The story is set in India in the mid-1970s. Maneck Kohlah, a young… The story is set in India in the mid-1970s. Maneck Kohlah, a young man from the cou

The story is set in India in the mid-1970s. Maneck Kohlah, a young… The story is set in India in the mid-1970s. Maneck Kohlah, a young man from the countryside near the Himalayas, has said goodbye to his parents and travelled by autorickshaw to meet the train that will take him into the city to begin university. from A FINE BALANCEManeck found his compartment and paid the coolie after the luggage was stowed away. The bungalow on wheels from his childhood had shrunk. Time had turned the magical to mundane. The whistle sounded. No time to buy the maize.1 He sank into the seat beside his fellow passenger.5 The man did not encourage Maneck’s efforts at conversation, answering with nods and grunts, or vague hand movements. He was neatly dressed, his hair parted on the left. His shirt pocket bristled with pens and markers in a special clip-on plastic case. The two seats facing them were occupied by a young woman and her father. She was busy knitting. By the fragment hanging from the needles,10 Maneck tried to decipher what it might be – scarf, pullover sleeve, sock?The father rose to go to the lavatory. “Wait, Pappji, I’ll help you,” said the daughter, as he limped into the aisle on one crutch. Good, thought Maneck, she would have to take the upper berth. The view would be better, from his own upper berth.15 In the evening, Maneck offered his neatly dressed neighbor a Gluco biscuit. He whispered thank you. “You’re welcome,” Maneck whispered back, assuming the man had a preference for speaking softly. In return for the biscuit he received a banana. Its skin was blackened in the heat, but he ate it all the same.The attendant began making the rounds with blankets and sheets, readying20 the berths for sleep. After he left, the neatly dressed man took a chain and padlock from the bag that held his bananas and shackled his trunk to a bracket under the seat. Leaning towards Maneck’s ear, he explained confidentially, “Because of thieves – they enter the compartments when passengers fall asleep.””Oh,” said Maneck, a little perturbed. No one had warned him about this.25 But maybe the chap was just a nervous type. “You know, some years ago my mother and I took this same train, and nothing was stolen.””Sadly, now the world is much changed.” The man took off his shirt and hung it neatly on a hook by the window. Then he removed the plastic case from the pocket and clipped it to his vest, careful not to snare his chest hair in the30 formidable spring. Seeing Maneck watching, he whispered with a smile, “I am very fond of my pens. I don’t like separating from them, not even in sleep.”Maneck smiled back, whispering, “Yes, I also have a favourite pen. I don’t lend it to anyone – it spoils the angle of the nib.The father and daughter did not take kindly to these whispers which excluded35 them. “What can we do, Papaji, some people are just born rude,” she said, handing him his crutch. They went off again to the bathroom, hurling a frosty glance at the opposite seats.It went unnoticed, for Maneck had begun to worry about his suitcase. The pen-lover’s soft words about thieves ruined his night, and he forgot all about the40 woman in the upper berth. By the time he remembered, she was under cover from prying eyes, Papaji having tucked in the sheet around her neck.Before climbing into his own berth, Maneck positioned his suitcase so that one corner would be visible from above. He lay awake, peering at it every now and then. The young woman’s father caught him looking a few times, and eyed45 him suspiciously. Towards dawn, slumber overpowered Maneck’s vigilance. The last thing he saw while surrendering to sleep was Papaji balanced on one crutch, curtaining off his daughter with a bedsheet as she descended without exposing so much as a calf or an ankle.He did not awake till the attendant came to collect the bedclothes. The young50 woman was already busy with her knitting, the inscrutable woolen segment dancing below her fingers. Tea was served. Now the neatly dressed pen-lover was more talkative. The cluster of pens was back in his shirt pocket. Maneck learned that yesterday’s reticence had been due to a throat ailment.”Thankfully, it has eased a little this morning,” said the man, as he coughed55 and threatened to hawk.2Remembering how he had returned the man’s hoarse whispers by whispering back dramatically, Maneck felt a little embarrassed. He wondered if he should apologize or explain, but the pen-lover did not appear to bear any resentment.”It’s a very serious condition,” he explained. “And I am travelling to seek60 specialist treatment.” He cleared his throat again. “I could never have