SEMESTER - I

General English
 General English 1

LESSON - I
Plausibility In Fiction

Although the writer of fiction creates his own world, peopling it with such
invented characters as David Copperfield, Silas Marner, Eustacia Vye, and
Holden Caulfield, he is not altogether free. We have to feel that his fictional
world hangs together, that one thing more or less leads to another. This is not
to say that there can be nothing fantastic in a story: only that what is fantastic
must be presented in a context that makes the fantastic seem plausible.

The following story may seem equally plausible or implausible upon a casual
reading, but a closer reading will reveal a significant difference.

W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM (1874- 1965)

Mr. Know-All

I was prepared to dislike Max Kelada even before I knew him. The war had
just finished and the passenger traffic in the ocean-going liners was heavy.
Accommodation was very hard to get and you had to put up with whatever
the agents chose to offer you. You could not hope for a cabin to yourself and I
was thankful to be given one in which there were only two berths. But when
I was told the name of my companion my heart sank. It suggested closed
portholes and the night air rigidly excluded. It was bad enough to share a
cabin for fourteen days with anyone (I was going from San Francisco to
Yokohama), but I should have looked upon it with less dismay if my fellow
passenger’s name had been Smith or Brown.

When I went on board, I found Mr. Kelada’s luggage already below. I did not
like the look of it; there were too many labels on the suitcases, and the wardrobe
trunk was too big. He had unpacked his toilet things, and I observed that he
was a patron of the excellent Monsieur Coty; for I saw on the washing-stand
his scent, his hairwash, and his brilliantine. Mr. Kelada’s brushes, ebony with
his monogram in gold, would have been all the better for a scrub. I did not at
all like Mr. Kelada. I made my way into the smoking room. I called for a pack
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of cards and began to play patience. I had scarcely started before a man came
up to me and asked me if he was right in thinking my name was so and so.

“I am Mr. Kelada,” he added, with a smile that showed a row of flashing teeth,
and sat down.

“Oh, yes, we’re sharing a cabin, I think.”

“Bit of luck, I call it. You never know who you’re going to be put in with. I
was jolly glad when I heard you were English. I’m all for us English sticking
together when we’re abroad, if you understand what I mean.”

I blinked.

“Are you English?” I asked, perhaps tactlessly.

“Rather. You don’t think I look like an American, do you? British to the
backbone, that’s what I am.”

To prove it, Mr. Kelada took out of his pocket a passport and airily waved it
under my nose.

King George has many strange subjects. Mr. Kelada was short and of a sturdy
build, clean-shaven and dark skinned, with a fleshy, hooked nose and very
large, lustrous and liquid eyes. His long black hair was sleek and curly. He
spoke with a fluency in which there was nothing English and his gestures were
exuberant. I felt pretty sure that a closer inspection of that British passport
would have betrayed the fact that Mr. Kelada was born under a bluer sky than
is generally seen in England.

“What will you have?” he asked me.

I looked at him doubtfully. Prohibition was in force and to all appearance the
ship was bone dry. When I am not thirsty I do not know which I dislike more,
ginger ale or lemon squash. But Mr. Kelada flashed an oriental smile at me.

“Whisky and soda or a dry martini, you have only to say the word.”
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From each of his hip pockets, he fished a flask and laid it on the table before
me. I chose the martini, and calling the steward, he ordered a tumbler of ice
and a couple of glasses.

“A very good cocktail,” I said.

“Well, there are plenty more where that came from, and if you’ve got any
friends on board, you tell them you’ve got a pal who’s got all the liquor in the
world”.

Mr. Kelada was chatty. He talked of New York and of San Francisco. He
discussed plays, pictures, and politics. He was patriotic. The Union Jack is an
impressive piece of drapery, but when it is flourished by a gentleman from
Alexandria or Beirut, I cannot but feel that it loses somewhat in dignity. Mr.
Kelada was familiar. I do not wish to put on airs, but I cannot help feeling that
it is seemly in a total stranger to put mister before my name when he addresses
me. Mr. Kelada, doubtless to set me at my ease, used no such formality. I did
not like Mr. Kelada. I had put aside the cards when he sat down, but now,
thinking that for this first occasion our conversation had lasted long enough,
I went on with my game.

“The three on the four,” said Mr. Kelada.

There is nothing more exasperating when you are playing patience than to be
told where to put the card you have turned up before you have had a chance
to look for yourself.

“It’s corning out, it’s coming out,” he cried. “The ten on the knave.”

With rage and hatred in my heart I finished. Then he seized the pack.

“Do you like card tricks?”

“No, I hate card tricks,” I answered. “Well, I’ll just show you this one.”

He showed me three. Then I said I would go down to the dining room and get
my seat at table.
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“Oh, that’s all right,” he said. “I’ve already taken a seat for you. I thought that
as we were in the same stateroom we might just as well sit at the same table.”

I did not like Mr. Kelada.

I not only shared a cabin with him and ate three meals a day at the same table,
but I could not walk round the deck without his joining me. It was impossible
to snub him. It never occurred to him that he was not wanted. He was certain,
that you were as glad to see him as he was to see you. In your own house you
might have kicked him downstairs and slammed the door in his face without
the suspicion dawning on him that he was not a welcome visitor. He was a
good mixer, and in three days knew everyone on board. He ran everything. He
managed the sweeps, conducted the auctions, collected money for prizes at
the sports, got up quoit and golf matches, organized the concert and arranged
the fancy-dress ball. He was everywhere and always. He was certainly the best
hated man, in the ship. We called him Mr. Know-All even to his face. He took
it as a compliment. But it was at mealtimes that he was most intolerable. For
the better part of an hour then he had us at his mercy.

He was hearty, jovial, loquacious and argumentative. He knew everything

better than anybody else, and it was an affront to his overweening vanity
that you should disagree with him. He would not drop a subject, however
unimportant, till he had brought you round to his way of thinking. The
possibility that he could be mistaken never occurred to him. He was the chap
who knew. We sat at the doctor’s table. Mr. Kelada would certainly have had
it all his own way, for the doctor was lazy and I was frigidly indifferent except
for a man called Ramsay who sat there also. He was as dogmatic as Mr. Kelada
and resented bitterly the Levantine’s cocksureness. the discussions they had
were acrimonious and interminable.

Ramsay was in the American Consular Service and was stationed at Kobe. He
was a great heavy fellow from the Middle West, with loose fat under a tight
skin, and he bulged out of his ready-made clothes. He was on his way back
to resume his post, having been on a flying visit to New York to fetch his wife
who had been spending a year at home. Mrs. Ramsay was a very pretty little
thing, with pleasant manners and a sense of humor. The Consular Service is
ill paid, and she was dressed always very simply; but she knew how to wear
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her clothes. She achieved an effect of quiet distinction. I should not have paid
any particular attention to her but that she possessed a quality that may be
common enough in women, but nowadays is not obvious in their demeanor.
You could not look at her without being struck by her modesty. It shone in
her like a flower on a coat.

One evening at dinner the conversation by chance drifted to the subject of

pearls. There had been in the papers a good deal of talk about the culture
pearls which the cunning Japanese were making, and the doctor remarked
that they must inevitably diminish the value of real ones. They were very good
already; they would soon be perfect. Mr. Kelada, as was his habit, rushed
the new topic. He told us all that was to be known about pearls. I do not
believe Ramsay knew anything about them at all, but he could not resist the
opportunity to have a fling at the Levantine, and in five minutes we were
in the middle of a heated argument. I had seen Mr. Kelada vehement and
voluble before, but never so voluble and vehement as now. At last something
that Ramsay said stung him, for he thumped the table and shouted:

“Well, I ought to know what I am talking about. I’m going to Japan just to look
into this Japanese pearl business. I’m in the trade and there’s not a man in it
who won’t tell you that what I say about pearls goes. I know all the best pearls
in the world, and what I don’t know about pearls isn’t worth knowing.”

Here was news for us, for Mr. Kelada, with all his loquacity, had never told
anyone what his business was. We only knew vaguely that he was going to
Japan on some commercial errand. He looked round the table triumphantly.

“They’ll never be able to get a culture pearl that an expert like me can’t tell
with half an eye.” He pointed to a chain that Mrs. Ramsay wore. “You take my
word for it, Mrs. Ramsay that chain you’re wearing will never be worth a cent
less than it is now.”

Mrs. Ramsay in her modest way flushed a little and slipped the chain inside
her dress. Ramsay leaned forward. He gave us all a look and a smile flickered
in his eyes.

“That’s a pretty chain of Mrs. Ramsay’s, isn’t it?”

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“I noticed it at once,” answered Mr. Kelada. “Gee, I said to myself, those are
pearls all right.”

“I didn’t buy it myself, of course. I’d be interested to know how much you
think it cost.”

“Oh, in the trade somewhere round fifteen thousand dollars. But if it was
bought on Fifth Avenue I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that anything up to
thirty thousand was paid for it.”

Ramsay smiled grimly.

“You’ll be surprised to hear that Mrs. Ramsay bought that string at a

department store the day before we left New York, for eighteen dollars.”

Mr. Kelada flushed.

“Rot. It’s not only real, but it’s as fine a string for its size as I’ve ever seen.”

“Will you bet on it? I’ll bet you a hundred dollars it’s imitation.” “Done.”

“Oh, Elmer, you can’t bet on a certainty,” said Mrs. Ramsay. She had a little
smile on her lips and her tone was gently deprecating.

“Can’t I? If I get a chance of easy money like that I should be all sorts of a fool
not to take it.”

“But how can it be proved?” she continued. “It’s only my word against Mr.
Kelada’s.”

“Let me look at the chain, and if it’s imitation I’ll tell you quickly enough. I
can afford to lose a hundred dollars,” said Mr. Kelada.

“Take it off, dear. Let the gentleman look at it as much as he wants.”

Mrs. Ramsay hesitated a moment. She put her hands to the clasp.

“I can’t undo it,” she said. “Mr. Kelada will just have to take my word for it.”
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I had a sudden suspicion that something unfortunate was about to occur, but
I could think of nothing to say.

Ramsay jumped up. “I’ll undo it.”

He handed the chain to Mr. Kelada. The Levantine took a magnifying glass
from his pocket and closely examined it. A smile of triumph spread over
his smooth and swarthy face. He handed back the chain. He was about to
speak. Suddenly he caught sight of Mrs. Ramsay’s face. It was so white that
she looked as though she were about to faint. She was staring at him with
wide and terrified eyes. They held a desperate appeal; it was so clear that I
wondered why her husband did not see it.

Mr. Kelada stopped with his mouth open. He flushed deeply. You could almost
see the effort he was making over himself.

“I was mistaken,” he said. “It’s a very good imitation, but of course as soon as
I looked through my glass I saw that it wasn’t real. I think eighteen dollars is
just about as much as the damned thing’s worth.”

