Class 9 English Chapter 3: Winds of Change

A small plumed fan used in ancient India. The word sits under the more general pankha, which covers fans of every kind, and it keeps the connection with feathers that the root word carries.

A technique in which pieces of fabric in different shapes and patterns are sewn onto another cloth using ornamental needlework. The appliqué hand fan of Rajasthan is described in the chapter as an antique pankha.

Gold threadwork. The zardozi hand fan of Rajasthan is distinguished from the appliqué fan by its glittering, ornate and encrusted use of that thread rather than by shape or size.

A type of water grass. Artisans in Bengal make delicate pankhas from its milky-white spongy centre, which gives those fans their particular lightness and colour.

Fine metallic thread, here silver, used in the Phadh hand fans of Uttar Pradesh alongside pure gold, silk and satin frills.

It comes from pankh, meaning the feather of a bird, which records what the earliest fans were made of. Pankha is then the general term, covering fans of every kind. Pankhi was the narrower word, used for a small plumed fan of ancient India, and it keeps the connection with feathers that the root carries.

Evidence of the existence and use of the pankhi survives in the Buddhist wall paintings at Ajanta, which date back to the second century of the common era. Further representations are found in embroidery work, in sculptures and in carvings. The early uses recorded are ceremonial rather than domestic: fanning deities in temples and kings in royal courts.

The appliqué hand fan is an antique pankha of fabric pieces in different shapes and patterns, sewn onto another cloth with ornamental needlework. The zardozi fan is distinguished instead by glittering, ornate and encrusted gold threadwork. Temple hand fans are made by engraving brass and carry a long handle. The painted hand fan is cardboard, featuring images, and is usually offered to gods.

Its fans are elegant and cotton-based, embellished with mirror work. The beads fan is covered with colourful beads and has a silver handle, and Gujarat is named as India's centre for bead craft, with those dainty fans commonly used as wall decorations. Kutch is recognised for hand-stitched leather fans decorated with thread and wool at the seams, and the state's home-based women workers have produced embroidered fans in mirror work and cross-stitch.

Machines and new inventions took over what the object was for, so the culture built around it is now in danger of fading gradually out of Indian life. Its use has narrowed to decoration and it survives as a traditional craft item. Alongside that, what was once made for a family's own use has become a trade, and that trade now yields some form of living to the artisans who practise it.

Celebration first: appreciating the culture, the stories and the artistry that the handicraft invokes. That in turn lets contemporary makers demonstrate their craft and regain its popularity, and gives them a commercial platform on which to build a sustainable livelihood. Alongside all of it, pankha-making workshops held both within and outside handicraft exhibitions spread awareness of the craft's beauty and importance.

It begins with the name. Pankha comes from pankh, the feather of a bird, and that root explains the narrower word pankhi, which meant a small plumed fan of ancient India.

The evidence for its age is specific. The Buddhist wall paintings at Ajanta, dating to the second century of the common era, show the pankhi, and further representations survive in embroidery, sculpture and carving.

Its earliest uses were ceremonial. Pankhas fanned deities in temples and kings in royal courts, and they ranged from a tiny two-inch fan to ones needing a person's full arm strength.

Over time they became cultural goods distributed through trade routes, and were considered exotic and stylish. And here the chapter makes the observation everything else depends on: there was substantial commonality in their use across India, and yet every village and town developed its own varieties, each set apart by distinct materials or intricate designs chosen according to geography, culture and ritual.

In modern times the position has changed twice over. Technology took the function, so the use of pankhas is now restricted to decorative purposes and they have become traditional craft items. And what was once made for personal use has become a commercial business, providing some form of livelihood to artisans, with a slight rise in demand owing to the range of new versions being made.

The chapter states the principle directly: how a fan is built tells you what lies at the cultural centre of the region making it. The examples bear it out in detail.

Rajasthan's varieties are distinguished by technique rather than shape. The appliqué fan uses pieces of fabric sewn onto cloth with ornamental needlework; the zardozi fan uses encrusted gold threadwork; the temple fans are engraved brass with long handles; and the painted fan is cardboard, made to be offered to gods. Each reflects something the region already does.

