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Swarna Rangarajan
Oct 31, 2012, 6:46:15 AM10/31/12
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Dear students,
I am sending along a short story by Marquez that is deceptively
simple and readable. Enjy!
BEst, swarna
One of These Days
Monday dawned warm and rainless. Aurelio Escovar, a dentist without a
degree, and a very early riser, opened his office at six. He took some
false teeth, still mounted in their plaster mold, out of the glass
case and put on the table a fistful of instruments which he arranged
in size order, as if they were on display. He wore a collarless
striped shirt, closed at the neck with a golden stud, and pants held
up by suspenders He was erect and skinny, with a look that rarely
corresponded to the situation, the way deaf people have of looking.
When he had things arranged on the table, he pulled the drill toward
the dental chair and sat down to polish the false teeth. He seemed not
to be thinking about what he was doing, but worked steadily, pumping
the drill with his feet, even when he didn't need it.
After eight he stopped for a while to look at the sky through the
window, and he saw two pensive buzzards who were drying themselves in
the sun on the ridgepole of the house next door. He went on working
with the idea that before lunch it would rain again. The shrill voice
of his elevenyear-old son interrupted his concentration.
"Papa."
"What?"
"The Mayor wants to know if you'll pull his tooth."
"Tell him I'm not here."
He was polishing a gold tooth. He held it at arm's length, and
examined it with his eyes half closed. His son shouted again from the
little waiting room.
"He says you are, too, because he can hear you."
The dentist kept examining the tooth. Only when he had put it on the
table with the finished work did he say:
"So much the better."
He operated the drill again. He took several pieces of a bridge out of
a cardboard box where he kept the things he still had to do and began
to polish the gold.
"Papa."
"What?"
He still hadn't changed his expression.
"He says if you don't take out his tooth, he'll shoot you."
Without hurrying, with an extremely tranquil movement, he stopped
pedaling the drill, pushed it away from the chair, and pulled the
lower drawer of the table all the way out. There was a revolver.
"O.K.," he said. "Tell him to come and shoot me."
He rolled the chair over opposite the door, his hand resting on the
edge of the drawer. The Mayor appeared at the door. He had shaved the
left side of his face, but the other side, swollen and in pain, had a
five-day-old beard. The dentist saw many nights of desperation in his
dull eyes. He closed the drawer with his fingertips and said softly:
"Sit down."
"Good morning," said the Mayor.
"Morning," said the dentist.
While the instruments were boiling, the Mayor leaned his skull on the
headrest of the chair and felt better. His breath was icy. It was a
poor office: an old wooden chair, the pedal drill, a glass case with
ceramic bottles. Opposite the chair was a window with a shoulder-high
cloth curtain. When he felt the dentist approach, the Mayor braced his
heels and opened his mouth.
Aurelio Escovar turned his head toward the light. After inspecting the
infected tooth, he closed the Mayor's jaw with a cautious pressure of
his fingers.
"It has to be without anesthesia," he said.
"Why?"
"Because you have an abscess."
The Mayor looked him in the eye. "All right," he said, and tried to
smile. The dentist did not return the smile. He brought the basin of
sterilized instruments to the worktable and took them out of the water
with a pair of cold tweezers, still without hurrying. Then he pushed
the spittoon with the tip of his shoe, and went to wash his hands in
the washbasin. He did all this without looking at the Mayor. But the
Mayor didn't take his eyes off him.
It was a lower wisdom tooth. The dentist spread his feet and grasped
the tooth with the hot forceps. The Mayor seized the arms of the
chair, braced his feet with all his strength, and felt an icy void in
his kidneys, but didn't make a sound. The dentist moved only his
wrist. Without rancor, rather with a bitter tenderness, he said:
"Now you'll pay for our twenty dead men."
The Mayor felt the crunch of bones in his jaw, and his eyes filled
with tears. But he didn't breathe until he felt the tooth come out.
Then he saw it through his tears. It seemed so foreign to his pain
that he failed to understand his torture of the five previous nights.
Bent over the spittoon, sweating, panting, he unbuttoned his tunic and
reached for the handkerchief in his pants pocket. The dentist gave him
a clean cloth.
"Dry your tears," he said.
The Mayor did. He was trembling. While the dentist washed his hands,
he saw the crumbling ceiling and a dusty spider web with spider's eggs
and dead insects. The dentist returned, drying his hands. "Go to bed,"
he said, "and gargle with salt water." The Mayor stood up, said
goodbye with a casual military salute, and walked toward the door,
stretching his legs, without buttoning up his tunic.
