Killing Isn’t Easy

This morning – I had a haircut and beard-trim. 

After my haircut and beard-trim – the barber was shaping my beard. 

First – he shaved off the portions on my cheeks. 

Then – he began shaving the skin on the front part of my neck. 

I was under the razor – with the barber holding the sharp blade of the razor on my throat. 

It was at this precise moment – that I remembered this story...

JUST LATHER, THAT’S ALL

My Favourite Short Stories Revisited 

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Here is one of the most powerfully written stories I have ever read: 

Just Lather, That’s All 

A Short Story by Columbian writer Hernando Téllez originally written in Spanish and translated by Donald A Yates.

The moment you start reading, the story mesmerizes you, from start to finish. 

This story is a gripping, tautly written unputdownable thriller. 

The riveting plot – and – the writing style in which the story is told in first person entirely from the barber’s point of view – this heightens the impact of the story. 

Notice the fascinating swings of emotional conflict from one extreme to the other – and the inner struggle in the barber’s mind. 

As you read the climax builds up steadily – and then there is a dramatic ending which leaves such a lasting impact – that you will never forget this story.

This story is freely available on the internet (just google it or try any search engine or literary site). I am giving a link to the story and, for your convenience – I am also pasting the story below (from the url link mentioned below): 

http://www2.ups.edu/faculty/velez/LAS100/tellez.htm

Just Lather, That's All

By

HERNANDO TÉLLEZ

Translated by Donald A. Yates

He said nothing when he entered. I was passing the best of my razors back and forth on a strop. When I recognized him I started to tremble. But he didn't notice. Hoping to conceal my emotion, I continued sharpening the razor. I tested it on the meat of my thumb, and then held it up to the light. At that moment be took off the bullet-studded belt that his gun holster dangled from. He hung it up on a wall hook and placed his military cap over it. Then be turned to me, loosening the knot of his tie, and said, "It's hot as bell. Give me a shave." He sat in the chair.

I estimated he had a four-day beard. The four days taken up by the latest expedition in search of our troops. His face seemed reddened, burned by the sun. Carefully, I began to prepare the soap. I cut off a few slices, dropped them into the cup, mixed in a bit of warm water, and began to stir with the brush. Immediately the foam began to rise. "The other boys in the group should have this much beard, too." I continued stirring the lather.

"But we did all right, you know. We got the main ones. We brought back some dead, and we've got some others still alive. But pretty soon they'll all be dead."

"How many did you catch?" I asked.

"Fourteen. We had to go pretty deep into the woods to find them. But we'll get even. Not one of them comes out of this alive, not one."

He leaned back on the chair when he saw me with the lather-covered brush in my hand. I still had to put the sheet on him. No doubt about it, I was upset. I took a sheet out of a drawer and knotted it around my customer's neck. He wouldn't stop talking. He probably thought I was in sympathy with his party.

"The town must have learned a lesson from what we did the other day," he said.

"Yes," I replied, securing the knot at the base of his dark, sweaty neck.

"That was a fine show, eh?"

"Very good," I answered, turning back for the brush. The man closed his eyes with a gesture of fatigue and sat waiting for the cool caress of the soap. I had never had him so close to me. The day he ordered the whole town to file into the patio of the school to see the four rebels hanging there, I came face to face with him for an instant. But the sight of the mutilated bodies kept me from noticing the face of the man who had directed it all, the face I was now about to take into my hands. It was not an unpleasant face, certainly. And the beard, which made him seem a bit older than he was, didn't suit him badly at all. His name was Torres. Captain Torres. A man of imagination, because who else would have thought of hanging the naked rebels and then holding target practice on certain parts of their bodies? I began to apply the first layer of soap. With his eyes closed, be continued.  "Without any effort I could go straight to sleep," he said, "but there's plenty to do this afternoon." I stopped the lathering and asked with a feigned lack of interest: "A firing squad?" "Something like that, but a little slower." I got on with the job of lathering his beard. My bands started trembling again. The man could not possibly realize it, and this was in my favor. But I would have preferred that he hadn't come. It was likely that many of our faction had seen him enter. And an enemy under one's roof imposes certain conditions. I would be obliged to shave that beard like any other one, carefully, gently, like that of any customer, taking pains to see that no single pore emitted a drop of blood. Being careful to see that the little tufts of hair did not lead the blade astray. Seeing that his skin ended up clean, soft, and healthy, so that passing the back of my hand over it I couldn't feel a hair. Yes, I was secretly a rebel, but I was also a conscientious barber, and proud of the preciseness of my profession. And this four-days' growth of beard was a fitting challenge.

