Spoiling the Name: Kamala Das (Text and Summary)

Textual poem for B. Com. I Semester

Spoiling the Name: Kamala Das

I have a name, had it for thirty
Years, chosen by someone else
For convenience, but when you say
Don't spoil your name, I feel I
Must laugh, for I know I have a life
To be lived, and each nameless
Corpuscle in me, has its life to
Be lived . . . why should this name, so
Sweet-sounding, enter at all the room
Where I go to meet a man
Who gives me nothing but himself, who
Calls me in his private hours
By no name, or the city's dusty
Streets where on afternoons
I walk, looking for old books, antiques,
And new thrills that might come my
Way? Why should I remember or bear
That sweet-sounding name, pinned to
Me, a medal, undeservingly
Gained, at moments when, all of
Me is ablaze with life? You ask of
Me a silly thing. Carry
This gift of a name like a corpse and
Totter beneath its weight
And perhaps even fall... I who love
This gift of life more than all!

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A Brief introduction of Kamala Das  and a brief note of Summary:

Kamala Da was born on 31 march 1934 in Kerala in a reputed Menon’s family. Her love of poetry began at an early age through the influence of her great uncle, Nalapet Narayan Menon, a prominent writer in Malayalam.

At the age of 15, she got married to a bank officer Madhava Das, who encouraged her passions in writing and she started writing in both English and Malayalam. However, she chose English was the language for all six volumes of her poetry collections. Later, at the age of 65, she embraced Islam and converted into Islam on December 11, 1999 and assumed the name as Kamala Surayya.

At the age of 75, on 31 may 2009, she died at a hospital in Pune. Her body was flown to her home state Kerala. He mortal remains were rested with state honours at Jama Masjid, Thiruvananthapuram.

Kamala Das’s poem “The Spoiling the Name” throws light on subjugation of female self in a dominant patriarchy. The persona has no name rather than the names given by someone for convenience.

“Spoiling the name” is one among the several poems written by Kamala Das that derives its conflict by pitting society and its norms against individual’s assertions. The connotation of the title is culture-specific, and refers to the importance given to the individual’s societal role in Indian context. If an individual does not adhere to the prescribed modes of behaviour laid down by a mostly Patriarchal and orthodox Indian society, then he/she is seen to be tarnishing the image of the family and his \her society; in other words she /he “spoils the name” of the family, and also of the society at large. The poem draws attention to this malice by challenging the authoritarian societal diktat through the individuals need to live life on his/her own terms. Thus Kamala Das writes “….. when you say/ Don’t spoil/ your name. I feel I/ Must laugh , for I know I have a life / To be lived…..”

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Dream your own dream - Rama Govindarajan (Text)

Textual essay for B. Com I Semester

Dream your own dream - Rama Govindarajan

The stars shone down on 47 weeping girls, while a gentle sea breeze could do little to help them. On this evening of drama, the prosaic words “housewife”, “graduate” and “bank employee”, were being scrawled in autograph books under “Your ambition is to become a ...”. And no, the overweight, under-confident specimen occupying the schoolyard for the last time did not scribble “research scientist”!

Not even years later did I understand what the term meant. What does it feel like to be one today? My website talks about the science I do, so I’ll only say here that I completely love it. However, I did not know this when I started out. All I wanted to become was a “regular guy”, which to me and my peers meant having enough money for a gracious life-style and being in charge of a group of people, preferably large. First big mistake: borrowed objectives. Dear reader, if you are young, please dream your own dream. Also, please, please dream big. My grandmother, Alamelu, did, for me. She also set an example by fighting tooth-and-nail for what she believed was right, and by never obeying a rule of which she was not convinced. As a young bride, circa 1920, she risked ostracism by her community to cook and eat meen LILAVATI’S DAUGHTERS 118 kozhambu with a Dalit family in their hut. My other early influence was my mother, Shakuntala, practically a single, working, parent, who made light of an extremely tough life to create a home where poetry and laughter ably substituted for luxury. My onlyregret is that my achievements fall far short of her sacrifice. Doing a B.Tech. at Indian Institute of Technology (IIT), Delhi was a simply superb experience. I was given the opportunity to study rather than memorise, and had the fun of discussing science with peers. Like many other girls in IIT, I emerged near the top of my class, picking up self-assurance, a “can do anything” attitude, and many close friendships. It would be good if within the next few years, half of every IIT class would be girls – it would be a change from when I was one of 54 in the chemical engineering class!

