8/22/2019 The Mountain Trail http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/the-mountain-trail 1/57 The Mountain Trail A Collection Of Stories These are 42 timeless tales of inspiring wisdom. They are stories of life, love and learning. They open our heart, rekindle our spirits and buoy our emotions. They are a tribute to life and humanity. Many stories will leave the reader with a feeling of tenderness and a moistness in the eye. The Mountain Trail is the inspiring story of a blind boy who feels he is no good. Then one day in 1857, as the British launch a fierce attack on the troops of Tantia Tope, this little boy, unmindful of the risks, leads the forces of the latter up a hill. This changes the course of the battle. I’ll Always Be There, Run, Pammi, Run, No Greater Friendship, Two War Heroes, and many other’s are stories of courage, love and compassion. The Cripple Who Became a Champion and Overcoming Difficulties are stories of people with no hope; yet by sheer hard work and perseverance, they achieve what they sought. Man at His Best exemplifies the spirit of this book- Man is basically good. With topics ranging from the emotional to bravery, these heart warming stories invite you to enjoy the book in whatever way you feel most comforting and appealing…. These stories will make you realize that in your life, there is always room for more love, more sharing, more wisdom, more inspiration and of course more Mountain Trails. Contents Preface The Mountain Trail The Cripple Who Became A Champion Dinner Table University I’ll Always Be ThereMan at His Best
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These are 42 timeless tales of inspiring wisdom. They are stories of life, love and learning. They open
our heart, rekindle our spirits and buoy our emotions. They are a tribute to life and humanity. Many
stories will leave the reader with a feeling of tenderness and a moistness in the eye.
The Mountain Trail is the inspiring story of a blind boy who feels he is no good. Then one day in
1857, as the British launch a fierce attack on the troops of Tantia Tope, this little boy, unmindful of
the risks, leads the forces of the latter up a hill. This changes the course of the battle.
I’ll Always Be There, Run, Pammi, Run, No Greater Friendship, Two War Heroes, and many other’s
are stories of courage, love and compassion. The Cripple Who Became a Champion and Overcoming
Difficulties are stories of people with no hope; yet by sheer hard work and perseverance, they
achieve what they sought. Man at His Best exemplifies the spirit of this book- Man is basically good.
With topics ranging from the emotional to bravery, these heart warming stories invite you to enjoythe book in whatever way you feel most comforting and appealing…. These stories will make you
realize that in your life, there is always room for more love, more sharing, more wisdom, more
Later he asked: “Tell me what you see amma? Can you still see the mountain where I used to
graze my goats?”
When they reached there, his grandfather had gone—everyone, all the old men and the boysas well. Sukhram alone was left. There was nothing to do but wait.
Day after day it was the same, never any news. Sukhram was finding his way about his
grandfather’s farm better now, but it was not home. He did not belong here.
One day some soldiers passed, tired men on tired horses. Sukhram listened. The shuffling of
the horses, the sweaty smell of men, told him all that he needed to know.
“Have you seen my father or my brother?” he asked.
“Who are you?”
“I am Sukhram Lodhi,” he said. “I am blind. My father is with Tantia Tope’s army.”
“We are joining Tantia Tope. We will tell him we have seen you.”
Shortly he heard more horses coming. But these were not the horses of his people. They were
heavier and were not being ridden loose reined.
He could hear the jingling of chains, the strike of metal on metal. These were English. They
must be in pursuit of the tired men who had passed him earlier.
“Have you seen some soldiers pass, boy?” It was the man on the nearest horse, no doubt the
officer in command.
“I have been out all day,” Sukhram replied. “I have seen nothing.”
attack them tonight but there is only one path from this side. It is very small, a goat track, and the
night is so dark that we can do nothing. Your brother said you could lead us up the mountain.”
“Me. Lead Tantia Tope’s army?”
“Yes, you, Sukhram,” his brother said. “You know the path.”
“Yes, I know the path.” Of course. Had he not been up it almost every day of his life?”
They set his feet on the path where it began. His father was behind him; then came Rajbir, andthen the others, a long life of men on his goat trail, all following him up his mountain. He was leading
the soldiers.
His feet knew each stone and root, each bend, each rock. He recognized the scents of the
mountain, the trees, the little breezes, the small eddies of air----here it was warmer, there it was
colder.
