Legal Alien

Rutangye Crystal Butungi

I can’t believe the receptionist is not going to take my consultation fee just because I’m from her
tribe! I thought corruption was only for the politicians and big businessmen. But here, in a small
town clinic, I am going to be the beneficiary of a corrupt doctor’s receptionist. Is this a good thing
or a bad thing? Well, I don’t care right now. I have spent the day running around offices getting
papers stamped. Now, I have to get a doctor to give me a check-up, approve this medical form, and
stamp it. I was about to walk out of this clinic because the consultation fee alone, without the
medical check-up fee, was way too high. But then, the receptionist glimpsed my name on the form
and said, “Eh, you mean you are from my village! Why didn’t you tell me your surname, I would
have done you a favour.” Then she started chatting away in our language.
“If you had told me where you were from, I wouldn’t have told you to pay that high consultation
fee. In fact, I’ve got enough for today, so don’t bother paying for consultation. Just wait for the
patient who is in now to come out and you can go in for your check-up.” Thank goodness she
sneaked those last sentences in English. She started rattling on in our language again. I dared not
inform her that I didn’t understand a single word she was saying. Today, was not going to be the
day I revealed my excuse for not knowing my mother tongue.
I will not reveal to her that I became aware of my vernacular deprivation in ‘93, when I was a
child. Daddy had taken me to the classroom and left me there. I stopped sobbing when the teacher
led me in. The room was so big! There were over a hundred children in there; at least seven pupils
on each of the fifteen or so benches. The walls were dirty, and you could see where the blue paint
had been chipped at by enthusiastic kids. There were no cupboards, no teacher’s desk, no carpet,
no sleeping corner, no tiles. The room held only children, benches, a cemented floor and a huge,
old blackboard positioned at the front. Everything was so dated. It was as if the décor had been
inspired by an Adams Family episode. At the back of the classroom, bags were sprawled all over the
floor, since there were not enough hooks on the wall to carry them all. I looked up at the man who
I assumed was the class teacher, as I’d heard my daddy address him as Mr. Muhangazima, and
asked, “Where is the fridge?”
There were loud gasps and the class started laughing. I began to cry again. Mr. Muhangazima bent
down and quietly said, “This is a classroom. We don’t keep fridges in classrooms. We don’t have a
fridge in the school, except the one in the canteen. Mpozi there’s a new one in the kitchen –”
“But where will I keep my break time snacks?”
“Just leave them in your bag and then put it at the back of the classroom.”
He led me to the back and pulled one bag off a strong hook, hastily threw it to the ground, and
put mine in its place.
I couldn’t understand my new surroundings. Back in Australia, my Grade 2 class – with just
thirty-two pupils - was the biggest in the whole school. Each class had a fridge to keep snacks until
break time and a microwave to warm them if necessary. My Australian class had a carpet for story
time and tables for writing at and red and blue building blocks for doing algebra. We also had a
painting corner, an ‘imaginary’ corner, and a sleeping corner for taking afternoon naps. And we
could wear anything we wanted. Not like this school, where I had to wear white socks pulled up to
my knees and a green and white checked dress that looked exactly like the ones mummy used to

25
wear when she was pregnant with my younger brother - except mine had a belt. Such a strange
uniform!
Mr. Muhangazima took me to a bench at the back of the classroom. There were five pupils seated
at it.
“Daisy is a good girl” he said as he beckoned me into a seat next to a thin lipped girl, “she will
make friends with you.” He walked away chuckling as though it was hard for him to suppress his
laughter. As soon as I sat and said “hello”, Daisy pulled away from me and in doing so almost
pushed the others off the bench. She looked down at her book and continued doing the math
exercises that Mr. Muhangazima had left on the board. I had never have to add fifteen to twelve
without using building blocks, so I could not understand a thing. I didn’t want to be laughed at
again, so I didn’t ask for them. Every time I tried to ask Daisy to explain, she inched further and
further away from me. It was as if she was blocking me. There was some barrier I could not
penetrate.
Barriers. My attention was brought back to the receptionist’s incessant rambling. Somewhere in
between, I figured out she had offered me a seat in the waiting area right in front of her desk. It’s
2011 and I still feel like there are barriers I cannot penetrate, like this one. What on earth is she
saying to me? It’s been 18 years and I still feel like that girl my classmates were inching away from.
I can’t break into certain social circles because of this barrier. Either I’m trying to break into
people’s lives, but they shrink from me because they don’t understand me or I’m avoiding people
because I’m too ashamed to reveal that I don’t understand them. I wish I could hide from the
receptionist right now. What if she figures out that I can’t speak our language? Will she still think of
me as a village mate or will she feel taken advantage of and withdraw her no-consultation-fee offer?
I’ve encountered so many barriers; age barriers, education barriers, gender barriers, but none has
made me feel as alienated as the language barrier. Anyone can understand a woman fighting for her
rights, but few comprehend how one can fail to learn their own language. Thank goodness more
patients have walked in! Now the receptionist is preoccupied with explaining to them the high
consultation fee prices. One patient has a Kenyan accent. Lucky her. Everyone can understand why
she can’t speak any Ugandan languages. Perhaps next time I walk into a place I should speak with a
foreign accent so that people can immediately address me in English. Urgh!! That thought reminds
me again of that first day in school.
After that episode with Daisy, it was time for social sciences. The teacher was skinny and tall. She
walked to the front of the class and crooned, “Good morning P.3 K.”
“Good morning, Miss Nakanwagi!” Everyone stood up to greet her.
“Good. Sit down. Where is the new girl?”
Everyone turned and looked me.
“Eh, they have not yet cut your hair? Did the headmaster give you permission to keep your hair
long?”
I hadn’t noticed that none of the girls had hair on their heads. Before I had time to think about it,
the teacher had sent a boy from the front of the class to the back and told me to take his place. At
the front, I felt as if people’s stares were piercing my back. Halfway through the lesson, I began to
feel stupid because I couldn’t answer any questions. She was asking about Muntu and Sera - the first
humans on earth and then moved on to some tale, mentioning Gipiir and Labong. Then she asked
the shape of the world. Finally! I shot my hand up - I definitely knew the answer this one!
“Yes new girl. Stand up and give us the answer.”
“It’s a circle.” I shouted, beaming.
The class burst out laughing.

26
 “Repeat!” The teacher made me repeat my answer until my new classmates started mimicking my
accent. I sat down, depressed. Everyone was laughing at me.
I was so relieved when it was time for break. I wished I could have hidden somewhere in the
school and not return for another class! Before walking off to eat, I went to thank the teachers for
their classes. They were sitting at their table on the classroom verandah. My thanking them sparked
off some kind of debate.
“Eh bambi, the girl is from outside countries but she is still well-mannered,” said one of the
teachers.
“You mean people from bulaaya have bad manners?” Mr. Muhangazima always seemed kind and
supportive when he spoke.
“Nanti they are always proud and spoilt when they come back, but this one bambi even thanks us
for teaching?”
“Wamma go and have your break before the bell rings.”
When I turned round to look for a place to sit, I wished I could have stayed with Mr.
Muhangazima instead, because all the children were avoiding me. The school was so big. The road
from the main gate led up to a roundabout. On the left side of the road was the lower primary
section, made of primary one and two (referred to as P.1 and P.2). The rest of the school was on
the right side of the road. This included the school kitchen, administrative offices, main hall and
staff room. Each class had five streams; N, P, S, K and U, derived from N-akasero P-rimary S-chool
K-ampala U-ganda. When daddy and I had reported to the headmaster’s office that morning, the
headmaster asked which colour I liked best among yellow, blue, red, green and white. “Green”, I
had said, because I was in green house in my school in Australia. So he allocated me to P.3K
because all the K classes were in the green building of Eland house. Whoever designed the school
was very organized, because each block of classes had five classrooms for the five streams. And the
classes were huge; accommodating over a hundred pupils per stream. The P.3 and P.4 blocks were
separated by a big, grassy, fenced compound. I sat on a step on the verandah of my P.3 block, near
the teacher’s table. I began to eat the bread and cake mummy had packed for me. Then Daisy came
up to me with another boy and asked, “Wamma did you used to talk to Eddie Murphy?”
“Who is Eddie Murphy?” I responded.
“The one who acted in Coming to America.”
“I don’t know Eddie Murphy. I came from Australia, not America”
“This boy said that your father is a black American! He saw your dad bringing you, he even heard
him talking like from America.”
“No. My father is Ugandan, but we used to live in Australia.”
“You see I told you!” she said to the boy and they walked off arguing. Then break time was done.
The English teacher was awful. She started with my bench which was at the front. I couldn’t open
my book with the homework she wanted, because since it was my first day at a Ugandan school; I
didn’t have any homework completed. I didn’t want her to get to me because I hated the way she
was screaming insults about everyone’s work. But I didn’t have enough time to nurture my fear
because I was the fourth person in the row, “Where is your homework?” She asked.
“I’m -”
“Don’t tell me your nonsense!! Where is your homework?”
Before I could answer, her hand slap me hard across my face.
“Didn’t you hear me telling people to open their homework on the bench –”
The multiple shouts from the class telling her that I was a new pupil silenced her.
“Eh, sorry.” And she walked on, just like that, screaming at the next person in her broken English.

27
 I had never been slapped before, except by my mummy. I had tried to be superman and flew off
the top of a cupboard and sprained my knee and pretended to be dead. She was so scared and angry
and happy at the same time, so that when I came to all she could do was slap me for giving her such
a fright. But why would a teacher beat a student? In Australia, a teacher hit a child once in my
nursery school and was arrested. No one is allowed to beat children there, except their parents or
guardians, and even then, there were restrictions on how much a parent could beat their own child.
Beating. It is strange how I have gotten so used to it over the years. I am not even perturbed by
the sound of policemen beating idlers on Bombo road just outside this building. The clinic is on the
fourth floor where the tear gas doesn’t seem to have had as much effect. The receptionist finished
with the other patients and turned back to me. By her gestures I could tell she was saying something
about the ongoing riots. Ever since Muammar Gaddafi died, the opposition thinks it can overthrow
our president too. So every Monday they hold ‘Walk to Work’ demonstrations. All opposition
party members and parliamentarians walk to their offices. Idlers and workers in town stand by the
roadsides to cheer them on or join them, so every Monday morning the police and army roam
about in ‘mambas’ spraying tear gas and pink water at the crowds, then the shops close for a few
hours to prevent theft, until the protestors are arrested and released on bail, then the businessmen
put on a demonstration because the ‘Walk to Work’ campaign disrupts their profit-making, then
the university students hold a strike because the lecturers use the campaign to extend their
weekends. This cycle has continued for months, such that medical workers, teachers and lawyers
have also taken turns going on strike. I would like to use the routine to stay safe at home, but this
week is my deadline for sending the papers.
This morning I took a taxi before the sun rose (and before the protestors started walking to
work). I wisely spent the morning going to offices further from the town center where there wasn’t
much commotion. In the afternoon, I had to brave the remaining disturbances to visit the offices in
town. I hid in the crowded toilets of the commercial buildings and turned on a tap to wash tear gas
out of my eyes. Everyone was in their offices because they couldn’t go out into the smoky streets,
so I got everything else signed and stamped, except my medical forms. There was no way I was
going to get through to the taxi park to go to my family’s clinic. Well, at least not until the evening
when everyone would stop rioting and go home. So I stopped at the first signposted town clinic and
entered into the safest-looking building. And here I am now, staring at the receptionist’s blabbering
mouth. Our pseudo-conversation was interrupted by a small crowd rushing a bleeding child into
the reception. I couldn’t tell if the blood was coming from the child’s forehead or eye. Either way,
the blood managed to mingle with mucus from the nose and so was smeared all over the left side of
the child’s face. The mother was wailing. She looked more terrified than the injured little girl who
was sobbing quietly. The girl must have been about eight years old. As they whisked her into the
emergency room, I thought the receptionist would finally be silenced by the horrific scene. I was
wrong. It gave her a lot more to blabber about. I think she started talking about things that make
women and girls cry. I hate seeing crying girls. They remind me of that unforgettable first day.
***
I sobbed and cried quietly throughout the English lesson that day. The teacher made me think of
the stories of Amin that I had heard. Daddy said the reason we came back to Uganda was because
President Amin was no longer president. H. E. Museveni had restored peace, and so we didn’t have
to be in exile anymore. If it wasn’t for Amin, maybe I wouldn’t be feeling like an outcast in my
country and new school. My big sisters wanted to stay in Sidney for a few more years, but daddy
said when death came his way; it should find him in his own country. He had spent the last two
years sending money back to Uganda in order to build a home for us. Also, since he was a vice-
principal of a teacher’s training college in Australia, Makerere University offered him a big job that

