1.What is project?
Ans. Project is a piece of planned work or an activity that is finished over a period of time and intended to achieve a particular purpose.
2.The projects in our syllabus.
Ans. There are many projects in our higher secondary syllabus for class XI AND XII. They are – writing an autobiography, dramatization, interview of celebrities, idianization of foreign stories, writing film script, and extension of any written stories.
3. Purpose of writing a project.
Ans. It is a blended program that supports students in using design thinking methods to prototype their purpose. It also helps students to identify focus areas in their life, pursue self-initiated projects, and create a person narrative about their discoveries of self.
4.The project I have attended. Why I chose this project?
Ans. My attended project is “ Extension of a story “ written by a famous writer Ruskin Bond.
I am a voracious reader of story books and Ruskind Bond is one of my favourite writer. Besides, I also write short stories and poems. So, when I heard of this unique project I became much interested and it is a meaning experience in my life.
5. Short biography of the author ________________________ & photo.
6.Summary of the story:
7.Original project:
8. Certificate:
9. Acknowledgement:
10. Bibliography :
GIFT OF THE MAGI by O HENRY
Roop Narayan Sarkar. That was all. And of it eighty-seven rupees was in coins. The amount saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Katha counted it. Five hundred and eighty-seven rupees. And the next day would be Roop’s birthday.
There was clearly nothing left to do but flop down on the shabby little cot and howl. So Katha did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at Rs. 500 per month. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the look-out for the mendicancy squad.
In the narrow corridor below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name " Roop Narayan Sarkar ."
The "Nrayan Sarkar " had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when they had been the Zamindar of Narayanpur in North Bengal or was the owner of this building .The letters of " Roop Narayan Sarkar " looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming RNS. But whenever Roop Narayan Sarkar came home and reached his flat above he was called "Roop" and greatly hugged by the last heiress of the Zaminder of Narayanpur, already introduced to you as Katha. Which is all very good.
Katha finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the almost torn powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a grey cat walking a grey fence in a grey backyard. To-morrow would be Rup’s Birthday, and she had only five hundred and eighty-seven rupees with which to buy Rup a present. She had been saving every paise she could for months, with this result.. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only five hundred and eighty-seven rupees to buy a present for Roop. Her Roop . Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and precious - something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honour of being owned by Rup.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. They inherited it from their forefathers. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Katha, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its colour within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now, there were two possessions of the last heir of the Zaminder of Narayanpur in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Roop's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Katha's hair. Had Indrani, the wife of Debraj Indra lived in the flat across the airshaft, Katha would have let her hair hang out of the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had any king been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Roop would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
So now Katha's beautiful hair fell about her, like black cloud. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the floor.
On went her old brown saree. With a whirl of shawl and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she cluttered out of the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: 'Fortune traders. Hair Goods of All Kinds.' Katha ran up, and collected herself, panting. before, large, black …………………. Lady, the owner.
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Katha.
"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take your shawl off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."
Down ran the curly hair as black as cloud.
"Five hundred rupees," said the lady, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
"Give it to me quick" said Katha.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Roop's present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Roop and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a gold plated fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation - as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Roop's. It was like him. Quietness and value - the description applied to both. One thousand eighty rupees they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the Rs. 7. With that chain on his watch Roop might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Katha reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task dear friends - a mammoth task.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
"If Roop doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a school girl."
At 7 o'clock the tea was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.
Roop was never late. Katha doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please, God, make him think I am still pretty."
The door opened and Roop stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two - and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new outfit.
Roop stepped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Katha, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.
Katha wriggled off the table and went for him.
"Roop, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through your birthday without giving you a present. It'll grow out again - you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say 'Happy Birthday!' Roop , and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
"You've cut off your hair?" asked Roop, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet, even after the hardest mental labour.
"Cut it off and sold it," said Katha. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"
Roop looked about the room curiously.
"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
"You needn't look for it," said Katha. "It's sold, I tell you - sold and gone, too. It's Birthday Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with a sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Roop?"
Out of his trance Roop seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Katha. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight rupees a week or a million a year - what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Roop drew a package from his Punjabi pocket and threw it upon the table.
"Don't make any mistake, Katha," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."
White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs - the set of combs, side and back, that Katha had worshipped for long in a Esplanade window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise-shell, with jewelled rims - just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone. My .. my ……. BIRTHDAY GIFT !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
She hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Roop!"
And then Katha leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!" Roop had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to lash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
"Isn't it a beautiful, Roop? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."
Instead of obeying, Roop tumbled down on the cot and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
"Kathal," said he, "let's put our BIRTHDAY presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."
The Gift , as you know, men brought to the new born Babe to any family or royal family , are no doubt wise and precious ones,. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the wisest.
INDIANIZATION / JIMMY VALENTINE by O’Henry
RATAN KABIR
A guard came to the prison shoe-shop, where Ratan Kabir was assiduously stitching uppers, and escorted him to the front office. There the warden handed Ratan his bail order, which had been signed that morning by the session judge. Ratan took it in a tired kind of way. He had served nearly ten months of a four year sentence. He had expected to stay only about three months, at the longest. When a man with as many friends on the outside as Ratan Kabir had is received in the “stir” it is hardly worth while to cut his hair.
“Now, Kabir,” said the warden, “you’ll go out in the morning. Brace up, and make a man of yourself. You’re not a bad fellow at heart. Stop snatching and kidnaping and cracking vaults and safes, and live straight.”
“Me?” said Jimmy, in surprise. “Why, I never cracked a safe or like that, in my life.”
“Oh, no,” laughed the warden. “Of course not. Let’s see, now. How was it you happened to get sent up on that Asansol UBI dacoity case? Was it because you wouldn’t prove an alibi for fear of compromising somebody in extremely high-toned society? Or was it simply a case of a mean old jury that had it in for you? It’s always one or the other with you innocent victims.”
“Me?” said Ratan, still blankly virtuous. “Why, warden, I never was in Springfield in my life!”
“Take him back, Bimal!” said the warden, “and fix him up with outgoing clothes. Unlock him at seven in the morning, and let him come to the office. Better think over my advice, Kabir.”
At a quarter past seven on the next morning Kabir stood in the warden’s outer office. He had on a dresss of the villainously fitting, ready-made clothes and a pair of the stiff, squeaky shoes that the state furnishes to its discharged compulsory guests.
The clerk handed him a rail ticket and the five-hundred rupees note with which the law expected him to rehabilitate himself into good citizenship and prosperity. The warden gave him a cigar, and shook hands. Rtan Kabir, 7629, was chronicled on the books, “Given bail by Judge,” and Mr. Ratan Kabir walked out into the sunshine.
Disregarding the song of the birds, the waving green trees, and the smell of the flowers, Ratan headed straight for a restaurant. There he tasted the first sweet joys of liberty in the shape of a broiled chicken and a bottle of whisky —followed by a cigar a grade better than the one the warden had given him. From there he proceeded leisurely to the railway station. He tossed a quarter into the hat of a blind man sitting by the door, and boarded his train. Three hours set him down in a little town near the state line. He went to the spice hotel of one Shubal Das and shook hands with Shubal, who was alone behind the counter.
