In 1982, a raging controversy broke out over a forest act drafted by the Government of India. This act sought to strengthen the already extensive powers enjoyed by the forest bureaucracy in controlling the extraction, disposal and sale of forest produce. It also gave forest officials greater powers to strictly regulate the entry of any person into reserved forest areas. While forest officials justified the act on the grounds that it was necessary to stop the continuing deforestation, it was bitterly opposed by representatives of grassroots organisations, who argued that it was a major violation of the rights of peasants and tribals living in and around forest areas. . . .

The debate over the draft forest act fuelled a larger controversy over the orientation of state forest policy. It was pointed out, for example, that the draft act was closely modelled on its predecessor, the Forest Act of 1878. The earlier Act rested on a usurpation of rights of ownership by the colonial state which had little precedent in precolonial history. It was further argued that the system of forestry introduced by the British—and continued, with little modification, after 1947—emphasised revenue generation and commercial exploitation, while its policing orientation excluded villagers who had the most longstanding claim on forest resources. Critics called for a complete overhaul of forest administration, pressing the government to formulate policy and legislation more appropriate to present needs. . . .

That debate is not over yet. The draft act was shelved, though it has not as yet been formally withdrawn. Meanwhile, the 1878 Act (as modified by an amendment in 1927) continues to be in operation. In response to its critics, the government has made some important changes in forest policy, e.g., no longer treating forests as a source of revenue, and stopping ecologically hazardous practices such as the clearfelling of natural forests. At the same time, it has shown little inclination to meet the major demand of the critics of forest policy—namely, abandoning the principle of state monopoly over forest land by handing over areas of degraded forests to individuals and communities for afforestation.

. . . [The] 1878 Forest Act itself was passed only after a bitter and prolonged debate within the colonial bureaucracy, in which protagonists put forward arguments strikingly similar to those being advanced today. As is well known, the Indian Forest Department owes its origin to the requirements of railway companies. The early years of the expansion of the railway network, c. 1853 onwards, led to tremendous deforestation in peninsular India owing to the railway’s requirements of fuelwood and construction timber. Huge quantities of durable timbers were also needed for use as sleepers across the newly laid tracks. Inexperienced in forestry, the British called in German experts to commence systematic forest management. The Indian Forest Department was started in 1864, with Dietrich Brandis, formerly a Lecturer at Bonn, as the first Inspector General of Forests. The new department needed legislative backing to function effectively, and in the following year, 1865, the first forest act was passed. . . .

Correct Answer: Option 4

Explanation: The passage argues that colonial forest policy was unprecedented, exclusionary, and exploitative. Option 4, which says German forestry experts violated indigenous rights, supports this narrative by reinforcing the oppressive nature of the system introduced.

Why other options wrong: Option 1 weakens the claim of “little precedent” by suggesting precolonial rulers also denied access. Option 2 shifts blame for deforestation onto tribal groups, weakening the critique of state policy. Option 3 contradicts the claim that railway expansion caused deforestation in India.

This book takes the position that setting in literature is more than just backdrop, that important insight into literary texts can be made by paying close attention to how authors craft place, as well as to how place functions in a narrative. The authors included in this reference work engage deeply with either real or imagined geographies. They care about how human decisions have shaped landscapes and how landscapes have shaped human practices and values. Some of the best writing is highly vivid, employing the language of the senses because this is the primary means through which humans know physical space.

Literature can offer valuable perspectives on physical and cultural geography. Unlike scientific reports, a literary narrative can provide the emotional component missing from the scientific record. In human experience, geographical places have a spiritual or emotional component in addition to and as part of a physical layout and topography. This emotional component, although subjective, is no less “real” than a surveyor’s map. Human consciousness of place is experienced in a multi-modal manner. Histories of places live on in many forms, one of which is the human memory or imagination.

Both real and imaginary landscapes provide insight into the human experience of place. The pursuit of such a topic speaks to the valuable knowledge produced from bridging disciplines and combining material from both the arts and the sciences to better understand the human condition. The perspectives that most concern cultural geographers are often those regarding movement and migration, cultivation of natural resources, and organization of space. The latter two reflect concerns of the built environment, a topic shared with the field of architectural study. Many of these concerns are also reflected in work sociologists do. Scholars from literary studies can contribute an aesthetic dimension to what might otherwise be a purely ideological approach.

