He just remembered it when he saw GopaPs son sitting on a bench in the consulting hall, one crowded morning. Raman could not talk to him for over an hour. When he got up and was about to pass on to the operation room, he called up the young man and asked, " What brings you here, sir? He rushed off straight from the clinic to his friend's house, in Lawley Extension. Gopal lay in bed as if in sleep. The doctor stood over him and asked Gopal's wife, " How long has he been in bed?
He comes down once in three days and gives him medicine. Why, why, couldn't you have sent me word earlier? There was hardly any time to be lost. He took off his coat and opened his bag. He took out an injection tube, the needle sizzled over the stove. The sick man's wife whimpered in a corner and essayed to ask questions. He looked at the children who were watching the sterilizer, and said, " Send them all away somewhere, except the eldest. The patient still remained motionless. The doctor's face gleamed with perspiration, and his eyelids drooped with fatigue.
The sick man's wife stood in a corner and watched silently. She asked timidly, " Doctor, shall I make some coffee for you? He got up and said, " I will be back in a few minutes. Don't disturb him on any account. In a quarter of an hour he was back, followed by an assistant and a nurse.
The doctor told the lady of the house, " I have to perform an operation. Will you leave your son here to help us, and go over to the next house and stay there till I call you?
The nurse attended to her and led her out. At about eight in the evening the patient opened his eyes and stirred slightly in bed. The assistant was overjoyed. He exclaimed enthusiastically, " Sir, he will pull through. It is only a false flash-up, very common in these cases.
At about eleven the patient opened his eyes and smiled at his friend. He showed a slight improvement, he was able to take in a little food.
A great feeling of relief and joy went through the household. They swarmed around the doctor and poured out their gratitude. He sat in his seat beside the bed, gazing sternly at the patient's face, hardly showing any signs of hearing what they were saying to him. The sick man's wife asked, " Is he now out of danger?
She felt restless. She felt she must know the truth whatever it was. Why was the great man so evasive? The suspense was unbearable. Perhaps he could not speak so near the patient's bed.
She beckoned to him from the kitchen doorway. The doctor rose and went over. She asked, " What about him now? How is he? Unless you must know about it, don't ask now. She clasped her hands together and implored : " Tell me the truth.
A terrible wailing shot through the still house ; the patient stirred and looked about in bewilderment. The doctor got up again, went over to the kitchen door, drew it in securely and shut off the wail. When the doctor resumed his seat the patient asked in the faintest whisper possible, " Is that someone crying? You mustn't talk. It was already agitated by the exertion. The patient asked, " Am I going? Don't hide it from me. He had never faced a situation like this.
It was not in his nature to whitewash. People attached great value to his word because of that. He stole a look at the other. The patient motioned a finger to draw him nearer and whispered, " I must know how long I am going to last. I must sign the will. It is all ready. Ask my wife for the despatch box.
You must sign as a witness. You must be quieter. I can trust your word. I can't leave my property unsettled. That will mean endless misery for my wife and children.
You know all about Subbiah and his gang. Let me sign before it is too late. Tell me. He walked off to his car, sat in the back seat and reflected. He looked at his watch. If the will was to be signed, it must be done within the next two hours, or never. He could not be responsible for a mess there ; he knew too well the family affairs and about those wolves, Subbiah and his gang. But what could he do? If he asked him to sign the Will, it would virtually mean a death sentence and destroy the thousandth part of a chance that the patient had of survival.
He got down from the car and went in. He resumed his seat in the chair. The patient was staring at him appealingly.
The doctor said to him- self, " If my word can save his life, he shall not die. The will be damned. He stooped over the patient and said with deliberate emphasis, " Don't worry about the will now. You are going to live. Your heart is absolutely sound.
He asked in a tone of relief, " Do you say so? If it comes from your lips it must be true. You are improving every second. Sleep in peace. You must not exert yourself on any account. You must sleep very soundly. I will sec you in the morning. The doctor picked up his bag and went out shutting the door softly behind him.
On his way home he stopped for a moment at his hospital, called out his assistant, and said, " That Lawley Extension case. You might expect the collapse any second now. Go there with a tube of Next morning he was back at Lawley Extension at ten. From his car he made a dash for the sick bed. The patient was awake and looked very well. The assistant reported satisfactory pulse. The doctor put his tube at his heart, listened for a while, and told the sick man's wife, " Don't look so unhappy, lady.
