Read the following passage and answer the question.
A decade and a half after Winston Churchill issued warnings, the British left India. A time of barbarism and privation did ensue, the blame for which remains a matter of much dispute. But then some sort of order was restored. No Germans were necessary to keep the peace. Hindu ascendancy, such as it was, was maintained not by force of arms but through regular elections based on universal adult franchise.
Yet, throughout the sixty years since India became independent, there has been speculation about how long it would stay united, or maintain the institutions and processes of democracy. With every death of a prime minister has been predicted the replacement of democracy by military rule; after every failure of the monsoon there has been anticipated countrywide famine; in every new secessionist movement has been seen the disappearance of India as a single entity.
Among these doomsayers there have been many Western writers who, after 1947, were as likely to be American as British. Notably, India's existence has been a puzzle not just to casual observers or commonsensical journalists; it has also been an anomaly for academic political science, according to whose axioms cultural heterogeneity and poverty do not make a nation, still less a democratic one. That India 'could sustain democratic institutions seems, on the face of it, highly improbable', wrote the distinguished political scientist Robert Dahl, adding: 'It lacks all the favourable conditions.' 'India has a well-established reputation for violating social scientific generalizations', wrote another American scholar, adding: 'Nonetheless, the findings of this article furnish grounds for skepticism regarding the viability of democracy in India.'
Here, let me quote only a prediction by a sympathetic visitor, the British journalist Don Taylor. Writing in 1969, by which time India had stayed united for two decades and gone through four general elections, Taylor yet thought that "the key question remains: can India remain in one piece – or will it fragment? . . . When one looks at this vast country and its 524 million people, the 15 major languages in use, the conflicting religions, the many races, it seems incredible that one nation could ever emerge."
The heart hoped that India would survive, but the head worried that it wouldn't. The place was too complicated, too confusing – a nation, one might say, that was unnatural.
In truth, ever since the country was formed there have also been many Indians who have seen the survival of India as being on the line, some speaking or writing in fear, others with anticipation. Like their foreign counterparts, they have come to believe that this place is far too diverse to persist as a nation, and much too poor to endure as a democracy.
Q. Which of the following expresses the author's main idea in the passage?
Read the following passage and answer the question.
A decade and a half after Winston Churchill issued warnings, the British left India. A time of barbarism and privation did ensue, the blame for which remains a matter of much dispute. But then some sort of order was restored. No Germans were necessary to keep the peace. Hindu ascendancy, such as it was, was maintained not by force of arms but through regular elections based on universal adult franchise.
Yet, throughout the sixty years since India became independent, there has been speculation about how long it would stay united, or maintain the institutions and processes of democracy. With every death of a prime minister has been predicted the replacement of democracy by military rule; after every failure of the monsoon there has been anticipated countrywide famine; in every new secessionist movement has been seen the disappearance of India as a single entity.
Among these doomsayers there have been many Western writers who, after 1947, were as likely to be American as British. Notably, India's existence has been a puzzle not just to casual observers or commonsensical journalists; it has also been an anomaly for academic political science, according to whose axioms cultural heterogeneity and poverty do not make a nation, still less a democratic one. That India 'could sustain democratic institutions seems, on the face of it, highly improbable', wrote the distinguished political scientist Robert Dahl, adding: 'It lacks all the favourable conditions.' 'India has a well-established reputation for violating social scientific generalizations', wrote another American scholar, adding: 'Nonetheless, the findings of this article furnish grounds for skepticism regarding the viability of democracy in India.'
Here, let me quote only a prediction by a sympathetic visitor, the British journalist Don Taylor. Writing in 1969, by which time India had stayed united for two decades and gone through four general elections, Taylor yet thought that "the key question remains: can India remain in one piece – or will it fragment? . . . When one looks at this vast country and its 524 million people, the 15 major languages in use, the conflicting religions, the many races, it seems incredible that one nation could ever emerge."
The heart hoped that India would survive, but the head worried that it wouldn't. The place was too complicated, too confusing – a nation, one might say, that was unnatural.
In truth, ever since the country was formed there have also been many Indians who have seen the survival of India as being on the line, some speaking or writing in fear, others with anticipation. Like their foreign counterparts, they have come to believe that this place is far too diverse to persist as a nation, and much too poor to endure as a democracy.
Q. According to the passage, which of the following is not provided as an example of the speculations surrounding the Indian democracy?
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Read the following passage and answer the question.
A decade and a half after Winston Churchill issued warnings, the British left India. A time of barbarism and privation did ensue, the blame for which remains a matter of much dispute. But then some sort of order was restored. No Germans were necessary to keep the peace. Hindu ascendancy, such as it was, was maintained not by force of arms but through regular elections based on universal adult franchise.
Yet, throughout the sixty years since India became independent, there has been speculation about how long it would stay united, or maintain the institutions and processes of democracy. With every death of a prime minister has been predicted the replacement of democracy by military rule; after every failure of the monsoon there has been anticipated countrywide famine; in every new secessionist movement has been seen the disappearance of India as a single entity.
Among these doomsayers there have been many Western writers who, after 1947, were as likely to be American as British. Notably, India's existence has been a puzzle not just to casual observers or commonsensical journalists; it has also been an anomaly for academic political science, according to whose axioms cultural heterogeneity and poverty do not make a nation, still less a democratic one. That India 'could sustain democratic institutions seems, on the face of it, highly improbable', wrote the distinguished political scientist Robert Dahl, adding: 'It lacks all the favourable conditions.' 'India has a well-established reputation for violating social scientific generalizations', wrote another American scholar, adding: 'Nonetheless, the findings of this article furnish grounds for skepticism regarding the viability of democracy in India.'
Here, let me quote only a prediction by a sympathetic visitor, the British journalist Don Taylor. Writing in 1969, by which time India had stayed united for two decades and gone through four general elections, Taylor yet thought that "the key question remains: can India remain in one piece – or will it fragment? . . . When one looks at this vast country and its 524 million people, the 15 major languages in use, the conflicting religions, the many races, it seems incredible that one nation could ever emerge."
The heart hoped that India would survive, but the head worried that it wouldn't. The place was too complicated, too confusing – a nation, one might say, that was unnatural.
In truth, ever since the country was formed there have also been many Indians who have seen the survival of India as being on the line, some speaking or writing in fear, others with anticipation. Like their foreign counterparts, they have come to believe that this place is far too diverse to persist as a nation, and much too poor to endure as a democracy.
Q. What does the word 'anomaly' as used in the passage mean?
Read the following passage and answer the question.
A decade and a half after Winston Churchill issued warnings, the British left India. A time of barbarism and privation did ensue, the blame for which remains a matter of much dispute. But then some sort of order was restored. No Germans were necessary to keep the peace. Hindu ascendancy, such as it was, was maintained not by force of arms but through regular elections based on universal adult franchise.
Yet, throughout the sixty years since India became independent, there has been speculation about how long it would stay united, or maintain the institutions and processes of democracy. With every death of a prime minister has been predicted the replacement of democracy by military rule; after every failure of the monsoon there has been anticipated countrywide famine; in every new secessionist movement has been seen the disappearance of India as a single entity.
Among these doomsayers there have been many Western writers who, after 1947, were as likely to be American as British. Notably, India's existence has been a puzzle not just to casual observers or commonsensical journalists; it has also been an anomaly for academic political science, according to whose axioms cultural heterogeneity and poverty do not make a nation, still less a democratic one. That India 'could sustain democratic institutions seems, on the face of it, highly improbable', wrote the distinguished political scientist Robert Dahl, adding: 'It lacks all the favourable conditions.' 'India has a well-established reputation for violating social scientific generalizations', wrote another American scholar, adding: 'Nonetheless, the findings of this article furnish grounds for skepticism regarding the viability of democracy in India.'
Here, let me quote only a prediction by a sympathetic visitor, the British journalist Don Taylor. Writing in 1969, by which time India had stayed united for two decades and gone through four general elections, Taylor yet thought that "the key question remains: can India remain in one piece – or will it fragment? . . . When one looks at this vast country and its 524 million people, the 15 major languages in use, the conflicting religions, the many races, it seems incredible that one nation could ever emerge."
