Autobiography of a a River

Introduction:
I am a river. I like to give you an account of my life. You may laugh to think what
is the value of the autobiography of a river. You may laugh if you like. Men write
their autobiographies. They have importance in their own way. I have importance in
my own way.

Birth and early career:

I was born long ago in an obscure place in a mountain. Several very small streams
of water joined together to form one bigger stream. That is how I was born. I am
that bigger stream. I am restless from my birth. I cannot stay at one place. So I
flow down the mountain. I leap from one rock to another. I am full of life and
vigor. As I flow down, I gather strength. My current is very strong here. I carry
down with me broken rocks. At last I come down to the plains.

My career in the upper plains:

Here I begin to widen in my course. People begin to make use of my water. Here it
is as pure as anything. In my upper course, people have built up towns of
pilgrimage. They have built temples on my banks. Hundreds of people bathe in my
sacred water. They worship the deities in those temples. They regard me as very
sacred. There are also several health resorts in my upper course. People from many
parts of the country come there for a change. They walk on my banks. They enjoy the
natural beauty. They recover their lost health and return home with a happy heart.

My career in the lower plains:

I have said before that I am very restless. I am constantly on the move downwards.
Leaving the upper plains behind I flow down through the lower plains. My water
increases the fertility of the fields on either side of my banks. Abundant crops
grow there. The country become prosperous.

Towns on my banks:
People have built large towns on my banks. Some of these towns are centres of
culture. Some have commercial importance. People carry on trade and commerce. They
ply boats and steamers along my surface. These carry many important goods for
trade. People travel from one place to another in boats and steamers. Hundreds of
people bathe in water. They use my water for drinking and other purposes.

Efforts to control me:

During the rainy season I carry large quantities of rain-water from the mountain.
My surface rises. Sometimes I overflow the banks and cause flood. People suffer
much. But am I to blame for this ? What can I do if huge quantities of rainwater
flow down me from the mountain? Your Government has now tried to control my furious
nature in the rainy season. In my upper course sometimes I fall down several
hundred feet from a great height. Here your Government has built barriers across me
to hold back my water. It has built dams to store up the surplus water to irrigate
the land to help agriculture. Electricity is also generated here with the power of
my water. This electricity is cheaper. It helps industry in towns and even in
remote villages. Thus you may see how I help you.

My career in the lowest course:

In this way I go on. I have no rest. �Men may come and men may go, but I go on for
ever.� Your Government has tried to control my furious nature. But it is a very
difficult task to control me always. Sometimes I play the part of a destroyer. I
wash away my banks. I destroy towns and villages. Again I play the part of a
creator. I carry down sediments. These are deposited in some places where the
current is not strong. New land is formed there. This land is very fertile. This is
done near about the place where I join the sea.
Ports at my mouth:
I flow on to join the sea. This is my goal. This portion of my course is called my
mouth. People have built ports here. Factories have been built on my banks. This
makes the country prosperous. But the factories do one great harm. In my upper
course my water is very pure. But here the municipalities of the towns and the
factories throw away all sorts of impurities into my water. This pollutes my water.
I am not to blame for this.

Conclusion:
This is my life history. There is one great difference between men and me. I am
constantly on the move to join the sea. Men are born and they die. I have no death.
I will flow eternally. I will do great service to men. They should, therefore,
remain grateful to me.

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Autobiography of a Banyan Tree

