My Thai Cat
Pratoomratha Zeng

Sii Sward was our Thai or Siamese cat in my hometown, Muang, a northern village in Thailand. She was a gift to me from my father when I was five years old. She had piercing blue eyes and delicate brown fur which she constantly cleaned with her tongue. I was completely devoted to her. She was also very popular with my entire family, an later was to be well – known in the whole district.

During the drought in 1925, our Sii Sward was a heroine; she had the great honor of being elected the Rain Queen.

We had been without rain for three months that summer. It was hot and dry. Our public well was reduced to mud; the river was at its lowest ebb.

Then someone suggested that we perform the old Brahmo – Buddhist rain ceremony called the Nang Maaw, the queen of the cats. This ceremony had been performed by the peasants since immemorial.

That day my father approached me and my cat seriously. He patted Sii Sward’s head gently and said to me, “Ai Noo (my little mouse), the villagers have asked me to help in the ceremony for the rain. I promised them to use our cat- your Sii Sward.”

I was stunned. How could they use my cat to get the rain? I thought of those chickens that the Chinese killed and boiled during the Annual Trut – Chine, the Chinese ritual days for sacrificing to and honouring the memory of their ancestors. To have my cat killed and boiled like a chicken? Oh, no.

I almost shout to protest, “Oh, no Father, I cannot let anyone kill my Sii Sward rain or no rain. I don’t care.”

In the Thai family, the father is the sole absolute authority of the house; to deny his wish is sinful and inexcusable. My father however, was very understanding man. He looked at me coldly and said calmly: “Son, no one is going to kill Sii Sward. Instead of doing that, an because our cat is the most beautiful and cleanest of all the cats in the village, she was elected by the people to be the Rain Queen of our district. This is a great honor to her and to our family.”

I was reluctant to consent until Father said, “ We can take Sii Sward back home as soon as the ceremony is over.”

Two artists built up a big bamboo cage and the people fastened flowers and leaves to it and dressed it up until it looked like a miniature castle.

At noontime, my cat Sii Sward had her usual lunch of dry mudfish and rice, then my father gave me the great honor of carrying her to the temple ground. Some old ladies brushed and sprayed sweet native perfume upon her proud head. Sii Sward protested vehemently; she struggled to get away, and I had to put her head into the adorned cage.

In spite of the heat and the sun that day, people packed into the monastery to se Sii Sward, the Rain Queen, and to pray for the rain.

In the mid – afternoon the sun was so hot that the villagers took refuge under the shade of the big mango and Po trees on the temple ground. A group of people began to chant the Nang Maaw song, softly at first, then louder an louder until everyone seemed to shout. Long native drums, taphone, began to beat in chorus.

It was a most impressive ceremony which made me feel warm and confident of the Queen’s powers.

Sii Sward slept all the way; she was not impressed by the demonstration. Before we entered the open marketplace there was so much noise; someone fired many big firecrackers. A few women who were traders in powder and perfumes approached the cage and poured cups of sweet – smelling perfume and flowers onto the poor Rain Queen. At this moment, the noise of the frantic shouting, of chanting, of firecrackers, and that perfumed water proved to be too much for the poor Sii Sward. More water and perfume water proved to be too much for the poor Sii Sward. More water and perfume were poured and splashed into the cage. Sii Swward stood up, her blue eyes at the culprits. Her brown and smooth hair was soaking wet. She began to cry and tried to find a way to escape in vain.

Seeing the whole condition going from bad to worse, I was almost crying, asking Father to rescue the poor cat. Howeer, Father said everything would be all right. After a while, everyone seemed to be satisfied giving the Rain Queen perfumes; they stopped the noise completely as if to listen to the tormented noise of the Rain Queen. At that moment Sii Sward stopped crying, too. She was soaking wet and trembling with fear.

People chanted softly as they led the procession back to the monastery, even the drummers and the two men, who ten minutes ago were chanting frantically, now calmed down.

When we reached the Vihara, the men placed the cage in front o the temple, and then all of them wento the Vihara to pray for the rain goddess again. At this moment, I saw the opportunity to help my poor Sii Sward. Having seen the last person enter the temple, I took Sii Sward out of the cage and ran home with her.

It must have been about three o’clock in the morning when a sound like a train running and a big hurricane was heard. Later there was a strong sound of thunder over the mountains, and a few minutes later, a shower, a real tropical shower, came down. Everyone on the village got up from his or her bed. We were happy. The farmers started at once to their farms. It rained for three days, and three nights, and it seemed as if the showers would never stop until the water in the sky would be gone. Our crops were saved.

But Sii Sward ignore the rain. She slept happily the whole three days. Farmers and their families dropped in to see her afterward. They patted her delicate fur and left dry fish and meat for her, her favourite food. That year, the farmers thought that Sii Sward was a heroine.

THE INCREDIBLE VOYAGE OF THE KANDARUKEE
Emily and Per Ola D’Aulaire

The three young fishermen were not concerned when their inboard diesel conked out on the afternoon of January 4, 1980. Although beyond the sight of land and bobbing helplessly in the Indian Ocean, they could see several other boats nearby. In these waters, the usual presence of many boats spread for miles around, allowed a leapfrog type of contact with shore. It was a risky system at best, however, and there were those who had vanished at sea, never to be heard from again. But the fishermen were certain someone would see them and tow them to port.

One of the crew removed his bright – print shirt, tied it to a bamboo pole and waved it. The others hauled the fishing lines on board. But it was already late afternoon, and one by one the boats in the area headed toward land.

The crew now began to realize that the glare from the sinking sun must have made their boat invisible. They shouted until their throats ached, but soon they were alone, adrift in their 28-foot, open wooden boat, the Kandukaree.

The castaways, Sunil Adambarage, 24, Cyril Hendavitharana, 19, and Nimal Guneratne, 17, were cousins. They fished for their livelihood, as do thousands who inhabit the coastal villages that ring the island nation of Sri Lanka just south of the Indian subcontinent. The three now found their diesel was beyond repair, its main crankshaft apparently broken. The small boat had no compass, radio, or other navigational gear, but since the young men could not see the mountains in the island’s interior, they guessed they were about 20 miles south of landfall. Hoping that the evening breeze, blowing shoreward, would carry them back to land, the youths jury – rigged a sail. It grew dark, and they slept.

When the three awoke, they discovered that the wind had shifted and was carrying them away from shore. They could not see even a glimmer from the lighthouse at Dondra Head on the southern tip of the island. Where was Sri Lanka anyhow?

Sunil, the eldest, took command. He ordered the sail left up. Since they’d have to drift somewhere, the sail might get them there faster – wherever “there” was.

When the last boats from the cousins’ village had returned to port and the Kandukaree was not among them, Cyril’s father questioned the fishermen, who said they had not seen the missing boat since early afternoon. Sunil and Nimal lived with elderly grandparents, who had no news of the boys either. A daybreak, Cyril’s father borrowed a car and followed the coastal highway north – the direction in which the returned fishermen had guessed the boat might have drifted. At each village he made inquiries.

Working up the coast he arrived at Galle, the first big town, where a friend with a trawler agreed to help. For four days the men patrolled the offshore waters, until they ran low on fuel.

Meanwhile, government authorities had been notified and an extensive air – se search was organized. Navy patrol boats spread out toward the Maldives, 400 miles t the southwest where other castaways had been known to drift. Air force helicopters scanned the coastline. But after more thantwo weeks, it was concluded that the Kandukaree had sunk, taking her crew with her. What no one knew was that Sunil, Cyril, and Nimal had drifted eastward and were now some 200 miles from Sri Lanka, heading erratically toward Austrilia.