My Ph.D. advisor Prof. Roddam Narasimha, has been the biggest influence on my scientific career. Apart from fluid mechanics, he taught me to do science the right way, which for him includes a thorough and critical understanding of the subject, extreme care in methods, and zero exaggeration in making claims. I also like his conviction that the youngest student in a group may be right in a scientific discussion. I am also blessed with a home completely free of gender bias and its manifestations. So, what can go wrong when one has the best education and heavy-duty determination, and is surrounded by good people? Read on. I am an engineer first, and fluid dynamics has always been a favorite, but my career in research began almost by accident. When I graduated, I wanted and got a plush job, in Mumbai. Every morning I became part of the compacted mass of humanity in the ladies compartment of the 6:57 fast train to Andheri. Soon the mass revealed itself as having faces, lives, and stories. The one common theme in the stories was the incredible hard work and determination involved. These women – executives, secretaries, fisherwomen, new mothers, very-soon-to-be-mothers, many malnourished, some from home-lives too terrible to describe, running top-speed across the over bridge at Grant Road at 6:56 a.m. – are my role-models and I think back to them every DREAM YOUR OWN DREAM time I imagine I am having a hard time. An important ingredient 119 for success is the willingness to push yourself to work really, really hard.

It took me two months on the job to realise that something a lot less plush and a lot more mentally demanding would suit me better. I then did a Masters in the U.S., which did not launch me into the planned orbit in industrial R&D, maybe because I soon tied myself by marriage to one city. A guest at my wedding remarked that Bangalore (as it was then) was not at all the place for a chemical engineer, and how right he proved to be! In my efforts to leave no stone unturned, I went to dozens of interviews within the next couple of months, looking for unsuitable jobs. I finally took one of them just to put my share of rice on the table. The really big mistake: not realising that the world offers myriad choices for a young couple in search of two good careers. Just don’t be scared to experiment, to spend a few years as a nomad. Don’t feel guilty if your spouse has to make some temporary sacrifice as well. It would be best if you can postpone marriage to the post-nomadic stage!

It dawned on me that to succeed in Bangalore, I must redefine myself. The software industry was in its infancy, but I decided, maybe stupidly in some people’s opinion, that I would not be part of the big boom, which I didn’t know then was coming. I went into the defence-related aerospace industry instead. Here, I wanted my experience with process control and computing skills, to be put to use to avoid importing control algorithms. The set-up of the industry made this wish impossible to fulfil. So, four years after my B.Tech., I finally turned towards research in fluid mechanics, and have never in the twenty years since then wished to do anything else. For ten of these years I worked in a national lab, during which I also completed my Ph.D. and postdoctoral work. The last ten years in academia have finally been the “real thing”, this was an extremely lucky break, since the place I work, the Jawaharlal Nehru Centre for Advanced Scientific Research (JNC), came into existence at the right time for me! In my experience, independence and constant exposure to other researchers is crucial for doing basic research, and for these, an LILAVATI’S DAUGHTERS 120 academic institution is unbeatable. A typical national lab has other main objectives to fulfil, and cannot be expected to focus on basic research in the same way. If you are the type, who likes every day to be different, scientific research is the career for you. If you like working with young people with bright ideas, who keep you on your toes, and if you like teaching yourself new concepts, this is the career for you. If you are prepared to toil long and desperately for the dazzling discovery you are not sure you’ll make, this is the life to choose! Even on a bad referee-report day, I am happy I do science!

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Indian women – A Poem by Shiv K Kumar (Text and summary)

Textual poem for (VSKUB) B. Com I semester students

Indian women – A Poem by Shiv K Kumar

In this triple-baked continent

women don’t etch angry eyebrows

on mud walls.

Patiently they sit

like empty pitchers

on the mouth of the village well

pleating hope in each braid of their Mississippi-long hair

looking deep into the water’s mirror

for the moisture in their eyes.

With zodiac doodlings on the sands

they guard their tattooed thighs

Waiting for their men’s return

till even the shadows

roll up their contours and are gone beyond the hills.

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Summary:

The poem “Indian women” by Shiv K Kumar deals with endless story of sufferings of women of Indian subcontinent. The highly structured patriarchal society evolved in India through its long history of political and historical upheavals, in which women are the most oppressed and exploited lot. In such distressed conditions, the Indian women practice their infinite patience in their lives while they go through triple-baked sufferings at the hands of the sun, sex and poverty. The harsh sun makes them to trek long distances to fetch water. In this process, she is baked like a pitcher in the hot sun. In her conjugal duties, she is the most exploited in terms of sex as she is only letting her man to extort his love from her.  Thirdly, the women are the worst sufferers from the excruciating poverty of her family.    

They do not etch their angry brows on the mud walls, because within their homes their status remains so insignificant. Their emotions are completely neglected.  Within the mud walls of their homes, they are the passive receivers of male love and anger without their participation. “Mud walls” indicate the existing poverty, a condition which does not affect the women alone but all members of the household. But man can etch his brows on the mud walls (raise his eye brows in anger) and the woman cannot.

patiently they sit like empty pitchers on the mouth of the village well

pleating hope in each braid of their Mississippi-long hair

looking deep into the water’s mirror

for the moisture in their eyes.