Your husband will live to be ninety. He will live to be ninety. He has turned the corner. How he has survived this attack will be a puzzle to me all my life," replied the doctor. This is what happened to ex-gateman Govind Singh. And you could not blame the public either. What could you do with a man who carried about in his hand a registered postal cover and asked : " Please tell me what there is inside?
Everywhere the suggestion was the same till he thought everyone had turned mad. And then somebody said : " If you don't like to open it and yet want to know what is inside you must take it to the X-ray Institute. It was explained to him. But before saying anything further about his pro- gress, it would be usefiil to go back to an earlier chapter in his history. After war service in , he came to be recommended for a gatekeeper's post at Engladia's.
He liked the job very much. He was given a khaki uniform, a resplendent band across his shoulder and a short stick. He gripped the stick and sat down on a stool at the entrance to the office. And when his chief's car pulled up at the gate he stood at attention and gave a military salute. The office consisted of a staff numbering over a hundred and as they trooped in and out every day he kept an eye on them. At the end of the day he awaited the footsteps of the General Manager coining down the stairs and rose stiffly and stood at attention, and after he left the hundreds of staff poured out.
The doors were shut ; Singh carried his stool in, placed it under the staircase, and placed his stick across it. Then he came out and the main door was locked and sealed. In this way he had spent twenty-five years of service, and then he begged to be pensioned off. He would not have thought of retirement yet, but for the fact that he found his sight and hearing playing tricks on him ; he could not catch the Manager's footsteps on the stairs, and it was hard to recognize him even at ten yards.
He was ushered into the presence of the chief, who looked up for a moment from his papers and muttered : " We are very pleased with your work for us, and company will give you a pension of twelve rupees for your life. This was the second occasion when the great man had spoken to him, the first being on the first day of his service.
As he had stood at his post, the chief, entering the office just then, looked up for a moment and asked " Who are you? And he spoke again only on this day.
Though so little was said, Singh felt electrified on both occasions by the words of his master. In Singh's eyes the chief had acquired a sort of Godhood, and it would be quite adequate if a god spoke to one only once or twice in a lifetime. In moments of contemplation Singh's mind dwelt on the words of his master, and on his personality. His life moved on smoothly. The pension together with what his wife earned by washing and sweeping in a couple of houses was quite sufficient for him.
He ate his food, went out and met a few friends, slept, and spent some evenings sitting at a cigarette shop which his cousin owned. This tenor of life was disturbed on the first of every month when he donned his old khaki suit, walked to his old office, and salaamed the Accountant at the counter and received his pension. Sometimes if it was closing he waited on the roadside for the General Manager to come down, and saluted him as he got into his car.
There was a lot of time all around him, an immense sea of leisure. In this state he made a new discovery about himself, that he could make fascinating models out of clay and wood dust. The discovery came suddenly, when one day a child in the neighbourhood brought to him its little doll for repair. He not only repaired it but made a new thing of it. This discovery pleased him so much that he very soon became absorbed in it.
His backyard gave him a plentiful supply of pliant clay, and the carpenter's shop next to his cousin's cigarette shop sawdust. He purchased paint for a few annas. And lo! He sat there in the front part of his home, bent over his clay, and brought into existence a miniature universe ; all the colours of life were there, all the forms and creatures, but of the size of his middle finger ; whole villages and towns were there, all the persons he had seen passing before his office when he was sentry there that beggar woman coming at midday, and that cucumber vendor ; he had the eye of a cartoonist for human faces.
Everything went down into clay. It was a wonderful miniature re- flection of the world ; and he mounted them neatly on thin wooden slices, which enhanced their attractive- ness. He kept these in his cousin's shop and they attracted huge crowds every day and sold very briskly. More than the sales Singh felt an ecstasy when he saw admiring crowds clustering around his handiwork. On his next pension day he carried to his office a street scene which he ranked as his best , and handed it over the counter to the Accountant with the request : " Give this to the Sahib, please!
It created a sensation in the office and disturbed the routine of office working for nearly half an hour. On the next pension day he carried another model children at play and handed it over the counter. He made it a convention to carry on every pension day an offering for his master, and each time his greatest reward was the Accountant's stock reply to his question : " What did the Sahib say?
