A Devoted Son
Rakesh is as devoted to his parents as he is committed to his
work. An ideal son, surgeon and husband, he comes up in life the
hard way. When at the peak of success and fame, he loses his
mother and watches his old father going to pieces. How does he
balance his professional obligations against his personal duties?
Let us find out.
THE results appeared in the morning papers. Rakesh scanned
them. Then he went up the steps to the verandah where his
father sat sipping his morning tea, and bowed down to touch
his feet.
“A first division, son?” his father asked, reaching for the papers.
“At the top of the list, Papa,” Rakesh murmured. “First in
the country.”
The family whooped and danced. The whole day long
visitors streamed into the house to congratulate the parents
and to slap Rakesh on the back. They filled the house and
scanned: examined carefully whooped: made a lot of noise in celebration
the garden with the sounds and colours of a festival. Rakesh
was the first son in the family to go to school and then medical
college. At last the fruits of his parents’ sacrifice and his
own labour had arrived, golden and glorious.
To everyone who came to him to say “Mubarak, Varmaji,
your son has brought you glory”, the father said, “Yes, and
do you know what is the first thing he did when he saw the
The Essay on Child/ parent relationship in the Little Boy Crying?
The poem, Little Boy Crying, written by Mervyn Morris is mainly about father and sons relationship. Poet shows the two main themes through this relationship; fathers love towards his child and his effort to lead his child into a right world in life. Mervyn Morris explores the child and parents relationship by using second person narration and language techniques such as allusion and emotive words. ...
results this morning? He came and touched my feet. He
bowed down and touched my feet.” This moved many of the
women and men in the crowd and they shook their heads in
wonder and approval of such exemplary behaviour. “One
does not often see such behaviour in sons any more,” they
all agreed.
And that was only the beginning, the first step in a
sweeping ascent to the heights of fame and fortune. The
thesis he wrote for his MD brought Rakesh still greater glory.
He won a scholarship. He went to the United States of
America where he pursued his career in the most prestigious
of hospitals. What was more, he came back. He returned to
that small yellow house in the shabby colony right at the
end of the road. And the first thing he did on entering the
house was to slip out of the embraces of his sisters and
ascent: climb/going up MD: Doctor of Medicine prestigious: reputed
Brothers and bow down and touch his father’s feet.
His mother gloated over the strange fact that he had not
Brought home a foreign wife as all her neighbors had
Warned her he would. Instead he agreed, almost without
Argument, to marry a girl she had picked out for him in her
Own village. She quietly slipped into the household and
settled in like a charm and gave birth to a baby boy.
For some years Rakesh worked in the city hospital. He
quickly rose to the top position as director and then left the
hospital to set up his own clinic. He took his parents in his
new car to see the clinic when it was built. He now
became known not only as the best but also the richest
doctor in town.
However, all this was not accomplished in the wink of an
eye. It was the achievement of a lifetime. At the time he set
up his clinic his father had grown into an old man having
retired from his post at the kerosene dealer’s depot at which
he had worked for forty years. His mother had died soon
after, and it was Rakesh who ministered to her in her last
illness and who sat pressing her feet at the last moment—
The Essay on United States Life Father Man
As a young boy growing up in a military family, life was not an easy task. Our house was often run in an orderly proficient military manner and excuses were not tolerated. My father spent sixteen years of his life in the United States Air Force and decided he needed a change and transferred over to the United States Navy to finish out eight more years of dedicated service, where he would finally ...
such a son as few women had borne.
It had to be admitted that Rakesh was a devoted son and
an exceptionally good-natured man. He had managed
somehow to obey his parents and humour his wife and show
concern equally for his children, his patients and his friends.
He had also emerged an excellent doctor, a really fine surgeon.
How one man— and a man born to illiterate parents, his
father having worked for a kerosene dealer and his mother
having spent her life in the kitchen—had achieved, combined
and conducted such a range of virtues, no one could
understand, but all acknowledged his talent and skill.
gloated: expressed joy and satisfaction over one’s own success (used in a
derogatory sense) in the wink of an eye: very quickly/‘in the twinkling of an
eye’ ministered: attended to (like a nurse)
It is a fact, however, that talent and skill, if displayed for too
long, cease to dazzle. Having retired from work and having
lost his wife, the old father very quickly went to pieces. He
developed many complaints and fell ill frequently. Even his
son could no longer make out when it was something of
significance and when it was merely a peevish whim. One
minute, he sat huddled on his string-bed and the next,
stretched out suddenly and lay absolutely still. The whole
family flew around him in a flap, wailing and weeping, and
cease to dazzle: lose their charm and attraction went to pieces: lost control
over himself; was broken completely peevish whim: unreasonable annoyance
in a flap: in a state of nervous excitement/confusion
then suddenly he sat up, stiff and gaunt. And he did this
once too often.