He took out his pocketbook and from it a hundred-dollar bill. He handed it

to Ramsay without a word.

“Perhaps that’ll teach you not to be so cocksure another time, my young

friend,” said Ramsay as he took the note.

I noticed that Mr. Kelada’s hands were trembling.

The story spread over the ship as stories do, and he had to put up with a
good deal of chaff that evening. It was a fine joke that Mr. Know-All had been
caught out. But Mrs. Ramsay retired to her stateroom with a headache.

Next morning I got up and began to shave. Mr. Kelada lay on his bed smoking
a cigarette. Suddenly there was a small scraping sound and I saw a letter
pushed under the door. I opened the door and looked out. There was nobody
there. I picked up the letter and saw that it was addressed to Max Kelada. The
name was written in blockletters. I handed it to him.
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“Who’s this from?” He opened it. “Oh!”

He took out of the envelope, not a letter, but a hundred-dollar bill. He looked
at me and again he reddened. He tore the envelope into little bits and gave
them to me.

“Do you mind just throwing them out of the porthole?” I did as he asked, and
then I looked at him with a smile.

“No one likes being made to look a perfect damned fool,” he said. “Were the
pearls real?”

“If I had a pretty little wife I shouldn’t let her spend a year in New York while
I stayed at Kobe,” said he.

At that moment I did not entirely dislike Mr. Kelada. He reached out for his
pocketbook and carefully put in it the hundred-dollar note.

Background
W. Somerset Maugham has said that his stories and those of his master, Guy
de Maupassant, are basically anecdotes, each relating “an incident which
is curious, striking and original.” One can read such a story at least twice,
Maugham says, first for “what happens” and second for “the cleverness of
the telling.” Let us see what happens in the two preceding stories, and let
us see whether they are cleverly told. And then let us see whether they are
meaningful.

Maugham’s story is indeed very close to an anecdote. We have the feeling

that we are listening to Maugham across a dinner table, recounting a curious
happening that he witnessed. The happening is curious because it concludes
surprisingly: Mr. Kelada, who seemed to be imperceptive and boorish, is
at the end revealed to us as a man who is shrewd and gallant. And there is
a curious irony; whereas usually a decent act adds to one’s reputation, Mr.
Kelada’s decent act lessens his reputation. But is Mr. Kelada’s act plausible?
Suppose we look at the story again, to admire “the cleverness of the telling.”
On re-reading it, are we convinced that the Mr. Kelada whom we meet at
the outset would do what Mr. Kelada later does? Would a man who showed
to an unwilling acquaintance three card tricks, a man who “would not drop
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a subject, however unimportant, till he had brought you round to his way
of thinking,” a man who might have been kicked downstairs without “the
suspicion dawning on him that he was not a welcome visitor”—would this
Mr. Kelada care enough, especially in a moment of “triumph,” not only to
notice Mrs. Ramsay’s terrified expression but to put together in an instant
the whole story of Mrs. Ramsay’s infidelity? And would he care enough to
be gallant, if it meant humiliating himself in order to protect the reputation
of a casual acquaintance? (In fact, to conjecture— as apparently Mr. Kelada
does— that Mrs. Ramsay’s reputation will be ruined if he tells the truth about
the pearls, is somewhat melodramatic, for his insistence that the pearls are
genuine would probably not at all shake Mr. Ramsay’s certainty; Mr. Ramsay
“was as dogmatic as Mr. Kelada,” and their discussions “were acrimonious
and interminable.”) Maugham tells us that certain things happened, but is
the story compelling? Contrast it with “The Widow of Ephesus,” which, at
first thought, isalso a story about the impossibility of judging a book by its
cover. The widow’s virtue is thoroughly established at the outset, yet within
a few hundred words so convincing a picture has been drawn of the forces
working on her that her surrender to the soldier is thoroughly plausible. The
ironic contrast between her deep grief at the outset and her deep love at the
conclusion is gained not by saying she wasn’t at all what she seemed, but by
vividly outlining a believable series of happenings that would lead her from
grieving over her husband’s body to desecrating it.

Of course, on re-reading “Mr. Know-All,” we realize that the narrator is a

snob and that his description of Mr. Kelada has not been entirely fair. But
even if we allow for the narrator’s bias, we have seen in the early part of the
story that Mr. Kelada is a boor. Maugham’s find! Effect is achieved, one feels,
through the sudden introduction of an aspect of Mr. Kelada’s personality for
which one is entirely unprepared.

Related to this point (indeed, inseparable from it) is the problem of whether
Maugham’s story is meaningful. When we read ‘The Widow of Ephesus,” we
feel that it is not only plausible but meaningful: tears are shed, but life goes
on. Virtuous young widows mourn, but they often remarry. Egomaniacs,
however, do not usually humiliate themselves to save a lady’s reputation. The
effect that Maugham’s story leaves, whether after one or several readings, is of
cleverness; the effect that “The Widow of Ephesus” leaves is of truth.
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Earlier it was suggested that irony is present when Mr. Kelada’s gallant act loses
for him whatever respect the passengers might have had. He is thoroughly
shown up, yet he is in the right. Similarly, there is irony is Petronius’ story;
it is ironic that a widow devoted to the memory of her husband should use
her husband’s body as a means of preserving her lover. In this sense, irony
denotes a contrast between original intentions and outcome**. Maupassant’s
story, too, is ironic; ‘like Petronius’ story, but unlike Maugham’s, the irony
does not seem tricky. The “incident which is curious” (to use Maugham’s
phrase) in Maupassant’s story is the son’s innocent inheritance of his father’s
mistress. The story does not suffer by re-reading; it is thoroughly plausible,
as Maupassant presents it. Though neither the father nor the son would ever
have conceived of the outcome, as Maupassant arranges his story the outcome
seems inevitable. Maupassant skillfully identifies the son with the father:
hautot junior is “almost as tall as his father,” and he Is filled with “respect and
deference for the wishes and opinions of such irony is not to be confused with
verbal irony.

Note on author
William Somerset Maugham (25 January 1874 – 16 December 1965) was a
British playwright, novelist and short story writer. He was among the most
popular writers of his era and reputedly the highest paid author during the
1930s. During the First World War, he served with the Red Cross and in
the ambulance corps, before being recruited in 1916 into the British Secret
Intelligence Service, for which he worked in Switzerland and Russia before
the October Revolution of 1917. During and after the war, he travelled in
India and Southeast Asia; all of these experiences were reflected in later short
stories and novels. By 1914, Maugham was famous, with 10 plays produced
and 10 novels published. Maugham’s masterpiece is generally agreed to be Of
Human Bondage, a semi autobiographical novel.

Note on the lesson

Mr. Know-All is also a story which revolves around a person named Mr.
Kelda whom he meets during his travel to Yokohama by ship. In the story,
the author dislikes Mr. Kelada because he is Black and the most disturbing
and interfering element on board. Mr. Kelada is given the title Mr. Know
All because of his talkative nature. The narrator does not like Mr. Kelada but
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in the end, comes to know the reality and is impressed by his decency and
changes his views about Blacks, in general.

Glossary:

• Portholes: A circular window set in the hull of a ship

• Brilliantine: A hair pomade, making the hair shine brilliantly
• Exuberant: Very high-spirited; extremely energetic
• Jovial: Cheerful and good-humored
• Loquacious: Talkative
• Cocksure: Overconfident

Comprehension questions
1. After first talking to Mr.Kelada, the narrator says, “King George
has many strange subjects.” What does he mean by this?
2. Some people at the dinner table admire Mrs. Ramsay’s pearls.
How does she react?
3. “I was prepared to dislike Max Kelada even before I knew him.”
a. Give two reasons why the narrator dislikes Mr.Kelada even
before he meets him.
4. What does the narrator understand when Mrs. Ramsay says she
can’t undo the necklace?
5. How do the personalities of Mr. Ramsay and Mr.Kelada differ?
6. After the discussion about the pearls at the dinner table, Mr.Kelada
“took out his pocketbook and from it a hundred-dollar bill. He
handed it to Ramsay without a word… Mr.Kelada’s hands were
trembling.” Why do you think Mr.Kelada’s hands were trembling?
Give information from the story to support your answer.
7. When the narrator enters his cabin for the first time, he sees
Mr.Kelada’s possessions. Explain what the narrator thinks about
one of these possessions.
8. How is Mr.Kelada’s profession relevant to the story?
9. At the end of the story, Mr. Kelada says, “No one likes being made
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to look a perfect damned fool.” Explain what he means by this.

10. At the dinner table there is a discussion about cultured pearls
and real pearls. How can the difference between cultured pearls
and real pearls be seen as a metaphor in this story? Explain in
connection of the characters.
11. Somerset Maugham felt that his stories had to have a moral and
teach people tolerance, wisdom and compassion. Explain how
this statement is relevant to “Mr. Know-All”. Support your answer
with examples from the story.
12. 11. How does Maugham prepare us to be cautious about totally
accepting the narrator’s attitude toward Mr. Kelada?
13. Does the description of Mr. Kelada’s possessions and appearance
help to substantiate the narrator’s prejudice toward him?
14. Although Mr. Kelada says that he is “British to the back-bone,”
wouldn’t the phrase ordinarily apply more appropriately to
the narrator? Why? Or is the conclusion of the story an ironic
verification of Mr. Kelada’s self-characterization?
15. Until the argument over the pearls, Mr. Kelada “had never told
anyone what his business was.” Is this a surprising fact?
16. What is the function of the last sentence?
17. Maugham has said (in The Summing Up): “The value of art, like
the value of the Mystic Way, lies in its effects. If it can only give
pleasure, however spiritual that pleasure may be, it is of no great
consequence or at least of no more consequence than a dozen
oysters and a pint of Montrachet. If it is a solace, that is well
enough; the world is full of inevitable evils and it is good that man
should have some heritage to which from time to time he may
withdraw himself; but not to escape them, rather to gather fresh
strength to face them. for art, if it is to be reckoned as one of the
great values of life, must teach men humility, tolerance, wisdom
and magnanimity. The value of art is not beauty, but right action.”
Does this theory seem true? By this standard, is “Mr. Know-All”
a work of art?
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Reference
Barnet, Sylvan, Berman, Morton and Burto, William. An
Introduction to Literature: Fiction, Poetry, Drama. Toronto: Little,
Brown & Co., 1963, pp. 17-23.
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LESSON - 2
The Long Exile
-Leo Tolstoy

In the town of Vladimir lived a young merchant named Ivan Dmitrich

Aksionov. He had two shops and a house of his own.

Aksionov was a handsome, fair-haired, curly-headed fellow, full of fun, and

very fond of singing. When quite a young man he had been given to drink,
and was riotous when he had had too much; but after he married he gave up
drinking, except now and then.

One summer Aksionov was going to the Nizhny Fair, and as he bade good-
bye to his family, his wife said to him, “Ivan Dmitrich, do not start to-day; I
have had a bad dream about you.”