I took the razor, opened up the two protective arms, exposed the blade and began the job, from one of the sideburns downward. The razor responded beautifully. His beard was inflexible and hard, not too long, but thick. Bit by bit the skin emerged. The razor rasped along, making its customary sound as fluffs of lather mixed with bits of hair gathered along the blade. I paused a moment to clean it, then took up the strop again to sharpen the razor, because I'm a barber who does things properly. The man, who had kept his eyes closed, opened them now, removed one of his hands from under the sheet, felt the spot on his face where the soap had been cleared off, and said, "Come to the school today at six o'clock." "The same thing as the other day?" I asked horrified. "It could be better," he replied. "What do you plan to do?" "I don't know yet. But we'll amuse ourselves." Once more he leaned back and closed his eyes. I approached him with the razor poised. "Do you plan to punish them all?" I ventured timidly. "All." The soap was drying on his face. I had to hurry. In the mirror I looked toward the street. It was the same as ever: the grocery store with two or three customers in it. Then I glanced at the clock: two-twenty in the afternoon. The razor continued on its downward stroke. Now from the other sideburn down. A thick, blue beard. He should have let it grow like some poets or priests do. It would suit him well. A lot of people wouldn't recognize him. Much to his benefit, I thought, as I attempted to cover the neck area smoothly. There, for sure, the razor had to be handled masterfully, since the hair, although softer, grew into little swirls. A curly beard. One of the tiny pores could be opened up and issue forth its pearl of blood. A good barber such as I prides himself on never allowing this to happen to a client.  And this was a first-class client. How many of us had he ordered shot? How many of us had he ordered mutilated? It was better not to think about it. Torres did not know that I was his enemy. He did not know it nor did the rest. It was a secret shared by very few, precisely so that I could inform the revolutionaries of what Torres was doing in the town and of what he was planning each time he undertook a rebel-hunting excursion. So it was going to be very difficult to explain that I had him right in my hands and let him go peacefully -alive and shaved.

The beard was now almost completely gone. He seemed younger, less burdened by years than when he had arrived. I suppose this always happens with men who visit barber shops. Under the stroke of my razor Torres was being rejuvenated-rejuvenated because I am a good barber, the best in the town, if I may say so. A little more lather here, under his chin, on his Adam's apple, on this big vein. How hot it is getting! Torres must be sweating as much as I. But he is not afraid. He is a calm man, who is not even thinking about what he is going to do with the prisoners this afternoon. On the other hand I, with this razor in my hands, stroking and re-stroking this skin, trying to keep blood from oozing from these pores, can't even think clearly. Damn him for coming, because I'm a revolutionary and not a murderer. And how easy it would be to kill him. And he deserves it. Does be? No! What the devil! No one deserves to have someone else make the sacrifice of becoming a murderer. What do you gain by it? Nothing. Others come along and still others, and the first ones kill the second ones and they the next ones and it goes on like this until everything is a sea of blood. I could cut this throat just so, zip! zip! I wouldn't give him time to complain and since he has his eyes closed he wouldn't see the glistening knife blade or my glistening eyes. But I'm trembling like a real murderer. Out of his neck a gush of blood would spout onto the sheet, on the chair, on my hands, on the floor. I would have to close the door. And the blood would keep inching along the floor, warm, ineradicable, uncontainable, until it reached the street, like a little scarlet stream. I'm sure that one solid stroke, one deep incision, would prevent any pain. He wouldn't suffer. But what would I do with the body? Where would I hide it? I would have to flee, leaving all I have behind, and take refuge far away, far, far away. But they would follow until they found me. "Captain Torres' murderer. He slit his throat while he was shaving him a coward." And then on the other side. "The avenger of us all. A name to remember. (And here they would mention my name.) He was the town barber. No one knew he was defending our cause."

