SSC (Marathi Semi-English) इयत्ता १० वी - Maharashtra State Board Important Questions

         The sun was now ascending the sky, blazing on his ledge that faced the south. He felt the heat because he had not eaten since the previous nightfall.

         He stepped slowly out to the brink of the ledge, and standing on one leg with the other leg hidden under his wing, he closed one eye, then the other, and pretended to be falling asleep. Still, they took no notice of him. He saw his two brothers and his sister lying on the plateau dozing with their heads sunk into their necks. His father was preening the feathers on his white back. Only his mother was looking at him. She was standing on a little high hump on the plateau, her white breast thrust forward. Now and again, she tore at a piece of fish that lay at her feet and then scrapped each side of her beak on the rock. The sight of the food maddened him. How he loved to tear food that way, scrapping his beak now and again to whet it.

You Start Dying Slowly...

If you do not travel, If you do not read,
If you do not listen to the sounds of life,
If you do not appreciate yourself.
You start dying slowly...

When you kill your self-esteem;
When you do not let others help you.
You start dying slowly...

If you become a slave of your habits,
Walking everyday on the same paths…
If you do not change your routine,
If you do not wear different colours
Or you do not speak to those you don’t know.
You start dying slowly...

If you avoid to feel passion 
And their turbulent emotions;
Those which make your eyes glisten
And your heart beat fast.
You start dying slowly...

If you do not change your life
when you are not satisfied with your job,
or with your love,
If you do not risk what is safe, for the uncertain,
If you do not go after a dream,
If you do not allow yourself,
At least once in your lifetime,
To run away from sensible advice…

-Pablo Neruda

            Mrs. Srivastava had to do some shopping. She gave instructions to the ayah about looking after the baby and told the cook not to be late with the mid-day meal. Then she set out for the Pipalnagar market place, to make her customary tour of the cloth shops.

           A large shady tamarind tree grew at one end of the bazaar, and it was here that Mrs. Srivastava found her friend Mrs. Bhushan sheltering from the heat. Mrs. Bhushan was fanning herself with a large handkerchief. She complained of the summer, which she affirmed, was definitely the hottest in the history of Pipalnagar. She then showed Mrs. Srivastava a sample of the cloth she was going to buy, and for five minutes they discussed its shade, texture and design. Having exhausted this topic, Mrs. Srivastava said, ‘Do you know, my dear, that Seth Govind Ram’s bank can’t even pay its employees? Only this morning I heard a complaint from their sweeper, who hasn’t received his wages for over a month!’

           ‘Shocking!’ remarked Mrs. Bhushan. ‘If they can’t pay the sweeper, they must be in a bad way. None of the others could be getting paid either’.

           She left Mrs. Srivastava at the tamarind tree and went in search of her husband, who was sitting in front of Kamal Kishore’s photography shop, talking with the owner.

            Meena is a good friend of mine. She is an LIC officer earning a good salary. But there was always something strange about her. She was forever unhappy. Whenever I met her, I would start to feel depressed. It was as though her gloom and cynicism had a way of spreading to others. She never had anything positive to say on any subject or about any person.

           For instance, I might say to her, ‘Meena, did you know Rakesh has come first in his school?’

           Meena’s immediate response would be to belittle the achievement. ‘Naturally, his father is a school teacher’, she would say.

           If I said, ‘Meena, Shwetha is a very beautiful girl, isn’t she?’ Meena would be pessimistic. ‘When a pony is young, he looks handsome. It is age that matters. Wait for some time. Shwetha will be uglier than anyone you know.’

           ‘Meena, it’s a beautiful day. Let’s go for a walk.’

           ‘No, the sun is too hot and I get tired if I walk too much. Besides, who says walking is good for health? There’s no proof.’

           That was Meena. She stayed alone in an apartment as her parents lived in Delhi. She was an only child and had the habit of complaining about anything and everything.

Twenty years ago, in the foothills of the Himalayas, I met a small, skinny child labourer. He asked me : “Is the world so poor that it cannot give me a toy and a book instead of forcing me to take a gun or a tool?”

I met with a Sudanese child soldier. He was kidnapped by an extremist militia. As his first training lesson, he was forced to kill his friends and family. He asked me: “What is my fault?”

Friends, all the great religions teach us to care for our children. Jesus said: “Let the children come to me; do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to them.” The Holy Quran says: “Kill not your children because of poverty.”

Friends! There is no greater violence than to deny the dreams of our children. Therefore ... I refuse to accept that all the temples and mosques and churches and prayer houses have no place for the dreams of our children.

I refuse to accept that the world is so poor, when just one week of global military expenditure can bring all the children to classrooms.