CLAT: Mock Test (New Pattern) - 8 - CLAT MCQ

Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

I was eleven when the Taliban started bombing girls' schools throughout the Swat Valley. The attacks happened at night, so at least no one was hurt, but imagine arriving at school in the morning to find it a pile of rubble. It felt beyond cruel. They had begun cutting our electricity and targeting local politicians. They even banned children's games. We had been told stories of Taliban fighters who heard children laughing in their homes and burst in to destroy the game. They also bombed police stations and attacked individuals.
If the Taliban heard that someone had spoken out against them, they would announce those names on their radio station. And then the next morning, those people might be found dead in Green Square, our city centre, often with notes pinned to the bodies explaining their so-called sins. It got so bad that each morning, several bodies would be lined up in the town centre, which people started calling Bloody Square.
This was all part of their extremist propaganda. It was working: they were asserting control over the Swat Valley.
My father had been cautioned to stop speaking out on behalf of girls' education and peace. He didn't. But he did start varying his routes home in case he was being followed. And I started a new habit: I would check the locks on the doors and windows before I went to sleep each night.
We felt hopeful when the army sent troops to Swat to protect us. But it meant the fighting had come closer. They had a base in Mingora near our home, so I would hear the whirring of helicopter blades cutting the thick air and then look up to see metal hunks filled with soldiers in uniform. Those images, just like Taliban fighters holding machine guns in the streets, became such a big part of our daily lives that my brothers and their friends started playing Taliban versus army instead of hide-and-seek. They would make guns from paper and stage battles and 'shoot' at one another. Rather than share idle gossip and talk about our favourite movie stars, my friends and I shared information about death threats and wondered if we'd ever feel safe again.
This was our life now. It was nothing any of us could have ever imagined.
Scary things became normal. We'd hear the big, booming sounds of bombs and feel the ground tremble. The stronger the tremor, the closer the bomb. If we didn't hear a bomb blast for an entire day, we'd say, 'Today was a good day.' If we didn't hear firearms being shot at night, like firecrackers, then we might even get a good night's sleep.

Q. What, according to the passage, is suggested by the author's statement that children "started playing Taliban versus army instead of hide-and-seek"?

Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

I was eleven when the Taliban started bombing girls' schools throughout the Swat Valley. The attacks happened at night, so at least no one was hurt, but imagine arriving at school in the morning to find it a pile of rubble. It felt beyond cruel. They had begun cutting our electricity and targeting local politicians. They even banned children's games. We had been told stories of Taliban fighters who heard children laughing in their homes and burst in to destroy the game. They also bombed police stations and attacked individuals.
If the Taliban heard that someone had spoken out against them, they would announce those names on their radio station. And then the next morning, those people might be found dead in Green Square, our city centre, often with notes pinned to the bodies explaining their so-called sins. It got so bad that each morning, several bodies would be lined up in the town centre, which people started calling Bloody Square.
This was all part of their extremist propaganda. It was working: they were asserting control over the Swat Valley.
My father had been cautioned to stop speaking out on behalf of girls' education and peace. He didn't. But he did start varying his routes home in case he was being followed. And I started a new habit: I would check the locks on the doors and windows before I went to sleep each night.
We felt hopeful when the army sent troops to Swat to protect us. But it meant the fighting had come closer. They had a base in Mingora near our home, so I would hear the whirring of helicopter blades cutting the thick air and then look up to see metal hunks filled with soldiers in uniform. Those images, just like Taliban fighters holding machine guns in the streets, became such a big part of our daily lives that my brothers and their friends started playing Taliban versus army instead of hide-and-seek. They would make guns from paper and stage battles and 'shoot' at one another. Rather than share idle gossip and talk about our favourite movie stars, my friends and I shared information about death threats and wondered if we'd ever feel safe again.
This was our life now. It was nothing any of us could have ever imagined.
Scary things became normal. We'd hear the big, booming sounds of bombs and feel the ground tremble. The stronger the tremor, the closer the bomb. If we didn't hear a bomb blast for an entire day, we'd say, 'Today was a good day.' If we didn't hear firearms being shot at night, like firecrackers, then we might even get a good night's sleep.

Q. What does the word 'extremist' as used in the passage mean?

Read the passage and answer the following question.

When I was in class eight, Anna and I started buying magazines like Rani, Ananda Vikadan and Kumudam. Amma thought this was an unnecessary expenditure. Once we got hold of these magazines, Anna and I couldn't do anything else until we finished reading them. Sometimes we bought a copy each. Amma hated it; besides the money being wasted, work was also getting affected. These magazines also occasionally carried glamorous pictures of actresses. 'Are you spending money to buy and read these kind of books?' Amma would ask furiously. Soon, she gave up the habit of collecting paper because she could now tear pages from our magazines when she needed to.
Presently, she had to face another issue. When I was in class nine, I started buying literary books. None of the shops in our village sold them, so I ordered them through VPP (Value Payable Post) after seeing advertisements in magazines. The postman would deliver the books and collect the money. Amma would silently watch me hand the money over. The loathing and anger on her face could scorch.
As soon as the postman left, she would begin ranting, going on and on, and there was no way I could read the book then. I would go and sit somewhere in a field and not return for a long time. Though Amma would call out loudly enough, I would pretend not to hear and return home only after dark.
'He forgets everything around him when he has a book in his hand. At this rate, is he going to have the time to study well, become a district collector and give all his money to me? I graze goats and cows, sell milk diluted with water and save every paisa. This dog throws all our money at paper! I don't know how he is going to survive!' and so on and on she grumbled.
I used to buy a book every month. Amma's tirade would begin the day the book arrived, and by the time it subsided, the next one would come. Her cycle of rants would start up again. To avoid this, I told the postman not to deliver the books to our home and picked them up from the post office instead. However, Amma would find me reading the book, and know what I had done. She remembered the covers of all my books and recognised a new one instantly.
Though I also had a membership in the public library, it did not have the books I needed, nor did it stock any new ones. It was tiring to search for books there. I was deeply interested in poetry around this time. There was an unwritten rule that the public library could not purchase contemporary poetry.

Q. From the given passage, which of the following can be inferred about the author?

Read the passage and answer the following question.

