\documentstyle[12pt]{article}
\begin{document}


\begin{center}
{\bf Before The Curtain Lifts Up}\\
\end{center}

Hello All,

Wish you a happy new year and a happy new decade!

A cultural volume for soc.culture.indian?  Whatever for?
As the compiler and editor of this volume, my
intention has been to demonstrate that there is as
much creative genius on SCI as there are analytical
minds.  In this volume you will find several
sparkling examples of creative genius, embodied in
various literary forms -- humorous essay, poetry, 
short story, translation and criticism.  I hope
that you will enjoy these writings as much as
I do.  I hope this volume will establish that SCI
has many good things to its credit.

I thank all the writers who responded
at such a short notice; I wrote to them on the
7th of December.  Most of the writings in this
collection are new; some are revised versions of
their originals.  I have tried my best to include
all the creative writers on SCI in this volume.  
If some names are missing, it is either because I could
not contact them due to e-mail problems or because
they were busy with their work.

I hope that other netters will come forward to 
edit special volumes for other occasions.  
These volumes can also have specific themes,
say classical music.

Feel free to comment on the contents of the
volume.  I will consider my efforts worthwhile
if this cultural volume triggers off some 
healthy discussion and encourages other net.writers 
to come out of hiding and post their writings on 
the net.

Best Regards,

{\em Ravikumar}
\clearpage

\begin{center}
{\bf Wish}\\
A Poem by Rabindranath Tagore\\
{\em Translation : Amitava Banerjea}
\end{center}

\begin{verse}
{\em
borischo dharA mAjhe shantira bAri \\
shuschko hridaya loye \hspace*{0.2 in} Achhe d(n)ARAiye\\
Urdh{w}omukhe naranArI. \\
nA thAke andhakAr,    \hspace*{0.2 in} nA thAke mohatAp, \\
nA thAke shokaparitAp. \\
hridaya b[v]imala hok, \hspace*{0.2 in} prANa s<h>abala hok, \\
bighna dAo apas<h>Ari. \\
kaeno e hins<h>a d{w}esch, \hspace*{0.2 in} kaeno e chhadd[m]abesh, \\
kaeno e mAna-abhimAn? \\
bitaro bitaro prem  \hspace*{0.2 in} pAschAnahridaye \\
jaya jaya hok tomAri. \\
}
\end{verse}

\begin{verse}
Parched souls await facing the sky, \\
Shower the earth with the waters of peace! \\
May there be no more sorrow or remorse,\\
May darkness end, may greed and sin cease ...\\
May hearts be pure and lives strong, \\
Despite all obstacles that come along.\\

Why this hatred and rivalry? \\
This masquerade and vanity?\\ 
Spread love and compassion amid hearts of stone\\
May success walk with you who walk alone.\\
\end{verse}
\clearpage

\begin{center}
                           {\bf Fatherhood}\\
			{\em Mahadevan Ramesh}
\end{center}

It was the most severe storm to have hit Madras in years. It
rained incessantly for a whole day. Even my Dad came back from
his office early.  There was no electricity and we had to huddle
around kerosine lamps in great fear.  I was a small lad then and I
felt even more small and powerless.  I did not believe we would
come out of it alive. Then amidst the sound of thunder, we heard
the phone ring, sending chills through my little spine.

My mother answered it.  ``It is our right side neighbor. That
lady's husband hasn't come back from work yet and she is very
worried'' my mother told my father. Geez, could he be dead,
struck by lightning or something?

``Ask her not to worry'' said my Dad. Then he proceeded to make a
series of phone calls and inferred that the man was last seen
heading toward his colleague's house, who had no phone
connection. He perhaps decided to spend the night there instead
venturing out to his place. He asked auntie to come over and
stay with us that night, instead of being alone. I was really
impressed by the way my Dad got things done. I began to have a
new respect for the man and was quite proud to have him for a
father.

The next day, it cleared out in a hurry, almost as if the storm
never took place. We took an inventory of the rampage left
behind by the storm. It wasn't as bad as we had expected. My
neighbor returned the next morning, much to everyone's relief. 

A huge tree had fallen down in my neighbor's backyard. It had
narrowly missed falling on the house and damaging it and an inch
this way, it would have leveled their well. ``An act of God, Mr.
Mahadevan'' my neighbor told my Dad. My Dad spent most of the day
at his yard and personally supervised the removal of the tree. A
local lumber merchant and his workers moved the tree ever so
carefully, branch by branch and started hauling it away. If my
Dad were not around, my neighbor would have probably been lost.
I was present there all the time, watching the activities and
waiting for my Dad to give me those little commands. For some
reason, I felt important and personally involved.  And I was
thrilled with my Super Dad who seemed to know exactly what to do
under these circumstances. Although it took another three days
to move the tree completely, the most dangerous branches had
been cleared.  And not only that, my Dad had negotiated three
hundred rupees for the tree from the lumber merchant.

We got home, a little exhausted. My father returned to his
favorite easy chair, finally getting a chance to read his
newspaper, drinking his umpteenth cup of coffee. 

``Dad, I have been thinking. If that dumb tree can fetch three
hundred rupees, don't you think we ought to sell all our trees
in our yard and make some bucks ?''

To which my Dad gave me a lengthy lecture on the uses of trees
in general and then showed me a big photograph on the front page
of the newspaper.  ``Look, yesterday's storm was so severe it
actually washed up a huge ship ashore on our beach. And now, if
you kids would get ready soon, I will take you to the beach.''

We got ready in a trice and went to the beach half-running. We
lived within walking distance of the beach. There was a massive
crowd on the sands and the ship could be seen even when we were
on the road. It was the hugest monstrosity I had ever seen that
was standing in water. It was stuck hopelessly against the
sands. I pushed my way to the front of the crowd and the closer
I got to the ship, it got even bigger and less comprehensible.
My younger sister was too scared to get any closer to it. There
were all kinds of fixtures and ungeometrical structure to the
ship. There were little people standing on it. The word
{\em Steamatis}  was written on the side in huge letters and I
thought it was a neat name for a ship. I had a million questions
to ask my Dad about the ship and he answered each one of them to
my satisfaction, almost as if he anticipated what I was going to
ask.

``Do you know, son, that I had actually been inside a ship?''

``No, you did not. You are just kidding us.''

``Really, I have a cousin in Malaya and he went back by sea on
one of his trips and I visited his ship. That was a few years
ago. The ship was huge. They had tennis courts and swimming
pools, big living quarters and so forth, right on board''

``How can they have tennis courts. Won't the ball go into the sea?''

``No, the courts are away from the edge. Besides, ships are huge''

``What if you had a champion player who hits a powerful shot and
then the ball goes into water''

``Well, then I guess they will have to use another ball. By the
way, tennis chanmpions don't try to hit the ball out of the
court.''

This was so exciting. My Dad had actually been on a ship! Here
was a man who had always been at cross purposes with my pursuit
of my little hedonistic pleasures, the rule-making wet blanket.
The man who controlled a mountain of money and made irrational
fiscal policies and wouldn't even throw his pocket change in our
direction to see movies and things. Suddenly, there is more to
him than what I had seen of him, all my young life. I grabbed
his hand.

For days afterward I was in a dream world going around the globe
in a huge ship. We went to the beach almost every other day. My
house was a stranded ship, the bathroom was the engine room and
my Dad was its captain.  Occasionally reality hit me in the
form of math assignments, which involved thinking about large
ships.

``What young man, still dreaming about that ship and not
concentrating on your homework'' My Dad asked me, as he read the
newspaper, sipping his usual coffee. How does he know what I am
thinking? I grinned sheepishly.

``Yes Dad. I figured that it makes sense to have a swimming pool
in a ship, because you can always fill it up with water from the
sea.''

``Wrong you are. Because they use fresh water in swimming pools''
my Dad replied.  ``By the way, if you behave yourself and not
fight with your sister any more, I will teach you swimming this
summer''

``What ?? You ?? Do you know to swim ? Mom, Dad says he knows to
swim'' I couldn't believe my Dad. Is there a limit to what this
man knows ? Months following that I was in my best behavior.
There was even a unilateral ceasefire with my sister and one
eventful day I even let her wear my slippers when she could not
find her own. Also, I watched over my baby brother without
complaining. Of course, I never did a good job of it and I could
never stop him in time from banging his head  on things. But it
gave me ample opportunity to daydream.

It turned out that we never did learn to swim. Something or the
other cropped up. But it wasn't high on the list of priorities
in the kids' circle.	It was cricket. Typically, my father
tutored me on the cricketing fundamentals. He was downright
wrong about a few things. But, all in all, he was good and I had
the best knowledge of the myriad of cricketing rules and the
other kids always consulted me on controversial umpiring
decisions. Some time later, he took me to my first test match
and my stock went up even more among my buddies. 

Looking back, now I realize that my Dad had simply seized the
initiative with this ship business and nipped my rebellious
ways, before they even developed. He got me into his folds and
programmed me in his fashion. The power of positive
reinforcement ! The ship itself sat on the beach like an
eyesore. Our visits to look at it became more and more
infrequent, although I always made it a point to look at it
every time I went to the beach. They tried to tow it back into
the sea, but they couldn't and had to abandon it. One day, some
politico said the government would convert it into a restaurant.
But after a few days, the political wind blew in the other
direction and the idea was canned. One time when I went to the
beach, a part of it was gone!  My friend told me it was being
sold as scrap.

Years later, I saw {\em Amarcord}  and there was a scene about a ship
going awry in a storm, quite similar to my ship episode and I
was suddenly reminded of the {\em Steamatis}. And it was some more
years before I actually sailed in one with my car, from
Vancouver to Victoria. I even bought a picture postcard in the
ferry and sent it home. I was tempted to allude to the stranded
ship.  But at that time it seemed too sentimental and silly.
Besides, there is only so much space on a post card. 

Once, when I was thoroughly drunk, I mentioned this ship
incident to a friend of mine, who was also drunk. He told me it
was a classical Freudian situation and called the ship a typical
phallic symbol. The way it kept recurring in my thoughts, even
if occasionally, only proved his theory, he said.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

When I went home the last time, I happened to go to the beach
with my Dad.  Now we no longer live near the beach and getting
to the beach was like an expedition. Over the years my Dad had
lost a lot of his abundant vigor and I had to slow down to keep
pace with him. Of late, he has been opening up to me and the
neutrality of the setting only helped the situation. We had come
a full circle --  from the early days of unquestioned obedience to
fierce rebellions back to a healthy respect for each other.
We have had a few man to man tolks too. But both of us actually
felt very awkward about it.  When he started telling me about
his finances, I wasn't even interested. He started talking.

``At first I thought retirement would be a good relief from the
hectic office work. But it wasn't so. I was getting bored. So I
and Swamy uncle wanted to start this consultancy business. That's
when I had my heart attack... ''

Yes. I remembered his heart attack. They did not phone me up
when it happened, because they did not want to alarm me. Nothing
like long distance worry, I was told later. I got the news weeks
later in an aerogramme, after he got back from the hospital. 


``No, don't worry about it.''  My Dad continued.
``I am taking good care of myself. I
used to drink so much of coffee that it used to flow in my
veins. Now I don't drink any coffee. I watch my diet very
carefully. Your mother, credit should go to her, watches me like
a hawk and makes sure I take all my pills. Even my sugar is
normal''

I laughed. ``Dad, It is interesting. You are not even rich, but
you have rich man's conditions like blood pressure and diabetes.
You ought to feel flattered''

``Well, I try not to think about my medical condition. I feel
good and strong and that's all matters. Now, sitting half a
world away, you don't keep worrying about it. Your blood
pressure machine and blood glucose testing strips are working
fine and I go for check ups so often that I've even become
friends with the doctor''

A little kid tried to sell us some peanuts as 'time pass' and
before I could even respond, my father motioned him to leave. It
was getting dark fast.  There was a mini snack industry
flourishing on the beach, a neat row of push carts, each exuding
its own aroma, vendors beckoning their customers by ringing a
little bell and shouting little jingles. Their kerosine lamps
formed a straight line that almost ended at the water, almost at
the very spot where the ship was stranded some decades ago. Or
was it ? Could it be a few hundred yards up north ? I wasn't
sure. My Dad spoke again.

``Son, I don't know if you remember this or not. You were all
very small then. There was once a big storm in Madras and a ship
got washed ashore right near that spot. I used to bring you and
your sister to the beach almost every few days to show you the
ship''

Wow ! Was the man getting the same set of stimuli that I was
getting or was he simply reading my mind, like he always used to
? Maybe the ship affected him as much as it affected me. I
wanted to blurt out and tell him, yes, I was thinking about the
same thing too.  But I controlled my impulse. I wanted to let
him take the credit for remembering the incident. I played by
his rules and feigned surprise.

``Oh, yes, Dad. Of course, Geez, how do you remember these things? 
It was such a long time ago'' I exclaimed.

He had the most glorious grin on his face and his dentures were
glimmering in the dim light. He was just being the old Dad,
impressing his little boy with things that only he could know
and remember. Very suddenly, we had both regressed to a distant
past when Dads were Dads and sons were just kids.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

\vspace*{0.9 cm}

\begin{center}
			{\bf The Naked Teacher} \\
(Dedicated to the original ``Yogi" poet(s) on SCI.) \\
{\em Viswamitra}
\end{center}

\begin{verse}
The Yogi saw the silent Yogini under the tree;\\
He cut his apple into three;\\
One for himself, placed one for the Yogini, and left one in the sky;\\
The Yogini cut her share into two;\\
One she gulped, placed one for the Yogi, and sowed the seeds;\\


They talked for a long time;\\
Bit by bit she revealed;\\
He liked her naked: in thoughts and in her speech.\\
And the Yogi left in silence.\\
\end{verse}
\clearpage

\begin{center}
			       {\sl Opinion}\\
{\bf  FATALISM IN ATTITUDES TOWARDS }\\
{\bf MARRIAGE, COMPROMISES AND COMPATIBILITY}\\
			 {\em Subbarao Kambhampati}
\end{center}

[Revised version of an article first posted on Fri, 17 Aug 90, at the
height of arranged marriages, 3-way tickets discussion. -ed]

  We have often been exhorted by those people who make it their
business to characterize the ``national psyche'' -- I am referring here to
the  T. Vaidynathans and the Nirad Chaudharis -- that Indians are
``fatalistic'' in their outlook; that the ``whatever will happen will
happenay happen'' brand of philosophy permeates their thinking,
decisions and actions.