"Send the bill," he said.
"To you or the town?"
The Mayor didn't look at him. He closed the door and said through the screen:
"It's the same damn thing."
On 10/31/12, Swarna Rangarajan <swarn...@gmail.com> wrote:
> Dear All,
> Ravi Kumar Bisoi and Karan Singh are scheduled for presentations tomorrow.
>
>
> On 10/26/12, Swarna Rangarajan <swarn...@gmail.com> wrote:
>> Dear All,
>> Complex emotions like love are best articulated when the
>> language employed has a stark simplicity about it.
>> Sending across one of the most famous love poems in literature by
>> Elizabeth Browning, wife of the acclaimed Robert Browning.
>> Best,
>> ----------------------------------
>> XLIII. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."
>> by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
>>
>> How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
>> I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
>> My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
>> For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
>> I love thee to the level of everyday's
>> Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
>> I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
>> I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
>> I love thee with a passion put to use
>> In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
>> I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
>> With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
>> Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
>> I shall but love thee better after death.
>>
>>
>>
>> On 10/26/12, Swarna Rangarajan <swarn...@gmail.com> wrote:
>>> Dear Students,
>>> The presentation today inspired me to post this classic love story
>>> by O Henry. It is a great read for those of you who have not yet
>>> stumbled on this piece.
>>> Best
>>>
>>>
>>> THE GIFT OF THE MAGI
>>>
>>> by O. Henry
>>>
>>> One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it
>>> was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the
>>> grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned
>>> with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing
>>> implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven
>>> cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
>>> There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little
>>> couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection
>>> that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles
>>> predominating.
>>>
>>> While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first
>>> stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8
>>> per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had
>>> that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
>>>
>>> In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go,
>>> and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring.
>>> Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James
>>> Dillingham Young."
>>>
>>> The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period
>>> of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now,
>>> when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking
>>> seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever
>>> Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was
>>> called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young,
>>> already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
>>>
>>> Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag.
>>> She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a
>>> gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and
>>> she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been
>>> saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty
>>> dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had
>>> calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her
>>> Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for
>>> him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit
>>> near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
>>>
>>> There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you
>>> have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile
>>> person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of
>>> longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks.
>>> Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
>>>
>>> Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her
>>> eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within
>>> twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to
>>> its full length.
>>>
>>> Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in
>>> which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had
>>> been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair.
>>> Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della
>>> would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to
>>> depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the
>>> janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would
>>> have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck
>>> at his beard from envy.
>>>
>>> So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like
>>> a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself
>>> almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and
>>> quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear
>>> or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
>>>
>>> On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl
>>> of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she
>>> fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
>>>
>>> Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All
>>> Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting.
>>> Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."
>>>
>>> "Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
>>>
>>> "I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at
>>> the looks of it."
>>>
>>> Down rippled the brown cascade.
>>>
>>> "Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
>>>
>>> "Give it to me quick," said Della.
>>>
>>> Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed
>>> metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.
>>>
>>> She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else.
>>> There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned
>>> all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste
>>> in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not
>>> by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was
>>> even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must
>>> be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description
>>> applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she
>>> hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might
>>> be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch
>>> was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old
>>> leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
>>>
>>> When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence
>>> and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went
>>> to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which
>>> is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.
>>>
>>> Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls
>>> that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at
>>> her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
>>>
>>> "If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a
>>> second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl.
>>> But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-
>>> seven cents?"
>>>
>>> At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of
>>> the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.
>>>
>>> Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on
>>> the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she
>>> heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she
>>> turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little
>>> silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she
>>> whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."
>>>
>>> The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and
>>> very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened
>>> with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
>>>
>>> Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of
>>> quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in
>>> them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger,
>>> nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments
>>> that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with
>>> that peculiar expression on his face.
>>>
>>> Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
>>>
>>> "Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair
>>> cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas
>>> without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind,
>>> will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry
>>> Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what
>>> a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
>>>
>>> "You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not
>>> arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
>>>
>>> "Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well,
>>> anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"
>>>
>>> Jim looked about the room curiously.
>>>
>>> "You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
>>>
>>> "You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold
>>> and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for
>>> you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with
>>> sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for
>>> you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"
>>>
>>> Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della.