And what of all this? Murderer or hero? My destiny depends on the edge of this blade. I can turn my hand a bit more, press a little harder on the razor, and sink it in. The skin would give way like silk, like rubber, like the strop. There is nothing more tender than human skin and the blood is always there, ready to pour forth. A blade like this doesn't fail. It is my best. But I don't want to be a murderer, no sir. You came to me for a shave. And I perform my work honorably. . . . I don't want blood on my hands. Just lather, that's all. You are an executioner and I am only a barber. Each person has his own place in the scheme of things. That's right. His own place.

Now his chin bad been stroked clean and smooth. The man sat up and looked into the mirror. He rubbed his hands over his skin and felt it fresh, like new.

"Thanks," he said. He went to the hanger for his belt, pistol and cap. I must have been very pale; my shirt felt soaked. Torres finished adjusting the buckle, straightened his pistol in the holster and after automatically smoothing down his hair, he put on the cap. From his pants pocket be took out several coins to pay me for my services. And he began to bead toward the door. In the doorway he paused for a moment, and turning to me he said:

"They told me that you'd kill me. I came to find out. But killing isn't easy. You can take my word for it." And he headed on down the street.

Tell me, Dear Reader – were you not spellbound as you read this story...? 

Notice the setting, the characters, the conflicting emotions and the build up of sheer terror in the mind of the barber – as the story progresses towards its climax, the epiphany. 

And – just look at the spectacular sting in the tail: 

“They told me that you’d kill me. I came to find out. But killing isn’t easy. You can take my word for it”.  

The moral conflict in the mind of the barber delivers a powerfully message: 

Is it justified to kill someone – even for vengeance...?

Dear Reader: 

I read this story many years ago – probably 25 years ago. 

But – this story had a lasting impact on me – and I will never forget it. 

I am sure you liked it too. 

Do tell me what you thought of this story – Just Lather, That’s All

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 
1. If you share this post, please give due credit to the author Vikram Karve
2. Please DO NOT PLAGIARIZE. Please DO NOT Cut/Copy/Paste this post
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

Disclaimer:

This story is a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings and Incidents narrated in the stories are a figment of my imagination. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright Notice:

No part of this Blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Blog Author Vikram Karve who holds the copyright.

Copyright © Vikram Karve (all rights reserved)

This blog post was written by me Vikram Karve around 25 years ago in the 1990s and posted online earlier in my various creative writing blogs including at urls: http://creative.sulekha.com/my-favourite-short-stories-part-4-just-lather-that-s-all_531396_blog and http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2012/01/just-lather-thats-all-my-favourite.html etc 

A Mushy Romance – The Wallflower – An Excerpt

AN EXCERPT FROM MY LOVE STORY – THE WALLFLOWER

I reach the airport well in time and take up a strong tactical position where I can clearly observe the passengers coming out of the arrival gate without being easily seen myself.

I recognize her at once without ever having seen her. 

Stunningly attractive, a real beauty, smashing, sophisticated, elegant; truly chic – my type of woman – optimally designed, precisely engineered and finished to perfection. She looks so extraordinarily exquisite, so tantalizing, so sensuous, so temptingly inviting, that I cannot take my eyes off her. 

Suddenly she looks in my direction and realizes that I am feasting my eyes on her. 

At first she gives me stern look, then seeing the frank admiration in my eyes, she melts, her lovely, dark, expressive eyes begin to dance and she gives me a smile so captivating that I experience a delightful twinge in my heart.

“Excuse me...” someone is tapping my shoulder form behind. 

Exasperatingly I turn around – and – I glare at the podgy pedestrian suburban unpretentious looking homely woman who has disturbed me – and I snap angrily: “Yes. What is it...?”

“Mr. Vijay Joshi...?” she says grinning like a Cheshire cat, “I am Vibha Gokhale. I told you I’ll recognize you, didn’t I...?”

My Dear Reader – I have no words to describe my feelings at that moment. I’ll only say this. Deflated. Yes, “deflated”...!!! I’d never felt so “deflated” before – or since...!!!

Vibha Gokhale peeps past me at the object of my attention, arches her eyebrows, and she says naughtily: “Aha, Mr. Vijay Joshi. So you thought that sexy dish over there is me – isn’t it...?”

