Summaries of Romeo and Juliet and Too Dear! PDF

Give me summaries of the following lessons for slow learners. Summaries should have all the key points. Each summary should have thematic titles. 1\. Romeo and Juliet William Shakespeare Pre-reading Activity: Have you heard of any legendary classical love stories? Discuss. In what manner do...

Give me summaries of the following lessons for slow learners. Summaries should have all the key points. Each summary should have thematic titles. 1\. Romeo and Juliet William Shakespeare Pre-reading Activity: Have you heard of any legendary classical love stories? Discuss. In what manner do these stories usually end? Why? Background: The two noble families of Verona, the Capulets and the Montagues were sworn enemies. Romeo and Juliet belonged to rival families. Old Lord Capulet hosted a grand supper. Though Romeo belonged to the family of Montagues, he attended the supper in disguise to see Roseline. There he sees Juliet on the dance floor and is fascinated by her beauty. After the dance he learns that she is the daughter of Lord Capulet. She feels attracted to the man from the enemy family. The following verses express their implicit feelings for one another. ROMEO : O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night As a rich jewel in an Ethiope\'s ear - Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o\'er her fellows shows. The measure done, I\'ll watch her place of stand, And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight, For I ne\'er saw true beauty till this night. (Act - I, Scene - V) \*\*\* JULIET : Come night, come Romeo; come, thou day in night, For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow on a raven\'s back. Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-browed night, Give me my Romeo, and when I shall die Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun. (Act - III, Scene - II) 2\. Too Dear! Leo Tolstoy Pre-reading Activity: What do you think would happen, if due to procedural lapses/delay the court were to convert the verdict of death sentence into life imprisonment? Near the borders of France and Italy, on the shore of the Mediterranean Sea, lies a tiny little kingdom called Monaco. Many a small country town can boast more inhabitants than this kingdom, for there are only about seven thousand of them all told, and if all the land in kingdom were divided there would not be an acre for each inhabitant. But in this toy kingdom there is a real kinglet; and he has a palace, and courtiers, and ministers, and a bishop, and generals, and an army. It is not a large army, only sixty men in all, but still it is an army. There are also taxes in this kingdom, as elsewhere: a tax on tobacco, and on wine and spirits, and a poll-tax. But though the people there drink and smoke as people do in other countries, there are so few of them that the Prince would have been hard put to it to feed his courtiers and officials and to keep himself, if he had not found a new and special source of revenue. This special revenue comes from a gaming house, where people play roulette. People play, and whether they win or lose the keeper always gets a percentage on the turnover, and out of his profits he pays a large sum to the Prince. The reason he pays so much is that it is the only such gambling establishment left in Europe. Some of the little German Sovereigns used to keep gaming houses of the same kind, but some years ago they were forbidden to do so. The reason they were stopped was because these gaming houses did so much harm. A man would come and try his luck, then he would risk all he had and lose it, then he would even risk money that did not belong to him and lose that too, and then, in despair, he would drown or shoot himself. So the Germans forbade their rulers to make money in this way; but there was no one to stop the Prince of Monaco, and he remained with a monopoly of the business. So now everyone who wants to gamble goes to Monaco. Whether they win or lose, the Prince gains by it. You can\'t earn stone palaces by honest labour\', as the proverb says; and the Kinglet of Monaco knows it is a dirty business, but what is he to do? He has to live; and to draw a revenue from drink and from tobacco is also not a nice thing. So he lives and reigns, and rakes in the money, and holds his court with all the ceremony of a real King. He has his coronation, his levees; he rewards, sentences, and pardons, and he also has his reviews, councils, laws, and courts of justice just like other kings, only all on a smaller scale. Now it happened a few years ago that a murder was committed in this toy Prince\'s domains. The people of that kingdom are peaceable, and such a thing had not happened before. The judges assembled with much ceremony and tried the case in the most judicial manner. There were judges, and prosecutors, and jurymen, and barristers. They argued and judged, and at last they condemned the criminal to have his head cut off as the law directs. So far so good. Next they submitted the sentence to the Prince. The Prince read the sentence and confirmed it. If the fellow must be executed, execute him.\' There was only one hitch in the matter; and that was that they had neither a guillotine for cutting heads off, nor an executioner. The Ministers considered the matter, and decided to address an inquiry to the French Government, asking whether the French could not lend them a machine and an expert to cut off the criminal\'s head; and if so, would the French kindly inform them what it would cost. The letter was sent. A week later the reply came : a machine and an expert could be supplied, and the cost would be 16,000 francs. This was laid before the King. He thought it over. Sixteen thousand francs! The wretch is not worth the money,\' said he. \'Can\'t it be done, somehow cheaper? Why 16,000 francs is more than two francs a head on the whole population. The people won\'t stand it, and it may cause a riot!\' So a Council was called to consider what could be done; and it was decided to send a similar inquiry to the King of Italy. The French Government is republican, and has no proper respect for king; but the King of Italy was a brother monarch, and might be induced to do the thing cheaper. So the letter was written, and a prompt reply was received. The Italian Government wrote that they would have pleasure in supplying both a machine and an expert; and the whole cost would be 12,000 francs, including travelling expenses. This was cheaper, but still it seemed too much. The rascal was really not worth the money. It would still mean nearly two francs more per head on the taxes. Another Council was called. They discussed and considered how it could be done with less expense. Could not one of the soldiers,  perhaps, be got to do it in a rough and homely fashion? The General was called and was asked: \'Can\'t you find us a soldier who would cut the man\'s head off?\' In war they don\'t mind killing people. In fact, that is what they are trained for. So the General talked it over with the soldiers to see whether one of them would not undertake the job. But none of the soldiers would do it. \'No,\' they said, \'we don\'t know how to do it; it is not a thing we have been taught.\' What was to be done? Again the Ministers considered and reconsidered. They assembled a Commission, and a Committee, and a Sub-Committee, and at last they decided that the best thing would be to alter the death sentence to one of imprisonment for life. This would enable the Prince to show his mercy, and it would come cheaper. The Prince agreed to this, and so the matter was arranged. The only hitch now was that there was no suitable prison for a man sentenced for life. There was a small lock-up where people were sometimes kept temporarily, but there was no strong prison fit for permanent use. However, they managed to find a place that would do, and they put the young fellow there and placed a guard over him. The guard had to watch the criminal, and had also to fetch his food from the palace kitchen. The prisoner remained there month after month till a year had passed. But when a year had passed, the Kinglet, looking over the account of his income and expenditure one day, noticed a new item of expenditure. This was for the keep of the criminal; nor was it a small item either. There was a special guard, and there was also the man\'s food. It came to more than 600 francs a year. And the worst of it was that the fellow was still young and healthy, and might live for fifty years. When one came to reckon it up, the matter was serious. It would never do. So the Prince summoned his Ministers and said to them: You must find some cheaper way of dealing with this rascal. The present plan is too expensive.\' And the Ministers met and considered and reconsidered, till one of them said: \'Gentlemen, in my opinion we must dismiss the guard.\' \'But then\', rejoined another Minister, \'the fellow will run away.\' \'Well,\' said the first speaker, \'let him run away, and be hanged to him!\' So they reported the result of their deliberations to the kinglet, and he agreed with them. The guard was dismissed, and they waited to see what would happen. All that happened was that at dinner-time the criminal came out, and, not finding his guard, he went to the Prince\'s kitchen to fetch his own dinner. He took what was given him, returned to the prison, shut the door on himself, and stayed inside. Next day the same thing occurred. He went for his food at the proper time; but as for running away, he did not show the least sign of it! What was to be done? They considered the matter again. \'We shall have to tell him straight out,\' said they, \'that we do not want to keep him.\' So the Minister of Justice had him brought before him. \'Why do you not run away?\' said the Minister. There is no guard to keep you. You can go where you like, and the Prince will not mind.\' \'I dare say the Prince would not mind,\' replied the man, 'but I have nowhere to go. What can I do? You have ruined my character by your sentence and people will turn their backs on me. Besides, I have got out of the way of working. You have treated me badly. It is not fair. In the first place, when once you sentenced me to death you ought to have executed me; but you did not do it. That is one thing. I did not complain about that. Then you sentenced me to imprisonment for life and put a guard to bring me my food; but after a time you took him away again and I had to fetch my own food. Again I did not complain. But now you actually want me to go away! I can\'t agree to that. You may do as you like, but I won\'t go away!\' What was to be done? Once more the Council was summoned. What course could they adopt? The man would not go. They reflected and considered. The only way to get rid of him was to offer him a pension. And so they reported to the Prince. There is nothing else for it,\' said they; \'we must get rid of him somehow.\' The sum fixed was 600 francs, and this was announced to the prisoner.  \'Well,\' said he, \'I don\'t mind, so long as you undertake to pay it regularly. On that condition I am willing to go.\' So the matter was settled. He received one-third of his annuity in advance, and left the King\'s dominions. It was only a quarter of an hour by rail; and he emigrated, and settled just across the frontier, where he bought a bit of land, started market-gardening, and now lives comfortably. He always goes at the proper time to draw his pension. Having received it, he goes to the gaming tables, stakes two or three francs, sometimes wins and sometimes loses, and then returns home. He lives peaceably and well. It is a good thing that he did not commit his crime in a country where they do not grudge expense to cut a man\'s head off, or to keep him in prison for life. Adapted from an episode in Guy De Maupassant\'s work \'Sur L\'eau\' in French (Translated into English: Afloat) and Translated from Russian by Louise Maud and Aylmer Maud Count Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910) is a Russian writer who primarily wrote novels and short stories. Tolstoy is a master of realistic fiction and is widely considered as one of the world\'s greatest novelists. He is best known for two long novels, War and Peace (1869) and Anna Karenina (1877). Tolstoy first achieved literary acclaim in his 20s for his Sevastopol Sketches (1855), based on his experiences in the Crimean War and followed by the publication of a semi- autobiographical trilogy of novels, Childhood, Boyhood, and Youth (1855-1858). His works also include two additional novels, dozens of short stories, and several famous novellas, including The Death of Ivan Ilych, Family Happiness and Hadji Murad. Later in life, he wrote plays and essays. Tolstoy is equally known for his complicated and paradoxical persona and for his extreme moralistic and ascetic views, which he adopted after a moral crisis and spiritual awakening in the 1870s, after which he became noted as a moral thinker and social reformer. 