While I am generally suspicious of such blanket characterizations
and cannot really say whether this particular one has any statistical
merit to it, I am, however, startled by its apparent applicability to
the responses of a number of people who have taken time to express
their views on the issue of arranged marriages among educated Indians.

Let us follow a typical argument in favor of the currently prevalent
arranged marriages.  It starts by saying that
 
\begin{quote}
  ``Compatibility is more important than romantic love in determining
    the success of a marriage.''
\end{quote}

Fair enough. 

It then adds that 

\begin{quote}
  ``Compatibility can never be pre-judged hundred percent.''
\end{quote}

Again very true. 

But then it  over-extends itself by advancing the proposition

\begin{quote}
   ``At least in arranged marriages the families look into the
   compatibility issue rather thoroughly, and what is left for the couple is to
   just fall in love (aka ``In India we fall in love {\bf after} marriage''),
   make a few compromises and everything will be fine and dandy.''
\end{quote}

For most of us, the obvious fallacy in the third step is apparent.
However, when one tries to  point this out, one is countered with
arguments such as:

``Beating up on a 3-way ticket marriage is not going to help. A 10-way
 ticket marriage is {\em probably going to be as much of a gamble}.''

What this type of attitude essentially amounts to is the following:
 
   We will first assume that we are dealing with a binary valued function.
   Having done that, we can then blithely rationalize our indiscriminate
   choices by pleading inability to  predict with  full certainity 
   the exact outcome of this binary valued function for any given choice.

But this is ridiculous!  In life -- be it academic, professional or
personal -- we are always being faced with situations where we cannot
tell the outcome with certainity. And we are called upon to make
educated decisions with incomplete information.

We don't always resort to or rationalize such cynically indiscriminate
choices. So why suddenly now?

Why is it that when it comes to the decisions regarding compatibility
we show a willingness to delegate them to the putatively all knowing
``elders'' or to the fatalistic ``fate''?  Is it after all a ruse to
escape any responsibility for critical decisions of our lives?

Or is it really because of an ingrained belief that compatibility is
a binary valued function whose outcome is completely random and beyond
the grasp of us ordinary mortals (and thus best left to ``elders'' or to ``fate'')?

Of course, ``compatibility'' is hard to pre-judge.  Unlike consonance
with one's primary views (e.g the person's position on right to choice), or
the satisfaction of one's syntactic predilection (e.g.  the color of the
person's eyes), which can be determined in a reasonably short
acquaintance period, compatibility is a long term property which is
difficult to decide a priori.

However does that necessarily mean that there is absolutely no room for
individual initiative in ``estimating'' compatibility?

Why do we insist on being pessimistic about making educated decisions
regarding compatibility?

The real culprits, it appears, are our inability to distinguish between
``degrees,'' the insistence on ``guarantees,'' and a proclivity for looking
at everything in black and white.

And these very same afflictions seem to influence our arguments which
attempt to unconditionally glorify the role of ``compromises'' in a
successful marriage.

Before jumping on the bandwagon of ``compromising nature as the vehicle
for successful marriages,'' it is imperative that we develop an
understanding of the spectrum of extant compromises and introspect our
yardsticks for judging the success of a marriage vis a vis the types
of compromises made.

Consider:

\begin{itemize}
\item  
If one partner likes to sleep on the left side of the bed, and their spouse 
  also wants to sleep on the left side, and they compromise -- that is one kind 
  of compromise.

\item
If one partner wants to take part in social service, and the spouse
not only hates it but is bent on actively discouraging it, and they 
compromise, that is {\em another} form of compromise

\item
 If one partner has a predilection for physical abuse, and the 
  spouse accommodates to save the marriage, that too is a compromise --
  perhaps of a more reprehensible hue.
\end{itemize}

Some of the compromises -- like the first -- are trivial in that they do
not take off anything from one's essential persona. Others, such as
the second above, might involve compromising ones values, and as such
affect the essential persona. And finally there are compromises like
the third one above, which are none less than sacrificing ones persona
in its entirety (so as to satisfy some misguided societal idealization
of a successful marriage).

If the inability to make the compromises of the first sort shows an
immaturity of the parties concerned; an indiscriminate willingness to
make the second and third type of compromises to ``keep'' a marriage
demonstrates equally clearly the overly diminished expectations and
the fatalistic view of the marriage that that couple harbor.

Yes, any union at all can be made to work if one or both of the parties are
willing to compromise indiscriminately; there is no question of
prejudging compatibility.

And if we judge the ``success'' of a marriage based {\em solely} on its
longevity, we will say that all such marriages are highly successful!!

If on the other hand, we start appreciating the nature and the degrees
of compromises being made by the parties, we may very well revise our
initial opinions about the success of various marriages in our own
culture.  The same realization may temper our high brow pronouncements
on the ``triviality-driven divorces'' in some other culture.

Above all, we may begin to grasp the importance of making
well-informed decisions.  If we start with no knowledge of the other
person, there is a high probability that we will wind up making
compromises of second and third sort to ``keep'' the marriage going. Any
knowledge that we glean about the other person will decrease this
probability.

Here we are no longer talking about guarantees, but of increasing
likelihood through our actions. In other words, despite their
prolonged courtship period, Palvayantheeswaran and Padmavathi might
very well wind up having a perfectly ghastly marriage; while Ramshands
and Sitamaalakshmi might go on to live a seemingly happy life even
though they went through the completely pre-packaged version -- but our
willingness to use such isolated instances to justify indiscriminate
choices shows an elementary lack of understanding of the essential
grayness of life's conundrums.

So, what is the punch line?

One sign of maturity is the ability to resist the temptation to look
at the world and the space of our choices in a binary black and white
mode and begin contending with the grayness and uncertainity that is
so much a hall-mark of reality.

A 10-trip marriage, while not a perfect antidote to its 1-trip
counterpart, does at least provide that much higher chance of judging
compatibility.  

Surely, combating this pervasive fatalism by fostering an appreciation
for the spectrum -- rather than an artificial dichotomy -- of choices, is
the most effective way of influencing the attitudes towards marriage.


\clearpage


\begin{center}
		{\bf We girls are like that}\\
		{\em Kannada Poem by Pratibha Nandakumar}\\
		{\em Translated by C.P. Ravikumar}
\end{center}

\begin{verse}
		We girls are like that,\\
		Aren't we Usha?\\

		We chat about a thousand things,\\
		Without ever saying what we want to,\\
		And what pain we endure!\\
		All those shocking thoughts \\
		That we keep compressed\\
		Like sour dough in a plastic box.\\
		When we can't take it any more\\
		We open our mouths, only to babble.\\
		Instead of the  plain ``I love you''\\
		We think of a hundred other ways,\\
		None of which these boys seem to get;\\
		And when the moment slips by, \\
		We sob into our little hand kerchiefs.\\
		Finally we get married to someone else\\
		And we equate ourselves to tragedy queens\\
		Expecting sympathy from one and all.\\
		In our husbands' eyes we look for him,\\
		Yet we carefully guard our secret.\\
		By then our suppressed feelings\\
		Have crystallized, never to bloom again.\\

		In four more years\\
		We put on a ton of weight\\
		And give birth to four children.\\
		And one day, out shopping for vegetables,\\
		We meet him.\\
		We become outraged and \\
		Blame it all on him,\\
		Yet outwardly we smile\\
		And inquire about his wife and kids.\\
		For, after all, isn't this her story too?\\

		Yes Usha, we girls are like that ...\\
\end{verse}
\clearpage


\begin{center}
		{\bf A Ghazal by Firaq Gorakhpuri --} \\
		   {\bf A Critical Appreciation} \\
			{\em Siddhartha Sahi} 
\footnote{The first three paragraphs of this article, which introduce the
poet Firaq Gorakhpuri, were written by Ali Minai.}
\end{center}

Raghupati Sahay, who wrote under the pen name ``Firaq Gorakhpuri", was
a giant among contemporary Urdu poets. A man of immense erudition,
immersed in the great literary traditions of Sanskrit, Hindi, Urdu,
Persian and English, Firaq transformed the traditional Urdu {\em ghazal}
from a Persian import to a truly Indian thing. From the earliest
days, Hindu writers and poets had taken part in the creation of
Urdu literary masterpieces (e.g. Ratan Nath Sarshar in prose and
Dayashankar Naseem in poetry). However, all major ghazal
poets before Firaq came from Muslim backgrounds. They took the
Persian ghazal (itself derived from Arabic), and gave it an embodiment
that had a new language (Urdu), but precisely the same metaphors, diction
and subjects as classical Persian ghazal. Even the language remained
highly Persianized --- totally different from the spoken Urdu-Hindi of
their (and our) day. Firaq was the first great ghazal poet who was
equally aware of the Persian, Indian and Western traditions, and thus
uniquely qualified to synthesize them. He did so in a way that gave Urdu
ghazal a whole new voice --- one that has found many echoes in
the work of poets after him. With Faiz Ahmad Faiz and Nasir Kazmi, he
can legitimately be considered one of the originators of modern Urdu
ghazal.

Firaq's transformation of the ghazal, however, should not obscure the
fact that he was also a master of the classical style. In particular,
his control over language was so complete that he could create profound
meaning simply by a turn of the phrase. This can be seen in the ghazal
included here, where the ``radeef" (the repeated phrase at the end of
each couplet) puts a new twist on each line, variously exploiting all
the senses of hope, despair, expectation, resignation, helplessness,
persuasion and qualification that the phrase ``phir bhi" is capable
of representing.

Firaq died in 1982 at the age of 84, having spent more than half
a century in enriching the literature of Urdu.

\clearpage
\section*{Text of the Ghazal}
\begin{verse}
{\em Kisi ka, yoon to, hua kaun, $`$umr bhar, phir bhi,}\\
{\em Ye husn-o $`$ishq to dhokha hai sab, magar phir bhi.}\\
{\em Hazaar baar zamaana idhar se guzra hai,}\\
{\em Na$'$i na$'$i si hai kuchh teri rehguzar phir bhi.}\\
{\em Jhapak rahi hain zamaan-o makaan ki bhi aankhen,}\\
{\em Magar hai qaafila aamaada-e safar phir bhi.}
{\em Kharaab ho ke bhi socha kiye tere mahjoor,}\\
{\em Yehi ki teri nazar hai, teri nazar phir bhi.}\\
{\em Shab-e Firaaq ke kushton ka hashr kya hoga?}\\
{\em Ye shaam-e hijr to ho jaayegi sahar phir bhi.}\\
\end{verse}

\section*{A Critical Appreciation}

\begin{verse}

{\em Kisi ka, yoon to, hua kaun, $`$umr bhar, phir bhi,}\\
{\em Ye husn-o $`$ishq to dhokha hai sab, magar phir bhi.}

`I know that love does not last forever, and that beauty is
a transitory illusion, but still ...'
\end{verse}

The beauty of this {\em sher} lies in its {\em twin} sources of poetic tension.
The first is the structural contrast between the tightly interwoven 
(almost hermetic!) construction of the first {\em misra} , and the dangling 
``radeef'' in the second {\em misra} . The last part of the second {\em misra} hangs 
like a loose thread which, pulled at, unravels the couplet (perhaps I
should say doublet!), unstitching the distitch (ouch!) and exposing 
the second, more fundamental conflict -- that between the poet's 
avowedly hard head and his treacherously soft heart!

\begin{verse}

{\em Hazaar baar zamaana idhar se guzra hai,}\\
{\em Na$'$i na$'$i si hai kuchh teri rehguzar phir bhi.}

`The whole world has traveled this way thousands of times,
but there seems yet to be something new, something fresh, 
about this path of yours.'

\end{verse}

I am inclined to believe that this is a self-referential
couplet. Firaq was an extremely erudite man; proficient in the 
languages, literatures, and lores of English, Hindi, Urdu, Persian,
Braj-bhasha, and several others. He claimed that this enabled him to 
introduce new themes into Urdu poetry, enriching its framework. 
Since he also had a fairly massive ego (an all too common failing, 
alas!), it is entirely conceivable that the ``new path'' he speaks of,
is his own poetry -- which is fresh, even though it covers familiar 
territory.

\begin{verse}

{\em Jhapak rahi hain zamaan-o makaan ki bhi aankhen,}\\
{\em Magar hai qaafila aamaada-e safar phir bhi.}


`The entire universe seems droopy-eyed (from weariness),
but the caravan continues on its relentless journey.'
\footnote{``zamaan-o makaan'' = the universe (literally, time and space),
``qaafila'' = caravan, ``aamaada'' = determined.}
\end{verse}

This {\em sher} seems to have a resonance of images -- somewhat like
the multiple images seen in two parallel mirrors. The first image
that comes to mind is that of the poet sitting up late into the 
night (which Firaq often did), tired, but unable to sleep, observing
the ceaseless march of the stars across the night sky.  On reflection, 
this seems to be a proxy for the equally futile, and similarly 
incessant, journey of a man through his life. Reflecting back to the 
macrocosm, the relentless journey is seen to be a weary truth, a universal
affliction, almost a {\em raison d'etre}  for the entire universe. 