As morning dawned on their second day at sea, the three young men took stock of their meagre stores. Sunil ordered the four – gallon plastic container of fresh water rationed – only half a cup per person, twice a day. They mixed it with other supplies – a jar of cocoa powder, a can of condensed milk and some sugar – to make chocolate drink. Nimal now tossed a fishhook overboard, and a small shark took the lure. They cooked the fish on their portable kerosene stove and ate hungrily. That evening Sunil took a jackknife and carved two notches in the boat’s rail to keep track of the days.

There were seven notches on the Kandukaree when the weather turned rough. Steep waves lashed the boat, while the three clung tightly to the gunwales to keep from eing pithed overboard.

Then, in the midst of the storm, a freighter heaved into view. As the trio shouted and waved, the boat passed so close they could see people on deck looking toward them through binoculars. But, incredibly, the ship steamed on and disappeared.

The near rescue was so discouraging that for the next few days it became a struggle to try to survive. They caught a occasional fish, which they cooked and ate without enthusiasm. When there were 11 notches on the boat’s rail, their water supply was gone. And no rain was in sight.

They now began drinking minute amounts of sea water, to wet their parched throats. When they caught a fish, they first drank the blood, removed the eyes and sucked at the liquid in the sockets. After the 20th day, when their last mach had been used, they ate their fish raw or sun – dried. The number of notches mounted.

As the days dragged on, their hair and beards grew long and matted. They no longer bothered to clean and dry the fish they caught but ate them whole. They now collected and drank their own urine. When rain did fall, they plugged the scuppers, and risked being swamped for the sake of some fresh water in the bilge.

Finally, Nimal, unknown to the others, began drinking a mixture of sea water, diesel oil and a small amount of fresh water. The others noticed after a month and a half that Nimal’s strength was failing, and when he confessed to them the concoction he had been drinking, they dumped the fuel overboard.

On one full – moon day, when the youths had the usual good catch, they made a vow to the gods. Since thirst worried them more than hunger, they offered to exchange all their fish for a little rain and tossed the catch overboard. That night it did rain but for a full week they caught no fish.

The rail now held 62 notches, and there had been neither water nor fish for a very long time. Nimal was drinking sea water steadily. “Let’s jump overboard and be done with it,” said Sunil. Cyril agreed. But when Nimal, the youngest, pleaded, “ I don’t want to die,” the others felt ashamed. “We will all stick with the boat until the end,” Sunil assured them.

Through the following weeks, they began to subtly blame one another for the ordeal. As strong believers in karma – the force generated by a person’s actions and believed to determine his destiny – each wondered if the bad karma of one was causing the suffering of all.

Then, as he was about to carve notch 102 onto the rail, Sunil sat upright. “Land!” he screamed. On the horizon was the silhouette of a palm-fringed island. The three watched, hypnotized, as the Kandukaree drifted within several miles of shore. “We’ll stay together,” said Sunil. That night, again, the wind shifted cruelly, and by morning, the horizon was empty.

Three days later Nimal died peacefully in his sleep. Sunil and Cyril wept bitterly as they kept vigil over the body until noon. Then in the Buddhist funeral custom, they tied Nimal’s hands and his big toes together and eased his body into the sea.

On April 24, more than 15 weeks into the voyage of the Kandukaree, the throaty thump of an engine roused the two survivors. A foreign fishing boat was approaching. The youths jumped to their feet. They tried to explain with signs: “No food. No water. No engine.”

The fishing vessel pulled alongside, and the two survivors were brought on board. The captain spoke a language they could not understand. Using hand signs, he offered them food. Then, with the battered boat in tow, the fishing vessel chugged towards a nearby harbour on the Indonesian island of Sumatra. The incredible voyage of the Kandukaree had finally ended.

Cyril and Sunil were turned over to the Indonesian harbour police who could not figure out where these castaways were from. Although the two kept saying, “Lanka, Lanka,” the mystery was not solved until an inspection of the Kandukaree turned up an empty matchbox. On its cover were the barely legible word: Ceylon Match Co., Ltd., Colombo. A call to the Sri Lankan embassy in the Indonesian capital of Jakarta confirmed their identification.

A few days later, the two young men flew to Jakarta. They were whisked to the Sri Lankan ambassador’s residence for checkups. Amazingly, except for swollen feet and bloated stomachs brought on my malnutrition and ingestion of sea water, they were in sound health. The ambassador provided clothes and, best of all, two air tickets home.

Sunil and Cyril arrived in Colombo, Sri Lanka’s capital, and were met by a swarm of reporters. Cyril’s father, with 50 family members and friends, had made the four – hour trip to the airport. After a joyful reunion and a time of mourning for Nimal, the party headed home.

The journey was interrupted by throngs of fishermen seeking a glimpse of what could only be called the result of a miracle. The epic journey of the Kandukaree – both its more than 1400 – mile distance and in 111 days spent with no stores – had no parallel in the annals of survival at sea.

The Talking Parrot

Once, a poor trapper caught a beautiful parrot in the forest. He brought it home to his wife who was about to make a meal out of the bird when it cried, “Stop! Please, don’t kill me. Take me to Raja and I’ll make you rich.”

So the bird hunter and his wife brought the parrot before the Raja and offered to sell it. The Raja took one look at the bird and liked it at once. “What’s the price?” he asked.

“Eight thousand rupees, Your majesty, and not a paisa less,” said the parrot before the hunter could say a word. The Raja could hardly believe his ears.

“Eight thousand rupees then,” he greed. He then paid the money to the hunter and kept the bird.

The Raja was very pleased with the talking parrot. Not only did the bird talk intelligently on all subjects including politics, the bird surprised everyone in the place by naming all the gods in the Hindu religion. Indeed, the Raja became so fond of the bird that he soon forgot all about his wives who became jealous of the parrot and planned to have it killed.

One day, the Raja had to away on a journey for a few days. As he was leaving, his six wives pretend to be sad. In fact, they could not wait for the Raja to leave so that they could kill the bird.

As soon as the Raja had gone, the six queens got together and set a trap for the parrot.

“Tells us Wise one, who is the ugliest of us six?” they asked the bird. The plan was that if the parrot named any of them they would kill him because of his rudeness.

“Let me out of the cage first so that I can see you all more closely,” the parrot replied.

The ladies hen let the bird out. As soon as the parrot was free, he flew away saying “None of you is more fair than the Princess who lives beyond the sea.”

A few days later, the Raja returned. When he found out that his pet parrot was missing, he was very upset. He lost his liking for food and could not eat. He slept very badly, too.

At last, he decided to give a big reward to anyone who could return the parrot. Again it was the bird hunter who brought the parrot back to the palace. The bird wasted no time in telling the Raja about the plan of his six wives.

So great was the Raja’s love for the bird that on hearing this, he sent his six queens away and told them never to return to the palace again.

“Tell me wise one, is it true that the princess who lives beyond the sea is more beautiful than my six queens?” the Raja asked the parrot.

“Yes, Your majesty. But so sad to say, the Princess is lonely as her wicked uncle does not allow her to have any friends. To make things worse, her uncle will soon be marrying her off to the black Prince who is a very hard-hearted man. Your Majesty, you must save the princess from her wicked uncle,” said the parrot.

“But what can I do to help?” asked the Raja.

“Get on your flying horse and I’ll show you the way,” answered the parrot.

The Raja at once sat on his flying horse and took off. The parrot flew a little ahead to show the way. Together they flew across the sea.