This beautiful image evokes the typical Indian village woman who spends much of her time like an empty pitcher in the mouth of the village well. It is the duty of the woman to fetch the required amount of water for the domestic purpose by trekking long distance. She sits on the mouth of the village well like an empty pitcher waiting for her turn to collect water from the well.  But, the water is just trickle and is not so deep to read her reflection with tears in her eyes. Even in this hopeless distress, they pleat hope in each braid of their Mississippi-long hair.

Guarding their tattooed thighs

waiting for their men’s return

till even the shadows

roll up their contours and are gone beyond the hills

Tattooed thighs of women refers probably the names their men (hubands) are tattooed to indicate the ownership of their femininity.  The female has only the duty to preserve her chastity of her femaleness by guarding her thighs against possible intruders. The guarding of her chastity is done not for herself but for the man whose name is tattooed on her thighs. She waits for her man’s return who has gone beyond the hills.  It is now dusk and all the women have already left the well for their homes. The shadows have vanished and the Sun has sunk beneath hills. But, the woman is still waiting for the return of her spouse. Hence, Patience is the virtue for the most cherished women in India.

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The Cabuliwallah – Rabindranath Tagore (Text and Summary)

Textual lesson for (VSKUB) B. Com I semester students

The Cabuliwallah – Rabindranath Tagore

My five-year-old daughter Mini cannot live without chattering. I really believe that in all her life she has not wasted a minute in silence. Her mother is often vexed at this, and would like to stop her prattle, but I would not. For Mini to be quiet is unnatural, and I cannot bear it long. And so my own talk with her is always lively.

One morning, for instance, when I was in the midst of the seventeenth chapter of my new novel, my little Mini stole into the room, and putting her hand into mine, said: "Father! Ramdayal, the door-keeper, calls a kak a kauwa!

He doesn't know anything, does he?"

Before I could explain to her the difference between one language and another in this world, she had embarked on the full tide of another subject. "What do you think, Father? Bhola says there is an elephant in the clouds, blowing water out of his trunk, and that is why it rains!"

And then, darting off anew, while I sat still, trying to think of some reply to this: "Father! what relation is mother to you?"

With a grave face I contrived to say: "Go and play with Bhola, Mini! I am busy!"

The window of my room overlooks the road. The child had seated herself at my feet near my table, and was playing softly, drumming on her knees. I was hard at work on my seventeenth chapter, in which Pratap Singh, the hero, has just caught Kanchanlata, the heroine, in his arms, and is about to escape with her by the third storey window of the castle, when suddenly Mini left her play, and ran to the window, crying: "A Cabuliwallah! A Cabuliwallah!' And indeed, in the street below, there was a Cabuliwallah, walking slowly along. He wore the loose, soiled clothing of his people, and a tall turban; he carried a bag on his back, and boxes of grapes in his hand.

I cannot tell what my daughter's feelings were when she saw this man, but she began to call him loudly. "Ah!" thought I, "he will come in, and my seventeenth chapter will never be finished!" At that very moment the Cabuliwallah turned, and looked up at the child. When she saw this, she was overcome by terror, and running to her mother's protection disappeared. She had a blind belief that inside the bag, which the big man carried, there were perhaps two or three other children like herself. The peddler meanwhile entered my doorway and greeted me with a smile.

So precarious was the position of my hero and my heroine, that my first impulse was to stop and buy something, since Mini had called the man to the house. I made some small purchases, and we began to talk about Abdur Rahman, the Russians, the English, and the Frontier Policy.

As he was about to leave, he asked: "And where is the little girl, Sir?"

And then, thinking that Mini must get rid of her false fear, I had her brought out.

She stood by my chair, and looked at the Cabuliwallah and his bag. He offered her nuts and raisins, but she would not be tempted, and only clung the closer to me, with all her doubts increased.

This was their first meeting.

A few mornings later, however, as I was leaving the house, I was startled to find Mini, seated on a bench near the door, laughing and talking, with the great Cabuliwallah at her feet. In all her life, it appeared, my small daughter had never found so patient a listener, save her father. And already the corner of her little sari was stuffed with almonds and raisins, the gift of her visitor. "Why did you give her those?" I said, and taking out an eight-anna piece, I handed it to him. The man accepted the money without demur, and put it into his pocket.

Alas, on my return, an hour later, I found the unfortunate coin had made twice its own worth of trouble! For the Cabuliwallah had given it to Mini, and her mother, catching sight of the bright round object, had pounced on the child with: "Where did you get that eight-anna piece?"

"The Cabuliwallah gave it to me!" said Mini cheerfully.

"The Cabuliwallah gave it to you!" cried her mother greatly shocked, "O Mini! How could you take it from him?"

I entered at the moment, and saving her from impending disaster, proceeded to make my own inquiries.

It was not the first or the second time, I found, that the two had met. The Cabuliwallah had overcome the child's first terror by a judicious bribe of nuts and almonds, and the two were now great friends.

They had many quaint jokes, which amused them greatly. Mini would seat herself before him, look down on his gigantic frame in all her tiny dignity, and with her face rippling with laughter would begin: "O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah: What have you got in your bag?"

