In this issue: Favourites Forever: Alan Seeger, Stevie Smith. Poetry Here & Now:Minu Agrawal.Story: Guy de Maupassant.An Introduction to...by Shail Agrawal+monthly News & Views in Vividha.
August 2007...a special year for India and Pakistan. Time to rejoice, introspect and update; what have been gained and what have been lost through this passage of time?
Sixty years ago India and Pakistan gained Independence and Britain lost its glorious 'Raj'!
This on going saga of a love-hate relationship : tale of these three countries; is an enigmatic one. 60 years ago in this month of August their entwined threads of destiny were severed and they were freed from each- other's responsibilities.
Not only this; this May saw 150 yrs completeted, since the first shot against Britons was fired in 1857 and jails were broken all over India in an uprising. Many freedom fighters took arms against the shackles of slavery. It was the first spark of patriotism which turned into mutiny and ended in horrific blood bath for years to come.
because of their shared history, this year there are quite a few special events and exhibitions all over these three countries . In India celebrations have already begun from April... programmes started from Red fort in Delhi... spreading all over india and ending again on the same spot in Delhi on 15'th of August. Britain's BBC is also telecasting many special reports and programs regarding India and Pakistan in the month of August. Special documentaries have been shot at different locations in India and Pakistan by BBC's reporters and correspondents to celebrate the sixty years of freedom.
History is not just a tale, it is a reality which did take place and we should do our best to honour the sacrifices of those who changed our fate by removing what was shameful from our future. Recently an email was send to me; I can do no better than quoting the email itself:
" Bhagat singh, Rajguru and Sukhdev have been referred as terrorists in an ICSE 6th standard class in social science subject text book at page number 64 & 65 in Mumbai.... Get up friends...pass this message like fire.... Protest against this... Jai Hind...!"
We do not know whether it is true or not, because no hard fact like the name of the author or book has been given here, yet we can not let rumours like this circulate without investigating it.. If it is true, whoever is responsible for it, or wrote and selected this material for the text of study for young and impressionable minds in our nation, should come forward and ask for public apology and either withdraw the text completely or properly update it.
We all know that the violence is bad ; but in self defense one is often forced to take some drastic actions...Even today arms are allowed in self defence in most civilized nations. kalyankari Shiva also did tandav when he couldn't take the treachery and injustice any more; So did maryada Purushottam Ram ( Dhanush baan) and krishna his sudarshan chakra. May be our freedom fighters method was disruptive but that is all they could do in that moment of time and in those circumstances. To wake up the country and get rid of those shackles of foreign reign was the only goal in front of them .
We can not be-little the brave efforts of our elders like this. Instead of giving the right picture; and explaining the circumstances properly to the new generation of our independent nation; we shouldn't paint our heroes totally black and devoid them of their respect totally...and that also in front of their own children, and in their own motherland!
Unprecedented earthquakes, tsunami, hurricanes and floods...innumerable people suffering, loss of lives, homeless and destitute all over the world...This has been quite a challenging decade in many ways for mankind all over the world.
Disasters, Disasters everywhere...natural and man-made both!
In this climate a better and sympathetic understanding is needed by both; fellow earth dwellers and people in the corrodor of power.
It is not that these situations demand on our limited resources only; even human nerves breakdown; people panic...sometimes even they start behaving irrationally because they cannot cope.
In the last days of July parts of Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire were flooded in U.K. and while there were lot of stories of a stronger character building exercises from local community ...people going out of their ways to help each-other, there were some sad stories of some disgusting people urinating in drinking water tanks, while hundreds of houses were without water for weeks or some imposters pretending as fire fighter and demanding inspection and thus delaying the entire rescue process. These are the stories from a developed nation, one can imagine what must be happening in dark and dismal areas of the world ; where for many years hearts and minds are war torn; and bodies hungry and starving! Loot and destruction must be an everyday occurance there ! When human are reduced to animal existence; they start to think and behave like one also.
Time has come now, that world should start to take a joint responsibility of this earth and its habitants...its limitted resources. And all our actions and reactions also, because the tear which starts in a hungry and lonely eye may not moisten the parched land of his ancestors, in some remote corner of a barren country but will surely flood the comfortable and affulent homes of the neighbors around the world one day!
I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air- I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair.
It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath- It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear.