Literature can bring together material that spans different branches of science. For example, a literary description of place may involve not only the environment and geography but the noises and quality of light, or how people from different races or classes can experience the same place in different ways linked to those racial or class disparities. Literary texts can also account for the way in which absence—of other people, animals, and so on—affects a human observer or inhabitant. Both literary and scientific approaches to place are necessary, working in unison, to achieve a complete record of an environment. It is important to note that the interdisciplinary nature of this work teaches us that landscapes are not static, that they are not unchanged by human culture. At least part of their identity derives from the people who inhabit them and from the way space can alter and inspire human perspective. The intersection of scientific and literary expression that happens in the study of literary geography is of prime importance due to the complexity of the personal and political ways that humans experience place.

Correct Option: 1

Rationale: The question asks for the statement that, if false, would NOT contradict the passage. This implies we are looking for a statement that is false according to the passage (because if you negate a false statement, it becomes true/consistent). Option 1 says: “humans do not interact with places in subjective, emotional ways…” The passage argues the exact opposite: humans do interact in subjective ways (“Human consciousness of place is experienced in a multi-modal manner”). Therefore, Statement 1 is false relative to the text. If Statement 1 is false (i.e., “It is false that humans do not interact…”), it means “Humans DO interact…”. This aligns with the passage. Thus, it is the exception.

Why other options wrong: Options 2, 3, and 4 are true according to the passage. If they were false (e.g., “Writing CANNOT capture…”, “Literature does NOT provide insights…”, “Descriptions DO need satellite imagery…”), they would contradict the passage’s arguments.

Difficulty: Hard

Time and again, whenever a population [of Mexican tetra fish] was swept into a cave and survived long enough for natural selection to have its way, the eyes disappeared. “But it’s not that everything has been lost in cavefish . . . Many enhancements have also happened.” . . . Studies have found that cave-dwelling fish can detect lower levels of amino acids than surface fish can. They also have more tastebuds and a higher density of sensitive cells alongside their bodies that let them sense water pressure and flow. . . .

Killing the processes that support the formation of the eye is quite literally what happens. Just like non-cave-dwelling members of the species, all cavefish embryos start making eyes. But after a few hours, cells in the developing eye start dying, until the entire structure has disappeared. [Developmental biologist Misty] Riddle thinks this apparent inefficiency may be unavoidable. “The early development of the brain and the eye are completely intertwined—they happen together,” she says. That means the least disruptive way for eyelessness to evolve may be to start making an eye and then get rid of it. . . .

It’s easy to see why cavefish would be at a disadvantage if they were to maintain expensive tissues they aren’t using. Since relatively little lives or grows in their caves, the fish are likely surviving on a meager diet of mostly bat feces and organic waste that washes in during the rainy season. Researchers keeping cavefish in labs have discovered that, genetically, the creatures are exquisitely adapted to absorbing and storing nutrients. . . .

Fats can be toxic for tissues, [evolutionary physiologist Nicolas] Rohner explains, so they are stored in fat cells. “But when these cells get too big, they can burst, which is why we often see chronic inflammation in humans and other animals that have stored a lot of fat in their tissues.” Yet a 2020 study by Rohner, Krishnan and their colleagues revealed that even very well-fed cavefish had fewer signs of inflammation in their fat tissues than surface fish do. Even in their sparse cave conditions, wild cavefish can sometimes get very fat, says Riddle. This is presumably because, whenever food ends up in the cave, the fish eat as much of it as possible, since there may be nothing else for a long time to come. Intriguingly, Riddle says, their fat is usually bright yellow, because of high levels of carotenoids, the substance in the carrots that your grandmother used to tell you were good for your…eyes.

“The first thing that came to our mind, of course, was that they were accumulating these because they don’t have eyes,” says Riddle. In this species, such ideas can be tested: Scientists can cross surface fish (with eyes) and cavefish (without eyes) and look at what their offspring are like. When that’s done, Riddle says, researchers see no link between eye presence or size and the accumulation of carotenoids. Some eyeless cavefish had fat that was practically white, indicating lower carotenoid levels. Instead, Riddle thinks these carotenoids may be another adaptation to suppress inflammation, which might be important in the wild, as cavefish are likely overeating whenever food arrives.

