Beneath The Picture A Famous story

My son called me and asked me to make him an old photo, I wondered what he was doing now?

"PA, I want to tell your story," said My son to me, there was something in his voice that was serious about this project of his pet.

Specifically asked for a picture of one of our old photo albums. The old black and white photography is at least 50 years old and has survived the amount of money that befall our ancestors at home. The picture shows a smiling family, as any photo of the family should. Each frame must represent this impression on the surface, so that it is considered a good image. But under each painting there is a story. Under this picture is the silent story that has been hiding for many years. A story that is never discussed. As in all the ancient traditions of Chinese families, nothing is spoken. Everything is treated within the family. Only what the family shows outside is important.

Under the smile, the picture has a lot. It is a story of jealousy, pain and hatred. I really wonder who invented the line, that the blood was thicker than water. The Chinese family keeps their clothes always well hidden in the closet. I look at the picture again, it is my aunt who we call "Che", the second sister, she is actually the youngest sister of Ah Ma, the next is my eldest sister Ling Ka. Who is now single, and devoted all his life to caring Ah Ma and ah Pa. Now their legs are hardened and they must undergo another operation. Other headaches. Next to her is my third sister, the shortest of all my sisters, we used to call her "3 inch fingernails" in Mandarin or more often, punishment ka. Next to her is my second sister, I was very close to her because she was the one who was responsible for caring for me when I had measles. He has a mole that God painted on his face. We call her now Maureen, her Catholic name, when we attend a missionary school. Besides Maureen is Ah Ma.

Ah Ma, my mother, the family Dragon Lady, now on the old luggage as a burden for every person in the family. It's amazing how a mother can bring nine children, but no one is willing to take it. He came on my shoulders to bear this burden, but it was my wife who suggested that she was us to the mother in all she said, "We have two children too, Peter." "One day we will have the grace of AH-and-ah-yip." True. Mother survived a World war, recessions and many family feud that embarrassed some of the dramas of Chinese television. Papa was The melancholy man, the one who worked as if there was no tomorrow, while Ah Ma was the bloodthirsty that oiled our family business. She was the competent communicator, the person of the people, she organized dinner during the Chinese New Year lavishly, ordered children and parents, adopted children, also raised with military precision. General Patton would have been proud to have him as an officer. Our family was very liberal. We were business people. We survived the war because we have adapted ourselves. My mother made the deal with the Japanese during the war, so we survived, all of us. She was doing business with the British when she came back. I remember how I went to the resident's office and did his business. She was simply known as Mrs. Yong, not a luxury title. She did not speak a word of English, but somehow managed to teach the woman of the resident the intricacies of quilting work. At 96, they can always entertain Chinese New year guests with pretty candid stories of their golden years.

Ah pa on the other hand, was the one who was buried at work. Without Ah Ma as the second officer of the ship, the company of Ah Pa could not prosper so much. Perhaps he was carried by his second business struggle, which I had to intervene. He could have chosen the eldest son, but he did not. He chose me. For the reason that I will never know, the company was torn in two by my second uncle. When it comes to money, there is no such thing as water or blood, only hard money and cold victory. I had to come all the way back from Australia, I had dreamed of becoming a master there, but the goal took a different turn for me. I solved the business dispute from Ah PA to 21. My innocence is gone. Mama was always after me.

It was then that the hatred began, almost 30 years ago, that the father died. That night, after reading the will, my family and I became the number one public enemy. My eldest daughter was a teenager, under five years old. Even after 30 years, their hatred and jealousy persist, the brothers may be less attractive than hatred. My empire, which I built with my own hands, was torn to pieces. How did I survive? The Young brothers and sisters of the photo are in the front row. I'm on the right side. Behind me is my big brother. The rest was too young to know the truth, everything new was half the right truths. I had kept my silence in fact, for the facts were too sore. It is better for one to suffer than anything to endure this pain. Ah Ma knew, maybe he decided to follow me. "Until she takes the last breath," she said. I smile, because every year she lives, my wife and I joke, it takes two years. I saw myself in the picture again. Although my youngest son, his mother, resembles his enthusiasm, his nature remembers me. One of my few hopes that I will take now.

It should have been pragmatic, but it is the betterplace. The eldest is all that must be like a son. But the youngest is in the division. I lost that when I was 21. He will also lose it when the reality of the cape and pulls his flying soul to Earth. Sad, but true. He has a degree in marine biology if he prefers to be a lawyer. Now he has resigned. He says he has to find himself. What am I going to do with my son? He did not mention that he never brought home a girlfriend, unlike the elders. My wife and I asked myself.

"Dad, I want to tell your story."

My story? Where do I start? I think turning my look at black and white photography lying on the coffee table, I can only shake my head and tremble at the idea.

Twelve and not stupid - A Famous story

Dad's still late. It's been two hours since school was over and I feel so stupid, standing here in my school uniform, in front of the mini-market Kong's. This is where I wait for Papa to pick me up after school; It's just on the other side of the road that goes to school. Dad is often late, but not so late. The people who look at the store on me, standing at the entrance with my school bag nestled between my feet. You seem surprised to see me, still standing here when you leave the store. Kong, who is already familiar with the sight of me standing and waiting in front of his tent, has a look at his face that seems to say, "poor girl." Where the hell is your father? How can you keep them waiting so long?

I see his car down the street and I feel relieved. For a while, I thought he forgot to pick me up. It happened once. When he came to pick me up, he was almost dark and he was crying. Mom was with her friends and was worried about not finding me at home when she came back. Then I called Dad. If mom could bring me to school, life would be much easier for me. She has a driver's license and drives earlier than we lived in Seremban. But it was a long time ago and now we live in KL. She doesn't want to drive to KL, where people, she says, drive like maniacs.

Dad's car slows down when he comes to Hong Kong's mini market. It stops and I am about to jump on the front seat when I notice that there is someone, a woman I do not recognize. She looks the same age as mom and her skin is just as good as Mom's, except that MOM is from Malaysia and this woman is Chinese. Her long hair is tied in a bun and she wears glasses. I came in the back seat of the car and smiled at me again. "Hi Sasha," she said in a rather sweet voice. "I am Aunt May." I am surprised that she knows my name, because I know for sure that I have not met her before.

