Reading Package

for

Creative Writing

(SSC 205)

Instructor: Javaria Siddique

Spring 2022

Lahore School of Economics

 Lahore School of Economics

COURSE OUTLINE

Course: Creative Writing (SSC 205)

Instructor: Javaria Siddique
Email: jovaria_siddique@hotmail.com
Semester: Spring 2022
 COURSE: CREATIVE WRITING (SSC 205)

SYLLABUS
I. INTRODUCTION: WHAT IS CREATIVITY? JOY OF WRITING
II. WRITING AS AN ART
III. WRITING WITH AN INDIVIDUAL PERSPECTIVE
IV. DRAMA WRITING AND PERFORMING
V. POETRY WRITING AND READING
VI. STORY WRITING
VII. LITERARY NON FICTION
VIII. WRITING AND PUBLISHING

READING LIST:
 Bell, J., & Magrs, P. (2001). The Creative Writing Coursebook: Forty Writers Share Advice and
Exercises for Poetry and Prose: Macmillan.
 Morley, D. (2007). The Cambridge Introduction to Creative Writing: Cambridge University Press.
 Whitely, C. (2002). The Everything Creative Writing Book. USA, F+W Publications, Inc.
 COURSE: CREATIVE WRITING (SSC 205)

COURSE OBJECTIVES:
 Appreciate the process of writing at art and craft levels
 Critically analyse creative writings
 Developing individual observations and responses in the written form
 Produce creative writings with individual expressions
 Examine self in relation to others
 Prepare your own book for publication

TEACHING STRATEGY
Some of the instructional strategies are lectures, independent reading, independent learning,
discussions, information gap, information transfer, brainstorming, mind and concept maps,
jigsaw/expert groups, group investigation, simulation, debates/creative controversies,
presentations, problem solving, critical reading response journals, free writing, quizzes,
classroom assignments, and portfolios.

ASSESSMENT CRITERIA:
Class Participation 10%
Mini assignments/ Quizzes 25%
(Unannounced)
Mid Term 25%
Script/Performance of the Play 10%
Presentations 10%
Book Project 20%

Lahore School of Economics Plagiarism Policy

Lahore School adheres strictly to HEC plagiarism policies which are available on the HEC
website and Lahore School handbook on plagiarism policy.
The policy can be found at
http://hec.gov.pk/english/services/faculty/Documents/Plagiarism/Plagiarism%20Policy.pdf
The Lahore School Regulations on Student Code of Behaviour specifies penalties for plagiarism
in reports, research papers and presentations in courses taken and in articles published while
studying at the Lahore School.
LEARNING OUTCOMES
 To understand the conventions of creative fiction and non-fiction
 To experiment with various genres of creative fiction and non-fiction
 To critically appraise published texts for their craft.
 To demonstrate skills in drafting, revising and editing of manuscripts
 To prepare a publishable portfolio of original texts
 COURSE: CREATIVE WRITING (SSC 205)
Lecture LECTURE SESSION DISCUSSION
#
1. Course Orientation What is creativity? Free writing, student
assumptions and feedback. Handling the
fear of writing.
2. Developing an individual Discussion/ writing.
perspective/voice Multiple perspectives towards a piece of
writing/art. Extracting individual responses.
3. Commons aspects of all genres of writing Discussion / reading
(plot, theme, character, setting, forms)
4. Developing expression Exercises
(vocabulary, use of literary devices,
sentence length, improving
sentences, avoiding clichés)
5. Drama: Mechanics of Drama/script Reading of a text
writing
6. Introduction to important plays of Group presentations focusing on art of
literature over time. dramaturgy and relevance of plots to the
present times
7. Developing a play and stage performance Role plays in groups/ Movie of a play
8. Writing an outline for the final script Plot, characters and settings to be finalized
and submitted as a written assignment
9. Script Writing First Draft of the Final Play
10. Poetry: Forms of poetry and role of Reading of excerpts to clarify the concepts.
punctuation in poetry Which forms are used in present time and
why
11. Recital Individual selections and to be formally
read
12. Poetry writing in class Assignment/ Quiz.
13. Play performance Presentations
14. Play performance Presentations
15. Midterm Exam
16. Use of poetry in fields other than Assignment
literature
17. Introduction to the final project Requirements and format
18. Story writing: mechanics Brevity of a short story, characters, various
kinds of endings, use of dialogue and
descriptions.
19. Forms of story writing Reading in class and individual responses
as an assignment
20. Writing practice Assignments
21. Title and cover page of the final project Individual presentations to avoid
overlapping of titles and cover images for
the final project
22. Creative nonfiction: (Sights and sounds) Writing while sitting in an open place.
23. Sharing your life (autobiography/ Assignment
memoir/travelogue)
24. Discovering the lost art (Letter writing) Assignment
25. Interviews (conducting and writing) Readings/ Taking actual interviews
26. Preface/ Blurb Assignment
27. Finalizing the projects Assembling/ formatting
28. Guest Speaker/ Movie Project/portfolio/book submission
29. Presentations/ Book Launch Question answers on the content
30. Presentations/ Book Launch Question answers on the content
Topic List of Readings

Short Stories “A trip to Delhi” by Rasheed Jahan

“The lost child” by Mulk Raj Anand

“ After that we are ignorant” by Bilal Tanweer

“My son the fanatic” by Hanif Kureishi

“Once upon a time” by Nadine Gordimer

“iAnna” by Will Self

Plays “Intizar” by Saadat Hassan Manto

“Bhoot Nikala” by Ashfaq Ahmad

“The Dear Departed” by Stanley Houghton

Poetry Extract from “Poems for a Younger Brother 1930-1979” by

Taufiq Rafat (1927-1998)

“Wedding in the flood” by Taufiq Rafat (1927-1998)

“I Cross the River” by Kaleem Omer (1937-2009)

“Reproductions” by Daud Kamal (1935-1987)

“Kittens” By Maki Kureishi (1927-1995)

“I, Too” by Langston Hughes (1902- 1967)

“Crow’s Fall” By Ted Hughes (1930-1998)

“The Shoelace” by Charles Bukowski (1920-1994)

Graphic Novels and Comics “Sad Book” By Michael Rosen

“ Persepolis” by Marjane Satrapi

Creative Nonfiction A selection from “Born a Crime” by Trevor Noah

A selection from ‘Underground” by Haruki Murakami

A selection from “Tuesdays with Morrie” by Mitch Albom
A selection from “My Family and Other Animals” by
Gerald Durrell
A selection from “Naked Voices” by Saadat Hassan Manto
(Trans. By Rakhshanda Jalil”)
 ‫دﻟﯽ ﮐﯽ ﺳﯿﺮ‬

‫’’اﭼﮭﯽ ﺑﮩﻦ ﮨﻤﯿﮟ ﺑﮭﯽ ﺗﻮ آﻧﮯ دو‘‘ ﯾہ آواز داﻻن ﻣﯿﮟ ﺳﮯ آﺋﯽ‪ ،‬اور ﺳﺎﺗﮭ ﮨﯽ اﯾﮏ ﻟﮍﮐﯽ ﮐﺮﺗﮯ ﮐﮯ داﻣﻦ ﺳﮯ ﮨﺎﺗﮭ ﭘﻮﻧﭽﮭﺘﯽ ﮨﻮﺋﯽ ﮐﻤﺮے ﻣﯿﮟ داﺧﻞ‬
‫ﮨﻮﺋﯽ۔‬

‫ﻣﻠﮑہ ﺑﯿﮕﻢ ﮨﯽ ﭘﮩﻠﯽ ﺗﮭﯿﮟ ﺟﻮ اﭘﻨﯽ ﺳﺐ ﻣﻠﻨﮯ واﻟﯿﻮں ﻣﯿﮟ ﭘﮩﻠﮯ ﭘﮩﻞ رﯾﻞ ﻣﯿﮟ ﺑﯿﭩﮭﯽ ﺗﮭﯿﮟ۔ اور وه ﺑﮭﯽ ﻓﺮﯾﺪ آﺑﺎد ﺳﮯ ﭼﻞ ﮐﺮ دﮨﻠﯽ اﯾﮏ روز ﮐﮯ ﻟﯿﮯ‬
‫آﺋﯽ ﺗﮭﯿﮟ ﻣﺤﻠہ واﻟﯿﺎں ﺗﮏ ان ﮐﯽ داﺳﺘﺎن ﺳﻔﺮ ﺳﻨﻨﮯ ﮐﮯ ﻟﯿﮯ ﻣﻮﺟﻮد ﺗﮭﯿﮟ۔‬

‫’’اے ﮨﮯ آﻧﺎ ﮨﮯ ﺗﻮ آؤ! ﻣﯿﺮا ﻣﻨہ ﺗﻮ ﺑﺎﻟﮑﻞ ﺗﮭﮏ ﮔﯿﺎ۔ ﷲ ﺟﮭﻮٹ ﻧہ ﺑﻠﻮاﺋﮯ ﺗﻮ ﺳﯿﻨﮑﮍوں ﮨﯽ ﺑﺎر ﺗﻮ ﺳﻨﺎ ﭼﮑﯽ ﮨﻮں۔ ﯾﮩﺎں ﺳﮯ رﯾﻞ ﻣﯿﮟ ﺑﯿﭩﮭ ﮐﺮ دﻟﯽ‬
‫ﭘﮩﻨﭽﯽ اور وﮨﺎں ان ﮐﮯ ﻣﻠﻨﮯ واﻟﮯ ﮐﻮﺋﯽ ﻧﮕﻮڑے اﺳﭩﯿﺸﻦ ﻣﺎﺳﭩﺮ ﻣﻞ ﮔﺌﮯ۔ ﻣﺠﮭﮯ اﺳﺒﺎب ﮐﮯ ﭘﺎس ﭼﮭﻮڑ ﯾہ رﻓﻮ ﭼﮑﺮ ﮨﻮﺋﮯ اور ﻣﯿﮟ اﺳﺒﺎب ﭘﺮ‬
‫ﭼﮍھﯽ ﺑﺮﻗﻌہ ﻣﯿﮟ ﻟﭙﭩﯽ ﺑﯿﭩﮭﯽ رﮨﯽ۔ اﯾﮏ ﺗﻮ ﮐﻤﺒﺨﺖ ﺑﺮﻗﻌہ‪ ،‬دوﺳﺮے ﻣﺮدوے۔ ﻣﺮد ﺗﻮ وﯾﺴﮯ ﮨﯽ ﺧﺮاب ﮨﻮﺗﮯ ﮨﯿﮟ‪ ،‬اور اﮔﺮ ﮐﺴﯽ ﻋﻮرت ﮐﻮ اس طﺮح‬
‫ﺑﯿﭩﮭﮯ دﯾﮑﮭ ﻟﯿﮟ ﺗﻮ اور ﭼﮑﺮ ﭘﺮ ﭼﮑﺮ ﻟﮕﺎﺗﮯ ﮨﯿﮟ۔ ﭘﺎن ﮐﮭﺎﻧﮯ ﺗﮏ ﻧﻮﺑﺖ ﻧہ آﺋﯽ۔ ﮐﻮﺋﯽ ﮐﻤﺒﺨﺖ ﮐﮭﺎﻧﺴﮯ‪ ،‬ﮐﻮﺋﯽ آوازے ﮐﺴﮯ‪ ،‬اور ﻣﯿﺮا ڈر ﮐﮯ ﻣﺎرے‬
‫دم ﻧﮑﻼ ﺟﺎﺋﮯ‪ ،‬اور ﺑﮭﻮک وه ﻏﻀﺐ ﮐﯽ ﻟﮕﯽ ﮨﻮﺋﯽ ﮐہ ﺧﺪا ﮐﯽ ﭘﻨﺎه! دﻟﯽ ﮐﺎ ﺳﭩﯿﺸﻦ ﮐﯿﺎ ﮨﮯ ﺑﻮا ﻗﻠﻌہ ﺑﮭﯽ اﺗﻨﯽ ﺑﮍا ﻧہ ﮨﻮﮔﺎ۔ ﺟﮩﺎں ﺗﮏ ﻧﮕﺎه ﺟﺎﺗﯽ ﺗﮭﯽ‬
‫اﺳﭩﯿﺸﻦ ﮨﯽ اﺳﭩﯿﺸﻦ ﻧﻈﺮ آﺗﺎ ﺗﮭﺎ اور رﯾﻞ ﮐﯽ ﭘﭩﺮﯾﺎں‪ ،‬اﻧﺠﻦ اور ﻣﺎل ﮔﺎڑﯾﺎں۔ ﺳﺐ ﺳﮯ زﯾﺎده ﻣﺠﮭﮯ ان ﮐﺎﻟﮯ ﮐﺎﻟﮯ ﻣﺮدوں ﺳﮯ ڈر ﻟﮕﺎ ﺟﻮ اﻧﺠﻦ ﻣﯿﮟ‬
‫رﮨﺘﮯ ﮨﯿﮟ۔‬

‫’’اﻧﺠﻦ ﻣﯿﮟ ﮐﻮن رﮨﺘﮯ ﮨﯿﮟ؟‘‘ ﮐﺴﯽ ﻧﮯ ﺑﺎت ﮐﺎٹ ﮐﺮ ﭘﻮﭼﮭﺎ۔‬

‫’’ﮐﻮن رﮨﺘﮯ ﮨﯿﮟ؟ ﻧہ ﻣﻌﻠﻮم ﺑﻮا ﮐﻮن! ﻧﯿﻠﮯ ﻧﯿﻠﮯ ﮐﭙﮍے ﭘﮩﻨﮯ‪ ،‬ﮐﻮﺋﯽ داڑھﯽ واﻻ‪ ،‬ﮐﻮﺋﯽ ﺻﻔﺎ ﭼﭧ۔ اﯾﮏ ﮨﺎﺗﮭ ﺳﮯ ﭘﮑﮍ ﮐﺮ ﭼﻠﺘﮯ اﻧﺠﻦ ﻣﯿﮟ ﻟﭩﮏ‬
‫ﺟﺎﺗﮯ ﮨﯿﮟ دﯾﮑﮭﻨﮯ واﻟﻮں ﮐﺎ دل ﺳﻦ ﺳﻦ ﮐﺮﻧﮯ ﻟﮕﺘﺎ ﮨﮯ۔ ﺻﺎﺣﺐ اور ﻣﯿﻢ ﺻﺎﺣﺐ ﺗﻮ ﺑﻮا دﻟﯽ اﺳﭩﯿﺸﻦ ﭘﺮ اﺗﻨﮯ ﮨﻮﺗﮯ ﮨﯿﮟ ﮐہ ﮔﻨﮯ ﻧﮩﯿﮟ ﺟﺎﺗﮯ۔ ﮨﺎﺗﮭ ﻣﯿﮟ‬
‫ﮨﺎﺗﮭ ڈاﻟﮯ ﮔﭧ ﭘﭧ ﮐﺮﺗﮯ ﭼﻠﮯ ﺟﺎﺗﮯ ﮨﯿﮟ۔ ﮨﻤﺎرے ﮨﻨﺪﺳﺘﺎﻧﯽ ﺑﮭﺎﺋﯽ ﺑﮭﯽ آﻧﮑﮭﯿﮟ ﭘﮭﺎڑ ﭘﮭﺎڑ ﮐﺮ ﺗﮑﺘﮯ رﮨﺘﮯ ﮨﯿﮟ۔ ﮐﻤﺒﺨﺘﻮں ﮐﯽ آﻧﮑﮭﯿﮟ ﻧﮩﯿﮟ ﭘﮭﻮٹ ﺟﺎﺗﯿﮟ۔‬
‫اﯾﮏ ﻣﯿﺮے ﺳﮯ ﮐﮩﻨﮯ ﻟﮕﺎ ’’ذرا ﻣﻨہ ﺑﮭﯽ دﮐﮭﺎ دو۔‘‘‬

‫ﻣﯿﮟ ﻧﮯ ﻓﻮراً‪......‬‬

‫’’ﺗﻮ ﺗﻢ ﻧﮯ ﮐﯿﺎ ﻧﮩﯿﮟ دﮐﮭﺎﯾﺎ؟‘‘ ﮐﺴﯽ ﻧﮯ ﭼﮭﯿﮍا۔‬

‫’’ﷲ ﷲ ﮐﺮو ﺑﻮا۔ ﻣﯿﮟ ان ﻣﻮؤں ﮐﻮ ﻣﻨہ دﮐﮭﺎﻧﮯ ﮔﺌﯽ ﺗﮭﯽ۔ دل ﺑﻠﯿﻮں اﭼﮭﻠﻨﮯ ﻟﮕﺎ‘‘ ﺗﯿﻮر ﺑﻠﺪل ﮐﺮ ’’ﺳﻨﻨﺎ ﮨﮯ ﺗﻮ ﺑﯿﭻ ﻣﯿﮟ ﻧہ ﭨﻮﮐﻮ‘‘۔‬

‫اﯾﮏ دم ﺧﺎﻣﻮﺷﯽ ﭼﮭﺎﮔﺌﯽ۔ اﯾﺴﯽ ﻣﺰﯾﺪار ﺑﺎﺗﯿﮟ ﻓﺮﯾﺪآﺑﺎد ﻣﯿﮟ ﮐﻢ ﮨﻮﺗﯽ ﺗﮭﯿﮟ اور ﻣﻠﮑہ ﮐﯽ ﺑﺎﺗﯿﮟ ﺳﻨﻨﮯ ﺗﻮ ﻋﻮرﺗﯿﮟ دور دور ﺳﮯ آﺗﯽ ﺗﮭﯿﮟ۔‬

‫’’ﮨﺎں ﺑﻮا ﺳﻮدے واﻟﮯ اﯾﺴﮯ ﻧﮩﯿﮟ ﺟﯿﺴﮯ ﮨﻤﺎرے ﮨﺎں ﮨﻮﺗﮯ ﮨﯿﮟ۔ ﺻﺎف ﺻﺎف ﺧﺎﮐﯽ ﮐﭙﮍے اور ﮐﻮﺋﯽ ﺳﻔﯿﺪ‪ ،‬ﻟﯿﮑﻦ دھﻮﺗﯿﺎں ﮐﺴﯽ ﮐﺴﯽ ﮐﯽ ﻣﯿﻠﯽ ﺗﮭﯿﮟ‬
‫ﭨﻮﮐﺮے ﻟﯿﮯ ﭘﮭﺮﺗﮯ ﮨﯿﮟ‪ ،‬ﭘﺎن‪ ،‬ﺑﯿﮍی ‪ ،‬ﺳﮕﺮﯾﭧ‪ ،‬دﮨﯽ ﺑﮍے‪ ،‬ﮐﮭﻠﻮﻧﺎ ﮨﮯ ﮐﮭﻠﻮﻧﺎ‪ ،‬اور ﻣﭩﮭﺎﺋﯿﺎں ﭼﻠﺘﯽ ﮨﻮﺋﯽ ﮔﺎڑﯾﻮں ﻣﯿﮟ ﺑﻨﺪ ﮐﯿﮯ ﺑﮭﺎﮔﮯ ﭘﮭﺮﺗﮯ ﮨﯿﮟ۔ اﯾﮏ‬
‫ﮔﺎڑی آ ﮐﺮ رﮐﯽ۔ وه ﺷﻮرﻏﻞ ﮨﻮا ﮐہ ﮐﺎﻧﻮں ﮐﮯ ﭘﺮدے ﭘﮭﭩﮯ ﺟﺎﺗﮯ‪ ،‬ادھﺮ ﻗﻠﯿﻮں ﮐﯽ ﭼﯿﺦ ﭘﮑﺎر ادھﺮ ﺳﻮدے واﻟﮯ ﮐﺎن ﮐﮭﺎﺋﮯ ﺟﺎﺗﮯ ﺗﮭﮯ‪ ،‬ﻣﺴﺎﻓﺮ ﮨﯿﮟ‬
‫ﮐہ اﯾﮏ دوﺳﺮے ﭘﺮﭘﻠﮯ ﭘﮍﺗﮯ ﮨﯿﮟ اور ﻣﯿﮟ ﺑﭽﺎری ﺑﯿﭻ ﻣٰ ﮟ اﺳﺒﺎب ﭘﺮ ﭼﮍھﯽ ﮨﻮﺋﯽ۔ ﮨﺰاروں ﮨﯽ ﺗﻮ ﭨﮭﻮﮐﺮﯾﮟ دھﮑﮯ ﮐﮭﺎﺋﮯ ﮨﻮں ﮔﮯ۔ ﺑﮭﺌﯽ ﺟﻞ ﺗﻮ‬
‫ﺟﻼل ﺗﻮ آﺋﯽ ﺑﻼ ﮐﻮ ﭨﺎل ﺗﻮ‪ ،‬ﮔﮭﺒﺮا ﮔﮭﺒﺮا ﮐﺮ ﭘﮍھﯽ رﮨﯽ ﺗﮭﯽ۔ ﺧﺪا ﺧﺪا ﮐﺮ ﮐﮯ رﯾﻞ ﭼﻠﯽ ﺗﻮ ﻣﺴﺎﻓﺮ اور ﻗﻠﯿﻮں ﻣﯿﮟ ﻟﮍاﺋﯽ ﺷﺮوع ﮨﻮﺋﯽ‪:‬‬

‫’’اﯾﮏ روﭘﯿہ ﻟﻮں ﮔﺎ۔‘‘‬

‫’’ﻧﮩﯿﮟ‪ ،‬دو آﻧہ ﻣﻠﯿﮟ ﮔﮯ۔‘‘‬

‫اﯾﮏ ﮔﮭﻨﭩہ ﺟﮭﮕﮍا ﮨﻮا ﺟﺐ ﮐﮩﯿﮟ اﺳﭩﯿﺸﻦ ﺧﺎﻟﯽ ﮨﻮا۔ اﺳﭩﯿﺸﻦ ﮐﮯ ﺷﮩﺪے ﺗﻮ ﺟﻤﻊ ﮨﯽ رﮨﮯ۔ ﮐﻮﺋﯽ دو ﮔﮭﻨﭩہ ﮐﮯ ﺑﻌﺪ ﯾہ ﻣﻮﻧﭽﮭﻮں ﭘﺮ ﺗﺎؤ دﯾﺘﮯ ﮨﻮﺋﮯ‬
‫دﮐﮭﺎﺋﯽ دﯾﺌﮯ اور ﮐﺲ ﻻ ﭘﺮواﮨﯽ ﺳﮯ ﮐﮩﺘﮯ ﮨﯿﮟ‪’’ ،‬ﺑﮭﻮک ﻟﮕﯽ ﮨﻮ ﺗﻮ ﮐﭽﮭ ﭘﻮرﯾﺎں وورﯾﺎں ﻻدوں‪ ،‬ﮐﮭﺎؤﮔﯽ؟ ﻣﯿﮟ ﺗﻮ ادھﺮ ﮨﻮﭨﻞ ﻣﯿﮟ ﮐﮭﺎ آﯾﺎ۔‘‘‬

‫ﻣﯿﮟ ﻧﮯ ﮐﮩﺎ ﮐہ‪’’ ،‬ﺧﺪا ﮐﮯ ﻟﯿﮯ ﻣﺠﮭﮯ ﻣﯿﺮے ﮔﮭﺮ ﭘﮩﻨﭽﺎدو‪ ،‬ﻣﯿﮟ ﺑﺎز آﺋﯽ اس ﻣﻮﺋﯽ دﻟﯽ ﮐﯽ ﺳﯿﺮ ﺳﮯ۔ ﺗﻤﮩﺎرے ﺳﺎﺗﮭ ﺗﻮ ﮐﻮﺋﯽ ﺟﻨﺖ ﻣﯿﮟ ﺑﮭﯽ ﻧہ‬
‫ﺟﺎﺋﮯ‪ ،‬اﭼﮭﯽ ﺳﯿﺮ ﮐﺮاﻧﮯ ﻻﺋﮯ ﺗﮭﮯ۔‘‘ ﻓﺮﯾﺪ آﺑﺎد ﮐﯽ ﮔﺎڑی ﺗﯿﺎر ﺗﮭﯽ اس ﻣﯿﮟ ﻣﺠﮭﮯ ﺑﭩﮭﺎ اور ﻣﻨہ ﭘﮭﻼ ﻟﯿﺎ ﮐہ‪’’،‬ﺗﻤﮩﺎری ﻣﺮﺿﯽ‪ ،‬ﺳﯿﺮ ﻧﮩﯿﮟ ﮐﺮﺗﯿﮟ ﺗﻮ‬
‫ﻧہ ﮐﺮو!‘‘ ‬
 The Lost Child
Mulk Raj Anand

It was the festival of spring. From the wintry shades of narrow lanes and alleys emerged a
gaily clad humanity. Some walked, some rode on horses, others sat, being carried in bamboo
and bullock carts. One little boy ran between his father’s legs, brimming over with life and
laughter. “Come, child, come,” called his parents, as he lagged behind, fascinated by the toys
in the shops that lined the way.

He hurried towards his parents, his feet obedient to their call, his eyes still lingering on the
receding toys. As he came to where they had stopped to wait for him, he could not suppress
the desire of his heart, even though he well knew the old, cold stare of refusal in their eyes. “I
want that toy,” he pleaded. His father looked at him red-eyed, in his familiar tyrant’s way. His
mother, melted by the free spirit of the day was tender and, giving him her finger to hold,
said, “Look, child, what is before you!”

It was a flowering mustard-field, pale like melting gold as it swept across miles and miles of
even land. A group of dragon-flies were bustling about on their gaudy purple wings,
intercepting the flight of a lone black bee or butterfly in search of sweetness from the flowers.
The child followed them in the air with his gaze, till one of them would still its wings and rest,
and he would try to catch it. But it would go fluttering, flapping, up into the air, when he had
almost caught it in his hands. Then his mother gave a cautionary call: “Come, child, come,
come on to the footpath.”

He ran towards his parents gaily and walked abreast of them for a while, being, however, soon
left behind, attracted by the little insects and worms along the footpath that were teeming out
from their hiding places to enjoy the sunshine.

“Come, child, come!” his parents called from the shade of a grove where they had seated
themselves on the edge of a well. He ran towards them. A shower of young flowers fell upon
the child as he entered the grove, and, forgetting his parents, he began to gather the raining
petals in his hands. But lo! he heard the cooing of doves and ran towards his parents,
shouting, “The dove! The dove!” The raining petals dropped from his forgotten hands.

“Come, child, come!” they called to the child, who had now gone running in wild capers round
the banyan tree, and gathering him up they took the narrow, winding footpath which led to
the fair through the mustard fields. As they neared the village the child could see many other
footpaths full of throngs, converging to the whirlpool of the fair, and felt at once repelled and
fascinated by the confusion of the world he was entering.

A sweetmeat seller hawked, “gulab-jaman, rasagulla, burfi, jalebi,” at the corner of the
entrance and a crowd pressed round his counter at the foot of an architecture of many
coloured sweets, decorated with leaves of silver and gold. The child stared open-eyed and his
mouth watered for the burfi that was his favourite sweet. “I want that burfi,” he slowly
murmured. But he half knew as he begged that his plea would not be heeded because his
parents would say he was greedy. So without waiting for an answer he moved on.

A flower-seller hawked, “A garland of gulmohur, a garland of gulmohur !” The child seemed

irresistibly drawn. He went towards the basket where the flowers lay heaped and half
murmured, “I want that garland.” But he well knew his parents would refuse to buy him those
flowers because they would say that they were cheap. So, without waiting for an answer, he
moved on.

A man stood holding a pole with yellow, red, green and purple balloons flying from it. The
child was simply carried away by the rainbow glory of their silken colours and he was filled
with an overwhelming desire to possess them all. But he well knew his parents would never
buy him the balloons because they would say he was too old to play with such toys. So he
walked on farther.

A snake-charmer stood playing a flute to a snake which coiled itself in a basket, its head
raised in a graceful bend like the neck of a swan, while the music stole into its invisible ears
like the gentle rippling of an invisible waterfall. The child went towards the snake-charmer.
But, knowing his parents had forbidden him to hear such coarse music as the snake- charmer
played, he proceeded farther.

There was a roundabout in full swing. Men, women and children, carried away in a whirling
motion, shrieked and cried with dizzy laughter. The child watched them intently and then he
made a bold request: “I want to go on the roundabout, please, Father, Mother.” There was no
reply. He turned to look at his parents. They were not there, ahead of him. He turned to look
on either side. They were not there. He looked behind. There was no sign of them.

A full, deep cry rose within his dry throat and with a sudden jerk of his body he ran from
where he stood, crying in real fear, “Mother, Father.” Tears rolled down from his eyes, hot
and fierce; his flushed face was convulsed with fear. Panic- stricken, he ran to one side first,
then to the other, hither and thither in all directions, knowing not where to go. “Mother,
Father,” he wailed. His yellow turban came untied and his clothes became muddy.

Having run to and fro in a rage of running for a while, he stood defeated, his cries suppressed
into sobs. At little distances on the green grass he could see, through his filmy eyes, men and
women talking. He tried to look intently among the patches of bright yellow clothes, but there
was no sign of his father and mother among these people, who seemed to laugh and talk just
for the sake of laughing and talking.

He ran quickly again, this time to a shrine to which people seemed to be crowding. Every little
inch of space here was congested with men, but he ran
through people’s legs, his little sob lingering: “Mother, Father!” Near the entrance to the
temple, however, the crowd became very thick: men jostled each other, heavy men, with
flashing, murderous eyes and hefty shoulders. The poor child struggled to thrust a way
between their feet but, knocked to and fro by their brutal movements, he might have been
trampled underfoot, had he not shrieked at the highest pitch of his voice, “Father, Mother!”

A man in the surging crowd heard his cry and, stooping with great difficulty, lifted him up in
his arms. “How did you get here, child? Whose baby are you?” the man asked as he steered
clear of the mass. The child wept more bitterly than ever now and only cried, “I want my
mother, I want my father!”

The man tried to soothe him by taking him to the roundabout. “Will you have a ride on the
horse?” he gently asked as he approached the ring. The child’s throat tore into a thousand
shrill sobs and he only shouted: “I want my mother, I want my father!”

The man headed towards the place where the snake- charmer still played on the flute to the
swaying cobra. “Listen to that nice music, child!” he pleaded. But the child shut his ears with
his fingers and shouted his double-pitched strain: “I want my mother, I want my father!” The
man took him near the balloons, thinking the bright colours of the balloons would distract the
child’s attention and quieten him. “Would you like a rainbow-coloured balloon?” he
persuasively asked. The child turned his eyes from the flying balloons and just sobbed, “I
want my mother, I want my father!”

