The Last Class—The Story of a Little Alsatian -3rd Part-

“Your parents have not been careful enough to see that you were educated. They preferred to send you to work in the fields or in the factories, in order to have a few more sous. And have I nothing to reproach myself for? Have I not often made you water my garden instead of studying? And when I wanted to go fishing for trout, have I ever hesitated to dismiss you?”

Then, passing from one thing to another, Monsieur Hamel began to talk to us about the French

language, saying that it was the most beautiful language in the world, the most clear, the most

substantial; that we must always retain it among ourselves, and never forget it, because when a people

falls into servitude, “so long as it clings to its language, it is as if it held the key to its prison.” 1 Then he took the grammer and read us our lesson. I was amazed to see how readily I understood. Everything that he said seemed so easy to me, so easy. I believed, too, that I had never listened so closely, and that he, for his part, had never been so patient with his explanations. One would have said that, before going away, the poor man desired to give us all his knowledge, to force it all into our heads at a single blow.

When the lesson was at an end, we passed to writing. For that day Monsieur Hamel had prepared some entirely new examples, on which was written in a fine, round hand: “France, Alsace, France, Alsace.”

They were like little flags, waving all about the class, hanging from the rods of our desks. You should

have seen how hard we all worked and how silent it was! Nothing could be heard save the grinding of the pens over the paper. At one time some cock-chafers flew in; but no one paid any attention to them, not even the little fellows who were struggling with their straight lines, with a will and conscientious application, as if even the lines were French. On the roof of the schoolhouse, pigeons cooed in low tones, and I said to myself as I listened to them:

“I wonder if they are going to compel them to sing in German too!”

From time to time, when I raised my eyes from my paper. I saw Monsieur Hamel sitting motionless in his chair and staring at the objects about him as if he wished to carry away in his glance the whole of his little schoolhouse. Think of it! For forty years he had been there in the same place, with his yard in front of him and his class just as it was! But the benches and desks were polished and rubbed by use; the walnuts in the yard had grown, and the hop-vine which he himself had planted now festooned the windows even to the roof. What a heart-rending thing it must have been for that poor man to leave all those things, and to hear his sister walking back and forth in the room overhead, packing their trunks! For they were to go away the next day—to leave the province forever.

However, he had the courage to keep the class to the end. After the writing, we had the lesson in

history; then the little ones sang all together the ba, be, bi, bo, bu. Yonder, at the back of the room, old

Hauser had put on his spectacles, and, holding his spelling-book in both hands, he spelled out the letters with them. I could see that he too was applying himself. His voice shook with emotion, and it was so funny to hear him, that we all longed to laugh and to cry. Ah! I shall remember that last class.

Suddenly the church clock struck twelve, then the Angelus rang. At the same moment, the bugles of the Prussians returning from drill blared under our windows. Monsieur Hamel rose, pale as death, from his chair. Never had he seemed to me so tall.

“My friends,” he said, “my friends, I—I—”

But something suffocated him. He could not finish the sentence.

Thereupon he turned to the blackboard, took a piece of chalk, and, bearing on with all his might, he

wrote in the largest letters he could:

“VIVE LA FRANCE!”

Then he stood there, with his head resting against the wall, and without speaking, he motioned to us

with his hand:

“That is all; go.”

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The Last Class—The Story of a Little Alsatian -2nd Part-

While I was wondering at all this, Monsieur Hamel had mounted his platform, and in the same gentle

and serious voice with which he had welcomed me, he said to us:

“My children, this is the last time that I shall teach you. Orders have come from Berlin to teach nothing but German in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. The new teacher arrives to-morrow. This is the last class in French, so I beg you to be very attentive.”

Those few words overwhelmed me. Ah! the villains! that was what they had posted at the mayor’s

office.

My last class in French!

And I barely knew how to write! So I should never learn! I must stop short where I was! How angry I

was with myself because of the time I had wasted, the lessons I had missed, running about after nests, or sliding on the Saar! My books, which only a moment before I thought so tiresome, so heavy to

carry—my grammar, my sacred history—seemed to me now like old friends, from whom I should be

terribly grieved to part. And it was the same about Monsieur Hamel. The thought that he was going

away, that I should never see him again, made me forget the punishments, the blows with the ruler.

Poor man! It was in honour of that last lesson that he had put on his fine Sunday clothes; and I

understood now why those old fellows from the village were sitting at the end of the room. It seemed to mean that they regretted not having come oftener to the school. It was also a way of thanking our teacher for his forty years of faithful service, and of paying their respects to the fatherland which was vanishing.

I was at that point in my reflections, when I heard my name called. It was my turn to recite. What would I not have given to be able to say from beginning to end that famous rule about participles, in a loud, distinct voice, without a slip! But I got mixed up at the first words, and I stood there swaying against my bench, with a full heart, afraid to raise my head. I heard Monsieur Hamel speaking to me:

“I will not scold you, my little Frantz; you must be punished enough; that is the way it goes; every day we say to ourselves: ‘Pshaw! I have time enough. I will learn to-morrow.’ And then you see what

happens. Ah! it has been the great misfortune of our Alsace always to postpone its lessons until

to-morrow. Now those people are entitled to say to us: ‘What! you claim to be French, and you can

neither speak nor write your language!’ In all this, my poor Frantz, you are not the guiltiest one. We all have our fair share of reproaches to address to ourselves.

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The Last Class—The Story of a Little Alsatian -1st Part-

I WAS very late for school that morning, and I was terribly afraid of being scolded, especially as

Monsieur Hamel had told us that he should examine us on participles, and I did not know the first thing about them. For a moment I thought of staying away from school and wandering about the fields.
 It was such a warm, lovely day. I could hear the blackbirds whistling on the edge of the wood, and in the Rippert field, behind the sawmill, the Prussians going through their drill. All that was much more

tempting to me than the rules concerning participles; but I had the strength to resist, and I ran as fast as I could to school.

As I passed the mayor’s office, I saw that there were people gathered about the little board on which

notices were posted. For two years all our bad news had come from that board—battles lost,

conscriptions, orders from headquarters; and I thought without stopping:

“What can it be now?”

Then, as I ran across the square, Wachter the blacksmith, who stood there with his apprentice, reading

the placard, called out to me:

“Don’t hurry so, my boy; you’ll get to your school soon enough!”

