श्रीराधामाधव युगल ध्यान
हेमेन्दीवरकान्तिमञ्जुलतरं श्रीमज्जगन्मोहनं
नित्याभिर्ललितादिभिः परिवृतं सन्नीलपीताम्बरम्।
नानाभूषणाङ्गमधुरं कैशोररूपं युगं
गान्धर्वाजनमव्ययं सुललितं नित्यं शरण्यं भजे।।
* पद्मपुराण उत्तर. 162/31 *
( स्वर्ण और नील कमलके समान अति सुन्दर कान्ति वाले, जगत् को मोहित करनेवाली श्रीसे सम्पन्न, नित्य ललिता आदि सखियोँसे परिवृत, सुन्दर नील और पीत वस्त्र धारण किये हुए तथा नाना प्रकारके आभूषणोँसे आभूषित अङ्गोँकी मधुर कान्ति युक्त, अव्यय, सुललित, युगलकिशोररूप श्रीराधाकृष्णके हम नित्य शरणापन्न हैँ। )
Friday, October 21, 2011
Jo beet gayi so baat gayi.. Haribansh Rai Bachchan's Poem..
जीवन में एक सितारा था
माना वह बेहद प्यारा था
वह डूब गया तो डूब गया
अंबर के आंगन को देखो
कितने इसके तारे टूटे
कितने इसके प्यारे छूटे
जो छूट गये फ़िर कहां मिले
पर बोलो टूटे तारों पर
कब अंबर शोक मनाता है
जो बीत गई सो बात गई
जीवन में वह था एक कुसुम
थे उस पर नित्य निछावर तुम
वह सूख गया तो सूख गया
मधुबन की छाती को देखो
सूखी कितनी इसकी कलियां
मुरझाईं कितनी वल्लरियां
जो मुरझाईं फ़िर कहां खिली
पर बोलो सूखे फ़ूलों पर
कब मधुबन शोर मचाता है
जो बीत गई सो बात गई
जीवन में मधु का प्याला था
तुमने तन मन दे डाला था
वह टूट गया तो टूट गया
मदिरालय का आंगन देखो
कितने प्याले हिल जाते हैं
गिर मिट्टी में मिल जाते हैं
जो गिरते हैं कब उठते हैं
पर बोलो टूटे प्यालों पर
कब मदिरालय पछताता है
जो बीत गई सो बात गई
मृदु मिट्टी के बने हुए हैं
मधु घट फ़ूटा ही करते हैं
लघु जीवन ले कर आए हैं
प्याले टूटा ही करते हैं
फ़िर भी मदिरालय के अन्दर
मधु के घट हैं मधु प्याले हैं
जो मादकता के मारे हैं
वे मधु लूटा ही करते हैं
वह कच्चा पीने वाला है
जिसकी ममता घट प्यालों पर
जो सच्चे मधु से जला हुआ
कब रोता है चिल्लाता है
जो बीत गई सो बात गई
माना वह बेहद प्यारा था
वह डूब गया तो डूब गया
अंबर के आंगन को देखो
कितने इसके तारे टूटे
कितने इसके प्यारे छूटे
जो छूट गये फ़िर कहां मिले
पर बोलो टूटे तारों पर
कब अंबर शोक मनाता है
जो बीत गई सो बात गई
जीवन में वह था एक कुसुम
थे उस पर नित्य निछावर तुम
वह सूख गया तो सूख गया
मधुबन की छाती को देखो
सूखी कितनी इसकी कलियां
मुरझाईं कितनी वल्लरियां
जो मुरझाईं फ़िर कहां खिली
पर बोलो सूखे फ़ूलों पर
कब मधुबन शोर मचाता है
जो बीत गई सो बात गई
जीवन में मधु का प्याला था
तुमने तन मन दे डाला था
वह टूट गया तो टूट गया
मदिरालय का आंगन देखो
कितने प्याले हिल जाते हैं
गिर मिट्टी में मिल जाते हैं
जो गिरते हैं कब उठते हैं
पर बोलो टूटे प्यालों पर
कब मदिरालय पछताता है
जो बीत गई सो बात गई
मृदु मिट्टी के बने हुए हैं
मधु घट फ़ूटा ही करते हैं
लघु जीवन ले कर आए हैं
प्याले टूटा ही करते हैं
फ़िर भी मदिरालय के अन्दर
मधु के घट हैं मधु प्याले हैं
जो मादकता के मारे हैं
वे मधु लूटा ही करते हैं
वह कच्चा पीने वाला है
जिसकी ममता घट प्यालों पर
जो सच्चे मधु से जला हुआ
कब रोता है चिल्लाता है
जो बीत गई सो बात गई
Saturday, July 30, 2011
भगवान श्री सत्य साई सुप्रभातम्
ईश्वरम्बासुतः श्रीमन् पूर्वासध्या प्रवतते !
OM SHANTI! OM SHANTI ! OM SHANTI
उत्तिष्ठ सत्य साईश, कर्तव्यं देवमाहिकम् ।।
Easwaramba Suthah Shreeman
Poorvaa Sandhyaa Pravarthathe
Utthishta Sathya Sayeesha
Karthavyam Daivam Aanhikam
O Son of Easwaramba ! O Resplendent Majestic One ! Dawn is heralding in the East. The daily tasks of Divinity which Thou hast undertaken has to be accomplished, therefore, awake, O Lord Sathya Sai!
उत्तिष्ठोत्तिष्ठ पर्त्तीश, उत्तिष्ठ जगतीपते।
उत्तिष्ठ करुणापूर्णा, लोकमंगल सिद्धये।।
Utthishtotthishta Partheesha
Utthishta Jagadheepathey
Utthishta Karunapoorna
Loka Mangala Siddhaye
Awake, Awake, O Lord of Parthi! O Lord of the entire Universe and Mankind ! Awake, O Compassionate Lord! So that the world attain auspiciousness, happiness, prosperity, welfare and blessings.
चित्रावती तट विशाल सुशान्त सौघेः
तिष्ठन्ति सेवकजनास्तवदर्शनाकर्थम्।
आदित्यकान्तिरनुभाति समस्त लोकान्
श्री सत्य साई भगवन्, तव सुप्रभातम्।।
Chitraavathi Thata Vishaala Sushaantha Soudhey
Thishtanthi Sevaka Janaah Thava Darshanaartham
Aadhithya Kaanthiranubhaathi Samastha Lokaan
Sri Sathya Sai Bhagawan Thava Suprabhatham
In the vast Mansion, full of bliss and tranquility, (Prashanthi Nilayam) on the banks of the river Chitravathi, those anxious to serve Thee are waiting for Thy Darshan. The radiance of the Sun is illumining the World. O Lord Sathya Sai! Blessed by Thy wakefulness, we pray for an auspicious day.
त्वन्नामकीर्तनरतास्तव दिव्य नाम,
गायन्ति भक्तिरसपान प्रह्ष्टचित्ताः
दातुम् कृपासहित दर्शनमाशुतैभ्यः
श्री सत्य साई भगवान तव सुप्रभातम् ।।3।।
Thwannaama Keerthana Rathaah Thava Divya Naama
Gaayanthi Bhakthi Rasa Paana Prahrushta Chiththaah
Daathum Krupaasahitha Darshanamaashu Thebhyah
Sri Sathya Sai Bhagawan Thava Suprabhatham
Devotees engrossed in singing Thy Glory are happy and blissful, when they taste the nectar of devotion. Kindly shower Thy Grace by granting them Thy Darshan. O Lord Sathya Sai! Blessed by Thy wakefulness, we pray for an auspicious day.
