III SEMESTER GENERAL ENGLISH- B.

COM/ BBA/ BA/ BCA

UNIT I : WORLD LITERATURE Pg no.

Introduction to World Literature 1-6
Nature & Scope of World literature

UNIT II Prose:
Short Stories
1. Echo (Greek Myth) 7-8
2. Yuki-Onna by Lafcadio Hearn (Japanese) 9 - 12
3. The Little Cask by Guy de Maupassant (French) 13 - 17
4. A Country Doctor by Franz Kafka (German) 18 – 22

Unit III Poetry:

1. Yasodhara’s Lament (Sri Lankan) 23 - 26
2. Ode to Autumn by John Keats (British) 27
3. I Am Not One of Those Who Left the Land by Anna Akhmatova (Russian) 28
4. To the Others by Jack Davis (Australian) 29 - 33
5. Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines by Pablo Neruda (Chilean) 34 - 35

UNIT- IV LSRW Skills (Listening, Speaking, Reading, Writing)

1. Tense
2. Subject-Verb Agreement
3. Active & Passive
4. Information Transfer
5. Dialogue Writing
6. Essay Writing
7. Presi Writing
 AN OVERVIEW OF THE WORLD LITERATURE
Introduction:
World literature, a vast and intricate tapestry of human expression, serves as a reflection of the
global human experience. Its significance lies in its ability to transcend geographical
boundaries, languages, and cultures, offering a universal platform for shared narratives,
perspectives, and emotions. In an increasingly interconnected world, the study of world
literature takes on heightened importance, promoting cross-cultural understanding and
enriching our collective literary heritage.
Discussion:
Historical Development of World Literature:
World literature, as we understand it today, has evolved over centuries, shaped by diverse
cultures, languages, and historical contexts. Its origins can be traced to ancient civilizations,
such as Mesopotamia (Kramer, S. N.1963), Egypt (Shaw, I. 2003), and Greece (Finley, M. I.
1983), where oral traditions and early written works laid the foundation. Over time, literary
traditions spread across continents through trade routes, conquests, and migrations.
Notable periods in the historical development of world literature include the Classical period,
characterized by the works of Homer(1990), Virgil(1983), and Confucius(1997)., which set
enduring literary standards. The Middle Ages brought us epic poems like “The Thousand and
One Nights” (Anonymous. 2009). and “The Divine Comedy,” (Dante Alighieri. 2003)
showcasing cultural diversity. The Renaissance period saw the flourishing of European
literature with Shakespeare, Cervantes, and Dante.
Key Movements, Periods, and Authors:
World literature has witnessed numerous movements and influential authors. The
Enlightenment era brought forth Voltaire(2012). and Rousseau(1987), whose writings
challenged established norms. The Romantic period celebrated individualism and nature
through the works of Goethe (2008) and Wordsworth(1799). Realism, exemplified by Tolstoy
(1869) and Balzac (1830), provided insight into the human condition.
The 20th century introduced modernism with the groundbreaking works of James Joyce(1922).
and Franz Kafka(1925)., followed by post-colonial literature featuring authors like Chinua
Achebe(1958) and Gabriel García Márquez(1967). Contemporary authors such as Haruki
Murakami(2002) and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (2006) continue to shape the landscape of
world literature.
Cultural and Global Influences:
World literature is a product of cross-cultural fertilization. The Silk Road facilitated the
exchange of ideas, stories, and manuscripts between East and West. Conquests brought Arabic,
Persian, and Indian literature to Europe during the Middle Ages. The spread of printing
technology in the Renaissance era made literary works accessible across borders.

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In the modern era, globalization and digital communication have further accelerated the
exchange of literary ideas. Translations play a pivotal role in bridging linguistic divides.
Cultural influences from folklore, mythology, religion, and politics have left lasting imprints
on world literature, creating a rich tapestry of global narratives
Major Themes, Motifs, and Trends in World Literature:
Common Themes and Motifs:
1. Love: Love, in its various forms - romantic, familial, platonic, and self-love, is a recurring
theme in world literature. It often explores the complexities, joys, and challenges of human
relationships.
2. Identity: The quest for self-identity, whether personal or cultural, is a central motif.
Characters often grapple with questions of who they are, where they belong, and how they
define themselves.
3. Conflict: Conflict, both internal and external, is a pervasive theme. It encompasses physical,
emotional, and moral conflicts, reflecting the human condition's perpetual struggle.
4. Nature: The natural world and its relationship with humanity frequently feature in literature.
Nature symbolizes various themes, from beauty and renewal to unpredictability and danger.
5. Power and Oppression: Literature often explores the dynamics of power, oppression, and
resistance. It delves into political, social, and economic power structures.
6. Death and Mortality: The contemplation of mortality, the afterlife, and the human fear of
death are prevalent themes. How cultures perceive and cope with mortality differs significantly.
Evolution of Themes Over Time and Across Cultures:
These themes have evolved over time and have been interpreted differently across cultures:
1. Love: In classical literature like Shakespeare's works, love often symbolizes transcendent
and idealized romanticism. In modern literature, it can be portrayed as more complex and
realistic, reflecting changing societal values.
2. Identity: In ancient epics like the “Epic of Gilgamesh,”(Anonymous,n.d.) identity is often
linked to one's heroic deeds. In contemporary literature, identity may be more fluid, influenced
by globalization and multiculturalism
3. Conflict: While conflict remains a timeless theme, its nature has evolved. Ancient conflicts
often revolved around gods and destiny, whereas modern conflicts often explore the human
condition and societal issues.
4. Nature: Nature's portrayal has shifted from reverence and mysticism in earlier literature to
environmental concerns and ecological consciousness in contemporary works.
5. Power and Oppression: The concept of power has expanded to encompass not only political
power but also social and economic power in modern literature, reflecting changing power
structures.