I thought that he was making fun of me, and I ran into Monsieur Hamel’s little yard all out of breath.

Usually, at the beginning of school, there was a great uproar which could be heard in the street, desks

opening and closing, lessons repeated aloud in unison, with our ears stuffed in order to learn quicker, and the teacher’s stout ruler beating on the desk:

“A little more quiet!”

I counted on all this noise to reach my bench unnoticed; but as it happened, that day everything was

quiet, like a Sunday morning. Through the open window I saw my comrades already in their places, and Monsieur Hamel walking back and forth with the terrible iron ruler under his arm. I had no open the door and enter, in the midst of that perfect silence.
 You can imagine whether I blushed and whether I was afraid!

But no! Monsieur Hamel looked at me with no sign of anger and said very gently:

“Go at once to your seat, my little Frantz; we were going to begin without you.”

I stepped over the bench and sat down at once at my desk. Not until then, when I had partly recovered

from my fright, did I notice that our teacher had on his handsome blue coat, his plaited ruff, and the black silk embroidered breeches, which he wore only on days of inspection or of distribution of prizes.

Moreover, there was something extraordinary, something solemn about the whole class. But what

surprised me most was to see at the back of the room, on the benches which were usually empty, some people from the village sitting, as silent as we were: old Hauser with his three-cornered hat, the

ex-mayor, the ex-postman, and others besides. They all seemed depressed; and Hauser had brought an

old spelling-book with gnawed edges, which he held wide-open on his knee, with his great spectacles

askew.

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The Siege of Berlin - 4th Part

“Meanwhile the siege went on—not the siege of Berlin, alas! It was the time of intense cold, of the

bombardment, of epidemics and of famine. But, thanks to our care, to our efforts, to the unwearying

affection which multiplied itself about him, the old man’s serenity was not disturbed for an instant. To

the very end I was able to obtain white bread and fresh meat for him. There was none for anybody but

him, to be sure; and you can imagine nothing more touching than those breakfasts of the grandfather, so innocently selfish—the old man seated on his bed, fresh and smiling, with a napkin at his chin, and his granddaughter beside him, a little pale because of privations, guiding his hand, helping him to drink, and to eat all those forbidden good things.

Then, enlivened by the repast, in the comfort of his warm room,

the winter wind whistling outside and the snow eddying about his windows, the ex-cuirassier would

recall his campaigns in the north and would describe to us for the hundredth time that terrible retreat

from Russia, when they had nothing to eat but frozen biscuit and horseflesh.

“‘Do you understand that, my love? We had horseflesh!’

“I rather think that she did understand it. For two months she had had nothing else. From that day,

however, as the period of convalescence drew near, our task about the patient became more difficult.

That numbness of all his senses, of all his members, which had served us so well hitherto, began to

disappear. Two or three times, the terrible volleys from Porte Maillot had made him jump, with his ears pricked up like a hunting-dog; we were obliged to invent a final victory of Bazaine under the walls of Berlin, and guns fired in his honour at the Invalides. Another day when his bed had been moved to the window—it was, I believe, the Thursday of Buzenval—he saw large numbers of National Guards collected on Avenue de la Grande Armée.

“‘What are all those troops?’ asked the good man; and we heard him mutter between his teeth:

“‘Poorly set up! Poorly set up!’

“That was all; but we understood that we must take great precautions thenceforth. Unluckily we did not take enough.

“One evening when I arrived, the girl came to me in great trouble.

“‘They are to march into the city to-morrow,’ she said.

“Was the grandfather’s door open? In truth, on thinking it over afterwards, I remembered that his face

wore an extraordinary expression that night. It is probable that he had overheard us. But we were talking of the Prussians; and the good man was thinking of the French, of that triumphal entry which he had been awaiting so long—MacMahon marching down the avenue amid flowers and flourishes of trumpets, his son beside him, and he, the old colonel, on his balcony, in full uniform as at Lutzen, saluting the torn flags and the eagles blackened by powder.

“Poor Father Jouve! He had imagined doubtless that we intended to prevent him from witnessing that

parade of our troops, in order to avoid too great excitement. So he was very careful not to mention it to any one; but the next day, at the very hour when the Prussian battalions entered hesitatingly upon the long road which leads from Porte Maillot to the Tuileries, the window up there opened softly, and the colonel appeared on the balcony, with his helmet, his long sword, all the glorious old array of one of Milhaud’s cuirassiers. I wonder still what effort of the will, what sudden outburst of life had placed him thus upon his feet and in his harness. This much is sure, that he was there, standing behind the rail, amazed to find the broad avenues so silent, the blinds of the houses closed, Paris as gloomy as a huge lazaretto, flags everywhere, but such strange flags, white with little crosses, and no one to go to meet our soldiers.

“For a moment he might have thought that he was mistaken.

“But no! Yonder, behind the Arc de Triomphe, there was a confused rumbling, a black line approaching in the rising sunlight. Then, little by little, the points of the helmets gleamed, the little drums of Jena began to beat, and beneath the Arc de Triomphe, while the heavy tramp of the regiments and the clashing of the sabres beat time, Schubert’s Triumphal March burst forth!

“Thereupon in the deathlike silence of the square, a cry rang out, a terrible cry: ‘To arms! To arms! The Prussians!’ and the four uhlans of the vanguard saw up yonder, on the balcony, a tall old man wave his arms, stagger, and fall. That time, Colonel Jouve was really dead.”

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The Siege of Berlin - 3rd Part

 He could not see our unfortunate Paris, all in confusion and dreadful to behold. What he saw from his bed was a section of the Arc de Triomphe, and in his room, about him, a collection of bric-a-brac of the First Empire, well adapted to maintain his illusion. Portraits of marshals, engravings of battles, the King of Rome in a baby’s dress, tall consoles adorned with copper

trophies, laden with imperial relics, medals, bronzes, a miniature of St. Helena, under a globe, pictures representing the same lady all becurled, in a ball-dress of yellow, with leg-of-mutton sleeves and bright eyes;—and all these things: consoles, King of Rome, marshals, yellow ladies, with the high-necked, short-waisted dresses, the bestarched stiffness, which was the charm of 1806. Gallant colonel! It was that atmosphere of victories and conquests, even more than anything we could say to him, that made him believe so innocently in the siege of Berlin.