Notice, that at this level, the optical inversion of the {\em sher} is complete. 
What was claimed to be the weariness of universe, is actually the projection
of the poet's own state of mind; while his determination to continue 
on his journey, turns out to be merely the reflection of a `universal' 
attribute!


\begin{verse}
{\em Kharaab ho ke bhi socha kiye tere mahjoor,}\\
{\em Yehi ki teri nazar hai, teri nazar phir bhi.}


`Those whom you have forsaken, even in their state of wretchedness,\\
are still haunted by the thought of your eyes.'
\footnote{``mahjoor'' = forsaken, separated, abandoned.}
\end{verse}

It is a standard convention in Urdu poetry that the eyes of the
beloved are supposed to possess a murderous beauty; and are directly 
to blame for the travails of the lover. 

\begin{verse}

{\em  Chashm-e qaatil meri dushman thi hamesha, lekin,}\\
{\em Jaisi ab ho gayi qaatil, kabhi aisi to na thi.}   -- Zafar\\
 
 Kyoon hui jateen hain, ya rab, wo nigahain, dil ke paar\\
   Jo meri kotaahi-e qismat se mizhgaan ho gayeen.  -- Ghalib\\

\end{verse}

The second {\em misra}  in Firaq's {\em sher} has two interpretations, both
intentional. Even though the lover has been devastated by the 
beloved's eyes, he finds it impossible to complain about, or indeed
attach any measure of blame to, something so incredibly beautiful.
A concomitant interpretation is that, since everything else pales
in comparison with the beloved's eyes, there is really no recourse
for the lover, no hope of his ever finding solace elsewhere.


\begin{verse}
{\em Shab-e Firaaq ke kushton ka hashr kya hoga?}\\
{\em Ye shaam-e hijr to ho jaayegi sahar phir bhi.}\\


`This evening of separation will eventually give way to the morning,
but what will be the final destiny of those who die in the night
(which must fall before this can happen)?'
\footnote{``Shab'' = night, ``Firaaq'' = separation (also the poet's name), 
``kushton'' = those who have been killed, ``hashr'' = destiny, eventual
disposition, ``hijr'' = separation, ``sahar'' = morning.}
\end{verse}

Momin asks the opposite, and more interesting, though equally
rhetorical, question:
\begin{verse}
  {\em Tu kahaan jaayegi, kuchh apna thikaana kar le,}\\
  {\em Ham to kal khwaab-e adam mein, shab-e hijraan, hon ge.} \\

`I know that I will be slumbering in an endless sleep tomorrow, \\
but, O night of separation, what will become of you?'
\end{verse}
\clearpage


\begin{center}
			{\sl Short Story}\\
			{\bf The Missing Links}\\
			{\em Viswamitra}
\end{center}

\begin{center}
{\bf Author's Note:}
\end{center}

\begin{verse}
At times when not all people are guided with purpose at every stage of life, 
it is not surprising to note from history that change in all forms takes place
without our knowledge.  One Ms. Unity Mitford, who was both British and a 
close friend of Hitler, terminated her life with two bullets in her head at 
the inception of The Battle of Britain, WW-II. The great philosopher and 
biologist Aristotle who had a constructive approach towards the Greek empire 
and Philip II, termed Non-Greeks ``Barbarians''.  Emperor Asoka gave up 
his comforts at the site of Kalinga.	The following story is about a 
young lady, Veda, whose life remained a puzzle to her much observant 
neighbor Aswin.

Finally, I quote GB Shaw;

``My method is to take the utmost trouble to find the right thing, and then
to say it with utmost levity.''

{\em Viswamitra}

P.S.  The characters Veda and Aswin are fictitious, but the facts quoted from
history are very much true.
\end{verse}


The last three months carried the same tempo as in the last four and a 
half centuries at least, Aswin recollected.  Michel de Nostradamus and
his quatrains; Abe Lincoln and JFK; Mark Twain and Haley's Comet;
Meena Kumari and Savitri; the woman and the Moon; -- the recent incident
added to the confusion.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

Aswin checked his watch again.  His watch originally belonged to his
grandpa who was obsessed with the the models of Favre Leuba. 
Like him the watch was getting older, but still hadn't forgotten to tick --
it was 6:00 AM sharp.  The girl next door should be coming out for the 
regular pluck any time now.

Veda was under the tree, as usual and necessary it seemed for her to be.
The Sun rang the morning bells through the glass window, the cuckoo picked up
the tune, and her mom the regular prayers.

The wind rustled through the tree, marking the regular morn and the duties for
Veda;  the duties that the tradition demanded, the customs haunted, the elders
dictated and the children obeyed;  the society called it a discipline, and
Veda simply had no feelings for them.  But she enjoyed, the morning Sun, the
cuckoo tunes, the gentle winds and the beckons of the tree.  The Omnipresent
was evident in the nature, in the tree, in the flowers, in the fragrance, than
in the temples.

Just as he anticipated, Aswin found Veda grabbing the deeply fresh flowers,
Nostradamus should know for what.  He hated it: to call on the Prophet,
every time he remained questioned about people, this time the neighboring one;
-- but he had to get the quatrain, that kills his curiosity.

``Good Morning.  I am Aswin, your neighbor.'', Aswin had to say it.

``I noticed.'', Veda replied after a brief pause entwined with a little
surprise.

``Me too,'', Aswin remarked, ``I mean, I have been noticing for weeks, you pitching
in those flowers at around this time everyday.  Are you pretty busy now ?'',
lifting his left eyebrow.

``It's for the morning Pooja.  My mom insists.''

Aswin began to wonder if it was a complaint.  'What the hell, why should I
care ?', he thought.

``You have an evening Pooja too ?'', Aswin pondered to her.

``Not regularly.  Only on Fridays.'', Veda briefed.  Realizing it's time
to wake up the Lord, she cut the conversation, only to continue to
chat with Aswin in the weeks to come.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

Veda continued to collect the flowers every morning and Aswin, much range
of her knowledge. In the last week they discussed Boer War, Rudyard Kipling
and Lord Mountbatten.  The one previous to the last, covered the Modern Olympic
Swimmers, Cine Stalwarts and Human Digestive System.  But the most interesting
week was the current one.  It covered somewhat known, but mostly unknown
people of the Twentieth Century, or otherwise sometimes.  Both, Aswin and
Veda paid tributes, for various reasons, to Anne Sullivan -- a mentor, a friend
and a fellow citizen of Helen Keller who introduced the latter to Braille
script;  St. Ruth, a gifted dancer who popularized Indian dances all over
Europe and America through her portrayal of ``Radha'';  Unity Mitford, a foolish
woman who committed suicide during the early days of The Battle of Britain, a
British herself, and a close friend of Hitler; Sydney Smith, the British writer,
but for his pessimistic remarks the world may not have had anybody to prompt
Francis Hopkinson and Washington Irving so much into writing short stories;
Pierre Curie who shared equal burden with Mme. Curie in discovering Radium and
Polonium and was still denied a second Nobel Prize posthumously as it was
against the 'rules';  and various others.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

Two months have passed by and Veda had always dominated the conversations.
All of them carried on; while she standing under the tree, and he beside the
parapet wall.  The tree seemed to be obsessed with Veda, much more than he was
with her.  She's more like a pet, may be like a dog, that caresses her master
every now and then,  may be like a child that taps its mother on her chest 
during her conversations, may be like a mother who keeps a close watch when her 
daughter is with the neighbor, and may be like himself who wants to notice every
thing.  Veda remained special to the tree.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

Days rolled by, so did the summer.  Streets were wet, the sidewalks dirty, and
the umbrellas expensive; Viruses were spreading, children were idle, the Sun
was on vacation;  Raincoats, gunny bags, plastic wraps and hankies were
drenched.  Life was not what it used to be, but everybody knew it would change.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

Veda continued with her duties, her mom with her prayers, and Aswin with
his observation.  Surprised and confused, as he remained with the people,
he was more so with Veda.  The tradition of dress codes at Wimbledon, since the
days of Gussie Moran; the beer consumption since the days of Carrie Nation; 
the poetry since the days of Keats; have all changed but not the mornings in
the next door.  Well, the lives of South Africans since the days of Paul
Kruger; the ``Big Brothers'' occupying ``Small" ones in the name of protection
since the days of Hitler's occupation of Denmark, Norway and France; the denial
of Nobel Prize to the dead; haven't changed.  Why should his neighbors, Aswin
reconciled.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

Today's morning is different after a couple of gloomy and violent days and
nights.  The peace was restored, and the children began to play in the dirty
water.  The Sun, the moon and the stars, the heat, the sweat and the vacation
for the children, the movies, the concerts and the Olympics, will all come
again. But, neither his parapet partner and his neighbor, nor the rustling tree
will ever show up again.  Veda passed away after the tree broke, its own trunk
and Veda's spine, during one of those stormy mornings -- the same tree that once
seemed like Veda's pet, child, mother and her observant neighbor.  Aswin was
searching for the Prophet's quatrain, and was wondering if Veda still remained 
special to the tree; the confusion multiplied.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

\begin{center}
{\bf Pepper and Mint}\\ 
{\em Ravikumar}\\
\end{center}
\begin{verse}
  \begin{center} {\bf What the Answering Machine said} \\ \end{center}
        Did you have to  spoil my sleep,\\
        By calling me so late, you creep?\\
        The urge to chatter under control keep,\\
        Leave a message after the beep.\\

  \begin{center} {\bf Heard Melodies are sweet} \\ \end{center}
                I love your singing,\\
                Which you let me enjoy so often,\\
                My dear neighbor of next door!\\
                But as some gentleman said,\\
                Unheard melodies are sweeter.\\
                And I wish to enjoy your music more ...\\
\end{verse}
\clearpage

\begin{center}
              {\bf The Arranged Marriage: An Investigative Report}\\
			{\em By Asjeet Lamba}\\
                    All Rights (and Wrongs) Preserved\\
                   Photocopyrighted (No Xeroxes please)\\
      Quote this and ``Hum Tumhe Tumhari Naani Yaad Dila Denge'' \footnote{
The author wishes to express his thanks to the Prime Minister's Office
for permission to use this quote.}
\end{center}
 
 
Haven't you always wondered what {\em really} happens in an arranged marriage?
How is the bride selected? How is the groom chosen? What are they thinking
about while making this choice? What do their respective parents think?
Now, finally, we have some answers! In an investigative report conducted
by the author and a team of 29 top-notch investigators from various
investigative agencies such as the CID, CIA, CBI, MI5.9, RAW, and KUKD a much
clearer picture of what really happens has emerged. This report presents
the facts.
 
The report is organized as follows: Section I outlines the issues of concern
to all unmarried and some married folk. Section II then details....
(Oh, heck! Just read the darn thing, okay??!)

 
\subsection*{The Selection Process}
 
It is never easy finding a bride or a groom. That is the reason the
``guy upstairs''  created the middleman (go-between) who is usually a woman.
Of course, in the space-age we live in,  it could also be a computer
matching the couple-to-be, but more likely would be the ``Wanted''
ads in the major newspapers where a typical matrimonial for a bride
runs as follows:
 
\begin{verse}
       Wanted; Tall, fair, beautiful, cultured, professional girl \\
       for well-settled, Punjabi Khatri boy in his late twenties, \\
       drawing a 5 figure income.  Caste, creed, religion no bar. \\
	Sex baar-baar (;-).\\
\end{verse}
 
Translation:
\begin{verse}
We are desperate! We have a 29 $\frac{1}{2}$ year old son who's never been \\
on a date. He earns very little which he blows on booze and \\
gambling.  We don't give a sh*t who the girl is as long as \\
she has a decent reputation.  And the guy {\em is} getting desperate!
\end{verse}
 
 
A typical matrimonial for a groom usually goes like this:
 
\begin{verse}
Wanted; Tall, handsome, well-settled, professional
boy, 26-28 yrs. \\ for fair, beautiful, homely
Aggarwal girl finishing her MA this \\
year.  Send returnable photo.\\
\end{verse}
 
Translation:
\begin{verse}
We are sick and tired of all these bozos we've been seeing for\\
our daughter! We want to marry her off before she starts getting \\
ideas of a career and gets out of hand.  Her boyfriends are \\
beginning to become a pain in the a*s. Non-Aggarwals need not apply! \\
And dorks, stay away!\\
\end{verse}
 
Either through the newspaper or the go-between (usually the
massi's bhabhi's younger sister's friend's aunt who has nothing
better to do than make matches and then bore the whole world
with details of all the ``successes'' she's had with getting
people together!) the respective parents finally narrow the list
to the ``good'' prospects. Then comes the harrowing part of going
to teas (and dinners) to meet the meat. The shopping is underway!
 
 
\subsection*{Boy Meets Girl; Girl Meets Boy; Girl's Younger Sisters go to the Movies}
 
This is the crucial stage! First impressions last for a long, long
time and word-of-mouth about lousy first impressions can ruin one's
future prospects. So, it's time for the finest silk and polyester
to come forth and drape the girl and guy, respectively. The guy arrives
in the traditional white pants (flared), 2'' thick black belt, white
``dress'' shoes with brown heels, and shoulder length hair  combed back
with lots of brylcream. The girl's parents take one look and
gasp for breath. ``Was this the guy Maindhoondtihoon Behen recommended
so highly!?'' they wonder. The younger brother blurts out, ``Hello,
so you are the new bakra (goat)!?'' and is quickly silenced and sent
to the other room never to be seen or heard from again.
 