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he couldn’t turn down. I thought I would find peace in Uganda like he said, but instead, the English
teacher had just slapped me. I tried hard not to pee in my pants in terror of it all. I resolved never
to come back to school again. But then, as soon as the teacher ended her class, the children sitting
around me started saying sorry and offering me sweets and telling me how I’d get used to the
beatings and all. Suddenly, I was making friends. The children were no longer scared of talking to
me. This began my orientation into my country, Uganda.
Uganda was horrible at first! When we arrived, three weeks before my initiation into Ugandan
school days, we did not have electricity for two days in a row. After that, electricity was off every
other night. There were only two TV stations; UTV and CTV. Between those two stations, there
were only five cartoons; Pingu, Superbook, Kissyfur, Duck Tales and Didi. Well Didi wasn’t a cartoon,
but he was just as fun to watch since he was a clown. In Australia, power only went off once or
twice a year, and the dates of the power cuts were announced at least six months before the
blackout. And there were two whole channels dedicated to cartoons all day and night. Here, the
cartoons only came on during the weekdays in the evenings, so I spent my weekends learning how
to play kwepena (dodgeball) and dool (shooting marbles) with my neighbours. I have learnt a lot since
then, over the years. I have learnt to kneel when greeting elders and to peel and steam matooke in its
banana leaves. I have learnt to iron clothes with a charcoal iron when there is no power, and to
cook with firewood. I learnt to wear three pairs of shorts under my school uniform so that it didn’t
hurt as much when I was caned by teachers. I learnt enough Luganda to bargain for things in Owino
market, and how to make kwepena balls out of any piece of soft rubbish in the compound. I no
longer have an Australian accent. My friends learnt a lot too. They learnt the difference between
Australia and America. They learnt that not every Ugandan abroad is cleaning toilets and bedpans in
hospitals. They learnt that not every child from abroad is a spoilt brat who can’t climb trees; in fact,
children from bulaaya can be very generous with their fancy toys! They learnt that it is futile to
speak vernacular to someone who spent the first nine years of their life speaking English in a foreign
continent. In fact, had it not been for the numerous relatives that camped at our spacious home for
years after we got back, I probably wouldn’t even be able to speak the little Luganda I do now. And
we speak Luganda, not because it is our language, but because daddy’s new job is in the country’s
capital - Bugandaland. Everyone from every other tribe in the country learns to speak Luganda
when they live here. Most of them know their own languages too. But a few, like me, who only
visit our villages once or twice a year, will forever suffer this minor identity crisis and those
quizzical looks we get every time someone declares, “You can’t speak your language!”
But today, I am not going get that look. I am going to let the receptionist blabber on in our mother
tongue, and I’ll keep nodding and laughing and exclaiming at appropriate intervals, because that is
my ticket to getting into the doctor’s room without paying that expensive consultation fee. Then
he’ll fill in my medical form, stamp it, and I’ll get out and say bye to the receptionist in Luganda or
English. Then she’ll say bye to me in Luganda or English and she won’t find it weird because
everyone in Kampala speaks Luganda or English. Then I’ll get out and add my medical form to my
other papers which I will submit to the embassy. Then they will call me after a few days to let me
know if I’ve been approved for a visa to fly out of my country to do my masters degree in Australia.

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 ACTION WILL BE TAKEN

Heinrich Boll

Probably one of the strangest interludes in my life was the time I spent as an employee in Alfred
Wunsiedel’s factory. By nature, I am inclined more to pensiveness and inactivity than to work,
but now and again prolonged financial difficulties compel me – for pensiveness is no more
profitable than inactivity – to take on a so-called job. Finding myself once again at a low ebb
of this kind, I put myself in the hands of the employment office and was sent with seven other
fellow-sufferers to Wunsiedel’s factory, where we were to undergo an aptitude test.

The exterior of the factory was enough to arouse my suspicions: the factory was built entirely
of glass brick, and my aversion to well-lit buildings and well-lit rooms is as strong as my
aversion to work. I became even more suspicious when we were immediately served breakfast
in the well-lit, cheerful coffee shop: pretty waitresses brought us eggs, coffee and toast, orange
juice was served in tastefully designed jugs, goldfish pressed their bored faces against the sides
of pale-green aquariums. The waitresses were so cheerful that they appeared to be bursting
with good cheer. Only a strong effort of will – so it seemed to me -restrained them from singing
away all day long. They were as crammed with unsung songs as chickens with unlaid eggs.

Right away I realized something that my fellow-sufferers evidently failed to realize: that this
breakfast was already part of the test; so I chewed away reverently, with the full appreciation
of a person who knows he is supplying his body with valuable elements. I did something which
normally no power on earth can make me do: I drank orange juice on an empty stomach, left
the coffee and egg untouched, as well as most of the toast, got up, and paced up and down in
the coffee shop, pregnant with action.

As a result I was the first to be ushered into the room where the questionnaires were spread out
on attractive tables. The walls were done in a shade of green that would have summoned the
word “delightful” to the lips of interior decoration enthusiasts. The room appeared to be empty,
and yet I was so sure of being observed that I behaved as someone pregnant with action behaves
when he believes himself unobserved: I ripped my pen impatiently from my pocket, unscrewed
the top, sat down at the nearest table and pulled the questionnaire toward me, the way irritable
customers snatch at the bill in a restaurant.
Question No. 1: Do you consider it right for a human being to possess only two arms, two legs,
eyes, and ears?

Here for the first lime I reaped the harvest of my pensive nature and wrote without hesitation:
“Even four arms, legs and ears would not be adequate for my driving energy. Human beings
are very poorly equipped.”

Question No. 2: How many telephones can you handle at one time?

Here again the answer was as easy as simple arithmetic: “When there are only seven
telephones,” I wrote, “I get impatient; there have to be nine before I feel I am working to
capacity.”

Question No. 3: How do you spend your free time?

My answer: “I no longer acknowledge the term free time – on my fifteenth birthday I eliminated
it from my vocabulary, for in the beginning was the act.”

I got the job. Even with nine telephones I really didn’t feel I was working to capacity. I shouted
into the mouth-pieces: “Take immediate action!” or; “Do something! – We must have some
action – Action will be taken – Action has been taken – Action should be taken.” But as a rule
– for I felt this was in keeping with the tone of the place – I used the imperative.

Of considerable interest were the noon-hour breaks, when we consumed nutritious foods in an
atmosphere of silent good cheer. Wunsiedel’s factory was swarming with people who were
obsessed with telling you the story of their lives, as indeed vigorous personalities are fond of
doing. The story of their lives is more important to them than their lives, you have only to press
a button, and immediately it is covered with spewed-out exploits.

Wunsiedel had a right-hand man called Broschek, who had in turn made a name for himself by
supporting seven children and a paralyzed wife by working night-shifts in his student days, and
successfully carrying on four business agencies, besides which he had passed two examinations
with honors in two years. When asked by reporters: “When do you sleep, Mr. Broschek?” he
had replied: “It’s a crime to sleep!”
Wunsiedel’s secretary had supported a paralyzed husband and four children by knitting, at the
same time graduating in psychology and German history as well as breeding shepherd dogs,
and she had become famous as a night-club singer where she was known as Vamp Number
Seven.

Wunsiedel himself was one of those people who every morning, as they open their eyes, make
up their minds to act. “I must act,” they think as they briskly tie their bathrobe belts around
them. “I must act,” they think as they shave, triumphantly watching their beard hairs being
washed away with the lather: these hirsute vestiges are the first daily sacrifices to their driving
energy. The more intimate functions also give these people a sense of satisfaction: water
swishes, paper is used. Action has been taken. Bread get eaten, eggs are decapitated.

With Wunsiedel, the most trivial activity looked like action: the way he put on his hat, the way-
quivering with energy – he buttoned up his overcoat, the kiss he gave his wife, everything was
action.

When he arrived at his office he greeted his secretary with a cry of “Let’s have some action!”
And in ringing tones she would call back: “Action will be taken!” Wunsiedel then went from
department to department, calling out his cheerful: “Let’s have some action!” Everyone would
answer: “Action will be taken!” And I would call back to him too, with a radiant smile, when
he looked into my office: “Action will be Taken!”

Within a week I had increased the number of telephones on my desk to eleven, within two
weeks to thirteen, and every morning on the streetcar I enjoyed thinking up new imperatives,
or chasing the words take action through various tenses and modulations: for two whole days
I kept saying the same sentence over and over again because I thought it sounded so marvelous:
“Action ought to have been taken;” for another two days it was: “Such action ought not to have
been taken.”

So I was really beginning to feel I was working to capacity when there actually was some
action. One Tuesday morning – I had hardly settled down at my desk – Wunsiedel rushed into
my office crying his “let’s have some action!” But an inexplicable something in his face made
me hesitate to reply, in a cheerful gay voice as the rules dictated: “Action will be taken!” I must
have paused too long, for Wunsiedel, who seldom raised his voice, shouted at me: “Answer!
Answer, you know the rules!” And I answered, under my breath, reluctantly, like a child who
is forced to say: I am a naughty child. It was only by a great effort that I managed to bring out
the sentence: “Action will be taken,” and hardly had I uttered it when there really was some
action: Wunsiedel dropped to the floor. As he fell he rolled over onto his side and lay right
across the open doorway. I knew at once, and I confirmed it when I went slowly around my
desk and approached the body on the floor: he was dead.

Shaking my head I stepped over Wunsiedel, walked slowly along the corridor to Broschek’s
office, and entered without knocking. Broschek was sitting at his desk, a telephone receiver in
each hand, between his teeth a ballpoint pen with which he was making notes on a writing pad,
while with his bare feet he was operating a knitting machine under the desk. In this way he
helps to clothe his family. “We’ve had some action,” I said in a low voice.

Broschek spat out the ballpoint pen, put down the two receivers, reluctantly detached his toes
from the knitting machine.

“What action?” he asked.

“Wunsiedel is dead,” I said.

“No,” said Broschek.

“Yes,” I said, “come and have a look!”

“No,” said Broschek, “that’s impossible,” but he put on his slippers and followed me along the
corridor.

“No,” he said, when we stood beside Wunsiedel’s corpse, “no, no!” I did not contradict him.
I carefully turned Wunsiedel over onto his back, closed his eyes, and looked at him pensively.

I felt something like tenderness for him, and realized for the first time that I had never hated
him. On his face was that expression which one sees on children who obstinately refuse to give
up their faith in Santa Claus, even though the arguments of their playmates sound so
convincing.
“No,” said Broschek, “no.”

“We must take action;” I said quietly to Broschek. “Yes,” said Broschek, “we must take
action.”

Action was taken: Wunsiedel was buried; and I was delegated to carry a wreath of artificial
roses behind his coffin, for I am equipped with not only a penchant for pensiveness and
inactivity but also a face and figure that go extremely well with dark suits. Apparently as I
walked along behind Wunsiedel’s coffin carrying the wreath of artificial roses I looked superb.
I received an offer from a fashionable firm of funeral directors to join their staff as a
professional mourner. “You are a born mourner,” said the manager, “your outfit would be
provided by the firm. Your face – simply superb!”

I handed in my notice to Broschek, explaining that I had never really felt I was working to
capacity there; that, in spite of the thirteen telephones, some of my talents were going to waste.
As soon as my first professional appearance as a mourner was over I knew: This is where I
belong, this is what I am cut out for.

Pensively I stand behind the coffin in the funeral chapel, holding a simple bouquet, while the
organ plays Handel’s Largo, a piece that does not receive nearly the respect it deserves. The
cemetery café is my regular haunt; there I spend the intervals between my professional
engagements, although sometimes I walk behind coffins which I have not been engaged to
follow, I pay for flowers out of my own pocket and join the welfare worker who walks behind
the coffin of some homeless person. From time to time I also visit Wunsiedel’s grave, for after
all I owe it to him that I discovered my true vocation, a vocation in which pensiveness is
essential and inactivity my duty.

It was not till much later that I realized I had never bothered to find out what was being
produced in Wunsiedel’s factory. I expect it was soap.
 F.3

1.
The Letter
By Dhumaketu
Fiction

Look at the picture of the old man given below:

UNIT 3
Working with your partner note down the feelings of the old man.

