Test: CLAT Mock Test - 6 - CLAT MCQ

Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.

Philosophy is dead, Stephen Hawking once declared, because it ‘has not kept up with modern developments in science, particularly physics! It is scientists, not philosophers, who are now ‘the bearers of the torch of discovery in our quest for knowledge’. The response from some philosophers was to accuse Hawking of ‘scientism’. The charge of ‘scientism is meant to convey disapproval of anyone who values scientific disciplines, such as physics, over non-scientific disciplines, such as philosophy. The philosopher Tom Sorell writes that scientism is ‘a matter of putting too high a value on science in comparison with other branches of learning or culture’. But what's wrong with putting a higher value on science compared with other academic disciplines? What is so bad about scientism? If physics is in fact a better torch in the quest for knowledge than philosophy, as Hawking claimed, then perhaps it should be valued over philosophy and other non-scientific fields of enquiry.

Before we can address these questions, however, we need to get our definitions straight. For, much like other philosophical isms, ‘scientism’ means different things to different philosophers. Now, the question of whether science is the only way of knowing about reality, or at least better than non- scientific ways of knowing, is an epistemological question. Construed as an epistemological thesis, then, scientism can be broadly understood as either the view that scientific knowledge is the only form of knowledge we have, or the view that scientific knowledge is the best form of knowledge we have. But scientism comes in other varieties as well, including methodological and metaphysical ones. As a methodological thesis, scientism is either the view that scientific methods are the only. ways of knowing about reality we have, or the view that scientific methods are the best ways of knowing about reality we have. And, construed as a metaphysical thesis, scientism is either the view that science is our only guide to what exists, or the view that science is our best guide to what exists.

Without a clear understanding of the aforementioned varieties of scientism, philosophical parties to the scientism debate are at risk of merely talking past each other. That is, some defenders of scientism might be arguing for weaker varieties of scientism, in terms of scientific knowledge or methods being the best ones, while their opponents interpret them as arguing for stronger varieties of scientism, in terms of scientific knowledge or methods being the only ones. My own position, for example, is a weak variety of scientism. In my paper ‘What's So Bad about Scientism?” (2017), defend scientism as an epistemological thesis, which I call ‘Weak Scientism’. This is the view that scientific knowledge i the best form of knowledge we have (as opposed to ‘Strong Scientist, which is the view that scientific knowledge is the only knowledge we have).

Q. Which of the following titles best captures the essence of the passage?

Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.

Philosophy is dead, Stephen Hawking once declared, because it ‘has not kept up with modern developments in science, particularly physics! It is scientists, not philosophers, who are now ‘the bearers of the torch of discovery in our quest for knowledge’. The response from some philosophers was to accuse Hawking of ‘scientism’. The charge of ‘scientism is meant to convey disapproval of anyone who values scientific disciplines, such as physics, over non-scientific disciplines, such as philosophy. The philosopher Tom Sorell writes that scientism is ‘a matter of putting too high a value on science in comparison with other branches of learning or culture’. But what's wrong with putting a higher value on science compared with other academic disciplines? What is so bad about scientism? If physics is in fact a better torch in the quest for knowledge than philosophy, as Hawking claimed, then perhaps it should be valued over philosophy and other non-scientific fields of enquiry.

Before we can address these questions, however, we need to get our definitions straight. For, much like other philosophical isms, ‘scientism’ means different things to different philosophers. Now, the question of whether science is the only way of knowing about reality, or at least better than non- scientific ways of knowing, is an epistemological question. Construed as an epistemological thesis, then, scientism can be broadly understood as either the view that scientific knowledge is the only form of knowledge we have, or the view that scientific knowledge is the best form of knowledge we have. But scientism comes in other varieties as well, including methodological and metaphysical ones. As a methodological thesis, scientism is either the view that scientific methods are the only. ways of knowing about reality we have, or the view that scientific methods are the best ways of knowing about reality we have. And, construed as a metaphysical thesis, scientism is either the view that science is our only guide to what exists, or the view that science is our best guide to what exists.

Without a clear understanding of the aforementioned varieties of scientism, philosophical parties to the scientism debate are at risk of merely talking past each other. That is, some defenders of scientism might be arguing for weaker varieties of scientism, in terms of scientific knowledge or methods being the best ones, while their opponents interpret them as arguing for stronger varieties of scientism, in terms of scientific knowledge or methods being the only ones. My own position, for example, is a weak variety of scientism. In my paper ‘What's So Bad about Scientism?” (2017), defend scientism as an epistemological thesis, which I call ‘Weak Scientism’. This is the view that scientific knowledge i the best form of knowledge we have (as opposed to ‘Strong Scientist, which is the view that scientific knowledge is the only knowledge we have).

Q. How does the author perceive the worth of science in relation to other academic disciplines?

Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.

Bengaluru is blushing all over. A serial bloomer, the city unfurls its flora one after the other, bud by bud, carpeting its roads with petals now shocking pink, now golden yellow, all year round. As trees burst into every colour possible and flowers overtake trunks, the air smells like spilt perfume. These overlapping flowering seasons are no coincidence, but the result of careful botanical planning.

Bengaluru is reaping what it sowed. When a city is in the news for its flowers, flooding social media with photos taken from home or moving vehicle, it is time to give horticulture its due. Let’s address all flowers formally and respectfully by their baptised name instead of silly pet names.

Kigelia Africana (sausage tree), Neolamarckia cadamba (burflower-tree), Pongamia pinnata (beech tree), Spathodea (African tulips). . . . And Tabebuia rosea – rosy trumpet tree or pink poui – that writer Shobhaa De on a recent visit to the city said sounds like a skin condition.

Tabebuia rosea staged an overnight coup this year too, re-activating the fingers of Bengalureans into pointing to the tree here, there and everywhere. An utter amnesia overtook us on the garbage and gutter situation. All we could look at, talk about and click profusely was the rosy trumpet tree along our path. With their flamboyant rosy exuberance, the trees struck a pose where they stood – in the middle of the road, right outside your window, en route to wherever you are going. The usual flower thieves in apartment blocks forgot their sly plucking, shamed by this plenitude.

Purple jacaranda, red or white hibiscus and roses in every hue. Orange crossandra or white jasmine gajras in the hair. Fern in the forests around the city. Lilies, orchids and sunflowers perched pricy in the florist’s window. And still Bengaluru mourns the imminent departure of the Tabebuia rosea. Alas, the trees are already starting to shed their ornamental look, baring the twigs beneath. And even though other flowers will take over the floral relay race, we will miss the trees that crowded the skyline with their stunning pinkness like flower arrangements in huge celestial vases.

Mysore ruler Hyder Ali gave us a 240-acre garden named Lalbagh, while German botanist-gardener Gustav Hermann Krumbiegel and then forest official SG Neginhal worked their own magic just so Bengaluru could call itself Garden City. But all it takes is a Tabebuia rosea to make the a Bengorelan happy.

Q. What is the meaning of "flamboyant" as used in the passage?

Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.

Bengaluru is blushing all over. A serial bloomer, the city unfurls its flora one after the other, bud by bud, carpeting its roads with petals now shocking pink, now golden yellow, all year round. As trees burst into every colour possible and flowers overtake trunks, the air smells like spilt perfume. These overlapping flowering seasons are no coincidence, but the result of careful botanical planning.