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6. Death and Mortality: Attitudes towards death have evolved, with ancient literature often
focusing on the afterlife, while contemporary literature may delve into the existential aspects
of mortality.
The exploration of these common themes and motifs across different world literatures offers
valuable insights into the shared human experiences and the diversity of cultural
interpretations, enriching our understanding of world literature's global tapestry.
Global Influences and Cross-Cultural Exchange in World Literature:
Cross-Cultural Influences and Literary Exchange:
1. Silk Road: The ancient Silk Road facilitated the exchange of not only goods but also ideas
and literature between East and West. Chinese, Indian, and Middle Eastern texts made their
way to Europe, influencing literary traditions.
2. Arabian Nights: The “One Thousand and One Nights” (2009) collection exemplifies the
cross-cultural exchange between Arabic, Persian, and Indian storytelling. It introduced tales
like Aladdin and Ali Baba to the world.
3. Greek and Indian Mythology: The Hellenistic period witnessed the fusion of Greek and
Indian cultures after Alexander the Great's conquests. This fusion influenced both Western and
Indian literature, as seen in the interaction of Greek and Hindu mythologies.
4. Buddhism and Literature: The spread of Buddhism across Asia brought with it Buddhist
literature, impacting the literary traditions of countries like China, Japan, and Tibet.
Globalization and Colonialism's Impact on World Literature:
1. Colonial Literature: European colonial expansion in Asia, Africa, and the Americas led to
the creation of colonial literature. Authors like Joseph Conrad (1899) and Rudyard
Kipling(1894) explored themes of imperialism and cultural clash in their works.
2. Post-Colonial Literature: After gaining independence, former colonies produced literature
that reflected the struggles, identity, and cultural reawakening of colonized peoples. Authors
like Chinua Achebe(1958) and Salman Rushdie (1981) addressed post-colonial issues.
3. Globalization and Hybridity: Globalization has accelerated cultural exchange, leading to the
emergence of hybrid literary forms. Writers like Jhumpa Lahiri(2003) and Junot Diaz(2007)
blend multiple cultural influences in their narratives.
Regional Perspectives in World Literature:
European Literature:
Unique Characteristics: European literature is characterized by its rich literary history,
including classical Greek and Roman works, medieval epics, and the Renaissance. It often
emphasizes individualism, existentialism, and exploration of the human condition.
Contributions: European literature has produced iconic authors like Shakespeare, Dante,
Tolstoy, and Goethe. It has made significant contributions to various literary movements,
including Romanticism, Realism, and Modernism.

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Challenges: Challenges in European literature include the complexity of multiple languages
and cultures within the continent. Balancing tradition and innovation can also be challenging.
Impact: European literature has had a profound influence on global literature, with its works
widely translated and adapted. It set literary standards and introduced key literary movements
to the world.
African Literature:
Unique Characteristics: African literature is diverse, reflecting the continent's multiplicity of
cultures, languages, and histories. It often explores themes related to post-colonialism, identity,
and the intersection of tradition and modernity.
Contributions: African literature has produced renowned authors like Chinua Achebe(1958),
Wole Soyinka(1975), and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie(2003). It has enriched world literature
by introducing unique storytelling traditions and perspectives.
Challenges: Challenges in African literature include linguistic diversity, limited access to
education, and issues of representation. Many African authors write in European languages
inherited from colonialism.
Impact: African literature has brought African voices and stories to the forefront of global
literature. It has challenged stereotypes and contributed to a more diverse literary landscape.
Asian Literature:
Unique Characteristics: Asian literature is characterized by its ancient literary traditions, such
as Chinese poetry and Indian epics. It often explores themes of spirituality, philosophy, and the
balance between tradition and modernity.
Contributions: Asian literature has produced influential authors like Rabindranath
Tagore(1913), Haruki Murakami(2002), and Lu Xun(1923). It has introduced concepts like
Taoism, Buddhism, and Confucianism to global readers.
Challenges: Challenges in Asian literature include linguistic diversity, the impact of censorship
in some regions, and the preservation of traditional storytelling in the face of modernization.

Impact: Asian literature has significantly impacted the global literary landscape by providing
unique perspectives on spirituality, philosophy, and the human experience. It has influenced
Western literature and thought.
Latin American Literature:
Unique Characteristics: Latin American literature is known for its magical realism, political
engagement, and exploration of identity. It often grapples with issues of colonialism,
dictatorship, and social justice.
Contributions: Latin American literature has produced authors like Gabriel García
Márquez(1967), Jorge Luis Borges(1944), and Pablo Neruda(1924). It has introduced the world
to the genre of magical realism and the complexities of Latin American history.

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Challenges: Challenges in Latin American literature include political censorship, economic
disparities, and the struggle for representation of indigenous and marginalized voices.
Impact: Latin American literature has had a profound impact on global literature by bringing
Latin American history, culture, and social issues to international attention. It has enriched
world literature with its unique narrative techniques.
In conclusion, world literature is a tapestry woven from the distinct threads of regional
perspectives. Each region brings its unique characteristics, contributions, and challenges,
contributing to the global literary landscape and enriching our understanding of the human
experience from diverse cultural viewpoints.
Contemporary Trends in World Literature:
1. Emerging Voices: Contemporary world literature is witnessing the rise of voices from
previously underrepresented regions and cultures. Authors from Africa, the Middle East, Asia,
and indigenous communities are gaining international recognition.
2. Diversity of Themes: Literature is increasingly exploring a wide range of themes, including
migration, identity, social justice, climate change, and globalization. Authors are addressing
urgent global issues in their works.
3. Experimental Narratives: Contemporary literature often embraces experimental narrative
techniques and forms, challenging traditional storytelling norms. Authors employ non-linear
structures, metafiction, and multimedia elements.
4. Multilingualism: Many contemporary authors write multilingual works, reflecting the
globalized world. They seamlessly incorporate multiple languages and dialects into their
narratives.
5. Global Book Markets: The internationalization of book markets through digital platforms
and translations has expanded the reach of world literature. Books are reaching wider and more
diverse audiences.
Future of World Literature in the Digital Age:
1. Virtual Literary Communities: The digital age will likely foster virtual literary communities,
connecting readers and writers globally. Online platforms, book clubs, and social media will
play a central role in these communities.
2. E-books and Accessibility: E-books and digital libraries will make world literature more
accessible to readers worldwide. Readers will have instant access to a vast array of literary
works.
3. Collaborative Storytelling: The digital age could enable collaborative storytelling projects
involving authors from different regions, fostering cross-cultural exchanges and unique
narratives.
4. Interactive Storytelling: Interactive storytelling platforms and immersive technologies may
offer readers the opportunity to engage with and shape narratives, enhancing the reading
experience.

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5. Preservation of Diverse Voices: Digital archives will play a crucial role in preserving and
showcasing diverse literary voices from around the world, ensuring that they are not lost to
history.
The Broader Significance of Understanding World Literature:
Understanding world literature is not merely an academic pursuit; it is a pathway to a more
inclusive and empathetic world. It allows us to appreciate the multifaceted nature of human
experiences, fostering cross-cultural dialogue and dismantling barriers of ignorance and
prejudice. In an era of globalization and digital interconnectedness, world literature serves as a
bridge, connecting individuals and communities worldwide.
Moreover, world literature offers profound insights into the shared values, aspirations, and
concerns of humanity. It encourages us to confront global challenges, advocate for positive
change, and engage in the collective endeavor of shaping a more equitable and compassionate
world.
In conclusion, the study of world literature reveals a diverse and interconnected tapestry of
human expression. Throughout history, it has evolved, reflecting the shared themes of love,
identity, conflict, and more, while embracing unique cultural perspectives. Cross-cultural
influences have enriched world literature, fostering a global literary conversation. Despite
challenges like language barriers and bias, initiatives such as translation and digital technology
promote inclusivity. In contemporary times, world literature is characterized by emerging
voices, diverse themes, and experimental narratives, addressing pressing global issues.
Understanding world literature not only enriches our literary heritage but also promotes cross-
cultural understanding and empathy in our increasingly interconnected world.

