Years ago, when something easier was troubling me, I asked a mentor how I should handle my desire to renew that habit.
Their response was brief and profound.
The advice they offered was simply, “Follow it through.”
I asked what that meant.
My friend explained that I should use my memories to follow through the act of renewing that habit all the way to the point where I had decided to change the habit.
So, when you find yourself pining for your Narcissistic Ex, follow that feeling through.
Examine all of the experiences, good or bad, and follow that train of thought right up to the point where the only choice was to leave the relationship.
During that stroll down memory lane, you’ll be refreshing memories that both attract and repel you.
If you are completely honest with yourself after replaying your mental tapes, you will once again conclude that you’ve made the right decision to leave.
Another thing you can do is get out a paper and pen and divide it into columns.
Write out the good things and the bad things and use the third column for those experiences that are questionable with regard to qualitative value in your mind.
Once again, brutal honesty is required for this exercise.
When you see the extensiveness of your bad experiences in front of your own eyes, it will solidify your resolve to leave your Narcissistic Ex behind.
When I performed this exercise, it took me a while to sort out what I had learned.
My current understanding of the entire experience that I had with my narcissistic ex is that I did love him but he never loved me.
To that end, I can still appreciate the feelings that were mine during that relationship.
This is important for us all because living in a belief that you imagined everything can be very destructive to your self-esteem.
(This is the voice of experience speaking.)
Time does create a healthy distance from missing your Narcissistic Ex but you must reach the point of acceptance first.
There are two parts to this acceptance, the intellectual and emotional phase.
Intellectually, it is easy to decide you are finished with the relationship.
Emotions are not as easy to untangle.
My advice to you is consistent, however.
Do not maintain contact with the Narcissist once the relationship is over.
They know you and how to manipulate your emotions.
Because having control over you gives them pleasure, every time you reach for them, you are providing Narcissistic supply.
Narcissists hate being ignored so they won’t leave you alone until they’ve found a new victim who will adore them without question.
So, how do you get your Narcissistic Ex out of your mind?
Stop trying!
Let them occupy that space
for what you have experienced should not be forgotten and, as long as you remember, you are less likely to fall
into another Narcissist’s web.
While I suggest not putting them out of your mind, I simultaneously suggest that you not permit memories of them to rule your sanity.
Once you work out the true nature of your experience, you will find a way to heal from a Narcissistic encounter.
It is not easy and it will take time and attention, as well as complete self-honesty.
Incoming search terms:do narcissists hate being ignoredgetting over a narcissist boyfriendhow to get over a narcissistic exnarcissistic ex boyfrienddoes my narcissistic ex think about mewhy do i miss my narcissistic exmissing the narcissistignoring a narcissist exdo narcissists miss their exno contact narcissist expencil box是什么意思
pencil box是什么意思
09-01-27 &匿名提问
老师发神经了。COLOUR为英式英语的颜色的意思。别老觉得老师就一定对。
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铅笔盒啊！
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晕了，难道不是铅笔盒吗。；
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Pencil Box:    1. 铅笔盒
   埃及求购铅笔盒(Pencil Box) (爱尔兰求购铅笔和铅笔盒(pencil cases and pencils)
   
 2. 文具盒
   产品类别： 文具盒(pencil box) → 猫和老鼠
 3. 铅笔盒，文具盒
   小学英语分类词汇表 ...pencil铅笔 pencil-box铅笔盒，文具盒 pencil-case铅笔袋，笔袋
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During Ramzan, the month of fasting, we went to the movies as often as we could. After being shaken awake at five a.m. by my mother' after pre-dawn breakfasts of melon and sugared lime-water, and especially on Sunday mornings, the Brass Monkey and I took it in turns (or sometimes called out in unison) to remind Amina: 'The ten-thirty-in-the-morning show! It's Metro Cub Club day, Amma, pleeeese!' Then the drive in the Rover to the cinema where we would taste neither Coca-Cola nor potato crisps, neither Kwality ice-cream nor sam but at least there was air-conditioning, and Cub Club badges pinned to our clothes, and competitions, and birthday-announcements made by a compere with an
and finally, the film, after the trailers with their introductory titles, 'Next Attraction' and 'Coming Soon', and the cartoon ('In A Moment, The Big F But First ... !'): Quentin Durward, perhaps, or Scaramouche. 'Swashbuckling!' we'd say to one another afterwards,
and, 'A rumbustious, bawdy romp!' - although we were ignorant of swashbuckles and bawdiness. There was not much praying in our family (except on Eid-ul-Fitr, when my father took me to the Friday mosque to celebrate the holiday by tying a handkerchief around my head and pressing my forehead to the ground) ... but we were always willing to fast, because we liked the cinema.