Correct Option: 2

Rationale: Riddle’s inference from the experiment is that there is no link between the presence of eyes and the accumulation of yellow fat (carotenoids). She concludes that the fat color is likely an adaptation for inflammation control, not merely a buildup of unused material. If the experiment had shown that only eyeless offspring had yellow fat, it would establish a direct, exclusive link between eyelessness and carotenoid accumulation. This result would support the initial hypothesis she rejected (that they accumulate it simply because they lack eyes to use it) and would directly contradict her finding that eye presence and fat color are unrelated.

Why other options wrong: Option 1 supports Riddle’s conclusion. It proves that having eyes doesn’t prevent yellow fat accumulation, confirming there is no exclusive link. Option 3 is a neutral or supportive finding, consistent with the idea that the traits are independent. Option 4 is the actual result mentioned in the passage (“Some eyeless cavefish had fat that was practically white”). This finding was the key evidence leading to her conclusion that being eyeless doesn’t guarantee yellow fat.

Difficulty: Moderate

Understanding the key properties of complex systems can help us clarify and deal with many new and existing global challenges, from pandemics to poverty . . . A recent study in Nature Physics found transitions to orderly states such as schooling in fish (all fish swimming in the same direction), can be caused, paradoxically, by randomness, or ‘noise’ feeding back on itself. That is, a misalignment among the fish causes further misalignment, eventually inducing a transition to schooling. Most of us wouldn’t guess that noise can produce predictable behaviour. The result invites us to consider how technology such as contact-tracing apps, although informing us locally, might negatively impact our collective movement. If each of us changes our behaviour to avoid the infected, we might generate a collective pattern we had aimed to avoid: higher levels of interaction between the infected and susceptible, or high levels of interaction among the asymptomatic.

Complex systems also suffer from a special vulnerability to events that don’t follow a normal distribution or ‘bell curve’. When events are distributed normally, most outcomes are familiar and don’t seem particularly striking. Height is a good example: it’s pretty unusual for a man to be over 7 feet tall; most adults are between 5 and 6 feet, and there is no known person over 9 feet tall. But in collective settings where contagion shapes behaviour – a run on the banks, a scramble to buy toilet paper – the probability distributions for possible events are often heavy-tailed. There is a much higher probability of extreme events, such as a stock market crash or a massive surge in infections. These events are still unlikely, but they occur more frequently and are larger than would be expected under normal distributions.

What’s more, once a rare but hugely significant ‘tail’ event takes place, this raises the probability of further tail events. We might call them second-order tail events; they include stock market gyrations after a big fall and earthquake aftershocks. The initial probability of second-order tail events is so tiny it’s almost impossible to calculate – but once a first-order tail event occurs, the rules change, and the probability of a second-order tail event increases.

The dynamics of tail events are complicated by the fact that they result from cascades of other unlikely events. When COVID-19 first struck, the stock market suffered stunning losses followed by an equally stunning recovery. Some of these dynamics are potentially attributable to former sports bettors, with no sports to bet on, entering the market as speculators rather than investors. The arrival of these new players might have increased inefficiencies and allowed savvy long-term investors to gain an edge over bettors with different goals. . . .

One reason a first-order tail event can induce further tail events is that it changes the perceived costs of our actions and changes the rules that we play by. This game-change is an example of another key complex systems concept: nonstationarity. A second, canonical example of nonstationarity is adaptation, as illustrated by the arms race involved in the coevolution of hosts and parasites [in which] each has to ‘run’ faster, just to keep up with the novel solutions the other one presents as they battle it out in evolutionary time.

For early postcolonial literature, the world of the novel was often the nation. Postcolonial

novels were usually [concerned with] national questions. Sometimes the whole story of the

novel was taken as an allegory of the nation, whether India or Tanzania. This was important

for supporting anti-colonial nationalism, but could also be limiting – land-focused and inward looking.

