Pluviophile

World Famous Personalities: Will Smith

2011-03-06T13:07:00.000+05:30

Will Smith byname of Willard Christopher Smith, Jr.

Actor, musician. Born Willard Christopher Smith Jr., to mother Caroline, a school board employee, and father Willard C. Smith, the owner of a refrigeration company. His middle class upbringing saw him attend the strict—and Catholic—Overbrook High School, despite his family's observation of the Baptist faith.

His West Philadelphia neighborhood was a melting pot of cultures where Orthodox Jews co-existed with a large Muslim population. Smith was a good student whose charming personality and quick tongue were renowned for getting him out of trouble, a trait for which he soon gained the nickname "Prince.''
Smith began rapping at age 12, emulating heroes like Grandmaster Flash but tingeing his rhymes with a comedic element that would later become his trademark. At 16, Smith met a DJ at a party by the name of Jeff Townes. The pair became friends, and the duo DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince was born.
The pair began producing music, but steered clear of the Gangsta Rap sound that was emerging on the West Coast in groups like Public Enemy and NWA. The Fresh Prince rapped about teenage preoccupations in a clean, curse-free style that middle America found safe and entertaining. The pair's first single, "Girls Ain't Nothing But Trouble," was a hit in 1986. Their debut album Rock the House (1990) hit the Billboard Top 200, and made Smith a millionaire before the age of 18. His early success put any thoughts of attending college out of Smith's mind.
Early on it was reported that Smith had turned down a scholarship to Boston's elite Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), but Smith later dispelled the rumor when he told an interviewer: "My mother, who worked for the School Board of Philadelphia, had a friend who was the admissions officer at MIT. I had pretty high SAT scores and they needed black kids, so I probably could have gotten in. But I had no intention of going to college."
In 1988, DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince continued their success with the album He's The DJ, I'm The Rapper featuring the radio-friendly singles "Parents Just Don't Understand," "Brand New Funk," and "Nightmare on My Street." The album won the first ever Grammy Award for a Rap Performance. That album was followed by And In This Corner... which continued the pair's rise to stardom.
Two years later, Smith began his remarkable crossover into acting. Drawing on his experiences with fledgling stardom, NBC signed Smith to star in a sitcom about a street-smart kid from Philadelphia. On the show, the character is shipped off to California to live with wealthy relatives in Bel-Air, California. Playing on his rapper persona, and at times featuring his friend Towne, The Fresh Prince Of Bel-Air was a huge success that ran for six seasons.
Meanwhile, Smith and Towne kept producing music. The 1991 album Homebase produced the hits "Summertime" and "Ring My Bell." Their final album together, 1993's Code Red, was notable for "Boom! Shake the Room."

While still making The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, Smith began a second crossover into movies. Small roles in the drama Where The Day Takes You (1992) and the comedy Made In America (1993) were followed by a critically acclaimed lead in the drama Six Degrees of Separation (1993). Smith played a charming street-wise kid moving among the wealthy elite, who was also a psychologically complex gay hustler. The film enjoyed moderate success, but its title idea has become a household term for the closeness of human society.
Smith's first steps into super-stardom came with his next film, Bad Boys (1995). The high-budget cop movie saw him team up with comic Martin Lawrence, breaking away from the black-cop-white-cop formula that had been so successful for Beverly Hills Cop and the Lethal Weapon series. The two black leads proved an instant success and Smith—playing the smooth, serious, cop to Lawrence's clown—was established as leading man material.
The 1996, epic sci-fi disaster movie Independence Day was his next assignment. The role confirmed Smith as a major player in Hollywood and the go-to guy for summer blockbusters. Smith played an air force pilot leading the counter-attack against the invading alien forces, and his comedic talents effortlessly transformed into the pithy one-liners all action heroes need to be able to drop while dispatching their enemies.
Smith fought aliens again in his next blockbuster, the comic sci-fi action film, Men In Black (1997). Playing opposite Tommy Lee Jones, Smith chewed up the screen as the new recruit to Jones's old hand. Smith sang the theme song, and its inclusion on his solo album, Big Willie Style (1997) brought the multi-talented actor another success. Another Jerry Bruckheimer blockbuster followed with the slick conspiracy thriller Enemy of the State (1998), which earned Smith an NAACP Image Award nomination for Outstanding Actor in a Motion Picture.
The string of hits came to an end in 1999 with Wild Wild West, a sci-fi cowboy Western co-starring Kevin Kline. Despite the film's lackluster box-office performance, the track Smith cut for the film became a hit on his album, Willennium (1999). The golf movie The Legend of Bagger Vance was his next big film, with Smith playing the caddie to Matt Damon's out-of-sorts swinger.
In 2001 the biopic Ali, based on boxing legend Muhammad Ali, saw Smith return to critical acclaim. His turn as the charismatic boxing great saw Smith put in the performance of his life, training and disciplining himself to extraordinary lengths to do justice to the athleticism, and ego, of the films main character. The film under-performed at the box-office despite a record-breaking opening day. Smith's performance, however, was good enough to be nominated for a Best Actor Oscar.
A number of sequels were next, with Smith reprising his roles in Men In Black and Bad Boys. Neither were flops, but they were both nowhere near as successful as their predecessors. Staying with the sci-fi action theme, Smith moved on to I, Robot in 2004. The Isaac Asimov adaptation saw Smith playing a cop in 2035 investigating a murder by a robot and then battling a robot insurgency. The film performed well, grossing more than $144 million in U.S. box offices.
Smith's smooth-talking charmer persona was put to use in the 2005 romantic comedy, Hitch. Smith played a ladies' man and dating consultant who helps luckless guys with their romantic moves. Smith penned the theme song, and included it on his album Lost and Found (2005). Hitch was a massive success, and was followed by another critical and financial hit, the 2006 rags-to-riches tale, The Pursuit of Happyness. Starring alongside his real-life son Jaden, Smith captivated audiences with the story of a single father who has to build a life from scratch. He received his second Academy Award nomination for Best Actor for his performance.
In 2007, Smith starred in I Am Legend, a remake of the Charlton Heston film Omega Man, where he battled blood-thirsty vampires. The film became a national and international hit.
The talented actor and musician has recently entered yet another arena, working as a film producer. Smith worked both sides of the camera for the film Hancock, in which he plays an alcoholic anti-superhero, and for Seven Pounds, about a man who sets out to change the lives of seven people. He also helped produce the 2008 films Lakeview Terrace and The Secret Life of Bees. His most recent project, The Mark, is slated for release in 2009.
Smith has been married twice. His first marriage in 1992 lasted only three years but produced a son, Willard Smith III, who is also known as Trey. He has been married to actress Jada Pinkett Smith since 1997. The couple has a son, Jaden, who was born in 1998 and a daughter, Willow, born in 2000.
The Smith family has homes in Florida, Sweden and Philadelphia. Like many in Hollywood, Smith is politically liberal and has made donations to the presidential campaign of Senator Barack Obama. He is a fan of chess and video games and is known to take his mother on vacation every year, usually to the Canyon Ranch spa in Tucson, Arizona.

World Famous Personalities: Sachin Tendulkar

2011-03-05T16:04:00.001+05:30

Sachin Tendulkar popular name of Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar

(born April 24, 1973, Bombay [Mumbai], India) Indian professional cricket player, considered by many to be one of the greatest batsmen of all time. In 2005 he became the first cricketer to score 35 centuries (100 runs in a single innings) in Test (international) play.

Tendulkar was given his first bat when he was 11. As a 14-year-old, he used it to score 329 out of a world-record stand of 664 in a school match. A year later he scored a century on his first-class debut for Bombay (Mumbai), and at 16 years 205 days he became India's youngest Test cricketer, making his debut against Pakistan in Karachi in November 1989. When he was 18 he scored two centuries in Australia (148 in Sydney and 114 in Perth), and in 1994 he scored 179 against the West Indies. In August 1996, at age 23, Tendulkar was made captain of his country's team.

Although India was defeated in the semifinals of the 1996 World Cup, Tendulkar emerged as the tournament's top run scorer, with 523 runs. In 1997 he was chosen for the Rajiv Gandhi Khel Ratna Award, the highest award given to an Indian athlete, for his outstanding performance in the 1997–98 season. India was defeated by Australia in the 1999 World Cup, failing to advance past the round of six, and was soundly defeated by both Australia and South Africa in series later that year. In the 2003 World Cup, however, Tendulkar helped his team advance as far as the finals. Though India was again defeated by Australia, Tendulkar, who averaged 60.2, was named the man of the tournament.

Tendulkar made history in December 2005 when he scored his record-breaking 35th century in Test play against Sri Lanka. The feat was accomplished in a total of 125 Tests and allowed Tendulkar to surpass the prolific Indian run scorer Sunil Gavaskar. In June 2007 Tendulkar reached another major milestone when he became the first player to record 15,000 runs in one-day international (ODI) play, and in January 2010 he became the first batsman to score 13,000 runs in Test play. One month later he scored a historic “double century” in a contest against South Africa, becoming the first man in history to record 200 runs in a single innings of ODI play. Throughout his long career Tendulkar was consistently ranked among the game's best batsmen. He was often likened to Australia's Don Bradman in his single-minded dedication to scoring runs and the certainty of his strokeplay off both front and back foot.

World Famous Personalities: Bill Gates

2011-03-04T16:49:00.001+05:30

Bill Gates in full William Henry Gates III

Entrepreneur. Born William Henry Gates, III, on October 28, 1955, in Seattle, Washington. Gates began to show an interest in computer programming at the age of 13 at the Lakeside School. He pursued his passion through college. Striking out on his own with his friend and business partner Paul Allen, Gates found himself at the right place at the right time. Through technological innovation, keen business strategy, and aggressive competitive tactics he built the world's largest software business, Microsoft. In the process he became one of the richest men in the world.

Bill Gates grew up in an upper middle-class family with two sisters: Kristianne, who is older, and Libby, who is younger. Their father, William H. Gates, Sr., was a promising, if somewhat shy, law student when he met his future wife, Mary Maxwell. She was an athletic, outgoing student at the University of Washington, actively involved in student affairs and leadership. The Gates family atmosphere was warm and close, and all three children were encouraged to be competitive and strive for excellence. Bill showed early signs of competitiveness when he coordinated family athletic games at their summer house on Puget Sound. He also relished in playing board games (Risk was his favorite) and excelled in Monopoly.
Bill had a very close relationship with his mother, Mary, who after a brief career as a teacher devoted her time to helping raise the children and working on civic affairs and with charities. She also served on several corporate boards, among them First Interstate Bank in Seattle (founded by her grandfather), the United Way, and International Business Machines (IBM). She would often take Bill along on her volunteer work in schools and community organizations.
Bill was a voracious reader as a child, spending many hours pouring over reference books such as the encyclopedia. Around the age of 11 or 12, Bill's parents began to have concerns about his behavior. He was doing well in school, but he seemed bored and withdrawn at times. His parents worried he might become a loner. Though they were strong believers in public education, when Bill turned 13 they enrolled him in Seattle's Lakeside School, an exclusive preparatory school. He blossomed in nearly all his subjects, excelling in math and science, but also doing very well in drama and English.
While at Lakeside School, a Seattle computer company offered to provide computer time for the students. The Mother's Club used proceeds from the school's rummage sale to purchase a teletype terminal for students to use. Bill Gates became entranced with what a computer could do and spent much of his free time working on the terminal. He wrote a tic-tac-toe program in BASIC computer language that allowed users to play against the computer.
It was at Lakeside School where Bill met Paul Allen, who was two years his senior. The two became fast friends, bonding on their common enthusiasm over computers, even though they were very different. Allen was more reserved and shy. Bill was feisty and at times combative. They both spent much of their free time together working on programs. Occasionally, they disagreed and would clash over who was right or who should run the computer lab. On one occasion, their argument escalated to the point where Allen banned Gates from the computer lab. On another occasion, Gates and Allen had their school computer privileges revoked for taking advantage of software glitches to obtain free computer time from the company that provided the computers. After their probation, they were allowed back in the computer lab when they offered to debug the program. During this time, Gates developed a payroll program for the computer company the boys hacked into, and a scheduling program for the school.

In 1970, at the age of 15, Bill Gates went into business with his pal, Paul Allen. They developed "Traf-o-Data," a computer program that monitored traffic patterns in Seattle, and netted $20,000 for their efforts. Gates and Allen wanted to start their own company, but Gates' parents wanted him to finish school and go on to college where they hoped he would work to become a lawyer.

Bill Gates graduated from Lakeside in 1973. He scored 1590 out of 1600 on the college SAT test, a feat of intellectual achievement that for several years he boasted about when introducing himself to new people. He enrolled at Harvard University in the fall, originally thinking of a career in law. But his freshman year saw him spend more of his time in the computer lab than in class. Gates did not really have a study regimen. Instead, he could get by on a few hours of sleep, cram for a test, and pass with a reasonable grade.
Gates remained in contact with Paul Allen who, after attending Washington State University for two years, dropped out and moved to Boston, Massachusetts, to work for Honeywell. In the summer of 1974, Gates joined Allen at Honeywell. During this time, Allen showed Gates an edition of Popular Electronics magazine featuring an article on the Altair 8800 mini-computer kit. Both boys were fascinated with the possibilities this computer could make toward personal computing. The Altair was made by a small company in Albuquerque, New Mexico, called Micro Instrumentation and Telemetry Systems (MITS). Gates and Allen contacted the company proclaiming they were working on a BASIC software program that would run the Altair computer. In reality, they didn't have an Altair to work with or the code to run it. But they wanted to know if MITS was interested in someone developing such software. MITS was, and its president Ed Roberts asked the boys for a demonstration. Gates and Allen scrambled, and spent the next two months writing the software at Harvard's computer lab. Allen traveled to Albuquerque for a test run at MITS, never having tried it out on an Altair computer. It worked perfectly. Allen was hired at MITS and Gates soon left Harvard to work with him, much to his parents' dismay. In 1975, Gates and Allen formed a partnership they called Micro-Soft, a blend of "micro-computer" and "software."
Microsoft (Gates and Allen dropped the hyphen in less than a year) started off on shaky footing. Though their BASIC software program for the Altair computer netted the company a fee and royalties, it wasn't meeting their overhead. Microsoft's BASIC software was popular with computer hobbyists who obtained pre-market copies and were reproducing and distributing them for free. According to Gates' later account, only about 10 percent of the people using BASIC in the Altair computer had actually paid for it. At this time, much of the personal computer enthusiasts were people not in it for the money. They felt the ease of reproduction and distribution allowed them to share software with friends and fellow computer enthusiasts. Bill Gates thought differently. He saw the free distribution of software as stealing, especially when it involved software that was created to be sold.

In February of 1976, Gates wrote an open letter to computer hobbyists saying that continued distribution and use of software without paying for it would "prevent good software from being written." In essence, pirating software would discourage developers from investing time and money into creating quality software. The letter was unpopular with computer enthusiasts, but Gates stuck to his beliefs and would use the threat of innovation as a defense when faced with charges of unfair business practices.
Gates had a more acrimonious relationship with MITS president Ed Roberts, often resulting in shouting matches. The combative Gates clashed with Roberts on software development and the direction of the business. Roberts considered Gates spoiled and obnoxious. In 1977, Roberts sold MITS to another computer company, and went back to Georgia to enter medical school and become a country doctor. Gates and Allen were on their own. The pair had to sue the new owner of MITS to retain the software rights they had developed for Altair.
Microsoft wrote software in different formats for other computer companies and, at the end of 1978, Gates moved the company's operations to Bellevue Washington, just east of Seattle. Bill Gates was glad to be home again in the Pacific Northwest, and threw himself into his work. All 25 employees of the young company had broad responsibilities for all aspects of the operation, product development, business development, and marketing. With his acumen for software development and a keen business sense, Gates placed himself as the head of Microsoft, which grossed $2.5 million in 1978. Gates was only 23.
His acumen for not only software development but also business operations put him in the position of leading the company and working as its spokesperson. He personally reviewed every line of code the company shipped, often rewriting code when he saw it necessary. As the computer industry began to grow with companies like Apple, Intel, and IBM developing hardware and components, Bill was continuously out on the road touting the merits of Microsoft software applications. He often took his mother with him. Mary was highly respected and well connected with her membership on several corporate boards including IBM. It was through Mary that Bill Gates met the CEO of IBM.
In November 1980, IBM was looking for software that would operate their upcoming personal computer (PC) and approached Microsoft. Legend has it that at the first meeting with Bill Gates someone at IBM mistook him for an office assistant and asked him to serve coffee. Gates did look very young, but he quickly impressed IBM, convincing them that he and his company could meet their needs. The only problem was that Microsoft had not developed the basic operating system that would run IBM's new computers. Not to be stopped, Gates bought an operating system that was developed to run on computers similar to IBM's PC. He made a deal with the software's developer, making Microsoft the exclusive licensing agent and later full owner of the software but not telling them of the IBM deal. The company later sued Microsoft and Gates for withholding important information. Microsoft settled out of court for an undisclosed amount, but neither Gates nor Microsoft admitted to any wrong doing.

Gates had to adapt the newly purchased software to work for the IBM PC. He delivered it for a $50,000 fee, the same price he had paid for the software in its original form. IBM wanted to buy the source code, which would have given them the information to the operating system. Gates refused, instead proposing that IBM pay a licensing fee for copies of the software sold with their computers. Doing this allowed Microsoft to license the software they called MS-DOS to any other PC manufacturer, should other computer companies clone the IBM PC, which they soon did. Microsoft also released software called Softcard, which allowed Microsoft BASIC to operate on Apple II machines.
Between 1978 and 1981, Microsoft's growth exploded, and staff increased from 25 to 128. Revenue also shot up from $4 million to $16 million. In mid-1981 Gates and Allen incorporated Microsoft, and Gates was appointed president and chairman of the board. Allen was named executive vice-president.
By 1983, Microsoft was going global with offices in Great Britain and Japan, and with 30 percent of the world's computers running on its software. But 1983 also brought news that rocked Microsoft to its very foundation. Paul Allen was diagnosed with Hodgkin's disease. Though his cancer went into remission a year later with intensive treatment, Allen resigned from company that same year. Rumors abound as to why Allen left Microsoft. Some say Bill Gates pushed him out, but many say it was a life-changing experience for Allen and he saw there were other opportunities that he could invest his time in.
In early 1984, a computer company called VisiCorp developed a mouse-driven computer system that used a graphic interface to display text and images on the screen. This differed greatly from the text and keyboard driven MS-DOS system where all text formatting showed on the screen as code and not what actually would be printed. Bill Gates quickly recognized the threat this kind of software might pose for MS-DOS and Microsoft overall. For the unsophisticated user—which was most of the buying public—the graphic imagery of the VisiCorp software would be so much easier to use. Gates announced in an advertising campaign that a new Microsoft operating system was about to be developed that would use a graphic interface. It was to be called "Windows," and would be compatible with all PC software products developed on the MS-DOS system. The announcement was a bluff, in that Microsoft had no such program under development. But as a marketing tactic it was sheer genius as nearly 30 percent of the computer market was using the MS-DOS system and would wait for Windows software rather than change to a new system. Without people willing to change formats, software developers were unwilling to write programs for the VisiCorp system and it lost momentum by early 1985.
In November 1985, Bill Gates and Microsoft launched Windows; nearly two years after his announcement. Visually the Windows system looked very similar to the Macintosh system Apple Computer Corporation had introduced nearly two years earlier. Apple had earlier given Microsoft full access to their technology while it was working on making Microsoft products compatible for Apple computers. Gates had advised Apple to license their software but they ignored the advice, being more interested in selling computers. Once again, Gates took full advantage of the situation and created a software format that was strikingly similar to the Macintosh. Apple threatened to sue and Microsoft retaliated, saying it would delay shipment of its Microsoft compatible software for Macintosh users. In the end, Microsoft prevailed in the courts because it could prove that while there were similarities in how the two software systems operated, each individual function was distinctly different.

In 1986, Bill Gates took Microsoft public with an initial public offering (IPO) of $21 per share. Gates held 45 percent of the company's 24.7 million shares and became an instant millionaire at age 31. Gates' stake at that time was $234 million of Microsoft's $520 million. Over time, the company's stock increased in value and split numerous times. In 1987, Bill Gates became a billionaire when the stock raised to $90.75 a share. Since then, Gates has been on the top or near the top of Forbes' 400 list of the world's wealthiest people. In 1999, with stock prices at an all time high and the stock splitting eight-fold since its IPO, Gates' wealth briefly topped $101 billion.

Yet, Bill Gates never felt totally secure about the status of his company. Always having to look over his shoulder to see where the competition was, he developed a white hot drive and competitive spirit. Gates expected everyone in the company to have the same drive and dedication. One story goes that one of Gates' assistants had come to work early to find someone sleeping under a desk. She considered calling security or the police when she discovered it was Gates.
Bill Gates' intelligence allowed him to be able to see all sides of the software industry—product development and corporate strategy. When analyzing any corporate move, he would develop a profile of all the possible cases and run through them, asking questions about anything that could possibly happen. His confrontational management style became legend as he would challenge employees and their ideas to keep the creative process going. An unprepared presenter would hear, "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!" from Gates. But this was as much a test of the rigor of the employee as it was Gates' passion for his company. He was constantly testing the people around him to see if they were really convinced of their ideas.
Outside the company, Bill Gates was gaining a reputation as a ruthless competitor. Several tech companies led by IBM began to develop their own operating system called OS/2 to replace MS-DOS. Rather than give into the pressure, Gates pushed ahead with the Windows software, improving its operation and expanding its uses. In 1989, Microsoft introduced Microsoft Office which bundled office productivity applications such as Microsoft Word and Excel into one system that was compatible with all Microsoft products. The applications were not as easily compatible with OS/2. Microsoft's new version of Windows sold 100,000 copies in just two weeks and OS/2 soon faded away. This left Microsoft with a virtual monopoly on operating systems for PCs. Soon the Federal Trade Commission began to investigate Microsoft for unfair marketing practices.
Microsoft faced a string of Federal Trade Commission and Justice Department investigations throughout the 1990s. Some related allegations that Microsoft made unfair deals with computer manufactures who installed the Windows operating system on their computers. Other charges involved Microsoft forcing computer manufactures to sell Microsoft's Internet Explorer as a condition for selling the Windows operating system with their computers.

At one point, Microsoft faced a possible break up of its two divisions—operating systems and software development. Microsoft defended itself, harking back to Bill Gates' earlier battles with software piracy, and proclaiming that such restrictions were a threat to innovation. Eventually, Microsoft was able to find a settlement with the federal government to avoid a breakup. Through it all, Gates found some inventive ways to deflect the pressure with light-hearted commercials and public appearances at computer trade shows posing as Star Trek's Mr. Spock. Gates continued to run the company and weather the federal investigations through the 1990s.
In 1989, a 28-year-old Microsoft executive named Melinda French caught the eye of Bill Gates, then 37. The very bright and organized Melinda was a perfect match for Gates. In time, their relationship grew as they discovered an intimate and intellectual connection. On January 1, 1994, Melinda and Bill were married in Hawaii. But only a few months later heartbreak struck Bill Gates as his mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. She died in June 1994. Gates was devastated.
Bill and Melinda took some time off in 1995 to travel to several countries and get a new perspective on life and the world. In 1996, their first daughter, Jennifer, was born. A year later, Gates moved his family into a 55,000 sq ft. $54 million house on the shore of Lake Washington. Though the house serves as a business center, it is said to be a very cozy home for the couple and their three children.
With the influence of his wife Melinda, Gates took an interest in filling his mother's role as a civic leader. He began to realize that he had an obligation to give more of his wealth to charity. Being the consummate student he was, Gates studied the philanthropic work of Andrew Carnegie and John D. Rockefeller, titans of the American industrial revolution. In 1994, Gates and his wife established the William H. Gates Foundation which was dedicated to supporting education, world health, and investment in low-income communities. In 2000, the couple combined several family foundations to form the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. They started out by making a $28 billion contribution to set up the foundation.
Bill Gates stepped down from the day-to-day operations of Microsoft in 2000, turning over the job of CEO to college friend Steve Ballmer who had been with Microsoft since 1980. He positioned himself as chief software architect so he could concentrate on what was for him the more passionate side of the business. He still remains chairman of the board. Over the next few years, his involvement with the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation occupied much of his time and even more of his interest. In 2006, Gates announced he was transitioning himself from full-time work at Microsoft, to devote more quality time to the Foundation. His last full day at Microsoft was June 27, 2008.
In addition to all the accolades of being one of the most successful and richest businessmen in the history of the world, Bill Gates has also received numerous awards for philanthropic work. Time magazine named Gates one of the most influential people of the 20th century. The magazine also named Gates, his wife Melinda, and rock band U2's lead singer Bono as the 2005 Persons of the Year.
Gates also holds several honorary doctorates from universities throughout the world and an honorary Knight Commander of the Order of the British Empire by Queen Elizabeth II. In 2006, Gates and his wife were awarded the Order of the Aztec Eagle by the Mexican government for their philanthropic work throughout the world in the areas of health and education.

World Famous Personalities: Brad Pitt

2011-03-04T16:14:00.001+05:30

Brad Pitt

Born December 18, 1963, in Shawnee, Oklahoma. Pitt grew up in Springfield, Missouri, the eldest of three children in a devoutly Southern Baptist family. His father, Bill Pitt, owned a trucking company and his mother, Jane Pitt, was a family counselor. Pitt originally aspired to be an advertising art director, studying journalism at the University of Missouri. However, the young college student had other quiet aspirations, the product of a childhood love of movies, which finally seemed tangible his last semester at university when he realized, "I can leave." On a whim, Pitt dropped out of college, packed up his Datsun, and headed West to pursue an acting career in Los Angeles, just two credits shy of a college degree.
Pitt told his parents he intended to enroll in the Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, but instead spent the next several months driving a limousine—chauffeuring strippers from one bachelor party to the next, delivering refrigerators, and trying to break into the L.A. acting scene. He joined an acting class and, shortly after, accompanied a classmate as her scene partner on an audition with an agent. In a twist of fate, the agent signed Pitt instead of his classmate. After weathering only seven months in Los Angeles, Pitt had secured an agent and regular acting work.

Pitt's first jobs came in television, appearing in episodes of Dallas, the daytime soap Another World, the sitcom Growing Pains, and in 1990's short-lived Fox Television series, Glory Days. In 1989, Pitt played Billy Canton, the drug-addicted pimp of a teenage runaway, played by Juliette Lewis, in the NBC made-for-television movie Too Young to Die. Pitt and Lewis (9 years his junior at age 16) started dating and eventually moved in together.
Pitt made his big screen debut in 1989's horror/slasher film Cutting Class with Donovan Leitch, and played a teen track star in Sandy Tung's Across the Tracks, but it was a well-timed bit part in a controversial Hollywood film that pushed him into the glare of instant stardom. Pitt's performance as a renegade, sugar-tongued hitchhiker who gets picked up by the two title characters in Ridley Scott's Thelma and Louise (1991) grabbed universal attention despite only a few minutes worth of screen time. Pitt's combination of charming bad boy charisma and sexual playfulness (particularly in a fiery love scene with Geena Davis) secured him as a genuine sex symbol (and wore out the rewind button on many a VCR).
Pitt's next few films failed to boost his acting credibility and establish him as more than just a pretty face in Hollywood. He appeared in The Favor (1992) with Elizabeth McGovern, Tom CiCillo's directorial debut, Johnny Suede (1992), and the unconvincing, half-animated Cool World (1992).

However, later that year, the Hollywood sunshine set the golden boy alight once more in Robert Redford's 1992 film based on Norman McLean's autobiography, A River Runs Through It. Pitt played the main character's charismatic gambling, fly-fishing brother (looking remarkably like the young Robert Redford). Redford later admitted that he did not choose Pitt on the strength of his audition, rather, because "[he] had an inner conflict that was very interesting to me." Pitt delivered a sparkling performance, skillfully depicting the character's dangerous footing between overwhelming charm and reckless self-destructiveness.

In 1993, Pitt re-teamed with three-year girlfriend Lewis in Dominic Sela's Kalifornia. Pitt played Early Grayce, a man who goes on a cross-country killing spree with his girlfriend. The film was deemed self-indulgently violent and nihilistic by many reviewers and did not do well in the box office. Pitt and Lewis broke up soon after filming, creating a publicity disaster.
Pitt proceeded to lighten his repertoire with a comedic performance as "Floyd," a burnt-out hippie in Tony Scott's True Romance, but his next major role came in the adaptation of Ann Rice's Interview with the Vampire, alongside Tom Cruise. Rice initially expressed outrage at the casting choices, finding the two boyish, all-American film stars too rough for the subtle, slightly homoerotic overtones of the tale. "It's like casting Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer," she reportedly complained. However, after seeing the final film, Rice retracted her initial statements and filmed a short spot for the video version, endorsing the film. Caryn James of The New York Times reported, "the power of the film depends on Mr. Pitt's rich and deeply affecting performance. Low-key and serene, he makes Louis convincing as a bereaved father, lover, even son."
Pitt's next few efforts secured his place as a Hollywood staple; still, many critics found his roles lacking in dimension. In 1994's Legends of the Fall, an epic family melodrama, Pitt played Tristan, a stereotypical romantic hero with long, golden locks and a penchant for alternately selfish and self-sacrificing gestures. However, Pitt abruptly took a gritty turn as a detective on the trail of a serial killer in David Fincher's disturbing and gory thriller, Seven. During filming, he met and began dating his then relatively unknown costar, Gwyneth Paltrow. Both claimed it was "love at first sight." The two stayed together for two and a half years and were one of Hollywood's most admired and celebrated couples. Then, in 1997, after a seven-month engagement, the couple split for unknown reasons.

In 1995, Pitt starred as a mental patient in Terry Gilliam's psychological thriller Twelve Monkeys and won a Golden Globe for best supporting actor. He followed with another dark thriller, Sleepers (1996), and Alan J. Pakula's Devil's Own with Harrison Ford, before heading to Argentina to film Seven Years in Tibet, an ambitious, seventy million dollar project, which met disappointingly mixed reviews. Unfortunately, his next film, the three-hour plus Meet Joe Black, co-starring Anthony Hopkins, in which he played a very comely version of Death, also inspired little praise.
In 1999, after a brief hiatus from the Hollywood hot list, Pitt re-teamed with Seven director, David Fincher, to make Fight Club. The apocalyptic film, also starring Edward Norton, presents an unglamorous Pitt in a disturbing role as leader and recruiter of Fight Club, a bloody diversion for young professional males. Next up for Pitt was the British crime-caper Snatch (2001), costarring Benicio Del Toro and directed by Guy Ritchie. That same year, Pitt starred with Julia Roberts in the romantic comedy The Mexican, teamed with Robert Redford in the thriller Spy Game, and joined an A-list ensemble cast including Roberts, George Clooney, and Matt Damon in Steven Soderbergh's remake of the Rat Pack heist caper Ocean's Eleven. In 2004, he starred as the Greek hero Achilles in Warner Bros.' blockbuster epic Troy.

In 2005, Pitt starred across from Angelina Jolie in the blockbuster film, Mr. And Mrs. Smith. The action flick, about a married couple who are both secretly working as spies, earned more than $100 million at the box office.
Pitt's next film, the critically acclaimed Babel (2006) earned the actor a Golden Globe nomination. The actor moved on to less serious fare in the reprisal of his role as Rusty Ryan in the Ocean's Eleven sequel, Ocean's Thirteen (2007). In 2008, Pitt teamed up with the Coen brothers to star in the FBI comedic thriller, Burn After Reading. The film earned two Golden Globe nominations, and grossed more than $60 million at the box office.
Pitt took on a more whimsical role for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, a film based on a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald. In this David Fincher-directed movie, Pitt plays Benjamin Button who is born as a 70-year-old man and ages in reverse. Button is currently nominated for 13 Academy Awards, including a Best Actor nod for Pitt.
In 2009, Pitt starred in Quentin Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds. He also has an upcoming project with Sean Penn in the film The Tree of Life.

A two-time winner of People magazine's "Sexiest Man Alive" title (1995 and 2000), Pitt began dating Jennifer Aniston, star of the TV sitcom Friends, in 1998. Pitt and Aniston were married July 29, 2000, in Malibu, California. The couple announced their separation in January 2005 and divorced in October of that year.
Soon after their separation, Brad Pitt began dating actress Angelina Jolie. In May 2006, the couple had a baby girl, Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt. They also have three adopted children (Maddox, Pax Thien, and Zahara). In July 2008 Brad Pitt and Angeline Jolie had twins, a boy, Knox Leon, and a girl, Vivienne Marcheline. The family currently splits their time between Los Angeles and New Orleans.

World Famous Personalities: George Clooney

2011-03-04T15:42:00.002+05:30

George Clooney in full George Timothy Clooney

Actor, director, producer, writer. Born George Timothy Clooney on May 6, 1961, in Lexington, Kentucky. Clooney comes from a well-known family of media and entertainment personalities. His father, Nick, spent many years as a television personality and news anchor. His aunt, Rosemary Clooney, had a long career as a singer and actress.

Due to the nature of his father's work, George Clooney and his older sister Ada moved several times to various locations throughout Kentucky and Ohio with their parents. In 1974, they settled down for good in a rambling, old Victorian home in downtown Augusta, Kentucky, a small town on the Ohio River about an hour south of Cincinnati.
There, despite some name recognition, the Clooneys led a fairly modest life. They were a close-knit family, with Nick Clooney making sure to carve time out of his busy schedule in Cincinnati to be home in the evenings for dinner. At the Clooney supper table, the family often discussed current events. Nick, a true newsman, had grown up in awe of men like CBS news anchor Edward R. Murrow and, later, Walter Cronkite.

Exposed to the entertainment industry at a young age, Clooney made his first television appearance at five years old, playing sketch characters on the local talk shows his dad hosted. In middle school, however, Clooney struggled with his talent for expression when he developed Bell's palsy, which causes partial facial paralysis. He eventually recovered from the illness.
In school, Clooney was more focused on sports than books, but still managed to be a good student. "I pulled out my report cards...I had all A's and a B," the actor told Esquire magazine. A fairly good baseball player, he managed to land a tryout with the Cincinnati Reds at the age of 16. A baseball contract, however, never materialized.
Clooney eventually opted for college. Staying close to home, he attended Northern Kentucky University, where he studied broadcast journalism. But Clooney didn't last long at college. He didn't think he had what it took to become a good television journalist, and he hated the constant comparisons to his father. He dropped out of school in 1981, without a thought as to what he would do next.
Clooney stuck around the Cincinnati area for a while, finding work as a shoe salesman and later as a farmhand picking tobacco. He had been harvesting tobacco when he got a call from his his cousin, Miguel Ferrer, the son of Rosemary Clooney and Oscar winner Jose Ferrer. Miguel and his father were making a film in Kentucky about horse racing, and Ferrer offered Clooney a little acting work. Clooney hung around the set for a good three months, where he worked as an extra and even landed a few lines. To make extra money, he loaned his old Monte Carlo to his uncle and cousin for $50 a day. The movie never got released, but the experience gave Clooney the acting bug again.
Encouraged by his cousin Miguel, Clooney decided to move to Los Angeles to become an actor when the movie shoot was over. "I had just spent the summer cutting tobacco, which is a miserable job. So that's what made me move to Hollywood," Clooney later told Esquire. To make ends meet, he picked up whatever work he could find. He even ran errands for his aunt and chauffeured her around town.

Slowly parts came, even if they weren't the kind of roles he dreamed about. He landed a recurring role on the popular teen comedy The Facts of Life, from 1985 to 1987. From 1988 to 1991, Clooney also made guest appearances on the dysfunctional family sitcom Roseanne. In 1992, he starred in the short-lived series Bodies of Evidence, playing a detective. On the drama Sisters, he played another detective and the love interest for Sela Ward's character. There were small movie roles, too, including the part of a lip-synching transvestite in a 1993 thriller called The Harvest.

Clooney worked steadily in Hollywood, but he had yet to land a significant career breakthrough. Feeling that he was always on the cusp of something bigger, something greater, Clooney found his situation difficult. "I had a work ethic," he told The New Yorker in 2007. "I was making a couple of hundred grand a year, which is beating all the odds, so you don't really think things are going terribly. You actually feel like you're succeeding. [But] I wished I was doing better projects, and I didn't think I was going to get that chance."

All that changed in 1994, when Clooney was cast in a new NBC medical drama called ER. Clooney played Dr. Doug Ross, a caring pediatrician and a notorious ladies man, in the ensemble drama, which also featured Anthony Edwards, Julianna Margulies, and Sherry Stringfield. Soon after its September 1994 debut, Clooney was on his way to becoming one of the show's breakout stars, attracting the attention of film industry movers and shakers. His classic good looks and easygoing charm made him a natural for the big screen.
Clooney worked at a hectic pace, managing to appear in several films during his time on ER. He battled evil vampires with Quentin Tarantino in Robert Rodriguez's From Dusk to Dawn(1996). In the romantic comedyOne Fine Day(1996), Clooney played a divorced father who falls for a single mother (Michelle Pfeiffer). Assuming the role of the caped crusader, Clooney starred as Batman in the summer blockbuster Batman & Robin(1997), which eventually netted more than $107 million. The following year, Clooney starred opposite Jennifer Lopez in Steven Soderbergh's Out of Sight(1998). He also had a role in Terrence Malick's war drama The Thin Red Line.
In 1999, Clooney turned in his ER scrubs to pursue his film career full time. He starred in the Persian Gulf War tale Three Kings with Mark Wahlberg and Ice Cube that same year. Working with the Coen brothers, Clooney starred as a charming conman in O Brother, Where Are Thou? (2000), an imaginative retelling of the epic poem The Odyssey. He won a Golden Globe Award for his work on the film. Clooney also reteamed with Wahlberg for the popular disaster-at-sea film The Perfect Storm, based on Sebastian Junger's bestselling novel. The actor, who for so long had wondered if he'd truly make it big, was now Hollywood royalty.

In 2001, Clooney starred in the remake of Ocean's Eleven directed by Steven Soderbergh. He played Danny Ocean, a role originated by famed crooner Frank Sinatra. The comedic heist film featured an all-star cast, which included Brad Pitt, Julia Roberts, Bernie Mac, and Matt Damon. It proved to be such a successful venture on- and off-screen that it spawned two sequels, Ocean's Twelve and Ocean's Thirteen.

The following year, Clooney made his directorial debut with Confessions of a Dangerous Mind(2002). The biopic focused on the life of Chuck Barris, host of The Gong Show and reportedly a CIA agent. Despite the film's poor box office performance and weak reviews, Clooney continued to work behind the scenes, serving as a producer on the 2004 political drama Syriana.
The usually fit Clooney gained roughly 30 pounds to play a government agent in the film, which explored political intrigue and corruption in the Middle East. Badly hurt during the filming of a scene, he damaged the membrane around his spine. The injury caused spinal fluid to leak from his nose and left him with terrible back pain. After completing the film, Clooney underwent two surgeries to fix the problem.
All of his hard work on Syriana did not go unnoticed. In 2005, Clooney won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor for his role in the film. He was also nominated for another important project, Good Night, and Good Luck, that same year. The film examines the clash between distinguished news anchor Edward R. Murrow and Senator Joseph McCarthy. Clooney directed the film and co-wrote the screenplay, which served partly as a tribute to his newsman father. Widely praised, the black-and-white drama helped Clooney earn his first nominations for Best Director and Writing (Original Screenplay).
An outspoken liberal, Clooney has been a frequent target of right-wing politicos and personalities, including FOX News's Bill O'Reilly. Beyond his disappointment with the election of George W. Bush as President in 2000, the actor was also an early opponent of the Iraq War, and later called the president "dim" in a 2003 interview. "America's policies frustrate me," Clooney told a German television program. "I think a war against Iraq is as unavoidable as it is senseless. I think it's coming. But I also think the real danger is going to be what happens after it."
Following the September 11th attacks, Clooney organized a fundraiser that featured dozens of Hollywood stars and assembled more than $129 million for the United Way. Four years later, he donated $1 million to the United Way Hurricane Katrina Response Fund.
In 2006, Clooney stepped up his involvement in political and social causes. He teamed up with his father and a few others to travel around the western region of Sudan, known as Darfur. Armed with a few small video cameras, Clooney and his father set out report on how the area had been ravaged by war and how the international community was struggling to set up refugee camps to help those in need. By leveraging Clooney's Hollywood status, they believed they could bring greater attention to the Darfur crisis and could help fuel global interest in helping the region. Their edited footage was broadcast on such programs as Oprah.

Upon his return to the United States, Clooney brought his celebrity clout to Washington, D.C., where he spoke at a rally against the genocide in Darfur. Later he spoke to a special meeting of the U.N. Security Council. With other celebrities, including Brad Pitt, Don Cheadle, and Matt Damon, he formed a non-profit organization called Not On Our Watch to help the people in Darfur. In 2007, he and Cheadle were recognized for their work for Darfur. The pair shared a Peace Summit Award at the 8th Annual World Summit of Nobel Peace Prize Laureates in Rome. The following year, with his parents standing at his side, Clooney was officially appointed as a U.N. peace envoy.
Often the target of paparazzi, both in the United States and at his vacation home in Italy, Clooney's career has been a balancing act between maintaining his privacy and his Hollywood status. Much of these lessons were gleaned from advice given by his aunt Rosemary, who experienced an astounding level of fame early in her career only to fall prey to addictions and depression later in life.
"She wouldn't tell you, 'Don't do it,'" Clooney said, "but you could see it, you could read it on her body. You know? Don't smoke three packs a day. Do a little exercising along the way. And don't believe everybody when they tell you how great you are when you're 21. And don't believe everybody when they tell you how lousy you are when you're 27."
Still, the world never seems to tire of Clooney news, particularly when it comes to his romantic life. Clooney has been married once to the actress Talia Balsam. That union was short lived, and Clooney has vowed he will never marry again nor have children. The pledge managed to catch the attention of actresses Nicole Kidman and Michelle Pfeiffer, both of whom said he would be a father before he turned 40. Both lost their bets, and both sent Clooney checks to pay up. The actor, who's twice been named People magazine's Sexiest Man Alive, returned the money to his friends.

These days, Clooney is once again in the spotlight for his tremendous talent. His performance in the dramatic comedy, Up in the Air, has been earning raves. In the film, he plays Ryan Bingham, a consultant who specializes in firing employees. His character lives a rather nomadic existence, traveling around the country. Next up for the film star is The Men Who Stare at Goats, an independent comedy with Ewan McGregor, Jeff Bridges, and Kevin Spacey. He is also working on Fantastic Mr. Fox, in which Clooney voices the title character in the big screen adaptation of the Roald Dahl book. He is also at work on an untitled film directed by Anton Corbijn.

ONV Kurupp - The Legendry Poet Of Malayalam

2011-02-21T21:20:00.003+05:30

ONV Kurup

A poet, who, with more than his imaginative skills, created poetic expressions that often dealt with the very land he belonged to, events, people and situations he experienced. Prof. O. N. V. Kurup was born on May 27, 1931 at Chavara, in Kollam District, where he also spent his school days. Mr. Kurup did his college education at the S. N. College, Kollam and University College, Thiruvananthapuram for his graduation in Economics and masters programme in Malayalam respectively. Even though Mr. Kurup lost his father at the age of eight, he was fortunate to learn the basics of Malayalam and Sanskrit from him.

