Sujata Bhatt’s “The Hole in the Wind”

Sujata Bhatt's "The Hole in the Wind"

Original article

Cecile Sandten. "Blended Identity: Culture and Language Variations in Sujata Bhatt's "The Hole in the Wind"." Connotations Vol. 10.1: 87-98.

Responses:

Sujata Bhatt. "The Hole in the Wind" from the Author's Point of View Connotations 10: 99-105

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From Frankenstein
by Mary Shelley

Read by Sarah Schnitzler

adventcal_01

“As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing remained but a blasted stump.”

From The Blazing World
by Margaret Cavendish

Read by Leonie Kirchhoff

adventcal_02

“Concerning the heat of the Sun, they were not of one opinion; some would have the Sun hot in it self, alledging an old Tradition, that it should at some time break asunder, and burn the Heavens, and consume this world into hot Embers, which, said they, could not be done, if the Sun were not fiery of it self.”

“The Petition of the Gray Horse, Auld Dunbar”
by William Dunbar

Read by Laurie Atkinson

adventcal_03

Original

Schir, lat it never in toune be tald
That I suld be ane Yowllis yald.

Suppois I war ane ald jaid aver,
Schott furth our clewch to squische the clever,
And hed the strenthis of all Strenever,
I wald at Youll be housit and stald:
Schir, lat it never in toune be tald
That I suld be ane Yowllis yald.

I am ane auld hors, as ye knaw,
That ever in duill dois drug and draw.
Gryt court hors puttis me fra the staw,
To fang the fog be firthe and fald.
Schir, lat it never in toune be tald
That I suld be ane Yowllis yald.

I heff run lang furth in the feild
On pastouris that ar plane and peld.
I mycht be now tein in for eild,
My bekis ar spruning he and bald.
Schir, lat it neuer in toun be tald
That I suld be ane Yowllis yald.

My maine is turned in to quhyt,
And thair off ye heff all the wyt.
Quhen vthair hors hed brane to byt,
I gat bot gris, grype giff I wald.
Schir, lat it neuer in towne be tald
That I suld be ane Yowllis yald.

I was neuer dautit in to stabell.
My lyff hes bein so miserabell
My hyd to offer I am abell,
For evill schoud strae that I reiv wald.
Schir, lat it neuer in towne be tald
That I suld be ane Yowllis yald.

And yett, suppois my thrift be thyne,
Gif that I die your aucht within
Lat neuir the soutteris haue my skin,
With vglie gumes to be gnawid.
Schir, lat it neuir in toun be tald
That I sould be ane Yuillis yald.

The court hes done my curage cuill
And maid me ane forriddin muill.
Yett to weir trapperis at the Yuill,
I wald be spurrit at everie spald.
Schir, lett it neuir in toun be tald
That I sould be ane Yuillis yald.

Now lufferis cummis with larges lowd.
Quhy sould not palfrayis thane be prowd,
Quhen gillettis wilbe schomd and
schroud,
That riddin ar baith with lord and lawd?
Schir, lett it neuir in toun be tald
That I sould be ane Yuillis yald.

Quhen I was young and into ply
And wald cast gammaldis to the sky,
I had beine bocht in realmes
by,
Had I consentit to be sauld.
Schir, lett it neuir in toun be tauld
That I sould be ane Yuillis yald.

With gentill hors quhen I wald knyp,
Thane is thair laid on me ane quhip.
To colleveris than man I skip,
That scabbit ar, hes cruik and cald.
Schir, lett it neuir in toun be tald
That I sould be ane Yuillis yald.

Thocht in the stall I be not clappit,
As cursouris that in silk beine trappit,
With ane new hous I wald be happit
Aganis this Crysthinmes for the cald.
Schir, lett it neuir in toun be tald
That I sould be ane Yuillis yald.

Respontio Regis

Efter our wrettingis, thesaurer,
Tak in this gray hors, auld Dumbar,
Quhilk in my aucht with service trew
In lyart changeit is his hew.
Gar hows him new aganis this Yuill
And busk him lyk ane bischopis muill,
For with my hand I have indost
To pay quhatevir his trappouris cost.

Modernised version

Sir, let in never in town be said
That I should be a Yuletide jade.

Suppose I was an old cart-horse,
Shot forth o’er cleugh to crush the
clover,
And had the strength of all Stranaver,
I would at Yule be clothed and stalled:
Sir, let in never in town be said
That I should be a Yuletide jade.

I am an old horse, as you know,
That ever in dole does drag and draw.
Court horses put me from the straw,
To forage the fog in firth and field.
Sir, let in never in town be said
That I should be a Yuletide jade.

I have run long forth in the field
On pastures that are plain and bare.
I might be now taken in for eld,
My teeth are protruding, long and bald.
Sir, let in never in town be said
That I should be a Yuletide jade.

My mane is turned into white,
And thereof you have all the wit.
When other horses had bran to eat,
I got just grass, gripe as I might.
Sir, let in never in town be said
That I should be a Yuletide jade.

I was never placed into a stable.
My life has been quite miserable.
My hide to offer I am able
For the wretched straw that I would beg.
Sir, let in never in town be said
That I should be a Yuletide jade.

And yet, suppose my goods be thine
If that I die your aucht within
Let ne’er the cobblers have my skin,
With ugly gums to be gnawing.
Sir, let in never in town be said
That I should be a Yuletide jade.

