THE WISE JUDGE

THE WISE JUDGE

MUSTAPHA, the Caliph, has heard that a judge in his kingdom is as wise in his decisions as SOLOMON; so he sets out to test the truth of this report, dressed like a private person and mounted on his horse.

SCENE I
Place: A Street in Baghdad
Characters: MUSTAPHA (the Caliph)
ALI (a lame beggar)

ALI :( seizing the end of MUSTAPHA’s robe as he rides by) Alms, kind sir, alms, in the name of Allah!

MUSTAPHA : (handing in some money) Take this, and may Allah bless you! (Ali still holds on to the robe) What more do you want? Have I not given you alms?
ALI: Yes, great master, but the law says not only shalt thou give alms to thy brother, but also do for thy brother whatsoever thou canst.
MUSTAPHA : Well, and what can I do for you?
ALI: You can save me from being trodden under the feet of men and beasts, for this will surely happen to me in the crowded streets.
MUSTAPHA : How can I save you?
ALI: By letting me ride behind you, and putting me down safely in the market-place where I have business.
MUSTAPHA: Be it so. Come, climb up behind. (Stooping down, he helps the cripple to mount the horse. At length they reach the market-place.) Here we are at the market-place. Is this where you wished to stop?
ALI: Yes.
MUSTAPHA: (impatiently) Then get down.
ALI: No, no it is you who must get down.
MUSTAPHA: But why, friend?
ALI: That I may have the horse.
MUSTAPHA: That you may have the horse! What do you mean?
ALI: I meant that he belongs to me. If you do not get down I will take the case before the judge. We are in the town of the just judge, you know, and he will certainly decide in my favour.
MUSTAPHA: But why should he when the animal is mine?
ALI: When the sees us – you with your strong straight limbs that Allah has given you for the purpose of walking and I with my poor crippled feet – he will decide that the horse belongs to him who has most need of it.
MUSTAPHA: If he does that he is not a just judge.
ALI: (laughing). Oh, as to that, although he is just, I expect he can make mistake like every one else. Who is to prove that it is your horse?
MUSTAPHA: (to himself). This will be a good opportunity to test the wisdom of the judge.
ALI: What are you muttering about?
MUSTAPHA: Nothing that will interest you, my cunning beggar – but I am content with your plan Let us go before the judge.
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SCENE II
Place: The Judge’s Court

                Characters: JUDGE, WRITER, FARMER, BUTCHER, OIL MERCHANT,   
                                     MUSTAPHA, ALI, OFFICERS.

(The WRITER and the FARMER have quarreled over a young slave – as to who owned him. The slave is deaf and dumb and cannot speak for either. When MUSTAPHA and ALI enter, the judge is just going to try this case.)

JUDGE: Are the writer, the farmer, and the slave present?
OFFICER: (bowing low) They are here, my lord.
JUDGE: Let the farmer speak first.
FARMER: (bowing low) Great judge, this boy you see is my slave. I bought him only last week. This man has stolen him from me. I pray you make him give me back my slave.
WRITER: (eagerly) It is not true, my lord. This boy has been my slave for several years; I have taught him to be very useful to me. It is the farmer who is guilty. He stole my slave from me last week and declares he bought him in the market. I pray you, restore my slave to me. I can bring forward my friends, who have often seen this boy at my house.
JUDGE: I do not need the help of your friends. Perhaps to please you, they may sin against the truth. I will decide this matter. Leave the boy here and return tomorrow. (FARMER and WRITER go out.) What case comes next?
OFFICER: The case of the butcher and the oil merchant.
JUDGE: Let them come forward. (They come forward, the MERCHANT holding the Butcher’s wrist). I will first hear what the butcher has to say.
BUTCHER: (bowing low) My lord, judge, I went to buy some oil from this man, and, in order to pay for it, drew a handful of money from my picket. The sight of it must have tempted him, for he seized me by the wrist to wrench the money from me. I cried out, but he would not let me go. So we have come before you, great judge, I holding my money, and he still grasping my wrist. O just and most wise judge, I declare in the name of Allah that the money is mine.
JUDGE: Now, oil merchant, what have you to say?
OIL MERCHANT: This man came to purchase oil from me. When I gave him the bottle he asked if I could change a gold piece. I drew out a handful of money and laid it on a barrel in my shop. He seized it and was walking off with it, when I caught him by the wrist and called out “Robber”. In spite of my cries, however, he would not give up the money; so I brought him here that you, great judge, might decide the case. I declare that this money is truly mine.
JUDGE: Leave the money with me and return tomorrow. (They give the money to an OFFICER, then bow low and depart) What is the next case?
OFFICER: The case of two men who each lays claim to a fine Arab horse.
JUDGE: Let them come forward. (MUSTAPHA and ALI come forward, bowing low, JUDGE addresses MUSTAPHA). What have you to say?
MUSTAPHA: (bowing again) My lord, judge, I came from afar to visit your city. At the gate I met this cripple, who first asked in the name of Allah for alms, and then that he might ride behind me to the market-place. When we arrived there he refused to dismount, declaring that the horse belonged to him and that you, most righteous judge, would decide in his favour, because, so he says, he has most need for the horse. That, my lord, is a true statement of the case.
JUDGE: Now let the cripple speak.
CRIPPLE: My lord, what has been said is not true. I was on my way to the market-place, riding this horse, which belongs to me, when I saw a traveler half dead with fatigue. In the kindness of my heart I offered to let him ride with me to the market-place. He accepted the offer eagerly and indeed thanked me. What was my astonishment, then, when he refused to dismount and declared that my horse was his! Without any delay I have brought him before you, O judge, in order that you may decide between us.
JUDGE: Leave the horse and return tomorrow.

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SCENE III
Place: The Judge’s Court
Time: The next day
Characters: The same

JUDGE: Where are the writer and the farmer?
OFFICER: (bowing) They are here, my lord, and the butcher and the oil merchant, the man who calls himself Mustapha and the cripple Ali.
JUDGE: Let the writer come forward. (WRITER comes forward bowing) The slave is yours; that is my judgment. Take him home. Officer, give the farmer fifty blows for stealing the slave and lying about it. (WRITER goes off happily with his slave. OFFICER leads out the FARMER.) Now let the oil merchant and the butcher come forward. Here, butcher, is the money. It is truly yours, and the oil merchant has no right to any part of it. Go in peace.
BUTCHER: Allah be praised, my innocence is proved. (Bows low and goes out.)
JUDGE: Officer, give this oil merchant two score lashes that he may remember not to be dishonest. (OIL MERCHANT is led out) Let Mustapha and Ali now come forward. Mustapha, would you recognize your horse among others?
MUSTAPHA: Surely, my lord.
JUDGE: Follow me.

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SCENE IV
Place: The Stable
(Enter JUDGE, MUSTAPHA, OFFICER.)