Aksionov laughed, and said, “You are afraid that when I get to the fair I shall
go on a spree.”

His wife replied: “I do not know what I am afraid of; all I know is that I had a
bad dream. I dreamt you returned from the town, and when you took off your
cap I saw that your hair was quite gray.”

Aksionov laughed. “That’s a lucky sign,” said he. “See if I don’t sell out all my
goods, and bring you some presents from the fair”. So he said good-bye to his
family, and drove away.

When he had traveled half-way, he met a merchant whom he knew, and they
put up at the same inn for the night. They had some tea together, and then
went to bed in adjoining rooms.

It was not Aksionov’s habit to sleep late, and wishing to travel while it was still
cool, he aroused his driver before dawn, and told him to put in the horses.
Then he made his way across to the landlord of the inn (who lived in a cottage
at the back), paid his bill, and continued his journey.
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When he had gone about twenty-five miles, he stopped for the horses to be
fed. Aksionov rested awhile in the passage of the inn, and then he stepped out
into the porch, and, ordering a samovar to be heated, got out his guitar and
began to play.

Suddenly a troika drove up with tinkling bells and an official alighted,

followed by two soldiers. He came to Aksionov and began to question him
asking him who he was and whence he came. Aksionov answered him, fully,
and said, “Won’t you have some tea with me?” But the official went on cross-
questioning him and asking him, “Where did you spend last night? Were
you alone, or with a fellow-merchant? Did you see the other merchant this
morning? Why did you leave the inn before dawn?”

Aksionov wondered why he was asked all these questions, but he described
all that had happened, and then added, “Why do you cross-question me as if
I were a thief or a robber? I am traveling on business of my own, and there is
no need to question me.”

Then the official, calling the soldiers, said, “I am the police-officer of this
district, and I question you because the merchant with whom you spent last
night has been found with his throat cut. We must search your things.”

They entered the house. The soldiers and the police-officer unstrapped
Aksionov’s luggage and searched it. Suddenly the officer drew a knife out of a
bag, crying, “Whose knife is this?”

Aksionov looked, and seeing a blood-stained knife taken from his bag, he was
frightened.

“How is it there is blood on this knife?”

Aksionov tried to answer, but could hardly utter a word, and only stammered:
“I —don’t know—not mine.”

Then the police-officer said: “This morning the merchant was found in bed
with his throat cut. You are the only person who could have done it. The
house was locked from inside, and no one else was there. Here is this blood-
stained knife in your bag, and your face and manner betray you! Tell me how
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you killed him, and how much money you stole?”

Aksionov swore he had not done it; that he had not seen the merchant after
they had had tea together; that he had no money except eight thousand rubles
of his own, and that the knife was not his. But his voice was broken, his face
pale, and he trembled with fear as though he were guilty.

The police-officer ordered the soldiers to bind Aksionov and to put him in
the cart. As they tied his feet together and flung him into the cart, Aksionov
crossed himself and wept. His money and goods were taken from him, and
he was sent to the nearest town and imprisoned there. Inquiries as to his
character were made in Vladimir. The merchants and other inhabitants of that
town said that in former days he used to drink and waste his time, but that
he was a good man. Then the trial came on: he was charged with murdering a
merchant from Ryazan, and robbing him of twenty thousand rubles.

His wife was in despair, and did not know what to believe. Her children were
all quite small; one was a baby at her breast. Taking them all with her, she went
to the town where her husband was in jail. At first she was not allowed to see
him; but after much begging, she obtained permission from the officials, and
was taken to him. When she saw her husband in prison-dress and in chains,
shut up with thieves and criminals, she fell down, and did not come to her
senses for a long time. Then she drew her children to her, and sat down near
him. She told him of things at home, and asked about what had happened to
him. He told her all, and she asked, “What can we do now?”

“We must petition the Czar not to let an innocent man perish.”

His wife told him that she had sent a petition to the Czar, but it had not been
accepted.

Aksionov did not reply, but only looked downcast.

Then his wife said, “It was not for nothing I dreamt your hair had turned
gray. You remember? You should not have started that day.” And passing her
fingers through his hair, she said: “Vanya dearest, tell your wife the truth; was
it not you who did it?”
18 General English

“So you, too, suspect me!” said Aksionov, and, hiding his face in his hands, he
began to weep. Then a soldier came to say that the wife and children must go
away; and Aksionov said good-bye to his family for the last time.

When they were gone, Aksionov recalled what had been said, and when he
remembered that his wife also had suspected him, he said to himself, “It
seems that only God can know the truth; it is to Him alone we must appeal,
and from Him alone expect mercy.”

And Aksionov wrote no more petitions; gave up all hope, and only prayed to
God.

Aksionov was condemned to be flogged and sent to the mines. So he was

flogged with a knout, and when the wounds made by the knout were healed,
he was driven to Siberia with other convicts.

For twenty-six years Aksionov lived as a convict in Siberia. His hair turned
white as snow, and his beard grew long, thin, and gray. All his mirth went;
he stooped; he walked slowly, spoke little, and never laughed, but he often
prayed.

In prison Aksionov learned to make boots, and earned a little money, with
which he bought The Lives of the Saints. He read this book when there was
light enough in the prison; and on Sundays in the prison- church he read the
lessons and sang in the choir; for his voice was still good.

The prison authorities liked Aksionov for his meekness, and his fellow-
prisoners respected him: they called him “Grandfather,” and “The Saint.”
When they wanted to petition the prison authorities about anything, they
always made Aksionov their spokesman, and when there were quarrels among
the prisoners they came to him to put things right, and to judge the matter.

No news reached Aksionov from his home, and he did not even know if his
wife and children were still alive.

One day a fresh gang of convicts came to the prison. In the evening the
old prisoners collected round the new ones and asked them what towns or
villages they came from, and what they were sentenced for. Among the rest
 General English 19

Aksionov sat down near the newcomers, and listened with downcast air to
what was said.
One of the new convicts, a tall, strong man of sixty, with a closely-cropped
gray beard, was telling the others what he had been arrested for.
“Well, friends,” he said, “I only took a horse that was tied to a sledge, and I was
arrested and accused of stealing. I said I had only taken it to get home quicker,
and had then let it go; besides, the driver was a personal friend of mine. So I
said, ‘It’s all right.’ ‘No,’ said they, ‘you stole it.’ But how or where I stole it they
could not say. I once really did something wrong, and ought by rights to have
come here long ago, but that time I was not found out. Now I have been sent
here for nothing at all. … Eh, but it’s lies I’m telling you; I’ve been to Siberia
before, but I did not stay long.”
“Where are you from?” asked someone.
“From Vladimir. My families are of that town. My name is Makar, and they
also call me Semyonich.”
Aksionov raised his head and said: “Tell me, Semyonich, do you know
anything of the merchants Aksionov of Vladimir? Are they still alive?”
“Know them? Of course I do. The Aksionovs are rich, though their father is
in Siberia: a sinner like ourselves, it seems! As for you, Gran’dad, how did you
come here?”
Aksionov did not like to speak of his misfortune. He only sighed, and said,
“For my sins I have been in prison these twenty-six years.”
“What sins?” asked Makar Semyonich.
But Aksionov only said, “Well, well—I must have deserved it!” He would have
said no more, but his companions told the newcomers how Aksionov came
to be in Siberia; how someone had killed a merchant, and had put the knife
among Aksionov’s things, and Aksionov had been unjustly condemned.

When Makar Semyonich heard this, he looked at Aksionov, slapped his own
knee, and exclaimed, “Well, this is wonderful! Really wonderful! But how old
you’ve grown, Gran’dad!”
20 General English

The others asked him why he was so surprised, and where he had seen
Aksionov before; but Makar Semyonich did not reply. He only said: “It’s
wonderful that we should meet here, lads!”

These words made Aksionov wonder whether this man knew who had killed
the merchant; so he said, “Perhaps, Semyonich, you have heard of that affair,
or maybe you’ve seen me before?”

“How could I help hearing? The world’s full of rumors. But it’s a long time ago,
and I’ve forgotten what I heard.”

“Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant?” asked Aksionov.

Makar Semyonich laughed, and replied: “It must have been him in whose bag
the knife was found! If someone else hid the knife there, ‘He’s not a thief till
he’s caught,’ as the saying is. How could anyone put a knife into your bag while
it was under your head? It would surely have woke you up.”

When Aksionov heard these words, he felt sure this was the man who had
killed the merchant. He rose and went away. All that night Aksionov lay awake.
He felt terribly unhappy, and all sorts of images rose in his mind. There was
the image of his wife as she was when he parted from her to go to the fair. He
saw her as if she were present; her face and her eyes rose before him; he heard
her speak and laugh. Then he saw his children, quite little, as they were at that
time: one with a little cloak on, another at his mother’s breast. And then he
remembered himself as he used to be—young and merry. He remembered
how he sat playing the guitar in the porch of the inn where he was arrested,
and how free from care he had been. He saw, in his mind, the place where he
was flogged, the executioner, and the people standing around; the chains, the
convicts, all the twenty-six years of his prison life, and his premature old age.
The thought of it all made him so wretched that he was ready to kill himself.

“And it’s all that villain’s doing!” thought Aksionov. And his anger was so great
against Makar Semyonich that he longed for vengeance, even if he himself
should perish for it. He kept repeating prayers all night, but could get no
peace. During the day he did not go near Makar Semyonich, nor even look
at him.
 General English 21

A fortnight passed in this way. Aksionov could not sleep at night, and was so
miserable that he did not know what to do.

One night as he was walking about the prison he noticed some earth that
came rolling out from under one of the shelves on which the prisoners slept.
He stopped to see what it was. Suddenly Malar Semyonich crept out from
under the shelf, and looked up at Aksionov with frightened face. Aksionov
tried to pass without looking at him, but Makar seized his hand and told him
that he had dug a hole under the wall, getting rid of the earth by putting it into
his high-boots, and emptying it out every day on the road when the prisoners
were driven to their work.

“Just you keep quiet, old man, and you shall get out too. If you blab, they’ll
flog the life out of me, but I will kill you first.”

Aksionov trembled with anger as he looked at his enemy. He drew his hand
away, saying, “I have no wish to escape, and you have no need to kill me; you
killed me long ago! As to telling of you—I may do so or not, as God shall
direct.”

Next day, when the convicts were led out to work, the convoy soldiers noticed
that one or other of the prisoners emptied some earth out of his boots.
The prison was searched and the tunnel found. The Governor came and
questioned all the prisoners to find out who had dug the hole. They all denied
any knowledge of it. Those who knew would not betray Makar Semyonich,
knowing he would be flogged almost to death. At last the Governor turned to
Aksionov whom he knew to be a just man, and said:

“You are a truthful old man; tell me, before God, who dug the hole?”