The heart hoped that India would survive, but the head worried that it wouldn't. The place was too complicated, too confusing – a nation, one might say, that was unnatural.
In truth, ever since the country was formed there have also been many Indians who have seen the survival of India as being on the line, some speaking or writing in fear, others with anticipation. Like their foreign counterparts, they have come to believe that this place is far too diverse to persist as a nation, and much too poor to endure as a democracy.
Q. According to the author, which of the following is consistent with Taylor's argument about the existence of a united India?
Read the following passage and answer the question.
A decade and a half after Winston Churchill issued warnings, the British left India. A time of barbarism and privation did ensue, the blame for which remains a matter of much dispute. But then some sort of order was restored. No Germans were necessary to keep the peace. Hindu ascendancy, such as it was, was maintained not by force of arms but through regular elections based on universal adult franchise.
Yet, throughout the sixty years since India became independent, there has been speculation about how long it would stay united, or maintain the institutions and processes of democracy. With every death of a prime minister has been predicted the replacement of democracy by military rule; after every failure of the monsoon there has been anticipated countrywide famine; in every new secessionist movement has been seen the disappearance of India as a single entity.
Among these doomsayers there have been many Western writers who, after 1947, were as likely to be American as British. Notably, India's existence has been a puzzle not just to casual observers or commonsensical journalists; it has also been an anomaly for academic political science, according to whose axioms cultural heterogeneity and poverty do not make a nation, still less a democratic one. That India 'could sustain democratic institutions seems, on the face of it, highly improbable', wrote the distinguished political scientist Robert Dahl, adding: 'It lacks all the favourable conditions.' 'India has a well-established reputation for violating social scientific generalizations', wrote another American scholar, adding: 'Nonetheless, the findings of this article furnish grounds for skepticism regarding the viability of democracy in India.'
Here, let me quote only a prediction by a sympathetic visitor, the British journalist Don Taylor. Writing in 1969, by which time India had stayed united for two decades and gone through four general elections, Taylor yet thought that "the key question remains: can India remain in one piece – or will it fragment? . . . When one looks at this vast country and its 524 million people, the 15 major languages in use, the conflicting religions, the many races, it seems incredible that one nation could ever emerge."
The heart hoped that India would survive, but the head worried that it wouldn't. The place was too complicated, too confusing – a nation, one might say, that was unnatural.
In truth, ever since the country was formed there have also been many Indians who have seen the survival of India as being on the line, some speaking or writing in fear, others with anticipation. Like their foreign counterparts, they have come to believe that this place is far too diverse to persist as a nation, and much too poor to endure as a democracy.
Q. Based on information from the passage, which of the following statements is the author likely to agree with?
Read the following passage and answer the question.
A decade and a half after Winston Churchill issued warnings, the British left India. A time of barbarism and privation did ensue, the blame for which remains a matter of much dispute. But then some sort of order was restored. No Germans were necessary to keep the peace. Hindu ascendancy, such as it was, was maintained not by force of arms but through regular elections based on universal adult franchise.
Yet, throughout the sixty years since India became independent, there has been speculation about how long it would stay united, or maintain the institutions and processes of democracy. With every death of a prime minister has been predicted the replacement of democracy by military rule; after every failure of the monsoon there has been anticipated countrywide famine; in every new secessionist movement has been seen the disappearance of India as a single entity.
Among these doomsayers there have been many Western writers who, after 1947, were as likely to be American as British. Notably, India's existence has been a puzzle not just to casual observers or commonsensical journalists; it has also been an anomaly for academic political science, according to whose axioms cultural heterogeneity and poverty do not make a nation, still less a democratic one. That India 'could sustain democratic institutions seems, on the face of it, highly improbable', wrote the distinguished political scientist Robert Dahl, adding: 'It lacks all the favourable conditions.' 'India has a well-established reputation for violating social scientific generalizations', wrote another American scholar, adding: 'Nonetheless, the findings of this article furnish grounds for skepticism regarding the viability of democracy in India.'
Here, let me quote only a prediction by a sympathetic visitor, the British journalist Don Taylor. Writing in 1969, by which time India had stayed united for two decades and gone through four general elections, Taylor yet thought that "the key question remains: can India remain in one piece – or will it fragment? . . . When one looks at this vast country and its 524 million people, the 15 major languages in use, the conflicting religions, the many races, it seems incredible that one nation could ever emerge."
The heart hoped that India would survive, but the head worried that it wouldn't. The place was too complicated, too confusing – a nation, one might say, that was unnatural.
In truth, ever since the country was formed there have also been many Indians who have seen the survival of India as being on the line, some speaking or writing in fear, others with anticipation. Like their foreign counterparts, they have come to believe that this place is far too diverse to persist as a nation, and much too poor to endure as a democracy.
Q. Which of the following is not a correct inference from the given passage?
Read the passage and answer the following question.
Doctors need to deal constantly with changing situations, both related to medical knowledge and society. They have to keep abreast of the rapidly changing field of medicine, and also grapple with the changing expectations of patients.
Fortunately, today patients are on the whole better informed about illnesses and treatments than they used to be a generation ago; think of your overall awareness about health issues compared to, say, your parents. This positive change should be harnessed so that the doctor and patient/caregiver can work together as an informed team, in dialogue with each other, and choosing the best line of treatment that is appropriate to the patient. However, there is also a flip side to such increased awareness on medical issues. While Google has literally brought us a world of information, this information may not always be of high quality or appropriate to the patient's specific situation. In some situations, patients may access half-baked information off the internet and be convinced that they need to undergo a particular line of treatment.
One of my orthopaedic surgeon friends narrated another case, which exemplifies the changing expectations of patients and the emerging perils of 'internetosis'. He was acquainted with an elderly couple. The woman was in her 60s and had mild arthritis. One day she visited him along with her husband and asked him to talk with their engineer daughter, living in the USA, on the phone. The daughter was aggressive with the doctor, and complained that he was not doing his best to relieve her mother's suffering. She asked for his email ID, as she wanted to send him internet links related to knee replacement surgery. The surgeon calmly and firmly explained that the patient had mild arthritis, which painkillers were working well and if she were to take his advice seriously and start exercising as instructed, the painkillers could be stopped within two months. He refused to operate and asked them to see another doctor if they felt like. But the husband understood his logic, and two months later the old lady visited the him with a bright smile. She had recovered completely.
We need a doctor who would help us to interpret the complex mass of information around us, in the light of our internal values, to take an appropriate decision. We need a doctor who would deliberate with us and would help to bring out the best in ourselves, to choose the healthiest options in life, acting as a friend and guide, not just a detached expert.
Q. Which of the following is most similar to the problem or question the author discusses in the given passage?
Read the passage and answer the following question.
Doctors need to deal constantly with changing situations, both related to medical knowledge and society. They have to keep abreast of the rapidly changing field of medicine, and also grapple with the changing expectations of patients.
Fortunately, today patients are on the whole better informed about illnesses and treatments than they used to be a generation ago; think of your overall awareness about health issues compared to, say, your parents. This positive change should be harnessed so that the doctor and patient/caregiver can work together as an informed team, in dialogue with each other, and choosing the best line of treatment that is appropriate to the patient. However, there is also a flip side to such increased awareness on medical issues. While Google has literally brought us a world of information, this information may not always be of high quality or appropriate to the patient's specific situation. In some situations, patients may access half-baked information off the internet and be convinced that they need to undergo a particular line of treatment.
One of my orthopaedic surgeon friends narrated another case, which exemplifies the changing expectations of patients and the emerging perils of 'internetosis'. He was acquainted with an elderly couple. The woman was in her 60s and had mild arthritis. One day she visited him along with her husband and asked him to talk with their engineer daughter, living in the USA, on the phone. The daughter was aggressive with the doctor, and complained that he was not doing his best to relieve her mother's suffering. She asked for his email ID, as she wanted to send him internet links related to knee replacement surgery. The surgeon calmly and firmly explained that the patient had mild arthritis, which painkillers were working well and if she were to take his advice seriously and start exercising as instructed, the painkillers could be stopped within two months. He refused to operate and asked them to see another doctor if they felt like. But the husband understood his logic, and two months later the old lady visited the him with a bright smile. She had recovered completely.
