God is near by James Herriot

The card dangled above the old lady's bed.  It read GOD IS NEAR but it wasn't like the usual religious text.  It didn't have a frame or ornate printing.  It was just a strip of cardboard about eight inches long with plain lettering which might have said "No smoking" or "Exit" and it was looped carelessly over an old brass gas bracket so that Miss Stubbs from where she lay could look up at it and read GOD IS NEAR in square black capitals.

There wasn't much more Miss Stubbs could see; perhaps a few feet of privet hedge through the frayed curtains but mainly it was just the cluttered little room which had been her world for so many years.

The room was on the ground floor and in the front of the cottage, and as I came up through the wilderness which had once been a garden I could see the dogs watching me from where they had jumped onto the old lady's bed by the window.  And when I knocked on the door the place almost erupted with their barking.  It was always like this.  I had been visiting regularly for over a year and the pattern never changed; the furious barking, then Mrs.  Broadwith, who looked after Miss Stubbs, would push all the animals but my patient into the back kitchen and open the door and I would go in and see Miss Stubbs in the corner in her bed with the card hanging over it.

She had been there for a long time and would never get up again.  But she never mentioned her illness and pain to me; all her concern was for her three dogs and two cats.

Today it was old Prince and I was worried about him.  It was his heart--just about the most spectacular valvular incompetence I had ever heard.  He was waiting for me as I came in, pleased to see me, his long fringed tail waving gently.

The sight of that tail used to make me think there must be a lot of Irish setter in Prince but I was inclined to change my mind as I worked my way forward over the bulging black and brown body to the shaggy head and upstanding Alsatian-type ears-well, at least he kept one of them upright but the other tipped over at the top.  Miss Stubbs often used to call him "Mr.  Heinz" and though he may not have had 57 varieties in him, his hybrid vigor had stood him in good stead.  With his heart he should have been dead long ago.

"I thought I'd best give you a ring, Mr.  Herriot," Mrs.  Broadwith said.  She was a comfortable, elderly widow with a square, ruddy face contrasting sharply with the pinched features on the pillow.  "He's been coughing right bad this week and this morning he was a bit staggery.  Still eats well, though."

"I bet he does."  I ran my hands over the rolls of fat on the ribs.  "It would take something really drastic to put old Prince off his grub."

Miss Stubbs laughed from the bed and the old dog, his mouth wide, eyes dancing, seemed to be joining in the joke.  I put my stethoscope over his heart and listened, knowing well what I was going to hear.  They say the heart is supposed to go "Lub-dup, lub-dup," but Prince's went "swish-swoosh, swish-swoosh."  There seemed to be nearly as much blood leaking back as was being pumped into the circulatory system.  And another thing, the "swish-swoosh" was a good bit faster than last time; he was on oral digitalis but it wasn't quite doing its job.

Gloomily I moved the stethoscope over the rest of the chest.  Like all old dogs with a chronic heart weakness he had an ever-present bronchitis and I listened without enthusiasm to the symphony of whistles, babbles, squeaks and bubbles which signaled the workings of Prince's lungs.  The old dog stood very erect and proud, his tail still waving slowly.  He always took it as a tremendous compliment when I examined him and there was no doubt he was enjoying himself now.  Fortunately his was not a very painful ailment.

Straightening up, I patted his head, and he responded immediately by trying to put his paws on my chest.  He didn't quite make it and even that slight exertion started his ribs heaving and his tongue lolling.  I gave him an intramuscular injection of digitalin and another of morphine hydrochloride, which he accepted with apparent pleasure as part of the game.

"I hope that will steady his heart and breathing, Miss Stubbs.  You'll find he'll be a bit dopey for the rest of the day and that will help, too.  Carry on with the tablets as before, and I'm going to leave you some more medicine for his bronchitis."