When I was in class eight, Anna and I started buying magazines like Rani, Ananda Vikadan and Kumudam. Amma thought this was an unnecessary expenditure. Once we got hold of these magazines, Anna and I couldn't do anything else until we finished reading them. Sometimes we bought a copy each. Amma hated it; besides the money being wasted, work was also getting affected. These magazines also occasionally carried glamorous pictures of actresses. 'Are you spending money to buy and read these kind of books?' Amma would ask furiously. Soon, she gave up the habit of collecting paper because she could now tear pages from our magazines when she needed to.
Presently, she had to face another issue. When I was in class nine, I started buying literary books. None of the shops in our village sold them, so I ordered them through VPP (Value Payable Post) after seeing advertisements in magazines. The postman would deliver the books and collect the money. Amma would silently watch me hand the money over. The loathing and anger on her face could scorch.
As soon as the postman left, she would begin ranting, going on and on, and there was no way I could read the book then. I would go and sit somewhere in a field and not return for a long time. Though Amma would call out loudly enough, I would pretend not to hear and return home only after dark.
'He forgets everything around him when he has a book in his hand. At this rate, is he going to have the time to study well, become a district collector and give all his money to me? I graze goats and cows, sell milk diluted with water and save every paisa. This dog throws all our money at paper! I don't know how he is going to survive!' and so on and on she grumbled.
I used to buy a book every month. Amma's tirade would begin the day the book arrived, and by the time it subsided, the next one would come. Her cycle of rants would start up again. To avoid this, I told the postman not to deliver the books to our home and picked them up from the post office instead. However, Amma would find me reading the book, and know what I had done. She remembered the covers of all my books and recognised a new one instantly.
Though I also had a membership in the public library, it did not have the books I needed, nor did it stock any new ones. It was tiring to search for books there. I was deeply interested in poetry around this time. There was an unwritten rule that the public library could not purchase contemporary poetry.

Q. What does the word 'tirade' as used in the passage mean?

Read the passage and answer the following question.

When I was in class eight, Anna and I started buying magazines like Rani, Ananda Vikadan and Kumudam. Amma thought this was an unnecessary expenditure. Once we got hold of these magazines, Anna and I couldn't do anything else until we finished reading them. Sometimes we bought a copy each. Amma hated it; besides the money being wasted, work was also getting affected. These magazines also occasionally carried glamorous pictures of actresses. 'Are you spending money to buy and read these kind of books?' Amma would ask furiously. Soon, she gave up the habit of collecting paper because she could now tear pages from our magazines when she needed to.
Presently, she had to face another issue. When I was in class nine, I started buying literary books. None of the shops in our village sold them, so I ordered them through VPP (Value Payable Post) after seeing advertisements in magazines. The postman would deliver the books and collect the money. Amma would silently watch me hand the money over. The loathing and anger on her face could scorch.
As soon as the postman left, she would begin ranting, going on and on, and there was no way I could read the book then. I would go and sit somewhere in a field and not return for a long time. Though Amma would call out loudly enough, I would pretend not to hear and return home only after dark.
'He forgets everything around him when he has a book in his hand. At this rate, is he going to have the time to study well, become a district collector and give all his money to me? I graze goats and cows, sell milk diluted with water and save every paisa. This dog throws all our money at paper! I don't know how he is going to survive!' and so on and on she grumbled.
I used to buy a book every month. Amma's tirade would begin the day the book arrived, and by the time it subsided, the next one would come. Her cycle of rants would start up again. To avoid this, I told the postman not to deliver the books to our home and picked them up from the post office instead. However, Amma would find me reading the book, and know what I had done. She remembered the covers of all my books and recognised a new one instantly.
Though I also had a membership in the public library, it did not have the books I needed, nor did it stock any new ones. It was tiring to search for books there. I was deeply interested in poetry around this time. There was an unwritten rule that the public library could not purchase contemporary poetry.

Q. Why, according to the author, did he have to order the books through VPP?

Read the passage and answer the following question.

When I was in class eight, Anna and I started buying magazines like Rani, Ananda Vikadan and Kumudam. Amma thought this was an unnecessary expenditure. Once we got hold of these magazines, Anna and I couldn't do anything else until we finished reading them. Sometimes we bought a copy each. Amma hated it; besides the money being wasted, work was also getting affected. These magazines also occasionally carried glamorous pictures of actresses. 'Are you spending money to buy and read these kind of books?' Amma would ask furiously. Soon, she gave up the habit of collecting paper because she could now tear pages from our magazines when she needed to.
Presently, she had to face another issue. When I was in class nine, I started buying literary books. None of the shops in our village sold them, so I ordered them through VPP (Value Payable Post) after seeing advertisements in magazines. The postman would deliver the books and collect the money. Amma would silently watch me hand the money over. The loathing and anger on her face could scorch.
As soon as the postman left, she would begin ranting, going on and on, and there was no way I could read the book then. I would go and sit somewhere in a field and not return for a long time. Though Amma would call out loudly enough, I would pretend not to hear and return home only after dark.
'He forgets everything around him when he has a book in his hand. At this rate, is he going to have the time to study well, become a district collector and give all his money to me? I graze goats and cows, sell milk diluted with water and save every paisa. This dog throws all our money at paper! I don't know how he is going to survive!' and so on and on she grumbled.
I used to buy a book every month. Amma's tirade would begin the day the book arrived, and by the time it subsided, the next one would come. Her cycle of rants would start up again. To avoid this, I told the postman not to deliver the books to our home and picked them up from the post office instead. However, Amma would find me reading the book, and know what I had done. She remembered the covers of all my books and recognised a new one instantly.
Though I also had a membership in the public library, it did not have the books I needed, nor did it stock any new ones. It was tiring to search for books there. I was deeply interested in poetry around this time. There was an unwritten rule that the public library could not purchase contemporary poetry.

Q. Why, according to the passage, was the author more inclined to purchase books even though he had a library membership?

Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

When her grandmother learned of Ashima's pregnancy, she was particularly thrilled at the prospect of naming the family's first sahib. And so Ashima and Ashoke have agreed to put off the decision of what to name the baby until a letter comes, ignoring the forms from the hospital about filing for a birth certificate. Ashima's grandmother has mailed the letter herself, walking with her cane to the post office, her first trip out of the house in a decade. The letter contains one name for a girl, one for a boy. Ashima's grandmother has revealed them to no one.
Though the letter was sent a month ago, in July, it has yet to arrive. Ashima and Ashoke are not terribly concerned. After all, they both know, an infant doesn't really need a name. He needs to be fed and blessed, to be given some gold and silver, to be patted on the back after feedings and held carefully behind the neck. Names can wait. In India parents take their time. It wasn't unusual for years to pass before the right name, the best possible name, was determined. Ashima and Ashoke can both cite examples of cousins who were not officially named until they were registered, at six or seven, in school. The Nandis and Dr. Gupta understand perfectly. Of course you must wait, they agree, wait for the name in his great-grandmother's letter.
Besides, there are always pet names to tide one over: a practice of Bengali nomenclature grants, to every single person, two names. In Bengali the word for pet name is daknam, meaning, literally, the name by which one is called, by friends, family, and other intimates, at home and in other private, unguarded moments. Pet names are a persistent remnant of childhood, a reminder that life is not always so serious, so formal, so complicated. They are a reminder, too, that one is not all things to all people. They all have pet names. Ashima's pet name is Monu, Ashoke's is Mithu, and even as adults, these are the names by which they are known in their respective families, the names by which they are adored and scolded and missed and loved.
Every pet name is paired with a good name, a bhalonam, for identification in the outside world. Consequently, good names appear on envelopes, on diplomas, in telephone directories, and in all other public places. (For this reason, letters from Ashima's mother say "Ashima" on the outside, "Monu" on the inside.) Good names tend to represent dignified and enlightened qualities. Ashima means "she who is limitless, without borders." Ashoke, the name of an emperor, means "he who transcends grief." Pet names have no such aspirations. Pet names are never recorded officially, only uttered and remembered. Unlike good names, pet names are frequently meaningless, deliberately silly, ironic, even onomatopoetic. Often in one's infancy, one answers unwittingly to dozens of pet names, until one eventually sticks.

