Oracle Book Club

Prejudiced ..yes !

2008-05-05T16:51:00.000+05:30

One of the most defining (I didn’t know that then) moment of my life was in 9th std when our English teacher took one look at all the Nancy Drews and Hardy boys we were still reading and decided that it was time she force feed us on ‘Classics’. So all of us were compelled to buy one classic and share with the class. “You can buy a copy of ‘Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen’, she thundered to me before walking towards her next victim.

‘Pride and Prrrr…ejudice?’. Sigh! I so envied by friends who were assigned ‘Moby Dick’ and ‘Robert Louis Stevenson’ books which seemed more exciting and action packed compared to a 17th century romantic classic whose title I couldn’t even pronounce forget understand what it meant.

Now thinking back, how could I have been so prejudiced? It has been the best thing that has happened in my growing years. My first true-blue romantic classic, whose pages are worn down with age and constant use. I became a loyal Austen fan; though none of her other novels have had the same effect.

Actually if you consider the story, its nothing but ‘The-girl-hates-boy–girl-loves-boy’ formula that has been rehashed and remixed innumerable times by Bollywood and Hollywood. Of course not be reminded about the disastrous attempts to make a movie out of book (I cringed when I watched Gurindher Chaddha’s horror version).

One of the many reasons I liked ‘Pride and Prejudice’ is the gradual flow from hate and dislike Elizabeth feels for Darcy. It gives away to guilt, respect, admiration and finally love.

The beauty of the book lies in the lighthearted way it captures the idiosyncrasies of the class-obsessed English society and how one perceives people through those mirrors. Darcy and Elizabeth – the main protagonists were far from perfect with their own insecurities and assumptions.

Having read the book hundreds of time, I almost knew all paragraphs by heart. Yet whenever, it comes to the penultimate pages, I feel the same impatience and frustrations that Elizabeth and Darcy go through.

I guess that’s what differentiates a good book from the rest.

PS: Oh yeah… got to admit, I am very prejudiced towards this book ;).

Something about Cosmos, Evolution and Genes - 3 good books

2008-02-19T19:38:00.001+05:30

My last 3 reads fall into the 'Science-for-Dummies' category.

The first one 'The Fabric of Cosmos', by Brian Greene is a brilliant book on physics. In this books, he tries to explain space, time and the theories behind their origin. I never understood relativity much - even during my graduation in physics -, but this books explains it in such a simple language, you will be forgiven if after reading, you believe you understood it. String theory was new to me. The examples he takes to explain various String theories are fascinating. My imagination failed me a lot of times in trying to visualize what is said. But, such is relativity.
'If you think you understood relativity, you didn't - Richard Feyman'.

The second one 'The Ancestor's Tale', by Richard Dawkins is a very interesting book on the origin of our species. This was the first time I read anything on biology [after my 10th std]. And, the book was captivating from the word go. He starts with our species and goes back in time tracing common ancestors with Chimps, Gorillas, Baboons and other species till the origin of life. Each chapter traces back a few million years to tell about an ancestor of us and in doing so, he throws in some interesting tales on various topics. In one topic, he explains logarithmic tables. Believe me, I didn't understand what logarithms were in all my school and college days. If only I knew this part during those times, I would have done so well in some of my maths. Sometimes it feels that my education was very inefficient in terms of money, effort and time. Probably, I would have done better had I tried to know things rather than learn them.
Dont miss his other book 'The God Delusion'.

The third one 'Genome', by Matt Ridley is a wonderful book. Wonderful, in its true sense, that each chapter fills you wonder. This is about the 23 chromosomes in a human body. Since the chromosome is too huge for a book and too complicated for a lay man, he gives a brief of 1 or 2 genes on each of the 23 chromosomes, and in doing so he explains so much about our life, health, diseases, intelligence, sex and what not. I am currently reading penultimate chapter, and am worried that the book is getting over too soon. Wish we had more chromosomes, so that he had more to write.

The common feature of all these 3 books, is the enthusiasm that these generate. After the first one, I thought I should have been an physicist, after the second, a Evolutionist and after the third, a Geneticist. I know,I cant be any of the above, but I thank each of the above authors for so graciously sharing such wonderful knowledge.

Potter Mania! First 10 Chapters Leaked!

2007-07-19T23:56:00.000+05:30

Check out the first 10 chapters of Harry Potter & The Deathly Hallows!

[Update] - The rumors seem to be true! Check out these photos on my blog.

Remembering Good Ol' Plum...

2006-11-22T16:42:00.000+05:30

Some people make a difference in very subtle ways, without much glorification, without much noise. 125 years ago, a child was born prematurely somewhere in England and was called "Plum" by most family and friends. The child never bothered to correct them, he never bothered to correct anyone anyway. It amazes you when you really clear your throat and start thinking about it. I have read most of his works several times, many portions are almost verbatim. Still, I can't stop laughing, I can't stop feeling happy and relieved. Its as if some magic hand grabs you by the collar and makes you happy. Simple.

Had his only contribution to literature been Lord Emsworth and Blandings Castle, his place in history would have been assured. Had he written of none but Mike and Psmith, he would be cherished today as the best and brightest of our comic authors. If Jeeves and Wooster had been his solitary theme, still he would be hailed as the Master. If he had given us only Ukridge, or nothing but recollections of the Mulliner family, or a pure diet of golfing stories, Doctor Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse would nonetheless be considered immortal. That he gave us all those - and more - is our good fortune and a testament to the most industrious, prolific and beneficent author ever to have sat down, scratched his head and banged out a sentence.

For me, Wodehouse sort of resurrected. I read a lot of Jeeves during my teens. But, as life passed me by, the old charm of Wodehouse gotten lost in the fog. My girlfriend at that time who eventually chose to marry me, made me re-read Wodehouse and I am thankful for those wonderful evenings I spent with Wooster and PSmith (he is a startling sophisticate, an expelled old Etonian whose delicately attuned nervous system can be shocked by loud colours, celluloid cuffs and the mere mention of an inadequately pressed trouser crease.the "P" is silent - like PTennisnet in Asterix and Cleopetra).

If I were to say that the defining characteristic of Wodehouse, the man, was his professionalism, that might make him sound rather dull. We look for eccentricity, family trauma and personal demons in our great men. Wodehouse, who knew just what was expected of authors, was used to having to apologise for a childhood that was "as normal as rice-pudding" and a life that consisted of little more than "sitting in front of the typewriter and cursing a bit".

Wodehouse, like Shakespeare, created his own writing style that influenced innumerable authors in the years to come. Some of them acknowledge the legacy (read Douglas Adam's preface for 'Sunset at Blandings') and some not.

The first thing that strikes you is Wodehouse's mastery over character portrayals. There is Lord Emsworth himself, the amiable and dreamy peer, whose first love – pumpkins – is soon supplanted by the truest and greatest love of his life, the Empress of Blandings, that peerless Black Berkshire sow. Then there is Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, descendant of the Sieur de Wooster who did his bit in the Crusades, and young Bertram retains the strict code of honour handed down from his ancestor. Bertie Wooster is, of course, the employer of Jeeves, the supreme gentleman's personal gentleman. Much has been written about Jeeves. His imperturbability, his omniscience, his unruffled insight, his orotund speech, his infallible way with a quotation... in short, his perfection. It would be a pity, however, to overlook the character of Bertie Wooster, who is himself a great deal more than the silly ass or chinless wonder that people often imagine. That he is loyal, kind, chivalrous, resolute and magnificently sweet-natured is apparent. But is he stupid? Jeeves is overheard describing him once as "mentally negligible".

The next thing is the narration and Wodehouse's ability to squeeze in the last drop of humour out of a situation. No banana skins, no falling fat people. Pure humour just like the one Mom made. Here is Bertie's way with Victorian poetry:
"I once got engaged to his daughter Honoria, a ghastly dynamic exhibit who read Nietzsche and had a laugh like waves breaking on a stern and rockbound coast. "
and
"Honoria... is one of those robust, dynamic girls with the muscles of a welter-weight and a laugh like a squadron of cavalry charging on a tin bridge."

And this can go on and on with hilarious results. As they say, the proof is in the pudding, so go and read the stuff.

Although Wodehouse and his novels are considered quintessentially English, from 1924 on he lived largely in France and the United States. He was also profoundly uninterested in politics and world affairs. When World War II broke out in 1939 he remained at his seaside home in Le Touquet, France, instead of returning to England, apparently failing to recognize the seriousness of the conflict. He was subsequently taken prisoner by the Germans in 1940 and interned by them for a year, first in Belgium, then at Tost in Upper Silesia (now in Poland). (He is recorded as saying "If this is Upper Silesia, one must wonder what Lower Silesia must be like...".) While at Tost, he entertained his fellow prisoners with witty dialogues, which, after being released from internment a few months short of his 60th birthday, he used as the basis for a series of radio broadcasts aimed at America (but not England) he was persuaded by the Germans to make from Berlin. Wartime England was in no mood for light-hearted banter, however, and the broadcasts led to many accusations of collaboration and even treason. Some libraries banned his books. It was not necessary for Orwell to come in defense of Wodehouse, but he could not help himself doing so.

I am not sure how to conclude. Perhaps there is no way for me to conclude because the endless evenings will never conclude, atleast not for me. I wish the contagious bliss touches you also.

My original article is here

Now, Subscribe to this blog by email !

2006-11-22T16:18:00.000+05:30

Hi All,

I am glad to announce the rollout of a new feature at this blog : Email Subscription !

Salient features :

Whenever a new post is published on the blog, you receive email about the new "feed"
No updates => no emails. No daily emails. No spam mails.
Subscribe to blog posts by email, at the subscription box available on the side bar.

Enjoy !

A Short History of Nearly Everything - Bill Bryson

2006-11-22T12:56:00.000+05:30

After a long time, I managed to spend some quality time on books. I picked this one in Walden, opp.KBR Park. I half expected it to be very much like 'A Brief History of Time', by Stephen Hawkings, which in itself is a fantastic book.

The book opens with a receipe to create an Universe. I thought it would follow the trail of 'Cosmos' by Carl Sagan. But this book did beat my expectations. This is not a science-for-dummies kind of book.

It touches on various aspects of science, Astro-physics, Quantum Physics, Geology, Paleantology, Genetics, Biology, Evolution etc., but doesn't explain any science it. Rather, it goes thru the history of each of these areas and narrates how science developed to its existing state. It starts with the myths before sceience arrived, explains how scientists concluded on theories, where they missed the facts, and how they managed to sort out their differences of opinion etc.

Though some topics last a little longer than interesting, it is a good first time read. And, probably you could go thru the pages at leisure again and again.

Audiobooks

2006-11-17T16:34:00.000+05:30

I recently acquired an iPod Nano, a gift from Dad. He bought it in the US during his visit to my sister and his.

I use it primarily for Audiobooks. Some music, mostly the artists that Padmaja (my wife) loves.

Anyway, back to Audiobooks. By the way, how do you spell Audiobooks? One word or two? I always spell it as one word but the spell check complaints about my spelling. Claims to know better :-)

Opps. Back to Audiobooks. I have a sizable collection now, about 10 DVDs worth. My collection can be classified into the following:

Human read Audiobooks. These are long. An Agatha Christie novel will run into 4 hours of audio in this format. The readers are professionals and do a very good job. They use different intonations and change their pitch while reading. The end product, in most cases, is worth every minute.
Radio Dramas. Mostly BBC Radio dramas from the 1920s and later. I love these. They are typically short; anything from a single 50 minute production (short stories mostly) to multiple episodes for longer novels. Full sound effects and professional voice artists. The end result is fantastic! You can hear the door creeaakkk open!
Machine read Audiobooks. I don't like these. Mostly produced with AT&T's Natural Voice engine. Though the technology has matured it still cannot produce the same effect as human read Audiobooks.

Most Audiobooks are available in MP3 format. These have to be converted into AAC format before the iPod will recognize them as Audiobooks (remember last paused position etc). The actual conversion process is straightforward as iTunes handles the details. However there are a couple of manual steps, including configuring iTunes for the conversion. Once the file is converted, one has to edit the ID3 tags to help iPod. I typically use a volume boost, equalizer preset for "Spoken Voice", Audiobook genre and "Part of a Compilation" if the Audiobook is in multiple parts.

I am currently listening to a BBC Radio Dramatization of J. R. R. Tolkien's Hobbit. Next on the list is some P. G. Wodehouse, Agatha Christie, Wilbur Smith, Asimov, Clarke etc.

ways to beat censorship ...

2006-07-19T11:31:00.000+05:30

From an article in the Times Of India -

Fortunately, technology makes it easy to circumvent such ham-handed censorship. The methods fall into two categories. One, if your ISP goofed up and blocked the wrong site, what you want is to gingerly step around the block using a proxy. The simplest way to achieve this is with Torpark, a project that combines the Firefox browser and the Tor anonymous proxy service into a single point-andclick install for Windows users. Get it from http://torpark.nfshost.com.

Torpark behaves exactly like the Firefox and Internet Explorer browsers you are familiar with, but is unaffected by censorship. Tor operates a series of proxy routers around the world that pass your pages through at least three random routers before delivering them to you. This ensures that your ISP does not know what sites you are accessing, and hence cannot block them. The more people who use Tor, the more effective it becomes against wrongful censorship. You can read more about Tor at
http://tor.eff.org.

Two, go to http://www.shysurfer.com, type in the address of the site you want to access, and hit Browse. ShySurfer will load the page for you. If you want to follow any link on the page however, you will have to repeat the process. This is a cumbersome process you have to put up with for being on a restricted network.

--

Is your ISP Blocking Blogspot?

2006-07-19T09:59:00.000+05:30

Can you access this and other Blogspot blogs from your home computer? I cannot. That is because the idiots in the Govt have asked the ISPs to block some blogs that spread hate about India in an attempt to fight terrorism. My ISP has gone ahead and blocked all blogs on Blogspot. I haven't checked other blog hosts yet. I have this Photo blog on Blogger that hosts photos of my family etc and I can no longer access it from home!

You can read this from work because our office connection goes through a gateway that is routed through Japan (I think).

If your ISP is blocking web sites, do lodge a protest with the leading newspapers, the central Govt and other web sites. Don't let the idiots in Govt and at the ISPs win by default because we didn't raise our voice against their foolishness.

The Undercover Economist- Tim Harford

2006-07-08T12:40:00.000+05:30

‘Reading this book is like spending an ordinary day wearing X-ray goggles’ Davod Bodanis.

‘Only hitch being that with an ordinary mind you really wont be able to make much sense of what you would see through the X-ray goggles.’ Anuj

I loved Freakonomics and when I saw this book I was tempted to grab a copy as I expected it to be on the similar lines. I have always tried to read about economics whenever I have got a chance and ‘Required Reading’ right on top of the book by Levitt (Author of Freakonomics) himself was enough for me to grab a copy of it without even looking at the price Rs. 493.60 (Are you thinking its worth every paise that’s why I took pains to mention the price till the last decimal !!).

Incase you are thinking hated the book you are mistaken. Despite of how I sounded in the above paragraph I have to agree that the book was really good. Initially while reading the book it was tough to keep myself interested and I was loosing track of his logic and theories. I had to force myself at various places to continue reading it. I also left the book halfway in between and next time when I picked the book looked very different. I was loving it, I was able to follow it and it all made a lot more sense.

May be this happened because apart from this book I reading, Blink, and few other books all at the same time. May be I should have read only one book at a time.

He uses very nice examples and gives a lot of details on why the things are , the way we see them. In the first Chapter “Who pays for our coffee” it is interesting to see the pricing mechanism followed by them to make the most out of a wide spectrum of customers, those who can pay more and those who cant, without letting them know that the prices are targeted towards them.

He talks about the supermarkets and consumer behavior, which again is really interesting. How a simple thing like where an item is placed affects our buying pattern.

The one thing I did not like about the book was a lot of argument against “externalities” and how he argued about the suggested solutions to tackle problems like traffic congestion and global warming. He does make valid and interesting points but then the problem is so complex that after understanding the pros and cons of his approach you would think that even this is not going to work. May be he should have used some example for which he would have been able to give a convincing solution.

The most interesting part of the book is the later half. Here he talks about Globalization and gives some points in support and talks about why there are people who oppose it. He talks about Cameroon, and why the country is getting poor everyday instead of getting richer despite the “Political Stability” and why the people in Cameroon do not have an incentive to save at all.
And the book would have been incomplete without talking about India and China story, and he does talk about that. Though about China in much greater detail and I really did not know so much about China and history of its economic reforms so far. India gets a fleeting mention and he only explains how China benefited from its relationship with Taiwan, Hong Kong etc and how India did not have that advantage.

One of the really interesting arguments was about the “Sweat Shops” in the under developed and developing country. The author supports these sweat shops vehemently and argues that these working conditions and opportunities because of these sweat shops are much better than starving or not having any opportunities at all. He argues that in long term these sweat shops will make way for more opportunities, better health, higher salaries and a better future.

All in all if you are game for a little heavy reading grab a copy.

Two-thirds of the GameWorld Trilogy

2006-05-26T16:22:00.000+05:30

The Simoquin Prophecies and The Manticore's Secret

- By Samit Basu

This story is the dream come true of every Indian fantasy reader who wants something closer to home. It pokes fun at the SFF clichés, while weaving a complex and gripping tale, with twists and turns and surprises on every page.

In GameWorld, nothing is what it seems; there are layers to every thread of the tale. Here you have chroniclers who create heroes, magicians who create movies and storks who create “pashans”. The author builds a delightful game of “find the hidden reference”, from Hindu Mythology to “The Mummy” to Feluda to Harry Potter! A Dark Lord who doesn’t like his tower, a heroine more heroic than the hero, and a deadly assassin who is a bunny rabbit. These are the characters that make the book “unputdownable”.

An evil power is on the rise and it has been prophesied that a hero will rise too, and vanquish this monster. But heroes are not born, they are made. Or some have heroism thrust upon them. The first book shows us the making of the hero and the rise of the arch-villain. And the second book shows us that there are always forces more powerful and mysterious at work. As for the third book, I can’t wait for it to be published!

My Rating -9/10

"The Inscrutable Americans"... and the Indians!

2006-04-24T12:50:00.000+05:30

Long time back I had promised (or maybe I was sedated ;) ) to put up a review of the book English August . That never happened ... yeah one of the many things I promise to myself and the world, which never happen anyways. But yesterday, I read yet another book, The Inscrutable Americans . And boy, a book it sure is. I mean, soemthing which can prompt ME (yess, the lazy mammoth me - uh i made up the mammoth part, I am more like a Giraffe, tall and thin) to write a review of this book AND the english august, is sure something.

Okay no more silly talk, lo behold, here is the first review -
The Inscrutable Americans

This is a story about a guy Gopal , who hails from a rural town called Jajau (what a name, I started chuckling the moment I tried to pronounce it). The book starts with Gopal in a flight to the dream country of US of A (note that the book was published in 1991, so thats the peak of brain drain and immigration I guess). And the first chapter of the book actually starts with a letter he writes to his brother - in his characteristic English, which smells of Jajau and hair oil.

Hair Oil ? Oh I forgot to tell you. Gopal has actually been living in Jajau and running his parental business of selling Hair Oil (as his dad says once - the thing that runs in our veins is not blood, its Hair Oil) And this guy, backed with his immense knowledge of the chemicals used in his factory, applied for MS in Chemical Engineering, ofcourse he gets an admit, that too a special 1 year course for him (due to your immense and extra ordinary knowledge and understanding of chemicals, as the college dean said later)

Once he lands in the US of A, starts his ordeal .. er.. journey ;) Now before I go ahead, there are 2 things in the book which can make you laugh till you feel your stomach churns, and your ribs are almost unable to hold your lungs from inflating - (1) the english this buddy speaks (no offences meant ofcourse, cause he tries his natural best, and does convey the meaning anyway)
(2) the way he interprets things

Scene 1 : in his letter to his brother, he writes -

.. and according to the intructions of respected grandmother and parents, I am strictly away from girls and non-veg food. I am only drinking 16 bottles of Coke in the flight, as I not know if the food is veg cooked by brahmin cooks...

.. the hostess in the flight is giving me looks as I ask for more coke...

.. I am landing in the airport, and I am walking out. The hostess gives me another can of Coke as I am getting out of the plane, and laughing with her hostess friends. I think they like me, and are very nice ...

.. the immigration officer, against whom my friend warned, is very friendly. He is asking me if I like nuts, and I am telling him i like them lot. First he asked about "how is it going", he is so concerned. I told him about the falling prices of Hair Oil in Jajau, and the problems we are facing. He is nodding saying 'Totally nuts'..

.. at the security, big man checked my bag, and said "move your ass". These americans are so advanced, how they know that we buy a donkey, that too 2 days before I came here ? Must be that they know all for those who coming to the US. But brother, if CIA asks me to come to Jajau as spy, I am killing myself for the motherland ..

Scene 2 : He is greeted by a student of his college at the airport , who is designated to help his settle down - (incidently his name is Randy, and gopal thought otherwise)

Randy - 'Hi, I am Randy '
Gopal (a bit wary) - But why ?
get the drift here? he takes it by the hindi name !

Randy - what do u mean why ? aren't there 'Randys' in India ?
Gopal (mutters) - yeah there are a few ... but ..

Next day morning, Randy comes up and knocks at Gopal's door

Gopal - who is there ?
Randy - I am Randy
Gopal (cautiously opens the door) - still Randy ?
Randy - what? You Indians change your name every night, or what ?
Gopal (relieved like anything) - Ohhh ... your name is Randy
Randy - yeah I told you , right ?
Gopal (nodding as things are clear now) - yes yes , but ofcourse

This book, The Inscrutable Americans, start on this very note - Gopal and his english, and his interpretations. Randy comes around as a very pleasant character, who is constantly trying to make Gopal feel at home. He takes him around, introduces his to people, and even takes him to parties and bars.
Ofcourse the first party that Gopal went to, was an experience in itself. (wont spill the beans, but yes, he had quite some experience).

Pretty soon, Randy realises that Gopal has not been much with girls, and actually resolves to .. ahem .. get his laid, before he goes back to India a year later. And there starts a series of efforts (comedies?) from Randy to fix up Gopal, and from Gopal to resist them with a "I dont want to", which Randy always responds to with a "I am on my way, be ready"

And yes, his proximity with some of the girls soon starts to show up, with those sudden pangs of emotions Gopal gets, often making him believe that he is in love .. almost. His journey continues as a highly educative one, more of him as a person than chemical engineering ;)

The first half of the book is a laugh riot. Somewhere towards the middle he starts to develop a certain understanding of the American way - the way they think, the way they do things .. its so unlike us .. its after all : American

Overall, a very nice read. My Rating - 9/10

English, August

I read this book a few months back, and the reason I am finally writing the review is cause of a connection i could see between this book, and The Inscrutable Americans. They are -
1) both the main characters are stuck in a world they cannot associate with
2) they found their environ inscrutinable, and react and understand in their own way to things around them

English August -
Revolves around the main character Agastya , who gets rechristened a "August", goes ahead and studies in Cambridge, and then crack the IAS. The son of the governer of Bengal, his ordeal starts when as part of the IAS training, he is posted in a remote town of Madna - a remote village in rural India, with its only claim to fame is the contention for the hottest place in India.