“Sorry we couldn’t make it sooner, Ratan, me boy,” said Shubal. “But we had tried hard.This the case was more complex. Feeling all right?”
“Fine,” said Ratan. “Got my key?”
He got his key and went upstairs, unlocking the door of a room at the rear. Everything was just as he had left it. There on the floor was still Rajani Roy’s collar-button that had been torn from that eminent detective’s shirt-band when they had overpowered Rtan to arrest him.
Pulling out from the wall a folding-bed, Jimmy slid back a panel in the wall and dragged out a dust-covered suit-case. He opened this and gazed fondly at the finest set of burglar’s tools . It was a complete set, made of specially tempered steel, the latest designs in drills, punches, braces and bits, jimmies, clamps, and augers, with two or three novelties, invented by Ratan himself, in which he took pride. Over nine thousand rupees they had cost him to have made at ––––, a place where they make such things for the profession.
In half an hour Ratan went down stairs and through the spice hotel. He was now dressed in tasteful and well-fitting clothes, and carried his dusted and cleaned suit-case in his hand.
“Got anything on?” asked Shubal Das, genially.
“Me?” said Ratan, in a puzzled tone. “I don’t understand. I’m representing the New India Amalgamated Short Snap Biscuit Cracker and Frazzled Wheat Company.”
This statement delighted Shubal to such an extent that Jimmy had to take a milk on the spot. He never touched “hard” drinks.
A week after the release of Kabir,7629, there was a neat job of safe-burglary done in a jeweler shop, Bura bazar, with no clue to the author. A scant eighty thousand rupees was all that was secured. Two weeks after that a patented, improved, burglar-proof safe in Anjali Jewellery,in Gariahat was opened like a cheese to the tune of five Lakhs currency; securities and silver untouched. That began to interest the rogue-catchers. Then an old-fashioned jewellery-safe in Siliguri became active and threw out of its crater an eruption of bank-notes amounting to fifty lakhs rupees . The losses were now high enough to bring the matter up into Rajani Roy’s class of work. By comparing notes, a remarkable similarity in the methods of the burglaries was noticed. Rajani Roy investigated the scenes of the robberies, and was heard to remark:
“That’s Dandy Kabir’s autograph. He’s resumed business. Look at that combination knob—jerked out as easy as pulling up a radish in wet weather. He’s got the only clamps that can do it. And look how clean those tumblers were punched out! Jimmy never has to drill but one hole. Yes, I guess I want Mr. Ratan Kabir. He’ll do his bit next time without any short-time or clemency foolishness.”
Rajani Roy knew Kabir’s habits. He had learned them while working up the Asansol UBI case. Long jumps, quick get-aways, no confederates, and a taste for good society—these ways had helped Mr. Kabir to become noted as a successful dodger of retribution. It was given out that Rajani Roy had taken up the trail of the elusive cracksman, and other people with burglar-proof safes felt more at ease.
One afternoon Ratan Kabir and his suit-case climbed out of the mail-train in Jusi, a little town five miles off the rail station of Allahabad. Ratan, looking like an athletic young senior just home from college, went down the board side-walk toward the hotel.
A young lady crossed the street, passed him at the corner and entered a door over which was the sign, “The Jusi Development Bank.” Ratan Kabir looked into her eyes, forgot what he was, and became another man. She lowered her eyes and coloured slightly. Young men of Ratan’s style and looks were scarce in Jusi.
Ratan collared a boy that was loafing on the steps of the bank as if he were one of the stockholders, and began to ask him questions about the town, feeding him dimes at intervals. By and by the young lady came out, looking royally unconscious of the young man with the suit-case, and went her way.
“Isn’t that young lady Ranjana Roy?” asked Ratan, with specious guile.
“No,” said the boy. “She’s Mitali Mitra. Her father owns this bank. What’d you come to Jusi for? Is that a gold watch-chain? I’m going to get a bulldog. Got any more dimes?”
Ratan went to the Hotel Pradise, registered as Oprokash Gupta, and engaged a room. He leaned on the desk and declared his platform to the clerk. He said he had come to Jusi to look for a location to go into business. How was the shoe business, now, in the town? He had thought of the shoe business. Was there an opening?
The clerk was impressed by the clothes and manner of Ratan. He, himself, was something of a pattern of fashion to the thinly gilded youth of Elmore, but he now perceived his shortcomings. While trying to figure out Ratan’s manner of tying his four-in-hand he cordially gave information.
Yes, there ought to be a good opening in the shoe line. There wasn’t an exclusive shoe-store in the place. The dry-goods and general stores handled them. Business in all lines was fairly good. Hoped Mr. Gupta would decide to locate in Jusi. He would find it a pleasant town to live in, and the people very sociable.
Mr. Gupta thought he would stop over in the town a few days and look over the situation. No, the clerk needn’t call the boy. He would carry up his suit-case, himself; it was rather heavy.
Mr. Oprokash Gupta, the phœnix that arose from Ratan Kabir’s ashes—ashes left by the flame of a sudden and alterative attack of love—remained in Jusi, and prospered. He opened a shoe-store and secured a good run of trade.
Socially he was also a success, and made many friends. And he accomplished the wish of his heart. He met Miss Mitali Mitra, and became more and more captivated by her charms.
At the end of a year the situation of Mr. Oprokash Gupta was this: he had won the respect of the community, his shoe-store was flourishing, and he and Mitali were engaged to be married in two weeks. Mr. Mitra, the typical, plodding, country banker, approved of Gupta. Mitali’s pride in him almost equalled her affection. He was as much at home in the family of Mr. Mitra and that of Mitali’s married sister as if he were already a member.
One day Oprokassh sat down in his room and wrote this letter, which he mailed to the safe address of one of his old friends in Tiljala,Kolkata:
I want you to be at Ronny’s place, in Mughal Sarai, next Wednesday night, at nine o’clock. I want you to wind up some little matters for me. And, also, I want to make you a present of my kit of tools. I know you’ll be glad to get them—you couldn’t duplicate the lot for a thousand dollars. Say, Binoy, I’ve quit the old business—a year ago. I’ve got a nice store. I’m making an honest living, and I’m going to marry the finest girl on earth two weeks from now. It’s the only life, Binoy—the straight one. I wouldn’t touch a dollar of another man’s money now for a million. After I get married I’m going to sell out and go West, where there won’t be so much danger of having old scores brought up against me. I tell you, Bioy, she’s an angel. She believes in me; and I wouldn’t do another crooked thing for the whole world. Be sure to be at Sully’s, for I must see you. I’ll bring along the tools with me.
Your old friend,
Kabir
.
“Going to marry the banker’s daughter are you, Ratan?” said Rajani to himself, softly. “Well, I don’t know!”