आदाय दिव्य कुसुमुमानि मनोहराणि,
श्री-पाद-पूजनविधिम् भवदंभि मूले।
कर्तुम् महोत्सुकता प्रविशन्ति भक्ताः,
श्री सत्य साई भगवान् तव सुप्रभातम् ।।4।।
Aadhaaya Divya Kusumaani Manoharaani
Sreepaada Poojana Vidhim Bhavadanghri Mooley
Karthum Mahothsukathayaa Pravishanti Bhakthaah
Sri Sathya Sai Bhagawan Thava Suprabhatham
Bringing holy flowers with captivating colors and fragrance, for worshipping Thy Lotus Feet, in the form as prescribed by the scriptures, Thy devotees are coming in, with great yearning and enthusiasm. O Lord Sathya Sai! Blessed by Thy wakefulness, we pray for an auspicious day.
देशान्तरागण बुधास्तव दिव्यमूर्तिम्,
संदर्शनाभिरति संयुक्त चितवृत्या।
वेदोक्त मन्त्र पठनेन तसंत्यजत्रम्
श्री सत्य साई भगवन्, तव सुप्रभातम्।।5।।
Desaantharaagatha Budhaah Thava Divya Moorthim
Sandharshanaabhirathi Samyutha Chiththa Vruthyaa
Vedoktha Manthra Pathanena Lasanthyajasram
Sri Sathya Sai Bhagawan Thava Suprabhatham
Wise persons from distant countries, moved by yearning to have Thy Darshan, have come and they are having great delight in reciting constantly mantras of the Vedas. O Lord Sathya Sai! Blessed by Thy wakefulness, we pray for an auspicious day.
श्रुत्वा तवाद्भुदत चरित्रमखण्डकीर्तिम्,
व्याप्ता दिगन्तर विशाल धरातलैस्मिन्।
जिज्ञासुलोकउपतिष्ठित्ति चाश्रमेस्मिन्
श्री सत्य साई भगवान तव सुप्रभातम् ।।6।।
Shruthva Thavaadbhutha Charithram Akhanda Keerthim
Vyaaptham Diganthara Vishaala Dharaathalesmin
Jignaasu Lokaupathishtathi Chaasramesmin
Sri Sathya Sai Bhagawan Thava Suprabhatham
Hearing Thy marvellous tales and fame that has reached the farthest horizons, earnest seekers of Reality have come to this place and are waiting. O Lord Sathya Sai! Blessed by Thy wakefulness, we pray for an auspicious day.
सीता सती सम विशुद्ध ह्दम्बुजाताः
बहवंगनाः कर गृहीत सुपुव्य हाराः।
स्तुंवन्ति दिव्य नुतिभिः फणिभूषणंत्वाम्
श्री सत्य साई भगवान् कतव सुप्रभात्।।7।।
Seetha Sathee Sama Vishuddha Hridhambu Jaathaah
Bahvanganaa Kara Gruheetha Supushpa Haaraah
Sthunvanthi Divyanuthibhih Phani Bhushanam Thwaam
Sri Sathya Sai Bhagawan Thava Suprabhatham
Women devotees, whose (petals of) heart are unattached to the world like Lotus petals (which are unattached to the water in which they grow, even though they cannot survive without water) and are similar to Mother Seetha in virtues and piousness are singing Thy Glory - the Glory of Lord Shiva adorned with Serpent around His neck - through holy hymns holding excellent flower garlands in their hands. O Lord Sathya Sai! Blessed by Thy wakefulness, we pray for an auspicious day.
सुप्रभातमिदं पुण्यं से पठन्ति दिने-दिने
ते विशान्ति पमधामं, ज्ञान-विज्ञान-शोभिताः।
Suprabhatham Idam Punyam Ye
Patanthi Dine Dine
Tey Vishanthi Param Dhaama
Jnaana Vijnaana Shobhithaah
Whoever daily recites this morning awakening Hymn will attain the Highest Abode resplendent with the Supreme intelligence as well as Supreme wisdom.
मंगल गुरूदेवाय, मंगल ज्ञानादायिने।
मंगल पर्तिवासाय मंगल सत्यसाइने ।।8।।
Mangalam Guru Devaaya
Mangalam Jnaana Dhaayine
Mangalam Parthi Vaasaaya
Mangalam Sathya Saayine
May the divine Guru be auspicious to us; May the Bestower of wisdom be auspicious to us; May the Lord, Who manifested in Parthi be auspicious to us; May Bhagawan Sathya Sai Baba be auspicious to us.
ओउम् शान्ति शान्ति शान्तिः
Monday, July 11, 2011
Parable from Bible
The parable of a sower narrated by Jesus Christ
Luke- 8: 4-14
4 And when a great crowd came together and people from town after town came to him, he said in a parable: 5 "A sower went out to sow his seed; and as he sowed, some fell along the path, and was trodden under foot, and the birds of the air devoured it. 6 And some fell on the rock; and as it grew up, it withered away, because it had no moisture. 7 And some fell among thorns; and the thorns grew with it and choked it. 8 And some fell into good soil and grew, and yielded a hundredfold." As he said this, he called out, "He who has ears to hear, let him hear." 9 And when his disciples asked him what this parable meant, 10 he said, "To you it has been given to know the secrets of the kingdom of God; but for others they are in parables, so that seeing they may not see, and hearing they may not understand. 11 Now the parable is this: The seed is the word of God. 12 The ones along the path are those who have heard; then the devil comes and takes away the word from their hearts, that they may not believe and be saved. 13 And the ones on the rock are those who, when they hear the word, receive it with joy; but these have no root, they believe for a while and in time of temptation fall away. 14 And as for what fell among the thorns, they are those who hear, but as they go on their way they are choked by the cares and riches and pleasures of life, and their fruit does not mature.
Luke- 8: 4-14
A beautiful Prayer
Prayer by St. Francis of Assisi
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love.
Where there is injury, pardon.
Where there is doubt, faith.
Where there is despair, hope.
Where there is darkness, light.
Where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved, as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive.
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.
Amen.
attributed to the 13th-century Saint Francis of Assisi
Make Me Thy Flute
Make me thy flute, Krishna
And hold me near
to feel the tender touch
of your lips.
Kiss me- and let your
life giving breath pass through.
Your fingers, let dance
over the holes
and let a melody be created
of our eternal love.
And hold me near
to feel the tender touch
of your lips.
Kiss me- and let your
life giving breath pass through.
Your fingers, let dance
over the holes
and let a melody be created
of our eternal love.