Q. Why, according the passage, does Ashima's grandmother leave the house after 10 years?

Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

When her grandmother learned of Ashima's pregnancy, she was particularly thrilled at the prospect of naming the family's first sahib. And so Ashima and Ashoke have agreed to put off the decision of what to name the baby until a letter comes, ignoring the forms from the hospital about filing for a birth certificate. Ashima's grandmother has mailed the letter herself, walking with her cane to the post office, her first trip out of the house in a decade. The letter contains one name for a girl, one for a boy. Ashima's grandmother has revealed them to no one.
Though the letter was sent a month ago, in July, it has yet to arrive. Ashima and Ashoke are not terribly concerned. After all, they both know, an infant doesn't really need a name. He needs to be fed and blessed, to be given some gold and silver, to be patted on the back after feedings and held carefully behind the neck. Names can wait. In India parents take their time. It wasn't unusual for years to pass before the right name, the best possible name, was determined. Ashima and Ashoke can both cite examples of cousins who were not officially named until they were registered, at six or seven, in school. The Nandis and Dr. Gupta understand perfectly. Of course you must wait, they agree, wait for the name in his great-grandmother's letter.
Besides, there are always pet names to tide one over: a practice of Bengali nomenclature grants, to every single person, two names. In Bengali the word for pet name is daknam, meaning, literally, the name by which one is called, by friends, family, and other intimates, at home and in other private, unguarded moments. Pet names are a persistent remnant of childhood, a reminder that life is not always so serious, so formal, so complicated. They are a reminder, too, that one is not all things to all people. They all have pet names. Ashima's pet name is Monu, Ashoke's is Mithu, and even as adults, these are the names by which they are known in their respective families, the names by which they are adored and scolded and missed and loved.
Every pet name is paired with a good name, a bhalonam, for identification in the outside world. Consequently, good names appear on envelopes, on diplomas, in telephone directories, and in all other public places. (For this reason, letters from Ashima's mother say "Ashima" on the outside, "Monu" on the inside.) Good names tend to represent dignified and enlightened qualities. Ashima means "she who is limitless, without borders." Ashoke, the name of an emperor, means "he who transcends grief." Pet names have no such aspirations. Pet names are never recorded officially, only uttered and remembered. Unlike good names, pet names are frequently meaningless, deliberately silly, ironic, even onomatopoetic. Often in one's infancy, one answers unwittingly to dozens of pet names, until one eventually sticks.

Q. Why, according to the passage, does Ashima and Ashoke believe an infant doesn't need a name immediately?

Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

When her grandmother learned of Ashima's pregnancy, she was particularly thrilled at the prospect of naming the family's first sahib. And so Ashima and Ashoke have agreed to put off the decision of what to name the baby until a letter comes, ignoring the forms from the hospital about filing for a birth certificate. Ashima's grandmother has mailed the letter herself, walking with her cane to the post office, her first trip out of the house in a decade. The letter contains one name for a girl, one for a boy. Ashima's grandmother has revealed them to no one.
Though the letter was sent a month ago, in July, it has yet to arrive. Ashima and Ashoke are not terribly concerned. After all, they both know, an infant doesn't really need a name. He needs to be fed and blessed, to be given some gold and silver, to be patted on the back after feedings and held carefully behind the neck. Names can wait. In India parents take their time. It wasn't unusual for years to pass before the right name, the best possible name, was determined. Ashima and Ashoke can both cite examples of cousins who were not officially named until they were registered, at six or seven, in school. The Nandis and Dr. Gupta understand perfectly. Of course you must wait, they agree, wait for the name in his great-grandmother's letter.
Besides, there are always pet names to tide one over: a practice of Bengali nomenclature grants, to every single person, two names. In Bengali the word for pet name is daknam, meaning, literally, the name by which one is called, by friends, family, and other intimates, at home and in other private, unguarded moments. Pet names are a persistent remnant of childhood, a reminder that life is not always so serious, so formal, so complicated. They are a reminder, too, that one is not all things to all people. They all have pet names. Ashima's pet name is Monu, Ashoke's is Mithu, and even as adults, these are the names by which they are known in their respective families, the names by which they are adored and scolded and missed and loved.
Every pet name is paired with a good name, a bhalonam, for identification in the outside world. Consequently, good names appear on envelopes, on diplomas, in telephone directories, and in all other public places. (For this reason, letters from Ashima's mother say "Ashima" on the outside, "Monu" on the inside.) Good names tend to represent dignified and enlightened qualities. Ashima means "she who is limitless, without borders." Ashoke, the name of an emperor, means "he who transcends grief." Pet names have no such aspirations. Pet names are never recorded officially, only uttered and remembered. Unlike good names, pet names are frequently meaningless, deliberately silly, ironic, even onomatopoetic. Often in one's infancy, one answers unwittingly to dozens of pet names, until one eventually sticks.

Q. Which of the following is not a reason for the significance of a pet name that the author states in the passage?

Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

When her grandmother learned of Ashima's pregnancy, she was particularly thrilled at the prospect of naming the family's first sahib. And so Ashima and Ashoke have agreed to put off the decision of what to name the baby until a letter comes, ignoring the forms from the hospital about filing for a birth certificate. Ashima's grandmother has mailed the letter herself, walking with her cane to the post office, her first trip out of the house in a decade. The letter contains one name for a girl, one for a boy. Ashima's grandmother has revealed them to no one.
Though the letter was sent a month ago, in July, it has yet to arrive. Ashima and Ashoke are not terribly concerned. After all, they both know, an infant doesn't really need a name. He needs to be fed and blessed, to be given some gold and silver, to be patted on the back after feedings and held carefully behind the neck. Names can wait. In India parents take their time. It wasn't unusual for years to pass before the right name, the best possible name, was determined. Ashima and Ashoke can both cite examples of cousins who were not officially named until they were registered, at six or seven, in school. The Nandis and Dr. Gupta understand perfectly. Of course you must wait, they agree, wait for the name in his great-grandmother's letter.
Besides, there are always pet names to tide one over: a practice of Bengali nomenclature grants, to every single person, two names. In Bengali the word for pet name is daknam, meaning, literally, the name by which one is called, by friends, family, and other intimates, at home and in other private, unguarded moments. Pet names are a persistent remnant of childhood, a reminder that life is not always so serious, so formal, so complicated. They are a reminder, too, that one is not all things to all people. They all have pet names. Ashima's pet name is Monu, Ashoke's is Mithu, and even as adults, these are the names by which they are known in their respective families, the names by which they are adored and scolded and missed and loved.
Every pet name is paired with a good name, a bhalonam, for identification in the outside world. Consequently, good names appear on envelopes, on diplomas, in telephone directories, and in all other public places. (For this reason, letters from Ashima's mother say "Ashima" on the outside, "Monu" on the inside.) Good names tend to represent dignified and enlightened qualities. Ashima means "she who is limitless, without borders." Ashoke, the name of an emperor, means "he who transcends grief." Pet names have no such aspirations. Pet names are never recorded officially, only uttered and remembered. Unlike good names, pet names are frequently meaningless, deliberately silly, ironic, even onomatopoetic. Often in one's infancy, one answers unwittingly to dozens of pet names, until one eventually sticks.