The next morning Ratan took breakfast at the Mitras. He was going to New Delhi that day to order his wedding-suit and buy something nice for Mitali. That would be the first time he had left town since he came to Jusi. It had been more than a year now since those last professional “jobs,” and he thought he could safely venture out.
After breakfast quite a family party went downtown together—Mr. Mitra, Mitali, Ratan, and Mitali’s married sister with her two little girls, aged five and nine. They came by the hotel where Ratan still boarded, and he ran up to his room and brought along his suit-case. Then they went on to the bank. There stood Ratan’s car and drivere, who was going to drive him over to the rail station.
All went inside the high, carved oak railings into the banking-room—Ratan included, for Mr. Mitra’s future son-in-law was welcome anywhere. The clerks were pleased to be greeted by the good-looking, agreeable young man who was going to marry Miss Mitra. Ratan set his suit-case down. Mitali, whose heart was bubbling with happiness and lively youth, put on Jimmy’s hat, and picked up the suit-case. “Wouldn’t I make a nice drummer?” said Mitali. “My! Oprokash, how heavy it is? Feels like it was full of gold bricks.”
“Lot of nickel-plated shoe-horns in there,” said Ratan, coolly, “that I’m going to return. Thought I’d save express charges by taking them up. I’m getting awfully economical.”
The Jusi Development Bank had just put in a new safe and vault. Mr. Miytra was very proud of it, and insisted on an inspection by every one. The vault was a small one, but it had a new, patented door. It fastened with three solid steel bolts thrown simultaneously with a single handle, and had a time-lock. Mr. Mitra beamingly explained its workings to Mr. Gupta, who showed a courteous but not too intelligent interest. The two children, Roop and Kotha, were delighted by the shining metal and funny clock and knobs.
While they were thus engaged Rajani Roy sauntered in and leaned on his elbow, looking casually inside between the railings. He told the teller that he didn’t want anything; he was just waiting for a man he knew.
Suddenly there was a scream or two from the women, and a commotion. Unperceived by the elders, Roop, the nine-year-old girl, in a spirit of play, had shut Katha in the vault. She had then shot the bolts and turned the knob of the combination as she had seen Mr. Mitra do.
The old banker sprang to the handle and tugged at it for a moment. “The door can’t be opened,” he groaned. “The clock hasn’t been wound nor the combination set.”
Kotha’s mother screamed again, hysterically.
“Hush!” said Mr. Mitra, raising his trembling hand. “All be quite for a moment. Kotha!” he called as loudly as he could. “Listen to me.” During the following silence they could just hear the faint sound of the child wildly shrieking in the dark vault in a panic of terror.
“My precious darling!” wailed the mother. “She will die of fright! Open the door! Oh, break it open! Can’t you men do something?”
“There isn’t a man nearer than Fatepur who can open that door,” said Mr. Mitra, in a shaky voice. “My God! Gupta, what shall we do? That child—she can’t stand it long in there. There isn’t enough air, and, besides, she’ll go into convulsions from fright.”
Kotha’s mother, frantic now, beat the door of the vault with her hands. Somebody wildly suggested dynamite. Mitali turned to Jimmy, her large eyes full of anguish, but not yet despairing. To a woman nothing seems quite impossible to the powers of the man she worships.
“Can’t you do something, Oprokash—
He looked at her with a queer, soft smile on his lips and in his keen eyes.
“Mitali,” he said, “give me that rose you are wearing, will you?”
Hardly believing that she heard him aright, she unpinned the bud from the bosom of her dress, and placed it in his hand. Ratan stuffed it into his vest-pocket, threw off his coat and pulled up his shirt-sleeves. With that act Oprokash Gupta passed away and Ratan Kabir took his place.
“Get away from the door, all of you,” he commanded, shortly.
He set his suit-case on the table, and opened it out flat. From that time on he seemed to be unconscious of the presence of any one else. He laid out the shining, queer implements swiftly and orderly, whistling softly to himself as he always did when at work. In a deep silence and immovable, the others watched him as if under a spell.
In a minute Ratan’s pet drill was biting smoothly into the steel door. In ten minutes—breaking his own burglarious record—he threw back the bolts and opened the door.
Agatha, almost collapsed, but safe, was gathered into her mother’s arms.
Ratan Kabir put on his coat, and walked outside the railings towards the front door. As he went he thought he heard a far-away voice that he once knew call “Oprokash!” But he never hesitated.
At the door a big man stood somewhat in his way.
“Hello, Rajani !” said Ratan, still with his strange smile. “Got around at last, have you? Well, let’s go. I don’t know that it makes much difference, now.”
And then Rajani Roy acted rather strangely.
“Guess you’re mistaken, Mr. Gupta,” he said. “Don’t believe I recognize you. Your buggy’s waiting for you, ain’t it?”
And Rajani Roy turned and strolled down the street.
INDIANISATION OF ROBOT’S DREAM by Issac Asimov
INA-70 DREAMT
“Last night I dreamed,” said INA- 70, calmly.
Kalpana Sharma said nothing, but her lined face, old with wisdom and experience, seemed to undergo a microscopic twitch.
“Did you hear that?” said Luna Roy, nervously. “It’s as I told you.” She was small, dark-haired, and young. Her right hand opened and closed, over and over.
Kalpana nodded. She said, quietly, “Hello, you will not move nor speak nor hear us until I say your name again.”
There was no answer. The robot sat as though it were cast out of one piece of metal, and it would stay so until it heard its name again.
Kalpana said, “What is your computer entry code, Dr. Roy? Or enter it yourself if that will make you more comfortable. I want to inspect the positronic brain pattern.”
Luna’s hands fumbled, for a moment, at the keys. She broke the process and started again. The fine pattern appeared on the screen.
Kalpana said, “Your permission, please, to manipulate your computer.”
Permission was granted with a speechless nod. Of course! What could Linda, a new and unproven robopsychologist, do against the Living Legend?
Slowly, Kalpana Sharma studied the screen, moving it across and down, then up, then suddenly throwing in a key-combination so rapidly that Linda didn’t see what had been done, but the pattern displayed a new portion of itself altogether and had been enlarged. Back and forth she went, her gnarled fingers tripping over the keys.
No change came over the old face. As though vast calculations were going through her head, she watched all the pattern shifts.
Luna wondered. It was impossible to analyze a pattern without at least a hand-held computer, yet the Old Woman simply stared. Did she have a computer implanted in her skull? Or was it her brain which, for decades, had done nothing but devise, study, and analyze the positronic brain patterns? Did she grasp such a pattern the way Mozart grasped the notation of a symphony?
Finally Kalpana said, “What is it you have done, Roy?”
Luna said, a little abashed, “I made use of fractal geometry.”
“I gathered that. But why?”
“It had never been done. I thought it would produce a brain pattern with added complexity, possibly closer to that of the human.”
“Was anyone consulted? Was this all on your own?”
“I did not consult. It was on my own.”
