NCERT Textbook: Chapter 1 - The Lost Child, Class 9, English Class 9 Notes | EduRev

 Page 1


IT was the festival of spring. From the wintry shades of narrow
lanes and alleys emerged a gaily clad humanity. Some walked,
some rode on horses, others sat, being carried in bamboo and
bullock carts. One little boy ran between his father’s legs,
brimming over with life and laughter.
1.  The Lost Child
A child goes to a fair with his parents. He is happy
and excited and wants the sweets and toys
displayed there. But his parents don’t buy them for
him. Why then does he refuse when someone else
offers them to him?
Page 2


IT was the festival of spring. From the wintry shades of narrow
lanes and alleys emerged a gaily clad humanity. Some walked,
some rode on horses, others sat, being carried in bamboo and
bullock carts. One little boy ran between his father’s legs,
brimming over with life and laughter.
1.  The Lost Child
A child goes to a fair with his parents. He is happy
and excited and wants the sweets and toys
displayed there. But his parents don’t buy them for
him. Why then does he refuse when someone else
offers them to him?
2 / Moments
“Come, child, come,” called his parents, as he lagged behind,
fascinated by the toys in the shops that lined the way.
He hurried towards his parents, his feet obedient to their call,
his eyes still lingering on the receding toys. As he came to where
they had stopped to wait for him, he could not suppress the desire
of his heart, even though he well knew the old, cold stare of refusal
in their eyes.
“I want that toy,” he pleaded.
His father looked at him red-eyed, in his familiar tyrant’s way.
His mother, melted by the free spirit of the day was tender and,
giving him her finger to hold, said, “Look, child, what is before you!”
It was  a flowering mustard-field, pale like melting gold as it
swept across miles and miles of even land.
A group of dragon-flies were bustling about on their gaudy
purple wings, intercepting the flight of a lone black bee or butterfly
in search of sweetness from the flowers. The child followed them
in the air with his gaze, till one of them would still its wings and
rest, and he would try to catch it. But it would go fluttering,
flapping, up into the air, when he had almost caught it in his
hands. Then his mother gave a cautionary call: “Come, child,
come, come on to the footpath.”
He ran towards his parents gaily and walked abreast of them
for a while, being, however, soon left behind, attracted by the
little insects and worms along the footpath that were teeming out
from their hiding places to enjoy the sunshine.
“Come, child, come!” his parents  called from the shade  of a
grove where they had seated themselves on the edge of a well. He
ran towards them.
A shower of young flowers fell upon the child as he entered
the grove, and, forgetting his parents, he began to gather the
raining petals in his hands. But lo! he heard the cooing of  doves
and ran towards his parents, shouting, “The dove! The dove!” The
raining petals dropped from his forgotten hands.
“Come, child, come!” they called to the child, who had now
gone running in wild capers round  the banyan tree, and  gathering
him up they took the narrow, winding footpath which led to the
fair through the mustard fields.
Page 3


IT was the festival of spring. From the wintry shades of narrow
lanes and alleys emerged a gaily clad humanity. Some walked,
some rode on horses, others sat, being carried in bamboo and
bullock carts. One little boy ran between his father’s legs,
brimming over with life and laughter.
1.  The Lost Child
A child goes to a fair with his parents. He is happy
and excited and wants the sweets and toys
displayed there. But his parents don’t buy them for
him. Why then does he refuse when someone else
offers them to him?
2 / Moments
“Come, child, come,” called his parents, as he lagged behind,
fascinated by the toys in the shops that lined the way.
He hurried towards his parents, his feet obedient to their call,
his eyes still lingering on the receding toys. As he came to where
they had stopped to wait for him, he could not suppress the desire
of his heart, even though he well knew the old, cold stare of refusal
in their eyes.
“I want that toy,” he pleaded.
His father looked at him red-eyed, in his familiar tyrant’s way.
His mother, melted by the free spirit of the day was tender and,
giving him her finger to hold, said, “Look, child, what is before you!”