Q. What does the phrase 'unguarded moments' as used in the passage mean?

Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

When her grandmother learned of Ashima's pregnancy, she was particularly thrilled at the prospect of naming the family's first sahib. And so Ashima and Ashoke have agreed to put off the decision of what to name the baby until a letter comes, ignoring the forms from the hospital about filing for a birth certificate. Ashima's grandmother has mailed the letter herself, walking with her cane to the post office, her first trip out of the house in a decade. The letter contains one name for a girl, one for a boy. Ashima's grandmother has revealed them to no one.
Though the letter was sent a month ago, in July, it has yet to arrive. Ashima and Ashoke are not terribly concerned. After all, they both know, an infant doesn't really need a name. He needs to be fed and blessed, to be given some gold and silver, to be patted on the back after feedings and held carefully behind the neck. Names can wait. In India parents take their time. It wasn't unusual for years to pass before the right name, the best possible name, was determined. Ashima and Ashoke can both cite examples of cousins who were not officially named until they were registered, at six or seven, in school. The Nandis and Dr. Gupta understand perfectly. Of course you must wait, they agree, wait for the name in his great-grandmother's letter.
Besides, there are always pet names to tide one over: a practice of Bengali nomenclature grants, to every single person, two names. In Bengali the word for pet name is daknam, meaning, literally, the name by which one is called, by friends, family, and other intimates, at home and in other private, unguarded moments. Pet names are a persistent remnant of childhood, a reminder that life is not always so serious, so formal, so complicated. They are a reminder, too, that one is not all things to all people. They all have pet names. Ashima's pet name is Monu, Ashoke's is Mithu, and even as adults, these are the names by which they are known in their respective families, the names by which they are adored and scolded and missed and loved.
Every pet name is paired with a good name, a bhalonam, for identification in the outside world. Consequently, good names appear on envelopes, on diplomas, in telephone directories, and in all other public places. (For this reason, letters from Ashima's mother say "Ashima" on the outside, "Monu" on the inside.) Good names tend to represent dignified and enlightened qualities. Ashima means "she who is limitless, without borders." Ashoke, the name of an emperor, means "he who transcends grief." Pet names have no such aspirations. Pet names are never recorded officially, only uttered and remembered. Unlike good names, pet names are frequently meaningless, deliberately silly, ironic, even onomatopoetic. Often in one's infancy, one answers unwittingly to dozens of pet names, until one eventually sticks.

Q. Which of the following statements is the author most likely to agree with?

Read the passage and answer the following question.

The main problem with getting Poonachi's ear pierced was the set of questions it would provoke. "Where was she born? What was her mother's name? Who raised her mother? How much was she bought for?" The couple who owned Poonachi would have to respond to such questions. If they replied that they had received the newborn as a gift, that a man who looked like Bakasuran, the gluttonous demon, had given her away, the authorities might register a case of false testimony.
"Bring that Bakasuran here," they would say. "Has he got his ear pierced? He could be a spy from a foreign country; are you his accomplice?"
Accusations would be flung at the couple like arrows. "If he was in possession of a kid whose ears were not pierced, he might be an enemy of the regime," the authorities would declare. If they were to ask, "How did you come into contact with him? What else have you received from him?" the couple would have no answer.
The regime had the power to turn its own people, at any moment, into adversaries, enemies and traitors.
After taking everything into account, they decided to wait for ten or fifteen days. In that time, the pregnant goat in their yard would have delivered her litter. Her first pregnancy had yielded just one kid; the next few uniformly yielded two kids each. They could easily club Poonachi with two newborns and claim a litter of three. Her puny shape would support that claim.
Her black colour was a problem, however. Most of the goats in the state were white. A few were brown, but black ones were rare. Once upon a time, so the lore went, the state teemed with black goats. Since they could not be recognised in the dark when engaged in any criminal activity, the regime had, it was rumoured, deliberately wiped them out. Even so, black goats could still be spotted here and there. Their colour provoked instant hostility. When they saw Poonachi, the officials would go on the alert immediately.
From that day on, Poonachi got a reduced quantity of even the thin gruel she had to live on. The old woman was intent on not letting her grow fat. They would take the kids to the authorities four or five days after the pregnant goat delivered her litter. At that time, there should be no visible difference between Poonachi and the other two newborn kids.

Q. What, according to the passage, was the main issue the couple faced concerning the goat?

Read the passage and answer the following question.

The main problem with getting Poonachi's ear pierced was the set of questions it would provoke. "Where was she born? What was her mother's name? Who raised her mother? How much was she bought for?" The couple who owned Poonachi would have to respond to such questions. If they replied that they had received the newborn as a gift, that a man who looked like Bakasuran, the gluttonous demon, had given her away, the authorities might register a case of false testimony.
"Bring that Bakasuran here," they would say. "Has he got his ear pierced? He could be a spy from a foreign country; are you his accomplice?"
Accusations would be flung at the couple like arrows. "If he was in possession of a kid whose ears were not pierced, he might be an enemy of the regime," the authorities would declare. If they were to ask, "How did you come into contact with him? What else have you received from him?" the couple would have no answer.
The regime had the power to turn its own people, at any moment, into adversaries, enemies and traitors.
After taking everything into account, they decided to wait for ten or fifteen days. In that time, the pregnant goat in their yard would have delivered her litter. Her first pregnancy had yielded just one kid; the next few uniformly yielded two kids each. They could easily club Poonachi with two newborns and claim a litter of three. Her puny shape would support that claim.
Her black colour was a problem, however. Most of the goats in the state were white. A few were brown, but black ones were rare. Once upon a time, so the lore went, the state teemed with black goats. Since they could not be recognised in the dark when engaged in any criminal activity, the regime had, it was rumoured, deliberately wiped them out. Even so, black goats could still be spotted here and there. Their colour provoked instant hostility. When they saw Poonachi, the officials would go on the alert immediately.
From that day on, Poonachi got a reduced quantity of even the thin gruel she had to live on. The old woman was intent on not letting her grow fat. They would take the kids to the authorities four or five days after the pregnant goat delivered her litter. At that time, there should be no visible difference between Poonachi and the other two newborn kids.

