" Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf "
-Ravindra Nath Tagore
Lekhni-March-2009
Issue 1-Year-3
Favourites Forever: Rumi. My Favourites: Pushkin, Mathew Arnold, Lord Byron,. Poetry Here & Now. Khalil Zibran on love . Story: D.H.Lawrence. Kids Corner : A Jatak Katha + News & Views in Vividha
A book of verse, underneath the bough, A jug of wine, a loaf of bread - and thou Beside me singing in the wilderness - Ah, wilderness were paradise now!
- Omar Khayyam
Specially for a creator, this wilderness …this longing is not only source of joy but the main source of his entire creativity .
Omar khayam further writes-
The secrets eternal neither you know nor I And answers to the riddle neither you know nor I Behind the veil there is much talk about us, why When the veil falls, neither you remain nor I.
The caravan of life shall always pass Beware that is fresh as sweet young grass Let’s not worry about what tomorrow will amass Fill my cup again, this night will pass, alas.
In this issue Lekhni has tried To arrange an order in this creative cosmos chaos, with all its loss & gain and innumerable joy and sorrow. Hope You will also be totally as engrossed as I was, arranging and rearranging these fleeting, illusive moments! -Shail Agrawal
When love beckons to you, follow him, Though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him, Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself. He threshes you to make you naked. He sifts you to free you from your husks. He grinds you to whiteness. He kneads you until you are pliant; And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.
All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure, Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor, Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears. Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, "I am in the heart of God." And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love; And to bleed willingly and joyfully. To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving; To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy; To return home at eventide with gratitude; And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.
The wondrous moment of our meeting . . . I well remember you appear Before me like a vision fleeting, A beauty's angel pure and clear.
In hopeless ennui surrounding The worldly bustle, to my ear For long your tender voice kept sounding, For long in dreams came features dear.
Time passed. Unruly storms confounded Old dreams, and I from year to year Forgot how tender you had sounded, Your heavenly features once so dear.
My backwoods days dragged slow and quiet — Dull fence around, dark vault above — Devoid of God and uninspired, Devoid of tears, of fire, of love.
Sleep from my soul began retreating, And here you once again appear Before me like a vision fleeting, A beauty's angel pure and clear.
In ecstasy the heart is beating, Old joys for it anew revive; Inspired and God-filled, it is greeting The fire, and tears, and love alive.
-Alexander Pushkin
Longing
Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again. For then the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day.
Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times, A messenger from radiant climes, And smile on thy new world, and be As kind to others as to me.
Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth, Come now, and let me dream it truth. And part my hair, and kiss my brow, And say My love! why sufferest thou?
Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again. For then the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day.
Matthew Arnold (1822 1888)
When We Two Parted
When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever the years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder, thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning Sunk, chill on my brow, It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame.
They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me... Lord Byron (1788 - 1824) thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well.. Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met In silence I grieve That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears.
Lord Byron (1788 - 1824)
Song of the Wave
The strong shore is my beloved And I am his sweetheart. We are at last united by love, and Then the moon draws me from him. I go to him in haste and depart Reluctantly, with many Little farewells.
I steal swiftly from behind the Blue horizon to cast the silver of My foam upon the gold of his sand, and We blend in melted brilliance.
I quench his thirst and submerge his Heart; he softens my voice and subdues My temper. At dawn I recite the rules of love upon His ears, and he embraces me longingly.
At eventide I sing to him the song of Hope, and then print smooth hisses upon His face; I am swift and fearful, but he Is quiet, patient, and thoughtful. His Broad bosom soothes my restlessness.
As the tide comes we caress each other, When it withdraws, I drop to his feet in Prayer.
Many times have I danced around mermaids As they rose from the depths and rested Upon my crest to watch the stars; Many times have I heard lovers complain Of their smallness, and I helped them to sigh.
Many times have I teased the great rocks And fondled them with a smile, but never Have I received laughter from them; Many times have I lifted drowning souls And carried them tenderly to my beloved Shore. He gives them strength as he Takes mine.
Many times have I stolen gems from the Depths and presented them to my beloved Shore. He takes them in silence, but still I give fro he welcomes me ever.
In the heaviness of night, when all Creatures seek the ghost of Slumber, I Sit up, singing at one time and sighing At another. I am awake always.
Alas! Sleeplessness has weakened me! But I am a lover, and the truth of love Is strong. I may be weary, but I shall never die.
There was a woman who was beautiful, who started with all the advantages, yet she had no luck. She married for love, and the love turned to dust. She had bonny children, yet she felt they had been thrust upon her, and she could not love them. They looked at her coldly, as if they were finding fault with her. And hurriedly she felt she must cover up some fault in herself. Yet what it was that she must cover up she never knew. Nevertheless, when her children were present, she always felt the centre of her heart go hard. This troubled her, and in her manner she was all the more gentle and anxious for her children, as if she loved them very much. Only she herself knew that at the centre of her heart was a hard little place that could not feel love, no, not for anybody. Everybody else said of her: "She is such a good mother. She adores her children." Only she herself, and her children themselves, knew it was not so. They read it in each other's eyes.
There were a boy and two little girls. They lived in a pleasant house, with a garden, and they had discreet servants, and felt themselves superior to anyone in the neighbourhood.
Although they lived in style, they felt always an anxiety in the house. There was never enough money. The mother had a small income, and the father had a small income, but not nearly enough for the social position which they had to keep up. The father went into town to some office. But though he had good prospects, these prospects never materialised. There was always the grinding sense of the shortage of money, though the style was always kept up.
At last the mother said: "I will see if I can't make something." But she did not know where to begin. She racked her brains, and tried this thing and the other, but could not find anything successful. The failure made deep lines come into her face. Her children were growing up, they would have to go to school. There must be more money, there must be more money. The father, who was always very handsome and expensive in his tastes, seemed as if he never would be able to do anything worth doing. And the mother, who had a great belief in herself, did not succeed any better, and her tastes were just as expensive.
And so the house came to be haunted by the unspoken phrase: There must be more money! There must be more money! The children could hear it all the time though nobody said it aloud. They heard it at Christmas, when the expensive and splendid toys filled the nursery. Behind the shining modern rocking-horse, behind the smart doll's house, a voice would start whispering: "There must be more money! There must be more money!" And the children would stop playing, to listen for a moment. They would look into each other's eyes, to see if they had all heard. And each one saw in the eyes of the other two that they too had heard. "There must be more money! There must be more money!"
It came whispering from the springs of the still-swaying rocking-horse, and even the horse, bending his wooden, champing head, heard it. The big doll, sitting so pink and smirking in her new pram, could hear it quite plainly, and seemed to be smirking all the more self-consciously because of it. The foolish puppy, too, that took the place of the teddy-bear, he was looking so extraordinarily foolish for no other reason but that he heard the secret whisper all over the house: "There must be more money!"
