Shards of memory

Morning breeze was soothing, disciple thought. He wondered what's next on master's agenda, settling down with two cups of steaming coffee.

"I take it, you are bone-tired."

Master smiled: "I'm sore all over. But not so in mind, though."

"Searching and researching is something in your blood, isn't it?"

Master stared at the disciple's face. It's not just a commonplace statement. It must have took at least a few seconds for those words to sink in.

"Maybe something to do with my genes, you know, my father."

"Your father was a university teacher, you told me once."

"Yes, and he taught mass communication, if that's your next question."

"That's so cool master. You know me!"

"His expertise was creative communication. But deep beneath I saw a jongleur in him."

"A what?"

Master smirked, he sensed this too will come his way.

"A jongleur. Someone like a wandering poet. I see him as a wandering poet in a way. He had a well of stories. I have been tuned to them ever since my kindergarten days."

"Still remember those stories?"

For a few seconds master was thoughtful, stroking the edge of his cup.

"There was an 'Uncle Monkey'. He ate fruits with a kid. I was so lazy to get up for kindergarten. But everyday he would come up with something happening between uncle monkey and kid. I was up once I hear his voice in the morning just to hear what mischief uncle monkey is up to that day."

Master pulled up suddenly and seemed to sink in his own thoughts. He went ahead in a watered down spirit.

"Wish I could recall those stories. But I'm too old, you see."

Disciple was observing his face. He saw creases around master's nose - did they pop out just now or just that he didn't notice it earlier, he wondered silently. Master contemplated what he was to say.

"There were times we didn't actually shake hands. But I remember mother always say how he loved telling stories to me. Even more than my brothers. May be because I was the youngest and he was more matured when I was born. He had more insights to syringe thoughts into stories."

"What are the instances you didn't agree with your father?"

"Don't you think that's something either of us should rather not dig up? Father and I share a bond, we both hardly knew. Even now I can't simply grasp what kind of a bond it is. It outweighs many things, including our differences, that I know for sure." Disciple reached over for a second cup of coffee. Master's was not still over. Even so disciple did not need to disrupt the stream of thoughts.

"Very rarely did we talk about our personal things. Because he always liked to share stories even over our meals together. I have never seen anyone who knew more stories. He did research and all those serious stuff. But he was still a storyteller for me."

"What kind of stories were they normally?"

"Any story on the earth. He collected a lot of stories when he travelled around the world. When others busied themselves hunting for fridges, vacuum cleaners, this and that, he was hell-bent to meet some old man and trade stories. That's why his stories are so worthy. You cannot find some of them in story or folklore books."

"Didn't it sort of disturb his main study area?"

"The thing is he could somehow link it with his subject. He thought stories are the best thing of creative communication and that shapes the man."

"I see."

"Whether stories are made up or genuine, he was least worried. Whatever it is, if it strikes our heart then that story definitely shapes our lifestyle. That's the technique religious leaders followed when they tried to convince something. Parables, fables and sort of things have a big impact on us, he thought. Whenever he researched something he could find a striking story and share it with his students."

"Like father like son, huh?"

"If it's a stroll, I must say father is far ahead, and I am still lagging behind. He is the one who taught me to be up by early in the morning to see sun rise. No matter how late he goes to bed, he made sure he gets up early. And then he would write on and on for hours. Whenever I get up early in the morning, it brings back the memory of my father."

"It betokens his legacy."

"Of course, it does."

Master sipped the cup slowly. He breathed slowly as if he wants to relive the moments of past - shards of memory. Disciple tried to picture the old man who must be master's father. Neither did realize they were tight-lipped letting some minutes pass by.

"Would you mind if I ask you for something."

"Go ahead son."

"Can you share those stories of Uncle Monkey with me?"

"As I told you once, I wish I could remember those stories."

"You said your father made up those stories, right?"

"Yes."

"So then it's no big deal."

"Why?"

"I mean you can come up with your own version."

"Such as?"

