ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

For the preparation of this SLM covering the Unit-1 and Unit-2 of AECC-2 in

accordance with the Model Syllabus, we have borrowed the content from the book

“THE WIDENING ARC”, edited by Dr. Asima Ranjan Parhi, Dr. S. Deepika and

Mr Pulastya Jani, printed at ‘Kitab Bhavan, Bhubaneswar’. Odisha State Open

University acknowledges the authors, editors and the publishers with heartfelt thanks

for extending their support.

BLOCK OBJECTIVE

This block shall help you develop reading skills as it has numerous short stories and

essays that will be beneficial in developing a reading habit. Added to it, there are a

lot of regional writers who have written some excellent short stories, essays and

narratives, but are still unknown to us. This block shall definitely introduce you to

such great writers and with their prolific writing style. The questions that you’ll find

at the end of each unit shall also help you in developing writing skills.

ABILITY ENHANCEMENT

COMPULSORY COURSE (AECC)

AECC-2

Alternative English

BLOCK-1

SHORT STORIES

UNIT 1 THE FIGHT BETWEEN LEOPARDS

UNIT 2 THE BICYCLE

UNIT 3 GEORGE V HIGH SCHOOL

UNIT 4 THE MAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

UNIT 5 UNEASY HOMECOMING

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UNIT 1 : THE FIGHT BETWEEN LEOPARDS

Structure

1.0 Objectives

1.1 Introduction

1.2 About the writer: Jim Corbett

1.3 Introduction to the story

1.4 The Man-eating tiger of Rudraprayag

1.5 Interpretation of the text: The fight between Leopards

1.6 Glossary of difficult terms

1.7 Check your progress

1.8 Let us sum up

1.0 OBJECTIVES

After studying this unit, you be able to:

Learn about the various stories that are still unheard of and learn about new

characters and know about their lives and works.

Examine the stories and develop reading and writing skills by attempting the

related exercises and questions.

Enhance your knowledge in reading and writing.

1.1 INTRODUCTION

The following unit has a short story written by Jim Corbett in a pastoral Indian

backdrop. Through this short story, you may get to know about the Indian tales that

may be unknown to most of the common masses. This will help you to develop

reading skills since the CBCS undergraduate syllabus has a ‘skilling’ component

(English Communication) under its Ability Enhancement Compulsory Course, this

course also focusses to deliver a liberal arts (areas of study that are intended to give

you general knowledge rather than to develop specific skills needed for a profession)

exposure to you. The following story is about the horrendous fight between two man-

eating leopards that the narrator had witnessed during his stay in one of the villages

of Rudraprayag and Kumaon. The extreme power play to stay in one’s territorial

reign is vividly portrayed by the narrator.

1.2 ABOUT THE WRITER: JIM CORBETT

James Edward Corbett or Jim Corbett was born in the year 1855 and died in 1955.

He was Colonel in the British Indian Army, the government of the United Provinces,

mostly called upon Corbett and his army to hunt and kill man-eating leopards that

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were killing and devouring the villagers from the nearby villages of Garhwal and

Kumaon regions. Jim Corbett was a curious photographer and also a conservationist

who gradually turned out to be an author after his retirement. Corbett has authored

many books out of which “Man-Eaters of Kumaon” and “The man-eating leopard

of Rudraprayag” have become classic jungle tales. The following tale “The Fight

between Leopards” is an extraction from ‘The Man-eating Leopard of

Rudraprayag’.

During his life Corbett tracked and shot a number of leopards and tigers; about a

dozen were well documented man-eaters. Corbett provided estimates of

human casualties in his books, including Man-Eaters of Kumaon, The Man-Eating

Leopard of Rudraprayag, and The Temple Tiger, and More Man-Eaters of

Kumaon. Calculating the totals from these accounts, these big cats had killed more

than 1,200 men, women, and children, according to Corbett. There are some

discrepancies in the official human death tolls that the British and Indian

governments have on record and Corbett's estimates.

The first designated man-eating tiger he killed, the Champawat Tiger, was

responsible for 436 documented deaths. Though most of his kills were tigers, Corbett

successfully killed at least two man-eating leopards. The first was the Panar

Leopard in 1910, which allegedly killed 400 people. The second was the man-

eating Leopard of Rudraprayag in 1926, which terrorized the pilgrims on the holy

Hindu shrines Kedarnath and Badrinath for more than eight years, and was said to be

responsible for more than 126 deaths.

Other notable man-eaters he killed were the Talla-Des man-eater, the Mohan man-

eater, the Thak man-eater, the Muktesar man-eater and the Chowgarh tigress.

Analysis of carcasses, skulls, and preserved remains show that most of the man-

eaters were suffering from disease or wounds, such as porcupine quills embedded

deep in the skin or gunshot wounds that had not healed, like that of the Muktesar

Man-Eater. The Thak man-eating tigress, when skinned by Corbett, revealed two old

gunshot wounds; one in her shoulder had become septic, and could have been the

reason for the tigress's having turned man-eater, Corbett suggested. In the foreword

of Man Eaters of Kumaon, Corbett writes:

The wound that has caused a particular tiger to take to man-eating might be the result

of a carelessly fired shot and failure to follow up and recover the wounded animal, or

be the result of the tiger having lost his temper while killing a porcupine

Corbett preferred to hunt alone and on foot when pursuing dangerous game. He often

hunted with Robin, a small dog he wrote about in Man-Eaters of Kumaon.

(http://en.turkcewiki.org/wiki/Jim Corbett)

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1.3 INTRODUCTION TO THE STORY: THE MAN EATING

LEOPARD OF RUDRAPRAYAG

Jim Corbett had an excellent narrating skill that went hand in hand with his hunting

expertise. His books mostly elaborate the jaw dropping episodes of his hunting and

tracking of the dangerous man-eating leopards in the Himalayas. This story gives us

a well-informed account of an accidental yet lethal fight that happened to take place

between a local leopard and a savage man-eating leopard that had spread terror and

fright in the hills of Rudraprayag since eight long years. Corbett witnessed one of the

most terrible and fiercest animal fights and puts light on how ferocious can leopards

be when they fight to protect their territories. This might make us inquisitive to know

who finally met victory and what finally happens to Corbett’s mission? This story

shall help us get the answers to all our questions.

1.4 THE MAN-EATING LEOPARD OF RUDRAPRAYAG

'The man-eating leopard of Rudraprayag' is a classic example of Corbett's natural

writing. The writer amalgams his out-standing knowledge in hunting with his jaw-

dropping experiences with wild animals and comes out with such notable texts like

‘The man-eating leopard of Rudraprayag’. When we read this work of Corbett, we

not only know about the dreadful fight that appears to take place between two savage

carnivores but it also gives us a clear view of the British Raj and transports us to

those remote jungles of Norther India during the British Rule. This book portrays a

vivid image of the simplistic and natural life of the villagers of Rudraprayag who are

far away from the temptations of the materialistic world, they lead a happy life with

their families and loved ones, there is no villain in their lives until there is this one

savage leopard who ruins all their happiness by hunting and destroying the families

of the villagers in Rudrprayag. The dreadful leopard reportedly took 420 lives and

had terrorized a huge region of that area. Corbett bags the responsibility to kill this

old yet terrifying leopard and this takes place in the second half of 1920. The old

leopard happens to be a man-eater after the lethal influenza (commonly known as

the flu, is an infectious disease caused by an influenza virus) outbreak of 1918 and

Corbett relentlessly hunts for this predator for over two years. Corbett literally had to

put his life at stake in order to fight out this predator. There are times when Corbett

goes back to the village with a defeated spirit and there are also times when the

leopard snatches a goat right under Corbett’s nose but Corbett still misses a chance to

catch. The author further elaborates the sheer helplessness of man when he/she is

attacked by a brutal carnivorous predator. Finally Corbett is able to kill the man-

eater. In true Corbett fashion by that time he has developed a soft corner for the old

dead leopard, which gave him such a sporty fight. At that time there were no high

security fences, no guns or any kind of technology to track the leopard. Yet the

people had to enter the forest to earn their daily bread. There is an unforgettable

chapter in the book titled 'Terror' which narrates very vividly about the village

nightlife. This is one of the books, which shows that for writing adventure one don't

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need weapons or FBI investigations. Any writer with a big heart who loves what he

is doing and knows what he is talking about can give the impression of a forest or

any place to its readers.

1.5 THE TEXT : THE FIGHT BETWEEN LEOPARDS

The text opens with the wailing of a woman who mourned the death of her child.

Unfortunately the child became the victim in the claws of a cruel leopard and was

already torn into pieces when the narrator entered the village. The narrator however

was not used to such sights and apparently didn’t know how to react to this painful

situation. The woman blamed the men of the villages in utter pain and dissatisfaction

that they were not able to chase behind the leopard when he took her child as she

thought her husband (the child’s father) might have done, had he been alive, she still

dwelled upon the thought that her son would’ve been alive and breathing if the

village men would have gathered the courage to chase the leopard. The narrator tried

to explain her the fact that it was not practically possible as nobody can dare to mess

with such a horrifying beast unarmed, added to it when the leopard (or any such

carnivorous beasts) hold their prey by the throat, they dislocate the head from the

neck, resulting in immediate death of the victim, therefore, the poor boy was dead

much before the leopard clasped him and took him across the courtyard.