His first major effort in poetry began during his school days, which also saw his first published poem Munnottu (Forward) in 1946, penned in the backdrop of his patriotic feelings. As a child, Mr. Kurup used to read the epic Adhyatma Ramayanam, every evening, during the month of Karkkitakam. The poetic aspects of the epic, its style and presentation further strengthened Mr. Kurup?s ability to express and experiment with his chosen subjects, later in his career as a poet.

Reckoned as one of the best in the poetic world inside and outside Kerala, Mr. Kurup in his professional stint as a teacher, started off with the Maharaja?s College in Kochi, as lecturer in 1957. Later this poet genius, as a teacher, inspired the campuses of University College, Thiruvananthapuram; Arts and Science College, Kozhikode and Government Brennun College, Thalasseri. Mr. Kurup also served as the Head of the Department at the Government Women's College in Thiruvananthapuram. Before his retirement from teaching service in 1986, he was visiting Professor of Calicut University for one year.

Prof. O. N. V. Kurup and his perception of poetry as an art and an expression with a purpose, invariably dealt with the actions, thought process, drawbacks, limits, state of affairs and all that could be experienced through the five senses and Mother Earth. To Mr. Kurup, a poem ultimately becomes a passionate wish for a common cause, or a means to unite hearts with showers of love and compassion. Still, on a different plane, according to Mr. Kurup, poems can be an outpour of feelings, weighed down by loss, despair and helplessness. All these, are common phenomenon, which plays its part in the drama that unfolds as life, everywhere.

Romanticism and poetry share a bond that is as old as poetry and poets. And for Mr. Kurup, the inclination to nurture and maintain romantic elements in many of his poems seems to be like his second nature. His first poetry collection was Porutunna Soundaryam in 1949. Mr. Kurup has also come up with a book titled - Dahikunna Panapatram (The Thirsty Chalice), featuring a collection of his poems from 1946 to 1956. Some of his poetic works in Malayalam that have touched the heart and soul of thousands and became subjects of veritable entertainment and source of inspiration include, Marubhumi, Nilakkannukal, Mayilppili, Oru Tulli Velicham, Agni Salabhangal, Aksharam, Karutta pakshiyude pattu, Uppu, Bhumikku Oru Charamagitam, Sarngakappakshikal, Mrgaya, Tonniaksharangal, Aparahnam and Ujjayini. He has also written a collection of poems for children, called Valapottukal.

Mr. Kurup?s contribution in the literary domain of Kerala is widely appreciated for his excellence in poetry. But to his credit, he has a handful of works in prose. And this includes titles like Kavitayile Samantara Rekhakal, Kavitayile Pratisandhikal, Ezhuthachan - Oru Padanam, Patheyam, Kalpanikam, Pushkin - Swatantrya Bodhatinte Durantagatha.

Making a difference to traditional pursuits of a poet, Mr. O. N. V. Kurup and his lyrical wonders soon began casting a strong impression in the Malayalam films and dramas. He is a music enthusiast, and this personal trait too worked towards the successful creation of a string of memorable Malayalam film songs, most of them, melodies with a distinctive touch of Mr. Kurup. He still relishes writing evergreen lyrics for film songs.

As a poet, who has made a mark of his own in the literary world of Kerala as well as outside Kerala, Mr. Kurup?s stature as a poet of eminence and also as an accomplished academician, made him associate with many national and international programmes. Some of these were his visit to USSR as member of an Indian Writers Delegation to participate in the 150th birth anniversary of Tolstoy, Represented India in the Struga Poetry Festival, Yugoslavia (1987), Presented poems on Beethoven and Mozart in the Department of German, Bonn University, Indian delegate to the CISAC World Conference held in Berlin (1998) and Fellow of the Kerala Sahitya Academy in 1999. Among the responsibilities that came his way so far, he was member of the Executive Board of the Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi from 1982 to 1986, and currently serves as the Chairman of Kerala Kalamandalam.

Accolades and recognitions has been part of his life ever since Mr. Kurup struck an everlasting chord of love with poetry. Agni Salabhangal the poetic work by Mr. Kurup was awarded the Kerala Sahitya Academy Award in 1971. He was also awarded with the Kendra Sahitya Academy Award in 1975 for his poem Aksharam. A noted poetic work of Mr. Kurup titled Uppu won the Soviet Land Nehru Award in 1981 and also the Vayalar Rama Varma Award in 1982.

He has also won the Kerala State film awards twelve times, for the best lyricist. But the pinnacle of recognitions bestowed on Mr. Kurup till date, remains the coveted national award Padmashri, which he received in1998.

The septuagenarian poet is without doubt the few among his contemporaries, who continues his poetic pursuits with an undying fervor. And in the process, Mr. O. N. V. Kurup remains as one of the highly respected and accomplished poets of modern Kerala.

ഒ എന്‍ വി ജ്ഞാനപീഠമേറുമ്പോള്‍
വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിക്ക് ലഭിക്കേണ്ട ജ്ഞാനപീഠ പുരസ്‌കാരം തല്‍സ്ഥാനത്തുനിന്ന് ഒ എന്‍ വി കുറുപ്പ് സ്വീകരിക്കുന്നു. എന്നാല്‍ ചങ്ങമ്പുഴയ്ക്കു ലഭിക്കേണ്ട പുരസ്‌കാരം തല്‍സ്ഥാനത്തുനിന്ന് ഒ എന്‍ വിക്ക് സ്വീകരിക്കാനാവില്ല. കാരണം വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിക്കവിതയോടാണ് ഒ എന്‍ വി കവിതയ്ക്കു ഇഴയടുപ്പം. കാവ്യശൈലിയിലെ ചില ബാഹ്യസാദൃശ്യങ്ങള്‍ കണ്ടിട്ടാണ് പ്രഫ. എം കൃഷ്ണന്‍ നായര്‍ ഒ എന്‍ വി, വയലാര്‍, പി ഭാസ്‌കരന്‍ എന്നിവരെ ചങ്ങമ്പുഴയുടെ മാറ്റൊലി കവികള്‍ എന്ന് വിമര്‍ശിച്ചത്. (ആധുനിക മലയാള കവിത എന്ന കൃതിയില്‍). പ്രഫ. എം കൃഷ്ണന്‍ നായരുടെ വിമര്‍ശനത്തിന് പ്രഫ. മുണ്ടശ്ശേരി മറുപടി നല്‍കിയിട്ടുണ്ട്. ''സുപ്രശസ്ത കവികളിലൊരാളായ ഒ എന്‍ വിയെ ഇടപ്പള്ളിപ്പാരമ്പര്യത്തില്‍ നിന്ന് കൊളുത്തിയ ഒരു പന്തം മാത്രമായി കണക്കാക്കാമോ? കണക്കാക്കുന്നവരുണ്ടെങ്കില്‍ അവര്‍ ശബ്ദകോശത്തിന്റെ കൊട്ടത്താപ്പിന്മേല്‍ കവിതയെ അളന്നുമുറിക്കുന്നവരാണ്.'' (ആമുഖം - ദാഹിക്കുന്ന പാനപാത്രം). പ്രഫ. എം കൃഷ്ണന്‍ നായരുടെ നിരീക്ഷണം ഇപ്പോഴും ചിലര്‍ ഏറ്റുപിടിച്ചുകൊണ്ട് നടക്കുന്നത് രസകരമായിരിക്കുന്നു. എന്നാല്‍ ചങ്ങമ്പുഴയില്‍ നിന്നുള്ള ഒ എന്‍ വി കവിതയുടെ മാറ്റം 1955 ല്‍ തന്നെ മുണ്ടശ്ശേരി ചൂണ്ടിക്കാണിച്ചിരുന്നു, ആഭിജാത്യത്തിന്റെ പിടിയില്‍നിന്നും മലയാളകവിത പിടിവിട്ടും ജീനകീയ കവിതയുടെ രൂപഭാവങ്ങള്‍ തികച്ചും കൈവരിച്ചത് ചങ്ങമ്പുഴയിലല്ല ഒ എന്‍ വി പ്രതിനിധാനം ചെയ്യുന്ന പുരോഗമന കവിതയിലൂടെയാണ്. ''ശീലിലെന്നല്ല ശൈലിയിലും കവി ജീവിതത്തിന്റെ ആ പ്രാകൃത നിലവാരത്തിലേയ്ക്കിറങ്ങുകയോ? ഒ എന്‍ വിയുടെ നേര്‍ക്കൊരു ചോദ്യമാണ്-ചങ്ങമ്പുഴ പോലും ചോദിച്ചേക്കാവുന്ന ഒരു ചോദ്യം. ആ ചോദ്യം ചോദിക്കേണ്ടിവരുന്നിടത്തു വെച്ചാണ് ഒ എന്‍ വി ചങ്ങമ്പുഴയെക്കാളും യാഥാര്‍ഥ്യവാദിയായിരിക്കുന്നു എന്ന് ഞാന്‍ പറയുക.'' (മുണ്ടശ്ശേരി) 24-ാമത്തെ വയസില്‍ ഒരു പുരുഷായുസുകൊണ്ടു എഴുതാവുന്ന കവിതകള്‍ എഴുതിക്കഴിഞ്ഞ ഒ എന്‍ വിയെകുറിച്ചാണ് മുണ്ടശ്ശേരി എഴുതുന്നത്. ചങ്ങമ്പുഴയുടെ അദൈ്വതമായ ഭാവസ്പന്ദിതവിദ്യുന്മേഖലയായ കാല്പനികതയല്ല ഒ എന്‍ വിയുടെ കാവ്യലോകമെന്നും അത് ദൈനംദിന ജീവിതാവിഷ്‌കാരം കൊണ്ടു റിയലിസ്റ്റിക് സ്വഭാവമാര്‍ന്നതാണെന്നും മുണ്ടശ്ശേരി പറയുമ്പോള്‍ അതിനെ ഒ എന്‍ വിയുടെ ആദ്യകാല കവിതകള്‍ നൂറു ശതമാനവും സാധൂകരിക്കുന്നുണ്ട്. അതുകൊണ്ടാണ് ചങ്ങമ്പുഴ പുരസ്‌കാരം തന്റെ കാവ്യജീവിതത്തിലെ ആദ്യ പുരസ്‌കാരമായി ഏറ്റുവാങ്ങിയ ഒ എന്‍ വി ചങ്ങമ്പുഴയ്ക്കു ലഭിക്കേണ്ടിയിരുന്ന ജ്ഞാപീഠം (അന്ന് ജ്ഞാനപീഠ പുരസ്‌കാരം ഇല്ലാതിരുന്നെങ്കിലും) ഒ എന്‍ വിക്ക് വാങ്ങാന്‍ കഴിയുമായിരുന്നില്ല എന്ന് പറഞ്ഞത്. എന്നാല്‍ വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിക്കു ലഭിക്കാതെപോയ ജ്ഞാനപീഠ പുരസ്‌കാരം ഒ എന്‍ വിക്കു ലഭിക്കുമ്പോള്‍ വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിയെ നാം ഓര്‍മിച്ചുപോകുന്നു. ഒ എന്‍ വിയെ ആരും വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിയുടെ അനുകര്‍ത്താവെന്നോ മാറ്റൊലി കവിതയെന്നോ വിമര്‍ശിച്ചിട്ടില്ല. എന്നാല്‍ ഇവരുടെയും കാവ്യലോകങ്ങള്‍ പങ്കുവെയ്ക്കുന്ന സാംസ്‌കാരികതലങ്ങള്‍ പരസ്പരപൂരകമാണ്. കാര്‍ഷിക ഗ്രാമത്തില്‍നിന്ന് ഇരുവരുടെയും തുടക്കം ഗ്രാമത്തില്‍ നിന്നാണ്. ''ഞാന്‍ കേരളത്തിലൊരു നാട്ടിന്‍പുറത്തു ജനിച്ചുവളര്‍ന്നതാണ് എന്റെ കവിതകളുടെ ഏറ്റവും വലിയ ഭാഗ്യം എന്നു തോന്നുന്നു-അന്ന് ഇളംപ്രായത്തില്‍ ഞാന്‍ കണ്ട നാട്ടിന്‍പുറം നാള്‍തോറും നിറങ്ങളുടെയും നാദങ്ങളുടെയും ഗന്ധങ്ങളുടെയും നവംനവങ്ങളായ അത്ഭുതങ്ങള്‍ ഉദ്ഘാടനം ചെയ്യുന്ന, അമ്മയെപ്പോലെ സ്‌നേഹം നിറഞ്ഞ, ഒരു കൊച്ചു ലോകമായിരുന്നു. ഇന്നും അതിന്റെ മധുരസ്മരണകളാണ് എന്റെ കവിതയുടെ ഏറ്റവും ഈടുള്ള കൈമുതല്‍''. (വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി - എന്റെ കവിത - വിത്തും കൈക്കോട്ടും) ഈ വരികള്‍ ഒ എന്‍ വിയുടെ വകയായി എഴുതിയാലും അക്ഷരംപ്രതി ശരിയാകും. അതുകൊണ്ടാണ് തന്നെ കവിയാക്കിയ ഗ്രാമത്തിന് തനിച്ച് ലഭിച്ച ജ്ഞാനപീഠ പുരസ്‌കാരം ഒ എന്‍ വി സമര്‍പ്പിക്കുന്നത്. ഗ്രാമത്തെ മാത്രമല്ല, ഭൂമിയെയും പ്രകൃതിയെയും അമ്മയായി പാടിപ്പുകഴ്ത്തുകയാണ് ഒ എന്‍ വിയും ചെയ്യുന്നത്. തന്റെ കവിതയുടെ ജീവശക്തം നാട്ടിന്‍പുറത്തെ വായ്ത്താരികളും ഈണങ്ങളുമാണെന്ന് ഒ എന്‍ വി പറയുന്നു. ''കരളില്‍ നൃത്തം ചെയ്‌വൂ പൂക്കളുമീണങ്ങളും''. (പൂക്കളും ഈണങ്ങളും എന്ന കവിത) കവിതയില്‍ തന്നെ മുലപ്പാലൂട്ടിയത് വടക്കന്‍പാട്ടുകളാണെന്ന് വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി പറയുന്നു : ''കവിതയില്‍ എന്നെ മുലപ്പാലൂട്ടിയത് വടക്കന്‍പാട്ടാണ്. അന്നെനിക്ക് നാലഞ്ചു വയസുകാണും. നിശബ്ദയാമത്തില്‍ ഒരമ്മൂമ്മയുടെ മധുരകണ്ഠത്തില്‍ നിന്നും വാര്‍ന്നുവീഴുന്ന ആ പാട്ടുകളുടെ ചന്തവും ചുണയുമുള്ള ഈണത്തില്‍ അലിഞ്ഞു, പരമാനന്ദമനുഭവിച്ച് പാതിരാവരെ ഞാന്‍ ഉറങ്ങാതെ കിടക്കാറുണ്ട്. ഇന്നും പുതുമഴക്കാലത്ത് പാടത്തുനിന്ന് അതേ പാട്ടുകള്‍ പാടികേള്‍ക്കുമ്പോള്‍ ഞാന്‍ വീരാഹ്ലാദഭരിതനായി വഴിയരികില്‍ നിന്നു പോകാറുണ്ട്.'' (വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി എന്റെ കവിത). ഒ എന്‍ വിയുടെ കാവ്യസംസ്‌കാരവും നാടന്‍പാട്ടുകളും സംഗീതവുമായിരുന്നു. ഒ എന്‍ വിക്കും പ്രിയപ്പെട്ടതാണ് മുത്തശ്ശി പാടികേള്‍പ്പിച്ച നാടന്‍പാട്ടുകളും നാടോടിക്കഥകളും. 'മുത്തശ്ശി പാടിപഠിപ്പിച്ച പാട്ടുകള്‍ കൊച്ചുകഥകള്‍, പ്പൂച്ചൊല്ലുകളൊക്കെയും തന്റെ കുഞ്ഞുങ്ങള്‍ നുകരാത്ത ദുഗ്ദ്ധമായ് നിന്നുവറ്റുമ്പോഴാനെങ്ങു വിങ്ങുന്നുവോ'' (മുക്കുറ്റികള്‍; വെറുതെ) ഇരുവരുടെയും ജീവിതവീക്ഷണത്തെ ആഴത്തില്‍ സ്വാധീനിച്ചിരിക്കുന്നത് പ്രകൃതിയാണ്. പക്ഷേ ജീ ശങ്കരക്കുറുപ്പിനെപ്പോലെ പ്രകൃതിയില്‍ പരമാത്മചൈതന്യം ദര്‍ശിക്കാന്‍ വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിക്കോ ഒ എന്‍ വിക്കോ കഴിയുന്നില്ല. ഇരുവര്‍ക്കും വസ്തുനിഷ്ഠ യാഥാര്‍ഥ്യമാണ് പ്രകൃതി.'' പ്രകൃതിയില്‍ വിശ്വഹൃദയത്തിന്റെ മിടിപ്പും പരമാത്മാവിന്റെ മുഖവും കാണുന്ന പ്രകൃത്യുപാസകരായ കവികളുണ്ട്. എനിക്ക് ആ ദര്‍ശനം നഷ്ടപ്പെട്ടിരിക്കുന്നു. ആ ഹൃദയത്തിലും മുഖത്തും അതിരറ്റ വാത്സല്യവും അന്ധമായ ക്രൂരതയും ഞാന്‍ കാണുന്നു''. (വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി-എന്റെ കവിത). വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിയെപ്പോലെ ഒ എന്‍ വിയും പ്രകൃതിയില്‍ അതിഭൗതികമായ ശക്തിവിശേഷം കാണുന്നില്ല. എന്നാല്‍ അവര്‍ തമ്മില്‍ ഒരു ഭേദമുണ്ട്. ഒ എന്‍ വി പ്രകൃതിയില്‍ അതിരറ്റ വാത്സല്യം അമ്മയുടെ വാത്സല്യം മാത്രമേ കാണുന്നുള്ളൂ. ക്രൂരത കാണുന്നില്ല. ഒ എന്‍ വിക്ക് പ്രകൃതി ഒരു കറുത്ത മാതാവല്ല. എന്നാല്‍ 'കണ്ണീര്‍പ്പാടം' എന്ന കവിതയില്‍ വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി ഗ്രാമദേവതയുടെ ദൗദ്രഭാവത്തെ ആവിഷ്‌കരിക്കുന്നുണ്ട്. പ്രകൃതിയോടുള്ള മതനിരപേക്ഷവും ഭൗതികവാദപരമായ സമീപനം വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിയിലും ഒ എന്‍ വിയിലും അമ്മ ദൈവാരാധനയുടെ സ്വാധീനത്തെ പ്രതിരോധിക്കുന്നു. തന്റെ കവിതകളിലൂടനീളം മാതൃബിംബങ്ങള്‍ വാരിവിതറുന്ന ഒ എന്‍ വിയില്‍ ദേവീ സങ്കല്‍പമോ ഭഗവതി സങ്കല്പമോ കാണുന്നില്ല; അതുപോലെ വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിയിലും. കൊയ്ത്തുപാടത്തുനിന്ന് 'കന്നിക്കൊയ്ത്തു' പാടത്ത് നിന്നാണ് വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിയുടെ തുടക്കം. മരണം ജീവിതമാകുന്ന നെല്‍ക്കറ്റകള്‍ കൊയ്‌തെടുത്താലും അതിന്റെ ചുവട്ടില്‍ വീണ്ടും പുതുജീവിതങ്ങളുടെ ഞാറുകള്‍ മുളച്ചു പൊന്തുന്നു എന്ന കാഴ്ചപ്പാടില്‍ നിന്നാണ് ജീവിതത്തിന്റെ അനുസ്യുതിയെക്കുറിച്ച് വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി പാടുന്നത്. കര്‍ഷകത്തൊഴിലാളികളാണ് പാരിന്റെ പാദം-അടിത്തറ-പണിയുന്നത് എന്ന് 'പടയാളികള്‍' എന്ന കവിതയില്‍ പറയുന്നു. അവരാണ് യാഥാര്‍ഥ സാഹിത്യകാരന്മാരും സാഹിത്യവിഷയമായ ജീവിതവും നാടന്‍ ഈണങ്ങളും സംസ്‌കാരവും നിര്‍മിക്കുന്നവര്‍. (പോകപോകടോനീ) കവിയല്ല പ്രാകൃതനാണ് സാഹിത്യകാരന്‍. (കുടിയൊഴിക്കല്‍) എന്ന് തന്‍ പോരിമകാണിക്കുന്ന കവിയെ വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി ഭര്‍സിക്കുന്നു. ഒ എന്‍ വിയും കാവ്യജീവിതം ആരംഭിക്കുന്നത് വയലേലകളില്‍ നിന്നാണ്, കൊ യ്ത്തുകാരില്‍ നിന്നാണ്. 'പണിചെയ്യും ജനതതിതന്‍ പൊതുമുതലാണക്കാണും പവിഴക്കനിക്കുലകള്‍ നെല്‍കതിരുകള്‍! പശിതീര്‍ക്കാന്‍ നാടിന്റെ പശിതീര്‍ക്കാനങ്ങനെ പണി ചെയ്തു വിള കൊയ്തു പ്രാകൃതന്മാര്‍! (അരിവാളും രാക്കുയിലും) കര്‍ഷകത്തൊഴിലാളികളെ പാടിപ്പുകഴ്ത്തിക്കൊണ്ടാണ് രണ്ടു പേരും കാവ്യജീവിതം ആരംഭിക്കുന്നത്. വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിയുടെ കണിക്കൊയ്ത്തിലെ കൊയ്ത്തുകാര്‍ വര്‍ഗബോധമുള്ളവരല്ല, എന്നാല്‍ ഒ എന്‍ വിയുടെ കൊയ്ത്തുകാര്‍ വര്‍ഗബോധമുള്ളവരും പൊരുതുന്ന സൗന്ദര്യങ്ങളുമാണ്. ഇരുവരും കൊയ്ത്തുകാരുടെ ദൈന്യജീവിതത്തോട് കാരുണ്യമുള്ളവരാണ്. 'നമ്മള്‍ കൊയ്യും വയലെല്ലാം നമ്മുടേതാകും' എന്ന് ഒ എന്‍ വി പറയുമ്പോള്‍ വയലും കര്‍ഷകത്തൊഴിലാളികളും ഭാവികാലത്തിലും മാറ്റമില്ലാതെ തുടരും എന്ന പരിവര്‍ത്തനരഹിത മനോഭാവമാണ് വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി ആവിഷ്‌കരിക്കുന്നത്. കരിവള്ളൂരിലും കയ്യൂരിലും നടന്ന കര്‍ഷകസമരങ്ങള്‍ ഒ എന്‍ വിയില്‍ വിപ്ലവബോധം തീഷ്ണമാക്കുമ്പോള്‍ വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിയില്‍ ധര്‍മസങ്കടമുണര്‍ത്തുന്നു. കന്നിക്കൊയ്ത്തിലെ വയല്‍ വരമ്പില്‍ കര്‍ഷകത്തൊഴിലാളികളുടെ ഗായകനായി, ബന്ധുവായി വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി നില്ക്കുന്നു. കുടിയൊഴിയ്ക്കലിലും അവരോട് ആര്‍ദ്രതയുള്ളവനാണ.് എന്നാല്‍ ഒ എന്‍ വിയാകട്ടെ അവരുടെ നാവും വീര്യവുമായി പാട്ടില്‍ പന്തം കൊളുത്തി നില്‍ക്കുകയാണ്. വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിയും ഒ എന്‍ വിയും കര്‍ഷകത്തൊഴിലാളികളെയാണ് വിപ്ലവശക്തികളായി കാണുന്നത്. 'കന്നിപ്പാടത്തും' വയലേലകളിലും അവര്‍ തേടുന്ന ഉടമാവകാശമാണ് അവര്‍ക്ക് വിപ്ലവം. ഒ എന്‍ വി തച്ചുടച്ചു ചിലതുടച്ചു വാര്‍ത്തും സ്ഥിതിസമത്വം വരാന്‍ ആഗ്രഹിക്കുമ്പോള്‍ വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി സ്‌നേഹസുന്ദരപാതയിലൂടെ ലോകസാമൂഹിക ദുര്‍നിയമങ്ങള്‍ ഇല്ലായ്മ ചെയ്യാന്‍ വിശ്വസംസ്‌കാര പാലകരോട് അപേക്ഷിക്കുന്നു. ഒ എന്‍ വിയില്‍ സോഷ്യലിസ്റ്റ് കവിതയും കവികളും സ്വാധീനം ചെലുത്തുമ്പോള്‍ (നെരുദ, മയ്‌ക്കോവ്‌സ്‌കി തുടങ്ങിയവര്‍) വൈലോള്ളിയില്‍ റഷ്യയിലെ മഹാപ്രതിഭകള്‍ മാര്‍ഗദര്‍ശികളായിത്തീരുന്നു. ടര്‍ജനീവ്, ടോള്‍സ്റ്റോയി, മയക്കോവ്‌സ്‌കി എന്നിവരുടെ കൃതികള്‍ അനവധി ജന്മങ്ങള്‍ ജീവിക്കുന്നതുപോലെയുള്ള വായനാനുഭവം നല്‍കി എന്ന് വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി പറയുന്നു. (എന്റെ കവിത) ഗോര്‍ക്കി, ഷോളക്കോവ്, വയ്‌ക്കോവ്‌സ്‌ക്കി എന്നിവരുടെ രചനകളിലൂടെ) മുഷ്ടിചുരുട്ടി ഉയിര്‍ത്തെഴുന്നേല്‍ക്കുന്ന മനുഷ്യരെ കണ്ടു. റഷ്യ, ചൈന, കൊറിയ തുടങ്ങിയ സോഷ്യലിസ്റ്റ് നാടുകള്‍ ഒ എന്‍ വിക്കു കാവ്യപ്രചോദനം നല്‍കുമ്പോള്‍ സോഷ്യലിസത്തിന് വേണ്ടിയുള്ള പോരാട്ടങ്ങള്‍ വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിയെയും ആകര്‍ഷിക്കുന്നു. 1940 കളിലെ കമ്മ്യൂണിസത്തിന്റെ അതിപ്രസരം നിറഞ്ഞ അന്തരീക്ഷം തന്റെ കവിതകളിലും പുരോഗമനത്തിന്റെ അരുണിമ അണിയിച്ചതായി വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി എഴുതുന്നു (മകരക്കൊയ്ത്തിന്റെ ആമുഖത്തില്‍). സൗന്ദര്യബോധം പുരോഗമന കവികള്‍ യാഥാര്‍സ്ഥിതികരായ പണ്ഡിതന്മാരില്‍ നിന്നും ഏറ്റുപിടിച്ച വിമര്‍ശനം അവരുടെ കവിതകളില്‍ സൗന്ദര്യമില്ല എന്നതാണ്. എന്നാല്‍ അതിന് മറുപടി നല്‍കിയത് വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിയാണ്. 'മര്‍ത്ത്യസൗന്ദര്യബോധങ്ങള്‍ പെറ്റ മക്കളല്ലീ പുരോഗമനങ്ങള്‍? എന്ന് അദ്ദേഹം അവരുടെ മുഖത്ത് നോക്കി ചോദിച്ചു. അതിന് അദ്ദേഹം വിശദീകരണവും നല്‍കി. ''സൗന്ദര്യബോധമാണ് പുരോഗതിക്ക്-കുതി നല്‍കുന്നത്. സമുദായത്തിലും എവിടെയും അസുന്ദരമായതിനെ കണ്ടറിഞ്ഞ് അതിനെ നീക്കി സുന്ദരമായതിനെ നിര്‍മിക്കാനോ പ്രതിഷ്ഠിക്കാനോ ആണ് പുരോഗാമി ഉത്സാഹിക്കുന്നത്.'' (കുടിയൊഴിപ്പിക്കലിന് നല്‍കുന്ന അടിക്കുറിപ്പ്). അതുകൊണ്ടു സോഷ്യലിസ്റ്റ് വ്യവസ്ഥ സൗന്ദര്യം വിളയുന്ന ഒരു സൗന്ദര്യ വ്യവസ്ഥയായി കുടിയൊഴിക്കലില്‍ വിഭാവന ചെയ്യുന്നു. ആ വ്യവസ്ഥയ്ക്കു വേണ്ടി പോരാടുകയും പാടുകയും ചെയ്യുന്ന പുരോഗമന കവികളെ അദ്ദേഹം വാത്സ്യല്യപൂര്‍വം'പട്ടിണിപ്പാട്ടുകാര്‍' എന്ന് വിളിക്കുന്നു. (വിത്തും കൈക്കോട്ടും എന്ന കവിതാസമാഹാരത്തില്‍). 'മാനവ പ്രശ്‌നങ്ങള്‍ തന്‍ മര്‍മ്മ കോവിതന്‍മാരെ, ഞാനൊരുവെറും സൗന്ദര്യാത്മക കവി മാത്രം' (കവിയും സൗന്ദര്യ ബോധവും) എന്ന് വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി പറഞ്ഞപ്പോള്‍ അദ്ദേഹം പുരോഗമന വിരുദ്ധനായി എന്ന് ചില വിമര്‍ശകര്‍ ആഹ്ലാദിക്കുകയുണ്ടായി. പക്ഷേ, തന്റെ സൗന്ദര്യബോധം കൂരിരുള്‍ ദഹിപ്പിക്കുന്ന ദീപനാളത്തിന്റെ ശോണസുന്ദര മുഖമാണെന്നും തന്റെ സൗന്ദര്യാത്മക കവിതകള്‍ പാടി നൂറ്റാണ്ടുകളായി അജ്ഞതയിലും ദാരിദ്ര്യത്തിലും ആഴ്ന്നു കിടക്കുന്ന ദാസന്മാര്‍ ഒരു വിപ്ലവത്തിലൂടെ 'ശ്രമികോത്തമ ലോകം- തൊഴിലാളി വര്‍ഗ ലോകം നിര്‍മിക്കുമെന്നും ആ കവിതയില്‍ എഴുതിവെച്ചത് വ്യാഖ്യാനിക്കാതെ പോയി.' ഒ എന്‍ വിക്കും സൗന്ദര്യമെന്നത് 'പൊരുതുന്ന സൗന്ദര്യമാണ്. താന്‍ നിസ്വവര്‍ഗ്ഗത്തിന്റെ പട്ടിണിപ്പാട്ടുകാരനാണെന്ന് ഉച്ചൈസ്തരം വിളിച്ചു പറഞ്ഞുകൊണ്ട് കൃഷി ഭൂമി കൃഷി ചെയ്യുന്നവന് സ്വന്തമാകുന്ന ഒരു സുന്ദര വ്യവസ്ഥയെക്കുറിച്ച് പാടി. കവിതയെ ഭൂമിയുടെ ലാവണ്യസാരമായി കാണുന്ന കവിക്ക് സൗന്ദര്യബോധമെന്നത് പാട്ടില്‍ കത്തിനില്‍ക്കുന്ന തീനാളമാണ്. അഭൗമമായ സൗന്ദര്യ ബോധമാണ് വിപ്ലവം. അത് കുരിരുളിനെ ദഹിപ്പിച്ചുകൊണ്ട് അദ്ദേഹത്തിന്റെ വാക്കില്‍ തീയായി നിന്ന് എരിയുന്നു; മറ്റുള്ളവര്‍ക്കായി സ്വയം കത്തിയെരിയുന്നു.' 'ഞാനൊരു സൗന്ദര്യാത്മക കവി മാത്രം' എന്ന് പറയുന്നതിന് പകരം 'ഞാനഗ്നി'യാണെന്ന് പറയുകയാണ് ഒ എന്‍ വി ചെയ്യുന്നത്. പൂക്കളുടെ കാമുകന്‍ പൂക്കളെ എത്ര സ്‌നേഹിച്ചാലും മതിവരാത്തവരാണ് വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിയും ഒ എന്‍ വിയും. ഭാവി തലമുറയാകുന്ന കായ്കനികളെ പ്രസവിക്കുന്ന മാതാക്കളാണ് പൂക്കള്‍. അതുകൊണ്ട് ഇരുവരും പൂക്കളെ മാതൃബിംബങ്ങളായി കാണുന്നു. വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിയെക്കാള്‍ ഒരു തരം ആസക്തി തന്നെ പൂക്കളോട് ഒ എന്‍ വിക്കുണ്ട്. വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി പൂക്കളെക്കുറിച്ച് മാത്രം പാടുന്ന കവി എന്ന വിമര്‍ശനവും അദ്ദേഹം ഏറ്റുപിടിച്ചിട്ടുണ്ട്. പൂക്കളില്‍ മാതൃത്വത്തിന്റെയും സ്ത്രീത്വത്തിന്റെയും സമസ്ത ഭാവങ്ങളും ദര്‍ശിക്കുന്നു. വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി പൂവിനെ കവികളുടെ കൊടിയടയാളമായി കാണുന്നു. ''ഒരുപൂവ്! സാഹിത്യകാരന്മാര്‍ക്ക് ഒരു ചേരിയുണ്ടെങ്കില്‍ പൂവായിരിക്കും അവരുടെ കൊടി. പ്രകൃതിയുടെ പുളകം; പുരാതനമെങ്കിലും എന്നും പുതുമയുള്ളത്, സത്യസൗന്ദര്യങ്ങള്‍ ഒത്തിണങ്ങിയത്; സൗമ്യമെങ്കിലും അനന്തമായ ഫലപരമ്പരയുടെ ശക്തിയുള്ളത്; മറ്റു കൊടികളില്ലാതാകുമ്പോഴും ഇത് നിലനില്‍ക്കും''. ('ഞങ്ങളുടെ കൊടി' എന്ന കവിതയുടെ അടിക്കുറിപ്പ്) ഒ എന്‍ വിക്ക് പൂക്കളോടുള്ള ബന്ധം ഭൂ പുത്രന്‍ എന്ന നിലയിലുള്ള ആങ്ങള്‍ - പെങ്ങള്‍ ബന്ധമാണ്. 'ഭൂമിപെറ്റ പൂങ്കിടാങ്ങള്‍ ഞാ- നെത്രമേല്‍ സ്‌നേഹിച്ചിട്ടും സ്‌നേഹിച്ചു തീരാത്തവര്‍.' മരുമക്കത്തായത്തറവാട്ടില്‍ വംശം നിലനിര്‍ത്തുന്നത് പെങ്ങമാരായതുകൊണ്ട് ആങ്ങളയായ ഒ എന്‍ വി തന്റെ കാവ്യ കുടുംബത്തിലുടനീളം പൂക്കളെ മഹാമാതൃബിംബമായി കൊണ്ടാടുന്നു. ഒ എന്‍ വിക്കും ജീവിതത്തുടര്‍ച്ചയാണ് പൂക്കള്‍. കേരള പ്രകൃതിയിലെ ഓണപ്പൂക്കളും കൊന്നപ്പൂക്കളും ഇരുവര്‍ക്കും ഏറെ പ്രിയമാണ്. ഓണം പ്രാചീനസ്ഥിതി സമത്വ സ്മൃതിയായതിനാല്‍ അത്തരമൊരു ചരിത്രാവസ്ഥയിലേക്ക് സൗന്ദര്യാത്മകമായി പുരോഗമിക്കുന്ന തൊഴിലാളി വര്‍ഗത്തിന്റെ പാഥേയമാണ് തന്റെ കവിതകള്‍ എന്ന് വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി പറയുന്നു. (ഓണപ്പാട്ടുകളെന്‍ പാട്ടുകള്‍) പുരുഷായുസിന്നപ്പുറം ആളിയ ഓണത്തിന്റെ മങ്ങിയൊതുങ്ങിയ ഓര്‍മകള്‍ മനസില്‍ സൂക്ഷിക്കുന്നത് അരവയര്‍ പട്ടിണിപെട്ട പാവപ്പെട്ടവരാണ്. (വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി-ഓണപ്പാട്ടുകള്‍). ഒ എന്‍ വിയും അവരില്‍ ചരിത്ര സ്മൃതിയുടെ ദീപ്തികാണുന്നു. 'ഒരുകാലം മലയാളത്തറവാട്ടില്‍ മാലോക- രൊരുപോലെ, യൊരുമയില്‍ വാണിരുന്നു'. 'ഉണരുമ്പോളാഗാനം, തെളിയുമാ ദീപ്തിയി- ലുണരുന്ന ചിത്രങ്ങള്‍ കാണ്മുഞങ്ങള്‍'. (അരിവാളും രാക്കുയിലും) കേരളത്തിലെ കാര്‍ഷികോത്സവങ്ങളായിരുന്ന തിരുവാതിര, വിഷു, ഓണം എന്നിവയുടെ ഭൂപ്രകൃതിയെയും സംസ്‌കാരത്തെയും കാവ്യബിംബങ്ങളായി സ്വരചനകളില്‍ ഇരുവരും വാരിനിറയ്ക്കുന്നു. ഭൗതിക ദര്‍ശനം ഭാരതീയ കവികളെ വ്യാമോഹിപ്പിക്കുന്നതാണ് സവര്‍ണ വര്‍ഗനിര്‍മിതികളെന്ന് കൂടി വിശേഷിപ്പിക്കപ്പെട്ടിട്ടുള്ള വേദോപനിഷദ് ദര്‍ശനങ്ങള്‍. മലയാള കവിതയില്‍ അതിന്റെ സ്വാധീനവലയത്തില്‍പ്പെട്ടവര്‍ വളരെച്ചുരുക്കമാണ്. അവരില്‍ പ്രമുഖരാണ് വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിയും ഒ എന്‍ വിയും. എന്നെങ്കിലുമൊരിക്കല്‍ ഭൂമിയില്‍ അന്യന്റെ മൊഴി സംഗീതംപോലെ ആസ്വദിക്കപ്പെടുന്ന 'ഓണവ്യവസ്ഥ' സാക്ഷാത്ക്കരിക്കപ്പെടുമെന്നും മനുഷ്യവര്‍ഗത്തിന്റെ മഹാ പ്രയാണം-സൗന്ദര്യാത്മക പുരോയാനം- അങ്ങോട്ടാണെന്നും നമ്മുടെ ഈ ഓണക്കവികള്‍ വിശ്വസിക്കുന്നു. ഈശ്വരനെ ആരാധിച്ച് ഇഹലോകവാസം വെടിഞ്ഞ് പരമാത്മാവില്‍ ലയിക്കുന്ന മനുഷ്യനില്‍ ഇരുകവികളും വിശ്വസിക്കുന്നില്ല. വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി എഴുതുന്നു. ''അധമവികാരങ്ങളെ സംസ്‌കരിച്ചെടുത്ത് ഇച്ഛാനുരൂപമായ പരിണാമത്തിലൂടെ ഉത്തമ മനുഷ്യത്വത്തിലേക്ക്, അതായത് ദേവത്വത്തിലേക്ക്, യുഗയുഗാന്തരത്തിലെങ്കിലും ഉയരുവാന്‍ സാധാരണ മനുഷ്യനു സാധിക്കുമെന്നാണ് എന്റെ വിശ്വാസം. ഞാന്‍ അടക്കമുള്ള സാധാരണക്കാരനില്‍ അഥവാ 'പച്ച മനുഷ്യനി'ല്‍ ഉത്തമ പ്രവണതകളോടൊപ്പം അന്തര്‍ലീനമായിക്കിടക്കുന്ന പൈശാചികവാസനകളെ മനസിലാക്കാനും ഒരുപക്ഷേ, പൊറുക്കാനും സാധിക്കുമെന്നല്ലാതെ, ഇന്ന് അത്രയധികം വിലപ്പോകുന്ന 'മനുഷ്യത്വം' എന്നൊരദ്ഭുത പദത്തിന്റെ പേരില്‍ ആ അധമവാസനകളെ, നീതീകരിക്കുവാന്‍ എനിക്ക് സാധിക്കുകയില്ല. മനുഷ്യത്വം എന്നതിന് ഞാന്‍ കൊടുക്കുന്ന അര്‍ത്ഥം പൂര്‍ണതയിലേയ്ക്കു വളരാന്‍ വെമ്പുന്ന ദേവത്വം എന്നാണ്. (എന്റെ കവിത-വിത്തും കൈക്കോട്ടും) മനുഷ്യനെ കവിതയുടെ കേന്ദ്രമാക്കി ഉച്ചത്തില്‍ പാടുമ്പോഴും ഒ എന്‍ വിയും മനുഷ്യന്റെ അധമവാസനകളെത്തന്നെയാണ് വിമര്‍ശിക്കുന്നത്. ഭൂമിയുടെ മുലപ്പാലുണ്ടു വളര്‍ന്ന ഭൂമി പുത്രന്‍ തന്നെ മാതൃഹത്യ നടത്തുന്നു. 'പുതിയ കഥയെഴുതുന്നു വസുധയുടെ മക്കളിവര്‍ വസുധയുടെ വസ്ത്രമുരിയുന്നൂ! വിപണികളിലവ വിറ്റു മോന്തുന്നൂ, വിടനഖര- മഴുമുനകള്‍ കേളിതുടരുന്നു'. (ഭൂമിയ്‌ക്കൊരു ചരമഗീതം) മനുഷ്യന്‍ ദേവത്വത്തിലെത്തിയാലും ഓണവ്യവസ്ഥ സാക്ഷാല്‍ക്കരിച്ചാലും അവന്റെ ക്രൂരതയുടെ നഖമുനകള്‍ പിന്നെയും വളര്‍ന്നുകൊണ്ടിരിക്കുന്നു എന്ന ചിന്ത ഇരുകവികളെയും വിഷാദിപ്പിക്കുന്നു. ''ഇനി അതിവിദൂരഭാവിയില്‍ മനുഷ്യന്‍ ദേവനും ജീവിതം തന്നെ സുന്ദര കലയുമായി പരിണമിച്ചാലും ഞാനിപ്പോള്‍ ഇവിടെയിരുന്നുകാണുന്നതുപോലെ, കാക്ക ഓന്തിന്‍ കുഞ്ഞിനെ പിടിച്ചു വൃക്ഷക്കൊമ്പില്‍ തല്ലിത്തുലച്ചുമിഴുങ്ങുന്നതും, ആ വൃക്ഷക്കൊമ്പില്‍ ദംഷ്ട്രകളിറക്കി ഇത്തിള്‍ക്കണ്ണി അതിന്റെ ജീവരസം വലിച്ചുകുടിക്കുന്നതും കണ്ട് അവന്‍, എന്നേക്കാള്‍ എത്രയോ അധികം തീവ്രമായി, ദുഃഖിക്കേണ്ടിവരും. (അത്ര മഹത്തായ സ്‌നേഹവും സഹാനുഭൂതിയുമാണല്ലോ അവന്റെ ദേവത്വത്തിന്റെ രക്തമാംസങ്ങള്‍!) പക്ഷേ, ആ ദുഃഖം അവനു മികച്ച ഒരാഭരണമായിരിക്കും.'' (വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി-എന്റെ കവിതഃ. മാനവികതയുടെ ആ ദുഃഖം തലയില്‍ ചൂടിനിന്നുകൊണ്ടാണ്, വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി തന്റെ കവിതയുടെ മഹാഭാഗ്യമെന്ന് വിശേഷിപ്പിച്ച ഗ്രാമപ്രകൃതിയും ജീവജാലങ്ങളും ഭൂമിയും ചൂഷകരായ ഇത്തിള്‍ക്കണ്ണികള്‍ നശിപ്പിക്കുന്നതു കണ്ട് ഒ എന്‍ വിയും വേദനിക്കുന്നത്. ഭൂമിയ്‌ക്കൊരു ചരമഗീതത്തിന് ശേഷമുള്ള അദ്ദേഹത്തിന്റെ രചനകളിലൊക്കെ സാംസ്‌കാരിക (cultural pessimism) വിഷാദമായും (ecco pessimism) പാരിസ്ഥിതികവിഷാദമായും 'ആ ആഭരണം' കിടന്ന് തിളങ്ങുന്നുണ്ട്. രണ്ടുകൃഷിക്കാരുടെ കൂട്ടായ്മ ഇത്രമേല്‍ പരസ്പര പൂരകത്വം എങ്ങനെ വന്നു? ഒ എന്‍ വി വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിയെ അനുകരിക്കുന്നതായി അദ്ദേഹത്തിന്റെ എതിര്‍വിമര്‍ശകര്‍ പോലും ആരോപണം ഉന്നയിച്ചിട്ടില്ല. കാര്‍ഷികവൃത്തിയെയും പഞ്ചഭൂതാത്മകമായ പ്രകൃതിയെയും ഭൗതികവാദപരമായി എഴുത്തിന്റെ ഈടുവെയ്പായി സ്വീകരിച്ചിട്ടുള്ള എഴുത്തുകാരിലെല്ലാം ഈയൊരു ഇഴയടുപ്പം കാണാം. കാരണം കൃഷി ഒരു ലോകഭാഷയാണ്. അതിനെ സംബന്ധിച്ച സാംസ്‌കാരിക ചിഹ്നങ്ങളും അതുപോലെതന്നെ. കാവ്യവൃത്തിയും കാര്‍ഷിക വൃത്തിയും സമാനമാണെന്ന രൂപകല്‍പന വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിയിലും ഒ എന്‍ വിയിലും കാണുന്നു. മണ്ണിലെ എഴുത്താണ് കൃഷി. 'മൂരിയെപ്പൂട്ടി, കൊഴുത്തലയാലെഴുതുന്നൂ പാരിലെ സമൃദ്ധിതന്‍ പൊതുഭാഷയിമണ്ണില്‍' (വൈലോപ്പിള്ളി-കയ്പപല്ലരി) ഉര്‍വിയെ പുഷ്പിക്കുന്ന നിര്‍വൃതികരമായ സര്‍ഗവ്യാപാരമാണ്, കലയാണ് കൃഷി. ''പരിഷ്‌കാരത്തിന്റെ എന്തൊക്കെ മേലടുക്കുകള്‍ നമ്മെ പൊതിഞ്ഞാലും കൃഷി നമ്മുടെയെല്ലാം രക്തത്തിലുണ്ട്'' (കയ്പവല്ലരി). അതുകൊണ്ട് കൊഴുമുനകൊണ്ടു നിലമാകുന്ന കടലാസില്‍ കൃഷിഗീത എഴുതുന്ന കൃഷിക്കാരനും തൂലികകൊണ്ടു കടലാസില്‍ കവിത കുറിക്കുന്ന കവിയും സമാനരാണ്. 'കവിയും കര്‍ഷകനുമുഷിയുമൊരാളില്‍ താന്‍ കതിര്‍ച്ചൂടുമാക്കാഴ്ച കണ്ടുഞാനാമോദിക്കേ' (കയ്പവല്ലരി) ഇതില്‍ ആര്‍ക്കാണ് മഹത്വം? വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിക്ക് ഒരു സംശയവുമില്ല. പാരിന്റെ പാദം (Base) പണിയുന്ന കര്‍ഷകത്തൊഴിലാളിയാണ് യഥാര്‍ഥ മഹാകവി. 'പോകപോകെടോ നീ കവിയല്ല- പ്രാകൃതനാണ് സാഹിത്യകാരന്‍.' (കുടിയൊഴിക്കല്‍) കാവ്യലോകം ഒരു കൂട്ടുകൃഷിക്കളമാണ്. ഓരോ കവിയും അവിടെ കൃഷിപ്പണി ചെയ്യുന്നു. ''കര്‍ക്കിടകത്തിന്‍ കണ്ണീര്‍ തേവിയീ ഞാനും മറ്റുള്ള കവികളും കാവ്യപ്പാടത്തു കൃഷിചെയ്‌കെ-ഉളവായിടും ധാന്യവിളവാകവേ, ധാരാമിളനാഭോഗം മഹാനദിയായ് പ്രവഹിക്കെ'' (ലെനിന്‍ എന്ന കവിത) കാര്‍ഷിക സംസ്‌കാരമുള്ള കവികളൊക്കെ ഒരേ ജനുസുകളായി നിലനില്‍ക്കുന്നു. ഒ എന്‍ വിക്കും കാവ്യവൃത്തി കാര്‍ഷിക വൃത്തിയാണ്. സംസ്‌കാരവും ചരിത്രവുമാണ് കവിതയുടെ മണ്ണ്. ''സ്വന്തം നാടിന്റെ ചരിത്രം, സാംസ്‌കാരിക പൈതൃകം തുടങ്ങിയുള്ള നിരവധി ഘടകങ്ങള്‍ ചേര്‍ന്നതാണ് കവിതയുടെ മണ്ണ്. ജീവിതത്തോട് എന്റെ പൂര്‍വികര്‍ എങ്ങനെ പ്രതികരിച്ചു എന്നതിനെപ്പറ്റിയുള്ള അവബോധം എന്റെ കവിതയുടെ വേരോടുന്ന മണ്ണാണ്-ഈ മണ്ണില്‍ ഉറച്ചുനിന്ന് പ്രവര്‍ത്തിക്കുമ്പോഴുണ്ടാകുന്ന അനുഭവങ്ങള്‍ ഉള്ളില്‍ക്കിടന്നു നീറുമ്പോള്‍ ഒരു ചെറിയ ചെടി അതിന്റെ പ്രതികരണം ഉയര്‍ത്തിപ്പിടിക്കുന്നതുപോലെ ഒരു പൂവുവരും. (കവിതയും വിപ്ലവകവിതയും). കവിതയില്‍ ഭാവങ്ങള്‍ നിറയുന്നത് പച്ചനെല്ലിന്‍ തയ്യില്‍ പാല്‍ക്കതിര്‍ പൊന്തുന്നതുപോലെയാണെന്ന് ഒ എന്‍ വി പറയുന്നു. 'പച്ചനെല്ലിന്‍ തയ്യില്‍ നിന്നുപാല്‍ക്കതിര്‍പോലെ, കവി ചിത്തത്തില്‍ നിന്നവ്യക്ത മധുരമൊരാശയം കതിര്‍നൂലുകള്‍ നൂത്തു നില്‍ക്കവേ-' (കവിതയും സംഗീതവും) മലയാള കവിതയുടെ ഈരടി സമ്പ്രദായത്തെയും നെണ്മണി വിത്തുമുളപ്പൊട്ടുന്നതിനോടാണ് സാദൃശ്യപ്പെടുത്തുന്നത്. 'മണ്ണില്‍ വീണു കുരുത്ത നെന്മണി വിത്തുമുളപൊട്ടി മിന്നുമീരില വീണിടും പേലെത്രയീരടികള്‍ മണ്ണില്‍ വേര്‍പ്പു വിതച്ചവര്‍ തന്നീണമായ് വന്നൂ അന്ന് പാടിയ പാട്ടിലൂഞ്ഞാലാടി മലയാളം' (മലയാളം) കവിതയെ മാത്രമല്ല അക്ഷരങ്ങളെത്തന്നെ പ്രകൃതിയില്‍ ദര്‍ശിക്കുന്നു 'അക്ഷര'മെന്ന കവിതയില്‍. കവിതയെന്ന കാര്‍ഷിക കൂട്ടായ്മ വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിയെയും ഒ എന്‍ വിയെയും പരസ്പരം ഇഴച്ചേര്‍ക്കുന്ന സാംസ്‌കാരിക തന്തുക്കളാകുന്നു. അതുകൊണ്ടാണ് വൈലോപ്പിള്ളിക്ക് ലഭിക്കേണ്ട ജ്ഞാനപീഠ പുരസ്‌കാരം തല്‍സ്ഥാനത്ത് നിന്ന് ഒ എന്‍ വി സ്വീകരിക്കുന്നു എന്ന് നിരീക്ഷിച്ചത്.

