NCERT Textbook - Lost Spring | English Class 12 PDF Download

 Page 1


Lost Spring/13
Lost Spring
Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood
About the author
Anees Jung (1944) was born in Rourkela and spent
her childhood and adolescence in Hyderabad. She
received her education in Hyderabad and in the
United States of America. Her parents were both writers.
Anees Jung began her career as a writer in India. She
has been an editor and columnist for major newspapers
in India and abroad, and has authored several books.
The following is an excerpt from her book titled Lost
Spring, Stories of Stolen Childhood. Here she analyses
the grinding poverty and traditions which condemn
these children to a life of exploitation.
Notice these expressions in the text.
Infer their meaning from the context.
? looking for ? perpetual state of poverty
? slog their daylight hours ? dark hutments
? roof over his head ? imposed the baggage on the child
‘Sometimes I find a Rupee in the garbage’
“Why do you do this?” I ask Saheb whom I encounter every
morning scrounging for gold in the garbage dumps of my
neighbourhood. Saheb left his home long ago. Set amidst
the green fields of Dhaka, his home is not even a distant
memory. There were many storms that swept away their
fields and homes, his mother tells him. That’s why they
left, looking for gold in the big city where he now lives.
“I have nothing else to do,” he mutters, looking away.
“Go to school,” I say glibly, realising immediately how
hollow the advice must sound.
“There is no school in my neighbourhood. When they
build one, I will go.”
2 2 2 2 2
Reprint 2024-25
Page 2


Lost Spring/13
Lost Spring
Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood
About the author
Anees Jung (1944) was born in Rourkela and spent
her childhood and adolescence in Hyderabad. She
received her education in Hyderabad and in the
United States of America. Her parents were both writers.
Anees Jung began her career as a writer in India. She
has been an editor and columnist for major newspapers
in India and abroad, and has authored several books.
The following is an excerpt from her book titled Lost
Spring, Stories of Stolen Childhood. Here she analyses
the grinding poverty and traditions which condemn
these children to a life of exploitation.
Notice these expressions in the text.
Infer their meaning from the context.
? looking for ? perpetual state of poverty
? slog their daylight hours ? dark hutments
? roof over his head ? imposed the baggage on the child
‘Sometimes I find a Rupee in the garbage’
“Why do you do this?” I ask Saheb whom I encounter every
morning scrounging for gold in the garbage dumps of my
neighbourhood. Saheb left his home long ago. Set amidst
the green fields of Dhaka, his home is not even a distant
memory. There were many storms that swept away their
fields and homes, his mother tells him. That’s why they
left, looking for gold in the big city where he now lives.
“I have nothing else to do,” he mutters, looking away.
“Go to school,” I say glibly, realising immediately how
hollow the advice must sound.
“There is no school in my neighbourhood. When they
build one, I will go.”
2 2 2 2 2
Reprint 2024-25
14/Flamingo
“If I start a school, will you come?” I ask, half-joking.
“Yes,” he says, smiling broadly.
A few days later I see him running up to me. “Is your
school ready?”
“It takes longer to build a school,” I say, embarrassed
at having made a promise that was not meant. But promises
like mine abound in every corner of his bleak world.
After months of knowing him, I ask him his name.
“Saheb-e-Alam,” he announces. He does not know what it
means. If he knew its meaning — lord of the universe —
he would have a hard time believing it. Unaware of what
his name represents, he roams the streets with his friends,
an army of barefoot boys who appear like the morning birds
and disappear at noon. Over the months, I have come to
recognise each of them.
“Why aren’t you wearing chappals?” I ask one.
“My mother did not bring them down from the shelf,”
he answers simply.
“Even if she did he will throw them off,” adds another
who is wearing shoes that do not match. When I comment on
it, he shuffles his feet and says nothing. “I want shoes,” says
a third boy who has never owned a pair all his life. Travelling
across the country I have seen children walking barefoot, in
cities, on village roads. It is not lack of money but a tradition
to stay barefoot, is one explanation. I wonder if this is only
an excuse to explain away a perpetual state of poverty.