It was  a flowering mustard-field, pale like melting gold as it
swept across miles and miles of even land.
A group of dragon-flies were bustling about on their gaudy
purple wings, intercepting the flight of a lone black bee or butterfly
in search of sweetness from the flowers. The child followed them
in the air with his gaze, till one of them would still its wings and
rest, and he would try to catch it. But it would go fluttering,
flapping, up into the air, when he had almost caught it in his
hands. Then his mother gave a cautionary call: “Come, child,
come, come on to the footpath.”
He ran towards his parents gaily and walked abreast of them
for a while, being, however, soon left behind, attracted by the
little insects and worms along the footpath that were teeming out
from their hiding places to enjoy the sunshine.
“Come, child, come!” his parents  called from the shade  of a
grove where they had seated themselves on the edge of a well. He
ran towards them.
A shower of young flowers fell upon the child as he entered
the grove, and, forgetting his parents, he began to gather the
raining petals in his hands. But lo! he heard the cooing of  doves
and ran towards his parents, shouting, “The dove! The dove!” The
raining petals dropped from his forgotten hands.
“Come, child, come!” they called to the child, who had now
gone running in wild capers round  the banyan tree, and  gathering
him up they took the narrow, winding footpath which led to the
fair through the mustard fields.
The Lost Child / 3
As they neared the village the child could see many other
footpaths full of throngs, converging to the whirlpool of the fair,
and felt at once repelled and fascinated by the confusion of the
world he was entering.
A sweetmeat seller hawked, “gulab-jaman, rasagulla, burfi,
jalebi,” at the corner of the entrance and a crowd pressed round
his counter at the foot of an architecture of many coloured  sweets,
decorated with leaves of silver and gold. The child stared open-
eyed and his mouth watered for the burfi that was his favourite
sweet. “I want that burfi,”  he slowly murmured. But he half knew
as he begged that his plea would not be heeded because his
parents would say he was greedy. So without waiting for an answer
he moved on.
A flower-seller hawked, “A garland of gulmohur, a garland of
gulmohur!” The child seemed irresistibly drawn. He went towards
the basket where the flowers lay heaped and half murmured, “I
want that garland.” But he well knew his parents would refuse to
buy him those flowers because they would say that they were
cheap. So, without waiting for an answer, he moved on.
A man stood holding a pole with yellow, red, green and purple
balloons flying from it. The child was simply carried away by the
rainbow glory of their silken colours and he was filled with an
overwhelming desire to possess them all. But he well knew his
parents would never buy him the balloons because they would
say he was too old to play with such toys. So he walked on farther.
A snake-charmer stood playing a flute to a snake which coiled
itself in a basket, its head raised in a graceful bend like the neck
of a swan, while the music stole into its invisible ears like the
gentle rippling of an invisible waterfall. The child went towards
the snake-charmer. But, knowing his parents had forbidden him
to hear such coarse music as the snake-charmer played, he
proceeded farther.
There was a roundabout in full swing. Men, women and
children, carried away in a whirling motion, shrieked and cried
with dizzy laughter. The child watched them intently and then he
made a bold request: “I want to go on the roundabout, please,
Father, Mother.”
Page 4


IT was the festival of spring. From the wintry shades of narrow
lanes and alleys emerged a gaily clad humanity. Some walked,
some rode on horses, others sat, being carried in bamboo and
bullock carts. One little boy ran between his father’s legs,
brimming over with life and laughter.
1.  The Lost Child
A child goes to a fair with his parents. He is happy
and excited and wants the sweets and toys
displayed there. But his parents don’t buy them for
him. Why then does he refuse when someone else
offers them to him?
2 / Moments
“Come, child, come,” called his parents, as he lagged behind,
fascinated by the toys in the shops that lined the way.
He hurried towards his parents, his feet obedient to their call,
his eyes still lingering on the receding toys. As he came to where
they had stopped to wait for him, he could not suppress the desire
of his heart, even though he well knew the old, cold stare of refusal
in their eyes.
“I want that toy,” he pleaded.
His father looked at him red-eyed, in his familiar tyrant’s way.