Presently, they landed safely on the palace grounds where the princess lived. It happened that the princess was having a stroll in the garden. The Raja hid behind some bushes on the edge of the garden. When he saw the Princess, he threw some golden buttons in her path. These golden buttons the parrot had advised the Raja to bring along.

When the Princess saw the buttons, she came closer and closer to the Raja.

“Now’s the time. Carry her and flee.” Said the parrot.

With one quick sweep, the Raja carried the Princess in his arms and mounted the flying horse. The animal flapped its wings higher into the sky. In his excitement, the Raja forgot that he was allowed to whip the horse only once. Instead, he whipped the animal many times so as to make it fly faster. Slowly, the magic horse lost the power of its wings and landed on a nearby forest owned by the black prince.

The princess was very frightened when she heard some dogs barking. The Raja tried his best to comfort her. It happened that the Black prince was out hunting and his dogs led him to the princess and the Raja.

Now the uncle of the princess had promised the Black prince that she would be his wife one day. Therefore, when the Black prince found the Princess in the forest, he took her away with him. He then gave orders to his soldiers to beat up the Raja. This the soldiers did so well that when they left, they gave him up for dead.

Slowly, the parrot nursed his master back to health. As the days passed into months the Raja felt better. His first thought was to find the Princess. But where could she be found?

Meanwhile, the Prince was being kept as a prisoner by the black Prince. When she looked at the magic horse which she had brought along with her, she felt very sad. She missed the kind Raja and his talking parrot. She was wondering what had happened to them. if she could find that talking parrot, perhaps she could find the Raja too.

The she had an idea. Each day the princess would leave plenty of bird seeds in her garden. At first a few birds came to eat the bird seeds. As time went by, more and more birds came. One bird began to tell another bird that a kind princess was feeding them in her garden. Eventually, the news reached the talking parrot. He at once came to see who the kind lady was. When the princess saw the talking parrot, she was overjoyed.

“Oh wise one, is your master well? and where is he?” she asked.

“The Raja is well and he’s not far from here. But he’s weak.” The parrot said.

“Wait here, I’ll bring the flying horse which has regained its strength. Together, we’ll save the Raja,” the Princess whispered. after saying this, she went into the palace.

A little later, the princess returned with the magic horse.

“Now show the way, Wise one,” said the Princess as she got on the horse. The parrot flew off and the horse followed.

After a short while, they arrived at the forest where the Raja was resting. He was overjoyed to see the princess again.

“Hurry, let’s get out of this place.” the princess said.

The Raja sat on the horse and, together with the princess, flew home safely.

As for the talking parrot- well, he has a beautiful story to tell, hasn’t he? They say that birds are still chirping this story.

Mahamaya

How can love survive during the unfavorable social traditions and customs? Read the story to find out the answer.

Mahamaya and Rajib met together in a ruined temple on the river bank.

In silence, she gave her naturally grave look at Rajib with a tinge of reproach. She meant: “How can you call me at this unusual hour today? You have ventured to do it only because I have so long obeyed you in all things!”

Rajib had a little awe at Mahamaya at all tims, and now this look of her thoroughly upset him: he at once gave up his fondly conceived plans of making a set speech to her. And yet he had to give quickly some reason for this interview. So he hurriedly blurted out, “I say let us run away from this place and marry.” True, Rajib thus delivered himself of what he had in his mind; but the preface he had silently composed was lost. His speech sounded very dry and bald, even absurd. He himself was confused after saying it, and had now power left in him to add some words to modify its effect. The fool! After calling Mahamaya to that ruined temple by the riverside at midday, he could only tell her, “Come, let us marry!”

Mahamaya was a Kulin’s daughter, 24 years old- in the full bloom of her youth and beauty like an image of pure gold, of the hue of an early autumn sunlight; radiant and still at that sunshine; with a gaze free and fearless as daylight itself.

She was an orphan. Her older brother, Bhavanicharan Chatto Padhyay, looked after her. The two were of the same mold – taciturn, but possessing a force of character which burnt silently like the midday sun. People feared Bhavanicharan without knowing why.

Rajib had come from afar with the Burra Sahib of the silk factory of the place. His father had served this Sahib, and when he died the Sahib undertook to bring up his orphan boy and took him with himself to this Bamanhati factory. In those early days, such instances of sympathy were frequently among the Sahibs. Mahamaya was Rajib’s playmate in childhood, and was dearly loved by his aunt.

Rajib refused to marry even at the age of 19. Mahamaya, too, grew up in maidenhood fro no bridegroom of an equal grade of blue blood could be secured except for an impossible dowry.

Kandarapa’s influence shows itself differently in different persons. Under his inspiration, Rajib constantly sought for a chance of whispering his hear longings, but Mahamaya gave him no opportunity.

Today he had, by a hundred solemn entreaties and conjurations, at least succeeded in bringing her to this ruined temple. Confusingly, he just stood and asked Mahamaya, “Come, let us go and marry.”

For a long time she did not reply, as if she never expected such a proposal from Rajib. Rajib stood reclining against the ruinous plinth of the temple like a tired dreamer, gazing at the river; he had not the spirit to look at Mahamaya in the face.

After a while he turned his head and again cast a supplicating glance at Mahamaya’s face. She shook her head and replied, “No, it can’t be.”

At once the whole fabric of his hopes was dashed to the ground; for he knew that when Mahamaya refused his offer, it was through her own conviction and nobody else in the world could bend her to his own will. Mahamaya at once prepared to leave the temple.

Rajib understood her and quickly broke in with “I am leaving this place tomorrow.”

Calmly she asked, “Why” Rajib replied, “My Sahib has been transferred from here to the Sonapur factory, and he is taking me with him.” Again she stood in long silence, musing thus: “Our lives are moving in two contrary directions. I cannot hope to keep a man a prisoner of my eyes forever.” So she opened her compressed lips a little and said, “Very well.” it sounded rather like a deep sigh.

With this word only she was again about to leave, when Rajib started up with the whisper, “Your brother!”

She looked out and saw her brother coming towards the temple, and she knew that he had found out their assignation. Rajib, fearing to place Mahamaya in a false position, tried to escape by jumping out n the hole in the temple wall; but Mahamaya seized his arm and kept him back by main force. Bhavanicharan entered the temple and only cast one silent and placid glance at the pair.

Mahamaya looked at Rajib and said with an unruffled voice, “Yes, I will go to your house Rajib. Do you wait for me?”

Silently, her brother left the temple, and Mahamaya followed him as silently. And Rajib? He stood in a maze as if he had been doomed to death.

That night, Bhavanicharan gave a crimson silk sari to Mahamaya and told her to put it on at once. Then he said, “Follow me.” Nobody had ever disobeyed Bhavanicharan’s bidding or even his hint; Mahamaya herself was no exception to it.

That night the two walked to the building place on the river bank, not far from their home. There in the hut for sheltering dying men brought to the holy river’s side, an old Brahmin was lying in expectation of death. The two went up to his bedside. A Brahmin priest was present in one corner of the room. Bhavanicharan beckoned to him.

The priest quickly got his things ready for the happy ceremony. Mahamaya realized that she was to be married to this dying man, but she did not make the least objection. In the dim room, faintly lit up by the glare of two funeral pyres hard by, the muttered sacred texts mingled with the groans of the dying as Mahamaya’s marriage was celebrated.

The day following after her marriage, she became a widow. But she did not feel excessively grieved at the bereavement. And Rajib, too, was not crushed by the news of her widowhood as he had been by the unexpected tidings of her marriage. Nay, he felt rather cheered. But this feeling did not last long. A second terrible blow laid him utterly in the dust; he heard that there was a grand ceremony at the burning ghat that day as Mahamaya was going to burn herself with her husband’s corpse.

