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Messages - Afroza Akhter Tina

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46
Writing Skill / Writing Diary To Improve English Writing Skill
« on: July 16, 2018, 10:22:24 AM »
Writing a personal diary is one of the best options if someone wants to improve English writing skill.

The advantages are:

1.    You write an entry EVERYDAY (7 days a week without excuses).
2.   You can write more or less depending of your free time, inspiration or mood.
3.   You can write about anything you like (Daily experiences, thoughts…).
4.   While writing your diary you are also keeping a record of the work done.
5.   You can check your progression looking back at what you wrote in the past.
6.    If one day you don’t know what to write about, just write about what you did during the day (Because you always do something, don’t you?).

It’s easy to create the habit to write when you keep a personal diary.

Try to write at the same time every day. For example…

1.   Just before going to sleep.
2.   Just after waking up.
3.   During your lunch time.
4.   While in the bus.
    …among many others…


Afroza Akhter Tina
Senior Lecturer
Department of English, DIU

47
World Literature / Turning Thirty by Abdellah Taïa
« on: July 16, 2018, 10:14:58 AM »
On the eve of his thirtieth birthday, the narrator recounts three near-death experiences and his journey from Morocco to France. With nods toward Dostoevsky and Genet (echoing the Lazarus scene between Raskolnikov and Sonya in Crime and Punishment), he experiences a crisis of existential vertigo.
I’m afraid.
I’m not afraid.
I’m strong, very strong, indestructible.
As a child, adolescent, I was sick. Sick but alive.
Today, in Paris, I’m alive but sick.

I feel weak. I’m no longer able to sleep at night, so I think about Isabelle Adjani, about her singing voice. I’m ashamed, having spent years in France, seven years already, that Adjani’s voice has replaced my mother’s in my head. No, no, it’s not that I’ve forgotten her, my mother, no, it’s simply that everything in me comes from her, everything that I am is marked by her, her indelible imprint. I suffocate.

I am my mother with the voice of Isabelle Adjani murmuring, humming a song. “Pull marine.”
I died. Three times.
The first time.

In the middle of a summer afternoon, in Salé, in my neighborhood, Hay Salam, the angel of death took my soul, but only for a few seconds. I saw myself from above, a sleeping body, peaceful and blue. Did he have pity on me, this terrible white angel? Did God make a mistake? They ended up giving back my anxious soul at the end of those few seconds during which they discussed my fate in front of me, my days and years yet to come, my fate despite myself. And they departed for other destinations. I opened my eyes. Everyone at home was taking a nap, except my father. He was in my mother’s place, at my bedside. He had understood, seen what had happened. He gave me his hand, I took it, I got up, and we went out into the streets, barefoot, to lovingly reacquaint ourselves with life and light again.

The second time.

I was playing alone at a dead-end of Block 15. On the cusp of adolescence and already abandoned by my childhood friends. Not knowing any better, I touched a high-voltage electric pole. Electrocution. I lost consciousness. It was instant blackness, beyond myself, without memory. For how long? I don’t know. When I came to, I saw that the entire neighborhood (dozens and dozens of people, a crowd) was in our house. Crying for me. Even screaming for me. It was unfair, departing at such a young age. I got up suddenly. A man said, “Quickly, quickly, wash his feet, hands, and face with hot water . . . quickly, quickly . . . but not with cold water, mind you!” An ambulance arrived a bit later. The crowd of neighbors carried me carefully, slowly. They took me to Avicenna Hospital in Rabat. I was proud that I was going to be cared for in the most important hospital in Morocco. I was happy, for once people were truly going to believe me, take my strange body and its maladies seriously. My heart and its beating greatly intrigued the doctor, a white-skinned man, a Fassi. He took an x-ray, put his hand on my chest, on my heart, for a long, long time, he saw something that was happening in me that I had never had access to, he understood my body differently than I did, which intrigued me. He caressed my cheek. Played with my hair. And, before leaving, he leaned toward me and murmured a secret in my ear. He said, “Between the two of us . . . you have a strong heart, a heart for life. . . . You will live a long time, my son! Get up!” He saved me, and I still remember his name quite well: Doctor Salah El-Hachimi.

The third time.

To get away from Hamidou, with whom I was in love although he didn’t know it, I went to risk my life on the other side of the sea wall of Rabat’s beach, toward the wild, pitiless waves. I stepped on a large, slippery rock. An enormous wave immediately plucked me with sweetness and violence to transport me to another world in its company. I didn’t close my eyes, I was conscious, and in this movement toward the depths of the ocean and of death, I understood, I saw.