imagined, long, long ago, when I started my career, that this was what it would do to me. But how can you fight your destiny?”Maneck shook his head in sympathy. “Was it a factory job? Toxic fumes?”The man laughed scornfully at the suggestion. “I’m an LL.B., a fully65 qualified lawyer.””Oh, I see. So the lengthy speeches in dusty courtrooms strained and ruined your vocal cords.””Not at all – quite the contrary.” He hesitated, “It’s such a long story.””But we have lots of time,” encouraged Maneck. “It’s such a long journey.”70 Papaji and daughter had had enough of them exchanging comments in low voices. Papaji was certain that their soft laughter contained a leering note, aimed directly at his innocent daughter. He scowled, picked up his crutch, took his daughter by the hand and stomped one-leggedly down the aisle. “What to do, Papaji,” she said. “Some people just have no manners.”75 “I wonder what’s wrong with those two,” said the pen-lover, watching the precise, machinelike movement of the crutch. He uncorked a small green bottle, sipped, and put it aside. Fingering his pens affectionately, he tried out the freshly medicated larynx with the opening sentence of the story of his throat.”My law career, which was my first, my best-loved career, started a very long80 time ago. In the year of our independence.”Maneck counted rapidly. “From 1947 to 1975 – twenty-eight years. That’s a lot of legal experience.””Not really. Within two years I changed careers. I couldn’t stand it, performing before a courtroom audience day after day. Too much stress for a shy85 person like me. I would lie in bed at night, sweating and shivering, scared of the next morning. I needed a job where I would be left to myself. Where I could work in camera.””Photography?””No, that’s Latin, it means in private.” He scratched his pens as though90 relieving an itch for them, and looked rueful. “It’s a bad habit I have, because of my law training – using these silly phrases instead of good English words. Anyway, seeking privacy, I became a proofreader for The Times of India.”How would proofreading ravage the throat? wondered Maneck. But he had already interrupted twice and made a fool of himself. Better to keep quiet and95 listen.”I was the best they had, the absolute best. The most difficult and important things were saved for my inspection. The editorial page, court proceedings, legal texts, stockmarket figures. Politicians’ speeches, too – so boring they could make you drowsy, send you to sleep. And drowsiness is the one great enemy of the100 proofreader. I have seen it destroy several promising reputations.”But nothing was too tricky for me. The letters sailed before my eyes, line after line, orderly fleets upon an ocean of newsprint. Sometimes I felt like a Lord High Admiral, in supreme command of the printer’s navy. And within months I was promoted to Chief Proofreader.105 “My night sweats disappeared, I slept well. For twenty-four years I held the position. I was happy in my little cubicle – my kingdom with my desk, my chair, and my reading light. What more could anyone want?””Nothing,” said Maneck.”Exactly. But kingdoms don’t last for ever – not even modest little cubicle110 kingdoms. One day it happened, without warning.””What?””Disaster. I was checking an editorial about a State Assembly member who made a personal fortune out of the Drought Relief Project. My eyes began to itch and water. Thinking nothing of it, I rubbed them, wiped them dry, and resumed115 my work. Within seconds they were wet again. I dried them once more. But it kept on happening, on and on. And it was no longer a tear or two which could be ignored, but a continuous stream.”Soon, my concerned colleagues were gathered around me. They crowded my little cubicle, pouring comfort upon what they thought was grief. They120 presumed that reading about the sorry state of the nation, day after day – about the corruption, the natural calamities, the economic crises – had finally broken me. That I was dissolving in a fit of sorrow and despair.”They were wrong, of course. I would never let emotions stand in the way of my professional duties. Mind you, I’m not saying a proofreader must be heartless.125 I’m not denying that I often felt like weeping at what I read – stories of misery, caste violence, government callousness, official arrogance, police brutality. I’m certain many of us felt that way, and an emotional outburst would be quite normal. But too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart, as my favourite poet has written.”130 “Who’s that?””W. B. Yeats. And I think that sometimes normal behavior has to be suppressed, in order to carry on.””I’m not sure,” said Maneck. “Wouldn’t it be better to respond honestly instead of hiding it? Maybe if everyone in the country