I am a banyan tree. My abode is a small town. It�s developing fast. I am just

twenty. You may term me youth. These days� banyan trees hardly survive for seventy
to eighty years. I am telling about the life-span for my variety. We have three
types based on place of growing, viz. rural, suburban and metropolitan.
The rural banyan trees are also termed as classical type. They are on the verge of
extinction. Their average life-span is four-hundred years. In the countryside,
assemblage for market, meeting, musical orchestra, drama, etc. takes place beneath
their shadow. You will find their reference in the classics of prolific story-
tellers Bankim Chandra, Tarashankar, Prabhatkumar, Sarat Chandra and the like.
I belong to town category. Before I narrate my bringing up, let me add a few words
on our life struggle. We live in small town or suburban. Our births generally take
place in disputed places. It may be due to human touch or natural reasons. Thus,
very often you will find germination of our seeds at places like the cracks of old
buildings, decomposed portion or holes in trees, heaps of garbage, etc. It�s
needless to mention that we face turbulent and uncertain periods in our childhood.
Sometimes, people become ruthless upon us. They don�t hesitate to uproot. Beheading
is a common onslaught. Especially, it�s unleashed upon us with fanfare on the eve
of Durga Puja. Thus, it�s difficult for us to grow by the side of streets in the
town. There is no scope for extending roots underneath as well. The workers of
Drinking Water Supply Department do not hesitate to cut our roots on the plea of
laying pipes. The onslaughts from other departments like PWD, BSNL, TNGC, etc just
add insult to the injuries. Sometimes, activists styled as environmentalists do cry
for our save. But, it�s showy; they are biased towards metropolitan sect.
But, there is always an element of natural selection. At times, the Nature favours
us to grow even in rocky soils. My comrades feel it lucky if a stone underneath
comes out due to exposure in weather. The disciples of Lord Shiva are often found
worshipping it. So, a place of worship gradually develops underneath the banyan
tree. It gets the share of milk offered to God. The waste of other eatables acts as
manure. The local people forms committee for the protection of the banyan tree. So,
it survives for a long period.
The metropolitan type of banyan tree was first witnessed in Japan. The Japanese
are a bit short in height in general. They find it difficult to climb trees. So,
they make us dwarf by trimming our roots and keeping us half-fed. It has an
ornamental name �Bonsai�. In metropolitans, there is craze for Bonsai. These dwarfs
are also spreading to small towns. I am too young to ascertain the life-span of
metropolitan banyan trees. Sometimes, the metropolitan people keep them alive
through various processes from tissue culture to cloning after clinical death of a
dwarf.
Now, I shall narrate the story of my life. I am an inhabitant of a suburban. Let
me keep the name of the place secret, as I don�t want get exposed. A crane mother
helped me see the light of the Nature. Actually, she swallowed some banyan-fruits.
One such seed fell in a hole of a tree with her excreta. The plant was dead and
almost decomposed. It allowed me to grow steadily for about one year. One elderly
brother helped me to attain my youth hood from my infant. My mentor had his own
interest. He owns a grocery shop. It�s first in the row of a series of shops by the
side of a road of my native town. There was some open space by the side of his shop
followed by drain. The people preferred to use the place for toilet. Sometimes, the
ammoniac smell of urine made the life miserable for the inmates and customers who
visited the shop. After some calculative thoughts, my brother planted me at the
vacant place. Initially he used to pour water upon my roots religiously to ensure
my survival. The soil was fertile due to formation of urea from urine. Within
three months fresh leaf appeared on my branches. It gave immense pleasure to my
mentor.
The subsequent development was quite fast. One day a procession for immersion of
the idol of Goddess Manasha was passing by the road. My mentor joined them
joyfully. He then put forward a proposal before the devotees to leave the idol
beneath my shadow. By that time, the participants became tired. They agreed to the
proposal without hesitation. My association with the Goddess Manasha was fruitful.
Gradually people started keeping other idols, especially Goddess Kali, after
worship, by the side of Manasha. My mentor also encouraged them as it deterred
people from using the place as toilet. In the evening he lighted candles and
incent-sticks before the assemblage of God and Goddess. Now, the place has been
established as a place of worship. Lord Shani is also worshipped at this place
every Saturday.
But, there is a sad note as well. Due to the widening of road my counselor has
been evicted. He has to restart his business at another place. I have grown up as
well. My head now touches the overhead electric wires. Every year my branches are
shaped. I gladly bear with the situation. Fortunately for me, no water-supply pipe
has passed close to my vicinity. However, OFC cable of BSNL is passing close to me.
It keeps me apprised about the latest technology. I am hopeful that I can live the
average life-span of a suburban banyan tree.

- October 13, 2018 No comments:

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Autobiography of Taj Mahal

I am very happy today as I am able to write an autobiography on my own self. I

always wanted to do that. First of all let me introduce myself to you all. I am Taj
Mahal, one of the greatest architectures of the world of all time. I am widely
recognized as "the jewel of Muslim art in India and one of the universally admired
masterpieces of the world's heritage". I am a white marble mausoleum located in
Agra, Uttar Pradesh, India. I was built by Mughal emperor Shah Jahan. Behind my
creation there was a history. On June 17, 1631 Shah Jahan�s wife and beloved Mumtaz
Mahal died after delivering her fourteenth child Gauharar. Shah Jahan stood dazed,
unable to comprehend the situation. She had died leaving all her children, her
mother, and relations to his care. But he had promised her never to remarry and to
build the grandest mausoleum over her grave. Her body received a temporary burial
in the Zainabadi Garden in Burhanpur and within six months it was removed to Agra.
Shahjahan had already acquired from Raja Jai Singh a plot of land on the Yamuna
riverside. There on the tomb of dead Mumtaz, my foundation was built on a platform
of 22' high and 313' square, was started in 1632 in a frenzy with thousands of
artisans and labourers, toiling ceaselessly.

My building process goes on with excessive labour and cost, prosecuted with
extraordinary diligence and took 22 years for my completion. Gold and silver
esteemed as common metal, and marble as ordinary stones. Shah Jahan had chosen the
best specimen of designs offered by the famous designers of the world. The
materials to my construction were collected from different parts of the world like
turquoise from Tibet, jade and crystal from China, chrysolite from Egypt, lapis
from Afghanistan, coral from Arabia, amethyst from Persia, quartz from the
Himalayas, malachite from Russia and diamonds from Hyderabad in India. The water
that used in my construction was drawn from the river by a series of purs, an
animal-powered rope and bucket mechanism. Over 1000 elephants were used to
transport my building materials. It took the labour of 22,000 workers to construct
my monument. A board of architects supervised the construction. Lahori is treated
as my main designer. About 50 million rupees were spent to build up me.

Shahjahan issued �farmans� to Raja Jai Singh ordering immediate and constant supply
of the Makrana marble for the tomb which was situated in the centre of my
foundation. An inclined two and a half mile long road ramp was built to carry huge
marble slabs to my top. In absence of wood, the scaffolding was of brick. I was
being risen higher and higher with every sunset. Within nearly six years, my main
edifice of the tomb was complete. In the words of Ustad Ahmad Lahori, chief
architect of the project: " And above this inner dome, which is radiant like the
heart of angels, has been raised another heaven-touching, a guava-shaped
dome�crowning this dome of heavenly rank, the circumference of whose outer girth is
110 yards high flittering like the sun with its summit rising to a total height of
107 yards above the (level of the) ground."

