Sunday, September 1, 2024

Short Story: The Last Leaf by O. Henry

TOPIC OF THE BLOG:

In this blog, you can read about the short story titled "The Last Leaf" by O. Henry.

THE LAST LEAF

The Last Leaf by O. Henry In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account! 

 So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony." 

 At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'hôte of an Eighth Street "Delmonico's," and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted. 

 That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places." 

Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house. 

One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, grey eyebrow. 

"She has one chance in - let us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. " And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?" 

"She - she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day." said Sue. 

"Paint? - bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice - a man for instance?" 

"A man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth - but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind." 

"Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten." 

After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime. 

Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep. 

She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature. 

As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside. 

Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting - counting backward. 

"Twelve," she said, and little later "eleven"; and then "ten," and "nine"; and then "eight" and "seven", almost together. 

Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks. 

"What is it, dear?" asked Sue. 

"Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now." 

"Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie." 

"Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?" 

"Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were - let's see exactly what he said - he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self." 

"You needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too." 

"Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by tomorrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down." 

"Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly. 

"I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Beside, I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves." 

"Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves." 

"Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move 'til I come back." 

Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above.

Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker. 

Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings. 

"Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy." 

"She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn't. But I think you are a horrid old - old flibbertigibbet." 

"You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes." 

Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an upturned kettle for a rock. 

When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide open eyes staring at the drawn green shade. 

"Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper. 

Wearily Sue obeyed. 

But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground. 

"It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time." 

"Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?" 

But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesome thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed. 

The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves. 

When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised. 

The ivy leaf was still there. 

Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove. 

"I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and - no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook." 

And hour later she said: 

"Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples." 

The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left. 

"Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll win." And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is - some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable." 

The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now - that's all."

And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all. 

"I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia today in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colours mixed on it, and - look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece - he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell."

Short Story: The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry

TOPIC OF THE BLOG:

In this blog, you can read about the short story titled "The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry.

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young.”

The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling—something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: “Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the “Sofronie.”

“Will you buy my hair?” asked Della.

“I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.”

Down rippled the brown cascade.

“Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

“Give it to me quick,” said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim’s present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation—as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value—the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends—a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

“If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he takes a second look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do—oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?”

At 7 o’clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying a little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: “Please God, make him think I am still pretty.”

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two—and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

“Jim, darling,” she cried, “don’t look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn’t have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It’ll grow out again—you won’t mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say ‘Merry Christmas!’ Jim, and let’s be happy. You don’t know what a nice—what a beautiful, nice gift I’ve got for you.”

“You’ve cut off your hair?” asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

“Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you like me just as well, anyhow? I’m me without my hair, ain’t I?”

Jim looked about the room curiously.

“You say your hair is gone?” he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

“You needn’t look for it,” said Della. “It’s sold, I tell you—sold and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered,” she went on with sudden serious sweetness, “but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?”

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year—what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

“Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don’t think there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first.”

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs—the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims—just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: “My hair grows so fast, Jim!”

And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, “Oh, oh!”

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

“Isn’t it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.”

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

“Dell,” said he, “let’s put our Christmas presents away and keep ’em a while. They’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on.”

The magi, as you know, were wise men—wonderfully wise men—who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

Short Story: Doctor's Word by R. K. Narayan

TOPIC OF THE BLOG:
In this blog, you can read about the short story titled "Doctor's Word" by R. K. Narayan.