I swivel round and round, all confused, and I stammer: “No, actually…”

“It’s okay. You’re not the first one to wonder how a “Handsome Hulk” like Avinash Gokhale married a “Plain Jane” like me...” she says, adjusting the hair pin in her bun. 

Dear Reader – If you want to read my mushy romance love story THE WALLFLOWER – please click the link below: 

http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2016/04/mushy-romance-story-wallflower.html 

It is a longish story – but I am sure you will enjoy reading it...

“Moral of the Story” – The Ant and the Grasshopper

LIFE IS NOT FAIR

Lessons from Fiction

(Moral of the Story: The Ant and the Grasshopper by W Somerset Maugham)

By

VIKRAM KARVE

The best thing that happened to me was the Navy. 

Way back – in the 1970s – when I joined the Navy – life was good. 

There was never a dull moment. 

Something was always happening, and I came across a variety of unique personalities – yes, exciting situations and inimitable characters.

Those were the best days of my life. 

Even now – whenever I reminisce about my “good old” Navy days and recall the unforgettable characters I met there – and whenever I hark back to the hilarious incidents (in hindsight) – those cherished memories always fill me with cheer – and sometimes bring a smile, maybe a laugh, to my lips. 

I always liked to read – but it was the Navy that gave a real impetus to my reading habit. 

Junior Officers were encouraged to develop the habit of reading. 

Those days – it was considered an Officer Like Quality (OLQ) to be well-informed and well-read – in addition to being proficient and well-versed in professional matters. 

So – in addition to my professional books and technical literature – I was always reading something of literary value – maybe a biography (say – military or naval biographical literature – to inspire me) – or war stories – or fiction – or a classic from literature. 

The Navy had well-stocked libraries – afloat and ashore – which had a wide variety of books – ranging from the rare to contemporary on a wide variety of subjects. 

This easy access to the diverse forms of the best literature really facilitated my reading habit. 

I always had a book in hand – and reading formed a part of my daily routine. 

When we were young bachelors – Naval Life also afforded an excellent opportunity to play all sorts of sports – especially team games with the men like football, hockey, water-polo and basketball – and this – along with the social aspects of Naval Life – helped us develop well-rounded personalities.

Now – let’s talk a bit about my reading. 

Of all genres of literature – I personally like the Short Story. 

A good short story can be read in one sitting – and has intense impact on the reader – as it succinctly delivers the message – with the force of brevity and wit. 

I have learnt immensely about the art of living and a philosophical approach to life by reading short stories – since every short story gives you a message – some food for thought. 

Unlike moral lectures and sermons – Short Stories tend to impart the message in a subtle manner – by presenting the vicissitudes of life – rather than preaching and pontificating.

That is why short stories put across their values implicitly – rather than than explicitly.

Rather than pontificate further – I think I will share with you some of my favourite short stories in my blog. 

So here is a piece of short fiction. 

The Ant and the Grasshopper By W Somerset Maugham 

This story is one of my all time favourites.

This story is freely available on the internet (just google it or try any search engine or literary site). 

I am giving a link to the story – and – Dear Reader – for your convenience – I am also posting the story below (from the url link mentioned below):

http://cito-web.yspu.org/link1/metod/met44/node11.html

The Ant and the Grasshopper

By

W Somerset Maugham

When I was a very small boy I was made to learn by heart certain of the fables of La Fontaine, and the moral of each was carefully explained to me. Among those I learnt was The Ant and the Grasshopper, which is devised to bring home to the young the useful lesson that in an imperfect world industry is rewarded and giddiness punished. In this admirable fable (I apologise for telling something which everyone is politely, but inexactly, supposed to know) the ant spends a laborious summer gathering its winter store; while the grasshopper sits on a blade of grass singing to the sun. Winter comes and the ant is comfortably provided for, but the grasshopper has an empty larder: he goes to the ant and begs for a little food. Then the ant gives him her classic answer:

"What were you doing in the summer time?"

"Saving your presence, I sang, I sang all day, all night."

"You sang. Why, then go and dance."

I do not ascribe it to perversity on my part, but rather to the inconsequence of childhood, which is deficient in moral sense, that I could never quite reconcile myself to the lesson. My sympathies were with the grasshopper and for some time I never saw an ant without putting my foot on it. In this summary (and, as I have discovered since, entirely human) fashion I sought to express my disapproval of prudence and commonsense.

