In which year did the writer Thakazhi Sivasankara Pillai receive the Bharatiya Janapith Award ?->(Show Answer!)

1. In which year did the writer Thakazhi Sivasankara Pillai receive the Bharatiya Janapith Award

Write Comment

Comments

Tags

Show Similar Question And Answers

QA->What is the nick name of Thakazhi Sivasankara ?....

QA->Who is call as " Thakazhi Sivasankara "....

QA->In which year Thakazhi S. Pillai got Jnanpith Award ?....

QA->Which is the recipient of 49th Janapith Award (2013)?....

QA->Winner of Thakazhi Cherukatha Puraskaram for the Year 2013?....

MCQ->In which year did the writer Thakazhi Sivasankara Pillai receive the Bharatiya Janapith Award....

MCQ->Which novel of Thakazhi Sivasankara Pillai got Kendra Sahithya Academy Award in 1958?....

MCQ->Which one of the following is written by Thakazhi Sivasankara Pillai....

MCQ-> A passage is given with 5 questions following it. Read the passage carefully and choose the best answer to each question out of the four alternatives and click the button corresponding to it. Worry is a very common thing. Even children worry as much as grown up people. In his childhood, the writer used to fear that his parents would die suddenly at night. His fear and anxiety was just imaginary. When he was on the war front in Mesopotamia, the writer came to a certain conclusion on worrying. He was a subaltern officer. It was not his duty to plan future actions of war. He was there only to carry out what the superiors would decide. So it was useless to worry. When he took that stand he slept soundly without worry. Here, the writer had some real reason to worry. But he could get rid of it when he found it was useless to worry. He followed the same principle when he was a prisoner of war and he was in Asiatic Turkey. There, too, he banished his worries because nothing of his future depended on himself. The future of the prisoners of war would depend on the various governments. Thus he was able to live there without much worry though he was a prisoner. But his deliberate suppression of worry during the war and as a prisoner did not wholly eradicate his worries. The fear had gone to his subconscious mind and remained there buried. After the war the writer was at home. But whenever a member of his family was absent he feared all sorts of mishap happening to him or her. Moreover, he had a recurring nightmare that he had become a prisoner of war and the war was not going to end. The worries without any real cause here were the manifestations of the fears that he had banished deliberately earlier.Why was the writer able to live in jail without much worry?
....

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?
....