DOCTOR'S WORD
People came to him when the patient was on his last legs. Dr. Raman often burst out, "Why couldn't you have come a day earlier?" The reason was obvious visiting fee twenty-five rupees, and more than that people liked to shirk the fact that the time had come to call in Dr. Raman; for them there was something ominous in the very association. As a result when the big man came on the scene it was always a quick decision one way or another. There was no scope or time for any kind of wavering or whitewashing. 
Long years of practice of this kind had bred in the doctor a certain curt truthfulness; for that very reason his opinion was valued; he was not a mere doctor expressing an opinion but a judge pronouncing a verdict. The patient's life hung on his words. This never unduly worried Dr. Raman. He never believed that agreeable words ever saved lives. He did not think it was any of his business to provide unnecessary dope when as a matter of course Nature would tell them the truth in a few hours. However, when he glimpsed the faintest sign of hope, he rolled up his sleeve and stepped into the arena: it might be hours or days, but he never withdrew till he wrested the prize from Tama's hands.
Today, standing over a bed, the doctor felt that he himself needed someone to tell him soothing lies. He mopped his brow with his kerchief and sat down in the chair beside the bed. On the bed lay his dearest friend in the world: Gopal. They had known each other for forty years now, starting with their Kindergarten days. They could not, of course, meet as much as they wanted, each being wrapped in his own family and profession. Occasionally, on a Sunday, Gopal would walk into the consulting room, and wait patiently in a corner till the doctor was free. And then they would dine together, see a picture, and talk of each other's life and activities. It was a classic friendship standing over, untouched by changing times, circumstances, and activities. 
In his busy round of work, Dr. Raman had not noticed that Gopal had not called in for over three months now. He just remembered it when he saw Gopal's son sitting on a bench in the consulting hall, one crowded morning. Dr. Raman could not talk to him for over an hour. When he got up and was about to pass on to the operation room, he called up the young man and asked, "What brings you here, sir?"
The youth was nervous and shy." 
Mother sent me here." 
"What can I do for you ?" 
"Father is ill ..."
It was an operation day and he was not free till three in the afternoon. He rushed off straight from the clinic to his friend's house, in Lawley Extension. 
Gopal lay in bed as if in sleep. The doctor stood over him and asked Gopal's wife, "How long has he been in bed?"
"A month and a half, doctor."
"Who is attending him?"
"A doctor in the next street. He comes down once in three days and gives him medicine."
"What is his name? "He had never heard of him. "Someone I don't know, but I wish he had had the goodness to tell me about it. Why, why, couldn't you have sent me word earlier?"
"We thought you would be busy and did not wish to trouble you unnecessarily." They were apologetic and miserable. There was hardly any time to be lost. He took off his coat and opened his bag. He took out an injection tube, the needle sizzled over the stove. The sick man's wife whimpered in a corner and essayed to ask questions.
"Please don't ask questions," snapped the doctor. He looked at the children who were watching the sterilizer, and said," Send them all away somewhere, except the eldest."
He shot in the drug, sat back in his chair, and gazed on the patient's face for over an hour. The patient still remained motionless. The doctor's face gleamed with perspiration, and his eyelids drooped with fatigue. The sick man's wife stood in a corner and watched silently.
She asked timidly, "Doctor, shall I make some coffee for you?" "No," he replied, although he felt famished, having missed his midday meal. He got up and said, "I will be back in a few minutes. Don't disturb him on any account." He picked up his bag and went to his car. In a quarter of an hour he was back, followed by an assistant and a nurse. The doctor told the lady of the house, "I have to perform an operation."
"Why, why? Why?" she asked faintly.
"I will tell you all that soon. Will you leave your son here to help us, and go over to the next house and stay there till I call you?"
The lady felt giddy and sank down on the floor, unable to bear the strain. The nurse attended to her and led her out. At about eight in the evening the patient opened his eyes and stirred slightly in bed. The assistant was overjoyed. He exclaimed enthusiastically, "Sir, he will pull through ."The doctor looked at him coldly and whispered: "I would give anything to see him through but, but the heart..."
"The pulse has improved, Sir."
"Well, well," replied the doctor. "Don't trust it. It is only a false flash-up, very common in these cases." He ruminated for a while and added, "If the pulse will keep up till eight in the morning, it will go on for the next forty years, but I doubt very much if we shall see anything of it at all after two tonight."