JUDGE: Now Mustapha, point out your horse.
MUSTAPHA: (going up to his horse). Here it is, my lord.
JUDGE: ‘Tis well, Mustapha. Return now to the court room. Officer, bring Ali here. (MUSTAPH goes out and OFFICER returns with ALI).
JUDGE: Point now, Ali, to the horse that belongs to you. Be sure you make no mistake. Approach and touch the horse that I may know, without doubt, which one is yours.
ALI: (going up with confidence to the same horse). This my lord, is mine.
JUDGE: Good. Now let us return to the court-room again
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SCENE V
Place: The Court-room again

JUDGE: Mustapha, the horse is yours. Go to the stables and take him. Officer, give this rogue fifty lashes. He well deserves them, in as much as he tried to wrong the man who had befriended him. Allah be praised, our work for today is done. (ALL go out except MUSTAPHA). Why do you wait, Mustapha? Are you not satisfied with the judgment given?
MUSTAPHA: Truly, O judge, I am satisfied, but I long to know how you arrived at your decisions, for I am sure that your judgments in the first two cases were as just as in mine. Know that I am Mustapha, Caliph of Baghdad, and I cam hither to test you. I find that you are indeed a wise judge. Tell me, I pray you, how you arrived at your decisions.
JUDGE: (bowing low and kissing his master’s hand.) Glory and prosperity be to you, O Prince of the Faithful and protector of Believers.
MUSTAPHA: Rise, friend. I desire that you tell me the reasons for your judgments.
JUDGE: O Prince of the Faithful, it is very simple. Your Highness saw that I postponed my decisions until today?
MUSTAPHA : Yes, I saw that.
JUDGE: Well, this morning I called the slave and by signs I bade him put fresh ink into my inkstand. This he did promptly and carefully, as if he had done the thing a hundred times before. I said to myself. ‘This boy has not been the slave of a farmer. He belongs to the writer.’
MUSTAPHA: Good ! And the butcher? How did you reach that decision?
JUDGE: Did you notice, O Prince of the Faithful, that the oil merchant had his clothes and hands covered with oil?
MUSTAPHA: Surely I did.
JUDGE: Well, list night I placed the money in a vessel filled with water. This morning when I looked at it there was not a particle of oil to be seen on the surface of the water. I said to myself. ‘If this money belonged to the oil merchant, it would be greasy from the touch of his hands. As it is not, the butcher’s story must be true.’
MUSTAPHA: Good again! And my horse? How did you find out the truth about that?
JUDGE : O Prince of the Faithful, that was difficult. Until this morning I was greatly puzzled.
MUSTAPHA: The cripple did not recognize the horse, I suppose?
JUDGE: On the contrary, O Protector of the Poor, he pointed him out at once.
MUSTAPHA: How, then, did you discover that he was not the owner?
JUDGE: Commander of the Faithful, I brought you to the stables separately not to see whether you would know the horse, but whether the horse would know you. When you approached him, the creature turned towards you, thrust his head forward, and looked at you with affection; but then the cripple touched him, he laid back his ears and made signs as if to sidle away. Then I knew that you were truly his master.
MUSTAPHA: Allah has bestowed upon you wisdoms above the ordinary, and you are worthy to fill my place. But I, the Caliph, could not fill yours, most wise judge, and henceforth, yours shall be the highest office in the land next after mine. Let it be written in the records of court.

R. M. Senforth

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI

One dollar and eighty -seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man, the bucher until one’s check burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty – seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing left to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look and the home. A furnished flat $ 8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but is certainly had that work on the look-out for the mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name, “Mr. James Dillingham Young.”
The ‘Dillingham’ had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $ 30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $ 20, the letters of ‘Dillingham’ looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. but whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called ‘Jim’ and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out duly at a grey cat walking a grey fence in a grey backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $ 1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $ 1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling - something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honour of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in a $ 8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longituding strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the grass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its colour within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft. Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his measures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck, at his beard from envy.
So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters, it reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. As then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worm red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket: on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out of the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: “Mme. Sofronie, Hair Goods of all Kinds.” One flight up Dellha ran, and collected herself, panting, Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the ‘Sofronie’.
“Will you buy my hair?” asked Della.
“I buy hair”, said Madame. “Take your hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.”
Down rippled the brown cascade.
“Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.
“Give it to me quick,” said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forest the hashed metaphor, She was ransacking the stores for Jim’s present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain siraple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and or by meretricious ornamentation – as all goods things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw is she knew that it must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value – the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friend a mammoth task.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, closelying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully and critically.
“If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he takes a second look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do – oh’ what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?”
At seven o’clock the coffee was made and the frying pan was on the back of the stove, hot and ready to cook the chops.
Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his stem on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about simplest everyday things, and now she whispered, “Please God, make him think I am still pretty.”
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two-and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim stepped inside the door as immovable as a setter at the cent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, not any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.
Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
“Jim darling,” she cried,” don’t look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn’t have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It’ll grow out again – you won’ mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say ‘Merry Christmas!’ Jim, and let’s be happy. You don’t know what a nice – what a beautiful, nice gift I’ve got for you.”
“You’ve cut off your hair?” asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labour.
“Cut it off and sold it,” said Della, “Don’t you like me just as well, anyhow? I’m me without my hair, ain’t I?”
Jim looked about the room curiously.
“You say your hair is gone?” he said with an air almost of idiocy.
“You needn’t look for,” said Della. “It’s sold, I tell you – sold and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. May be the hairs of my head were numbered,” she went on with a sudden serious sweetness, “but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?”
Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in order direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year – what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Jim drew a package from his overcoat packet and threw it upon the table.
“Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don’t think there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going awhile at first.”
White fingers and nimble tores at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy and then, alas a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs – the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped for long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoiseshell, with jeweled rims … just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: “My hair grows so fast Jim!”
And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, “oh,oh!”
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flesh with a refection of her bright and ardent spirit.
“Isn’t it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.”
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands undr the back of his head and smiled.
“Dell,” said he, “let’s put our Christmas presents away and keep them awhile, they’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on”
The Magi as you know, were wise men – wonderfully wise men – who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas present. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you, the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days, let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the Magi.

