My First Day at Air Uni free essay sample

Orientation started on scheduled time. In the beginning we were addressed about academic years and some semester related terms. After that we were explained in detail about the rules and regulations that were to be strictly followed within the premises of the university. We found that the university was very strict about discipline and that the ones not abiding by the rules were to face the music. Followed by this was a detailed presentation given to us about the academic structure and administrative measures of university by our Head of Department, Mr..Dry. Bastard Allah Mali. He altered his way of speech and took the discussion towards a lighter side by cracking some decent jokes. Then we were informed about our class rooms and labs. We were gathered for an introductory trip. We were satisfied after the introductory session about the university. After that we were served with Tea. The University contained many lush green lawns which were really creating an atmosphere for knowledge sharing. We will write a custom essay sample on My First Day at Air Uni or any similar topic specifically for you Do Not WasteYour Time HIRE WRITER Only 13.90 / page Our seniors were cheerful and welcoming. They informed us about the university in a great way.However some seniors were also ragging the juniors, but I Hough it to be a part of the game. But It was really meant for better relations and introduction. Some seniors ask juniors to sing song. There was a sports center were facilities for different sports and games were available. After that our seniors showed us the central library. University was a new experience for us in our lives. It was the beginning of new life commonly known as university life.

An Evolution Definition of Darwinism

An Evolution Definition of Darwinism Charles Darwin is known as the Father of Evolution for being the first person to publish his theory not only describing that evolution was a change in species over time but also put together a mechanism for how it works (called natural selection). There is arguably no other evolutionary scholar as well known and revered as Darwin. In fact, the term Darwinism has come to be synonymous with the Theory of Evolution, but what really is meant when people say the word Darwinism? And more importantly, what does Darwinism NOT mean? The Coining of the Term Darwinism, when it was first put into the lexicon by Thomas Huxley in 1860, was only meant to describe the belief that species change over time. In the most basic of terms, Darwinism became synonymous with Charles Darwins explanation of evolution and, to an extent, his description of natural selection. These ideas, first published in his arguably most famous book On the Origin of Species, were direct and have stood the test of time. So, originally, Darwinism only included the fact that species change over time due to nature selecting the most favorable adaptations within the population. These individuals with the better adaptations lived long enough to reproduce and pass those traits down to the next generation, ensuring the species survival. The Evolution of Darwinism While many scholars insist this should be the extent of information that the word Darwinism should encompass, it has somewhat evolved itself over time as the Theory of Evolution itself also changed when more data and information became readily available. For instance, Darwin did not know anything about Genetics as it wasnt until after his death that Gregor Mendel did his work with his pea plants and published the data. Many other scientists proposed alternative mechanisms for evolution during a time which became known as neo-Darwinism. However, none of these mechanisms held up over time and Charles Darwins original assertions were restored as the correct and leading Theory of Evolution. Now, the Modern Synthesis of the Evolutionary Theory is sometimes described using the term Darwinism, but this is somewhat misleading since it includes not only Genetics but also other topics not explored by Darwin like microevolution via DNA mutations and other molecular biological tenets. What Darwinism Is NOT In the United States, Darwinism has taken on a different meaning to the general public. In fact, opponents to the Theory of Evolution have taken the term Darwinism and created a false definition of the word that brings up a negative connotation for many who hear it. The strict Creationists have taken the word hostage and created a new meaning which is often perpetuated by those in the media and others who do not truly understand the real meaning of the word. These anti-evolutionists have taken the word Darwinism to not only mean a change in species over time but have lumped in the origin of life along with it. Darwin did not assert any sort of hypothesis on how life on Earth began in any of this writings and only could describe what he had studied and had evidence to back up. Creationists and other anti-evolutionary parties either misunderstood the term Darwinism or purposefully hijacked it to make it more negative. The term has even been used to describe the origin of the universe b y some extremists, which is way beyond the realm of anything Darwin would have made a conjecture on at any time in his life. In other countries around the world, however, this false definition is not present. In fact, in the United Kingdom where Darwin did most of his work, it is a celebrated and understood term that is commonly used instead of the Theory of Evolution through Natural Selection. There is no ambiguity of the term there and it is used correctly by scientists, the media, and the general public every day.

American History Since 1865 Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 250 words - 1

American History Since 1865 - Essay Example Roosevelt was more concerned about the general public and believed in the notion of relief, recovery and reform. Soon after gaining office, he introduced different relief programs which provided employment to thousands of unemployed persons. He reduced the expenses on military, research and education to increase the funds required to boost the economy. His approach was very successful and provided a head start for the nation to recover from the Great Depression. 2. What can you understand about the problems facing the nation or about American culture and society of the day? The primary problem faced by the American nation was unemployment. However it had not resulted only from the crashed economy but also due to materialistic work practices of the people. The people were more concerned about earning easily rather than through hard work. The other major problem faced by the society was the improper utilization of the natural resources. The land was abundant in natural resources but la ck of leadership and coordination among the people had hindered in its proper utilization. The nation lacked a stable currency that could suffice for all the trade and commerce. The competition and monopoly of big organizations had throttled the small scale businesses and caused widespread unemployment.

English Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 1250 words - 6

English - Essay Example How many times these low feet staggered (238) BY EMILY DICKINSON How many times these low feet staggered - Only the soldered mouth can tell - Try - can you stir the awful rivet - Try - can you lift the hasps of steel! Stroke the cool forehead - hot so often - Lift - if you care - the listless hair - Handle the adamantine fingers Never a thimble - more - shall wear - Buzz the dull flies - on the chamber window - Brave - shines the sun through the freckled pane - Fearless - the cobweb swings from the ceiling - Indolent Housewife - in Daisies - lain! Tone and Implications of Death in Dickinson’s â€Å"The Only Ghost† and â€Å"How Many Times† Emily Dickinson, as a poetic writer, composed most of her works with the theme of death, the entirety of which can be categorized into three different periods of writings, the earliest mainly contained the themes of death and immortality, personifying death and elegiac poems and lacked the intensity and urgency of her later poe ms or their fascination with the physical aspects of death (Van Daesdonk 2007). Because of Dickinson’s immense fascination with this subject, it is interesting to compare her pieces against each other to see how her view of death changed over the years of her writing. These poems are â€Å"The Only Ghost I Ever Saw† and â€Å"How Many Times These Low Feet Staggered.† â€Å"The Only Ghost I Ever Saw† has a softer tone and composition that suggested an early fascination with death and disillusionment with the Church’s idea of death, while â€Å"How Many Times These Low Feet Staggered† has a more realistic and macabre tone and composition because of the realization of how death reveals a person’s past identity, which suggests that, in some cases, death is better than life after all. â€Å"The Only Ghost I Ever Saw,† written in 1857-62, is an example of the earlier period of Dickinson’s writing. There are many different inte rpretations of this piece, the most obvious one is that the poem centers on an individual who has encountered the spirit of a person and is shocked by the meeting. A deeper analysis shows the possibility of the poem being about how the speaker, or Dickinson, is forced to reassess her loyalty or belief of Christianity through the encounter of a ghost. In contrast, â€Å"How Many Times These Low Feet Staggered,† written 1890, can be recognized to belong in her later period, as its theme centers on the viewing of the corpse of a mundane housewife and the physical aspects of her death. The poem itself is in the first person persona and contains a grotesque dreary tone; and from the poem’s fascination with the corpse, the Dickinson’s frustration and obsession with death is shown. Concerning the form and structure of â€Å"The Only Ghost I ever saw,† the piece is a ballad, one of the two main forms of narrative poetry, as the poem uses the traditional ballad me tre, which is made up of rhyming quatrains of alternative four-stress and three-stress lines. It is written in iambic metre which gives the poem a soft flowing, lilting rhythm, this along with the many pauses throughout the poem cause the pace to become slow and smooth, much like the movement of the poem’s subject, a ghost, would be. â€Å"How Many Times† differs from this in that the meter of the poem is iambic, the first syllable of each line is unstressed followed by a stressed one; however, the first line of the poem intentionally breaks this pattern. â€Å"

Personal Statement for Sorbbone university Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 500 words

For Sorbbone university - Personal Statement Example It has always been my priority to make sure that I fulfilled my parent’s expectations, and I can say without a doubt that seeing my father become a successful man that he is right now, I feel the urge in me to follow his footsteps and make my name in the field of law as well. His achievements have had a great impact on me, and influenced by his success, I also want to pursue law as a career. I believe that Sorbonne University is the best place to pursue law as a career because I am confident that Sorbonne would develop in me the skills that are essential for me to follow my passion with a renewed and a consistent vigor, and the international exposure that I will receive during my studies at Sorbonne will be incomparable to any other place. Therefore, it is my utmost ambition to land at a place in Sorbonne, because I believe that studying in such a prestigious university will equip me with an experience that will help me grow not only academically, but also professionally. Hence, I will be grateful to the university to grant me a place in this university so I’m able to pursue my goals and thrive in an environment conducive to the achievement to those goals. Moreover, the international exposure that will be follow once I acquire the Paris-Sorbonne degree will not only add to my knowledge and learning but will also take me places in terms of chances of being better employed than my peers. And I believe that this degree in law will bestow on me a competitive edge on me in the face of cut-throat competition, and it will be because of the latter that I will hopefully be able to make the most of my university education. Apart from my keen interest in building a career in law, I’m also interested in reading and knowing about politics. For this, I read political books as a hobby and watch the news regularly to keep myself abreast of all changes occurring in the political world. Secondly, I’m also enthusiastic about hunting, the regal art of