August finds himself in a place devoid of any signs of the city life he has been living all the way, no television to his horror, and all that he has for entertainment are his records in his room. To make matters worse, he does not know the local language!

Imagine a cambridge graduated pseudo american guy finally living at a place which gets electricity for a few hours, doesnt speak or understand the local language, has mosquitos for company and the searing heat to tolerate. The end result is that he spends long duration just staring lying prostate in his room, staring at the ceiling, recollecting old thoughts, imagining new ones, and , going for a jog well past midnight. The plight is palpable, although the author manages to write it with a sense of humour you just cant miss.

A nice book to read, has some intelligent humour thrown in, and its a revelation to see how August copes with his new life. The only hitch might be the language, which is replete with expletives, which does make you scorn once in a while. If you dont mind these words which are dispersed throughtout the narration, its a read worth it.

Overall, a very nice read (pardon me guys and (specially) girls if you read it on my recommendation and find it offending(. My Rating - 7/10

Freakonomics

2006-03-23T13:37:00.000+05:30

I recently read Freakonomics, amazing book!!! so here it goes....

The book is called Freakonomics because unlike most other economics books there is no underlying theme in the book. The author follows all the freakish ideas he gets and tries to explore the truth behind them, and thus the name Freakonomics. Also, if it was called micro conomics , i am sure I wouldnt have read it and you wouldnt be interested in knowing about it either.

The book is so interesting because of the questions the author asks and on investigating the answers which come up are equally amazing.

Some of the interesting facts he brings out are simple things based on that data which are astonishing for us.

E.g. swimming pools are more dangerous than the guns for children. The numbers prove it, if you compare the number of deaths of infants caused by swimming pool with those caused by guns you would get the answer.

It is also surprising to see how a law of abortion which was passed 20 years back had an effect on the crime rate in the country and left people confused as to what caused the dip in crime when everyone was predicting real bad days ahead.

Would you not be surprised that sumo wrestlers and teachers are similar in a way, that both of them would cheat ??? Well he does prove this with numbers too

he talks about why do drug sellers still stay with their moms ? Numbers tell simply because they do not make enough money to live on their own. Then why do they risk their lives and indulge in drugs ?? well the incentive is there for that

The most interesting one is about the real estate agents and ku klux clan , and how they were takig advantage of the information to which only they had an access, and how the access to the same information can defeat them at their own game.

Well these are just a few of the examples and there are many more interesting questions he aska and the answers to them are equally interesting.

This is one book which you would surely find very stimulating and interesting !!!

Go grab a copy and you would be happy you read it

My review on book 'Secrets of Software Success'

2005-12-01T08:08:00.000+05:30

Review on book Secrets of Software Success by Detlev, Cyriac, Gert and Sandro published by Harvard University Press.

As we are all aware that software industry played significant role in creating millionaires, creating millions of jobs, improving economy of many countries and etc. Authors discussed the secrets, techniques behind the success of software industry. Authors surveyed more than 100 software companies worldwide to study the facts and methods followed by successful companies and top executives.

This book discusses the evolution of software as a separate business from hardware business and foundations for formation of early software companies like CUC, CSC and etc. Authors divided this evaluation into five eras viz., independent programming services, software products, enterprise solutions, packaged software for the masses and the software industry today (with internet).

I like the chapter ‘Exceptional software leaders are the rule’ in which authors presented comprehensive characteristics of great software leaders. Below are some of the characters of prominent software leaders,

They are technology visionaries thriving on uncertainty.
They are extreme risk takers and hope for immense returns.
They aim high.
They bet on multiple options.
They are builders of highly dynamic organizations.
They build extremely flat, team-based organizations.
They create a culture that attracts and retains talent.

Authors discussed the recruiting and retaining techniques followed by top software firms. Based on their study individual work styles, stock options, strong corporate cultures are most important motivators of software workers.

In other chapters, authors discussed the reasons behind the failure of most of the software projects, top processes followed by top software companies, role of marketing in selling the products and importance of partners. Authors name software development phase as ‘Completing a Mission Impossible.’

In my view, it’s a good book. Your comments are welcome on this review.

Kiran

Ten Tips on Writing for Blogs

2005-11-25T09:15:00.000+05:30

Found good article on writing for living web. Author discusses various techniques to write for blogs effectively.

http://www.alistapart.com/stories/writeliving/

Kiran

SPAMMED!!!

2005-11-14T19:55:00.000+05:30

We are being spammed! I strolled over to read the comments to the last post (10 of them) only to discover that all, repeat all, of them were SPAM! Can we do something about this problem? Some setting in the Blogger control panel maybe? Blogger gurus, please dust off the toolbox and get cracking...

Id-yeah!

2005-10-19T17:45:00.000+05:30

This is just an idea inspired from the comment of pratima of the previous post.

Lets see, How about a lit-treasure hunt? The well-read folks can pump in the favorite phrases from the books they've read and what we've got to do is to guess the book from where that was taken.

Lets try omit the classic lines we already know

"going to the mattresses"
"being in love means never having to say you are sorry"

Whos taking this up first then?

Anyways, for the uninitiated, the first is from "godfather" and latter is from "love story"

Is this blog dead?

2005-10-17T19:06:00.000+05:30

I added a link to our book club blog on my personal blog page. I keep clicking it to see if there is anything new but go away disappointed. Is this blog dead?

If so, who is the murderer? Yes murderer. For we have a death and I have been reading too much Poirot for the last few weeks. And watching Poirot movies. Has become something of a passion...

Whoa... Back to the topic. Is this blog dead? Opps... I have started repeating myself like my wife, mother, mother-in-law, daughter... Okay okay all the women in my life... about how I should lose weight...

Sigh. Back to the topic. Have our book club members stopped reading? R12 too much for you? Too much HGrid persistence and browser back buttons? Relax! Tell your manager to take it and ... opps... better left unsaid as my manager might be reading this. Okay go get a life! Read a book! Okay the rest of the world might not agree with my notion of getting a life but what the hell! My idea of getting a life is to read a good book. So there! Do your worst!

Okay, back to the topic again... Who killed our book club blog? Any budding HPs out there?

My Outsourced Life

2005-09-22T11:34:00.000+05:30

My Outsourced Life
Call centers do it. IT firms do it. Manufacturers are doing the hell out of it. Even the CIA does it. So why can't I?

by A. J. Jacobs | Sep 01 '05

I REALLY SHOULDN'T HAVE to write this article myself. I mean, why am I the one stuck in front of a computer terminal? All this tedious pecking out of words on my laptop. Nouns, verbs, adjectives, prepositions . Jesus. What a pain in my ass. Can't someone else do it? Can't I delegate this to one of my new assistants and spend my day kicking back on a chaise lounge, Sam Adams in hand, admiring Mischa Barton's navel on my TV?
What about having Asha write it? Or Sunder, Vivek, or Mr. Naveen? Or best of all, my sweet, sweet Honey? Pretty much anyone on my overseas staff will do. Or maybe not. Maybe that's one of the lessons of these jarring and curiously enlightening four weeks. Dammit. I guess I'll have to write about the lessons , too. Okay, on with it. Here you go. As my team might say, thanking you in advance for reading this story.
It began a month ago. I was midway through The World Is Flat , the bestseller by Tom Friedman. I like Friedman, despite his puzzling decision to wear a mustache. His book is all about how outsourcing to India and China is not just for tech support and carmakers but is poised to transform every industry in America, from law to banking to accounting. CEOs are chopping up projects and sending the lower-end tasks to strangers in cubicles ten time zones away. And it's only going to snowball; America has not yet begun to outsource.
I don't have a corporation; I don't even have an up-to-date business card. I'm a writer and editor working from home, usually in my boxer shorts or, if I'm feeling formal, my penguin-themed pajama bottoms. Then again, I think, why should Fortune 500 firms have all the fun? Why can't I join in on the biggest business trend of the new century? Why can't I outsource my low-end tasks? Why can't I outsource my life?
The next day I e-mail Brickwork, one of the companies Friedman mentions in his book. Brickwork—based in Bangalore, India—offers "remote executive assistants," mostly to financial firms and health-care companies that want data processed. I explain that I'd like to hire someone to help with Esquire-related tasks—doing research, formatting memos, like that. The company's CEO, Vivek Kulkarni, responds: "It would be a great pleasure to be talking to a person of your stature." Already I'm liking this. I've never had stature before. In America, I barely command respect from a Bennigan's maître d', so it's nice to know that in India I have stature.
A couple of days later, I get an e-mail from my new "remote executive assistant."
Dear Jacobs,
My name is Honey K. Balani. I would be assisting you in your editorial and personal job. . . . I would try to adapt myself as per your requirements that would lead to desired satisfaction.
Desired satisfaction. This is great. Back when I worked at an office, I had assistants, but there was never any talk of desired satisfaction . In fact, if anyone ever used the phrase "desired satisfaction," we'd all end up in a solemn meeting with HR. And I won't even comment on the name Honey except to say that, real or not, it sure carries Anaïs Nin undertones.
Oh, did I mention that Vivek sent me a JPEG of Honey? She's wearing a white sleeveless shirt and has full lips, long hair, skin the color of her first name. She looks a bit like an Indian Eva Longoria. I can't stop staring at her left eyebrow, which is ever so slightly cocked. Is she flirting with me?

I go out to dinner with my friend Misha, who grew up in India, founded a software firm, and subsequently became nauseatingly rich. I tell him about Operation Outsource. "You should call Your Man in India," he says. Misha explains that this is a company for Indian businessmen who have moved overseas but who still have parents back in New Delhi or Mumbai. YMII is their overseas concierge service—it buys movie tickets and cell phones and other sundries for the abandoned moms.
Perfect. This could kick my outsourcing up to a new level. I can have a nice, clean division of labor: Honey will take care of my business affairs, and YMII can attend to my personal life—pay my bills, make vacation reservations, buy stuff online. Happily, YMII likes the idea, and just like that the support team at Jacobs Inc. has doubled. And so far, I'm not going broke: I'm paying $1,000 for a month of eight-hour days from Honey (Brickwork gave me a half-off deal) and $400 for a month of four-hour days from Your Man in India.
To pay for YMII, I send my MasterCard number in an e-mail. The company's CEO, Sunder P., replies with a gentle but stern note: "In your own interests, and for security purposes, we advise you not to send credit-card information through e-mail. Now that it has been sent, there is nothing much we can do about it and we confirm safe receipt." Damn. I know what he's thinking: How the hell did these idiots ever become a superpower?

Honey has completed her first project for me: research on the person Esquire has chosen as the Sexiest Woman Alive. (See page 232.) I've been assigned to write a profile of this woman, and I really don't want to have to slog through all the heavy-breathing fan Web sites about her. When I open Honey's file, I have this reaction: America is fucked. There are charts. There are section headers. There is a well-organized breakdown of her pets, measurements, and favorite foods ( e.g., swordfish). If all Bangalorians are like Honey, I pity Americans about to graduate college. They're up against a hungry, polite, Excel-proficient Indian army. Put it this way: Honey ends her e-mails with "Right time for right action, starts now!" Your average American assistant believes the "right time for right action" starts after a Starbucks venti latte and a discussion of last night's Amazing Race 8.

I GET an introductory e-mail from my personal-life outsourcer. Her name is Asha. Even though the firm's called Your Man in India, I've been assigned another woman. Hmm. I suspect these outsourcers figure I'm a randy men's-magazine editor who enjoys bossing around the ladies. I e-mail Asha a list of books I want from Amazon.com and a birthday gift I'd like her to buy my wife, Julie—a silicone pot holder. (Romantic, no?) Both go smoothly.
In fact, in the next few days, I outsource a whole mess of online errands to Asha: paying my bills, getting stuff from drugstore.com, finding my son a Tickle Me Elmo. (Actually, the store was out of Tickle Me Elmos, so Asha bought a Chicken Dance Elmo—good decision.) I had her call Cingular to ask about my cell-phone plan. I'm just guessing, but I bet her call was routed from Bangalore to New Jersey and then back to a Cingular employee in Bangalore, which makes me happy for some reason.
Every day Asha attaches an Excel chart listing the status of my many tasks. The system is working—not counting the hitch in the drugstore order: Instead of wax paper, we get wax-strip mustache removers for ladies. My wife is insulted.

IT'S THE FOURTH morning of my new, farmed-out life, and when I flip on my computer, my e-mail in-box is already filled with updates from my overseas aides. It's a strange feeling having people work for you while you sleep. Strange, but great. I'm not wasting time while I drool on my pillow; things are getting done.
As on every morning at 8:30, I get a call from Honey. "Good morning, Jacobs." Her accent is noticeable but not too thick, Americanized by years of voice training. She's the single most upbeat person I've ever encountered. Whatever soul-deadening chore I give her, she says, "That would indeed be interesting" or "Thank you for bestowing this important task." I have a feeling that if I asked her to count the number of semicolons in the Senate energy bill, she would be grateful for such a fascinating project.
Every call ends the same way: I thank her, and she replies, "You are always welcome, Jacobs." I'm starting to like her a lot.
One task for which Honey is thankful is e-mailing my colleagues. I've begun to refuse to communicate with them directly. Why should I? Honey can be my buffer from the unpleasant world of office politics. I'll be aloof and mysterious, like the pope or Mark Burnett. This morning, I ask Honey to pester my boss about an idea I sent him a few days ago: an article on modern gold prospectors.
Mr. Granger,
Jacobs had mailed you about the idea of "gold prospecting." I am sure you would have received his mail on this. It would be great if you could invest your time and patience on giving thought about his plans. Do revert and let Jacobs know about your suggestions on the same. As you know that your decision would be accepted with utmost respect.
Jacobs is awaiting your response.
Thanking you, Honey Balani
Another advantage to this strategy: My boss can't just e-mail a terse "No," as he might to me. Honey's finely crafted e-mails demand a polite multisentence response. The balance of power has shifted.
IT'S JULIE'S birthday today, and I've kept Asha busy with celebration-related tasks. Picnic orders, reminder e-mails to Julie's friends, and so on. Asha is more distant than Honey. I now have a vague sense of who Honey is—she's a mere twenty years old, likes to go bowling and go-carting, wears sleeveless shirts—but Asha? Nothing. In my few phone calls with Asha, I've noticed that her accent is slightly more pronounced than Honey's and that she speaks in sort of a monotone, so I can't even tell if she likes me. Which makes me insecure. And I'm even more nervous about her boss, Sunder P. He's been monitoring Asha's orders and sent me a note that she "missed the point" and bungled a communication about a kitchenware item. He's tough. But then today, the YMII team up and sends Julie an unsolicited birthday e-card—with butterflies and a Robert Louis Stevenson quote. I feel much better. I shoot back a thank-you.
Sunder P. writes back:
Looking at the things we have been ordering on behalf of you, Asha almost was feeling like being part of your household. So isn't it befitting that we wish your family and be part of your celebration. (Remotely . . . from 10,000 miles away.)
I tell him that we feel she's part of the family, too. I don't have the heart to inform him that Julie was kind of disappointed that I had asked Asha to call 1-800-Flowers. The roses and lilies looked fine to me, but apparently 1-800-Flowers is the McDonald's of florists, and she was expecting more Daniel Boulud.
I THINK I'M in love with Honey. How can I not be? She makes my mother look unsupportive. Every day I get showered with compliments, many involving capital letters: "awesome Editor" and "Family Man." When I confess I'm a bit tired, she tells me, "You need rest. . . . Do not to overexert yourself." It's constant positive feedback, like phone sex without the moaning.
Sometimes the relentless admiration makes me feel a little awkward, perhaps like a viceroy in the British East India company. Another cucumber sandwich, Honey! And a Pimm's cup while you're at it! But then she calls me "brilliant" and I forget my guilt.
Plus, Honey is my protector. Consider this: For some reason, the Colorado Tourism Board e-mails me all the time. (Most recently, they informed me about a festival in Colorado Springs featuring the world's most famous harlequin.) I request that Honey gently ask them to stop with the press releases. Here's what she sent:
Dear All,
Jacobs often receives mails from Colorado news, too often. They are definitely interesting topics. However, these topics are not suitable for "Esquire."
Further, we do understand that you have taken a lot of initiatives working on these articles and sending it to us. We understand. Unfortunately, these articles and mails are too time consuming to be read.
Currently, these mails are not serving right purpose for both of us. Thus, we request to stop sending these mails.
We do not mean to demean your research work by this.
We hope you understand too.
Thanking you,
Honey K B

That is the best rejection notice in journalism history. It's exceedingly polite, but there's a little undercurrent of indignation. Honey seems almost outraged that Colorado would waste the valuable time of Jacobs.
Along the same lines, Honey wrote a complaint letter to American Airlines for me; the flight I recently took offered only shrimp for dinner, a dish I don't eat. "Since it has caused such an inconvenience, I demand reimbursement," she wrote. Don't mess with Honey.
Incidentally, Honey and Asha don't know about each other. I'm constantly worried about getting busted for my infidelities, for my life of outsourcer bigamy. What if they run into each other at the Bangalore hardware store? What if I call Asha "Honey" and she thinks I'm hitting on her?

MY FATHER-IN-LAW has come to town, which means a dinner filled with a series of increasingly excruciating puns. Asked whether he ever suffered gout, he replies, "No gout about it!"
Damn, do I wish I could outsource this dinner. Where's Honey? Where's Asha?
I've become addicted to outsourcing. I am desperate to delegate everything in my life but have to face the depressing reality that there are limits. I can't outsource those horrible twenty-five-minute StairMaster sessions. I can't outsource taking a piss. I can't outsource sex with Julie. Not that I dislike it, but we're trying to have another kid, which means a whole bunch of sex, and enough is enough, you know? It gets tiring. I can't outsource watering the ficus.
Still. . . . every weekend, I place a dutiful call to my parents. It's a nice thing to do, I figure—but it's also a huge time vacuum. This weekend it's Mom and Dad's anniversary, so I can expect it to eat up even more of my day than usual. Mr. Naveen to the rescue. I e-mail Mr. Naveen—the YMII employee who will be on duty at the time—a few concerned-sounding questions and a couple of filial sound bites. Next day, I get this e-mail:
I made an out bound call to Jacob's parents. They very happily received my call. I first introduced myself to them. Then I wished them Happy Anniversary they both told me thank you. . . . I asked them how is the weather in their place. They told me that it is pretty nice temperature here and the garden looks beautiful.
I won't reproduce the whole transcript, but apparently my mom's sprained foot has gotten better (though the rain does not help), and my dad's law practice is going along very well. As for me, I had a good week, apparently. This was highly successful outsourcing, saving me at least half an hour of sweaty-eared phone time.

MY OUTSOURCERS now know an alarming amount about me—not just my schedule but my cholesterol, my infertility problems, my Social Security number, my passwords (including the one that is a particularly adolescent curse word). Sometimes I worry that I can't piss off my outsourcers or I'll end up with a $12,000 charge on my MasterCard bill from the Louis Vuitton in Anantapur.
In any case, the information imbalance is pretty huge. I know practically nothing about them. So I e-mail them both to request a minibiography.
Honey sends me a two-page file called Honey4U. She's a jazz and salsa dancer, loves Friends , reads Jeffrey Archer. She has a boyfriend. She works from 2:00 P.M. to 11:00 P.M. her time and has an hour-and-a-half commute at either end. She trains people in customer-handling skills and in how to lose their Indian accent. She likes broccoli, coriander, and orange juice.
Asha, as expected, is a little less prolix but still gives me some nuggets: She's also a salsa dancer, oddly enough. She used to do something called "value-based education through dance." She studied electrical engineering, got married in February to a guy in real estate. She works from 9:30 A.M. to 5:30 P.M. Bangalore time. She lives with her in-laws.

I'VE REALIZED something: Asha and Honey never say no. I find myself testing them, asking them to perform increasingly bizarre tasks, inching toward abuse of power. Read The New York Times for me. E-mail me a bunch of questions from Who Wants to Be a Millionaire . Send me a collection of Michael Jackson jokes (e.g., "Why was Michael Jackson spotted at Kmart? He heard boys' pants were half off"). I keep pushing, but I haven't yet found their limits. The closest I got to a no was when I made the admittedly odd request that Asha play the card game hearts for me, since I was wasting too much time playing it myself on my PalmPilot. Asha replied that she thought this was a "good idea" but that maybe she would do it after finishing the other projects.

EMBOLDENED BY Mr. Naveen's triumph with my parents, I decide to test the next logical relationship: my marriage. These arguments with my wife are killing me—partly because Julie is a much better debater than I am. Maybe Asha can do better:
Hello Asha,
My wife got annoyed at me because I forgot to get cash at the automatic bank machine. . . . I wonder if you could tell her that I love her, but gently remind her that she too forgets things—she has lost her wallet twice in the last month. And she forgot to buy nail clippers for Jasper.
AJ
I can't tell you what a thrill I got from sending that note. It's pretty hard to get much more passive-aggressive than bickering with your wife via an e-mail from a subcontinent halfway around the world.
The next morning, Asha CC'd me on the e-mail she sent to Julie.
Julie,
Do understand your anger that I forgot to pick up the cash at the automatic machine. I have been forgetful and I am sorry about that.
But I guess that doesn't change the fact that I love you so much. . . .
Love
AJ
P. S. This is Asha mailing on behalf of Mr. Jacobs.
As if that weren't enough, she also sent Julie an e-card. I click on it: two teddy bears embracing, with the words "Anytime you need a hug, I've got one for you. . . . I'm sorry."
Damn! My outsourcers are too friggin' nice! They kept the apology part but took out my little jabs. They are trying to save me from myself. They are superegoing my id. I feel castrated.
Julie, on the other hand, seems quite pleased: "That's nice, sweetie. I forgive you."
I shoot off another e-mail to Asha: Could you thank her for forgiving me for not getting cash? And tell her that I, in turn, forgive her for forgetting to tell me about the Central Park date with Shannon and David until I overheard her talking about it with a friend.
The next morning I get CC'd on another Asha e-mail to Julie. Am happy you forgave me for not getting the cash. And I am glad to do the same about the Central Park date with Shannon and David.
It's human nature to forget. Perhaps, I could do better by having Asha put up a calendar and sending us reminders about these little things.
Love
AJ
Good. At least this time I got my little dig in. But Julie just brushes it off—it's hard to trump a hugging-teddy-bear apology note. Like it or not, those damn stuffed animals improved my marriage. Asha should take care of all my bickering; she's my better nature.

HONEY SEEMS to be lavishing me with even more adulation these days. She tells me that she waits eagerly for my e-mails. I'm beginning to feel like David Koresh without the guitar or weapons stash. It's a little stressful. I'm forever afraid of disappointing her, of not being creative or brilliant enough to merit her acclaim. On the other hand, maybe she's just doing her job and actually despises my white imperialist ass.
At the least, I figure I can take advantage of the exaltation. I ask Honey to write an entry in Wikipedia—the online, open-source encyclopedia—about me and my recent book, The Know-It-All . It reads in part:
"A. J. Jacobs is a not so unheard of international figure, who can threaten the most au courant wizards with his knowledge. . . . [He] is a writer and editor of phenomenal grey matter."
Perfection.