The next stage of the visit began now as Mrs.  Broadwith brought in a cup of tea and the rest of the animals were let out of the kitchen.  There were Ben, a Sealyham, and Sally, a cocker spaniel, and they started a deafening barking contest with Prince.  They were closely followed by the cats, Arthur and Susie, who stalked in gracefully and began to rub themselves against my trouser legs.

It was the usual scenario for the many cups of tea I had drunk with Miss Stubbs under the little card which dangled above her bed.

"How are you today?"  I asked.

"Oh, much better," she replied and immediately, as always, changed the subject.

Mostly she liked to talk about her pets and the ones she had known right back to her girlhood.  She spoke a lot, too, about the days when her family were alive.  She loved to describe the escapades of her three brothers and today she showed me a photograph which Mrs.  Broadwith had found at the bottom of a drawer.

I took it from her and three young men in the knee breeches and little round caps of the eighteen-nineties smiled up at me from the yellowed old print; they all held long church warden pipes and the impish humor in their expressions came down undimmed over the years.

"My word, they look really bright lads, Miss Stubbs," I said.

"Oh, they were young rips!"  she exclaimed.  She threw back her head and laughed and for a moment her face was radiant, transfigured by her memories.

The things I had heard in the village came back to me; about the prosperous father and his family who lived in the big house many years ago.  Then the foreign investments which crashed and the sudden change in circumstances.  "When t'owd feller died he was about skint," one old man had said.  "There's not much brass there now."

Probably just enough brass to keep Miss Stubbs and her animals alive and to pay Mrs.  Broadwith.  Not enough to keep the garden dug or the house painted or for any of the normal little luxuries.

And, sitting there, drinking my tea, with the dogs in a row by the bedside and the cats making themselves comfortable on the bed itself, I felt as I had often felt before--a bit afraid of the responsibility I had.  The one thing which brought some light into the life of the brave old woman was the transparent devotion of this shaggy bunch whose eyes were never far from her face.  And the snag was that they were all elderly.

There had, in fact, been four dogs originally, but one of them, a truly ancient yellow Labrador, had died a few months previously.  And now I had the rest of them to look after and none of them less than ten years old.

They were perky enough but all showing some of the signs of old age; Prince with his heart, Sally beginning to drink a lot of water which made me wonder if her kidneys were giving trouble; Ben growing steadily thinner with his nephritis.  I couldn't give him new kidneys and I hadn't much faith in the tablets I had prescribed.  Another peculiar thing about Ben was that I was always having to clip his claws; they grew at an extraordinary rate.

The cats were better, though Susie was a bit scraggy and I kept up a morbid kneading of her furry abdomen for signs of lymphosarcoma.  Arthur was the best of the bunch; he never seemed to ail anything beyond a tendency for his teeth to attract tartar.

This must have been in Miss Stubbs's mind because, when I had finished my tea, she asked me to look at him.  I hauled him across the bedspread and opened his mouth.

"Yes, there's a bit of the old trouble there.  Might as well fix it while I'm here."

Arthur was a huge, gray neutered tom, a living denial of all those theories that cats are cold-natured, selfish, and the rest.  His fine eyes, framed in the widest cat face I have ever seen, looked out on the world with an all-embracing benevolence and tolerance.  His every movement was marked by immense dignity.

As I started to scrape his teeth his chest echoed with a booming purr like a distant outboard motor.  There was no need for anybody to hold him; he sat there placidly and moved only once-when I was using forceps to crack off a tough piece of tartar from a back tooth and accidentally nicked his gum.  He casually raised a massive paw as if to say "Have a care, chum," but his claws were sheathed.  * * *

My next visit was less than a month later and was in response to an urgent summons from Mrs.  Broadwith at six o'clock in the evening.  Ben had collapsed.  I jumped straight into my car and in less than ten minutes was threading my way through the overgrown grass in the front garden with just two dogs watching from their window.  The barking broke out as I knocked, but Ben's was absent.  As I went into the little room I saw the old dog lying on his side, very still, by the bed.

