CUET (UG) entrance exam Question Bank Solutions

I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.

I'm not sure about the giver of the quote in this title. I used to believe it to have been said by Shakespeare but when I searched Google to confirm, I found that quite probably, it could be given by some other significant personality too.

Regardless of the individual who quoted, it's marvellous! And how true, is it not common between us humans? One more saying goes like 'today is the tomorrow that you dreamt about yesterday'. In all of our today's we keep running and running, madly-blindly for a better future. And when that future finally comes, we simply forget that we have always been waiting for this. Even if we remember, it's momentary. We immediately switch to thoughts about our upcoming future, attempting to attain more and more and more. Well, good thing, of course, we should always work hard and smart to do bigger and better things in life but bad is when we forget to cherish what we have already achieved. Some of us subconsciously do it so much that one can find them complaining and cribbing all the time.

If I talk about myself, somehow even in the worst phase of my life, I had a vague flame of hope and positivity alive in my heart. Although it was striving to keep burning and wasn't very visible on the outside, still it existed. Thankfully, I have always had a habit of finding pleasure in small things in life.

That combined with a sense of gratitude to the Almighty, has worked wonders. During that miserable phase of my life, whenever I used to sit on the window seat of a vehicle while traveling, I had a habit of getting lost in my world while having a look at the surroundings. Every time while doing that, my eyes fell upon someone genuinely poor and hungry, usually covered in torn clothes, I felt compassion. I say 'genuinely' because I feel that these days not every poor person is pitiable.

You never know when they might be faking it. Also, I had read somewhere long back that offering money to every other beggar you come across, promotes the business of gangsters behind begging. So, I always refrain from giving money to such people, especially if otherwise young and healthy. But yes, knowingly or unknowingly always a prayer emerged from my heart that may God help the person if she deserved it.

Besides, I used to feel thankful to Him for bestowing all the blessings on me that I had at that moment. Even if it meant just necessities, belongings, and my angel-hearted people around. Of course, as per human nature, I did wish for a better life and more to call mine but all in all, I felt contentment.

And this always added to my zealful perseverance. Even at my worst, I used to believe in the saying 'there is always-always-always something to be thankful for'. Thus, positivity kept getting added to my life, visibly or non-visibly. And the outcome is here, in front of you. I continue to have the belief that I am completely content while giving my best to achieve more and more. Some of you might wonder, if I am still wishing to achieve more and more, how come I am content at the same time. Well, let me clarify.

It just means, I sure am working on myself to be refined and groomed while looking up. But by saying I'm content, I mean I am not restless about the results. I am not worried about getting more. Most importantly, I am not comparing myself with anyone anymore since long back. I do cherish my feet and while I do work on getting a pair of shoes, I am not crying for them. I am thankful, I am content.

I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.

I'm not sure about the giver of the quote in this title. I used to believe it to have been said by Shakespeare but when I searched Google to confirm, I found that quite probably, it could be given by some other significant personality too.

Regardless of the individual who quoted, it's marvellous! And how true, is it not common between us humans? One more saying goes like 'today is the tomorrow that you dreamt about yesterday'. In all of our today's we keep running and running, madly-blindly for a better future. And when that future finally comes, we simply forget that we have always been waiting for this. Even if we remember, it's momentary. We immediately switch to thoughts about our upcoming future, attempting to attain more and more and more. Well, good thing, of course, we should always work hard and smart to do bigger and better things in life but bad is when we forget to cherish what we have already achieved. Some of us subconsciously do it so much that one can find them complaining and cribbing all the time.

If I talk about myself, somehow even in the worst phase of my life, I had a vague flame of hope and positivity alive in my heart. Although it was striving to keep burning and wasn't very visible on the outside, still it existed. Thankfully, I have always had a habit of finding pleasure in small things in life.

That combined with a sense of gratitude to the Almighty, has worked wonders. During that miserable phase of my life, whenever I used to sit on the window seat of a vehicle while traveling, I had a habit of getting lost in my world while having a look at the surroundings. Every time while doing that, my eyes fell upon someone genuinely poor and hungry, usually covered in torn clothes, I felt compassion. I say 'genuinely' because I feel that these days not every poor person is pitiable.

You never know when they might be faking it. Also, I had read somewhere long back that offering money to every other beggar you come across, promotes the business of gangsters behind begging. So, I always refrain from giving money to such people, especially if otherwise young and healthy. But yes, knowingly or unknowingly always a prayer emerged from my heart that may God help the person if she deserved it.

Besides, I used to feel thankful to Him for bestowing all the blessings on me that I had at that moment. Even if it meant just necessities, belongings, and my angel-hearted people around. Of course, as per human nature, I did wish for a better life and more to call mine but all in all, I felt contentment.

And this always added to my zealful perseverance. Even at my worst, I used to believe in the saying 'there is always-always-always something to be thankful for'. Thus, positivity kept getting added to my life, visibly or non-visibly. And the outcome is here, in front of you. I continue to have the belief that I am completely content while giving my best to achieve more and more. Some of you might wonder, if I am still wishing to achieve more and more, how come I am content at the same time. Well, let me clarify.

It just means, I sure am working on myself to be refined and groomed while looking up. But by saying I'm content, I mean I am not restless about the results. I am not worried about getting more. Most importantly, I am not comparing myself with anyone anymore since long back. I do cherish my feet and while I do work on getting a pair of shoes, I am not crying for them. I am thankful, I am content.

About forty-five hundred years ago, not long after the completion of the Great Pyramid at Giza, a seed of Pinus longaeva, the Great Basin bristlecone pine, landed on a steep slope in what is now known as the White Mountains, in eastern California. The seed may have travelled there on a gust of wind, its flight aided by a wing like attachment to the nut or it could have been planted by a bird known as Clark's nutcracker, which likes to hide pine seeds in caches; nutcrackers have phenomenal spatial memory and can recall thousands of such caches. This seed, however, lay undisturbed. On a moist day in fall, or in the wake of melting snows in spring, a seedling appeared above ground-a stubby one-inch stem with a tuft of bright-green shoots. 

Most seedlings die within a year; the mortality rate is more than ninety-nine per cent. The survivors are sometimes seen growing in the shadow of a fallen tree. The landscape of the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest, as this area of the White Mountains is called is littered with fragments of dead trees-trunks: limbs, roots, and smaller chunks. Pinus longaeva grows exclusively in subalpine regions of the Great Basin, which stretches from the eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada to the Wasatch Range, in Utah. Conditions are generally too arid for the dead wood to rot; instead, it erodes, sanded down like rock. The remnants may harbour nutrients and fungi that help new trees grow. Bristlecones rise from the bones of their ancestors-a city within a cemetery.

Coast redwoods and giant sequoias, California's gargantuan world-record-holding trees, can grow fifty feet or more in their first twenty years. Bristlecones rise agonizingly slowly. After four or five years, the seedling on the steep slope would have been just a few inches higher, sprouting needles in place of the embryonic shoots. The needles are a deep green, tough, resinous, and closely bunched, in groups of five. On a mature tree, they live for fifty years or more. Decades may have passed before the tree was human height, and decades more before it resembled a conventional pine. Bristlecone saplings grow straight up, with relatively sparse foliage, looking like undernourished Christmas trees. After a few hundred years-by which time the Old Kingdom of Egypt had fallen-it was probably forty or fifty feet in height.

Many tree species live for hundreds of years. A smaller but not inconsiderable number, including the sequoias and certain yews, oaks, cypresses, and junipers, survive for thousands. Once a bristlecone has established itself in the unforgiving conditions of the White Mountains, it can last almost indefinitely. The trees tend to grow some distance from one another, so fires almost never destroy an entire stand. Because only a few other plant species can handle the dry, cold climate, the bristlecones face little competition. Unlike most plants, they tolerate dolomite soil, which is composed of a chalky type of limestone that is heavily alkaline and low in nutrients. As for insect threats, bristlecone wood is so dense that mountain-pine beetles and other pests can rarely burrow their way into it.

