For the students of IInd Year (B.Com.,B.Sc.) .

Syllabus.

Unit 1.

1. Tree  : Tina Morris 

2.  Night of the Scorpion   : Nissim Ezekiel

3. Letter to God   :   G.L.Sawnteh

4. My Bank Account  :  Stephen Leacock
5. God sees the truth but waits :   Leo Tolstoy.

6. Idgah     :  By premchand   Translated by Khushwant Singh. 
Unit 2. 

1. Unseen Passages

2. Paragraph Writing

3. Report Writing

4. Short Essay on a given topic.

5. Formal and Informal Letters and Application

6. Basic Language Skills 

    Tenses,Preposition,Determiners,Verbs,and Articles. ( 18 marks)
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Tree                  By Tina Morris.

They did not tell us

What it would be like

Without trees.

Nobody imagined

That the whispering of leaves

Would grow silent

Or the vibrant jade of spring

Pale to grey death.

And now we pile

Rubbish on rubbish

In the dusty landscape

Struggling to create a tree.

But though the shape is right

And the nailed branches

Lean upon the wind

And plastic leaves

Lend colour to the twigs.

We wait in vain

For the slow unfurling of buds.

And no amount of loving

Can stir our weary tree

To singing.

Letter to God                           By G.L.Swanteh 

Translated by Donald A. Yates

The house – the only one in the entire valley – sat on the crest of a low hill. From this height one could se the river and, next to the corral, the field of ripe corn dotted with the kidney bean flowers that always promised a good harvest.

The only thing the earth needed was a rainfall, or at least a shower. Throughout the morning Lencho – who knew his fields intimately – had done nothing else but scan the sky toward the northeast.

“Now we’re really going to get some water, woman.”

The woman, who was preparing supper, replied: “Yes, God willing.”

The oldest boys were working in the field, while the smaller ones were playing near the house, until the woman called to them all: “Come for dinner…”

It was during the meal that, just as Lencho had predicted, big drips of rain began to fall. In the northeast huge mountains of clouds could be seen approaching. The air was fresh and sweet.

The man went out to look for something in the corral for no other reason than to allow himself the pleasure of feeling the rain on his body, and when he returned he exclaimed: “those aren’t raindrops falling from the sky, they’re new coins. The big drops are ten-centavo pieces and the little ones are fives…”

With a satisfied expression he regarded the field of ripe corn with its kidney bean flowers, draped in a curtain of rain. But suddenly a strong wind began to fall. These truly did resemble new silver coins. The boys, exposing themselves to the rain, ran out to collect the frozen pearls.

“It’s really getting bad now,” exclaimed the man, mortified. “I hope it passes quickly.”

It did not pass quickly. For an hour the hail rained on the house, the garden, the hillside, the cornfield, on the whole valley. The field was white, as if covered with salt. Not a leaf remained on the trees. The corn was totally destroyed. The flowers were gone from the kidney bean plants. Lencho’s soul was filled with sadness. When the storm had passed, he stood in the middle of the field and said to his sons: “A plague of locusts would have left more than this… the hail has left nothing: this year we will have no corn or beans…”

That night was a sorrowful one: “All our work, for nothing!”

“There’s no one who can help us!”

But in the hears of all who lived in that solitary house in the middle of the valley, there was a single hope: help from God.

“Don’t be so upset, even though this seems like a total loss. Remember, no one dies of hunger!”

“That’s what they say: no one dies of hunger….”

All through the night, Lencho thought only of his one hoe: the help of God, whose eyes, as he had been instructed, see everything, even what is deep in one’s conscience.

Lencho was an ox of a man, working like an animal in the fields, but still he knew how to write. The following Sunday, at day break, after having convinced, himself that there is a protecting spirit he bgan to write a letter which he himself would carry to town and place in the mail.

It was nothing less than a letter to God.

“God,” he wrote, “if you don’t help me, my family and I will go hungry this year. I need a hundred pesos in order to resow the field and to live until the crop comes, because the hailstorm…”

He wrote “To God” on the envelope, put the letter inside and, still troubled, went to town. At the post office he placed a stamp on the letter and dropped it into the mailbox.

One of the employees, who was a postman and also helped at the post officer, went to his boss, laughing heartily and showed him the letter to God. Never in his career as a postman had he known that address. The postmaster – a fat amiable fellow – also broke out laughing, but almost immediately he turned serious and, tapping the letter on his desk, commented: “what faith! I wish I had the faith of the man who wrote this letter. To believe the way he believes. To hope with the confidence that he knows how to hope with. Starting up a correspondence with God!”