Like I don't say a word and must watch it, Dad looks at me through the rear-view mirror and says "Don't be rude, Sasha." Salam Aunt May. She stretches her hands to me between the two front seats and I take them in mine. He turns forward while Papa leaves and I look at the back of their heads while they speak to each other in low voice. I feel confused because they seem to know each other well, but then mom and dad, the two very sociable people who like to parties, have a lot of friends and the aunt needs one of them.

When mom and dad go to a party, they look very shocking. Papa is an attractive man, with thick hair and his eyebrows are also thick. She dresses gracefully, coordinating her long-sleeved batik shirt, trousers, socks and shoes very well. Mama is almost as big as daddy and with her slender silhouette she looks good in everything he wears. His hair is dark and long and he wears it in a bun, just like Aunt May.

Waiting for Papa and having to endure so much time made me tired, and I can feel nap. The slow posture of the car as Papa makes its way through busy traffic KL stunned me to sleep. I don't know how long I've slept. When I open my eyes, I think the car has stopped, but we're not home. Instead, we are parked outside a semi-detached house on one floor. Aunt can get out of the car and, as soon as she goes through the door into the complex of the house, Papa leaves. As he does, he looks at me through the rear-view mirror and sees that I am awake. "When we come back, don't Tell Mama about Aunt May, okay?" I want to know why, but Dad has a star look at his face and I dare not, so nod his head. "And if Mommy asks you why you came home late, tell her you had a school and you forgot it." I have shaken my head, I wonder why you want me to lie.

It's night when we go home. I can see that the lights in our bungalow house are like Papa Parks the car under the porch. The front door opens before you get the motor of the car, and Mama comes out. She has to worry and wonder why she had not returned from school. As a dad and I are about to leave the car, he gives me a look and I remember the lie I need to tell mom.

 

Of course, Mama is not happy that she had not talked about the so-called school activity. "I was concerned about the sick thoughts about what could happen to them," he goes. Dad also has a reference, "I called his office, but his secretary said you were in the morning." I look at dad while he's on, "I had a job out there." Mama's making her attentive to me, "don't ever do that to me again, okay?" I almost called the police. Go take your bath now. We'll have dinner soon.

As we eat together, mom and dad talk about how they usually do, and Mama has no idea what really happened. Mom is no longer crazy, and she loves her stories and jokes. but also discreet. I don't like to lie to Mama, and I can't help but get mad at dad so I feel so strange. I can only be twelve years old, but I'm not stupid. There must be one reason why I'm lying to mama and this reason has something to do with Aunt Mai.

"Are you sick?" Mom looks at me anxiously and puts the back of my left hand on my forehead. "You are very quiet." Dad gets his hands washed, "she must be tired." She had a busy day. Mom's going to get up too. "You should go to bed early and have a good rest," he said. Dad keeps me under guard while I leave the table, wash my hands and climb into my room.

I try to go to sleep, but as soon as I close my eyes, I see Aunt May in my mind. Who is this? Why can't I tell mom? The questions give me a headache and I think it would be nice if I'm sick and I don't have to go to school tomorrow. Who knows? When I went to school, Aunty can be with dad when they pick me up after school and what should I do? Do I have to lie to my mother again?

It's weeks and there's no Aunt May in the car dad's. Dad didn't say anything about her, and it's like she never met her. I'm curious, of course, but dad doesn't seem to want to say anything. Dad was never one to tell me things; It's mom who keep me posted on the family plans of what we will be doing during the weekend where we will go for our vacation. People told me Dad was busy and didn't talk much. that is true; Every time grandpa, Mom's father, comes to visit us for a few days, he and dad can sit in the living room together for hours and not say much to each other. But once again, when his friends come, Papa is not posted at all and is often the most talkative in the group. So dad has a lot of pages for him and I wonder how he is with Aunt May; You booked or chatting with her?

It's a Saturday afternoon and mom and I are home. Dad went out with his friends. Mom is busy with her embroidery, which I'm not particularly interested in. I prefer to cuddle with a book instead of sticking a needle in a drawing of a piece of cotton material. We are both in the living room, she sits in a chair and I lay on the floor, my chin hollow in my palms while reading the book Open in front of me. He looks at me and says, "You really should sit down when you're reading." "It will ruin reading this view." I'm not answering, but I'm still reading.

She keeps looking at me; Something seems to be in his mind. From the corner of my eye, I can see her mouth open as if she wants to speak to me, but she closes, shakes her head and makes her attention to her embroidery. Mom is a very correct person who gives a lot of thought to what she says or does. And they constantly teach me how they are in the company of other people, a young and educated man. That's what his friends say when they meet me, "My God, she's so polite for her age."

Right now, mom puts on the embroidery and tells me to bathe and get dressed. "Daddy will be home soon," he said. "We'll go to dinner, remember?" Make sure you do something right. "We're going to a Chinese restaurant." Mom and dad like to eat, and they both like Chinese food mostly. Me too and I surprised a lot with my ability to eat with chopsticks.

 

We arrived at the restaurant where Papa obviously booked a special table because the waitress puts us in a room on one side of the dining room. She pushes the sliding door, we walked into the room and I'm surprised to find aunt can already sit on the table. With her it's a boy who looks like he's about ten years old. I don't know what to do or say. Should I pretend that I have not already met you? When I know you, Mama will ask why and discover the lie I told her a few weeks ago.

Aunt can get up when we go to the room. When Mama is surprised at our guests, she doesn't show it and she's waiting for Papa to introduce her to Aunt May. They will each other and the aunt can then look at me and I Salam without saying anything. I am thankful that you have not given any indication that we have known before. Then he lays his hand on the shoulders of the child, "It is Kassim", and Kassim rises and the father and mother Salaams. We all sit and Papa must have ordered the food as it does not take long before the waitress in the room with a large bowl of shark fin soup. I eat and listen to adult speeches, and they talk as if Kassim and I are not in the room.