His mother, melted by the free spirit of the day was tender and,
giving him her finger to hold, said, “Look, child, what is before you!”
It was  a flowering mustard-field, pale like melting gold as it
swept across miles and miles of even land.
A group of dragon-flies were bustling about on their gaudy
purple wings, intercepting the flight of a lone black bee or butterfly
in search of sweetness from the flowers. The child followed them
in the air with his gaze, till one of them would still its wings and
rest, and he would try to catch it. But it would go fluttering,
flapping, up into the air, when he had almost caught it in his
hands. Then his mother gave a cautionary call: “Come, child,
come, come on to the footpath.”
He ran towards his parents gaily and walked abreast of them
for a while, being, however, soon left behind, attracted by the
little insects and worms along the footpath that were teeming out
from their hiding places to enjoy the sunshine.
“Come, child, come!” his parents  called from the shade  of a
grove where they had seated themselves on the edge of a well. He
ran towards them.
A shower of young flowers fell upon the child as he entered
the grove, and, forgetting his parents, he began to gather the
raining petals in his hands. But lo! he heard the cooing of  doves
and ran towards his parents, shouting, “The dove! The dove!” The
raining petals dropped from his forgotten hands.
“Come, child, come!” they called to the child, who had now
gone running in wild capers round  the banyan tree, and  gathering
him up they took the narrow, winding footpath which led to the
fair through the mustard fields.
The Lost Child / 3
As they neared the village the child could see many other
footpaths full of throngs, converging to the whirlpool of the fair,
and felt at once repelled and fascinated by the confusion of the
world he was entering.
A sweetmeat seller hawked, “gulab-jaman, rasagulla, burfi,
jalebi,” at the corner of the entrance and a crowd pressed round
his counter at the foot of an architecture of many coloured  sweets,
decorated with leaves of silver and gold. The child stared open-
eyed and his mouth watered for the burfi that was his favourite
sweet. “I want that burfi,”  he slowly murmured. But he half knew
as he begged that his plea would not be heeded because his
parents would say he was greedy. So without waiting for an answer
he moved on.
A flower-seller hawked, “A garland of gulmohur, a garland of
gulmohur!” The child seemed irresistibly drawn. He went towards
the basket where the flowers lay heaped and half murmured, “I
want that garland.” But he well knew his parents would refuse to
buy him those flowers because they would say that they were
cheap. So, without waiting for an answer, he moved on.
A man stood holding a pole with yellow, red, green and purple
balloons flying from it. The child was simply carried away by the
rainbow glory of their silken colours and he was filled with an
overwhelming desire to possess them all. But he well knew his
parents would never buy him the balloons because they would
say he was too old to play with such toys. So he walked on farther.
A snake-charmer stood playing a flute to a snake which coiled
itself in a basket, its head raised in a graceful bend like the neck
of a swan, while the music stole into its invisible ears like the
gentle rippling of an invisible waterfall. The child went towards
the snake-charmer. But, knowing his parents had forbidden him
to hear such coarse music as the snake-charmer played, he
proceeded farther.
There was a roundabout in full swing. Men, women and
children, carried away in a whirling motion, shrieked and cried
with dizzy laughter. The child watched them intently and then he
made a bold request: “I want to go on the roundabout, please,
Father, Mother.”
4 / Moments
There was no reply. He turned to look at his parents. They were
not there, ahead of him. He turned to look on either side. They
were not there. He looked behind. There was no sign of them.
A full, deep cry rose within his dry throat and with a sudden
jerk of his body he ran from where he stood, crying in real fear,
“Mother, Father.” Tears rolled down from his eyes, hot and fierce;
his flushed face was convulsed with fear. Panic-stricken, he ran
to one side first, then to the other, hither and thither in all
directions, knowing not where to go. “Mother, Father,” he wailed.
His yellow turban came untied and his clothes  became muddy.
