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  • ইংরেজি গদ্য় পড়তে ভালবাসেন, অথচ পি.জি. ওডহাউস প্রিয় লেখকের তালিকায় নেই - এমন মানুষ আমার সীমিত পরিচিতির মধ্যে খুব বেশি দেখিনি। আপনাদের কার কার পছন্দের লেখক স্যার পেলহ্য়াম ?

    আমার খুব প্রিয় একটা গল্প টুকে দেওয়ার লোভ সামলাতে পারলাম না ।
  • CJA | 99.238.***.*** | ১২ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ১৮:৫৯688767
  • HELPING FREDDIE
    I don't want to bore you, don't you know, and all that sort of rot, but I must tell you about dear old Freddie Meadowes. I'm not a flier at literary style, and all that, but I'll get some writer chappie to give the thing a wash and brush up when I've finished, so that'll be all right.
    Dear old Freddie, don't you know, has been a dear old pal of mine for years and years; so when I went into the club one morning and found him sitting alone in a dark corner, staring glassily at nothing, and generally looking like the last rose of summer, you can understand I was quite disturbed about it. As a rule, the old rotter is the life and soul of our set.
    Quite the little lump of fun, and all that sort of thing.
    Jimmy Pinkerton was with me at the time. Jimmy's a fellow who writes plays—a deuced brainy sort of fellow—and between us we set to work to question the poor pop-eyed chappie, until finally we got at what the matter was.
    As we might have guessed, it was a girl. He had had a quarrel with Angela West, the girl he was engaged to, and she had broken off the engagement. What the row had been about he didn't say, but apparently she was pretty well fed up. She wouldn't let him come near her, refused to talk on the phone, and sent back his letters unopened.
    I was sorry for poor old Freddie. I knew what it felt like. I was once in love myself with a girl called Elizabeth Shoolbred, and the fact that she couldn't stand me at any price will be recorded in my autobiography. I knew the thing for Freddie.
    “Change of scene is what you want, old scout,” I said. “Come with me to Marvis Bay. I've taken a cottage there. Jimmy's coming down on the twenty-fourth. We'll be a cosy party.”
    “He's absolutely right,” said Jimmy. “Change of scene's the thing. I knew a man. Girl refused him. Man went abroad. Two months later girl wired him, 'Come back. Muriel.' Man started to write out a reply; suddenly found that he couldn't remember girl's surname; so never answered at all.”
    But Freddie wouldn't be comforted. He just went on looking as if he had swallowed his last sixpence. However, I got him to promise to come to Marvis Bay with me. He said he might as well be there as anywhere.
    Do you know Marvis Bay? It's in Dorsetshire. It isn't what you'd call a fiercely exciting spot, but it has its good points. You spend the day there bathing and sitting on the sands, and in the evening you stroll out on the shore with the gnats. At nine o'clock you rub ointment on the wounds and go to bed.
    It seemed to suit poor old Freddie. Once the moon was up and the breeze sighing in the trees, you couldn't drag him from that beach with a rope. He became quite a popular pet with the gnats. They'd hang round waiting for him to come out, and would give perfectly good strollers the miss-in-baulk just so as to be in good condition for him.
    Yes, it was a peaceful sort of life, but by the end of the first week I began to wish that Jimmy Pinkerton had arranged to come down earlier: for as a companion Freddie, poor old chap, wasn't anything to write home to mother about. When he wasn't chewing a pipe and scowling at the carpet, he was sitting at the piano, playing “The Rosary” with one finger. He couldn't play anything except “The Rosary,” and he couldn't play much of that. Somewhere round about the third bar a fuse would blow out, and he'd have to start all over again.
    He was playing it as usual one morning when I came in from bathing.
    “Reggie,” he said, in a hollow voice, looking up, “I've seen her.”
    “Seen her?” I said. “What, Miss West?”
    “I was down at the post office, getting the letters, and we met in the doorway. She cut me!”
    He started “The Rosary” again, and side-slipped in the second bar.
    “Reggie,” he said, “you ought never to have brought me here. I must go away.”
    “Go away?” I said. “Don't talk such rot. This is the best thing that could have happened. This is where you come out strong.”
    “She cut me.”
    “Never mind. Be a sportsman. Have another dash at her.”
    “She looked clean through me!”
    “Of course she did. But don't mind that. Put this thing in my hands. I'll see you through. Now, what you want,” I said, “is to place her under some obligation to you. What you want is to get her timidly thanking you. What you want——”
    “But what's she going to thank me timidly for?”
    I thought for a moment.
    “Look out for a chance and save her from drowning,” I said.
    “I can't swim,” said Freddie.
    That was Freddie all over, don't you know. A dear old chap in a thousand ways, but no help to a fellow, if you know what I mean.
    He cranked up the piano once more and I sprinted for the open.
    I strolled out on to the sands and began to think this thing over. There was no doubt that the brain-work had got to be done by me. Dear old Freddie had his strong qualities. He was top-hole at polo, and in happier days I've heard him give an imitation of cats fighting in a backyard that would have surprised you. But apart from that he wasn't a man of enterprise.
    Well, don't you know, I was rounding some rocks, with my brain whirring like a dynamo, when I caught sight of a blue dress, and, by Jove, it was the girl. I had never met her, but Freddie had sixteen photographs of her sprinkled round his bedroom, and I knew I couldn't be mistaken. She was sitting on the sand, helping a small, fat child build a castle. On a chair close by was an elderly lady reading a novel. I heard the girl call her “aunt.” So, doing the Sherlock Holmes
    business, I deduced that the fat child was her cousin. It struck me that if Freddie had been there he would probably have tried to work up some sentiment about the kid on the strength of it. Personally I couldn't manage it. I don't think I ever saw a child who made me feel less sentimental. He was one of those round, bulging kids.
    After he had finished the castle he seemed to get bored with life, and began to whimper. The girl took him off to where a fellow was selling sweets at a stall. And I walked on.
    Now, fellows, if you ask them, will tell you that I'm a chump. Well, I don't mind. I admit it. I am a chump. All the Peppers have been chumps. But what I do say is that every now and then, when you'd least expect it, I get a pretty hot brain-wave; and that's what happened now. I doubt if the idea that came to me then would have occurred to a single one of any dozen of the brainiest chappies you care to name.