Saptasloki Durga: Seven Verses in Praise of Durga
शिव उवाच:
देवि त्वं भक्तसुलभेसर्वकार्यविधायिनी ।
कलौ हि कार्यसिद्धयर्थमुपायंब्रूहि यत्नतः॥
देव्यु उवाच-
शृणु देव प्रवक्ष्यामिकलौ सर्वेष्टसाधनम्।
मया तवैव स्नेहेनाप्यम्बास्तुतिःप्रकाश्यते ॥
– श्री दुर्गा सप्तश्लोकी–
ॐ अस्य श्रीदुर्गा सप्तश्लोकीस्तोत्रमन्त्रस्य नारायण ऋषि ।
अनुष्टुप छन्दः श्रीमहाकालीमहालक्ष्मीमहासरस्वत्यो देवताः
श्री दुर्गाप्रीत्यर्थ सप्तश्लोकी दुर्गापाठे विनियोगः ।
ॐ ज्ञानिनामपि चेतांसिदेवी भगवतीहि सा।
बलादाकृष्य मोहाय महामायाप्रयच्छति ॥१॥
दुर्गे स्मृता हरसिभीतिमशेषजन्तोः
स्वस्थे स्मृता मतिमतीवशुभां ददासि।
दारिद्रयदुःखभयहारिणिका त्वदन्या
सर्वोपकारकरणाय सदार्द्रचित्ता ॥२॥
सर्वमंगलमंगलये शिवे सर्वार्थसाधिके।
शरण्ये त्र्यम्बके गौरिनारायणि नमोऽस्तुते ॥३॥
शरणागत दीनार्त परित्राणपरायणे
सर्वस्यार्तिहरे देवि नारायणिनमोऽस्तु ते॥४॥
सर्वस्वरुपे सर्वेशे सर्वशक्तिसमन्विते।
भयेभ्यस्त्राहिनो देवि दुर्गेदेवि नमोऽस्तुते ॥५॥
रोगानशेषानपहंसि तुष्टा
रुष्टा तु कामान्सकलानभिष्टान् ।
त्वामाश्रितानां न विपन्नराणां
त्वामाश्रिता ह्याश्रयतां प्रयान्ति॥६॥
सर्वबाधाप्रशमनं त्रैलोक्यस्याखिलेश्वरी ।
एवमेव त्वया कार्यमस्मद्वैरीविनाशनम्॥७॥
इति श्री सप्तश्लोकी दुर्गा सम्पूर्णा ॥
(below the same is translated into English: as a poem)
That “Maha Maya”
Draws the attention of scholars-
Even with special knowledge
And makes them sink in the well -
Of desire, attachment
And affection. ||1||
Mother Durga!
When just remembered-
Relieves the fear and sorrow of all being;
Grant intellect and welfare
To those healthy minds.
Destroyer of sorrow, poverty and fear
Who else is there except you-
With a mercy-dripped heart. ||2||
The giver of all pleasant things,
You are Sivaa,
The provider of all kinds of wealth,
The ultimate refuge,
Gauri, with three eyes,
Narayani! Our salutations to you. ||3||
Caretaker of those -
who take refuge to you,
who are suffering.
Dedicated to ceases all sufferings-
Narayani! Our salutations to you. ||4||
Goddess with all forms- omnipresent,
Goddess of everything,
Goddess with all types of might- omnipotent
Save us from fears of varying kinds
Durga Devi! Our salutations to you. || 5||
When pleased
You annihilate all sorts of problems.
When displeased
You destroy all sought-after wishes.
There is no sorrow for
Those who surrender in you;
Instead they become refuge
for those who are in trouble. ||6||
Goddess of the entire world
Continue suppressing the obstacles,
Destroy the rivals of righteous,
And wipe out the distress of the three worlds. ||7||
देवि त्वं भक्तसुलभेसर्वकार्यविधायिनी ।
कलौ हि कार्यसिद्धयर्थमुपायंब्रूहि यत्नतः॥
देव्यु उवाच-
शृणु देव प्रवक्ष्यामिकलौ सर्वेष्टसाधनम्।
मया तवैव स्नेहेनाप्यम्बास्तुतिःप्रकाश्यते ॥
– श्री दुर्गा सप्तश्लोकी–
ॐ अस्य श्रीदुर्गा सप्तश्लोकीस्तोत्रमन्त्रस्य नारायण ऋषि ।
अनुष्टुप छन्दः श्रीमहाकालीमहालक्ष्मीमहासरस्वत्यो देवताः
श्री दुर्गाप्रीत्यर्थ सप्तश्लोकी दुर्गापाठे विनियोगः ।
ॐ ज्ञानिनामपि चेतांसिदेवी भगवतीहि सा।
बलादाकृष्य मोहाय महामायाप्रयच्छति ॥१॥
दुर्गे स्मृता हरसिभीतिमशेषजन्तोः
स्वस्थे स्मृता मतिमतीवशुभां ददासि।
दारिद्रयदुःखभयहारिणिका त्वदन्या
सर्वोपकारकरणाय सदार्द्रचित्ता ॥२॥
सर्वमंगलमंगलये शिवे सर्वार्थसाधिके।
शरण्ये त्र्यम्बके गौरिनारायणि नमोऽस्तुते ॥३॥
शरणागत दीनार्त परित्राणपरायणे
सर्वस्यार्तिहरे देवि नारायणिनमोऽस्तु ते॥४॥
सर्वस्वरुपे सर्वेशे सर्वशक्तिसमन्विते।
भयेभ्यस्त्राहिनो देवि दुर्गेदेवि नमोऽस्तुते ॥५॥
रोगानशेषानपहंसि तुष्टा
रुष्टा तु कामान्सकलानभिष्टान् ।
त्वामाश्रितानां न विपन्नराणां
त्वामाश्रिता ह्याश्रयतां प्रयान्ति॥६॥
सर्वबाधाप्रशमनं त्रैलोक्यस्याखिलेश्वरी ।
एवमेव त्वया कार्यमस्मद्वैरीविनाशनम्॥७॥
इति श्री सप्तश्लोकी दुर्गा सम्पूर्णा ॥
(below the same is translated into English: as a poem)
That “Maha Maya”
Draws the attention of scholars-
Even with special knowledge
And makes them sink in the well -
Of desire, attachment
And affection. ||1||
Mother Durga!
When just remembered-
Relieves the fear and sorrow of all being;
Grant intellect and welfare
To those healthy minds.
Destroyer of sorrow, poverty and fear
Who else is there except you-
With a mercy-dripped heart. ||2||
The giver of all pleasant things,
You are Sivaa,
The provider of all kinds of wealth,
The ultimate refuge,
Gauri, with three eyes,
Narayani! Our salutations to you. ||3||
Caretaker of those -
who take refuge to you,
who are suffering.
Dedicated to ceases all sufferings-
Narayani! Our salutations to you. ||4||
Goddess with all forms- omnipresent,
Goddess of everything,
Goddess with all types of might- omnipotent
Save us from fears of varying kinds
Durga Devi! Our salutations to you. || 5||
When pleased
You annihilate all sorts of problems.
When displeased
You destroy all sought-after wishes.
There is no sorrow for
Those who surrender in you;
Instead they become refuge
for those who are in trouble. ||6||
Goddess of the entire world
Continue suppressing the obstacles,
Destroy the rivals of righteous,
And wipe out the distress of the three worlds. ||7||
Offering Obeisance to My Lord
Dark blue in colour like a newly formed cloud
Wearing brilliant yellow garment,
Garland of forest leaves and flowers,
Peacock feather on head.
Equipped with cow-herd’s stick,
Flute and buffalo horn-
Son of Nanda-Yashoda
Beloved of Braja
The only worshipable, Govinda
My humble obeisance, I offer to thee.
Wearing brilliant yellow garment,
Garland of forest leaves and flowers,
Peacock feather on head.
Equipped with cow-herd’s stick,
Flute and buffalo horn-
Son of Nanda-Yashoda
Beloved of Braja
The only worshipable, Govinda
My humble obeisance, I offer to thee.
THE PRICE OF FLOWERS : By Prabhat Kumar Mukhopadhyay
It was nearly one O”clock. I was feeling extremely hungry and went to a vegetarian restaurant. Restaurants of this type are to be found in various parts of London. During lunch hours in those days, London restaurants were not very crowded. There were about three or four people in the room. I chose a corner table, seated myself, and opened the newspaper.
Soon the waitress came, took my order, and went away briskly and noiselessly.
At that moment I noticed that a young English girl of about thirteen or fourteen years was gazing at me. Her clothes betrayed her poverty. Her eyes were large and they had a sad expression.
As she was going out she asked the cashier in a low voice,
“Is that gentleman an Indian?”
“I think so,” the cashier answered. The girl looked at me once more, with a startled air, and went out.
It surprised me. Why? What was the matter? Her interest in me aroused my interest in her. When I had finished my lunch I asked the waitress. “Do you know the girl who was sitting over there?”
“No, sir. I notice she has lunch here on Saturdays. Saturday is pay-day. That is when she comes. She may not be able to afford lunch on other days. Perhaps she does not earn very much.”
I was moved by what she said. The curiosity I felt about the girl persisted. Why had she enquired about me? Who was the mysterious child? I kept thinking of her poverty-stricken, sad, anxious figure. Could I help her in anyway?
The week passed. Saturday came again. I went to the same vegetarian restaurant once more. As I entered I saw her sitting at the same table as before. She was eating. I went up to her and took the chair opposite hers, saying, “Good afternoon”.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she responded hesitantly. By making one brief remark after another, I was able to start a conversation. Atlast she asked, “Are you an Indian?”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me are you a vegetarian?” she wanted to know.
“Why do you ask that?”
“I have heard that most Indians are vegetarian.”
“Who told you that?” I asked.
“My brother is in India. He is a soldier.”
“I am not much of a vegetarian,” I answered her question, “but I enjoy a vegetarian meal now and then.”
I learned that she lived with her old widowed mother in Lambeth. “Do you hear from your brother?”
“We have not had a letter from him for a long time. My mother is very worried. People tell her that India is full of tigers and snakes and people get malaria and cholera. She is afraid something has happened to him. Is it true, sir, that India is full of tigers and snakes?”
“No,” I smiled, “how could people live there if it were?” The girl sighed softly. “Mother says she would like to ask an Indian about these things, if she can find an Indian.” The girl looked at me with eyes full of pleading.
I understood how she felt. She wanted me to see her mother but she did not have the courage to ask me to accompany her home. A keen desire to meet this poor, anxious mother took hold of me. I had not had the opportunity to visit an impoverished English home. I wished to see how the poor live in England, to know what they think.
“Will you introduce me to your mother some time? Would you like me to accompany you home? I can come some day.”
The girl’s eyes filled with gratitude. “Thank you ever so much!” she said. “It is so kind of you! Can you come now?”
“With pleasure.”
“Will it not interfere with anything else you have to do?”
“No, no, not at all. This afternoon is entirely my own.”
The girl was delighted. We finished our lunch and got up together.
As we walked I asked her, “May I know your name?”
My name is Alice Margaret Clifford.”
“Oh! Are you the Alice of Alice in Wonderland?” I joked.
She was nonplussed. I had imagined every English girl read the incomparable book.
“That is the name of a nice book,” I explained. “Haven’t you read it?”
“No. I have not read it.”
“If your mother permits me,” I said, “I shall make a present of it to you.”
We chatted pleasantly and soon reached a telegraph office. “Let’s wait for the Westminster bus here,” I said. “Would you mind walking?” she asked.
“Not at all,”: I answered, “if it is not difficult for you.”
“No, I walk home everyday.”
This gave me the opportunity of asking her where she worked.
I asked her, “Do you come this way often?” “Yes,” she answered. “I work as a typist in the Civil Service stores. I come home this way every afternoon. Today is Saturday, so I am off early.”
“Let us walk along the Embankment. It will be less crowded than the Strand,” I said, and taking her by the arm, guided her carefully across the street.
The street known as the Embankment runs along the north shore of the Thames. “Do you usually go this way?” I asked as we made our way along it.
“No, it is less crowded, it is true, but the people are dirtier.
I go home by the Strand and Whitehall.” This poor unsophisticated girl had defeated me. I admitted it. This was not the first time the English sense of beauty had disarmed me. We approached Westminster Bridge.
“Shall I call you Miss Clifford or Alice?” “I am not grown-up yet. You may call me what you like. I am usually called Maggie,” she laughed.
“Are you very anxious to grow up?”
“Yes.” “Tell me why.” “When I grow up I shall be paid more for my work. My mother is old,” she explained.
“Is the work you do to your liking?.”
“No. The work is very mechanical. I want work that will make me use my head, brain work-like the work of a secretary.” We. crossed the bridge and arrived in Lambeth. It is a poor neighbourhood. “If I ever become a secretary,” Maggie said, “I shall take my mother away from here.”
“Why are you called by your second name instead of your first? I asked as we pushed through the crowd of ill-dressed people.
“My mother’s first name is also Alice so my father called me by my second name, making it my nickname.”
“Did your father call you Maggie or Magsy?”
“When he was very affectionate he called me Magsy. How did you know?”
“Yes, yes,” I answered, pretending to sound mysterious, “v are Indians, you know. We know about the future and all kind of magic.”
“That is what I have heard,” she said.
“Indeed?” I was surprised. “What have you heard?”
“I have heard that there are many people in India who have magical powers. They are called yogis. But you are not a yogi.” “How do you know that I am not a yogi, Maggie?” “Yogis do not eat meat.”
“Is that why you asked me in the beginning whether I am vegetarian or not?”
She smiled without answering.
We had reached a narrow doorway. Maggie took a thin latch key out of her pocket and opened the door. She entered and said, “Please come in.” When I was inside Maggie closed the door. She went to the foot of the stairs and raising her voice a little, called, “Mother, where are you?”
“I am in the kitchen, child,” the answer came from the basement “Come down.”
Maggie looked at me questioningly, “Do you mind?”
“Not in the least. Come on,” I said.
Together we descended the stairs to the kitchen.
“Mother,” said Maggie from the doorway, “an Indian gentleman has come to see you.”
“Where is he?” the old woman asked eagerly. With a smile I stepped into the kitchen behind Maggie.
She introduced us. “This is Mr Gupta, Mother,” she said
“Mr Gupta, my mother.”
“How do you do?” I said and held out my hand.
“Excuse me. My hands—” she said, holding them out for me to see. They were covered with flour. “Today is Saturday,” she explained “I am making cakes. People will come to buy them this evening. They’ll be sold on the streets tonight. This is the way we make our living- lots of trouble!”
Saturday night is a time of festivity in poor neighbourhoods. All sorts of things are sold from countless lighted pushcarts.
The streets are more crowded than on any other day. Saturday is the day the poor are able to spend a little, for they receive their weekly wages.
Ingredients for cake-making–flour, sugar, fat, raisins, eggs, and so forth were set out in readiness upon the dresser. Several freshly baked cakesin tins were also there.
“Sitting in such a poor kitchen will not be very pleasant for you, will it?” Mrs Clifford said. “I have almost finished my work. Maggie, take him into the sitting room. I’ll come in a minute.”
“No, no,” I protested, “I can sit here well enough. You make delicious cakes, I must say.”
Mrs Clifford thanked me with a smile.
“Mother makes good toffee also. Will you try some?”