The legendary gold railing of my tomb was subsequently replaced by an octagonal

latticed screen (Mahajar-i-mushababbak) of the most marvelous craftsmanship with an
entrance fashioned of jasper after the Turkish style, joined with gilded fasteners.
It costs over 10,000 rupees but it is the most splendid work of art, well worth its
weight in gold. It stands enclosing the two cenotaphs.

Humayun's Tomb and the tomb of Abdul Rahim Khan-i-Khana in Delhi had served as
model for me with their dome-topped structure raised on a high platform. Akbar's
tomb at Sikandara lent my dominant four-pillar design. Its splendid calligraphic
ornamentation by Amanat Khan inspired Shahjahan to entrust my ornamentation to the
same artist. Each tower is 133 feet tall. The tomb is a wide large structure that
stands on a on a square plinth and it is the central focus of my entire complex. My
central dome is 58 feet in diameter and rises to a height of 213 feet. The tomb of
Itmad-ud-Daula at Agra, built by Nurjahan for her father, had the most innovative
and grand pietra dura decoration, a mosaic of exquisitely colored hard precious
stones inlaid into the white marble. The lyrical rhythm of the floral motifs had an
amazing beauty, which I greatly emulated. The crypt and the cenotaphs at my
surrounding carry pietra dura decoration of a fabulous unexcelled elegance. In
those days the cost of my expenses worked out to 50 lakhs and the annual revenue of
30 villages was earmarked for the regular maintenance of me.

Unwilling to allow the native artisans all the credit for this excellence, Father
Manrique in 1641 advanced the preposterous claim of the Italian jeweler Geronimo
Veroneo as the architect. But this claim could never be proved and remained a
legend only. I derive much of my charm from the sprawling garden laid out in the
Persian Char Bagh style. The fountains and canals provide a grand reflection of
mine, accentuating the Paradise imagery. In my death-inspired monument rows of
cypresses lead the eye to the tomb in white marble standing at the extreme end of
the garden, rather than in the center as at other Mughal tombs.

I was nearly completed within ten years around 1643. Tavernier claimed to have
seen the commencement of my work. I had been started in 1632. It did not take 22
years and twenty thousand men for workers in my construction. In fact, Tavernier
first arrived in Agra in 1641 when I was nearly finished. Later on the tomb of
Satti-ul-Nisa, chief maid of Mumtaz and later on of Jahanara and the mosques built
by Sirhindi Begam and Fatehpuri Begam were added to my complex.

In 1652, Aurangzeb pointed out the leakage in my dome on the northern side. The
garden also was water logged during the rains. These defects were immediately
attended to by Shahjahan. There is no truth in the familiar tale that Shahjahan had
the hands of his chief architect chopped off to prevent building him another
building of my same reputation and beauty. Before he met his fate, this architect,
it is said, was allowed to take in the last look at me to ensure perfection. At
this moment he hammered the dome at the point, which caused leakage. This only adds
to my legendary perfection in all details.

In 1648 Shahjahan had shifted capital to Shahjahanabad. He already had the

Peacock Throne and the Kohinoor. He never remarried but his lust for life continued
unabated. Bernier, Tavernier, and Niccola Mannuci provide salacious details about
the Mughal Emperors private indulgences. As prisoner in the Agra fort during his
last days, Shahjahan fell terribly ill. His parched throat could hardly swallow a
few drops of �sherbat�. Nicola Manucci relates a tale that a faqir in Bijapur had
warned Shahjahan that the day his hands stopped smelling of apples he would die.
Shahjahan recalled the words and smelt his hands. A sigh escaped his dry lips. He
casted his last lingering glance at me from his bed in the Musamman Burj. His tired
eyelids closed on a shattered heart forever. And so died on January 31,1666.

Jahanara planned a funeral procession befitting the grand Mughal. She was herself a
prisoner. Hence she couldn't order people. A small number of insignificant menials
carried the body through the small Watergate to the river. Quietly Shahjahan's body
left the fort where he had embellished the magnificent marble palaces and
pavilions. In the early hours of the day his body was entered into the crypt. It is
rather a poignant end for the fifth Mughal Emperor. It is said that Shahjahan's
favorite elephant Khaliqdad sensing the tragedy also died as the burial was in
progress.

Nicola Manucci adds a spicy tale of Aurangzeb's reaction to Shahjahan's death.

Aurangzeb sent a trusted man to pass a heated iron over his father's feet, and if
the body did not stir, then to pierce the skull down to the throat to make sure
that he was really dead. Orders were sent to I'tibar Khan not to allow his burial
until the arrival of Aurangzeb in person. Once Shahjahan had escaped Bijapur in a
coffin to reach Agra. The son remembered the tricks his father could play. But
court chronicles mention that Aurangzeb reached Agra 25 days after the burial when
all he did was to enact a brief scene of simulated grief, and offer fake
condolences to Jahanara as a ploy to snatch jewels in her possession.