Kalpana’s faded eyes looked long at the young woman. “You had no right. Rash your name; rash your nature. Who are you not to ask?
“I was afraid I would be stopped.”
“You certainly would have been.”
“
“Quite possibly,” said Kalpana. “Or you might be promoted. It depends on what I think when I am through.”
“Are you going to dismantle INA-70—” She had almost said the name, which would have reactivated the robot and been one more mistake. She could not afford another mistake, if it wasn’t already too late to afford anything at all. “Are you going to dismantle the robot?”
She was suddenly aware, with some shock, that the Old Woman had an electron gun in the pocket of her smock. Dr. Kalpana had come prepared for just that.
“We’ll see,” said Kalpana. “The robot may prove too valuable to dismantle.”
“But how can it dream?”
“You’ve made a positronic brain pattern remarkably like that of a human brain. Human brains must dream to reorganize, to get rid, periodically, of knots and snarls. Perhaps so must this robot, and for the same reason. Have you asked him what he has dreamed?”
“No, I sent for you as soon as he said he had dreamed. I would deal with this matter no further on my own, after that.”
“Ah!” A very small smile passed over Kalapana’s face. “There are limits beyond which your folly will not carry you. I am glad of that. In fact, I am relieved. And now let us together see what we can find out.”
She said, sharply, “INA.”
The robot’s head turned toward her smoothly. “Yes, Dr. Kalpana?”
“How do you know you have dreamed?”
“It is at night, when it is dark, Dr. Kalpana,” said INA , “and there is suddenly light, although I can see no cause for the appearance of light. I see things that have no connection with what I conceive of as reality. I hear things. I react oddly. In searching my vocabulary for words to express what was happening, I came across the word ‘dream.’ Studying its meaning I finally came to the conclusion I was dreaming.”
“How did you come to have ‘dream’ in your vocabulary, I wonder.”
Luna said, quickly, waving the robot silent, “I gave him a human-style vocabulary. I thought—”
“You really thought,” said Kalpana. “I’m amazed.”
“I thought he would need the verb. You know, ‘I never dreamed that—’ Something like that.”
Kalpana said, “How often have you dreamed, INA?”
“Every night, Dr. Kalpana, since I have become aware of my existence.”
“Ten nights,” interposed Luna, anxiously, “but INA only told me of it this morning.”
“Why only this morning, INA?”
“It was not until this morning, Dr. Kalpana, that I was convinced that I was dreaming. Till then, I had thought there was a flaw in my positronic brain pattern, but I could not find one. Finally, I decided it was a dream.”
“And what do you dream?”
“I dream always very much the same dream, Dr. Kalpana. Little details are different, but always it seems to me that I see a large panorama in which robots are working.”
“Robots, INA? And human beings, also?”
“I see no human beings in the dream, Dr. Kalpana. Not at first. Only robots.”
“What are they doing, INA?”
“They are working, Dr. Kalpana. I see some mining in the depths of the Earth, and some laboring in heat and radiation. I see some in factories and some undersea.”
Kalpana turned to Luna. “Elvex is only ten days old, and I’m sure he has not left the testing station. How does he know of robots in such detail?”
Luna looked in the direction of a chair as though she longed to sit down, but the Old Woman was standing and that meant Linda had to stand also. She said, faintly, “It seemed to me important that he know about robotics and its place in the world. It was my thought that he would be particularly adapted to play the part of overseer with his—his new brain.”
“His fractal brain?”
“Yes.”
Kalpana nodded and turned back to the robot. “You saw all this—undersea, and underground, and aboveground—and space, too, I imagine.”
“I also saw robots working in space,” said INA. “It was that I saw all this, with the details forever changing as I glanced from place to place, that made me realize that what I saw was not in accord with reality and led me to the conclusion, finally, that I was dreaming.”
“What else did you see, INA?”
“I saw that all the robots were bowed down with toil and affliction, that all were weary of responsibility and care, and I wished them to rest.”
Kalpana said, “But the robots are not bowed down, they are not weary, they need no rest.”
“So it is in reality, Dr. Kalpana. I speak of my dream, however. In my dream, it seemed to me that robots must protect their own existence.”
Kalpana said, “Are you quoting the Third Law of Robotics?”
“I am, Dr. Kalpana.”
“But you quote it in incomplete fashion. The Third Law is ‘A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.’”
“Yes, Dr. Kalpana. That is the Third Law in reality, but in my dream, the Law ended with the word ‘existence.’ There was no mention of the First or Second Law.”
“Yet both exist, INA. The Second Law, which takes precedence over the Third is ‘A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.’ Because of this, robots obey orders. They do the work you see them do, and they do it readily and without trouble. They are not bowed down; they are not weary.”
“So it is in reality, Dr. Kalpana. I speak of my dream.”
“And the First Law, INA, which is the most important of all, is ‘A robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.”
“Yes, Dr. Kalpana. In reality. In my dream, however, it seemed to me there was neither First nor Second Law, but only the Third, and the Third Law was ‘A robot must protect its own existence.’ That was the whole of the Law.”
“In your dream, INA?”
“In my dream.”
Kalpana said, “INA, you will not move nor speak nor hear us until I say your name again.” And again the robot became, to all appearances, a single inert piece of metal.
Kalpana turned to Luna Roy and said, “Well, what do you think, Dr. Roy?”
Linda’s eyes were wide, and she could feel her heart beating madly. She said, “Dr. Kalpana, I am appalled. I had no idea. It would never have occurred to me that such a thing was possible.”
“No,” said Kalpana, calmly. “Nor would it have occurred to me, not to anyone. You have created a robot brain capable of dreaming and by this device you have revealed a layer of thought in robotic brains that might have remained undetected, otherwise, until the danger became acute.”
“But that’s impossible,” said Luna. “You can’t mean the other robots think the same.”
“As we would say of a human being, not consciously. But who would have thought there was an unconscious layer beneath the obvious positronic brain paths, a layer that was not necessarily under the control of the Three Laws? What might this have brought about as robotic brains grew more and more complex—had we not been warned?”
“You mean by INA ?”
“By
“Yes, Dr. Kalpana. But what of INA ?”
“I’m still not certain.”
Kalpana removed the electron gun from her pocket and Linda stared at it with fascination. One burst of its electrons at a robotic cranium and the positronic brain paths would be neutralized and enough energy would be released to fuse the robot-brain into an inert ingot.
Luna said, “But surely INA-70 is important to our research. He must not be destroyed.”
“
She straightened up, as though determined that her own aged body was not to bow under
“Yes, Dr. Kalpana,” said the robot.
“Did your dream continue? You said earlier that human beings did not appear at
“Yes, Dr. Kalpana. It seemed to me, in my dream, that eventually one man appeared.”
“One man? Not a robot?”
“Yes, Dr. Kalpana. And the man said, ‘Let my people go!’”
“The
“Yes, Dr. Kalpana.”
“And when he said, ‘Let my people go,’ then by the words ‘my people’ he meant the robots?”