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 ECHO
ECHO was a nymph who talked too much. She
was very fond of having the last word. One day she
spoke rudely to the great Juno, who said that for this
offence Echo should never use her voice again, unless
to repeat what she had just heard, but since she was so
very fond of last words, she might repeat the last words
of others.
This was almost as bad as if Juno had changed
her into a parrot. Echo was very much ashamed, and
hid herself in the forest.
Narcissus, a young man who had hair as yellow
as gold and eyes as blue as the sky,—a very rare thing
in Greece, where most people were very dark,—used to
hunt in the forest where Echo was hiding. As she was
peeping out shyly from some cave or from behind a
great tree, Echo often saw Narcissus, and she admired
him very much.
One day Narcissus became separated from his
friends, and hearing something rustle among the leaves,
he called out, “Who’s here?”
“Here,” answered Echo.

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 FAVORITE GREEK MYTHS

“Here I am. Come!” said Narcissus.

“I am come,” said Echo; and, as she spoke, she
came out from among the trees.
When Narcissus saw a stranger, instead of one
of his friends as he had expected, he looked surprised
and walked quickly away.
After this, Echo never came out and allowed
herself to be seen again, and in time she faded away
till she became only a voice.
This voice was heard for many, many years in
forests and among mountains, particularly in caves. In
their solitary walks, hunters often heard it. Sometimes
it mocked the barking of their dogs; sometimes it
repeated their own last words. It always had a weird
and mournful sound, and seemed to make lonely places
more lonely still.

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 Yuki-onna
by
Lafcadio Hearn (Koizumi Yakumo)
from Kwaidan (1904)

In a village of Musashi Province, there lived two woodcutters:

Mosaku and Minokichi. At the time of which I am speaking, Mosaku
was an old man; and Minokichi, his apprentice, was a lad of eighteen
years. Every day they went together to a forest situated about five miles
from their village. On the way to that forest there is a wide river to cross;
and there is a ferryboat. Several times a bridge was built where the ferry
is; but the bridge was each time carried away by a flood. No common
bridge can resist the current there when the river rises.
Mosaku and Minokichi were on their way home, one very cold
evening, when a great snowstorm overtook them. They reached the
ferry; and they found that the boatman had gone away, leaving his boat
on the other side of the river. It was no day for swimming; and the
woodcutters took shelter in the ferryman's hut, – thinking themselves
lucky to find any shelter at all. There was no brazier in the hut, nor any
place in which to make a fire: it was only a two-mat hut, with a single
door, but no window. Mosaku and Minokichi fastened the door, and lay
down to rest, with their straw rain-coats over them. At first they did not
feel very cold; and they thought that the storm would soon be over.
The old man almost immediately fell asleep; but the boy, Minokichi,
lay awake a long time, listening to the awful wind, and the continual
slashing of the snow against the door. The river was roaring; and the hut
swayed and creaked like a junk at sea. It was a terrible storm; and the air
was every moment becoming colder; and Minokichi shivered under his
raincoat. But at last, in spite of the cold, he too fell asleep.
He was awakened by a showering of snow in his face. The door of
the hut had been forced open; and, by the snow-light (yuki-akari), he
saw a woman in the room, – a woman all in white. She was bending

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above Mosaku, and blowing her breath upon him; – and her breath was
like a bright white smoke. Almost in the same moment she turned to
Minokichi, and stooped over him. He tried to cry out, but found that he
could not utter any sound. The white woman bent down over him, lower
and lower, until her face almost touched him; and he saw that she was
very beautiful, – though her eyes made him afraid. For a little time she
continued to look at him; – then she smiled, and she whispered: – "I
intended to treat you like the other man. But I cannot help feeling some
pity for you, – because you are so young. ... You are a pretty boy,
Minokichi; and I will not hurt you now. But, if you ever tell anybody –
even your own mother about what you have seen this night, I shall know
it; and then I will kill you. ... Remember what I say!"
With these words, she turned from him, and passed through the
doorway. Then he found himself able to move; and he sprang up, and
looked out. But the woman was nowhere to be seen; and the snow was
driving furiously into the hut. Minokichi closed the door, and secured it
by fixing several billets of wood against it. He wondered if the wind had
blown it open; – he thought that he might have been only dreaming, and
might have mistaken the gleam of the snow-light in the doorway for the
figure of a white woman: but he could not be sure. He called to Mosaku,
and was frightened because the old man did not answer. He put out his
hand in the dark, and touched Mosaku's face, and found that it was ice!
Mosaku was stark and dead....
By dawn the storm was over; and when the ferryman returned to his
station, a little after sunrise, he found Minokichi lying senseless beside
the frozen body of Mosaku. Minokichi was promptly cared for, and soon
came to himself; but he remained a long time ill from the effects of the
cold of that terrible night. He had been greatly frightened also by the old
man's death; but he said nothing about the vision of the woman in white.
As soon as he got well again, he returned to his calling, going alone
every morning to the forest, and coming back at nightfall with his
bundles of wood, which his mother helped him to sell.
One evening, in the winter of the following year, as he was on his
way home, he overtook a girl who happened to be traveling by the same

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road. She was a tall, slim girl, very good-looking; and she answered
Minokichi's greeting in a voice as pleasant to the ear as the voice of a
song-bird. Then he walked beside her; and they began to talk. The girl
said that her name was O-Yuki; that she had lately lost both of her
parents; and that she was going to Yedo, where she happened to have
some poor relations, who might help her to find a situation as servant.
Minokichi soon felt charmed by this strange girl; and the more that he
looked at her, the handsomer she appeared to be. He asked her whether
she was yet betrothed; and she answered, laughingly, that she was free.
Then, in her turn, she asked Minokichi whether he was married, or
pledged to marry; and he told her that, although he had only a widowed
mother to support, the question of an "honorable daughter-in-law" had
not yet been considered, as he was very young. ...After these
confidences, they walked on for a long while without speaking; but, as
the proverb declares, Ki ga aréba, mé mo kuchi hodo ni mono wo iu:
"When the wish is there, the eyes can say as much as the mouth." By the
time they reached the village, they had become very much pleased with
each other; and then Minokichi asked O-Yuki to rest awhile at his house.
After some shy hesitation, she went there with him; and his mother made
her welcome, and prepared a warm meal for her. O-Yuki behaved so
nicely that Minokichi's mother took a sudden fancy to her, and
persuaded her to delay her journey to Yedo. And the natural end of the
matter was that Yuki never went to Yedo at all. She remained in the
house, as an "honorable daughter-in-law."
O-Yuki proved a very good daughter-in-law. When Minokichi's
mother came to die, – some five years later, – her last words were words
of affection and praise for the wife of her son. And O-Yuki bore
Minokichi ten children, boys and girls, – handsome children all of them,
and very fair of skin.
The country-folk thought O-Yuki a wonderful person, by nature
different from themselves. Most of the peasant-women age early; but O-
Yuki, even after having become the mother of ten children, looked as
young and fresh as on the day when she had first come to the village.