My new book “Writing Ocean Worlds” explores another kind of world of the novel: not the

village or nation, but the Indian Ocean world. The book describes a set of novels in which the

Indian Ocean is at the centre of the story. It focuses on the novelists Amitav Ghosh,

Abdulrazak Gurnah, Lindsey Collen and Joseph Conrad [who have] centred the Indian Ocean

world in the majority of their novels. . . . Their work reveals a world that is outward-looking –

full of movement, border-crossing and south-south interconnection. They are all very different

– from colonially inclined (Conrad) to radically anti-capitalist (Collen), but together draw on

and shape a wider sense of Indian Ocean space through themes, images, metaphors and

language. This has the effect of remapping the world in the reader’s mind, as centred in the

interconnected global south. . . .

The Indian Ocean world is a term used to describe the very long-lasting connections among

the coasts of East Africa, the Arab coasts, and South and East Asia. These connections were

made possible by the geography of the Indian Ocean. For much of history, travel by sea was

much easier than by land, which meant that port cities very far apart were often more easily

connected to each other than to much closer inland cities. Historical and archaeological

evidence suggests that what we now call globalisation first appeared in the Indian Ocean.

This is the interconnected oceanic world referenced and produced by the novels in my book. .

. .

For their part Ghosh, Gurnah, Collen and even Conrad reference a different set of histories

and geographies than the ones most commonly found in fiction in English. Those [commonly

found ones] are mostly centred in Europe or the US, assume a background of Christianity and

whiteness, and mention places like Paris and New York. The novels in [my] book highlight

instead a largely Islamic space, feature characters of colour and centralise the ports of

Malindi, Mombasa, Aden, Java and Bombay. . . . It is a densely imagined, richly sensory

image of a southern cosmopolitan culture which provides for an enlarged sense of place in

the world.

This remapping is particularly powerful for the representation of Africa. In the fiction, sailors

and travellers are not all European. . . . African, as well as Indian and Arab characters, are

traders, nakhodas (dhow ship captains), runaways, villains, missionaries and activists. This

does not mean that Indian Ocean Africa is romanticised. Migration is often a matter of force;

travel is portrayed as abandonment rather than adventure, freedoms are kept from women

and slavery is rife. What it does mean is that the African part of the Indian Ocean world plays

an active role in its long, rich history and therefore in that of the wider world.

Answer- 4

most mainstream English-language novels have historically privileged the Christian,

white, male experience of travel and adventure.

Many human phenomena and characteristics – such as behaviors, beliefs, economies,
genes, incomes, life expectancies, and other things – are influenced both by geographic
factors and by non-geographic factors. Geographic factors mean physical and biological
factors tied to geographic location, including climate, the distributions of wild plant and animal
species, soils, and topography. Non-geographic factors include those factors subsumed under
the term culture, other factors subsumed under the term history, and decisions by individual
people. . . .
[T]he differences between the current economies of North and South Korea . . . cannot be
attributed to the modest environmental differences between [them] . . . They are instead due
entirely to the different [government] policies . . . At the opposite extreme, the Inuit and other
traditional peoples living north of the Arctic Circle developed warm fur clothes but no
agriculture, while equatorial lowland peoples around the world never developed warm fur
clothes but often did develop agriculture. The explanation is straightforwardly geographic,
rather than a cultural or historical quirk unrelated to geography. . . . Aboriginal Australia
remained the sole continent occupied only by hunter/gatherers and with no indigenous
farming or herding . . . [Here the] explanation is biogeographic: the Australian continent has
no domesticable native animal species and few domesticable native plant species. Instead,
the crops and domestic animals that now make Australia a food and wool exporter are all
non-native (mainly Eurasian) species such as sheep, wheat, and grapes, brought to Australia
by overseas colonists.
Today, no scholar would be silly enough to deny that culture, history, and individual choices
play a big role in many human phenomena. Scholars don’t react to cultural, historical, and
individual-agent explanations by denouncing “cultural determinism,” “historical determinism,”
or “individual determinism,” and then thinking no further. But many scholars do react to any
explanation invoking some geographic role, by denouncing “geographic determinism” . . .
Several reasons may underlie this widespread but nonsensical view. One reason is that some
geographic explanations advanced a century ago were racist, thereby causing all geographic
explanations to become tainted by racist associations in the minds of many scholars other
than geographers. But many genetic, historical, psychological, and anthropological
explanations advanced a century ago were also racist, yet the validity of newer non-racist
genetic etc. explanations is widely accepted today.
Another reason for reflex rejection of geographic explanations is that historians have a
tradition, in their discipline, of stressing the role of contingency (a favorite word among
historians) based on individual decisions and chance. Often that view is warranted . . . But
often, too, that view is unwarranted. The development of warm fur clothes among the Inuit
living north of the Arctic Circle was not because one influential Inuit leader persuaded other
Inuit in 1783 to adopt warm fur clothes, for no good environmental reason.
A third reason is that geographic explanations usually depend on detailed technical facts of
geography and other fields of scholarship . . . Most historians and economists don’t acquire
that detailed knowledge as part of the professional training.