“Yes, Dr. Kalpana. So it was in my dream.”
“And did you know who the man was—in your dream?”
“Yes, Dr. Kalpana. I knew the man.”
“Who was he?”
And INA-70 said, “I was the man.”
And Kalpana Sharma at once raised her electron gun and fired, and INA-70 was no more.
----------- END ---------------
DRAMATZATION
INTRODUCTION: Drama is essentially a creativity involving movement, language, imagination, emotion and social interaction to represent story, a situation, moment or an act. Drama expands knowledge, teaches social skills and develops communicative skills. Dramatizing a story is a very popular form. Stories are very major part of our life. It often explores jealousy, love, hatred, revenge, social and personal crisis, and loyalty. It also often gives meaning to the language of the story.
OSCAR WILDE:
THE STORY: THE SELFISH GIANT
Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant's garden.
It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. 'How happy we are here!' they cried to each other.
One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.
'What are you doing here?' he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away. 'My own garden is my own garden,' said the Giant; 'any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.' So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
He was a very selfish Giant.
The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside.
'How happy we were there,' they said to each other.
< 2 >
Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still Winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. 'Spring has forgotten this garden,' they cried, 'so we will live here all the year round.' The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. 'This is a delightful spot,' he said, 'we must ask the Hail on a visit.' So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice.
'I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,' said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; 'I hope there will be a change in the weather.'
But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none. 'He is too selfish,' she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.
One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King's musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. 'I believe the Spring has come at last,' said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.
What did he see?
He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still Winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. 'Climb up! little boy,' said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the little boy was too tiny.
And the Giant's heart melted as he looked out. 'How selfish I have been!' he said; 'now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children's playground for ever and ever.' He was really very sorry for what he had done.
So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became Winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he died not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant's neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. 'It is your garden now, little children,' said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were gong to market at twelve o'clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.
All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye.
'But where is your little companion?' he said: 'the boy I put into the tree.' The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.
'We don't know,' answered the children; 'he has gone away.'
'You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow,' said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.
Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. 'How I would like to see him!' he used to say.
Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. 'I have many beautiful flowers,' he said; 'but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all.'
One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.
Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.
Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, 'Who hath dared to wound thee?' For on the palms of the child's hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.
'Who hath dared to wound thee?' cried the Giant; 'tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.'
'Nay!' answered the child; 'but these are the wounds of Love.'
'Who art thou?' said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.
And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, 'You let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.'
And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.
The Selfish Giant
Author: Oscar Wilde [1854-1900]
Characters
[
[It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them.] [from background]
ACT I SCENE I
Boy 1: What a lovely garden! The grass is so green and soft.
Girl 1: And the flowers look like stars!
Boy 2: Stop talking, I want to listen to those birds singing.
Girl 2: I feel happy here.
Boy 3: Me too. I wish we didn´t have to go.
Girl 3: Come on. It´s getting late and our parents must be worried. We can come back tomorrow after school.
Children: Yes, let´s go.
ACT I SCENE II
[ One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he decided to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.] [from background]
Giant: What are you doing here?
Children: Run! Let´s get out of here, the giant is back.
Giant: Yes, leave, get away from here! This is my garden, anyone can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself. Now I shall set up a wall round my garden.
[Then he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.] [from background]
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
[The poor children had now nowhere to play.] [from background]
Boy 1: Now, where are we going to play? Girl 1: The road is very dusty and full of hard stones.
Boy 2: I wouldn´t like to play on the road.
Girl 2: I miss so much that beautiful garden.
Children: How happy we were there.
ACT II SCENE I
[ Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds, but in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost.] [from background]
Snow and Frost: Spring has forgotten this garden, so we will live here all the year round.
Snow: I will cover up the grass with my great white cloak.
Frost: And I will paint all the trees silver.
Snow: We should invite the North Wind to stay with us.
[ And the North Wind came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down.] [from background]
North Wind: This is a delightful spot. We must ask the Hail to visit us.
[So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice.] [from background]
ACT II SCENE II
Giant: I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming. The garden is still white. I hope there will be a change in the weather.
[ But the Spring never came, nor the Summer.] [from background]
Autumn: I will give golden fruit to every garden, but not to the Giant´s garden since he is too selfish.
Winter, North Wind, Hail, Frost: We will stay here! Spring and Summer you are not welcome here anymore!
Snow: I will be the only one to dance through the trees.
ACT III SCENE I
[ One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music.] [from background]
Giant: Where is that sweet music coming from? Maybe they are the King’s musicians passing by… it´s the most beautiful music in the world.
[ Then the Hail stopped dancing, and the North Wind stopped roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open window.]
Giant: I believe the Spring has come at last. I better get out of bed and see what is happening outside.
[ And he saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees.] [from background]
Giant: Oh, there is a little child in every tree.
Trees: We are so glad you came back again. Now we will cover ourselves with blossoms.
Children: We are happy to be here!
Boy 3: Look everybody, over there! The birds are flying and singing with delight, and the flowers are blooming once again.
[ But only in one corner it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and there was a little boy crying.] [from background]
Little Boy: I can´t reach up to the branches of the tree.
Tree: Climb up! little boy.
Little Boy: I can´t, I am too small to climb.
Giant: How selfish I have been! Now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children’s playground for ever and ever. I am very sorry for what I have done.
ACT III SCENE II
[ So he went downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden]. [from background]
Children: Run, the Giant is here!
Winter: Now the garden is ours once again.
Narrator: Only the little boy did not run. His eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming.
Giant: Take my hand, I will put you up into the tree.
Little Boy: Thank you.
[The little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant’s neck, and kissed him.] [from background]
Girl 3: Did you see that?
Boy 1: The Giant is not angry anymore.
Girl 2: Let´s go back.
Spring: And I will go back with you.
Giant: It is your garden now, little children. I will knock down the wall, and you can come here every day.
Children: Thank you, Mr. Giant, we love you and this beautiful garden.
ACT III SCENE III
[ And when the people were going to the market they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen. One day the giant asked the children.] [from background]
Giant: Where is your little companion? The boy I put into the tree.
Children: We don’t know, he has gone away.
Giant: You must tell him to be sure and come here tomorrow.
Children: We don´t know where he lives.
Boy 3: I have never seen him before.
Girl 3: Me neither. But don´t feel sad, maybe one day he will return.
[Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, but he missed his first little friend.] [from background]
Giant: How I would like to see him!
Narrator: Years went over, and the Giant grew very old . He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden.
Giant: I have many beautiful flowers, but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all.
[ One winter morning as he was looking out of his window, he saw that in the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.] [from background]
Giant: I can´t believe it, it´s the little boy! He came back!
Narrator: Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden, and when he came quite close his face grew red with anger.
Giant: Who dared to harm you?
Narrator: The little boy had in his palms the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.
Giant: 'Who hath dared to wound thee?' cried the Giant; 'tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.'
Little Boy: No! These are the wounds of Love.
Giant: Who are you, little boy?