God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear...
But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous.
Alan Seeger.
Not Waving But Drowning
Nobody heard him,the dead man, But still he lay moaning; I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he's always larking And now he's dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning.
The world has moved a long way Or we can say thinking has changed We do not burn women as witches Nor as Satis Unmarried mothers are not stigmatized People are not ostracized or punished For what used to be called being queer
2)
It is said Nothing is right or wrong We must accept everything as it is Everybody as they are
But how can it be for everything and everybody How can I accept a paedophile How can I accept a rapist How can I accept a mass murderer?
3)
What an amazing instrument human mind is It believes what it wants to Sometimes even against all the evidences It filters the information Puts it in compartments Remembers and believes something And forgets and condemns others It could be Government Supplying the information of their choice People in China were deprived of The knowledge of one of the greatest Achievement of fellow men The man’s landing on the Moon They were denied the evidence The photographic journalism and Television pictures censored by the authority But what can you say about the Thinking of the person Who in spite of all these evidence Still believes with full fervour That holocaust never happened !
4)
We all want to have our own way Don’t we? The people who are rich and successful Or are powerful They do not achieve their wealth, power and success Considering others’ convenience or position. For them having their own way is called
Drive, will power and resoluteness. But for the common folk It is named as stubbornness Lack of consideration
Every Sunday, as soon as they were free, the little soldiers would go for a walk. They turned to the right on leaving the barracks, crossed Courbevoie with rapid strides, as though on a forced march; then, as the houses grew scarcer, they slowed down and followed the dusty road which leads to Bezons.
They were small and thin, lost in their ill-fitting capes, too large and too long, whose sleeves covered their hands; their ample red trousers fell in folds around their ankles. Under the high, stiff shako one could just barely perceive two thin, hollow-cheeked Breton faces, with their calm, naive blue eyes. They never spoke during their journey, going straight before them, the same idea in each one's mind taking the place of conversation. For at the entrance of the little forest of Champioux they had found a spot which reminded them of home, and they did not feel happy anywhere else.
At the crossing of the Colombes and Chatou roads, when they arrived under the trees, they would take off their heavy, oppressive headgear and wipe their foreheads.
They always stopped for a while on the bridge at Bezons, and looked at the Seine. They stood there several minutes, bending over the railing, watching the white sails, which perhaps reminded them of their home, and of the fishing smacks leaving for the open.
As soon as they had crossed the Seine, they would purchase provisions at the delicatessen, the baker's, and the wine merchant's. A piece of bologna, four cents' worth of bread, and a quart of wine, made up the luncheon which they carried away, wrapped up in their handkerchiefs. But as soon as they were out of the village their gait would slacken and they would begin to talk.
Before them was a plain with a few clumps of trees, which led to the woods, a little forest which seemed to remind them of that other forest at Kermarivan. The wheat and oat fields bordered on the narrow path, and Jean Kerderen said each time to Luc Le Ganidec:
"It's just like home, just like Plounivon."
"Yes, it's just like home."
And they went on, side by side, their minds full of dim memories of home. They saw the fields, the hedges, the forests, and beaches.
Each time they stopped near a large stone on the edge of the private estate, because it reminded them of the dolmen of Locneuven.
As soon as they reached the first clump of trees, Luc Le Ganidec would cut off a small stick, and, whittling it slowly, would walk on, thinking of the folks at home.
Jean Kerderen carried the provisions.
From time to time Luc would mention a name, or allude to some boyish prank which would give them food for plenty of thought. And the home country, so dear and so distant, would little by little gain possession of their minds, sending them back through space, to the well-known forms and noises, to the familiar scenery, with the fragrance of its green fields and sea air. They no longer noticed the smells of the city. And in their dreams they saw their friends leaving, perhaps forever, for the dangerous fishing grounds.
They were walking slowly, Luc Le Ganidec and Jean Kerderen, contented and sad, haunted by a sweet sorrow, the slow and penetrating sorrow of a captive animal which remembers the days of its freedom.
And when Luc had finished whittling his stick, they came to a little nook, where every Sunday they took their meal. They found the two bricks, which they had hidden in a hedge, and they made a little fire of dry branches and roasted their sausages on the ends of their knives.