O. Henry

THE HAPPY PRINCE

THE HAPPY PRINCE

HIGH above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.
He was very much admired indeed. “He is as beautiful as a weathercock,” remarked one of the Town Councilors, who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic taste; “Only not quite so useful,” he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.
“Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?” asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. “The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.”
“I am glad there is someone in the world who is quite happy,” muttered a disappointed man, as he gazed at the wonderful statue. “He looks just like an angel,” said the Charity Children, as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores. “How do you know?” said the Mathematical Master, “you have never seen one.”
“Ah! But we have, in our dreams,” answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.
One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.
“Shall I love you?” said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.
“It is a ridiculous attachment,” twittered the other Swallows; “she has no money, and far too many relations”; and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away.
After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. “She has no conversation,” he said, “and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.” And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. “I admit that she is domestic,” he continued, “but I love traveling also.”
“Will you come away with me?” he said finally to her, but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.
“You have been trifling with me,” he cried. “I am off to the pyramids. Good-bye!” and he flew away.
All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. “Where shall I put up?” he said; “I hope the town has made preparations.”
Then he saw that statue on the tall column.
“I will put up there” he cried; “it is a fine position, with plenty of fresh air.” So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.
“I have a golden bedroom,” he said softly to himself, as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. “What a curious thing!” he cried; “there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.”
Then another drop fell.
“What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?” he said; “I must look for a good chimney-pot,” and he determined to fly away.
But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw-Ah! What did he see?
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the light Swallow was filled with pity.
“Who are you?” he said.
“I am the Happy Prince.”
“Why are you weeping then?” asked the Swallow; “you have quite drenched me.”
“When I was alive and had a human heart,” answered the statue, “I did now know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot choose but weep.”
“What! Is he not solid gold?” said the Swallow to him-self. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
“Far away,” continued the statue in a low musical voice, “far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table, Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen’s maids-of-honor to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.”
“I am waited for in Egypt,” said the Swallow. “My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.”
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, ‘will you not stay with me for one night, and messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad.”
“I don’t think I like boys,” answered the Swallow.
“Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller’s sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility: but still, it was a mark of disrespect.”
But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. “It is very cold here,” he said: “but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger.”
“Thank you, little Swallow,” said the Prince.
So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Price’s sword and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.
He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angles were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. “How wonderful the stars are.” he said to her. “and how wonderful is the power of love!”
“I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State ball,” she answered; “I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it: but the seamstresses are so lazy.”
He passed over the river and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman’s thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy’s forehead with his wings. “How cool I feel!” said the boy, “I must be getting better.” And he sank into a delicious slumber.
Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. “It is curious,” he remarked, “but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold.”
“That is because you have done a good action,” said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.
When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. “What a remarkable phenomenon!” said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. “A swallow in winter!” And he wrote a long letter about it to local newspaper. Everyone quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.
“Tonight I go to Egypt,” said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, “What a distinguished stranger!” so he enjoyed himself very much.
When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. “Have you any commissions for Egypt?” he cried; “I am just starting.”
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “Will you not stay with me one night longer?”
“I am waited for in Egypt,” answered the Swallow. “Tomorrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water’s edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.”
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince “far away across the city I see young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lops are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate and hunger has made him faint.”
“I will wait with you one night longer,” said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. “Shall I take him another ruby?”
“Alas! I have no ruby now,” said the Prince; “my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphire which were brought out of India, a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweler, and buy firewood, and finish his play,” “Dear Prince,” said the Swallow, “I cannot do that,” and he began to weep.
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “Do as I command you.” 
So the Swallow plucked out the Prince’s eye, and flew away to the student’s garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird’s wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.
“I am beginning to be appreciated.” He cried. “this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play,” and he looked quite happy.
The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes, “Heave a-boy!” they shouted, as each chest came up, “I am going to Egypt!” Cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.
“I am come to bid you good-bye,” he cried.
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not stay with me one night longer?”
“It is winter.” Answered the Swallow, “and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them, My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbee, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea.”
“In the square below.” Said the Happy Prince, “there stands a little match-girl. She  has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare, Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her.”
“I will stay with you one night longer.” Said the Swallow, “but I cannot pluck out you other eye. You would be quite blind then.”
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince “do as I command you.”
So he plucked out the Prince’s other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match girl and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. “What a lovely bit of glass!” cried the little girl, and she ran home, laughing. Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. “You are blind now,” he said, “so I will stay with you always.”
“No, little Swallow,” said the poor Prince, “you must go away to Egypt.”
“I will stay with you always,” said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince’s feet.
All the next day he sat on the Prince’s shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch goldfish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels and carry, amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.
“Dear little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you tell me of marvelous things, but more marvelous than anything is the suffering of men and women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there.”
So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another’s arms to try to keep themselves warm. “How hungry we are!” they said. “You must not lie here,” shouted the watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.
Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.
“I am covered with fine gold,” said the Prince, “you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy.”
Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor and the children’s faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. “We have bread now!” they cried. Then the snow came, and after the snow, came the frost. The street looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the caves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.
The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave and Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker’s door when the baker was not looking, and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.
But at least he knew that he was going to die. He had just enough strength to fly up to the prince’s shoulder once more. “Good-bye, dear Prince!” he murmured, “will you let me kiss your hand?”
“I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.”
“It is not to Egypt that I am going,” said the Swallow. “I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?”
And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.
At the moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.
Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with Town Councilors. As they passed the column he looked up the statue: “Dear me! How shabby the Happy Prince looks!” he said.
“How shabby, indeed!” cried the Town Councilors, who always agreed with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it.
“The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer,” said the Mayor, “in fact, he is little better than beggar!”
“Little better than a beggar,” said Town Councilors.
“And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!” continued the Mayor. “We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here.” And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.
So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. “As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful,” said the Art Professor at the University.
Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. “We must have another statue, of course,” he said, “and it shall be a statue of myself.”
“Or myself,” said each of the Town Councilors, and they quarreled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.
“What a strange thing!” said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. “This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away.” So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.
“Bring me the two most precious things in the city,” said God to one of His Angles; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.
“You have rightly chosen,” said God, “for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.”