Having run to and fro in a rage of running for a while, he
stood defeated, his cries suppressed into sobs. At little distances
on the green grass he could see, through his filmy eyes, men and
women talking.  He tried to look intently among the patches of
bright yellow clothes, but there was no sign of his father and
mother among these people, who seemed to laugh and talk just
for the sake of laughing and talking.
He ran quickly again, this time to a shrine to which people
seemed to be crowding. Every little inch of space here was
congested with men, but he ran through people’s legs, his little
sob lingering: “Mother, Father!” Near the entrance to the temple,
however, the crowd became very thick: men jostled each other,
heavy men, with flashing, murderous eyes and hefty shoulders.
The poor child struggled to thrust a way between their feet but,
knocked to and fro by their brutal movements, he might have
been trampled underfoot, had he not shrieked at the highest
pitch of his voice, “Father, Mother!” A man in the surging crowd
heard his cry and, stooping with great difficulty, lifted him up
in his arms.
“How did you get here, child? Whose baby are you?” the man
asked as he steered clear of the mass.  The child wept more
bitterly than ever now and only cried, “I want my mother, I
want my father!”
The man tried to soothe him by taking him to the roundabout.
“Will you have a ride on the horse?” he gently asked as he
approached the ring.  The child’s throat tore into a thousand shrill
sobs and he only shouted, “I want my mother, I want my father!”
Page 5


IT was the festival of spring. From the wintry shades of narrow
lanes and alleys emerged a gaily clad humanity. Some walked,
some rode on horses, others sat, being carried in bamboo and
bullock carts. One little boy ran between his father’s legs,
brimming over with life and laughter.
1.  The Lost Child
A child goes to a fair with his parents. He is happy
and excited and wants the sweets and toys
displayed there. But his parents don’t buy them for
him. Why then does he refuse when someone else
offers them to him?
2 / Moments
“Come, child, come,” called his parents, as he lagged behind,
fascinated by the toys in the shops that lined the way.
He hurried towards his parents, his feet obedient to their call,
his eyes still lingering on the receding toys. As he came to where
they had stopped to wait for him, he could not suppress the desire
of his heart, even though he well knew the old, cold stare of refusal
in their eyes.
“I want that toy,” he pleaded.
His father looked at him red-eyed, in his familiar tyrant’s way.
His mother, melted by the free spirit of the day was tender and,
giving him her finger to hold, said, “Look, child, what is before you!”
It was  a flowering mustard-field, pale like melting gold as it
swept across miles and miles of even land.
A group of dragon-flies were bustling about on their gaudy
purple wings, intercepting the flight of a lone black bee or butterfly
in search of sweetness from the flowers. The child followed them
in the air with his gaze, till one of them would still its wings and
rest, and he would try to catch it. But it would go fluttering,
flapping, up into the air, when he had almost caught it in his
hands. Then his mother gave a cautionary call: “Come, child,
come, come on to the footpath.”
He ran towards his parents gaily and walked abreast of them
for a while, being, however, soon left behind, attracted by the
little insects and worms along the footpath that were teeming out
from their hiding places to enjoy the sunshine.
“Come, child, come!” his parents  called from the shade  of a
grove where they had seated themselves on the edge of a well. He
ran towards them.
A shower of young flowers fell upon the child as he entered
the grove, and, forgetting his parents, he began to gather the
raining petals in his hands. But lo! he heard the cooing of  doves
and ran towards his parents, shouting, “The dove! The dove!” The
raining petals dropped from his forgotten hands.
“Come, child, come!” they called to the child, who had now
gone running in wild capers round  the banyan tree, and  gathering
him up they took the narrow, winding footpath which led to the
fair through the mustard fields.
The Lost Child / 3
As they neared the village the child could see many other
footpaths full of throngs, converging to the whirlpool of the fair,
and felt at once repelled and fascinated by the confusion of the
world he was entering.
A sweetmeat seller hawked, “gulab-jaman, rasagulla, burfi,
jalebi,” at the corner of the entrance and a crowd pressed round
his counter at the foot of an architecture of many coloured  sweets,
decorated with leaves of silver and gold. The child stared open-
eyed and his mouth watered for the burfi that was his favourite
sweet. “I want that burfi,”  he slowly murmured. But he half knew
as he begged that his plea would not be heeded because his
parents would say he was greedy. So without waiting for an answer
he moved on.