I could not help thinking of this fable when the other day I saw George Ramsay lunching by himself in a restaurant.

I never saw anyone wear an expression of such deep gloom. He was staring into space. He looked as though the burden of the whole world sat on his shoulders. 

I was sorry for him: I suspected at once that his unfortunate brother had been causing trouble again. I went up to him and held out my hand.

"How are you?" I asked.

"I'm not in hilarious spirits," he answered.

"Is it Tom again?"

He sighed.

"Yes, it's Tom again."

"Why don't you chuck him?" You've done everything in the world for him. You must know by now that he's quite hopeless.

I suppose every family has a black sheep. Tom had been a sore trial for twenty years. He had begun life decently enough: he went into business, married and had two children. The Ramsays were perfectly respectable people and there was every reason to suppose that Tom Ramsay would have a useful and honourable career. But one day, without warning, he announced that he didn't like work and that he wasn't suited for marriage. He wanted to enjoy himself. He would listen to no expostulations. He left his wife and his office. He had a little money and he spent two happy years in the various capitals of Europe. Rumours of his doings reached his relations from time to time and they were profoundly shocked. He certainly had a very good time. They shook their heads and asked what would happen when his money was spent. They soon found out: he borrowed. He was charming and unscrupulous. I have never met anyone to whom it was more difficult to refuse a loan. He made a steady income from his friends and he made friends easily. But he always said that the money you spent on necessities was boring; the money that was amusing to spend was the money you spent on luxuries. For this he depended on his brother George. He did not waste his charm on him. George was a serious man and insensible to such enticements. George was respectable. Once or twice he fell to Tom's promises of amendment and gave him considerable sums in order that he might make a fresh start. On these Tom bought a motorcar and some very nice jewellery. But when circumstances forced George to realise that his brother would never settle down and he washed his hands of him, Tom, without a qualm, began to blackmail him. It was not very nice for a respectable lawyer to find his brother shaking cocktails behind he bar of his favourite restaurant or to see him waiting on the box-seat of a taxi outside his club. Tom said that to serve in a bar or to drive a taxi was a perfectly decent occupation, but if George could oblige him with a couple of hundred pounds he didn't mind for the honour of the family giving it up. George paid.

Once Tom nearly went to prison. George was terribly upset. He went into the whole discreditable affair. Really Tom had gone too far. He had been wild, thoughtless and selfish; but he had never before done anything dishonest, by which George meant illegal; and if he were prosecuted he would assuredly be convicted. But you cannot allow your only brother to go to gaol. The man Tom had cheated, a man called Cronshaw, was vindictive. He was determined to take the matter into court; he said Tom was a scoundrel and should be punished. It cost George an infinite deal of trouble and five hundred pounds to settle the affair. I have never seen him in such a rage as when he heard that Tom and Cronshaw had gone off together to Monte Carlo the moment they cashed the cheque. They spent a happy month there.

For twenty years Tom raced and gambled, philandered with the prettiest girls, danced, ate in the most expensive restaurants, and dressed beautifully. He always looked as if he had just stepped out of a bandbox. Though he was forty-six you would never have taken him for more than thirty-five. He was a most amusing companion and though you knew he was perfectly worthless you could not but enjoy his society. He had high spirits, an unfailing gaiety and incredible charm. I never grudged the contributions he regularly levied on me for the necessities of his existence. I never lent him fifty pounds without feeling that I was in his debt. Tom Ramsay knew everyone and everyone knew Tom Ramsay. You could not approve of him, but you could not help liking him.

Poor George, only a year older than his scapegrace brother, looked sixty. He had never taken more than a fortnight's holiday in the year for a quarter of a century. He was in his office every morning at nine-thirty and never left it till six. He was honest, industrious and worthy. He had a good wife, to whom he had never been unfaithful even in thought, and four daughters to whom he was the best of fathers. He made a point of saving a third of his income and his plan was to retire at fifty-five to a little house in the country where he proposed to cultivate his garden and play golf. His life was blameless. He was glad that he was growing old because Tom was growing old too. He rubbed his hands and said: "It was all very well when Tom was young and good-looking, but he's only a year younger than I am. In four years he'll be fifty. He won't find life so easy then. I shall have thirty thousand pounds by the time I'm fifty. For twenty-five years I've said that Tom would end in the gutter. And we shall see how he likes that. We shall see if it really pays best to work or be idle."