Q. Which of the following can be correctly inferred from the given passage?

Read the passage and answer the following question.

The main problem with getting Poonachi's ear pierced was the set of questions it would provoke. "Where was she born? What was her mother's name? Who raised her mother? How much was she bought for?" The couple who owned Poonachi would have to respond to such questions. If they replied that they had received the newborn as a gift, that a man who looked like Bakasuran, the gluttonous demon, had given her away, the authorities might register a case of false testimony.
"Bring that Bakasuran here," they would say. "Has he got his ear pierced? He could be a spy from a foreign country; are you his accomplice?"
Accusations would be flung at the couple like arrows. "If he was in possession of a kid whose ears were not pierced, he might be an enemy of the regime," the authorities would declare. If they were to ask, "How did you come into contact with him? What else have you received from him?" the couple would have no answer.
The regime had the power to turn its own people, at any moment, into adversaries, enemies and traitors.
After taking everything into account, they decided to wait for ten or fifteen days. In that time, the pregnant goat in their yard would have delivered her litter. Her first pregnancy had yielded just one kid; the next few uniformly yielded two kids each. They could easily club Poonachi with two newborns and claim a litter of three. Her puny shape would support that claim.
Her black colour was a problem, however. Most of the goats in the state were white. A few were brown, but black ones were rare. Once upon a time, so the lore went, the state teemed with black goats. Since they could not be recognised in the dark when engaged in any criminal activity, the regime had, it was rumoured, deliberately wiped them out. Even so, black goats could still be spotted here and there. Their colour provoked instant hostility. When they saw Poonachi, the officials would go on the alert immediately.
From that day on, Poonachi got a reduced quantity of even the thin gruel she had to live on. The old woman was intent on not letting her grow fat. They would take the kids to the authorities four or five days after the pregnant goat delivered her litter. At that time, there should be no visible difference between Poonachi and the other two newborn kids.

Q. What does the word 'puny' as used in the passage mean?

Read the passage and answer the following question.

The main problem with getting Poonachi's ear pierced was the set of questions it would provoke. "Where was she born? What was her mother's name? Who raised her mother? How much was she bought for?" The couple who owned Poonachi would have to respond to such questions. If they replied that they had received the newborn as a gift, that a man who looked like Bakasuran, the gluttonous demon, had given her away, the authorities might register a case of false testimony.
"Bring that Bakasuran here," they would say. "Has he got his ear pierced? He could be a spy from a foreign country; are you his accomplice?"
Accusations would be flung at the couple like arrows. "If he was in possession of a kid whose ears were not pierced, he might be an enemy of the regime," the authorities would declare. If they were to ask, "How did you come into contact with him? What else have you received from him?" the couple would have no answer.
The regime had the power to turn its own people, at any moment, into adversaries, enemies and traitors.
After taking everything into account, they decided to wait for ten or fifteen days. In that time, the pregnant goat in their yard would have delivered her litter. Her first pregnancy had yielded just one kid; the next few uniformly yielded two kids each. They could easily club Poonachi with two newborns and claim a litter of three. Her puny shape would support that claim.
Her black colour was a problem, however. Most of the goats in the state were white. A few were brown, but black ones were rare. Once upon a time, so the lore went, the state teemed with black goats. Since they could not be recognised in the dark when engaged in any criminal activity, the regime had, it was rumoured, deliberately wiped them out. Even so, black goats could still be spotted here and there. Their colour provoked instant hostility. When they saw Poonachi, the officials would go on the alert immediately.
From that day on, Poonachi got a reduced quantity of even the thin gruel she had to live on. The old woman was intent on not letting her grow fat. They would take the kids to the authorities four or five days after the pregnant goat delivered her litter. At that time, there should be no visible difference between Poonachi and the other two newborn kids.

Q. What, according to the passage, can be inferred about the couple?

Read the passage and answer the following question.

The main problem with getting Poonachi's ear pierced was the set of questions it would provoke. "Where was she born? What was her mother's name? Who raised her mother? How much was she bought for?" The couple who owned Poonachi would have to respond to such questions. If they replied that they had received the newborn as a gift, that a man who looked like Bakasuran, the gluttonous demon, had given her away, the authorities might register a case of false testimony.
"Bring that Bakasuran here," they would say. "Has he got his ear pierced? He could be a spy from a foreign country; are you his accomplice?"
Accusations would be flung at the couple like arrows. "If he was in possession of a kid whose ears were not pierced, he might be an enemy of the regime," the authorities would declare. If they were to ask, "How did you come into contact with him? What else have you received from him?" the couple would have no answer.
The regime had the power to turn its own people, at any moment, into adversaries, enemies and traitors.
After taking everything into account, they decided to wait for ten or fifteen days. In that time, the pregnant goat in their yard would have delivered her litter. Her first pregnancy had yielded just one kid; the next few uniformly yielded two kids each. They could easily club Poonachi with two newborns and claim a litter of three. Her puny shape would support that claim.
Her black colour was a problem, however. Most of the goats in the state were white. A few were brown, but black ones were rare. Once upon a time, so the lore went, the state teemed with black goats. Since they could not be recognised in the dark when engaged in any criminal activity, the regime had, it was rumoured, deliberately wiped them out. Even so, black goats could still be spotted here and there. Their colour provoked instant hostility. When they saw Poonachi, the officials would go on the alert immediately.
From that day on, Poonachi got a reduced quantity of even the thin gruel she had to live on. The old woman was intent on not letting her grow fat. They would take the kids to the authorities four or five days after the pregnant goat delivered her litter. At that time, there should be no visible difference between Poonachi and the other two newborn kids.

Q. How, according to the passage, has the couple decided to solve their problem?

Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

While packing my luggage for the boarding school at Sophia, Mum had slipped in a bag of the dry powder I was supposed to mix with milk or water and use during my bath. Before leaving me at the dormitory, she also left unnecessarily detailed instructions on how that was to be done with the seventeen-year-old caretaker who managed the "junior girls" in that wing. I knew the caretaker did not appreciate Mum's directive because she repeatedly reminded me of it for the two years I lived there, often humiliating me in front of my hostel mates. During the common bath time, she would loudly enquire about that powder my mum left for me to become fair. Of all the times my ubtan embarrassed me, those were the worst.
My seven years so far had taught me nothing about standing up for myself, or defending what I thought was right. I also lacked the entitlement that a combination of wealth and caste pride allow many, even at that young age, to take on much older, more influential bullies with fortitude. I was poor and pretending to be upper caste in a hostel filled with mostly older girls; I had to fit in.
So I joined the raucous laughter in the room or smiled like I was in on the joke she was making at my expense and about Mum, even as a part of me cringed. The caretaker must have sensed that I was hiding something, for she soon added a new element to her weekly routine: asking me if I thought my mother was a bad person. She wasn't content with just mocking me, she also needed me to assure her that she was right.
I didn't tell Mum about this. I knew she would want to intervene or report it to the administration. And I thought that would only make things worse for me. The caretaker might be reprimanded. But after that, living at the hostel could get a lot worse. Pretending to dislike my own mother while blaming myself for not defending her didn't take long to turn into deep self-disgust. That plastic bag of ubtan became its centre and source. I would shove it deep into the belly of my locker so no one, not even I, could see it.
The bag would sit there unopened during the semester and I would bring it home with me during the break. Even though Mum had half-expected that I wouldn't actually use it, she would still be disappointed. During the weeks I spent at home, she would go through old magazines looking for the least messy ubtan recipes. She'd spend hours searching for the ingredients, and painstakingly blend them either by hand or in an old mixer.

