Winter 1961 • Vol. XXIII No. 1 FictionJanuary 1, 1961 |

The Award

Dev Prakash had already met too many such young men during the past nine years. Research students, junior lecturers, journalists whose articles seldom got into print—they seemed to be the only people who took any interest in him. "What I am intending for my thesis," said the young man, "is to show how Indian writing has developed since independence." "I see," said Dev Prakash, nodding his big head with the two heavy chins and the long graying hair sagely up and down. He had an impressive literary-lion manner, which did not betray the sense of failure and neglect he was at present feeling. "Perhaps if you could give me some hints about present-day writings," said the young man. "With special reference to your own works." "My own works," Dev Prakash repeated, his interest stirred. He passed a large dimpled hand over his noble brow. "Whatever I have written, whatever little I may have achieved, my inspiration has been, always: India." Who repaid him by ignoring him, w

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