Reading of the narration found in a short story by Mulk Raj Anand

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Description

Just an attempt to capture the spirit of narration, but to be a piece for fast reading contest.

Vocal Characteristics

Language

English

Voice Age

Middle Aged (35-54)

Accents

Indian (General)

Transcript

Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
it lost the festival spring from the wintry shapes of narrow lanes and alleys. Marsden gaily Clark humanity. Some walked some rodent horses. Others sat being carried in bamboo and below cox. One little boy ran between his father's legs, brimming over with life and laughter. Come, child Come called this parents as they live behind, fascinated by the toys in the show that lined the way he hurried towards his parents, his feet or 1,000,000,000 to their core, his eyes still lingering on the receiving toys as he came to where they had stopped to wait for him. He could not suppress the desire of his heart, even though he value knew the old cold stare of refusal in their eyes. I warned that toy, he pleaded. His father looked at him, red eyed in his family of tyrants way his mother melted by the free spirit of the day. Waas Stender on giving him her finger to whole said, Look, child, what is before you? It was a flowering mustard field, pay like melting gold as it swept across miles and miles off, even land. A group of Dragonflies were puzzling about on their gaudy purple rings, intercepting the flight of a lone black be or butterfly in search of sweetness from the flowers. The child followed them in the air with his gaze, till one off them were still its wings and rest on. He would try to catch it, but it would go fluttering, flapping up into the air when he had almost caught it in his hands. Then his mother gave a cautionary court. Come, child, come, come onto the footpath. He ran towards his parents gaily and walked a breast off them for a vile being, however, soon left behind, attracted by little insects and worms along the footpath that were teeming out from their hiding places to enjoy the sunshine. Come, child come, his parents, cold from the shade of a grow, where they hard seated themselves on the edge of well, he ran towards them. A shower off young flowers fell upon the child as he entered the grove and, forgetting his barons, he began to gather the reigning petals in his ends. But lo, he heard the cooling off the house and run towards his barons, shouting the tall, dark, raining petals dropped from his forgotten hands. Come, child, come, they called to the child, who had now gone running in wild capers. Round the been entry