The man, still trying to make the child happy, bore him to the gate where the flower-seller sat.
“Look! Can you smell those nice flowers, child! Would you like a garland to put round your
neck?” The child turned his nose away from the basket and reiterated his sob: “I want my
mother, I want my father!”

Thinking to humour his disconsolate charge by a gift of sweets, the man took him to the
counter of the sweet shop. “What sweets would you like, child?” he asked. The child turned
his face from the sweet shop and only sobbed, “I want my mother, I want my father!”
 AFTER THAT, WE ARE IGNORANT

Bilal Tanweer

Granta is delighted to announce the next installment in its New Voices series, which
showcases short fiction from emerging writers exclusively on the website. The first New
Voice of 2011 is Bilal Tanweer, with ‘After That, We Are Ignorant’. We chose the story for
its captivating atmosphere and highly convincing voice, both of which are sustained with a
rare confidence. You can read an interview with Bilal here.
Y
esterday, an old man, bloody idiot, surely off his rockers, got on the bus from the
Lucky Star stop … tall in his height, some six-three, wore a new, bright red Coca-
Cola cap that you get for free these days, bloody joker. His shirt I think he had been re-
ironing since the creation of Pakistan. His crumpled brown pants seemed never-washed …
He caught my eye as soon as he got on the bus. I pulled out my sketchbook and started to
make his cartoon. The rectangular golden frame of his spectacles covered his long, thin
face. Acha, at first he did not say anything, just took a seat, sat there and looked around.
Then turned to the guy next to him and without any, whatsitsname, any hesitation
questioned him, ‘Who are you?’

At this, the guy was startled and he looked at him cluelessly. Obviously, bhenchod! Anyone
would jump at such abruptness. If someone asked you who are you, randomly, just like that,
on the bus, and that too, a weird-looking old creep wearing a red cap and shirt with broken
buttons, what would you say?

But that guy was some bugger, he smiled and replied, ‘I am a human, thank you,’ and shook
the old man’s hand. Hehe. Bastard. Guess what the old man did? He just said, ‘Okay,’ and
turned away. I was laughing to myself from my seat and seeing me, others also got
interested in what was going on. I thought the old man was no less than a cartoon himself.
He was staring at the back of the seat in front of him – like this – his face completely blank
– like this. And then after staring for a few seconds, he turned back to the guy he
questioned earlier and said, ‘I am Comrade Sukhansaz! Happy to meet you!’ and pushed
out his hand toward him.

Now whatever the hell is a Comrade! Most people don’t even know what these creatures
are. There was a time when these Comrades and Reds and Lefties were a common breed,
but that general, Zia, that dog of the CIA, he ate them all up. He liked blood, that dog.
Where else do you think all this Islam and drugs and guns and bombs came into this city?
They are a recent invention. Americans gave him the money and guns and a carte blanche
for drugs to fight the Soviets, and he fucked the country and this city for his jihad next
door, thank you. You do find some Comrade occasionally, still bitten, his ass still bleeding
and bandaged. All of them hate Zia. Haha! I mean whatever but you’ve got to admire Zia
for the kind of barbaric treatment he gave them – jail, torture, lashing them in public! I
mean, no human can imagine things that he actually made his policy. The joker even put
his name in the constitution! He used to see things in his dreams and made them his
policies. Yup, Americans loved his dreams because he was screwing the Soviets and
Comrades in them. So yeah, most Comrades are dead now.

S
o guess what that guy said when the Comrade said, ‘I am Comrade Sukhansaz?’ He
was some smartass – he returned a dumb expression, and asked: ‘Sukhansaz, that’s
the word for poet … But what’s your name? And what’s Comrade … Is that a Muslim
name?’

Hahaha! Whatshisname, Comrade, he turned red, even though technically that wasn’t
possible because he was so dark, but oh, you should have seen his face – imagine a dry,
savage brown flashing with colour! At first Comrade Sukhansaz didn’t reply, just turned his
face and stared at the back of the seat. After a few moments, he began bumbling in a low
voice. ‘In this country, everything is either Muslim or non-Muslim, everything, everything.
Is your shoe Muslim? This cap, does it go to the mosque with you? Does your spoon and
knife say their prayers on time? Everything, bloody everything is Muslim or non-Muslim! Is
this colour a Muslim colour? And then no one can talk about religion … Names, now
names are Muslims and non-Muslims!’

That I-am-human fellow was acting like a smartass but really you should have seen his face,
nervous like hell. I mean what do you expect when you are sitting next to this nutcase? The
Comrade turned to him again and said, ‘I am a poet. I was in jail. Yes, jail. For eight years.
People love me. You know, they love me. They know me. The whole world knows me.’ He
fell silent and looked around in the bus. He saw us sniggering, all thoroughly entertained.

Praise be the worm up my ass, I shouted, ‘Haan, so mister Comrade Sukhansaz, let us hear
something, some poetry, some of your amazing verses … ’ And oh brother, I tell you, the
moment I finished my sentence, he sprang into action, as if he had been waiting. He stood
up, and then holding his seat with one hand, like this, his fingers all twisted backward,
started reciting poems, one after another … I cannot tell you. And he was so good! I
remember a few lines:

The argument between this lover with the other

is who loves more. After this, both are ignorant.
 The tussle of this believer with the other
is how to worship. After this, both are ignorant.

The brawl of this politician with the other

is how to gain power. After this, both are ignorant.

It turned into a circus soon when a group of college students sitting at the back of the bus
started to make noises in between his recitation. Each time the Comrade Sukhansaz paused
between the couplets, they made a sound: Dha Dha Dha Dhayyn … like those Hollywood
action movie soundtracks. At first Comrade was confused, because some of us were actually
enjoying the poems and praising them as well, but soon the boys began to rattle him. He
ignored it a few times, but then suddenly, haha! I remember he was saying: We will win
against darkness too! And then he broke off yelling, ‘Abay O rowdy idiots! listen to what I am
saying!’

It was so funny – abay! listen to me! I am telling you about darkness and winning!

For the boys, well, this was what they were looking for to begin with. It added to their fun
and then they started purring and barking in between his verses. You got to love their
timing! Imagine a dog’s whimper – aaoo aaoo aaoo – as if someone has kicked it in its gut –
after both are ignorant.

Comrade got really riled though. He stopped abruptly and took his seat, muttering under
his breath. And then the whole bus broke into applause, clapping for him. I whistled. You
know the one I whistle, the long loud one. I shouted, ‘One more Comrade, one more!’ But
he didn’t pay attention and continued to blather to himself in a low voice and kept staring
at the back of the seat. Haha! Old bugger. The man sitting next to me was looking over my
drawing. He said to me, smiling, ‘Why tease the old fellow. Let him be … ’ Well, I really
didn’t give a toss about him or his poetry. For me, I had to finish up my sketch. He was a
God-sent cartoon on the bus. What more can a cartoonist ask for? I had to do him for my
records.

I was trying to get his nose right but he turned his face the other way. I waited but then I
got impatient. I shouted, ‘Comrade, you old man, have you forgotten your poetry?’ That
really got him! He turned immediately and began shouting, ‘Who said that? Haan? Who
said that?’ And waving his fists, stood up from his seat, ‘I will break your bones!’ The
college boys were having a ball. They were laughing like mad. One of them barked again
loudly, at which the old man let his lid fling off and he began shouting at the bus driver.
‘STOP THE BUS! STOP THE DAMN BUS! I AM COMRADE! COMRADE
SUKHANSAZ! STOP THE BLOODY BUS!’

Oh the bus conductor really panicked. He was already glancing suspiciously at the racket
throughout, now he thought some fight had broken out or something. He brought out his
steel rod from under one of the front seats and came directly toward the old man and
waving it toward the old man, he said, ‘Babaji why making noise haan? Where do you get
off?’

‘Show me some civility! I am a poet! People know me! They love me!’

The bus conductor was scratching his crotch, and seeing everyone laugh, he relaxed a bit
and said, ‘Babaji, just don’t make any noise. Take your seat.’ He pointed the rod to an
empty seat. ‘Your stop is about to come.’

As soon as he finished saying this, someone shouted again from behind: Oye Chicken-saz!
You crazy old man! Comrade turned to the students again, and having really lost it this time
began shouting, ‘Fuckers! I have seen the likes of you many times! I have fought police with
bare hands. I went to jail. Yes, jail! For eight years! People love me! Sisterfuckers! What do
you know! I have given sacrifices for this country! I have fought against the exploiters, and
you, you fuckers like you, don’t care about anything!’ Everyone in the bus was in fits. The
conductor then came to him, ‘Get off, babaji, your stop has come. Get to the gate, come on,
come on hurry-up!’

As the old man moved towards the door, the boys kept up their chants:

Fight me, Comrade!

Why are you scared, Comrade?

We also love you, Comrade!

Comrade, you crazy old buffoon!

 Another poem Comrade, please?

Fight, Comrade! Fight!

He got off at Cantt Station, right at the end of it.

Yeah, just about ten minutes before the bomb blast. He was the closest person I knew who
probably might have died there. Well, no, I don’t know what happened after that. I have his
cartoon though. Here.

Photograph by Paolo Braiuca

 W
video tapes, new books and fashionable clothes the boy had bought
just a few months before. Also without explanation, Ali had parted
from the English girlfriend who used to come often to the house.
His old friends had stopped ringing.
For reasons he didn't himself understand, Parvez wasn't able to
bring up the subject of Ali's unusual behaviour. He was aware that
he had become slightly afraid of his son, who, between his silences,
was developing a sharp tongue. One remark Pawez did make, 'You
don't play your guitar any more,' elicited the mysterious but conclu-
sive reply, 'There are more important things to be done.'
Yet Parvez felt his son's eccentricity an injustice. He had al-
ways been aware of the pitfalls that other men's sons had fallen into
in England. And so, for Ali, he had worked long hours and spent a
lot of money paying for his education as an accountant. He had
bought him good suits, all the books he required and a computer.
And now the boy was throwing his possessions out!
- -

The TV, video and sound system followed the guitar. Soon the
room was practically bare. Even the unhappy walls bore marks
where Ali's pictures had been removed.
Parvez couldn't sleep; he went more to the whisky bottle, even
when he was at work. He realised it was imperative to discuss the
matter with someone sympathetic.

HANIF KUREISHI

My Son the Fanatic

Surreptitiously, the father began going into his son's bedroom. He
would sit there for hours, rousing himself only to seek clues. What
bewildered him was that Ali was getting tidier. Instead of the usual
tangle of clothes, books, cricket bats, video games, the room was
5 becoming neat and ordered; spaces began appearing where before
there had been only mess.
Initially Parvez had been pleased: his son was outgrowing his
teenage attitudes. But one day, beside the dustbin, Parvez found a
torn bag which contained not only old toys, but computer disks,
 Parvez had been a taxi driver for twenty years. Half that time
he'd worked for the same firm. Like him. most of the other drivers
were Punjabis. They preferred to work at night, the roads were
clearer and the money better. They slept during the day, avoiding
their wives. Together they led almost a boy's life in the cabbies'
office, playing cards and practical jokes, exchanging lewd stories,
eating together and discussing politics and their problems.
But Parvez had been unable to bring this subject up with his
friends. He was too ashamed. And he was afraid, too, that they
would blame him for the wrong turning his boy had taken, just as he
had blamed other fathers whose sons had taken to running around
with bad girls, truanting from school and joining gangs.
For years Parvez had boasted to the other men about how Ali
excelled at cricket, swimming and football, and how attentive a
scholar he was, getting A's in most subjects. Was it asking too much
for Ali to get a good job, now, many the right girl and start a fam-
ily? Once this happened, Parvez would be happy. His dreams of
doing well in England would have come true. Where had he gone
wrong?
But one night, sitting in the taxi office on busted chairs with his
two closest friends watching a Sylvester Stallone film. he broke his
silence.
'I can't understand it!' he burst out. 'Everything is going from his
room. And I can't talk to him any more. We were not father and son
- w e were brothers! Where has he gone? Why is he torturing me?'
And Parvez put his head in his hands.
Even as he poured out his account the men shook their heads and
gave one another knowing glances. From their grave looks Parvez
realised they understood the situation.
'Tell me what is happening!' he demanded.
The reply was almost triumphant. They had guessed something
was going wrong. Now it was clear: All was taking drugs and sell-
ing his possessions to pay for them. That was why his bedroom was
emptying.
'What must I do then?'
Parvez's friends instructed him to watch Ali scrupulously and
then be severe with him, before the boy went mad. overdosed or
murdered someone.
Parvez staggered out into the early morning air, terrified they
were right. His boy - the drug addict killer!
To his relief, he found Bettina sitting in his car.
Usually the last customers of the night were local 'brasses' or
prostitutes. The taxi drivers knew them well, often driving them to
liaisons. At the end of the girls' shifts, the men would ferry them
home, though sometimes the women would join them for a drinking
session in the office. Occasionally the drivers would go with the
girls. 'A ride in exchange for a ride,' it was called.
Bettina had known Parvez for three years. She lived outside the
town and on the long drive home, where she sat not in the passenger
seat but beside him, Parvez had talked to her about his life and
hopes, just as she talked about hers. They saw each other most
nights.
He could talk to her about things he'd never be able to discuss
with his own wife. Bettina, in turn, always reported on her night's
activities. He liked to know where she was and with whom. Once he
had rescued her from a violent client, and since then they had come
to care for one another.
Though Bettina had never met the boy, she heard about Ali con-
tinually. That late night. when he told Bettina that he suspected Ali
was on drugs, she judged neither the boy nor the father, but became
businesslike and told him what to watch for.
'It's all in the eyes,' she said. They might be bloodshot; the pupils
might be dilated; he might look tired. He could be liable to sweats,
or sudden mood changes. 'Okay?'
Parvez began his vigil gratefully. Now he knew what the problem
might be, he felt better. And surely, he figured, things couldn't have
gone too far? With Bettina's help he would soon sort it out.
He watched each mouthful the boy took. He sat beside him at
every opportunity and looked into his eyes. When he could he took
the boy's hand, checking his temperature. If the boy wasn't at home
Parvez was active, looking under the carpet, in his drawers, behind
the empty wardrobe, sniffing, inspecting, probsng. He knew what to
look for: Bettina had drawn pictures of capsules, syringes, pills,
powders, rocks.
Every night she waited to hear news of what he'd witnessed.
After a few days of constant observation, Parvez was able to
report that although the boy had given up sports, he seemed healthy
with clear eyes. He didn't, as his father expected, flinch guiltily
from his gaze. In fact the boy's mood was alert and steady in this
sense: as well as being sullen, he was very watchful. He returned his
father's long looks with more than a hint of criticism, of reproach
even; so much so that Parvez began to feel that it was he who was
in the wrong, and not the boy!
'And there's nothing else physically different?' Bettina asked.
'No!' Parvez thought for a moment. 'But he is growing a beard.'
One night, after sitting with Bettina in an all-night coffee shop,
Parvez came home particularly late. Reluctantly he and Bettina had
abandoned their only explanation, the drug theory, for Parvez had
found nothing resembling any drug in Ali's room. Besides, All
W .
wasn't selling his belongings. He threw them out, gave them away
or donated them to charity shops.
Standing in the hall, Parvez heard his boy's alarm clock go off.
Parvez hurried into his bedroom where his wife was still awake,
sewing in bed. He ordered her to sit down and keep quiet, though
she had neither stood up nor said a word. From this post, and with
her watching him curiously, he observed his son through the crack
in the door.
The boy went into the bathroom to wash. When he returned to his
room Parvez sprang across the hall and set his ear at Ali's door. A
muttering sound came from within. Parvez was puzzled but re-
lieved.
Once this clue had been established, Parvez watched him at other
times. The boy was praying. Without fail, when he was at home, he
prayed five times a day.
Parvez had grown up in Lahore where all the boys had been
taught the Koran. To stop him falling asleep when he studied, the
Maulvi had attached a piece of string to the ceiling and tied it to
Parvez's hair, so that if his head fell forward, he would instantly
awake. After this indignity Parvez had avoided all religions. Not
that the other taxi drivers had more respect. In fact they made jokes
about the local mullahs walking around with their caps and beards,
thinking they could tell people how to live, while their eyes roved
over the boys and girls in their care.
Parvez described to Bettina what he had discovered. He informed
the men in the taxi office. His friends, who had been so curious
before, now became oddly silent. They could hardly condemn the
boy for his devotions.
Parvez decided to take a night off and go out with the boy. They
could talk things over. He wanted to hear how things were going at
college; he wanted to tell him stories about their family in Pakistan.
More than anything he yearned to understand how Ali had discov-
ered the 'spiritual dimension', as Bettina described it.
To Parvez's surprise, the boy refused to accompany him. He
claimed he had an appointment. Parvez had to insist that no ap-
pointment could be more important than that of a son with his fa-
ther.
The next day, Parvez went immediately to the street where Bet-
tina stood in the rain wearing high heels, a short skirt and a long
mac on top, which she would open hopefully at passing cars.
'Get in, get in!' he said.
They drove out across the moors and parked at the spot where on
better days, with a view unimpeded for many by nothing but wild
^
deer and horses, they'd lie back, with their eyes half closed, saying
'This is the life.' This time Parvez was trembling. Bettina put her 105
arms around him.
'What's happened'?'
'I've just had the worst experience of my life.' /
As Bettina rubbed his head Parvez told her that the previous
evening he and Ali had gone to a restaurant. As they studied the 170
menu, the waiter, whom Parvez knew, brought him his usual whisky
and water. Parvez had been so nervous he had even prepared a
question. He was going to ask Ali if he was worried about his im-
minent exams. But first, wanting to relax, he loosened his tie,
crunched a poppadom, and took a long drink. 175
Before Parvez could speak, Ali made a face.
'Don't you know it's wrong to drink alcohol?' he said.
'He spoke to me very harshly,' Parvez said to Bettina. 'I was
about to castigate the boy for being insolent, but I managed to con-
trol myself.' I S0
He had explained patiently to Ali that for years he had worked
more than ten hours a day, that he had few enjoyments or hobbies
and never went on holiday. Surely it wasn't a crime to have a drink
when he wanted one?
'But it is forbidden,' the boy said.
Parvez shrugged, 'I know.'
A n d so is gambling, isn't it?'
'Yes. But surely we are only human?'
Each time Parvez took a drink, the boy winced, or made a fas-
tidious face as an accompaniment. This made Parvez drink more IW
quickly. The waiter, wanting to please his friend, brought another
glass of whisky. Parvez knew he was getting drunk, but he couldn't
stop himself. Ali had a horrible look on his face, full of disgust and
censure. It was as if he hated his father.
Halfway through the meal Parvez suddenly lost his temper and 195
threw a plate on the floor. He had felt like ripping the cloth from the
table, but the waiters and other customers were staring at him. Yet
he wouldn't stand for his own son telling him the difference be-
tween right and wrong. He knew he wasn't a bad man. He had a
conscience. There were a few things of which he was ashamed, but 200
on the whole he had lived a decent life.
'When have 1 had time to be wicked?' he asked Ali.
In a low monotonous voice the boy explained that Parvez had not,
in fact, lived a good life. He had broken countless rules of the Koran.
'For instance?' Parvez demanded. 205
Ali hadn't needed time to think. As if he had been waiting for this
moment, he asked his father if he didn't relish pork pies?
 v
Hun f Kurezshi
'Well ...'
Parvez couldn't deny that he loved crispy bacon smothered with
mushrooms and mustard and sandwiched between slices of fried
bread. In fact he ate this for breakfast every morning.
Ali then reminded Parvez that he had ordered his own wife to
cook pork sausages, saying to her, 'You're not in the village now,
this is England. We have to fit in.'
Parvez was so annoyed and perplexed by this attack that he called
for more drink.
'The problem is this,' the boy said. He leaned across the table.
For the first time that night his eyes were alive. 'You are too impli-
cated in Western civilisation.'
Parvez burped; he thought he was going to choke. 'Implicated!'
he said. 'But we live here!'
'The Western materialists hate us,' Ali said. 'Papa, how can you
love something which hates you?'
'What is the answer, then,' Parvez said miserably. 'According to
you.'
Ali addressed his father fluently, as if Parvez were a rowdy crowd
that had to be quelled or convinced. The Law of Islam would
rule the world; the skin of the infidel would bum off again and
again; the Jews and Christers would be routed. The West was a
sink of hypocrites, adulterers, homosexuals, drug takers and prosti-
tutes.
As Ali talked. Parvez looked out the window as if to check that
they were still in London.
'My people have taken enough. If the persecution doesn't stop
there will be jihad. I, and millions of others, will gladly give our
lives for the cause.'
'But why, why?' Parvez said.
'For us the reward will be in Paradise.'
'Paradise! '
Finally, as Parvez's eyes filled with tears, the boy urged him to
mend his ways.
'But is that possible?' Parvez asked.
'Pray,' All said. 'Pray beside me.'
Parvez called for the bill and ushered his boy out of the restaurant
as soon as he was able. He couldn't take any more. Ali sounded as if
he'd swallowed someone else's voice.
On the way home the boy sat in the back of the taxi, as if he were
a customer.
'What has made you like this?' Parvez asked him. afraid that
somehow he was to blame for all this. 'Is there a particular event
which has influenced you?'
HanifKureishi
\
'Living in this country.'
'But I love England,' Parvez said, watching his boy in the mirror.
'They let you do almost anything here.'
'That is the problem,' he replied.
For the first time in years Parvez couldn't see straight. He
knocked the side of the car against a lorry, ripping off the wing
mirror. They were lucky not to have been stopped by the police:
Parvez would have lost his licence and therefore his job.
Getting out of the car back at the house, as he got out of the car,
Parvez stumbled and fell in the road, scraping his hands and ripping
his trousers. He managed to haul himself up. The boy didn't even
offer him his hand.
Parvez told Bettina he was now willing to pray, if that was what
the boy wanted, if that would dislodge the pitiless look from his eyes.
'But what I object to,' he said, 'is being told by my own son that I
am going to hell! '
What had finished Parvez off was that the boy had said he was
giving up his accountancy. When Parvez had asked why, Ali had
said sarcastically that it was obvious.
'Western education cultivates an anti-religious attitude.'
And, according to Ali, in the world of accountants it was usual to
meet women, drink alcohol and practise usury.
'But it's well-paid work,' Parvez argued. 'For years you've been
preparing! '
Ali said he was going to begin to work in prisons, with poor
Muslims who were struggling --- to maintain their purity in the face of
corruption. Finally, at the end of the evening, as Ali was going to
bed, he had asked his father why he didn't have a beard, or at least a
moustache.
'I feel as if I've lost my son,' Parvez told Bettina. 'I can't bear to
be looked at as if I'm a criminal. I've decided what to do.'
W h a t is it?'
'I'm going to tell him to pick up his prayer mat and get out of my
house. It will be the hardest thing I've ever done, but tonight I'm
going to do it.'
'But vou mustn't give up on him,' said Bettina. 'Many young
people fall into cults and superstitious groups. It doesn't mean
they'll always feel the same way.' She said Parvez had to stick by
his boy, giving him support, until he came through.
Parvez was persuaded that she was right, even though he didn't
feel like giving his son more love when he had hardly been thanked
for all he had already given.
Nevertheless, Parvez tried to endure his son's looks and re-
proaches. He attempted to make conversation about his beliefs. But
one occasion Ali accused Parvez of 'grovelling' to the whites;
-
if Parvez ventured any criticism, Ali always had a brusque reply. On
in contrast, he explained, he was not 'inferior'; there was more to
the world than the West, though the West always thought it was
best.
'How is it you know that?' Parvez said, 'seeing as you've never
left England?'
Ali replied with a look of contempt.
One night, having ensured there was no alcohol on his breath,
Parvez sat down at the kitchen table with Ali. He hoped Ali would
compliment him on the beard he was growing but Ali didn't appear
to notice.
The previous day Parvez had been telling Bettina that he thought
people in the West sometimes felt inwardly empty and that people
needed a philosophy to live by.
'Yes,' said Bettina. 'That's the answer. You must tell him what
your philosophy of life is. Then he will understand that there are
other beliefs.'
After some fatiguing consideration, Parvez was ready to begin.
The boy watched him as if he expected nothing. Haltingly Parvez
said that people had to treat one another with respect, particularly
children their parents. This did seem, for a moment, to affect the
boy. Heartened, Parvez continued. In his view this life was all there
was and when you died you rotted in the earth. 'Grass and flowers
will grow out of me, but something of me will live on -'
'How?'
'In other people. I will continue in you.' At this the boy ap-
-
peared a little distressed. 'And your grandchildren,' Parvez added
for good measure. 'But while I am here on earth I want to make the
best of it. And I want you to, as well!'
'What d'you mean by "make the best of it"'?' asked the boy.
'Well,' said Parvez. 'For a start . . . you should enjoy yourself.
Yes. Enjoy yourself without hurting others.'
Ali said that enjoyment was a 'bottomless pit'.
'But 1 don't mean enjoyment like that!' said Parvez. 'I mean the
beauty of living!'
'All over the world our people are oppressed,' was the boy's
reply.
'I know,' Parvez replied, not entirely sure who 'our people' were,
'but still - life is for living!'
Ali said, 'Real morality has existed for hundreds of years. Around
the world millions and millions ofpeople share my beliefs. Are you
saying you are right and they are all wrong?' Ali looked at his father
with such aggressive confidence that Parvez would say no more.
7
One evening, Bettina was sitting in Parvez's car after visiting a
client when they passed a boy on the street.
'That's my son,' Pawez said suddenly. They were on the other
side of town, in a poor district, where there were two mosques.
l
Parvez set his face hard.
Bettina watched him. 'Slow down then, slow down!' She said,
'
'He's good-looking. Reminds me of you. But with a more deter-
mined face. Please, can't we stop?'
'What for?'
'I'd like to talk to him.'
Parvez turned the cab round and stopped beside the boy.
'Coming home?' Parvez asked. 'It's quite a way.'
The sullen boy shrugged and got into the back seat. Bettina sat
in the front. Parvez became aware of Bettina's short skin, gaudy
rings and ice-blue eyeshadow. He became conscious that the smell
S
of her perfume, which he loved, filled the cab. He opened the win-
dow.
While Parvez drove as fast as he could, Bettina said gently to Ali,
'Where have you been'?'
'The mosque,' he said.
'And how are you getting on at college? Are you working hard?'
'Who are you to ask me these questions?' he said, looking out of
the window. Then they hit bad traffic and the car came to a stand-
still.
By now Bettina had inadvertently laid her hand on Parvez's
shoulder. She said, 'Your father, who is a good man, is very worried
about you. You know he loves you more than his own life.'
'You say he loves me,' the boy said.
'Yes! ' said Bettina.
'Then why is he letting a woman like you touch him like that?'
If Bettina looked at the boy in anger, he looked back at her with
twice as much cold fury.
She said, 'What kind of woman a m I that I deserve to be spoken
to like that'?'
'You know,' he said. 'Now let me out.'
'Never,' Parvez replied.
'Don't worry. I'm getting out,' Bettina said.
'No, don't!' said Parvez. But even as the car moved she opened
: the door and threw herself out and ran away across the road. Parvez
shouted after her several times, but she had gone.
Parvez took Ali back to the house, saying nothing more to
him. Ali went straight to his room. Parvez was unable to read the
paper, watch television or even sit down. He kept pouring himself
drinks.
i
I 107
 H a n ~Kureishi
f Hanif Kureishi
At last he went upstairs and paced up and down outside Ali's
185 room. When, finally, he opened the door, Ali was praying. The boy
didn't even glance his way.
Parvez kicked him over. Then he dragged the boy up by his shirt
and hit him. The boy fell back. Parvez hit him again. The boy's face
was bloody. Parvez was panting. He knew that the boy was un-
390 reachable, but he struck him nonetheless. The boy neither covered
himself nor retaliated; there was no fear in his eyes. He only said,
through his split lip: 'So who's the fanatic now?'
Annotations
title: fanatic (n.): someone who has extreme political or religious ideas
and is often dangerous - 1 surreptitiously (adv.): done secretly or quickly
because you do not want other people to notice - 2 rouse (v.): to make
someone start doing something, especially when they have been too tired
or unwilling to do it - 2 clue (n.): information that helps you understand
the reasons why something happens - 3 bewilder (v.): to confuse some-
one - 7 outgrow (v.): to no longer d o or enjoy something that you used to
do, because you have grown older and changed - 8 attitude (n.): the way
that you behave towards someone or in a particular situation, especially
when this shows how you feel - 18 elicit (v.): to succeed in getting infor-
mation or a reaction from someone, especially when this is difficult - 18
conclusive (adj.): showing that something is definitely true - 20 eccen-
tricity (n.): strange or unusual behaviour - 21 pitfall (n.): a problem or
difficulty that is likely to happen in a particular job, course of action, or
activity - 23 accountant (n.): someone whose job is to keep and check
financial accounts, calculate taxes, etc. - 30 imperative (adj.): extremely
important and needing to be done or dealt with immediately - 31 sympa-
thetic (adj.): caring and feeling sorry about someone's problems - 34
Punjabi (n.): someone from the Punjab, a large area in eastern Pakistan
and northwestern India. The Punjab was a single province in the period of
British rule. but it is now two states: one in Pakistan, which contains the
city of Lahore. and one in India, which contains the city of Amritsar, a
holy place for followers of the Sikh religion. Many of the people who live
in the Indian Punjab are Sikhs, and some of them would like to become
independent from India - 36 cabby (n.): (infml.) a taxi driver - 37 prac-
tical joke: a trick that is intended to give someone a surprise or shock, or
to make them look stupid - 37 lewd (adj.): using rude words or move-
ments that make you think of sex - 43 truant (v.): (usually: play truant)
(infml.) stay away from school - 45 attentive (adj.): listening to or watch-
ing someone carefully because you are interested 46 A's: best marks -
-
46 scholar (n.): an intelligent and well-educated person - 51 busted
(adj.): broken - 59 glance (n.): a quick look - 59 grave (adj.): serious -
67 scrupulously (adv.): doing something very carefully so that nothing is
left out - 68 severe (adj.): someone who is severe behaves in a way that
does not seem friendly or sympathetic, and is very strict or disapproving -
70 stagger (v.) to walk or move unsteadily - 72 relief (n.): when some-
thing reduces someone's pain or unhappy feelings - 73 brass (n.): (d.)
prostitute - 75 liaison (n.): a secret sexual relationship between a man and
a woman, especially a man and a woman who are married but not to each
other - 75 ferry (v.): to carry people or things a short distance from one
place to another in a boat or other vehicle - 91 judge (v.): to form an
opinion about someone, especially in an unfair or criticizing way -
93 bloodshot (adj.): if your eyes are bloodshot, the parts that are normally
white are red or pink 94 dilated (adj.): if something dilates, it becomes
-
wider - 94 liable (adj.): likely to do or say something or to behave in a
particular way, especially because of a fault or natural tendency -
94 sweat (n.): a state of nervousness or fear, in which you start to sweat,
even though you are not hot 96 vigil (n.): a period of time, especially
-
during the night, when you stay awake in order to pray, remain with
someone who is ill. or watch for danger - 99 mouthful (n.): an amount of
food or drink that you put into your mouth at one time - 103 sniff (v.): to
try to find out or discover something - 103 probe (v.): to look for some-
thing or examine something. using a long thin object - 104 capsule (n.): a
plastic container shaped like a very small tube with medicine or other
substances inside that you swallow whole - 104 syringe (n.): an instru-
ment for taking blood from someone's body or putting liquid, drugs, etc.
into it, consisting of a hollow plastic tube and a needle - 105 rock (n.): a
small amount of a very pure form of the illegal drug cocaine that some
people use for pleasure - 109 flinch (v.): to move your face or body away
from someone or something because you are in pain, frightened, or upset
- 110 alert (adj.): giving all your attention to what is happening, being
said, etc. - 11 1 sullen (adj.): angry and silent, especially because you feel
life has been unfair to you - 112 hint (n.): a very small amount or sign of
something - 112 reproach (n.): criticism, blame, or disapproval - 118
reluctantly (adv.): slowly and unwillingly - 120 resemble (v.): to look
like or be similar to someone or something - 122 donate (v.): to give
something, especially money, to a person or an organization in order to
help them - 131 mutter (v.): to speak in a low voice, especially because
you are annoyed about something, or you do not want people to hear you
- 131 relieved (adj.): feeling happy because you are no longer worried
about something - 133 establish (v.): to find out facts that will prove that
something is true - 136 LAHORE: a major city of Pakistan and the capi-
tal of the province of Punjab. It is estimated to have approximately 6.5
million inhabitants. This makes it the second largest city in Pakistan, after
Karachi - 137 KORAN: the Qur'an, the holy book of the Muslims - 138
MAULVI: an honorific Islamic religious title often, but not exclusively,
 W W
given to Muslim religious scholars - 138 ceiling (n.): the inner surface of
the top part of a room - 140 indignity (n.): a situation that makes you feel
very ashamed and not respected - 142 mullah (n.): a Muslim teacher of
law and religion - 143 rove (v.): if someone's eyes rove, they look con-
tinuously from one part of something to another 147 oddly (adv.): in a
-
strange or unusual way - 147 condemn (v.): to say very strongly that you
do not approve of something or someone, especially because you think it
is morally wrong - 148 devotions (n.): prayers and other religious acts -
160 mac (n.): (infml.) mackintosh, a coat made to keep out the rain - 162
moor (n.): a wild open area of high land, covered with rough grass or low
bushes and heather, that is not farmed because the soil is not good enough
- 163 unimpeded (adj.): happening or moving without being stopped or
having difficulty - 165 tremble (v.): to shake slightly in a way that you
cannot control, especially because you are upset or frightened - 173 im-
minent (adj.): an event that is imminent, especially an unpleasant one,
will happen very soon - 175 poppadum (n.): a large circular piece of
very thin flat Indian bread cooked in oil - 179 castigate (v.): to criticize
or punish someone severely 179 insolent (adj.): rude and not showing
-
any respect - 187 gambling (n.): when people risk money or possessions
on the result of something which is not certain, such as a card game or a
horse race - 189 wince (v.): to suddenly change the expression on your
face as a reaction to something painful or upsetting - 189 fastidious
(adj.): very careful about small details in your appearance, work, etc. -
193 disgust (n.): a strong feeling of dislike, annoyance, or disapproval -
194 censure (n.): the act of expressing strong disapproval and criticism -
195 lose one's temper: to suddenly become very angry so that you cannot
control yourself - 200 conscience (n.): the part of your mind that tells you
whether what you are doing is morally right or wrong - 202 wicked
(adj.): behaving in a way that is morally wrong - 207 relish (v.): to enjoy
- 209 smother (v.): to completely cover the whole surface of something
with something else, often in a way that seems unnecessary or unpleasant
- 215 annoyed (adj.): slightly angry - 215 perplexed (adj.): confused and
worried by something that you do not understand - 21 8 implicated (adj.):
involved in something bad or harmful 220 burp (v.): to pass gas loudly
-
from your stomach out through your mouth - 220 choke (v.): to be unable
to breathe properly because something is in your throat or there is not
enough air - 224 miserably (adv.): in an extremely unhappy way, for
example because you feel lonely, cold, or badly treated - 227 quell (v.): to
end a situation in which people are behaving violently or protesting, espe-
cially by using force 228 infidel (n.): an offensive word for someone
-
who has a different religion from you - 229 Christers (n.): (sl.) Chris-
tians - 229 route (v.): to defeat completely - 230 sink (n.): a large open
container that you fill with water and use for washing yourself, washing
dishes, etc. - 230 hypocrite (n.): someone who pretends to have certain
beliefs or opinions that they do not really have - 230 adulterer (n.):
someone who is married and has sex with someone who is not their wife
or husband 236 cause (n.): an organization, belief, or aim that a group
-
of people support or fight for - 241 mend your ways: to improve the way
you behave after behaving badly for a long time - 244 usher (v.): to help
someone to get from one place to another, especially by showing them the
way - 246 swallow (v.): to move (food or drink) down the throat - 257
rip off (v.): to remove something quickly and violently - 26 1 scrape (v.):
to rub against a rough surface in a way that causes slight damage or injury
- 262 haul (v.): to move somewhere with a lot of effort, especially be-
cause you are injured or tired - 265 dislodge (v.): to force or knock some-
thing out of its position - 265 pitiless (adj.): showing no pity and not
caring if people suffer - 269 accounting/accountancy (n.): the profession
or work of keeping or checking financial accounts, calculating taxes, etc.
- 273 usury (n.): the practice of lending money to people and making
them pay - 277 purity (n.): the quality or state of being pure - 284
prayer mat (n.): a small cloth on which Muslims kneel when praying -
288 cult (n.): an extreme religious group that is not part of an established
religion - 288 superstitious (adj.): influenced by superstition (= the belief
that some objects or actions are lucky or unlucky, or that they cause
events to happen, based on old ideas of magic) - 289 stick by (phrasal v.):
to remain loyal to a friend when they have done something wrong or have
problems - 294 endure (v.): to be in a difficult or painful situation for a
long time without complaining - 294 reproach (n.): criticism, blame, or
disapproval - 296 venture (v.): to do or try something that involves risks
- 296 brusque (adj.): using very few words in a way that seems rude -
297 grovel (v.): to praise someone a lot or behave with a lot of respect
towards them because you think that they are important and will be able
to help you in some way - 298 inferior (adj.): lower in rank, not good, or
not as good as someone or something else - 303 contempt (n.): a feeling
that someone or something is not important and deserves no respect - 3 14
fatiguing (adj.): extremely tiring - 315 haltingly (adv.): if you speak or
move haltingly, you stop for a moment between words or movements,
especially because you are not confident - 3 18 heartened (adj.): if you
are heartened, someone or something makes you feel happier and more
hopeful - 323 distressed (adj.): very upset - 329 pit (n.): a hole in the
ground, especially one made by digging - 332 oppress (v.): to treat a
group of people unfairly or cruelly, and prevent them from having the
same rights that other people in society have - 339 confidence (n.): the
belief that you have the ability to do things well or deal with situations
successfully - 343 mosque (n.): a building in which Muslims worship -
346 determined (adj.): showing determination (= the quality of trying to
do something even when it is difficult) - 353 gaudy (adj.): clothes, col-
ours, etc. that are gaudy are too bright and look cheap - 354 conscious