After the usual ``Namastes-jees'' and ``Beta idhar aake bethos'' (``Son
come and sit heres'') the BIG moment arrives. The bride-to-be-or-not-
to-be arrives all decked out in the finest silk {\em sari}  that her mom
could borrow from the neighbors. Tea set in hand (which, of course,
belongs to Mrs. Merateasetlelo down the street) she walks towards
the groom-to-be-or-not-to-be a little hesitatingly. Her parents
look at her adoringly forgetting for that instant all the hassles
they had to go through to get her to agree to see this highly
recommended  catch. She peeks at the guy and almost faints!
What are they all thinking about, you ask? Our extensive
interviews indicate the following trains of thought and what they
{\em actually} say when the girl enters:
 
\begin{verse}
Bride-to-be-or-not-to-be: (Eeeks! I spend the rest of my life with {\em this}!?)
                          Hello (to the guy) ... Namastejee (to the ma and pa)

Groom-to-be-or-not-to-be: ({\em Drool!  drool!  drool! }  Hmmm...I wonder if my drool
                          is very obvious? Maybe I should wipe it off...?)
                          Namaste (to the girl).

Guy's Dad: (Hmmm..I wonder if Mr. Ladkikabaap has any pull in the Ministry..)
           Namaste beti (How're ya doing daughter).

Guy's Mom: (Did I just see her stoop to the left a little when she walked...?)
           Beti mere paas aake baitho (Daughter come and sit beside me).

Gal's Dad: (Hmmm..I wonder if Mr. Droolerkabaap has any pull in the Industry..)
           Beti chai idhar rakh do (Daughter leave the tea here).

Gal's Mom: (God, I hope she doesn't drop the tea pot all over him...)
           Yeh chai Hotbabe beti ne banai hai (This tea is made by
           our daughter Hotbabe).
\end{verse}
 
With this the small talk takes over as everyone drinks the tea (prepared,
of course, by the cook!). The usual questions are asked pertaining
to the girl's life history in general. The guy just stares at his cup
of tea wondering what to say or do. The girl's dad notices his
daughter being grilled and decides to step in and save her :
 
\begin{verse}
Gal's Dad: Beta, tum bahut chup-chup hoe...
           (Son, you are very quiet-quiet.)

Guy: (Flustered) {\em Gulp} Jee, Jee... {\em Blush} (a manly one though)

Guy's Mom (to the rescue!): Ajee yeh tow aisa he hai. Zyaada bolta-balta nahi.
                            (Oh, he is like that. The quiet sort.)

Girl: (Thinks -- Yeah, sure!)

Guy's Dad: Bhai aapki doosri ladkiyaan nahi dikhai deteen.
           (Brother I don't see your other daughters.)

Gal's Mom: Woh, woh picture dekhne gayi hain...
           (They, they have gone to see a movie...)

Guy's Mom (Hmmm...I wonder why? Must ask
           Maindhoondihoon Behen about them..)
\end{verse}
 
While all this is transpiring, the guy's mom is doing some fast
thinking for the future of her son. Her suspicion of the ``stoop
while the girl walked'' has blossomed into a ``I'm certain she
stooped to the left while she was walking.'' She blurts out:
 
\begin{verse}
Guy's Mom: Beti, zara chal ke dikhana... \\
           (Daughter, just show me your walk...) \\
Girl: Kya!?! (What!?!) \\
Guy: (Mouth open, drools -- a small puddle is now visible on the floor.) \\
\end{verse}
 
A pregnant pause ensues. Things are definitely not going well. Besides,
the samosas are too salty. Then the girl's mom diplomatically says:
 
\begin{verse}
Gal's Mom: Haan, haan Hotbabe beti. Joe aunty kehti hain karke dikha do.\\
           (Yes, yes Hotbabe daughter. Do whatever your aunt-of-sorts says.) \\
Girl: (A more disbelieving) Kya!?! (What!?!)\\
\end{verse}
 
So, very reluctantly, she gets up to do ``The Walk'' that could well
determine her fate and future. After a tantalizing (to the guy) and
agonizing (to the girl) 2 minutes the guy's mom looks visibly satisfied
realizing that the girl's stoop was an optical illusion created by the
high refractive index of the silk Kanjivaram sari she is wearing.
Meanwhile, the girl's looking at the guy as if asking, ``Now, let's
see {\em you} pull that off!'' Seeing the obvious stare the guy gets a
little flustered wondering, ``May be she is 'forward'. The way she's
looking at me...'' The meaning of the stare is completely lost on him.
 
\subsection*{The Decision}
 
The crucial point is fast approaching. A decision is to made about the
future course of action and whether these two lonely hearts are to be
united or even considered for union.
 
\begin{verse}
Girl's Mom: Haan, tho behenjee, phir aapka kya khyaal hai...
            (Yes, so, sister, what do you think...)

Guy's Mom: Ajee, behenjee, hamare kehne say kya hota hai. Aajkal
           ke zamane mein tho ladka-ladki maan jaye yahi kafi hai
           hamare liye.
           (Listen, sister, it doesn't matter what we have to say.
            In these times if the guy-gal agree that's adequate.)

Girl's Dad: Bhai, ladka bhi yahin hai aur ladki bhi. Inhe he baat
            karne do phir...
            (Brother, the guy and gal are both here. Let them talk.)

Guy's Dad: Haan, haan. Hum beech mein kabab mein haddi kyun bane. HA
           HA HA!!
           (Yes, yes. Why should we be the bone in the Ka-bob.)

Guy: (Looks all around with a what-did-I-do-to-deserve-this-agony look)
     {\em Gulp}

Girl: (Feeling a sense of euphoria coming on and realizing that {\em this}
      was {\em it} -- A ONE-ON-ONE!!) {\em Forced Blush} 
\footnote{
Writer's Interjection:
      Yes, folks, it {\em is} possible to do that without much makeup. One
      just has to think of the time when one was caught necking with one's
      boyfriend in the park.}
\end{verse}
 
 
\subsection*{The One-on-One (a.k.a. The End)}
 
This is it! This is the moment she has been waiting for. Now there
is no hiding behind mummyjee's generous behind for Mr. Shadi-karane-
chale-the-bhaisaab! In an effort to ``take control of the situation''
our hero initiates the talk...
 
\begin{verse}
Guy:  You look bhery one-durr-full...\\
Girl: (Controlling the smirk) Thanks. So, what are you doing these days? \\
Guy:  I am between jobs now. Spend lots of time at home these days...\\
Girl: And what do you do at home (``Help mummy with the samosas I bet,''
      she thinks)?\\
Guy:  Oh, I read lots of magazines...\\
Girl: What are your favorite ones...?\\
Guy:  Oh, Stardust, Femina, Eve's Weekly and others...\\
Girl: (Almost rolls over in hysterics) Oh...mmmmmffff...achcha...\\
Guy:  Would you like to go summ-dhay to a ress-traant...\\
Girl: Ummm...I don't think so...\\
Guy:  (Devastated look) Oh...\\
\end{verse}
 
The end is near (as any person can tell by now) to this entire ordeal
for our heroine-of-the-moment. Of course, next time the tables could be
turned and the whole situation reversed! The amazing thing is that
when a rejection is conveyed it is always a two-sided deal. That is,
the girl and boy reject each other simultaneously. One never hears that
the girl/boy rejected the other. It's as if the decision is reached at
the same instant in time. And so, after all this, we find that their
respective egos are still intact for the next such encounter!
 
{\bf Author's Note}: The intention of this article was {\em not} to bruise
      any egos or to ``make fun'' of any particular religion,
      caste, creed, or sexual orientation (!). I may be accused of
      portraying the guy as a total geek. Okay so I did. So sue me! (:-)
      Any resemblence to any person, living or dead, is purely
      coincidential (yeah, sure...and I also have this bridge I
      want to dispose off...).
\clearpage

\begin{center}
                      {\bf Three Poems by Faiz}\\
                          {\em Ali Minai}
\end{center}

Faiz Ahmad Faiz (1911-1984) was, by any measure, one of Urdu's most
profound and original poets. His close association with the Progressive
Writers Movement has sometimes tended to obscure his decisive impact on
{\em all} contemporary Urdu literature. While other Progressive poets like
Kaifee, Makhdoom, Saahir et. al. consciously tried to import new diction
into Urdu poetry, Faiz completely transformed the existing vocabulary
and metaphors in a way that added to their meaning without discarding
their intricate traditional connotations built up over a thousand years
of literary development. This establishes Faiz' position as both an original
poet and the rejuvenator of a rich but fossilizing literary tradition.

Faiz, unlike Iqbal, was not a philosopher-poet. However, he did have a
philosophical orientation, which remained remarkably consisent over a
literary life of fifty years. He combined the often antagonistic ideals
of egalitarianism and cultural richness, and produced a determined but
cultured version of progressive writing that often constrasts starkly
with the violent, slogan-ridden work of some progressive contemporaries.
His poetry is as much a work of beauty as of passion. He had much to
protest about: he was imprisoned thrice on charges of conspiracy; the
transmission of his work on public media was banned for many years; and
he spent his last years in ``voluntary" exile from his beloved land. Yet,
his protest kept its dignity intact, seldom resorting to shrill threats
of the ``coming revolution". He met tyranny with complete faith in the
ultimate triumph of justice. His eloquent criticism was not directed
at this or that ideological enemy, but rather at the exploitative
neo-colonialism that underlies most of today's politics and economics.
Faiz was a Marxist --- of that there was never any doubt ---, but his
poetry rose above the petty antagonisms that have characterized so much
of Marxist literature. Faiz' voice has survived the fall of Marxism
precisely because it never allowed itself to be bound by Marxist dogmas:
it was a universal voice, speaking for the oppressed against the oppresor;
for the weak against the strong; for hope against fear. To be sure, there
are faults in Faiz' outlook, but they are faults of omission rather than
commission. Much has been made of the fact that he failed to criticize
Soviet imperialism, but then, what poet bears a mandate for objectivity!

Here I have translated three of Faiz' more famous poems. The translation
is not literal: I have tried to remain faithful to meaning and metaphor,
but admit my failure to capture the essential beauty of the poems. Still,
pale relections as they are, enjoy.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

\begin{center}
                     {\bf subh-e-aazaadi}
\end{center}
   
This poem, which is one of Faiz' most famous, represents his reaction to
the partition of India. He felt that the Pakistan which came into being
in 1947, and was loudly proclaimed to be the salvation of all Indian muslims,
was not what they had fought for. Thus, he exhorts those who fought for
freedom to keep moving. Partly, this was because Faiz put great emphasis
on social justice, and saw that as a more important goal than the acquisition
of a piece of land.

\begin{verse}
{\em
   yeh daagh daagh ujaalaa, yeh shab-gazeeda sahar,\\
   voh intezaar tha jiskaa, yeh voh sahar to naheeN,\\
   yeh voh sahar to naheeN jiski aarzoo lay kar\\
   chalay thay yaar, ke mil jaayegi kaheeN na kaheeN, \\
   falak ke dasht meN taaroN ki aakhree manzil;\\
   kaheeN to ho ga shab-e sust-mauj ka saahil;\\
   kaheeN to jaa ke rukay gaa safeena-e gham-e dil.\\
   javaaN lahoo ki pur-asraar shah-raahoN say\\
   chalay jo yaar to daaman pe kitne haath paRay;\\
   dayaar-e husn ki bay-sabr khaab-gaahoN say\\
   pukaartee raheeN baaNheN, badan bulaate rahay.\\
   bahut $`$azeez thee laykin rukh-e sahar ki lagan,\\
   bohut qareeN tha haseenaan-e noor kaa daaman,\\
   subuk subuk thee tamanna, dabee dabee thee thakan.\\
   sunaa hai ho bhi chukaa hai firaaq-e zulmat-o-noor;\\
   sunaa hai ho bhi chukaa hai visaal-e manzil-o-gaam;\\
   badal chukaa hai bohut ahl-e dard ka dastoor:\\
   nishaat-e vasl halaal o $`$azaab-e hijr haraam.\\
   jigar ki aag, nazar kee umang, dil ki jalan,\\
   kisee pe chaara-e hijraaN ka kuchh asar hi naheeN.\\
   kahaaN se aai nigaar-e sabaa, kidhar ko gayee? \\
   abhee charaagh-e sar-e rah ko kuchh khabar hi naheeN.\\
   abhee garaani-e shab mayN kamee naheeN aayee,\\
   nijaat-e deeda-o-dil kee ghaRee naheeN aayee,\\
   chalay chalo ke voh manzil abhee naheeN aayee.\\
}
\end{verse}


\begin{center}
{\bf The Dawn of Freedom}
\end{center}

\begin{verse}
This murky, night-stained dawn\\
is not the dawn of our desire.\\
This is not the dawn that we sought so long,\\
expecting to find in the sky's vast desert\\
the final destination of the stars;\\
hoping to discover the other shore\\
of the night's slow-moving river:\\
a harbour for the ship of our sorrow.\\

When first we set forth\\
upon these dark, bloodthirsty paths,\\
strange hands tried to rob us, hold us back;\\
soft arms and warm bodies beckoned to us\\
from beauty's expectant abodes.\\
But we yearned only for the promised dawn,\\
and dreamt of shapes with bodies of light.\\
Swift was our desire, and our weariness slight!\\

They say that light and darkness are sundered.\\
They say that our dreams now stand fulfilled.\\
And those who once loved, look how they have changed:\\
they hold happiness dear, and fly from sorrow!\\
But the fire in our hearts still burns as before,\\
and the anguish in our eyes is unassuaged.\\
The lamps that light the paths of darkness\\
have felt no passage of the morning breeze.\\
The same darkness still weighs upon us;\\
the heart and the eyes are prisoners still,\\
move on, for we have still not arrived.\\
\end{verse}

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

The next two poems were written by Faiz while he was in prison. Like
all of Faiz' poetry, they express his complete belief in the ultimate
victory of love and goodness, and the powerlessness of the forces
of tyranny. The poems are also excellent examples of the extraordinarily
beautiful imagery that characterize many of Faiz' poems.