A model of his office frontage with himself at his post, a car at the entrance, and the chief getting down : this composite model was so realistic that while he sat looking at it, he seemed to be carried back to his office days.
He passed it over the counter on his pension day and it created a very great sensation in the office. A sudden fear seized Singh and he asked : " The master won't be angry, I hope? A week later when he was sitting on the fyol kneading clay, the postman came and said : " A registered letter for you. Now a registered letter! This was his first registered letter.
Please take it back. I don't want it," said Singh. Shall I say 'Refused'? Singh seemed to have no option but to scrawl his signature and receive the packet. He sat gloomily gazing at the floor. His wife who had gone out and just returned saw him in this condition and asked : "What is it? He said: "How should I know. Perhaps our ruin. His wife watched him for a moment, went in to attend to some domestic duty and returned, still found him in the same condition, and asked : " Why not open it and see, ask someone to read it?
It cannot be opened. They have perhaps written that my pension is stopped, and God knows what else the Sahib has said. I will never show my face there again. That must also have reached the Sahib's ears. He lost taste for food, wandered about unkempt, with his hair standing up like a halo an unaccustomed sight, his years in military service having given him a habitual tidiness. His wife lost all peace of mind and became miserable about him.
He stood at the cross-roads, clutching the letter in his hand. He kept asking everyone he came across : " Tell me, what there is in this? As he entered the gate he observed dozens of cars parked along the drive, and a Gurkha watchman at the gate. Some people were sitting on sofas reading books and journals. They turned and threw a brief look at him and resumed their studies. As Singh stood uncertainly at the doorway, an assistant came up and asked : " What do you want?
But Singh replied : " They said you could tell me what's inside without opening it " The assistant asked : " Where do you come from? I knew trouble was coming " There were tears on his cheeks. The assistant looked at him curiously as scores of others had done before, smiled, and said : " Go home and rest.
You are not all right. Go, go home. The assistant took it in his hand, examined it and said : " Shall I open it? There was a look of terror in his eyes. The assembly looked up from their pages and watched him with mild amusement in their eyes. The assistant kindly put his arms on his shoulder and led him out. I tell you are not all right. That's it, is that it? He now understood the looks that people threw at him. He laughed. He felt a curious relief at this realization. Every little action of his for the last so many days seemed mad ; particularly the doll- making.
He wanted to fly. He swung his arms up and down and ran on with a whoop. He ran through the Market Road. When people stood about and watched he cried : " Hey, don't laugh at a mad man, for who knows, you will also be mad when you come to make clay dolls," and charged into their midst with a war cry.
When he saw children coming out of a school, he felt it would be nice to amuse their young hearts by behaving like a tiger. So he fell on his hands and kneels and crawled up to them with a growl.
He went home in a terrifying condition. His wife who was grinding chilly in the backyard looked up and asked : " What is this? He could not answer because he choked with mirth as he said : " Fancy what has happened!
Ranged on the floor was his latest handiwork. After his last visit to the office he had been engaged in making a model village. It was a resplendent group ; a dun road, red tiles, green coconut trees swaying, and the colour of the sarees of the village women carrying water pots. He derived the inspiration for it from a memory of his own village days. It was the most enjoyable piece of work that he had so far undertaken.
He lived in a kind of ecstasy while doing it. A memento of my father's village," he declared. He raised his foot and stamped everything down into a multi-coloured jam.
They were still half wet. He saw a donkey grazing in the street. It is a nice village. This was a quieter outing. He strode on at an even pace, breathing deeply, with the clay helmet on, out of which peeped his grey hair, his arms locked behind, his fingers clutching the fateful letter, his face tilted towards the sky.
He walked down the Market Road, with a feeling that he was the sole occupant of this globe : his madness had given him a sense of limitless freedom, strength and buoyancy.
The remarks and jeers of the crowds gaping at him did not in the least touch him. While he walked thus, his eye fell on the bulb of a tall street lamp : " Bulb of the size of a Papaya fruit! It had been a long cherished desire in him to fling a stone at it ; now he felt, in his joyous and free condition, that he was free from the trammels of convention and need not push back any inclination. He picked up a pebble and threw it with good aim.