"May called me a few weeks ago," said Papa to Mama. "That's how I learned that" Yem "she had married without the knowledge of Marta." May is still married to "Yem", this boy is his son. She came to see me because "Yem" she and the child has neglected. "Yem" is Papa's Big brother and Marta is his wife.

"Oh my dear, my husband told me that there is a family problem compared to" Yem "but I didn't know it was so complicated," says mom to Aunt May. "But what do you want us to do?" It's a family thing, between "Yem", Marta and you. I don't think we can participate, especially because she doesn't even know it. She's my closest sister-in-law, and I don't want her hurt.

Aunt can shake her head. "I don't want anyone to get hurt." But I also have my rights as the second wife of "Yem". You can't leave us alone. I haven't seen him for months. Luckily, I have a job. If not, Kassim and I will have no roof over his head. I pay for everything, the house, our food. "But" Yem "is my husband and he is obliged to support us." Kassim looks at Aunt Mai on the mention of her name, and I wonder if she understands what is being said. I can be twelve years old, but I'm not stupid. The aunt can continue, "All I ask is that you remind her of your duties to Kassim and me." If he doesn't want to see us again, he should at least be divorced.

"I think we have no choice but to help," said the father to Aunt May and mom. "Yem" does so much harm here, first marrying without the knowledge of Marta, then pretending that he does not have a second family and, worse still, neglected this second family. " We know all this, we can't keep quiet about it. We will participate in it if we do nothing. Aunt can watch dad with relief and mommy nods. "You must advise him," he said to Papa.

After our pancake dessert, Papa pays the bill and we all get up. When Aunt Mai and Kassim had arrived at the restaurant in a taxi, Papa offered them a lift back home. Everyone is silent while driving. When we get home, the aunt can open the back door, but before she gets out of the car, she thanks mum and dad for dinner and the willingness to help her. She looks at me, "I haven't invited you to my house for the last time." It's too late, so I can't invite you now. You have to come back and get to know Kassim better.

Mom turns her head in my direction and one of her eyebrows is raised in a question.

End)

 

 

A match made in Heaven - A Famous story

I was sitting at Starbucks on a rainy Sunday afternoon. It was raining slowly, small drops of dropping incessantly forming a translucent canvas of water droplets that I watched on the quiet street.

For a place full of action in the evening hours, with the party people their guts, banging sure is quiet on a Sunday afternoon. Even peaceful. Through my table there is a pretty uneasiness girl dressed in a beige dress, that would have been wise, if not for the deepened cleavage, showed her wide chest.

A woman very only for a Malaysian lady, I must say. She pointed out her hair by the length of her shoulders in shades of brown and gold. Your face is serious as there are types and couples in full concentration on your laptop screen, occasionally drinking his cup of coffee steam. She doesn't smile much. Probably because they don't want to attract unwanted male applicants.

But dressed as she is. How can a man resist talking to him, let alone observing them? He sat down to fetch a favored pencil. We have a random glimpse of her full breasts. At that time I decided that I would try to know them and maybe get their hand phone number as well.

What the hell are you doing, man? The more I would get is a blow, but that's assuming if I'm too forward. And the least we get, "please go." And what I hope is a smile and the beginning of something new maybe. Later, a dinner meeting. And who knows what else. My heart beats wildly in anticipation.

I look too long for a moment. She feels me by looking at her. She sees and meets our eyes. I'm smiling. She smiles at me. Irresistible beckons to him. It turns red and it's my signal. Way to your table, which is only five meters away from me.

Only five feet from a relationship with her and God knows what else. It is now or never used as Elvis to sing. And for me it was now. When I went to his table, I knew it was going to work.

This hour.

We were from the past year or so. Actually a year two months and eight days from the day we met. I still remember our first encounter, the fragrance of her fragrant hair and how he saw that first day. Reading the first part of my story here, I would have guessed more or less what I should say.

In case I forgot to mention the fact, well I am Chinese and Maria my friend is a Malaysian girl. In Malaysia, the kind that is not a well accepted thing and because of the religious implications, well this kind of coincidence is by and large a rarity.

The first months of our court was a very traumatic affair with our parents on both sides strongly against the relationship. But we were enforced and after nine months we had plans for a wedding. So we were engaged just after nine months of encounters.

And I know it's fast from any standard.

We weren't young. I was in my last thirty years and she was in her early 30s and we were pretty sure and glad we shared for life, if not more. Could we have been in another life lover? Could we get to know each other beforehand? I really don't know. It just seems that we have clicked so well together.

Sometimes my brother Joe with me joke, "Koko, and now how?" more of Bak-Kut-El and his favorite pork sausage man? How's your diary, char-Siew-Pau?

I laughed and said, "You can still eat beef and other things wat." Even without forgetting my steak and thank God I can still eat roti canai and man! If the pig is something I have to give up, I guess I can for Mary Lah.

So Peter told my little brother, "I heard you have to sacrifice your foreskin to the butchers." You know that? Did it hurt?

Smiling, I said, "during circumcision, No." After they sew you, it shows a little. "But it's better not to get an erection because it could really hurt that the swelling can pull the strings and that's where you can scream bloody murder."

In addition to the initial questions and things, everything was installed in the normal diet of things. We're still on wedding plans. Mary took good with my family and parents and loved him and moved them into their hearts. It's not better for me. My future in-laws warmed me up after the initial objections and more than of it along with the warmth and acceptance of the rose, when she realized that Mary and I had decided to work together for life.

We went for the wedding photo shoot. A full day of pose and change in different costumes for photo shoot. He was so tired at the end of this day. You wouldn't believe how tiring it is to shoot a photo all day. No wonder an actor pays so well. It's a lot of hard work. And that too, if you don't even say a single word.

It worked so well that I began to wonder. Did I do something good in my last life or what? I never felt so happy in my life. But I had the impression that you shouldn't be so happy.

He didn't understand why he hadn't come to the wedding. She's gone in the last few days. He had to change his mind. At least he would have called me and told me about it. Instead of letting me wait in the hotel with the amount of guests. I felt that it was a betrayal of the worst kind to me.

Dizzy and Dizzy, I looked up and stood there I looked at me. She stood in her wedding dress. My God, I never found him so attractive. There were tears in his eyes when he tried to be courageous and to smile at me.