Bengaluru is reaping what it sowed. When a city is in the news for its flowers, flooding social media with photos taken from home or moving vehicle, it is time to give horticulture its due. Let’s address all flowers formally and respectfully by their baptised name instead of silly pet names.

Kigelia Africana (sausage tree), Neolamarckia cadamba (burflower-tree), Pongamia pinnata (beech tree), Spathodea (African tulips). . . . And Tabebuia rosea – rosy trumpet tree or pink poui – that writer Shobhaa De on a recent visit to the city said sounds like a skin condition.

Tabebuia rosea staged an overnight coup this year too, re-activating the fingers of Bengalureans into pointing to the tree here, there and everywhere. An utter amnesia overtook us on the garbage and gutter situation. All we could look at, talk about and click profusely was the rosy trumpet tree along our path. With their flamboyant rosy exuberance, the trees struck a pose where they stood – in the middle of the road, right outside your window, en route to wherever you are going. The usual flower thieves in apartment blocks forgot their sly plucking, shamed by this plenitude.

Purple jacaranda, red or white hibiscus and roses in every hue. Orange crossandra or white jasmine gajras in the hair. Fern in the forests around the city. Lilies, orchids and sunflowers perched pricy in the florist’s window. And still Bengaluru mourns the imminent departure of the Tabebuia rosea. Alas, the trees are already starting to shed their ornamental look, baring the twigs beneath. And even though other flowers will take over the floral relay race, we will miss the trees that crowded the skyline with their stunning pinkness like flower arrangements in huge celestial vases.

Mysore ruler Hyder Ali gave us a 240-acre garden named Lalbagh, while German botanist-gardener Gustav Hermann Krumbiegel and then forest official SG Neginhal worked their own magic just so Bengaluru could call itself Garden City. But all it takes is a Tabebuia rosea to make the a Bengorelan happy.

Q. Which statement accurately describes Bengaluru?

Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.

Bengaluru is blushing all over. A serial bloomer, the city unfurls its flora one after the other, bud by bud, carpeting its roads with petals now shocking pink, now golden yellow, all year round. As trees burst into every colour possible and flowers overtake trunks, the air smells like spilt perfume. These overlapping flowering seasons are no coincidence, but the result of careful botanical planning.

Bengaluru is reaping what it sowed. When a city is in the news for its flowers, flooding social media with photos taken from home or moving vehicle, it is time to give horticulture its due. Let’s address all flowers formally and respectfully by their baptised name instead of silly pet names.

Kigelia Africana (sausage tree), Neolamarckia cadamba (burflower-tree), Pongamia pinnata (beech tree), Spathodea (African tulips). . . . And Tabebuia rosea – rosy trumpet tree or pink poui – that writer Shobhaa De on a recent visit to the city said sounds like a skin condition.

Tabebuia rosea staged an overnight coup this year too, re-activating the fingers of Bengalureans into pointing to the tree here, there and everywhere. An utter amnesia overtook us on the garbage and gutter situation. All we could look at, talk about and click profusely was the rosy trumpet tree along our path. With their flamboyant rosy exuberance, the trees struck a pose where they stood – in the middle of the road, right outside your window, en route to wherever you are going. The usual flower thieves in apartment blocks forgot their sly plucking, shamed by this plenitude.

Purple jacaranda, red or white hibiscus and roses in every hue. Orange crossandra or white jasmine gajras in the hair. Fern in the forests around the city. Lilies, orchids and sunflowers perched pricy in the florist’s window. And still Bengaluru mourns the imminent departure of the Tabebuia rosea. Alas, the trees are already starting to shed their ornamental look, baring the twigs beneath. And even though other flowers will take over the floral relay race, we will miss the trees that crowded the skyline with their stunning pinkness like flower arrangements in huge celestial vases.

Mysore ruler Hyder Ali gave us a 240-acre garden named Lalbagh, while German botanist-gardener Gustav Hermann Krumbiegel and then forest official SG Neginhal worked their own magic just so Bengaluru could call itself Garden City. But all it takes is a Tabebuia rosea to make the a Bengorelan happy.

Q. Which of the following statements is a piece of information explicitly stated in the passage?

Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.

Bengaluru is blushing all over. A serial bloomer, the city unfurls its flora one after the other, bud by bud, carpeting its roads with petals now shocking pink, now golden yellow, all year round. As trees burst into every colour possible and flowers overtake trunks, the air smells like spilt perfume. These overlapping flowering seasons are no coincidence, but the result of careful botanical planning.

Bengaluru is reaping what it sowed. When a city is in the news for its flowers, flooding social media with photos taken from home or moving vehicle, it is time to give horticulture its due. Let’s address all flowers formally and respectfully by their baptised name instead of silly pet names.

Kigelia Africana (sausage tree), Neolamarckia cadamba (burflower-tree), Pongamia pinnata (beech tree), Spathodea (African tulips). . . . And Tabebuia rosea – rosy trumpet tree or pink poui – that writer Shobhaa De on a recent visit to the city said sounds like a skin condition.

Tabebuia rosea staged an overnight coup this year too, re-activating the fingers of Bengalureans into pointing to the tree here, there and everywhere. An utter amnesia overtook us on the garbage and gutter situation. All we could look at, talk about and click profusely was the rosy trumpet tree along our path. With their flamboyant rosy exuberance, the trees struck a pose where they stood – in the middle of the road, right outside your window, en route to wherever you are going. The usual flower thieves in apartment blocks forgot their sly plucking, shamed by this plenitude.

Purple jacaranda, red or white hibiscus and roses in every hue. Orange crossandra or white jasmine gajras in the hair. Fern in the forests around the city. Lilies, orchids and sunflowers perched pricy in the florist’s window. And still Bengaluru mourns the imminent departure of the Tabebuia rosea. Alas, the trees are already starting to shed their ornamental look, baring the twigs beneath. And even though other flowers will take over the floral relay race, we will miss the trees that crowded the skyline with their stunning pinkness like flower arrangements in huge celestial vases.

Mysore ruler Hyder Ali gave us a 240-acre garden named Lalbagh, while German botanist-gardener Gustav Hermann Krumbiegel and then forest official SG Neginhal worked their own magic just so Bengaluru could call itself Garden City. But all it takes is a Tabebuia rosea to make the a Bengorelan happy.

Q. Which of the following options characterizes the writing style employed in the passage most accurately?

Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.

Bengaluru is blushing all over. A serial bloomer, the city unfurls its flora one after the other, bud by bud, carpeting its roads with petals now shocking pink, now golden yellow, all year round. As trees burst into every colour possible and flowers overtake trunks, the air smells like spilt perfume. These overlapping flowering seasons are no coincidence, but the result of careful botanical planning.

Bengaluru is reaping what it sowed. When a city is in the news for its flowers, flooding social media with photos taken from home or moving vehicle, it is time to give horticulture its due. Let’s address all flowers formally and respectfully by their baptised name instead of silly pet names.