Gujarat's fans are cotton with mirror work, and its beaded fans have silver handles — which follows directly from its being the centre for bead craft in India. Kutch contributes hand-stitched leather with thread and wool at the seams.

Bengal's fans come from the milky-white spongy centre of the sola, a water grass, and its palm leaf fans are called by a local name and kept perpetually as possessions.

Uttar Pradesh uses pure gold, silver zari, silk and satin frills. Bihar uses bamboo, Odisha palm leaf, and the tribes embed grass and metal using bamboo sticks and grass, working geometrical patterns in white ink on red.

What the list shows is that in every case the material is whatever the region has and the technique is whatever the region already practises. A fan made in Kutch could not have been made in Bengal, and that is the whole point.

Two things have changed, and the chapter treats them differently.

The first is loss. With time, and with technology and new inventions arriving, the fine culture of the pankha is in danger of fading out of Indian life by degrees. The use of the object has been restricted to decorative purposes, and it has become a traditional craft item. Note the exact claim: not that the pankha has vanished, but that it has been demoted from necessity to ornament, and that ornament is optional.

The second is ambiguous. Once made for personal use, the handicraft has transformed into a commercial business. That has cost something — an object of daily life has become a product — but it also now provides some form of livelihood to India's artisans, and the slight increase in popularity and demand owes much to the range of versions being crafted.

Against that, the chapter proposes a sequence rather than a single measure, and the order is deliberate.

Celebration comes first: appreciating the culture, the stories and the artistry that the handicraft invokes. Nothing sells that nobody values.

That allows contemporary makers to demonstrate their craft and regain its popularity, and gives them a commercial platform on which to build a sustainable livelihood — a word that means reliably, not once.

And alongside all of it, workshops held both within and outside handicraft exhibitions spread awareness of the craft's beauty and its importance to India's culture.

A fact is a claim that can be checked against evidence, such as a date or a material. An opinion is a judgement, which may be widely held and still not be a property of the thing judged. The chapter contains both, and the exercises ask you to separate them.

A conclusion drawn from what a text says rather than something it states outright. The chapter never says why the use of pankhas was broadly similar across India, but the reader can infer a reason from the fact that the need they met was the same everywhere.

A claim paired with a justification for it. The pairing is sound only when the reason actually supports the claim: that pankhas were made of indigenous materials with elaborate designs supports the claim that each could be told from the others, not the claim that many people used them.

The turning of something made for use into something made for sale. The chapter treats it as neither rescue nor ruin: the craft lost its ordinary purpose and gained a livelihood, and both are recorded in the same paragraph.

An object with a history; an object that became a culture; a culture at risk; and a proposal. The second step bears the weight because everything urgent in the third depends on it. If all Indian fans were alike, then losing most of them would cost very little. Because every village and town developed its own varieties, the threatened loss is a loss of many distinct things rather than of one.

Because it expresses a judgement rather than a checkable property. Stylishness is not something a fan possesses, in the way it possesses a handle or a material; it is something people decide about a fan, and others in other periods could reasonably have decided otherwise. The sentence reports that judgement accurately, but an accurate report of an opinion is still not a fact about the object.

The advent of technology and innovative creations took over the fan's function, so its use is now restricted to decoration and its culture risks slowly losing its presence. Separately, the range of new versions being crafted has produced a slight increase in popularity and demand, and some form of livelihood for artisans. What is notable is that the two pull in opposite directions, and the chapter does not pretend they cancel out.

It works literally, because a pankha makes wind and that is the whole of what it was for. It works figuratively, because a wind of change is a shift nobody can stop, and the chapter describes exactly such a shift — from necessity to ornament, from personal use to commerce. And it carries the chapter's ambivalence, since a wind is neither good nor bad in itself, only irreversible.

It begins with celebration because nothing sells that nobody values: a commercial platform is useless without demand, and demand follows from people appreciating the culture, the stories and the artistry. The word sustainable then marks the difference between rescue and preservation. A craft that pays once has been carried through a season; only a craft that pays reliably has been preserved.