Q. Which of the following can be rightly inferred about the author?

Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

While packing my luggage for the boarding school at Sophia, Mum had slipped in a bag of the dry powder I was supposed to mix with milk or water and use during my bath. Before leaving me at the dormitory, she also left unnecessarily detailed instructions on how that was to be done with the seventeen-year-old caretaker who managed the "junior girls" in that wing. I knew the caretaker did not appreciate Mum's directive because she repeatedly reminded me of it for the two years I lived there, often humiliating me in front of my hostel mates. During the common bath time, she would loudly enquire about that powder my mum left for me to become fair. Of all the times my ubtan embarrassed me, those were the worst.
My seven years so far had taught me nothing about standing up for myself, or defending what I thought was right. I also lacked the entitlement that a combination of wealth and caste pride allow many, even at that young age, to take on much older, more influential bullies with fortitude. I was poor and pretending to be upper caste in a hostel filled with mostly older girls; I had to fit in.
So I joined the raucous laughter in the room or smiled like I was in on the joke she was making at my expense and about Mum, even as a part of me cringed. The caretaker must have sensed that I was hiding something, for she soon added a new element to her weekly routine: asking me if I thought my mother was a bad person. She wasn't content with just mocking me, she also needed me to assure her that she was right.
I didn't tell Mum about this. I knew she would want to intervene or report it to the administration. And I thought that would only make things worse for me. The caretaker might be reprimanded. But after that, living at the hostel could get a lot worse. Pretending to dislike my own mother while blaming myself for not defending her didn't take long to turn into deep self-disgust. That plastic bag of ubtan became its centre and source. I would shove it deep into the belly of my locker so no one, not even I, could see it.
The bag would sit there unopened during the semester and I would bring it home with me during the break. Even though Mum had half-expected that I wouldn't actually use it, she would still be disappointed. During the weeks I spent at home, she would go through old magazines looking for the least messy ubtan recipes. She'd spend hours searching for the ingredients, and painstakingly blend them either by hand or in an old mixer.

Q. What, according to the passage, is the reason why the author's mother asked her to use ubtan?

Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

While packing my luggage for the boarding school at Sophia, Mum had slipped in a bag of the dry powder I was supposed to mix with milk or water and use during my bath. Before leaving me at the dormitory, she also left unnecessarily detailed instructions on how that was to be done with the seventeen-year-old caretaker who managed the "junior girls" in that wing. I knew the caretaker did not appreciate Mum's directive because she repeatedly reminded me of it for the two years I lived there, often humiliating me in front of my hostel mates. During the common bath time, she would loudly enquire about that powder my mum left for me to become fair. Of all the times my ubtan embarrassed me, those were the worst.
My seven years so far had taught me nothing about standing up for myself, or defending what I thought was right. I also lacked the entitlement that a combination of wealth and caste pride allow many, even at that young age, to take on much older, more influential bullies with fortitude. I was poor and pretending to be upper caste in a hostel filled with mostly older girls; I had to fit in.
So I joined the raucous laughter in the room or smiled like I was in on the joke she was making at my expense and about Mum, even as a part of me cringed. The caretaker must have sensed that I was hiding something, for she soon added a new element to her weekly routine: asking me if I thought my mother was a bad person. She wasn't content with just mocking me, she also needed me to assure her that she was right.
I didn't tell Mum about this. I knew she would want to intervene or report it to the administration. And I thought that would only make things worse for me. The caretaker might be reprimanded. But after that, living at the hostel could get a lot worse. Pretending to dislike my own mother while blaming myself for not defending her didn't take long to turn into deep self-disgust. That plastic bag of ubtan became its centre and source. I would shove it deep into the belly of my locker so no one, not even I, could see it.
The bag would sit there unopened during the semester and I would bring it home with me during the break. Even though Mum had half-expected that I wouldn't actually use it, she would still be disappointed. During the weeks I spent at home, she would go through old magazines looking for the least messy ubtan recipes. She'd spend hours searching for the ingredients, and painstakingly blend them either by hand or in an old mixer.

Q. What does the word 'raucous' as used in the passage mean?

Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

While packing my luggage for the boarding school at Sophia, Mum had slipped in a bag of the dry powder I was supposed to mix with milk or water and use during my bath. Before leaving me at the dormitory, she also left unnecessarily detailed instructions on how that was to be done with the seventeen-year-old caretaker who managed the "junior girls" in that wing. I knew the caretaker did not appreciate Mum's directive because she repeatedly reminded me of it for the two years I lived there, often humiliating me in front of my hostel mates. During the common bath time, she would loudly enquire about that powder my mum left for me to become fair. Of all the times my ubtan embarrassed me, those were the worst.
My seven years so far had taught me nothing about standing up for myself, or defending what I thought was right. I also lacked the entitlement that a combination of wealth and caste pride allow many, even at that young age, to take on much older, more influential bullies with fortitude. I was poor and pretending to be upper caste in a hostel filled with mostly older girls; I had to fit in.
So I joined the raucous laughter in the room or smiled like I was in on the joke she was making at my expense and about Mum, even as a part of me cringed. The caretaker must have sensed that I was hiding something, for she soon added a new element to her weekly routine: asking me if I thought my mother was a bad person. She wasn't content with just mocking me, she also needed me to assure her that she was right.
I didn't tell Mum about this. I knew she would want to intervene or report it to the administration. And I thought that would only make things worse for me. The caretaker might be reprimanded. But after that, living at the hostel could get a lot worse. Pretending to dislike my own mother while blaming myself for not defending her didn't take long to turn into deep self-disgust. That plastic bag of ubtan became its centre and source. I would shove it deep into the belly of my locker so no one, not even I, could see it.
The bag would sit there unopened during the semester and I would bring it home with me during the break. Even though Mum had half-expected that I wouldn't actually use it, she would still be disappointed. During the weeks I spent at home, she would go through old magazines looking for the least messy ubtan recipes. She'd spend hours searching for the ingredients, and painstakingly blend them either by hand or in an old mixer.