• _______________________________________________________________

• _______________________________________________________________

• _______________________________________________________________

• _______________________________________________________________

• _______________________________________________________________

2. Can you think of reasons for these feelings? Discuss with your partner and note
down possible reasons.

• _______________________________________________________________

• _______________________________________________________________
CBSE
• _______________________________________________________________

22 • _______________________________________________________________
 Fiction
3. Now read the story given below. Your teacher will use a variety of techniques for
different parts of the story e.g.
• Silent reading
• One student reading aloud to the whole class
• Students reading in small groups
• Dramatised reading in small groups

1. In the grey sky of early dawn stars still glowed, as happy memories light up a life that is
nearing its close. An old man was walking through the town, now and again drawing his
tattered clothes tighter to shield his body from the cold and biting wind. From some
houses came the sound of grinding mills, and the sweet voices of women singing at
their work, and the sounds helped him along his lonely way. Except for the occasional
bark of a dog, the distant steps of a workman going early to work, or the screech of a bird
disturbed before its time, the whole town was wrapped in deathly silence. Most of its
inhabitants were still in the arms of sleep, the sleep which grew more and more
profound on account of the intense winter cold; for the cold used sleep to extend its
sway over all things even as a false friend lulls his chosen victim with caressing smiles.
The old man, shivering at times but fixed of purpose, plodded on till he came out of the
town-gate on to a straight road. Along this he now went at a somewhat slower pace,
supporting himself on his old staff.
2. On one side of the road
was a row of trees, on the
other side the town's
public garden. The sky
was darker now and the
cold more intense, for the
wind was blowing straight
along the road, on which
they fell like frozen snow,
only the faint light of the
morning star. At the end of
the garden stood a
handsome building of the
newest style, and the light gleamed threw the crevices of its closed doors and windows.
3. Beholding1 the wooden arch of this building, the old man was filled with the joy that the
pilgrim feels when he first sees the goal of his journey. On the arch hung an old board
with the newly painted letters "Post Office." The old man went in quietly and squatted on CBSE

1 Beholding : taking a look at; seeing 23

Fiction the veranda. The voices of two or three people busy and their routine work could be
faintly heard threw the wall.
4. "Police Superintendent," a voice called sharply. The old man started at the sound, but
composed himself again to wait. But for the faith and love, that warmed him, he could
not have borne the bitter cold.
5. Name after name rang out from within as the clerk read out the English addresses in the
letters and flung them to the waiting postmen. From long practise he had acquired great
speed at reading out the titles - Commissioner, Superintendent, Diwan Sahib2,
Librarian - and in flinging the letters out.

6. In the midst of this procedure a jesting voice from inside called, "Coachman Ali!" The
old man got up, raised his eyes to heaven in gratitude and stepping forward put his
hands to the door.

7. "Gokul Bhai!"

8. "Yes who is there?"

9. "You called out coachman Ali's name didn't you. Here I am I have come for my letter."

10. "It's a mad man, sir, who worries us by calling everyday for letters that never come," said
the clerk to the postmaster.

11. The old man went back slowly to the bench on which he had been accustomed to sit for
five long years.

12. Ali had been a clever shikari. As his skill increased so did his love for the hunt, till at last it
was as impossible for him to pass a day without hunting as it is for the opium-eater to
forgo his daily portion. When Ali sighted the earth-brown partridge, almost invisible to
other eyes, the poor bird, they said, was as good as in his bag. His sharp eyes saw the
hare crouching. Even when the dogs failed to see the creature cunningly hidden in the
yellow brown scrub, Ali's eyes would catch the sight of his ears; and in another moment
it was dead. Besides this he would often go out with his friends, the fishermen.

13. But when the evening of his life was drawing in, he left his old ways and suddenly took a
new turn. His only child, Miriam married and left him. She went off with a soldier into his
regiment in the Punjab, and for the last five years he had no news of this daughter for
whose sake alone he dragged along a cheerless existence. Now he understood the
meaning of love and separation. He could no longer enjoy the sportsman's pleasure
and laughter at the bewildered terror of the young partridges bereft of their parents.

14. Although the hunter's instinct was in his very blood and bones, such loneliness had
CBSE
come into his life since the day Miriam had gone away, that now, forgetting his sport, he
would become lost in the admiration of the green cornfield. He reflected deeply, and
24 2 Diwan Sahib : a senior government official
 Fiction
came to the conclusion that the whole universe is built up through love and that the grief
of separation is inescapable. And seeing this, he sat down under a tree and wept
bitterly. From that day he had risen each morning at 4'oclock to walk to the post -office.
In his whole life he had never received a letter, but with a devout serenity born of hope
and faith, he persevered and was always the first to arrive.

15. The post office, one of the uninteresting buildings in the world, became his place of
pilgrimage. He always occupied a particular seat in a particular corner of the building,
and when the people got to know his habit they laughed at him. The postmen began to
make a game of him. Even though there was no letter for him they would call out his
name for the fun of seeing him jump up and come to the door. But with a boundless faith
and infinite patience, he came everyday, and went away empty-handed.

16. While Ali waited, peons would come for their firms' letters and he would hear them
discussing their masters' scandals. These smart young peons in their spotless turbans
and creaking shoes were always eager to express themselves. Meanwhile, the door
would be thrown open and the post-master, a man with a face as sad and as
inexpressive as a pumpkin, would be seen sitting on his chair inside. There was no
glimmer of animation in his features; such men usually prove to be village
schoolmasters, office clerks or postmasters.

17. One day, he was there as usual and did not move from his seat when the door was
opened.

18. "Police Commissioner!" the clerk called out, and a young fellow stepped forward briskly
for the letters.

19. "Superintendent!" Another voice called. Another peon came. And so the clerk, like a
worshipper of Vishnu, repeated his customary thousand names.

20. At last they had all gone. Ali got up too and saluting the post-office as though it housed
some precious relic, went off. A pitiable figure a century behind his time.

21. "That fellow," asked the post-master "is he mad?"

22. "Who, sir? Oh, yes," answered the clerk "no matter what the weather is he has been
here everyday for the last five years. But he doesn't get many letters."

23. "I can well understand that! Who does he think will have time to write a letter everyday?"

24. "But he is a bit touched sir. In the old days he committed many sins; and maybe he shed
some blood within sacred precincts and is paying for it now," the postman added in
support of his statement.

25. "Mad-men are strange people," the postmaster said. CBSE

25
Fiction 26. "Yes. Once I saw a postman in Ahmedabad who did absolutely nothing but make little
heaps of dust. And another had a habit of going to the river bed in order to pour water on
a certain stone everyday!"

27. "Oh! That's nothing" chimed in another. "I knew one madman who paced up and down
all day long, another who never ceased declaiming poetry and a third who would slap
himself on the cheek and then begin to cry because he was being beaten."

28. And everyone in the post office began to talk of lunacy. All working class people have
the habit of taking periodic rests by joining in general discussion for a few minutes. After
listening a while, the postmaster got up and said, "It seems as though the mad live in a
world of their own making. To them perhaps we too appear mad. The mad-man's world
is rather like the poet's, I should think!"

29. He laughed as he spoke the last words, looking at one of the clerks who wrote
indifferent verse. Then he went out and the office became still again.

30. For several days Ali had not come to the post-office. There was no one with enough
sympathy or understanding to guess the reason, but all were curious to know what had
stopped the old man. At last he came again; but it was a struggle for him to breathe and
on his face were clear signs of approaching end. That day he could not contain his
impatience.

31. "Master Sahib", he begged the post-master, "have you a letter from my Miriam?"

32. The postmaster wanted to get out to the country, and was in a hurry.

33. "What a pest you are, brother!" he exclaimed.

34. "My name is Ali," answered Ali absent-mindedly.

35. "I know! I know! But do you think we've got your Miriam's name registered?"

36. "Then please note it down, brother. It will be useful if a letter should come when I am not
here." For how should the villager who had spent three-quarters of his life hunting know
that Miriam's name was not worth a pice to anyone but her father?

37. The postmaster was beginning to lose his temper. "Have you no sense?" he cried.

38. "Get away! Do you think we're going to eat your letter when it comes?" and he walked off
hastily. Ali came out very slowly, turning after every few steps to gaze at the post office.
His eyes were filled with tears of helplessness, for his patience was exhausted, even
though he still had faith. Yet how could he still hope to hear from Miriam?

39. Ali heard one of the clerks coming up behind him, and turned to him.
CBSE
40. "Brother!" he said.

26
 Fiction
41. The clerk was surprised, but being a
decent fellow he said, "Well!"

42. "Here, look at this!" and Ali produced an

old tin box and emptied five golden
guineas into the surprised clerk's
hands. "Do not look so startled," he
continued.

43. "They will be useful to you, and they can

never be to me. But will you do one
thing?"

44. "What?"

45. "What do you see up there?" said Ali,

pointing to the sky.

46. "Heaven."

47. "Allah is there, and in His presence I am giving you this money. When it comes, you
must forward my Miriam's letter to me."

48. "But where---where am I supposed to send it?" asked the utterly bewildered clerk.
49. "To my grave."
50. "What?"
51. "Yes. It is true. Today is my last day: my very last, alas! And I have not seen Miriam, I
have had no letter from her." There were tears in Ali's eyes as the clerk slowly left him
and went on his way with the five golden guineas in his pocket.
52. Ali was never seen again, and no one troubled to inquire after him.
53. One day, however, trouble came to the postmaster. His daughter lay ill in another town,
and he was anxiously waiting for news of her. The post was brought in, and the letters
piled on the table. Seeing an envelope of the colour and shape he expected, the
postmaster eagerly snatched it up. It was addressed to Coachman Ali, and he dropped
it as though it had given him an electric shock. The haughty temper of the official had
quite left him in his sorrow and anxiety, and had laid bare his human heart. He knew at
once that this was the letter the old man had been waiting for: it must be from his
daughter Miriam.
54. "Lakshmi Das!" called the postmaster, for such was the name of the clerk to whom Ali
had given his money.
CBSE

55. "Yes, sir?"

56. "This is for your old coachman, Ali. Where is he now?" 27
Fiction 57. "I will find out, sir."
58. The postmaster did not receive his own letter all that day. He worried all night, and
getting up at three, went to sit in the office. "When Ali comes at four o' clock," he mused,
"I will give him the letter myself."
59. For now the postmaster understood Ali's heart and his very soul. After spending but a
single night in suspense, anxiously waiting for news of his daughter, his heart was
brimming with sympathy for the poor old man who had spent his nights in the same
suspense for the last five years. At the stroke of five he heard a soft knock on the door:
he felt sure it was Ali. He rose quickly from his chair, his suffering father's heart
recognizing another, and flung the door wide open.
60. "Come in, brother Ali," he cried, handing the letter to the meek old man, bent double with
age, who was standing outside. Ali was leaning on a stick, and the tears were wet on his
face as they had been when the clerk left him. But his features had been hard then, and
now they were softened by lines of kindliness. He lifted his eyes and in them was a light
so unearthly that the postmaster shrank back in fear and astonishment.
61. Lakshmi Das had heard the postmaster's words as he came towards the office from
another quarter. "Who was that, sir? Old Ali?" he asked. But the postmaster took no
notice of him. He was staring with wide-open eyes at the doorway from which Ali had
disappeared. Where could he have gone? At last he turned to Lakshmi Das. "Yes, I was
speaking to Ali," he said.
62. "Old Ali is dead, sir. But give me his letter."
63. "What! But when? Are you sure, Lakshmi Das?"
64. "Yes, that is so," broke in a postman who had just arrived. "Ali died three months ago."
65. The postmaster was bewildered. Miriam's letter was still lying near the door, Ali's image
was still before his eyes. He listened to Lakshmi Das's recital of the last interview, but he
could still not doubt the reality of the knock on the door and the tears in Ali's eyes. He
was perplexed. Had he really seen Ali? Had his imagination deceived him? Or had it
perhaps been Lakshmi Das?
66. The daily routine began. The clerk read out the addresses- Police Commissioner,
Superintendent, Librarian - and flung the letters deftly.
67. But the postmaster now watched them as eagerly as though each contained a warm,
beating heart. He no longer thought of them in terms of envelopes and postcards. He
saw the essential human worth of a letter.
68. That evening you could have seen Lakshmi Das and the postmaster walking with slow
CBSE
steps to Ali's grave. They laid the letter on it and turned back.