The Heartland Rocker, Aging Brashly

2011-02-21T20:52:00.000+05:30

At Radio City Music Hall on Friday night John Mellencamp joshed about what it would be like to meet his younger self: a brash kid who’d condescendingly say, “Hey, Classic Hits, what’s happening?” He went on proudly to assert his age, 59, as a lead-in to what he announced as a “song for my generation.” It was “Don’t Need This Body,” a blunt, death-haunted stomp that began, “This getting older, it ain’t for cowards.”

It was one linchpin of a concert that seesawed between facing mortality — full of songs about death — and a stubborn determination to live fully. Performing for more than two hours Mr. Mellencamp was as feisty about a bold middle age, in “The Real Life,” as he once was about wanting to “hold on to 16 as long as you can” in his biggest hit, “Jack & Diane,” from 1982. He doesn’t care about the past, he insisted, but wisely he hasn’t discarded it either.

Mr. Mellencamp’s “classic hits” made him a multimillion-selling rocker in the 1980s. He built the persona of a populist bad boy: a small-town guy bucking authority and speaking up for also-rans. But Mr. Mellencamp wouldn’t act like a bad boy forever. He grew up fast.

By the late 1980s he was singing, in his gutsy, earnest rasp, about adult disillusionment and economic woes, particularly for family farmers. He would go on to write about politics, racism, hard luck, faith and dying. Mr. Mellencamp also rusticated and backdated his music, adding folky instruments to his band and modeling his newer songs on Woody Guthrie, Johnny Cash and the blues.

He made his 2010 album, “No Better Than This” (Rounder), in mono, using a tape recorder and one vintage microphone, in places including the San Antonio hotel room where Robert Johnson recorded and Sun Studios in Memphis. (“It’s About You,” a documentary shown to Radio City’s early arrivals, was a grainy hagiography filmed on Mr. Mellencamp’s tour and at recording sessions, using another vintage technology: Super 8.)

At Radio City Mr. Mellencamp changed his backup from song to song, juggling small groups and the full band. Sometimes he was alone with an acoustic guitar, strumming through “Small Town” with the audience shouting along, or he was joined by Miriam Sturm on violin and Troye Kinnett on accordion. Mike Wanchic, Mr. Mellencamp’s rhythm guitarist for 35 years, doubled on mandolin.

Certain older songs were recast as rockabilly, with a swing beat from Dane Clark on a stand-up drum kit, John Gunnell slapping a bass, and twangy lead guitar from Andrew York. “Jack & Diane” got a countrified beat, and Mr. Mellencamp sang “Cherry Bomb” a cappella. Meanwhile some of the bare-bones songs from “No Better Than This” got fleshed out, like “The West End,” a chronicle of urban decay that became a dark drone, and “No One Cares About Me,” a litany of bitter isolation and stubborn optimism that took on a jaunty bounce.

As the concert ended, Mr. Mellencamp stopped jovially dodging his past. His band’s Hoosier power chords were back for “Pink Houses” and “R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A.,” played in their old hit style. Still a populist, Mr. Mellencamp gave people what they wanted once he had his say.

2011-02-21T19:23:00.003+05:30

മലയാളമായാലെന്താ

ലോക മാതൃഭാഷാ ദിനമാണ് ഇന്ന് . ആഗോളമായ ഒരു നോട്ടത്തില്‍ മലയാളം മറ്റു ഭാഷകളെ അപേക്ഷിച്ച് എന്തെങ്കിലും സവിശേഷതകളുള്ള ഭാഷയാണെന്ന് പറഞ്ഞുകൂട. പക്ഷേ, മലയാളം മാതൃഭാഷയായവര്‍ക്ക് അത് ഭൂമിയിലെ ഏറ്റവും ശക്തമായ ഭാഷയാണ്. ജര്‍മന്‍കാരന് ജര്‍മന്‍ഭാഷയോ ചൈനക്കാരന് ചൈനീസ് ഭാഷയോ പോലെ

''അന്തിയിരുട്ടില്‍, ദിക്കുതെറ്റിയ പെണ്‍പക്ഷി
തന്റെ കൂടിനെച്ചൊല്ലി, തന്റെ
കുഞ്ഞിനെച്ചൊല്ലി സംഭ്രമിച്ചുകരയുന്നു.
എനിക്കതിന്റെ കൂടറിയാം, കുഞ്ഞിനേയുമറിയാം
എന്നാല്‍ എനിക്കതിന്റെ ഭാഷയറിയില്ലല്ലോ''
(കലാപ്രിയ-തമിഴ്കവി)

ഇന്ന് ലോക മാതൃഭാഷാദിനം. ശിശുവായിരുന്ന നാള്‍, നിസ്സഹായനായിരുന്ന നാള്‍, ''ചുണ്ടുമെന്‍ നാവും തിരിയാത്തനാള്‍'', സ്ഥലത്തിനും കാലത്തിനും പുറത്തായിരുന്ന നാള്‍ ആ അന്ധകാരങ്ങളില്‍ നിന്നെന്നെ ക്രമേണ 'കരകയറ്റിയവളു'ടെ സംസാരഭാഷയാണ് മാതൃഭാഷ. ലോകത്തിലേക്ക് എന്നെ ഉണര്‍ത്തിയ, ഉയര്‍ത്തിയ ഭാഷ. കാലം തത്കാലം മാത്രമല്ലെന്നും സ്ഥലം കാണുന്നിടത്തോളം മാത്രമല്ലെന്നും ധരിപ്പിച്ച ആദ്യമാധ്യമം. എല്ലാവരുമെത്തുന്നിടത്തെല്ലാം എന്നെയുമെത്തിച്ച, പുറത്തേക്കും അകത്തേക്കും സഞ്ചരിച്ച ആദ്യത്തെ പൊതുവാഹനം. മൂകയും ബധിരയുമായിരുന്ന ഹെലന്‍ കെല്ലര്‍ ടാപ്പിനു കീഴെ കൈകഴുകിക്കൊണ്ടിരുന്നപ്പോള്‍ ഇടംകൈത്തണ്ടയില്‍ അവളുടെ അധ്യാപിക ആവര്‍ത്തിച്ച് രേഖപ്പെടുത്തിക്കൊണ്ടിരുന്നു, വെള്ളം വെള്ളം എന്ന്. തന്റെ ഉള്ളംകൈയില്‍ വീണൊഴുകിപ്പരക്കുന്ന തണുത്ത പദാര്‍ഥത്തിനും (വസ്തുവിനെ പദാര്‍ഥം എന്നുപറഞ്ഞ ഭാരതീയന്‍ ഒരു വിറ്റ്ഗിന്‍സ്റ്റീനിയന്‍ ഉള്‍ക്കാഴ്ച കാട്ടുകയല്ലേ?) കൈത്തണ്ടയിലെ ആവര്‍ത്തിക്കുന്ന അനുഭവത്തിനും സംബന്ധമുണ്ടെന്ന് അവളറിയുംവരെ. ഒടുവിലൊരനുഗൃഹീത നിമിഷത്തില്‍ (അപ്പോള്‍ ദേവലോകത്തിന്റെ വാതില്‍ തുറന്നു; ആകാശത്തുനിന്ന് പുഷ്പവൃഷ്ടിയുണ്ടായി) അവളറിഞ്ഞു, ഈ കൈയില്‍പ്പടരുന്ന അദ്ഭുതത്തിന്റെ മനുഷ്യഭാഷയിലെ പേരാണ് കൈത്തണ്ടയിലെ ആവര്‍ത്തിക്കുന്ന അസ്വസ്ഥത എന്ന്. അവളത് ഹൃദിസ്ഥമാക്കി. അവളറിഞ്ഞു, ഭൂമിയില്‍ ഭാഷയുണ്ട്. അതില്‍ ഓരോ വസ്തുവിനും പേരുണ്ട്. അവളറിഞ്ഞു, സകലതിനും പേരിട്ട ആദമിനെ. അവളറിഞ്ഞു, ഭാഷ എന്ന മഹാവിസ്മയത്തെ; ചൈതന്യമുള്ള പ്രപഞ്ചത്തെ. അപ്പോള്‍ മുതല്‍ അവള്‍ അന്ധയോ ബധിരയോ മൂകയോ അല്ലാതായി. ഹെലന്‍ കെല്ലറെപ്പോലെ അവിചാരിതമായ ഒരു നിമിഷത്തിലല്ല നാമറിയുന്നതെന്നതിനാല്‍ അത്രമേല്‍ ആ അതിശയം നാമറിയുന്നില്ല. എങ്കിലും ചിലപ്പോള്‍ ആദ്യമായി ഭാഷയിലെത്തുന്നവന്റെ അദ്ഭുതവും ആഹ്ലാദവും നാമറിയാറുണ്ട്. കവിതയുള്‍പ്പെടെയുള്ള എല്ലാ ബോധോദയങ്ങളിലും ('ൃാഹഷസറവൃൗവൃറീ) അതുണ്ട്. ബോര്‍ഹെസ്സ് എഴുതുന്നു: ''ഇരുട്ടില്‍ തീപ്പെട്ടിയുരച്ച് തീ കത്തിക്കുമ്പോള്‍ നാം ആദ്യമായി തീയുണ്ടാക്കിയ മനുഷ്യന്‍കൂടിയാവുകയാണ്. നാം വെളിച്ചം നിര്‍മിച്ചിരിക്കുന്നു. ഒരേസമയം ആദിമവും അനന്തവുമായ വിസ്മയാനുഭവമാണ് മാതൃഭാഷ.''

ആഗോളമായ ഒരു നോട്ടത്തില്‍, ഇതരഭാഷകളെ അപേക്ഷിച്ച് മലയാളം എന്തെങ്കിലും സവിശേഷതകളുള്ള ഭാഷയാണെന്ന് പറഞ്ഞുകൂടാ. പല അപര്യാപ്തതകളുമുള്ള വളര്‍ച്ച പൂര്‍ത്തിയായിട്ടില്ലാത്ത ഒരു ഭാഷ. പക്ഷേ, മലയാളം മാതൃഭാഷയായവര്‍ക്ക് ആ നിലയിലും അത് ഭൂമിയിലെ ഏറ്റവും ശക്തമായ ഭാഷയാണ്. ജര്‍മന്‍കാരന് ജര്‍മന്‍ഭാഷയോ ചൈനക്കാരന് ചൈനീസ് ഭാഷയോ പോലെ. അസദൃശമായ ഒരു ഭാഷ. സത്യമായ ഏക ഭാഷ. വേരുകളുള്ള ശബ്ദങ്ങള്‍ യാദൃച്ഛികമല്ലാത്ത ജൈവഭാഷ. ഭാഷയിലെ പദങ്ങള്‍ 'ആര്‍ബിട്രറി' ആകാം. പക്ഷേ, മാതൃഭാഷയിലെ പദങ്ങള്‍ കേവലസാങ്കേതികങ്ങള്‍ അല്ല. വാഗര്‍ഥാവിവസംപൃക്തൗ എന്നത് കാവ്യലക്ഷണം മാത്രമല്ല, മാതൃഭാഷാലക്ഷണം കൂടിയാണ്. മാതൃഭാഷയിലാണ് ഊടറിയാവുന്ന പദങ്ങളുള്ളത്. നമ്മുടെ സംസ്‌കാരത്തിന്റെ നേരുള്ള ശൈലികളും പ്രയോഗവൈചിത്ര്യങ്ങളുമുള്ളത്. സൃഷ്ടിക്കാവുന്ന, തിരുത്താവുന്ന, വളര്‍ത്താവുന്ന സര്‍ഗാത്മകതയുള്ള (ബഷീറോ വി.കെ.എന്നോ മാതൃഭാഷയില്ലാതെ സാധ്യമല്ല). സ്വന്തം ഭൂപ്രകൃതിയെ, കാലാവസ്ഥയെ അറിഞ്ഞ ഭാഷയാണത്. രൂപംകൊള്ളലില്‍ അവയെല്ലാം പങ്കെടുത്ത ഭാഷയാണത്. സങ്കീര്‍ണമായ സാഹിത്യത്തിന്, ആത്മാര്‍ഥമായ കലഹത്തിന്, സൂക്ഷ്മമായ സംവാദത്തിന്, ഹൃദ്യമായ സല്ലാപത്തിന് മാധ്യമമായി മാതൃഭാഷ വേണം. അവനവനിലെ കവിക്ക്, വാഗ്മിക്ക് മാതൃഭാഷ വേണം അതിശയിക്കാന്‍. ഭാഷയോളമാണ് മനുഷ്യന്‍ എന്നു പറയുന്നു വിറ്റ്ഗിന്‍സ്റ്റിന്‍. ലോകത്തില്‍ ഒരു ഭാഷയിലും സ്ത്രീ രണ്ടുലിംഗത്തെയും പ്രതിനിധീകരിക്കുന്ന സര്‍വനാമമല്ല എന്നു പറയുമ്പോള്‍ ഭാഷയിലാണ് വിവേചനത്തിന്റെ അടിസ്ഥാനമെന്നു പറയുകയാണ് സൂസന്‍ സൊണ്ടാഗ്. ജോര്‍ജ് ബുഷ് 2003-ലെ സ്റ്റേറ്റ് ഓഫ് ദി യൂണിയന്‍ പ്രസംഗത്തില്‍ ഫ്രാവമിൃവലയ്ത്ത എന്ന പദത്തിനു പകരം ഫ്രറസ്ുഷസറയ്ത്ത എന്ന പദമായിരുന്നു ഉപയോഗിച്ചതെങ്കില്‍ ഇറാഖ് യുദ്ധവും അനേകരുടെ മരണവും ഒഴിവാക്കാനാവുമായിരുന്നു എന്ന് സ്റ്റീഫന്‍ പിങ്കര്‍. നിങ്ങള്‍ ശരിയായി മനസ്സിലാക്കപ്പെട്ടു എന്നതിന് നിങ്ങളുടെ ഭാഷ ശരിയായി മനസ്സിലാക്കപ്പെട്ടു എന്നാണര്‍ഥം. പറഞ്ഞത് തെറ്റിദ്ധരിക്കപ്പെടുമ്പോള്‍ നിങ്ങള്‍ക്കുണ്ടാവുന്ന ഈറ, പറഞ്ഞത് തെറ്റിദ്ധരിക്കപ്പെട്ടിടത്തോളം മാത്രമല്ല, നിങ്ങള്‍ തെറ്റിദ്ധരിക്കപ്പെട്ടോളമാണ്. നിങ്ങളുടെ ഭാഷയോളമാണ് നിങ്ങള്‍. ഭാഷ കേവലമായ ആശയവിനിമയോപായം മാത്രമല്ല, സംസ്‌കാരവാഹിനികൂടിയാണ്. ഭൂമിയിലെ ഏറ്റവും വലിയ മന്ദിരങ്ങള്‍ ഭാഷയില്‍ പണിയപ്പെട്ടത്. 'യുദ്ധവും സമാധാനവും' എന്ന കൃതിയോളം ഉയരമില്ല 'വേള്‍ഡ് ട്രേഡ് സെന്ററി'ന്. ഷേക്‌സ്പിയര്‍കൃതികളെക്കുറിച്ചുള്ള ഹരോള്‍ഡ് ബ്ലൂമിന്റെ പഠനത്തിന്റെ പേര് 'ഇന്‍വെന്‍ഷന്‍ ഓഫ് മാന്‍' എന്നാണ്. ആദിയില്‍ വചനമുണ്ടായി എന്നതിന്നര്‍ഥം പിന്നീടുള്ള വളര്‍ച്ചയെല്ലാം ഭാഷയിലൂടെ സാധിച്ചതുകൂടിയാണ് എന്നതാണ്. ദൈവത്തിന്റെപോലും വെല്ലുവിളിയാവുന്ന വലിയ ഉയരം ഭാഷയിലാണ് എന്നതാണ് ബാബേലിന്റെ പൊരുള്‍. പക്ഷേ, ഉയര്‍ത്തപ്പെട്ടത് മാതൃഭാഷയിലായിരുന്നു. അതിനെ ശിഥിലമാക്കിക്കൊണ്ട്, ആദ്യത്തെ അനൈക്യത്തിലൂടെ മനുഷ്യന്‍ തോല്പിക്കപ്പെട്ടു. ഭാഷയോളമാണ് മനുഷ്യനെന്ന് വിറ്റ്ഗിന്‍സ്റ്റിന്‍ പറഞ്ഞതും സ്വന്തം മാതൃഭാഷയിലാണ്. എലിയറ്റാണോ ആശാനാണോ വലിയ കവി എന്ന ചോദ്യത്തിന്റെ ശരിയായ ഉത്തരം ഇംഗ്ലീഷ് മാതൃഭാഷയായവര്‍ക്ക് എലിയറ്റും മലയാളം മാതൃഭാഷയായവര്‍ക്ക് ആശാനുമാണെന്നാണ്. എഴുതപ്പെട്ടതേതു ഭാഷയിലാണോ ആ ഭാഷയിലന്തര്‍ലീനമായ സംസ്‌കാരത്തിന്റെ സാധ്യതകളുടെകൂടി സാഫല്യമാണ് കവിത. മുന്തിയ ഏത് ഭാഷാനുഭവവും ഇന്ത്യന്‍ ഭാഷയിലെ ക്ലാസ്സിക്കുകളോളം പോന്നവയല്ല. പോന്നവയല്ല ഇന്ത്യനിംഗ്ലീഷിലെ ക്ലാസ്സിക്കുകള്‍. 'ആരോഗ്യനികേതന'ത്തെയോ 'പാത്തുമ്മയുടെ ആടി'നെയോ സമീപിക്കാന്‍ പോന്ന കൃതികളല്ല 'ഗോഡ് ഓഫ് സ്‌മോള്‍ തിങ്‌സോ' 'മിഡ്‌നൈറ്റ് ചില്‍ഡ്രനോ'. ഇംഗ്ലീഷ് പോലെ ഇന്ത്യന്‍ മണ്ണില്‍ വേരുകളില്ലാത്ത ഒരു ഭാഷകൊണ്ട് കൂടുതല്‍ കാര്യക്ഷമമായി നിര്‍വഹിക്കാവുന്നവയായി നമ്മുടെ ഭാഷാവശ്യങ്ങള്‍ എന്നതിന്നര്‍ഥം ജീവിതം ഉപരിപ്ലവവും വൈദേശികവും ആയി എന്നാണ്. ഇംഗ്ലീഷില്‍ മാപ്പുപറഞ്ഞാല്‍ മാത്രം മാപ്പുകിട്ടുന്ന, ഇംഗ്ലീഷില്‍ പ്രണയാഭ്യര്‍ഥന നടത്തിയാല്‍ മാത്രം സ്വീകാര്യമാവുന്ന (ഒരു ഹിന്ദി സിനിമയില്‍ 'ഐ ലൗ യൂ' എന്ന് നാലുതവണ നായകന്‍ പറഞ്ഞപ്പോഴാണ് നായിക സമ്മതാര്‍ഥത്തില്‍ ലജ്ജിച്ചത്), ഇംഗ്ലീഷ് ഉപയോഗിക്കുമ്പോള്‍ മാത്രം 'സീരിയസ് മാന്‍' ആകുന്നതിലെ കോമാളിത്തം നാം അറിയാത്തതെന്ത്? അന്യഭാഷയിലൊരു പദത്തിന്റെ അര്‍ഥം മറ്റൊരു പദമാണ്. മാതൃഭാഷയിലൊരു പദത്തിന്റെ അര്‍ഥം ചിലപ്പോള്‍ ഒരനുഭൂതിയാണ്, ഒരു മനോവിസ്തൃതിയാണ്, ഒരു തിരിച്ചറിവാണ്. അയ്യപ്പപ്പണിക്കരുടെ 'കുതിരനൃത്തം' എന്ന കവിതയില്‍ ഒരൊറ്റക്കാലന്‍ കുതിര ഇരുകാലിക്കുതിരയെയും മുക്കാലിക്കുതിരയെയും നാല്‍ക്കാലിക്കുതിരയെയും കൂടെ നൃത്തംചെയ്യാന്‍ ക്ഷണിക്കുന്നു. നൃത്തം തുടര്‍ന്നപ്പോള്‍ ആദ്യം നാല്‍ക്കാലി, തുടര്‍ന്ന് മുക്കാലി, ഒടുവില്‍ ഇരുകാലി കുതിരകള്‍ നിപതിക്കുന്നു. ഒറ്റക്കാലന്‍ അനായാസമായി നൃത്തം തുടരുന്നു. ജീവിതം ഒറ്റക്കാലന്‍ കുതിരയുടെ നൃത്തമായ പുതിയ കാലത്ത് (കലിയുഗത്തില്‍ ഒറ്റക്കാലില്‍ സഞ്ചരിക്കുന്ന ധര്‍മദേവനെക്കുറിച്ച് ഭാഗവതത്തിലും പറയുന്നുണ്ട്), ഭാഷ 'ഫങ്ഷനല്‍ ലാംഗ്വേജ്' ആയിത്തീര്‍ന്ന കാലത്ത്, 'കാലം' 'തത്കാല'മായിത്തീര്‍ന്ന കാലത്ത്, ജീവിതം ഉപരിതലങ്ങള്‍ മാത്രമായിത്തീര്‍ന്ന പുതിയ കാലത്ത് മാതൃഭാഷ അസംഗതമായിത്തീരുന്നത് യാദൃച്ഛികമായിരിക്കാം.
മലയാളിയുടെ സംഭാഷണഭാഷയില്‍ വന്ന പരിണാമത്തെക്കുറിച്ചുള്ള പഠനങ്ങളൊന്നും കണ്ടിട്ടില്ല. പക്ഷേ, ഒന്നുറക്കെപ്പറയാം, സംഭാഷണഭാഷയുടെ സര്‍ഗാത്മകത, കാവ്യാത്മകത കുറയുകയാണ്. ഭാഷണത്തിന്റെ തോതുതന്നെ സമീപവര്‍ഷങ്ങളില്‍ പുതുമാധ്യമങ്ങളുടെ സാഹചര്യംകൊണ്ടുകൂടിയാവാം കുറഞ്ഞിരിക്കുന്നു. മലയാളം പറയാതെ മലയാളിക്ക് ജീവിക്കാം എന്നായിട്ടുണ്ട്. ഉച്ചാരണപ്പിഴവുകള്‍, അക്ഷരത്തെറ്റുകള്‍, അച്ചടിത്തെറ്റുകള്‍ എന്നീ അലസതകള്‍ സ്വാഭാവികമായി. സംസാരത്തില്‍ വക്രോക്തികള്‍, ധ്വനികള്‍, ഉക്തിവൈചിത്ര്യങ്ങള്‍ കുറഞ്ഞു. എസ്.കെ. പൊറ്റെക്കാട്ടിന്റെ 'അന്തകന്റെ തോട്ടി'യിലെ ഉക്കുണ്ണിനായരെപ്പോലുള്ളവര്‍, സമൂഹത്തില്‍ കുറഞ്ഞു. കരിനാക്കോ പൊട്ടിക്കണ്ണോ പോലുള്ള തീവ്രമായ ഭാഷാപ്രയോഗങ്ങളില്‍ ആളുകള്‍ക്ക് സിദ്ധി കുറഞ്ഞു. സംഭാഷണത്തില്‍ ശൈലികള്‍, പഴഞ്ചൊല്ലുകള്‍, കാവ്യശകലങ്ങള്‍ ഒക്കെ ഇടകലര്‍ന്നുവന്ന പാരമ്പര്യം ക്ഷയിച്ചു. സംസാരസുഖം കുറഞ്ഞു.
അയല്‍സംസ്ഥാനങ്ങളില്‍ ഭാഷയ്ക്ക് ക്ലാസിക്കല്‍ പദവി കിട്ടിയതിനെക്കുറിച്ച് നാം അസ്വസ്ഥരാണെങ്കിലും മാതൃഭാഷയ്ക്കുവേണ്ടി ആ നാടുകളില്‍ നടക്കുന്നതിനെക്കുറിച്ച് നമുക്കൊരസ്വസ്ഥതയുമില്ല. ഭൂമിയിലുള്ള വലിപ്പങ്ങളൊക്കെ തമിഴ്ഭാഷ സംസാരിക്കണമെന്ന് തമിഴ്‌നാട് ഉറപ്പിച്ചിറങ്ങിയിരിക്കുന്നു. നോക്കുക, തമിഴ്‌നാടിന്റെയും കര്‍ണാടകത്തിന്റെയും തെലുങ്കുദേശത്തിന്റെയുമെല്ലാം പേരുകള്‍, മാതൃഭാഷയിലാണ് ഏറ്റവും ശക്തമായ തനിമ എന്നതിന്റെ പ്രഖ്യാപനങ്ങള്‍ കൂടിയാണ്. സാങ്കേതികപദങ്ങള്‍ തമിഴിലാക്കപ്പെട്ടതിന്റെ ചെറിയൊരനുപാതം പോലും 'ഭാഷാ ഇന്‍സ്റ്റിറ്റിയൂട്ട്' എന്ന വികൃത സമസ്തപദം അസ്വാഭാവികമായിത്തോന്നാത്ത മലയാളത്തിനു സാധിച്ചിട്ടില്ല. മലയാളത്തിന്റെ വളര്‍ച്ച നിലച്ചിട്ട് വര്‍ഷങ്ങളായി.
'കേരളം' എന്ന പേരിനെ സാധൂകരിക്കാന്‍ ചരിത്രത്തെയോ ചില കേവല സന്ദേഹങ്ങളെയോ കൂട്ടുപിടിക്കുന്ന നാം നമ്മുടെ നാട്ടിന് മലയാളം എന്ന് പേരിട്ടാലെന്താണ് എന്നാലോചിക്കാത്തതെന്താണ്? മാതൃഭാഷപോലെ ശരിയായ തന്മയില്ല, അടയാളമില്ല, ശക്തിയില്ല, മതേതരമായ ഐക്യമില്ല. കേരളം മലയാളമാവുമ്പോള്‍ ഭൂമിയിലെ എല്ലാ മലയാളികള്‍ക്കും പെട്ടെന്നൊരു ജന്മദേശം കിട്ടുകയാണ്. കേവലമായ അതിജീവനത്തിന് തുണയ്ക്കാത്ത ഒരു ദുഷ്‌പേരിനു പകരം ഒരു സല്‍പേ ്പര് കിട്ടുകയാണ്. മാതൃഭാഷയെക്കാള്‍ വലിയ അഭിമാനമില്ല.

What's wrong with correct English?

2011-02-21T10:10:00.000+05:30

With the Indianisation of English, the new breed of speakers and writers is creating its own version of the language; sans elegance, sans structure, sans finer nuances.

In his book, The Fight for English, David Crystal says, “To many people in the middle decades of the 18th century, the language was seriously unwell. It was suffering from a raging disease of uncontrolled usage.”
Crystal is not really arguing for ‘standard' English or the ‘prescriptive' rules that, he says, a bunch of pedants laid for the usage of the language. Rather, he is arguing for the several languages English becomes in the hands of different people in different cultures.
However, the new generation of Indians speaking and writing in English today seems to have taken those words quite literally, leading to a complete deterioration of the art of speaking and writing. Why is it that if you speak about correct English today, you're immediately branded as an ‘elitist'?
English is no longer respected for its fluidity or nuances. If you belong to the ‘elitist' group of Indians, (i.e., you're particular about correct usage and grammar), you can send your child to a board that does teach them. Otherwise you have a problem with Indian English, not the rest of the country.

Debatable issue

Does the problem lie right at school-level teaching? Over the years, English has been stripped to its skeleton, focusing more and more on function, and less and less on the finer points that exercise the intellect and enhance creativity.
It's a debatable issue whether the switch over from the structural approach to communicative has played villain, but most people agree that little attention is given to the art of creative writing these days.
Ever since the functional approach has taken over, thumbing its nose at grammar, syntax and structure are no longer vital. Worse, we encourage redundancies such as pleonasms and tautology, and lock essentials like sentence construction and punctuation into oblivion. It's a different matter when learners learn the rules first and then break them with their skill, creating something new and artistic.
“I don't think languages are given importance in our schools, which is a pity. It is made to seem as if information is all, and language isn't important to convey or learn it,” says Dr. G.J.V. Prasad, Chairperson, Centre for English Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University. “There can be no education without a strong basis in language.”
The schools go easy on English due to the heavy syllabus. Is it surprising that we eventually manufacture unthinking semi-automatons, who can only react arrogantly to what they do not know and haven't learnt to value?
Dorothy Tressler, director, Somerville schools, says, “We teach classes consisting of more than 40 students. The traditional methods worked well for large classes.”
Vivek Govil, president, Pearson Education, India, says, “My concern is that we are teaching the same courses to children regardless of whether English is a native language, second language, or a foreign language. This will be an even larger issue when the Right to Education Act comes into play, and you have less homogeneous groups in school.”
English is suffering at various levels and this is, perhaps, the first casualty.
Dr. Mita Bose, professor of English, Delhi University, believes that English cannot be taught either by trying to drill rules into the students, or by switching over to functional English. “Once you've explained the rules, you need to teach them to look out for them while they read, speak, or hear the language.”

Indianisation

The functional approach is, perhaps, also responsible for the ‘Indianisation' of English. It justifies all the errors that these speakers or writers in English make. Instead of accepting a mistake and correcting it, they brazenly defend themselves using ‘Indian English' as their breastplate.
In the long term this may hamper professional development, regardless of whether one is looking for a career in writing or not. That's why the top MBA courses in Ivy League often have refresher courses in the liberal arts; both for free thinking and exposure to quality language, which, in turn, is an exposure to quality minds.
Mediocrity has become the latest status symbol. Courtesy: the free-for-all, the new breed of speakers and writers is creating its own version of English; sans elegance, sans structure, sans finer nuances.

Changing trends

Correct English isn't simply about avoiding splitting infinitives ending a sentence with a preposition. It's about eloquence, clarity of thought and expression, and beauty. Sometimes these young authors do have stories to tell, but lack the requisite skills. Yet, they get published. Yet, they sell. This happens to be another ‘casualty' for the English language.
“Most readers have always read pulp, but there's disrespect for the written language now that I think is new,” says Udayan Mitra, publishing director, Penguin Books India. “A lot of people send in manuscripts now, who would not even have thought of writing some years ago.”
These changing trends now seem to be riding roughshod over the publishing industry that initially welcomed the boom (of pulp fiction) from college-going writers. Many such authors are now using this mongrel language in their books without restraint. Their writing supposedly helps ‘bridge the gap' between the literary elite and the general masses.
The question is: are they really bridging the gap by pandering to the latter in this manner? Is it a good enough rationale for the dumbing down of Indian writing in English at international level?

Widening gap

Ironically, this trend, rather than bridging the gap between the ‘elite' and the ‘masses', is widening it instead. The readers for whom English is a second language, or a foreign language, will never acquire the skills or the finesse of the ‘elite' (first-language learners) if they never strive to learn the correct language. The gap will never be bridged.
Publishers are not against the genre of non-serious/pulp fiction per se. In fact, that is crucial for the development of the larger reading habit. But they're concerned about the way this genre is being dealt with today.
“There is obviously a demand for these books,” says Thomas Abraham, managing director, Hachette India. “There's both a plus and a minus to this. The plus was that there was, at least in the beginning a sense of liberation, with promise of a new genre of commercial writing that one thought would emerge – vibrant, innovative, contemporary. The minus is that this has not happened.”
Most publishers agree that, of late, the quality of submissions from young writers has been steadily sliding downhill. “Despite the much touted fact that English is dynamic and constantly evolving, there are still standards of correct grammar and syntax whether you are a believer in Wren & Martin or Noam Chomsky. However, a lot of today's writing seems to eschew the need for correct English completely,” adds Abraham.
“I am simply disappointed. As a publisher it hurts to see such books,” says Saugata Mukherjee, managing editor and rights manager, HarperCollins India. “I am all for mass market books, but can't believe there are only badly written ones.”
From feather quills to ball points, from Remingtons to VAIOs, writers have woven rich word tapestries, using different forms of English. Where has the craft disappeared today?
It's a disconcerting thought that tomorrow, some of these very people might land up in positions of authority – as English teachers, or editors – judging other people's language skills, or writing our editorials.
It is not merely idle whining by another bunch of snobbish linguistic fundamentalists, but a genuine concern of a handful of those who still love the language for its grace. The industry-wallas will surely be watching, wary of “bowing to the ineluctable pressures of what-happens-nextism”.

Book Review

2011-02-21T10:00:00.000+05:30

Saluting the heroes of freedom struggle

A. S. PADMANABHAN

GREAT INDIANS - Surendranath Banerjea to Gandhi: Balraj Krishna; Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd., 7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj, New Delhi-110002. Rs. 495.

Public memory is proverbially short and fading. Lest it should totally fail, periodic reminders of what ought to be remembered are necessary. This book is a thoughtful attempt in that direction.
All the greats discussed played crucial roles in the freedom movement and Partition. Ambedkar fought for social equality and Jamshedji Tata laid the foundation for industrial growth. Surendranath Banerjea, who presided over the Congress, remained a moderate even though he was unfairly expelled from the ICS on concocted charges. Bankim Chandra Chatterji's ‘Bande Mataram' was secular, appealed to all, and became the battle-cry for Indian freedom.

Commitment

Dadabhai Naoroji was the Grand Old Man who advocated India's cause in London as an MP and well-respected Indian. In his 80's, he presided over the Congress, which he founded with A.O. Hume. Gopalakrishna Gokhale was the most moderate and was liked even by Viceroy Curzon. All the moderates were mild-mannered. Their commitment to the cause of freedom and civil rights was firm; but they preferred a persuasive, well-reasoned approach. All of them were admirers of the British values, such as a sense of justice and fairness, and Parliamentary institutions. All of them were opposed to the Bengal Partition plan.
The extremists were impatient for securing the goal of freedom. For them, petitioning for rights was not acceptable. Bal Gangadhar Tilak thundered “Swaraj is my birthright” and brought about social consolidation through the Ganapati and Sivaji festivals. Lajpat Rai impressed even English and American audiences with his eloquence. Though radical, he was not for terrorism as a means. The removal of untouchability and adoption of Hindi as a national language were also causes dear to him.
Like him, Bipin Chandra Pal was a powerful orator and a radical. Both he and Aurobindo Ghosh, who worked with him as assistant editor, felt that Gandhiji's support to Khilafat sidelined the freedom struggle and led to a ‘Pan-Islamic sentiment' that helped the British to divide and weaken the national movement. C.R. Das joined Gandhi's non-cooperation movement; but differed with him on the boycott of the legislature. By the time Gandhiji came round, Das was dead.
Initially, Nehru had serious reservations about the Gandhi-Irwin Pact, but came under Gandhi's sway soon. Sensing the feelings of the radicals, Gandhi moved a resolution in the 1929 Lahore Congress demanding independence within a year. Both Subhas Chandra Bose and Nehru opposed Gandhi's stand on the Second World War. Even when Mohammed Ali Jinnah had little influence with the Muslim premiers of Punjab, Sind and Bengal, Gandhi did not exploit that to upstage Jinnah. It is worth recalling Gandhiji's statement as early as in 1919 that “my heart is not political, but religious”.