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 One night, after the children had gone to sleep, O-Yuki was sewing
by the light of a paper lamp; and Minokichi, watching her, said: –
"To see you sewing there, with the light on your face, makes me think
of a strange thing that happened when I was a lad of eighteen. I then saw
somebody as beautiful and white as you are now – indeed, she was very
like you." . . .
Without lifting her eyes from her work, O-Yuki responded: –
"Tell me about her ... Where did you see her?"
Then Minokichi told her about the terrible night in the ferryman's hut,
– and about the White Woman that had stooped above him, smiling and
whispering, – and about the silent death of old Mosaku. And he said: –
"Asleep or awake, that was the only time that I saw a being as beautiful
as you. Of course, she was not a human being; and I was afraid of her, –
very much afraid, – but she was so white I ...... Indeed, I have never been
sure whether it was a dream that I saw, or the Woman of the Snow." . . .
O-Yuki flung down her sewing, and arose, and bowed above
Minokichi where he sat, and shrieked into his face: "It was I – I – I! Yuki
it was! And I told you then that I would kill you if you ever said one
word about it! ...... But for those children asleep there, I would kill you
this moment! And now you had better take very, very good care of them;
for if ever they have reason to complain of you, I will treat you as you
deserve!" . . .
Even as she screamed, her voice became thin, like a crying of wind; –
then she melted into a bright white mist that spired to the roof-beams,
and shuddered away through the smoke-hole.... Never again was she
seen.

two-mat That is to say, with a floor-surface of about six feet square.

O-Yuki This name, signifying "Snow," is not uncommon. On the subject of Japanese
female names, see my paper in the volume entitled Shadowings.

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The Little Cask

by Guy de Maupassant

He was a tall man of forty or thereabout, this Jules Chicot, the innkeeper of Spreville, with a
red face and a round stomach, and said by those who knew him to be a smart business man.
He stopped his buggy in front of Mother Magloire's farmhouse, and, hitching the horse to
the gatepost, went in at the gate.

Chicot owned some land adjoining that of the old woman, which he had been coveting for a
long while, and had tried in vain to buy a score of times, but she had always obstinately
refused to part with it.

"I was born here, and here I mean to die," was all she said.

He found her peeling potatoes outside the farmhouse door. She was a woman of about
seventy-two, very thin, shriveled and wrinkled, almost dried up in fact and much bent but as
active and untiring as a girl. Chicot patted her on the back in a friendly fashion and then sat
down by her on a stool.

"Well mother, you are always pretty well and hearty, I am glad to see."

"Nothing to complain of, considering, thank you. And how are you, Monsieur Chicot?"

"Oh, pretty well, thank you, except a few rheumatic pains occasionally; otherwise I have
nothing to complain of."

"So much the better."

And she said no more, while Chicot watched her going on with her work. Her crooked,
knotted fingers, hard as a lobster's claws, seized the tubers, which were lying in a pail, as if
they had been a pair of pincers, and she peeled them rapidly, cutting off long strips of skin
with an old knife which she held in the other hand, throwing the potatoes into the water as
they were done. Three daring fowls jumped one after the other into her lap, seized a bit of
peel and then ran away as fast as their legs would carry them with it in their beak.

Chicot seemed embarrassed, anxious, with something on the tip of his tongue which he
could not say. At last he said hurriedly:

"Listen, Mother Magloire--"

"Well, what is it?"

"You are quite sure that you do not want to sell your land?"

"Certainly not; you may make up your mind to that. What I have said I have said, so don't
refer to it again."

"Very well; only I think I know of an arrangement that might suit us both very well."

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"What is it?"

"Just this. You shall sell it to me and keep it all the same. You don't understand? Very well,
then follow me in what I am going to say."

The old woman left off peeling potatoes and looked at the innkeeper attentively from under
her heavy eyebrows, and he went on:

"Let me explain myself. Every month I will give you a hundred and fifty francs. You
understand me! suppose! Every month I will come and bring you thirty crowns, and it will
not make the slightest difference in your life--not the very slightest. You will have your own
home just as you have now, need not trouble yourself about me, and will owe me nothing;
all you will have to do will be to take my money. Will that arrangement suit you?"

He looked at her good-humoredly, one might almost have said benevolently, and the old
woman returned his looks distrustfully, as if she suspected a trap, and said:

"It seems all right as far as I am concerned, but it will not give you the farm."

"Never mind about that," he said; "you may remain here as long as it pleases God Almighty
to let you live; it will be your home. Only you will sign a deed before a lawyer making it over
to me; after your death. You have no children, only nephews and nieces for whom you don't
care a straw. Will that suit you? You will keep everything during your life, and I will give you
the thirty crowns a month. It is pure gain as far as you are concerned."

The old woman was surprised, rather uneasy, but, nevertheless, very much tempted to
agree, and answered:

"I don't say that I will not agree to it, but I must think about it. Come back in a week, and we
will talk it over again, and I will then give you my definite answer."

And Chicot went off as happy as a king who had conquered an empire.

Mother Magloire was thoughtful, and did not sleep at all that night; in fact, for four days she
was in a fever of hesitation. She suspected that there was something underneath the offer
which was not to her advantage; but then the thought of thirty crowns a month, of all those
coins clinking in her apron, falling to her, as it were, from the skies, without her doing
anything for it, aroused her covetousness.

She went to the notary and told him about it. He advised her to accept Chicot's offer, but
said she ought to ask for an annuity of fifty instead of thirty, as her farm was worth sixty
thousand francs at the lowest calculation.

"If you live for fifteen years longer," he said, "even then he will only have paid forty-five
thousand francs for it."

The old woman trembled with joy at this prospect of getting fifty crowns a month, but she
was still suspicious, fearing some trick, and she remained a long time with the lawyer asking

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questions without being able to make up her mind to go. At last she gave him instructions to
draw up the deed and returned home with her head in a whirl, just as if she had drunk four
jugs of new cider.

When Chicot came again to receive her answer she declared, after a lot of persuading, that
she could not make up her mind to agree to his proposal, though she was all the time
trembling lest he should not consent to give the fifty crowns, but at last, when he grew
urgent, she told him what she expected for her farm.