28
69. "Lakshmi Das, were you indeed the first to come to the office this morning?"
 Fiction
70. "Yes, sir, I was the first."
71. "Then how…. No. I don't understand…."
72. "What, sir?"
73. "Oh, never mind," the postmaster said shortly. At the office he parted from Lakshmi Das
and went in. The newly-wakened father's heart in him was reproaching him for having
failed to understand Ali's anxiety, for now he himself had to spend another night of
restless anxiety. Tortured by doubt and remorse, he sat down in the glow of the charcoal
sigri to wait.

About the Author

Dhumaketu (1892-1965) was the pen name of Gaurishankar Govardhandas

Josh, a prolific writer, who is considered one of the pioneers of the Gujarati
short story. He published twenty-four collections of short stories, as well as
thirty-two novels on historical and social subjects, and plays and travelogues.
His writing is characterized by a poetic style, romanticism and powerful
depiction of human emotions.

4. Answer the following questions by ticking the correct options:

(a) Ali's walking to the Post Office daily even in biting cold weather shows his __________.

(i) courage

(ii) optimism

(iii) foolishness

(iv) strength of will

(b) The Post Office is referred to as Ali's "place of pilgrimage" as he__________.

(i) visited it daily

(ii) came there to pray for a letter from his daughter

(iii) went there with faith and hope

(iv) believed God would bless him if he went there

(c) The Post Master's rudeness to Ali reveals his ____________________________.

(i) lack of empathy

(ii) preoccupation with his work

(iii) preconceived notions CBSE

(iv) sensitivity 29
Fiction (d) Ali did not come to the Post Office for several days as _____________________.

(i) he had given up hope

(ii) he was upset by the Post Master's rebuke

(iii) he was unwell and not able to walk to the Post Office

(iv) he was busy hunting

(e) "Tortured by doubt and remorse, he sat down in the glow of the charcoal sigri to wait."
The Post Master was waiting for____________________________.

(i) a letter from Miriam

(ii) a letter from his own daughter

(iii) a letter from Ali

(iv) Ali to deliver Miriam's letter to him.

5. Answer the following questions briefly.

(a) Who was Ali? Where did he go daily?

(b) "Ali displays qualities of love and patience". Give evidence from the story to
support the statement.

(c) How do you know Ali was a familiar figure at the post office?

(d) Why did Ali give up hunting?

(c) What impression do you form of the postmaster after reading the story 'The
Letter'?

(f) The postmaster says to Ali, "What a pest you are, brother!" Do you agree with the
statement? Give reasons for your answer.

(g) "Ali came out very slowly, turning after every few steps to gaze at the post office.
His eyes were filled with tears of helplessness, for his patience was exhausted,
even though he still had faith." Why were Ali's eyes filled with tears of
helplessness? What had exhausted his patience but not his faith?

(h) "Tortured by doubt and remorse, he sat down in the glow of the charcoal sigri to
wait." Who is tortured by doubt and remorse? Why? What is he waiting for?

CBSE

30
 Fiction
6. The writer carefully builds up an atmosphere of loneliness and grief in the story.
Working in groups, pick out words/ phrases from the story that build up the
atmosphere. Copy the following table in your notebook and complete it.

Loneliness Grief

• An old man was walking through • the whole town was

the town, now and again drawing wrapped in deathly
his tattered clothes tighter to shield silence
his body from the cold and biting
wind

• his lonely way

7. Complete the table by explaining the following phrases/ sentences in your own
words:

Phrases Meanings
happy memories light up a life that is nearing its
close
the sounds helped him along his lonely way
the cold used sleep to extend its sway over all
things even as a false friend lulls his chosen
victim with caressing smiles
when the evening of his life was drawing in, he
left his old ways and suddenly took a new
turn
the whole universe is built up through love and
that the grief of separation is inescapable
the post-master, a man with a face as sad and
as inexpressive as a pumpkin, would be seen
sitting on his chair inside
And so the clerk, like a worshipper of Vishnu,
repeated his customary thousand names
The haughty temper of the official had quite left
him in his sorrow and anxiety, and had laid bare
his human heart
CBSE

31
Fiction 8. LISTENING TASK

Now you are going to listen to an article about the break-up of the Joint Family
system in India.

As you listen to the passage complete the boxes given below.

(i) (ii)

Causes of neglect
of the elderly
(iii) (iv)

9. WRITING TASK

Tortured by doubt and remorse, the postmaster sits in the glow of a charcoal sigri that
night, waiting for news of his daughter. As he sits, he writes his diary.

As the postmaster, write a diary entry in about 150 words outlining your feelings about
the day's events.

10. SPEAKING TASK

(a) The postmaster believes that he saw Ali. What do you think? Discuss with your
partner and present your views in front of the class.

(b) The postmaster was anxiously waiting for his ailing daughter's news. On not
getting any news he visits his daughter's town. Now construct a dialogue between
the postmaster and his daughter and enact it.

CBSE

32
UNIT 7: Lemon-Yellow and Fig
Manohar Malgonkar

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Manohar Malgonkar(1901–2010) is one of of India’s noteworthy writers of

English novels, and short stories of action and adventure. He was born in an
aristocratic family. After completing his graduation from Bombay University,
he joined the Indian Army and has used his experiences there as themes in his
writings.
His works are sensitive and very gripping. Apart from history, the
army and politics, Malgonkar wrote of human relationships. He also wrote
scripts for movies and many newspaper articles. His famous writings are Spy in
Amber, Distant Drum, and Chatrapatis of Kolhapur. Lemon-Yellow and Fig is one of
Malgonkars’s popular short stories.

ABOUT THE STORY

This story depicts a real life situation in the life of a salesman in a sari shop in
Bombay (now Mumbai). Mr Ratnam has employed the salesman for his honest
face and pleasant manner. One day a charming, young lady, well dressed and
well perfumed, came into the shop. She bought a lemon-coloured silk sari and
paid the price of Rs 40 for it with a Rs 100 note. Soon after she left, another
prosperous lady entered wearing the same perfume. She asked for a fig-
coloured sari. The superstitious salesman recollected a story of how two women
used a trick with a Rs 100 note to cheat a salesman. Agarwal took certain
precautions to ensure that he did not get cheated in similar fashion. But, when
his employer Mr Ratnam conducted a surprise check of funds in the cash box
that day, he found Rs 100 short. The twist in the tale is that although Agarwal
was actually an honest salesman, he found it difficult to justify the missing cash
to his boss. As a consequence, Agarwal was accused of being dishonest and lost
his job.
There is an ironical twist to this tale as fate seems to have struck a blow
65
to the overzealous Mr Agarwal. His own honesty and his concern for Mr
Ratnam was in fact, the turning point of his relationship with him, resulting in
the loss of his job. Mr Ratnam appointed Agarwal on the basis of his ‘honest
face‘. Ironically, it was his honesty that caused Agarwal to lose his prized job.

LEMON-YELLOW AND FIG

I have lost my job. It was a good job, too. All I had to do was sit in the shop
throughout the day and sell saris and choli pieces; that was all we sold. They
were very good saris and choli pieces, specially woven in Mr. Ratnam’s little
mill in Bangalore and only sold in Bombay through the shop run by me.
They had begun to catch on and last week I had managed to sell over a
thousand rupees’ worth of them. I had little doubt that very soon the sales
would go even higher. In fact, I had written to Mr. Ratnam to send me more
plentiful stocks. If I could sell five thousand rupees’ worth of them every
month, that would have brought me a monthly income of two hundred and
fifty rupees.
Yes, it was a good job, but it didn’t last long; it went just as I was beginning
to be a good saleman, learning all the little tricks.
I was lucky to get the job. I had no experience of this kind of work. Mr.
Ratnam made no secret of the fact that he was employing me purely on a
hunch: because he thought I had an honest face.
I had answered an advertisement and was interviewed by Mr. Ratnam who
had come from Bangalore.
It was Mr. Ratnam who told me I had an honest face. Hesaid he was looking
for honesty. His last salesman in Bombay had run away with some of the cash
and six shot-silk saris.
Mr. Ratnam gave me the job on the spot. ‘All I want is honesty’, he said.
‘Honesty and a pleasant manner with cus¬tomers. I will try you out for a few
weeks, and if I’m satisfied with your honesty and your handling of customers,
you can have the job for good’.
Of course, I am honest. And I am also a hard worker. In the very second
week I had made more sales than the previous salesman had made during any
week. The fact that this was the week before Diwali, which, as you know, is the
time when more saris are bought than at any other time, may have had

66
something to do with it. On the other hand it may have been due to my
salesmanship. Anyway, I had good reason to be satisfied with the way things
were going.
That was how it was until this morning. I was beginning to have rosy
dreams of getting married and settling down. Bombay is a good place for a
refugee from the Punjab to settle down.
I had barely opened the shutters of the shop this morning when the woman
came in. She was pretty as a picture and I felt happy that I should be making
my first sale of the day to her.
We Agarwal shopkeepers are rather superstitious. Most of us believe that
the success of a day depends upon the bohni, the first sale of the day. I felt sure
that this customer would bring me good luck. Little did I know!
Shechose a lemon-coloured silk sari, very plain without any gold work on
it, and a choli piece to match. She was on the dark side, and I felt the yellow was
not her colour. But, of course, it was not my place to tell her that.
As I was wrapping up the bundle, I could smell the perfume she wore. It
was quite a strong perfume. In fact, I rememberthinking that it was a little too
heavy for the morning. But it was a very good perfume and seemed to fill the
little shop.
The bill was forty rupees and she handed me a crisp newhundred-rupee
note. I gave her back sixty rupees. Mr. Ratnam had told me that I must make it a
point to start the day with a hundred rupees in small notes kept in my cash box.
He was very particular about cash. A hundred rupees was all I was meant
to keep in the shop to begin the day with. The rest of the collection from the
daily sales was handed over every evening to his munim who called for it.
Before going out the young lady gave me a smile which made me wish that
I had been in a position to give her thesari instead of selling it to her. I had
hardly replaced the sarisand choli pieces which she had been looking at, when
the otherlady came into the shop. She was large and she was nothingtolook at
but she was prosperous, for she wore large diamondear-clips, the hexagonal
ones which are so popular in the South.
And as soon as she came in, I got a whiff of her perfume.
I have a sensitive nose, but it did not need a sensitive nose to tell me that it
was the same perfume that the young woman had used; it was quite
unmistakable.

67
 At first it didn’t even strike me as being unusual. I put on my best smile and
began to show her the saris. She wantedsomething in what is known in the
trade as the ‘fig’colour. Itis a mixture of red and green threads and very popular
amongst South Indian women.
I took out several different saris in the shade she wanted, but as I was
explaining to her why there was a difference in the prices, I must have been
thinking about the coincidence of her using the same perfume as the other lady
who had given me the hundred-rupee note, because suddenly the thought
struck me that both the women must belong to the same household.
And that brought to my mind a trick which had been played recently upon
a fellow-shopkeeper. A young lady had gone tohis shop early one morning and
had given a new hundred¬-rupee note which he had changed for her. Soon after
she had gone out, another lady, her accomplice, had gone into the shop, bought
one or two little things, and coolly demanded her change.
But she had paid no money, and when the shopkeeper pointed out her
mistake she had called in a policeman and complained that she had just given a
hundred-rupee note to the shopkeeper which he had put in his cash box and
that he refused to give her the change. Oh, yes, she knew the number of the
note, and right enough the number tallied with that of the note in the cash box.
There was little that the shopkeeper could do about it except hand the note over
to her. It all seemed to fit. It was a dirty trick but it had worked and now they
seemed to be trying it out on me.
It gave me a shock to think that anyone as pretty as my first customer
should be involved in this kind of business. But this was no time to be worrying
about it. I had to be quick if I was not going to be caught out.
‘Excuse me a moment’, I told the lady who was looking intently at the fig-
coloured saris. ‘I have a few more in the same shade. I will get them for you’.
The cash box was on the table in the corner, hidden from her view by a tall
shelf. I opened it and took out the hundred-rupee note given to me by the lady
who had come earlier.
I put it in an envelope and addressed the envelope to my brother who
worked in a shop hardly a couple of hundred yards away, and calling the
chokra from the next shop who did occasional jobs for me I casually handed
him the envelope. ‘Please take this to Kirpa Ram’s shop and give it to my
brother’. I told him.

