Canadian Tamil Literature Series: Writer V.N.Giritharan
Nav Giri
Se.Ganesalingan
Translation By: Latha Ramakrishnan
Introduction
Epics were being written in the poetic form itself. At the same
time verses that lacked the essential rhyme and rhythm were also being
written in the magazines. Right from the period of Sangam literature these
trends could be seen. This remained the profession as well as the heart’s
content of the poet’s clan. But, listening to the tales continued to be the
prime interest of the general public.
From old to young, people loved tales. A period of illiteracy when people
didn’t know to read or write. The tales of the rural side, moral stories,
stories from epics and anecdotes were used to satiate this appetite of the
general masses.
In the last century, with rise of capitalism and that of the middle-class
which is literate when people started leaving their native villages and came
to settle in the towns and cities and lead a kind of secluded life new
literary forms such as the novel and short-story came to be in simple prose
style so as to fulfil their emotional needs.
With the development of printing technology these new literary forms too
developed and it resulted in the decay of the ancient forms of poetry and
verse. If we leaf through the pages of the popular magazines of today we can
perceive this all too clearly. Their will not be totally gone or done away
with. But, just one or two pages alone are being allotted for these old
forms. Poetry will always remain intact to be sung with music. It endeavours
to stay on with new names as like Prose-Poetry, Neo-Poetry, Haiku poems and
so on. All these also would be seen mostly as but a feeling or message
usually conveyed in Prose-style , having been said in several lines with the
words and lines arranged in such a way as one below another so as to give it
a semblance of poetry. The rhyme, metre and rhythm are not to be found
anymore. Mostly they are statements. Because of this, with the poems joining
hands with the musical art forms and so staying on, the verse form is fast
losing its poetic characteristics. This is my perception.
Novel and short story are developing into the neo art forms. In the last one
century the short-story form has come to have a great hold and influence on
the Tamil literary field. Every year thousands of short stories are being
written by hundreds of writers. So far, there has not been any hard and fast
rules formulated for this literary-form. Works of such veteran writers as
Pudumaipithan have become models for the growth and development of this
form.
We can evaluate short stories and novels on the bais of the very basic
perceptions, which hold that for any form of art, there are what we call a
structure, social relevance and responsibility, form and contents.
I was given the anthology of short stories written by Sri Lankan Tamils who
are immigrants. Titled, ‘Paniyum Pannayum’ meaning ‘The snow and the Palmra’
, the book was given to me by the sub-editor of ‘The Hindu’ for review. When
I read all the stories in the anthology ‘A cow’s tale’ cough my attention
very much.
In my review I had made especial mention about that story. Before two months
when I was conversing with Mr. Nithiyananthan who was formerly a lecturer of
the Jaffna University, before he left for Paris. I told him that this was
the story I liked most in the anthology. He too expressed the same view. It
was through that story only that I was introduced to Mr.Giritharan, the
author of this book. Going down the memory lane and reliving all those
momentsI read this anthology eagerly.
Giritharn has shaped the stories on all that he has seen and experienced in
the land wherein he had sought refuge. This would be something very new to
Tamils, Sri Lankan Tamil and to the foreigners. No doubt about that.
Mostly entwining himself into the story as an essential character and
adopting the first person figure of speech he has tried to fell the story
and its incidents. This very trait can make the story authentic and enable
the reader identify himself/herself with its course and characterizations.
The author has also tried to give a profound message in each and every story
in the anthology. One can say that it was that drive that had him impetus to
write.
In his first story, he brings the man who dies after living his entire life
by the side of a manhole to stand before he who was formulating laws in
front of the Parliament of Ontario. In the story ‘Ponthup Paravaigal(The
Hollow existence)’ he shows a man living in a small room and going to work
with knee problem being saved from fire by a black-man of Jamaica who has
been looked down by the former all the time, and so upholds a humanness that
has no caste, color or creed.
In the story, ‘A Co(w)nference Problem’ (Oru Maa(naa)ttupp Prachanai), a Cow
which escapes from the slaughterhouse desiring to have the freedom to live
causes traffic jam. Through its struggle the author describes the present
condition of the Sri Lankan tamil. The style and the content of the story
makes it a striking example of a good short story.
That the source of human life, sexual needs are the same for one and all
irrespective of their class and caste is told convincingly with absolutely
no obscenity in the depiction of those walking hither and thither in Young
street. With the help of a little rat he has tried to speak about the
significance of existentialism that has man at its center. In ‘Kanavan’ and
in ‘Oru Mudivum Vidivum’ he highlights the idea that one shouldn’t worry
about the days of hi/her life –partner prior to their marriage.
