PROJECT

IN
21 CENTURY
ST

Name: Egranes Mary joy S.

Gr&sec: 12 techvoc
Teacher: Ms.kristine toribio 
Agarwal to up stake in Anglo American

New Delhi, Sept. 21 (PTI): Mining billionaire Anil Agarwal plans

to purchase up to £1.5-billion worth of additional stake in blue chip
British miner Anglo American Plc to become its largest
shareholder with over 21 per cent holding, his family trust said.

The acquisition of about 9 per cent shares on top of the 12.43 per
cent bought in March will give Agarwal an indirect foothold in the
world's largest diamond producer, De Beers.

Anglo owns De Beers.

Sources, however, said Agarwal was not inclined to take over the
entire Anglo American despite becoming its largest shareholder.

They said he was also not interested in getting a position on the

board and would continue to remain as an investor.

Last year, Agarwal had made an unsuccessful offer to merge part

of his mining empire with Anglo American.
In a statement, Volcan Investments, the family trust of the
chairman of diversified miner Vedanta, said it intended to acquire
shares worth £1.25-1.5 billion ($2 billion), in addition to the £2
billion spent in March on acquiring a 12.43 per cent holding.

"We are encouraged by the performance of Anglo American since

our original investment earlier this year," Volcan Investment said.

"The company has made good progress in its operational and

financial performance and remains an attractive investment for
our family trust," it added.

The sources said Agarwal believed that Anglo American was

capable of getting technology and skilled people to India which
would help to increase the domestic production of metals such as
copper, diamond and gold.

Anglo American is one of the world's top five mining groups,

alongside BHP Billiton, Rio Tinto, Vale and Glencore, and has
copper mines in Chile, iron ore operations in Brazil and South
Africa as well as De Beers, the iconic diamond producer.

An indirect foothold in De Beers will increase Agarwal's presence

in one more commodity after zinc, aluminium, iron ore, copper,
power, silver and lead.
 “ Dilys Rose “
Music for a While