FRIEDMAN QUOTES outsourcing advocates who argue we should embrace it as an opportunity. If someone else is plugging away on the lower-end tasks, that frees Americans to work on higher-end creative projects. Makes sense. After all, Jacobs is the creative genius with phenomenal grey matter. The world is better off with me focused on the high end.
But lately, Honey has started sending me unsolicited ideas—and some of them are pretty good. Granted, there are a few clunkers in there, and the English sometimes needs to be decoded, like a rebus. But there are also some winners: Honey suggests Esquire conduct a survey on what women want men to wear. Could work.
The point is, she's got talent. If Honey is a guide, the Indian workforce can be just as innovative and aggressive as the American, so the "benefits" might not be so beneficial. Us high-end types will be as vulnerable as assembly-line workers. (Friedman's other pro-outsourcing argument seems more persuasive—that free trade will open up the huge Chinese and Indian markets to American exports.)
Regardless, if I end up on a street corner with a WILL EDIT FOR FOOD sign, then at least I'll know that I've lost my job to decent, salsa-loving people like Honey and Asha.

DESPITE THREE WEEKS with my support team, I'm still stressed. Perhaps it's the fault of Chicken Dance Elmo, whom my son loves to the point of dry humping, but who is driving me slowly insane. Whatever the reason, I figure it's time to conquer another frontier: outsourcing my inner life.
First, I try to delegate my therapy. My plan is to give Asha a list of my neuroses and a childhood anecdote or two, have her talk to my shrink for fifty minutes, then relay the advice. Smart, right? My shrink refused. Ethics or something. Fine. Instead, I have Asha send me a meticulously researched memo on stress relief. It had a nice Indian flavor to it, with a couple of yogic postures and some visualization.
This was okay, but it didn't seem quite enough. I decided I needed to outsource my worry. For the last few weeks I've been tearing my hair out because a business deal is taking far too long to close. I asked Honey if she would be interested in tearing her hair out in my stead. Just for a few minutes a day. She thought it was a wonderful idea. "I will worry about this every day," she wrote. "Do not worry."
The outsourcing of my neuroses was one of the most successful experiments of the month. Every time I started to ruminate, I'd remind myself that Honey was already on the case, and I'd relax. No joke—this alone was worth the $1,000.

I'VE OUTSOURCED my marriage and filial duties, but somehow my son has gotten overlooked. It's time to delegate some parenting to the Jacobs support staff. Julie is out watching her childhood friend do a stand-up-comedy gig, and I'm stuck alone with Jasper. It's 7:00 P.M., Jasper's bedtime, but I've got to write some semi-urgent e-mails. No time for hungry caterpillars or jumping monkeys.
"Mr. Naveen? If I put you on speakerphone, would you be willing to read to my son? Oh, anything. The newspaper's fine. Yeah, just say his name once in a while. It's Jasper. Okay, I'm going to put you on now. Okay, go ahead."
A pause. Then I hear Mr. Naveen's low but soothing voice: "Taiwan and Korea also are subscribing to new Indian funds in their markets." Jasper isn't crying. I'm tapping away on my PowerBook. "European Union . . . several potential investors . . . parliament." I glance at Jasper again; he seems perplexed but curious. "Aeronautical engineers and technicians." Jasper seems to like aeronautical engineers. "Prospects of a strong domestic demand." After three minutes, I start to feel guilt-ridden. I've officially begun to abuse my power. Why didn't I just turn on the Wiggles? Then again, Mr. Naveen's lilting voice is so comforting; if there were bright-colored cartoons of strong domestic demand, this would be ideal.

SPEAKING OF the Indian domestic economy, it's looking pretty rosy. My team is good, cheap, and absurdly eager. They will do anything short of violating the Geneva Conventions. And with most of the tasks—online shopping, thank-you notes, research—my crew saves minutes or even hours of my day. Admittedly, the outsourcing of my life is sometimes counterproductive—an ill-fated order of an eggplant dish from a nearby restaurant comes to mind. But overall, it's working. To me, it seems the future of outsourcing is as limitless as . . . blah, blah, blah.
You know what? I'm kind of bored writing this piece. I'm going into the other room to enjoy some Entourage on HBO. So I've asked Honey to finish up writing this article for me.
Once, I was watching I, Robot with my wife and I thought Life would become so easy with a robot. Then, the next instant I thought not just a robot but more of a humanized robot. In the book The World Is Flat , the author wrote about an interesting job that could be outsourced to India, which provoked me to have a Remote Assistant. Though I have never seen Honey K. B., I speak to her almost everyday when she calls me. Though our communication is not visual, I still know that she is a reliable assistant. Our interactions that we have had through mails and telephonic conversation never made me feel that she is miles away from me. To conclude I would say I did not get a robot but yes a Human like me who can think and work for me.
Yes, America, we're cooked.

Testing a new idea ....

2005-09-20T14:59:00.000+05:30

Hi All,

Just testing a new idea/setting, wherein, everytime someone will put up a post on the bookclub blog, an email will be sent over to the book club, having the contents of the post.

So buddies, get ready for a blog spree, coz everytime someone puts a sermon_on_stone, everyone shall feel the reverberations (ofcourse, provided it works :-D )

Njoy !

-- Anshu --

Shortcuts to get rid of stress, anxiety, depression!!! Think again...

2005-09-14T16:58:00.000+05:30

This is a very interesting article by Ms Sharmila Rao- Psychoanalyst and Therapist based out of Hyderabad.

My Take on Prescription Drug "Treatments" (For Anxiety & Depression)
By Sharmila Rao

If you are looking for a solution for your depression or anxiety then
you have numerous options, including prescription drugs, herbal
alternatives and cognitive behavior therapies.

Prescriptions usually are over-rated and end up making your symptoms
even worse. The reason they call them DRUGS, is because that is
exactly what they are. Taking prescriptions for as little as 2
weeks can literally cause dependence. And if you have taken them
for over a year you know that you most likely have a slight, if
not severe addiction.

Some drugs are considered "non-addictive" but you may still suffer
very uncomfortable side effects when trying to withdraw from them. 
Question: If I am taking something, and I am trying to stop, and
I experience severe side effects like restlessness, anxiety,
nervousness, etc. wouldn't that still be considered an
addictive product?

You make the call but here's what the World Health Organization
has to say about addiction and dependence in a recent publication:
"A need for repeated doses of the drug to feel good or to
avoid feeling bad."

Experiencing three or more of the following indicates addiction/dependence:

Strong desire/sense of compulsion to take the drug
Difficulty in controlling drug-taking behavior
Physiological withdrawal state
Tolerance
Neglect of alternative interests
Persistent use despite trouble

But many doctors say it works and it is the only way.

As you are probably aware, millions take prescription drugs
every day to help them find relief from the many different forms
of depression. Prescription drugs give the perception that
relieving depression is as easy as eating an apple a day to
keep the doctor away.

What is usually not discussed with the general public is how
prescription drugs work and whether or not they provide long-term
relief safely. Recent FDA reports, warnings and independent
press releases confirm what many of us have known deep down for
some years now. Prescription drugs cause severe side effects,
may be very addictive, and may not be any more effective than
placebo in relieving many types of depression or anxiety.

You can probably tell that I am no fan of prescription drug
medications as legitimate treatment options for depression and
make no effort to hide this fact. Prescription medications, though
effective in treating many symptoms of depression, also have many
drawbacks, some of which are mentioned above.

What bothers me the most about prescription medications, is
that medical professionals, who simply don't know enough about
the real causes of emotional disturbances, prescribe drugs that
they may know even less about and they often don't care to know. 

Unlike cognitive behavior therapy, prescriptions do not address
the underlying causes of chemical imbalance. The thoughts and
feelings you experience are coming from somewhere. Past experiences,
daily stresses, and negative thought patterns cause depression. This
disorder does not happen overnight, and therefore, it is safe to say
it can't be cured overnight. 

Prescription Drugs cannot change our thought patterns or the past
associations that have been made in our brain, they simply get us
in the right form to understand our condition and undergo therapy
for managing the same.

If you are looking for short term, and even longer-term relief of
depression symptoms, and don't mind the side effects, prescription
drugs might be right for you. Spend some time reading the four pages
of fine print at the prescription drugs home page before you do.
You will be surprised; that is, if you can read the extremely
small print.

Sure, at times, taking a prescription drug may help you, but
the short-term benefits are nothing compared to the long term,
adverse side effects. There is a reason some doctors prescribe a
prescription for you. Money!! 

In a very recent research one doctor prescribed 3 different
medications to a patient over a period of 1 year. Each visit
to the doctor cost $150 per hour. The prescriptions ranged from
$150 - $200. That doesn't even count the additional visits that the
patient made to his therapist because the drugs didn't work and his
problems persisted. In 1 year, the patient paid well over
$2000 to his doctors and when he was done, he was worse off!  

The fact of  the matter is, that if a doctor/therapist really cared
for their patients, he/she would spend more than 5 minutes with their
patients when they told about their symptoms. There is a lot more to
anxiety and depression than just chemical imbalance. Getting to the
root of what is causing one's feelings is the only way to find permanent
relief. 

Prescription medications can provide relief for symptoms, but they
cannot change your thought patterns and associate new thinking patterns
with negative emotions. Recognizing the problem, and then defining real
coping techniques is the only true method of finding long-term treatment.

Prologue of Chetan Bhagat's 2nd Book

2005-09-08T15:25:00.000+05:30

Got this as a forward from a friend... After reading only word which came to mind was... Wow !!!

Prologue

The night train ride from Kanpur to Delhi was the most memorable journey of my life. For one, it gave me my second book. And two, it is not everyday you sit in an empty compartment and a young, pretty girl walks in.
Yes, you see it in the movies, you hear about it from friends' friends but it never happens to you. When I was younger, I used to check the reservation chart stuck outside a train bogie to see all the female passengers near my seat (F-17 to F-25 is what I'd look for most). Yet, it never happened. In most cases, I shared my compartment with talkative women, snoring men and wailing infants.
But this night was different. Firstly, my compartment was empty. The railways had just started this new summer train and nobody knew about it. Secondly, I was unable to sleep.
I had come to IIT Kanpur for a talk. Before leaving, I drank four cups of coffee in the canteen chatting with the students. Bad idea, given it was going to be boring to spend eight insomniac hours in an empty compartment. I had no magazines or books to read. I could hardly see anything out of the window in the darkness. I prepared myself for a silent and dull night. Of course, it was anything but that.
She walked in five minutes after the train had left the station. She opened the curtains of my enclosure and looked puzzled.
"Is coach A4, seat 63 here?” she said.
The yellow lightbulb in my compartment had a mood of its own. It flickered as I looked up to see her.
"Huh..,” I said as I saw her face. It was difficult to withdraw from the gaze of her eyes.
"Actually it is. My seat is right in front of you,” she said and heaved her heavy suitcase on the upper berth . She sat down on the lower berth opposite to me, and gave out a sigh of relief.
"I climbed on the wrong coach. Luckily this train is connected,” she said, adjusting her long hair that ended in countless ringlets. From the corner of my eye I tried to see her. She was young, maybe early to mid twenties. Her waist length hair had a life of its own, a strand falling on her forehead repeatedly. I could not see her face closely, but I could tell one thing - she was pretty. And her eyes - once you looked into them, you could not turn away. I kept my gaze down.
She re-arranged stuff in her handbag. I tried to look out of the window. It was completely dark.
"So, pretty empty train,” she said after ten minutes.
"Yes, I said. It is the new holiday special. They just started it, without telling people about it.”
"No wonder. Otherwise, trains are always full at this time.”
"It will get full. Don't worry. Just give it a few days,” I said and leaned forward, " Hi. I am Chetan by the way, Chetan Bhagat.”
"Hi,” she said and looked at me for a few seconds, "Chetan as in...I don't know, your name sounds familiar."
Now this was cool. It meant she had heard of my first book. I am recognized rarely. And of course, it had never happened with a girl on a night train.
"You might have heard of my book - Five Point Someone. I am the author,” I said.
"Oh yes,” she said and paused, "Oh yes, of course. I have read your book. The three underperformers and the prof's daughter one, right?” she said.
"Yes,” I said, "So how did you like it?"
"It was all right,” she said.
I was taken aback. Man, I could have done with a little more of a compliment here.
"Just all right?” I said, obviously fishing a bit too hard.
"Well,” she said and paused.
"Well what?” I said after ten seconds.
"Well. Yeah, just all right...ok ok types,” she said.
I kept quiet. She noticed my facial expression of mild disappointment.
"Anyway, nice to meet you Chetan. Where are you coming from? IIT Kanpur?"
"Yes,” I said, my voice less friendly than a few moments ago, "I gave a talk there.”
"Oh really? About what?"
"About my book - you know the just ok-ok type one. Some people do want to hear about it,” I said, keeping a sweet tone to sugar-coat my sarcasm filled words.
"Interesting,” she said and turned quiet again.
I was quiet too. I didn't want to speak to her anymore. I wanted my empty compartment back.
The flickering yellow light above was irritating me. I wondered if I should just shut it off, but it was not that late yet.
"What's the next station? Is it a non-stop train,” she said after five minutes, obviously to make conversation.
"I don't know,” I said and turned to look at the windows again. I couldn’t see anything in the darkness.
"Is everything ok?” she asked softly.
"Yes, why?” I said. The tone of my ‘why' gave away that everything was not ok.
" Nothing. You upset about what I said about your book right?"
"Not really,” I said.
She laughed. I looked at her. Just like her gaze, her smile was arresting too. I knew she was laughing at me, but I wanted her to keep smiling. I pulled my eyes away again.
"Listen. I know your book did well. You are like this youth writer and everything. But at one level...just forget it.”
"What?” I said.
"At one level, you are hardly a youth writer.”
I turned silent and looked at her for a few seconds. Her magnetic eyes had a soft but insistent gaze.
"I thought I wrote a book about college kids. That isn't youth?" I said.
"Yeah right. So, you wrote a book on IIT. A place where so few people get to go. You think that represents the entire youth?” she said and took out a box of mints from her bag.
She offered me one, but I declined. I wanted to get this straight.
"So what are you trying to say? I had to start somewhere, so I wrote about my college experiences. And you know the story is not so IIT specific. It could have happened anywhere. I mean, just for that you are trashing my book.”
"I am not trashing it. I am just saying it hardly represents the Indian youth,” she said and closed back the box of mints.
"Oh really..,” I said but was interrupted by the noise as the train passed over a long river bridge.
We didn’t speak for the next three minutes, until the train returned to smoother tracks.
"What represents the youth?” I said.
"I don't know. You are the writer. You figure it out.,” she said, and brushed aside a few curls that had fallen on her forehead.
"That's not fair,” I said, "that is so not fair.” I sounded like a five year old throwing a tantrum. She smiled as she saw me grumbling to myself. A few seconds later, she spoke again.
"Are you going to write more books?” she said.
"I'll try to,” I said. I wasn't sure if I ever wanted to talk to her again.
"So what is going to be? IIMs this time?” she said.
"No.”
"Why not?"
"Because it does not represent the country's youth,” I said.
She started laughing.
"See I am taking feedback. And now you laugh at me,” I said.
"No, no,” she said, "I am not laughing at you. Can you stop being so over-sensitive?"
"I am not over-sensitive. I just want to take feedback,” I said and turned my face away.
"Well, well now. Let me explain. See I just felt the whole IITian thing is cool and all, but what does it all mean in the broader sense. Yes, the book sells and you get to go to IIT Kanpur. But is that what it is all about?” she said.
"Well, then what is it about?"
"If you want to write about the youth, shouldn't you talk about young people who really face challenges? I mean yes, IITians face challenges, but what about the hundreds and thousands of other youth?"
"Like whom.”
"Just look around you. What is the biggest segment of youth facing challenges in modern India?"
"I don't know. Students?"
"Not those Mr. Writer. Get out of the student-campus of your first book now? Anything else you see that you find strange and interesting? I mean, what is the subject of your second novel?” she said.
I turned up to look at her carefully for the first time. Maybe it was the time of the night - but I kid you not, she was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Everything about her was perfect.Her face was like that of a child. She wore a little bindi, which was hard to focus on as her eyes came in the way.
I went back to her question.
"Second novel? No, haven't thought of a subject yet,” I said.
"Really? Don't you have any ideas?"
"I do. But nothing I am sure about."
"Inte….resting,” she drawled, "Well, just bask in your first book then.”
We kept quiet for the next half an hour. I took out the contents of my overnight bag and rearranged them for no particular reason. I wondered if it even made sense to change into a nightsuit. I was not going to fall asleep anyway. Another train noisily trundled past us in the opposite direction, leaving silence behind.
"I might have a story idea for you,” she said, almost startling me.
"Huh?” I was wary of what she was going to say. For no matter what her idea was, I had to appear interested.
"What is it?"
"It is a story about a call center.”
"Really?” I said," Call centers as in business process outsourcing centers or BPOs?"
"Yes, do you know anything about them?"
I thought about it. I did know about call centers, mostly from my cousins who worked there.
"Yes, I know a little bit,” I said, "Some 300,000 people work in the industry. They help US companies in sales, service and maintenance of their operations. Usually younger people work there in night shifts. Quite interesting, actually.”
"Just interesting? Have you ever thought of what all they have to face?” she said, her voice turning firm again.
"No,” I said.
"Why? They aren't the youth? You don't want to cover them?” she said, almost scolding me.
"Listen, let's not start arguing again..."
"I am not. I told you that I have a call center story for you.”
I looked at my watch. It was 12.30 a.m. A story would not be such a bad idea to kill time, I thought.
"Let's hear it then,” I said.
"I can tell you. But I have a condition,” she said.
Condition? I was puzzled. How can you have conditions in storytelling?
"What condition? That I don’t tell it to anyone else?”
"No. Just the opposite, in fact. You have to promise me to write it as your second book.”
"What?” I said and almost jumped from my seat.
Wow! Now that was something. OK, so I meet a girl who appears interesting and had a pair of nice eyes and looks like she can tell me a story to kill time. However, it does not mean I will listen to it and spend two years of my life turning it into a book.
"Like a full book? Are you kidding? I cannot promise that. It is a lot of work,” I said.
"Up to you,” she said and turned silent.
I waited for ten seconds. She did not speak.
"Can't I decide on that after you tell me the story?” I said, "If it is interesting, I may even do it. But how can I decide without listening to it."
"No. It is not about choice. If I tell you, you have to write it,” she said.
"Like write a whole book on it?” I said.
"Yes. Like it is your own story. In first person - just as your first book. I’ll give you the contacts of people in the story. You can meet them, do your research, whatever it takes, but make it your second book.”
"Well then I think it is better if you don't tell me,” I said.
"Up to you,” she said and became quiet. She turned around to spread a bedsheet on her berth, and arranged the pillows and blankets. I guess she was planning to go to sleep.
I checked my watch again. It was 01:00 a.m., and I was still wide awake. This was a non-stop train, and there were no stations to look forward to until Delhi in the morning. She switched off the flickering yellow light. A mysterious blue light bulb was the only night light in the compartment.It felt strange, like we were the only two people in the universe.
As she was sliding under her blanket, I asked, "What is the story about? At least tell me a little bit more.”
"Will you do it then?"
I shrugged in the semi-darkness. "Can't say. Do not tell me the story yet. But at least tell me what it is about.”
She nodded and came out of her blanket. She sat cross-legged opposite me as she began talking.
"Allright,” she said, "It is a story about six people in a call center on one night."
"Just one night? Like this one?” I interrupted.
"Yes, one night. One night at the call center.”
"You sure that can be a full book? I mean, what is so special about this night?”
She heaved a sigh and took a sip from her bottle of mineral water.
"You see,” she said, "It wasn't like any other night. It was a night there was a phone call.”
"What?” I said and burst out laughing, "So a call center gets a phone call. That is the special part?"
She did not smile back. She waited for my amusement to end.
"You see,” she continued, "It wasn't an ordinary phone call. It was the night...it was the night there was a phone call from God.”
Her words had me spring to attention.
"What?”.
"You heard me. That night there was a phone call from God,” she said.
"What exactly are you talking about?”
"I just told you what the story was about. You asked, remember?” she said.
"And then.. how...I mean…”
"I am not telling you anymore. You know what the story is about. If you want to hear the story, you know my condition.”
"That is a tough condition,” I said.
"I know. Up to you,” she said and lifted her blanket again. She lay down and closed her eyes.
Six people. One night. Call Center. Call from God. The phrases kept repeating in my head as another hour passed. At 2:00 a.m., she woke up to have a sip of water.
"Not sleeping?,” she asked with eyes only half open.
Maybe there was a voltage problem, but this time even the blue light started flickering in the compartment.
"No, not sleepy at all,” I said.
"OK, goodnight anyway,” she said, as she was about to lie down again.
"Listen,” I said, "Get up. Sit down again.”
"Huh?” she said, rubbing her eyes, "Why? What happened?"
"Nothing. You tell me what happened. Tell me the story,” I said.
"So you will write it?"
"Yes,” I said, with a bit of hesitation.
"Good,” she said, and sat up again. The cross-legged position was back.
Over the rest of the night, she told me the story that begins from the next page. It is a story about six people, three guys and three girls who worked at the Connexions Call Center. I chose to tell the story through Shyam's eyes. This is because after I met him, I found him closest to me as a person. The rest of the people and what happened that night - well, I will let Shyam tell you that.

100 Best Novels

2005-08-24T19:12:00.000+05:30

Hi All,

Got this list of 100 best novels from randomhouse.com. Have a look at it :)

http://www.randomhouse.com/modernlibrary/100bestnovels.html

Looking outside the window ....

2005-08-24T18:43:00.000+05:30

Click on the pic to view a clearer picture

Rich Dad , Poor Dad ...

2005-08-22T11:37:00.000+05:30

After many months, one fine weekend (which happens to be the last weekend), i decided to pick up a book to read. Its not that I don’t feel like reading, but i mostly keep myself into techie books (never quite took to devouring novels) This time, the (fortunate?) book was Rich Dad, Poor Dad

My few words about the book -
The book starts more like a story, about the author as a kid, who says in the initial few pages: I have 2 dads, a rich dad and a poor dad Now don’t be mislead by this statement ;-D His own dad is a highly educated government servant, whom he refers to as Poor Dad . And his Rich Dad is actually his friend's dad, who is a self-employed business man (runs a corporation spanning real estate, construction etc). The book revolves around numerous examples (often comparisons) about the mindset, ideology and the approach that is employed by his 2 dads to issues, basically monetary issues.

'Poor Dad' is highly educated, is in government service, has a respectable job ... and ... always under monetary constraints. 'Rich Dad' is not as educated, but lives a totally different professional life. He is the one who run his things. The major difference between the two (which is also the main driving point of the book) is the stark difference in approach both of them have towards money dealings.

Rich Dad tries to instill into the author what he coins as Financial Intelligence His view is that, however educated you might become, more often than not, schools and colleges fail to improve you on the financial insight department - his point being, they hardly teach you or help develop the financial genius in you. But he is also a staunch supporter of getting yourself educated. But of course he insists on using that education to improve your understanding of the finances. (encourages to attend seminars which enrich your financial understanding)

Another important aspect which the author discusses in the book is how much risk should you take? The risk being referred to is financial risks vis-a-vis your investments. How much of a risk taker are you - will you invest in equities? will you invest in business? if you don’t take a plunge into high return investments (also higher risk investment), you would always stick to the low-return-low-risk segment of investments (this is one of the view points)

There are a lot more fundas as well, but one thing which the book consistently talks about is - how to make your money work for you, rather than you working for your money The point being, invest to make your money yield more money for you.

