In a letter written in January 1885 to his friend Pramatha Chaudhuri, Tagore spoke of the tension in his own mind between the contending forces of East and West. ‘I sometimes detect in myself,’ he remarked, ‘a background where two opposing forces are constantly in action, one beckoning me to peace and cessation of all strife, the other egging me on to battle. It is as though the restless energy and the will to action of the West were perpetually assaulting the citadel of my Indian placidity. Hence this swing of the pendulum between passionate pain and calm detachment, between lyrical abandon and philosophising between love of my country and mockery of patriotism, between an itch to enter the lists and a longing to remain wrapped in thought.’Tagore’s mission to synthesise East and West was part personal, part civilizational. In time it also became political. In the early years of the twentieth century, the intelligentsia of Bengal was engulfed by the swadeshi movement, where protests against British rule were expressed by the burning of foreign cloth and the rejection of all things western. After an initial enthusiasm for the movement, Tagore turned against it. His ambivalence was expressed in his novel Ghare Baire (Home and the World) and, more succinctly, in a letter written to a friend in November 1908, which insisted that ‘patriotism cannot be our final spiritual shelter’. ‘I will not buy glass for the price of diamonds’, wrote Tagore, ‘and I will never allow patriotism to triumph over humanity as long as I live. I took a few steps down that road and stopped: for when I cannot retain my faith in universal humanity over and above my country, when patriotic prejudices overshadow my God, I feel inwardly starved’.
Which of the following best describes the two opposing forces that Tagore said he detected in himself?

In a letter written in January 1885 to his friend Pramatha Chaudhuri, Tagore spoke of the tension in his own mind between the contending forces of East and West. ‘I sometimes detect in myself,’ he remarked, ‘a background where two opposing forces are constantly in action, one beckoning me to peace and cessation of all strife, the other egging me on to battle. It is as though the restless energy and the will to action of the West were perpetually assaulting the citadel of my Indian placidity. Hence this swing of the pendulum between passionate pain and calm detachment, between lyrical abandon and philosophising between love of my country and mockery of patriotism, between an itch to enter the lists and a longing to remain wrapped in thought.’Tagore’s mission to synthesise East and West was part personal, part civilizational. In time it also became political. In the early years of the twentieth century, the intelligentsia of Bengal was engulfed by the swadeshi movement, where protests against British rule were expressed by the burning of foreign cloth and the rejection of all things western. After an initial enthusiasm for the movement, Tagore turned against it. His ambivalence was expressed in his novel Ghare Baire (Home and the World) and, more succinctly, in a letter written to a friend in November 1908, which insisted that ‘patriotism cannot be our final spiritual shelter’. ‘I will not buy glass for the price of diamonds’, wrote Tagore, ‘and I will never allow patriotism to triumph over humanity as long as I live. I took a few steps down that road and stopped: for when I cannot retain my faith in universal humanity over and above my country, when patriotic prejudices overshadow my God, I feel inwardly starved’.
What does the phrase ‘enter the lists’ as used in the passage mean?

In a letter written in January 1885 to his friend Pramatha Chaudhuri, Tagore spoke of the tension in his own mind between the contending forces of East and West. ‘I sometimes detect in myself,’ he remarked, ‘a background where two opposing forces are constantly in action, one beckoning me to peace and cessation of all strife, the other egging me on to battle. It is as though the restless energy and the will to action of the West were perpetually assaulting the citadel of my Indian placidity. Hence this swing of the pendulum between passionate pain and calm detachment, between lyrical abandon and philosophising between love of my country and mockery of patriotism, between an itch to enter the lists and a longing to remain wrapped in thought.’Tagore’s mission to synthesise East and West was part personal, part civilizational. In time it also became political. In the early years of the twentieth century, the intelligentsia of Bengal was engulfed by the swadeshi movement, where protests against British rule were expressed by the burning of foreign cloth and the rejection of all things western. After an initial enthusiasm for the movement, Tagore turned against it. His ambivalence was expressed in his novel Ghare Baire (Home and the World) and, more succinctly, in a letter written to a friend in November 1908, which insisted that ‘patriotism cannot be our final spiritual shelter’. ‘I will not buy glass for the price of diamonds’, wrote Tagore, ‘and I will never allow patriotism to triumph over humanity as long as I live. I took a few steps down that road and stopped: for when I cannot retain my faith in universal humanity over and above my country, when patriotic prejudices overshadow my God, I feel inwardly starved’.
Which of the following would be consistent with the author’s description of the swadeshi
movement in the passage above?

