Jagadish Chandra Bose Achievements

Jagadish Chandra Bose Achievements

When we talk about the science and the contribution of Indian Scientists, the foremost name we utter instinctively, is Jagadish Chandra Bose. Born on 30 November 1858, in Bikrampur, Bangladesh, Jagadish Chandra Bose was truly a scholar when we come across a prodigy like him who was a Bengali Polymath, Physicist, biologist, botanist, archaeologist, and writer of science fiction.

His true worth is realized when we hear the words of D.S. Dasgupta. He said, “Bose was modern India’s first Physicist, after all, one of her very first scientists. He was his motherland’s first active participant in the Galilean – Newtonian tradition. He had confounded the British disbeliever. He had shown that the Eastern mind was indeed capable of the exact and exacting thinking demanded by western science. He had broken the mold.”

After the failure of their studies in medicine due to health problems, he returned to India and joined Presidency as a professor of Physics in 1885. He then began his research on refraction, diffraction, and polarization. There is a controversy about whether he was the inventor of wireless telegraphy. After his successful research on physics, he turned to metals and plants. He proved that metals do have feelings and memory.

But Bose is highly acclaimed for his research on plants. With the help of poison, he
proved that plants have life and react to heat, cold and other sensitivities. He recorded his experiments and availed to us through his books. He wrote ‘Response in the living and Non-living” and “The nervous mechanism of plants”. He was even the inventor of an instrument called “coherer” which he used to prove reactions to radio waves.

The famous ‘Bose Institute’ was established by him before his death in 1937. This
great scientist passed away on November 23, 1937. Scientists die but their contributions always remain relevant to us. J.C. Bose started an era in Indian Science that must excel in its full colour. Let reverent Bose become a source of inspiration beyond in the future generations.

The Old Man At The Bridge By Ernest Hemingway ICSE Short Stories English Literature New Syllabus

The Old Man At The Bridge By Ernest Hemingway ICSE Short Stories English Literature New Syllabus

An old man with steel
rimmed spectacles and very dusty clothes sat by the side of the road. There was
a pontoon bridge across the river and carts, trucks, and men, women and
children were crossing it. The mule- drawn carts staggered up the steep bank
from the bridge with soldiers helping push against the spokes of the wheels.
The trucks ground up and away heading out of it all and the peasants plodded
along in the ankle deep dust. But the old man sat there without moving. He was
too tired to go any farther.
It was my business to
cross the bridge, explore the bridgehead beyond and find out to what point the
enemy had advanced. I did this and returned over the bridge. There were not so
many carts now and very few people on foot, but the old man was still there.
“Where do you
come from?” I asked him.
“From San
Carlos,” he said, and smiled.
That was his native
town and so it gave him pleasure to mention it and he smiled.
“I was taking
care of animals,” he explained.
“Oh,” I
said, not quite understanding.
“Yes,” he
said, “I stayed, you see, taking care of animals. I was the last one to
leave the town of San Carlos.”
He did not look like
a shepherd nor a herdsman and I looked at his black dusty clothes and his gray
dusty face and his steel rimmed spectacles and said, “What animals were
they?”
“Various
animals,” he said, and shook his head. “I had to leave them.”
I was watching the
bridge and the African looking country of the Ebro Delta and wondering how long
now it would be before we would see the enemy, and listening all the while for
the first noises that would signal that ever mysterious event called contact,
and the old man still sat there.
“What animals
were they?” I asked.
“There were
three animals altogether,” he explained. “There were two goats and a
cat and then there were four pairs of pigeons.”
And you had to leave
them?” I asked.
“Yes. Because of
the artillery. The captain told me to go because of the artillery.”
“And you have no
family?” I asked, watching the far end of the bridge where a few last carts
were hurrying down the slope of the bank.
“No,” he
said, “only the animals I stated. The cat, of course, will be all right. A
cat can look out for itself, but I cannot think what will become of the
others.”
“What politics
have you?” I asked.
“I am without
politics,” he said. “I am seventy-six years old. I have come twelve
kilometers now and I think now I can go no further.”
“This is not a
good place to stop,” I said. “If you can make it, there are trucks up
the road where it forks for Tortosa.”
“I will wait a
while,” he said, “and then I will go. Where do the trucks go?”
“Towards
Barcelona,” I told him.
“I know no one
in that direction,” he said, “but thank you very much. Thank you
again very much.”
He looked at me very
blankly and tiredly, and then said, having to share his worry with someone,
“The cat will be all right, I am sure. There is no need to be unquiet
about the cat. But the others. Now what do you think about the others?”
“Why they’ll
probably come through it all right.”
“You think
so?”
“Why not,”
I said, watching the far bank where now there were no carts.
“But what will
they do under the artillery when I was told to leave because of the
artillery?”
“Did you leave
the dove cage unlocked?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then they’ll fly.”
“Yes, certainly
they’ll fly. But the others. It’s better not to think about the others,”
he said.
“If you are
rested I would go,” I urged. “Get up and try to walk now.”
“Thank
you,” he said and got to his feet, swayed from side to side and then sat
down backwards in the dust.
“I was taking
care of animals,” he said dully, but no longer to me. “I was only
taking care of animals.”
There was nothing to
do about him. It was Easter Sunday and the Fascists were advancing toward the
Ebro. It was a gray overcast day with a low ceiling so their planes were not
up. That and the fact that cats know how to look after themselves was all the
good luck that old man would ever have.