Hamf Kurezshz
1
(adj.): noticing or realizing something - 364 inadvertently (adv.): without
realizing what you are doing - 371 fury (n.): extreme, often uncontrolled
anger - 389 pant (v.): to breathe quickly with short noisy breaths, for
example because you have been running or because it is very hot - 391
retaliate (v.): to do something bad to someone because they have done
something bad to you.
Questions
l Classical Civilization at the Univer-
Describe how and why Parvez is first mistaken about his son's
changes. What does this reveal about Parvez?
2 only gained degrees in English and
In how far is Pawez "implicated in Western civilization", as his
son claims? Give an account of Parvez's Westernized lifestyle.
3 ingfor Television, but also a Higher
Describe the gradual changes in Ali's behaviour and list some of
his attitudes towards Western civilization. Comment on his
attitudes.
4 careers, one as a lecturer, teacher
How could Parvez's life be considered amoral from the point of
view of a strict Muslim?
5 Describe and discuss the irony of the last line.
6 Continue with the story. sugLest several paths both Pawez's and
Ali's life could take.
-..
7 Form a discussion group and try to mediate between Parvez's and
Ali's opinions.
, leatherjacket, revealing "an inch of bare white flesh" at the midriff They
'
W
Qazsra Shahraz
QAISRA SHAHRAZ
Born in Pakistan, Qaisra Shahraz
came to England at the age of eight
and now lives in Manchester with
her husband and three sons. She
studied English Literature and
sity of Manchester and later not
European Literature and Scriptwrit-
Certificate in Islamic Studies. She
has been following two successful
trainer und college inspector, and one in gaining the reputation of being
one of Britaink most acclaimed journalists, scriptwriters and fiction
writers; she is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts. As a freelance author,
she has contributed regularly to various newspapers and magazines; she
has not only written plays for radio and the theatre, but also for Pakistani
television. Her prize-winning short stories have been published widely in
magazines and anthologies. Her debut novel The Holy Woman (2001)
won several awards, such as the Golden Jubilee Award in 2002, and has
been translated into several languages. Her second novel, Typhoon
(2003), also has been critically acclaimed. In this novel she focuses on the
tensions between modernity and tradition in a Pakistani village. The issue
of how Muslim societies or communities are confronted with Western
influences is featured in Shahraz s texts, as in "A Pair of Jeans", which is
set in England.
"A Pair of Jeans'' (1998) describes how Miriam, a Pakistani teenager,
returnsfrom a walking tour in the Peak District. By chance, her prospec-
tive parents-in-law catch a glimpse of her in a pair of Levi k jeans. So far
they have only seen her "discreetly and respectably dressed"; now they
perceive her in tight jeans, a vest shrunk after a wash and a skimpy
are ostensibly shocked. Offering feeble excuses, the future in-laws leave
the house of Miriam k parents, discussing the inadequacy of Miriam k
clothing and questioning her moral character: Miriam has thwarted their
expectations o f being a "conventional daughter-in-law, the epitome of
tradition". Now their son Farook is forced into rejecting all future plans
of marriage. While the initial ending of the story relates Miriam k feelings
of embarrassment and guilt, the author has added a second ending (the
revised ending from 2005) which shows how Miriam does not accept this
Coit-Essay Nadine Gordimer

Nadine Gordimer
Once upon a Time
Someone has written to ask me to contribute to an anthology of stories for children. I
reply that I don't write children's stories; and he writes back that at a recent congress/book
fair/seminar a certain novelist said every writer ought to write at least one story for
children. I think of sending a postcard saying I don't accept that I "ought" to write anything.
And then last night I woke up—or rather was awakened without knowing what had
roused me.
A voice in the echo-chamber of the subconscious?
A sound.
A creaking of the kind made by the weight carried by one foot after another along a
wooden floor. I listened. I felt the apertures of my ears distend with concentration. Again:
the creaking. I was waiting for it; waiting to hear if it indicated that feet were moving from
room to room, coming up the passage—to my door. I have no burglar bars, no gun under the
pillow, but I have the same fears as people who do take these precautions, and my
windowpanes are thin as rime, could shatter like a wineglass. A woman was murdered (how
do they put it) in broad daylight in a house two blocks away, last year, and the fierce dogs
who guarded an old widower and his collection of antique clocks were strangled before he
was knifed by a casual laborer he had dismissed without pay.
I was staring at the door, making it out in my mind rather than seeing it, in the dark. I lay quite
still—a victim already—the arrhythmia of my heart was fleeing, knocking this way and that
against its body-cage. How finely tuned the senses are, just out of rest, sleep! I could never listen
intently as that in the distractions of the day, I was reading every faintest sound, identifying and
classifying its possible threat.
But I learned that I was to be neither threatened nor spared. There was no human weight
pressing on the boards, the creaking was a buckling, an epicenter of stress. I was in it. The house
that surrounds me while I sleep is built on undermined ground; far beneath my bed, the floor, the
house's foundations, the stopes and passages of gold mines have hollowed the rock, and when some
face trembles, detaches and falls, three thousand feet below, the whole house shifts slightly,
bringing uneasy strain to the balance and counterbalance of brick, cement, wood and glass that hold it
as a structure around me. The misbeats of my heart tailed off like the last muffled flourishes on one
of the wooden xylophones made by the Chopi and Tsonga1 migrant miners who might have been
down there, under me in the earth at that moment. The stope where the fall was could have been
disused, dripping water from its ruptured veins; or men might now be interred there in the most
profound of tombs.
I couldn't find a position in which my mind would let go of my body—release me to sleep
again. So I began to tell myself a story, a bedtime story.

In a house, in a suburb, in a city, there were a man and his wife who loved each other very much
and were living happily ever after. They had a little boy, and they loved him very much. They had
a cat and a dog that the little boy loved very much. They had a car and a caravan trailer for
holidays, and a swimming-pool which was fenced so that the little boy and his playmates would
not fall in and drown. They had a housemaid who was absolutely trustworthy and an itinerant
gardener who was highly recommended by the neighbors. For when they began to live happily ever
after they were warned, by that wise old witch, the husband's mother, not to take on anyone off the
street. They were inscribed in a medical benefit society, their pet dog was licensed, they were
insured against fire, flood damage and theft, and subscribed to the local Neighborhood Watch,
which supplied them with a plaque for their gates lettered YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED
over the silhouette of a would-be intruder. He was masked; it could not be said if he was
black or white, and therefore proved the property owner was no racist.
It was not possible to insure the house, the swimming pool or the car against riot
damage. There were riots, but these were outside the city, where people of another color
were quartered. These people were not allowed into the suburb except as reliable
1
Chopi and Tsonga: two peoples from Mozambique, northeast of South Africa

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Coit-Essay Nadine Gordimer

housemaids and gardeners, so there was nothing to fear, the husband told the wife. Yet she
was afraid that some day such people might come up the street and tear off the plaque
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED and open the gates and stream in... Nonsense, my dear,
said the husband, there are police and soldiers and tear-gas and guns to keep them away.
But to please her—for he loved her very much and buses were being burned, cars stoned,
and schoolchildren shot by the police in those quarters out of sight and hearing of the
suburb—he had electronically controlled gates fitted. Anyone who pulled off the sign
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED and tried to open the gates would have to announce his
intentions by pressing a button and speaking into a receiver relayed to the house. The little
boy was fascinated by the device and used it as a walkie-talkie in cops and robbers play
with his small friends.
The riots were suppressed, but there were many burglaries in the suburb and somebody's
trusted housemaid was tied up and shut in a cupboard by thieves while she was in charge of
her employers' house. The trusted housemaid of the man and wife and little boy was so upset
by this misfortune befalling a friend left, as she herself often was, with responsibility for the
possessions of the man and his wife and the little boy that she implored her employers to
have burglar bars attached to the doors and windows of the house, and an alarm system
installed. The wife said, She is right, let us take heed of her advice. So from every window
and door in the house where they were living happily ever after they now saw the trees
and sky through bars, and when the little boy's pet cat tried to climb in by the fanlight to
keep him company in his little bed at night, as it customarily had done, it set off the alarm
keening through the house.
The alarm was often answered—it seemed—by other burglar alarms, in other houses,
that had been triggered by pet cats or nibbling mice. The alarms called to one another
across the gardens in shrills and bleats and wails that everyone soon became accustomed to,
so that the din roused the inhabitants of the suburb no more than the croak of frogs and
musical grating of cicadas' legs. Under cover of the electronic harpies' discourse intruders sawed
the iron bars and broke into homes, taking away hi-fi equipment, television sets, cassette players,
cameras and radios, jewelry and clothing, and sometimes were hungry enough to devour everything
in the refrigerator or paused audaciously to drink the whiskey in the cabinets or patio bars.
Insurance companies paid no compensation for single malt2, a loss made keener by the property
owner's knowledge that the thieves wouldn't even have been able to appreciate what it was they
were drinking.
Then the time came when many of the people who were not trusted housemaids and gardeners
hung about the suburb because they were unemployed. Some importuned for a job: weeding or
painting a roof; anything, baas3, madam. But the man and his wife remembered the warning about
taking on anyone off the street. Some drank liquor and fouled the street with discarded bottles.
Some begged, waiting for the man or his wife to drive the car out of the electronically operated
gates. They sat about with their feet in the gutters, under the jacaranda trees that made a green
tunnel of the street—for it was a beautiful suburb, spoilt only by their presence—and sometimes
they fell asleep lying right before the gates in the midday sun. The wife could never see anyone go
hungry. She sent the trusted housemaid out with bread and tea, but the trusted housemaid said these
were loafers and tsotsis4, who would come and tie her and shut her in a cupboard. The husband said,
She's right. Take heed of her advice. You only encourage them with your bread and tea. They are
looking for their chance . .. And he brought the little boy's tricycle from the garden into the house
every night, because if the house was surely secure, once locked and with the alarm set, someone
might still be able to climb over the wall or the electronically closed gates into the garden.
You are right, said the wife, then the wall should be higher. And the wise old witch, the
husband's mother, paid for the extra bricks as her Christmas present to her son and his wife—the
little boy got a Space Man outfit and a book of fairy tales.
But every week there were more reports of intrusion: in broad daylight and the dead of night,
in the early hours of the morning, and even in the lovely summer twilight—a certain family was

2
Single malt: an expensive Scotch whiskey
3
baas: boss
4
tsotsis: hooligans

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Coit-Essay Nadine Gordimer

at dinner while the bedrooms were being ransacked upstairs. The man and his wife, talking of the
latest armed robbery in the suburb, were distracted by the sight of the little boy's pet cat effortlessly
arriving over the seven-foot wall, descending first with a rapid bracing of extended forepaws
down on the sheer vertical surface, and then a graceful launch, landing with swishing tail
within the property. The whitewashed wall was marked with the cat's comings and goings; and on
the street side of the wall there were larger red-earth smudges that could have been made by the
kind of broken running shoes, seen on the feet of unemployed loiterers, that had no innocent
destination.
When the man and wife and little boy took the pet dog for its walk round the neighborhood
streets they no longer paused to admire this show of roses or that perfect lawn; these were hidden
behind an array of different varieties of security fences, walls and devices. The man, wife, little boy
and dog passed a remarkable choice: there was the low-cost option of pieces of broken glass
embedded in cement along the top of walls, there were iron grilles ending in lance-points, there were
attempts at reconciling the aesthetics of prison architecture with the Spanish Villa style (spikes
painted pink) and with the plaster urns of neoclassical facades (twelve-inch pikes finned like
zigzags of lightning and painted pure white). Some walls had a small board affixed, giving the
name and telephone number of the firm responsible for the installation of the devices. While the
little boy and the pet dog raced ahead, the husband and wife found themselves comparing the
possible effectiveness of each style against its appearance; and after several weeks when they paused
before this barricade or that without needing to speak, both came out with the conclusion that only
one was worth considering. It was the ugliest but the most honest in its suggestion of the pure
concentration-camp style, no frills, all evident efficacy. Placed the length of walls, it consisted of a
continuous coil of stiff and shining metal serrated into jagged blades, so that there would be no way
of climbing over it and no way through its tunnel without getting entangled in its fangs. There
would be no way out, only a struggle getting bloodier and bloodier, a deeper and sharper hooking
and tearing of flesh. The wife shuddered to look at it. You're right, said the husband, anyone would
think twice... And they took heed of the advice on a small board fixed to the wall: Consult
DRAGON'S TEETH The People For Total Security.
Next day a gang of workmen came and stretched the razor-bladed coils all round the walls of
the house where the husband and wife and little boy and pet dog and cat were living happily ever
after. The sunlight flashed and slashed, off the serrations, the cornice of razor thorns encircled the
home, shining. The husband said, Never mind. It will weather. The wife said, You're wrong. They
guarantee it's rust-proof. And she waited until the little boy had run off to play before she said, I
hope the cat will take heed . . . The husband said, Don't worry, my dear, cats always look before
they leap. And it was true that from that day on the cat slept in the little boy's bed and kept to the
garden, never risking a try at breaching security.
One evening, the mother read the little boy to sleep with a fairy story from the book the wise
old witch had given him at Christmas. Next day he pretended to be the Prince who braves the
terrible thicket of thorns to enter the palace and kiss the Sleeping Beauty back to life: he dragged
a ladder to the wall, the shining coiled tunnel was just wide enough for his little body to creep in,
and with the first fixing of its razor-teeth in his knees and hands and head he screamed and struggled
deeper into its tangle. The trusted housemaid and the itinerant gardener, whose "day" it was, came
running, the first to see and to scream with him, and the itinerant gardener tore his hands trying to
get at the little boy. Then the man and his wife burst wildly into the garden and for some reason
(the cat, probably) the alarm set up wailing against the screams while the bleeding mass of the little
boy was hacked out of the security coil with saws, wire-cutters, choppers, and they carried it—the
man, the wife, the hysterical trusted housemaid and the weeping gardener—into the house.

ONCE UPON A TIME First published in 1989. Nadine Gordimer was born in 1923 in a small town near Johannesburg, South
Africa, and graduated from the University of Witwatersrand. She has taught at several American universities, but continues to
reside in her native country. A prolific writer, Gordimer has published more than twenty books of fiction (novels and short
story collections). In addition to England's prestigious Booker Prize for Fiction, she received the Nobel Prize for literature in
1991.

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Coit-Essay Nadine Gordimer

QUESTIONS
1. The opening section of the story is told by a writer awakened by a frightening sound in the night. What two causes for
the sound does she consider? Ultimately, which is the more significant cause for fear? How do these together
create an emotional background for the "children's story" she tells?
2. What stylistic devices create the atmosphere of children's stories? How is this atmosphere related to the story's theme?
3. To what extent does the story explore the motives for the behavior of the wife and husband, the husband's mother, the
servants, and the people who surround the suburb and the house? What motives can you infer for these people? What
ironies do they display in their actions?
4. Can you fix the blame for the calamity that befalls the child? What are the possible meanings of the repeated phrase
"YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED"?
5. What details in the introductory section and in the children's story imply the nature of the social order in which both
occur?
6. Analyze the story's final paragraph in detail. How does it help to elucidate the theme?

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9 11 stories
9 11 stories: iAnna by Will Self

Sat 10 Sep 2011 00.05 BST

Dr Shiva Mukti, a psychiatrist at St Mungo's, a small and down-at-heel general hospital

situated – rather bizarrely – in the dusty pit left behind when the Middlesex Hospital
was demolished in the spring of 2008, had, through various serpentine manipulations,
got hold of his senior colleague Dr Zack Busner's mobile phone number, and this he
proceeded to call: 'Who is it?' Busner snapped. He was lying naked on his bed in the
bedroom of the grotty first-floor flat he had recently rented on Fortess Road in Kentish
Town above an insurance broker's. His phone had been balanced on the apex of his
sweat-slicked tumulus of a belly, and when it rang it slid down, slaloming expertly
through his cleavage, bounced off his clavicle and hit him full in his froggy mouth.
Mukti identified himself and explained why he was calling. Busner responded
disjointedly: 'Yes… oh, yes… Yes, I remember you – no, no I'm not. No – I'm not inter-
For heaven's sake man, I'm retired, I don't want to examine your patient no matter how
novel her symptoms may be… What's that? Not the first, you say – something of an
emerging pattern..?

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It was too late – the older psychiatrist had allowed himself to be hooked, rocking then
rolling off the bed he stood with the phone caught in the corner of his mouth. Then the
call pulled him into his clothes, out the door, down the stairs (through the wall he
heard things like: 'Third party in Chesham, John?' and 'Better try Aviva…'), out the front
door, down the road to the tube, down the escalator, through the grimy piping and up
another escalator, until he found himself, landed and gasping below a flaking stucco
portico beside a billboard picturing computer-generated luxury flats, 1,800 of them.

 
 

Mukti was a tannish, goatishly good-looking man in his late thirties with thick blue-
black hair that grew low on a brow contorted with furious concentration. He pointed to
the small window set in the door of the treatment room and said: 'She's in there.'
Busner peered though. A young schizophrenic woman wearing a middle-aged charity
shop twinset sat erect on a plastic chair making fluidly elegant motions with her skinny
arms. She poked the space in front of her, tweaking and tweezering it with her quick-
bitten fingers as if it were a semi-resistant medium. Busner was reminded of the 1970s
and Marcel Marceau. 'She thinks the world is an iPad,' Mukti explained.

'An I-what?' Busner was nonplussed.

'An iPad – a sort of computer you operate by touching the images on its screen. If you
observe closely you'll see that she's pointing to objects in the room – the examination
couch, a lamp, a sharps bin – then instead of focussing on them directly, she parts her
fingers and this increases the size of the image for her.'

'Can we go in?' Busner asked.

'Certainly,' Mukti couldn't help sounding smug, 'but I've discovered the best way of
interacting with her is to go with the flow of her iPad world… If we wait a moment she'll
notice us on her screen, then point and enlarge us, after that she'll experience our
presence as video clip.

They slipped into the corner of the treatment room and presently the young woman
did indeed enlarge the two shrinks. Ignoring them, she continued talking to an
invisible interlocutor in a brittle self-conscious voice, saying things such as, 'Well, they
would, wouldn't they' and 'No, I saw him last night but he was going to the Hope and
Anchor…' Busner whispered to Mukti: 'I assume she thinks she's talking on a phone?'

'Yes, yes, of course – using an invisible Bluetooth earpiece, you probably saw plenty of
psychotic patients behaving just as flamboyantly during the last few years before you
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retired.'

Busner digested this remark for a while before responding, 'And plenty of people not
on sections, simply wandering around in the city streets – ' He would've continued, but
the young woman was pointing vigorously at Mukti, who, with deft choreography,
brought his face to within a foot of hers. 'I know – I know,' she expostulated, 'he's such a
dish.' Then she tapped Mukti on the cheek and he withdrew a sheaf of papers from the
breast pocket of his regulation psychiatric tweed jacket. While she slid the pad of her
index finger over the same portion of nothingness again and again, as if drawing on
water, he held first one sheet of paper then the next up in front of her. Busner said,
'What's going on?'

'Well,' Mukti explained, 'I've realised that when she taps like that on a physical object
she's opening a sidebar – so I supply the text as she simulates scrolling down it. I've
discovered that if I adjust my timing to hers she can actually take in what's written on
the pages.'

'Which is?'

'Well, in this case – since it was me she tapped on – I'm showing her the pages of my CV,
but I usually have a file of newspaper clippings to hand. If I hold up a photograph she'll
tap that and I'll follow it with the relevant article. Sometimes, when she's read this
she'll sort of highlight a word or a phrase, and if I can catch what it is I'm able to cross-
reference this with another article in the clippings file – the more I manage to do this,
and the greater accuracy I achieve, the calmer she seems to become. She even…' and
here Mukti's voice dropped to a reverent hush, awed as he was by his own therapeutic
skill, '…stops talking on her invisible mobile.'

'Astonishing,' Busner remarked dryly.

'I tell you what I'm doing,' the woman patient spoke over them, loudly and coyly, 'I'm
Googling my new shrink… No, no – there isn't much on him here… Pretty dull stuff,
educated in Finchley… blah, blah, medical school… blah, blah, Shiva Mukti MD,
MRCPsych… blah, blah – what? What!? No? Like, for real – ? I've got someone else
calling, willya' hold?' She doodled on a patch of the void local to her thigh while
squealing, 'Mary? You'll never be-lieve who I'm talking to – yes, right now,' and
simultaneously rapping Mukti smartly on the forehead, which as he explained sotto
voce to Busner, was the command for him to withdraw.

Regrouped in the corner of the treatment room the two mismatched soul doctors
watched as the object of their enquiry juggled her two 'phone calls' for a few more

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minutes, before turning her attention to a spot in the mid-distance that she pincered
apart into a vaporous cynosure. Fixating on this she nodded her head, tapped her foot
on the scuzzy lino and began to mumble along in an abstracted way, 'Rejoice and love
yourself today coz ba-by you were born this waay…'

'She's watching a video clip of a pop singer on YouTube,' Mukti crowed, 'and I believe I
know which one!'

'Oh,' Busner remained underwhelmed, 'and who's that then?'

'Lady Gaga!'

 
 

Later, seated in the basement canteen, Busner worked his way steadily through a plate
piled high with rubbery eggs, greasy sausages, several scoops of mash, a raffia mat of
bacon, a slurry of baked beans, a fungal growth of mushrooms, a disembowelling of
stewed tomatoes – the entire mess suppurating sauce. Mukti looked on, appalled, and
noticing his expression Busner confided: 'Y'know, you can take the man out of the
institution – but after half a century odd, you can't deprive him altogether of the
institutional food.'

Mukti lifted the dead mouse of his herbal teabag from his mug by its paper tail and
regarded it balefully, 'Well,' he said. 'What do you make of my patient?'

'I suppose she has a name,' Busner said, 'I mean, she is a person y'know – not just a
pathology.'

'Her name's Anna Richards. She's from a perfectly ordinary middle-class background,
loving parents… siblings, friends – the whole bit. She was studying for an English
degree at some provincial university when she had a flamboyant psychotic breakdown
and started behaving like… like… well, like this. As I said, I've had a couple of others
present in the last year with very similar symptoms, I've tentatively named it,' he gave a
vaguely self-satisfied little moue, 'iPhrenia, so I tend to refer to her as – '

'iAnna, I s'pose.' With the nightmarish alacrity only witnessed in imperfectly

constructed works of narrative fiction Busner had cleared his plate, and now he was
mopping up the sloppy residuum with a triangle of bread as white as death. 'Humph,'
he said through a mouthful, 'I admire your creative drive, Mukti, after all, given the
metastasised malaise that passes for diagnostics in our field, coining a new name for an
existing condition is as close as any of us is likely to get to immortality. But surely you
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cannot be unaware that every successive wave of technology has nightmarishly

infected the psychotic? That in the preindustrial world they were possessed by devils
and that once magnetism had been discovered their minds turned to the lodestone?
When electricity appeared it immediately zapped their thoughts – and the coming of
the telegraph dot-dot-dashed away on the inside of their skulls? This, um, iPhrenia is
only the latest sad fancy to grip these distressed early-adopters, who have already been
plagued by X Rays and atomic bombs and Lord knows what else.'