Only Tavernier mentions the beginning of another tomb for Shahjahan, across the
river. Historians and archaeologists dismiss this idea. However, the foundations of
a mammoth building, deep huge wells on which stood plinth structures now exposed
due to erosion of land under water, and lone cupola at the end of a long boundary
wall replicating me, are all too evident of the abandoned enterprises. For once

Tavernier could be believed. His Majesty Firdaus Ashvani, (Shahjahan's posthumous

title) was buried beside the Empress, the only asymmetrical work at me.

Moving further down the history, it was at the end of the 19th century that British
Viceroy Lord Curzon ordered a sweeping restoration project, which was completed in
1908, as a measure to restore what was lost during the Indian rebellion of 1857: I
being blemished by British soldiers and government officials who also deprived the
monument of my immaculate beauty by chiseling out precious stones and lapis lazuli
from my walls. Also, the British style lawns that people see today adding on to my
beauty is remodeled around the same time. Despite prevailing controversies, past
and present threats from Indo-Pak war and environmental pollution, this epitome of
love continuous to shine and attract people from all over the world.

Now more than three centuries have passed and I am seen by millions of visitors
every year continues to retain a romantic aura about me. Some women like Mrs.
Sleeman would exclaim "I would die tomorrow to have such another rover me". I am
still "the grand passion of an Emperor's love," as Edwin Arnold wrote, or as Tagore
said of me "one solitary tear� on the Cheek of time." The subtle play of light on
the white marble dome creates my own moods to which even the hardest cynic
ultimately succumbs. Millions and millions of photographs taken but they fail to
capture the quintessence of my inner secret heart.History of immortal love of Shah
Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal is the integral part of my history. Even today, I symbolize
the true love in this ungrateful, corrupted world.

The End

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Autobiography of Mobile Phone
The day I was born :
I am very happy today as I am able to write an autobiography on my own self. I
always wanted to do that. First of all let me introduce myself to you all. I am a
mobile phone; which you all might owe. I am a Nokia X2-01. I am a very good looking
phone and strong like Shaktimaan; even though my skin is black; but still ladies
get charmed by my appearance and wish to buy me as well. But now it is very
different; I am very old and damaged as well. But still I remember the day I was
born. I was manufactured in one of the factory where many of my kind are
manufacture.

I was totally taken care of as I was very latest phone and people were dying to buy
me as soon as I come to the mobile store. The workers in the factory were very
caring as they took care of me very well and packed me in a box and then send me to
one of the best mobile store. But still I was packed and was kept inside a
storeroom and I was patently waiting for my number to get opened up and be in
front; so that every can praise my beauty and surly I will be taken by someone very
soon.
Out of the mobile store :
I was still in the box at storeroom; as many of me kind were there; so it was
taking a lot of time for me to get out of that stupid storeroom. I really hated
that small Dark room; as there were many other brand mobile phone also who were
totally jealous of me as I was in demand. They used to tease me as I was black; but
no one show my inner beauty. I got totally sick of the place and every day I used
to pray that someone will come and will get e out of this sick place. And finally
that day came; when a thin looking boy; who I guess was the salesmen came up to me
and took me happily and got me out of that storeroom. And here I was in the mobile
store where customers used to come and buy whichever handset they like.

I was very desperate to know who have bought me; but I saw that one couple took me
happily and were saying to each other that their daughter will be happy to get me
as her birthday gift. So my owner was still a mystery to be. And it was making me
madder as I was wondering why a girl would like to have a handset which actually
suits men? Anyways I was on my way to see who was my sweet and lovely owner?
I was in a place almost like heaven :
Finally they got me out of their car and there was a huge party going on and I was
just happy to see the happy face when she will receive me as her birthday gift. The
couple handed me to her with overwhelming joy and I almost got deaf as my lady was
out of mind when she screamed with joy after receiving me. She opened me and I saw
her; a very beautiful looking 18 years old girl. And the very first think this did
is kissed me; I got shy.

The reason she was so happy because I was here first ever cell phone. And that
whole day she was showing me to all of her friends and was even proud of me. She
was not leaving me for a single second and not only this she was awake the whole
night to explore all my features. I was very happy to get such a sweet girl as my
master and her home was just like heaven to me and I never wanted to leave that
place.
Happy days gone; thanks to children :
Everything was going fine; it was almost six months that I was with her. She was
very sweet to me; even the kisses got less; but still she respected me a lot and
whenever she used to keep me anywhere; it was with care and safety; it just felt as
I was a small child. Yes; I remember one time; she was talking to someone; and
suddenly she got so angry that she threw me in her sofa; thank goodness; it was
sofa, otherwise I was almost going to get damaged. But after when she got calm
down; she took me and was looking for any damaged and I am happy that she didn't
found even one. But I cannot forget that day when her sister and her two children
came to stay for two weeks.