. . . Hamidou wasn’t worth the effort, this sacrifice, it wasn’t worth going to the trouble of changing his opinion about me. He didn’t see me. I didn’t exist for him. He had told me a few minutes beforehand: “You have normal skin, it’s missing something . . . how strange!” Hamidou didn’t love my skin. He didn’t love me. I didn’t believe in loving myself. Love, I read somewhere, is often criminal. . . . I was still with and inside the wave. Just before it smashed onto the rocks, I don’t know by what miracle, I grabbed something—a branch, I think. I grabbed it, held on, and waited for it to pass, to subside. Then I got out of the water. I was on the sea wall, walking. It was the month of August. The souk was on the beach. And there I was all bloodied, wounded in the chest, the arms, the knees, the nose. Blood red. People stopped to look at me. I wasn’t afraid, didn’t think I looked ridiculous, I wanted Hamidou to see me that way, for him to panic, to take pity on me, to regret his indifference toward me, to cry, to beg for forgiveness for the wrong he had committed against me, to be touched, to love me, finally. . . . And at that instant, instead of seeking revenge, I would have said to him: “Goodbye . . . farewell . . . I finally belong to myself, remain with myself . . . I’m alive despite you, without you, far from you. . . .”

Two years ago, in Paris, Tristan came into my life. Today he’s almost six years old. A little man. The little prince. I pick him up outside his school four days a week. I take him back to the large house, as he calls it, a huge apartment next to the Blanche subway station. I play with him. I make him do his homework. I give him his bath: he is completely naked before me, unself-consciously nude. Together we watch cartoons, The Lion King, Finding Nemo. Sometimes I tell him Moroccan stories, about my terrible young childhood, I teach him words in Arabic. We pretend to fight, sometimes for real. We cry, scream, mock each other, kindly, meanly. Each day he gets a little bigger, grows rapidly like a flower that one waters with care, with love. He grows before my astonished, wondering, happy gaze. Even when he annoys me, even when he acts like a little macho man, Tristan remains a little sun for me. The Parisian sun that will never burn my skin.

I repeat in my head what he’ll say to his friends later, perhaps to his children: “When I was little, my babysitter was Moroccan, his name was Abdellah.” Three hours a day, I play a small role in his life, in his future, and that makes me proud in spite of myself. I feel like I’m accomplishing a mission with him. I accompany him.

Tristan is not my son. Tristan is a little angel who sometimes cries like that, for no reason, he cries in my arms, I console him tenderly, but I never know about what. I’m envious of his innocence, his pure outlook on the world. He doesn’t know. He still doesn’t know. Ignorance is bliss!

There are some truths about me and about the world that I hope are never known. I reflect too much. I complicate everything, everything. I think, I think, a permanent bottleneck in my head. Ideas and images I don’t know what to do with.

I’m so tired of myself, of being me in this hurried life. I look for something that will come, that is slow in coming. I should take a step, just one more, I should renew myself, find or summon the energy. I have plans: they tell me I always must have some in order to find a daily rhythm, a connection between the visible and the invisible.

The meaning of life, of my life, escapes me.

Others seem to be happy. Are they truly happy? What makes them happy? Why do they know where to go and I don’t?

My name is Abdellah: the slave, the servant of God. I freed myself from Morocco’s constraints (but really?). All that remains is to escape myself.

I looked for loneliness. I found it, and it’s insufferable. I’m permanently myself, unable to forget who I am. My consciousness of my being has accrued over time. An anguished consciousness. I know what’s happening inside myself, my beating heart, beating unevenly on occasion, my ears whistling, blood sometimes hot, sometimes cold, the air that produces a strange music while entering and leaving my nostrils, my cracking bones, my changing skin, the feuding ideas in my head, the jostling images in my eyes, and my sexuality that cries out its desire, yet I do not obey it.

The past few months, I’ve been haunted by the idea that I might go crazy someday. That seems easy to me today, to switch over to another mind-set and completely forget its other skin. I always loved the insane ones in Morocco. They seemed to be in harmony with the country. Are they still?

Death and madness possess me.

Last July, Dostoevsky and Genet became my favorite writers once again. They speak to me. We’re afraid together. We go hand in hand toward life, tormented and sometimes miraculous, together, alone, each in his own terrible and delicious solitude. They can do nothing for me. I am possessed by them.