Kigelia Africana (sausage tree), Neolamarckia cadamba (burflower-tree), Pongamia pinnata (beech tree), Spathodea (African tulips). . . . And Tabebuia rosea – rosy trumpet tree or pink poui – that writer Shobhaa De on a recent visit to the city said sounds like a skin condition.

Tabebuia rosea staged an overnight coup this year too, re-activating the fingers of Bengalureans into pointing to the tree here, there and everywhere. An utter amnesia overtook us on the garbage and gutter situation. All we could look at, talk about and click profusely was the rosy trumpet tree along our path. With their flamboyant rosy exuberance, the trees struck a pose where they stood – in the middle of the road, right outside your window, en route to wherever you are going. The usual flower thieves in apartment blocks forgot their sly plucking, shamed by this plenitude.

Purple jacaranda, red or white hibiscus and roses in every hue. Orange crossandra or white jasmine gajras in the hair. Fern in the forests around the city. Lilies, orchids and sunflowers perched pricy in the florist’s window. And still Bengaluru mourns the imminent departure of the Tabebuia rosea. Alas, the trees are already starting to shed their ornamental look, baring the twigs beneath. And even though other flowers will take over the floral relay race, we will miss the trees that crowded the skyline with their stunning pinkness like flower arrangements in huge celestial vases.

Mysore ruler Hyder Ali gave us a 240-acre garden named Lalbagh, while German botanist-gardener Gustav Hermann Krumbiegel and then forest official SG Neginhal worked their own magic just so Bengaluru could call itself Garden City. But all it takes is a Tabebuia rosea to make the a Bengorelan happy.

Q. What did the passage imply about Bengaluru's nickname "Garden City"?

Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.

A gaggle of magpie geese float across a bright, almost blinding yellow fabric suspended from ceiling-high spokes, among all the neatly-stacked Kanjeevarams in Kingsley. The fabric is one of many brightly-hued pieces with abundant and unusual motifs that remain as centerpieces in the building known for its arched windows, checkered floors and colonial character. Chennai is perhaps unfamiliar with the stories behind the pieces, for they come all the way from the First Nations cultures of Australia: the first peoples of Australia, who have existed for thousands of years prior to colonisation.

The magpie geese or murnubbarr karrolka as they call it, fly long distances in the wet seasons, and are characteristic of the Kakadu and Western Arnhem Land where they are often found. For Dora Daiguma, an aboriginal artist hailing from Arnhem, they signify her land, surroundings and childhood memories. Suspended adjacently is another piece that carries an earthy red hue, dotted by amorphous, rather fibrous shapes — Bah-je by Linda Guruwana. Bah-je translates to hunting bag in Djinang, one of more than 250 indigenous languages in Australia.

The well-displayed installation titled Jarrachara is an invitation to simply absorb the stories of First Nations’ cultures as told through a medium as intimate as textile. Jarrachara is a distinctive cool wind that blows across Arnhem Land in Australia’s far north in the dry season. It signifies ‘ceremonial coming together’. The installation has 24 screen-printed textiles created by 15 female First Nations artists, all part of Babbara Women’s Centre (set up in 1987) based in Maningrida — a regional community in the Northern territory of Australia. They are punctuated by a few framed, wood-cut prints done in collaboration with Tharangini Studio in Bengaluru.

The earliest forms of Aboriginal art were rock carvings and paintings, body painting and ground designs. Sarah Kirlew, Australian Consul-General for South India says, “There are engravings on cave walls in Arnhem Land dating back 60,000 years. Placing the art on canvas and board began about 50 years ago. Today Aboriginal art is done in an expanding range of mediums, including, as in this exhibition, textiles.”

Most of the artworks and allied motifs share knowledge about, simply, their life: traditional bush foods, and harvest such as cheeky yam, long yam, dugong (marine mammal), barramundi (Asian sea bass) and long-necked turtles make appearances. Jessica continues, “Traditional life in saltwater and freshwater country is explored in the medium. Dilly bags and woven fish traps and other objects traditionally made by women to collect food and carry children are depicted. The stories also include creation spirits — [that appear in creation stories] such as mimihs, yawkyawk (mermaid spirits), djomi (mermaid) and other women’s creation stories specific to this region in Arnhem Land. The designs share the plants and animals unique to this region.”

Q. What is the main theme of the passage?

Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.

A gaggle of magpie geese float across a bright, almost blinding yellow fabric suspended from ceiling-high spokes, among all the neatly-stacked Kanjeevarams in Kingsley. The fabric is one of many brightly-hued pieces with abundant and unusual motifs that remain as centerpieces in the building known for its arched windows, checkered floors and colonial character. Chennai is perhaps unfamiliar with the stories behind the pieces, for they come all the way from the First Nations cultures of Australia: the first peoples of Australia, who have existed for thousands of years prior to colonisation.

The magpie geese or murnubbarr karrolka as they call it, fly long distances in the wet seasons, and are characteristic of the Kakadu and Western Arnhem Land where they are often found. For Dora Daiguma, an aboriginal artist hailing from Arnhem, they signify her land, surroundings and childhood memories. Suspended adjacently is another piece that carries an earthy red hue, dotted by amorphous, rather fibrous shapes — Bah-je by Linda Guruwana. Bah-je translates to hunting bag in Djinang, one of more than 250 indigenous languages in Australia.

The well-displayed installation titled Jarrachara is an invitation to simply absorb the stories of First Nations’ cultures as told through a medium as intimate as textile. Jarrachara is a distinctive cool wind that blows across Arnhem Land in Australia’s far north in the dry season. It signifies ‘ceremonial coming together’. The installation has 24 screen-printed textiles created by 15 female First Nations artists, all part of Babbara Women’s Centre (set up in 1987) based in Maningrida — a regional community in the Northern territory of Australia. They are punctuated by a few framed, wood-cut prints done in collaboration with Tharangini Studio in Bengaluru.

The earliest forms of Aboriginal art were rock carvings and paintings, body painting and ground designs. Sarah Kirlew, Australian Consul-General for South India says, “There are engravings on cave walls in Arnhem Land dating back 60,000 years. Placing the art on canvas and board began about 50 years ago. Today Aboriginal art is done in an expanding range of mediums, including, as in this exhibition, textiles.”

Most of the artworks and allied motifs share knowledge about, simply, their life: traditional bush foods, and harvest such as cheeky yam, long yam, dugong (marine mammal), barramundi (Asian sea bass) and long-necked turtles make appearances. Jessica continues, “Traditional life in saltwater and freshwater country is explored in the medium. Dilly bags and woven fish traps and other objects traditionally made by women to collect food and carry children are depicted. The stories also include creation spirits — [that appear in creation stories] such as mimihs, yawkyawk (mermaid spirits), djomi (mermaid) and other women’s creation stories specific to this region in Arnhem Land. The designs share the plants and animals unique to this region.”

Q. According to the passage, what does the term "Jarrachara" signify in Aboriginal culture?

Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.

A gaggle of magpie geese float across a bright, almost blinding yellow fabric suspended from ceiling-high spokes, among all the neatly-stacked Kanjeevarams in Kingsley. The fabric is one of many brightly-hued pieces with abundant and unusual motifs that remain as centerpieces in the building known for its arched windows, checkered floors and colonial character. Chennai is perhaps unfamiliar with the stories behind the pieces, for they come all the way from the First Nations cultures of Australia: the first peoples of Australia, who have existed for thousands of years prior to colonisation.

