The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
All For Friendship
Horror gripped the heart of a World War-I soldier, as he saw his lifelong friend fall in battle. The soldier asked his Lieutenant if he could go out to bring his fallen comrade back.
"You can go," said the Lieutenant," but don't think it will be worth it.
Your friend is probably dead and you may throw your life away. "The Lieutenant's words didn't matter, and the soldier went anyway.
Miraculously, he managed to reach his friend, hoisted him onto his shoulder and brought him back to their company's trench. The officer checked the wounded soldier, then looked kindly at his friend.
"I told you it wouldn't be worth it," he said. "Your friend is dead and you are mortally wounded."
"It was worth it, Sir," said the soldier.
"What do you mean by worth it?" responded the Lieutenant. "Your friend is dead."
"Yes Sir," the soldier answered, "but it was worth it because when I got to him, he was still alive and I had the satisfaction of hearing him say, "Jim...I knew you'd come."
Horror gripped the heart of a World War-I soldier, as he saw his lifelong friend fall in battle. The soldier asked his Lieutenant if he could go out to bring his fallen comrade back.
"You can go," said the Lieutenant," but don't think it will be worth it.
Your friend is probably dead and you may throw your life away. "The Lieutenant's words didn't matter, and the soldier went anyway.
Miraculously, he managed to reach his friend, hoisted him onto his shoulder and brought him back to their company's trench. The officer checked the wounded soldier, then looked kindly at his friend.
"I told you it wouldn't be worth it," he said. "Your friend is dead and you are mortally wounded."
"It was worth it, Sir," said the soldier.
"What do you mean by worth it?" responded the Lieutenant. "Your friend is dead."
"Yes Sir," the soldier answered, "but it was worth it because when I got to him, he was still alive and I had the satisfaction of hearing him say, "Jim...I knew you'd come."
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
The Last Leaf
BY O'Henry
In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!
So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony."
At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'hôte of an Eighth Street "Delmonico's," and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.
That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places."
Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.
One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, gray eyebrow.
"She has one chance in - let us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. " And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?"
"She - she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day." said Sue.
"Paint? - bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice - a man for instance?"
"A man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth - but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind."
"Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten."
After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime.
Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep.
She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.
As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.
Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting - counting backward.
"Twelve," she said, and little later "eleven"; and then "ten," and "nine"; and then "eight" and "seven", almost together.
Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks.
"What is it, dear?" asked Sue.
"Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now."
"Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie."
"Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?"
"Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were - let's see exactly what he said - he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self."
"You needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too."
"Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down."
"Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly.
"I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Beside, I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves."
"Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves."
"Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move 'til I come back."
Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above.
Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker.
Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.
"Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy."
"She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn't. But I think you are a horrid old - old flibbertigibbet."
"You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes."
Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an upturned kettle for a rock.
When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade.
"Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper.
Wearily Sue obeyed.
But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground.
"It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time."
"Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?"
But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed.
The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves.
When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised.
The ivy leaf was still there.
Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove.
"I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and - no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook."
And hour later she said:
"Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples."
The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left.
"Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll win." And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is - some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable."
The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now - that's all."
And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all.
"I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it, and - look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece - he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell."
BY O'Henry
In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!
So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony."
At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'hôte of an Eighth Street "Delmonico's," and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.
That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places."
Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.
One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, gray eyebrow.
"She has one chance in - let us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. " And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?"
"She - she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day." said Sue.
"Paint? - bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice - a man for instance?"
"A man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth - but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind."
"Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten."
After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime.
Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep.
She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.
As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.
Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting - counting backward.
"Twelve," she said, and little later "eleven"; and then "ten," and "nine"; and then "eight" and "seven", almost together.
Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks.
"What is it, dear?" asked Sue.
"Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now."
"Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie."
"Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?"
"Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were - let's see exactly what he said - he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self."
"You needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too."
"Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down."
"Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly.
"I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Beside, I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves."
"Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves."
"Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move 'til I come back."
Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above.
Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker.
Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.
"Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy."
"She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn't. But I think you are a horrid old - old flibbertigibbet."
"You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes."
Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an upturned kettle for a rock.
When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade.
"Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper.
Wearily Sue obeyed.
But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground.
"It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time."
"Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?"
But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed.
The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves.
When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised.
The ivy leaf was still there.
Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove.
"I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and - no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook."
And hour later she said:
"Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples."
The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left.
"Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll win." And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is - some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable."
The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now - that's all."
And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all.
"I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it, and - look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece - he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell."
Where The Mind is Without Fear
Rabindranath Tagore
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake
Rabindranath Tagore
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake
Saturday, July 08, 2006
The Happy Prince
by Oscar Wilde
HIGH above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.
He was very much admired indeed. `He is as beautiful as a weathercock,' remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; `only not quite so useful,' he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.
`Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?' asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. `The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.'
`I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,' muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.
`He looks just like an angel,' said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks, and their clean white pinafores.
`How do you know?' said the Mathematical Master, `you have never seen one.'
`Ah! but we have, in our dreams,' answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.
One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.
`Shall I love you?' said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.
`It is a ridiculous attachment,' twittered the other Swallows, `she has no money, and far too many relations;' and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came, they all flew away.
After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. `She has no conversation,' he said, `and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.' And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtsies. `I admit that she is domestic,' he continued, `but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also.'
`Will you come away with me?' he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.
`You have been trifling with me,' he cried, `I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!' and he flew away.
All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. `Where shall I put up?' he said; `I hope the town has made preparations.'
Then he saw the statue on the tall column. `I will put up there,' he cried; `it is a fine position with plenty of fresh air.' So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.
`I have a golden bedroom,' he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. `What a curious thing!' he cried, `there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.'
Then another drop fell.
`What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?' he said; `I must look for a good chimney-pot,' and he determined to fly away.
But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw - Ah! what did he see?
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.
`Who are you?' he said.
`I am the Happy Prince.'
`Why are you weeping then?' asked the Swallow; `you have quite drenched me.'
`When I was alive and had a human heart,' answered the statue, `I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot choose but weep.'
`What, is he not solid gold?' said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
`Far away,' continued the statue in a low musical voice, `far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.'
`I am waited for in Egypt,' said the Swallow. `My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.'
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad.'
`I don't think I like boys,' answered the Swallow. `Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect.'
But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. `It is very cold here,' he said; `but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger.'
`Thank you, little Swallow,' said the Prince.
So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.
He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. `How wonderful the stars are,' he said to her, and how wonderful is the power of love!'
`I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball,' she answered; `I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy.'
He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. `How cool I feel,' said the boy, `I must be getting better;' and he sank into a delicious slumber.
Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. `It is curious,' he remarked, `but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold.'
`That is because you have done a good action,' said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.
When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. `What a remarkable phenomenon,' said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. `A swallow in winter!' And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.
`To-night I go to Egypt,' said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, `What a distinguished stranger!' so he enjoyed himself very much.
When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. `Have you any commissions for Egypt?' he cried; `I am just starting.'
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `will you not stay with me one night longer?'
`I am waited for in Egypt,' answered the Swallow. `To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.'
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the prince, `far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint.'
`I will wait with you one night longer,' said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. `Shall I take him another ruby?'
`Alas! I have no ruby now,' said the Prince; `my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play.'
`Dear Prince,' said the Swallow, `I cannot do that;' and he began to weep.
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `do as I command you.'
So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.
`I am beginning to be appreciated,' he cried; `this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play,' and he looked quite happy.
The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. `Heave a-hoy!' they shouted as each chest came up. `I am going to Egypt!' cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.
`I am come to bid you good-bye,' he cried.
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `will you not stay with me one night longer?'
`It is winter,' answered the Swallow, `and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea.'
`In the square below,' said the Happy Prince, `there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her.'
`I will stay with you one night longer,' said the Swallow, `but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then.'
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `do as I command you.'
So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. `What a lovely bit of glass,' cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.
Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. `You are blind now,' he said, `so I will stay with you always.'
`No, little Swallow,' said the poor Prince, `you must go away to Egypt.'
`I will stay with you always,' said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet.
All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.
`Dear little Swallow,' said the Prince, `you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there.'
So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try and keep themselves warm. `How hungry we are!' they said. `You must not lie here,' shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.
Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.
`I am covered with fine gold,' said the Prince, `you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy.'
Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. `We have bread now!' they cried.
Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.
The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker's door where the baker was not looking, and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.
But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. `Good-bye, dear Prince!' he murmured, `will you let me kiss your hand?'
`I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.'
`It is not to Egypt that I am going,' said the Swallow. `I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?'
And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.
At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost. Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: `Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!' he said.
`How shabby indeed!' cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor, and they went up to look at it.
`The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer,' said the Mayor; `in fact, he is little better than a beggar!'
`Little better than a beggar' said the Town councillors.
`And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!' continued the Mayor. `We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here.' And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.
So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. `As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful,' said the Art Professor at the University.
Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. `We must have another statue, of course,' he said, `and it shall be a statue of myself.'
`Of myself,' said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.
`What a strange thing!' said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. `This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away.' So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.
`Bring me the two most precious things in the city,' said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.
`You have rightly chosen,' said God, `for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.'
by Oscar Wilde
HIGH above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.
He was very much admired indeed. `He is as beautiful as a weathercock,' remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; `only not quite so useful,' he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.
`Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?' asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. `The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.'
`I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,' muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.
`He looks just like an angel,' said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks, and their clean white pinafores.
`How do you know?' said the Mathematical Master, `you have never seen one.'
`Ah! but we have, in our dreams,' answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.