>>> For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some
>>> inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or
>>> a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit
>>> would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but
>>> that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later
>>> on.
>>>
>>> Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
>>>
>>> "Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think
>>> there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that
>>> could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package
>>> you may see why you had me going a while at first."
>>>
>>> White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an
>>> ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to
>>> hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of
>>> all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
>>>
>>> For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della
>>> had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure
>>> tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the
>>> beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her
>>> heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope
>>> of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should
>>> have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
>>>
>>> But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look
>>> up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
>>>
>>> And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
>>>
>>> Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him
>>> eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash
>>> with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
>>>
>>> "Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have
>>> to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I
>>> want to see how it looks on it."
>>>
>>> Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands
>>> under the back of his head and smiled.
>>>
>>> "Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a
>>> while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to
>>> get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops
>>> on."
>>>
>>> The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who
>>> brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of
>>> giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise
>>> ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of
>>> duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful
>>> chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely
>>> sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But
>>> in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all
>>> who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive
>>> gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are
>>> the magi.
>>>
>>>
>>>
>>> On Fri, Oct 26, 2012 at 1:36 PM, Vamshi <surabhiv...@gmail.com>
>>> wrote:
>>>> Mam, I've a class from 2 to 4:30 (R/T Slot). The 2'o clock slot is not
>>>> free
>>>> for 4th year CS students. So, all of us (CS students) can't attend
>>>> today's
>>>> class. Sorry mam, I would've mentioned this at the end of last class
>>>> but
>>>> I
>>>> had to leave in a hurry as there was a quiz.
>>>>
>>>>
>>>> Thank you mam,
>>>> Vamshi.
>>>>
>>>>
>>>> On Thu, Oct 25, 2012 at 5:25 PM, Swarna Rangarajan
>>>> <swarn...@gmail.com>
>>>> wrote:
>>>>>
>>>>> Dear students,
>>>>> If you liked that symborska poem in the course work, you would
>>>>> surely like this too.
>>>>> Best, swarna
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>> NO TITLE REQUIRED BY WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA
>>>>>
>>>>> It has come to this: I'm sitting under a tree
>>>>> beside a river
>>>>> on a sunny morning.
>>>>> It's an insignificant event
>>>>> and won't go down in history.
>>>>> It's not battles and pacts,
>>>>> where motives are scrutinized,
>>>>> or noteworthy tyrannicides.
>>>>> And yet I'm sitting by this river, that's a fact.
>>>>> And since I'm here
>>>>> I must have come from somewhere,
>>>>> and before that
>>>>> I must have turned up in many other places,
>>>>> exactly like the conquerors of nations
>>>>> before setting sail.
>>>>> Even a passing moment has its fertile past,
>>>>> its Friday before Saturday,
>>>>> its May before June.
>>>>> Its horizons are no less real
>>>>> than those that a marshal's field glasses might scan.
>>>>> This tree is a poplar that's been rooted here for years.
>>>>> The river is the Raba; it didn't spring up yesterday.
>>>>> The path leading through the bushes
>>>>> wasn't beaten last week.
>>>>> The wind had to blow the clouds here
>>>>> before it could blow them away.
>>>>> And though nothing much is going on nearby,
>>>>> the world is no poorer in details for that.
>>>>> It's just as grounded, just as definite
>>>>> as when migrating races held it captive.
>>>>> Conspiracies aren't the only things shrouded in silence.
>>>>> Retinues of reasons don't trail coronations alone.
>>>>> Anniversaries of revolutions may roll around,
>>>>> but so do oval pebbles encircling the bay.
>>>>> The tapestry of circumstance is intricate and dense.
>>>>> Ants stitching in the grass.
>>>>> The grass sewn into the ground.
>>>>> The pattern of a wave being needled by a twig.
>>>>> So it happens that I am and look.
>>>>> Above me a white butterfly is fluttering through the air
>>>>> on wings that are its alone,
>>>>> and a shadow skims through my hands
>>>>> that is none other than itself, no one else's but its own.
>>>>> When I see such things, I'm no longer sure
>>>>> that what's important
>>>>> is more important than what's not.
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>> On Thu, Oct 18, 2012 at 8:44 PM, Swarna Rangarajan
>>>>> <swarn...@gmail.com>
>>>>> wrote:
>>>>> > Dear Students,
>>>>> > I am sending along a really beautiful narrative- The Little
>>>>> > Prince.