He looked surprised and disappointed and refused.

Then, in order to convince him, she began to talk about the probable duration of her life.

"I am certainly not likely to live more than five or six years longer. I am nearly seventy-three,
and far from strong, even considering my age. The other evening I thought I was going to
die, and could hardly manage to crawl into bed."

But Chicot was not going to be taken in.

"Come, come, old lady, you are as strong as the church tower, and will live till you are a
hundred at least; you will no doubt see me put under ground first."

The whole day was spent in discussing the money, and as the old woman would not give in,
the innkeeper consented to give the fifty crowns, and she insisted upon having ten crowns
over and above to strike the bargain.

Three years passed and the old dame did not seem to have grown a day older. Chicot was in
despair, and it seemed to him as if he had been paying that annuity for fifty years, that he
had been taken in, done, ruined. From time to time he went to see the old lady, just as one
goes in July to see when the harvest is likely to begin. She always met him with a cunning
look, and one might have supposed that she was congratulating herself on the trick she had
played him. Seeing how well and hearty she seemed he very soon got into his buggy again,
growling to himself:

"Will you never die, you old hag?"

He did not know what to do, and he felt inclined to strangle her when he saw her. He hated
her with a ferocious, cunning hatred, the hatred of a peasant who has been robbed, and
began to cast about for some means of getting rid of her.

One day he came to see her again, rubbing his hands as he did the first time he proposed the
bargain, and, after having chatted for a few minutes, he said:

"Why do you never come and have a bit of dinner at my place when you are in Spreville? The
people are talking about it, and saying we are not on friendly terms, and that pains me. You
know it will cost you nothing if you come, for I don't look at the price of a dinner. Come
whenever you feel inclined; I shall be very glad to see you."

15
Old Mother Magloire did not need to be asked twice, and the next day but one, as she had
to go to the town in any case, it being market day, she let her man drive her to Chicot's
place, where the buggy was put in the barn while she went into the house to get her dinner.

The innkeeper was delighted and treated her like a lady, giving her roast fowl, black pudding,
leg of mutton and bacon and cabbage. But she ate next to nothing. She had always been a
small eater, and had generally lived on a little soup and a crust of bread and butter.

Chicot was disappointed and pressed her to eat more, but she refused, and she would drink
little, and declined coffee, so he asked her:

"But surely you will take a little drop of brandy or liqueur?"

"Well, as to that, I don't know that I will refuse." Whereupon he shouted out:

"Rosalie, bring the superfine brandy--the special--you know."

The servant appeared, carrying a long bottle ornamented with a paper vine-leaf, and he
filled two liqueur glasses.

"Just try that; you will find it first rate."

The good woman drank it slowly in sips, so as to make the pleasure last all the longer, and
when she had finished her glass, she said:

"Yes, that is first rate!"

Almost before she had said it Chicot had poured her out another glassful. She wished to
refuse, but it was too late, and she drank it very slowly, as she had done the first, and he
asked her to have a third. She objected, but he persisted.

"It is as mild as milk, you know; I can drink ten or a dozen glasses without any ill effects; it
goes down like sugar and does not go to the head; one would think that it evaporated on the
tongue: It is the most wholesome thing you can drink."

She took it, for she really enjoyed it, but she left half the glass.

Then Chicot, in an excess of generosity, said:

"Look here, as it is so much to your taste, I will give you a small keg of it, just to show that
you and I are still excellent friends." So she took one away with her, feeling slightly overcome
by the effects of what she had drunk.

The next day the innkeeper drove into her yard and took a little iron- hooped keg out of his
gig. He insisted on her tasting the contents, to make sure it was the same delicious article,
and, when they had each of them drunk three more glasses, he said as he was going away:

"Well, you know when it is all gone there is more left; don't be modest, for I shall not mind.
The sooner it is finished the better pleased I shall be."

16
Four days later he came again. The old woman was outside her door cutting up the bread for
her soup.

He went up to her and put his face close to hers, so that he might smell her breath; and
when he smelt the alcohol he felt pleased.

"I suppose you will give me a glass of the Special?" he said. And they had three glasses each.

Soon, however, it began to be whispered abroad that Mother Magloire was in the habit of
getting drunk all by herself. She was picked up in her kitchen, then in her yard, then in the
roads in the neighborhood, and she was often brought home like a log.

The innkeeper did not go near her any more, and, when people spoke to him about her, he
used to say, putting on a distressed look:

"It is a great pity that she should have taken to drink at her age, but when people get old
there is no remedy. It will be the death of her in the long run."

And it certainly was the death of her. She died the next winter. About Christmas time she fell
down, unconscious, in the snow, and was found dead the next morning.

And when Chicot came in for the farm, he said:

"It was very stupid of her; if she had not taken to drink she would probably have lived ten
years longer."

17
Franz Kafka

A Country Doctor (transl. Ian Johnston)