We need a doctor who would help us to interpret the complex mass of information around us, in the light of our internal values, to take an appropriate decision. We need a doctor who would deliberate with us and would help to bring out the best in ourselves, to choose the healthiest options in life, acting as a friend and guide, not just a detached expert.
Q. Why, according to the author, are people more informed and aware about health issues than their parents were?
Read the passage and answer the following question.
Doctors need to deal constantly with changing situations, both related to medical knowledge and society. They have to keep abreast of the rapidly changing field of medicine, and also grapple with the changing expectations of patients.
Fortunately, today patients are on the whole better informed about illnesses and treatments than they used to be a generation ago; think of your overall awareness about health issues compared to, say, your parents. This positive change should be harnessed so that the doctor and patient/caregiver can work together as an informed team, in dialogue with each other, and choosing the best line of treatment that is appropriate to the patient. However, there is also a flip side to such increased awareness on medical issues. While Google has literally brought us a world of information, this information may not always be of high quality or appropriate to the patient's specific situation. In some situations, patients may access half-baked information off the internet and be convinced that they need to undergo a particular line of treatment.
One of my orthopaedic surgeon friends narrated another case, which exemplifies the changing expectations of patients and the emerging perils of 'internetosis'. He was acquainted with an elderly couple. The woman was in her 60s and had mild arthritis. One day she visited him along with her husband and asked him to talk with their engineer daughter, living in the USA, on the phone. The daughter was aggressive with the doctor, and complained that he was not doing his best to relieve her mother's suffering. She asked for his email ID, as she wanted to send him internet links related to knee replacement surgery. The surgeon calmly and firmly explained that the patient had mild arthritis, which painkillers were working well and if she were to take his advice seriously and start exercising as instructed, the painkillers could be stopped within two months. He refused to operate and asked them to see another doctor if they felt like. But the husband understood his logic, and two months later the old lady visited the him with a bright smile. She had recovered completely.
We need a doctor who would help us to interpret the complex mass of information around us, in the light of our internal values, to take an appropriate decision. We need a doctor who would deliberate with us and would help to bring out the best in ourselves, to choose the healthiest options in life, acting as a friend and guide, not just a detached expert.
Q. What, according to the author, is the flipside to increased awareness on medical issues?
Read the passage and answer the following question.
Doctors need to deal constantly with changing situations, both related to medical knowledge and society. They have to keep abreast of the rapidly changing field of medicine, and also grapple with the changing expectations of patients.
Fortunately, today patients are on the whole better informed about illnesses and treatments than they used to be a generation ago; think of your overall awareness about health issues compared to, say, your parents. This positive change should be harnessed so that the doctor and patient/caregiver can work together as an informed team, in dialogue with each other, and choosing the best line of treatment that is appropriate to the patient. However, there is also a flip side to such increased awareness on medical issues. While Google has literally brought us a world of information, this information may not always be of high quality or appropriate to the patient's specific situation. In some situations, patients may access half-baked information off the internet and be convinced that they need to undergo a particular line of treatment.
One of my orthopaedic surgeon friends narrated another case, which exemplifies the changing expectations of patients and the emerging perils of 'internetosis'. He was acquainted with an elderly couple. The woman was in her 60s and had mild arthritis. One day she visited him along with her husband and asked him to talk with their engineer daughter, living in the USA, on the phone. The daughter was aggressive with the doctor, and complained that he was not doing his best to relieve her mother's suffering. She asked for his email ID, as she wanted to send him internet links related to knee replacement surgery. The surgeon calmly and firmly explained that the patient had mild arthritis, which painkillers were working well and if she were to take his advice seriously and start exercising as instructed, the painkillers could be stopped within two months. He refused to operate and asked them to see another doctor if they felt like. But the husband understood his logic, and two months later the old lady visited the him with a bright smile. She had recovered completely.
We need a doctor who would help us to interpret the complex mass of information around us, in the light of our internal values, to take an appropriate decision. We need a doctor who would deliberate with us and would help to bring out the best in ourselves, to choose the healthiest options in life, acting as a friend and guide, not just a detached expert.
Q. In the context of the given passage, which of the following would be the most appropriate meaning of the term 'internetosis'?
Read the passage and answer the following question.
Doctors need to deal constantly with changing situations, both related to medical knowledge and society. They have to keep abreast of the rapidly changing field of medicine, and also grapple with the changing expectations of patients.
Fortunately, today patients are on the whole better informed about illnesses and treatments than they used to be a generation ago; think of your overall awareness about health issues compared to, say, your parents. This positive change should be harnessed so that the doctor and patient/caregiver can work together as an informed team, in dialogue with each other, and choosing the best line of treatment that is appropriate to the patient. However, there is also a flip side to such increased awareness on medical issues. While Google has literally brought us a world of information, this information may not always be of high quality or appropriate to the patient's specific situation. In some situations, patients may access half-baked information off the internet and be convinced that they need to undergo a particular line of treatment.
One of my orthopaedic surgeon friends narrated another case, which exemplifies the changing expectations of patients and the emerging perils of 'internetosis'. He was acquainted with an elderly couple. The woman was in her 60s and had mild arthritis. One day she visited him along with her husband and asked him to talk with their engineer daughter, living in the USA, on the phone. The daughter was aggressive with the doctor, and complained that he was not doing his best to relieve her mother's suffering. She asked for his email ID, as she wanted to send him internet links related to knee replacement surgery. The surgeon calmly and firmly explained that the patient had mild arthritis, which painkillers were working well and if she were to take his advice seriously and start exercising as instructed, the painkillers could be stopped within two months. He refused to operate and asked them to see another doctor if they felt like. But the husband understood his logic, and two months later the old lady visited the him with a bright smile. She had recovered completely.
We need a doctor who would help us to interpret the complex mass of information around us, in the light of our internal values, to take an appropriate decision. We need a doctor who would deliberate with us and would help to bring out the best in ourselves, to choose the healthiest options in life, acting as a friend and guide, not just a detached expert.
Q. Why, according to the author, do people need a doctor to interpret health-related information?
Read the following passage and answer the question.
When the East India Company started conquering and taking control of territories in India, England was not a secular country with a wall of separation between church and state. Instead, the Church of England was the established church in the realm. King Henry VIII established the Church of England, and broke away from the Pope. Since 1520, every ruler of Great Britain bore the official title 'Defender of the Faith'. The 'Act of Supremacy' enacted in 1534 declared that the British monarch was the 'Supreme Head of the Church of England'. The 'Act against the Pope's Authority' in 1536 dissolved the Pope's authority. The Archbishop of Canterbury, or the most senior bishop in the Church of England, and other high-level church officials were all appointed by the government. The incomes of members of the clergy were supported by compulsory tithes or taxes imposed on some agricultural products. New monarchs were crowned by a high-ranking member of the clergy, and senior bishops were represented in the House of Lords.
Similarly, pre-colonial rulers in India were intricately involved in the administration of religious institutions like temples and mosques. In 1790, for instance, Tipu Sultan, the Muslim ruler of Mysore, issued an order to his officials that Hindu temples were under their management, and that they were to ensure that 'the offerings to the gods and the temple illumination are duly regulated ... out of the government grants'. According to one scholar, Tipu Sultan was following 'a pattern imposed by centuries of history' in India.
When the East India Company took over, it continued administering religious institutions that had been managed by prior, pre-colonial governments, partly because it was a good source of revenue and partly because it lent legitimacy to the ruling dispensation.
For instance, in 1796, the British collector of Madras took over the administration of Hindu temples at Conjeevaram (Kanchipuram). The colonial government soon started enacting laws for administering temples and other religious institutions. In 1806, the government issued regulations for the 'superintendence and management' of the Jagannath Temple in modern-day Odisha.