"That's up to you, master."

Master was thoughtful for a moment. Disciple's words echoed off and were set adrift in his mind.

"Ok... here we go. Once there was an uncle monkey..."

It started off with occasional pauses. At length, however, words poured out with an ease simply unimaginable.

Disciple basked in that brief blissful instance when master's face beamed with joy.

I want to rewrite source stories

"Did you locate it?"

"No I am still looking for that."

"Keep looking for that. I am sure you will locate it."

"Here you go... We got it."

The disciple unearthed a stack of papers from the dust mountain. They slowly deciphered Ven. Dharmasena's handwriting.

Excerpt 1:

I read Amavathura and Dhammapadatta katha once again. I think I enjoyed Dhammapadattakatha most. I think my life is full of stories like those in Dhammapadattakatha. They actually brim with life.

The peasant I met today was sharing his food dearth. I know a famine is around the corner. I asked him to come to our temple's storehouse. These people give us food out of devotion, and they have no idea when they will run out of supplies. Isn't our tradition so precious?

What do our elderly monks do, other than writing down in bombastic language extracted from other books? They will be tossed into bookshelves forever and ever. I am aching to write a book to my people. My people who come to see me every evening to listen to a story or sermon.

Excerpt 2:

I had a pep talk with one of our novice monks. We had sort of an argument whether it is all right for a monk to engage in literary things, when he is supposed to concentrate on religions affairs. Halfway I agree with him. But I am so fond of these people. They do everything for the sake of us. I always feel we should give them something in return.

I have seen people doze off when I drone on sometimes. They like stories more than sermons. Can't stories be a good sermon that moulds the heart of a devotee, I started wondering. I shared my ideal with the novice monk. He seemed so bright at the idea.

I told him I want to rewrite some stories of Dhammapadattakatha. He was gladly saying he would copy them down. When would I start it, I wonder. Well probably today itself. We both worked on a title for the book.

The title will come out, perhaps when we already work on the book. That's what, I told my student, I enjoy as a monk. Sometimes I wonder if I have given up the idea of Nibbana for this service.

Excerpt 3:

It simply surprises me to think how inspiring this society is. The very same society with hypocrisy provides ample metaphors and similes. I realized this is the best way to reach my folks. They would probably remember me forever, and that means they would read the morals forever.

Title of the book dawned upon me, almost by accident. Sadhdharmaratnavaliya, chain of Dhamma gems.

Excerpt 4:

Sometimes incidents make me warm. They make me smile too. Whenever someone brings me something happens in the village, it creates vivid images in my mind. Listening to someone recount, I have already fleshed out a story in my book.

"What do you think?"

"I think there's more to decipher. I mean it takes time."

"Do you know what Martin Wickramasinghe said about the monk?"

"That he is chubby or something like that?"

"Yes, because he laughed every time."

"How did Wickramasinghe know that? I mean how did he imagine that?"

"By reading Saddharmarathnavliya. Most of the stories are full of sarcasm."

"But he never laughed at innocent people."

"He could smile without insulting anyone. He was in a way sympathizing with common human errors."

"Where else can we study about Dharmasena Hamuduruwo?"

"Best work is Sadhdharmaratnavliya itself. Anyway Professor M. B. Ariyapala has written a book trying to fathom how the monk life could have been in Dambadeniya era."

"He was a monk with a light way of thinking, I think. That's why he could reach common man. Why did Amavathura and Butsarana authors failed?"

"Because they were sort of snobbish. They did not want to fall into ground. I think they liked to float in air."

"And their books are still celebrated. And our modern people find it a little difficult to read Saddharmaratnavaliya too."

"That's something to do with time. But you try to read all three and compare. Bet anyone can understand Dharmasena Hamuduruwo's work better, though it may be hard." "Agreed. And also I think if we suit that style to the modern audience, then it will appeal them too."

"But you have to be very careful. We have to retain his use of similes and metaphors. See he was also concerned about that."

