DIGITAL TEXT

Sruthy Suraj

STANDARD IX ENGLISH PART 2

UNIT 4 FREEDOM TO THE SLAVE

Poem 1. AND Still I Rise

Prose 1. Toba Tek Singh 2. The postmaster

And Still I Rise Maya Angelou You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? ’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Weakened by my soulful cries? Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard ’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I’ll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history’s shame I rise Up from a past that’s rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

About the Author

Maya Angelou was born Marguerite Johnson in St. Louis, Missouri, on April 4, 1928. She grew up in St. Louis and Stamps, Arkansas. She was an author, poet, historian, songwriter, playwright, dancer, stage and screen producer, director, performer, singer, and civil rights activist. She was best known for her seven autobiographical books: Mom & Me & Mom (Random House, 2013); Letter to My Daughter (Random House, 2008); All God's

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.

Questions 1. Who is the narrator/speaker poem? 2.Who is the ‘you ‘adressed in the poem? 3. Whom does the narrator sassiness upset? 4. What do ‘’oil wells in the living room’’ signify ?

Toba Tek Singh Saadat Hasan Manto Two or three years after Partition, the governments of Pakistan and India decided to exchange lunatics in the same way that they had exchanged civilian prisoners. In other words, Muslim lunatics in Indian madhouses would be sent to Pakistan, while Hindu and Sikh lunatics in Pakistani madhouses would be handed over to India. I can’t say whether this decision made sense or not. In any event, a date for the lunatic exchange was fixed after high level conferences on both sides of the border. All the details were carefully worked out. On the Indian side, Muslim lunatics with relatives in India would be allowed to stay. The remainder would be sent to the frontier. Here in Pakistan nearly all the Hindus and Sikhs were gone, so the question of retaining non-Muslim lunatics did not arise. All the Hindu and Sikh lunatics would be sent to the frontier in police custody. I don’t know what happened over there. When news of the lunatic exchange reached the madhouse here in Lahore, however, it became an absorbing topic of discussion among the inmates. There was one Muslim lunatic who had read the newspaper Zamindar1 every day for twelve years. One of his friends asked him: “Maulvi Sahib! What is Pakistan?” After careful thought he replied: “It’s a place in India where they make razors.”

Hearing this, his friend was content. One Sikh lunatic asked another Sikh: “Sardar ji, why are they sending us to India? We don’t even speak the language.” “I understand the Indian language,” the other replied, smiling. “Indians are devilish people who strut around haughtily,” he added. While bathing, a Muslim lunatic shouted “Long live Pakistan!” with such vigor that he slipped on the floor and knocked himself out. There were also some lunatics who weren’t really crazy. Most of these inmates were murderers whose families had bribed the madhouse officials to have them committed in order to save them from the hangman’s noose. These inmates understood something of why India had been divided, and they had heard of Pakistan. But they weren’t all that well informed. The newspapers didn’t tell them a great deal, and the illiterate guards who looked after them weren’t much help either. All they knew was that there was a man named Mohammed Ali Jinnah, whom people called the Qaid-eAzem. He had made a separate country for the Muslims, called Pakistan. They had no idea where it was, or what its boundaries might be. This is why all the lunatics who hadn’t entirely lost their senses were perplexed as to whether they were in Pakistan or India. If they were in India, then where was Pakistan? If they were in Pakistan, then how was it that the place where they lived had until recently been known as India?

One lunatic got so involved in this India/Pakistan question that he became even crazier. One day he climbed a tree and sat on one of its branches for two hours, lecturing without pause on the complex issues of Partition. When the guards told him to come down, he climbed higher. When they tried to frighten him with threats, he replied: “I will live neither in India nor in Pakistan. I’ll live in this tree right here!” With much difficulty, they eventually coaxed him down. When he reached the ground he wept and embraced his Hindu and Sikh friends, distraught at the idea that they would leave him and go to India. One man held an M.S. degree and had been a radio engineer. He kept apart from the other inmates, and spent all his time walking silently up and down a particular footpath in the garden. After hearing about the exchange, however, he turned in his clothes and ran naked all over the grounds. There was one fat Muslim lunatic from Chiniot who had been an enthusiastic Muslim League activist. He used to wash fifteen or sixteen times a day, but abandoned the habit overnight. His name was Mohammed Ali. One day he announced that he was the Qaid-e-Azem, Mohammed Ali Jinnah. Seeing this, a Sikh lunatic declared himself to be Master Tara Singh. Blood would have flowed, except that both were reclassified as dangerous lunatics and confined to separate quarters