D.o.a. is what we write in the day book.  Dead On Arrival.  Just three words but they covered all kinds of situations--the end of milk fever cows, bloated bullocks, calves in fits.  And tonight they meant that I wouldn't be clipping old Ben's claws anymore.

"Well, it was quick, Miss Stubbs.  I'm sure the old chap didn't suffer at all."  My words sounded lame and ineffectual.

The old lady was in full command of herself.  No tears, only a fixity of expression as she looked down from the bed at her companion for so many years.  My idea was to get him out of the place as quickly as possible and I pulled a blanket under him and lifted him up.  As I was moving away, Miss Stubbs said, "Wait a moment."  With an effort she turned on her side and gazed at Ben.  Still without changing expression, she reached out and touched his head lightly.  Then she lay back calmly as I hurried from the room.

In the back kitchen I had a whispered conference with Mrs.  Broadwith.  "I'll run down t'village and get Fred Manners to come and bury him," she said.  "And if you've got time, could you stay with the old lady while I'm gone.  Talk to her, like, it'll do her good."

I went back and sat down by the bed.  Miss Stubbs looked out of the window for a few moments, then turned to me.  "You know, Mr.  Herriot," she said casually, "it will be my turn next."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, tonight Ben has gone and I'm going to be the next one.  I just know it."

"Oh, nonsense!  You're feeling a bit low, that's all.  We all do when something like this happens."  But I was disturbed.  I had never heard her even hint at such a thing before.

"I'm not afraid," she said.  "I know there's something better waiting for me.  I've never had any doubts."  There was silence between us as she lay calmly looking up at the card on the gas bracket.

Then the head on the pillow turned to me again.  "I have only one fear."  Her expression changed with startling suddenness as if a mask had dropped.  The brave face was almost unrecognizable.  A kind of terror flickered in her eyes and she quickly grasped my hand.

"It's the dogs and cats, Mr.  Herriot.  I'm afraid I might never see them when I'm gone which worries me so.  You see, I know I'll be reunited with my parents and brothers, but ... but ..."  She gazed at the two cats curled up at the end of her bed.

"Well, why not with your animals?"

"That's just it."  She rocked her head on the pillow and for the first time I saw tears on her cheeks.  "They say animals have no souls."

"Who says?"

"Oh, I've read it and I know a lot of religious people believe it."

"Well, I don't believe it."  I patted the hand which still grasped mine.  "If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans.  You've nothing to worry about there."

"Oh, I hope you're right.  Sometimes I lie at night thinking about it."

"I know I'm right, Miss Stubbs, and don't you argue with me.  They teach us vets all about animals' souls."

The tension left her face and she laughed with a return of her old spirit.  "I'm sorry to bore you with this and I'm not going to talk about it again.  But before you go, I want you to be absolutely honest with me.  I don't want reassurance from you--just the truth.  I know you are very young but please tell me-what are your beliefs?  Will my animals go with me?"

She stared intently into my eyes.  I shifted in my chair and swallowed once or twice.

"Miss Stubbs, I'm afraid I'm a bit foggy about all this," I said.  "But I'm absolutely certain of one thing.  Wherever you are going, they are going too."

She still stared at me but her face was calm again.  "Thank you, Mr.  Herriot, I know you are being honest with me.  That is what you really believe, isn't it?"

"I do believe it," I said.  "With all my heart I believe it."  * * *

It must have been about a month later and it was entirely by accident that I learned I had seen Miss Stubbs for the last time.  When a lonely, penniless old woman dies people don't rush up to you in the street to tell you.  I was on my rounds and a farmer happened to mention that the cottage in Corby village was up for sale.

"But what about Miss Stubbs?"  I asked.

"Oh, went off sudden about three weeks ago.  House is in a bad state, they say--nowt been done at it for years."

"Mrs.  Broadwith isn't staying on, then?"

"Nay, I hear she's staying at t'other end of village."

"Do you know what's happened to the dogs and cats?"

"What dogs and cats?"