I must change my first name. Karim? Farid? Saïd? Habib? I am neither generous, unique, happy, nor loving. Wahid, then? Yes, definitely, at this moment I am Wahid, solitary and proud, susceptible and unhappy.

I’m headed toward something in Paris, that luminous and exceedingly quiet city. I walk toward my fate, and each day I have the impression that I’m not deciding anything. I’m not my own master. I took a step, coming to Europe, and I was swept up in the infernal movement of Western time. Everything passes quickly, all is quickly forgotten, everything is orderly, apparently clean, everything in its place. Everything is parceled out.

Today, I know, I pay the price.

It began with a slight despondency, nothing serious. I got over it, I had to get over it. Now it’s started again, it’s coming back but in another guise: crises of anguish, of panic. A red image, a taste in my mouth, a hemorrhage in my head. I anticipate falling. I see myself fall, a motionless body in the Parisian street that passersby pay no attention to. I wait and wait. But I don’t fall. I’m still upright. I don’t know where my strength resides in me, I don’t know how to locate, guide, channel, define it.

The past few months, I’m no longer myself, I don’t recognize myself. I look at my face in mirrors, I look at my feet, my hands, my nails, my hair, my skin, and each time I ask myself the same question: Whose are they?

In psychiatry, what has come over me, is happening to me, has an exact name: depersonalization.

Does becoming an adult mean being able to find the medical name for one’s neuroses?

Tomorrow is my birthday. I’ll be thirty years old. This I’ve decided: I’m going to enjoy looking at myself in the mirror, I’m going to masturbate deeply, aroused by my image. Thus will I be able to rediscover myself, perhaps, body and soul creating anew the sacred union of my being.

Tomorrow I’m going to be on another path, a way that leads to this other number: thirty-one.

I dream, I close my eyes for a few seconds, I close them violently, masochistically. I go blind. I open them, I’m elsewhere, myself in another age, older, in an indefinable time. This other world will certainly exist in my forties. I imagine it. Each day I create a long movie about it.

I’ve known this since my childhood. I’ll be a forty-year-old man. Not sooner. Forty years in order to finally say, comforted, lighthearted, perhaps free: i am the man of my desires.

Paris

Translation from the French By Daniel Simon


Abdellah Taïa (b. 1973, Rabat) is the first Moroccan and Arab writer to publicly declare his homosexuality. Editions du Seuil has published five of his books, including L’armée du salut (2006; Eng. Salvation Army, 2009), Une mélancolie arabe (2008; Eng. An Arab Melancholy, 2012), and Lettres à un jeune marocain (2009). His novel Le jour du Roi was awarded the prestigious French Prix de Flore in 2010, and his latest novel, Infidèles, came out in 2012. Taïa’s work has been translated into several languages, and he also appeared in Rémi Lange’s film The Road to Love (2001). His American publisher is Semiotext(e).


Daniel Simon is a poet, translator, and the editor in chief of World Literature Today. His newest book project, Nebraska Poetry: A Sesquicentennial Anthology, 1867–2017, which he compiled and edited, was published in April 2017.


Afroza Akhter Tina
Senior Lecturer
Department of English, DIU

48
World Literature / Re: a short story
« on: July 16, 2018, 10:10:08 AM »
A nice story indeed! Thank you for sharing it Ma'am.



Afroza Akhter Tina
Senior Lecturer
Department of English, DIU

49
English / Re: Why a motivated teacher is key to the classroom?
« on: July 16, 2018, 10:08:52 AM »
Thank you for your inspiring words dear Irina Ma'am.




Afroza Akhter Tina
Senior Lecturer
Department of English, DIU

50
English / Re: Top 10 Classic Short Stories
« on: July 16, 2018, 10:07:54 AM »
My pleasure indeed Irina Ma'am. :)



Afroza Akhter Tina
Senior Lecturer
Department of English, DIU

51
Pronunciation Development / Re: Listening
« on: July 16, 2018, 10:06:38 AM »
Thank you for sharing the pdf with all of us Sir.I have just heard about this compilation of yours and was about to request you for a copy.




Afroza Akhter Tina
Senior Lecturer
Department of English, DIU

52
18th Century Literature / Re: Some Famous Quotes of Alexander Pope
« on: July 16, 2018, 10:05:00 AM »
I feel motivated...thanks for sharing Ms. Tamanna.