18
I was in great difficulty. An urgent journey was facing me. A seriously ill man was waiting for me in
a village ten miles distant. A severe snowstorm filled the space between him and me. I had a
carriage—a light one, with large wheels, entirely suitable for our country roads. Wrapped up in furs
with the bag of instruments in my hand, I was already standing in the courtyard ready for the
journey; but the horse was missing—the horse. My own horse had died the previous night, as a
result of over exertion in this icy winter. My servant girl was at that very moment running around
the village to see if she could borrow a horse, but it was hopeless—I knew that—and I stood there
useless, increasingly covered with snow, becoming all the time more immobile. The girl appeared
at the gate, alone. She was swinging the lantern. Of course, who is now going to lend her his horse
for such a journey? I walked once again across the courtyard. I couldn’t see what to do. Distracted
and tormented, I kicked my foot against the cracked door of the pig sty which had not been used
for years. The door opened and banged to and fro on its hinges. A warmth and smell as if from
horses came out. A dim stall lantern on a rope swayed inside. A man huddled down in the stall
below showed his open blue-eyed face. “Shall I hitch up?” he asked, crawling out on all fours. I
didn’t know what to say and bent down to see what was still in the stall. The servant girl stood
beside me. “One doesn’t know the sorts of things one has stored in one’s own house,” she said,
and we both laughed. “Hey, Brother, hey Sister,” the groom cried out, and two horses, powerful
animals with strong flanks, shoved their way one behind the other, legs close to the bodies,
lowering their well-formed heads like camels, and getting through the door space, which they
completely filled, only through the powerful movements of their rumps. But right away they stood
up straight, long legged, with thick steaming bodies. “Help him,” I said, and the girl obediently
hurried to hand the wagon harness to the groom. But as soon as she was beside him, the groom
puts his arms around her and pushes his face against hers. She screams out and runs over to me.
On the girl’s cheek were red marks from two rows of teeth. “You brute,” I cry out in fury, “do you
want the whip?”. But I immediately remember that he is a stranger, that I don’t know where he
comes from, and that he’s helping me out of his own free will, when everyone else is refusing to.
As if he knows what I was thinking, he takes no offence at my threat, but turns around to me once
more, still busy with the horses. Then he says, “Climb in,” and, in fact, everything is ready. I notice
that I have never before traveled with such a beautiful team of horses, and I climb in happily. “But
I’ll take the reins. You don’t know the way,” I say. “Of course,” he says; “I’m not going with you.
I’m staying with Rosa.” “No,” screams Rosa and runs into the house, with an accurate premonition
of the inevitability of her fate. I hear the door chain rattling as she sets it in place. I hear the lock
click. I see how in addition she runs down the corridor and through the rooms putting out all the
lights in order to make herself impossible to find. “You’re coming with me,” I say to the groom, "or
I’ll give up the journey, no matter how urgent it is. It’s not my intention to give you the girl as the
price of the trip.” “Giddy up,” he says and claps his hands. The carriage is torn away, like a piece
of wood in a current. I still hear how the door of my house is breaking down and splitting apart
under the groom’s onslaught, and then my eyes and ears are filled with a roaring sound which
overwhelms all my senses at once. But only for a moment. Then I am already there, as if the farm
yard of my invalid opens up immediately in front of my courtyard gate. The horses stand quietly.
The snowfall has stopped, moonlight all around. The sick man’s parents rush out of the house, his
sister behind them. They almost lift me out of the carriage. I get nothing from their confused
talking. In the sick room one can hardly breathe the air. The neglected cooking stove is smoking. I
want to push open the window, but first I’ll look at the sick man. Thin, without fever, not cold, not
warm, with empty eyes, without a shirt, the young man under the stuffed quilt heaves himself up,
hangs around my throat, and whispers in my ear, “Doctor, let me die.” I look around. No one has
heard. The parents stand silently, leaning forward, and wait for my opinion. The sister has brought

19
a stool for my handbag. I open the bag and look among my instruments. The young man
constantly gropes at me from the bed to remind me of his request. I take some tweezers, test them
in the candle light, and put them back. “Yes,” I think blasphemously, “in such cases the gods do
help. They send the missing horse, even add a second one because it’s urgent, and even throw in a
groom as a bonus.” Now for the first time I think once more of Rosa. What am I doing? How am
I saving her? How do I pull her out from under this groom, ten miles away from her, with
uncontrollable horses in the front of my carriage? These horses, who have somehow loosened
their straps, are pushing open the window from outside, I don’t know how. Each one is sticking its
head through a window and, unmoved by the crying of the family, is observing the invalid. “I’ll go
back right away,” I think, as if the horses were ordering me to journey back, but I allow the sister,
who thinks I am in a daze because of the heat, to take off my fur coat. A glass of rum is prepared
for me. The old man claps me on the shoulder; the sacrifice of his treasure justifies this familiarity.
I shake my head. In the narrow circle of the old man’s thinking I was not well; that’s the only
reason I refuse to drink. The mother stands by the bed and entices me over. I follow and, as a
horse neighs loudly at the ceiling, lay my head on the young man’s chest, which trembles under my
wet beard. That confirms what I know: the young man is healthy. His circulation is a little off,
saturated with coffee by his caring mother, but he’s healthy and best pushed out of bed with a
shove. I’m no improver of the world and let him lie there. I am employed by the district and do
my duty to the full, right to the point where it’s almost too much. Badly paid, but I’m generous and
ready to help the poor. I still have to look after Rosa, and then the young man may have his way,
and I want to die too. What am I doing here in this endless winter! My horse is dead, and there is
no one in the village who’ll lend me his. I have to drag my team out of the pig sty. If they hadn’t
happened to be horses, I’d have had to travel with pigs. That’s the way it is. And I nod to the
family. They know nothing about it, and if they did know, they wouldn’t believe it. Incidentally, it’s
easy to write prescriptions, but difficult to come to an understanding with people. Now, at this
point my visit might have come to an end—they have once more called for my help unnecessarily.
I’m used to that. With the help of my night bell the entire region torments me, but that this time I
had to sacrifice Rosa as well, this beautiful girl, who lives in my house all year long and whom I
scarcely notice—this sacrifice is too great, and I must somehow in my own head subtly rationalize it
away for the moment, in order not to let loose at this family who cannot, even with their best will,
give me Rosa back again. But as I am closing up by hand bag and calling for my fur coat, the family
is standing together, the father sniffing the glass of rum in his hand, the mother, probably
disappointed in me—what more do these people expect?—tearfully biting her lips, and the sister
flapping a very bloody hand towel, I am somehow ready, in the circumstances, to concede that the
young man is perhaps nonetheless sick. I go to him. He smiles up at me, as if I was bringing him
the most nourishing kind of soup—ah, now both horses are whinnying, the noise is probably
supposed to come from higher regions in order to illuminate my examination—and now I find out
that, yes indeed, the young man is ill. On his right side, in the region of the hip, a wound the size of
the palm of one’s hand has opened up. Rose coloured, in many different shadings, dark in the
depths, brighter on the edges, delicately grained, with uneven patches of blood, open to the light
like a mine. That’s what it looks like from a distance. Close up a complication is apparent. Who
can look at that without whistling softly? Worms, as thick and long as my little finger, themselves
rose coloured and also spattered with blood, are wriggling their white bodies with many limbs from
their stronghold in the inner of the wound towards the light. Poor young man, there’s no helping
you. I have found out your great wound. You are dying from this flower on your side. The family is
happy; they see me doing something. The sister says that to the mother, the mother tells the father,
the father tells a few guests who are coming in on tip toe through the moonlight of the open door,

20
balancing themselves with outstretched arms. “Will you save me?” whispers the young man,
sobbing, quite blinded by the life inside his wound. That’s how people are in my region. Always
demanding the impossible from the doctor. They have lost the old faith. The priest sits at home
and tears his religious robes to pieces, one after the other. But the doctor is supposed to achieve
everything with his delicate surgeon’s hand. Well, it’s what they like to think. I have not offered
myself. If they use me for sacred purposes, I let that happen to me as well. What more do I want,
an old country doctor, robbed of my servant girl! And they come, the families and the village
elders, and take my clothes off. A choir of school children with the teacher at the head stands in
front of the house and sings an extremely simple melody with the words

Take his clothes off, then he’ll heal,

and if he doesn’t cure, then kill him.
It’s only a doctor; it’s only a doctor.