Yet nobody ever said it aloud. The whisper was everywhere, and therefore no one spoke it. Just as no one ever says: "We are breathing!" in spite of the fact that breath is coming and going all the time.
"Mother," said the boy Paul one day, "why don't we keep a car of our own? Why do we always use uncle's, or else a taxi?"
"Because we're the poor members of the family," said the mother.
"But why are we, mother?"
"Well - I suppose," she said slowly and bitterly, "it's because your father has no luck."
The boy was silent for some time.
"Is luck money, mother?" he asked, rather timidly.
"No, Paul. Not quite. It's what causes you to have money."
"Oh!" said Paul vaguely. "I thought when Uncle Oscar said filthy lucker, it meant money."
"Filthy lucre does mean money," said the mother. "But it's lucre, not luck."
"Oh!" said the boy. "Then what is luck, mother?"
"It's what causes you to have money. If you're lucky you have money. That's why it's better to be born lucky than rich. If you're rich, you may lose your money. But if you're lucky, you will always get more money."
"Oh! Will you? And is father not lucky?"
"Very unlucky, I should say," she said bitterly.
The boy watched her with unsure eyes.
"Why?" he asked.
"I don't know. Nobody ever knows why one person is lucky and another unlucky."
"Don't they? Nobody at all? Does nobody know?"
"Perhaps God. But He never tells."
"He ought to, then. And are'nt you lucky either, mother?"
"I can't be, it I married an unlucky husband."
"But by yourself, aren't you?"
"I used to think I was, before I married. Now I think I am very unlucky indeed."
"Why?"
"Well - never mind! Perhaps I'm not really," she said.
The child looked at her to see if she meant it. But he saw, by the lines of her mouth, that she was only trying to hide something from him.
"Well, anyhow," he said stoutly, "I'm a lucky person."
"Why?" said his mother, with a sudden laugh.
He stared at her. He didn't even know why he had said it.
"God told me," he asserted, brazening it out.
"I hope He did, dear!", she said, again with a laugh, but rather bitter.
"He did, mother!"
"Excellent!" said the mother, using one of her husband's exclamations.
The boy saw she did not believe him; or rather, that she paid no attention to his assertion. This angered him somewhere, and made him want to compel her attention.
He went off by himself, vaguely, in a childish way, seeking for the clue to 'luck'. Absorbed, taking no heed of other people, he went about with a sort of stealth, seeking inwardly for luck. He wanted luck, he wanted it, he wanted it. When the two girls were playing dolls in the nursery, he would sit on his big rocking-horse, charging madly into space, with a frenzy that made the little girls peer at him uneasily. Wildly the horse careered, the waving dark hair of the boy tossed, his eyes had a strange glare in them. The little girls dared not speak to him.
When he had ridden to the end of his mad little journey, he climbed down and stood in front of his rocking-horse, staring fixedly into its lowered face. Its red mouth was slightly open, its big eye was wide and glassy-bright.
"Now!" he would silently command the snorting steed. "Now take me to where there is luck! Now take me!"
And he would slash the horse on the neck with the little whip he had asked Uncle Oscar for. He knew the horse could take him to where there was luck, if only he forced it. So he would mount again and start on his furious ride, hoping at last to get there.
"You'll break your horse, Paul!" said the nurse.
"He's always riding like that! I wish he'd leave off!" said his elder sister Joan.
But he only glared down on them in silence. Nurse gave him up. She could make nothing of him. Anyhow, he was growing beyond her.
One day his mother and his Uncle Oscar came in when he was on one of his furious rides. He did not speak to them.
"Hallo, you young jockey! Riding a winner?" said his uncle.
"Aren't you growing too big for a rocking-horse? You're not a very little boy any longer, you know," said his mother.
But Paul only gave a blue glare from his big, rather close-set eyes. He would speak to nobody when he was in full tilt. His mother watched him with an anxious expression on her face.
At last he suddenly stopped forcing his horse into the mechanical gallop and slid down.
"Well, I got there!" he announced fiercely, his blue eyes still flaring, and his sturdy long legs straddling apart.
"Where did you get to?" asked his mother.
"Where I wanted to go," he flared back at her.
"That's right, son!" said Uncle Oscar. "Don't you stop till you get there. What's the horse's name?"
"He doesn't have a name," said the boy.
"Get's on without all right?" asked the uncle.
"Well, he has different names. He was called Sansovino last week."
"Sansovino, eh? Won the Ascot. How did you know this name?"
"He always talks about horse-races with Bassett," said Joan.
The uncle was delighted to find that his small nephew was posted with all the racing news. Bassett, the young gardener, who had been wounded in the left foot in the war and had got his present job through Oscar Cresswell, whose batman he had been, was a perfect blade of the 'turf'. He lived in the racing events, and the small boy lived with him.
Oscar Cresswell got it all from Bassett.
"Master Paul comes and asks me, so I can't do more than tell him, sir," said Bassett, his face terribly serious, as if he were speaking of religious matters.
"And does he ever put anything on a horse he fancies?"
"Well - I don't want to give him away - he's a young sport, a fine sport, sir. Would you mind asking him himself? He sort of takes a pleasure in it, and perhaps he'd feel I was giving him away, sir, if you don't mind.
Bassett was serious as a church.
The uncle went back to his nephew and took him off for a ride in the car.
"Say, Paul, old man, do you ever put anything on a horse?" the uncle asked.
The boy watched the handsome man closely.
"Why, do you think I oughtn't to?" he parried.
"Not a bit of it! I thought perhaps you might give me a tip for the Lincoln."
The car sped on into the country, going down to Uncle Oscar's place in Hampshire.
"Honour bright?" said the nephew.
"Honour bright, son!" said the uncle.
"Well, then, Daffodil."
"Daffodil! I doubt it, sonny. What about Mirza?"
"I only know the winner," said the boy. "That's Daffodil."
"Daffodil, eh?"
There was a pause. Daffodil was an obscure horse comparatively.
"Uncle!"
"Yes, son?"
"You won't let it go any further, will you? I promised Bassett."
"Bassett be damned, old man! What's he got to do with it?"
"We're partners. We've been partners from the first. Uncle, he lent me my first five shillings, which I lost. I promised him, honour bright, it was only between me and him; only you gave me that ten-shilling note I started winning with, so I thought you were lucky. You won't let it go any further, will you?"
The boy gazed at his uncle from those big, hot, blue eyes, set rather close together. The uncle stirred and laughed uneasily.
"Right you are, son! I'll keep your tip private. How much are you putting on him?"
"All except twenty pounds," said the boy. "I keep that in reserve."
The uncle thought it a good joke.
"You keep twenty pounds in reserve, do you, you young romancer? What are you betting, then?"