The magpie geese or murnubbarr karrolka as they call it, fly long distances in the wet seasons, and are characteristic of the Kakadu and Western Arnhem Land where they are often found. For Dora Daiguma, an aboriginal artist hailing from Arnhem, they signify her land, surroundings and childhood memories. Suspended adjacently is another piece that carries an earthy red hue, dotted by amorphous, rather fibrous shapes — Bah-je by Linda Guruwana. Bah-je translates to hunting bag in Djinang, one of more than 250 indigenous languages in Australia.

The well-displayed installation titled Jarrachara is an invitation to simply absorb the stories of First Nations’ cultures as told through a medium as intimate as textile. Jarrachara is a distinctive cool wind that blows across Arnhem Land in Australia’s far north in the dry season. It signifies ‘ceremonial coming together’. The installation has 24 screen-printed textiles created by 15 female First Nations artists, all part of Babbara Women’s Centre (set up in 1987) based in Maningrida — a regional community in the Northern territory of Australia. They are punctuated by a few framed, wood-cut prints done in collaboration with Tharangini Studio in Bengaluru.

The earliest forms of Aboriginal art were rock carvings and paintings, body painting and ground designs. Sarah Kirlew, Australian Consul-General for South India says, “There are engravings on cave walls in Arnhem Land dating back 60,000 years. Placing the art on canvas and board began about 50 years ago. Today Aboriginal art is done in an expanding range of mediums, including, as in this exhibition, textiles.”

Most of the artworks and allied motifs share knowledge about, simply, their life: traditional bush foods, and harvest such as cheeky yam, long yam, dugong (marine mammal), barramundi (Asian sea bass) and long-necked turtles make appearances. Jessica continues, “Traditional life in saltwater and freshwater country is explored in the medium. Dilly bags and woven fish traps and other objects traditionally made by women to collect food and carry children are depicted. The stories also include creation spirits — [that appear in creation stories] such as mimihs, yawkyawk (mermaid spirits), djomi (mermaid) and other women’s creation stories specific to this region in Arnhem Land. The designs share the plants and animals unique to this region.”

Q. What does the expression "bright, almost blinding yellow fabric" in the passage suggest?

Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.

A gaggle of magpie geese float across a bright, almost blinding yellow fabric suspended from ceiling-high spokes, among all the neatly-stacked Kanjeevarams in Kingsley. The fabric is one of many brightly-hued pieces with abundant and unusual motifs that remain as centerpieces in the building known for its arched windows, checkered floors and colonial character. Chennai is perhaps unfamiliar with the stories behind the pieces, for they come all the way from the First Nations cultures of Australia: the first peoples of Australia, who have existed for thousands of years prior to colonisation.

The magpie geese or murnubbarr karrolka as they call it, fly long distances in the wet seasons, and are characteristic of the Kakadu and Western Arnhem Land where they are often found. For Dora Daiguma, an aboriginal artist hailing from Arnhem, they signify her land, surroundings and childhood memories. Suspended adjacently is another piece that carries an earthy red hue, dotted by amorphous, rather fibrous shapes — Bah-je by Linda Guruwana. Bah-je translates to hunting bag in Djinang, one of more than 250 indigenous languages in Australia.

The well-displayed installation titled Jarrachara is an invitation to simply absorb the stories of First Nations’ cultures as told through a medium as intimate as textile. Jarrachara is a distinctive cool wind that blows across Arnhem Land in Australia’s far north in the dry season. It signifies ‘ceremonial coming together’. The installation has 24 screen-printed textiles created by 15 female First Nations artists, all part of Babbara Women’s Centre (set up in 1987) based in Maningrida — a regional community in the Northern territory of Australia. They are punctuated by a few framed, wood-cut prints done in collaboration with Tharangini Studio in Bengaluru.

The earliest forms of Aboriginal art were rock carvings and paintings, body painting and ground designs. Sarah Kirlew, Australian Consul-General for South India says, “There are engravings on cave walls in Arnhem Land dating back 60,000 years. Placing the art on canvas and board began about 50 years ago. Today Aboriginal art is done in an expanding range of mediums, including, as in this exhibition, textiles.”

Most of the artworks and allied motifs share knowledge about, simply, their life: traditional bush foods, and harvest such as cheeky yam, long yam, dugong (marine mammal), barramundi (Asian sea bass) and long-necked turtles make appearances. Jessica continues, “Traditional life in saltwater and freshwater country is explored in the medium. Dilly bags and woven fish traps and other objects traditionally made by women to collect food and carry children are depicted. The stories also include creation spirits — [that appear in creation stories] such as mimihs, yawkyawk (mermaid spirits), djomi (mermaid) and other women’s creation stories specific to this region in Arnhem Land. The designs share the plants and animals unique to this region.”

Q. According to the passage, what types of subjects are depicted in Aboriginal art?

Directions: Kindly read the passage carefully and answer the questions given beside.

A gaggle of magpie geese float across a bright, almost blinding yellow fabric suspended from ceiling-high spokes, among all the neatly-stacked Kanjeevarams in Kingsley. The fabric is one of many brightly-hued pieces with abundant and unusual motifs that remain as centerpieces in the building known for its arched windows, checkered floors and colonial character. Chennai is perhaps unfamiliar with the stories behind the pieces, for they come all the way from the First Nations cultures of Australia: the first peoples of Australia, who have existed for thousands of years prior to colonisation.

The magpie geese or murnubbarr karrolka as they call it, fly long distances in the wet seasons, and are characteristic of the Kakadu and Western Arnhem Land where they are often found. For Dora Daiguma, an aboriginal artist hailing from Arnhem, they signify her land, surroundings and childhood memories. Suspended adjacently is another piece that carries an earthy red hue, dotted by amorphous, rather fibrous shapes — Bah-je by Linda Guruwana. Bah-je translates to hunting bag in Djinang, one of more than 250 indigenous languages in Australia.

The well-displayed installation titled Jarrachara is an invitation to simply absorb the stories of First Nations’ cultures as told through a medium as intimate as textile. Jarrachara is a distinctive cool wind that blows across Arnhem Land in Australia’s far north in the dry season. It signifies ‘ceremonial coming together’. The installation has 24 screen-printed textiles created by 15 female First Nations artists, all part of Babbara Women’s Centre (set up in 1987) based in Maningrida — a regional community in the Northern territory of Australia. They are punctuated by a few framed, wood-cut prints done in collaboration with Tharangini Studio in Bengaluru.

The earliest forms of Aboriginal art were rock carvings and paintings, body painting and ground designs. Sarah Kirlew, Australian Consul-General for South India says, “There are engravings on cave walls in Arnhem Land dating back 60,000 years. Placing the art on canvas and board began about 50 years ago. Today Aboriginal art is done in an expanding range of mediums, including, as in this exhibition, textiles.”

