CUET English 2025 PYQs16 May Shift 1. Free, no login required.

The postmaster’s office was located in the village of Ulapur. It was a quaint village, there was an indigo plantation nearby, and so the manager—an Englishman goaded by the need for communication—had arranged for the setting up of a post office.

The postmaster was a young man from Calcutta. Stationed here, away from the known limits of civilization, he often felt like a fish out of water. The plantation workers seemed to have their own community. Social miscegenation between two different classes of people seemed all but impossible.

In truth, the boy from the city wasn’t good at mixing with people. Uprooted and exiled to a foreign land, his feelings oscillated between arrogance and shame. He rarely met any of the villagers. He wrote poems: poems of endless waiting, poems in which the marrow of life seemed to resonate with the faint tremble of young leaves, where the memory of existence was rejuvenated by the sight of rain clouds. He longed for the security of metal roads, of tall houses which blocked the sight of clouds in the open sky. The city was spreading its tentacles, calling him back.

The postmaster’s salary was meager. Evenings would arrive with plumes of smoke rising from the cowshed. The evening would be as still as the cadence of lost poetry, the silence all around would shake the fault lines of the heart; and as all of this would take place, the postmaster would light his lamp.

The postmaster’s office was located in the village of Ulapur. It was a quaint village, there was an indigo plantation nearby, and so the manager—an Englishman goaded by the need for communication—had arranged for the setting up of a post office.

The postmaster was a young man from Calcutta. Stationed here, away from the known limits of civilization, he often felt like a fish out of water. The plantation workers seemed to have their own community. Social miscegenation between two different classes of people seemed all but impossible.

In truth, the boy from the city wasn’t good at mixing with people. Uprooted and exiled to a foreign land, his feelings oscillated between arrogance and shame. He rarely met any of the villagers. He wrote poems: poems of endless waiting, poems in which the marrow of life seemed to resonate with the faint tremble of young leaves, where the memory of existence was rejuvenated by the sight of rain clouds. He longed for the security of metal roads, of tall houses which blocked the sight of clouds in the open sky. The city was spreading its tentacles, calling him back.

The postmaster’s salary was meager. Evenings would arrive with plumes of smoke rising from the cowshed. The evening would be as still as the cadence of lost poetry, the silence all around would shake the fault lines of the heart; and as all of this would take place, the postmaster would light his lamp.

The postmaster’s office was located in the village of Ulapur. It was a quaint village, there was an indigo plantation nearby, and so the manager—an Englishman goaded by the need for communication—had arranged for the setting up of a post office.

The postmaster was a young man from Calcutta. Stationed here, away from the known limits of civilization, he often felt like a fish out of water. The plantation workers seemed to have their own community. Social miscegenation between two different classes of people seemed all but impossible.

In truth, the boy from the city wasn’t good at mixing with people. Uprooted and exiled to a foreign land, his feelings oscillated between arrogance and shame. He rarely met any of the villagers. He wrote poems: poems of endless waiting, poems in which the marrow of life seemed to resonate with the faint tremble of young leaves, where the memory of existence was rejuvenated by the sight of rain clouds. He longed for the security of metal roads, of tall houses which blocked the sight of clouds in the open sky. The city was spreading its tentacles, calling him back.

The postmaster’s salary was meager. Evenings would arrive with plumes of smoke rising from the cowshed. The evening would be as still as the cadence of lost poetry, the silence all around would shake the fault lines of the heart; and as all of this would take place, the postmaster would light his lamp.

The postmaster’s office was located in the village of Ulapur. It was a quaint village, there was an indigo plantation nearby, and so the manager—an Englishman goaded by the need for communication—had arranged for the setting up of a post office.

The postmaster was a young man from Calcutta. Stationed here, away from the known limits of civilization, he often felt like a fish out of water. The plantation workers seemed to have their own community. Social miscegenation between two different classes of people seemed all but impossible.

In truth, the boy from the city wasn’t good at mixing with people. Uprooted and exiled to a foreign land, his feelings oscillated between arrogance and shame. He rarely met any of the villagers. He wrote poems: poems of endless waiting, poems in which the marrow of life seemed to resonate with the faint tremble of young leaves, where the memory of existence was rejuvenated by the sight of rain clouds. He longed for the security of metal roads, of tall houses which blocked the sight of clouds in the open sky. The city was spreading its tentacles, calling him back.

The postmaster’s salary was meager. Evenings would arrive with plumes of smoke rising from the cowshed. The evening would be as still as the cadence of lost poetry, the silence all around would shake the fault lines of the heart; and as all of this would take place, the postmaster would light his lamp.

Deven shrank back in apology. ‘No, sir I teach in- in the Hindi department. I took my degree in Hindi because-’

But the poet was not listening. He was laughing and spitting as he laughed because he did it so rustily and unwillingly. Phlegm flew. ‘You see,’ he croaked, ‘what did I tell you? You are a slave. Perhaps a spy even if you don’t know it, sent to universities to destroy whatever remains of Urdu, hunt it out and kill it. And you tell me it is for an Urdu magazine you wish to interview me. If so, why are you teaching Hindi?’ he suddenly roared, fixing Deven with that small, turtle-lidded eye that had now become lethal, a bullet.

