THE WORLD IS AN APPLE

When Adam and Eve were in Paradise, so the Bible goes, an apple caused their downfall. In the play you are going to read, an apple causes the downfall of the hero, and the title suggests that the way of the world causes a man to fall. Society is at fault if a man cannot live and be honest. After reading the play, what do you suggest Gloria should have done?




THE WORLD IS AN APPLE

Alberto S. Florentino



CHARACTERS:



GLORIA

MARIO

PABLO



An improvised home behind a portion of the Intramuros walls. Two wooden boxes flank the doorway. At left is an acacia tree with a wooden bench under it.

(Mario enters from the street at left. He is his late twenties, shabbily dressed and with hair that seems to have been uncut for weeks. He puts his lunch bag on the bench, sits down, removes his shoes, and puts them beside his lunch bag.)



Gloria: (Calls from inside) Mario! Is that you, Mario?



Mario: Yes…



Gloria: (A small woman about Mario’s age, with long hair and scrawny body, comes out

wiping her hands on her dress) I’m glad you’re home early.



Mario: How is Tita? (Without waiting for an answer he enters the dwelling)



Gloria: (Crosses to the bench) Don’t wake her up, Mario. She’s tired. She cried the

whole day.



Mario: (Reappears and crosses to the bench and sits on the end) Has she been eating

well?



Gloria: She wouldn’t ea even a mouthful of lugao. But I’ll buy her some biscuits. Maybe

I’ll buy her some biscuits. Maybe she’ll eat them. (She slips , her fingers into his breast pocket) I’ll take some of the money –



Mario: (Rises annoyed) Gloria! Can’t you wait a minute?



Gloria: (Taken aback) Hey, what’s the matter? Why are you suddenly so touchy?



Mario: Who wouldn’t be? I’m talking to you about the child and you bother me by

ransacking my pockets! I wish you’d think more of our daughter.



Gloria: (Crosses to the center) My God! Wasn’t I thinking of her? Why do you think I

need some money? To buy me a pretty dress? Or see a movie?



Mario: Tone down your voice. You’ll wake the child up.



Gloria: Tone down your voice. You’ll wake the child up. (low but intense) All I want is a

little money to buy her something to eat! She hasn’t eaten anything all day! That was why I was “bothering” you!



Mario: (Repentant) I’m sorry, Gloria. . . (grips her arm and turn away)



Gloria: Today is pay day, Mario.



Mario: Yes . . . but . . .



Gloria: But what? Where’s your pay for the week?



Mario: I don’t . . . have it.



Gloria: What? I waited for you the whole day and you tell me –



Mario: (Angry) – that I have nothing! I Nothing! What do you want me to do – steal?



Gloria: I’m not asking you to do a thing like that! All I want to know is what you did with

your pay.



Mario: (Sits on the bench) Nothing is left of it.



Gloria: Nothing? What happened?



Mario: Oh, I had a few drinks with my friends. Before I knew it, I had spent every

centavo of it.



Gloria: (Eyeing him intently) Mario, do you think you can make a fool of me? Haven’t I

seen you drunk before, crawling home like a wounded snake and reeking of alcohol like a hospital? You don’t smell or look drunk.



Mario: All right, so I didn’t go drinking.



Gloria: But your pay – what happened to it?



Mario: It’s better that you don’t know, Gloria.



Gloria: Look, Mario, I’m your wife. I have the right to half of everything you get. If I can’t

have my share, I have the right to know at least where it went!



Mario: Gloria, you’ll feel better if you don’t know



Gloria: I must know!



Mario: All right: (rises) I spent it all on another woman.



Gloria: Another woman? I don’t believe it. I know you wouldn’t do such a thing.



Mario: I didn’t know you had so much faith in me.



Gloria: No, Mario, what I mean is – you wouldn’t spend all your money when you know

your daughter may need some of it. You love her too much to do that. (Mario sits

down and buries his head in his head hands. Gloria crosses to him and lays a hand on his shoulder.)



Gloria: What’s wrong, Mario?



Mario: (Turns his face away) Nothing, Gloria, nothing.



Gloria: (Sits beside him) I know something is wrong, Mario. I can feel it. Tell me what it

is.



Mario: (Stares on the ground) Gloria, I’ve lost my job.



Gloria: (Rises shocked) Oh, no!



Mario: What about your pay for the whole week?



Gloria: And you never told me!



Mario: I thought I could get another without making you worry.



Gloria: Do you think you can get another in five months? It took you that long to get the

last one.



Mario: It won’t take me as long to get another.



Gloria: But how did you lose it?