Leadership And Change Management At Dominos Pizza Commerce Essay

Leadership And Change Management At Dominos Pizza Commerce Essay Change is part of life. Change come in every things with the passage of time either he is a human being or an organization. To accept these changes things try to adopt different process according to different situations. Similarly in an organisation changing can be small or big as well. For example, hiring a new employee is small change and change in mission or use of new technology is big cause of change. Change should not be done for the sake of change .it is a strategy to accomplish the overall goal. Internal and external triggers are key cause of change and these changes can be planned and unplanned as well. There are some common mistakes while attempting to implement the change. For example, delayed decision making, no proper support of managers, could not understand where business will stand after adopting the change. In addition, for the change organisation follow the process and during this process many conflicts occurred. If something is happening that is indication of resistance. There are many signs of resistance like confusion, denial, immediate criticism, easy agreement, silence and many more. What is change management? Change management is accept, control and manage the situation in the organisation and need to bring change in the organisation has effective management is called change management. Different analysis has to do to see the change and managed by well planned strategy. If any organisation has needed to do change then different valid models are made for effective management of change. Some proactive techniques are used to bring and adjust the change in the external and internal performance of the organisation. There is making some effective strategy to plan step by step change. Change management also keep in eye current and modern issues which can affect the change process. There are some solid reasons when change is required. Change management should have up to date knowledge about the of situation surrounding a issues. Change process: There are many reasons due to change is done. That reason can be internally and can be internally. Change process means journey of source of change to the adopting the change is change process. Why change has done? Which type of changes has done either it is cultural, organisational behaviour, organisation policies. These changes can be related to different department of organisation and every department is related to change process and change process is related to the organisation strategies. Real life examples of the change process: In the recent years, the introduction and modification of the computer dominated the list of changes. It has effected nearly every business, industry and home as well. Change in computer will keep effect on people lives. For examples, nowadays people can buy the thing easily at sitting in home by using the computer through internet. Computer has saved the time and expenses as well. We can buy a thing by clicking a button and can pay at time. Moreover, computer has great impact on industrial area as well. New information technology systems have been installed. It is the best way to access the data. Moreover, working condition also often changes. Many organizations moved or remodelled their facilities. For example shifting of staff or offices to new tall buildings from small quarters which are a great change in working process. Polices, rules and regulations are frequently changed. Continues changes are being made in organizations in order to become more efficient and profitable. For examples, a big insurance company is restructuring its organization around the project management area . They mage centralized area to project mange office where the team of workers stayed until they are assigned to various projects. Foe the starting of the project they need trainings and have to learn methodology of project management. Initiative for the change started in information technology and is expanding rest of the life. History of Dominos Pizza: In USA, Dominos Pizza is second largest franchised chain organisation like its competitors Pizza Hut. Two Brother Tom and James Monagha purchased some property and opened with the mane of Dominicks pizza. After few years Tom had changed the name Dominos Pizza. In late seventies there were 200 franchise of pizza and later on in 1983 it went international and open one thousand franchises and same year in Australia they open new franchise. Organisation of Dominos Pizza grew up very quickly and in many countries it was still a traditional company. The menu of Dominos Pizza was very simple and was offering simple crust means regular pizza. Later on due to competition they added medium and large size otherwise there were no side order, just pizza along with the drink. Deep pan pizza was introduced in 1989 and changed the history. By the market demand, on same years, they opened five thousands stores. For many year, they started the policy about the delivery if the delivery didnt reach in 3 0 minutes then you will get free pizza. In 1993, they did not continue this policy. In 1994 they introduced chicken wings and in 1996 they launched Dominos web site. They also invention the cardboard boxes to keep pizza warm and Heat Wave for the fresh and warm delivery. In 1997 they introduced the new logo as well. They have open many franchises all over the world according to the taste and culture of the different countries. Sources of change in the Dominos Pizza: There are many internal and external sources which has brought change in the dominos pizza and its strategy. They accepted these changes and there are some external reasons which are as follows: Changing in market nature is the source of change in the Dominos Pizza. As the consumers know that their choice is matter in the market whatever they demand it will be considerable. Australia is one of the largest countries and consumers of that country markets want healthy food so Dominos Pizza made healthy menu. With the objective of maintaining the competition, business always run according to the rules and regulation. So Dominos Pizza also influenced by political and legal issues. Employer should have to remember about the nutrition laws and information. There is another source which has affected the operation of the Dominos Pizza which is economic growth and location. There are some internal sources which have impact on the Dominos Pizza. New technology system to keep pizza warm and hot for the longer time it has created change and also online delivery order. New internet based is beneficial for the customers. Dominos made easier for the consumer card payments, driver take wireless card machines for the payment of order. Resistance to change: When changes are made then resistance born. There are many reason of increasing of resistance like due to some confusion in the data, misleading and misusing the data, organisation do not know where have to do change, sometime criticism incurred, employees does not agreed with the new polices. Resistance can be intense because of different reasons like a cognitive of different options, due to deeper emotions and deeply embedded. Resistance to change in Organisational culture of Dominos Pizza: Brandon who had purchased Dominos Pizza for$ 1.1 billion. He tried to create very friendly relationship with employees. First day on the work he explained that change is good. With the passage of time, Dominos Pizza brings changes in cultural sector. Proper wearing uniform and given training to the employees and how to work, given them trainings. Employees of Dominos Pizza were eligible. Organisational culture changing is not a easy thing, manager make out the strategy that how to change in the organisation individually and in the group. Innovation of online ordering is new change in the Dominos Pizza. Competition in the industry has increased in the selection of store manager and gives them training. New computerised system has brought changes in organisational culture as well. Resistance to change in Organisational behaviour of the Dominos Pizza: Due to resistance to change in Dominos Pizza, there are some changes incurred in organisation behaviour of the organisation. Staff issues have increased because new technology is using and employment opportunities are decreasing. With the passage of time new modern technology has taken over the jobs. These are the basic issues and change in the organisational behaviour. There are some problems incurred individually to face the change like managers of store. Resistance to change in organisational policies and power: With the passage of time, there are many changes incurred in polices and rules and regulations which was the cause of resistance to change in dominos. Whenever changes comes in the polices managers have to see the difficulties because he have to handle the store and have direct linkage between the employees. Manger have to try to keep saying to employees to follow new polices these policies can be about food hygienic, delivery, taking orders many other things. After facing these changes, customers who are the basic part of dominos strategy have to face the problem. Some time customers does not understand the about the new polices. Polices has implied on every employee of Dominos Pizza so that is cause of resistance to change. Moreover, main power of Dominos Pizza is their customer so they do not like to lose their customers. If dominos will try to change in culture, organisational behaviour and rules and regulation will directly affect the customers. Basic aim and objective of dominos pizza is to make happy customer. In addition, one more power of dominos is finance which has brought changes many times. Sometimes dominos have to face resistance to change due to finance. Changes come due to loss of revenue, low share market and many other things as well. Strategies to overcome the resistance: Dominos is one of the well know and famous organisation in the world. Its business is expanding day by day at global level. They have experience is the profit margin and have competitive advantage. Dominos pizza have good brand image and have a lot of variety of pizza. In market dominos have leadership quality as well it can competent its competitors like pizza hut, papa johns and many other organisations. There are following steps which are taken by the Dominos Pizza. Dominos pizza aim and objective: To minimize the resistance to change dominos has focus on its aim and objective. Main objective of dominos pizza is to great care of customers. Make customers happy and deliver their orders on the time. Through examine the dominos main objective mangers can control the resistance to change. Achievable goals: Managers can understand about the achievable gaol of the Dominos Pizza. Managers should have to do setting of goal. These goal should be reachable and success able. There is one example of dominos pizza is that in 2006 their goal was to achieve 418 outlet but they had 438. Through this approach Dominos Pizza can reduce the resistance to change. Culture of change: Dominos pizza has to describe their culture to change. Dominos is increasing its growth rate. It has gone international level. Whatever changes will come in the cultural. They should have to explain to their customers. It can be helpful in reduction of strategy. Change models: Kurt lewins has introduced this model. It is very simple to understand and managing the change in any organisation according to this model. His thinking is to bring change as can bring change in ice block. It has given name unfreezing, freezing and refreezing. So, Dominos Pizza should have to accept this approach. Sometime employees cannot work as company demands. Some time customer does not come to but pizza. Step 1: Unfreezing means what problems an organisation is facing? Where it should have to bring changes? There should be proper analysis. Through the survey of market, getting feedback from customers, Dominos Pizza can adopt the change and can reduce the resistance to change. Step2: In this step, freezing, how an organisation can make change? How organisations accept this change? It can be successful by motivating the team and managers. Step 3: In last step refreezing mean if any employee does not want to change the habit. Sometimes organisation does not accept the changes. Unfreezing Freezing Refreezing Sources of conflict within change: Some source which has created change in dominos pizza strategy. These sources were internal and external. Dominos did many changes in it whole journey to the success. This organisation met to resistance to change. These resistance was by organisational culture, behaviour, polices and many other things. There are many approach used to overcome the resistance. After using these approaches and strategies Dominos Pizza faced many conflicts which were changing in the working style of the Dominos Pizza. There is innovation of new technology which has taken over the job of employees. They cannot get working hour more. Online order service, misleading with calculation of sales, misleading the data, misuse of branding. These are the main sources of conflict in the change. When changes come then it creates conflicts between the employees. Due to misleading the calculation there were impact on the sales revue and the ratio analysis of the dominos pizza. Approaches to deal with conflicts: When conflict incurred then there should be some approaches to deal with conflicts. To deal with conflict should have to careful about the main objective and aim. If we forget about the main purpose then there is no befit of running the business. To solve these conflicts Dominos Pizza should have to take some steps which are as follows: Dominos Pizza had to do some promotional activities to keep its image maintain. These activities make customer happy and create more attraction. To reduce the conflicts, Dominos Pizza had to increase the working hours of employees and have to offers some compensation, holiday packages, bonuses. Dominos pizza had to arrange some motivational workshop for the employees like customer service workshop, team work, training of staff. Dominos pizza had offers some new meal deal to the customers to increase the sale and revenue level. Conclusion and Recommendations: At the end, changes come in ever field of organisation. Whenever change needed it comes . For the acceptance to change there are some elements which have to keep in eye. In Dominos Pizza many changes come and due to these changes it has create resistance to change in it. These resistances were in organisational behaviour, organisation cultural, traditional changes, changes in rules and regulation and power. These changes come not individually but it also comes in group of shape. After analysis of Dominos pizza, we came to about the approaches and strategies which had used in the reduction of resistance. After resistance there are some problems and conflict born. Dominos pizza used different techniques like offering the different meal deals, free vouchers to the customers, workshop for the employees and many other things. Dominos pizza is well known and best competitors organisation in the market. It gained high profit and revenue. Bibliography: Paton. R .A and McCalman J (2008) Change Management (3rd Ed) SAGE, London. Tobin. R(1999)overcoming resistance to change (2nd Ed) Kogan Page, UK.