‘I studied Urdu, sir, as a boy, in Lucknow. My father, he was a schoolteacher, a scholar, and a lover of Urdu poetry. He taught me the language. But he died. He died and my mother brought me to Delhi to live with her relations here. I was sent to the nearest school, a Hindi-medium school, sir,’ Deven stumbled through the explanation. ‘I took my degree in Hindi, sir,and now I am temporary lecturer in Lala Ram Lal College at Mirpore. It is my living, sir. You see I am married man, a family man. But I still remember my lesson in Urdu, how my father taught me, how he used to read poetry to me. If it were not for the need to earn a living, I would – I would-’

Deven shrank back in apology. ‘No, sir I teach in- in the Hindi department. I took my degree in Hindi because-’

But the poet was not listening. He was laughing and spitting as he laughed because he did it so rustily and unwillingly. Phlegm flew. ‘You see,’ he croaked, ‘what did I tell you? You are a slave. Perhaps a spy even if you don’t know it, sent to universities to destroy whatever remains of Urdu, hunt it out and kill it. And you tell me it is for an Urdu magazine you wish to interview me. If so, why are you teaching Hindi?’ he suddenly roared, fixing Deven with that small, turtle-lidded eye that had now become lethal, a bullet.

‘I studied Urdu, sir, as a boy, in Lucknow. My father, he was a schoolteacher, a scholar, and a lover of Urdu poetry. He taught me the language. But he died. He died and my mother brought me to Delhi to live with her relations here. I was sent to the nearest school, a Hindi-medium school, sir,’ Deven stumbled through the explanation. ‘I took my degree in Hindi, sir,and now I am temporary lecturer in Lala Ram Lal College at Mirpore. It is my living, sir. You see I am married man, a family man. But I still remember my lesson in Urdu, how my father taught me, how he used to read poetry to me. If it were not for the need to earn a living, I would – I would-’

Deven shrank back in apology. ‘No, sir I teach in- in the Hindi department. I took my degree in Hindi because-’

But the poet was not listening. He was laughing and spitting as he laughed because he did it so rustily and unwillingly. Phlegm flew. ‘You see,’ he croaked, ‘what did I tell you? You are a slave. Perhaps a spy even if you don’t know it, sent to universities to destroy whatever remains of Urdu, hunt it out and kill it. And you tell me it is for an Urdu magazine you wish to interview me. If so, why are you teaching Hindi?’ he suddenly roared, fixing Deven with that small, turtle-lidded eye that had now become lethal, a bullet.

‘I studied Urdu, sir, as a boy, in Lucknow. My father, he was a schoolteacher, a scholar, and a lover of Urdu poetry. He taught me the language. But he died. He died and my mother brought me to Delhi to live with her relations here. I was sent to the nearest school, a Hindi-medium school, sir,’ Deven stumbled through the explanation. ‘I took my degree in Hindi, sir,and now I am temporary lecturer in Lala Ram Lal College at Mirpore. It is my living, sir. You see I am married man, a family man. But I still remember my lesson in Urdu, how my father taught me, how he used to read poetry to me. If it were not for the need to earn a living, I would – I would-’

Deven shrank back in apology. ‘No, sir I teach in- in the Hindi department. I took my degree in Hindi because-’

But the poet was not listening. He was laughing and spitting as he laughed because he did it so rustily and unwillingly. Phlegm flew. ‘You see,’ he croaked, ‘what did I tell you? You are a slave. Perhaps a spy even if you don’t know it, sent to universities to destroy whatever remains of Urdu, hunt it out and kill it. And you tell me it is for an Urdu magazine you wish to interview me. If so, why are you teaching Hindi?’ he suddenly roared, fixing Deven with that small, turtle-lidded eye that had now become lethal, a bullet.

‘I studied Urdu, sir, as a boy, in Lucknow. My father, he was a schoolteacher, a scholar, and a lover of Urdu poetry. He taught me the language. But he died. He died and my mother brought me to Delhi to live with her relations here. I was sent to the nearest school, a Hindi-medium school, sir,’ Deven stumbled through the explanation. ‘I took my degree in Hindi, sir,and now I am temporary lecturer in Lala Ram Lal College at Mirpore. It is my living, sir. You see I am married man, a family man. But I still remember my lesson in Urdu, how my father taught me, how he used to read poetry to me. If it were not for the need to earn a living, I would – I would-’

The arts—be it music, dance, or painting—have enabled artists to express themselves freely across borders for eons. However, speaking a common language remains one of the easiest and most effective ways for people to communicate and understand one another. India has a cornucopia of regional languages and dialects, an integral part of each region’s cultural heritage. No national language has ever been declared, and many regional languages are endangered or extinct due to inadequate documentation.

Nagaland, home to 19 languages and 16 tribes, exemplifies this linguistic richness. To preserve them, Nagaland University recently organized a convention focused on their documentation and promotion. Language, as a key element of culture, plays a pivotal role in shaping regional identities, as seen in the prevalence of Russian in Kazakhstan or English in India. While Indian English writers like Salman Rushdie have global recognition, regional languages remain vital for connecting with local heritage.

The National Education Policy 2020 emphasizes the importance of learning one’s mother tongue, which connects individuals to their roots and offers insights into local traditions. Languages like Pali, which preserve the teachings of Lord Buddha, and Sanskrit, the language of the Upanishads, offer invaluable cultural and spiritual wisdom. With languages such as Aka-Bo from the Andaman Islands disappearing, documenting these endangered tongues is crucial. The loss of such languages erases not only communication but entire histories. While technology, such as translation apps, helps bridge linguistic gaps, the onus remains on the people to protect, preserve, and promote this invaluable part of India’s cultural heritage.

The arts—be it music, dance, or painting—have enabled artists to express themselves freely across borders for eons. However, speaking a common language remains one of the easiest and most effective ways for people to communicate and understand one another. India has a cornucopia of regional languages and dialects, an integral part of each region’s cultural heritage. No national language has ever been declared, and many regional languages are endangered or extinct due to inadequate documentation.

Nagaland, home to 19 languages and 16 tribes, exemplifies this linguistic richness. To preserve them, Nagaland University recently organized a convention focused on their documentation and promotion. Language, as a key element of culture, plays a pivotal role in shaping regional identities, as seen in the prevalence of Russian in Kazakhstan or English in India. While Indian English writers like Salman Rushdie have global recognition, regional languages remain vital for connecting with local heritage.

The National Education Policy 2020 emphasizes the importance of learning one’s mother tongue, which connects individuals to their roots and offers insights into local traditions. Languages like Pali, which preserve the teachings of Lord Buddha, and Sanskrit, the language of the Upanishads, offer invaluable cultural and spiritual wisdom. With languages such as Aka-Bo from the Andaman Islands disappearing, documenting these endangered tongues is crucial. The loss of such languages erases not only communication but entire histories. While technology, such as translation apps, helps bridge linguistic gaps, the onus remains on the people to protect, preserve, and promote this invaluable part of India’s cultural heritage.

The arts—be it music, dance, or painting—have enabled artists to express themselves freely across borders for eons. However, speaking a common language remains one of the easiest and most effective ways for people to communicate and understand one another. India has a cornucopia of regional languages and dialects, an integral part of each region’s cultural heritage. No national language has ever been declared, and many regional languages are endangered or extinct due to inadequate documentation.

Nagaland, home to 19 languages and 16 tribes, exemplifies this linguistic richness. To preserve them, Nagaland University recently organized a convention focused on their documentation and promotion. Language, as a key element of culture, plays a pivotal role in shaping regional identities, as seen in the prevalence of Russian in Kazakhstan or English in India. While Indian English writers like Salman Rushdie have global recognition, regional languages remain vital for connecting with local heritage.

The National Education Policy 2020 emphasizes the importance of learning one’s mother tongue, which connects individuals to their roots and offers insights into local traditions. Languages like Pali, which preserve the teachings of Lord Buddha, and Sanskrit, the language of the Upanishads, offer invaluable cultural and spiritual wisdom. With languages such as Aka-Bo from the Andaman Islands disappearing, documenting these endangered tongues is crucial. The loss of such languages erases not only communication but entire histories. While technology, such as translation apps, helps bridge linguistic gaps, the onus remains on the people to protect, preserve, and promote this invaluable part of India’s cultural heritage.

The arts—be it music, dance, or painting—have enabled artists to express themselves freely across borders for eons. However, speaking a common language remains one of the easiest and most effective ways for people to communicate and understand one another. India has a cornucopia of regional languages and dialects, an integral part of each region’s cultural heritage. No national language has ever been declared, and many regional languages are endangered or extinct due to inadequate documentation.

Nagaland, home to 19 languages and 16 tribes, exemplifies this linguistic richness. To preserve them, Nagaland University recently organized a convention focused on their documentation and promotion. Language, as a key element of culture, plays a pivotal role in shaping regional identities, as seen in the prevalence of Russian in Kazakhstan or English in India. While Indian English writers like Salman Rushdie have global recognition, regional languages remain vital for connecting with local heritage.

The National Education Policy 2020 emphasizes the importance of learning one’s mother tongue, which connects individuals to their roots and offers insights into local traditions. Languages like Pali, which preserve the teachings of Lord Buddha, and Sanskrit, the language of the Upanishads, offer invaluable cultural and spiritual wisdom. With languages such as Aka-Bo from the Andaman Islands disappearing, documenting these endangered tongues is crucial. The loss of such languages erases not only communication but entire histories. While technology, such as translation apps, helps bridge linguistic gaps, the onus remains on the people to protect, preserve, and promote this invaluable part of India’s cultural heritage.