“From that day our military operations were much simplified. To take Berlin was only a matter of

patience. From time to time, when the old man was too much bored, we would read him a letter from his son—an imaginary letter, of course, for nothing was allowed to enter Paris, and since Sedan,

MacMahon’s aide-de-camp had been sent to a German fortress. You can imagine the despair of that poor child, without news from her father, knowing that he was a prisoner, in need of everything, perhaps sick, and she obliged to represent him as writing joyful letters, a little short, perhaps, but such as a soldier on the field might be expected to write, always marching forward through a conquered country.

 Sometimes her strength gave way; then they were without news for weeks. But the old man became anxious, could not sleep. Thereupon a letter from Germany would speedily arrive, which she would bring to his bedside and read joyously, forcing back her tears. The colonel would listen religiously, smile with a knowing air, approve, criticise, and explain to us the passages that seemed a little confused. But where he was especially grand was in the replies that he sent to his son. ‘Never forget that you are a Frenchman,’ he would say to him. ‘Be generous to those poor people. Don’t make the invasion too hard for them.’ And there were recommendations without end, admirable preachments upon respect for the proprieties, the courtesy which should be shown to the ladies, a complete code of military honour for the use of conquerors. He interspersed also some general considerations upon politics, the conditions of peace to be imposed upon the vanquished. Thereupon I must say that he was not exacting.

“‘A war indemnity, and nothing more. What is the use of taking their provinces? Is it possible to turn

Germany into France?’ “He dictated this in a firm voice; and one was conscious of such candour in his words, of such a noble, patriotic faith, that it was impossible not to be moved while listening to him.

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The Siege of Berlin - 2nd Part

“When I left the room, the girl was waiting for me at the door, pale as death. She was sobbing.

“‘But he is saved!’ I said, taking her hands.

“The unhappy child hardly had the courage to reply. The true report of Reichshofen had been placarded; MacMahon in retreat, the whole army crushed. We gazed at each other in consternation. She was in despair, thinking of her father. I trembled, thinking of the old man. He certainly could not stand this fresh shock. And yet what were we to do? Leave him his joy, and the illusions which had revived him? But in that case we must lie.

“‘Very well, I will lie!’ said the heroic girl, quickly wiping away her tears; and with radiant face she

entered her grandfather’s chamber.

“It was a hard task that she had undertaken. The first few days she had no great difficulty. The good

man’s brain was feeble, and he allowed himself to be deceived like a child. But with returning health his ideas became clearer. We had to keep him posted concerning the movement of the armies, to draw up military bulletins for him. Really, it was pitiful to see that lovely child leaning night and day over her map of Germany, pinning little flags upon it, and struggling to lay out a glorious campaign: Bazaine besieging Berlin, Froissart in Bavaria, MacMahon on the Baltic. For all this she asked my advice, and I assisted her as well as I could; but it was the grandfather who was especially useful to us in that imaginary invasion. He had conquered Germany so many times under the First Empire! He knew all the strokes beforehand: ‘Now this is where they will go. 

Now this is what they will do’; and his anticipations were
always realised, which did not fail to make him very proud.

“Unlucky it was of no avail for us to take cities  and win battles; we never went quickly enough for him.

That old man was insatiable! Every day, when I arrived, I learned of some new military exploit.

“‘Doctor, we have taken Mayence,’ the girl would say to me, coming to meet me with a heart-broken

smile, and I would hear through the door a joyous voice shouting to me:

“‘They are getting on! They are getting on! In a week we shall be in Berlin!’

“At that moment the Prussians were only a week’s march from Paris. We asked ourselves at first if it

would be better to take him into the provinces; but as soon as we were outside the city, the state of the

country would have told him everything, and I considered him still too weak, too much benumbed by his great shock, to let him know the truth. So we decided to remain.

“The first day of the investment of Paris, I went up to their rooms, I remember, deeply moved, with that agony at the heart which the closed gates, the fighting under the walls, and our suburbs turned into frontiers, gave us all. I found the good man seated on his bed, proud and jubilant.

“‘Well,’ he said, ‘so the siege has begun!’ “I gazed at him in blank amazement.

“‘What, colonel! you know?’

“His granddaughter turned towards me:

“‘Why, yes, doctor, that’s the great news. The siege of Berlin has begun.’

“As she said this, she plied her needle with such a sedate and placid air! How could he have suspected

anything? He could not hear the guns of the forts.

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The Siege of Berlin - 1st part

WE were going up Avenue des Champs-Elysées with Dr. V——, asking the shell-riddled walls, and the sidewalks torn up by grape-shot, for the story of the siege of Paris, when, just before we reached the Rond-point de l’Etoile, the doctor stopped and, pointing to one of the great corner houses so proudly grouped about the Arc de Triomphe, said to me:

“Do you see those four closed windows up there on that balcony? In the early days of August, that

terrible August of last year, so heavily laden with storms and disasters, I was called there to see a case of apoplexy. It was the apartment of Colonel Jouve, a cuirassier of the First Empire, an old enthusiast on the subject of glory and patriotism, who had come to live on the Champs-Élysées, in an apartment with a balcony, at the outbreak of the war. Guess why? In order to witness the triumphant return of our troops.

Poor old fellow! The news of Wissembourg reached him just as he was leaving the table. When he read the name of Napoleon at the foot of that bulletin of defeat, he fell like a log.

“I found the former cuirassier stretched out at full length on the carpet, his face covered with blood, and as lifeless as if he had received a blow on the head from a poleaxe. He must have been very tall when he was standing; lying there, he looked enormous. Handsome features, magnificent teeth, a fleece of curly white hair, eighty years with the appearance of sixty. Beside him was his granddaughter, on her knees

and bathed in tears. She looked like him. One who saw them side by side might have taken them for two beautiful Greek medallions, struck from the same die, one of which was old and earth-coloured, a little roughened on the edges, the other resplendent and clean-cut, in all the brilliancy and smoothness of a fresh impression.