Answer- 1 their outdated interpretations of past cultural and historical phenomena.

RESIDENTS of Lozère, a hilly department in southern France, recite complaints familiar to

many rural corners of Europe. In remote hamlets and villages, with names such as Le Bacon

and Le Bacon Vieux, mayors grumble about a lack of local schools, jobs, or phone and

internet connections. Farmers of grazing animals add another concern: the return of wolves.

Eradicated from France last century, the predators are gradually creeping back to more

forests and hillsides. “The wolf must be taken in hand,” said an aspiring parliamentarian,

Francis Palombi, when pressed by voters in an election campaign early this summer. Tourists

enjoy visiting a wolf park in Lozère, but farmers fret over their livestock and their livelihoods. .

. .

As early as the ninth century, the royal office of the Luparii—wolf-catchers—was created in

France to tackle the predators. Those official hunters (and others) completed their job in the

1930s, when the last wolf disappeared from the mainland. Active hunting and improved

technology such as rifles in the 19th century, plus the use of poison such as strychnine later

on, caused the population collapse. But in the early 1990s the animals reappeared. They

crossed the Alps from Italy, upsetting sheep farmers on the French side of the border. Wolves

have since spread to areas such as Lozère, delighting environmentalists, who see the

predators’ presence as a sign of wider ecological health. Farmers, who say the wolves cause

the deaths of thousands of sheep and other grazing animals, are less cheerful. They grumble

that green activists and politically correct urban types have allowed the return of an old

enemy.

Various factors explain the changes of the past few decades. Rural depopulation is part of the

story. In Lozère, for example, farming and a once-flourishing mining industry supported a

population of over 140,000 residents in the mid-19th century. Today the department has fewer

than 80,000 people, many in its towns. As humans withdraw, forests are expanding. In

France, between 1990 and 2015, forest cover increased by an average of 102,000 hectares

each year, as more fields were given over to trees. Now, nearly one-third of mainland France

is covered by woodland of some sort. The decline of hunting as a sport also means more

forests fall quiet. In the mid-to-late 20th century over 2m hunters regularly spent winter

weekends tramping in woodland, seeking boars, birds and other prey. Today the Fédération

Nationale des Chasseurs, the national body, claims 1.1m people hold hunting licences,

though the number of active hunters is probably lower. The mostly protected status of the wolf

in Europe—hunting them is now forbidden, other than when occasional culls are sanctioned

by the state—plus the efforts of NGOs to track and count the animals, also contribute to the

recovery of wolf populations.

As the lupine population of Europe spreads westwards, with occasional reports of wolves

seen closer to urban areas, expect to hear of more clashes between farmers and those who

celebrate the predators’ return. Farmers’ losses are real, but are not the only economic story.

Tourist venues, such as parks where wolves are kept and the animals’ spread is discussed,

also generate income and jobs in rural areas.

Ans- 1 Wolf attacks on tourists in Lozère are on the rise.

[Octopuses are] misfits in their own extended families . . . They belong to the Mollusca class Cephalopoda. But they don’t look like their cousins at all. Other molluscs include sea snails, sea slugs, bivalves – most are shelled invertebrates with a dorsal foot. Cephalopods are all arms, and can be as tiny as 1 centimetre and as large at 30 feet. Some of them have brains the size of a walnut, which is large for an invertebrate. . . .