3\. On Children Kahlil Gibran Pre-reading Activity: What do your parents expect of you? What do you expect of your parents? Have you ever felt your parents are too possessive/ demanding? Why? And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, \"Speak to us of Children.\" And he said: Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life\'s longing for itself They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you. You may give them your love but not your thoughts. For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday. You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far. Let your bending in the archer\'s hand be for gladness; For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable. Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931) is a Lebanese-American artist and poet. His poems are considered poetic essays\', as they do not adhere to the usual versification. The Prophet\' is his best known work and has been translated into more than 25 languages including Kannada. \'On Children\' is a selection from \"The Prophet\', which offers a critique of the usual expectations of parents regarding their children and urges them to introspect. 4\. Everything I Need To Know I Learned In The Forest Vandana Shiva Pre-reading Activity: Have you heard of \'Chipko\' movement? What is its significance? What was the role played by women in this movement? My ecological journey started in the forests of the Himalaya. My father was a forest conservator, and my mother became a farmer after fleeing the tragic partition of India and Pakistan. It is from the Himalayan forests and ecosystems that I learned most of what I know about ecology. The songs and poems our mother composed for us were about trees, forests, and India\'s forest civilizations. My involvement in the contemporary ecology movement began with \"Chipko,\" a nonviolent response to the large-scale deforestation that was taking place in the Himalayan region. In the 1970s, peasant women from my region in the Garhwal Himalaya had come out in defense of the forests. Logging had led to landslides and floods, and scarcity of water, fodder, and fuel. Since women provide these basic needs, the scarcity meant longer walks for collecting water and firewood, and a heavier burden. Women knew that the real value of forests was not the timber from a dead tree, but the  and streams, food for their cattle, and fuel for their hearths. The women declared that they would hug the trees, and the loggers would have to kill them before killing the trees. A folk song of that period said: These beautiful oaks and rhododendrons, They give us cool water Don\'t cut these trees We have to keep them alive. In 1973, I had gone to visit my favorite forests and swim in my favorite stream before leaving for Canada to do my Ph.D. But the forests were gone, and the stream was reduced to a trickle. I decided to become a volunteer for the Chipko movement, and I spent every vacation doing pad yatras (walking pilgrimages), documenting the deforestation and the work of the forest activists, and spreading the message of Chipko. One of the dramatic Chipko actions took place in the Himalayan village of Adwani in 1977, when a village woman named Bachni Devi led resistance against her own husband, who had obtained a contract to cut trees. When officials arrived at the forest, the women held up lighted lanterns although it was broad daylight. The forester asked them to explain. The women replied, \"We have come to teach you forestry.\" He retorted, \"You foolish women, how can you prevent tree felling by those who know the value of the forest? Do you know what forests bear? They produce profit and resin and timber.\" The women sang back in chorus: What do the forests bear? Soil, water, and pure air. Soil, water, and pure air Sustain the Earth and all she bears. BEYOND MONOCULTURES From Chipko, I learned about biodiversity and biodiversity-based living economies; the protection of both has become my life\'s mission. As I described in my book Monocultures of the Mind, the failure to understand biodiversity and its many functions is at the root of the impoverishment of nature and culture. The lessons I learned about diversity in the Himalayan forests I transferred to the protection of biodiversity on our farms. I started saving seeds from farmers\' fields and then realized we needed a farm for demonstration and training. Thus Navdanya Farm was started in 1994 in the Doon Valley, located in the lower elevation Himalayan region of Uttarakhand Province. Today we conserve and grow 630 varieties of rice, 150 varieties of wheat, and hundreds of other species. We practise and promote a biodiversity-intensive form of farming that produces more food and nutrition per acre. The conservation of biodiversity is therefore also the answer to the food and nutrition crisis. Navdanya, the movement for biodiversity conservation and organic farming that I started in 1987, is spreading. So far, we\'ve worked with farmers to set up more than 100 community seed banks across India. We have saved more than 3,000 rice varieties. We also help farmers make a transition from fossil-fuel and chemical-based monocultures to bio-diverse ecological systems nourished by the sun and the soil. Biodiversity has been my teacher of abundance and freedom, of co-operation and mutual giving. RIGHTS OF NATURE ON THE GLOBAL STAGE When nature is a teacher, we co-create with her - we recognize her agency and her rights. That is why it is significant that Ecuador has recognized the \"rights of nature\" in its constitution. In April 2011, the United Nations General Assembly - inspired by the constitution of Ecuador and the Universal Declaration of the Rights of Mother Earth initiated by Bolivia - organized a conference on harmony with nature as part of Earth Day celebrations. Much of the discussion centered on ways to transform systems based on domination of people over nature, men over women, and rich over poor into new systems based on partnership. The U.N. secretary general\'s report, \"Harmony with Nature," issued in conjunction with the conference, elaborates on the importance of reconnecting with nature: \"Ultimately, environmentally destructive behaviour is the result of a failure to recognize that human beings are an inseparable part of nature and that we cannot damage it without severely damaging ourselves.\" Separatism is indeed at the root of disharmony with nature and violence against nature and people. As the prominent South African environmentalist Cormac Cullinan points out, apartheid means separateness. The world joined the anti-apartheid movement to end the violent separation of people on the basis of colour. Apartheid in South Africa was put behind us. Today, we need to overcome the wider and deeper apartheid-an eco-apartheid based on the illusion of separateness of humans from nature in our minds and lives. THE DEAD-EARTH WORLD VIEW The war against the Earth began with this idea of separateness. Its contemporary seeds were sown when the living Earth was transformed into dead matter to facilitate the industrial revolution. Monocultures replaced diversity. \"Raw materials\" and \"dead matter\" replaced a vibrant Earth. Terra Nullius (the empty land, ready for occupation regardless of the presence of indigenous peoples) replaced Terra Madre (Mother Earth). This philosophy goes back to Francis Bacon, called the father of modern science, who said that science and the inventions that result do not \"merely exert a gentle guidance over nature\'s course; they have the power to conquer and subdue her, to shake her to her foundations.\" As philosopher and historian Carolyn Merchant points out, this shift of perspective-from nature as a living, nurturing mother to inert, dead, and manipulable matter-was well suited to the activities that would lead to capitalism. The domination images created by Bacon and other leaders of the scientific revolution replaced those of the nurturing Earth, removing a cultural constraint on the exploitation of nature. "One does not readily slay a mother, dig into her entrails for gold, or mutilate her body,\" Merchant wrote. WHAT NATURE TEACHES Today, at a time of multiple crises intensified by globalization, we need to move away from the paradigm of nature as dead matter. We need to move to an ecological paradigm, and for this, the best teacher is nature herself. The Earth University teaches Earth Democracy, which is the freedom for all species to evolve within the web of life, and the freedom and responsibility of humans, as members of the Earth family, to recognize, protect, and respect the rights of other species. Earth Democracy is a shift from anthropocentrism to ecocentrism. And since we all depend on the Earth, Earth Democracy translates into human rights to food and water, to freedom from hunger and thirst. Because the Earth University is located at Navdanya, a biodiversity farm, participants learn to work with living seeds, living soil, and the web of life. Participants include farmers, school children, and people from across the world. Two of our most popular courses are \"The A-Z of Organic Farming and Agro-ecology,\" and \"Gandhi and Globalization.\" THE POETRY OF THE FOREST The Earth University is inspired by Rabindranath Tagore, India\'s national poet and a Nobel Prize laureate. Tagore started a learning center in Shantiniketan in West Bengal, India, as a forest school, both to take inspiration from nature and to create an Indian cultural renaissance. The school became a university in 1921, growing into one of India\'s most famous centers of learning. Today, just as in Tagore\'s time, we need to turn to nature and the forest for lessons in freedom. In his essay \"Tapovan\" (Forest of Purity), Tagore writes: \"Indian civilization has been distinctive in locating its source of regeneration, material and intellectual, in the forest, not the city. India\'s best ideas have come where man was in communion with trees and rivers and lakes, away from the crowds. The peace of the forest has helped the intellectual evolution of man. The culture of the forest has fueled the culture of Indian society. The culture that has arisen from the forest has been influenced by the diverse processes of renewal of life, which are always at play in the forest, varying from species to species, from season to season, in sight and sound and smell. The unifying principle of life in diversity, of democratic pluralism, thus became the principle of Indian civilization.\" It is this unity in diversity that is the basis of both ecological sustainability and democracy. Diversity without unity becomes the source of conflict and contest. Unity without diversity becomes the ground for external control. This is true of both nature and culture. The forest is a unity in its diversity, and we are united with nature through our relationship with the forest. In Tagore\'s writings, the forest was not just the source of knowledge and freedom; it was the source of beauty and joy, of art and aesthetics, of harmony and perfection. It symbolized the universe. The forest teaches us union and compassion. The forest also teaches us enoughness: as a principle of equity, how to enjoy the gifts of nature without exploitation and accumulation. Tagore quotes from the ancient texts written in the forest : \"Know all that moves in this moving world as enveloped by God; and find enjoyment through renunciation, not through greed of possession.