Feb 9 2008, 10:40 PM
Joined: 22-December 02
Member No.: 125
She found it hidden under a pile of other books. She had been looking for a quote, and remembered she had a copy of the text somewhere. She held all the other books up with her left hand, while with the right one, she pulled it out from under the others. And there it was, a small dark red book, faded cardboard cover, covered with clear plastic that was torn here and there. ‘The Merchant of Venice’ Pitt Press Shakespeare, it announced quietly in black. It was a 1953 Cambridge University Press edition. Inside, three sets of hands, over a period of 40 years, had laboriously scribbled notes and observations in the margin, in the feverish effort that accompanied their search for that right grade. Typically, she had used a pencil, another hand had underlined certain passages in green dramatically, yet another hand, had used an ink pen to suit her flourishing handwriting.
And yet, this was not an abused textbook, battered and disrespected. She looked at the yellowing pages with affection, and breathed in the faint aroma that came from the old pages. She could feel, as she always had in her life, the different pairs of hands that always held hers to point to a life of simple good and courage.
On the inside cover, there are three lines : years and years back, her mother had written ‘General Certificate of Education’ followed by the date ; 31 years later, it was her turn to need the book, she saw the line and added neatly underneath ‘School Certificate of Education’ and followed it with the date ; and 9 years later, when she was in England and of course, did not know about it, her sister then needed the same book, and she can see it now, how her younger sister who had always looked up to her, and was now living such a strong life of her own, far away in that distant Asian land, she can see her picking up her pen, and writing that last line, ‘Higher School Certificate’, and then adding her own date.
She smiled and then, that book was closed.
This post has been edited by Rain: Feb 9 2008, 10:58 PM
Yin To Your Yang
All of those rocks there, all of them,
Thrown at us for as long as we can remember.
All of our dreams, all of them,
Flattened and crushed, as soon as they start taking shape.
Ah baby, who do they take us for.
Battered and bruised,
Killing? Not their aim.
Keeping us in an unimportant place is what this is about.
Ah baby, who do they think we are.
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