He sent away the assistant and sat beside the patient. At about eleven the patient opened his eyes and smiled at his friend. He showed a slight improvement, he was able to take in a little food. A great feeling of relief and joy went through the household. They swarmed around the doctor and poured out their gratitude. He sat in his seat beside the bed, gazing sternly at the patient's face, hardly showing any signs of hearing what they were saying to him.
The sick man's wife asked, "Is he now out of danger ?"
Without turning his head the doctor said, "Give glucose and brandy every forty minutes; just a couple of spoons will do." The lady went away to the kitchen. She felt restless. She felt she must know the truth whatever it was. Why was the great man so evasive?
The suspense was unbearable. Perhaps he could not speak so near the patient's bed. She beckoned to him from the kitchen doorway. The doctor rose and went over. She asked, "What about him now? How is he?" The doctor bit his lips and replied, looking at the floor, "Don't get excited. Unless you must know about it, don't ask now."
Her eyes opened wide in terror. She clasped her hands together and implored: "Tell me the truth." The doctor replied, "I would rather not talk to you now." He turned round and went back to his chair. A terrible wailing shot through the still house; the patient stirred and looked about in bewilderment. The doctor got up again, went over to the kitchen door, drew it in securely and shut off the wail.
When the doctor resumed his seat the patient asked in the faintest whisper possible, "Is that someone crying? "The doctor advised, "Don't exert your self. You mustn't talk." He felt the pulse. It was already agitated by the exertion.
The patient asked, "Am I going? Don't hide it from me."
The doctor made a deprecating noise and sat back in his chair. He had never faced a situation like this. It was not in his nature to whitewash. People attached great value to his word because of that. He stole a look at the other. The patient motioned a finger to draw him nearer and whispered, " I must know how long I am going to last. I must sign the will. It is all ready. Ask my wife for the dispatch box. You must sign as a witness."
"Oh!" the doctor exclaimed. "You are exerting yourself too much. You must be quieter." He felt idiotic to be repeating it." How fine it would be, "he reflected," to drop the whole business and run away somewhere without answering any question!"
The patient clutched the doctor's wrist with his weak fingers and said, "Ramu, it is my good fortune that you are here at this moment. I can trust your word. I can't leave my property unsettled. That will mean endless misery for my wife and children. You know all about Subbiah and his gang. Let me sign before it is too late. Tell me...."
"Yes, presently," replied the doctor. He walked off to his car, sat in the back seat and reflected. He looked at his watch. Midnight. If the will was to be signed, it must be done within the next two hours, or never. He could not be responsible for a mess there; he knew too well the family affairs and about those wolves, Subbiah and his gang...But what could he do? If he asked him to sign the Will, it would virtually mean a death sentence and destroy the thousandth part of a chance that the patient had of survival.
He got down from the car and went in. He resumed his seat in the chair. The patient was staring at him appealingly. The doctor said to him- self," If my word can save his life, he shall not die. The will be damned." He called, "Gopal, listen." This was the first time he was going to do a piece of acting before a patient, simulate a feeling, and conceal his judgment. He stooped over the patient and said with deliberate emphasis, "Don't worry about the will now. You are going to live. Your heart is absolutely sound." A new glow suffused the patient's face as he heard it. He asked in a tone of relief," Do you say so? If it comes from your lips it must be true..."
The doctor said, "Quite right. You are improving every second. Sleep in peace. You must not exert yourself on any account. You must sleep very soundly. I will sec you in the morning." The patient looked at him gratefully for a moment and then dosed his eyes. The doctor picked up his bag and went out shutting the door softly behind him.
On his way home he stopped for a moment at his hospital, called out his assistant, and said, "That Lawley Extension case. You might expect the collapse any second now. Go there with a tube of ... in hand, and give it in case the struggle is too hard at the end. Hurry up”
Next morning he was back at Lawley Extension at ten. From his car he made a dash for the sick bed.
The patient was awake and looked very well. The assistant reported satisfactory pulse. The doctor put his tube at his heart, listened for a while, and told the sick man's wife, "Don't look so unhappy, lady. Your husband will live to be ninety." When they were going back to the hospital, the assistant sitting beside him in the car asked, "Is he going to live, sir ?"
"I will bet on it. He will live to be ninety. He has turned the corner. How he has survived this attack will be a puzzle to me all my life," replied the doctor.