Evie Burns and I agreed: the world's greatest movie star was Robert Taylor. I also liked Jay Silverheels as T but his kemo-sabay, Clayton Moore, was too fat for the Lone Ranger, in my view. Evelyn Lilith Burns arrived on New Year's Day, 1957, to take up residence with her widower father in an apartment in one of the two squat, ugly concrete blocks which had grown up, almost without pur noticing them, on the lower reaches of our hillock, and which were oddly segregated: Americans and other foreigners lived (like Evie) in Noor V arriviste Indian success-stories ended up in Laxmi Vilas. From the heights of Methwold's Estate, we looked down on them all, on w but nobody ever looked down on Evie Burns - except once. Only once did anyone get on top of her. Before I climbed into my first pair of long pants, I fell in love with E but love was a curious, chain-reactive thing that year. To save time, I shall place all of us in the same row at the M Robert Taylor is mirrored in our eyes as we sit in flickering trances -and also in symbolic sequence: Saleem Sinai is sitting-next-to-and-in-love-with Evie Burns who is sitting-next-to-and-in-love-with Sonny Ibrahim who is sitting-next-to-and-in-love-with the Brass Monkey who is sitting next to the aisle and feeling starving hungry ... I loved Evie for perhaps s two years later, she was back in America, knifing an old woman and being sent to reform school. A brief expression of my gratitude is in order at this point: if Evie had not come to live amongst us, my story might never have progressed beyond tourism-in-a-clocktower and cheating in class ... and then there would have been no climax in a widows' hostel, no clear proof of my meaning, no coda in a fuming factory over which there presides the winking, saffron-and-green dancing figure of the neon goddess Mumbadevi. But Evie Burns (was she snake or ladder? The answer's obvious: both) did come, complete with the silver bicycle which enabled me not only to discover the midnight children, but also to ensure the partition of the state of Bombay. To begin at the beginning: her hair was made of scarecrow straw, her skin was peppered with freckles and her teeth lived in a metal cage. These teeth were, it seemed, the only things on earth over which she was powerless - they grew wild, in malicious crazy-paving overlaps, and stung her dreadfully when she ate ice-cream. (I permit myself this one generalization: Americans have mastered the universe, but have no domini whereas India is impotent, but her children tend to have excellent teeth.) Racked by toothaches, my Evie rose magnificently above the pain. Refusing to be ruled by bone and gums, she ate cake and drank Coke when and never complained. A tough kid, Evie Burns: her conquest of suffering confirmed her sovereignty over us all. It has been observed that all Americans need a frontier: pain was hers, and she was determined to push it out. Once, I shyly gave her a necklace of flowers (queen-of-the-night for my lily-of-the-eve), bought with my own pocket-money from a hawker-woman at Scandal Point. 'I don't wear flowers,' Evelyn Lilith said, and tossed the unwanted chain into the air, spearing it before it fell with a pellet from her unerring Daisy air-pistol. Destroying flowers with a Daisy, she served notice that she was not to be manacled, not even by a necklace: she was our capricious, whirligig Lill-of-the-Hill. And also Eve. The Adam's-apple of my eye. How she arrived: Sonny Ibrahim, Eyeslice and Hairoil Sabarmati, Cyrus Dubash, the Monkey and I were playing French cricket in the circus-ring between Methwold's four palaces. A New Year's Day game: Toxy clapping
even Bi-Appah was in good humour and not, for once, abusing us. Cricket - even French cricket, and even when played by children - is a quiet game: peace anointed in linseed oil. The kissing o the occasional cry - 'Shot! Shot, sir!' - 'Owzatt??' but Evie on her bicycle was having none of that. 'Hey, you! Alia you! Hey, whassamatter? You all deaf or what?' I was batting (elegantly as Ranji, powerfully as Vinoo Mankad) when she charged up the hill on her two-wheeler, straw hair flying, freckles ablaze, mouth-metal flashing semaphore messages in the sunlight, a scarecrow astride a silver bullet... 