Maggie opened a cupboard and took out a tin. I ate several toffees and praised them.
“What kind of a country is India, sir?” asked Mrs Clifford as she resumed her cooking. “A beautiful country.” “Safe to live in?”
“Certainly. But not cold like this country. It is hot.”
“Aren’t there too many snakes and tigers? Don’t they kill people?”
“Don’t believe that,” I laughed, “snakes and tigers keep to the jungles. They get killed themselves if they come too close to places where people live.”
“And fevers?”
“In some places in India there is more illness than in others. It is not the same everywhere nor is it the same all the year round.”
“My son is in the Punjab. He is a soldier. What kind of a place is the Punjab?” “The Punjab is a fine place. There is little fever there.” “I am glad to hear it,” Mrs Clifford said.
She was finished with her baking. “Maggie,” she said,. “take Mr Gupta upstairs. I’ll wash my hands and bring tea.”
Maggie showed me the way to their sitting room and I followed. The furniture was cheap and there was not much of it. The carpet was old and torn in places but everything was extremely clean. Maggie drew the curtains back and opened the windows.
There was a glass bookcase. I stood in front of it.
Mrs Clifford came in carrying the tea tray a few minutes later. All trace of the kitchen had vanished from her person. As we drank tea I talked about India. Mrs Clifford showed me a photograph of her son. It had been taken before he left. His name was Francis or Frank. Maggie brought out a book of pictures he had sent her for her birthday. There were many pictures of Shimla and the surrounding mountain country. On the inside page was written, “To Maggie, on her birthday, from her loving brother Frank”.
“Maggie,” said Mrs Clifford, “show Mr Gupta the ring.”
“Has your brother sent you a ring?” I asked her. “Let me see what kind of a ring it is.”
“It is a magic ring,” Maggie explained. “A yogi gave it to Frank.”
She brought it and asked, “Can you see the past and future in it?”
I had heard a lot about crystal gazing. A crystal was set in the ring. I took it up and examined it.
“When Frank sent the ring,” Mrs Clifford said, “he wrote that if you concentrate on a distant person as you gaze into it you will be able to see him and what he is doing. The yogi told Frank that. Maggie and I have concentrated upon it again and again because we have not had any news from Frank for a long time. But we have not
been able to see anything. Why don’t you try? You are an Indian. You may be able to do it.”
I realised that superstition was not confined to India. I did not have the heart to tell the mother and daughter that the ring was nothing much-brass with a piece of ordinary glass stuck into it. They believed their Frank had sent them a new and miraculous thing from a distant land, from a dream world. How could I shatter their faith?
Urged by Mrs Clifford and Maggie I took the ring in my hand and stared at it intensely for a long time. “I cannot see anything,” I exclaimed at last, giving up.
Mother and daughter were disappointed. To change the subject, I said, “Here is a violin. It is yours, isn’t it, Maggie?”
“Yes,”Mrs. Clifford answered. “Maggie plays quite well. Maggie, please play something for us.”
“Oh, Mother!” Maggie looked at her protesting.
“Maggie,” I pleaded, “please play something! I am very fond of the violin. I have a sister at home about your age. She used to play for me.”
The way I play is not at all worth listening to,” Maggie said.
After some persuasion she played a folk tune and then a minor classic. We became good friends. I took Maggie and her mother to the theatre. We saw The Merchant of Venice.
Three months passed. I visited Maggie and her mother several times at their home and took Maggie once to see the zoo. She rode the elephant, Indian Rajah, like all the other boys and girls. How delighted she was!
But no news had come from her brother. Urged by Mrs Clifford I went to India House one day and made inquiries. I was told the regiment to which Frank belonged was fighting on the North-West Frontier. Mrs Clifford became extremely worried when she heard it.
One day I received a postcard from Maggie. She wrote: Dear Mr Gupta, My mother is very ill. I have not been able to go to work for a week. We shall be extremely grateful if you take the trouble to come to see us.
Maggie I had told the family with whom I lived about Maggie and her mother. I spoke of the letter at breakfast.
My hostess said, “When you go take some money with you. The girl has not been able to go to work for a week. She has not received any pay. It is probable that they are hard up.”
After breakfast I took some money and set out for Lambeth. I knocked at the door. Maggie opened it.
She was looking very pale. Her eyes were hollow and ringed. “Oh, thank you, Mr Guptal” she exclaimed when she saw me. “It is so kind of you.”
“How is your mother, Maggie?” I asked.
“She is sleeping now. Her condition is very serious. The doctor says it is aggravated by her anxiety for Frank. There is no news from him yet. She may not live.”
I tried to console Maggie. Maggie controlled herself with an effort and said, “I have a request to make to you, Mr Gupta.” “What is it, Maggie?” I asked.
“Come into the sitting room and I’ll tell you,” she answered. We tiptoed carefully into the sitting room lest the sound of our footsteps should disturb the sick woman. I turned when I reached the centre of the room and remained standing there. “What is it, Maggie?” I repeated my question.
Maggie gazed up into my face with pleading eyes. I waited. Then she covered her face with her hands and wept silently.
I was in a fix. What could I say to console this child? Her brother was fighting on the Frontier. Only God knew whether he was alive or dead. Her mother was the only person she had on earth. If she lost her what would happen? Where in London could this girl, on the threshold of adolescence, go?
I pulled her hands away from her face. “Maggie, tell me what you wish me to do. If there is anything I can do to help you I shall not hesitate.”
“Mr. Gupta,” the girl said, “I do not know what you will think of the request I am going to make. Please forgive me if it is very, very wrong.”
“What is it? Tell me please.”
“All day yesterday, Mother kept saying that if Mr Gupta would come and gaze into the crystal he might learn something about
Frank. “If only he would come,” she said. That is why I wrote to you.”
“If you want me to try once more, go and bring me the ring, Maggie. Of course I’ll do it.” “But if you don’t see anything again this time?”
I understood what Maggie meant. I was silent:
“Mr. Gupta, I have read in books that Indians love truth. If you could bring yourself to tell Mother only once, after looking into the crystal, that Frank is all right, that he is alive- will it be too much of a lie? Will it be very, very wrong?” As she spoke tears streamed from her eyes.
I thought it over and decided to do it. “Please, Maggie, don’t cry. Where is the ring? Let me take a good look at it this time. If I do not see anything I shall do as you suggest.”
Maggie brought me the ring. I took it and said, “See if your mother is awake”.
She said, “I have told her you are here.”
“May I see her now?”
“Please come.” I approached the mother’s bedside. The ring was in my hand. Wishing her a good morning I said, “Mrs Clifford, your son is alive. He is well.”
The old woman raised her head a little off the pillow. “Did you see that in the crystal?” she asked.
“Yes, Mrs Clifford,” I answered without any hesitation, “I have seen it.” Her head dropped back. Tears of happiness welled from her eyes.
She whispered faintly, “God bless you! God bless you” Mrs. Clifford recovered. It was almost time for me to return to India. I wished to go to Lambeth to say goodbye to Maggie and her mother. But the family was in mourning. Frank had been killed in the fighting on the Frontier. A month before, Maggie had sent me a card with a black border. I calculated from the date and found that Frank had been dead some days when I told his mother he was alive and well. I felt ashamed to face Mrs Clifford. So I wrote a letter to them, announcing my departure, and bidding them goodbye.