Interestingly, the British referred to this temple as the 'Juggernaut' Temple. The English word 'juggernaut' is derived from this nomenclature, which can probably be attributed to an Anglican chaplain, Reverend Claudius Buchanan. In June 1806, Buchanan was horrified to see a Hindu pilgrim sacrificing himself to the idol at Jagannath. The pilgrim, said Buchanan, lay on the ground with his 'arms stretched forwards' and was 'was crushed to death by the wheels of the tower' carrying the idol. He wrote a book about his experiences at the 'Juggernaut' Temple, which became quite popular.
Q. Why did the author mention King Henry VIII and his acts of establishing the Church of England in the passage?
Read the following passage and answer the question.
When the East India Company started conquering and taking control of territories in India, England was not a secular country with a wall of separation between church and state. Instead, the Church of England was the established church in the realm. King Henry VIII established the Church of England, and broke away from the Pope. Since 1520, every ruler of Great Britain bore the official title 'Defender of the Faith'. The 'Act of Supremacy' enacted in 1534 declared that the British monarch was the 'Supreme Head of the Church of England'. The 'Act against the Pope's Authority' in 1536 dissolved the Pope's authority. The Archbishop of Canterbury, or the most senior bishop in the Church of England, and other high-level church officials were all appointed by the government. The incomes of members of the clergy were supported by compulsory tithes or taxes imposed on some agricultural products. New monarchs were crowned by a high-ranking member of the clergy, and senior bishops were represented in the House of Lords.
Similarly, pre-colonial rulers in India were intricately involved in the administration of religious institutions like temples and mosques. In 1790, for instance, Tipu Sultan, the Muslim ruler of Mysore, issued an order to his officials that Hindu temples were under their management, and that they were to ensure that 'the offerings to the gods and the temple illumination are duly regulated ... out of the government grants'. According to one scholar, Tipu Sultan was following 'a pattern imposed by centuries of history' in India.
When the East India Company took over, it continued administering religious institutions that had been managed by prior, pre-colonial governments, partly because it was a good source of revenue and partly because it lent legitimacy to the ruling dispensation.
For instance, in 1796, the British collector of Madras took over the administration of Hindu temples at Conjeevaram (Kanchipuram). The colonial government soon started enacting laws for administering temples and other religious institutions. In 1806, the government issued regulations for the 'superintendence and management' of the Jagannath Temple in modern-day Odisha.
Interestingly, the British referred to this temple as the 'Juggernaut' Temple. The English word 'juggernaut' is derived from this nomenclature, which can probably be attributed to an Anglican chaplain, Reverend Claudius Buchanan. In June 1806, Buchanan was horrified to see a Hindu pilgrim sacrificing himself to the idol at Jagannath. The pilgrim, said Buchanan, lay on the ground with his 'arms stretched forwards' and was 'was crushed to death by the wheels of the tower' carrying the idol. He wrote a book about his experiences at the 'Juggernaut' Temple, which became quite popular.
Q. What does the word 'legitimacy' mean as used in the passage?
Read the following passage and answer the question.
When the East India Company started conquering and taking control of territories in India, England was not a secular country with a wall of separation between church and state. Instead, the Church of England was the established church in the realm. King Henry VIII established the Church of England, and broke away from the Pope. Since 1520, every ruler of Great Britain bore the official title 'Defender of the Faith'. The 'Act of Supremacy' enacted in 1534 declared that the British monarch was the 'Supreme Head of the Church of England'. The 'Act against the Pope's Authority' in 1536 dissolved the Pope's authority. The Archbishop of Canterbury, or the most senior bishop in the Church of England, and other high-level church officials were all appointed by the government. The incomes of members of the clergy were supported by compulsory tithes or taxes imposed on some agricultural products. New monarchs were crowned by a high-ranking member of the clergy, and senior bishops were represented in the House of Lords.
Similarly, pre-colonial rulers in India were intricately involved in the administration of religious institutions like temples and mosques. In 1790, for instance, Tipu Sultan, the Muslim ruler of Mysore, issued an order to his officials that Hindu temples were under their management, and that they were to ensure that 'the offerings to the gods and the temple illumination are duly regulated ... out of the government grants'. According to one scholar, Tipu Sultan was following 'a pattern imposed by centuries of history' in India.
When the East India Company took over, it continued administering religious institutions that had been managed by prior, pre-colonial governments, partly because it was a good source of revenue and partly because it lent legitimacy to the ruling dispensation.
For instance, in 1796, the British collector of Madras took over the administration of Hindu temples at Conjeevaram (Kanchipuram). The colonial government soon started enacting laws for administering temples and other religious institutions. In 1806, the government issued regulations for the 'superintendence and management' of the Jagannath Temple in modern-day Odisha.
Interestingly, the British referred to this temple as the 'Juggernaut' Temple. The English word 'juggernaut' is derived from this nomenclature, which can probably be attributed to an Anglican chaplain, Reverend Claudius Buchanan. In June 1806, Buchanan was horrified to see a Hindu pilgrim sacrificing himself to the idol at Jagannath. The pilgrim, said Buchanan, lay on the ground with his 'arms stretched forwards' and was 'was crushed to death by the wheels of the tower' carrying the idol. He wrote a book about his experiences at the 'Juggernaut' Temple, which became quite popular.
Q. According to the passage, which of the following would be considered a part of administration's role in the management of religious institutions?
Read the following passage and answer the question.
When the East India Company started conquering and taking control of territories in India, England was not a secular country with a wall of separation between church and state. Instead, the Church of England was the established church in the realm. King Henry VIII established the Church of England, and broke away from the Pope. Since 1520, every ruler of Great Britain bore the official title 'Defender of the Faith'. The 'Act of Supremacy' enacted in 1534 declared that the British monarch was the 'Supreme Head of the Church of England'. The 'Act against the Pope's Authority' in 1536 dissolved the Pope's authority. The Archbishop of Canterbury, or the most senior bishop in the Church of England, and other high-level church officials were all appointed by the government. The incomes of members of the clergy were supported by compulsory tithes or taxes imposed on some agricultural products. New monarchs were crowned by a high-ranking member of the clergy, and senior bishops were represented in the House of Lords.
Similarly, pre-colonial rulers in India were intricately involved in the administration of religious institutions like temples and mosques. In 1790, for instance, Tipu Sultan, the Muslim ruler of Mysore, issued an order to his officials that Hindu temples were under their management, and that they were to ensure that 'the offerings to the gods and the temple illumination are duly regulated ... out of the government grants'. According to one scholar, Tipu Sultan was following 'a pattern imposed by centuries of history' in India.
When the East India Company took over, it continued administering religious institutions that had been managed by prior, pre-colonial governments, partly because it was a good source of revenue and partly because it lent legitimacy to the ruling dispensation.
For instance, in 1796, the British collector of Madras took over the administration of Hindu temples at Conjeevaram (Kanchipuram). The colonial government soon started enacting laws for administering temples and other religious institutions. In 1806, the government issued regulations for the 'superintendence and management' of the Jagannath Temple in modern-day Odisha.
Interestingly, the British referred to this temple as the 'Juggernaut' Temple. The English word 'juggernaut' is derived from this nomenclature, which can probably be attributed to an Anglican chaplain, Reverend Claudius Buchanan. In June 1806, Buchanan was horrified to see a Hindu pilgrim sacrificing himself to the idol at Jagannath. The pilgrim, said Buchanan, lay on the ground with his 'arms stretched forwards' and was 'was crushed to death by the wheels of the tower' carrying the idol. He wrote a book about his experiences at the 'Juggernaut' Temple, which became quite popular.
Q. From the given passage, which of the following can we infer about Claudius Buchanan?
Read the following passage and answer the question.
When the East India Company started conquering and taking control of territories in India, England was not a secular country with a wall of separation between church and state. Instead, the Church of England was the established church in the realm. King Henry VIII established the Church of England, and broke away from the Pope. Since 1520, every ruler of Great Britain bore the official title 'Defender of the Faith'. The 'Act of Supremacy' enacted in 1534 declared that the British monarch was the 'Supreme Head of the Church of England'. The 'Act against the Pope's Authority' in 1536 dissolved the Pope's authority. The Archbishop of Canterbury, or the most senior bishop in the Church of England, and other high-level church officials were all appointed by the government. The incomes of members of the clergy were supported by compulsory tithes or taxes imposed on some agricultural products. New monarchs were crowned by a high-ranking member of the clergy, and senior bishops were represented in the House of Lords.