‘America’ is the longest story of the collection. In this he has dealt with
the rules and realities of America in a humorous vein. How refugees are
handled and treated by the American laws are brought forth in a detailed
manner in this story.
Giritharan proves himself as a significant Short-story writer from Srilankan
Tamil in the ever-widening expanse of the Tamil literary field.
This story-collection is also noteworthy in another aspect, in that it
proves once again that books written in English on the plights and perils of
the refugees as well as the ‘Sons of the Soil’ can never be as effective and
as informative as those written in Tamil.
Se.Ganesalingan
Madras 01/12/97
My Stories…
- V.N.Giritharan- (Canadian Tamil writer)
-Translation By: Latha Ramakrishnan
Based on my own experiences as a migrant and at the same time having
the plight and problems of my country as the focal points my writings have
taken shape. As regards my Tamil writings of today that has left its soil
and survive in an alien land, it leads a life in a world that hangs
suspended, struggling to come to terms with life in between the strange
climate of the land that has given them shelter and the memories of their
motherland. As I too belong to this hanging suspended generation I con not
help but depict the living conditions of the land of refuge’ and also the
plight and perils of my motherland. The problem of color is a very important
issue that one has to face in an immigrant existence. It is something that
every immigrant is bound to face. Our generations of tomorrow are also to
undergo this situation. So, my writings while depicting this problem should
also deal with the other issues and problems that the new situation has in
store for us. The problems of the native Indians, problems that are born out
of the economic conditions of this country, their impacts on the day-to-day
life, the condition of women, the influence that the new surroundings has
over the lives and thought-processes of our brethren, its impact on them,
the experiences that they get out of them – all these and more should be
dealt with in my stories. At the same time we are people who have come
running here forced by the ethnic problems of our land. So, we can not help
speaking on this issue again and again. There is nothing wrong in it and it
is unavoidable. Of late some of our fellow men are expressing such views as
‘the works of immigrant writers speak of nothing else save the sorrows and
problems of their motherland. But, this should not be and that their works
should also concentrate on the issues of the land in which they’ve sought
shelter.’ The way they keep saying it, it sounds as though stories focussing
on the living conditions of the immigrant soil alone can turn out to be
works of high literary quality. These lot should understand one thing.
Qualitative writing can be on any issue. The best works born of the Jewish
writers who had borne the brunt of the Second World War have their
motherland’s problems and perils as their central theme. For instance, we
can mention the famous work ‘Painted Birds’ written by Jersey Kosinsky, a
Polish writer of Jewish origin. The works of Kosinsky who committed suicide
in the year 1991 are controversial. In his novel ‘Painted Birds’ Kosinsky
describes his own experiences as a Jewish boy wandering from place to place
for four years in east European countries in the atmosphere of war. Today
this work stands out as one of the important works of English literature. We
should realize this very clearly. Kosinsky couldn’t forget the impact that
the political conditions of his land had on him. And, he couldn’t refrain
himself from bringing it all into his writings.
My stories are also no exception to this. I can not forget the travails and
traumas of my motherland. My stories can never escape from their grip. At
the same time I can not free myself from the clutches of my new
surroundings. My stories are bound to reflect it in its various aspects.
But, even when I reflect this new surrounding the complexion of the ethnic
problem that is eating out my motherland would surely reveal itself through
all my depictions.
V.N.Giritharan
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Short Story: A CO(W)NFERENCE ISSUE
-V.N.Giritharan-
Translation By: Latha Ramakrishnan
As it was Sunday the road looked less crowded. No traffic jam also. Ponnaiya
’s Honda Accord was creeping smoothly along the St.clair West. Driving a car
during Sundays or holidays is Ponnaiya’s passion, so to say. With no tension
and no worry as regards someone sounding the horn from behind, on can drive
leisurely, indulging in sight-seeing and so enjoying the city. A pleasure
indeed. But then, of late they have started sounding the horns even on
Sundays. City is swelling day by day. As it swells the people too start
losing their patience – so, at times like this Ponniah would tell himself.
‘As fast as the growth of the city people’s standard of living should also
grow. Otherwise, problems are bound to multiply’- so at times he would
contemplate in all seriousness.
Going past Old Weston road and also Keele intersection the car sped on. On
the left side the slaughterhouse of Canada Packers has spread occupying a
vast space. A great grand butcher house where hundreds of cows are done to
death and cut to pieces everyday.