So, in order not to disillusion that prodigy of faith, revealed by a letter that could not be delivered, the postmaster cmae up with an idea: answer the letter. But when he opened it, it was evident that to answer it he needed something more than good will, ink and paper. But he stuck to his resolution: he asked for money from his employee, he himself gave part of his salary, and several friends of his were obliged to give something “for an act of charity”.

It was impossible for him to gather together the hundred pesos requested by Lencho, so he was able to send the farmer only a little more than half. He put the bills in an envelope addressed to Lencho and with them a letter containing only a signature:

GOD

The following Sunday Lencho came a bit earlier than usual to ask if there was a letter for him. It was the postman himself who handed the letter to him, while the postmaster, experiencing the contentment of a man who ahs performed a good deed, looked on from the doorway of his office.

Lencho showed not the slightest surprise on seeing the bills – such was his confidence – but he became angry when he counted the money. God could not have made a mistake, nor could he have denied Lencho what he had requested!

Immediately, Lencho went up to the window to ask for paper and ink. On the public writing table, he started to write with much wrinkling of his brow, caused by the effort he had to make to express his ideas. When he finished, he went to the window to buy a stamp, which he licked and then affixed to the envelope with a blow of his fist.

The moment that the letter fell into the mailbox the postmaster went to open it. It said;

“God: Of the money that I asked for only seventy pesos reached me. Send me the rest, since I need it very much. But don’t send it to me through the mail, because the post office employees are a bunch of crooks. Lencho.”

Night of the Scorpion         Nissim Ezekiel

I remember the night my mother

was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours

of steady rain had driven him

to crawl beneath a sack of rice.

Parting with his poison - flash

of diabolic tail in the dark room -

he risked the rain again.

The peasants came like swarms of flies

and buzzed the name of God a hundred times

to paralyse the Evil One.

With candles and with lanterns

throwing giant scorpion shadows

on the mud-baked walls

they searched for him: he was not found.

They clicked their tongues.

With every movement that the scorpion made his poison moved in Mother's blood, they said.

May he sit still, they said

May the sins of your previous birth

be burned away tonight, they said.

May your suffering decrease

the misfortunes of your next birth, they said.

May the sum of all evil

balanced in this unreal world

against the sum of good

become diminished by your pain.

May the poison purify your flesh

of desire, and your spirit of ambition,

they said, and they sat around

on the floor with my mother in the centre,

the peace of understanding on each face.

More candles, more lanterns, more neighbours,

more insects, and the endless rain.

My mother twisted through and through,

groaning on a mat.

My father, sceptic, rationalist,

trying every curse and blessing,

powder, mixture, herb and hybrid.

He even poured a little paraffin

upon the bitten toe and put a match to it.

I watched the flame feeding on my mother.

I watched the holy man perform his rites to tame the poison with an incantation.

After twenty hours

it lost its sting.

My mother only said

Thank God the scorpion picked on me

And spared my children.

My Bank Account  :  Stephen Leacock

"My Bank Account" is a humorous story written by Mr. Stephen Leacock. He has been a professor of political science at McGill University in Montral, Canada. He is better known for his humorous writings and short. His short stories make a very interesting reading. Professor Stephen Leacock was a famous humorous writer. He could never have been nervous. Actually he has invented the story, like other story writer to amuse his readers.

Summary.

In this story the author is the central figure. He says that he was always afraid of a bank. As he went there, he got frightened to see the clerks doing their work, the furniture of the bank, the sight of the money, etc. When he passed through the doors of a bank, he became an irresponsible fool. When his salary was raised to fifty (50) dollars a month, he thought that the bank was a right place for it. So he decided to open an account and save some money.            Unfortunately he had never before gone to a bank, nor had he ever heard about a method of opening a bank account. 

He walked in the bank unsteadily and asked the accountant if he could see the manager in private. His request was complied with. The manager took him to a private room believing that he was a detective or a rich man. But when he told the manager that he wanted to open an account with only fifty-six (56) dollars at present and then fifty dollars (50) a month regularly, his attitude at once changed.

The manager sent him back to the accountant. This thing put the author in a fix. He was much surprised to find people looking at him in a mocking way. As soon as his account was opened and he got his cheque book. He was too upset now.