There was also a young Hindu lawyer from Lahore who had gone mad over an unhappy love affair. He was distressed to hear that Amritsar was now in India, because his beloved was a Hindu girl from that city. Although she had rejected him, he had not forgotten her after losing his mind. For this reason he cursed the Muslim leaders who had split India into two parts, so that his beloved remained Indian while he became Pakistani. When news of the exchange reached the madhouse, several lunatics tried to comfort the lawyer by telling him that he would be sent to India, where his beloved lived. But he didn’t want to leave Lahore, fearing that his practice would not thrive in Amritsar. In the European Ward there were two Anglo-Indian lunatics. They were very worried to hear that the English had left after granting independence to India. In hushed tones, they spent hours discussing how this would affect their situation in the madhouse. Would the European Ward remain, or would it disappear? Would they be served English breakfasts? What, would they be forced to eat poisonous bloody Indian chapattis instead of bread?

One Sikh had been an inmate for fifteen years. He spoke a strange language of his own, constantly repeating this nonsensical phrase: “Upri gur gur di annexe di be-dhiyan o mung di daal of di lalteen.”2 He never slept. According to the guards, he hadn’t slept a wink in fifteen years. Occasionally, however, he would rest by propping himself against a wall. His feet and ankles had become swollen from standing all the time, but in spite of these physical problems he refused to lie down and rest. He would listen with great concentration whenever there was discussion of India, Pakistan and the forthcoming lunatic exchange. Asked for his opinion, he would reply with great seriousness: “Upri gur gur di annexe di be-dhiyana di mung di daal of di Pakistan gornament.”3 Later he replaced “of di Pakistan gornament” with “of di Toba Tek Singh gornament.” He also started asking the other inmates where Toba Tek Singh was, and to which country it belonged. But nobody knew whether it was in Pakistan or India. When they argued the question they only became more confused. After all, Sialkot had once been in India, but was apparently now in Pakistan. Who knew whether Lahore, which was now in Pakistan, might not go over to India tomorrow? Or whether all of India might become Pakistan? And was there any guarantee that both Pakistan and India would not one day vanish altogether?

This Sikh lunatic’s hair was unkempt and thin. Because he washed so rarely, his hair and beard had matted together, giving him a frightening appearance. But he was a harmless fellow. In fifteen years, he had never fought with anyone. The attendants knew only that he owned land in Toba Tek Singh district. Having been a prosperous landlord, he suddenly lost his mind. So his relatives bound him with heavy chains and sent him off to the madhouse. His family used to visit him once a month. After making sure that he was in good health, they would go away again. These family visits continued for many years, but they stopped when the India/ Pakistan troubles began. This lunatic’s name was Bashan Singh, but everyone called him Toba Tek Singh. Although he had very little sense of time, he seemed to know when his relatives were coming to visit. He would tell the officer in charge that his visit was impending. On the day itself he would wash his body thoroughly and comb and oil his hair. Then he would put on his best clothes and go to meet his relatives. If they asked him any question he would either remain silent or say: “Upri gur gur di annexe di bedhiyana di mung di daal of di laaltein.” Bashan Singh had a fifteen-year-old daughter who grew by a finger’s height every month. He didn’t recognize her when she came to visit him. As a small child, she used to cry whenever she saw her father. She continued to cry now that she was older. When the Partition problems began, Bashan Singh started asking the other lunatics about Toba Tek Singh. Since he never got a satisfactory answer, his concern deepened day by day.