>>>>> > The author,
>>>>> > Antoine de Saint-Exupery (June 29, 1900 – presumably July 31, 1944)
>>>>> > was a French writer and aviator. One of his most famous works is Le
>>>>> > Petit Prince (The Little Prince). He disappeared on the night of
>>>>> > July
>>>>> > 31, 1944 while flying on a mission to collect data on German troop
>>>>> > movements.
>>>>> > The work speaks to us at many levels!
>>>>> > Best, swarna
>>>>> >
>>>>> > On 10/18/12, Vaishali V <vaish...@gmail.com> wrote:
>>>>> >> Hello :)
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >> The essay I presented in class today was this :
>>>>> >> http://www.salon.com/2000/03/18/why/
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >> Another interesting essay by Pico Iyer is this - "The Joy of
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >> Quiet<http://www.nytimes.com/2012/01/01/opinion/sunday/the-joy-of-quiet.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0>
>>>>> >> "
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >> Regards,
>>>>> >> Vaishali
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >> --
>>>>> >> Vaishali V
>>>>> >> III Year Integrated M.A. in Economics
>>>>> >> Indian Institute of Technology, Madras
>>>>> >> +91 97910 11442 <http://start.fedoraproject.org/>
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >> --
>>>>> >> You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google
>>>>> >> Groups
>>>>> >> "Literature and Values Odd Sem" group.
>>>>> >> To unsubscribe from this group, send email to
>>>>> >> literature-and-value...@googlegroups.com.
>>>>> >> For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/groups/opt_out.
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >>
>>>>>
>>>>> --
>>>>> You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google
>>>>> Groups
>>>>> "Literature and Values Odd Sem" group.
>>>>> To unsubscribe from this group, send email to
>>>>> literature-and-value...@googlegroups.com.
>>>>> For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/groups/opt_out.
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>> --
>>>> Vamshidhar Rao Surabhi
>>>> 4th Year CSE
>>>> IITM
>>>>
>>>>
>>>> --
>>>> You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google
>>>> Groups
>>>> "Literature and Values Odd Sem" group.
>>>> To unsubscribe from this group, send email to
>>>> literature-and-value...@googlegroups.com.
>>>> For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/groups/opt_out.
>>>>
>>>>
>>>
>>
>
I am sending along a short story by Marquez that is deceptively
simple and readable. Enjy!
BEst, swarna
One of These Days
Monday dawned warm and rainless. Aurelio Escovar, a dentist without a
degree, and a very early riser, opened his office at six. He took some
false teeth, still mounted in their plaster mold, out of the glass
case and put on the table a fistful of instruments which he arranged
in size order, as if they were on display. He wore a collarless
striped shirt, closed at the neck with a golden stud, and pants held
up by suspenders He was erect and skinny, with a look that rarely
corresponded to the situation, the way deaf people have of looking.
When he had things arranged on the table, he pulled the drill toward
the dental chair and sat down to polish the false teeth. He seemed not
to be thinking about what he was doing, but worked steadily, pumping
the drill with his feet, even when he didn't need it.
After eight he stopped for a while to look at the sky through the
window, and he saw two pensive buzzards who were drying themselves in
the sun on the ridgepole of the house next door. He went on working
with the idea that before lunch it would rain again. The shrill voice
of his elevenyear-old son interrupted his concentration.
"Papa."
"What?"
"The Mayor wants to know if you'll pull his tooth."
"Tell him I'm not here."
He was polishing a gold tooth. He held it at arm's length, and
examined it with his eyes half closed. His son shouted again from the
little waiting room.
"He says you are, too, because he can hear you."
The dentist kept examining the tooth. Only when he had put it on the
table with the finished work did he say:
"So much the better."
He operated the drill again. He took several pieces of a bridge out of
a cardboard box where he kept the things he still had to do and began
to polish the gold.
"Papa."
"What?"
He still hadn't changed his expression.
"He says if you don't take out his tooth, he'll shoot you."
Without hurrying, with an extremely tranquil movement, he stopped
pedaling the drill, pushed it away from the chair, and pulled the
lower drawer of the table all the way out. There was a revolver.
"O.K.," he said. "Tell him to come and shoot me."
He rolled the chair over opposite the door, his hand resting on the
edge of the drawer. The Mayor appeared at the door. He had shaved the
left side of his face, but the other side, swollen and in pain, had a
five-day-old beard. The dentist saw many nights of desperation in his
dull eyes. He closed the drawer with his fingertips and said softly:
"Sit down."
