Write a short story on a beggar- beg from one place to another- struggle much-got a bag full of money- returned -rewarded
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Terry is a beggar, and has been for some years. He has staked a claim a few metres from my apartment, strategically placed between the liquor shop and the junction of streets and roads that gives Kings Cross its name. He is not the only beggar in the area.
There are many. If one is to give a rough summary of the types of beggars who proliferate in the cramped area that includes the higher regions of Darlinghurst Road down to the halfway mark of Macleay Street – the main drag of the Cross – then the most common are the temporary beggars who, grimacing with severe hangovers, crop up of a Sunday or on Monday mornings wanting money for extra drinks or just enough money to flee back home from their disastrous weekend. Then there are the importune men who hover around the railway station pleading for money to buy a train ticket. Their familiar cry is for ‘spare change', or a small but uncommon amount like forty cents, in the hope that the impatient commuter will palm them a fifty cent coin or dollar just to get rid of them.
Before the recent transformation of Kings Cross, they would succeed more often than now, because the professionals and yuppies who have since shifted into the area, and who flood into the station of a morning or exit of an evening, have no time for these dishevelled losers. Strangely, these city workers often give money to a scruffy man waiting outside the entrance to the station. This is Ed, who is a go-between for junkies who have arranged to meet a bearded man with a silky terrier who will take them to a drug dealer down the street. Women especially take pity on the unkempt tiny dog he always carries and give Ed money without him even asking for it.
There are the severe alcoholics, of course, who need just enough change to dash off to the hardware shop to buy their metho. They slump in alcoves or on the doorsteps of apartment blocks and shops, their faces looking like giant bruises, holding out trembling hands to ask for money, giving a hideously bad performance as someone who needs enough to get back a train to the most distant suburb they can think of. Except for one, who haunts the doorstep of a friend of mine and who begs for spare change with an accent that would not be out of place with an actor playing an aristocrat in English repertory; most do not stay long. They either die or vanish into a drying-out facility with disturbing frequency.
There are many. If one is to give a rough summary of the types of beggars who proliferate in the cramped area that includes the higher regions of Darlinghurst Road down to the halfway mark of Macleay Street – the main drag of the Cross – then the most common are the temporary beggars who, grimacing with severe hangovers, crop up of a Sunday or on Monday mornings wanting money for extra drinks or just enough money to flee back home from their disastrous weekend. Then there are the importune men who hover around the railway station pleading for money to buy a train ticket. Their familiar cry is for ‘spare change', or a small but uncommon amount like forty cents, in the hope that the impatient commuter will palm them a fifty cent coin or dollar just to get rid of them.
Before the recent transformation of Kings Cross, they would succeed more often than now, because the professionals and yuppies who have since shifted into the area, and who flood into the station of a morning or exit of an evening, have no time for these dishevelled losers. Strangely, these city workers often give money to a scruffy man waiting outside the entrance to the station. This is Ed, who is a go-between for junkies who have arranged to meet a bearded man with a silky terrier who will take them to a drug dealer down the street. Women especially take pity on the unkempt tiny dog he always carries and give Ed money without him even asking for it.
There are the severe alcoholics, of course, who need just enough change to dash off to the hardware shop to buy their metho. They slump in alcoves or on the doorsteps of apartment blocks and shops, their faces looking like giant bruises, holding out trembling hands to ask for money, giving a hideously bad performance as someone who needs enough to get back a train to the most distant suburb they can think of. Except for one, who haunts the doorstep of a friend of mine and who begs for spare change with an accent that would not be out of place with an actor playing an aristocrat in English repertory; most do not stay long. They either die or vanish into a drying-out facility with disturbing frequency.
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