Wednesday, November 17, 2010

A day's Wait

A Day's Wait" is deceptively simple. A young boy, with influenza hears that his temperature is 102 degrees and mistakes the Fahrenheit reading ...
He came into the room to shut the windows while we were still in bed and I
saw he looked ill. He was shivering, his face was white, and he walked
slowly as though it ached to move.
'What's the matter, Schatz?'
 'I've got a headache.'
'You better go back to bed.'
'No, I'm all right.'
'You go to bed. I'll see you when I'm dressed.'
But when I came downstairs he was dressed, sitting by the fire, looking a
 very sick and miserable boy of nine years. When I put my hand on his
forehead I knew he had a fever.
'You go up to bed,' I said, 'you're sick.'
'I'm all right,' he said.
When the doctor came he took the boy's temperature.
 'What is it?' I asked him.
'One hundred and two.'
Downstairs, the doctor left three different medicines in different colored
capsules with instructions for giving them. One was to bring down the fever,
another a purgative, the third to overcome an acid condition. The germs of
 influenza can only exist in an acid condition, he explained. He seemed to
know all about influenza and said there was nothing to worry about if the
fever did not go above one hundred and four degrees. This was a light
epidemic of flu and there was no danger if you avoided pneumonia.
Back in the room I wrote the boy's temperature down and made a note of
 the time to give the various capsules.
'Do you want me to read to you?'
'All right. If you want to,' said the boy. His face was very white and there
were dark areas under his eyes. He lay still in bed and seemed very
detached from what was going on.
I read aloud from Howard Pyle's Book of Pirates; but I could see he was not
following what I was reading.
'How do you feel, Schatz?' I asked him.
'Just the same, so far,' he said.
I sat at the foot of the bed and read to myself while I waited for it to be time
 to give another capsule. It would have been natural for him to go to sleep,
but when I looked up he was looking at the foot of the bed, looking very
strangely.
'Why don't you try to go to sleep? I'll wake you up for the medicine.'
'I'd rather stay awake.'
 After a while he said to me, 'You don't have to stay here with me, Papa, if it
bothers you.'
'It doesn't bother me.'
'No, I mean you don't have to stay if it's going to bother you.'
I thought perhaps he was a little light-headed and after giving him the
 prescribed capsule at eleven o'clock I went out for a while.
It was a bright, cold day, the ground covered with a sleet that had frozen so
that it seemed as if all the bare trees, the bushes, the cut brush and all the
grass and the bare ground had been varnished with ice. I took the young
Irish setter for a little walk up the road and along a frozen creek, but it was
 difficult to stand or walk on the glassy surface and the red dog slipped and
slithered and fell twice, hard, once dropping my gun and having it slide over
the ice.
We flushed a covey of quail under a high clay bank with overhanging brush
and killed two as they went out of sight over the top of the bank. Some of
the covey 55 lit the trees, but most of them scattered into brush piles and it was
necessary to jump on the ice-coated mounds of brush several times before
they would flush. Coming out while you were poised unsteadily on the icy,
springy brush they made difficult shooting and killed two, missed five, and
started back pleased to have found a covey close to the house and happy
 there were so many left to find on another day.
At the house they said the boy had refused to let anyone come into the
room.
'You can't come in,' he said. 'You mustn't get what I have.'
I went up to him and found him in exactly the position I had left him, white65
faced, but with the tops of his cheeks flushed by the fever, staring still, as
he had stared, at the foot of the bed.
I took his temperature.
'What is it?'
'Something like a hundred,' I said. It was one hundred and two and four
 tenth.
'It was a hundred and two,' he said.
'Who said so?'
'The doctor.'
'Your temperature is all right,' I said. It's nothing to worry about.'
 'I don't worry,' he said, 'but I can't keep from thinking.'
'Don't think,' I said. 'Just take it easy.'
'I'm taking it easy,' he said and looked straight ahead. He was evidently
holding tight onto himself about something.
'Take this with water.'
 'Do you think it will do any good?'
'Of course it will.'
I sat down and opened the Pirate book and commenced to read, but I could
see he was not following, so I stopped.
'About what time do you think I'm going to die?' he asked.
 'What?'
'About how long will it be before I die?'
'You aren't going to die. What's the matter with you?'
Oh, yes, I am. I heard him say a hundred and two.'
'People don't die with a fever of one hundred and two. That's a silly way to
 talk.'
'I know they do. At school in France the boys told me you can't live with
forty-four degrees. I've got a hundred and two.'
He had been waiting to die all day, ever since nine o'clock in the morning.
'You poor Schatz,' I said. 'Poor old Schatz. It's like miles and kilometers.
 You aren't going to die. That's a different thermometer. On that
thermometer thirty-seven is normal. On this kind it's ninety-eight.'
'Are you sure?'
'Absolutely,' I said. 'It's like miles and kilometers. You know, like how many
kilometers we make when we do seventy in the car?'
 'Oh,' he said.
But his gaze at the foot of his bed relaxed slowly. The hold over himself
relaxed too, finally, and the next day it was very slack and he cried very
easily at little things that were of no importance.
By Ernest Hemingway