About forty-five hundred years ago, not long after the completion of the Great Pyramid at Giza, a seed of Pinus longaeva, the Great Basin bristlecone pine, landed on a steep slope in what is now known as the White Mountains, in eastern California. The seed may have travelled there on a gust of wind, its flight aided by a wing like attachment to the nut or it could have been planted by a bird known as Clark's nutcracker, which likes to hide pine seeds in caches; nutcrackers have phenomenal spatial memory and can recall thousands of such caches. This seed, however, lay undisturbed. On a moist day in fall, or in the wake of melting snows in spring, a seedling appeared above ground-a stubby one-inch stem with a tuft of bright-green shoots. 

Most seedlings die within a year; the mortality rate is more than ninety-nine per cent. The survivors are sometimes seen growing in the shadow of a fallen tree. The landscape of the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest, as this area of the White Mountains is called is littered with fragments of dead trees-trunks: limbs, roots, and smaller chunks. Pinus longaeva grows exclusively in subalpine regions of the Great Basin, which stretches from the eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada to the Wasatch Range, in Utah. Conditions are generally too arid for the dead wood to rot; instead, it erodes, sanded down like rock. The remnants may harbour nutrients and fungi that help new trees grow. Bristlecones rise from the bones of their ancestors-a city within a cemetery.

Coast redwoods and giant sequoias, California's gargantuan world-record-holding trees, can grow fifty feet or more in their first twenty years. Bristlecones rise agonizingly slowly. After four or five years, the seedling on the steep slope would have been just a few inches higher, sprouting needles in place of the embryonic shoots. The needles are a deep green, tough, resinous, and closely bunched, in groups of five. On a mature tree, they live for fifty years or more. Decades may have passed before the tree was human height, and decades more before it resembled a conventional pine. Bristlecone saplings grow straight up, with relatively sparse foliage, looking like undernourished Christmas trees. After a few hundred years-by which time the Old Kingdom of Egypt had fallen-it was probably forty or fifty feet in height.

Many tree species live for hundreds of years. A smaller but not inconsiderable number, including the sequoias and certain yews, oaks, cypresses, and junipers, survive for thousands. Once a bristlecone has established itself in the unforgiving conditions of the White Mountains, it can last almost indefinitely. The trees tend to grow some distance from one another, so fires almost never destroy an entire stand. Because only a few other plant species can handle the dry, cold climate, the bristlecones face little competition. Unlike most plants, they tolerate dolomite soil, which is composed of a chalky type of limestone that is heavily alkaline and low in nutrients. As for insect threats, bristlecone wood is so dense that mountain-pine beetles and other pests can rarely burrow their way into it.

About forty-five hundred years ago, not long after the completion of the Great Pyramid at Giza, a seed of Pinus longaeva, the Great Basin bristlecone pine, landed on a steep slope in what is now known as the White Mountains, in eastern California. The seed may have travelled there on a gust of wind, its flight aided by a wing like attachment to the nut or it could have been planted by a bird known as Clark's nutcracker, which likes to hide pine seeds in caches; nutcrackers have phenomenal spatial memory and can recall thousands of such caches. This seed, however, lay undisturbed. On a moist day in fall, or in the wake of melting snows in spring, a seedling appeared above ground-a stubby one-inch stem with a tuft of bright-green shoots. 

Most seedlings die within a year; the mortality rate is more than ninety-nine per cent. The survivors are sometimes seen growing in the shadow of a fallen tree. The landscape of the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest, as this area of the White Mountains is called is littered with fragments of dead trees-trunks: limbs, roots, and smaller chunks. Pinus longaeva grows exclusively in subalpine regions of the Great Basin, which stretches from the eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada to the Wasatch Range, in Utah. Conditions are generally too arid for the dead wood to rot; instead, it erodes, sanded down like rock. The remnants may harbour nutrients and fungi that help new trees grow. Bristlecones rise from the bones of their ancestors-a city within a cemetery.

