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Virtues are the result of repeated actions, as habits lay the foundation of moral excellence. Right from the beginning of their lives, children are taught good habits by their parents and teachers. Magnanimity, helpfulness and sacrifice are great virtues which need to be well cultivated in human beings. Trees give shade for the benefit of others, while they themselves stand enduring the scorching heat of the sun. They selflessly bear the fruit which is consumed by birds, animals and human beings. Rivers travel hundreds of kilometers, irrigating the land and providing water for all living beings. Flowers spread their scent to make the environment pleasant. Nature teaches us to tolerate pain for the sake of service to others. Henna yields its reddish hue when ground into a paste. Sugarcane yields sweet juice when it is pressed. Flowers get pierced through with a needle to embellish us with garlands.

The character of virtuous men and women is also like the above things and elements of Nature. What is the use of this perishable and mortal frame if it is not used for the benefit of others? To live our life only for ourselves is to live like cats and dogs. People who are noble at heart do not abandon human virtues even if they have to lose their lives. A Sanskrit couplet says "Whether men praise them or no, whether they get riches or no, whether they live long or soon die, the virtuous will never waver from the path of righteousness."

Virtues are the result of repeated actions, as habits lay the foundation of moral excellence. Right from the beginning of their lives, children are taught good habits by their parents and teachers. Magnanimity, helpfulness and sacrifice are great virtues which need to be well cultivated in human beings. Trees give shade for the benefit of others, while they themselves stand enduring the scorching heat of the sun. They selflessly bear the fruit which is consumed by birds, animals and human beings. Rivers travel hundreds of kilometers, irrigating the land and providing water for all living beings. Flowers spread their scent to make the environment pleasant. Nature teaches us to tolerate pain for the sake of service to others. Henna yields its reddish hue when ground into a paste. Sugarcane yields sweet juice when it is pressed. Flowers get pierced through with a needle to embellish us with garlands.

The character of virtuous men and women is also like the above things and elements of Nature. What is the use of this perishable and mortal frame if it is not used for the benefit of others? To live our life only for ourselves is to live like cats and dogs. People who are noble at heart do not abandon human virtues even if they have to lose their lives. A Sanskrit couplet says "Whether men praise them or no, whether they get riches or no, whether they live long or soon die, the virtuous will never waver from the path of righteousness."

Virtues are the result of repeated actions, as habits lay the foundation of moral excellence. Right from the beginning of their lives, children are taught good habits by their parents and teachers. Magnanimity, helpfulness and sacrifice are great virtues which need to be well cultivated in human beings. Trees give shade for the benefit of others, while they themselves stand enduring the scorching heat of the sun. They selflessly bear the fruit which is consumed by birds, animals and human beings. Rivers travel hundreds of kilometers, irrigating the land and providing water for all living beings. Flowers spread their scent to make the environment pleasant. Nature teaches us to tolerate pain for the sake of service to others. Henna yields its reddish hue when ground into a paste. Sugarcane yields sweet juice when it is pressed. Flowers get pierced through with a needle to embellish us with garlands.

The character of virtuous men and women is also like the above things and elements of Nature. What is the use of this perishable and mortal frame if it is not used for the benefit of others? To live our life only for ourselves is to live like cats and dogs. People who are noble at heart do not abandon human virtues even if they have to lose their lives. A Sanskrit couplet says "Whether men praise them or no, whether they get riches or no, whether they live long or soon die, the virtuous will never waver from the path of righteousness."

Virtues are the result of repeated actions, as habits lay the foundation of moral excellence. Right from the beginning of their lives, children are taught good habits by their parents and teachers. Magnanimity, helpfulness and sacrifice are great virtues which need to be well cultivated in human beings. Trees give shade for the benefit of others, while they themselves stand enduring the scorching heat of the sun. They selflessly bear the fruit which is consumed by birds, animals and human beings. Rivers travel hundreds of kilometers, irrigating the land and providing water for all living beings. Flowers spread their scent to make the environment pleasant. Nature teaches us to tolerate pain for the sake of service to others. Henna yields its reddish hue when ground into a paste. Sugarcane yields sweet juice when it is pressed. Flowers get pierced through with a needle to embellish us with garlands.

The character of virtuous men and women is also like the above things and elements of Nature. What is the use of this perishable and mortal frame if it is not used for the benefit of others? To live our life only for ourselves is to live like cats and dogs. People who are noble at heart do not abandon human virtues even if they have to lose their lives. A Sanskrit couplet says "Whether men praise them or no, whether they get riches or no, whether they live long or soon die, the virtuous will never waver from the path of righteousness."