Similarly, pre-colonial rulers in India were intricately involved in the administration of religious institutions like temples and mosques. In 1790, for instance, Tipu Sultan, the Muslim ruler of Mysore, issued an order to his officials that Hindu temples were under their management, and that they were to ensure that 'the offerings to the gods and the temple illumination are duly regulated ... out of the government grants'. According to one scholar, Tipu Sultan was following 'a pattern imposed by centuries of history' in India.
When the East India Company took over, it continued administering religious institutions that had been managed by prior, pre-colonial governments, partly because it was a good source of revenue and partly because it lent legitimacy to the ruling dispensation.
For instance, in 1796, the British collector of Madras took over the administration of Hindu temples at Conjeevaram (Kanchipuram). The colonial government soon started enacting laws for administering temples and other religious institutions. In 1806, the government issued regulations for the 'superintendence and management' of the Jagannath Temple in modern-day Odisha.
Interestingly, the British referred to this temple as the 'Juggernaut' Temple. The English word 'juggernaut' is derived from this nomenclature, which can probably be attributed to an Anglican chaplain, Reverend Claudius Buchanan. In June 1806, Buchanan was horrified to see a Hindu pilgrim sacrificing himself to the idol at Jagannath. The pilgrim, said Buchanan, lay on the ground with his 'arms stretched forwards' and was 'was crushed to death by the wheels of the tower' carrying the idol. He wrote a book about his experiences at the 'Juggernaut' Temple, which became quite popular.
Q. Which of the following best sums up the author's main point in the passage?
Read the passage and answer the following question.
The key reason for the disagreement between India and China was that contrary to India's perception of matters, the Chinese saw themselves as leaders of the new world order. They therefore expected— indeed demanded—the prestige, respect and servitude that went along with it.
When China overran Tibet, partly as a way of securing its western flank, India did not react. Instead, elephant-like Delhi sat and waited patiently for the aggression to abate.
It did not. Instead, it grew in intensity.
During the 1950s, Chinese premier Zhou Enlai had been on two 'goodwill' visits to India. But Zhou Enlai's polite gestures at diplomatic meetings had not stopped him from laying claim to India's vulnerable northern flanks outside of these discussions: Ladakh and territories in the NEFA, now known as Arunachal Pradesh. Moreover, China was eyeing Barahoti in Uttar Pradesh, just south of Tibet. Indian troops were based there, and when Chinese soldiers tried to cross the southern border into India, the elephant finally protested. But the dragon did not blink.
In the late 1950s, China denounced the McMahon Line, challenging its international validity. At the end of that year, Zhou Enlai visited Nehru in India with soothing words, assuring him that the border issue with Tibet would be resolved peacefully. In that same meeting, China also recognized the Indian boundary with Burma.
By that time, Chinese soldiers were actually in Barahoti and had marched ten miles into Indian territory. The latter had taken too passive a role and now sat helpless as the dragon advanced, fired up. The following year, talks took place between the two countries. China was persuaded to withdraw its military but left its civilians in the territory.
In January 1959, Zhou Enlai formally claimed Ladakh and NEFA for his country, giving orders for his command to be reflected in Chinese maps.
Just four years earlier, India had formally handed over control of communication services in Tibet to China. When the Tibetan Buddhist leader, the Dalai Lama, asked Nehru for refuge in India because of increasing Chinese pressure on him and the Tibetan people, Nehru who was balanced precariously on a political tightrope, chose to side with Peking and refused the request.
By March 1959, the eyes of the world were on the highly charged power plays. Following a crackdown on the Tibetan capital of Lhasa by the People's Liberation Army (PLA), the Dalai Lama managed to escape possible capture and containment. He again sought refuge in India.
Q. What, according to the author, are India and China primarily at odds?
Read the passage and answer the following question.
The key reason for the disagreement between India and China was that contrary to India's perception of matters, the Chinese saw themselves as leaders of the new world order. They therefore expected— indeed demanded—the prestige, respect and servitude that went along with it.
When China overran Tibet, partly as a way of securing its western flank, India did not react. Instead, elephant-like Delhi sat and waited patiently for the aggression to abate.
It did not. Instead, it grew in intensity.
During the 1950s, Chinese premier Zhou Enlai had been on two 'goodwill' visits to India. But Zhou Enlai's polite gestures at diplomatic meetings had not stopped him from laying claim to India's vulnerable northern flanks outside of these discussions: Ladakh and territories in the NEFA, now known as Arunachal Pradesh. Moreover, China was eyeing Barahoti in Uttar Pradesh, just south of Tibet. Indian troops were based there, and when Chinese soldiers tried to cross the southern border into India, the elephant finally protested. But the dragon did not blink.
In the late 1950s, China denounced the McMahon Line, challenging its international validity. At the end of that year, Zhou Enlai visited Nehru in India with soothing words, assuring him that the border issue with Tibet would be resolved peacefully. In that same meeting, China also recognized the Indian boundary with Burma.
By that time, Chinese soldiers were actually in Barahoti and had marched ten miles into Indian territory. The latter had taken too passive a role and now sat helpless as the dragon advanced, fired up. The following year, talks took place between the two countries. China was persuaded to withdraw its military but left its civilians in the territory.
In January 1959, Zhou Enlai formally claimed Ladakh and NEFA for his country, giving orders for his command to be reflected in Chinese maps.
Just four years earlier, India had formally handed over control of communication services in Tibet to China. When the Tibetan Buddhist leader, the Dalai Lama, asked Nehru for refuge in India because of increasing Chinese pressure on him and the Tibetan people, Nehru who was balanced precariously on a political tightrope, chose to side with Peking and refused the request.
By March 1959, the eyes of the world were on the highly charged power plays. Following a crackdown on the Tibetan capital of Lhasa by the People's Liberation Army (PLA), the Dalai Lama managed to escape possible capture and containment. He again sought refuge in India.
Q. What does the word 'precariously' as used in the passage mean?
Read the passage and answer the following question.
The key reason for the disagreement between India and China was that contrary to India's perception of matters, the Chinese saw themselves as leaders of the new world order. They therefore expected— indeed demanded—the prestige, respect and servitude that went along with it.
When China overran Tibet, partly as a way of securing its western flank, India did not react. Instead, elephant-like Delhi sat and waited patiently for the aggression to abate.
It did not. Instead, it grew in intensity.
During the 1950s, Chinese premier Zhou Enlai had been on two 'goodwill' visits to India. But Zhou Enlai's polite gestures at diplomatic meetings had not stopped him from laying claim to India's vulnerable northern flanks outside of these discussions: Ladakh and territories in the NEFA, now known as Arunachal Pradesh. Moreover, China was eyeing Barahoti in Uttar Pradesh, just south of Tibet. Indian troops were based there, and when Chinese soldiers tried to cross the southern border into India, the elephant finally protested. But the dragon did not blink.
In the late 1950s, China denounced the McMahon Line, challenging its international validity. At the end of that year, Zhou Enlai visited Nehru in India with soothing words, assuring him that the border issue with Tibet would be resolved peacefully. In that same meeting, China also recognized the Indian boundary with Burma.
By that time, Chinese soldiers were actually in Barahoti and had marched ten miles into Indian territory. The latter had taken too passive a role and now sat helpless as the dragon advanced, fired up. The following year, talks took place between the two countries. China was persuaded to withdraw its military but left its civilians in the territory.
In January 1959, Zhou Enlai formally claimed Ladakh and NEFA for his country, giving orders for his command to be reflected in Chinese maps.
Just four years earlier, India had formally handed over control of communication services in Tibet to China. When the Tibetan Buddhist leader, the Dalai Lama, asked Nehru for refuge in India because of increasing Chinese pressure on him and the Tibetan people, Nehru who was balanced precariously on a political tightrope, chose to side with Peking and refused the request.
By March 1959, the eyes of the world were on the highly charged power plays. Following a crackdown on the Tibetan capital of Lhasa by the People's Liberation Army (PLA), the Dalai Lama managed to escape possible capture and containment. He again sought refuge in India.