The Gift Of The Magi

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."
The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."
Down rippled the brown cascade.
"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
"Give it to me quick," said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"
At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.
Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.
Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"
Jim looked about the room curiously.
"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"
Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."
White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."
The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
By O Henry

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Friday, November 12, 2010

Emotions

The thing that makes us sentimental,
The thing that makes us fool,
The thing that plays with our heart,
The thing that cheats with our heart,
         ARE EMOTIONS...
The thing that interconnects people,
The thing that we show to our lovable one,
The thing that we share with our someone very close,
The thing that can't be avoided,
      ARE EMOTIONS...
Emotion is a game,
Emotion is a fame.
Emotions are true;
That can be shared with only few.
Emotions makes us weak,
Emotions makes us think deep.
Sometimes emotions destroys the relationship,
Sometimes emotions uplifts the relationship.
Emotions are the part of life,
Emotions are the beauty of life..
Because they only makes some sweet relations.

Sunday, November 07, 2010

Ye Kya Hua - Sharmila Tagore & Rajesh Khanna - Amar Prem

My Father

The one who holded my hand,
The one who taught me to walk on miles,
The one who loved me more than himself,
IT'S ALL THE LOVE OF MY FATHER.

The one who showed me the right path to move ahead,
The one who always dreamed for me,
The one who gave me confidence at that time when I became hopeless.
THAT'S ALL THE LOVE OF MY FATHER.

The one who lived for me,
The one who never cared of his wishes and willing for my good future,
The one who always protected me from this evil world.
IS MY FATHER.

The one who's scold I never minded,
The one who's order I never neglected,
The one who is everything for me..
IS MY FATHER.

The one who taught me how to live a life,
The one who gave me a hand of friendship when I was alone,
The one who taught me how to face this cruel world..
IS MY FATHER.

And at last I want to say ''I Love U Daddy''
Wish U a very HAPPY BIRTHDAY...and this poem dedicated to u :)

Friday, November 05, 2010

It's all inter connection of heart to heart - Affection




It's all inter connection of heart to heart - Affection
Sometimes when we are happy..
We make promises with others,
Sometimes when we are sad..
We make rude our self with others,
Sometimes when we think about someone very close to our heart..
Suddenly comes in front of us,
Sometimes when we are going to say something..
Suddenly someone says the same thing that we were going to say,
Sometimes when we think about someone..
Suddenly their images and talking comes in front of our eye,
Sometimes when we care for someone..
They even don't notice us ,
Sometimes when we miss someone all day..
They even don't think about us,
Sometimes when we are alone..
Then we enjoy the company of our imaginations itself,
Sometimes one's rudeness hurts us a lot..
Sometimes one's ignorance hurts us a lot,
Sometimes one's smile makes us tension free..
Sometimes one's absence irritates us..
That's all inter connection with heart to heart-Affection.

Thursday, November 04, 2010

Yaado ke bhawar mai...


Ae khuda kyu banai ye dard-e- judai,
Raat bhar yaad karte rahe jinhe..
Unhe humari yaad kabhi nahi aai..
rote the unki yaad mai ..
Jinhe humari fikra bhi nahi satai
Jab chale gaye is rishte ko tod kar ..
tab samajh unhe ye aai ..
Ki kyu ki humne unse ye ruswai.

Life Is Like A...

Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending.
WAY OF LIVING LIFE

Life is like a long rope,
Things happen you never hope.
Life is face,
That gives me peace and grace.
Life is like a miracle,
That makes me feel like magical.
Through life I got much experience and satisfaction that I feel its unforgotten gift of God.
Life is like a race,
That everyone cannot chase.
Sometimes life becomes full of controversy,
Sometimes it makes trouble and sometimes mercy.
In every one's life there is resolution,
And everyone merged for its solution.

Tuesday, November 02, 2010

A love

A love, that needs to live a life.
A love, that needs to live memorable moments.
A love, that makes the life beautiful.
''THAT'S ONLY LOVE.''

A love of parents- caring..
A love of friend- sharing..
A love of partner- pleasing..
''THAT'S ONLY LOVE.''

Love is like magical wand ,that acts as a miracle hand.
Love is believe,
Love is a sweet relief.
Love only binds the emotions,feelings and promises with our lovable one.
''THAT'S ONLY LOVE.''