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.