Q. What, according to the author, does the bag of ubtan represent?

Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

While packing my luggage for the boarding school at Sophia, Mum had slipped in a bag of the dry powder I was supposed to mix with milk or water and use during my bath. Before leaving me at the dormitory, she also left unnecessarily detailed instructions on how that was to be done with the seventeen-year-old caretaker who managed the "junior girls" in that wing. I knew the caretaker did not appreciate Mum's directive because she repeatedly reminded me of it for the two years I lived there, often humiliating me in front of my hostel mates. During the common bath time, she would loudly enquire about that powder my mum left for me to become fair. Of all the times my ubtan embarrassed me, those were the worst.
My seven years so far had taught me nothing about standing up for myself, or defending what I thought was right. I also lacked the entitlement that a combination of wealth and caste pride allow many, even at that young age, to take on much older, more influential bullies with fortitude. I was poor and pretending to be upper caste in a hostel filled with mostly older girls; I had to fit in.
So I joined the raucous laughter in the room or smiled like I was in on the joke she was making at my expense and about Mum, even as a part of me cringed. The caretaker must have sensed that I was hiding something, for she soon added a new element to her weekly routine: asking me if I thought my mother was a bad person. She wasn't content with just mocking me, she also needed me to assure her that she was right.
I didn't tell Mum about this. I knew she would want to intervene or report it to the administration. And I thought that would only make things worse for me. The caretaker might be reprimanded. But after that, living at the hostel could get a lot worse. Pretending to dislike my own mother while blaming myself for not defending her didn't take long to turn into deep self-disgust. That plastic bag of ubtan became its centre and source. I would shove it deep into the belly of my locker so no one, not even I, could see it.
The bag would sit there unopened during the semester and I would bring it home with me during the break. Even though Mum had half-expected that I wouldn't actually use it, she would still be disappointed. During the weeks I spent at home, she would go through old magazines looking for the least messy ubtan recipes. She'd spend hours searching for the ingredients, and painstakingly blend them either by hand or in an old mixer.

Q. From the given passage, which of the following can be rightly inferred about the author's mother?

Read the passage and answer the following question.

As a young adult, I was not immune to these social upheavals. With my tendency to stand up for the underdog, my internal volcano seemed to bubble up at the slightest hint of injustice. At St John's, I was known to be an unapologetic leftist who stood for values. I was just over sixteen years old, the youngest in my class. I do understand that sixteen years was very young to get into medical college. Fortunately, I was able to get several double promotions in my primary and middle school due to new educational rules. I used to sit in the second bench and was very nervous, since it was my first year at university. All the other students in my class were adults, street-smart and hostel boarders.
One incident that transpired among the hallowed portals of St John's changed things considerably. The physics teacher had a bit of an accent and used to pronounce 'cc' (cubic centimetres) as 'sheeshee'. One day, unable to control myself, I ended up covering my mouth and laughing. Face contorted with anger, the lecturer strode up to me.
'Take your books and get out!'
I sat there in silence, without moving.
'I said take your books and get out,' he repeated.
Finally I found my voice. 'I've done nothing wrong. When I'm not guilty, I won't go out.'
Anger turning to mortification, the lecturer blurted, 'I will report you to the Father, who is the head of the department of physics!'
'Please do.' I felt strangely calm.
I was reported to the head of the department and summoned by the Father. This was a matter of principle for me. I was ready to stand up for it.
I told the principal, 'Father, I will not leave the classroom when I've done nothing wrong.'
I was able to hold my ground, and no action was taken against me. My older classmates began to treat me with respect after this incident. It crystallized for me the importance of standing like a rock by one's principles. Coupled with my internal volcano of tenacity and my hunger for challenges, this gave my emerging personality multiple dimensions. I would no longer stand with my head bowed when injustice slapped me in the face. I would not take indignities lying down. I would not shy away from taking someone on when they threw down the gauntlet to me. In the coming years, it would be one or more of this triad of personality traits that would come to the fore when it came to life decisions or whenever I found myself at a crossroads.

Q. Which of the following, according to the passage, can be inferred about the author?

Read the passage and answer the following question.

As a young adult, I was not immune to these social upheavals. With my tendency to stand up for the underdog, my internal volcano seemed to bubble up at the slightest hint of injustice. At St John's, I was known to be an unapologetic leftist who stood for values. I was just over sixteen years old, the youngest in my class. I do understand that sixteen years was very young to get into medical college. Fortunately, I was able to get several double promotions in my primary and middle school due to new educational rules. I used to sit in the second bench and was very nervous, since it was my first year at university. All the other students in my class were adults, street-smart and hostel boarders.
One incident that transpired among the hallowed portals of St John's changed things considerably. The physics teacher had a bit of an accent and used to pronounce 'cc' (cubic centimetres) as 'sheeshee'. One day, unable to control myself, I ended up covering my mouth and laughing. Face contorted with anger, the lecturer strode up to me.
'Take your books and get out!'
I sat there in silence, without moving.
'I said take your books and get out,' he repeated.
Finally I found my voice. 'I've done nothing wrong. When I'm not guilty, I won't go out.'
Anger turning to mortification, the lecturer blurted, 'I will report you to the Father, who is the head of the department of physics!'
'Please do.' I felt strangely calm.
I was reported to the head of the department and summoned by the Father. This was a matter of principle for me. I was ready to stand up for it.
I told the principal, 'Father, I will not leave the classroom when I've done nothing wrong.'
I was able to hold my ground, and no action was taken against me. My older classmates began to treat me with respect after this incident. It crystallized for me the importance of standing like a rock by one's principles. Coupled with my internal volcano of tenacity and my hunger for challenges, this gave my emerging personality multiple dimensions. I would no longer stand with my head bowed when injustice slapped me in the face. I would not take indignities lying down. I would not shy away from taking someone on when they threw down the gauntlet to me. In the coming years, it would be one or more of this triad of personality traits that would come to the fore when it came to life decisions or whenever I found myself at a crossroads.

Q. Why did the author feel nervous in the class during his first year at the university?

Read the passage and answer the following question.