One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.
`Shall I love you?' said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.
`It is a ridiculous attachment,' twittered the other Swallows, `she has no money, and far too many relations;' and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came, they all flew away.
After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. `She has no conversation,' he said, `and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.' And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtsies. `I admit that she is domestic,' he continued, `but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also.'
`Will you come away with me?' he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.
`You have been trifling with me,' he cried, `I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!' and he flew away.
All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. `Where shall I put up?' he said; `I hope the town has made preparations.'
Then he saw the statue on the tall column. `I will put up there,' he cried; `it is a fine position with plenty of fresh air.' So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.
`I have a golden bedroom,' he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. `What a curious thing!' he cried, `there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.'
Then another drop fell.
`What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?' he said; `I must look for a good chimney-pot,' and he determined to fly away.
But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw - Ah! what did he see?
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.
`Who are you?' he said.
`I am the Happy Prince.'
`Why are you weeping then?' asked the Swallow; `you have quite drenched me.'
`When I was alive and had a human heart,' answered the statue, `I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot choose but weep.'
`What, is he not solid gold?' said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
`Far away,' continued the statue in a low musical voice, `far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.'
`I am waited for in Egypt,' said the Swallow. `My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.'
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad.'
`I don't think I like boys,' answered the Swallow. `Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect.'
But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. `It is very cold here,' he said; `but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger.'
`Thank you, little Swallow,' said the Prince.
So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.
He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. `How wonderful the stars are,' he said to her, and how wonderful is the power of love!'
`I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball,' she answered; `I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy.'
He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. `How cool I feel,' said the boy, `I must be getting better;' and he sank into a delicious slumber.
Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. `It is curious,' he remarked, `but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold.'
`That is because you have done a good action,' said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.
When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. `What a remarkable phenomenon,' said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. `A swallow in winter!' And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.
`To-night I go to Egypt,' said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, `What a distinguished stranger!' so he enjoyed himself very much.
When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. `Have you any commissions for Egypt?' he cried; `I am just starting.'
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `will you not stay with me one night longer?'
`I am waited for in Egypt,' answered the Swallow. `To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.'
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the prince, `far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint.'
`I will wait with you one night longer,' said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. `Shall I take him another ruby?'
`Alas! I have no ruby now,' said the Prince; `my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play.'
`Dear Prince,' said the Swallow, `I cannot do that;' and he began to weep.
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `do as I command you.'
So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.
`I am beginning to be appreciated,' he cried; `this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play,' and he looked quite happy.
The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. `Heave a-hoy!' they shouted as each chest came up. `I am going to Egypt!' cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.
`I am come to bid you good-bye,' he cried.
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `will you not stay with me one night longer?'
`It is winter,' answered the Swallow, `and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea.'
`In the square below,' said the Happy Prince, `there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her.'
`I will stay with you one night longer,' said the Swallow, `but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then.'
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `do as I command you.'
So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. `What a lovely bit of glass,' cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.
Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. `You are blind now,' he said, `so I will stay with you always.'
`No, little Swallow,' said the poor Prince, `you must go away to Egypt.'
`I will stay with you always,' said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet.
All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.
`Dear little Swallow,' said the Prince, `you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there.'
So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try and keep themselves warm. `How hungry we are!' they said. `You must not lie here,' shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.
Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.
`I am covered with fine gold,' said the Prince, `you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy.'
Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. `We have bread now!' they cried.
Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.
The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker's door where the baker was not looking, and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.
But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. `Good-bye, dear Prince!' he murmured, `will you let me kiss your hand?'
`I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.'
`It is not to Egypt that I am going,' said the Swallow. `I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?'
And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.
At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost. Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: `Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!' he said.
`How shabby indeed!' cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor, and they went up to look at it.
`The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer,' said the Mayor; `in fact, he is little better than a beggar!'
`Little better than a beggar' said the Town councillors.
`And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!' continued the Mayor. `We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here.' And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.
So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. `As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful,' said the Art Professor at the University.
Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. `We must have another statue, of course,' he said, `and it shall be a statue of myself.'
`Of myself,' said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.
`What a strange thing!' said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. `This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away.' So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.
`Bring me the two most precious things in the city,' said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.
`You have rightly chosen,' said God, `for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.'
Saturday, June 03, 2006
The Train
The old man who had got into the local was very tired and sick. The passenger train was overflowing with people there was hardly any place to sit. He kept glancing at people around him but in vain. There were groups of people all around some playing cards, some music group humming a sound. All busy with themselves hardly any thought spent at the people around them.
The old man was standing between people who were only inching closer, there wasn’t any space to move he just went on feeling sick. At the far corner near the window there was a lady with a small child who was observing the old man’s plight. She wanted to ask him to sit, but in between there was a group of people playing cards. They had spread sheet over their legs, getting them to move would be difficult. Thoroughly engrossed in their game they would once in a while just spare a glance towards the lady, she somehow appeared different, educated, well dressed. That difference in itself was inviting attention.
As she noticed the old man growing further sick, she asked him to come hither. “Where does she want him to sit on our heads?”, “Cant she just notice how dingy his appearance is??smelly too” The old man nodded his head ,with growing desperation he asked the party to make space. “Ek Haath to ho jaane do!” Ek huye phir do, quarreling over the pack of cards. Somehow the lady had undermined their authority (masculine superiority) and they weren’t willing to accommodate her.So the game went on and on,with the old man standing helplessly at the side.
The lady stood up-“Rasta Chodiye Baba aap idhar aaiye” “Madam zara ruk jao”.Kaafi time ho gaya na, aap hataiye warna…” “ Warna Kya?? ” In response she flung the sheet at a side “ Saali pata nahin apne aap ko kya samajhti hai”. One of the players held her arm. She very calmly kept her baby at a side. Releasing her hand from his grasp she went forward towards the old man and brought him in.
Peace settled in the compartment, the enraged players continued the game. “ Aurat hai bacche ke saath” samajh kar chod diya. The small baby in her lap was playing with her, looking at the old man trying to mouth the words “Da—Da” the old man smiled a weak smile.
All of a sudden he collapsed his breathing was very heavy, the lady checked his pulse. Spilled out medicines from her purse trying to find some which would suffice. She noticed her water bottle was empty, what now? One of the players had a bottle she asked him for water, he gruffly refused. A young boy offered her some. “Madam ye lijiye” Smiling and thank you, she turned her attention back to the old man. It was probably because of some stomach problem.
The station was approaching,the old man was by now better. He blessed the lady—“Beti tune jaan bacha li, tu nurse hai??” nahin Baba main doctor hun, “tumahra pati? Aaya nahin tu akele chal rahi hai bacche ke saath” . Woh Captain the Baba, dedh saal pehle Kargil main guzar gaye..”.”Guzare nahin beta woh shahid huye”
The silence in the compartment was growing. Suddenly the game wasn’t as interesting as before something had taken it all away. The train stopped at the station and hands went out to reach for the lady’s luggage even before she could get up. She stopped amazed it was the playing party. “Madam aap bata do hum aapka saaman chod dete hain”.
They waved to the child as they left her , half-ashamed things were now in a changing light.
PN-This story was published in Gyanodaya the only decent Hindi publication remaining. It was written by Gyan Prakash Vivek .It shows the various facets of people, their nature their reactions to situations. Initially aggressive they are suddenly humbled in front of the lady and how they try to make amends. And the many times we are so engrossed with ourself we forget to respond with humanity and kindness, at the end of the day its there ,some more some less.I translated it because it was an interesting read.
The old man who had got into the local was very tired and sick. The passenger train was overflowing with people there was hardly any place to sit. He kept glancing at people around him but in vain. There were groups of people all around some playing cards, some music group humming a sound. All busy with themselves hardly any thought spent at the people around them.
The old man was standing between people who were only inching closer, there wasn’t any space to move he just went on feeling sick. At the far corner near the window there was a lady with a small child who was observing the old man’s plight. She wanted to ask him to sit, but in between there was a group of people playing cards. They had spread sheet over their legs, getting them to move would be difficult. Thoroughly engrossed in their game they would once in a while just spare a glance towards the lady, she somehow appeared different, educated, well dressed. That difference in itself was inviting attention.
As she noticed the old man growing further sick, she asked him to come hither. “Where does she want him to sit on our heads?”, “Cant she just notice how dingy his appearance is??smelly too” The old man nodded his head ,with growing desperation he asked the party to make space. “Ek Haath to ho jaane do!” Ek huye phir do, quarreling over the pack of cards. Somehow the lady had undermined their authority (masculine superiority) and they weren’t willing to accommodate her.So the game went on and on,with the old man standing helplessly at the side.
The lady stood up-“Rasta Chodiye Baba aap idhar aaiye” “Madam zara ruk jao”.Kaafi time ho gaya na, aap hataiye warna…” “ Warna Kya?? ” In response she flung the sheet at a side “ Saali pata nahin apne aap ko kya samajhti hai”. One of the players held her arm. She very calmly kept her baby at a side. Releasing her hand from his grasp she went forward towards the old man and brought him in.
Peace settled in the compartment, the enraged players continued the game. “ Aurat hai bacche ke saath” samajh kar chod diya. The small baby in her lap was playing with her, looking at the old man trying to mouth the words “Da—Da” the old man smiled a weak smile.
All of a sudden he collapsed his breathing was very heavy, the lady checked his pulse. Spilled out medicines from her purse trying to find some which would suffice. She noticed her water bottle was empty, what now? One of the players had a bottle she asked him for water, he gruffly refused. A young boy offered her some. “Madam ye lijiye” Smiling and thank you, she turned her attention back to the old man. It was probably because of some stomach problem.