Short Story: An Astrologer's Day by R. K. Narayan

TOPIC OF THE BLOG:
In this blog, you can read about the short story titled "An Astrologer's Day" by R. K. Narayan.

AN ASTROLOGER'S DAY
Punctually at midday he opened his bag and spread out his professional equipment, which consisted of a dozen cowrie shells, a square piece of cloth with obscure mystic charts on it, a notebook, and a bundle of palmyra writing. His forehead was resplendent with sacred ash and vermilion, and his eyes sparkled with a sharp, abnormal gleam which was really an outcome of a continual searching look for customers, but which his simple clients took to be a prophetic light and felt comforted.
The power of his eyes was considerably enhanced by their position—placed as they were between the painted forehead and the dark whiskers which streamed down his cheeks: even a half-wit’s eyes would sparkle in such a setting. To crown the effect he wound a saffron-colored turban around his head. This color scheme never failed.
People were attracted to him as bees are attracted to cosmos or dahlia stalks. He sat under the boughs of a spreading tamarind tree which flanked a path running through the town hall park. It was a remarkable place in many ways: a surging crowd was always moving up and down this narrow road morning till night. A variety of trades and occupations was represented all along its way: medicine sellers, sellers of stolen hardware and junk, magicians, and, above all, an auctioneer of cheap cloth, who created enough din all day to attract the whole town. Next to him in vociferousness came a vendor of fried groundnut, who gave his ware a fancy name each day, calling it “Bombay Ice Cream” one day, and on the next “Delhi Almond,” and on the third “Raja’s Delicacy,” and so on and so forth, and people flocked to him. A considerable portion of this crowd dallied before the astrologer too. The astrologer transacted his business by the light of a flare which crackled and smoked up above the groundnut heap nearby.
Half the enchantment of the place was due to the fact that it did not have the benefit of municipal lighting. The place was lit up by shop lights. One or two had hissing gaslights, some had naked flares stuck on poles, some were lit up by old cycle lamps, and one or two, like the astrologer’s, managed without lights of their own. It was a bewildering crisscross of light rays and moving shadows. This suited the astrologer very well, for the simple reason that he had not in the least intended to be an astrologer when he began life; and he knew no more of what was going to happen to others than he knew what was going to happen to himself next minute. He was as much a stranger to the stars as were his innocent customers. Yet he said things which pleased and astonished everyone: that was more a matter of study, practice, and shrewd guesswork. All the same, it was as much an honest man’s labor as any other, and he deserved the wages he carried home at the end of a day.
He had left his village without any previous thought or plan. If he had continued there he would have carried on the work of his forefathers—namely, tilling the land, living, marrying, and ripening in his cornfield and ancestral home. But that was not to be. He had to leave home without telling anyone, and he could not rest till he left it behind a couple of hundred miles. To a villager it is a great deal, as if an ocean flowed between.
He had a working analysis of mankind’s troubles: marriage, money, and the tangles of human ties. Long practice had sharpened his perception. Within five minutes he understood what was wrong. He charged three paise8 per question, never opened his mouth till the other had spoken for at least ten minutes, which provided him enough stuff for a dozen answers and advices. When he told the person before him, gazing at his palm, “In many ways you are not getting the results for your efforts,” nine out of ten were disposed to agree with him. Or he questioned: “Is there any woman in your family, maybe even a distant relative, who is not well disposed towards you?” Or he gave an analysis of character: “Most of your troubles are due to your nature. How can you be otherwise with Saturn where he is? You have an impetuous nature and a rough exterior.” This endeared him to their hearts immediately, for even the mildest of us loves to think that he has a forbidding exterior.
The nuts vendor blew out his flare and rose to go home. This was a signal for the astrologer to bundle up too, since it left him in darkness except for a little shaft of green light which strayed in from somewhere and touched the ground before him. He picked up his cowrie shells and paraphernalia and was putting them back into his bag when the green shaft of light was blotted out; he looked up and saw a man standing before him. He sensed a possible client and said, “You look so careworn. It will do you good to sit down for a while and chat with me.” The other grumbled some reply vaguely. The astrologer pressed his invitation; whereupon the other thrust his palm under his nose, saying, “You call yourself an astrologer?” The astrologer felt challenged and said, tilting the other’s palm towards the green shaft of light, “Yours is a nature ...” “Oh, stop that,” the other said. “Tell me something worthwhile....”