“The child’s grief touched me. Daughter and granddaughter of soldiers, her father was on MacMahon’s staff, and the image of that tall old man stretched out before her evoked in her mind another image no less terrible. I comforted her as best I could, but in reality I had little hope. We had to do with a case of complete paralysis on one side, and at eighty years of age few people recover from it.
For three days the patient lay in the same state of inanition and stupor. Then the news of Reichshofen reached Paris. You remember in what a strange way it came. Up to the evening, we all believed in a great victory, twenty thousand Prussians killed and the Prince Royal a prisoner. I know not by what miracle, what magnetic current, an echo of that national rejoicing sought out our poor deaf-mute in the depths of his paralysis;

but the fact is that on that evening, when I approached his bed, I did not find the same man there. His eye was almost clear, his tongue less heavy. He had the strength to smile at me, and he stammered twice:

“‘Vic-to-ry!’ “And as I gave him details of the grand exploit of MacMahon, I saw that his features relaxed and his

face lighted up.

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The Turkish Cap ( 2nd Part )

"I am sorry, Sir," Khushal said promptly. "I

did not do it deliberately. It just happened. But, I am very sorry."

. "Is this your playground? Why don't you play

in your school compound?" the man shouted.

Brijpal went up to him. "Sir, we are sorry for

what happened. Our school compound is very small." "That is why we play here everyday," Bipin added.

"And this is how you play here, isn't it?" the man said wryly. "I'll go to your headmaster. Then

you will leam how to play and where to play."

Khushal and Brijpal pleaded. "Sir, please excuse us. We will be careful in future." The man did not appear to be satisfied. I thought I could save the situation. I picked up

his cap to hand it over to him. He snatched it from me. I could not remove the 'gulli from it.

Turning round, he started walking rapidly towards the school. All of us followed him, begging his pardon all the way. But he wpuld not listen. I stole a glance at my friends. They all looked mournful. I too was scared of the headmaster's temper.

The man entered the school building, and went straight to the headmaster's office. The peon outside

tried to stop him. He just brushed him aside and went in. We could hear loud voices coming from within. All of us were praying silently. We had crept to the courtyard facing the headmaster's

room. We tried guessing the conversation they were having and the consequences. Soon the

peon came and called us. One by one we entered the headmaster's room. "Who is responsible for all this?" he asked in a thundering voice.

 "How many times have I told

you to keep within the school compound?" We looked at one another. No one could say a

word. The headmaster raised his voice, "Are all of you dumb? Why don't you speak up?"

I made bold to reply, "Sir, we are sorry. We

shall be careful in future." The headmaster merely said, "Apologise to this

gentleman, all of you." "We have been begging his pardon, Sir," it

was Brijpal. "You must apologise in my presence," the

headmaster insisted. We chorused, "We are very sorry, Sir."

"O.K. boys," the man said and turned towards

the headmaster. "And thank you, Sir." He looked

satisfied, and moved towards the door.

Just as he was going out and we were about to leave, the headmaster asked, "Now, whose stroke was it?" I looked towards Khushal. He was looking at me. I looked round. My heart was beating faster

and faster. But how could I blame my friend?

With a sinking feeling, I decided I would take the blame. A faint smile played on the headmaster's

face. Somehow I felt it was not for any punishment that the question was asked. I opened my

mouth to reply. But Khushal was quicker. "Sir, it was my stroke. I am very sorry." "What a stroke!" the headmaster exclaimed.

"You strike the 'gulli', hit a man's cap, make it

fall, and then land the 'gulli' inside it! A master player, no doubt!" I could not suppress my laughter. But I could not laugh in the headmaster's presence, either.

So, I checked myself and with some difficulty managed a wide smile. When I looked round,

the others were also trying to suppress their laughter.

We were eager to go out and have a hearty laugh. The man with the turkish cap also turned round at the door. He too looked amused. Still smiling he went away. We trooped out of the room. Then we let ourselves go.

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The Turkish Cap ( 1st Part )

The school bell rang. Recess at last! We rushed

out of the classroom. I took the 'gulli ° out of my satchel before I ran out.
Khushal took the ' c l a n d a a n d followed me. Panna, Raghubir,
Brijpal, Prakash, Kaushal, Bishen, Nityanand,
all dashed out, followed by others. We reached
the ground outside our school compound where we usually played.
Prakash drew a big circle. Khushal entered it.
It was his turn to begin the game. He placed the
'gulli' in the centre of the circle, and took the
'danda to strike the gulli. The others took their
positions round the circle. Everybody's eyes were
on Khushal. He struck the 'gulli' hard. It flew out
of the circle and went quite far. None of us could catch it.
Nityanand was the first to reach the 'gulli'.
Picking it up, he threw it back with all his strength.
Khushal struck hard again. It went flying in another direction.
Bishen was fielding that side. He tried to catch
"Short stick used in the game of tip-cat (gullidanda).
" S t i c k used in the same game.

it but it slipped through his fingers. He picked it
up and threw it back towards Khushal. Khushal
once again hit it back. It was my turn next. But the way Khushal was
hitting I felt my turn would never come. I would
have to wait till the next day. I was hoping Khushal
would miss just once. Then I would be able
to start. But Khushal was proving too good a player for us.
Then Panna threw the 'gulli to Khushal. It did
not even reach the circle. Khushal struck it forcefully
towards Brijpal. Brijpal could not catch it
either. It should have been an easy catch. I cursed
him for missing it. Brijpal was also sorry foi
the slip. But what could he do now? He flung the
gulli back with a vengeance. Khushal didn't miss this time either.
The 'gulli was now flying towards me. I was
ready to catch it. But it never came!
All of a sudden there was a lot of noise. A man
in kurtci* pyjama was standing in the middle of
the play field. His turkish cap was lying on the
ground, upside down. The 'gulli seemed to have
hit the cap on its way to me. The wonder of it
all was that the 'gulli' had landed inside the cap.
The man was furious. "You naughty boys! See,
what you have done. I will teach you a lesson," he shouted.
"Long loose shirt worn with pyjamas.

