books and fun.

Wednesday, 23 December 2015

Whopping Walter Hudson

Walter Hudson was once listed in The Guinness Book of World Records as the heaviest man on earth. But he died at Hempstead, New York, at the .30 of 46. He was 183 cm tall and 274 cm around the waist. Hudson gained worldwide notoriety as ‘Whopping Walter ' four year ago—he had 540 kg weight then—when he got stuck in his bedroom door. Being wedged there for about four hours. he had to be extricated by eight firemen.

Walter Hudson was born in 1945 at Brooklyn, USA. He began gorging at the age of six. When he was 15 he became so obese that his legs collapsed underneath him. He had to remain confined to bed except for the time when his family moved to Hempstead in 1970. He was taken in a car then with his 266 kg wrought and his weight broke the seat.

Hudson would start his day with a breakfast of two pounds of bacon, 32 sausages. a dozen eggs, a loaf (of bread,) jam and coffee. For lunch he would take four big-sized rice bowls, four double cheese burgers, eight boxes of fried potatoes, six pies and six large bottles of coca-cola. In dinner, he would take six roasted coma, half-a-dozen jams, six or seven baked potatoes and a whole of apple pie. In between he would eat a chicken or two, followed by noodles, string beans, six large bottles of soda, bxg sized sandwiches and much ice-cream. Most of the times. he would also watch television, listen to tapes and read the Bible.

Hudson grew so heavy that he was advised against sitting up for more than five minutes. He would take one hour to cover six yards to the bathroom. In 1987 he got wedged in the door-way. However, Dick Gregory, the author of the Slim Safe Diet scheme came to his help. Gregory put Hudson on a 1,200 calorie-a day diet of raw fruit and orange juice. Within three months Hudson had shed 178 kg. He hoped to fulfil his various ambitions like visiting his mother’s grave, riding on the New York subway etc. But it was never to be.

Hudson died of a heart attack. He weighed 508 kg then at 46. His dead body had to be removed through a hole made in the wall of his bedroom. He was unmarried.

Reaching out

The narrator speaks for all the people. He says that they are poor but not stupid. Despite being illiterate, they still live. However, they want to know why they should become literate. Learning to sign only is not being literate. They would like tojoin the literacy classes if they are taught how not to depend on others any more. They too want to read and understand newspapers, simple books, write letters etc.

What, however. pains them is why do their teachers feel so superior ? The teachers behave as if the people are fools and little children. They feel that the teachers may know more things than them. But they also know s lot which the teachers my not know. They want only to be treated like adults and dealt with as friends by the teachers.

They feel that literacy should help them live better. They wonder if this programme will teach them to think and work together and lead a better

life. If ‘doing’ is made a part of ‘learning' they all would join it. They want a straight answer only,

This will help them decide if they should become literate or not. However. if they feel that they are being duped again with hollow promises they would say 'For God's sake. leave us alone’. They don’t want empty promises.

Swami's new school

Homework given to students in the Board High School was very heavy as compared to that given in the Albert Mission School. Because of it, Sweminathsn sometimes thought that he should not have left his old school. The teachers at the former were pitiless beings. Besides the heavy homework, there was a compulsory drill three evenings n week, scout classes and games. A single absence meant cane cuts. The Headmaster of the Board School was a hateful creature. But the Head of the Mission School had looked graceful.

All this left little scope for tune in Swaminathan’s life. He had to rise early in the morning and hurried through his homework to reach the school as the first. bell rang. But he would usually get late.

He hated the ringing sound of the school bell. At school he had to be glued to his seat til] four- tln‘rty in the evening except a break of one hour in the afternoon. He would sit in the second row under the teacher’s nose. When the fourthirty bell rang, Swaminathan would stretch his aching lingers. He did not express any joy at the last bell. Helndto go to the drill ground to do drill for forty-five minutes thereafter. The Drill teacher was also pitiless“. He used to make the students swing on the horizontal and parallel bars. He never cared for their safety.

After the drill. Swaminathan would run home. He would drink coffee and rush off to the cricket field which was far away. He covered the distance halfrunning. half walking When he reached there. the sun was about to at All othar players would wait for Swammathan. They would have no interest in the game by that time. When Swaminathan reached the playing gmund. Rajam would ask the reason for getting late. Swaminathan blamed the drill class. It was the reason why he had not played even four times since the new bats and balls had arrived.

All the boys felt. too bred to play at that time of the day. However, the younger boy was persuaded to bowl for a while and Swaminathan batted.

Playing by Swaminathun went on till it became too dark to see anything. The ball would be lost in the darkness. When it was found after much efforts, the captain forbade further playing. Stumps would. than. be drawn at the day. Swaminathan would, . mouth with and Mani. They would discuss the day‘s game, the players‘ improvements, drawbacks. w till a peon came to inform. Rajam that his tutor had come.

A tale of three villages

Mr. Sunday Nana lives in Koko village, Nigeria, with his wife and four children. The village is like other African villages—beautiful and noisy. Nana's house is like other houses having a roof of rusting iron sheets.

However, there is one difference : there are three large empty metal drums before Nana’s house. They have been marked with the skull and crossbones though the red paint has somewhat flaked away. At a distance of 200 m near the village stream, there is a huge and high pile of such drums. Some of them are oorrodina. Their slimy contents leek out and fall into the stream. The villagers use its water for drinking. Some drums emit smoke during the midday heat, while the others. look swollen or burst.

Nana told that those drums were unloaded there five years ago by many big lorries. No one knew what was inside them. They had given the chief some money in a brown paper bag and then they went away. Three months ago. Thomas Agonyo, a University Student in Lagos, pent all day to examine those drums. later, he called a meeting of the villagers and told them that the drums had come from Italy and contained poisonous chemicals.

Nana had a troubled look on his face. He told that 13 persons had died in the last live years. Such gainful deaths were never seen before. Lots of children were sick They wrote to the Government of Italy and asked the Government to take away the drum but to no avail. Instead, they have been asked to settle at another place. But they have no money to buy land. They will have to stay there and death would be their neighbour.

Tuesday, 22 December 2015

Seeing in the mind.

This extract [forms the short introduction to Nina Bawden’s book: Sightlines.

I HAVE ONLY once written a book. not to order, exactly, but to please a particular audience; a girl of seven who was, as she put it. 'a little bit blind.’

We had gone on holiday with her family, friends who had children much the same age as ours, renting an old manse on the side of a loch on the island of Mull. Janey—that is the name I gave her in the book I wrote for her—was the youngest of four children. The older two were perfectly sighted. The third child, a boy. had been born with infantile glaucoma. He could see out of one eye, the other was glass; a useful prop for a boy with a mischievous nature. The first time 1 bathed him, along with my son the same age. I steeled myself to take his eye out and wash it as I had seen his mother do, intending to be absolutely casual about it as she was. But I was secretly terrified and he knew it . . .. He called my bluE. He took the eye out himself, hopped out of the bath chased me round the bathroom with it. Serve me rightJaney had less sight than her brother She could only see a little light and shade. One day. the other children decided to climb to a particularly enticmg cave they had spotted on the face of a cliff that was too steep for Janey—and for me. too. since I was going through a vertiginous period So she and I walked round the loch instead and talked about the old story the locals had told us about the Lake Horse. a great home that was to be seen sometimes. galloping on the surface of the loch, a greedy creature of trust and terror thnt took souls to keep it company in the deep water. Janey and I decided that this was Just a story to frighten children and keep them away from the. dangerous loch. Then she sighed. They won‘t let me do dangerous things.‘

She had wanted to climb to the cave With my children and her brothers and sister She sighed again. Then she said, ‘I wish you'd write a book about a blind girl, Nina.‘

‘What sort of book?

She said. very promptly. ‘A book about Jewel thieves and caves. And a girl who does something brave.‘

We discussed what a blind girl could do that was special; something a sighted person would find difficult. Then, that night in the creaky old manse, we were given the answer There was a storm and all the lights in the house went out. (We were an improvident lot and had neglected to buy candles. Or perhaps they were provided and we had simply not seen them.) The mouse was full of crooked

corridors and unexpected stairs. The only person who was able to find her way around, the necessary guide when one of us wanted to go to the. lavatory. was the the seven-year-old. ‘I can see how to go in my mind.’

She could find her way in the dark. So, in my story, the children— Janey and her brother and Perdita, the witch‘s daughter. are abandoned by the wicked jevel thieves in a dark cave and Janey leads the way out to daylight and safety. The Witch’s Daughter is a conventional adventure story, and I hope Janey enjoyed it, but writing it, trying to imagine what she could ‘see in her mind’, was the real adventure for me.

Not, alas, for everyone. A couple of years ago an American company made a film of the novel. I was well paid but not consulted. This happens sometimes, and I was not particularly dismayed, merely interested to see what they made of it. And when I finally saw the film I could hardly believe it. It was quite well done, my thirteen—year-old granddaughter caught her breath and sobbed in the right places. But they had left out the blind girl. No Janey! One of my grandson said, it was like making Hamlet without Hamlet.’

‘I’m not Shakespeare,’ I said. But I took his point.

Nina Bawden"