was angry or upset, it135 might change things, force the politicians to behave properly.”The man’s eyes lit up at the challenge, relishing the opportunity to argue. “In theory, yes, I would agree with you. But in practice, it might lead to the onset of more major disasters. Just try to imagine six hundred million raging, howling, sobbing humans. Everyone in the country – including airline pilots, engine140 drivers, bus and tram conductors – all losing control of themselves. What a catastrophe. Aeroplanes falling from the skies, trains going off the tracks, boats sinking, buses and lorries and cars crashing. Chaos. Complete chaos.”He paused to give Maneck’s imagination time to fill in the details of the anarchy he had unleashed. “And please also remember: scientists haven’t done any145 research on the effects of mass hysteria and mass suicide upon the environment. Not on this subcontinental scale. If a butterfly’s wings can create atmospheric disturbances halfway round the world, who knows what might happen in our case. Storms? Cyclones? Tidal waves? What about the land mass, would it quake in empathy? Would the mountains explode? What about rivers, would the tears150 from twelve hundred million eyes cause them to rise and flood?”He took another sip from the green bottle. “No, it’s too dangerous. Better to carry on in the usual way.” He corked the bottle and wiped his lips. “To get back to the facts. There I was with the day’s proofs before me, and my eyes leaking copiously. Not one word was readable. The text, the disciplined rows and155 columns, were suddenly in mutiny, the letters pitching and tossing, disintegrating in a sea of stormy paper.”He passed his hand across his eyes, reliving that fateful day, then stroked his pens comfortingly, as though they too might be upset by the avocation of thos painful events. Maneck took the opportunity to slip in a bit of praise, to ensure160 that the story continued. “You know, you’re the first proofreader I’ve met. I would have guessed they’d be very dull people, but you speak so… with such… so differently. Almost like a poet.””And why shouldn’t I? For twenty-four years, the triumphs and tragedies of our country quickened my breath, making my pulse sing with joy or quiver with165 sorrow. In twenty-four years of proofreading, flocks of words flew into my head through the windows of my soul. Some of them stayed on and built nests in there. Why should I not speak like a poet, with a commonwealth of language at my disposal, constantly invigorated by new arrivals?” He gave a mighty sign. “Until that wet day, of course, when it was all over. When the windows were slammed170 shut. And the ophthalmologist sentenced me to impotence, saying that my proofreading days were behind me.””Couldn’t he give you new spectacles or something?””That wouldn’t have helped. The trouble was, my eyes had become virulently allergic to printing ink.” He spread his hands in a gesture of emptiness.175 “The nectar that nurtured me had turned to poison.””Then what did you do?””What can anyone do in such circumstances? Accept it, and go on. Please always remember, the secret of survival is to embrace change, and to adapt. To quote: ‘All things fall and are built again, and those that build them again are180 gay.'””Yeats?” guessed Maneck.The proofreader nodded, “You see, you cannot draw lines and compartments, and refuse to budge beyond them. Sometimes you have to use your failures as stepping-stones to success. You have to maintain a fine balance between hope185 and despair.” He paused, considering what he had just said. “Yes,” he repeated. “In the end, it’s all a question of balance.”Rohinton Mistry  Question 25 Question text The suggestion of the possible consequences of not suppressing normal behaviour is emphasized inSelect one:a.”I’m not denying that I often felt like weeping at what I read” (line 125)  b.”Aeroplanes falling from the skies, trains going off the tracks, boats sinking, buses and lorries and cars crashing” (lines 141-142)  c.”No, it’s too dangerous” (line 151)  d.”What can anyone do in such circumstances? Accept it, and go on” (line 177)  Clear my choice  Question 26 Question text The dominant irony in this excerpt is expressed bySelect one:a.the young woman’s assumption that Maneck and the proofreader “just have no manners” (line 74)  b.the proofreader’s observation that a bad habit of his is the use of “these silly phrases instead of good English words” (lines 90-91)  c.the proofreader’s observation that “The nectar that nurtured me had turned to poison” (line 175)  d.Maneck’s assumption that the man beside him “had a preference for speaking softly” (line 17)                        Arts & Humanities English English Literature ENGLISH 30 Share QuestionEmailCopy link Comments (0)