“This is a trail for goats,” his father whispered. “I never knew you came up here. I would never
have let you come. If you slipped…"
“I’ll not slip. It is my mountain trail.”
He laughed to himself. Perhaps it was as well it was dark. Had there been more light, perhaps
the men would not have climbed. But they could not see. Among them all, because he was blind,only Sukhram Lodhi could see.
“We are nearly there father,” he said as he came to the face of a cliff. He felt for a finger hold
in the wet rock and command to climb. Soon he and his father were on the top. Man after man
passed, breathing heavily. There had been no challenge. Tantai Tope whispered instructions. The
Sukhram’s father pushed him behind a big stone. “Stay there, Sukhram. We’ll come back for
you.”
He must wait now. He could feel them leaving him------feel them creeping towards a camp of sleeping men.
There was a shout and then another. Then everyone was shouting and shooting. There were
cries from the wounded. Shots and more shots, a hoarse cheer from Tantia Tope’s men and the
shout: “They are running!”
There was a terrific burst of fire. Sukhram could smell burning cordite. A single shot and thennothing till he heard his father call him. “Sukhram, are you there?”
“I am here.”
Someone took his hand. It was Tantai Tope. “I want to thank you,” he said. “Without you this
could not have been done, and had it been a fair night, I do not think it could have been done. I do
not think we would have faced that climb had we been able to see.”
They were all around him now, pressing against him and taking his hand. They had tears in
their eyes. “If it had not been for you…”
“They will make songs of this,” an old man said. “Ballads of Sukhram Lodhi in our local
‘bundeli’ dialect. It was the will of God that you should lead us up the mountain trail.”
Yes, it must have been the will of God that had guided his feet in unaccustomed places, for he
had never been up to the top of the mountain before. His goats had been----he knew that, for he
could feel their foothold in the rocks. But Sukhram had never been. He had never dared. Not to the
But the next morning, Ajay’s resolve melted like an icicle in sunshine. At noon, as he was about
to go home, Mrs. Kumar suddenly appeared beside him in the verandah of the school. “Come with
me, Ajay.” Ajay followed, thinking they were going to the Principal’s office.
Mrs. Kumar walked briskly out of the school, and strode into a shoe shop with Ajay right
behind her. “Sit down,” she told him.
“Have you got a pair of shoes to fit this little boy?” she asked. The salesman took off his
tattered tennis shoes and measured his feet. He found a pair of shoes that fitted Ajay perfectly.
Outside, their purchase in a cardboard box, Ajay started back towards school. Without a word,Mrs. Kumar turned around in the other direction, again leaving him no choice but to follow. They
entered a clothing store. Now Mrs. Kumar bought him a shirt and shorts. Ajay gaped at the notes she
used to pay for them—it was more money than he had ever seen. They took the purchases and went
back to school where Mrs. Kumar got two cups of tea for Ajay and herself.
As they sat in the staff room, Ajay tried to find words to express his thanks. But Mrs. Kumar’s
quick gulps and hur-ried manner told him there was little time for talk. “We must go, Ajay,” she said.
In her smile he again saw the serenity he treasured.
I will never forget this, Ajay Prasad said to himself as he watched her saree flutter as she left.
Soon after, the school was closed; its pupils and teachers were scattered. Ajay lost track of his
beloved teacher before he had ever found the right moment to thank her.
In time Ajay Prasad finished school and became an engineer. He married and fathered two
boys.
Then, in early 1991, Ajay suffered a massive heart attack. Lying in a hospital bed, he recalled
his teacher of long ago.
He wondered if she was still alive, and if so, where she lived. He thought of his promise, and
met him at the door in her best saree, her grey hair freshly curled, her eyes sparkling. Ajay swept her
up in his arms and hugged her. “Oh my Ajay,” Mrs. Kumar ex-claimed.
They sat in the Kumar’s drawing-room to catch up on forty years. Ajay told them about his lifeas an engineer, where all he worked, his wife and his two children. “I often thought about you, those
shoes and the clothes,” he said to Mrs. Kumar.
As he was leaving Sheila Kumar said, “How can I ever thank you for all the trouble you’ve
taken?”
“Just think how much interest I owe you for the shoes and clothes,” Ajay squeezed her hand.Mrs. Kumar, eyes misty, stood a long time looking at the long stemmed roses in the flower vase.