As a young adult, I was not immune to these social upheavals. With my tendency to stand up for the underdog, my internal volcano seemed to bubble up at the slightest hint of injustice. At St John's, I was known to be an unapologetic leftist who stood for values. I was just over sixteen years old, the youngest in my class. I do understand that sixteen years was very young to get into medical college. Fortunately, I was able to get several double promotions in my primary and middle school due to new educational rules. I used to sit in the second bench and was very nervous, since it was my first year at university. All the other students in my class were adults, street-smart and hostel boarders.
One incident that transpired among the hallowed portals of St John's changed things considerably. The physics teacher had a bit of an accent and used to pronounce 'cc' (cubic centimetres) as 'sheeshee'. One day, unable to control myself, I ended up covering my mouth and laughing. Face contorted with anger, the lecturer strode up to me.
'Take your books and get out!'
I sat there in silence, without moving.
'I said take your books and get out,' he repeated.
Finally I found my voice. 'I've done nothing wrong. When I'm not guilty, I won't go out.'
Anger turning to mortification, the lecturer blurted, 'I will report you to the Father, who is the head of the department of physics!'
'Please do.' I felt strangely calm.
I was reported to the head of the department and summoned by the Father. This was a matter of principle for me. I was ready to stand up for it.
I told the principal, 'Father, I will not leave the classroom when I've done nothing wrong.'
I was able to hold my ground, and no action was taken against me. My older classmates began to treat me with respect after this incident. It crystallized for me the importance of standing like a rock by one's principles. Coupled with my internal volcano of tenacity and my hunger for challenges, this gave my emerging personality multiple dimensions. I would no longer stand with my head bowed when injustice slapped me in the face. I would not take indignities lying down. I would not shy away from taking someone on when they threw down the gauntlet to me. In the coming years, it would be one or more of this triad of personality traits that would come to the fore when it came to life decisions or whenever I found myself at a crossroads.

Q. What does the word 'tenacity' as used in the passage mean?

Read the passage and answer the following question.

As a young adult, I was not immune to these social upheavals. With my tendency to stand up for the underdog, my internal volcano seemed to bubble up at the slightest hint of injustice. At St John's, I was known to be an unapologetic leftist who stood for values. I was just over sixteen years old, the youngest in my class. I do understand that sixteen years was very young to get into medical college. Fortunately, I was able to get several double promotions in my primary and middle school due to new educational rules. I used to sit in the second bench and was very nervous, since it was my first year at university. All the other students in my class were adults, street-smart and hostel boarders.
One incident that transpired among the hallowed portals of St John's changed things considerably. The physics teacher had a bit of an accent and used to pronounce 'cc' (cubic centimetres) as 'sheeshee'. One day, unable to control myself, I ended up covering my mouth and laughing. Face contorted with anger, the lecturer strode up to me.
'Take your books and get out!'
I sat there in silence, without moving.
'I said take your books and get out,' he repeated.
Finally I found my voice. 'I've done nothing wrong. When I'm not guilty, I won't go out.'
Anger turning to mortification, the lecturer blurted, 'I will report you to the Father, who is the head of the department of physics!'
'Please do.' I felt strangely calm.
I was reported to the head of the department and summoned by the Father. This was a matter of principle for me. I was ready to stand up for it.
I told the principal, 'Father, I will not leave the classroom when I've done nothing wrong.'
I was able to hold my ground, and no action was taken against me. My older classmates began to treat me with respect after this incident. It crystallized for me the importance of standing like a rock by one's principles. Coupled with my internal volcano of tenacity and my hunger for challenges, this gave my emerging personality multiple dimensions. I would no longer stand with my head bowed when injustice slapped me in the face. I would not take indignities lying down. I would not shy away from taking someone on when they threw down the gauntlet to me. In the coming years, it would be one or more of this triad of personality traits that would come to the fore when it came to life decisions or whenever I found myself at a crossroads.

Q. Which of the following can be inferred about the lecturer?

Read the passage and answer the following question.

As a young adult, I was not immune to these social upheavals. With my tendency to stand up for the underdog, my internal volcano seemed to bubble up at the slightest hint of injustice. At St John's, I was known to be an unapologetic leftist who stood for values. I was just over sixteen years old, the youngest in my class. I do understand that sixteen years was very young to get into medical college. Fortunately, I was able to get several double promotions in my primary and middle school due to new educational rules. I used to sit in the second bench and was very nervous, since it was my first year at university. All the other students in my class were adults, street-smart and hostel boarders.
One incident that transpired among the hallowed portals of St John's changed things considerably. The physics teacher had a bit of an accent and used to pronounce 'cc' (cubic centimetres) as 'sheeshee'. One day, unable to control myself, I ended up covering my mouth and laughing. Face contorted with anger, the lecturer strode up to me.
'Take your books and get out!'
I sat there in silence, without moving.
'I said take your books and get out,' he repeated.
Finally I found my voice. 'I've done nothing wrong. When I'm not guilty, I won't go out.'
Anger turning to mortification, the lecturer blurted, 'I will report you to the Father, who is the head of the department of physics!'
'Please do.' I felt strangely calm.
I was reported to the head of the department and summoned by the Father. This was a matter of principle for me. I was ready to stand up for it.
I told the principal, 'Father, I will not leave the classroom when I've done nothing wrong.'
I was able to hold my ground, and no action was taken against me. My older classmates began to treat me with respect after this incident. It crystallized for me the importance of standing like a rock by one's principles. Coupled with my internal volcano of tenacity and my hunger for challenges, this gave my emerging personality multiple dimensions. I would no longer stand with my head bowed when injustice slapped me in the face. I would not take indignities lying down. I would not shy away from taking someone on when they threw down the gauntlet to me. In the coming years, it would be one or more of this triad of personality traits that would come to the fore when it came to life decisions or whenever I found myself at a crossroads.

Q. Based on the information set out in the passage, which of the following is most accurate?

Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

In our current age, finding an accurate map of the Ganga River system in India is almost as difficult as in Columbus's time. In 2017, the Survey of India started operating according to a new law. Any maps of India published in India must first be sent there. Often, the maps languish in their office for several months. Nine out of ten times, they send the map back with corrections and changes.
Often, they look like the kind of simplistic maps used when we were schoolchildren. Showing Tibet is a no-no, as is showing the borders. Violators risk forty-five days in jail and a fine. Children are growing up with distorted maps of the country. This is an incredible paradox at a time when Google Maps offers such exquisite detail.
Traditionally, Gangaji was the one who did not honour boundaries – she was the place where bodies disappeared, the place where a rigidly bound society slipped off its boundaries. Today we violate her boundaries, half-disappeared and sewage-choked, strapped up with barrages and dams. In the old days, sages would learn how Gangaji changed during the monsoon season. Now, the river's personality is determined more by the opening and shutting of the barrage gates.
Time and water are both flowing faster. For millennia, most of the rain in the subcontinent has fallen within one hundred stormy hours during the three-month monsoon season in northern India. With each passing year, more rain falls within a shorter time span. According to the World Economic Forum, out of sixty-seven surveyed countries, India is the most vulnerable to climate change.
As peak rainfall becomes more intense, landslides – already an existential threat to thousands of mountain villages – will become more common. The monsoon crops, chief among them rice, will be alternately drowned and starved, and the summer crops will die if more irrigation cannot be drawn from the limited water table. But a lot of solutions exist.
Through this troubled landscape winds the mighty river, now glimmering, now dull, now out of sight. Each day, with our excreta, our disavowal of balance and responsibility and our acceptance of the legacy of industrialisation, we are writing a dark chapter in the biography of this ancient goddess, the eternal life force, the Ganga River.

Q. Which of the following is most similar to the 'incredible paradox' that the author discusses in the given passage?