'Hey, you widda leaky nose! Stop watching the schoopid ball, ya crumb! I'll showya something worth watching!' Impossible to picture Evie Burns without also co and not just any two-wheeler, but one of the last of the great old-timers, an Arjuna Indiabike in mint condition, with drop-handlebars wrapped in masking tape and five gears and a seat made of reccine cheetah-skin. And a silver frame (the colour, I don't need to tell you, of the Lone Ranger's horse) ... slobby Eyeslice and neat Hairoil, Cyrus the genius and the Monkey, and Sonny Ibrahim and myself - the best of friends, the true sons of the Estate, its heirs by right of birth - Sonny with the slow innocence he had had ever since the forceps dented his brain and me with my dangerous secret knowledge - yes, all of us, future bullfighters and Navy chiefs and all, stood frozen in open-mouthed attitudes as Evie Burns began to ride her bike, fasterfasterfaster, around and around the edges of the circus-ring. 'Lookit me now: watch me go, ya dummies!' On and off the cheetah-seat, Evie performed. One foot on the seat, one leg stretched out behind her, s she built up speed and then did a headstand on the seat! She could straddle the front wheel, facing the rear, and work the pedals the wrong way round ... gravity was her slave, speed her element, and we knew that a power had come among us, a witch on wheels, and the flowers of the hedgerows threw her petals, the dust of the circus-ring stood up in clouds of ovation, because the circus-ring had found its mistress, too: it was the canvas beneath the brush of her whirling wheels. Now we noticed that our heroine packed a Daisy air-pistol on her right hip ... 'More to come, ya zeroes!' she yelled, and drew the weapon. Her pellets gave stone we threw annas into the air and she gunned them down, stone-dead. 'Targets! More targets!' - and Eyeslice surrendered his beloved pack of rummy cards without a murmur, so that she could shoot the heads off the kings. Annie Oakley in tooth-braces - nobody dared question her sharp-shooting, except once, and that was the end of her reign, during th and there were extenuating circumstances. Flushed, sweating, Evie Burns dismounted and announced: 'From now on, there's a new big chief around here. Okay, Indians? Any arguments?' N I knew then that I had fallen in love. At Juhu Beach with Evie: she won the camel-races, could drink more coconut milk than any of us, could open her eyes under the sharp salt water of the Arabian Sea. Did six months make such a difference? (Evie was half a year older than me.) Did it entitle you to talk to grown-ups as an equal? Evie was seen gossiping with old man Ibrahim I she claimed Lila Sabarmati was teaching her to put on make- she visited Homi Catrack to gossip about guns. (It was the tragic irony of Homi Catrack's life that he, at whom a gun would one day be pointed, was a true aficionado of firearms ... in Evie he found a fellow-creature, a motherless child who was, unlike his own Toxy, as sharp as a knife and as bright as a bottle. Incidentally, Evie Burns wasted no sympathy on poor Toxy Catrack. 'Wrong inna head,' she opined carelessly to us all, 'Oughta be put down like rats.' But Evie: rats are not weak! There was more that was rodent-like in your face than in the whole body of your despised Tox.) That was Evelyn L and within weeks of her arrival, I had set off the chain reaction from whose effects I would never fully recover. It began with Sonny Ibrahim, Sonny-next-door, Sonny of the forcep-hollows, who has been sitting patiently in the wings of my story, awaiting his cue. In those days, Sonny was a badly bruised fellow: more than forceps had dented him. To love the Brass Monkey (even in the nine-year-old sense of the word) was no easy thing to do. As I've said, my sister, born second and unheralded, had begun to react violently to any declarations of affection. Although she was believed to speak the languages of birds and cats, the soft words of lovers roused in her a but Sonny was too simple to be warned off. For months now, he had been pestering her with statements such as, 'Saleem's sister, you're a pretty solid type!' or, 'Listen, you want to be my girl? We could go to the pictures with your ayah, maybe ...' And for an equal number of months, she had been making him suffer for his love - telling pushing him into mud-puddles accidentally-on- once even assaulting him physically, leaving him with long raking claw-marks down his face and an expression of sad-do but he would not learn. And