I remember a story a man from Udipi once told me. As a
young boy he would go to school past an old temple, where
his father was a priest. He would stop briefly at the temple
and pray for a pair of shoes. Thirty years later I visited his
town and the temple, which was now drowned in an air of
Reprint 2024-25
Page 3


Lost Spring/13
Lost Spring
Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood
About the author
Anees Jung (1944) was born in Rourkela and spent
her childhood and adolescence in Hyderabad. She
received her education in Hyderabad and in the
United States of America. Her parents were both writers.
Anees Jung began her career as a writer in India. She
has been an editor and columnist for major newspapers
in India and abroad, and has authored several books.
The following is an excerpt from her book titled Lost
Spring, Stories of Stolen Childhood. Here she analyses
the grinding poverty and traditions which condemn
these children to a life of exploitation.
Notice these expressions in the text.
Infer their meaning from the context.
? looking for ? perpetual state of poverty
? slog their daylight hours ? dark hutments
? roof over his head ? imposed the baggage on the child
‘Sometimes I find a Rupee in the garbage’
“Why do you do this?” I ask Saheb whom I encounter every
morning scrounging for gold in the garbage dumps of my
neighbourhood. Saheb left his home long ago. Set amidst
the green fields of Dhaka, his home is not even a distant
memory. There were many storms that swept away their
fields and homes, his mother tells him. That’s why they
left, looking for gold in the big city where he now lives.
“I have nothing else to do,” he mutters, looking away.
“Go to school,” I say glibly, realising immediately how
hollow the advice must sound.
“There is no school in my neighbourhood. When they
build one, I will go.”
2 2 2 2 2
Reprint 2024-25
14/Flamingo
“If I start a school, will you come?” I ask, half-joking.
“Yes,” he says, smiling broadly.
A few days later I see him running up to me. “Is your
school ready?”
“It takes longer to build a school,” I say, embarrassed
at having made a promise that was not meant. But promises
like mine abound in every corner of his bleak world.
After months of knowing him, I ask him his name.
“Saheb-e-Alam,” he announces. He does not know what it
means. If he knew its meaning — lord of the universe —
he would have a hard time believing it. Unaware of what
his name represents, he roams the streets with his friends,
an army of barefoot boys who appear like the morning birds
and disappear at noon. Over the months, I have come to
recognise each of them.
“Why aren’t you wearing chappals?” I ask one.
“My mother did not bring them down from the shelf,”
he answers simply.
“Even if she did he will throw them off,” adds another
who is wearing shoes that do not match. When I comment on
it, he shuffles his feet and says nothing. “I want shoes,” says
a third boy who has never owned a pair all his life. Travelling
across the country I have seen children walking barefoot, in
cities, on village roads. It is not lack of money but a tradition
to stay barefoot, is one explanation. I wonder if this is only
an excuse to explain away a perpetual state of poverty.
I remember a story a man from Udipi once told me. As a
young boy he would go to school past an old temple, where
his father was a priest. He would stop briefly at the temple
and pray for a pair of shoes. Thirty years later I visited his
town and the temple, which was now drowned in an air of
Reprint 2024-25
Lost Spring/15
desolation. In the backyard, where lived the new priest, there
were red and white plastic chairs. A young boy dressed in a
grey uniform, wearing socks and shoes, arrived panting and
threw his school bag on a folding bed. Looking at the boy, I
remembered the prayer another boy had made to the goddess
when he had finally got a pair of shoes, “Let me never lose
them.” The goddess had granted his prayer. Young boys like
the son of the priest now wore shoes. But many others like
the ragpickers in my neighbourhood remain shoeless.
My acquaintance with the barefoot ragpickers leads
me to Seemapuri, a place on the periphery of Delhi yet miles
away from it, metaphorically. Those who live here are
squatters who came from Bangladesh back in 1971. Saheb’s
family is among them. Seemapuri was then a wilderness. It
still is, but it is no longer empty. In structures of mud, with
roofs of tin and tarpaulin, devoid of sewage, drainage or
running water, live 10,000 ragpickers. They have lived here
for more than thirty years without an identity, without
permits but with ration cards that get their names on voters’
lists and enable them to buy grain. Food is more important
for survival than an identity. “If at the end of the day we
can feed our families and go to bed without an aching
stomach, we would rather live here than in the fields that
gave us no grain,” say a group of women in tattered saris
when I ask them why they left their beautiful land of green
fields and rivers. Wherever they find food, they pitch their
tents that become transit homes. Children grow up in them,
becoming partners in survival. And survival in Seemapuri
means rag-picking. Through the years, it has acquired the
proportions of a fine art. Garbage to them is gold. It is their
daily bread, a roof over their heads, even if it is a leaking
roof. But for a child it is even more.