Makar Semyonich stood as if he were quite unconcerned, looking at the

Governor and not so much as glancing at Aksionov. Aksionov’s lips and
hands trembled, and for a long time he could not utter a word. He thought,
“Why should I screen him who ruined my life? Let him pay for what I have
suffered. But if I tell, they will probably flog the life out of him, and maybe I
suspect him wrongly. And, after all, what good would it be to me?”
22 General English

“Well, old man,” repeated the Governor, “tell me the truth: who has been
digging under the wall?”

Aksionov glanced at Makar Semyonich, and said, “I cannot say, your honor.
It is not God’s will that I should tell! Do what you like with me; I am in your
hands.”

However much the Governor tried, Aksionov would say no more, and so the
matter had to be left.

That night, when Aksionov was lying on his bed and just beginning to doze,
someone came quietly and sat down on his bed. He peered through the
darkness and recognized Makar.

“What more do you want of me?” asked Aksionov, “Why have you come
here?”

Makar Semyonich was silent. So Aksionov sat up and said, “What do you
want? Go away, or I will call the guard!”

Makar Semyonich bent close over Aksionov, and whispered, “Ivan Dmitrich,
forgive me!”

“What for?” asked Aksionov.

“It was I who killed the merchant and hid the knife among your things. I
meant to kill you too, but I heard a noise outside, so I hid the knife in your
bag and escaped out of the window.”

Aksionov was silent, and did not know what to say. Makar Semyonich slid off
the bed-shelf and knelt upon the ground. “Ivan Dmitrich,” said he, “forgive
me! For the love of God, forgive me! I will confess that it was I who killed the
merchant, and you will be released and can go to your home.”

“It is easy for you to talk,” said Aksionov, “but I have suffered for you these
twenty-six years. Where could I go to now?… My wife is dead, and my
 General English 23

children have forgotten me. I have nowhere to go…”

Makar Semyonich did not rise, but beat his head on the floor. “Ivan Dmitrich,
forgive me!” he cried. “When they flogged me with the knout it was not so
hard to bear as it is to see you now… yet you had pity on me, and did not tell.
For Christ’s sake, forgive me, wretch that I am!” And he began to sob.

When Aksionov heard him sobbing he, too, began to weep.

“God will forgive you!” said he. “Maybe I am a hundred times worse than
you.” And at these words his heart grew light, and the longing for home left
him. He no longer had any desire to leave the prison, but only hoped for his
last hour to come.

In spite of what Aksionov had said, Makar Semyonich confessed his guilt. But
when the order for his release came, Aksionov was already dead.

Note on the author

Leo Tolstoy was a Russian writer who is regarded as one of the greatest authors
of all time. Born to an aristocratic Russian family in 1828, he is best known
for the novels War and Peace (1869) and Anna Karenina (1877), often cited
as pinnacles of realist fiction. He first achieved literary acclaim in his twenties
with his semi-autobiographical trilogy, Childhood, Boyhood, and Youth
(1852–1856), and Sevastopol Sketches (1855), based upon his experiences
in the Crimean War. Tolstoy’s fiction includes dozens of short stories and
several novellas such as The Death of Ivan Ilyich, Family Happiness, and
Hadji Murad. He also wrote plays and numerous philosophical essays.

In the 1870s, Tolstoy experienced a profound moral crisis, followed by what

he regarded as an equally profound spiritual awakening, as outlined in his
non-fiction work, A Confession. His literal interpretation of the ethical
teachings of Jesus, centering on the Sermon on the Mount, caused him to
become a fervent Christian anarchist and pacifist. Tolstoy’s ideas on non-
violent resistance, expressed in such works as The Kingdom of God Is Within
You, were to have a profound impact on such pivotal 20th-century figures
as Mohandas Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr., and James Bevel. Tolstoy also
became a dedicated advocate of Georgism, the economic philosophy of Henry
24 General English

George, which he incorporated into his writing, particularly Resurrection.

Note on the lesson

Tolstoy’s experience in the realm of spirituality and his conviction in teachings
of Jesus Christ had an impact on his writings. The Long Exile, a tale about a
man who was falsely accused of a murder and imprisoned, twenty six years
later comes face to face with the person who had framed him in the murder.
Ivan Aksionov had an opportunity to avenge the injustice. Does he take
revenge? The crux of the story lies in his reaction when he comes face to face
with the murderer highlighting the transformation that Ivan Aksionov has
undergone during his stay in the prison. The transformation that he undergoes
is spiritual in nature. The story highlights Tolstoy’s own conviction in God.

Glossary
• Knout (n): A whip with a lash of leather band
• Samovar (n): A metal urn used for heating water and making tea.
• Troika (n): A Russian vehicle pulled by horses

Comprehension questions
1) Name the city in Russia where the story begins.
2) What was Aksionov’s reaction when his wife suspected him?
3) Why was Aksionov questioned about the disturbed soil in the
prison?
4) Where was Aksionov planning to go in the beginning of the
story?
5) What impression of Aksionov did the prison authorites have?
6) What did his wife dream about in the story?
7) Where was Aksinov heading towards and why?
8) What did the people of Vladimir say about Aksionov when the
police authorites questioned them?
9) Write a note on the theme of the story.
10) Sketch the character of Aksionov.
11) Why didn’t Aksionov reveal the truth about Makar?
 General English 25

LESSON - 3
Three Days to See
- Helen Keller

All of us have read thrilling stories in which the hero had only a limited and
specified time to live. Sometimes it was as long as a year; sometimes as short
as twenty-four hours. But always we were interested in discovering just how
the doomed man chose to spend his last days or his last hours. I speak, of
course, of free men who have a choice, not condemned criminals whose
sphere of activities is strictly delimited.

Such stories set us thinking, wondering what we should do under similar

circumstances. What events, what experiences, what associations, should we
crowd into those last hours as mortal beings? What happiness should we find
in reviewing the past, what regrets?

Sometimes I have thought it would be an excellent rule to live each day as

if we should die tomorrow. Such an attitude would emphasize sharply the
values of life. We should live each day with gentleness, vigor, and a keenness
of appreciation which are often lost when time stretches before us in the
constant panorama of more days and months and years to come. There are
those, of course, who would adopt the epicurean motto of ‘Eat, drink, and be
merry,’ but most people would be chastened by the certainty of impending
death.

In stories, the doomed hero is usually saved at the last minute by some stroke
of fortune, but almost always his sense of values is changed. He becomes more
appreciative of the meaning of life and its permanent spiritual values. It has
often been noted that those who live, or have lived, in the shadow of death
bring a mellow sweetness to everything they do.

Most of us, however, take life for granted. We know that one day we must die,
but usually we picture that day as far in the future. When we are in buoyant
health, death is all but unimaginable. We seldom think of it. The days stretch
out in an endless vista. So we go about our petty tasks, hardly aware of our
listless attitude toward life.
26 General English

The same lethargy, I am afraid, characterizes the use of all our facilities and
senses. Only the deaf appreciate hearing, only the blind realize the manifold
blessings that lie in sight. Particularly does this observation apply to those who
have lost sight and hearing in adult life. But those who have never suffered
impairment of sight or hearing seldom make the fullest use of these blessed
faculties. Their eyes and ears take in all sights and sounds hazily, without
concentration and with little appreciation. It is the same old story of not being
grateful for what we have until we lose it, of not being conscious of health
until we are ill.I have often thought it would be a blessing if each human
being were stricken blind and deaf for a few days at some time during his
early adult life. Darkness would make him more appreciative of sight; silence
would teach him the joys of sound.

Now and then I have tested my seeing friends to discover what they see.
Recently I was visited by a very good friend who had just returned from a
long walk in the woods, and I asked her what she had observed. ‘Nothing
in particular,’ she replied. I might have been incredulous had I not been
accustomed to such responses, for long ago I became convinced that the
seeing see little.

How was it possible, I asked myself, to walk for an hour through the woods
and see nothing worthy of note? I who cannot see find hundreds of things
to interest me through mere touch. I feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf. I
pass my hands lovingly about the smooth skin of a silver birch, or the rough,
shaggy bark of a pine. In spring I touch the branches of trees hopefully in
search of a bud, the first sign of awakening Nature after her winter’s sleep.
I feel the delightful, velvety texture of a flower, and discover its remarkable
convolutions; and something of the miracle of Nature is revealed to me.
Occasionally, if I am very fortunate, I place my hand gently on a small tree
and feel the happy quiver of a bird in full song. I am delighted to have the cool
waters of a brook rush through my open fingers. To me a lush carpet of pine
needles or spongy grass is more welcome than the most luxurious Persian
rug. To me the pageant of seasons is a thrilling and unending drama, the
action of which streams through my fingertips.

At times my heart cries out with longing to see all these things. If I can get so
much pleasure from mere touch, how much more beauty must be revealed by
sight. Yet, those who have eyes apparently see little. The panorama of color
 General English 27

and action which fills the world is taken for granted. It is human, perhaps, to
appreciate little that which have and to long for that which we have not, but it
is a great pity that in the world of light the gift of sight is used only as a mere
convenience rather than as a means of adding fullness to life.

If I were the president of a university I should establish a compulsory course

in ‘How to Use Your Eyes’. The professor would try to show his pupils how
they could add joy to their lives by really seeing what passes unnoticed before
them. He would try to awake their dormant and sluggish faculties.

II
Perhaps I can best illustrate by imagining what I should most like to see if I was
given the use of my eyes, say, for just three days. And while I am imagining,
suppose you, too, set your mind to work on the problem of how to work on
the problem of how you would use your own eyes if you had only three days
to see. If with the oncoming darkness if the third night you knew that the sun
would never rise for you again, how would you spend those three intervening
days? What would you most want to let your gaze rest upon?

I, naturally, should want most to see the things which have become dear to
me through my years of darkness. You, too, would want to let your eyes rest
long on the things that have become dear to you so that you could take the
memory of them with you into the night that loomed before you.

If, by some miracle, I were granted three seeing days, to be followed by a

relapse into darkness, I should divide the period into three parts.

On the first day, I should want to see the people whose kindness and gentleness
and companionship have made my life worth living. First I should like to gaze
long upon the face of my dear teacher, Mrs. Ann Sullivan Macy, who came to
me when I was a child and opened the outer world to me. I should want not
merely to see the outline of her face, so that I could cherish it in my memory,
but to study that face and find in it the living evidence of the sympathetic
tenderness and patience with which she accomplished the difficult task of my
education. I should like to see in her eyes that strength of character which has
enabled her to stand firm in the face of difficulties, and that compassion for
all humanity which she has revealed to me so often.
28 General English

I do not know what it is to see into the heart of a friend through that ‘window
of the soul,’ the eye. I can only ‘see’ through my fingertips the outline of a face.
I can detect laughter, sorrow, and many other obvious emotions. I know my
friends from the feel of their faces. But I cannot really picture their personalities,
of course, through the thoughts they express to me, through whatever of their
actions are revealed to me. But I am denied that deeper understanding of
them which I am sure would come through sight of them, through watching
their reactions to various expressed and circumstances, through noting the
immediate and fleeting reactions of their eyes and countenance.