The narrator continually brooded over the fact that how such a giant beast can go

unnoticed from the eyes of the people and can sneak down the courtyard in broad

daylight or how even the dog in the village didn’t get a hint about the leopard’s

arrival? The narrator followed the blood-drag marks across the yam field to examiner

how the leopard would’ve jumped off the eight foot wall carrying the boy and

dragged him down the yam field and again crossed a wall that was 12 feet high. The

narrator found a thick hedge of rambler roses that was four feet high and that was the

spot where the leopard released his hold from the boy’s throat after searching for an

opening in the hedge and not being to find one. The leopard must’ve gone a short

distance after when the alarm was raised in the village, this prevented the leopard

from getting back his kill, hence, he glided down the hill after hearing the sounds of

beating drums and firing of guns that went all night in the village. The narrator

wanted to carry the dead boy back to the place where the leopard had left it and wait

there for the leopard to come and take his prey but he didn’t find a place suitable for

him to. The nearest tree was a leaflet walnut tree that roughly 300 yards away, but it

didn’t seem appropriate for the narrator to sit under it and added to it, the narrator did

not want to sit on the ground as according to him he did not have the courage to sit

on the ground. He (the narrator) finally arrived the village by sunset still hovering

upon the thought that how could he possibly catch hold of the leopard. He basically

had to return with a heavy heart as it was already dark and moreover he (the narrator)

did not get a safe place in the fields where he could take shelter. He then analysed

what would’ve happened if he would’ve sat there in the fields and concluded that it

would’ve made the leopard’s catch easy and he would have got no chance to use the

one weapon that he had bought with him, the rifle, as it is almost impossible to use

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fire-arms when one comes in close contact with an unwounded carnivore and that too

a leopard or a tiger.

When the narrator returned to the courtyard after inspecting the area, he asked the

headman for a crowbar, a stout wooden peg, a hammer and a dog chain. He forced

one of the flagstones in the middle of the courtyard, driving the peg firmly into the

ground and finally fastened one end of the chain to it. Then he carried the body of the

boy to the peg with the help of the headman and chained the body there.

The narrator asked the mother and daughter to be removed to a room at the end of the

row of buildings, after all this, he (narrator) asked for a bundle of straw that he laid

on the veranda in front of the door of the house vacated by the mother. The narrator

then asked the crowd to be silent that night as the entire village was covered with

pitch darkness. He then sent the villagers to their respective homes and took his

position in the veranda having a clear view of the kill/victim/dead boy without the

chances of being seen. The narrator had a gut feeling that the leopard would

definitely return despite of all the noises and chaos that took place the previous night

because after not being able to find his kill in the place where he left him, the leopard

would definitely suspect the village again in order to find his kill or may be try to

grab another victim. The ease with which the leopard secured his first victim made

the narrator curious and raised his hopes really high to greet the leopard.

Meanwhile heavy clouds gathered in the sky at 8 p.m. and all the sounds in the

village were hushed except the wailing of women, a flash of lightening followed by a

distant roll of thunder heralded an approaching storm. There occurred an enraging

storm along with the lightening, so bright and brilliant that a rat could have been seen

venturing into the courtyard and the narrator could have probably been able to shoot

it. The rain stopped eventually, but the sky remained over-shadowed with heavy

clouds reducing visibility to a few inches. This was the apt time for the leopard to

start from his shelter and hunt for his victim. The woman (the mother of the boy who

was killed by the leopard) had stopped wailing by now and there was drop-dead

silence covering every nook and every corner of the village. The narrator was now

ready to meet the leopard and was all set to listen to the sound of the arrival of the

leopard.

The straw that had been provided for the narrator was as dry as tinder and the

narrator’s ears strained into the black darkness and to his attention, the narrator first

heard a creeping sound, it sounded like the creature is stealthily creeping on which

the narrator was lying. The narrator was wearing a pair of shorts that had left the

narrator’s knees bare. The narrator could feel a hairy coat of an animal brushing

against his bare knees and it took no time for the narrator that it was none other than

the man-eater creeping up until he could lean over and get a steady grip of the

narrator’s throat. The narrator could now feel a little pressure on his left shoulder and

then, just as the narrator was about to press the trigger of the rifle, a small animal

jumped down in between his arms and his chest, the animal wasn’t a leopard but a

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tiny little kitten who was soaking wet and was caught out in the storm. He came to

the narrator to take shelter finding every door shut.

Little did the narrator and the little kitten had made themselves comfortable and just

as the narrator was about to overcome his fright when he heard a low growling that

perpetually grew louder. Gradually the slow growling turned into the most

horrendous fight that the narrator had ever witnessed in his life. The narrator could

evidently trace that the man-eater had returned to the spot where the previous night

he had left his kill, and while he was searching for it, another male leopard who

looked upon “that particular area as his hunting ground, had accidentally come across

him and set on him (the previous leopard). This fight of nature happened to be one of

the most unusual that the narrator could ever witness, for the carnivorous breed

invariably keep to their own areas, and if by any case they are challenged by another

of the same creed, they size up each other’s capabilities at a glance and the weaker

gives way to the stronger.

The man-eater, though old was a huge and powerful male and in the 500 square

miles, he ranged, there possibly wasn’t any other capable male who could disrupt his

rule. But here, he had to fight for his life and fight frantically because his competitor

was much younger and stronger. The narrator was disheartened because his dream of

taking a shot of the leopard could no longer be accomplished for even the man-eater

himself was unable to defeat his attacker. It seemed that his injuries would probably

prevent him from taking any interest in kills for some time to come. In fact the fight

was so ghastly that there were even chances of fatal injuries to be seen in the body of

the man-eater and that could possibly be an end to the rule of the man-eater. This

fight would do what the Government couldn’t do since years, it would perhaps bring

the 8 year rule of the man-eater come to a forever end.

The first round of the dreadful fight was fought with a great valour and barbarity and

hence couldn’t be concluded easily, but at the end bot the beasts were heard

screaming and growling. The fight was resumed after a gap of nearly 10-15 minutes,

but it was at a distance of two three yards from where it had originally initiated. The

local beast seemed better in fighting away the intruder out of the ring. The third

round was comparatively shorter than the previous two rounds but the amount of

hideousness wasn’t lessened even a bit. There was a long period of silence then, after

which it receded to the shoulder of the hill and after a few minutes it died out of

hearing.

There was still some 6 hours of darkness pertaining. The narrator knew the fact well

that his mission to Bhainswara has failed and hoped that the fight would have ended

up in killing the man-eater and his threat forever.

1.6 GLOSSARY OF DIFFICULT TERMS

UNARMED: not equipped with or without carrying weapons.

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CARNIVOROUS: (of an animal) feeding on other animals/ Depending on

other animal’s flesh for their food.

BROOD: think deeply about something that makes one unhappy, angry, or

worried.

WAILING: A loud cry.

CROWBAR: An iron bar flattened at one end to dig earth and make holes.

FRANTICALLY: In a distraught manner, giving way to fear, anxiety, or

other fragile emotions.

ENRAGING: Very angry or furious.

YAM: Yam is the common name for some plant species in the

genus Dioscorea (family Dioscoreaceae) that form edible tubers.

DREADFUL: causing or involving great suffering, fear, or unhappiness;

extremely bad or serious.

HIDEOUSNESS: horrible or frightful to the senses; repulsive; very ugly.

BARBARITY: extreme cruelty or brutality.

1.7 CHECK YOUR PROGRESS

1. How does the text open? Why was the woman wailing?

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2. What blame did the wailing woman put on the villagers?

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3. What was the prime goal of the narrator? Did he succeed in fulfilling his

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4. Where and how did the leopard keep his kill?

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5. How did the narrator plan to catch hold of the leopard?

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6. What did the narrator feel and what did he think while he was sleeping? What

was it actually?

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7. What did the narrator finally witness? How was it?

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8. How many rounds were there in the fight of the leopards? Whom do you

think won the fight at last?

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9. Why was the narrator disheartened?

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10. What happened after the long silence that took place in between the fight of

the leopards?

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1.9 LET US SUM UP

The above unit is about a fight that took place between two ferocious leopards in one

of the villages of Rudraprayag. The narrator, Jim Corbett is not only a writer but he

was also a great hunter and this is one of his memories where he witnesses a terrible

fight between two full-grown and furious leopards, one who already ruled the area

10

and the second wanted to rule his territory. There is a continuous play of suspense

and thrill as the story proceeds. The Leopard who already ruled the territory was a

big matter of terror for the villagers because he used to prey small children. In fact,

the day when the narrator reached the village, the leopard had already killed a small

boy and had witnessed his mother crying and wailing for her deceased child. The

narrator somehow aimed on catching hold of the leopard so that it can be killed, but

before he could anticipate the presence of the leopard, he witnessed these two

leopards ruining each other’s face to rule their desired territories.

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UNIT 2 : THE BICYCLE

Structure

2.0 Objectives

2.1 Introduction

2.2 About the Author, Dash Benhur

2.3 The Text, The Bicycle

2.4 Glossary of Difficult terms

2.5 Check your Progress

2.6 Let us Sum up

2.0 OBJECTIVE

After studying this unit, you be able to:

Learn about the various stories that are still unheard of and learn about new

characters and know about their lives and works.

Examine the stories and develop reading and writing skills by attempting the

related exercises and questions.

Enhance your knowledge in reading and writing.

Learn about Dash Benhur and his efficiency in writing.

Analyse the proficiency of Odia writers and their writings.

2.1 INTRODCUTION

For most of us, a bicycle has been the most reliable of friends that takes us from one

place to another, does it ask anything in return? Of course not, that’s the reason why

inanimate objects, especially the ones that have been with us since years, occupy

such a special place in our hearts and in our lives. Though the fact that bicycles are

losing their demand and there will be a time, when we won’t find a single bicycle on

the streets. It is believed that, “a cycle is a poor man’s transport, a rich man’s hobby

and a medical activity for the old. Read this fascinating story about a man’s deep

attachment towards his old bicycle and also his unwillingness to let the bicycle go

despite not having ridden it for quite a long period of time.

2.2 ABOUT THE AUTHOR, DASH BENHUR

Dash Benhur is the penname of Jitendra Narayan Dash, a well-known writer of

children’s stories in Odia. He is the author of more than 100 books, including 15

collection of short-stories. He is the recipient of numerous awards including the

‘Kendra Sahitya Akademi Awards’, ‘Odisha Sahitya Akademi Awards’ and ‘Odisha

Bigyan Akademi Awards’. He retired as the Principal of Samanta .