“I sometimes find a rupee, even a ten-rupee note,”
Saheb says, his eyes lighting up. When you can find a
silver coin in a heap of garbage, you don’t stop scrounging,
for there is hope of finding more. It seems that for children,
garbage has a meaning different from what it means to
their parents. For the children it is wrapped in wonder, for
the elders it is a means of survival.
One winter morning I see Saheb standing by the fenced
gate of the neighbourhood club, watching two young men
dressed in white, playing tennis. “I like the game,” he
hums, content to watch it standing behind the fence. “I go
Reprint 2024-25
Page 4


Lost Spring/13
Lost Spring
Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood
About the author
Anees Jung (1944) was born in Rourkela and spent
her childhood and adolescence in Hyderabad. She
received her education in Hyderabad and in the
United States of America. Her parents were both writers.
Anees Jung began her career as a writer in India. She
has been an editor and columnist for major newspapers
in India and abroad, and has authored several books.
The following is an excerpt from her book titled Lost
Spring, Stories of Stolen Childhood. Here she analyses
the grinding poverty and traditions which condemn
these children to a life of exploitation.
Notice these expressions in the text.
Infer their meaning from the context.
? looking for ? perpetual state of poverty
? slog their daylight hours ? dark hutments
? roof over his head ? imposed the baggage on the child
‘Sometimes I find a Rupee in the garbage’
“Why do you do this?” I ask Saheb whom I encounter every
morning scrounging for gold in the garbage dumps of my
neighbourhood. Saheb left his home long ago. Set amidst
the green fields of Dhaka, his home is not even a distant
memory. There were many storms that swept away their
fields and homes, his mother tells him. That’s why they
left, looking for gold in the big city where he now lives.
“I have nothing else to do,” he mutters, looking away.
“Go to school,” I say glibly, realising immediately how
hollow the advice must sound.
“There is no school in my neighbourhood. When they
build one, I will go.”
2 2 2 2 2
Reprint 2024-25
14/Flamingo
“If I start a school, will you come?” I ask, half-joking.
“Yes,” he says, smiling broadly.
A few days later I see him running up to me. “Is your
school ready?”
“It takes longer to build a school,” I say, embarrassed
at having made a promise that was not meant. But promises
like mine abound in every corner of his bleak world.
After months of knowing him, I ask him his name.
“Saheb-e-Alam,” he announces. He does not know what it
means. If he knew its meaning — lord of the universe —
he would have a hard time believing it. Unaware of what
his name represents, he roams the streets with his friends,
an army of barefoot boys who appear like the morning birds
and disappear at noon. Over the months, I have come to
recognise each of them.
“Why aren’t you wearing chappals?” I ask one.
“My mother did not bring them down from the shelf,”
he answers simply.
“Even if she did he will throw them off,” adds another
who is wearing shoes that do not match. When I comment on
it, he shuffles his feet and says nothing. “I want shoes,” says
a third boy who has never owned a pair all his life. Travelling
across the country I have seen children walking barefoot, in
cities, on village roads. It is not lack of money but a tradition
to stay barefoot, is one explanation. I wonder if this is only
an excuse to explain away a perpetual state of poverty.
I remember a story a man from Udipi once told me. As a
young boy he would go to school past an old temple, where
his father was a priest. He would stop briefly at the temple
and pray for a pair of shoes. Thirty years later I visited his
town and the temple, which was now drowned in an air of
Reprint 2024-25
Lost Spring/15
desolation. In the backyard, where lived the new priest, there
were red and white plastic chairs. A young boy dressed in a
grey uniform, wearing socks and shoes, arrived panting and
threw his school bag on a folding bed. Looking at the boy, I
remembered the prayer another boy had made to the goddess
when he had finally got a pair of shoes, “Let me never lose
them.” The goddess had granted his prayer. Young boys like
the son of the priest now wore shoes. But many others like
the ragpickers in my neighbourhood remain shoeless.
My acquaintance with the barefoot ragpickers leads
me to Seemapuri, a place on the periphery of Delhi yet miles
away from it, metaphorically. Those who live here are
squatters who came from Bangladesh back in 1971. Saheb’s
family is among them. Seemapuri was then a wilderness. It
still is, but it is no longer empty. In structures of mud, with
roofs of tin and tarpaulin, devoid of sewage, drainage or
running water, live 10,000 ragpickers. They have lived here
for more than thirty years without an identity, without
permits but with ration cards that get their names on voters’
lists and enable them to buy grain. Food is more important
for survival than an identity. “If at the end of the day we
can feed our families and go to bed without an aching
stomach, we would rather live here than in the fields that
gave us no grain,” say a group of women in tattered saris
when I ask them why they left their beautiful land of green
fields and rivers. Wherever they find food, they pitch their
tents that become transit homes. Children grow up in them,
becoming partners in survival. And survival in Seemapuri
means rag-picking. Through the years, it has acquired the
proportions of a fine art. Garbage to them is gold. It is their
daily bread, a roof over their heads, even if it is a leaking
roof. But for a child it is even more.
“I sometimes find a rupee, even a ten-rupee note,”
Saheb says, his eyes lighting up. When you can find a
silver coin in a heap of garbage, you don’t stop scrounging,
for there is hope of finding more. It seems that for children,
garbage has a meaning different from what it means to
their parents. For the children it is wrapped in wonder, for
the elders it is a means of survival.
One winter morning I see Saheb standing by the fenced
gate of the neighbourhood club, watching two young men
dressed in white, playing tennis. “I like the game,” he
hums, content to watch it standing behind the fence. “I go
Reprint 2024-25
16/Flamingo
inside when no one is around,” he admits.
“The gatekeeper lets me use the swing.”
Saheb too is wearing tennis shoes
that look strange over his discoloured
shirt and shorts. “Someone gave them
to me,” he says in the manner of an
explanation. The fact that they are
discarded shoes of some rich boy,
who perhaps refused to wear
them because of a hole in one
of them, does not bother him.
For one who has walked
barefoot, even shoes with a
hole is a dream come true. But
the game he is watching so
intently is out of his reach.
This morning, Saheb is on
his way to the milk booth. In
his hand is a steel canister.
“I now work in a tea stall down
the road,” he says, pointing in
the distance. “I am paid 800 rupees and all my meals.”
Does he like the job? I ask. His face, I see, has lost the
carefree look. The steel canister seems heavier than the
plastic bag he would carry so lightly over his shoulder.
The bag was his. The canister belongs to the man who
owns the tea shop. Saheb is no longer his own master!
“I want to drive a car”
Mukesh insists on being his own master. “I will be a motor
mechanic,” he announces.
“Do you know anything about cars?” I ask.
“I will learn to drive a car,”
he answers, looking straight into
my eyes. His dream looms like a
mirage amidst the dust of streets
that fill his town Firozabad,
famous for its bangles. Every
other family in Firozabad is
engaged in making bangles. It is
the centre of India’s glass-blowing
industry where families have
1. What is Saheb looking for in the
garbage dumps? Where is he
and where has he come from?
2. What explanations does the
author offer for the children not
wearing footwear?
3. Is Saheb happy working at the
tea-stall? Explain.
Reprint 2024-25
Page 5


Lost Spring/13
Lost Spring
Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood Stories of Stolen Childhood
About the author
Anees Jung (1944) was born in Rourkela and spent
her childhood and adolescence in Hyderabad. She
received her education in Hyderabad and in the
United States of America. Her parents were both writers.
Anees Jung began her career as a writer in India. She
has been an editor and columnist for major newspapers
in India and abroad, and has authored several books.