Also by Amitav Ghosh The Hungry Tide Incendiary Circumstances

Also by Amitav Ghosh The Hungry Tide Incendiary Circumstances The Glass Palace The Calcutta Chromosome In an Antique Land The Circle of Reason Sea of Poppies River of Smoke The Shadow Lines Amitav Ghosh www. johnmurray. co. uk First published in Great Britain in 1988 by Bloomsbury Publishing Ltd First published in 2011 by John Murray (Publishers) An Hachette UK Company  © Amitav Ghosh 1988 The right of Amitav Ghosh to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Li brary Epub ISBN 978-1-84854-423-9 Book ISBN 978-1-84854-417-8 John Murray (Publishers) 338 Euston Road London NW1 3BH www. johnmurray. co. uk For Radhika and Harisen CONTENTSTitle Page Copyright Page Dedication Going Away Coming Home Going Away In 1939, thirteen years before I was born, my father’s aunt, Mayadebi, went to England with her husband and her son, Tridib. It startles me now to discover how readily the name comes off my pen as ‘Mayadebi’ for I have never spoken of her thus; not aloud, at any rate: as my grandmother’s only sister, she was always Mayathakuma to me. But still, from as far back as I can remember, I have known her, in the secrecy of my mind, as ‘Mayadebi’ – as though she were a well-known stranger, like a film star or a politician whose picture I had seen in a newspaper.Perhaps it was merely because I knew her very little, for she was not often in Calcutta. That explanation seems likely enough, but I know it to be untrue. The truth is that I did not want to think of her as a relative: to have done that would have diminished her and her family – I could not bring myself to believe that their worth in my eyes could be reduced to something so arbitrary and unimportant as a blood relationship. Mayadebi was twenty-nine when they left, and Tridib was eight.Over the years, although I cannot remember when it happened any more than I can remember when I first learnt to tell the time or tie my shoelaces, I have come to believe that I was eight too when Tridib first talked to me about that journey. I remember trying very hard to imagine him back to my age, to reduce his height to mine, and to think away the spectacles that were so much a part of him that I really believed he had been born with them. It wasn’t easy, for to me he looked old, impossibly old, and I could not remember him looking anything other than old – though, in fact, at that time he could not have been much older t han twenty-nine.In the end, since I had nothing to go on, I had decided that he had looked like me. But my grandmother, when I asked her, was very quick to contradict me. She shook her head firmly, looking up from her schoolbooks, and said: No, he looked completely different – not at all like you. My grandmother didn’t approve of Tridib. He’s a loafer and a wastrel, I would sometimes hear her saying to my parents; he doesn’t do any proper work, lives off his father’s money.To me, she would only allow herself to say with a sardonic little twist of her mouth: I don’t want to see you loafing about with Tridib; Tridib wastes his time. It didn’t sound terrible, but in fact, in my grandmother’s usage, there was nothing very much worse that could be said of anyone. For her, time was like a toothbrush: it went mouldy if it wasn’t used. I asked her once what happened to wasted time. She tossed her small silvery head, screwed up h er long nose and said: It begins to stink. As for herself, she had been careful to rid our little flat of everything that might encourage us to let our time stink.No chessboard nor any pack of cards ever came through our door; there was a battered Ludo set somewhere but I was allowed to play with it only when I was ill. She didn’t even approve of my mother listening to the afternoon radio play more than once a week. In our flat we all worked hard at whatever we did: my grandmother at her schoolmistressing; I at my homework; my mother at her housekeeping; my father at his job as a junior executive in a company which dealt in vulcanised rubber. Our time wasn’t given the slightest opportunity to grow mouldy.That was why I loved to listen to Tridib: he never seemed to use his time, but his time didn’t stink. Sometimes Tridib would drop in to see us without warning. My grandmother, for all her disapproval of him, would be delighted whenever he came – partly be cause she was fond of him in her own way, but mainly because Tridib and his family were our only rich relatives, and it flattered her to think that he had gone out of his way to come and see her. But of course, she knew, though she wouldn’t admit it, that he had really come to nurse his stomach.The truth was that his digestion was a mess; ruined by the rivers of hard-boiled tea he had drunk at roadside stalls all over south Calcutta. Every once in a while a rumble in his bowels would catch him unawares on the streets and he would have to sprint for the nearest clean lavatory. This condition was known to us as Tridib’s Gastric. Once every few months or so we would answer the doorbell and find him leaning against the wall, his legs tightly crossed, the sweat starting from his forehead.But he wouldn’t come in right away: there was a careful etiquette attached to these occasions. My parents and grandmother would collect at the doorway and, ignoring his writhings, wo uld proceed to ask him about his family’s doings and whereabouts, and he in turn, smiling fixedly, would ask them how they were, and how I was, and finally, when it had been established to everyone’s satisfaction that he had come on a Family Visit, he would shoot through the door straight into the lavatory.When he emerged again he would be his usual nonchalant, collected self; he would sink into our ‘good’ sofa and the ritual of the Family Visit would begin. My grandmother would hurry into the kitchen to make him an omelette – a leathery little squiggle studded with green chillies, which would lie balefully on its plate, silently challenging Gastric to battle. This was the greatest sign of favour she could show to a visitor – an omelette made with her own hands (it fell to the less favoured to feast on my mother’s masterly tidbits – hot shingaras stuffed with mincemeat and raisins, or crisp little alpuris). Sometimes, watching h im as he chewed upon her omelette, she would ask: And how is Gastric? or: Is Gastric better now? Tridib would merely nod casually and change the subject; he didn’t like to talk about his digestion – it was the only evidence of prudery I ever saw in him. But since I always heard my grandmother using that word as a proper noun, I grew up believing that ‘Gastric’ was the name of an organ peculiar to Tridib – a kind of aching tooth that grew out of his belly button.Of course, I never dared ask to see it. Despite the special omelette, however, my grandmother would not let him stay long. She believed him to be capable of exerting his influence at a distance, like a baneful planet – and since she also believed the male, as a species, to be naturally frail and wayward, she would not allow herself to take the risk of having him for long in our flat where I, or my father, might be tempted to move into his orbit. I didn’t mind particularly, for T ridib was never at his best in our flat.I far preferred to run into him at the street corners in our neighbourhood. It didn’t happen very often – no more than once a month perhaps – but still, I took his presence on these streets so much for granted that it never occurred to me that I was lucky to have him in Calcutta at all. Tridib’s father was a diplomat, an officer in the Foreign Service. He and Mayadebi were always away, abroad or in Delhi; after intervals of two or three years they would sometimes spend a couple of months in Calcutta, but that was all.Of Tridib’s two brothers, Jatin-kaku, the elder, who was two years older than Tridib, was an economist with the UN. He was always away too, somewhere in Africa or South East Asia, with his wife and his daughter Ila, who was my age. The third brother, Robi, who was much younger than the other two, having been born after his mother had had several miscarriages, lived with his parents wherever they happened to be posted until he was sent away to boarding school at the age of twelve.So Tridib was the only person in his family who had spent most of his life in Calcutta. For years he had lived in their vast old family house in Ballygunge Place with his ageing grandmother. My grandmother claimed that he had stayed on in Calcutta only because he didn’t get along with his father. This was one of her complaints against him: not that he didn’t get along with his father, for she didn’t much care for his father either – but that he had allowed something like that to interfere with his prospects and career.For her, likes and dislikes were unimportant compared to the business of fending for oneself in the world: as far as she was concerned it was not so much odd as irresponsible of Tridib to shut himself away in that old house with his grandmother; it showed him up as an essentially lightweight and frivolous character. She might have changed her opinion if he h ad been willing to marry and settle down (and she hadn’t any doubt at all that she could have found him a rich wife), but every time she suggested it he merely laughed.This was further proof that he lacked that core of gravity and determination which distinguishes all responsible and grown-up men; a sure sign that he was determined to waste his life in idle self-indulgence. And yet, although she would pretend to dismiss him with a toss of her head, she never ceased to be wary of him, to warn me against his influence: at heart she believed that all men would be like him if it were not for their mothers and wives. She would often try to persuade me that she pitied him. Poor Tridib, she would say.There’s nothing in the world he couldn’t have done with his connections – he could have lived like a lord and run the country. And look at him – oh, poor Tridib – living in that crumbling house, doing nothing. But even as a child I could tell she didnà ¢â‚¬â„¢t pity him at all – she feared him. Of course, even she would acknowledge sometimes that Tridib did not really do ‘nothing’. In fact, he was working on a PhD in archaeology – something to do with sites associated with the Sena dynasty of Bengal. But this earned him very little credit in my grandmother’s eyes.Being a schoolteacher herself, she had an inordinate respect for academic work of any kind: she saw research as a life-long pilgrimage which ended with a named professorship and a marble bust in the corridors of Calcutta University or the National Library. It would have been a travesty to think of an irresponsible head like Tridib’s mounted in those august corridors. Part of the reason why my grandmother was so wary of him was that she had seen him a couple of times at the street corners around Gole Park where we lived. She had a deep horror of the young men who spent their time at the street-corner addas and tea-stalls around ther e.All failcases, she would sniff; think of their poor mothers, flung out on dung-heaps, starving †¦ Seeing Tridib there a few times was enough to persuade her that he spent all his time at those addas, gossiping: it seemed to fit with the rest of him. But the truth was that Tridib came there rarely, not more than once or twice a month. I would usually hear when he came: Nathu Chaubey, the paanwala who sat in the stall at the corner of our lane, or my friend Montu, who could see the far side of the lane from his bathroom window, or someone at the second-hand bookstalls, would tell me. They all knew I was related to Tridib.When I go past Gole Park now I often wonder whether that would happen today. I don’t know, I can’t tell: that world is closed to me, shut off by too many years spent away. Montu went away to America years ago and Nathu Chaubey, I heard, went back to Benares and started a hotel. When I walk past his paan-shop now and look at the crowds thronging th rough those neon-lit streets, the air-conditioned shops packed in with