Their fragrance lingered for a long time in the room.
1. Verandah: a covered portico with the roof projecting beyond the main building.
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No Greater Friendship
The terrorist bomb exploded in an orphanage run by a missionary group in the small Assamese
village.
The missionaries and one or two children were killed outright and several more children werewounded, including one young girl, about eight years old.
People from the village requested medical help from a neighbouring town that had radio
contact with the Indian army. Finally, an army doctor, a Tamilian and a Malayan' nurse arrived in a
jeep with only their medical kits. They realized that the girl was the most critically injured. Without
quick action she would die of shock and loss of blood.
A transfusion was imperative and a donor with a matching blood type was required. A quick
test showed that neither of the army persons had the correct type but several of the uninjured
orphans did.
The doctor and the nurse spoke some pidgin Assamese. Using that combination, together with
much impromptu sign language, they tried to explain to their young, frightened audience that unless
they could replace some of the girl's lost blood, she would certainly die. Then they asked if anyone
would be willing to give blood !
Their request was met with wide-eyed silence. After several long moments, a small hand was
slowly and waveringly raised.
"Oh, thank you," the nurse said in English. "What is your name?”
"Dev Kant", came the reply. Dev Kant was quickly laid on a pallet, his arm swabbed with
alcohol and a needle inserted in his vein. Through this ordeal Dev Kant lay stiff and silent.
After a moment he let out a shuddering sob, quickly covering his face with his free hand.
"Is it hurting Dev Kant?" the doctor asked. Dev Kant shook his head but after a few moments
another sob escaped and once more he tried to cover up his crying. Again the doctor asked him if
the needle hurt and again Dev Kant shook his head. But now his occasional sobs gave way to a
steady, silent crying, his eyes screwed tightly shut, his fist in his mouth to stifle his sobs.
The medical team was concerned. Something was obviously very wrong. At this point a nurseknowing Assamese arrived in another jeep to help. Seeing the little one's distress she spoke to him in
Assamese, listened to his reply and answered him in a soothing voice.
After a moment the patient stopped crying and looked questioningly at the Assamese
speaking nurse. When she nodded, a look of great relief spread over his face.
Glancing up, the nurse said quietly to the doctor, "He thought he was dying. He misunderstood
you. He thought you had asked him to give all his blood so the little girl could live."
"But why would he be willing to do that?" asked the doctor. The Assamese speaking nurse repeated
the question to the little boy who answered simply, "She's my friend."
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A Boy’s Love for a Sparrow
High above the earth on its giant lattic towers, the power line strode across the flat andunchanging countryside until it dis-appeared. One of the great pylons was near his father’s hut in a
square patch fenced off with barbed wire. Warning plates in red paint said in two languages.
‘Danger!’ And there was a huge figure of volts, thousands of volts. Hira Lal was eleven and he knew
volts were electricity and the line took power far across the country.
Hira Lal filled the empty spaces in his life by imagining things and the power line took his
thoughts away into a magical distance, far off among tall buildings and bustling towns. That was
where the world opened up. Hira Lal loved the power line dearly. It made a door through thedistance for his thoughts.
On clear evenings when the sparrows gathered he would see the wires like necklaces of glass
beads. He loved to hear the birds making excited twittering sounds; he loved to see how they fell off
the aluminium wire into space. The birds could fly anywhere they wanted and they opened another
door for him. He liked them too, very much.
He watched the sparrows one morning taking off and occasionally coming back on the power
lines. One of the sparrows, however got entrapped, hanging there flapping its wings. Hira Lal saw it
was caught by its leg. He wondered how it could have got caught, may be in the wire binding or at a
joint. He wanted to rush and tell his mother, but she would scold him for being late for school. So he
climbed on his bicycle and rode off to school.
Coming back from school he felt anxious but did not look up until he was quite near. The
sparrow was still there, its wings spread but not moving. It was dead, he guessed. Then he saw it
flutter and fold its wings. He felt awful to think it had hung there all day.
“It’s going to hang there all night by its foot,” he said. His mother sighed and put out the light.
The next day was Sunday and he did not have to go to school. First thing, he looked out and the bird
was still there. He would rather have been at school instead of knowing all day that it was hanging
up there on the cruel wire.