A flower-seller hawked, “A garland of gulmohur, a garland of
gulmohur!” The child seemed irresistibly drawn. He went towards
the basket where the flowers lay heaped and half murmured, “I
want that garland.” But he well knew his parents would refuse to
buy him those flowers because they would say that they were
cheap. So, without waiting for an answer, he moved on.
A man stood holding a pole with yellow, red, green and purple
balloons flying from it. The child was simply carried away by the
rainbow glory of their silken colours and he was filled with an
overwhelming desire to possess them all. But he well knew his
parents would never buy him the balloons because they would
say he was too old to play with such toys. So he walked on farther.
A snake-charmer stood playing a flute to a snake which coiled
itself in a basket, its head raised in a graceful bend like the neck
of a swan, while the music stole into its invisible ears like the
gentle rippling of an invisible waterfall. The child went towards
the snake-charmer. But, knowing his parents had forbidden him
to hear such coarse music as the snake-charmer played, he
proceeded farther.
There was a roundabout in full swing. Men, women and
children, carried away in a whirling motion, shrieked and cried
with dizzy laughter. The child watched them intently and then he
made a bold request: “I want to go on the roundabout, please,
Father, Mother.”
4 / Moments
There was no reply. He turned to look at his parents. They were
not there, ahead of him. He turned to look on either side. They
were not there. He looked behind. There was no sign of them.
A full, deep cry rose within his dry throat and with a sudden
jerk of his body he ran from where he stood, crying in real fear,
“Mother, Father.” Tears rolled down from his eyes, hot and fierce;
his flushed face was convulsed with fear. Panic-stricken, he ran
to one side first, then to the other, hither and thither in all
directions, knowing not where to go. “Mother, Father,” he wailed.
His yellow turban came untied and his clothes  became muddy.
Having run to and fro in a rage of running for a while, he
stood defeated, his cries suppressed into sobs. At little distances
on the green grass he could see, through his filmy eyes, men and
women talking.  He tried to look intently among the patches of
bright yellow clothes, but there was no sign of his father and
mother among these people, who seemed to laugh and talk just
for the sake of laughing and talking.
He ran quickly again, this time to a shrine to which people
seemed to be crowding. Every little inch of space here was
congested with men, but he ran through people’s legs, his little
sob lingering: “Mother, Father!” Near the entrance to the temple,
however, the crowd became very thick: men jostled each other,
heavy men, with flashing, murderous eyes and hefty shoulders.
The poor child struggled to thrust a way between their feet but,
knocked to and fro by their brutal movements, he might have
been trampled underfoot, had he not shrieked at the highest
pitch of his voice, “Father, Mother!” A man in the surging crowd
heard his cry and, stooping with great difficulty, lifted him up
in his arms.
“How did you get here, child? Whose baby are you?” the man
asked as he steered clear of the mass.  The child wept more
bitterly than ever now and only cried, “I want my mother, I
want my father!”
The man tried to soothe him by taking him to the roundabout.
“Will you have a ride on the horse?” he gently asked as he
approached the ring.  The child’s throat tore into a thousand shrill
sobs and he only shouted, “I want my mother, I want my father!”
The Lost Child / 5
The man headed towards the place where the snake-charmer
still played on the flute to the swaying cobra. “Listen to that
nice music, child!” he pleaded. But the child shut his ears with
his fingers and shouted his double-pitched strain: “I want my
mother, I want my father!” The man took him near the balloons,
thinking the bright colours of the balloons would distract the
child’s attention and quieten him. “Would you like a rainbow-
coloured balloon?” he persuasively asked.  The child turned his
eyes from the flying balloons and just sobbed, “I want my mother,
I want my father!”
The man, still trying to make the child happy, bore him to the
gate where the flower-seller sat. “Look! Can you smell those nice
flowers, child!  Would you like a garland to put round your neck?”