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(Solve this Hurdle by 12th April.)
Q1. The difference in time when travelling at a speed of 50 Mt/minute and 40 m/minutes is 20 minutes. What is the distance ?
Q3. In morning A travels to his office at a speed of 59 Mt/ minute. In evening, he travels back to his home covering same distance at a speed of 44 Mt/ minute. There is a difference of 30 minutes between the time taken in the morning and the time taken in the evening. What is the distance between his office and home ?
READING COMPREHENSIVE (RC)
RC 1--> Read the article below and answer the question mentioned after the passage :
Source : The Hindu
Cricket's true spiritual home
WRITING this in the midst of the English cricket team's tour of India, I am reminded yet again how often I have thought that cricket is really, in the sociologist Ashis Nandy's phrase, an Indian game accidentally discovered by the British.
This might seem a preposterous notion, in keeping with the characteristic acuminations of that mischievous scholar, whose wispy beard and twinkling eyes have revealed a capacity both to astonish and to provoke. And yet it is an entirely defensible idea: Nandy found the perfect words to express something I have been arguing since childhood. Everything about cricket seems to me ideally suited to the Indian national character: its rich complexity, the infinite possibilities and variations that could occur with each delivery, the dozen different ways of getting out, are all patterned for a society of infinite forms and varieties. Indeed, they are rather like Indian classical music, in which the basic laws are laid down but the performer then improvises gloriously, unshackled by anything so mundane as a written score.
If there is a cricket cliché drilled into fans' heads by generations of commentators, it must be that relating to "the glorious uncertainties of the game". But that too echoes ancient Indian thought: as I have pointed out in The Great Indian Novel, Indian fatalists instinctively understand that it is precisely when you are seeing the ball well and timing your fours off the sweet of the bat that the unplayable shooter can come along and bowl you. A country where a majority of the population still consults astrologers and believes in the capricious influence of the planets can well appreciate a sport in which an ill-timed cloudburst, a badly-prepared pitch, a lost toss or the sun in the eyes of a fielder can transform the outcome of a game. Even the possibility that five tense, exciting, hotly-contested and occasionally meandering days of cricketing contest could still end in a draw seems derived from ancient Indian philosophy, which accepts profoundly that in life the journey is as important as the destination.
No wonder cricket has seized the national imagination of India as no other sport has. Our cricketers occupy a place in the pantheon rivalled only by gods and Bollywood stars. The performances of our heroes are analysed with far more passion than any political crisis; selectoral sins of commission and omission, especially the latter, can bring teeming cities to a grinding halt. In no other country, I dare say, does a sport so often command the front pages of the leading newspapers. And why not? What could be more important than the thrilling endeavours of a gifted batsman or the magical wiles of a talented spinner, each performing his dharma, the individual doing his duty in a team game, just as in life each Indian fulfils his destiny within the fate of the collectivity?
Hooked for life
Cricket first came to India with decorous English gentlemen idly pursuing their leisure; it took nearly a century for the "natives" to learn the sport, and then they played it in most un-English ways. I remember being taken by my father to my first-ever Test match, in Bombay in late 1963, when a much weaker English side than the present one was touring. I shall never forget the exhilaration of watching India's opening batsman and wicket-keeper, Budhi Kunderan, smite a huge six over midwicket, follow it soon after with another blow that just failed to carry across the rope, and then sky a big shot in a gigantic loop over mid-on. As it spiralled upward, Kunderan began running; when the ball was caught by an English fielder, he hurled his bat in the air, continued running, caught it as it came down, and ran into the pavilion. I was hooked for life.
India has always had its Kunderans, but it has also had its meticulous grafters, its plodders, its anarchists and its stoics: a society which recognises that all sorts of people have their place recognises the value of variety in its cricket team as well. But in India variety comes within an established cosmic order. A society which invented the caste system instinctively allocates different roles to different players even within the same activity. So in batting, for instance, this means we must accommodate both a Dravid and a Dhoni: a "Wall" and a barrage.