\" No species in a forest appropriates the share of another species. Every species sustains itself in co-operation with others. The end of consumerism and accumulation is the beginning of the joy of living. The conflict between greed and compassion, conquest and co-operation, violence and harmony that Tagore wrote about continues today. And it is the forest that can show us the way beyond this conflict. Vandana Shiva (b.1952) wrote this article for the issue titled What Would Nature Do? (Winter 2012 of Yes! Magazine). She is an internationally renowned activist for biodiversity and against corporate globalization, and author of Stolen Harvest: The Hijacking of the Global Food Supply, Earth Democracy: Justice, Sustainability and Peace, Soil Not Oil and Staying Alive. The last section of this essay was adapted from Vandana Shiva\'s \'Forest and Freedom\' which was published in the May/June 2011 edition of Resurgence magazine. Vandana Shiva is a YES! contributing editor. In this essay Vandana Shiva first tells us how she learnt about environmentalism from the uneducated women of Garhwal, Himalaya. While the government officials and men were cutting down trees for logs, the women showed them that the trees and forests were living things and we need to live with them. Later Vandana learnt all the major ideals of a good life from the forests. They are a\. Diversity of life forms and the need to accept diversity as the principle of life. b\. Earth is our mother and not just raw material to be exploited; we need to live in harmony with nature. c\. Earth democracy - respecting the frredom of all species of life to evolve and live together. d\. The Indian tradition to ecology as recognised by Tagore --- the culture of the forest is the true Indian culture. Thus Vandana Shiva says that the forests teach us the values of diversity, freedom and co-existence. 5\. A Sunny Morning Serafin and Joaquin Alvarez Quinter Pre-reading Activity: How does it feel to meet a friend after a long time? Why do some relationships come to an end? CHARACTERS: Dona Laura Petra-her maid Don Gonzalo Juanito his servant SCENE: A sunny morning in a retired corner of a park in Madrid. Autumn. A bench at right. Dona Laura, a handsome, white haired old lady of about seventy, refined in appearance, her bright eyes and entire manner giving evidence that despite her age her mental faculties are unimpaired, enters leaning upon the arm of her maid, Petra. In her free hand she carries a parasol, which serves also as a cane. Dona Laura : I am so glad to be here. I feared my seat would be occupied. What a beautiful morning! Petra : The sun is hot. Dona Laura Yes, you are only twenty. (She sits down on the bench). Oh, I feel more tired today than usual. (Noticing Petra, who seems impatient) Go, if you wish to chat with your guard. Petra : He is not mine, senora; he belongs to the park. Dona Laura : He belongs more to you than he does to the park. Go find him, but remain within calling distance. Petra I see him over there waiting for me. Dona Laura : Do not remain more than ten minutes. Petra : Very well, scnora (Walks toward right) Dona Laura : Wait a moment. Petra : What does the senora wish? Dona Laura : Give me the breadcrumbs. Petra : I don\'t know what is the matter with me. Dona Laura : (Smiling) I do. Your head is where your heart is-with the guard. Petra : Here, senora. (She hands Dona Laura a small bag. Exit Petra by right) Dona Laura : Adios. (Glances toward trees at right) Here they come. They know just when to expect me. (She rises, walks toward right, and throws three handfuls of bread crumbs) These are for the spryest. These for the gluttons and these for little ones which are the most persistent. (Laughs. She returns to her seat and watches, with a pleased expression, the pigeons feeding) There, that big one is always first! I know him by his big head. Now one, now another, now two, now three-That little fellow is the least timid. I believe he would eat from my hand. That one takes his piece and flies up to that branch alone. He is a philosopher. But where do they all come from? It seems as if the news had spread. Ha, hal Don\'t quarrel. There is enough for all. I\'ll bring more tomorrow. (Enter Don Gonzalo and Juanito from left. Don Gonzalo is an old gentleman of seventy, gouty and impatient. He leans upon Juanito\'s arm and drags his feet somewhat as he walks). Don Gonzalo Idling their time away! They should be saying mass. Juanito : You can sit here, senor. There is only a lady. (Dona Laura turns her head and listens). Don Gonzalo I won\'t, Juanito. I want a bench to myself. Juanito : But there is none. Don Gonzalo That one over there is mine. Juanito : There are three priests sitting there. Don Gonzalo Rout them out. Have they gone? Juanito : No, indeed. They are talking. Don Gonzalo Just as if they were glued to the seat. No hope of their leaving. Come this way, Juanito. (They walk toward the birds, right). Dona Laura : (Indignantly) Look out! Don Gonzalo Are you speaking to me, senora? Dona Laura : Yes, to you. Don Gonzalo What do you wish? Dona Laura : You have scared away the birds who were feeding on my crumbs. Don Gonzalo What do I care about the birds? Don Laura : But I do. Don Gonzalo This is a public park. Dona Laura : Then why do you complain that the priests have taken your bench? Don Gonzalo Senora, we have not met. I cannot imagine why you take the liberty of addressing me. Come, Juanito. (Both go out right) Dona Laura : What an ill-natured old man! Why must people get so fussy and cross when they reach a certain age? (Looking toward right) I am glad. He lost that bench, too. Serves him right for scaring the birds. He is furious. Yes, yes; find a seat if you can. Poor man! He is wiping the perspiration from his face. Here he comes. A carriage would not raise more dust than his feet. (Enter Don Gonzalo and Juanito by right and walk toward left). Don Gonzalo Have the priests gone yet, Juanito? Juanito : No, indeed, senor. They are still there. Don Gonzalo The authorities should place more benches here for these sunny mornings. Well, I suppose I must resign myself and sit on the bench with the old lady. (Muttering to himself, he sits at the extreme end of Dona Laura\'s bench and looks at her indignantly. Touches his hat as he greets her) Good morning. 37 Dona Laura : What, you here again? Don Gonzalo I repeat that we have not met. Dona Laura : I was responding to your salute. Don Gonzalo \'Good morning\' should be answered by \'good morning\', and that is all you should have said. Dona Laura : You should have asked permission to sit on this bench, which is mine. Don Gonzalo The benches here are public property. Dona Laura : Why, you said the one the priests have was yours. Don Gonzalo Very well, very well. I have nothing more to say. (Between his teeth) Senile old lady! She ought to be at home knitting and counting her beads. Dona Laura : Don\'t grumble any more, I\'m not going to leave just to please you. Don Gonzalo (Brushing the dust from his shoes with his handkerchief) If the ground were sprinkled a little it would be an improvement. Dona Laura : Do you use your handkerchief as a shoe brush? Don Gonzalo: Why not? Dona Laura : Do you use a shoc brush as a handkerchief? Don Gonzalo What right have you to criticize my actions? Dona Laura : A neighbour\'s right. Don Gonzalo Juanito, my book. I do not care to listen to nonsense. Dona Laura : You are very politc. Don Gonzalo Pardon me, senora, but never interfere with what does not concern you. 38 Dona Laura : I generally say what I think. Don Gonzalo And more to the same effect. Give me the book, Juanito. Juanito : Here, senor. (Juanito takes a book from his pocket, hands it to Don Gonzalo, then exits by Right. Don Gonzalo, casting indignant glances at Dona Laura, puts on an enormous pair of glasses, takes from his pocket a reading glass, adjusts both to suit him, and opens his book). Dona Laura : I thought you were taking out a telescope. Don Gonzalo Was that you? Dona Laura Your sight must be keen. Don Gonzalo Keener than yours is. Dona Laura Yes, evidently. Don Gonzalo Ask the hares and partridges. Dona Laura Ah! Do you hunt? Don Gonzalo I did, and even now- Dona Laura Oh, yes, of course! Don Gonzalo Yes, senora. Every Sunday I take my gun and dog, you understand, and go to one of my estates near Aravaca and kill time. Dona Laura Yes, kill time. That is all you kill. Don Gonzalo Do you think so? I could show you a wild boar\'s head in my study- Dona Laura Yes, and I could show you a tiger\'s skin in my boudoir. What does that prove? Don Gonzalo Very well, senora, please allow me to read. Enough conversation. 39 Dona Laura : Well, you subside, then. Don Gonzalo But first I shall take a pinch of snuff. (Takes out snuff box) Will you have some? (Offers box to Dona Laura) Dona Laura : If it is good. Don Gonzalo It is of the finest. You will like it. Dona Laura : (Taking pinch of snuff). It clears my head. Don Gonzalo And mine. Dona Laura : Do you sneeze? Don Gonzalo Yes, senora, three times. Dona Laura And so do I. What a coincidence! (After taking the snuff, they await the sneezes, both anxiously, and sneeze alternately three times each). Don Gonzalo There, I feel better. Dona Laura : So do I. (Aside). The snuff has made peace between us. Don Gonzalo You will excuse me if I read aloud? Dona Laura : Read as loud as you please; you will not disturb me. Don Gonzalo (Reading) \'All love is sad, but sad as it is, it is the best thing that we know. \'That is from Campoamor. Dona Laura : Ah! Don Gonzalo (Reading) The daughters of the mothers I once loved kiss me now as they would a graven image.\' Those lines, I take it, are in a humorous vein. Dona Laura : (Laughing) I take then so, too. 40 Don Gonzalo There are some beautiful poems in this book. Here. Twenty years pass. He returns.\' Dona Laura : You cannot imagine how it affects me to see you reading with all those glasses. Don Gonzalo Can you read without any? Dona Laura : Certainly. Don Gonzalo At your age? You\'re jesting. Dona Laura : Pass me the book, then. (Takes book; reads aloud). \"Twenty years pass. He returns. And each, beholding the other, exclaims Can it be that this is he? Heavens, is it she?\' (Dona Laura returns the book to Don Gonzalo). Don Gonzalo Indeed, I envy your wonderful eye sight. Dona Laura : (Aside) I know every word by heart. Don Gonzalo I am very fond of good verses, very fond. I even composed some in my youth. Dona Laura : Good ones? Don Gonzalo Of all kinds. I was a great friend of Espronceda, Zorrilla, Becquer, and others. I first met Zorrilla in America. Dona Laura : Why, have you been in America? Don Gonzalo Several times. The first time I went I was only six years old. Dona Laura : You must have gone with Columbus in one of his caravels! Don Gonzalo (Laughing.) Not quite as bad as that.I am old, I admit, but I did not know Ferdinand and Isabella. (They both laugh.) I was also a great friend of Campoamor. I met him in Valencia. I am a native of that city. 41 Dona Laura : You are? Don Gonzalo I was brought up there, and there I spent my early youth. Have you ever visited that city? Dona Laura : Yes, senor. Not far from Valencia there was a villa that, if still there, should retain memories of me. I spent several seasons there. It was many years ago. It was near the sea, hidden away among lemon and orange trees. They called it let me see, what did they call it? - Maricela. Don Gonzalo (Startled) Maricela? Dona Laura : Maricela. Is the name familiar to you? Don Gonzalo Ycs, very familiar. If my memory serves me right for we forget as we grow old - there lived in that villa the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I assure you I have seen many. Let me see what was her name? Laura-Laura-Laura Llorente. Dona Laura : (Startled) Laura Llorente? Don Gonzalo Yes. (They look at each other intently). Dona Laura : (Recovering herself) Nothing. You reminded me of my best friend. Don Gonzalo How strange! Dona Laura : It is strange. She was called \"The Silver Maiden.\' Don Gonzalo Precisely, The Silver Maiden.