The station was approaching,the old man was by now better. He blessed the lady—“Beti tune jaan bacha li, tu nurse hai??” nahin Baba main doctor hun, “tumahra pati? Aaya nahin tu akele chal rahi hai bacche ke saath” . Woh Captain the Baba, dedh saal pehle Kargil main guzar gaye..”.”Guzare nahin beta woh shahid huye”
The silence in the compartment was growing. Suddenly the game wasn’t as interesting as before something had taken it all away. The train stopped at the station and hands went out to reach for the lady’s luggage even before she could get up. She stopped amazed it was the playing party. “Madam aap bata do hum aapka saaman chod dete hain”.
They waved to the child as they left her , half-ashamed things were now in a changing light.
PN-This story was published in Gyanodaya the only decent Hindi publication remaining. It was written by Gyan Prakash Vivek .It shows the various facets of people, their nature their reactions to situations. Initially aggressive they are suddenly humbled in front of the lady and how they try to make amends. And the many times we are so engrossed with ourself we forget to respond with humanity and kindness, at the end of the day its there ,some more some less.I translated it because it was an interesting read.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Point to Ponder
Swami Vivekananda had written in one of his letters-
“Our motherland is a glowing example of the results and consequence of the eternal subjection of the individual to society and forced self-sacrifice by dint of institution and discipline. In this country people are born according to scriptural injunctions, they eat and drink by prescribed rules throughout life, they go through marriage and kindred functions in the same way; in short, they even die according to
scriptural injunctions.
The hard discipline, with the exception of one great good point, is fraught with evil. The good point is that people can do one or two things well with very little effort, having practiced them every day through generations. The delicious rice and curry that a cook of this country prepares with the aid of three lumps of earth and a few sticks can be had nowhere else. With the simple mechanism of an antediluvian loom, worth one rupee, and the feet put in a pit, it is possible to make kincobs worth twenty rupees a yard, in this country alone. A torn mat, an earthen lamp, and that fed by castor oil--with the aid of
materials such as these, wonderful savants are produced in this country alone. An all-forbearing attachment to an ugly and deformed wife, and a lifelong devotion to a worthless and villainous husband are possible in this country alone. Thus far the bright side.
But all these things are done by people guided like lifeless machines. There is no mental activity, no opening of the heart, no vibration of life, no flux of hope; there is no strong stimulation of the will, no experience of keen pleasure, nor the contact with intense sorrow; there is no stir of inventive genius, no desire for novelty, no appreciation
of new things. Clouds never pass away from this mind, the radiant picture of the morning sun never charms this heart. It never even occurs to this mind if there is any better state than this; where it does, it cannot convince; in the event of conviction, effort is lacking; and even where there is effort, lack of enthusiasm kills it out.”
If living by rule alone ensures excellence, if it be virtue to follow strictly the rules and customs handed down through generations, say then, who is more virtuous than a tree, who is a greater devotee, a holier saint, than a railway train? Who has ever seen a piece of stone transgress a natural law? Who has ever known cattle to commit sin?
The huge steamer, the mighty railway engine-they are non-intelligent; they move, turn, and run, but they are without intelligence. And yonder tiny worm which moved away from the railway line to save its life, why is it intelligent? There is no manifestation of will in the machine, the machine never wishes to transgress law; the worm wants to oppose law--rises against law whether it succeeds or not; therefore it is intelligent. Greater is the happiness, higher is the individual, in proportion as this will is more successfully manifest. The will of God is perfectly fruitful; therefore He is the highest.
What is education? Is it book-learning? No. Is it diverse knowledge? Not even that. The training by which the current and expression of will are brought under control and become fruitful is called education. Now consider, is that education as a result of which the will, being continuously choked by force through generations, is well-nigh killed out; is that education under whose sway even the old ideas, let alone the new ones, are disappearing one by one; is that education which is slowly making every one of us a machine? It is more blessed, in my opinion, even to go wrong, impelled by one's free will and intelligence than to be good as an automaton.”
Swami Vivekananda had written in one of his letters-
“Our motherland is a glowing example of the results and consequence of the eternal subjection of the individual to society and forced self-sacrifice by dint of institution and discipline. In this country people are born according to scriptural injunctions, they eat and drink by prescribed rules throughout life, they go through marriage and kindred functions in the same way; in short, they even die according to
scriptural injunctions.
The hard discipline, with the exception of one great good point, is fraught with evil. The good point is that people can do one or two things well with very little effort, having practiced them every day through generations. The delicious rice and curry that a cook of this country prepares with the aid of three lumps of earth and a few sticks can be had nowhere else. With the simple mechanism of an antediluvian loom, worth one rupee, and the feet put in a pit, it is possible to make kincobs worth twenty rupees a yard, in this country alone. A torn mat, an earthen lamp, and that fed by castor oil--with the aid of
materials such as these, wonderful savants are produced in this country alone. An all-forbearing attachment to an ugly and deformed wife, and a lifelong devotion to a worthless and villainous husband are possible in this country alone. Thus far the bright side.
But all these things are done by people guided like lifeless machines. There is no mental activity, no opening of the heart, no vibration of life, no flux of hope; there is no strong stimulation of the will, no experience of keen pleasure, nor the contact with intense sorrow; there is no stir of inventive genius, no desire for novelty, no appreciation
of new things. Clouds never pass away from this mind, the radiant picture of the morning sun never charms this heart. It never even occurs to this mind if there is any better state than this; where it does, it cannot convince; in the event of conviction, effort is lacking; and even where there is effort, lack of enthusiasm kills it out.”
If living by rule alone ensures excellence, if it be virtue to follow strictly the rules and customs handed down through generations, say then, who is more virtuous than a tree, who is a greater devotee, a holier saint, than a railway train? Who has ever seen a piece of stone transgress a natural law? Who has ever known cattle to commit sin?
The huge steamer, the mighty railway engine-they are non-intelligent; they move, turn, and run, but they are without intelligence. And yonder tiny worm which moved away from the railway line to save its life, why is it intelligent? There is no manifestation of will in the machine, the machine never wishes to transgress law; the worm wants to oppose law--rises against law whether it succeeds or not; therefore it is intelligent. Greater is the happiness, higher is the individual, in proportion as this will is more successfully manifest. The will of God is perfectly fruitful; therefore He is the highest.
What is education? Is it book-learning? No. Is it diverse knowledge? Not even that. The training by which the current and expression of will are brought under control and become fruitful is called education. Now consider, is that education as a result of which the will, being continuously choked by force through generations, is well-nigh killed out; is that education under whose sway even the old ideas, let alone the new ones, are disappearing one by one; is that education which is slowly making every one of us a machine? It is more blessed, in my opinion, even to go wrong, impelled by one's free will and intelligence than to be good as an automaton.”
Friday, February 24, 2006
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Life is fair and square
I took a trip this weekend to Indore, I love traveling partly because it gives me the opportunity to meet different people who give valuable insights. This time round on my way I met this person who taught me a valuable lesson , life is fair and square.
• Nobody should ever try and stop Nature because sooner or later what has to happen will happen.
Sometimes letting go is difficult .Even when you know that something is not working or that things have changed we don’t accept things.
For example – a bad friendship, it is difficult to accept that the person who was supposed to be your friend really isn’t that he changed over time.Its like an investment, you put in money expecting some return . But in the end you lose more than what you get. It is difficult to accept loss, but generally speaking an investment gone wrong is a bad investment; the sooner you can come to terms with reality the better. Sometimes struggle may not get you anywhere.
• Nature will give back to you what you put into it. If you put in work for 50 Rs and expect back 500 Rs then that is not done but life will always give you back what you put into it. Life’s stock market has its different rules, there isn’t any bad investment. You may not get what you expect but somehow you always get a return. If you were a good friend, you will find help unexpectedly .You find a new friend in your lowest low when nobody else is around. That is how things come back to you.
Still I Rise
-Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
you may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise
-Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
you may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise
Prayer for the daughter of Waris
This is not an article but a prayer for Amrita Pritam, a writer who enriched many souls in her long and triumphant literary journey, says Nirupama Dutt.
THERE is a street shaded by trees that meanders like a snake off the Safdarjang Development Area into the K block of Delhi’s Hauz Khas. On this street is a stone house with tall windows trailing with bougainvillaea and a small patch of a garden with its harsinghar tree. Come August, and the lawn will be strewn with tiny parijat flowers. Come August and the girl who built this house number 25 will turn 83.
Yes, you already know her name. Her name is Amrita Pritam. The eminent Punjabi poet and novelist. This name means a lot to many and the girl with this name means much more. Her story is one of great courage. This pretty girl began her literary journey way back in Lahore in 1935 when she penned her first book of verse in Punjabi called Thandian Kirnan. Here was a girl writing in her own language, her own dreams. Punjabi was to go places with her and her dreams were common with the pioneering women writers writing all over the world. As the little girl’s talents blossomed, her poetry was to represent not just the composite culture of Punjab, but universal values of truth, justice and freedom.
Today, as I write these lines to her she is in pain and agony following a fall and surgery. Her physical condition has compelled her to shut down Nagmani, the literary magazine she and her artist partner brought out so lovingly over 36 years. A couple of years ago she had announced that she would close it down as her health was indifferent but readers made pleas and Amrita brought it out somehow in spite of failing health. The final closure of Nagmani has brought gloom in literary circles.
Imroz, however says, "The gloom is misplaced. Everything has a time cycle. Nagmani came out so many years in full glory. Let someone else bring out another Nagmani maybe by another name somewhere."
