English Language is like checking if my son can fix a bicycle tyre—grammar, comprehension, writing letters. Literature is sitting with him under that tin roof, arguing whether a poem feels like our own *xoru xopohot* rain. They make you mug up Shakespeare’s themes, but the real difference is one paper wants a correct answer, the other wants a feeling, even if our town’s tutor says to just memorise the *bhaab* for marks.
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