"Honey, I'm sorry."

Of? Of? Of? I can't understand you.

"Sometimes it's not the way we want to." I was so keen to spend the rest of my life with you. "I just want you to know that I love you with all my heart, and I will always do it."

I'm trying to keep it, that's when I woke up with a hangover in my apartment. Was it a dream? Did you really come to see me? Can I not decide if I have dreamed it or was it a figment of my imagination?

I drank a fool the night before. I knew it was bad to drink. I couldn't help myself. I felt depressed and broke. Lost and alone. I couldn't cry anymore.

It all screamed.

I heard someone at the door. The paper is slipping under my door. It was mania. He delivered the newspapers from the supermarket son, on the ground floor of the apartment. He was a very reliable and punctual guy every morning.

Stumbled across the door, I picked up the Star Day edition. Looking at the headlines, I suddenly sat on the front page. Just read, "The bride dies in the car accident"

And outside the balcony, the rain had started to water again. Like the first day I met her. It's raining then when it was now.

 

The Postmaster -- Famous story in english

 

Shortly after his appointment, the post-manager for the service was sent to the village of Ulapur. It was an ordinary city. There was an indigo factory nearby and, with its influence, its English owners had managed to set up a post office in the village.

From the city of Kolkata, our postmaster was found as fish from the water in its new rustic setting. His office was in a filthy cottage, adjacent to a viscous pond full of water hyacinth and surrounded by bushy trees on all four sides. The factory clerks had little or no training to associate with this gentleman.

The young man of the urban race also lacked social skills. Every time he went to a new place, he looked confused or arrogant and could hardly interact with the villagers. On the other hand, I didn't have much work in the office. He sometimes wrote poems that had a romantic sense of happiness on the sight of floating clouds and floating shrubs, but God knew that when a genius of Arab tales came and turned the bushes in cobbled streets during the night and Built up high rises, which kept the clouds out of sight, then the life of this sensitive person, who marked emotionally, would be reborn.

The post manager worked on a low salary, so he had to cook his own meals. He was helped in his home by a homeless orphan, in exchange for a little food. The girl's name was Ratan. The prospects of getting married soon looked low.

At night, the smoke-grinding of the spiral spray of the stables, the crickets sang cheerfully in the thicket, the noisy in the distant villages began to play in Tom-toms and cymbals and sing in an acute tone. Sitting on the porch in the dark, the Poet's lonely heart was slightly shaken, at the sight of the trembling twigs. At this hour, standing in a corner of the house, the head of the post would light a dark lamp and call it "Ratan." She was sitting at the door waiting for that call, but she never came into the house immediately. Instead, she answered, "Sir, do you need help?"

"What are you doing?"

"I'll turn on the chimney." "I have work in the kitchen," replied Ratan.

"Your kitchen work can wait." "Can you make me the tobacco pipe first?"

Soon Ratan would come into the house with puffy cheek, getting into the bladder in a bowl on the tobacco. He took him from his hand, the head of the post abruptly asked him: "Ratan, do you remember your mother?" It was a long story that she could remember and that she could not, but her father loved her more than her mother and still remembered her father. After a long day, his father would return at night, and the scattered images of some of these evenings were somehow still fixed in his mind. In the midst of his chatter, Ratan gradually settled down on the floor of the mud of the house, at the foot of the postmaster. He remembered that he had a little brother, and long ago the two had played together, fishing in a nearby pond with broken twigs of trees such as fishing. More than any serious incidents, this particular memory is often cut off in your mind. Sometimes they stopped chatting late at night and the postmaster would be too lazy to cook until then, so the two of them finish their dinner with the outdated morning curry and pastries, the rat prepared to make a rap-fire IDE.

On some evenings sat in his office chair in a corner of the hut, the postmaster reminded of the memories of his own family-his mother, his brother and his older sister. These pleasant memories filled his lonely heart away from home with pain. The painful thoughts he could never share with the employees of the Indigo factory was repeated in his mind, and he told them freely to this little girl, without ever considering that she is inadequate. Finally it happened that during their conversations, the girl to call her parents in their own way, treats her as Ma (mother), Didi (elder sister), Dada (older brother), as if she knew her forever. In her little heart, the girl even imagined the imaginary faces of these people.

 

It was the rainy season and a warm soft wind blew gently on a sunny afternoon. A fragrance emitted by the sunny vegetation, as if the breath of a flag land blew directly on the body, and a stubborn foreign bird sang all afternoon, complaining several times to the world. The post master was relatively free that day. The leaves of the rain-washed, bright and whispering trees and, in the white light of a partly sunny day, piled up the clouds that gathered in the layers in the sky, after the rain was really a spectacle to see. The postmaster noticed with attention that the look and asked what if he loved someone who he was at the time, someone whose heart was at his, and who was the idol of his soul. It happened to him that the plaintive monotony of the bird and the growing noise of the foliage in a nocturnal landscape, empty of human presence, also perhaps counted a similar story. No one knew that he did not even suspect that the heart of the master of the small town, who lived on a low wage, was full of thoughts of agony and nostalgia in the silent evenings, especially during the festive holidays.

With a deep sigh, the postmaster called "Ratan".

Ratan was sitting at the foot of a Guava, his legs stretched, eating a raw fruit. He heard his master voice, he ran into it and asked him: "Dada Babu, did you call me?"

"I will teach you to read something of little every day," replied the postmaster. With this he spent the whole afternoon teaching him the alphabets, and in a few days he finally taught the composite letters.

There was no end of the rainy season, and soon filled all rivers, brooks and marsh lands; The Frogs day and night snoring and the rain struck. Most of the roads were flooded, and the boats were used to get to the market.

One day, as it rains a lot since the morning, the teacher, Ratan waited for the door for a long time for the routine reputation of his master. But when she heard nothing, she slowly stepped into the house, with her book and the handwriting of the slate in her hand. She saw the postmaster lying in her bed, and thought she rested, was left in silence when suddenly she heard the call, "Ratan".

She turned quickly and asked, "Dada Babu, were you asleep?"

The postmaster answered in a faint voice: "I don't feel good." Can you look at the temperature palm on your forehead?