He wanted to withdraw only six (6) dollars for his present expenses but he wrote a cheque for fifty-six (56) dollars which was the whole amount of his deposit. The clerk was surprised and asked him if he was drawing it all out again. He realized his mistake but he was so miserable that he made a decision carelessly. He answered in affirmative. He could not explain it that he had written the amount by oversight.

The author tried to hide his foolishness by behaving as if he had been insulted by some of the bank employees. All the clerks were amazed and stopped writing.

He got back all his money and his account was closed. As he walked out of the bank, he heard a big roar of laughter from behind the door. Since then he used a bank no more. He kept his money in his pocket and his savings in silver dollars in a sock.

God sees the truth but waits                          Leo Tostoy.

God Sees the Truth, But Waits

In the town of Vladimir lived a young merchant named Ivan Dmitrich Aksionov. He had two shops and a house of his own.

Aksionov was a handsome, fair-haired, curly-headed fellow, full of fun, and very fond of singing. When quite a young man he had been given to drink, and was riotous when he had had too much; but after he married he gave up drinking, except now and then.

One summer Aksionov was going to the Nizhny Fair, and as he bade good-bye to his family, his wife said to him, "Ivan Dmitrich, do not start to-day; I have had a bad dream about you."

Aksionov laughed, and said, "You are afraid that when I get to the fair I shall go on a spree."

His wife replied: "I do not know what I am afraid of; all I know is that I had a bad dream. I dreamt you returned from the town, and when you took off your cap I saw that your hair was quite grey."

Aksionov laughed. "That's a lucky sign," said he. "See if I don't sell out all my goods, and bring you some presents from the fair."

So he said good-bye to his family, and drove away.

When he had travelled half-way, he met a merchant whom he knew, and they put up at the same inn for the night. They had some tea together, and then went to bed in adjoining rooms.

It was not Aksionov's habit to sleep late, and, wishing to travel while it was still cool, he aroused his driver before dawn, and told him to put in the horses.

Then he made his way across to the landlord of the inn (who lived in a cottage at the back), paid his bill, and continued his journey.

When he had gone about twenty-five miles, he stopped for the horses to be fed. Aksionov rested awhile in the passage of the inn, then he stepped out into the porch, and, ordering a samovar to be heated, got out his guitar and began to play.

Suddenly a troika drove up with tinkling bells and an official alighted, followed by two soldiers. He came to Aksionov and began to question him, asking him who he was and whence he came. Aksionov answered him fully, and said, "Won't you have some tea with me?" But the official went on cross-questioning him and asking him. "Where did you spend last night? Were you alone, or with a fellow-merchant? Did you see the other merchant this morning? Why did you leave the inn before dawn?"

Aksionov wondered why he was asked all these questions, but he described all that had happened, and then added, "Why do you cross-question me as if I were a thief or a robber? I am travelling on business of my own, and there is no need to question me."

Then the official, calling the soldiers, said, "I am the police-officer of this district, and I question you because the merchant with whom you spent last night has been found with his throat cut. We must search your things."

They entered the house. The soldiers and the police-officer unstrapped Aksionov's luggage and searched it. Suddenly the officer drew a knife out of a bag, crying, "Whose knife is this?"

Aksionov looked, and seeing a blood-stained knife taken from his bag, he was frightened.

"How is it there is blood on this knife?"

Aksionov tried to answer, but could hardly utter a word, and only stammered: "I--don't know--not mine." Then the police-officer said: "This morning the merchant was found in bed with his throat cut. You are the only person who could have done it. The house was locked from inside, and no one else was there. Here is this blood-stained knife in your bag and your face and manner betray you! Tell me how you killed him, and how much money you stole?"

Aksionov swore he had not done it; that he had not seen the merchant after they had had tea together; that he had no money except eight thousand rubles of his own, and that the knife was not his. But his voice was broken, his face pale, and he trembled with fear as though he went guilty.

The police-officer ordered the soldiers to bind Aksionov and to put him in the cart. As they tied his feet together and flung him into the cart, Aksionov crossed himself and wept. His money and goods were taken from him, and he was sent to the nearest town and imprisoned there. Enquiries as to his character were made in Vladimir. The merchants and other inhabitants of that town said that in former days he used to drink and waste his time, but that he was a good man. Then the trial came on: he was charged with murdering a merchant from Ryazan, and robbing him of twenty thousand rubles.