"Good morning," said the Mayor.
"Morning," said the dentist.
While the instruments were boiling, the Mayor leaned his skull on the
headrest of the chair and felt better. His breath was icy. It was a
poor office: an old wooden chair, the pedal drill, a glass case with
ceramic bottles. Opposite the chair was a window with a shoulder-high
cloth curtain. When he felt the dentist approach, the Mayor braced his
heels and opened his mouth.
Aurelio Escovar turned his head toward the light. After inspecting the
infected tooth, he closed the Mayor's jaw with a cautious pressure of
his fingers.
"It has to be without anesthesia," he said.
"Why?"
"Because you have an abscess."
The Mayor looked him in the eye. "All right," he said, and tried to
smile. The dentist did not return the smile. He brought the basin of
sterilized instruments to the worktable and took them out of the water
with a pair of cold tweezers, still without hurrying. Then he pushed
the spittoon with the tip of his shoe, and went to wash his hands in
the washbasin. He did all this without looking at the Mayor. But the
Mayor didn't take his eyes off him.
It was a lower wisdom tooth. The dentist spread his feet and grasped
the tooth with the hot forceps. The Mayor seized the arms of the
chair, braced his feet with all his strength, and felt an icy void in
his kidneys, but didn't make a sound. The dentist moved only his
wrist. Without rancor, rather with a bitter tenderness, he said:
"Now you'll pay for our twenty dead men."
The Mayor felt the crunch of bones in his jaw, and his eyes filled
with tears. But he didn't breathe until he felt the tooth come out.
Then he saw it through his tears. It seemed so foreign to his pain
that he failed to understand his torture of the five previous nights.
Bent over the spittoon, sweating, panting, he unbuttoned his tunic and
reached for the handkerchief in his pants pocket. The dentist gave him
a clean cloth.
"Dry your tears," he said.
The Mayor did. He was trembling. While the dentist washed his hands,
he saw the crumbling ceiling and a dusty spider web with spider's eggs
and dead insects. The dentist returned, drying his hands. "Go to bed,"
he said, "and gargle with salt water." The Mayor stood up, said
goodbye with a casual military salute, and walked toward the door,
stretching his legs, without buttoning up his tunic.
"Send the bill," he said.
"To you or the town?"
The Mayor didn't look at him. He closed the door and said through the screen:
"It's the same damn thing."
On 10/31/12, Swarna Rangarajan <swarn...@gmail.com> wrote:
> Dear All,
> Ravi Kumar Bisoi and Karan Singh are scheduled for presentations tomorrow.
>
>
> On 10/26/12, Swarna Rangarajan <swarn...@gmail.com> wrote:
>> Dear All,
>> Complex emotions like love are best articulated when the
>> language employed has a stark simplicity about it.
>> Sending across one of the most famous love poems in literature by
>> Elizabeth Browning, wife of the acclaimed Robert Browning.
>> Best,
>> ----------------------------------
>> XLIII. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."
>> by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
>>
>> How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
>> I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
>> My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
>> For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
>> I love thee to the level of everyday's
>> Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
>> I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
>> I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
>> I love thee with a passion put to use
>> In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
>> I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
>> With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
>> Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
>> I shall but love thee better after death.
>>
>>
>>
>> On 10/26/12, Swarna Rangarajan <swarn...@gmail.com> wrote:
>>> Dear Students,
>>> The presentation today inspired me to post this classic love story
>>> by O Henry. It is a great read for those of you who have not yet
>>> stumbled on this piece.
>>> Best
>>>
>>>
>>> THE GIFT OF THE MAGI
>>>
>>> by O. Henry
>>>
>>> One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it
>>> was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the
>>> grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned
>>> with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing
>>> implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven
>>> cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
>>> There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little
>>> couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection
>>> that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles
>>> predominating.
>>>
>>> While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first
>>> stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8
>>> per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had
>>> that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
>>>
>>> In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go,
>>> and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring.
>>> Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James
>>> Dillingham Young."
>>>
>>> The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period
>>> of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now,
>>> when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking
>>> seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever
>>> Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was
>>> called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young,
>>> already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
>>>
>>> Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag.
>>> She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a
>>> gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and
>>> she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been
>>> saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty
>>> dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had
>>> calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her
>>> Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for
>>> him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit
>>> near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
>>>
>>> There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you
>>> have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile
>>> person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of
>>> longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks.