The morning of my last day in London dawned. I was to leave that night. As I was breakfasting with the family there was a knock at the door. A minute or two later the maid came in and announced, “Please Mr Gupta, Miss Clifford has come to see you.”
My breakfast was unfinished. Maggie had come to say goodbye. Lest she should be late for office because of me, I took permission of my hostess and got up from the table. Maggie was standing in the hall. She was wearing black.
I took her into the adjoining library and made her sit down. “Are you leaving today?” she asked.
“Yes, Maggie, today is the day of my departure.” “How long will it take you to reach your country?” “A little more than two weeks.”
“In what part of the country do you live?” she wanted to know.
“I have entered the Punjab Civil Service. I shall not know
exactly where I am posted until I arrive there.”
“Is the Frontier very far from there?”
“No, not very..”
“Frank is buried at Fort Monroe near Dera-Ghazi-Khan.”
The girl’s eyes filled with tears as she spoke.
“When I go to that part of the country I shall visit your brother’s grave and write to you.”
“Won’t it be troublesome for you, or inconvenient?” Maggie asked. “Why should it be? Dera-Ghazi-Khan is not very far from where I shall be. It will certainly be possible for me to go there some day. I’ll write and tell you about it.”
Maggie’s face filled with gratitude. As she thanked me her voice choked. She took a shilling out of her pocket and put it down on the table in front of me, saying, “Please buy flowers with this shilling when you go, and lay them on my brother’s grave for me.”
Overwhelmed, I lowered my eyes. The child had earned the shilling with so much toil! I felt like returning it to her, explaining that in our country flowers grow in great profusion.
But I reconsidered. Why should I deprive her of the joy this sacrifice would give her? All that this shilling could have given her she was foregoing for love of her brother. The joy of doing it was beyond all price. The grief in her heart would be eased a little. What good would it do to deprive her of it? I picked up the shilling . Maggie stood up. “How can I ever thank you!” she said. “Now is time for me to go to work. Goodbye. Remember to write.”
I got up and took her hand in mine. “Goodbye, Maggie. God bless you,” I said and pressed her hand to my lips. Maggie left. I wiped a tear or two from my eyes and went upstairs to pack my bags.
Soon the waitress came, took my order, and went away briskly and noiselessly.
At that moment I noticed that a young English girl of about thirteen or fourteen years was gazing at me. Her clothes betrayed her poverty. Her eyes were large and they had a sad expression.
As she was going out she asked the cashier in a low voice,
“Is that gentleman an Indian?”
“I think so,” the cashier answered. The girl looked at me once more, with a startled air, and went out.
It surprised me. Why? What was the matter? Her interest in me aroused my interest in her. When I had finished my lunch I asked the waitress. “Do you know the girl who was sitting over there?”
“No, sir. I notice she has lunch here on Saturdays. Saturday is pay-day. That is when she comes. She may not be able to afford lunch on other days. Perhaps she does not earn very much.”
I was moved by what she said. The curiosity I felt about the girl persisted. Why had she enquired about me? Who was the mysterious child? I kept thinking of her poverty-stricken, sad, anxious figure. Could I help her in anyway?
The week passed. Saturday came again. I went to the same vegetarian restaurant once more. As I entered I saw her sitting at the same table as before. She was eating. I went up to her and took the chair opposite hers, saying, “Good afternoon”.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she responded hesitantly. By making one brief remark after another, I was able to start a conversation. Atlast she asked, “Are you an Indian?”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me are you a vegetarian?” she wanted to know.
“Why do you ask that?”
“I have heard that most Indians are vegetarian.”
“Who told you that?” I asked.
“My brother is in India. He is a soldier.”
“I am not much of a vegetarian,” I answered her question, “but I enjoy a vegetarian meal now and then.”
I learned that she lived with her old widowed mother in Lambeth. “Do you hear from your brother?”
“We have not had a letter from him for a long time. My mother is very worried. People tell her that India is full of tigers and snakes and people get malaria and cholera. She is afraid something has happened to him. Is it true, sir, that India is full of tigers and snakes?”
“No,” I smiled, “how could people live there if it were?” The girl sighed softly. “Mother says she would like to ask an Indian about these things, if she can find an Indian.” The girl looked at me with eyes full of pleading.
I understood how she felt. She wanted me to see her mother but she did not have the courage to ask me to accompany her home. A keen desire to meet this poor, anxious mother took hold of me. I had not had the opportunity to visit an impoverished English home. I wished to see how the poor live in England, to know what they think.
“Will you introduce me to your mother some time? Would you like me to accompany you home? I can come some day.”
The girl’s eyes filled with gratitude. “Thank you ever so much!” she said. “It is so kind of you! Can you come now?”
“With pleasure.”
“Will it not interfere with anything else you have to do?”
“No, no, not at all. This afternoon is entirely my own.”
The girl was delighted. We finished our lunch and got up together.
As we walked I asked her, “May I know your name?”
My name is Alice Margaret Clifford.”
“Oh! Are you the Alice of Alice in Wonderland?” I joked.
She was nonplussed. I had imagined every English girl read the incomparable book.
“That is the name of a nice book,” I explained. “Haven’t you read it?”
“No. I have not read it.”
“If your mother permits me,” I said, “I shall make a present of it to you.”
We chatted pleasantly and soon reached a telegraph office. “Let’s wait for the Westminster bus here,” I said. “Would you mind walking?” she asked.
“Not at all,”: I answered, “if it is not difficult for you.”
“No, I walk home everyday.”
This gave me the opportunity of asking her where she worked.
I asked her, “Do you come this way often?” “Yes,” she answered. “I work as a typist in the Civil Service stores. I come home this way every afternoon. Today is Saturday, so I am off early.”
“Let us walk along the Embankment. It will be less crowded than the Strand,” I said, and taking her by the arm, guided her carefully across the street.
The street known as the Embankment runs along the north shore of the Thames. “Do you usually go this way?” I asked as we made our way along it.
“No, it is less crowded, it is true, but the people are dirtier.
I go home by the Strand and Whitehall.” This poor unsophisticated girl had defeated me. I admitted it. This was not the first time the English sense of beauty had disarmed me. We approached Westminster Bridge.
“Shall I call you Miss Clifford or Alice?” “I am not grown-up yet. You may call me what you like. I am usually called Maggie,” she laughed.
“Are you very anxious to grow up?”
“Yes.” “Tell me why.” “When I grow up I shall be paid more for my work. My mother is old,” she explained.
“Is the work you do to your liking?.”
“No. The work is very mechanical. I want work that will make me use my head, brain work-like the work of a secretary.” We. crossed the bridge and arrived in Lambeth. It is a poor neighbourhood. “If I ever become a secretary,” Maggie said, “I shall take my mother away from here.”
“Why are you called by your second name instead of your first? I asked as we pushed through the crowd of ill-dressed people.
“My mother’s first name is also Alice so my father called me by my second name, making it my nickname.”
“Did your father call you Maggie or Magsy?”
“When he was very affectionate he called me Magsy. How did you know?”
“Yes, yes,” I answered, pretending to sound mysterious, “v are Indians, you know. We know about the future and all kind of magic.”
“That is what I have heard,” she said.
“Indeed?” I was surprised. “What have you heard?”
“I have heard that there are many people in India who have magical powers. They are called yogis. But you are not a yogi.” “How do you know that I am not a yogi, Maggie?” “Yogis do not eat meat.”
“Is that why you asked me in the beginning whether I am vegetarian or not?”
She smiled without answering.