It makes sense for these molluscs to have added protection in the form of a higher cognition; they don’t have a shell covering them, and pretty much everything feeds on cephalopods, including humans. But how did cephalopods manage to secure their own invisibility cloak? Cephalopods fire from multiple cylinders to achieve this in varying degrees from species to species. There are four main catalysts – chromatophores, iridophores, papillae and leucophores. . . .

[Chromatophores] are organs on their bodies that contain pigment sacs, which have red, yellow and brown pigment granules. These sacs have a network of radial muscles, meaning muscles arranged in a circle radiating outwards. These are connected to the brain by a nerve. When the cephalopod wants to change colour, the brain carries an electrical impulse through the nerve to the muscles that expand outwards, pulling open the sacs to display the colours on the skin. Why these three colours? Because these are the colours the light reflects at the depths they live in (the rest is absorbed before it reaches those depths). . . .

Well, what about other colours? Cue the iridophores. Think of a second level of skin that has thin stacks of cells. These can reflect light back at different wavelengths. . . . It’s using the same properties that we’ve seen in hologram stickers, or rainbows on puddles of oil. You move your head and you see a different colour. The sticker isn’t doing anything but reflecting light – it’s your movement that’s changing the appearance of the colour. This property of holograms, oil and other such surfaces is called “iridescence”. . . .

Papillae are sections of the skin that can be deformed to make a texture bumpy. Even humans possess them (goosebumps) but cannot use them in the manner that cephalopods can. For instance, the use of these cells is how an octopus can wrap itself over a rock and appear jagged or how a squid or cuttlefish can imitate the look of a coral reef by growing miniature towers on its skin. It actually matches the texture of the substrate it chooses.

Finally, the leucophores: According to a paper, published in Nature, cuttlefish and octopuses possess an additional type of reflector cell called a leucophore. They are cells that scatter full spectrum light so that they appear white in a similar way that a polar bear’s fur appears white. Leucophores will also reflect any filtered light shown on them . . . If the water appears blue at a certain depth, the octopuses and cuttlefish can appear blue; if the water appears green, they appear green, and so on and so forth.

Option: 2. We should find the option that is not weakening the camouflaging adeptness of Cephalopods. Three options are weakening and one is not. For option 1 we have to read the third paragraph, if radial muscle movement is difficult then the technique won’t work, weakening the whole process of camouflaging. 1 goes out. Iridophores is the second level of skin. It means the others are at the first level. But the impact of their numbers on the camouflaging process is not very clear. Thus 2 does nothing to the argument, it neither strengthens it nor weakens it. The passage says that red, brown, and yellow are reflected, the others are absorbed. It means even green is absorbed, but the option says that green is reflected. Thus, 3 weakens. If the transmission of neural signals is difficult, then the whole camouflaging process will not work. 2 is the best choice.

Sociologists working in the Chicago School tradition have focused on how rapid or dramatic social change causes increases in crime. Just as Durkheim, Marx, Toennies, and other European sociologists thought that the rapid changes produced by industrialization and urbanization produced crime and disorder, so too did the Chicago School theorists. The location of the University of Chicago provided an excellent opportunity for Park, Burgess, and McKenzie to study the social ecology of the city. Shaw and McKay found . . . that areas of the city characterized by high levels of social disorganization had higher rates of crime and delinquency.

In the 1920s and 1930s Chicago, like many American cities, experienced considerable immigration. Rapid population growth is a disorganizing influence, but growth resulting from in-migration of very different people is particularly disruptive. Chicago’s in-migrants were both native-born whites and blacks from rural areas and small towns, and foreign immigrants. The heavy industry of cities like Chicago, Detroit, and Pittsburgh drew those seeking opportunities and new lives. Farmers and villagers from America’s hinterland, like their European cousins of whom Durkheim wrote, moved in large numbers into cities. At the start of the twentieth century, Americans were predominately a rural population, but by the century’s mid-point most lived in urban areas. The social lives of these migrants, as well as those already living in the cities they moved to, were disrupted by the differences between urban and rural life. According to social disorganization theory, until the social ecology of the ”new place” can adapt, this rapid change is a criminogenic influence. But most rural migrants, and even many of the foreign immigrants to the city, looked like and eventually spoke the same language as the natives of the cities into which they moved. These similarities allowed for more rapid social integration for these migrants than was the case for African Americans and most foreign immigrants.