    It came to me on my return journey. I was walking back along the shore, when I saw the fat kid meditatively smacking a jelly-fish with a spade. The girl wasn't with him. In fact, there didn't seem to be any one in sight. I was just going to pass on when I got the brain-wave. I thought the whole thing out in a flash, don't you know. From what I had seen of the two, the girl was evidently fond of this kid, and, anyhow, he was her cousin, so what I said to myself was this: If I kidnap this young heavy-weight for the moment, and if, when the girl has got frightfully anxious about where he can have got to, dear old Freddie suddenly appears leading the infant by the hand and telling a story to the effect that he has found him wandering at large about the country and practically saved his life, why, the girl's gratitude is bound to make her chuck hostilities and be friends again. So I gathered in the kid and made off with him. All the way home I pictured that scene of reconciliation. I could see it so vividly, don't you know, that, by George, it gave me quite a choky feeling in my throat.
    Freddie, dear old chap, was rather slow at getting on to the fine points of the idea. When I appeared, carrying the kid, and dumped him down in our sitting-room, he didn't absolutely effervesce with joy, if you know what I mean. The kid had started to bellow by this time, and poor old Freddie seemed to find it rather trying.
    “Stop it!” he said. “Do you think nobody's got any troubles except you? What the deuce is all this, Reggie?”
    The kid came back at him with a yell that made the window rattle. I raced to the kitchen and fetched a jar of honey. It was the right stuff. The kid stopped bellowing and began to smear his face with the stuff.
    “Well?” said Freddie, when silence had set in. I explained the idea. After a while it began to strike him.
    “You're not such a fool as you look, sometimes, Reggie,” he said handsomely. “I'm bound to say this seems pretty good.”
    And he disentangled the kid from the honey-jar and took him out, to scour the beach for Angela.
    I don't know when I've felt so happy. I was so fond of dear old Freddie that to know that he was soon going to be his old bright self again made me feel as if somebody had left me about a million pounds. I was leaning back in a chair on the veranda, smoking peacefully, when down the road I saw the old boy returning, and, by George, the kid was still with him. And Freddie looked as if he hadn't a friend in the world.
    “Hello!” I said. “Couldn't you find her?”
    “Yes, I found her,” he replied, with one of those bitter, hollow laughs.
    “Well, then——?”
    Freddie sank into a chair and groaned.
    “This isn't her cousin, you idiot!” he said.
    “He's no relation at all. He's just a kid she happened to meet on the beach. She had never seen him before in her life.”
    “What! Who is he, then?”
    “I don't know. Oh, Lord, I've had a time! Thank goodness you'll probably spend the next few years of your life in Dartmoor for kidnapping. That's my only consolation. I'll come and jeer at you through the bars.”
    “Tell me all, old boy,” I said.
    It took him a good long time to tell the story, for he broke off in the middle of nearly every sentence to call me names, but I gathered gradually what had happened. She had listened like an iceberg while he told the story he had prepared, and then—well, she didn't actually call him a liar, but she gave him to understand in a general sort of way that if he and Dr. Cook ever happened to meet, and started swapping stories, it would be about the biggest duel on record. And then he had crawled away with the kid, licked to a splinter.
    “And mind, this is your affair,” he concluded. “I'm not mixed up in it at all. If you want to escape your sentence, you'd better go and find the kid's parents and return him before the police come for you.”
           * * * * *
    By Jove, you know, till I started to tramp the place with this infernal kid, I never had a notion it would have been so deuced difficult to restore a child to its anxious parents. It's a mystery to me how kidnappers ever get caught. I searched Marvis Bay like a bloodhound, but nobody came forward to claim the infant. You'd have thought, from the lack of interest in him, that he was stopping there all by himself in a cottage of his own. It wasn't till, by an inspiration, I thought to ask the sweet-stall man that I found out that his name was Medwin, and that his parents lived at a place called Ocean Rest, in Beach Road.
    I shot off there like an arrow and knocked at the door. Nobody answered. I knocked again. I could hear movements inside, but nobody came. I was just going to get to work on that knocker in such a way that the idea would filter through into these people's heads that I wasn't standing there just for the fun of the thing, when a voice from somewhere above shouted, “Hi!”
    I looked up and saw a round, pink face, with grey whiskers east and west of it, staring down from an upper window.”
    “Hi!” it shouted again.
    “What the deuce do you mean by 'Hi'?” I said.
    “You can't come in,” said the face. “Hello, is that Tootles?”
    “My name is not Tootles, and I don't want to come in,” I said. “Are you Mr. Medwin? I've brought back your son.”
    “I see him. Peep-bo, Tootles! Dadda can see 'oo!”
    The face disappeared with a jerk. I could hear voices. The face reappeared.
    “Hi!”
    I churned the gravel madly.
    “Do you live here?” said the face.
    “I'm staying here for a few weeks.”
    “What's your name?”
    “Pepper. But——”
    “Pepper? Any relation to Edward Pepper, the colliery owner?”
    “My uncle. But——”
    “I used to know him well. Dear old Edward Pepper! I wish I was with him now.”
    “I wish you were,” I said.
    He beamed down at me.
    “This is most fortunate,” he said. “We were wondering what we were to do with Tootles. You see, we have the mumps here. My daughter Bootles has just developed mumps. Tootles must not be exposed to the risk of infection. We could not think what we were to do with him. It was most fortunate your finding him. He strayed from his nurse. I would hesitate to trust him to the care of a stranger, but you are different. Any nephew of Edward Pepper's has my implicit confidence. You must take Tootles to your house. It will be an ideal arrangement. I have written to my brother in London to come and fetch him. He may be here in a few days.”
    “May!”
    “He is a busy man, of course; but he should certainly be here within a week. Till then Tootles can stop with you. It is an excellent plan. Very much obliged to you. Your wife will like Tootles.”
    “I haven't got a wife,” I yelled; but the window had closed with a bang, as if the man with the whiskers had found a germ trying to escape, don't you know, and had headed it off just in time.
    I breathed a deep breath and wiped my forehead.
    The window flew up again.
    “Hi!”
    A package weighing about a ton hit me on the head and burst like a bomb.
    “Did you catch it?” said the face, reappearing. “Dear me, you missed it! Never mind. You can get it at the grocer's. Ask for Bailey's Granulated Breakfast Chips. Tootles takes them for breakfast with a little milk. Be certain to get Bailey's.”