Uma could not sing; but since learning to write, she had developed the habit of writing down any song she heard, to lessen the pain of not being able to sing it. Today the beggar woman was singing...

Resentful anguish welled up in Uma's heart. She called the singer secretly to her room, shut the door and began to write down the song in her eccentric spelling.

Tilakmanjari, Kanakmanjari and Anangamanjari observed everything through the crack in the door, and burst out, clapping their hands, "Boudidi, we've seen what you're doing!"

Uma quickly unfastened the door and began to plead with them, "Darling sisters, please don't tell anybody. I beg you, please don't. I'll never do it again. I'll never write again _"

At length, Uma noticed that Tilakmanjari was eyeing her exercise-book. She ran and clutched the book to her chest. Her sisters-in-law tried to take it away from her by force, but when they did not succeed, Anangamanjari went to summon her brother.

Pyarimohan arrived and sat down grimly on the bed. He said in a voice like thunder, "Give me the exercise-book."

The little girl clasped the exercise-book to her chest and directed a glance of utter supplication at her husband's face. But when she saw Pyarimohan was getting up to snatch the book from her, she flung it down, covered her face with her hands and collapsed on the floor.

Uma could not sing; but since learning to write, she had developed the habit of writing down any song she heard, to lessen the pain of not being able to sing it. Today the beggar woman was singing...

Resentful anguish welled up in Uma's heart. She called the singer secretly to her room, shut the door and began to write down the song in her eccentric spelling.

Tilakmanjari, Kanakmanjari and Anangamanjari observed everything through the crack in the door, and burst out, clapping their hands, "Boudidi, we've seen what you're doing!"

Uma quickly unfastened the door and began to plead with them, "Darling sisters, please don't tell anybody. I beg you, please don't. I'll never do it again. I'll never write again _"

At length, Uma noticed that Tilakmanjari was eyeing her exercise-book. She ran and clutched the book to her chest. Her sisters-in-law tried to take it away from her by force, but when they did not succeed, Anangamanjari went to summon her brother.

Pyarimohan arrived and sat down grimly on the bed. He said in a voice like thunder, "Give me the exercise-book."

The little girl clasped the exercise-book to her chest and directed a glance of utter supplication at her husband's face. But when she saw Pyarimohan was getting up to snatch the book from her, she flung it down, covered her face with her hands and collapsed on the floor.

Uma could not sing; but since learning to write, she had developed the habit of writing down any song she heard, to lessen the pain of not being able to sing it. Today the beggar woman was singing...

Resentful anguish welled up in Uma's heart. She called the singer secretly to her room, shut the door and began to write down the song in her eccentric spelling.

Tilakmanjari, Kanakmanjari and Anangamanjari observed everything through the crack in the door, and burst out, clapping their hands, "Boudidi, we've seen what you're doing!"

Uma quickly unfastened the door and began to plead with them, "Darling sisters, please don't tell anybody. I beg you, please don't. I'll never do it again. I'll never write again _"

At length, Uma noticed that Tilakmanjari was eyeing her exercise-book. She ran and clutched the book to her chest. Her sisters-in-law tried to take it away from her by force, but when they did not succeed, Anangamanjari went to summon her brother.

Pyarimohan arrived and sat down grimly on the bed. He said in a voice like thunder, "Give me the exercise-book."

The little girl clasped the exercise-book to her chest and directed a glance of utter supplication at her husband's face. But when she saw Pyarimohan was getting up to snatch the book from her, she flung it down, covered her face with her hands and collapsed on the floor.

Uma could not sing; but since learning to write, she had developed the habit of writing down any song she heard, to lessen the pain of not being able to sing it. Today the beggar woman was singing...

Resentful anguish welled up in Uma's heart. She called the singer secretly to her room, shut the door and began to write down the song in her eccentric spelling.

Tilakmanjari, Kanakmanjari and Anangamanjari observed everything through the crack in the door, and burst out, clapping their hands, "Boudidi, we've seen what you're doing!"

Uma quickly unfastened the door and began to plead with them, "Darling sisters, please don't tell anybody. I beg you, please don't. I'll never do it again. I'll never write again _"

At length, Uma noticed that Tilakmanjari was eyeing her exercise-book. She ran and clutched the book to her chest. Her sisters-in-law tried to take it away from her by force, but when they did not succeed, Anangamanjari went to summon her brother.

Pyarimohan arrived and sat down grimly on the bed. He said in a voice like thunder, "Give me the exercise-book."