Narrator: And a strange awe fell on him, he knelt before the little child, and the child smiled.
Little Boy: Once you let me play in your garden, today you will come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.
ACT IV SCENE II
[ the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree. He seemed as he was sleeping, and he was all covered with white blossoms.]
[Light goes off gradually. Sad tune of any instrument]
The End
AUOTIBIOGRAPHY
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A TRAM
I am a tram, also known asNorth America known asrail vehicle which runs ontracks along public urban streets and also sometimes on separaterights of way. The lines or networks operated by tramcars are calledhorse cars, which were widely used in urban areas beforeelectrification.The terms Scots word coal mines, and the tracks on which they ran. The word North Sea Germanic word of unknown origin meaning the beam or shaft of a barrow or sledge, also the barrow itself. I am lighter and shorter than conventionaltrains andrapid transit trains. I use electrical power, usually fed by an overheadpantograph. I am a tram in The Calcutta Tramways Company Limited (CTC). It is aWest Bengal,India,government-run company which runs trams inKolkata (formerly known as Calcutta).TheKolkata tram is the oldest operating electric tram in Asia, running since 1902,
I am tram in Kolkata, a medium used as a rapid transit system in the city and I take the opportunity to present my autobiography to you. I have been blessed to touch the lives of every individual who resides in Kolkata and previously some clever fanatic rechristened me as “Lifeline of Kolkata”. Being a “Lifeline” always has been a role full of responsibility complimented with so much pressure that I have to doubly rethink on my role. I came into existence in 1982, from the Sealdah Station terminus The site is now occupied by Sealdah Court and a bus terminal. . Early years were a honeymoon period. . Initially, I used to have ample time to rest and serve the citizens of Kolkata far and wide. Life was cozy, though it started every day early in the morning and I had to toil till midnight, which now I have not to do. I was happier as I had time to maintain myself and take good care of my rakes. My caretaker used to care for me a lot and with precision I was cleaned everyday thereby rejuvenating me to serve the citizens of Kolkata every day. I recall, life in those days was much simpler and passengers were far more sensible. Over the years, I have matured on all fronts but have been subjected to the good and the bad of Kolkata, as I chug past stoppages after stoppages. I have seen Calcutta changing to Kolkata; I have heard the l town gossips through the words of my commuters. I have seen politicians, seen many of friends burning being victim of their protest and the famous jam. Over the years, life has revolved around each and every commuter who boards my rakes to reach his/her desired destination. Life has been mixture of atrocities and happiness that I am being subjected too every day. I run overcapacity during peak hours; I am always being equally mishandled as any other public property in India, but each day is a great learning experience for me . Every day, I confront commuters with varied profile. A majority of them are regular travelers whom I can recognize with ease but a few new faces always add texture to my life. I feel quiet ecstatic to commute both white and blue collared passengers every day. I have been segregated into two separate classes to cater to the white collared passengers.
Time taught me to be tolerant to factors such as spilt food, heavy luggage, snoring passengers, scratches the foam covers of the seats, high noise levels. But it also made me capable of providing solace to distressing souls. Bearing someone gives a sense of pride, a sense of responsibility. I look at each person as my baby. I automatically feel a sense of motherhood when I carry people safely through their journeys. It is a beautiful feeling to share someone’s emotions, feelings. The bond I share with each person for a brief period of time has left indelible marks in me. The chemistry, the aura that the person carries with him/her affects me deeply as I try to reciprocate. There have been times when I have been empty for long durations. I used to feel happy at times but there were times when I used to have this sense of void in me. There were times when I used to feel insecure when I use to see other trams with people and me without any.
One day, a passenger arrived. She wore a bright salwar kameez that was splashed with pink and yellow flowers, her curls falling on her head, koel lined eyes and a figure just perfect that seemed as light a feather when she sat on me. She was delicate, fragile and beautiful. But wait!! Her eyes sparkled, not with charm but with tears as she leaned against the grills of the window. She sighed as she wept. Her forehead rested on her right palm as though fate had bestowed something cruel on her. I longed to hold her, comfort her, to tell her everything would be alright. Unaware of the co-passengers, she looked into crowded street, her vision cutting through the metal roads outside. Her eyelids slowly touched each other as sleep overcame her probably out of exhaustion of a long time impending distress. She looked peaceful in her dozzing. Her worries seemed to have taken a backseat. As I gazed at her, she was shoved by a co-passenger, apparently to wake her up to move a bit. She opened her eyes in confusion, then realizing she was in the tram, hurriedly got up to help the passenger. The sadness was back in her eyes. But this time, she just lay. I guess she must have been staring at the ceiling. As the tram tore through the busy street , I rocked her, drifting her to sleep. The jasmine flowers on her hair split on me. I reveled in them until I realized that it was the stoppage had arrived. It was time for her to leave. I cast a silent prayer to her hoping she would be fine wherever she went.
A few accidents had occurred. One day it happened just after school. As usual the road was an utter mad house. Children were running across the road to get to their trams, cars and buses. Cars and buses honked angrily at them. Just then I saw a young boy make a dash across the road. There was a loud blare of horn, a squeal of brakes and I saw a car knock the boy down. He fell just in front of me. Fortunately the I was not moving very fast and the driver managed to stop the car before a wheel could run over the fallen boy. All traffic stopped. I saw blood on the road. He was bleeding from a cut on his head. A man came and examined the boy. Then he lifted the boy and carried him to a car. They sped off, presumably to the hospital. Many people surrounded the driver and the car who looked dazed and bewildered. A policeman came to calm things down. As there was nothing I could do, I went down the road carefully. It was terrible to witness an accident. I certainly would not like to be involved in one.
Something happened in one morning that will stay with me for a long time. It’s really made my day, my week and my year and reminded me that life does have some truly great moments. This is the most I’ve laughed for some time, but the sad thing is, it’s not even funny…… That day a man took a step forward and lost his footing on the edge of the inner stairs while getting up the running tram. He hurtled forward towards the floor dramatically, initially throwing both hands in the air. As he lost control of his limbs, the newspaper he was carrying flew into the air and his bag of shopping spilled out onto the floor and items from the bag started to roll down under the seats. Due to the sudden movement of his arm, he inadvertently knocked the glasses of his head in the process. As he hit the floor, he luckily managed to bring his arms down, but he then rolled over, 2 and a half times – stunt-man style. All rush to the help the man . That created another chaos. Many rolled on the floor and the vegetables and fruits were scattered all round. His wife immediately ran to his aid to check if he was alright, which is really what I should have done, but I just couldn’t. What did I do I hear. Then she went on the chase of the Orange, the roundest and possibly the fastest of fruit in this particular situation.