Tribute to Patel

Sardar Patel was also opposed to the partition of India. His greatest contribution to the nation was the integration of the princely States with the Indian union. The best tribute to him came from the Soviet leader Khruschev. He said: “You Indians are an amazing people. How on earth did you manage to liquidate the Princely rule without liquidating the princes!”
Subhas Bose dared Gandhi and defeated his nominee in the Congress elections. He founded the Forward Bloc within the Congress. He looked forward to the defeat of the Allies in the World War, escaped to Germany in disguise, and formed a government in exile in Berlin and a provisional government in Singapore. His methods would make even the extremists of those times look moderate. His impatience to free the country from the foreign yoke won for him the admiration of the youth.The chapter on Jinnah tells us that, far from being a bigot, he was a nationalist to the core and advocated Hindu-Muslim unity in the initial phases of his eventful career.
The book is a very useful link with the freedom struggle and the drama that preceded Partition. The text is aided by lots of references and quotes. One cannot help feeling that many other equally eminent leaders have not found a place. More such volumes are needed if the coverage is to be comprehensive. And there is, of course, the larger question: what about the anonymous millions who stoked the fires of freedom in the front and attained martyrdom?

Book Review

2011-02-21T09:54:00.002+05:30

India's march to freedom
SURANJAN DAS

The year 1941 saw the hardening of the nationalist and imperialist standpoints in Indian politics

TOWARDS FREEDOM 1941 - Part-1: Edited by Amit K. Gupta and Arjun Dev; Oxford University Press, YMCA Building, Jai Singh Road, New Delhi-110001. Rs. 3750.

This volume is another significant addition to the Towards Freedom series, an initiative for publishing documents on the freedom movement from an Indian perspective. In his perceptive introduction, Sabyasachi Bhattacharya underlines how 1941, although less eventful than the years preceding and succeeding it, saw the hardening of the nationalist and imperialist standpoints in Indian politics, which set the stage for the “tumultuous” 1942.

Amit Gupta and Arjun Dev have, diligently and adroitly, brought together a wide range of materials related to some constituents that gave 1941 an element of criticality in India's march to freedom.
The first chapter deals with the impasse in constitutional politics that arose from the Secretary of State's insistence on an “enlarged Executive Council” and the retention of the Governors' authority to assume the powers of provincial legislatures in response to the Congress' demand for a commitment to Indian independence. British Prime Minister Churchill's exclusion of India from the Atlantic Charter further antagonised the Indians. Meanwhile, as a part of its war effort, Britain ensured that India's economy catered to its war needs. Another fallout is the curtailment of civil liberties of Indians. The section on the “unsteady” functioning of the Raj-supported non-Congress provincial ministries is interesting.

Hitler's invasion of the Soviet Union and Moscow's entry into the camp of the Allies resulted in the Communist Party of India's acceptance of the War as “people's war” and pledging its “unconditional support, independent of imperialism.” But the Congress linked Soviet sympathy with opposition to the British war. Jawaharlal's warning that any aggression on the Soviet Union would “sound the death knell of the Nazi regime” proved prophetic. The Muslim League, however, promised sharing the “responsibility” of country's defence, especially after Japan brought the War to India's border. The year witnessed Netaji's heroic escape from India to fight the Raj with Axis support. The volume, however, reports of his meeting (on July 17) with a German official where he voices support for the “Soviet thesis on… German-Russian conflict.” Equally revealing is Bose's letter of August 15 to Ribbentrop, arguing that a German march towards the East without a categorical undertaking for Indian independence would amount (for India) to “the approach not of a friend, but of an enemy”. Meanwhile, the political break between Gandhiji and Bose was complete, as evidenced by the correspondence between the two.

On Satyagraha

The second chapter has provincial reports on the individual satyagraha which Gandhiji launched for free speech and against all wars, a movement the Mahatma wanted to be distinguished by self-discipline and control. He personally identified the Congressmen “eligible” to offer it and gave them detailed instructions on the dos and dont's. And, by the year-end, when he realised that many of the Congressmen were not fully convinced about the logic of non-violence to oppose the War, Gandhiji promptly sought relief from the party leadership.

For its part, the Muslim League condemned the satyagraha, saying it was a move to establish the Hindu raj, while the Communists viewed it as a ruse to avoid a “mass movement”. The Congress party saw its membership drop sharply during 1941. For Gandhiji, the numbers did not matter; he remained as committed as ever to the “purity of non-violence” and “constructive programme”.
The confidential government reports on the CPI, made available in this volume, speak of the party's finances, publications, organisational structure, mobilisation strategy, key functionaries, and foreign links, especially with the Communist Party of Great Britain. An interesting aspect that emerges is that as early as 1935 a Soviet official advised a Congress Socialist Party representative that, even if Britain and Russia were fighting on the same front, “Indian Socialists and Communists [should] … strike a mortal blow at British Imperialism”.

Letters of JP

The editors must be complimented for publishing the ‘Deoli Papers', especially Jayaprakash Narayan's letters to his wife that expose the inhuman conditions political prisoners had to put up with in jail and reveal the political differences the Congress Socialists developed with the Congress and the CPI. Perhaps, more space could have been devoted to the politics of the Forward Bloc and the Depressed Classes. Another striking development in 1941 was the strengthening of the ‘Indian constituency' within Britain, as revealed by intelligence reports on the activities of V.K. Krishna Menon and the India League. Also significant was the appeal by 33 well-known British women for the release of Indian political prisoners. Even the politically informed Americans evinced an interest in India's self-determination.

Students' movements

The third chapter presents official and non-official documents on students' and women's movements. Occasionally, strains surfaced between the communist and the non-communist student groups, although student restlessness on nationalist issues and education reform became widespread, inviting police reprisals. Women conclaves proclaimed their determination to work for strengthening nationalism and resolving gender issues. Jinnah, however, distanced Muslim students from the mainstream politics. The link between Indian women's organisations and like-minded British counterparts became stronger. The section on ‘culture' contains excerpts from interviews and writings of eminent persons of the period, including Rabindranath Tagore, and a review of the film Naya Sansar depicting the struggle of an idealist-journalist against reactionary forces.

The core message that the documents in this volume carry for the nationalists is best expressed in these words of Nehru: “no rest for us but to carry the burden of the day and hold fast to our anchor.” For a holistic understanding of 1941, however, we have to await Part-II, which is expected to document the other key political trends and developments such as communalism, the Praja Mandal movement, and the peasant and working class politics.

Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare

2011-02-19T17:16:00.001+05:30

Chapter One

Ceremony and Dissent

crowd of jubilating common folk gathers in celebration along a thoroughfare near the Capitol in ancient Rome—smiling artisans, tradesmen clerks and laborers, and mothers laughing happily with their young children. Everyday chores have been left to wait, as the people come forth to hail their popular leader.

They are welcoming him in ceremonial triumph as he returns from battle in Spain, where he has defeated a rebellion led by sons of the late ruler Pompey and several generals supported by hidebound Senate factions—in a conflict of Roman against Roman.

Two stern old noblemen watch, grim-faced; fine togas and headpieces assert their status among the wealthy and privileged, long accustomed to governing.

They scowl at the celebrants. “Hence! Home, you idle creatures, get you home!” shouts Flavius angrily. “Is this a holiday?

“What? Know you not?—being workers you ought not walk upon a labouring day without the sign of your occupation!” He stops a man just joining the crowd. “Speak: what trade art thou?”

“Why, sir, a carpenter.”

Murellus asks him, “Where is thy leather apron—and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on?” He challenges another man: “You, sir—what trade are you?”

The man replies stolidly. “Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.”

Murellus, expecting sarcasm, hears it: cobbler—a slapdash bungler. “But what trade art thou? Answer me directly!”

“A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience. Which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.”

Bad souls! “What trade, thou knave? Thou wayward knave, what trade?” demands Murellus angrily.

The workman’s chin juts forward; chided for flippancy, summons it: “Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me. Yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you!”

“What meanest thou by that?” cries Murellus, flushing. “Mend me, thou saucy fellow?”

“Well, sir—cobble you!”

The noblemen are two of five called tribunes of the people; among their duties is preserving the Roman Republic’s long traditions, many of which are being changed by its highly successful ruler, who has recently been named dictator—and for a lifetime term.

Flavius, less irascible, intervenes. “Thou art a cobbler, art thou?” he asks, calmly.

“Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl: I meddle with no tradesman’s matters—nor women’s matters but with awl!” He sees that, despite the rudely ribald jest playing on withal, Flavius is listening politely. “I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat’s leather have gone upon my handiwork,” the stooped and grizzled man says proudly.

“But wherefore art not in thy shop today?” asks Flavius. “Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?”

The cobbler grins. “Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work!” he says with a wink. “But, indeed, sir, we make holiday,” he adds earnestly, “to see Caesar, and to rejoice in his triumph!”

“Wherefore rejoice?” demands Murellus, red-faced. “What conquests brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome to grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels?” He shouts at the people on the street: “You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!” The younger men laugh at the graybeard: stones is a term for testicles, thing for penis. “O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, knew you not Pompey?

“Many a time aloft have you climbed!—up the walls and battlements to towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, your infants in your arms—and there have sat the livelong day, in patient expectation of seeing great Pompey pass in the streets of Rome!

“And when you saw but his chariot appear, have you not made an universal shout?—so loud that Tiber trembled underneath her banks, hearing the replication of your sounds made on her concave shores!

“And do you now put on your best attire—and do you now cull out a holiday—and do you now strew flowers in his way that comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood?

“Be gone!” he shouts. “Run to your houses, fall upon your knees; pray to the gods to intermit the plague that needs must light on this ingratitude!”

Some citizens have paused; they are annoyed by the harangue, but intimidated by the powerful officials. Most drift away, muttering, to find another place to wait.

“Go, go, good countrymen!” cries Flavius. He too urges penitence: “And, for this fault, assemble all the poor men of your sort; draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears into the channel, till the lowest stream do kiss the most exalted shores of all!”—heaven’s.

Flavius watches as the commoners disperse. He has faith in reproving rhetoric: “See whether their basest mettle be not moved!—they vanish, tongue-tied in their guiltiness!

“Go you down that way towards the Capitol; this way will I,” he tells Murellus. “Disrobe the images, if you do find them decked with ceremonies,” he says. The two will confiscate the wreaths of laurel leaves—symbolic crowns—placed on the city’s statuary of Julius Caesar by his admirers, who want to elevate him to emperor.

Even the militant Murellus wavers “May we do so? You know it is the feast of Lupercal….” The festival and its ancient fertility rites hold great religious significance for Romans.

Flavius is adamant. “It is no matter!—let no images be hung with Caesar’s trophies! I’ll about, and drive away the vulgar from the streets. So do you too, where you perceive them thick.

“Those growing feathers when plucked from Caesar’s wing will make him fly an ordinary pitch, who else would soar above the view of men—and keep us all in servile fearfulness!”

ear Palatine Hill, where the traditional run is about to begin, trumpets sound a regal flourish, alerting the throng that Julius Caesar, fifty-six, is arriving, on his way to a session in the Forum. With him at the head of the large procession of nobles and attendants is his closest friend, Mark Antony.

Marcus Antonius, thirty-eight, is a general and a politician, but today his loins are girded in the goatskin worn by ceremonial participants in Lupercalia. He joins the others who are preparing for the dash, as musicians play dulcet melodies.

Caesar looks for his wife. “Calphurnia!”

Caska, a large nobleman, patrician senator and tribune, shouts to the onlookers: “Peace, ho! Caesar speaks!”

“Calphurnia!” calls Caesar.

She hurries to him. “Here, my lord.”

“Stand you directly in Antonius’ way, when he doth run his course,” he tells her. “Antonius…”

Antony turns to him. “Caesar, my lord?”

“Forget not, in your speed, Antonius, to touch Calphurnia,” urges the general, “for our elders say the barren, touchèd in this holy chase, shake off their sterile curse.” The ruler has so far been without an heir.

Antony smiles. “I shall remember. When Caesar says ‘Do this,’ it is performed!”

“Set on, and leave no ceremony out.”

As the onlookers move away in the sunshine toward the festive annual event’s starting point, two noblemen in Caesar’s train are quietly taken into custody by soldiers of the Praetorian Guard. Murellus and Flavius, angry and indignant, are arrested and led away.

A blare of brass horns announces that Caesar is now proceeding to his regimen of meetings with Roman officials.

Over the sounds of the crowd comes an audacious cry. “Caesar!”

The ruler pauses. “Who calls?”

Caska waves for silence. “Bid every noise be still! Peace yet again!”

Caesar looks around. “Who is it in the push that calls on me? I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music, cry ‘Caesar!’ Speak. Caesar is turnèd to hear.”

“Beware the ides of March!”

“What man is that?”

Marcus Brutus tells Caesar quietly, “A soothsayer bids you beware the ides”—the 15^th—“of March.” At forty, Brutus is renowned as Rome’s chief praetor—magistrate.

“Set him before me; let me see his face.”

A senator, Caius Cassius, motions the man forward: “Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar.”

Caesar watches as a centurion pulls back the hood that has kept the old man’s features in shadow. “What say’st thou to me, now? Speak once again.”

The soothsayer is staring intently. “Beware!—the ides of March!” he utters feverishly.

Caesar turns away, dismissing the man. “He is a dreamer; let us leave him.” He waves his procession forward. “Pass.” A sennet sounds, and the nobles follow Caesar to Capitoline Hill, the highest of Rome’s seven. The area soon clears—except for two noblemen.

Nodding toward the Lupercalian run, Cassius asks his friend Brutus, “Will you go see the order of the course?”

“Not I.”

“I pray you, do.”

Brutus demurs. “I am not gamesome; I do lack some part of that quick spirit that is in Antony,” he says—with a tone of resentment. “But let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires. I’ll leave you.”

The older lord wants to talk. “Brutus, know I do observe you: of late I have not from your eyes that gentleness and show of love as I was wont to have; you bear too stubborn and too strange a hand over your friend that loves you,” he complains mildly.

Brutus reassures him. “Cassius, be not deceived. If I have veiled my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance merely upon myself. Vexèd I am of late with passion over some differences, conceptions only proper to myself, which give some soil, perhaps, to my behaviors.

“But let not therefore my good friends be grievèd—among which number, Cassius, be you one—nor construe any further my neglect than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, forgets the shows of love to other men.”

Cassius regards his companion—with himself at war, he is encouraged to note. “Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion—by means whereof this breast of mine hath buried thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations….

“Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face, now?”

“No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself but by reflection in some other thing.”

“’Tis just so—and it is very much lamented, Brutus, that you have no such mirrors as will turn your hidden worthiness unto your eye, so that you might see your image! I have heard, when many of the best respect in Rome—except immortal Caesar—speaking of Brutus, and groaning underneath this age’s yoke, have wished that noble Brutus had his eyes!”—shared his esteem.

Brutus gives a slight smile, accepting the flattery—but guardedly. “Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, that you would have me seek into myself for that which is not in me?” He means political ambition.

Cassius is ready to answer: “Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear!

“And since you know you cannot see yourself so well as by reflection, I, as your glass, will modestly reveal to yourself that in yourself which you yet know not of.

“And be not suspicious of me, gentle Brutus,” he adds. “Were I a common laugher, or did use to stale my love with ordinary oaths to every new protester—if you’d found that I did fawn on men and hug them hard, then after scandal them; or if you’d found that I professed myself by banqueting all the rout—then hold me dangerous.”

Sounds drift up from the valley nearby, at the Forum: a muffled flourish, and echoes of cheering.

“What means this shouting?” wonders Brutus aloud, frowning. “I do fear that the people choose Caesar for their king.”

“Aye. Do you fear it? Then must I think you would not have it so….”

“I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well.

“But wherefore do you hold me here so long? What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, set honour in one eye and death i’ the other, and I will look on both impartially; for let the gods so speed me as I love the name of honour more than I fear death.”

Cassius nods. “I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, as well as I do know your outward favour.” He knows that Brutus is dedicated to Rome’s timocracy—and to sharing in it. “Well, honour is the subject of my story.

“I cannot tell what you and other men think of this life; but as for my single self, I had as lief not be as to live to be in awe of such a thing as myself! I was born free as Caesar—so were you! We both have fed as well, and we can both endure the winter’s cold as well as he.

“For, once upon a raw and gusty day, the troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, Caesar said to me, ‘Darest thou, Cassius, now leap with me into this angry flood, and swim to yonder point?’ Upon the word, accoutered as I was, I plungèd in, and bade him follow! So indeed he did!

“The torrent roared, but we did buffet it with lusty sinews, throwing it aside, and stemming it with hearts of controversy!

“But ere we could arrive the point proposed, Caesar cried, ‘Help me, Cassius, or I sink!’

“I—as Aeneas, our great ancestor, did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder the old Anchises bear—so from the waves of Tiber did I the tirèd Caesar!

“And that man is now become a god!—and Cassius a wretched creature who must bend his body if Caesar but nod at him carelessly!”

Cassius offers another tale, from Caesar’s recent military victory over the two sons of Pompey—once a triumvir who had shared power with Caesar—and their forces, aligned with seditious senators. “He had a fever when he was in Spain; and when the fit was on him, I did mark how he did shake—’tis true!—this god did shake!

“His coward lips did from their colours fly, and that same eye whose bend doth awe the world did lose its lustre! I did hear him groan—aye! And that tongue of his, that bade the Romans mark him, and write his speeches in their books—‘Alas,’ it cried ‘give me some drink, Titinius!’—as would a sick girl’s!

“Ye gods, it doth amaze me that a man of such a feeble temper should so get the leading of the majestic world!—and bear the palm alone!”—as sole sovereign.

They hear, from down at the Forum, a regal flourish, followed by more cheering.

“Another general shout,” notes Brutus. “I do believe that these applauses are for some new honours that are heaped on Caesar.”

“Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world like a Colossus!—and we petty men walk under his huge legs, and peep about to find ourselves dishonourable graves!”

He moves closer. “Men at some time are masters of their fates: the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings!”

Cassius proceeds quickly—before the proud praetor can voice objection to that term. “Brutus and Caesar—what could be in that ‘Caesar?’—why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together, yours is as fair a name; sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; weigh them, it is as heavy—conjure with ’em,” he says, pointedly, “Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar!

“Now, in the names of all the gods at once, upon what meat doth this Caesar feed, that he is grown so great?

“Our age, thou art shamed! Rome, thou hast lost the breeding of noble bloods! When went there by an age since the great Flood but it was famed with more than with one man? When could they who talked of Rome say—till now—that her wide walls encompassed but one man? Now is it Rome indeed, and with room enough, when there is in it but only one man!

“Oh, you and I have heard our fathers say there was a Brutus, once, who would as easily have brooked the eternal Devil to keep his state in Rome as a king!” Tradition holds that, five centuries before, Brutus’s own ancestor had founded Rome—as a republic.

“That you do love me I do not doubt,” Brutus assures the senator. “What you would work me to I have in some aim,” he admits. “How I have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter; at present I would not. So, with my love I might entreat you to be further moved; what you have said I will consider. What you have to say I will with patience hear—and find a time meet both to hear and to answer such high things.

“Till then, my noble friend, mull over this: Brutus had rather be a villager than to repute himself a son of Rome under the hard conditions as this time is likely to lay upon us!”

Cassius nods and smiles. “I am but glad that my weak words have struck thus much show of fire from Brutus!”

The praetor looks toward the dispersing Lupercal celebrants, then down the hill. “The games are done,” Brutus sees, “and Caesar is returning.”

“As they pass by, pluck Caska by the sleeve and he will—in his sour fashion—tell you what hath proceeded worthy of note today.”

“I will do so.” Brutus watches the dictator and his procession approach. “But look you, Cassius—a livid spot doth glow on Caesar’s brow!—and all the rest look like a chidden train! Calphurnia’s cheek is pale; and Cicero looks with such feral, fiery eyes as we have seen in him at the Capitol when being crossed in conference by some senators!”

Cassius, too, wonders what has happened. “Caska will tell us what the matter is.”

As the majestic train moves along, Caesar beckons Mark Antony nearer, into private conversation. “Antonio...”

“Caesar?”

The sovereign gives a polite nod, past Antony, to the two senators watching from the side; but he says, quietly, “Let me have men about me that are fatted—sleek-haired men, and such as sleep o’ nights. Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; he thinks too much—such men are dangerous!”

Antony, a fierce warrior, is mellow in peacetime. “Fear him not, Caesar; he’s not dangerous. He is a noble Roman, and well given out”—spoken of.

Caesar looks again. “I fear him not. But I would he were fatter….” Antony merely chuckles. “Yet, if my name were liable to fear,” says Caesar—wryly; he is well aware of how he’s regarded, “I do not know the man I should avoid so soon as that spare Cassius.

“He reads much; he is a great observer, but he looks quite through the deeds of men. He loves no plays, as thou dost, Antony, and he hears no music. Seldom he smiles—then smiles in such a sort as if he mocked himself, and scorned that his spirit could be moved to smile at anything.

“Such men as he are never at heart’s ease whiles they behold a greater than themselves; and therefore are they very dangerous!”—because they always will.

The war’s fighting may be done, but strife will continue, he knows. “I tell thee what is to be feared, rather than what I fear; for always I am Caesar. Come on my right hand, and tell me truly what thou think’st of him; for this ear is deaf,” he says, nodding and smiling to onlookers at the left. Increasingly insulated in his civilian role as a public icon, he values only a few frank assessments.

he last of the noble contingent passes—flanked by sharp-eyed soldiers guarding Caesar and his wife as they return to their home.

“You pulled me by the cloak,” the tribune says to Brutus. “Would you speak with me?”

“Aye, Caska. Tell us what hath chanced today, that Caesar looks so solemn.”

“Why? You were with him, were you not?” asks Caska—in his usual arch and challenging manner.

The accused truant only smiles. “I should not then ask Caska what had chancèd.”

“Why, there was a crown offered him! And, it being offered him, he put it aside!—with the back of his hand, thus,”—he makes a slow gesture of humility. “And then the people fell a-shouting!”

“What was the second noise for?”

“Why, for that too!”

“They shouted thrice,” Cassius notes. “What was the last cry for?”

“Why, for that too!”

Brutus is surprised. “Was the crown offered him thrice?”

“Aye, marry, was’t!—and he put it by thrice, each time gentler than other! And at every putting-by, mine honest neighbours shouted!” says Caska, clearly disdainful of the plebian crowd.

“Who offered him the crown?”

“Why Antony!” Of course, his tone implies.

“Tell us the manner of it, gentle Caska,” says Brutus.

“I can as well be hanged as tell the manners of it!—it was mere foolery! I did not mark it,” claims Caska haughtily.

But of course he did—and he does tell: “I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown—yet ’twas not a crown neither, ’twas one of these coronets—and, as I told you, he put it by once. But, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have held it!

“Then he offered it to him again; then he put it by again. But, to my thinking, he was very loath to keep his fingers off it!

“And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by. And even as he refused it, the rabblement shouted, and clapped their chappèd hands, and threw up their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refused the crown that it almost choked Caesar—for he swooned and fell down at it!

“And as for mine own part,” he says, disgusted, “I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air.”

“But, soft, I pray you!” says Cassius. “What?—did Caesar swoon?”

Caska nods. “He fell down in the market-place, and foamed at mouth, and was speechless!”

Brutus has heard that Caesar is afflicted with epilepsy. “’Tis very likely; he hath the falling sickness.”

“No, Caesar hath it not!” says Cassius angrily. “But you and I, and honest Caska, we have the falling sickness!”

“I know not what you mean by that,” says Caska cautiously, “but I am sure Caesar fell down.” His annoyance grows. “If the tag-rag people did not clap him and hiss him—according as he pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the players in the theatre!—I am no true man!”

Brutus wants facts. “What said he when he came unto himself?”

But Caska has a tale to tell. “Marry, before he fell down, when he pretended to the common herd he was glad he refused the crown, he plucked ope his doublet and offered them his throat to cut!

“If I had been a man of any occupation”—a common laborer, “if I would not have taken him at his word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues!

“And so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said if he had done or said anything amiss, he desired their worships to think it was his infirmity!

“Three or four wenches where I stood cried, ‘Alas, good soul!’—and forgave him with all their hearts! But there’s no heed to be taken of them!—if Caesar had stabbed their mothers they would have done no less!”

“And after that he came thus gravely away?” says Brutus.

“Aye.”

Cassius asks, “Did Cicero say anything?” That intellectual senator, long opposed to Caesar, is a renowned orator.

“Aye—he spoke Greek!”

“To what effect?”

Caska laughs. “Nay, if I tell you that I’ll ne’er look you i’ the face again! Those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads—but as for mine own part, it was Greek to me”—a common jest, here with a literal twist.

His eyebrows rise. “I could tell you more news, too! Murellus and Flavius, for pulling scarves off Caesar’s images, are put to silence!” The cloths and laurel headbands they were confiscating suggested crowns.

“Fare you well,” he says, making as if to go. “There was yet more foolery, if I could remember it…” he says coyly.

“Will you sup with me tonight, Caska?” asks Cassius.

“No, I am promised forth.”

Cassius is not dissuaded: “Will you dine with me tomorrow?”

Caska sighs. “Aye, if I be alive, and your mind hold—and your dinner worth the eating!”

“Good. I will expect you.”

“Do so. Farewell, both.” And he goes on his way, to confer with other senators.

Brutus smiles at Caska’s harsh candor. “What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! He was quick-metal”—like mercury, heavy but fluid—“when he went to school!”

“So is he now, in execution of any bold or noble enterprise, however he puts on this sluggish form,” says Cassius. “This rudeness is, to his good wit, a sauce which gives men stomach to digest his words with better appetite.”

Brutus nods slowly. “And so it does.” He has a good idea what else the two may have been discussing. “For this time I will leave you. Tomorrow, if you please to speak with me, I will come home to you. Or, if you will, come home to me, and I will wait for you.”

“I will do so,” says Cassius. “Till then, think of the world!”

Brutus heads for his mansion, pondering what he has just heard.

Cassius watches, calculating. Well, Brutus, thou art noble—yet I see that thy honourable metal may be wrought away from how it is disposèd! Therefore it is meet that noble minds keep ever with their like—for who is so firm as cannot be seduced?

Caesar doth bear me hardly, but he loves Brutus.

Cassius envies the other nobleman’s high standing; his own efforts to find favor have met with frustration. If I were Brutus now and he were Cassius, Caesar would honor me!

He intends to proceed with his scheme against Caesar by drawing Brutus into the growing opposition, and by making use of the praetor’s influence and stature.

I will this night in at his windows throw writings in several hands, as if they came from several citizens, all tending to the great opinion that Rome holds of his name—wherein obscurely Caesar’s ambition shall be glancèd at.

And after this, let Caesar seat himself securely—for we will shake him, or worse days endure!

Chapter Two

Portents, Plotters

ight has fallen in Rome, bringing with it a turbulent lightning storm. Passing the high stone mansions along a street not far from the Capitol, Cicero is making his way through the gusty darkness when he encounters a tribune. “Good even, Caska. Brought you Caesar home?”

Cicero is surprised to see that the other lord has his sword drawn and held at the ready, and is looking about warily as he walks. “Why are you breathless? And why stare you so?”

Increasingly, Caska’s political fears, even more intense after dark, inhibit his frankness; he equivocates. “Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth shakes like a thing unfirm?”

He elaborates—wryly adopting the high rhetorical style of the other senator, who is famous for declamatory oration. “O Cicero, I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds have riven the knotty oaks, and I have seen the ambitious ocean so swell and rage and foam as to be exalted along with the threatening clouds!—but never till tonight, never till now, did I go through a tempest dropping fire!

“Either there is a civil strife in heaven, or else the world, too saucy with the gods, incenses them to send destruction!”

Cicero laughs, unoffended; Caska jeer at everything. “Why, saw you anything more wonderful?”

Caska, aware that Cicero is no friend of Caesar’s, continues; he mockingly recounts the day’s events, already known to his companion. “A common slave—you know him well by sight—held up his left hand, which did flame and burn like twenty torches joined!—and yet his hand, not sensible to fire, remained unscorched!” Antony’s repeatedly offering a coronet to Caesar infuriated Caska.

“Besides—I have not since put up my sword!—close to the Capitol I met a lion who gazed upon me, but went surly by without assailing me!” He felt, as had Cassius, the cold stare of Caesar as the ruler passed.

“And there, drawn into a heap, were a hundred ghastly women!—transformèd by their fear!—who swore they saw men all on fire walk up and down the streets!” Caska was disgusted at the trepidation shown by many senators when elated citizens had welcomed Caesar.

“And yesterday the bird of night did sit even at noon-day upon the market-place, hooting and shrieking!” The owlish Cicero laughs again, amused at being so characterized.

“When such prodigies do so conjointly meet, let men not say, ‘These have their reasons; they are natural,’” says Caska, “for I believe they are things portentous unto the climate that they point upon!”—an earnest assertion, despite its facetious cover.

Caska’s speech, if it were to be quoted, concerns only the weather; but the other politician understands the satire, and his reply is guarded as well. “Indeed it is a strangely disposèd time—but men may construe things after their fashion, clean away from the purpose of the things themselves.

“Comes Caesar to the Capitol tomorrow?” Cicero has heard talk that the Senate itself will offer the general a crown.

“He doth; for he did bid Antonius send word to you he would be there tomorrow.”

Cicero frowns. “Good night, then, Caska! This disturbèd sky is not to walk in,” he says, pointedly, as he hurries on toward his home, where a summons awaits him.

“Farewell, Cicero.” Caska now hears the approach of another man; he raises the sword.

“Who’s there?” calls the figure, approaching in the dark.

“A Roman.”

“Caska, by your voice…”

“Your ear is good.” Lightning strikes close by with a loud crack; thunder booms and rumbles away. “Cassius, what a night is this!”

“A very pleasing night to honest men.”

Caska peers skyward, as if trying to read the clouds. “Who ever knew the heavens to menace so?”

“Those who have known the earth so full of faults!

“For my part, I have walked about the streets, submitting me unto the perilous night, and, thus unbracèd, Caska, as you see, have bared my bosom to the thunderbolt! And when the cross blue lightning seemed to open the breast of heaven, I did present myself even in the aim and very flash of it!”

Caska often sounds bold, but he is in fact quite cautious. “But wherefore did you so much tempt the heavens? It is the part of men to fear and tremble when the most mighty gods by tokens send such dreadful heralds to astonish us.”

Cassius challenges: “You are dull, Caska, and those sparks of life that should be in a Roman you do lack—or else you use not! You look pale, and gaze, and put on fear, and cast yourself in wonder, to see the strange impatience of the heavens.

“But if you would consider the true cause—why all these fires—why all these gliding ghosts; why birds and beasts leave quality and kind: why old men fool, and children calculate!—why all these things change their natures from their ordinance and preformèd faculties to monstrous quantity—you shall find that Heaven hath infused them with these spirits to make them instruments of fear—and warnings about some monstrous state!

“Now could I, Caska, name to thee a man most like this dreadful night, who thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars as doth the lion, in the Capitol!—a man, no mightier than thyself or me in personal action, yet prodigious grown—and as frightful as these strange eruptions are!”

“’Tis Caesar that you mean, is it not, Cassius?”

Cassius may not fear lightning, but he is very careful with words. “Let it be who it is.

“For Romans now have thews and limbs like their ancestors’, but—woe the while!—our fathers’ minds are dead, and we are governed by our mothers’ spirits—our yoke and sufferance show us womanish!”

“Indeed!—they say the senators tomorrow mean to establish Caesar as a king!” says Caska, angrily. “And he shall wear his crown by sea and land!—in every place save here in Italy!” Roman conquest extends around the Mediterranean and beyond—from Asia Minor, Syria and Palestine west to Spain and Gaul; from upper Africa north through Greece and Macedonia.

Cassius glowers grimly. “I know where I will wear this dagger, then!—Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius!” Romans consider suicide a noble option. “Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat! Neither stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron can be retentive to the strength of spirit! Life, being weary of these worldly bars, never lacks power to dismiss itself!

“If I know this, know all the world besides: that part of tyranny I do bear I can shake off at pleasure,” he says, dourly, as another clap of thunder assails the murky hills beyond.

Caska shrugs, unimpressed. “So can I. So every bondman in his own hand bears that power to cancel his captivity.”

Cassius persists. “And why should Caesar be a tyrant, then? Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf but that he sees that Romans are sheep!—he were no lion were not Romans hinds!

“Those who with haste will make a mighty fire begin it with weak straws; what trash is Rome, what rubbish and what offal, when it serves as the base matter to elevate so vile a thing as Caesar!

“But— O grief, where hast thou led me?” He regards Caska warily. “I perhaps speak this before a willing bondman; then I know my answer must be made!”—to criminal charges. “But I am armed, and dangers are to me indifferent….”

“You speak to Caska, and to such a man as is no fleering tell-tale!

“Hold,” he says, to cut off further sparring, and sheathes his sword. He reaches forward. “My hand.

“Be factious for redress of all these griefs, and I will set this foot of mine as far as whoever goes farthest!”

Cassius grasps the hand firmly. “There’s a bargain made!

“Now know you this, Caska: I have moved already some certain of the noblest-minded Romans to undergo with me an honourable enterprise of dangerous consequence! And I do know that by now they wait for me at Pompey’s porch,”—the portico of Theatrum Pompei, “because this fearful night there is no stir, nor walking in the streets—and the frowning complexion of the elements comports with the work we have in hand—most fiery, most terrible and bloody!”

Caska, looking down the street, steps forward. “Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste!”

“’Tis Cinna,” Cassius tells him. “I do know him by his gait; he is a friend. Cinna, where haste you so?” he asks the deputy praetor.

“To find out you! Who’s that? Metellus Cimber?”

“No, it is Caska, one incorporate to our attempts. Am I not stayed for, Cinna?”

The young lord is pleased that Caska is joining them. “I am glad of ’t! What a fearful night is this!—there’s two or three of us have seen strange sights!”

Cassius is impatient: “Am I not stayed for? Tell me!”

“Yes, you are! Oh, Cassius, if you could but win the noble Brutus to our party—”

“Be you content! Good Cinna, take this paper, and look you lay it on the praetor’s chair, where Brutus must find it.” He hands him two more folded sheets: “And throw this in at his window; set this up with wax upon old Brutus’ statue”—one depicting the famous forebear. “All that done, repair to Pompey’s porch, where you shall find us.

“Are Decius and Trebonius there?”

Cinna nods. “All but Metellus Cimber—and he’s gone to seek you at your house. Well, I will hie, and so bestow these papers as you bade me.”

“That done, repair to Pompey’s theatre!” calls Cassius, as Cinna runs down the street.

“Come, Caska, you and I will yet ere day see Brutus at his house. Three parts of him is ours already, and the man entire upon the next encounter yields him ours!”

Caska is delighted. “Oh, he sits high in all the people’s hearts!—and that which would appear offence in us, his countenance, like richest alchemy, will change to virtue and to worthiness!”

“Him and his worth—and our great need of him—you have right well perceived,” says Cassius. “Let us go; for it is after midnight; and ere day we will awake him and be sure of him!”

roubled and unable to sleep, Brutus paces in the dark, but familiar, stillness of an elaborate formal garden beside his huge house. He calls to wake a young servant. “What, Lucius, ho!” Limned by frequent lightning, dark clouds loom in long, ominous ranges that conceal the black sky. I cannot, by the progress of the stars, give guess how near to day.

“Lucius, I say!” I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly! “When, Lucius, when? Awake, I say! What— Lucius!”

The boy of fourteen comes to the open door rubbing his eyes. “Called you, my lord?”

“Set me a taper in my study, Lucius. When it is lighted, come and call me, here.”

“I will, my lord.” He wanders back into the house, yawning.

Marcus Brutus, who once fought against Caesar, received his pardon, and was appointed by him to be Rome’s chief magistrate, ruminates about preserving the long-cherished republic—and the unpleasant conclusion he has drawn.

It must be by his death.

As for my part, I know no personal cause to spurn at him; but the populace would have him crowned! How that might change his nature—there’s the question. It is the bright day that brings forth the adder—and that craves wary walking!

Crown him… then, grant, we put a sting in him that at his will he may do danger with! The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power!

Yet, to speak truth of Caesar, I have not known when his affections swayed more than his reason.

But ’tis a common proof that lowliness is young ambition’s ladder, whereto the climber-upward turns his face; but when he once attains the upmost round, he then unto the ladder turns his back—looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees by which he did ascend!

So Caesar may. Then, lest he may, prevent!

But, since the quarrel will bear no colours—inspire no support—for the thing it is, fashion it thus: that what he is, augmented, would run to these and those extremities! And therefore think of him as a serpent in its egg, which hatchèd would, as does its kind, grow mischievous! Then kill him ‘in the shell!’

The lad returns. “The taper burneth in your study, sir. Searching by the window for a flint, I found this paper, thus sealed up!—and I am sure it did not lie there when I went to bed.”

“Get you to bed again; it is not day. Is not tomorrow, boy, the first of March?”

“I know not, sir.”

Brutus is aware that a fortnight has passed since the festival, but he wants to be certain. “Look in the calendar, and bring me word.”

“I will, sir.” He goes inside to light another taper, and to find the almanac.

Brutus looks up at the sky. The exhalations whizzing in the air give so much light that I may read by them. He opens the letter:

‘Brutus, thou sleep’st! Awake, and see thyself! Shall Rome…’ He has heard all of these arguments. “Et cetera,” he mumbles, glancing ahead. He reads the end: ‘Speak, strike, redress! Brutus, thou sleep’st! Awake!’

Such instigations have been often dropped where I have took them up. ‘Shall Rome…’

Et cetera!—thus must I piece it out: shall Rome stand under one man’s awe?

What, Rome?—my ancestors did from the streets of Rome the Tarquin drive, when he was called a king!

‘Speak, strike… redress!’

I am entreated to speak and strike. O Rome, I make thee a promise: if the redress will follow, thou receivest thy full petition at the hand of Brutus! He pockets the paper as Lucius returns.

“Sir, March is wasted fifteen days.”

Brutus nods. “’Tis good.” He looks up, startled by a sharp rapping. “Go to the gate; somebody knocks.”

Since Cassius did whet me against Caesar, I have not slept! Between the first conception of a dreadful thing and its acting, all the interim is like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: the thinking and the mortal instruments are then in council, and the state of a man, like to a little kingdom, suffers then the nature of an insurrection!

Lucius is back. “Sir, ’tis your brother”—fellow patrician—“Cassius at the door, who doth desire to see you.”

“Is he alone?”

“No, sir, there are more with him.”

“Do you know them?”

“No, sir—their hats are pulled down to their ears, and half their faces buried in their cloaks, so that by no means I may discover them by any mark or favour.”

“Let them enter.”

They are the faction! O Conspiracy, shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, when evils are most free? Oh, then by day where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough to mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, Conspiracy—abide in smiles and affability: for if thou pass with thy native semblance on, not Erebus itself—the underground chamber of the dead—were dim enough to hide thee from prevention!

Cassius leads the others into the garden. “I think we are too bold upon your rest,” he says courteously, bowing. “Good morrow, Brutus; do we trouble you?”

“I have been up this hour, awake all night. Know I these men that come along with you?”

“Yes, every man of them!—and no man here but honours you; and every one doth wish you had but that opinion of yourself which every noble Roman bears of you!

“This is Trebonius.”

“He is welcome hither.”

“This, Decius.”

“He is welcome, too.”

“This, Caska; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber.”

“They are all welcome. What watchful cares do interpose themselves betwixt your eyes and night?”

“Shall I entreat a word?” Cassius draws Brutus aside, to relate what the others know.

Decius glances toward the still-gloomy horizon. “Here lies the east,” he says, peering. “Is not the day breaking here?”

“No,” says Caska.

“Oh, pardon, sir, it doth,” says young Cinna, “and yon grey lines that fret the clouds are messengers of day.”

“You shall confess that you are both deceived.” Caska tilts the weapon hanging at his side upward—toward Caesar’s home. “There, as I point my sword, the son arises who is on a great way southward, in weighing the youthful season of the year. Some two miles hence, up higher toward the north, he first presents his fire.

“But the high east stands at the Capitol—directly there!”

As the noblemen solemnly ponder the different dawn approaching Rome, Brutus rejoins them; he now understands the conspirators’ full scheme. “Give me your hands, all, over one by one,” he says. They come around him, and each lays a hand atop his.

“And let us swear our resolution!” says Cassius.

But Brutus demurs. “No, not an oath. If not the fears of men, the suffering of our souls, the time’s abuse!—if these motives be weak, break off betimes, and every man hence to his idle bed; and so let high-sighted tyranny range on, till each man drop by lottery!

“But if these, as I am sure they do, bear fire enough to kindle cowards, and to steel with valour the melting spirits of women, then, countrymen, what need we any spur but our own cause to prick us to redress?—what other bond than of secret Romans who have spoken their word and will not falter!—and what other oath than honesty to honesty engagèd that this shall be, or we will fall for it!

“Let swear priests and cowards and men cautelous—old, feeble carrions and such suffering souls as welcome wrongs! Unto bad causes swear such creatures as men doubt! But do not stain the even virtue of our enterprise, nor the insuppressible mettle of our spirits, to think that either our cause or our performance did need an oath!—when every drop of blood that every Roman bears, and nobly bears, is guilty of a semblable bastardy if he do break the smallest particle of any promise that hath passed from him!”

And thus, bringing his authority, prestige and intellect to the plotters, Brutus assumes command.

“But what of Cicero?” Cassius asks him. “Shall we sound him? I think he will stand very strong with us.”

Caska concurs—“Let us not leave him out!” And so does Cinna: “No, by no means!”

“Oh, let us have him,” adds Metellus Cimber, “for his silver hairs will purchase us a good opinion, and buy men’s voices to commend our deeds! It shall be said his judgment ruled our hands—our youth and wildness shall no whit appear, but all be buried in his gravity!”

That hardly suits proud Brutus. “Oh, name him not! Let us not break with him, for he will never follow anything that other men begin.”

“Then leave him out,” says Cassius.

“Indeed he is not fit,” Caska now thinks.

Decius puts forward an important question: “Shall no man else be touched, but only Caesar?”

“Decius, well urged,” says Cassius grimly. “I think it is not meet Mark Antony, so well beloved of Caesar, should outlive Caesar. We shall find in him a shrewd contriver; and you know that his means, if he improve them, may well stretch so far as to annoy us all. Which to prevent, let Antony and Caesar fall together.”