"I'm betting three hundred," said the boy gravely. "But it's between you and me, Uncle Oscar! Honour bright?"
"It's between you and me all right, you young Nat Gould," he said, laughing. "But where's your three hundred?"
"Bassett keeps it for me. We're partner's."
"You are, are you! And what is Bassett putting on Daffodil?"
"He won't go quite as high as I do, I expect. Perhaps he'll go a hundred and fifty."
"What, pennies?" laughed the uncle.
"Pounds," said the child, with a surprised look at his uncle. "Bassett keeps a bigger reserve than I do."
Between wonder and amusement Uncle Oscar was silent. He pursued the matter no further, but he determined to take his nephew with him to the Lincoln races.
"Now, son," he said, "I'm putting twenty on Mirza, and I'll put five on for you on any horse you fancy. What's your pick?"
"Daffodil, uncle."
"No, not the fiver on Daffodil!"
"I should if it was my own fiver," said the child.
"Good! Good! Right you are! A fiver for me and a fiver for you on Daffodil."
The child had never been to a race-meeting before, and his eyes were blue fire. He pursed his mouth tight and watched. A Frenchman just in front had put his money on Lancelot. Wild with excitement, he flayed his arms up and down, yelling "Lancelot!, Lancelot!" in his French accent.
Daffodil came in first, Lancelot second, Mirza third. The child, flushed and with eyes blazing, was curiously serene. His uncle brought him four five-pound notes, four to one.
"What am I to do with these?" he cried, waving them before the boys eyes.
"I suppose we'll talk to Bassett," said the boy. "I expect I have fifteen hundred now; and twenty in reserve; and this twenty."
His uncle studied him for some moments.
"Look here, son!" he said. "You're not serious about Bassett and that fifteen hundred, are you?"
"Yes, I am. But it's between you and me, uncle. Honour bright?"
"Honour bright all right, son! But I must talk to Bassett."
"If you'd like to be a partner, uncle, with Bassett and me, we could all be partners. Only, you'd have to promise, honour bright, uncle, not to let it go beyond us three. Bassett and I are lucky, and you must be lucky, because it was your ten shillings I started winning with ..."
Uncle Oscar took both Bassett and Paul into Richmond Park for an afternoon, and there they talked.
"It's like this, you see, sir," Bassett said. "Master Paul would get me talking about racing events, spinning yarns, you know, sir. And he was always keen on knowing if I'd made or if I'd lost. It's about a year since, now, that I put five shillings on Blush of Dawn for him: and we lost. Then the luck turned, with that ten shillings he had from you: that we put on Singhalese. And since that time, it's been pretty steady, all things considering. What do you say, Master Paul?"
"We're all right when we're sure," said Paul. "It's when we're not quite sure that we go down."
"Oh, but we're careful then," said Bassett.
"But when are you sure?" smiled Uncle Oscar.
"It's Master Paul, sir," said Bassett in a secret, religious voice. "It's as if he had it from heaven. Like Daffodil, now, for the Lincoln. That was as sure as eggs."
"Did you put anything on Daffodil?" asked Oscar Cresswell.
"Yes, sir, I made my bit."
"And my nephew?"
Bassett was obstinately silent, looking at Paul.
"I made twelve hundred, didn't I, Bassett? I told uncle I was putting three hundred on Daffodil."
"That's right," said Bassett, nodding.
"But where's the money?" asked the uncle.
"I keep it safe locked up, sir. Master Paul he can have it any minute he likes to ask for it."
"What, fifteen hundred pounds?"
"And twenty! And forty, that is, with the twenty he made on the course."
"It's amazing!" said the uncle.
"If Master Paul offers you to be partners, sir, I would, if I were you: if you'll excuse me," said Bassett.
Oscar Cresswell thought about it.
"I'll see the money," he said.
They drove home again, and, sure enough, Bassett came round to the garden-house with fifteen hundred pounds in notes. The twenty pounds reserve was left with Joe Glee, in the Turf Commission deposit.
"You see, it's all right, uncle, when I'm sure! Then we go strong, for all we're worth, don't we, Bassett?"
"We do that, Master Paul."
"And when are you sure?" said the uncle, laughing.
"Oh, well, sometimes I'm absolutely sure, like about Daffodil," said the boy; "and sometimes I have an idea; and sometimes I haven't even an idea, have I, Bassett? Then we're careful, because we mostly go down."
"You do, do you! And when you're sure, like about Daffodil, what makes you sure, sonny?"
"Oh, well, I don't know," said the boy uneasily. "I'm sure, you know, uncle; that's all."
"It's as if he had it from heaven, sir," Bassett reiterated.
"I should say so!" said the uncle.
But he became a partner. And when the Leger was coming on Paul was 'sure' about Lively Spark, which was a quite inconsiderable horse. The boy insisted on putting a thousand on the horse, Bassett went for five hundred, and Oscar Cresswell two hundred. Lively Spark came in first, and the betting had been ten to one against him. Paul had made ten thousand.
"You see," he said. "I was absolutely sure of him."
Even Oscar Cresswell had cleared two thousand.
"Look here, son," he said, "this sort of thing makes me nervous."
"It needn't, uncle! Perhaps I shan't be sure again for a long time."
"But what are you going to do with your money?" asked the uncle.
"Of course," said the boy, "I started it for mother. She said she had no luck, because father is unlucky, so I thought if I was lucky, it might stop whispering."
"What might stop whispering?"
"Our house. I hate our house for whispering."
"What does it whisper?"
"Why - why" - the boy fidgeted - "why, I don't know. But it's always short of money, you know, uncle."
"I know it, son, I know it."
"You know people send mother writs, don't you, uncle?"
"I'm afraid I do," said the uncle.
"And then the house whispers, like people laughing at you behind your back. It's awful, that is! I thought if I was lucky -"
"You might stop it," added the uncle.
The boy watched him with big blue eyes, that had an uncanny cold fire in them, and he said never a word.
"Well, then!" said the uncle. "What are we doing?"
"I shouldn't like mother to know I was lucky," said the boy.
"Why not, son?"
"She'd stop me."
"I don't think she would."
"Oh!" - and the boy writhed in an odd way - "I don't want her to know, uncle."
"All right, son! We'll manage it without her knowing."
They managed it very easily. Paul, at the other's suggestion, handed over five thousand pounds to his uncle, who deposited it with the family lawyer, who was then to inform Paul's mother that a relative had put five thousand pounds into his hands, which sum was to be paid out a thousand pounds at a time, on the mother's birthday, for the next five years.
"So she'll have a birthday present of a thousand pounds for five successive years," said Uncle Oscar. "I hope it won't make it all the harder for her later."