rickety stalls and the tarpaulin counters of pavement vendors, at the traffic packed as tight as a mail train all the way to the Dhakuria overbridge, somehow, though the paan-shop hasn’t changed, I find myself doubting it.At that time, in the early sixties, there were so few cars around there that we thought nothing of playing football on the streets around the roundabout – making way occasionally for the number 9, or any other bus that happened to come snorting along. There were only a few scattered shacks on Gariahat Road then, put up by the earliest refugees from the east. Gole Park was considered to be more or less outside Calcutta: in school when I said I lived there the boys from central Calcutta would often ask me if I caught a train every morning, as though I lived in some far-flung refugee camp on the border.I would usually hear that Tridib was around on my way back from our evening cricket game in the park. My cricket game was the one thing for which my grandmother never grudged me time away from my homework: on the contrary, she insisted that I run down to the park by the lake whether I wanted to or not. You can’t build a strong country, she would say, pushing me out of the house, without building a strong body. She would watch from her window to make sure I ran all the way to the park.But if I happened to hear that Tridib was around I would double back through the park and the back lanes. Someone would always be able to tell me where he was: he was a familiar figure within the floating, talkative population of students and would-be footballers and bank clerks and smalltime politicos and all the rest who gravitated towards that conversation-loving stretch of road between Gariahat and Gole Park. It did not occur to me then to wonder hy he was well known, or known at all – I simply took the fact for granted, and was grateful for the small privileges his presence secured for me on those streets: for the odd sweet given to me by a shopkeeper of his acquaintance; for being rescued from a fight in the park by some young fellow who knew him. But in fact it seems something of a mystery to me now, why they put up with him: he was never one of them, he didn’t even live there, and he often didn’t have much to say.He was usually content to listen to their loud quicksilver conversations in silence: often when he came he would have about him the tired, withdrawn air of a man who has risen from some exhausting labour and ventured out to distract himself. But occasionally, when he was in the mood and somebody happened to say something that made a breach in his vast reservoirs of abstruse information, he would begin to hold forth on all kinds of subjects – Mesopotamian stelae, East European jazz, the habits of arboreal apes, the plays of Garcia Lorca, there seemed to be no end to the things he could talk about.On those evenin gs, looking at the intent faces of his listeners, watching his thin, waspish face, his tousled hair and his bright black eyes glinting behind his gold-rimmed glasses, I would be close to bursting with pride. But even at those times, when he was the centre of everybody’s attention, there was always something a little detached about his manner.He did not seem to want to make friends with the people he was talking to, and that perhaps was why he was happiest in neutral, impersonal places – coffee houses, bars, street-corner addas – the sort of places where people come, talk and go away without expecting to know each other any further. That was also why he chose to come all the way from Ballygunge to Gole Park for his addas – simply because it was far enough for him to be sure that he wouldn’t meet any of his neighbours there.Perhaps they put up with him simply because he wasn’t like them, because he was different – partly also because th ey were a little frightened of him: of the occasional, devastating sharpness of his tongue, and of the oddly disconcerting streams of talk that would suddenly come gushing out of him. But of course, he also had his uses: there was a streak of intensely worldly shrewdness in him which would stand them in good stead every once in a while.For example, he would give a student precise and detailed instructions on how to write an examination paper, because he happened to know that Professor So-and-so was going to correct it, and he liked answers that were slanted just so, and the student would do as he had said, and get a first class. Or else when someone was going to appear for a job interview he would tell him what he was likely to be asked, and when the interview was over it would turn out that Tridib’s predictions had been dead right.But equally his advice would sometimes seem deliberately misleading, perverse. Once, for instance, he told a young man who was going to be intervi ewed by a multinational company that the firm, once famous for its stuffiness, had recently been bought by a Marwari businessman and become very nationalist, and that he would not stand any chance at all of getting in unless he went to the interview dressed in a dhoti. The young man went off to the interview duly clad in dhoti, and found that the doorman wouldn’t let him in.Nobody was ever quite sure where they stood with Tridib: there was a casual self-mockery about many of the things he said which left his listeners uncertain about whether they ought to take what he said at face value or believe its opposite. As a result, inevitably, there were all kinds of conflicting rumours about him – especially because he was secretive about his family and his circumstances to an extraordinary degree – even more than was wholly warranted by the fact that everybody young was turning Maoist at that time.Someone would remark knowingly that he had heard that Tridib’s f amily was rich and powerful, that his father was a diplomat, the son of a wealthy judge, and his brother was a brilliant economist who had a job with the UN and lived abroad. But no sooner would he say it than a sceptical voice would cut him short and say: Where do you live, mairi? D’you think we’ve all dropped out of the sky that we’ll believe all that – don’t you know he’s married and has three children and lives with his widowed mother in a slum near Santoshpur?And since there was something just a little improbable about the son of a diplomat, scion of a rich and powerful family, turning up at those street corners for years on end, it was the latter kind of story that people tended to believe. Sometimes I would try to tell them the truth. But I was just a boy and I happened to have a reputation for being wide-eyed and gullible. Besides, they all knew we lived in a small flat down the lane; if I had tried too hard to persuade them that we had rich and powerful relatives they would only have thought that I was giving yself airs. When I was about nine Tridib once stayed away from his haunts in Gole Park for so long that the regulars began to wonder what had happened to him. I was the only one who knew, because I had stopped by at his house once (as I often did in those days) on my way to my maths tutor’s house, in the afternoon. This was during the time he was telling me the story of his journey to England in instalments. I had found him, as always, lying on a mat in his room at the top of the house, reading, with a cigarette smouldering in an ashtray beside him.When I told him that people were asking about him at Gole Park, he put a finger to his lips. Shh, he said. Don’t tell them a thing. Do you know what? I think I may have discovered the mound where the kings of the Sena dynasty used to bury their treasure. If the government finds out, they’ll take everything. Don’t say a word to anyone and don’t come here again for a while – you may be followed by secret agents. I was thrilled: I hugged the secret to my chest every time I was asked about him. He’d gone, I would say. He’s vanished. Then, one evening, on my way to the park, I heard he’d surfaced at Gole Park again.I doubled back and found him at his favourite adda, on the steps of an old house, surrounded by his acquaintances. I waved to him, from between someone’s legs, but he was busy answering their questions and didn’t see me. Where have you been all this while, Tridib-da? somebody said. It must be three or four months †¦ I’ve been away, I heard him say, and nodded secretly to myself. Away? Where? I’ve been to London, he said. To visit my relatives. His face was grave, his voice steady. What relatives? I have English relatives through marriage, he said. A family called Price.I thought I’d go and visit them. Ignoring their sceptical grunt s, he told them that he had been to stay with old Mrs Price, who was a widow. Her husband had died recently. She lived in north London, he said, on a street called Lymington Road; the number of their house was 44 and the tube station was West Hampstead. Mrs Price had a daughter, who was called May. And what’s she like? a voice asked. Sexy? He reflected on that for a moment, and said, no, she wasn’t sexy, not in the ordinary way – she was thick-set, with broad shoulders, and not very tall.She wasn’t beautiful or even pretty in the usual sense, for she had a strong face and a square jaw, but she had thick straight hair which came down to her shoulders in a glossy black screen, like a head-dress in an Egyptian frieze, and she had a wonderful, warm smile which lit up her blue eyes and gave her a quality all her own, set her apart. And what does she do? someone sneered. Is she a wrestler or a hairdresser? She’s a student, said Tridib. At least, a kind o f student – she’s studying at the Royal College of Music. She plays the oboe, and one day she’s going to join an orchestra.It was then, I think, that I could restrain myself no longer. I thrust myself forward through the thicket of trousered legs and cried: Tridib-da, you’ve made a mistake! I met you last month, don’t you remember? You were in your room, lying on your mat, smoking a cigarette. You were looking for †¦ There was a howl of laughter and a chorus of exclamations: You fraud, you liar, you were just making it all up, you haven’t been anywhere †¦ Tridib did not seem to be at all put out, either by what I had said or by their laughter.He laughed too, shrugging good-naturedly, and said: If you believe anything people tell you, you deserve to be told anything at all †¦ Leaning towards me, he pinched my cheek and grinned. Isn’t that so? he said, with an interrogatory nod, his spectacles glinting in the lamplight. H is aplomb gave an uneasy edge to the laughter and the comments around him: it seemed now that he had made them the victims of a complicated private joke. There was an edgy hostility in their voices when he left. You can’t believe a word he says, somebody exclaimed, he just likes to bamboozle people and play jokes on them.But another, sharper voice broke in and said: Joke? He wasn’t joking, he believed everything he said: it was no joke, the fact is that he’s a nut – he’s never been anywhere outside Calcutta. I was furious with myself now for having exposed Tridib to their ridicule. You don’t know what you’re talking about, I cried. I was shouting at the top of my voice, so they listened. Still shouting, I told them the truth as I knew it: that Tridib had been to London, with his parents, many years ago, when he was a boy. They had aken his father there for an operation, which couldn’t be done in India. They had had to go, even though it was 1939 and they knew there might be a war. His brother Jatin had been left behind in Calcutta with his grandparents because he was older and couldn’t be away from school for so long. And yes, there was a family called Price, who lived in West Hampstead, but they weren’t relatives – they were very, very old friends of Tridib’s family, because Mrs Price’s father, Lionel Tresawsen, had lived in India hen the British were here, and he and Tridib’s grandfather, who was a very important man, a judge in the Calcutta High Court, had been friends. Long after Lionel Tresawsen went back to England his daughter had married a man who had taught her in college, whom