Our friend felt piqued. “I charge only three paise per question, and what you get ought to be good enough for your money....” At this the other withdrew his arm, took out an anna, and flung it out to him, saying, “I have some questions to ask. If I prove you are bluffing, you must return that anna to me with interest.”
“If you find my answers satisfactory, will you give me five rupees?”
“No.”
“Or will you give me eight annas?”
“All right, provided you give me twice as much if you are wrong,” said the stranger. This pact was accepted after a little further argument. The astrologer sent up a prayer to heaven as the other lit a cheroot. The astrologer caught a glimpse of his face by the match light. There was a pause as cars hooted on the road, jutka drivers swore at their horses, and the babble of the crowd agitated the semidarkness of the park. The other sat down, sucking his cheroot, puffing out, sat there ruthlessly. The astrologer felt very uncomfortable. “Here, take your anna back. I am not used to such challenges. It is late for me today....”
He made preparations to bundle up. The other held his wrist and said, “You can’t get out of it now. You dragged me in while I was passing.” The astrologer shivered in his grip; and his voice shook and became faint. “Leave me today. I will speak to you tomorrow.” The other thrust his palm in his face and said, “Challenge is challenge. Go on.” The astrologer proceeded with his throat drying up, “There is a woman ...”
“Stop,” said the other “I don’t want all that. Shall I succeed in my present search or not? Answer this and go. Otherwise I will not let you go till you disgorge all your coins.” The astrologer muttered a few incantations and replied, “All right. I will speak. But will you give me a rupee if what I say is convincing? Otherwise I will not open my mouth, and you may do what you like.” After a good deal of haggling the other agreed. The astrologer said, “You were left for dead. Am I right?”
“Ah, tell me more.”
“A knife has passed through you once?” said the astrologer.
“Good fellow!” He bared his chest to show the scar. “What else?”
“And then you were pushed into a well nearby in the field. You were left for dead.”
“I should have been dead if some passerby had not chanced to peep into the well,” exclaimed the other, overwhelmed by enthusiasm. “When shall I get at him?” he asked, clenching his fist.
“In the next world,” answered the astrologer. “He died four months ago in a far-off town. You will never see any more of him.” The other groaned on hearing it. The astrologer proceeded:
“Guru Nayak—”
“You know my name!” the other said, taken aback.
“As I know all other things. Guru Nayak, listen carefully to what I have to say. Your village is two days’ journey due north of this town. Take the next train and be gone. I see once again great danger to your life if you go from home.” He took out a pinch of sacred ash and held it to him. “Rub it on your forehead and go home. Never travel southward again, and you will live to be a hundred.”
“Why should I leave home again?” the other said reflectively. “I was only going away now and then to look for him and to choke out his life if I met him.” He shook his head regretfully. “He has escaped my hands. I hope at least he died as he deserved.” “Yes,” said the astrologer. “He was crushed under a lorry.” The other looked gratified to hear it.
The place was deserted by the time the astrologer picked up his articles and put them into his bag. The green shaft was also gone, leaving the place in darkness and silence. The stranger had gone off into the night, after giving the astrologer a handful of coins.
It was nearly midnight when the astrologer reached home. His wife was waiting for him at the door and demanded an explanation. He flung the coins at her and said, “Count them. One man gave all that.”
“Twelve and a half annas,” she said, counting. She was overjoyed. “I can buy some jaggery and coconut tomorrow. The child has been asking for sweets for so many days now. I will prepare some nice stuff for her.” “The swine has cheated me! He promised me a rupee,” said the astrologer. She looked up at him. “You look worried. What is wrong?”
“Nothing.”
After dinner, sitting on the pyol, he told her, “Do you know a great load is gone from me today? I thought I had the blood of a man on my hands all these years. That was the reason why I ran away from home, settled here, and married you. He is alive.”
She gasped. “You tried to kill!”
“Yes, in our village, when I was a silly youngster. We drank, gambled, and quarreled badly one day—why think of it now? Time to sleep,” he said, yawning, and stretched himself on the pyol.