Q. What, according to the passage, is revealed about Enlai's 'goodwill' meetings with India?
Read the passage and answer the following question.
The key reason for the disagreement between India and China was that contrary to India's perception of matters, the Chinese saw themselves as leaders of the new world order. They therefore expected— indeed demanded—the prestige, respect and servitude that went along with it.
When China overran Tibet, partly as a way of securing its western flank, India did not react. Instead, elephant-like Delhi sat and waited patiently for the aggression to abate.
It did not. Instead, it grew in intensity.
During the 1950s, Chinese premier Zhou Enlai had been on two 'goodwill' visits to India. But Zhou Enlai's polite gestures at diplomatic meetings had not stopped him from laying claim to India's vulnerable northern flanks outside of these discussions: Ladakh and territories in the NEFA, now known as Arunachal Pradesh. Moreover, China was eyeing Barahoti in Uttar Pradesh, just south of Tibet. Indian troops were based there, and when Chinese soldiers tried to cross the southern border into India, the elephant finally protested. But the dragon did not blink.
In the late 1950s, China denounced the McMahon Line, challenging its international validity. At the end of that year, Zhou Enlai visited Nehru in India with soothing words, assuring him that the border issue with Tibet would be resolved peacefully. In that same meeting, China also recognized the Indian boundary with Burma.
By that time, Chinese soldiers were actually in Barahoti and had marched ten miles into Indian territory. The latter had taken too passive a role and now sat helpless as the dragon advanced, fired up. The following year, talks took place between the two countries. China was persuaded to withdraw its military but left its civilians in the territory.
In January 1959, Zhou Enlai formally claimed Ladakh and NEFA for his country, giving orders for his command to be reflected in Chinese maps.
Just four years earlier, India had formally handed over control of communication services in Tibet to China. When the Tibetan Buddhist leader, the Dalai Lama, asked Nehru for refuge in India because of increasing Chinese pressure on him and the Tibetan people, Nehru who was balanced precariously on a political tightrope, chose to side with Peking and refused the request.
By March 1959, the eyes of the world were on the highly charged power plays. Following a crackdown on the Tibetan capital of Lhasa by the People's Liberation Army (PLA), the Dalai Lama managed to escape possible capture and containment. He again sought refuge in India.
Q. In the context of the given passage, which of the following could be inferred about India's reactions towards the Chinese attempts to take over Indian parts?
Read the passage and answer the following question.
The key reason for the disagreement between India and China was that contrary to India's perception of matters, the Chinese saw themselves as leaders of the new world order. They therefore expected— indeed demanded—the prestige, respect and servitude that went along with it.
When China overran Tibet, partly as a way of securing its western flank, India did not react. Instead, elephant-like Delhi sat and waited patiently for the aggression to abate.
It did not. Instead, it grew in intensity.
During the 1950s, Chinese premier Zhou Enlai had been on two 'goodwill' visits to India. But Zhou Enlai's polite gestures at diplomatic meetings had not stopped him from laying claim to India's vulnerable northern flanks outside of these discussions: Ladakh and territories in the NEFA, now known as Arunachal Pradesh. Moreover, China was eyeing Barahoti in Uttar Pradesh, just south of Tibet. Indian troops were based there, and when Chinese soldiers tried to cross the southern border into India, the elephant finally protested. But the dragon did not blink.
In the late 1950s, China denounced the McMahon Line, challenging its international validity. At the end of that year, Zhou Enlai visited Nehru in India with soothing words, assuring him that the border issue with Tibet would be resolved peacefully. In that same meeting, China also recognized the Indian boundary with Burma.
By that time, Chinese soldiers were actually in Barahoti and had marched ten miles into Indian territory. The latter had taken too passive a role and now sat helpless as the dragon advanced, fired up. The following year, talks took place between the two countries. China was persuaded to withdraw its military but left its civilians in the territory.
In January 1959, Zhou Enlai formally claimed Ladakh and NEFA for his country, giving orders for his command to be reflected in Chinese maps.
Just four years earlier, India had formally handed over control of communication services in Tibet to China. When the Tibetan Buddhist leader, the Dalai Lama, asked Nehru for refuge in India because of increasing Chinese pressure on him and the Tibetan people, Nehru who was balanced precariously on a political tightrope, chose to side with Peking and refused the request.
By March 1959, the eyes of the world were on the highly charged power plays. Following a crackdown on the Tibetan capital of Lhasa by the People's Liberation Army (PLA), the Dalai Lama managed to escape possible capture and containment. He again sought refuge in India.
Q. Which of the following can be correctly inferred from the given passage?
Read the following passage and answer the question.
If you're a girl in Heaven, you don't get out much. When we leave, it's to go to the post office to fill out the deposit forms for our mothers' government-scheme bank accounts, or to the market where we've been sent for onions or tomatoes.
Makes it hard to remember that there is a world out there that is not the same as ours.
Joy goes out even less than the rest of us. When she leaves the muddy paths of Heaven, she leaves more than just tin roofs and hospital sludge. She leaves a fortress, a kingdom she built herself. Subject by subject, brick by brick.
Last year, when the health worker put Joy on the scale and told her she was underweight (just like the rest of us), Selvi Aunty took her to the hospital to get the iron pills the government is distributing to adolescent girls.
When the nurse asked for Joy's paperwork, Selvi Aunty handed over her birth certificate.
"Beti, I think you brought the wrong one," the nurse said. Purple lab coat over a red-checkered sari. North Indian convent-school voice coated with the congratulations she must get for helping backward women, starving girls.
"This looks like it's for your son. Do you have a child named Anand?"
"That's right," Selvi Aunty said. Joy sat straight backed and stone-faced, a granite statuette.
"This is Anand. He's Joy now."
"This is Anand?" the nurse asked.
"Yes," Selvi Aunty said. "We were reborn. As Christians. Anand has become Joy."
"Really, you people will stop at nothing for government hand-outs," the nurse said.
"What do you mean?" Selvi Aunty asked. Joy, though, pressed the balls of her feet into the ground, readying herself to leave.
"Like you don't know," the nurse said. "This scheme is for girls! The lengths you'll go to for some extra rations. Really. Get a job."
"I have a job," Selvi Aunty said. "Four jobs at four different houses. And Joy is a girl. But anyway, what does it matter? She's underweight. The health worker said so. What's that word? Malnourished."
"I can't help you," the nurse said, waving her off. "Take your son elsewhere. And put some proper clothes on him."
Joy stood up then. Regally declared, "Come on, Amma. Don't bother with this woman."
But Selvi Aunty wasn't done yet. She leaned across the table and stared into the nurse's eyes like a cobra hypnotizing its prey.
"Not my son," she said quietly. "My daughter. Who is ten times the woman you will ever be."
Q. As mentioned in the passage, why does Aunty Selvi take Joy to the hospital?
Read the following passage and answer the question.
If you're a girl in Heaven, you don't get out much. When we leave, it's to go to the post office to fill out the deposit forms for our mothers' government-scheme bank accounts, or to the market where we've been sent for onions or tomatoes.
Makes it hard to remember that there is a world out there that is not the same as ours.
Joy goes out even less than the rest of us. When she leaves the muddy paths of Heaven, she leaves more than just tin roofs and hospital sludge. She leaves a fortress, a kingdom she built herself. Subject by subject, brick by brick.
Last year, when the health worker put Joy on the scale and told her she was underweight (just like the rest of us), Selvi Aunty took her to the hospital to get the iron pills the government is distributing to adolescent girls.
When the nurse asked for Joy's paperwork, Selvi Aunty handed over her birth certificate.
"Beti, I think you brought the wrong one," the nurse said. Purple lab coat over a red-checkered sari. North Indian convent-school voice coated with the congratulations she must get for helping backward women, starving girls.
"This looks like it's for your son. Do you have a child named Anand?"
"That's right," Selvi Aunty said. Joy sat straight backed and stone-faced, a granite statuette.
"This is Anand. He's Joy now."
"This is Anand?" the nurse asked.
"Yes," Selvi Aunty said. "We were reborn. As Christians. Anand has become Joy."