Coast redwoods and giant sequoias, California's gargantuan world-record-holding trees, can grow fifty feet or more in their first twenty years. Bristlecones rise agonizingly slowly. After four or five years, the seedling on the steep slope would have been just a few inches higher, sprouting needles in place of the embryonic shoots. The needles are a deep green, tough, resinous, and closely bunched, in groups of five. On a mature tree, they live for fifty years or more. Decades may have passed before the tree was human height, and decades more before it resembled a conventional pine. Bristlecone saplings grow straight up, with relatively sparse foliage, looking like undernourished Christmas trees. After a few hundred years-by which time the Old Kingdom of Egypt had fallen-it was probably forty or fifty feet in height.

Many tree species live for hundreds of years. A smaller but not inconsiderable number, including the sequoias and certain yews, oaks, cypresses, and junipers, survive for thousands. Once a bristlecone has established itself in the unforgiving conditions of the White Mountains, it can last almost indefinitely. The trees tend to grow some distance from one another, so fires almost never destroy an entire stand. Because only a few other plant species can handle the dry, cold climate, the bristlecones face little competition. Unlike most plants, they tolerate dolomite soil, which is composed of a chalky type of limestone that is heavily alkaline and low in nutrients. As for insect threats, bristlecone wood is so dense that mountain-pine beetles and other pests can rarely burrow their way into it.

Novelist and Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award-winner KR Meera makes no bones about the fact that writing comes from repression and women experience it 10 times more than men. She considers women the true repository of stories and her critically acclaimed works reclaim that space. Her advice to budding women writers is to be fully vigilant about how masculinity insinuates itself into their world but also reassures them that for all their attempts at subjugation and slighting, the utmost men can do is envy women writers! She reminds us that every Women's Day is a day to dream of a world when every day is a women's day. "In that world, people won't desire to become more masculine but to become more humane," she says.

A few months ago, I met a man who tried to teach me how to write and what to write. He justified his right to do so saying, "you know, the one who eats the omelette is the right person to comment on the egg, not the hen". And I replied, "but the hen alone can describe the pain and labour in conceiving and laying it, not the omelette eater. The moment the hen starts talking about her life, the concept of omelette might change altogether."

Taking a cue from him, I think we can categorize the world's literature into two - omelette eaters' literature and hens' literature. I wish there is a cock's literature too, but I am afraid that it would be the same story which has been repeated over and again. And why is it happening? May be the omelette eaters are truly uncomfortable listening to true stories of the conceived egg and the pain and labour of laying it. Maybe they are scared of losing their omelettes. But whether they accept it or not, all the literature in this world is either of or about women only. Women have been the custodians of stories in all societies from time immemorial. Just think about the first story we have listened to. I bet it was told by a woman and not a man. But the first story you read in print had been invariably that of a man's. That explains it.

The number of women who write are far less than men writers because women have been kept away from reading and writing all through history. Even today many are not allowed to read or write. Many have no access to publishing. That is why the Women's Day celebration is justified year after year. We need to remind us at least for a day that our due share of the world, its resources, its freedom, and its happiness is being denied. It is good that we have this day to remind the other half that whatever they enjoy is our rightful share.

Novelist and Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award-winner KR Meera makes no bones about the fact that writing comes from repression and women experience it 10 times more than men. She considers women the true repository of stories and her critically acclaimed works reclaim that space. Her advice to budding women writers is to be fully vigilant about how masculinity insinuates itself into their world but also reassures them that for all their attempts at subjugation and slighting, the utmost men can do is envy women writers! She reminds us that every Women's Day is a day to dream of a world when every day is a women's day. "In that world, people won't desire to become more masculine but to become more humane," she says.

A few months ago, I met a man who tried to teach me how to write and what to write. He justified his right to do so saying, "you know, the one who eats the omelette is the right person to comment on the egg, not the hen". And I replied, "but the hen alone can describe the pain and labour in conceiving and laying it, not the omelette eater. The moment the hen starts talking about her life, the concept of omelette might change altogether."