When their last crumb of bread had been eaten and the last drop of wine had been drunk, they stretched themselves out on the grass side by side, without speaking, their half-closed eyes looking away in the distance, their hands clasped as in prayer, their red-trousered legs mingling with the bright colors of the wild flowers.
Towards noon they glanced, from time to time, towards the village of Bezons, for the dairy maid would soon be coming. Every Sunday she would pass in front of them on the way to milk her cow, the only cow in the neighborhood which was sent out to pasture.
Soon they would see the girl, coming through the fields, and it pleased them to watch the sparkling sunbeams reflected from her shining pail. They never spoke of her. They were just glad to see her, without understanding why.
She was a tall, strapping girl, freckled and tanned by the open air--a girl typical of the Parisian suburbs.
Once, on noticing that they were always sitting in the same place, she said to them:
"Do you always come here?"
Luc Le Ganidec, more daring than his friend, stammered:
"Yes, we come here for our rest."
That was all. But the following Sunday, on seeing them, she smiled with the kindly smile of a woman who understood their shyness, and she asked:
"What are you doing here? Are you watching the grass grow?"
Luc, cheered up, smiled: "P'raps."
She continued: "It's not growing fast, is it?"
He answered, still laughing: "Not exactly."
She went on. But when she came back with her pail full of milk, she stopped before them and said:
"Want some? It will remind you of home."
She had, perhaps instinctively, guessed and touched the right spot.
Both were moved. Then not without difficulty, she poured some milk into the bottle in which they had brought their wine. Luc started to drink, carefully watching lest he should take more than his share. Then he passed the bottle to Jean. She stood before them, her hands on her hips, her pail at her feet, enjoying the pleasure that she was giving them. Then she went on, saying: "Well, bye-bye until next Sunday!"
For a long time they watched her tall form as it receded in the distance, blending with the background, and finally disappeared.
The following week as they left the barracks, Jean said to Luc:
"Don't you think we ought to buy her something good?"
They were sorely perplexed by the problem of choosing something to bring to the dairy maid. Luc was in favor of bringing her some chitterlings; but Jean, who had a sweet tooth, thought that candy would be the best thing. He won, and so they went to a grocery to buy two sous' worth, of red and white candies.
This time they ate more quickly than usual, excited by anticipation.
Jean was the first one to notice her. "There she is," he said; and Luc answered: "Yes, there she is."
She smiled when she saw them, and cried:
"Well, how are you to-day?"
They both answered together:
"All right! How's everything with you?"
Then she started to talk of simple things which might interest them; of the weather, of the crops, of her masters.
They didn't dare to offer their candies, which were slowly melting in Jean's pocket. Finally Luc, growing bolder, murmured:
"We have brought you something."
She asked: "Let's see it."
Then Jean, blushing to the tips of his ears, reached in his pocket, and drawing out the little paper bag, handed it to her.
She began to eat the little sweet dainties. The two soldiers sat in front of her, moved and delighted.
At last she went to do her milking, and when she came back she again gave them some milk.
They thought of her all through the week and often spoke of her: The following Sunday she sat beside them for a longer time.
The three of them sat there, side by side, their eyes looking far away in the distance, their hands clasped over their knees, and they told each other little incidents and little details of the villages where they were born, while the cow, waiting to be milked, stretched her heavy head toward the girl and mooed.
Soon the girl consented to eat with them and to take a sip of wine. Often she brought them plums pocket for plums were now ripe. Her presence enlivened the little Breton soldiers, who chattered away like two birds.
One Tuesday something unusual happened to Luc Le Ganidec; he asked for leave and did not return until ten o'clock at night.
Jean, worried and racked his brain to account for his friend's having obtained leave.
The following Friday, Luc borrowed ten sons from one of his friends, and once more asked and obtained leave for several hours.
When he started out with Jean on Sunday he seemed queer, disturbed, changed. Kerderen did not understand; he vaguely suspected something, but he could not guess what it might be.
They went straight to the usual place, and lunched slowly. Neither was hungry.
Soon the girl appeared. They watched her approach as they always did. When she was near, Luc arose and went towards her. She placed her pail on the ground and kissed him. She kissed him passionately, throwing her arms around his neck, without paying attention to Jean, without even noticing that he was there.
Poor Jean was dazed, so dazed that he could not understand. His mind was upset and his heart broken, without his even realizing why.