In these same decades America experienced what has been called ”the great migration”: the massive movement of African Americans out of the rural South and into northern (and some southern) cities. The scale of this migration is one of the most dramatic in human history. These migrants, unlike their white counterparts, were not integrated into the cities they now called home. In fact, most American cities at the end of the twentieth century were characterized by high levels of racial residential segregation . . . Failure to integrate these migrants, coupled with other forces of social disorganization such as crowding, poverty, and illness, caused crime rates to climb in the cities, particularly in the segregated wards and neighborhoods where the migrants were forced to live.

Foreign immigrants during this period did not look as dramatically different from the rest of the population as blacks did, but the migrants from eastern and southern Europe who came to American cities did not speak English, and were frequently Catholic, while the native born were mostly Protestant. The combination of rapid population growth with the diversity of those moving into the cities created what the Chicago School sociologists called social disorganization.

Option: 1. Does not contradict the passage= supports the passage. We should find a choice that supports the passage. If there is an out-migration from rural areas, it will support the author’s point of view because according to him this migration led to population rise in cities, resulting in social disorganization because not everyone was absorbed in city social fabric (read last two paragraphs). Option 2 does not support because if data is from rural areas is required, it means that the population was primarily based in rural areas, something that is against the passage. Similar flaw is there in option 3 and option 4 as well. They both lay emphasis on rural population, whereas the passage is concerned about migration from rural areas to cities.

Humans today make music. Think beyond all the qualifications that might trail after this bald statement: that only certain humans make music, that extensive training is involved, that many societies distinguish musical specialists from nonmusicians, that in today’s societies most listen to music rather than making it, and so forth. These qualifications, whatever their local merit, are moot in the face of the overarching truth that making music, considered from a cognitive and psychological vantage, is the province of all those who perceive and experience what is made. We are, almost all of us, musicians — everyone who can entrain (not necessarily dance) to a beat, who can recognize a repeated tune (not necessarily sing it), who can distinguish one instrument or one singing voice from another. I will often use an antique word, recently revived, to name this broader musical experience. Humans are musicking creatures. . . .

The set of capacities that enables musicking is a principal marker of modern humanity. There is nothing polemical in this assertion except a certain insistence, which will figure often in what follows, that musicking be included in our thinking about fundamental human commonalities. Capacities involved in musicking are many and take shape in complicated ways, arising from innate dispositions . . . Most of these capacities overlap with nonmusical ones, though a few may be distinct and dedicated to musical perception and production. In the area of overlap, linguistic capacities seem to be particularly important, and humans are (in principle) language-makers in addition to music-makers — speaking creatures as well as musicking ones.

Humans are symbol-makers too, a feature tightly bound up with language, not so tightly with music. The species Cassirer dubbed Homo symbolicus cannot help but tangle musicking in webs of symbolic thought and expression, habitually making it a component of behavioral complexes that form such expression. But in fundamental features musicking is neither language-like nor symbol-like, and from these differences come many clues to its ancient emergence.

If musicking is a primary, shared trait of modern humans, then to describe its emergence must be to detail the coalescing of that modernity. This took place, archaeologists are clear, over a very long durée: at least 50,000 years or so, more likely something closer to 200,000, depending in part on what that coalescence is taken to comprise. If we look back 20,000 years, a small portion of this long period, we reach the lives of humans whose musical capacities were probably little different from our own. As we look farther back we reach horizons where this similarity can no longer hold — perhaps 40,000 years ago, perhaps 70,000, perhaps 100,000. But we never cross a line before which all the cognitive capacities recruited in modern musicking abruptly disappear. Unless we embrace the incredible notion that music sprang forth in full-blown glory, its emergence will have to be tracked in gradualist terms across a long period.

This is one general feature of a history of music’s emergence . . . The history was at once sociocultural and biological . . . The capacities recruited in musicking are many, so describing its emergence involves following several or many separate strands.