By nature, Ponniah is kind –hearted. He would always like to love one and
all living beings. As long as he was in his native place he remained a
strict Vegetarian. But after coming here he has gradually changed. For the
kind of climate prevailing here if man is not to eat this he would be gone
in no time! Suddenly, the creeping traffic was disrupted. Ponnaiah looked at
his watch. It was well past eleven. The Punjabiwallah had asked him to come
by 10 o’clock itself.
The one garage that Ponnaiah knew to be fair was the Punjabiwala’s garage.
There was slight jerk in the steering. From yesterday onwards Ponnaiah has
been in haste to show that only. ‘What is this untimely traffic blockade…’
Wondering, he looked to his front to find out the cause for that.
Within no time people have gathered there as if for a Carnival. ‘In this
curiosity all men are but one and the same.’ As there stood a huge truck of
Canada Packers veiling his eyes, he couldn’t see clearly.
Looking at a Chinese who was standing at the road side and watching the
ongoings Ponnaiah called out. "Hi man, what is the matter? What’s going on?"
The Chinese with the help of the little English that he knew said,
"Beef..escape…slaughter."
A White man who was standing next to him laughed at his broken English. This
one also felt like laughing. But, they could comprehend that English too.
That a cow had escaped from the slaughterhouse was what the Chinese had
conveyed in that manner was indeed understandable.
There arose in him sympathy of sort for the poor unknown cow that had a
narrow escape from the jaws of death. Milk of human kindness sprang within.
Turning the car to one side and parking it in a corner Ponnaih got down
among the crowd, which was watching the proceedings.
On the ironway through which the streetcar would sail, glaring at those who
were standing around and happily watching it, the cow stood. Ponnaiah could
feel the fear of death lurking in its eyes. Its pathetic sight saddened him.
Ponnaiah started worrying.
‘For how long that could that poor animal of five senses could withhold? My
dear stupid cow. Can you compete with a man and come out unscathed and
successful.’
Suddenly a thought struck him. ‘What would be this cow’s feelings now? ‘ He
couldn’t help remembering the rest of the cows inside the slaughterhouse
waiting for their turn to be butchered. ‘How much this lone cow must have
suffered to escape and come this far?’
‘Poor cow, it is not able to realize the slapstick nature of the freedom
won… that’s why the cow struggles with all its might to protect this poor
freedom to save its life.’
He couldn’t help thinking of those in his native land….’How many are there
who are exactly in the same situation as of this cow…
Those escaping in a haphazard manner and then having been caught again,
those who unable to find any way to escape and die where they are…’
Again his attention was drawn to the cow. Still it was vehemently
challenging all those trying to go closer.
And, when nobody was moving in its direction it was standing silently with a
kind of helpless fear, looking sorrow-personified.
From it eyes, slowly, drop by drop, tears were rolling down. ‘What is the
cause for those tears…? What does it think now that makes it cry? Crying for
its helpless condition…? Thinking of the way those villainous men lie in
wait for its flesh and blood and how it has caused its life to come to a
standstill, trapped and to be guillotined…? What for the poor animal is
shedding tears..?’
Suddenly a thought rose in Ponnaiah. ‘What if I pay its cost and so save its
life? In homeland at least we can tie it in the backyard. But, where to keep
it here? In the apartment… even if I am able to save it will saving just
this one cow alone solve the problem of all the rest of the cows who are
exactly in the same situation as that one cow…’
Meanwhile, someone must have informed the police about the cow causing
traffic-jam. With emergency flashing light and never breaking siren a police
car came there hurriedly. Two policemen alighted from it. Making a band with
a rope they struggled for some time. But couldn’t. The cow stood its ground
with grit and determination. In the mean time, coming to know of this news
somehow journalists, mediamen, T.V.crew and so a large crowd had gathered
with cameras and video- cameras.
‘The cow is involving in a life or death struggle, fighting to save its
life. A crowd to overpower it and do away with it, one to enjoy watching it…
one to photograph it… crowd that is indifferent and impotent to do anything
good! To think that he was also one among them Ponnaiah couldn’t help hating
his own self.
Seeing that their efforts couldn’t bear fruit the policemen assembled
together and discussed different ways and means. Meanwhile large number of
vehicles had come to a stand still on either side of the road causing heavy
traffic jam.
These who were far away being unable to know the reason for the traffic jam
began to sound their horns one after another. Policemen realized that the
situation was going out of control.