During this little peroration the superannuated psychiatrist had risen, and he was
already halfway across the canteen. 'Goodbye, Mukti,' he threw over his shoulder,
'please don't call me again, my mobile phone is sadly all too real – ' but then something
suddenly occurred to him, and he stopped, turned, then returned to the Melamine
table with a flinty glint in his eye.

 
 

Up on the locked psychiatric ward of St Mungo's the distressed inmates rocked and
rolled and eddied and howled in the zephyrs of their own fancy. It was a long, low-
ceilinged chamber, poorly-lit by a row of lancet windows. Surveying the gloomy scene
Busner remarked testily: 'First we send these poor souls out to flap around the streets,
and now we have nowhere for them but this if they're lucky enough to come home to
roost.' Mukti grunted noncommittally – nearby a bored charge nurse stood,
compulsively clicking a retractable Biro. On the unmade bed in front of the doctors sat
iAnna, in a ghastly Terylene nightdress, performing her odd arabesques.

'It's only a hunch,' Busner said, turning his attention to her, 'but if, as you suggest,
Mukti, for her the entire perceptual realm is mediated by these, ah, motions, surely it
may be possible to…' with a surprising elegance Busner replicated on a larger scale a
flurry of pointing, pinching and twisting that culminated with his outstretched fingers
on the young woman's face. '…There!'

'Wow!' Mukti was taken aback. 'That's the first time I've seen her in repose since she
arrived here – what did you do?'

'It's quite simple, I've reversed the screen-world so that Anna is now the computer, and
we are its operators. She's dormant just now, but if I'm right, if do this,' he tapped her
on the forehead with a single finger, 'she will – '

Anna began chanting with the monotonous tone of a text-enabled electronic book: 'My
name is An-na Rich-ards I am twenty-one I am curr-ent-ly in a men-tal hos-pi-tal I feel

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frigh-ten-ed and alone…' Speaking over her Busner said, 'Whereas if I do this,' with a
second tap he silenced the patient, then lightly struck her shoulder. Again the
monotonous voice, 'I was giv-en my Bee-Cee-Gee vacc-ci-na-tion when I was thir-teen I
was scared of the nee-dle and a-no-ther girl teased and bull-ied me – ' Busner tapped
her into silence and straightening up said, 'Now, that is something genuinely novel,
Mukti – a severely psychotic patient who can nonetheless furnish accurate and factual
accounts of their own inner mental states. If you can manipulate iAnna effectively –
rather than allowing her to play upon you – you may well end up with a research paper
worthy of the British Journal of Ephemera.'

'W-won't you consider collaborating?' Mukti gasped.

'No… no, as I think I said to you on the phone, I'm retired now – I intend to cultivate my
own neuroses the way other pensioners cultivate their allotments… but one other
thing, Mukti.'

'What?'

For a few moments Busner stood staring down through the narrow, arched window
into the mosh-pit of lunchtime central London, where a packed crowd of office
prisoners had been let out for an hour's courtyard exercise. They bustled along talking
to their invisible friends, or stood abstracted on the kerb the fingers of one hand
fiddling away in the palm of the other, or, like iAnna footled fanatically with a filmy
square-foot. Tearing himself away from the St Vitus dance of modernity, Busner said, 'I
have a suspicion that when you flip Anna around the other way again, if you actually
provide her with an iPad of her own she'll be… well, if not exactly cured certainly
capable of receiving care in the…' his moist amphibian lips dripped with distaste of the
word '…community. No doubt your paper will do wonders in repairing the holes those
palliative iPads will make in your savagely reduced budget.'

And with that, he was gone.

9 11 stories
Ten years after the attacks on New York and Washington, we look at how 9 11 has shaped
imaginations. The Guardian's short fiction project, 9 11 stories, brings together writers from
all over the world to examine what has changed and what has not over the course of the last
decade.

The Trial: inside Guantánamo with 9 11 suspect Ammar al Baluchi video

  22 Feb 2019
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 Creative Writing- Appreciating Poetry

Extract from “Poems for a Younger Brother 1930-1979”

By Taufiq Rafat (1927-1998)

I rehearse
a smile at a passing stranger, but tears
are knocking hard at the back of my eyes.
I wander off towards the canteen gates
pretending I am out of cigarettes,
and let the tears come. And then I pretend
a mote of dust is making my eyes hurt.
Having no handkerchief, I pull the shirt end
from my trousers and use them freely.
Soon, I am a man again.

Wedding in the flood

By Taufiq Rafat

They are taking my girl away forever,

sobs the bride’s mother, as the procession
forms slowly to the whine of the clarinet.
She was the shy one. How will she fare
in that cold house, among these strangers?
This has been a long and difficult day.
The rain nearly runied everything,
but at the crucial time, when lunch was ready,
it mercifully stopped. It is drizzling again
as they help the bride into the palankeen (palanquin)
This girl has been licking too many pots.
Two sturdy lads carrying the dowry
(a cot, a looking glass, a tin-trunk,
beautifully painted in grey and blue)
lead the way, followed by a foursome
bearing the palankeen on their shoulders
Now even the stragglers are out of view

I like the look of her hennaed hands

gloats the bridegroom, as he glimpses
her slim fingers gripping the palankeen’s side
If only her face matches her hands,
and she gives me no mother-in-law problems,
I’ll forgive her the cot and the trunk
and looking glass. Will the rain never stop?
It was my luck to get a pot licking wench.

Everything depends on the ferryman now.

It is dark in the palankeen, thinks the bride,
and the roof is leaking. Even my feet are wet.
Not a familiar face around me
as I peep through the curtains. I’m cold and scared.
The rain will ruin the cot, trunk and looking glass.
What sort of man is my husband?
They would hurry, but their feet are slipping,
and there is a swollen river to cross.
 Creative Writing- Appreciating Poetry

They might have given a bullock at least,

grumbles the bridegroom’s father; a couple of oxen
would have come in handy at the next ploughing.
Instead, we are landed with
a cot, a tin trunk and a looking glass,
all the things that she will use!
Dear God, how the rain is coming down.
The silly girl’s been licking too many pots.
I did not like the look of the river
when we crossed it this morning.
Come back before three, the ferryman said,
or you’ll not find me here. I hope
he waits. We are late by an hour,
or perhaps two. But whoever heard
of a marriage party arriving on time?
The light is poor, and the paths treacherous,
but it is the river I most of all fear.

Bridegroom and bride and parents and all,

the ferryman waits; he knows you will come
for there is no other way to cross,
and a wedding party always pays extra.
the river is rising, so quickly jump aboard
with your cot, tin trunk, and looking glass,
that the long homeward journey can begin.
Who has seen such a brown and angry river
or can find words for the way the ferry
saws this way and that, and then disgorges
its screaming load? The clarinet fills with water.
Oh what a consummation is here:
The father tossed on the horns of the waves,
and full thirty garlands are bobbing past
the bridegroom heaved on the heaving tide,
and in an eddy, among the willows downstream,
the coy bride is truly wedded at last.










 Creative Writing- Appreciating Poetry

I Cross the River

By Kaleem Omer (1937-2009)

I cross the river and go into the land.


Here are the rice fields and untidy market towns,
summers that never seem to end,

and the thick speech of unlettered men.

A climate of extremes in all things,


and the earth's salt encroaching

on the farmer's labour. Friends are friends for life.
Enmities once struck outlast a generation.

But the old frontiers


were not worth dying for—a concept

or a way of life these abandoned forts defend.
Huge women squat in kitchens with their friends.
 Creative Writing- Appreciating Poetry

Reproductions
By Daud Kamal (1935-1987)

Reproductions of Mughal miniatures

cut out from last year’s calendar
And fragments of real Gandhara sculpture
bought for a song.

Prince Siddharta gone into the night

with Channa, his charioteer
and old Tajiks in their tents
drinking China tea.

Almond blossoms fall

and a crow- carved out of ebony-
pushes itself through the rain.
I sit scraping the rust off my ancient coins.

 Creative Writing- Appreciating Poetry

Kittens
By Maki Kureishi (1927-1995)

There are too many kittens.

Even the cat is dismayed
at this overestimation

My relations say:
Take them to a bazaar
and let them go
each to its fate . . .
If they survive the dogs,
they will starve gently,
squealing a little less
each day;
The European thing to do
is drown them.
Warm water
is advised to lessen the shock
They are so small it takes only
a minute. You hold them down
and turn your head away.
They are blind and will never know
you did this.

Snagged
by two cultures, which
shall I choose?








 Creative Writing- Appreciating Poetry

I, Too
by Langston Hughes (1902- 1967)

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.
Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—
I, too, am America.



Crow’s Fall

By Ted Hughes (1930-1998)

When the crow was white he decided the sun was too white
He decided it glared much too whitely.
He decided to attack it and defeat it.

He got his strength flush and in full glitter.

He clawed and fluffed his rage up.
He aimed his beak direct at the sun’s center.

He laughed himself to the centre of himself

And attacked.
At his battle cry the trees grew suddenly old,
Shadows flattened.

But the sun brightened--

It brightened, and Crow returned charred black.

He opened his mouth but what came out was charred black.

“Up there,” he managed,

“Where white is black and black is white, I won.”
 Creative Writing- Appreciating Poetry

The Shoelace
Charles Bukowski (1920-1994)

a woman, a

tire that’s flat, a

disease, a

desire: fears in front of you,

fears that hold so still

you can study them

like pieces on a

chessboard…

it’s not the large things that

send a man to the

madhouse. death he’s ready for, or

murder, incest, robbery, fire, flood…

no, it’s the continuing series of small tragedies

that send a man to the

madhouse…

not the death of his love

but a shoelace that snaps

with no time left …

The dread of life

is that swarm of trivialities

that can kill quicker than cancer

and which are always there -

license plates or taxes

or expired driver’s license,

or hiring or firing,

doing it or having it done to you, or

roaches or flies or a

broken hook on a

screen, or out of gas

or too much gas,

the sink’s stopped-up, the landlord’s drunk,

the president doesn’t care and the governor’s

crazy.

light switch broken, mattress like a

porcupine;

$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at

sears roebuck;

and the phone bill’s up and the market’s

down

and the toilet chain is

broken,

and the light has burned out -

the hall light, the front light, the back light,

the inner light; it’s

darker than hell

and twice as

expensive.

then there’s always crabs and ingrown toenails

and people who insist they’re

your friends;

there’s always that and worse;

 Creative Writing- Appreciating Poetry

leaky faucet, christ and christmas;


blue salami, 9 day rains,

50 cent avocados

and purple

liverwurst.



or making it

as a waitress at norm’s on the split shift,

or as an emptier of

bedpans,

or as a carwash or a busboy

or a stealer of old lady’s purses

leaving them screaming on the sidewalks

with broken arms at the age of 80.



suddenly

2 red lights in your rear view mirror

and blood in your

underwear;

toothache, and $979 for a bridge

$300 for a gold

tooth,

and china and russia and america, and

long hair and short hair and no

hair, and beards and no

faces, and plenty of zigzag but no

pot, except maybe one to piss in

and the other one around your

gut.



with each broken shoelace

out of one hundred broken shoelaces,

one man, one woman, one

thing

enters a

madhouse.

so be careful

when you

bend over.
 Creative Writing- Appreciating Poetry

! 

 THE
DEAR DEPARTED
A COMEDY IN ONE ACT

By

STANLEY HOUGHTON

Copyright, 19 io, by Samuel French, Ltd

New York | London

SAMUEL FRENCH ;

SAMUEL FRENCH Ltd

Publisher j
26 Southampton Street
2S-30 WEST 38TH STREET ; STRAND
 —

CHARACTERS
Mrs. Slater -»

(Sisters.
Mrs. Jordan /
Henry Slater 1
r {Their husbands.)
Ben Jordan
Victoria Slater (.-I gii'l of ten.)
Abel Merryweather.

The action, fakes place in a provincial toivn on a Saturday

afternoon.

Produced at the Gaiety Theatre, Manchester, by Miss

Horniman's Company on November 2, 1908, with the follow-
ing cast :

Mrs. Slater Ada King.

Victoria Slater Enid Meek.
Henry Slater Henry Austin.
Mrs. Jordan Louise Holbrook.
Ben Jordan Joseph A. Keogh.
Abel Merryweather Edward Lander.

Any costumes or wigs required for the production of "The

Dear Departed" may be hired or purchased reasonably from
Messrs. C. H. Fox, Ltd., 27, Welhngton Street, Strand, London
 THE DEAR DEPARTED
(Note. —The terms " Left " and " Right " in the
stage directions refer to the spectator's left and
right, not the actor's.)

The scene is the sitting-room of a small house in a

lower middle-class district of a provincial toivn.
On the spectator's left is the ivindow, with the blinds
down. A sofa is in front of it. On his right is a
fireplace with an armchair by it. In the middle of
the wall facing the spectator is the door into the pas-
sage. To the left of the door a cheap,
shabby chest
of drawers, to the right a sideboard. In
the middle
of the room is the table, with chairs round it. Orna-
ments and a cheap American clock are on the mantel-
piece, in the hearth a kettle. By the sideboard a pair
of gaudy new carpet slippers. The table is partly
laid for tea, and the necessaries for the meal are on
the sideboard, as also are copies of an evening paper
and of " Tit-Bits " and " Pearson's Weekly." Turn-
ing to the left through the door takes you to the front
door; to the right, upstairs. In the passage a hat-
stand is visible.

When curtain rises Mrs. Slater is seen laying

the
the She is a vigorous, plump, red-faced
table.
vulgar woman, prepared to do any amount of straight
talking to get her oivn way. She is in black, but
not in complete mourning. She listens a moment
and then goes to the window, opens it and calls into
the street.
8 THE DEAR DEPARTED,
Mrs. Slater {sharply). Victoria, Victoria ! D'ye
hear ? Come in, will you ?

(Mrs. Slater closes window and puts the blind straight

and then returns her ivork at the table.
to Victoria,
a precocious girl of ten, dressed in colours, enters.

Mrs. S. I'm amazed at you, Victoria I really ;

am. How you can be gallivanting about in the

street with your grandfather lying dead and cold
upstairs I don't know. Be off now, and change
your dress before your Aunt Elizabeth and your
Uncle Ben come. It would never do for them to
find you in colours.
Victoria. What are they coming for ? They
haven't been here for ages.
Mrs. S. They're coming to talk over poor grand-
pa's affairs. Your father sent them a telegram as
soon as we found he was dead. {A noise is heard.)
Good gracious, that's never them. (Mrs. Slater
hurries to the door and opens it.) No, thank goodness !

it's only your father.

(Henry Slater, a stooping, heavy man with a drooping

moustache, enters. He is wearing a black tail coat,
grey trousers, a black tie and a bolder hat. He
carries a little paper parcel.)

Henry. Not come yet, eh ?

Mrs. S. You can see they haven't, can't you.
Now, Victoria, be off upstairs and that quick. Put
your white frock on with a black sash. (Victoria
goes out.)
Mrs. S. {to Henry).
I'm not satisfied, but it's
the best we can do our new black's ready, and
till

Ben and Ehzabeth will never have thought about

mourning yet, so we'll outshine them there. (Henry
sits in the armchair by the fire.) Get your boots off,
Henry Ehzabeth's that prying she notices the least
;

speck of dirt.
Henry. I'm wondering if they'll come at all.
 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 9

When you and Elizabeth quarrelled she said she'd

never set foot in your house again.
Mrs. S. She'll come fast enough after her share
of what grandfather's left. You know how hard
she can be when she hkes. Where she gets it from
I can't tell.

(Mrs. Slater unwraps the parcel Henry has brought.

It contains sliced tongue, which she puts on a dish
on the table.)

Henry. I suppose it's in the family.

Mrs. S. What do you mean by that, Henry
Slater ?
Henry. I was referring to your father, not to
you. Where are my slippers ?
Mrs. S. In the kitchen but you want a new
;

pair, those old ones are nearly worn out. {Nearly

breaking down.) You don't seem to realize what it's
costing me to bear up like I am doing. My heart's
fit to break when I see the little trifles that belonged

to grandfather lying around, and think he'll never

use them again. (Briskly.) Here you'd better
!

wear these slippers of grandfather's now. It's lucky

he'd just got a new pair.
Henry. They'll be very small for me, my dear,
Mrs. S. They'll stretch, won't they ? I'm not
going to have them wasted. [She has finished laying
the table.) Henry, I've been thinking about that
bureau of grandfather's that's in his bedroom. You
know I always wanted to have it after he died.
Henry. You must arrange with Elizabeth when
you're dividing things up.
Mrs. S. Ehzabeth's that sharp she'll see I'm
after it, and she'll drive a hard bargain over it. Eh,
what it is to have a low money-grubbing spirit !

Henry. Perhaps she's got her eye on the bureau

as well.
Mrs. S. She's never been here since grandfather
JO THE DEAR DEPARTED.
bought it. If it was only down here instead of in
his room, she'd never guess it wasn't our own.
Henry {startled). Ameha {He rises.) !

Mrs. S. Henry, why shouldn't we bring that

bureau down here now. We could do it before they
come.
Henry {stupefied). I wouldn't care to.
Mrs. S. Don't look so daft. Why not ?
Henry. It doesn't seem delicate, somehow.
Mrs. H. We could put that shabby old chest of
drawers upstairs where the bureau is now. Elizabeth
could have that and welcome. I've always wanted
to get rid of it. {She points to the drawers.)
Henry. Suppose they come when we're doing it.
Mrs. S. I'll fasten the front door. Get your
coat off, Henry we'll change it.
;

(Mrs. Slater goes out to fasten the front door.

Henry takes his coat off. Mrs. Slater reap-
pears.)

Mrs. S. I'll run up and move the chairs out of

the way.

(Victoria appears, dressed according to her mother's

instructions.)

Vic. Will you fasten my frock up the ])ack,

mother ?

Mrs. S. I'm busy ;

get your father to do it.

(Mrs. Slater hurries upstairs, and Henry fastens

the frock.)

Vic. What have you got your coat off for, father ?
Henry. Mother and me is going to bring grand-
father's bureau down here.
Vic. {after a moment's thought). Are we pinching
it before Aunt Elizabeth comes ?
Henry {shocked). No, my child. Grandpa gave
it your mother before he died.
Vic. This morning ?
 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 11

Henry. Yes.
Vic. Ah ! He was drunk this morning.
Henry. Hush ;
you mustn't ever say he was
drunk, now.
(Henry has fastened the frock, and Mrs. Slater
appears carrying a handsome clock under her arm.)

Mrs. S. thought I'd fetch this down as well.

I
{She puts on the mantelpiece.) Our clock's worth
it

nothing and this always appealed to me.

Vic. That's grandpa's clock.
Mrs. S. Chut Be quiet ! It's ours now. Come, !

Henry, lift your end. Victoria, don't breathe a word

to your aunt about the clock and the bureau.

{They carry the chest of drainers through the doorway.)

Vic. {to herself). I thought we'd pinched them.

{After a short pause there is a sharp knock at the front

door.)

Mrs. S. {from upstairs). Victoria, if that's your

aunt and uncle you're not to open the door.

(Victoria peeps through the ivindoiv.)

Vic. Mother, it's them !

Mrs. S. You're not to open the door till I come

down. {Knocking repeated.) Let them knock away.
{There is a heavy humping noise.) Mind the wall,
Henry.
(Henry and Mrs. Slater, t^^ry/io/ and flushed, stagger
in with a pretty old-fashioned bureau containing a
locked desk. They put it where the chest of drawers
was, and straighten the ornaments, etc. The knocking
is repeated.)

Mrs. S. That was a near thing. Open the door,

Victoria. Now, Henry, get your coat on. {She
helps him.)
Henry. Did we knock much plaster off the wall ?
12 THE DEAR DEPARTED,
Mrs. S. Never mind the plaster. Do I look all
right {Straightening her hair at the glass.)
? Just
watch Ehzabeth's face when she sees we're all in half
mourning. (Throiving him " Tit-Bits.") Take this
and sit down. Try and look as if we'd been waiting
for them.

(Henry the armchair and Mrs. Slater le/t of

sits in
table. They read ostentatiously. Victoria ushers in
Ben and Mrs. Jordan. The latter is a stout, com-
placeni woman with an impassive face and an irritating
air of being always right. She is loearing a complete
and deadly outfit of new mourning crowned by a great
black hat with plumes. Ben is also in complete
new mourning, with black gloves and a band round
his hat. He is rather a jolly little man, accustomed
to be humorous, present trying to adapt
but at
himself to the regrettable occasion. He has a bright,
chirpy little voice. Mrs. Jordan sails into the
room and solemnly goes straight to Mrs. Slater and
kisses her. The men shake hands. Mrs. Jordan
kisses Henry. Ben kisses Mrs. Slater. Not a
word is spoken. Mrs. Slater furtively inspects
the neiv mourning.)
"
Mrs. Jordan. Well, Amelia, and so he's " gone
at last.
Mrs. S. Yes, he's gone. He was seventy-two a
fortnight last Sunday.

{She sniffs back a tear, Mrs. Jordan sits on the left

of the table. Mrs. Slater on the right. Henry
in the armchair. Ben on the sofa with Victoria
near him.)

Ben {chirpily). Now, Ameha, you mustn't give

way. We've all got to die some time or other. It
might have been worse.
Mrs. S. I don't see how.
Ben. It might have been one of us.
 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 13

Henry. It's taken you a long time to get here,

Elizabeth.
Mrs. J. Oh, I couldn't do it. 1 really couldn't
do it.
Mrs. S. {suspiciously). Couldn't do what ?
Mrs. J. I couldn't start without getting the
mourning. {Glancing at her sister.)
Mrs. S. We've ordered ours, you may be sure.
{Acidly.) I never could fancy buying ready-made
things.
Mrs. J. No ? For myself it's such a relief to
get into the black. And now perhaps you'll tell us
all about it. What did the doctor say ?
Mrs. S. Oh, he's not been near yet.
Mrs. J. Not been near ?
Ben {in the same breath). Didn't you send for
him at once ?
Mrs. S. Of course I did. Do you take me for a
fool ? I sent Henry at once for Dr. Pringle, but he
was out.
Ben. You should have gone for another. Eh,
EUza ?
Mrs. J. Oh, yes. It's a fatal mistake.
Mrs. S. Pringle attended him when he was alive
and Pringle shall attend him when he's dead. That's
professional etiquette.
Ben. Well, you know your own business best,
but
Mrs. J. —
Yes it's a fatal mistake.
Mrs. S. Don't talk so silly, Elizabeth. What
good could a doctor have done ?
Mrs. J. Look at the many cases of persons being
restored to life hours after they were thought to be
" gone."
Henry. That's when they've been drowned.
Your father wasn't drowned, Ehzabeth.
Ben {humorously). There wasn't much fear of
that. Ifthere was one thing he couldn't bear it was
water.
 —

14 THE DEAR DEPARTED.

[He laughs, but no one else does.)

Mrs. J. {pained). Ben ! (Ben is crushed at

once.)
Mrs. S. {piqued). I'm sure he washed regular
enough.
Mrs. he did take a drop too much at thnes,
J. If
on that, now.
we'll not dwell
Mrs. S. Father had been " merry " this morning.
He went out soon after breakfast to pay his insur-
ance.
Ben. My word, it's a good thing he did.
Mrs. J. He always was thoughtful in that way.
He was too honourable to have " gone " without
paying his premium.
Mrs. S. Well, he must have gone round to the
Ring-o' -Bells afterwards, for he came in as merry as
a sandboy. I says, " We're only waiting Henry to

start dinner." " Dinner," he says, " I don't want

"
no dinner, I'm going to bed !

Ben [shaking his head). Ah ! Dear, dear.

Henry. And when I came in I found him undi^essed
sure enough and snug in bed. (He rises and stands
on the hearthrug.)
Mrs. J. {definitely). Yes, he'd had a " warning."
I'm sure of that. Did he know you ?
Henry. Yes. He spoke to me.
Mrs. J. Did he say he'd had a " warning" ?
Henry. No. He said, " Henry, would you
mind taking my boots off ; I forgot before I got into
bed."
Mrs. J. He must have been wandering.
Henry. No, he'd got 'em on all right.
Mrs. S. And when we'd I thoughtfinished dinner
I'd take up a something on a tray. He was
bit of
lying there for all the world as if he was asleep, so
I put the tray down on the bureau {correcting
herself) on the chest of drawers and went to waken —
him. (.4 pause.) He was quite cold.
 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 15

Henry. Then I heard Amelia calHng for me,

and I ran upstairs.
Mrs. S. Of course we could do nothing.
Mrs. J. He was " gone " ?
Henry. There wasn't any doubt.
Mrs. J. I always knew he'd go sudden in the
end.

{A pause, they icipe their eyes and sniff back tears.)

Mrs. S. {yising briskly at length ; in a businesslike

tone). Well, will you go up and look at him now,
or shallwe have tea ?
Mrs. J. What do you say, Ben ?

Ben. I'm not particular.

Mrs. J. {surveying the table). Well then, if the
kettle's nearly ready we may as well have tea first.

(Mrs. Slater puts the kettle on the fire and gets tea
ready.)

Henry. One thing we may as well decide now ;

the announcement in the papers.

Mrs. J. I was thinking of that. What would
you put ?
Mrs. S. At the residence of his daughter, 235,
Upper Cornbank Street, etc.
Henry. You wouldn't care for a bit of poetry ?
Mrs. J. I hke " Never Forgotten." It's refined.
Henry. Yes, but it's rather soon for that.
Ben. You couldn't very well have forgot him
the day after.
Mrs. S. I always fancy " A loving husband, a
kind father, and a faithful friend."
Ben {doubtfully). Do you think that's right ?
Henry. I don't think it matters whether it's
right or not.
Mrs. J. No, it's more for the look of the thing.
Henry. I saw a verse in The Evening News
yesterday. Proper poetry it was. It rhymed.
{He gets the paper and reads)
 !

16 THE DEAR DEPARTED.

" Despised and forgotten by some you may be
But the spot that contains you is sacred to we."

Mrs. J. That'll never do. You don't say " Sacred

to we."
Henry. It's in the paper.
Mrs. S. You wouldn't say it if you were speaking
properly, but it's different in poetry.
Henry. Poetic license, you know.
Mrs. J. No, that'll never do. We want a verse
that says how much we loved him and refers to all
his good qualities and says what a heavy loss we've
had.
Mrs. S. You want a whole poem. That'll cost
a good lot.
Mrs. J. Well, we'll think about it after tea, and
then we'll look through his bits of things and make
a list of them. There's all the furniture in his room.
Henry. There's no jewellery or valuables of that
sort.
Mrs. J. Except his gold watch. He promised
that to our Jimmy.
Mrs. S. Promised your Jimmy ! I never heard
of that.
Mrs. J. Oh, but he did, Ameha, when he was
living with us. He was very fond of Jimmy.
Mrs. S. Well. {Amazed.) I don't know
Ben. Anyhow, there's his insurance money.
Have you got the receipt for the premium he paid
this morning ?
Mrs. S. I've not seen it.
(Victoria jumps up fvom the sofa and comes behind
the table.)

Vic. Mother, I don't think grandpa went to pay

his insurance this morning.
Mrs.
S. He went- out.
Vic. Yes, but he didn't go into the town. He
met old Mr. Tattersall down the street, and they
went off part St. Philips's Church.
 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 17

Mrs. S. To the Ring-o' -Bells, I'll be bound.

Ben. The Ring-o' -Bells ?
Mrs. S. That public-house that John Shorrock's
widow keeps. He is always hanging about there.
Oh, if he hasn't paid it
Ben. Do you think he hasn't paid it ? Was it
overdue ?

Mrs. S. I should think it was overdue.

Mrs. J. Something tells me he's not paid it.

I've a " warning," I know it ; he's not paid it.

Ben. The drunken old beggar.

Mrs. J. He's done it on purpose, just to annoy us.
Mrs. S. After all I've done for him, having to put
up with him in the house these three years. It's
nothing short of swindling.
Mrs. J. I had to put up with him for five years.
Mrs. S. And you were trying to turn him over
to us all the time.
Henry. But we don't know for certain that he's
not paid the premium.
Mrs. J. I do. It's come over me all at once
that he hasn't.
Mrs. S. Victoria, run upstairs and fetch that
bunch of kevs that's on your grandpa's dressing
table.
Vic. {timidlv). In grandpa's room ?

Mrs. S. Yes.
Vic. I —
I don't like to.
Mrs. S. Don't talk so silly. There's no one can
hurt you.

(Victoria goes out reluctantly .)

We'll seeif he's locked the receipt up in the bureau.

Ben. In where ? In this thing ? {He rises

and examines it.)
Mrs. J. {also rising). Where did you pick that
up, Ameha ? It's new since last I was here.

{They examine it closely.)

 !

18 THE DEAR DEPARTED.

—
Mrs. S. Oh Henry picked it up one day.
Mrs. J. I like it. It's artistic. Did you buy
it at an auction ?
Henry. Eh ? Where did I buy it, AmeHa ?
Mrs. Yes, at an auction.
J.
Ben {disparagingly). Oh, second-hand.
Mrs. J. Don't show your ignorance, Ben. All
artistic things are second-hand. Look at those old
masters.

(Victoria returns, very scared. She closes the door

after her.)

Vic. Mother ! Mother

Mrs. S. What is it, child ?

Vic. Grandpa's getting up.

Ben. What ?
Mrs. S. What do you say ?

Vic. Grandpa's getting up.

Mrs. J. The child's crazy.
Mrs. S. Don't talk so silly. Don't you know
your grandpa's dead ?
Vic. No, no he's getting up.
; I saw him.

[They are transfixed with amazement ; Ben and Mrs.

Jordan left of table ; Victoria clings to Mrs.
Slater, right of table ; Henry near fireplace.)

Mrs. J. You'd better go up and see for yourself,

Amelia.
Mrs. S. Here — come with me, Henry.