At first he thought of informing Sahib and forcibly stopping the cruel sacrifice with his help. But then he recollected that the Sahib had made over charge and left for Sonapor that very day; he had wanted to take Rajib with him but the youth had stayed behind on a month’s leave.

Mahamaya had told him, “Wait for me,” This request he must by no means disregard. He had at first taken a month’s leave, but if needed where he would take two months, then three months’ leave and finally throw up the Sahib’s service and live by begging, yet he would wait for her to his life’s close.

Just when Rajib was going to rush out madly and commit suicide or some other terrible deed, a deluge of rain came down with a desolating storm of sunset. The tempest threatened to tumble his house on his head. He gained composure when he found that the convulsion in outer nature was harmonizing with the storm within his soul. It seemed to him that all nature had taken up his cause and was going to bring him some sort of remedy. The force he wished to apply in his own person but could not was now being applied by nature herself over earth and sky.

At such time, someone pushed the door hard from outside. Rajib hastened to open it. A woman entered the room, clad in wet garment, with a long veil covering her entire face, Rajib at once knew her for Mahamaya.

In a voice full of emotion he asked, “Mahamaya, have you come away from the funeral pyre?”

She replied, “Yes, I had promised to come to your house. Here I am to keep my word. But, Rajib, I am not exactly the same person. I am changed altogether. I am the Mahamaya of old in my mind only. Speak now, I can yet go back to the funeral pyre. But if you swear never to draw my veil aside, never to look on my face, then I shall live in your house.”

It was enough to get her back from the hand of Death; all other considerations banished before it. Rajib promptly replied, “Leave here in any fashion you like; if you leave me I shall die.”

Mahamaya said, “Then come away at once. Let us go where your Sahib has gone on transfer.”

Abandoning all his property in that house, Rajib went forth into the middle of the storm with Mahamaya. The force of the wind made it hard for them to stand erect; the gravel driven by the wind pricked their limbs like buck shot. The two look to the open fields, lest the trees by the roadside should crash down on their heads. The violence of the wind struck them form behind as if the tempest had turn the couple asunder form human habitations and was blowing them away on to destruction.

The reader must not discredit my tale as false or supernatural. There are traditions of a few such occurrences having taken place in the days when the burning of widows was customary.

Mahamaya had been bound hand and found and placed on the funeral pyre, to which fire was applied at that appointed time.

The flames had shot up from the pile, when a violent storm of rainshower began. Those who had come to conduct the cremation quickly fled for refuge to the hut for dying men and shot the door. The rain put the funeral pyres out in no time. Meantime the bands on Mahamaya’s wrists had been burnt to ashes, setting her hands free. Without uttering a groan amidst the intolerable pain of burning, she sat up and untied her feet. Then wrapping round herself her partly burnt cloth, she rose half-naked from the pyre, and first came to her own house. There was no one there; all had gone to the burning ghat; she lighted a lamp, put on a fresh cloth, and looked at her face in a glass. Dashing the mirror down on the ground, she mused for a while. Then she drew a long veil over her face and went to Rajib’s house which was near by. The reader knows what happened next.

True, Mahamaya now lived in Rajib’s house, but there was no joy in his life. It was not much, but only a simple veil that parted the one from the other. And to get that veil was eternal like death, but more agonizing than death itself, because despair in time deadens the pang of death’s separation, while living hope was daily and hourly crushed by the separation which that veil caused.

For one thing there was a spirit of motionless silence in Mahamaya’s form of old; and now the hush from within the veil appeared doubly unbearable. She seemed to be living within a winding sheet of death. This silent death clasped the life of Rajib and daily seemed to shrivel it up. He lost the Mahamaya whom he had known of ol, and at the same time this veiled figure ever sitting by his side silently preventing him from enshrining in his life the sweet memory of her as she was in her girlhood. He brooded; “Nature has placed barrier enough between one human being and another. Mahamaya, in particular has been born, like karna of old, with a natural charm against all evil. There is an innate fence round her being.”

“And now she seems to have been born a second time and come to me with a second line of fence round herself. Ever by my side, she yet has become so remote as to be no longer within my reach. I am sitting outside the inviolable circle of her magic and trying, with an unsatiated thirsty soul, to penetrate this thin but unfathomable mystery, as the stars wear out the hours night after night in vain attempt to pierce the mystery of the dark night with their sleepless winkless downcast gaze.

Long did these two companionless lonely creatures thus pass their days together.

One night on the tenth day of the new moon, the clouds withdrew for the first time in that rainy season, and the moon showed herself. The motionless moonlight night seemed to be sitting in a vigil by the head of the sleeping world. That night, Rajib, too had quit his bed and sat gazing out of his window. From the heat-oppressed woodland a peculiar scent and the lazy hum of the cricket were entering into his room. As he gaze, the sleeping tank by the dark rows of trees glimmered like a silver plate. It is hard to say whether man at such a time thinks any clearly defined thought. Only his heart rushes in a particular direction – it sends forth an effusion of odor like the woodland, it utters a cricket hum like the night. What Rajib was thinking of I know not; but it seemed to him that that night all the old laws had been set aside; that day the rainy season’s night had drawn aside her veil of clouds, and this night looked silent, beautiful and grave like the Mahamaya of those early days. All the currents of his being flowed impetuously together that Mahamaya.

Like on morning in a dream, Rajib entered Mahamaya’s bedroom. She was asleep then.

He stood by her side and stooped down to gaze on her. The moon beams had fallen on her face. But, oh horror! Where was that face known of old? The flame of the funeral pure, with its ruthless greedy tongue, had utterly licked away a part of the beauty from the left cheek of Mahamaya and left there only the ravages of its hunger.

Did Rajib start? Did a muffled cry escape from his lips? Probably so. Mahamaya woke up with a start and saw Rajib before her. At once she replaced her veil and stood erect, leaving her bed. Rajib knewthat the thunderbolt was uplifted. He fell down before her – he clasped her feet, crying “Forgive me!”

She answered not a word, she did not look back for a moment as she walked out of the room. She never came back. No trace of her was found anywhere. The silent fire of her anger at that unforgiving eternal parting left all the remaining days of Rajib’s life branded with a long scar.

The Lion Makers

As retold by Dr. Mike Lockett, The Normal Storyteller

Notes: In early Indian History, the title Brahman was given to the learned people in the highest caste of society. The Brahmans were those men who were highly educated and who understood and carried out the duties of the priesthood i the Hindu religion. As years passed not all men born into the Brahman caste lived up to the high standards of being well educated. Such is the case in this story.

Long, long, long ago four Brahmans lived in the same town. They were wonderful friends as children. Each was very smart. But the way they showed their intelligence was different. Three of them were scholars. They read everything they could find to read and loved to argue and debate. But, they had very little comon sense in the ways of the world.

The fourth had very good common sense but had very little formal education. He had to work from the time he was young. He had not been able to go to school, and he could not read.

"How does being smart help us if we continue to live here where the people are poor and where there is no money to be made?" they asked of each other. "We should travel to other parts of the world and use our wisdom to make ourselves rich." This was how they set out on their journey.

When they had gone only a short way, the eldest of them said, "One of us does not deserve to be in our company." He looked at the fourth Brahman. "Our companion has no education," he stated. "He hs only common sense! No one can become rich without a good education. I don't think we should share our earnings with him!"

The second Brahman turned to the first and said, "You are right. Our friend has no education. Let us send him home instead of sharing our fortune with him that we will earn with our intelligence."

The third said, "No, no. This is not the way to behave. We have been friends since childhood. We should let him come with us. We will give him an equal part in all that we earn!"