Friends who are near to me I know well, because through the months and
years they reveal themselves to me in all their phases; but of casual friends I
have only an incomplete impression, an impression gained from handclasp,
from spoken words which I take from their lips with my fingertips, or which
they tap into the palm of my hand.

How much easier, how much more satisfying it is for you who can see to grasp
quickly the essential qualities of another person by watching the subtleties of
expression, the quiver of a muscle, the flutter of a hand. But does it ever occur
to you to use your sight to see the inner nature of a friend or acquaintance?
Do not most of you seeing people grasp casually the outward features of a face
and let it go at that?

For instance, can you describe accurately the faces of five good friends? Some
of you can, but many cannot. As an experiment, I have questioned husbands
of long standing about the color of their wives’ eyes, and often they express
embarrassed confusion and admit that they so not know. And, incidentally, it
is a chronic complaint of wives that their husbands do not notice new dresses,
new hats, and changes in household arrangements.

The eyes of seeing persons soon become accustomed to the routine of their
surroundings, and they actually see only the startling and spectacular. But
even in viewing the most spectacular sights the eyes are lazy. Court records
reveal everyday how inaccurately ‘eyewitnesses’ see. A given event will be
‘seen’ in several different ways by as many witnesses. Some see more than
others, but few see everything that is within the range of their vision.
 General English 29

Oh, the things that I should see if I had the power of sight for just three days!

The first day would be a busy one. I should call to me all my dear friends and
look long into their faces, imprinting upon my mind the outward evidence
of the beauty that is within them. I should let my eyes rest, too, on the face
of a baby, so that I could catch a vision of the eager, innocent beauty which
precedes the individuals consciousness of the conflicts which life develops.

And I should like to look into the loyal, trusting eyes of my dogs - the grave,
canny little Scottie, Darkie, and the stalwart, understanding Great Dane,
Helga, whose warm, tender, and playful friendships are so comforting to me.

On that busy first day I should also view the small simple things of my home.
I want to see the warm colors in the rugs under my feet, the pictures on the
walls, the intimate trifles that transform a house into a home. My eyes would
rest respectfully on the books in raised type which I have read, but they would
be more eagerly interested in the printed books which seeing people can read,
for during the long night of my life the books I have read and those which
have been read to me have built themselves into a great shining lighthouse,
revealing to me the deepest channels of human life and the human spirit.

In the afternoon of that first seeing day, I should take a long walk in the
woods and intoxicate my eyes on the beauties of the world of Nature, trying
desperately to absorb in a few hours the vast splendor which is constantly
unfolding itself to those who can see. On the way home from my woodland
jaunt my path would lie near a farm so that I might see the patient horses
ploughing in the field (perhaps I should see only a tractor!) and the serene
content of men living close to the soil. And I should pray for the glory of a
colorful sunset.

When dusk had fallen, I should experience the double delight of being able to
see by artificial light, which the genius of man has created to extend the power
of his sight when Nature decrees darkness.

In the night of that first day of sight, I should not be able to sleep, so full
would be my mind of the memories of the day.
30 General English

III
The next day - the second day of sight - I should arise with the dawn and see
the thrilling miracle by which night is transformed into day. I should behold
with awe the magnificent panorama of light with which the sun awakens the
sleeping earth.

This day I should devote to a hasty glimpse of the world, past and present.
I should want to see the pageant of man’s progress, the kaleidoscope of the
ages. How can so much compressed into one day? Through the museums, of
course. Often I have visited the New York Museum of Natural History to touch
with my hands many of the objects there exhibited, but I have longed to see
with my eyes the condensed history of the earth and its inhabitants displayed
there - animals and the races of men pictured in their native environment;
gigantic carcasses of dinosaurs and mastodons which roamed the earth long
before man appeared, with his tiny stature and powerful brain, to conquer
the animal kingdom; realistic presentations of the processes of evolution in
animals, and in the implements which man has used to fashion for himself a
secure home on this planet; and a thousand and one other aspects of natural
history.

I wonder how many readers of this article have viewed this panorama of the
face of living things as pictured in that inspiring museum. Many, of course,
have not had the opportunity, but, I am sure that many who have had the
opportunity have not made use of it. There, indeed, is a place to use your eyes.
You who can see can spend many fruitful days there, but I, with my imaginary
three days of sight, could only take a hasty glimpse, and pass on.

My next stop would be the Metropolitan Museum of Art, for just as the
Museum of Natural History reveals the material aspects of the world, so does
the Metropolitan show the myriad facets of the human spirit. Throughout
the history of humanity the urge to artistic expression has been almost as
powerful as the urge for food, shelter, and procreation. And here, in the vast
chambers of the Metropolitan Museum, is unfolded before me the spirit of
Egypt, Greece, and Rome, as expressed in their art. I know well through my
hands the sculptured gods and goddesses of the ancient Nile-land. I have a
few copies of Parthenon friezes, and I have sensed the rhythmic beauty of
 General English 31

charging Athenian warriors. Apollos and Venuses and the winged victory
of Samothrace are friends of my fingertips. The gnarled, bearded features of
Homer are dear to me, for he, too, knew blindness.

My hands have lingered upon the living marvel of Roman sculpture as well
as that of later generations. I have passed my hands over a plaster cast of
Michelangelo’s inspiring and heroic Moses; I have sensed the power of Rodin;
I have been awed by the devoted spirit of Gothic wood carving. These arts
which can be touched have meaning for me, but even they were meant to
be seen rather than felt, and I can only guess at the beauty which remains
hidden from me. I can admire the simple lines of a Greek vase, but it’s figured
decorations are lost to me.

So on this, my second day of sight; I should try to probe into the soul of man
through his art. The things I knew through touch I should now see. More
splendid still, the whole magnificent world of painting would be opened to
me, from the Italian Primitives, with their serene religious devotion, to the
Moderns, with their feverish visions. I should look deep into the canvases
of Raphael, Leonardo Da Vinci, Titian, and Rembrandt. I should want to
feast my eyes upon the warm colors of Veronese, study the mysteries of El
Greco, and catch a new vision of Nature from Corot. Oh, there is so much
rich meaning and beauty in the art of the ages for you who have eyes to see!

Upon my short visit to this temple of art I should not be able to review a
fraction of that great world of art which is open to you. I should be able to
get only a superficial impression. Artists tell me that for a deep and true
appreciation of art one must educate the eye. One must learn from experience
to weigh the merits of line, of composition, of form and color. If I had eyes,
how happily would I embark upon so fascinating a study! Yet I am told that, to
many of you who have eyes to see, the world of art is a dark night, unexplored
and unilluminated.

It would be with extreme reluctance that I should leave the Metropolitan

Museum, which contains the key to beauty - a beauty so neglected. Seeing
persons, however, do not need a Metropolitan to find this key to beauty. The
same key lies waiting in smaller museums, and in books on the shelves of
even small libraries. But naturally, in my limited time of imaginary sight, I
32 General English

should choose the place where the key unlocks the greatest treasures in the
shortest time.

The evening of my second day of sight I should spend at a theatre or at the

movies. Even now I often attend theatrical performances of all sorts, but the
action of the play must be spelled into my hand by a companion. But how I
should like to see with my own eyes the fascinating figure of Hamlet, or the
gusty Falstaff amid colorful Elizabethan trappings! How I should like to follow
each movement of the graceful Hamlet, each strut of the hearty Falstaff! And
since I could see only one play, I should be confronted by a many-horned
dilemma, for there are scores of plays I should want to see. You who have eyes
can see any you like. How many of you, I wonder, when you gaze at a play, a
movie, or any spectacle, realize and give thanks for the miracle of sight which
enables you to enjoy its color, grace, and movement?

I cannot enjoy the beauty rhythmic movement except in a sphere restricted

to the touch of my hands. I can vision only dimly the grace of a Pavlowa,
although I know something of the delight of rhythm, for often I can sense the
beat of music as it vibrates through the floor. I can well imagine that cadenced
motion must be one of the most pleasing sights in the world. I have been able
to gather something of this by tracing with my fingers the lines in sculptured
marble; if this static grace can be so lovely, how much more acute must be the
thrill of seeing grace in motion.

One of my dearest memories is of the time when Joseph Jefferson allowed

me to touch his face and hands as he went through some of the gestures and
speeches of his beloved Rip Van Winkle. I was able to catch thus a meager
glimpse of the world of drama, and I shall never forget the delight of that
moment. But, oh, how much I must miss, and how much pleasure you seeing
ones can derive from watching and hearing the interplay of speech and
movement in the unfolding of a dramatic performance! If I could see only
one play, I should know how to picture in my mind the action of a hundred
plays which I have read or had transferred to me through the medium of
manual alphabet.

So, through the evening of my second imaginary day of sight, the great figures
of dramatic literature would crowd sleep from my eyes.
 General English 33

IV
The following morning, I should again greet the dawn, anxious to discover
new delights, for I am sure that, for those who have eyes which really see, the
dawn of each day must be a perpetually new revelation of beauty.

This, according to the terms of my imagined miracle, is to be my third and

last day of sight. I shall have no time to waste in regrets or longings; there is
too much to see. The first day I devoted to my friends, animate and inanimate.
The second revealed to me the history of man and Nature. To-day I shall
spend in the workday world of the present, amid the haunts of men going
about the business of life. And where one can find so many activities and
conditions of men as in New York? So the city becomes my destination.

I start from my home in the quiet little suburb of Forest Hills, Long Island.
Here, surrounded by green lawns, trees, and flowers, are neat little houses,
happy with the voices and movements of wives and children, havens of
peaceful rest for men who toil in the city. I drive across the lacy structure of
steel which spans the East River, and I get a new and startling vision of the
power and ingenuity of the mind of man. Busy boats chug and scurry about
the river - racy speed, boats, stolid, snorting tugs. If I had long days of sight
ahead, I should spend many of them watching the delightful activity upon
the river.

I look ahead, and before me rise the fantastic towers of New York, a city that
seems to have stepped from the pages of a fairy story. What an awe-inspiring
sight, these glittering spires, these vast banks of stone and steel - sculptures
such as the gods might build for themselves! This animated picture is a part of
the lives of millions of people every day. How many, I wonder, give it so much
as a second glance? Very few, I fear. Their eyes are blind to this magnificent
sight because it is so familiar to them.

I hurry to the top of one of those gigantic structures, the Empire State
Building, for there, a short time ago; I ‘saw’ the city below through the eyes
of my secretary. I am anxious to compare my fancy with reality. I am sure I
should not be disappointed in the panorama spread out before me, for to me
it would be a vision of another world.
34 General English

Now I begin my rounds of the city. First, I stand at a busy corner, merely
looking at people, trying by sight of them to understand something of their
lives. I see smiles, and I am happy. I see serious determination, and I am
proud. I see suffering, and I am compassionate.

I stroll down Fifth Avenue. I throw my eyes out of focus, so that I see no
particular object but a seething kaleidoscope of color. I am certain that the
colors of women’s dresses moving in a throng must be a gorgeous spectacle
of which I should never tire. But perhaps if I had sight I should be like most
other women - too interested in styles and the cut of individual dresses to give
much attention to the splendor of color in the mass. And I am convinced, too,
that I should become an inveterate window shopper, for it must be a delight
to the eye to view the myriad articles of beauty on display.

From Fifth Avenue I make a tour of the city - to Park Avenue, to the slums,
to factories, to parks where children play. I take a stay-at-home trip abroad
by visiting the foreign quarters. Always my eyes are open wide to all the
sights of both happiness and misery so that I may probe deep and add to my
understanding of how people work and live. My heart is full of the images
of people and things. My eye passes lightly over no single trifle; it strives to
touch and hold closely each thing its gaze rests upon. Some sights are pleasant,
filling the heart with happiness; but some are miserably pathetic. To these
latter I do not shut my eyes, for they, too are part of life. To close the eye on
them is to close the heart and mind.

My third day of sight is drawing to an end. Perhaps there are many serious
pursuits to which I should devote the few remaining hours, but I am afraid
that on the evening of that last day I should run away to the theatre, to a
hilariously funny play, so that I might appreciate the overtones of comedy in
the human spirit.

At midnight my temporary respite from blindness would cease, and permanent

night would close in on me again. Naturally in those three short days I should
not have seen all I wanted to see. Only when darkness had again descended
upon me should I realize how much I had left unseen. But my mind would
be so overcrowded with glorious memories that I should have little time for
regrets. Thereafter the touch of every object would bring a glowing memory
of how that object looked.
 General English 35

Perhaps this short outline of how I should spend three days of sight does not
agree with the programme you would set for yourself if you knew that you
were about to be stricken blind. I am, however, sure that if you actually faced
that fate your eyes would open to things you had never seen before, storing up
memories for the long night ahead. You would use your eyes as never before.
Everything you saw would become dear to you. Your eyes would touch and
embrace every object that came within your range of vision. Then, at last, you
would really see, and a new world of beauty would open itself before you.

I who am blind can give one hint to those who see - one admonition to those
who would make full use of the gift of sight: Use your eyes as if tomorrow
you would be stricken blind. And the same method can be applied to other
senses. Hear the music of voices, the song of a bird, the mighty strains of an
orchestra, as if you would be stricken deaf to-morrow. Touch each object you
want to touch as if tomorrow your tactile sense would fail. Smell the perfume
of flowers, taste with relish each morsel, as if tomorrow you could never
smell and taste again. Make the most of every sense; glory in all the facets
of pleasure and beauty which the world reveals to you through the several
means of contact which Nature provides. But of all the senses, I am sure that
sight must be the most delightful.

Three Days to See, as published in Atlantic monthly, (January, 1933)

Note on the author

Helen Adams Keller was born a healthy child on June 27, 1880, to Captain
Arthur H. and Kate Adams Keller of Tuscumbia. At the tender age of 19
months, she was stricken with a severe illness which left her blind and deaf.

At the age of six, the half-wild, deaf and blind girl was taken by her parents
to see Dr. Alexander Graham Bell. Because of her visit, Helen was united
with her teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan on March 3, 1887. After Helen’s
miraculous break-through at the simple well-pump, she proved so gifted that
she soon learned the fingertip alphabet and shortly afterward to write. By the
end of August, in six short months, she knew 625 words.

By age 10, Helen had mastered Braille as well as the manual alphabet and even
learned to use the typewriter. By the time she was 16, Helen could speak well
36 General English

enough to go to preparatory school and to college. In 1904 she was graduated

“cum laude” from Radcliffe College. The teacher stayed with her through
those years, interpreting lectures and class discussions to her.

Helen Keller, the little girl, became one of history’s remarkable women. She
dedicated her life to improving the conditions of blind and the deaf-blind
around the world, lecturing in more than 25 countries on the five major
continents. Wherever she appeared, she brought new courage to millions of
blind people.

Her teacher, Anne Sullivan is remembered as “the Miracle Worker” for her
lifetime dedication, patience and love to a half-wild southern child trapped
in a world of darkness.

Note on the lesson

The name Helen Keller is known by most and for good reason. Her striving
against all odds led to her becoming a highly successful, well-respected,
motivational speaker - although Anne Sullivan her tutor translated for her
and a writer. She changed the perception of people towards blind and deaf
people and the disabled in general, as she was such a powerful, educated,
assertive figure.

Many people have contemplated what they might do if, say the end of the
world was nigh, or death was imminent. Ideas are often fanciful and even
ridiculous, frivolous, life-threatening and unfortunately mostly meaningless
and empty. Those who have been saved from almost certain death usually
gain a new perspective and an appreciation for the simplicity of life.

Helen Keller was well aware how her “seeing” friends took their sight for
granted and noted how “the seeing see little” and, without wishing misfortune
on anyone, she did reflect that darkness would make them more appreciative
of sight; silence would teach them the joys of sound.

It is interesting that, whilst discussing the restoration of her sight in Three Days
to See, Helen Keller does not wish to have her sight restored permanently but
just long enough to allow her to marvel in the things others take for granted.
 General English 37

Helen’s first wish on the first day would be to see those people who have
contributed so enormously to her life. Despite her hardship she is ever
grateful for those who made everything possible. Anne Sullivan showed such
“compassion for all humanity” and Helen wants to “see” it in her eyes.

To see through that “window of the soul”, Helen feels would give her “that
deeper understanding” of her friends that she feels has been denied to her.
Her friends’ husbands often do not know “the color of their wives’ eyes,” and
“few see everything” as each person’s perception is clouded as he or she fails
to appreciate the surroundings.

On the first day, Helen wants to appreciate the face of a baby whose innocence
precedes the individual’s consciousness of the conflicts which life develops
All Helen’s desires for the first day are simple pleasures; being able to see her
dogs, see all the things that make “a house into home.” “Intoxicate,” absorb,”
vast,” splendour,” serene” and “colorful” are all words she uses to describe
her would-be first “seeing” day. The wonder of “artificial” light is no less
appreciated.

Sleep would elude Helen on that first day.

Museums would fill Helen’s second day as she takes a “hasty glimpse” into
“the kaleidoscope of the ages.” Art and the history of Art - “I can only guess
at the beauty which remains hidden from me” - are crucial to her new and
fleeting experience. Helen is saddened that the world of Art, which she finds
so fascinating “is a dark night, unexplored and unilluminated” to sighted
people.

Helen regrets that her wish allows her only three days as she cannot possibly
appreciate everything within such a short space of time. She only wishes
that others appreciated drama and art and all things that need sight to truly
understand them.

Helen would not sleep on the second night as visions would interfere.

On the third day, Helen would visit New York City to enable her to become
part of everyday life. Surely then, having looked upon her friends, understood
history and experienced everyday life, despite all that she has left to see she
will have no regrets.
38 General English

All that remains is for those who have the “gift” of sight to put it to good use.

Glossary
• Casual: Occasional
• Chasten: Discipline, subdue
• Convolution: Coil; over-lapping part
• Faculty: Natural gift of mind and body
• Hazily: Not clearly
• Accomplish: Succeed in completing
• Impairment: Weakening
• Incredulous: Unwilling to believe
• Manifold: Of many kinds or form
• Pageant: Rich and splendid display
• Petty: Small
• Buoyant: Excellent; cheerful
• Symmetry: Shape in which each half is exactly like the other
• Delimited: Having a fixed limit (of time and space)
• Cherish: Nurse; treat lovingly
• Mellow: Pleasant, ripe
• Vigor: Energy
• Impending: About to take place
• Vista: View; series of scenes
• Lethargy: Lack of energy and interest
• Quiver: Small movement
• Lush: Deep, rich
• Panorama: A number of scenes unrolling before one’s eye
• Dormant: Inactive; asleep
• Intervening: Coming in between
• Loom: Appear indistinctly
• Fleeting: (quickly) Passing gaze
 General English 39

• Countenance: Appearance and expression of the face

• Handclasp: Shaking of hands
• Spectacular: Unusually showy

Comprehension questions
1. What are the three wishes of Helen Keller in her essay?
2. What does the title Three Days to See mean?
3. Why was Helen Keller astonished with her friend had “nothing in
particular” while walking in the woods?
4. What do you learn from this story?
5. If Helen Keller was the President of a university what would she
have done?
6. Who played an important role in Keller’s life during her
childhood?
7. Summarise Three Days to See.
 General English 41

LESSON - 4
The Disrupted Coronation
- K. B Sreedevi

Kaikeyi, wife of Dasaratha, was sitting amidst her numerous ornament boxes
spread wide open on the courtyard of her palace in Ayodhya, the kingdom
where kings of the Suryavamsa were born, brought up and thrived. She was
engaged in sorting out the ornaments she would wear on the occasion of Ram’s
coronation. The other queens including Kausalya Devi usually entrusted their
maids with the job of choosing the right jewels and decking them. However,
Kaikeyi was one who insisted on deciding for herself what suited her best.
Especially on this auspicious occasion when Ram was to be crowned the
king of Ayodhya. The diamond studs had to be necessarily accompanied by
diamond ear-rings and diamond studded hip-chain. But she knew that Ram
detested the diamond studded hip chain. She had worn that particular hip-
chain for young Shatrughna’s birthday celebrations. When the crowd had
dispersed, Ram approached her and said, “Mother, this hip-chain does not
suit you in the least. Why did you wear this one?”

She was surprised that Ram noticed how everyone was dressed and decked.
Why, he even spotted the grey in the hair of Manthara, her foster-mother
who used to come from Keka. Manthara on that occasion had whispered
philosophically, “What is there on this earth that Lord Ram cannot see? His
vision is as wide as his wide, well-spaced eyes.”

Kaikeyi went on opening and closing her jewel boxes. Today she definitely
should wear ornaments to Ram’s liking. Blue had always been Ram’s favorite
colour.

“Why this partiality for this colour?” she had asked once.“Don’t you know
mother, blue is suggestive of depth.” Words of deep intensity indeed!

The hustle had increased outside. Ayodhya was decking itself with special
decorative attires. The hurried activity of cleaning up the roads and market
places. The commotion of preparing decorations. The unending sound of
the rolling chariot wheels. The chariots were running to collect water for
42 General English

the coronation from the Seven Seas. Joy was bubbling forth everywhere.
Enthusiasm was on the rise in Kaikeyi’s heart too— Ram was to be crowned
tomorrow. Ram himself, accompanied by Sita had come to her on foot to
convey the news. She had especially watched Ram speaking of the coronation.
He just said that he was obeying his father’s orders. There was no great show
of happiness or anxiety. Having said all that was to be conveyed, both of them
had bowed before her.