everyone called Snipe because his name was S. N. I. Price. When she’d heard that Tridib’s father was ill she had written to them and sent telegrams to say that they must stay with her in London, because she’d bought a big house, and she’d been wanting to take in lodgers anyway.And it was true that she had a daughter called May, but she was a little baby when Tridib was in London, and as far as I knew he hadn’t seen her since. And Mrs Price had had a brother too, called Alan, who had been in Germany before the war †¦ I gave up, exhausted. That’s an even better version than Tridib’s, somebody said, with a snort of laughter. It’s true, I shouted back at him. If you don’t believe me, ask †¦ Tridib? A voice prompted, and they doubled up with laughter. I pushed my way out and ran all the way down the lane and up the two flights of stairs to our flat.I was an hour late, and my grandmother was very angry. In her controlled, headmistress’s voice she asked me where I had been, and when I didn’t answer she raised her hand, drew it back and slapped me. Where have you been? she asked again, and this time I blurted out that I’d been down at the corner. She slapped me again, really hard. Haven’t I told you, she said, you’re not to go there and waste your time? Time is not for wasting, time is for work. I met May Price for the first time two years after that incident, when she came to Calcutta on a visit.The next time I met her was seventeen years later, when I went to London myself. I went to England on a year’s research grant, to collect material from the India Office Library, where all the old colonial records were kept, for a PhD thesis on the textile trade between India and England in the nineteenth century. More than a month passed after I arrived in London, before I could meet May again. I had to go to a great deal of trouble to find her. She was playing in an orchestra and living on her own in a bedsit in Islington. Mrs Price gave me her phone number and I called her several times, but she was never in.And then, one morning, while looking through the entertainment page of the Guardian, I saw a notice which said that her orchestra w ould be playing the Dvorak Cello Concerto that evening at the Royal Festival Hall. I went there early that evening: I could only afford a ticket for a place on one of the benches behind the orchestra, and I had heard they sometimes sold out very early. But as it turned out I managed to get a seat quite easily: the soloist was a Swedish cellist who clearly did not have much drawing power. When I went in, I discovered that my seat was directly behind the woodwind section.Soon I saw her; she was fussing with her music-stand, dressed, like all the other women in the orchestra, in a black skirt and white blouse. I watched her as she arranged her music and chatted with an elderly horn player who was sitting in front of her. Her hair was still cut exactly as I remembered it from the time she had stayed with us in Calcutta: falling thick and straight to her shoulders, mantling her neck and the sides of her face; but where I remembered it as dark and shiny, it was streaked now with bands of grey which shimmered when they caught the light.Her shoulders, always broad for her height, had thickened; she seemed almost top-heavy now, for she hadn’t added an inch to her waist. I caught a glimpse of her face when she turned to say something to a woman who was sitting in the row behind. She had deep lines running from the corner of her mouth to her nose, and her eyes, which had once been a clear, bright blue, had grown pale and prominent. Watching her through that concert, I thought of her as she was when she came to stay with us in Calcutta, all those years ago. We had moved to a much larger house then, and she had been given the guest room, downstairs.In the evenings, whenever I managed to elude my mother and grandmother (who didn’t want me to bother her), I would slip into her room, sit on the floor and listen to her playing scales on the recorder she had brought to practice on. Often she would blush with embarrassment, put her recorder down and say: Look, this must be so boring for you, all these horrible scales. But I wouldn’t let her stop. I would insist that she go on playing, and I would sit there entranced, and watch her blowing into her recorder, frowning, the muscles in her cheeks knotting in concentration.She was not frowning when she played in that concert in the Festival Hall: it was evident that her mastery of her instrument was so complete now that she had to give little thought to the music. All through that concert she, and most of the other musicians around her, performed with a bored mechanical precision, very much like veteran soldiers going through a familiar exercise at their sergeantmajor’s command. When the concert was over I waited in my seat until the audience had left and the members of the orchestra were busy packing their instruments.Then I leant over the railing and called out her name. She looked up, narrowing her eyes. She saw me and gave me a politely puzzled smile. Then, to my surprise, she re cognised me, and her face lit up and she waved. Pointing at the exit she mouthed the words: I’ll see you outside. I went out into the plush, chandeliered foyer and waited. Five minutes later, I saw her, picking her way through the last stragglers, her shoulders rolling, like a boxer’s, as she walked towards me. We met half-way down the foyer and froze in mutual embarrassment.She put out a tentative hand, and then suddenly she smiled, rose on tiptoe, pulled my head down and kissed me on the cheeks, her oboe clattering against my neck in its leather case. As we made our way out, I asked her how she had recognised me, after all those years. She gave it a moment’s thought and said: I put two and two together I suppose – I knew you were in London; Mother told me. She stopped to give me a quick, appraising look. And besides, she said, it’s not as though you don’t bear a family resemblance to the boy I met in Calcutta – and I remember him ve ry well.Her voice had a deep, gravelly, almost masculine texture; I couldn’t decide whether it had always been like that or whether it had changed. While she was leading me towards Waterloo tube station through a maze of concrete walkways, she stopped to ask: Have you got anything planned for the rest of the evening? I shook my head, trying not to look too eager. Well, she said, pausing to think; you could always come back with me to my bedsit, for dinner. I can’t offer you very much – just a beansprout salad and some grilled fish. I don’t know whether you care for that kind of thing?Yes, I said, nodding. That would be very nice. She gave me a quick smile. If it’s any consolation, she said, remember I sprouted the beans myself. In the tube, on our way to Islington, I told her how bored she had looked through the concert. She nodded sheepishly. Yes, she said; you’ve guessed my guilty secret. I only stay on with the orchestra because I’ ve got to make a living somehow †¦ She cleared her throat, hesitated, and went on to add: You know – I spend most of my time working for Amnesty and Oxfam and a couple of other relief agencies, small ones, you won’t have heard of them.I asked her a few questions and she described the project she was working on just then with a businesslike briskness: it was something to do with providing housing for the survivors of an earthquake in Central America. It was evident that she found a great deal of satisfaction in her work. Her room was on the first floor of a house that looked out on Islington Green. As she stepped in and switched on the lights, a television set near her bed lit up too, automatically. She hurried across the room and switched it off. Turning to face me she said, guiltily, as though she were making a confession: I leave it on all the time.It’s my only real indulgence. It fills up the room – it feels a bit empty otherwise. It was a large, pleasant room, full of plants; its windows looked out over the trees on the Green. There was very little furniture in it – an armchair, a desk, and a large bed, pushed up against the wall at the far end of the room. There were also a few cushions, with bright Gujarati mirrorwork covers, scattered on the floor, but they looked as though they had been thrown there more to fill up empty space than to be sat on: it did not look like a room where visitors were often expected.With a formal, faintly ironic little bow May invited me to amuse myself by looking through her bookshelf while she made our dinner. Glancing through her collection of Russian novels in paperback, miniature music scores and illustrated health books, I came upon an old photograph. It was pinned, along with a dozen other scraps of paper, on to one of those large boards that I had seen hanging over many student desks in London. It was a picture of her, taken a long time ago. While I was looking at it she darted ou t of her cupboard-like kitchenette to fetch something from the refrigerator.She noticed me standing in front of her board and came and stood beside me. When she saw what I was looking at she gave me a quick glance and opened her mouth to say something. But then, changing her mind, she whipped around again and went back to the kitchenette. Curious now, I followed her there and stood leaning against the wall, watching her as she bent down to look under the grill. I remarked casually that the picture must have been taken a long time ago: that was exactly how she had looked, if my memory served me right, when she had stayed with us in Calcutta.Not quite exactly, she said, watching the grill, her voice ironically precise; it was taken at least a couple of years before that. She looked at me, dusting her hands, raising her eyebrows as though in surprise. That was the picture, she said, a copy of which I was once privileged to send to Tridib. Later, when we were eating our dinner, I discov ered that in 1959, when he was twenty-seven and she nineteen, they had begun a long correspondence. Tridib had written first, she told me.He had always sent Mrs Price cards at Christmas, ever since they left London in 1940. But that year he had sent two, one to Mrs Price and one to her. He had inscribed a little note in her card saying that he remembered her very well, though she could not possibly remember him, that it would be a great pity if they lost touch altogether, and he hoped that some day she would find time to write to him. She was both touched and intrigued: she had already heard a great deal about him.Smiling at the memory, she told me how his card had reached her just when she was trying to get over an adolescent crush on a schoolboy trombonist, who had had no time for her at all and had not been overly delicate about making that clear. It was nice to feel that someone wanted to befriend her. She had written back, and after that they had written to each other regularly – short, chatty letters, usually. Soon, penfriend-like, they had exchanged photographs. I like to think that Tridib received May’s photograph the day he came to Gole Park and told us that made-up story.Actually my grandmother was wrong about Tridib: he was nothing at all like the hardened gossip-lovers who spent most of their time hanging around the street corners at Gole Park. He was often maliciously dismissive of those people; marine mammals, he would say of them, creatures who sink to the bottom of the sea of heartbreak when they lose sight of the herd. The truth was that, in his own way, Tridib was something of a recluse: even as a child I could tell that he was happiest in that book-lined room of his, right at the top of their old family house.It was that Tridib whom I liked best; I was a bit unsure of the Tridib of the street corners. His niece Ila and I used to disagree about this. We talked about it once, when we were about sixteen. I was soon to leave to go to college in Delhi, I remember, and Ila and her parents had just flown in from Indonesia for a short holiday. Soon after they arrived in Calcutta, they came to visit us. I still