    My spirit was broken, if you know what I mean. I accepted the situation. Taking Tootles by the hand, I walked slowly away. Napoleon's retreat from Moscow was a picnic by the side of it.
    As we turned up the road we met Freddie's Angela.
    The sight of her had a marked effect on the kid Tootles. He pointed at her and said, “Wah!”
    The girl stopped and smiled. I loosed the kid, and he ran to her.
    “Well, baby?” she said, bending down to him. “So father found you again, did he? Your little son and I made friends on the beach this morning,” she said to me.
    This was the limit. Coming on top of that interview with the whiskered lunatic it so utterly unnerved me, don't you know, that she had nodded good-bye and was half-way down the road before I caught up with my breath enough to deny the charge of being the infant's father.
    I hadn't expected dear old Freddie to sing with joy when he found out what had happened, but I did think he might have shown a little more manly fortitude. He leaped up, glared at the kid, and clutched his head. He didn't speak for a long time, but, on the other hand, when he began he did not leave off for a long time. He was quite emotional, dear old boy. It beat me where he could have picked up such expressions.
    “Well,” he said, when he had finished, “say something! Heavens! man, why don't you say something?”
    “You don't give me a chance, old top,” I said soothingly.
    “What are you going to do about it?”
    “What can we do about it?”
    “We can't spend our time acting as nurses to this—this exhibit.”
    He got up.
    “I'm going back to London,” he said.
    “Freddie!” I cried. “Freddie, old man!” My voice shook. “Would you desert a pal at a time like this?”
    “I would. This is your business, and you've got to manage it.”
    “Freddie,” I said, “you've got to stand by me. You must. Do you realize that this child has to be undressed, and bathed, and dressed again? You wouldn't leave me to do all that single-handed? Freddie, old scout, we were at school together. Your mother likes me. You owe me a tenner.”
    He sat down again.
    “Oh, well,” he said resignedly.
    “Besides, old top,” I said, “I did it all for your sake, don't you know?”
    He looked at me in a curious way.
    “Reggie,” he said, in a strained voice, “one moment. I'll stand a good deal, but I won't stand for being expected to be grateful.”
    Looking back at it, I see that what saved me from Colney Hatch in that crisis was my bright idea of buying up most of the contents of the local sweet-shop. By serving out sweets to the kid practically incessantly we managed to get through the rest of that day pretty satisfactorily. At eight o'clock he fell asleep in a chair, and, having undressed him by unbuttoning every button in sight and, where there were no buttons, pulling till something gave, we carried him up to bed.
    Freddie stood looking at the pile of clothes on the floor and I knew what he was thinking. To get the kid undressed had been simple—a mere matter of muscle. But how were we to get him into his clothes again? I stirred the pile with my foot. There was a long linen arrangement which might have been anything. Also a strip of pink flannel which was like nothing on earth. We looked at each other and smiled wanly.
    But in the morning I remembered that there were children at the next bungalow but one. We went there before breakfast and borrowed their nurse. Women are wonderful, by George they are! She had that kid dressed and looking fit for anything in about eight minutes. I showered wealth on her, and she promised to come in morning and evening. I sat down to breakfast almost cheerful again. It was the first bit of silver lining there had been to the cloud up to date.
    “And after all,” I said, “there's lots to be said for having a child about the house, if you know what I mean. Kind of cosy and domestic—what!”
    Just then the kid upset the milk over Freddie's trousers, and when he had come back after changing his clothes he began to talk about what a much-maligned man King Herod was. The more he saw of Tootles, he said, the less he wondered at those impulsive views of his on infanticide.
    Two days later Jimmy Pinkerton came down. Jimmy took one look at the kid, who happened to be howling at the moment, and picked up his portmanteau.
    “For me,” he said, “the hotel. I can't write dialogue with that sort of thing going on. Whose work is this? Which of you adopted this little treasure?”
    I told him about Mr. Medwin and the mumps. Jimmy seemed interested.
    “I might work this up for the stage,” he said. “It wouldn't make a bad situation for act two of a farce.”
    “Farce!” snarled poor old Freddie.
    “Rather. Curtain of act one on hero, a well-meaning, half-baked sort of idiot just like—that is to say, a well-meaning, half-baked sort of idiot, kidnapping the child. Second act, his adventures with it. I'll rough it out to-night. Come along and show me the hotel, Reggie.”
    As we went I told him the rest of the story—the Angela part. He laid down his portmanteau and looked at me like an owl through his glasses.
    “What!” he said. “Why, hang it, this is a play, ready-made. It's the old 'Tiny Hand' business. Always safe stuff. Parted lovers. Lisping child. Reconciliation over the little cradle. It's big. Child, centre. Girl L.C.; Freddie, up stage, by the piano. Can Freddie play the piano?”
    “He can play a little of 'The Rosary' with one finger.”
    Jimmy shook his head.
    “No; we shall have to cut out the soft music. But the rest's all right. Look here.” He squatted in the sand. “This stone is the girl. This bit of seaweed's the child. This nutshell is Freddie. Dialogue leading up to child's line. Child speaks like, 'Boofer lady, does 'oo love dadda?' Business of outstretched hands. Hold picture for a moment. Freddie crosses L., takes girl's hand. Business of swallowing lump in throat. Then big speech. 'Ah, Marie,' or whatever her name is—Jane—Agnes—Angela? Very well. 'Ah, Angela, has not this gone on too long? A little child rebukes us! Angela!' And so on.
    Freddie must work up his own part. I'm just giving you the general outline. And we must get a good line for the child. 'Boofer lady, does 'oo love dadda?' isn't definite enough. We want something more—ah! 'Kiss Freddie,' that's it. Short, crisp, and has the punch.”
    “But, Jimmy, old top,” I said, “the only objection is, don't you know, that there's no way of getting the girl to the cottage. She cuts Freddie. She wouldn't come within a mile of him.”
    Jimmy frowned.
    “That's awkward,” he said. “Well, we shall have to make it an exterior set instead of an interior. We can easily corner her on the beach somewhere, when we're ready. Meanwhile, we must get the kid letter-perfect. First rehearsal for lines and business eleven sharp to-morrow.”
    Poor old Freddie was in such a gloomy state of mind that we decided not to tell him the idea till we had finished coaching the kid. He wasn't in the mood to have a thing like that hanging over him. So we concentrated on Tootles. And pretty early in the proceedings we saw that the only way to get Tootles worked up to the spirit of the thing was to introduce sweets of some sort as a sub-motive, so to speak.