The Heart of the Tree by Henry Cuyler Bunner English Literature ICSE English

The Heart of the Tree by Henry Cuyler Bunner English Literature ICSE English

What does he plant who plants a tree?
He plants a friend of sun and sky;
He plants the flag of breezes free;
The shaft of beauty, towering high;
He plants a home to heaven anigh;
For song and mother-croon of bird
In hushed and happy twilight heard—
The treble of heaven’s harmony—
These things he plants who plants a tree.
What does he plant who plants a tree?
He plants cool shade and tender rain,
And seed and bud of days to be,
And years that fade and flush again;
He plants the glory of the plain;
He plants the forest’s heritage;
The harvest of a coming age;
The joy that unborn eyes shall see—
These things he plants who plants a tree;
What does he plant who plants a tree?
He plants, in sap and leaf and wood,
In love of home and loyalty
And far-cast thought of civic good—
His blessings on the neighborhood,
Who in the hollow of His hand
Holds all the growth of all our land—
A nation’s growth from sea to sea
Stirs in his heart who plants a tree.

Daffodils I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud By William Wordsworth

Daffodils I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud By William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

The Darkling Thrush BY Thomas Hardy ISC English Poem

The Darkling Thrush BY Thomas Hardy ISC English Poem

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was
spectre-grey,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of
day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken
lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their
household fires.
The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse
outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his
death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled
plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

Birches By Robert Frost ISC English Poem

Birches By Robert Frost ISC English Poem

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father’s trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It’s when I’m weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig’s having lashed across it open.
I’d like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.
I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

The Dolphins By Carol Ann Duffy ISC English Poem

The Dolphins By Carol Ann Duffy ISC English Poem

World is what you swim in, or dance, it is simple.
We are in our element but we are not free.
Outside this world you cannot breathe for long.
The other has my shape. The other’s movement
forms my thoughts. And also mine. There is a man
and there are hoops. There is a constant flowing guilt.

We have found no truth in these waters,
no explanations tremble on our flesh.
We were blessed and now we are not blessed.
After travelling such space for days we began
to translate. It was the same space. It is
the same space always and above it is the man.
And now we are no longer blessed, for the world
will not deepen to dream in. The other knows
and out of love reflects me for myself.
We see our silver skin flash by like memory
of somewhere else. There is a coloured ball
we have to balance till the man has disappeared.