Taking a cue from him, I think we can categorize the world's literature into two - omelette eaters' literature and hens' literature. I wish there is a cock's literature too, but I am afraid that it would be the same story which has been repeated over and again. And why is it happening? May be the omelette eaters are truly uncomfortable listening to true stories of the conceived egg and the pain and labour of laying it. Maybe they are scared of losing their omelettes. But whether they accept it or not, all the literature in this world is either of or about women only. Women have been the custodians of stories in all societies from time immemorial. Just think about the first story we have listened to. I bet it was told by a woman and not a man. But the first story you read in print had been invariably that of a man's. That explains it.

The number of women who write are far less than men writers because women have been kept away from reading and writing all through history. Even today many are not allowed to read or write. Many have no access to publishing. That is why the Women's Day celebration is justified year after year. We need to remind us at least for a day that our due share of the world, its resources, its freedom, and its happiness is being denied. It is good that we have this day to remind the other half that whatever they enjoy is our rightful share.

Novelist and Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award-winner KR Meera makes no bones about the fact that writing comes from repression and women experience it 10 times more than men. She considers women the true repository of stories and her critically acclaimed works reclaim that space. Her advice to budding women writers is to be fully vigilant about how masculinity insinuates itself into their world but also reassures them that for all their attempts at subjugation and slighting, the utmost men can do is envy women writers! She reminds us that every Women's Day is a day to dream of a world when every day is a women's day. "In that world, people won't desire to become more masculine but to become more humane," she says.

A few months ago, I met a man who tried to teach me how to write and what to write. He justified his right to do so saying, "you know, the one who eats the omelette is the right person to comment on the egg, not the hen". And I replied, "but the hen alone can describe the pain and labour in conceiving and laying it, not the omelette eater. The moment the hen starts talking about her life, the concept of omelette might change altogether."

Taking a cue from him, I think we can categorize the world's literature into two - omelette eaters' literature and hens' literature. I wish there is a cock's literature too, but I am afraid that it would be the same story which has been repeated over and again. And why is it happening? May be the omelette eaters are truly uncomfortable listening to true stories of the conceived egg and the pain and labour of laying it. Maybe they are scared of losing their omelettes. But whether they accept it or not, all the literature in this world is either of or about women only. Women have been the custodians of stories in all societies from time immemorial. Just think about the first story we have listened to. I bet it was told by a woman and not a man. But the first story you read in print had been invariably that of a man's. That explains it.

The number of women who write are far less than men writers because women have been kept away from reading and writing all through history. Even today many are not allowed to read or write. Many have no access to publishing. That is why the Women's Day celebration is justified year after year. We need to remind us at least for a day that our due share of the world, its resources, its freedom, and its happiness is being denied. It is good that we have this day to remind the other half that whatever they enjoy is our rightful share.

Novelist and Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award-winner KR Meera makes no bones about the fact that writing comes from repression and women experience it 10 times more than men. She considers women the true repository of stories and her critically acclaimed works reclaim that space. Her advice to budding women writers is to be fully vigilant about how masculinity insinuates itself into their world but also reassures them that for all their attempts at subjugation and slighting, the utmost men can do is envy women writers! She reminds us that every Women's Day is a day to dream of a world when every day is a women's day. "In that world, people won't desire to become more masculine but to become more humane," she says.

A few months ago, I met a man who tried to teach me how to write and what to write. He justified his right to do so saying, "you know, the one who eats the omelette is the right person to comment on the egg, not the hen". And I replied, "but the hen alone can describe the pain and labour in conceiving and laying it, not the omelette eater. The moment the hen starts talking about her life, the concept of omelette might change altogether."

Taking a cue from him, I think we can categorize the world's literature into two - omelette eaters' literature and hens' literature. I wish there is a cock's literature too, but I am afraid that it would be the same story which has been repeated over and again. And why is it happening? May be the omelette eaters are truly uncomfortable listening to true stories of the conceived egg and the pain and labour of laying it. Maybe they are scared of losing their omelettes. But whether they accept it or not, all the literature in this world is either of or about women only. Women have been the custodians of stories in all societies from time immemorial. Just think about the first story we have listened to. I bet it was told by a woman and not a man. But the first story you read in print had been invariably that of a man's. That explains it.