Decius and the others nod.

But Brutus overrules them: “Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, to cut the head off and then hack the limbs, like wrath in death and envy afterwards!—for Antony is but a limb of Caesar.

“Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar—and in the spirit of men there is no blood; ah, if only we could come by Caesar’s spirit, and not dismember Caesar! But, alas, Caesar must bleed for it. Then, gentle friends, let’s kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods, not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds!

“And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, stir up their servants”—hands—“to an act of rage, then after seem to chide ’em! This shall make our purpose necessary, not envious—and so appearing to the common eyes, we shall be called purgers, not murderers.

“And as for Mark Antony, think not on him; for he can do no more than Caesar’s arm when Caesar’s head is off.”

“Yet I fear him,” insists Cassius. “For in the ingrafted love he bears to Caesar—”

“Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him!” says Brutus, cutting him off. “If he love Caesar, all that he can do is unto himself take the thought, and die for Caesar—and if he should, that were much, for he is given to sports, to wildness and company!”

Trebonius, long one of Antony’s libertine companions, concurs. “There is no threat in him; let him not die—for he will live and laugh at this hereafter!”

“Peace,” says Brutus, as a distant bell begins to sound. “Count the hour.” They listen.

“The chime hath stricken three,” says Cassius.

“’Tis time to part,” says Trebonius.

Cassius continues to fret. “But it is doubtful yet whether Caesar will come forth today or no. For he is superstitious grown of late—quite departed from the main opinion he held once of ceremonies, of dreams and fantasy.

“It may be that these apparent prodigies, the unaccustomed terror of this night, in the persuasion of his augurers may hold him from the Capitol today.”

“Never fear that,” Decius assures him. “If he be so resolved, I can o’ersway him; for now he loves to hear that unicorns may be betrayed with trees—and bears with mirrors, elephants with holes, lions with toils—and men with flatterers.” He laughs. “And when I tell him he hates flatterers, he says he does—being then most flattered!

“Let me work; for I can give his mood a new bent, and I will bring him to the Capitol.”

“Aye, we will all of us be there to fetch him,” says Cassius.

“By the eighth hour,” Brutus recalls. “Is that the uttermost?”

Cinna nods. “Be that the uttermost—and fail not then!”

Metellus Cimber suggests an old nobleman who might join them. “Caius Ligarius doth bear grudge against Caesar, who berated him for speaking well of Pompey. I wonder none of you has thought of him.”

Brutus approves. “Now, good Metellus, go along to him. He loves me well, and I have given him reason to; just send him hither and I’ll fashion him.”

“The morning comes upon us,” says Cassius. “We’ll leave you, Brutus. And, friends, disperse yourselves—but all remember what you have said, and show yourselves true Romans!”

“Good gentlemen, look fresh and merry,” Brutus urges, as they file out. “Let not our looks put on our purposes, but bear it as our Roman actors do, with untired spirits and formal constancy.

“And so good morrow to you, every one!”

Chapter Three

The Sleepless

rutus, alone again, paces, thinking further. Manifold concerns compete for the nobleman’s attention as he contemplates the day ahead. “Boy! Lucius!” There is no answer. Fast asleep? It is no matter; enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber. Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies which busy care draws in the brains of men; therefore thou sleep’st so sound.

“Brutus, my lord…” says a woman’s voice.

He turns, and goes to kiss his wife. “Portia, what mean you?—wherefore rise you now? It is not good for your health thus to commit your weak condition to the raw, cold morning.” She has been feeble for several days.

“Nor neither for yours! You urgently, Brutus, stole from my bed,” she notes, “and yesternight, at supper, you suddenly arose and walked about, musing and sighing, with your arms across. And when I asked you what the matter was, you stared upon me with un-gentle looks! I urged you further; then you scratched your head, and impatiently stepped away.

“Yet I insisted; yet you answered not, but with an angry wafture of your hand gave sign for me to leave you. So I did, fearing to strengthen that impatience which seemed too much enkindled—and withal hoping it was but an effect of mood, which sometime hath its hour with every man.”

Worried, she touches his arm tenderly. “It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep—and could it work so much upon your shape as it hath much prevailed on your condition, I should not know you, Brutus!

“Dear my lord, make me acquainted with your cause of grief.”

“I am not well in health, and that is all.”

She shakes her head. “Brutus is wise—and were he not in health, he would embrace the means to come by it.”

“Why, so I do,” he tells her, mindful of the scheme. “Good Portia, go to bed.”

“Is Brutus sick? And is it healthful to walk unbracèd, and suck up the humours of the dank morning? What?—is Brutus sick, and will he steal out of his wholesome bed, to dare the vile contagion of the night, and tempt the rheumy and unpurgèd air to add unto his sickness?

“No, my Brutus; you have some sick offence within your mind, which, by the right and virtue of my place, I ought to know of!”

She beseeches: “And, upon my knees I charm you, by my once commended beauty, by all your vows of love and that great vow which did incorporate and make us one, that you unfold to me—your self, your half!—why you are heavy-hearted, and what men tonight have had to resort to you! For here have been some six or seven who did hide their faces even from darkness!”

He takes her hands, helps her to rise. “Kneel not, gentle Portia.”

“I should not need, if you were gentle, Brutus, within the bond of marriage! Tell me, Brutus, is it expected I should know no secrets that appertain to you?—am I your self, but, as it were, in a sort of limitation?—to keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, and talk to you sometimes! Dwell I but in the suburbs of your good pleasure?” Her eyes flash. “If it be no more, Portia is Brutus’s harlot, not his wife!”

“You are my true and honourable wife, as dear to me as are the ruddy drops that visit my solemn heart!”

“If that were true, then should I know this secret!” she argues. “I grant I am a woman—but withal, the woman that Lord Brutus took to wife! I grant I am a woman—but withal, a woman well-reputed: Cato’s daughter! Think you I am no stronger than my sex, being so fathered and so husbanded? Tell me your counsels; I will not disclose them!”

She reveals to him a votaress’s incision. “I have made strong proof of my constancy, giving myself a voluntary wound here, in the thigh! Can I bear that with patience, and not my husband’s secrets?”

Brutus is moved: “O ye gods, render me worthy of this noble wife!”

But a sound at the gate interrupts them.

“Hark, hark! One knocks!” he says. “Portia, go in a while—and by and by thy bosom shall partake the secrets of my heart: all my engagements I will construe to thee, all the charactery of my sad brows!” he promises earnestly. “Leave me, with haste!”

She accepts his kiss on the cheek, and hurries into the house, frowning and biting her lip.

“Lucius, who’s that knocking?”

The boy comes to him, helping an unsteady old lord to walk. “He is a sick man, that would speak with you.”

Brutus is pleased. “Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of! Boy, stand aside.” He takes the visitor’s hand gently. “Caius Ligarius! How—”

“Vouchsafe ‘good morrow’ from a feeble tongue,” says Ligarius, his voice reedy. Once prosecuted for fighting on the side of Pompey, defended by Cicero, and pardoned by Caesar, he has been in a long convalescence. He holds a cloth intended to protect his lungs.

“Oh, what a time have you chosen out, brave Caius, to wear a kerchief!” It looks like a mask. “I would you were not sick!”

“I am not sick,” declares Ligarius, “if Brutus have in hand any exploit worthy the name of honour!”

Brutus smiles. “Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, had you a healthy ear to hear of it!”

“By all the gods that Romans bow before,” says Ligarius, “I here discard my sickness!

“Soul of Rome!—brave son, derived from honourable loins!—thou like an exorcist hast conjured up my mortifièd spirit! Now bid me run, and I will strive with things impossible—yea, get the better of them!” says the creaking voice. “What’s to do?”

“A piece of work that will make sick men whole.”

“But are not some whole that we must make sick?”

“That must we also,” Brutus admits. “What it is, my Caius, I shall unfold to thee as we are going to whom it must be done.”

Ligarius motions him forward. “Set on your foot, and with a heart new-fired I follow you, to do I know not what! But it sufficeth that Brutus leads me on!”

“Follow me, then!”

ightning and thunder have interrupted Caesar’s sleep, and he has risen quite early. A difficult day lies ahead: despite some patrician politicians’ continuing opposition to his popular reforms, the Senate is poised to crown him—to make him emperor of Rome’s many territories.

As dawn approaches, deep rumblings trouble the sky over the capital.

Neither heaven nor earth has been at peace tonight! he muses. His wife has been disturbed by the storm, vexed with a night of evil dreams. Thrice hath Calphurnia in her sleep cried out, ‘Help, ho! They murder Caesar!’

The general is hardly a credulous man, but he dislikes foul omens. He calls into the next room, “Who’s within?”

“My lord,” says a servant, entering and bowing.

“Go bid the priests do immediate sacrifice, and bring me their opinions of success.” In the augural reading, the entrails may offer assurance—or warning.

“I will, my lord.”

Calphurnia passes the man as he leaves. She sees that her husband is dressing—and she frowns. “What mean you, Caesar?—think you to walk forth? You shall not stir out of your house today!”

“Caesar shall forth,” he says calmly. “The things that threatened me ne’er looked but on my back. When they shall see the face of Caesar, they are vanished.”

“Caesar, I never balked at circumstances, yet now they fright me,” says Calphurnia. “There is one within who recounts, besides the things that we have heard and seen, most horrid sights seen by the watch!”

She paces, wringing her hands, again pondering an unnerving admixture of her nightmares and commoners’ wry reports: “A lioness hath whelpèd in the streets!—and graves have yawned, and yielded up their dead! Fierce, fiery warriors fought upon the clouds, in ranks and squadrons and right form of war drizzled blood upon the Capitol! The noise of battle hurtled in the air—horses did neigh, and dying men did groan!—and ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets!

“Oh, Caesar!” she moans, “these things are beyond all we are used to, and I do fear them!”

He shrugs. “What can be avoided whose end is purposed by the mighty gods? Yet Caesar shall go forth,” he says, undisturbed, “for these predictions are to the world in general as to Caesar.”

“When beggars die there are no comets seen; the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes!”

The soldier is stoical. “Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, it seems to me most strange that men should fear, seeing that death—a necessary end—will come when it will come.”

His servant has returned from the temple. “What say the augurers?” asks Caesar, as he buckles on his sword.

“They would not have you to stir forth today!” warns the artless young man, wide-eyed and pale. He pauses. “Plucking the entrails of an offering forth, they could not find a heart within the beast!”

But Caesar, sending him away, is privately amused; the reading—from priests awakened well after midnight—is not surprising: heartless. And he, too, can employ divination’s ambiguity. “The gods do this in shame of cowardice: Caesar should be a beast without a heart, if he should stay at home today for fear! No, Caesar shall not.

“Danger knows full well that Caesar is more dangerous than he!” says the ruler, with mock ferocity. “We are two lions littered in one day—and I the elder and more terrible! And Caesar shall go forth!”

But Calphurnia’s concern is genuine—and deep. “Alas, my lord, your wisdom is consumed by confidence! Do not go forth today—call it my fear that keeps you in the house, and not your own. We’ll send Mark Antony to the Senate-house, and he shall say you are not well today. Let me, upon my knee, prevail in this!”

Now Caesar is surprised: his wife often pretends direct the dictator, but she never implores.

He relents. “Mark Antony shall say I am not well, and, for thy concern, I will stay at home.” He sees a senator arriving. “Here’s Decius; he shall tell them so.”

“Caesar, all hail!” cries the visitor. “Good morrow, worthy Caesar! I come to fetch you to the Senate-house!”

“And you are come just in time to bear my greeting to the senators, and tell them that I will not come today,” Caesar replies. He considers that wording. “Cannot, is false, and that I dare not, falser… I will not come today—tell them so, Decius.”

“Say he is sick,” says Calphurnia.

He objects: “Shall Caesar send a lie? Have I in conquest stretched mine arm so far, to be afraid to tell graybeards the truth? Decius, go tell them Caesar will not come.”

“Most mighty Caesar, let me know some cause,” pleads Decius, “lest I be laughed at when I tell them so!”

“The cause is my will: I will not come; that is enough to satisfy the Senate. But for your private satisfaction, because I love you, I will let you know:. My wife, Calphurnia here, stays me at home; she dreamt tonight she saw my statue, which, like a fountain with a hundred spouts, did run pure blood!—and many lusty Romans came smiling, and did bathe their hands in it!

“And these does she apply as warnings, and portents, as evils imminent, and on her knee hath begged that I will stay at home today.”

“This dream is all amiss interpreted,” Decius contends. “It was a vision fair and fortunate!—your statue’s spouting blood from many pipes, in which so many smiling Romans laved, signifies that from you great Rome shall draw reviving blood!—and that great men shall press for tinctures, stains, relics—in recognition! That by Calphurnia’s dream is signified!”

Caesar is flattered—but unmoved. “And that way have you well expounded it.”

Decius persists. “I will have, when you have heard what I can say! And, know it now: the Senate have concluded to give this day a crown to mighty Caesar!” He stares expectantly. “If you shall send them word you will not come, their minds may change!

“Besides, it were a mock apt to be rendered for someone to say, ‘Break up the Senate till another time, when Caesar’s wife shall meet with better dreams!’

“If Caesar hide himself, shall they not whisper, ‘Lo, Caesar is afraid’?” He sees that the frowning ruler is disturbed by the idea. “Pardon me, Caesar; my dear dear love for our proceeding bids me tell you this—and reason is liable to my love.”

As more visitors arrive, a window reveals that dawn’s light is growing. Brutus and Ligarius have come; with them are Caska, Trebonius, Cinna, and Metellus.

Faced with so many, the general is loath to disappoint. “How foolish do your fears seem now, Calphurnia! I am ashamed I did yield to them! Give me my cloak, for I will go!”

A long-bearded senator unaware of the conspiracy arrives as well; he hopes to witness today the crowning of an emperor.

“And look where Publius is come to fetch me!” cries Caesar, quite pleased, as his wife brings the white ceremonial vestment. He drapes it over his shoulders.

Publius beams. “Good morrow, Caesar!”

“Welcome, Publius! What, Brutus, are you stirred so early, too?” He smiles at the guests. “Good morrow, Caska!” And he pats the ailing old man’s shoulder. “Caius Ligarius, Caesar was ne’er so much your enemy as that same ague which hath made you lean!”

“What is the hour?”

“Caesar, ’tis strucken eight,” says Brutus.

“I thank you for your pains and courtesy,” Caesar tells the noblemen, adjusting his cloak as Mark Antony joins them. “See! Antony, who revels long o’ nights, is notwithstanding up! Good morrow, Antony!”

“So to most noble Caesar!”

He turns to Calphurnia. “Bid them prepare within; I am to blame, to be thus waited for!” She hurries to tell servants to set out food and drink. “Now, Cinna—now, Metellus!

“What, Trebonius!” He recalls that they are scheduled to meet in the afternoon. “I have an hour’s talk in store for you; remember that you call on me today. Be near me, so that I may remember you.”

“Caesar, I will,” says Trebonius. And so near will I be that your best friends shall wish I had been further!

Caesar motions his companions into the corridor leading to the dining hall. “Good friends, go in, and taste some wine with me; and we, like friends, will straightway go together.”

Brutus follows him. That not every ‘like’ is the same, O Caesar, the heart of Brutus learns to think upon!

Chapter Four

One Day in Rome

n a street near the Capitol, a teacher of Greek rhetoric—who has recently overheard some alarming private conversations—unfolds the letter of warning he has written.

As fearful Artemidorus reads it again, his hands tremble. ‘Caesar, beware of Brutus; take heed of Cassius; come not near Caska; have an eye to Cinna; trust not Trebonius! Mark well Metellus Cimber! Decius loves thee not; thou hast wronged Caius Ligarius!

‘There is but one mind in all these men, and it is bent against Caesar! If thou beest not immortal, look about you! Security gives way to conspiracy!

‘May the mighty gods defend thee!

‘Thy admirer, Artemidorus.’

He folds the paper carefully. Here will I stand till Caesar pass along, and as a petitioner will I give him this. He will pretend he has an ordinary request. My heart laments that virtue cannot live beyond the teeth of envy!

If thou read this, O Caesar, thou mayst live; if not, the Fates with traitors do connive!

ot far away down the same long avenue, at Brutus’s door his worried wife, Portia, urgently calls young Lucius. “I prithee, boy, run to the Senate-house!—stay not to answer me, but get thee gone!” He stares. “Why dost thou stay?” she demands.

“To know my errand, madam.”

“I would have had thee there and here again, ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there!” She glances back into the house, distraught. O constancy, be strong upon my side; set a huge mountain ’tween my heart and tongue! I have a man’s mind, but a woman’s might! How hard it is for women to keep counsel!

She turns—and sees Lucius. “Art thou here yet?”

“Madam, what should I do? Run to the Capitol, and nothing else?—and so return to you, and nothing else?”

“Yes!” Then: “Bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well… for he went sickly forth!—and take good note what Caesar doth—what suitors press to him!” Suddenly she looks up, startled: “Hark, boy!—what noise is that?”

“I hear none, madam….”

“Prithee, listen well!” she insists, highly agitated, seizing his arm. “I heard a bustling rumour—like a fray!—and the wind brings it from the Capitol!”

“’Sooth, madam, I hear nothing!”

She spots the frail old seer on the street. “Come hither, fellow! Which way hast thou been?”

“At mine own house, good lady.”

“What is the time?”

“About the ninth hour, lady.”

“Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol?”

“Madam, not yet; I go to take my stand to see him pass on to the Capitol.”

“Thou hast some suit to Caesar, hast thou not?”

“That I have, lady. If it will please Caesar to be so good to Caesar as to hear me, I shall beseech him to befriend himself.”

“Why?—know’st thou any harm that’s intended towards him?”

“None that I know will be—much that I fear may chance.” The soothsayer bows. “Good morrow to you. Here the street is narrow,” he says, stating on his way. “The throng that follows Caesar at the heels—of senators, of praetors, common suitors—will crowd a feeble man almost to death! I’ll get me to a place more void, and there speak to great Caesar as he comes along.”

Portia watches him amble away. I must go in! Ay, me! How weak a thing the heart of woman is! Oh, Brutus, the heavens speed thee in thine enterprise!

She notices Lucius, rubbing his arm gingerly and watching her curiously. Surely the boy heard me!

Brutus hath a suit that Caesar will not grant! Oh!—I grow faint!

“Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord!—say I am merry!” The lad bows, glad to leave her, and trots away.

“Come to me again,” she calls, growing frantic, “and bring me word what he doth say to thee!”

ear the Capitol a crowd gathers as morning sunshine dissipates the mist and warms the tall marble columns, still damp from the storm. A burst of cheering greets the great leader of the Roman Republic, arriving on his way to the Senate. Trumpets blare out a flourish to herald the guarded procession led by a jovial Julius Caesar, who is accompanied today by senators.

Caesar spots, among those waiting to welcome him, a silent onlooker. “The ides of March are come,” he dryly reminds the soothsayer in passing.

“Aye, Caesar; but not gone,” says the old man—unheard, as the noblemen brush by amid the loud applause.

“Hail, Caesar!” cries Artemidorus, waving his list. “Read this list!”

But Decius hands Caesar another document. “Trebonius doth desire you to o’erread, at your best leisure, this his humble suit.”

The teacher pushes forward, thrusting out his letter. “O Caesar, read mine first!—for mine’s a suit that touches Caesar nearer! Read it, great Caesar!”

The general accepts the folded paper. “What touches us ourself shall be last served,” he tells the onlookers humbly, sliding it into a pocket.

Artemidorus is alarmed. “Delay not, Caesar!” he cries. “Read it instantly!”

Caesar turns away; his other petitioners are calmly obsequious. “What, is the fellow mad?” he asks Decius.

Publius pushes Artemidorus away. “Sirrah, give place!”

And Cassius glares at him. “What, urge you your petition in the street?” he demands. “Come to the Capitol,” he tells the man gruffly, as Caesar moves on, with all the rest following.

n the Senate-house, Popilius Lena, a silver-haired legislator, has approached Cassius. “I wish your enterprise today may thrive!” he says, with a broad smile. Then he sees that Caesar is motioning for him to come near.

Cassius pales. “What enterprise, Popilius?”

“Fare you well,” says the aging lord, nodding to Caesar and going to join him.

Brutus is immediately at Cassius’ side. “What said Popilius Lena?” he asks, urgently but quietly.

Only Brutus hears the hushed reply: “He wished today our enterprise might thrive! I fear our purpose is discoverèd!”

“Look how he makes toward Caesar,” says Brutus. “Mark him….”

Cassius turns as another conspirator joins them. “Caska, be sudden,” he whispers, “for we fear prevention!” Caska nods, and walks more quickly toward Caesar.

Cassius is alarmed. “Brutus, what shall be done? If this be known… Cassius to Caesar shall never turn back!” he hisses. “I will slay myself!”

“Cassius, be constant,” warns Brutus firmly, watching the dictator. “Popilius Lena speaks not of our purposes—for, look, he smiles; and Caesar doth not change.”

Seeing that for himself, Cassius calms, and looks around. “Trebonius knows his time, for, look you, Brutus….” Trebonius, smiling in animated conversation with Mark Antony, throws an arm around his shoulder and draws him into a side hall, away from the large chamber.

Decius comes to Brutus. “Where is Metellus Cimber? Let him go immediately and prefer his suit to Caesar!”

Brutus sees that their accomplice is already petitioning the ruler. “He is addressed; press near, and second him!”

Behind Caesar, Caska and Cinna are moving closer. The young man whispers, “Caska, you are to be first that rears his hand!”

Caesar is raising his arms to open the formal session, where he will hear the day’s requests. “Are we all ready?” He steps forward and sits in his carved chair at the front. “What is now amiss that Caesar and his Senate must redress?”

One of the conspirators comes first, bowing, then dropping to his knees in supplication. “Most high, most mighty, and most puissant Caesar! Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat an humble heart—” he begins.

“I must prevent thee, Cimber!” Caesar is annoyed. “These couchings and these lowly courtesies might fire the blood of ordinary men, and swerve pre-ordinance and first decree into the lane of children; but be not so simple as to think that Caesar bears such rebel blood, that will be thawed from the true quality with that which melteth fools!—I mean sweet words, low-crookèd court’sies, and base, spaniel fawning!

“Thy brother by decree is banishèd! If thou dost bend and pray and fawn for him, I spurn thee like a cur out of my way. Know: Caesar doth not punish but with just cause—nor without cause will he be satisfied.”

Metellus Cimber looks up and around. “Is there no voice more worthy than my own to sound more sweetly in great Caesar’s ear for the repealing of my banished brother?”

Brutus moves forward and kneels. “I kiss thy hand not in flattery, Caesar, but desiring of thee that Publius Cimber may have immediate freedom of repeal.”

Caesar is surprised: “What?— Brutus!”

“Pardon, Caesar,” says Cassius, moving to kneel beside Brutus. “Caesar, pardon! As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall, to beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber.”

Caesar has pardoned many defeated opponents; his reasoned policies have been clear and consistent. “I could well be moved, if I were as you; if I could pray to move, prayers would move me.

“But I am constant as the northern star, of whose true, fixèd, and resting quality there is no fellow in the firmament. The skies are painted with unnumbered sparks; they are all fire, and every one doth shine—but there’s but one in all doth hold its place.

“So in the world: ’tis furnished well with men; and men are flesh and blood—and apprehensive. Yet in their number I do know of one who unassailable holds to his rank, unshaken by motion—and that I am he, let me a little show even in this: I was constant that Cimber should be banished, and constant do remain to keep him so.”

“O Caesar—” says Cinna, stepping before the sovereign to kneel.

“Hence!” says Caesar, irked now. “Wilt thou lift up Olympus?”

Decius, too, comes forward. “Great Caesar—”

The ruler looks down at them, perplexed by the lords’ unseemly—and futile—display. “Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?”

Caska’s sword flashes up, then slices downward. “Speak, hands, for me!”

Caesar is stunned by the blow, and his right arm dangles. The supplicants rise as he staggers, gaping, and each one draws a dagger and stabs him. Brutus is the last.

Caesar’s face registers the pain—and deep disappointment. “Et tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar.” He collapses to the floor, surrounded by his assailants.

“Liberty! Freedom!” shouts Cinna. “Tyranny is dead! Run hence!—proclaim!—cry it about the streets!”

Cassius directs fellow conspirators: “Some to the commoners’ pulpits, and cry out, ‘Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement!’” Several dash out to disseminate the news.

Shocked by the sight—and fearful of the killers’ bloody blades—the many others in the hall have pulled back, staring aghast.

Brutus addresses them. “People and senators, be not affrighted!—fly not; stand still!” He looks down at the corpse. “Ambition’s debt is paid.”

“Go to the pulpit, Brutus!” urges Caska, motioning toward the dais.

“And Cassius too!” says Decius.

Brutus looks for the senator of greatest experience. “Where’s Publius?”

Cinna points to the dazed old man. “Here—quite confounded with this mutiny!”

“Stand fast together,” Metellus Cimber warns the others, “lest some friend of Caesar’s should chance—”

“Talk not of standing!” insists Brutus sharply; he does not want to assume a defensive posture. “Publius, good cheer!” he says, smiling. “There is no harm intended to your person, nor to any Roman else!” he says reassuringly. “So tell them, Publius.”

“And leave us, Publius,” Cassius tells the tremulous nobleman, “lest that the people, rushing on to us, should do your age some mischief.”

“Do so,” says Brutus; he nods to the other witnesses. “And let no man abide this deed but we the doers.”

Publius, still shaken, leaves the hall, soon followed by all but conspirators.

Nearly out of breath, Trebonius runs in from the street. “Where is Antony?” he asks Cassius.

“Fled to his house, amazèd! Men, wives and children stare, cry out, and run as if it were doomsday!”

In the high marble chamber, Brutus looks upward as the last observers clear out. “Fates, we will know your pleasures!

“That we shall die, we know,” he murmurs. “’Tis but their time of drawing out days that men stand upon….”

Says Cassius, now relieved and elated, “Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life cuts off so many years of fearing death!”

“Grant that, and is death a benefit,” says Brutus wryly, staring at the body lying in pooled blood. “So then are we, who have abridged his time of fearing death, Caesar’s friends.”

But to the city’s populace he wants to express grim pride—and immediately; he turns to the other assassins. “Stoop, Romans, stoop, and let us bathe our hands in Caesar’s blood, up to the elbows—and besmear our swords!”—so they will imply a fight, rather than an ambush. “Then walk we forth, even to the market-place, and, waving our red weapons o’er our heads, let’s all cry, ‘Peace, freedom and liberty!’”

“Stoop, then, and ‘wash!’” cries Cassius, drawing his sword. “How many ages hence shall this, our lofty scene, be acted over in states unborn, and accents yet unknown?”

Brutus kneels beside the dead man lying at the foot of another general’s statue, and daubs his hands with gore. “How many times shall Caesar, who now at Pompey’s basis lies, no worthier than the dust, bleed in diversions?”—plays.

The other killers smear their hands and swords with crimson.

“So oft as that shall be,” Cassius prophesies, “so often shall the knot of us be called the men that gave their country liberty!”

ecius sees that they are ready. “What, shall we forth?”

“Aye,” says Cassius, “every man away! Brutus shall lead!—and we will grace his heels with the boldest and best hearts of Rome!”

But just then they see a servant warily entering the Senate chamber. “Soft!—who comes here?” says Brutus. He recognizes the young man: “A friend of Antony’s.”

The emissary comes to him and drops to his knees. “Thus, Brutus, did my master bid me kneel!—thus did Mark Antony bid me fall down!” He moves to his hands and knees, touching his forehead to the stone floor. “And being prostrate, thus he bade me say: ‘Brutus is noble, wise, valiant, and honest; Caesar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving.’”

The lad thinks for a moment. “Say: ‘I love Brutus, and I honour him’ …say: ‘I feared Caesar, honoured him and loved him.’” He looks up, frowning, trying to get it right. “‘If Brutus will vouchsafe that Antony may safely come to him and be resolvèd how Caesar hath deserved to lie in death, Mark Antony shall not love Caesar dead so well as Brutus living, but will follow the fortunes and affairs of noble Brutus thorough the hazards of this untrod state with all true faith.’

“So says my master, Antony.” The youth rises.

Brutus is pleased. “Thy master is a wise and valiant Roman! I never thought him worse! Tell him: so please it him to come unto this place, he shall be satisfied!—and, by my honour, depart untouched!”

The lad nods. “I’ll fetch him immediately.” He bows, turns, and hurries away.

Brutus tells the others, “I know that we shall do well to have him a friend!”

“I wish we may,” says Cassius, “but yet have I a mind that fears him much!—and my misgiving always falls shrewdly to the purpose,” he claims.

Brutus turns to the door. “And here comes Antony! Welcome, Mark Antony!”

Antony’s gaze is fixed; he stares at the bloody cloak as he walks slowly to the body crumpled at the foot of the statue.

“O mighty Caesar! Dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, shrunk to this little measure?” Tears well up, and his voice is choked with grief. “Fare thee well….”

Antony turns to the conspirators. “I know not, gentlemen, what you intend—who else’s blood must be let, who else is rank. If I myself, there is no hour so fit as Caesar’s death-hour, nor no instrument of half that worth as those your swords—made rich with the most noble blood of all this world!

“I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard, now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smolder, fulfill your pleasure! Live a thousand years, I shall not find myself so apt to die!—no place will please me so, no means of death, as here by Caesar, and by you cut off, the choice and master spirits of this age!”

“O Antony, beg not your death of us!” says Brutus. “Though now we must appear bloody and cruel—as, by our hands and this our present act, you see we do—yet see you but our hands and this the bleeding business they have done—our hearts you see not! They are full of piety, in pity for the general wrong of Rome! As fire drives out fire, so pity—pity hath done this deed on Caesar!

“As for your part, to you our steel swords have leaden points, Mark Antony! Our arms constrained from malice, and our hearts with brothers’ temperament do receive you in, with all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence!”

Cassius watches Antony closely. “Your voice shall be as strong as any man’s in the disposing of new dignities,” he offers.

“Only be patient till we have appeased the multitude, now beside themselves with fear,” says Brutus, “and then we will deliver to you the cause why I—who did love Caesar when I struck him—have thus proceeded.”

Antony regards him. “I doubt not of your wisdom,” he says evenly. “Let each man render me his bloody hand; first, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you. Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand. Now, Decius, yours; now yours, Metellus; yours, Cinna; and, my valiant Caska, yours. Though last, not last in love, yours, good Trebonius.

“Gentlemen all, alas, what shall I say? My crediting now stands on such slippery ground that one of two bad ways you must conceive me: either a coward or a flatterer!”

He looks at the body. “That I did love thee, Caesar—oh, ’tis true! If, then, thy spirit look upon us now, shall it not grieve thee more than thy death to see thy Anthony making his peace, shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes—most noble!—in the presence of thy corpse?

“Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds, weeping as fast as they streamed forth thy blood, it would become me better than to come together in terms of friendship with thine enemies! Pardon me, Julius! Here wast thou bayed, brave hart; here didst thou fall; and here thy hunters stand, signed in thy despoil, encrimsoned with thy leaving!

“O World, thou wast the forest to this hart; and this, indeed, O World, the heart of thee!

“How like a deer, strucken by many princes, dost thou here lie!”

Cassius frowns. “Mark Antony—”

“Pardon me, Caius Cassius; even the enemies of Caesar shall say thus; and in a friend it is cold reserve.”

“I blame you not for praising Caesar so,” says Cassius. “But what compact mean you to have with us? Will you be pricked in the numbering of our friends,”—marked as an ally, “or shall we go on and not depend on you?”

“Therefore I took your hands,” Antony replies, “but was, indeed, swayed from the point by looking down on Caesar. Friends am I with you all, and love you all—upon this hope: that you shall give me reasons, why and wherein Caesar was dangerous.”

Brutus nods, eager for approval. “Or else were this a savage spectacle! Our reasons are so full of good regard that were you, Antony, the son of Caesar, you should be satisfied!”

“That’s all I seek—and am, moreover, suitor that I may produce his body to the market-place; and in the pulpit, as becomes a friend, speak in the order of his funeral.”

Antony’s participation will be seen as acceptance of the murder. “You shall, Mark Antony,” says Brutus.

Cassius hastily pulls him aside. “Brutus, a word with you.

“You know not what you do!” he whispers. “Do not consent that Antony speak in his funeral!—know you not how much the people may be angered by that which he will utter?”

Brutus is piqued by the interruption—and the challenge to his authority. “By your pardon,” he says haughtily, “I will myself go into the pulpit first, and show the reason for our Caesar’s death. What Antony shall speak I will profess he speaks by leave, by permission, and that we are contented Caesar shall have all true rites and lawful ceremonies. It shall advantage more than do us wrong.”

Cassius glares: “I know not what may befall; I like it not!”

Brutus turns away. “Mark Antony, hear: take you Caesar’s body. You shall not in your funeral speech blame us, but speak all good you can devise of Caesar, and say you do’t by our permission,” he insists, “else shall you not have any hand at all about his funeral. And you shall speak in the same pulpit whereto I am going, after my speech is ended.”

Antony nods. “Be it so. I do desire no more.”

“Prepare the body then, and follow us.” Brutus and the other conspirators set forth on their urgent task of securing support among the populace.

Alone, Antony kneels beside Caesar—and sobs.

Oh, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, that I am meek and gentle with these butchers!

Thou art the ruins of the noblest man that ever lived in the tide of times!

Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood! Now do I prophesy over thy wounds, which, like voiceless mouths, do ope their ruby lips to beg the voice and utterance of my tongue: a curse shall light upon the limbs of men!

Domestic fury and fierce civil strife shall cumber all the parts of Italy; blood and destruction shall be so in use, and dreadful objects so familiar, that mothers shall but smile when they behold their infants quartered by the hands of War!—all pity choked with custom of fell deeds!

And Caesar’s spirit, raging for revenge with Ate by his side, come hot from Hell, shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice cry ‘Havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war!—so that this foul deed shall smell, above the earth, of carrion men groaning for burial!

Antony rises slowly, staring at his right hand—crusted with drying blood from the killers’ hands.

He looks up, surprised to see a messenger, dusty from riding, enter the hall, cap in hand, and look around. “You serve Octavius Caesar, do you not?”

“I do, Mark Antony.”

Gaius Octavius, twenty, the grandson of Caesar’s younger sister Julia, had served with the general’s forces in Spain; after the victory, he went to Greece to study.

Antony remembers: “Caesar did write for him to come to Rome.”

“He received his letters, and is coming, and bid me say to you by word of mouth—” He spots the dead man. “Oh, Caesar!” He rushes forward. Kneeling before the body, he is moved to tears.

“Thy heart is big,” says Antony kindly. “Get thee apart and weep; anguish, I see, is catching, for mine eyes, seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine, begin to water.

“Is thy master coming?”

The rider stands, wiping his eyes. “He lies tonight within seven leagues of Rome.”

“Post back with speed, and tell him what hath chanced. Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome!—no Rome of safety for Octavius yet. Hie hence, and tell him so.

“Yet, stay a while—thou shalt not back till I have borne this corpse into the market-place.

“There shall I learn, from my oration, how the people take the cruel issue of these bloody men—according to the which thou shalt discourse to young Octavius on the state of things.”

Antony kneels and straightens the dead man’s limbs. “Lend me your hand.”

Chapter Five

The People Hear

ries echo in the Forum, part of the huge marketplace stretching along the valley between the Palatine and Capitoline Hills, as Romans learn of the violent death of Julius Caesar. Varying accounts have spread across the city, enlarged by speculation with each retelling. Many citizens have rushed here, alarmed, seeking news—and demanding answers.

Brutus and Cassius, entering through the clamoring throng, hear the angry shouts: “We will have satisfaction!” “Let us have satisfaction!”

Brutus, surrounded, lifts his stained hands. “Then follow me and give me audience, friends!” he exclaims. “Cassius, part these numbers, and go you into the other street.

“Those that will hear me speak, let ’em stay here,” he shouts. “Those that will follow Cassius, go with him!” He calls out to the multitude: “And public reasons shall be rendered for Caesar’s death!”

The noise partly subsides, as the citizens consider. “I will hear Brutus speak,” a man tells his neighbor. His friend nods. “I will hear Cassius, and compare their reasons when severally we’ve heard them tendered.”

Cassius, well regarded as a public speaker, draws a good number of people outside to hear him, while Brutus climbs the wide marble steps and enters a pulpit on the high dais overlooking the remaining crowd of legislators, tradesmen, and other citizens.

A voice calls out below: “The noble Brutus is ascended! Silence!”

Brutus raises a hand. “Be patient till the last,” he asks, coming forward. The listeners look up.

“Romans, countrymen, and admirers—hear from me my cause, and be silent so that you may hear.

“Believe me for mine honour, and have respect for mine honour, so that you may believe; judge me in your wisdom, and awake your senses, so that you may the better consider.

“If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar’s—to him I say that Brutus’ love to Caesar was no less than his! If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer: not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more!

“Would you rather that Caesar were living, and die as slaves, than that Caesar were dead, and live as free men?

“As Caesar loved me, I weep for him! As he was fortunate, I rejoiced at it; as he was valiant, I honoured him. But as he was ambitious I slew him! Here are tears for his love; joy for his fortune; honour for his valour—and death for his ambition!

“Who is there so base that he would be a bondman? If any, speak!—for him have I offended.

“Who is here so rude that he would not be a Roman? If any, speak!—for him have I offended.

“Who here is so vile that will not love his country? If any, speak!—for him have I offended!” He surveys the citizens’ upturned faces. “I pause for a reply.”

Calls one man, “None, Brutus, none!”

Brutus leans forward at the podium. “Then none have I offended!” he declares boldly. “I have done no more to Caesar than you could do to Brutus.

“The explanation for his death is enrollèd in the Capitol,”—embodied in the record, “his glory not diminished wherein he was worthy, nor the offences heightened for which he suffered death!”

Attention suddenly shifts away, to the side, where Antony—who has been waiting outside, and listening—enters the building; others with him bring Caesar’s remains, now in a wooden coffin borne on a wheeled litter.

Brutus turns toward it. “Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony, who—though he had no hand in his death—shall receive the benefit of his dying: a place in the commonwealth!—as which of you shall not?

“With this, I depart: as it slew my most admirèd for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death!”

But the crowd applauds roundly, with calls of “Live, Brutus! Live! Live!” and “Bring him with triumph home unto his house!” “Give him a statue with his ancestor’s!”

“Let him be Caesar!” “Caesar’s better parts shall be crowned in Brutus!”

“We’ll take him to his house with shouts and clamours!”

Brutus raises his arms, acknowledging the acclaim. “My countrymen—”

“Peace, silence! Brutus speaks!” “Peace, ho!”

“—good countrymen, let me depart alone; and, for my sake, stay here with Antony!

“Do grace unto Caesar’s corpse, and grace his speech tending to Caesar’s glories—which Mark Antony, by our permission, is allowed to make.

“I do entreat you, not a man depart, save I alone, till Antony have spoken.”

A cry rises from the crowd: “Stay, ho!—and let us hear Mark Antony!” A man calls out, “Let him go up into the public chair!” “We’ll hear him! Noble Antony, go up!” shouts another.

Brutus waves, and, still receiving applause, leaves the Forum.

ntony climbs the stone steps to the rostrum and looks out. “For Brutus’ sake, I am beholding to you.”

There are puzzled murmurs below. “What does he say of Brutus?” “He says, for Brutus’ sake, he finds himself beholding to us all.”

“’Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here!” warns one man. “This Caesar was a tyrant!” asserts another. “Aye, that’s certain!—we are blest that Rome is rid of him!” says a third.

“Peace! Let us hear what Antony can say!”

Antony gazes solemnly at the agitated crowd. “You gentle Romans—”

“Peace, ho! Let us hear him!”

Antony is patient. “Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.

“I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interrèd with their bones. So let it be with Caesar.

“The noble Brutus hath told you Caesar was ambitious. If it were so, it was a grievous fault—and grievously hath Caesar answered for it!

“Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest—for Brutus is an honourable man; so are they all, all honourable men—come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.

“He was my friend, faithful and just to me—but, Brutus says he was ambitious; and Brutus is an honourable man.

“He hath brought many captives home to Rome whose ransoms did the general coffers fill. Did that in Caesar seem ambitious?

“When the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept! Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. Yet Brutus says he was ambitious—and Brutus is an honourable man.

“You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown—which he did thrice refuse. Was that ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious—and, surely, he is an honourable man.

“I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke; I am here but to speak what I do know: you all did love him once—and not without cause! What cause withholds you, then, from mourning for him?”

Some among the crowd glance downward, remembering; many indeed must consider how well they prospered under Caesar’s commands, and by his rule.

“O Judgment!” cries Antony, overwhelmed, “thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason!

“Bear with me,” he says sadly. “My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, and I must pause till it come back to me.”

His listeners are moved. A worried-looking man tells another, “Methinks there is much reason in his sayings.”

“If thou consider rightly of the matter, Caesar has had great wrong!”

“Has he, masters?” wonders a third—but he adds, “I fear there will a worse come in his place….”

“Marked ye his words?” a senator asks them. “He would not take the crown!—therefore ’tis certain he was not ambitious!”

“If it be found so,” says another dourly, “some will pay dearly for it!”

A woman is watching the handsome Mark Antony. “Poor soul! His eyes are red as fire with weeping!”

“There’s not a nobler man in Rome than Antony!” cries a tall man.

“Now mark him!—he begins again to speak!”

“Even yesterday,” says Antony gravely, “the word of Caesar might have stood against the world! Now lies he there, and no one is so poor as not to do him reverence.

“O masters, if I were disposed to stir your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong—who, you all know, are honourable men. I will not do them wrong—I’d choose rather to wrong the dead—to wrong myself, and you!—than to wrong such honourable men.

“But here’s a parchment with the seal of Caesar. I found it in his quarters; ’tis his will. Let the commons but hear this testament—which, pardon me, I do not mean to read out—and they would go and kiss dead Caesar’s wounds, and dip their kerchiefs in his sacred blood!—yea, beg for a hair of his for memory, and, dying, mention it within their wills, bequeathing it as a rich legacy unto their issue!”

“We’ll hear the will!” demands a citizen. “Read it, Mark Antony!”

The crowd, still growing, and moving closer, concurs. “The will, the will!“ “We will hear Caesar’s will!”

Antony raises a palm. “Have patience, gentle friends. I must not read it; it is not meet that you know how Caesar loved you! You are not wood, you are not stones, but men! And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar—it will inflame you!—it will send you mad!

“’Tis good you know not that you are his heirs; for, if you should—oh, what would come of it?”

“Read the will!” demands a rotund senator. “We’ll hear it, Antony! You shall read us the will—Caesar’s will!”

“Will you be patient?” pleads Antony. “Will you stay awhile? I have o’ershot myself to tell you of it: I fear I wrong the honourable men whose daggers have stabbèd Caesar!—I do fear it!”

“They were traitors,” cries an indignant voice. “Honourable men!” calls another scornfully.

“The will!” cry others loudly. “The testament!”

“They were villains, murderers!” “The will!” “Read the will!”

Antony unfolds it. “You will compel me, then, to read the will?” The crowd so insists—loudly.