The first two agreed after a long discussion to let the fourth Brahman continue with them on their journey. They walked along until they came to the bones of a dead lion.

The first of the educated men said, "Here is a chance to show our ignorant friend how much we know. Here lie the bones of some dead creature. Let us see if we can bring it back to life by using all that we have learned." Then he added, "I know how to put a skeleton back together!"

The second Brahman, not wanting to be outdone, said, "I can give it skin and cover it with flesh and give it blood." As he did this, the third Brahman stated that he could breathe life back into the body.

As he said this, the fourth Brahman spoke up. "My friends," he said, "I concede that you have learned much more from books and schools than I have. But, my common sense tells me that we should not bring a lion back to life. I do not believe we are wise to do this. If he comes back to life, he will want to eat us."

The first three Brahmans were angry with him. "We let you travel with us even though you are not very knowledgeable like we are. You know so very little, and yet you presume to kow more than we do?

"I only know what my common sense tells me," the fourth Brahman stated. "However, if you intend to persist in bringing the dead lion back to life, please hold your efforts until I have climbed this tree."

After the fourth Brahman climbed the tree, the first three Brahmans completed their task of bringing the lion back to life. As the breath of life filled his lungs, the lion let out with a great roar and ate up all three scholars who were on the ground.

With a full stomache, the lion was not willing or able to climb the tree and eat the fourth Brahman. So the man with no formal education had the sense to climb down the tree and go back to his former home.

Salutation to the Dawn
Kalidasa
Look to this day!
For it is life, the very life of life,
In its brief course
Lie all the verities and realities of your existence:
The bliss of growth,
The glory of action,
The splendor of beauty,
For yesterday is but a dream
And tomorrow only a vision,
But today well lived makes every yesterday
a dream of happiness
And every tomorrow a vision of hope.
Look well, therefore, to this day!
Such is the salutation of the dawn.

The Crane

The Crane
Hwang Sun-Won
Translated by Peter Lee

What is the significance of a friend? The story that follows will assist you to know the answer.

The northern village at the border of the 38 Parallel was snugly settled under the high bright autumn sky.
One white gourd lay against another on the dirt floor of an empty farmhouse. The occasional village elders first put out their bamboo pipes before passing by, and the children, too, turned aside some distance off. Their faces were ridden with fear.
The village as a whole showed few traces of destruction from the war, but it did not seem like the same village Song-sam had known as a boy.
At the foot of the chestnut grove on the hill behind the village, he stopped and climbed a chestnut tree. Somewhere far back in his mind he heard the old man with a wen shout. “You bad boy, you’re climbing up my chestnut tree again!?”
The old man must have passed away, for among the few village elders Song-sam had met, the old man can’t be found. Song-sam gazed at the blue sky for a while. Some chestnuts fell to the ground as the dry clusters opened by their own accord.
In front of the farmhouse that had been turned into a public peace-police office, a young man stood tied up. He seemed to be a stranger, so Song-sam approached him to have a closer look. He was taken aback; it was none other than his boyhood playmate, Tok-chae.
Song-sam asked the police officer who had come with him from Chontae what it was all about. The prisoner was vice chairman of the Farmer’s Communist League and had just been flashed out of his hideout in his own house, Song-sam learned.
Song-sam sat down on the dirty floor and lit a cigarette.
Tok-chae was to be escorted to Chongdan by one of the peace policemen.
After a time, Song-sam lit a new cigarette from the first and stood up.
“I’ll take the fellow with me.”
Tok-chae, his face averted, refused to look at Song-sam. They left the village.
Song-sam kept on smoking, but the tobacco had not taste. He just kept drawing in the smoke and blowing it out. Then suddenly he thought that Tok-chae, too, must want a puff. He thought of the days when they used to share dried gourd leaves behind walls, hidden from adults. But today, how could he offer a cigarette to a fellow like this?
Once, when they were small, he went with Tok-chae to steal some chestnuts from the grandpa with the wen. It was Song-sam’s turn to go up the tree. Suddenly, there came old shouts from the old man. He slipped and fell to the ground. Song-sam got chestnut needles all over his bottom, but he kept on running. It was only when they reached a safe place where the old man cannot overtake them that he turned his bottom to Tok-chae. Plucking out those needles hurt so much that he could not keep tears from welling up in his eyes. Tok-chae produced a fistful of chestnuts from his pocket and thrust them into Song-sam’s...Song-sam threw away the cigarette he had just lit. Then he made up his mind not to light another while he was escorting Tok-chae.
They reached the hill pass, the hill where he and Tok-chae used to cut fodders for the cows until Song-sam had to move near Chontae, south of the Thirty-eight Parallel, two years before the liberation.
Song-sam felt a sudden surge of anger in spite of himself and shouted, “So how many have you killed?”
For the first time, Tok-chae cast a quick glance at him and then turned away.
“How many did you kill?” he asked again.
Tok-chae turned toward him once again and glared. The glare grew intense and his mouth twitched.
“So you managed to kill many, eh?” Song-sam felt his heart becoming clear from within, as if an obstruction had been removed. “If you were vice-chairman of the Communist League, why didn’t you run? You must have been lying low with a secret mission.”
Tok-chae did not answer.
“Speak up, what was your mission?”
Tok-chae kept walking. Tok-chae is hiding something, Song-sam thought. He wanted to take a good look at him, but Tok-chae would not turn his averted face.
Fingering the revolver at his side. Song-sam went on: “No excuse necessary. You are sure to be shot anyway. Why don’t you tell the truth here and now?”
“I’m not going to make any excuses. They made me vice-chairman of the league because I was one of the poorest and I was a hard-working farmer. If that constitute a crime worthy of death, so be it. I am still what I used to be- the only thing I’m good at is digging in the soil.” After a short pause, he added, “My old man is bedridden at home. He’s been ill almost half a year.” Tok-chae’s father was a widower, a hardworking poor farmer who lived only for his son. Seven years ago his back had given out and his skin had become diseased.
“You married?”
“Yes,” replied Tok-chae after a while.
“To whom?”
“Shorty”
“To shorty?” How interesting! A woman so small and plump that she knew the earth vastness but not the sky’s altitude. Such a cold fish! He and Tok-chae used to tease her and make her cry and Tok-chae had married that girl.
“How many kids?”
“The first is arriving this fall,” he says.
Song-sam had difficulty swallowing a laugh about to explode in spite of himself. Although he had asked how many kids Tok-chae had, he could not help wanting to burst into laughter at the image of her sitting down, with a large stomach, one span around. But he realized this was no time to laugh or joke over such matters.
“Anyway, it’s strange you did not run away.”
“I tried to escape. They said that once the south invaded, no man would be spared. So men between seventeen and forty were forcibly taken to the North. I thought of evacuating, even if I had to carry my father on my back. But father said no. How could the farmers leave the land behind when the crops were ready for harvest? He grew old on that farm depending on me as the prop and mainstay of the family. I wanted to be with him in his last moments so that I could close his eyes with my own hand. Besides where can farmers like us go, who know only living on the land?”
Last June, Song-sam had to take refuge. At night e had broken the news privately to his father. But his father had said the same thing! Where can a farmer go, leaving all the chores behind? So Song-sam had been haunted by thoughts of his old parents and the young children, left with all the chores. Fortunately, his family was safe then, as now.
They crossed the ridge of a hill. This time Song-sam walked with his face averted. The autumn sun was hot on his forehead. This was an ideal day for the harvest, he thought.
When they reached the foot of the hill, Song-sam hesitantly stopped. In the middle of the field, he spied a group of cranes that looked like men with white clothes bending over. This used to be the neutralized zone, along the Thirty-eight Parallel. The cranes were still living here, as before, while the people were all gone.
Once when Song-sam and Tok-chae were about twelve, they had set a trap here, without the knowledge of the adults, and had caught a crane. They had roped the crane, even its wings, and had paid daily visits, patting its neck and riding on its back. Then, one day they overhead the neighboors whispering. Someone had come from Seoul with a permit from the governor-general’s office to catch cranes as specimens or something. Then and there the two boys dashed off to the field. That they would be found out and punished was no longer a weighty concern; all they worried about was the fate of their crane. Without a moment’s delay, still out of breath from running, they untied the crane’s feet and wings. But the bird could hardly walk. It must have been worn out from being bound.
The two held it up in the air. Then, all of a sudden, a shot was fired. The crane fluttered its wings a couple of times and came down again.
The two boys could not take their eyes away from the blue sky into which their crane had soared.
“Hey, why don’t we stop here for a crane hunt?” Song-sam spoke up suddenly.
Tok-chae was puzzled, struck dumb.
“I’ll make a trap with this rope; you flush a crane over here.”
Having united Tok-chae’s hands, Song-sam had already started crawling among the weeds.
Tok-chae’s face turned white. “You are to be shot anyway”- these words flashed through his mind. Pretty soon, a bullet would fly from where Song-sam has gone, he thought.
Some paces away. Song-sam quickly turned toward him.
“Hey, how come you’re standing there like you’re dumb? Go flush the crane!”
Only then did Tok-chae catch on. He started crawling among the weeds.
A couple of Tanjong cranes soared high into the clear blue autumn sky, fluttering their huge wings.