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The Triumphant Smile - Beautiful short story

Humayun lay in a coma. His father Babar stood
beside his bed, sad and worried. The Chief

Vizier and the nobles crowded behind him. The
queen with tears in her eyes begged of the
emperor, "Save Humayun's life, my Lord". In
between sobs she said again, "Save my son from the clutches of death."
Babar stood aghast and moaned in grief. "O
God, how helpless am I! I can't even save my son.
I can't save my own flesh, my own blood...."
The palace herald announced, "Here comes Shahi Hakim."*
The Hakim entered the room and offered his
respects to the emperor. Babar knelt before him
pleading, "O life-giver! Save my child." The
Hakim was taken aback and bent down to raise
the Emperor to his feet. "O my Lord," he said,
"I'm just an ordinary servant of yours. I promise I
won't leave any stone unturned. But to grant life
is in God's hands. Have faith in Him. He is Rahim.
He is Karim, the kind and the merciful. Beg His "Royal physician.

mercy, Sir. I can only examine the patient and diagnose the illness."
The Hakim felt Humayun's pulse. Then he examined
the closed eyelids. He tried to open his
mouth too, but it was shut tight. The Hakim unbuttoned
Humayun's shirt and applied a strongsmelling
balm to his chest. The prince slowly
opened his eyes and mouth too, but did not show recognition.
"Asalam walekumPrince," the Hakim
greeted him. But there was no reply. "Asalam
ivalekum," he repeated. "Look at me Prince. Look
at your father. Don't you recognise your mother
sitting by your side?"
There was still no response. Humayun's vacant
looks were fixed on the ceiling. The queen
took Humayun in her arms and moaned.
"O Humayun, my son, won't you call me
Anuria* * anymore? Here, here look at your
Abba* * * Say something my son, say a few words!"
But Humayun didn't utter a sound. Babar stood
dazed beside the Hakim, while the queen's heartrending
cries continued to fill the room.
The Hakim opened another bottle and poured
a few drops of nectar into Humayun's parted lips.
But the drops flowed out. The Hakim mumbled,
"God bless you (Muslim greeting).
"He has not accepted the medicine. I'm sure his
throat is swollen and clogged." He took a piece
of paper and wrote down the names of some medicines.
"Here my Lord! I can only prescribe these
potions for the patient. Kindly try them. Howal
shaft'•!* May God cure him," said the Hakim.
He handed the slip to the Emperor and left
the palace in dismay. Babar passed the prescription on to the Chief
Vizier. Meanwhile, one of the court priests had
entered the chamber. He bowed low and said,
"My Lord! Kindly offer to God whatever you love
most. I am sure God will be kind enough to give
Humayun a new lease of life."
"Should I renounce my wealth and my kingdom?" asked Babar.
"That's up to you, my Lord. You should offer
what you love most," the priest replied.
"What do I love most?" the Emperor muttered.
"Only you can answer that my Lord."
"Dearest to my heart is Humayun," Babar replied.
"Surely, to save the Prince, Your Majesty would
not hesitate to offer something equally dear to
Allah?" urged the priest. "Ah! It is my own life that I love most," said
Babar with a triumphant smile.
°God bless you with good health.
"Allah-O-AkbarIn the presence of all nobles
and courtiers of my empire, I, Zaheerud-Din
Babar, do hereby offer my own life to God Almighty
to save Humayun my dearest son. Let his
malady strike me. Let Humayun recover. May I
die and may Humayun live for ever and ever."
As soon as he had finished speaking Babar sat
down on the mat to offer prayers to the Lord.
The anguished queen flung herself at Babar's
feet and cried, "No, no, my Lord. You cannot die.
Let the Almighty take my life. Humayun must
live under your patronage." "No, Begum.0 My pledge to the Almighty
must hold good. I must defeat death. I have lived
a hero's life. Let me die a hero's death for Humayun,"
muttered Babar as he lay down on the mat
feeling faint and dizzy from the pain in his chest.
"Allah-O-Akbar," whispered Babar again with
the same triumphant smile on his lips, as his eyes closed.
At the same time Humayun regained consciousness
and opened his eyes.
"Allah is the Greatest.
"Woman of noble rank.

Read more »

To The Memory Of A Lion - 4th Part

Udai Singh's sons joined in the battle and the
mahout sent Chandrawati charging into the
fray. The Marathas fought bravely. The casualties

were heavy. Among the first to perish were
Udai Singh's three sons and Chandrawati, the
elephant. Tanaji went looking for Udai Singh.
Udai Singh had by then heard of his sons
deaths. He rushed into the melee. "Tanaji,
you have a lot to answer for. You can't escape me."
"That we'll see," cried Tanaji. With drawn swords, they closed in.
Both were brilliant swordsmen. The battle
raged fiercely round them. The attackers had got
the better of the defenders. In a strategic move,
a section of the Maratha soldiers had thrown open Kalyan Gate.
Tanaji and Udai Singh were locked in a life and death struggle.
Both were tired and bleeding profusely. Udai "Elephant-driver.

Singh made a gallant effort and plunged his
sword into Tanaji's chest. Tanaji stumbled and
fell. Quite unexpectedly he sprang up and inflicted
a mortal wound on a triumphant Udai Singh.
He fell dead. Tanaji, too collapsed and died.
All was quiet when Suryaji entered the fort.
He rushed around, looking for Tanaji. He found
him lying in a pool of blood. He knelt to feel his pulse.
He looked aghast at his dead friend. His grief
soon turned into anger. "We must complete your
task", he muttered, drawing his sword.
The Marathas, infuriated by Tanaji's death,
fell on their foes like tigers. Udai Singh's death
had taken the fight out of the Mughals. After a
brief struggle, the Marathas won the battle.
Kondana fort was once again in their hands.
Suryaji returned to Raigarh fort to inform
Shivaji of their victory. He was anxiously waiting for them.
"Raje, the fort is taken," said Suryaji.
"Good. But where is Tanaji?"
Suryaji hung his head and remained silent.
"Speak, Suryaji!" cried Shivaji shaking him by
his shoulders. "What has happened to him?"
"He is dead!" Suryaji said in a broken voice.
Shivaji's face went pale as he mumbled, "The
fort is won, but my lion is gone." He turned and
walked to the window.

He stood there looking out.
A memorial to Tanaji stands on the spot where
he fell. It is called 'Sivnha Garh

"The lion's fort.

Read more »

To The Memory Of A Lion - 3rd Part

Soon everything was ready. Tanaji called his friends, and announced, "Tonight we attack. It is a moonless night and nothing will be visible.
All of you must be absolutely silent as you approach Kondana fort. I will take the iguana Yashwanti.

With her help, we will scale the rock." Then he turned to Suryaji. "You are to take the

rest of the men and wait at Kalyan Gate. We will throw it open for you."

Last minute preparations over, they marched to the fort quietly as shadows. In a short while

they reached the foot of the precipice. Tanaji tied a rope to Yashwanti's neck. Then he threw her

up hard, so she could clutch the wall. But the iguana lost her grip and slithered down.

"Shivaji's family diety. "Oh, it is a sign of bad luck!" exclaimed one of the soldiers.

Tanaji whirled round, "Who said that? There is no place for superstition in a soldier's life. He

must only have faith, in himself and in God." Tanaji once again hurled the iguana up with

greater force. This time Yashwanti gripped the top of the fort wall. Tanaji breathed a sigh of

relief.

"Hand me the bag containing the ropes," said Tanaji. A soldier gave it to him and he slung it

on his back.

"I go up first. I will tie the ropes to the projections

on the wall and let them down. With their help you can all climb up. Remember not a

sound." Tanaji held the rOpe tight and climbed up and up till he reached the ramparts. The soldiers

followed him. Within minutes they were at the top.

Tanaji whispered, "There must be a number of guards posted on the ramparts.

 Take them unawares and silence them. They should not be

allowed to sound the alarm. We'll get down and attack the soldiers inside the fort. Let's go." The men stonned the fort and overpowered the guards in no time. Shouting 'Jai Bhatoani', they rushed into the fort. The Mughal soldiers offered stiff resistance and a fierce hand to hand fight ensued.

One of the Mughal soldiers quietly slipped out and rushed to inform Udai Singh.

"The Marathas have entered my fort? But how?" cried Udai Singh.

He sprang from his bed and hurried to the next apartment. "Wake up, my sons. Tell the

mahout* to get Chandrawati. She'll crush the Marathas in no time."

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To The Memory Of A Lion - 2nd Part

Tanaji buckled his sword and stepped out of

the room. He ordered his men to be ready to accompany

him. The news spread and soon the

soldiers assembled outside his house.

After his wife had applied 'tilak' on his forehead

and performed the 'arti\ Tanaji took leave of her.

Leading an army of horsemen, he rode fast to

reach Raigarh fort. Tanaji walked straight into

Shivaji's room and found him sitting in a pensive mood.

"Raje, I'm here at your service," said Tanaji bowing.

"Oh! my Sivnha has come!" exclaimed Shivaji.

He embraced Tanaji and said, "Come, sit down.

We have a difficult assignment. Ma Sahib* feels

that the other forts are not safe so long as we

do not recapture Kondana fort.

"Udai Singh Rathor is in command of the

Mughal forces. His men are guarding the three

gates. His sons are also with him. All of them are

brave fighters. There is also the killer elephant

Chandrawati. She is a force by herself. I have

thought and thought, but can't find a way of capturing

the fort. You are the only one who may

be able to find a way."

The lines deepened on Tanaji's brow. Then

he spoke. "I have a plan. The fort is guarded only

on three sides. We will try to enter from the west."

"What?" Shivaji sprang up. "Enter from the

west? You're not planning to climb that precipice?

It is unassailable."

Tanaji said coolly — "No, Raje, it is not the

way I intend doing it." He then explained his plan

to Shivaji in detail.

"It is a daring plan," said Shivaji anxiously.

"Very difficult to execute. Everything depends on

just one thing."

"Yes, it is difficult, Raje, but not impossible.

4 Queen Mother.

We will prepare well and we will succeed."

Tanaji sounded confident.

"Very well, go ahead with your preparations.

May Goddess Bhawani* bless you."

Tanaji bowed to Shivaji and left. He called

Suryaji and some of his personal friends who were

waiting in the adjoining room. He swore them to

secrecy and then told them of the plan.

"We begin preparing at once. Drill the soldiers,

perfect them in the use of arms, but do not tell

them for what. We have to take the enemy by

surprise.'

Read more »

To The Memory Of A Lion - 1st Part

Tanaji Malusare was Shivaji's childhood friend

and companion at arms. He was very brave and

daring. Shivaji proudly called him his Sivnha or

Lion. Tanaji had planned and fought many a battle

by the side of his leader. They were determined

to free their land from Mughal domination.

Tanaji lived in the small town of Umratha. One

morning, Umratha wore a festive look. Colourful

bunting fluttered in the streets. There was a

Mangal Kolas* at every door. Tanaji's son was

to be married that day. People went in and out

of his house, busy running errands.

Just then a messenger came galloping down the

street. "Look!" cried a man who had noticed him

in the distance. "What news can he be bringing?"

he asked Tanaji's servant who was near him. Before

the servant could reply, the rider came to a

stop in front of them. He leapt off his horse and

said, "Where is Tanaji? I must see him at once."

"In the house Sir," answered the servant. He

had recognised the rider. "I'll take you to him."

"Sire," the servant called out.

"Pots decorated with mango leaves and a coconut.

Tanaji and his wife were busy selecting and

packing clothes and ornaments for the bride and

the groom.

"Who is there?" he asked.

"Suryaji," replied the servant.

Tanaji put aside the jewel-case he was holding

and stepped forward. "Come in, Suryaji".

Suryaji entered and bowed to Tanaji and his

wife.

"Welcome, my friend. What brings you

here?" he asked. His wife, too, stopped inspecting

the sari she had in her hand.

"Ka/e* wants you at Raigarh immediately," replied

Suryaji.

Tanaji knew at once that it was something

serious. He turned swiftly to his wife and put his

hand affectionately on her shoulder. "My dear,"

he said, "you know I have to go. Postpone the

wedding. My first duty is to my leader and my

land. Come, smile and bid me farewell. Do not

wony. Suryaji and my men will be with me."

Tanaji's wife was stunned. She held back her

tears.

"Please wait," she said and went in to prepare

the ' t i l a k a n d 'arti'*** for the farewell.

"His Majesty.

s 3Vermillion mark on forehead.

co "moving a lighted lamp round a soldier before he goes to

battle.

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When Papa Scolded Me - 3rd Part

I ignored everybody. This was the most fascinating

game for me at the moment.

TIow fantastic! I press — the light is on, I push

— the light goes off', I muttered.