Afroza Akhter Tina
Senior Lecturer
Department of English, DIU

53
Speaking Skill / Re: 4 Basic Types of Speeches
« on: July 16, 2018, 10:03:53 AM »
Thank you Sir.



Afroza Akhter Tina
Senior Lecturer
Department of English, DIU

54
The key difference between traditional grammar and modern linguistics is that the traditional grammar is prescriptive whereas the modern linguistics is descriptive.

Traditional grammar and modern linguistics are two branches of language studies. Traditional grammar is the oldest of the two, and its origin runs back to the 15th century. Linguistics is a relatively new branch of language study. Furthermore, it is also important to note that traditional grammar mainly focuses on the written language while modern linguistics consider speech as the basic form of language.


Afroza Akhter Tina
Senior Lecturer
Department of English, DIU

55
Speaking Skill / 4 Basic Types of Speeches
« on: July 14, 2018, 02:42:49 PM »
The four basic types of speeches are: to inform, to instruct, to entertain, and to persuade. These are not mutually exclusive of one another. You may have several purposes in mind when giving your presentation. For example, you may try to inform in an entertaining style. Another speaker might inform the audience and try to persuade them to act on the information.
However, the principle purpose of a speech will generally fall into one of four basic types:

1.   Informative – This speech serves to provide interesting and useful information to your audience. Some examples of informative speeches:
o   A teacher telling students about earthquakes
o   A student talking about her research
o   A travelogue about the Tower of London
o   A computer programmer speaking about new software
An informative speech is very similar to a demonstrative speech, but it doesn’t include a demonstration. When you make an informative speech, you explain something to your audience and help them understand the concept. Your main goal is to teach people something that they don’t already know. Some examples include:
•   A computer programmer telling people about a new app
•   A tour guide telling people about the city they are visiting
•   AA teacher speaking about historical events

2.   Demonstrative Speeches – This has many similarities with an informative speech. A demonstrative speech also teaches you something. The main difference lies in including a demonstration of how to do the thing you’re teaching. Some examples of demonstrative speeches:
o   How to start your own blog
o   How to bake a cake
o   How to write a speech
o   How to… just about anything
A demonstrative speech should educate the audience. It usually includes a demonstration of how to do the things you are teaching. For example, you can show people how to start a blog, make money online, prepare a cake, or write a cover letter. The best way to prepare this type of speech is to ask yourself how and why questions. Visual aids are essential for your presentation.

3.   Persuasive – A persuasive speech works to convince people to change in some way: they think, the way they do something, or to start doing something that they are not currently doing. Some examples of persuasive speeches:
o   Become an organ donor
o   Improve your health through better eating
o   Television violence is negatively influencing our children
o   Become a volunteer and change the world
In a persuasive speech, you provide information and share your opinion on that topic. This type of speech aims to persuade the audience that your opinion is correct. The message should be adjusted to people’s interest, values, knowledge, and beliefs. Public speakers should guard themselves from the use of deception or manipulation. Persuasive speeches are usually given by people who support specific causes.

4.   Entertaining — The after-dinner speech is a typical example of an entertaining speech. The speaker provides pleasure and enjoyment that make the audiences laugh or identify with anecdotal information. Some examples of entertaining speeches:
o   Excuses for any occasion
o   Explaining cricket to an American
o   How to buy a condom discreetly
o   Things you wouldn’t know without the movies
Effective preparation requires identifying the purpose of your speech. Once you’ve identified your purpose, you can move on to the objective of your speech (coming next week).
Wedding speeches, after-dinner speeches, and comic monologues are good examples of entertaining speeches. This type of speech aims to amuse people through humor, stories, or illustrations. It’s usually short and uses an informal tone. The speaker provides pleasure and enjoyment.



Afroza Akhter Tina
Senior Lecturer
Department of English, DIU



56
Speaking Skill / 10 Tips to stay focused in an interview
« on: July 14, 2018, 02:38:26 PM »
1. Before you enter

The minutes before an interview are the toughest. One is never quite sure of what to do – social networking, a chat with a friend or flip through a magazine? Anything that shifts your single-mindedness is a bad idea. Get your thoughts in sync with your goal. Why are you here? How important is this job to you? Asking yourself these questions can help you realign.

2. Focus on your skills

In order to concentrate during the interview, think of one or two things that you would like your interviewer to remember you for. Is it your knowledge, communication skills or project management achievements? Zeroing in on a few things will keep your brain alert and fixated.

3. Review your notes

You have already done your research and rehearsals. Review your notes mentally before you face the interviewing panel. Recall the keywords in the job listing, your major achievements and your strengths. But don’t fret if you can’t mentally rehearse everything. You need to be confident, not nervous.