Sick on a rainy day, in a secluded place away from home, would prolong the comfort of loving care. One could imagine the soft touch of a woman's hand, wearing bracelets, on the burning forehead. Plagued by poor health in this isolated life, one would aspire to be a mother or a sister at the side of the bed in the form of a loving woman, and the desire that lonely person was not in vain. The young rat was no longer a child. Immediately took the role of the mother-called the doctor, gave him the medicine at the right time, waited for her bed all night, prepared his diet in his own accord, and asked him over again: "Do you feel a little better, Dada Babu?"

After many days, fragile in the body, the postmaster left the bed sick and decided it was enough. You need to get a transfer from the place. Regarding the unhealthy environment of the village, he hastily wrote a petition to the Kolkata authorities demanding a referral.

Relieved of his duties, Ratan returned to his former seat at the door of the house. Sometimes she was inside and saw the master lying on the bed or sitting on a bench, distracted. While Ratan was sitting there waiting for a call from him, the postmaster waited anxiously for a response to his request for transmission. Crouching in his seat outside the house, the girl approached her old innumerable lessons once so that all the words mixed in the event, which was unexpectedly called and asked to lecture her from the heart. Finally, the call came one evening after a week, and, in the house with a heartfelt heart, Ratan asked: "Dada Babu, have you called me?"

"Rat, I'm leaving tomorrow," replied the postmaster.

"Where, Dada Babu?" RATN asked.

"I'm going home."

"When are you coming back?"

"Never".

 

"How can I do that?" said the postmaster with a smile. He never bothered to explain to the girl why it wasn't possible.

Throughout the night, in her sleep and vigil, the girl heard the laughter of the postmaster and his succinct answer: "How can I do that?"

In the morning the postmaster saw his water bathing in the bucket as every day, a habit of bathing with water transported from the river home in a bucket which he had made in Kolkata. For some reason, the girl had never asked her about her release time, but in case she needed the water in the morning she went to the river late at night to fill the bucket. Concluding his bath, the postmaster called to Rat, and entered the house quietly, Ratan looking at the face of his quiet Mas ' r for his mandate. The master said: "Ratan, I will be the person who comes to replace me to take care of you, as I do." "You don't have to worry about leaving me." There was no doubt that these words came from a loving and friendly heart, but that I could understand the spirit of a woman! Ratan had swallowed many accusations of his master in the past, but she could not accept these sweet words. Shouting, she said: "No, no, it is not necessary that you say something." I don't want to be here.

The postmaster was dumb for his answer because he had never seen Ratan behave that way.

The new head of the Post Office is here. Delivery of duties to him, the outgoing master ready to go. At the time of his departure he called Ratan and said: "Ratan, I have never been able to give him anything, but today I leave behind a little money that she will support for a few days."

Saving money for himself, he drew all the money he had saved from his salary from his pocket. Ratan fell on his feet and pleading: Dada Babu, I implore you, there is no need to give me anything; No one should take care of me, please. Then he left the house.

The postmaster sigh, and with his suitcase in his hand, an umbrella raised on his shoulder, his blue and white trunk at the top of his carrier, to go on the boat quietly.

When he entered the boat and began to coming out of the landing, the tide of the river of rain seemed to be soaked as the eyes of the earth with tears, and to feel an emergency in his heart--the melancholy face of a young girl from the the ordinary village seemed to the Tory s of an L To tell oaths from all over the world. A passionate thought crossed his mind, "Let me come back and bring this sad girl with me." But the candle had been set; The currents in the river flow rapidly. Over the village, they were already in sight of the burning grounds, and an idea arose in the spirit of the apathetic traveller drifting into the creek-the separation and death are a recurring fact of life. What's the point of coming back? Are we not alone on this earth?

But this idea did not come into the mind of the rat. He only kept wandering around the house with tears in his eyes. Perhaps she had a faint hope that Dada Babu could come back--she could not leave the place, and break this magical connection. Oh, fragile human heart! Their illusions are endless; Sense comes at a slow pace in the human mind; He clings to false hopes, which resist the strongest of the evidence, until one day the hopes flee and suck the last drop of blood from the heart. Only then is the return of consciousness short before the heart is aroused again to enter into a new deception.

 

 

Desperate Measures A Famous story IN ENGLISH

APA Tunggu Lagi, promised carats! This is exactly what this old Cikgu rotten Hashim told me during lunch at the school canteen. The newly registered members of the profession may not have understood. Mr. Lim seemed amusing. Miss Lau looked appalled. Cikgu Hashim's comment might also apply to you. She was like me, in her thirties and single.

Later in the washroom, Miss Lau sealed the lead. "Do you think I spoke of menopause?" It could be. For now his wife would be dry. He talks about the experience. Then we both laughed, our faces red and the midday heat caused drop sweat on our forehead. See you tomorrow. I have a course with the five-way Alamanda. I crashed into the class while Miss Lau went to the teacher's lounge.

The comment bored me. I was the head of the English department. I have a master's degree in Applied linguistics. I helped the school to manage a department of twelve English teachers. I am the senior supervisor during the SPM review every year. And still, respect seems to be only when you have the title of a lady.

Tea time at home was always something to wait for. Today mother had prepared Chapatis with mashed potatoes. She noticed my mediocre appreciation for her efforts as she drank the hot tea from thoughtful milk. "Was there a lot of work in school?" I just nodded. Mother knew it was the work of the bowl, which occupied most of my spare time. I also recently noticed that the head of the English department kept me in school until late at night. On Saturday they set aside to meet other heads of service. Sundays were only to satisfy the needs of the mother to lead to the market. "By the way I met this lady again in the temple this morning, my mother interrupted my thoughts." He once again told me about the temple of KAPAR, where a priest has performed miracles. It seemed that he was able to break the obstacles that prevented marriages. "Shall we go to this temple tomorrow?"

Mother went to the temple every morning near our house in Subang Jaya. I suspected that a great deal of his silent monologue was asked with God for help to find a suitable husband for me. Lately, the mother had been disturbed by the comments of the parents who had begun to ask questions about my unique condition. He had even begun to avoid some social functions, just to get away from the "worried" parents who are already married to their old daughters.