\' By that name she was known in that locality. I seem to see her as if she were before me now, at that window with the red roses. Do you remember that window? Dona Laura : Yes, I remember. It was the window of her room. Don Gonzalo She spent many hours there. I mean in my day. Dona Laura : (Sighing). And in mine, too. 42 Don Gonzalo She was ideal. Fair as a lily, jet black hair and black eyes, with an uncommonly sweet expression. She seemed to cast radiance wherever she was. Her figure was beautiful, perfect. What forms of sovereign beauty God models in human clay!\' She was a dream. Dona Laura : (Aside) If you but knew that dream was now by your side, you would realize what dreams come to. (Aloud) She was very unfortunate and had a sad love affair. Don Gonzalo Very sad. (They look at each other). Dona Laura : Did you hear of it? Don Gonzalo: Yes. Dona Laura : The ways of Providence are strange. (Aside) Gonzalo! Don Gonzalo The gallant lover, in the same affair. Dona Laura : Ah, the duel? Don Gonzalo Precisely, the duel. The gallant lover was-my cousin, of whom I was very fond. Dona Laura : Oh, yes, a cousin? My friend told me in one of her letters the story of that affair, which was truly romantic. He, your cousin, passed by on horseback every morning down the rose path under her window, and tossed up to her balcony a bouquet of flowers which she caught. Don Gonzalo And later in the afternoon the gallant horseman would return by the same path, and catch the bouquet of flowers she would toss him. Am I right? Dona Laura : Yes. They wanted to marry her to a merchant whom she would not have. Don Gonzalo And one night, when my cousin waited under her window to hear her sing, this other person presented himself unexpectedly. 43 Dona Laura : And insulted your cousin. Don Gonzalo There was a quarrel. Dona Laura : And later a duel. Don Gonzalo Yes, at sunrise, on the beach, and the merchant was badly wounded. My cousin had to conccal himself for a few days and later to fly. Dona Laura : You seem to know the story well. Don Gonzalo And so do you. Dona Laura : I have explained that a friend repeated it to me. Don Gonzalo As my cousin did to me. (Aside) This is Laura! Dona Laura (Aside). Why tell him? He does not suspect. Don Gonzalo (Aside). She is entirely innocent. Dona Laura And was it you, by any chance, who advised your cousin to forget Laura? Don Gonzalo Why, my cousin never forgot her! Dona Laura : How do you account, then, for his conduct? Don Gonzalo I will tell you. The young man took refuge in my house, fearful of the consequences of a duel with a person highly regarded in that locality. From my home he went to Seville, and then came to Madrid. He wrote Laura many letters, some of them in versc. But undoubtedly they were intercepted by her parents, for she never answered at all. Gonzalo then, in despair, believing his love lost to him forever, joined the army, went to Africa, and there, in a trench, met a glorious death, grasping the flag of Spain and whispering the name of his beloved Laura- Dona Laura : (Aside). What an atrocious lie! 44 Don Gonzalo (Aside) I could not have killed myself more gloriously. Dona Laura : You must have been prostrated by the calamity. Don Gonzalo Yes, indeed, senora. As if he were my brother. I presume, though, on the contrary, that Laura in a short time was chasing butterflies in garden, indifferent to regret. Dona Laura : No, senor, nol Don Gonzalo It is a woman\'s way. Dona Laura Even if it were woman\'s way, The Silver Maiden\' was not of that disposition. My friend awaited news for days, months, a year, and no letter came. One afternoon, just at sunset, as the first stars were appearing, she was seen to leave the house, and with quickening steps went her way toward the beach, the beach where her beloved had risked his life. She wrote his name on the sand, and then sat down upon a rock, her gaze fixed upon the horizon. The waves murmured their eternal threnody and slowly crept up to the rock where the maiden sat. The tide rose with a boom and swept her out to sea. Don Gonzalo Good heavens! Dona Laura : The fishermen of that shore who often tell the story affirm that it was a long time before the waves washed away that name written on the sand. (Aside) You will not get ahead of me in decorating my own funeral. Don Gonzalo (Aside) She lies worse than I do. Dona Laura : Poor Laura! Don Gonzalo Poor Gonzalo! Dona Laura : (Aside) I will not tell him that I married two years later. 45 Don Gonzalo (Aside) In three months I ran off to Paris with a ballet dancer. Dona Laura : Fate is curious. Here are you and I, complete strangers, met by chance, discussing the romance of old friends of long ago! We have been conversing as if we were old friends. Don Gonzalo Yes, it is curious, considering the ill-natured prelude to our conversation. Dona Laura : You scared away the birds. Don Gonzalo I was unreasonable, perhaps. Dona Laura : Yes, that was evident. (Sweetly) Are you coming again tomorrow? Don Gonzalo Most certainly, if it is a sunny morning. And not only will I not scare away the birds, but I will bring a few crumbs. Dona Laura : Thank you very much. Birds are grateful and repay attention. I wonder where my maid is. Petra! (Signals for her maid). Don Gonzalo (Aside, looking at Laura, whose back is turned) No, no, I will not reveal myself. I am grotesque now. Better that she recall the gallant horseman who passed daily beneath her window tossing flowers. Dona Laura : Here she comes. Don Gonzalo That Juanito! He plays havoc with the nursemaids. (Looks toward right and signals with his hands). Dona Laura : (Aside, looking at Gonzalo, whose back is turned) No, I am too sadly changed. It is better he should remember me as the black-eyed girl tossing lowers as he passed among the roses in the garden. (Juanito enters by right, Petra by left. She has a bunch of violets in her hand). 46 Dona Laura : Well, Petral At lasti Don Gonzalo Juanito, you are late. Petra : (To Dona Laura) The guard gave me these violets for you, senora. Dona Laura : How very nice! Thank him for me. They are fragrant. (As she takes the violets from her maid a few loose ones fall to the ground). Don Gonzalo My dear lady, this has been a great honour and a great pleasure. Dona Laura : It has also been a pleasure to me. Don Gonzalo Good bye until tomorrow. Dona Laura : Until tomorrow. Don Gonzalo If it is sunny. Dona Laura A sunny morning. Will you go to your bench? Don Gonzalo No, I will come to this if you do not object? Dona Laura : This bench is at your disposal. Don Gonzalo And I will surely bring the crumbs. Dona Laura : Tomorrow, then? Don Gonzalo Tomorrow! (Laura walks away toward right, supported by her maid. Gonzalo, before leaving with Juanito, trembling and with a great effort, stoops to pick up the violets Laura dropped. Just then Laura turns her head and surprises him picking up the flowers). Juanito : What are you doing, senor? Don Gonzalo Juanito, wait Dona Laura : (Aside) Yes, it is he! 47 Don Gonzalo (Aside) It is she, and no mistake. (Dona Laura and Don Gonzalo wave farewell). Dona Laura : \'Can it be that this is he?\' Don Gonzalo Heavens, is it she?\' (They smile once more, as if she were again at the window and he below in the rose garden, and then disappear upon the arms of their servants.) Curtain. Serafin (1871-1938) and Joaquin (1873-1944) Alvarez Quintero were Spanish brothers, known as the \'Golden Boys of Madrid Theatre\'. They were celebrated playwrights of the early twentieth century. Together they wrote about 200 plays which depict the life, manners and speech of the people of Andalusia in Southern Spain. Their popular comedies, many of which have been translated into other languages, contributed to the revival of Spanish theatre. The Flowers,\' The Merry Heart,\' \'One Hundred Years Ago,\" \"The Galley Slave\' and \'Apple of His Eye\' are some of their popular plays. Glossary: Don : Sir Dona : Miss, Madam Handsome : (of man) good-looking, (of woman) striking and imposing in good looks rather than conventionally pretty Madrid : The capital city of Spain Unimpaired : not damaged Parasol : a colourful umbrella Senora (1) Adios (అecies) : the Spanish term for madam or Mrs. Spryest : adicu, farewell, goodbyc : most active and energetic Gluttons : those who eat excessively 48 6\. When You Are Old - W.B. Yeats When you are old and gray and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) is an Irish poet and one of the foremost figures of 20th century literature. His early poetry is part of the Celtic twilight or the Irish Literary Revival and it uses the history, myths and heroic figures of Ireland. Yeats wrote plays, was one of the founders of the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, and was witness to the revolutionary politics of Ireland. He was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1923. Later, under the influence of Ezra Pound, he began to write modernist poetry. He is one among the great love poets of the world. In this love poem, the speaker (who is the lover) imagines his beloved in the future when she is old and reading the book of poems he is now writing. Reading the book she will remember the past, her youthful beauty and the many who admired her. While the others loved her physical beauty and grace, only he loved her soul and her soul\'s search for something meaningful. However, she will also feel sad that love also vanished. Note how love is personified in the last lines. 54 How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) is an Irish poet and one of the foremost figures of 20th century literature. His early poetry is part of the Celtic twilight or the Irish Literary Revival and it uses the history, myths and heroic figures of Ireland. Yeats wrote plays, was one of the founders of the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, and was witness to the revolutionary politics of Ireland. He was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1923. Later, under the influence of Ezra Pound, he began to write modernist poetry. He is one among the great love poets of the world. In this love poem, the speaker (who is the lover) imagines his beloved in the future when she is old and reading the book of poems he is now writing. Reading the book she will remember the past, her youthful beauty and the many who admired her. While the others loved her physical beauty and grace, only he loved her soul and her soul\'s search for something meaningful. However, she will also feel sad that love also vanished. Note how love is personified in the last lines. 54 7\. The Gardener P. Lankesh Pre-reading Activity: Is there difference between competition and rivalry? Can you think of different factors that motivate human beings to lead their life? Elaboration can only impoverish this account and make it less. authentic. I conceived this story in a flash. It has its genesis in my chance encounter with an old man. He was standing in a coconut grove near Chennarayapatna. His eyes were suffused with strange memories and native intelligence. He stood there, a tall figure: hair gone grey, a long beak-like nose and strong muscular arms. In one hand, a spade used to tend coconut trees. A newspaper tucked under his arm. He was a labourer, overseer and philosopher, all rolled into one. He came to this garden one day, after walking hundreds of miles. The owner of this plantation needed a person exactly like him. A few words were exchanged. The old man stayed on. He was really useful. He was well-versed in agriculture, and could understand the problems of workers. The petty thefts in the garden came to an end. The income from the garden improved dramatically. There was a perceptible change in the lifestyle of the owner. The plantation expanded. But the owner became lethargic and shied away from hard work. His wife found all this very strange. She found it hard to decide whether the old man\'s arrival was for the better or for the worse. Her husband\'s wealth and social prestige had risen higher. He acquired a number of friends in the next town and an equal number in his own village. Even though he had precious little to do, his life became crowded with colourful events. She became apprehensive about his adultery and umpteen other vices, cultivated lately, thanks to his newly acquired clout. Their farm which was merely ten acres had grown beyond their imagination. That was fine, but their life also was gradually getting out of hand. When she was in a fix like this, one day, the old man met her and behaved as though he knew all about her plight. He smiled at her and brought down an offering of tender coconuts from a nearby tree. He sat on the embankment of the well. She had no alternative and she sat next to him. The sun was slipping away into the western horizon. His rays were reaching the walls of the well through the foliage of coconut, mango and jack fruit trees. The old man began his narrative. In a far-off place, once there was a man called Tammanna. He had everything. Ten acres of wet land. A comfortable house. People too ready to do his bidding. The most important among all his possessions was his rival Sangoji. After proceeding this far, the old man started fumbling for words as though he had committed a mistake. She was listening. She felt like going away, saying \"All this is none of my concern.