In a letter written in January 1885 to his friend Pramatha Chaudhuri, Tagore spoke of the tension in his own mind between the contending forces of East and West. ‘I sometimes detect in myself,’ he remarked, ‘a background where two opposing forces are constantly in action, one beckoning me to peace and cessation of all strife, the other egging me on to battle. It is as though the restless energy and the will to action of the West were perpetually assaulting the citadel of my Indian placidity. Hence this swing of the pendulum between passionate pain and calm detachment, between lyrical abandon and philosophising between love of my country and mockery of patriotism, between an itch to enter the lists and a longing to remain wrapped in thought.’Tagore’s mission to synthesise East and West was part personal, part civilizational. In time it also became political. In the early years of the twentieth century, the intelligentsia of Bengal was engulfed by the swadeshi movement, where protests against British rule were expressed by the burning of foreign cloth and the rejection of all things western. After an initial enthusiasm for the movement, Tagore turned against it. His ambivalence was expressed in his novel Ghare Baire (Home and the World) and, more succinctly, in a letter written to a friend in November 1908, which insisted that ‘patriotism cannot be our final spiritual shelter’. ‘I will not buy glass for the price of diamonds’, wrote Tagore, ‘and I will never allow patriotism to triumph over humanity as long as I live. I took a few steps down that road and stopped: for when I cannot retain my faith in universal humanity over and above my country, when patriotic prejudices overshadow my God, I feel inwardly starved’.
Which of the following best describes Tagore’s reasons for not letting patriotism triumph over humanity?

In a letter written in January 1885 to his friend Pramatha Chaudhuri, Tagore spoke of the tension in his own mind between the contending forces of East and West. ‘I sometimes detect in myself,’ he remarked, ‘a background where two opposing forces are constantly in action, one beckoning me to peace and cessation of all strife, the other egging me on to battle. It is as though the restless energy and the will to action of the West were perpetually assaulting the citadel of my Indian placidity. Hence this swing of the pendulum between passionate pain and calm detachment, between lyrical abandon and philosophising between love of my country and mockery of patriotism, between an itch to enter the lists and a longing to remain wrapped in thought.’Tagore’s mission to synthesise East and West was part personal, part civilizational. In time it also became political. In the early years of the twentieth century, the intelligentsia of Bengal was engulfed by the swadeshi movement, where protests against British rule were expressed by the burning of foreign cloth and the rejection of all things western. After an initial enthusiasm for the movement, Tagore turned against it. His ambivalence was expressed in his novel Ghare Baire (Home and the World) and, more succinctly, in a letter written to a friend in November 1908, which insisted that ‘patriotism cannot be our final spiritual shelter’. ‘I will not buy glass for the price of diamonds’, wrote Tagore, ‘and I will never allow patriotism to triumph over humanity as long as I live. I took a few steps down that road and stopped: for when I cannot retain my faith in universal humanity over and above my country, when patriotic prejudices overshadow my God, I feel inwardly starved’.
The author describes Tagore’s attitude towards patriotism as an example of:

Ma always had a rough time in Dad’s house. He, an under-secretary in the civil service, thought he had married beneath his position and treated Ma with the contempt he felt she deserved – an opinion shared by the rest of his family as well. As year after year passed by without any sign of a child being born into the family, Ma began to lose hope of regaining any respect or status within her husband’s household. The inevitable followed. She was ordered around, overworked, underfed and often beaten. She would regularly be ill. It seemed they were waiting to see the end of her and, when she hesitantly told Dad she was expecting, no one seemed too enthusiastic or happy.