And he would reply, in the nasal accent of the mountaineer: "An elephant!" Not much cause for merriment, perhaps: but how they both enjoyed the fun! And for me, this child's talk with a grown-up man had always in it something strangely fascinating.

Then the Cabuliwallah, not to be behindhand, would take his turn: "Well, little one, and when are you going to your father-in-law's house?"

Now nearly every small Bengali maiden had heard long ago about her father-in-law's house; but we were a little new-fangled, and had kept these things from our child, so that Mini at this question must have been a trifle bewildered. But she would not show it, and with ready tact replied: "Are you going there?"

Amongst men of the Cabuliwallah's class, however, it is well known that the words father-in-law's house have a double meaning. It is a euphemism for jail, the place where we are well cared for, at no expense to ourselves. In this sense would the sturdy peddler take my daughter's question. "Ah," he would say, shaking his fist at an invisible policeman. "I will thrash my father-in-law!" Hearing this, and picturing the poor discomfited relative, Mini would go off into peals of laughter in which her formidable friend would join.

These were autumn mornings, the very time of year when kings of old went forth to conquest, and I without stirring from my little corner in Calcutta, would let my mind wander over the whole world. At the very name of another country, my heart would go out to it, and at the sight of a foreigner in the streets, I would fall to weaving a network of dreams—the mountains, the glens, and the forests of his distant land, with his cottage in their midst and the free and independent life, or far away wilds. Perhaps scenes of travel are conjured up before me and pass and re-pass in my imagination all the more vividly, because I lead an existence so like a vegetable that a call to travel would fall upon me like a thunder-bolt. In the presence of this Cabuliwallah, I was immediately transported to the foot of arid mountain peaks, with narrow little defiles twisting in and out amongst their towering heights. I could see the string of camels bearing the merchandise, and the company of turbaned merchants, some carrying their queer old firearms, and some their spears, journeying downward towards the plains. I could see_. But at some such point Mini's mother would intervene, and implore me to "beware of that man."

Mini's mother is unfortunately very timid. Whenever she hears a noise in the street, or sees people coming towards the house, she always jumps to the conclusion that they are either thieves, or drunkards, or snakes, or tigers, or malaria, or cockroaches, or caterpillars. Even after all these years of experience, she is not able to overcome her terror. So she was full of doubts about the Cabuliwallah, and used to beg me to keep a watchful eye on him.

If I tried to laugh her fear gently away, she would turn round seriously, and ask me solemn questions:

Were children never kidnapped?

Was it not true that there was slavery in Cabul?

Was it so very absurd that this big man should be able to carry off a tiny child?

I urged that, though not impossible, it was very improbable. But this was not enough, and her dread persisted. But as it was a very vague dread, it did not seem right to forbid the man the house, and the intimacy went on unchecked.

Once a year, in the middle of January, Rahman, the Cabuliwallah, used to return to his own country, and as the time approached, he would be very busy, going from house to house collecting his debts. This year, however, he could always find time to come and see Mini. It might have seemed to a stranger that there was some conspiracy between the two, for when he could not come in the morning, he would appear in the evening.

Even to me it was a little startling now and then suddenly to surprise this tall, loose-garmented man laden with his bags, in the corner of a dark room; but when Mini ran in smiling, with her "O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah" and the two friends, so far apart in age, subsided into their old laughter and their old jokes, I felt reassured.

One morning, a few days before he had made up his mind to go, I was correcting proof-sheets in my study. The weather was chilly. Through the window the rays of the sun touched my feet, and the slight warmth was very welcome. It was nearly eight o'clock, and early pedestrians were returning home with their heads covered. Suddenly I heard an uproar in the street, and looking out saw Rahman being led away bound between two policemen, and behind them a crowd of inquisitive boys. There were blood-stains on his clothes, and one of the policemen carried a knife. I hurried out, and stopping them, inquired what it all meant. Partly from one, partly from another, I gathered that a certain neighbour had owed the peddler something for a Rampuri shawl, but had denied buying it, and that in the course of the quarrel Rahman had struck him. Now, in his excitement, the prisoner began calling his enemy all sorts of names, when suddenly in a verandah of my house appeared my little Mini, with her usual exclamation: "O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!" Rahman's face lighted up as he turned to her. He had no bag under his arm today, so that she could not talk about the elephant with him. She therefore at once proceeded to the next question: "Are you going to your father-in-law's house?" Rahman laughed and said: "That is just where I am going, little one!" Then seeing that the reply did not amuse the child, he held up his fettered hands, "Ah!" he said, "I would have thrashed that old father-in-law, but my hands are bound!"

On a charge of murderous assault, Rahman was sentenced to several years' imprisonment.

Time passed, and he was forgotten. Our accustomed work in the accustomed place went on, and the thought of the once free mountaineer spending his years in prison seldom or never occurred to us. Even my light-hearted Mini, I am ashamed to say, forgot her old friend. New companions filled her life. As she grew older, she spent more of her time with girls. So much, indeed, did she spend with them that she came no more, as she used to do, to her father's room, so that I rarely had any opportunity of speaking to her.