\begin{center}
                 {\bf zindaaN kee aik shaam}
\end{center}

\begin{verse}
{\em
shaam kay paych-o kham sitaaroN say\\
zeena zeenaa utar rahee hai raat.\\
yooN havaa paas say guzartee hai\\
jaise keh dee kisee ne pyaar ki baat.\\

sehn-e zindaaN ke bay-vatan ashjaar\\
sarnigooN, mahv haiN banaanay mayN\\
damaan-e aasmaaN pe naqsh-o nigaar.\\
shaana-e baam par damaktaa hai\\
mehrbaaN chaandnee ka dast-e jameel.\\
khaak mayN ghhul gayee hai aab-e nujoom;\\
noor mayN ghhul gayaa hai 'arsh ka neel.\\

sabz goshoN meN neelgooN saaye\\
lehlahaatay heN jis tarah dil mayN\\
mauj-e dard-e firaaq-e yaar aaye.\\

dil se paiham khayaal kehtaa hai:\\
itni sheereeN hai zindagee iss pal,\\
zulm kaa zehr ghholnay vaalay\\
kaamraaN ho sakayN ge aaj na kal.\\
jalva-gaah-e visaal kee sham'ayN\\
voh bujhaa bhee chukay agar to kiyaa?\\
chaand ko gul karayN to hum jaanayN.\\
}
\end{verse}


\begin{center}
                {\bf A Prison Evening}
\end{center}

\begin{verse}
Night descends, step by step,\\
down the winding stairway of stars.\\
The breeze passes softly\\
like an intimate whisper.\\

The orphan trees of the prison courtyard\\
make weary patterns against the sky,\\
and the gentle hand of moonlight glows\\
upon the rooftop's shoulder.\\
The brightness of stars\\
is mingled with the dust,\\
and the violet sky\\
dissolved in light.\\

Blue shadows dance\\
among green leaves\\
as passion and pain\\
writhe in the heart.\\

This moment's sweetness reaffirms\\
that those who poison\\
the spring of life\\
with tyranny\\
shall not succeed\\
till the end of time!\\
What if they have extinguished\\
the lamps of love on earth?\\
Who shall put out the moon?\\
\end{verse}

\begin{center}
                  {\bf zindaaN kee aik subh}
\end{center}

\begin{verse}
{\em
raat baaqee thi abhee jab sar-e baaleeN aa kar\\
chaand nay mujh se kahaa, ``jaag! sahar aayee hai\\
jaag! is shab jo mai-e khaab tiraa hissaa thee\\
jaam kay lab se tah-e jaam utar aayee hai".\\

'aks-e jaanaaN ko vida' kar ke uThee mayri nazar;\\
shab ke Thehray huay paanee ki siyah chaadar par\\
jaa-bajaa raqs meN aanay lage chaandee ke bhanvar,\\
chaand kay haathon se taaroN ke kanval gir gir kar\\
Doobtay, tairtay, murjhaate rahay, khhilte rahay,\\
raat aur subh' bohut dair galay milte rahay.\\

sehn-e zindaaN meN rafeeqoN ke sunehray chehray\\
sit'h-e zulmat se damaktay huay ubhray, kam kam,\\
neend kee oas ne un chehroN dho Daalaa thaa\\
days kaa dard, firaaq-e rukh-e mehboob ka gham.\\
door naubat huee, phirnay lage bayzaar-qadam\\
zard, faaqoN ke sataaye huay pehray vaalay:\\
ahl-e zindaaN ke ghazabnaak, kharoshaaN naalay\\
jin ki baaNhoN meN phiraa karte heN baaNhayN Daalay.\\

lazzat-e khaab se makhmoor havaayeN jaageeN;\\
``jail" kee zehr-bharee, choor sadaayeN jaageeN:\\
door darvaaza khhulaa koi, koee band huaa;\\
door machlee koi zanjeer, machal kar roee;\\
door utraa kisi taalay ke jigar mayN khanjar;\\
sar paTaknay laga reh reh ke dareechaa koee.\\
goya phir khaab se baydaar huay dushman-e jaaN:\\
sang-o faulaad se Dhaalay huay jinnaat-e garaaN,\\
jin ke chungal meN shab-o roz heN faryaad-kunaaN\\
mayre baykaar shab-o roz ki naazuk pariyaaN;\\
apne shahpoor ke rah daykhh rahee haiN ye aseer,\\
jis ke tarkash meN heN ummeed ke jaltay huay teer.\\
}
\end{verse}


\begin{center}
                 {\bf A Prison Morning}
\end{center}

\begin{verse}
It was still dark when the moon\\
came up to my bedside and whispered, ``Awake!\\
morning is here, and the draught of sleep\\
that was your portion this night\\
is wholly drained".\\

Thus torn away from the beloved's dreams,\\
my gaze turned to the night's still waters,\\
churned here and there by waves of silver;\\
stars dropped as lotuses from the moon's white hand,\\
floating, sinking, blooming a moment, then gone;\\
night and dawn embraced, and held\\
a long while.\\

In the prison yard, bright, familiar faces\\
floated in the darkness, just barely visible,\\
washed clear of all despair and pain\\
by the gentle waters of sleep.\\

The gong struck somewhere in the distance,\\
and the pale, starving guards began their rounds,\\
arm in arm with the raging screams of prisoners.\\
The breeze shook off its drowsy stupor,\\
and the poisonous, ragged prison-sounds\\
left their sleep of silence:\\
A door opened somewhere, another slammed shut;\\
a chain cried out in the distance, then sobbed;\\
a lock's heart was pierced with a cruel dagger;\\
a casement smote its head against a wall.\\
One by one, all my scourges awoke:\\
the stone and metal monsters which hold captive\\
the weary, wailing damsels of my nights and days,\\
who await the coming of their promised prince\\
with his fiery arrows of hope.\\
\end{verse}
\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

\begin{center}
	{\bf The death of a writer}\\
	 Murthy Gandikota, 09/88
\end{center}

\begin{verse}
The typewriter keys click\\
Like the notes of piano\\
Printing in black \\
Letters, words, and sentences \\
That stir up the humanity\\

A fanatic speaks for the religion\\
Seeks blood in revenge\\
Millions are under the spell\\
Reason and rationality hide\\
Under speechless expression\\

A bullet penetrates\\
The keys sounding\\
Like funeral music\\
Obliterate letters, words and sentences\\
Filling the world with bloody void.\\
\end{verse}


\clearpage

\begin{center}
			{\sl A horror story}\\
                          {\bf Temple Of The Moon}\\
			{\em Narayan Sriranga Raja}
\end{center}


``I wish the children were back already," Amma said nervously.  My sister
Meera, at that time, was not a child; she was seventeen, and my cousins, 
with whom she had gone for a walk, were older still.  Nevertheless, even 
now, many years later, when Amma writes to one of us she sometimes 
refers to the other as ``the child" ...  Amma is a worrier, but that 
particular night even I was uneasy.  Bangalore people go to sleep 
unreasonably early by our standards, and it was unusual, particularly 
in those days, for people to be walking around the streets of 
Basavanagudi after eight.  But now it was past nine, and still no sign 
of the girls.  ``Don't worry, Amma," I told her.  ``They must have taken 
shelter somewhere because of the rain".  We find Bangalore very different, 
which, of course, is why Meera and I always enjoyed our Bangalore 
vacations so much; not least because of the funny weather.  It would 
start raining in the afternoons and usually clear up by night.  Not that 
night, though.  Outside it was still pouring, and as I peered out, the 
big jackfruit tree in the garden seemed alternately to hunch backwards
like a huge, angry cat, or creep forward menacingly as its dark branches 
swayed in the storm.  Occasional flashes of lightning showed sheets of 
water sliding over the windowpanes.  Amma leaned forward anxiously as an 
autorickshaw stopped outside the gate.  The ``children" were back.

``Nothing much," my favourite cousin explained.  ``When it started to 
drizzle we thought we could just walk back quickly, but then it really 
began to pour, so we stopped under the gateway of the Hanuman temple 
to wait for an auto.  These wretched auto-drivers never show up when 
you need them.  The lightning was really something, though".  In those 
days, of course, Bangalore din't have TV.  We cousins used to stay awake 
in our beds till late at night, talking and arguing about nothing in 
particular, feeling incredibly cozy in the chilly Bangalore night.  It 
was great fun.   That night electricity had failed; by the warm 
golden flicker of candles we unrolled our mattresses in the front hall
while the older generation, gossiping half-heartedly, enjoyed its 
betelnut.  ``Just think," I said maliciously to my cousin.  ``Suppose 
someone -- or some {\bf thing}  -- had pulled you into the temple?" ``What 
rubbish!  What do you mean, some {\bf thing}?!"  ``It's possible," I told her.  
``When I went to Bastar district last winter, on that IIT expedition, we 
had some pretty creepy experiences."  ``Like what?," she challenged.  

``Well, Bastar district in Madhya Pradesh has some of the last really 
wild forests in the country.  It's the country of the Marhia and 
Bisonhorn Marhia tribes".  ``Why `Bisonhorn'?"  ``Because in their dances 
they wear masks with buffalo horns on top.  Anyway...  We were supposed to 
go about twelve miles that day and reach a small village called Pipla on 
the banks of the Shabari river.  We started late and then got lost.  That 
was the day we ate ``Alu Poha" for lunch -- boiled potatoes and uncooked 
rice flakes, with salt and chilly powder".  ``Poor baby chewed on rice 
flakes," my cousin jeered.  ``Big deal!"  ``Hold on, I haven't finished.  By 
the time it got dark we were in the middle of nowhere.  Just the dark forest 
on every side, and a small earth track which, we hoped, would take us to 
Pipla.  There had been rumours about a man-eating tiger.  We carried sticks 
and let out a shout all together every few minutes, just in case... after 
a few more minutes the fellows in front came to a stop.  `There's some 
kind of stone pathway here,' said someone, flashing an electric torch into 
the forest.  `Want to check it out?' suggested someone else.  `If it leads 
to a building maybe we could stay there tonight and cook something nice.
It's nearly 9 o'clock already'.  Another fellow agreed, implying that 
walking any further, what with all the snakes and man-eating tigers, 
was tantamount to suicide.  Soon we were headed over the ancient-looking 
slabs of stone directly into the forest.  

``Tree roots had heaved up some of the the slabs and the dry leaves were 
ankle-deep in places, as though no one else had passed that way for years.  
It occured to me that if no one else cared to use the road, there must be 
some excellent reason.  Our footsteps sounded too loud.  Then there came an 
awful screech and something rushed away from us through the jungle, ripping 
through the bushes.  A really ugly screech, it was, and I felt even worse."
``You never told us about all this before," said my mother accusingly.  ``So 
I'm telling you now.  Anyway it was probably just a wild boar.  Apparently
the others hadn't cared much for the screech either; we huddled around,
looking sheepishly at one another.  `Oh, come on,' said our leader.  `It's 
just some animal.  The poor thing is probably terrified'.  So we went on.  
In a few minutes the path turned sharply, and after a steep climb, ended 
in a flight of steps.  Three stone steps, cut in solid rock, leading
straight into the hillside itself".

``Steps leading where?," a kid cousin asked apprehensively.  ``To a small
temple," I told him.  ``Someone, who knows how many centuries ago, had cut 
into the side of the mountain to carve out this rock temple.  At the top 
of the stairs we could see a small entrance hall with several rows of 
pillars, and beyond, impenetrably black, the doorway to the inner shrine.  
Opposite the doorway, in the middle of the entrance hall, there was a 
raised slab of stone.  Probably the `balipeetham' -- the sacrificial altar".  
I paused, but no one seemed to have any comment.  ``Expeditions usually have 
a leader, and ours was this really fantastic guy, his name was Gadgil.  
Gadgil went up the first step, went up the second step.  He seemed about to 
go up the third step, but then he turned round slowly and looked back down
the hillside.  `Quite a view from here' he said.  Then someone else followed
him up the stairs; when he reached the second stair he dropped his flashlight
and had to come down again.  There was room for only two people on those 
stairs.  After the flashlight fellow stepped down it was my turn.  The first 
two stairs were OK.  The third one... I don't know.  I just couldn't take 
that third step.  Now I knew why Gadgil had suddenly become interested in 
the scenery.  For some reason we were afraid to go up that third step.  
No one said so, of course; instead we hung around, flashing our lights at the 
hallway, at the pillars, at the steps, pretending to examine the ceiling, 
waiting for someone else to go up first.  No one flashed their light at the 
altar or into the black doorway.  I looked here, looked there, but always 
my eyes seemed to end up on that total blackness in the inner doorway... I 
became convinced that something had come out of the shrine and was standing 
just inside that doorway, waiting for us to come in.  

``I'm not sure how long we fooled around like that.  We were all getting
badly frightened, and staying overnight no longer seemed such a bright idea.   
The wind was picking up.  The treetops hissed and rustled.  Then a stronger 
gust blew all the way up to the temple.  That hole in the hillside must have 
acted like a kind of flute or organ pipe.  The pillars seemed to shimmer 
slightly and suddenly, all around us there came this tremendous moaning 
vibration, uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmm.....  we were all out of there
and bolting down the old stone road as fast as we could run.  When we got
to that beautiful little beaten earth track we just kept on running, no 
talk, no shouts for the tiger.  We reached Pipla about eleven o'clock that 
night."

``E.M. Forster's Marabar caves," my mother remarked, ``used to go boum-boum."
She is a professor of English.  ``Did you inquire about the temple?" asked 
my uncle.  ``Yes, the next morning.  The villagers were very casual; it 
turned out to be just an old Shiva temple, used only for festivals about 
once or twice an year.  Nothing creepy, nothing to panic about.  Actually," 
I continued, ``Pipla was a beautiful place.  The hills all around are full of 
iron, and the Shabari river cuts through them in a series of gorges, in all 
kinds of wonderful shades of warm browns, reds and oranges.  At that time I 
had been reading A.K. Ramanujan's book, `Speaking of Siva'; it's a 
translation from Kannada {\em vachanas}, devotional poems to Shiva composed by 
the Veerasaiva saints.  Basavanna always refers to Shiva as `Koodala Sangama 
Deva,' the God of meeting rivers.  It really suited the Shiva of that ancient 
rock temple, deep in the jungle, overlooking the Shabari river and those 
magnificent gorges.  I spent quite a few hours daydreaming on those rocks."