"Now what are we going to do with this stack?"

"We'll take it out. There's no one claim rights for this. We'll get them deciphered and get them published. We can send some excerpts for a paper, probably..."

I'm here

They shut me up in prose

As when a little girl

They put me in the closet

Because they liked me ‘still’

Still!

Could themself

have peeped

And seen

my Brain

go round

They might as

wise have lodged a bird

For treason – in the Pound

“Is that all?” Master asked

“So far, yes.” Disciple said, exhuming the inscriptions.

“What do you think about them?”

“Well, I didn’t get a thing.”

“You cannot do that instantly. We have to read Emily Dickinson line by line.”

“What time did she say she is coming?”

“She should be here now. I wonder why she is so late.”

Then they heard a whisper, “I am here.”

“Isn’t that her?” asked disciple.

“Yes. But where should she be?”

“Somewhere close by.”

“Where are you?” Disciple asked aloud.

Then they heard it again: “I am here.”

“Shall we walk down a little to find her out?”

“That’s a good idea. We have to put up with this, because Emily was more of a private poet. She was so careful in writing too.”

“How do you define that?”

“Her poetry had very short lines. Her famous poem ‘Nobody’ is only a few lines.”

“I remember.”

“What do you remember about that?”

“When we studied English Literature for O/Ls some of my friends didn’t like that poem, because it was too short. There was barely anything for them to byheart.”

This made master laugh; it sounded overly sarcastic.

“I know it sounds so funny.”

“It’s not only funny, son. It’s so tragically funny. We can see how teachers guide our students. What was your teacher saying?”

“She was saying it depicts a social issue. How nobodies feel about somebodies in the society and stuff, you know.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all I remember.”

“Most of her poetry didn’t have titles. She wrote about strangely small things. Something others hardly gave thought.”

Disciple listened to master with a keen ear. He wanted to know more. He wanted to be like Emily Dickinson for a moment.

“Who influenced her?”

“When she was 18, she had a friend called Benjamin Fanklin Newton.”

“Who later became her lover or husband?”

“Not exactly. I don’t think so. But he was a very good friend of her.”

“Many poetesses have male friends like that, don’t they?”

“Yeah, that’s the thing. Let’s have a talk on it later on. Franklin introduced William Wordsworth to her. She later wrote a poem on him too.

Whose name

my father’s law student

taught me, has touched the secret spring”

Disciple seemed mesmerized by the lines. He was silently listening.

“And quite later on Emily became so fond of popular literature. She even read Shakespeare.”

“But compared with her poetry, I think Shakespeare is a little gothic.”

Master looked at the disciple for a few seconds.

“You haven’t read Shakespeare properly. You are like all those nincompoops who label Shakespeare as unreadable. You have to read him carefully. Shakespeare is not the one everyone sees him to be.”

Disciple realized he had annoyed master. He nodded and spoke in drawl.

“I know. I have to study Shakespeare in more detail. So how did Emily get influence from him?”

“I have no mood to spell that out to you. Go read Shakespeare. And then read Emily. Now let’s go.”

“What about Emily? We are supposed to see her?”

“She is also hiding away from us. May be she doesn’t want to meet us at all.”

Walking further down, master and disciple heard that faint mumbling voice once again.

“I am here...”

In search of that magic potion

Master and disciple pattered along the vault. Within a few minutes they found themselves close to a tomb. It was owned by Ven. Totagamuwe Sri Rahula.

"What's the magic potion you said he used?" Disciple asked.

"It's called Saraswathi Tailaya. Saraswathi means the goddess of knowledge. Scriptures say the monk was conversant in many things including six languages."

An uproarious laugher broke within at that very moment. A voice was trying to say something between the laughter and that petered out at length.

"Now where the hell that sound..." Disciple could not carry on. He felt a cold firm grip on his shoulder. It made him nearly collapse. He took a few seconds to realize it was his master.

"Don't sound so insolent. Mind your words. This is a sacred as well as venerated place. They believe the monk still has life and that's why he keeps on growing hair and nails.