The moon has disappeared. We circle well-worn grooves
of water on a single note. Music of loss forever
from the other’s heart which turns my own to stone.
There is a plastic toy. There is no hope. We sink
to the limits of this pool until the whistle blows.
There is a man and our mind knows we will die here.

The Gift Of India By Sarojini Naidu ISC English Poem

The Gift Of India By Sarojini Naidu ISC English Poem

Is there ought you need that my hands withhold,
Rich gifts of raiment or grain or gold?
Lo ! I have flung to the East and the West
Priceless treasures torn from my breast,
And yielded the sons of my stricken womb
To the drum-beats of the duty, the sabers of doom.
Gathered like pearls in their alien graves
Silent they sleep by the Persian waves,
Scattered like shells on Egyptian sands,
They lie with pale brows and brave, broken hands,
they are strewn like blossoms mown down by chance
On the blood-brown meadows of Flanders and France.
Can ye measure the grief of the tears I weep
Or compass the woe of the watch I keep?
Or the pride that thrills thro’ my heart’s despair
And the hope that comforts the anguish of prayer?
And the far sad glorious vision I see
Of the torn red banners of victory?
when the terror and the tumult of hate shall cease
And life be refashioned on anvils of peace,
And your love shall offer memorial thanks
To the comrades who fought on the dauntless ranks,
And you honour the deeds of the dauntless ones,
Remember the blood of my martyred sons!

Crossing The Bar By Alfred Lord Tennyson ISC English Poem

Crossing The Bar By Alfred Lord Tennyson ISC English Poem

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

John Brown by Bob Dylan ISC English Poem

John Brown by Bob Dylan ISC English Poem

John Brown went off to war to fight on a foreign shore
His mama sure was proud of him
He stood straight and tall in his uniform and all
His mama’s face broke out all in a grin
“Oh son, you look so fine, I’m glad you’re a son of mine
You make me proud to know you hold a gun
Do what the captain says, lots of medals you will get
And we’ll put them on the wall when you come home”
As that old train pulled out, John’s ma began to shout
Tellin’ ev’ryone in the neighborhood
“That’s my son that’s about to go, he’s a soldier now, you know”
She made well sure her neighbors understood
She got a letter once in a while and her face broke into a smile
As she showed them to the people from next door
And she bragged about her son with his uniform and gun
And these things you called a good old-fashioned war
Oh, good old-fashioned war!
Then the letters ceased to come, for a long time they did not come
They ceased to come for about ten months or more
Then a letter finally came saying, “Go down and meet the train
Your son’s a-coming home from the war”
She smiled and went right down, she looked everywhere around
But she could not see her soldier son in sight
But as all the people passed, she saw her son at last
When she did she could hardly believe her eyes
Oh his face was all shot up and his hand was all blown off
And he wore a metal brace around his waist
He whispered kind of slow, in a voice she did not know
While she couldn’t even recognize his face!
Oh, lord, not even recognize his face!
“Oh tell me, my darling son, pray tell me what they done
How is it you come to be this way?”
He tried his best to talk but his mouth could hardly move
And the mother had to turn her face away
“Don’t you remember, ma, when I went off to war
You thought it was the best thing I could do?
I was on the battleground, you were home acting proud
You wasn’t there standing in my shoes”
“Oh, and I thought when I was there, God, what am I doing here?
I’m a-tryin’ to kill somebody or die tryin’
But the thing that scared me most was when my enemy came close
And I saw that his face looked just like mine”
Oh, lord, just like mine!
“And I couldn’t help but think, through the thunder rolling and stink
That I was just a puppet in a play
And through the roar and smoke, this string is finally broke
And a cannonball blew my eyes away”
As he turned away to walk, his ma was still in shock
At seein’ the metal brace that helped him stand
But as he turned to go, he called his mother close
And he dropped his medals down into her hand

Desiderata speech by Max Ehrmann ISC English Literature

Desiderata speech by Max Ehrmann ISC English Literature

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

 

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