Option: 3. The first sentence of the third paragraph supports option 1, and is in sync with what the author has to stay. 1 goes out. Many of us are tempted to mark option 2 but though it appears to be weakening the author’s point of view, it is not at all weakening the author’s claim. The author has nowhere compared non musical capacities with musical capacities with respect to human survival. He has nowhere claimed that humans’ capacity for music is of greater importance than any other capacity. So, in effect option 2 does nothing to weaken the author’s point of view. Even if option 2 is correct, the author’s argument in the passage remains valid. Option 3 is the right answer because it contradicts what the author has stated in the first paragraph where he says “… that extensive training is involved…. these qualifications, whatever their local merit, are moot in the face of the overarching truth…” The author does not believe that extensive musical training makes us musical, suggesting that it is not something that society or culture gives us. Instead, he suggests that it is an inborn trait “…innate dispositions.” Thus 3 is the best choice. It directly contradicts the author’s point of view expressed in the first paragraph. Option 4 also goes out because the author says that musicking is born out of ‘innate dispositions’, which means it is not entirely a conscious/social or cultural process.

When we teach engineering problems now, we ask students to come to a single ” best” solution defined by technical ideals like low cost, speed to build, and ability to scale. This way of teaching primes students to believe that their decision-making is purely objective, as it is grounded in math and science. This is known as technical-social dualism, the idea that the technical and social dimensions of engineering problems are readily separable and remain distinct throughout the problem-definition and solution process.

Nontechnical parameters such as access to a technology, cultural relevancy or potential harms are deemed political and invalid in this way of learning. But those technical ideals are at their core social and political choices determined by a dominant culture focused on economic growth for the most privileged segments of society. By choosing to downplay public welfare as a critical parameter for engineering design, we risk creating a culture of disengagement from societal concerns amongst engineers that is antithetical to the ethical code of engineering.

In my field of medical devices, ignoring social dimensions has real consequences. . . . Most FDA-approved drugs are incorrectly dosed for people assigned female at birth, leading to unexpected adverse reactions. This is because they have been inadequately represented in clinical trials.

Beyond physical failings, subjective beliefs treated as facts by those in decision-making roles can encode social inequities. For example, spirometers, routinely used devices that measure lung capacity, still have correction factors that automatically assume smaller lung capacity in Black and Asian individuals. These racially based adjustments are derived from research done by eugenicists who thought these racial differences were biologically determined and who considered nonwhite people as inferior. These machines ignore the influence of social and environmental factors on lung capacity.

Many technologies for systemically marginalized people have not been built because they were not deemed important such as better early diagnostics and treatment for diseases like endometriosis, a disease that afflicts 10 percent of people with uteruses. And we hardly question whether devices are built sustainably, which has led to a crisis of medical waste and health care accounting for 10 percent of U.S. greenhouse gas emissions.

Social justice must be made core to the way engineers are trained. Some universities are working on this. . . . Engineers taught this way will be prepared to think critically about what problems we choose to solve, how we do so responsibly and how we build teams that challenge our ways of thinking.

Individual engineering professors are also working to embed societal needs in their pedagogy. Darshan Karwat at the University of Arizona developed activist engineering to challenge engineers to acknowledge their full moral and social responsibility through practical self-reflection. Khalid Kadir at the University of California, Berkeley, created the popular course Engineering, Environment, and Society that teaches engineers how to engage in place-based knowledge, an understanding of the people, context and history, to design better technical approaches in collaboration with communities. When we design and build with equity and justice in mind, we craft better solutions that respond to the complexities of entrenched systemic problems.

Option: 4. We have to understand the meaning of the word ‘claim’. A claim is something that you think is supposedly true without any concrete proof. A claim is different from a suggestion. For example, I claim to have healed myself by taking a specific medicine, I suggest you do the same. Now, in the paragraph, the author makes a claim. We have to see what that claim is. Let us take each option, option 1 is factually incorrect because technical social dualism is not allowing them to incorporate social considerations into their problem-solving processes. It is making them separate the technical and social dimensions. Option 2 is also factually incorrect because as per the passage, engineering students are trained to be objective so that they create the best solution from technological perspective, but since these solutions ignore societal concerns, they cannot be called universal solutions. Option 3 might seem correct but by using the phrase ‘shifted the focus’ it misleads us. The focus was never there, so question of shifting the focus does not even arise. Option 4 is the best choice because this precisely the author’s argument and in the first paragraph and he furnishes evidence in support of this claim in the subsequent paragraphs.

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