Then his relatives stopped visiting him. Formerly he could predict their arrival, but now it was as though the voice inside him had been silenced. He very much wanted to see those people, who spoke to him sympathetically and brought gifts of flowers, sweets and clothing. Surely they could tell him whether Toba Tek Singh was in Pakistan or India. After all, he was under the impression that they came from Toba Tek Singh, where his land was. There was another lunatic in that madhouse who thought he was God. One day, Bashan Singh asked him whether Toba Tek Singh was in Pakistan or India. Guffawing, he replied: “Neither, because I haven’t yet decided where to put it!” Bashan Singh begged this “God” to resolve the status of Toba Tek Singh and thus end his perplexity. But “God” was far too busy to deal with this matter because of all the other orders that he had to give. One day Bashan Singh lost his temper and shouted: “Upri gur gur di annexe di be-dhiyana di mung di daal of wahay Guru ji wa Khalsa and wahay Guru ji ki fatah. Jo bolay so nahal sat akal!” By this he might have meant: “You are the God of the Muslims. If you were a Sikh God then you would certainly help me.” A few days before the day of the exchange, one of Bashan Singh’s Muslim friends came to visit from Toba Tek Singh. This man had never visited the madhouse before. Seeing him, Bashan Singh turned abruptly and started walking away. But the guard stopped him. “He’s come to visit you. It’s your friend Fazluddin,” the guard said. Glancing at Fazluddin, Bashan Singh muttered a bit. Fazluddin advanced and took him by the elbow. “I’ve been planning to visit you for ages, but I haven’t had the time until now,” he said. “All your relatives have gone safely to India. I helped them as much as I could. Your daughter Rup Kur . . .” Bashan Singh seemed to remember something. “Daughter Rup Kur,” he said. Fazluddin hesitated, and then replied: “Yes, she’s . . . she’s also fine. She left with them.”

Bashan Singh said nothing. Fazluddin continued: “They asked me to make sure you were all right. Now I hear that you’re going to India. Give my salaams to brother Balbir Singh and brother Wadhada Singh. And to sister Imrat Kur also . . . Tell brother Balbir Singh that I’m doing fine. One of the two brown cows that he left has calved. The other one calved also, but it died after six days. And . . . and say that if there’s anything else I can do for them, I’m always ready. And I’ve brought you some sweets.” Bashan Singh handed the package over to the guard. “Where is Toba Tek Singh?” he asked. Fazluddin was taken aback. “Toba Tek Singh? Where is it? It’s where it’s always been,” he replied. “In Pakistan or in India?” Bashan Singh persisted. Fazluddin became flustered. “It’s in India. No no, Pakistan.” Bashan Singh walked away, muttering: “Upar di gur gur di annexe di dhiyana di mung di daal of di Pakistan and Hindustan of di dar fatay mun!” Finally all the preparations for the exchange were complete. The lists of all the lunatics to be transferred were finalized, and the date for the exchange itself was fixed. The weather was very cold. The Hindu and Sikh lunatics from the Lahore madhouse were loaded into trucks under police supervision. At the Wahga border post, the Pakistani and Indian officials met each other and completed the necessary formalities. Then the exchange began. It continued all through the night.

It was not easy to unload the lunatics and send them across the border. Some of them didn’t even want to leave the trucks. Those who did get out were hard to control because they started wandering all over the place. When the guards tried to clothe those lunatics who were naked, they immediately ripped the garments off their bodies. Some cursed, some sang, and others fought. They were crying and talking, but nothing could be understood. The madwomen were creating an uproar of their own. And it was cold enough to make your teeth chatter. Most of the lunatics were opposed to the exchange. They didn’t understand why they should be uprooted and sent to some unknown place. Some, only half-mad, started shouting “Long live Pakistan!” Two or three brawls erupted between Sikh and Muslim lunatics who became enraged when they heard the slogans. When Bashan Singh’s turn came to be entered in the register, he spoke to the official in charge. “Where is Toba Tek Singh?” he asked. “Is it in Pakistan or India?” The official laughed. “It’s in Pakistan,” he replied. Hearing this, Bashan Singh leapt back and ran to where his remaining companions stood waiting. The Pakistani guards caught him and tried to bring him back to the crossing point, but he refused to go. “Toba Tek Singh is here!” he cried. Then he started raving at top volume: “Upar di gur gur di annexe di be-dhiyana mang di daal of di Toba Tek Singh and Pakistan!”

The officials tried to convince him that Toba Tek Singh was now in India. If by some chance it wasn’t they would send it there directly, they said. But he wouldn’t listen. Because he was harmless, the guards let him stand right where he was while they got on with their work. He was quiet all night, but just before sunrise he screamed. Officials came running from all sides. After fifteen years on his feet, he was lying face down on the ground. India was on one side, behind a barbed wire fence. Pakistan was on the other side, behind another fence. Toba Tek Singh lay in the middle, on a piece of land that had no name. 1 “The Landowner” 2 Literally: “The lack of contemplation and lentils of the annexe of the above raw sugar of the lantern.” 3 “Gornament”: Punjabi pronunciation of the English “government.”