It was Rakesh who brought him his morning tea in the
old man’s favourite brass tumbler. He sat at the edge of the
bed and discussed or, rather, read out the morning news to
his father. It made no difference to him that his father made
no response. It was Rakesh, too, who, on returning from the
clinic in the evening, persuaded the old man to come out of
his room, and take the evening air out in the garden. On
The Essay on Manolin Is Not The Blood Son Man Boy Father
You might consider that Manolin's name means "little hand." There is a theme in epic literature (and, as I have argued elsewhere, this novel is an epic! ) of the father passing his skill and knowledge to a son, handing it down, we say in English. Though Manolin is not the blood son of Santiago, he is a symbolic son, and probably sees Santiago as more of a father than his own father. Santiago has a ...
summer nights he saw to it that the servants carried out the
old man’s bed to the lawn. He himself helped his father down
the steps and onto the bed, soothing him and settling him
down for the night under the stars.
All this was very gratifying for the old man. What was
not so gratifying was the strict supervision of his diet.
One day the old man asked his daughter-in-law to make
him a dish of sooji halwa, and ate it with a saucerful of
cream. Soon after, Rakesh marched into the room, not
with his usual respectful steps but with the confident
strides of the famous doctor, and declared, “No more
halwa for you, Papa. If you must have something sweet,
Veena will cook you a little kheer, just a little rice and
milk. But nothing fried, nothing rich. We can’t have this
happening again.”
The old man who had been lying stretched out on his
bed, weak and feeble after a day’s illness, gave a start at the
very sound and tone of these words. He opened his eyes and
stared at his son in disbelief. A son who actually refused his
father the food he craved? But Rakesh had turned his back
to him and was cleaning up the litter of bottles and packets
on the medicine shelf.
gaunt: weak and haggard (on account of illness) gratifying: pleasing/satisfying
start: sudden, quick movement (out of fear or shock)
Halwa was only the first item to be crossed off the old
man’s diet. One delicacy after the other went—everything
fried to begin with, then everything sweet, and eventually
everything, everything that the old man enjoyed. The meals
that arrived for him on the shining stainless steel tray twice
a day were frugal—dry bread, boiled lentils, boiled
vegetables. If he called for another helping, Rakesh himself
would come to the door, gaze at him sadly and shake his
head, saying, “Now, Papa, we must be careful. We can’t risk
another illness, you know.” The old man tried to bribe his
grandchildren into buying him sweets. “Run down to the
shop at the crossroads and buy me thirty-paise worth of
White’s Essay Lake Man Son
Evaluation of E. B. White's Essay E. B. White's essay, "Once More To The Lake," is an enjoyable story full of detailed description and emotion. In the beginning, this author uses specific words and phrases to describe the setting, a camp at a lake in Maine that the main character used to visit when he was a young boy with his father.This part of the essay, .".. this holy spot-the coves and ...
jalebis, and you can spend the remaining twenty paise on
yourself. Eh? Understand? Will you do that?” He got away
with it once or twice but then was found out. Rakesh came
storming into the room. “Now, Papa, are you trying to turn
delicacy: good, delicious food frugal: scanty/not lavish
my little son into a liar? Quite apart from spoiling your own
stomach, you are spoiling him as well—you are encouraging
him to lie to his own parents. You should have heard the
lies he told his mother when she saw him bringing those
jalebis wrapped up in a filthy newspaper.” The old man
sighed and lay down in the corpse position. But that worried
no one any longer.
There was only one pleasure left for the old man now—
visits from elderly neighbours. These were not frequent as
his contemporaries were mostly as decrepit and helpless
as he, and few could walk the length of the road to visit
him any more. Old Bhatia, next door, occasionally came
out of his yard, walked down the bit of road and came in
at Varma’s gate to collapse onto the stone plinth under a
tree. If Rakesh was at home, he would help his father
down the steps into the garden and settle him on his
bed under the tree and leave the two old men to chew
betel-leaves and discuss the ills of their individual bodies
with combined passion.
“At least you have a doctor in the house to look after
you,” sighed Bhatia.
“Look after me?” cried Varma, his voice cracking like
an ancient clay jar. “He does not even give me enough
to eat.” “What?” said Bhatia, the white hairs in his ears twitching.
“Doesn’t give you enough to eat? Your own son?”