    “The chief difficulty,” said Jimmy Pinkerton at the end of the first rehearsal, “is to establish a connection in the kid's mind between his line and the sweets. Once he has grasped the basic fact that those two words, clearly spoken, result automatically in acid-drops, we have got a success.”
    I've often thought, don't you know, how interesting it must be to be one of those animal-trainer Johnnies: to stimulate the dawning intelligence, and that sort of thing. Well, this was every bit as exciting. Some days success seemed to be staring us in the eye, and the kid got the line out as if he'd been an old professional. And then he'd go all to pieces again. And time was flying.
    “We must hurry up, Jimmy,” I said. “The kid's uncle may arrive any day now and take him away.”
    “And we haven't an understudy,” said Jimmy. “There's something in that. We must work! My goodness, that kid's a bad study. I've known deaf-mutes who would have learned the part quicker.”
    I will say this for the kid, though: he was a trier. Failure didn't discourage him. Whenever there was any kind of sweet near he had a dash at his line, and kept on saying something till he got what he was after. His only fault was his uncertainty. Personally, I would have been prepared to risk it, and start the performance at the first opportunity, but Jimmy said no.
    “We're not nearly ready,” said Jimmy. “To-day, for instance, he said 'Kick Freddie.' That's not going to win any girl's heart. And she might do it, too. No; we must postpone production awhile yet.”
    But, by George, we didn't. The curtain went up the very next afternoon.
    It was nobody's fault—certainly not mine. It was just Fate. Freddie had settled down at the piano, and I was leading the kid out of the house to exercise it, when, just as we'd got out to the veranda, along came the girl Angela on her way to the beach. The kid set up his usual yell at the sight of her, and she stopped at the foot of the steps.
    “Hello, baby!” she said. “Good morning,” she said to me. “May I come up?”
    She didn't wait for an answer. She just came. She seemed to be that sort of girl. She came up on the veranda and started fussing over the kid. And six feet away, mind you, Freddie smiting the piano in the sitting-room. It was a dash disturbing situation, don't you know. At any minute Freddie might take it into his head to come out on to the veranda, and we hadn't even begun to rehearse him in his part.
    I tried to break up the scene.
    “We were just going down to the beach,” I said.
    “Yes?” said the girl. She listened for a moment. “So you're having your piano tuned?” she said. “My aunt has been trying to find a tuner for ours. Do you mind if I go in and tell this man to come on to us when he's finished here?”
    “Er—not yet!” I said. “Not yet, if you don't mind. He can't bear to be disturbed when he's working. It's the artistic temperament. I'll tell him later.”
    “Very well,” she said, getting up to go. “Ask him to call at Pine Bungalow. West is the name. Oh, he seems to have stopped. I suppose he will be out in a minute now. I'll wait.”
    “Don't you think—shouldn't we be going on to the beach?” I said.
    She had started talking to the kid and didn't hear. She was feeling in her pocket for something.
    “The beach,” I babbled.
    “See what I've brought for you, baby,” she said. And, by George, don't you know, she held up in front of the kid's bulging eyes a chunk of toffee about the size of the Automobile Club.
    That finished it. We had just been having a long rehearsal, and the kid was all worked up in his part. He got it right first time.
    “Kiss Fweddie!” he shouted.
    And the front door opened, and Freddie came out on to the veranda, for all the world as if he had been taking a cue.
    He looked at the girl, and the girl looked at him. I looked at the ground, and the kid looked at the toffee.
    “Kiss Fweddie!” he yelled. “Kiss Fweddie!”
    The girl was still holding up the toffee, and the kid did what Jimmy Pinkerton would have called “business of outstretched hands” towards it.
    “Kiss Fweddie!” he shrieked.
    “What does this mean?” said the girl, turning to me.
    “You'd better give it to him, don't you know,” I said. “He'll go on till you do.”
    She gave the kid his toffee, and he subsided. Poor old Freddie still stood there gaping, without a word.
    “What does it mean?” said the girl again. Her face was pink, and her eyes were sparkling in the sort of way, don't you know, that makes a fellow feel as if he hadn't any bones in him, if you know what I mean. Did you ever tread on your partner's dress at a dance and tear it, and see her smile at you like an angel and say: “Please don't apologize. It's nothing,” and then suddenly meet her clear blue eyes and feel as if you had stepped on the teeth of a rake and had the handle jump up and hit you in the face? Well, that's how Freddie's Angela looked.
    “Well?” she said, and her teeth gave a little click.
    I gulped. Then I said it was nothing. Then I said it was nothing much. Then I said, “Oh, well, it was this way.” And, after a few brief remarks about Jimmy Pinkerton, I told her all about it. And all the while Idiot Freddie stood there gaping, without a word.
    And the girl didn't speak, either. She just stood listening.
    And then she began to laugh. I never heard a girl laugh so much. She leaned against the side of the veranda and shrieked. And all the while Freddie, the World's Champion Chump, stood there, saying nothing.
    Well I sidled towards the steps. I had said all I had to say, and it seemed to me that about here the stage-direction “exit” was written in my part. I gave poor old Freddie up in despair. If only he had said a word, it might have been all right. But there he stood, speechless. What can a fellow do with a fellow like that?
    Just out of sight of the house I met Jimmy Pinkerton.
    “Hello, Reggie!” he said. “I was just coming to you. Where's the kid? We must have a big rehearsal to-day.”
    “No good,” I said sadly. “It's all over. The thing's finished. Poor dear old Freddie has made an ass of himself and killed the whole show.”
    “Tell me,” said Jimmy.
    I told him.
    “Fluffed in his lines, did he?” said Jimmy, nodding thoughtfully. “It's always the way with these amateurs. We must go back at once. Things look bad, but it may not be too late,” he said as we started. “Even now a few well-chosen words from a man of the world, and——”
    “Great Scot!” I cried. “Look!”
    In front of the cottage stood six children, a nurse, and the fellow from the grocer's staring. From the windows of the houses opposite projected about four hundred heads of both sexes, staring. Down the road came galloping five more children, a dog, three men, and a boy, about to stare. And on our porch, as unconscious of the spectators as if they had been alone in the Sahara, stood Freddie and Angela, clasped in each other's arms.

    Dear old Freddie may have been fluffy in his lines, but, by George, his business had certainly gone with a bang!
  • sinfaut | 74.233.***.*** | ১২ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ২২:১০688772
  • এই যে আমি আমি, দেখে নিন। হাতে গোনা সংখ্যায় এক যোগ করে নিন।
  • san | 113.252.***.*** | ১২ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ২২:৪২688773
  • আমার খুবই পছন্দের লেখক।
    CJA কে ধন্যবাদ , অনেকদিন পর গল্পটা পড়লাম।
    উডহাউস-প্রেমী লোকজন দেখলে বেশ আহ্লাদ হয়। আমার বয়সীদের মধ্যে কম দেখতে পাই বলেই হবে। আগের জেনারেশনে প্রচুর (আমি যা দেখেছি)।
    আমার উডহাউস প্রীতিও উত্তরাধিকারসূত্রে প্রাপ্ত। নিজে পড়বারও আগে বেশ কিছুটা ঘ্রাণেন অর্ধভোজনং হয়ে গেছিল। নানা গল্পের অনুষঙ্গে সেগুলো ফিরে ফিরে আসত। প্রবাসে বসে সেই পারিবারিক আড্ডাগুলো-ও মিস করি , মনে হয় সেজন্যও খানিকটা ইমোশনাল হয়ে গেলাম :-)
  • dd | ১২ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ২৩:৪২688774
  • হ্যাঁ। উডহাউস (নট ওডহাউস) আমার প্রিয়তম লেখক। আমার ধারনা ওনার সব কটা বই ই আমি পড়েছি। ভয়ানক ছেঁরাখোঁড়া অবস্থায় অদ্যাবধি সাথেও আছে অনেকগুলি।