Most of the artworks and allied motifs share knowledge about, simply, their life: traditional bush foods, and harvest such as cheeky yam, long yam, dugong (marine mammal), barramundi (Asian sea bass) and long-necked turtles make appearances. Jessica continues, “Traditional life in saltwater and freshwater country is explored in the medium. Dilly bags and woven fish traps and other objects traditionally made by women to collect food and carry children are depicted. The stories also include creation spirits — [that appear in creation stories] such as mimihs, yawkyawk (mermaid spirits), djomi (mermaid) and other women’s creation stories specific to this region in Arnhem Land. The designs share the plants and animals unique to this region.”

Q. When did the practice of placing Aboriginal art on canvas and board begin?

Directions: Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

It was the biggest decision of her life, the one for which she is most remembered, but Freda Bedi didn't tell her children that she was being ordained as a Buddhist nun. There was no family council, no private conversation, not even, it seems, a letter to announce her intention.
"There was this terrible feeling of betrayal," Kabir Bedi recalls. It was 1966 and the height of the Delhi summer. Kabir was 20, a student at one of India's most prestigious university colleges, St Stephen's, and still recovering from a broken back. He understood that Buddhism loomed increasingly large in his mother's life, but hadn't been prepared for her ordination as a nun.
He was angry and said so. Why? he demanded of his mother; why now? He still remembers her response. "It is something I felt I had to do and I knew if I started discussing it with everybody, God knows what might have happened." Kabir was seven when his mother found Buddhism while on a United Nations mission to Burma (now Myanmar). He had accompanied her back there when she studied meditation, and had himself enrolled briefly as a novitiate. He had worn the robes and shaved off his hair—in much the same manner as his mother had now done. He had spent time with his mother at the camps in Assam set up for the Tibetans who fled across the mountains to escape Chinese rule—that's where she first became immersed in Tibetan belief and culture. He had taught at the Young Lamas' Home School she established. It had felt like a shared journey. Now Freda, Sister Palmo as she became known, had decided to press on alone. "I raised all the silly arguments I could think of: Your daughter's still in college, she's not married, how's she going to manage? All silly things. But basically, I was angry because I felt betrayed. There was a terrible sense of loss. It's like, you've lost your mother."
A few days after the ceremony, still at Rumtek, Freda received what was clearly an anguished letter from Kabir. Manorma Dewan was part of the extended family—her husband's flat was the venue of Kabir's meeting with his newly-robed mother—and remembers the central message of that letter: "You have become very selfish." Manorma agreed with that view. Freda replied immediately by telegram, and followed that up with a three-page handwritten missive to her 'darling son'. Kabir still has that letter. "I have been in a maze of pain, feeling your and Guli's," she wrote. "You all knew one day this step would be taken; we even joked about my losing my hair! Somehow, now had to be the time."
[Extracted with edits and revisions from The Lives Of Freda: The Political, Spiritual and Personal Journeys by Andrew Whitehead from Speaking Tiger]

Q. How did Freda Bedi respond to Kabir's anguished letter following her ordination as a nun?

Directions: Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

It was the biggest decision of her life, the one for which she is most remembered, but Freda Bedi didn't tell her children that she was being ordained as a Buddhist nun. There was no family council, no private conversation, not even, it seems, a letter to announce her intention.
"There was this terrible feeling of betrayal," Kabir Bedi recalls. It was 1966 and the height of the Delhi summer. Kabir was 20, a student at one of India's most prestigious university colleges, St Stephen's, and still recovering from a broken back. He understood that Buddhism loomed increasingly large in his mother's life, but hadn't been prepared for her ordination as a nun.
He was angry and said so. Why? he demanded of his mother; why now? He still remembers her response. "It is something I felt I had to do and I knew if I started discussing it with everybody, God knows what might have happened." Kabir was seven when his mother found Buddhism while on a United Nations mission to Burma (now Myanmar). He had accompanied her back there when she studied meditation, and had himself enrolled briefly as a novitiate. He had worn the robes and shaved off his hair—in much the same manner as his mother had now done. He had spent time with his mother at the camps in Assam set up for the Tibetans who fled across the mountains to escape Chinese rule—that's where she first became immersed in Tibetan belief and culture. He had taught at the Young Lamas' Home School she established. It had felt like a shared journey. Now Freda, Sister Palmo as she became known, had decided to press on alone. "I raised all the silly arguments I could think of: Your daughter's still in college, she's not married, how's she going to manage? All silly things. But basically, I was angry because I felt betrayed. There was a terrible sense of loss. It's like, you've lost your mother."
A few days after the ceremony, still at Rumtek, Freda received what was clearly an anguished letter from Kabir. Manorma Dewan was part of the extended family—her husband's flat was the venue of Kabir's meeting with his newly-robed mother—and remembers the central message of that letter: "You have become very selfish." Manorma agreed with that view. Freda replied immediately by telegram, and followed that up with a three-page handwritten missive to her 'darling son'. Kabir still has that letter. "I have been in a maze of pain, feeling your and Guli's," she wrote. "You all knew one day this step would be taken; we even joked about my losing my hair! Somehow, now had to be the time."
[Extracted with edits and revisions from The Lives Of Freda: The Political, Spiritual and Personal Journeys by Andrew Whitehead from Speaking Tiger]

Q. What is the meaning of the expression 'loomed large' as it appears in the passage?

Directions: Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

It was the biggest decision of her life, the one for which she is most remembered, but Freda Bedi didn't tell her children that she was being ordained as a Buddhist nun. There was no family council, no private conversation, not even, it seems, a letter to announce her intention.
"There was this terrible feeling of betrayal," Kabir Bedi recalls. It was 1966 and the height of the Delhi summer. Kabir was 20, a student at one of India's most prestigious university colleges, St Stephen's, and still recovering from a broken back. He understood that Buddhism loomed increasingly large in his mother's life, but hadn't been prepared for her ordination as a nun.
He was angry and said so. Why? he demanded of his mother; why now? He still remembers her response. "It is something I felt I had to do and I knew if I started discussing it with everybody, God knows what might have happened." Kabir was seven when his mother found Buddhism while on a United Nations mission to Burma (now Myanmar). He had accompanied her back there when she studied meditation, and had himself enrolled briefly as a novitiate. He had worn the robes and shaved off his hair—in much the same manner as his mother had now done. He had spent time with his mother at the camps in Assam set up for the Tibetans who fled across the mountains to escape Chinese rule—that's where she first became immersed in Tibetan belief and culture. He had taught at the Young Lamas' Home School she established. It had felt like a shared journey. Now Freda, Sister Palmo as she became known, had decided to press on alone. "I raised all the silly arguments I could think of: Your daughter's still in college, she's not married, how's she going to manage? All silly things. But basically, I was angry because I felt betrayed. There was a terrible sense of loss. It's like, you've lost your mother."
A few days after the ceremony, still at Rumtek, Freda received what was clearly an anguished letter from Kabir. Manorma Dewan was part of the extended family—her husband's flat was the venue of Kabir's meeting with his newly-robed mother—and remembers the central message of that letter: "You have become very selfish." Manorma agreed with that view. Freda replied immediately by telegram, and followed that up with a three-page handwritten missive to her 'darling son'. Kabir still has that letter. "I have been in a maze of pain, feeling your and Guli's," she wrote. "You all knew one day this step would be taken; we even joked about my losing my hair! Somehow, now had to be the time."
[Extracted with edits and revisions from The Lives Of Freda: The Political, Spiritual and Personal Journeys by Andrew Whitehead from Speaking Tiger]