The patient, obviously, had some serious problem.

My father sat with four books open in front

of him. My running around had certainly disturbed

him. Completely exasperated, he put down his

pen and spectacles and shouted at me, "You're not

listening to me. GET DOWN FROM THERE!"

His loud voice broke my trance. I gaped

at him wide-eyed. He fixed his gaze on me, expecting

to be obeyed instantly. I was shocked at

being scolded so loudly by him — scolded by

Papa. Papa, a very soft spoken person, who was

known never to raise his voice, had SHOUTED

in anger at his darling daughter. I was very angry

with him.

I jumped down from the table with a loud thud

and raced up and down the balcony. My breath

quickened, my face went red with anger, and my

eyes felt hot with unshed tears. Throwing my

hands about, I raced up and down wanting to

destroy everything that came in my way.

Hearing the commotion Bhaiya came out.

"What is it?" he asked. My fury found a ready

victim and I ran towards him and pushed him. I

felt like bursting into tears. I rushed and pulled

at the curtain in Papa's room, which came down

with the force. I saw Papa talking to the patient

with his usual patience.

How unthoughtful of him! He is not a bit

bothered about my being so angry with him. 1

was fuming all the more.

I went back into the room, stamping my feet

noisily in anger. Standing close to Papa, I raged

vehemently, "Why couldn't you say it softly?

Why did you speak so loudly to me?"

The next moment I came out on the balcony

and stood beside the money-plant pot. My eyes

were now full of tears. I plucked a leaf and shredded

it to pieces. The sound of a chair being pushed

in Papa's room reached my ears and then I heard

his footsteps coming closer to me. I tried to run

away in annoyance, but Papa caught me. He pulled

my face towards his and picked me up. Tears

came rolling down my plump cheeks. He patted

my head lovingly and wiped my tears.

"Oh, you big cat!" said Papa, ruffling my hair.

This affectionate gesture melted my wrath. A

moment later I was once again happy playing

round the house.

Read more »

When Papa Scolded Me - 2nd Part

Racing back to the window of Papa's room, I saw him still busy with the patient. I loved to see

him there before me, while I played. 'He must be liking it, too,' I thought, 'to see me play around in his room.' I dragged a chair and climbed onto the table.

This at last drew Papa's attention. "Baby, be careful, you'll fall down," he said tenderly.

"Look, Papa, I am taller than everyone," I grinned from ear to ear making my eyes disappear.

All one could see was a set of white teeth and chubby cheeks.

Both Mr. Singh and Papa smiled. Papa did not look convinced. So I said again raising my hands

above my head. "Papa I'm a big girl, now." He nodded with a smile and continued talking

to the patient. I touched all that I could reach with my hands till I got to the black switch. 'No, you should not touch it.' I was imagining what my mother would have said.

'If you touch it, you'll get hurt,' Bhaiya had told me once. This was a 'forbidden' article for

me, but how attractive it looked — black against the light blue wall. Unable to resist the temptation

to touch it, I pressed the switch and the light came on. I immediately switched it off. I was scared, I looked at Papa with large anxious eyes, but he was busy writing. He did not see me. I

looked at Papa again and then at the switch which begged my hands to touch it again.

'I'll do it just once more, okay?' I said softly to myself. I repeated the mischief once more and

was unable to stop myself from doing it again and again. I seemed to have disturbed Papa who was

concentrating on the patient's problem. Without looking up from the book, he said in a serious

voice, "Don't do that, you might get a shock." The klick-klack of the switch and the glowing

bulb fascinated me, "Baby, come here, let Papa do his work," called my brother.

Read more »

When Papa Scolded Me - 1st Part

"Baby, come for breakfast. Your milk is getting

cold," called Bhaiya, my elder brother.

I quickly put on my slippers, picked up my

favourite doll, Beeta, and rushed out into the

verandah. It was a beautiful day. The morning

air was most refreshing. "Ah, how lovely!" I said

aloud, taking a deep breath. I ran across the

verandah, with Beeta tucked under my arm.

While I gulped down the milk, I heard Papa

calling out to the driver.

"Papa is still here, Bhaiya. He hasn't gone to

the clinic, today," I said overwhelmed with joy.

Being engrossed in a magazine, Bhaiya did

not reply, but I could see Papa talking to someone

in his room, which was opposite the dining hall

facing the verandah.

"Papa! Papa! I don't have to go to school, it's a

holiday. Do you have a holiday, too? Look, Beeta

has got fever," I said, all in one breath.

"No, my dear child, I don't have a holiday today.

You go and play while I talk to Mr. Singh.

He is very ill. I'll ask the compounder to give

your doll some medicine," Papa said lovingly.

It was quite unusual to find my father at home

at that time. Normally he was in his clinic before

I woke up. So I was very happy. My father wiped

his spectacles with the kerchief as he listened to

his patient carefully.

I was on the balcony when I heard, "Baby!

Baby! Come here, see this." It was my brother

from the verandah. He had spread himself on an

easy chair and our dog, Tom, was dancing round

on his hind legs. I burst out laughing.

"Papa will give medicine to Beeta," I said,

showing off.

"And I'll ask Papa to give some medicine to his

darling daughter, because. . . .because she laughs

and laughs," said Bhaiya, tickling me and sending

me into fits of laughter. Being the youngest child

in the family I received everyone's attention and

affection. Papa of course, was the most

affectionate.

I ran from one end of the verandah to the other

and then onto the balcony, staying close to Papa's

room to attract his attention while I played. I

swung on the curtain, thumped on the door, tapped

on the table, pulled and pushed the chair.

"Look, Bhaiya, what a variety of sounds they

make," I said, pulling the chair, then leaping up

and rapping on the door, clapping my hands,

jumping all the while.

"Don't," pleaded Bhaiya, not taking his eyes off

the book in his hand.

Read more »

Man Overboard 4th Part

When he turned away, I quietly sneaked into the hospital room to see what they were doing to

the patient. Two nurses were scurrying to and fro with trays full of medicines and syringes. Another

was rushing off with Uncle's wet clothes. I stopped her and asked if Uncle was conscious. "Not

yet," she replied, "but he's better now. He should regain consciousness in a little while."