Paul's mother had her birthday in November. The house had been 'whispering' worse than ever lately, and, even in spite of his luck, Paul could not bear up against it. He was very anxious to see the effect of the birthday letter, telling his mother about the thousand pounds.
When there were no visitors, Paul now took his meals with his parents, as he was beyond the nursery control. His mother went into town nearly every day. She had discovered that she had an odd knack of sketching furs and dress materials, so she worked secretly in the studio of a friend who was the chief 'artist' for the leading drapers. She drew the figures of ladies in furs and ladies in silk and sequins for the newspaper advertisements. This young woman artist earned several thousand pounds a year, but Paul's mother only made several hundreds, and she was again dissatisfied. She so wanted to be first in something, and she did not succeed, even in making sketches for drapery advertisements.
She was down to breakfast on the morning of her birthday. Paul watched her face as she read her letters. He knew the lawyer's letter. As his mother read it, her face hardened and became more expressionless. Then a cold, determined look came on her mouth. She hid the letter under the pile of others, and said not a word about it.
"Didn't you have anything nice in the post for your birthday, mother?" said Paul.
"Quite moderately nice," she said, her voice cold and hard and absent.
She went away to town without saying more.
But in the afternoon Uncle Oscar appeared. He said Paul's mother had had a long interview with the lawyer, asking if the whole five thousand could not be advanced at once, as she was in debt.
"What do you think, uncle?" said the boy.
"I leave it to you, son."
"Oh, let her have it, then! We can get some more with the other," said the boy.
"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, laddie!" said Uncle Oscar.
"But I'm sure to know for the Grand National; or the Lincolnshire; or else the Derby. I'm sure to know for one of them," said Paul.
So Uncle Oscar signed the agreement, and Paul's mother touched the whole five thousand. Then something very curious happened. The voices in the house suddenly went mad, like a chorus of frogs on a spring evening. There were certain new furnishings, and Paul had a tutor. He was really going to Eton, his father's school, in the following autumn. There were flowers in the winter, and a blossoming of the luxury Paul's mother had been used to. And yet the voices in the house, behind the sprays of mimosa and almond-blossom, and from under the piles of iridescent cushions, simply trilled and screamed in a sort of ecstasy: "There must be more money! Oh-h-h; there must be more money. Oh, now, now-w! Now-w-w - there must be more money! - more than ever! More than ever!"
It frightened Paul terribly. He studied away at his Latin and Greek with his tutor. But his intense hours were spent with Bassett. The Grand National had gone by: he had not 'known', and had lost a hundred pounds. Summer was at hand. He was in agony for the Lincoln. But even for the Lincoln he didn't 'know', and he lost fifty pounds. He became wild-eyed and strange, as if something were going to explode in him.
"Let it alone, son! Don't you bother about it!" urged Uncle Oscar. But it was as if the boy couldn't really hear what his uncle was saying.
"I've got to know for the Derby! I've got to know for the Derby!" the child reiterated, his big blue eyes blazing with a sort of madness.
His mother noticed how overwrought he was.
"You'd better go to the seaside. Wouldn't you like to go now to the seaside, instead of waiting? I think you'd better," she said, looking down at him anxiously, her heart curiously heavy because of him.
But the child lifted his uncanny blue eyes.
"I couldn't possibly go before the Derby, mother!" he said. "I couldn't possibly!"
"Why not?" she said, her voice becoming heavy when she was opposed. "Why not? You can still go from the seaside to see the Derby with your Uncle Oscar, if that that's what you wish. No need for you to wait here. Besides, I think you care too much about these races. It's a bad sign. My family has been a gambling family, and you won't know till you grow up how much damage it has done. But it has done damage. I shall have to send Bassett away, and ask Uncle Oscar not to talk racing to you, unless you promise to be reasonable about it: go away to the seaside and forget it. You're all nerves!"
"I'll do what you like, mother, so long as you don't send me away till after the Derby," the boy said.
"Send you away from where? Just from this house?"
"Yes," he said, gazing at her.
"Why, you curious child, what makes you care about this house so much, suddenly? I never knew you loved it."
He gazed at her without speaking. He had a secret within a secret, something he had not divulged, even to Bassett or to his Uncle Oscar.
But his mother, after standing undecided and a little bit sullen for some moments, said: "Very well, then! Don't go to the seaside till after the Derby, if you don't wish it. But promise me you won't think so much about horse-racing and events as you call them!"
"Oh no," said the boy casually. "I won't think much about them, mother. You needn't worry. I wouldn't worry, mother, if I were you."
"If you were me and I were you," said his mother, "I wonder what we should do!"
"But you know you needn't worry, mother, don't you?" the boy repeated.
"I should be awfully glad to know it," she said wearily.
"Oh, well, you can, you know. I mean, you ought to know you needn't worry," he insisted.
"Ought I? Then I'll see about it," she said.
Paul's secret of secrets was his wooden horse, that which had no name. Since he was emancipated from a nurse and a nursery-governess, he had had his rocking-horse removed to his own bedroom at the top of the house.
"Surely you're too big for a rocking-horse!" his mother had remonstrated.
"Well, you see, mother, till I can have a real horse, I like to have some sort of animal about," had been his quaint answer.
"Do you feel he keeps you company?" she laughed.
"Oh yes! He's very good, he always keeps me company, when I'm there," said Paul.
So the horse, rather shabby, stood in an arrested prance in the boy's bedroom.
The Derby was drawing near, and the boy grew more and more tense. He hardly heard what was spoken to him, he was very frail, and his eyes were really uncanny. His mother had sudden strange seizures of uneasiness about him. Sometimes, for half an hour, she would feel a sudden anxiety about him that was almost anguish. She wanted to rush to him at once, and know he was safe.
Two nights before the Derby, she was at a big party in town, when one of her rushes of anxiety about her boy, her first-born, gripped her heart till she could hardly speak. She fought with the feeling, might and main, for she believed in common sense. But it was too strong. She had to leave the dance and go downstairs to telephone to the country. The children's nursery-governess was terribly surprised and startled at being rung up in the night.
"Are the children all right, Miss Wilmot?"
"Oh yes, they are quite all right."
"Master Paul? Is he all right?"
"He went to bed as right as a trivet. Shall I run up and look at him?"
"No," said Paul's mother reluctantly. "No! Don't trouble. It's all right. Don't sit up. We shall be home fairly soon." She did not want her son's privacy intruded upon.
"Very good," said the governess.
It was about one o'clock when Paul's mother and father drove up to their house. All was still. Paul's mother went to her room and slipped off her white fur cloak. She had told her maid not to wait up for her. She heard her husband downstairs, mixing a whisky and soda.
And then, because of the strange anxiety at her heart, she stole upstairs to her son's room. Noiselessly she went along the upper corridor. Was there a faint noise? What was it?