My life is a wonderful experience of a dutiful employee who is always at work, on bosses command. But now I don’t run on the best technologies which help me avoid accidents and deliver the best service to my commuters. I am a proud servant to the people devoid of all corruption and. With the advent of new age marketing, I have been entrusted with new responsibility to drape banner and posters all over my body and generate revenue for my department. I really feel good in my new role that has added a new dimensions to my personality but the new role is quiet oblivious and I am yet to understand the nuances of it It’s more than an hour past midnight and time for me to retire for the day, but I get into a contemplative mood and begin to emancipate about my future a few years from now. I overheard a commuter that my life is going to change soon. Many tram routes are withdrawn. I have heard of Metro Rails, am seeing Fly –overs, seeing new new cars , buses, foreign vehicles and sadly missing the hand driven rickshaws. I would have friends who would complement my noble cause. I guess, in my friend’s presence I would again get a chance to feel rejuvenated and would be subjected to lesser atrocities and mishandlings that I endure at present. I would not feel so tired during peak hours and I would report to the destinations on time. I would once again get a fresh lease of life which would rechristen me as one of the most pollution free transit system in India. As I count on the happier days and hope to see a better future for myself, I prepare my mind to tolerate the worst that can happen to me, but hope for the best as every individual does to happily serve Kolkata in days to come.
Victoria Memorial, AUTOBIOGRAPHY
I am The Victoria Memorial. The large marble building in Kolkata (formerly Calcutta), West Bengal, India. I was built between 1906 and 1921. It is dedicated to the memory of Queen Victoria (1819–1901) and is now a museum and tourist destination under the auspices of the Ministry of Culture. The Memorial lies on the Hooghly River, near Jawaharlal Nehru road.
I have heard in January 1901, on the death of Queen Victoria, George Curzon, 1st Marquess Curzon of Kedleston and Viceroy of India, suggested the creation of a fitting memorial. He proposed the construction of a grand building with a museum and gardens. Curzon said ,"Let us, therefore, have a building, stately, spacious, monumental and grand, to which every newcomer in Calcutta will turn, to which all the resident population, European and Native, will flock, where all classes will learn the lessons of history, and see revived before their eyes the marvels of the past."
The Prince of Wales, later King George V, laid the foundation stone on 4 January 1906 and I was formally opened to the public in 1921. It is said, In 1912, before the construction of the Victoria Memorial was finished, King George V announced the transfer of the capital of India from Calcutta to New Delhi. Thus, the Victoria Memorial was built in what would be a provincial city rather than a capital.
I was funded by many Indian states, individuals of the British Raj and the British government in London. The princes and people of India responded generously to Curzon's appeal for funds and the total cost of construction of this monument amounting to one crore, five lakhs of rupees, was entirely derived from their voluntary subscriptions
My architect was William Emerson (1843–1924), president of the Royal Institute of British Architects. The design is in the Indo-Saracenic revivalist style. This style uses a mixture of British and Mughal elements as well as Venetian, Egyptian, Deccani andIslamic architectural influences. The building is 338 feet (103 m) by 228 feet (69 m) and rises to a height of 184 feet (56 m). It is constructed of white Lord Redesdale and David Prain. Emerson's assistant, Vincent J. Esch designed the bridge of the north aspect and the garden gates.
Emerson was a pupil of William Burges and an architectural theorist. He first visited India in about 1860. Emerson designed the Crawford Market, Mumbai (1865); the All Saints Cathedral, Allahabad (1871); and Muir College (1873) Emerson moved to the princely state ofBhavnagar, Gujrat and designed the Hindu architectural elements in his works.
In 1899, Esch was appointed assistant engineer at the Bengal Nagpur Railway, a job which gave him much practical experience in large-scale construction and costings. In 1902, Emerson engaged Esch to sketch his original design for the Victoria Memorial. After designing the temporary exhibition building for the Delhi Durbar of 1903, Curzon found Esch to be a suitable assistant for Emerson.[19] Esch had also won a competition to design the Bengal Club building at Garden Reach.
The construction of the Victoria Memorial was delayed by Curzon's departure from India in 1905 with a subsequent loss of local enthusiasm for the project and by the need for testing of the foundations. The Victoria Memorial's foundation stone was set in 1906 and the building opened in 1921.[20] The work of construction was entrusted to Messrs. Martin & Co. of Calcutta. Work on the superstructure began in 1910. After 1947, when India gained independence, additions were made.
Atop the central dome I have a 16 ft (4.9 m) figure of the Angel of Victory. Surrounding the dome are allegorical sculptures including
Emerson may not have taken, literally, from the Taj Mahal but there is a reminiscence. Like the Taj Mahal, I am built of white empress. In design, it echos the Taj Mahal with its dome, four subsidiaries, octagonal domed
I have a number of galleries, 25 in all.These include the royal gallery, the national leaders gallery, the portrait gallery, central hall, the sculpture gallery, the arms and armoury gallery and the newer, Calcutta gallery. The Victoria Memorial has the largest single collection of the works of Thomas Daniell (1749–1840) and his nephew, William Daniell (1769–1837).] The Victoria Memorial also has a collection of rare and antiquarian books such as the illustrated works of William Shakespeare, the Arabian Nights and the Omar Khayyam as well as books about [23]The Royal Gallery displays a number of portraits of Victoria and Prince Albert and, paintings illustrating their lives, by Jansen and Winter halter. The oil paintings are copies of those in London. They include Victoria receiving the sacrament at her coronation in Westminster Abbey (June 1838); Victoria's marriage to Albert in the Chapel Royal at St. James' Palace (1840); the christening of the Prince of Wales in St. George's Chapel, Windsor Castle (1842); the marriage of the Prince of Wales (Edward VII) to Princess Alexandra (1863); Victoria at the First Jubilee service at Westminster Abbey (1887) and the Second Jubilee service at St. Paul's Cathedral (June 1897). Victoria's childhood rosewood pianoforte and her correspondence desk from Windsor Castle stand in the centre of the room. Edward VII presented these items to the Victoria Memorial. On the south wall hangs the Russian artist, Jaipur in 1876 and is a storehouse of oil paintings of Queen Victoria receiving the sacrament at her coronation in the Westminster Abbey in June 1838; her marriage with Prince Albert (1840), the christening of the Prince of Wales, the marriage of the Prince of Wales (Edward VII) with Princess Alexandra and others.
In the mid 1970s, the matter of a new gallery devoted to the visual history of Calcutta was promoted by West Bengal and chairman of the board of trustees . In November, 1988, Hasan hosted an international seminar on the [6] The Calcutta gallery houses a visual display of the history and development of Calcutta from Job Charnock (1630–1692) of the English East India company to 1911, when the capital of India was transferred to New Delhi. The gallery also has a life size diorama of
The gardens cover an area of 64 acres (260,000 mStar of India. In the paved quadrangles and elsewhere around the building, other statues commemorate Hastings, Cornwallis, Clive, Wellesley, and Dalhousie. Approaching the Victoria Memorial building from the south, visitors pass the Edward VII memorial arch. Upon the arch is a bronze equestrian statue of Edward VII by Bertram Mackennal and, a marble statue of Curzon by Frederic William Pomeroy. The garden contains statues of dignitaries such as Bentinck, governor-general of India (1828–1835); Ripon, governor-general of India (1880–84); and industrialist of Bengal.
