Tomorrow's class is cancelled ( 8/11/2012)-- final presentation session shifted to 9/11/2012
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Swarna Rangarajan
Nov 7, 2012, 8:34:02 AM11/7/12
to literature-and...@googlegroups.com
Dear All,
I will be unable to conduct the session tomorrow due to ill
health.I am rescheduling the last two presentations to Friday's slot
(2-3 pm).
Best, swarnalatha
On 10/31/12, Swarna Rangarajan <swarn...@gmail.com> wrote:
> 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 will be unable to conduct the session tomorrow due to ill
health.I am rescheduling the last two presentations to Friday's slot
(2-3 pm).
Best, swarnalatha
On 10/31/12, Swarna Rangarajan <swarn...@gmail.com> wrote:
> 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.
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>
>>>
>>
>
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