Oscar Wilde

GATEMAN’S GIFT

GATEMAN’S GIFT
When a dozen persons question openly or slyly a man’s sanity, he begins to entertain serious doubts himself. This is what happened to ex-gateman Govind Singh and you could not blame the public either. What could you do with a man who carried about in his hand a registered postal envelope and asked, “Please tell me what there is inside?” The obvious answer was: “Open it and see. . . .” He seemed horrified at this suggestion. “Oh, no, no. can’t do it,” he declared and moved off to another friend and acquaintance. Everywhere the suggestion was the same, till he thought everyone had turned mad. And then somebody said, “If you don’t like to open it and yet want to know what is inside you must take it to the X-ray Institute.” This was suggested by an ex-compounder who lived in the next street.
“What is it?” asked Govind Singh. It was explained to him. “Where is it?” He was directed to the City X-ray Institute.
But before saying anything further about his progress, it would be useful to go back to an earlier chapter in his history. After war service in 1914-18, he came to be recommended for a gatekeeper’s post at Engladia’s. He liked the job very much. He was given a khaki uniform, a resplendent band across his shoulder and a short stick. He gripped the stick and sat down on a stool at the entrance to the office. And when his chief’s car pulled up at the gate he stood at attention and gave a military salute. The office consisted of a staff numbering over a hundred, and as they trooped in and out every day he kept an eye on them. At the end of the day he awaited the footsteps of the General Manager coming down the stairs, and rose stiffly and stood at attention, and after he left, the hundreds of staff poured out. The doors were shut; Singh carried his stool in, placed it under the staircase and placed his stick across it. Then he came out and the main door was locked and sealed. In this way he had spent twenty-five years of service, and then he begged to be pensioned off. He would not have thought of retirement yet, but for the fact that he found his sight and hearing playing tricks on him; he could not catch the Manager’s footsteps on the stairs, and it was hard to recognize him even at ten yards. He was ushered into the presence of the chief, who looked up for a moment from his papers and muttered, “We are very pleased with your work for us, and the company will give you a pension of twelve rupees for life. . . .” Singh clicked his heels, saluted, turned on his heel and went out of the room, his heart brimming with gratitude and pride. This was the second occasion when the great man had spoken to him, the first being on the first day of his service. As he had stood at his post, the chief, entering the office just then, looked up for a moment and asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m the new gatekeeper, master,” he had answered. And he spoke again only on this day. Though so little was said, Singh felt electrified on both occasions by the words of his master. In Singh’s eyes the chief had acquired a sort of godhood, and it would be quite adequate if a god spoke to one only once or twice in lifetime. In moments of contemplation Singh’s mind dwelt on the words of his master, and on his personality.
His life moved on smoothly. The pension together with what his wife earned by washing and sweeping in a couple of houses was quite sufficient for him. He ate his food, went out and met a few friends, slept and spent some evenings sitting at a cigarette shop which his cousin owned. This tenor of life was disturbed on the first of every month when he donned his old khaki suit, walked to his old office and salaamed the accountant at the counter and received his pension. Sometimes if it was closing he waited on the roadside for the General Manager to come down, and saluted him as he got into his car. There was lot of time all around him, an immense sea of leisure. In this state he made a new discovery about himself, that he could make fascinating models out of clay and wood dust. The discovery came suddenly, when one day a child in the neighborhood brought to him its little doll for repair. He not only repaired it but made a new thing of it. This discovery pleased him so much that he very soon became absorbed in it. His back yard gave him a plentiful supply of pliant clay, and the carpenter’s shop next to his cousin’s cigarette shop sawdust. He purchased paint for a few annas. And lo! He found his hours gliding. He sat there in the front part of his home, bent over his clay, and brought into existence a miniature universe; all the colours of life were there, all the persons he had seen passing before his office when he was sentry there-that beggar woman coming at midday, and that cucumber vendor; he had the eye of a cartoonist for human faces. Everything went down into clay. It was a wonderful miniature reflection of the world; and he mounted them neatly on thin wooden slices which enhanced their attractiveness. He kept these in his cousin’s shop and they attracted huge crowds every day and sold very briskly. More than from the sales Singh felt an ecstasy when he was admiring crowds clustering around his handiwork.
On his next pension day he carried to hid office a street scene (which he ranked as his best), and handed it over the counter to the accountant with the request: “Give this to the Sahib, please!”
“All right,” said the accountant with a smile. It created a sensation in the office and disturbed the routine of office working for nearly half an hour. On the next pension day he carried another model (children at play) and handed it over the counter.
“Did the Sahib like the last one?”
“Yes, he liked it.”
“Please give this one to him-.” and he passed it over the counter. He made it a convention to carry on every pension day an offering for his master, and each time his greatest reward was the accountant’s stock reply to his question: “What did the Sahib say?”
“He said it was very good.”
At last he made his masterpiece. A model of his office frontage with himself at his post, a car at the entrance and the chief getting down: this composite model was so realistic that while he sat looking at it, he seemed to be carried back to his office days. He passed it over the counter on his pension day and it created a very great sensation in the office. “Fellow, you have not left yourself out, either!” people cried, and looked admiringly at Singh. A sudden fear seized Singh and asked, “The master won’t be angry, I hope?”
“No, no, why should he be?” said the accountant, and Singh received his pension and went home. A week later when he was sitting on the pyol kneading clay, the postman came and said, “A registered letter for you. . . .” “For me!” Any letter would have upset Singh; he had received less than three letters in his lifetime, and each time it was a torture for him till the contents were read out. Now a registered letter! This was his first registered letter. “Only lawyers send registered letters isn’t it so?”
“Usually,” said the postman.
“Please take it back. I don’t want it,” said Singh. 
“Shall I say ‘Refused’? asked the postman. “No, no,” said Singh. “Just take it back and say you have not found me…”
“That I can’t do…” said the postman, looking serious.
Singh seemed to have no option but to scrawl his signature and receive the packet. He sat gloomily-gazing at the floor. His wife who had gone out and just returned saw him in this condition and asked “What is it?” His voice choked as he replied, “It has come.” He flung at her the registered letter. “What is it?” she asked. He said, “How should I know. Perhaps our ruin…” He broke down. His wife watched him for a moment, went in to attend to some domestic duty and returned, still found him in the same condition and asked, “Why not open it and see, ask someone to read it?” He threw up his arms in horror. “Woman, you don’t know what you are saying. It cannot be opened. They have perhaps written that my pension is stopped, and God knows what else the Sahib has said…”
“Why not go to the office and find out from them?”
“Not I! I will never show my face there again,” He shuddered at the thought of it. “I knew I was getting into trouble when I made that office model….” After deeper reflection he said, “Every time I took something there, people crowded round, stopped all work for nearly an hour… That must also have reached the Sahib’s ears.”
He wandered about saying the same thing, with the letter in his pocket. He lost his taste for food, wandered about unkempt with his hair standing up like a halo-an unaccustomed sight, his years in military service having given him a habitual tidiness. His wife lost all peace of mind and became miserable about him. He stood at crossroads, clutching the letter in his hand. He kept asking everyone he came across,
“Tell me, what is there in this?” but he would not brook the suggestion to open it and see its contents. So forthwith Singh found his way to the City X-ray Institute at Race Course Road. As he entered the gate he observed dozens of cars parked along the drive, and a Gurkha watchman at the gate. Some people were sitting of sofas reading books and journals. They turned and threw a brief look at him and resumed their studies. As Singh stood uncertainly at the doorway, an assistant came up and asked, “What do you want”? Singh gave a salute, held up the letter uncertainly and muttered, “Can I know what is inside this?” The assistant made the obvious suggestion. But Singh replied, “They said you could tell me what’s inside without opening it-” The assistant asked, “Where do you come from?” Singh explained his life, work and outlook, and concluded, “I’ve lived without remark all my life. I knew trouble was coming-” There were tears on his cheeks. The assistant looked at him curiously as scores of others had done before, smiled and said, “Go home and rest. You are not all right… Go, go home.”
“Can’t you say what is in this?” Singh asked pathetically. The assistant took it in his hand, examined it and said, “Shall I open it?” “NO, no, no, “Singh cried, and snatched it back. There was a look of terror in his eyes. The assembly looked up from their pages and watched him with mild amusement in their eyes. The assistant kindly put his arms on his shoulder and led him out. “You get well first, and then come back. I tell you – you are not all right.”
Walking back home, he pondered over it. “Why are they all behaving like this, as if I were a madman?” When this word came to his mind, he stopped abruptly in the middle of the road and cried, “Oh! That’s it, is that it? Mad!” He shook his head gleefully as if the full truth had just dawned upon him. He now understood the looks that people threw at him. “Oh! Oh!” he cried aloud. He laughed. He felt a curious relief at this realization. ‘I have been mad and didn’t know it… “He cast his mind back. Every little action of his for the last so many days seemed mad; particularly the doll-making. “What sane man would make clay dolls after twenty-five years of respectable service in an office?” He felt a tremendous freedom of limbs, and didn’t feel it possible to walk at an ordinary pace. He wanted to fly. He swung his arms up and down and ran on with a whoop. He ran through the Market Road. When people stood about and watched he cried, “Hey, don’t laugh at a madman, for who knows, you will also be mad when you come to make clay dolls,” and charged into their midst with a war cry. When he saw children coming out of a school, he felt it would be nice to amuse their young hearts by behaving like a tiger. So he fell on his hands and knees and crawled up to them with a growl.
He went home in terrifying condition. His wife, who was grinding chilli in the back yard, looked up and asked, “What is this?” His hair was covered with street dust; his body was splashed with mud. He could not answer because he choked with mirth as he said, “Fancy that has happened!”
“What is it?”
“I’m mad, mad.” He looked at his work-basket in a corner, scooped out the clay and made a helmet of it and put it on his head. Ranged on the floor was his latest handiwork. After his last visit to the office he had been engaged in making a model village. It was a resplendent group: a dun road, red tiles, green coconut trees swaying, and the colour of the saris of the village women carrying water pots. He derived the inspiration for it from a memory of his own village days. It was the most enjoyable piece of work that he had so far undertaken. He lived in a kind of ecstasy while doing it. “I am going to keep this for myself. A memento of my father’s village,” he declared. “I will show it at an exhibition, where they will give me a medal.” He guarded it like a treasure: when it was wet he never allowed his wife to walk within ten yards of it. “Keep off, we don’t want your foot dust of this village…”
Now, in his madness, he looked down on it. He raised his foot and stamped everything down into a multicoloured jam. They were still half-wet. He saw a donkey grazing in the street. He gathered up the jam and flung it at the donkey with the remark: “Eat this if you like. It is a nice village… “And he went out on a second round. This was a quieter outing. He strode on at an even pace, breathing deeply, with the clay helmet on, out of which peeped his grey hair, his arms locked behind, his fingers clutching the fateful letter, his face tilted towards the sky. He walked down the Market Road, with a feeling that he was the sole occupant of this globe: his madness had given him a sense of limitless freedom, strength and buoyancy. The remarks and jeers of the crowds gaping at him did not in the least touch him.
While he walked thus, his eye fell on the bulb of a tall street lamp. “Bulb of the size of a papaya fruit!” he muttered and chuckled. It had been a long cherished desire in him to fling a stone at it; now he felt, in his joyous and free condition, that he was free from the trammels of convention and need not push back any inclination. He picked up a pebble and threw it with good aim. The shattering noise of glass was as music to his ears. A policeman put his and on his shoulder. “Why did you do it?” Singh looked indignant. “I like to crack glass papaya fruit, that is all,” was the reply. The constable said, “Come to the station.”
“Oh, yes, when I was in Mesopotamia they put me on half-ration once,” he said, and walked on to the station. He paused, tilted his head to the side and remarked, “This road in not straight… “A few carriages and cycles were coming up to him. He found that everything was wrong about them. They seemed to need some advice in the matter. He stopped in the middle of the road, stretched out his arms and shouted, “Hair!” The carriages stopped, the cyclists jumped off and Singh began a lecture: “When I was in Mesopotamia-I will tell you fellows who don’t know anything about anything.” The policeman dragged him away to the side and waved to the traffic to resume. One of the cyclists who resumed jumped off the saddle again and came towards him with, “Why! It is Singh, Singh, what fancy dress is this? What is the matter?” Even through the haze of his insane vision Singh could recognize the voice and the person-the accountant at the office. Singh clicked his heels and gave a salute.
“Excuse me, sir, didn’t intend to stop you. You may pass… “He pointed the way generously, and the accountant saw the letter in his hand. He recognized it although it was mud stained and crumpled. “Singh, you got our letter?”
“Yes sir-Pass. Do not speak of it…”
“What is the matter?” He snatched it from his hand. “Why haven’t you opened it!” He tore open the envelope and took out of it a letter and read aloud: “The General Manager greatly appreciates the very artistic models you have sent, and he is pleased to sanction a reward of 100 rupees and hopes it will be an encouragement for you to keep up this interesting hobby.”
It was translated to him ward for word, and the enclosure, a cheque for one hundred rupees, was handed to him.. A big crowd gathered to watch this scene. Singh pressed the letter to his eyes. He beat his brow and wailed. “Tell me, sir, am I mad or not?”
“You look quite well, you aren’t mad,” said the accountant. Singh fell at his feet and said with tears choking his voice, “You are a god, sir, to say that I am not mad. I am so happy to hear it.”
On the next pension day he turned up spruce as ever at the office counter. As they handed him the envelope they asked. “What toys are you making now?”
“Nothing, sir. Never again. It is no occupation for a same man…” he said, received his pension and walked stiffly out of the office.