\" However, unwilling to hurt the old man, she continued to sit there quietly. The old man went on. \"No, his name was not Sangoji, it was Basavaiah.\" Hc cxpressed his amazement at how facts take on such varied guises when they are narrated as fiction. Let that be. Let us assume his name was Basavaiah. He was Tammanna\'s rival. If Tammanna bought four more acres adjacent to his land, Basavaiah also followed suit. If one had ten friends, the other acquired fifteen admirers. To begin with, all this looked like healthy competition. However, gradually it rose to such a pitch that there was no land left in the village for them to buy. All land belonged to either Tammanna or Basavaiah. Tammanna had one thousand acres and Basavaiah owned eight hundred. Basavaiah could not tolerate this. Ile sent word to Tammanna asking him to sell two hundred acres. Tammanna did not agree. He was prepared to buy all the land that belonged to Basavaiah. Basavaiah was mad with rage. He went along with his people and acquired two hundred acres of Tammanna\'s land forcibly. A fence was built around that land. Tammanna could not tolerate this invasion. By now, the quarrel between these two had sucked in all their supporters. Tammanna was advised by his supporters about the various means available for getting back his land. There was the court of law. One could also take recourse to the police. If you did not want that, there were many number of persons ready to attack Basavaiah. Such a war had become virtually inevitable. But Tammanna was in search of a method that could annihilate Basavaiah completely. He hit upon the idea of composing all his cxperiences in the form of ballads and singing them. Now the rivalry between Tammanna and Basavaiah started moving away from things that were visible, towards an invisible, abstract domain. Basavaiah had no answer to this. He also tried to sing, but could not. He performed his agricultural tasks more diligently. This too was no answer to Tammanna. Tammanna\'s reputation started spreading all around. His songs started making a mention of Basavaiah\'s cruelty and his meanness. Scholars of folklore were after him. Critics started analysing and translating his songs and thus carned their share of fame. Basavaiah helplessly watched all this, consumed by anger. He encroached more and more into Tammanna\'s land. Tammanna did not notice any of these activities. Art had become the raison-d\'etre of his life. He was felicitated as the best poet of his times. Basavaiah shrunk in humiliation. Nevertheless he started filling his life with all kinds of material wealth. He got a palatial mansion built for himself. He appointed a number of persons just to praise him. He bedecked himself with gold, diamonds and other precious stones. But his house looked dull and empty because Tammanna\'s books were not there. That is what the visitors told him. Therefore he started inviting scholars, poets and musicians to his place. This was his way of investing his home with meaning. One day, he came to know that Tammanna was ill. At that point, Basavaiah found the means of surpassing Tammanna. Health is wealth. You may sing, you may write ballads, but if Tammanna started suffering from disease, surely his own spirits would be revived. Tammanna\'s disease was Basavaiah\'s health. However, by this time Tammanna had thought of yet another method of punishing Basavaiah. That was death. If he continued at the level of the body, Basavaiah would go on offering a stiff competition. But if his song was separated from his body, if there was no relation between the songs and his own flesh and blood\... this is how his thoughts went. \"That\'s when I realized how strange human nature can be.\" The old man began his explanation to the owner\'s wife. \"Man needs wealth, education, art and many more things. And yct he lives for some kind of unbearable vengefulness. Without it, there would be no reason for his existence. This is not a real story, only what I have heard somewhere. You may know that I subscribe to a daily. To you, I am just an old man. After a particular age, man loses his name. His age becomes important and his name vanishes into thin air. Now, I am an old man in this garden. Your servant. I am also the person who reads the newspaper and looks after the garden properly. I conceived the story of Tammanna and Basavaiah, when all of a sudden, Russia told America. \"I am not your enemy. I shall not wage a war against you.\" What must have been the reaction of America, the sworn enemy of Russia, to this declaration? Probably, you will not understand the agony and boredom of America, once it knew Russia was no more an enemy. A nation is capable of withstanding strains like this. But a human being cannot. I suffered a similar fate. I thought my death alone could destroy Basavaiah. I gave up everything and started off. A few days after I left, Basavaiah passed away. He had no more reason to live. My name is Tammanna. After his death, I forgot all my songs and ballads. 1, who was once famous, became a non-entity. Thus 1 avenged myself. Your husband is flourishing today as a rich man. He is not amenable to any advice. Man is so complicated that till the day of his death, he goes on living for some revenge or the other, confronting one challenge or the other. Amma, do not think otherwise; just assume I did not tell you any of this. Or, think all this happened in a dream. The labourers have started going home. That young child of Lokya paints well. He is bedridden with fever. I shall pay him a visit. Forgive me. Unable to elaborate, I have told you whatever I felt, as it is. I had seen all this in a dream. Translated by H.S. Raghavendra Rao P.Lankesh (1935-2000) is an Indian writer and journalist who wrote in Kannada. After graduating with an honours degree in English from Central College at Bengaluru, he completed his Master of Arts degree in English from Maharaja College, Mysore. P. Lankesh\'s first work was \'Kereya Neeranu Kerege Chelli\', a collection of short stories published in 1963. This was followed by several collections of short stories and poetry, three novels, critical essays, translations (including Charles Baudelaire\'s Les Fleurs du Mal, Oedipus Rex, and Sophocles\' Antigone), as well as several plays and films. His 1976 film \'Pallavi - a cinematic narration, told from the female protagonist\'s point of view and based on his novel \'Biruku\' won India\'s national award for best direction. H.S. Raghavendra Rao: (1948) Retired Professor of Kannada. He has worked at National College, Jayanagar, Bangalore, Kannada University, Hampi and Central Institute of Indian Languages, Mysore. He is a well known Literary Critic and Translator. He has published more than ten works of literary criticism. Translated Works: \'Art of Loving\', (Erich Fromm), This Matter of Culture\' (Jiddu Krishnamurthy), \'Iruvegalu\' (Oriya Short Stories), \'Baala Medhaavi\' (German Short Stories), Kappu Kavite\' (One Hundred Poems from Africa) \'Manju, Mannu, Mouna\' (Ted Kooser) and \'Hattu Dikkina Belaku\'. He is the recipient of many prestigious awards. 8\. To the Foot from its Child Pablo Neruda Pre-reading Activity: Some parts of the body are normally attributed metaphorically; Heart-emotions, head-rcason, similarly what do these refer to -foot, shoulders, hand, eye etc. What do the following expressions mean? stand on one\'s own feet, to have a brave heart, in cold blood, take to one\'s heel The child\'s foot is not yet aware it\'s a foot, and would like to be a butterfly or an apple. But in time, stones and bits of glass, streets, ladders, and the paths in the rough earth go on teaching the foot that it cannot fly, cannot be a fruit bulging on the branch. Then, the child\'s foot is defeated, falls in the battle, is a prisoner condemned to live in a shoe. Bit by bit, in that dark, it grows to know the world in its own way, out of touch with its fellow, enclosed, feeling out life like a blind man. These soft nails of quartz, bunched together, grow hard, and change themselves into opaque substance, hard as horn, and the tiny, petaled toes of the child grow bunched and out of trim, take on the form of eyeless reptiles with triangular heads, like worms. Later, they grow callused and are covered with the faint volcanoes of death, a coarsening hard to accept. But this blind thing walks without respite, never stopping for hour after hour, the one foot, the other, now the man\'s, now the woman\'s, up above, down below, through fields, mines, markets, and ministries, backwards, far afield, inward, forward, this foot toils in its shoc, scarcely taking time to bare itself in love or sleep; it walks, they walk, until the whole man chooses to stop. And then it descended underground, unaware, for there, everything, everything was dark. It never knew it had ceased to be a foot or if they were burying it so that it could fly or so that it could become an apple. Translated by Alastair Reid Pablo Neruda (1904-1973) is the pen name and, later, legal name of the Chilean poet, diplomat and politician Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto. He chose his pen name after the Czech poet Jan Neruda. In 1971 Neruda won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Neruda was recognized as a poet when he was a teenager. He wrote in a variety of styles including surrealist poems, historical epics, overtly political manifestos, a prose autobiography and erotically-charged love poems such as the ones in his 1924 collection Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. Alastair Reid (1926) is one of Scotland\'s foremost literary figures, admired as a craftsman in poetry, prose and translation. Since he left Scotland during World War II, he has lived variously in Spain, France, Switzerland, the United States and South America. Reid has published over 40 books including essays, poetry, children\'s books and translations of many distinguished poets. His publications include \'Weathering\' (1978), a book of his early selected poems & translations, and \'Oases\' (1997), a collection of prose and poetry describing his friendship with writers such as Graves, Neruda and Borges. 