At last the cow problem came to an end.
The cow whose love for freedom was cruelly crushed by the sixth sense of the
two-legged animals and which fell on the ground thanks to the tranquilizer
used on it was lifted by the Canada packers’ staff who carried it to the
slaughterhouse.
The traffic held up was thus set right. One by one the crowd began to move
away.
Thinking that the Punjabiwala was sure to scold him Ponniah leapt inside his
car. Simultaneously his thought drifted towards Humane Society which filed
cases every now and then against cruelty to animals.
Though the thought of the cow which fought for a while before facing defeat
finally, made him feel sympathetic towards its plight, its love and zest for
freedom and the way it fought for it heroically made him feel a kind of
respect and reverence for it. You won’t believe but from that day onwards
Ponnaiah had once again turned into a strict Vegetarian.
-The End-
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Short Story: Manhole
-V.N.Giritharan-
Translation By: Latha Ramakrishnan
Like the Rajaraman of Jeyakanthan’s rishimoolam he has grown
beard and moustache, keeping one the legs in squatting posture and keeping
the other in a raised and folded fashion he was holding his knee with his
right hand. And, he had placed his left hand firmly on the floor at his
back. His hair had grown long. In the mouth there remained half of a still
burning cigarette. Only his eyes were filled with a kind of abnormal glow.
The man sitting on the manhole resembled the appearance of a seer seated on
a sheet of deerskin. If he was one of the wayside heroes I was a small
wayside vendor. And, selling hot dog was my business.
Faraway, in the north the Ontario parliament building could be seen. At my
back stood the famous child care medical institution Sick Kids Hospital. For
a while the seer kept staring at the Parliament of Ontario then he laughed.
"Why are you laughing?" asked I.
"See, the weird game of time…"
"Time’s game..?"
"What else but that?"
He looked at the sky for some time. He enjoyed the full moon’s cool presence
there. Darkness had come to set in. Still the city was full of life.
Everybody was hurrying at great speed. In the meantime some customers came
my way too. One of my customers, a Nigerian taxi driver came after parking
his taxi in a corner of the road.
"Hi, how are you chief?" asked I.
"Pretty good man… how are you?"
"What of me… I’m always ok," saying so he laughed. The person standing next
to him also laughed. He was a real chief. In his motherland Nigeria there
were some three thousand persons under him relying on him for their very
livelihood. He belonged to one of those ancient clans of Nigeria. Every time
they would send documents for his approval. He had received a degree in one
of the Universities here. During winter he would drive taxi here. As soon as
summer sets in he would go running to Nigeria. His people not know of his
taxi driving here. If they know they wouldn’t leave him here. So he would
say. He had said once that so many other chiefs were also driving cabs.
Only then he saw the man standing next to him.
"Hi, chief…..How are you?" Asked he. An African chief was enquiring after
the welfare of a Canadian chief. The tribes of Sami were once the rulers of
the entire continent of America. One of the heir-apparents to a clan that
reigned supreme. Today they live a marginalised existence of minority within
the minority.
Sami smiled in reply. The African chief gave a cigarette to the Canadian
chief, and left. "Good soul" said Sami and lighted the cigarette, and
inhaling, released the smoke. "He, an African driving cabs in the middle of
the road and so living his life,"-saying so he pointed at the Parliament
building. "From there they are formulating laws….what else is this but the
satanic dance of fate." Following this observation he sang a small verse
melodiously.
" In time all independent
Or dependent
But, sure it is
So wicked, my friend…"
This Sami’s lineage looked highly mysterious. The song that he sang was that
much wise and thought provoking. For me who was a lecturer in Physics in the
faculty of Antiquity this ancient Indian appeared as highly mysterious. I
knew him for the past three months. From my experience about him so far that
which I had gained by way of information or knowledge could be summed up in
the following manner.
Another ancient Indian. He appeared different from his clan of people who
were seen on the pathways often with bottle and faltering steps. Except
cigarette he never laid hands on drinks. He didn’t have anything like a
family of his own. Was there one earlier? God alone knew. So far he had not
spoken of his origin. Once when an attempt was made to probe he firmly
dissuaded it. After that I had never attempted again, and he too had not
spoken a word on that.