I agree this time without creating the usual stories. I have never been to KAPAR and the reader would comment on my mind from unpleasant to my colleague's "karat". I wondered who Rusty was. Lately, Cikgu Hashim has become really "carats". Several professors saw him nodding his head to sleep during the last weekly meetings. It was Monday, the beginning of the week, and I wondered how he had remained awake to this day. On the other hand, I have always been up to date with the latest theories about teaching and learning the second language.

Anyway, it was a free Saturday meeting, and the mom and I could do with a trip after going on the market.

 

"Do you know the way to this temple?" Asked. "The Lady of the temple told us to enter the city of KAPAR and ask Akhil Kovil, who said that every adult is able to give instructions." By the way, it's free after 6:00. We are also obliged to bring a live chicken, a bottle of wine, a small turmeric powder, jasmine flowers, three kinds of fruit and cigars. I was tempted to tell the mother that these purchases seemed to be preparing for a rich dinner instead of tools to eliminate the obstacles that blocked my prospects for a quick wedding.

We went to KAPAR town with our shopping around four o'clock in the evening. Mother ensured that the chicken feet were properly insured and the other offers properly packaged in a box.

It was not hard to find the temple. Everyone in KAPAR City seemed to know where the temple was. Some even asked if we had bought the bargains. After crossing a dusty road, we arrived at a rubber plantation. There were wooden houses just before the temple. The entrance to the wooden temple, which had a zinc roof, was guarded by the dreaded goddess Kali. When we reached the inner sanctuary, a young man greeted us, who presented himself as an assistant to the chief priest. Apparently, the chief priest was busy with a trailer in one of the consulting rooms. It became clear that this assistant priest would take care of my problem.

The mother explained in detail that several proposals of marriage had not been worked by the parties for me. I am the one who rejected some good marriage suggestions. The help of the priest gave me a curious look. After the mother's narration, we were asked to leave the temple. The priest's assistant told my mother to sit on a rug. The mother asked if the purchases for the ritual withdrawal obstacle are taken. The answer was only one word: later.

After whispering some prayers, the young priest sat beside me. He closed his eyes and sang very strong phrases and shouted the word "WAA" several times. It sounded like an order to come in both Tamils. He finally opened his eyes, and looked more red and tired after his winks and cries. He had even started with foam in his mouth. To our great surprise he approached a short hand hoe and dug a pot. He looked old and dirty. He opened it and presented it with a piece of red cloth. He ordered us to examine it. Although we had no idea what it was, he told us that the fabric from our clothing line had been stolen from our backyard and used by our enemies to cast a spell on me. Now that he had recovered, I should not be married at any time.

Mother and I broke laughter, much to the horror of the young priest. I explained that we lived on the 15th floor in a condo and that our clothes were sent to the laundromat. My mother supported me by saying that the red color was simply horrible and that we would never have owned a piece of cloth. The desperate young man found it difficult to find a contradiction. Mom and I have to walk to the car. The young man insisted on his fee. Mom gave him the bottle of wine and cigars. He was thoughtful of her because she needed a lot of smoke and drink to deal with our reaction.

The chicken was released from the temple after the hunt. The fruits and the flowers, we bring home. I was having fun, but at the same time I realized that I was allowed to go in such a hopeless situation. Perhaps it is time to go to more social events rather than bury myself in books on language theories.

 

Shih-Li Kow's new novel Part - 2 Famous story

Mr. Miller took his position on the bow and spilled his life jacket, which made him sweat. I saw that his shirt was all wet, the moist circles that began in his deodorant differed from the rest of his shirt. I was sitting in my back with a bucket and my bait. With a respectful expectation of fun, I turned from my phone. In recent years, the telecommunications signals had improved so much that we could get calls in the middle of the lake. Instead of air and sky and the purity of space beyond, we live under a new invisible wave-shelter sky that leads conversations, data transfer packages and millions of pornographic downloads. It was an unpleasant thought that reminded me of dying cells and cancer.

I welcome my phone to Ismet. He said, "I have already silenced my phone, brother."

"OK".

He hung a worm with a chicken skin tag and threw it away, slowing my heartbeat while I was in wait to settle. I loved the fishing of the meditation Stupor, which came with the expectation. There were not many things for which he declared a lasting love. Fishing was one of the few, and had now become better with time no longer a luxury. As much as, or perhaps even more affirm life, that an act of the spouse stopped when there was no tick-tack of the clock.

The silence was deep and rich bones of lonely pleasure. There were occasional cries of Howling monkeys, a flutter of a bird in the trees, a call that the cliff and the vibrations of insects, trembling and invisible. The water was green gray, clear and clean, but I could not see through the depths. It was like trying to look through the tinted glass and see that shadows and reflections.

The boat went smooth and I lost the sense of time. I sank into the family movement and I forgot to ISMT, the woman turns the sides of her book, and the man at the front turn red in the sun.

Nobody talked to me. I didn't know if Ismet or Mr. Miller caught anything. I'm dodging. Sometimes I pulled the line, changed the bait and toss it back, smooth, always so smooth with a short arm stroke and a wrist. There was a Lotus bank in bloom on the other side of the lake. The flowers were open, pink, large and extravagantly beautiful. No one is reaping the roots of lotus; They were not disturbed.

I took a plug and a little Ikan Hantu that I raised and threw back into the water. I watched Ismet. He crouches on a seat, with his sleeves raised on his shoulders, writing text messages on his cell phone with two inches. His angel stuck between the seats. Mrs. Miller had her book concealed, separated on her knees. His wide-brim straw hat protected his eyes while he slept peacefully.

"Holy crap," said Mr. Miller suddenly. His line was tense. Fought and released, rolling in a fish. I looked at it as a corset, changing its weight, shaking a little the boat. His movements were smooth and practiced.

The lake had given a great front, the biggest I had seen, the catch hooked by Cikgu tea in a fishing contest a few years ago. He still had a picture of her in her wallet. Mr. Miller shifted into a revolution and raised the bent stalk. The fish fought under the water, forcing the tug, but we could not see it yet.