She stood, with arrested muscles, outside his door, listening. There was a strange, heavy, and yet not loud noise. Her heart stood still. It was a soundless noise, yet rushing and powerful. Something huge, in violent, hushed motion. What was it? What in God's name was it? She ought to know. She felt that she knew the noise. She knew what it was.
Yet she could not place it. She couldn't say what it was. And on and on it went, like a madness.
Softly, frozen with anxiety and fear, she turned the door-handle.
The room was dark. Yet in the space near the window, she heard and saw something plunging to and fro. She gazed in fear and amazement.
Then suddenly she switched on the light, and saw her son, in his green pyjamas, madly surging on the rocking-horse. The blaze of light suddenly lit him up, as he urged the wooden horse, and lit her up, as she stood, blonde, in her dress of pale green and crystal, in the doorway.
"Paul!" she cried. "Whatever are you doing?"
"It's Malabar!" he screamed in a powerful, strange voice. "It's Malabar!"
His eyes blazed at her for one strange and senseless second, as he ceased urging his wooden horse. Then he fell with a crash to the ground, and she, all her tormented motherhood flooding upon her, rushed to gather him up.
But he was unconscious, and unconscious he remained, with some brain-fever. He talked and tossed, and his mother sat stonily by his side.
"Malabar! It's Malabar! Bassett, Bassett, I know! It's Malabar!"
So the child cried, trying to get up and urge the rocking-horse that gave him his inspiration.
"What does he mean by Malabar?" asked the heart-frozen mother.
"I don't know," said the father stonily.
"What does he mean by Malabar?" she asked her brother Oscar.
"It's one of the horses running for the Derby," was the answer.
And, in spite of himself, Oscar Cresswell spoke to Bassett, and himself put a thousand on Malabar: at fourteen to one.
The third day of the illness was critical: they were waiting for a change. The boy, with his rather long, curly hair, was tossing ceaselessly on the pillow. He neither slept nor regained consciousness, and his eyes were like blue stones. His mother sat, feeling her heart had gone, turned actually into a stone.
In the evening Oscar Cresswell did not come, but Bassett sent a message, saying could he come up for one moment, just one moment? Paul's mother was very angry at the intrusion, but on second thoughts she agreed. The boy was the same. Perhaps Bassett might bring him to consciousness.
The gardener, a shortish fellow with a little brown moustache and sharp little brown eyes, tiptoed into the room, touched his imaginary cap to Paul's mother, and stole to the bedside, staring with glittering, smallish eyes at the tossing, dying child.
"Master Paul!" he whispered. "Master Paul! Malabar came in first all right, a clean win. I did as you told me. You've made over seventy thousand pounds, you have; you've got over eighty thousand. Malabar came in all right, Master Paul."
"Malabar! Malabar! Did I say Malabar, mother? Did I say Malabar? Do you think I'm lucky, mother? I knew Malabar, didn't I? Over eighty thousand pounds! I call that lucky, don't you, mother? Over eighty thousand pounds! I knew, didn't I know I knew? Malabar came in all right. If I ride my horse till I'm sure, then I tell you, Bassett, you can go as high as you like. Did you go for all you were worth, Bassett?"
"I went a thousand on it, Master Paul."
"I never told you, mother, that if I can ride my horse, and get there, then I'm absolutely sure - oh, absolutely! Mother, did I ever tell you? I am lucky!"
"No, you never did," said his mother.
But the boy died in the night.
And even as he lay dead, his mother heard her brother's voice saying to her, "My God, Hester, you're eighty-odd thousand to the good, and a poor devil of a son to the bad. But, poor devil, poor devil, he's best gone out of a life where he rides his rocking-horse to find a winner."
Once, the Buddha was born as a virtuous house-holder in Varanasi. He worked hard to maintain his small family of a wife and three daughters. After his death he was reborn as a golden Goose with the consciousness of his former existence.
One day, being overwhelmed with the memory of the family of his previous birth, he visited them in his old house in Varanasi. There, he introduced himself and informed them of his previous life’s relationship. Later, before saying good-bye, he offered them one golden feather and advised them to sell it in the market to overcome their poverty.
Since then he was a regular visitor to his old family; and upon every visit he offered them one golden feather. With the proceeds of the feathers, soon the family overcame its poverty.
The mother of the daughters was, however, greedy and cruel. She wanted to be much richer in much less time. So, one day, she advised her daughters to pluck out all the feathers of the bird upon his next visit and become rich in no time. The daughters strongly opposed her malicious intention and warned her to refrain from any cruel act, which could pain their benefactor.
Next time, when the bird visited the family, the wife coaxed him to come near her. When he hopped on her lap, she seized him violently and plucked out his feathers. But to her surprise and disappointment what she could pluck was just the ordinary feathers. This was because the bird’s feathers were to change into ordinary ones when plucked against his wish.
The poor bird in his great agony tried hard to fly but could not. The woman then threw him away into an abandoned barrel. When his daughters saw him groaning in severe pain they gave him necessary first aid and took care of him until his fresh wings once again grew. He then flew again. But this time when he flew he never came back again.
I, Barack Hussein Obama, do solemnly swear ..." Well, nothing was more stunning and cathartic than those few words....Barack Hussein Obama is now the President of the United States. He came to us as the ultimate outsider in a nation of outsiders — the son of an African visitor and a white woman from Kansas — and he has turned us inside out. That he leads us now is a breathtaking statement of American open-mindedness and, yes, our native liberality. Even before his first act as President, and no matter how he fares in the office, he stands as a singular event in our history.
Few extracts from US President's recent speeches:
"The question we ask today is not whether our government is too big or too small but whether it works — whether it helps families find jobs at a decent wage, care they can afford, a retirement that is dignified."
"This crisis has reminded us that without a watchful eye, the market can spin out of control. The nation cannot prosper long when it favors only the prosperous."
Summoning the wisdom of "earlier generations," he said, "They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please."
he denounced the "false ... choice between our safety and our ideals" — a reference to Bush's harsh treatment of prisoners — and in his message to the world: "We are ready to lead once more."
Obama made clear that his domestic liberalism would be enacted conservatively. Where government programs can help, he said, "we intend to move forward." If they are useless or outdated, "programs will end. And those of us who manage the public's dollars will be held to account — to spend wisely, reform bad habits and do our business in the light of day." Overseas, he warned, "those who seek to advance their aims by inducing terror and slaughtering innocents ... You cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you."