His life continued with the help of those small little coins that those who
go along the way offer him. The whole day he would be smoking . He wouldn’t
spend anything on cigarette. He would go collecting the small pieces of
smoked cigarettes that would be strewn on the pathways in front of the very
many buildings and smoke them. As for meals every now and then he would
drink coffee from the nearby Donut shop. Sometimes Donut would buy and
bring. At night everyday I would give Hot Dog and some juice to drink. He
wouldn’t get them free of cost. He would offer whatever he would be having
in his hand. Mostly he would be meditating all the time. Or else, he would
chat with me. Easing himself out, washing the face, all in the nearby
hospital washrooms only. Rarely sometimes he would visit a hostel sometimes
and have his bath and come. Except these if there was a home and world for
him that was this manhole on which he would sit. He had kept a bundle of his
rags inside that only. God alone knows what at all is there in that bundle….
So far I have learnt only this much about him. Henceforth only I should fry
to gather some more information about him.
Another night has come to rest a while, swaying. Business has also turned a
little dull. Sami contemplated on something then, laughed.
"Why did you laugh?" asked I.
"Indians are overflowing all over the world.," said he and laughed. A look
of content has come to settle in his cantenance as if he had uttered a
profound philoshopical truth.
"But, in truth, you are not an Indian. And I am also not one."
"True, that I am no Indian. But, all those belonging to the Indian
sub-continent are Indians only to them. East Indian."
"But for many Paki" said I.
When he heard this Sami laughed aloud.
" Here, they refer to Indian as Paki and call Pakistanis Indian. But there
the two factions are always attacking each other" Said I.
For this observation of mine also, Sami laughed heartily. Only then I could
observe the fatigue that could be seen widespread all over his cantenance
and that if stood out despite his mouthful of laughter.
"What is ailing you?" asked I. "Nothing. Just slight fever," said he. I
always keep an aspirin strip and plaster by my side.
"Do you wan t an aspirin?" asked I.
"No need. Just slight indisposition. That’s all. It’ll be gone soon." Said
he. After that I too didn’t insist on his having some medicine.
When I spread my shop the next day I observed one thing. Sami couldn’t be
seen in his place. Usually he would be the one greeting me. I could feel
some sort of uneasiness within. For these three months this was the first
time I was deprived of Sami’s greeting. Usually I would open my shop around
10 o’clock only. In the meantime Sami would have finished all his morning
chores had his lunch and would be sitting on his throne. Those glowing eyes
came to my mind. I could visualize the friendly smile. Could it be that Sami
had got up rather late? It was the I remembered that he was having slight
fever the previous day. ‘Has the fever intensified and he is now
hospitalized?’ Wondering I. then, for a while I became involved in my
business. When the business slackened night had set in. still Sami could be
seen nowhere. Again I could feel some kind of heaviness within.
Around 10 p.m. Nigeria chief came. "How goes the business?" Asked he. It was
then that he noticed the emptiness of the manhole.
"Where is chief?" asked he.
"The whole day he could not be seen. No idea as to where he has gone…."
"Did he tell anything last night…"
"He was with mild fever…But, he refused to take aspirin."
"Does he stay anywhere else…?"
"As far as I know he would always lie on the man-hole cover. He would keep
his few possessions too inside this man-hole only."
"I see…." The African chief was lost in contemplation for some time and then
came back to his senses.
"A thought comes to me." Said he.
"What?"
"Can it be that he has changed his spot…. Anyway to make sure all that we
have to do is to just open the manhole and look inside. If his possessions
are not to be seen there, then we can be rest assured that he has moved over
to another place.."
Saying so he opened the manhole cover. Opening he let out a cry. "Oh, my
God…"
He called out to me asking me to come and see. I went there and peeped
inside. There, hugging his bog and baggage close to his heart Sami was lying
in a crumpled and folded fashion.
"My God…he has been lying here the whole of today.."
"Yes, chief…chief.." Nigerian chief screamed.
There was no stir at all. In the mean time the passersby had gathered there.
Nigerian chief jumped into the manhole and felt the pulse.
"Gone," said he.
Faraway, in the darkness the parliament building of Ontario built in the
style of Romanesque structure could be seen glowing in full splendor.
-The End-
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Short Story: MICE
By V.N.Giritharan
Translation By: Latha Ramakrishnan
Troubles caused by cockroaches proved unbearable. Undertook all possible
efforts. Right from the Chinese chalk, no way was left untried. But, all in
vain. Cockroaches remained the victors forever. At last, attaining the grace
to accept defeat and valiantly moving over to another apartment- such a move
provided not the expected relief but alas, it turned out to be from the
frying pan into the fire. Instead of cockroaches mice caused untold agonies.