Miller said: "He's a monster, boys." Very big.

Ismet stopped to see. Mrs. Miller took her camera out and take pictures. Miller stepped on the step at the front and stepped back.

"Honey..." Mrs. Miller. Before I finished, I was in the water with a scream. Ismet hurried forward, ready to overthrow. We saw the surface of Mr. Miller, hovering in the water, waving and smiling. His glasses were still on his face. Ismet threw the report and we all began to laugh, even Mrs. Miller.

Mr. Miller called water, "sorry guys, I lost the line and the fish." Isn't that something to say to people home?

We laughed until we saw a wave in the water to travel to Mr. Miller.

"Go away," cried Ismet.

 

Fear caught me, my instinct. Ismet Bent and held an arm. "Quick, quick," he cried. Miller swam his head on the water. It was two shots of the boat, a ridiculous smile splitting his face. I couldn't see what was under the wave, but it was fast, heading right for people like a tracking rocket. I looked around for something, everything to throw at the thing that came. There was nothing in his hand except the book of Mrs. Miller and the shoes that slipped from her feet.

"Quick!" cried Ismet. The high fish, exposing a long snout in an incredibly long body. "Get Outta Here!"

Miller yelled, his finger still on the shutter button of the camera. Mr. Miller greeted him with an arm, always smiling. A white look at his face replaced his teeth smile as he was resurrected from the water, raised by the snout between his legs. I threw the book into the fish, but could not tell if it met me at all. I threw the shoe and plunged into his body. Mr. Miller's poor vertebrae and fall back. The disturbing water, the long body of the fish snake a curve that stirred the water in moss and Rose.

The water was closed to him and never returned to the surface.

Peggy Miller shouted again, this time a horrible sound, many layers that have remained with me for years. We saw the water from our rocking boat, but there was nothing but a growing silence, as the water soothed. The red spots hover, mark the place where he descends like a tombstone. I heard my heart beat in my ears and later their slowdown brought a sense of shame. I was afraid, but fear was selfish, a fear for me that the boat was toppled, and my body joined Mr. Miller, and my destiny tied to it with the creature in the water. I had responded by preserving myself; I had no memory of the intention of Saving Mr. Miller. I just wanted to stop coming to the monster to talk to me. My relief of being on the boat, unscathed, was marred by the discomfort of guilt. I could have jumped to save him from the fish, but I didn't.

Something like the rain fell. The rain that seemed to rise from the lake to the water of heaven.

Miller's been under sedative for two days. My condolences and the offer of aid fell into the stunned ears. She asked to leave the big house. The old furniture, he said, was celebrated death in them. She moved to one of Hemingway's rooms and her daughter flew to take her home.

ASP-Sevaraja, which had a well-trained nose for gossip, like a wine sommelier, told us that Mr. Miller had three wives before Peggy. The legend of the fourth wife Lake has gained a new life. Every man who was married four times and dared to defy the water would test the hatred of the lady of the Lake; He, after Mr. Miller, who had developed an appetite for male meat. The Chinese princess had become a dragon fish.

"But don't worry, Auyong." She's not married yet, huh? ASP-Sevaraja joke.

"Everyone will stop fishing for a few months." There is human flesh in the ecosystem. Do the Navy divers move? I didn't tell him he could return to the lake.

"No one goes there." Let's try to excavate the ground, but it could be too deep. He showed me the pictures of Peggy Miller's camera. Tim Miller had a glimpse of amazement on his face as if a rogue had poured ice water on him. The Serpentine fish was silver grey.

ASP Sevaraja said, "We sent the photos to the wildlife Department to identify the species." They think it's an imported fish.

"Will you try to catch it?" Asked.

"For what?" Make it famous as the monster of Loch Ness. We always love to be famous for stupid things, huh? "Anyway," said ASP-Sevaraja, "I have enough to do catch two-legged monsters."

I didn't tell him the fish had a face I knew. He knew me too. I saw how he looked at me when I threw the book. It was the fish that Benoit had released during the flooding two years ago. I didn't tell Benoit, either. Somehow, a silly balance told me to protect them from guilt, it was for mine to atone. I thought he would feel guilty, and my redemption is based on this hypothesis, but the balance worked. All I needed was to keep him at that pivot point for a year or two, maybe three, and it would fade from memory. He always did.

 

Shih-Li Kow's A Famous STORY Part 1. ITS A Novel

                                       

Shi-li Pictures at nine o'clock in the morning, the Millers hurried to feel their presence. They called their greetings and congratulated Benoit on the fat breakfast of noodles. The quality of the cuisine of Benoit was unpredictable; I suspected she echoed her mood, Sosa, when she was bored, with a lot of taste when she was stressed, and almost ungenius when she was in bad spirits. The kitchen of a Benoit in recovery, in equilibrium, was a mystery.

The miller told him that they wanted to see the three lakes. I had arranged for her to pay Ismet to take her, and Mr. Miller wanted to fish. Mrs. Miller said with an exaggerated sigh: "I shall be so angry, but she loves to fish." I was the fourth person at this angel party. Too many weeks have passed since I was last in the water and I am looking forward to the trip. I was accustomed to the ISMT company, but I had to endure the other two.

We went to the pier in Jerome hired by the Millers. Mr. Miller wanted to drive and get into the driver's seat with the car around him as a box of armored matches. A big man like him should have picked up a bigger car. I was imagining Peggy Miller at the car rental counter at the airport, standing next to their trolley pockets, saying, "Oh, darling." We need to rent a small car from May-lay-sian. "We have to see for ourselves how much it leads." To be fair, I hardly knew Mrs. Miller, and certainly not good enough to make these assumptions about you. She was probably a perfect woman, but, well, I just don't like her face. As long as I have not said it, we could preserve the demands of hospitality.

The farther away from the city we drove, the narrower it became the streets until there was no sidewalk and the thickets grew on the edge of the runway. "Turn left, after the shield," said Ismet, pointing out a sign faded by the Ministry of Cultural Diversity, cultural heritage and Tourism, urging eco-tourism. "The fourth woman in the lake." Discover the natural wonders of Malaysia, he said. Someone had injected a black line of paint sur ' wonders ' et écrit ' Pajeros ' à this topic. I thought it was a little weird. This was not a common word spoken in Lubok-yong, much less seen in writing.