Then the girl sat down beside Luc, and they started to chat.
Jean was not looking at them. He understood now why his friend had gone out twice during the week. He felt the pain and the sting which treachery and deceit leave in their wake.
Luc and the girl went together to attend to the cow.
Jean followed them with his eyes. He saw them disappear side by side, the red trousers of his friend making a scarlet spot against the white road. It was Luc who sank the stake to which the cow was tethered. The girl stooped down to milk the cow, while he absent-mindedly stroked the animal's glossy neck. Then they left the pail in the grass and disappeared in the woods.
Jean could no longer see anything but the wall of leaves through which they had passed. He was unmanned so that he did not have strength to stand. He stayed there, motionless, bewildered and grieving-simple, passionate grief. He wanted to weep, to run away, to hide somewhere, never to see anyone again.
Then he saw them coming back again. They were walking slowly, hand in hand, as village lovers do. Luc was carrying the pail.
After kissing him again, the girl went on, nodding carelessly to Jean. She did not offer him any milk that day.
The two little soldiers sat side by side, motionless as always, silent and quiet, their calm faces in no way betraying the trouble in their hearts. The sun shone down on them. From time to time they could hear the plaintive lowing of the cow. At the usual time they arose to return.
Luc was whittling a stick. Jean carried the empty bottle. He left it at the wine merchant's in Bezons. Then they stopped on the bridge, as they did every Sunday, and watched the water flowing by.
Jean leaned over the railing, farther and farther, as though he had seen something in the stream which hypnotized him. Luc said to him:
"What's the matter? Do you want a drink?"
He had hardly said the last word when Jean's head carried away the rest of his body, and the little blue and red soldier fell like a shot and disappeared in the water.
Luc, paralyzed with horror, tried vainly to shout for help. In the distance he saw something move; then his friend's head bobbed up out of the water only to disappear again.
Farther down he again noticed a hand, just one hand, which appeared and again went out of sight. That was all.
The boatmen who had rushed to the scene found the body that day.
Luc ran back to the barracks, crazed, and with eyes and voice full of tears, he related the accident: "He leaned--he--he was leaning--so far over--that his head carried him away--and--he--fell--he fell----"
Emotion choked him so that he could say no more. If he had only known.
“When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes.
All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony---and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea. "
Gitanjali is like many others before me, one of my most favourite collections of verses; all these verses originally written in Bengali by Tagore have been translated in English by W.B.Yeats, an eminent English poet.
Delicacy and simplicity with which words flow from Tagore's pen yet carrying all the intensity and sincerity of feelings is amazing and there lies the biggest strength of his creativity. Purest of pure, he was perhaps the quaint essence of a dreamer and visionary, completely in harmony with his creator yet an ordinary human being with trembling heart and an eager and questioning intelligence:
“The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day. I have spent my days in stringing and in unstrunging my instrument.
The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set; only there is agony of wishing in my heart."
This pain of separation is too intense for him and nothing less than total acceptance or union will do.
“Clouds heap upon clouds and it darkens. Ah love, why dost thou let me wait outside at the door all alone."
Complete union with 'Him' demands total submission but that is not possible because of the 'self' and its numerous desires and doubts. Here once again Tagore is at his best for me:
“Obstinate are trammels, but my heart aches when I try to break them.
Freedom is all I want, but to hope for it I feel ashamed.
I am certain that priceless wealth is in thee, and that thou art my best friend, but I have not the heart to sweep away the tinsel that fills my room.
The shroud that covers me is a shroud of dust and death; I hate it, yet hung it in love.
My debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet when I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be granted."
He loves this life so he knows that he shall love death as well. One has to read again and again to enjoy fully that elusive game-plan or melody of his poems...almost like a Sufi or mystique with a lingering yet sweet ache Tagore leads us to those locked doors of self-realization. There is urgency yet he is relaxed almost with a child like simplicity.
“I came out alone on my way to my tryst. But who is this that follows me in the silent dark?
I move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not.
He makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger; he adds his loud voice to every word I utter.
He is my own little self, my lord, he knows no shame; but I am ashamed to come to thy door in his company."