That’s enough for a (p)review - to end off, here’s a question i encountered in the book : when can you say - I am Rich ? When in your life, what circumstances would finally make you say 'I am Rich'?
P.S : no answers like "when i am happy" etc etc

The India it was ....

2005-08-12T11:39:00.000+05:30

Lord McCauley in his speech of Feb 2, 1835, British Parliament

"I have traveled across the length and breadth of India and I have not seen one person who is a beggar, who is a thief. Such wealth I have seen in this country, such high moral values, people of such caliber,that I do not think we would ever conquer this country, unless we break the very backbone of this nation, which is her spiritual and cultural heritage, and, therefore, I propose that we replace her old and ancient education system, her culture, for if the Indians think that all that is foreign and English is good and greater than their own, they will lose their self-esteem,their native self-culture and they will become what we want them, a truly dominated nation".

Lets not FORGET this on this INDEPENDENCE DAY ....

The Happy Prince - Oscar Wilde

2005-08-09T14:21:00.000+05:30

High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.

He was very much admired indeed. "He is as beautiful as a weathercock," remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; "only not quite so useful," he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.

"Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?" asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. "The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything."

"I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy," muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.

"He looks just like an angel," said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores.

"How do you know?" said the Mathematical Master, "you have never seen one."

"Ah! but we have, in our dreams," answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.

One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.

"Shall I love you?" said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.

"It is a ridiculous attachment," twittered the other Swallows; "she has no money, and far too many relations"; and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away.

After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady- love. "She has no conversation," he said, "and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind." And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. "I admit that she is domestic," he continued, "but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also."

"Will you come away with me?" he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.

"You have been trifling with me," he cried. "I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!" and he flew away.

All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. "Where shall I put up?" he said; "I hope the town has made preparations."

Then he saw the statue on the tall column.

"I will put up there," he cried; "it is a fine position, with plenty of fresh air." So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.

"I have a golden bedroom," he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. "What a curious thing!" he cried; "there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness."

Then another drop fell.

"What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?" he said; "I must look for a good chimney-pot," and he determined to fly away.

But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw - Ah! what did he see?

The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.

"Who are you?" he said.

"I am the Happy Prince."

"Why are you weeping then?" asked the Swallow; "you have quite drenched me."

"When I was alive and had a human heart," answered the statue, "I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans- Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot chose but weep."

"What! is he not solid gold?" said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.

"Far away," continued the statue in a low musical voice, "far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion- flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of- honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move."

"I am waited for in Egypt," said the Swallow. "My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus- flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad."

"I don't think I like boys," answered the Swallow. "Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect."

But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. "It is very cold here," he said; "but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger."

"Thank you, little Swallow," said the Prince.

So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.

He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. "How wonderful the stars are," he said to her, "and how wonderful is the power of love!"

"I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball," she answered; "I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy."

He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. "How cool I feel," said the boy, "I must be getting better"; and he sank into a delicious slumber.

Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. "It is curious," he remarked, "but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold."

"That is because you have done a good action," said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.

When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. "What a remarkable phenomenon," said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. "A swallow in winter!" And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.

"To-night I go to Egypt," said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, "What a distinguished stranger!" so he enjoyed himself very much.

When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "Have you any commissions for Egypt?" he cried; "I am just starting."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?"

"I am waited for in Egypt," answered the Swallow. "To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint."

"I will wait with you one night longer," said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. "Shall I take him another ruby?"

"Alas! I have no ruby now," said the Prince; "my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play."

"Dear Prince," said the Swallow, "I cannot do that"; and he began to weep.

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you."

So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.

"I am beginning to be appreciated," he cried; "this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play," and he looked quite happy.

The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. "Heave a-hoy!" they shouted as each chest came up. "I am going to Egypt"! cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.

"I am come to bid you good-bye," he cried.

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?"

"It is winter," answered the Swallow, "and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea."

"In the square below," said the Happy Prince, "there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her."

"I will stay with you one night longer," said the Swallow, "but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you."

So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. "What a lovely bit of glass," cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.

Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. "You are blind now," he said, "so I will stay with you always."

"No, little Swallow," said the poor Prince, "you must go away to Egypt."

"I will stay with you always," said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet.

All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold-fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.

"Dear little Swallow," said the Prince, "you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there."

So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try and keep themselves warm. "How hungry we are!" they said. "You must not lie here," shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.

Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.

"I am covered with fine gold," said the Prince, "you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy."

Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. "We have bread now!" they cried.

Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.

The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker's door when the baker was not looking and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.

But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. "Good-bye, dear Prince!" he murmured, "will you let me kiss your hand?"

"I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow," said the Prince, "you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you."

"It is not to Egypt that I am going," said the Swallow. "I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?"

And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.

At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.

Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: "Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!" he said.

"How shabby indeed!" cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it.

"The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer," said the Mayor in fact, "he is litttle beter than a beggar!"

"Little better than a beggar," said the Town Councillors.

"And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!" continued the Mayor. "We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here." And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.

So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. "As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful," said the Art Professor at the University.

Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. "We must have another statue, of course," he said, "and it shall be a statue of myself."

"Of myself," said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.

"What a strange thing!" said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. "This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away." So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.

"Bring me the two most precious things in the city," said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.

"You have rightly chosen," said God, "for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me."

Completed Reading Harry Potter and the HBP

2005-08-03T16:46:00.000+05:30

Hey Folks,

I completed this book a couple of week ago.

Expected too much after the Azkaban one .

The book wasnt as interesting as the 'Chamber of Secrets' (or) 'The Prisoner of Azbakan' .I should agree with Theja on that .

Well ,it seems in the recent days , like with every Harry Potter Book release ,one major character in the book has to pass away ;-) Sirius in the Previous book ,Now in this HBP also ,one major character has gone ! Just wondering who would be next to join this list ;-) (Hagrid ? :-o)

Just cant wait for HP7 :-D

About R.A.B .. Hmm .. Well , Cant guess anything as of now ..

But well,this book is worth a read :-)

Happy Reading Friends !
Anu

How do u rate the Half-Blood Prince ?

2005-07-27T16:17:00.000+05:30

Completed my Half-Blood Prince yesterday;picked up my copy at the Walden.

Those who have already finished it.. How do u rate it compared to other Harry Potter Books?
I personally feel 'prisoner of Azbakan' is the best of the lot.Then 'The chamber of secrets' and 'The Goblet of Fire' are equally poised to win the second slot.'Half-Blood Prince' follows and that leaves 5th and 1st books tailing behind.

And I can't wait to discuss about what may happen in HP7..Who could this mysterious R.A.B be ?

Who is reading Half-Blood Prince ?

2005-07-18T16:14:00.000+05:30

Who else in the Oracle Book Club is reading Harry Potter & The Half-Blood Prince ? I see Tanushree is. Who else? How far into the book are you? What surprised you the most? What did you hate the most? And what did you love about HBP?

No spoilers please :-D I am still reading the book. About 50% complete at this stage.

Anyone Finished HBP???

2005-07-18T11:35:00.000+05:30

Has anyone finished reading the book? I can't wait to start discussing/analysing every word (specially in the last couple of chapters)!

A collaboration over too much coffee

2005-07-18T09:32:00.000+05:30

When I was browsing through a local newspaper on Saturday, I found one interesting club related to writing activities in Hyderabad. Caferati is a group of writers in Hyderabad who usually meet once in a month to exchange their thoughts on writing, shared work, sharing books and get to know about each others. This is similar kind of group as Bombay Writers' Cafe. Their motto is "A collaboration over too much coffee".

http://www.caferati.com/
http://caferati.blogspot.com/

Harry Potter HBP Spoiler Alert

2005-07-17T12:24:00.000+05:30

If you are like me & cannot wait to find out who died.
Jump over to here.

The NEW Sharing Info

2005-07-15T17:10:00.000+05:30

Pardon me for this post, FYI.

--
Hi All,

Here is some info about sharinginfo_hyd@yahoogroups.com

(1) To subscribe , drop a mail from ANY email address u want to subscribe, to sharinginfo_hyd-subscribe@yahoogroups.com
The request will not be instant, it will be verified by the moderator(s)

(2) To post , send the mail to sharinginfo_hyd@yahoogroups.com

(3) For those of you who are members of the group using a yahoo email ID and want to change your email ID to an email ID of ur choice, please do the following :

* login to http://groups.yahoo.com/group/sharinginfo_hyd/ using your yahoo login, to which u r subscribed to
* go to "edit my membership" at top of the main group page
* In the email address option, please add your new email address

(4) Say u r subscribed with ABCD@XYZ.com, and want to change to EFGH@RST.com, do the following :-

* drop in a mail from ABCD@XYZ.com to sharinginfo_hyd-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com (this will unsubscribe u from this email id )

* drop in a mail from EFGH@RST.com to sharinginfo_hyd-subscribe@yahoogroups.com (this will subscribe u with this email ID )

--

I hope this is of help to those who miss out of sharinginfo :-)

Thanks,
Anshuman

Book Review: Life of Pi

2005-07-15T15:28:00.000+05:30

Read this absolutely amazing book while coming from Delhi by train.
I had some 26 hrs to kill and since I've heard a lot about the book, I
kinda picked it in the local old-books market.

The book is about a 16 year guy who gets shipwrecked.
He is left with a zebra, a hyena, a chimpanzee and a 450 Kg tiger in a
lifeboat.
How he survives and makes it through is what the book is about.
The name of tiger is Richard Parker :-)

It is a book which explores into psychology in testing times.
It kinda tells to what heights a person will go; just to survive.
In a nutshell, this is a book of life. It highlights the jest for life.
It kinda shouts in your face - Life is short. Get on with living.

One of the images which keeps on flashing into my mind is that this 16
yr old boy Pi stumbling into another survivor.
However by that time both these survivors had gone blind.
The expected reaction at this time would be that these two survivors
will try to help each other and try to make it through.
I was stunned into disbelief when I realized that the other survivor was
trying to eat Pi as he had run out of his food supplies and cannot fish,
having gone blind.

The other vividly remembered portion of the book is when Pi's father( a
zoo keeper) is trying to explain to him why he should never disturb the
animals even though they look innocious. He takes him into cages of
lions which haven't been fed for 3 days.
Then he shows him how the lions react when a live sheep is brought in
front of them.
Surely a lesson Pi could never forget in his lifetime.

The book gets into the heads of the guy and the tiger.
It explains beautifully the concepts of how animals are territorial and
get upset and turn violent incase of even a slight change in their
environment.
It takes you through the world of oceans, and sharks, and tigers and
carnivoros islands.
It thrills and enthralls. Keeps you looking out for what is coming next.

An amazing read.

Batman - The real hero ?

2005-07-15T11:33:00.000+05:30

What makes Batman my favourite of super heros? What makes him stand out among the slew of other super heros - superman, spiderman, X-men ... what?

Razor sharp thinking - every super hero has it (uh, isnt that why (s)he can always be one step ahead of the villians?) So that doesnt really give him an edge, does it ?

A great wardrobe - nah, this one doesnt work either. Spidey has a cool 'uniform', and even superman has a cape (that too a bright red one :-D )

Anonimity - but then, each one of them is anonymous!

According to me, what scores for Batman is the fact that he is Human. Not that I am putting the other ones in the inhuman category, but are they really "human" ? aren't they more of ..er .. mutants ? Superman flies, spidey haas those magical spider prowess, and X-men are self-proclaimed mutants. What makes Batman special is the realness - the guy is all flesh and blood, the adventures are real life, he uses his quick silver mind to devise gadgets to help him out - he is the real human hero.

Cant recollect any other 'human' heroes ... Wot say ?

P.S : batman fans can now catch up with the all new batman series on cartoon network - every Sunday, 11:30 am.

The Hyderabad Sky !

2005-07-13T14:52:00.000+05:30

Click on the picture for a larger view :

Blogger & JavaScript

2005-07-11T19:11:00.000+05:30

So Blogger does accept JavaScript code though it throws up an error message if you try to embed JavaScript into a post!

I tried to post the Harry Potter & The Half-Bllod Prince count down counter and Blogger complained about the script tags. I hit the publish button anyway and viola, the post appears as it should.

Cool. I learnt something about Blogger today.

2005-07-08T17:47:00.000+05:30

The DaVinci Code by Dan Brown - Review

2005-07-07T10:38:00.000+05:30

Robert Langdon is a Professor at Harvard University specialized in religious Symbology. Once he went to Paris to give a speech and meet Jacques Sauniere, curator of Louvre. Unfortunately, Jacques is murdered in Louvre and the French Judicial Police suspect Langdon, takes him from his hotel to Louvre. Jacques left some clues of the keystone for which he was murdered. Bezu Fache, captain of French Judicial Police, believes Robert is the killer of Jacques.

Then enters Sophie Neveu, an agent from Department Cryptology and grand daughter of Jacques, believes Robert is innocent and the clues left behind were meant for her. She manages to escape from Louvre along with Robert. She analyzes that his grand father adjusted himself within a circle to imitate Leonardo Da Vinci's famous painting, 'The Vitruvian Man'. They decipher the clues and find the key left for her by her grand father.

Another story runs in parallel about Opus Dei, a Christian society in United States, who’s Bishop is looking for a keystone to unlock the secret of the Holy Grail. Bishop's disciple Silas is in search of keystone in Paris.

Sophie and Langdon found that Jacques was a member of secret society called the Priory of Sion, whose members included Isaac Newton, Botticelli, Victor Hugo and of course Da Vinci. Sophie and Langdon's race continues with deciphering clues, anagrams, a lot of analysis on Holy Grail. They continue to solve each puzzle they encounter. Finally they succeeded to trace the location of keystone. I'm not so impressed with the conclusion.

Dan Brown managed to keep the thrill and suspense throughout all the chapters of book. Mystery in this book is so fascinating. It's a wonderful fiction.

So, grab this book, have happy reading. You comments are welcome on this review.

Kiran

Oscar Wilde and more ....

2005-07-05T16:23:00.000+05:30

Hiya buddies !

Seems like Oscar Wilde has been pointed out as the only saviour ;-D

Well I do intend to put up more 'short stories'. Oscal Wilde made his debut on the blog coz that was the first collection I laid my hands on :-D

Till the next short story is put up, enjoy this pic (click on it for a larger pic) :

I call it : brooding ... what say ?

Kya Ignorant Hai Hum

2005-07-04T19:50:00.000+05:30

Do check this link out - the test is outrageous! :-)
http://ww1.mid-day.com/columns/mukul_sharma/2005/june/110852.htm

The Truth behind Tragedies

2005-07-04T17:21:00.000+05:30

When we learnt tragedies in Literature (Hamlet, Macbeth etc), we were asked to refer to the original commentaries on tragedy by Aristotle. According to Aristotle's Poetics, it is an art form that corresponds deeply with human life. http://www.cnr.edu/home/bmcmanus/poetics.html. To undergo a reversal (peripeteia), a character had to go through a complex plot (change of situation/fortunes) and achieve two phases: catharsis (cleansing) and anagnorisis (self-discovery or realization). Usually a tragic character starts out with a major flaw (eg: harmatia or pride) and then goes through the process of being cleansed of his flaw and achieves a degree of realization. That pattern arouses not only sympathy in us, but also admiration (every tragic hero is larger than life and a towering personality). In his magnified flaws, we see our own flaws. When he goes through the painful process of cleansing, we also identify with the terrors and horrors that he faces. According to all tragic critics, this is also supposed to bring about a catharsis in us (the audience). Finally, we share his revelations as much as we share his flaws and pain.
However this is theory.... to really experience why tragedy as an art form holds our attention, I recommend seeing Hamlet the movie starring Sir Lawrence Olivier (it's spectacular) and possibly seeing the drama version of Macbeth, Mayor of Casterbridge, King Lear or other greats. If well acted, they are really moving. I was spellbound when I saw Oedipus the play (in English) - it was unforgettable.....
Comedy is another art form which is quite deep, though it seems whimsical - does anyone want to discuss that?

Misinformation through the blog

2005-07-04T16:34:00.000+05:30

Hi all..
Under the section 'Contributors' I see 20 odd names listed. But going
through the entries I notice that Oscar Wilde is the only 'contributor'.
May be it's time to change the name of the section, huh? :)

Regards.
Subhash

Blog by email !

2005-07-04T14:52:00.000+05:30

Hey buddies ...

To post on the oracle book club blog via email, all you need to do is send your "post" as an email to ora_idc.bookclub@blogger.com , and voila, your post will be visible on the blog within no time !

Subject of email : subject of the post
Content of email : body of the post

Njoy !

Tragedy kings and queens ....

2005-07-04T14:48:00.000+05:30

What people like in tragic stories? Dont know myself, i stay miles away from tragic sagas ... well lemme think what goes thru those who *prefer* tragics .. a tragic story stirs the sympathy emotions is you . And maybe it gives you a "i m still better off" feeling - a kindof "you are not THAT poor, there are poorer people than you"

What else could be the reason ... hey where are the "tragedy kings and queens" ? Wot say ?

Lovely Tragedies ?!

2005-06-30T21:21:00.000+05:30

( Rather neat, this huh email blogging ?)
Hey ppl,
I was just wondering, why is it that we like reading tragedies ?
King Lear, Macbeth, Hard Times... The list is endless....
Well, none of us would want to be a King Lear himself/herself , yet what is
the human psychology behind appreciating tragic stories ?

Just a thought...
Your views ?

Rgds,
Kandarp

The Canterville Ghost - Oscar Wilde (Part 4-7 of 7)

2005-06-24T11:27:00.000+05:30

IV

The next day the ghost was very weak and tired. The terrible excitement of the last four weeks was beginning to have its effect. His nerves were completely shattered, and he started at the slightest noise. For five days he kept his room, and at last made up his mind to give up the point of the blood-stain on the library floor. If the Otis family did not want it, they clearly did not deserve it. They were evidently people on a low, material plane of existence, and quite incapable of appreciating the symbolic value of sensuous phenomena. The question of phantasmic apparitions, and the development of astral bodies, was of course quite a different matter, and really not under his control. It was his solemn duty to appear in the corridor once a week, and to gibber from the large oriel window on the first and third Wednesdays in every month, and he did not see how he could honourably escape from his obligations. It is quite true that his life had been very evil, but, upon the other hand, he was most conscientious in all things connected with the supernatural. For the next three Saturdays, accordingly, he traversed the corridor as usual between midnight and three o'clock, taking every possible precaution against being either heard or seen. He removed his boots, trod as lightly as possible on the old worm-eaten boards, wore a large black velvet cloak, and was careful to use the Rising Sun Lubricator for oiling his chains. I am bound to acknowledge that it was with a good deal of difficulty that he brought himself to adopt this last mode of protection. However, one night, while the family were at dinner, he slipped into Mr. Otis's bedroom and carried off the bottle. He felt a little humiliated at first, but afterwards was sensible enough to see that there was a great deal to be said for the invention, and, to a certain degree, it served his purpose. Still, in spite of everything, he was not left unmolested. Strings were continually being stretched across the corridor, over which he tripped in the dark, and on one occasion, while dressed for the part of 'Black Isaac, or the Huntsman of Hogley Woods,' he met with a severe fall, through treading on a butter-slide, which the twins had constructed from the entrance of the Tapestry Chamber to the top of the oak staircase. This last insult so enraged him, that he resolved to make one final effort to assert his dignity and social position, and determined to visit the insolent young Etonians the next night in his celebrated character of 'Reckless Rupert, or the Headless Earl.'

He had not appeared in this disguise for more than seventy years; in fact, not since he had so frightened pretty Lady Barbara Modish by means of it, that she suddenly broke off her engagement with the present Lord Canterville's grandfather, and ran away to Gretna Green with handsome Jack Castleton, declaring that nothing in the world would induce her to marry into a family that allowed such a horrible phantom to walk up and down the terrace at twilight. Poor Jack was afterwards shot in a duel by Lord Canterville on Wandsworth Common, and Lady Barbara died of a broken heart at Tunbridge Wells before the year was out, so, in every way, it had been a great success. It was, however, an extremely dimcult 'make-up,' if I may use such a theatrical expression in connection with one of the greatest mysteries of the supernatural, or, to employ a more scientific term, the higher-natural world, and it took him fully three hours to make his preparations. At last everything was ready, and he was very pleased with his appearance. The big leather riding-boots that went with the dress were just a little too large for him, and he could only find one of the two horse-pistols, but, on the whole, he was quite satisfied, and at a quarter past one he glided out of the wainscoting and crept down the corridor. On reaching the room occupied by the twins, which I should mention was called the Blue Bed Chamber, on account of the colour of its hangings, he found the door just ajar. Wishing to make an effective entrance, he flung it wide open, when a heavy jug of water fell right down on him, wetting him to the skin, and just missing his left shoulder by a couple of inches. At the same moment he heard stifled shrieks of laughter proceeding from the four-post bed. The shock to his nervous system was so great that he fled back to his room as hard as he could go, and the next day he was laid up with a severe cold. The only thing that at all consoled him in the whole affair was the fact that he had not brought his head with him, for, had he done so, the consequences might have been very serious.

He now gave up all hope of ever frightening this rude American family, and contented himself, as a rule, with creeping about the passages in list slippers, with a thick red muffler round his throat for fear of draughts, and a small arquebuse, in case he should be attacked by the twins. The final blow he received occurred on the 19th of September. He had gone downstairs to the great entrance-hall, feeling sure that there, at any rate, he would be quite unmolested, and was amusing himself by making satirical remarks on the large Saroni photographs of the United States Minister and his wife, which had now taken the place of the Canterville family pictures. He was simply but neatly clad in a long shroud, spotted with churchyard mould, had tied up his jaw with a strip of yellow linen, and carried a small lantern and a sexton's spade. In fact, he was dressed for the character of 'Jonas the Graveless, or the Corpse-Snatcher of Chertsey Barn,' one of his most remarkable impersonations, and one which the Cantervilles had every reason to remember, as it was the real origin of their quarrel with their neighbour, Lord Rufford. It was about a quarter past two o'clock in the morning, and, as far as he could ascertain, no one was stirring. As he was stroiling towards the library, however, to see if there were any traces left of the bloodstain, suddenly there leaped out on him from a dark corner two figures, who waved their arms wildly above their heads, and shrieked out 'BOO!' in his ear.

Seized with a panic, which, under the circumstances, was only natural, he rushed for the staircase, but found Washington Otis waiting for him there with the big garden-syringe; and being thus hemmed in by his enemies on every side, and driven almost to bay, he vanished into the great iron stove, which, fortunately for him, was not lit, and had to make his way home through the flues and chimneys, arriving at his own room in a terrible state of dirt, disorder, and despair.