The following is an excerpt from her book titled Lost
Spring, Stories of Stolen Childhood. Here she analyses
the grinding poverty and traditions which condemn
these children to a life of exploitation.
Notice these expressions in the text.
Infer their meaning from the context.
? looking for ? perpetual state of poverty
? slog their daylight hours ? dark hutments
? roof over his head ? imposed the baggage on the child
‘Sometimes I find a Rupee in the garbage’
“Why do you do this?” I ask Saheb whom I encounter every
morning scrounging for gold in the garbage dumps of my
neighbourhood. Saheb left his home long ago. Set amidst
the green fields of Dhaka, his home is not even a distant
memory. There were many storms that swept away their
fields and homes, his mother tells him. That’s why they
left, looking for gold in the big city where he now lives.
“I have nothing else to do,” he mutters, looking away.
“Go to school,” I say glibly, realising immediately how
hollow the advice must sound.
“There is no school in my neighbourhood. When they
build one, I will go.”
2 2 2 2 2
Reprint 2024-25
14/Flamingo
“If I start a school, will you come?” I ask, half-joking.
“Yes,” he says, smiling broadly.
A few days later I see him running up to me. “Is your
school ready?”
“It takes longer to build a school,” I say, embarrassed
at having made a promise that was not meant. But promises
like mine abound in every corner of his bleak world.
After months of knowing him, I ask him his name.
“Saheb-e-Alam,” he announces. He does not know what it
means. If he knew its meaning — lord of the universe —
he would have a hard time believing it. Unaware of what
his name represents, he roams the streets with his friends,
an army of barefoot boys who appear like the morning birds
and disappear at noon. Over the months, I have come to
recognise each of them.
“Why aren’t you wearing chappals?” I ask one.
“My mother did not bring them down from the shelf,”
he answers simply.
“Even if she did he will throw them off,” adds another
who is wearing shoes that do not match. When I comment on
it, he shuffles his feet and says nothing. “I want shoes,” says
a third boy who has never owned a pair all his life. Travelling
across the country I have seen children walking barefoot, in
cities, on village roads. It is not lack of money but a tradition
to stay barefoot, is one explanation. I wonder if this is only
an excuse to explain away a perpetual state of poverty.
I remember a story a man from Udipi once told me. As a
young boy he would go to school past an old temple, where
his father was a priest. He would stop briefly at the temple
and pray for a pair of shoes. Thirty years later I visited his
town and the temple, which was now drowned in an air of
Reprint 2024-25
Lost Spring/15
desolation. In the backyard, where lived the new priest, there
were red and white plastic chairs. A young boy dressed in a
grey uniform, wearing socks and shoes, arrived panting and
threw his school bag on a folding bed. Looking at the boy, I
remembered the prayer another boy had made to the goddess
when he had finally got a pair of shoes, “Let me never lose
them.” The goddess had granted his prayer. Young boys like
the son of the priest now wore shoes. But many others like
the ragpickers in my neighbourhood remain shoeless.
My acquaintance with the barefoot ragpickers leads
me to Seemapuri, a place on the periphery of Delhi yet miles
away from it, metaphorically. Those who live here are
squatters who came from Bangladesh back in 1971. Saheb’s
family is among them. Seemapuri was then a wilderness. It
still is, but it is no longer empty. In structures of mud, with
roofs of tin and tarpaulin, devoid of sewage, drainage or
running water, live 10,000 ragpickers. They have lived here
for more than thirty years without an identity, without
permits but with ration cards that get their names on voters’
lists and enable them to buy grain. Food is more important
for survival than an identity. “If at the end of the day we
can feed our families and go to bed without an aching
stomach, we would rather live here than in the fields that
gave us no grain,” say a group of women in tattered saris
when I ask them why they left their beautiful land of green
fields and rivers. Wherever they find food, they pitch their
tents that become transit homes. Children grow up in them,
becoming partners in survival. And survival in Seemapuri
means rag-picking. Through the years, it has acquired the
proportions of a fine art. Garbage to them is gold. It is their
daily bread, a roof over their heads, even if it is a leaking
roof. But for a child it is even more.