so, at last, she had planned her most terrible revenge. The Monkey attended Walsingham School for Girls on Nepean Sea R a school full of tall, superbly muscled Europeans, who swam like fish and dived like submarines. In their spare time, they could be seen from our bedroom window, cavorting in the map-shaped pool of the Breach Candy Club, from which we were, of course, barred ... and when I discovered that the Monkey had somehow attached herself to these segregated swimmers, as a sort of mascot, I felt genuinely aggrieved with her for perhaps the first time ... but there was she went her own way. Beefy fifteen-year-old white girls let her sit with them on the Walsingham school bus. Three such females would wait with her every morning at the same place where Sonny, Eyeslice, Hairoil, Cyrus-the-great and I awaited the bus from the Cathedral School. One morning, for some forgotten reason, Sonny and I were the only boys at the stop. Maybe there was a bug going round or something. The Monkey waited until Mary Pereira had left us alone, in the care o and then suddenly the truth of what she was planning flashed into my head as, for no particular reason, I tun and I yelled 'Hey!' - but too late. The Monkey screeched, 'You keep out of this!' and then she and the three beefy swimmers had jumped upon Sonny Ibrahim, street-sleepers and beggars and bicycling clerks were watching with open amusement, because they were ripping every scrap of clothing off his body ... 'Damn it man, are you going just to stand and watch?' -Sonny yelling for help, but I was immobilized, how could I take sides between my sister and my best friend, and he, 'I'll tell my daddy on you!', tearful now, while the Monkey, 'That'll teach you to talk shit - and that'll teach you', his shoes, his vest, dragged off by a high-board diver, 'And that'll teach you to write your sissy love letters', no socks now, and plenty of tears, and 'There!' yelled the M the Walsingham bus arrived and the assailants and my sister jumped in and sped away, 'Ta-ta-ba-ta, lover-boy!' they yelled, and Sonny was left in the street, on the pavement opposite Chimalker's and Reader's Paradise, naked as his forcep-hollows glistened like rock-pools, because Vaseline had dripped int and his eyes were wet as well, as he, 'Why's she do it, man? Why, when I only told her I liked ...' 'Search me,' I said, not knowing where to look, 'She does things, that's all.' Not knowing, either, that the time would come when she did something worse to me. But that was nine years later ... meanwhile, early in 1957, election campaigns had begun: the Jan Sangh was campaigning for rest homes
in Kerala, E. M. S. Namboodiripad was promising that Communism would give ev in Madras, the Anna-D.M.K. party of C. N. Annadurai fanned the f the Congress fought back with reforms such as the Hindu Succession Act, which gave Hindu women equal rights of inheritance ... in short, everybody was busy pl I, however, found myself tongue-tied in the face of Evie Burns, and approached Sonny Ibrahim to ask him to plead on my behalf. In India, we've always been vulnerable to Europeans ... Evie had only been with us a matter of weeks, and already I was being sucked into a grotesque mimicry of European literature. (We had done Cyrano, in a simplified version, I had also read the Classics Illustrated comic book.) Perhaps it would be fair to say that Europe repeats itself, in India, as farce ... Evie was American. Same thing. 'But hey, man, that's no-fair man, why don't you do it yourself?' 'Listen, Sonny,' I pleaded, 'you're my friend, right?' 'Yeah, but you didn't even help ...' 'That was my sister, Sonny, so how could I?' 'No, so you have to do your own dirty ...' 'Hey, Sonny, man, think. Think only. These girls need careful handling, man. Look how the Monkey flies off the handle! You've got the experience, yaar, you've been through it. You'll know how to go gently this time. What do I know, man? Maybe she doesn't like me even. You want me to have my clothes torn off, too? That would make you feel better?' And innocent, good-natured Sonny, '... Well, no ...' 'Okay, then. You go. Sing my praises a little. Say never mind about my nose. Character is what counts. You can do that?' '... Weeeelll ... I ... okay, but you talk to your sis also, yah?' Til talk, Sonny. What can I promise? You know what she's like. But I'll talk to her for sure.'