In Canada, only the buildings have risen shy-high and not the rats. For me
who was so used to seeing the fleshy, fatty rats of our rural sides these
mice appeared queer. In different parts of the globe, in different soils
living beings do exist in different forms. My better half’s continuous
grumbling and complaints were another reason for my attention to be focussed
on the mice. The way our child too started enjoying the sight of those
insects and mice that were running hither and thither added to our woes.
"Look here, if you are not going to get rid of your mice I’m not going to
stay here for another moment. We have a crawling baby at home, don’t you
remember…" Within six months from setting foot in Canada the mother becomes
kind of alien to many. But even after six years my wife continues to speak
in uncontaminated pure Jaffna Tamil. If I spoke of those who’ve forgotten
tamil "that is all humbug…dirty presentation.." so, she would say. I could
bear with anything but not with her grumbling and likerings. And, till I set
out to find some solution to this burning problem she wouldn’t leave me in
peace. So, I decided to meet the mice in the battlefield, so to say.
Ofcourse, various strategies should be awarded for victory in warfare. The
first step should be to know about our enemies, i.e., the mice. The more we
gather valuable information’s about them the easier their capture could be.
Initially we didn’t think much of the mice. It was when they started having
a go at rice, flour etc that we became to the empending danger. If left
unchecked, the situation could go out of control. I started realizing that
my wife’s grumbling was justifiable. I decided to probe into the affairs of
the mice after my better half and offspring went to bed. This investigative
indulgencewould prove helpful in selecting the appropriate spots for placing
the newly bought mousetraps.
Bringing rice and flour and keeping them on the dining table I came away and
reclining on the sofa switched on the TV Eagerly awaiting the arrival of the
mice and keeping vigil in hope and expectation at random. I was watching the
Letterman’s boring feats also. Time was running. In one corner of the wall
there was a thin horse. I sharpened my eyes and ears. Close to that old sofa
that was placed near the dining table a tiny head as that which we would
call grain-sized peeped out slowly. Eyes as black tiny beads. Tiny ears. For
a moment there was absolutely no movement. It was then that something
stirred in my throat and a sneeze exploded. However much I tried to control
it it I couldn’t. Out came that with a bang. You should see the speed of the
mouse. It flew away. No can even say that it had just disappeared from the
scene. After a short pause when everything remained still and silent the
tiny head re-appeared. And, the black beady eyes; ‘Winnowing-fan’ ears. This
time I was watching in utter quiet. Seemed like, only after searching for
rice and flour in their usual places in the kitchen area and following their
scent it had come by the side of the dining table. Inside me there arose a
strange wish. In order not to facilitate its climb to the dining table I had
already moved the chairs a little away from the table. Wondering how it
would realize its climb, curbing my movements as much as possible, I was
following its movements with alert and watchful eyes. I had already realizes
that even a flicker of a movement was enough to warn it. After wandering
hither and thither for a while, sniffing the rise it had fallen under the
table. For sometime it remained calm in that position, keeping its ears all
alert. Then raising its tiny head upward it looked above once looked like it
had guessed the place where the food was kept. I could feel the movement of
my wife inside the room, consoling our child that was crying in sleep, and
slowly rolling over. Every life in the world tries and tries hard all
through its existence. As like this mouse or as like me, we can say. Because
war has come to be, since the day of leaving our land what all efforts in
what all ways…If one turns ok another attempt. Even if one succeeds, one
more trial. What a wonderful, great grand world. A world full of mystery.
This mouse is now struggling again and again to climb up one of the steep
legs of the table. Its movements spell out its intense desire to get on to
the table and search the food somehow.
Scaling and falling down, scaling and falling down, the mouse was so going
on trying. Sometimes it might succeed in his attempts. Sometimes it might
not. But it didn’t seem to be the type which would get disheartened by
failures and stop trying. Till the final victory is achieved or till it
falls down utterly exhausted it would surely continue its efforts. What an
awe-inspiring will power in this tiny piece of life. What grit and
determination!
My wife’s grumbling and complaints to find a way to do away with mice came
to mind vaquely.Oh! My foolish woman, don’t these mice to have their family,
kids and such other relationships, just like us? And, who can say how many
lives are there relying on this one tiny life? Just because it eats a few
grains or food particles, say what at all do we lose…?
Sleep was weighing heavy on my eyes. But, that small little being didn’t
seem to stop at all. In my half-asleep state also the sound of its feather
touch movements could be seen.
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