We had reached a narrow doorway. Maggie took a thin latch key out of her pocket and opened the door. She entered and said, “Please come in.” When I was inside Maggie closed the door. She went to the foot of the stairs and raising her voice a little, called, “Mother, where are you?”
“I am in the kitchen, child,” the answer came from the basement “Come down.”
Maggie looked at me questioningly, “Do you mind?”
“Not in the least. Come on,” I said.
Together we descended the stairs to the kitchen.
“Mother,” said Maggie from the doorway, “an Indian gentleman has come to see you.”
“Where is he?” the old woman asked eagerly. With a smile I stepped into the kitchen behind Maggie.
She introduced us. “This is Mr Gupta, Mother,” she said
“Mr Gupta, my mother.”
“How do you do?” I said and held out my hand.
“Excuse me. My hands—” she said, holding them out for me to see. They were covered with flour. “Today is Saturday,” she explained “I am making cakes. People will come to buy them this evening. They’ll be sold on the streets tonight. This is the way we make our living- lots of trouble!”
Saturday night is a time of festivity in poor neighbourhoods. All sorts of things are sold from countless lighted pushcarts.
The streets are more crowded than on any other day. Saturday is the day the poor are able to spend a little, for they receive their weekly wages.
Ingredients for cake-making–flour, sugar, fat, raisins, eggs, and so forth were set out in readiness upon the dresser. Several freshly baked cakesin tins were also there.
“Sitting in such a poor kitchen will not be very pleasant for you, will it?” Mrs Clifford said. “I have almost finished my work. Maggie, take him into the sitting room. I’ll come in a minute.”
“No, no,” I protested, “I can sit here well enough. You make delicious cakes, I must say.”
Mrs Clifford thanked me with a smile.
“Mother makes good toffee also. Will you try some?”
Maggie opened a cupboard and took out a tin. I ate several toffees and praised them.
“What kind of a country is India, sir?” asked Mrs Clifford as she resumed her cooking. “A beautiful country.” “Safe to live in?”
“Certainly. But not cold like this country. It is hot.”
“Aren’t there too many snakes and tigers? Don’t they kill people?”
“Don’t believe that,” I laughed, “snakes and tigers keep to the jungles. They get killed themselves if they come too close to places where people live.”
“And fevers?”
“In some places in India there is more illness than in others. It is not the same everywhere nor is it the same all the year round.”
“My son is in the Punjab. He is a soldier. What kind of a place is the Punjab?” “The Punjab is a fine place. There is little fever there.” “I am glad to hear it,” Mrs Clifford said.
She was finished with her baking. “Maggie,” she said,. “take Mr Gupta upstairs. I’ll wash my hands and bring tea.”
Maggie showed me the way to their sitting room and I followed. The furniture was cheap and there was not much of it. The carpet was old and torn in places but everything was extremely clean. Maggie drew the curtains back and opened the windows.
There was a glass bookcase. I stood in front of it.
Mrs Clifford came in carrying the tea tray a few minutes later. All trace of the kitchen had vanished from her person. As we drank tea I talked about India. Mrs Clifford showed me a photograph of her son. It had been taken before he left. His name was Francis or Frank. Maggie brought out a book of pictures he had sent her for her birthday. There were many pictures of Shimla and the surrounding mountain country. On the inside page was written, “To Maggie, on her birthday, from her loving brother Frank”.
“Maggie,” said Mrs Clifford, “show Mr Gupta the ring.”
“Has your brother sent you a ring?” I asked her. “Let me see what kind of a ring it is.”
“It is a magic ring,” Maggie explained. “A yogi gave it to Frank.”
She brought it and asked, “Can you see the past and future in it?”
I had heard a lot about crystal gazing. A crystal was set in the ring. I took it up and examined it.
“When Frank sent the ring,” Mrs Clifford said, “he wrote that if you concentrate on a distant person as you gaze into it you will be able to see him and what he is doing. The yogi told Frank that. Maggie and I have concentrated upon it again and again because we have not had any news from Frank for a long time. But we have not
been able to see anything. Why don’t you try? You are an Indian. You may be able to do it.”
I realised that superstition was not confined to India. I did not have the heart to tell the mother and daughter that the ring was nothing much-brass with a piece of ordinary glass stuck into it. They believed their Frank had sent them a new and miraculous thing from a distant land, from a dream world. How could I shatter their faith?
Urged by Mrs Clifford and Maggie I took the ring in my hand and stared at it intensely for a long time. “I cannot see anything,” I exclaimed at last, giving up.
Mother and daughter were disappointed. To change the subject, I said, “Here is a violin. It is yours, isn’t it, Maggie?”
“Yes,”Mrs. Clifford answered. “Maggie plays quite well. Maggie, please play something for us.”
“Oh, Mother!” Maggie looked at her protesting.
“Maggie,” I pleaded, “please play something! I am very fond of the violin. I have a sister at home about your age. She used to play for me.”
The way I play is not at all worth listening to,” Maggie said.
After some persuasion she played a folk tune and then a minor classic. We became good friends. I took Maggie and her mother to the theatre. We saw The Merchant of Venice.
Three months passed. I visited Maggie and her mother several times at their home and took Maggie once to see the zoo. She rode the elephant, Indian Rajah, like all the other boys and girls. How delighted she was!
But no news had come from her brother. Urged by Mrs Clifford I went to India House one day and made inquiries. I was told the regiment to which Frank belonged was fighting on the North-West Frontier. Mrs Clifford became extremely worried when she heard it.
One day I received a postcard from Maggie. She wrote: Dear Mr Gupta, My mother is very ill. I have not been able to go to work for a week. We shall be extremely grateful if you take the trouble to come to see us.
Maggie I had told the family with whom I lived about Maggie and her mother. I spoke of the letter at breakfast.
My hostess said, “When you go take some money with you. The girl has not been able to go to work for a week. She has not received any pay. It is probable that they are hard up.”
After breakfast I took some money and set out for Lambeth. I knocked at the door. Maggie opened it.
She was looking very pale. Her eyes were hollow and ringed. “Oh, thank you, Mr Guptal” she exclaimed when she saw me. “It is so kind of you.”
“How is your mother, Maggie?” I asked.
“She is sleeping now. Her condition is very serious. The doctor says it is aggravated by her anxiety for Frank. There is no news from him yet. She may not live.”
I tried to console Maggie. Maggie controlled herself with an effort and said, “I have a request to make to you, Mr Gupta.” “What is it, Maggie?” I asked.
“Come into the sitting room and I’ll tell you,” she answered. We tiptoed carefully into the sitting room lest the sound of our footsteps should disturb the sick woman. I turned when I reached the centre of the room and remained standing there. “What is it, Maggie?” I repeated my question.
Maggie gazed up into my face with pleading eyes. I waited. Then she covered her face with her hands and wept silently.
I was in a fix. What could I say to console this child? Her brother was fighting on the Frontier. Only God knew whether he was alive or dead. Her mother was the only person she had on earth. If she lost her what would happen? Where in London could this girl, on the threshold of adolescence, go?
I pulled her hands away from her face. “Maggie, tell me what you wish me to do. If there is anything I can do to help you I shall not hesitate.”
“Mr. Gupta,” the girl said, “I do not know what you will think of the request I am going to make. Please forgive me if it is very, very wrong.”
“What is it? Tell me please.”