4. Think happy thoughts

You may find this clichéd but good thoughts will relax your mind and release happy hormones. A calm and happy employee is always a welcome addition to any team and company.

5. Stay calm

An interview room can be intimidating for the person being interviewed. But stress can inhibit your ability to think clearly. Ensure you remain calm and collected. This will help you to listen better and best answer questions.

6. Sit up straight

An upright and alert posture will keep your mind sharp. Slouching or leaning on the chair not only makes you feel lethargic but also makes a poor impression on the interviewer.


7. Switch off the cell phone

Make sure you switch off your cell phone in order to avoid any distraction. Constant pinging sounds or a phone call will derail your thoughts and you won’t be able to focus.

8. Participate in the conversation

If the interview is one-sided, it indicates that you’ve lost your way. The interviewer will appreciate you if you are able to have a conversation and make your point clearly. Remember, that apart from hard skills, the interviewer is also looking for soft skills.

9. Don’t lose patience

Realize that the interviewer may use tactics to put you in an uncomfortable position or trick you by looking unhappy or dissatisfied with your answers. Don’t lose patience. Try controlled breathing and remind yourself why you are in that room.

10. Make up for a mistake

If you feel you messed up - either you mumbled or went off track – try and revive the situation. If you need more time, ask the interviewer a question so that you can gather your thoughts.



Afroza Akhter Tina
Senior Lecturer
Department of English, DIU

57
English / Re: Top 10 Classic Short Stories
« on: July 12, 2018, 10:43:52 AM »
Thanks to All. :)


Afroza Akhter Tina
Senior Lecturer
Department of English, DIU

58
English / Folklore - Cultural Heritage Through Countless Generations
« on: July 01, 2018, 03:35:27 PM »
Folklore consists of tales, songs, legends, proverbs, myths, riddles, superstitions and traditions that are passed on from generation to generation. Bangladeshi folklore can give great insight into the country's social and ethnic background as well as people's perceptions and beliefs. Bengali folklore also tells us much about inhabitants of the past such as their principles, customs and reasoning on matters.

Bangladesh has a strong folkloric and cultural heritage. Bangladesh's folklore has been largely influenced by various ethnic groups that have resided in the land throughout the years. A diversity of elements can therefore be clearly seen in the folklore of Bangladesh. Puthis, a type of ancient manuscript, are in fact books of folk tales and religious stories created in rural Bangladesh. These books were read to the community by educated individuals, both as a form of entertainment and as education. The Puthis were written by Munshis in Bangla and Songskrito. This demonstrates the great importance of folklore in Bangladesh.

A well known Bangla epic is entitled Manasamangal. This tale was written to give glory and honor to Manasa, a Hindu goddess. However, it has become renowned for the love story between Behula (the heroine) and Lakhindar (her husband). The epic tells how the father of Lakhindar upsets the goddess Manasa. She then makes a snake bite Lakhindar on his wedding night. Behula takes her husband's lifeless body on a boat and sails off. After appeasing the goddess, Lakhindar is brought back to life. Behula is often said to represent the essence of Bengali women, who demonstrate extreme courage and love.

Afroza Akhter Tina
Senior Lecturer
Department of English, DIU

59
English / A Bengali Folktale
« on: July 01, 2018, 03:33:32 PM »
“The Naughty Tiger”


In every country around the world, mothers and grandmothers tell their children stories. Bangladesh is no exception. I remember each evening we children would surround our grandmother, and she would tell us tales. Sometimes she would tell tiger or bear stories; at other times, she would tell stories about a clever jackal. These stories are told in every home in Bangladesh. So sit back now and enjoy the story of the naughty tiger:

Long ago, in a country not far away, a famous maharaja lived. He was famous because of his strange hobbies; he gathered and raised unusual breeds of animals. Then one day, he decided on another project: He now wanted these animals to talk.

He called for his government minister. “Issue an invitation to the wisest men in the world. I want them to come teach these animals to speak.”

The minister shook with fear, yet answered, “Maharaj, how is such a feat possible?”

But the king brushed aside his misgivings. “I don’t wish to hear your doubts. Just call the experts.”

The government minister sent messengers to countries far and wide, and indeed ten experts came. After intense training, they taught five animals to speak. The maharaja was thrilled. He lavishly rewarded the experts and then invited kings from around the world to see the marvel. As the celebration began, the king placed the talking tiger in a golden cage at the gate of his palace.