68
 Then, pleased with myself and smiling, I took three of those fig-coloured
saris from another rack and went back to my customer. I couldn’t have been
away from her for more than a minute.
She liked those saris a lot. She kept on looking at two of them as though she
couldn’t make up her mind which one she liked better. I could scarcely keep
myself from grinning at her play¬acting. ‘Why don’t you buy both? They
should suit you equally well’, I said to her.
‘Yes, I think I will do that’, she said, with a broad smile which exposed all
her pan-stained teeth.
She took both the saris and paid for them; ninety rupees. She paid it all in
ten-rupee notes. I looked at the notes carefully. I wondered if this was a new
angle to the old trick. But there was nothing wrong with the notes. It was clear
that I had judged her wrongly.
I felt a little ashamed of myself. But I had reason to be pleased with myself
too, I had made two good sales within half an hour of opening, and as soon as
the chokra returned, I sent him for a cup of coffee and a masala pan.
And then I saw Mr. Ratnam coming towards the shop. I didn’t even know
he was in Bombay. He lives in Bangalore and looks after the looms. He was
looking pleased as punch as he entered the shop, and when he had sat down I
told him how well the shop was running and that more stocks would be needed
almost immediately.
‘You can have all the stocks you want, my boy’, he said. ‘That is what the
shop is here for, to sell as much as we can. It is just that I wanted to make sure
that I was not going to be let down like I was by your predecessor’.
I was rather hurt that he should ‘be still doubtful of my honesty. I said, ‘I
was hoping you would be sure of me by now, sir’.
‘In business, in this sort of business, one can never take any¬thing for
granted’, he said. ‘There are so many temptations.What the last man used to do
was to show that he sold fewer saris than he actually did, and pocket the
difference. It could never be found out unless there was a stock-checking’.
‘I see’, I said.
‘I just wanted to check up the stocks before sending you any more. Just a
formality, you know. You don’t mind, do you?’
It was nice of him to ask me if I minded, but, of course, I didn’t mind.
For most of the next hour we did a sort of cursory stock-¬taking. In fact I

69
did most of the actual checking and if I had needed to, I could have easily given
Mr. Ratnam fictitious figures. I was satisfied that all the stock was absolutely
correct to the last choli piece.
However, even before I had quite finished counting, Mr. Ratnam called to
me. ‘I think that will do’, he said. ‘I am entirely satisfied with you. As soon as I
get back, I will send you more pieces, and from next month you had better take
on some one to assist you; a little chokra to do the running about’.
Mr. Ratnam paused for a moment and gave me a broad smile. Then he said,
‘I am particularly pleased with your way of dealing with customers. I wanted to
be personally satisfied about that. So this morning I sent my daughter and sister
to make one or two odd purchases. It seems that although you had just opened
the shop, you managed to change a hundred¬-rupee note for my daughter.
There is nothing more annoying than being kept waiting for change. I also liked
the way you sold my sister two saris when she had come with the idea of
buying only one. They were full of praise for you. Now let us just check up the
cash box, and I will have done with you. A mere formality, you know. You
couldn’t be having much more in it than your hundred rupees and what my
daughter and sister paid’.
I am sure my heart skipped a beat. It suddenly dawned upon me that there
was a whole hundred rupees missing from the box, and Mr. Ratnam noticed it
too, as soon as he snappedthe lid open.
And that was how I lost my job. I didn’t even try to explain.I just stared
blankly at him and at the box alternately. I was sure that no explanation I could
give would have convincedhim. He did not have that sort of mind. What he
recognised was the cold fact that a hundred rupees were missing from thebox.
Anyway, I couldn’t tell him that I had taken his daughterand his sister for a
pair of confidence tricksters-if that is theword.
He shook his head from side to side, and he looked sad whenhe said to me,
‘And you have such an honest face’.
Of course, I am honest. But I am out of job, and if you know of anyone who
needs a keen young salesman....

GLOSSARY

Doubt: Uncertainty Sensitive: Touchy

70
Stocks: Goods Chokra: Young boy
Hunch: Strong feeling Occassional: Sometimes
Pleasant: Agreeable, pleasing Predecessor: The person before the
Refugee: A person forced to leave his current holder
country Temptation: Desire to do something
Superstitious: To believe in magic, wrong
not based on reason Formality: Stiffness of behaviour
Prosperous: Successful financially Cursory: Casual
Hexagonal: Having six straight sides Fictitious: Imaginary
Cold fact: Unpleasant fact

COMPREHENSION

A. Answer the questions below, choosing from the options that follow.
1. Mr Ratnam’s sari mill was located in
i. Bombay ii. Delhi
iii. Bangalore iv. Madras
2. Mr Ratnam employed Mr Agarwal as a salesman because he
i. Well qualified ii. Had accounting experience
iii. Had an honest face iv. Had previous sales experience
3. Bohni means
i. Bad luck ii. Lots of money
iii. The best sale of the day iv. The first sale of the day
4. To start the day, the salesman was required to
i. Keep lots of change in the cash box ii. Keep Rs 500 in
different notes
iii. Open the shop on time iv. Keep Rs 100 in
small notes
5. In the sari trade, fig colour is a
i. Mixture of red, blue, and white
ii. Yellow colour
iii. Mixture of red and yellow colours
iv. Mixture of red and green threads
6. The salesman knew the second customer was rich because she
i. Wore large diamond clips ii. Wore strong perfume
iii. Was large in size iv. Bought two saris
71
 5

Changing India

It was 25 April 1979—the first time I went to the USA. My destination was
Boston. It was the beginning of summer when I landed at Logan airport. The
days were long now so there was still light outside though it was late in the day. I
saw that there was still some snow left on the ground—the last vestiges of a long
winter.
I was last in the immigration queue. I had had a stopover in Paris and the
waiting period for the connecting flight had been long because India was not a
frequently travelled to country. So I was tired after the thirty-hour journey.
When my turn came, the stern-faced immigration officer asked me for my
passport and started questioning me. ‘Lady, why have you come to the United
States?’
I handed my passport over to the officer and said, ‘My husband is working for
Data General Computer Company and his duration of stay here is eight months.
He has already been in Boston for a month and I want to join him. That’s why I
have come here.’
‘How long do you want to stay?’
‘A maximum of six months.’
‘Are you working in India? If yes, show me your leave certificate and salary
slip.’
Expecting these questions, I had brought those certificates with me and I
showed them to him.
‘How long will you stay in Boston?’
‘I will be here for a few months. My brother is in Berkeley and I want to visit
him after that.’
‘Show me your return ticket and how much money you have brought from
your country.’
‘I have five hundred dollars.’ I showed him the ticket and the money.
He looked at me with disbelief, stamped my visa for three months and gave
my passport back to me. Then, he looked at me and said, ‘What is that? What are
you wearing?’
‘I am wearing an Indian traditional sari. It is our national dress.’
‘Hmm, you are from India. Where is this country? Is it near Japan? Or in
Africa?’
‘No, it is a part of Asia.’
‘How do you know English?’
‘In India, we have many languages. Along with our national language, we also
learn English at school.’
His shift was about to end and another officer joined him and asked me, ‘What
are you wearing on your forehead?’
‘This is known as bindi or kumkum. Most Indian women wear it.’
‘Is that a caste mark?’ he said.
His friend said, ‘Oh, I remember learning about India in a documentary. It said
that people in your country burn widows. Also, there are only two classes of
people there, maharajas and beggars. You play with snakes, and cows are
allowed to wander on the highways. Is that true?’
I was taken aback by his rude remarks. ‘Burning widows was stopped several
hundred years ago. It is not true that every widow in every state was burnt
anyway. There are no maharajas left in India. It is a democratic country. In India,
you see snakes only in the zoos or in the forests, just like in any other Asian
country. Also, cows wander in villages on the road but not on the highways,’ I
explained patiently.
‘Do you own an elephant?’
I laughed and said, ‘It is not easy to own an elephant, but I have seen many.’
‘That’s enough. You can go now.’
I thanked them and went to the customs counter. In those days, customs was
very tough on visitors. A customs officer asked me, ‘What did you bring from
India?’
‘Oh, there are very few Indian stores here and we don’t have a car. Hence, I
have brought some masalas from home.’
The customs officer treated me like I was carrying diseases instead of masalas.
He used a stick and asked me to point out and identify the masalas.
When I came out of there, I felt very dejected.
I have always been proud of my country because of our history and five
thousand years of civilization. Even today, we continue the practices of the Indus
Valley Civilization but other contemporary civilizations of that time have
disappeared from the face of the earth. Our contribution to science in the olden
days was outstanding and we were very good in astrophysics. We created music
and dance forms and wrote books on them. We also generated enormous
volumes of literature in the form of poetry, prose and dramas. Our civilization
has stored two-thousand-year-old inscriptions that indicate that we knew writing.
Our monumental temples show the zenith of architecture but for an outsider we
are nothing but a poverty-stricken land of snake charmers and elephants,
maharajas and beggars. It was not a good feeling.
Years rolled on. Infosys was formed along with many other companies in
Bangalore. In time, Bangalore became the hub of the Indian software industry.
The word ‘Bangalored’ itself became synonymous with outsourcing.
Today, Bangalore International Airport has many flights connecting directly to
the USA and the rest of the world. Going abroad is as easy as taking a domestic
flight. The next generation has become very confident, well-travelled, tech-
savvy and hardworking. The West has finally woken up and taken note of this
change.
In 2009, I went to Bogota, the capital of Columbia, in South America. I was
visiting Columbia to deliver a talk on ‘Lessons in Life’. My experiences at the
Infosys Foundation had become very popular and valuable and people wanted to
know all about them. I finished my talk and flew from Bogota to Miami, USA.
As always, I was last in the immigration queue. When my turn came, the visa
officer was a young, lively African American. He saw me and knew that I was
last, so he was quite relaxed and started asking me questions. I was ready to
answer the monotonous questions. But this time it was different.
He asked, ‘Oh, lady, you are from India?’
As a woman, I talk a lot. As a teacher, I talk a lot. As a trustee, I talk a lot. As
an analyst, I talk a lot. I usually talk four times more than the average person.
But sometimes, I talk less and listen more.
‘Yes, I am from India,’ was all I said.
‘I know your national dress, the sari. It is really pretty. I like the way you wear
it.’
I smiled and said, ‘Thank you.’ I did not have any other reply.
‘Where are you coming from?’
Hesitantly, I said, ‘I am coming from a city called Bangalore from the south of
India.’
‘Oh, I know Bangalore. It is a software hub. Lots of people from Bangalore
come to Miami for a holiday. Lady, how long do you want to stay in our
country?’
 I was flying from Miami to San Francisco and then from San Francisco back
to India.
I replied, ‘Three days.’
‘Why only three days?’
‘I have work with Stanford University and after that I will go back home.’
‘No, no. You should know that our country has great universities and beautiful
states. You can’t finish seeing our country in just three days.’
He stamped a six-month visa on my passport and said, ‘Can I ask you some
questions? Anyway, you have a visa now.’
I nodded my head.
‘How is it that you Indians are so good? You are no-nonsense people. Your
name is never on the terrorist list. Most of you are very professional.’
I smiled proudly and said, ‘We are trained to be that way.’ Now, I started
asking him questions. ‘How do you know so much about India?’
‘Oh, it is not difficult. There are lots of Indian restaurants in Miami. On the
weekends, I go there and eat.’
‘What do you like there?’
‘Good Indian food—tandoori chicken, chicken tikka, kebab and biryani.’ He
finished his work and got up.
I collected my bags and he joined me as I walked to customs. ‘You know,
lady, I like Bollywood songs,’ he said. ‘There are also Bollywood dance classes
in Miami. By the way, I really like Kajol. She is very talented.’
By then, we had reached customs. ‘It was really nice to meet you, lady. Have a
good stay.’
As he walked away, I heard him humming ‘Suraj hua madhham, chand
dhalne laga’ from the movie Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham in an American accent.
As I walked on, the customs officer did not even look at me. He just waved at
me.
I found myself outside the airport with the passport in my hands. I was
wondering what had changed in the last thirty years. It is not software alone. It is
India in the eyes of the West. India is no longer a poverty-stricken land of snake
charmers and elephants. The immigrant Indians in other countries, confident
Indians at home who have created wealth, our next generation that has worked
hard and competed successfully with the West and our children who are now
global citizens have changed India’s image in even a small airport like Miami.
I smiled as I looked at my Indian passport.
 The Dispenser of Holy Water

Guy de Maupassant

We lived formerly in a little house beside the high road outside the village. He had set
up in business as a wheelwright, after marrying the daughter of a farmer of the
neighbourhood, and as they were both industrious, they managed to save up a nice
little fortune. But they had no children, and this caused them great sorrow. Finally a
son was born, whom they named Jean. They both loved and petted him, enfolding him
with their affection, and were unwilling to let him be out of their sight.