In a Grove

by Ryūnosuke Akutagawa

Translated by Takashi Kojima

The Testimony of a Woodcutter Questioned by a High Police Commissioner Yes, sir. Certainly, it was I who found the body. This morning, as usual, I went to cut my daily quota of cedars, when I found the body in a grove in a hollow in the mountains. The exact location? About 150 meters off the Yamashina stage road. It's an out-of-the-way grove of bamboo and cedars. The body was lying flat on its back dressed in a bluish silk kimono and a wrinkled head-dress of the Kyoto style. A single sword-stroke had pierced the breast. The fallen bamboo-blades around it were stained with bloody blossoms. No, the blood was no longer running. The wound had dried up, I believe. And also, a gad-fly was stuck fast there, hardly noticing my footsteps. You ask me if I saw a sword or any such thing? No, nothing, sir. I found only a rope at the root of a cedar near by. And . . . well, in addition to a rope, I found a comb. That was all. Apparently he must have made a battle of it before he was murdered, because the grass and fallen bamboo-blades had been trampled down all around. "A horse was near by?" No, sir. It's hard enough for a man to enter, let alone a horse. The Testimony of a Traveling Buddhist Priest Questioned by a High Police Commissioner The time? Certainly, it was about noon yesterday, sir. The unfortunate man was on the road from Sekiyama to Yamashina. He was walking toward Sekiyama with a woman accompanying him on horseback, who I have since learned was his wife. A scarf hanging from her head hid her face from view. All I saw was the color of her clothes, a lilac-colored suit. Her horse was a sorrel with a fine mane. The lady's height? Oh, about four feet five inches. Since I am a Buddhist priest, I took little notice about her details. Well, the man was armed with a sword as well as a bow and arrows. And I remember that he carried some twenty odd arrows in his quiver. Little did I expect that he would meet such a fate. Truly human life is as evanescent as the morning dew or a flash of lightning. My words are inadequate to express my sympathy for him. The Testimony of a Policeman Questioned by a High Police Commissioner The man that I arrested? He is a notorious brigand called Tajomaru. When I arrested him, he had fallen off his horse. He was groaning on the bridge at Awataguchi. The time? It was in the early hours of last night. For the record, I might say that the other day I tried to arrest him, but unfortunately he escaped. He was wearing a dark blue silk kimono and a large plain sword. And, as you see, he got a bow and arrows somewhere. You say that this bow and these arrows look like the ones owned by the dead man? Then Tajomaru must be the murderer. The bow wound with leather strips, the black lacquered quiver, the seventeen arrows with hawk feathers—these were all in his possession I believe. Yes, Sir, the horse is, as you say, a sorrel with a fine mane. A little beyond the stone bridge I found the horse grazing by the roadside, with his long rein dangling. Surely there is some providence in his having been thrown by the horse. Of all the robbers prowling around Kyoto, this Tajomaru has given the most grief to the women in town. Last autumn a wife who came to the mountain back of the Pindora of the Toribe Temple, presumably to pay a visit, was murdered, along with a girl. It has been suspected that it was his doing. If this criminal murdered the man, you cannot tell what he may have done with the man's wife. May it please your honor to look into this problem as well. The Testimony of an Old Woman Questioned by a High Police Commissioner Yes, sir, that corpse is the man who married my daughter. He does not come from Kyoto. He was a samurai in the town of Kokufu in the province of Wakasa. His name was Kanazawa no Takehiko, and his age was twenty-six. He was of a gentle disposition, so I am sure he did nothing to provoke the anger of others. My daughter? Her name is Masago, and her age is nineteen. She is a spirited, fun-loving girl, but I am sure she has never known any man except Takehiko. She has a small, oval, dark-complected face with a mole at the corner of her left eye. Yesterday Takehiko left for Wakasa with my daughter. What bad luck it is that things should have come to such a sad end! What has become of my daughter? I am resigned to giving up my son-in-law as lost, but the fate of my daughter worries me sick. For heaven's sake leave no stone unturned to find her. I hate that robber Tajomaru, or whatever his name is. Not only my son-in-law, but my daughter . . . (Her later words were drowned in tears.) Tajomaru's Confession I killed him, but not her. Where's she gone? I can't tell. Oh, wait a minute. No torture can make me confess what I don't know. Now things have come to such a head, I won't keep anything from you. Yesterday a little past noon I met that couple. Just then a puff of wind blew, and raised her hanging scarf, so that I caught a glimpse of her face. Instantly it was again covered from my view. That may have been one reason; she looked like a Bodhisattva. At that moment I made up my mind to capture her even if I had to kill her man. Why? To me killing isn't a matter of such great consequence as you might think. When a woman is captured, her man has to be killed anyway. In killing, I use the sword I wear at my side. Am I the only one who kills people? You, you don't use your swords. You kill people with your power, with your money. Sometimes you kill them on the pretext of working for their good. It's true they don't bleed. They are in the best of health, but all the same you've killed them. It's hard to say who is a greater sinner, you or me. (An ironical smile.) But it would be good if I could capture a woman without killing her man. So, I made up my mind to capture her, and do my best not to kill him. But it's out of the question on the Yamashina stage road. So I managed to lure the couple into the mountains. It was quite easy. I became their traveling companion, and I told them there was an old mound in the mountain over there, and that I had dug it open and found many mirrors and swords. I went on to tell them I'd buried the things in a grove behind the mountain, and that I'd like to sell them at a low price to anyone who would care to have them. Then . . . you see, isn't greed terrible? He was beginning to be moved by my talk before he knew it. In less than half an hour they were driving their horse toward the mountain with me. When he came in front of the grove, I told them that the treasures were buried in it, and I asked them to come and see. The man had no objection—he was blinded by greed. The woman said she would wait on horseback. It was natural for her to say so, at the sight of a thick grove. To tell you the truth, my plan worked just as I wished, so I went into the grove with him, leaving her behind alone. The grove is only bamboo for some distance. About fifty yards ahead there's a rather open clump of cedars. It was a convenient spot for my purpose. Pushing my way through the grove, I told him a plausible lie that the treasures were buried under the cedars. When I told him this, he pushed his laborious way toward the slender cedar visible through the grove. After a while the bamboo thinned out, and we came to where a number of cedars grew in a row. As soon as we got there, I seized him from behind. Because he was a trained, sword-bearing warrior, he was quite strong, but he was taken by surprise, so there was no help for him. I soon tied him up to the root of a cedar. Where did I get a rope? Thank heaven, being a robber, I had a rope with me, since I might have to scale a wall at any moment. Of course it was easy to stop him from calling out by gagging his mouth with fallen bamboo leaves. When I disposed of him, I went to his woman and asked her to come and see him, because he seemed to have been suddenly taken sick. It's needless to say that this plan also worked well. The woman, her sedge hat off, came into the depths of the grove, where I led her by the hand. The instant she caught sight of her husband, she drew a small sword. I've never seen a woman of such violent temper. If I'd been off guard, I'd have got a thrust in my side. I dodged, but she kept on slashing at me. She might have wounded me deeply or killed me. But I'm Tajomaru. I managed to strike down her small sword without drawing my own. The most spirited woman is defenseless without a weapon. At least I could satisfy my desire for her without taking her husband's life. Yes . . . without taking his life. I had no wish to kill him. I was about to run away from the grove, leaving the woman behind in tears, when she frantically clung to my arm. In broken fragments of words, she asked that either her husband or I die. She said it was more trying than death to have her shame known to two men. She gasped out that she wanted to