The morning was very long though he did forget about the sparrow quite often. He was
building a mud house under a tree and he had to carry water and dig up the earth and mix it into a
stiff clay.
When he was coming in at midday, he had one more look and what he saw kept him standing
there a long time with his mouth open. Other sparrows were hovering around the trapped bird,
trying to help it. He rushed inside and dragged his mother out and she stood shading her eyes again.
“Yes, they’re trying to help the entangled bird. Isn’t that strange?” she said.
In the afternoon Hira Lal lay in the grass and felt choked thinking how they helped it and
nobody else would do anything. His parents would not even talk about it. With his keen eyes he
traced the way a climber could get up the tower. But if you did get up, what then? How could youtouch the sparrow? Just putting your hand near the wire, wouldn’t those thousands of volts jump at
you?
The only thing was to get somebody to turn off the power for a minute, then he could climb
the tower like a monkey. At dinner that night he suggested it and his father was as grim and angry as
he’d ever seen.
“Listen son,” his father said. “I don’t want you to get all worked up about that bird. You leave
it alone”.
Turning to his mother for support he said : “It’s only the other birds that’s keeping him alive.
When Malini Tambe came to teach at Greenfield School, Pune, it was the summer of her
twenty-fifth birthday and the summer when Deepak Pradhan would turn sixteen. She was the
teacher for whom all the children wanted to bring greeting cards and pink flowers. She was
stunningly beautiful. She was like the cool air on a hot June afternoon. And those few days in the
year when the climate was temperate, neither cold nor hot, those were the days when everybodyfelt were the days which looked like Malini Tambe.
The first morning when Miss Tambe entered and wrote her name on the blackboard, the
school-room seemed suddenly flooded with illumination. Deepak sat with a wad of paper for
throwing, hidden in his hand, but let it droop. After class, he brought in a sponge and began to clean
the blackboard.
“What’s this?” She turned to him from her desk, where she had been correcting spelling
papers.
“The blackboard is dirty, I thought I’ll help. But then, I suppose, I should have asked
permission,” he said haltingly.
“I think we can pretend you did.” she replied smiling, and at the smile he finished clearing in aburst of speed and pressed the sponge so furiously that the air was full of dust.
The next morning he passed by the place where she lived just as she was coming out to walk
moved his arm high on the blackboard, sponging away the arithmetic symbols, she found herself
glanced over at him for seconds at a time.
Then one Sunday morning he was standing in the park lake with his trousers rolled up to hisknees, bending to catch fish, when he looked up and saw her.
“Well, here I am,” she said, laughing.
“Thanks for coming,” he said. “I’m so glad.”
“Show me the fish,” she said.
They sat next to the lake with a cool wind blowing softly about them, fluttering her hair and
the ruffle on her saree and he sat a few meters away from her.
“I never thought I’d enjoy an outing like this so much,” she said.
“I’m so happy you came Ma’am.”
They said little else during the afternoon.
That was about all there was to the meeting of Miss Malini Tambe and Deepak Pradhan; long
hours of sitting and staring into the sky, a copy of Kipling and a dozen fish.
The next Monday, though Deepak walked a long time, Miss Tambe did not come out to walk to
school. She had gone on ahead. That afternoon, she left early with a headache.
But on Tuesday after school, they were both in the class room again—he sponging the board
constantly, and she working on her papers in peace, when suddenly the clock chimed five.
“No, she never did. In the last few months before she died, she looked rather sad and forlorn.”
Later in the day the people in the locality saw Deepak Pradhan’s wife strolling to meet him.
She was like the cool air on a hot June afternoon. And those few days in the year when the climate
was temperate, neither cold nor hot, those were the days when everybody felt were the days which
looked like Deepak Pradhan’s wife.
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Little Steps in Stride
The family council was in an uproar. No two were of the same opinion. Or, rather they all
were, and yet…
They wanted the best for their parents, no doubt about that. They had always been good
children – not a black sheep in the bunch. They knew very well how Sharad and Usha Manjrekar
strived to assure the health and well being of their five children – three brothers and two sisters...
their home had been a model from the start.
Of course, the children would not understand the beginnings- the parent’s love for each other.The parents said they fell in love when they were eight and six years old in a school. The children
could not believe it. How could one fall in love so early in life?
The old man, when he was not yet old, would say, “No none of you can ever compare to your
mother.”