Whether innovation preserves a craft or alters the thing one meant to keep; whether a fan kept for decoration is still a fan; and whether commercial demand saves a craft or hollows it out. Leaving them open is defensible because answering them would require claims the chapter cannot support from what it has shown. A question left in the reader's hands is better than one settled badly on the page.

Read once it looks like a catalogue of fans. Read again it is an argument in four steps, and each depends on the one before it.

It begins by establishing that the object has a history. The pankha is documented from the second century of the common era, and it served priests and kings before it served anybody else. That settles that we are not discussing a trinket.

It then establishes that the object became a culture. Not one fan but dozens: every village and town developed its own varieties, distinguished by materials and designs chosen according to geography, culture and ritual. So the fan does not merely come from a region, it carries one.

Only then does the threat appear. Technology took over the function, so what remains is decoration, and decoration is optional in a way that necessity is not.

And it closes with a proposal: celebrate the craft, and give its makers a platform, because a craft that cannot earn will not survive however beautiful it is.

The arrangement is the argument. Had the variety not been established first, the loss described in the third step would cost very little, and the proposal in the fourth would have nothing to justify it. And the clearest single proof that this is an argument is the ending itself: descriptions do not recommend courses of action.

The chapter mixes several kinds of statement, and the exercises are designed to make a reader separate them.

Facts are the claims that can be checked. The Ajanta paintings date to the second century of the common era. Bihar's fans are made of bamboo. The use of pankhas is now restricted to decorative purposes. Each could be confirmed or refuted by somebody who went and looked.

Opinion is different, and one sentence in particular tests it. That pankhas were considered exotic and stylish reports a judgement people made. The sentence is a true report, but stylishness is not a property a fan has in the way it has a handle. It is something decided about the fan, and it could have been decided otherwise.

Cause and effect appear twice, and they pull in opposite directions. The advent of technology took over the fan's function, and the effect was that its use narrowed to decoration and its culture came to risk slow disappearance. Separately, the variety of new versions being crafted has produced a slight rise in popularity and demand, and some form of livelihood for artisans.

Some things are left to inference. The chapter never explains the commonality of use across India, but the reason is available: the need was identical because the climate was.

And one exercise tests whether a reason supports a claim at all. That the fans were made of indigenous materials with elaborate designs explains why each could be told from the others — not why many people used them. Difference is not popularity, and two true statements can still fail to support one another.

The proposal is carefully ordered, and the order is itself an argument.

Celebration comes first: appreciating the culture, the stories and the artistry the handicraft invokes. That placement is not sentimental. A commercial platform is useless without demand, and demand comes from people valuing the thing, so appreciation has to precede selling.

Next comes the platform, which the chapter distinguishes carefully from charity. Makers need somewhere to demonstrate their craft and regain its popularity — the chance to create the want, rather than payment for continuing an activity nobody wants.

Then a sustainable livelihood, where the adjective is doing real work. A craft that pays once has been rescued for a season; a craft that pays reliably has been preserved. Only the second changes anything.

And workshops, held both within and outside handicraft exhibitions. That last phrase matters, because the people who attend such exhibitions are already persuaded, and the ones who need reaching are elsewhere.

Against that, the chapter leaves real questions open. Can innovation preserve a craft, or does innovating change the thing one was trying to keep? It credits new versions with the rise in demand and also names innovative creations among the causes of decline. Is a fan kept on a wall still a fan? The text records the change without judging it. Does commerce save a craft or hollow it out? Commerce provides the livelihood, and commerce is also what turned an object of personal use into a product.

Those silences are defensible. A chapter that resolved them would be claiming more than it has shown.

A pair of words joined by a conjunction whose order cannot be altered. The rule of thumb the unit gives is that the shorter word comes first, which is why we say bread and butter and never butter and bread.

A conventional word combination — the particular partner a language habitually chooses. Nothing logical forbids the alternatives; they are simply not what English says. Sustainable livelihood, aesthetically pleasing and appreciating the culture are three from this text.

Formed with has or have plus the past participle. It refers to something in the past that has relevance to the present, and it also covers actions completed very recently, which is why it suits a chapter describing how a craft stands today.