Years had passed away. It was once more autumn, and we had made arrangements for our Mini's marriage. It was to take place during the Puja Holidays. With Durga returning to Kailas, the light of our home also would depart to her husband's house, and leave her father's in shadow.

The morning was bright. After the rains, it seemed as though the air had been washed clean and the rays of the sun looked like pure gold. So bright were they, that they made even the sordid brick-walls of our Calcutta lanes radiant. Since early dawn the wedding-pipes had been sounding, and at each burst of sound my own heart throbbed. The wail of the tune, Bhairavi, seemed to intensify the pain I felt at the approaching separation. My Mini was to be married that night.

From early morning, noise and bustle had pervaded the house. In the courtyard there was the canopy to be slung on its bamboo poles; there were chandeliers with their tinkling sound to be hung in each room and verandah. There was endless hurry and excitement. I was sitting in my study, looking through the accounts, when someone entered, saluting respectfully, and stood before me. It was Rahman, the Cabuliwallah. At first I did not recognise him. He carried no bag, his long hair was cut short and his old vigour seemed to have gone. But he smiled; and I knew him again.

"When did you come, Rahman?" I asked him.

"Last evening," he said, "I was released from jail."

The words struck harshly upon my ears. I had never before talked with one who had wounded his fellow-man, and my heart shrank within itself when I realised this; for I felt that the day would have been better-omened had he not appeared.

"There are ceremonies going on," I said, "and I am busy. Perhaps you could come another day?"

He immediately turned to go; but as he reached the door he hesitated, and said, "May I not see the little one, sir, for a moment?" It was his belief that Mini was still the same. He had pictured her running to him as she used to do, calling. "O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!" He had imagined too that they would laugh and talk together, just as of old. Indeed, in memory of former days, he had brought, carefully wrapped up in paper, a few almonds and raisins and grapes, obtained somehow or other from a countryman; for what little money he had, had gone.

I repeated: "There is a ceremony in the house, and you will not be able to see anyone today."

The man's face fell. He looked wistfully at me for a moment, then said, "Good morning," and went out.

I felt a little sorry, and would have called him back but I found he was returning of his own accord. He came close up to me and held out his offerings with the words: "I have brought these few things, sir, for the little one. Will you give them to her?"

I took them, and was going to pay him, but he caught my hand, and said: "You are very kind, sir! Keep me in your memory. Do not offer me money!_You have a little girl. I too have one like her in my own home. I think of her, and bring this fruit to your child_not to make a profit for myself."

Saying this, he put his hand inside his big loose robe, and brought out a small and dirty piece of paper. Unfolding it with great care, he smoothened it out with both hands on my table. It bore the impression of a little hand. Not a photograph. Not a drawing. Merely the impression of an ink-smeared hand laid flat on the paper. This touch of the hand of his own little daughter he had carried always next to his heart, as he had come year after year to Calcutta to sell his wares in the streets.

Tears came to my eyes. I forgot that he was a poor Cabuli fruit-seller, while I was_. But no, what was I more than he? He also was a father.

That impression of the hand of his little Parvati in her distant mountain home reminded me of my own little Mini.

I sent for Mini immediately from the inner apartment. Many difficulties were raised, but I swept them aside. Clad in the red silk of her wedding-day, with sandal paste on her forehead, and adorned as a young bride, Mini came, and stood modestly before me.

The Cabuliwallah seemed amazed at the apparition. He could not revive their old friendship. At last he smiled and said: "Little one, are you going to your father-in-law's house?"

But Mini now understood the meaning of the word "father-in-law," and she could not answer him as of old. She blushed at the question, and stood before him with her head bowed down.

I remembered the day when the Cabuliwallah and my Mini had first met, and I felt sad. When she had gone, Rahman sighed deeply and sat down on the floor. The idea had suddenly come to him that his daughter too must have grown up, while he had been away so long, and that he would have to make friends anew with her also. Assuredly he would not find her as she was when he left her. And besides, what might not have happened to her in these eight years?

The marriage-pipes sounded and the mild autumn sunlight streamed round us. But Rahman, standing in our narrow Calcutta lane, saw in his mind's eye the mountains of Afghanistan.

I took out a hundred rupee note, gave it to him, and said: "Go back to your daughter, Rahman, in your own country, and may the happiness of your meeting bring good fortune to my child!"

Having made this present, I had to curtail some of the festivities. I could not have the electric lights I had intended, nor the military band, and the ladies of the house were despondent about it. But to me the wedding feast was all the brighter for the thought that in a distant land a long-lost father was going to meet again his only child.

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The Summary of "The Cabuliwallah" – Rabindranath Tagore

The father of a five-year-old Mini narrates the well-knitted short story ‘The Cabuliwallah’. The most innocent and prattling girl Mini and Abdur Rahman, a street peddler of dry fruits from Kabul are the central characters of the story.

