be helped. The boy had to understand reality.
The teenager was disappointed. It seemed his dreams had burnt to ashes. He was so near to fulfilling his fondest hope, yet so far. His heart sank in sorrow.
He did not reply. He never shared his unhappiness or helplessness with anybody. He was an introvert by nature. His heart was bleeding but he did not get angry with anybody.
The day came. His classmates were leaving for Madras (now Chennai). They were taking a train from Mysore to Madras. They have shared good years in school and college together. He went to the station to say goodbye and good luck to them for their future life.
At the station, his friends were already there. They were excited and talking loudly. The noise was like the chirping of birds. They were all excited and discussing their new hostels, new courses etc. He was not part of it. So he stood there silently. One of them noticed and said, 'You should have made it.'
He did not reply. He only wished all of them. They waved at him as the train slowly left the platform.
He stood there even after he could no longer see the train or the waving hands. It was the June of 1962 in Mysore city. Monsoon had set in and it was getting dark. It had started to drizzle. Yet he stood there motionless.
He said to himself, without anger or jealousy, 'All students from the IITs study well and do big things in life. But it is not the institution; ultimately it is you and you alone who can change your life by hard work.'
Probably he was not aware that he was following the philosophy of the Bhagavath Gita: 'Your best friend is yourself and your worst enemy is yourself.'
Later he worked very hard, and focused on one thing, never bothering about his personal life or comforts. He shared his wealth with others. He never used the help of any caste, community or political connections to go up in life.
A son of a school teacher showed other Indians it was possible to earn wealth legally and ethically. He built a team of people who were equally good.
He became a pioneer of India's software industry and started the Information Technology wave. Today he has become an icon of simplicity, uncompromising quality and fairness, apart from being a philanthropist. He really believes in the motto, 'Powered by intellect and driven by values'.
He is none other than NAGAVARA RAMARAO NARAYANA MURTHY, the founder of Infosys, a leading IT company in the world.
BY SUDHA MURTHY
Sudha Murthy, wife of N.R. Narayana Murthy, is an Indian social worker and author. Murthy began her professional career as a computer scientist and engineer. She is the chairperson of the Infosys Foundation. She has founded several orphanages, participated in rural development efforts, supported the movement to provide all Karnataka government schools with computer and library facilities, and established the 'The Murthy Classical Library of India' at Harvard University. Murthy also teaches Computer Science and composed fiction. Dollar Sose. The present story is an extract from one of her most successful stories 'How I Taught my Grandmother to Read & Other Stories.'
EVERY SUCCESS STORY IS ALSO A STORY OF GREAT FAILURES BY SHIV KHERA
Failure is the highway to success. Tom Watson Sr. said, “If you want to succeed, double your failure rate.
” If you study history, you will find that all stories of success are also stories of great failures. But people don’t see the failures. They only see one side of the picture and they say that person got lucky: “He must have been at the right place at the right time.”
Let me share someone’s life history with you. This was a man who failed in business at the age of 21; was defeated in a legislative race at age 22; failed again in business at age 24; overcame the death of his sweetheart at age 26; had a nervous breakdown at age 27; lost a congressional race at age 34; lost a senatorial race at age 45; failed in an effort to become vice-president at age 47; lost a senatorial race at age 49; and was elected president of the United States at age 52.
This man was Abraham Lincoln.
Would you call him a failure? He could have quit. But to Lincoln, defeat was a detour and not a dead end.
In 1913, Lee De Forest, inventor of the triodes tube, was charged by the district attorney for using fraudulent means to mislead the public into buying stocks of his company by claiming that he could transmit the human voice across the Atlantic. He was publicly humiliated. Can you imagine where we would be without his invention?
A New York Times editorial on December 10, 1903, questioned the wisdom of the Wright Brothers who were trying to invent a machine, heavier than air that would fly. One week later, at Kitty Hawk, the Wright Brothers took their famous flight.
Colonel Sanders, at age 65, with a beat-up car and a $100 check from social Security, realized he had to do something. He remembered his mother's recipe and went out selling. How many doors did he have to knock on before he got his first order? It is estimated that he had knocked on more than a thousand doors before he got his first order. How many of us quit after three tries, ten tries, a hundred tries, and then we say we tried as hard as we could?