    এই লেখার সময় মনে পড়লো - অনেকদিন তো পড়া হয় নি বইগুলোকে।

    একটা খ্যাল করেছেন যে ওনার জীভসের সব বইতেই অন্ততঃ একবার নেপোলিয়নের নাম উল্লেখ করতেন? করতেনই। বছর চল্লিশ আগে - কালেজ জীবনে ওনার এক বায়োগ্রাফারকে এই নিয়ে চিঠিও লিখেছিলাম - কারনটা কী জানতে। উনি উত্তর দেন নি।
  • ranjan roy | 229.64.***.*** | ১২ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ২৩:৫২688775
  • খুব বেশি পড়ি নি, গোটা সাতেক মেরেকেটে । কিন্তু প্রথম পাঠেই পছন্দের তালিকায়। অন্য যুগ, অন্য গন্ধ। অনেক ধন্যবাদ।
  • ranjan roy | 229.64.***.*** | ১২ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ২৩:৫৪688776
  • প্রথম পঠিত বই কাকার র‌্যাক থেকে, সম্ভবতঃ থ্যাংক ইউ মিঃ জীভস্‌।
  • dd | ১২ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ২৩:৫৭688777
  • উডহাউসকে নাৎসীরা ফ্রান্স থেকে বন্দী করে নিয়ে যায়।

    চার বছর জেলে থেকে অবশেষে ছাড়া পান। সেই সময়ের অভিজ্ঞ্তা নিয়ে খুব মজার করে লিখেছিলেন। কোনো বিটারনেস ছিলো না - যেনো পুরোটাই ঠাট্টা। এক যায়গায় নাৎসী সেনাদের "Those fine men in uniform" বলে উল্লেখও করেছিলেন।

    এই নিয়ে খুব তিক্ততা হয় আর উনি আমেরিকায় মাইগ্রেট করে যান।

    অনেক পরে তাকে নাইটহুড দেওয়া হলে প্রচুর প্রতিবাদ হয়েছিলো - অনেকেই তাদের মেডাল ইঃ ফেরৎ দিয়েছিলেন।