>>> Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
>>>
>>> Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her
>>> eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within
>>> twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to
>>> its full length.
>>>
>>> Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in
>>> which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had
>>> been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair.
>>> Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della
>>> would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to
>>> depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the
>>> janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would
>>> have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck
>>> at his beard from envy.
>>>
>>> So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like
>>> a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself
>>> almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and
>>> quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear
>>> or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
>>>
>>> On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl
>>> of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she
>>> fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
>>>
>>> Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All
>>> Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting.
>>> Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."
>>>
>>> "Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
>>>
>>> "I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at
>>> the looks of it."
>>>
>>> Down rippled the brown cascade.
>>>
>>> "Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
>>>
>>> "Give it to me quick," said Della.
>>>
>>> Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed
>>> metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.
>>>
>>> She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else.
>>> There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned
>>> all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste
>>> in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not
>>> by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was
>>> even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must
>>> be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description
>>> applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she
>>> hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might
>>> be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch
>>> was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old
>>> leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
>>>
>>> When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence
>>> and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went
>>> to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which
>>> is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.
>>>
>>> Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls
>>> that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at
>>> her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
>>>
>>> "If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a
>>> second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl.
>>> But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-
>>> seven cents?"
>>>
>>> At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of
>>> the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.
>>>
>>> Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on
>>> the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she
>>> heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she
>>> turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little
>>> silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she
>>> whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."
>>>
>>> The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and
>>> very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened
>>> with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
>>>
>>> Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of
>>> quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in
>>> them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger,
>>> nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments
>>> that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with
>>> that peculiar expression on his face.
>>>
>>> Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
>>>
>>> "Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair
>>> cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas
>>> without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind,
>>> will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry
>>> Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what
>>> a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
>>>
>>> "You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not
>>> arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
>>>
>>> "Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well,
>>> anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"
>>>
>>> Jim looked about the room curiously.
>>>
>>> "You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
>>>
>>> "You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold
>>> and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for
>>> you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with
>>> sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for
>>> you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"
>>>
>>> Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della.
>>> For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some
>>> inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or
>>> a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit
>>> would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but
>>> that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later
>>> on.
>>>
>>> Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
>>>
>>> "Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think
>>> there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that
>>> could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package
>>> you may see why you had me going a while at first."
>>>
>>> White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an
>>> ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to
>>> hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of
>>> all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
>>>
>>> For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della
>>> had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure
>>> tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the
>>> beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her
>>> heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope
>>> of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should
>>> have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
>>>
>>> But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look
>>> up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
>>>
>>> And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
>>>
>>> Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him
>>> eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash
>>> with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
>>>
>>> "Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have
>>> to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I
>>> want to see how it looks on it."
>>>
>>> Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands
>>> under the back of his head and smiled.
>>>
>>> "Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a
>>> while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to
>>> get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops
>>> on."
>>>
>>> The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who
>>> brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of
>>> giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise
>>> ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of
>>> duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful
>>> chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely
>>> sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But
>>> in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all
>>> who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive
>>> gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are
>>> the magi.
>>>
>>>
>>>
>>> On Fri, Oct 26, 2012 at 1:36 PM, Vamshi <surabhiv...@gmail.com>
>>> wrote:
>>>> Mam, I've a class from 2 to 4:30 (R/T Slot). The 2'o clock slot is not
>>>> free
>>>> for 4th year CS students. So, all of us (CS students) can't attend
>>>> today's
>>>> class. Sorry mam, I would've mentioned this at the end of last class
>>>> but
>>>> I
>>>> had to leave in a hurry as there was a quiz.
>>>>
>>>>
>>>> Thank you mam,
>>>> Vamshi.
>>>>
>>>>
>>>> On Thu, Oct 25, 2012 at 5:25 PM, Swarna Rangarajan
>>>> <swarn...@gmail.com>
>>>> wrote:
>>>>>
>>>>> Dear students,
>>>>> If you liked that symborska poem in the course work, you would
>>>>> surely like this too.
>>>>> Best, swarna
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>> NO TITLE REQUIRED BY WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA
>>>>>
>>>>> It has come to this: I'm sitting under a tree
>>>>> beside a river
>>>>> on a sunny morning.
>>>>> It's an insignificant event
>>>>> and won't go down in history.