“Then form a ring about the corpse of Caesar,” Antony tells them, “and let me show you him who made the will. Shall I descend? And will you give me leave?”

“Come down!” “Descend!” “You shall have leave!”

Antony comes down the steps and stands beside the coffin, as the onlookers move nearer.

“A ring; stand round!” “Stand from the hearse, stand from the body!” “Room for Antony, most noble Antony!”

The speaker motions for space. “Nay, press not so upon me; stand farther off.” He wants his voice to carry unimpeded.

Several urge the others: “Stand back… Room!… Bear back….”

“If you have tears,” says Antony sadly, “prepare to shed them now.”

He raises the coffin’s lid, and lifts one edge of Caesar’s gore-stiffened cloak to show it. After gasps of dismay, the spectators fall silent, gazing and stunned.

“You all do know this mantle. I remember the first time ever Caesar put it on: ’twas on a summer’s evening, in his tent, that day he overcame the Nervii”—a military victory, they all know, in which Caesar showed great personal bravery in rescuing some of his men.

Antony points to the cloak. “Look—in this place ran Cassius’ blade through.” He lifts the torn cloth higher. “See what a rent the envious Caska made!

“Through this the well-belovèd Brutus stabbed—and as he plucked his cursèd steel away, mark how the blood of Caesar followed it—as if rushing out of doors to be resolved if Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no! For Caesar, as you know, was Brutus’s angel! Judge, O you gods, how dearly Brutus loved him!

“This was the most unkindest cut of all: for when the noble Caesar saw him stab, ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms, quite vanquished him!” Antony’s brimming eyes search the crowd.

“Then burst his mighty heart!” he says, his voice strained with sorrow. “And even at the base of Pompey’s statue, muffling up his face in this mantle, which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell!”

Antony cries out: “Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, whilst bloody treason flourished over us!

“Oh, now you weep!—and, I perceive, you feel the dint of pity! “ He smiles through tears. “Those are gracious drops!”

Gently he lowers Caesar’s savaged raiment

“Kind souls, what?—weep you when you behold but our Caesar’s vesture wounded? Look you here: here is himself!—marred, as you see, by traitors!” He wheels the coffin around and tilts one end down to the floor, revealing the corpse within.

The crowd draws back, appalled. From the citizens come moans, sobs. “Oh, piteous spectacle!” “O noble Caesar!” “Oh, woeful day!”

Cries ring out: “Oh, traitors—villains!” “Oh, most bloody sight!”

Angry cries: “We will be revenged!”

The sovereign’s riven remains infuriate all who see, and other push forward. “Revenge!” “About!”

Furious calls now compete for attention. “Seek!” “Burn!”

“Fire!” “Kill!”

“Slay!” “Let not a traitor live!”

Ignoring the turmoil, Antony levels the coffin, and slowly, solemnly, lowers its cover. He glances at Ocatvius’s messenger, who nods and silently leaves.

Antony looks about, as if just noticing the livid, angry faces. He raises a hand. “Stay, countrymen!”

Around him, citizens demand quiet. “Peace, there! Hear the noble Antony!”

“We’ll hear him, we’ll follow him—we’ll die with him!”

Antony addresses them. “Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up to such a sudden flood of mutiny! They that have done this deed are honourable.” He shrugs. “What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, that made them do it. They are wise and honourable, and will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.

“I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts. I am no orator, as Brutus is, but, as you know me, all, a plain, blunt man who loved my friend!

“And that they know full well who gave me public leave to speak of him. For I have neither wit nor words—not with action nor utterance, nor the power of speech—to stir men’s blood. I only speak right on. I tell you but that which you yourselves do know, show you sweet Caesar’s wounds—poor, poor silent mouths!—and bid them speak for me.

“But were I Brutus, and Brutus, Antony—there were an ‘Antony’ that would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue in every wound on Caesar that should move the stones of Rome to rise in mutiny!”

Growing fury among the milling throng is obvious: “We’ll mutiny!”

“We’ll burn the house of Brutus!”

“Away, then! Come, seek the conspirators!”

But Mark Antony has more to say. “Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak!”

Attention is immediate: “Peace, ho!” “Hear Antony!” “Most noble Antony!”

“Why, friends, you go to do you know not what! And wherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves? Alas, you know not!

“I must tell you, then!—you have forgot the will I told you of!”

The uproar shifts in tone. “Most true!” is the consensus. “The will!” “Let’s stay and hear the will!”

“Here is the will, and under Caesar’s seal!” cries Antony, raising it aloft. “To every Roman citizen he gives—to every several man!—seventy-five drachmas!”

“Most noble Caesar!”

“We’ll revenge his death!”

“Oh, royal Caesar!”

Antony—holding up the will—commands attention. “Hear me with patience!”

“Peace, ho!” is the general cry.

Antony looks at the document. “Moreover, he hath left you all his walks—his private arbours and new-planted orchards—on this side of Tiber! He hath left them to you!—and to your heirs forever, common pleasures, to walk abroad and recreate yourselves!”

He spreads his arms wide. “Here was a Caesar! When comes such another?”

“Never, never! Come!—away, away!” “We’ll burn his body in the holy place—and with the brands fire the traitors’ houses!”

“Take up the body!” As the citizens close in, men rush to lift Caesar’s coffin into the air and carry it, held above the heads of the moving crowd, out of the Forum.

“Go fetch fire!” demands a young senator at the front, as the seething citizens surge from the building.

“Pluck down benches!” calls a mason. “Pluck down forms, windows—anything!” cries a carpenter.

The multitude, inflamed to violent action, streams out into the hot afternoon street, vowing revenge on those who murdered Julius Caesar.

Inside, Antony, suddenly very weary, sits on the steps by the pulpit, watching the angry men storm away. He hears their harsh voices as the mass disperses into clusters bent on finding the killers.

“Now let it work,” he mutters. Mischief, thou art afoot!—take thou what course thou wilt.

The market is eerily silent as a man enters; the rider, sent to inform Octavius of the ruler’s fate, has returned.

Antony quietly greets him. “How now, fellow?”

“Sir, Octavius is already come to Rome.”

“Where is he?”

“He and Lepidus are at Caesar’s house.”

Antony rises. “And thither will I straight to visit him. He comes upon a wish; Fortune is merry, and in this mood will give us anything.”

“I heard him say that Brutus and Cassius have ridden like madmen through the gates of Rome!”

Antony’s smile is wan. “Belike they had some notice of the people… how I had moved them.

“Bring me to Octavius.”

fter his meager meal of dry bread, stale cheese and weak wine, a mild-mannered, middle-aged man steps from his home into an alley, then walks up to the street.

Gaius Helvius Cinna, a poet of some distinction, muses. I dreamt last night that I did feast with Caesar—and things unlucky charged my imagination; I have no will to wander forth of doors, yet something leads me forth….

A gang of five angry-looking tradesmen approaches—and, to his surprise, they surround him.

“What is your name?” one demands. “Whither are you going?” asks another.

“Where do you dwell?” “Are you a married man or a bachelor?”

The first, a burly, red-faced man, grabs the poet’s arm. “Answer every man directly!”

“Aye, and briefly!”

“Aye, and wisely!” warns another.

“Aye—and truly, you were best!”

Soft-spoken Cinna is a contemplative man. “What is my name? Whither am I going? Where do I dwell? Am I a married man or a bachelor?

“Then, to answer every man directly and briefly, wisely and truly: wisely, I say, I am a bachelor—”

“That’s as much as to say they are fools that marry!” growls a big man, stepping closer. “You’ll bear a bang from me for that, I fear! Proceed—directly!”

“Directly I am going to Caesar’s funeral.”

“As a friend or an enemy?”

“As a friend.”

A tall man nods. “That matter is answered directly.”

“As for your dwelling?—briefly!”

“Briefly: I dwell by the Capitol.”

“Your name, sir—truly.”

“Truly, my name is Cinna,” says the poet.

“Tear him to pieces!” shouts the big man, enraged. “He’s a conspirator!”

“I am Cinna the poet!” cries the writer, as they batter him down with heavy blows. “I am Cinna the poet!”

The tall man kicks their victim, now cringing on his knees and trying to rise. “Tear him for his bad verses, tear him for his bad verses!” he growls, enjoying himself.

“I am not Cinna the conspirator!” screams the man of words—before being knocked senseless by a blow to the back of the head.

“It is no matter; his name’s Cinna!” says the tall patriot, rubbing his sore fist. “Just pluck his name”—it sounds like sinner—“out of his heart, and turn him going!”

“Tear him,” grunts the burly one, again kicking the downed man, as the others crouch to plunge knives through his tunic of worn linen. “Tear him!”

“Come!—brands ho! Fire-brands—to Brutus’s—to Cassius’—burn all! Some to Decius’ house and some to Ligarius’—some to Caska’s! Away—Go!”

Chapter Six

The New Order

fter the death of Julius Caesar, a triumvirate has formed. Marcus Aemilius Lepidus—once a consul serving with Caesar, now commander of the legion of soldiers who are quartered in the city—has joined Mark Antony and Octavius Caesar.

The new rulers of Rome and its many territories meet around a table to negotiate further consolidation of their shared power. Antony examines a wax tablet listing men’s names—some with marks scratched beside them. “These many, then, shall die; their names are pricked.”

Octavius regards the general. “Your brother, too, must die; consent you, Lepidus?”

“I do consent—”

“Prick him down, Antony,” says Octavius.

“—upon condition that Publius—who is your sister’s son, Mark Antony—shall not live,” says Lepidus.

Antony nods. “He shall not live; look, with a spot I damn him.

“But, Lepidus, go you to Caesar’s house; fetch the will hither, and we shall determine how to cut off some charges in legacies.” The conspirators and their allies will not be permitted to inherit from Caesar.

Lepidus rises. “What, shall I find you here?”

Octavius nods. “Either here or at the Capitol,” he says, as Lepidus goes.

In the assassination’s aftermath, they have made good use of Lepidus’s troops to maintain order. But now, says Antony, “This is a slight, unmeritable man, meet to be sent on errands. Is it fit that, the three-fold world divided, he should stand one of three to share it?”

“So you thought him—and took his voice who should be pricked to die, and in our black sentence and proscription”—orders detailing the property and wealth to be confiscated.

Antony rises. “Octavius, I have seen more days than you. And though we lay these honours on this man to ease ourselves of divers slanderous loads,”—dangerously unpopular tasks, “he shall but bear them as the ass bears gold, to groan and sweat under the business, either led or driven as we point the way. And having brought our treasure where we will, then take we down his load, and turn him out like an empty ass to shake his ears and graze in the commons.”

“You may do your will,” says Octavius, also rising, “but he’s a tried and valiant soldier.”

“So is my horse, Octavius; and for that I do appoint him store of provender. It is a creature that I teach to fight: to wend, to stop, to run directly on, his corporal motion governed by my spirit. And in some regard is Lepidus but so: he must be taught and trained, and bidden go forth—a barren-spirited fellow!—one that feeds on objects, arts and imitations which, out of use and staled by other men, begin his fashion! Do not talk of him but as a property.”

Antony regards the young man gravely. “And now, Octavius, hear about great things.

“Brutus and Cassius are levying powers!”—building armies. “We must straight make head! Therefore let our alliance be combined, our best friends made, our means stretched! And let us now go sit in council as to how covert matters may best be disposed, and open perils surest answered.”

Octavius agrees fully. “Let us do so. For we are at the stake, and bayed about with many enemies—and some who smile have, in their hearts, I fear, millions of mischiefs!”

They leave Lepidus’s house together.

ear the city of Sardis, in Asia Minor about fifteen leagues east of the Aegean Sea, Brutus rides ahead of his marching troops toward a large tent his men have set up for a meeting of the rebellious generals.

He has traveled here east from Macedonia; Cassius is bringing his own forces west from Syria. They intend to unite their armies to fight the triumvirate’s legions.

“Stand, ho!” calls Brutus, dismounting.

His second in command turns to shout, “Give the word, ho!—and stand!” As young Lucius leads the horse away to water, the order is passed back from captain to captain to halt the long columns of soldiers. The drum-beat cadences soon stop.

“What now, Lucilius?” asks Brutus. “Is Cassius near?”

“He is at hand.” The officer gestures toward an approaching servant. “And Pindarus is come to do you salutation from his master.”

Cassius’s man reaches them and bows deeply.

“He greets me well,” says Brutus. “Your master, Pindarus—at his own charge, or by ill offices—hath given me some worthy cause to wish things done undone! But if he be at hand I shall be resolvèd ….”

Pindarus is polite. “I do not doubt but that my noble master will appear such as he is: full of regard and honour.”

“He is not doubted,” says Brutus, dismissing the man with a nod. “A word, Lucilius.” He watches as Pindarus bows and returns to the tent, then asks about Cassius. “How he received you, let me be satisfied.”

“With courtesy, and with respect enough,” the officer tells him, “but not with such familiar instances, nor with such free and friendly conference, as he hath used of old.”

“Thou hast described a hot friend cooling. Ever note, Lucilius: when love begins to sicken and decay, it useth an enforcèd ceremony. There are no tricks in plain and simple faith; but hollow men, like horses not at hand”—mounted for battle—“make gallant show and promise of their mettle. Then, when they should endure the bloody spur, they let fall their crests, and, like deceitful jades,”—whores, “sink in the trial!

“Comes his army on?”

“They mean this night in Sardis to be quartered,” Lucilius tells him. “The greater part, the horse soldiers and general troops, are come with Cassius.”

Brutus hears trumpets, and looks toward a nearby pass that opens into the upland hills. “Hark! He is arrived! March gently on to meet him.”

Cassius, leading men who have not deserted him after Caesar’s death, reins in his horse and turns in the saddle. “Stand, ho,” he tells an officer.

“Stand, ho!” calls his lieutenant. “Speak the word along!” Behind him, the command is repeated, heard each time more faintly from farther back through the ranks: “Stand!” “Stand!” “Stand!”

Cassius dismounts, hands the reins to the waiting Pindarus, and comes directly to Brutus. “Most noble brother, you have done me wrong!”

Brutus scoffs. “Judge me, you gods—I wrong mine enemies! But even if not so, why would I wrong a brother?”

Cassius shakes his head angrily. “Brutus, this sober form of yours hides wrongs!—and when you do them—”

“Cassius, be content to speak your griefs softly! I do know you well.

“Before the eyes of both our armies here, which should perceive nothing but love from us, let us not wrangle! Bid them move away; then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs, and I will give you audience.”

Cassius’ pride is smarting—Brutus will grant audience. But he complies. “Pindarus, bid our commanders lead their charges off a little from this ground.”

“Lucius, do you the like,” says Brutus, “and let no man come to our tent till we have done with our conference.

“Let Lucilius and Titinius guard our door.” He pulls back the canvas flap, and leads the other general inside.

assius starts immediately—and hotly. “That you have wronged me doth appear in this: you have noted and condemned Lucius Pella for taking bribes here from the Sardians—while my letters praying on his side, because I knew the man, were slighted off!”

Brutus frowns: “You wronged yourself to write in such a case.”

“In such a time as this,” Cassius insists, “it is not meet that every trivial offence should bear its comment!”

“Let me tell you, Cassius: you yourself are much condemned for having an itching palm—marting and selling your offices for gold to undeservers!”

“I an itching palm!” cries Cassius, indignant. “Know that you are Brutus who speak thus, or, by the gods, this speech were else your last!”

“The name of Cassius honours this corruption,” says Brutus, “and therefore doth chastisement hide its head!”

“Chastisement!”

“Remember March—the ides of March!—remember? Did not great Julius bleed for justice’ sake? What villain touched his body that did not stab for justice?

“What!—shall some of us who struck the foremost man of all this world but for his supporting robbers,”—for appeasing commoners, and thus diminishing patricians’ privilege, “shall we now contaminate our fingers with base bribes, and sell the mighty space of our large honours for so much trash as may be graspèd thus?

“I had rather be a dog, and bay at the moon,” he shouts, “than such a Roman!”

Cassius is livid. “Brutus, bay not at me!—I’ll not endure it! You forget yourself to hedge me in! I am a soldier!—older in practise, abler than yourself to make conditions!”

“Go to! You are not, Cassius!”

“I am!”

“I say you are not!”

“Urge me no more!—I shall forget myself!” warns Cassius angrily. “Have mind upon your health!—tempt me no further!”

“Away, slight man!” mutters Brutus scornfully.

Cassius glares, stunned. “Is’t possible?”

“Hear me, for I will speak!—must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?”

“O ye gods, ye gods! Must I endure all this?”

“All this?” cries Brutus. “Aye!—more!—fret till your proud heart break! Go show your slaves how choleric you are, and make your bondmen tremble! Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch under your testy moods?

“By the gods, you shall digest the venom of your spleen though it do split you! For, from this day forth, I’ll use you for my mirth!—yea, for my laughter!—when you are waspish.”

Cassius is amazed. “Is it come to this?”

Brutus sneers: “You say you are a better soldier: let it appear so!—make your vaunting true, and it shall please me well! For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn from noble men!”

Cassius protests. “You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus! I said an elder soldier, not a ‘better!’ Did I say better?”

“If you did, I care not!”

“When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have angered me!”

“Peace, peace!” cries Brutus. “You durst not so have tempted him!”

“I durst not?”

“No!”

“What, durst not tempt him!”

“For your life you durst not!”

“Do not presume too much upon my love,” Cassius cautions. “I may do that I shall be sorry for!”

“You have done that you should be sorry for! There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, for I am armed so strong in honesty that they pass by me as the idle wind, which I respect not!

“Because I can raise no money by vile means, I did send to you for certain sums of gold—which you denied me! By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, and drip my blood for drachmas, than to wring from the hard hands of peasants their vile trash by indiscretion!

“I did send to you for gold to pay my legions!—which you denied me! Was that done like Cassius? Would I have answered Caius Cassius so?

“When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous as to lock such rascal counters”—fleeting tokens—“from his friends, be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts!—dash him to pieces!”

Cassius scowls. “I denied you not!”

“You did.”

“I did not! He was but a fool that brought my answer back to you!

“Brutus hath riven my heart!—a friend should bear his friend’s… infirmities, but Brutus makes mine greater than they are!”

“I do not—till you practise them on me!”

Cassius looks away, sullen. “You love me not.”

Brutus folds his arms and stares down. “I do not like your faults.”

“A friendly eye could never see such faults!”

“A flatterer’s eye would not—though they do appear as huge as high Olympus!”

Cassius turns piteous. “Come, Antony and young Octavius! Come!—revenge yourselves on Cassius alone! For Cassius is a-weary of the world!—hated by one he loves!—berated by his brother; checked like a bondman! All his faults observed!—set into a note book!—learned and studied by rote to cast into my teeth!

“Oh, I could weep my spirit through mine eyes!

“There is my dagger,” he says, drawing the knife and proffering the haft to Brutus, “and here my naked breast—within, a heart dearer than Plutus’s mine!—richer than gold! If thou be’st a Roman, take it forth!—I who denied thee gold will give my heart!

“Strike as thou didst at Caesar!—for I know when thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better than ever thou lovedst Cassius!”

But Brutus, suddenly exhausted, turns away. “Sheathe your dagger. Be angry when you will; it shall have scope; do what you will, dishonour shall be ‘humour’”—be regarded as but a passing mood. “Oh, Cassius, you are yokèd with a lamb that carries anger as the flint bears fire—only much enforcèd shows a hasty spark, then straight is cold again.”

The older man regards him sadly. “Hath Cassius lived to be to his Brutus but mirth and laughter, when grief and blood ill-tempered are vexing him?”

Brutus closes his eyes for a moment, and sighs deeply. “When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered,” he says quietly.

“Do you confess so much?” Cassius is moved. “Give me your hand!”

Brutus grasps his warmly. “And my heart, too!”

Cassius looks pained. “Oh, Brutus…”

“What’s the matter?”

“Have you not love enough to bear with me, when that rashness which my mother gave me makes me forgetful?”

Brutus smiles. “Yes, Cassius—and, from hence forth, when you are over-earnest with your Brutus, he’ll think your mother chides, and so give you leave.”

They hear a disturbance outside the tent—a gravelly, entreating voice: “Let me go in to see the generals! There is some grudge between ’em—’tis not meet they be alone!”

They hear Lucilius: “You shall not come to them.”

“Nothing but death shall stay me!” is the reply—and suddenly the speaker bursts through the flaps of the tent, followed by Lucilius and Titinius—both dismayed—and young Lucius.

“How now! What’s the matter?” demands Cassius.

“For shame, you generals!” cries the ragged man—unarmed, a poor, aging civilian. “What do you mean?” He tilts his head to one side and clasps his hands together in a gesture intended to suggest harmony. “Love, and be friends, as two such men should be!—for I have seen more years, I’m sure, than ye!’” he says, watching them hopefully.

Cassius surprises the others by laughing: “How vilely doth this cynic rhyme!”

But the ancient’s plea only annoys proud Brutus. “Get you hence, sirrah!—saucy fellow, hence!”

“Bear with him, Brutus; ’tis his fashion.”

“I’ll know his humour when he knows his time! What should the warriors do with these jigging fools?” He waves the younger troops’ wizened follower away. “Companion, hence!”

“Away, away,” laughs Cassius, “be gone.”

“Lucilius and Titinius,” says Brutus, as they seize the intruder’s arms, “bid the commanders prepare to lodge their companies tonight.”

Adds Cassius, “And come yourselves and bring Messala with you immediately to us.”

The officers nod as they haul away the would-be peacemaker.

“Lucius, a bowl of wine,” says Brutus. The boy bows and goes to fetch it.

assius tells Brutus sheepishly. “I did not think you could have been so angry….”

“Oh, Cassius, I am sick with many griefs.”

“Of your philosophy you make no use, if you give place to accidental evils.”

Brutus frowns. “No man bears sorrow better.” He looks down, then regards his friend sadly. “Portia is dead.”

“Portia!”

“She is dead.”

Cassius stares. “How ’scaped I killing when I crossed you so? Oh, insupportable and touching loss!

“Upon what sickness?”

Brutus sinks onto a bench by the table before answering. “Grievèd at my absence, and impatient that young Octavius and Mark Antony have made themselves so strong—for with word of her death those tidings came. With that she fell into delirium, and, her attendants absent, swallowed fire.”

Cassius stands aghast. “And died so?”

“Even so.”

“O ye immortal gods!”

“Speak no more of her.” Brutus tells the returning boy gruffly, “Give me a bowl of wine.” The sun is setting, and the tent grows dim as Lucius brings wine and cups, and sets a lighted taper on the table. “In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius.”

Cassius sits across from him. “My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge! Fill, Lucius, till the wine o’erswell the cup; I cannot drink too much of Brutus’s love!”

Lucius pours for them, then goes back outside to sit with the soldiers by the fire.

Brutus sees Cassius’s lieutenant at the tent opening. “Come in, Titinius.” With him is one of Brutus’s own chief commanders. “Welcome, good Messala. Now sit we close about this taper here, and call in question our necessities.”

Cassius is shaking his head sadly. “Portia, art thou gone?” he murmurs.

“No more, I pray you,” says Brutus. As the officers seat themselves, he begins. “Messala, I have here receivèd letters that young Octavius and Mark Antony come down upon us with a mighty power, bending their expedition toward Philippi.”

Marcus Valerius Messala nods. “Myself have letters of the selfsame tenor.”

“With what addition?”

“That by proscription and bills of outlawry, Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus have put to death an hundred senators!” Under Julius Caesar’s governance nine hundred senators were in office.

“Therein our letters do not well agree; mine speak of seventy senators that died by their proscriptions—Cicero being one.”

Cassius is startled. “Cicero one!”

“Cicero is dead, and that by order of proscription,” Messala confirms. He looks at Brutus. “Had you your letters from your wife, my lord?”

“No, Messala.”

“Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?”

“Nothing, Messala.”

“That, methinks, is strange….”

Brutus wants to know what is being said in Rome. “Why ask you? Hear you aught of her in yours?”

Messala looks down. “No, my lord.”

“Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true!”

Messala faces his general sadly. “Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell: for certain she is dead, and by strange manner.”

The general seems stoical to his officer. “Why, farewell, Portia,” he says. “We must die, Messala. Having meditated, once, that she must die, I have the patience to endure it now.”

His lieutenant nods. “Even so. Great men should endure great losses.”

Cassius admires Brutus’s military demeanor; he, too, has schooled himself in calm acceptance. “I have as much of this in art as you, but yet my nature could not bear it so.”

“Well, to our work, we alive,” says Brutus briskly. “What do you think of marching to Philippi immediately?”

“I do not think it good,” Cassius tells him.

“Your reason?”

“This it is: ’tis better that the enemy seek us—thus shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers, doing himself offence whilst we, lying still, are full of rest, defense, and nimbleness.”

“Good reasons,” says Brutus, “must, of force, give place to better. The people ’twixt Philippi and this ground do stand but in a forcèd affection, for they have begrudged us contribution. The enemy, marching along past them, from them shall make a fuller number up, come on refreshed, new-added, and encouraged—from which advantage shall we cut him off if at Philippi we do face him—there with these people at our backs.”

“Hear me, good brother—” Cassius begins.

The younger general interrupts. “Under your pardon: you must note, beside, that we have tried our friends to the utmost, our legions are brim full, our cause is ripe! The enemy increaseth every day; we, at the height, are ready to decline.

“There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads them on to fortune!—omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat—and we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures!”

Cassius, more experienced and hardly convinced, nevertheless yields. “Then with your will go on. We’ll along ourselves, and meet them at Philippi.”

“The deep of night is crept upon our talk, and nature must obey necessity; which we will niggard with a little rest,” says Brutus. “There is no more to say.”

“No more,” nods Cassius; he and the others stand. “Good night. Early tomorrow will we rise, and hence!”

Brutus calls: “Lucius!” The boy comes in. “My robe.

“Farewell, good Messala. Good night, Titinius. Noble, noble Cassius, good night, and good repose!”

“Oh, my dear brother,” says Cassius, “that was an ill beginning of the night! Never come such division ’tween our souls! Let it not, Brutus!”

Brutus clasps an arm around his shoulders. “Everything is well.”

Cassius heads out. “Good night, my lord.”

“Good night, good brother!”

The other men bow. “Good night, Lord Brutus,” says Titinius, as he and Messala leave.

“Farewell, every one!”

Brutus is satisfied; he will be in command.

Chapter Seven

Confrontations

ive me the robe,” says Brutus, very tired, as Lucius returns. Brutus craves soothing music. “Where is thy instrument?”

“Here in the tent,” says the boy, yawning.

“What, thou speak’st drowsily! Poor knave, I blame thee not; thou art overly on watch.” He thinks for a moment. “Call Claudio and some other of my men. I’ll have them sleep on the cushions in my tent.”

Opening the flap, Lucius tells the sentry, “Varrus and Claudio.”

The officers arrive as Brutus finishes changing. “Calls my lord?” asks Varrus.

“I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent and sleep; it may be I shall raise you by and by, on business to my brother Cassius.”

“So please you, we will stand, and watch at your pleasure.”

“I will not have it so,” Brutus says kindly. “Lie down, good sirs; it may be I shall otherwise bethink me.” Varrus and Claudio accept blankets from the servant, and lie at one side of the tent.

“Look, Lucius—here’s the book I sought for so! I had put it in the pocket of my robe.”

“I was sure Your Lordship did not give it me.”

“Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful. Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile, and touch thy instrument a strain or two?”

“Aye, my lord, an’t please you.”

“It does, my boy. I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing.”

“It is my duty, sir.”

“I should not urge thy duty past thy might; I know young bloods look for a time of rest….”

“I have slept, my lord, already,” Lucius lies, unpacking his cittern.

Brutus smiles. “It was well done—and thou shalt sleep again; I will not hold thee long. If I do live, I will be good to thee.” Lucius plays softly. Brutus yawns. “This is a sleepy tune.” After a moment the music becomes slower, softer—and stops; the lad has fallen asleep.

O murderous Slumber, lay’st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy, who plays thee music? thinks Brutus.

Gentle knave, good night; I will not do thee so much wrong as to wake thee. If thou dost nod, thou break’st thy instrument; I’ll take it from thee—and, good boy, good night!

He sets the cittern aside and opens the book. Let me see, let me see… is not the leaf turned down where I left reading? Here it is, I think.

He moves to the table. How ill this taper burns!… Startled, he looks up—and drops the book; a hazy figure is hovering before him—and now it moves closer.

Who comes here? I think it is the weakness of mine eyes that shapes this monstrous apparition! It comes upon me!… “Art thou any thing?—art thou some god, some angel?—or some devil, that makest my blood cold, and my hair to stand! Speak to me what thou art!”

The ghastly image of Julius Caesar stares. “Thy evil spirit, Brutus!” it utters.

His gaping assassin swallows. “Why comest thou?”

“To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi!”

Brutus struggles to comprehend. “Well… then I shall see thee again?”

“Aye!” says the deep, sepulchral voice. “At Philippi.”

Brutus backs away, unnerved. “Why… I will see thee at Philippi, then…”

As the general watches, the vision dissolves away. He looks around—and thinks of the coming battle. Now that I have taken heart thou vanishest, ill spirit! I would hold more talk with thee…

“Boy, Lucius! Varrus! Claudio!” he cries. “Sirs, awake! Claudio!”

“The strings, my lord, are false!” mumbles Lucius.

He thinks he still is at his instrument, Brutus realizes. “Lucius, awake!”

The boy sits up and rubs his eyes. “My lord?”

“Didst thou dream, Lucius, that thou so criedst out?”

“My lord, I do not know that I did cry….”

“Yes, that thou didst! Didst thou see… anything?”

“Nothing, my lord.”

Brutus pats his shoulder. “Sleep again, Lucius. Sirrah, Claudio!” He kneels and jars Varrus’s foot. “Fellow, thou—awake!”

“My lord?”

Claudio wakes up, too. “My lord?”

“Why did you so cry out, sirs, in your sleep?”

“Did we, my lord?” asks Claudio.

“Aye! Saw you anything?”

“No, my lord,” Varrus tells him, “I saw nothing.”

“Nor I, my lord.”

As the soldiers rise and glance at each other, waiting, Brutus ponders. He decides: he will push forward to Philippi—but prudently. He stands. “Go and commend me to my brother Cassius. Bid him set on his powers betimes before, and we will follow.”

“It shall be done, my lord,” says Varrus. He and Claudio bow, and they go to arrange for the armies’ sunrise departure.

hree leagues north of the Aegean in the Roman province of Macedonia lies the city of Philippi, built three centuries ago by Phillip II, father of Alexander the Great. On the plain west of the city, Mark Antony and Octavius Caesar have readied their legions for imminent warfare.

Close by, they know, are the forces of Cassius and Brutus.

“Now, Antony, our hopes are answered!” says Octavius. “You said the enemy would not come down, but keep to the hills and upper regions; it proves not so: their armies are at hand!—they mean to warm us at Philippi, here answering before we do demand of them!”

Antony, shifting in the saddle, scoffs: “I am in their bosoms, and I know wherefore they do it. They should be content to visit at other places, but come now with a fearful bravery, thinking by this face to fasten in our thoughts that they have courage. But ’tis not so!”

One of their scouts rides back at a gallop, dismounts; and hurries to look up at the triumvirs. “Prepare you, generals! The enemy comes on in gallant show!—their bloody sign of battle is hung out, and something is to be done immediately!”

Says Antony, “Octavius, lead your army softly on, upon the left hand of the even field.”

“Upon the right hand I; keep thou the left.”

Antony is annoyed: “Why do you cross me in this exigent?”

“I am not crossing you,” the confident younger man retorts, “but I will do as I said.”

And now they watch as the forces of Cassius and Brutus march steadily forward. Drums pound out a steady pace for their combined troops, following Titinius, Messala and Lucilius.

—

Brutus, eyes fixed on the two triumvirs, points. “They stand, and would have parley.”

Cassius turns in the saddle. “Stand fast, Titinius; we must out and talk.”

—

“Mark Antony, shall we give sign of battle?”

“No, Caesar, we will respond to their charge. Make fast,” he says, adding with contempt, “the generals would have some words.”

Octavius issues the order for their troops. “Stir not until the signal.”

They ride forward to meet the rebellious Romans.

—

Four angry men meet between the poised pairs of armies.

“Words before blows!” chides Brutus, based on his reading of the triumvirs’ waiting. “Is it so, countrymen?”

“Not that we love words better—as you do!” retorts young Caesar.

“Good words are better than bad strokes, Octavius.”

Antony sneers: “You give good words with your bad strokes, Brutus!—witness the hole you made in Caesar’s heart, crying ‘Hail! Long live Caesar!’”

Cassius replies in kind, remembering the handshakes and subsequent oratory. “Antony, the power of your blows is yet unknown—but as for your words, they rob the Hybla bees and leave them honeyless!”

“But not stingless,” warns Antony.

“Oh, yes!—and soundless too,” Brutus counters, “for you have stolen their buzzing, Antony, and very wisely threaten before you sting!”

“Villains!” cries Antony, “you did not so when your vile daggers hacked one another within the sides of Caesar! You showed your teeth like apes, and fawned like hounds, and bowed like bondmen—kissing Caesar’s feet whilst damnèd Caska, like a cur, from behind struck Caesar on the neck! Oh, you flatterers!”

Cassius turns to his partner. “Now, Brutus, thank yourself!—this tongue had not offended us today, if Cassius might have ruled!”—and killed Antony too.

Octavius is impatient. “Come, come—to the cause! If arguing it make us sweat, the proof of it will turn to redder drops!

“Look! I draw a sword against conspirators!” he declares, pointing it at them. “When think you that this sword goes back again?

“Never,” he cries, “till Caesar’s three-and-thirty wounds be well avenged!—or till another Caesar have added slaughter to the swords of traitors!”

Brutus feels no allegiance to Octavius. “Caesar, thou canst not die by traitors’ hands unless thou bring’st them with thee!”

“So I hope,” says Octavius. “I was not born to die on Brutus’s sword!”

“Oh, if thou wert the noblest of thy strain, young man, thou couldst not die more honourably!” says Brutus.

Cassius gestures contemptuously toward Octavius. “A peevish schoolboy, worthless of such honour—joined with a masker and a reveller!”

Antony laughs; the younger man has again sunk to sneering. “Old Cassius still!”

“Come, Antony, away.” says Octavius.

The generals all return to their respective legions.

“Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth!” calls Octavius. “If you dare fight, come today to the field!—if not, when you have the stomachs!”

assius sounds exuberant, eager for action. “Why, now blow, wind, swell, billow—and swim, lark!—the storm is up, and all is on the hazard!”

But Brutus is pensive; he turns away, and motions to one of the troops’ commanders. “Ho, Lucilius!—hark, a word with you.”

“My lord?” says Lucilius. They speak together, quietly and urgently, reviewing the armies’ organization for battle.

Cassius summons Brutus’s lieutenant. “Messala.”

“What says my general?”

“Messala, this is my birthday—on this very day was Cassius born,” he says solemnly; he has experienced an unpleasant epiphany. “Give me thy hand, Messala—be thou my witness that against my will I am compelled, as was Pompey, to set all our liberties upon one battle!”

They shake hands, and Cassius explains. “You know that I held Epicurus to be strong in his opinion; now I change my mind, and partly credit things that do presage.

“While we came from Sardis with our former ensign,”—Rome’s banner, hung from the crossbar on a pole, “two mighty eagles alighted over it, and there they perched, gorging and feeding from the hands of our soldiers who to Philippi, here, consorted us.

“This morning are they fled away and gone—and in their steads do ravens, crows and hawks fly o’er our heads, and downward look on us as if we were sickly prey! Their shadows seem a canopy most fatal, under which our army lies, ready to give up the ghost!”

Messala frowns. “Believe not so!”

“I believe it only partly—for I am fresh of spirit, and resolved to meet all perils very constantly.”

Brutus, his conference done, turns back, nodding. “Even so, Lucilius.” The commander goes to array the troops.

“Now, most noble Brutus,” says Cassius, “the gods today stand friendly, so that we may lead our days on to age, as friends at peace!

“But since the affairs of men rest ever incertain, let’s reason with the worst that may befall. If we do lose this battle, this is the very last time we shall speak together. What, then, have you determined to do?”

Brutus answers: “I go now but by the rule of that philosophy by which I did blame Cato for the death which he did give himself.” Two years before, Marcus Porcius Cato, sternly stoical, righteous and rigid, had killed himself after defeat in battle, rather than fall prisoner to Julius Caesar. “I do find it cowardly and vile so to prevent the full time of life for fear of what might befall.”

And Brutus remembers the death of his proud but brittle wife—Cato’s daughter, choked with searing embers. “I arm myself with patience, to await the providence of some high powers that govern us here below.”

Cassius challenges that resolve: “Then, if we lose this battle, you are contented to be led in triumph”—as a shackled captive—“thorough the streets of Rome?”

“No, Cassius, no!—think not, thou noble Roman, that ever Brutus will go bound to Rome! He bears too great a mind!

“But this same day must end that work the ides of March began; and whether we shall meet again I know not. Therefore our everlasting farewell take: for ever, and forever, fare well, Cassius! If we do meet again, why, we shall smile; if not, why then this parting was well made.”

Cassius grips his hand firmly. “For ever and forever, farewell, Brutus! If we do meet again, we’ll smile indeed! If not, ’tis true this parting was well made!”

“Why, then, lead on,” says Brutus. “Oh, that a man might know the end of his day’s business ere it come! But it sufficeth that the day will end—and then the end is known.

“Come, ho! Away!”

Chapter Eight

At Philippi

he battle is joined. Riding high, standing on stirrups, the Roman cavalry, with swords slashing and pounding hooves trampling, charge through and among the lines of Roman infantry, as they stand fighting each other on foot. Behind shields of hide-covered wood, otherwise protected only by straps of leather, the helmeted warriors all combat valiantly with spear and sword, then viciously with daggers, then wearily, with bloody fists and boots.

Amid the horrors—the sights, sounds and smells of carnage—all seek glory, and few expect to die. Few find glory, but thousands do die.

Brutus suddenly hails an officer. “Ride, ride, Messala! Ride, and take these halberds”—troops with the tall axes—“unto the legions on the other side!

“Let them set on at once,” cries Brutus, “for I perceive but cold demeanor in Octavius’ wing—and a sudden push gives them the overthrow!

“Ride, ride, Messala!” he shouts, as a clamor rises nearby: angry shouting and the sharp clanking of steel against steel. “Let them all come down!”

assius watches angrily as his soldiers run in retreat from Antony’s forces, now advancing to surround. “Look, Titinius, look!—the villains fly!” he cries, disgusted, tipping up again the staff displaying his colors. “Myself have to mine own turned enemy!—this ensign of mine here was turning back! I slew the coward,” he says, kicking the dead man lying at his feet, “and did take it from him!” He thrusts the pole’s pointed base into the soil.

Titinius reports, alarmed: “Oh, Cassius, Brutus, having some advantage on Octavius, took it too eagerly!—he gave the word too early!” he wails. “His soldiers fall to spoil,”—are despoiling the slain, “whilst we by Antony are all enclosed!”

Pindarus, running up to Cassius, motions for him to go. “Fly further off, my lord, fly further off!” the servant urges, gasping for breath. “Mark Antony is in your tents, my lord! Fly, therefore, noble Cassius, fly far off!”

Cassius fumes. “This hill is far enough!” But he points eastward. “Look, look, Titinius!—are those my tents where I perceive the fire?”

“They are, my lord!”

Cassius spots a distant contingent of cavalry approaching. “Titinius, if thou lovest me, mount thou my horse, and hide thy spurs in him till he have brought thee up to yonder troops, then here again, that I may rest assurèd whether yond troops are friend or enemy!”

Titinius runs to the roan steed. “I will be here again even with a thought!” he cries, and rides away at a gallop.

“Go, Pindarus, get higher on that hill,” Cassius orders his attendant. “My sight was ever thick! Regard Titinius, and tell me what thou notest around the field!”

He watches the man hasten up the rise. This day I breathèd first; time is come round, and where I did begin, there shall I end; my life has run its compass. “Sirrah, what news?” he calls.

“Oh, my lord!”

“What news?”

“Titinius is enclosèd round about with horsemen that make to him on the spur!”—are chasing after. “Yet he spurs on! Now they are almost on him. On, Titinius! … Now some of them alight”—dismount. “Oh, he alights too!—he’s taken!

“And, hark!—they shout for joy….”

Cassius—overruled, surrounded, his chief lieutenant lost—despairs. “Come down,” he tells Pindarus, defeated. “Behold no more.”

Oh, coward!—that I am, to live so long!—to see my best friend ta’en before my face!

“Come hither, sirrah,” he says, as Pindarus returns. “In Parthia did I take thee prisoner, and spared thy life; then swore thou that whatsoever I did bid thee do, thou shouldst attempt it.

“Come now, keep thine oath! Now be a free man,” he says, unsheathing his weapon, “and with this good sword that ran through Caesar’s bowels, search this bosom!”

He raises a palm, barring protest. “Stand not to answer—here, take thou the hilts! And, when my face is covered,”—he puts a hand over his eyes, “as ’tis now, guide thou the sword!”

Pindarus is dismayed, but loyal; honoring his pledge, he runs the steel blade into his master.

Cassius staggers down, smiling grimly. “Caesar, thou art revenged,” he groans, “even with the sword that killed thee.” On his knees, he retches, blood gushing from his mouth; he falls forward, dead.

Thinks Pindarus, So I am free. Yet I would not have been so, durst I have done my will! Oh, Cassius, far from this country Pindarus shall run, where never Roman shall take note of him!

He hurries away south, toward the seacoast, fishing villages—and liberty.

—

Accompanied by the friendly soldiers who hailed him as he headed back—Messala and cavalry troops from Brutus’s army—Titinius rides on to report to Cassius.

“It is but exchange,” Messala tells him, as they dismount, “for Octavius is overthrown by noble Brutus’s power just as Cassius’ legions are by Antony’s!”

“These tidings will well comfort Cassius!”

“Where did you leave him?”

“All disconsolate, with Pindarus his bondman, on this hill.”

Messala stops. “Is not that he that lies upon the ground?”

Titinius runs ahead. “He lies not like the living! Oh, my heart!”

“Is not this he?” asks Messala, as they reach the body.

“No, this was he, Messala; but Cassius is no more!

“O setting sun,” moans Titinius, “as in thy red rays thou dost sink tonight, so in his red blood Cassius’ day is set!—the sun of Rome is set! Our day is gone; clouds, dews, and dangers come; our deeds are done!

“Doubt of my success hath done this deed!” he sobs.

Messala shakes his head. “Mistrust of good success hath done this deed. O hateful error, melancholy’s child, why dost thou show to the ready thoughts of men the things that are not? O error, soon conceivèd, thou never comest unto a happy birth, but kill’st the mother that engendered thee!”

“What?—Pindarus!” calls Titinius. “Where art thou, Pindarus?”

“Seek him, Titinius, whilst I go to meet the noble Brutus, to thrust this report into his ears,” says Messala. “I say thrust it, for piercing steel and darts envenomed shall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus as tidings of this sight!”

Titinius nods. “Hie you, Messala, and I will seek for Pindarus the while.”