When he was five years old some mountebanks passed through the country and set
up their tent in the town hall square.

Jean, who had seen them pass by, made his escape from the house, and after his
father had made a long search for him, he found him among the learned goats and
trick dogs, uttering shouts of laughter and sitting on the knees of an old clown.

Three days later, just as they were sitting down to dinner, the wheelwright and his wife
noticed that their son was not in the house. They looked for him in the garden, and as
they did not find him, his father went out into the road and shouted at the top of his
voice, "Jean!"

Night came on. A brown vapor arose making distant objects look still farther away and
giving them a dismal, weird appearance. Three tall pines, close at hand, seemed to
be weeping. Still there was no reply, but the air appeared to be full of indistinct sighing.
The father listened for some time, thinking he heard a sound first in one direction, then
in another, and, almost beside himself, he ran, out into the night, calling incessantly
"Jean! Jean!"

He ran along thus until daybreak, filling the, darkness with his shouts, terrifying stray
animals, torn by a terrible anguish and fearing that he was losing his mind. His wife,
seated on the stone step of their home, sobbed until morning.
They did not find their son. They both aged rapidly in their inconsolable sorrow. Finally
they sold their house and set out to search together.

They inquired of the shepherds on the hillsides, of the tradesmen passing by, of the
peasants in the villages and of the authorities in the towns. But their boy had been lost
a long time and no one knew anything about him. He had probably forgotten his own
name by this time and also the name of his village, and his parents wept in silence,
having lost hope.

Before long their money came to an end, and they worked out by the day in the farms
and inns, doing the most menial work, eating what was left from the tables, sleeping
on the ground and suffering from cold. Then as they became enfeebled by hard work
no one would employ them any longer, and they were forced to beg along the high
roads. They accosted passers-by in an entreating voice and with sad, discouraged
faces; they begged a morsel of bread from the harvesters who were dining around a
tree in the fields at noon, and they ate in silence seated on the edge of a ditch. An
innkeeper to whom they told their story said to them one day:

"I know someone who had lost their daughter, and they found her in Paris."

They at once set out for Paris.

When they entered the great city they were bewildered by its size and by the crowds
that they saw. But they knew that Jean must be in the midst of all these people, though
they did not know how to set about looking for him. Then they feared that they might
not recognize him, for he was only five years old when they last saw him.

They visited every place, went through all the streets, stopping whenever they saw a
group of people, hoping for some providential meeting, some extraordinary luck, some
compassionate fate.

They frequently walked at haphazard straight ahead, leaning one against the other,
looking so sad and poverty-stricken that people would give them alms without their
asking.
They spent every Sunday at the doors of the churches, watching the crowds entering
and leaving, trying to distinguish among the faces one that might be familiar. Several
times they thought they recognized him, but always found they had made a mistake.

In the vestibule of one of the churches which they visited the most frequently there
was an old dispenser of holy Water who had become their friend. He also had a very
sad history, and their sympathy for him had established a bond of close friendship
between them. It ended by them all three living together in a poor lodging on the top
floor of a large house situated at some distance, quite on the outskirts of the city, and
the wheelwright would sometimes take his new friend's place at the church when the
latter was ill.

Winter came, a very severe winter. The poor holy water sprinkler died and the parish
priest appointed the wheelwright, whose misfortunes had come to his knowledge, to
replace him. He went every morning and sat in the same place, on the same chair,
wearing away the old stone pillar by continually leaning against it. He would gaze
steadily at every man who entered the church and looked forward to Sunday with as
much impatience as a schoolboy, for on that day the church was filled with people
from morning till night.

He became very old, growing weaker each day from the dampness of the church, and
his hope oozed away gradually.

He now knew by sight all the people who came to the services; he knew their hours,
their manners, could distinguish their step on the stone pavement.

His interests had become so contracted that the entrance of a stranger in the church
was for him a great event. One day two ladies came in; one was old, the other young-
-a mother and daughter probably. Behind them came a man who was following them.
He bowed to them as they came out, and after offering them some holy water, he took
the arm of the elder lady.

"That must be the fiancé of the younger one," thought the wheelwright. And until
evening he kept trying to recall where he had formerly seen a young man who
resembled this one. But the one he was thinking of must be an old man by this time,
for it seemed as if he had known him down home in his youth.

The same man frequently came again to walk home with the ladies, and this vague,
distant, familiar resemblance which he could not place worried the old man so much
that he made his wife come with him to see if she could help his impaired memory.

One evening as it was growing dusk the three strangers entered together. When they
had passed the old man said:

"Well, do you know him?"

His wife anxiously tried to ransack her memory. Suddenly she said in a low tone:

"Yes--yes--but he is darker, taller, stouter and is dressed like a gentleman, but, father,
all the same, it is your face when you were young!"

The old man started violently.

It was true. He looked like himself and also like his brother who was dead, and like his
father, whom he remembered while he was yet young. The old couple were so affected
that they could not speak. The three persons came out and were about to leave the
church.

The man touched his finger to the holy water sprinkler. Then the old man, whose hand
was trembling so that he was fairly sprinkling the ground with holy water, exclaimed:

"Jean!"

The young man stopped and looked at him.

He repeated in a lower tone:

"Jean!"

The two women looked at them without understanding.

He then said for the third time, sobbing as he did so:

"Jean!"

The man stooped down, with his face close to the old man's, and as a memory of his
childhood dawned on him he replied:

"Papa Pierre, Mamma Jeanne!"

He had forgotten everything, his father's surname and the name of his native place,
but he always remembered those two words that he had so often repeated: "Papa
Pierre, Mamma Jeanne."

He sank to the floor, his face on the old man's knees, and he wept, kissing now his
father and then his mother, while they were almost breathless from intense joy.

The two ladies also wept, understanding as they did that some great happiness had
come to pass.

Then they all went to the young man's house and he told them his history. The circus
people had carried him off. For three years he travelled with them in various countries.
Then the troupe disbanded, and one day an old lady in a chateau had paid to have
him stay with her because she liked his appearance. As he was intelligent, he was
sent to school, then to college, and the old lady having no children, had left him all her
money. He, for his part, had tried to find his parents, but as he could remember only
the two names, "Papa Pierre, Mamma Jeanne," he had been unable to do so. Now he
was about to be married, and he introduced his fiancée, who was very good and very
pretty.

When the two old people had told their story in their turn he kissed them once more.
They sat up very late that night, not daring to retire lest the happiness they had so long
sought should escape them again while they were asleep.

But misfortune had lost its hold on them and they were happy for the rest of their lives.
A CAREER

THE Talkative Man said :

Years and years ago I had a shop. It was in those days when Lawley Extension was
not what it is now. It consisted of less than a hundred houses. Market Road being at
least a mile off, the people living in the Extension looked on me as a saviour when I
took up a little building, and on an auspicious day hung up a large board with the
inscription : The National Provision Stores. I went from house to house and secured
orders. I literally examined every pantry in the Extension and filled up the gaps. When
the bell rang for the midday interval at the Extension Elementary School, children
swarmed into my shop and carried off whatever sweets, ribbons and fancy stationery I
happened to keep. I did about twenty- five rupees credit and ten rupees cash sales
every day. This gave us at least fifty rupees a month to live on. We paid a rent of five
rupees and took a small house in Kabir Street, which was over a mile from my shop.
I left at seven in the morning and returned home only at nine in the evening, after
clearing the daily accounts. A year and a half passed thus. One day a young fellow
presented himself at my shop. He looked about twenty, very fair and bright. He wore a
spotless dhoti and shirt.

" What can I do for you ? " I asked, taking him to be a young customer.

In answer he brought his palms together in salute and said, " I need your help, sir. I will
do whatever work you may give me in return for a little food and shelter and kindness."

There was something in the young fellow's personality which appealed to me.
Moreover, he had on his forehead three-finger width of sacred ash and a dot of
vermilion between his eyebrows. He looked as if he had just come from a temple.

" I am very God-fearing, sir, and susceptible to religious influences."

I spoke to him for about an hour.

He said he belonged to a family of wealthy land- holders in a village near Trichinopoly.

His mother died some years before. His father took a mistress who ill-treated the boy
and consequently he ran away from home.

A touching story I felt.

I directed him to my house. When I went home in the evening I found that he had
already made himself a great favourite there. His life story had deeply moved my wife.

" So young ! " she whispered to me, " and to think that he should be left at this age
without a father or a mother ! " she sighed. He had made himself lovable in a dozen
ways already. He had taken my little son out for a walk.
The youngster cried as soon as he came home, " Let Ramu stay in our house. He is
great. He knows magic and can tame tigers and elephants." Ramu walked into the
kitchen and offered assistance. At first my wife protested,

" Why won't you allow me to go near the oven, Mother ? " he asked. " Is it because you
think I can't cook ? Give me a chance and see."

He. made a dash for the bathroom, turned the tap on himself, and came out dripping.
He took a handful of sacred ash and smeared it on his forehead. My wife was
tremendously impressed. She let him do the cooking.

He prepared delicious food for us. We were all very pleased. After that he helped my
wife with all the cleaning and scrubbing. He slept at night on the bare floor, refusing the
mat and the pillow we offered.

He was the first to be up next morning. He lit the stove and woke up my wife. At
midday he brought me my food. While I ate he attended to the school children, who
came into the shop. He handed them their knick-knacks with an expert hand. He
charmed and amused them. He made them laugh. He beguiled them with an
alternative when he had not on hand what they wanted.

It was inevitable that in a month he should be sharing with me the shop work. He had
attractive ways about him. Customers liked to talk to him. Within a short time there was
not a single home in the Extension where he was not treated as a member of the
family. He knew the inside story of every family. He served every one to the best of his
capacity. Here he helped a man with his garden, and there he pleaded with a house-
building contractor and had an estimate revised. He patched up quarrels. He tamed
truants and sent them to school. He took part in all the extra-curricular activities of the
Extension Elementary School. He took an interest in the Club Movement. He dressed
himself up for the occasion when the inspector visited the school, and arranged for the
supply of garlands and flowers. And all this in addition to assisting me in the shop. He
went every day to the market and purchased provisions from the wholesale merchants,
sat down for hours on end in the shop and handed out things to customers, pored over
the accounts till late at night, and collected all the bills.

As a result of Ramu's presence my business increased nearly tenfold. I had abundant

rest now, I left the shop entirely in his hands. I went home for food at midday. After that
I slept till three in the afternoon. And then I went to the shop, but stayed there only till
five o'clock, when I went to an open space near by and played badminton with some
friends. I came to the shop again only at seven in the evening.
Once or twice I and my wife talked over the matter and tried to fix up a monthly pay for
Ramu. We felt we ought not to be exploiting Ramu's friendliness. But when the subject
was mentioned Ramu grew red in the face and said, " If you don't want me to stay with
you any more, you may talk of salary again. . . ."

Five years passed thus. He aged with us. He lived with us through all our joys and
sorrows. I had four children now. My business had prospered enormously. We were
now living in a bigger house in the same street. I took the shop building on a long
lease. I had an immense stock of all kinds of provisions and goods.

I extended my business. I purchased large quantities of butter in all the nearby villages
and sold them to butter and ghee merchants in Madras. This business gave me large
profits. It kept me running between the villages and Madras. The shop was entirely in
Ramu's hands. At Madras I used to stop with a merchant in George Town. Once work
kept me on there a little longer than I had anticipated. One evening just as I was
starting out to post a letter for Ramu, a telegraph messenger stepped off his cycle and
gave me an envelope. I tore open the cover and read : " Father dying of cholera. Must
go at once. Return immediately. Ramu."

The next morning at five o'clock I got down at Malgudi. Ramu was at the station. He
was going to Trichinopoly by the same train. The train halted only for a few minutes.
Red-eyed and sobbing Ramu said, " My father, father, cholera. Never thought he would
get it. . . ." I consoled him. I had never seen him so broken. I said feebly, " He will be all
right, don't worry. ..." I had hardly the heart to ask him about the shop. He himself said,
" I have handed the keys to mother, and all the accounts and cash also. . . ."

" All right, all right, I will look to all that. Don't worry," I said.

The guard blew his whistle. Ramu jumped into a third class compartment. The train
jerked forward. He put his head out of the window and said, " I will be back tomorrow
by the night train, if my father gets better. . . . Whatever happens, I won't be away for
more than fifteen days. Kittu has asked me to bring him ..." his voice and face receded
" a wooden elephant on wheels. Please tell him that I will surely bring it. My
namaskarams to mother. . . ."