An evaluation essay is a type of essay that assesses the quality or value of a particular subject, such as a product, service, book, movie, or performance. Here are some steps to help you write an evaluation essay easily:

Choose a topic: The first step in writing an evaluation essay is to choose a topic that you want to evaluate. It’s important to choose a topic that you are knowledgeable about, as well as one that you have an opinion on.

Develop criteria: Once you have chosen a topic, develop criteria for evaluating it. This means deciding on the standards or measures that you will use to evaluate the subject. For example, if you are evaluating a restaurant, your criteria might include the quality of the food, the service, and the ambiance.

Gather evidence: Gather evidence to support your evaluation. This may include personal experience, research, and the opinions of others.

Write an introduction: In the introduction, provide some background information on the subject you are evaluating. Also, include your thesis statement, which is the main point of your essay. The thesis statement should state your evaluation of the subject and the criteria you will use to evaluate it.

Write the body paragraphs: The body paragraphs should each focus on a specific aspect of the subject that you are evaluating. Start each paragraph with a topic sentence that relates to your thesis statement. Provide evidence to support your evaluation and use examples and personal experience to illustrate your points.

Write a conclusion: In the conclusion, summarize your evaluation and restate your thesis statement. Provide a final opinion on the subject and offer some final thoughts.

Edit and revise: Once you have completed your essay, take some time to edit and revise it. Check for grammar and spelling errors, and make sure your ideas flow logically.

Remember, when writing an evaluation essay, it’s important to provide evidence to support your evaluation and to use clear criteria for evaluating the subject. With these steps, you can write an evaluation essay easily and effectively.