On one sunny morning, Mini saw a street peddler through the window of her house and called him “A Cabuliwallah! A Cabuliwallah!” A tall and gigantic man with a turban on his head and huge sack slung over his shoulder has answered to her call. As soon as he drew closer to the house to answer Mini’s call, Mini ran away and hid herself in the folds of her mother’s sari. Mini’s father bought some dry fruits for her, chatted with him, and came to know that he was from Kabul and his family was at Kabul. Then he called Mini from her hiding and introduced her to Abdur Rahman, The Cabuliwallah. In order to shed her fears of the Cabuliwallah, Rahman took some dry fruits from his bag and bundled them up on other free end of her sari like garment.  

Later, Mini’s father found that his daughter Mini and the Cabuliwallah had struck up in a happy friendly relationship and they met often almost every day. The Cabuliwallah was a patient listener to Mini’s prattle and gave her lavish amounts of nuts and raisins. The Cabuliwallah entertained her with the fascinating stories of his motherland.  However, the suspicious Mini’s mother was always worrying at their friendship and frightened that he would take away her daughter, Mini and sell her off as a slave to someone.

As it was going on, one day all of a sudden a disaster struck the Cabuliwallah. He was arrested and sentenced him to several years of imprisonment for stabbing one of his customers to death who owed him money.

After his release from the jail, the Cabuliwallah went to Mini’s house to see her. To his surprise, he found that Mini had grown up, and it was her wedding day. Mini’s father was not happy to see him on that day and considered it inauspicious to let him to see Mini. He persuaded him to go away. Before going away, the Cabuliwallah left a few grapes and raisins wrapped in a piece of paper for Mini. He then showed Mini’s father an old and shriveled piece of paper with a black impression of a small tiny hand of his daughter. Filled with pity for the Cabuliwallah, Mini’s father called his daughter. When the Cabuliwallah saw Mini in her wedding dress, he was surprised to find a young woman that he could not recognize. Mini embarrassed when she thought of their long-forgotten companionship. The Cabuliwallah found extremely difficult to reconcile with the reality.  Seeing the predicament of the Cabuliwallah, Mini’s father offered him one hundred rupees enough to return to his native place, Kabul to see his own daughter there. He gave him the money by cutting down some the expensive wedding celebrations to meet the expenses of a distressed father. Mini’s father is contended with his humanistic gesture to help someone who is in distress and helpless and he wanted see his own daughter after a long time.

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ON HIS BLINDNESS – JOHN MILTON (Text and Summary)

Textual poem for (VSKUB) B. Com. I semester students

ON HIS BLINDNESS – JOHN MILTON

John Milton, the poet who wrote the greatest epic in English, was born on 9 December 1608 in London, educated at St. Paul’s School and Christ’s college, Cambridge. Milton took his B.A. degree in 1629 and M.A. in 1632. He was an exceptional scholar, at ease in English, Hebrew, Latin and Italian. In his youth, His remarkable looks and refined manner led to his being called ‘the lady of Christ’s’. He got involved in the controversies of the time and wrote a number of pamphlets. He defended the execution of Charles I and was appointed Latin Secretary to Oliver Cromwell, a post which he held till the Restoration. After the restoration of monarchy in 1660, Milton retired from politics and devoted himself entirely to poetry. He died on 10 November 1674.

The following are his famous poems: Ode on the Morning of Christ’s Nativity, Comus, Lycidas, Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained and Samson Agonistes.

Poem:

When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent, which is death to hide,

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest He, returning chide,

‘Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?’

I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies: – ‘God doth not need

Either man’s work, or His own gifts; who best

Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state

Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed,

And post o’er land and ocean without rest:

They also serve who only stand and wait’.

Notes:

The Poem "On His Blindness" is packed with biblical allusions. In this short poem or just fourteen lines Sonnet there are not less than five references to scriptural passages. Milton’s familiarity with the Bible caused it to be the main source of inspiration for many of his poems.

talent: Poetic genius.

(There is a reference to the parable given in St.Matthew’s gospel Ch.XXV, verses 14-30)

(lines 3 to 6) The servant of the parable did not make use of the talent (money) given to him by his master and was on that account, scolded by the master. Milton is afraid that he too may be taken to task by his divine Master for not making full use of his inborn or God-given talent for poetry. Instead of devoting his full attention to poetry he was engaged in writing prose pamphlets on controversial subjects.

day labour: reference to the parable of labourers in St.Matthew’s gospel Ch. XX verses 1-15

fondly: foolishly

prevent: anticipate

mild yoke: ‘yoke’ literally means, piece of wood palced across the necks of oxen pulling a cart or plough. Here it means ‘burden of difficulty’ in life. Again there is a reference to St. Matthew, Ch. XI verses 29-30. ‘Learn from me; I am gentle and humble of heart; and you shall find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light’.

thousands: old Testament, Prophecy of Daniel Ch. VII verses 9-11. While giving an account of the vision he had, the prophet speaks of the greatness of God the supreme judge: ‘A thousand thousand they were that waited on his bidding, and for every one of these, a thousand others were standing there before him’.