Q. What was Freda Bedi's significant decision that her children were not informed of?

Directions: Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

It was the biggest decision of her life, the one for which she is most remembered, but Freda Bedi didn't tell her children that she was being ordained as a Buddhist nun. There was no family council, no private conversation, not even, it seems, a letter to announce her intention.
"There was this terrible feeling of betrayal," Kabir Bedi recalls. It was 1966 and the height of the Delhi summer. Kabir was 20, a student at one of India's most prestigious university colleges, St Stephen's, and still recovering from a broken back. He understood that Buddhism loomed increasingly large in his mother's life, but hadn't been prepared for her ordination as a nun.
He was angry and said so. Why? he demanded of his mother; why now? He still remembers her response. "It is something I felt I had to do and I knew if I started discussing it with everybody, God knows what might have happened." Kabir was seven when his mother found Buddhism while on a United Nations mission to Burma (now Myanmar). He had accompanied her back there when she studied meditation, and had himself enrolled briefly as a novitiate. He had worn the robes and shaved off his hair—in much the same manner as his mother had now done. He had spent time with his mother at the camps in Assam set up for the Tibetans who fled across the mountains to escape Chinese rule—that's where she first became immersed in Tibetan belief and culture. He had taught at the Young Lamas' Home School she established. It had felt like a shared journey. Now Freda, Sister Palmo as she became known, had decided to press on alone. "I raised all the silly arguments I could think of: Your daughter's still in college, she's not married, how's she going to manage? All silly things. But basically, I was angry because I felt betrayed. There was a terrible sense of loss. It's like, you've lost your mother."
A few days after the ceremony, still at Rumtek, Freda received what was clearly an anguished letter from Kabir. Manorma Dewan was part of the extended family—her husband's flat was the venue of Kabir's meeting with his newly-robed mother—and remembers the central message of that letter: "You have become very selfish." Manorma agreed with that view. Freda replied immediately by telegram, and followed that up with a three-page handwritten missive to her 'darling son'. Kabir still has that letter. "I have been in a maze of pain, feeling your and Guli's," she wrote. "You all knew one day this step would be taken; we even joked about my losing my hair! Somehow, now had to be the time."
[Extracted with edits and revisions from The Lives Of Freda: The Political, Spiritual and Personal Journeys by Andrew Whitehead from Speaking Tiger]

Q. What was Kabir Bedi's initial connection to Buddhism and his mother's spiritual journey?

Directions: Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

It was the biggest decision of her life, the one for which she is most remembered, but Freda Bedi didn't tell her children that she was being ordained as a Buddhist nun. There was no family council, no private conversation, not even, it seems, a letter to announce her intention.
"There was this terrible feeling of betrayal," Kabir Bedi recalls. It was 1966 and the height of the Delhi summer. Kabir was 20, a student at one of India's most prestigious university colleges, St Stephen's, and still recovering from a broken back. He understood that Buddhism loomed increasingly large in his mother's life, but hadn't been prepared for her ordination as a nun.
He was angry and said so. Why? he demanded of his mother; why now? He still remembers her response. "It is something I felt I had to do and I knew if I started discussing it with everybody, God knows what might have happened." Kabir was seven when his mother found Buddhism while on a United Nations mission to Burma (now Myanmar). He had accompanied her back there when she studied meditation, and had himself enrolled briefly as a novitiate. He had worn the robes and shaved off his hair—in much the same manner as his mother had now done. He had spent time with his mother at the camps in Assam set up for the Tibetans who fled across the mountains to escape Chinese rule—that's where she first became immersed in Tibetan belief and culture. He had taught at the Young Lamas' Home School she established. It had felt like a shared journey. Now Freda, Sister Palmo as she became known, had decided to press on alone. "I raised all the silly arguments I could think of: Your daughter's still in college, she's not married, how's she going to manage? All silly things. But basically, I was angry because I felt betrayed. There was a terrible sense of loss. It's like, you've lost your mother."
A few days after the ceremony, still at Rumtek, Freda received what was clearly an anguished letter from Kabir. Manorma Dewan was part of the extended family—her husband's flat was the venue of Kabir's meeting with his newly-robed mother—and remembers the central message of that letter: "You have become very selfish." Manorma agreed with that view. Freda replied immediately by telegram, and followed that up with a three-page handwritten missive to her 'darling son'. Kabir still has that letter. "I have been in a maze of pain, feeling your and Guli's," she wrote. "You all knew one day this step would be taken; we even joked about my losing my hair! Somehow, now had to be the time."
[Extracted with edits and revisions from The Lives Of Freda: The Political, Spiritual and Personal Journeys by Andrew Whitehead from Speaking Tiger]

Q. What does the word "anguished" mean in the context of the passage?

Directions: Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

To see the possibility, the certainty, of ruin, even at the moment of creation: it was my temperament. Those nerves had been given to me as a child in Trinidad partly by our family circumstances: the half-ruined or broken-down houses we lived in, our many moves, our general uncertainty. Possibly, too, this mode of feeling went deeper, and was an ancestral inheritance, something that came with the history that had made me: not only India, with its ideas of a world outside men's control, but also the colonial plantations or estates of Trinidad, to which my impoverished Indian ancestors had been transported in the last century – estates of which this Wiltshire estate, where I now lived, had been the apotheosis.
Fifty years ago there would have been no room for me on the estate; even now my presence was a little unlikely. But more than accident had brought me here. Or rather, in the series of accidents that had brought me to the manor cottage, with a view of the restored church, there was a clear historical line. The migration, within the British Empire, from India to Trinidad had given me the English language as my own, and a particular kind of education. This had partly seeded my wish to be a writer which I had been doing in England for twenty years.
The history I carried with me, together with the self-awareness that had come with my education and ambition, had sent me into the world with a sense of glory dead; and in England had given me the rawest stranger's nerves. Now ironically – or aptly – living in the grounds of this shrunken estate, going out for my walks, those nerves were soothed, and in the wild garden and orchard beside the water meadows I found a physical beauty perfectly suited to my temperament and answering, besides, every good idea I could have had, as a child in Trinidad, of the physical aspect of England.
The estate had been enormous, I was told. It had been created in part by the wealth of empire. But then bit by bit it had been alienated. The family in its many branches flourished in other places. Here in the valley there now lived only my landlord, elderly, a bachelor, with people to look after him. Certain physical disabilities had now been added to the malaise which had befallen him years before, a malaise of which I had no precise knowledge, but interpreted as something like acedia, a deep disregard for himself and everything around him – which was how his great security, his excessive worldly blessings, had taken him. The acedia had turned him into a recluse, accessible only to his intimate friends.
[Extracted with edits and revisions from The Enigma of Arrival (New York: Vintage Books, 1988)]