After this he was not seen again on any nocturnal expedition. The twins lay in wait for him on several occasions, and strewed the passages with nutshells every night to the great annoyance of their parents and the servants, but it was of no avail. It was quite evident that his feelings were so wounded that he would not appear. Mr. Otis consequently resumed his great work on the history of the Democratic Party, on which he had been engaged for some years; Mrs. Otis organised a wonderful clam-bake, which amazed the whole county; the boys took to lacrosse, euchre, poker, and other American national games; and Virginia rode about the lanes on her pony, accompanied by the young Duke of Cheshire, who had come to spend the last week of his holidays at Canterville Chase. It was generally assumed that the ghost had gone away, and, in fact, Mr. Otis wrote a letter to that effect to Lord Canterville, who, in reply, expressed his great pleasure at the news, and sent his best congratulations to the Minister's worthy wife.

The Otises, however, were deceived, for the ghost was still in the house, and though now almost an invalid, was by no means ready to let matters rest, particularly as he heard that among the guests was the young Duke of Cheshire, whose grand-uncle, Lord Francis Stilton, had once bet a hundred guineas with Colonel Carbury that he would play dice with the Canterville ghost, and was found the next morning lying on the floor of the card-room in such a helpless paralytic state, that though he lived on to a great age, he was never able to say anything again but 'Double Sixes.' The story was well known at the time, though, of course, out of respect to the feelings of the two noble families, every attempt was made to hush it up; and a full account of all the circumstances connected with it will be found in the third volume of Lord Tattle's 'Recollections of the Prince Regent and his Friends'. The ghost, then, was naturally very anxious to show that he had not lost his influence over the Stiltons, with whom, indeed, he was distantly connected, his own first cousin having been married en secondes noces, the Sieur de Bulkeley, from whom, as every one knows, the Dukes of Cheshire are lineally descended. Accordingly, he made arrangements for appearing to Virginia's little lover in his celebrated impersonation of 'The Vampire Monk, or, the Bloodless Benedictine,' a performance so horrible that when old Lady Startup saw it, which she did on one fatal New Year's Eve, in the year 1764, she went off into the most piercing shrieks, which culminated in violent apoplexy, and died in three days, after disinheriting the Cantervilles, who were her nearest relations, and leaving all her money to her London apothecary. At the last moment, however, his terror of the twins prevented his leaving his room, and the little Duke slept in peace under the great feathered canopy in the Royal Bedchamber, and dreamed of Virginia.

V

A few days after this, Virginia and her curly-haired cavalier went out riding on Brockley meadows, where she tore her habit so badly in getting through a hedge, that, on their return home, she made up her mind to go up by the back staircase so as not to be seen. As she was running past the Tapestry Chamber, the door of which happened to be open, she fancied she saw some one inside, and thinking it was her mother's maid, who sometimes used to bring her work there, looked in to ask her to mend her habit. To her immense surprise, however, it was the Canterville Ghost himself! He was sitting by the window, watching the ruined gold of the yellowing trees fly through the air, and the red leaves dancing madly down the long avenue. His head was leaning on his hand, and his whole attitude was one of extreme depression. Indeed, so forlorn, and so much out of repair did he look, that little Virginia, whose first idea had been to run away and lock herself in her room, was filled with pity, and determined to try and comfort him. So light was her footfall, and so deep his melancholy, that he was not aware of her presence till she spoke to him.

'I am so sorry for you,' she said, 'but my brothers are going back to Eton tomorrow, and then, if you behave yourself, no one will annoy you.'

'It is absurd asking me to behave myself,' he answered, looking round in astonishment at the pretty little girl who had ventured to address him, quite absurd. I must rattle my chains, and groan through keyholes, and walk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only reason for existing.'

'It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been very wicked. Mrs. Umney told us, the first day we arrived here, that you had killed your wife.'

'Well, I quite admit it,' said the Ghost petulantly, 'but it was a purely family matter, and concerned no one else.'

'It is very wrong to kill any one,' said Virginia, who at times had a sweet Puritan gravity, caught from some old New England ancestor.

'Oh, I hate the cheap severity of abstract ethics! My wife was very plain, never had my ruffs properly starched, and knew nothing about cookery. Why, there was a buck I had shot in Hogley Woods, a magnificent pricket, and do you know how she had it sent up to table? However, it is no matter now, for it is all over, and I don't think it was very nice of her brothers to starve me to death, though I did kill her.'

'Starve you to death? Oh, Mr. Ghost, I mean Sir Simon, are you hungry? I have a sandwich in my case. Would you like it?'

'No, thank you, I never eat anything now; but it is very kind of you, all the same, and you are much nicer than the rest of your horrid, rude, vulgar, dishonest family.'

'Stop!' cried Virginia, stamping her foot, 'it is you who are rude, and horrid, and vulgar, and as for dishonesty, you know you stole the paints out of my box to try and furbish up that ridiculous blood-stain in the library. First you took all my reds, including the vermilion, and I couldn't do any more sunsets, then you took the emerald-green and the chrome-yellow, and finally I had nothing left but indigo and Chinese white, and could only do moonlight scenes, which are always depressing to look at, and not at all easy to paint. I never told on you, though I was very much annoyed, and it was most ridiculous, the whole thing; for who ever heard of emerald-green blood?'

'Well, really,' said the Ghost, rather meekly, 'what was I to do? It is a very difficult thing to get real blood nowadays, and, as your brother began it all with his Paragon Detergent, I certainly saw no reason why I should not have your paints. As for colour, that is always a matter of taste: the Cantervilles have blue blood, for instance, the very bluest in England; but I know you Americans don't care for things of this kind.'

'You know nothing about it, and the best thing you can do is to emigrate and improve your mind. My father will be only too happy to give you a free passage, and though there is a heavy duty on spirits of every kind, there will be no difficulty about the Custom House, as the officers are all Democrats. Once in New York, you are sure to be a great success. I know lots of people there who would give a hundred thousand dollars to have a grandfather, and much more than that to have a family ghost.'

'I don't think I should like America.'

'I suppose because we have no ruins and no curiosities,' said Virginia satirically.

'No ruins! no curiosities!' answered the Ghost, 'you have your navy and your manners.'

'Good evening; I will go and ask papa to get the twins an extra week's holiday.'

'Please don't go, Miss Virginia,' he cried; I am so lonely and so unhappy, and I really don't know what to do. I want to go to sleep and I cannot.'

'That's quite absurd! You have merely to go to bed and blow out the candle. It is very difficult sometimes to keep awake, especially at church, but there is no difficulty at all about sleeping. Why, even babies know how to do that, and they are not very clever.'

'I have not slept for three hundred years,' he said sadly, and Virginia's beautiful blue eyes opened in wonder; 'for three hundred years I have not slept, and I am so tired.'

Virginia grew quite grave, and her little lips trembled like rose-leaves. She came towards him, and kneeling down at his side, looked up into his old withered face.

'Poor, poor Ghost,' she murmured, 'have you no place where you can sleep?'

'Far away beyond the pine woods,' he answered, in a low dreamy voice, 'there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold, crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers.'

Virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.

'You mean the Garden of Death,' she whispered.

'Yes, Death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of Death's house, for Love is always with you, and Love is stronger than Death is.'

Virginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few moments there was silence. She felt as if she was in a terrible dream.

Then the Ghost spoke again, and his voice sounded like the sighing of the wind.

'Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?'

'Oh, often,' cried the little girl, looking up; 'I know it quite well. It is painted in curious black letters, and it is difficult to read. There are only six lines:

Whan a golden girl can win
Prayer from out the lips of sin,
When the barren almond bears,
And a little child give away its tears,
Then shall all the house be still
And peace come to Canterville.

But I don't know what they mean.'

'They mean,' he said sadly, 'that you must weep with me for my sins, because I have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because I have no faith, and then, if you have always been sweet, and good, and gentle, the Angel of Death will have mercy on me. You will see fearful shapes in darkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your ear, but they will not harm you, for against the purity of a little child the powers of Hell cannot prevail.'

Virginia made no answer, and the Ghost wrung his hands in wild despair as he looked down at her bowed golden head. Suddenly she stood up, very pale, and with a strange light in her eyes. 'I am not afraid,' she said firmly, 'and I will ask the Angel to have mercy on you.'

He rose from his seat with a faint cry of joy, and taking her hand bent over it with old-fashioned grace and kissed it. His fingers were as cold as ice, and his lips burned like fire, but Virginia did not falter, as he led her across the dusky room. On the faded green tapestry were broidered little huntsmen. They blew their tasselled horns and with their tiny hands waved to her to go back. 'Go back! little Virginia,' they cried, 'go back!' but the Ghost clutched her hand more tightly, and she shut her eyes against them. Horrible animals with lizard tails, and goggle eyes, blinked at her from the carven chimney-piece, and murmured 'Beware! little Virginia, beware! we may never see you again,' but the Ghost glided on more swiftly, and Virginia did not listen.

When they reached the end of the room he stopped, and muttered some words she could not understand. She opened her eyes, and saw the wall slowly fading away like a mist, and a great black cavern in front of her. A bitter cold wind swept round them, and she felt something pulling at her dress. 'Quick, quick,' cried the Ghost, 'or it will be too late,' and, in a moment, the wainscoting had closed behind them, and the Tapestry Chamber was empty.

VI

About ten minutes later, the bell rang for tea, and, as Virginia did not come down, Mrs. Otis sent up one of the footmen to tell her. After a little time he returned and said that he could not find Miss Virginia anywhere. As she was in the habit of going out to the garden every evening to get flowers for the dinner-table, Mrs. Otis was not at all alarmed at first, but when six o'clock struck, and Virginia did not appear, she became really agitated, and sent the boys out to look for her, while she herself and Mr. Otis searched every room in the house. At half past six the boys came back and said that they could find no trace of their sister anywhere. They were all now in the greatest state of excitement, and did not know what to do, when Mr. Otis suddenly remembered that, some few days before, he had given a band of gipsies permission to camp in the park. He accordingly at once set off for Blackfell Hollow, where he knew they were, accompanied by his eldest son and two of the farm-servants. The little Duke of Cheshire, who was perfectly frantic with anxiety, begged hard to be allowed to go too, but Mr. Otis would not allow him, as he was afraid there might be a scuffle. On arriving at the spot, however, he found that the gipsies had gone, and it was evident that their departure had been rather sudden, as the fire was still burning, and some plates were lying on the grass. Having sent off Washington and the two men to scour the district, he ran home, and despatched telegrams to all the police inspectors in the county, telling them to look out for a little girl who had been kidnapped by tramps or gipsies. He then ordered his horse to be brought round, and, after insisting on his wife and the three boys sitting down to dinner, rode off down the Ascot road with a groom. He had hardly, however, gone a couple of miles, when he heard somebody galloping after him, and, looking round, saw the little Duke coming up on his pony, with his face very flushed and no hat. 'I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Otis,' gasped out the boy, 'but I can't eat any dinner as long as Virginia is lost. Please, don't be angry with me; if you had let us be engaged last year, there would never have been all this trouble. You won't send me back, will you? I can't go! I won't go!'

The Minister could not help smiling at the handsome young scapegrace, and was a good deal touched at his devotion to Virginia, so leaning down from his horse, he patted him kindly on the shoulders, and said, 'Well, Cecil, if you won't go back I suppose you must come with me, but I must get you a hat at Ascot.'

'Oh, bother my hat! I want Virginia!' cried the little Duke, laughing, and they galloped on to the railway station. There Mr. Otis inquired of the station-master if any one answering to the description of Virginia had been seen on the platform, but could get no news of her. The station-master, however, wired up and down the line, and assured him that a strict watch would be kept for her, and, after having bought a hat for the little Duke from a linen-draper, who was just putting up his shutters, Mr. Otis rode off to Bexley, a village about four miles away, which he was told was a well-known haunt of the gipsies, as there was a large common next to it. Here they roused up the rural policeman, but could get no information from him, and, after riding all over the common, they turned their horses' heads homewards, and reached the Chase about eleven o'clock, dead-tired and almost heartbroken. They found Washington and the twins waiting for them at the gate-house with lanterns, as the avenue was very dark. Not the slightest trace of Virginia had been discovered. The gipsies had been caught on Brockley meadows, but she was not with them, and they had explained their sudden departure by saying that they had mistaken the date of Chorton Fair, and had gone off in a hurry for fear they might be late. Indeed, they had been quite distressed at hearing of Virginia's disappearance, as they were very grateful to Mr. Otis for having allowed them to camp in his park, and four of their number had stayed behind to help in the search. The carp-pond had been dragged, and the whole Chase thoroughly gone over, but without any result. It was evident that, for that night at any rate, Virginia was lost to them; and it was in a state of the deepest depression that Mr. Otis and the boys walked up to the house, the groom following behind with the two horses and the pony.

In the hall they found a group of frightened servants, and lying on a sofa in the library was poor Mrs. Otis, almost out of her mind with terror and anxiety, and having her forehead bathed with eau-de-cologne by the old housekeeper. Mr. Otis at once insisted on her having something to eat, and ordered up supper for the whole party. It was a melancholy meal, as hardly any one spoke, and even the twins were awestruck and subdued, as they were very fond of their sister. When they had finished, Mr. Otis, in spite of the entreaties of the little Duke, ordered them all to bed, saying that nothing more could be done that night, and that he would telegraph in the morning to Scotland Yard for some detectives to be sent down immediately. Just as they were passing out of the dining-room, midnight began to boom from the clock tower, and when the last stroke sounded they heard a crash and a sudden shrill cry; a dreadful peal of thunder shook the house, a strain of unearthly music floated through the air, a panel at the top of the staircase flew back with a loud noise, and out on the landing, looking very pale and white, with a little casket in her hand, stepped Virginia. In a moment they had all rushed up to her. Mrs. Otis clasped her passionately in her arms, the Duke smothered her with violent kisses, and the twins executed a wild war-dance round the group.

'Good heavens! child, where have you been?' said Mr. Otis, rather angrily, thinking that she had been playing some foolish trick on them.'Cecil and I have been riding all over the country looking for you, and your mother has been frightened to death. You must never play these practical joks any more.'

'Except on the Ghost! except on the Ghost!' shrieked the twins, as they capered about.

'My own darling, thank God you are found; you must never leave my side again,' murmured Mrs. Otis, as she kissed the trembling child, and smoothed the tangled gold of her hair.

'Papa,' said Virginia quietly, 'I have been with the Ghost. He is dead, and you must come and see him. He had been very wicked, but he was really sorry for all that he had done, and he gave me this box of beautiful jewels before he died.'

The whole family gazed at her in mute amazement, but she was quite grave and serious; and, turning round, she led them through the opening in the wainscoting down a narrow secret corridor, Washington following with a lighted candle, which he had caught up from the table. Finally, they came to a great oak door, studded with rusty nails. When Virginia touched it, it swung back on its heavy hinges, and they found themselves in a little low room, with a vaulted ceiling, and one tiny grated window. Embedded in the wall was a huge iron ring, and chained to it was a gaunt skeleton, that was stretched out at full length on the stone floor, and seemed to be trying to grasp with its long fleshless fingers an old-fashioned trencher and ewer, that were placed just out of its reach. The jug had evidently been once filled with water, as it was covered inside with green mould. There was nothing on the trencher but a pile of dust. Virginia knelt down beside the skeleton, and, folding her little hands together, began to pray silently, while the rest of the party looked on in wonder at the terrible tragedy whose secret was now disclosed to them.'

'Hallo!' suddenly exclaimed one of the twins, who had been looking out of the window to try and discover in what wing of the house the room was situated. 'Hallo! the old withered almond tree has blossomed. I can see the flowers quite plainly in the moonlight.'

'God has forgiven him,' said Virginia gravely, as she rose to her feet, and a beautiful light seemed to illumine her face.

'What an angel you are!' cried the young Duke, and he put his arm round her neck, and kissed her.

VII

Four days after these curious incidents a funeral started from Canterville Chase at about eleven o'clock at night. The hearse was drawn by eight black horses, each of which carried on its head a great tuft of nodding ostrich-plumes, and the leaden coffin was covered by a rich purple pall, on which was embroidered in gold the Canterville coat-of-arms. By the side of the hearse and the coaches walked the servants with lighted torches, and the whole procession was wonderfully impressive. Lord Canterville was the chief mourner, having come up specially from Wales to attend the funeral, and sat in the first carriage along with little Virginia. Then came the United States Minister and his wife, then Washington and the three boys, and in the last carriage was Mrs. Umney. It was generally felt that, as she had been frightened by the ghost for more than fifty years of her life, she had a right to see the last of him. A deep grave had been dug in the corner of the churchyard, just under the old yew-tree, and the service was read in the most impressive manner by the Rev. Augustus Dampier. When the ceremony was over, the servants, according to an old custom observed in the Canterville family, extinguished their torches, and, as the coffin was being lowered into the grave, Virginia stepped forward, and laid on it a large cross made of white and pink almond-blossoms. As she did so, the moon came out from behind a cloud, and flooded with its silent silver the little churchyard, and from a distant copse a nightingale began to sing. She thought of the ghost's description of the Garden of Death, her eyes became dim with tears, and she hardly spoke a word during the drive home.

The next morning, before Lord Canterville went up to town, Mr. Otis had an interview with him on the subject of the jewels the ghost had given to Virginia. They were perfectly magnificent, especially a certain ruby necklace with old Venetian setting, which was really a superb specimen of sixteenth-century work, and their value was so great that Mr. Otis felt considerable scruples about allowing his daughter to accept them.

'My Lord,' he said,'I know that in this country mortmain is held to apply to trinkets as well as to land, and it is quite clear to me that these jewels are, or should be, heirlooms in your family. I must beg you, accordingly, to take them to London with you, and to regard them simply as a portion of your property which has been restored to you under certain strange conditions. As for my daughter, she is merely a child, and has as yet, I am glad to say, but little interest in such appurtenances of idle luxury. I am also informed by Mrs. Otis, who, I may say, is no mean authority upon Art - having had the privilege of spending several winters in Boston when she was a girl - that these gems are of great monetary worth, and if offered for sale would fetch a tall price. Under these circumstances, Lord Canterville, I feel sure that you will recognise how impossible it would be for me to allow them to remain in the possession of any member of my family; and, indeed, all such vain gauds and toys, however suitable or necessary to the dignity of the British aristocracy, would be completely out of place among those who have been brought up on the severe, and I believe immortal, principles of Republican simplicity. Perhaps I should mention that Virginia is very anxious that you should allow her to retain the box, as a memento of your unfortunate but misguided ancestor. As it is extremely old, and consequently a good deal out of repair, you may perhaps think fit to comply with her request. For my own part, I confess I am a good deal surprised to find a child of mine expressing sympathy with mediaevalism in any form, and can only account for it by the fact that Virginia was born in one of your London suburbs shortly after Mrs. Otis had returned from a trip to Athens.

Lord Canterville listened very gravely to the worthy Minister's speech, pulling his grey moustache now and then to hide an involuntary smile, and when Mr. Otis had ended, he shook him cordially by the hand, and said,'My dear sir, your charming little daughter rendered my unlucky ancestor, Sir Simon, a very important service, and I and my family are much indebted to her for her marvellous courage and pluck. The jewels are clearly hers, and, egad, I believe that if I were heartless enough to take them from her, the wicked old fellow would be out of his grave in a fortnight, leading me the devil of a life. As for their being heirlooms, nothing is an heirloom that is not so mentioned in a will or legal document, and the existence of these jewels has been quite unknown. I assure you I have no more claim on them than your butler, and when Miss Virginia grows up I daresay she will be pleased to have pretty things to wear. Besides, you forget, Mr. Otis, that you took the furniture and the ghost at a valuation, and anything that belonged to the ghost passed at once into your possession, as, whatever activity Sir Simon may have shown in the corridor at night, in point of law he was really dead, and you acquired his property by purchase.'

Mr. Otis was a good deal distressed at Lord Canterville's refusal, and begged him to reconsider his decision, but the good-natured peer was quite firm, and finally induced the Minister to allow his daughter to retain the present the ghost had given her, and when, in the spring of 1890, the young Duchess of Cheshire was presented at the Queen's first drawing-room on the occasion of her marriage, her jewels were the universal theme of admiration. For Virginia received the coronet, which is the reward of all good little American girls, and was married to her boy-lover as soon as he came of age. They were both so charming, and they loved each other so much, that every one was delighted at the match, except the old Marchioness of Dumbleton, who had tried to catch the Duke for one of her seven unmarried daughters, and had given no less than three expensive dinner-parties for that purpose, and, strange to say, Mr. Otis himself. Mr. Otis was extremely fond of the young Duke personally, but, theoretically, he objected to titles, and, to use his own words,'was not without apprehension lest, amid the enervating influences of a pleasure-loving aristocracy, the true principles of Republican simplicity should be forgotten.' His objections, however, were completely overruled, and I believe that when he walked up the aisle of St. George's, Hanover Square, with his daughter leaning on his arm, there was not a prouder man in the whole length and breadth of England.

The Duke and Duchess, after the honeymoon was over, went down to Canterville Chase, and on the day after their arrival they walked over in the afternoon to the lonely churchyard by the pine-woods. There had been a great deal of difficulty at first about the inscription on Sir Simon's tombstone, but finally it had been decided to engrave on it simply the initials of the old gentleman's name, and the verse from the library window. The Duchess had brought with her some lovely roses, which she strewed upon the grave, and after they had stood by it for some time they strolled into the ruined chancel of the old abbey. There the Duchess sat down on a fallen pillar, while her husband lay at her feet smoking a cigarette and looking up at her beautiful eyes. Suddenly he threw his cigarette away, took hold of her hand, and said to her,'Virginia, a wife should have no secrets from her husband.

'Dear Cecil! I have no secrets from you.'

'Yes, you have,' he answered, smiling, 'you have never told me what happened to you when you were locked up with the ghost.'

'I have never told any one, Cecil,' said Virginia gravely.

'I know that, but you might tell me.'

'Please don't ask me, Cecil, I cannot tell you. Poor Sir Simon! I owe him a great deal. Yes, don't laugh, Cecil, I really do. He made me see what Life is, and what Death signifies, and why Love is stronger than both.'

The Duke rose and kissed his wife lovingly.

'You can have your secret as long as I have your heart,' he murmured.

'You have always had that, Cecil.

'And you will tell our children some day, won't you?'

Virginia blushed.

The Canterville Ghost - Oscar Wilde (Part 1-3 of 7)

2005-06-21T12:51:00.000+05:30

A Hylo-Idealistic Romance

I

When Mr. Hiram B. Otis, the American Minister, bought Canterville Chase, every one told him he was doing a very foolish thing, as there was no doubt at all that the place was haunted. Indeed, Lord Canterville himself, who was a man of the most punctilious honour, had felt it his duty to mention the fact to Mr. Otis when they came to discuss terms.

'We have not cared to live in the place ourselves,' said Lord Canterville, 'since my grand-aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton, was frightened into a fit, from which she never really recovered, by two skeleton hands being placed on her shoulders as she was dressing for dinner, and I feel bound to tell you, Mr. Otis, that the ghost has been seen by several living members of my family, as well as by the rector of the parish, the Rev. Augustus Dampier, who is a Fellow of King's College, Cambridge. After the unfortunate accident to the Duchess, none of our younger servants would stay with us, and Lady Canterville often got very little sleep at night, in consequence of the mysterious noises that came from the corridor and the library.'