One final clincher: cricket reflects and transcends India's diversity. It is entirely fitting that the Indian team has been led by captains from each of its major faiths — Hindus, Muslims, Parsis, Christians and a colourful Sikh. A land divided by caste, creed, colour, culture, cuisine, custom and costume is united in consensus around a great conviction: cricket. There is no other contender for the distinction of being our national sport, not even the games India actually invented (chess, polo). As our sages used to say, it little matters where you were born; what is important is where you belong, where your soul has its allegiance. Cricket somehow emerged first in a foreign land, but its spiritual home is undoubtedly India.
Q25 What are the arguments posed by the author to bolster his
main notion in the passage?
RC-2 : Read the article below and answer the question mentioned after the passage :
Source : The Hindu
The End of the Biographer?
MANY years ago, while doing research on the life of the anthropologist Verrier Elwin, I found myself in the library of the great old publishing house of John Murray, on Albemarle Street in central London. Elwin had once been a Murray author; and so had been some far more distinguished people. One such was the poet Lord Byron. Indeed, I sat working in the very room where had occurred one of the most notorious acts of literary vandalism, the burning of Byron's papers.
When Byron died in 1818, his memoirs were with John Murray, awaiting publication. However, his colleagues now prevailed upon the publisher to abandon the project. The "memoirs were fit only for a brothel and damn Lord Byron to certain infamy if published", said one friend. Another friend urged John Murray to "destroy whatever writing of his [that] might be discreditable to his fame". Eventually, a bonfire was made of Byron's memoirs and of hundreds of his letters.
A century later, the papers of another great writer were set ablaze. This time the arsonist was the author himself. This was the novelist Henry James who, in the evening of his life, asked his friends and family to return the letters he had written to them. Once they had all come back to him, he burnt them in his own garden.
James's intention was similar to that of Byron's friends — to forestall a future biographer from excavating the secrets of his life. But, as one could have predicted, the effort was in vain. There were plenty of letters that had escaped his attention, so many in fact that his eventual, and magisterial, biographer, Leon Edel, wrote a five-volume biography that tracked James's life day-by-day and week-by-week, if not quite hour-by-hour. Adding insult to injury, Edel then proceeded to edit a five-volume collection of James's letters in the original.
As for John Murray, later generations of the publisher's family came to regret and atone for that original act of destruction. They made assiduous attempts to collect letters to, by and about Byron, eventually depositing some 10,000 of these in the National Library of Scotland, where they can be consulted by those who wish to write about Byron's fame and, if they so wish, his infamy.
Letters are to a biographer what water is to a fish (or spin bowlers to Mahendra Singh Dhoni). Without them he could not live. With them he lives luxuriantly. My own biography of Elwin was only made possible by letters that he had written to others, and which had since been preserved. Elwin came out to India in 1927; and lived here until his death in 1967. In those years he wrote to his mother in England twice a week; and to his sister Eldyth once a week. In the 1980s, Eldyth Elwin lived in a nursing home outside Oxford, where she was visited by Dr. Richard Bingle, an archivist of legendary ability (and charm) who worked with the India Office Library and Records in London. Dr. Bingle asked whether she had any material of her brother's. The old lady signalled to her nurse, who pulled out a black box from under the bed. Inside were thousands of handwritten letters from her brother. It took Dr. Bingle's legendary charm to persuade her to part with them. Now they constitute the core of the "Verrier Elwin Collection" at the British Library.
I have often wondered — what will happen to the art of biography in this age of email? In the old days, letters were written because there was something to say, and because there was little else to do. In the image-saturated world we now live in, time off from work is so easily spent in a movie theatre, surfing the Net, or watching TV. Few people write letters anymore. And those that do get written are the terse, uncommunicative mails that seem so depressingly typical of this "age of communication". And even with regard to these emails — what happens to them finally? Are they ever collected and filed? Where will one look for them in the future?
Golden age of biography
In retrospect, one might come to look upon the 19th and 20th Centuries as the golden age of biography. In these centuries, serious attempts were made to classify and preserve records in archives properly protected from the dust and monsoon. In these centuries, people of historical importance — politicians, generals, writers et al — wrote letters long in length and rich in emotion. Things now are all too different. The great figures of the 21st Century will pose special and possibly insurmountable problems for those who choose to write their lives. As one whose own subjects lived in the past, I can have only pity and compassion for the biographers of the future.
Q27. According to the author, which of these were helpful in
writing the biography of Elwin?
Q28. What best can describe the author's views on current
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