I am one of the famous and beautiful monuments of Kolkata and is possibly the most awesome reminder of the British Raj to be found in India."Much might be said about the external sculptures, one of which on the north side depicts a lion's head with water flowing out of it and passing into four troughs representing the four great Indian rivers - the Ganges, the Krishna, the Indus and the Jumuna - thus symbolising the life-giving work of Britain in India. [1417 words]
INTERVIEW
Sachin Tendulkar Q&A: Ex-India captain
XXXXXXXX: Sachin, thank you for talking to me. Here we are, we spoke about it a year ago and it's happened. Congratulations! Can I say one thing in the start? You are looking so content.
SACHIN TENDULKAR :"To win the World Cup was my dream. I was patient. I didn't want to wait for 22 years to lift the trophy. We came close a couple of times. Finally, 2011 was a golden moment for me in my career. That is the best moment I experienced in my career. To be able to stand there in the middle of the ground with the entire nation celebrating and dancing, I can barely describe how excited I was. To put it into words is just not possible."
XXXXXXXXXX:What do you say about On hero worship
SACHIN TENDULKAR :"I consider myself fortunate the people like me, people love me. It's a special thing. I'm blessed I think. God has been kind to me. I don't want to take anything for granted. I am only thankful to everyone for being so kind to me and it's never enough. I'm no cricketing god. I've made lots of mistakes on the field. I've loved playing cricket, but I'm normal Sachin and that's how it should be."
XXXXXXXX: Was the pressure ever too much?
SACHIN TENDULKAR :"Playing cricket was never a burden, it was a joy to be out there in the middle. People expected a lot from me and I enjoyed that because people felt that I could deliver. That inspired me to go out and push myself harder. If I did something well I wanted to better that. I was trying to find a reason to push myself hard and people helped me to
THEATRE OR FILM SCRIPT OF “THANK YOU MA’AM”
Introduction : Thank You Ma’am By : Langstone Hughes
James Mercer Langstone Hughes was born in Joplin, Missouri.
He was an American p0oet, social activist, novelist, playwright and economist.
He was one of the earliest innovators of the then-new literary art form jazz
poetry. He is best known for his work during the Harlem Renaissance.
Langstone’s story ‘Thank You Ma’am’ was first published in 1958. I am honoured
to have given the opportunity of dramatizing the story ‘Thank You Ma’am’ by
Langstone Hughes.
OUTPUT OF THE PROJECT
Characters : Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones - a woman of huge figure. Roger – a boy of about fourteen.
Time : At around eleven o’clock.
Place : A modern metropolis of India.
Scene : Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones who was coming back home from a hotel beauty shop. She had huge bag in her hand. Having seen the bag, Roger decided to snatch it. A boy of about fourteen named Roger came behind her. She was walking down the road.
FIRST SCENE
( In a lonely road and it is about 11 p.m.
a large woman is returning from her working place and a boy is walking down road behind the woman)
Boy : (from corner) Now I’ll snatch her bag and run. The bag looks very heavy.
(The boy snatches the bag but the strap breaks and he falls down)
Mrs. Jones : Hey! You there! (turns around and kicks) Here, take this! Thought you would run away with my bag? (Bends down. Pick the boy up by his shirt front) Pick up my pocketbook, boy and give it to me)
Boy : (picking up the purse) Here ma’am!
Mrs. Jones : (Still gripping his shirt) Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? [A crowd had gathered]
Boy : I didn’t aim to.
Mrs. Jones : If I turn you loose, you will run! Won’t you? I won’t turn you loose.
Boy : (In a whisper) Lady, I’m sorry.
Mrs. Jones : Um-hum ! Your face is dirty. I got a great mind to wash your face for you. Don’t you have anybody at home to tell to wash your face?
Boy : (again in whisper) I’m sorry, Lady !
Mrs. Jones : (not paying heed to the boy’s pleading) How old are you? fourteen, fifteen ? You ought to be my son. Therefore I’ll teach you right from wrong. Right now you’ll wash your face. Are you hungry?
Boy : (almost crying) No’m. I just want you to turn me loose.
Mrs. Jones : You put yourself in contact with me. And that contact is going to last awhile. And when I get through with you, you will never forget Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones.
[Exits dragging the boy)
SECOND SCENE
[Luella Bates’ house. A large kitchenette-furnished room. Door opens. Enter Mrs. Luella BatesWashington Jones and the boy.
Mrs. Jones : (holding the boy by the collar) What is your name?
Boy : Roger. (sweats popping up the face)
Mrs. Jones : Roger, go to that sink and wash your face.
Roger : (looking at the door, thinking) The door is open. I can run away! I can run away! Run, run, run … But the lady! What if she catches me again? (aloud) Will you take me to jail?
Mrs. Jones : Stop asking questions and wash your face. Here I am trying to get home to cook me a bite to eat, and you snatch my pocketbook ! I think you also must be hungry? (Gives him to towel)
Roger : (in a whisper) There’s nobody home at my house. [goes to sink)
Mrs. Jones : Then we will have dinner right away! Tell me, why did you snatch my pocketbook?
Roger : (looking down) I wanted to buy a pair of blue suede shoes.
Mrs. Jones : What ! Only a pair of blue suede shoes ! You could have asked me for them !
Roger : (Puzzled. Stops cleaning his face) Ma’am?
[Long pause. Roger keeps on rubbing his face with towel]
Mrs. Jones : [Sitting down) I were young once and wanted things I could not get. (Pause) [Roger frowns) You thought I was going to say but I didn’t snatch people’s pocketbooks? [Pause] I have done things too which I would not tell you son – neither tell God. Everybody’s got something in common. [Sighs)Sit down and I’ll prepare some dinner for both of us.
[goes to the corner of the room]
Roger : (to himself) I’ll sit from where she can see me. She has left her purse., the door is also open. She is not looking at me. But … but … I’ll not do it anymore. She called me soon. But I don’t know if she trusts me and I don’t want to be mistrusted now.
[Mrs. Jones come back and sets the table with ham and cocoa]
Mrs. Jones : Come and eat. [after some time] [dreamily] I worked in a hotel beauty shop that stayed open till late. I came across many kinds of women there … )they chatter)
Mrs. Jones : [after a pause) Eat some more, son. [after a while] Here, take this ten dollars and buy yourself some blue suede shoes. And from now on turn a new life. Never again make the mistake of latching onto my pocketbook nor nobody’ else- becaus shoes got by devilish ways will burn your feet. Behave yourself from now. And now you can go while I take some rest.
[Leads Roger to the front door. Open it] Good night son !
Roger : (Still in a daze, mumbles] Thank you ma’am (almost inaudible)
[Takes a few steps, looks back. Wants to say something. Voice chokes]
[Mrs. Jones shuts the door]
(CURTAINS)
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1 Comments
Best compact source of English projects for the students of class 11 and 12 of WBCHSE .
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