So well said and reminiscent of a song Sahir Ludhianvi, the Urdu poet with whom Amrita shared a bond of love, Main pal do pal ka shaair hoon (I am a poet of a moment or two). Sahir is no more, but his poetry lives on. A moment or two can sometimes reach out to the infinite. Personally, I , a minor poet of Punjabi among the two generations of writers whom Amrita inspired and nurtured, feel the gloom is not required. What is required is to look up to her and reconfirm faith in struggle, love and freedom. To think of Amrita is also to think of her immortal poem addressed to Waris Shah— Ajj Akhan Waris Shah Nu:
Waris Shah!
I call out to you
Rise from the depths
Of your grave
And add another page to
Your saga of love
A daughter of Punjab
Had wept once and
You sang a thousand dirges
Today millions of girls
Are weeping and asking you
O’ Waris
To look afresh at your Punjab…
On hearing of Amrita’s illness and the closure of Nagmani, I go to that sacred destination in Hauz Khas with a bouquet of white roses. As I put them in a vase and place them on a bureau in front of her, I notice on the wall a picture of Amrita sittting all huddled up in green silk shawls edged with gold. What is this I ask the grand lady of letters, "These are the chaddars from the tombs of Waris Shah, Bulle Shah and Sultan Bahu that writers from Pakistan have sent me as a gift. They came with a letter from Iliyaz Ghumman saying that You are the waris (heir) of our Waris." It certainly is a befitting title. In the past few years more awards and honours were added to Amrita’s already long list of laurels put she says most precious to her are those green silk chaddars. " I have only returned in my writings what I learnt from these saints and sages," she says in all humility as her hand goes to her broken hip joint.
I have personally enjoyed a fond relationship with Nagamani as I am one of the many Punjabi writers, who was discovered and nurtured by this literary journal that was bought up like a baby by Amrita and Imroz. Amrita would take care of the editorial content and the design and sketches would be by Imroz. Looking back at the early days of Nagmani, Imroz recalls, "We chose brown newsprint because it was cheap but it looked so good that it became quite a craze. We also picked out the cheapest press. We would go there to supervise the printing. There would be no chair there for Amrita to sit on and read the proofs. So we would borrow a barber’s chair from nearby." Together they would write addresses on the magazine and Imroz would put them in his Fiat car and take them to the post office. This labour of love made it an exceptional journal. There never was and it will be a long time before someone will bring out one such. Since the talk is of Nagmani, Amrita cannot help but join it in spite of the pain, "Readers are writing me letters to not close it. But My health just does not allow me to go on with it."
The magazine was just one aspect of this girl who dared to be a poet. Yes, talent and courage combined in the life of Amrita Pritam who led a life at her own terms and all through contributed brilliant poetry and prose to her language. She is one writer who is loved by Punjabis on both sides of the Indo-Pak border. What pains Amrita is that clouds of war should gather over these two countries. The writer says, "The people on both sides want peace. The writers strive for peace and the politicians should also see sense in it."
It is time to leave and Amrita is feeling drowsy, courtesy the sedatives. I ask her, "Is there anything that I can do for you?" She smiles her charming smile and says, "Pray to God that I should depart from this world in peace." I sit a while with Imroz who looks after her keeping awake at nights . And as I wish goodbye and step down, I feel that I am returning from a pilgrimage. I mutter the prayer and then recall some lines of this great poet of our times:
I have effaced the name from
the nameplate outside my house
I have even rubbed off the number
Wherever you see a free soul
You will know that it is my home…
So spoke the daughter of Waris and I feel blessed that one lived in her times and got the chance to know a little a soul as kindred as hers.
This is not an article but a prayer for Amrita Pritam, a writer who enriched many souls in her long and triumphant literary journey, says Nirupama Dutt.
THERE is a street shaded by trees that meanders like a snake off the Safdarjang Development Area into the K block of Delhi’s Hauz Khas. On this street is a stone house with tall windows trailing with bougainvillaea and a small patch of a garden with its harsinghar tree. Come August, and the lawn will be strewn with tiny parijat flowers. Come August and the girl who built this house number 25 will turn 83.
Yes, you already know her name. Her name is Amrita Pritam. The eminent Punjabi poet and novelist. This name means a lot to many and the girl with this name means much more. Her story is one of great courage. This pretty girl began her literary journey way back in Lahore in 1935 when she penned her first book of verse in Punjabi called Thandian Kirnan. Here was a girl writing in her own language, her own dreams. Punjabi was to go places with her and her dreams were common with the pioneering women writers writing all over the world. As the little girl’s talents blossomed, her poetry was to represent not just the composite culture of Punjab, but universal values of truth, justice and freedom.
Today, as I write these lines to her she is in pain and agony following a fall and surgery. Her physical condition has compelled her to shut down Nagmani, the literary magazine she and her artist partner brought out so lovingly over 36 years. A couple of years ago she had announced that she would close it down as her health was indifferent but readers made pleas and Amrita brought it out somehow in spite of failing health. The final closure of Nagmani has brought gloom in literary circles.
Imroz, however says, "The gloom is misplaced. Everything has a time cycle. Nagmani came out so many years in full glory. Let someone else bring out another Nagmani maybe by another name somewhere."
So well said and reminiscent of a song Sahir Ludhianvi, the Urdu poet with whom Amrita shared a bond of love, Main pal do pal ka shaair hoon (I am a poet of a moment or two). Sahir is no more, but his poetry lives on. A moment or two can sometimes reach out to the infinite. Personally, I , a minor poet of Punjabi among the two generations of writers whom Amrita inspired and nurtured, feel the gloom is not required. What is required is to look up to her and reconfirm faith in struggle, love and freedom. To think of Amrita is also to think of her immortal poem addressed to Waris Shah— Ajj Akhan Waris Shah Nu:
Waris Shah!
I call out to you
Rise from the depths
Of your grave
And add another page to
Your saga of love
A daughter of Punjab
Had wept once and
You sang a thousand dirges
Today millions of girls
Are weeping and asking you
O’ Waris
To look afresh at your Punjab…
On hearing of Amrita’s illness and the closure of Nagmani, I go to that sacred destination in Hauz Khas with a bouquet of white roses. As I put them in a vase and place them on a bureau in front of her, I notice on the wall a picture of Amrita sittting all huddled up in green silk shawls edged with gold. What is this I ask the grand lady of letters, "These are the chaddars from the tombs of Waris Shah, Bulle Shah and Sultan Bahu that writers from Pakistan have sent me as a gift. They came with a letter from Iliyaz Ghumman saying that You are the waris (heir) of our Waris." It certainly is a befitting title. In the past few years more awards and honours were added to Amrita’s already long list of laurels put she says most precious to her are those green silk chaddars. " I have only returned in my writings what I learnt from these saints and sages," she says in all humility as her hand goes to her broken hip joint.
I have personally enjoyed a fond relationship with Nagamani as I am one of the many Punjabi writers, who was discovered and nurtured by this literary journal that was bought up like a baby by Amrita and Imroz. Amrita would take care of the editorial content and the design and sketches would be by Imroz. Looking back at the early days of Nagmani, Imroz recalls, "We chose brown newsprint because it was cheap but it looked so good that it became quite a craze. We also picked out the cheapest press. We would go there to supervise the printing. There would be no chair there for Amrita to sit on and read the proofs. So we would borrow a barber’s chair from nearby." Together they would write addresses on the magazine and Imroz would put them in his Fiat car and take them to the post office. This labour of love made it an exceptional journal. There never was and it will be a long time before someone will bring out one such. Since the talk is of Nagmani, Amrita cannot help but join it in spite of the pain, "Readers are writing me letters to not close it. But My health just does not allow me to go on with it."
The magazine was just one aspect of this girl who dared to be a poet. Yes, talent and courage combined in the life of Amrita Pritam who led a life at her own terms and all through contributed brilliant poetry and prose to her language. She is one writer who is loved by Punjabis on both sides of the Indo-Pak border. What pains Amrita is that clouds of war should gather over these two countries. The writer says, "The people on both sides want peace. The writers strive for peace and the politicians should also see sense in it."
It is time to leave and Amrita is feeling drowsy, courtesy the sedatives. I ask her, "Is there anything that I can do for you?" She smiles her charming smile and says, "Pray to God that I should depart from this world in peace." I sit a while with Imroz who looks after her keeping awake at nights . And as I wish goodbye and step down, I feel that I am returning from a pilgrimage. I mutter the prayer and then recall some lines of this great poet of our times:
I have effaced the name from
the nameplate outside my house
I have even rubbed off the number
Wherever you see a free soul
You will know that it is my home…
So spoke the daughter of Waris and I feel blessed that one lived in her times and got the chance to know a little a soul as kindred as hers.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Before we say our goodbyes…………
-Anonymous
If I knew it would be the last time that I’d see you fall asleep
I would tuck you in more tightly, and pray the Lord your soul to keep
If I knew it was the last time that I’d see you walk out of the door
I would give you a hug and a kiss, and call you back for one more
If I knew it would be the last time I’d hear your voice lifted up in praise
I would videotape each action and word,so I could play them back day after day
If I knew it would be the last time I could spare an extra minute or two
To stop and say I love you,instead of assuming you know I do.
If I knew it would be the last time I would be there to share your day.
Well I am sure ,you’ll have so many more, So I can just let this one slip away
For surely there’s always tomorrow, to make up for an oversight
And we always get a second chance to make everything right
There will always be another day to say our “I love yous”
And certainly there’s another chance to say our “Anything I can dos”
But just in case I might be wrong and today is all I get
I’d like to say how much I love you, and I hope we never forget
Tomorrow is not promised to anyone young or old alike
And today may be the last chance you get, to hold your loved one tight
So if you are waiting for tomorrow, why not do it today?