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2.3 THE TEXT, THE BICYCLE

Tana said, “Grandfather, your poetry is just like your old bicycle.”

Sudhir Babu looked at his grandson. He was in the seventh class and in his thirteenth

year, but his critical sense was remarkable. Sudhir Babu said, just to annoy the lad

“Why, do you hear my poetry creaking? Or its bell tinkling?”

The grandson was not to be put off. “No Grandfather, I don’t hear any such sounds.”

But your poems are as old-fashioned as your bicycle. Write poetry by all means if

you have to, but must you go on repeating “bicycle, bicycle” all the time? “The

bicycle is my friend”, “The bicycle is my life”, “The bicycle is my body,” and so on.

A lot of rubbish, if you ask me! It’s high time you got rid of that bicycle. It’s nothing

but garbage, littering up the house!”

Having said this, the boy flung the magazine on the bed and walked off.

Sudhir Babu was speechless for a minute. “Old fashioned garbage”, he says! He

muttered.

For the last two years, that bicycle had been the theme of all his poems. They had

been published in various magazines and readers had written letters praising them. A

publisher had even offered to put them together in a collection. But his grandson

declared it was rubbish!

Well, well—what can the child know of poetry? Can symbolism mean anything to

him? Then why take his criticism to heart? At first, Sudhir Babu had treated the

affair lightly, but that evening, when he picked up his pen to write yet another poem

on the same theme, his hand jerked to a stop. The old bicycle suddenly seemed to

confront him—thickly coated with dust, paint peeling off the rusted frame,

mudguards bent and battered, and the seat pointing backwards. The object that had

inspired a hundred poems stood before him accusing him.

He hadn’t ridden the bicycle for at least five years. But that did not mean that he had

distanced himself from it. They might have been separated physically, but it still

filled every fragment of his consciousness.

He felt he had to get up and take a look at the bicycle at once.

It had been standing in the same position, leaning against the wall in a corner of the

front verandah, for the last five years. He opened the front door and stepped out into

the verandah. The bicycle was almost hidden behind a shroud of dust, grime and

cobwebs. The tyres were deflated, robbed of their life-breath; the seat was about to

fall off; the mudguards were dented in a thousand places. All traces of paint had

vanished long ago. He gazed and gazed.

Yes, it was true. He hadn’t touched the bicycle once during the two years which he

had spent writing poetry dedicated to it. Not one loving touch, not one whisper of

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commiseration. Well, he might not have ridden it, but shouldn’t he have taken some

care of it?

What would it have said to him if it could speak? What a burden of hurt feelings it

must be carrying!

Memories returned. The bicycle had entered his life forty years ago, at the same time

as Rajani. She was a new bride then and it had been a brand new, green “Made in

England” Humber with twin forks. With a German bell on the handle-bar, the sound

of which could be heard across the neighbourhood. It has a Lucas dynamo whose

majestic hum filled the air whenever he pedalled along a lonely road. The powerful

beam from the lamp lit up the night.

Once, several of his friends and he had gone on a picnic. Everything was loaded onto

five bicycles, carrying eight grown men between them. The picnic spot was seven to

eight kilometres away from the village. They had taken a petromax for light. Food

was cooked; the fun and frolic came to an end. They sat down to eat in the purple

glow of the sunset. It soon grew darker, but when they tried to light the petromax, it

only spluttered and coughed. What were they to do? They were in the middle of a

forest; it was necessary to get back soon.

Then someone had a brainwave. “I say, Sudhir’s bicycle has a dynamo, doesn’t it?

It’s more powerful than any petromax.” The cycle was put on its stand and they took

turns to turn the crank, making the rear wheel go round, while the rest sat down to

eat. When it was time to return, Sudhir Babu’s bicycle led the way. No other bicycle

had a dynamo. So it was that the bicycle came to the rescue.

It had borne the burden of Sudhir Babu, his son, daughter and countless friends

patiently through the years. Innumerable bags filled with vegetables had been slung

from its handle-bars, sometimes meat. Goods ordered by Rajani had been carried

home on it from the market. She never visited the market—it wasn’t done in her

family, she said. So, on Rajo, Savitri amavasya, Holi or other festivals, Sudhir Babu

had to fetch eight or ten different sarees for her approval from a known shopkeeper

and she would select one, the others had returned. It was the bicycle that had to do all

the fetching and returning. True, Sudhir Babu pedalled, but apparently, it was the

bicycle’s labour; wasn’t it?

Sudhir Babu often felt the bicycle was alive to all that was going on. That was why,

on his way to the college, he frequently entered into a conversation with it. “You

know, friend,” he would begin “Rajani has become Rather irritable these days.” I

don’t like it all. She has sat on your front rod a couple of times, hasn’t she? How shy

she used to be! And now she gets upset so easily! I wonder what’s wrong. You

remember those days in Sundargarh, don’t you? Our son was about to be born. He

was expected on the twenty-eighth but the labour pains began on the twelfth. How

she suffered! It was night and there was not a rickshaw to be found. The hospital

didn’t have an ambulance. You seemed to be telling me something in gestures. So I

spread out a bed-sheet across your front rod and lifted Rajani onto it. Remember that

14

freezing winter night? And those two nurses—they were the Mother incarnate! God

knows what they did, but the child was born almost immediately.

“That son has married and become a father now. That rascal of a grandson is in the

seventh class, and a new bicycle, equipped with shock absorbers, has been bought for

him. Bright red in colour. Why should he even glance at you? Old-fashioned

garbage, he calls you.”

He was turning over page after page from the scrapbook of memories. In all these

episodes, he had been a participant—but the real hero was the bicycle.

In an emotional moment he had given it name—Veersen, raja Prithviraj Chauhan’s

horse was called Chetak and Alexander the Great had named his horse Bucephalus.

Then why shouldn’t the “Made in England” green Humner have a name? Sometimes,

when he had to clean and oil the machine, he would call out to his wife “Do you

hear? Bring me some coconut oil mixed with a little kerosene. I have to attend to

Veersen.”

He taught English in a college. His entire professional life had been spent in

Veersen’s company. Even after retirement, Sudhir Babu could be seen engaged in

various odd jobs around the city, mounted on Veersen. His visits to the Government

Treasury, library and literary meetings were all performed with Veersen’s help. His

friends teased him: Veersen was the elixir that helped preserve his health.

Five years ago, Sudhir Babu had hidden Veersen to a friend’s home on a visit. The

40-year old bicycle and its 63- year old rider usually made a safe pair; but God

knows what happened that day—Sudhir Babu ran headlong into a telephone pole and

had to be carried to the hospital. When he returned, three days later, Veersen had

been consigned to the position on the front verandah which it has occupied to this

day.

“No more bicycle rides for you!” his son had announced. “You were lucky to get off

so lightly.”

Then Sudhir Babu remembered: his vision had suddenly blurred as he cycled along

and his head reeled. But he could not recall how he had collided with the telephone

pole.

From that day, Veersen lay neglected.

His sin did not attempt to sell off the old bicycle or otherwise get rid of it, out of

regard for his father, but neither did he try to get it repaired. And now the grandson

says “Throw it out; it’s garbage!”

Sudhir Babu picked up a rag and wiped away some of the dust. Then he tried to take

the bicycle off the verandah, onto the road outside.

His son had gone to the office and his daughter-in-law was busy in the kitchen. His

grandson was studying. Rajani was in the backyard, doing something. The coast was

15

clear, Sudhir Babu walked ahead, dragging the bicycle with one hand. “Brother

Veersen,” he said, “you have suffered unpardonable neglect. I may not be able to ride

you again, but that doesn’t mean you will be left uncared for. My body has been in

flames ever since that grandson of mine called you garbage! Come, I’m going to get

you refurbished—whatever the cost.”

Sudhir Babu felt tired after he had dragged the old bicycle for some distance. Finally,

he arrived at Banamali’s Bicycle Repair Shop. Banamali was renowned for his magic

touch with old bicycles. Getting the bicycle to lean against a wall, Sudhir Babu said

“Banamali, I’m leaving my bicycle here. Repair it; do whatever is necessary—but I

want it to look new! Can you do it?” Banamali said he would need a week.

When Sudhir Babu returned seven days later, the old bicycle had been transformed.

It was once again Veersen, the battle-horse! Banamali handed over the slip of paper

on which he had totalled up the costs. Sudhir Babu paid up without wasting a word.

Had it been something else, he would surely have bargained—but not where Veersen

was involved.

Veersen came home again.

His son, shocked and incredulous, stared by turns at his father and the bicycle. Rajani

came out and had a look. Suhdir Babu sat down in his arm-chair and regarded the

bicycle with supreme satisfaction. Just then, his grandson appeared. “Grandfather, is

this your old bicycle?” he asked. “That’s wonderful! I’ll have two bicycles now. I’ve

outgrown the other one—it’s too short for me.” He laughed happily.

He did not wait to hear what his grandfather would have to say. Trundling the

bicycle down from the verandah, he rode off in a flash.

Sudhir Babu’s mind grew bright, as though he had been revived by a breath of fresh

air. He went into his room, picked up a pen and paper and began to write.

A new poem was burgeoning, like the tender shoot of a plant. Sudhir Babu was sure

that Tana would like this poem, for like the bicycle.

2.4 GLOSSARY OF DIFFICULT TERMS

LITTERING: make (a place or area) untidy with rubbish or a large number

of objects left lying about.

MUTTERED: say something in a low or barely audible voice, especially in

dissatisfaction or irritation.

BATTERED: injured by repeated blows or punishment.

SHROUD: a length of cloth or an enveloping garment in which a dead

person is wrapped for burial.

COBWEBS: a spider's web, especially when old and dusty.

SYMBOLISM: the use of symbols to express or represent ideas or qualities

in literature and in arts.