As the other officer rides away, Titinius turns the body, grips the fatal sword and pulls it free, then throws it down. He kneels beside his friend, tears flowing.

Why didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius? Did I not meet thy friends? And did not they put on my brows this wreath of victory, and bid me give it thee? Didst thou not hear their shouts? Alas, thou hast misconstruèd everything!

He lifts off the dead man’s helmet, and closes the eyes. He removes the circlet from his own head. But, hold thee; take this garland on thy brow. Gently, he places the glossy green leaves. Thy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I will do his bidding.

Brutus, come apace, and see how I regarded Caius Cassius!

“By your leave, gods—this is a Roman’s part!” he cries. Come, Cassius’ sword, and find Titinius’ heart! He tugs off his breastplate, positions the wet weapon’s hilts on the ground, and sets its point against his chest. He heaves himself forward—and shudders, grasping feebly at the blade as it runs with red.

He falls beside Cassius, eyes open but unseeing.

—

As brutal combat continues among Romans, Messala returns, bringing Brutus and four of his men.

Brutus is grief-stricken. “Where?—where, Messala, doth his body lie?”

“Lo, yonder; and Titinius mourning it.”

“Titinius’ face is upward,” Brutus sees, as they approach.

“He is slain!” cries Cato—Portia’s brother, now serving in her husband’s army.

Brutus stands beside the bodies. “Oh, Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet! Thy spirit walks abroad and turns our swords in our own proper entrails!”

Cato points to the wreath. “Brave Titinius! Look, whether he have not crownèd dead Cassius!”

Brutus holds back tears. “Are yet two Romans living such as these? The last of all the Romans, fare thee well! It is impossible that ever Rome should breed thy fellows!”

They are disturbed by strident sounds of fighting that is approaching nearby. “Friends, I owe more tears to this dead man than you shall see me pay.” He leans down, and gently straightens the laurel leaves. “I shall find time, Cassius,” he whispers, “I shall find time.”

Brutus rises. “Come, therefore, and to Thasos send his body. His funeral shall not be in our camp, lest it discompose us.

“Lucilius, come; and come, young Cato—let us to the field! Labeo and Flavius, set our forces on! ’Tis three in the afternoon—and, Romans, yet ere night we shall try Fortune in a second fight!”

—

Into desperate battle, Brutus leads his troops forward against Antony’s array of ranked centurion. “Yet, countrymen, oh yet hold up your heads!”

The fiery Cato challenges the others: “What bastard doth not? Who will go with me? I will proclaim my name about the field!—I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho!” He dashes ahead to meet the enemy, now hurtling toward them. “A foe to tyrants, and my country’s friend!—I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho!”

“And I am Brutus—Marcus Brutus, I!” He engages a heavy foot soldier, one wielding a bloody sword. “Brutus!—my country’s friend!—know me for Brutus!”

With a slash of his blade, Lucilius dispatches a wounded enemy. Then, moving forward, he sees another fallen man, and kneels. “O young and noble Cato, art thou down? Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titinius!—and mayst be honoured, being Cato’s son!”

But as Lucilius rises he find himself surrounded by swords’ points.

“Yield, or thou diest!” growls a soldier—one of four.

“I only yield dying!” cries Lucilius, swinging his own sword. There is so much that thou wilt kill me straight! “Kill Brutus!—and be honoured in his death!”

The soldiers gape—and let their captive live. “We must not!—a noble prisoner!”

“Room, ho!” cries a corporal, “Tell Antony Brutus is taken!” He looks around. “I’ll tell the news!—here comes the general!

“Brutus is ta’en, Brutus is ta’en, my lord!” the soldier tells Antony.

“Where is he?”

Lucilius laughs. “Safe, Antony—Brutus is secure enough! I dare assure thee that no enemy shall ever take alive the noble Brutus!—the gods defend him from so great a shame! When you do find him, alive or dead he will be found like Brutus—like himself!”

“This is not Brutus, friend,” Antony tells the corporal dryly. “But, I assure you, a prize no less in worth! Keep this man safe; give him all kindness. I had rather have such men my friends than enemies.

“Go on, and see whether Brutus be alive or dead.

“And bring us word unto Octavius’ tent how everything is chancèd.”

ight has fallen upon the wide plain near Philippi. A weary voice grates in the near-darkness. “Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock,” Brutus tells his companions, as they stumble away from the field of battle.

Clitus looks back to where their last scout was sent. “Statilius showed the torch-light; but, my lord, he came not back. He is or ta’en or slain.”

Brutus nods. “Sit thee down, Clitus. Slaying is the word,” he mutters sourly, “it is the deed in fashion.

“Hark thee, Clitus.” He leans toward the lieutenant and whispers.

“What, I, my lord?” asks Clitus. “No, not for all the world!”

“Peace, then!—no words,” Brutus tells him.

Clitus stares. “I’ll rather kill myself!”

“Hark thee, Dardanius,” says Brutus, and again he speaks softly.

The officer is stunned. “Shall I do such a deed?” Clearly, he will not.

Brutus walks slowly away from the rocks, and stands alone.

Dardanius and Clitus confer, alarmed. “What ill request did Brutus make to thee?”

“To kill him, Clitus!” Dardanius nods toward the general. “Look, he meditates.”

“Now is that noble vessel so full of grief that it runs over even at his eyes!”

Brutus looks back, tearfully regarding his exhausted warriors. He motions to a captain. “Come hither, good Volumnius; list to a word….”

“What says my lord?”

“Why, this, Volumnius: the ghost of Caesar hath appeared to me two several times by night—at Sardis once, and, this last night here in Philippi fields.

“I know my hour is come,” he says, drained.

“Not so, my lord!” protests his old friend.

“Nay, I am sure it is, Volumnius.” They hear the familiar sounds—the clash and cry of fierce fighting coming nearer. “Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes; our enemies have beaten us unto the pit!”—driven them to the grave. “It is more worthy to leap in ourselves than tarry till they push us.

“Good Volumnius, thou know’st that we two went to school together; even for that, our love of old, I prithee, hold thou my sword’s hilts, whilst I run on it.”

“That’s not an office for a friend, my lord!”

The sound of fighting grows louder. Clitus runs to them. “Fly, fly, my lord!—there is no tarrying here!”

Brutus waves the others away. “Farewell to you; and you—and you, Volumnius.”

He smiles at a servant lying on the turf by the rock. “Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep! Farewell to thee, too, Strato.

“Countrymen, my heart doth joy that yet in all my life I found no man but he was true to me. I shall have glory from this losing day!—more than Octavius and Mark Antony by this vile conquest shall attain unto.

“So fare you well at once; for Brutus’ tongue hath almost ended his life’s history. Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones, that have laboured but to attain this hour, would rest.”

The clash is almost upon them, and the men run from it, crying, “Fly, fly, fly!”

“Fly, my lord,” Clitus calls back, “fly!”

“Hence,” murmurs Brutus. “I will follow.” The others are gone—except for one, just now waking up.

“I prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord. Thou art a fellow of a good respect; thy life hath had some smack of honour in it,” says Brutus wryly. “Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face while I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato?”

The servant nods, tearfully. “Give me your hand first! Fare you well, my lord!” He kneels and positions the blade.

“Farewell, good Strato.” Brutus removes his breastplate, and hurls himself forward; he is pierced through the middle.

“Caesar, now be still,” he gasps. “I killèd thee with not half so good a will!” He reels back and falls. Soon he is dead.

Strato weeps, unable to rise as the fighting move closer.

A distant horn calls for retreat.

ctavius and Antony, leading the triumvirate’s victorious forces to their encampment, come upon a desolate place where a lone soldier mourns one fallen. “What man is that?” asks Octavius.

Messala, his hands tied before him, answers. “My master’s man. Strato, where is thy master?”

“Free from the bondage you are in, Messala!” sobs Strato angrily. “The conquerors can but make a fire of him—for only Brutus overcame himself, and no man else hath honour by his death!”

Lucilius, also a prisoner, regards the dead man’s face. “So Brutus should be found! I thank thee, Brutus, that thou hast proved Lucilius’ saying true!”

Octavius is magnanimous: “All that servèd Brutus, I will entertain them”—accept their return to the loyal legions; civil war has too long disrupted Rome. “Fellow, wilt thou bestow thy time with me?”

Strato looks up, both relieved and defiant. “Aye—if Messala will prefer me to you.”

Octavius looks at him. “Do so, good Messala.”

The nobleman asks, “How died my master, Strato?”

“I held the sword, and he did run on it.”

Messala nods, tears in his eyes. “Then, Octavius, take him who did the latest service to my master to follow thee.”

Antony stares down at Brutus. “This was the noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators, save only he, did what they did in envy of great Caesar. He, only in a general, honest thought, and for common good to all, made one of them.

“His life was gentle, and the elements so mixed in him that Nature might stand up and say to all the world, ‘This was a man!’”

Octavius signals his officers. “According to his virtue let us use him, with all respect and rites of burial.

“Within my tent his bones tonight shall lie, most like a soldier, ordered honourably.

“So call the field to rest; and let’s away, to part the glories of this day!”

The Brain Sense - The Science of The Senses

2011-02-18T00:20:00.000+05:30

CHAPTER 4

Pain and the Placebo Effect

It’s tempting to think that our senses provide us with an accurate representation
of the external and internal environment. We believe that our eyes pro -
ject into our brains a perfect three-dimensional video recording of the objects
and events around us. It’s easy to surmise that our ears detect and transmit all incoming
sound waves with sound-studio clarity, and that our mouths, noses, and
fingertips provide us with all the evidence we need to draw indisputable conclusions
about tastes, odors, and textures.
We are kidding ourselves. Our senses respond to only a fraction of what’s out
there, and they respond in ways so malleable and idiosyncratic as to call into
question the whole concept of truth. Consider the legendary unreliability of eyewitness
accounts. In a recent study, Canadian researchers showed a video clip of
a movie action sequence to eighty-eight undergraduates who then discussed what
they had seen either with one or with several of their peers. In the debriefing sessions,
a researcher, posing as a peer, deliberately introduced misinformation into
the discussion. Later, on true-false tests of facts about the movie scene, participants
in the one-on-one condition accepted the impostor’s false suggestions 68
percent of the time; participants in the larger groups were taken in 49 percent of
the time.Perhaps our eyes, ears, and memories can be fooled, you may think, but internal
pain is different. We know where we hurt, how much we hurt, and how
we feel when the pain increases, diminishes, or disappears. Pain is a very personal
and intimate sense, and there is no sidestepping it, denying it, or talking your
way out of it. You know when you hurt!
Or do you?

THE PLACEBO EFFECT

Let’s do a thought experiment. Round up three hundred harried commuters
with headaches—not hard to do on the New York subway any workday rush hour.
Of course, they are shouting and whining strident protests, which only worsen
their headaches, which is precisely what you want. You reassure them that you’ll
get their names mentioned in the New York Times in recognition of their public
service (you can’t afford to pay them), and that settles them down long enough
for you to herd them into three soundproof rooms, one hundred headaches per
room.
Now the fun begins. You do nothing with the first one hundred. They get to
glare at one another Big-Apple-style and ruminate on their throbbing temples.
You make an eloquent speech to the second group, informing them that they are
the lucky recipients of a newly developed and powerful painkilling miracle drug.
(It’s actually aspirin with codeine, a proven pain reliever.) Then you leave them,
too, alone with each other and their pain, contemplating their lawsuits against
you. You make the same speech to the third one hundred, but you are lying to
them. They think you are giving them a pain-relieving drug. In truth, they get a
sugar pill.
After a half hour, you ask your three hundred captives to report on their head -
aches. In the “do nothing” group, twenty say their headaches are gone. Eighty
are still suffering. In the second group, ninety report the complete disappearance
of pain; that drug is certainly a miracle potion, the people say, and they wonder
where they can purchase it. In the third group, the ones you deceived, forty-five
still have headaches, but fifty-five do not. That pill did the trick, they say, happily
reboarding the subway pain-free. Your experiment was a success and you are off
the hook, unless one of your subjects is a liability lawyer.
But forget the legal ramifications for now. Look at what the experiment revealed.
A sugar pill has no physiological action that will cure a headache, but
thirty-five of your headache-free subjects in the third group provide evidence to
the contrary. (Why thirty-five and not fifty-five? Because the results from the first
group, the “do nothing” group, show headache pain will cease in 20 percent of
your subjects after a half-hour regardless.) Thus, for 35 percent of the subjects
in our thought experiment, the sugar pill was just as much a miracle drug as
the painkiller the members of the “real drug” group received. This “cure” in the
absence of any truly therapeutic agent is the placebo effect, and it’s more than a
curiosity. It’s a direct result of brain action. But how?
Before we answer that question, we need to define precisely what the placebo
effect is. It is not spontaneous remission. That’s what the twenty people in the
first group (and presumably twenty more in each of the other two groups as well)
experienced. Some of us, no matter what the disease, get better for unknown reasons.
The disease process simply reverses itself without any intervention. Whether
remission is mere chance or the result of some self-healing process remains anybody’s
guess.
Neither is the placebo effect deception or self-delusion. The people whose
headaches disappear after ingestion of the sugar pill are not lying, cheating, simple-
minded, or insane. Their pain disappears—and not because they consciously
wish it to. In study after study, where both subjects and experimenters are “blind”
to the experimental conditions—that is, no one, including the researchers, knows
who is getting the placebo—measurable, clinically replicable improvements in
disease conditions occur in a sizable fraction of all cases.
Furthermore, the placebo effect is no small or insignificant statistical aberration.
Researchers at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston performed some
mathematical magic to combine the results of nineteen separate studies (conducted
between 1970 and 2006) on patients with irritable bowel syndrome. Across
all studies, the placebo response averaged nearly 43 percent, ranging from a low
of 15 percent to a high of 72 percent. The longer the period of treatment and the
larger the number of physician visits, the greater the placebo effect.
Finally, the placebo effect is not restricted to subjective self-reports of pain,
mood, or attitude. Physical changes are real. Working under a grant from the
National Institutes of Health, a multistate team of researchers tested fifty-five
asthma patients who had recurrent mild to moderate symptoms. Patients were
randomly assigned either to treatment (salmeterol) or to placebo groups, and all
participants were blind to the test; neither the patients nor their doctors knew
who was getting the placebo and who was getting the drug. The researchers assessed
not the patients’ self-reports of symptoms, but the degree of constriction
in their bronchial tubes. A one-dose trial showed the placebo effect in more than
half the patients. A stringent two-dose trial narrowed the field to 18 percent of
subjects who were unequivocal placebo responders. Five of the subjects (9 percent)
were completed “cured” by the placebo treatment.

THE PLACEBO EFFECT IN THE BRAIN

The placebo effect is not deception, fluke, experimenter bias, or statistical
anomaly. It is, instead, a product of expectation. The human brain anticipates
outcomes, and anticipation produces those outcomes. The placebo effect is selffulfilling
prophecy, and it follows the patterns you’d predict if the brain were, indeed,
producing its own desired outcomes. For example, researchers have found
the following:
• Placebos follow the same dose-response curve as real medicines. Two pills
give more relief than one, and a larger capsule is better than a smaller one.
• Placebo injections do more than placebo pills.
• Substances that actually treat one condition but are used as a placebo for
another have a greater placebo effect that sugar pills.
• The greater the pain, the greater the placebo effect. It’s as if the more relief
we desire, the more we attain.
• You don’t have to be sick for a placebo to work. Placebo stimulants, placebo
tranquilizers, and even placebo alcohol produce predictable effects in
healthy subjects.
• Placebo effects can be localized. In one experiment, Italian researchers
injected capsaicin into the hands and feet of brave volunteers. Capsaicin
is a derivative of hot peppers; it produces a burning sensation. The wily
scientists then applied a cream to only one hand or foot and told their subjects
that the cream was a powerful local anesthetic. In truth, the cream
was an inactive placebo. Nevertheless, the subjects reported less or no
burning on the treated hand or foot, but the burning sensation was strong
elsewhere.As in all brain actions, the placebo effect is the product of chemical changes.
The first clues to the chemical basis of the placebo effect came in 1978, when
research on pain in the dentist’s office showed that the drug naloxone can block
placebo-induced pain relief.9 Naloxone is an opioid antagonist; it locks onto the
brain’s natural painkillers, the endorphins, and stops them from doing their job.
Numerous studies have supported the conclusion that endorphins in the brain
produce the placebo effect. In patients with chronic pain, for example, placebo
responders were found to have higher concentrations of endorphins in their
spinal fluid than placebo nonresponders.10 One clue that expectation triggers
the release of endorphins came from other studies of naloxone conducted the
1990s. Italian researchers reported that naloxone blocked the placebo effect produced
by strong expectation cues; but in the absence of expectation, the drug
had no effect.Some researchers and theorists debate whether expectation or conditioned
learning accounts for the placebo effect, but it’s not hard to construe conditioning
as a special case of expectation. Conditioned learning is the classic Pavlovian
response. When dogs were fed at the same time that a bell was rung, it wasn’t
long before the dogs started to salivate at the sound of the bell, although no food
was present. The neutral stimulus (the bell) became associated with the effectproducing
stimulus (the food). The same mechanism might explain some forms
of the placebo effect. If a pill or injection (neutral stimulus) has been associated
with a physiologically active drug (effect-producing stimulus) in the past, then
later the pill alone may produce the action without the drug. For example, your
body won’t make any more growth hormone just because your doctor tells you
it will. But if you take the drug sumatriptan, which actually does increase growth
hormone secretion, and later you take a placebo that you think is sumatriptan,
guess what? Your body will make more growth hormone when you take the
placebo drug, even if your doctor tells you it won’t.That is an example of the placebo
effect that involves neither pain nor the brain’s production of endorphins, but, if conditioning is considered a form of expectation, it makes the same point. Your brain will direct your body to act
as it’s expected to act—whether the expectation is consciously perceived or unconsciously
learned.

MAKING THE MOST OF THE PLACEBO EFFECT

At one time, researchers viewed the placebo effect as an impediment—a
statistical annoyance that got in the way of objectively evaluating the efficacy of
potentially legitimate therapies. That view has changed. The placebo effect
is today seen as an important part of the healing process. It’s been studied as a
treatment for Parkinson’s disease, depression, chronic pain, and more. For large
numbers of patients—the placebo responders—belief in the therapy will create
or enhance its effectiveness.
Placebo treatments for Parkinson’s disease offer a good example. Parkinson’s
is a decline in the brain’s ability to control movement. The disease causes a slow,
shuffling walk, stiff shoulders, and trembling. Parkinson’s symptoms result from
the death of neurons in several regions of the brain. The affected neurons normally
control motion by releasing the neurotransmitter dopamine. Cell death
means that people who have Parkinson’s have too little dopamine in their brains.
One recent study of placebo treatments used positron emission tomography
(PET) to measure the brain’s manufacture and release of dopamine. Predictably,
the brain produced more dopamine when patients were given a placebo and told
to expect an improvement in their motor performance.
In some respects, the placebo effect offers the best of all possible alternatives:
therapeutic effects without the risk of negative side effects. It does, however, have
its downside. Just as expectation can produce positive outcomes, it can also produce
negative ones. That’s the “nocebo” effect, named from the Latin for “I shall
harm.” A harmless—but dreaded or feared—treatment induces a new illness or
exacerbates an existing one. Practitioners of black magic and voodoo curses have
known that for centuries, but the nocebo effect is difficult to research for obvious
reasons. It’s unethical to threaten people with illness, but a few brave investigators
tried it before institutional review committees began to place stringent
constraints on research involving human and animal subjects. For example, in
1968, scientists asked forty nonasthmatic persons and forty asthmatics to inhale
water vapor purported to contain potent irritants and allergens. The nonasthmatics
had no reaction to the vapor, but nearly half of the asthmatics did. They
experienced a measurable narrowing of their airways. Twelve of them responded
with asthma attacks that were successfully treated with the same saline solution,
which they were led to believe contained an effective antiasthma drug.17
Doctors could do more with the placebo effect if they could understand why
it works for some people but not others. Part of the answer is—once again—
expectation. Jon-Kar Zubieta of the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor used
PET to study the brains of men who had jaw pain. Zubieta gave them a saline
solution that he told them might relieve their pain. Brain scans showed that their
brains produced more endorphins after they received the placebo. They also
produced endorphins in more regions of the brain. Those men who said ahead
of time that they expected the most relief had more endorphins than their more
skeptical peers. The endorphin difference was pronounced in the brain’s dorsolateral
prefrontal cortex, a brain region involved in paying attention and making
decisions.18 It’s as if the men made up their minds to get well and their brains
cooperated by forming and releasing the proper medication.
Brain researchers such as Zubieta are working to sort through the complexity
of the numerous brain regions and neurotransmitters that produce placebo
or nocebo results. Theirs is no easy task. The placebo effect is not a single phenomenon,
but the result of the complex interplay of anatomical, biochemical,
and psychological factors. The same can be said for all the senses, I suspect. We
see, hear, taste, touch, and smell pretty much what we expect to.

What Is Pain?

An estimated 50 million Americans experience persistent pain, often from
backache, headache, arthritis, or cancer. Like everything else in the brain,
pain is a matter of physics and chemistry. The response starts with stimulation
of nerve fibers called nociceptors. They lie in the skin, muscle, and
other body tissues. Their impulses carry messages to the thalamus and cerebral
cortex of the brain where pain signals are processed. Pain signals also
pass to other brain regions such as the rostral ventromedial medulla (RVM),
where the “volume” of the pain message can be turned up or turned down
through signals sent from the RVM to the spinal cord.Unlike the nerve endings that respond to light touch or pressure, nociceptors
ordinarily need a strong stimulus to begin firing. Inflamed or
injured tissues, however, release chemicals that make nociceptors more
sensitive so that a weaker stimulus causes them to fire. Unlike many other
kinds of receptors, which quit triggering a signal when stimulated for too
long, nociceptors become increasingly sensitive with continuing or repeated
stimulation.
All this action is under genetic control, and so is the experience of pain.
Researchers at the University of Michigan and the National Institutes of
Health have found that a variation in a single gene helps to explain why
some people can tolerate more pain than others can. The gene has two
forms called met and val. Both code for the enzyme COMT, which breaks
down the neurotransmitters dopamine and noradrenaline. (Neurotransmitters
are the chemicals that ferry an impulse from one neuron to the
next.) COMT removes neurotransmitter molecules from the space between
neurons when an impulse is finished.
However, because the genes met and val are different, they make the
enzyme in slightly different forms. People who have two copies of the met
form have a much greater response to pain than those who have two copies
of the val form. Those who have one copy of each form have pain tolerance
somewhere in between. The val form, it seems, makes an enzyme that
does its job efficiently and rapidly, reducing the experience of pain for its
lucky owner.

Placebos for Emotional Pain

Expectation is strong medicine for a variety of physical and emotional ills,
even our perceptions of horrific images and events. A research team led by
Predrag Petrovic of the Karolinska Institutet in Stockholm showed emotionally
loaded pictures, such as images of mutilated bodies, to fifteen
healthy, adult volunteers. On the first day of the two-day experiment, the
researchers gave the volunteers an antianxiety drug to dampen their subjects’
emotional response to the pictures. Then the scientists gave an antidote
to the drug and told the volunteers that the antidote would restore the
full intensity of their emotional reactions.
The next day, the subjects were told they would take the same drugs,
but they were deceived. They got nothing more than a placebo salt solution
when they viewed the pictures. The placebo reduced the subjects’ negative
reactions to the unpleasant pictures by an average of 29 percent.
Functional MRI scans of the volunteers’ brains showed that the placebo
reduced activity in the brain’s emotion-processing centers. The effect was
mathematically predictable; as brain activity diminished, so did the perception
of negative emotions in response to the pictures. The scans also
showed increased activity in the same brain regions known to respond with
the placebo effect in reducing the perception of pain. The effect was greatest
in those subjects who reported the largest effect from the real antianxiety
drug administered on the first day.
What’s the point of administering a real drug the first day and a placebo
the second? This experimental design treats the placebo effect as a case of
conditioned learning. If you’ve experienced a positive benefit from a treatment
in the past, your expectation of its benefit in the future is stronger, and
so is the placebo effect.

Life in Chronic Pain

People who suffer constant pain carry with them a load of other miseries:
depression, anxiety, sleep disturbances—even difficulty making decisions.
Dante Chialvo, a researcher at Northwestern University, has found a reason
why.
Chialvo’s research team used functional magnetic resonance imaging
(fMRI) to scan the brains of thirty adult volunteers. Half the volunteers had
chronic low-back pain. Half were pain-free. The subjects used a fingerspanning
device to rate continuously the height of a bar moving across a
computer screen.
In the pain-free group, activation of some parts of the cortex while performing
the task corresponded with deactivation of other parts—a state
Chialvo calls a “resting state network.” The chronic-pain subjects performed
as well on the task as their pain-free counterparts, but their brains operated
differently. One part of the network did not quiet down as it did in the painfree
subjects.14
A healthy, pain-free brain, Chialvo asserts, maintains a state of “cooperative
equilibrium.” When some regions are active, others quiet down. But
in people who experience chronic pain, many brain regions fail to deactivate.
A region of the frontal cortex associated with emotion “never shuts up,”
Chialvo says.
This constant firing of neurons could cause permanent damage. “This
continuous dysfunction in the equilibrium of the brain can change the
wiring forever,” Chialvo says. “It could be that pain produces depression
and the other reported abnormalities because it disturbs the balance of the
brain as a whole.”

The Brain Sense - The Science of The Senses

2011-02-17T23:22:00.001+05:30

CHAPTER 3

On Which Side Is Your Bread Buttered?

Do this: Go to the kitchen and take out the bread and butter. Now butter
a slice of bread, but, for the first time in your life, don’t do it automatically.
Think about what you are doing. Since nerves from the left and
ride sides of the body cross when they enter your brain, your left brain controls
your right hand and vice versa. If you are like most people, you’ll find yourself
using your preferred or dominant hand (probably the one you write with) to butter
the bread, while your other hand holds the slice. Now notice something else.
Again, if you are like most people, you’ll look at the butter as you spread it. You’ll
pay no attention to the bread and the nondominant hand that’s stabilizing it.
Thus, if you are right-handed, your left brain is controlling the knife and monitoring
the butter-spreading visually. Your right brain stabilizes the bread with your
left hand, monitoring the force and position of the slice with your sense of touch.
(It’s the opposite if you’re left-handed.)
So, you may be thinking, what’s the big deal?
It turns out that how you butter a slice of bread reveals a great deal about
how the brain processes sensory information. Put away the bread and butter and
fly off with me to the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor to learn more.

PROBING PROPRIOCEPTION

Where else would a university house a division of kinesiology but in a 1930s
Tudor revival-style building straight out of a gothic novel? Standing incongruously
within spitting distance of the University of Michigan’s ultramodern hospital
complex, the red brick Observatory Lodge is heavily ornamented with stucco veneers, angled half-timbers, hexagonal bay windows, and more gables than seven.
Behind one of those gables, in a fourth-floor aerie that serves as laboratory,
office, and student research center, I find motion scientist Susan Brown. She’s a
warm, friendly woman with red hair and dancing eyes, stylishly and colorfully
dressed in contrast to the spare, starkly functional room where she works. But
there’s no need for decoration here. There’s work to be done. Several students
busy themselves at computer stations around the room, eyeing me curiously.
Brown has prepared for my visit. She’s set up a webcam at one of the computers
so we can converse with her former graduate student, Dann Goble, now
a postdoctoral fellow at the Research Center for Movement Control and Neuroplasticity
at Katholieke Universiteit Leuven in Heverlee, Belgium. It’s evening
in Belgium, and youthful, soft-spoken Dann relaxes with a Stella Artois as he
describes how his research began when he first started working with Brown in
his student days.
“We were running some simple experiments,” Goble says, “looking at how
well people can match position when they don’t have vision.” For those experiments,
Goble blindfolded his subjects and placed their arms on supports, elbows
out and hands on levers. One arm then moved to a certain spot and back again.
Sometimes Goble moved his subjects’ arms for them. Sometimes the volunteers
initiated their own movements. In either case, the task was simple: match the
movement, either with the same arm or the opposite arm, hitting the same spot
as closely as possible using not vision, but the proprioceptive sense—the sense
of where the body is in space.
“For many years,” Goble explains, “nearly all the experiments that were carried
out in movement science looked at how the dominant arm works. But we
decided for some reason to test both arms, and we obtained this really strange
result: The nondominant arm was working better than the dominant arm.”
Goble doubted his own findings. Maybe he wasn’t performing the test correctly.
He checked and double-checked, but nothing seemed to be wrong with the pro -
cedure, so Goble went back to the research literature to see if anyone before him
had reported such a finding. Sure enough, in a long-overlooked paper from
nearly thirty years ago, he found a similar result, not for the arm but for the
thumb. Research subjects had once matched thumb positions better with their
nonpreferred hand than with their preferred,1 but no one in the research community
had paid much attention to such an oddity. The dominant arm and hand
are always better at everything, aren’t they? Goble’s findings flew in the face of
“what everybody knows.” “That’s when we thought maybe we were really on to
something,” Goble says.
Together Goble and Brown set up a series of experiments to explore “laterality,”
or the distinction between the operation of right and left arms. If what they
were beginning to suspect were true, their research could take them far beyond the
oddities of matching thumbs and arms, even beyond the daily rigors of buttering
bread. Could it be, they wondered, that the two arms differ in their preferred sensory
inputs, with the dominant hand attuned to vision and the nondominant
acting as the primary source of proprioceptive information?
The researchers began testing their “sensory modality hypothesis of handedness”
with experiments that allowed proprioceptive information only. Blindfolded
volunteers worked under three separate conditions, each a little more
complex than its predecessor in what the brain was required to do:
Task 1: same arm match. One arm (either left or right) was moved to a target
position between 20 and 60 degrees of elbow extension and held for two seconds
before being returned to the starting position. The task was to move that
same arm back to that same position, using only proprioceptive memory on a
single side of the brain (because it was the same arm).
Task 2: opposite arm match with reference. One arm was moved in the same
way as in task 1, but it was left in the target position, so it could serve as a stable
marker. The charge was to move the opposite arm to the same position. This task
required no proprioceptive memory, but it was more difficult, because it required
communication between one side of the brain and the other—matching one arm
to the other.
Task 3: opposite arm match without reference. As in task 1, one arm was
moved to a target position, held for two seconds, then returned to the starting position.
The task was to repeat the movement with the opposite arm. This was the
most difficult task of all because it required proprioceptive memory as well as
communication between the two sides of the brain.
On all three tasks, the nondominant arm (the left for most people) was better
at matching positions. Furthermore, the left arm/right brain superiority grew
with the difficulty of the task. Task 3, the opposite arm match without reference
that required both memory and cross-brain communication, showed the biggest
difference of all. The nondominant arm’s performance was even better than on
the two simpler tasks, which required either memory or the brain’s cross-talk, but
not both.2
Brown and Goble conducted another series of experiment to compare performance
when visual cues were provided. As expected, the dominant arm excelled,
3 but when only proprioception was allowed, the nondominant arm won
every time. Over several years, Brown and Goble tried other approaches. They
tested children. Same result. They tested the elderly. Same result. They conducted
experiments in which volunteers matched not position, but force. Still, the results
were always the same. In a right-handed person, the left arm/right brain partner -
ship is a champion proprioceptive team.
LATERALITY
Ask one hundred people which is their preferred hand, and nine out of ten
will say their right. Apparently, the preference for right-hand, right-arm activity
has been around as long as humans have been throwing spears and painting pictures
on cave walls. The right-handed use of stone tools appears in images that
date back 35,000 years. Since the left brain controls the right hand, it’s tempting
to think that the left hemisphere is more or less in charge of most skilled movements,
since we think we don’t do much with our nondominant (left) arm, and
some researchers find evidence that that’s true. One study showed that the right
motor cortex actively controls movements of the left hand, but that the left motor
cortex is active in movements of both hands.4 No one can explain that finding,
but it’s possible that the left hemisphere sends messages to the left hand (by
way of the right hemisphere) via the corpus callosum, the stalk of brain fibers
that connects the brain’s two halves.
While it’s true that the preferred hand is better at many tasks, Brown and
Goble have shown that it’s probably not the major source of proprioceptive feedback
to the brain—at least not when the two arms must perform in different, yet
complementary, ways. They aren’t the only scientists to reach that conclusion.
Researchers had found that patients with right-hemisphere brain injuries have
more trouble reproducing movements than do those with left-hemisphere lesions.5
Some brain-imaging studies have compared brain activity while subjects reached
for remembered targets. In some cases, the targets were visual; in others, they
were proprioceptive. During the proprioceptive tasks, the right hemisphere’s
somatosensory area showed greater activity than did the left, even when all the
sensory information came from the preferred right arm.7

ASYMMETRIES IN THE REAL WORLD

The specialized, yet cooperative, partnership between the two arms has obvious
applications in daily life. In right-handed people, the left hemisphere’s
affinity for vision promotes fast, accurate, visually guided action of the preferred
right arm, as when reaching for a slice of bread. The right hemisphere’s specialization
in proprioceptive feedback helps the nondominant, left arm maintain the
position of an object, such as holding a slice of bread, while the preferred right
arm acts on it—in this example, spreading the butter. Brown’s and Goble’s research helps us better understand how our brains, arms, and hands work, but it has practical applications, too, in rehabilitative treatments for those with movement and proprioceptive disabilities. Goble has worked
with children who have cerebral palsy. He’s tested them on matching tasks and
found what he expected. Children with right hemisphere damage are usually
worse at proprioceptive matching tasks than those with damage on the left side.
Brown has been testing some home-based training protocols with adults who
have cerebral palsy. The training requires subjects to perform small tasks, such
as picking up objects with chopsticks or turning over cards. She tells of a man with
cerebral palsy who, now in his early thirties, has always reached across his body
with his left hand to put the key in the ignition of his car. After only eight weeks
of home training, he can now use his right.
“We have a mix of both right-side-affected and left-side-affected [people] in
that study,” Brown explains, “but they are all getting the same intervention. . . .
We don’t have enough numbers, but we wonder if we are getting more of an effect
for those that might have damage to one side of the brain because it’s more
responsive to the types of training we are using.” Brown is also starting a collaboration
with the University of Michigan Stroke Clinic to develop training regimens
specifically designed for right- and left-side impairments. “We have enough
basic science data, but now we need to translate that into a clinical environment,”
she says. A great deal has changed in treating patients since researchers learned
how the brain rewires and restructures itself after an illness or injury. “It’s a big deal
now in clinical rehabilitation to pay attention to sensory feedback and not just
concentrate on getting the brain to contract muscles to produce movement,”
Brown says. “Brain plasticity has caused a real paradigm shift in rehabilitation.”

Is Proprioception the Same as Touch?

Proprioception is the sense of the body’s position in space—and of its movement,
speed, and force. Brown and Goble say proprioception and touch
are more or less the same thing, although proprioception may be thought
of as a particular type of touch. The receptors that initiate impulses of pressure,
vibration, and temperature lie in the skin. The receptors more important
for proprioception lie deeper—in the joints, tendons, and muscles.
The muscle spindle, found in the body of a muscle, is one type of proprioceptor;
it signals changes in muscle length. The Golgi tendon organ, which
lies in the tendons that attach muscle to bone, provides information about
changes in muscle tension. These receptors send their impulses to the somatosensory
cortex of the brain. It lies in the parietal lobe (the top of the
head). Proprioceptive information also travels to the cerebellum, where
automatic and habitual motions are controlled.

Pinocchio’s Nose

Vibration disturbs the proprioceptive sense, and the illusion of Pinocchio’s
nose proves it. Here’s how it goes: Close your eyes and place the tip of your
finger on your nose. Your brain immediately draws conclusions about the
length of your nose. But if someone were to vibrate your elbow joint, you’d
feel that your nose had suddenly grown longer. Why? Because vibration
stimulates muscle spindles, misleading the brain into concluding that the
vibrated muscles have stretched and the arm has moved, although the limb
has actually remained immobile. The brain draws the only logical conclusion
it can: If your arm muscle has stretched and if your finger is still on
your nose, your nose must have grown longer.
“Vibration is a great tool for fooling the nervous system,” Susan Brown
says, and researchers have used that fact to uncover further evidence for
right-brain dominance of the proprioceptive sense. An international team
of researchers from Sweden, Japan, German, and the United Kingdom
vibrated tendons in the arms of right-handed, blindfolded volunteers. The
vibration made the subjects feel that their fingers were curling in toward
their palms, although, in reality, their hands remained fixed. The scientists
used functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) to pinpoint the
brain’s response to the perceived, but unreal, motion. They found that the
proprioceptive regions of the brain’s right hemisphere grew much more active
than those of the left, no matter which hand was thought to move. “Our
results provide evidence for a right hemisphere dominance for perception
of limb movement,” the researchers concluded.

The Brain Sense - The Science of The Senses

2011-02-16T19:10:00.000+05:30

CHAPTER 2

In from the Cold

Argentinean Andrea Salas isn’t just pretty. She’s flat-out gorgeous. Although
no relation to the fashion model of the same name, she’s even more beautiful,
in my opinion. The glow of a summer sunset streaks her cascade of
auburn hair. Her caramel colored skin is flawless. Usually, when she speaks, her
doe eyes dance with merriment.
But not today.
Today she is dredging up memories of her brush with death in Antarctica.
The deep waters of the world’s most extreme environment threatened to take her
life. If the sea didn’t, the cold surely would have.

ALL ABOARD FOR THE ANTARCTIC

November 23, 2007. Andrea’s ship, the Explorer, had been at sea for thirteen
of its scheduled eighteen days of sightseeing along the margins of Antarctica.
Andrea, age thirty-eight, was a veteran Antarctic guide, having served on two
previous voyages. This time, as one of sixty-four crew members, she was working
as assistant to the leader of the expedition team. She organized lectures, wet landings,
and recreational activities for the Explorer‘s ninety-one passengers, a sixteennation
aggregate of intrepid tourists who had opened their wallets wide for this,
the adventure trip of a lifetime.
The ship had departed from Ushuaia, Argentina, a town that fights a perpetual
feud with Chile’s Punta Arenas over which is the southernmost city in the
world. The itinerary called for a stop in the Falkland Islands—the Malvinas to
the Argentineans—and a visit to an abandoned whaling station in South Georgia.
From there, Andrea and her shipmates traveled to Elephant Island, famous as
the last refuge of the men of Shackleton’s Endurance Expedition of 1914–1916.
Shackleton failed to cross the Antarctic continent on foot as he had planned, and
he was forced to leave his men on Elephant Island while he piloted a single
lifeboat across eight hundred miles of open ocean to find help on South Georgia.
The landscapes of the islands were breathtaking, Andrea recalls. Wildlife is
scarce in this, the most inhospitable environment on earth, but the tourists marveled
at the albatrosses of Steeple Jason in the Falklands. They oohed and aahed
over the king penguin rookeries of South Georgia.
November is early for an Antarctic trip. The sun doesn’t rise in Antarctica
until September, and summer doesn’t arrive until January when the weather
warms to a balmy –15° to –35°C (–5° to –31°F). The weather was exceptionally
cold on this trip. Andrea kept her charges wrapped in layers of thermal underwear,
polar fleece, and waterproof jackets. Boots swaddled feet, while waders cocooned
passengers toes-to-chest for wet landings. The season and the cold brought
with them some disappointments for the passengers and crew of the Explorer. A
planned side trip to South Orkney Island had to be canceled because the seas
were beginning to crowd with icebergs.
It might have been a portent, but the Explorer steamed on.
On this Thursday night, Andrea left her cabin on the crew deck, below sea
level. There, while resting in bed, she could hear ice hitting the hull. She wasn’t
worried. The Explorer was built to handle icy seas. She headed to the bar to enjoy
a drink with fellow crew members and some passengers. The bar was warm;
the drinkers, convivial.

ABANDON SHIP!

Around midnight two passengers rushed into the bar, shouting, “There’s
water! There’s water!” Everyone ran from the bar, only to collide with the captain
who was ascending the stairs. “The captain told us water was coming in
through a hole,” Andrea says. She raced to her cabin, as did the others, pulling on
warm clothes and collecting her life jacket, while the captain announced from
the bridge that emergency evacuation was commencing. “This is not a drill!”
“We got to the muster stations almost immediately,” Andrea reports. Huddled
there in the dark and biting cold, passengers listened to reassurances from
the captain over the public address system. Attempts were underway to repair the
hull, but just in case, emergency rescue stations in Chile and Argentina had
been radioed, as had other ships in the area. Andrea joined her fellow crew members
in distributing hot drinks and hope while awaiting the order to abandon ship.
It wasn’t long before that order came. Repair attempts had failed, and seawater
was pouring in through a breach in the hull. Its cause? Probably impact with an
iceberg.
Now came the greatest challenge: Andrea and 153 others would have to
brave the turbulent Antarctic seas and the bitter cold in nothing more than small
lifeboats and Zodiacs, the inflatable rubber boats usually employed for tendering
to shore from the ship and sightseeing along rocky coasts and beaches. Andrea
hustled passengers into the emergency craft, making sure that each boat had
a crew member to handle the motor and steering.
She and two other crew members lowered one of the Zodiacs into the water
and scrambled aboard. Zodiacs are not lifeboats, but in Andrea’s opinion, they
represented a better choice for escape than did Explorer‘s aging orange lifeboats,
which were heavy, clumsy, and poorly powered, although provisioned with food
and water. The Zodiacs have powerful motors; they are light and are highly maneuverable.
Still, they are open, small, and cramped when holding more than
four or five people.
Andrea’s Zodiac maneuvered next to one of the crowded, heavy lifeboats,
transferring seven passengers into the rubber inflatable. When all the boats were
in the water, the crew lashed the lifeboats and Zodiacs together with ropes, using
the Zodiacs’ engines to keep the lifeboats from ramming into icebergs. The
passengers and crew of the Explorer had radios that allowed communication
among themselves but not with the outside world. They were alone and adrift in
the Antarctic seas.
The ten people on Andrea’s Zodiac crouched under blankets, settling in for
a long wait. Mostly they all stayed silent, the smell of apprehension heavy in the
air. “Those were the longest hours of my life,” Andrea says. The wind whizzed
past her ears. The cold crept through her seawater-soaked clothing to ice her bones.
In conditions like these, she discovered, waterproof jackets aren’t waterproof.
“My feet and hands were very cold,” she says. “I never feared death, but I did
fear that I might lose a hand, a finger, a foot. I don’t know how cold it has to be
to lose a part of your body, but I was afraid it would happen because I knew I
would not get any warmer.” She and her compatriots were stacked in the Zodiac
like cord wood. They had no way to move, no means of generating or sharing
heat. “I couldn’t feel my hands inside my gloves,” Andrea says. “My feet were
blocks of ice.”