'My Lord,' answered the Minister, 'I will take the furniture and the ghost at a valuation. I come from a modern country, where we have everything that money can buy; and with all our spry young fellows painting the Old World red, and carrying off your best actors and prima-donnas, I reckon that if there were such a thing as a ghost in Europe, we'd have it at home in a very short time in one of our public museums, or on the road as a show.'

'I fear that the ghost exists,' said Lord Canterville, smiling, 'though it may have resisted the overtures of your enterprising impresarios. It has been well known for three centuries, since 1584 in fact, and always makes its appearance before the death of any member of our family.'

'Well, so does the family doctor for that matter, Lord Canterville. But there is no such thing, sir, as a ghost, and I guess the laws of Nature are not going to be suspended for the British aristocracy.'

'You are certainly very natural in America,' answered Lord Canterville, who did not quite understand Mr. Otis' last observation, 'and if you don't mind a ghost in the house, it is all right. Only you must remember I warned you.'

A few weeks after this, the purchase was concluded, and at the close of the season the Minister and his family went down to Canterville Chase. Mrs. Otis, who, as Miss Lucretia R. Tappan, of West 53rd Street, had been a celebrated New York belle, was now a very handsome, middle-aged woman, with fine eyes, and a superb profile. Many American ladies on leaving their native land adopt an appearance of chronic ill-health, under the impression that it is a form of European refinement, but Mrs. Otis had never fallen into this error. She had a magnificent constitution, and a really wonderful amount of animal spirits. Indeed, in many respects, she was quite English, and was an excellent example of the fact that we have really everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course, language. Their eldest son, christened Washington by his parents in a moment of patriotism, which he never ceased to regret, was a fair-haired, rather good-looking young man, who had qualified himself for American diplomacy by leading the German at the Newport Casino for three successive seasons, and even in London was well known as an excellent dancer. Gardenias and the peerage were his only weaknesses. Otherwise he was extremely sensible. Miss Virginia E. Otis was a little girl of fifteen, lithe and lovely as a fawn, and with a fine freedom in her large blue eyes. She was a wonderful amazon, and had once raced old Lord Bilton on her pony twice round the park, winning by a length and a half, just in front of the Achilles statue, to the huge delight of the young Duke of Cheshire, who proposed for her on the spot, and was sent back to Eton that very night by his guardians, in floods of tears. After Virginia came the twins, who were usually called 'The Stars and Stripes,' as they were always getting swished. They were delightful boys, and with the exception of the worthy Minister the only true republicans of the family.

As Canterville Chase is seven miles from Ascot, the nearest railway station, Mr. Otis had telegraphed for a waggonette to meet them, and they started on their drive in high spirits. It was a lovely July evening, and the air was delicate with the scent of the pinewoods. Now and then they heard a wood pigeon brooding over its own sweet voice, or saw, deep in the rustling fern, the burnished breast of the pheasant. Little squirrels peered at them from the beech-trees as they went by, and the rabbits scudded away through the brushwood and over the mossy knolls, with their white tails in the air. As they entered the avenue of Canterville Chase, however, the sky became suddenly overcast with clouds, a curious stillness seemed to hold the atmosphere, a great flight of rooks passed silently over their heads, and, before they reached the house, some big drops of rain had fallen.

Standing on the steps to receive them was an old woman, neatly dressed in black silk, with a white cap and apron. This was Mrs. Umney, the housekeeper, whom Mrs. Otis, at Lady Canterville's earnest request, had consented to keep on in her former position. She made them each a low curtsey as they alighted, and said in a quaint, old-fashioned manner,'I bid you welcome to Canterville Chase.' Following her, they passed through the fine Tudor hall into the library, a long, low room, panelled in black oak, at the end of which was a large stained-glass window. Here they found tea laid out for them, and, after taking off their wraps, they sat down and began to look round, while Mrs. Umney waited on them.

Suddenly Mrs. Otis caught sight of a dull red stain on the floor just by the fireplace and, quite unconscious of what it really signified, said to Mrs. Umney, I am afraid something has been spilt there.

'Yes, madam,' replied the old housekeeper in a low voice, 'blood has been spilt on that spot.'

'How horrid,' cried Mrs. Otis; 'I don't at all care for bloodstains in a sitting-room. It must be removed at once.'

The old woman smiled, and answered in the same low, mysterious voice, 'It is the blood of Lady Eleanore de Canterville, who was murdered on that very spot by her own husband, Sir Simon de Canterville, in 1575. Sir Simon survived her nine years, and disappeared suddenly under very mysterious circumstances. His body has never been discovered, but his guilty spirit still haunts the Chase. The blood-stain has been much admired by tourists and others, and cannot be removed.'

'That is all nonsense,' cried Washington Otis; 'Pinkerton's Champion Stain Remover and Paragon Detergent will clean it up in no time,' and before the terrified housekeeper could interfere he had fallen upon his knees, and was rapidly scouring the floor with a small stick of what looked like a black cosmetic. In a few moments no trace of the blood-stain could be seen.

'I knew Pinkerton would do it,' he exclaimed triumphantly, as he looked round at his admiring family; but no sooner had he said these words than a terrible flash of lightning lit up the sombre room, a fearful peal of thunder made them all start to their feet, and Mrs. Umney fainted.

'What a monstrous climate!' said the American Minister calmly, as he lit a long cheroot. 'I guess the old country is so over-populated that they have not enough decent weather for everybody. I have always been of opinion that emigration is the only thing for England.

'My dear Hiram,' cried Mrs. Otis, 'what can we do with a woman who faints?'

'Charge it to her like breakages,' answered the Minister; 'she won't faint after that;' and in a few moments Mrs. Umney certainly came to. There was no doubt, however, that she was extremely upset, and she sternly warned Mr. Otis to beware of some trouble coming to the house.

'I have seen things with my own eyes, sir,' she said,'that would make any Christian's hair stand on end, and many and many a night I have not closed my eyes in sleep for the awful things that are done here.' Mr. Otis, however, and his wife warmly assured the honest soul that they were not afraid of ghosts, and, after invoking the blessings of Providence on her new master and mistress, and making arrangements for an increase of salary, the old housekeeper tottered off to her own room.

II

The storm raged fiercely all that night, but nothing of particular note occurred. The next morning, however, when they came down to breakfast, they found the terrible stain of blood once again on the floor. 'I don't think it can be the fault of the Paragon Detergent,' said Washington,'for I have tried it with everything. It must be the ghost.' He accordingly rubbed out the stain a second time, but the second morning it appeared again. The third morning also it was there, though the library had been locked up at night by Mr. Otis himself, and the key carried upstairs. The whole family were now quite interested; Mr. Otis began to suspect that he had been too dogmatic in his denial of the existence of ghosts, Mrs. Otis expressed her intention of joining the Psychical Society, and Washington prepared a long letter to Messrs. Myers and Podmore on the subject of the Permanence of Sanguineous Stains when connected with Crime. That night all doubts about the objective existence of phantasmata were removed for ever.

The day had been warm and sunny; and, in the cool of the evening, the whole family went out to drive. They did not return home till nine o'clock, when they had a light supper. The conversation in no way turned upon ghosts, so there were not even those primary conditions of receptive expectation which so often precede the presentation of psychical phenomena. The subjects discussed, as I have since learned from Mr. Otis, were merely such as form the ordinary conversation of cultured Americans of the better class, such as the immense superiority of Miss Fanny Davenport over Sara Bernhardt as an actress; the difficulty of obtaining green corn, buckwheat cakes, and hominy, even in the best English houses; the importance of Boston in the development of the world-soul; the advantages of the baggage check system in railway travelling; and the sweetness of the New York accent as compared to the London drawl. No mention at all was made of the supernatural, nor was Sir Simon de Canterville alluded to in any way. At eleven o'clock the family retired, and by half-past all the lights were out. Some time after, Mr. Otis was awakened by a curious noise in the corridor, outside his room. It sounded like the clank of metal, and seemed to be coming nearer every moment. He got up at once, struck a match, and looked at the time. It was exactly one o'clock. He was quite calm, and felt his pulse, which was not at all feverish. The strange noise still continued, and with it he heard distinctly the sound of footsteps. He put on his slippers, took a small oblong phial out of his dressing-case, and opened the door. Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man of terrible aspect. His eyes were as red burning coals; long grey hair fell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of antique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung heavy manacles and rusty gyves.

'My dear sir,' said Mr. Otis,'I really must insist on your oiling those chains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle of the Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completely efficacious upon one application, and there are several testimonials to that effect on the wrapper from some of our most eminent native divines. I shall leave it here for you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to supply you with more should you require it.' With these words the United States Minister laid the bottle down on a marble table, and, closing his door, retired to rest.

For a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in natural indignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the polished floor, he fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, and emitting a ghastly green light. Just, however, as he reached the top of the great oak staircase, a door was flung open, two little white-robed figures appeared, and a large pillow whizzed past his head! There was evidently no time to be lost, so, hastily adopting the Fourth Dimension of Space as a means of escape, he vanished through the wainscoting, and the house became quite quiet.

On reaching a small secret chamber in the left wing, he leaned up against a moonbeam to recover his breath, and began to try and realise his position.

Never, in a brilliant and uninterrupted career of three hundred years, had he been so grossly insulted. He thought of the Dowager Duchess, whom he had frightened into a fit as she stood before the glass in her lace and diamonds; of the four housemaids, who had gone off into hysterics when he merely grinned at them through the curtains of one of the spare bedrooms; of the rector of the parish, whose candle he had blown out as he was coming late one night from the library, and who had been under the care of Sir William Gull ever since, a perfect martyr to nervous disorders; and of old Madame de Tremouillac, who, having wakened up one morning early and seen a skeleton seated in an armchair by the fire reading her diary, had been confined to her bed for six weeks with an attack of brain fever, and, on her recovery, had become reconciled to the Church, and broken off her connection with that notorious sceptic Monsieur de Voltaire. He remembered the terrible night when the wicked Lord Canterville was found choking in his dressing-room, with the knave of diamonds half-way down his throat, and confessed, just before he died, that he had cheated Charles James Fox out of £50,000 at Crockford's by means of that very card, and swore that the ghost had made him swallow it. All his great achievements came back to him again, from the butler who had shot himself in the pantry because he had seen a green hand tapping at the window pane, to the beautiful Lady Stutfield, who was always obliged to wear a black velvet band round her throat to hide the mark of five fingers burnt upon her white skin, and who drowned herself at last in the carp-pond at the end of the King's Walk. With the enthusiastic egotism of the true artist he went over his most celebrated performances, and smiled bitterly to himself as he recalled to mind his last appearance as 'Red Reuben, or the Strangled Babe,' his debut as 'Gaunt Gibeon, the Blood-sucker of Bexley Moor,' and the furore he had excited one lovely June evening by merely playing ninepins with his own bones upon the lawn-tennis ground. And after all this, some wretched modern Americans were to come and offer him the Rising Sun Lubricator, and throw pillows at his head! It was quite unbearable. Besides, no ghost in history had ever been treated in this manner. Accordingly, he determined to have vengeance, and remained till daylight in an attitude of deep thought.

III

The next morning, when the Otis family met at breakfast, they discussed the ghost at some length. The United States Minister was naturally a little annoyed to find that his present had not been accepted. 'I have no wish,' he said, 'to do the ghost any personal injury, and I must say that, considering the length of time he has been in the house, I don't think it is at all polite to throw pillows at him' - a very just remark, at which, I am sorry to say, the twins burst into shouts of laughter. 'Upon the other hand,' he continued, 'if he really declines to use the Rising Sun Lubricator, we shall have to take his chains from him. It would be quite impossible to sleep, with such a noise going on outside the bedrooms.'

For the rest of the week, however, they were undisturbed, the only thing that excited any attention being the continual renewal of the blood-stain on the library floor. This certainly was very strange, as the door was always locked at night by Mr. Otis, and the windows kept closely barred. The chameleon-like colour, also, of the stain excited a good deal of comment. Some mornings it was a dull (almost Indian) red, then it would be vermilion, then a rich purple, and once when they came down for family prayers, according to the simple rites of the Free American Reformed Episcopalian Church, they found it a bright emerald green. These kaleidoscopic changes naturally amused the party very much, and bets on the subject were freely made every evening. The only person who did not enter into the joke was little Virginia, who, for some unexplained reason, was always a good deal distressed at the sight of the blood-stain, and very nearly cried the morning it was emerald-green.

The second appearance of the ghost was on Sunday night. Shortly after they had gone to bed they were suddenly alarmed by a fearful crash in the hall. Rushing downstairs, they found that a large suit of old armour had become detached from its stand, and had fallen on the stone floor, while, seated in a highbacked chair, was the Canterville ghost, rubbing his knees with an expression of acute agony on his face. The twins, having brought their pea-shooters with them, at once discharged two pellets on him, with that accuracy of aim which can only be attained by long and careful practice on a writing-master, while the United States Minister covered him with his revolver, and called upon him, in accordance with Californian etiquette, to hold up his hands! The ghost started up with a wild shriek of rage, and swept through them like a mist, extinguishing Washington Otis's candle as he passed, and so leaving them all in total darkness. On reaching the top of the staircase he recovered himself, and determined to give his celebrated peal of demoniac laughter. This he had on more than one occasion found extremely useful. It was said to have turned Lord Raker's wig grey in a single night, and had certainly made three of Lady Canterville's French governesses give warning before their month was up. He accordingly laughed his most horrible laugh, till the old vaulted roof rang and rang again, but hardly had the fearful echo died away when a door opened, and Mrs. Otis came out in a light blue dressing-gown. 'I am afraid you are far from well,' she said, 'and have brought you a bottle of Dr. Dobell's tincture. If it is indigestion, you will find it a most excellent remedy.' The ghost glared at her in fury, and began at once to make preparations for turning himself into a large black dog, an accomplishment for which he was justly renowned, and to which the family doctor always attributed the permanent idiocy of Lord Canterville's uncle, the Hon. Thomas Horton. The sound of approaching footsteps, however, made him hesitate in his fell purpose, so he contented himself with becoming faintly phosphorescent, and vanished with a deep churchyard groan, just as the twins had come up to him.

On reaching his room he entirely broke down, and became a prey to the most violent agitation. The vulgarity of the twins, and the gross materialism of Mrs. Otis, were naturally extremely annoying, but what really distressed him most was, that he had been unable to wear the suit of mail. He had hoped that even modern Americans would be thrilled by the sight of a Spectre In Armour, if for no more sensible reason, at least out of respect for their national poet Longfellow, over whose graceful and attractive poetry he himself had whiled away many a weary hour when the Cantervilles were up in town. Besides, it was his own suit. He had worn it with great success at the Kenilworth tournament, and had been highly complimented on it by no less a person than the Virgin Queen herself. Yet when he had put it on, he had been completely overpowered by the weight of the huge breastplate and steel casque, and had fallen heavily on the stone pavement, barking both his knees severely, and bruising the knuckles of his right hand.

For some days after this he was extremely ill, and hardly stirred out of his room at all, except to keep the blood-stain in proper repair. However, by taking great care of himself, he recovered, and resolved to make a third attempt to frighten the United States Minister and his family. He selected Friday, the 17th of August, for his appearance, and spent most of that day in looking over his wardrobe, ultimately deciding in favour of a large slouched hat with a red feather, a winding-sheet frilled at the wrists and neck, and a rusty dagger. Towards evening a violent storm of rain came on, and the wind was so high that all the windows and doors in the old house shook and rattled. In fact, it was just such weather as he loved. His plan of action was this. He was to make his way quietly to Washington Otis's room, gibber at him from the foot of the bed, and stab himself three times in the throat to the sound of slow music. He bore Washington a special grudge, being quite aware that it was he who was in the habit of removing the famous Canterville blood-stain, by means of Pinkerton's Paragon Detergent. Having reduced the reckless and foolhardy youth to a condition of abject terror, he was then to proceed to the room occupied by the United States Minister and his wife, and there to place a clammy hand on Mrs. Otis's forehead, while he hissed into her trembling husband's ear the awful secrets of the charnel-house. With regard to little Virginia, he had not quite made up his mind. She had never insulted him in any way, and was pretty and gentle. A few hollow groans from the wardrobe, he thought, would be more than sufficient, or, if that failed to wake her, he might grabble at the counterpane with palsy-twitching fingers. As for the twins, he was quite determined to teach them a lesson. The first thing to be done was, of course, to sit upon their chests, so as to produce the stifling sensation of nightmare. Then, as their beds were quite close to each other, to stand between them in the form ofa green, icy-cold corpse, till they became paralysed with fear, and finally, to throw off the winding-sheet, and crawl round the room, with white, bleached bones and one rolling eyeball, in the character of 'Dumb Daniel, or the Suicide's Skeleton,' a role in which he had on more than one occasion produced a great effect, and which he considered quite equal to his famous part of 'Martin the Maniac, or the Masked Mystery.'

At half-past ten he heard the family going to bed. For some time he was disturbed by wild shrieks of laughter from the twins, who, with the light-hearted gaiety of schoolboys, were evidently amusing themselves before they retired to rest, but at a quarter past eleven all was still, and, as midnight sounded, he sallied forth. The owl beat against the window panes, the raven croaked from the old yew-tree, and the wind wandered moaning round the house like a lost soul; but the Otis family slept unconscious of their doom, and high above the rain and storm he could hear the steady snoring of the Minister for the United States. He stepped stealthily out of the wainscoting, with an evil smile on his cruel, wrinkled mouth, and the moon hid her face in a cloud as he stole past the great oriel window, where his own arms and those of his murdered wife were blazoned in azure and gold. On and on he glided, like an evil shadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he passed. Once he thought he heard something call, and stopped; but it was only the baying of a dog from the Red Farm, and he went on, muttering strange sixteenth-century curses, and ever and anon brandishing the rusty dagger in the midnight air. Finally he reached the corner of the passage that led to luckless Washington's room. For a moment he paused there, the wind blowing his long grey locks about his head, and twisting into grotesque and fantastic folds the nameless horror of the dead man's shroud. Then the clock struck the quarter, and he felt the time was come. He chuckled to himself, and turned the corner; but no sooner had he done so, than, with a piteous wail of terror, he fell back, and hid his blanched face in his long, bony hands. Right in front of him was standing a horrible spectre, motionless as a carven image, and monstrous as a madman's dream! Its head was bald and burnished; its face round, and fat, and white; and hideous laughter seemed to have writhed its features into an eternal grin. From the eyes streamed rays of scarlet light, the mouth was a wide well of fire, and a hideous garment, like to his own, swathed with its silent snows the Titan form. On its breast was a placard with strange writing in antique characters, some scroll of shame it seemed, some record of wild sins, some awful calendar of crime, and, with its right hand, it bore aloft a falchion of gleaming steel.

Never having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terribly frightened, and, after a second hasty glance at the awful phantom, he fled back to his room, tripping up in his long winding sheet as he sped down the corridor, and finally dropping the rusty dagger into the Minister's jack-boots, where it was found in the morning by the butler. Once in the privacy of his own apartment, he flung himself down on a small pallet-bed, and hid his face under the clothes. After a time, however, the brave old Canterville spirit asserted itself, and he determined to go and speak to the other ghost as soon as it was daylight. Accordingly, just as the dawn was touching the hills with silver, he returned towards the spot where he had first laid eyes on the grisly phantom, feeling that, after all, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aid of his new friend, he might safely grapple with the twins. On reaching the spot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze. Something had evidently happened to the spectre, for the light had entirely faded from its hollow eyes, the gleaming falchion had fallen from its hand, and it was leaning up against the wall in a strained and uncomfortable attitude. He rushed forward and seized it in his arms, when, to his horror, the head slipped off and rolled on the floor, the body assumed a recumbent posture, and he found himself clasping a white dimity bed-curtain, with a sweeping-brush, a kitchen cleaver, and a hollow turnip lying at his feet! Unable to understand this curious transformation, he clutched the placard with feverish haste, and there, in the grey morning light, he read these fearful words: -

YE OTIS GHOSTE.
Ye Onlie true and Originale Spook.
Beware of Ye Imitationes.
All others are Counterfeite.

The whole thing flashed across him. He had been tricked, foiled, and outwitted! The old Canterville look came into his eyes; he ground his toothless gums together; and, raising his withered hands high above his head, swore, according to the picturesque phraseology of the antique school, that when Chanticleer had sounded twice his merry horn, deeds of blood would be wrought, and Murder walk abroad with silent feet.

Hardly had he finished this awful oath when, from the red-tiled roof of a distant homestead, a cock crew. He laughed a long, low, bitter laugh, and waited. Hour after hour he waited, but the cock, for some strange reason, did not crow again. Finally, at half-past seven, the arrival of the housemaids made him give up his fearful vigil, and he stalked back to his room, thinking of his vain oath and baffled purpose. There he consulted several books of ancient chivalry, of which he was exceedingly fond, and found that, on every occasion on which his oath had been used, Chanticleer had always crowed a second time. 'Perdition seize the naughty fowl,' he muttered, 'I have seen the day when, with my stout spear, I would have run him through the gorge, and made him crow for me an 'twere in death!' He then retired to a comfortable lead coffin, and stayed there till evening.

Coming up - Short stories

2005-06-17T00:17:00.000+05:30

Hi All !

How many of you can pitch in with book reviews, short stories etc ? I hope you people come out of the comatose state everyone seems to be in :o)

I am going ahead with putting up short stories on the blog. Last time, I had put up "The Birthday of the Infanta - Oscar Wilde "

Coming up next will be more such stuff... watch this space !

Adios

-- Anshu --

Have you checked this blog ?

2005-06-15T17:18:00.000+05:30

OraBlogs aggregates blogs for the Oracle development community. To include your blog on this page, go to http://www.orablogs.com/orablogs/

Short stories by Jeffrey Archer

2005-06-10T18:44:00.000+05:30

Now I'm reading '36 Collected Short Stories' by Jeffrey Archer. Acutally, the short stories in this book are collected from Jeffrey Archer's earlier works on short stories. These short stories are very neatly narrated which at the best of Jeffrey Archer's style of narration, keeping suspense and an interesting twist in the end of the story. I'm looking forward to read his other volumes like 'Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less', 'The Prodigal Daughter'...

Happy Reading...

Kiran.

The Birthday of the Infanta - Oscar Wilde

2005-06-10T17:43:00.000+05:30

It was the birthday of the Infanta. She was just twelve years of age, and the sun was shining brightly in the gardens of the palace.

Although she was a real Princess and the Infanta of Spain, she had only one birthday every year, just like the children of quite poor people, so it was naturally a matter of great importance to the whole country that she should have a really fine day for the occasion. And a really line day it certainly was. The tall striped tulips stood straight up upon their stalks, like long rows of soldiers, and looked defiantly across the grass at the roses, and said: We are quite as splendid as you are now. The purple butterflies fluttered about with gold dust on their wings, visiting each flower in turn; the little lizards crept out of the crevices of the wall, and lay basking in the white glare; and the pomegranates split and cracked with the heat, and showed their bleeding red hearts. Even the pale yellow lemons, that hung in such profusion from the mouldering trellis and along the dim arcades, seemed to have caught a richer colour from the wonderful sunlight, and the magnolia trees opened their great globe-like blossoms of folded ivory, and filled the air with a sweet heavy perfume.