“My own son. If I ask him for one more piece of bread, he
says, ‘No, Papa, I weighed out the atta myself and I can’t
allow you to have more than two hundred grams of cereal a
day’. He weighs the food he gives me, Bhatia—he has scales
to weigh it on. That is what it has come to.”
corpse position: like a dead body decrepit: old and weak
book.pmd 22 2/28/2006, 2:53 AM
“Never,” murmured Bhatia in disbelief. “Is it possible, even
in this evil age, for a son to refuse his father food?”
The Doctor(Movie) My Essay
This film portrays what happens to one member of the medical establishment when he faces problems normally confronted only by patients. Dr. Jack MacKee, a cool, self-centered surgeon who is in total control of his successful life until he is diagnosed as having cancer of the throat. Then he finds himself subject to the negligence, indifference, strict regulations, and humiliations which many have ...
Old Varma nodded. “That is how he treats me—after I
have brought him up, given him an education, made him a
great doctor. Great doctor! This is the way great doctors treat
their fathers, Bhatia.”
There was cold comfort in complaining to neighbours and,
on such a miserable diet, Varma found himself slipping,
weakening and soon becoming a genuinely sick man.
Powders and pills and mixtures were not only brought in
when dealing with a crisis like an upset stomach but
became a regular part of his diet supplanting the natural
foods he craved.
The quantities of vitamins and tonics he was made to
take were not altogether useless. They kept him alive and
even gave him a kind of strength that made him hang on. It
was as though he were straining at a rope, trying to break
it, and it would not break. It was still strong. He only hurt
himself, trying.
In the evening, that summer, the servants would come
into his room, grip his bed, one at each end, and carry it
out to the veranda, there setting it down with a thump that
jarred every tooth in his head. In answer to his agonised
complaints they said Doctor Sahib had told them he must
take the evening air, and the evening air they would make
him take. Then Veena, his daughter-in-law, would appear
and pile up the pillows under his head till he was propped
up stiffly into a sitting position that made his head swim
and his back ache. “Let me lie down,” he begged. “I can’t sit
up any more.”
“Try, Papa. Rakesh said you can if you try,” she said, and
drifted away to the other end of the veranda where her
transistor radio blared cinema tunes.
So there he sat, like some stiff corpse, terrified, gazing
out on the lawn where his grandsons played cricket.
supplanting: replacing/in place of jarred: hurt agonised: miserable
blared: played noisily
The sky-blue Ambassador drove in smartly and the doctor,
the great doctor, all in white, stepped out. Someone ran up
to take his bag from him, others to escort him up the steps.
“Will you have tea?” his wife called, turning down the
The Essay on Doctor In The House
“Doctor in the House” by R. Gordon The text under analysis is taken from the book “Doctor in the House” written by Richard Gordon. Richard Gordon is the pen name used by Gordon Ostlere, an English surgeon and anaesthetist. As Richard Gordon, Ostlere has written numerous novels, screenplays for film and television and accounts of popular history, mostly dealing with the practice of medicine. He is ...
transistor set, “or a cold drink? Shall I fry you some
samosas?” But he did not reply or even glance in her
direction. Ever a devoted son, he went first to the corner
where his father sat gazing at some undefined spot in the
dusty yellow air that swam before him. He did not turn his
head to look at his son.
“Papa,” Rakesh said, tenderly, sitting down on the edge
of the bed and reaching out to press his feet.
Old Varma tucked his feet under him, out of the way,
and continued to gaze stubbornly into the yellow air of the
summer evening.
“Papa, I’m home.”
Varma’s hand jerked suddenly, in a sharp, derisive
movement, but he did not speak.
“How are you feeling, Papa?”
“I’m dying,” he croaked. “Let me die, I tell you.”
“Papa, you’re joking,” his son smiled at him, lovingly. “I’ve
brought you a new tonic to make you feel better. You must
take it, it will make you feel stronger again. Here it is. Promise
me you will take it regularly, Papa.”
“Keep your tonic,” he said bitterly. “I want none—I won’t
take any more of your medicines.” And he swept the bottle
out of his son’s hand with a wave of his own, suddenly grand,
suddenly effective. Rakesh jumped, for the bottle was
smashed and thick brown syrup had splashed up, staining
his white trousers. His wife let out a cry and came running.
The old man gave one push to the pillows at his back and
dislodged them so he could sink down on his back, quite
flat again. He closed his eyes and pointed his chin at the
ceiling, like some dire prophet, groaning. All around him
was hubbub once again, noise and attention.
ANITA DESAI
(b.1937)
[abridged and slightly modified]