Everyone who approached the palace was greeted by the tiger. “Nomoskar!” the tiger would welcome them. “Please open the door of this cage a bit.” Visitors were naturally amazed, but out of fear, no one was willing to open the door.

Then a simple, worthy Brahmin came to the celebration. He was truly a good man, and the tiger acknowledged it by repeatedly bowing as the Brahmin walked up the path.

Again, the tiger spoke, “Dear Grandfather, please open the door of this cage a bit. I have been in this cage for so many days now. Let me go play in the field for a while.” The Brahmin was such a nice man, he thought that indeed the tiger had endured a lot being caged like this. So he quickly opened the cage door.

Immediately the tiger leaped out, bowed before the old Brahmin and snarled, “Well, Grandfather, now I get to eat you!”

Shocked, the Brahmin replied, “What are you thinking?! I just was kind to you and set you free from your cage and yet you say you are going to eat me? This behavior is absolutely wrong.”

“Why is that?” the tiger scoffed. “Everyone acts like this.”

“Impossible!” the Brahmin said. “It cannot be! Ask two witnesses and see what they say.”

“Alright,” the tiger conceded. “If the witnesses agree with you, I will let you go. But if they agree with me, I will certainly eat you up!”

The Brahmin and the tiger walked into the field. A huge banyan tree stood in the center of the field.

Tree“That tree will be my first witness,” the Brahmin said.

“Fine,” the tiger agreed. “Ask the tree.”

“Brother Banyan,” the Brahmin asked, “if I do good to someone, can he harm me?”

The banyan sighed. “That happens, Grandfather. Look at me. I am the only tree in this field. In times of intense sunlight, I offer shade to people. I shelter them from the heat. In response, they cut my branches and steal my leaves to feed to their cows and goats.”

Laughing, the tiger licked his chops. “Grandfather, listen carefully to your witness.”

“But I will ask another witness,” the Brahmin said. In the tree, a songbird chirped.

“Ask him,” the tiger said.

The Brahmin called up into the tree, “Oh Brother Bird, if I do good to someone, can he harm me?”

The bird nodded his head. “That happens, Grandfather. Look at me. I sing lovely songs all day long and cheer people. At the end of the monsoons, think of all the pesky bugs I eat. I rescue people from so many troubles. Yet they will kill me.”

By now, the tiger was extremely pleased. He chuckled, “Grandfather, what do you say now?”

The Brahmin pleaded,, “Let me ask one last witness.”

Confidently, the tiger agreed. “Certainly, ask whomever you want.”

Just then, a jackal came strolling down the road. The Brahmin stepped forward. “There! He’s my final witness.”
He called to Uncle Jackal. “Oh wise Jackal, you are my witness. Please tell us: If I do good to someone, can he harm me?”

The jackal turned quizzical eyes on the Brahmin. “What is that, Grandfather? Speak more clearly. Explain what you are talking about. If you do not, I will not understand you.”

The Brahmin carefully rehearsed the event. “I was walking into the palace lawns and this tiger was trapped in a golden cage. He asked…”

Hearing the story, the jackal said, “I think this is a extremely difficult matter. If I do not see the palace road and cage, I really cannot say.”

So the three of them returned to the cage. “Oh,” the jackal exclaimed. “Now, seeing it all, I will be able to understand. Tell me again, what happened?”

The Brahmin repeated, “I was approaching the maharaja’s palace, and the tiger was in the cage.”

The jackal smiled with assurance. “Ah yes, this time I understand. You were in the cage, and Uncle Tiger sat on the path. Then…”

The tiger jumped up in disgust. “Uncle Jackal, you are incredibly stupid! I was in the cage.”

The jackal said, “No, no, Uncle Tiger. This is such a tough case, that the facts are not entering my head easily.”

The tiger angrily shouted, “What a problem! I did not realize just how stupid you are! This is a simple matter, and you cannot understand it. Look where I was.” The tiger stalked into the cage. And at that moment, the jackal slammed the cage door shut.

“Ah, yes,” the jackal said. “Grandfather, this time I understand it all. The tiger’s words were correct. If you help a bad person, he will harm you. Grandfather, you are a good man and wise. Be careful of naughty people like Uncle Tiger. In this world there are many like him, and they can harm you.”

Then the wise jackal turned to the tiger. “So Uncle Tiger, I am stupid, but what are you?” And laughing, he strolled away.


Afroza Akhter Tina
Senior Lecturer
Department of English, DIU

60
Great sharing!


Afroza Akhter Tina
Senior Lecturer
Department of English, DIU

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