COLD-SENSING

While Andrea waited for rescue, she felt overwhelmed by a paralyzing sense
of cold in every part of her body. What gave her that feeling? What was going on
in her nervous system to create that perception? The answer lies in tiny receptors
on the membranes of neuronal projections that lie close to the skin’s surface.
It’s long been known that touch neurons specialize. Some respond only to
pressure; some, only to light touch. Several subsets of neurons fire an impulse
when the ambient temperature rises. Others detect only a decline—or cooling.
(Any temperature lower than that of the human body, 37°C or 98.6°F, is “cold”
in the physiological sense.) One type of neuron fires at relatively warm temperatures,
15° to 4°C (59° to 39°F); yet another type activates at temperatures below
0°C (32°F).1 Still another kind generates an impulse only when cold is so
intense that it’s painful.
For a long time, no one understood what was going on in temperaturedetecting
neurons, but that changed in 2002 when several research teams delivered
up two prizes: receptors on nerve cell membranes that respond to coolfeeling
chemicals such as menthol; and cold-activated ion channels in cell
membranes. The receptors work just as taste and smell receptors do; after locking
onto a molecule of a cool-feeling chemical, they provoke some change in
the cell that, in turn, triggers a nerve impulse. The channels do precisely what
their name suggests. They either open in response to cold, allowing ions (charged
atoms or molecules) to flow into the cell,2 or they close to prevent them from
leaking out—maintaining the cell’s positive charge.3
The influx of positively charged sodium or calcium ions (or the maintenance
of a positive charge) causes electrical potentials to change across the outer membrane
of the neuron. That happens because a neuron at rest has a slightly negative
charge inside it, compared with a positive charge outside. When cold causes
an ion channel to open, sodium ions flow into the cell, thus changing the charge
along its membrane. For a tiny fraction of a second, the inside of the cell becomes
positive; the outside becomes negative. This reversal in one tiny area creates a
current that affects the membrane farther along. Channels there open, and sodium
flows into another section of the nerve fiber, then another, then another. That’s
how the impulse travels—eventually to the brain.
Receptors and ion channels can work alone or in concert, in the same cell
or in different cells. One receptor channel called TRPM8 has been studied extensively.
Also called CMR1 (cold and menthol receptor 1), it’s a major player
in detecting gentle cooling. Researchers at the University of California at San
Francisco found its genetic base when they isolated cold-sensitive, mentholsensitive
neurons from rats. They took the TRPM8 gene from those cells and
placed it into cultured neurons that were neither cold- nor menthol-sensitive.
The cells changed their function and became cold- and menthol-detecting neurons.
Why? Because the gene directed the construction of TRPM8 receptors on
the cell membrane.Another team of researchers that same year discovered how cells that have
TRPM8 receptors respond to temperatures in the 23°C to 10°C (73° to 50°F)
range. The calcium concentration increases inside the cell. This suggests that
TRPM8 is both a receptor and an ion channel.5 The scientists don’t know how
cold affects the channel, but they describe two possible mechanisms. Cold might
change the shape of the channel directly, or it might trigger the release of a chemical
(a “second messenger”) that, in turn, prompts TRPM8 to open.
Another possible mode of action has been explored by researchers in Spain.
They studied “voltage-gated” potassium channels in cell membranes. Neurons
insensitive to cold have them, but cold-sensitive neurons do not. The channels
function as “excitability brakes” during cooling in insensitive cells. They stop an
impulse from beginning. Cold-sensitive neurons lack such voltage gates, so temperature
changes can initiate an impulse in them. This relationship was established
when the Spanish team blocked the action of the voltage-gated potassium
channels in cold-insensitive neurons. About 60 percent of the neurons began
firing impulses in the cold.10
The human body can differentiate a temperature change as small as a single
degree Celsius, but only a few heat- or cold-sensitive ion channels like TRPM8
are known. How can relatively few cellular structures account for such a finely
tuned capacity? The answer may lie in the ability of the channels to shape-shift.
In cell cultures, channels that respond to increases in temperature are known to
rearrange themselves by combining with other channels within their same structural
“family” (not TRPMs but another category called TRPVs). The resulting
complexes demonstrate characteristics intermediate between those of the “parent”
forms. Research teams can measure the intermediate electrical charges and
ion-gating properties of these “hybrid” channels. This ability to shuffle and recombine
means that the number and variety of channel types are large. Although
channels that respond to decreases in temperature have not been researched, it’s
likely that they, too, combine with others to form intermediate types. Whether
such channel complexes act as functional temperature sensors in living organisms
remains unknown.11

RESCUE!

Andrea never gave a thought to her TRP receptors. She had survival on her
mind.

As the wee hours of the morning gave way to a (blessedly) clear dawn around
3 A.M. (nights deliver less than three hours of darkness at this latitude in November),
Andrea and nine others watched from the safety of their Zodiac as the Explorer
began to list starboard. The Explorer‘s engines had failed, perhaps swamped
by water. The boat careened drunkenly with the swirling currents, powerless and
empty after the captain was the last to abandon his post. Explorer drifted toward
seas increasingly jammed with icebergs, driven by a rising wind. Before it sank
at the end of the day, the Explorer would be completely surrounded by pack ice.
Andrea remembers the noise. “The sound of a ship when it is breaking and
about to sink is just like in the movies,” she says, her dark-chocolate eyes wide
with the memory. “I could hear pipes breaking.” The eerie creak of twisting
metal assaulted her ears unceasingly as what passes for an Antarctic dawn brightened
into morning.
And yet they waited for hours more, hoping against hope for a rescue they
could not be sure would come.
Then the Norwegian cruise ship, the Nornodge, topped the horizon. Rescue!
The Zodiacs raced toward the Nornodge, with the slower lifeboats trailing behind.
“We didn’t mind getting wet anymore,” Andrea says, her eyes brightening
now that she can report a happy ending. Miraculously, not a single person suffered
injury—not even frostbite. The Nornodge doctor offered treatment to the
rescued sailors—all 154 of them. Only two took advantage of the offer.
Andrea recalls how her sense of lethal cold disappeared when the rescue ship
arrived. “When I stood to look at the Nornodge, all the heat returned to my body,”
she says. “The hope I gained from seeing it sent a wave of warmth through me.
It was the excitement of feeling safe. Knowing that it was over, I didn’t feel cold
anymore.”

The Brain Sense - The Science of The Senses

2011-02-16T19:03:00.001+05:30

CHAPTER 1

Life Without Touch

In many ways, Chuck Aoki is a typical teenager. At seventeen, he’s an avid athlete.
His Minnesota Timberwolves basketball team won the national junior
championship in 2008. He plays rugby competitively, too. Tennis and baseball
are his recreational sports. He likes the history and English courses in his
Minneapolis high school, and he is confident that he did well on his SATs, although
he hasn’t received his scores yet. He likes Taco Bell food. He finds girls
confusing. “Women dance around the bushes. Men get straight to the point,” he
says.1 He and his friends like to ride the bus to downtown Minneapolis to go to
a movie, eat at a restaurant, or hang out at the mall. He’s lined up a summer job
as a human resources assistant for the Minnesota Twins baseball team, a perfect
situation for him since he loves sports. Chuck hopes to go to college on a basket -
ball scholarship. He will major in psychology or sports management.
But for all that, Chuck Aoki isn’t a typical teenager. He was born with no
sense of touch in his arms, hands, legs, and feet. With a few spots as exceptions,
he feels in his limbs neither heat nor cold nor contact nor pressure nor vibration
nor pain, although he experiences normal sensation in his head and trunk. His
legs were repeatedly damaged in childhood when he walked, ran, and played
baseball. His joints have disintegrated and his bones are crumbling. He’s fulltime
in a wheelchair now; his athletic teams are wheelchair basketball and quadriplegic
rugby. He’s lost eight of his fingers down to the first joint. Text messaging
on his cell phone produces bleeding sores on what’s left of his thumbs. Buttoning
a shirt is impossible. Cutting lettuce for tacos or taking a pizza from the oven
poses a serious risk.
Chuck was born with an extremely rare, inherited disorder called hereditary
sensory and autonomic neuropathy (HSAN) type 2. This is his story as he shared
it with me in a sidewalk café one sunny afternoon. It’s also the story of his mother,
Jennifer Nelson. She’s a librarian for the Minneapolis public library system and
the proudest mom I’ve ever met.

GROWING UP

“You young mothers. You worry too much,” the pediatrician told Jennifer
when Chuck was a baby. The infant was teething. He’d chewed his fingers to raw
and bleeding pulps.
“Is that normal?” Jennifer asked. The doctor wrote a prescription for anti -
biotics. The baby had an ear infection, he said.
Throughout infancy, Chuck cried intensely and interminably. Only full body
contact, his tiny trunk held tight against his mother’s skin, could console him.
“Is that normal?” Jennifer asked. The doctor wrote more prescriptions for more
antibiotics to treat more ear infections.
Chuck walked at nine months, but he walked on his knees. “Is that normal?”
Jennifer asked. More antibiotics. Babies get lots of ear infections.
But by the time Chuck celebrated his first birthday, the fact that something
was wrong could no longer be blamed on ear infections. The tentative diagnosis
of HSAN type 2 came when a neurologist examined a sensory nerve taken from
the boy’s foot. The fiber was smaller than it should have been, and it lacked the
dozens of tiny, hairlike projections usually seen on nerves. The fiber also lacked
the myelin sheath that surrounds, protects, and insulates normal nerves. In the
absence of myelin, nerve impulses could not travel along Chuck’s sensory nerves.
The baby’s motor nerves were normal, so his brain could direct his limbs to move,
but his sensory nerves were nonfunctional. He could feel nothing past his shoulders
and his hips.
Chuck was eighteen months old. None of the doctors knew how to treat his
condition; they’d never seen anything like it before. The only model came from
diabetic neuropathy, which shares some common features with the inherited neuropathies.
Diabetic neuropathy compromises blood flow, leading to infections
and the “spontaneous amputations” that have robbed Chuck of his fingers, one by
one, over the years. Chuck also developed Charcot joints, in which inflammation
and loss of healthy bone lead to the overgrowth of abnormal bone tissue, fragmentation,
and instability. Why? Because when he walked, he felt the ground
only from his hips. He had no feedback to tell him how much force he was exerting
with the muscles of his legs and feet, so he stomped too hard. Similarly, when
using his hands, his sensation begins at his shoulders. He pushes too hard when
he uses a computer, plays video games, or holds a spoon. As a result, his hands
constantly bleed and callus. His mother debrides and bandages his wounds daily.
As a small child, he could grasp with his palm but he never learned to make
the finely controlled, pinching movements needed to pick up small objects. Because
he felt no pain, everyday activities were hazardous. “We pursued a strategy
of avoidance,” Jennifer says. The hot water temperature was lowered so that
Chuck would not burn himself. Jennifer was ever vigilant, keeping the boy away
from flames, sharp objects, and hot surfaces.
Jennifer recalls a family vacation to Oregon when Chuck was seven. “We
played on the beach all day,” Jennifer says, “and that evening Chuck’s left knee
was swollen to the size of a grapefruit.” The child had been seeing a rheumatologist,
and Jennifer suspected a flare-up. She called the doctor and asked what
to do; the family was planning to take a train home the next day. In the absence
of an open wound, infection, or any obvious break, the doctor advised merely
watching the situation and keeping the boy off the leg as much as possible on the
journey home.
Back in Minneapolis, Chuck went for x-rays. Nothing showed up. He went
for an MRI. Nothing appeared wrong except for the persistent inflammation, so
Jennifer continued icing and wrapping the joint. Weeks passed with no sign of
improvement, so the rheumatologist consulted a specialist radiologist. The radiologist
examined the images and found a shadow that previous examiners had
missed. An orthopedist then decided to open the leg surgically. He found a fracture
of the femur, the large bone of the thigh. “Chuck had been walking around
for six weeks on a broken leg,” Jennifer says. He was home from school for eight
weeks. He had a cast on for twelve weeks. Soon after the cast was removed, he
broke his ankle, so he had to be in another cast. He couldn’t use crutches because
he couldn’t coordinate the alternating right- and left-arm actions that crutches
require.
When Chuck was nine, doctors discovered that the earlier fracture of the left
femur had destroyed most of the bone’s growth plate. Subsequent surgery closed
the entire growth plate in his right leg and what remained of the growth plate in
his left leg to prevent unequal limb growth. “A limb length discrepancy would
be dangerous on a daily basis,” Jennifer says, “getting in and out of the shower
and that kind of thing.” After that, he snapped his anterior cruciate ligament
(ACL). “We don’t know how he did it. We didn’t repair it. What would be the
point?” asks Jennifer. “His feet are flat, his ankles have sunk into his heels, and
both of his feet are deformed,” she says. Chuck has been using a wheelchair
full-time since he was twelve.

DIAGNOSING HSAN

Throughout Chuck’s childhood, his parents remained uncertain about their
son’s diagnosis. They took the boy to the Mayo Clinic when he was nine in hopes
of getting a definitive answer. A precise diagnosis was important, Jennifer explains,
because it would help the family plan for Chuck’s health and care as he grew.
His neuropathy was obvious, but the autonomic part of the HSAN description
was not. The autonomic nervous system controls those bodily functions outside
conscious control. It regulates heart rate, blood pressure, intestinal action, and
glandular function. In all those ways, Chuck appeared normal. Did he really
have HSAN? If so, was it really type 2? There are several kinds, each with its own
symptoms, course, and prognosis.
To look for the autonomic component of the diagnosis, doctors at the Mayo
Clinic did a sweat study on Chuck. “They put him on a little gurney, sprinkled
him with powder, and put him into a makeshift, plastic covered oven, and heated
the space up,” Jennifer explains. “Then they charted where his body turned
purple, which is where he sweated. He doesn’t sweat from his fingertips and he
doesn’t sweat below his knees. There was the autonomic part of his neuropathy
that we hadn’t known about.” The HSAN type 2 diagnosis was confirmed.
The broad category of all hereditary sensory neuropathies (HSNs) includes
as few as four and as many as six disorders, depending on which classification
system is used. All types are genetic, and all involve loss of feeling in the hands
and feet. One HSN that is more common and better known that Chuck’s dis -
order is familial dysautonomia (FD, HSAN type 3, or Riley-Day syndrome). Children
with FD often experience feeding difficulties and fail to produce tears when
they cry. Other symptoms may include lung dysfunctions, cardiac irregularities,
poor growth, and scoliosis. Children with FD are most often born to parents of
Eastern European Jewish heritage, with an incidence of one in every 3,600 live
births.2 Genetic tests are used to diagnose FD but not the other HSAN types.
Chuck’s HSAN type 2 is inherited as an autosomal recessive. That means
both Jennifer and her husband, Andy, carry the gene on chromosome 12. Their
chance of having a child with the disorder is one in four. (Chuck’s younger
brother, Henry, is unaffected.) Although the inheritance pattern is understood,
the reasons why symptoms vary among individuals are not. Some babies with
HSAN type 2 feed poorly, exhibit poor muscle tone, and can’t maintain body
temperature. Chuck had none of those symptoms, but like most others with the
disorder, he suffered numerous fractures of hands, feet, and legs, as well as Charcot
joints. Also like most others with the condition, Chuck’s muscular strength
is normal.

THE BRAIN WITHOUT TOUCH

As for what happens in the brain when touch signals fail to enter it, Jennifer
and Chuck’s doctors can only speculate. The somatosensory (“body sense”) region
of the cerebral cortex lies in the parietal lobe at the top of the brain, near
the crown of the head. Adjacent to it and forward from it, in the frontal lobe, lies
the primary motor cortex, where voluntary actions are triggered. These two long,
skinny areas lie sandwiched together, and their nerve fibers are organized in descending
rows, like twins lined up side by side. Each nerve and each small area
is dedicated to a particular body part—forming side-by-side regions for feeling
and movement in the left arm, the right leg, and so on. But the two parallel rows
are not identical. In the motor cortex, the amount of “processing power” devoted
to a body part varies with the precision of the movements that body part can
make. So, for example, the fingers get more space in the motor cortex than the
toes do. In the somatosensory cortex, the allocation of space depends on the body
part’s sensitivity to heat, cold, pressure, vibration, contact, or pain. Thus, the fingertips
and lips get a disproportionate share of the somatosensory cortex. The
back gets short shrift.
This basic anatomy suggests (but by no means proves) that Chuck’s somato -
sensory cortex may have allocated space differently from the way it is allocated
in other children. Receiving no sensory impulses from his limbs, the parts of his
somatosensory cortex that would have processed touch information from arms,
leg, hands, and feet probably failed to develop. Did the sensory nerves from his
head and trunk take over the brain’s spare “real estate”? There’s no way to know,
but it’s possible. It’s possible, also, that his motor cortex is organized differently,
although what happens to the motor cortex if it fails to receive somatosensory
feedback is unknown. Still, we can make some guesses in Chuck’s case. Athletes
who practice their sport and attain a high level of mastery probably devote larger
areas of the motor cortex to the body parts they use most. I suspect Chuck’s practice
of basketball skills and his mastery of his sport have modified his motor cortex
and probably his cerebellum as well—for that’s where movements that are
practiced enough to become automatic are coordinated.

LIVING TO THE FULLEST

Although the brain can reorganize itself to some extent to meet the demands
of its owner’s life, major brain regions maintain their own specialized functions.
As one expert put it, a brain region steals from its next-door neighbor, not the
whole town. So Chuck’s brain regions for hearing, vision, and the other senses
probably aren’t any different from anyone else’s. But what he’s learned to do with
his senses is another matter. Chuck says that he relies on vision to manage daily
living. He dribbles a basketball expertly (an action some doctors think he should
be unable to perform), using his peripheral vision to judge where the ball is and
how forcibly he is propelling it. When playing video games, he holds the controller
in front of his eyes and peers over the top to see the screen. He’s learning
to drive a hand-controlled car. He says he uses his peripheral vision to determine
where his hands are on the steering wheel, brake, and throttle.
Chuck’s vision, strength, and motivation have helped him achieve in sports.
He recently started playing wheelchair rugby on an adult team sponsored by the
Courage Center in Minneapolis. He’s getting good at it. He practiced with the
U.S. Paralympics team in 2008. “Maybe I can get named to the USQRA [United
States Quad Rugby Association] team. . . . That would be a step toward a world
championship team or the Paralympics team,” he says.
As for touch, “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Chuck jokes, then adds more
seriously, “I’ve never had it, so I’ve adapted, and I don’t really get what I’m missing.
. . . It’s not like it has negatively affected me in any really serious way.”
“He thrives in his life,” Jennifer says. “It is fun to watch him.”

Touch the Pain Away

Mothers and infants know what the rest of us may forget—a tender touch
takes some of the pain away. A pediatrics team in Boston divided mothers
and their newborn infants into two groups. Half of the mothers held their
babies in whole-body, skin-to-skin contact while a physician performed the
standard heel-stick procedure to draw blood samples from the infants. The
other half of the babies were wrapped in receiving blankets and placed in
bassinets while the blood was drawn. Babies in contact with their mothers
grimaced 65 percent less than the bassinet-held babies did, and their crying
time was a whopping 82 percent less. The held babies did not experience
the same rise in heart rate as the control babies did. The researchers concluded
that skin-to-skin contact reduces both stress and pain for infants.

How Successful People Manage Their Time

2011-02-16T15:29:00.000+05:30

I want to give you a revelation in life. You might need to take a pen, write this down and put this on the wall in front of your table. It is this.

Each of us has 24 hours a day.

Yes, 24 hours. Whether you are a toilet cleaner or a CEO of a listed company, you have 24 hours a day. Donald Trump, Bill Gates, Warren Buffet and my favorite motivational speaker, Adam Khoo has 24 hours a day.

How do you think they manage to do so many great things within 24 hours a day, while some of us complain that we do not have time?

There are 3 ways you can do the same if you follow act upon these principles.

1. Analyze Your Lifestyle

Everyone lives differently and only you, yourself know what kind of lifestyle that suits you best. Also, each people manage their time differently based on the nature of their lifestyle.

Analyzing your lifestyle simply means living your life circumspectly. What does it mean to live circumspectly?

It means you are cautious, pay close attention and carefully evaluate your schedule. In order to save time, you must first know how to lose it.

Having a full time job from 9am - 6:30pm during the weekdays, I still have to find the best resources to post on my Excellence Blog. Not only that, I need to attend cell group, conduct bible study, attend leaders meeting every Tuesday and fellowship with the people around me.

That's not all. During the weekend, I spend most of my time doing my Internet marketing projects.

My schedule may not be as busy as some of you who are reading my blog but I can assure you this is not what an ordinary person can or is willing to do.

So my point is not trying to tell you how busy I am but to share with you what kind of lifestyle I have and how I managed to do so many things in a week.

I've seen people keep complaining that they have not time to do this and that but they have time to watch TV, upload photos to Facebook or Friendster and going for movies.

So examine your lifestyle and you will be able to know how you can slot in time to do much more.

"The unexamined life is not worth living." - Aristotle.

2. Utilize The Present

"I'll do it later!" and "I'll wait for the right time to do it". This is the number killer that people do not take action. It is not that they do not have the desire to take action but they keep procrastinating. This should not be the path for you and me.

If there is a better time to certain things, it should be right now. Adam Khoo said that the reason why he is so successful is not because he was more gifted or more talented than others. It is his ability to take action now that makes all the difference.

While others procrastinate and spending time to analyse the business model, he simply took action.

So friends, make the most out of every opportunity you have.

3. Prioritize What's Important

I have a lady friend of mine is not doing very well with her health recently. I asked her why she never make an appointment to meet the doctor up and she told me that she does not have time.

She has been very busy with her day job and part time accounting work. By the time she reaches home in the evening, she will be dead tired to do anything else.

I then asked, "Why don't you take half a day off from your work and go to see the doctor?"

"I am so busy with my work and my supervisor keep giving me work to do. It is just never ending"

"Well, you need to know your priority. If your health is not even helping you, what else can you do?"

She went silent for a short while and said, "Alright Rahul, I'll make an appointment next week".

Sometimes, you need to know what is important and what is not, so that you can plan your time accordingly. Do what is important first and the ones that are of lesser importance later.

National Anthem of India

2011-02-15T14:14:00.000+05:30

National anthem can be described as a patriotic musical composition of a country, which reminds and praises the history, traditions and struggles of its people. At the same time, it has to be recognized as the official national song, either by the nation's government or by convention through use by the people. The national anthem of India is 'Jana-gana-mana', composed originally in Bengali, by Rabindranath Tagore. It was adopted as the national anthem of India, in its Hindi version, by the Constituent Assembly, on 24th January 1950.

'Jana-gana-mana' was first sung on 27th December 1911, long before Indian gained independence, at the Calcutta Session of the Indian National Congress. The complete song consists of five stanzas. As for the playing time of the full version of the national anthem, it will take up approximately 52 seconds. A short version, consisting of first and last lines of the stanza (playing time approximately 20 seconds), is also played on certain occasions.

National Anthem In Hindi

Jana-gana-mana-adhinayaka, jaya he
Bharata-bhagya-vidhata.
Punjab-Sindh-Gujarat-Maratha
Dravida-Utkala-Banga
Vindhya-Himachala-Yamuna-Ganga
Uchchala-Jaladhi-taranga.
Tava shubha name jage,
Tava shubha asisa mage,
Gahe tava jaya gatha,
Jana-gana-mangala-dayaka jaya he
Bharata-bhagya-vidhata.
Jaya he, jaya he, jaya he,
Jaya jaya jaya, jaya he!

Translation In English

Thou art the ruler of the minds of all people,
Dispenser of India's destiny.
The name rouses the hearts of Punjab, Sind, Gujarat and Maratha,
Of the Dravid and Orissa and Bengal;
It echoes in the hills of the Vindhyas and Himalayas,
Mingles in the music of the Yamuna and Ganga
And is chanted by the waves of the Indian Sea.
They pray for thy blessings and sing thy praise.
The salvation of all people is in thy hand,
Thou dispenser of India's destiny.
Victory, victory, victory to thee.

The Story Behind Translation
Jana Gana Mana was translated, from Sanskrit to English, by Rabindranath Tagore and the music on this English Translation was set in Madanapalle, a small town in Andhra Pradesh. As to the story behind this translation, in 1918 Tagore was invited, by controversial Irish poet James H. Cousins, to spend a few days at the Besant Theosophical College (BTC). James was serving as the principal of the college, at that time.

On February 28, while attending a gathering of students at BTC, Rabindranath sang the Jana Gana Mana in Bengali. Suddenly, he thought of translating the song in English. A few days later, in Madanapalle, Tagore wrote down the English translation of the song. Cousins' wife, Margaret, who was an expert in Western music, set down the music for this English version. The framed original English translation is still displayed in the library of Besant Theosophical College in Madanapalle.

National Bird of India

2011-02-15T14:12:00.001+05:30

The Peacock, Pavo cristatus (Linnaeus), is the national bird of India. Emblematic of qualities such as beauty, grace, pride and mysticism, it is a multihued, swan-sized bird, with a fan-shaped crest of feathers, a white patch under the eye and a long, slender neck. Much in contrast to the natural phenomenon, the male specie of the bird is much more strikingly stunning than its female counterpart. The male bird, peacock, flaunts a gleaming blue breast and neck and a spectacular bronze-green train of around 200 elongated feathers. It is capable of extending its tail erect like fan as ostentatious display.

The elaborate courtship dance of the male, fanning out the tail and preening its feathers is a beautiful sight. On the other hand, the female bird, peahen, slightly smaller than its male counterpart. Brownish in color, the female bird also lacks the train visible in the male specie. Peacock is predominantly found in the Indian sub-continent, ranging from the south to east of the Indus river. Jammu and Kashmir, east Assam, south Mizoram and the whole of the Indian peninsula also is home to this impeccable bird. The bird lives in jungle lands near water and is thus, chiefly found in the wilds in India (sometimes, domesticated in villages as well).

Peacock is illustrated in pictures accompanying Indian Gods and Goddesses. The sacred bird of the India, the bird was once bred for food, but now hunting of peacocks is banned in India. It is protected not only by a religious sentiment, but also by parliamentary statute. Peacocks have been given full protection under the Indian Wildlife (Protection) Act, 1972. Apart from India, it is also involved to the cultures prevalent in Far East, Ancient Persia, Greek and Christian. While the figure of peacock features in various Islamic religious buildings, the bird is symbolic to 'Resurrection of Christ' in Christianity.

Coming back to Hinduism, peacock is portrayed as the image of the God of thunder, rains and war, Indra. People believe that, when a peacock extends its tail erect like fan for an enchanting and mesmerizing demonstration, it indicates that rainfall is on the cards. Though this might sound strange, but the fact is somewhat true. On seeing the dark clouds, peacock outspreads its tail and starts dancing in rhythmic fashion. Its dance movement has been incorporated in most of the Indian folklore, including Bharatha Natyam. In southern part of India, peacock is considered as a 'vahana' or vehilce of lord Muruga.

Features Of Peacock
The male specie, peacock, is characterized with a 2.12 m (7.3 ft) length, in full breeding plumage, and weighs about 5 kg (11 lbs). The female bird - peahen, on the other hand, is about 86 cm (34 in) long and weighs about 3.4 kg (7.4 lbs). Adoring the glistening blue-green plumage, the Indian peacock has an extension of feathers on its back. Each feather is exemplified with an eye at its end. The Indian peahen is a mixture of dull green, grey and iridescent blue, with the greenish-grey color outweighing. The bird is mostly found in the dry semi-desert grasslands, scrub and deciduous forests and feeds on mainly seeds, but some also eat insects, fruits and reptiles.

National Calendar of India

2011-02-15T14:10:00.000+05:30

The Saka calendar used as the official civil calendar in the country is the National Calendar of India. It is used in India besides the Gregorian calendar by the Gazette of India, news broadcasts by All India Radio, calendars and communication document issued by control of Government of India. The Saka calendar, often referred as the Hindu calendar is originally named as Saka Samvat. It is also used for the calculation days of religious significance in the Hindu Religion in the country. You will always find a Saka calendar alongside a Gregorian Calender in an Indian Home.

Formation of Saka Calendar
In the Indian civil calendar, the initial period is the Saka Era. The Calendar is said to have begun with King Salivahana's accession to the throne. It is used as a reference for most astronomical works in Sanskrit literature written after 500 AD. The calculation of ‘thitis’ i.e. dates in this Calendar are done in accordance with the actual positions of Sun and Moon in the universe. In the Saka calendar, the year 2009 AD is 1932.

Adoption of Saka Calendar as National Calendar
The current national calendar of India i.e. the Saka Calendar was adopted as the National Calendar in 1957 by the Calendar Reform Committee which also made efforts to coincide the astronomical data and harmonize the usage of this calendar after rectification of some local errors. It came into usage from March 22, 1957 according to the Gregorian calendar which was actually Saka Era, Chaitra 1, 1879 according to the Saka Samvat. It was adopted as the National calendar in order to synchronize the usage of 30 different kinds of Calendar used in India at that time.

An Overview of the Saka Calendar
Saka Calendar is said to have begun from the vernal equinox of A.D. 79. The usage of the Calendar began from aka Era 1879, Chaitra 1, which corresponds to A.D. 1957 March 22. The Saka Calendar is similar to the Gregorian calendar on the terms that even the Saka calendar has a normal year of 365 days and a leap year has 366 days. In a leap year, an intercalary day is added to the end of Chaitra month of the year. There are 12 months in Saka Calendar which are named as Vaisakha ,Jyestha ,Asadha ,Sravana, Bhadrapada, Asvina , Kartika Margasirsa , Pausa , Magh, Phalgura ,Chaitra.

National Flower of India

2011-02-15T14:08:00.000+05:30

Lotus, botanically known as the Nelumbo Nucifera is the national flower of India. The Lotus plant is basically an aquatic plant with wide floating leaves and bright aromatic flowers which grow only in shallow waters. The Lotus plant has floating leaves and flowers. It has long aerated stems. The lotus flowers are extremely beautiful with an overlapping proportional motif of petals. It is considered to be a sacred flower and occupies unique position in the art and mythology of ancient India. This flower has been an auspicious symbol of Indian culture since time immemorial.

Choice of Lotus As National Flower
The Lotus Flower symbolizes divinity, fertility, wealth, knowledge and enlightenment. It is also regarded as a symbol of triumph as it can survive to regerminate for thousands of years. Lotus represents long life, honor, and good fortune. Untouched by the impurity despite growing in mud, the flower is also meant to symbolize the purity of heart and mind. It holds additional significance for Hindus, as it is regarded as the symbol of many Gods and Goddesses and is often used in religious practices. It was because of these noble meanings and cultural significance that made the founding fathers of modern India enshrine the lotus in the Constitution as the National Flower.

Cultural Significance of Lotus
From ancient times the lotus has been considered to be a sacred symbol in Asian traditions representing sexual purity. It is also regarded as the symbol of purity and divinity by several religions. Hindus relate it to their Almighty, Vishnu, Brahma, Lakshmi and Sarasvati who are often depicted sitting upon this pious flower. As Lotus also stands as the symbol of divine beauty, it is used as a symbol to describe the beauty of Lord Vishnu by referring him as the 'Lotus-Eyed One'. In the Hindu Mythology, the unfolding petals of Lotus signify the expansion of the soul. As the Lotus carries piousness despite growing from the mud, it is said to represent a caring spiritual promise. The Buddhists consider the Lotus Flower to be sacred and auspicious as the flower stands for faithfulness in their religion. The lotus plant has also been cited as a sacred flower extensively in the ancient Puranic and Vedic literature.

Lotus Trivia

Apart from India, Lotus is also the national flower of Vietnam.
In Egypt the Lotus Flowers are considered to auspicious because they are regarded as the symbol of Sun God.
Lotus seeds are medicinal in nature and are used for the treatment of kidney, spleen, and heart ailments. They are also considered beneficial in the treatment of Leucorrhea, palpitation and insomnia.
Lotus seeds are also used as antidotes in mushroom poisoning.
The seeds, leaves and tubers of the Lotus Flower are edible.

National Fruit of India

2011-02-15T13:43:00.001+05:30

Mango, cultivated in India since times immemorial, is regarded as the National Fruit of the country. Described as the "Food of the Gods", in the sacred Vedas, the fruit is grown almost in all parts of India, except the hilly areas, but is mainly available in the summer season only. There are more than 100 varieties of mangos in India, in a range of colors, sizes, and shapes. The common names used in context of the fruit are, Mangot, Manga, and Mangou. The eact origin of the term 'mango' is not known. It is believed to have come from the Portuguese term 'manga', which is probably from Malayalam 'manga'.

Mango finds a mentioned in the Indian history as well. In fact, the famous poet Kalidasa is known to have sung its praises. Apart from that, ancient Greek King Alexander the Great and Chinese pilgrim Hieun Tsang have been said to have savored its taste. Historical records also mention the instance of Mughal Kinf Akbar planting 100,000 mango trees in Darbhanga, known as Lakhibagh. Mangos, liked for their sweet juice and bright colors all around the world, are known to be rich in vitamin A, C, and D.

Description
Mangoes are available in different sizes, ranging from 10 to 25 cm in length and 7 to 12 cm in width. In terms of weight, a single mango can be as heavy as 2.5 kg. The fruit come in a wide variety of colors, such as green, yellow, red, and even various combinations of all these colors. Mango has a flat, oblong seed in the center, which is covered by the sweet pulp. Covering the pulp is a thin layer of skin, which is peeled off before eating the fruit. When ripe, the unpeeled fruit gives off a distinct, resinous sweet smell.

Varieties
A large number of mango varieties can be found in India. the most popular ones include 'Alphonso' (also called 'Hapoos'), 'Amrapali', 'Bangalora', 'Banganapalli' (also known as 'Benishaan'), 'Bombay', 'Bombay Green', 'Chausa', 'Chinna Rasalu', 'Dashaheri' ('Daseri'), 'Fazli', 'Fernandian', 'Gulabkhas', 'Himayath' (a.k.a. 'Imam Pasand'), 'Himsagar', 'Jehangir', 'Kesar', 'Kishen Bhog', 'Lalbaug', 'Langda' ('Langra'), 'Mallika', 'Mankurad', 'Mulgoa', 'Neelam', 'Pairi', 'Pedda Rasalu', 'Rajapuri', 'Safeda', 'Suvarnarekha', 'Totapuri', 'Vanraj' and 'Zardalu'.

Cultivation
Frost-free climate is best for the growth of Mangos. If temperatures drop below 40° F, even for a short period, the flowers and small fruits already grown on the tree can get killed. In other words, warm and dry weather is required for the cultivation of the fruit. This is it available in the summer season only. Mango can grow well in large containers and a greenhouse as well. Mango trees are shady in nature. They grow very fast and can reach a height of as much as 65 ft. The life of mango trees is generally very long and some specimens are known to be over 300 years old and still fruiting.

National Song of India

2011-02-15T13:12:00.000+05:30

Composed by Bankim Chandra Chatterji in Sanskrit, the song Vande Mataram was primarily conceived to serve as a motivation to the people in their freedom struggle. Though it was penned down in 1876, the first publication emerged in the year 1882 in 'Anandamatha' amidst doubts of a ban by the British Raj. Sharing an equal status with Jana-gana-mana (National Anthem of India), the song was first sung in the 1896 session of the Indian National Congress. Vande Mataram served as a voice against British rule during the freedom struggle. Initially, people with patriotic fervor flocked the streets of Calcutta and other metropolis, shouting the slogan 'Vande Mataram' or 'Hail to the Mother (land)!'

Terrified by the impending danger, British banned the expression of song and imprisoned freedom fighters, who disobeyed the command. Vande Mataram initially served as the National Anthem of India, but later Jana-gana-mana was adopted as the anthem of independent India. This was because the Muslim sect in India felt that the song was biased, as it depicted the nation as 'Ma Durga', a Hindu Goddess. Though Vande Mataram aptly illustrated the pre-independence national zeal and passion, it was espoused as the National Song of India. In the following lines, we have provided the wordings of the National Song of India and its English translation.

National Song Of India

Vande maataraM

sujalaaM suphalaaM malayaja shiitalaaM

SasyashyaamalaaM maataram ||

Shubhrajyotsnaa pulakitayaaminiiM
pullakusumita drumadala shobhiniiM
suhaasiniiM sumadhura bhaashhiNiiM
sukhadaaM varadaaM maataraM ||

Koti koti kantha kalakalaninaada karaale
koti koti bhujai.rdhR^itakharakaravaale
abalaa keno maa eto bale
bahubaladhaariNiiM namaami taariNiiM
ripudalavaariNiiM maataraM ||

Tumi vidyaa tumi dharma
tumi hR^idi tumi marma
tvaM hi praaNaaH shariire

Baahute tumi maa shakti
hR^idaye tumi maa bhakti
tomaara i pratimaa gaDi
mandire mandire ||

TvaM hi durgaa dashapraharaNadhaariNii
kamalaa kamaladala vihaariNii
vaaNii vidyaadaayinii namaami tvaaM

Namaami kamalaaM amalaaM atulaaM
SujalaaM suphalaaM maataraM ||

ShyaamalaaM saralaaM susmitaaM bhuushhitaaM
DharaNiiM bharaNiiM maataraM |"

English Translation

Mother, I bow to thee!
Rich with thy hurrying streams,
bright with orchard gleams,
Cool with thy winds of delight,
Dark fields waving Mother of might,
Mother free.

Glory of moonlight dreams,
Over thy branches and lordly streams,
Clad in thy blossoming trees,
Mother, giver of ease
Laughing low and sweet!
Mother I kiss thy feet,
Speaker sweet and low!
Mother, to thee I bow.

Who hath said thou art weak in thy lands
When the sword flesh out in the seventy million hands
And seventy million voices roar
Thy dreadful name from shore to shore?
With many strengths who art mighty and stored,
To thee I call Mother and Lord!
Though who savest, arise and save!
To her I cry who ever her foeman drove
Back from plain and Sea
And shook herself free.

Thou art wisdom, thou art law,
Thou art heart, our soul, our breath
Though art love divine, the awe
In our hearts that conquers death.
Thine the strength that nervs the arm,
Thine the beauty, thine the charm.
Every image made divine
In our temples is but thine.

Thou art Durga, Lady and Queen,
With her hands that strike and her
swords of sheen,
Thou art Lakshmi lotus-throned,
And the Muse a hundred-toned,
Pure and perfect without peer,
Mother lend thine ear,
Rich with thy hurrying streams,
Bright with thy orchard gleems,
Dark of hue O candid-fair

In thy soul, with jewelled hair
And thy glorious smile divine,
Lovilest of all earthly lands,
Showering wealth from well-stored hands!
Mother, mother mine!
Mother sweet, I bow to thee,
Mother great and free!

National Tree of India

2011-02-15T11:31:00.000+05:30

The national tree of India, banyan is a very huge structure, long and deep roots and branches symbolize the country's unity. One can find banyan trees in throughout the nation. The huge sized tree acts as a shield, protects from hot sun. This is the reason why the tree is planted near homes, temples, villages and roadsides. In the rural parts of the country, banyan tree is considered as the focal point of the Panchayats and the gathering place for village councils and meetings. The tree is also considered sacred by the Hindus of India. With high medicinal value, banyan is often used as a herb to treat and cure many diseases. Given below is the description of banyan, the national tree of India.

Importance In The Indian Culture
The tradition of worshipping 'sacred' trees is prevalent among the people following Hinduism, since ages. Rig Veda and Atharva Veda stipulate that trees should be worshipped, for their inevitable role in human life. Banyan is considered one among the sacred trees. In the Hindu mythology, Lord Shiva is sometimes depicted sitting in silence, under the banyan tree, with the saints sitting at His feet. With its seemingly unending expansion, the banyan tree symbolizes eternal life. In Hindu culture, the tree is often called 'kalpavriksha', a Sanskrit word, which means 'a divine tree that fulfills wishes'. Married Hindu women worship the banyan tree to lead a long and happy married life.

Features
Banyan tree is characterized by a tangle of branches, roots and trunks. The tree is deeply rooted, which may spread across several acres. It is huge in size, thereby giving protection from hot sun. The tree bears fruits that look like figs. The fruits, which appear red in color when matured, are not edible. The dark green leaves of the tree are large and leathery. This is the reason why, the leaves are used as animal fodder. The flowers produced by the tree often attract wasps, for pollination. An old banyan tree can reach more than 656 feet in diameter and can be as tall as 98 feet. The rubber, produced from the sticky milk of banyan tree, is used for gardening.

Trivia

The name 'banyan' is derived from Banias, who rested under the trees to discuss their strategies regarding business.
The widest tree in the world - the Great Banyan - is located in Kolkata. The tree is about 250 years old.
Historical records say that Alexander the Great camped under a banyan tree that was large enough to provide shelter to his army of 7000 men.
In many parts of the world, the wood and bark of the banyan tree are used for making paper.
People even make use of the roots of the tree to make ropes, in order to secure wood bundles.
The sap produced by banyan tree is often used to produce shellac, a strong adhesive. It can also be used to make surface-finisher.
Women in Nepal crush the root of the banyan tree with a paste to make a herbal product, which is used by them as a hair and skin conditioner.
In India and Pakistan, the twigs of banyan tree are sold as toothpicks in order to promote dental health.
Banyan tree is well known for its medicinal uses. Its sap is a medicine for treating external skin inflammations and bruising, dysentery, toothaches and ulcers. Its bark and seeds are used to produce a herbal tonic that can cool the body. Diabetic patients are also treated by the tonic made from banyan tree.

National Animal of India

2011-02-15T11:25:00.001+05:30

Tiger is scientifically known as Panthera tigris. It is a member of the Felidae family and the largest of the four ‘big cats’ of the Panthera genus. On an average, a tiger is about 13 feet in length and 150 kilograms in weight. The pattern of dark vertical stripes that overlay near-white to reddish-orange fur is the distinct recognition of a tiger. By nature, the tiger is a keen predator and carnivore. The Panthera tigris is a native of the eastern and southern Asia. Known as Lord of Jungles due to its grace, agility, power and endurance, Tiger is also the national animal of India.

Choice of Tiger as National Animal
Tiger was chosen as the National animal of India due to its grace, strength, agility and enormous power. As the tiger is also considered as the king of Jungle, it was an obvious choice for the National Animal category. Since time immemorial, the tiger has been considered as a Royal Animal. Often, The Tiger as the National Animal of India symbolizes the power, strength, elegance, alertness, intelligence and endurance of the nation.

Declining Population of Tiger
There is a steep fall in the population of tigers in the world. Due to illegal smuggling of Tiger Skin and other body parts, there are very few tigers left in the world today. According to the World Census of Tigers, there are only 5000 -7000 tigers in the world today. Out of which, Bangladesh, Nepal, Bhutan, China and Myanmar claim to have a population of 3000 to 4500 and India alone claims to have a population of 2500 to 3750. In India, out of the eight known races of the Panthera Tigris species, the Royal Bengal Tiger, is found throughout the country except in the north-western region.

Project Tiger in India
Due to the extreme threat of extinction of the tiger species from the country, the Indian Government launched Project Tiger in 1973. Project tiger was focused to preserve the remaining tiger population in the country and increase the breeding of the species so that new population could be added to the existing one. Under this Project, 23 tiger reserves were established throughout the country, covering an area of 33,406 sq. km for providing safe and comfortable shelter to the tigers in the natural environment. By 1993, there was much improvement in the tiger population in the country. However despite the increase in population, the population of tigers in the country is still not satisfactory compared to the effort and money put in the project. This is due to the illegal poaching of the tigers and negligence of authorities towards the alarming situation of the tiger population in the country.