The story is set in India in the mid-1970s. Maneck Kohlah, a young…          The story is set in India in the mid-1970s. Maneck Kohlah, a young man from the countryside near the Himalayas, has said goodbye to his parents and travelled by autorickshaw to meet the train that will take him into the city to begin university. from A FINE BALANCEManeck found his compartment and paid the coolie after the luggage was stowed away. The bungalow on wheels from his childhood had shrunk. Time had turned the magical to mundane. The whistle sounded. No time to buy the maize.1 He sank into the seat beside his fellow passenger.5 The man did not encourage Maneck’s efforts at conversation, answering with nods and grunts, or vague hand movements. He was neatly dressed, his hair parted on the left. His shirt pocket bristled with pens and markers in a special clip-on plastic case. The two seats facing them were occupied by a young woman and her father. She was busy knitting. By the fragment hanging from the needles,10 Maneck tried to decipher what it might be – scarf, pullover sleeve, sock?The father rose to go to the lavatory. “Wait, Pappji, I’ll help you,” said the daughter, as he limped into the aisle on one crutch. Good, thought Maneck, she would have to take the upper berth. The view would be better, from his own upper berth.15 In the evening, Maneck offered his neatly dressed neighbor a Gluco biscuit. He whispered thank you. “You’re welcome,” Maneck whispered back, assuming the man had a preference for speaking softly. In return for the biscuit he received a banana. Its skin was blackened in the heat, but he ate it all the same.The attendant began making the rounds with blankets and sheets, readying20 the berths for sleep. After he left, the neatly dressed man took a chain and padlock from the bag that held his bananas and shackled his trunk to a bracket under the seat. Leaning towards Maneck’s ear, he explained confidentially, “Because of thieves – they enter the compartments when passengers fall asleep.””Oh,” said Maneck, a little perturbed. No one had warned him about this.25 But maybe the chap was just a nervous type. “You know, some years ago my mother and I took this same train, and nothing was stolen.””Sadly, now the world is much changed.” The man took off his shirt and hung it neatly on a hook by the window. Then he removed the plastic case from the pocket and clipped it to his vest, careful not to snare his chest hair in the30 formidable spring. Seeing Maneck watching, he whispered with a smile, “I am very fond of my pens. I don’t like separating from them, not even in sleep.”Maneck smiled back, whispering, “Yes, I also have a favourite pen. I don’t lend it to anyone – it spoils the angle of the nib.The father and daughter did not take kindly to these whispers which excluded35 them. “What can we do, Papaji, some people are just born rude,” she said, handing him his crutch. They went off again to the bathroom, hurling a frosty glance at the opposite seats.It went unnoticed, for Maneck had begun to worry about his suitcase. The pen-lover’s soft words about thieves ruined his night, and he forgot all about the40 woman in the upper berth. By the time he remembered, she was under cover from prying eyes, Papaji having tucked in the sheet around her neck.Before climbing into his own berth, Maneck positioned his suitcase so that one corner would be visible from above. He lay awake, peering at it every now and then. The young woman’s father caught him looking a few times, and eyed45 him suspiciously. Towards dawn, slumber overpowered Maneck’s vigilance. The last thing he saw while surrendering to sleep was Papaji balanced on one crutch, curtaining off his daughter with a bedsheet as she descended without exposing so much as a calf or an ankle.He did not awake till the attendant came to collect the bedclothes. The young50 woman was already busy with her knitting, the inscrutable woolen segment dancing below her fingers. Tea was served. Now the neatly dressed pen-lover was more talkative. The cluster of pens was back in his shirt pocket. Maneck learned that yesterday’s reticence had been due to a throat ailment.”Thankfully, it has eased a little this morning,” said the man, as he coughed55 and threatened to hawk.2Remembering how he had returned the man’s hoarse whispers by whispering back dramatically, Maneck felt a little embarrassed. He wondered if he should apologize or explain, but the pen-lover did not appear to bear any resentment.”It’s a very serious condition,” he explained. “And I am travelling to seek60 specialist treatment.” He cleared his throat again. “I could never have imagined, long, long ago, when I started my career, that this was what it would do to me. But how can you fight your destiny?”Maneck shook his head in sympathy. “Was it a factory job? Toxic fumes?”The man laughed scornfully at the suggestion. “I’m an LL.B., a fully65 qualified lawyer.””Oh, I see. So the lengthy speeches in dusty courtrooms strained and ruined your vocal cords.””Not at all – quite the contrary.” He hesitated, “It’s such a long story.””But we have lots of time,” encouraged Maneck. “It’s such a long journey.”70 Papaji and daughter had had enough of them exchanging comments in low voices. Papaji was certain that their soft laughter contained a leering note, aimed directly at his innocent daughter. He scowled, picked up his crutch, took his daughter by the hand and stomped one-leggedly down the aisle. “What to do, Papaji,” she said. “Some people just have no manners.”75 “I wonder what’s wrong with those two,” said the pen-lover, watching the precise, machinelike movement of the crutch. He uncorked a small green bottle, sipped, and put it aside. Fingering his pens affectionately, he tried out the freshly medicated larynx with the opening sentence of the story of his throat.”My law career, which was my first, my best-loved career, started a very long80 time ago. In the year of our independence.”Maneck counted rapidly. “From 1947 to 1975 – twenty-eight years. That’s a lot of legal experience.””Not really. Within two years I changed careers. I couldn’t stand it, performing before a courtroom audience day after day. Too much stress for a shy85 person like me. I would lie in bed at night, sweating and shivering, scared of the next morning. I needed a job where I would be left to myself. Where I could work