The girls would listen attentively. They saw emerging before them a wonderful mother,worthy of all compliments, made of equal parts of the real woman who moved around them,
The parent’s weren’t happy. Why could they not be left alone? Why could they not die
together?
Nonsense! They were not talking about dying. The idea was to live better, to get them awayfrom the damp, miserable house, a she had asthma. The eldest son’s young family could stand the
dampness but not their parents. How ridiculous for them to be talking about dying.
Finally, they had been convinced. During the first four months, father would go to the house of
the second son, a police inspector and the mother to the third, proof reader in a publishing
company. They were so much better off that way! A good roof over their heads, grandchildren and a
comfortable life. And no more housework. They had good reason to be happy. But they weren’t.
That was what was annoying them.
The children were sacrificing themselves for the parents, but they didn’t appreciate it. The old
man was sullen and silent; he didn’t involve himself in anything. She was even worse because she
didn’t know how to step aside since she was so used to giving orders.
Old people really get to be impossible, and the children had to muster all their patience to
deal with both of them.
And, as old people will, as frequently as possible, he would escape. They would meet at
whatever child’s house they had agreed on to confide their troubles to each other.
Each time they made a date for the next meeting or for the injection. He now had frequent
asthmatic cough, and the doctor had prescribed bi-weekly injections.
“Now, don’t let him give you the injection until I get there,” she would say. And it was all just
to hold his hand while the doctor gave the injection. But he would sit impatiently in the waiting-
room of the clinic, loving anxious to see her.
Every Sunday afternoon they were ready, waiting to go for the walk. “Be ready on time,” he
Roger’s love of sports grew and so did his self-confidence. But not every obstacle gave way to
Roger’s determination. Eating in the lunchroom with the other kids watching him fumble with his
food proved very painful to Roger, as did his repeated failure in typing c lass. “I learned a very good
lesson from typing class,” said Roger. “You can’t do everything — it’s better to concentrate on what
you can do.”
One thing Roger could do was swing a tennis racket. Unfortunately, when he swung it hard, his
weak grip usually launched it into space. By luck, Roger stumbled upon an odd-looking tennis racket
in a sports shop and accidentally wedged his finger between its double-barred handle when he
picked it up. The snug fit made it possible for Roger to swing, serve and volley like an able-bodied
player. He practiced every day and was soon playing—and losing—matches.
But Roger persisted. He practiced and practiced and played and played. Surgery on the two
fingers of his left hand enabled Roger to grip his special racket better, greatly improving his game.
Although he had no role models to guide him, Roger became obsessed with tennis and in time he
started to win.
Roger went on to play college tennis, finishing his tennis career with 22 wins and 11 losses. He
later became the first physically handicapped tennis player to be certified as a teaching professionalby the United States Professional Tennis Association.
“The only difference between you and me,” says Roger, “is that you can see my handicap, but I
can’t see yours. We all have them. When people ask me how I’ve been able to overcome my physical
handicaps, I tell them that I haven’t overcome anything. I’ve simply learned what I can’t do—such as
play the piano or eat with chopsticks—but more importantly, I’ve learned what I can do. Then I do
On the way down, they saw her again, walking with a group of elderly men and women who
addressed her as sister Vidya. When they caught up with her, sister Vidya asked, “your
grandchildren?” The descent was easy, especially with someone to talk to.
From then on, Mr. Parmar followed a new daily schedule. He got up early to join the group
mountain climbing, and then came down to see the grandchildren off to school. He met sister Vidya
almost every morning, and they gradually began to confide in each other. Knowing she was a widow
living with her daughter and son-in-law, he assumed that she also had family problems, and could
understand his.
“When they watch television, I never complain about being disturbed during my nap. Why
then should I be accused of disrupting the children’s sitar practice and homework when I want to
watch the television? It’s a good thing; I am not dependent on them. If I had to ask them for money,
I can’t imagine what the situation would be like.”
Sister Vidya was silent for quite for a while. “My daughter and her husband are good to me,”
she said. “But I don’t live on them for nothing. I never want people to look down on me.”
The rainy season arrived early that year, and it rained non-stop for days together. The hikers
disappeared. Mr. Parmar’s rheumatic pain recurred, giving him a severe backache and confining him
to a chair by the window, from where he listlessly watched the entrance to the path up the
mountain.