The number of women who write are far less than men writers because women have been kept away from reading and writing all through history. Even today many are not allowed to read or write. Many have no access to publishing. That is why the Women's Day celebration is justified year after year. We need to remind us at least for a day that our due share of the world, its resources, its freedom, and its happiness is being denied. It is good that we have this day to remind the other half that whatever they enjoy is our rightful share.

I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.

I'm not sure about the giver of the quote in this title. I used to believe it to have been said by Shakespeare but when I searched Google to confirm, I found that quite probably, it could be given by some other significant personality too.

Regardless of the individual who quoted, it's marvellous! And how true, is it not common between us humans? One more saying goes like 'today is the tomorrow that you dreamt about yesterday'. In all of our today's we keep running and running, madly-blindly for a better future. And when that future finally comes, we simply forget that we have always been waiting for this. Even if we remember, it's momentary. We immediately switch to thoughts about our upcoming future, attempting to attain more and more and more. Well, good thing, of course, we should always work hard and smart to do bigger and better things in life but bad is when we forget to cherish what we have already achieved. Some of us subconsciously do it so much that one can find them complaining and cribbing all the time.

If I talk about myself, somehow even in the worst phase of my life, I had a vague flame of hope and positivity alive in my heart. Although it was striving to keep burning and wasn't very visible on the outside, still it existed. Thankfully, I have always had a habit of finding pleasure in small things in life.

That combined with a sense of gratitude to the Almighty, has worked wonders. During that miserable phase of my life, whenever I used to sit on the window seat of a vehicle while traveling, I had a habit of getting lost in my world while having a look at the surroundings. Every time while doing that, my eyes fell upon someone genuinely poor and hungry, usually covered in torn clothes, I felt compassion. I say 'genuinely' because I feel that these days not every poor person is pitiable.

You never know when they might be faking it. Also, I had read somewhere long back that offering money to every other beggar you come across, promotes the business of gangsters behind begging. So, I always refrain from giving money to such people, especially if otherwise young and healthy. But yes, knowingly or unknowingly always a prayer emerged from my heart that may God help the person if she deserved it.

Besides, I used to feel thankful to Him for bestowing all the blessings on me that I had at that moment. Even if it meant just necessities, belongings, and my angel-hearted people around. Of course, as per human nature, I did wish for a better life and more to call mine but all in all, I felt contentment.

And this always added to my zealful perseverance. Even at my worst, I used to believe in the saying 'there is always-always-always something to be thankful for'. Thus, positivity kept getting added to my life, visibly or non-visibly. And the outcome is here, in front of you. I continue to have the belief that I am completely content while giving my best to achieve more and more. Some of you might wonder, if I am still wishing to achieve more and more, how come I am content at the same time. Well, let me clarify.

It just means, I sure am working on myself to be refined and groomed while looking up. But by saying I'm content, I mean I am not restless about the results. I am not worried about getting more. Most importantly, I am not comparing myself with anyone anymore since long back. I do cherish my feet and while I do work on getting a pair of shoes, I am not crying for them. I am thankful, I am content.

'At long last, I can say a few words of my own. I have never wanted to withhold anything, but until now it has not been constitutionally possible for me to speak.

A few hours ago, I discharged my last duty as King and Emperor, and now that I have been succeeded by my brother, and Duke of York, my first words must be to declare my allegiance to him. This I do with all my heart.

You know all reasons which have impelled me to renounce the throne. But I want you to understand that in making up my mind I did not forget the country or the empire, which, as Prince of Wales and lately as King, I have for twenty-five years tried to service.

But you must believe me when I tell you that I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility and to discharge my duties as King as I would wish to do without the help and support of the woman I love.

And I want you to know that the decision I have made has been mine and mine alone. This was a thing I had to judge entirely for myself. The other person most nearly concerned has tried up to the last to persuade me to take a different course.