A written account that sets out what something is, what it is made of and how it was produced, without the writer's judgement of it. The writing task asks for exactly this, and the chapter itself is an example.

Indigenous means local, from where something originated. Innovative means new and original in approach. Industrious means hardworking. Intricate means elaborate or detailed. Invoked means brought out. And initiatives are actions taken to improve a situation. All six appear again in the chapter itself, which is why the exercise comes first.

An ordinary pair simply joins two related words, and its order could be reversed without anybody objecting — villages and towns, thread and wool. A fixed expression has an order that cannot be changed at all, and the unit gives a rule for it: the shortest expression comes first, which is why English says bread and butter and never butter and bread. Wear and tear, high and dry and cut and run all belong to that second kind.

A collocation is a conventional word combination — the partner a language habitually chooses, as in sustainable livelihood or aesthetically pleasing. It cannot be reasoned out because nothing about meaning forbids the alternatives. Giving an exam and toning up your grammar are both perfectly understandable, and English simply does not say them, so the pairs have to be learned rather than deduced.

It is formed with has or have plus the past participle, and it describes something in the past that has relevance to the present, as well as recently completed actions. The chapter uses it heavily because every such sentence names a change whose result is the present situation: pankhas have become craft items, tribes have adopted the handicraft, the handicraft has transformed into a business. The simple past would close each of those off instead of leaving the result standing.

Two children are choosing a pankha for their grandmother's birthday. He wants something light because she sits in the veranda; she counters with something heavy and sturdy like the brass fans at the craft fair; he worries about moving it, and she proposes something in between. He adds that she keeps special things close, so it should fit under her pillow. She narrows the choice to a light bamboo one with beadwork or a medium-weight embroidered one with mirror work, and he suggests asking their mother. What the exercise tests is tracking who said what, since each false statement attributes a remark to the wrong speaker.

It requires a description of an artefact you have made in a craft class or learned to make from somebody, beginning with the collection and organisation of the facts. It forbids including your own opinion. A factual description says what a thing is, what it is made of, what shape and size it is and how it was produced — not whether it is beautiful or whether you were pleased with it. The chapter itself is the model, since it describes many kinds of fan without ever saying which is best.

The unit moves through three levels, each more settled than the last.

The first is the ordinary word pair. The chapter is full of them — stylish and exotic, towns and villages, wool and thread, brass and silk, encrusted and ornate, outside and within — and the exercise asks only that they be sorted by what they describe: appearance, place or material. Their order is not fixed, and reversing one would sound odd at worst.

The second is the fixed expression. Here the order cannot be changed at all, and the unit gives a working rule: the shortest expression comes first. Hence bread and butter, never butter and bread. The list includes high and dry, meaning stranded without help or money. Cut and run, a quick escape. Facts and figures, accurate and detailed information. All and sundry, everyone rather than a chosen few. Wear and tear, damage from normal use. Time and again, meaning often. And through thick and thin, meaning in difficulty as well as ease.

And wear and tear repays a second look, because both its words are working. One names damage by rubbing away and the other damage by pulling apart, so neither alone would cover what the phrase covers.

The third is the collocation, which is looser but no less settled. These are the partners a language habitually chooses — sustainable livelihood, aesthetically pleasing, appreciating the culture. You take an exam and take a seat; a scooter runs into a car; you take responsibility and improve your grammar. Every rejected alternative is perfectly understandable, which is exactly the difficulty: collocations cannot be deduced, only learned.

The present perfect is formed with has or have followed by the past participle. It refers to something in the past, but to a past that has relevance to the current or present time, and it also covers actions that have been completed very recently.

The chapter supplies four clear instances. Pankhas have become traditional craft items. Gujarat's home-based women workers have worked tirelessly in the handicraft. Many tribes have adopted the craft. And a handicraft once made for personal use has transformed into a commercial business.

What unites those four is that each describes a change whose result is the present situation. That is exactly what the tense is for, and it is why the chapter reaches for it so often. The subject of the whole piece is where a craft stands now, and a tense that connects a past change to a present state is the natural instrument for saying so.