16

GRIME: Dirt that covers a surface; accumulated dirtiness and disorder.

DEFLATED: To release air or gas from something.

GAZED: to look at someone or something in a steady way and usually for a

longer period of time.

HUMBER: an English brand of bicycle manufactured by a British engineer

called Thomas Humber.

UNPARDONABLE: unforgivable.

BEEN IN FLAMES: to be very angry with someone.

TURDLING: to roll on wheels slowly but noisily.

ELIXIR: a magical liquid that can cure illness or extend life.

PETROMAX: brand name for a type of kerosene lamp.

BRAINWAVE: a sudden, clear idea.

DENTED: a hollow mark in the surface of something, caused by pressure or

by being hit by something heavy.

BURGEONING: to grow or to develop quickly.

INCREDULOUS: not able to believe.

REFURBISHED: to repair and make improvements to something

2.5 CHECK YOUR PROGRESS

1. What was the theme of Sudhir Babu’s poems for the last two years?

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2. Why was Tana annoyed with his grandfather’s poetry?

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3. How was Tana’s bicycle different from that of Sudhir Babu’s bicycle?

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4. What was Sudhir Babu’s profession?

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5. Why was Tana annoyed with his grandfather’s poetry?

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6. What kind of a bicycle did Sudhir Babu have? By what name did he address

his bicycle?

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7. What other incidents does Sudhir Babu recall where Veersen had emerged

as the real hero?

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8. How did Sudhir Babu breathe a new lease of life into his old bicycle?

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9. Why was Veersen consigned to a lonely position on the front verandah?

Why did Sudhir Babu’s family bar him from riding the bicycle?

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10. How did the bicycle come to the rescue of Sudhir Babu and his friends

when they found themselves stranded in a forest?

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2.6 LET US SUM UP

Inanimate objects are just not objects, they’re not lifeless either. Through human

interaction they come to life, at times even assume of having a soul. When someone

spends a quite considerable time of their life with them, those objects become a part

of their thoughts and memories. This story was about one such theme. It is a story

about such a relationship between Sudhir Babu and his old bicycle and how it

affects his equation with his grandson due to the cycle.

19

UNIT 3 : GEORGE V HIGH SCHOOL

Structure

3.0 Objectives

3.1 Introduction

3.2 About the writer, Dinanath Pathy

3.3 The text, George V High School

3.4 Glossary of Difficult terms

3.5 Check your progress

3.6 Let us sum up

3.0 OBJECTIVES

After studying this unit, you be able to:

Learn about the various stories that are still unheard of and learn about new

characters and know about their lives and works.

Learn about one of the famous writers who was born and bought up in Odisha

Enhance your knowledge in reading and writing.

Learn about Dinanath Pathy and evaluate his excellence in writing

3.1 INTRODUCTION

‘George V High School’ is a charming and ironic account of a familiar old school in

the interiors of Odisha. This essay recounts the author’s impression of the various

teachers who taught in that school. The narrator relates his experience in a detached

manner. The writing comes alive through vivid descriptions of the teachers he came

in contact with, in the school.

3.2 ABOUT THE WRITER, DINANATH PATHY

Dinanath Pathy (1942 till date) is a noted painter, sculptor and pioneer of Odia art

and craft. He can be justly described as Odisha’s cultural ambassador to the world.

He has worked in the capacity of Director, Alice Boner Institute, Varanasi; Secretary,

National Academy of Art New Delhi and curator of Arts and crafts, Odisha State

Museum. This essay is a chapter from his book ‘Drawing Master of Digapahandi’,

that offers a portrait of a drawing master in a remote village of South Odisha. It is

translated by a noted poet, critic and academician Niranjan Mohanty.

20

3.3 THE TEXT, GEORGE V HIGH SCHOOL

George V High School- the name might sound foreign. But this school was dear to us

in spite of its alien name. This tile-roofed school stood at the southern end of the

village in the same street which housed Chai master’s school. A stone wall ran

around the school. Beneath the tiled roof there was a wide verandah and thick round

twin-pillars. It had five to six rooms wherein students from class VIII to XI studied.

Within the boundary wall there were two more tile-roofed blocks. One of them

housed the office of the headmaster, Sri Ramanarayan Padhi, and the other block had

the office of the head clerk, Kama sir, science rooms, teachers’ common room, art

room in it. Later on, four thatched semi-open halls were added to the southern

boundary of the school. Students of class IV to class VII were taught there. Our

prayers were conducted in the open field that lay between the thatched halls and the

teachers’ common room. The theatre stage lay adjacent to the western boundary wall

beyond which lay the playground. One end of the playground touched the banks of

the huge pond and the on the two ends got lost in the vast expanse of rice fields. Just

beyond the main gate of the school was the office of the sub-registrar. On the right

side of this office, stood the King’s old cutcherry, which has now been converted

into Khemandi College. To the north of the sub registrar’s offie was situated the

hostel of the High School, opposite the hostel was Sripad master’s tuition centre.

I had studied in this school from class IV till XI. Over the years a remarkable change

in the appearance of the school has taken place. Many new buildings have come up

now and its name has been changed to Badakhemandi High School. Yet, whenever I

remember my school days, the image of the tile-roofed house comes to my mind, and

the memory of Sri Ramanarayan Padhi, the head master. He almost enjoyed the

powers of a District Collector. A powerful personality indeed! Students held him in

mortal fears as though he were a tiger. He was tall, fair and had curly hair and

sported an impressive moustache and had slightly blue eyes. He was as strict as he

was affectionate, loving and hard-working. He taught us English: ‘Down, down,

down went Alice into the rabbit hole: When he said, ‘down, down, down,’ he almost

sank into the chair he sat on. He had the ability to identify the naughty, mischievous

and the foolish students in the very first class. No mischief could escape his notice.

He would promptly say: ‘Agadhu, get me the canes.’ Agadhu, his peon, who had an

extra roll of fat round his neck, chest and belly, would bring a bundle of canes to

him. Then the headmaster would begin beating the students till they bled. Of course,

such corporeal punishment is not possible anywhere other than police stations. One

cannot imagine this being done in schools these days. There was’ no one to raise his

voice against Sri Ramanarayan Padhi. Ramanarayan Padhi, the village karji Shyam

Sundar Padhi and Balaji Raju kept the education, culture and politics of the village

firmly under their control.

Ramnarayan Padhi’s manner of going to the toilet was notable and could be

mentioned comfortably in the Gunnies Book of World Records. He would light one

cigarette when he started from the house. He would cover almost three to four

21

kilometres to reach the field which lay near the guesthouse and would light one

cigarette after the other on his way. One can call it chain-smoking. He would walk

this distance without caring for winter or rain, smoke emanating from his mouth as if

from a rail engine. The intoxicating stench of cigarette smoke would spread through

the village early in the morning.

When we were in the school, it owned two busses. The school was run with the

money earned from the bus service. Whenever the driver fell ill or was absent, the

headmaster would drive the bus. Parking the bus at the junction, he would come to

the school and after teaching English for an hour, he would go back to the junction to

drive the bus-passing effectlessly from studies to the steering wheel.

I received free scholarship throughout my school days due to Ramnarayan Padhi’s

compassion. Almost on all occasions such as school dramas. Ganesh puja, Saraswati

puja and Independence Day, I would be wanted by the headmaster. This doubled the

respect of other students for me. I received medals for my paintings for three

consecutive years from Keshav Maharana’s Drawing Master’s Association. So the

headmaster loved me dearly. Till he was appointed Joint Secretary of the Board of

Secondary Education, Orissa, he kept reminding me of those awards whenever we

met.

Sanatan Pujari, the Assistant Headmaster, taught us science, geography and English

non-detailed texts. He used illustrated charts and maps for every chapter in

geography. He asked me to prepare these charts. Sanatan Pujari had a gift for

drawing. It would have been better if he had been our drawing teacher. I haven’t seen

any other teacher preparing such excellent charts so far. I always secured very good

marks in geography. I stood first in the class. Geography has now become one of the

units of social science- no wonder therefore that when you ask the students to show

the Himalayan range thy point towards Kerala.

Headmaster Ramanarayan Padhi was a strict disciplinarian. Sanatan Pujari, on the

other hand was a tender hearted man and a devotee of Swami Nigamananda. He

played the violin well. He was a sentimental and withdrawn person. If he reached the

school late, he would tender his casual leave leave application to Agadhu at the gate

and go away. If a cat chased a chameleon, he would restrain the cat from committing

such an act of violence. Whenever Sanatan sir was the Headmaster in-charge in the

absence of Ramanarayan sir, it would be a day of fun for all of us. Two groups of

boys would approach the Headmaster in charge and request him to let them organise

a volleyball or football match. After remaining silent for a while he would say, ‘One

ball and two groups of boys’. Just wait for some time, let me consult gurudev

(Nigamananda) about this matter. He would run off to his room and come out a little

later. ‘Gurudev refused to let you play today,’ he would announce. I have not yet

forgotten two of his unjust actions. The first one was determining the gender of the

skeleton and the second one concerning my handwritten non-detailed note-book.

22

One day Sanatan sir was teaching science. Showing a skeleton, he was explaining the

anatomy of human body. Bimasen patra of our street and a friend of mine stood up

and asked whether the skeleton belonged to a male or a female. Sanatan sir flared up

at the question. Bhima had to pocket a lot of abuses in English and was drivem out of

the class. But, there was nothing irrelevant or unscientific about Bhima’s question.

The second occasion was when he was unjust to me when I had copied out the entire

non-detailed text-book myself in my copy. I had neatly written down the entire book

titled ‘Letters from a father to his daughter’ using Indian ink, taking the utmost care.

The book had a nice look. I should have been congratulated for this magnificent

piece of work. But what happened was just the opposite. At the time of reading, sir

somehow found out that my book was not a printed one. He snatched the book from

me, had a look at it, and then threw it away. The incident wounded me deeply. I felt

slighted, but I had no courage then to ask why he did so.