I have made this, the most serious decision of my life, only upon the single thought of what would, in the end, be best for all.

This decision has been made less difficult to me by the sure knowledge that my brother, with his long training in the public affairs of this country and with his fine qualities, will be able to take my place forthwith without interruption or injury to the life and progress of the empire. And he has one matchless blessing, enjoyed by so many of you, and not bestowed on me- a happy home with his wife and children.

During these hard days, I have been comforted by her Majesty, my mother, and by my family. The ministers of the Crown, and in particular, Mr. Baldwin, the Prime Minister, have always treated me with full consideration. There has never been any constitutional difference between me and them, between me and Parliament. Bred in the constitutional tradition by my father, I should never have allowed any such issue to arise.

Ever since I was Prince of Wales, and later on when I occupied the throne, I have been treated with the greatest kindness by all classes of the people wherever I have lived or journeyed throughout the empire. For that, I am very grateful.

I now quit altogether public affairs and I lay down my burden. It may be sometime before I return to my native land, but I shall always follow the fortunes of the British race and empire with profound interest, and if at any time in the future I can be found of service to His Majesty in a private section, I shall not fail.

And now, we all have a new King. I wish him and you, his people, happiness, and prosperity with all my heart. God bless you all! God save the King!"

Every Sunday morning I take a light jog around a park near my home. There's a lake located in one corner of the park. Each time I jog by this lake, I see the same elderly woman sitting at the water's edge with a small metal cage sitting beside her.

This past Sunday my curiosity got the best of me, so I stopped jogging and walked over to her. As I got closer, I realized that the metal cage was, in fact, a small trap. There were three turtles, unharmed, slowly walking around the base of the trap. She had a fourth turtle in her lap that she was carefully scrubbing with a sponge brush.

"Hello," I said. "I see you here every Sunday morning. If you don't mind my nosiness, I'd love to know what you're doing with these turtles." She smiled. "I'm cleaning off their shells," she replied. 'l\.nything on a turtle's shell, like algae or scum, reduces the turtle's ability to absorb heat and impedes its ability to swim. It can also corrode and weaken the shell over time."

"Wow! That's really nice of you!" I exclaimed.

She went on "I spend a couple of hours each Sunday morning, relaxing by this lake and helping these little guys out. It's my strange way of making a difference."

"But don't most freshwater turtles live their whole lives with algae and scum hanging from their shells?" I asked.

"Yep, sadly, they do," she replied.

I scratched my head. "Well then, don't you think your time could be better spent? I mean, I think your efforts are kind and all, but freshwater turtles are living in lakes all around the world. And 99% of these turtles don't have kind people like you to help them clean off their shells. So, no offence... but how exactly are your localized efforts here truly making a difference?"

The woman giggled aloud. She then looked down at the turtle in her lap, scrubbed off the last piece of algae from its shell, and said, "Sweetie, if this little guy could talk, he'd tell you I just made all the difference in the world."

Every Sunday morning I take a light jog around a park near my home. There's a lake located in one corner of the park. Each time I jog by this lake, I see the same elderly woman sitting at the water's edge with a small metal cage sitting beside her.

This past Sunday my curiosity got the best of me, so I stopped jogging and walked over to her. As I got closer, I realized that the metal cage was, in fact, a small trap. There were three turtles, unharmed, slowly walking around the base of the trap. She had a fourth turtle in her lap that she was carefully scrubbing with a sponge brush.

"Hello," I said. "I see you here every Sunday morning. If you don't mind my nosiness, I'd love to know what you're doing with these turtles." She smiled. "I'm cleaning off their shells," she replied. 'l\.nything on a turtle's shell, like algae or scum, reduces the turtle's ability to absorb heat and impedes its ability to swim. It can also corrode and weaken the shell over time."

"Wow! That's really nice of you!" I exclaimed.

She went on "I spend a couple of hours each Sunday morning, relaxing by this lake and helping these little guys out. It's my strange way of making a difference."