``Not a bad story," admitted my cousin reluctantly.  ``Not bad," my uncle
repeated.  ``But as a matter of fact you got away very lightly from that 
temple.  Why, I could tell you something even more amazing, a true story
of course, that happened to me long long ago, even before I met your aunt 
and got married".  My cousins were evidently in ghoulish mood.  ``Go on," 
they begged.  My uncle is a lawyer, but he began his career many years ago
as a police officer.  My mother has often told us what an impressive man he 
used to be physically in his younger days.  ``When you saw him walking, he 
was like a lion," she says.  ``Strong and arrogant, afraid of nothing."  
``Let me try to remember, now," my uncle began slowly.  ``In those days I was 
posted in Coorg.  At that time Coorg was an even wilder place than it is 
now.  Dense jungles still covered most of the Western Ghats, and many 
of the remote mountain villages could be reached only by walking three or 
four days through the forest.  Tigers, bears, leopards, wild buffalo were 
everywhere.  I was the only police officer for miles around.  One day a 
runner arrived with the news that a leopard had attacked a woman in a 
remote village about seven hours away.  There was exactly one government 
doctor for the whole area of about 800 square miles.

``There was nothing to do but escort him over the mountains to the village 
where the injured woman lay.  It was seven in the evening when we started; 
the only consolation was the full moon, which made our lanterns superfluous 
except when we were actually under the trees.  We walked for several hours, 
with regular ten-minute halts, me occasionally carrying the doctor's 
equipment.  The doctor was an uncommunicative man, and I have never been 
talkative.  Gradually, half-asleep, we settled into a steady trudge over 
the mountain path.  As we climbed higher, the air became chilly and a
faint mist started appearing.  I may have dozed off for a few moments.
When I came to, the fog was much thicker and I could hardly see 20 feet
ahead.  A brighter spot in the sky showed that the moon was already  
inclining westwards.  `Better stay close,' I warned, turning round to face 
the doctor.  He was gone!  I shouted loud but there was no reply.  After 
a few minutes of waiting he had still not caught up; so, cursing him for a
stupid idiot, I turned and started back the way I had come.  Ten minutes 
later I was hopelessly lost in the fog.  

``After blundering around for some time I noticed that the fog seemed to be 
thinner in one particular direction, so I started going that way.  Now here's 
a peculiar thing:  you know how fog tends to accumulate in lower areas.  But 
this fog got denser if I tried to go uphill.  It kept forcing me downwards 
till suddenly I emerged from a clump of trees and found myself in a narrow 
fold in the mountains, with a small lake just ahead.  And guess what stood 
right next to the lake.  Yes!  A ruin, with saplings growing out of the 
tower, but still recognizable as a small stone temple."  ``Why do you two 
make the temples sound so scary?," asked Meera with a shudder.  ``After all, 
nothing bad could happen in a temple, could it?"  ``Depends," I told her with 
a knowing leer, ``on who -- or what -- is worshipped in it".  ``Now, don't you
scare your sister," said my uncle reprovingly.  ``Let me do it.  Anyway, I 
didn't like that lake and I din't like the temple.  So I headed back into the 
forest and did my best to keep moving away.  No good.  I must have wandered 
in a circle, because half an hour later I was back in the same place.  All 
around, a dense ring of fog; and at the centre, completely clear, bathed in 
silvery moonlight, the lake and temple once again.

``All right.  If fate wanted me to sleep there tonight, then that's what I
would do.  I made my way to the temple; there was grass growing everywhere,
twigs and dry leaves in the courtyard, moss and small plants on the pillars, 
but there was no earthly reason to be nervous.  From my experience as a 
policeman, I had come to the same conclusion as the Panchatantra animals -- 
there is no creature as wicked and dangerous as a human being.  This place 
obviously had no regular human visitors.  So there should be nothing to
worry about.  I left my shoes outside, curled myself up in a corner of the 
hall, and tried to sleep.  But something kept bothering me.  Something was
{\em wrong}.  Then, sitting up bolt upright with a pang of real fear, 
I realized what it was -- the smell of incense.

``I wanted to run, but I didn't dare to move.  May be I sat for hours, while 
the moon dipped lower and lower to the west and moonlight slanted into the 
doorway through which I had entered.  Despite everything, I started to doze.  
Some instinct forced me awake.  I lay there in the corner, breathing as 
silently as I could.  Something had entered the temple, and now it stood 
in the doorway, silhouetted in the moonlight.  It had the general shape of 
a man but was covered all over with fur like an animal.  Even now I had 
not completely lost my self control.  It might just be some unknown kind of 
ape.  Then the creature spoke in Kannada, calling me by my own nickname!  
``Venkanna, have you come?"  It was not a question but a statement.  If I 
did not scream, it was because I was paralyzed.  I could say nothing.  
Then it opened its arms and spoke again, in the same slow rhythm as the 
previous question, as though it were reciting a spell.  ``Venkanna, come to 
me."  Still I couldn't move.  The creature came forward and chanted again.  
``Venkanna, embrace me."  Now it was right next to me, trying to grasp me in 
its hairy arms.  With a loud scream I shrugged off its hand and broke its 
grasp, tearing out a handful of fur in the process.  I dashed outside and 
made for the forest.  The creature made no attempt to follow.  The fog had 
cleared.  I kept climbing uphill.  Looking like a madman, barefoot, still
clutching a handful of fur, towards dawn I stumbled into the village.  The 
doctor had arrived hours ago and was still asleep.  The unfortunate woman 
had died before his arrival.  I too crawled in and fell asleep next to 
the doctor.

``The villagers had never heard of any lake or ancient temple anywhere in 
the area.  I pretended to be collecting information for a government
survey; a police officer cannot afford the reputation of a lunatic.  My
shoes, I claimed, had been lost while crossing the river.  According to
the local hunters, what I had in my hand was unmistakably the fur of a
bear.  ``Sorry we got separated," I told the doctor.  ``I hope you din't
have a very bad time trying to find this place all alone."  He looked at
me as though I was crazy.  ``I don't know what you mean," he said blankly.  
``You were with me all the way!"

\clearpage

\begin{center}
                           {\bf A Very Punny Mahabharath}\\
			{\em Dinesh Nettar}
\end{center}

For quite some time, I have been watching all you Nettars,
oops, netters, quibbling over something I am supposed to
have said to my brother-in-law Sri Urgent, a couple of years ago.
I want to clarify that actually I didn't say all those things.
Some of it was made up by a student of mine called Sun-Car-charger.
Any way, let me tell you the real story.

In Hastingsworthy, there were a bunch of kids called Cow-rubbers.
Their pop was one Dirt-wrestler and mom was one pistol-toter
(Gun-dhaari) herself.  Actually she had only 5 (101 binary)
kids, but somehow the base got mixed up with decimal.
The big kid was See-you-then (later, when he became a big bully,
he was called Dare-you-then).

Then there were these other kids on the block.  They were so 
gentle that everybody called them Pan-doves.  My brother-in-law,
Urgent (he used to go around calling me, ``Hurry, Hurry'' when
my real name is Kris - so folks named him ``Urgent'') was the
middle one and could shoot at a bean at 100 (*1e-3) paces.  Sometimes
he even hit it.  

These Pan-dove kids also wanted to play {\em kabbaddi}  in the same
field along with the Cow-rubbers.  But Dare-you-then would have
none of it.  He had a good league going, and he had no intentions
of letting these sissies spoil his fun.  To settle the matter,
they decided to play Monopoly.  The Cow-rubbers' uncle, Shot-Gunnie,
had the board and dice all rigged up.  But Pan-doves,
unaware of this, bet their last shirt and even the sari of
their wife Dee (short for Drop-a-dee).  They lost, and Dee called
me collect for another sari.  I FAXed a long one pretty fast, and
she managed to make a decent cover for herself.

In the end, Pan-doves  had to spend a couple of months in 
Corbett National Wildlife Sanctuary on their own pocket money. 
I helped out with a Prestige Pressure Cooker.
When they were at the sanctuary, they had to answer questions like this:

\begin{verse}
Q1:   What is black and white and red all over?\\
A1.1: Newspaper.\\
      (Wrong. one down.)\\
A1.2: Black and white cow with red paint on it.\\
      (Wrong. two down.)\\
A1.3: Kali flower in tomato sauce.\\
      (Right.)\\

Q2.0: What did the Mexican shark fisherman say to his wife?\\
A2.0: Take a mako and make a taco.\\
Q2.1: Smart guy, ok, now, what did the wife say when she served it?\\
A0.0: Mako taco, saako, baeko?  (enough, or more? - Kannada)\\

Q3.0: What US visa is popular among Maharastrians and Goans?\\
A3.0: J-1 (Jevann = meal).\\
Q3.1: What about the Hindi speaking folks?\\
Q3.2: P.R. (pyaar = love).\\
\end{verse}

These guys even had to spend a couple of weeks hiding and working
as janitors because they lost their visa papers.  INS 
(Indraprastha Non-intelligence Service) caught up
with them, when one of them stupidly wrote in his resume:

\begin{verse}
Qualifications - Ph.D. in Tree Uprooting\\
Can use a telephone pole for a toothpick.
\end{verse}

Finally, they came back to look for the playing field in
Hastingsworthy again.  This time, they were all prepared to spill
some tomato sauce.  So they all gathered on the Crook-shelter
batterfield for some pizza.

But my brother-in-law {\em Urgent} , he had put a lot of money in
the other bank.  Those guys were only insured by FSLIC, not FDIC.
So he got scared to shoot them.  He says, ``Kris, b-i-l, how
can I shoot those guys?  I can see my teacher, Drone
(son of Bird-watcher), my grand-pop's buddy, B. Shuman,
my half-brother, Kernel, and all the folks.  I can't do this.''
So he puts down his paint-pistol.

I say to him, ``Parther, it ain't you that sprays the sauce.
It is the pistol that does it.  And I make the pistol.
Go ahead, shoot.''

I also say a lot of other things like:
``You go, you go, he drums, say ... ''
Sun-car-charger changed it to ``Yugo, Yugo, heed arms.  Yeah!! ...''

Another thing that happened was that I liked this car, Signed ``Wah!''
So I said, ``Car man, yea!!  What a car I say!!  Ma place's gotta
change.''  But when that V.S. chap narrated this to Guy Nash,
and when he put it in the Word Processor, somebody goofed it
and it came out ``Car mein yeh wohi car hai, ma, please could I?''
You see, in those days, we didn't have PostScript, we only
had Sans-script.

Finally, I convinced him to fight.  They all went it like
Mad-rasCal-Cuttas, beating up each other, splashing tomato sauce
all over.  I had to do some hacking around the Kernel guy,
and make him give /dev/inder his 'e-mail.  When Kernel  lost his driver
too, he simply core-dumped.

After about 18 minutes, the whole place was like
the top of a large pizza, onions, green pepper, mushrooms,
you name it, the whole works.  Everyone was out of gas.  Maybe,
the Pan-doves won, but I doubt it.  Now, that's the REAL story.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

By the way, I got the dates mixed up.  I was still looking at my
Diaper Yug calender.  Now we are already in Curly Yug.
Any way, since you all got it straight, you Bar-at-tears, 
don't fight.  May peas be with you, go Home, Shun Tea,
Shun Tea, Shun Tea (drink Coffee).
Since my wife \# 16AE (Hex) is fighting with my wife \# 111001011 
(binary), I've got to go and stop them.

 { --  \em Kris K. Shower, Lord of The War-a-Car.}

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

\begin{center}
			    {\bf You, me and Us}\\
			{\em Rajiv Dighe}
\end{center}
\begin{verse}
		I am you and you are me\\
		both of us too blurred to see\\
		if there is a law of emotion\\
		or is there only order in commotion ?\\
		Maybe Zeno wasnt all that blind\\
		when he said "Motion ? 'tis only in the mind"\\
		For all I know, the you I see\\
		is merely a reflection of me ...\\
\end{verse}

\clearpage

\begin{center}
	{\bf The Three Hundred Thirty Million Plus One$^{th}$ god}\\
			{\em Neeraj Bhatnagar}\\
			83 Prestbury lane\\
			Somerset, NJ 08873\\
\end{center}


It was an unusually cold morning on the Allahabad railway station that day
several years ago. Apparently, every one on the platform had chosen to stay in
the shaded area of the platform and I was the only person in the open unshaded
area.  My train to Kanpur was late and to pass my time I was strolling to and
from the distant end of the platform.

Due to the heavy fog all around, I could hardly see beyond a few steps. As I
walked toward the western (or was it eastern/northern/southern) end of the
platform, I noticed a small white brick structure right in the middle of the
platform. Due to the fog it did not become immediately clear to me as to what
the structure was.  However, after I took a few more steps I noticed a man
walking toward that structure with his wife.  By the mannerism of this man and
his wife, I could make out that the structure was some place of worship. My
first reaction was of displeasure- we do not exempt even the public places like
railway stations from making our temples.

As I walked a few more steps, the green lines on the arches of the structures
and the color and the style of the clothes worn by the man and his wife clearly
indicated to me that the said structure was a muslim {\i mazhar.} Though I
did not fully understand how that man and his wife prayed at that mazhar or if
they prayed there at all, I was impressed by the simplicity and humility of
their devotion and I could feel my oneness with them. 

I soon passed the mazhar and could not see it any more. Gradually the thoughts
about the mazhar vanished from my mind.  However, a few minutes later when I
was returning from the extreme end of the platform, I noticed that structure
again. The muslim pair was still there. But this time I noticed one more man
and his wife by that shrine. This man was about as simple and as illiterate as
the first man. His wife was following him in about the same manner as the first
man's wife. And the second pair appeared to be about as devoted as the first.
There was a big difference though. The second man and his wife were not
kneeling on their knees. They were praying with their hands folded and their
heads bent. They were distinctively Hindus.

