List of top English Questions asked in CLAT

From a very early age, I knew that when I grew up, I should be a writer. I had the lonely child's habit of making up stories and holding conversations with imaginary persons, and I think from the very start my literary ambitions were mixed up with the feeling of being isolated and undervalued. I knew that I had a facility with words and a power of facing unpleasant facts, and I felt that this created a sort of private world in which I could get my own back for my failure in everyday life. I wanted to write enormous naturalistic novels with unhappy endings, full of detailed descriptions and arresting similes, and also full of purple passages in which words were used partly for the sake of their sound. I give all this background information because I do not think one can assess a writer's motives without knowing something of his early development.
His subject-matter will be determined by the age he lives in — at least this is true in tumultuous, revolutionary ages like our own — but before he ever begins to write he will have acquired an emotional attitude from which he will never completely escape. It is his job to discipline his temperament, but if he escapes from his early influences altogether, he will have killed his impulse to write. I think there are four great motives for writing, at any rate for writing prose. They are: (i) Sheer egoism: Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood; (ii) Aesthetic enthusiasm: Desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed (iii) Historical impulse: Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity (iv) Political purpose: Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other people's idea of the kind of society that they should strive after.
[Extracted with edits from George Orwell's "Why I Write"]

The right kind of education consists in understanding the child as he is without imposing upon him an ideal of what we think he should be. To enclose him in the framework of an ideal is to encourage him to conform, which breeds fear and produces in him a constant conflict between what he is and what he should be: and all inward conflicts have their outward manifestations in society. If the parent loves the child, he observes him, he studies his tendencies, his moods, and peculiarities. It is only when one feels no love for the child that one imposes upon him an ideal, for then one's ambitions are trying to fulfill themselves in him, wanting him to become this or that. If one loves, not the ideal but the child, then there is a possibility of helping him to understand himself as he is.
Ideals are a convenient escape, and the teacher who follows them is incapable of understanding his students and dealing with them intelligently; for him, the future ideal, the what should be, is far more important than the present child. The pursuit of an ideal excludes love, and without love no human problem can be solved. If the teacher is of the right kind, he will not depend on a method, but will study each individual pupil. In our relationship with children and young people, we are not dealing with mechanical devices that can be quickly repaired, but with living beings who are impressionable, volatile, sensitive, afraid, affectionate: and to deal with them, we have to have great understanding, the strength of patience and love. When we lack these, we look to quick and easy remedies and hope for marvellous and automatic results. If we are unaware, mechanical in our attitudes and actions, we fight shy of any demand upon us that is disturbing and that cannot be met by an automatic response, and this is one of our major difficulties in education.
 (Extract with edits from "The right kind of Education" by J. Krishna Murti)

Education is not the amount of information that is put into your brain and runs riot there, undigested, all your life. We must have life-building, man-making, character-making assimilation of ideas.... If education were identical with information, the libraries are the sages in the world and encyclopaedias are the rishis. Getting by heart the thoughts of others in a foreign language and stuffing your brain with them and taking some University degree, you consider yourself educated. Is this education? What is the goal of your education? Open your eyes and see what a piteous cry for food is rising in the land of Bharata, proverbial for its food. Will your education fulfill this want?
We want that education by which character is formed, strength of mind is increased, the intellect is expanded and by which one can stand on one's own feet. What we need to study independent of foreign control, different branches of the knowledge that is our own, and with it the English language and Western science; we need technical education and all else that will develop industries so that men instead of seeking for service may earn enough to provide for themselves and save against a rainy day. The end of all education, all training, should be man-making. The end and aim of all training are to make the man grow. The training by which the current expression of will are brought under control and become fruitful, is called education. What our country now wants are muscles of iron and nerves of steel, gigantic wills, which nothing can resist, which can penetrate into the mysteries and secrets of the universe and will accomplish their purpose in any fashion, even if it meant going down to the bottom of the ocean, meeting death face to face.
There is only one method of attaining knowledge. It is by concentration. The very essence of education is concentration of mind. From the lowest to the highest man, all have to use the same method to attain knowledge. The chemist who works in the laboratory concentrates on elements to analyze them. Knowledge is acquired by concentration.
[Extracted with edits from "Education" by Swami Vivekananda]

Punctually at midday, he opened his bag and spread out his professional equipment, which consisted of a dozen cowrie shells, a square piece of cloth with obscure mystic charts on it, a notebook, and a bundle of palmyra writing. His forehead was dazzling with sacred ash and vermilion, and his eyes sparkled with a sharp, abnormal gleam which was really an outcome of a continual searching look for customers, but which his simple clients took to be a prophetic light and felt comforted. The power of his eyes was considerably enhanced by their position placed as they were between the painted forehead and the dark whiskers which streamed down his cheeks: even a half-wit's eyes would sparkle in such a setting. People were attracted to him as bees are attracted to cosmos or dahlia stalks, He sat under the boughs of a spreading tamarind tree which flanked a path running through the town hall park, It was a remarkable place in many ways: a surging crowd was always moving up and down this narrow road morning till night. A variety of trades and occupations was represented all along its way: medicine sellers, sellers of stolen hardware and junk, magicians, and, above all, an auctioneer of cheap cloth, who created enough din all day to attract the whole town. Next to him in vociferousness came a vendor of fried groundnut, who gave his ware a fancy name each day, calling it "Bombay Ice Cream" one day, and on the next "Delhi Almond," and on the third "Raja's Delicacy," and so on and so forth, and people flocked to him. A considerable portion of this crowd dallied before the astrologer too. The astrologer transacted his business by the light of a flare which crackled and smoked up above the groundnut heap nearby.
(Extracted with edits from "An Astrologer's Day" by R.K. Narayan)

English literature is a vast and diverse field that has left an indelible mark on the world of letters. From the eloquent plays of William Shakespeare to the complex novels of Jane Austen and the profound poetry of William Wordsworth, English literature offers a window into the human experience. One of the luminaries of English literature is William Shakespeare, often hailed as the greatest playwright in the history of English language. His works, including Hamlet, Macbeth, and Romeo and Juliet, are celebrated for their exploration of human nature, love, ambition, and tragedy. His characters, such as the tormented Hamlet and the star-crossed lovers Romeo and Juliet, continue to captivate readers and audiences worldwide.
The 19th century ushered in a new era of literary giants. Jane Austen’s novels, such as Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility, provide incisive social commentary through the lens of wit and romance. Austen’s heroines, like Elizabeth Bennet and Elinor Dashwood, remain beloved literary figures known for their intelligence and resilience. The Romantic era brought forth poets like William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who celebrated * 8 UG the beauty of nature and the emotional intensity of the individual. Wordsworth’s ‘‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud’’ and Coleridge’s ‘‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’’ are testament to the power of the written words to evoke profound emotions and imagery. Moving towards 20th century, English literature continued to evolve. Virginia Woolf’s ground-breaking novel Mrs. Dalloway explored the inner thoughts and lives of its characters with a modernist narrative style. Dystopian visions, as seen in George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four provided stark warnings about the dangers of totalitarianism and the erosion of individual freedom. 
Today, English literature is a global phenomenon, transcending borders and languages. Indian authors like Arundhati Roy, with her novel The God of Small Things, have won prestigious international literary awards. The book not only explores intricate family dynamics but also delves into the broader socio-political landscape of India. In summary, English literature is a testament to the enduring power of storytelling and the written word. It encompasses an array of authors, themes, and styles that continue to captivate and inspire readers across the world.

Everything she wanted was here, at Carignano, in Kasauli. Here, on the ridge of the mountain, in this quiet house. It was the place, and the time of life, that she had wanted and prepared for all her life-as she realized on the first day at Carignano, with a great, cool flowering of relief - and at last she had it. She wanted no one and nothing else. Whatever else came, or happened here, would be an unwelcome intrusion and distraction. This she tried to convey to the plodding postman with a cold and piercing stare from the height of the ridge onto his honest bull back. Unfortunately, he did not look up at her on the hilltop but stared stolidly down at the dust piling onto his shoes as he plodded on. A bullock-man, an oafish ox, she thought bitterly. She stepped backwards into the garden and the wind suddenly billowed up and threw the pine branches about as though to curtain her. She was grey, tall and thin and her silk sari made a sweeping, shivering sound and she fancied she could merge with the pine trees and be mistaken for one. To be a tree, no more and no less, was all she was prepared to undertake.
What pleased and satisfied her so, here at Carignano, was its barrenness. This was the chief virtue of all Kasauli of course-its starkness. It had rocks, it had pines, it had light and air. In every direction there was a sweeping view - to the north, of the mountains, to the south, of the plains. Occasionally an eagle swam through this clear unobstructed mass of light and air, that was all. And Carignano, her home on the ridge, had no more than that. Why should it? The sun shone on its white walls. Its windows were open the ones facing north opened on to the blue waves of the Himalayas flowing out and up to the line of ice and snow sketched upon the sky, while those that faced south looked down the plunging cliff to the plain stretching out, flat and sere to the blurred horizon. 
Yes, there were some apricot trees close to the house. There were clumps of iris that had finished blooming. There was the kitchen with a wing of smoke lifting out of its chimney and a stack of wood outside its door. But these were incidental, almost unimportant. 
[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from “Fire on the Mountain” by Anita Desai]

The crisis of justice that is the subject matter of discussion in the media today is in fact the crisis of “justice for the middle class”. The main difference between India and the OECD (Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development) countries is that whereas the middle class in these countries has reasonable access to justice, in India it does not. A vocal and powerful middle class has emerged in India since 1991. It is demanding reasonable access to justice. Much of the judicial reform effort will help meet this demand…
The question of justice for the poor is, however, an altogether different challenge. No country in the world has been able to secure justice for the poor. Most of the jails of the richest countries are filled with the poorest. The “masses” are more often victims of the criminal justice system than of crime. In India as well, jails are almost exclusively filled with the poor. The civil justice system is hardly accessible to them. They are often victimised by lawyers, touts and court staff. They are docket-excluded, a new type of untouchability. The language and the logic—and the colonial and feudal culture—of the judicial system are alien to them. It rarely takes cognisance of their needs and interests. 
Their main concern, therefore, is to escape the attention of the justice system, criminal and civil. A landless Dalit person in the interior of Madhya Pradesh once gave me an insightful definition of a court from the perspective of the masses: “A court is a place where you are forcibly taken by the police to be punished; no one goes to a court.” In contrast, many lawyers and judges colloquially define a court as “a temple of justice where rights are protected”. 
These sharply divergent visions mean that justice for one section is often injustice for another. Protecting the livelihood of traditional taxi and auto drivers from predatory pricing by corporate app-based taxi providers by imaginatively using the available tools of law to delay their incursion would be seen by the rich and by sections of the middle class as a failure of the judicial system, and possibly as also resulting in a downgrading of the “ease of doing business” measure. However, the masses would see such a judicial intervention as strong evidence of a good justice system. Although the conflict over competing visions of the nation and conflicting demands from social and economic segments have confined judicial reform of judicial administration mainly to “neutral” areas such as process reform, procedural law, technology, planning and court and case management, judge strength, and the workload of judges, there has been considerable improvement in these areas, and the judicial system has improved its performance. 
[Extracted, with edits, from “Justice and the Two Ideas of India”, by G. Mohan Gopal, Frontline]

In the realm of contemporary literature, the interplay between character and setting is a nuanced dance that shapes the narrative’s essence. The setting, often described with painstaking detail, becomes more than a backdrop; it becomes a character, influencing the plot and character development.
Consider, for instance, the barren expanse of the desert in Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake. The arid landscape mirrors the sense of isolation felt by the protagonist, Gogol, as he navigates his identity crisis in a foreign land. The relentless sun and vast sands are not mere descriptions; they are the silent witnesses to his inner turmoil. 
On the other end of the literary spectrum, there is Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things. The lush, vibrant Kerala backwaters are not just the setting; they are a character woven into the fabric of the story. The teeming, humid landscape reflects the complex web of human relationships and secrets that unravel in the narrative. This interplay is not confined to contemporary literature alone. In Shakespeare’s timeless tragedy Macbeth, the eerie and foreboding setting of the Scottish moors casts a dark shadow over the characters’ actions. The moors, shrouded in mist and mystery, serve as an ever-present omen of the impending tragedy.

‘So pick a bird,’ Iff commanded. ‘Any bird.’ This was puzzling. ‘The only bird around here is a wooden peacock,’ Haroun pointed out, reasonably enough. Iff gave a snort of disgust. ‘A person may choose what he cannot see,’ he said, as if explaining something very obvious to a very foolish individual. ‘A person may mention a bird’s name even if the creature is not present and correct: crow, quail, hummingbird, bulbul, mynah, parrot, kite. A person may even select a flying creature of his own invention, for example winged horse, flying turtle, airborne whale, space serpent or aeromouse. To give a thing a name, a label, a handle; to rescue it from anonymity, to pluck it out of the Place of Namelessness, in short to identify it — well, that’s a way of bringing the said thing into being. Or, in this case, the said bird or Imaginary Flying Organism.’
‘That may be true where you come from,’ Haroun argued. ‘But in these parts, stricter rules apply.’
‘In these parts,’ rejoined blue-bearded Iff, ‘I am having time wasted by someone who will not trust in what he can’t see. How much have you seen, eh? Africa, have you seen it? No? Then is it truly there? And submarines? Huh? Also, hailstones, baseballs, pagodas? Goldmines? Kangaroos, Mount Fujiyama, the North Pole? And the past, did it happen? And the future, will it come? Believe in your own eyes and you’ll get into a lot of trouble, hot water, a mess.’ With that, he plunged his hand into a pocket of his auberginey pajamas, and when he brought it forth again it was bunched into a fist. ‘So take a look, or I should say a gander, at the enclosed.’ He opened his hand, and Haroun’s eyes almost fell out of his head. Tiny birds were walking about on Iff’s palm; and pecking at it, and flapping their miniature wings to hover just above it. And as well as birds there were fabulous winged creatures out of legends: an Assyrian lion with the head of a bearded man and a pair of large hairy wings growing out of its flanks; and winged monkeys, flying saucers, tiny angels, levitating (and apparently air-breathing) fish. ‘What’s your pleasure, select, choose,’ Iff urged. And although it seemed obvious to Haroun that these magical creatures were so small that they couldn’t possibly have carried so much as a bitten-off fingernail, he decided not to argue and pointed at a tiny crested bird that was giving him a sidelong look through one highly intelligent eye.
[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from Haroun and the Sea of Stories, by Salman Rushdie, Granta & Penguin, 1990.]

English encodes class in India. It does so by sliding into the DNA of social division: income, caste, gender, religion or place of belonging. The threat it poses to social cohesion has worried public commentators across the political spectrum. In an address delivered as independent India’s Parliament dilly-dallied over the suggestion to replace English with regional languages as the medium of instruction for higher education, Gandhi said, ‘This blighting imposition of a foreign medium upon the youth of the country will be counted by history as one of the greatest tragedies. Our boys think, and rightly in the present circumstances, that without English they cannot get government service. Girls are taught English as a passport to marriage.’
A hundred years later, the language continues to be seen as a tool of exclusion. The problem now is about inequality of access. ‘To be denied English is harmful to the individual as well as our society,’ writes Chetan Bhagat, self-appointed leader of a class war set off by unequal access to English.
Bhagat, an engineer-turned-investment banker, wrote his first college romance in English in 2004. Then only a certain kind of person—someone who grew up reading, writing and speaking the language—wrote books in English—big words, long sentences, literary pretension, heavy with orientalism. In the ten years since Bhagat put the popular in ‘popular’ English fiction, he has written six other novels and sold millions of copies all told. With every new book, all written in deliberately simple English, Bhagat has recruited thousands of new soldiers in his crusade against what he calls the ‘caste system around the language’. Bhagat even has a term for Indians who ‘have’ English: E1. ‘These people had parents who spoke English, had access to good English-medium schools—typically in big cities, and gained early proficiency, which enabled them to consume English products such as newspapers, books and films. English is so instinctive to them that even some of their thought patterns are in English. These people are much in demand.’ The people E1 presumably control, through a nexus of privilege built on ownership of English, are E2: ‘probably ten times the E1s. They are technically familiar with the language. [But] if they sit in an interview conducted by E1s, they will come across as incompetent, even though they may be equally intelligent, creative or hardworking.’
The situation may not be so comically stark. The haves and have-nots may not exactly fit into Bhagat’s stereotypes of urban, sophisticated rich people and provincial, uncultured poor. His argument does not factor in many other walls around English in India. You are more likely to learn English if you are born a man rather than a woman, high caste rather than low caste, south Indian rather than north Indian. There is more than one kind of E1 and more than one kind of E2. And there is more than one way E2s can overthrow E1s. One is to speak it like they know it.
[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from Dreamers: How Young Indians Are Changing the World, by Snigdha Poonam, Penguin Viking, 2018.]

Down by the sandy banks of the Yamuna River, the men must work quickly. At a little past 12 a.m. one humid night in May, they pull back the black plastic tarp covering three boreholes sunk deep in the ground. They then drag thick hoses toward a queue of 20-odd tanker trucks idling quietly with their headlights turned off. The men work in a team: While one man fits a hose’s mouth over a borehole, another clambers atop a truck at the front of the line and shoves the tube’s opposite end into the empty steel cistern attached to the vehicle’s creaky frame. ‘On kar!’ someone shouts in Hinglish; almost instantly, his orders to ‘switch it on’ are obeyed. Diesel generators, housed in nearby sheds, begin to thrum. Submersible pumps, installed in the borehole’s shafts, drone as they disgorge thousands of gallons of groundwater from deep in the earth. The liquid gushes through the hoses and into the trucks’ tanks. The full trucks don’t wait around. As the hose team continues its work, drivers nose down a rutted dirt path until they reach a nearby highway. There, they turn on their lights and pick up speed, rushing to sell their bounty to factories and hospitals, malls and hotels, apartments and hutments across this city of 25 million. Everything about this business is illegal: the boreholes dug without permission, the trucks operating without permits, the water sold without testing or treatment. ‘Water work is night work,’ says a middle-aged neighbour who lives near the covert pumping station and requested anonymity. ‘Bosses arrange buyers, labour fills tankers, the police look the other way, and the muscle makes sure that no one says nothing to nobody.’ Teams like this one are ubiquitous in Delhi, where the official water supply falls short of the city’s needs. A quarter of Delhi’s households live without a piped-water connection; most of the rest receive water for only a few hours each day. So residents have come to rely on private truck owners—the most visible strands of a dispersed web of city councillors, farmers, real estate agents, and fixers who source millions of gallons of water each day from illicit boreholes, and sell the liquid for profit. The entrenched system has a local moniker: the water-tanker mafia. A 2013 audit found that the city loses 60 percent of its water supply to leakages, theft, and a failure to collect revenue. The mafia defends its work as a community service, but there is a much darker picture of Delhi’s subversive water industry: one of a thriving black market populated by small-time freelance agents who are exploiting a fast-depleting common resource and in turn threatening India’s long-term water security.
[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from: “At the Mercy of the Water Mafia”, by Aman Sethi, Foreign Policy]

The call of self-expression turned the village of the internet into a city, which expanded at time-lapse speed, social connections bristling like neurons in every direction. At twelve, I was writing five hundred words a day on a public LiveJournal. By twenty-five, my job was to write things that would attract, ideally, a hundred thousand strangers per post. Now I’m thirty, and most of my life is inextricable from the internet, and its mazes of incessant forced connection—this feverish, electric, unliveable hell. The curdling of the social internet happened slowly and then all at once. The tipping point, I’d guess, was around 2012. People were losing excitement about the internet, starting to articulate a set of new truisms. Facebook had become tedious, trivial, exhausting. Instagram seemed better, but would soon reveal its underlying function as a three-ring circus of happiness and popularity and success. Twitter, for all its discursive promise, was where everyone tweeted complaints at airlines and moaned about articles that had been commissioned to make people moan. The dream of a better, truer self on the internet was slipping away. Where we had once been free to be ourselves online, we were now chained to ourselves online, and this made us self-conscious. Platforms that promised connection began inducing mass alienation. The freedom promised by the internet started to seem like something whose greatest potential lay in the realm of misuse.
Even as we became increasingly sad and ugly on the internet, the mirage of the better online self continued to glimmer. As a medium, the internet is defined by a built-in performance incentive. In real life, you can walk around living life and be visible to other people. But on the internet—for anyone to see you, you have to act. You have to communicate in order to maintain an internet presence. And, because the internet’s central platforms are built around personal profiles, it can seem—first at a mechanical level, and later on as an encoded instinct—like the main purpose of this communication is to make yourself look good. Online reward mechanisms beg to substitute for offline ones, and then overtake them. This is why everyone tries to look so hot and well-travelled on Instagram; why everyone seems so smug and triumphant on Facebook; and why, on Twitter, making a righteous political statement has come to seem, for many people, like a political good in itself. The everyday madness perpetuated by the internet is the madness of this architecture, which positions personal identity as the centre of the universe. It’s as if we’ve been placed on a lookout that oversees the entire world and given a pair of binoculars that makes everything look like our own reflection.
[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from Trick Mirror: Reflections on Self-Delusion, by Jia Tolentino, Random House, 2019.]

Until the Keeladi site was discovered, archaeologists by and large believed that the Gangetic plains in the north urbanised significantly earlier than Tamil Nadu. Historians have often claimed that large scale town life in India first developed in the Greater Magadha region of the Gangetic basin. This was during the ‘second urbanisation’ phase. The ‘first urbanisation phase’ refers to the rise of the Harappan or Indus Valley Civilisation. Tamil Nadu was thought to have urbanised at this scale only by the third century BCE. The findings at Keeladi push that date back significantly. … Based on linguistics and continuity in cultural legacies, connections between the Indus Valley Civilisation, or IVC, and old Tamil traditions have long been suggested, but concrete archaeological evidence remained absent. Evidence indicated similarities between graffiti found in Keeladi and symbols associated with the IVC. It bolstered the arguments of dissidents from the dominant North Indian imagination, who have argued for years that their ancestors existed contemporaneously with the IVC. … All the archaeologists I spoke to said it was too soon to make definitive links between the Keeladi site and the IVC. There is no doubt, however, that the discovery at Keeladi has changed the paradigm. In recent years, the results of any new research on early India have invited keen political interest, because proponents of Hindu nationalism support the notion of Vedic culture as fundamental to the origins of Indian civilisation. … The Keeladi excavations further challenge the idea of a single fountainhead of Indian life. They indicate the possibility that the earliest identity that can recognisably be considered ‘Indian’ might not have originated in North India. That wasn’t all. In subsequent seasons of the Keeladi dig, archaeologists discovered that Tamili, a variant of the Brahmi script used for writing inscriptions in the early iterations of the Tamil language, could be dated back to the sixth century BCE, likely a hundred years before previously thought. So not only had urban life thrived in the Tamil lands, but people who lived there had developed their own script. “The evolution of writing is attributed to Ashoka’s edicts, but 2600 years ago writing was prevalent in Keeladi,” Mathan Karuppiah, a proud Madurai local, told me. “A farmer could write his own name on a pot he owned. The fight going on here is ‘You are not the one to teach me to write, I have learnt it myself.’”
[Excerpted from “The Dig”, by Sowmiya Ashok, Fifty-Two]

I grew up in a small town not far from Kalimpong. In pre-liberalization India, everything arrived late: not just material things but also ideas. Magazines — old copies of Reader’s Digest and National Geographic — arrived late too, after the news had become stale by months or, often, years. This temporal gap turned journalism into literature, news into legend, and historical events into something akin to plotless stories. But like those who knew no other life, we accepted this as the norm. The dearth of reading material in towns and villages in socialist India is hard to imagine, and it produced two categories of people: those who stopped reading after school or college, and those — including children — who read anything they could find. I read road signs with the enthusiasm that attaches to reading thrillers. When the iterant kabadiwala, collector of papers, magazines, and rejected things, visited our neighbourhood, I rushed to the house where he was doing business. He bought things at unimaginably low prices from those who’d stopped having any use for them, and I rummaged through his sacks of old magazines. Sometimes, on days when business was good, he allowed me a couple of copies of Sportsworld magazine for free. I’d run home and, ignoring my mother’s scolding, plunge right in — consuming news about India’s victory in the Benson and Hedges Cup….
Two takeaways from these experiences have marked my understanding of the provincial reader’s life: the sense of belatedness, of everything coming late, and the desire for pleasure in language. …. Speaking of belatedness, the awareness of having been born at the wrong time in history, of inventing things that had already been discovered elsewhere, far away, without our knowledge or cooperation, is a moment of epiphany and deep sadness. I remember a professor’s choked voice, narrating to me how all the arguments he’d made in his doctoral dissertation, written over many, many years of hard work (for there indeed was a time when PhDs were written over decades), had suddenly come to naught after he’d discovered the work of C.W.E. Bigsby. This, I realised as I grew older, was one of the characteristics of provincial life: that they (usually males) were saying trite things with the confidence of someone declaring them for the first time. I, therefore, grew up surrounded by would-be Newtons who claimed to have discovered gravity (again). There’s a deep sense of tragedy attending this sort of thing — the sad embarrassment of always arriving after the party is over. And there’s a harsh word for that sense of belatedness: “dated.” What rescues it is the unpredictability of these anachronistic “discoveries” — the randomness and haphazardness involved in mapping connections among thoughts and ideas, in a way that hasn’t yet been professionalised.
[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from “The Provincial Reader”, by Sumana Roy, Los Angeles Review of Books]

The modern animal rights movement, which originated in the 1970s, may be understood as a reaction to dominant emphases within science and religion (principally, though not exclusively, Christianity). When the Jesuit Joseph Rickaby wrote in 1888 that "Brute beasts, not having understanding and therefore not being persons, cannot have any rights" and that we have "no duties of charity or duties of any kind to the lower animals as neither to stocks and stones", he was only articulating, albeit in an extreme form, the moral insensitivity that has characterized the Western view of animals.
That insensitivity is the result of an amalgam of influences. The first, and for many years the most dominant, was the "other worldly" or "world denying" tendency in Christianity, which has, at its worst, denigrated the value of earthly things in comparison with things spiritual. Traditional Catholicism has divided the world into those beings that possess reason and therefore immortal souls, and those that do not. Christian spirituality has not consciously been at home with the world of non-human creatures-either animal or vegetable. Classic accounts of eternal life as found in Augustine of Hippo, Thomas Aquinas, or John Calvin make little or no reference to the world of animals. Animals, it seems, are merely transient or peripheral beings in an otherwise wholly human-centric economy of salvation.
The second idea-common to Christianity, Judaism, and Islam-is that animals, along with vegetables and minerals, exist instrumentally in relation to human beings; they are made for human beings, even belong to human beings, as resources in creation. This idea predates Christianity and is found notably in Aristotle, who argues that "since nature makes nothing to no purpose, it must be that nature has made them for the sake of man". This idea, largely unsupported by scripture, was nevertheless taken over by Aquinas, who conceived of creation as a rational hierarchy in which the intellectually inferior existed for the sake of the intellectually superior.
Such instrumentalism, which features rationality as the key factor dividing human beings from "brute beasts," has in turn buttressed the third influence, namely the notion of human superiority in creation. Human superiority need not, by itself, have led to the neglect of animal life, but when combined with the biblical ideas of being made "in the image of God" and God's preferential choice to become incarnate in human form, some sense of moral as well as theological ascendancy was indicated. As a result, Christianity, and to a lesser extent Judaism, have been characterized historically by an overwhelming concern for humanity in creation rather than an egalitarian concern for all forms of God-given life. That humans are more important than animals, and that they self-evidently merit moral solicitude in a way that animals cannot, has become religious doctrine. Thus the Catechism of the Catholic Church maintains that "it is ….. unworthy to spend money on them [animals] that should as a priority go to the relief of human misery".
These influences have in turn enabled and justified the scientific exploration of the natural world and specifically the subjection of animals to experimentation. Francis Bacon pursued his scientific investigations in the belief that humanity should "recover that right over nature which belongs to it by divine bequest". René Descartes famously likened the movements of a swallow to the workings of a clock, and maintained that "There is no prejudice to which we are more accustomed from our earliest years than the belief that dumb animals think”.

The fact that gaia, in her monstrous avatar, decided to distribute fossil fuels very unevenly across the earth has been central to the emergence of the world’s current geopolitical order. From a vitalist point of view, it could be said that the wars of the twentieth century were won as much by the fossilized energy of botanical matter as by particular groups of humans.
In the First World War germany’s lack of oil put it at a huge disadvantage against the Allies, more or less ensuring its defeat. the shortage of oil effectively cancelled the technological advantages Germany enjoyed at the start of the war: despite having a large fleet, for instance, it was unable to use its navy effectively because its coal-burning ships needed to refuel every eleven days. Conversely, the assured supply of American oil conferred so great an advantage on Britain and France that "it could be fairly stated that the war was won for the Western allies by tankers." Not for nothing was it said of the First World War that Britain, France, and the United States floated "to victory on a sea of oil."
In the Second World War the shortage of oil was even more critical to the defeat of the Axis powers. The German Luftwaffe was forced to rely on synthetic fuels derived from coal, and these could not provide the high-octane energy that was necessary for high-compression aero engines: "it was largely due to the inferior engines in German aircraft that the Luftwaffe lost the Battle of Britain." The shortage of oil also dictated Germany's war strategy: it was in order to seize the oilfields of the Caucasus that the German army pushed eastward into the Soviet Union in 1942, leading to a defeat at Stalingrad from which it never recovered. Japan's invasion of the Dutch East Indies was similarly forced by its lack of oil.
In short, over the course of the twentieth century access to oil became the central focus of global geopolitical strategy: for a Great Power, to be able to ensure or hinder the flow of oil was to have a thumb on the jugulars of its adversaries. In the first part of the twentieth century the guarantor of the flow of oil was Britain. After the Second World War, the baton was passed, along with a string of British naval bases, to the United States. The role of guarantor of global energy flows is still crucial to US strategic dominance and to its position as global hegemon.
Today, as Elizabeth DeLoughrey has pointed out, "US energy policy has become increasingly militarized and secured by the Navy, the largest oceanic force on the planet." In the words of the historian Michael Klare, the Iraq War of 2003 marked the transformation of the US military into "a global oil protection service, guarding pipelines, refineries, and loading facilities in the Middle East and elsewhere."
It is important to note that the strategic value of controlling oil flows is tangentially related to the US's energy requirements. The period in which the American military was turning into "a global oil protection service" was one in which the US was well on its way to reducing its dependence on imported oil. The fact that the US is now self-sufficient in fossil fuels has in no way diminished the strategic importance of oil as an instrument for the projection of power- it is the ability to deny energy supplies to rivals that is strategically of central importance.

Cryptocurrencies are a terrible thing. They are the essence of a Ponzi scheme whose value is based entirely on a greater fool prepared to buy it. The promise of alchemy-turning lead into gold has bewitched humanity throughout the ages and cryptocurrencies are just the latest alchemy. Do not get me wrong, if rich people want to lose their money, in this or any other way, they should be allowed to do so. The rich should be the vanguards of new things in case something unforeseen and good falls out of them. But we need to protect those vulnerable consumers whose lives are such that almost any get-rich-quick schemes will be seductive, and seven out of 10 times, they will lose their life savings. Cryptocurrencies are today's South Sea Bubble - one of the earliest recorded financial bubbles that took place in the 1720s' Britain. Meme-based currencies like Dogecoin, Dogelon Mars and Doge Dash remind me of the infamous plan of one company during the South Sea Bubble to raise money “for carrying on an undertaking of great advantage; but nobody to know what it is.”
The cryptocurrency bubble is worse than tulip mania. Through the veil of technology, cryptocurrency enthusiasts are leaning on policy-makers to permit them to be exempt from regulation, privatize money, and make money so disconnected from the economy that it would reap financial disaster. There are many reasons to avoid financial disasters, but one of them is that they ratchet up poverty and inequality. The current money-credit system is not perfect, but like democracy, it is the worst system barring all the others. It has evolved from the ashes of the system cryptocurrency enthusiasts are trying to resurrect.
The current system is vulnerable to attack because money is little understood. Cryptocurrency enthusiasts have attracted a following based on the fiction that the central bank or government creates money and are busy debasing it in their self-interest. This is not the case, but then again, there is some overlap between cryptocurrency advocates, conspiracy theorists, and anti-vaxxers. The time has come for someone to stand up for the current fiat money system and explain that while it could be better still, it has been associated with far more growth, much more distributed, and has responded better to economic crisis than what came before.
In today's money-credit system, banks create money when they issue a loan and place the loan's proceeds into the account of their customers, creating a deposit. Money is, in fact, a tradable debt. The bank's deposit can be used as cash because the bank is a regulated issuer of loans and deposit-taker, which gives the deposit credibility and convertibility. The central bank only influences the creation of money indirectly by its regulatory requirement that a proportion of the loans need to be funded by shareholder's profits. They need to have skin in the game. Money creation then is based on thousands of separate decisions by loan officers and is more distributed than a centralized algorithm like Bitcoin. And its supply is determined by the private demand for loans, which means it is closely aligned to the economy.

"Wash! Wash! Wash your hands!" That's been the safety-mantra ever since the pandemic COVID-19 began swamping the world. Undoubtedly, washing hands has proven to be the best way to keep germs at bay. Unfortunately, the medical practitioner who first promoted the importance of this simple activity was subjected to intense humiliation, and ultimately declared insane!
Ignaz Semmelweis was a Hungarian doctor. In 1847, as an obstetrician, he was disturbed that post-delivery, almost every third woman died of an unexpected malady. He observed that as a part of the set routine, medical students and doctors would examine and study the corpses in the mortuary, and then come for rounds to the maternity wards. Here, without washing their hands, they would examine expectant mothers. After making numerous hypothesis and observations, he was convinced that when doctors washed their hands before examining the women in the ward, the number of deaths due to serious infection declined. He shared his observations with his colleagues and many others working in the field of medicine, but unfortunately he could not provide any concrete evidence to his theory. Sadly, due to the vehement criticism that he received, he went into depression. Furthermore, Ignaz strived to prove his point so relentlessly that it led to the belief that he had lost his mind. In 1865, a doctor deceptively lured him into an asylum for the insane, and two weeks of the brutal treatment that was meted out to him by the attendants led to his untimely death. About twenty years later, when the world became more receptive to the works of scientists like Louis Pasteur and Joseph Lister, awareness regarding germs that cause diseases began to spread. This is the time when Ignaz was honoured with titles like Father of Hand Hygiene and Saviour of Mothers- an honour much too late!
Some of the most celebrated artists have earned fame much after their deaths. It is tragic that Vincent Van Gogh's awe-inspiring work was labeled as strange and amateur by most of the critics of his time. It is believed that he sold only one or two painting in his lifetime, and that too for a meager amount. Today, every single painting of Vincent Van Gogh paintings is worth millions of dollars.
Franz Kafka was a proficient writer, but when he published a few pieces of his writings, he received immense criticism. Before his death in 1924, he handed over his unpublished novels and short stories to his friend Max Brod, and urged him to destroy them; however, Brod got the manuscripts published. Today, Franz is acclaimed as one of the major fiction writers of the twentieth century; the novels titled The Trial published in 1925, and The Castle published in 1926 are considered two of his masterpieces.
Perhaps, if humans were more tolerant and amenable to change, innovative concepts, theories and creations, the deserving would live to experience the glory and honour they rightfully deserve.

As a six-year-old child-beggar, Saroo slept off in a stationary train in Khandwa, Madhya Pradesh; however, when he woke up, he found himself in an empty compartment of a train thundering towards Kolkata where he spent a couple of weeks in a state of panic and hopelessness. Finally, he ended up in a local government adoption centre from where he was adopted by an Australian couple. Twenty five years later, Saroo felt the urge to trace his biological mother and see in what state she lived. Relentlessly, he used Google's satellite feature to map the parts of the country that could have possibly been his own hometown. The search was a long and arduous one; nevertheless, the perseverance did pay. One eventful day, he met his mother; thereafter, he continued to keep in touch with her.
If technology can unite people with their loved ones, it can also make them distant. The unlimited variety of applications (apps) available to toddlers, teenagers and adults might have revolutionized their lives for the better, but these very apps have snatched away the joys of long naturewalks; they have encroached upon the time and space that people earlier used for physical interaction; they have drilled deep chasms of loneliness in the lives of countless numbers of people.
Simple pleasures of life include visiting friends and relatives, playing matches in open spaces, interacting with people in markets, public libraries and clubs. However, with the escalating rage of using apps like those for social media, playing virtual games, and homedelivery services, these joyous moments are fading into oblivion, and the pall of loneliness is getting heavier by the day.
Where are we heading to? Are we going to allow ourselves to be swamped by apps? Are we going to allow socialmedia to engulf us in a deluge of loneliness and isolation? Are we going to drive ourselves to situations that will ultimately demand mental and physical therapies to regain normalcy? Do we not know that physical interaction is as essential for mental health as food and water is for physical health?
Earlier, social isolation was mostly experienced by some of the elderly people who were devoid of an occupation, and bereft of company of their loved ones. Unfortunately today, an unhealthy solitude prevails among numerous children, teenagers and adults too; subsequently, there is an alarming increase in the demand for mental health therapy practitioners.
The necessity of engaging psychologists in schools and colleges is evidently on the rise. The psychologists are required to identify and address the learning and behavioral needs of students who approach them for guidance; moreover, if required, the professionals are expected to help them in strengthening their emotional, social and academic skills.
Regardless how alarming the situation might be, it is never too late. If people revert to the earlier trend of shopping off-line, going for naturewalks, playing outdoors games, and catching up with friends in their homes or cafés more frequently, they can keep their heads firmly well above the ocean of loneliness.

Public speaking is a powerful real-life skill. Over the centuries, impressive speeches made by people from various walks of life have helped to change hearts, minds and shape the world as we see it today. Speeches that are delivered with intense emotions and conviction can infuse compassion and forgiveness; elevate levels of hatred and destruction; break or unite nations.
On October 5, in 1877 in the mountains of Montana Territory, when Chief Joseph surrendered to General Nelson A. Miles, the former gave a Surrender Speech. The speech included these words: "It is cold, and we have no blankets; the little children are freezing to death. I want time to look for my children, and see how many of them I can find. Maybe I shall find them among the dead. Hear me, my Chiefs! I am tired; my heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands I will fight no more forever."
The heart-wrenching speech bared the grief and misery of the speaker, and those subjected to overwhelming hardships.
During World War II, the speech We Shall Fight on the Beaches delivered by Winston Churchill on June 4, 1940 is considered a high-powered speech that strengthened the determination of those present in the House of Commons. In the speech, he said, "Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills;"
In 1950, William Faulkner was honoured with a Nobel Prize for his significant contributions to the American novel. This was the time when the Soviet Union had found the possible implications of the use of the atomic bomb, and people had begun to live in the fear of annihilation. In his Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech, Faulkner urged writers of various genres to think and write beyond the fear of destruction, and instead write materials that would lift the human spirit. The powerful message included: "I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glories of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail."
Undoubtedly, effective speeches have a long-lasting impact on the minds of the listeners, and they elevate the levels of awareness or actions the speaker intends to raise or catalyze.

A new report forecasting that India can create millions more jobs over the coming years in the gig economy underscores a fundamental shift in the nature of work. While automation swept through factory floors and BPOs reduced manpower requirements, e-commerce, ride hailing and food delivery apps, streaming media and fintech have created lakhs of temporary jobs in the services sector. Although the jury is still out on the quality of life accorded by such gigs and the social security benefits they accord, recall that informalisation of jobs started much earlier. The report by Boston Consulting Group and Michael & Susan Dell Foundation predicts 90 million flexi and gig jobs in a decade from 8 million now, contributing transactions valued at more than $250 billion and an additional 1.25% to India’s GDP. Obviously, technological evolutions are hard to predict. A decade ago, few, if any, had divined these new jobs. Ac cepting change as the sole constant, it is equally critical to create the socio-economic framework that can support such jobs.
Expecting startups fuelled by venture capital and presently unprofitable to treat gig workers as regular employees isn’t practical. Such moves could impede innovation and investment. But if central and state governments could deliver in areas like public health, education, insurance and food security, anxieties generated by unsteady, irregular unemployment can be managed better. Last year’s nationwide lockdown when the suddenly unemployed migrant workers panicked and bolted, untrusting the promises of governments to care for them, served out this lesson in poignant detail. The gig economy does promise flexibility and improved choices for many women and part time workers. Every technological revolution till date has effaced some jobs and created plentiful others. There is room for optimism in the rapidly emerging techmediated world, but only upon strengthening the support of educational and health infrastructure.

In the domain of education, the current pandemic has made three things clear. It has proved beyond any doubt that we need schools. Irrespective of which country one talks about, students and parents want schools to open and function in full glory, with appropriate precautions. Secondly, it has shown that technology may prove to be useful in education if it is employed thoughtfully. Random surfing of the Internet may lead to a collection of pieces of information that do not add up to any meaning. As Noam Chomsky says, “You cannot pursue any kind of inquiry without a relatively clear framework that is directing your search and helping you choose what is significant and what is not.” Moreover, there cannot be any hegemonic technomanagerial solutions to the linguistic and cultural heterogeneity of students; technology must help us to respect individual, peer group and community needs and aspirations. Thirdly, a convergence of the efforts of the public, civil society and private enterprise will have to take place if we wish technology to meaningfully mediate between school and home, particularly among underprivileged groups.
The concept, structure and functioning of a school/college should not be trivialised in any way. This institution has survived since ancient times in spite of proposals for “de -schooling” of various kinds. It is true that schools to a great extent perpetuate the status quo and, as Ivan Illich observed, encourage “consumerism” and “obedience to authority”; but it is also true that those who produced some of the most revolutionary moments in history, including quantum jumps in knowledge, also went to school. The kind of web of learners Illich imagines may in fact have its roots in schools. There are also people who trivialise schools for the kind of investments they demand in terms of space, buildings, teachers, libraries and labs and other infrastructure. 
One thing you never forget is the school you went to, friends you made there and the kind of teachers who taught you; the kind of teachers you loved, the kind you mocked at with friends. You recollect nostalgically the sports and other co-curricular activities you took part in. Some of you may still have preserved your school blazer, trophies and photographs with a sense of joy. It is important to see school holistically; it is not a set of atomic items of rooms, library, assembly halls, canteen and playgrounds; it is all of these but in symbiotic relationship with each other, the contours of which are often far too obvious and often simply mysterious.

Following the transition to democracy, with the inauguration of Nelson Mandela as president in I994, South Africa was faced with the task of dealing with its past, as well as undertaking some action to deal with structural social injustice. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC), heralded as the most ambitious and organised attempt to deal with crimes of a past regime through a concept of truth, came into force on 19th July I995 in South Africa. Emerging as a political strategy to acknowledge past suffering whilst promoting a future based on the concerns of social justice, the rule of law and reconciliation, the Commission has struggled to fulfil its objectives. Although the TRC incorporated these broader concerns into the mandate of its three sub-committees, they were disregarded in practice. These sub-committees, which reflected concerns for ‘human rights violations’, ‘amnesty’ and ‘reparation and rehabilitation’, were not ‘coupled with some form of social transformation’. The public transition from apartheid, established through a negotiated settlement rather than a revolutionary process, framed the Commission’s powers. Shaped by the historical context of this particular transition, the TRC was careful not to ‘rock the structural boat’. Rather than pursuing truth and justice, as an integrated feature of social transformation, the Commissioners and, to a greater extent, the government of South Africa, maintained an agenda that avoided a challenge to the status quo. A focus on restorative justice was taken by the Commission with an emphasis placed on mechanisms to restore victims and survivors, through reparations policy, state-led acknowledgement of suffering, and a condemnation, together with the transformation, of the system that implemented such widespread forms of abuse. The priority of changing the apartheid conditions of gross inequality and oppression provided a backdrop to the approval of the TRC by those who had suffered. More difficult to accept was the provision of amnesty to those who had undertaken violations of human rights. The process placed amnesty of violations as a carrot to perpetrators in exchange for a full story, with the stick of prosecutions for those who did not come forward.

Since the worldwide inoculation process is going strong, vaccine diplomacy has become a hot topic. In their quest for ensuring vaccine security, a report by The New York Times, based on the data on vaccine contracts compiled by Duke University, shows that the advance purchase contracts made by some advanced countries for potential vaccines would vaccinate their population many times: the European Union, two times, the United States and the United Kingdom, four times, and Canada, six times. The expectation that an early vaccination will bring back normalcy and a required push to economic growth fuelled many advanced countries to engage in vaccine battles. The arguments of public good and global cooperation have gone out of the window now. While advanced countries have turned their back on the need of poor countries to access COVID-19 vaccines, India has displayed empathy to their needs. India has taken a position that a significant percentage of the approved doses will be permitted for exports. While its exports to neighbouring countries will be under grant mode, initial shipment of vaccines to least developed countries will be free of cost. And, shipments of vaccines from India have already started reaching different parts of the developing world. While India is in its first phase of vaccination to cover health-care workers, exports from India are helping other countries also in initiating phase one of their vaccination programme, a gesture well appreciated globally. In a democracy, one can expect the backlash of sending vaccines abroad without vaccinating its population. Nevertheless, India’s approach only reinforces the need of having coordinated global efforts in bringing COVID-19 under control. This response manifests India’s unstinted commitment to global development and has consolidated its name as the world’s pharmacy. The attitude of India towards vaccinating the populations in the poorer countries has generated discussion in the richer countries about the necessity for more proactive measures to roll out vaccines to the developing nations.

Since long, we have witnessed unimaginable levels of success and failure of various projects, businesses, scientific missions and even wars. From such triumphs and defeats emerges the much debatable thought: Is planning and strategy more important than execution? Some project leaders and their teams are of the view that planning leads to clarity of objectives; it helps to set the timeline and the budget. Consequently, when the planning is haphazard and unstructured, the very aims of the projects become hazy. This further leads to unprecedented budget collapses and poor time-management. In some cases, teams have worked relentlessly to complete assignments, but poor planning has invariably led to customer dissatisfaction and at times a complete collapse of the entire project. In the words of Benjamin Franklin, “Failing to plan is planning to fail.”
Numerous entrepreneurs have the faith that strategies help to enhance not only speed and quality of production, but also consumer satisfaction. If there are no strategies to tackle unplanned events or unexpected interruptions, there is a possibility of entire projects coming to a grinding halt. Some of the world’s best airports, bridges and astronomical missions are the result of careful planning and excellent strategies. However, there are some architects, artists and entrepreneurs who prefer to dive straight from the board of ideas into the pool of execution. They believe that suitable strategies are best shaped during the process of execution; great plans and strategies can fail while encountering unexpected situations. Steve Jobs says, “To me, ideas are worth nothing unless executed. They are just a multiplier. Execution is worth millions.”
According to Bill Gates, unhappy customers are the greatest source of learning. Fickle-minded consumers and wavering market trends can mar projects that stand on fixed plans. It is the need-based, flexible and innovative strategies that help to withstand the impact of these vacillating desires and trends.
After rigorous planning and testing a new recipe on two lakh consumers, in 1985, the company Coke brought out the New Coke. Much to the company’s dismay, the product did not take off as expected and the financial loss was enormous. The company realized that during the process of data collection, it had not considered the product-loyalty and old-fashioned habits of the consumers. 
Hence, a balance of pragmatic planning, effective strategies and efficient execution is likely to ensure the accomplishment of tasks at each stage of a project. Successful execution is not an easy journey. The road is winding and bumpy. It may require tweaking or at times abandoning the original plan and re-designing it. Often, we turn to nature for inspiration. Think plans and strategies are the seed; execution is the nourishment; consumer is the capricious weather.