Long after the incident, in 1973, I had been to Boirani (Kavi Surya Nagar) to take

permission from the S.D.O’s office at that time. I thought of meeting him. He was

very happy to see me. He took me to his room. Many old incidents of my school days

crept into our discussion. I reminded him of the throwing of my non-detailed book.

Sir admitted his mistake and expressed his deep regret. But I had no intentions of

giving him pain.

Natabar Patnaik was a pillar of strength at George V High School. He was the senior

most teacher there and he was also hardworking, disciplined and a man of principles.

He was tall with a sword-like sharp nose, bony face and shrunken eyes. He would

come to the school tucking an umbrella under his arm. He taught us up to class VII.

He had an eye for details. While teaching, if any need for sending someone to the

house arose, he would call a boy and tell to him, ‘Go straight from the school to the

bazaar. Then take the left lane; you would arrive in front of the Dadhivaman temple

of Sanadanda. Then go straight to the east. After crossing half the distance, you

would see a house with a high verandah.The house has stone steps and is surrounded

by tagar plants. Go up the verandah; knock at the door with the help of the iron chain

attached to it with your right hand. My uncle will open the door. Tell him that I have

sent you, on the tin box kept in the bedroom, you’ll find my notebook having a blue

cover. On the notebook, I have left the dark-coloured cover of my glasses. Get it and

come soon: Most of the students in the school were from Digapahandi. Who would

face any difficulty doing this after such a description? But Natabar sir would like to

know from the student the next moment what exactly he said to him and how much

of it did the student remember. The student would be left with no other option but to

repeat the description. If by any case, he missed out any detail such as the flower

plants or the stone steps, Natabar sir would start the narration from the very

beginning. Students were mortally afraid of Natabar sir. If any drama was to be

staged in school, the headmaster Ramnarayan Padhi would give the charge of the

green room to Natabar sir. My elder brother and I would remain in charge of make-

up. “Forgetting comes naturally to artists”. Whenever they are engaged in some

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assignment, they would do it with all their heart and soul but once the work is

completed, they would misplace the brush and the colours. Natabar sir would not

spare anyone. If he ever gave a needle to anyone, he would remind the person time

and again until the person returned it. Whenever I had to sew a dress, I would

misplace the needle which I had borrowed from him. This would never escape

Natabar sir’s attention. He would warn me, saying, ‘Dinanath, take the needle this

time’. But if you don’t return it, you won’t get it again: But he was very affectionate

and did not have any qualms about violating the rules he framed when needed.

Pundit Durgamadhab or the junior Pundit was always busy collecting straw, starch

and chaff for his cows. He would talk about all these even while teaching. He would

remind someone in the middle of the class, ‘Chitta,’ what happened to those bundles

of straw? Tell your father to send a cartload of straw to my backyard.’ I have never

heard him discuss literature.

I was very close to Natabar sir.I helped him a lot with painting the doors and

windows of the school, painting the blackboard etc. I also helped him to prepare

charts and maps, drawing the image of Lord Ganesh and Goddess Saraswati,

decorating the school rooms, arranging exhibitions during the visit of a minister or an

officer. I used to assist him with building arches to welcome important guests. I

helped him in almost all kinds of activities. I had free access to Natabar sir’s art

room.

I did not have white shorts and vests. I faced difficulties in the game period every

Saturday for this reason. Neither the teachers nor the students had any objection

against me participating in the game as I fared well in my studies. I would wound a

coarse cotton towel around my chest occasionally, giving it the shape of a vest. I

often withdrew myself voluntarily instead of demanding anything. After the rains,

when the field filled with water, a group of reckless boys including me would go

there to play football. My friend Durgamadhab Das, who is now an O.A.S. officer,

played football well. But even he was afraid of playing with us in the rain-washed

field as we engaged ourselves in kicking the mud instead of the ball. Honestly

speaking, I wasn’t a great player. My friends often selected me as the referee in

volleyball matches as I could shout at the top of my voice. There was no difficulty on

the part of the referee to conduct the game even putting on a coarse cotton towel. I

therefore discharged my duties well.

Our country attained independence when we were in class IV and V. hence, we took

great care in decorating the classrooms on the Independence Day on the 15th

of

August. We would worship the framed photographs of Mahatma Gandhi, Jawaharlal

Nehru, Subhash Chandra Bose. Students who decorated their class rooms better than

others received prizes. A great change is observed in the Independence Day

celebrations now.

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3.4 GLOSSARY OF DIFFICULT TERMS

CUTCHERRY: the modern court in English

MISCHIEVOUS: deceitful

EMANATING: coming come/ extracted from

STENCH: a bad or pungent smell

RESTRAIN: to control or to resist

FLARE UP: to infuriate or to get angry

TUCK: to put inside

3.5 CHECK YOUR PROGRESS

1. How do you explain the term Master?

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2. What would you do if you are appointed as a teacher in a village school?

What novelty would you bring to the school?

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3. What is the difference between the village school and a city school in terms

of quality of teaching and learning?

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4. What is the place that the narrator has described in the essay? What is the

impression that you get from the description?

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5. What is the funniest aspect of the headmaster of the school?

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3.6 LET US SUM UP

This essay is an intimate account of a time and place that is fast disappearing or it is

in the verge of perishing. Today, the city-bred adolescent student is hardly aware of

the life of a student/teacher in a village school. It is important to acquaint them with

this relic from the past.

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UNIT 4 : THE MAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

Structure

4.0 Objectives

4.1 Introduction

4.2 About the Writer: Alexander Baron

4.3 The text

4.4 Glossary of Difficult Terms

4.5 Check your progress

4.6 Let us sum up

4.0 OBJECTIVES

After studying this unit, you be able to:

Learn about the various stories that are still unheard of and learn about new

characters and know about their lives and works.

Examine the stories and develop reading and writing skills by attempting the

related exercises and questions.

Enhance your knowledge in reading and writing.

Learn about Alexander Baron and his efficiency in writing.

4.1 INTRODUCTION

‘Pride comes before a fall’, this one phrase is portrayed in this narration by veteran

writer Alexander Baron. During the 1930s, with his friend Ted Willis, Baron was a

leading activist and organiser of the Labour League of Youth (at that time largely

under the influence of the Communist Party of Great Britain). He helped establish

what the League’s monthly paper, Advance became. He campaigned against

the fascists in the streets of the East End and edited the Young Communist League

(UK) magazine Challenge. Baron became increasingly disillusioned with hard left

politics as he spoke to International Brigade fighters returning from the Spanish Civil

War. He was for a while a full-time Communist Party worker and according to his

unpublished memoir had been chosen to go underground in the event that the Party

was proscribed during the Second World War, which it initially denounced the

conflict as 'an imperialist war'. He finally broke with the communists shortly after the

war.

Baron served in the Pioneer Corps of the British Army during World War II, and was

among the first Allied troops to be landed in Sicily, Italy and on D-Day. Between

1943 and late 1944, he experienced fierce fighting in the Italian

campaign, Normandy and in Northern France and Belgium. In 1945 he was

27

transferred as an Instructor to a British Army training camp in Northern Ireland,

where he received a serious head injury and was hospitalised for over six

months.[2] Other themes of his novels were London life, politics, class, relations

between men and women, and the relationship between the individual and society.

While he continued to write novels, in the 1950s Baron wrote screenplays for

Hollywood, and by the 1960s he had become a regular writer on BBC's Play for

Today. He wrote several episodes of the A Family at War series: 'The Breach in the

Dyke' (1970), 'Brothers in War' (1970), 'A Lesson in War' (1970), 'Believed Killed'

(1971), 'The Lost Ones' (1971), and 'Two Fathers' (1972).[3] Later he became well

known for drama serials like Poldark and A Horseman Riding By, and in the 1980s

for BBC classic literary adaptions including Ivanhoe, Sense and

Sensibility (1981), Jane Eyre (1983), Goodbye, Mr Chips (1984), Oliver

Twist (1985), and Vanity Fair (1987). He also scripted the pilot episode, "A Scandal

in Bohemia," for Granada Television's The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1984–

1985).[4][5]

In 1991, Baron was elected an Honorary Fellow of Queen Mary, University of

London, in recognition of his contribution to the historical and social understanding

of East London.[6]

Baron's personal papers are held in the archives of the University of Reading. His

wartime letters and unpublished memoirs (Chapters of Accidents) were used by the

historian Sean Longden for his book To the Victor the Spoils, a social history of

the British Army between D-Day and VE Day.[7] Baron has also been the subject of

essays by Iain Sinclair and Ken Worpole.

Since Baron died in December 1999 his novels have been republished several times,

testifying to a strong resurgence of interest in his work among the reading public as

well as among critics and academics. These include Baron's first book, the war

novel From the City, From the Plough (Black Spring Press, 2010; Imperial War

Museum, 2019); his cult novel about the London underworld of the early 1960s, The

Lowlife (Harvill, 2001; Black Spring Press, 2010; translated into Spanish as Jugador,

La Bestia Equilátera, 2012), which was cited in Jon Savage’s England’s Dreaming as

a literary antecedent of punk; King Dido (Five Leaves, 2009, re-issued 2019), a story

of the violent rise and fall of an East End London tough in Edwardian England; Rosie

Hogarth (Five Leaves, 2010, re-issued 2019); and his second war novel There's No

Home, the story of a love affair between a British soldier and Sicilian woman during

a lull in the fierce fighting of the Italian campaign (Sort Of Books, 2011; Chinese

edition published by Hunan Art and Literature Publishing House, 2013). Baron's

third work based on his wartime experiences, The Human Kind, was republished by

Black Spring Press in Autumn 2011. His novel about a Jewish RAF officer's return

to post-war London, With Hope Farewell (1952), was re-issued by Five Leaves in

2019, and his semi-autobiographical account of a young man's political coming of

age, The In-Between Time (1971) is also scheduled for re-issue in the near future.