Post: travel with speed.

Stand and wait: St. Luke Ch. I verses 19. ‘I am Gabriel, that stand in the presence of God; and am sent to speak unto him’. 

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Summary:

By forty-five Milton was completely blind while yet in the service of Cromwell. As he had not fulfilled his ambition in life, to write a great poem which posterity would not willingly let die, he felt the loss of his eyesight very much and gave expression to his grief on several occasions. ‘On His Blindness’ is the first expression of this intensely felt loss.

Becoming blind at the age of forty-five Milton feels unhappy about the way he has spent that best part of his life. He is especially sorry for having failed to make proper use of his inborn poetic talent. He thinks his conduct is similar to that of the servant who preserved (unused) the money given to him by his master. The servant was scolded by the master for his laziness. Milton is afraid that he too may be taken to task for his failure to serve God by making use of his talent. Patience reminds him that God is not in need of man’s service. Those who endure their small difficulties, without making complaints, are the people who serve God best. God is like a king who has many servants. Some of the servants will be moving about to carry out the king’s orders; but some others will be standing by his side ready to obey him at any moment. Those who stand and wait for orders are also serving the king.

‘On His Blindness’ is the most famous of Milton’s sonnets. This is the first expression of the poet’s sorrow over the loss of his eyesight. It was written when he became completely blind at the age of forty-five.

Becoming blind at an early age, Milton is very unhappy about the fact that he has wasted the best part of his life without producing any creative work of importance. He feels especially sorry for having failed to make proper use of his poetic genius. He thinks his guilt is similar to that of the servant who kept unused the money to him by the master. The master scolded the servant for neglecting to do his duty. The poet is afraid that he too may be taken to task by God for his dereliction of duty. In a bitter mood Milton is inclined to think of God as a hard task master.

Soon he overcomes this mood of bitterness and is able to think of God in a more sober way.   God is not in need of man’s services. He is like a king who has many servants at his disposal. Some of the will be moving about to carry out he king’s orders; but some others will be standing by his side, always ready to obey him. Those who stand and wait for orders are also serving the king.

The poem begins in a mood of bitterness, but it ends in a mood of reconciliation and consolation. What really lends beauty to the poem is the frequent reference to some of the beautiful biblical passages. There are not less than five biblical allusions in this small poem of fourteen lines: but the most appropriate one is the reference to the parable of the talent.

Thus, in conclusion, it may be said that the poem reveals the moral earnestness of the poet and his familiarity with Bible.

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THE GIFT OF INDIA -- Sarojini Naidu

THE GIFT OF INDIA  -- Sarojini Naidu

The Gift of India is one of the patriotic poems of Sarojini. It was written in 1915 and included in her volume of poems entitled The Broken Wing. Mahatma Gandhi had called upon the people of India to co-operate with the British Government during World War I, and in response to his call Indian youth in large numbers joined the army, and went to distant battlefields, and thus laid down their lives in the service of their motherland. They were the gifts of mother India to the world

In this moving lyric, Mother India herself speaks to the world. She asks the world what else does it require from her? Has she kept back any rich clothes and grains of gold from the world? If so, she is ready to give them also. She has already given to the world her most precious possessions i.e., her brave and heroic sons. She gave them to the world when she heard the call of duty, and they went away to distant lands only to meet their deaths there. When she did not keep back her sons and allowed to go to their death in distant parts of the world, there is nothing else, which she would withhold or refuse. Nothing was more precious to her than her sons and she has already given them to the world.

Mother India expresses her grief for her dead sons through a number of similes following each other in quick succession. They are now buried in their graves in foreign lands like pearls in their shells. Some of them are lying dead in distant Persia, as if they have been sent to sleep by the sweet rhythmic music of her murmuring rivers. There are others whose dead bodies are scattered on the sands of Egypt, as it they were empty shells. Their brave hands have been broken and their faces are deathly pale. There are still others who lie scattered on the bloodstained meadows of France and Flanders.  They lie there like flowers that have been plucked and scattered all over by the cruel hands of destiny. Thus mother India has given her most precious gifts, her sons, to the entire world.

The world cannot adequately measure the grief of Mother India, nor understand the suffering and anguish of the vigil, which she has kept over her dead sons. Her anguish and despair, no doubt, are intense and unfathomable, but her heart also thrills with pride when she remembers their heroic deeds. Full of anguish she prays for their souls, but hopes of the future also comfort her heart. She sees glorious visions of the future, of which her heroic sons fought and dies would be victorious. No doubt, even such victory would have a tinge of sadness, but visions of such a victorious future console her and make her proud of her heroic sons.