Those two little girls were always being me and they used to take me and play with
me when my owner, Ria was not around. She used to scold them not to touch me. But
those two devils were very naughty. And on the worst day of my life; one of the
girl; took me and throw me directly from the balcony; I landed up in the garden
area and broken into pieces; I was helpless; but still active. My owner came
running to me and tries to fix me; but she was not able to. Even she cried for my
accident. Her father then took me and told her that I will give it to some repair
guy; and he will fix it. And your cell phone will be back with you in the best
condition. And there I was taken away from her with a hope I will return to her
very soon.
The repair shop - unlucky for me :
Her father dropped me to the repair shop. The guy seems to be very rude. As soon as
he took me; he threw me in a box; where many cell phones was thrown and they were
in a very bad condition as I was. But they were really nice cell phone and they
were sharing their sad story of how they landed up here in that smelly shop, even I
shared my story too. After almost one week of boring stay; that rude fellow took me
out and repaired me; I was given a new body as my original one was damaged; thanks
to that girl! And finally I was repaired; I was really very happy to see myself; I
was looking so handsome; more than I used to look before.
And now I was simply waiting for my owner's father to come and take me away from
this filthy place. But I guess; god had set something else for me. As I was
waiting; I show a young looking guy coming to the shop to buy a recharge and as the
shop guy was searching for his recharge card; he just took me and kept me in his
pocket hurriedly. And this happened because that shop guy didn't keep me back in
the box; so I was quite easy for anybody to take me and that only happened. I was
very scared; as I didn't knew what is going to happen?
I got a very rude master :
I was shivering like anything. That he took me out of his pocket and I saw my
people were around me and were checking me out and my new owner was telling them
the story how bravely he took me from the store. And that is it; after that I was
never taken care of. He used to make some calls and so many sms through me so
carelessly that only after few months that some of my keys were not working; but
still that shameless guy was using me so roughly that I lost my shine and
functionality too. And one day he gave me to one guy who used to collect waste
stuffs. Yes I was now a waste; I cannot believe that such things would happen to
me. But as it is said that there is always a door open for you. That guy took me
and gave me to a store were waste thing get recycled. And now I have a hope that I
would soon get recycled to something useful and people will use me with care and
respect that I deserve.

Right now I am still in the shop and waiting for to get recycled. But still
sometimes I miss my very first master and I pray to god that when I will get
recycled to a new cell phone' I will again be brought by her only. Let see what
will happen. But now I am feeling very happy to share my life with you all and I
just want to say one thing that whenever you are buying a new cell phone take care
of it very well and don't disrespect it as I got. Then only that cell phone will be
local to you till he takes his last breath.

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Project:XI ...Autobiography of a Coin
Autobiography of a Coin