Q. Why does the author mention the migration from India to Trinidad?

Directions: Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

To see the possibility, the certainty, of ruin, even at the moment of creation: it was my temperament. Those nerves had been given to me as a child in Trinidad partly by our family circumstances: the half-ruined or broken-down houses we lived in, our many moves, our general uncertainty. Possibly, too, this mode of feeling went deeper, and was an ancestral inheritance, something that came with the history that had made me: not only India, with its ideas of a world outside men's control, but also the colonial plantations or estates of Trinidad, to which my impoverished Indian ancestors had been transported in the last century – estates of which this Wiltshire estate, where I now lived, had been the apotheosis.
Fifty years ago there would have been no room for me on the estate; even now my presence was a little unlikely. But more than accident had brought me here. Or rather, in the series of accidents that had brought me to the manor cottage, with a view of the restored church, there was a clear historical line. The migration, within the British Empire, from India to Trinidad had given me the English language as my own, and a particular kind of education. This had partly seeded my wish to be a writer which I had been doing in England for twenty years.
The history I carried with me, together with the self-awareness that had come with my education and ambition, had sent me into the world with a sense of glory dead; and in England had given me the rawest stranger's nerves. Now ironically – or aptly – living in the grounds of this shrunken estate, going out for my walks, those nerves were soothed, and in the wild garden and orchard beside the water meadows I found a physical beauty perfectly suited to my temperament and answering, besides, every good idea I could have had, as a child in Trinidad, of the physical aspect of England.
The estate had been enormous, I was told. It had been created in part by the wealth of empire. But then bit by bit it had been alienated. The family in its many branches flourished in other places. Here in the valley there now lived only my landlord, elderly, a bachelor, with people to look after him. Certain physical disabilities had now been added to the malaise which had befallen him years before, a malaise of which I had no precise knowledge, but interpreted as something like acedia, a deep disregard for himself and everything around him – which was how his great security, his excessive worldly blessings, had taken him. The acedia had turned him into a recluse, accessible only to his intimate friends.
[Extracted with edits and revisions from The Enigma of Arrival (New York: Vintage Books, 1988)]

Q. What is the significance of the author living on the estate in Wiltshire?

Directions: Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

To see the possibility, the certainty, of ruin, even at the moment of creation: it was my temperament. Those nerves had been given to me as a child in Trinidad partly by our family circumstances: the half-ruined or broken-down houses we lived in, our many moves, our general uncertainty. Possibly, too, this mode of feeling went deeper, and was an ancestral inheritance, something that came with the history that had made me: not only India, with its ideas of a world outside men's control, but also the colonial plantations or estates of Trinidad, to which my impoverished Indian ancestors had been transported in the last century – estates of which this Wiltshire estate, where I now lived, had been the apotheosis.
Fifty years ago there would have been no room for me on the estate; even now my presence was a little unlikely. But more than accident had brought me here. Or rather, in the series of accidents that had brought me to the manor cottage, with a view of the restored church, there was a clear historical line. The migration, within the British Empire, from India to Trinidad had given me the English language as my own, and a particular kind of education. This had partly seeded my wish to be a writer which I had been doing in England for twenty years.
The history I carried with me, together with the self-awareness that had come with my education and ambition, had sent me into the world with a sense of glory dead; and in England had given me the rawest stranger's nerves. Now ironically – or aptly – living in the grounds of this shrunken estate, going out for my walks, those nerves were soothed, and in the wild garden and orchard beside the water meadows I found a physical beauty perfectly suited to my temperament and answering, besides, every good idea I could have had, as a child in Trinidad, of the physical aspect of England.
The estate had been enormous, I was told. It had been created in part by the wealth of empire. But then bit by bit it had been alienated. The family in its many branches flourished in other places. Here in the valley there now lived only my landlord, elderly, a bachelor, with people to look after him. Certain physical disabilities had now been added to the malaise which had befallen him years before, a malaise of which I had no precise knowledge, but interpreted as something like acedia, a deep disregard for himself and everything around him – which was how his great security, his excessive worldly blessings, had taken him. The acedia had turned him into a recluse, accessible only to his intimate friends.
[Extracted with edits and revisions from The Enigma of Arrival (New York: Vintage Books, 1988)]

Q. What is the meaning of the term 'acedia' as it is employed in the passage?

Directions: Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

To see the possibility, the certainty, of ruin, even at the moment of creation: it was my temperament. Those nerves had been given to me as a child in Trinidad partly by our family circumstances: the half-ruined or broken-down houses we lived in, our many moves, our general uncertainty. Possibly, too, this mode of feeling went deeper, and was an ancestral inheritance, something that came with the history that had made me: not only India, with its ideas of a world outside men's control, but also the colonial plantations or estates of Trinidad, to which my impoverished Indian ancestors had been transported in the last century – estates of which this Wiltshire estate, where I now lived, had been the apotheosis.
Fifty years ago there would have been no room for me on the estate; even now my presence was a little unlikely. But more than accident had brought me here. Or rather, in the series of accidents that had brought me to the manor cottage, with a view of the restored church, there was a clear historical line. The migration, within the British Empire, from India to Trinidad had given me the English language as my own, and a particular kind of education. This had partly seeded my wish to be a writer which I had been doing in England for twenty years.
The history I carried with me, together with the self-awareness that had come with my education and ambition, had sent me into the world with a sense of glory dead; and in England had given me the rawest stranger's nerves. Now ironically – or aptly – living in the grounds of this shrunken estate, going out for my walks, those nerves were soothed, and in the wild garden and orchard beside the water meadows I found a physical beauty perfectly suited to my temperament and answering, besides, every good idea I could have had, as a child in Trinidad, of the physical aspect of England.
The estate had been enormous, I was told. It had been created in part by the wealth of empire. But then bit by bit it had been alienated. The family in its many branches flourished in other places. Here in the valley there now lived only my landlord, elderly, a bachelor, with people to look after him. Certain physical disabilities had now been added to the malaise which had befallen him years before, a malaise of which I had no precise knowledge, but interpreted as something like acedia, a deep disregard for himself and everything around him – which was how his great security, his excessive worldly blessings, had taken him. The acedia had turned him into a recluse, accessible only to his intimate friends.
[Extracted with edits and revisions from The Enigma of Arrival (New York: Vintage Books, 1988)]

Q. What influenced the author's temperament and sense of uncertainty in life?

Directions: Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

To see the possibility, the certainty, of ruin, even at the moment of creation: it was my temperament. Those nerves had been given to me as a child in Trinidad partly by our family circumstances: the half-ruined or broken-down houses we lived in, our many moves, our general uncertainty. Possibly, too, this mode of feeling went deeper, and was an ancestral inheritance, something that came with the history that had made me: not only India, with its ideas of a world outside men's control, but also the colonial plantations or estates of Trinidad, to which my impoverished Indian ancestors had been transported in the last century – estates of which this Wiltshire estate, where I now lived, had been the apotheosis.
Fifty years ago there would have been no room for me on the estate; even now my presence was a little unlikely. But more than accident had brought me here. Or rather, in the series of accidents that had brought me to the manor cottage, with a view of the restored church, there was a clear historical line. The migration, within the British Empire, from India to Trinidad had given me the English language as my own, and a particular kind of education. This had partly seeded my wish to be a writer which I had been doing in England for twenty years.
The history I carried with me, together with the self-awareness that had come with my education and ambition, had sent me into the world with a sense of glory dead; and in England had given me the rawest stranger's nerves. Now ironically – or aptly – living in the grounds of this shrunken estate, going out for my walks, those nerves were soothed, and in the wild garden and orchard beside the water meadows I found a physical beauty perfectly suited to my temperament and answering, besides, every good idea I could have had, as a child in Trinidad, of the physical aspect of England.
The estate had been enormous, I was told. It had been created in part by the wealth of empire. But then bit by bit it had been alienated. The family in its many branches flourished in other places. Here in the valley there now lived only my landlord, elderly, a bachelor, with people to look after him. Certain physical disabilities had now been added to the malaise which had befallen him years before, a malaise of which I had no precise knowledge, but interpreted as something like acedia, a deep disregard for himself and everything around him – which was how his great security, his excessive worldly blessings, had taken him. The acedia had turned him into a recluse, accessible only to his intimate friends.
[Extracted with edits and revisions from The Enigma of Arrival (New York: Vintage Books, 1988)]