You can lay your strategies as carefully as you like, but women will undo them at a stroke. For every victorious election campaign, there are twice as many that fail ... from the verandah of Buckingham Villa, through the slats of the chick-blind, I spied on Sonny Ibrahim as he canvassed my chosen constituency ... and heard the voice of the electorate, the rising nasality of Evie Burns, splitting the air with scorn: 'Who? Him? Whynt'cha tell him to jus' go blow his nose? That sniffer? He can't even ride a bike!' Which was true. And the because now (although a chick-blind divided the scene into narrow slits) did I not see the expression on Evie's face begin to soften and change? - did Evie's hand (sliced lengthways by the chick) not reach out towards my electoral agent? -and weren't those Evie's fingers (the nails bitten down to the quick) touching Sonny's temple-hollows, the fingertips getting covered in dribbled Vaseline? - and did Evie say or did she not: 'Now you, Pr instance: you're cute'? Let me sadly affirm that I she did. Saleem Sinai loves Evie B Evie loves Sonny I Sonny is potty about the Brass M but what does the Monkey say? 'Don't make me sick, Allah,' my sister said when I tried - rather nobly, considering how he'd failed me - to argue Sonny's case. The voters had given the thumijs-down to us both. I wasn't giving in just yet. The siren temptations of Evie Burns - who never cared about me, I'm bound to admit - led me inexorably towards my fall. (But I hold because my fall led to a rise.) Privately, in my clocktower, I took time off my trans-subcontinental rambles to consider the wooing of my freckled Eve. 'Forget middlemen,' I advised myself, 'You'll have to do this personally.' Finally, I formed my scheme: I would have to share her interests, to make her passions mine ... guns have never appealed to me. I resolved to learn how to ride a bike. Evie, in those days, had given in to the many demands of the hillock-top children that she teach them her bicycle- so it was a simple matter for me to join the queue for lessons. We assembled in the circus- Evie, ring-mistress supreme, stood in the centre of five wobbly, furiously concentrating cyclists ... while I stood beside her, bikeless. Until Evie's coming I'd shown no interest in wheels, so I'd never been given any ... humbly, I suffered the lash of Evie's tongue. 'Where've you been living, fat nose? I suppose you wanna borrow mine?' 'No,' I lied penitently, and she relented. 'Okay, okay,' Evieshrugged, 'Get in the saddle and lessee whatchou're made of.' Let me reveal at once that, as I climbed on to the silver Arjuna Indiabike, I was filled wit that, as Evie walked roundandround, holding the bike by the handlebars, exclaiming, 'Gotcha balance yet? Mo? Geez, nobody's got all year!' - as Evie and I perambulated, I felt ... what's the word? ... happy. Roundandroundand ... Finally, to please her, I stammered, 'Okay ... I think I'm ... let me,' and instantly I was on my own, she had given me a farewell shove, and the silver creature flew gleaming and uncontrollable across the circus-ring ... I heard her shouting: 'The brake! Use the goddamn brake, ya dummy!' - but my hands couldn't move, I had gone rigid as a plank, and there LOOK OUT in front of me was the blue two-wheeler of Sonny Ibrahim, collision course, OUTA THE WAY YA CRAZY, Sonny in the saddle, trying to swerve and miss, but still blue streaked towards silver, Sonny swung right but I went the same way EEYAH MY BIKE and silver wheel touched blue, frame kissed frame, I was flying up and over handlebars towards Sonny who had embarked on an identical parabola towards me CRASH bicycles fell to earth beneath us, locked in an intimate embrace CRASH suspended in mid-air Sonny and I met each other, Sonny's head greeted mine ... Over nine years ago I had been born with bulging temples, and Sonny had been give everything is for a reason, it seems, because now my bulging temples found their way into Sonny's hollows. A perfect fit. Heads fitting together, we began our descent to earth, falling clear of the bikes, fortunately, WHUMMP and for a moment the world went away. Then Evie with her freckles on fire, 'O ya little creep, ya pile of snot, ya wrecked my ...' But I wasn't listening, because circus-ring accident had completed what washing-chest calamity had begun, and they were there in my head, in the front now, no longer a muffled background noise I'd never noticed, all of them, sending their here-I-am signals, from north south east west... the other children born during that midnight hour, calling 'I,' 'I,' T and 'I.' 