(Henry draws back terrified.)

Ben {suddenly). Hist ! Listen.

{They look at the door. A slight chuckling is heard

outside. The door opens, revealing an clad old man
in a faded but gay dressing-gown. He is in his
stockinged feet. Although over seventy he is vigorous
and well coloured ; his bright, malicious eyes twinkle
 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 19

under his heavy, reddish-grey eyebrows. He is

obviously either grandfather Abel Merryweather
or else his ghost.)

Abel. What's the matter with Httle Vicky ?

[He sees Ben and Mrs. Jordan.) Hello ! What

brings you here ? How's yourself, Ben ?

(Abel thrusts his hand at Ben, ie>ho skips back smartly

and retreats ivith Mrs. Jordan to a safe distance
beloia the sofa.)

Mrs. S. {approaching Abel gingerly). Grand-

father, is that you ? {She pokes him with her hand
to see if he is solid.)
Abel.Of course it's me. Don't do that, 'Melia,
What the devil do you mean by this tomfoolery ?
Mrs. S. {to the others). He's not dead.
Ben. Doesn't seem like it.
Abel {irritated by the whispering). You've kept
away long enough, Lizzie and now you've come j^ou
;

don't seem over-pleased to see me.

Mrs. J. You took us by surprise, father. Are
you keeping quite well ?
Abel {trying to catch the words). Eh ? What ?

Mrs. J. Are you quite well ?

Abel. Ay, I'm right enough but for a bit of a
headache. I wouldn't mind betting that I'm not
the first in this house to be carried to the cemetery.
I always think Henry there looks none too healthy.
Mrs. J. Well I never (Abel crosses to the
!

armchair and Henry gets out of hisivay to the front

of the table.)
Abel. 'Meha, what the dickens did I do with
my new slippers ?

Mrs. S. {confused). Aren't they by the hearth,

grandfather ?

Abel. I don't see them. {Observing Henry

trying to remove the slippers.) Why, you've got 'em
on, Henry.
 !

20 THE DEAR DEPARTED,

Mrs. S. {promptly). I told him to putthem on
to stretchthem, they were that new and hard.
Now, Henry.
(Mrs. Slater snatclies the slippers front Henry and
gives them to Abel, ivho puts them on and sits in
armchair.)

Mrs. J. [to Ben). Well, I don't call that delicate,

stepping into a dead man's shoes in such haste.

(Henry goes up to the u'indow and pulls up the blind.)

Victoria rtms across to Abel and sits on the floor
at his feet.)

Vic. Oh, grandpa, I'm so glad you're not dead,

Mrs. S. {in a vindictive whisper). Hold your
tongue, Victoria.
Abel. Eh ? What's that ? Who's gone dead ?
Mrs, S. {loudly). Victoria says she's sorry about
your head.
Abel. Ah, thank you, Vicky, but I'm feeling
better.
Mrs. S. {to Mrs. J.) He's so fond of Victoria.
Mrs J. {to Mrs. S.). Yes; he's fond of our
Jimmy, too.
Mrs. S. You'd better ask him if he promised
your Jimmy his gold watch.
Mrs. J. {disconcerted). I couldn't just now. I
don't feel equal to it.

Abel. Why, Ben, you're in mourning And !

Lizzie too. And 'Melia, and Henry and little Vicky

Who's gone dead? It's some one in the family.
{He chuckles.)
Mrs. S. No one you know, father. A relation
of Ben's.
Abel. And what relation of Ben's ?
Mrs. S, His brother.
Ben {to Mrs. S.) Dang it, I never had one.
Abel. Dear, dear. And what was his name,
Ben?
 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 21

Ben {at a loss). Er — er. {He crosses io front of

table.)
Mrs. S. (r. of table) {prompting). Frederick.
Mrs. J. (l. of table) {prompting). Albert.
—
Ben. Er Fred Alb Isaac. — —
Abel. Isaac ? And where did your brother
Isaac die ?

— —
Ben. In er in Australia.
Abel. Dear, dear. He'd be older than you,
eh?
Ben. Yes, five year.
Abel. Ay, ay. Are you going to the funeral ?
Ben. Oh, yes.
Mrs. S. and Mrs. J. No, no.
Ben. No, of course not. {He retires to the left.)
Abel {rising). Well, I suppose you've only been
waiting for me to begin tea. I'm feeling hungry.
Mrs. S. {taking up the kettle). I'll make tea.
Abel. Come along, now sit you down and let's
;

be jolly.

(Abel sits at the head of the table, facing spectator. Ben

and Mrs. Jordan on the left. Victoria brings a
chair and sits by Abel. Mrs. Slater and Henry
sit on the right. Both the women are next to Abel.)
Mrs. S. Henry, give grandpa some tongue.
Abel. Thank you. I'll make a start. {He
helps himself to bread and butter.)

(Henry serves the tongue and Mrs. Slater pours

out tea. Only Abel eats with any heartiness.)

Ben. Glad to see you've got an appetite, Mr.

Merryweather, although you've not been so well.
Abel. Nothing serious. I've been lying down
for a bit.
Mrs. S. Been to sleep, grandfather ?
Abel. No, I've not been to sleep.
Mrs. S. and Henry. Oh !

Abel {eating and drinking). I can't exactly call

22 THE DEAR DEPARTED.
everything to mind, but I remember I was a bit
dazed, like. I couldn't move an inch, hand or foot.
Ben. And could you see and hear, Mr. Merry-
weather ?

Abel. Yes, but I don't remember seeing any-

thing particular. Mustard, Ben. (Ben passes the
mustard.)
Mrs. S. Of course not, grandfather. It was all
your fancy. You must have been asleep.
Abel {snappishly). I tell you I wasn't asleep,
'Meha. Damn it, I ought to know.
Mrs. J. Didn't you see Henry or AmeHa come
into the room ?
Abel {scratching his head). Now let me think
Mrs. S. I wouldn't press him, Ehzabeth. Don't
press him.
Henry. No. I wouldn't worry him.
Abel {suddenly recollecting). Ay, begad! 'Melia
and Henry, what the devil did you mean by shifting
my bureau out of my bedroom ?
(Henry and Mrs. Slater are speechless.)

D'you hear me ? Henry 'Melia ! !

Mrs. J. What bureau was that, father ?

Abel. Why, my bureau, the one I bought
Mrs. J. {pointing to the bureau). Was it that one,
father ?

Abel. Ah, that's it. What's it doing here ?

Eh?
{A pause. The clock on the mantelpiece strikes six.
Every one looks at it.)

Drat me if that isn't my clock, too. What the

devil's been going on in this house ?

{A slight pause.)

Ben. Well, I'h be hanged.

Mrs. J. {rising). I'll tell you what's been going
on in this house, father. Nothing short of robbery.
 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 23

Mrs. S. Be quiet, Elizabeth.

Mrs. J. I'll not be quiet. Oh, I call it double-
faced.
Henry. Now, now,
Elizabeth.
Mrs. J. And
you, too. Are you such a poor
creature that you must do every dirty thing she
tells you ?

]Mrs. S. {rising). Remember where you are,

Elizabeth.
Henry {rising). Come, come. No quarrelling.
Ben {rising). My wife's every right to speak
her own mind.
Mrs. S. Then she can speak it outside, not here.
x^BEL {rising). {Thumping the table.) Damn it
all, will some one tell me
what's been going on.
Mrs. J. Yes, I will. I'll not see you robbed.
Abel. Who's been robbing me ?
Mrs. J. Amelia and Henry. They've stolen
your clock and bureau. {Working herself up.) They
sneaked into your room like a thief in the night and
stole them after you were dead.
Henry and Mrs. S. Hush Qaiet, Ehzabeth ! !

Mrs. J. I'll not be stopped. After you were

dead, I say.
Abel. After who was dead ?
Mrs. J. You.
Abel. But I'm not dead.
Mrs. J. No, but they thought you were.

{A pause. Abel gazes round at them.)

Abel. Oho ! So that's why you're all in black

to-day. You thought I was dead. {He chuckles.)
That was a big mistake. {He sits and resum s his
tea.)
Mrs. S. Grandfather.
{sobbing.)
Abel. take you long to start dividing
It didn't
my things between you.
Mrs. J. No, father; you mustn't think that.
24 THE DEAR DEPARTED,
Amelia was simply getting hold of them on her own
account.
Abel. You always were a keen one, AmeUa. I
suppose you thought the will wasn't fair.
Henry. Did you make a will ?
Abel. Yes, it was locked up in the bureau.
Mrs. J. And what was in it, father ?
Abel. That doesn't matter now. I'm thinking
of destroying it and making another.
Mrs. S. {sobbing). Grandfather, you'll not be
hard on me.
Abel. I'll trouble you for another cup of tea,
'Melia two lumps and plenty of milk.
;

Mrs. S. With pleasure, grandfather. (5//^ pours

out the tea.)
Abel. I don't want to be hard on any one. I'll
tell you what I'm going to do. Since your mother
died, I've lived part of the time with you, 'Melia,
and part with you, Lizzie. Well, I shall make a
new will, leaving all my bits of things to whoever
I'm living with when I die. How does that strike
you?
Henry. It's a bit of a lottery, like.
Mrs. J. x\nd who do you intend to live with from
now ?
Abel {drinking his I'm just coming to that.
tea).
Mrs. J. You know, it's quite time you
father,
came to live with us again. We'd make you very
comfortable.
Mrs. S. No, he's not been with us as long as he
was with you.
Mrs. J. I may be wrong, but I don't think father
will fancy living on with you after what's happened
to-day.
Abel. So you"d like to have me again, Lizzie ?
Mrs. J. You know we're ready for you to make
your home with us for as long as you please.
Abel. What do you say to that, 'MeHa ?
Mrs. S. All I can say is that Elizabeth's changed
 THE DEAR DEPARTED. 25

her mind
in the last two years. (Rising.) Grand-
father,do you know what the quarrel between us
was about ?
Mrs. J. Amelia, don't be a fool; sit down.
Mrs. S. No, if I'm not to have him, you shan't
either. We quarrelled because Elizabeth said she
wouldn't take you off our hands at any price. She
said she'd had enough of you to last a life-time, and
we'd got to keep you.
Abel. It seems to me that neither of you has
any cause to feel proud about the way you've treated
me.
Mrs. S. If I've done anything wrong, I'm sure
I'm sorry for it.
Mrs. J. x\nd I can't say more than that, too.
Abel. It's a bit late to say it, now. You neither
of you cared to put up with me.
Mrs. S. and Mrs. J. No, no, grandfather.
Abel, x^y, you both say that because of what
I've told you about leaving my money. Well, since
you don't want me I'll go to some one that does.
Ben. Come, Mr. Merryweather, you've got to
live with one of your daughters.
Abel. I'll tell you what I've got to do. On
Monday next I've got to do three things. I've got
to go to the lawyer's and alter my will and I've
;

got to go to the insurance ofhce and pay my premium ;

and I've got to go to St. Phihps's Church and get

married.
Ben and Henry. What !

Mrs. J. Get married !

Mrs. S. He's out of his senses.

(General consternation.)

Abel. I say I'm going to get married.

Mrs. S. Who to ?
Abel. To Mrs. John Shorrocks who keeps the
Ring-o' -Bells. We've had it fixed up a good while
now, but I was keeping it for a pleasant surprise
20 THE DEAR DEPARTED.
{He rises.) I felt I was a bit of a burden to you, so
I found some one who'd think it a pleasure to look

after me. We shall be very glad to see you at the

ceremony. (He gets to the doov.) Till Monday, then.
Twelve o'clock at St. Phihps's Church. [Opening
the door.) It's a good thing you brought that bureau
downstairs, 'Melia. It'll be handier to carry across
to the Ring-o' -Bells on Monday.

{He goes out.)

(The Curtain falls.)

Ji ' ' o Tannbu

 IMMORALITY ACT, 1927
To prohibit illicit carnal intercourse between Europeans and natives and other acts
in relation thereto.

B E IT ENACTED by the King’s Most Excellent Majesty, the Senate and the House of Assembly of the Union of
South Africa, as follows:—
1. Any European male who has illicit carnal intercourse with a native female, and any native male who has illicit
carnal intercourse with a European female…shall be guilty of an offence and liable on conviction to imprisonment for a
period not exceeding five years.
2. Any native female who permits any European male to have illicit carnal intercourse with her and any European
female who permits any native male to have illicit carnal intercourse with her shall be guilty of an offence and liable on
conviction to imprisonment for a period not exceeding four years….
T he genius of apartheid was convincing people who were the overwhelming majority to turn on each other. Apart hate, is what
it was. You separate people into groups and make them hate one another so you can run them all.
At the time, black South Africans outnumbered white South Africans nearly five to one, yet we were divided into different
tribes with different languages: Zulu, Xhosa, Tswana, Sotho, Venda, Ndebele, Tsonga, Pedi, and more. Long before apartheid
existed these tribal factions clashed and warred with one another. Then white rule used that animosity to divide and conquer. All
nonwhites were systematically classified into various groups and subgroups. Then these groups were given differing levels of
rights and privileges in order to keep them at odds.
Perhaps the starkest of these divisions was between South Africa’s two dominant groups, the Zulu and the Xhosa. The Zulu
man is known as the warrior. He is proud. He puts his head down and fights. When the colonial armies invaded, the Zulu charged
into battle with nothing but spears and shields against men with guns. The Zulu were slaughtered by the thousands, but they
never stopped fighting. The Xhosa, on the other hand, pride themselves on being the thinkers. My mother is Xhosa. Nelson
Mandela was Xhosa. The Xhosa waged a long war against the white man as well, but after experiencing the futility of battle
against a better-armed foe, many Xhosa chiefs took a more nimble approach. “These white people are here whether we like it or
not,” they said. “Let’s see what tools they possess that can be useful to us. Instead of being resistant to English, let’s learn
English. We’ll understand what the white man is saying, and we can force him to negotiate with us.”
The Zulu went to war with the white man. The Xhosa played chess with the white man. For a long time neither was
particularly successful, and each blamed the other for a problem neither had created. Bitterness festered. For decades those
feelings were held in check by a common enemy. Then apartheid fell, Mandela walked free, and black South Africa went to war
with itself.
 RUN

Sometimes in big Hollywood movies they’ll have these crazy chase scenes where somebody jumps or
gets thrown from a moving car. The person hits the ground and rolls for a bit. Then they come to a stop
and pop up and dust themselves off, like it was no big deal. Whenever I see that I think, That’s rubbish.
Getting thrown out of a moving car hurts way worse than that.
I was nine years old when my mother threw me out of a moving car. It happened on a Sunday. I know
it was on a Sunday because we were coming home from church, and every Sunday in my childhood meant
church. We never missed church. My mother was—and still is—a deeply religious woman. Very
Christian. Like indigenous peoples around the world, black South Africans adopted the religion of our
colonizers. By “adopt” I mean it was forced on us. The white man was quite stern with the native. “You
need to pray to Jesus,” he said. “Jesus will save you.” To which the native replied, “Well, we do need to
be saved—saved from you, but that’s beside the point. So let’s give this Jesus thing a shot.”
My whole family is religious, but where my mother was Team Jesus all the way, my grandmother
balanced her Christian faith with the traditional Xhosa beliefs she’d grown up with, communicating with
the spirits of our ancestors. For a long time I didn’t understand why so many black people had abandoned
their indigenous faith for Christianity. But the more we went to church and the longer I sat in those pews
the more I learned about how Christianity works: If you’re Native American and you pray to the wolves,
you’re a savage. If you’re African and you pray to your ancestors, you’re a primitive. But when white
people pray to a guy who turns water into wine, well, that’s just common sense.
My childhood involved church, or some form of church, at least four nights a week. Tuesday night
was the prayer meeting. Wednesday night was Bible study. Thursday night was Youth church. Friday and
Saturday we had off. (Time to sin!) Then on Sunday we went to church. Three churches, to be precise.
The reason we went to three churches was because my mom said each church gave her something
different. The first church offered jubilant praise of the Lord. The second church offered deep analysis of
the scripture, which my mom loved. The third church offered passion and catharsis; it was a place where
you truly felt the presence of the Holy Spirit inside you. Completely by coincidence, as we moved back
and forth between these churches, I noticed that each one had its own distinct racial makeup: Jubilant
church was mixed church. Analytical church was white church. And passionate, cathartic church, that was
black church.
Mixed church was Rhema Bible Church. Rhema was one of those huge, supermodern, suburban
megachurches. The pastor, Ray McCauley, was an ex-bodybuilder with a big smile and the personality of
a cheerleader. Pastor Ray had competed in the 1974 Mr. Universe competition. He placed third. The
winner that year was Arnold Schwarzenegger. Every week, Ray would be up onstage working really hard
to make Jesus cool. There was arena-style seating and a rock band jamming out with the latest Christian
contemporary pop. Everyone sang along, and if you didn’t know the words that was okay because they
were all right up there on the Jumbotron for you. It was Christian karaoke, basically. I always had a blast
at mixed church.
White church was Rosebank Union in Sandton, a very white and wealthy part of Johannesburg. I
loved white church because I didn’t actually have to go to the main service. My mom would go to that,
and I would go to the youth side, to Sunday school. In Sunday school we got to read cool stories. Noah
and the flood was obviously a favorite; I had a personal stake there. But I also loved the stories about
Moses parting the Red Sea, David slaying Goliath, Jesus whipping the money changers in the temple.
I grew up in a home with very little exposure to popular culture. Boyz II Men were not allowed in
my mother’s house. Songs about some guy grinding on a girl all night long? No, no, no. That was
forbidden. I’d hear the other kids at school singing “End of the Road,” and I’d have no clue what was
going on. I knew of these Boyz II Men, but I didn’t really know who they were. The only music I knew
was from church: soaring, uplifting songs praising Jesus. It was the same with movies. My mom didn’t
want my mind polluted by movies with sex and violence. So the Bible was my action movie. Samson was
my superhero. He was my He-Man. A guy beating a thousand people to death with the jawbone of a
donkey? That’s pretty badass. Eventually you get to Paul writing letters to the Ephesians and it loses the
plot, but the Old Testament and the Gospels? I could quote you anything from those pages, chapter and
verse. There were Bible games and quizzes every week at white church, and I kicked everyone’s ass.
Then there was black church. There was always some kind of black church service going on
somewhere, and we tried them all. In the township, that typically meant an outdoor, tent-revival-style
church. We usually went to my grandmother’s church, an old-school Methodist congregation, five hundred
African grannies in blue-and-white blouses, clutching their Bibles and patiently burning in the hot African
sun. Black church was rough, I won’t lie. No air-conditioning. No lyrics up on Jumbotrons. And it lasted
forever, three or four hours at least, which confused me because white church was only like an hour—in
and out, thanks for coming. But at black church I would sit there for what felt like an eternity, trying to
figure out why time moved so slowly. Is it possible for time to actually stop? If so, why does it stop at
black church and not at white church? I eventually decided black people needed more time with Jesus
because we suffered more. “I’m here to fill up on my blessings for the week,” my mother used to say. The
more time we spent at church, she reckoned, the more blessings we accrued, like a Starbucks Rewards
Card.
Black church had one saving grace. If I could make it to the third or fourth hour I’d get to watch the
pastor cast demons out of people. People possessed by demons would start running up and down the
aisles like madmen, screaming in tongues. The ushers would tackle them, like bouncers at a club, and hold
them down for the pastor. The pastor would grab their heads and violently shake them back and forth,
shouting, “I cast out this spirit in the name of Jesus!” Some pastors were more violent than others, but
what they all had in common was that they wouldn’t stop until the demon was gone and the congregant had
gone limp and collapsed on the stage. The person had to fall. Because if he didn’t fall that meant the
demon was powerful and the pastor needed to come at him even harder. You could be a linebacker in the
NFL. Didn’t matter. That pastor was taking you down. Good Lord, that was fun.
Christian karaoke, badass action stories, and violent faith healers—man, I loved church. The thing I
didn’t love was the lengths we had to go to in order to get to church. It was an epic slog. We lived in Eden
Park, a tiny suburb way outside Johannesburg. It took us an hour to get to white church, another forty-five
minutes to get to mixed church, and another forty-five minutes to drive out to Soweto for black church.
Then, if that wasn’t bad enough, some Sundays we’d double back to white church for a special evening
service. By the time we finally got home at night, I’d collapse into bed.
This particular Sunday, the Sunday I was hurled from a moving car, started out like any other Sunday.
My mother woke me up, made me porridge for breakfast. I took my bath while she dressed my baby
brother Andrew, who was nine months old. Then we went out to the driveway, but once we were finally
all strapped in and ready to go, the car wouldn’t start. My mom had this ancient, broken-down, bright-
tangerine Volkswagen Beetle that she picked up for next to nothing. The reason she got it for next to
nothing was because it was always breaking down. To this day I hate secondhand cars. Almost everything
that’s ever gone wrong in my life I can trace back to a secondhand car. Secondhand cars made me get
detention for being late for school. Secondhand cars left us hitchhiking on the side of the freeway. A
secondhand car was also the reason my mom got married. If it hadn’t been for the Volkswagen that didn’t
work, we never would have looked for the mechanic who became the husband who became the stepfather
who became the man who tortured us for years and put a bullet in the back of my mother’s head—I’ll take
the new car with the warranty every time.
As much as I loved church, the idea of a nine-hour slog, from mixed church to white church to black
church then doubling back to white church again, was just too much to contemplate. It was bad enough in a
car, but taking public transport would be twice as long and twice as hard. When the Volkswagen refused
to start, inside my head I was praying, Please say we’ll just stay home. Please say we’ll just stay home.
Then I glanced over to see the determined look on my mother’s face, her jaw set, and I knew I had a long
day ahead of me.
“Come,” she said. “We’re going to catch minibuses.”

My mother is as stubborn as she is religious. Once her mind’s made up, that’s it. Indeed, obstacles that
would normally lead a person to change their plans, like a car breaking down, only made her more
determined to forge ahead.
“It’s the Devil,” she said about the stalled car. “The Devil doesn’t want us to go to church. That’s
why we’ve got to catch minibuses.”
Whenever I found myself up against my mother’s faith-based obstinacy, I would try, as respectfully
as possible, to counter with an opposing point of view.
“Or,” I said, “the Lord knows that today we shouldn’t go to church, which is why he made sure the
car wouldn’t start, so that we stay at home as a family and take a day of rest, because even the Lord
rested.”
“Ah, that’s the Devil talking, Trevor.”
“No, because Jesus is in control, and if Jesus is in control and we pray to Jesus, he would let the car
start, but he hasn’t, therefore—”
“No, Trevor! Sometimes Jesus puts obstacles in your way to see if you overcome them. Like Job.
This could be a test.”
“Ah! Yes, Mom. But the test could be to see if we’re willing to accept what has happened and stay at
home and praise Jesus for his wisdom.”
 “No. That’s the Devil talking. Now go change your clothes.”
“But, Mom!”
“Trevor! Sun’qhela!”
Sun’qhela is a phrase with many shades of meaning. It says “don’t undermine me,” “don’t
underestimate me,” and “just try me.” It’s a command and a threat, all at once. It’s a common thing for
Xhosa parents to say to their kids. Any time I heard it I knew it meant the conversation was over, and if I
uttered another word I was in for a hiding—what we call a spanking.
At the time, I attended a private Catholic school called Maryvale College. I was the champion of the
Maryvale sports day every single year, and my mother won the moms’ trophy every single year. Why?
Because she was always chasing me to kick my ass, and I was always running not to get my ass kicked.
Nobody ran like me and my mom. She wasn’t one of those “Come over here and get your hiding” type
moms. She’d deliver it to you free of charge. She was a thrower, too. Whatever was next to her was
coming at you. If it was something breakable, I had to catch it and put it down. If it broke, that would be
my fault, too, and the ass-kicking would be that much worse. If she threw a vase at me, I’d have to catch
it, put it down, and then run. In a split second, I’d have to think, Is it valuable? Yes. Is it breakable? Yes.
Catch it, put it down, now run.
We had a very Tom and Jerry relationship, me and my mom. She was the strict disciplinarian; I was
naughty as shit. She would send me out to buy groceries, and I wouldn’t come right home because I’d be
using the change from the milk and bread to play arcade games at the supermarket. I loved videogames. I
was a master at Street Fighter. I could go forever on a single play. I’d drop a coin in, time would fly, and
the next thing I knew there’d be a woman behind me with a belt. It was a race. I’d take off out the door
and through the dusty streets of Eden Park, clambering over walls, ducking through backyards. It was a
normal thing in our neighborhood. Everybody knew: That Trevor child would come through like a bat out
of hell, and his mom would be right there behind him. She could go at a full sprint in high heels, but if she
really wanted to come after me she had this thing where she’d kick her shoes off while still going at top
speed. She’d do this weird move with her ankles and the heels would go flying and she wouldn’t even
miss a step. That’s when I knew, Okay, she’s in turbo mode now.
When I was little she always caught me, but as I got older I got faster, and when speed failed her
she’d use her wits. If I was about to get away she’d yell, “Stop! Thief!” She’d do this to her own child. In
South Africa, nobody gets involved in other people’s business—unless it’s mob justice, and then
everybody wants in. So she’d yell “Thief!” knowing it would bring the whole neighborhood out against
me, and then I’d have strangers trying to grab me and tackle me, and I’d have to duck and dive and dodge
them as well, all the while screaming, “I’m not a thief! I’m her son!”
The last thing I wanted to do that Sunday morning was climb into some crowded minibus, but the
second I heard my mom say sun’qhela I knew my fate was sealed. She gathered up Andrew and we
climbed out of the Volkswagen and went out to try to catch a ride.

I was five years old, nearly six, when Nelson Mandela was released from prison. I remember seeing it on
TV and everyone being happy. I didn’t know why we were happy, just that we were. I was aware of the
fact that there was a thing called apartheid and it was ending and that was a big deal, but I didn’t
understand the intricacies of it.
What I do remember, what I will never forget, is the violence that followed. The triumph of
democracy over apartheid is sometimes called the Bloodless Revolution. It is called that because very
little white blood was spilled. Black blood ran in the streets.
As the apartheid regime fell, we knew that the black man was now going to rule. The question was,
which black man? Spates of violence broke out between the Inkatha Freedom Party and the ANC, the
African National Congress, as they jockeyed for power. The political dynamic between these two groups
was very complicated, but the simplest way to understand it is as a proxy war between Zulu and Xhosa.
The Inkatha was predominantly Zulu, very militant and very nationalistic. The ANC was a broad coalition
encompassing many different tribes, but its leaders at the time were primarily Xhosa. Instead of uniting
for peace they turned on one another, committing acts of unbelievable savagery. Massive riots broke out.
Thousands of people were killed. Necklacing was common. That’s where people would hold someone
down and put a rubber tire over his torso, pinning his arms. Then they’d douse him with petrol and set him
on fire and burn him alive. The ANC did it to Inkatha. Inkatha did it to the ANC. I saw one of those
charred bodies on the side of the road one day on my way to school. In the evenings my mom and I would
turn on our little black-and-white TV and watch the news. A dozen people killed. Fifty people killed. A
hundred people killed.
Eden Park sat not far from the sprawling townships of the East Rand, Thokoza and Katlehong, which
were the sites of some of the most horrific Inkatha–ANC clashes. Once a month at least we’d drive home
and the neighborhood would be on fire. Hundreds of rioters in the street. My mom would edge the car
slowly through the crowds and around blockades made of flaming tires. Nothing burns like a tire—it
rages with a fury you can’t imagine. As we drove past the burning blockades, it felt like we were inside
an oven. I used to say to my mom, “I think Satan burns tires in Hell.”
Whenever the riots broke out, all our neighbors would wisely hole up behind closed doors. But not
my mom. She’d head straight out, and as we’d inch our way past the blockades, she’d give the rioters this
look. Let me pass. I’m not involved in this shit. She was unwavering in the face of danger. That always
amazed me. It didn’t matter that there was a war on our doorstep. She had things to do, places to be. It
was the same stubbornness that kept her going to church despite a broken-down car. There could be five
hundred rioters with a blockade of burning tires on the main road out of Eden Park, and my mother would
say, “Get dressed. I’ve got to go to work. You’ve got to go to school.”
“But aren’t you afraid?” I’d say. “There’s only one of you and there’s so many of them.”
“Honey, I’m not alone,” she’d say. “I’ve got all of Heaven’s angels behind me.”
“Well, it would be nice if we could see them,” I’d say. “Because I don’t think the rioters know
they’re there.”
She’d tell me not to worry. She always came back to the phrase she lived by: “If God is with me,
who can be against me?” She was never scared. Even when she should have been.

That carless Sunday we made our circuit of churches, ending up, as usual, at white church. When we
walked out of Rosebank Union it was dark and we were alone. It had been an endless day of minibuses
from mixed church to black church to white church, and I was exhausted. It was nine o’clock at least. In
those days, with all the violence and riots going on, you did not want to be out that late at night. We were
standing at the corner of Jellicoe Avenue and Oxford Road, right in the heart of Johannesburg’s wealthy,
white suburbia, and there were no minibuses. The streets were empty.
I so badly wanted to turn to my mom and say, “You see? This is why God wanted us to stay home.”
But one look at the expression on her face, and I knew better than to speak. There were times I could talk
smack to my mom—this was not one of them.
We waited and waited for a minibus to come by. Under apartheid the government provided no public
transportation for blacks, but white people still needed us to show up to mop their floors and clean their
bathrooms. Necessity being the mother of invention, black people created their own transit system, an
informal network of bus routes, controlled by private associations operating entirely outside the law.
Because the minibus business was completely unregulated, it was basically organized crime. Different
groups ran different routes, and they would fight over who controlled what. There was bribery and
general shadiness that went on, a great deal of violence, and a lot of protection money paid to avoid
violence. The one thing you didn’t do was steal a route from a rival group. Drivers who stole routes
would get killed. Being unregulated, minibuses were also very unreliable. When they came, they came.
When they didn’t, they didn’t.
Standing outside Rosebank Union, I was literally falling asleep on my feet. Not a minibus in sight.
Eventually my mother said, “Let’s hitchhike.” We walked and walked, and after what felt like an eternity,
a car drove up and stopped. The driver offered us a ride, and we climbed in. We hadn’t gone ten feet
when suddenly a minibus swerved right in front of the car and cut us off.
A Zulu driver got out with an iwisa, a large, traditional Zulu weapon—a war club, basically. They’re
used to smash people’s skulls in. Another guy, his crony, got out of the passenger side. They walked up to
the driver’s side of the car we were in, grabbed the man who’d offered us a ride, pulled him out, and
started shoving their clubs in his face. “Why are you stealing our customers? Why are you picking people
up?”
It looked like they were going to kill this guy. I knew that happened sometimes. My mom spoke up.
“Hey, listen, he was just helping me. Leave him. We’ll ride with you. That’s what we wanted in the first
place.” So we got out of the first car and climbed into the minibus.
We were the only passengers in the minibus. In addition to being violent gangsters, South African
minibus drivers are notorious for complaining and haranguing passengers as they drive. This driver was a
particularly angry one. As we rode along, he started lecturing my mother about being in a car with a man
who was not her husband. My mother didn’t suffer lectures from strange men. She told him to mind his
own business, and when he heard her speaking in Xhosa, that really set him off. The stereotypes of Zulu
and Xhosa women were as ingrained as those of the men. Zulu women were well-behaved and dutiful.
Xhosa women were promiscuous and unfaithful. And here was my mother, his tribal enemy, a Xhosa
woman alone with two small children—one of them a mixed child, no less. Not just a whore but a whore
who sleeps with white men. “Oh, you’re a Xhosa,” he said. “That explains it. Climbing into strange men’s
cars. Disgusting woman.”
My mom kept telling him off and he kept calling her names, yelling at her from the front seat,
wagging his finger in the rearview mirror and growing more and more menacing until finally he said,
“That’s the problem with you Xhosa women. You’re all sluts—and tonight you’re going to learn your
lesson.”
He sped off. He was driving fast, and he wasn’t stopping, only slowing down to check for traffic at
the intersections before speeding through. Death was never far away from anybody back then. At that
point my mother could be raped. We could be killed. These were all viable options. I didn’t fully
comprehend the danger we were in at the moment; I was so tired that I just wanted to sleep. Plus my mom
stayed very calm. She didn’t panic, so I didn’t know to panic. She just kept trying to reason with him.
“I’m sorry if we’ve upset you, bhuti. You can just let us out here—”
 “No.”
“Really, it’s fine. We can just walk—”
“No.”
He raced along Oxford Road, the lanes empty, no other cars out. I was sitting closest to the minibus’s
sliding door. My mother sat next to me, holding baby Andrew. She looked out the window at the passing
road and then leaned over to me and whispered, “Trevor, when he slows down at the next intersection,
I’m going to open the door and we’re going to jump.”
I didn’t hear a word of what she was saying, because by that point I’d completely nodded off. When
we came to the next traffic light, the driver eased off the gas a bit to look around and check the road. My
mother reached over, pulled the sliding door open, grabbed me, and threw me out as far as she could.
Then she took Andrew, curled herself in a ball around him, and leaped out behind me.
It felt like a dream until the pain hit. Bam! I smacked hard on the pavement. My mother landed right
beside me and we tumbled and tumbled and rolled and rolled. I was wide awake now. I went from half
asleep to What the hell?! Eventually I came to a stop and pulled myself up, completely disoriented. I
looked around and saw my mother, already on her feet. She turned and looked at me and screamed.
“Run!”
So I ran, and she ran, and nobody ran like me and my mom.
It’s weird to explain, but I just knew what to do. It was animal instinct, learned in a world where
violence was always lurking and waiting to erupt. In the townships, when the police came swooping in
with their riot gear and armored cars and helicopters, I knew: Run for cover. Run and hide. I knew that as
a five-year-old. Had I lived a different life, getting thrown out of a speeding minibus might have fazed me.
I’d have stood there like an idiot, going, “What’s happening, Mom? Why are my legs so sore?” But there
was none of that. Mom said “run,” and I ran. Like the gazelle runs from the lion, I ran.
The men stopped the minibus and got out and tried to chase us, but they didn’t stand a chance. We
smoked them. I think they were in shock. I still remember glancing back and seeing them give up with a
look of utter bewilderment on their faces. What just happened? Who’d have thought a woman with two
small children could run so fast? They didn’t know they were dealing with the reigning champs of the
Maryvale College sports day. We kept going and going until we made it to a twenty-four-hour petrol
station and called the police. By then the men were long gone.
I still didn’t know why any of this had happened; I’d been running on pure adrenaline. Once we
stopped running I realized how much pain I was in. I looked down, and the skin on my arms was scraped
and torn. I was cut up and bleeding all over. Mom was, too. My baby brother was fine, though, incredibly.
My mom had wrapped herself around him, and he’d come through without a scratch. I turned to her in
shock.
“What was that?! Why are we running?!”
“What do you mean, ‘Why are we running?’ Those men were trying to kill us.”
“You never told me that! You just threw me out of the car!”
“I did tell you. Why didn’t you jump?”
“Jump?! I was asleep!”
“So I should have left you there for them to kill you?”
“At least they would have woken me up before they killed me.”
Back and forth we went. I was too confused and too angry about getting thrown out of the car to
realize what had happened. My mother had saved my life.
As we caught our breath and waited for the police to come and drive us home, she said, “Well, at
least we’re safe, thank God.”
But I was nine years old and I knew better. I wasn’t going to keep quiet this time.
“No, Mom! This was not thanks to God! You should have listened to God when he told us to stay at
home when the car wouldn’t start, because clearly the Devil tricked us into coming out tonight.”
“No, Trevor! That’s not how the Devil works. This is part of God’s plan, and if He wanted us here
then He had a reason…”
And on and on and there we were, back at it, arguing about God’s will. Finally I said, “Look, Mom. I
know you love Jesus, but maybe next week you could ask him to meet us at our house. Because this really
wasn’t a fun night.”
She broke out in a huge smile and started laughing. I started laughing, too, and we stood there, this
little boy and his mom, our arms and legs covered in blood and dirt, laughing together through the pain in
the light of a petrol station on the side of the road in the middle of the night.
Map of the Tokyo subway showing the lines targeted in the gas attack, Monday March 20, 1995
 TOKYO METROPOLITAN SUBWAY: CHIYODA LINE
TRAIN A725K

Two men were assigned to drop sarin gas on the Chiyoda Line: Ikuo Hayashi and Tomomitsu Niimi.
Hayashi was the principal criminal, Niimi the driver-accomplice.
Why Hayashi—a senior medical doctor with an active “frontline” track record at the Ministry of
Science and Technology—was chosen to carry out this mission remains unclear, but Hayashi himself
conjectures it was to seal his lips. Implication in the gas attack cut off any possibility of escape. By
this point Hayashi already knew too much. He was devoted to the Aum cult leader Shoko Asahara,
but apparently Asahara did not trust him. When Asahara first told him to go and release the sarin gas
Hayashi admitted: “I could feel my heart pounding in my chest—though where else would my heart
be?”
Boarding the front car of the southwestbound . Chiyoda Line, running from the northeast Tokyo
7:48 A.M

suburb of Kita-senju to the western suburb of Yoyogi-uehara, Hayashi punctured his plastic bag of
sarin at Shin-ochanomizu Station in the central business district, then left the train. Outside the station,
Niimi was waiting with a car and the two of them drove back to the Shibuya ajid—Aum local
headquarters—their mission accomplished. There was no way for Hayashi to refuse. “This is just a
yoga of the Mahamudra,” he kept telling himself, Mahamudra being a crucial discipline for attaining
the stage of the True Enlightened Master.
When asked by Asahara’s legal team whether he could have refused if he had wanted to, Hayashi
replied: “If that had been possible, the Tokyo gas attack would never have happened.”
Born in 1947, Hayashi was the second son of a Tokyo medical practitioner. Groomed from middle
and secondary school for Keio University, one of Tokyo’s two top private universities, upon
graduating from medical school he took employment as a heart and artery specialist at Keio Hospital,
after which he went on to become head of the Circulatory Medicine department at the National
Sanatorium Hospital at Tokaimura, Ibaragi, north of Tokyo. He is a member of what the Japanese call
the “superelite.” Clean-cut, he exudes the self-confidence of a professional. Medicine obviously
came naturally to him. His hair is starting to thin on top, but like most of the Aum leadership, he has
good posture, his eyes focused firmly ahead, although his speech is monotonous and somehow forced.
From his testimony in court, I gained the distinct impression that he was blocking some flow of
emotion inside himself.
Somewhere along the line Hayashi seems to have had profound doubts about his career as a doctor
and, while searching for answers beyond orthodox science, he became seduced by the charismatic
teachings of Shoko Asahara and suddenly converted to Aum. In 1990 he resigned from his job and left
with his family for a religious life. His two children were promised a special education within the
cult. His colleagues at the hospital were loath to lose a man of Hayashi’s caliber and tried to stop
him, but his mind was made up. It was as if the medical profession no longer held anything for him.
Once initiated into the cult, he soon found himself among Asahara’s favorites and was appointed
Minister of Healing.
 Once he had been called upon to carry out the sarin plan, Hayashi was brought to Aum’s general
headquarters, Satyam No. 7, in Kamikuishiki Village near Mt. Fuji, at 3 . on March 20, where,
A.M

together with the four other principal players, he rehearsed the attack. Using umbrellas sharpened
with a file, they pierced plastic bags filled with water rather than sarin. The rehearsal was supervised
by Hideo Murai of the Aum leadership. While comments from the other four members indicate that
they enjoyed this practice session, Hayashi observed it all with cool reserve. Nor did he actually
pierce his bag. To the 48-year-old doctor, the whole exercise must have seemed like a game.
“I did not need to practice,” says Hayashi. “I could see what to do, though my heart wasn’t in it.”
After the session, all five were returned by car to the Shibuya ajid, whereupon our physician
Hayashi handed out hypodermic needles filled with atropine sulphate to the team, instructing them to
inject it at the first sign of sarin poisoning.
On the way to the station, Hayashi purchased gloves, a knife, tape, and sandals at a convenience
store. Niimi, the driver, bought some newspapers in which to wrap the bags of sarin. They were
sectarian newspapers—the Japan Communist Party’s Akahata (Red Flag) and the Soka Gakkai’s
Seikyo Shimbun (Sacred Teaching News)—“more interesting because they’re not papers you can buy
just anywhere.” That was Niimi’s little in-joke. Of the two papers, Hayashi chose Akahata: a rival
sect’s publication would have been too obvious and therefore counterproductive.
Before getting on the subway, Hayashi donned a gauze surgical mask, of the sort commonly worn
by many commuters in winter to prevent cold germs from spreading. The train number was A K. 725

Glancing at a woman and child in the car, Hayashi wavered slightly. “If I unleash the sarin here and
now,” he thought, “the woman opposite me is dead for sure. Unless she gets off somewhere.” But he’d
come this far; there was no going back. This was a Holy War. The weak were losers.
As the subway approached Shin-ochanomizu Station, he dropped the bags of sarin by his right foot,
steeled his nerves, and poked one of them with the end of his umbrella. It was resilient and gave a
“springy gush.” He poked it again a few times—exactly how many times he doesn’t remember. In the
end, only one of the two bags was found to have been punctured; the other was untouched.
Still, the sarin liquid in one of the bags completely evaporated and did a lot of damage. At
Kasumigaseki two station attendants died in the line of duty trying to dispose of the bag. Train A K 725

was stopped at the next station, Kokkai-gijidomae—the stop for the Japanese National Assembly—all
passengers were evacuated, and the cars were cleaned.
Two people were killed and 231 suffered serious injuries from Hayashi’s sarin drop alone. *

“Nobody was dealing with things calmly”

Kiyoka Izumi (26) *
Ms. Kiyoka Izumi was born in Kanazawa, on the north central coast of the Sea of Japan. She works in the PR
department of a foreign airline company. After graduation she went to work for Japan Railways (JR), but after
three years she decided to pursue her childhood dream of working in aviation. Even though job transfers to airline
companies are extremely difficult in Japan—only one in a thousand “midcareer” applicants is accepted—she beat
the odds, only to encounter the Tokyo gas attack not long after starting work.
Her job at JR was boring to say the least. Her colleagues objected to her leaving, but she was determined. It
was good training, but the union-dominated atmosphere was too confining and specialized. She wanted to use
 English at work. Still, the emergency training she received at JR proved invaluable in unexpected circumstances …

At the time I was living in Waseda [northwest central Tokyo]. My company was in Kamiyacho
[southeast central Tokyo], so I always commuted by subway, taking the Tozai Line, changing at
Otemachi for the Chiyoda Line to Kasumigaseki, then one stop on the Hibiya Line to Kamiyacho.
Work started at , so I’d leave home around or . That got me there a little before , but I was
8:30 7:45 7:50 8:30

always one of the earliest to start. Everybody else showed up just in time. With Japanese companies,
I’d always learned you were expected to arrive thirty minutes to an hour before starting, but with a
foreign company the thinking is that everyone starts work at his or her own pace. You don’t get any
brownie points for arriving early.
I’d get up around or . I rarely eat breakfast, just a quick cup of coffee. The Tozai Line gets
6:15 6:20

pretty crowded during rush hour, but if you avoid the peak, it’s not too bad. I never had any problem
with perverts copping a feel or anything.
I never get ill, but on the morning of March 20 I wasn’t feeling well. I caught the train to work
anyway; got off the Tozai Line at Otemachi and transferred to the Chiyoda Line, thinking, “Gosh, I’m
really out of it today.” I inhaled, then suddenly my breathing froze—like that.
I was traveling in the first car on the Chiyoda Line. It wasn’t too crowded. All the seats were pretty
much taken, but there were only a few passengers standing here and there. You could still see all the
way to the other end.
I stood at the front next to the driver’s compartment, holding the handrail by the door. Then, like I
said, when I took a deep breath, I got this sudden pain. No, it wasn’t so much painful. Really it was
like I’d been shot or something, all of a sudden my breathing completely stopped. Like, if I inhaled
any more, all my guts would come spilling right out of my mouth! Everything became a vacuum,
probably because I wasn’t feeling well, I thought; but, I mean, I’d never felt so bad. It was that
intense.
And then, when I think back on it now it seems kind of odd, but I thought, “Just maybe my grandad’s
died.” He lived up north in Ishikawa Prefecture and was 94 years old at the time. I’d heard he’d been
taken ill, so maybe this was a kind of sign. That was my first thought. Maybe he’d died or something.
After a while I was able to breathe again somehow. But by the time we passed Hibiya Station, one
stop before Kasumigaseki, I got this really bad cough. By then everyone in the car was coughing away
like mad. I knew there was something strange going on in the car. The other people were so excited
and everything …
Anyway, when the train stopped at Kasumigaseki I got off without giving it much thought. A few
other passengers called out to the station attendant, “Something’s wrong! Come quick!” and brought
him into the car. I didn’t see what happened after that, but this attendant was the one who carried out
the sarin packet and later died.
I left the Chiyoda Line platform and headed for the Hibiya Line as usual. When I reached the
platform at the bottom of the stairs I heard the emergency alarm go off: Bee-eee-eep! I knew
immediately from my time working for Japan Railways there’d been an accident. That’s when an
announcement came over the station PA. And just as I was thinking “I’d better get out of here” a
Hibiya Line train arrived from the opposite direction.
I could see from the station attendants’ confusion that this was no ordinary situation. And the Hibiya
Line train was completely empty, not a passenger on board. I only found out later, but in fact that train
had also been planted with sarin gas. They’d had a crisis at Kamiyacho Station or somewhere, and
dragged off all the passengers.
After the alarm there was an announcement: “Everyone evacuate the station.” People were making
for the exits, but I was beginning to feel really sick. So instead of going straight out, I thought I’d
better go to the toilet first. I looked all over the station to find the stationmaster’s office, and right next
to that the toilets.
As I was passing the office, I saw maybe three station attendants just lying there. There must have
been a fatal accident. Still, I carried on to the toilet and when I came out I went to an exit that
emerged in front of the Ministry of Trade and Industry building. This all took about ten minutes, I
suppose. Meanwhile they’d brought up the station attendants I’d seen in the office.
Once out of the exit I took a good look around, but what I saw was—how shall I put it?—“hell”
describes it perfectly. Three men were laid on the ground, spoons stuck in their mouths as a
precaution against them choking on their tongues. About six other station staff were there too, but they
all just sat on the flower beds holding their heads and crying. The moment I came out of the exit, a girl
was crying her eyes out. I was at a loss for words. I didn’t have a clue what was happening.
I grabbed hold of one of the station attendants and told him: “I used to work for Japan Railways.
I’m used to dealing with emergencies. Is there any way I can help?” But he just stared off into space.
All he could say was: “Yes, help.” I turned to the others sitting there. “This is no time to be crying,” I
said. “We’re not crying,” they answered, though it looked like they were crying. I thought they were
grieving for their dead colleagues.
“Has anyone called an ambulance?” I asked, and they said they had. But when I heard the
ambulance siren, it didn’t seem to be coming our way. For some reason, we were the last to get help,
so those in the most serious condition were last to be taken to the hospital. As a result, two people
died.
TV Tokyo cameramen were filming the whole scene. They’d parked their van nearby. I ran after the
film crew, saying: “Now’s not the time for that! If you’ve got transport, take these people to the
hospital!” The driver conferred with his crew and said, “All right, fine.”
When I worked for JR, I was taught always to carry a red scarf. In an emergency you could wave it
to stop trains. So there I was, thinking “scarf.” Someone lent me a handkerchief, but it was so small I
ended up giving it to the TV-crew driver and instructing him: “Get these people to the nearest
hospital. It’s an emergency, so honk your horn and drive through red lights if you have to! Just keep
going!”
I forget the color of the handkerchief; it was just some print. I don’t remember whether I told him to
wave it or tie it to his side mirror. I was pretty excited at the time, so my memory’s not that clear.
Later when I met Mr. Toyoda, he reminded me, “I never returned your handkerchief,” and gave me a
new one. He’d been sick in the backseat and used mine.
We managed to lift Mr. Takahashi, the station attendant who died, into the back, along with another
assistant. And still there was room, so one more station assistant got into the van. I think Mr.
Takahashi was still alive at that point. But at first glance I thought, “He’s a goner.” Not that I’d ever
witnessed death, I just knew. I could picture it; he was going to die this way. But still I had to try and
help, somehow.
The driver pleaded with me, “Miss, you come along with us,” but I said, “No, I’m not going.”
There were still lots of others being brought above ground and someone had to look after them, so I
stayed behind. I don’t know to which hospital the van went. I don’t know what happened to them
afterward either.
Then there was that girl nearby, crying and trembling all over. I stayed with her and tried to comfort
her, saying, “There there, it’s all right,” until finally the ambulance came. All that time I looked after
lots of different people, all of them white-faced, completely washed out. One man, fairly old by the
look of him, was foaming at the mouth. I had no idea humans could foam like that. I unbuttoned his
shirt, loosened his belt, and took his pulse. It was really fast. I tried to rouse him, but it was no use.
He was completely unconscious.
This “old man” was in fact a station attendant. Only he’d removed his uniform jacket. He was pale
and his hair was thin, so I mistook him for an elderly passenger. I later found out he was Mr. Toyoda,
a colleague of the two staff members [Mr. Takahashi and Mr. Hishinuma] who died. He was the only
one of the three injured station attendants who survived, and he was one of the longest in the hospital.
The ambulance arrived. “Is he conscious?” they asked. “No!” I yelled. “But he has a pulse!” The
ambulance team put an oxygen mask over his mouth. Then they said, “There’s one more [i.e., a
respirator unit]. If there’s anyone else in pain, we’ll take them.” So I inhaled a little oxygen, and the
crying girl took a good long dose. By the time we had finished there was a media stampede. They
surrounded the girl and the poor thing was seen on television all day.
While I was looking after everyone, I completely forgot my own pain. It was only at the mention of
oxygen that it occurred to me, “Come to think of it, I’m breathing funny myself.” Yet at that very
moment, I didn’t make a connection between the gas attack and my condition. I was all right, so I had
to look after the people who had really suffered. Just what the incident was I didn’t know, but
whatever it was it was big. And like I said before, I’d been feeling under the weather since the
morning, so I was convinced my feeling a little off was just me.
In the midst of all this, a colleague from work passed by. He helped me rescue the girl from the
clutches of the media. Then he suggested we walk to the office together, so I thought, “Okay, we’ll
walk to work.” It takes about thirty minutes on foot from Kasumigaseki to my office. As I was
walking, I found it a bit hard to breathe, but not so bad that I had to sit down and rest. I was able to
walk.
When we got to the office, my boss had seen me on TV, and everyone was asking, “Ms. Izumi, are
you really okay?” It was already ten o’clock by the time I got to the office. My boss said, “How about
resting a bit? You shouldn’t tax yourself,” but I still didn’t really understand what had happened, so I
just got on with my work. After a while a message came from Personnel: “Seems it was poison gas,
so if you start to feel ill you’re to report to the hospital immediately.” And just about then my
condition was getting worse. So they put me in an ambulance at the Kamiyacho intersection and took
me to Azabu Hospital, a small place not far away. Twenty people had gone there already.
I had coldlike symptoms for a week after that. I had this asthmatic cough, and three days later a high
fever, with a temperature of over 40°C [104°F]. I was sure the thermometer was broken. The mercury
shot up all the way to the top of the scale. So actually my temperature might have been even higher.
All I know is I was completely immobilized.
Even after the fever resided, the wheezing persisted for about a month; clearly the effects of sarin
in my bronchial tubes. It was incredibly painful. I mean, I’d start coughing and never stop. It was so
painful I couldn’t breathe. I was coughing all the time. I’d be talking like this and suddenly it would
start. In PR you have to meet people, so working under those conditions was really hard.
And I kept having these dreams. The image of those station attendants with spoons in their mouths
stuck in my head. In my dreams, there were hundreds of bodies lying on the ground, row upon row far
into the distance. I don’t know how many times I woke in the middle of the night. Frightening.
As I said, there were people foaming at the mouth where we were, in front of the Ministry of Trade
and Industry. That half of the roadway was absolute hell. But on the other side, people were walking
to work as usual. I’d be tending to someone and look up to see passersby glance my way with a
“what-on-earth’s-happened-here?” expression, but not one came over. It was as if we were a world
apart. Nobody stopped. They all thought: “Nothing to do with me.”
Some guards were standing right before our eyes at the ministry gate. Here we had three people
laid out on the ground, waiting desperately for an ambulance that didn’t arrive for a long, long time.
Yet nobody at the ministry called for help. They didn’t even call us a taxi.
It was when the sarin was planted, so that makes over an hour and a half before the ambulance
8:10

arrived. All that time those people just left us there. Occasionally the television would show Mr.
Takahashi lying dead with a spoon in his mouth, but that was it. I couldn’t bear to watch it.
MURAKAMI:Just supposing, what if you’d been one of those people across the road at the time, on
your way to work. Do you think you’d have crossed over to help?
Yes, I think so. I wouldn’t have just ignored them, no matter how out of character it might have
been. I’d have crossed over. The fact is, the whole situation made me want to cry, but I knew if I lost
control that would have been the end of it. Nobody was dealing with things calmly. No one even
caring for the sick. Everyone just abandoned us there the whole time and walked on by. It was
absolutely terrible.
As to the criminals who actually planted the sarin, I honestly can’t say I feel much anger or hatred. I
suppose I just don’t make the connection, and I can’t seem to find those emotions in me. What I really
think about are those families that have to bear the tragedy, their suffering is so much bigger to me
than any anger or hatred I might feel toward the criminals. The fact that someone from Aum brought
sarin onto the subway … that’s not the point. I don’t think about Aum’s role in the gas attack.
I never watch television reports or anything on Aum. I don’t want to. I have no intention of giving
interviews. If it will help those who suffered or the families of the deceased, then yes, I’ll come
forward and talk, but only if they want to know what happened. I’d rather not be danced around by the
media.
Of course society should severely punish this crime. Especially when you consider the families of
the deceased, there should be no getting off easy. What are those families supposed to do … ? But
even if those criminals get the death penalty, does that solve anything in the end? Perhaps I’m
oversensitive when it comes to human mortality, but it seems to me that however heavy the sentence,
there is nothing you can say to those families.

“I’ve been here since I first joined”

Masaru Yuasa (24)
Mr. Yuasa is much younger than Mr. Toyoda ( interviewed on this page), or the late Mr. Takahashi. He is more their
 sons’ age. He looks about 16 with his youthful, tousled hair. There is still something naive and boyish about him,
which makes him look younger than he is.
He was born in Ichikawa, across Tokyo Bay in Chiba, where he spent his childhood. He became interested in
trains and went to Iwakura High School in Ueno, Tokyo, which is the place to be for anyone who wants to work on
the railroad. He initially wanted to be a driver, so he opted for studies in engine mechanics. He was employed by
the Subway Authority in 1988 and has worked at Kasumigaseki Station ever since. Forthright and plaintalking, he
approaches his daily duties with a clear sense of purpose. This made the gas attack all the more shocking for him.
Mr. Yuasa’s boss ordered him to help carry Mr. Takahashi on a stretcher from where he’d fallen on the Chiyoda
Line platform to ground level and to wait there at the appointed area for an ambulance—which didn’t arrive. He
saw Mr. Takahashi’s condition worsen before his eyes, but was powerless to do anything. As a result Mr. Takahashi
failed to receive treatment in time and died. Mr. Yuasa’s frustration, confusion, and anger are unimaginable. It is
probably for this reason that his memory of the scene is foggy in places. As he himself admits, some details have
been completely blanked out.
This explains how parallel accounts of the same scene may diverge slightly, but this, after all, is how Mr. Yuasa
experienced it.

In high school we studied Mechanics or Transport. The ones who took Transport were mostly
statistics nerds, kept train schedules in their desk drawers (laughs). Me, I liked trains, but not like
that. They weren’t an obsession.
Japan Railways [JR] was the big thing to aim for in terms of jobs. So many guys wanted to be
Shinkansen [bullet-train] drivers. JR turned me down when I graduated, but Seibu and Odakyu and
Tokyu and other private lines were generally popular, although the catch was that you had to live in
areas served by those lines to get the job. Yeah, pretty tough. I’d always wanted to work on the
subway and the Subway Authority was pretty popular. The pay’s no worse than anywhere else.
Station work involves all sorts of jobs. Not just ticket booth and platform duty, but lost property
and sorting out arguments between passengers. It was tough joining at 18 and having to do all that.
That’s why the first round-the-clock duty was the longest. I’d pull down the shutters after the last train
and heave a sigh of relief: “Ah, that’s it for the day!” Not anymore, but that’s how it was at first.
The drunks were the worst thing. They either get all chummy when they’re drunk, or fight, or throw
up. Kasumigaseki’s not an entertainment district, so we don’t get that many of them, but sometimes we
do.
No, I never sat for the driver qualification. I had the chance to several times, but I thought it over
and didn’t. At the end of my first year there was a conductor’s test, but after one year I’d only just got
the hang of station work so I let it pass. Sure there were drunks, like I said, stuff I didn’t care for
especially, but still I thought I’d better learn the ropes a bit more. I suppose my initial impulse to be a
driver just changed over time while I was working around the station.
Kasumigaseki Station has three lines coming in: the Marunouchi, the Hibiya, and the Chiyoda. Each
has its own staff. I was with the Marunouchi Line at the time. The Hibiya Line office is the biggest,
but the Marunouchi and Chiyoda Line both have their own offices, their own staffrooms.
The Sunday before the gas attack I was on round-the-clock duty in the Chiyoda Line office. They
were short-staffed and I was filling in. A certain number of personnel has to be there for overnight
duty. The staff on the other lines help each other out, like one big family.
Around we lower the shutters, lock up the ticket booths, shut off the ticket machines, then wash
12:30

up and turn in just after . The early shift finish work around
1:00 and are asleep by around . The
11:30 12:00

following morning the early shift rises at and the late shift at . The first train leaves around .
4:30 5:30 5:00
 Wake up and first thing it’s clean up, raise the shutters, prepare the ticket booth. Then we take turns
eating breakfast. We cook our own rice, make our own miso soup. Meal duty’s posted up there with
all the other duties. We all share.
I was on late shift that night, so I woke up at , changed into my uniform, and reported to the ticket
5:30

booth at . I worked until , then went to have breakfast from to . Then I went to another ticket
5:55 7:00 7:00 7:30

booth and worked there until or so, then called it a day.