The delivery was difficult. My birth was premature. When they learnt that the child was a girl, they stopped coming to the hospital. Ma died a week later. They wanted nothing to do with me; an ugly runt of a girl with shrivelled-up skin fit only to follow her no-good stubborn mother out of this world. They were only too happy to let Masi take me off their hands and away to her ancestral home in a small coastal Konkan village, Parvi, where she lived with my grandmother, her mother, Aji.

The village doctor shook his head sadly on looking at me but Masi was as adamant as her sister had been. In that house I was reared purely on Masi’s grit and Aji’s determination and loving care as they nursed me with ragi extract, diluted cow’s milk, soft hand-pounded rice and coconut. Day after day they laboured. As a baby they fed me the Ragi extract mixed with diluted milk and the starch water from boiled rice. A little older and they made Ragi porridge, then Ragi bhakri (roti), laddoos, seviyan, and a miracle took place. Masi and Aji watched me grow from strength to strength.
Now I am 25, a foot taller than Masi and completing my postgraduate studies in medicine.
Why, according to the author, did her father treat her mother with contempt?

Ma always had a rough time in Dad’s house. He, an under-secretary in the civil service, thought he had married beneath his position and treated Ma with the contempt he felt she deserved – an opinion shared by the rest of his family as well. As year after year passed by without any sign of a child being born into the family, Ma began to lose hope of regaining any respect or status within her husband’s household. The inevitable followed. She was ordered around, overworked, underfed and often beaten. She would regularly be ill. It seemed they were waiting to see the end of her and, when she hesitantly told Dad she was expecting, no one seemed too enthusiastic or happy.

The delivery was difficult. My birth was premature. When they learnt that the child was a girl, they stopped coming to the hospital. Ma died a week later. They wanted nothing to do with me; an ugly runt of a girl with shrivelled-up skin fit only to follow her no-good stubborn mother out of this world. They were only too happy to let Masi take me off their hands and away to her ancestral home in a small coastal Konkan village, Parvi, where she lived with my grandmother, her mother, Aji.

The village doctor shook his head sadly on looking at me but Masi was as adamant as her sister had been. In that house I was reared purely on Masi’s grit and Aji’s determination and loving care as they nursed me with ragi extract, diluted cow’s milk, soft hand-pounded rice and coconut. Day after day they laboured. As a baby they fed me the Ragi extract mixed with diluted milk and the starch water from boiled rice. A little older and they made Ragi porridge, then Ragi bhakri (roti), laddoos, seviyan, and a miracle took place. Masi and Aji watched me grow from strength to strength.
Now I am 25, a foot taller than Masi and completing my postgraduate studies in medicine.
Which of the following can be inferred as the reason why the author’s father’s family was
happy to let Masi take the author away?

Ma always had a rough time in Dad’s house. He, an under-secretary in the civil service, thought he had married beneath his position and treated Ma with the contempt he felt she deserved – an opinion shared by the rest of his family as well. As year after year passed by without any sign of a child being born into the family, Ma began to lose hope of regaining any respect or status within her husband’s household. The inevitable followed. She was ordered around, overworked, underfed and often beaten. She would regularly be ill. It seemed they were waiting to see the end of her and, when she hesitantly told Dad she was expecting, no one seemed too enthusiastic or happy.

The delivery was difficult. My birth was premature. When they learnt that the child was a girl, they stopped coming to the hospital. Ma died a week later. They wanted nothing to do with me; an ugly runt of a girl with shrivelled-up skin fit only to follow her no-good stubborn mother out of this world. They were only too happy to let Masi take me off their hands and away to her ancestral home in a small coastal Konkan village, Parvi, where she lived with my grandmother, her mother, Aji.