remember how my grandmother gasped when Ila climbed out of the car, the tasselled end of her long thick braid swinging freely in front of her.Even my grandmother, who was very critical in all matters to do with appearance, especially where Ila and her family were concerned, pinched her chin and said: Our Ila is growing into a real beauty – she’s taken after Maya. But as for me, I was disappointed: ever since I could remember, Ila had worn clothes the like of which neither I nor anyone else I knew in Calcutta had ever seen, and here she was now, dressed in a simple white sari with a red border, like any Bethune College girl on her way to a lecture.Soon, growing tired of our parents’ conversation, we went out, the two of us, for a walk. Involuntarily we found ourselves walking towards the lake. But when we reached it and spotted an empty bench, we both remembered how we used to sit on those benches when we were children, with our arms around each other’s waists, pretending to count the birds on the little island in the middle of the lake, and, suddenly embarrassed, we turned and hurried off towards the Lily Pool Bridge, in the distance, the awkwardness of our silence making me trip where there was nothing to trip on.At last, because I could think of nothing else to say, I asked her whether she remembered those days when we were children and she and Robi used to come to Calcutta in the summers, and three of us used to go up to Tridib’s room whenever we were bored and listen to him, in the still, sultry heat of the afternoons, while he lay on a mat, propped up with pillows, cigarette smoke spiralling out of his fingers, and spoke to us in that soft, deep voice of his, about the behavioural differences between the Elapidae and Viperidae families of snakes , or the design of the temples at Karnak, or the origins of the catamaran.Or, for example, the time when Robi and I decided to become explorers in the Empty Quarter, and went running up to his room to ask for a few tips before setting off. He had smiled and gone on to tell us in ghastly detail about the circumcision rites of one of the desert tribes. And then, spectacles glinting, he had said: So before you leave you’d better decide whether you would care to have all that done to your little wee-wees, just in case you’re captured. I asked her if she remembered how Robi and I had spread our hands instinctively over ur groins, and how angry we had been when she had laughed. Mere vagina-envy, she said, laughing, and I tried to keep my face impassive as though I was accustomed to girls who used words like that. But I could tell she didn’t remember. I asked her, then, if she had any memory of the stratagems we used to employ to get Tridib to tell us about the year he had spent in London, during the war; of how we used to pore over his photographs when we could persuade him to bring them out; of how he used to tell us about the people in them, pointing out Mrs Price with May in her arms, orAlan Tresawsen, her brother, with his bad arm hanging limply at his side, and her husband Snipe, who used to treat himself with Yeast-Vite tonic for his neuralgia and bile beans for his blood, Doan’s kidney pills for his backaches and Andrews Salt for his liver, Iglodine for his cuts and Mentholatum for his catarrh; Snipe, who had once sent Tridib to the chemist’s shop on West End Lane to buy him a glue called Dentesive so that his dentures would not be shaken out by the bombs. Yes, she said nodding, mildly puzzled by my insistence, she did have a faint recollection, but she could not exactly say she remembered. But how could you forget?I cried. She shrugged and arched her eyebrows in surprise, and said: It was a long time ago – the real q uestion is, how do you remember? But of course, to me it wasn’t a question at all. I tried to tell her, but neither then nor later, though we talked about it often, did I ever succeed in explaining to her that I could not forget because Tridib had given me worlds to travel in and he had given me eyes to see them with; she, who had been travelling around the world since she was a child, could never understand what those hours in Tridib’s room had meant to me, a boy who had never been more than a few hundred miles from Calcutta.I used to listen to her talking sometimes with her father and grandfather about the cafes in the Plaza Mayor in Madrid, or the crispness of the air in Cuzco, and I could see that those names, which were to me a set of magical talismans because Tridib had pointed them out to me on his tattered old Bartholomew’s Atlas, had for her a familiarity no less dull than the lake had for me and my friends; the same tired intimacy that made us stop on our way back from the park in the evening and unbutton our shorts and aim our piss through the rusty wrought-iron railings.I began to tell her how I longed to visit Cairo, to see the world’s first pointed arch in the mosque of Ibn Tulun, and touch the stones of the Great Pyramid of Cheops. I had been talking for a while when I noticed that she wasn’t listening to me; she was following a train of thought in her mind, frowning with concentration. I watched her, waiting eagerly to hear what she would have to say. Suddenly she clicked her fingers, gave herself a satisfied nod, and said aloud, inadvertently: Oh yes, Cairo, the Ladies is way on the other side of the departure lounge.I had a glimpse, at that moment of those names on the map as they appeared to her: a worldwide string of departure lounges, but not for that reason at all similar, but on the contrary, each of them strikingly different, distinctively individual, each with its Ladies hidden away in some yet more u nexpected corner of the hall, each with its own peculiarity, like the flushes in Stockholm’s Arlanda, so sleekly discreet that she had once missed two flight calls because it had taken her so long to understand how the handle worked.I imagined her alighting on these daydream names – Addis Ababa, Algiers, Brisbane – and running around the airport to look for the Ladies, not because she wanted to go, but because those were the only fixed points in the shifting landscapes of her childhood. When I went to London, a decade later, often when Ila suggested going out somewhere, to a film in Brixton perhaps, or to a new Vietnamese restaurant in Maida Vale, I would jump to my feet and, before I knew it, I would cry: Yes, let’s go, let’s go on the Underground. She would burst out laughing and mimic me, saying: You’d think we were going on the bloody Concorde.To her the Underground was merely a means of shifting venue: it would irritate her to see how e xcited I got when we stepped on to the escalators; she would watch me as I turned to look at the advertisements flashing past us on the walls, gulped in the netherworld smell of electricity and dampness and stale deodorant, stopped to listen to the music of the buskers booming eerily through the permanent night of the passageways, and in annoyance she would tug at my elbows and hiss: Hurry, hurry, you can’t stop here, you’ll hold people up.And if I still lingered she would snap at me impatiently: For God’s sake stop carrying on like a third-world tapioca farmer – it’s just the bloody Underground. And I would say to her: You wouldn’t understand: to you Cairo was a place to piss in. I could not persuade her that a place does not merely exist, that it has to be invented in one’s imagination; that her practical, bustling London was no less invented than mine, neither more nor less true, only very far apart.It was not her fault that she co uld not understand, for as Tridib often said of her, the inventions she lived in moved with her, so that although she had lived in many places, she had never travelled at all. All through her childhood, every time her family came back to Calcutta for a holiday, they brought back souvenirs from wherever they happened to be living at that time. Her parents would bring back all kinds of things – Indonesian leather puppets or improbable North African stools with camellike humps.But there was only one kind of souvenir that Ila ever thought of bringing back and I was the only person to whom she would show them. We would slip away to the shade of the rusty water tanks on the roof of their house, and there, with a tight little smile, she would produce a large manila folder. They were always the same, and in time they came to mean as much to me as they did to her: they were the Yearbooks of the International Schools of whatever city she happened to be living in at that time. They were always full of photographs.There would be one of each student and then pages of others – of groups of friends, of parties and tennis matches, of whole classes together. For a long time I could not believe that they were really pictures of a school, because in the pictures the boys and girls were standing around all mixed up together, and besides, not one of them was in uniform. To me, the clothes they were wearing in those pictures seemed to have as little to do with school as the costumes at a circus. Then Ila would point herself out, and there she would be, dressed in jeans or a skirt, and even, once, a Persian lambskin waistcoat.She would show me her friends, standing beside her, and I would roll their names around my tongue – Teresa Cassano, Mercedes Aguilar, Merfeth ashSharqawi – names of girls mainly at first, and then, as we grew older, boys too – Calouste Malekian, Cetshwayo James, Juin Nagajima – names which imprinted themselves on my mem ory so that years later I recognised Mercedes Aguilar at once when she turned up in a photograph two continents away from where she’d been when I had first seen her in those photographs. Ila’s closest friends were always the most beautiful, the most talented, the most intelligent girls in the school.She would point them out to me in the pictures of picnics and fancy-dress dances. The three of us went to that together, she would say, Teresa and Merfeth and I; and we spent the whole evening talking to each other – you should have seen the boys buzzing around us – but Teresa decided that we weren’t going to dance that evening, just like that, so †¦ And she would point Teresa and Merfeth out to me, laughing, slender girls, making faces at the camera. But somehow, though Ila could tell me everything about those parties and dances, what she said and what she did and what she wore, she herself was always unaccountably absent in the pictures.When we w ere fourteen she once pointed to the picture of a boy who, to me, already looked like a grown man, with a face like an American film star, square-jawed and cleft-chinned, with long black hair that curled down to his shoulders. His name is Jamshed Tabrizi, she said, he’s a fencing champion and this year his father gave him a BMW sports car for his birthday; he can’t drive it yet because he’s not old enough, but their chauffeur brought it around to the school one day. It’s red, like lipstick, and as soon as he gets his licence, we’re going to drive down to the beach at Pattaya on Sundays; it’s just a few miles from Bangkok.And then, in a rush, looking at me sideways, she added: He’s my boyfriend. But a few pages later, in their class photograph, there he was, right in the foreground, in the centre of the front row, grinning, broad-shouldered, a head taller than anyone else, with his arms thrown around the shoulders of two laughing blond e girls. And before she flipped the page I caught a glimpse of Ila herself, on the edge of the back row, standing a little apart, unsmiling, in a plain grey skirt, with a book under her right arm.She saw that I had noticed, and when I came upon that Yearbook again a week later I discovered that that page had been torn out. I felt a constriction in my throat, for suddenly it seemed to me that perhaps she was not so alien, after all, to my own small, puritanical world, in which children were sent to school to learn how to cling to their gentility by proving themselves in the examination hall. Those schools were all that mattered to Ila; the places themselves went past her