28

In 2019 Five Leaves also published, for the first time, Baron's Spanish Civil War

novel The War Baby, described by critic David Herman in a long review in the

Times Literary Supplement as 'his best account, and one of the best accounts by any

British writer, of disillusionment with the left.' [8] In 2019 also, the Imperial War

Museum issued its own edition of From the City, From the Plough as one of its IWM

Wartime Classics. [9]

In 2019 the first full-length study of Baron's life and work was published by Five

Leaves: So We Live: the novels of Alexander Baron, edited by Susie Thomas,

Andrew Whitehead and Ken Worpole. [10] In addition to essays by the three editors,

other essayists include novelist Anthony Cartwright, military historian Sean

Longden, and historian Nadia Valman. The study also includes interviews with

Baron as well as key articles by him on Jewishness and literature, together with

archive photographs, and a walking guide to Stoke Newington highlighting key

locations mentioned in his novels.

(http://www.gpedia.com/en/m/gpedia/Alexander_Baron)

4.2 ABOUT THE WRITER: ALEXANDER BARON

Alexander Baron (1917-99) was a British author and screen writer. He worked as the

assistant editor of the socialist magazine Tribune, which he quit to enlist in the army

when the Second World War broke out. After the war, he became the editor of New

Theatre of magazine. He drew on his wartime experiences to produce three best-

selling war novels, the most highly acclaimed of them being ‘From the City’, ‘From

the Plough’. In addition to writing novels, Baron wrote screenplays for Hollywood

during the 1950s, and by the 1960s, he had become a regular writer on the BBC’s

drama series, ‘The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. ‘He is best known for his highly

acclaimed novel about D-Day, From the City, from The Plough (1948), and his

London novel The Lowlife (1963). Baron served in the Pioneer Corps of the British

Army during World War II, and was among the first Allied troops to be landed

in Sicily, Italy and on D-Day. Between 1943 and late 1944, he experienced fierce

fighting in the Italian campaign, Normandy and in Northern France and Belgium. In

1945 he was transferred as an Instructor to a British Army training camp in Northern

Ireland, where he received a serious head injury and was hospitalised for over six

months. Other themes of his novels were London life, politics, class, relations

between men and women, and the relationship between the individual and society.

There has been a revival of interest in Baron’s work since his death. His personal

papers were used for a book on the social history of the British army during the

World War II and many of his novels are now being re-published.

29

4.3 THE TEXT, THE MAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH

The first time I met Quelch at the training depot. A man is liable to acquire in his

first week of army life--- together with his uniform, rifle and equipment--- a

nickname. Anyone who saw Private Quelch, lanky, stooping, frowning through horn-

rimmed spectacles, understood why he was known as ‘the Professor’. Those who had

any doubts on the subject lost them after a five minutes conversation with him.

I remember the first lesson we has in musketry. Westwood in an attentive circle. The

sergeant, a man as dark and sun-dried as raisins was describing the mechanism of a

service rifle. “The muzzle velocity or speed at which the bullet leaves the rifle.” He

told us, ‘is well over two thousand feet per second.” A voice interrupted. ‘Two

thousand, four hundred and forty feet per second.’ It was the professor. ‘That’s

right,’ the sergeant said without enthusiasm and went on lecturing. When he had

finished he put questions to us. Perhaps in the hope or revenge, he turned with his

questions again and again to the Professor. The only result was to enhance the

Professor’s glory. Technical definitions, the parts of the rifle, its use and care, he had

them all by heart.

The sergeant asked, ‘You had any training before?’

The Professor answered with a phrase that was to become familiar to all of us. ‘No,

Sergeant. It’s all a matter of intelligent reading.’

That was our introduction to him. We soon learned more about him. He saw to that.

He meant to get on, he told us. He had brains. He was sure to get a commission,

before long. As a first step, he meant to get a stripe.

In pursuit of his ambition Private Quelch worked hard. We had to give him credit for

that. He borrowed training manuals and stayed up late at nights reading them. He

badgered the instructor with questions. He drilled with enthusiasm. On route marches

he was not only miraculously tireless but infuriated us all with his horrible heatiness.

‘What about a song, chaps?’ is not greeted politely at the end of thirty miles. His

salute at the pay table was a model to behold. When officers were in sight he would

swing his skinny arms and march to the canteen like a Guardsman. And day in and

day out, he lectured to us on every aspect of human knowledge. At first we had a

certain respect for him, but soon we lived in terror of his approach. We tried to hit

back at him with clumsy sarcasms and practical jokes. The Professor scarcely

noticed; he was too busy working for his stripe. Each time one of us made a mistake

the Professor would publicly correct him. Whenever one of us shone, the professor

outshone him. After a hard morning’s work cleaning out our hut, we would listen in

silence to the Orderly Officer’s praise. Then the professor would break out with a

ringing. ‘Thank you, sir!’ And how superior, how condescending he was! He would

always say, ‘Let me show you, fellow,’ or, ‘No, you’ll ruin your rifle that way, old

man.’

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We used to pride ourselves on aircraft recognition. Once out for a walk, we heard the

drone of a plane flying high overhead. None of us could even see it in the glare of the

sun. Without even a glance upward the Professor announced, ‘That, of course, is a

North American Harvard Trainer’. It can be unmistakably identified by the harsh

engine note, due to the high tip speed of the airscrew.’

What could a gang of louts like us do with a man like that?

None of us will ever forget the drowsy summer afternoon which was such a turning

point in the professor’s life. We were sprawling contentedly on the warm grass while

Corporal Turnbull was taking a lesson on the hand grenade.

Corporal Turnbull was a young man, but he was not a man to be trifled with. He had

come back from Dunkirk with all his equipment correct. He was our hero, and we

used to tell each other that he was so tough that you could hammer nails into him

without his noticing it. ‘The outside of a grenade, as you can see,’ Corporal Turnbull

was saying, ‘is divided up into a large number of fragments to assist segmentation.’

‘Forty-four’ ‘What’s that?’ The Corporal looked over his shoulder. ‘Forty-four

segments.’ The Professor beamed at him. The Corporal said nothing, but his brow

tightened. He opened his mouth to resume. ‘And by the way, Corporal.’ We were all

thunderstruck.

The Professor was speaking again. ‘Shouldn’t you have started off with the five

characteristics of the grenade? Our instructor at the other camp always used to, you

know.’

In the silence that followed, the Corporal’s face turned dark. ‘Here,’ he said at last,

‘you give this lecture!’ As if afraid to say anymore, he tossed the grenade to the

Professor. Quite unabashed, Private Quelch climbed to his feet. With the air of a man

coming into his birth right he gave us an unexceptionable lecture on the grenade.

The squad listened in a horrified kind of silence. Corporal Turnbull stood and

watched. When the lecture was finished he said, ‘Thank you, Private Quelch. Fall in

with the others now. ‘He did not speak again until we had fallen in and were waiting

to be dismissed. Then he addressed us. ‘As some of you may have heard,’ he began

deliberately, ’the platoon officer has asked me to nominate one of you…’ He paused

and looked up and don the ranks as if seeking final confirmation of a decision.

So this was the great moment! Most of us could not help glancing at Private Quelch,

who stood rigidly to attention and started straight in front of him with an expression

of self-conscious innocence.’…for permanent cookhouse duties. I’ve decided that

Private Quelch is just the man for the job.’ Of course, it was a joke for days

afterwards; a joke and joy to all of us. I remember, though….. My friend Trower and

I were talking about it a few days later. We were returning from the canteen in our

own hut.

Through the open door, we could see the three cooks standing against the wall as if at

bay and from within came the monotonous beat of a familiar voice. ‘Really, I must

31

protest against this abominably unscientific and unhygienic method of peeling

potatoes. I need only draw your attention to the sheer waste of vitamin values. We

fled.

4.4 GLOSSARY OF DIFFICULT TERMS

PRIVATE: An ordinary soldier.

AIRCRAFT RECOGNITION: Identifying an aircraft.

HARVARD TRAINER: a kind of aircraft used for training.

DUNKIRK: a town in Northern France.

BADGER: to pester, worry, annoy

COMMISSION: a high rank in the armed forces

DEPOT: (here) a place where new recruits are trained.

LOUT: an awkward fellow.

MUSKETRY: the art of using guns. (musket: an old name for gun)

ORDERLY OFFICER: officer on duty for the day.

PLATOON: a sub division of a company of soldiers.

REPRIMAND: to express a strong disapproval.

SERGEANT: a military officer just above a corporal.

TRAINING MANUAL: a handbook dealing with training.

UNABASHED: without any feeling of embarrassment or shame.

4.5 CHECK YOUR PROGRESS

1. What made Private Quelch stand out from amongst his peers in the army?

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2. How does his nick name show that he does not fir into the army ethos?

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3. How is his character trait suggested by his physical appearance?

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4. We are told that Private Quelch worked hard to display his knowledge to get

a promotion; but his enthusiasm and his unconquerable spirit seems to tell a

different story. What is it?

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5. What does private Quelch attribute his awesome knowledge to? What was

his pet expression or statement?

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6. What is the turning point in this story?

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7. How is the corporal’s hardness suggested? How is this a function of army

life?

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8. How did the corporal get his revenge?

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4.6 LET US SUM UP

Knowledge without humility can be self-defeating. One does not have to advertise

one’s knowledge in order to grab public attention and respect. The story ‘The Man

Who Knew Too Much’ directs our attention to such characters in our society who

desperately seek recognition and can go to any extent to achieve it. Private Quelch,

the hero of the story is one such character.

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UNIT 5 : UNEASY HOMECOMING

Structure

5.0 Objective

5.1 Introduction

5.2 About the writer, Will. F. Jenkins

5.3 The text, Uneasy Homecoming

5.4 Glossary of Difficult terms

5.5 Check your progress

5.6 Let us Sum up

5.0 OBJECTIVE

After studying this unit, you be able to:

Learn about the various stories that are still unheard of and learn about new

characters and know about their lives and works.