The little Princess herself walked up and down the terrace with her companions, and played at hide and seek round the stone vases and the old moss-grown statues. On ordinary days she was only allowed to play with children of her own rank, so she had always to play alone, but her birthday was an exception, and the King had given orders that she was to invite any of her young friends whom she liked to come and amuse themselves with her. There was a stately grace about these slim Spanish children as they glided about, the boys with their large-plumed hats and short fluttering cloaks, the girls holding up the trains of their long brocaded gowns, and shielding the sun from their eyes with huge fans of black and silver. But the Infanta was the most graceful of all, and the most tastefully attired, after the somewhat cumbrous fashion of the day. Her robe was of grey satin, the skirt and the wide puffed sleeves heavily embroidered with silver, and the stiff corset studded with rows of fine pearls. Two tiny slippers with big pink rosettes peeped out beneath her dress as she walked. Pink and pearl was her great gauze fan, and in her hair, which like an aureole of faded gold stood out stiffly round her pale little face, she had a beautiful white rose.

From a window in the palace the sad melancholy King watched them. Behind him stood his brother, Don Pedro of Aragon, whom he hated, and his confessor, the Grand Inquisitor of Granada, sat by his side. Sadder even than usual was the King, for as he looked at the Infanta bowing with childish gravity to the assembling courtiers, or laughing behind her fan at the grim Duchess of Albuquerque who always accompanied her, he thought of the young Queen, her mother, who but a short time before - so it seemed to him - had come from the gay country of France, and had withered away in the sombre splendour of the Spanish court, dying just six months after the birth of her child, and before she had seen the almonds blossom twice in the orchard, or plucked the second year's fruit from the old gnarled fig-tree that stood in the centre of the now grass-grown courtyard. So great had been his love for her that he had not suffered even the grave to hide her from him. She had been embalmed by a Moorish physician, who in return for this service had been granted his life, which for heresy and suspicion of magical practices had been already forfeited, men said, to the Holy Office, and her body was still lying on its tapestried bier in the black marble chapel of the Palace, just as the monks had borne her in on that windy March day nearly twelve years before. Once every month the King, wrapped in a dark cloak and with a muffled lantern in his hand, went in and knelt by her side, calling out, 'Mi reina! Mi reina!' and sometimes breaking through the formal etiquette that in Spain governs every separate action of life, and sets limits even to the sorrow of a King, he would clutch at the pale jewelled hands in a wild agony of grief, and try to wake by his mad kisses the cold painted face.

To-day he seemed to see her again, as he had seen her first at the Castle of Fontainebleau, when he was but fifteen years of age, and she still younger. They had been formally betrothed on that occasion by the Papal Nuncio in the presence of the French King and all the Court, and he had returned to the Escurial bearing with him a little ringlet of yellow hair, and the memory of two childish lips bending down to kiss his hand as he stepped into his carriage. Later on had followed the marriage, hastily performed at Burgos, a small town on the frontier between the two countries, and the grand public entry into Madrid with the customary celebration of high mass at the Church of La Atocha, and a more than usually solemn auto-da-fe, in which nearly three hundred heretics, amongst whom were many Englishmen, had been delivered over to the secular arm to be burned.

Certainly he had loved her madly, and to the ruin, many thought, of his country, then at war with England for the possession of the empire of the New World. He had hardly ever permitted her to be out of his sight: for her, he had forgotten, or seemed to have forgotten, all grave affairs of State; and, with that terrible blindness that passion brings upon its servants, he had failed to notice that the elaborate ceremonies by which he sought to please her did but aggravate the strange malady from which she suffered. When she died he was, for a time, like one bereft of reason. Indeed, there is no doubt but that he would have formally abdicated and retired to the great Trappist monastery at Granada, of which he was already titular Prior, had he not been afraid to leave the little Infanta at the mercy of his brother, whose cruelty, even in Spain, was notorious, and who was suspected by many of having caused the Queen's death by means of a pair of poisoned gloves that he had presented to her on the occasion of her visiting his castle in Aragon. Even after the expiration of the three years of public mourning that he had ordained throughout his whole dominions by royal edict, he would never suffer his ministers to speak about any new alliance, and when the Emperor himself sent to him, and offered him the hand of the lovely Archduchess of Bohemia, his niece, in marriage, he bade the ambassadors tell their master that the King of Spain was already wedded to Sorrow, and that though she was but a barren bride he loved her better than Beauty; an answer that cost his crown the rich provinces of the Netherlands, which soon after, at the Emperor's instigation, revolted against him under the leadership of some fanatics of the Reformed Church.

His whole married life, with its fierce, fiery-coloured joys and the terrible agony of its sudden ending, seemed to come back to him to-day as he watched the Infanta playing on the terrace. She had all the Queen's pretty petulance of manner, the same wilful way of tossing her head, the same proud curved beautiful mouth, the same wonderful smile - vrai sourire de France indeed - as she glanced up now and then at the window, or stretched out her little hand for the stately Spanish gentlemen to kiss. But the shrill laughter of the children grated on his ears, and the bright pitiless sunlight mocked his sorrow, and a dull odour of strange spices, spices such as embalmers use, seemed to taint - or was it fancy? - the clear morning air. He buried his face in his hands, and when the Infanta looked up again the curtains had been drawn, and the King had retired.

She made a little moue of disappointment, and shrugged her shoulders. Surely he might have stayed with her on her birthday. What did the stupid State-affairs matter? Or had he gone to that gloomy chapel, where the candles were always burning, and where she was never allowed to enter? How silly of him, when the sun was shining so brightly, and everybody was so happy! Besides, he would miss the sham bull-fight for which the trumpet was already sounding, to say nothing of the puppet show and the other wonderful things. Her uncle and the Grand Inquisitor were much more sensible. They had come out on the terrace, and paid her nice compliments. So she tossed her pretty head, and taking Don Pedro by the hand, she walked slowly down the steps towards a long pavilion of purple silk that had been erected at the end of the garden, the other children following in strict order of precedence, those who had the longest names going first.

A procession of noble boys, fantastically dressed as toreadors, came out to meet her, and the young Count of Tierra-Nueva, a wonderfully handsome lad of about fourteen years of age, uncovering his head with all the grace of a born hidalgo and grandee of Spain, led her solemnly in to a little gilt and ivory chair that was placed on a raised da's above the arena. The children grouped themselves all round, fluttering their big fans and whispering to each other, and Don Pedro and the Grand Inquisitor stood laughing at the entrance. Even the Duchess - the Camerera-Mayor as she was called - a thin, hard-featured woman with a yellow ruff did not look quite so bad-tempered as usual, and something like a chill smile flitted across her wrinkled face and twitched her thin bloodless lips.

It certainly was a marvellous bullfight, and much nicer, the Infanta thought, than the real bull-fight that she had been brought to see at Seville, on the occasion of the visit of the Duke of Parma to her father. Some of the boys pranced about on richly-caparisoned hobby-horses brandishing long javelins with gay streamers of bright ribands attached to them; others went on foot waving their scarlet cloaks before the bull, and vaulting lightly over the barrier when he charged them; and as for the bull himself he was just like a live bull, though he was only made of wicker-work and stretched hide, and sometimes insisted on running round the arena on his hind legs, which no live bull ever dreams of doing. He made a splendid fight of it too, and the children got so excited that they stood up upon the benches, and waved their lace handkerchiefs and cried out: Bravo toro! Bravo toro! just as sensibly as if they had been grown-up people. At last, however, after a prolonged combat, during which several of the hobby-horses were gored through and through, and their riders dismounted, the young Count of Tierra-Nueva brought the bull to his knees, and having obtained permission from the Infanta to give the coup de grace, he plunged his wooden sword into the neck of the animal with such violence that the head came right off and disclosed the laughing face of little Monsieur de Lorraine, the son of the French Ambassador at Madrid.

The arena was then cleared amidst much applause, and the dead hobby-horses dragged solemnly away by two Moorish pages in yellow and black liveries, and after a short interlude, during which a French posture-master performed upon the tight rope, some Italian puppets appeared in the semi-classical tragedy of Sophonisba on the stage of a small theatre that had been built up for the purpose. They acted so well, and their gestures were so extremely natural, that at the close of the play the eyes of the Infanta were quite dim with tears. Indeed some of the children really cried, and had to be comforted with sweetmeats, and the Grand Inquisitor himself was so affected that he could not help saying to Don Pedro that it seemed to him intolerable that things made simply out of wood and coloured wax, and worked mechanically by wires, should be so unhappy and meet with such terrible misfortunes. An African juggler followed, who brought in a large flat basket covered with a red cloth, and having placed it in the centre of the arena, he took from his turban a curious reed pipe, and blew through it. In a few moments the cloth began to move, and as the pipe grew shriller and shriller two green and gold snakes put out their strange wedge-shaped heads and rose slowly up, swaying to and fro with the music as a plant sways in the water. The children, however, were rather frightened at their spotted hoods and quick darting tongues, and were much more pleased when the juggler made a tiny orange-tree grow out of the sand and bear pretty white blossoms and clusters of real fruit; and when he took the fan of the little daughter of the Marquess de Las-Torres, and changed it into a blue bird that flew all round the pavilion and sang, their delight and amazement knew no bounds. The solemn minuet, too, performed by the dancing boys from the church of Nuestra Senora Del Pilar, was charming. The Infanta had never before seen this wonderful ceremony which takes place every year at May-time in front of the high altar of the Virgin, and in her honour; and indeed none of the royal family of Spain had entered the great cathedral of Saragossa since a mad priest, supposed by many to have been in the pay of Elizabeth of England, had tried to administer a poisoned wafer to the Prince of the Asturias. So she had known only by hearsay of 'Our Lady's Dance,' as it was called, and it certainly was a beautiful sight. The boys wore old-fashioned court dresses of white velvet, and their curious three-cornered hats were fringed with silver and surmounted with huge plumes of ostrich feathers, the dazzling whiteness of their costumes, as they moved about in the sunlight, being still more accentuated by their swarthy faces and long black hair. Everybody was fascinated by the grave dignity with which they moved through the intricate figures of the dance, and by the elaborate grace of their slow gestures, and stately bows, and when they had finished their performance and doffed their great plumed hats to the Infanta, she acknowledged their reverence with much courtesy, and made a vow that she would send a large wax candle to the shrine of Our Lady of Pilar in return for the pleasure that she had given her.

A troop of handsome Egyptians - as the gipsies were termed in those days - then advanced into the arena, and sitting down cross-legs, in a circle, began to play softly upon their zithers, moving their bodies to the tune, and humming, almost below their breath, a low dreamy air. When they caught sight of Don Pedro they scowled at him, and some of them looked terrified, for only a few weeks before he had had two of their tribe hanged for sorcery in the marketplace at Seville, but the pretty Infanta charmed them as she leaned back peeping over her fan with her great blue eyes, and they felt sure that one so lovely as she was could never be cruel to anybody. So they played on very gently and just touching the cords of the zithers with their long pointed nails, and their heads began to nod as though they were falling asleep. Suddenly, with a cry so shrill that all the children were startled and Don Pedro's hand clutched at the agate pommel of his dagger, they leapt to their feet and whirled madly round the enclosure beating their tambourines, and chaunting some wild love-song in their strange guttural language. Then at another signal they all flung themselves again to the ground and lay there quite still, the dull strumming of the zithers being the only sound that broke the silence. After that they had done this several times, they disappeared for a moment and came back leading a brown shaggy bear by a chain, and carrying on their shoulders some little Barbary apes. The bear stood upon his head with the utmost gravity, and the wizened apes played all kinds of amusing tricks with two gipsy boys who seemed to be their masters, and fought with tiny swords, and tired off guns, and went t!trough a regular soldier's drill just like the King's own bodyguard. In fact the gipsies were a great success.

But the funniest part of the whole morning's entertainment, was undoubtedly the dancing of the little Dwarf. When he stumbled into the arena, waddling on his crooked legs and Wagging his huge misshapen head from side to side, the children went off into a loud shout of delight, and the Infanta herself laughed so much that the Camerera was obliged to remind her that although there were many precedents in Spain for a King's daughter weeping before her equals, there were none for a Princess of the blood royal making so merry before those who were her inferiors in birth. The Dwarf however, was really quite irresistible, and even at the Spanish Court, always noted for its cultivated passion for the horrible, so fantastic a little monster had never been seen. It was his first appearance, too. He had been discovered only the day before, running wild through the forest, by two of the nobles who happened to have been hunting in a remote part of the great cork-wood that surrounded the town, and had been carried off by them to the Palace as a surprise for the Infanta, his father, who was a poor charcoal-burner, being but too well pleased to get rid of so ugly and useless a child. Perhaps the most amusing thing about him was his complete unconsciousness of his own grotesque appearance. Indeed he seemed quite happy and full of the highest spirits. When the children laughed, he laughed as freely and as joyously as any of them, and at the close of each dance he made them each the funniest of bows, smiling and nodding at them just as if he was really one of themselves, and not a little misshapen thing that Nature, in some humourous mood, had fashioned for others to mock at. As for the Infanta, she absolutely fascinated him. He could not keep his eyes off her, and seemed to dance for her alone, and when at the close of the performance, remembering how she had seen the great ladies of the Court throw bouquets to Caffarelli the famous Italian treble, whom the Pope had sent from his own chapel to Madrid that he might cure the King's melancholy by the sweetness of his voice, she took out of her hair the beautiful white rose, and partly for a jest and partly to tease the Camerera, threw it to him across the arena with her sweetest smile, he took the whole matter quite seriously, and pressing the flower to his rough coarse lips he put his hand upon his heart, and sank on one knee before her, grinning from ear to ear, and with his little bright eyes sparkling with pleasure.

This so upset the gravity of the Infanta that she kept on laughing long after the little Dwarf had run out of the arena, and expressed a desire to her uncle that the dance should be immediately repeated. The Camerera, however, on the plea that the sun was too hot, decided that it would be better that her Highness should return without delay to the Palace, where a wonderful feast had been already prepared for her, including a real birthday cake with her own initials worked all over it in painted sugar and a lovely silver flag waving from the top. The Infanta accordingly rose up with much dignity, and having given orders that the little dwarf was to dance again for her after the hour of siesta, and conveyed her thanks to the young Count of Tierra-Nueva for his charming reception, she went back to her apartments, the children following in the same order in which they had entered.

Now when the little Dwarf heard that he was to dance a second time before the Infanta, and by her own express command, he was so proud that he ran out into the garden, kissing the white rose in an absurd ecstasy of pleasure, and making the most uncouth and clumsy gestures of delight.

The Flowers were quite indignant at his daring to intrude into their beautiful home, and when they saw him capering up and down the walks, and waving his arms above his head in such a ridiculous manner, they could not restrain their feelings any longer.

'He is really far too ugly to be allowed to play in any place where we are,' cried the Tulips.

'He should drink poppy-juice, and go to sleep for a thousand years,' said the great scarlet Lilies, and they grew quite hot and angry.

'He is a perfect horror!' screamed the Cactus. 'Why, he is twisted and stumpy, and his head is completely out of proportion with his legs. Really he makes me feel prickly all over, and if he comes near me I will sting him with my thorns.'

'And he has actually got one of my best blooms,' exclaimed the White Rose-Tree. 'I gave it to the Infanta this morning myself as a birthday present, and he has stolen it from her.' And she called out: 'Thief thief thief!' at the top of her voice.

Even the red Geraniums, who did not usually give themselves airs, and were known to have a great many poor relations themselves, curled up in disgust when they saw him, and when the Violets meekly remarked that though he was certainly extremely plain, still he could not help it, they retorted with a good deal of justice that that was his chief defect, and that there was no reason why one should admire a person because he was incurable; and, indeed, some of the Violets themselves felt that the ugliness of the little Dwarf was almost ostentatious, and that he would have shown much better taste if he had looked sad, or at least pensive, instead of jumping about merrily, and throwing himself into such grotesque and silly attitudes.

As for the old Sundial, who was an extremely remarkable individual, and had once told the time of day to no less a person than the Emperor Charles V himself, he was so taken aback by the little Dwarf's appearance, that he almost forgot to mark two whole minutes with his long shadowy finger, and could not help saying to the great milk-white Peacock, who was sunning herself on the balustrade, that everyone knew that the children of Kings were Kings, and that the children of charcoal-burners were charcoal-burners, and that it was absurd to pretend that it wasn't so; a statement with which the Peacock entirely agreed, and indeed screamed out, 'Certainly, certainly,' in such a loud, harsh voice, that the gold-fish who lived in the basin of the cool splashing fountain put their heads out of the water, and asked the huge stone Tritons what on earth was the matter.

But somehow the Birds liked him. They had seen him often in the forest, dancing about like an elf after the eddying leaves, or crouched up in the hollow of some old oak-tree, sharing his nuts with the squirrels. They did not mind his being ugly, a bit. Why, even the nightingale herself, who sang so sweetly in the orange groves at night that sometimes the Moon leaned down to listen, was not much to look at after all; and, besides, he had been kind to them, and during that terribly bitter winter, when there were no berries on the trees, and the ground was as hard as iron, and the wolves had come down to the very gates of the city to look for food, he had never once forgotten them, but had always given them crumbs out of his little hunch of black bread, and divided with them whatever poor breakfast he had.

So they flew round and round him, just touching his cheek with their wings as they passed, and chattered to each other, and the little Dwarf was so pleased that he could not help showing them the beautiful white rose, and telling them that the Infanta herself had given it to him because she loved him.

They did not understand a single word of what he was saying, but that made no matter, for they put their heads on one side, and looked wise, which is quite as good as understanding a thing, and very much easier.

The Lizards also took an immense fancy to him, and when he grew tired of running about and flung himself down on the grass to rest, they played and romped all over him, and tried to amuse him in the best way they could. 'Every one cannot be as beautiful as a lizard,' they cried; 'that would be too much to expect. And, though it sounds absurd to say so, he is really not so ugly after all, provided, of course, that one shuts one's eyes, and does not look at him.' The Lizards were extremely philosophical by nature, and often sat thinking for hours and hours together, when there was nothing else to do, or when the weather was too rainy for them to go out.

The Flowers, however, were excessively annoyed at their behaviour, and at the behaviour of the birds. 'It only shows, they said, 'what a vulgarising effect this incessant rushing and flying about has. Well-bred people always stay exactly in the same place, as we do. No one ever saw us hopping up and down the walks, or galloping madly through the grass after dragon-flies. When we do want change of air, we send for the gardener, and he carries us to another bed. This is dignified, and as it should be. But birds and lizards have no sense of repose, and indeed birds have not even a permanent address. They are mere vagrants like the gipsies, and should be treated in exactly the same manner.' So they put their noses in the air, and looked very haughty, and were quite delighted when after some time they saw the little Dwarf scramble up from the grass, and make his way across the terrace to the palace.

'He should certainly be kept indoors for the rest of his natural life,' they said. 'Look at his hunched back, and his crooked legs,' and they began to titter.

But the little Dwarf knew nothing of all this. He liked the birds and the lizards immensely, and thought that the flowers were the most marvellous things in the whole world, except of course the Infanta, but then she had given him the beautiful white rose, and she loved him, and that made a great difference. How he wished that he had gone back with her! She would have put him on her right hand, and smiled at him, and he would have never left her side, but would have made her his playmate, and taught her all kinds of delightful tricks. For though he had never been in a palace before, he knew a great many wonderful things. He could make little cages out of rushes for the grasshoppers to sing in, and fashion the long-jointed bamboo into the pipe that Pan loves to hear. He knew the cry of every bird, and could call the starlings from the tree-top, or the heron from the mere. He knew the trail of every animal, and could track the hare by its delicate footprints, and the boar by the trampled leaves. All the wind-dances he knew, the mad dance in red raiment with the autumn, the light dance in blue sandals over the corn, the dance with white snow-wreaths in winter, and the blossom-dance through the orchards in spring. He knew where the wood-pigeons built their nests, and once when a fowler had snared the parent birds, he had brought up the young ones himself, and had built a little dovecote for them in the cleft of a pollard elm. They were quite tame, and used to feed out of his hands every morning. She would like them, and the rabbits that scurried about in the long fern, and the jays with their steely feathers and black bills, and the hedgehogs that could curl themselves up into prickly balls, and the great wise tortoises that crawled slowly about, shaking their heads and nibbling at the young leaves. Yes, she must certainly come to the forest and play with him. He would give her his own little bed, and would watch outside the window till dawn, to see that the wild horned cattle did not harm her, nor the gaunt wolves creep too near the hut. And at dawn he would tap at the shutters and wake her, and they would go out and dance together all the day long. It was really not a bit lonely in the forest. Sometimes a Bishop rode through on his white mule, reading out of a painted book. Sometimes in their green velvet caps, and their jerkins of tanned deerskin, the falconers passed by, with hooded hawks on their wrists. At vintage time came the grape-treaders, with purple hands and feet, wreathed with glossy ivy and carrying dripping skins of wine; and the charcoal-burners sat round their huge braziers at night, watching the dry logs charring slowly in the fire, and roasting chestnuts in the ashes, and the robbers came out of their caves and made merry with them. Once, too, he had seen a beautiful procession winding up the long dusty road to Toledo. The monks went in front singing sweetly, and carrying bright banners and crosses of gold, and then, in silver armour, with matchlocks and pikes, came the soldiers, and in their midst walked three barefooted men, in strange yellow dresses painted all over with wonderful figures, and carrying lighted candles in their hands. Certainly there was a great deal to look at in the forest, and when she was tired he would find a soft bank of moss for her, or carry her in his arms, for he was very strong, though he knew that he was not tall. He would make her a necklace of red bryony berries, that would be quite as pretty as the white berries that she wore on her dress, and when she was tired of them, she could throw them away, and he would find her others. He would bring her acorn-cups and dew-drenched anemones, and tiny glow-worms to be stars in the pale gold of her hair.

But where was she? He asked the white rose, and it made him no answer. The whole palace seemed asleep, and even where the shutters had not been closed, heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows to keep out the glare. He wandered all round looking for some place through which he might gain an entrance, and at last he caught sight of a little private door that was lying open. He slipped through, and found himself in a splendid hall, far more splendid, he feared, than the forest, there was so much more gilding everywhere, and even the floor was made of great coloured stones, fitted together into a sort of geometrical pattern. But the little Infanta was not there, only some wonderful white statues that looked down on him from their jasper pedestals, with sad blank eyes and strangely smiling lips.

At the end of the hall hung a richly embroidered curtain of black velvet, powdered with suns and stars, the King's favourite devices, and broidered on the colour he loved best. Perhaps she was hiding behind that? He would try at any rate.

So he stole quietly across, and drew it aside. No; there was only another room, though a prettier room, he thought, than the one he had just left. The walls were hung with a many-figured green arras of needle-wrought tapestry representing a hunt, the work of some Flemish artists who had spent more than seven years in its composition. It had once been the chamber of Jean le Fou, as he was called, that mad King who was so enamoured of the chase, that he had often tried in his delirium to mount the huge rearing horses, and to drag down the stag on which the great hounds were leaping, sounding his hunting horn, and stabbing with his dagger at the pale flying deer. It was now used as the council-room, and on the centre table were lying the red portfolios of the ministers, stamped with the gold tulips of Spain, and with the arms and emblems of the house of Hapsburg.