NOTE: If You have any suggestions, doubts or complaints please do contact on my Social Media or comment it down.

Thursday, June 20, 2024

Master's Dissertation

TOPIC OF THE BLOG:-
This blog includes the necessary information about my Master's Dissertation.

Topic: Beyond Borders: Understanding Anime and Manga Fandom: A Comprehensive Audience Analysis

Paper code: 22417- Dissertation Writing

Supervised by Prof. (Dr.) Dilip Barad, Department of English, MKBU
Co-supervised by Ms. Megha Trivedi, Department of English, MKBU

Submitted by Pooja Bhuva

ABOUT DISSERTATION:-
This dissertation explores the world of anime and manga fandom, focusing on the dedicated viewers and readers who form the core audience for these popular Japanese art forms. The research delves into the realms of audience studies and fan studies, offering a comprehensive examination of this unique subculture.
By providing a detailed historical context for manga (Japanese graphic novels) and anime (Japanese animated productions), the dissertation aims to shed light on the deeper meanings and cultural significance of these art forms. Recognizing the relative novelty of this topic, especially for a master's student from Gujarat, the research aims to contribute to an underexplored area of scholarly inquiry.
The dissertation is structured around the following key points:
  1. Audience Studies
  2. Fan Studies
  3. Otaku Culture
  4. Weeb
  5. Historical Context of Manga and Anime
  6. Evolution of Anime and Manga Fandom
  7. Global Reach and Cultural Impact
  8. Perks and Flaws of Reading Manga & Watching Anime
  9. Fan Preferences and Contribution
  10. Fan Subbing & Creative Works
  11. Cosplay Quest
  12. Digital Bootlegging
  13. Future of Anime and Manga
  14. Educational and Pedagogical Applications
  15. Survey
Through this comprehensive investigation, the dissertation aims to provide a nuanced understanding of the anime and manga fan experience, contributing to the growing body of literature on media fandom and expanding the academic discourse on these influential cultural forms.

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Grau, Carmen. “Anime and Manga creators: dream workers pushed to the limit?” Equal Times, 15 February 2024, https://www.equaltimes.org/anime-and-manga-creators-dream?lang=en. Accessed 18 March 2024.

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Mondal, Hansa. “Decoding the importance of 'storytelling' in animation.” Times of India, 9 October 2022, https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/blogs/voices/decoding-the-importance-of-storytelling-in-animation/. Accessed 16 March 2024.

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Murakami, Haruki. "In Japan they prefer the realistic style. They like answers and conclusions, but my stories have none. I want to leave them wide open to every possibility. I think my readers understand that openness." Accessed 20 March 2024.

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Patten, Fred. Watching Anime, Reading Manga: 25 Years of Essays and Reviews. United States, Stone Bridge Press, 2004.

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Saikia, Rishiraj. “Anime Effect on Japan's Economy: Investigating the Unprecedented Rise.” Spiel Anime, 15 December 2023, https://www.spielanime.com/anime/anime-effect-on-japans-economy-investigating-the-unprecedented-rise/. Accessed 22 February 2024.

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Sharer, Linda. "Introduction to Girls' Anime." The University of Michigan Japanese Animation Group, 2001.

Sharp, Jasper. “Midnight Eye feature: Pioneers of Japanese Animation at PIFan – Part 1.” Midnight Eye, 23 September 2004, http://www.midnighteye.com/features/pioneers-of-japanese-animation-at-pifan-part-1/. Accessed 13 March 2024.

Sieg, Linda. "Japan Finds Films by Early 'Anime' Pioneers." Reuters, 27 March 2008, https://www.reuters.com/article/us-japan-anime-pioneers/japan-finds-films-by-early-anime-pioneers-idUST23069120080327/. Accessed 10 Mar. 2024

Strusiewicz, Cezary Jan. “Tracing the Origins of Japanese Comics With Toba Sojo.” Tokyo Weekender, 3 July 2023, https://www.tokyoweekender.com/art_and_culture/japanese-culture/toba-sojo-manga/. Accessed 7 March 2024.