हिन्दी के लिए लोगों को अपनी मानसिकता बदलनी होगी : शकील अहमद २६ दिसंबर, नई दिल्ली, अक्षरम् की ओर से दिल्ली के इंडिया इंटरनेशनल सेंटर में ७वां अंतरराष्ट्रीय हिन्दी उत्सव का आयोजन किया गया। इस उत्सव का आयोजन प्रसिद्ध साहित्यिक संस्था अक्षरम्, भारतीय सांस्कृतिक संबंध् परिषद्, प्रवासी कार्य मंत्रालय, साहित्य अकादमी और उत्तराखण्ड सरकार के सहयोग से कर रही है। २६ दिसंबर को तीन दिवसीय हिन्दी उत्सव का उद्घाटन केन्द्रीय गृह राज्यमंत्री डॉ. शकील अहमद ने दीप प्रज्ज्वलित कर किया। इस वर्ष का यह आयोजन युवा और हिन्दी के नए क्षितिज विषय पर केन्द्रित है। उद्घाटन सत्र का उद्घाटन करते हुए केन्द्रीय गृह राज्यमंत्री डॉ. शकील अहमद ने कहा कि हिन्दी को लेकर भारतीय मध्यमवर्ग हीनभावना से ग्रस्त है। उसकी यह मानसिकता बदलनी होगी। हिन्दी कर्मियों को इस दिशा में प्रयास करना होगा। मानसिकता बदलने में समय लगता है। हिन्दी को राष्ट्रभाषा बनाने का प्रयास काफी समय से चल रहा है। चाहे सरकारें अदलती-बदलती रहें पर राष्ट्रहित में नीतियां बरकरार रहनी चाहिए। उद्घाटन सत्र के अध्यक्ष वरिष्ठ पत्राकार प्रभाष जोशी ने कहा कि साहित्य भाषा का मात्रा उपकरण है, पर हमारे सभ्यता की सबसे अच्छी बातें सबसे सशक्त और प्रभावशाली ढंग से जहां प्रकट होती है वह साहित्य ही है। पत्रकारिता तो भिश्ती मात्रा है। उन्होंने कहा कि अब समय का चलन बदल रहा है, बाजारवाद कमजोर पड़ रहा है, और आने वाला दस साल हिन्दी और चीनी भाषा का होने वाला है। जब हम हिन्दी कहते हैं तो इसका अर्थ इसकी तमाम बोलियों से भी है। ज्ञानपीठ पुरस्कार से सम्मानित डॉ. कुंवर नारायण ने कहा कि भाषा अपनी शक्ति के लिए मात्रा बाजार और सरकार पर निर्भरनहीं है। भाषा की शक्ति है संवेदनाओं को वहन करने की क्षमता, और जिसे हम छोटी भाषाएं कहते हैं वे गहन संवेदनाओं की अधिक सशक्त वाहक हैं। भारत २८ भाषाओं का देश है। दुनिया के छोटे-छोटे देशों की भाषाओं में अनूठी मानवीय रचनाएं रचीगई हैं। हिबू्र और पोलिश में कई नोबेल पुरस्कार से पुरस्कृत रचनाएं प्रकाश में आई हैं। हिन्दी भाषा इतनी कोमल और नाजुक नहीं कि आसानी से बिगड़ जाए। वरिष्ठ साहित्यकार प्रभाकर श्रोत्रिय ने अपने बीज वक्तव्य में कहा कि नई पीढ़ी का लेखन तीव्र प्रवाह से चल रहा है। हिन्दीके युवा लेखक ने नई शैली और नए विषयों को चुना है। उसके लिए आज प्रकाशक और पुरस्कार कोई दुर्लभ चीजें नहीं है।उसे जो नहीं मिल पा रहा है तो वह है संवेदना को परिपक्व करने के लिए पर्याप्त समय। लेखक के अंदर साधना का बड़ा संसारहोता है। आज का समय साधना का अवसर नहीं देता यही नई पीढ़ी की चुनौती है। अमेरिका से आई सुषम बेदी ने अपने विचार व्यक्त करते हुए कहा कि हमने न्यूजर्सी और टेक्सास में स्कूलों में हिन्दी शुरूकी है ताकि नई पीढ़ी बचपन से ही हिन्दी से जुड़ सके, और हिन्दी मात्रा व्यवहारिक उपयोग की नहीं बल्कि संवेदनाओं औरसाहित्य की भाषा बने। विशिष्ट अतिथि के रूप में डॉ. रत्नाकर पांडे ने कहा कि सरकार के स्तर पर हिन्दी की अनेक संस्थाएंशुरू हुई हैं, पर उन्हें सार्थक रूप से गतिमान करने की आवश्यकता है। उन्होंने कहा कि अक्षरम् का यह वार्षिक उत्सव अबहिन्दी भाषा-भाषियों के अस्मिता का उत्सव बन गया है। समारोह में प्रस्तावना भाषण में अनिल जोशी ने कहा कि हिन्दी को विश्व भाषा बनाने के लिए सुदृढ़ औजारों की आवश्यकता है। हिन्दी की मेध को समय के सापेक्ष करने और विमर्श को वस्तुनिष्ठ, व्यापक और गहन करने की आवश्यकता है। युवा थीमपर प्रस्तावना रखते हुए चैतन्य प्रकाश ने कहा कि हिन्दी की मूलभूत प्रकृति ही विश्व भाषा की है, क्योंकि यह वसुधैव कुटुम्बकम् और मनुष्यता के बोध् की भाषा है। उत्सव में संचालन नारायण कुमार, स्वागत भाषणगोपाल अग्रवाल और धन्यवाद ज्ञापन विश्वनाथ ने किया।
ट्रेंट गीतांजली की अध्यक्ष और प्रवासी हिन्दी सेवा सम्मान से सम्मानित ब्रिटेन की कवियत्री जया वर्मा के प्रथम काव्यसंकलन का लोकार्पणः 26 -12-08 । अक्षरम हिन्दी उत्सव।