Examine the stories and develop reading and writing skills by attempting the

related exercises and questions.

Learn about a veteran writer Will. F. Jenkins and his writing skills.

5.1 INTRODUCTION

Uneasy Homecoming is the story of Connie and what she discovers when she returns

home after a two-week holiday. A sense of dread and uneasiness is made apparent

from the first sentence which eventually spins itself into an atmosphere of mystery

and terror that keeps the readers hooked throughout the story. Jenkins skilfully brings

together the themes of isolation and crime in order to build up suspense and tension.

When Connie arrives home, she is hit by a sudden feeling of anxiety and

apprehension to which she is unable to assign any possible reason or explanation. At

first, she dismisses her fears as vague, but they turn out to be justified when she finds

out that her house has been used as a hiding place by a “dangerous man” or a burglar.

Although Connie recognises the intruder, his identity is withheld from the readers to

further heighten the tension in the story. Who is the intruder? What ultimately

happens to Connie? Let’s find out

5.2 ABOUT THE WRITER, WILL. F. JENKINS

William Fitzgerald Jenkins (1896-1975) was one of the most prolific science fiction

writers of the twentieth century. He was born in Norfolk, England and he received

his education there. He wrote under numerous pennames, including Murray Leinster,

35

William Fitzgerald, Louisa Carter Lee and Farquar. His stories mostly include mad

scientists and criminal masterminds who go about terrorizing people with dangerous

scientific inventions or unlawful activities.

5.3 THE TEXT, UNEASY HOMECOMING

Connie began to have the feeling of dread and uneasiness in the taxi but told herself

it was not reasonable. She dismissed it decisively when she reached the part of the

town in which all her friends lived. She could stop and spend the evening with

someone until Tome got home. But she didn’t. She thrust away the feeling as the taxi

rolled out across the neck of land beyond most of the houses. The red, dying sun cast

long shadows across the road.

So far, their house was the only one that had been built on the other side of the bay.

But she could see plenty of other houses as the taxi drew up before the door. Those

other houses were across the bay, to be sure, but there was no reason to be upset. She

was firm with herself.

The taxi stopped and the last thin line of red sun went down below the world’s edge.

Dusk was already here. But everything looked perfectly normal. The house looked

neat and welcoming, and it was good to be back. She paid the taxi driver and he

kindly put her suitcases inside her door. The uneasy feeling grew stronger as he left.

But she tried not to heed it.

It continued while she heard the taxi moving away and driving down the road. But it

remained essentially the same- a sort of vague restlessness and fear- until she went

into the kitchen. Then the feeling changed.

She was in the kitchen, with the close smell of a shut-up house about her, when she

noticed the change. Her suitcases still laid in the hall where the taxi driver had piled

them. The front door was still open to let in some fresh air, and quite suddenly, she

had an urgent conviction that there was something here that she should notice.

Something quite inconspicuous. But this sensation was just as absurd as the feeling

she’d had in the taxi.

There was a great silence outside the house. This was dusk, and the bird and insect

noises were growing fainter. There were no neighbours near to make other sound.

She turned on the refrigerator, and it began to make a friendly humming sound. She

turned on the water, and it poured out of the tap. But there her queer sensation took a

new form. It seemed that every movement produced a noise which advertised her

presence, and she felt that there was some reason to be utterly still and that really was

nonsense too.

She glanced around the dining room. She regarded her luggage still piled in the hall

near the open front door. Everything looked exactly as everything should look when

one returns from a two week’s holiday and one’s husband has been away on business

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at the same time. Tom would get home about midnight. She had spoken to him over

the telephone yesterday. He would positively get back in a few hours. So it would be

absurd not to stay here to greet him. The feeling she had, she decided firmly, was

simply a normal dislike of being alone and she would not be silly.

She glanced around the kitchen, afterwards she remembered that she had looked

straight at the back door without seeing what was there to be seen. She went firmly

down the hall. Then she went out of the doors to look at her flowers.

The garden looked only a little neglected. The west was a fading, already dim glory

of red and gold. She could not see too many details, but the garden was sweet-

smelling and appealing in the dusk. She saw the garage locked and empty, of course,

since tomorrow had the car-and it felt a minor urge to go over to it, but she did not.

Afterwards the memory of that minor urge made her feel faint. But it was only an

idea that she dismissed.

She smelled the comfortable, weary smells of the last summer evening, which would

presently give way to the sharper, fresher scents of night. There was the tiny darting

shadow of a bat-overhead, black against the dark blue of the sky. It was the time

when, for a little space, peace seems to embrace all the world. But the nagging

uneasiness persisted even out there.

There was a movement by the garage, but it failed to catch her eye. If she had looks-

even if she failed to see the movement, she might still have seen the motor-cycle. It

did not belong here, but it was leaning against the garage wall as if its owner had

ridden it here and leaned it confidently where it would be hidden from anyone

locking across the bay. But Connie noticed nothing, she simply felt uneasy.

She found herself going nervously back towards the house. The sunset colours faded

and presently it was all dark outside. She heard her footsteps on the ground. The dry

leaves brushed against her feet occasionally. It seemed to her that she hurried which

was totally absurd. So she forced to walk naturally and resisted an impulse to look

about.

That was why she failed to notice the pantry window. She came, to the front of the

house. Her heels made clicking sounds on the steps, she felt a need to be very quiet

and to hide herself.

Yet she had no reason to fear about anything that she had actually noticed. She

hadn’t seen anything strange about the back door or the pantry window and she

hadn’t noticed the motor-cycle or the movement by the garage. The logical

explanation for the feeling of terror was simply that it was dark and she was alone.

She repeated that explanation as she forced herself to enter the dark, front doorway.

She wanted to gasp with relief as she felt for the switch and the lights came on. The

dark rooms remaining were more terrifying then that of the night outside. So she

went all over the ground floor, turning on the lights and tried not to think of going

37

upstairs. There was no one within call and no one but even the taxi driver knew that

she was here and also that anything could happen.

But she did not know of anything to cause her danger. Connie had felt and fought

occasional fear before, to bring her nameless frights into the light and to scorn them.

She had talked lightly in the past of the imaginary things towards which women feel

such terror. The things which nervous believe are following them; the things

imagined to be hiding in cupboards and behind dark trees in the lonely streets. But

her past scorn failed to drive her terror away now, she tried to be angry with herself

because she was being as silly as the neurotic female who cannot sleep unless she

looks under her bed at night. But still, Connie could not drive herself to go upstairs

or to look under her own bed right now.

It was an unfortunate omission.

In the lighted living-room, she had the feeling of someone staring at her from the

dark. It was unbearable. She went to the telephone, absolutely certain about the fact

that there was nothing wrong. But if in case she talked to someone, she called Mrs

Winston. It was not a perfect choice. Mrs Winston was not nearly of Connie’s own

age, but Connie felt so sorry for the older woman that when she needed comfort she

often instinctively called her. Talking to someone else who needed comforting

always seemed to make one’s own troubles go away.

Mrs Winston’s voice was bright and cheerful over the phone, “My dear Connie! How

nice it is that you’re back with us!”

Connie felt better instantly. She felt her tension leaving her, she heard voice

explaining that she’d had a lovely holiday and that Tom was coming back tonight

and Mrs Winston said anxiously, ‘I do hope your house is all right, Connie, is it? It’s

been dreadful here! Did you hear?

‘Not a word since I left’, Said Connie. ‘What’s happened?’

She expected to hear about someone having been unkind to Charles, who was Mrs

Winston’s only son. He gave Connie the creeps, but she could feel very sorry for his

mother. He had a talent for getting into trouble. There’d been trouble with a girl

when he was only sixteen, he had been caught stealing in school when there was no

excuse for it, and he’d been expelled from college and nowadays wore an apologetic

air. Mrs Winston tried to believe that he was already twenty, and at twenty a large,

awkward young man with an apologetic air and a look of always thinking of

something else-well, one could sympathize with his mother and still feel

uncomfortable about him.

Mrs Winston’s voice went on explaining and the feeling of terror came back upon

Connie with a blow.

There had been a series of burglaries in the town. The Hamilton’s’ House had been

robbed while they were out for an evening card game. The Blair’s house was looted

38

while they were away. The Smithson’s, The Tourney’s and the Saddler’s shop was

robbed and the burglars seemed to know exactly where Mr. Saddler kept his day’s

receipts and tool them and the tray of watches and fountain pens and the cameras and

the poor Mr. Field.

Mr. Field was the ancient cashier at Saddler’s. He had interrupted the burglars and

they had been beaten him horribly, leaving him to die all alone. He had never

regained consciousness and it was not believed now at the hospital that he ever

would.

Connie said from a dry throat, ‘I wish you hadn’t told me that tonight, I’m all alone.

Tom won’t be back until midnight. ‘But my dear,’ Mrs Winston exclaimed, ‘you

mustn’t’. I’ll find Charles and get him to come for you right away! You can spend

the evening here, and he can take you back then. Connie shook her head at the

telephone. ‘Oh no! That would be silly!’

She heard her voice refusing and her mind protested against the refusal. But Charles

made her flesh crawl. She could not bear to think of him driving her through the

darkness. Terror without foundation was bad enough, she thought, without actual

dislike besides.

‘I’m quite all right!’ she insisted. ‘Quite! I do hope Mr. Field gets better, but I’m

alright...’ When she hung up the phone she was aware that she felt sick. But it was

startling to discover that her knees were physically weal when she started to move

from the instrument. She could telephone someone else, and they would come for

her. But Mrs Winston would be offended and take it as an insult and Connie was still

sure that her fear was quite unreasonable, it was just a feeling.

She moved aimlessly away from the telephone, found herself at the foot of the stairs.