For if tomorrow never comes, you’ll surely regret the day
That you didn’t take that extra time, for a smile , a hug or a kiss
And you were too busy to grant someone, what turned out to be their last wish
So hold your loved one close today,whisper in their ear
Tell them how much you love them,that you will always hold them dear
Take time to say “I am sorry, please forgive me” “Thank You” or “Its okay”
And if tomorrow never comes you ‘ll have no regrets about today.
-Anonymous
If I knew it would be the last time that I’d see you fall asleep
I would tuck you in more tightly, and pray the Lord your soul to keep
If I knew it was the last time that I’d see you walk out of the door
I would give you a hug and a kiss, and call you back for one more
If I knew it would be the last time I’d hear your voice lifted up in praise
I would videotape each action and word,so I could play them back day after day
If I knew it would be the last time I could spare an extra minute or two
To stop and say I love you,instead of assuming you know I do.
If I knew it would be the last time I would be there to share your day.
Well I am sure ,you’ll have so many more, So I can just let this one slip away
For surely there’s always tomorrow, to make up for an oversight
And we always get a second chance to make everything right
There will always be another day to say our “I love yous”
And certainly there’s another chance to say our “Anything I can dos”
But just in case I might be wrong and today is all I get
I’d like to say how much I love you, and I hope we never forget
Tomorrow is not promised to anyone young or old alike
And today may be the last chance you get, to hold your loved one tight
So if you are waiting for tomorrow, why not do it today?
For if tomorrow never comes, you’ll surely regret the day
That you didn’t take that extra time, for a smile , a hug or a kiss
And you were too busy to grant someone, what turned out to be their last wish
So hold your loved one close today,whisper in their ear
Tell them how much you love them,that you will always hold them dear
Take time to say “I am sorry, please forgive me” “Thank You” or “Its okay”
And if tomorrow never comes you ‘ll have no regrets about today.
Monday, February 13, 2006
ROSES FOR ROSE
-- by James "PoppyK" Kisner
Red roses were her favorites,
Her name was also Rose,
And every year her husband sent them,
Tied with pretty bows.
The year he died,
The roses were delivered to her door;
The card said, "Be my Valentine,"
Like all the years before.
Each year he sent her roses,
And the note would always say,
"I love you even more this year,
Than last year on this day."
"My love for you will always grow,
With every passing year;"
She knew this was the last time
That the roses would appear.
She thought he ordered roses
In advance before this day;
Her loving husband did not know,
That he would soon pass away.
He always liked to do things early,
Way before the time;
Then, if he got too busy,
Everything would work out fine.
She trimmed the stems and
Placed them in a very special vase;
Then sat the vase beside the portrait
Of his smiling face.
She would sit for hours,
In her husband's favorite chair;
While staring at his picture,
And the roses sitting there.
A year went by and it was hard
To live without her mate;
With loneliness and solitude,
That had become her fate.
Then on the very same hour,
As the Valentines before,
The doorbell rang and there were roses,
Sitting by her door.
She brought the roses in,
And just looked at them in shock;
Then went to get the telephone,
To call the florist shop.
The owner answered, and
She asked him if he would explain;
Why would someone do this to her,
And causing her such pain?
"I know your husband passed away
More than a year ago,"
The owner said, "I knew you'd call,
And you would want to know."
"The flowers you received today,
Were paid for in advance."
"Your husband always planned ahead,
He left nothing to chance."
"There is a standing order,
That I have on file down here;
And he has paid ... well in advance,
You'll get them every year.
There also is another thing,
That I think you should know;
He wrote a special little card,
He did this years ago."
"Then, should ever I find out
That he's no longer here;
That's the card that should be sent to you
On the following year."
She thanked him and hung up the phone,
Her tears now flowing hard;
Her fingers were shaking,
As she slowly reached to get the card.
Inside the card, she saw that
He had written her a note;
Then, as she stared in total silence,
This is what he wrote ...
"Hello my love, I know it's been
A year since I've been gone;
I hope it hasn't been too hard
For you to overcome."
"I know it must be lonely,
And the pain is still very real;
For if it was the other way,
I know how I would feel."
"The love we shared made
Everything so beautiful in life;
I loved you more than words can say,
You were the perfect wife."
"You were my friend and lover,
You fulfilled my every need;
I know it's only been one year,
But please try not to grieve.
I want you to be happy,
Even when you shed your tears;
That is why the roses will be sent
To you for many more years."
"When you get these roses,
Think of all the happiness,
That we had together,
And how both of us were blessed.
I have always loved you
And I know I always will;
But, my love, you must go on,
You have to do some living still."
"Please try to find happiness,
While living out your days;
I know it is not easy,
But I hope you find some ways."
"The roses will come every year,
And they will only stop ...
When your door's not answered,
When the florist stops to knock."
"He will come five times that day,
In case you have gone out;
But after his last visit,
He will know without a doubt,
To take the roses to the place,
Where I've instructed him,
And place the roses where we are,
Together once again."
Sometimes in life, you find a special friend;
Someone who changes your life just by being part of it.
Someone who makes you laugh until you can't stop;
Someone who makes you believe that there really is good in the world.
Someone who convinces you that there really is an unlocked door just waiting for you to open it.
This is Forever Friendship..
-- by James "PoppyK" Kisner
Red roses were her favorites,
Her name was also Rose,
And every year her husband sent them,
Tied with pretty bows.
The year he died,
The roses were delivered to her door;
The card said, "Be my Valentine,"
Like all the years before.
Each year he sent her roses,
And the note would always say,
"I love you even more this year,
Than last year on this day."
"My love for you will always grow,
With every passing year;"
She knew this was the last time
That the roses would appear.
She thought he ordered roses
In advance before this day;
Her loving husband did not know,
That he would soon pass away.
He always liked to do things early,
Way before the time;
Then, if he got too busy,
Everything would work out fine.
She trimmed the stems and
Placed them in a very special vase;
Then sat the vase beside the portrait
Of his smiling face.
She would sit for hours,
In her husband's favorite chair;
While staring at his picture,
And the roses sitting there.
A year went by and it was hard
To live without her mate;
With loneliness and solitude,
That had become her fate.
Then on the very same hour,
As the Valentines before,
The doorbell rang and there were roses,
Sitting by her door.
She brought the roses in,
And just looked at them in shock;
Then went to get the telephone,
To call the florist shop.
The owner answered, and
She asked him if he would explain;
Why would someone do this to her,
And causing her such pain?
"I know your husband passed away
More than a year ago,"
The owner said, "I knew you'd call,
And you would want to know."
"The flowers you received today,
Were paid for in advance."
"Your husband always planned ahead,
He left nothing to chance."
"There is a standing order,
That I have on file down here;
And he has paid ... well in advance,
You'll get them every year.
There also is another thing,
That I think you should know;
He wrote a special little card,
He did this years ago."
"Then, should ever I find out
That he's no longer here;
That's the card that should be sent to you
On the following year."
She thanked him and hung up the phone,
Her tears now flowing hard;
Her fingers were shaking,
As she slowly reached to get the card.
Inside the card, she saw that
He had written her a note;
Then, as she stared in total silence,
This is what he wrote ...
"Hello my love, I know it's been
A year since I've been gone;
I hope it hasn't been too hard
For you to overcome."
"I know it must be lonely,
And the pain is still very real;
For if it was the other way,
I know how I would feel."
"The love we shared made
Everything so beautiful in life;
I loved you more than words can say,
You were the perfect wife."
"You were my friend and lover,
You fulfilled my every need;
I know it's only been one year,
But please try not to grieve.
I want you to be happy,
Even when you shed your tears;
That is why the roses will be sent
To you for many more years."
"When you get these roses,
Think of all the happiness,
That we had together,
And how both of us were blessed.
I have always loved you
And I know I always will;
But, my love, you must go on,
You have to do some living still."
"Please try to find happiness,
While living out your days;
I know it is not easy,
But I hope you find some ways."
"The roses will come every year,
And they will only stop ...
When your door's not answered,
When the florist stops to knock."
"He will come five times that day,
In case you have gone out;
But after his last visit,
He will know without a doubt,
To take the roses to the place,
Where I've instructed him,
And place the roses where we are,
Together once again."
Sometimes in life, you find a special friend;
Someone who changes your life just by being part of it.
Someone who makes you laugh until you can't stop;
Someone who makes you believe that there really is good in the world.
Someone who convinces you that there really is an unlocked door just waiting for you to open it.
This is Forever Friendship..
Saturday, February 11, 2006
The Ugly Duckling
Once upon a time down on an old farm, lived a duck family, and Mother Duck had been sitting on a clutch of new eggs. One nice morning, the eggs hatched and out popped six chirpy ducklings. But one egg was bigger than the rest, and it didn't hatch. Mother Duck couldn't recall laying that seventh egg. How did it get there? TOCK! TOCK! The little prisoner was pecking inside his shell.
"Did I count the eggs wrongly?" Mother Duck wondered. But before she had time to think about it, the last egg finally hatched. A strange looking duckling with gray feathers that should have been yellow gazed at a worried mother. The ducklings grew quickly, but Mother Duck had a secret worry.