His wife was in despair, and did not know what to believe. Her children were all quite small; one was a baby at her breast. Taking them all with her, she went to the town where her husband was in jail. At first she was not allowed to see him; but after much begging, she obtained permission from the officials, and was taken to him. When she saw her husband in prison-dress and in chains, shut up with thieves and criminals, she fell down, and did not come to her senses for a long time. Then she drew her children to her, and sat down near him. She told him of things at home, and asked about what had happened to him. He told her all, and she asked, "What can we do now?"

"We must petition the Czar not to let an innocent man perish."

His wife told him that she had sent a petition to the Czar, but it had not been accepted.

Aksionov did not reply, but only looked downcast.

Then his wife said, "It was not for nothing I dreamt your hair had turned grey. You remember? You should not have started that day." And passing her fingers through his hair, she said: "Vanya dearest, tell your wife the truth; was it not you who did it?"

"So you, too, suspect me!" said Aksionov, and, hiding his face in his hands, he began to weep. Then a soldier came to say that the wife and children must go away; and Aksionov said good-bye to his family for the last time.

When they were gone, Aksionov recalled what had been said, and when he remembered that his wife also had suspected him, he said to himself, "It seems that only God can know the truth; it is to Him alone we must appeal, and from Him alone expect mercy."

And Aksionov wrote no more petitions; gave up all hope, and only prayed to God.

Aksionov was condemned to be flogged and sent to the mines. So he was flogged with a knot, and when the wounds made by the knot were healed, he was driven to Siberia with other convicts.

For twenty-six years Aksionov lived as a convict in Siberia. His hair turned white as snow, and his beard grew long, thin, and grey. All his mirth went; he stooped; he walked slowly, spoke little, and never laughed, but he often prayed.

In prison Aksionov learnt to make boots, and earned a little money, with which he bought The Lives of the Saints. He read this book when there was light enough in the prison; and on Sundays in the prison-church he read the lessons and sang in the choir; for his voice was still good.

The prison authorities liked Aksionov for his meekness, and his fellow-prisoners respected him: they called him "Grandfather," and "The Saint." When they wanted to petition the prison authorities about anything, they always made Aksionov their spokesman, and when there were quarrels among the prisoners they came to him to put things right, and to judge the matter.

No news reached Aksionov from his home, and he did not even know if his wife and children were still alive.

One day a fresh gang of convicts came to the prison. In the evening the old prisoners collected round the new ones and asked them what towns or villages they came from, and what they were sentenced for. Among the rest Aksionov sat down near the newcomers, and listened with downcast air to what was said.

One of the new convicts, a tall, strong man of sixty, with a closely-cropped grey beard, was telling the others what be had been arrested for.

"Well, friends," he said, "I only took a horse that was tied to a sledge, and I was arrested and accused of stealing. I said I had only taken it to get home quicker, and had then let it go; besides, the driver was a personal friend of mine. So I said, 'It's all right.' 'No,' said they, 'you stole it.' But how or where I stole it they could not say. I once really did something wrong, and ought by rights to have come here long ago, but that time I was not found out. Now I have been sent here for nothing at all... Eh, but it's lies I'm telling you; I've been to Siberia before, but I did not stay long."

"Where are you from?" asked some one.

"From Vladimir. My family are of that town. My name is Makar, and they also call me Semyonich."

Aksionov raised his head and said: "Tell me, Semyonich, do you know anything of the merchants Aksionov of Vladimir? Are they still alive?"

"Know them? Of course I do. The Aksionovs are rich, though their father is in Siberia: a sinner like ourselves, it seems! As for you, Gran'dad, how did you come here?"

Aksionov did not like to speak of his misfortune. He only sighed, and said, "For my sins I have been in prison these twenty-six years."

"What sins?" asked Makar Semyonich.

But Aksionov only said, "Well, well--I must have deserved it!" He would have said no more, but his companions told the newcomers how Aksionov came to be in Siberia; how some one had killed a merchant, and had put the knife among Aksionov's things, and Aksionov had been unjustly condemned.

When Makar Semyonich heard this, he looked at Aksionov, slapped his own knee, and exclaimed, "Well, this is wonderful! Really wonderful! But how old you've grown, Gran'dad!"