8:15

I was walking back to the office after the handover to my replacement when the Chief Officer,
Matsumoto, came out with a mop. “What’s that for?” I asked, and he said he had to clean inside a car.
I’d just gone off duty and had my hands free, so it was, “Fine, I’ll go with you.” We headed up the
escalator to the platform.
There we found Toyoda, Takahashi, and Hishinuma with a bundle of wet newspapers on the
platform. They’re stuffing it all by hand into plastic bags, but there’s liquid coming from them and
spilling onto the platform. Matsumoto mopped up the liquid. I didn’t have a mop, and most of the
newspaper had been bagged, so I wasn’t much help. I just stood to one side, watching.
“What’s this all about?” I wondered. There was a very strong smell. Then Takahashi walked over
to a trash can at the end of the platform, probably to fetch some more newspaper to wipe up where it
was still wet. Suddenly he sinks down in front of the bin and keels over.
Everyone ran toward Takahashi, shouting, “What’s wrong?” I thought maybe he was ill, but nothing
too serious. “Can you walk?” they asked, but it’s obvious he can’t, so I called the office over the
platform intercom: “Send up the stretcher!”
Takahashi’s face looked awful. He couldn’t talk. We laid him on his side, loosened his tie … he
looked in really bad shape.
We carried him down to the office on the stretcher, then phoned for an ambulance. That’s when I
asked Toyoda, “Which exit is the ambulance supposed to come to?” There’s protocol for situations
like this, saying where ambulances are supposed to pull up and so on. But Toyoda’s tongue-tied. Kind
of odd, but all I could think at the time was he was probably too confused to speak.
Anyway, I dashed up Exit A . Yes, before carrying Takahashi up, I got up there myself and waited
II

to signal the ambulance when it came. So I’m out of the exit and waiting by the Ministry of Trade and
Industry.
On the way to Exit A I ran into one of the Hibiya Line staff, who tells me there’s been an explosion
II

at Tsukiji Station. Nothing more was known. A suspicious object had been found in our station that
month on the fifteenth, so I’m thinking as I wait for the ambulance: “This is turning into one weird
day.”
But I wait and I wait and no ambulance. Soon other office staff come up and it’s, “No ambulance
yet? What’ll we do?” We decide we ought to bring Takahashi up above ground. I’ve been outside all
this time, but these two or three people who came up from the office tell me they’ve all started feeling
sick down there. So they don’t want to go back. It turns out they kept whatever was in those plastic
packets in the office, and that’s what’s to blame.
Well, Takahashi still has to be carried up, so we all head downstairs again. Back at the office, there
was a woman passenger who felt ill, sitting on the sofa by the entrance. Takahashi’s behind her on a
stretcher on the floor. By then he wasn’t moving, practically frozen stiff. A lot worse than he looked
before, barely conscious. The other staff were trying to talk to him, but there was no response. The
four of us carried him above ground on the stretcher.
But we wait and wait and still there’s no sign of an ambulance. We were getting pretty frustrated.
Why wasn’t anything coming? Now I know that all the ambulances had rushed over to Tsukiji. You
could hear sirens in the distance, but none coming this way. I couldn’t help feeling anxious, thinking
they’d got the wrong location. I almost felt like shouting out: “Hey, over here!” Actually, I did try
running in that direction, but I felt dizzy myself … I put it down to not having had enough sleep.
When we carried Takahashi up, there were already newspeople at the exit. This woman with a
camera was snapping away at Takahashi lying there. I shouted to her: “No photos!” Her male assistant
came in between us, but I told him, too: “No more photos!”—but taking pictures was her job.
Then a TV Tokyo van came along. They were asking so many questions, like “What’s the situation
here?”—but I was in no mood to be interviewed. Not when the ambulance was taking forever to
come.
Suddenly I realized the TV crew had a big van, so I struck a deal with them: “You’ve got wheels,
you have to take Takahashi.” I was probably kind of angry, the way I spoke. I don’t remember in
detail, but I was pretty worked up, after all. Nobody knew what was going on, so it took some
negotiating. No one said straightaway, “Oh, I get it,” and sprang into action. The discussions took a
while. But once things were settled, they lowered the backseat and laid Takahashi on it along with
another station attendant [Mr. Ohori] who was also feeling ill. He’d been with Takahashi all the time,
but started vomiting when he came above ground. Another member of staff [Mr. Sawaguchi] also
went with them.
“You know which hospital?” the driver asked, but nobody had a clue. So I got in the front seat next
to the driver and went along too, directing them to Hibiya Hospital, which is where we always sent
people whenever they got ill at the station. A woman said, “Wave a red cloth or something from the
window so they know it’s an emergency.” We didn’t have a red cloth, so she gave us her
handkerchief. Not red, just an ordinary pattern. I sat in the front seat waving that handkerchief out the
window all the way to the hospital.
This was around , so traffic was pretty heavy. I was already so out of it, after all that time waiting
9:00

for an ambulance that never came. I can’t even remember the driver’s face or the woman who gave
me the handkerchief. No recollection at all. I was just gone. There was no time to think about what
was going on. I do remember Ohori throwing up in the backseat. That I do remember.
The hospital wasn’t open when we arrived. We took Takahashi out of the van on the stretcher and I
went to the reception desk. “We’ve got an emergency here,” I said, then went back outside and waited
by Takahashi. He wasn’t moving at all. Ohori had crouched down, immobile. Still no one came out of
the hospital. They must have decided it wasn’t all that serious. After all, I must have looked confused
and hadn’t given them any details. We just waited and waited and nobody came out.
So I went to Reception again, and raised my voice: “Please! Somebody come! This is serious!”
Then a few people came out, saw Takahashi and Ohori’s condition, and rushed them inside. How long
did it take? Two or three minutes.
Sawaguchi stayed at Reception while I went back to the station exit with the TV van driver. By then
I’d calmed down a lot, or at least I was telling myself I had to calm down. I apologized to the driver
for Ohori throwing up all over the seat, but he didn’t seem to mind. It was only then that I could
manage even a simple conversation like that.
By then, I think they’d carried up Toyoda and Hishinuma, neither of them moving. They were trying
to resuscitate them with oxygen masks and massaging their chests. Around them other staff and
passengers were sitting down outside the Ministry of Trade and Industry. Nobody knew what on earth
was going on.
Finally an ambulance arrived. My memory fails me here, but I seem to recall Toyoda and
Hishinuma were taken away separately. Only one patient to an ambulance, so one of them had to be
taken by car. They were the only ones to leave at that time. None of the others were as critical. By
then, so many people had gathered around Exit A : news crews, police, firemen—I remember the size
II

of the crowd. The media were in full swing, mikes out, interviewing passengers and subway staff.
They probably couldn’t get into the station anymore.
Once the scene was under control, I walked to the hospital. When I got to the lobby, the TV was on.
It was the NHK [Japan Broadcasting Corporation] news. They were showing live reports from the
gas attack. That’s when I learned Takahashi had died, from a running subtitle on-screen. “Ah,” I
thought, “he didn’t make it. We were too late …” I can’t tell you how sad I was.
My own condition? Well, my pupils were contracted and everything looked dark. I was coughing a
little, too. Nothing too serious. They put me on a drip, just in case. I got off lightly. Probably because
I’d gone outside early on. Ohori was in the hospital for ages.
After the drip, I walked back to the station with a few of the staff. The Chiyoda Line trains weren’t
stopping at Kasumigaseki Station, so we went to the Marunouchi Line office. What with this and that,
it was evening before I finally got home. It had been a long, long day. I took off the next day and
returned for round-the-clock duty on the twenty-second.
To be honest, my memories of the gas attack jump around. This or that detail I remember with
burning clarity, but the rest is very sketchy. I was pretty wound up. Takahashi’s collapse and taking
him to the hospital—those things I remember fairly well.
I wasn’t especially close to Takahashi. He was the assistant stationmaster and I’m only one of the
younger staff—our positions were totally different. His son works for the subway, at another station,
about the same age as me. I suppose that made us like father and son, though I never felt much age
difference talking to Takahashi. He was never one to pull rank. He was the quiet type, everybody
liked him. He was always polite to passengers, too.
The gas attack didn’t upset me to the point where I thought: “I can’t take it, I have to change jobs.”
Not at all. I’ve been here since I first joined. Can’t compare it with others, but I really like it here.

“At that point Takahashi was still alive”

Minoru Miyata (54)
Mr. Miyata has been a chauffeur for TV Tokyo for six years. He waits long hours on standby at the TV station until
a news item breaks, then rushes to the scene in a van full of outside-broadcast equipment. Sometimes he has to put
his foot down, and he’ll drive a thousand miles, all the way from Tokyo to Hokkaido, if he has to. A tough job.
A professional driver, he’s been chauffeuring since the mid-1960s. He’s had a thing for cars ever since he was a
boy. His face lights up when he talks about them. He’s almost never had an accident or a ticket; although when he
was ferrying victims from the Tokyo gas attack to the hospital, he admits he couldn’t avoid breaking the rules a
little.
He speaks quickly, and never mulls over his words. He is a model of split-second timing. His decisiveness helped
 “Tuesdays with Morrie” By Mitch Albom 2
Acknowledgments

I would like to acknowledge the enormous help given to me in creating this book. For
their memories, their patience, and their guidance, I wish to thank Charlotte, Rob, and
Jonathan Schwartz, Maurie Stein, Charlie Derber, Gordie Fellman, David Schwartz,
Rabbi Al Axelrad, and the multitude of Morrie’s friends and colleagues. Also, special
thanks to Bill Thomas, my editor, for handling this project with just the right touch. And,
as always, my appreciation to David Black, who often believes in me more than I do
myself.
Mostly, my thanks to Morrie, for wanting to do this last thesis together. Have you ever
had a teacher like this?

The Curriculum

The last class of my old professor’s life took place once a week in his house, by a
window in the study where he could watch a small hibiscus plant shed its pink leaves.
The class met on Tuesdays. It began after breakfast. The subject was The Meaning of
Life. It was taught from experience.
No grades were given, but there were oral exams each week. You were expected to
respond to questions, and you were expected to pose questions of your own. You were
also required to perform physical tasks now and then, such as lifting the professor’s
head to a comfortable spot on the pillow or placing his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
Kissing him good-bye earned you extra credit.
No books were required, yet many topics were covered, including love, work,
community, family, aging, forgiveness, and, finally, death. The last lecture was brief,
only a few words.
A funeral was held in lieu of graduation.
Although no final exam was given, you were expected to produce one long paper on
what was learned. That paper is presented here.
The last class of my old professor’s life had only one student.
I was the student.

It is the late spring of 1979, a hot, sticky Saturday afternoon. Hundreds of us sit
together, side by side, in rows of wooden folding chairs on the main campus lawn. We
wear blue nylon robes. We listen impatiently to long speeches. When the ceremony is
over, we throw our caps in the air, and we are officially graduated from college, the
senior class of Brandeis University in the city of Waltham, Massachusetts. For many of
us, the curtain has just come down on childhood.

Afterward, I find Morrie Schwartz, my favorite professor, and introduce him to my

parents. He is a small man who takes small steps, as if a strong wind could, at any time,
whisk him up into the clouds. In his graduation day robe, he looks like a cross between a
biblical prophet and a Christmas elf He has sparkling blue green eyes, thinning silver
hair that spills onto his forehead, big ears, a triangular nose, and tufts of graying
eyebrows. Although his teeth are crooked and his lower ones are slanted back—as if
someone had once punched them in—when he smiles it’s as if you’d just told him the
first joke on earth.
He tells my parents how I took every class he taught. He tells them, “You have a
special boy here. “Embarrassed, I look at my feet. Before we leave, I hand my professor
a present, a tan briefcase with his initials on the front. I bought this the day before at a
shopping mall. I didn’t want to forget him. Maybe I didn’t want him to forget me.
“Mitch, you are one of the good ones,” he says, admiring the briefcase. Then he hugs
me. I feel his thin arms around my back. I am taller than he is, and when he holds me, I
feel awkward, older, as if I were the parent and he were the child. He asks if I will stay in
 “Tuesdays with Morrie” By Mitch Albom 3
touch, and without hesitation I say, “Of course.”
When he steps back, I see that he is crying.

The Syllabus

His death sentence came in the summer of 1994. Looking back, Morrie knew
something bad was coming long before that. He knew it the day he gave up dancing.
He had always been a dancer, my old professor. The music didn’t matter. Rock and
roll, big band, the blues. He loved them all. He would close his eyes and with a blissful
smile begin to move to his own sense of rhythm. It wasn’t always pretty. But then, he
didn’t worry about a partner. Morrie danced by himself.
He used to go to this church in Harvard Square every Wednesday night for something
called “Dance Free.” They had flashing lights and booming speakers and Morrie would
wander in among the mostly student crowd, wearing a white T-shirt and black
sweatpants and a towel around his neck, and whatever music was playing, that’s the
music to which he danced. He’d do the lindy to Jimi Hendrix. He twisted and twirled, he
waved his arms like a conductor on amphetamines, until sweat was dripping down the
middle of his back. No one there knew he was a prominent doctor of sociology, with
years of experience as a college professor and several well-respected books. They just
thought he was some old nut.
Once, he brought a tango tape and got them to play it over the speakers. Then he
commandeered the floor, shooting back and forth like some hot Latin lover. When he
finished, everyone applauded. He could have stayed in that moment forever.
But then the dancing stopped.
He developed asthma in his sixties. His breathing became labored. One day he was
walking along the Charles River, and a cold burst of wind left him choking for air. He
was rushed to the hospital and injected with Adrenalin.
A few years later, he began to have trouble walking. At a birthday party for a friend, he
stumbled inexplicably. Another night, he fell down the steps of a theater, startling a small
crowd of people.
“Give him air!” someone yelled.
He was in his seventies by this point, so they whispered “old age” and helped him to
his feet. But Morrie, who was always more in touch with his insides than the rest of us,
knew something else was wrong. This was more than old age. He was weary all the
time. He had trouble sleeping. He dreamt he was dying.
He began to see doctors. Lots of them. They tested his blood. They tested his urine.
They put a scope up his rear end and looked inside his intestines. Finally, when nothing
could be found, one doctor ordered a muscle biopsy, taking a small piece out of Morrie’s
calf. The lab report came back suggesting a neurological problem, and Morrie was
brought in for yet another series of tests. In one of those tests, he sat in a special seat
as they zapped him with electrical current—an electric chair, of sortsand studied his
neurological responses.
“We need to check this further,” the doctors said, looking over his results.
“Why?” Morrie asked. “What is it?”
“We’re not sure. Your times are slow.” His times were slow? What did that mean?
Finally, on a hot, humid day in August 1994, Morrie and his wife, Charlotte, went to the
neurologist’s office, and he asked them to sit before he broke the news: Morrie had
amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), Lou Gehrig’s disease, a brutal, unforgiving illness of
the neurological system.
There was no known cure.
“How did I get it?” Morrie asked. Nobody knew.
“Is it terminal?”
Yes.
“So I’m going to die?”
Yes, you are, the doctor said. I’m very sorry.
 “Tuesdays with Morrie” By Mitch Albom 4
He sat with Morrie and Charlotte for nearly two hours, patiently answering their
questions. When they left, the doctor gave them some information on ALS, little
pamphlets, as if they were opening a bank account. Outside, the sun was shining and
people were going about their business. A woman ran to put money in the parking
meter. Another carried groceries. Charlotte had a million thoughts running through her
mind: How much time do we have left? How will we manage? How will we pay the bills?
My old professor, meanwhile, was stunned by the normalcy of the day around him.
Shouldn’t the world stop? Don’t they know what has happened to me?
But the world did not stop, it took no notice at all, and as Morrie pulled weakly on the
car door, he felt as if he were dropping into a hole.
Now what? he thought.

As my old professor searched for answers, the disease took him over, day by day,
week by week. He backed the car out of the garage one morning and could barely push
the brakes. That was the end of his driving.
He kept tripping, so he purchased a cane. That was the end of his walking free.
He went for his regular swim at the YMCA, but found he could no longer undress
himself. So he hired his first home care worker—a theology student named Tony—who
helped him in and out of the pool, and in and out of his bathing suit. In the locker room,
the other swimmers pretended not to stare. They stared anyhow. That was the end of
his privacy.
In the fall of 1994, Morrie came to the hilly Brandeis campus to teach his final college
course. He could have skipped this, of course. The university would have understood.
Why suffer in front of so many people? Stay at home. Get your affairs in order. But the
idea of quitting did not occur to Morrie.
Instead, he hobbled into the classroom, his home for more than thirty years. Because
of the cane, he took a while to reach the chair. Finally, he sat down, dropped his glasses
off his nose, and looked out at the young faces who stared back in silence.
“My friends, I assume you are all here for the Social Psychology class. I have been
teaching this course for twenty years, and this is the first time I can say there is a risk in
taking it, because I have a fatal illness. I may not live to finish the semester.
“If you feel this is a problem, I understand if you wish to drop the course.”
He smiled.
And that was the end of his secret.

ALS is like a lit candle: it melts your nerves and leaves your body a pile of wax. Often,
it begins with the legs and works its way up. You lose control of your thigh muscles, so
that you cannot support yourself standing. You lose control of your trunk muscles, so
that you cannot sit up straight. By the end, if you are still alive, you are breathing
through a tube in a hole in your throat, while your soul, perfectly awake, is imprisoned
inside a limp husk, perhaps able to blink, or cluck a tongue, like something from a
science fiction movie, the man frozen inside his own flesh. This takes no more than five
years from the day you contract the disease.
Morrie’s doctors guessed he had two years left. Morrie knew it was less.
But my old professor had made a profound decision, one he began to construct the
day he came out of the doctor’s office with a sword hanging over his head. Do I wither
up and disappear, or do I make the best of my time left? he had asked himself.
He would not wither. He would not be ashamed of dying.
Instead, he would make death his final project, the center point of his days. Since
everyone was going to die, he could be of great value, right? He could be research. A
human textbook. Study me in my slow and patient demise. Watch what happens to me.
Learn with me.
Morrie would walk that final bridge between life and death, and narrate the trip.

The fall semester passed quickly. The pills increased. Therapy became a regular
 “Tuesdays with Morrie” By Mitch Albom 5
routine. Nurses came to his house to work with Morrie’s withering legs, to keep the
muscles active, bending them back and forth as if pumping water from a well. Massage
specialists came by once a week to try to soothe the constant, heavy stiffness he felt.
He met with meditation teachers, and closed his eyes and narrowed his thoughts until
his world shrunk down to a single breath, in and out, in and out.
One day, using his cane, he stepped onto the curb and fell over into the street. The
cane was exchanged for a walker. As his body weakened, the back and forth to the
bathroom became too exhausting, so Morrie began to urinate into a large beaker. He
had to support himself as he did this, meaning someone had to hold the beaker while
Morrie filled it.
Most of us would be embarrassed by all this, especially at Morrie’s age. But Morrie
was not like most of us. When some of his close colleagues would visit, he would say to
them, “Listen, I have to pee. Would you mind helping? Are you okay with that?”
Often, to their own surprise, they were.
In fact, he entertained a growing stream of visitors. He had discussion groups about
dying, what it really meant, how societies had always been afraid of it without
necessarily understanding it. He told his friends that if they really wanted to help him,
they would treat him not with sympathy but with visits, phone calls, a sharing of their
problems—the way they had always shared their problems, because Morrie had always
been a wonderful listener.
For all that was happening to him, his voice was strong and inviting, and his mind was
vibrating with a million thoughts. He was intent on proving that the word “dying” was not
synonymous with “useless.”
The New Year came and went. Although he never said it to anyone, Morrie knew this
would be the last year of his life. He was using a wheelchair now, and he was fighting
time to say all the things he wanted to say to all the people he loved. When a colleague
at Brandeis died suddenly of a heart attack, Morrie went to his funeral. He came home
depressed.
“What a waste,” he said. “All those people saying all those wonderful things, and Irv
never got to hear any of it.”
Morrie had a better idea. He made some calls. He chose a date. And on a cold
Sunday afternoon, he was joined in his home by a small group of friends and family for a
“living funeral.” Each of them spoke and paid tribute to my old professor. Some cried.
Some laughed. One woman read a poem:

“My dear and loving cousin …

Your ageless heart
as you move through time, layer on layer,
tender sequoia …”

Morrie cried and laughed with them. And all the heartfelt things we never get to say to
those we love, Morrie said that day. His “living funeral” was a rousing success.
Only Morrie wasn’t dead yet.
In fact, the most unusual part of his life was about to unfold.

The Student

At this point, I should explain what had happened to me since that summer day when I
last hugged my dear and wise professor, and promised to keep in touch.
I did not keep in touch.
In fact, I lost contact with most of the people I knew in college, including my, beer-
drinking friends and the first woman I ever woke up with in the morning. The years after
graduation hardened me into someone quite different from the strutting graduate who
left campus that day headed for New York City, ready to offer the world his talent.
The world, I discovered, was not all that interested. I wandered around my early
Chapter from: Gerald Durrell. “My Family and Other Animals.” iBooks.

CHAPTER NINE
The World in a Wall

THE crumbling wall that surrounded the sunken garden alongside the house was a rich hunting
ground for me. It was an ancient brick wall that had been plastered over, but now this outer skin
was green with moss, bulging and sagging with the damp of many winters. The whole surface
was an intricate map of cracks, some several inches wide, others as fine as hairs. Here and there
large pieces had dropped off and revealed the rows of rose-pink bricks lying beneath like ribs.
There was a whole landscape on this wall if you peered closely enough to see it; the roofs of a
hundred tiny toadstools, red, yellow, and brown, showed in patches like villages on the damper
portions; mountains of bottle-green moss grew in tuffets so symmetrical that they might have
been planted and trimmed; forests of small ferns sprouted from cracks in the shady places,
drooping languidly like little green fountains. The top of the wall was a desert land, too dry for
anything except a few rust-red mosses to live in it, too hot for anything except sun-bathing by the
dragon-“lies. At the base of the wall grew a mass of plants, cyclamen, crocus, asphodel, thrusting
their leaves among the piles of broken and chipped roof-tiles that lay there. This whole strip was
guarded by a labyrinth of blackberry hung, in season, with fruit that was plump and juicy and
black as ebony.

The inhabitants of the wall were a mixed lot, and they were divided into day and night workers,
the hunters and the hunted. At night the hunters were the toads that lived among the brambles,
and the geckos, pale, translucent with bulging eyes, that lived in the cracks higher up the wall.
Their prey was the population of stupid, absent-minded crane-flies that zoomed and barged their
way among the leaves; moths of all sizes and shapes, moths striped, tessellated, checked,
spotted, and blotched, that fluttered in soft clouds along the withered plaster; the beetles, rotund
and neatly clad as business men, hurrying with portly efficiency about their night's work. When
the last glow-worm had dragged his frosty emerald lantern to bed over the hills of moss, and the
sun rose, the wall was taken over by the next set of inhabitants. Here it was more difficult to
differentiate between the prey and the predators, for everything seemed to feed indiscriminately
off everything else. Thus the hunting wasps searched out caterpillars and spiders; the spiders
hunted for flies; the dragon-flies, big, brittle, and hunting-pink, fed off the spiders and the flies;
and the swift, lithe, and multicoloured wall lizards fed off everything.

But the shyest and most self-effacing of the wall community were the most dangerous; you hardly
ever saw one unless you looked for it, and yet there must have been several hundred living in the
cracks of the wall. Slide a knife-blade carefully under a piece of the loose plaster and lever it
gently away from the brick, and there, crouching beneath it, would be a little black scorpion an
inch long, looking as though he were made out of polished chocolate. They were weird-looking
things, with their flattened, oval bodies, their neat, crooked legs, the enormous crab-like claws,
bulbous and neatly jointed as armour, and the tail like a string of brown beads ending in a sting
like a rose-thorn. The scorpion would lie there quite quietly as you examined him, only raising his
tail in an almost apologetic gesture of warning if you breathed too hard on him. If you kept him in
the sun too long he would simply turn his back on you and walk away, and then slide slowly but
firmly under another section of plaster.

I grew very fond of these scorpions. I found them to be pleasant, unassuming creatures with, on
the whole, the most charming habits. Provided you did nothing silly or clumsy (like putting your
hand on one) the scorpions treated you with respect, their one desire being to get away and hide
as quickly as possible. They must have found me rather a trial, for I was always ripping sections of
the plaster away so that I could watch them, or capturing them and making them walk about in
jam-jars so that I could see the way their feet moved. By means of my sudden and unexpected
assaults on the wall I discovered quite a bit about the scorpions. I found that they would eat
bluebottles (though how they caught them was a mystery I never solved), grass-hoppers, moths,
and lacewing flies. Several times I found them eating each other, a habit I found most distressing
in a creature otherwise so impeccable.

By crouching under the wall at night with a torch, I managed to catch some brief glimpses of the
scorpions' wonderful courtship dances. I saw them standing, claws clasped, their bodies raised
to the skies, their tails lovingly entwined; I saw them waltzing slowly in circles among the moss
cushions, claw in claw. But my view of these performances was all too short, for almost as soon
as I switched on the torch the partners would stop, pause for a moment, and then, seeing that I
was not going to extinguish the light, they would turn round and walk firmly away, claw in claw,
side by side. They were definitely beasts that believed in keeping themselves to themselves. If I
could have kept a colony in captivity I would probably have been able to see the whole of the
courtship, but the family had forbidden scorpions in the house, despite my arguments in favour of
them.

Then one day I found a fat female scorpion in the wall, wearing what at first glance appeared to
be a pale fawn fur coat. Closer inspection proved that this strange garment was made up of a
mass of tiny babies clinging to the mother's back. I was enraptured by this family, and I made up
my mind to smuggle them into the house and up to my bedroom so that I might keep them and
watch them grow up. With infinite care I manoeuvred the mother and family into a matchbox, and
then hurried to the villa. It was rather unfortunate that just as I entered the door lunch should be
served; however, I placed the match box carefully on the mantelpiece in the drawing-room, so
that the scorpions should get plenty of air, and made my way to the dining-room and joined the
family for the meal. Dawdling over my food, feeding Roger surreptitiously under the table and
listening to the family arguing, I completely forgot about my exciting new captures. At last Larry,
having finished, fetched the cigarettes from the drawing-room, and lying back in his chair he put
one in his mouth and picked up the matchbox he had brought. Oblivious of my impending doom I
watched him interestedly as, still talking glibly, he opened the matchbox.

Now I maintain to this day that the female scorpion meant no harm. She was agitated and a trifle
annoyed at being shut up in a matchbox for so long, and so she seized the first opportunity to
escape. She hoisted herself out of the box with great rapidity, her babies clinging on desperately,
and scuttled on to the back of Larry's hand. There, not quite certain what to do next, she paused,
her sting curved up at the ready. Larry, feeling the movement of her claws, glanced down to see
what it was, and from that moment things got increasingly confused.

He uttered a roar of fright that made Lugaretzia drop a plate and brought Roger out from beneath
the table, barking wildly. With a flick of his hand he sent the unfortunate scorpion flying down the
table, and she landed midway between Margo and Leslie, scattering babies like confetti as she
thumped on the cloth. Thoroughly enraged at this treatment, the creature sped towards Leslie, her
sting quivering with emotion. Leslie leapt to his feet, overturning his chair, and flicked out
desperately with his napkin, sending the scorpion rolling across the cloth towards Margo, who
promptly let out a scream that any railway engine would have been proud to produce. Mother,
completely bewildered by this sudden and rapid change from peace to chaos, put-on her glasses
and peered down the table to see what was causing the pandemonium, and at that moment
Margo, in a vain attempt to stop the scorpion's advance, hurled a glass of water at it. The shower
missed the animal completely, but successfully drenched Mother, who, not being able to stand
cold water, promptly lost her breath and sat gasping at the end of the table, unable even to
protest. The scorpion had now gone to ground under Leslie's plate, while her babies swarmed
wildly all over the table. Roger, mystified by the panic, but determined to do his share, ran round
and round the room, barking hysterically.

‘It's that bloody boy again ...' bellowed Larry.

'Look out! Look out! They're coming!' screamed Margo.

'AH we need is a book,' roared Leslie; 'don't panic, hit 'em with a book.'

'What on earth's the matter with you all?' Mother kept imploring, mopping her glasses.

'It's that bloody boy ... he'll kill the lot of us.... Look at the table ... knee-deep in scorpions....'

'Quick . . . quick ... do something. . . . Look out, look out!'

'Stop screeching and get a book, for God's sake. . . .

You're worse than the dog..... Shut up, Roger….

‘By the Grace of God I wasn't bitten '

'Look out... there's another one.... Quick... quick....'

'Oh, shut up and get me a book or something....'

'But how did the scorpions get on the table, dear?’

'That bloody boy. . . . Every matchbox in the house is a deathtrap. . . . '

'Look out, it's coming towards me.... Quick, quick, do something. . . . '

'Hit it with your knife.. .your knife Go on, hit it...'

Since no one had bothered to explain things to him, Roger was under the mistaken impression
that the family were being attacked, and that it was his duty to defend them. As Lugaretzia was
the only stranger in the room, he came to the logical conclusion that she must be the responsible
party, so he bit her in the ankle. This did not help matters very much.

By the time a certain amount of order had been restored, all the baby scorpions had hidden
themselves under various plates and bits of cutlery. Eventually, after impassioned pleas on my
part, backed up by Mother, Leslie's suggestion that the whole lot be slaughtered was quashed.
While the family, still simmering with rage and fright, retired to the drawing-room, I spent half an
hour rounding up the babies, picking them up in a teaspoon, and returning them to their mother's
back. Then I carried them outside on a saucer and, with the utmost reluctance, released them on
the garden wall. Roger and I went and spent the afternoon on the hillside, for I felt it would be
prudent to allow the family to have a siesta before seeing them again.

The results of this incident were numerous. Larry developed a phobia about matchboxes and
opened them with the utmost caution, a handkerchief wrapped round his hand. Lugaretzia limped
round the house, her ankle enveloped in yards of bandage, for weeks after the bite had healed,
and came round every morning, with the tea, to show us how the scabs were getting on. “But,
from my point of view, the worst repercussion of the whole affair was that Mother decided I was
running wild again, and that it was high time I received a little more education. While the problem
of finding a full-time tutor was being solved, she was determined that my French, at least, should
be kept in trim. So arrangements were made, and every morning Spiro would drive me into the
town for my French lesson with the Belgian consul.

The consul's house was situated in the maze of narrow, smelly alleyways that made up the Jewish
quarter of the town. It was a fascinating area, the cobbled streets crammed with stalls that were
piled high with gaily-coloured bales of cloth, mountains of shining sweetmeats, ornaments of
beaten silver, fruit, and vegetables. The streets were so narrow that you had to stand back against
the wall to allow the donkeys to stagger past with their loads of merchandise. It was a rich and
colourful part of the town, full of noise and bustle, the screech of bargaining women, the cluck of
hens, the barking of dogs, and the wailing cry of the men carrying great trays of fresh hot loaves
on their heads. Right in the very centre, in the top flat of a tall, rickety building that leant tiredly
over a tiny square, lived the Belgian consul.

He was a sweet little man, whose most striking attribute was a magnificent three-pointed beard
and carefully waxed moustache. He took his job rather seriously, and was always dressed as
though he were on the verge of rushing off to some important official function, in a black cut-away
coat, striped trousers, fawn spats over brightly polished shoes, an immense cravat like a silk
waterfall, held in place by a plain gold pin, and a tall and gleaming top hat that completed the
ensemble. One could see him at any hour of the day, clad like this, picking his picking his way
down the dirty, narrow alleys, stepping daintily among the puddles, drawing himself back against
the wall with a magnificently courteous gesture to allow a donkey to pass, and tapping it coyly on
the rump with his malacca cane. The people of the town did not find his garb at all unusual. They
thought that he was an Englishman, and as all Englishmen were lords it was not only right but
necessary that they should wear the correct uniform.

The first morning I arrived, he welcomed me into a living-room whose walls were decorated with a
mass of heavily-framed photographs of himself in various Napoleonic attitudes. The Victorian
chairs, covered with red brocade, were patched with antimacassars by the score; the table on
which we worked “was draped in a wine-red cloth of velvet, with a fringe of bright green tassels
round the edge. It was an intriguingly ugly room. In order to test the extent of my knowledge of
French, the consul sat me down at the table, produced a fat and battered edition of he Petit
Larousse, and placed it in front of me, open at page one.

'You will please to read zis,' he said, his gold teeth glittering amicably in his beard.