"I can't understand how this ugly duckling can be one of mine!" she said to herself, shaking her head as she looked at her last born. Well, the gray duckling certainly wasn't pretty, and since he ate far more than his brothers, he was outgrowing them. As the days went by, the poor ugly duckling became more and more unhappy. His brothers didn't want to play with him, he was so clumsy, and all the farmyard folks simply laughed at him. He felt sad and lonely, while Mother Duck did her best to console him.
"Poor little ugly duckling!" she would say. "Why are you so different from the others?" And the ugly duckling felt worse than ever. He secretly wept at night. He felt nobody wanted him.
"Nobody loves me, they all tease me! Why am I different from my brothers?"
Then one day, at sunrise, he ran away from the farmyard. He stopped at a pond and began to question all the other birds. "Do you know of any ducklings with gray feathers like mine?" But everyone shook their heads in scorn.
"We don't know anyone as ugly as you." The ugly duckling did not lose heart, however, and kept on making inquiries. He went to another pond, where a pair of large geese gave him the same answer to his question. What's more, they warned him: "Don't stay here! Go away! It's dangerous. There are men with guns around here!" The duckling was sorry he had ever left the farmyard.
Then one day, his travels took him near an old countrywoman's cottage. Thinking he was a stray goose, she caught him.
"I'll put this in a hutch. I hope it's a female and lays plenty of eggs!" said the old woman, whose eyesight was poor. But the ugly duckling laid not a single egg. The hen kept frightening him.
"Just wait! If you don't lay eggs, the old woman will wring your neck and pop you into the pot!" And the cat chipped in: "Hee! Hee! I hope the woman cooks you, then I can gnaw at your bones!" The poor ugly duckling was so scared that he lost his appetite, though the old woman kept stuffing him with food and grumbling: "If you won't lay eggs, at least hurry up and get plump!"
"Oh, dear me!" moaned the now terrified duckling. "I'll die of fright first! And I did so hope someone would love me!"
Then one night, finding the hutch door ajar, he escaped. Once again he was all alone. He fled as far away as he could, and at dawn, he found himself in a thick bed of reeds. "If nobody wants me, I'll hid here forever." There was plenty a food, and the duckling began to feel a little happier, though he was lonely. One day at sunrise, he saw a flight of beautiful birds wing overhead. White, with long slender necks, yellow beaks and large wings, they were migrating south.
"If only I could look like them, just for a day!" said the duckling, admiringly. Winter came and the water in the reed bed froze. The poor duckling left home to seek food in the snow. He dropped exhausted to the ground, but a farmer found him and put him in his big jacket pocket.
"I'll take him home to my children. They'll look after him. Poor thing, he's frozen!" The duckling was showered with kindly care at the farmer's house. In this way, the ugly duckling was able to survive the bitterly cold winter.
However, by springtime, he had grown so big that the farmer decided: "I'll set him free by the pond!" That was when the duckling saw himself mirrored in the water.
"Goodness! How I've changed! I hardly recognize myself!" The flight of swans winged north again and glided on to the pond. When the duckling saw them, he realized he was one of their kind, and soon made friends.
"We're swans like you!" they said, warmly. "Where have you been hiding?"
"It's a long story," replied the young swan, still astounded. Now, he swam majestically with his fellow swans. One day, he heard children on the river bank exclaim: "Look at that young swan! He's the finest of them all!"
And he almost burst with happiness.
The End
Once upon a time down on an old farm, lived a duck family, and Mother Duck had been sitting on a clutch of new eggs. One nice morning, the eggs hatched and out popped six chirpy ducklings. But one egg was bigger than the rest, and it didn't hatch. Mother Duck couldn't recall laying that seventh egg. How did it get there? TOCK! TOCK! The little prisoner was pecking inside his shell.
"Did I count the eggs wrongly?" Mother Duck wondered. But before she had time to think about it, the last egg finally hatched. A strange looking duckling with gray feathers that should have been yellow gazed at a worried mother. The ducklings grew quickly, but Mother Duck had a secret worry.
"I can't understand how this ugly duckling can be one of mine!" she said to herself, shaking her head as she looked at her last born. Well, the gray duckling certainly wasn't pretty, and since he ate far more than his brothers, he was outgrowing them. As the days went by, the poor ugly duckling became more and more unhappy. His brothers didn't want to play with him, he was so clumsy, and all the farmyard folks simply laughed at him. He felt sad and lonely, while Mother Duck did her best to console him.
"Poor little ugly duckling!" she would say. "Why are you so different from the others?" And the ugly duckling felt worse than ever. He secretly wept at night. He felt nobody wanted him.
"Nobody loves me, they all tease me! Why am I different from my brothers?"
Then one day, at sunrise, he ran away from the farmyard. He stopped at a pond and began to question all the other birds. "Do you know of any ducklings with gray feathers like mine?" But everyone shook their heads in scorn.
"We don't know anyone as ugly as you." The ugly duckling did not lose heart, however, and kept on making inquiries. He went to another pond, where a pair of large geese gave him the same answer to his question. What's more, they warned him: "Don't stay here! Go away! It's dangerous. There are men with guns around here!" The duckling was sorry he had ever left the farmyard.
Then one day, his travels took him near an old countrywoman's cottage. Thinking he was a stray goose, she caught him.
"I'll put this in a hutch. I hope it's a female and lays plenty of eggs!" said the old woman, whose eyesight was poor. But the ugly duckling laid not a single egg. The hen kept frightening him.
"Just wait! If you don't lay eggs, the old woman will wring your neck and pop you into the pot!" And the cat chipped in: "Hee! Hee! I hope the woman cooks you, then I can gnaw at your bones!" The poor ugly duckling was so scared that he lost his appetite, though the old woman kept stuffing him with food and grumbling: "If you won't lay eggs, at least hurry up and get plump!"
"Oh, dear me!" moaned the now terrified duckling. "I'll die of fright first! And I did so hope someone would love me!"
Then one night, finding the hutch door ajar, he escaped. Once again he was all alone. He fled as far away as he could, and at dawn, he found himself in a thick bed of reeds. "If nobody wants me, I'll hid here forever." There was plenty a food, and the duckling began to feel a little happier, though he was lonely. One day at sunrise, he saw a flight of beautiful birds wing overhead. White, with long slender necks, yellow beaks and large wings, they were migrating south.
"If only I could look like them, just for a day!" said the duckling, admiringly. Winter came and the water in the reed bed froze. The poor duckling left home to seek food in the snow. He dropped exhausted to the ground, but a farmer found him and put him in his big jacket pocket.
"I'll take him home to my children. They'll look after him. Poor thing, he's frozen!" The duckling was showered with kindly care at the farmer's house. In this way, the ugly duckling was able to survive the bitterly cold winter.
However, by springtime, he had grown so big that the farmer decided: "I'll set him free by the pond!" That was when the duckling saw himself mirrored in the water.
"Goodness! How I've changed! I hardly recognize myself!" The flight of swans winged north again and glided on to the pond. When the duckling saw them, he realized he was one of their kind, and soon made friends.
"We're swans like you!" they said, warmly. "Where have you been hiding?"
"It's a long story," replied the young swan, still astounded. Now, he swam majestically with his fellow swans. One day, he heard children on the river bank exclaim: "Look at that young swan! He's the finest of them all!"
And he almost burst with happiness.
The End
Saturday, January 28, 2006
THIS IS WHAT LOVE IS ALL ABOUT !!!
It was a busy morning, approximately 8:30 am, when an elderly gentleman  in his 80's, arrived to have stitches removed from his thumb. He stated  that he was in a hurry as he had an appointment at 9:00 am.
I took his vital signs and had him take a seat, knowing it would be  over an hour before someone would to able to see him. I saw him looking at his watch and decided, since I was not busy with another patient, I would evaluate his wound. Â
On exam it was well healed, so I talked to one of the doctors, got the needed supplies to remove his sutures and redress his wound. While taking care of his wound, we began to engage in conversation I asked him if he had a doctor's appointment this morning, as he was in such hurry.
The gentleman told me no, that he needed to go to the nursing home to eat breakfast with his wife. I then inquired as to her health. He told me that she had been there for a while and that she was a victim of Alzheimer Disease. As we talked, and I finished dressing his wound, I asked if she would be worried if he was a bit late. He replied that she no longer knew who he was, that she had not recognized him in five years now. I was surprised, and asked him. "And you still go every morning, even though she doesn't know who you are?" Â
Â
He smiled as he patted my hand and said. "She doesn't know me, but I still know who she is."
I had to hold back tears as he left, I had goose bumps on my arm, and  thought, "That is the kind of love I want in my life."
True love is neither physical, nor romantic. True love is an acceptance of all that is, has been, will be, and will not be. With all the jokes and fun that are in e-mails, sometimes there are some that come along that have an important message, and this is one of those kinds.
"The happiest of people don't necessarily have the best of  everything; they just make the best of everything that comes along their way."
Peace is seeing a sunset and knowing who to thank.
Â
It was a busy morning, approximately 8:30 am, when an elderly gentleman  in his 80's, arrived to have stitches removed from his thumb. He stated  that he was in a hurry as he had an appointment at 9:00 am.
I took his vital signs and had him take a seat, knowing it would be  over an hour before someone would to able to see him. I saw him looking at his watch and decided, since I was not busy with another patient, I would evaluate his wound. Â
On exam it was well healed, so I talked to one of the doctors, got the needed supplies to remove his sutures and redress his wound. While taking care of his wound, we began to engage in conversation I asked him if he had a doctor's appointment this morning, as he was in such hurry.