"Really, you people will stop at nothing for government hand-outs," the nurse said.
"What do you mean?" Selvi Aunty asked. Joy, though, pressed the balls of her feet into the ground, readying herself to leave.
"Like you don't know," the nurse said. "This scheme is for girls! The lengths you'll go to for some extra rations. Really. Get a job."
"I have a job," Selvi Aunty said. "Four jobs at four different houses. And Joy is a girl. But anyway, what does it matter? She's underweight. The health worker said so. What's that word? Malnourished."
"I can't help you," the nurse said, waving her off. "Take your son elsewhere. And put some proper clothes on him."
Joy stood up then. Regally declared, "Come on, Amma. Don't bother with this woman."
But Selvi Aunty wasn't done yet. She leaned across the table and stared into the nurse's eyes like a cobra hypnotizing its prey.
"Not my son," she said quietly. "My daughter. Who is ten times the woman you will ever be."
Q. Which of the following can be inferred as the reason why Joy used to go out less often than most of us?
Read the following passage and answer the question.
If you're a girl in Heaven, you don't get out much. When we leave, it's to go to the post office to fill out the deposit forms for our mothers' government-scheme bank accounts, or to the market where we've been sent for onions or tomatoes.
Makes it hard to remember that there is a world out there that is not the same as ours.
Joy goes out even less than the rest of us. When she leaves the muddy paths of Heaven, she leaves more than just tin roofs and hospital sludge. She leaves a fortress, a kingdom she built herself. Subject by subject, brick by brick.
Last year, when the health worker put Joy on the scale and told her she was underweight (just like the rest of us), Selvi Aunty took her to the hospital to get the iron pills the government is distributing to adolescent girls.
When the nurse asked for Joy's paperwork, Selvi Aunty handed over her birth certificate.
"Beti, I think you brought the wrong one," the nurse said. Purple lab coat over a red-checkered sari. North Indian convent-school voice coated with the congratulations she must get for helping backward women, starving girls.
"This looks like it's for your son. Do you have a child named Anand?"
"That's right," Selvi Aunty said. Joy sat straight backed and stone-faced, a granite statuette.
"This is Anand. He's Joy now."
"This is Anand?" the nurse asked.
"Yes," Selvi Aunty said. "We were reborn. As Christians. Anand has become Joy."
"Really, you people will stop at nothing for government hand-outs," the nurse said.
"What do you mean?" Selvi Aunty asked. Joy, though, pressed the balls of her feet into the ground, readying herself to leave.
"Like you don't know," the nurse said. "This scheme is for girls! The lengths you'll go to for some extra rations. Really. Get a job."
"I have a job," Selvi Aunty said. "Four jobs at four different houses. And Joy is a girl. But anyway, what does it matter? She's underweight. The health worker said so. What's that word? Malnourished."
"I can't help you," the nurse said, waving her off. "Take your son elsewhere. And put some proper clothes on him."
Joy stood up then. Regally declared, "Come on, Amma. Don't bother with this woman."
But Selvi Aunty wasn't done yet. She leaned across the table and stared into the nurse's eyes like a cobra hypnotizing its prey.
"Not my son," she said quietly. "My daughter. Who is ten times the woman you will ever be."
Q. Based on the information set out in the passage, which of the following is most accurate?
Read the following passage and answer the question.
If you're a girl in Heaven, you don't get out much. When we leave, it's to go to the post office to fill out the deposit forms for our mothers' government-scheme bank accounts, or to the market where we've been sent for onions or tomatoes.
Makes it hard to remember that there is a world out there that is not the same as ours.
Joy goes out even less than the rest of us. When she leaves the muddy paths of Heaven, she leaves more than just tin roofs and hospital sludge. She leaves a fortress, a kingdom she built herself. Subject by subject, brick by brick.
Last year, when the health worker put Joy on the scale and told her she was underweight (just like the rest of us), Selvi Aunty took her to the hospital to get the iron pills the government is distributing to adolescent girls.
When the nurse asked for Joy's paperwork, Selvi Aunty handed over her birth certificate.
"Beti, I think you brought the wrong one," the nurse said. Purple lab coat over a red-checkered sari. North Indian convent-school voice coated with the congratulations she must get for helping backward women, starving girls.
"This looks like it's for your son. Do you have a child named Anand?"
"That's right," Selvi Aunty said. Joy sat straight backed and stone-faced, a granite statuette.
"This is Anand. He's Joy now."
"This is Anand?" the nurse asked.
"Yes," Selvi Aunty said. "We were reborn. As Christians. Anand has become Joy."
"Really, you people will stop at nothing for government hand-outs," the nurse said.
"What do you mean?" Selvi Aunty asked. Joy, though, pressed the balls of her feet into the ground, readying herself to leave.
"Like you don't know," the nurse said. "This scheme is for girls! The lengths you'll go to for some extra rations. Really. Get a job."
"I have a job," Selvi Aunty said. "Four jobs at four different houses. And Joy is a girl. But anyway, what does it matter? She's underweight. The health worker said so. What's that word? Malnourished."
"I can't help you," the nurse said, waving her off. "Take your son elsewhere. And put some proper clothes on him."
Joy stood up then. Regally declared, "Come on, Amma. Don't bother with this woman."
But Selvi Aunty wasn't done yet. She leaned across the table and stared into the nurse's eyes like a cobra hypnotizing its prey.
"Not my son," she said quietly. "My daughter. Who is ten times the woman you will ever be."
Q. What does the word 'backward' as used in the passage mean?
Read the following passage and answer the question.
If you're a girl in Heaven, you don't get out much. When we leave, it's to go to the post office to fill out the deposit forms for our mothers' government-scheme bank accounts, or to the market where we've been sent for onions or tomatoes.
Makes it hard to remember that there is a world out there that is not the same as ours.
Joy goes out even less than the rest of us. When she leaves the muddy paths of Heaven, she leaves more than just tin roofs and hospital sludge. She leaves a fortress, a kingdom she built herself. Subject by subject, brick by brick.
Last year, when the health worker put Joy on the scale and told her she was underweight (just like the rest of us), Selvi Aunty took her to the hospital to get the iron pills the government is distributing to adolescent girls.
When the nurse asked for Joy's paperwork, Selvi Aunty handed over her birth certificate.
"Beti, I think you brought the wrong one," the nurse said. Purple lab coat over a red-checkered sari. North Indian convent-school voice coated with the congratulations she must get for helping backward women, starving girls.
"This looks like it's for your son. Do you have a child named Anand?"
"That's right," Selvi Aunty said. Joy sat straight backed and stone-faced, a granite statuette.
"This is Anand. He's Joy now."
"This is Anand?" the nurse asked.
"Yes," Selvi Aunty said. "We were reborn. As Christians. Anand has become Joy."
"Really, you people will stop at nothing for government hand-outs," the nurse said.
"What do you mean?" Selvi Aunty asked. Joy, though, pressed the balls of her feet into the ground, readying herself to leave.
"Like you don't know," the nurse said. "This scheme is for girls! The lengths you'll go to for some extra rations. Really. Get a job."
"I have a job," Selvi Aunty said. "Four jobs at four different houses. And Joy is a girl. But anyway, what does it matter? She's underweight. The health worker said so. What's that word? Malnourished."
"I can't help you," the nurse said, waving her off. "Take your son elsewhere. And put some proper clothes on him."
Joy stood up then. Regally declared, "Come on, Amma. Don't bother with this woman."
But Selvi Aunty wasn't done yet. She leaned across the table and stared into the nurse's eyes like a cobra hypnotizing its prey.
"Not my son," she said quietly. "My daughter. Who is ten times the woman you will ever be."
Q. From the given passage, which of the following can we infer about Selvi Aunty?
Read the passage and answer the following question.
Let's start with me: I'm not sure how or if I'd still be a writer without the help of other people's money. I have zero undergrad debt. Of my three years of grad school, two of them were funded through a teaching fellowship; my parents helped pay for the first. The last two years my stipend barely covered the childcare I needed to travel uptown three days a week to teach and go to class and my husband's job is what kept us afloat.