"I apologize for my words..." Disciple said and then a pause reigned. He went ahead.

"But how can that be? Once someone is dead, he should be dead and gone. Nothing can outsmart death."

"That's what medicine and science rule. But there are so many spiritual things the science cannot interpret properly. Tell me what does science say when someone stops breathing for hours? It doesn't accept the very fact itself. So don't be scientific, I say."

"So Ven. Totagamuwe Sri Rahula has used Saraswathi Tailaya to gain immortality?"

"That's what they say. Time was when some quarters believed it belongs to Saint Saviour too. Ven. Sri Rahula is said to have had more power anyway."

"Such as?"

"He could get demons and spirits work for him."

"Do you believe in them?"

"I don't think my knowledge is fair enough to give you a fair answer. But that's not so important."

"Then what is important?"

"The fact that he is a scholar."

"I have heard he was well versed in many subjects such as Ayurveda."

"Not only that. He is a born poet. He authored Selalihini Sandeshaya and Parevi Sandeshaya It still inspires our modern poets."

"I have read both Sandeshayas. Well I found them utter boring. Some poems are all right, but some seem awful."

Master smiled. That smile echoed and disciple heard another within the walls. He could only wonder.

"Why, did I say something funny?"

"No in fact you remind me those who study Selalihini Sandesaya for O/Ls and A/Ls. They are not honest like you. They just mug up stanzas, meanings and their masters' interpretations. When someone asks they say they love Selalihini Sandeshaya. But I have seen it's not genuine."

"Do you enjoy it yourself?"

"I do, my son. I do. You should know the rhythm of the language before studying it. More you study the rhythm, more you develop your intuition. That helps you enjoy classics. This is same in English too. No one can really enjoy Shakespeare or Chaucer without studying the rhythm of the language first."

"Do you mean to say I lack intuition?"

"If you say Selalihini bored you, yes."

"But is that the only reason?"

"No there are other reasons too. When you are too much exposed to modern lyrics and addicted to their simplicity then you lack that intuition."

"But I think simplicity is very much needed for creative works."

"And I don't say no. I think it should be simplicity as well as beauty of the language, rather."

"How do you define beauty?"

"I have no idea. But I can tell you how to make your writing beautiful or belles lettres. When you poise a balance between ancient and modern classics, then I think you can make your style beautifully simple."

"If you can spell it out? I didn't quite get it."

"When you read Shakespeare, you shouldn't borrow all those archaic terms, but there are beautiful coinages as well as words that may seem fit to the modern audience. Are there any favourite lines in Selalihini?"

"Plenty of them."

"May be, but I need one."

"Nala bala sasala dala rala pela nuba negena

"There you are. Now anyone who has read enough modern classics can manipulate this very line to suit the modern audience. I know some people have done it before."

"But young are not so concerned about this learned monk?"

"Not all. There are some. At least there is one."

"Who is that?"

"You."

"Well, that's a compliment. But you cannot exactly say that."

"I can. If you are not interested you wouldn't need me to spell out what I have said."

Disciple smiled.

"That's interesting. But now I want to know more mysterious things about him. Magic potion and stuff."

"That's a good thing. But we haven't got enough time for that. All the same there is a book called Puranokthi Sangrahaya by Sunanda Mahendra. That has some mystery stuff about the monk. Go buy it."

That put an end to their conversation. Whether they left the vault that very moment or not, I cannot exactly remember.

I'm through

"It's strange we can make language our slave!" Disciple held the frost-laden bicycle bar and felt its 'warmth'.

"It's involuntary, when emotions overpower your soul."

"I am hearing something. Do you hear it too? It sounds like something from inside the house." Disciple pointed at the house they stood by.

"You don't have to worry whether I hear it or not. What does the voice tell you?"

"You bastard, I am through!"

And now it was master's turn to smile and laugh out loud. It puzzled the disciple.