    এই ট্রিভিয়াটি জানতেন ?
  • dd | ১৩ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ০০:০৩688778
  • আর কিছু না হোক Lord Emsworth and the girlfriend গল্পোটি অবশ্যই পড়বেন।

    কিপলিং সাহেব পর্যন্ত্য বলেছিলেন ওয়ান অব দ্য ফাইনেস্ট স্টোরীজ ইন ইংলিশ লিটেরেচার। এহ বাহ্য - আমার পর্যন্ত্য ওটাকেই সব থেকে বেস্ট মনে হয়।

    দুঃখের বিষয় কী জানেন - উনার শেষের দিক বই গুলো বোরিং হয়ে গেছিলো। একেবারেই রিপিটিটিভ প্লট। ও গুলো না লিখলেই পারতেন।
  • dd | ১৩ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ০০:০৫688757
  • আর Performimg flea ও পড়বেন।

    ওনার বন্ধুকে লেখা শ খানেক চিঠির কলেকশন। অত্যন্ত ভালো।
  • sosen | 177.96.***.*** | ১৩ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ০০:২৩688758
  • সব লেখা ভালোলাগে না। বার বার ঘুরে আসা মনে হয়
  • ranjan roy | 24.96.***.*** | ১৩ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ০৫:৫০688759
  • ডিডি বা অন্য কেউ,
    ওই দুইডা গপ্পো বা উডহাউস সমগ্র কি কিন্ডলে কিনতে /পড়তে পাওয়া যায়? সিঁফো?
  • Atoz | 161.14.***.*** | ১৩ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ০৬:১৮688760
  • ওঁকে বন্দী করে রেখে নাজিরা যত্ন করেছিল? গল্প শুনতো মনে হয়।
    ঃ-)
  • sinfaut | 74.233.***.*** | ১৩ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ০৮:২৩688761
  • হতেই পারে ওনার কোনগুলো বেস্ট গল্প জানতাম না বলে তেমন ভালো নয় গুলো পড়েছি। আপনারা যারা পড়েছেন একটু লিস্ট করে দিন না, তাহলে পড়ে দেখবো। নইলে ঐ জীভ্স, আরো জীভ্স, জবর জীভ্স এর মধ্যে খেই হারিয়ে যায় কী পড়বো।
  • sinfaut | 74.233.***.*** | ১৩ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ০৮:২৬688763
  • আমার*
  • sinfaut | 74.233.***.*** | ১৩ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ০৮:২৬688762
  • রঞ্জনদা, আনার ড্রপবক্সের ঠিকানা হারিয়ে ফেলেননি তো? ওখানে লিট্রাচ ফোল্ডারের মধ্যে কয়েকটা উডহাউজ আছে, ঠিক কী আছে মনে নেই। ওখান থেকে নামিয়ে নিতে পারেন।
  • b | 135.2.***.*** | ১৩ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ১০:২১688765
  • কিন্তু উডহাউস কি শুধু গল্পের জন্যে পড়ি?
    আমি লিখবো " He said "oh my God"
    আপনি লিখবেন He Exclaimed" Oh! my God"
    ওডহাউস লিখবেন He O Goded
  • san | 113.252.***.*** | ১৩ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ১১:৩৯688766
  • আমার সবচেয়ে পছন্দেরটি বহুপঠিত , বহুচর্চিত Uncle Fred in the Springtime।
    blanding clastle সিরিজের বাকিগুলো ও কাছাকাছিই আসবে।

    Pigs have wings প্রথম পড়ি , খুব ভালো লেগেছিল।
    জীভস সিরিজ এর 'Right Ho , Jeeves' তার পরেই , সেই থেকে গোগ্রাসে গিলে চলেছি :-) রঞ্জনদা নিশ্চয়ই এগুলো পড়েছেন ?