I got connections from that program. I got my agent through the recommendation of a professor. Nearly every year since I graduated from that program, I have been employed by them. The thing I'm most sure I had though, that was a direct result of my extraordinary privilege, is the blindness with which I bounded toward this profession, the not knowing, because I had never felt, until I was a grownup, the very real and bone-deep fear of not knowing how you'll live from month to month.
Once, before a debut novelist panel geared specifically to aspiring writers, one of the novelists with whom I was set to speak mentioned to me that they'd hired a private publicist to promote their book. They told me it cost nearly their whole advance but was worth it, they said, because this private publicist got them on a widely watched talk-show. During this panel, this writer mentioned to the crowd at one point that they "wrote and taught exclusively", and I kept my eyes on my hands folded in my lap.
On Instagram and Twitter there are writers who "write full time" also. They post pictures of their desk or their pens and talk about "process". For my students, for all the people I see out there, trying to break in or through and watching, envious, I want to attach to these statements and these Instagram posts, a caveat that says the writing isn't what is keeping this person safe and clothed and fed.
According to a 2018 Author's Guild Study the median income of all published authors for all writing related activity was $6,080 in 2017, down from $10,500 in 2009; while the median income for all published authors based solely on book-related activities went from $3,900 to $3,100, down 21%. Roughly 25% of authors earned $0 in income in 2017.
When students ask me for advice with regard to how to "make it as a writer", I tell them to get a job that also gives them time and space somehow to write; I tell them find a job that, if they still have it 10 years from now, it wouldn't make them sad. I worry often that they think this means I don't think their work is worthy; that I don't believe they'll make it in the way that they imagine making it, but this advice is me trying help them sustain themselves enough to make the work I know they can.
Q. Which of the following can rightly be inferred about the author?
Read the passage and answer the following question.
Let's start with me: I'm not sure how or if I'd still be a writer without the help of other people's money. I have zero undergrad debt. Of my three years of grad school, two of them were funded through a teaching fellowship; my parents helped pay for the first. The last two years my stipend barely covered the childcare I needed to travel uptown three days a week to teach and go to class and my husband's job is what kept us afloat.
I got connections from that program. I got my agent through the recommendation of a professor. Nearly every year since I graduated from that program, I have been employed by them. The thing I'm most sure I had though, that was a direct result of my extraordinary privilege, is the blindness with which I bounded toward this profession, the not knowing, because I had never felt, until I was a grownup, the very real and bone-deep fear of not knowing how you'll live from month to month.
Once, before a debut novelist panel geared specifically to aspiring writers, one of the novelists with whom I was set to speak mentioned to me that they'd hired a private publicist to promote their book. They told me it cost nearly their whole advance but was worth it, they said, because this private publicist got them on a widely watched talk-show. During this panel, this writer mentioned to the crowd at one point that they "wrote and taught exclusively", and I kept my eyes on my hands folded in my lap.
On Instagram and Twitter there are writers who "write full time" also. They post pictures of their desk or their pens and talk about "process". For my students, for all the people I see out there, trying to break in or through and watching, envious, I want to attach to these statements and these Instagram posts, a caveat that says the writing isn't what is keeping this person safe and clothed and fed.
According to a 2018 Author's Guild Study the median income of all published authors for all writing related activity was $6,080 in 2017, down from $10,500 in 2009; while the median income for all published authors based solely on book-related activities went from $3,900 to $3,100, down 21%. Roughly 25% of authors earned $0 in income in 2017.
When students ask me for advice with regard to how to "make it as a writer", I tell them to get a job that also gives them time and space somehow to write; I tell them find a job that, if they still have it 10 years from now, it wouldn't make them sad. I worry often that they think this means I don't think their work is worthy; that I don't believe they'll make it in the way that they imagine making it, but this advice is me trying help them sustain themselves enough to make the work I know they can.
Q. What is implied by the author about the blindness she had about becoming a writer?
Read the passage and answer the following question.
Let's start with me: I'm not sure how or if I'd still be a writer without the help of other people's money. I have zero undergrad debt. Of my three years of grad school, two of them were funded through a teaching fellowship; my parents helped pay for the first. The last two years my stipend barely covered the childcare I needed to travel uptown three days a week to teach and go to class and my husband's job is what kept us afloat.
I got connections from that program. I got my agent through the recommendation of a professor. Nearly every year since I graduated from that program, I have been employed by them. The thing I'm most sure I had though, that was a direct result of my extraordinary privilege, is the blindness with which I bounded toward this profession, the not knowing, because I had never felt, until I was a grownup, the very real and bone-deep fear of not knowing how you'll live from month to month.
Once, before a debut novelist panel geared specifically to aspiring writers, one of the novelists with whom I was set to speak mentioned to me that they'd hired a private publicist to promote their book. They told me it cost nearly their whole advance but was worth it, they said, because this private publicist got them on a widely watched talk-show. During this panel, this writer mentioned to the crowd at one point that they "wrote and taught exclusively", and I kept my eyes on my hands folded in my lap.
On Instagram and Twitter there are writers who "write full time" also. They post pictures of their desk or their pens and talk about "process". For my students, for all the people I see out there, trying to break in or through and watching, envious, I want to attach to these statements and these Instagram posts, a caveat that says the writing isn't what is keeping this person safe and clothed and fed.
According to a 2018 Author's Guild Study the median income of all published authors for all writing related activity was $6,080 in 2017, down from $10,500 in 2009; while the median income for all published authors based solely on book-related activities went from $3,900 to $3,100, down 21%. Roughly 25% of authors earned $0 in income in 2017.
When students ask me for advice with regard to how to "make it as a writer", I tell them to get a job that also gives them time and space somehow to write; I tell them find a job that, if they still have it 10 years from now, it wouldn't make them sad. I worry often that they think this means I don't think their work is worthy; that I don't believe they'll make it in the way that they imagine making it, but this advice is me trying help them sustain themselves enough to make the work I know they can.
Q. What does the word 'caveat' as used in the passage mean?
Read the passage and answer the following question.
Let's start with me: I'm not sure how or if I'd still be a writer without the help of other people's money. I have zero undergrad debt. Of my three years of grad school, two of them were funded through a teaching fellowship; my parents helped pay for the first. The last two years my stipend barely covered the childcare I needed to travel uptown three days a week to teach and go to class and my husband's job is what kept us afloat.
I got connections from that program. I got my agent through the recommendation of a professor. Nearly every year since I graduated from that program, I have been employed by them. The thing I'm most sure I had though, that was a direct result of my extraordinary privilege, is the blindness with which I bounded toward this profession, the not knowing, because I had never felt, until I was a grownup, the very real and bone-deep fear of not knowing how you'll live from month to month.
Once, before a debut novelist panel geared specifically to aspiring writers, one of the novelists with whom I was set to speak mentioned to me that they'd hired a private publicist to promote their book. They told me it cost nearly their whole advance but was worth it, they said, because this private publicist got them on a widely watched talk-show. During this panel, this writer mentioned to the crowd at one point that they "wrote and taught exclusively", and I kept my eyes on my hands folded in my lap.
On Instagram and Twitter there are writers who "write full time" also. They post pictures of their desk or their pens and talk about "process". For my students, for all the people I see out there, trying to break in or through and watching, envious, I want to attach to these statements and these Instagram posts, a caveat that says the writing isn't what is keeping this person safe and clothed and fed.
According to a 2018 Author's Guild Study the median income of all published authors for all writing related activity was $6,080 in 2017, down from $10,500 in 2009; while the median income for all published authors based solely on book-related activities went from $3,900 to $3,100, down 21%. Roughly 25% of authors earned $0 in income in 2017.
When students ask me for advice with regard to how to "make it as a writer", I tell them to get a job that also gives them time and space somehow to write; I tell them find a job that, if they still have it 10 years from now, it wouldn't make them sad. I worry often that they think this means I don't think their work is worthy; that I don't believe they'll make it in the way that they imagine making it, but this advice is me trying help them sustain themselves enough to make the work I know they can.
Q. Why does the writer mention about one of the writers on the panel who states that they 'wrote and taught exclusively'?
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1 videos|10 docs|63 tests
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