"What's so funny here? Or am I going mad?"

"We have all gone mad, son. You get along with my spell, inch by inch. A master mustn't have anything better to be happy and proud of than seeing his student improve, I think."

"And that's not all. I am hearing some more."

"I know. Why wouldn't you share them with me?"

"There's a stake in your fat, black heart

And the villagers never liked you.

They are dancing and stamping on you.

They always knew it was you.

Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through."

And then they both fell silent. Disciple raised his voice again.

"I want to know whose lines are these."

"I am waiting for Sylvia Plath to answer my bell ring."

"Do you think she will answer?"

"She might. Or she might not. Who knows?"

"Isn't that waste of time?"

"No it is not. Especially when we are in an inspired place."

"I don't think I got you clear enough, master."

"You are holding her bicycle. The bicycle that took her to the campus. And this house had belonged to W. B. Yeats. When she bought this house, she took it as a good omen."

"Thinking of her literary works, I guess."

"Exactly. Her life was a flop anyway."

"I heard her father died when she was merely eight. I wonder what made her so arrogant about father."

"I see it little differently. Her arrogance is because she missed the company of her father. Are you hearing anything more?"

"Yes I do," and the disciple continued:

"But they pulled me out of the sack,

And they stuck me together with glue.

And then I knew what to do.

I made a model of you,

A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw.

And I said I do, I do."

"I think she referred to her husband Ted Hughes too. Because Ted was always in black from head to toe. And remember 'Mein kampf' is also the title of Hitler's autobiography. Hitler almost annihilated the Jews. When she badly needed father's company, he left the world. So she found it very hard to survive. She did not know whether it was bad or good. Sylvia likens the relationship between her father and her to something between a German and a Jew. She saw herself as a Jew."

"Now what's its relation to Ted?"

"That's the interesting part. She was attracted to Ted, because he reminded of her father. Whatever the feelings she had for father, it was just the same for Ted too. Tell me more of what you hear; it will explain."

"If I've killed one man, I've killed two-

The vampire who said he was you

And drank my blood for a year."

Master paused awhile for the disciple to think over the lines he recited. He wanted to listen to disciple.

"Did she have Electra complex? I mean father-daughter bond?"

"Probably yes. Father's absence made her attraction even stronger. She tried to dig out her father in Ted. But obviously it was not possible."

"And the result, she got frustrated like hell?"

"It turned out worse, because she was a poet. That disappointment was too much for her to handle."

"What sort of a disappointment?"

"Hard to spell it out. But I feel a poet should never marry another. There is no emotional balance." "Don't you think Sylvia had a psychological issue?"

"It should have been worse, if she didn't write them down. Every thought, I mean."

"And Ted destroyed them."

"Not all, my son, not all. He published some of them. Put yourself in his shoes, you would do the same. Everyone of us has dignity, come to think about that. Ted was no exception. But I think Sylvia was more courageous. She had the stomach to expose her face to the oven and let it take her life but slowly. Just imagine that!"

Disciple nodded and couldn't think of anything to respond. His hand still rested on the bicycle bar feeling its warmth.

"Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through."

Whether he remembered or heard the line once again, the disciple had to wonder.

Life is bare as bone

The disciple was closely observing the purl of the waters. But his mind was elsewhere, master knew.

“Something worries you, my son.”

“I am thinking about insanity and creativity. It’s an article I saw last week. Wonder how creativity is linked with insanity.”

“Then get ready. We will be seeing Virginia Woolf in 1925 shortly.”

“I need to do some research on her. I have no idea who she is.”

“You will know, my son.”

Master peddled the boat so fast. And the scene shifted into an Victorian environment even before the disciple could imagine anything.

Both saw the middle aged woman appear. Virginia recognised master.

“Master, seven years since we met?”

“Yes last time in London. You have a good memory”

“That’s because I really care to remember faces. You are with a student.”

“I am teaching him literature. I wanted him to see you to teach the link between insanity and creativity.”