be the wife of whichever survived. Then a furious desire to kill him seized me. (Gloomy excitement.) Telling you in this way, no doubt I seem a crueler man than you. But that's because you didn't see her face. Especially her burning eyes at that moment. As I saw her eye to eye, I wanted to make her my wife even if I were to be struck by lightning. I wanted to make her my wife . . . this single desire filled my mind. This was not only lust, as you might think. At that time if I'd had no other desire than lust, I'd surely not have minded knocking her down and running away. Then I wouldn't have stained my sword with his blood. But the moment I gazed at her face in the dark grove, I decided not to leave there without killing him. But I didn't like to resort to unfair means to kill him. I untied him and told him to cross swords with me. (The rope that was found at the root of the cedar is the rope I dropped at the time.) Furious with anger, he drew his thick sword. And quick as thought, he sprang at me ferociously, without speaking a word. I needn't tell you how our fight turned out. The twenty-third stroke . . . please remember this. I'm impressed with this fact still. Nobody under the sun has ever clashed swords with me twenty strokes. (A cheerful smile.) When he fell, I turned toward her, lowering my blood-stained sword. But to my great astonishment she was gone. I wondered to where she had run away. I looked for her in the clump of cedars. I listened, but heard only a groaning sound from the throat of the dying man. As soon as we started to cross swords, she may have run away through the grove to call for help. When I thought of that, I decided it was a matter of life and death to me. So, robbing him of his sword, and bow and arrows, I ran out to the mountain road. There I found her horse still grazing quietly. It would be a mere waste of words to tell you the later details, but before I entered town I had already parted with the sword. That's all my confession. I know that my head will be hung in chains anyway, so put me down for the maximum penalty. (A defiant attitude.) The Confession of a Woman Who Has Come to the Shimizu Temple That man in the blue silk kimono, after forcing me to yield to him, laughed mockingly as he looked at my bound husband. How horrified my husband must have been! But no matter how hard he struggled in agony, the rope cut into him all the more tightly. In spite of myself I ran stumblingly toward his side. Or rather I tried to run toward him, but the man instantly knocked me down. Just at that moment I saw an indescribable light in my husband's eyes. Something beyond expression . . . his eyes make me shudder even now. That instantaneous look of my husband, who couldn't speak a word, told me all his heart. The flash in his eyes was neither anger nor sorrow . . . only a cold light, a look of loathing. More struck by the look in his eyes than by the blow of the thief, I called out in spite of myself and fell unconscious. In the course of time I came to, and found that the man in blue silk was gone. I saw only my husband still bound to the root of the cedar. I raised myself from the bamboo-blades with difficulty, and looked into his face; but the expression in his eyes was just the same as before. Beneath the cold contempt in his eyes, there was hatred. Shame, grief, and anger . . . I don't know how to express my heart at that time. Reeling to my feet, I went up to my husband. "Takejiro," I said to him, "since things have come to this pass, I cannot live with you. I'm determined to die . . . but you must die, too. You saw my shame. I can't leave you alive as you are." This was all I could say. Still he went on gazing at me with loathing and contempt. My heart breaking, I looked for his sword. It must have been taken by the robber. Neither his sword nor his bow and arrows were to be seen in the grove. But fortunately my small sword was lying at my feet. Raising it over head, once more I said, "Now give me your life. I'll follow you right away." When he heard these words, he moved his lips with difficulty. Since his mouth was stuffed with leaves, of course his voice could not be heard at all. But at a glance I understood his words. Despising me, his look said only, "Kill me." Neither conscious nor unconscious, I stabbed the small sword through the lilac-colored kimono into his breast. Again at this time I must have fainted. By the time I managed to look up, he had already breathed his last—still in bonds. A streak of sinking sunlight streamed through the clump of cedars and bamboos, and shone on his pale face. Gulping down my sobs, I untied the rope from his dead body. And . . . and what has become of me since I have no more strength to tell you. Anyway I hadn't the strength to die. I stabbed my own throat with the small sword, I threw myself into a pond at the foot of the mountain, and I tried to kill myself in many ways. Unable to end my life, I am still living in dishonor. (A lonely smile.) Worthless as I am, I must have been forsaken even by the most merciful Kwannon. I killed my own husband. I was violated by the robber. Whatever can I do? Whatever can I . . . I . . . (Gradually, violent sobbing.) The Story of the Murdered Man, as Told Through a Medium After violating my wife, the robber, sitting there, began to speak comforting words to her. Of course I couldn't speak. My whole body was tied fast to the root of a cedar. But meanwhile I winked at her many times, as much as to say "Don't believe the robber." I wanted to convey some such meaning to her. But my wife, sitting dejectedly on the bamboo leaves, was looking hard at her lap. To all appearance, she was listening to his words. I was agonized by jealousy. In the meantime the robber went on with his clever talk, from one subject to another. The robber finally made his bold brazen proposal. "Once your virtue is stained, you won't get along well with your husband, so won't you be my wife instead? It's my love for you that made me be violent toward you." While the criminal talked, my wife raised her face as if in a trance. She had never looked so beautiful as at that moment. What did my beautiful wife say in answer to him while I was sitting bound there? I am lost in space, but I have never thought of her answer without burning with anger and jealousy. Truly she said, . . . "Then take me away with you wherever you go." This is not the whole of her sin. If that were all, I would not be tormented so much in the dark. When she was going out of the grove as if in a dream, her hand in the robber's, she suddenly turned pale, and pointed at me tied to the root of the cedar, and said, "Kill him! I cannot marry you as long as he lives." "Kill him!" she cried many times, as if she had gone crazy. Even now these words threaten to blow me headlong into the bottomless abyss of darkness. Has such a hateful thing come out of a human mouth ever before? Have such cursed words ever struck a human ear, even once? Even once such a . . . (A sudden cry of scorn.) At these words the robber himself turned pale. "Kill him," she cried, clinging to his arms. Looking hard at her, he answered neither yes nor no . . . but hardly had I thought about his answer before she had been knocked down into the bamboo leaves. (Again a cry of scorn.) Quietly folding his arms, he looked at me and said, "What will you do with her? Kill her or save her? You have only to nod. Kill her?" For these words alone I would like to pardon his crime. While I hesitated, she shrieked and ran into the depths of the grove. The robber instantly snatched at her, but he failed even to grasp her sleeve. After she ran away, he took up my sword, and my bow and arrows. With a single stroke he cut one of my bonds. I remember his mumbling, "My fate is next." Then he disappeared from the grove. All was silent after that. No, I heard someone crying. Untying the rest of my bonds, I listened carefully, and I noticed that it was my own crying. (Long silence.) I raised my exhausted body from the foot of the cedar. In front of me there was shining the small sword which my wife had dropped. I took it up and stabbed it into my breast. A bloody lump rose to my mouth, but I didn't feel any pain. When my breast grew cold, everything was as silent as the dead in their graves. What profound silence! Not a single bird-note was heard in the sky over this grave in the hollow of the mountains. Only a lonely light lingered on the cedars and mountains. By and by the light gradually grew fainter, till the cedars and bamboo were lost to view. Lying there, I was enveloped in deep silence. Then someone crept up to me. I tried to see who it was. But darkness had already been gathering round me. Someone . . . that someone drew the small sword softly out of my breast in its invisible hand. At the same time once more blood flowed into my mouth. And once and for all I sank down into the darkness of space.