The little Dwarf looked in wonder all round him, and was half-afraid to go on. The strange silent horsemen that galloped so swiftly through the long glades without making any noise, seemed to him like those terrible phantoms of whom he had heard the charcoal-burners speaking - the Comprachos, who hunt only at night, and if they meet a man, turn him into a hind, and chase him. But he thought of the pretty Infanta, and took courage. He wanted to find her alone, and to tell her that he too loved her. Perhaps she was in the room beyond.

He ran across the soft Moorish carpets, and opened the door. No! She was not here either. The room was quite empty.

It was a throne-room, used for the reception of foreign ambassadors, when the King, which of late had riot been often, consented to give them a personal audience; the same room in which, many years before, envoys had appeared from England to make arrangements for the marriage of their Queen, then one of the Catholic sovereigns of Europe, with the Emperor's eldest son. The hangings were of gilt Cordovan leather, and a heavy gilt chandelier with branches for three hundred wax lights hung down from the black and white ceiling. Under-neath a great canopy of gold cloth, on which the lions and towers of Castile were broidered in seed pearls, stood the throne itself covered with a rich pall of black velvet studded with silver tulips and elaborately fringed with silver and pearls. On the second step of the throne was placed the kneeling-stool of the Infanta, with its cushion of cloth of silver tissue, and below that again, and beyond the limit of the canopy, stood the chair for the Papal Nuncio, who alone had the right to be seated in the King's presence on the occasion of any public ceremonial, and whose Cardinal's hat, with its tangled scarlet tassels, lay on a purple tabouret in front. On the wall, facing the throne, hung a life-sized portrait of Charles V in hunting dress, with a great mastiff by his side, and a picture of Philip II receiving the homage of the Netherlands occupied the centre of the other wall. Between the windows stood a black ebony cabinet, inlaid with plates of ivory, on which the figures from Holbein's Dance of Death had been graved - by the hand, some said, of that famous master himself.

But the little Dwarf cared nothing for all this magnificence. He would not have given his rose for all the pearls on the canopy, nor one white petal of his rose for the throne itself What he wanted was to see the Infanta before she went down to the pavilion, and to ask her to come away with him when he had finished his dance. Here, in the Palace, the air was close and heavy, but in the forest the wind blew free, and the sunlight with wandering hands of gold moved the tremulous leaves aside. There were flowers, too, in the forest, not so splendid, perhaps, as the flowers in the garden, but more sweetly scented for all that; hyacinths in early spring that flooded with waving purple the cool glens, and grassy knolls; yellow primroses that nestled in little clumps round the gnarled roots of the oak-trees; bright celandine, and blue speedwell, and irises lilac and gold. There were grey catkins on the hazels, and the fox-gloves drooped with the weight of their dappled bee-haunted cells. The chestnut had its spires of white stars, and the hawthorn its pallid moons of beauty. Yes: surely she would come if he could only find her! She would come with him to the fair forest, and all day long he would dance for her delight. A smile lit up his eyes at the thought and he passed into the next room.

Of all the rooms this was the brightest and the most beautiful. The walls were covered with a pink-flowered Lucca damask, patterned with birds and dotted with dainty blossoms of silver; the furniture was of massive silver, festooned with florid wreaths, and swinging Cupids; in front of the two large fire-places stood great screens broidered with parrots and peacocks, and the floor, which was of sea-green onyx, seemed to stretch far away into the distance. Nor was he alone. Standing under the shadow of the doorway, at the extreme end of the room, he saw a little figure watching him. His heart trembled, a cry of joy broke from his lips, and he moved out into the sunlight. As he did so, the figure moved out also, and he saw it plainly.

The Infanta! It was a monster, the most grotesque monster he had ever beheld. Not properly shaped, as all other people were, but hunchbacked, and crooked-limbed, with huge lolling head and mane of black hair. The little Dwarf frowned, and the monster frowned also. He laughed, and it laughed with him, and held its hands to its sides, just as he himself was doing. He made it a mocking bow, and it returned him a low reverence. He went towards it, and it came to meet him, copying each step that he made, and stopping when he stopped himself. He shouted with amusement, and ran forward, and reached out his hand, and the hand of the monster touched his, and it was as cold as ice. He grew afraid, and moved his hand across, and the monster's hand followed it quickly. He tried to press on, but something smooth and hard stopped him. The face of the monster was now close to his own, and seemed full of terror. He brushed his hair off his eyes. It imitated him. He struck at it, and it returned blow for blow. He loathed it, and it made hideous faces at him. He drew back, and it retreated.

What is it? He thought for a moment, and looked round at the rest of the room. It was strange, but everything seemed to have its double in this invisible wall of clear water. Yes, picture for picture was repeated, and couch for couch. The sleeping Faun that lay in the alcove by the doorway had its twin brother that slumbered, and the silver Venus that stood in the sunlight held out her arms to a Venus as lovely as herself.

'Was it Echo? He had called to her once in the valley, and she had answered him word for word. Could she mock the eye, as she mocked the voice? Could she make a mimic world just like the real world? Could the shadow of things have colour and life and movement? Could it be that - ?

He started, and taking from his breast the beautiful white rose, he turned round, and kissed it. The monster had a rose of its own, petal for petal the same! It kissed it with like kisses, and pressed it to its heart with horrible gestures.

'When the truth dawned upon him, he gave a wild cry of despair, and fell sobbing to the ground. So it was he who was misshapen and hunchbacked, foul to look at and grotesque. He himself was the monster, and it was at him that all the children had been laughing, and the little Princess who he had thought loved him - she too had been merely mocking at his ugliness, and making merry over his twisted limbs. 'Why had they not left him in the forest, where there was no mirror to tell him how loathsome he was? 'Why had his father not killed hint, rather that sell him to his shame? The hot tears poured down his cheeks, and he tore the white rose to pieces. The sprawling monster did the same, and scattered the faint petals in the air. It grovelled on the ground, and, when he looked at it, it watched him with a face drawn with pain. He crept away, lest he should see it, and covered his eyes with his hands. He crawled, like some wounded thing, into the shadow, and lay there moaning.

And at that moment the Infanta herself came in with her companions through the open window, and when they saw the ugly little dwarf lying on the ground and beating the floor with his clenched hands, in the most fantastic and exaggerated manner, they went off into shouts of happy laughter, and stood all round him and watched him.

'His dancing was funny,' said the Infanta; 'but his acting is funnier still. Indeed he is almost as good as the puppets, only of course not quite so natural.' And she fluttered her big fan, and applauded.

But the little Dwarf never looked up, and his sobs grew fainter and fainter, and suddenly he gave a curious gasp, and clutched his side. And then he fell back again, and lay quite still.

'That is capital,' said the Infanta, after a pause; 'but now you must dance for me.'

'Yes,' cried all the children, 'you must get up and dance, for you are as clever as the Barbary apes, and much more ridiculous.'

But the little Dwarf never moved.

And the Infanta stamped her foot, and called out to her uncle, who was walking on the terrace with the Chamberlain, reading some despatches that had just arrived from Mexico where the Holy Office had recently been established. 'My funny little dwarf is sulking,' she cried, 'you must wake him up, and tell him to dance for me.'

They smiled at each other, and sauntered in, and Don Pedro stooped down, and slapped the Dwarf on the cheek with his embroidered glove. 'You must dance,' he said, 'petit monstre. You must dance. The Infanta of Spain and the Indies wishes to be amused.'

But the little Dwarf never moved.

'A whipping master should be sent for,' said Don Pedro wearily, and he went back to the terrace. But the Chamberlain looked grave, and he knelt beside the little dwarf, and put his hand upon his heart. And after a few moments he shrugged his shoulders, and rose up, and having made a low bow to the Infanta, he said:

'Mi bella Princesa, your funny little dwarf will never dance again. It is a pity, for he is so ugly that he might have made the King smile.'

'But why will he not dance again?' asked the Infanta, laughing.

'Because his heart is broken,' answered the Chamberlain.

And the Infanta frowned, and her dainty rose-leaf lips curled in pretty disdain. 'For the future let those who come to play with me have no hearts,' she cried, and she ran out into the garden.

Rather Lonely Here

2005-06-10T11:40:00.000+05:30

Hey People, it is rather lonely here. I seem to be the only person blogging. Where are the others? Is this place and the club dead?

Post about Amar Chitra Katha

2005-06-09T10:37:00.000+05:30

Hello Everybody, Today I made a small post to me personal blog about my collection of comics, particularly my Amar Chitra Kathas. Are there other comic lovers out there? Do share your thoughts.

Finished Shogun

2005-05-26T10:38:00.000+05:30

I finished Shogun yesterday night. Have penned my thoughts about the book in my personal blog. Check it out here.

Gore Vidal

2005-05-23T13:32:00.000+05:30

Any Gore Vidal fans out there? My first Vidal was Creation. Followed by Julian, Kalki, Messiah & The Judgement of Paris. I have 1876 but haven't read it yet because I want to acquire the entire American Chronicles series first and read them in sequence.

Which is your favorite Vidal novel? Chosing is difficult because of the range of his work, but my vote goes to Creation.

I found this nice page on Gore Vidal today while looking for data on Creation this morning.

Does anybody have a copy of Myra Breckinridge?

Whirlwind by James Clavell

2005-05-22T21:59:00.000+05:30

I was pleasantly surprised this evening to find a hardcover copy of Whirlwind by James Clavell in the pavement shop near Akshara (Banjara Rd. No 2). It cost me Rs. 150/- and the book is in immaculate condition. I am nearing the end of Shogun and was kind of hoping to find this book.

Another picture of the book. I really am thrilled with this find. And no, none of you can borrow it till I am done with it :-)

I am using Hello with Picasa2 to post pictures to my blogs. Picasa2 and Hello are really neat tools. Check them out.

Pictures by Gautam Satpathy. All rights reserved.

Rather dull in here

2005-05-19T16:44:00.000+05:30

Too busy ? Too lazy ? Hey people, this blog is almost dead !!! Come on, find a little time to share you thoughts.

At the very least tell us what you are reading these days. I am still on my re-reading spree. Currently enjoying "Shogan" by James Clavell. The only new book I have read in the last couple of months is Ashok Banker's "Demon's of Chitrakoot", the third book in his 7 part Ramayana saga.

Waiting for the 6th Potter book to be released in July. Does anybody have the exact date ? Most of the bookshops in the city are taking advance bookings for "Half Blood Prince". Akshara (Banjara Rd. No. 2, below QMart) is offering a 15% discount if you book now. Don't know about the other book stores like Walden and Crosswords.

I have been planning to pop down to Crosswords for some time now. I have a couple of Crosswords gift certificates but haven't been able to find the time to go. Maybe this weekend. Has anybody visited recently? Any book suggestions?

Does anybody have Whirlwind by James Clavell? And King Rat. I have a softcopy of King Rat but I have never seen Whirlwind in any of the bookstores.

By the way who is blogging under the "Oracle Book Club" alias?

Challo people. Bye for now. Do blog.

List of Indian authors

2005-05-13T19:34:00.000+05:30

This link is good - it gives an update of the current Indian writers:
http://www.mamohanraj.com/india.html

Man's Search for Meaning

2005-05-02T12:27:00.000+05:30

By Viktor E. Frankl

This is a work by the great Viennese, who endured years of unspeakable horror in Nazi death camps.

The following quotes from the short book conveys what the man's search for meaning means.

He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how.

What is really needed is a fundamental change in our attitude toward life. It does not matter what we expect from life, but rather what life expects from us. We need to stop asking the meaning of life, and instead think of ourselves as those who were being questioned by life. – daily and hourly. Our answer must consist not in thought and meditation but in right action and in right conduct. Life ultimately means taking the responsibility to find the right answers to its problems and to fulfill the tasks it constantly sets for each individual.

We can discover meaning to life in 3 different ways:

1. By creating a work or doing a deed
2. By experiencing something or encountering someone
3. By the attitude we take towards unavoidable suffering

SAP Executive Blogs

2005-04-27T10:30:00.000+05:30

SAP Executives Share Their Vision and Strategy with the SAP Community.

These blogs are a platform that facilitate learning and the sharing of best practices. Occasionally, Shai Agassi, Léo Apotheker, Claus E. Heinrich, Peter Zencke and Peter J. Kirschbauer post new entries on topics of interest.

And they encourage you to submit comments -- so you and other members can share thoughts. An e-mail subscription service can notify you that a new topic has been posted. These blogs are only available to SAP Community members.

http://www.sap.com/community/pub/blogs.epx

Oracle Book club's Website

2005-04-26T16:56:00.000+05:30

Check this out http://152.69.198.210/BookClub/welcome.asp

More than Spinning a yarn

2005-04-25T10:27:00.000+05:30

Scientists have come up with a fantastic invention for looking through solid walls. It's called a window. .....Richard Feynman

Blog is a window enabling us to showcase the bookworld to others. Decoration on the borders make it look pretty. But painting the whole glass window defeats the purpose of having a window.

Lets spin yarn, fine. Can we avoid cluttering the blog with yarn carton boxes with few grams of yarn in each box. I mean can we use comments instead of creating a new posts...?

Some of the best blogsI have come across:

http://forrester.typepad.com/charleneli/

http://www.businessweek.com/the_thread/blogspotting/

Please add to this list of good blogs.

Happy Blogging!

Let's Spin a Yarn (Cont)

2005-04-22T23:17:00.000+05:30

following the Da Vinci code

Do I need to specify the author :)

Angels and Demons flocked his

Dan Brown again!!

Let's spin a yarn (contd)

2005-04-22T17:10:00.000+05:30

using the philosopher's stone and...

By J. K. Rowling

Let's spin a yarn (contd)

2005-04-21T23:52:00.000+05:30

and produced gold, as usual...

Lets spin a yarn!

2005-04-20T22:58:00.000+05:30

Hey junta!

Thought this might be an interesting idea to get the blog going....lets start with a very simple exercise first. The objective of this game is to spin a story with each person adding just five words per post, no more, no less. The posts should make grammatical and logical sense with the previous posts.

We can have a kind of a contest with points awarded for each post. Five bonus points if your post has a book's name in it. Sentences like shes reading "The Alchemist" etc. are not allowed! Plus you would have to point out the book's name with the author (cmon Google for it!). If someone else spots the book in your post, he/she gets 10 points....

Yeah and whatever comments u want to add in ur post, please put it in italics for the sake of clarity!

What say? Ill start....

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Alchemist began his experiment

By Paulo Coelho.

2005-04-18T13:35:00.000+05:30

Hello People,

What are you reading these days ? Please share your personal reading lists, with comments if possible.

I will start with mine; For the last month or so, I have been in re-reading some of my old favorites. Primarily the following authors:

Isaac Asimov: I started with Asimov's "Currents of Space". A small novel and one of Asimov's earlier works. It reflects his sence of right and wrong. Remember that Asimov moved to the United States in his childhood from the erstwhile USSR. He brings some of his own baggage to his books, particularly the earlier ones. Currents of Space has Asimov written all over it. The twists in the tale, intermingled with his distinct brand of science fiction is very refreshing, even if the book is a bit immature and does not hold a candle to his later works. Particularly the Foundation series and his Robot related works. After this book, I also read his "The Stars Like Dust". Another science fiction tale of inter-stellar politics set in the distant future of our galaxy. A future which sees man colonizing large tracts of the galaxy. Surprisingly (or maybe not so surprisingly) political systems seem to have regressed to a feudal model and this forms the basis of the novel. Asimov's infatuation with his adopted country and his deep belief that the US brand of democracy is the ultimate invention of socio-politics is the basis of this novel. A good read for all fans of SF.
Alistair Maclean: The father of all thrillers is a good read even after all these years. I remember reading my first Maclean in class 4 or so. Anyway, I was feeling a bit nostalgic and picked up a few of his books. I re-read "The Golden Gate", "The Guns of Navarone" and "Where Eagles Dare". As usual, I loved them all.
Arthur C. Clarke: I started with Clarke's "Fountains of Paradise". One of my favorites from an author who was the doyen of science fiction in the previous century. Fountains of Paradise is set in Clarke's adopted country, Sri Lanka. It is pure Clarke. A rich intermingling of science, politics, society, religion, history and culture. While on the topic of Clarke, I must mention another of my favorites; "The Deep Range". Set in the oceans of Earth in an age where man has conquered the Solar System and has flourishing colonies on the Moon, Mars and Mercury, The Deep Range is a fascinating work. I don't want to give away too much here but this too is pure Clarke. Sci-Fi lovers will love it. I will start on "Childhood's End" next week. I read this novel in school and look forward to reading it again. I will report back after I have finished it.
Ashok Banker: Reread the first two books of his 7 part retelling of the Ramayana. "Prince of Ayodhya" & "Seige of Mithila". Check out Ashok's web site at http://www.epicindia.com/. As I mentioned in an earlier post I have recently bought the 3rd book, "Demons of Chitrakoot" but I am saving that for the train when I go to my home town later this month.

After Banker, I have lost some of my feeling for Tolkien but his LOTR remains one of my favorites. My grandmother borrowed (stole!!!) my copy of the first book of LOTR and hasn't returned it yet! This time when I meet her in May I am going to make her cough it up. But most probably I will end up having to bribe her with a new book that she hasn't read . Maybe she will be happy with Demons of Chitrakoot. Lets see. I want to reread LOTR in May.

For Asimov fans - Does anybody have copies of his Black Widower series?

Indian Authors

2005-04-18T12:15:00.000+05:30

Some of my favorite Indian authors are:

Ashok K. Banker
Amitava Ghosh
Vikram Seth
Satyajit Ray
Sunil Gangopadhya
etc

I recently bought Ashok's 3rd book in the Ramayana series, "Demons of Chitrakoot". Am saving it for the train later this month (I have a 22 hr train journey to my home town). Has anybody else read any of Ashok's stuff ? What about other Indian Authors (those who write in English, that is) ?

I loved Satyajit Ray's Feluda. The best part of Feluda was being able to follow his adventures in different parts of Calcutta and elsewhere in the country from a first person perspective. I know where Park Circus is! I have been there!!! Very different from Paddington or Surrey in Sherlock Holmes for example.

Amitava Ghosh does not need any introduction. He is great! Try some of his stuff (The Glass Palace, The Hungry Tide, The Calcutta Chromosome to name a few).

I have not read much of Sunil Gangopadhya. Only his translations from Bengali. The one I liked best was "First Light" which was about Rabindranath Tagore's life. A good tale and well written.

Vikram Seth is another author I love to read. I remember buying a paper back edition of his "Suitable Boy" for Rs. 400/- from a small shop in Chowrangee, Calcutta. Those days my book budget was rather restricted and 400 was a princely sum for a single book :-) My TCS colleagues and flat mates of that time were aghast at this purchase of mine and rather put off with my disappearance behind the book every evening for about a week.

Any other authors? Mistry of course. And a few others...

What about you guys? Have you read and enjoyed any other Indian (English) authors? Do write about your favorites.

The Shifted Librarian

2005-04-15T11:14:00.000+05:30

An intresting blog on the fallout of the information age.

Shifted Librarian is all about how we've shifted our information usage from gathering it ourselves to expecting it 'to come to us' .

This also seems in line with what Marco Garcia (the man who redesinged the format of The Hindu) says "ironically, although we are the best informed group of readers in the history of print journalism, we crave for editors to steer us in the right direction as we seek more knowledge."

Life...and how to make the most out of it

2005-04-15T09:35:00.000+05:30

Here is the list of few books that convey powerful ideas that can stir our conscience and steer our thougths and actions. Worth Reading.

1. How I Raised Myself from Failure to Success - Frank Bettger
2. My Utmost for His Highest - Oswald Chambers
3. As a Man Thinketh - James Allen
4. One Minute Manager - Kenneth Blanchard
5. Who Moved My Cheese - Spencer Johnson & Kenneth Blanchard
6. Life is Tremendous - Charlie "Tremendous" Jones
7. Seeds of Greatness - Denis Waitley
8. Seasons of Life - Jim Rohn 9. Mahabaratha and Ramayana
10. The Game of Life and How to Play It - Florence Scovel-Shinn
11. How to Read a Book - Mortimer J. Adler
12. The Pursuit of God - A.W. Tozer
13. Think and Grow Rich - Napoleon Hill
14. Leading an Inspired Life - Jim Rohn
15. Rich Dad, Poor Dad - Robert Kiyosaki
16. Power of Focus - Jack Canfield
17. Power of Positive Thinking - Norman Vincent Peale
18. Magic of Thinking Big - David Schwartz
19. Maximum Achievement - Brian Tracy
20. Richest Man in Babylon - George Clason
21. Laws of Success - Napoleon Hill
22. Greatest Salesman that Ever Lived - Og Mandino
23. How to Win Friends and Influence People - Dale Carnegie
24. Greatest Networker in the World - John Milton Fogg
25. You Were Born Rich - Bob Proctor
26. Winning Without Intimidation - Bob Burg
27. Atlas Shrugged - Ann Rand
28. Man's Search for Meaning - Victor Frankl
29. Acres of Diamonds - Russell H. Conwell
30. See You at the Top - Zig Ziglar
31. 7 Habits of Highly Successful People - Steven Covey
32. Lincoln on Leadership - Donald T. Phillips
33. Johathan Livingston Seagul - Richard Bach
34. Autobiography of an Yogi - Paramhansa Yogananda
35. Zen and the art of Motorcycle Maintenance - Robert M. Pirsig
36. Fountain Head - Ann Rand
37. Book of Five Rings - Miyamoto Musashi

List has books arranged in random order and not by any ranking.

Please feel free to add to this list as comments. (Language is not a limitation)

What a Book !

2005-04-05T14:28:00.000+05:30

Have you read a book lately and want to share your comments?

Some books really would have made an indelible impression in your mind. Want to share those thoughts with the world?

This idea of book review has been proposed by many, I'm sure there will be a good response! Happy blogging!

WatchTower

2005-03-30T09:34:00.000+05:30

From now on WatchTower of book club will function 365 X 24 X 7 and will bring you the best on the net - be it a useful site, a book review, a collection of poems, or just a page full of fun. Updated every week, this is a blog you cann't afford to miss!

Have you read these bestsellers?

Fiction

1. Hour Game - David Baldacci (Rs.240)
2. Skinny Dip - Carl Hiaasen (Rs.239)
3. The Broker - John Grisham (Rs.239)
4. The Enemy - Lee Child (Rs.239)

Non-Fiction

1. The Mind Gym - Wake up your mind - Time warner books (Rs.479)
2. Magical Beginning, Enchanted Lives - Deepak Chopra (Rs.450)
3. The Hall of a Thousand Columns - Tim Mackintosh (Rs.391)
4. The Scuccess Principles - JAck Canfield (Rs.495)
5. Ruskin Bond's Book of Nature (Rs.295)

- Source - 'The Hindu' Dtd. April 14, 2005.

Useful Links

2005-03-23T10:43:00.000+05:30

Book Club Web Page: http://152.69.198.210/bookclub/welcome.asp
Books with us: \\pc-dbehera-in\books
http://www.literaturepage.com/
http://www.bibliomania.org
http://etext.lib.virginia.edu/ebooks/ebooklist.html
http://www.free-ebooks.net/
http://www.worldebooklibrary.com
http://www.readprint.com
http://www.classicbookshelf.com