About the Author Saadat Hasan Manto

A prolific writer and playwright, Saadat Hasan Manto was born on this day in Ludhiana in 1912. He died young, in his early 40s, but over the short course of his life, produced over 20 collections of short stories, a novel, radio plays, and essays. Despite his love for Bombay and intention to stay in the city, Manto migrated to Lahore, Pakistan.

Questions 1. In which Pakistan city was the lunatic asylum situated ? 2. Why did one of the lunatic climb up a tree ? 3. How did the Muslim friend from toba tek singh who came to visit Bashan Singh introduce himself ? 4.what was the response of the Anglo Indian inmates of the asylum, when they realised the English had given Hindustan freedom ?

The Postmaster Rabindranath Tagore The postmaster’s office was located in the village of Ulapur. It was a quaint village, there was an indigo plantation nearby, and so the manager—an Englishman goaded by the need for communication—had arranged for the setting up of a post office. The postmaster was a young man from Calcutta. Stationed here, away from the known limits of civilisation, he often felt like a fish out of water. His “house” was a thatched hut with failing light and a little across the horizon was a wild pond surrounded by the woods. The plantation workers seemed to have their own community. Social miscegenation between two different classes of people seemed all but impossible.

In truth, the boy from the city wasn’t good at mixing with people. Uprooted and exiled to a foreign land, his feelings oscillated between arrogance and shame. He rarely met any of the villagers. It didn’t help that there wasn’t a lot of work to begin with. At times, he tried writing. He wrote poems: poems of endless waiting, poems in which the marrow of life seemed to resonate with the faint tremble of young leaves, where the memory of existence was rejuvenated by the sight of rain clouds—and yet, in his heart of hearts, he knew that the only way he’d welcome the sight of a new life would be if some fantastical djinn from the Arabian Nights arrived at night, unawares, and secretly swept away this maze of maddening vegetation. He longed for the security of metalled roads, of tall houses which blocked the sight of clouds in the open sky. The city was spreading its tentacles, calling him back. The postmaster’s salary was meagre. He had to cook his own meals and his housework was under the care of an orphan girl called Ratan. Ratan was thirteen years old and called him dadababu. Her marital prospects seemed bleak.

Evenings would arrive with plumes of smoke rising from the cowshed. Crickets would start chirping and the songs of minstrels would hang in the air like an intoxicant. The evening would be as still as the cadence of lost poetry, the silence all around would shake the fault lines of the heart; and as all of this would take place, the postmaster would light his lamp. The flame would sputter as he’d call out, “Ratan?” Ratan would be waiting for this call. But on its arrival, she’d rush into the room, feigning surprise. “You called, dadababu?” “Are you busy?” “Well, I need to go and make the fire . . .” “You can afford to do that later, can’t you? Do be a dear and dress my tobacco . . .” Ratan would enter with the coal-filled hookah, blowing on it feverishly, as beads of sweat danced on her forehead. The postmaster would snatch it from her hands and ask, quite suddenly, “Ratan, do you remember your mother?”

Memories would flow back in; memories of yore, fragmented, fractured, halfremembered, half-forgotten. Her father, she remembered, loved her more than her mother. She remembered his smile clearly, the smile he’d carry home when he returned every evening. His face would return to her like a revenant, and the little girl, still lost in thought, would proceed to sit on the floor by the postmaster’s feet. Looking at the young man, she’d remember how she had a brother once. She’d remember the past like it was only yesterday; how they’d played by that old pond, using a branch as a fishing pole! She’d find herself remembering bits of insignificant things. The larger tragedies of life were murky. Blurry. Their conversations would often run till late at night. As the evening would mix into the night, the postmaster, overcome by a sudden lassitude, would decide to forego cooking dinner. Then they’d heat up the leftovers from the afternoon and have their fill. There were days of magnetic nostalgia—sitting on the wooden plank by the hut, the postmaster would find himself remembering his own history—his mind would spin outward, centrifugally, as he’d think of his little brother, his sister, of everyone he’d left behind. Everything he felt had already been written somewhere within; he knew what to say, and yet he never shared any of it with the people around. Instead, he’d share his stories with this little girl. It seemed to fit, somehow. In time, Ratan began referring to the characters in the postmaster’s stories by their relational names—ma, the brother, the sister. Personal history became mutual memory. She’d visited all of them in her dreams, painted their faces on the canvas of her own imagination.