Haiku

by Basho

Poverty's child-

He starts to grind the rice'

and gazes at the moon.

Clouds come from time to time-

And bring to men chance to rest

From looking at the moon.

Seven sights were veiled

In mist- then i heard

Mii Temple's bell.

The Jay

The Jay

Kawabata Yasunari
Translated by Edward Seidensticker

Indulge yourself in the short story set in modern Japan. Traces in the modern day characters of the good old values, the life filled with grace, humble dignity, brotherly love, and respect for elders in Ancient Japan are noted although the circumstances have been brought to this century.
The Jay was noisy from dawn.
It seemed to have flown from a lower branch of the pine tree as Yoshiko was opening the shutters and then come back again. They could hear its wings from the breakfast table.
“What a racket,” said her brother, starting to get up.
“Leave it alone,” said her grandmother. “I think the little one must have fallen from the nest yesterday. I could still hear the mother last night after dark. I suppose she couldn’t find it. And isn’t that nice, here she is back again this morning.”
“Are you sure?” asked Yoshiko.
Save for a liver attack some ten years before, her grandmother had never been ill, but she had suffered from cataracts ever since she was very young. Now she could barely see, and with the left eye only. She had to be handed her food. She could grope her way around the house, but she never went out alone into the garden.
She would sometimes stand and sit at the glass door and gaze at her fingers, spread out in the sunlight. Her whole life seemed to be concentrated in the gaze.
Yoshiko would be afraid of her. She would want to call from behind, and then she would slip away.
Yoshiko was filled with admiration that her blind grandmother could talk about the jay as if she had not seen it.
When she went out to do the breakfast dishes, the jay was calling from the next door.
There were chestnuts and several persimmons in the backyard. She could see against them that a gentle rain was falling, so gentle that she could not make it out except against the dark background.
The jay flew to the chestnut, skimmed the ground, and flew back again, calling out all the while.
Would the nestling still be near, that the mother was so reluctant to leave?
Yoshiko went to her room. She must be ready by noon.
Her mother and father would be bringing her fiancé’s mother.
As she sat down before the mirror she glanced at the white dots on her fingernails. They were said to be signs that someone would come with gifts, but she had read in a newspaper that they really showed a deficiency in vitamin C or something of the sort. She was pleased with her face when she had finished making herself up. She thought her eyebrows and lips rather charming. She liked the set of her Kimono.
She had thought she would wait for her mother to help her, and then she was glad that she had dressed by herself.
Her father and mother, actually her stepmother, did not live with them.
Her father had divorced her mother when Yoshiko was four and her brother two. It was said that her mother had been gaudy and extravagant, but Yoshiko suspected that there had been deeper causes.
Her father had said nothing when her brother had found a picture of their mother and shown it to him. He had frowned and torn the picture to pieces.
When Yoshiko was thirteen her new mother came into the house. Later, Yoshiko was to think it rather remarkable of her father to have waited almost ten years. Her new mother was a kind woman and they lived a quiet, happy life.
When her brother entered high school and went to live in a dormitory, it was plain to all of them that his attitude toward his stepmother was changing.
“I’ve seen Mother,” he said to Yoshiko. “She was sure that she had turned white, and she was trembling.
Her stepmother came in from the next room.
“It’s all right. There’s nothing wrong at all with his seeing his own mother. It’s only natural. I knew it would happen. It doesn’t bother me at all.”
Her stepmother seemed drained of strength, and so tiny that Yoshiko felt somehow protective.
Her brother got up and went out. Yoshiko wanted to slap him.
“You are not to say anything, Yoshiko,” said her stepmother softly. “It would only make things worse.”
Yoshiko was in tears.
Her father brought her brother home from the dormitory. She thought that would be the end of the matter; and then her father and stepmother moved away.
She was frightened; she felt that she had the full force of a man’s anger, perhaps of vengefulness? She wondered if she and her brother had something of the same thing in them. She had felt certain, as she had left the room, that her brother had inherited that terrible masculine something.
Yet she felt, too, that she knew her father’s loneliness those ten years he had waited to take a new wife.
She was startled when her father came to talk of a prospective bride-groom.
“You have had a hard time of it, Yoshiko, and I’m sorry. I have told his mother that I want you to have the girlhood you never had.”
There were tears in Yoshiko’s eyes.
With Yoshiko married, there would be no one to take care of her grandmother and brother, and so it was decided that they would live with her father and stepmother. The decision was what touched Yoshiko most. Because of what her father had been through, she had been frightened of marriage, but now that it was coming it did not seem so frightening after all.
She went to her grandmother when she had finished dressing.
“Can you see the red, grandmother?”
“I can see that here is something red.” She pulled Yoshiko to her and looked intently at her kimono and obi. “I have forgotten what you look like, Yoshiko. How nice if I could see you again.”
Embarrassed, Yoshiko put her hand to her grandmother’s head.
She went out into the garden. She wanted to run and meet her father and stepmother. She opened a hand, but the rain was scarcely enough to wet it. Lifting her skirts she looked through the shrubs and bamboo, and found the nestling jay in the grass under the hagi.
She stole up to it. Head pulled in, it was a tight little ball. It seemed without strength and she had no trouble taking it. She looked around but could not find the mother.
She ran to the house.
“I’ve found it, Grandmother. It seemed very weak.”
“Really?” You must give it water.”
Her grandmother was very calm.
She brought a cup of water and put its beak in, and it drank most prettily, swelling its small throat.
“Kikikikiki.” It quickly revived.
Hearing, the mother jay called from a power line.
“Kikiki.” The nestling struggled in Yoshiko’s hand.
“How very nice,” said her grandmother. “You must give it back.”
Yoshiko went into the garden. The mother jay left the power line and sat watching Yoshiko from the cherry tree.
Raising her hand to show the nestling, Yoshiko put it on the ground.
She watched from inside the glass door. The nestling called forlornly up. The mother came nearer and then was at the lower branches of the pine tree just above. The nestling flapped its wings as if it were to take a flight. And fell forward, calling out to its mother.
Very cautious, the mother still did not alight.
Then, in a swoop, it was beside the nestling, whose joy was boundless. The head shook, the outstretched wings were trembling, it was like a spoiled child. The mother seemed to be feeding it.
Yoshiko wished that her father and stepmother would hurry. She wanted them to see.