The shattering noise of glass was as music to his ears. A policeman put his hand on his shoulder : " Why did you do it? The constable said : " Come to the station. He paused, tilted his head to the side and remarked : " This road is not straight He found that everything was wrong about them. They seemed to need some advice in the matter. He stopped in the middle of the road, stretched out his arms and shouted : " Halt! One of the cyclists who resumed, jumped off the saddle again and came towards him with : " Why!
It is Singh, Singh, what fancy dress is this? What is the matter? Singh clicked his heels and gave a salute : " Excuse me sir, didn't intend to stop you.
You may pass. He recognized it although it was mud-stained and crumpled. Do not speak of it. A big crowd gathered to watch this scene. Singh pressed the letter to his eyes. He beat his brow, and wailed : " Tell me, sir, am I mad or not? Singh fell at his feet and said with tears choking his voice : " You are a god, sir, to say that I am not mad. I am so happy to hear it. As they handed him the envelope they asked : " What toys are you making now?
Never again. It is no occupation for a sane man. I wandered up and down the country probing, exploring, and digging, in search of antiquities, a most interesting occupation, although cynics sometimes called us " grave-diggers.
I had a master who was a famous archaeologist called Doctor something or other. He was a superb, timeless being, who lived a thousand years behind the times, and who wanted neither food nor roof nor riches if only he was allowed to gaze on undisturbed at an old coin or chip of a burial urn.
He had torn up the earth in almost all parts of India and had brought to light very valuable information concerning the history and outlook of people of remote centuries. His monographs on each of his excavations filled several shelves in all the important libraries. And then, as our good fortune would have it, he received an inspiration that Malgudi district was eminently diggable.
I am not competent to explain how he got this idea, but there it was. Word was brought to me that the great man was staying in the dak bungalow and was in need of an assistant. Within an hour of hearing it I stood before the great man. He was sitting on the floor with the most crazy collection of articles in front of him pots and beads and useless coins and palm leaves, all of them rusty and decaying.
He had a lens by his side, through which he looked at these articles and made notes. Synopsis : A depressed uncle is asked to take care of his teenage nephew after the boy's father dies. Synopsis : An astronaut becomes stranded on Mars after his team assume him dead, and must rely on his ingenuity to find a way to signal to Earth that he is alive.
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Skip to content. This is really something you should look at, showing diversity as America is not just all populated by white people. Heather Andrews: Your complaint is one to be taken up with mainstream entertainment, not this site, which simply posts the available scripts. They keep taking small steps. The best response would be to write your own script for people of color.
The Sinner is a fantastic show! Great article and love having access to all of these scripts. Such a hard industry for women to break into.
The status quo is the status no. Holy moly! What a treasure trove!!!! Thank you! If you come across any The Good Place that would be great, too.
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August 4, at George says:. Oliver W says:. June 24, at August 8, at Gavin says:. One night it was led by a Nun from the Catholic Chaplaincy and the other by a Professor of History specializing in the Holocaust.
The audience response and involvement intensified their appreciation of the topic. The actors loved this play! The audience loved this play! It was technically challenging because of our limited technology, but it was worth it to have the audience impacted as they were.
Ours was a terrific production! We performed our show during school for all eighth grade classes as a culminative activity to their study of the Holocaust. Both teachers and students were moved. The use of interactive videotape is most effective. In both situations, the play mesmerized and deeply affected the emotions of the audiences who viewed it. During my tenure at the college, it drew the largest number of people to have seen one of our productions.
The combination of video and live actors proved to be riveting theatre. The audience was silent after the performance, not wanting to break the reverence of the moment. Genevieve School, Ste.
Genevieve, Mo. I liked the economy of the play, and its message was very digestible to an audience sadly unfamiliar with the subject matter. The simple writings of Anne Frank fall into that category. There is definitely some reason for the diary of a young girl to survive against all odds for more than 60 years. The words and emotions of these two people who knew Anne and survived what she did not [survive] speak to us all and ask that we remember and not allow this history to keep repeating.
There is an intimate quality to the true stories of children in war. Actors and audiences are struck by the juxtaposition of horror and hate with courage and love. The reality and horror of the Holocaust was revealed in a palpable method.
The multimedia dimension of this production captivated the actors' and audience's attention.
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