“I sometimes find a rupee, even a ten-rupee note,”
Saheb says, his eyes lighting up. When you can find a
silver coin in a heap of garbage, you don’t stop scrounging,
for there is hope of finding more. It seems that for children,
garbage has a meaning different from what it means to
their parents. For the children it is wrapped in wonder, for
the elders it is a means of survival.
One winter morning I see Saheb standing by the fenced
gate of the neighbourhood club, watching two young men
dressed in white, playing tennis. “I like the game,” he
hums, content to watch it standing behind the fence. “I go
Reprint 2024-25
16/Flamingo
inside when no one is around,” he admits.
“The gatekeeper lets me use the swing.”
Saheb too is wearing tennis shoes
that look strange over his discoloured
shirt and shorts. “Someone gave them
to me,” he says in the manner of an
explanation. The fact that they are
discarded shoes of some rich boy,
who perhaps refused to wear
them because of a hole in one
of them, does not bother him.
For one who has walked
barefoot, even shoes with a
hole is a dream come true. But
the game he is watching so
intently is out of his reach.
This morning, Saheb is on
his way to the milk booth. In
his hand is a steel canister.
“I now work in a tea stall down
the road,” he says, pointing in
the distance. “I am paid 800 rupees and all my meals.”
Does he like the job? I ask. His face, I see, has lost the
carefree look. The steel canister seems heavier than the
plastic bag he would carry so lightly over his shoulder.
The bag was his. The canister belongs to the man who
owns the tea shop. Saheb is no longer his own master!
“I want to drive a car”
Mukesh insists on being his own master. “I will be a motor
mechanic,” he announces.
“Do you know anything about cars?” I ask.
“I will learn to drive a car,”
he answers, looking straight into
my eyes. His dream looms like a
mirage amidst the dust of streets
that fill his town Firozabad,
famous for its bangles. Every
other family in Firozabad is
engaged in making bangles. It is
the centre of India’s glass-blowing
industry where families have
1. What is Saheb looking for in the
garbage dumps? Where is he
and where has he come from?
2. What explanations does the
author offer for the children not
wearing footwear?
3. Is Saheb happy working at the
tea-stall? Explain.
Reprint 2024-25
Lost Spring/17
spent generations working around furnaces, welding glass,
making bangles for all the women in the land it seems.
Mukesh’s family is among them. None of them know
that it is illegal for children like him to work in the glass
furnaces with high temperatures, in dingy cells without air
and light; that the law, if enforced, could get him and all
those 20,000 children out of the hot furnaces where they
slog their daylight hours, often losing the brightness of their
eyes. Mukesh’s eyes beam as he volunteers to take me home,
which he proudly says is being rebuilt. We walk down
stinking lanes choked with garbage, past homes that remain
hovels with crumbling walls, wobbly doors, no windows,
crowded with families of humans and animals coexisting in
a primeval state. He stops at the door of one such house,
bangs a wobbly iron door with his foot, and pushes it open.
We enter a half-built shack. In one part of it, thatched with
dead grass, is a firewood stove over which sits a large vessel
of sizzling spinach leaves. On the ground, in large aluminium
platters, are more chopped vegetables. A frail young woman
is cooking the evening meal for the whole family. Through
eyes filled with smoke she smiles. She is the wife of Mukesh’s
elder brother. Not much older in years, she has begun to
command respect as the bahu, the daughter-in-law of the
house, already in charge of three men — her husband,
Mukesh and their father. When the older man enters, she
gently withdraws behind the broken wall and brings her
veil closer to her face. As custom demands, daughters-in-
law must veil their faces before male elders. In this case
the elder is an impoverished bangle maker. Despite long
years of hard labour, first as a tailor, then a bangle maker,
he has failed to renovate a house, send his two sons to
school. All he has managed to do is teach them what he
knows — the art of making bangles.
“It is his karam, his destiny,” says Mukesh’s
grandmother, who has watched her own husband go blind
with the dust from polishing the glass of bangles. “Can a
god-given lineage ever be broken?” she implies. Born in
the caste of bangle makers, they have seen nothing but
bangles  —  in the house, in the yard, in every other house,
every other yard, every street in Firozabad. Spirals of
Reprint 2024-25