One day, he heard somebody calling him – sister Vidya?
He got up with difficulty, and opened the door to the house. She was laughing as she came in.
“Look at me! It wasn’t raining when I started out, so I didn’t carry an umbrella. But just as I got here,
it started to rain. So I decided to pay you a visit.”
Though his back was still aching, Mr. Parmar insisted that she stay for lunch. He as quite adeptat cooking certain special dishes, and sister Vidya raised them highly. Eating alone, Mr. Parmar has
lost interest in cooking, but now he extended her another invitation. In return, sister Vidya offered
to treat him to her style of cooking.
The two started having lunch together, once or twice a week. At first, Mr. Parmar told hisfamily about these meetings but gradually stopped bothering to mention them.
“Your father’s girl-friend came again today”.
“How do you know?”
“All the dishes are put back in the wrong place.”
The couple laughed, and Mr. Parmar found himself smiling as well. He hadn’t been aware they
were leaving such traces. “Do you think we are going to get a new mother?” his daughter-in-law
asked. “Grandmother Vidya and father are good for each other. An old person should have
companionship.”
Only then did the possibility of marrying sister Vidya crossed Mr. Parmar’s mind. Almost
seventy and married again? Seventy! So what?
But their luncheon dates were quietly discontinued before the rainy season was over. It was
sister Vidya’s turn to invite him, and she didn’t call. Obsessed with his secret thoughts, he did
nothing to get in touch.
Then one afternoon the rain stopped and all at once and there was radiant sunlight was
everywhere. Impulsively, Mr. Parmar picked up the phone and called sister Vidya. “People are going
up the mountain”, he lied. “Would you like to come for a stroll?”
She hesitated, but eventually agreed to meet him. After hanging up, he went to the bathroom
to shave. Looking into the mirror, he felt foolish – practically seventy and still excited over a date!
The sun had dropped behind the mountain and the path was shady and cool. After exchanging
greetings, the walked in silence. Suddenly sister Vidya tripped. He hurried to steady her. “Be
careful!” h1e said. “It’s slippery. Here take this stick.”
He felt weak without the support of his stick, and his backache was starting up again. “Getting
old,” he sighed. “It’s no good getting old without a companion.”
“My daughter said exactly the same thing,” sister Vidya said.
“Sister Vidya…..” he wanted to explain, but struggled in vain to find the proper words.
She turned to him and said, “listening to my daughter talk like that, I started to feel self -
conscious. That’s why I didn’t call you. You know Mrs. Negi, our neighbour? It was she who told my
daughter about us. All my life I have done nothing to make people talk about me. I am quite aware
of proper behaviour.”
“Let them wag their tongues! If we enjoy being together so be it. They can’t tell us what to
do.” He hadn’t intended to say so much, but since the opportunity has presented itself, he might aswell go on. “Sons and grandsons, they are my own flesh and blood, but our age difference makes it
difficult to communicate. I’ll be seventy this coming October. How many more years do we have?
What we need is companionship. Someone to talk to, go places with, or ask how we feel when we
are ill. We aren’t lovesick young people.”
He was getting a bit worked up, and stopped walking. Sister Vidya also paused and responded
softly: “I understand; only ….. people talk.”
“What is there for them to talk about? If we don’t take care of ourselves, who will? Sister
Vidya, I collect a good pension, and I own a house at Solan. If you are willing, the two of us can lead a
good life together.”
At length sister Vidya said, “To be frank, my daughter will not object to whatever decision I
make. But I’m sixty seven. Should I make myself a laughing-stock? So many years have passed and
The sun was shining one morning as Prabha took.her hands off 'kohassa: Sea Eagle the
pressure cooker. "I need to go to the beach", she said to herself.
The never changing balm of the seashore awaited her. She had forgotten the child and was
startled when she appeared.
"Hellow, Prabha didi", she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" Prabha asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know. You say."
"How about solitude?" Prabha asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that is."
"Then let's just walk." Looking at her, Prabha noticed the delicate fairness of her face.
"Where do you life?" Prabha asked.
"Over there." She pointed toward a row of houses. She chattered little-girl talk as they strolledup the beach, but Prabha's mind was on other things. When she left for home, Nutan said it had
been a happy day. Feeling surprisingly better, Prabha smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, Prabha met Nutan again on the beach. She was in no mood even to greet
Nutan.