We went down the road on a road dented by motorcycles that run the average kilometer to the lakes. This was limited by a brushed wall on both sides, so high that some feather tips to dust the top of our car bent. Some were smashed, perhaps by a car in front of us, that to give another way, and long broken blades were wounded on the ground. We beat the old mud and heard the occasional piece of laterite noise against our undercarriage. Mrs. Miller, sitting with me in the back, was without complaining and took the heat and the potholes in a good mood.

Mr. Miller laughed and said, "Let's go." Farewell to the Green Sea. It was delayed for Mrs. Miller to take a picture.

We saw the hill first. The cliff climbed forward, a monolithic limestone mass with dense dark trees. Then the lakes came in sight, black green and not reflected in spite of the calm of the water. Where you have waited on a mirror, reflected a blue sky diluted with clouds of canvas floating on its surface, there was none. Fourth woman of the lake swallowed all reflections and did not offer such a beauty. There was a slight murmur of rain, but the sun took over and the clouds of rain kept their content, obedient to the light of day and the patron of the fishermen. If there was a threat of rain, I felt it in the abundance of the lake and not in the sky.

When we arrived at the pier, we saw some motorcycles accidentally parked on the grass like grazing animals. Our rental boat, a tourist boat that took visitors to a loop from the lake, waited. For ten Ringgit, donned a life vest, sits in one of the eight plastic seats that collected the water to dampen the suspected media, and rose near the limestone rocks to see the darkness, the Maws of the caves. A Outcrop with a solitary shrub from the wall of the cliff came to show something, and say, "This is where the princess jumped," a beautiful improvement in history.

With few tourists the boat was hardly used. Mrs. Miller seemed to know what she had to do. He pulled out a towel from his pocket and deleted his seat. Then he turned to his arms with a mosquito repellent. Husband and wife slipped into the life jackets hanging beside their seats.

Ismet killed the engine and took the boat on a big sign-curve. A wave of croissant has fanned behind us. The men who fish on the benches greeted and forgave the noise we made. Mrs. Miller came back, smiling. We have a sweep near the limestone for the teats to make pictures. I was not in the mood to do the Tour-guide chatter, so I kept my mouth shut, and pretending to inspect my bars and buckets. I did not underline the Outcrop, and I ignored ISMT when he looked at me. His English was not good enough to tell the whole story of the princess and the CSA, but I did not speak that day. When I spoke, these tourists would speak again, and I wanted to fish, not to make polite noises and play the silly native.

He had a plastic tub of crickets and maggots for bait. I also had some chicken skin flavored with fish food that I wanted to try. It was an idea I got out of the swamp people, these crocodile hunters I saw on Astro. We had a fishing for Mr. Miller. Ismet took the boat in the middle of the lake, in the shadow of the cliffs that were thrown on the water, and cut the engine. Mrs. Miller drew a book from her pocket.

MY MOTHER S MILK (A Famous story in english)

I had seen a performance of Portuguese dance and music in Melaka. Almost all songs and dance were from Portugal. Minha Rosinha was one of them, the certainty of the Portuguese House COM was another (the titles mean respectively "My little Rose" and "certainly a Portuguese house"). Both are well-known songs. I am familiar with them to watch Portuguese folk music dances on television as a child. I remember that I usually changed channels after a minute or two because I sing and dance terribly sticky, and very inbrazilian.

The most famous Portuguese singer of Brazil at the time was Roberto Leal ("Loyal Robert"-it turns out to be an artistic name). He wore a folk costume while singing and dancing. The costumes were also completely Portuguese. (Oddly enough, although born in Portugal, he moved to Brazil as a child and lived there.) He was our own Portuguese folk dancer and singer. He was also the most famous Portuguese in Brazil. No one seems to care that he is Brazilian too.

This is what many anthropologists and historians call a clear case of the invention of tradition: namely, none of this was before the decade of the 1950. The young people who dance in Melaka seemed to do it right. One of the girls was very noticeable: she was tall, she had bright green eyes and a nice smile. (I learned that he died in a traffic accident last year.) I was invited to participate in one of the dances with several guests. The beauty of the green eyes came to me, but I hesitated to show my amazing lack of skill in Portuguese folk dance. Anyway, an Italian colleague asked me to get up and dance. I was a Brazilian after all, and the imagination of a Brazilian was not able to dance. Almost as rare as an Italian non-attitude!

Some of the students-Malaysians were Portuguese-language students-also danced. The group did not indeed in the community, but a large group of students and employees of the University of Malaysia. The place was the Papa Joe's Restaurant, which announces Portuguese and Nyonya cuisine, as well as the Chinese crabs (Pope Joe himself was one of the singers). I find the combination of Portuguese, Nyonya and Chinese seafood revealing: I found local cuisine often linked, no matter what ethnic origin or labels attached. Instead of being in opposition, the three were part of the same culinary continuum.

During a break I noticed that the young men and women who danced in Malay spoke to each other. Noel (My Portuguese friend and teacher) deeply regrets that the government and the non-Portuguese local society are undermining the community's cultural heritage; It is the community itself. Traditional festivities are not carried out in an appropriate manner; The traditions are abandoned, and the language is slow but safe to decay.

I muse that maybe everything changed, and very quickly. Noel is very religious, like all the elders in the community that I have spoken so far. It's easy to get a long rant about morality and religion. I wonder how attractive it is for the younger generation. Moreover, the Portuguese community was always an open group: The descendants of the Dutch people of Melaka, for example, also speak Portuguese and are often regarded as members of the community. (I don't think anyone speaks Dutch to Melaka anymore). Noel still inveighs against naming "Eurasia" from time to time: his point is that it is not root-people in a particular country, but it is vague and general. It was a British colonial name used by the community before being re-established as a Portuguese in the last colonial period. Noel must have been a teenager when the identity change has taken place. I don't know anyone in Melaka who is carving in Eurasia. The Christmas point of the house hammers over and over again is that the community Portuguese and therefore Portuguese (ie) Portuguese.