in camera.””Photography?””No, that’s Latin, it means in private.” He scratched his pens as though90 relieving an itch for them, and looked rueful. “It’s a bad habit I have, because of my law training – using these silly phrases instead of good English words. Anyway, seeking privacy, I became a proofreader for The Times of India.”How would proofreading ravage the throat? wondered Maneck. But he had already interrupted twice and made a fool of himself. Better to keep quiet and95 listen.”I was the best they had, the absolute best. The most difficult and important things were saved for my inspection. The editorial page, court proceedings, legal texts, stockmarket figures. Politicians’ speeches, too – so boring they could make you drowsy, send you to sleep. And drowsiness is the one great enemy of the100 proofreader. I have seen it destroy several promising reputations.”But nothing was too tricky for me. The letters sailed before my eyes, line after line, orderly fleets upon an ocean of newsprint. Sometimes I felt like a Lord High Admiral, in supreme command of the printer’s navy. And within months I was promoted to Chief Proofreader.105 “My night sweats disappeared, I slept well. For twenty-four years I held the position. I was happy in my little cubicle – my kingdom with my desk, my chair, and my reading light. What more could anyone want?””Nothing,” said Maneck.”Exactly. But kingdoms don’t last for ever – not even modest little cubicle110 kingdoms. One day it happened, without warning.””What?””Disaster. I was checking an editorial about a State Assembly member who made a personal fortune out of the Drought Relief Project. My eyes began to itch and water. Thinking nothing of it, I rubbed them, wiped them dry, and resumed115 my work. Within seconds they were wet again. I dried them once more. But it kept on happening, on and on. And it was no longer a tear or two which could be ignored, but a continuous stream.”Soon, my concerned colleagues were gathered around me. They crowded my little cubicle, pouring comfort upon what they thought was grief. They120 presumed that reading about the sorry state of the nation, day after day – about the corruption, the natural calamities, the economic crises – had finally broken me. That I was dissolving in a fit of sorrow and despair.”They were wrong, of course. I would never let emotions stand in the way of my professional duties. Mind you, I’m not saying a proofreader must be heartless.125 I’m not denying that I often felt like weeping at what I read – stories of misery, caste violence, government callousness, official arrogance, police brutality. I’m certain many of us felt that way, and an emotional outburst would be quite normal. But too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart, as my favourite poet has written.”130 “Who’s that?””W. B. Yeats. And I think that sometimes normal behavior has to be suppressed, in order to carry on.””I’m not sure,” said Maneck. “Wouldn’t it be better to respond honestly instead of hiding it? Maybe if everyone in the country was angry or upset, it135 might change things, force the politicians to behave properly.”The man’s eyes lit up at the challenge, relishing the opportunity to argue. “In theory, yes, I would agree with you. But in practice, it might lead to the onset of more major disasters. Just try to imagine six hundred million raging, howling, sobbing humans. Everyone in the country – including airline pilots, engine140 drivers, bus and tram conductors – all losing control of themselves. What a catastrophe. Aeroplanes falling from the skies, trains going off the tracks, boats sinking, buses and lorries and cars crashing. Chaos. Complete chaos.”He paused to give Maneck’s imagination time to fill in the details of the anarchy he had unleashed. “And please also remember: scientists haven’t done any145 research on the effects of mass hysteria and mass suicide upon the environment. Not on this subcontinental scale. If a butterfly’s wings can create atmospheric disturbances halfway round the world, who knows what might happen in our case. Storms? Cyclones? Tidal waves? What about the land mass, would it quake in empathy? Would the mountains explode? What about rivers, would the tears150 from twelve hundred million eyes cause them to rise and flood?”He took another sip from the green bottle. “No, it’s too dangerous. Better to carry on in the usual way.” He corked the bottle and wiped his lips. “To get back to the facts. There I was with the day’s proofs before me, and my eyes leaking copiously. Not one word was readable. The text, the disciplined rows and155 columns, were suddenly in mutiny, the letters pitching and tossing, disintegrating in a sea of stormy paper.”He passed his hand across his eyes, reliving that fateful day, then stroked his pens comfortingly, as though they too might be upset by the avocation of thos painful events. Maneck took the opportunity to slip in a bit of praise, to ensure160 that the story continued. “You know, you’re the first proofreader I’ve met. I would have guessed they’d be very dull people, but you speak so… with such… so differently. Almost like a poet.””And why shouldn’t I? For twenty-four years, the triumphs and tragedies of our country quickened my breath, making my pulse sing with joy or quiver with165 sorrow. In twenty-four years of proofreading, flocks of words flew into my head through the windows of my soul. Some of them stayed on and built nests in there. Why should I not speak like a poet, with a commonwealth of language at my disposal, constantly invigorated by new arrivals?” He gave a mighty sign. “Until that wet day, of course, when it was all over. When the windows were slammed170 shut. And the ophthalmologist sentenced me to impotence, saying that my proofreading days were behind me.””Couldn’t he give you new spectacles or something?””That wouldn’t have helped. The trouble was, my eyes had become virulently allergic to printing ink.” He spread his hands in a gesture of emptiness.175 “The nectar that nurtured me had turned to poison.””Then what did you do?””What can anyone do in such circumstances? Accept it, and go on. Please always remember, the secret of survival is to embrace change, and to adapt. To quote: ‘All things fall and are built again, and those that build them again are180 gay.

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