In his preface to Gitanjali Yeats wrote:
' We write long books where no page perhaps has any quality to make writting a pleasure, being confident in some general design, just as we fight and make money and fill our heads with politics---all dull things in doing---while Mr. Tagore, like the Indian civilization itself, has been content to discover the soul and surrender himself to its spontaneity. He often seems to have contrasted his life with that of those who lived more after our fashion, and have more seeming weight in the world, and always humbly as though they were only sure his way is best for him:
" Men going home glance at me and smile and fill me with shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when they ask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them not."
At another time, remembering how his life had once a different shape, he will say,
" Many an hour have I spent in the strife of the good and evil, but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him; and I know not why is this sudden call to what is useless in consequence"
Innocence, simplicity that one does not find elsewhere in literature makes the birds and the leaves as near to him as they are near to our children, and the changes of the seasons great events as before our thoughts had arisen between them and us. At times I wonder if he has it from the literature of Bengal or religion, and at other times, remembering the birds alighting on his hand , I find pleasure in thinking it hereditary, a mystery that was growing through the centuries like the courtesy of a Tristan or a Pelanore. Indeed, when he is speaking of children, so much a part of himself this quality seems, one is not certain that he is not speaking of saints,
“They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds. They know not how to cast nets. Pearl fishers drive for pearl, merchant sail their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets."
कुछेक वर्ष पूर्वन्यूजीलैंड के एक सुन्दर क्षेत्र में बॉलीवुड की एक फिल्म की आउटडोर शूटिंग हो रहीथी। हॉलीवुड की किसी फिल्म की शूटिंग हो या बॉली वुड की किसी फिल्म की आउटडोरशूटिंग वहां दर्शकों की भीड़ न उमड़े, ये संभव ही नहीं। छोटा-बड़ा हर कोई दौड़पड़ता है उस स्थल को जहां फिल्म की आटडोर शूटिंग हो रही होती है। बॉलीवुड की एकफिल्म की आउटडोर शूटिंग के दैरान भी कुछ ऐसा ही हुआ। फिल्म की आटडोर शूटिंग मेंदिलचस्पी रखनेवाले भारी संख्या में लोग जुटे थे। उनमें एक कॉलिज के अंग्रेज लेक्चररभी थे। उनका पहला अवसर था किसी फिल्म की शूटिंग देखने का। पांच मिनटों के एक सीन कोबारबार फिल्माया जा रहा था। लगता था फिल्म निर्देशक उस सीन से संतुष्ट नहीं हो रहाथा। उसे बारबार 'कट' कहना पड़ रहा था।अंग्रेज लेक्चरर सोचने लगे कि जो सीन पर्देपर केवल पांच मिनटों में समाप्त हो जाता है उसे फिल्माने के लिए पूरे का पूरा दिनबीत जाता है। कितनी उकताने वाली होती है फिल्म की शूटिंग!
यूँ तो लेक्चररमहोदय जल्दी ही लौट जाना चाहते थे लेकिन फिल्म के अभिनेता आसुतोष राना को बधाई दिएबिना वे कैसे जा सकते थे? इस अभिनेता का इतना बढ़िया काम! वाह क्या बात है! वे वहांटिके रहे सिर्फ उसी के लिए।
फिल्म की शूटिंगपैक अप हुयी। लेक्चरर साहिब किसी तरह आशुतोष राना के पास पहुंचे-उसको उसके कुशलअभिनय की बधाई देने के लिए। मिलते ही उन्होंने कहा, " वाह भाई, आप तो कमाल केअभिनेता हैं। आपके उत्कृष्ट अभिनय के लिए मैं आपको बधाई देना चाहता हूं।"
एक अंग्रेज केमुंह से इतनी सुन्दर हिन्दी सुनकर आशुतोष राना हैरान हुए बिना नहीं रह सका। उसकेमुंह से निकला- " थैंक यू वेरी मच।"
" क्या मैं पूछसकता हूं कि आप भारत के किस प्रदेश से हैं ?"
" आई एमफ्रौममध्य प्रदेश।" आशुतोषने अपने स्वभाव के अनुरूप बड़ी नम्रता सेकहा।
" यदि मैं मुम्बईआया तो क्या मैं आपसे मिल सकता हूँ ? "
" आफ् कोर्स। यूकैन। "
" इससे पहले, मैंआपसे विदा लूं मैं आपसे एक बात पूछना चाहता हूँ, वो ये कि मैने आपकी भाषा हिन्दीमेंप्रश्न किए लेकिन आपने उनके उत्तर अंग्रेजी में दिए। बहुत अजीब सा लगा।"
" देखिए, आपने मेरी हिन्दी में बोलकर मेरी भाषा का मान बढ़ाया, क्या मेरा कर्तव्य नहीं था किअंग्रेजी में बोलकर मैं आपकी भाषा का मान बढ़ाता?"