The little girl clasped the exercise-book to her chest and directed a glance of utter supplication at her husband's face. But when she saw Pyarimohan was getting up to snatch the book from her, she flung it down, covered her face with her hands and collapsed on the floor.

Solace. He turned the roll of paper between his fingers and wondered if that had not been his error—to search always for solace when there was other game to hunt in the forest. Had he had more spirit, more nerve, more desire and ambition, then perhaps he would have instead hunted for success, distinction, magic. Perhaps he would have followed in pursuit of an art, published a book of poetry, earned a name for himself, a little fame, even gold bangles for Sarla...

But the thought was puerile that it was made him spit out a bitter shred of tobacco. Every effort he had made had ended in defeat: most of the poems he had written and sent to Murad had been rejected, his monograph never published; his wife and son eyed him with blatant disappointment; nor had he won the regard of his colleagues or students. The inherent weakness in his father that had made him an ineffectual, if harmless, teacher and householder, had been passed on to him. He felt it inside him like an empty hole, one he had been staring at all his years, intimidated by its blackness and blankness. Even his attempt to fill it with a genuine and heartfelt homage to a true poet, a man who had distinguished himself as he would have liked to do, had been defeated by all the obstacles that sprang up in his life like shards and pebbles sent up at every step. It was one more blow, and perhaps the bitterest of all.

Solace. He turned the roll of paper between his fingers and wondered if that had not been his error—to search always for solace when there was other game to hunt in the forest. Had he had more spirit, more nerve, more desire and ambition, then perhaps he would have instead hunted for success, distinction, magic. Perhaps he would have followed in pursuit of an art, published a book of poetry, earned a name for himself, a little fame, even gold bangles for Sarla...

But the thought was puerile that it was made him spit out a bitter shred of tobacco. Every effort he had made had ended in defeat: most of the poems he had written and sent to Murad had been rejected, his monograph never published; his wife and son eyed him with blatant disappointment; nor had he won the regard of his colleagues or students. The inherent weakness in his father that had made him an ineffectual, if harmless, teacher and householder, had been passed on to him. He felt it inside him like an empty hole, one he had been staring at all his years, intimidated by its blackness and blankness. Even his attempt to fill it with a genuine and heartfelt homage to a true poet, a man who had distinguished himself as he would have liked to do, had been defeated by all the obstacles that sprang up in his life like shards and pebbles sent up at every step. It was one more blow, and perhaps the bitterest of all.

Solace. He turned the roll of paper between his fingers and wondered if that had not been his error—to search always for solace when there was other game to hunt in the forest. Had he had more spirit, more nerve, more desire and ambition, then perhaps he would have instead hunted for success, distinction, magic. Perhaps he would have followed in pursuit of an art, published a book of poetry, earned a name for himself, a little fame, even gold bangles for Sarla...

But the thought was puerile that it was made him spit out a bitter shred of tobacco. Every effort he had made had ended in defeat: most of the poems he had written and sent to Murad had been rejected, his monograph never published; his wife and son eyed him with blatant disappointment; nor had he won the regard of his colleagues or students. The inherent weakness in his father that had made him an ineffectual, if harmless, teacher and householder, had been passed on to him. He felt it inside him like an empty hole, one he had been staring at all his years, intimidated by its blackness and blankness. Even his attempt to fill it with a genuine and heartfelt homage to a true poet, a man who had distinguished himself as he would have liked to do, had been defeated by all the obstacles that sprang up in his life like shards and pebbles sent up at every step. It was one more blow, and perhaps the bitterest of all.

Solace. He turned the roll of paper between his fingers and wondered if that had not been his error—to search always for solace when there was other game to hunt in the forest. Had he had more spirit, more nerve, more desire and ambition, then perhaps he would have instead hunted for success, distinction, magic. Perhaps he would have followed in pursuit of an art, published a book of poetry, earned a name for himself, a little fame, even gold bangles for Sarla...

But the thought was puerile that it was made him spit out a bitter shred of tobacco. Every effort he had made had ended in defeat: most of the poems he had written and sent to Murad had been rejected, his monograph never published; his wife and son eyed him with blatant disappointment; nor had he won the regard of his colleagues or students. The inherent weakness in his father that had made him an ineffectual, if harmless, teacher and householder, had been passed on to him. He felt it inside him like an empty hole, one he had been staring at all his years, intimidated by its blackness and blankness. Even his attempt to fill it with a genuine and heartfelt homage to a true poet, a man who had distinguished himself as he would have liked to do, had been defeated by all the obstacles that sprang up in his life like shards and pebbles sent up at every step. It was one more blow, and perhaps the bitterest of all.