Virginia smiled, it was a faint one. She seemed as if she want to narrate the whole story of her life.

“That’s a long story, master. I have written down them as memoirs. I always loved reading and writing memoirs, you know. I named it ‘A Sketch of the Past’. I am not sure if I should publish it. Perhaps I wouldn’t. Sometimes only literature was my comfort when I had my usual nervous breakdown. I had a good literary family background. My father Leslie Stephen was an author as well as a mountaineer. My mother Julia dealt with artistic world. So I may have had it in my genes.”

“But you were suffering all throughout, weren’t you?”

Virginia heaved a sigh.

“Yes I had a troubled childhood. I have been fighting with my emotions all throughout my life. Because I couldn’t live on the standard life they expect on me.”

“You mean the lesbian relationship between you and Vita even when you were married to Leonard?”

“Must be so. Who knows, you cannot judge your own life.”

Virginia sat relaxed to read out what she has written in her essay ‘A Sketch of the Past’. She wanted pour out her stream of consciousness.

“Once when I was very small Gerald Duckworth lifted me onto this, and as I sat there he began to explore my body. I can remember the feel of his hand going under my clothes; going firmly and steadily lower and lower. I remember how I hoped he would stop; how I stiffened and wriggled as his hand approached my private parts.”

Master and disciple were listening silently. On what to progress, they knew not. Virginia set the book aside.

“That experience never left me alone. Never. Anyway the relationship between Leonard and I was basically based on our similar thoughts and philosophy. Leonard knew this episode and we both expanded our Hogarth Press to make sure we don’t have to submit our works to be published in my half-brother Duckworth’s company. It was an experience of horror. I am so grateful to Leonard. We had only a few major differences.”

“Such as…?” Inquired the disciple.

“Leonard liked Ceylon very much. But I did not. I didn’t want him to grow old with those darkies.. Leonard had to come back. Yes he had to... because of me.”

“But people think you both had many conflicts.”

“No I don’t think so. In literature we were almost perfect. Even in our personal life, he was so helpful at times of my psychological breakdown. He was so patient, when I go depressing and frustrating. I don’t think even Lytton Strachey would have tolerated such moments. Unlike Strachey, Leonard was a reserved guy. That’s why I preferred him even though he was a ‘penniless Jew’.”

“You founded Hogarth press?”

“We did. But none of us wanted to make it quite a big deal. We wanted to maintain it small so then we can publish the books we like. We published the books of T. S. Eliot, Laurens van der Post and others. I was suffering from neurasthenia. It was a medical term that desribed headaches, irritability and fatigue. Well I had to get used to that but I was so often under an emotional stress. I found it difficult to sleep. I started hearing voices. Sometimes I see my dead mother roaming in my room.”

“You are tired?”

“Sort of yes. But pouring out all these emotions is in a way very soothing.”

“You are considered as a major lyrical novelist.”

“Yes people do say that. I don’t know but writing is my medium of blurting out my emotional distress. It’s a good way to let go of my insanity at times. That’s why I come across with unusual settings.”

“Ok then, thanks Virginia for sharing time with us. We have to go now.”

“Thanks for visiting me, master. Sometimes I really do like to share my ideas with others. That’s why we formed Bloomsbury Group too.”

“I like to know a little about the group before setting off.” Disciple said.

“Following my studies I came to know Lytton Strachey, Clive Bell, Rupert Brooke, Saxon Sydney-Turner, Duncan Grant, and Leonard. We formed the Bloomsbury Group to have intellectual discussions. But we had our setbacks too. Dreadnought Hoax is one. I have included that experience in my memoirs.” Said Virginia smilingly.

Where joy forever dwells!

Master was quietly waiting for his disciple. He saw the disciple appear at length.

"You are punctual, I must say." Said a beaming teacher.

"What is our plan today, master?"

"It's a long looked-forward journey. Follow me."

The disciple followed the master without inquiry. His teacher's movement spoke a lot. When they walked further down the disciple could see the river. The master got into the boat and beckoned his follower to hop in.