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Suzuki, Shige (CJ), and Ronald Stewart. Manga: A Critical Guide. Bloomsbury Academic, 2022.

Taihei, Imamura, and Thomas Lamarre. “Japanese Cartoon Films.” Mechademia: Second Arc, vol. 9, 2014, pp. 107–24. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.5749/mech.9.2014.0107. Accessed 7 Mar. 2024.

Thompson, Sarah E. Hokusai. 1st ed., MFA Publications, Museum of Fine Arts Boston, 1951, p. 19.

Winge, Theresa. “Costuming the Imagination: Origins of Anime and Manga Cosplay.” Mechademia, vol. 1, 2006, pp. 65–76. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/41510878. Accessed 17 Mar. 2024.

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Yamaguchi, Katsunori, and Watanabe, Yasushi. Nihon animation eigashi. Japan, Yubunsha, 1977.

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Tuesday, May 7, 2024

Digital Portfolio Project

TOPIC OF THE BLOG:-

This blog contains information about creating digital portfolios and implementing project-based learning. It also showcases examples of digital portfolios made using Google Sites, including one created by the author. The blog aims to provide guidance and inspiration for educators and students looking to leverage online tools and platforms to showcase their work and document their learning experiences effectively. (rewritten version by Claude AI)

WHAT IS DIGITAL PORTFOLIO?

A digital portfolio is a collection of digital artifacts that showcase a person's skills, experiences, accomplishments, and work samples. It is a way for individuals, such as artists, designers, writers, developers, educators, and professionals from various fields, to present their work in a digital format that can be easily shared, accessed, and viewed online.

Digital portfolios typically include a variety of media such as images, videos, audio recordings, documents, and links to websites or online projects. They are often used by job seekers to demonstrate their qualifications to potential employers, by students to showcase their academic achievements and projects, and by professionals to highlight their expertise and track record in their respective industries.

Key features of a digital portfolio may include:

1. Introduction: A brief bio or introduction that provides context about the individual and their background.

2. Work Samples: Examples of projects, assignments, or creative works that demonstrate the individual's skills and abilities. These can include design projects, writing samples, code snippets, artwork, presentations, and more.

3. Resume/CV: A summary of the individual's education, work experience, skills, certifications, and other relevant information.

4. Testimonials/Recommendations: Endorsements or recommendations from peers, clients, teachers, or supervisors that validate the individual's skills and contributions.

5. Contact Information: How to get in touch with the individual for inquiries, collaborations, or job opportunities.

6. Design and Organization: A visually appealing and well-organized layout that enhances the overall presentation of the portfolio and makes it easy to navigate.

Digital portfolios can be created using various online platforms, such as personal websites, portfolio hosting services, social media platforms, and specialized portfolio-building tools. They offer a dynamic and interactive way for individuals to showcase their work and establish their professional presence in the digital space. (Chat GPT)

PORTFOLIOS OF BATCH 2022-24 - Department of English, MKBU:-

  1. Aarti Sarvaiya (Click here)
  2. Anjali Rathod (Click here)
  3. Avni Jani (Click here)
  4. Bhavyata Kukadiya (Click here)
  5. Drashti Joshi (Click here)
  6. Gayatri Nimavat (Click here)
  7. Ghanshyam Katariya (Click here)
  8. Gopi Dervaliya (Click here)
  9. Hetal Pathak (Click here)
  10. Hina Parmar (Click here)
  11. Insiyafatema Alvani (Click here)
  12. Mansi Gujdiya (Click here)
  13. Nirali Dabhi (Click here)
  14. Payal Bambhaniya (Click here)
  15. Pooja Bhuva (Click here)
  16. Rajeshvariba Rana (Click here)
  17. Riddhi Rathod (Click here)
  18. Rinkal Dangar (Click here)
  19. Trushali Dodiya (Click here)
  20. Upasna Goswami (Click here)

PRESENTATION - DIGITAL PORTFOLIO:-
  • Watch this video to understand the importance of Digital Portfolio Provided by Dilip Barad Sir.

Link of Live Sessions:-
Part 1 -

Part 2 -


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