The alternative shows the difference. Write that the tribes adopted the handicraft and the sentence closes the matter off in the past; the adopting is reported and finished. Write that they have adopted it and the result is still standing as you read.

The practice paragraph on puppetry uses the same pattern throughout. Puppeteers have created characters, have mastered movements, have passed down their craft and have performed in theatres. Only one subject in that list is singular — puppetry itself — and it therefore takes has rather than have, as in puppetry has evolved.

The speaking task is done in groups of four. Each student takes one of four kinds of fan — a hand fan, a ceiling fan, a table fan or a handheld fan — and speaks as that object rather than about it.

Five things have to be covered: an introduction in character, a description of your features, what you like about yourself, what you feel is your weakness, and what makes you unique.

The fourth is what makes the exercise work. Praising an object is easy and tells nobody anything; naming what it cannot do requires real thought, and it is precisely where the four fans differ. A ceiling fan cannot be carried anywhere. A hand fan needs an arm to move it. A table fan needs electricity and a flat surface. Only by admitting a limitation does a speaker arrive at anything specific.

The writing task moves in the opposite direction. Describe an artefact you have made in a craft class, or learned to make from somebody — beginning with the collection and organisation of the facts, and not including your own opinion.

That prohibition is the entire lesson. A factual description states what a thing is, what it is made from, what shape and size it takes and how it was produced. It does not state that it is beautiful, or that you were satisfied with it.

And the model is the chapter itself, which describes a dozen kinds of fan across half a dozen states without once saying which of them is best.

It comes from pankh, meaning the feather of a bird, which records what the earliest fans were made of. Pankha is then the general term, covering fans of every kind. Pankhi was the narrower word, used for a small plumed fan of ancient India, and it keeps the connection with feathers that the root carries.

Evidence of the existence and use of the pankhi survives in the Buddhist wall paintings at Ajanta, which date back to the second century of the common era. Further representations are found in embroidery work, in sculptures and in carvings. The early uses recorded are ceremonial rather than domestic: fanning deities in temples and kings in royal courts.

The appliqué hand fan is an antique pankha of fabric pieces in different shapes and patterns, sewn onto another cloth with ornamental needlework. The zardozi fan is distinguished instead by glittering, ornate and encrusted gold threadwork. Temple hand fans are made by engraving brass and carry a long handle. The painted hand fan is cardboard, featuring images, and is usually offered to gods.

An object with a history; an object that became a culture; a culture at risk; and a proposal. The second step bears the weight because everything urgent in the third depends on it. If all Indian fans were alike, then losing most of them would cost very little. Because every village and town developed its own varieties, the threatened loss is a loss of many distinct things rather than of one.

Because it expresses a judgement rather than a checkable property. Stylishness is not something a fan possesses, in the way it possesses a handle or a material; it is something people decide about a fan, and others in other periods could reasonably have decided otherwise. The sentence reports that judgement accurately, but an accurate report of an opinion is still not a fact about the object.

The advent of technology and innovative creations took over the fan's function, so its use is now restricted to decoration and its culture risks slowly losing its presence. Separately, the range of new versions being crafted has produced a slight increase in popularity and demand, and some form of livelihood for artisans. What is notable is that the two pull in opposite directions, and the chapter does not pretend they cancel out.

Indigenous means local, from where something originated. Innovative means new and original in approach. Industrious means hardworking. Intricate means elaborate or detailed. Invoked means brought out. And initiatives are actions taken to improve a situation. All six appear again in the chapter itself, which is why the exercise comes first.

An ordinary pair simply joins two related words, and its order could be reversed without anybody objecting — villages and towns, thread and wool. A fixed expression has an order that cannot be changed at all, and the unit gives a rule for it: the shortest expression comes first, which is why English says bread and butter and never butter and bread. Wear and tear, high and dry and cut and run all belong to that second kind.

A collocation is a conventional word combination — the partner a language habitually chooses, as in sustainable livelihood or aesthetically pleasing. It cannot be reasoned out because nothing about meaning forbids the alternatives. Giving an exam and toning up your grammar are both perfectly understandable, and English simply does not say them, so the pairs have to be learned rather than deduced.