The sight of a devotee praying to his God always moves me. That day also I was
moved a little bit. As I passed that structure the second time, I wondered if I
should also stop and fold my hands. There was a conflict between my feelings
which asked me to at least stop for a short minute and my reasonableness
which asked my to proceed. The conflict was broken by the whistle of my train
and I, simply, ran toward my train without praying or not praying.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

In today's religious thoughts monotheism is often taken to be a foregone
conclusion. I often think that the ideal God, if He were to exist, will be
almost algorithmic and, hence, irrelevant. If this God is really irrelevant
then the mono vs. poly dichotomy is really moot. If, however, the God is not
algorithmic then He is a worth knowing Unknown. And, whatever form or forms,
including monotheism and/or formlessness, that we currently know him to possess
are just the form or forms that we attribute to Him for our own convenience.
With this in my mind I find the concept of monotheism a bit restrictive and
unnatural.

Human beings, by their very nature, possess non-identical thoughts in their
minds (even the people belonging to two distinct monotheistic religions pray
different Gods and revere distinct objects.) And, worst of all, they are
hostages of their thoughts and seldom question them. If such is the case then
it appears to me that a more pragmatic way to unify people is not by unifying
the God in one single form but by training the people to revere all the forms
that are sacred to any one.

More than a decade later the Allahabad railway station incidence still comes to
my mind. I feel thankful to the thinkers who gave to me and to that
illiterate-looking couple the freedom to create the three hundred thirty
million plus one$^{th}$ god in that brick structure that foggy morning on a
railway station and to worship that new god.

But then again, how much can I trust my conclusions? I am a hostage to my own
thoughts! 
\clearpage
\begin{center}
			{\bf Salad-Days}\\
			{\em Rajiv Dighe}
\end{center}

\begin{verse}
		In IIT Kharagpur from 1975 to 80\\
		Halycon days ? Nah! Nothing weighty\\
		But some mammaries still linger\\
		a once-in-a-blue-moon humdinger\\

		In those days bumming fags was in\\
		Not sharing your HW a mortal sin\\
		The professors maintained their distance\\
		unwilling to provide any assistance\\

		Like worms that had crawled out of rocks\\
		We were quarantined from their barracks\\
		Once a year, barriers lifted  on hostel day\\
		They came, they saw, they made us pay ...\\

		Those were the days of unabashed lust\\
		Fantasies about sex, a daily must\\
		Where raging hormones made us subject\\
		anybody remotely feminine to a lust object\\

		When Santhal Chiplis bathing in the lake\\
		was enough for us to do a double-take\\
		When the girls in the ladies hostel\\
		must have felt like the OPEC cartel\\

		When in spring came THE FEST\\
		Hundreds of bodies in frenzied zest\\
		It was undoubtedly the season to drool\\
		and yet maintain the facade of being {\em cool}\\

		Babes dying to let their hair down\\
		Wanting to soar, their sorrows drown\\
		Waiting to be seduced by a stranger\\
		Mills \& Boon-fueled, praying for danger\\
		The guys would be praying for more\\
		Hoping to meet their Madonna-W****\\

		Considering that both the sexes\\
		were searching for similar fixes\\
		It is surprising how little action\\
		was seen from both the factions\\
		Blame it on our middle class mores\\
		Guilt-complex, feelings of remorse\\

		I remember late-night walks \\
		Lorreto-girls, "atla" talks\\
		Hunger used to lead us to Cheddis\\
		Mughlai-parathas, bumming beedis\\

		Saturday night was the day of Feast\\
		Veg. Pulao, Chana Dal \& the poultry beast\\
		After dinner walks with masala pan\\
		sucking on my precious CAPSTAN\\

		A few moments to enjoy- a luxury\\
		ferociously guard it from any worry\\
		Time to fantasize of the future\\
		build my castles, dreams to nurture\\

		In retrospect, it was a fine time\\
		and with that I will end this rhyme\\
\end{verse}
\begin{center}
	{\bf	A Tribute to Raj Kapoor}\\
{\em Ravikumar}
\end{center}

\begin{verse}
		He was a seller of dreams, this man\\
		With a bright twinkle in his eyes\\
		And an innocent grin on his lips. \\
		But he knew well the dark sighs\\

		That were locked up in the dungeons\\
		Of the ghetto, like muffled screams.\\
		He knew what a cold and hungry night was \\
		And what it was to have happy dreams\\

		Where rich girls fell in love with\\
		Tramps and wept upon separation.\\
		Where it was glamorous to polish boots,\\
		And good virtues always won.\\

		He sold us so many fantasies\\
		Wrapped up in cardinal and gold.\\
		Bitterness, he well understood,\\
		Was best forgotten and untold.\\
\end{verse}
\clearpage
\begin{center}

	{\bf Novel Sexual Fantacies of Late 20th Century}\\
	{\bf with Advances in Artificial Intelligence Research}\\
	   	{\em Murthy Gandikota}
\end{center}


At last, I have found a way to assure success both in my scientific
endeavors and sexual life. Actually, it occurred to me when 
someone pointed out the misuse of ``coition" for ``cogitation" in one of   
my technical reports. Like Kekule who dreamt of snakes eating their
tails before proposing the structure of benzene,\footnote{And I didn't even know
snakes proposed the structure of benzene! -- {\em Ed.}} I may have something
surprising here, like a new years' gift to all those who are
unsatisfied with their sexual opposites who are in the scientific
profession. Imagine an intelligent manikin as your sexual partner. An
intelligent manikin is an ordinary manikin such as you see in malls, 
supplemented with transducers and actuators that can simulate love making; 
and with a neural net and a knowledge base that  can reason just about
everything in science. Pow! you have a real scientific person that can
talk to you intelligently and offer you sexual fantasy at the same
time.  Compare that with a human partner in scientific profession lying
beside you in the bed. Obviously, (s)he cannot handle both science and
sex simultaneously. Like Mr. Spoch, (s)he will debate between the
rationality  of science and the emotion of love making until
her/his nerves are so fired up that they had to give rise to an
orgasm, as an escape. And you think (s)he has come with you and the
earth has shaken. So long (s)he  doesn't tell you the real reason for
her/his orgasm, the naive you will think you are responsible for it.
You tend to rationalize what no one really understands foremostly -- the
orgasm.  With the intelligent manikin, however, you do know for
certain, that there is no emotional play. There is only a synthetic neural
network-based orgasm that happens once the hill climbing routine has
found the  global minimum in the weight space corresponding to the
optimal heartbeat, body temperature, blood pressure and hormone
activity so as to maximize the sexual satisfaction  function. In other
words, there is no cheating, no rationalization, no emotional facade
and mind play. Only pure orgasmic pleasure, perhaps at the same level
as ancient Hindu Yogi's coital experiments with self. Just as the yogi
has integrated coition with yoga, you would have successfully unified
the two most earth-shaking concepts this human kind has ever faced
with, science and sex.   


But let me caution you, this whole idea will take a down hill turn if
the Materials Science and Neural Net labs fail in their research.
Currently the synthetic skin material feels like rubber. Rubber is not
exactly the tight skin on the human skeleton with hundreds of muscles
that keep it taut. It's like making love to a septuagenarian with advanced
signs of muscular distrophy (God bless them all). On the other hand,
if the neural net people cannot do a better job of putting together
the manikin's neural net, then you may end up with a manikin suffering
from Alzheimer's disease. In any case, making love to an intelligent
manikin will make you a crazy person, at least, in the perception of
your friends and worse, even those with the knowledge of computers.
So, you have to prepare for the eventuality when your critics want to
sue you for impeding the evolution of human race, with your gadget
that cannot reproduce. An uptight lawyer can argue that you have given
a ``suicide machine" to the young folk who should be chasing after the
human sexual opposites and making love with the goal of giving birth
to their progeny, and thus be responsible for the survival of human race.
Oh, by the way, an operational warning. Never try a tongue twister
kiss with  an intelligent manikin unless you consider electric shock
as a sexual fantasy. 

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

\vspace*{1 cm}

\begin{center}
                            {\bf Sufi Wisdom}\\
                            {\em  Gul Agha}
\end{center}


Idrees Shah relates the story of a Persian Sufi.  A person came to him
and asked how he would describe ultimate reality.
The Sufi asked him to figure out the meaning of the letters IHMND.  
When he had, the Sufi said, he would understand
ultimate reality.  The fellow travelled far and yonder for years
seeking the meaning of the word.  He finally returned frustrated --
only to find that the Sufi had passed away.  As he stood mourning and
angry, he declared aloud that all was lost.  He had wasted years and
found no meaning looking for the meaning of what was spelled IHMND.  A
disciple of the Sufi pointed out to him that the letters were an
acronym for ``een huroof ma$`$ni naa daarad" (these words have no
meaning).


\clearpage
\begin{center}
{\bf	The origin of Idli, Vada and Dosa}\\
		{\em Murthy, 07/88}
\end{center}

\begin{verse}
Many centuries ago, there used to be three \\
Silly sisters in Andhra who wanted handsome husbands\\
So they went on a diet to look slim \\
And in no time they looked pretty thin\\

Hundreds of eligible bachelors lined up\\
To marry the beautiful trio\\
They demanded no dowry in return\\
And promised their mothers will hide their brooms\\

The girls decided to give a test\\
Just to eliminate dumb loosers\\
They gambled, only the smart and handsome\\
Will survive the test and marry them\\

The test was simple and clear\\
The boys have to salvage spoilt dough\\
And produce three delicious dishes\\
That will please the sisters\\

``How can you do that?", wondered the smart \\
``It is demeaning", said the macho ones\\
``Go ask your mama", jibed the young ones \\
So they all left in disgust and anger\\

Only three do-nothing boys remained\\
They decided to marry these girls\\
And no body else for that matter\\
Because they had no where to go\\

The first one made a cake out of the dough;\\
The second one made a solution out of it;\\
The third one put a finger in everything\\
Hoping something lucky will come in his way.\\

The first one cooked his cakes in steam;\\
The second one made pan cakes on fire;\\
The third one fried his cakes in oil;\\
Lo! the results soon came.\\

Three dishes were presented to the girls\\
The girls named them  ``idle", ``doze" and  ``wide"\\
The names were to represent the eyes of the boys\\
Sure enough, the girls married the boys.\\

After a century...\\

In a village people talked about three men\\
'cause all three were fat, indolent and full of flatulence\\
The villagers blamed the men's wives\\
For they overfed them with ``idli", ``dosa" and ``vada". \\
\end{verse}

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}
\begin{center}
{\bf Silly Verses Silly}\\
{\em Ravikumar}
\end{center}
\begin{verse}
 \begin{center} {\bf e.e. cummings} \\ \end{center}
                  don't blame him folks.\\
                  his caps lock key\\
                  was\\
                  b r o k e n.\\

  \begin{center} {\bf OOH LA LA!} \\ \end{center}
        L.A. is like a chocolate chip cookie,\\
        Soft and Chewy and  full of goo.\\
        But all the same, not good for you!\\
	Too much cholesterol and calorie!\\

\end{verse}
\clearpage
\begin{center}
			{\sl Short Story}\\
			{\bf Master of the Game} \\
			{\em Viswamitra}
\end{center}

`I am going to feed these bastards to my Labrador!', Jennifer shouted to 
herself, banging the receiver of the telephone in her office.

``What's up Jen ? Is it those morons again ?", asked Benjamin walking into
Jennifer's office and sipping his favorite Darjeeling tea.

``Yes Ben!  They are threatening to take Ralph's life, again.", she fumed in
restlessness.  ``I want goddamn tight security at Esquire.  We can't afford to be
careless at any spot," Jennifer commanded, also reminding herself once again
how important it was for her to protect Ralph Anderson.

``You got it Jen!  I am leaving to Esquire, right away," assured Ben.

``Alright! I will join you after lunch," said Jennifer, retiring for a quick 
bite.

Benjamin stepped out, throwing the tea cup into the bin.

`Ben! Be careful', Jennifer warned Benjamin, in mind.  She knew she needn't be
explicit about it.  `He is one heck of a guy'.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

The last few weeks have seen a war of nerves, energy, art,  and improvisation 
between Ralph Anderson and Marisov Zennady:  equally favored finalists in the 
World Chess Championship being held at Esquire, New York City.  
Ralph hails from Texas, and is a calculative and defensive player, 
while his opponent Marisov, hailing from Ukraine in Russia, is an aggressive
player.  Marisov's offensive tactics have challenged Ralph's monopoly 
among World Title aspirants.  But the current champion from Texas has
brushed aside Marisov's offense with his normal openings, 
measured counter-attacks and his favorite Sicilian defense.  
He has crushed Marisov's belligerence at the meet by
winning two of the last five games and taking the remaining three to draw.  
Experts claimed Ralph as their crush in the deciding game. 
But, a few souls with unhealthy
minds were making menacing passes at Ralph's life boasting their fervor to 
terminate his life.  Colonel James Garner, now a high ranked official in 
the New York Police Dept., was in charge of the security of the Chess wizard.  
Cl. Garner  has sought the help of the famous 
Pinkertons, a detective agency in NYC.  The Director of the Pinkertons had 
no qualms in appointing one of his promising agents, Jennifer Wheels, and her 
assistant, Benjamin Proctor.  They successfully forestalled an attempt on 
Ralph's life a week ago, although they failed to pin down the elements behind 
the bars.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

It was a month ago.