* * *
साइकिल परपुस्तकालय चला रहा है एक जापानी
टोकियो। जापान केकाजुहिरो दोईका अगर वश चले तो वे पूरी दुनिया को साक्षर और ज्ञानी बना दें। वेलोगोंतक शिक्षा की रोशनीपहुंचाने के लिए साइकिल पर पुस्तकालय चला रहे हैं। पिछलेदो वर्षों से भी अधिक समय से 28 वर्षीय काजुहिरो इस मिशन में लगे हैं।
काजुहिरो जापान के विभिन्न हिस्सों में अपनी साइकिल से चक्कर लगाते हैं औरलोगों को पर्यावरण , विवादों एवं सामाजिक मुद्दों पर आधारित पुस्तकें पढ़ाते हैं।उनकी साइकिल पर ही किताब रखने की आलमारी बनी हुई है जिसमें कई विषयों पर आधारितपुस्तकें रखी होती हैं। वे जनवरी 2005 में आई ची इलाके स्थित घर से इस मिशन पररवाना हुए और आजतक यह सिलसिला जारी है। तब वे इस मोबाइल अलमारी में एक गैर-सरकारीसंगठन थिंक द अर्थद्वारा प्रकाशित एक उपयोगी पुस्तक की प्रतियां लेकर घर से रवानाहुए थे। उन्होंने देश के विभिन्न पुस्तकालयों को भी यह पुस्तक लोगों तक पहुंचाने केलिए प्रेरित किया। इस पुस्तक में पर्यावरण असंतुलन के खतरों पर प्रकाश डाला गया है।इसमें ऐसे करीब 100 फोटो हैं जो दुनिया में होरहे प्रदूषण की ओर ध्यान आकृष्ट करतेहै। इनमें औध्योगिक कचरे के पहाड़, भारत में एक रासायनिकहादसे में घायल बच्चे की तस्बीरों और तेल से सने पेंग्विन को दिखाया गया है। जबकाजुहिरो ने इस पुस्तक के पन्नों को पलटा तो उन्हें दुनिया की तस्बीर भयावह नजर आई।उन्होंने कहा कि मैं इन तस्बीरों को देखकर इतना मायूस हुआ कि लोगों तक यह पुस्तकपहुंचाने के मिशन पर निकल पड़ा। कई राततो उन्हें यह सोचकर नींद नहीं आई कि अगर इसीरफ्तार से प्रदूषण दुनिया को लीलता रहा तो मनुष्य और दूसरे प्रजातियों का क्याहोगा? इसके बाद उन्होंने मोबाइल पुस्तकालय शुरू करने की ठान ली। अपनी साइकिल मेंजरूरी परिवर्तन करने के बाद उन्होंने इस पर एक अलमारी बनाई । उन्हें इस कार्य सेअपार संतोष मिल रहा है।
***
In the third week of july this year, U.k. floods 10,000 homes floded
300,000 people have no water (And that also in a developed and one of the
most affulent nation.
Shambo the sacred bull goes to slaughter in Wales
Thu Jul 26, 2007 8:39PM
By Avril Ormsby
LONDON (Reuters) -The battle to save Shambo the sacred bullock ended on Thursday after police overcame chanting protestors protecting the Fresian at a Hindu monastic community in Wales.
Dozens of praying campaigners had built a shrine for Shambo at the monastery and vowed to save him.
But after a 12-hour stand-off with Welsh Assembly officials, the six-year-old bullock, which has tested positive for bovine tuberculosis, was finally led away to slaughter after police intervened.
"At least everybody that has campaigned for Shambo's survival can go to bed with a clear conscience, having tried everything they could," said a spokesman for the Skanda Vale temple near Carmarthen.
The standoff at the Community of the Many Names of God had followed months of legal wrangling over the fate of Shambo.
An Appeal Court ruled this month that the bullock must die in accordance with government policy of slaughtering TB-positive cattle.