"Now forget all other nonsense. Remember all what I have taught you. We will now sail off to the past - England in 1674."

"That's the year John Milton breathed his last."

"And we will see him alive, a few months before he breathes his last."

The disciple was not shocked. Neither was he surprised. He knew his teacher. He listened to the murmuring sound of the rippling waters. Handling the boat, his teacher was mindful of the rippling waters too.

"I remember Wordsworth."

"I remember his lines of 'London 1802', master.

'Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour; England hath need of thee: she is a fen.'"

The disciple had questions, but he knew this was not the right moment. Then they both were silent until they reached a patch of land seemingly different. They could glimpse an old man waiting for them. Master raised his voice.

"Look at him. John Milton was completely blind when he died. But he had a sharp inner eye. That was his support right throughout."

They got closer and shook hands with Milton.

"What would you like to have, tea or coffee?"

"Anything convenient for you, John."

"My man will bring something. Ok where can we start?"

"Perhaps with your source of inspiration?"

Milton smiled and it turned into a ripple of laughter in a little while. Master and disciple looked at each other.

"A tough question to answer. May be I should start from my father's life. That will be better. I have written about him too. You have read my works?"

Master looked at the disciple. The disciple spoke up.

"You wrote: 'My father destined me in early childhood for the study of literature, for which I had so keen an appetite that from my twelfth year scarcely did I leave my studies for my bed before the hour of midnight.'"

Milton smiled once again, this time in an even way.

"My father's name is John Milton too. His father, my grandfather's name is Richard Milton. My father was so fond of literature, he read almost anything. But my grandfather didn't like him reading Holy Bible. Can you guess what was my grandpa's punishment?"

Milton paused a little for a response, and then went ahead.

"My father was banished from the family. I think he was the driving force in my literary pursuit in a way."

"But you were a little disappointed with your colleagues?" Asked the Master sipping the cup of coffee.

"That's right. Because many so called scholars did not have depth in their knowledge. They taught themselves gallant men, but I thought them fools. I studied theology, but never joined the Church ministry for that matter. But I had the company of a few genuine friends. That was enough, yet it was quite so."

An abrupt emotion swept across Milton's face. Both master and the disciple remembered Edward King, a college mate who could earn high respect from Milton. His 'Lycidas' is a pastoral elegy written in memory of King.

Silence reigned. But both master and disciple did not want to tear up that wounded past. Master was thinking of going off on a tangent. Then he saw two books lying on Milton's lap. Milton sensed it and went ahead.

"These are two books from Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained."

"Paradise Lost is the most remembered one." Master stimulated the speech.

"Yes. Even I feel so at times. Paradise Lost seems more frank. It tells the Christian story of the Fall of Man. In other words it is the temptation of Adam and Eve by the fallen angel Satan. I try to make Satan less evil. In fact William Blake and Percy Shelley saw Satan as a hero."

"Paradise Lost is the peak of your literary career, I think. You have maintained your rhythm of the language."

"Many people share your thought. May be my blindness has helped me out too. When my eyes went dead, I was born in another form. I could see many things beyond this region. That's why I coined the word 'space' to explain what is beyond the earth's sky."

"John, you were a civil servant and political analyst but you are more fond of poetry? I mean that's how I feel."

"That's because my blood runs in poetry more than anything. I studied many languages: Latin, Greek, Hebrew, French, Spanish, and Italian. I wanted to discover the rhythm of all these languages. I started researching on them. I like writing on politics and civil service, but poetry is my soul desire."

"Master aren't we running out of time?" The disciple whispered to the master.

"Yes my dear. We have no control over time," said Milton and went ahead:

"Farewell, happy fields,

Where joy for ever dwells! Hail, horrors! hail,

Infernal world! and thou, profoundest Hell,

Receive thy new possessor-one who brings

A mind not to be changed by place or time.

The mind is its own place, and in itself

Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven."