Direction (Qs.1 to 10): Read the passage carefully and answer the questions given below it. There are some blanks given in the passage based on which some questions are framed, and some words are highlighted as well to help you answer some of the questions.

NO! I don’t want to sell it” I yelled at the …(A)… merchant, before telling him to go and do some rather rude things to himself. I am not normally ill-mannered, but this person had been persistently trying to get me to sell my Royal Enfield Bullet. He had seen my trusty 1998 Machismo parked, unused, for close to two years. In September 2017, I was diagnosed with a subdural haematoma and I thought the curtain had fallen on my motorcycling days. The same month, a brain surgeon operated on me, drilling two holes to drain the blood clot between my brain and skull. (B) The surgery came (a) off well and I went (b) out of it good as new, but another knock (c) on the head would definitely (d) be a bad idea. (C) In addition, the debilitating headache that had resulted/ in I going to the doctors and a long round of tests /before being diagnosed had started /at Sach Pass in Himachal Pradesh, at an altitude of 14,500ft. It left me with a fear of high altitudes as the place that spelt the start of my troubles. Grudgingly accepting that my riding days were probably done, I tried to …(D)… myself that “road trips are more fun in a car” and did several around the world over the next two years, travelling to Turkey, the US, Australia and even Serbia. Meanwhile, spiders, dust and falling leaves made the recesses of my motorcycle their home. (E) Often, while getting (a) into my car, I would give it a sideways glance (b), almost as though ashamed (c) to look it in the eye, to confront the decay of this antique machine that had been my steadfast (d) companion over four of the world’s highest passes, on broken roads and at freezing temperatures. “It’s not worth the risk,” I would tell myself, …(F)…, feeling the two holes in my head. But old John Muir penned profound prose when he wrote “the mountains are calling and I must go”. For me, that call, the one I couldn’t resist, was an invitation to go riding to the mother of all peaks, Mount Everest itself. It was a group ride in October to the Rongbuk Monastery at the base of Mount Everest in Tibet, organized by Royal Enfield. (G) It was a necessary (a) too tempting (b) to refuse, and within 10 minutes of getting the call, I had confirmed (c) my participation and sent off all the destination (d) travel documents and photographs. When I look back now, I realize how that one call changed my life. I had settled into a rhythm of good food and Netflix. My road trips in fancy cars were comfortableaffairs. (H) My surgeon had advised me to go easy /for exercise for eight months—which I had stretched to/ a sedentary two years—making my muscles soft /as fresh bread and my gut generous. When I tried on my riding clothes, I was dismayed to find that the pants wouldn’t button up …(I)… . I hadn’t ridden a motorcycle for two years and within two months I would need to ride over demanding terrain at high altitudes, in freezing temperatures, through air with 40% less oxygen.

Those two months leading to the trip became my boot camp. I got my old Machismo restored. I culled the carbs from my diet, packed in protein, and got on to a strenuous workout regimen. I invested in a new helmet that cost as much as a motorcycle and swung my leg over the saddle for the first time in two years. I can still remember the joy I felt when I kick-started my old Royal Enfield and it roared to life, launching the crows from the neighbouring trees.

By the time I boarded my flight to Kathmandu, I was 7 kg lighter, my riding clothes looked tailor-made for me, and I had clocked 600 km on my beautiful blue Bullet. Even before the ride had started, it had taken me off the sedate path and on to a new and more exciting one. When I arrived in Kathmandu and met the rest of the group, I realized that at 47 years, I was older than anyone else by a whole decade. Over the next two days, as we rode from Kathmandu to the border of Nepal and Tibet, I got to know the group as well as my ride for the 1,200 km, the Royal Enfield Himalayan. Most of the roads we rode over were broken, often filled with mud the consistency of thick porridge. There were streams to be crossed and gravel to be ridden over, but the motorcycle took it all with aplomb. (J) I had expected the rigours (a) of the road would result in a working (b) back and tormented (c) thighs but my two months of effort painful (d) out and riding my bike paid off.