9\. I Believe That Books Will Never Disappear Interview with Jorge Luis Borges Pre-reading Activity: What is the difference between an interview and chatting? Think of different situations where people are interviewed (e.g., for job or for enrolment to a course etc.) How does it vary from situation to situation? ROBERTO ALIFANO JORGE LUIS BORGES: : What was your first literary reading, Borges? I believe my first reading was Grimm\'s Fairy tales in an English Version\... I was educated by my father\'s library, perhaps more than by high school or the university. ALIFANO: Can we talk about Dona Leonor, your mother? BORGES: My mother was an extraordinary person. I should speak, above all, of her kindness toward me. I\'ll tell you a secret of mine. I feel somewhat guilty for not having been a happy man in order to have given her a deserved happiness. I feel guilty; perhaps I should have been more understanding of her. But I don\'t know; I suppose that it is true of all children that when our mother dies, we feel that we have taken her for granted as we do with the moon or the sun or the seasons: we feel we have abused her. Before her death, it doesn\'t dawn on us. My mother was an intelligent and a gracious woman who, I believe, had no enemies. ALIFANO: Please forgive me, Borges, for asking you this: What is blindness to you? BORGES: Well, now it is a way of life, a way of life that is not entirely unhappy. A writer-and, I believe, generally all persons- must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely. All that happens to us, including humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material as clay, so that we may shape our art. ALIFANO: Homer wrote in The Odyssey: \"The gods wrought and spun the skcin of ruin for men, that there might be a song for those yet to be born\". BORGES: Well, it is the same idea. In one of my poems I say that humiliation, misfortune, discord were given to us so that we may transmute them, so that we may make from the miserable circumstance of our life eternal works or works that aspire to be so. A verse of Goethe comes to mind: \"Alles Nahe Werd Fern\" (All that is near becomes far). In this verse, Goethe refers not only to the sunset, but also to life. All things leave us. In my case, the visible world has moved away from my eyes, surely forever, but, fortunately, it has been replaced by other things. My duty is to accept and, as far as possible, to enjoy those things\... I still continue pretending that I am not blind. I still buy books\... I still go on filling my house with books. ALIFANO: There is a theme I would like us to speak about: the theme of books. BORGES: Well, last night, in fact, I had a very strange dream. \"I dreamed of the burning of a great library- which I believe may have been the library of Alexandria- with its countless volumes attacked by flames. Do you believe this dream may have some meaning? ALIFANO: Perhaps, Borges. Could it be that you owe your readers a book on the history of the book? Have you ever thought of writing such a book? BORGES: Dear me, no! But it is an excellent idea. It would be wonderful to write a history of book. I\'ll keep it in my mind; although I don\'t know if an eighty-three-year-old man can set such a project for himself\... However, I now remember that Spengler, in his Decline of the West, predates my attempt, for in it he writes remarkable comments on books. ALIFANO: In one of your essays, you quote the words of Bernard Shaw: \"Every book worth being re-read has been written by the spirit\". BORGES: Ah, yes. I completely concur with that notion, since a book goes beyond its author\'s intention\... The author\'s intention is a meager thing-a fallible thing. In a book- in every book-there is a need for something more, which is always mysterious. When we read an ancient book, it is as though we were reading all time that has passed from the day it was written to our present day. A book can be full of errors, we can reject its author\'s opinions, disagree with him or her, but the book always retains something sacred, something mortal, something magical which brings happiness. ALIFANO: Borges, what is poetry? How would you define it? BORGES: I believe that poetry is something so intimate, so essential, that it cannot be defined without oversimplifying it. It would be like attempting to define the color yellow, love, and the fall of leaves in the autumn\... I believe that poetry is the aesthetic act; that poetry is not the poem, for the poem may be nothing more than a series of symbols. Poetry, I believe, is the poetic act that takes place when the poet writes it, when the reader reads it, and it always happens in a slightly different manner. When the poetic act takes place, it seems to me that we become aware of it. Poetry is a magical, mysterious, and unexplainable although not incomprehensible-event. If one doesn\'t feel the poetic event upon reading it, the poet has failed. ALIFANO: Borges, what is important in the art of poetry is finding the precise words\... BORGES: To a great extent. Those precise words are what elicit the emotion. I always remember that wonderful line in a poem by Emily Dickinson, which can exemplify this: \"This quiet dust was gentlemen and Ladies\". The idea is banal. The idea of dust, the dust of death (we will all be dust one day) is a cliché; but what surprises is the phrase \"gentlemen and ladies\", which gives the magic and poetic quality. If she had written \"men and women\", it would have failed as poetry; it would have been trivial. But, finding the precise words, she wrote, \"This quiet dust was gentlemen and ladies.\" ALIFANO: You have said that metaphors exist from our very beginnings. Could you expound on that concept, Borges? BORGES: Yes, certainly. I believe that metaphors, if they are truly metaphors, exist from the beginning of time. But we express them differently. I have occasionally thought of reducing all metaphors to five or six which seem to me to be the essential metaphors. ALIFANO: What are those metaphors? BORGES: Well, time and a river; life and dreams; death and sleep; stars and cycs; flowers and women. These would be, I believe, the essential metaphors that are found in all literatures; and then there are others that are whimsical. I believe that the poet\'s task is to discover metaphors, even though they may already exist. ALIFANO: Borges, there are people who speak of the disappearance of books, and they assert that modern developments in communications will replace them with something more dynamic that will require less time than reading. What do you think of that? BORGES: I believe that books will never disappear. It is impossible that that will happen. Among the many inventions of man, the book, without a doubt, is the most astounding: all the others are extensions of our bodies. The telephone, for example, is the extension of our voice; the telescope and the microscope are extensions of our sight; the sword and the plough are extensions of our arms. Only the book is an extension of our imagination and memory. ALIFANO: Well, you state in a memorable passage that literature is a dream. BORGES: It is true. Literature is a dream, a controlled dream. Now, I believe that we owe literature almost everything we are and what we have been, also what we will be. Our past is nothing but a sequence of dreams. What difference can there be between dreaming and remembering the past? Books are the great memory of all centuries. Their function, therefore, is irreplaceable. If books disappear, surely history would disappear, and surely man would disappear. (Excerpts from Twenty four Conversations with Borges: Interviews by Roberto Alifano) Jorge Luis Borges (ಹೂರ್ಹೆ ಲೂಯಿಸ್ ಬೊರ್ಹೆಸ್) - (1899-1986) is an Argentine short-story writer, essayist, poet and translator born in Buenos Aires. His work embraces the \"character of unreality in all literature\". His most famous books, Ficciones (1944) and The Aleph (El Aleph, 1949) are compilations of short stories interconnected with common themes, including dreams, labyrinths, libraries, mirrors, infinity, fictional writers, philosophy, religion and God. Roberto Alifano, poet, storyteller, essayist and journalist, born in the city of General Pinto, province of Buenos Aires, in 1943. His books have been translated into several languages. From 1974 to 1985 he worked with Jorge Luis Borges. Glossary: Doña : used as a courtesy title before the name of a woman in a Spanish-speaking area Whimsical : fanciful Odyssey : Greek epic written by Homer Library of Alexandria one of the largest libraries of the ancient World which was burnt Spengler : Oswald Spengler (1880-1936) German historian and philosopher 10\. Heaven, If You Are Not Here On Earth Kuvempu Pre-reading Activity: Do you agree that one\'s life is what one makes of it? What comes to your mind when you think of the word \'heaven? Heaven, if you are not here on earth Where else could you be! If we ourselves cannot be gods Then there can be no gods! If we ourselves aren\'t heavenly nymphs The nymphs are not elsewhere! While this roaring stream rushes fast Rolling surf at the edge of waves The tender sunshine leans on verdant gardens And then the gentle Sun make this earth, heaven! In the splendour of harvest and of moonlight Heaven lies all over! Imbibing and spilling the song of nectar The poet does create heaven on earth! Translated by Prof. C. Naganna K. V. Puttapра (1904-1994): He is widely known by the pen name Kuvempu. He is acknowledged as the greatest poet of the 20th century Kannada literature. He is the first among eight recipients of Jnanpith Award for Kannada. He is the second-after M. Govinda Pai - among Kannada poets to be revered as Rashtrakavi, a national poet. His work \'Sri Ramayana Darshanam\', the rewriting of the great ancient Indian epic Ramayana in modern Kannada, is regarded as revival of the era of Mahakavya (Epic poetry) in a contemporary form and charm. He is immortalised by some of his phrases, and in particular for his contribution to Universal Humanism or in his own words \'Vishwa maanavataa Vaada\'. He was conferred Padma Vibhushan by Government of India. He has penned the Karnataka State anthem \'Jaya Bharata Jananiya Tanujate\'. Dr. C. Naganna is a wellknown poet, critic and translator. He has brought out more than twenty books in both Kannada and English so far. His Kannada translation of Chinua Achebe\'s Things Fall Apart as \'on\' and the English rendering of Kuvempu\'s discursive essays n\' as Unsetter Your Minds and Other Essays have been well received. He is a professor of Comparative literature and Translation Studies, besides being Director of Prasaranga, the publication division of the University of Mysore. A number of organizations have honoured him for his literary and cultural contributions. 11\. Japan And Brazil Through A Traveler\'s Eye George Mikes Pre-reading Activity: Do you like travelling? Does it enhance one\'s mental horizon? Which of our behaviour/gestures do you think appear strange to a foreign visitor? Do you think living in a foreign city/visiting a foreign country makes us aware of our own culture? Note on Travel Writing Travel writing is about writing one\'s experiences of travelling and visiting alien places. As a genre of writing it is as old as the 2nd Century when travellers to Greece recorded their experiences in the form of a diary. With the invention of new techniques of navigation and sea voyages during the 9th and 10th centuries, travel writing became popular as more number of people began to explore new places on the globe. Soon such trips started getting royal patronage and support. New adventures and voyages were even commissioned. Thus travel writing ceased to be just a description of a new place born out of curiosity and gained political overtones. Now even after much of the earth has been explored, and almost every piece on this earth has been written about, its popularity has not waned as can be seen by the immense viewership it has on modern media like TV and internet. Travel writing has come under serious scholarly study in the past 50 years, and has become a part of cultural studies programme in many universities. Travel writing is no longer viewed as a product of some innocent curiosity or an attempt to understand an alien culture \'objectively\'. Rather, these narratives are telling comments on how a culture gets represented by another, and in the process subtly uphold some cultural values as somehow superior and universal than the others. JAPANESE MANNERS A QUARTER of an hour in Japan will convince you that you are among exquisitely well-mannered people. People who live on a hopelessly overcrowded island have to respect one another\'s privacy- or rather, would have to if they had any privacy. But they don\'t. So courtesy has a double function: it is courtesy and it is substitute privacy. Take, for example, the little red telephones in the streets, shops, halls of hotels. The instrument is situated on a table or on a counter-they have no space to spare for booths. You conduct your most confidential business transactions, your intimate love-quarrels in public; yet in perfect privacy. Anybody, any passer-by, could listen- in, but nobody docs. A man\'s telephone-recciver is his