The ship was still rolling, so I couldn't play any games. I went and sat in a cosy chair in the lounge

and started reading a story-book. I was feeling drowsy and must have dozed off. The next tiling

I knew was somebody saying, "Wake up, child.

You're Vasantha, aren't you? The Captain wants to see you in his cabin."

I looked up to see a sailor standing before me. It took me a minute to recollect the rescue operation

and the captain telling me, "I'll call you afterwards." I followed the officer eagerly. He left me outside

the captain's door, saying, "Go right inside." I knocked and entered. The captain was standing

in the middle of the room. When he saw me, he came forward and literally swept me off my

feet. He was still smiling when he put me down.

"You will have plenty to tell your friends, eh? Now close your eyes." I did so. Seconds later, I heard him say, "See what I've got for you." On opening my eyes, I saw a big brown box.

On it was written: "WITH THE BEST COMPLIMENTS OF

CAPT. LINDSAY."

I took the box and eagerly opened it. "Oh, what a lovely ship!" I exclaimed. "Does this really

belong to me? Can I keep it?" Lying snugly on a velvet backing was a most

beautiful model of the ship. On it was inscribed "B.I.S.N. & Co. S.S. RAJULA." I placed the box

carefully on the table. Then I threw my hands round the captain and hugged and kissed him.

He patted my cheek and smiled as he saw me lift the box and walk happily out of his room. I

proudly showed my present to everyone I met.

"See what the Captain has given me. Isn't it lovely?" "Yes, indeed," was the unanimous verdict.

I was the happiest person on board that day.

Read more »

Man Overboard 3rd Part

"I am sorry, my dear. The sea is very rough

today. I hope my men can reach him in time. My

ship has never lost a passenger before," he said

crossing himself. He was watching the rescue

operations through a pair of binoculars that hung

round his neck.

The boat was too far for me to see what was

happening. I tugged at the Captain's sleeve.

"What are they doing, Sir? Have they rescued

the man?" I asked him.

"They've caught him by the arms and are pulling

him towards the boat." He was giving me a

running commentary. "Oh what bad luck! A sudden

current has swept the man away dragging

two of the sailors with him." He sounded nervous.

Just then he noticed the passengers crowding

against the railings. "Keep away from those railings!"

he shouted. "We don't want another

accident." The ship had dropped anchor but was

heaving up and down.

I borrowed the captain's binoculars. Now I

could see the rescue operation clearly. The crew

in the rescue boats threw a strong rope to the two

sailors in the sea and shouted, "Catch". Both of

them were good swimmers and soon had caught

hold of the rope. Then, with powerful strokes, they

swam towards Uncle. One of them caught hold

of him, while the other tied the rope round his

waist. With Uncle between them and the rope

secure, the sailors swam back to the life-boats. The

rescue team in the boats leaned over and heaved

the three men into it. In a jiffy the boats were

heading back to the ship.

"Thank God!" muttered the captain making the

sign of the cross again, "They've managed to save

him." He turned to the passengers thronging the

railings. "Please do not crowd round the man

when he is brought up. He will need immediate

medical care." Then he saw the ship's doctor standing

with a couple of nurses. A stretcher was also

being brought close to the railings.

"Doctor! Is everything ready for the patient?"

the captain asked.

"Aye, aye, Captain," nodded the doctor.

The captain moved away to restore order on

the ship. I edged close to the doctor and asked,

"What will you do to him, doctor? Will he be all

right?"

"Aye, I think so. All the water will have to be

pumped out of him. He'll have to be given artificial

respiration and kept warm."

"How do you pump the water out?" I asked.

"We put him on his stomach and massage him

until he brings it all up," he replied.

As soon as the rescue team reached the ship,

Uncle was placed on the stretcher and rushed to

the hospital room. The captain then came to me

and said, "Run along now and play with your

friends. I'm busy, but will send for you when I'm

through. I might even have a surprise for you."

Read more »

Man Overboard 2nd Part

This made my imagination run wild. Turning to 'Uncle' again, I said, "Wouldn't it be fun if the

storm broke when we have lunch? Then the tables, with all the food on them, would run away

from us. And the chairs, with us sitting on them, ould be a merry-go-round."

Everyone round the table stared at me in horror.

I thought to myself, 'Oh, these adults, they've no sense of adventure. How dull they are!'

The storm didn't break, but in the evening a strong wind started blowing. The ship rocked to

and fro, rocking and rolling to the music of the wind. Huge waves were dashing against it. Even

though the deck was slippery, I was running around. That's when I noticed Uncle leaning over

the railings. I ran up to him, thinking he too, was enjoying the experience. "Good morning,

Uncle, isn't it lovely?" I asked him.

But he wasn't well at all. He was retching over the rails and looked rather blue about the mouth.

I felt sorry for him. "Can I be of any help? Shall call the doctor?' I asked him.

He couldn't reply, but only held up his hand.

As another bout of retching shook him he leaned over the railings. At the same time a huge wave

lashed the ship. It lurched violently and the man tumbled over the railings into the wild sea. For

a second I stood rooted to the spot. Then I ran like someone possessed, shouting, "Help! Help!

Man overboard! Save him!" I must have made a lot of noise. I heard footsteps hurrying even that

early in the morning. Tears streaming down my face and shouting

incoherently, I ran full pelt into an officer. "What's the matter? Why are you making so

much noise?" he asked in a stern voice, I was surprised to see it was the captain.

"Oh Sir!" I blurted out in relief. "A man fell into the sea. Please save him."

"Where?" he asked, immediately on the alert. "There," I said pointing a finger.

He did not wait for more details but ran at once to a room full of officers. "Man overboard,"

he cried. "Stop ship. Drop anchor. Quick!" His

instructions were immediately obeyed. The captain then raced to the upper deck. I kept trailing

behind him. "Lower the life-boats and crew into the sea towards the helm," he said. "There is a

man overboard." Here again the men quickly obeyed him.

People started crowding the deck. "What's

happening?" somebody asked me.

Word soon went round. Everyone was tense. Only an occasional, "There he is!" could be heard.

Someone asked, "Who is he?" Another replied, "Don't know."

Meanwhile two life-boats moved towards the man. I stood close to the captain. In his anxiety,

he gripped my shoulder tightly and I winced. "You're hurting me Sir," I protested.

Read more »