As a young cartoonist, Walt Disney faced many rejections from newspaper editors, who said he had no talent. One day a minister at a church hired him to draw some cartoons. Disney was working out of a small mouse infested shed near the church. After seeing a small mouse, he was inspired. That was the start of Mickey Mouse.
Successful people don't do great things; they only do small things in a great way.
One day a partially deaf four year old kid came home with a note in his pocket from his teacher, "Your Tommy is too stupid to learn, get him out of the school." His mother read the note and answered, "My Tommy is not stupid to learn, I will teach him myself." And that Tommy grew up to be the great Thomas Edison. Thomas Edison had only three months of formal schooling and he was partially deaf.
Henry Ford forgot to put the reverse gear in the first car he made.
Do you consider these people failures? They succeeded in spite of problems, not in the absence of them. But to the outside world, it appears as though they just got lucky.
All success stories are stories of great failures. The only difference is that every time they failed, they bounced back. This is called failing forward, rather than backward. You learn and move forward. Learn from your failure and keep moving.
In 1914, Thomas Edison, at age 67, lost his factory, which was worth a few million dollars, to fire. It had very little insurance. No longer had a young man, Edison watched his lifetime effort go up in smoke and said, "There is great value in disaster. All our mistakes are burnt up. Thank God we can start anew." In spite of disaster, three weeks later, he invented the phonograph. What an attitude!
Below are more examples of the failures of successful people:
1. Thomas Edison failed approximately 10,000 times while he was working on the light bulb.
2. Henry Ford was broke at the age of 40.
3. Lee Iacocca was fired by Henry Ford II at the age of 54.
4. Young Beethoven was told that he had no talent for music, but he gave some of the best music to the world.
Setbacks are inevitable in life. A setback can act as a driving force and also teach us humility. In grief you will find courage and faith to overcome the setback. We need to learn to become victors, not victims. Fear and doubt short-circuit the mind.
Ask yourself after every setback: What did I learn from this experience? Only then will you be able to turn a stumbling block into a stepping stone.
The motivation to succeed comes from the burning desire to achieve a purpose. Napoleon Hill wrote, "Whatever the mind of man can conceive and believe the mind can achieve."
A young man asked Socrates the secret to success. Socrates told the young man to meet him near the river the next morning. They met. Socrates asked the young man to walk with him toward the river. When the water got up to their neck, Socrates took the young man by surprise and ducked him into the water. The boy struggled to get out but Socrates was strong and kept him there until the boy started turning blue. Socrates pulled his head out of the water and the first thing the young man did was to gasp and take a deep breath of air. Socrates asked, 'What did you want the most when you were there?" The boy replied, "Air." Socrates said, "That is the secret to success. When you want success as badly as you wanted the air, then you will get it." There is no other secret.
A burning desire is the starting point of all accomplishment. Just like a small fire cannot give much heat, a weak desire cannot produce great results.
IF YOU THINK
If you think you are beaten, you are.
If you think you dare not, you don't!
If you like to win, but think you can't,
It's almost a cinch you won't.
You think you'll lose, you're lost;
For out in the world we find
Success begins with a fellow's will;
It's all in the state of mind.
If you think you are outclassed, you are,
You've got to think high to rise,
You've got to be sure of yourself before
You can ever win a prize.
Life's battles don't always go
To the stronger and faster man,
But sooner or later the man who wins
Is the man who thinks he can.
BY SHIV KHERA
Shiv Khera is an Indian author of self-help books and activist. While working in the United States, he was inspired by a lecture delivered by Norman Vincent Peale and followed his motivational teachings. Khera has written several books including You Can Win. His mission is "to ensure freedom through education and justice." Shiv Khera was born in a business family who used to have coal mines Kendua in Dhanbad, India. Soon after the nationalisation of coal mines by the Indian government, he had to search for his own living. In his early years he worked as a car washer, a life insurance agent, and a franchise operator before he became a motivational speaker