I was born in the fires of an ancient forge in the hills of the Hindu Kush. Amid
the clatter of hammers and the chatter of Greek, I paused on a battered anvil for
the final pangs of my creation. Beneath me lay a hardened die bearing the image of
my king; atop me pressed another, etched with horsemen and some mirror-image words.
Then the hammer struck, hard and heavy, ringing out the news of my nativity. With
each blow the dies dug deeper into my flesh, stamping their images as father and
mother of a freshly minted coin.
As I look back across two millennia for these earliest memories, I marvel at my
long, now legendary, journey from mine to mint to market to museum. I remember Rome
as a rising power, a century before the first Caesars; I recall the early days of
Emperor Asoka's moral conquests and the building of China's Great Wall. I have
outlived six of the seven wonders of the ancient world. (I am told the Great
Pyramid still stands.) Yet I am no mute ruin: Money talks. Mine is the voice of
history, recorded by numismatists trained to hear my ancient stories of art,
industry, worship, and war. My eloquence can turn back time, and carry us all to
the golden age of my youth, when legends traced my origins to a colony of giant
ants.
Most gold in ancient times was mined by condemned criminals and slaves whose lives
meant little to their taskmasters. In my day, the mines of Egypt were legendary
hives of human misery. But it was said that gold in great abundance could be found
near India, where giant ants piled gold-bearing dust at the entrances of their
tunnels. These ants�nearly the size of dogs, the legend said�defended their burrows
fiercely against men who dared to steal the spoils of their digging. But such
danger was trivial given the normal costs of ancient mining, and so the legend
spread as far as Greece. When Alexander the Great invaded the Indus Valley in the
fourth century BC, his Greek soldiers eagerly searched for this legendary lode.
Local guides displayed for them the dappled skins of the ants themselves, but the
invaders could not find a single mound of precious gold.
Only a few generations later, however, Greek settlers were gathering large
quantities of gold in this very region. These descendants of Alexander's warriors
created a wealthy kingdom called Bactria, famous for its beautiful silver and gold
coins like me. (See Aramco World, May/June 1994.) Where, scholars have long
wondered, did the Greek kings of Bactria find so much precious metal? International
trade constitutes one obvious source, but giant "ants" might be another. Two
thousand years after I was born, explorers discovered that burrowing marmots on the
remote Dansar Plateau, near the borders of India, Pakistan, Afghanistan and China,
do indeed heap mounds of gold-bearing earth at the mouths of their burrows. (See
page 13.) These stocky rodents, called "mountain ants" by the Persians who passed
the legend on to the Greeks, grow to the size of small dogs and pitch up meter-high
hills of auriferous subsoil. Even in modern times, local tribes harvest this gold
in an age-old tradition that recalls the legends of my youth. It is possible, after
all, that inhuman marmots, rather than inhuman misery, brought my gold to the
forges of man.
From the moment I left the royal mint of my king Eucratides, eager hands grasped
for me. I was a beauty then, the envy of every monarch and merchant from the Indus
to the Euphrates. Great artists had carved my parent dies in mirror-image, etching
tiny Greek words and figures backward so that these negative forms would produce
positive impressions on my two faces. The result, when smashed into 8.5 grams (0.3
oz) of gold, is a splendid coin called a stater�a treasure of art as well as
riches. My obverse (the "heads" face produced by the lower, anvil die) boasts a
once-brilliant portrait of King Eucratides, framed in a circle of small dots.
Behind the king's neck trails the royal diadem, a ribbon tied around his head as
the unmistakable emblem of his office. His cloak, engraved in high relief, is that
of a cavalry commander, and his great crested helmet resembles a Boeotian design
lauded by the historian Xenophon as the best headgear for cavalrymen. Attached to
my king's helmet is a frontlet that sweeps back and ends in bull's horns and ears.
Some consider this a symbolic evocation of Alexander the Great's war-horse
Bucephalus ("Ox-head"), who had horns according to some accounts, and who had been
buried by Alexander near my own birthplace. Like Alexander, my king rode with valor
at the head of his elite cavalry and conquered with an aggressive Greek spirit.
In fact, Eucratides called himself "the Great" long before that title was given to
Alexander by the Romans. On my reverse (the "tails" side produced by the upper,
punch die), you can still read the exalted caption "King Eucratides the Great." No
Greek had ever put such words on his coinage before, but modesty was never my
king's style. The armed horsemen who gallop within the inscription are Castor and
Pollux. In Greek mythology, they were the sons of Zeus who would suddenly appear in
a crisis to save the day, much like Eucratides himself, who wrestled the Bactrian
throne from a faltering dynasty. These twins carry palms, brandish spears, and wear
felt caps topped with stars.
Behind the rear legs of the trailing horse, you can discern a Greek monogram, W .
This mark identifies either the mint or the magistrate responsible for my creation.
Nearly every gold and Silver coin minted in Bactria carries such a birthmark, but
the exact meaning of the many symbols has long been lost. For example, some
scholars think that my monogram indicates the city of Balkh or Aornus; others see
only the initials of some unknown Greek official who served a few months as midwife
in the delivery of my king's new money.
If you look past the scars of my long life, I am as beautifully Greek as the
Parthenon itself, though I was born 5000 kilometers (3000 mi) east of Athens. I am
the mind of the West imprinted on the precious metal of the East. The implications
haunt me. Am I propaganda etched on plunder, or the product of a peaceful
integration? Do I personify apartheid or a partnership? The design and distribution
of currency are deliberate, official acts, so money can never be neutral in the
struggles of any society. Look at a nation's coins and you will see the scatter-
shot of its cultural canon: Even a melting-pot like America has a partisan coinage,
its message overwhelmingly white, male, European, and Christian. In ancient
Bactria, I was no less biased. My milieu is entirely Mediterranean, and my
intrinsic value kept me beyond reach of the marginalized poor of the non-Greek
population. Gold circulated over the heads of these farmers and servants, who
relied upon small denominations of bronze or silver for their meager purchases. My
king minted for them some square, bilingual issues struck on an Indian weight
standard, but I belonged to colonial Greek aristocrats, the ruling elite of
Bactria.
Unlike small bronze and silver coins which travel swiftly but never far, my gold
brothers and I ranged into territories quite distant from our monarch's own