'Hey! Hey, snothead! You okay? ... Hey, where's his mother?' Interruptions, nothing but interruptions! The different parts of my somewhat complicated life refuse, with a wholly unreasonable obstinacy, to stay neatly in their separate compartments. Voices spill out of their clocktower to invade the circus-ring, which is supposed to be Evie's domain ... and now, at the very moment when I should be describing the fabulous children of ticktock, I'm being whisked away by Frontier Mail - spirited off to the decaying world of my grandparents, so that Aadam Aziz is getting in the way of the natural unfolding of my tale. Ah well. What can't be cured must be endured. That January, during my convalescence from the severe concussion I received in my bicycling accident, my parents took us off to Agra for a family reunion that turned out worse than the notorious (and arguably fictional) Black Hole of Calcutta. For two weeks we were obliged to listen to Emerald and Zulfikar (who was now a Major-General and insisted on being called a General) dropping names, and also hints of their fabulous wealth, which had by now grown into the seventh largest private fortune in P their son Zafar tried (but only once!) to pull the Monkey's fading red pig-tails. And we were obliged to watch in silent horror while my Civil Servant uncle Mustapha and his half-Irani wife Sonia beat and bludgeoned their litter of nameless, genderless brats
and the bitter aroma of Alia's spinsterhood filled the air and my father would retire early to begin his secret nightly wa and worse, and worse, and worse. One night I awoke on the stroke of twelve to find my grandfather's dream inside my head, and was therefore unable to avoid seeing him as he saw himself - as a crumbling old man in whose centre, when the light was right, it was possible to discern a gigantic shadow. As the convictions which had given strength to his youth withered away under the combined influence of old age, Reverend Mother and the absence of like-minded friends, an old hole was reappearing in the middle of his body, turning him into just another shrivelled, empty old man, over whom the God (and other superstitions) against which he'd fought for so long was beginning to reassert His dominion ... meanwhile, Reverend Mother spent the entire fortnight finding little ways of insulting my uncle Hanif's despised film-actress wife. And that was also the time when I was cast as a ghost in a children's play, and found, in an old leather attache-case on top of my grandfather's almirah, a sheet which had been chewed by moths, but whose largest hole was man-made: for which discovery I was repaid (you will recall) in roars of grandparental rage. But there was one achievement. I was befriended by Rashid the rickshaw-wallah (the same fellow who had, in his youth, screamed silently in a cornfield and helped Nadir Khan into Aadam Aziz's toilet): taking me under his wing - and without telling my parents, who would have forbidden it so soon after my accident - he taught me how to ride a bicycle. By the time we left, I had this secret tucked away with all my others: only I didn't intend this one to stay secret for very long. ... And on the train home, there were voices hanging on to the outside of the compartment: 'Ohe, maharaj! Open up, great sir!' -fare-dodgers' voices fighting with the ones I wanted to listen to, the new ones inside my head - and then back to Bombay Central Station, and the drive home past racecourse and temple, and now Evelyn Lilith Burns is demanding that I finish her part first before concentrating on higher things. 'Home again!' the Monkey shouts. 'Hurray ... Back-to-Bom!' (She is in disgrace. In Agra, she incinerated the General's boots.) It is a matter of record that the States Reorganization Committee had submitted its report to Mr Nehru as long ago as October 1955; a year later, its recommendations had been implemented. India had been divided anew, into fourteen states and six centrally-administered 'territories'. But the boundaries of these states were not formed by rivers, or mountains, or any natural fea they were, instead, walls of words. Language divided us: Kerala was for speakers of Malayalam, the only palindromically-n in Karnataka you were supposed to speak K and the amputated state of Madras - known today as Tamil Nadu - enclosed the aficionados of Tamil. Owing to some oversight, however, nothing was done with the state of B and in the city of Mumbadevi, the language marches grew longer and noisier and