“Mother, please bless …..”

Only after coming here did Ram and Sita go to Kausalya’s palace. That had
always been Ram’s practice. Getting out for padavandana in the mornings, he
would first pay respect at her feet.

“Why so? Isn’t it at your own mother’s feet that you should pay respect first?”
She almost asked this question one day. He hardly allowed her to finish the
sentence. Interrupting her midway, Ram asked a counter question.

“Mother, is it necessary to have these petty differences here as well?” That

itself was suggestive of Ram’s greatness. A feeling of kinship with each and all.
Today when there chanced to be more talk of the coronation, Ram seemed
sad on one count.

“This coronation is at a time when Bharat and Shatrughna are away.”

“What of that? Won’t they be overjoyed to see their elder brother crowned
when they return?” She had consoled him.

The general opinion is that Ram is more fond of Lakshman. But I know that
he has an equal love for Bharat as well. Ram had been heard retorting to those
who eulogized him:

“You see, my strength rests on having procured such a just brother. The
kingdom actually waits for Bharat.”

Any opinion of Ram has an air of calm about it. It carries weight as well. The
Aswamedha was held here at a time when there existed a slight tiff with the
kingdom Kekaya. Ram was a little child then. The royal relatives were invited
 General English 43

one by one according to the king’s order. It came to be known that the king of
Kekaya was not among the invitees. I did not respond. Who am I to preach
propriety to the Maharaja? Nothing shall be obstructed here if elder brother
or father did not come from Kekaya. I stayed silent with guarded self-respect.
Then one day, without any provocation the Maharaja asked,“Tomorrow a
person is being sent to Kekaya for inviting them. Ram says that he shall not
partake in any celebration which sets apart one’s near and dear.”

Ram’s philosophy is that the indiscretion in battling rivalry with rivalry brings
about all catastrophes.

Even the last time when Manthara came she said, “This Ayodhya is blessed
since Ram was born here! I remember Lord Ram’s words whenever I am
worried. Only then do I find some relief.”

Manthara seems to possess a hundred thousand tongues when she starts

talking of Ram. She is overcome by a tremendous enthusiasm. She becomes
immersed in it, often forgetting the circumstances. Ram’s love, courage,
righteousness, selflessness— why, where else can one find that beauty and
charm?

At times Manthara secretly looks at and worships Kausalya Devi, saying that
was she not the mother who have birth to Lord Ram.

“What all are you doing, Manthara?” I once asked her jokingly. Then Manthara
said.” Great queen, look into Sri Ram’s eyes. You will see in them the kindness
required for the whole world. Have you observed his feet? They bear the signs
of the shangh, chakra, kulisa and matsya. Those feet display signs of the great
devas including Indra having prostrated at his feet, touching them with their
foreheads.”

Since then, I too happen to look at those feet first. Then I feel some power
turning my heart tender. I feel as if Ram has entered into my heart. I forget
everything at that time. I forget this Ayodhya, even Kekaya where I was born
and brought up. I forget even the Maharaja, the lord of my heart. I even forget
that Ram is my son. I remember only one aspect— the beautiful feet of Ram.
44 General English

The memory of those feet made the great queen infatuated again. She sat with
closed eyes for some time. Then when she opened her eyes— who was that at
the door? The maid? No, it wasn’t. Isn’t it, Manthara?

She stood up and walked quickly to the door.

“Manthara, why do you stand there itself? Why is your face dim? Is it that you
are tired by the journey?”

Manthara still remained silent. She was suppressing something as if a single

word from her mouth would result in an outburst. Her face seemed taut and
strained. Her eyes were sleepy. For a few moments Kaikeyi stood looking
intently at her. Then she led her in forcibly.

“What is this, Manthara? Why do you seem so troubled at this moment when
I feel most happy and enthusiastic? Why, did something untoward occur on
the way?”

“Not on the way. The untoward incident is in this kingdom itself.”

Kaikeyi was puzzled. Who was there in this country unacquainted with
Manthara? Not only because she was the foster mother of Dasaratha’s favorite
queen. Something untoward to happen here to Manthara who charmed
everyone with her personality!

“Well, let me know what has happened.” Manthara said, “I came via the
secret way yesterday. It was quite late. I thought of reaching here fast. When
I reached the courtyard of the small council chamber, I sensed something
wrong. It was as if the air was weighed down by some secret. On the courtyard
sand, there were only the foot prints of Dasaratha and Sumitra. The guards
were very watchful. Escaping their sight, I reached the other side. This is what
I gathered.”

Manthara cleared her throat and proceeded again to elaborate.

“The king had seen a disturbing dream. Exactly at the fourth hour past
midnight. Sumitra was referring to his having found the portents of that
dream.
 General English 45

“What are the consequences to be?” Kaikeyi hastily interrupted her.

“Approaching death for the ruler of Ayodhya.”

“What? “ Kaikeyi steadied herself against the wall with an anguished cry.

“Sumitra has however found a way out.”

“What is that?”

“Crown Sri Ramachandra as the young king.”

“How dare Sumitra say a thing like that?”

“Isn’t Sumitra’s love and devotion for Dasaratha well-known?”

“What did the Maharaja say?”

“The king at first was extremely shocked. He said that he did not wish for a
life without Ram.

“But wasn’t the news of Ram’s coronation proclaimed by the Maharaja’s

orders?”

“Great Queen, man holds his own life dear whatever else he may preach. The
Maharaja too is not beyond that. There is only one person in this entire world
who transcends that.”

“That is my Lord Ram. However much it was tried to keep the news of the
dream a secret, somehow or other Ramachandra came to know of it. He
entered the council chamber in great haste and said decidedly— I accept this
catastrophe that has come upon Ayodhya. I shall become the Raja here solely
to prolong my father’s life.”

The Maharaja pleaded with his son a number of times— to withdraw this
resolution. But it turned out to be futile. Was there any need to teach the duty
of a son to Sri Ram?
46 General English

“But Ram did not breathe a word of this to me. Why? The Maharaja, who even
describes how he hunts down the deer, did not say anything.”

“How can it be said? Ramachandra has sworn that he shall not disclose the
news of the dream to anyone. How can an occasion be created when people
start teasing the great Emperor Dasaratha on account of a silly dream?”

Both of them were silent for a while. Then jumping up, Kaikeyi started shaking
Manthara as if possessed.

“What should I do, Manthara? Why should we live after giving up Ram to
Death ? O God! What kind of a trial is this? If something untoward happens
to the Maharaja, then ……………..”

That wife of Dasaratha sat supporting her head with her two hands.

“I see a way out.” Manthara was speaking slowly in a calm voice.

“What?”

“Crown young prince Bharata.”

“Manthara ……” Kaikeyi screamed like a lunatic. “Are you asking me to

sacrifice my Bharata?”

“There is no other alternative.”

Manthara seemed to be least perturbed. She did not even care to glance at
Kaikeyi’s face. Like one whose reasoning faculties had deserted her, Kaikeyi
sat with her face towards the doors.

Manthara, utilizing her experiences of a life time as well as her intellect,

sympathized to herself— alas— even his own mother fails to comprehend the
greatness of Bharata. She is a fool to believe even for a moment that Bharata
would accept the kingdom belonging to his elder brother. However vast an
empire it may be, young Bharata shall neither desire anything that he does
not deserve nor accept it. I know that very well. I firmly believe it. Then, the
impending widowhood for the Maharani? The inevitable cannot be avoided.
Who can captivate Time? Let destiny take its course.
 General English 47

She narrowed her eyes, grimaced and moved her shoulders.

When Kaikeyi turned her face to look at her, Manthara spoke again –

“The duration of the events portended by the dream is fourteen years.

Ramachandra should not be anywhere in Ayodhya until that time lapses. Sri
Ramachandra’s life is what is important to us.”

“Where shall Ram go then?”

“Let him go to the forest.”

“To the forest? Have you lost your senses, Manthara?”

“Not at all. Lord Ramachandra must necessarily proceed to the forest.”

There was silence between them again for a little while. Then holding her face
close, Manthara asked secretly, “Maharani, do you recall the two boons that
the Raja had given you a long time ago?”

“What boons?”

“Years ago when the screw fastening Dasaratha’s chariot-wheel came off, you
had saved him using your finger in place of the screw, suffering pain, the
pleased Raja …………..”

“Yes.”

“You should demand those boons now. One, Sri Ramachandra should spend
fourteen years in the forest. Two, prince Bharata should be proclaimed king.
Have you forgotten what your father declared on your wedding day? He said
that he would give his daughter in marriage to Dasaratha only if he promises
to make his grandson King. We had all heard the Maharaja consent to this
condition.”

“Manthara, do you think that the Maharaja will be ready to send Ram to the
forest?”
48 General English

Kaikeyi’s face grew dark with sorrow and anxiety. Her voice broke as if she
was on the verge of tears.

“Maharani, you should act stubborn. It would be a breach of promise if the

Raja refuses to grant the boon after offering it. The Maharaja shall never break
his promise.”

Kaikeyi did not utter a single word. Manthara perceived that her heart was
bursting. That foster mother also knew that her thoughts were on Bharata.
Who has as much close knowledge regarding Kaikeyi’s farsight as Manthara?
That foster mother suppressed her own heart, refusing it to be stirred. She
moved a bit closer to the Queen and in a soft voice consoled her.

“Maharani, our aim is to save the righteous and the virtuous Sri Ramachandra.
Haven’t you yourself admitted that any sorrow can be borne if Ram is near?
And that if Ram isn’t there, then no one is of any avail.”

There was no response to that from Kaikeyi. She stared at something far away.

Manthara became restless. Time was receding faster and faster. She stood up
and looked out from the terrace— O, it was almost time for the king’s arrival
here. Before that ……

Manthara persuaded Kaikeyi again –

“The dream may materialize any moment, Maharani.”

“There is no time to be wasted on thoughts. Sri Ramachandra should leave

Ayodhya tomorrow itself. Lie down pretending displeasure. Insist that you
won’t drink water until you are granted that boon. Lord Ramachandra’s life is
more important to us than anything else.”

Kaikeyi turned to look at her, filling her two eyes with tears, she begged–
“How can I survive for fourteen years without Ram?”

“Suppose he deserts us and goes away forever? Suppose the dream comes
true?”
 General English 49

“O! No, no, no, no.”

“That is why I say that Sri Ramachandra should not be in Ayodhya for the
next fourteen years. The word given by the Maharaja to the ruler of Kekaya
has to be kept as well. This is the only solution I see.”

Manthara was as firm as a rock.

“Manthara, don’t you realize that the human race as a whole shall curse us for
this?”