The gentleman told me no, that he needed to go to the nursing home to eat breakfast with his wife. I then inquired as to her health. He told me that she had been there for a while and that she was a victim of Alzheimer Disease. As we talked, and I finished dressing his wound, I asked if she would be worried if he was a bit late. He replied that she no longer knew who he was, that she had not recognized him in five years now. I was surprised, and asked him. "And you still go every morning, even though she doesn't know who you are?" Â
Â
He smiled as he patted my hand and said. "She doesn't know me, but I still know who she is."
I had to hold back tears as he left, I had goose bumps on my arm, and  thought, "That is the kind of love I want in my life."
True love is neither physical, nor romantic. True love is an acceptance of all that is, has been, will be, and will not be. With all the jokes and fun that are in e-mails, sometimes there are some that come along that have an important message, and this is one of those kinds.
"The happiest of people don't necessarily have the best of  everything; they just make the best of everything that comes along their way."
Peace is seeing a sunset and knowing who to thank.
Â
Life's Little Instruction Book
Have a firm handshake.
Look people in the eye.
Sing in the shower.
Own a great stereo system.
If in a fight, hit first and hit hard.
Keep secrets.
Never give up on anybody. Miracles happen everyday.
Always accept an outstretched hand.
Be brave. Even if you're not, pretend to be. No one can tell the difference.
Whistle.
Avoid sarcastic remarks.
Choose your life's mate carefully. >From this one decision will come 90 per cent of all your happiness or misery.
Make it a habit to do nice things for people who will never find out.
Lend only those books you never care to see again.
Never deprive someone of hope; it might be all that they have.
When playing games with ! children, let them win.
Give people a second chance, but not a third.
Be romantic.
Become the most positive and enthusiastic person you know.
Loosen up. Relax. Except for rare life-and-death matters, nothing is as important as it first seems.
Don't allow the phone to interrupt important moments. It's there for your convenience, not the caller's.
Be a good loser.
Be a good winner.
Think twice before burdening a friend with a secret.
When someone hugs you, let them be the first to let go.
Be modest. A lot was accomplished before you were born.
Keep it simple.
Beware of the person who has nothing to lose.
Don't burn bridges. You'll be surprised how many times you have to cross the same river.
Live your life so that your epitaph could read, No Regrets
Be bold and courageous. When you look back on life, you'll regret the things you didn't do more than the one's you did.
Never waste an opportunity to tell someone you love them.
Remember no one makes it alone. Have a grateful heart and be quick to acknowledge those who helped you.
Take charge of your attitude. Don't let someone else choose it for you.
Visit friends and relatives when they are in hospital; you need only stay a few minutes.
Begin each day with some of your favorite music.
Once in a while, take the scenic route.
Send a lot of Valentine cards. Sign them, 'Someone who thinks you're terrific.'
Answer the phone with enthusiasm and energy in your voice.
Keep a note pad and pencil on your bed-side table. Million-dollar ideas sometimes strike at 3 a.m.
Show respect for everyone who works for a living, regardless of how trivial their job.
Send your loved ones flowers. Think of a reason later.
Make someone's day by paying the toll for the person in the car behind you.
Become someone's hero.
Marry only for love.
Count your blessings.
Compliment the meal when you're a guest in someone's home.
Wave at the children on a school bus.
Remember that 80 per cent of the success in any job is based on your ability to deal with people.
Don't expect life to be fair.
Have a firm handshake.
Look people in the eye.
Sing in the shower.
Own a great stereo system.
If in a fight, hit first and hit hard.
Keep secrets.
Never give up on anybody. Miracles happen everyday.
Always accept an outstretched hand.
Be brave. Even if you're not, pretend to be. No one can tell the difference.
Whistle.
Avoid sarcastic remarks.
Choose your life's mate carefully. >From this one decision will come 90 per cent of all your happiness or misery.
Make it a habit to do nice things for people who will never find out.
Lend only those books you never care to see again.
Never deprive someone of hope; it might be all that they have.
When playing games with ! children, let them win.
Give people a second chance, but not a third.
Be romantic.
Become the most positive and enthusiastic person you know.
Loosen up. Relax. Except for rare life-and-death matters, nothing is as important as it first seems.
Don't allow the phone to interrupt important moments. It's there for your convenience, not the caller's.
Be a good loser.
Be a good winner.
Think twice before burdening a friend with a secret.
When someone hugs you, let them be the first to let go.
Be modest. A lot was accomplished before you were born.
Keep it simple.
Beware of the person who has nothing to lose.
Don't burn bridges. You'll be surprised how many times you have to cross the same river.
Live your life so that your epitaph could read, No Regrets
Be bold and courageous. When you look back on life, you'll regret the things you didn't do more than the one's you did.
Never waste an opportunity to tell someone you love them.
Remember no one makes it alone. Have a grateful heart and be quick to acknowledge those who helped you.
Take charge of your attitude. Don't let someone else choose it for you.
Visit friends and relatives when they are in hospital; you need only stay a few minutes.
Begin each day with some of your favorite music.
Once in a while, take the scenic route.
Send a lot of Valentine cards. Sign them, 'Someone who thinks you're terrific.'
Answer the phone with enthusiasm and energy in your voice.
Keep a note pad and pencil on your bed-side table. Million-dollar ideas sometimes strike at 3 a.m.
Show respect for everyone who works for a living, regardless of how trivial their job.
Send your loved ones flowers. Think of a reason later.
Make someone's day by paying the toll for the person in the car behind you.
Become someone's hero.
Marry only for love.
Count your blessings.
Compliment the meal when you're a guest in someone's home.
Wave at the children on a school bus.
Remember that 80 per cent of the success in any job is based on your ability to deal with people.
Don't expect life to be fair.
I will meet you yet again
-Amrita Pritam
I will meet you yet again
How and where
I know not
Perhaps I will become a
figment of your imagination
and maybe spreading myself
in a mysterious line
on your canvas
I will keep gazing at you.
Perhaps I will become a ray
of sunshine to be
embraced by your colours
I will paint myself on your canvas
I know not how and where —
but I will meet you for sure.
Maybe I will turn into a spring
and rub foaming
drops of water on your body
and rest my coolness on
your burning chest
I know nothing
but that this life
will walk along with me.
When the body perishes
all perishes
but the threads of memory
are woven of enduring atoms
I will pick these particles
weave the threads
and I will meet you yet again.
-Amrita Pritam
I will meet you yet again
How and where
I know not
Perhaps I will become a
figment of your imagination
and maybe spreading myself
in a mysterious line
on your canvas
I will keep gazing at you.
Perhaps I will become a ray
of sunshine to be
embraced by your colours
I will paint myself on your canvas
I know not how and where —
but I will meet you for sure.
Maybe I will turn into a spring
and rub foaming
drops of water on your body
and rest my coolness on
your burning chest
I know nothing
but that this life
will walk along with me.
When the body perishes
all perishes
but the threads of memory
are woven of enduring atoms
I will pick these particles
weave the threads
and I will meet you yet again.
HOW WE TREAT PEOPLE
Five (5) lessons to make you think about the way we
treat people.
1 - First Important Lesson - Cleaning Lady.
During my second month of college, our professor gave
us a pop quiz. I was a conscientious student and had
breezed through the questions until I read the last
one: "What is the first name of the woman who cleans
the school?"
Surely this was some kind of joke. I had seen the
cleaning woman several times. She was tall,
dark-haired and in her 50s, but how would I know her>name? I handed in my paper, leaving the last question
blank.
Just before class ended, one student asked if the last
question would count toward our quiz grade.
"Absolutely," said the professor. "In your careers,
you will meet many people. All are significant. They
deserve your attention and care, even if all you do is
smile and say "hello."
I've never forgotten that lesson. I also learned her
name was Dorothy.
2. - Second Important Lesson - Pickup in the Rain
One night, at 11:30 p.m., an older African American
woman was standing on the side of an Alabama highway
trying to endure a lashing rainstorm. Her car had
broken down and she desperately needed a ride. Soaking>wet, she decided to flag down the next car. A young
white man stopped to help her, generally unheard of in
those conflict-filled 1960s. The man took her to
safety, helped her get assistance and put her into a>taxicab. She seemed to be in a big hurry, but wrote
down his addressand thanked him.
Seven days went by and a knock came on the man's door.
To his surprise, a giant console color TV was
delivered to his home. A special note was attached. It
read: "Thank you so much for assisting me on the
highway the other night. The rain drenched not only my
clothes, but also my spirits. Then you came along.
Because of you, I was able to make it to my dying
husband's bedside just before he passed away. God
bless you for helping me and unselfishly serving
others."
Sincerely,
Mrs. Nat King Cole.
3 - Third Important Lesson - Always remember those who
serve.
In the days when an ice cream sundae cost much less, a
10-year-old boy entered a hotel coffee shop and sat at>a table. A waitress put a glass of water in front of>him. "How much is an ice cream sundae?" he asked.
Fifty cents," replied the waitress. The little boy
pulled is hand out of his pocket and studied the coins
in it.
"Well, how much is a plain dish of ice cream?" he
inquired. By now more people were waiting for a table
and the waitress was growing impatient. "Thirty-five
cents," she brusquely replied. The little boy again
counted his coins.
"I 'll have the plain ice cream," he said. The
waitress brought the ice cream, put the bill on the
table and walked away. The boy finished the ice cream,
paid the cashier and left.
When the waitress came back, she began to cry as she
wiped down the table. there, placed neatly beside the
empty dish, were two nickels and five pennies. You
ee, he couldn't have the sundae, because he had to
have enough left to leave her a tip.
4 - Fourth Important Lesson. - The obstacle in Our>Path.