    শ্রাবণীদি ছিল আরেক উডহাউস ফ্যান , সে তো আর লেখে না।

    তবে বি এর সঙ্গে একমত । প্লট এর কথা ভাবলে অল্প কটা বই পড়ার পরেই হতাশ হতে হবে। ভাষায় মজলে আর ছেড়ে বেরোতে পারবেন না :-)
  • san | 113.252.***.*** | ১৩ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ১১:৪২688768
  • * Blandings Castle
  • T | 24.***.*** | ১৩ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ২২:১২688769
  • অন্য টই ডোবাচ্ছি তাই...
  • I | 192.66.***.*** | ১৩ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ২২:২৮688770
  • আমি আমি। আরেকজন।
  • ranjan roy | 24.99.***.*** | ১৩ জানুয়ারি ২০১৬ ২৩:১২688771
  • স্যান ও বি,
    লাখ কথার এককথা! ভাষা! ভাষা! ভাষা!
    প্লট?
  • মতামত দিন
  • বিষয়বস্তু*:
এই সাইটটি বার পঠিত
  • কি, কেন, ইত্যাদি
  • বাজার অর্থনীতির ধরাবাঁধা খাদ্য-খাদক সম্পর্কের বাইরে বেরিয়ে এসে এমন এক আস্তানা বানাব আমরা, যেখানে ক্রমশ: মুছে যাবে লেখক ও পাঠকের বিস্তীর্ণ ব্যবধান। পাঠকই লেখক হবে, মিডিয়ার জগতে থাকবেনা কোন ব্যকরণশিক্ষক, ক্লাসরুমে থাকবেনা মিডিয়ার মাস্টারমশাইয়ের জন্য কোন বিশেষ প্ল্যাটফর্ম। এসব আদৌ হবে কিনা, গুরুচণ্ডালি টিকবে কিনা, সে পরের কথা, কিন্তু দু পা ফেলে দেখতে দোষ কী? ... আরও ...
  • আমাদের কথা
  • আপনি কি কম্পিউটার স্যাভি? সারাদিন মেশিনের সামনে বসে থেকে আপনার ঘাড়ে পিঠে কি স্পন্ডেলাইটিস আর চোখে পুরু অ্যান্টিগ্লেয়ার হাইপাওয়ার চশমা? এন্টার মেরে মেরে ডান হাতের কড়ি আঙুলে কি কড়া পড়ে গেছে? আপনি কি অন্তর্জালের গোলকধাঁধায় পথ হারাইয়াছেন? সাইট থেকে সাইটান্তরে বাঁদরলাফ দিয়ে দিয়ে আপনি কি ক্লান্ত? বিরাট অঙ্কের টেলিফোন বিল কি জীবন থেকে সব সুখ কেড়ে নিচ্ছে? আপনার দুশ্‌চিন্তার দিন শেষ হল। ... আরও ...
  • বুলবুলভাজা
  • এ হল ক্ষমতাহীনের মিডিয়া। গাঁয়ে মানেনা আপনি মোড়ল যখন নিজের ঢাক নিজে পেটায়, তখন তাকেই বলে হরিদাস পালের বুলবুলভাজা। পড়তে থাকুন রোজরোজ। দু-পয়সা দিতে পারেন আপনিও, কারণ ক্ষমতাহীন মানেই অক্ষম নয়। বুলবুলভাজায় বাছাই করা সম্পাদিত লেখা প্রকাশিত হয়। এখানে লেখা দিতে হলে লেখাটি ইমেইল করুন, বা, গুরুচন্ডা৯ ব্লগ (হরিদাস পাল) বা অন্য কোথাও লেখা থাকলে সেই ওয়েব ঠিকানা পাঠান (ইমেইল ঠিকানা পাতার নীচে আছে), অনুমোদিত এবং সম্পাদিত হলে লেখা এখানে প্রকাশিত হবে। ... আরও ...
  • হরিদাস পালেরা
  • এটি একটি খোলা পাতা, যাকে আমরা ব্লগ বলে থাকি। গুরুচন্ডালির সম্পাদকমন্ডলীর হস্তক্ষেপ ছাড়াই, স্বীকৃত ব্যবহারকারীরা এখানে নিজের লেখা লিখতে পারেন। সেটি গুরুচন্ডালি সাইটে দেখা যাবে। খুলে ফেলুন আপনার নিজের বাংলা ব্লগ, হয়ে উঠুন একমেবাদ্বিতীয়ম হরিদাস পাল, এ সুযোগ পাবেন না আর, দেখে যান নিজের চোখে...... আরও ...
  • টইপত্তর
  • নতুন কোনো বই পড়ছেন? সদ্য দেখা কোনো সিনেমা নিয়ে আলোচনার জায়গা খুঁজছেন? নতুন কোনো অ্যালবাম কানে লেগে আছে এখনও? সবাইকে জানান। এখনই। ভালো লাগলে হাত খুলে প্রশংসা করুন। খারাপ লাগলে চুটিয়ে গাল দিন। জ্ঞানের কথা বলার হলে গুরুগম্ভীর প্রবন্ধ ফাঁদুন। হাসুন কাঁদুন তক্কো করুন। স্রেফ এই কারণেই এই সাইটে আছে আমাদের বিভাগ টইপত্তর। ... আরও ...
  • ভাটিয়া৯
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গুরুচণ্ডা৯-র সম্পাদিত বিভাগের যে কোনো লেখা অথবা লেখার অংশবিশেষ অন্যত্র প্রকাশ করার আগে গুরুচণ্ডা৯-র লিখিত অনুমতি নেওয়া আবশ্যক। অসম্পাদিত বিভাগের লেখা প্রকাশের সময় গুরুতে প্রকাশের উল্লেখ আমরা পারস্পরিক সৌজন্যের প্রকাশ হিসেবে অনুরোধ করি। যোগাযোগ করুন, লেখা পাঠান এই ঠিকানায় : guruchandali@gmail.com ।


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