Jennifer Wheels was about ten minutes away from the Peckin Labs in her Chevrolet,
Caprice.  Her still eyes and pursed lips reflected her
thoughts on the unfortunate developments in the last few days.  She was well
reputed for her shrewdness in culling the antics of the undesirable elements.
But the repeated threats spattered occasional emotional diffidences on her ...
As she approached the Labs, fresh waves of energy flushed in.  
She made a quick analysis of the situation.  Were the regular phone calls 
premonitored to divert the attention to something else?  
In any case, she had to be doubly cautious, she thought; and that's not enough.
She has to come up with something more;  something that nobody could guess.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

``Good Morning, Dr.Peckin!  How's it going?", Jennifer enquired.

``Just about the same, Jen.  Things are as fine and smooth as Marilyn Monroe.",
Peckin smirked.

Jennifer hated this sleazy genius.  Dr. Peckin is  a Ph.D.  in Cybernetics
and a master mind behind the recent advances in
Cybernetics.  He would sleep with anybody including his own 
recent Cyborg maid ``MildAm", short for `Mildly Amusing'.  

``So Dr. Peckin, what do you think of  Ralphus? Is he as good as the whiz kid, 
Ralph himself ?".

Ralphus is yet another product of Peckin's imagination. A cutlery of
hueristic computer algorithms, Ralphus is an exact double of Ralph Anderson.

``Just look at the  tournament tallys, Jen.  He's doing much better than Ralph
himself. Beer?", Peckin extended a mug towards her.

``No thanks. May be some other time.  If you don't mind, I would
like to take a look at Ralphus myself."

``Sure thing, Jenny babe.  Just go easy on him!", Jennifer heard Peckin
shouting from behind.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

Benjamin was straightening his slightly crumpled dollar bill after the Coke 
machine complained about it.  It was sultry in NYC; the Sun was
playing hide and seek behind the clouds.  He was leisurely sipping the soda
when Ben saw the familiar blue Chevrolet making a quick surge into
the Esquire complex.  Jennifer parked her car.
``How is everything Ben ?".

``No trouble so far!  James brought in his men on time.  There are eighteen  of 
them around the building, six in the lobby and two at the each entrance.  
James and I checked with the men, twice.  I will be here for a while and then
move into the lobby when the crowd comes in." 

``Great! Everything is going just as we planned."  Jen seemed satisfied.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

``Good morning ladies and gentlemen!  Welcome to the Esquire for the World Chess
Championship, 2099.  Please join me in welcoming the players once again, for 
the final game of the World Chess Championship.  Ralph Anderson of the USA, and 
Marisov Zennady of the USSR remain tied at 11.5 points each.  If today's game 
ends in a draw, the match will be in favor of the present champion 
Mr. Marisov Zennady.  Otherwise the winner will become the next champion.  
I wish both the players good luck on your and on my behalf; 
may the best player win.  Let the game begin!", concluded the Head of 
the game committee.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

Both Benjamin and Jennifer were at the entrance when spectators began to
roll in.  Jen was satisfied with the security check mechanism.  But she wouldn't
rule out the chances of a showdown.  There were four security personnel 
at the Esquire.  One from the Pinkertons, Roy, who had helped her in the 
last 3 cases and even saved her life once.  He was trust worthy.  
That left three -- Garner, Smith and Preston.  Garner and Smith were at 
either entrances.  Preston was placed at the lobby in the second floor.  
They were from NYPD, recommended by Colonel James.  
Jen whispered something into Ben's ears.  He nodded and hurried towards the 
balcony.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

Jen's suspicions  proved right.  James confirmed that
Preston did not belong to the NYPD.  
Preston had knocked off the genuine NYPD man and sneaked into
the Esquire in his place.

Benjamin did not have much time.  He began to move towards the lobby in
the upper floor where Preston was standing.  Preston noticed Ben moving closer
to him.  He knew the time had come;  if he missed his chance he will never be
able to get Ralph again.  Ralph was immersed in his game.  Preston 
pulled his .22 automatic and aimed at Ralph.  Benjamin began to run and leapt 
right over Preston.  The bullet went through Benjamin's right shoulder.  
Colonel James made no delay in pointing his pistol to Preston's temple.  
Preston was taken away by the guards.  Ralph, or rather Ralphus,
was saved.  But it was time to confess, to the world, to the Press,
to Marisov Zennady, and most importantly to the fans of Ralph whose hero was not
as genuine as Dr. Peckin's lust.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}

The crowds started cheering.  Marisov had humiliated Ralph with an
aggressive move.  After a costly exchange of two of his rooks with Marisov's 
queen, Ralph had to resign.  The crowd advanced a standing applause to both the
players.  Ralph congratulated Marisov.

Jennifer began walking towards the Head of The Committee and whispered 
into  his ears.

``Dear Ladies and Gentlemen, here's a flash.  Before I spill it, I solicit your
cooperation and understanding. I know everything is not going to be the same
when you hear this news.  But I am sure, you all know how important it is
for us, for you and for the galaxy of the Chess masters, to protect a star
player like Mr. Ralph Anderson.  Ms. Wheels of of The Pinkertons Detective
Agency informs me that what we have here today , rather who we have here today
is Ralphus, a scientific-double of Ralph Anderson," the Head of The 
Committee revealed.

The crowd jeered.  Screams, boos and catcalls resounded through
the auditorium.  The crowd could not believe the news.

But as if the Messiah himself came down to save his children and free them from 
the commotion, Marisov Zennady walked towards the dias.  He slowly removed his 
scalp, adjusted a couple of capacitors in his brain circuit, and fumed into 
the microphone, ``Get Real, Ralphus!".

The crowd cheered again.

\begin{center}
{\bf * * *}
\end{center}


\begin{center}
                      {\bf Lost In The Jungles} \\
			{\em Prabhu Balaraman}
\end{center}

\begin{verse}
        Two functions diverged in the jungles of Math,\\
        And I needed to find the contour-integrals around a circular path.

          They tell me that I need to know Green's theorem.\\
          Alas, it's been two years since I went near 'em.

        With great trepidation I open the book,\\
        Had to finish this assignment by hook or crook.

          It's one-thirty at night,\\
          And desperation is at it's height.

        I sit down and think for a while,\\
        And soon break into a gentle smile.

          Hello, is this two-six-two one-one-zero-nine?\\
          Hey look, I have these awkward functions of cos and sine ...

        Say what? Just substitute $x$  by one - over - zee?!\\
        Gee! How could I such a trivial thing oversee?

          Two functions converged in the jungles of Math.\\
          I proceeded to find the contour integrals over the circular path ...
\end{verse}
\clearpage



\begin{center}
{\bf Is There a Doctor in the House?}
{\em M. V. Rajeev Gowda}
\footnote{First appeared in The Wharton Journal, March 26, 1990.}
\end{center}

I was sitting downcast, staring blankly at the TV.  It was sometime after
7 o'clock.  My gorgeous MBA friend was playing along excitedly with some
game show called Family Feud, having insisted on depriving me of my
nightly tryst with Jeopardy!  I was saying to myself, ``Get me outa here,"
when the game show's hysterical host asked a dizzy ditz, ``What
professionals are most satisfied with their sex lives?"  ``MBAs!", screamed
the ditz.  ``Our survey said," barked the host, and the number 100 appeared
on the screen accompanied by raucous cheers from the ditz's family. 
``What professionals are least satisfied with their sex lives?".  ``That's
easy", said the ditz, as the laugh track came on,  ``PhDs!"  ``Our survey said,"
yelled the host again, and once more, 100 graced the screen.

``So it's common knowledge, huh?", said the future financier by my side.

``I'm afraid so," I replied, ``everyone asks me about it, wherever I go."

And indeed, ever since Newsweek scooped the National Enquirer by
announcing that a survey had placed MBAs and PhDs on opposite ends of the
sexual satisfaction spectrum I had been besieged by folks asking me about
it, smirking slyly all the while.

``Why are PhDs the least satisfied sexually and the MBAs the most?",
queried the nubile nymph.  ``How do you think it is here at Wharton?"

``Aha!", I said to myself, ``my PhD influence is already showing on the lass. 
She's actually questioning things!", as I shut the TV off, dimmed the lights
and assumed my favorite yogic posture for lecturing.

``It's rather straightforward, actually", I explained.  ``Give MBAs some
money, and a boss who they can suck up to and their day is made.  In
contrast, PhDs are by nature keen on transcending the horizons of
knowledge.  They need to go over the edge.  They are never satisfied with
whatever level they achieve.  Every climax is but a local maximum.  They
scream for more."

``Well, I can see a PhD in Reproductive Science wanting to expand the
frontiers of carnal knowledge, but a Wharton PhD?  Nah!", she retorted.

``Come, come, my confused consultant", I chided, ``let me explain.  The
sexual curiosity and intensity of the Wharton PhD is preeminent.  Indeed,
the PhD program itself draws only sadomasochists; we just prefer
advisors and examinations to bondage and leather whips."

``I still think you PhDs must be extraordinarily repressed.  The long years
of going through the medieval torture of dissertation writing must leave
you shrivelled physically and clueless mentally.  I bet you folks don't even
get to dream about sex for half a decade at least", she blasphemed.

``On the contrary, you muddled middle manager", I replied, ``PhDs have long
known that by thinking about sex, one can discover important insights into
the workings of the world.  We therefore think of our dissertation ideas in
a sexual setting first.  Applying our ideas to the business context later is
as easy as filing for Chapter 11."

``How come I've never come across an example of such work before?", she
flounced.

``Well, it might interest you to know that the Kama Sutra was written as a
PhD dissertation in Consumer Behavior at Nalanda University in ancient
India", I countered.

``Fascinating", exclaimed the sultry stockbroker, her face radiating
reverence, ``Are all you Wharton PhDs alike?  How do you do it?  Do you use
the same research methods?".

``Not at all, you mindless marketing major", I exclaimed, amazed.  The deep
cleavage between the PhDs was apparently unknown to the inane
investment bankers wandering waywardly around Wharton.  ``PhDs are
found in two big lumps -- theoreticians and empiricists."

``Take me, I'm a theoretician", I continued.  ``We theoretical folks conduct
thought experiments.  If we theoreticians walk into a bar, we don't try to
pick up dates  -- that we leave to the empiricists.  We hypothesize
instead.  A typical episode goes like this  -- There is a blonde bombshell
in the bar.  I'd like to get to know her.  She'd obviously love to get to know
me.  Together we could make music.  Now if I slink up to her and say hello,
she gets to be haughty because it was I who had sidled up to her; so she
can wave me aside imperiously.  If she comes up to me and winks, I get to
be condescending as she had come after me and thus I have the option of
dismissing her in all arrogance.  So instead of collaborating on
crescendos, we decide ahead of the game that ignoring each other is the
optimal strategy.  This theoretical result is the well known 'Gnash'
equilibrium -- so named because in such situations we theoreticians can
only gnash our teeth in frustration."

``What of empiricists?  They must have it better?", she asked, totally
caught up in this insightful discussion.

``Empiricists don't have that easy a time either.  For their studies to be
accepted as valid, they have to conduct research on a substantial sample
of subjects.  Its horrendous trying to ensure that the subjects are
independent and identically distributed."

``Identically distributed?  You mean all subjects have to have the same
vital statistics?", she gasped, aghast.

``Indeed", I replied.  ``And if we ask an empiricist to replicate the results
on another sample, believe me, it takes years and a very exhausted
empiricist before this can be accomplished.  Why, imagine the research an
empiricist will have to do to test a pet variation in the law of large
numbers."

``Awesome.  Give me more", she cried, slipping into a negligee.

``At Wharton, we PhDs often deal with sex explicitly.  To illustrate let me
quote from a textbook used by first year Decision Science PhDs:  'The
correlation of rate of lovemaking minus rate of arguments with these
ratings of marital happiness was .40 (p < .05); neither variable alone was
significant.  The findings were replicated ... by ... who found a correlation
of .81 (p <.01) between the sex-argument difference and self-rating of
marital happiness ...'  While such research might sound arcane and
pointless at first glance, the implications for multinational
collaborations, mergers and acquisitions and my own field of public policy
are quite profound."

She gazed in awe and her wonder grew. Stimulated, I lectured on anew.

``In the same Decision Sciences course PhDs were arguing heatedly about
the pernicious effects of biased decision making.  The debate centered
around the proposition that the alarming rate of extinction of male sea
turtles off the Mexican coast was due to their alarmingly large genitalia. 
The theory was that sea turtles were being hunted in excess because men
with malfunctioning reproductive organs (MBAs?) wanted to eat sea turtle
meat hoping to thereby derive some of the magical powers of those
rapacious reptiles.

``I could continue asymptotically about sex and the Wharton PhD but you
can see what the survey missed.  In essence, PhDs are dissatisfied
because they think all the time and insist on more.  MBAs, in contrast,
don't think about it, they just do it. If you follow Cartesian logic  
({\em cogito ergo sum} -- I think, therefore I am), by not thinking about it,  
the satisfaction an MBA claims to derive is equivalent to the satisfaction a
car obtains when its engine is running.  Sure, the parts are moving, but is
it happy?  {\bf QED.}"

``Touche!", she exclaimed, slipping out of her negligee.

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{\bf * * *}
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As we basked in the afterglow of a well conducted empirical exercise, she
whispered coyly, ``I think PhD stands for Pure heavenly Delight!"


Author's indulgence:  This theoretical article is dedicated to Qveena, who
was so intrigued by the Newsweek survey.

\begin{center}
		{\bf Rain Poems}\\
		{\em Ravikumar}
\end{center}

\begin{verse}
\begin{center} (1)\\ \end{center} 
	I like it when it rains,\\
	But I love the sunshine after.\\
	I like it when little babies cry,\\
	But I love their angelic laughter.\\

\begin{center} (2)\\ \end{center} 
	
	Long after it has stopped raining\\
	Pitter patter! Pitter patter!\\
	Water drops fall from tree leaves.\\
	Like a guest who says goodbye\\
	But never really leaves.\\
\end{verse}
\end{document}