१)हर्षवर्द्धन लेखक : गौरीशंकर चटर्जी, पृष्ठ : ३०८, मूल्य : २००.०० भारतवर्ष के मध्ययुग के इतिहास में सम्राट हर्षवर्द्धन की महत्त्वपूर्ण भूमिका रही है। इस पुस्तक में हर्षवर्द्धन के वंशजों का परिचय, तत्कालीन राजनीतिक, धार्मिक, आर्थिक एवं सामाजिक व्यवस्था, शासन-प्रबन्ध का वर्णन इत्यादि विभिन्न पहलुओं पर विचार किया गया है। यह पुस्तक भारत के गौरवमयी इतिहास की परम्परा का मानक है जहां भारतीय इतिहास एक महत्तवपूर्ण मोड़ पर खड़ा था।
2) पुस्तक में राष्ट्रकवि मैथिलीशरण गुप्त और दिनकर के काव्य में भारतीय संस्कृति, राष्ट्रीयता और युगचेतना को प्रस्तुत करते हुए उनका तुलनात्मक अनुशीलन करने का विनम्र प्रयास है। यह शोध-प्रबन्ध दोनों महान कवियों की कृतियों के प्रति गंभीर अवगाहन और साथ ही उनके अध्यवसाय के प्रति सहज ही हमारे मन में सम्मान का भाव उभारता है।
मूल्य : २००.०० पृष्ठ : ३४४ लेखक : डॉ० दादूराम शर्मा
3) सूर्य विमर्श सम्पादक - डॉ० सुरेन्द्र कुमार पाण्डेय पृष्ठ : ३२४ मूल्य : १७५.००
पुस्तक में वैदिक वाड्.मय में सूर्य की स्थिति, उपनिषदों में सूर्य की महिमा, पुराणों में सूर्य का महत्त्व एवं लौकिक संस्कृत साहित्य में सूर्य-विषयक साहित्य पर ५२ लेखकों के विचारों को प्रस्तुत किया गया है। यह भी प्रयास किया गया है कि सूर्य का धार्मिक, ज्योतिषीय, वैज्ञानिक, वास्तुशास्त्रीय, खगोलीय एवं वृष्टिविज्ञान सम्बन्धी स्वरूप पाठकों के समक्ष इस पुस्तक के माध्यम से उजागर हो।
4) समाज - भाषाविज्ञान रंग-शब्दावली : निराला-काव्य
लेखक : डॉ. कविता वाचक्नवी पृष्ठ : २२५ मूल्य : १५०.००
"प्रस्तुत पुस्तक में हिंदी के रंग शब्दों कीसमाज-सांस्कृतिक संबद्धता को देखने का सराहनीय प्रयास किया गया है। महाप्राण निराला का चयन हिंदी की रंग शब्दावली को खोलने में सर्वथा समर्थ है, यह बताने की ज़रूरत नहीं है। निराला की कविताएँ जितनी विविधरंगी हैं, रंग शब्दों का काव्यात्मक उपयोग भी उन्होंने उतनी ही अर्थछटाओं में बाँध कर किया है। इन सबका अत्यंत सम्यक् और सूक्ष्म विश्लेषण लेखिका ने करके यह जता दिया है कि कविता की आत्मा और कवि का व्यक्तित्व जब जीवन के साथ एकमेक होते हैं तब उसके इर्द-गिर्द बिखरे शब्द किस तरह काव्यार्थ को द्विगुणित कर देते हैं। वाक्य की परिधि के ऊपर जाकर यह अध्ययन प्रोक्ति-विश्लेषण का एक नया रास्ता प्रशस्त करता है। रंग शब्द हमारे जीवन का अटूट हिस्सा हैं। मूल रंग शब्दों के न जाने कितने लोकनिर्मित पर्याय हैं; और फिर रंग मिश्रण के लिए अभिव्यक्ति के अनेक तरीके हिंदी भाषा समाज अपनाता है। इन सबकी अच्छी परख इस पुस्तक में निराला के काव्य संसार के माध्यम से की गई है। इस काव्य संसार में प्रयुक्त रंग शब्दावली का वर्गीकरण अत्यंत संवेदनात्मक ढंग से किया गया है। रंगों में छिपी मनुष्य की संवेदनात्मक गहराई और सृजनात्मक ऊँचाई को मापने का यह पुस्तक सार्थक प्रयास करती है। हिंदी भाषा में निहित रंग संसार की शाब्दिकता को डाॅ. रघुवीर के सहारे सामने लाने का यत्न भी सराहनीय है। रंगों का जीवन और शब्दों का जीवन इस अध्ययन में एकरस हो गए हैं। हिंदी भाषा की शब्द संपदा और इस संपदा में आबद्ध लोकजनित, मिथकीय और सांस्कृतिक अर्थवत्ता की पकड़ से यह सिद्ध होता है कि हिंदी भाषा की व्यंजनाशक्ति का कोई ओर-छोर नहीं है। इस फैलाव को पुस्तक में मानो चिमटी से पकड़कर सही जगह पर रख दिया गया है। भाषा अध्ययन को बदरंग समझने वालों के लिए रंगों की मनोहारी छटा बिखेरने वाला कविताकेंद्रित यह अध्ययन किसी चुनौती से कम नहीं। इस तरह के साहसी और श्रमसाध्य भाषा अध्ययन का यह अनुप्रयोगात्मक तरीका पाठकों को भीतर तक सराबोर कर देगा। " प्राक्कथन से ( डॉ. दिलीप सिंह, प्रख्यात भाषावैज्ञानिक )
उच्च शिक्षा और शोध संस्थान में निराला जयंती आयोजितनिराला आधुनिक हिन्दी कविता के शीर्ष पुरुष हैं -- कविता वाचक्नवी । वसंत पंचमी सृजनशीलता की आराधना का उत्सव है -- राधेश्याम शुक्ल
हैदराबाद , २ फरवरी [प्रेस विज्ञप्ति].