“All day yesterday, Mother kept saying that if Mr Gupta would come and gaze into the crystal he might learn something about
Frank. “If only he would come,” she said. That is why I wrote to you.”
“If you want me to try once more, go and bring me the ring, Maggie. Of course I’ll do it.” “But if you don’t see anything again this time?”
I understood what Maggie meant. I was silent:
“Mr. Gupta, I have read in books that Indians love truth. If you could bring yourself to tell Mother only once, after looking into the crystal, that Frank is all right, that he is alive- will it be too much of a lie? Will it be very, very wrong?” As she spoke tears streamed from her eyes.
I thought it over and decided to do it. “Please, Maggie, don’t cry. Where is the ring? Let me take a good look at it this time. If I do not see anything I shall do as you suggest.”
Maggie brought me the ring. I took it and said, “See if your mother is awake”.
She said, “I have told her you are here.”
“May I see her now?”
“Please come.” I approached the mother’s bedside. The ring was in my hand. Wishing her a good morning I said, “Mrs Clifford, your son is alive. He is well.”
The old woman raised her head a little off the pillow. “Did you see that in the crystal?” she asked.
“Yes, Mrs Clifford,” I answered without any hesitation, “I have seen it.” Her head dropped back. Tears of happiness welled from her eyes.
She whispered faintly, “God bless you! God bless you” Mrs. Clifford recovered. It was almost time for me to return to India. I wished to go to Lambeth to say goodbye to Maggie and her mother. But the family was in mourning. Frank had been killed in the fighting on the Frontier. A month before, Maggie had sent me a card with a black border. I calculated from the date and found that Frank had been dead some days when I told his mother he was alive and well. I felt ashamed to face Mrs Clifford. So I wrote a letter to them, announcing my departure, and bidding them goodbye.
The morning of my last day in London dawned. I was to leave that night. As I was breakfasting with the family there was a knock at the door. A minute or two later the maid came in and announced, “Please Mr Gupta, Miss Clifford has come to see you.”
My breakfast was unfinished. Maggie had come to say goodbye. Lest she should be late for office because of me, I took permission of my hostess and got up from the table. Maggie was standing in the hall. She was wearing black.
I took her into the adjoining library and made her sit down. “Are you leaving today?” she asked.
“Yes, Maggie, today is the day of my departure.” “How long will it take you to reach your country?” “A little more than two weeks.”
“In what part of the country do you live?” she wanted to know.
“I have entered the Punjab Civil Service. I shall not know
exactly where I am posted until I arrive there.”
“Is the Frontier very far from there?”
“No, not very..”
“Frank is buried at Fort Monroe near Dera-Ghazi-Khan.”
The girl’s eyes filled with tears as she spoke.
“When I go to that part of the country I shall visit your brother’s grave and write to you.”
“Won’t it be troublesome for you, or inconvenient?” Maggie asked. “Why should it be? Dera-Ghazi-Khan is not very far from where I shall be. It will certainly be possible for me to go there some day. I’ll write and tell you about it.”
Maggie’s face filled with gratitude. As she thanked me her voice choked. She took a shilling out of her pocket and put it down on the table in front of me, saying, “Please buy flowers with this shilling when you go, and lay them on my brother’s grave for me.”
Overwhelmed, I lowered my eyes. The child had earned the shilling with so much toil! I felt like returning it to her, explaining that in our country flowers grow in great profusion.
But I reconsidered. Why should I deprive her of the joy this sacrifice would give her? All that this shilling could have given her she was foregoing for love of her brother. The joy of doing it was beyond all price. The grief in her heart would be eased a little. What good would it do to deprive her of it? I picked up the shilling . Maggie stood up. “How can I ever thank you!” she said. “Now is time for me to go to work. Goodbye. Remember to write.”
I got up and took her hand in mine. “Goodbye, Maggie. God bless you,” I said and pressed her hand to my lips. Maggie left. I wiped a tear or two from my eyes and went upstairs to pack my bags.
THOSE BIG ROCKS: A story related to management
One day, an expert in time management was speaking to a group of business students and, to drive home a point, used an illustration those students will never forget.
As he stood in front of the group of high-powered over-achievers he said, “Okay, time for a quiz” and he pulled out a one-gallon, wide-mouth mason jar and set it on the table in front of him. He also produced about a dozen fist-sized rocks and carefully placed them, one at a time, into the jar. When the jar was filled to the top and no more rocks would fit inside, he asked, “Is this jar full?”
Everyone in the class yelled, “Yes.”
The expert replied, “Really?”
He reached under the table and pulled out a bucket of gravel. He dumped some gravel in and shook the jar causing pieces of gravel to work themselves down into the spaces between the big rocks. He then asked the group once more, “Is the jar full?”
By this time the class was on to him. “Probably not,” one of them answered.
“Good!” he replied.
He reached under the table and brought out a bucket of sand. He started dumping the sand in the jar and it went into all of the spaces left between the rocks and the gravel. Once more he asked the question, “Is this jar full?”
“No!” the class shouted.
Once again he said, “Good!”
Then he grabbed a pitcher of water and began to pour it in until the jar was filled to the brim. Then he looked at the class and asked, “What is the point of this illustration?”
One eager beaver raised his hand and said, “The point is, no matter how full your schedule is, if you try really hard you can always fit some more things in it!”
“No,” the speaker replied, “that’s not the point. The truth this illustration teaches us is, ‘If you don’t put the big rocks in first, you’ll never get them in at all.’”
What are the ‘big rocks’ in your life ? time with loved ones, your faith, your education, your dreams, a worthy cause, teaching or mentoring other? Remember to put these BIG ROCKS in first or you’ll never get them in at all.
So, when you are reflecting on this short story, ask yourself this question, “What are the ‘big rocks’ in my life?” Then, put those in your jar first.
As he stood in front of the group of high-powered over-achievers he said, “Okay, time for a quiz” and he pulled out a one-gallon, wide-mouth mason jar and set it on the table in front of him. He also produced about a dozen fist-sized rocks and carefully placed them, one at a time, into the jar. When the jar was filled to the top and no more rocks would fit inside, he asked, “Is this jar full?”
Everyone in the class yelled, “Yes.”
The expert replied, “Really?”
He reached under the table and pulled out a bucket of gravel. He dumped some gravel in and shook the jar causing pieces of gravel to work themselves down into the spaces between the big rocks. He then asked the group once more, “Is the jar full?”
By this time the class was on to him. “Probably not,” one of them answered.
“Good!” he replied.
He reached under the table and brought out a bucket of sand. He started dumping the sand in the jar and it went into all of the spaces left between the rocks and the gravel. Once more he asked the question, “Is this jar full?”
“No!” the class shouted.
Once again he said, “Good!”
Then he grabbed a pitcher of water and began to pour it in until the jar was filled to the brim. Then he looked at the class and asked, “What is the point of this illustration?”
One eager beaver raised his hand and said, “The point is, no matter how full your schedule is, if you try really hard you can always fit some more things in it!”
“No,” the speaker replied, “that’s not the point. The truth this illustration teaches us is, ‘If you don’t put the big rocks in first, you’ll never get them in at all.’”
What are the ‘big rocks’ in your life ? time with loved ones, your faith, your education, your dreams, a worthy cause, teaching or mentoring other? Remember to put these BIG ROCKS in first or you’ll never get them in at all.
So, when you are reflecting on this short story, ask yourself this question, “What are the ‘big rocks’ in my life?” Then, put those in your jar first.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
My pics
Bijay