“I know. I do realize that we shall be blamed forever as long as there are the
moon and the stars. But Lord Ramachandra’s life is much more valuable to us
than all those abuses and curses. So I shall not grieve, not in the least, even if
I have to spend a hundred lives in hell for that cause.”

Again, for some time Manthara sat with pursed lips. Then she started speaking
slowly in a firm voice.

“Truth is a luminous object. That which cannot be tarnished by time. At some

time or other, maybe after many centuries, some seeker of the Truth may
understand this.”

Listening to some sound, Manthara trembled a bit. Then she said in a rush –

“There, the Maharaja has arrived. Sounds of people being asked to make way
can be heard. Hmm ….. go quickly and do the needful. Somehow or other
secure those boons.”

Manthara forced Kaikeyi to her feet, oblivious of the time or place. She pushed
her forward. Kaikeyi, like a corpse, stumbled on the spread-out jewel boxes
and entered the krothalaya.

(Translated from Malayalam by Jayasree Ramakrishnan)

50 General English

Note on the author

K. B Sreedevi is a reputed novelist and short storywriter in Malayalam. She
wrote her first ever short story at the age of 13 which described the death of a
bird. She deals with themes that are locale specific and indigenous; her work
is characterized by its originality. She lives in Trichur.

K. B Sreedevi is the recipient of prestigious awards for her outstanding works

that include varieties of genre. She received the Kunkumam award for the
short story, Yajnam which served as a strong critique of the Namboothiri
community in Kerala denouncing their community specific caste trials called
“smarthavicharam”; the Krishnashtami award for her work, Krishnavatharam;
the State Award for dialogues and for the best story line for the film, Niramala
and the Kerala Sahitya Academy Award in 2011.

Her novels and short stories include Chanakallu, Mukhathodu Mukham,

Thiriuzhichil, Moonam Thalamura, Dhasharatham, Agnihotram,
Bhodisatwar, Kutti thirumeni, Krisnavatharam, Niramala, Padumula and
Chirajeevi.

Note on the lesson

Throughout Indian history, many authors and performers have produced, and
many patrons have supported, diverse tellings of the Ramayana in numerous
media. Perhaps not surprisingly, enthusiasm welcomed this new entrant into
what has been an unending series of Ramayanas in India and beyond.

Different tellings of the Ramayana are neither totally individual stories nor
excusive “divergences” from the “real” version by Valmiki, but are expressions
of an extraordinarily rich set of resources that exist, throughout history, both
within India and wherever Indian culture took root. Like the set of landscape
conventions of classical Tamil poetry, the elements of the Ramayana tradition
can be seen as a source on which poets can draw to produce a potentially
infinite series of varied and sometimes contradictory tellings.

These various texts not only relate to prior texts directly, to borrow or refute,
but they relate to each other through this common code or common pool.
Every author, if one may hazard a metaphor, dips into it and brings out a
unique crystallization, a new text with a unique texture and a fresh context.
 General English 51

Glossary
• Padavandana – Practice of paying respect at the feet of elders.
• Aswamedha — An ancient mode of sacrifice.
• Sangha, chakra, kulisa and matsya – The signs of the conch,
discus, and fish which were symbolic of different deities.
• Krothalaya – A room in the palace into which one could retire, in
order to express displeasure and anger.

Comprehension questions
1. What view of Ram as the son do you get from your reading of the
“Disrupted Coronation”?
2. How is Kaikeyi sketched in comparison to the other queens
Kausalya and Sumitra in the prescribed retelling of the episode of
the Ramayana?
3. The retelling sketches Kausalya and Manthara in a fairer light
than in the original version of the Ramayana. Critique.
4. What is the dream sequence mentioned in the text that set stage
for the event of Ram being banished?
5. Retelling as a literary strategy accommodates alternate
perspectives. Interpret the text prescribed for study.
6. If you were to as readers compare versions of the story, (the
original and the retelling) what differences do you note in
characterization?
7. Are retellings structured according to their immediate cultural
contexts? Attempt a personal response.
 General English 53

LESSON - 5
A Dollar
A play in one-act by David Pinski

Characters
The Comedian
The Villain
The Tragedian
The Old Man
The Heroine
The Ingenue
The Old Woman
The Stranger

[A cross-roads at the edge of a forest. One road extends from left to right; the
other crosses the first diagonally, disappearing into the forest. The roadside is
bordered with grass. On the right, at the crossing, stands a signpost, to which are
nailed two boards giving directions and distances.]

[The afternoon of a summer day. A troupe of stranded strolling players enters

from the left. They are ragged and weary. THE COMEDIAN walks first, holding
a valise in each hand, followed by the VILLAIN carrying over his arms two huge
bundles wrapped in bed sheets. Immediately behind these, the TRAGEDIAN and
the actor who plays the OLD MAN are carrying together a large heavy trunk.]

COMEDIAN: (stepping toward the signpost, reading the directions on the

boards, and explaining to the approaching fellow actors) That way (pointing
to right and swinging the valise--to indicate the direction) is thirty miles. This
way (pointing to left) is forty-five -- and that way is thirty-six. Now choose for
yourself the town that you’ll never reach today. The nearest way for us is back
to where we came from, whence we were escorted with the most splendid
catcalls that ever crowned our histrionic successes.

VILLAIN: (exhausted) Who will lend me a hand to wipe off my perspiration?

It has a nasty way of streaming into my mouth.
54 General English

COMEDIAN: Stand on your head, then, and let your perspiration water a
more fruitful soil.

VILLAIN: Oh!

[He drops his arms, the bundles fall down. He then sinks down onto one of
them and wipes off the perspiration, moving his hand wearily over his face. The
TRAGEDIAN and the OLD MAN approach the post and read the signs.]

TRAGEDIAN: (in a dramatic voice) It’s hopeless! It’s hopeless!

[He lets go his end of the trunk.]

OLD MAN: (lets go his end of the trunk) Mmmm. Another stop.

[TRAGEDIAN sits himself down on the trunk in a tragico-heroic pose, knees

wide apart, right elbow on right knee, left hand on left leg, head slightly bent
toward the right. COMEDIAN puts down the valises and rolls a cigarette. The
OLD MAN also sits down upon the trunk, head sunk upon his breast.]

VILLAIN: Thirty miles to the nearest town! Thirty miles!

COMEDIAN: It’s an outrage how far people move their towns away from us.

VILLAIN: We won’t strike a town until the day after tomorrow.

COMEDIAN: Hurrah! That’s luck for you! There’s yet a day-after-tomorrow

for us.

VILLAIN: And the old women are still far behind us. Crawling!

OLD MAN: They want the vote and they can’t even walk.

COMEDIAN: We won’t give them votes, that’s settled. Down with votes for
women!

VILLAIN: It seems the Devil himself can’t take you! Neither your tongue nor
your feet ever get tired. You get on my nerves. Sit down and shut up for a
moment.
 General English 55

COMEDIAN: Me? Ha--ha! I’m going back there to the lady of my heart. I’ll
meet her and fetch her hither in my arms.

[He spits on his hands, turns up his sleeves, and strides rapidly off towards the
left.]

VILLAIN: Clown!

OLD MAN: How can he laugh and play his pranks even now? We haven’t
a cent to our souls, our supply of food is running low and our shoes are
dilapidated.

TRAGEDIAN: (with an outburst) Stop it! No reckoning! The number of our

sins is great and the tale of our misfortunes is even greater. Holy Father! Our
flasks are empty; I’d give what is left of our soles (displaying his ragged shoes)
for just a smell of whiskey.

[From the left is heard the laughter of a woman. Enter the COMEDIAN
carrying in his arms the HEROINE, who has her hands around his neck and
holds a satchel in both hands behind his back.]

COMEDIAN: (letting his burden down upon the grass) Sit down, my love,
and rest up. We go no further today. Your feet, your tender little feet must
ache you. How unhappy that makes me! At the first opportunity I shall buy
you an automobile.

HEROINE: And in the meantime you may carry me oftener.

COMEDIAN: The beast of burden hears and obeys.

[Enter the INGENUE and the actress who plays the OLD WOMAN each
carrying a small satchel.]

INGENUE: (weary and pouting) Ah! No one carried me.

[She sits on the grass to the right of the HEROINE.]

VILLAIN: We have only one ass with us.

56 General English

[The COMEDIAN stretches himself out at the feet of the HEROINE and emits
the bray of a donkey. The OLD WOMAN sits down on the grass to the left of the
HEROINE.]

OLD WOMAN: And are we to pass the night here?

OLD MAN: No, we shall stop at “Hotel Neverwas.”

COMEDIAN: Don’t you like our night’s lodgings? (Turning over toward the
OLD WOMAN) See, the bed is broad and wide, and certainly without vermin.
Just feel the high grass. Such a soft bed you never slept in. And you shall have
a cover embroidered with the moon and stars, a cover such as no royal bride
ever possessed.

OLD WOMAN: You’re laughing, and I feel like crying.

COMEDIAN: Crying? You should be ashamed of the sun which favors you
with its setting splendor. Look, and be inspired!

VILLAN: Yes, look and expire.

COMEDIAN: Look, and shout with ecstasy!

OLD MAN: Look, and burst!

[The INGENUE starts sobbing. The TRAGEDIAN laughs heavily.]

COMEDIAN: (turning over to the INGENUE) What. You are crying? Aren’t
you ashamed of yourself?

INGENUE: I’m sad.

OLD WOMAN: (sniffling) I can’t stand it any longer.

HEROINE: Stop it! Or I’ll start bawling, too.

[The COMEDIAN springs to his knees and looks quickly from one woman to
the other.]
 General English 57

VILLAIN: Ha--ha! Cheer them up, Clown!

COMEDIAN: (jumps up abruptly without the aid of his hands) Ladies and
Gentlemen, I have it! (in a measured singing voice) Ladies and Gentlemen, I
have it!

HEROINE: What have you?

COMEDIAN: Cheerfulness.

VILLAIN: Go bury yourself, Clown!

TRAGEDIAN: (as before) Ho-ho-ho.

OLD MAN: P-o-o-h!

[The women weep all the louder.]

COMEDIAN: I have----a bottle of whiskey!

[General commotion. The women stop crying and look up to the COMEDIAN
in amazement; the TRAGEDIAN straightens himself out and casts a surprised
look at the COMEDIAN; the OLD MAN, rubbing his hands, jumps to his feet;
the VILLAIN looks suspiciously at the COMEDIAN.]

TRAGEDIAN: A bottle of whiskey?

OLD MAN: He--He--He--A bottle of whiskey.

VILLAIN: Hum--whiskey.

COMEDIAN: You bet! A bottle of whiskey, hidden and preserved for such
moments as this, a moment of masculine depression and feminine tears.
(Taking the flask from his hip pocket. The expression on the faces of all
changes from hope to disappointment.)

VILLAIN: You call that a bottle. I call it a flask.

TRAGEDIAN: (explosively) A thimble!