The court has made my courage cool
And made of me a worn-out mule.
Yet to wear some trappings at the Yule,
I would be spirred at arm and leg.
Sir, let in never in town be said
That I should be a Yuletide jade.

Now lovers come with largess loud.
Why should not palfreys then be proud,
When mares will be adorned and shrouded
That ridden are both by lord and louts?
Sir, let in never in town be said
That I should be a Yuletide jade.

When I was young and in good attire
And would cast gambols to the sky,
I could have been bought in realms nearby,
Had I consented to be sold.
Sir, let in never in town be said
That I should be a Yuletide jade.

With gentle horses when I would quip,
Then is there laid on me a whip.
To coal-horses then must I skip
That are scabby, heads bowed in dread.
Sir, let in never in town be said
That I should be a Yuletide jade.

Though in the stall I am not petted,
As coursers that in silk are dressed,
With a new cloth I would be covered
By this Christmas against the cold.
Sir, let in never in town be said
That I should be a Yuletide jade.

Response of the King

By our direction, treasurer,
Take in this gray horse, old Dunbar,
Which in my aucht with service true
Unto gray has changed his hue.
Go clothe him new by the time of Yule
And dress him like a bishop’s mule,
For with my hand I have endorsed
To pay whatever his trappings cost.

From “The Monkey’s Paw”
by W. W. Jacobs

Read by Curtis Runstedler

adventcal_04

“It moved,” he cried, with a look of horror at the object as it lay on the floor. “As I wished, it twisted in my hand like a snake.”

From Frankenstein
by Mary Shelley

Read by Sophie Franklin

adventcal_05

“It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open…”

“Frost at Midnight”
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Read by Dan Poston

adventcal_06

The Frost performs its secret ministry,

Unhelped by any wind. The owlet’s cry

Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before.

The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,

Have left me to that solitude, which suits

Abstruser musings: save that at my side

My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.

‘Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs

And vexes meditation with its strange

And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,

This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,

With all the numberless goings-on of life,

Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame

Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;

Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,

Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.

Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature

Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,

Making it a companionable form,

Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit

By its own moods interprets, every where

Echo or mirror seeking of itself,

And makes a toy of Thought.

But O! how oft,

How oft, at school, with most believing mind,

Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,

To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft

With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt

Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,

Whose bells, the poor man’s only music, rang

From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,

So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me

With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear

Most like articulate sounds of things to come!

So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,

Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!

And so I brooded all the following morn,

Awed by the stern preceptor’s face, mine eye

Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:

Save if the door half opened, and I snatched

A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,

For still I hoped to see the stranger’s face,

Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,

My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,

Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,

Fill up the intersperséd vacancies

And momentary pauses of the thought!

My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart

With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,

And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,

And in far other scenes! For I was reared

In the great city, pent ‘mid cloisters dim,

And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.

But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze

By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags

Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,

Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores

And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear

The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible

Of that eternal language, which thy God

Utters, who from eternity doth teach

Himself in all, and all things in himself.

Great universal Teacher! he shall mould

Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,

Whether the summer clothe the general earth

With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing

Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch

Of mossy apple-tree, while the night-thatch

Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall

Heard only in the trances of the blast,

Or if the secret ministry of frost

Shall hang them up in silent icicles,

Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

From The Secret History
by Donna Tartt

Read by David Korn

adventcal_07

“I came home afterwards and wrapped myself in my blanket and rocked back and forth, ice in my very bones, and thought of all the sunny Christmases of my childhood—oranges, bikes and hula-hoops, green tinsel sparkling in the heat.”

“The Black Belt”
by Jean Guthrie-Smith

Read by Jonathan Sharp

adventcal_08

Gruff trams and trains criss-cross and intersect

With glittering steel this leprous countryside;

Pyramid slagheaps threaten, seamed and specked

With smouldering pink: a lively trade is plied

In coarse flamboyant clothes and gaudy sweets

And all the brave romantic merchandise

Folk make the most of, being poor and wise.

In unimagineably squalid streets,

Ranked rabbit-hutches, citizens do dwell, –

Weird, gnome-like men, shrill women and their young,

Most piteous young! Where Heaven is seared to Hell

With steam and smoke from demon valve, or stung

To crude geranium from the furnace flares,

There’s life and love, much talking and much drinking

In this black bunch of towns, and bitter thinking

On why and wherefore of the world’s affairs.

That ship be sped and tool or weapon forged

And laughter quickened round a million fires,

The miser pit-heads will be daily gorged

With stunted peoples of these pock-marked shires.

Like goblin print upon a yellow page

Forested chimneys spell their rigmarole;

The fungoid mine spreads canker in the soul

To feed the sinews of an iron age!

Wuthering Heights
by Emily Brontë

Read by Vera Yakupova

adventcal_09

“Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff’s dwelling. “Wuthering“ being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed: one may guess the power of the north wind, blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun. Happily, the architect had foresight to build it strong: the narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large jutting stones[…]“

image source: https://www.yorkshirepost.co.uk/whats-on/arts-and-entertainment/true-story-house-hill-inspired-wuthering-heights-1799935

Connotations

A Journal for Critical Debate

A Journal for Critical Debate

Sujata Bhatt’s “The Hole in the Wind”

Sujata Bhatt's "The Hole in the Wind"

Original article

Responses: