We would like to invite you to take part in a new project called "From Stories to Books".
The Stories for Everyone Team have been, for some time, gathering and selecting books that provide some sort of reflection on the fundamental ethical principles of
our society, such as solidarity, courage, honesty, respect for differences and a sense of justice, matters that have deserved the attention of writers from various
nationalities.
Therefore, the Stories for Everyone Team proposes to send, together with the usual weekly stories, and also free of charge, full texts of selected books.
In case you are interested in receiving each week, by email, a chapter of an extensive reading book, all you have to do is send an email to
books@storiesforeveryone.com or stories4ev@gmail.com, or reply to this email by writing the following sentence in the subject field:
Hoping that this new proposal will meet your utmost interest, we look forward to your reply.
The Great Chain of Being
My father was a man who believed history repeated itself. Not in the large ways, of nations and of wars, but in the smaller ways of families. He was a religious man, and he believed that the patterns of the universe were fixed in place, infinite but static, revealed to the devout through thepure concentration of prayer. What is destiny, and what is in the power of a single individual? Ask my father and he would have answered that everything is destiny. That´s the answer of our religion,the answer he was obliged to give. That was the answer he applied to us, his children.
He was small, but powerful, with a smooth bald head that made him seem both wise and ageless. In those days before our country´s independence he had great influence, and he carried himself with a dignity that was almost regal. I understand nowthat the legacies he gave us were not more than the quick glint of memory, the sudden surfacing of a half-remembered dream. But at the timeI believed, we all did, that they came to him through some kind of divine inspiration, tumbling from his lips without warning, like coins spilling suddenly from a shaft of sunlight.
"Jamaluddin," he would say, peering at my brother with a gaze both terrible and intent, "takes after his great-uncle Sayed in every trait." And we would remember our great-uncle, who stood straight and clear-eyed even as an old man, who had led the army against the communist rebellion before we were even born. From that day on we would call our brother Sayed, at first jokingly, later in all seriousness, until his real name was only a notation in my father´s files. One brother took after a healer, another resembled an ancient trader. When my sisters were born my father claimed they were direct images of my twin aunts, the most beautiful women in my father´s village. Years later, when he said this about them, you could see their faces glow, you could see the way they pulled themsel ves up taller, straightened their shoulders, tossed back their hair, and smiled the smiles of lovely women.
Of his thirteen children I was the seventh, the first girl, and the one who waited longest for this legacy of names. My father was an important man, some would say a great one, and we had been trained not to intrude upon his days. Nonetheless, I strayed into his vision now and then, hoping to inspire him. I sang beneath his window, thinking of Shala, the great poet in the family, who soothed whole villages with her songs. I brought him plates of biscuits I had made, cut with a childish hand, thinking of my grandmother, whose house I remembered as being always full of the sweet smells of coconut and spice. My father took these offerings, absently; he ran his knuckles across my shoulder blades when he passed me, singing, in the hall. But although it was my turn, he never looked down twice. I remained Eshlaini, I had no other name.
One day my mother found me weeping in the kitchen.
(To be continued in the PDF attachment)
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Love you forever
A mother held her new baby and very slowly rocked him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
And while she held him, she sang:
I´ll love you forever,
I´ll like you for always,
As long as I´m living
my baby you´ll be.
The baby grew. He grew and he grew and he grew. He grew until he was two years old, and he ran all around the house. He pulled all the books off the shelves. He pulled all the food out of the refrigerator and he took his mother´s watch and flushed it down the toilet. Sometimes his mother would say, "This kid is driving me CRAZY!"
But at night time, when that two-year-old was quiet, she opened the door to his room, crawled across the floor, looked up over the side of his bed; and if he was really asleep she picked him up and rocked him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
While she rocked him she sang:
I´ll love you forever,
I´ll like you for always,
As long as I´m living
my baby you´ll be.
The little boy grew. He grew and he grew and he grew. He grew until he was nine years old. And he never wanted to come in for dinner, he never wanted to take a bath, and when grandma visited he always said bad words. Sometimes his mother wanted to sell him to the zoo!
But at night time, when he was asleep, the mother quietly opened the door to his room, crawled across the floor and looked up over the side of the bed. If he was really asleep, she picked up that nine-year-old boy and rocked him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
And while she rocked him, she sang:
(To be continued in the PDF attachment)
__________________________
Posted by: Stories for Everyone - AS <sg@storiesforeveryone.com>
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