"Look, if you don't mind," Prabha said crossly when Nutan caught up with her, "I'd rather bealone today." Nutan seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
Seeing what was going on, Prabhat’s father put his hand into the pocket, pulled out a Rs.50
note and dropped it on the ground. He then reached down, picked up the note, tapped the man on
the shoulder and said, “Excuse me brother, this fell out of your packet.”
The man what was going on? He wasn’t begging but certainly appreciated in a desperate,
heartbreaking, embarrasing, situation. He looked straight into Prabhat’s father’s eyes, took his hand
in both of his, squeezed tightly onto the Rs.50 note, and with his lip quivering and a tear streaming
down his cheek, replied, “Thank you, thank you, friend. This really means a lot to me and my family.”
Prabhat and his parents (who weren’t rich themselves) went back to their house in a bus, as
they were left without enough money to buy their tickets, but as a young boy, Prabhat had seen the
best circus of his life.
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Two War Heroes
Major Prem Sirohi stood in the verandah, unable to ring the bell. How could he tell this womanand her children the man in their life was never coming home? He felt torn. Torn between the
intense desire to run away and the promise he had made to a man he really didn’t know but who
had made a difference in his life. He stood there wishing something to happen, something that
would help him reach out and ring the bell.
It began to rain. He stood there, on the open porch, paralyzed by his fear and guilt. He saw
again, for the hundredth time, Major Vijay Sapra’s shredded body, heard his soft voice, peered into
his deep black eyes and felt his pain and he cried. He cried for him, for his wife and children and for
himself. He had to move forward. He had to live with the knowledge that he was saved and so many
others had been lost in a tragic, ambiguous war against terrorism which could have been avoided
had his country’s polity been honest, not corrupt.
The sound of tyres crunching on the bituminised road saved him from his dilemma. An old,
beaten white Fiat car pulled into the driveway and an old woman stepped out. The driver, an old
man, got out, too. They stared at him, standing mute and motionless, wondering what he was doing
Major Sirohi stood there, staring, as they spoke and suddenly a look of horror came over the
woman’s face. She screamed, dropped her package and rushed towards him, leaving the old man to
finish his sentence to her back. She took the steps two at a time, grabbed his coat with both hands
and said, “What is it, tell me. Who are you and what’s happened to my son?”
“Oh, damn,” he thought, “I found Sapra’s mother.”
He reached out and took her hands and said as softly as he could, “My name is Major Prem
Sirohi and I have come to see Kusum Sapra. Is this her house?”
The woman stared at him, listening but not hearing, trying to comprehend what he had said.After a long moment, she began to shake. Her body moved with a violent thrashing and, if he hadn’t
been holding her hands, she surely would have fallen off the verandah. He tightened his grip and
they fell against the door with a loud crash.
Kusum Sapra came out and took in the scene. She looked with great hostility at Sirohi as if to
say ‘who the hell are you?’
“‘Papaji, what’s going on here?” she asked the old man.
“I ain’t sure,” he said. “This man’s just standing in the verandah when we get here and your
2ammaji jumps at him yelling about what’s happened to your husband Vijay.”
She looked at the stranger with a question mark in her eyes. Slowly the man said, “My name is
Major Prem Sirohi and if you’re Kusum Sapra, I wish to talk to you.”
She calmly said, “Yes, I’m Kusum Sapra. I’m a little confused, but you can come in, and would
you help ammaji in, too?”
Gently, as gently as he could, he led ammaji into the room, through the door.
As he finished, Kusum came into the room with a tray of cups, biscuits, milk, sugar and tea. It
smelled wonderful and he wanted a cup very badly. Anything to keep the atmosphere light and to
keep his hands from shaking.
They chatted for a little while and then Kusum said, “Well, Sirohiji, it is a pleasure to meet you
and talk to you. But I’m curious. What brings you to my house?”
At that very instant, the front door burst open and two little girls, aged five and four made a
noisy entrance. Each took two steps into the room and then twirled around in an exaggerated way
to show off their new clothes.
Major Sirohi’s presence and his mission were forgotten. They all oohed and aahed over the
girls and their new clothes and told them how beautiful they were and how lucky they were to have
such lovely new clothes. When the excitement wound down, the girls were settled in the adjoining
room at a play table, and when Kusum returned, she said :
“And now tell us why you are here.”