The village doctor shook his head sadly on looking at me but Masi was as adamant as her sister had been. In that house I was reared purely on Masi’s grit and Aji’s determination and loving care as they nursed me with ragi extract, diluted cow’s milk, soft hand-pounded rice and coconut. Day after day they laboured. As a baby they fed me the Ragi extract mixed with diluted milk and the starch water from boiled rice. A little older and they made Ragi porridge, then Ragi bhakri (roti), laddoos, seviyan, and a miracle took place. Masi and Aji watched me grow from strength to strength.
Now I am 25, a foot taller than Masi and completing my postgraduate studies in medicine.
What does the word ‘adamant’ as used in the passage mean?

Ma always had a rough time in Dad’s house. He, an under-secretary in the civil service, thought he had married beneath his position and treated Ma with the contempt he felt she deserved – an opinion shared by the rest of his family as well. As year after year passed by without any sign of a child being born into the family, Ma began to lose hope of regaining any respect or status within her husband’s household. The inevitable followed. She was ordered around, overworked, underfed and often beaten. She would regularly be ill. It seemed they were waiting to see the end of her and, when she hesitantly told Dad she was expecting, no one seemed too enthusiastic or happy.

The delivery was difficult. My birth was premature. When they learnt that the child was a girl, they stopped coming to the hospital. Ma died a week later. They wanted nothing to do with me; an ugly runt of a girl with shrivelled-up skin fit only to follow her no-good stubborn mother out of this world. They were only too happy to let Masi take me off their hands and away to her ancestral home in a small coastal Konkan village, Parvi, where she lived with my grandmother, her mother, Aji.

The village doctor shook his head sadly on looking at me but Masi was as adamant as her sister had been. In that house I was reared purely on Masi’s grit and Aji’s determination and loving care as they nursed me with ragi extract, diluted cow’s milk, soft hand-pounded rice and coconut. Day after day they laboured. As a baby they fed me the Ragi extract mixed with diluted milk and the starch water from boiled rice. A little older and they made Ragi porridge, then Ragi bhakri (roti), laddoos, seviyan, and a miracle took place. Masi and Aji watched me grow from strength to strength.
Now I am 25, a foot taller than Masi and completing my postgraduate studies in medicine.
Based on the information set out in the passage, which of the following is most accurate?

Ma always had a rough time in Dad’s house. He, an under-secretary in the civil service, thought he had married beneath his position and treated Ma with the contempt he felt she deserved – an opinion shared by the rest of his family as well. As year after year passed by without any sign of a child being born into the family, Ma began to lose hope of regaining any respect or status within her husband’s household. The inevitable followed. She was ordered around, overworked, underfed and often beaten. She would regularly be ill. It seemed they were waiting to see the end of her and, when she hesitantly told Dad she was expecting, no one seemed too enthusiastic or happy.

The delivery was difficult. My birth was premature. When they learnt that the child was a girl, they stopped coming to the hospital. Ma died a week later. They wanted nothing to do with me; an ugly runt of a girl with shrivelled-up skin fit only to follow her no-good stubborn mother out of this world. They were only too happy to let Masi take me off their hands and away to her ancestral home in a small coastal Konkan village, Parvi, where she lived with my grandmother, her mother, Aji.

The village doctor shook his head sadly on looking at me but Masi was as adamant as her sister had been. In that house I was reared purely on Masi’s grit and Aji’s determination and loving care as they nursed me with ragi extract, diluted cow’s milk, soft hand-pounded rice and coconut. Day after day they laboured. As a baby they fed me the Ragi extract mixed with diluted milk and the starch water from boiled rice. A little older and they made Ragi porridge, then Ragi bhakri (roti), laddoos, seviyan, and a miracle took place. Masi and Aji watched me grow from strength to strength.
Now I am 25, a foot taller than Masi and completing my postgraduate studies in medicine.
Which of the following best sums up the author’s main point in the passage above?