Mario: (Rises and turns away) What’s the use of talking about it? That won’t bring it

back.



Gloria: (Suddenly, in an agonized voice) Mario!



Mario: (Putting on the shoes) No. Gloria, you must not wait for me. I may be back quite

late.



Gloria: All right. But I doubt if I can sleep a wink until you return. (Gloria comes up to him

after he finishes and tries to hug him, but he pushes her away. Suddenly

confused, he sits on the steps. Gloria sits beside him and holds his hands.)



Gloria: Mother was wrong. You know, before we got married, she used to tell me:

“Gloria, you’ll commit the greatest mistake of your life if you marry that good – for – nothing loafer! You can’t make him any straighter than you could a crooked wire with your bare hands.” Oh, I wish she were living now. She would see how much you’ve changed – (She sees someone behind the tree: Pablo. He has been watching them for a time. He is older than Mario, sinister – looking, and well dressed.)



Pablo: (Sarcastic) Hmmmmmmmmmm. How romantic!



Mario: Pablo!

(Suddenly unnerved, Mario starts to fidget. There is an uncomfortable silence as



Gloria rises and walks to the center, her eyes burning with hate. Pablo lights a cigarette, never taking his eyes off her.)



Pablo: You’re not glad to see me, are you? (puts a foot on the bench)



Gloria: (Angry) What are you doing here? What do you want?



Pablo: Saaaay! Is that the right way to receive a friend who has come a – visiting?



Gloria: We don’t care for your visits!



Pablo: You haven’t changed a bit, Gloria, not a bit.



Gloria: Neither have you, I can see!



Pablo: You’re still that same woman who cursed me to hell because I happened to be

Mario’s friend long before you met him. Time has not made you any kinder to me. You still hate me, don’t you.



Gloria: Yes! And I wish you’d stay away from us for the rest of our lives!



Pablo: Am I not staying away from you?



Gloria: Then why are you here?



Pablo: God! May I not even drop in now and then to see if life has been kind to you?

How are you getting along?



Gloria: (Scornfully) We were doing well until you showed up!



Pablo: Your daughter – she was only that high when I saw her last – how is she?



Gloria: (Curtly) She’s all right!



Pablo: Oh and I thought she had not been very well.



Gloria: (Suspicious) How did you know?



Mario: (Stammering) I . . . no . . . how could I? I haven’t seen him in a long, (to Mario)

Did you tell him?



Pablo: What is she sick with?



Gloria: (Curly) We don’t know!



Pablo: Don’t you think you should take her to a doctor? (puts his foot down and pulls out

his wallet) Here. I’ll lend you a few pesos. It may help your daughter to get well.



Gloria: (Scornfully) We need it all right – but no, thank you!



Pablo: Why don’t you take it?



Gloria: Paying you back will only mean seeing your face again.



Pablo: Well, if you hate my face so much you don’t have to pay me back. Take it as a

gift.



Gloria: That’s more reason I should refuse it!



Pablo: All right, if that’s how you want it. (sits down and plays with the wallet)



Gloria: Mario has stopped depending on you since the day I took him away from your

clutches!



Pablo: Haven’t you realized by now that it was a terrible mistake – your taking him away

from my “clutches”?



Gloria: I have no regrets.



Pablo: How about Mario? Has he no regrets either?



Gloria: He has none.



Pablo: How can you be so sure? When he and I were pals, we could go to first – class

air –conditioned movie houses every other day. I’ll bet all the money I have here now (brandishing his wallet) that he has not been to one since you “liberated” him from me. And that was almost four years ago.



Gloria: One cannot expect too much from honest money – and we don’t.



Pablo: (Rises and walks about) What is honest money? Does it look better than

dishonest money? Does it buy more? Or honesty? What is it? Dressing like that? Staying in this dungeon you call a house? Is that what you so beautifully call “honesty”?

Mario: (Rises) Pablo!

Pablo: (Derisively) See what happened to your daughter. That is what honesty has done

to her. And how can honesty help her now? She’s not sick and she needs no medicine. You know that. You know very well what she needs: food. Good food. She is undernourished, isn’t she?



Mario: Pablo!



Gloria: I know you have come to lead him back to your dishonest ways, but you can’t He

won’t listen to you now! We have gone this far and we can go on living without your help!



Pablo: (Sarcastic) You call this living? This, Gloria, is what you call dying – dying slowly

– minute by minute. (laughs)



Mario: (Crosses to him and shakes him) Pablo, stop it! (Pablo stops) You shouldn’t have

come –



Pablo: (Brushes him off) I got tired of waiting for you!



Gloria: So you have been seeing each other! I was afraid so!



Pablo: He came to the house yesterday –



Mario: Pablo, don’t!



Pablo: (Ignoring Mario) – He said he would be back this noon. But he didn’t show up. I

came because I was afraid his conscience was bothering him.



Mario: Pablo, I told you she should not know!



Pablo: It’s all right, Mario. You’d better tell her what you told me: that you no longer

believe in the way she wanted you to live. Tell her. (Mario turns his back on them)



Gloria: (Crosses to Mario) Mario . . . is this what you meant by another job? Oh, Mario . .

. you promised me you were through with him. You said you’d go straight . . . and never go back to that kind of life . . .



Mario: (Turns around and holds her arm, stammering) Gloria, . . . you . . . you must try

to understand . . . I tried . . . I tried long and . . . lift us out of this kind of life . . .



Gloria: (Crosses to center and shouts at Pablo) You’re to blame for this, you son – of –

the – Devil! You’ve come to him when you know he’s down –



Pablo: He came to me first –



Gloria: -- When you know he’ll cling to anything and do anything! Even return to the life

he hates? (Crosses to him and tries to strike him)



Pablo: (Easily warding off her fists) All right, all right, I’ll leave – just as soon as Mario is

ready to go.



Gloria: He’s not going with you! (crosses to center)



Pablo: Is that so? Why don’t you ask him? (sits on the bench, grinning)



Gloria: (Shouts) I said he’s not going!



Pablo: (Points to Mario) Go on, ask him.



Gloria: (Turns to Mario) You’re not going with him, are you, Mario? Tell that crook you’re

not going with him anywhere! Tell him to leave us and never come back! Tell him to go please, Mario, please . . .



Mario: (Holds her arm) Gloria, I . . .

Gloria: Mario . . . I know he has talked to you and tried to poison your mind again . . . but

don’t go with him. Thisis still the better way of life. If things have not been turning out well, you must know that God is not letting us down. He is only trying us.



Mario: (Holds her) Gloria, I . . .



Gloria: (Pulls away from him) You’re going! I can see that you want to go with him.

Ohhhh . … (cries) You’ll leave me here again, wondering whether you’ll be shot in the head or sent to jail!



Pablo: (Behind the tree) Don’t worry about him, Gloria. He’s safe with me. He won’t

come anywhere near jail. I’ve got connections –



Gloria: (Like a berserk beast, she rushes at him and claws at his face) You hideous

beast! You . . . You . . . Get out! Get out!



Mario: (Pulls her away) You stay there, Pablo. I’ll be with you in a minute. (Leads her to

the steps: Pablo fixes his clothes, cursing.)



Mario: (Firmly) Gloria, I’m going with him.



Gloria: Don’t, Mario, don’t . . .



Mario: You can’t make me stop now. I’ve thought about this since last week.



Gloria: No, no, Mario, no . . . (holds fast to him)



Mario: (Loosens her hold) You take good care of yourself and our child. I’ll take good

care of myself. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll come home very late. (Mario walks away with Pablo. Gloria stares dumbly at them, too spent to run after them. Then she shouts.)



Gloria: MARIOOOOO!

(She covers her face with her dress and cries into it. From inside, the daughter

joins her in crying as the curtains close.)

The Marks of the Wise Man, of the Half Wise, and of the Fool
By Rumi

The wise man is he who possesses a torch of his own;
He is the guide and leader of the caravan.
That leader is his own director and light;
That illuminated one follows his own lead.

He is his own protector; do ye also seek protection
From that light whereon his soul is nurtured.
The second, he, namely, who is half wise,
Knows the wise man to be the light of his eyes,
He clings to the wise man like a blind man to his guide,

So as to become possessed of the wise man’s sight.
But the fool, who has no particle of wisdom,
Has no wisdom of his own, and quits the wise man.
He knows nothing of the way, great or small,
And is ashamed to follow the footsteps of the guide.

He wanders into the boundless desert,
Sometimes halting and despairing , sometimes running.
He has no lamp where with to light himself on his way,
Nor half lamp which might recognize and seek light/
He lacks wisdom, so as to boast of being alive,

And so half wisdom, so as to assume to be dead.
That half wise one became as one utterly dead
In order to rise up out of his degradation.
If you lack perfect wisdom, make yourself as dead
Under the shadow of the wise, whose words give life.

The fool neither alive so as to companion with Isa,
Nor yet dead so as to feel the power of Isa’s breath.
His blind soul wanders in every direction,
And at last makes a spring, but springs not upward.

from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of NightHas flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caughtThe Sultan’s Turret in a Noose of Light.
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood beforeThe Tavern shouted – ‘Open the Door!You know how little while we have to stay,And, once departed, may return no more.’
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of SpringYour Winter-garment of Repentance fling:The Bird of Time has but a little wayTo flutter – and the Bird is on the Wing.
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread – and ThouBeside me singing in the Wilderness –Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the WiseTo talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;The Flower that once has blown forever dies.
Myself when young did eagerly frequentDoctor and Saint, and heard great ArgumentAbout it and about: but evermoreCame out by the same Door where in I went.
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,And with my own hand wrought to make it grow:And this was all the Harvest that I reap’d –‘I came like Water, and like Wind I go.’
Ah, fill the Cup – what boots it to repeatHow Time is slipping underneath our Feet:Unborn TOMORROW, and dead YESTERDAY,Why fret about them if TODAY be sweet!
But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with meThe Quarrel of the Universe let be:And, in some corner of the Hubbub coucht,Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.
For in and out, above, about, below,’Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,Play’d in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
’Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and DaysWhere Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,And one by one back in the Closet lays.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor WitShall lure it back to cancel half a Line,Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
Ah Love! could thou and I with Fate conspireTo grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,Would not we shatter it to bits – and thenRe-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!
Yon rising Moon that looks for us again –How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;How oft hereafter rising look for usThrough this same Garden – and for one in vain!
And when like her, oh Sáki, you shall passAmong the Guests Star-scatter’d on the Grass,And in your joyous errand reach the spotWhere I made One – turn down an empty Glass!
Edward Fitzgerald (1809 – 1883)Omar Khayyam (1048 – 1123)

Saki
The Open Window

"My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel," said a very self-possessed young lady of fifteen; "in the meantime you must try and put up with me."
Framton Nuttel endeavoured to say the correct something which should duly flatter the niece of the moment without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nerve cure which he was supposed to be undergoing.
"I know how it will be," his sister had said when he was preparing to migrate to this rural retreat; "you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as far as I can remember, were quite nice."
Framton wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters of introduction came into the nice division.
"Do you know many of the people round here?" asked the niece, when she judged that they had had sufficient silent communion.
"Hardly a soul," said Framton. "My sister was staying here, at the rectory, you know, some four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people here."
He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.
"Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?" pursued the self-possessed young lady.
"Only her name and address," admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowed state. An undefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation.
"Her great tragedy happened just three years ago," said the child; "that would be since your sister's time."
"Her tragedy?" asked Framton; somehow in this restful country spot tragedies seemed out of place.
< 2 >
"You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon," said the niece, indicating a large French window that opened on to a lawn.
"It is quite warm for the time of the year," said Framton; "but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?"
"Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for their day's shooting. They never came back. In crossing the moor to their favourite snipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and places that were safe in other years gave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the dreadful part of it." Here the child's voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human. "Poor aunt always thinks that they will come back someday, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear aunt, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing 'Bertie, why do you bound?' as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window - "
She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Framton when the aunt bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance.
"I hope Vera has been amusing you?" she said.
"She has been very interesting," said Framton.
"I hope you don't mind the open window," said Mrs. Sappleton briskly; "my husband and brothers will be home directly from shooting, and they always come in this way. They've been out for snipe in the marshes today, so they'll make a fine mess over my poor carpets. So like you menfolk, isn't it?"
< 3 >
She rattled on cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcity of birds, and the prospects for duck in the winter. To Framton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic, he was conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window and the lawn beyond. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary.
"The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, and avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise," announced Framton, who laboured under the tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one's ailments and infirmities, their cause and cure. "On the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement," he continued.
"No?" said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention - but not to what Framton was saying.
"Here they are at last!" she cried. "Just in time for tea, and don't they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!"
Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the niece with a look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The child was staring out through the open window with a dazed horror in her eyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear Framton swung round in his seat and looked in the same direction.
In the deepening twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window, they all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the house, and then a hoarse young voice chanted out of the dusk: "I said, Bertie, why do you bound?"
Framton grabbed wildly at his stick and hat; the hall door, the gravel drive, and the front gate were dimly noted stages in his headlong retreat. A cyclist coming along the road had to run into the hedge to avoid imminent collision.
< 4 >
"Here we are, my dear," said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window, "fairly muddy, but most of it's dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up?"
"A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Nuttel," said Mrs. Sappleton; "could only talk about his illnesses, and dashed off without a word of goodby or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost."
"I expect it was the spaniel," said the niece calmly; "he told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone lose their nerve."

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.