castle. You will, of course, immediately notice their mania for bowing. Everybody keeps bowing to everybody else, with the ceremonious solemnity of a courtier yet with a great deal of natural and inimitable grace. Bowing is neither less nor more silly than shaking hands or kissing the cheek, but it is quainter; more formal, more oriental; it is also infectious. After a few hours you start bowing yourself. But you bow too deeply or not deeply enough; you bow to the wrong man at the wrong time; you do not clasp your hands in front of you which is bad; or you do which is worse. You\'ll discover that the Japanese have a complicated hierarchy in bowing: who bows to whom, how deeply and for how long. One of the American states had an early traffic law which laid down that if two cars met at an intersection, neither was to move before the other had gone. Similarly, if two Japanese bow, neither is to straighten up before the other stands erect in front of him. A little complicated to us; they manage it without difficulty and even the smallest difference in rank, standing, age, social position will be subtly reflected in that split second one man\'s bow is shorter than the other\'s. In many cases there are clear-cut differences in position and no difficulties. The basic rules inside the family: The wife bows to her husband, the child bows to his father, younger brothers to elder brothers, the sister bows to all brothers of whatever age. I saw babies carried in Japanese style on their mothers\' backs in clever little saddles, and whenever mother bowed, baby bowed too, somewhat condescendingly, from his majestic height. Japanese stores employ bowing girls who stand at the top of escalators and whose only duty is to bow deeply and deferentially to all and sundry (the Japanese equivalent of our page-boys who turn revolving doors for us). On the famous and fast Tokaido Line between Tokyo and Osaka two conductors enter the carriage in a slightly theatrical scene. They march to the middle of the coach, bow ceremoniously in both directions and then start checking the tickets. In one of the parts of Nara I met a deer. 1 bought a pack of food for him. He came up to me, looked into my eyes and bowed deeply. It was no chance gesture: it was a proper and courteous bow. Perhaps deer are more imitative than I knew; perhaps if they see people bowing all the time they get into the habit too; perhaps it is something genetic and is in the blood of Japanese deer. I do not know; but I do know that the deer bowed to me, then jumped at me and snatched the little food-bag from my hand. In this, too, the deer was a true Japanese. You can often see people bowing to each other with ceremonious serenity at bus-stops. As soon as the bus arrives, the bowing gentlemen are transformed into savages, they push each other aside, tread on each other\'s toes and shove their elbows into each other\'s stomachs\... Eating Soup Eating soup has more dangers than almost anything else. When eating soup you must make a fearful noise. It is a sign of appreciation. If you don\'t, your hostess will think: \'What an ill-mannered lout.\' But if you do, she will think: \'No reasonably well brought-up European. makes such disgusting noises when eating soup. He must be an ill- mannered lout\'. TRAFFIC IN BRAZIL NOBODY hurries in Brazil. It does not really matter whether you reach your destination an hour too soon, a day late, or not at all. The grey pavements in the streets of Copacabana are often decorated with beautiful black mosaics a unique type of decoration. Only a people alive to beauty in their surroundings and who have plenty of time for contemplation during their meditative, ambulatory exercises would take the trouble to decorate the pavements they walk on. However, as soon as these easy going, leisurely characters get a steering wheel in their hands no speed is fast enough for them. You would then be inclined to believe that gaining a tenth of a second is a matter of grave importance for all of them all the time. Motor cars are extremely expensive in Brazil, import duties being crippling and murderous. Only a few other, poorer, South American states are in a worse position in this respect. Complaints are universal: hardly anyone can afford a car. Yet this only means that the number of motor vehicles is growing by leaps and bounds, almost as if cars were distributed free of charge to all and sundry. Thus the pedestrian\'s life is becoming more hazardous every day. It is not that drivers do not care about pedestrians. The trouble is that they do care about them; they are, in fact, on the look-out for them. As soon as a driver notices a pedestrian step off the pavement, he regards him as fair game: he takes aim and accelerates. The pedestrian has to jump, leap, and run for dear life. He does not resent this in the least: driver and pedestrian hunter and prey smile amicably at each other. I win today you will win tomorrow. Fair enough\... The war between drivers themselves is murderous but good- tempered. They cut in, they overtake on both sides, they force you to brake violently and commit all the most heinous crimes of the road and twenty times every hour. But they smile at you the same time there is no anger, no hostility, no mad hooting\... The Avenida Presidente Vargas is the worst place of all. You stand there, trying to cross the road and contemplating the truly fascinating problem: how can crawling traffic proceed at such terrifying speed? As hour after hour passes, without a ray of hope of an auspicious crossing, you may witness a scene, something like this: a man, on your side of the Avenida Vargas suddenly catches sight of a friend of his on the other side and starts waving to him, at the same time looking completely mystified: \'How on earth did you get over there?\' he shouts across, trying to make himself heard above the traffic. It is the other fellow\'s turn to be surprised by this naïve question. He yells back: \'How? I was born on this side!\' George Mikes (m) (1912-1987) is an artist, author, publisher, illustrator and journalist from Hungary. Studied Law and received his doctorate at Budapest University. His books include \'The Hungarian Revolution\', \'Uber Alles\', \'Shakespeare and Myself, \'Italy for Beginners\', \'How to be An Artist\', \'How to be Inimitable\', \'How to scrape Skies\' and \'How To Tango\', \'How To Be An Alien\'. These excerpts are chosen from \'The Land of the Rising Yen\' and \'How To Tango\'. 12\. The Voter Chinua Achebe Pre-reading Activity: Do you have a voting system in your college? To what extent is voting important for democracy? Rufus Okeke Roof for short was a very popular man in his village. Although the villagers did not explain it in so many words, Roof\'s popularity was a measure of their gratitude to an energetic young man who, unlike most of his fellows nowadays, had not abandoned the village in order to seek work, any work, in the towns. And Roof was not a village lout either. Everyone knew how he had spent two years as a bicycle repairer\'s apprentice in Port Harcourt, and had given up of his own free will a bright future to return to his people and guide them in these difficult times. Not that Umuofia needed a lot of guidance. The village already belonged en masse to the People\'s Alliance Party, and its most illustrious son, Chief the Honourable Marcus Ibe, was Minister of Culture in the outgoing government (which was pretty certain to be the incoming one as well). Nobody doubted that the Honourable Minister would be elected in his constituency. Opposition to him was like proverbial fly trying to move a dunghill. It would have been ridiculous enough without coming, as it did now, from a complete nonentity. As was to be expected Roof was in the service of the Honourable Minister for the coming elections. He had become a real expert in clection campaigning at all levels village, local government or national. He could tell the mood and temper of the electorate at any given time. For instance he had warned the Minister months ago about the radical change that had come into the thinking of Umuofia since the last national election. The villagers had had five years in which to see how quickly and plentifully politics brought wealth, chieftaincy titles, doctorate degrees and other honours some of which, like the last, had still to be explained satisfactorily to them; for in their naivety they still expected a doctor to be able to heal the sick. Anyhow, these honours and benefits had come so readily to the man to whom they had given their votes free of charge five years ago that they were now ready to try it a different way. Their point was that only the other day Marcus Ibe was a not too successful mission school teacher. Then politics had come to their village and he had wisely joined up, some said just in time to avoid imminent dismissal arising from a female teacher\'s complaint. Today he was Chief the Honourable; he had two long cars and had just built himself the biggest house anyone had seen in these parts. But let it be said that none of these successes had gone to Marcus\'s head as well they might. He remained devoted to his people. Whenever he could he left the good things of the capital and returned to his village which had neither running water nor electricity, although he had lately installed a private plant to supply electricity to his new house. He knew the source of his good fortune, unlike the little bird who ate and drank and went out to challenge his personal spirit. Marcus had christened to his new house \"Umuofia Mansions\" in honour of his village, and he had slaughtered five bulls and countless goats to entertain the people on the day it was opened by the Archbishop. Everyone was full of praise for him. One old man said: \"Our son is a good man; he is not like the mortar which as soon as food comes its way turns its back on the ground.\" But when the feasting was over, the villagers told themselves that they had underrated the power of the ballot paper before and should not do so again. Chief the Honourable Marcus Ibe was not unprepared. He had drawn five months\' salary in advance, changed a few hundred pounds into shining shillings and armed his campaign boys with eloquent little jute bags. In the day he made his speeches; at night his stalwarts conducted their whispering campaign. Roof was the most trusted of these campaigners. \"We have a Minister from our village, one of our own sons,\" he said to a group of elders in the house of Ogbuefi Ezenwa, a man of high traditional title. \"What greater honour can a village have? Do you ever stop to ask yourselves why we should be singled out for this honour? I will tell you; it is because we are favoured by the leaders of PAP. Whether or not we cast our paper for Marcus, PAP will continue to rule. Think of the pipe-borne water they have promised us\...\" Besides Roof and his assistant there were five elders in the room. An old hurricane lamp with a cracked, sooty, glass chimney gave out yellowish light in their midst. The elders sat on very low stools. On the floor, directly in front of cach of them, lay two shilling pieces. Outside beyond the fastened door, the moon kept a straight face. \"We believe every word you say to be true,\" said Ezenwa. \"We shall, every one of us, drop his paper for Marcus. Who would leave an ozo feast and go to a poor ritual meal? Tell Marcus he has our papers, and our wives\' papers too. But what we do say is that two shillings is shameful.\" He brought the lamp close and tilted it at the money before him as if to make sure he had not mistaken its value. \"Yes, two shillings is too shameful. Marcus were a poor man which our ancestors forbid - I should be the first to give him my paper free, as I did before. But today Marcus is a great man and does his things like a great man. We did not ask him for money yesterday; we shall not ask him tomorrow. But today is our day; we have climbed the iroko tree today and would be foolish not to take down all the firewood we need.