Then she looked up at the dark above and wanted to cry. But a saving fury came to

her, she would not yield to groundless fears, she was in terror of, but actually it was

of them, the unknown men and women are taught to fear as dangerous. ‘Absurd!’

Connie told to herself.

She got a suitcase and started for the stairs. It was deep at night now. If she looked

out at the garage, she would see nothing. She climbed the stairs into the darkness,

nothing happened. She pressed a switch and the passage sprang into light, she

breathed again and went into Tom and her bedroom. There was dust on the dressing

table, there was also an ash-tray. She put down the suitcase and was conscious of her

bravery because she was angry.

The she saw cigarette ends on the rug. Someone had definitely sat on it and had

smoked leisurely. A corner from the bedclothes was pulled aside, ‘What was under

the bed?’ she thought. She backed up from it to a chair that fell down, the noise

literally made her freeze.

But, nothing happened, there was no change in the friendly hum of the refrigerator

downstairs. No reaction to the sound of the fallen chair was actually seen. If the

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things that she was afraid of, had hidden themselves under the bed, they would’ve

come out at the terrible noise of the fallen chair.

At present, her breathing was loud enough for her own ears. Connie bent and looked

under the bed, she had to, though there was no one under her bed. But there was an

object that seemed strange to her eyes. After thinking for a long while, Connie

dragged it out, it was a bag with bulges in it. Her hands shook horribly, but she

emptied its contents on the floor. There were cameras. ‘Silver Sally Hamilton’s

necklaces and rings’. There were watches and fountain pens. This must be what the

burglars had taken from the Hamilton’s house and the Blair’s and the Smithson’s and

the Tourney’s. The cameras and pens and watches came from Saddler’s shop, where

Mr Field had come upon the burglars and they had almost beaten him to death.

Connie went to the bedroom doors. Her knees were moist, her house had been used

as a hiding place for the loot of the burglaries that had taken place in her absence.

But now, if they ever found out that she was back, without much reasoning, she

could easily guess why Mr Field had nearly been killed. He must have recognized the

burglars and now they could look across the bay and see that Connie was finally

home. Wouldn’t they know instantly that she would soon find their loot? And that

she then would telephone for the police to come?

Unless they came and stopped her, quickly shivering, Connie turned out the light in

her bedroom and in the hall upstairs. Downstairs, she turned out the light in the

living-room, went quickly to the front door and locked it. She was leaving it when

she thought to feel her way across the dark room and make sure that the window was

locked. If the lights had been seen across the bay… she hastened desperately to turn

out the rest of the lights, like the dining-room’s light, the windows were locked, the

pantry was dark. She was moaning with fright to enter. She flashed on the light to

make sure of the window.

The window was broken, a neat section of glass was missing. It had been cracked

and removed so that someone could easily reach in by simply unlocking it. Connie

turned off the light quickly, fled into the kitchen and made it dark, but as the bulb

dimmed, she realised what she had seen in the very act of pressing the light switch.

The back door was not fully closed, the key was missing, further there was mud on

the floor where someone had come in more than once. It seemed like the burglars

must have mad frequent use of the house.

She stood panting for breath in the dark. There was a continuous croaking of the

frogs that came from the outdoors. There was a sudden knock and her heart stood

still until she realised that a night-flying insect had bumped against the window.

It was by chance that it had done so just then, of course, but it was shocking, in fact

the most sensible of all would be going to the telephone now. She could not see to

dial any number but somehow she must otherwise things might take an ugly shape.

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She felt her way blindly on to the instrument, her fingers on the wall made

whispering sounds that guided her and she became aware of the loud beating of her

heart. Just as she reached the telephone, there was a faint noise which might have

been a footstep in the garden.

She waited, with a feeling of clasping fear, so much that her body did not seem to

exist and she had no physical sensation at all. But a part of her brain definitely saw

infinite despair that if the burglars had been near the house at sunset, intending to

enter it as soon as darkness fell, they would have seen the taxi deliver her. They

would have known that sooner or later she would discover the proof of their presence

and what she just did told them of her discovery. The light in the bedroom where

their loot was hidden turned out… They would know she had darkened the house to

hide in it, to use the telephone.

There was a soft sound at the back door, it squeaked and Connie went stiff. The

sound of the telephone dial would tell everything, she would not possible summon

help. There was a soft whisper of a foot on the kitchen floor. Connie’s hands closed

convulsively, the one thought that came to her now was that she must breathe

quietly.

There was a grey glow somewhere. The figure in the kitchen was throwing a torch

beam on the floor, then it halted, waiting…. He knew that she was hiding somewhere

in the house. He almost went soundlessly into the living-room. She saw the glow of

light there, back into the kitchen. She could hear her moving quietly and listening

towards the door through which she head come only a few seconds before to use the

telephone.

He came through that door, within three feet of her, but when he was fully through

the doorway, she was behind him, he again flashed the light downwards. But he did

not think to look behind him, she was hence, saved for the moment due to this.

In the grey-light reflection that reflected from the floor, she could recognize him. He

went into the dining-room, he moved very quietly, but he bumped ever so slightly

against a chair. The noise made her want to shriek. He was hunting for her, and he

knew that she was in the house and also that he had to kill her, he had to get his loot

and get away and she must not be able to tell anything about him to anyone.

He was back in the kitchen again, he stood there, listening and Connie was aware of

a new and added emotion which came of her recognition of him. She felt that she

would lie down at any moment and scream because she obviously knew him. He

came towards the door again, but he went upstairs, the stairs creaked under his

weight. He must have reasoned cunningly that she would want to hide, because she

was afraid. So he would go into the bedroom and look under the bed.

Connie slipped her feet out of her slippers, he had not reached the top of the stairs

before she stood in her stocking feet in the blackness below. The front door was

impossible as it was locked, she would have to unlock it and that would again end up

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in making a noise. She crept out of it, with the utmost care that almost vanished

when she was in that blessed night. There were stars, she remembered that she must

not step on the small stones on which her feet might make a noise, so she stepped on

to the grass and she manage to flee.

There were sounds inside the house. He was opening cupboards deliberately in order

to make sounds and to fill her with panic as he hunted her down, though he hadn’t

yet anticipated that she was outside. There were bushes by the garage, so she slowed

her flight to avoid them and then she came upon the motorcycle, she smelled it, it

was oil, petrol and rubber, it was useless to her. She had no idea how to operate it but

suddenly a wild escape occurred to her- the motorcycle wasn’t entirely useless.

Connie ran her hands over the machine, she turned a little tap. The smell of petrol

grew stronger, there was a crash inside the house, but outside, the night was full of

stars and the air was cool and sweet except that the smell of petrol was growing

stronger in it. Connie had a box of matches in her pocket, she quickly got it out and

in one motion, he struck a match and dropped it and ran away into the dark, with the

strange feeling of grass under her feet.

The petrol blazed fiercely, she hid herself in the shadows and watched sobs trying to

form in her throat. The fire would be seen across the bay. It would plainly be at

Connie’s house. People would come quickly- a lot of them rather and also fire

engines. As the flames grew higher, she saw the figure plunge from the house,

running furiously towards the fire, trying to beat it out, but alas! It was impossible.

He knew it, even his twisted mind would tell him that nothing could hide his identity

now. The motorcycle would be an identification enough and there was already a lot

of loot in the house. Connie found herself weeping, it was partly a relief but it was

also the frightening realisation that the fears she had about them, the men who prey

on others, were not baseless.

The lights of the cars began to focus towards the house along the road from the

mainland. The bells of fire engines started ringing and grew louder eventually and in

the leaping flames surrounding the motor-cycle, a large, awkward, desperate figure

threw useless handfuls of earth upon the machine. Was he, Connie wondered, trying

to create the hopeless pretence that he was the first to help?

Even so, she was quite safe now, Connie knew this as a matter of fact. She began to

cry in reaction from her terror, but also swept as if her heart would break for poor

Mrs. Winston, she, could have been murdered. She could have been the victim of one

of those twisted men who prey on their fellow beings. But she wept for Mrs Winston.

She, Connie would not now be one of those women they had killed but Mrs Winston

was the mother of one of them for sure.

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5.4 GLOSSARY OF DIFFICULT TERMS

DREAD: To fear something that will might or might not happen.

UNEASINESS: Causing physical or mental discomfort or anxiety.

DECISIVELY: Able to make choices quickly and comfortably.

THE NECK OF LAND: A narrow stretch of land.

INCONSPICUOUS: Not very easy to see or to notice.

PANTRY: Small store-room for storing food.

NEUROTIC: to be abnormally nervous and sensitive.

BURGLARY: The act of illegally entering a building in order to steal things.

FLESH CRAWL: An expression of extreme fear.

SQUEAKED: to make a short, high-pitched noise.

5.5 CHECK YOUR PROGRESS

1. Where was Connie’s house located? Would you call it a lonely house?

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2. The first sentence of the story tells us about Connie’s unease. What factors

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3. When she arrives home, what is that Connie feels as she looks around?

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4. What were the things that Connie failed to notice when she went round the

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5. What is the first thing that Connie does? How does she react to the noises?

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6. What dreadful news does Mrs. Winston convey Connie?

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7. What does Connie discover in her bedroom?

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8. How was the motorcycle useful for Connie? What did the burglar do when he

saw the motorcycle in flames?

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5.6 LET US SUM UP

The above unit is about a heart-wrenching story about Connie and her encounter with

a burglar. The title ‘Uneasy Homecoming’ suggests that the narrative might be a bit

tensed or uncomfortable. The first sentence of the text reveals the eerie feeling that

the narrative gives later when it says, “Connie began to have the feeling of dread and

uneasiness in the taxi but herself that it was not reasonable”. It clearly indicates that

Connie already has an idea that there might be something wrong, the moment she

reaches her house. As we unfold the layers of suspense we find out that the fear that

Connie had was not unreasonable, rather it had a really strong reason and meaning as

well.