In ancient times, a King had a boulder placed on a
roadway. Then he hid himself and watched to see if
anyone would remove the huge rock. Some of the king's
wealthiest merchants and courtiers came by and simply
walked around it. Many loudly blamed the King for not
keeping the roads clear, but none did anything about
getting the stone out of the way.
Then a peasant came along carrying a load of
vegetables. Upon approaching the boulder, the peasant
laid down his burden and tried to move the stone to
the side of the road. After much pushing and
straining, he finally succeeded. After the peasant
picked up his load of vegetables, he noticed a purse
lying in the road where the boulder had been. The
purse contained many gold coins and a note from the
King indicating that the gold was for the person who
removed the boulder from the roadway. The peasant
learned what many of us never understand!
Every obstacle presents an opportunity to improve ourcondition.
5 - Fifth Important Lesson - Giving When it Counts.
Many years ago, when I worked as a volunteer at a
hospital, I got to know a little girl named Liz who
was suffering from a rare &serious disease. Her only
chance of recovery appeared to be a blood transfusion
from her 5-year old brother, who had miraculously
survived the same disease and had developed the
antibodies needed to combat the illness.
The doctor explained the situation to her little
brother, and asked the little boy if he would be
willing to give his blood to his sister.
I saw him hesitate for only a moment before taking a
deep breath and saying, "Yes I'll do it if it will
save her." As the transfusion progressed, he lay in
bed next to his sister and smiled, as we all did,
seeing the color returning to her cheek. Then his face
grew pale and his smile faded. He looked up at the
doctor and asked with a trembling voice, "Will I start
to die right away."
Being young, the little boy had misunderstood the
doctor; he thought he was going to have to give his
sister all of his blood in order to save her. Now you
have 2 choices.
Five (5) lessons to make you think about the way we
treat people.
1 - First Important Lesson - Cleaning Lady.
During my second month of college, our professor gave
us a pop quiz. I was a conscientious student and had
breezed through the questions until I read the last
one: "What is the first name of the woman who cleans
the school?"
Surely this was some kind of joke. I had seen the
cleaning woman several times. She was tall,
dark-haired and in her 50s, but how would I know her>name? I handed in my paper, leaving the last question
blank.
Just before class ended, one student asked if the last
question would count toward our quiz grade.
"Absolutely," said the professor. "In your careers,
you will meet many people. All are significant. They
deserve your attention and care, even if all you do is
smile and say "hello."
I've never forgotten that lesson. I also learned her
name was Dorothy.
2. - Second Important Lesson - Pickup in the Rain
One night, at 11:30 p.m., an older African American
woman was standing on the side of an Alabama highway
trying to endure a lashing rainstorm. Her car had
broken down and she desperately needed a ride. Soaking>wet, she decided to flag down the next car. A young
white man stopped to help her, generally unheard of in
those conflict-filled 1960s. The man took her to
safety, helped her get assistance and put her into a>taxicab. She seemed to be in a big hurry, but wrote
down his addressand thanked him.
Seven days went by and a knock came on the man's door.
To his surprise, a giant console color TV was
delivered to his home. A special note was attached. It
read: "Thank you so much for assisting me on the
highway the other night. The rain drenched not only my
clothes, but also my spirits. Then you came along.
Because of you, I was able to make it to my dying
husband's bedside just before he passed away. God
bless you for helping me and unselfishly serving
others."
Sincerely,
Mrs. Nat King Cole.
3 - Third Important Lesson - Always remember those who
serve.
In the days when an ice cream sundae cost much less, a
10-year-old boy entered a hotel coffee shop and sat at>a table. A waitress put a glass of water in front of>him. "How much is an ice cream sundae?" he asked.
Fifty cents," replied the waitress. The little boy
pulled is hand out of his pocket and studied the coins
in it.
"Well, how much is a plain dish of ice cream?" he
inquired. By now more people were waiting for a table
and the waitress was growing impatient. "Thirty-five
cents," she brusquely replied. The little boy again
counted his coins.
"I 'll have the plain ice cream," he said. The
waitress brought the ice cream, put the bill on the
table and walked away. The boy finished the ice cream,
paid the cashier and left.
When the waitress came back, she began to cry as she
wiped down the table. there, placed neatly beside the
empty dish, were two nickels and five pennies. You
ee, he couldn't have the sundae, because he had to
have enough left to leave her a tip.
4 - Fourth Important Lesson. - The obstacle in Our>Path.
In ancient times, a King had a boulder placed on a
roadway. Then he hid himself and watched to see if
anyone would remove the huge rock. Some of the king's
wealthiest merchants and courtiers came by and simply
walked around it. Many loudly blamed the King for not
keeping the roads clear, but none did anything about
getting the stone out of the way.
Then a peasant came along carrying a load of
vegetables. Upon approaching the boulder, the peasant
laid down his burden and tried to move the stone to
the side of the road. After much pushing and
straining, he finally succeeded. After the peasant
picked up his load of vegetables, he noticed a purse
lying in the road where the boulder had been. The
purse contained many gold coins and a note from the
King indicating that the gold was for the person who
removed the boulder from the roadway. The peasant
learned what many of us never understand!
Every obstacle presents an opportunity to improve ourcondition.
5 - Fifth Important Lesson - Giving When it Counts.
Many years ago, when I worked as a volunteer at a
hospital, I got to know a little girl named Liz who
was suffering from a rare &serious disease. Her only
chance of recovery appeared to be a blood transfusion
from her 5-year old brother, who had miraculously
survived the same disease and had developed the
antibodies needed to combat the illness.
The doctor explained the situation to her little
brother, and asked the little boy if he would be
willing to give his blood to his sister.
I saw him hesitate for only a moment before taking a
deep breath and saying, "Yes I'll do it if it will
save her." As the transfusion progressed, he lay in
bed next to his sister and smiled, as we all did,
seeing the color returning to her cheek. Then his face
grew pale and his smile faded. He looked up at the
doctor and asked with a trembling voice, "Will I start
to die right away."
Being young, the little boy had misunderstood the
doctor; he thought he was going to have to give his
sister all of his blood in order to save her. Now you
have 2 choices.
When the Wind Blows
Years ago a farmer owned land along the Atlantic seacoast. He constantly advertised for hired hands. Most people were reluctant to work on farms along the Atlantic. They dreaded the awful storms that raged across the Atlantic, wreaking havoc on the buildings and crops. As the farmer interviewed applicants for the job, he received a steady stream of refusals.
Finally, a short, thin man, well past middle age, approached the farmer. "Are you a good farmhand?" the farmer asked him.
"Well, I can sleep when the wind blows," answered the little man.
Although puzzled by this answer, the farmer, desperate for help, hired him. The little man worked well around the farm, busy from dawn to dusk, and the farmer felt satisfied with the man's work.
Then one night the wind howled loudly in from offshore. Jumping out of bed, the farmer grabbed a lantern and rushed next door to the hired hand's sleeping quarters. He shook the little man and yelled, "Get up! A storm is coming! Tie things down before they blow away!"
The little man rolled over in bed and said firmly, "No sir. I told you, I can sleep when the wind blows.."
Enraged by the response, the farmer was tempted to fire him on the spot. Instead, he hurried outside to prepare for the storm. To his amazement, he discovered that all of the haystacks had been covered with tarpaulins. The cows were in the barn, the chickens were in the coops, and the doors were barred. The shutters were tightly secured. Everything was tied down. Nothing could blow away.
The farmer then understood what his hired hand meant, so he returned to his bed to also sleep while the wind blew.
MORAL: When you're prepared, spiritually, mentally, and physically, you have nothing to fear.
Can you sleep when the wind blows through your life? The hired hand in the story was able to sleep because he had secured the farm against the storm.
We, as believers in Christ, secure ourselves against the storms of life by grounding ourselves in the Word of God..
We don't need to understand, we just need to hold His hand to have peace in the midst of the storms.
I hope you sleep well!
Years ago a farmer owned land along the Atlantic seacoast. He constantly advertised for hired hands. Most people were reluctant to work on farms along the Atlantic. They dreaded the awful storms that raged across the Atlantic, wreaking havoc on the buildings and crops. As the farmer interviewed applicants for the job, he received a steady stream of refusals.
Finally, a short, thin man, well past middle age, approached the farmer. "Are you a good farmhand?" the farmer asked him.
"Well, I can sleep when the wind blows," answered the little man.
Although puzzled by this answer, the farmer, desperate for help, hired him. The little man worked well around the farm, busy from dawn to dusk, and the farmer felt satisfied with the man's work.
Then one night the wind howled loudly in from offshore. Jumping out of bed, the farmer grabbed a lantern and rushed next door to the hired hand's sleeping quarters. He shook the little man and yelled, "Get up! A storm is coming! Tie things down before they blow away!"
The little man rolled over in bed and said firmly, "No sir. I told you, I can sleep when the wind blows.."
Enraged by the response, the farmer was tempted to fire him on the spot. Instead, he hurried outside to prepare for the storm. To his amazement, he discovered that all of the haystacks had been covered with tarpaulins. The cows were in the barn, the chickens were in the coops, and the doors were barred. The shutters were tightly secured. Everything was tied down. Nothing could blow away.
The farmer then understood what his hired hand meant, so he returned to his bed to also sleep while the wind blew.
MORAL: When you're prepared, spiritually, mentally, and physically, you have nothing to fear.
Can you sleep when the wind blows through your life? The hired hand in the story was able to sleep because he had secured the farm against the storm.
We, as believers in Christ, secure ourselves against the storms of life by grounding ourselves in the Word of God..
We don't need to understand, we just need to hold His hand to have peace in the midst of the storms.
I hope you sleep well!
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