marketplaces. Throughout the Middle East, Hellenistic states were quick to accept
gold coins struck on a common Greek standard with recognizable types. I, for
example, would be recognized in any market from the Balkans to Bactria. I had no
restrictive local features, as did my square bilingual cousins, and my denomination
conformed to the Attic Greek system used nearly everywhere in Alexander's old
empire. The range of my travels can be easily documented: In Mesopotamia, for
example, another Greek king so admired my design that he shamelessly stole every
detail for his own coinage.
But globe-trotting gold cannot be too careful, for everywhere, insatiable melting
pots stand ready. My parent dies produced as many as 20,000 siblings identical to
me; now, of them all, only I have survived the gauntlet that gold runs. The most
critical moment in any money's life is the day it ceases to be currency. Once a
coin can no longer circulate in a given place or time, human hands are quick to
convert it into some more useful form. Most of my brothers became bullion again,
their identities soon lost in the issues of other, less ancient kings. Some may
exist still as a statue's thumb or a goblet's lip, but I would not recognize them.
I carry the last known imprint of our shared dies because an unusual circumstance
spared my life.
Painful and defacing though it was, mat occasion added 2000 years to my story and
gave me an unexpected career. A sturdy loop of metal was fused to my reverse side,
right across my galloping horsemen. The attachment was sized to fit a finger, and I
became a signet ring. This ancient operation changed the whole pattern of my life.
My surfaces no longer wore evenly; instead, my obverse suffered horribly as it rode
that band exposed to daily bumps and bruises, while my reverse design was now
shielded from the world. I lived a strange new life on the wrong side of the human
hand, banished from the palm where coins enjoy the camaraderie of active currency.
Who had done this to me?
The Greeks, as far as I could determine, were gone. Shortly after my king's reign,
Bactria fell to successive waves of nomadic invaders. Some of them later settled in
the region and created the Kushan empire, astride theiamous Silk Roads that linked
the empires of Rome and China. One Kushan ruler so exceeded my own king's ambitions
that he proclaimed himself not only "the Great," but also "King of Kings, Son of
Heaven, Caesar"�a title that is simultaneously Iranian, Indian, Chinese, and Roman.
Although I finally found myself outside the closed world of my Greek makers, I felt
welcome among these eclectic Kushans. They borrowed freely from my past. One of
their graves contained a magnificent cameo imitating my design, and signet rings of
Greek style were common elements in their elaborate gold-spangled costumes.
Eventually lost or interred�I cannot recall which�I reluctantly returned beneath
the soil of Central Asia. For twenty centuries I slept; you cannot imagine the
burden of time. My gold kept its luster while all around me the corrosive poisons
of earth ate away the baser metals. Above me, kings gave way to caliphs and khans
as new realms dawned and died. Other gold shone for the civilizations of Muslims,
Mongols, and Mughals while I lay undiscovered, underground, my fame forgotten.
Neither man nor marmot rescued me�until modern times.
Then, I suddenly awoke and saw myself reflected in the wide dark eyes of a jubilant
discoverer. My new guardian considered the expedient of the melting pot, but my
unusual appearance gave him pause. Not just another antique coin, I was a warrior's
signet, well-suited to his own station. He was an Afghan officer, and I found a new
home on his hand. There I was schooled in the long history I had missed. I learned
that Bactria had become Afghanistan, where the weapons were new but the wars
unchanged. Great powers still converged upon this rugged and remote bastion in
order to control the gateways between Europe, Asia, and India. Now, however, this
struggle was called "the Great Game." Intrepid spies from czarist Russia and
imperial Britain crept along the snow-filled passes of Central Asia, and tired
armies clashed in places called Kabul, Kandahar and the Khyber Pass. Rudyard
Kipling and others romanticized the struggle, but brave men did not bleed the less
for all this talk of games. I saw the fight firsthand.
This conflict had at least one happy consequence. British officers sent to India
and serving in the Afghan campaigns soon began to collect the coins of ancient
Bactria. While some melted down the bronzes in order to make cannon, most realized
the historical value of these relics. Silver and gold were the prizes of these men
who avidly sought to rediscover the forgotten kings of my youth. As these beautiful
coins made their way to England, many ended up in the British Museum and stimulated
generations of scholarly research. Lacking much else to guide them, historians and
numismatists found in us a mine of fresh information about such monarchs as my own
Eucratides.
One of the British officers who brought back gold from India was Major Charles H.
Strutt. In the middle of the 19th century, Major Strutt amassed a fair collection
of Bactrian and Indian coins, of which I was certainly the finest. Although he
first saw me as a signet ring on the hand of an Afghan officer, the learned major
immediately recognized me as a coin of great rarity. No other stater of Eucratides
had ever been found, so I was a fabulous prize to be procured as the crown of his
collection. I had no idea what this would mean for my career.
When I passed into Strutt's possession, he decided that I should become a coin
again. In a determined operation to remove the ring, my reverse caught up with the
2000 years of scarring that my obverse had already suffered. The stubborn weld
would not come free of my prancing horses. Like a wad of chewing gum, it sits there
still. Worst of all, in a desperate attempt to cut the blemish away, my new owner
chiseled deep into it and inadvertently sawed clear across my design. His effort to
pry loose the offending lump peeled up the edges of the wound, and let his long
blade bite painfully into my soft metal. Tiny striations on my edge, just in front
of my king's face, betray the grip of the pliers which held me hard during the
terrible ordeal.
My reward for this suffering was the pampered world of the collectible coin. My
numismatic rarity more than compensated for my battered condition, so humans
henceforth cared for me more than in any age since my birth. That esteem conveyed
me more than once to 13 Wellington Street in London, the distinguished home of
Sotheby's, the art auctioneers. My first trip there came in 1874, when Major
Strutt's entire collection ("featuring a unique stater of Eucratides") was
exhibited for sale. On the afternoon of January 26, I was promoted from the
collection of Major Strutt to that of a Colonel Strutt. I am the only specimen the
colonel bought at the auction, perhaps bidding high for sentimental reasons.
Colonel Strutt, perhaps a relative of the seller's, knew my colorful story and won
me with a bid of �25, far more than I would ever fetch again.