R. K. Narayan

THE JOY OF LEARNING

THE JOY OF LEARNING

By the age of fourteen, I had basically accomplished nothing, save to vilify myself to the teachers at Mather Junior High School. I had deliberately become every teacher’s worst nightmare. With relish, I disrupted each class I entered, not caring about the consequential detentions or a suspension.
That all changed the minute I walked into Mr. Kaplan’s social studies class. Young and handsome, he was leaning against the chalkboard with his hands stuffed in his jeans, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. But his steely blue eyes, shaded by a swath of sandy blond hair, said otherwise. This cool teacher in his Calvin Klein jeans and tan V-neck sweater had a look that said, Don’t mess with me. Definitely interested and a bit intimidated, I decided there and then to behave myself.
“Good morning,” he greeted us, then pushed away from the board and began to walk the aisles between desks. “My name is Mr. Kaplan, and we are all about to embark on a journey.”
Feeling a flutter in my stomach, I wondered if I might be sick, then realized it was excitement. Smiling to myself, as Mr. Kaplan returned to his desk, I felt a spark of hope that may be this class would be fun.
Suddenly, Mr. Kaplan jumped on his desk.
“Listen to me,” he demanded, as if we could do anything else. “This is not about school. It is about learning and the joy it can give, if you let it.”
“This is about you,” he said, jumping down from his perch with the grace of a panther. “And you,” he said, pointing to various students as he repeated the phrase over and over.
Then, in a hushed voice, barely above a whisper, he said, “History is a mystery, and we are all part of that mystery.”
You could have heard a pin drop in that class.
“We would not be here today if our ancestors had not fought for their beliefs, for their independence. We certainly would not be free,” he declared with such seriousness that I felt duty bound to hear him out.
Balling up his fist passionately and holding it before him, he continued. “Every one of you has a history. We have a responsibility to remember those before us and to learn from them.”
I had to stop myself from screaming, “Hallelujah!”
“Now, I ask all of you to join me on this journey of life. I ask you to dare to enjoy this journey. If you can handle that, stand up and move your desks to the edge of the room.”
It was a challenge. He was asking us to actively participate in his class, not just while away the hour. Within minutes, the room was cleared.
“Now,” he said, “I want you to lie on the floor side by side.”
The previously silent room erupted into giggles as we clustered together on the floor. Elbows and knees touched and a few heads banged, but we managed to fit together in a haphazard shape.
Once we were quiet, he spoke again, rubbing his chin and looking at us as if we were his latest art sculpture. “Good, now move in closer.”
Again, we laughed as we squeezed tighter. Soon, though it was fun, we began to feel uncomfortably cramped and hot.
“Good,” he said, as he paced around us. “Now, imagine being chained to one another in a room so small you can barely stand up in it and with only a tiny slit for a window. The heat is so stifling it makes our New England summers seem mild.
“Imagine being fed slop at the end of the day, if you survived the day’s heat, stench, and beatings. Imagine sleeping sandwiched together on a hard floor, as you are now, practically on top of each other.
“Imagine that nightmare,” he said, his eyes gleaming with righteous indignation.
I wanted to scream.
Then, with the seriousness of a dying man, he said, “That was how the African slaves felt as they were being transported in the bottom of ships to America, only to be sold, after their arrival, like livestock at auction and then worked nearly to death on plantations. You see, the nightmare you are enacting here on this floor, free to get up; and walk out of this class, was only the beginning of the never-ending nightmare of slavery.”
That’s when in hit me: Mr.Kaplan was teaching us. Without boring books and tedious tests. I was learning. And it was only the first day.
So it went, day after day, week after week. One day we were on our desks crossing the high seas on the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria. On another we were fighting the Civil War with our army contingents and paper rifles. On another we came dressed for the signing of the Declaration of Independence. I was Jon Adams.
I learned a lot in that class. Oh, we read books and took a few tests, but because we had so much fun, I didn’t mind and did well. I looked forward to class, not just because Mr. Kaplan was young and handsome and cool, but more so because he was an outstanding teacher who actively engaged us in the learning process. I respected him, and when he told us that all subjects are important in the journey of life, I made an effort to attend all my classes and looked forward to coming to school.
My parents were ecstatic and wondered at the magic of this teacher who had transformed their wayward daughter into a model student. Parents, students, fellow teachers – everybody loved Mr. Kaplan. Especially me.
So, when rumors started to circulate that Mr. Kaplan was being fired for repeatedly ignoring the school board’s request to stick with the curriculum, no one believed it. Mr. Kaplan was the best teacher in our school. Why would anyone fire a teacher who made history real and memorable to his students, who taught them to love learning?
But we soon learned the rumors were true. Mr. Kaplan was bucking the system, a system that measured a teacher’s performance by adherence to a formula, to a prescribed curriculum, and to students’ successful regurgitation of certain facts, rather than on what students had actually learned and understood and retained. What mattered to the school board was not the quality of the teaching, but the method of teaching, and Mr. Kaplan’s teaching was unorthodox.
When it was announced that he would be leaving, all the students and many of their parents protested, to no avail. Always the optimist, Mr. Kaplan took it in stride. He encouraged us to “embrace change,” because, he told us, those who cannot inevitably hurt others as well cannot hurt themselves. Although we know he was right, we were not about to sit quietly and watch him leave. It was Mr. Kaplan, after all, who had taught us about our ancestors fighting for what they believed in. So, the eighth grade class hatched a plan to walk out on Mr. Kapla’s last day. Everyone was sworn to secrecy, but work leaked out and soon the principal was giving warnings over the intercom that anyone caught walking out of school or planning to walkout would be suspended indefinitely.
The day finally downed, and when the bell rang for lunch, everyone in the eighth grade put down their books and headed arm in arm for the front doors. Soon, the seventh graders joined us, leaving the school virtually empty of students. As we made our way outside and to stand beneath the second floor window of Mr. Kaplan’s room, teachers pleaded with us to stop this nonsense and consider the consequences. But Mr. Kaplan had taught us about consequences and the bravery required to make a stand.
We ignored their warnings and chanted as loudly as our voices could carry:
“Keep Mr. Kaplan! Keep Mr. Kaplan!”
Parents showed up, and instead of reprimanding their children, they linked hands and formed a wide circle around the students, chanting right along with us. Local new stations appeared and interviewed some of the students. Then, Mr. Kaplan appeared at his windows, tears streaming down his face. He waved at us, mouthed the words “Thank you,” and stepped away from the window.
The noise died down as we all stood transfixed, staring up at the window, wondering where he had gone. For a moment, I wondered whether we had done the right thing. Was he upset with us? Was he proud that we had taken a stand for what we believed in? My answer came moments later when Mr. Kaplan, dressed in his Sitting Bull costume and headdress, appeared in the window and spread his arms wide to encompass us all.
One of the students raised the American flag on the flagpole, shouting, “Mr. Kaplan rocks!” the crowed erupted into cheers. At that moment, I fully understood another lesson Mr. Kaplan had taught us: I had the power to change and the ability to affect others.
Despite all our efforts, Mr. Kaplan was fired. But due to the overwhelming support of parents and the local news stations, none of the students were suspended.
Mr. Kaplan took a job in another state with new school run by parents. These “charter” schools are very popular now. Whenever I hear of one, I think of Mr. Kaplan. And I give thanks for this extraordinary, dedicated teacher who took risks and used his knowledge, creativity, and humor to give some dull-eyed students the gift of a lifetime: the joy of learning.                                                                          Jacqueline D. Cross