The others asked him why he was so surprised, and where he had seen Aksionov before; but Makar Semyonich did not reply. He only said: "It's wonderful that we should meet here, lads!"

These words made Aksionov wonder whether this man knew who had killed the merchant; so he said, "Perhaps, Semyonich, you have heard of that affair, or maybe you've seen me before?"

"How could I help hearing? The world's full of rumours. But it's a long time ago, and I've forgotten what I heard."

"Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant?" asked Aksionov.

Makar Semyonich laughed, and replied: "It must have been him in whose bag the knife was found! If some one else hid the knife there, 'He's not a thief till he's caught,' as the saying is. How could any one put a knife into your bag while it was under your head? It would surely have woke you up."

When Aksionov heard these words, he felt sure this was the man who had killed the merchant. He rose and went away. All that night Aksionov lay awake. He felt terribly unhappy, and all sorts of images rose in his mind. There was the image of his wife as she was when he parted from her to go to the fair. He saw her as if she were present; her face and her eyes rose before him; he heard her speak and laugh. Then he saw his children, quite little, as they: were at that time: one with a little cloak on, another at his mother's breast. And then he remembered himself as he used to be-young and merry. He remembered how he sat playing the guitar in the porch of the inn where he was arrested, and how free from care he had been. He saw, in his mind, the place where he was flogged, the executioner, and the people standing around; the chains, the convicts, all the twenty-six years of his prison life, and his premature old age. The thought of it all made him so wretched that he was ready to kill himself.

"And it's all that villain's doing!" thought Aksionov. And his anger was so great against Makar Semyonich that he longed for vengeance, even if he himself should perish for it. He kept repeating prayers all night, but could get no peace. During the day he did not go near Makar Semyonich, nor even look at him.

A fortnight passed in this way. Aksionov could not sleep at night, and was so miserable that he did not know what to do.

One night as he was walking about the prison he noticed some earth that came rolling out from under one of the shelves on which the prisoners slept. He stopped to see what it was. Suddenly Makar Semyonich crept out from under the shelf, and looked up at Aksionov with frightened face. Aksionov tried to pass without looking at him, but Makar seized his hand and told him that he had dug a hole under the wall, getting rid of the earth by putting it into his high-boots, and emptying it out every day on the road when the prisoners were driven to their work.

"Just you keep quiet, old man, and you shall get out too. If you blab, they'll flog the life out of me, but I will kill you first."

Aksionov trembled with anger as he looked at his enemy. He drew his hand away, saying, "I have no wish to escape, and you have no need to kill me; you killed me long ago! As to telling of you--I may do so or not, as God shall direct."

Next day, when the convicts were led out to work, the convoy soldiers noticed that one or other of the prisoners emptied some earth out of his boots. The prison was searched and the tunnel found. The Governor came and questioned all the prisoners to find out who had dug the hole. They all denied any knowledge of it. Those who knew would not betray Makar Semyonich, knowing he would be flogged almost to death. At last the Governor turned to Aksionov whom he knew to be a just man, and said:

"You are a truthful old man; tell me, before God, who dug the hole?"

Makar Semyonich stood as if he were quite unconcerned, looking at the Governor and not so much as glancing at Aksionov. Aksionov's lips and hands trembled, and for a long time he could not utter a word. He thought, "Why should I screen him who ruined my life? Let him pay for what I have suffered. But if I tell, they will probably flog the life out of him, and maybe I suspect him wrongly. And, after all, what good would it be to me?"

"Well, old man," repeated the Governor, "tell me the truth: who has been digging under the wall?"

Aksionov glanced at Makar Semyonich, and said, "I cannot say, your honour. It is not God's will that I should tell! Do what you like with me; I am your hands."

However much the Governor! tried, Aksionov would say no more, and so the matter had to be left.

That night, when Aksionov was lying on his bed and just beginning to doze, some one came quietly and sat down on his bed. He peered through the darkness and recognised Makar.

"What more do you want of me?" asked Aksionov. "Why have you come here?"

Makar Semyonich was silent. So Aksionov sat up and said, "What do you want? Go away, or I will call the guard!"

Makar Semyonich bent close over Aksionov, and whispered, "Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!"

"What for?" asked Aksionov.

"It was I who killed the merchant and hid the knife among your things. I meant to kill you too, but I heard a noise outside, so I hid the knife in your bag and escaped out of the window."