वसंत पंचमी के अवसर पर दक्षिण भारत हिन्दी प्रचार सभा के विश्वविद्यालय विभाग,उच्च शिक्षा और शोध संस्थान में महाप्राण निराला की ११३ वीं जयंती मनाई गई तथा ''वसंत पंचमी - निराला जयन्ती व्याख्यानमाला '' का आयोजन किया गया जिसकी अध्यक्षता डॉ. ऋषभदेव शर्मा ने की. सरस्वती पूजन और ''वर दे वीणावादिनी'' के गायन के साथ कार्यक्रम आरम्भ हुआ. आंध्र - सभा के सचिव के. विजयन ने अतिथियों का स्वागत किया. पीएच डी शोधार्थी अंजली मेहता और अर्पणा दीप्ति ने निराला के व्यक्तित्व और कृतित्व पर प्रकाश डाला तथा अखिलेश हठीला ने निराला की कविताओं का वाचन किया. डॉ. बलविंदर कौर ने अतिथि व्याख्यानकर्ताओं का परिचय दिया. उद्घाटन भाषण करते हुए 'स्वतंत्र वार्त्ता' के संपादक डॉ. राधेश्याम शुक्ला ने वसंत पंचमी को सरस्वती के जन्मदिन के रूप में सम्पूर्ण सृष्टि की सृजनशीलता की शक्ति की आराधना का उत्सव मानते हुए यह स्पष्ट किया कि सर्जना की आराधना में सत्य,शिव और सुंदर की साधना निहित है और प्रेम इसका आधारतत्व है.उन्होंने सरस्वती के मिथकीय स्वरुप की व्याख्या करते हुए कहा कि विचार-रूप में सरस्वती विधाता की संगिनी अर्थात पत्नी है तथा रचना अथवा सृष्टि-रूप में पुत्री भी है , उन्होंने निराला को स्रष्टा और सृष्टि की विराट और उदात्त संभावनाओं को व्यक्त करने वाले कवि के रूप में भारतीय कविता के गौरव की संज्ञा दी. इस अवसर पर ''महाप्राण निराला की सर्जनात्मकता'' की व्याख्या करते हुए मुख्यवक्ता डॉ. कविता वाचक्नवी ने कहा कि निराला आधुनिक हिन्दी कविता के शीर्ष पुरुष और विरल कवि हैं. प्रकृति, प्रेम, प्रगति और पौरुष को निराला के साहित्य के मूलबिंदु बताते हुए उन्होंने निराला को व्यक्तिगत लगाव और हुंकार के ऐसे कवि बताया जिनकी बहु-आयामी और विलक्षण रचनाशीलता निरंतर मौलिक चुनौतियाँ प्रस्तुत करती है.निराला की रचनाओं को प्रतिभा के विस्फोट का प्रतीक मानते हुए डॉ.कविता ने कहा कि उन्हें किसी एक विचारधारा तक सीमित करना उचित नहीं है, बल्कि उनका पाठ-विश्लेषण नई-पुरानी आलोचना दृष्टियों से करने पर ही सरोकार की व्यापकता और विश्व-दृष्टि की विराटता को समझा जा सकता है. उल्लेखनीय है कि डॉ. कविता वाचक्नवी ने ''हिन्दुस्तानी एकेडेमी'' द्वारा प्रकाशित अपनी शोधपूर्ण कृति ''समाज भाषाविज्ञान : रंग शब्दावली : निराला काव्य'' में निराला की काव्य भाषा का समाज भाषावैज्ञानिक दृष्टि से विवेचन करते हुए रंग-शब्दावली के आधार पर उनकी काव्य-चेतना का विश्लेषण किया है. अध्यक्षासन से संबोधित करते हुए प्रो.ऋषभ देव शर्मा ने निराला की रचनाओं में निहित उदात्त-तत्त्व पर प्रकाश डालने के साथ-साथ ''जागो फिर एक बार'' जैसी कविताओं की कालजयी प्रासंगिकता को रेखांकित किया. इस अवसर पर चंद्रमौलेश्वर प्रसाद, डॉ.जी. नीरजा, डॉ.मृत्युंजय सिंह तथा भगवंत गौड़र भी मंचासीन थे.
संस्थान के पीएच डी, एम फिल,एम ए ,अनुवाद और पत्रकारिता पाठ्यक्रम के जिन छात्रों , शोधार्थियों और प्रतिभागियों ने चर्चा -परिचर्चा द्वारा प्रश्नोत्तर सत्र को जीवंत बनाया उनमें डॉ. शक्ति कुमार द्विवेदी, डॉ.सुषमा देवी , डॉ.बी. बालाजी, शिव कुमार राजौरिया, श्रद्धा तिवारी, कैलाशवती,सलमा कौसर, रीना झा, पी ज्योति, वंदना पाटिल, ,पुष्प कुमारी, निशा सोनी, वेंकट रमन, अशोक तिवारी, एस वंदना, सीमा मिश्रा, गणाचारी श्रीनिवास राव, आकाश, राजेंद्र गौड़ ,मुहम्मद कुतुबुद्दीन ,पूनम पंवार,के नागेश्वर राव, प्रियंका रथ, राम कृष्ण, अनुराधा पाण्डेय और रेखा के नाम उल्लेखनीय हैं.शिव कुमार राजौरिया ने धन्यवाद प्रकट किया.
A book of verse, underneath the bough,
When love beckons to you, follow him,
There was a woman who was beautiful, who started with all the advantages, yet she had no luck. She married for love, and the love turned to dust. She had bonny children, yet she felt they had been thrust upon her, and she could not love them. They looked at her coldly, as if they were finding fault with her. And hurriedly she felt she must cover up some fault in herself. Yet what it was that she must cover up she never knew. Nevertheless, when her children were present, she always felt the centre of her heart go hard. This troubled her, and in her manner she was all the more gentle and anxious for her children, as if she loved them very much. Only she herself knew that at the centre of her heart was a hard little place that could not feel love, no, not for anybody. Everybody else said of her: "She is such a good mother. She adores her children." Only she herself, and her children themselves, knew it was not so. They read it in each other's eyes. 
"I never told you, mother, that if I can ride my horse, and get there, then I'm absolutely sure - oh, absolutely! Mother, did I ever tell you? I am lucky!" 
Once, the Buddha was born as a virtuous house-holder in Varanasi. He worked hard to maintain his small family of a wife and three daughters. After his death he was reborn as a golden Goose with the consciousness of his former existence. 
The poor bird in his great agony tried hard to fly but could not. The woman then threw him away into an abandoned barrel. When his daughters saw him groaning in severe pain they gave him necessary first aid and took care of him until his fresh wings once again grew. He then flew again. But this time when he flew he never came back again. 
विविधा News & views 
ट्रेंट गीतांजली की अध्यक्ष और प्रवासी हिन्दी सेवा सम्मान से सम्मानित ब्रिटेन की कवियत्री जया वर्मा के प्रथम काव्यसंकलन का लोकार्पणः 26 -12-08 । अक्षरम हिन्दी उत्सव।
2) पुस्तक में राष्ट्रकवि मैथिलीशरण गुप्त और दिनकर के काव्य में भारतीय संस्कृति, राष्ट्रीयता और युगचेतना को प्रस्तुत करते हुए उनका तुलनात्मक अनुशीलन करने का विनम्र प्रयास है। यह शोध-प्रबन्ध दोनों महान कवियों की कृतियों के प्रति गंभीर अवगाहन और साथ ही उनके अध्यवसाय के प्रति सहज ही हमारे मन में सम्मान का भाव उभारता है।
4)
संस्थान के पीएच डी, एम फिल,एम ए ,अनुवाद और पत्रकारिता पाठ्यक्रम के जिन छात्रों , शोधार्थियों और प्रतिभागियों ने चर्चा -परिचर्चा द्वारा प्रश्नोत्तर सत्र को जीवंत बनाया उनमें डॉ. शक्ति कुमार द्विवेदी, डॉ.सुषमा देवी , डॉ.बी. बालाजी, शिव कुमार राजौरिया, श्रद्धा तिवारी, कैलाशवती,सलमा कौसर, रीना झा, पी ज्योति, वंदना पाटिल, ,पुष्प कुमारी, निशा सोनी, वेंकट रमन, अशोक तिवारी, एस वंदना, सीमा मिश्रा, गणाचारी श्रीनिवास राव, आकाश, राजेंद्र गौड़ ,मुहम्मद कुतुबुद्दीन ,पूनम पंवार,के नागेश्वर राव, प्रियंका रथ, राम कृष्ण, अनुराधा पाण्डेय और रेखा के नाम उल्लेखनीय हैं.शिव कुमार राजौरिया ने धन्यवाद प्रकट किया. 