Sirohi took a deep breath, reached into his pocket and said, “I don’t exactly know how to
begin. Three days ago I escaped from a terrorist camp in Kashmir.’’ He turned and looked directly
into Kusum’s eyes and said, “While I was a there, your husband Vijay was brought into the terrorist
camp, more dead than alive. He had been shot while on a mission, captured, and brought to this
camp. I did the best I could, but he was too badly wounded and we both knew he was going to die.”
Kusum brought her hand to her mouth and made a little squeaking sound, her eyes riveted toSirohi’s. Ammaji and Papaji both sucked in the air and somebody said, “Dear God.”
“Vijay said that if I made him a promise, he would help me escape from the prison camp. To be
honest, I thought he was delirious but I promised to do whatever he asked.”
By this time they were all crying and Sirohi had to stop to collect himself. He looked at Kusum
Sapra and saw that she was seeing something far off in the distance. Her eyes glassed over and shecried into her hands. When he was able, he continued.
When I played with it a little while, Miss Sullivan slowly spelled into my hand the word d-o-l-l.
I was at once interested in this finger play and tried to imitate it. When I finally succeeded in
making the letters correctly, I was flushed with childish pleasure and pride. Running downstairs tomy mother, I held up my hand and made the letters for doll. I did not know that I was spelling a word
or even that words existed; I was simply making my fingers go in monkey-like imitation.
In the days that followed, I learned to spell in this uncomprehending way a great many words;
among them pin, hat, cup, and a few verbs like sit, stand and walk. But my teacher had been with
me several weeks before I understood that everything has a name.
One day, while I was playing with my new doll, Miss Sullivan put my big rag doll into my lap;
also, spelled 'doll' and tried to make me understand that 'doll' applied to both. Earlier in the day, we
had a tussle over the words m-u-g and w-a-t-e-r Miss Sullivan had tried to impress upon me that
m-u-g is mug and that w-a-t-e-r is water but I persisted in confounding the two. In despair she had
dropped the subject for the time only to renew it at the first opportunity.
I became impatient at her repeated attempts and seizing the new doll I dashed it upon the
floor. I was keenly delighted when I felt the fragments of the broken doll at my feet. Neither sorrownor regret followed my passionate outburst. I had not loved the doll. In the still dark world in which I
lived there was no strong sentiment or tenderness.
I felt my teacher sweep the fragments to one side of the hearth and I had a sense of
satisfaction that the cause of my discomfort was removed. She brought me my hat and I knew I was
going out into the warm sunshine. This thought, if a wordless sensation may be called a thought,
made me hop and skip with pleasure.
We walked down the path to the well-house, attracted by the fragrance of the honeysucukle
with which it was covered. Someone was drawing water and my teacher placed my hand under the
spout. As the cool stream gushed over one hand, she spelled into the other, the word w-a-t-e-r; first
slowly, then rapidly. I stood still, my whole attention fixed upon the motions of her fingers.
Suddenly I felt a misty consciousness as of something forgotten –a thrill of returning thought;
and somehow the mystery of language was revealed to me. I knew then that ‘w-a-t-e-r’ meant thewonderful cool, something that was flowing over my hand. That living word awakened my soul, gave
it light, hope, joy, set it free! There were barriers still, it is true, but barriers that could in time be
swept away.
I left the well-house eager to learn. Everything had a name and each name gave birth to a newthought. As we returned to the house, every object that I touched seemed to quiver with life. That
was because I saw everything with the strange new sight that had come to me.
On entering the door I remembered the doll I had broken. I felt my way to the hearth and
picked up the pieces. I tried vainly to put them together. Then my eyes filled with tears for I realized
what I had done; and for the first time I felt repentance and sorrow.
I learned a great many new words that day. I do not remember what they all were; but I do
know that mother, father, sister, teacher were among them-words that were to make the world
blossom for me, like Aaron's rod, with flowers. It would have been difficult to find a happier child
than I was as I lay in my crib at the close of that eventful day. For the first time I longed for a new
day to come.
Helen Keller
Note : Helen went on to graduate from Raddcliffe. She devoted the rest of her life to teaching and
giving hope to the blind and deaf as her teacher had done. She and Anne remained friends until