>>>>> It's not battles and pacts,
>>>>> where motives are scrutinized,
>>>>> or noteworthy tyrannicides.
>>>>> And yet I'm sitting by this river, that's a fact.
>>>>> And since I'm here
>>>>> I must have come from somewhere,
>>>>> and before that
>>>>> I must have turned up in many other places,
>>>>> exactly like the conquerors of nations
>>>>> before setting sail.
>>>>> Even a passing moment has its fertile past,
>>>>> its Friday before Saturday,
>>>>> its May before June.
>>>>> Its horizons are no less real
>>>>> than those that a marshal's field glasses might scan.
>>>>> This tree is a poplar that's been rooted here for years.
>>>>> The river is the Raba; it didn't spring up yesterday.
>>>>> The path leading through the bushes
>>>>> wasn't beaten last week.
>>>>> The wind had to blow the clouds here
>>>>> before it could blow them away.
>>>>> And though nothing much is going on nearby,
>>>>> the world is no poorer in details for that.
>>>>> It's just as grounded, just as definite
>>>>> as when migrating races held it captive.
>>>>> Conspiracies aren't the only things shrouded in silence.
>>>>> Retinues of reasons don't trail coronations alone.
>>>>> Anniversaries of revolutions may roll around,
>>>>> but so do oval pebbles encircling the bay.
>>>>> The tapestry of circumstance is intricate and dense.
>>>>> Ants stitching in the grass.
>>>>> The grass sewn into the ground.
>>>>> The pattern of a wave being needled by a twig.
>>>>> So it happens that I am and look.
>>>>> Above me a white butterfly is fluttering through the air
>>>>> on wings that are its alone,
>>>>> and a shadow skims through my hands
>>>>> that is none other than itself, no one else's but its own.
>>>>> When I see such things, I'm no longer sure
>>>>> that what's important
>>>>> is more important than what's not.
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>> On Thu, Oct 18, 2012 at 8:44 PM, Swarna Rangarajan
>>>>> <swarn...@gmail.com>
>>>>> wrote:
>>>>> > Dear Students,
>>>>> > I am sending along a really beautiful narrative- The Little
>>>>> > Prince.
>>>>> > The author,
>>>>> > Antoine de Saint-Exupery (June 29, 1900 – presumably July 31, 1944)
>>>>> > was a French writer and aviator. One of his most famous works is Le
>>>>> > Petit Prince (The Little Prince). He disappeared on the night of
>>>>> > July
>>>>> > 31, 1944 while flying on a mission to collect data on German troop
>>>>> > movements.
>>>>> > The work speaks to us at many levels!
>>>>> > Best, swarna
>>>>> >
>>>>> > On 10/18/12, Vaishali V <vaish...@gmail.com> wrote:
>>>>> >> Hello :)
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >> The essay I presented in class today was this :
>>>>> >> http://www.salon.com/2000/03/18/why/
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >> Another interesting essay by Pico Iyer is this - "The Joy of
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >> Quiet<http://www.nytimes.com/2012/01/01/opinion/sunday/the-joy-of-quiet.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0>
>>>>> >> "
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >> Regards,
>>>>> >> Vaishali
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >> --
>>>>> >> Vaishali V
>>>>> >> III Year Integrated M.A. in Economics
>>>>> >> Indian Institute of Technology, Madras
>>>>> >> +91 97910 11442 <http://start.fedoraproject.org/>
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >> --
>>>>> >> You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google
>>>>> >> Groups
>>>>> >> "Literature and Values Odd Sem" group.
>>>>> >> To unsubscribe from this group, send email to
>>>>> >> literature-and-value...@googlegroups.com.
>>>>> >> For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/groups/opt_out.
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >>
>>>>> >>
>>>>>
>>>>> --
>>>>> You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google
>>>>> Groups
>>>>> "Literature and Values Odd Sem" group.
>>>>> To unsubscribe from this group, send email to
>>>>> literature-and-value...@googlegroups.com.
>>>>> For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/groups/opt_out.
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>> --
>>>> Vamshidhar Rao Surabhi
>>>> 4th Year CSE
>>>> IITM
>>>>
>>>>
>>>> --
>>>> You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google
>>>> Groups
>>>> "Literature and Values Odd Sem" group.
>>>> To unsubscribe from this group, send email to
>>>> literature-and-value...@googlegroups.com.
>>>> For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/groups/opt_out.
>>>>
>>>>
>>>
>>
>
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