Poor George! I sympathized with him. I wondered now as I sat down beside him what infamous thing Tom had done. George was evidently very much upset.

"Do you know what's happened now?" he asked me.

I was prepared for the worst. I wondered if Tom had got into the hands of the police at last. George could hardly bring himself to speak.

"You're not going to deny that all my life I've been hardworking, decent, respectable and straightforward. After a life of industry and thrift I can look forward to retiring on a small income in gilt-edged securities. I've always done my duty in that state of life in which it has pleased Providence to place me."

"True."

"And you can't deny that Tom has been an idle, worthless, dissolute and dishonourable rogue. If there were any justice he'd be in the workhouse."

"True."

George grew red in the face.

"A few weeks ago he became engaged to a woman old enough to be his mother. And now she's died and left him everything she had. Half a million pounds, a yacht, a house in London and a house in the country."

George Ramsay beat his clenched fist on the table.

"It's not fair, I tell you; it's not fair. Damn it, it's not fair."

I could not help it. I burst into a shout of laughter as I looked at George's wrathful face, I rolled in my chair; I very nearly fell on the floor. George never forgave me. But Tom often asked me to excellent dinners in his charming house in Mayfair, and if he occasionally borrows a trifle from me, that is merely from force of habit. It is never more than a sovereign.

MORAL OF THE STORY 

Look around you. 

Don’t you see similar things happening in real life...? 

Life is unfair – isn't it...? 

I see this happen every day. 

Easy-going and laid-back people succeed effortlessly. 

In contrast – many sincere and hardworking individuals just do not get their due. 

Despite all the moral lectures about sincerity and hard work you have been subjected to in your childhood – you learn from your life’s experience that – there is no logical connection between efforts and rewards.

Success does not depend on hard-work.

Fate, luck or destiny plays a major role in your life.

So what do you do...?

The best is to adopt a philosophical approach to life. 

Here is a saying from Lao-tzu from Tao Te Ching:

Fill your bowl to the brim and it will spill.

Keep sharpening your knife and it will blunt.

Chase after money and security and your heart will never unclench.

Care about other people's approval and you will be their prisoner.

Do your work, then step back.

The only path to serenity.

--Lao-tzu, Tao Te Ching, ch. 9

Yes – that is the key: 

Do your work – then step back

Or better still – let Chapter 2 Verse 47 of The Bhagavad Gita be your guide:

karmany evadhikarass te maphalesu kadachana ma karma-phala-hetur bur ma te sango stv akarmani 

(Seek to perform your duty; but lay not claim to its fruits. You have a right to perform your prescribed action, but you are not entitled to the fruits of your action. Never consider yourself the cause of the results your activities, but neither should you avoid doing your duty)

So that’s the moral of the story – isn’t it...? 

Always do your best without expecting results – and you will be happy

I have read so many favourite short stories – which give you messages on the art of living – and I am going to tell you all about them. 

Also – in all the stories I write – I try my best to impart some message. 

I promise to pontificate a bit less next time. 

But – I cannot help sermonizing a little. 

For – like I said – it is these messages in short stories that have helped me form my attitude – and adopt a philosophical approach to life. 

Till we meet next time – here is a quote from Somerset Maugham for you to reflect on:

It’s a funny thing about life – if you refuse to accept anything but the best – you very often get it.

W. Somerset Maugham

Dear Reader:

If you like reading short stories, do read my stories too, which I post from time to time on my Blog URL: http://karvediat.blogspot.in/

Happy Reading

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve
1. If you share this post, please give due credit to the author Vikram Karve
2. Please DO NOT PLAGIARIZE. Please DO NOT Cut/Copy/Paste this post
© vikram karve., all rights reserved. 

This is a revised repost of my article LIFE IS NOT FAIR posted earlier at urls: http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2013/04/life-is-not-fair-lessons-from-fiction.html  and  http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2011/11/ant-and-grasshopper-my-favourite-short.html  and http://creative.sulekha.com/my-favourite-short-stories-part-1-the-ant-and-the-grasshopper_530334_blog etc