He twisted the points of his moustache, pursed his lips, clasped his hands behind his back, and
paced slowly across to the window, while I started down the list of words beginning with A. I had
hardly stumbled through the first three when the consul stiffened and uttered a suppressed
exclamation. I thought at first he was shocked by my accent, but it was apparently nothing to do
with me. He rushed across the room, muttering to himself, tore open a cupboard, and pulled out a
powerful-looking air rifle, while I watched him with increasing mystification and interest, not
unmixed with a certain alarm for my own safety. He loaded the weapon, dropping pellets all over
the carpet in his frantic haste. Then he crouched and crept back to the window, where, half
concealed by the curtain, he peered out eagerly. Then he raised the gun, took careful aim at
something, and fired. When he turned round, slowly and sadly shaking his head, and laid the gun
aside, I was surprised to see tears in his eyes. He drew a yard or so of silk handkerchief out of his
breast pocket and blew his nose violently.

Ah, ah, ah,' he intoned, shaking his head dolefully, 'ze poor lizzie fellow. Buz we musz work...
please to continuez wiz your reading, mon ami.'

For the rest of the morning I toyed with the exciting idea that the consul had committed a murder
before my very eyes, or, at least, that he was carrying out a blood feud with some neighbouring
householder. But when, after the fourth morning, the consul was still firing periodically out of his
window, I decided that my explanation could not be the right one, unless it was an exceptionally
large family he was feuding with, and a family, moreover, who were apparently incapable of firing
back. It was a week before I found out the reason for the consul's incessant fusillade, and the
reason was cats. In the Jewish quarter, as in other parts of the town, the cats were allowed to
breed unchecked. There were literally hundreds of them. They belonged to no one and were
uncared for, so that most of them were in a frightful state, covered with sores, their fur coming out
in great bald patches, their legs bent with rickets, and all of them so thin that it was a wonder they
were alive at all. The consul was a great cat-lover, and he possessed three large and well-fed
Persians to prove it. But the sight of all these starving, sore-ridden felines stalking about on the
roof-tops opposite his window was too much for his sensitive nature.

'I cannot feed zem all,' he explained to me, 'so I like to make zem happiness by zooting zem. Zey
are bezzer so, buz iz makes me feel so zad.'

He was, in fact, performing a very necessary and humane service, as anyone who had seen the
cats would agree. So my lessons in French were being continuously interrupted while the consul
leapt to the window to send yet another cat to a happier hunting ground. After the report of the
gun there would be a moment's silence, in respect for the dead, and then the consul would blow
his nose violently, sigh tragically, and we would plunge once more into the tangled labyrinth of
French verbs.

For some inexplicable reason the consul was under the impression that Mother could speak
French, and he would never lose an opportunity of engaging her in conversation. If she had the
good fortune, while shopping in the town, to notice his top hat bobbing through the crowd
towards her, she would hastily retreat into the nearest shop and buy a number of things she had
no use for, until the danger was past. Occasionally, however, the consul would appear suddenly
out of an alleyway and take her by surprise. He would advance, smiling broadly and twirling his
cane, sweep off" his top hat and bow almost double before her, while clasping her reluctantly
offered hand and pressing it passionately into his beard. Then they would stand in the middle of
the street, occasionally being forced apart by a passing donkey, while the consul swamped
Mother under a flood of French, gesturing elegantly with his hat and stick, apparently unaware of
the blank expression on Mother's face. Now and then he would punctuate his speech with a
questioning 'n'est-cepas, madame? and this was Mother's cue. Summoning up all her courage,
she would display her complete mastery over the French tongue.

'Oui, oui!' she would exclaim, smiling nervously, and then add, in case it had sounded rather
unenthusiastic, 'oui, oui’.

This procedure satisfied the consul, and I'm sure he never realized that this was the only French
word that Mother knew. But these conversations were a nerve-racking ordeal for her, and we had
only to hiss 'Look out, Mother, the consul's coming,' to set her tearing off down the street at a
lady-like walk that was dangerously near to a gallop.

In some ways these French lessons were good for me; I did not learn any French, it's true, but by
the end of the morning I was so bored that my afternoon sorties into the surrounding country were
made with double the normal enthusiasm. And then, of course, there was always Thursday to look
forward to. Theodore would come out to the villa as soon after lunch as was decent, and stay until
the moon was high over the Albanian mountains. Thursday was happily chosen, from his point of
view, because it was on this day that the seaplane from Athens arrived and landed in the bay not
far from the house. Theodore had a passion for watching seaplanes land. Unfortunately the only
part of the house from which you could get a good view of the bay was the attic, and then it
meant leaning perilously out of the window and craning your neck. The plane would invariably
arrive in the middle of tea; a dim, drowsy hum could be heard, so faint one could not be sure it
was not a bee. Theodore, in the middle of an anecdote or an explanation, would suddenly stop
talking, his eyes would take on a fanatical gleam, his beard would bristle, and he would cock his
head on one side.

'Is that ... er ... you know ... is that the sound of a plane?' he would inquire.

Everyone would stop talking and listen; slowly the sound would grow louder and louder. Theodore
would carefully place his half-eaten scone on his plate.

'Ah ha!' he would say, wiping his fingers carefully. 'Yes, that certainly sounds like a plane... er ...
um ... yes.'

The sound would grow louder and louder, while Theodore shifted uneasily in his seat. At length
Mother would put him out of his misery.

'Would you like to go up and watch it land?' she would ask.

'Well ... er ... if you're sure . . . ' Theodore would mumble, vacating his seat with alacrity. 'I... er ...
find the sight very attractive ... if you're sure you don't mind.'

The sound of the plane's engines would now be directly overhead; there was not a moment to
lose.

'I have always been... er... you know... attracted....'

'Hurry up, Theo, or you'll miss it,' we would chorus.

The entire family then vacated the table, and, gathering Theodore en route, we sped up the four
flights of stairs, Roger racing ahead, barking joyfully. We burst into the attic, out of breath,
laughing, our feet thumping like gunfire on the uncarpeted floor, threw open the windows, and
leaned out, peering over the olive-tops to where the bay lay like a round blue eye among the
trees, its surface as smooth as honey. The plane, like a cumbersome overweight goose, flew over
the olive-groves, sinking lower and lower. Suddenly it would be over the water, racing its reflection
over the blue surface. Slowly the plane dropped lower and lower. Theodore, eyes narrowed, beard
bristling, watched it with bated breath. Lower and lower, and then suddenly it touched the surface
briefly, left a widening petal of foam, flew on, and then settled on the surface and surged across
the bay, leaving a spreading fan of white foam behind it. As it came slowly to rest, Theodore
would rasp the side of his beard with his thumb, and ease himself back into the attic.

‘Um . . . yes,' he would say, dusting his hands, 'it is certainly a ... very ... er ... enjoyable sight.'

The show was over. He would have to wait another week for the next plane. We would shut the
attic windows and troop noisily downstairs to resume-our interrupted tea. The next week exactly
the same thing would happen all over again.

It was on Thursdays that Theodore and I went out together, sometimes confining ourselves to the
garden, sometimes venturing further afield. Loaded down with collecting boxes and nets, we
wended our way through the olives, Roger galloping ahead of us, nose to the ground. Everything
that we came across was grist to our mill: flowers, insects, rocks, or birds. Theodore had an
apparently inexhaustible fund of knowledge about everything, but he imparted this knowledge
with a sort of meticulous diffidence that made you feel he was not so much teaching you
something new, as reminding you of something which you were already aware of, but which had,
for some reason or other, slipped your mind. His conversation was sprinkled with hilarious
anecdotes, incredibly bad puns, and even worse jokes, which he would tell with great relish, his
eyes twinkling, his nose wrinkled as he laughed silently in his beard, as much at himself as at his
own humour.

Every water-filled ditch or pool was, to us, a teeming and unexplored jungle, with the minute
cyclops and water-fleas, green and coral pink, suspended like birds among the underwater
branches, while on the muddy bottom the tigers of the pool would prowl: the leeches and the
dragon-fly larvae. Every hollow tree had to be closely scrutinized in case it should contain a tiny
pool of water in which mosquito-larvae were living, every mossy wigged rock had to be
overturned to find out what lay beneath it, and every rotten log had to be dissected. Standing
straight and immaculate at the edge of a pool, Theodore would carefully sweep his little net
through the water, lift it out, and peer keenly into the tiny glass bottle that dangled at the end, into
which all the minute water life had been sifted.

‘Ah ha!' he might say, his voice ringing with excitement, his beard bristling. 'I believe it's
ceriodaphnia laticaudata.''

He would whip a magnifying glass from his waistcoat pocket and peer more closely.

'Ah, um ... yes ... very curious ... it is laticaudata. Could you just er... hand me a clean test-
tube... um... thank you. . . . '

He would suck the minute creature out of the bottle with a fountain-pen filler, enshrine it carefully
in the tube, and then examine the rest of the catch.

'There doesn't seem to be anything else that's particularly exciting. . . . Ah, yes, I didn't notice . . .
there is rather a curious caddis larva . . . there, d'you see it? ... um ... it appears to have made its
case of the shells of certain molluscs. . . . It's certainly very pretty.'

At the bottom of the little bottle was an elongated case, half an inch long, constructed out of what
appeared to be silk, and thick with tiny flat snail-shells like buttons. From one end of this delightful
home the owner peered, an unattractive maggot-like beast with a head like an ant's.

Slowly it crawled across the glass, dragging its beautiful house with it.

'I tried an interesting experiment once,' Theodore said. 'I caught a number of these... er... larvae,
and removed their shells. Naturally it doesn't hurt them. Then I put them in some jars which
contained perfectly clear water and nothing in the way of ... er ... materials with which to build
new cases. Then I gave each set of larvae different-coloured materials to build with: some I gave
very tiny blue and green beads, and some I gave chips of brick, white sand, even some ... er ...
fragments of coloured glass. They all built new cases out of these different things, and I must say
the result was very curious and ... er... colourful. They are certainly very clever architects?

He emptied the contents of the bottle back into the pool, put his net over his shoulder, and we
walked on our way.

‘Talking of building? Theodore continued, his eyes sparkling, 'did I tell you what happened to ...
a ... er ... a friend of mine? Um, yes. Well, he had a small house in the country, and, as his
family ... um ... increased, he decided that it was not big enough. He decided to add another floor
to the house. He was, I think, a little over-confident of his own architectural.. um... prowess, and
he insisted on designing the new floor himself. Um, ha, yes. Well, everything went well and in next
to no time the new floor was ready, complete with bedrooms, bathrooms, and so forth. My friend
had a party to celebrate the completion of the work, .we all drank toasts to the... um... new piece
of building, and with great ceremony the scaffolding was taken down . . . um . . . removed. No one
noticed anything... um... anything amiss, until a late arrival at the celebration wanted to look round
the new rooms. It was then discovered that there was no staircase. It appears that my friend had
forgotten to put a staircase in his plans, you know, and during the actual... er ... the actual building
operations he and the workmen had got so used to climbing to the top floor by means of the
scaffolding that no one apparently noticed the ... er ... the defect.'

So we would walk on through the hot afternoon, pausing by the pools and ditches and stream,
wading through the heavily scented myrtle-bushes, over the hillsides crisp with heather, along
white, dusty roads where we were occasionally passed by a drooping, plodding donkey carrying a
sleepy peasant on its back.

Towards evening, our jars, bottles, and tubes full of strange and exciting forms of life, we would
turn for home. The sky would be fading to a pale gold as we marched through the olive-groves,
already dim with shadow, and the air would be cooler and more richly scented. Roger would trot
ahead of us, his tongue flapping out, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to make sure we
were following him. Theodore and I, hot and dusty and tired, our bulging collecting bags making
our shoulders ache pleasantly, would stride along singing a song that Theodore had taught me. It
had a rousing tune that gave a new life to tired feet and Theodore's baritone voice and my shrill
treble would ring out gaily through the gloomy trees:

‘There was an old man who lived in Jerusalem,

Glory Halleluiah, Hi-ero-jerum. He wore a top hat and he looked very sprucelum,

Glory Halleluiah, Hi-ero-jerum. Skinermer rinki doodle dum, skinermer rinki doodle dum,

Glory Halleluiah, Hi-ero-jerum ...'

 SAADAT HASAN

Much has been written and said about Manto – a great deal against him
than in favour of him. An intelligent person would be hard pressed to
reach any sensible conclusion on the basis of these reports. As I sit down to
write this piece, I feel it is very difficult to truly express one’s feelings
about Manto. Although, viewed in another way, maybe it is actually quite
easy – because I have had the great good fortune to be close to Manto. In
fact, if truth be told, I am Manto’s twin.

I have no real objection to what has been written about him; my only
contention is that most of what has been written about Manto is quite far
removed from the truth. There are some who call him a devil. Others a
bald angel. But, wait, let me check whether that swine is hovering close by
and eavesdropping. No, no, it is all right. Now I remember – this is the
time when he drinks. He has the habit of guzzling his bitter sharbat at six
in the evening.

We were born at the same time, and I seem to think we will die together.
It is possible, however, that Saadat Hasan may die and Manto may not; the
thought torments me. That is why I have made every effort possible to
remain friends with him. If he stays alive and I die, it would be a little like
the piquant case of the eggshell remaining intact while the yolk and white
disappears from inside it.

I don’t wish to go into any more background details. I want to make it

amply clear to you that Manto is one of those ‘one-two’ people, a real
clever devil, the like of which I have never seen before in my entire life. If
you add 1+2, it becomes 3. And he knows a great deal about triangles, but
let us not get into that. A hint is enough for a clever man to follow.

I have known Manto since his birth. We were born together, at the same
time, on 11 May 1912 but Manto has always tried to make himself into
something else. If he tucks his head and neck in, you can try all you want
but will never be able to find him. But I am a part of him; I belong to him.
No matter what he does, I can always monitor every move he makes.

Let me tell you how he became such a great storyteller. Writers and
novelists tend to write tomes about their own quirks and personality traits.
They quote from Schopenhauer, Freud, Hegel, Nietzche, Marx whereas
they are miles away from reality. Manto’s oeuvre is the outcome of two
opposing principles. His father, may God bless him, was an extremely
harsh man and his mother was the kindest of women. You may well
imagine how that poor kernel must have been pulverised between these
two implacable forces.

I shall now come to his schooldays. He was an intelligent though

mischievous child. His height then would have been no more than three
feet six inches. He was the youngest of his father’s offspring. He had his
parents’ love but never had the opportunity to meet his three elder
brothers who were his half-brothers and were studying abroad. He wanted
to meet them and wanted them to behave like elder brothers but he got to
meet them only much later – when he was an established and famous
writer.

Now, let us come to his storytelling. Let me tell you quite bluntly that he
is an absolute fraud. His very first story was called Tamasha; it was about
the Jallianwala Bagh massacre. He did not get it published in his own
name. That is why he was able to escape the clutches of the police.

Shortly after this, a new thought arose in his fertile mind – this time a
scheme to study further. Here it would be pertinent to mention that he
had failed the ‘inter exam’ twice before finally clearing it with a third
division. And you will be surprised to know that he had failed his Urdu
paper!

Today when he is hailed as one of the greatest Urdu writers, I can’t help
smiling to myself because, you see, he still doesn’t know much Urdu. He
runs after words like a hunter who chases butterflies with a net. Yet they
elude his grasping fingers. And that is why there is a dearth of pretty
words. He is a rough and ready hammersmith; but the blows that life has
dealt him, he has taken them all squarely on the neck.

His hammering is not a crude or violent sort of clobbering. He is a fine

marksman and an ace sharpshooter. He is the sort of man who will never
walk on the straight and narrow path; he must always walk on a tightrope.
People predict that he will fall any moment, but the bugger has never ever
tripped. Sometimes I wish that he falls flat on his face and never rises
again. But I know that even with his dying breath he will say that he fell
simply in order to put an end to the despair of not falling!

I have said before that Manto is an absolute fraud. A proof of this is that
he has always maintained that he never thinks of his story; his story thinks
of him. I think this is complete rubbish! Though I can tell you that at the
moment of writing a story his state is a bit like a hen that is about to lay an
egg. He doesn’t lay his eggs in hiding but in full view of anyone who cares
to see. His friends loll about him, his three daughters run around making
a din while he squats in his special chair laying his eggs, which soon
become chirping-cheeping stories. His wife is almost always angry with
him. She often tells him to stop writing his stories and open a shop
instead. But the shop that is open inside Manto’s brain is stuffed with
more stock than the glittering bangles and baubles crammed in a trinket-
seller’s cart. And that is why he sometimes worries what if one day he were
to become a cold storage house or a deep freezer where all his thoughts
and feelings get frozen.

As I write this essay, I am afraid that Manto will become angry with me. I
can take everything that Manto dishes out, but I cannot bear his anger.
He turns into a devil when he is angry. Though his anger lasts only a few
minutes, but God grant you mercy in those few minutes ....

He throws a lot of tantrums about writing stories but I know because I

am his twin – that he is a fraud. He had once written somewhere that he
carries countless stories in his pocket. The truth, however, is just the
opposite.
 When he has to write a story, he thinks about it all night. No clear idea
emerges, at first. He gets up at five in the morning and tries to suck the
juice out of some story published in a newspaper; still with no success.
Then he goes to the bathroom and attempts to cool his clamour- filled
head, so that he is able to think clearly, still there is no success. Then, out
of frustration, he picks up some needless quarrel with his wife. If that
doesn’t work, he goes out to buy a paan. The paan lies untouched on his
table; still the story’s plot eludes him. Finally, as though warding off an
attack, he picks up the pen or pencil. Writing 786 on Babu Gopinath, Toba
Tek Singh, Hatak, Mummy, Mozelle – all these stories were written in exactly
this ‘fraudulent’ fashion.

It is strange that people consider him an irreligious, vulgar sort of a

person and even I think that to some extent he does fall in this category.
That is why he raises his pen to write on subjects that can only be called
dirty and uses words in his writings that have plenty of leeway for
objections. But I know that whenever he has written anything, the first
thing he writes on the first page is 786 which means ‘In the name of Allah’
and this man who appears to be an atheist, becomes a believer on paper. At
the same time, it is the ‘paper-Manto’ who can be crushed between your
fingers like paper-thin almond shells, whereas the real Manto is not one to
be broken by hammers!

And now I shall come to Manto’s personality that I can describe in just a
few words – he is a thief, a liar, a traitor and a crowd-puller.

Time and again, he has taken advantage of his wife’s carelessness and
stolen several hundred rupees. He would come and hand her 800 rupees,
keep looking from the corner of his eye to see where she hides them and
the next day one green note would disappear! And when the poor woman
discovers her loss, she would begin to scold the servants!

While everyone knows that Manto is famous for his plain speaking, I, for
one, am not willing to concede that. He is a first-class liar. In the early
days, he managed to get away with his lies because it had a special Manto
‘touch’. But after some time, his wife discovered that all this while she had
been fed lies. Manto can lie so freely and with such ease that now,
unfortunately, his family thinks that everything he says is a lie. A bit like
the artificial mole that a woman makes with kohl on her cheek!

He is illiterate – since he has never studied Marx. Nor has anything

written by Freud ever passed his eyes. He barely knows Hegel by name.
Hebel and Amis are no more than names for him. But the funny thing is
that his critics say that he has been much influenced by these great
thinkers. As far as I know, Manto is not one to be influenced by the
thoughts of others. He thinks that those who teach him are no better than
idiots. One shouldn’t attempt to teach the ways of the world to others but
understand things for one’s own self. In trying to teach and explain things
to himself, he has become something that is beyond both understanding
and wisdom. Sometimes, he says the oddest of things and that makes me
laugh.

I can tell you with complete conviction that Manto, against whom
several cases of vulgarity have been initiated, is actually a very decent man.
But I cannot but say that he is like a doormat that is forever dusting and
beating itself.
 A LETTER TO UNCLE SAM

31 Lakshmi 16 December
Mansion 1951

Mall Road

Lahore

Dear Uncle Sam,

Assalam-wa-alaekum!

This letter is from your nephew in Pakistan, whom you do not know,
whom probably no one does from your land that has waged seven wars of
liberation.

You know well enough how my country was created, how it was cut out
from Hindustan, and how it became independent. And that is why I am
taking the liberty of writing this letter to you. For just as my country was
cut away and freed so I too have been cut off and freed. And surely an all-
knowing scholar such as you, Uncle Sam, would know the sort of freedom
a bird whose wings have been clipped would know. Anyhow, let’s not get
into that.

My name is Saadat Hasan Manto and I was born in a place which is now
in Hindustan. My mother is buried there, my father is buried there and
my first-born too is sleeping in that land, but today it is no longer my
home. My home is Pakistan which I had visited five or six times before,
when it was under British rule.

I used to be a great short story writer in Hindustan; today I am a great

short story writer in Pakistan. Several collections of my short stories have
been published. People respect me. In undivided Hindustan, I was the
subject of three lawsuits; in Pakistan there has been only one so far. But,
remember, Pakistan is a very new country.

The British government considered me a writer of pornography. My own

government thinks the same. The British government had let me go, but
it doesn’t look like my own government will do the same. The trial court
here sentenced me to three months’ rigorous imprisonment and a fine of
Rs 300. I appealed in the sessions court and was acquitted. But my
government thinks an injustice has been done and so it has filed an appeal
in the high court to review the session court’s judgment and give me an
exemplary punishment. Let us see what the high court has to say.

I deeply regret that my country is not like yours. If the high court
verdict goes against me, there is not a single newspaper in this country
that will publish my photograph or the story of my many encounters with
the law.

My country is extremely poor. It has no art paper, nor any good printing
presses. In fact, I am the biggest proof of its poverty. You will, no doubt,
find this hard to believe. Uncle Sam, I have written twenty-two books yet I
do not have my own house to live in! And you will be astounded to know
that I do not own either a Packard or a Dodge to move around in – not
even a second-hand one!

I take a cycle on rent when I need to go out. And, sometimes – when I

get twenty or twenty-five rupees for a newspaper article at the rate of Rs
seven per column – I take a tonga and drink some locally-brewed liquor. If
this liquor was brewed in your country, you would no doubt drop an atom
bomb on the distillery where it is made because it can destroy a man in a
year.

Look how far I have digressed. Actually, I meant to send my regards to

Erskine Caldwell through you. No doubt you would know him. You have
prosecuted him for his novel, God’s Little Acre for the same charge that is
levelled against me here: obscenity.

Believe me, dear Uncle, I was amazed when I heard that the country
that waged seven wars of independence had filed a lawsuit against him on
a charge of obscenity. After all, in your country everything is naked. In
your country, everything is peeled off its outer covering and showcased in
display cabinets. Whether it is fruit or women, machines or animals, books
or calendars – you are the King of Nudity. I used to think that in your
country sanctity would be called obscenity. But what is this incredible
thing you have done, dear Uncle? You have filed a case of obscenity
against Caldwell!

Shocked by this news, I would have died of an overdose of my locally

brewed liquor had I not, almost immediately thereafter, read about the
outcome of this lawsuit. It is indeed a great misfortune for my country
that it couldn’t get rid of me. But then, how would I have written this
letter to you, if I had indeed been dead! Usually I am very obedient. I love
my country. I shall, God willing, die in a short while. If I don’t die of
natural causes, I shall do so automatically. Because where wheat flour is
sold for two and three-quarters of a seer for a rupee, it would take a very
shameless man to last out the usual lifespan.

So, as I was saying, I read about the outcome of the lawsuit and decided
to abandon the idea of committing suicide by drinking too much bad
liquor. After all, dear Uncle, you can say what you want, while everything
in your country is silver coated, the judge who acquitted Brother Caldwell
of the charge of obscenity is free from the influence of silver plating. If this
judge (unfortunately, I don’t know his name) is alive, please do convey my
warmest regards to him.

His judgment is an indication of the breadth of his vision: ‘I am

personally of the view that confiscating or burying such books causes an
unnecessary curiosity and amazement in people which pushes them
towards seeking cheap thrills. While this book may not have been written
with the intention of garnering cheap publicity and its author seems to
have been actually inspired by certain sections of American life and
society, I am of the opinion that truth must always be a part of literature.’

I too had said the same thing before the trial court, yet it sentenced me
to three months’ rigorous imprisonment and a fine of Rs 300. It was of the
opinion that truth must always be kept separate from literature. Well,
everyone is entitled to an opinion, I suppose.

I am willing to undergo three months of rigorous imprisonment but I

cannot pay the Rs 300 fine. Dear Uncle, you have no idea how poor I am!

I am used to the rigours of hard labour but I am not used to having

money. I am thirty-nine years old and I have spent most of these years
doing hard physical labour. After all, do consider that despite being such a
great writer I do not have a Packard!

I am poor because my country is poor. I somehow manage to find two

square meals a day but some of my countrymen have to even go without
that!

Why is my county poor? Why is it illiterate? You know the answer well
enough. It is, as you know, the direct outcome of a conspiracy hatched
between you and your brother, John Bull, but I don’t want to get into that
now. For I know its very mention will besmirch your greatness. I write this
letter as your humble servant and I want to remain a servant from
beginning to end.

No doubt you will ask and ask with a great deal of surprise: how is your
country poor when so many Packards and Buicks and such vast quantities
of Max Factor cosmetics are exported from my country? This is all very
well, dear Uncle, but I shall not answer your question because I know you
can get the answers from your own heart (that is, if you haven’t asked your
able surgeons to take it out of your breast!)

The number of people in my country who ride in Packards and Buicks

do not constitute the population of my country. My country is populated
by people like me and others even poorer than me.

These are bitter facts. My country does not have enough sugar, or I
would have coated them before presenting them before you. Anyhow,
forget that. The real issue is that I recently read a book by a writer from
your friendly nation, The Loved Ones by Evelyn Waugh. I was so impressed
by this book that I immediately sat down to write this letter to you.

I have long been an admirer of the individuality practiced in your

country but after reading this book, I cried out uncontrollably, ‘By God,
how marvellous! Bravo!’

Truly, dear Uncle, I am amazed and delighted! I must say what

wonderfully alive people live in your country! Evelyn Waugh tells us that
in your state of California the dead or ‘dear lost ones’ can be embalmed,
and there are centres of excellence devoted to this art. If the dear departed
had an ugly face, you can send him to one of these centres, fill out a form,
mention your specifications and the job will be done. You can have the
dead person as ‘beautified’ as you want – at a cost, of course! The best
experts are available who can operate upon the corpse’s jaws and paste the
sweetest smile upon its face. A twinkle can be brought in the eye, and an
effulgent glow created upon the face, strictly according to requirement.
And all this is done with such expertise that even the angels who come to
the grave to take stock of your earthly account might think they have
come to the wrong place!

Well, really Uncle Sam, by God, no one can equal your country!

We have heard of surgical operations performed upon the living. We

have even heard of living people resorting to plastic surgery to improve
their looks. But we had never heard that in your country even the dead
can have their looks improved!

A traveller from your country had come here. Some friends of mine
introduced him to me. By then I had read Brother Evelyn Waugh’s book.
So I praised his country by reciting the following couplet:

Ek hum hain ke liya apni hi soorat ko bigadh

Ek woh hain ke jinhe tasveer banana aata hai

(On the one hand, there is me who has ruined my own face
 On the other hand, there is he who knows how to make a painting.)

The traveller did not understand my meaning but the fact is, dear Uncle,
that we have ruined our own faces. We have made ourselves so ugly that
our faces can barely be recognized, not even by ourselves. And look at you
– you can even transform your ugly-faced corpses into better- looking ones.
The fact is that only your people have earned the right to live in this
world. By god, all the others are merely swatting flies and wasting their
time!

There was once a poet called Ghalib who wrote in our language – Urdu.
Nearly a century ago, he had written:

Huwe mar ke hum jo ruswa huwe kyon na gharq-e-darya

Na kahin janaza uthta na kahin mazaar hota

The poor man had no fear of disrepute while he was alive because, from
beginning to end, his life remained the subject of scandals. His fear was of
the disrepute that would hound him after death; he was an honourable
man, you see! It wasn’t really a fear; it was his belief that here would be
dishonour in death and that is why he wished to be put into a flowing
river so that there would neither be a funeral nor a grave! If only he had
been born in your country! You would have ensured that he got a grand
funeral and had his tomb built in the form of a skyscraper. Or, if you had
respected his last wishes, you would have had a glass tank constructed in
which his dead body would have floated and people would have flocked to
see it as they do in a zoo.

Brother Evelyn Waugh tells us that in your country there are parlours
where not just dead people can have their looks improved, even dead
animals can have their beaks and lashes fixed. If a dog loses his tail in an
accident, he can have another one fitted in. If a man had some flaws and
imperfections in his face when alive, after his death they can be
miraculously removed by trained hands and he is buried with great pomp
and ceremony, so much so that even ‘hands’ can be hired to shower his
coffin with flowers. And when someone loses a pet, a card is sent by the
parlour which carries a message along the following lines: ‘Your Tammy –
or Jeffy – is shaking his tail – or ear – in Heaven remembering you.’

In your country, even the dogs are better off than us. Here, we die one
day and it is business as usual the next. If someone loses a dear one here,
that poor man curses his luck. He says, ‘Why did the wretch have to die! I
wish I had died instead!” The truth is, dear Uncle, we know neither the
art of living, nor dying!

I saw the latest issue of Life (5 November, 1951, International Edition). I

must say that yet another revealing vision of life in your country unfolded
before my eyes. The entire story – with pictures – of the funeral of your
country’s famous gangster was splashed across two whole pages. I saw the
pictures of Willie Moretti – may God grant him a place in paradise! I saw
the grand home that he had recently bought for 55,000 dollars as well his
five-acre estate where he wanted to go away to escape from the worries of
the world and live in peace. And I also saw the dead man’s photo where he
is lying in bed with his eyes closed for ever and his coffin worth 5000
dollars as well as his funeral procession that comprised 11 large vans
weighed down with flowers and 55 cars. As God is the only witness, tears
welled up in my eyes.

God forbid, if you die, may you get a bigger and grander funeral than
Willie Moretti’s. This is the heart-felt wish of a poor writer from Pakistan
who, at the same time, requests you to organize your own funeral
procession in your own lifetime – since you belong to a land of far-seeing
people. To err is human, after all, and someone might make some mistake
later and forget to remove some flaw from your face. Think of the torment
it would cause your soul! But, at the same time, it is entirely possible that
you might have the flawed feature corrected according to our instructions
and arrange for your funeral according to the pomp and circumstance you
deem fit. After all, you are far more intelligent than me! And you are also
my uncle!

Give my regards to Erskine Cadwell and to the judge who acquitted him
of the charge of obscenity. Forgive me for any indiscretion that I might
have committed.

Your poor nephew,

Saadat Hasan Manto

Resident of Pakistan

(This letter could not be posted since there was no money to buy the
postage stamp.)