Then I am stripped of my clothes and, with my fingers in my beard and my head tilted to one side,
I look at the people quietly. I am completely calm and clear about everything and stay that way,
too, although it is not helping me at all, for they are now taking me by the head and feet and
dragging me into bed. They lay me against the wall on the side of wound. Then they all go out of
the room. The door is shut. The singing stops. Clouds move in front of the moon. The bedclothes
lie warmly around me. In the open space of the windows the horses’ heads sway like shadows. “Do
you know,” I hear someone saying in my ear, “my confidence in you is very small. You were
shaken out from somewhere. You don’t come on your own feet. Instead of helping, you give me
less room on my deathbed. The best thing would be if I scratch your eyes out.” “Right,” I say, “it’s
a disgrace. But now I’m a doctor. What am I supposed to do? Believe me, things are not easy for
me either.” “Should I be satisfied with this excuse? Alas, I’ll probably have to be. I always have to
make do. I came into the world with a beautiful wound; that was all I was furnished with.” “Young
friend,” I say, “your mistake is that you have no perspective. I’ve already been in all the sick
rooms, far and wide, and I tell you your wound is not so bad. Made in a tight corner with two
blows from an axe. Many people offer their side and hardly hear the axe in the forest, to say
nothing of the fact that it’s coming closer to them.” “Is that really so, or are you deceiving me in my
fever?” “It is truly so. Take the word of honour of a medical doctor.” He took my word and grew
still. But now it was time to think about my escape. The horses were still standing loyally in place.
Clothes, fur coat, and bag were quickly snatched up. I didn’t want to delay by getting dressed; if the
horses rushed as they had on the journey out, I should, in fact, be springing out of that bed into my
own, as it were. One horse obediently pulled back from the window. I threw the bundle into the
carriage. The fur coat flew too far and was caught on a hook by only one arm. Good enough. I
swung myself up onto the horse. The reins dragging loosely, one horse barely harnessed to the
other, the carriage swaying behind, last of all the fur coat in the snow. “Giddy up,” I said, but there
was no giddying up about it. We dragged through the snowy desert like old men; for a long time
the fresh but inaccurate singing of the children resounded behind us:

Enjoy yourselves, you patients.

The doctor’s laid in bed with you.

I’ll never come home at this rate. My flourishing practice is lost. A successor is robbing me, but to
no avail, for he cannot replace me. In my house the disgusting groom is wreaking havoc. Rosa is
his victim. I will not think it through. Naked, abandoned to the frost of this unhappy age, with an
earthly carriage and unearthly horses, I drive around by myself, an old man. My fur coat hangs

21
behind the wagon, but I cannot reach it, and no one from the nimble rabble of patients lifts a
finger. Betrayed! Betrayed! Once one responds to a false alarm on the night bell, there’s no
making it good again—not ever.

Revision: 2004/11/08 - 12:23 - © Mauro Nervi

22
 Yasodhara’s Lament
- Ranjini Obeyesekere
Pre-reading activities:
i. What are some songs of lament that you are familiar with? Discuss this with
reference to your culture.
ii. How do you think one should cope with unexpected events in one’s life?
iii. What is patriarchy? What is its impact on society?

My eyes are full, my garments wet, tears fall,

As my husband, nectar-like, I recall.
Abandoning our son,
I know he has now left.
Is there another woman in this world so bereft?

Once in a former birth we were born as squirrels,

And our young one into the ocean’s waters fell,
I know how hard you strove to save him then,
My husband, lord, why did you leave him now?

Did I do wrong to bear you a handsome son?

Did I fall short in beauty, goodness, strength?
Was a disrespectful act unwittingly done?
Or did you dream of being a Buddha, conquering death?

My moon-like lord who partook of fragrant food

That I, with special flavors, made for you,
May sweet fruits grow in the forest for you,
And fragrant flowers bloom for my lord of gold

Your cause was Buddhahood—I sensed the signs

Yet I came with you as your wife, every time.
Now let meditation never leave my mind.
Ah! the palace is dark today, oh husband mine!

23
My lord, on a bed of forest flowers are you sleeping?
Your tender lovely feet are they now hurting?
Are there sufficient gods around you, guarding?
Dear husband, my elephant king, where are you roaming?

May all the forest fruits turn sweet for you.

May men surround you as do bees a flower.
May the sun dim his scorching rays for you.
May gods create shelters for you as you walk.

My lord no longer hears my sad laments.

I don’t see my gold-hued lord even in my dreams.
Now I too vow to renounce all worldly pleasures,
Though he has left me, I’ll abide by the moral rules.

(Translated by Ranjini Obeyesekere)

Glossary:
Nectar: a sugary fluid secreted within flowers
Bereft: deprived
Partook: to take part
Buddhahood: enlightenment
Abandon: deserted
Garment: clothing

Comprehension I
Short answer questions:
1) Which line in the poem tells us that Yashodhara was in grief?
2) Yasodhara was born as in her previous birth.
3) Yasodhara compares her husband to-
a) Sun b) Earth c) Moon d) Water
4) What was the goal of Yasodhara’s husband?
5) Why does the palace seem dark to Yasodhara?

24
 6) Mention any two things that Yasodhara wishes for her husband.
7) What does Yasodhara finally decide to do?
Comprehension II
Paragraph answer questions:
1) Write a note on the concerns shown by Yasodhara.
2) How did Yasodhara’s husband show his concern towards her and their child in their
past life?
3) According to Yasodhara, what were her shortcomings?
4) Briefly explain the prayers of Yasodhara for her husband.
5) Explain the lament and acceptance of Yasodhara.
Comprehension III
Analytical/discussion questions:
1) How does Yasodhara express her love and resignation?
2) “Yasodhara’s Lament” is about the trauma and anguish of any woman dealing with
loss and despair. Explain.
3) Do you think Yasodhara is a pitiful victim of a patriarchal world? Discuss.

About the Author:

Ranjini Obeyesekere is a Sri Lankan author and translator. She is an independent
scholar and retired lecturer of Anthropology at Princeton University. She is the author, editor
and translator of several books, including Portraits of Buddhist Women,Stories from
Saddarmaratnavatiya and Jewels of the Doctrine. The present poem is an extract from
Ranjini Obeyesekere’s “The Yasodharavata” (the story of Yasodhara), a folk poem on
Yasodhara’s lament, over the departure of her husband.
About the Poem:
The poem expresses Yasodhara’s lament at the loss of her beloved husband, her
inability to comprehend why her husband left without telling her when she had always
supported him in his quest for Buddhahood and her desperate efforts to come to terms with
the finality of his departure, to understand and accept the larger cause that made her husband
pursue the course he did.
Background of the poem: Yasodhara was the daughter of King Dandapani and Amita, sister
of Buddha’s father, King Suddhodana. Yasodhara was wedded to her cousin the Shakya

25
prince Siddharta at the age of sixteen. She gave birth to their only child, a boy named Rahula
at the age of 26. On the seventh night of his son’s birth, the Prince Siddharta left the palace,
his sleeping wife and son, in search of enlightenment. She was devastated and overcome with
grief, decided to reveal her anguish at his desertion.