I cut my visit short.  And I didn't go straight home, though it was nearly lunchtime.  Instead I urged my complaining little car at top speed to Corby and asked the first person I saw where Mrs.  Broadwith was living.  It was a tiny house but attractive and Mrs.  Broadwith answered my knock herself.

"Oh, come in, Mr.  Herriot.  It's right good of you to call."  I went inside and we sat facing each other across a scrubbed tabletop.

"Well, it was sad about the old lady," she said.

"Yes, I've only just heard."

"Any road, she had a peaceful end.  Just slept away at finish."

"I'm glad to hear that."

Mrs.  Broadwith looked round the room.  "I was real lucky to get this place--it's just what I've always wanted."

I could contain myself no longer.  "What's happened to the animals?"  I blurted out.

"Oh, they're in t'garden," she said calmly.  "I've got a grand big stretch at back."  She got up and opened the door andwitha surge of relief I watched my old friends pour in.

Arthur was on my knee in a flash, arching himself ecstatically against my arm while his outboard motor roared softly above the barking of the dogs.  Prince, wheezy as ever, tail fanning the air, laughed up at me delightedly between barks.

"They look great, Mrs.  Broadwith.  How long are they going to be here?"

"They're here for good.  I think just as much about them as t'old lady ever did and I couldn't be parted from them.  They'll have a good home with me as long as they live."

I looked at the typical Yorkshire country face, at the heavy cheeks with their grim lines belied by the kindly eyes.  "This is wonderful," I said.  "But won't you find it just a bit ... er ... expensive to feed them?"

"Nay, you don't have to worry about that.  I 'ave a bit put away."

"Well, fine, fine, and I'll be looking in now and then to see how they are.  I'm through the village every few days."  I got up and started for the door.

Mrs.  Broadwith held up her hand.  "There's just one thing I'd like you to do before they start selling off the things at the cottage.  Would you please pop in and collect what's left of your medicines.  They're in t'front room."

I took the key and drove along to the other end of the village.  As I pushed open the rickety gate and began to walk through the tangled grass, the front of the cottage looked strangely lifeless without the faces of the dogs at the window; and when the door creaked open and I went inside the silence was like a heavy pall.

 Nothing had been moved.  The bed with its rumpled blankets was still in the corner.  I moved around, picking up half-empty bottles, a jar of ointment, the cardboard box with old Ben's tablets-a lot of good they had done him.

When I had got everything I looked slowly round the little room.  I wouldn't be coming here anymore and at the door I paused and read for the last time the card which hung over the empty bed. 

De Profundis | An Epistle by Oscar Wilde

Never can one find oneself so grossly incapacitated to pen a review.Never has the pen shivered or the wariness of error been engulfing so completely as to capture the essence of De Profundis. Although it is not a play or a proper novel by Wilde, it stands apart from his other works particularly because of the circumstances under which it was written. Oscar Wilde wrote the epistle from prison to his friend Lord Alfred Douglas. Perhaps Wilde smuggled toilet paper to write this long letter to vent his anger and disappointment towards Alfred (Bosie). In prison for 2 years and not having received a single communication from Bosie, Wilde is understandably livid and starts his letter by pillorying his friend for shallowness.

The letter recounts the events that "ruined" Wilde by his association with Bosie and accuses him of draining Wilde's savings. It also humorously paints the picture of Alfred as a man with epileptic tantrums and sentimentality. By describing the frequent tiffs between the two, Wilde wishes that Bosie would have part ways but quotes "As far as I can make out I ended my friendship with you every three months regularly, and each time that I did so you managed by means of entreaties, telegrams, letters, the interposition of your friends , the interposition of mine, and the like to induce me to allow you back"

The letter further describes how Wilde was "bored to death" by Bosie's talk and association and How Bosie and his father contributed to the ruin of Wilde as an artist and as a man of repute.It criticizes Bosie's father for making Wilde the scapegoat for the quarrel with his son and upshot was the trial that brought infamy to Wilde. Wilde writes "I required the rest and freedom from the terrible strain of your companionship. It was necessary for me to be little by myself. It was intellectually necessary. ". If bitter reproach was not enough , it draws vivid satire from the fact that Bosie followed Wilde across countries when Wilde would move to new cities like Paris without a forwarding address but alas Alfred wouldn't give up. He was told "I would absolutely decline to see you; you reminded me that for the sake of seeing me even for one hour you had travelled six days and nights across Europe without stopping once on the way: you made what I must admit was a most pathetic appeal, and ended with what seemed to me a threat of suicide, and one not thinly veiled."

From scorn and ridicule of Alfred for his pettiness, extravagance and greed, the tone of the letter slowly changes to remorse and introspection where Wilde admits that he had learnt his lesson and there was meaning in his suffering. It had made him arrive at a discovery.And there emerges the optimism when he says that he had tuned his good life into evil but now he will turn the evil thing of his life to good. He discerns that there is something good in this whole trial and imprisonment. Wilde believes he can assert himself as an artist again. "Sorrow remarries us to God" so says Wilde to accentuate the supreme emotion of sorrow in shaping a man's character.

An Epistle as passionate, as critical as De Profundis, strewn with remorse, acceptance and determination is hard not to admire.The vestiges of hypocrisy are absent despite its candid observations of society, the church and the legal system which is called "absolutely and entirely wrong". It is blotted with tears and yet radiates the indomitable spirit of Oscar Wilde, for the genius he was and allows us a sneak-peek into the beautiful human being in him. For a wonderful exploration into the mindscape of Wilde, this letter is a must read. Admittedly I loved these lines most from the work :

"I am quite candid when I tell you that rather than go out from this prison with bitterness in my heart against you or against the world I would gladly and readily beg my bread from door to door. If I got nothing at the house of the rich, I would get something at the house of the poor. Those who have much are often greedy. Those who have little always share."

A Tale of Two Cities - Charles Dickens

Who else could be a better raconteur to describe a society fraught with poverty and injustice? A society where hunger is pervasive. Hunger is in every face. Hunger is in every distressed conversation. A famished land boils in unrest. Who else could portray the mindscape of the populace more aptly than Charles Dickens as he opens his most popular novel with the paragraph:

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us.."

By choosing to pen a novel on revolutionary France, Dickens takes a huge risk stepping on a subject known little to him. His domestic estrangement with his wife and separation from his publisher seem to cloud his career. However, it does not stop him from travelling to Paris for his homework. The cataclysmic events of the revolution are depicted around the family of Doctor Manette who has been imprisoned and released by the despotic French aristocracy. Doctor Manette reunites with his daughter Lucie Manette, lives with her in England. With father's approval, Lucie marries erstwhile French aristocrat Charles Darney who sympathizes with the bourgeois. There are other characters like Miss Pross who is the caretaker of Lucie and Mr Lorry at the Tellsons bank in Paris who is a good friend of the Manettes and so is Sydney Carton, whose role in the plot seems conspicuous. The indignant elements of the bourgeois are depicted by Mr and Madame Defrage at a bar in Paris.

The revolution galvanizes the nation. The juggernaut of change seems to spare no one, not the bad, not the good, not the slothful, not the industrious, not the woodsawyer on the street, not the tyrannical Aristocrat in the Chateau. The castle of Bastille is stormed. Women like Madame Defrage and her ilk have become inured by injustice from childhood. They are stone-hearted enough to be ready to slaughter anyone associated with the regime. When Charles happens to visit Paris, he is incarcerated and the depressing realities of the revolution unfold in the lives of the Manettes. They realize that change need not be always for the better and change could be ruthless, change could lead to mob justice. Madame Defrage turns out to be the nemesis of the of the Manettes and her supporters are ready to decimate any vestiges of the despised royalty.