Many years later, Colonel Strutt sold me to a collector whose appetite for precious
metal knew no bounds. Hyman Montagu gobbled up gold and silver coins like a man
possessed by the need to possess. A successful lawyer, he found leisure in
collecting coins and medals by the thousands; he also produced scholarly
publications based on his acquisitions. He began collecting in 1878, and in 1882
became a member (and later an officer) of the Royal Numismatic Society. In fact, he
had a considerable reputation in the field long before he purchased his first
ancient coin in 1889. He soon owned many Greek masterpieces, as well as the world's
largest private collection of Roman gold.
I arrived as one of the earliest ornaments of Montagu's collection of ancient
coins. In 1892, I figured among his 29 "Unpublished and Rare Greek Coins" in an
article he wrote for The Numismatic Chronicle in London; this occasioned the first
publication of my photograph. Montagu mentioned my former career as a signet ring,
and the damage done by my conversion back to coin. He must have gotten the story
from Colonel Strutt himself as part of my noteworthy pedigree.
Hyman Montagu died a few years later, on February 18, 1895; his huge collection was
hauled to Sotheby's for a series of memorable sales. I was the 774th specimen
listed in one of the many auctions needed to disperse his accumulation of coins. It
took six days to sell off the Greek coins alone, for a total yield of nearly �9000.
I was one of six Bactrian coins auctioned on the sixth day, at a price of six
pounds. Thus, on March 28, 1896, I left Sotheby's for the distinguished collection
of Henry Osborne O'Hagan. Like Montagu, my new master was a determined buyer; he
bought 49 of Montagu's Greek coins. I found in my new home the happy company of
childhood friends, the coins of other Bactrian kings. Eventually I settled
alongside four silver issues of Eucratides, lucky survivors of the ages. After a
dozen years, however, O'Hagan chose to "relinquish the pursuit" of numismatics.
Back to Wellington Street I went, my cousins and I, to the auction block again.
On May 9,1908, my future was determined by a disappointing bid of little more than
two pounds, the victorious offer of Charles Theodore Seltman. His father had been
present in 1896 when O'Hagan paid three times that amount for me. My injured pride
now matched my injured appearance, but at least I was in the possession of an
illustrious scholar. Destined to become an expert in classics and archaeology,
curator of the Fitzwilliam Museum and an accomplished author, the younger Seltman
carried me off to Cambridge University. His academic acumen later earned him medals
from the Royal Numismatic Society, the Royal Society of Arts, and the American
Numismatic Society in New York.
In November, 1921 I was purchased from Seltman by the president of the latter
society, the incomparable Edward T. Newell; he paid less than $14. I should have
felt flattered, for Newell never paid more than a few dollars for any coin. A Yale
graduate and scion of a wealthy family whose fortune had been made selling wagons
to American pioneers, Newell amassed an incredible coin collection and also wrote a
small library of numismatic books and articles. His reputation placed the United
States in the forefront of scientific research on ancient coins, and he devoted
untold energy and resources to the development of his beloved American Numismatic
Society. When he died in 1941, I was one of 87,603 coins he bequeathed to the
institution over which he had presided since 1916.
Safely off the market at last, I thus completed my odyssey from ancient mine to
modern museum. Wars might ravage the lands through which I had passed most of my
life, but Manhattan offered permanence, peace, and protection. In a stately
building on Audubon Terrace, overlooking the Hudson River, I still reside in a tiny
box in the sliding drawer of a locked cabinet in a guarded vault. I have been
watched over by some of the great names in Greek numismatic science, and visited by
experts on Bactrian history intent on the stories I can tell. But�unless there is
another reversal of fortune in my future, like the many in my past�my traveling
days are done, and I have bid good-bye to the busy world beyond these sheltering
walls. The myriad acts of kings, Caesars, and gold-giving lords have brought me
here to rest.
Nearly two hundred coins of Eucratides surround me now, but none of them is gold. I
am still quite exceptional and am often mentioned in publications; in 1968,
however, I ceased to be unique. After all those centuries, another stater of
Eucratides finally surfaced in eastern Iran. It is a little lighter in weight and
has a different monogram, and it has none of my scars, nor my romantic history. It
lives with the huge 20-stater medallion of Eucratides in the Bibliotheque Nationale
of Paris. More surprising still, since 1993 a stunning "crowd" of about 10 more
Eucratides staters has been parading through the major auction houses of Europe and
America. All of these new specimens appear as fresh as the day they were minted;
most were struck from the same dies�though not the dies that gave me birth�and were
never scattered into circulation. They must have been buried before they had much
chance to live. Perhaps part of a lost military payroll, or of an emergency hoard
hidden during the wars of my king's reign, these examples show how beautiful I once
was. I marvel that my brothers can bring nearly 4000 times my last purchase price,
not adjusting for inflation�or for the value of my adventures.
What am I then worth? I refuse to name a price. What are dollars or dinars to me,
the illustrious ancestor of so much modern money? I am the golden voice of a great
voyage that may only have just begun. I am more than money, and these memoirs serve
notice that I am not yet spent.

- October 13, 2018 No comments:

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Monday, October 8, 2018
SONNETS OF SHAKESPEARE
WAITING FOR THE UPLOAD
- October 08, 2018 No comments:
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DESCRIPTION OF CAR FESTIVAL OF KRISHNA. (MY BIRTH PLACE ___ BY ___NIRAD C.
CHAUDHURI
In author's birthplace, the quarter-to-four-anna zamindar house was famous for the
car festival of Lord Krishna that was held in its grounds. That festival was held
once in every year during the monsoon season. Though it rained every year, the huge
crowd gathered at the festival ground. Also the children like the author went to
the fair under the supervision of the servants. Children were given money to enjoy
the fair and buy toys, dolls. In the fair, there were variety of different toys.
The toy called "Spoilt Baby" was most popular toy among the children. Also there
were clay made toys like cats, hounds in chains, cows, birds etc. Those toys seemed
very real in colour and design. The children whistled the palm or coconut leave
trumpets. When the car of Lord Krishna was drawn, no child was allowed to go near
the car as it might cause fatal accident. Sometimes, as a belief, few men immolated
their lives under the wheel of the car. Thus the car festival of Lord Krishna was
celebrated in the birthplace of the author.