\" Roof had to agree. He had lately been taking down a lot of firewood himself. Only yesterday he had asked Marcus for one of his many rich robes-and had got it. Last Sunday Marcus\'s wife (the teacher that nearly got him in trouble) had objected (like the woman she was) when Roof pulled out his fifth bottle of beer from the refrigerator; she was roundly and publicly rebuked by her husband. To cap it all Roof had won a land case recently because, among other things, he had been chauffeur-driven to the disputed site. So he understood the elders about the firewood. \"All right,\" he said in English and then reverted to Ibo. \"Let us not quarrel about small things.\" He stood up, adjusted his robes and plunged his hand once more into the bag. Then he bent down like a priest distributing the host and gave one shilling more to every man; only he did not put it into their palms but on the floor in front of them. The men, who had so far not deigned to touch the things, looked at the floor and shook their heads. Roof got up again and gave each man another shilling. \"I am through,\" he said with a defiance that was no less effective for being transparently faked. The elders too knew how far to go without losing decorum. So when Roof added; \"Go cast your paper for the enemy if you like!\" they quickly calmed him down with a suitable speech from each of them. By the time the last man had spoken it was possible, without great loss of dignity, to pick up the things from the floor\... The enemy Roof had referred to was the Progressive Organization Party (POP) which had been formed by the tribes down the coast to save themselves, as the founders of the party proclaimed, from \"total political, cultural, social and religious annihilation.\" Although it was clear the party had no chance here it had plunged, with typical foolishness, into a straight fight with PAP, providing cars and loud- speakers to a few local rascals and thugs to go around and make a lot of noise. No one knew for certain how much money POP had let loose in Umuofia but it is said to be very considerable. The local campaigners would end up very rich, no doubt. Up to last night everything had been \"moving according to plan,\" as Roof would have put it. Then he had received a strange visit from the leader of the POP campaign team. Although he and Roof were well known to each other, and might even be called friends, his visit was cold and business-like. No words were wasted. He placed five pounds on the floor before Roof and said, \"We want your vote.\"Roof got up from his chair, went to the outside door, closed it carefully and returned to his chair. The brief exercise gave him enough time to weigh the proposition. As he spoke his eyes never left the red notes on the floor. He seemed to be mesmerized by the picture of the cocoa farmer harvesting his crops. \"You know I work for Marcus,\" he said feebly. \"It will be very bad\...\" \"Marcus will not be there when you put in your paper. We have plenty of work to do tonight; are you taking this or not?\" \"It will not be heard outside this room?\" asked Roof. \"We are after votes not gossip.\" \"All right,\" said Roof in English. The man nudged his companion and he brought forward an object covered with a red cloth and proceeded to remove the cover. It was a fearsome little affair contained in a clay pot with feathers stuck into it. \"The iyi comes from Mbanta. You know what that means. Swear that you will vote for Maduka. If you fail to do so, this iyi take note.\" Roof\'s heart nearly flew out when he saw the iyi; indeed he knew the fame of Mbanta in these things. But he was a man of quick decision. What could a single vote cast in secret for Maduka take away from Marcus\'s certain victory? Nothing. \"I will cast my paper for Maduka; if not this iyi take note.\" \"Das all,\" said the man as he rose with his companion who had covered up the object again and was taking it back to their car. \"You know he has no chance against Marcus,\" said Roof at the door. \"It is enough that he gets a few votes now; next time he will get more. People will hear that he gives out pounds, not shillings, and they will listen.\" Election morning. The great day every five years when the people exercise power. Weather-beaten posters on walls of houses, tree trunks and telegraph poles. The few that were still whole called out their message to those who could read. Vote for the People\'s Alliance Party! Vote for Progressive Organization Party! Vote for PAP! Vote for POP! The posters that were torn called out as much of the message as they could. As usual Chief the Honourable Marcus Ibe was doing things in grand style. He had hired a highlife band from Umuru and stationed it at such a distance from the voting booths as just managed to be lawful. Many villagers danced to the music, their ballot papers held aloft, before proceeding to the booths. Chief the Honourable Marcus Ibe sat in the \"owner\'s corner\" of his enormous green car and smiled and nodded. One enlightened villager came up to the car, shook hands with the great man and said in advance, \"Congrats!\" This immediately set the pattern. Hundreds of admirers shook Marcus\'s hand and said \"Corngrass!\" Roof and the other organizers were prancing up and down, giving last minute advice to the voters and pouring with sweat. \"Do not forget,\" he said again to a group of illiterate women who seemed ready to burst with enthusiasm and good humour, \"our sign is the motor-car\...\" \"Like the one Marcus is sitting inside.\" \"Thank you, mother,\" said Roof. \"It is the same car. The box with the car shown on its body is the box for you. Don\'t look at the other with the man\'s head: it is for those whose heads are not correct.\" This was greeted with loud laughter. Roof cast a quick and busy- like glance towards the Minister and received a smile of appreciation. \"Vote for the car,\" he shouted, all the veins in his neck standing out. \"Vote for the car and you will ride in it!\" \"Or if we don\'t, our children will,\" piped the same sharp, old girl. The band struck up a new number: \"Why walk when you can ride\...\" In spite of his apparent calm and confidence, Chief the Honourable Marcus was a relentless stickler for detail. He knew he would win what the newspapers called \"a landslide victory\" but he did not wish, even so, to throw away a single vote. So as soon as the first rush of voters was over he promptly asked his campaign boys to go one at a time and put in their ballot papers. \"Roof, you had better go first\", he said. Roof\'s spirits fell; but he let no one see it. All morning he had masked his deep worry with a surface exertion which was unusual even for him. Now he dashed off in his springy fashion towards the booths. A police man at the entrance searched him for illegal ballot papers and passed him. Then the electoral officer explained to him about the two boxes. By this time the spring had gone clean out of his walk. He sidled in and was confronted by the car and the head. He brought out his ballot paper from his pocket and looked at it. How could he betray Marcus cven in secret? He resolved to go back to the other man and return his live pounds\... Five pounds! He knew at once it was impossible. He had sworn on that iyi. The notes were red; the cocoa farmer busy at work. At this point he heard the muffled voice of the policeman asking the electoral officer what the man was doing inside. \"Abi na pickin im de born?\" Quick as lightning a thought leapt into Roof\'s mind. He folded the paper, tore it in two along the crease and put one half in cach box. He took the precaution of putting the first half into Maduka\'s box and confirming the action verbally: \"I vote for Maduka.\" They marked his thumb with indelible purple ink to prevent his return, and he went out of the booth as jauntily as he had gone in. Chinua Achebe (1930-2013) is a Nigerian novelist, poet, professor, and critic. Achebe\'s novels focus on the traditions of Igbo society, the effect of Christian influences, and the clash of Western and traditional African values during and after the colonial era. His style relies heavily on the Igbo oral tradition, and combines straightforward narration with representations of folk storics, proverbs, and oratory. He also published a number of short stories, children\'s books, and essay collections. Some of his works are: Things Fall Apart\', \'Arrow Of God\', \'No Longer At Ease\', \' Enemy Of The People\', \'Girls At War\'. 13\. Where There Is A Wheel P Sainath Pre-reading Activity: What does this title remind you of? List some of the simple things that have changed the lives of people. PUDUKKOTTAI (Tarnil Nadu): Cycling as a social movement? Sounds far-fetched. Perhaps. But not all that far-not to tens of thousands of neo-literate rural women in Pudukkottai district. People find ways, sometimes curious ones, of hitting out at their backwardness, of expressing defiance, of hammering at the fetters that hold them. In this, one of India\'s poorest districts, cycling seems the chosen medium for rural women. During the past eighteen months, over 100,000 rural women, most of them neo-literates, have taken to bicycling as a symbol of independence, freedom and mobility. If we exclude girls below ten years of age, it would mean that over one- fourth of all rural women here have learnt cycling. And over 70,000 of these women have taken part in public \'exhibition-cum-contests\' to proudly display their new skills. And still the \'training camps\' and desire to learn continue. In the heart of rural Pudukkottai, young women zip along the roads on their bicycles. Jameela Bibi, who has taken to cycling, told me: \'It\'s my right. We can go anywhere. Now I don\'t have to wait for a bus. I know people made dirty remarks when I started cycling, but I paid no attention.\' Fatima is a secondary school teacher, so addicted to cycling that she hires a bicycle for half an hour each evening (she cannot yet afford to buy one-each costs over Rs. 1,200). She said: There is freedom in cycling. We are not dependent on anyone now. I can never give this up.\' Jameela, Fatima and their friend Avakanni, all in their early twenties, have trained scores of other young women from their community in the art of cycling. Cycling has swept across this district. Women agricultural workers, quarry labourers and village health nurses are among its fans. Joining the rush are balwadi and anganwadi workers, gem- cutters and school teachers. And gramsevikas and mid-day meal workers are not far behind. The vast majority are those who have just become literate. The district\'s vigorous literacy drive, led by the Arivoli Iyakkam (Light of Knowledge Movement) has been quick to tap this energy. Every one of the neo-literate, \'neo-cyclist\' women I spoke to saw a direct link between cycling and her personal independence. The main thing,\' said N. Kannammal, Arivoli central coordinator and one of the pioneers of the cycling movement, was the confidence it gave women. Very importantly, it reduced their dependence on men. Now we often see a woman doing a four-kilometre stretch on her cycle to collect water, sometimes with her children. Even carting provisions from other places can be done on their own. But, believe me, women had to put up with vicious attacks on their character when this began. So many made filthy remarks. But Arivoli gave cycling social sanction. So women took to it.\' Early among them, Kannammal herself. Though a science graduate, she had never mustered the \'courage\' to cycle earlier. Visiting an Arivoli \'cycling training camp\' is an unusual experience. In Kilakuruchi village all the prospective learners had turned out in their Sunday best. You can\'t help being struck by the sheer passion of the pro-cycling movement. They had to know. Cycling offered a way out of enforced routines, around male-imposed barriers. The neo-cyclists even sing songs produced by Arivoli to encourage bicycling. One of these has lines like: \'O sister come learn cycling, move with the wheel of time\...\' Very large numbers of those trained have come back to help new learners. They work free of charge for Arivoli as (oddly named) \'master trainers\'. There is not only a desire to learn but a widespread perception among them that all women ought to learn. cycling. In turn, their experience has enriched the literacy movement. The neo-cyclists are bound even more