"But don't most freshwater turtles live their whole lives with algae and scum hanging from their shells?" I asked.

"Yep, sadly, they do," she replied.

I scratched my head. "Well then, don't you think your time could be better spent? I mean, I think your efforts are kind and all, but freshwater turtles are living in lakes all around the world. And 99% of these turtles don't have kind people like you to help them clean off their shells. So, no offence... but how exactly are your localized efforts here truly making a difference?"

The woman giggled aloud. She then looked down at the turtle in her lap, scrubbed off the last piece of algae from its shell, and said, "Sweetie, if this little guy could talk, he'd tell you I just made all the difference in the world."

Every Sunday morning I take a light jog around a park near my home. There's a lake located in one corner of the park. Each time I jog by this lake, I see the same elderly woman sitting at the water's edge with a small metal cage sitting beside her.

This past Sunday my curiosity got the best of me, so I stopped jogging and walked over to her. As I got closer, I realized that the metal cage was, in fact, a small trap. There were three turtles, unharmed, slowly walking around the base of the trap. She had a fourth turtle in her lap that she was carefully scrubbing with a sponge brush.

"Hello," I said. "I see you here every Sunday morning. If you don't mind my nosiness, I'd love to know what you're doing with these turtles." She smiled. "I'm cleaning off their shells," she replied. 'l\.nything on a turtle's shell, like algae or scum, reduces the turtle's ability to absorb heat and impedes its ability to swim. It can also corrode and weaken the shell over time."

"Wow! That's really nice of you!" I exclaimed.

She went on "I spend a couple of hours each Sunday morning, relaxing by this lake and helping these little guys out. It's my strange way of making a difference."

"But don't most freshwater turtles live their whole lives with algae and scum hanging from their shells?" I asked.

"Yep, sadly, they do," she replied.

I scratched my head. "Well then, don't you think your time could be better spent? I mean, I think your efforts are kind and all, but freshwater turtles are living in lakes all around the world. And 99% of these turtles don't have kind people like you to help them clean off their shells. So, no offence... but how exactly are your localized efforts here truly making a difference?"

The woman giggled aloud. She then looked down at the turtle in her lap, scrubbed off the last piece of algae from its shell, and said, "Sweetie, if this little guy could talk, he'd tell you I just made all the difference in the world."

Morning and afternoon, all the young girls and maidens used to gather around the village well with their water pots. There they exchanged pleasantries, chatted and discussed. Lakshmi was the prettiest girl at the well. But, she was an orphan.

One day, a well-built man came to Lakshmi's house. He brought with him the richest clothes and jewels as presents for her, "I am your dead father's brother," he told the astonished girl. "You have not seen me before because I have been staying abroad. You must come and live with me now." Lakshmi believed his sweet words and in a short time, locked up her little house and set out with the man.

But a terrible surprise was in store for poor Lakshmi when she got to her new-found uncle's home. The man locked her in a room "I am not your uncle, but a robber. And I am going to marry you," he told her. Lakshmi howled and wept when she heard this. Saying he would be back in a day or two after making arrangements for the wedding, the man went away. Lakshmi continued sobbing for a while and then stopped. "I must think of a plan to escape," she told herself. Lakshmi guessed that the robber would try to enter her room. So, she kept near her bed a sharp knife which she could find in the room.

One night the robber did enter her room but Lakshmi did not make any sound. She just kept a tight hold of knife and pretended to be sound asleep. When the robber was near her bed, she stood up suddenly, brandishing the knife. The robber was taken aback and with a loud cry, he ran out. Lakshmi gave chase and he climbed up the nearest tall tree. Lakshmi then gathered some dry figs and sticks around the foot of the tree and set them on fire. on seeing the rising flames, the robber gave a mighty yell and jumped down. But it was such a long way to the ground that he broke a couple of bones and was unable to move away from the place he fell.

In the mean time, the police was informed by someone about the robber. Very soon they reached the spot and arrested the robber. The people who had gathered at the spot were all praise for Lakshmi's courage and presence of mind.