in an illusory whirl of movement, like those studio screens in old films which flash past the windows of speeding cars.I confronted her with this once, in London, when the three of us, she, Robi and I, happened to be together in a pub, the Kembles Head, on Long Acre, a short walk from Covent Garden. Robi was stopping by in London on his way to Harvard. He was on leave from his job in the Indian Administrative Service, so that he could take up a fellowship in administration and public affairs for six months. We had decided to spend the evening together. Ila laughed when I reminded her about those Yearbooks and, picking up her glass of whisky, she said: Of course those schools mattered to me, schools are all that matter to any child, it’s only natural.It’s you who were peculiar, sitting in that poky little flat in Calcutta, dreaming about faraway places. I probably did you no end of good; at least you learnt that those cities you saw on maps were real places, not like those fairylands Tridib made up for you. But of course, among other things, Tridib was an archaeologist; he was not interested in fairylands: the one thing he wanted to teach me, he used to say, was to use my imagination with precision. For instance, when Ila and I were ten, her family came to Calcutta from Colombo for a holiday.Ila came with Tridib and her mother to visit us, and her mother, in her kindly way, knowing how fascinated I was by the countries they lived in, asked Ila to tell me a story about their house that she thought would interest her. Their house was in a quiet part of Colombo where diplomats and senior civil servants and people like that lived. It was an area where sprawling bungalows with huge lawns were threaded through by lanes that were often flooded with puddles of scarlet gulmohur and yellow jacaranda. Their house was at one end of a very quiet lane.It was a big house with large verandas and a steeply sloping roof covered with mossy tiles. The garden was at the back. It seemed to stretch out from inside the house; when the French windows were open the tiled floor of the drawing room merged without a break into the lawn. It was a quiet secluded garden, with a bronze vat, taller than a child, standing like a brooding tumulus in a corner. And it had a blue-tiled lily pond i n the centre, in which plump, fantailed goldfish flashed their white bellies at the sun. There was only one problem: adjoining the garden at the back was a poultry farm.This caused Ila’s mother a good deal of worry, apart from the bother of the smell and the noise, for she had heard that snakes were certain to appear wherever there were chickens. Still, the house was surrounded by a very high wall, and when the breeze was blowing in the right direction the garden was as tranquil as a Japanese cloister. One morning, soon after they moved in, their cook Ram Dayal came running upstairs and burst in upon Ila’s mother who was taking her midmorning nap in an easy chair on a veranda. Mugger-muchh, shrieked Ram Dayal. Save me, burra-mem bachao me from his crocodile.He was a tall, willowy, usually drowsy man, but now his eyes were starting from his gaunt face and his lips were flecked with spittle. Never heard of such a thing, Ila’s mother said to us. Crocodile in my gar den; almost fell out of my easy chair. My grandmother and I looked carefully away from each other, but ever afterwards the thought of Ila’s mother, with her rounded figure, as soft and plump as two buns squashed together in a schoolbag, falling out of her easy chair at the thought of a crocodile in her garden, was enough to reduce us to helpless laughter.Man was in a state, she snorted. Never seen anything like it. But now, being the woman she was, she folded her tiny hands in her lap, pushed her knot of hair back to the top of her head and sat up in her chair in the way the family had come to know so well, that characteristic pose that had earned her the nickname of Queen Victoria. Shatup Ram Dayal, Queen Victoria snapped. Stop bukbukking like a chhokra-boy. Dekho burra-mem, he said again, his thin voice vanishing into a screech. There it is, in the garden. And right he was, Queen Victoria said, her voice shrill with amazement.Damn and blast, there it was – a heck of a huge great big lizard, all grey and black, nasty greatbig creature, with a little pointed head and a tongue like a bootlace, wandering about in my garden like a governor at a gymkhana. But being, as she was, the daughter of a man who had left his village in Barisal in rags and gone on to earn a knighthood in the old Indian Civil Service, she retained her composure. Muro-it, Ram Dayal, she cried. Catch hold of it before Ila-mem sees it, and cut its head off. (As though it were a penis or something, Ila said to me years later. But Ram Dayal was knocking his head against the wall now, the whites of his eyes showing, tears zig-zagging down his cheeks. Why did I come to Lanka? he wailed. I knew Ravana would come to get me. Shatup Ram Dayal, Queen Victoria snapped. She rang the little bronze bell she always carried to summon Lizzie, Ila’s recently arrived Sinhalese ayah. Yes madam? Lizzie said from the doorway. She was a thin, middle-aged woman with a stern mouth and a small, was ted face, always very neatly dressed in the blouse and sari of her native Kandyan foothills.Waving a hand with careful nonchalance, Queen Victoria said: Lizzie, at it-garden looking-looking. The animal was sunning itself now, its grey chest raised high on stiff forelegs. Lizzie, what it-thing being-being? Queen Victoria said. She always spoke like that to Lizzie, though Lizzie spoke very good English and even knew a little Hindi. It was a language she had invented on the spot when Lizzie first came to them on the recommendation of a senior Sinhalese civil servant. Lizzie looked at it and laughed. That’s a thala-goya madam, she said. Very common here, very gentle animal.Queen Victoria glared at the reptile. Gentle, by Jove! she said to us. Wretched beast could have passed for a bloody tyrannosaurus. She turned to look at Lizzie. No possible, she said, it-thing killing-killing? Kill it? Lizzie cried, once she had decoded this. But why to kill it? They keep snakes away. She ran downstairs, and a few minutes later they saw her go into the garden with an armful of cabbage stalks and vegetable peel. She scattered them on the grass and the animal darted forward and began to feed. Hai, hai, hai, gasped Ram Dayal. Hai, hai, hai!Determined not to be outdone by Lizzie, Queen Victoria stiffened her back and went out into the garden herself, taking a few vegetables with her. The animal fixed its eyes balefully upon her as soon as she stepped into the lawn. She froze. Then, drawing on her last reserves of courage, she managed to mutter to it: Eating-eating nice veggie-veggies? which was only her Lizzie-language turned inside out, but the animal’s tail seemed to flicker in answer and from that moment onwards she considered it a part of her household: she was always at ease with anything and anybody who would respond to one of her private dialects.After that, even though many of her Sinhalese acquaintances were alarmed to find a monitor lizard on her lawn and to ld her stories about how they had been known to break children’s shinbones with a swipe of their tails, she allowed it the run of her garden, except, of course, when she had parties, when Lizzie was made to tie it to a tree with a length of rope. One day, early in the morning after one of her parents’ parties, when the lawn was still dotted with cigarette stubs and half-eaten snacks, Ila went out into the garden to read.She had a book with her that she had had to put away the night before when she was only twenty pages from the end, because Lizzie had switched off the lights in her bedroom. She flopped into a deckchair beside the lily pond and in a moment she was absorbed in her book. Ten pages later, still engrossed, she heard a soft splash in the lily pond. It was a very gentle splash, no louder than the sound of a goldfish’s tail flicking the surface.But she stirred, and, not quite taking her eyes off the page, she caught a glimpse of a shadow, as slim and si nuous as a branch of oleander, stretching from the edge of the lawn, under her chair and into the pool. Then the shadow rippled, and this time she looked up properly and saw scales glinting on a long muscular body. She screamed, and the book dropped out of her hands. It hit the edge of her chair and tumbled off, and she heard a dull, fleshy thud as it struck scales and muscle. The whole length of the snake’s body flashed past under the chair with an angry rustle, and then, somewhere behind her, she heard a slow prolonged hiss.She turned, slowly, stiffly, in the way one has to when one knows that one’s lungs are suddenly empty and one’s muscles have gone rigid with fear. The snake’s head was about a foot from her back. Its body lay curled, in tight regular coils, flat on the earth, while its head had reared up, higher than the back of the chair. She was whimpering now, trying to call out, but at the same time, looking at the snake’s head, she saw it more clearly than she’d ever seen anything before, with the telescopic clarity of absolute concentration.She could see its tiny eyes, the flaring nostrils at the end of the sharply pointed head, the tongue, no longer flickering, drawn into the soft pink mouth in readiness, the fangs, erect now, and dripping. Then she heard another sound at the far end of the garden and dimly, without turning her head, she saw the thala-goya thrashing at the end of its rope, battering the tree it was tied to with its tail. The snake heard it too, and it hesitated for a moment with its body arched. Its eyes settled upon Ila again and its neck bent still further back till it was like a drawn bow.Then its head flashed forward. At that moment, reflexively, Ila turned her body, a very small movement, but enough to overbalance the chair. She fell, the chair tumbled over with her, and the snake’s fangs glanced off its steel legs. It reared back again like a snapping whiplash. Ila tried to pus h herself up, but her hands slipped and she fell back. And then, with all the suddenness of a knot springing undone, the coiled snake dropped its head on the grass and shot away towards the wall. She looked up to see the thala-goya lumbering after it. It had bitten through the rope.But the snake was quicker and it had slithered over the wall long before the thala-goya could cross the lawn. So, young chap, Queen Victoria said, patting my head, her eyes twinkling. What do you make of that? I glanced instinctively towards Tridib. He was looking at me, eyes narrowed, head cocked. I was nervous now: I could see that he was waiting to hear what I’d have to say, and I didn’t want to disappoint him. My mother and grandmother were exclaiming with horror about the snake, asking Queen Victoria how big it was, whether it was poisonous or not.Taking my cue from them, I chose a safe course: hoping to earn Tridib’s approval by showing him how well I remembered everything he to ld us, I asked Queen Victoria whether the snake was of the species Boidae or Elapidae. Queen Victoria goggled at me and mumbled something to the effect of: Well that’s a bit of an uppercut, young chap; I don’t think I could tell you in a month of Sundays. While she was mumbling I stole a glance at Tridib. He had pursed his lips and was shaking his head in disappointment. I sat out the rest of their visit in crestfallen silence.On the stairs, when I was going down to see them off, while Ila and her mother lingered over their goodbyes, Tridib said to me casually that, if one thought about it, there was nothing really very interesting about snakes – after all, if I saw one in the lake, for example, what would I do? I’d come back home and tell everyone, but in a few minutes I’d forget about it and get back to my homework: the snake would have nothing whatever to do with my real life. I did not particularly care for the suggestion that my homework was m y real life, but I kept quiet anyway: I c