Tears rolled down his cheeks. Even long after the train had left the platform he was still
looking out of the window and gesticulating to indicate " I will surely be back soon. . . ."
Having some unfinished Madras business on hand, I could hardly go near the shop for
a week. When I reopened, the first thing that I noticed was that the shop was empty.
Except for a bag of coarse rice and a few bars of cheap soap, all the racks and
containers were empty. I picked up the books and examined them. The entries were all
in a mess. I put them away. Replenishing the stock was more urgent. I made out a list
and went to the market.
Sadik Sait, my wholesale supplier, squatted amidst his cushions and welcomed me
warmly. I owed my start in life to the unlimited credit he allowed me. After some
preliminary, inconsequential talk, I put before him the list. He scrutinized it gloomily and
shook his head.

He said, " You want goods for about three hundred rupees. I wouldn't advise you to put
up your dues. Why don't you take fifty-rupees worth now? I am suggesting this only for
your own convenience . . ."

This was the first time in my life that he had spoken to me in this manner. And he
explained, " Don't mistake me, friend. You are a business man, so am I. No use talking
indirectly and vaguely. I will tell you what the matter is. Your account with us stands at
Rs. 3,500 and if you had paid at least a single instalment for these three months, we
should have felt happier. . . ."

"But, Sait, last month I sent four-hundred to be given to you, and the month before
three-hundred and fifty, and the month before. . . . There must be only a balance of. ..."

He took out his ledger. There was only one payment made for four months when the
bill stood at about a thousand. After that there had been purchases almost every day
for about forty rupees.

" The young fellow said that business was very brisk and that you would clear the
accounts when you returned from Madras."

My head swam. " I will see you again, I said, and went back to the shop.

I once again examined the books. The pages showed a lot of arrears to be collected.
Next day I went round to collect all my bills. People looked surprised, " There must be
some mistake. We paid our bills completely a fortnight ago. Otherwise Ramu wouldn't
leave us in peace."

My wife said, " In your absence he was coming home nearly at twelve every night. He
used to tell me that the accounts kept him late. ' How was business today ? ' I
unfailingly asked every day. He replied, Business is good, bad, good and bad. Don't
worry. Leave it all to me. I will manage.' "

An old man of Lawley Extension asked me, " Where is that boy you had ? "

I told him.

" Look here," the old man said. " Keep this to yourself. You remember there lived next
door to us those people from Hyderabad ? "
" Yes, yes. . . ."

" Your boy was gadding about with them a little too much. You know there was a tall,
pretty girl with them. Your fellow was taking her out every evening in a taxi. He closed
the shop promptly at six in the evening. Those people went back to Hyderabad a few
days ago."

Later on I made enquiries in Market Road and learnt that Ramu had had stitched four
tweed suits, eighteen silk shirts and other clothes worth about a hundred rupees,
purchased leather suitcases, four pairs of pump shoes, two pairs of velvet slippers, a
wrist watch, two rings, a brooch, silk sarees, blouse pieces, and so on. I got in touch
with a near relative of Ramu's employed in a bank in Madras. I learnt that his old father
was hale and hearty, and there was no mention of cholera. Above all, Ramu was never
known to have visited Trichinopoly. His whereabouts were unknown. The letter
concluded : " Someone recently returned from a tour mentioned that he thought he
caught a glimpse of Ramu in a large gathering during some music festival in Hydera-
bad. He was, however, not very certain about it. . . ."

I sold my shop and everything, paid off my creditors, and left Malgudi. I was a
bankrupt, with a wife and four children to support. We moved from place to place, living
on the charity of friends, relatives, and unknown people. Sometimes nobody would
feed us and we threw ourselves down in a dark corner of some rest-house, and my
ragged children cried till sleep overcame them. I needn't weary you with an account of
my struggles. It is another story. I must tell you about Ramu. I have to add only this
about my own career. Four years later I came across a coffee-estate owner in Mempi
Hills, and he gave me a fresh start ; and I must say, thanks to him, I have done very
well indeed in the coffee trade.

Now about Ramu. A year ago I was panting up the steps of Thirupathi Hills. I had a
vow to fulfil at the temple. I had passed two thousand steps when a familiar voice
assailed my ears from among the group of mendicants lining the steps. I stopped and
turned. And there he was, I could hardly recognize him now. I had seen him off at
Malgudi station ten years before. His face was now dark, scarred and pitted. His eyes
were fixed in a gaze. I should have passed him without noticing if he hadn't called out
for alms. His voice was still unchanged. I stopped and said, " Look here."

" I can't see, I am blind."

" Who are you ? Where do you come from ? " I asked in a voice which I tried to
disguise with a little gruffness.

" Go, go your way. Why do you want to know all that ? " he said.
I had often boasted that if I met him I would break his bones first ; but this was not at all
how I had hoped to see him again. I felt very confused and unhappy. I dropped a coin
on his upraised palm and passed on. But after moving up a few steps I stopped and
beckoned to another beggar sitting by his side. He came up. I held up an anna coin
before him and said, " You may have this if you will tell me something about that blind
man. . . ."

" I know him," said this beggar, who had no arms. " We keep together. He has arms,
but no eyes ; I have eyes, but no arms, and so we find each other helpful. We move
about together. He is not a beggar like me, but a sanyasi. He came here two years
ago. He had once much money in Hyderabad, Delhi, Benares or somewhere. Smallpox
took away his sight. His wife, a bad sort, deserted him. He is vexed with the world.
Some pilgrims coming from the North brought him here. . . . But, surely you won't tell
him I have spoken all this ? He becomes wild if those days are mentioned. . . ."

I went back to Ramu, stood before him and watched him for a moment. I felt like
shouting. " Ramu, God has punished you enough. Now come with me. Where is your
sweetheart? Where is my money? What devil seized you ? "

But I checked myself. I felt that the greatest kindness I could do him was to leave him
alone. I silently placed a rupee on his outstretched palm, and raced up the steps. At
the bend I turned my head and had another look at him. And that was the last I saw of
him. For when I returned that way four days later, he was not to be seen. Perhaps he
had moved on to another place with his armless companion.
AFTER TWENTY YEARS
BY O. HENRY
The policeman on the beat moved up the avenue
impressively. The impressiveness was habitual and not for
show, for spectators were few. The time was barely 10
o'clock at night, but chilly gusts of wind with a taste of rain
in them had well nigh de-peopled the streets.
Trying doors as he went, twirling his club with many
intricate and artful movements, turning now and then to cast
his watchful eye adown the pacific thoroughfare, the officer,
with his stalwart form and slight swagger, made a fine
picture of a guardian of the peace. The vicinity was one that
kept early hours. Now and then you might see the lights of
a cigar store or of an all-night lunch counter; but the
majority of the doors belonged to business places that had
long since been closed.
When about midway of a certain block the policeman
suddenly slowed his walk. In the doorway of a darkened
hardware store a man leaned, with an unlighted cigar in his
mouth. As the policeman walked up to him the man spoke
up quickly.
"It's all right, officer," he said, reassuringly. "I'm just
waiting for a friend. It's an appointment made twenty years
ago. Sounds a little funny to you, doesn't it? Well, I'll
explain if you'd like to make certain it's all straight. About
that long ago there used to be a restaurant where this store
stands--'Big Joe' Brady's restaurant."
"Until five years ago," said the policeman. "It was torn
down then."
The man in the doorway struck a match and lit his cigar.
The light showed a pale, square-jawed face with keen eyes,
and a little white scar near his right eyebrow. His scarfpin
was a large diamond, oddly set.
"Twenty years ago to-night," said the man, "I dined here at
'Big Joe' Brady's with Jimmy Wells, my best chum, and the
finest chap in the world. He and I were raised here in New
York, just like two brothers, together. I was eighteen and
Jimmy was twenty. The next morning I was to start for the
West to make my fortune. You couldn't have dragged Jimmy
out of New York; he thought it was the only place on earth.
Well, we agreed that night that we would meet here again
exactly twenty years from that date and time, no matter
what our conditions might be or from what distance we
might have to come. We figured that in twenty years each of
us ought to have our destiny worked out and our fortunes
made, whatever they were going to be."
"It sounds pretty interesting," said the policeman. "Rather a
long time between meets, though, it seems to me. Haven't
you heard from your friend since you left?"
"Well, yes, for a time we corresponded," said the other. "But
after a year or two we lost track of each other. You see, the
West is a pretty big proposition, and I kept hustling around
over it pretty lively. But I know Jimmy will meet me here if
he's alive, for he always was the truest, stanchest old chap in
the world. He'll never forget. I came a thousand miles to
stand in this door to-night, and it's worth it if my old partner
turns up."
The waiting man pulled out a handsome watch, the lids of it
set with small diamonds.
"Three minutes to ten," he announced. "It was exactly ten
o'clock when we parted here at the restaurant door."
"Did pretty well out West, didn't you?" asked the policeman.
"You bet! I hope Jimmy has done half as well. He was a
kind of plodder, though, good fellow as he was. I've had to
compete with some of the sharpest wits going to get my
pile. A man gets in a groove in New York. It takes the West
to put a razor-edge on him."
The policeman twirled his club and took a step or two.
"I'll be on my way. Hope your friend comes around all right.
Going to call time on him sharp?"
"I should say not!" said the other. "I'll give him half an hour
at least. If Jimmy is alive on earth he'll be here by that time.
So long, officer."
"Good-night, sir," said the policeman, passing on along his
beat, trying doors as he went.
There was now a fine, cold drizzle falling, and the wind had
risen from its uncertain puffs into a steady blow. The few
foot passengers astir in that quarter hurried dismally and
silently along with coat collars turned high and pocketed
hands. And in the door of the hardware store the man who
had come a thousand miles to fill an appointment, uncertain
almost to absurdity, with the friend of his youth, smoked his
cigar and waited.
About twenty minutes he waited, and then a tall man in a
long overcoat, with collar turned up to his ears, hurried
across from the opposite side of the street. He went directly
to the waiting man.
"Is that you, Bob?" he asked, doubtfully.
"Is that you, Jimmy Wells?" cried the man in the door.
"Bless my heart!" exclaimed the new arrival, grasping both
the other's hands with his own. "It's Bob, sure as fate. I was
certain I'd find you here if you were still in existence. Well,
well, well!--twenty years is a long time. The old restaurant's
gone, Bob; I wish it had lasted, so we could have had
another dinner there. How has the West treated you, old
man?"
"Bully; it has given me everything I asked it for. You've
changed lots, Jimmy. I never thought you were so tall by
two or three inches."
"Oh, I grew a bit after I was twenty."
"Doing well in New York, Jimmy?"
"Moderately. I have a position in one of the city
departments. Come on, Bob; we'll go around to a place I
know of, and have a good long talk about old times."
The two men started up the street, arm in arm. The man
from the West, his egotism enlarged by success, was
beginning to outline the history of his career. The other,
submerged in his overcoat, listened with interest.
At the corner stood a drug store, brilliant with electric
lights. When they came into this glare each of them turned
simultaneously to gaze upon the other's face.
The man from the West stopped suddenly and released his
arm.
"You're not Jimmy Wells," he snapped. "Twenty years is a
long time, but not long enough to change a man's nose from
a Roman to a pug."
"It sometimes changes a good man into a bad one," said the
tall man. "You've been under arrest for ten minutes, 'Silky'
Bob. Chicago thinks you may have dropped over our way
and wires us she wants to have a chat with you. Going
quietly, are you? That's sensible. Now, before we go on
to the station here's a note I was asked to hand you. You
may read it here at the window. It's from Patrolman Wells."
The man from the West unfolded the little piece of paper
handed him. His hand was steady when he began to read,
but it trembled a little by the time he had finished. The note
was rather short.
"Bob: I was at the appointed place on time. When you
struck the match to light your cigar I saw it was the face of
the man wanted in Chicago. Somehow I couldn't do it
myself, so I went around and got a plain clothes man to do
the job. JIMMY."
THE LAST LEAF
In a little district west of Washington Square the streets
have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips
called "places." These "places" make strange angles and
curves. One street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once
discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a
collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in
traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back,
without a cent having been paid on account!
So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon
came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-
century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they
imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from
Sixth avenue, and became a "colony."
At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had
their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was
from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the
table d'hote of an Eighth street "Delmonico's," and found
their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so
congenial that the joint studio resulted.
That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger,
whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the
colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers.
Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his
victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze
of the narrow and moss-grown "places."
Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old
gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by
California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted,
short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay,
scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking
through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of
the next brick house.
One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway
with a shaggy, gray eyebrow.
"She has one chance in--let us say, ten," he said, as he shook
down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. "And that
chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of
lining-up on the side of the undertaker makes the entire
pharmacopeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her
mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on
her mind?"
"She--she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day,"
said Sue.
"Paint?--bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking
about twice--a man, for instance?"
"A man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is
a man worth--but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind."
"Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do
all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts,
can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count
the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent.
from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to
 Make the students Role play the characters of Cheta Adu and Mr.Aziza as these are
the two main characters in the story. This gets the students emotionally involved in the story
and it helps them to understand the theme, characterisation, and tone, verbal and non-verbal
clues of the text.
Conclusion:
The objective is to help the students speak fluently in the target language for which
short story is the best tool for the language teachers. If selected and exploited appropriately
Short story can enhance the language proficiency of the learners and is very helpful in foreign
language classes. The short stories offer the elements both literary and cultural along with the
linguistic focus. This tool also helps the teacher design the activities for reading, writing,
speaking, listening and vocabulary development. Fluency though a difficult skill can be
easily acquired as short stories provide the learners a great opportunity to improve their
communicative competence.

References:
Collie, J., & Slater,. S. (1991) Literature in the Language Class Room. (5th ed.) Glasgow:
Cambridge University Press.
Hill, Jennifer. (1994). Using Literature in Language Teaching. London: Macmillan.

Apendix-1

THE POWER OF A PLATE OF RICE

Ifeoma Okoye

I walked hurriedly to Mr.Aziza‟s office, breathing heavily in steadily rising anger. The
January sun was blazing in fury, taking undue advantage of the temporary withdrawal of the
seasonal harmattan. As I arrived at the office, which was at the end of the administrative
block, I remembered one of the mother‟s precepts: „Do nothing in anger. Wait till your anger
melts like thick palm oil placed under the sun.‟ mother was a philosopher of sorts. Poor
woman. She died before I could reward her for all the sacrifices she made on my behalf
forgoing many comforts just so that I could get some education, and for carrying the financial

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burden of the family during my father‟s protracted illness and even after his premature
death.in deference to mother I stood by Mr.Aziza‟s door for a few seconds, trying to stifle my
anger, but failing woefully. Only an angel or an idiot would remain calm in my situation.
At last I knocked on the mottled green door.
„come in‟.
Mr.Aziza‟s authoritative voice hit me like a blow, startling me. I opened the door and walked
in, my anger still smouldering.
Mr.Aziza, the principal of the secondary school where I was teaching, was seated behind a
medium-sized desk made of cheap white wood and thickly coated with varnish. Books files,
letter trays and loose sheets of paper jostled for a place on the desk. He raised his coconut-
shaped head, closed the file he was reading, removed his plastic framed spectacles and peered
at me.
„yes, Mrs. Cheta Adu. What do you want?‟ his voice was on the defensive and the look on
his ridged face was intimidating.
I took a deep breath. „the Bursar has just told me, Sir, that you told him to withdrew my
salary‟.
We were paid irregularly. Although it was the end of January, the salary in question was for
the October of the previous year. Four months without any salary and yet we went to work
regularly.
„yes, I did, Mrs. Cheta Adu‟. Mr.Aziza‟s small narrow eyes pierced me like a lethal weapon.
As one teacher had put it, he paralysed his prey with his eyes before dealing a death blow to
them.
„ what have I done, Sir?‟ I asked ,trying to load the word „Sir,‟ with as much sarcasm as I
could indicate how I felt inside.
Mr.Aziza fingered his bulbous nose, a part of his body which had been the butt of many a
teacher‟s joke. He was known to love food more than anything else, and one female teacher
had once said that most of what he ate went into his nose.
„you were away from school without permission for four days last week‟, Mr.Aziza finally
declared.
My anger, which a few minutes ago had reduced to a simmer, suddenly began to bubble like
of pot of ogbono soup when the fire under it is poked.

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I said as calmly as I could, „in those four days, Sir, I almost lost my baby. I had already
explained the circumstances to you. My baby became very ill suddenly. I had to rush into
hospital. for those four days, Sir, he battled for his life‟.
„and so?‟ Mr.Aziza intoned.
Some one knocked at the door and I turned to see the second vice principal‟s bearded face
appear as he opened it. „I will be back,‟ a thin lipped, hair-fringed mouth said with and
disappeared. The appearance of the bearded face was like a comic scene in Shakespearean
tragedy . Christmas and the New Year, a salaried worker was left with little money for the
rest of January. And for those who had children in school, paying school fee and buying
books and school uniforms for the new school year often became a nightmare. This year was
worse for me because I and all other teachers in the school were last paid in September the
year before.
„I am a widow, Sir ,‟I pleaded with Mr.Aziza.‟I am the sole bread-winner for my family.
Times are hard. My children cannot survive till the end of February without my next salary.‟
Mr.Aziza said, „I don‟t want to know, Mrs. Cheta Adu. My decision is final‟.
He stood up, hitched his trousers up with his elbows, and walked to a window on his right
and peered out of it. He was a small, wry man, the type my mother often told me to beware
of.
Helpless, I stood watching him, a man known for his inflexibility. I knew from my
colleagues‟ experiences that taking my case to the State Schools Management Board would
be futile as Mr.Aziza had ingratiated himself with the powerful and high-ranking officers of
the board. As the principal of one of the elite schools in the state, he had helped them to get
their children admitted into his school even when the spoilt one‟s amongst them did not pass
the entrance examination. I also knew that taking Mr.Aziza to court was out of question.
Where would I get the money for the lawyer? Besides, civil cases had been known to lasts for
months or even years because of unnecessary and often deliberate court adjournments.
Mr.Aziza walked back to his chair and sat down.
I looked hard at him and, without saying anything more, left his office. In a taxi taking me
home, I thought about nothing else but Mr.Aziza. this was the second time I had found
myself at his mercy. The first time was when, five years ago, I was transferred to his school
from a secondary school in Onitsha where I was teaching before my marriage. On reading the

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letter posting me to his school-I had delivered it to him personally-he had flung it at me and
had declared, I „don‟t want any more female teachers in my school especially married ones .
„What have we done?‟ I had wanted to know.
„You‟ re a lazy lot,‟ he had said. „you always find excuses to be away from school. Today it‟s
this child of yours becoming illwho must be taken to hospital and tomorrow it‟s the funeral of
one relation or another.‟
When he officially refused to give me a place in his school, I resorted to a tactic I had used
successfully before. I kept calling at his office every day, often without uttering a word, until
I broke his resistance and made him accept me. This time, however I had the feeling that he
would not budge, mo matter what I did.
When I arrived home after five in the evening my mother-in-law was walking up and down in
front of my flat with my two year old son, Rapulu, tied on her back, and four year old Dulue
trailing behind her.
„You‟re late, Cheta, „ my mother-in-law said. „I was beginning to think you were not going to
come home.‟. She looked weary and worried.
„Sorry, mama, I have some problems at school,‟ I walked to her after hugging Dulue, who.
Had trotted to me. „and how is Rap?‟ I asked.
„He „s ill‟.
I placed the back of hand on my younger son‟s forehead. It was piping hot.
„You are not going to be ill again, Rapulu?‟ I said under my breath. Aloud I asked, „how
long has he been running a temperature, mama?‟
„ A short while after you left for school in the morning,‟ my mother-in-law replied.
i helped her untie Rapulu from her back and took him in, Dulue trotting behindme.i stripped
rapulu of his clothes, put him on the settee, fetched a bowl of cold water anda towel and
began to sponge him down. He yelled and kicked, but I ignored him. Dulue, with his thumb
in his mouth, kept on mumbling that he was hungry, while my mother-in-law stood
speechless, watching me.
Presently, l remembered that I should have given Rapulu some fever medicine. I ran into the
only bedroom in the flat and dashed out with a small bottle. Taking Rapulu in my hands I
gave him a teaspoonful of bitter sweet medicine and began to sponge him again.
Mother-in-law soon dozed off. Poor woman she must have had a trying day. she was a widow
too and I have brought to help me look after my children. Bless her, for what could have I

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done if she had refused my offer? Another reason why I brought her to live with me was to
save costs. I used to send her money every month to supplement the meagre proceeds from
her forms.
We had a late lunch of yam and raw palm oil. It was the last piece of yam in the house. I
skipped supper because I wanted to make sure that the garri and egusi soup which I had left
would last for two nights.
The night was a long one. First I lay awake for fear that Rapulu might become worse, but
fortunately the fever did not persist.then I reviewed all that I had gone through since I lost
Afam, my husband who was an only child, in a ghastly motor accident a little more than a
year before. He was a brilliant banker.we were at the university together, he studying banking
and I mathematics. As luck would have it, we were posted to the same state for our National
Youth Service. We become engaged at the end of our service and married shortly after. He
died a fortnight after our fifth wedding anniversary and ever since, my life had become an
endless journey to the land of hardship and frustration. I had under great pressure, spent all
our savings to give my husband what my people and his had called a befitting burial, and
what I saw as a senseless waste of hard earned money.
For the better part of the night I worried over how I was going topay the January rent, how I
was going to feed my two sons and my mother-in-law, and what I was going to do if Rapulu
become so ill that he had to be hospitalized again? I already owed two of my friends some
money and could not see myself summoning up the courage to go to them again.
I borrowed money again and for two long weeks I managed to feed my family, sometimes
going without meals myself. I became irritable, and students complained that I was being too
hard on them my good natured mother-in-law become equally touchy and Nagged me
incessantly. My two sons threw tantrums, spending a great deal of time crying. Soon I had no
money left and no one to lend me more. I had reached a point when ihad to do something
drastic or allow my sons to die of hunger.
On the 23rd of February, after school hour s, I went to Mr. Aziza‟s office and once again
pleaded with him to pay me.
„You‟re wasting your time, Mrs. Cheta Adu,‟ he said. „I never change my mind. You will
receive your salary on the 28th of February and not even one day earlier.‟
I left his office and waited for him in the outer room. At four o‟clock he left his office.
Followed him to his house, which was situated near the school main gate, and he turned

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asked me why I was following him. I remained silent. He opened the door and walked in.
quietly, I followed him into his sitting room and sat down without any invitation to do so.
The room was sparsely furnished. A black-and-white Television stood on the top of the shelf
next to a small transistor radio. Near them were a small dining table and a steel back chair.
Mr. Aziza lived alone. His wife and six children lived at Onitsha about 120kilometers away.
Mr.Aziza turned and faced me‟ look , Mrs. Adu you‟ll achieve nothing by following me like
a dog. You may stay here forever but you will not make me change my mind.‟ He
disappeared through a door on the right.
Presently, his house boy walked in to the room and began to lay the table. The smell of jollof
rice wafted around my nostrils, reactivating in me the hunger which had been suppressed by
anger, depression, and desperation. The houseboy finished laying the table and left.
On impulse I left my chair, walked to the dining table and sat down on the chair beside it.
Removing the lid on the plate, I started at the appetizing mound of jollof rice. Then I grabbed
the spoon beside the plate and began to eat. I ate quickly and not only with relish, but also
with vengeance and animosity.
I heard a door squeak and turned to see Mr. Aziza walk into the sitting room. His jaw
dropped and his mouth remained open as he stared at me.
„What do you think you‟re doing, Mrs. Cheta Adu? He bellowed, finding his tongue at last.
Desbelief was written all over his face.
I ignored the question and continued to help myself to the rice. I scooped a large piece of
meat and some rice into my mouth, my cheeks bulging.
Mr. Aziza strode to the table, snatched the spoon from me with his right hand and with his
left snatched the plate of rice away from me. It was almost empty by now. I rose from the
chair and moved a little bit back from him, thinking he was going to hit me.
He faced me, his eyes deadly. „Get out of my house, I say, getout!‟
„Not until I receive my salary,‟ I said calmly. Desperation had given me a form of courage I
had not experienced before. „I‟ll wait for supper.‟
Mr Aziza barked at me. „Get out. Go to the Bursar. Tell him I said he can pay you now.
I said calmly, „He‟ll not believe me. Why not give me a note for him?‟
He scribbled a note, threw it at me and I grabbed it. Trying hard to suppress a smile, I said,
„Thank you, Sir,‟ and left the room, still chewing the rubbery meat in my mouth.

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