KICK THE HABIT GO CARBON LOW

KICK THE HABIT:
       GO CARBON LOW

Go out on the street and ask any ordinary person what he / she understands by the overused words – ‘global warming’ or ‘climate change’ and the answer would singularly be a ‘high air-conditioning bill’ for the rich. But little do they know that the phenomenon brings along with it unseasonal rains or occurrences like the July 26 deluge, excess snow in the tropical regions, warm summers in the temperate zone, hurricanes, droughts and all other warming related happenings like melting of polar ice-caps, floods in glacial-fed rivers and its downstream course and eventually a rise in sea level.
In a nutshell, the impact on archipelagos like the Ladkshadweep, Andamans and Nicobar or the Sunderbans and island cities or low lying regions like Cochin, Mumbai, Daman-Silwasa, Bhavnagar within India and Tokyo, New York, Los Angeles, Sydney, Papua and New Guinea, Maldives in other parts of the world. They are likely to be simply drowned taking along with them probably a 30 percent of all floral and faunal diversity and many more endemic species and food / medicinal resources found exclusively in our coral reefs, mangroves, island coasts or marshlands. Of course the coastal flooding can ravage congested civilizations and industries or entire river valleys extending to over hundreds of kilometers, affecting human and wildlife populations.
The trigger to these catastrophic happenings is very much in the hands of every common person. Every time you have your bike idling for no specific purpose or don’t get your automobile serviced and emissions checked, or don’t car pool, or burn garbage, use a tungsten bulb, let a tree get cut, use a tissue paper, concretize the area around your housing colony or the sports field, every time you use are conditioning, a non-CFC refrigerator, dump sulphates and phosphates through detergents into the nearby lake, or simply refuse to acknowledge the fact that you and me are as much a part of the problem as we are a part of the solution – YOU ARE TRIGGERING GLOBAL WARMING !
Started in 1972 by the United Nations during their Stockholm Conference, the World Environment Day is celebrated every year on June 5, with varied themes and purposes. With the fuel costs rushing for the stars and crude oil prices crossing a record   $ 130 / barrel, it seems the right time to think low carbon. Surface transport and industrial combustion, which necessitate burning of fossil fuels, along with deforestation, are the three largest contributors of green house gases like carbon dioxide (CO2), water vapour, methane, nitrous oxide and ozone. Global average temperatures have already increased by 0.6 degrees celcius and they are estimated to rise by the next century by another 2-10 degrees celcius.

>> Amphibians, the biggest losers

The greatest impact of all these changes has been on our amphibian populations and diversity. Their dual habitat requirements and sensitive skin along with delicate eggs and extreme specificity to micro-climatic niches has spelled doom on these harmless and ecologically imperative species. They also epitomize the health of any ecosystem, even within urban areas.
Scientists have established that the Earth’s rising temperatures enhance cloud cover on tropical mountains, leading to cooler days and warmer nights, both of which favour a particular Chytrid Fungus to grow and reproduces on many of our frog species. The fungus has already killed over a 100 species of frogs in the cool highlands and the disease has begun to flourish in warm areas, putting more frogs living at mid-altitudes at greatest risk.
As the situation stands today, nearly one-third (32 per cent) of the world’s amphibian species are threatened and as many as 165 amphibian species may already be extinct. At least 43 per cent of all species are declining in population, indicating that the number of threatened species can be expected to rise in the future.

>> No Frog song means more Malaria

Frogs, toads, salamanders and caecilians in both tadpoles and adult stages are one of the biggest pest controllers in our forest ecosystem on land and in water. And in our concrete jungle they control the populations of mosquitoes, flies, cockroaches and several such disease spreading vectors.

>> World Environment Day and Common Man:
World Environment Day is celebrated in many ways such as street rallies, bicycle parades, green concerts, essay and poster competitions in school, tree planting, recycling efforts, clean-up campaigns et al. a few simple ways in which a common man can go carbon neutral –
Stop using the regular light bulbs. Switch to the energy saving bulbs.
Use luke-warm water to wash your clothes rather than hot water.
Use renewable sources of energy such as solar energy or wind energy rather than coal energy.
Use bicycles or public transport to travel rather than a car.
Switch off your computers while going to sleep, don’t put them on ‘Stand By’ mode.

                                                                                                                 Anand Pendharkar

WHERE PEACOCKS ENJOY PRIDE OF PEARCH

WHERE PEACOCKS 
ENJOY PRIDE OF PEARCH

The highway from Pune to Ahmednagar is an interesting one. Farmers in traditional white peaked caps zip past you, some in fancy news cars. Signs of prosperity are apparent, although the region battled with severe drought just a couple of years ago. A few kilometers down the highway, beyond the small town of Chikrapur, a left turn reveals the road that leads to our destination – the village of Chincholi Morachi. Loosely translated, it means the abode of peacocks and tamarind trees, both of which are in abundance here. For, this quaint little village, almost 60 km from Pune, is home to a population of 2,000 people, as well as an equal number of peacocks.
As you interact with people here, it’s quite evident why the national bird enjoys special status Chincholi Morachi. In this village, the peacock Is not just protected, but also revered – so much so that this is one place where its numbers have steadily increased over the years. “Ten years ago, there were almost 600 peacocks in our village. Now, the number is more than three times,” says Maheshrao Gorde, the village sarpanch. For most of the villagers, the peacock is not just a bird, it is also a symbol associated with the village deity Khandoba. “The peacock is the vahan (vehicle) of Khandoba, and is therefore special for us,” says Gorde. Perhaps it’s a reflection of this special relationship that even when the region was reeling under drought and there was not a drop of water to drink, the villagers ensured that there was still some available for the peacocks, recalls S H Phalke, who teaches at the local agricultural institute. “Most people here treat peacocks like their children,” he adds. “Which is why you’ll find that during sowing time, extra grain is planted in the fields, so that the peacocks too can have their fill.”
No one in the village remembers if ever a peacock was harmed in Chincholi Morachi. The only instance that a few villagers can recall happened almost 25-30 years ago, when a boy from a neighboring village, who had come as a part of a marriage party, threw a stone at a peacock and injured it. The peacock died soon after. The incensed villagers filed a case with the district administration against the boy’s family. Only when the family apologized saying that the boy was a minor, were matters sorted out, says P S Gawade, the principal of the local school.
The peacocks, too, have repaid the villagers in their own way. Not only do they help in keeping snakes at bay, they also act as a natural biological control by eating the insects on the crops. In addition, the village has now become something of a tourist attraction, thanks to the peacocks. Last year, for instance, the Maharashtra tourism department gave Chincholi Morachi the status of a tourist village. Work has been completed on a tourist bungalow and already, say villagers, there have been a few tourists from abroad. People from nearby areas, especially schoolchildren, are regular visitors too.
However, there is a flip side to this rising tourist interest, says Phalke. “People come at all hours to see the peacocks and many are disappointed when they do not get a glimpse of the birds. This is because peacocks come out of their habitats only in early morning and evening. But in their enthusiasm to watch the peacocks, sometimes tourists encroach on their habitats also. Which is why, recently, there have been instances of peacocks moving away from the village.”
Hopefully, this is a situation that will be rectified soon, as an NGO has chipped in with plans to create a peacock sanctuary near the village. And if all goes well, the national bird can continue to enjoy its pride of place in Chincholi Morachi.