Dickens unwraps the scenes with contradictory images and It bodes well with his prelude of the "best" and the "worst" of times. The events surrounding this middle class Victorian Family and its resolute opposition to be victimized, epitomizes the promise of love, the promise of humanity irrespective of the outcome of the Darney trial. As the denouement of the novel crystallizes in the fate of Darney, Dickens looks at a land that rises from the ashes. The values of "Liberté, égalité, fraternité ou la mout" seem conceivable and "mort" signifies that people have had enough and are ready for death if even one among the stated Egality, Liberty or Fraternity is compromised.

In effect, this novel is a masterpiece. Its riveting portrayal also helps a reader map the society of today with the society then to perceive quite easily the fact that despotic regimes still exist. Farcical democracies still deceive people of their rights, indulge in massive corruption to empty the coffers of the taxpayer. However there is hope that people will see a future where they can trust their Government. They can feel assured of its motives and they can hold the reigns of power to decide their fate as citizens and the fate of the nation. It is thus certainly appropriate to quote these lines from Dickens in conclusion :

‎"I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long long years to come, I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out."

Silas Marner | The Weaver of Raveloe | By George Eliot

No story could seem as mundane as that of a weaver in an English village.The ennui of this theme is buttressed by its occurrence in the Victorian era, where every movement, every conversation, every occasion, every instance of laughter and every emotion seems profusely genteel.

Silas Marner is the weaver of Raveloe, an agrarian community in the rural hinterlands of England. He lives in solitude, being self-exiled from his earlier dwelling after being falsely accused for murder. The belief in God and the hold in religion has been shaken for Silas, who has never entertained a malefic thought in his mind and who has professed his beliefs devoutly.

Sounding true to the premonition, when misfortune strikes, it strikes in a streak and Silas loses his hard earned money saved up for fifteen years in a heist. A life beset by events that question the benevolence and faith of Silas, is suddenly transformed by a new gift he finds without any effort.Nothing could have been more fortuitous for Silas, the gift happens to a baby girl called Eppie at his doorstep. Silas traces the baby to its dead mother outside his home and becomes a father for the girl who is orphan no more. Eppie and Silas fill each others life with ardour and the comfort of a family where a father finds meaning in his life and a daughter is blessed by a loving parent. Silas is enchanted by the new presence in his home. Eppie begins to ebb away the forlornness in his life and his monetary loss seems so trifling to his reward from God. Silas is no longer ignored by the people of Raveloe, he is part of the community and everyone knows him by Silas as opposed to the 'weaver'. The denouement of the story is reached when Eppie's real father seeks her custody and Silas is left to ponder at his merciless fate.

A brilliant work of fiction from George Eliot, this short novel of hers throws light on the complex relationship an individual and the society has with his religion. It cleverly exposes the vice and immorality that has firmly ensconced itself among the clergy and yet it does not seek to censure or shun religion or theologists.

Eliot seems to focus on painting situations that leave a deep impression on her readers to help them form their own opinion rather than evincing a view or moralising a story.An attentive reader would be able to discern how the author exposes the gullibility of the reader as she contradicts her own narratives and mocks at the docility of people,yet she does not belittle her readers, in turn, she helps her readers emerge mindful of the judgements they draw from the writing.

Summarily, Silas Marner is a novel that challenges our perceptions and perhaps even taunts us intellectually to question faith, society and life in a whole new way.

In any academic area or professional field it is just as important to recognize the limits of knowledge and understanding as it is acquire new facts

In this world where science has revolutionized the way we live.Fields of academia are extremely diverse. Each field is advancing with continual research and innovation. As the frontiers of science are expanded by the humankind , it is indeed necessary to appreciate and recognize the limits of our understanding of any realm so that we stay on the path of progress in the field of discovery.