Digging Essay

Nidhi Ranjalkar English 10 Block E Ms. Wilkins 30/08/2012 DIGGING The poem ‘digging’ is the first in poet Seamus Heaney’s collection ‘Death of a Naturalist’ (1966). This poem has a free structure, which allows the poet to express his feelings of pride and the value of his as well as his ancestors’ work.The poet may not be following his father and grandfather’s footsteps in the area of work which is potato farming but that doesn’t mean he does not respect, value and take pride in the work that they did. This poem clearly reflects the complex feelings of a son who has chosen to break away from the family tradition and forge a new path for himself. The author talks about the family’s potato farm. Through this poem he shows respect and pride towards their work. He succeeds by painting a scene using different types of imagery.He uses visual, auditory, olfactory and tactile imageries to paint a picture. This technique makes reade rs feel present as if they had just stepped into the moist potato field. The title ‘Digging’ refers to the act of hard labour. The reader can immediately picture a scene of a man hard at work digging the ground. Seamus Heaney is not a farmer. He does not dig the ground for potatoes nor does he work in the hot fields every day. He is an author who uses his pen to dig deep into his surroundings, deep into the emotions and convey them through his writing.Heaney starts off the poem by comparing his pen to a gun. He uses this image to convey the idea of ‘the pen is mightier than the sword. ’ He uses this visual imagery to tell his readers that he uses his pen, as his ancestors’ used their spade, to make a living. Also by the line â€Å"The squat pen rests, as snug as a gun,† we get a feeling that Heaney likes his work and doesn’t mind earning his living by writing. Digging in the hot fields is no easy task. It is tiring, frustrating and toug h.Heaney understands this and to show it he uses words like ‘gravely ground’ and ‘straining rump ‘where he emphasizes on the adjectives like ‘gravely’ and ‘staining’. When he says â€Å"Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds, Bends low† we can visualize an old man with a heavy spade in his hand, sweating, bending low, straining his back, digging. He uses that line to explain how hard his father worked and this line also reflects a bit of his pride for his father who worked tirelessly in the farms every day.Heaney also uses olfactory imagery to give the readers a feeling of the scene. â€Å"The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap of soggy peat†¦Ã¢â‚¬  emanates an odor of potato mould, soggy peat and it helps imagine the scene to understand the poem. By doing this Heaney manages to bring the scene alive and the reader feels as if he is standing near the potato field can smell these odors and the reader ’s face immediately scrunches up in disgust.Heaney also uses tactile imagery to give us a sense of touch which helps us to make a connection. â€Å"Loving their cool hardness in our hands† shows the readers that he and his ancestors’ are satisfied with their work and take pleasure in doing it. The poet talks about loving the cool hardness of the potatoes in his hands. It also shows us the sense of happiness and satisfaction experienced by the father and the grandfather after their work has been done and successfully completed. Digging’ by Seamus Heaney is a poem based on the different work line between the past and the present generations and the value of hard work and determination for all work whether it is ours or not. The poet uses all these imageries to paint a clear scene in our minds which makes us appreciate the poem better. It also gives us a better understanding of what the poet is trying to say. Through his use of imagery, Heaney communicates h is ancestors’ determination, the advantages of hard work and the importance of loyalty to one’s family.

Save a Web Page as HTML or MHT Using Delphi

Save a Web Page as HTML or MHT Using Delphi When working with Delphi, the TWebBrowser component allows you to create a customized Web browsing application or to add Internet, file and network browsing, document viewing, and data downloading capabilities to your applications. How to Save a Web Page from TWebBrowser When using Internet Explorer, you are allowed you to view the source HTML code of a page and to save that page as a file on your local drive. If you are viewing a page that you wish to keep, go to the File/Save As ... menu item. In the dialog box that opens, you have several file types offered. Saving the page as a different filetype will affect how the page is saved. The TWebBrowser component (located on the Internet page of the Component Palette) provides access to the Web browser functionality from your Delphi applications. In general, youll want to enable saving of a web page displayed inside a WebBrowser as an HTML file to a disk. Saving a Web Page As a Raw HTML If you only want to save a web page as a raw HTML you would select Web Page, HTML only (*.htm, *.html). It will simply save the current pages source HTML to your drive intact. This action will NOT save the graphics from the page or any other files used within the page, which means that if you loaded the file back from the local disk, you would see broken image links. Heres how to save a web page as raw HTML using Delphi code: uses ActiveX; ... procedure WB_SaveAs_HTML(WB : TWebBrowser; const FileName : string) ; var   Ã‚  PersistStream: IPersistStreamInit;   Ã‚  Stream: IStream;   Ã‚  FileStream: TFileStream; begin   Ã‚  if not Assigned(WB.Document) then   Ã‚  begin   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  ShowMessage(Document not loaded!) ;   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Exit;   Ã‚  end;   Ã‚  PersistStream : WB.Document as IPersistStreamInit;   Ã‚  FileStream : TFileStream.Create(FileName, fmCreate) ;   Ã‚  try   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Stream : TStreamAdapter.Create(FileStream, soReference) as IStream;   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  if Failed(PersistStream.Save(Stream, True)) then ShowMessage(SaveAs HTML fail!) ;   Ã‚  finally   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  FileStream.Free;   Ã‚  end; end; (* WB_SaveAs_HTML *) Usage sample: //first navigate WebBrowser1.Navigate(http://delphi.about.com) ; //then save WB_SaveAs_HTML(WebBrowser1,c:\WebBrowser1.html) ; Notes The IPersistStreamInit and IStream interfaces are declared inside the ActiveX unit.The web page is saved as a raw HTML to the WebBrowser1.html file on the root folder of the C drive. MHT: Web Archive, Single File When you save a Web page as Web archive, single file (*.mht) the web document gets saved in the Multipurpose Internet Mail Extension HTML (MHTML) format with a .mht file extension. All relative links in the Web page are remapped and the embedded content is included in the .mht file, rather than being saved in a separate folder (as the case is with Web Page, complete (*.htm, *.html)). MHTML enables you to send and receive Web pages and other HTML documents using e-mail programs such as Microsoft Outlook, and Microsoft Outlook Express; or even your custom Delphi email sending solutions. MHTML enables you to embed images directly into the body of your e-mail messages rather than attaching them to the message. Heres how to save a webpage as a single file (MHT format) using Delphi code: uses CDO_TLB, ADODB_TLB; ... procedure WB_SaveAs_MHT(WB: TWebBrowser; FileName: TFileName) ; var   Ã‚  Msg: IMessage;   Ã‚  Conf: IConfiguration;   Ã‚  Stream: _Stream;   Ã‚  URL : widestring; begin   Ã‚  if not Assigned(WB.Document) then Exit;   Ã‚  URL : WB.LocationURL;   Ã‚  Msg : CoMessage.Create;   Ã‚  Conf : CoConfiguration.Create;   Ã‚  try   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Msg.Configuration : Conf;   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Msg.CreateMHTMLBody(URL, cdoSuppressAll, , ) ;   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Stream : Msg.GetStream;   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Stream.SaveToFile(FileName, adSaveCreateOverWrite) ;   Ã‚  finally   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Msg : nil;   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Conf : nil;   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Stream : nil;   Ã‚  end; end; (* WB_SaveAs_MHT *) Sample usage: //first navigate WebBrowser1.Navigate(http://delphi.about.com) ; //then save WB_SaveAs_MHT(WebBrowser1,c:\WebBrowser1.mht) ; Note The _Stream class is defined in ADODB_TLB unit that you probably already have created. The IMessage and IConfiguration interfaces code from cdosys.dll library. CDO stands for Collaboration Data Objects - object libraries designed to enable SMTP Messaging. The CDO_TLB is an auto-generated unit by Delphi. To create it, from the main menu select Import Type Library, select C:\WINDOWS\system32\cdosys.dll then click the Create unit button. No TWebBrowser You could rewrite the WB_SaveAs_MHT procedure to accept an URL string (not TWebBrowser) to be able to save a web page directly no need to use the WebBrowser component. The URL from WebBrowser is retrieved using the WB.LocationURL property.