Sarojini ends the lyric on a note of hope and prophecy. Today hate and strife rule the world and strike terror into the hearts of the people.  But a time will soon come when the reign of hate and war will end, and life will be shaped anew ‘on the anvils of Peace’. When the reign of falsehood will end and Truth shall prevail, the world would remember the deeds of her sons. The world would be grateful to them. The world would then honour the immortal deeds of her sons, and remember forever their heroic self-sacrifice. The martyrdom of her son has not been in vain and earned love and gratitude and a permanent place in history.

It might be a topical or occasional lyric, but the sons and daughters of Mother India with throbbing hearts will always read it. It is Sarojini’s tribute to the greatness and glory of her native land – India.

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Why I want a wife – Judy Brady

Why I want a wife – Judy Brady

The essay “Why I want a wife” by Judy Brady, a great feminist writer of 1970’s. The purpose of this essay is to show women how men think, act and feel about them. The essay had a great impact on the feminist movement of the early 70’s. Many men of those times heckled and despised this essay but it was a huge step towards emancipation of women in male chauvinistic society.

The tone of this essay is very serious, but at the same time, it is considered as humorous, sarcastic and even dramatic.  Judy Brady, being a feminist wants to show how men truly think of women. She writes this essay in the first person to enhance the intensity of women sufferings with innumerable responsibilities. She makes a list of the responsibilities of a typical woman of 1970’s.  She wanted women to know how men truly are. The list of responsibilities, she provides, are rather mind-boggling and proves that some of the things men require are just demanding. Every sentence she writes is emotionally charged description of what men expect from their women. She believes that this is not the way, how women live their lives.

Women are assigned the role of homemaker in the name of culture or tradition. As a result, women are forced to fall victim to perform such role and obliged to fulfill certain duties that have been earmarked for them. Although a woman is working and earning equal to her husband, she has to take care of the entire responsibility of the home. She has to look after of the children. She has to feed them properly and keep a track of children’s doctor and dentist appointments if anything goes wrong with the children’ health. She has to make sure that the children eat properly or not and keep them clean. If we wanted to tell it concisely, she has to take care of every responsibility of children in the process of bringing them up.

In spite of all these responsibilities, as a wife, she has to take care of her husband’s physical needs. She has to see that all her husband’s personal things and keep them in their proper place so that he can find them when he needs them instantly. She has to cook for him and shop for him.  She has to care for him when he suffers from any sickness.

Moreover, she (wife) should not trouble her husband with complaints about her duties. She has to treat his guests properly and she should not interrupt her husband, when he is talking with his guests or friends. She must be very sensitive to the sexual needs of her husband and at the same time, she should not demand sexual attention from her husband when he is not in mood for it. The husband expects her to be very faithful even such critical situations.   

Thus, Judy Brady vehemently rebukes at the male chauvinism, which reduces the status of the women to slaves and servants. Their individuality and self-respect is never recognized in the pro-male dominated society.   

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Nightingales – Robert Bridges

Nightingales - Robert Bridges

Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come,

And bright in the fruitful valleys, the streams, wherefrom

Ye learn your song:

Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,

Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air

Bloom the year long!

Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:

Our song is the voice of the desire, that hunts our dreams,

A throe of the heart,

Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,

No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,

For all our art.

Along aloud in the ruptured ear of men

We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,

As night is withdrawn

From these sweet-springing meads and bursting bough of May

Dream, while innumerable choir of day

Welcome the dawn.

Summary:

‘Nightingales’ is a poem that goes against all the Romantic qualities that are normally given to these birds. These (birds) are small; reddish brown birds usually migrate to warm places in the winter. They sing very sweetly by day as well as by night. Many poets including John Keats and W.B. Yeats have written in praise of the nightingale, because for them, the song of this bird meant perfection and beauty. Robert Bridges, however, associates the bird with deep sorrow. The poet’s attitude may be based on the Greek legend of Procene and Philomela which tells of the origin of the nightingale.

Procene and Philomela were sisters and daughters of the King of Athens. Procene was given in marriage to Tereus, who was king of the Thraciaus and who had helped the king of Athens. Tereus, however, was in love with Philomela and he seduced her after telling her that Procene was dead. He also tore Procene’s tongue but Procene wove a message for her sister into a robe. Philomela helped her sister escape from Tereus’s prison. Procene killed and cooked their son Itys for Tereus to eat. When Tereus discovered what he was eating, he chased the sisters with an axe but the gods changed all three into birds. Tereus became a hawk, Procene a swallow and Philomela, a nightingale.

The legend is a terrible, heartrending one and explains the poet’s anti-romantic view of the nightingale’s song. The poem is in two voices. The first verse is in the voice of the typical Romantic who imagines that nightingale belongs so a beautiful world filled with flowers and fruits equal to a paradise.

The second and third voices are in the voices of the nightingale who, in reply show how romantic and sad their world actually is. It is not of fullness fertility they sing, but of dreams and desires that never fulfilled. Even their song is unable to express the depth of their sorrow. The last two lines suggest that the more ordinary birds who greet the sunrise are the ones that are really joyful.

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