Our two musicians in question are young, very young, not yet twenty, though they
have played, separately and together, in a total of twenty-three countries. But I’ve been
vague so far. I should be more specific. Musicians is a very vague term. Anybody who
plays an instrument, any instrument, might be termed a musician. And I haven’t even
mentioned their gender, appearance, background. OK, so one boy, one girl. The boy
plays violin, very very well, the girl piano, equally well. All their lives they have worked
hard and now are rewarded, when they walk on stage, by the warm wave of applause
which crashes over them before they have played a note. They have also been
rewarded with the freedom This is a story about two musicians. It could have been a
story about a solo musician but isn’t because a solo musician is a rare and lonely
creature, even if an unquantifiable number of musicians wish or have at some point in
their lives wished to be just that – the one and only one who is listened to especially
closely in the tense, rarefied air of a concert hall. No, this is a story about a duo,
classical as it happens. They could have been folkies, rockers, jazzers, rappers, hip-
hoppers and so on but I’m sticking with my original plan here. I’m not turning them into
musicians who might appeal more from the nature of what they play to a younger,
cooler audience. I’m not young or cool and couldn’t care either way. What I do care
about is that these people put in hours and hours of practice every day. They are clean
cut and clean living. Mostly. Nobody’s perfect. In public they favour crisp white shirts,
pressed black trousers or skirts, polished shoes. Their hair is clean and usually tidy
though sometimes they let their locks grow wild and tangled, not to be up to date but to
make a connection with wild and tangled virtuosi of the past. They wear no interesting
or alarming facial piercings unless they have a pathological hankering to be considered
rebels. Go back a hundred years, two hundred, and this pair wouldn’t look very different
from how they look today. How they looked yesterday is another matter. How they
looked last night. Late last night. Very. Long past the witching hour when sensible
classical musicians should be abed in a nice room if they are lucky, a not-so-nice
boarding house if they are not, instruments safely by the bedside – unless they are
pianists, harpists or timpanists – and their clothes for the following day’s concert
pressed and pristine and hanging in an unfamiliar wardrobe. As musicians travel a lot,
they learn to settle in quickly and adapt to whatever facilities are available.
and privilege of international travel. They buy their shoes in Italy, sunglasses in
Singapore, have their jackets made to measure in Hong Kong or Hanoi. The boy’s violin
was made five thousand miles from his birthplace and has a lineage all of its own. The
girl rarely travels with her instrument. She makes do, within reason, with whatever piano
is available at her destination. She has learnt which questions to ask though she is
becoming aware that, at the other end, people answer her questions without always
telling her what she needs to know. The boy and girl share the same surname but I
don’t want them to be related. Not siblings at any rate, though second cousins might be
worth considering. Making them second cousins allows for more interesting
interpersonal possibilities: close but not too close for most of us to worry about the
increased statistical likelihood of babies they might conceive being born with an
insufficient or surplus number of digits. Were the opportunity to arise, our duo would be
free to be attracted to each other, to go forth and multiply should they so wish, without
wagging tongues and rolling eyes, or whispers behind closed doors. Not that sexual
chemistry is uppermost in the mind of either the boy or the girl at the time of this story.
Later, who knows, but for now there are many more pressing considerations. Much has
been invested in these two young people. Since they were old enough to master the art
of loading a spoon with mush and directing it successfully into a mouth, it was noticed
by an observant parent or relative that each, having eaten their fill, began to beat spoon
against bowl in a pleasingly rhythmic manner and, happily full-bellied, to sing along to
the beat. In hushed, reverential tones the realisation was voiced: Musical! The
observant parents or relatives muttered this faintly worrying miracle to other parents,
relatives or friends who paused in their tea sipping, wine swigging, card playing, mixing
of cement or shuffling of lecture notes – we could choose a virtuously poor family, a
mildly corrupt but comfortable family, even a flawed, wealthy family. We could choose a
calmly controlling or chaotic, free-wheeling family, a childhood paradise, a domestic
nightmare or one of the many hues between extremes. But whoever those observant
parents or relatives might have been, they also realised, with a heady fizz of pride and
awe, that their child must have an instrument and learn to play it. Well. Their child who,
fortunately, was also blessed with a photogenic smile and bodily charm, must stay
indoors while others ran free in sun or snow, must practise in the evenings while
classmates watched TV or listened to the latest hits, must rise early while others
indulged in slumber, must be discouraged from engaging in activities which might
damage priceless hands, must at all times be mindful of the special gift from God and/or
genetics. And make the most of it, for everybody’s sake: for himself or herself, whether
or not the gift was of any special interest to its possessor; for the parents, who hoped to
benefit from their gifted child in incalculable, though mostly financial ways; for the
dignitaries in their home town, state, country who would, if anything came of the family’s
investment, claim the children and the gift as their own and use them to put an
otherwise insignificant place on the cultural map. Not that our musicians constantly keep
in mind this imposed role of ambassador, mascot, glorified example, local resource.
Especially now that they have reached the dizzy heights which their parents hoped,
prayed, saved and paid through the nose for them to reach, now that they are up in the
rarefied firmament of success by virtue of their talent and hard work – there are times
when, if they are honest with themselves, the boy and girl really couldn’t care less
whether the mayor, the minister of culture or the local TV anchorperson approves of
them.
 “ The Story Spirits”
A tale of korea