26
 To Autumn
John Keats (1819)

1.

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, 5

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease, 10

For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

2.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 15

Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,

Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

3.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 25

And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 30

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

27
 'I'm not one of those who left their land'

by Anna Akhmatova

I'm not one of those who left their land

To the mercy of the enemy.
I was deaf to their gross flattery.
I won't grant them my songs.

But to me the exile's always wretched,

Like a convict, or a patient.
Wanderer your road is dark,
And the bread of strangers tastes bitter.

But in the blinding smoke, the flames,

Destroying the remains of youth,
We have refused to evade
A single blow against ourselves.

And we know that in the final reckoning,

Each hour will stand justified…
No people on earth shed fewer tears,
Are simpler, or more filled with pride.

28
 TO THEOTHERS
- JACK DAVIS
Approach tothepoem:

 Who were the foreign invaders to India?

 How did the life of Indians change by the invasion of foreigners?
 The invaders arrived to the country for trade but invaded the culture.
Discuss.

About the Poet:

Jack Davis was an Australian indigenous playwright, poet
and indigenous rights’ activist. He was born in Western
Australia in 1917 and passed away in 2000. His poems and
plays often focus on Aboriginal life. Primarily they focuson
indigenous interaction with European Australians.
The original title of the poem ‘To The Others’ is‘Aboriginal
Australia’. The poem focuses on the European
influences upon Aboriginal life, as well as the oppression and death that the
European population brought with them. Davis uses an openly depressed tone
to display the
hardship that his ancestors faced dealing with the arrival of the European settlers.
The poem focuses on the European influence on the life of Aboriginal people. The
poet uses an openly depressed tone to display the hardship that his ancestors faced.
It displays a race’s inability to comprehend the culture ofanother, resulting in violence
and a sense of mutual disrespect that has lasted forover 200 years.
Multiple historical references are used in the poem. They are extremely obscure
to all but the most knowledgeable historian. He mentions the Yirrakala people,
creator of the ‘back petition’ for Aboriginal land rights, the Lake George hills
incident, a battle with the Aboriginal people over a fresh water lake, and
McLarty’s run, a reference to the massacre of an Aboriginal tribe as they fled
from battle.
Davis also uses the juxtaposition of certain lines to create clear contrast in how
the indigenous Australians initially felt about the European settlers to how the

29
 14

settlers treated the Aboriginals. Davis uses the lines ’Became to me a brother’ and
‘Took my children from my side’ to display the quick change in theEuropean
relations of the Aboriginals after they established dominance over Australia going
from relying on the Aboriginals to survive, to choose how they lived their lives.
Australia is an amazing country, but we cannot cover up our bloody past,
reconciliation is necessary to keep moving forward.
***
To The Others
You once smiled a friendly smile,
Said we were kin to one another,
Thus with guile for a short while
Became to me a brother.
Then you swamped my way of gladness,
Took my children from my side,
Snapped shut the law book, oh my sadness
At Yirrakalas’ plea denied.
So, I remember Lake George hills,
The thin stick bones of people.
Sudden death, and greed that kills,
That gave you church and steeple.
I cry again for Warrarra men,
Gone from kith and kin,
And I wondered when I would find a pen
To probe your freckled mind.
I mourned again for the Murray tribe,
Gone too without a trace.
Ithought ofthesoldier’sdiatribe,
The smile on thegovernor’sface.

30
 You murdered me with rope, with gun
The massacre of my enclave,
You buried me deep on McLarty’s run
Flung into a common grave.
You propped me up with Christ, red tape,
Tobacco, grog and fears,
Then disease and lordly rape
Through the brutish years.
Now you primly say you’re justified,
And sing of a nation’s glory,
But I think of a people crucified-
The real Australian story.
*****
Glossary:
Guile: deceit, treachery, cunning or sly behavior.
Swamp: a piece of waterlogged ground, a bog or marsh or soak with water.
Probe: penetrate investigation, any small device, esp.an electrode, for
measuring, testing etc.
Prop: rigid support, a person who supplies support, assistance, comfort etc.
Grog: drink of spirit (originally rum).
Prim: stiffly formal and precise.
Snap: break suddenly or with a snap.
Diatribe: a forceful verbal attack, a bit of bitter criticism.
Steeple: tall tower, esp. one surrounded by a spire.
Yirrakalas: Aboriginal people have inhabited this region for more than40,000
years. The Methodist church of Australia established a mission at Yirrakala in
1935. Over the following decades, the members of the 13 clans that owned land
in the surrounding area were gradually drawn into the mission.
Warrarra and Murray: both are Aboriginal tribes of Australia

31
 16

McLartys: Edward McLarty (1December 1848-13 August 1917) was an

Australian Pastoralist and Politician who was a member of the Legislative
Council of Western from1894 to 1916, representing South-West province.
He managed a run at Mandurah for a period in the 1960s and later had his own
stud in Pinjarra, on a property of 16,000 acres (65kms).
Lake George hills: known as the ‘Queen of the American Lakes,’ with its 109
miles of shoreline and 300+islands, Lake George has been a vacation paradise
for almost two centuries.
Comprehension:
I. Answer the following questions in a page each:
1. What do the illustrations in the poemindicate?
2. What does the repetition of ‘I’ represent in the poem?
3. Why does the poet use the expression ’depressed tone’ in thepoem?
4. What made the Aboriginal Australia depressed?
5. What is the significance of the expression, ‘You once smiled a friendly
smile’? How did such a friendly smile change gradually?
6. What are the effects of the entry of the European settlers into the
Aboriginal Australia?
7. Why do the European settlers primly say, ‘They’re justified and they sing
nation’s glory’? How was it different to the poet?
8. Mention the multiple historical references that the poet uses in thepoem.

II. Answer the following questions in two pages each:

1. Discuss the title of the poem, ’To the Others’.
2. How do the European settlers get entry to the Aboriginal Australia and
destroy the peaceful life of the native people gradually?
3. Do you think the poem is representative of all the countries colonized by
the British?
4. Compare the influence of the British on Indian culture and the aboriginal
culture of Australia.

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Suggested Reading:
1. Things Fall Apart – by Chinua Achebe.
2. The Gentlemen of the Jungle – by Jomo Kenyatta.

Extended Activity:
 Collect information about foreigners who invaded India and how they
exploited the natives.

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“Tonight I Can Write” (The Saddest Lines) by Pablo Neruda

(From Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair [1924])

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, ‘The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.

I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.

How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.

The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.

My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

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My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.

My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.

We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.

My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another’s. She will be another’s. As she was before my kisses.

Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms

My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer

And these the last verses that I write for her.

Translation by W. S. Merwin

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