One cloudless afternoon, a soft breeze wafted towards the old hut. The grass seemed to be soaked in sunlight, and a fragrance beckoned from the dense undergrowth. The warm breath of the tired earth was swimming on the skin, and it seemed as if a stubborn bird, exiled homeward, was singing its song of disquiet at the Gates of Creation. The postmaster had nothing to do—the very sight of dewy leaves coupled with the castles of grey in the midday sky seemed to fill him with a sense of the sublime. But sublimity was the tension of opposites. He was infinite and infinitesimal, engulfed by a gaping emptiness—if only, if only he had someone to share this with! And just like that, all of nature was echoing his abyssal vacancy. My heart is in free fall. Won’t anyone catch it? This was the song of the migratory bird, this was the whisper of the shimmering leaves. But then again, who’d believe—who’d even know—that such thoughts occurred to a poorly paid postmaster in a village? The postmaster sighed. “Ratan!” he called out. The little girl had been playing under the guava trees. Hearing her master’s call, she rushed into his room. “You called?” she asked, panting. “I want to teach you how to read.” And so began their voyage on the steady sea of intonations, consonants, vowels, and pronunciation. Soon, Ratan could read simple words.

Monsoon was a metaphor of melancholy. The rain was continuous; all the ponds and drains were spilling over. The sounds of incessant downpour drowned the voice of the village. Traffic had come to a standstill—boats had become amphibious, climbing onto land. You had to navigate unsteady waters to reach the bazaar. On one such afternoon, the sky turned menacingly dark. The little student had been waiting outside for a long while for her scheduled call, but when it didn’t arrive, she mustered up her courage and walked into the postmaster’s room. Her master was laying on his cot under a pile of blankets. Believing that she was, in fact, intruding upon his hour of leisure, Ratan slowly tiptoed out of the room. As she reached the threshold, a familiar voice pulled her back. “Ratan?” The girl turned. “Were you sleeping, dadababu?” The postmaster’s voice was weak, tremulous as an autumn leaf. “I don’t feel so good. C-could you touch my forehead?” Stuck there, in the middle of nowhere, his broken body ached for a touch of familiarity. He thought of his mother. He longed for the gravity of her hands on his burning body. He wanted to believe that his mother and his sister were right there with him, in that room. But there was someone in that room. Something was happening to Ratan. The pale fire of steady resolution crackled under her skin. In the force of an instant, she assumed the authority of a mother. Rushing out of the hut, she called the local doctor, stayed awake for the entirety of the night, crushing herbs, and feeding them to her patient, punctuating the stillness of this frightening night with the words, “Are you feeling better, dadababu

It took the postmaster weeks to recover from his illness. When he had completely recuperated, he thought to himself, “Enough is enough!” He had to get out of here. He had to. He immediately wrote a letter to his superiors in Calcutta asking for a transfer on medical grounds. Her duties relieved, Ratan spent her days outside his room, book in hand, waiting for that old call. But the call never arrived. She’d peep into the room from time to time only to be greeted by the sight of a strange weariness: her dadababu would be there, sitting quite still on the small stool, or in bed, looking up at the underbelly of the thatched roof. And while Ratan waited for her familiar call, the postmaster spent his days waiting for a reply to his letter. Not wanting to be caught off guard, the little girl could often be seen sitting outside the postmaster’s room, studying her old notes diligently. Finally, after weeks of waiting, Ratan was called in one evening. Nursing secret excitement and tender trepidation, she walked into the room. “Dadababu, you called?” “Ratan,” he began, “I’m leaving tomorrow.” “Where are you going, dadababu?” “I’m going home.” “When will you come back?” The postmaster pursed his lips. “I don’t think I will.”