Aksionov was silent, and did not know what to say. Makar Semyonich slid off the bed-shelf and knelt upon the ground. "Ivan Dmitrich," said he, "forgive me! For the love of God, forgive me! I will confess that it was I who killed the merchant, and you will be released and can go to your home."

"It is easy for you to talk," said Aksionov, "but I have suffered for you these twenty-six years. Where could I go to now?... My wife is dead, and my children have forgotten me. I have nowhere to go..."

Makar Semyonich did not rise, but beat his head on the floor. "Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!" he cried. "When they flogged me with the knot it was not so hard to bear as it is to see you now ... yet you had pity on me, and did not tell. For Christ's sake forgive me, wretch that I am!" And he began to sob.

When Aksionov heard him sobbing he, too, began to weep. "God will forgive you!" said he. "Maybe I am a hundred times worse than you." And at these words his heart grew light, and the longing for home left him. He no longer had any desire to leave the prison, but only hoped for his last hour to come.

In spite of what Aksionov had said, Makar Semyonich confessed, his guilt. But when the order for his release came, Aksionov was already dead.

Idgah     :  By premchand   Translated by Khushwant Singh. 

IDGAH

FESTIVAL OF EID

Premchand

Translator Kush want Singh

A full thirty days after Ramadan comes Eid. How wonderful and beautiful

is the morning of Eid! The trees look greener, the field more festive, the sky

has a lovely pink glow. Look at the sun! It comes up brighter and more

dazzling than before to wish the world a very happy Eid. The village is agog

with excitement. Everyone is up early to go to the Eidgah mosque. One finds

a button missing from his shirt and is hurrying to his neighbour's house for

thread and needle. Another finds that the leather of his shoes has become

hard and is running to the oil-press for oil to grease it. They are dumping

fodder before their oxen because by the time they get back from the Eidgah

it may be late afternoon. It is a good three miles from the village. There will

also be hundreds of people to greet and chat with; they would certainly not

be finished before midday.

The boys are more excited than the others. Some of them kept only one

fast— and that only till noon. Some didn't even do that. But no one can deny

them the joy of going to the Eidgah. Fasting is for the grown-ups and the

aged. For the boys it is only the day of Eid. They have been talking about it

all the time. At long last the day has come. And now they are impatient with

people for not hurrying up. They have no concern with things that have to be

done. They are not bothered whether or not there is enough milk and sugar

for the vermicelli pudding. All they want is to eat the pudding. They have no

idea why Abbajan is out of breath running to the house of Chaudhri Karim

Ali. They don't know that if the Chaudhri were to change his mind he could

turn the festive day of Eid into a day of mourning. Their pockets bulge with

coins like the stomach of the pot-bellied Kubera, the Hindu God of Wealth.

They are forever taking the treasure out of their pockets, counting and

recounting it before putting it back. Mahmood counts "One, two, ten,

twelve"— he has twelve pice. Mohsin has "One, two, three, eight, nine,

fifteen" pice. Out of this countless hoard they will buy countless things: toys,

sweets, paper-pipes, rubber balls— and much else.

The happiest of the boys is Hamid. He is only four; poorly dressed, thin

and famished-looking. His father died last year of cholera. Then his mother

wasted away and, without anyone finding out what had ailed her she also

died. Now Hamid sleeps in Granny Ameena's lap and is as happy as a lark.

She tells him that his father has gone to earn money and will return with

sack loads of silver. And that his mother has gone to Allah to get lovely gifts

for him. This makes Hamid very happy. It is great to live on hope; for a

child there is nothing like hope. A child's imagination can turn a mustard

seed into a mountain. Hamid has no shoes on his feet; the cap on his head is

soiled and tattered; its gold thread has turned black. Nevertheless Hamid is

happy. He knows that when his father comes back with sacks full of silver

and his mother with gifts from Allah he will be able to fulfil all his heart's

desires. Then he will have more than Mahmood, Mohsin, Noorey and Sammi.

 In her hovel the unfortunate Ameena sheds bitter tears. It is Eid and she

does not have even a handful of grain. Only if her Abid were there, it would

have been a different kind of Eid !

Hamid goes to his grandmother and says, "Granny, don’t you fret over me!

 I will be the first to get back. Don't worry!"