Let's assume that humankind momentarily believes that its understanding of science or any one realm of science is complete and fully understood. to see the consequences. We need not go far in history to find an example. In the field of astronomy, many astronomers believed a few centuries ago , that the sun revolves around the earth. This premise was backed by the vanguards , who at the helm , backed this idea so profoundly that they rejected any other school of thought which disagreed.Kepler was unfortunate to state the new laws of planetary motion. His views cost him his life. If only the astronomers listened to Kepler and debated with proof than scoff at his idea , the world would have realized the Kepler's laws of planetary motion much sooner.

A good reason for recognizing our limits of knowledge would be the necessity for innovators in any academic or professional field to think out of the box.They need to question the already laid out rules in the book.They need to understand the fundamentals in and out to succeed.In such an investigative process, it is a possibility that the existing premises are challenged and a drastic new approach is presented and proved. This fact is evident when Albert Einstein refused to accept the laws of Newtonian mechanics.He questioned its basis to develop the theory of relativity that does not obey the laws of motion postulated by Newton.

Yet another reason is that any scientific community needs competition. The diversity of thought and its application fosters competition that in its true spirit that tries to solve the same problem that boggles researchers in their respective realms. Competing thoughts help establish new theories and innovation is encouraged.Would it have been possible to see the internet revolution that has changed the way we live and communicate in the 21st century unless a set of university students at Berkley fundamentally wanted to alter the state of the computing world? They questioned the state where bulky mainframes ruled and brought the idea of distributed computing where computers cooperated to achieve a task. This idea required networking and it led to the birth of the Internet.

Summarily , for any scientific realm to remain vibrant, we need to recognize that there is more to be learnt and understood.The age old Tamil proverb outside NASA headquarters couldn't be more true and it is translated as:

" What is known to mankind is equivalent in size to a heap of sand, the unlearnt, unknown and unconquered is as big as the world."

Most people think that their deeply held values are the result of rational choice, but reason often has to do little with the way people form values

It is indeed difficult to ascertain if deeply held values of people are strongly grounded in reason.However , It will be helpful if we analyzed one of the deeply held values and and try to discover the rationale, if any.If we happen to find at least one deeply held value that is held by people in a society to be of sound reason, we can draw significant conclusions.

Let's start with one deeply held value that stems from religion.For thousands of years , the people of India who have been predominantly Hindus , have avoided the consumption of beef. It is a deeply held value and slaughtering the cow is a sacrilege in their religion.With the current exposure and globalization , it is often surmised that the "avoidance of beef" has no logic. It is even labeled as a superstition and a passe custom.This assertion is backed by the claim that the Hindu religion has no clear injunction and reason stated about the consumption of beef.But , let us look deeper.

Treating the avoidance of beef as a deeply held value, If one would look at the basis for such a value, at least one reason seems obvious. Hinduism being a pacifist religion discourages the consumption of meat.The cow as a part of the rural and urban household in ancient India supplied the home with milk and milk products. Its waste is used as fuel and manure and cow urine was used as a medicine today and patented for its medicinal properties wherein nursing mothers are provided a concoction of the same called "Panchkavya" even today. Slaughtering an animal that provides the household with so many benefits would have just seemed ungrateful, cruel and immoral. It is well known that many Englishmen in their pig-farm do not name the pigs and just number them.They are known to say naming them makes it hard when slaughtering them.Hindu household that often named the cow with names of Goddesses like "Lakshmi" ( the Goddesses of wealth and prosperity ) could have found it inconceivable to kill the animal.

This may not have been the only reason. Agrarian societies in ancient India might have noticed that amount of grain expended in rearing livestock as opposed to sustenance in vegetarian food is many a time greater. This is a very strong reason to opt for vegetarian food.It is wise to have the cow provide for the household than kill it and lose steady supply of milk.It is wise to use the bull in the field than kill it.It it were an older bull , that could not plough, it seemed again immoral to the peasant who saw the years the bull had toiled in his field.

Another reason could have been the Indian climate.The fat content in beef is highly unsuitable for digestion and weather of the subcontinent makes it a poor choice of diet.As for the taste buds, India has a cuisine with spices that is known to make food as tasty with or without meat.When so many reasons pile up against the case of beef , It is not surprising why the people of India chose not to consume beef.

When we started with the deeply held value, It might have seemed to exist without a reason.It might have made many of us scoff at such at such a value.However, as we can see with the reasons presented, it is definitely not deprived of logic.We also realize that we cannot generalize and write off all deeply held values as "irrational".It is indeed appropriate to treat each deeply held value at its own merit and try to analyse its reasons before arriving at a hasty conclusion.

Summarily , all societies from civilizations have value systems that stem from religion.It is necessary to for the present generation to be curious to understand the root if the values and try to ascertain its rationality.

Outliers | The Story of Success | Malcom Gladwell's book review

Many a time we regard our erstwhile classmate in twelfth grade who got into IIT as "gifted" or a "genius".Our parents heard from teachers who called this classmate( I am sure he was not a dear friend) a "child prodigy".It was not unusual for the "prodigy" to get into India's top engineering schools.We subliminally began to believe in ourself as a "mediocre".Our parents played an important role in the formation of this opinion.They compared our performance with the genius in the class one test after another.Naturally, we were slowly pushed into the bracket of averageness. For many of us this has been the situation hitherto. Perhaps it is time after many years to ask some questions. Can a student avoid this vicious cycle of stereotypes ? Should we fall prey to the victimhood ? Is this all about our innate ability ? Should any student be written off as a failure ?

As a high school student we brought the story that our capacity was circumscribed by our "IQ".We thought all great people in the world had substantially higher IQ's to steer them towards success of which we only dreamed.Are we really destined to be the part of the proletarian lot to work in a mundane profession of drudgery without scaling the heights of science or arts or any other realm ? What differentiates an "Outlier" from the pack? To use the word "pack" may seem a terrible expression , but the "pack" is the pack due to a reason and an Outlier is an Outlier for many a reason.

Malcom Gladwell's 'Outliers' is the book that brilliantly argues the case of Outliers and explores the niche of an Outlier that made him excel beyond the ordinary.It looks at the opportunity that was available to the Outlier and discerns that the success of an Outlier is grounded in very favorable circumstances that enabled the person to seize the moment and rise to the occasion.

As an example, Bill Gates got a chance to work on Mainframes which was pretty expensive in his days and out of reach for a normal teenager. This happened just because his school had connections that helped him get "Mainframe time" and later Gates could make a deal with a firm ( that happened to be near his house) to get "desk time" on the Mainframe in exchange for being a "tester".Yes, even Bill Joy had favorable circumstances as he got more time in his college's mainframe computer by discovering a bug in the billing time that allowed him to use the system long enough to master programming without being drained in pocket , a chance inconceivable at the time. Bill Joy seized the opportunity and wrote the newer version of the UNIX operating system still in use today.He also rewrote Java!!.

The pertinence of effort in extraordinary achievement is underscored by perseverance of the Outlier.Gladwell debunks the idea of very high IQ solely playing a role in this phenomenon and explains that a "threshold" of IQ might be necessary to win a nobel prize but once a peron's IQ is above the threshold, it does not matter how high the IQ is, but how far the person's persistence is and how much a better his circumstances are.

The book explores the inextricable link of our culture and its legacy that shapes our personality and our habits for the world .The book presents the example of a family of peasants in China who work round the clock for a better harvest and this quality of hardwork is passed on to the children who invariably grow up to be successful lawyers or bankers when they come to the United States by outperforming their american counterparts in Math.The Chinese nomenclature of numbering also chips in to give its children an added advantage.

Summarily, the book is an engaging read that makes us slowly realize that an Outlier is in fact not an Outlier at all. It prepares us for this conclusion all along the chapters making its case stronger by every page.By the end of the book , a reader would probably be emancipated form the belief he would have held tenaciously on "geniuses" since tenth or twelfth grade. The reader would not be overboard to hope and believe that he too can be the Outlier, provided he looked for the right turns and worked hard as ever to win.