An Indian charity had agreed to take Shambo out of the country and more than 23,500 people signed a protest petition.
Cows are sacred to Hindus and the monastery spokesman said it would be "an appalling desecration of life" if the bullock were killed.
The National Farmers Union says no animal should be exempt from the rules governing TB and that to spare Shambo would be unfair on farmers who have had to see their stock slaughtered.
A spokesman for the Welsh regional government said the option of allowing Shambo to go to India was not possible because it would put other animals and people at risk.
(Additional reporting by Peter Griffiths)
***
From The Sunday TimesJuly 29, 2007
Scientists breed world’s first mentally ill mouse
-Jonathan Leake Science Editor
SCIENTISTS have created the world’s first schizophrenic mice in an attempt to gain a better understanding of the illness.
It is believed to be the first time an animal has been genetically engineered to have a mental illness. Until now they have been bred only for research into physical conditions such as heart disease. It will allow researchers to study the disease and develop treatments using a limitless supply of laboratory animals.
Animal rights campaigners have condemned the research, saying that it is morally repugnant to create an animal doomed to mental suffering.
The mice were created by modifying their DNA to mimic a mutant gene first found in a Scottish family with a high incidence of schizophrenia, which affects about one in every 100 people. The mice’s brains were found to have features similar to those of humans with schizophrenia, such as depression and hyperactivity.
“These mutant mice may provide an important new tool for further study of the combinations of factors that underlie mental illnesses like schizophrenia and mood disorders,” said Takatoshi Hikida, of Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, a leading researcher.
The egg cells of mice were genetically modified by inserting a gene associated with schizophrenia into their DNA. The eggs were fertilised and grown into viable baby mice using surrogate mothers.
Animal Aid, a campaign group, said rodents were not a reliable way of modelling human disease.
August 2007...a special year for India and Pakistan. Time to rejoice, introspect and update; what have been gained and what have been lost through this passage of time? 
Every Sunday, as soon as they were free, the little soldiers would go for a walk. They turned to the right on leaving the barracks, crossed Courbevoie with rapid strides, as though on a forced march; then, as the houses grew scarcer, they slowed down and followed the dusty road which leads to Bezons.
“When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes.
कुछेक वर्ष पूर्व न्यूजीलैंड के एक सुन्दर क्षेत्र में बॉलीवुड की एक फिल्म की आउटडोर शूटिंग हो रही थी। हॉलीवुड की किसी फिल्म की शूटिंग हो या बॉली वुड की किसी फिल्म की आउटडोर शूटिंग वहां दर्शकों की भीड़ न उमड़े, ये संभव ही नहीं। छोटा-बड़ा हर कोई दौड़ पड़ता है उस स्थल को जहां फिल्म की आटडोर शूटिंग हो रही होती है। बॉलीवुड की एक फिल्म की आउटडोर शूटिंग के दैरान भी कुछ ऐसा ही हुआ। फिल्म की आटडोर शूटिंग में दिलचस्पी रखनेवाले भारी संख्या में लोग जुटे थे। उनमें एक कॉलिज के अंग्रेज लेक्चरर भी थे। उनका पहला अवसर था किसी फिल्म की शूटिंग देखने का। पांच मिनटों के एक सीन को बारबार फिल्माया जा रहा था। लगता था फिल्म निर्देशक उस सीन से संतुष्ट नहीं हो रहा था। उसे बारबार 'कट' कहना पड़ रहा था। अंग्रेज लेक्चरर सोचने लगे कि जो सीन पर्दे पर केवल पांच मिनटों में समाप्त हो जाता है उसे फिल्माने के लिए पूरे का पूरा दिन बीत जाता है। कितनी उकताने वाली होती है फिल्म की शूटिंग! 
LONDON (Reuters) -The battle to save Shambo the sacred bullock ended on Thursday after police overcame chanting protestors protecting the Fresian at a Hindu monastic community in Wales.
It is believed to be the first time an animal has been genetically engineered to have a mental illness. Until now they have been bred only for research into physical conditions such as heart disease. It will allow researchers to study the disease and develop treatments using a limitless supply of laboratory animals.
The egg cells of mice were genetically modified by inserting a gene associated with schizophrenia into their DNA. The eggs were fertilised and grown into viable baby mice using surrogate mothers.