Atul Sethi

HARRY POTTER NOVELS GO DIGITAL

HARRY POTTER NOVELS GO DIGITAL
VIEW: BRING ON THE FUTURE

Not even magic is future-proof. British author J K Rowling’s decision to let her massively popular seven-book series be sold as e-books has imparted additional momentum to the growth of the digital publishing industry. And it further erodes the diminishing ranks of those who continue to hold out against the inevitable shift. That some do is regrettable but not particularly surprising. The advent of any new technology renders the old one defunct. And when a global industry worth unimaginable sums of money is built on that old technology, a great deal of pain- and therefore resistance – is inevitable. But none of that can change the facts: the future of publishing is digital and that is as it should be.
It’s important to remember that the shift from physical formats to digital in the entertainment industry started only in the past decade. That it has become irreversible in such a short period says something about is. In the music industry, chain stores that had prospered for decades have shut down all over the US, unable to compete with digital downloads. And the movie industry may well be going the same way with the latest quarterly reports showing DVD sales dropping and a corresponding growth for NetFix, the premier online movie streaming service. The book industry is not immune to this dynamic.
It isn’t hard to see why. In their purest form, books, like music and movies, are data. And the advantages of liberating that data from a physical medium are immense. Production costs go down, supply constraints are removed entirely. Knowledge is democratized, for with the proper infrastructure, e-books have the potential to be far more accessible to a far greater number of people than physical books. A far greater number of authors can make their presence felt, for the digital format enables low-cost self-publishing in a way the existing industry does not. So, bring on the future.

COUNTER VIEW: NO MAGIC IN DIGITAL

That J K Rowling – a member of the small tribe of high-profile authors standing up for books as we know them by refusing to authorize digital versions of her best-selling Harry Potter series – has succumbed to the electronic onslaught is a pity. While e-books might be the latest fad, the writer who entranced the world with tales of magic of a boy wizard should have been more appreciative of the magic of paperbacks and hard bounds. For, a book has a special aura and cannot be reduced to mere data. It is a treasured material possession and, in many cases, a collector’s item. The feel and sensuality of a book can hardly be replaced by the cold, detached screen of an e-book reader.
A book is much more than a medium for literary content. A reader not just reads a book but forms a relationship with it. Also, books are reservoirs of stories whereas e-books are just platforms for information. The inherent tactile nature of a book helps readers associate better with the content. Reading the Bhagvad Geeta of the Bible in book form is an experience that cannot be replicated by their e-book versions. When books are digitized they no longer remain books but become interactive multimedia tools. It takes away from the sanctity of the book itself. This is precisely what the digital version of the Harry Potter books will do. ‘Pottermore’, we website that will host the e-books will be a mishmash of computer games, social networking and online store.
Just as the experience of watching a movie in a theatre cannot be reproduced by DVDs and movie websites, e-books cannot capture the joys of reading a book. Scrolling through an e-book is not the same as flipping through the pages of a book. The former, made interactive the multimedia inputs, diminishes the key ingredient that makes reading such a pleasure – imagination.

Prabhat Banarjee

THE FLOWER SCHOOL

THE FLOWER SCHOOL

When storm-clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down
The moist east wind come marching over the heath to blow its 
bagpipes among the bamboos.
Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows
where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee.
Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground.
They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to
Come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand in a corner.
When the rain comes they have their holidays.
Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle
In the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the 
Flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white.
Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars
are.
Haven’t you seen how eager they are to get there? Don’t you
know why they are in such a hurry?
Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms; they 
have their mother as I have my own.

MARTIN LUTHER KING JR A TRIBUTE

MARTIN LUTHER KING JR.: A TRIBUTE

This is a poignant moment for all of us. We remember vividly your last visit to our country. We had hoped that on this occasion, Dr. King and you would be standing side by side on this platform. That was not to be. He is not will us but we feel his spirit. We admired Dr. King. We felt his loss as our own. The tragedy rekindled memories of the great martyrs of all time who gave their lives so that men might live and grow. We thought of the great men in your own country who fell to the assassin’s bullet and of Mahatma Gandhi’s martyrdom here in this city, this very month, twenty-one years ago. Such events remain as wounds in the human consciousness, reminding us of battles, yet to be fought and tasks still to be accomplished. We should not mourn for men of high ideals. Rather we should rejoice that we had the privilege of having had them with us, to inspire us by their radiant personalities. So today we are gathered not to offer you grief, but to salute a man who achieved so much in so short a time. It is befitting, Madam, that you whom he called the “courage by my side”, you who gave him strength and encouragement in his historic mission, should be with us to receive the award.
You and your husband both had foreseen that death might come to him violently. It was perhaps inherent in the situation. Dr. King chose death for the theme of a sermon, remarking that he would like to be remembered as a drum major for justice, for peace and for righteousness. When you were once asked what you would do if your husband were assassinated, you were courage personified, replying that you might weep but the work would go on. Your face of sorrow, so beautiful in its dignity coupled with infinite compassion, will forever be engraved in our hearts.
Mahatma Gandhi also had foreseen his end and had prepared himself for it. Just as training for violence included learning to kill, the training for non-violence, he said, included learning how to die. The true badge of the satyagrahi is to be unafraid.
As if he too had envisaged the martyrdom of Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Rabindranath Tagore once sang:
In anger we slew him,
With love let us embrace him now,
For in death he lives again amongst us,
The mighty conqueror of death.
This award, Madam, is the highest tribute our nation can bestow on work for understanding and brotherhood among men. It is named after a man who himself was a peace-maker and who all his life laboured passionately for freedom, justice and peace in India and throughout the world. Dr. Martin Luther King’s struggle was for these same values. He paid for his ideals with his blood, forging a new bond among the brave and the conscientious of all races and all nations.
Dr. King’s dream embraced the poor and the oppressed of all lands. His work ennobled us. He spoke of the right of man to survive and recognized three threats to the survival of man – racial injustice, poverty and war. He realized that even under the lamp of affluence which was held aloft by science, lay the shadow of poverty, compelling two-thirds of the peoples of the world to exist in hunger and want. He proclaimed that mankind could be saved from war only if we cared enough for peace to sacrifice for it.
Dr. Martin Luther King drew his inspiration for Christ and his method of action from Mahatma Gandhi. Only through truth can untruth be vanquished. Only through love can hatred be quenched. This is the path of the Buddha and of Christ, and in our own times, that of Mahatma Gandhi and of Martin Luther King.
They believed in the equality of all men. No more false doctrine has been spread than that of the superiority of one race over another. It is ironical that there should still be people in this world who judge men not by their moral worth and intellectual merit but by the pigment of their skin or other physical characteristics.
Some governments still rest on the theory of racist superiority. Unregenerate groups in other countries consider on colour superior to another. Our own battle is not yet over. Caste and other prejudices still survive, but most of us are ashamed of them and recognize them as evils to be combated. We are trying hard to eradicate them.
While there is bondage anywhere, we ourselves cannot be fully free. While there is oppression anywhere, we ourselves cannot soar high. Martin Luther King was convinced that one day the misguided people who believed in racial superiority would realize the error of their ways. His dream was that white and black, brown and yellow would live and grow together as flowers in a garden with their faces turned towards the sun. As you yourself said, “All of us who believe in what Martin Luther King stood for, must see to it that his spirit never dies”. That spirit can never die. There may be setbacks in our fight for the equality of all men. There may be moments of gloom. But victory must and will be ours. Let us not rest until the equality of all races and religions becomes a living fact. That is the most effective and lasting tribute that we can pay to Dr. King.

