Govind spends------------weekends at a holiday resort ?->(Show Answer!)

1. Govind spends------------weekends at a holiday resort

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MCQ-> Read the following passage carefully and answer the questions given below it. Certain words have been printed in bold to help you locate them while answering some of the questions. Govind’s father was a rich landlord, who was loved and respected by all his tenants. When he died. he left large tracts of land to Govind. But Govind did not spend a single day looking after his land. He had a funny idea, that there existed a magic potion which, if it was poured on any object would turn it into gold. He spent all his time trying to learn more about this potion. People took advantage of him and cheated him. His wife grew anxious. Given the amount of money Govind was spending, she was sure that they would soon be paupers. One day, a widely respected sage who had been to the Himalayas came to their town. Govind asked him about the potion. To his surprise the sage answered, “I have learnt how to brew such a potion. But it is a difficult process.” -Fell me!” insisted Govind, hardly able to believe his luck. “You have to collect the dew which settles on the leaves of a banana tree every morning during.winter. There is a condition though. The tree should be planted and watered regularly with your own hands. Store the collected dew in an earthen vessel and when you have five litres, bring it to me. I will recite a sacred mantra to transform the dew into the potion. A drop of the potion will be sufficient to change any object into gold.” Govind was worried. “Winter is only for a few months in the year. It will take me years to collect the dew.” “You can plant as many trees as you want.” replied the sage. Govind went home and after talking to his wife, began clearing the large fields which has been lying vacant for years. He planted rows of banana saplings. He tended them with great care. His wife helped him too. She would take the banana crop to market and get a good price. Over the years the plantation grew and finally after six years Govind had live litres of dew. He went to the sage who smiled, uttered a mantra and sprinkled a few drops of dew on a copper vessel. To Govind’s dismay, nothing happened. “You have cheated me!” he shouted at the sage. The sage however smiled. Govind’s wife then came forward with a box. The sage opened it and revealed stacks of gold coins inside. Turning to Govind he said, “You worked hard on your land and created a plantation. Your wife sold ‘the produce in the market. It was your hard work which created this wealth, not magic. If I had told you this earlier, you would not have listened.” Govind understood the wisdom behind the sage’s words and worked even harder from that day on.Why did Govind’s father give him large plots of land?
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MCQ-> Study the following information carefully and answer the questions given below :A word and number arrangement machine when given an input line of words and numbers rearranges them following a particular rule in each step. The following is an illustation of input and various steps of rearrangement. (All the numbers are two digit numbers).Input : plan more vacation 35 56 92 nice holiday tours 84 61 12Step I : 92 plan more vacation 35 56 nice tours 84 61 12 holiday Step II : 92 84 plan vacation 35 56 nice tours 61 12 more holiday Step III : 92 84 61 plan vacation 35 56 tours 12 nice more holiday Step IV : 92 84 61 56 vacation 35 tours 12 plan nice more holiday Step V : 92 84 61 56 35 vacation 12 tours plan nice more holiday Step VI : 92 84 61 56 35 12 vacation tours plan nice more holiday And Step VI is the last step of the rearrangement as the desired arrangement is obtained. As per rules followed in the above steps, find out in each of the questions the appropriate step for the given input. Input : hard work pays 96 42 in 79 long run 18 25 57Which step number is the following output? 96 79 57 42 work run 18 25 pays long in hard....

MCQ->Govind spends------------weekends at a holiday resort....

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MCQ-> Billie Holiday died a few weeks ago. I have been unable until now to write about her, but since she will survive many who receive longer obituaries, a short delay in one small appreciation will not harm her or us. When she died we — the musicians, critics, all who were ever transfixed by the most heart-rending voice of the past generation — grieved bitterly. There was no reason to. Few people pursed self-destruction more whole-heartedly than she, and when the pursuit was at an end, at the age of 44, she had turned herself into a physical and artistic wreck. Some of us tried gallantly to pretend otherwise, taking comfort in the occasional moments when she still sounded like a ravaged echo of her greatness. Others had not even the heart to see and listen any more. We preferred to stay home and, if old and lucky enough to own the incomparable records of her heyday from 1937 to 1946, many of which are not even available on British LP, to recreate those coarse-textured, sinuous, sensual and unbearable sad noises which gave her a sure corner of immortality. Her physical death called, if anything, for relief rather than sorrow. What sort of middle age would she have faced without the voice to earn money for her drinks and fixes, without the looks — and in her day she was hauntingly beautiful — to attract the men she needed, without business sense, without anything but the disinterested worship of ageing men who had heard and seen her in her glory?And yet, irrational though it is, our grief expressed Billie Holiday’s art, that of a woman for whom one must be sorry. The great blues singers, to whom she may be justly compared, played their game from strength. Lionesses, though often wounded or at bay (did not Bessie Smith call herself ‘a tiger, ready to jump’?), their tragic equivalents were Cleopatra and Phaedra; Holiday’s was an embittered Ophelia. She was the Puccini heroine among blues singers, or rather among jazz singers, for though she sang a cabaret version of the blues incomparably, her natural idiom was the pop song. Her unique achievement was to have twisted this into a genuine expression of the major passions by means of a total disregard of its sugary tunes, or indeed of any tune other than her own few delicately crying elongated notes, phrased like Bessie Smith or Louis Armstrong in sackcloth, sung in a thin, gritty, haunting voice whose natural mood was an unresigned and voluptuous welcome for the pains of love. Nobody has sung, or will sing, Bess’s songs from Porgy as she did. It was this combination of bitterness and physical submission, as of someone lying still while watching his legs being amputated, which gives such a blood-curdling quality to her Strange Fruit, the anti-lynching poem which she turned into an unforgettable art song. Suffering was her profession; but she did not accept it.Little need be said about her horrifying life, which she described with emotional, though hardly with factual, truth in her autobiography Lady Sings the Blues. After an adolescence in which self-respect was measured by a girl’s insistence on picking up the coins thrown to her by clients with her hands, she was plainly beyond help. She did not lack it, for she had the flair and scrupulous honesty of John Hammond to launch her, the best musicians of the 1930s to accompany her — notably Teddy Wilson, Frankie Newton and Lester Young — the boundless devotion of all serious connoisseurs, and much public success. It was too late to arrest a career of systematic embittered self-immolation. To be born with both beauty and selfrespect in the Negro ghetto of Baltimore in 1915 was too much of a handicap, even without rape at the age of 10 and drug-addiction in her teens. But, while she destroyed herself, she sang, unmelodious, profound and heartbreaking. It is impossible not to weep for her, or not to hate the world which made her what she was.Why will Billie Holiday survive many who receive longer obituaries?
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