 Ameena is sad. Other boys are going out with their fathers. She is the only

'father' Hamid has. How can she let him go to the fair all by himself? What if

he gets lost in the crowd? No, she must not lose her precious little soul! How

can he walk three miles? He doesn't even have a pair of shoes. He will get

blisters on his feet. If she went along with him she could pick him up now

and then. But then who would be there to cook the vermicelli? If only she

had the money she could have bought the ingredients on the way back and

quickly made the pudding. In the village it would take her many hours to get

everything. The only way out was to ask someone for them.

 The villagers leave in one party. With the boys is Hamid. They run on

ahead of the elders and wait for them under a tree. Why do the oldies drag

their feet? And Hamid is like one with wings on his feet. How could anyone

think he would get tired?

They reach the suburbs of the town. On both sides of the road are

mansions of the rich enclosed all around by thick, high walls. In the gardens

mango and leechee trees are laden with fruit. A boy hurls a stone at a mango

tree. The gardener rushes out screaming abuses at them. By then the boys are

furlongs out of his reach and roaring with laughter. What a silly ass they

make of the gardener!

 Then come big buildings: the law courts, the college and the club. How

many boys would there be in this big college? No sir, they are not all boys!

Some are grown-up men. They sport enormous moustaches. What are such

grown-up men going on studying for? How long will they go on doing so?

What will they do with all their knowledge? There are only two or three

grown-up boys in Hamid's school. Absolute duds they are too! They get a

thrashing every day because they do not work at all. These college fellows

must be the same type— why else should they be there ! And the Masonic

Lodge. They perform magic there. It is rumoured that they make human

skulls move about and do other kinds of weird things. No wonder they don't

let in outsiders! And the white folk play games in the evenings. Grown-up

men, men with moustaches and beards playing games ! And not only they,

but even their Memsahibs! That's the honest truth! You give my Granny that

something they call a racket; she wouldn't know how to hold it. And if she

tried to wave it about she would collapse.

 Mahmood says, “My mother's hands would shake; I swear by Allah they

would!"

 Mohsin says, "Mine can grind maunders of grain. Her hand would never

shake holding a miserable racket. She draws hundreds of pitchers full of

water from the well every day. My buffalo drinks up five pitchers. If a

Memsahib had to draw one pitcher, she would go blue in the face."

 Mahmood interrupts, “But your mother couldn’t run and leap about, could she?"

 "That's right," replies Mohsin, "she couldn't leap or jump. But one day our

cow got loose and began grazing in the Chaudhri's fields. My mother ran so

fast after it that I couldn't catch up with her. Honest to God, I could not!"

 So we proceed to the stores of the sweet-meat vendors. All so gaily

decorated! Who can eat all these delicacies? Just look! Every store has them

piled up in mountain heaps.

They say that after 1 1 nightfall, Jinns come and buy up everything. "My

Abba says that at midnight there is a Jinn at every stall. He has all that

remains weighed and pays in real rupees, just the sort of rupees we have,"

says Mohsin.

 Hamid is not convinced. "Where would the Jinns come by rupees?"

 "Jinns are never short of money," replies Mohsin. "They can get into any

treasury they want. Mister, don't you know no iron bars can stop them? They

have all the diamonds and rubies they want. If they are pleased with anyone

they will give him baskets full of diamonds. They are here one moment and

five minutes later they can be in Calcutta."

Hamid asks again, “Are these Jinns very big?"

 "Each one is as big as the sky," asserts Mohsin. "He has his feet on the

ground, his head touches the sky. But if he so wanted, he could get into a

tiny brass pot.

 "How do people make Jinns happy?" asks Hamid. "If anyone taught me

the secret, I would make at least one Jinn happy with me."

 "I do not know," replies Mohsin, "but the Chaudhri Sahib has a lot of Jinns

under his control. If anything is stolen, he can trace it and even tell you the

name of the thief. Jinns tell him everything that is going on in the world."

 Hamid understands how Chaudhri Sahib has come by his wealth and why

people hold him in so much respect. It begins to get crowded. Parties

heading for the Eidgah are coming into town from different sides— each one

dressed better than the other. Some on tongas and ekkas, some in motorcars.

All wearing perfume; all bursting with excitement.

 Our small party of village rustics is not bothered about the poor show they

make. They are a calm, contented lot.

 For village children everything in the town is strange. Whatever catches

their eye, they stand and gape at it with wonder. Cars hoot frantically to get

them out of the way, but they couldn't care less. Hamid is nearly run over by

a car.