Indira Gandhi.

FOR HEAVENS SAKE

FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE

Question: How did you find maths as a child?
Jayant Vishnu Narlikar: Maths was easy because it was the subject I liked most. My 3rd standard teacher once asked every child what his father did. I said my father was a professor. “Professor of what?” my teacher asked. I didn’t know. “Your father is a professor of mathematics,” the teacher said. I was very pleased my father was the professor of the subject I like!

Q: What was it about maths that you enjoyed?
JVN: The logical reasoning. Not number crunching. I couldn’t multiply two very large numbers instantly like Shakuntala Devi. 

Q: How can parents get their children interested in maths – or at least to not be afraid of it?
JVN: They should introduce children to books on recreational maths. My wife, who is a mathematician, and I wrote a book two years ago called “Fun and Fundamentals of Mathematics.” In it we put together problems school kids could solve. Maths should be treated as an intellectual challenge, rather than the routine working out of sums. That puts children off. When I was in the 10th standard, we had a test in which the Pythagoras theorem was asked. I gave a proof which was different form the one in geometry text book, something I had worked out myself. It was much simpler and very short. My teacher gave me full marks but advised me not to give this proof in the final exam. “There,” he said, “the examiner has to examine a lot of answer books. He will think you’ve done something strange and give you zero.”

Q: At least your teacher was appreciative of what you have done. What kind of teacher was Fred Hoyle?
JVN: When I first went to see him as a Ph. D. student he suggested four or five problems for me to work on, none of them on the steady state theory. I was disappointed because I really liked that field. I asked him why he said that it was a controversial theory and he didn’t want a new research student to face controversy. Then in January 1961, Martin Ryle, the Cambridge radio astronomer came up with observations which he claimed disapproved the steady state theory. He was to present this at the Royal Astronomical Society meeting in February. Fred said we could work out a counter example to Ryle’s claim and show that his observations could be explained within the steady state theory. But we had two weeks only, and since there was no computer, I had to do the numerical work very fast. But we managed to find a solution. Then Hoyle discovered that he was committed to lecturing to some undergraduate group in London the very day of the meeting, so he said, “You present it.” I was very scared. But Fred said, “If you are confident that your mathematical treatment is correct there is no way they can shoot you down.” He then trained me to present the work. His training was good and I managed well. When I started training students, I made them independent so that they could present work on their own and have confidence in what they had done.

Q: Stephen Hawking has said he decided to study cosmology because he was inspired by a summer course he took with you.
JVN: I don’t know about that. But in June or July 1961, I gave a couple of talks on cosmology to students at the Royal Greenwich Observatory. Stephen was in the audience and asked a lot of questions. Later, we had a table tennis tournament and I beat him in the final. He was still fit then.

Q: You write science fiction. Do you read much of it too?
JVN: Not much, because I am turned off if the fiction contradicts the science I know without explanations. For example, relativity says that nothing can move faster than light, but in one novel people were traversing the galaxy in the matter of a few years whereas light would take a hundred thousand years.
But I like the science fiction of Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clark, and Fred Hoyle. And Jules Verne. In his, “Around the World in Eighty Days” he has very cleverly made use of the fact that as you go east, you drop a few hours.

Q: I believe you named you eldest daughter Geeta because of your fondness for the Bhagvad Geeta. You are also, like your parents, well versed in Sanskrit. What are your religious views?
JVN: I feel that religion can give you a code of conduct in which you find happiness in what you are doing, so that whatever you do is helpful or at least not damaging to your fellow human beings. 
My father had books on all the important religions in the world. But he was an agnostic and didn’t pray.

Q: Would you describe yourself as an agnostic too?
JVN: Yes, in the same sense. I go inside temples just to imbibe the atmosphere. I always find atmosphere very important in how I interact with a building.

Q: Your wife is mathematician and all three of your daughters are in the sciences. But a former president of Harvard University suggested that women are not as good as men in science and mathematics. Do you think that is true?
JVN: I don’t think so. In fact, in so far as mathematics is concerned you very often find more women studying in than men, but I don’t think there is a significant difference. 

Q: You have suggested that many mathematical results – such as the theorem attributed to Pythagoras – should be renamed since they are described in Indian texts that predate the Greeks. But you also feel, don’t you, that although ancient India produced a lot of good science, we tend to make all kinds of ridiculous claims too, such as having had guided missiles?
JVN: Yes. This may be a reaction to having been subjected to foreign domination for many years. We take a passage from the Vedas – and it is very hard to really interpret the Vedas because the Sanskrit is different and everything is very concise – and expand it in whichever way we like. That makes it of doubtful value.

Q: Why do many Indian scientists believe in astrology?
JVN: I find that very disconcerting. It means that they are scientist only in terms of knowledge, not in terms of feeling. They are scientists at a superficial level, not deep down.

Q: I believe your youngest daughter, Leelavati, named after the 12th century mathematician, got married recently. Did you consult horoscopes for your marriage or for those of you three daughters?
JVN: No. My father-in-law asked me what date I wanted. I said that my parents got married on 21st June – the longest day of the year. I find that a significant day in terms of the earth’s orbit around the sun, so I said I’d like to get married on that day, whether or not it is auspicious.
My younger daughter wanted to get married on 24th December because of its mathematical symmetry: in 24.12.06, half of 24 is 12 and half of 12 is 6. But her in-laws’ astrologer said no day in December was auspicious.

Q: So what happened?
JVN: The astrologer changed his tune and said okay.

Q: Isn’t science so difficult to understand because it’s so counter-intuitive? For instance, I still can’t understand how the universe can expand without expanding into itself.
JVN: What the expansion of the universe really means in the distance between any two galaxies increases over the time. For example, when a metal grid is heated, its intersection points move away from each other.

Q: But the gird expands into the room. I can’t visualize what you’re saying.
JVN: Think in terms of the framework, not boundaries.

Q: Would you encourage young Indians to become scientists?
JVN: If you really like science, there are enough challenge. Not just in astronomy but in other branches. And in the applied sciences too. In nanotechnology, in biotechnology. ISRO has this ambitious programme of going to the moon and needs young scientists.

Q: Why has there been so little top quality research in the pure science in India since Independence? We seem to have done better before we became free.
JVN: We have allowed our universities to degenerate. They are given very little research funding. Most of the money goes to special centers like TIFR or the Raman Research Institute. If you want to excite young student to do research they should see research being done in the environment where they are studying. Only a few people are doing good research in universities. In institutes where there is reasonable amount of research being done, there are very few students. If the research institutions were on university campuses then things might have been different. We should try to link university students and teachers with research institutes more closely.

Q: Some scientists get a spiritual high from science – they feel connected to the universe. What do you get?
JVN: Intellectual challenge.

Q: Do you think you could ever have been anything other than a scientist?
JVN: A Sanskrit scholar, perhaps? It’s hard to tell.

Mr. Ashok Mahadevan