Q. Which of the following CANNOT be inferred from the passage?

Directions: Study the following information carefully and answer the questions given beside.

NASA has picked a longtime solar scientist who heads its heliophysics division to become the US space agency’s science chief - the first woman named to serve in the role, according to two people familiar with the decision. Nicola Fox, the former top scientist on the Parker Solar Probe mission studying the Sun, will be named this week as NASA’s associate administrator for the agency’s Science Mission Directorate.

Fox will lead NASA’s science directorate, a unit with an annual budget of roughly $7 billion that oversees some of the agency’s best-known programs from the robotic hunts for past life on Mars to exploring distant galaxies with the James Webb Space Telescope. She will also oversee a NASA study group formed in 2022 to help the US military detect and characterise UFOs, or so-called Unidentified Aerial Phenomena - mysterious objects that the White House and Pentagon officials see as threats to US airspace.

Fox will succeed Thomas Zurbuchen, a Swiss-American astrophysicist who had led the directorate since 2016 before his retirement in December. Sandra Connelly, formerly Zurbuchen’s deputy, has been leading the directorate in an acting capacity.

[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from: “NASA To Name 1st Woman As Agency’s Science Chief”, NDTV]

Q. The Parker Solar Probe mission was initiated with the aim of unraveling the enigmas surrounding the Sun's corona and solar wind. In which year did this mission commence?

Directions: Study the following information carefully and answer the questions given beside.

NASA has picked a longtime solar scientist who heads its heliophysics division to become the US space agency’s science chief - the first woman named to serve in the role, according to two people familiar with the decision. Nicola Fox, the former top scientist on the Parker Solar Probe mission studying the Sun, will be named this week as NASA’s associate administrator for the agency’s Science Mission Directorate.

Fox will lead NASA’s science directorate, a unit with an annual budget of roughly $7 billion that oversees some of the agency’s best-known programs from the robotic hunts for past life on Mars to exploring distant galaxies with the James Webb Space Telescope. She will also oversee a NASA study group formed in 2022 to help the US military detect and characterise UFOs, or so-called Unidentified Aerial Phenomena - mysterious objects that the White House and Pentagon officials see as threats to US airspace.

Fox will succeed Thomas Zurbuchen, a Swiss-American astrophysicist who had led the directorate since 2016 before his retirement in December. Sandra Connelly, formerly Zurbuchen’s deputy, has been leading the directorate in an acting capacity.

[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from: “NASA To Name 1st Woman As Agency’s Science Chief”, NDTV]

Q. Who was the previous leader of NASA's Science Mission Directorate before Nicola Fox?

Directions: Study the following information carefully and answer the questions given beside.

NASA has picked a longtime solar scientist who heads its heliophysics division to become the US space agency’s science chief - the first woman named to serve in the role, according to two people familiar with the decision. Nicola Fox, the former top scientist on the Parker Solar Probe mission studying the Sun, will be named this week as NASA’s associate administrator for the agency’s Science Mission Directorate.

Fox will lead NASA’s science directorate, a unit with an annual budget of roughly $7 billion that oversees some of the agency’s best-known programs from the robotic hunts for past life on Mars to exploring distant galaxies with the James Webb Space Telescope. She will also oversee a NASA study group formed in 2022 to help the US military detect and characterise UFOs, or so-called Unidentified Aerial Phenomena - mysterious objects that the White House and Pentagon officials see as threats to US airspace.

Fox will succeed Thomas Zurbuchen, a Swiss-American astrophysicist who had led the directorate since 2016 before his retirement in December. Sandra Connelly, formerly Zurbuchen’s deputy, has been leading the directorate in an acting capacity.

[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from: “NASA To Name 1st Woman As Agency’s Science Chief”, NDTV]

Q. What is the annual budget of NASA's Science Mission Directorate?

Directions: Study the following information carefully and answer the questions given beside.

NASA has picked a longtime solar scientist who heads its heliophysics division to become the US space agency’s science chief - the first woman named to serve in the role, according to two people familiar with the decision. Nicola Fox, the former top scientist on the Parker Solar Probe mission studying the Sun, will be named this week as NASA’s associate administrator for the agency’s Science Mission Directorate.

Fox will lead NASA’s science directorate, a unit with an annual budget of roughly $7 billion that oversees some of the agency’s best-known programs from the robotic hunts for past life on Mars to exploring distant galaxies with the James Webb Space Telescope. She will also oversee a NASA study group formed in 2022 to help the US military detect and characterise UFOs, or so-called Unidentified Aerial Phenomena - mysterious objects that the White House and Pentagon officials see as threats to US airspace.

Fox will succeed Thomas Zurbuchen, a Swiss-American astrophysicist who had led the directorate since 2016 before his retirement in December. Sandra Connelly, formerly Zurbuchen’s deputy, has been leading the directorate in an acting capacity.

[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from: “NASA To Name 1st Woman As Agency’s Science Chief”, NDTV]

Q. What is the collaborative space mission involving both ISRO and NASA among the following options?

Directions: Study the following information carefully and answer the questions given beside.

NASA has picked a longtime solar scientist who heads its heliophysics division to become the US space agency’s science chief - the first woman named to serve in the role, according to two people familiar with the decision. Nicola Fox, the former top scientist on the Parker Solar Probe mission studying the Sun, will be named this week as NASA’s associate administrator for the agency’s Science Mission Directorate.

Fox will lead NASA’s science directorate, a unit with an annual budget of roughly $7 billion that oversees some of the agency’s best-known programs from the robotic hunts for past life on Mars to exploring distant galaxies with the James Webb Space Telescope. She will also oversee a NASA study group formed in 2022 to help the US military detect and characterise UFOs, or so-called Unidentified Aerial Phenomena - mysterious objects that the White House and Pentagon officials see as threats to US airspace.

Fox will succeed Thomas Zurbuchen, a Swiss-American astrophysicist who had led the directorate since 2016 before his retirement in December. Sandra Connelly, formerly Zurbuchen’s deputy, has been leading the directorate in an acting capacity.

[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from: “NASA To Name 1st Woman As Agency’s Science Chief”, NDTV]

Q. Who currently holds the position of Chairman at the Indian Space Research Organisation (ISRO) among the following options?