Ratan stood still for a while. Words seemed to be losing their way in the labyrinth of her silence. Oblivious, the postmaster continued, “I’d written a letter to my superiors in Calcutta, you see . . .” He then proceeded to tell her how his request had been accepted, and that he’d be leaving the moment the new postmaster arrived. A long, pregnant silence ensued. The world was still. Utterly still. The faint flame of the earthen lamp flickered meekly; the rain had sliced through the skin of the roof. A steady string of raindrops formed a puddle in the corner of the room. Drip. Drip. After a while, Ratan slowly got up. She walked to the kitchen and busied herself in preparing dinner. It took longer than usual. The wait was filled with words to say, but the silence, deafening and absolute, seemed to fill the distance in between. Once the postmaster had finished eating, Ratan looked up at him. “Dadababu, will you take me with you?” The young man stared at the girl and then laughed. “That’s ridiculous!” He didn’t feel the need to explain to the little girl the incongruity of her innocent plea. That night, suspended between the fields of dreams and wakefulness, a single phrase echoed in the caves of Ratan’s heart. The sound of familiar laughter. One phrase.

The postmaster woke up the next morning to find his bathwater ready. He’d carried across his habit of bathing indoors from the city. Unable to ask him when he was leaving, Ratan had left the hut early in the morning and kept the water ready for him, as one last act of service. When the little girl was called a while later, she slowly walked into the room and stared at the man standing in front of her. “I’ll ask the new postmaster to take good care of you, Ratan,” the postmaster said, “You won’t even notice I’m gone.” It was true that these words were born out of feelings of love and sympathy, but they fell like flames on the petals of the girl’s heart. Ratan had spent her days tolerating ridicule, numbing herself to insult. What she wasn’t ready for was this unexpected gift of kindness. Shaken, she burst into tears. “No no! You don’t have to say anything! I don’t want to stay here!” The postmaster stared, taken aback. He wasn’t used to Ratan’s outbursts of emotion. The incumbent arrived shortly after. Once he’d explained everything, the old postmaster got up, ready to leave. Reaching the maw of the open door, he turned to Ratan. “Listen, Ratan. I never thanked you for everything you did. Now that I’m leaving, I want to give you something. Keep this. It’ll make your ends meet for some time at least.” The postmaster handed her a pouch. Peering inside, Ratan found that it contained all of her master’s earnings. Stunned, the little girl fell onto the floor, clutching the postmaster’s feet.

Dadababu!” she stuttered, “I b-beg of you! You don’t have to give me anything! Please! Please! I don’t want your kindness! No one—no one has to take charge of me!” And she ran out, vanishing into the mist enveloping the hut. Sighing, the postmaster gathered his things, he slung a carpenter bag across his waist, picked up his bags, and walked to the riverbank where a boat was waiting for him. When the boat finally slid into the current, the rain-kissed river trembled like an ocean of endless longing. It was then that the postmaster felt the sudden weight of crushing grief that his heart was gravitating with, swimming against the current . . . towards a familiar face, that little girl’s face; that face filled with words left unspoken. “I should turn back,” he thought to himself. “Let me take her with me; she, who has always been neglected. She, who has never been welcomed.” But by then, the wind had begun pushing the sails; the monsoon river was churning its waters, the village lay far behind, and a graveyard could be seen at a distance. The lukewarm heart of the voyager consoled itself with eternal philosophy: life was a river of partings and departings, of death and uprooting,

But Ratan’s little heart harboured no such philosophy. She had been circling the old hut cradled in the river of her own tears. Perhaps she nursed a tender hope that her dadababu would return one day. Anchored by its roots, she refused to move away from the debris of her own heartbreak. Oh, heart! How irrational, how human! Denying the erroneous, we turn a blind eye to the dictates of reason. Courting disbelief, we go on, clinging to false hope with unending might. We go on, until the day the cords are cut. Until the day the heart is bled dry and finally cracks. And then we wake up; opening our wounds once more, we run back to the same places, to those same faces, to that same precipice of disaster, welcoming danger, challenging life with all its misadventures, ceaselessly, back to the start.

About the Author Rabindranath Tagore

Rabindranath Tagore, Bengali Rabīndranāth Ṭhākur, (born May 7, 1861, Calcutta [now Kolkata], India—died August 7, 1941, Calcutta), Bengali poet, short-story writer, song composer, playwright, essayist, and painter who introduced new prose and verse forms and the use of colloquial language into Bengali literature, thereby freeing it from traditional models based on classical Sanskrit. He was highly influential in introducing Indian culture to the West and vice versa, and he is generally regarded as the outstanding creative artist of early 20th-century India. In 1913 he became the first non-European to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Questions 1. What memories did Ratna have about her past ? 2. What did Ranta do when the Postmaster fell sick? 3.why did postmaster stop teaching Ratna? 4.Draw a character sketch of Postmaster.