Now, Dong Chin was a fine There was once a boy who loved stories. His name was Dong
Chin, and every night at bedtime he listened to stories from a favorite family servant, a
man named Pak.
boy, but there was one bad thing about him. He didn’t like to share the stories he
heard. He wanted to keep them to himself. So every night after listening, he said, “Mr.
Pak, make me a promise.”
“What is it, young master?” said Pak, though he knew well enough.
“Promise you won’t tell those stories again to anyone but me. Promise they will
stay in this room.”
“All right, young master,” said Pak with a sigh. “I promise.”
Years went by and Dong Chin grew up. When he was 15, his father chose him a
bride of the same age from a family in the next valley. Everyone in the household was
excited at the coming marriage.
On the night before the wedding, Dong Chin’s father undid his son’s long braid—
the kind worn by all sons and daughters till they married. Then he fixed the hair in a
tight topknot, just like his own. On his son’s head he placed a skullcap with a hole for the
topknot to poke through. And over it all, he placed a feather-light, see-through hat of
horsehair mesh.
Dong Chin was so proud. For years he had waited for this moment. Now he was a
man!
At last the wedding day arrived. In the early morning, Dong Chin and his father
made ready to go to the bride’s house for the ceremony. Everyone bustled about to help
and to prepare for the celebration the next day, when the bride would be brought home.
Pak was busy like everyone else. But as he rushed around, he happened to pass
outside Dong Chin’s room. To his surprise, he heard a murmur of many voices.
“That’s strange,” he said to himself. “The young master isn’t in there now, and no
one else should be either.”
He went up to the paper window, carefully poked a small hole, and peeked
through. Then he gasped.
The air was teeming with spirits—hundreds of them! Over, under, and around
each other they swarmed. There were so many, they barely had room to fly, and they
didn’t look one bit happy!
“Silence!” called one of the spirits. “Stop talking all at once, or we’ll never get
anywhere.”
The murmur died away. “That’s right,” said another spirit. “The boy’s wedding is
today, and we have to decide what to do.”
“We must have revenge!” said another. “He has to be punished for keeping us
stories all stuck here.”
 Pak gasped again. “It’s the stories!” he said in wonder. “The ones that had to stay
in the room!”
“Yes, he must be punished,” said another spirit. “But how?”
“I have an idea,” said another. “I’m a story that has a poisoned well in it. Why don’t
I put my well by the road? If he drinks the water, he’ll be deathly ill.”
“Wonderful!” said another. “I’m a story with poisoned strawberries in it. I’ll set
them farther down the road, in case he doesn’t drink.”
“Good thinking!” said another. “I’m a story with a red-hot poker. I’ll put it in the
cushion he steps onto at the bride’s house—in case he neither eats nor drinks on the
way. It will burn him terribly!”
“That should do it,” said still another. “But in case he escapes you all, I’ll be ready.
I’m a story with a deadly snake. I’ll hide it under the sleeping mat of the bride. When
they go to bed, it will bite and kill them both!”
“No!” cried Pak. He leaped to the door and threw it open. But there was . . .
nothing.
“I can’t have imagined it,” he said. “They must still be here, and I just can’t see
them. But—The young master! I must protect the young master!”
He rushed out to the road, where the wedding procession was already gathering. A
gaily decorated sedan chair—for the bride’s journey back—rested on two long poles held
by four servants. Dong Chin and his father each sat on a small white horse, its reins held
by a servant standing in front.
Pak grabbed the reins to Dong Chin’s horse, knocking the other servant out of the
way. “I will lead your horse today, young master!”
“Mr. Pak!” said the father. “Go inside! You’re needed here to prepare for
tomorrow!”
“Please, master!” begged Pak. “It is my dearest wish to lead the young master’s
horse on his wedding day!”
“Father, is it all right?” said Dong Chin. “I would like Mr. Pak to come with us.”
“Oh, all right,” his father grumbled. Then they lined up and started out, with Dong
Chin in front and his father in the rear.
It was spring, and the road led over hillsides of pink, red, and white azaleas. The
day was warm, and Dong Chin was relieved when he spotted a well by the road.
“Mr. Pak, I’m thirsty. Please bring me a drink from that well. There’s a gourd
dipper there for the water.”
“A gourd dipper!” said Pak in a voice filled with horror. “Oh no, young master! You
can’t drink from a common gourd on your wedding day! Wait till we reach the bride’s
house, where you’ll drink from porcelain.” And he hurried the horse past the well.
Dong Chin was amazed. It was not a servant’s place to disregard orders! But he
said nothing.
After a while, they came to a strawberry field. “Mr. Pak, I’m both thirsty and
hungry. Pick me some of these strawberries.”
 “The Man Who Never Lied”
An African folktale
Once upon a time there lived a wise man by the name of Mamad. He never
lied. All the people in the land, even the ones who lived twenty days away,
knew about him.

The king heard about Mamad and ordered his subjects to bring him to the
palace. He looked at the wise man and asked:

" Mamad, is it true, that you have never lied?"

" It's true."

"And you will never lie in your life?"

" I'm sure in that."

"Okay, tell the truth, but be careful! The lie is cunning and it gets on your
tongue easily."

Several days passed and the king called Mamad once again. There was a big
crowd: the king was about to go hunting. The king held his horse by the mane,
his left foot was already on the stirrup. He ordered Mamad:

"Go to my summer palace and tell the queen I will be with her for lunch. Tell
her to prepare a big feast. You will have lunch with me then."

Mamad bowed down and went to the queen. Then the king laughed and
said:

"We won't go hunting and now Mamad will lie to the queen. Tomorrow we
will laugh on his behalf."

But the wise Mamad went to the palace and said:

 "Maybe you should prepare a big feast for lunch tomorrow, and maybe you
shouldn't. Maybe the king will come by noon, and maybe he won't."

"Tell me will he come, or won't he?" - asked the queen.

"I don't know weather he put his right foot on the stirrup, or he put his left
foot on the ground after I left."

Everybody waited for the king. He came the next day and said to the queen:

"The wise Mamad, who never lies, lied to you yesterday."

But the queen told him about the words of Mamad. And the king realized,
that the wise man never lies, and says only that, which he saw with his own
eyes.