finally metamorphosed into political parties, the Samyukta Maharashtra Samiti ('United Maharashtra Party') which stood for the Marathi language and demanded the creation of the Deccan state of Maharashtra, and the Maha Gujarat Parishad ('Great Gujarat Party') which marched beneath the banner of the Gujarati language and dreamed of a state to the north of Bombay City, stretching all the way to the Kathiawar peninsula and the Rann of Kutch ... I am warming over all this cold history, these old dead struggles between the barren angularity of Marathi which was born in the arid heat of the Deccan and Gujarati's boggy, Kathiawari softness, to explain why, on the day in February 1957 immediately following our return from Agra, Methwold's Estate was cut off from the city by a stream of chanting humanity which flooded Warden Road more completely than monsoon water, a parade so long that it took two days to pass, and of which it was said that the statue of Sivaji had come to life to ride stonily at its head. The demonstrators many of them were s many were striking textile-workers from Mazagaon and M but on our hillock, we knew noth to us children, the endless ant-trail of language in Warden Road seemed as magnetically fascinating as a light-bulb to a moth. It was a demonstration so immense, so intense in its passions, that it made all previous marches vanish from the mind as if they had never occurred - and we had all been banned from going down the hill for even the tiniest of looks. So who was the boldest of us all? Who urged us to creep at least half-way down, to the point where the hillock-road swung round to face Warden Road in a steep U-bend? Who said, 'What's to be scared of? We're only going half-way for a peek'? ... Wide-eyed, disobedient Indians followed their freckled American chief. (They lulled Dr Narlikar - marchers did,' Hairoil warned us in a shivery voice. Evie spat on his shoes.) But I, Saleem Sinai, had other fish to fry. 'Evie,' I said with quiet offhandedness, 'how'd you like to see me bicycling?' No response. Evie was immersed in the-spectacle ... and was that her fingerprint in Sonny Ibrahim's left forcep-hollow, embedded in Vaseline for all the world to see? A second time, and with slightly more emphasis, I said, 'I can do it, Evie. I'll do it on the Monkey's cycle. You want to watch?' And now Evie, cruelly, 'I'm watching this. This is good. Why'd I wanna watch you? And me, a little snivelly now, 'But I learned, Evie, you've got to ...' Roars from Warden Road below us drown my words. H and Sonny's back, the backs of Eyeslice and Hairoil, the intellectual rear of Cyrus-the-great... my sister, who has seen the fingerprint too, and looks displeased, eggs me on: 'Go on. Go on, show her. Who's she think she is?' And up on her bike ... 'I'm doing it, Evie, look!' Bicycling in circles, round and round the little cluster of children, 'See? You see?' A
and then Evie, deflating impatient couldn't-care- 'Willya get outa my way, fer Petesake? I wanna see lhat!' Finger, chewed-off nail and all, jabs down in the direction o I am dismissed in favour of the parade of the Samyukta Maharashtra Samiti! And despite the Monkey, who loyally, 'That's not fair! He's doing it really good? - and in spite of the exhilaration of the thing-in-itself- something go and I'm riding round Evie, fasterfasterfaster, crying sniffing out of control, 'So what is it with you, anyway? What do I have to do to ...' And then something else takes over, because I realize I don't have to ask her, I can just get inside that freckled mouth-metalled head and find out, for once I can really get to know what's going on... and in I go, still bicycling, but the front of her mind is all full up with Marathi language-marchers, there are American pop songs stuck in the corners of her thoughts, but nothing I' and now, only now, now for the very first time, now driven on by the tears of unrequited love, I begin to probe ... I find myself pushing, diving, forcing my way behind her defences ... into the secret place where there's a picture of her mother who wears a pink smock and holds up a tiny fish by the tail, and I'm ferreting deeperdeeperdeeper, where is it, what makes her tick, when she gives a sort of jerk and swings round to stare at me as I bicycle roundandroundandround-androundand ... 'Get out!' screams Evie Burns. Hands lifted to forehead. I bicycling, wet-eyed, diving ininin: to where Evie stands in the doorway of a clapboard bedroom holding a, holding a something sharp and glinty with red dripping off it, in the doorway of a, my God and on the bed a woman, who, in a pink, my God, and Evie with the, and red staining the pink, and a man coming, my God, and no no no no no ... 'GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!' Bewildered children watch as Evie screams, language march forgotten, but suddenly remembered again, because Evie has grabbed the back of the Monkey's bike WHAT'RE YOU DOING EVIE as she pushes it THERE GET OUT YA BUM THERE GET OUT TO HELL!- She's pushed me hard-as-hard, and I losing control hurtling down the slope round the end of the U-bend downdown, MY GOD THE MARCH past Band Box laundry, past Noor Ville and Laxmi Vilas, AAAAA and down into the mouth of the march, heads feet bodies, the waves of the march parting as I arrive, yelling blue murder, crashing into history on a runaway, young-girl's bike. Hands grabbing handlebars as I slow down in the impassioned throng. Smiles filled with good teeth surround me. They are not friendly smiles. 'Look look, a little laad-sahib comes down to join us from the big rich hill!' In Marathi which I hardly understand, it's my worst subject at school, and the smiles asking, 'You want to join S.M.S., little princeling?' And I, just about knowing what's being said, but dazed into telling the truth, shake my head No. And the smiles, 'Oho! The young nawab does not like our tongue! What does he like?' And another smile, 'Maybe Gujarati! You speak Gujarati, my lord?' But my Gujarati was as bad as my M I only knew one thing in the marshy tongue of K and the smiles, urging, and the fingers, prodding, 'Speak, little master! Speak some Gujarati!' - so I told them what I knew, a rhyme I'd learned from Glandy Keith Colaco at school, which he used when he was bullying Gujarati boys, a rhyme designed to make fun of the speech rhythms of the language: Soo che? Saru che! Danda le ke maru che! How are you? - I am well! - 肐I take a stick and thrash you to hell! A nine words of emptiness... but when I'd retited them, the s and then voices near me and then further and further away began to take up my chant, HOW ARE YOU? I AM WELL!, and they lost interest in me, 'Go go with your bicycle, masterji,' they scoffed, I'LL TAKE A STICK AND THRASH YOU 蝾 HELL, I fled away up the hillock as my chant rushed forward and back, up to the front .and down to the back of the two-day-long procession, becoming, as it went, a song of war. That afternoon, the head of the procession of the Samyukta Maharashtra Samiti collided at Kemp's Corner, with the head of a Maha Gujarat Pa S.M.S. voices chanted 'Soo che? Saru che!' and M.G.P. throats under the posters of the Air-India rajah and of the Kolynos Kid, the two parties fell upon one another with no little zeal, and to the tune of my little rhyme the first of the language riots got under way, fifteen killed, over three hundred wounded. In this way I became directly responsible for triggering off the violence which ended with the partition of the state of Bombay, as a result of which the city became the capital of Maharashtra - so at least I was on the winning side. What was it in Evie's head? Crime or dream? I but I had learned something else: when you go deep inside someone's head, they can feel you in there. Evelyn Lilith Burns didn't want much to do wi but, strangely enough, I was cured of her. (Women have always been the ones to change my life: Mary Pereira, Evie Burns, Jamila Singer, Parvati-the-witch must answer for who I and the Widow, who I'm and after the end, Padma, my goddess of dung. Women have fixed me all right, but perhaps they were never central - perhaps the place which they should have filled, the hole in the centre of me which was my inheritance from my grandfather Aadam Aziz, was occupied for too long by my voices. Or perhaps -one must consider all possibilities - they always made me a little afraid.)
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就是铅笔盒呗。放笔的。各种笔都可以放里面铅笔盒　　一种自动铅笔盒，其特征在于：由外盒体和内盒体组成，在外盒体的一长侧空面内活动插入内盒体，外盒体另一长侧的上沿铰链连接盒盖，盒盖是由两个窄盒盖铰链连接的盒盖。外盒体的短侧外面有弹簧片，弹簧片穿过外盒盖到达内盒体短侧面上，在内盒体短侧面上有与弹簧片端部配合的多个凹槽。本发明效果是：本自动铅笔盒和体可变大变小，可适应放入的文具多少调整。方便实用。 　　铅笔盒学生用来装钢笔、铅笔、尺子、橡皮等文具的盒子。质地很多，一般有木质、铁质、塑料制品，形状各异，多为长方体形状。 　　铁质铅笔盒上面没有过于花哨的图案，相对于木制和塑料的文具盒来说，铁质的不容易变形、损坏，另外它是非常实用的，很适合小学生使用。　　塑料的铅笔盒色彩亮丽、图案丰富，但没有铁质的文具盒抗摔、抗变形。它在大众市场上很受中小学生的青睐，甚至大学生有时也会用。　　木制的铅笔盒现在非常少见，它上面刻着各种各样的图形，但中小学生往往不会去用它，原因是色彩过于单调，所以使现在的木质文具盒逐渐稀少。　　还有一种铅笔盒使用布做的，真名叫“笔袋”，是近几年中小学生的“文具盒新宠”。它携带方便、也很实用，很适合我们小朋友使用。
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pencil铅笔 pencil-box铅笔盒，文具盒 pencil-case铅笔袋，笔袋
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