பகுத்தறிவு : Thinking Before Accepting

Disclaimer: This piece is presented in both Tamil and English. The Tamil version is the original text. The English translation follows the same structure and meaning for accessibility to non Tamil readers. Kindly Scroll down.

பகுத்தறிவு

பகுத்தறிவு என்பது மதத்தை எதிர்ப்பதற்கான கோஷமல்ல, கடவுளை மறுப்பதற்கான முழக்கமல்ல. அது முதலில் மனித மனம் உலகத்தை எதிர்கொள்ளும் விதம். ஒரு கருத்து பழமையானது என்பதற்காகவும், ஒரு நடைமுறை பெரும்பான்மையால் பின்பற்றப்படுகிறது என்பதற்காகவும், அதை அப்படியே ஏற்றுக்கொள்ள மறுக்கும் மனநிலைதான் பகுத்தறிவு. இது எதிர்ப்பின் அரசியல் அல்ல, சிந்தனையின் ஒழுக்கம்.

தமிழ் சிந்தனை மரபு பகுத்தறிவற்றதல்ல. நம் இலக்கியங்களின் அடித்தளத்தில் கேள்வி இருக்கிறது, காரணம் இருக்கிறது, பொறுப்பு இருக்கிறது. திருவள்ளுவர் எங்கும் கண்ணை மூடிக் கொண்டு நம்பச் சொல்லவில்லை. “எண்ணித் துணிக கருமம்” என்பது ஒழுக்கம் பற்றிய பாடல் அல்ல, அது செயலை முன்னிட்டு சிந்திக்கச் சொல்லும் அறிவுச் சாசனம். காரணம் அறியாமல் செயல் புரிதல் அறமல்ல என்ற எண்ணமே அதில் அடங்கியுள்ளது.

காலப்போக்கில் சிந்தனையை விடச் சடங்குகள் மேலோங்கின. ஒரு கருத்து பழமையானது என்பதற்காக உண்மையாகவும், பெரும்பான்மையால் பின்பற்றப்படுகிறது என்பதற்காக நியாயமாகவும் ஏற்றுக்கொள்ளப்பட்டது. விளக்கம் தேவையற்றதாக மாறியது. துன்பம் அனுபவிக்கப்பட வேண்டும், அநீதி ஏற்கப்பட வேண்டும், அதிகாரம் கேள்வியின்றி ஒப்புக்கொள்ளப்பட வேண்டும் என்ற எண்ணங்கள் விதியென்று போதிக்கப்பட்டன. இப்படியான சூழலில் மனிதர்கள் சிந்திக்க பயிற்சி பெறுவதில்லை, கீழ்ப்படிதலுக்கே பழக்கப்படுத்தப்படுகிறார்கள். சிந்தனை நீக்கப்பட்ட இடத்தில் அதிகாரத்திற்கு விளக்கம் தேவையில்லை, பயமே போதுமானது. பகுத்தறிவு இந்த கட்டமைப்புகளை குலைக்கிறது, ஏனெனில் அது பயத்தை அகற்றுகிறது. “ஏன்” என்ற ஒரு கேள்வி எழும்பினாலே, அடக்குமுறைகள் அசையத் தொடங்குகின்றன.

இங்கே இருந்து தான் "நாத்திகம்" உருவாகிறது. அது கூச்சலாகப் பிறப்பதில்லை. அது கவனிப்பிலிருந்து வருகிறது. சடங்குகள் காரணமின்றி கட்டாயப்படுத்தப்படும்போது, ஒழுக்கம் மனச்சாட்சியிலிருந்து நீக்கப்படும்போது, சமத்துவமின்மை தெய்வீகமாக்கப்படும்போது, சிந்திக்கும் மனம் மெதுவாக விலகுகிறது. அது மறுப்பை அறிவிப்பதில்லை ஆனால் ஒத்துழைப்பை நிறுத்துகிறது.

பகுத்தறிவு இல்லாமையின் விளைவுகள் நம்மைச் சுற்றியே இருக்கின்றன. அறிவியலுக்கு மாற்றாக மூடநம்பிக்கை வருகிறது. பண்டையது என்பதற்காக பொய்யும் உண்மையாக ஏற்றுக்கொள்ளப்படுகிறது. மருத்துவ முடிவுகள் தள்ளிப் போடப்படுகின்றன. சமூக அநீதி புனிதமாக்கப்படுகிறது. அமைப்புகளைப் பார்ப்பதற்குப் பதிலாக விதியையே குற்றம் சாட்டுகிறோம். இங்கே பொறுப்பு மறைந்து, வேதனை இயல்பாக மாறுகிறது.

பகுத்தறிவு ஆறுதலை அளிப்பதில்லை. அதனால்தான் அது எதிர்க்கப்படுகிறது. அது எளிய பதில்களை நீக்குகிறது, நிச்சயமின்மையை முன்வைக்கிறது. அது காரணங்களைச் சொல்வதில்லை, பொறுப்பைத் தருகிறது. நம்பிக்கை பாதுகாப்பாக உணரப்படுகிறது, ஏனெனில் பதில்கள் முன்கூட்டியே எழுதப்பட்டிருக்கின்றன. சிந்தனை அப்படியல்ல, அது துணிச்சலைக் கோருகிறது.

பகுத்தறிவு நம்பிக்கையை அழிப்பதில்லை. அது அதை ஒழுங்குபடுத்துகிறது. நம்பிக்கை தனிப்பட்டதாக இருக்கலாம். ஆனால் அது பிறரை ஆளக்கூடாது. ஆன்மிகம் இருக்கலாம். ஆனால் அதற்காக தர்க்கம் நிறுத்தப்படக்கூடாது. ஒழுக்கம் பயத்திலிருந்து பிறப்பதல்ல. மனிதத்தன்மையிலிருந்து உருவாக வேண்டும். ஆபத்து நம்பிக்கையில் இல்லை. சிந்திக்காத நம்பிக்கையில்தான் உள்ளது. பகுத்தறிவை மறுக்கும் சமுதாயம் குடிமக்களை உருவாக்காது. அடிமைகளை உருவாக்கும். அங்கே ஞானம் வளராது. கீழ்ப்படிதலே வளர்க்கப்படும்.

பகுத்தறிவு என்பது கலாச்சாரத்தை இழப்பதல்ல. அதை தேர்ந்தெடுப்பது. அர்த்தமுள்ளதை பழக்கத்திலிருந்து பிரிப்பதும். மனிதத்தன்மையை படிநிலைகளிலிருந்து விடுவிப்பதும் அதன் பணியே. பகுத்தறிவு இல்லாத முன்னேற்றம் தற்செயலானது. அதனுடன் இருக்கும் முன்னேற்றம் நோக்கத்துடன் உருவாகிறது. 

பகுத்தறிவு ஒன்றையே கேட்கிறது. ஏற்றுக்கொள்ளும் முன் புரிந்து கொள்ளுங்கள். அதுவே ஒரு சமுதாயத்தின் மூச்சை மாற்றக்கூடியது.

Rationalism

Rationalism is not a slogan meant to oppose religion, nor a chant meant to deny God. It is, first, the way the human mind confronts the world. It is the state of mind that refuses to accept something as it is, merely because an idea is ancient or a practice is followed by the majority. This is not the politics of opposition, but the discipline of thought.

The Tamil intellectual tradition is not without rationalism. At the foundation of our literature, there is questioning, there is reason and there is responsibility. Thiruvalluvar never asked anyone to believe with closed eyes. “எண்ணித் துணிக கருமம்” Translates to "Think and then act” is not a verse only about morality. It is a declaration of knowledge that asks one to think before acting. Within it lies the idea that acting without understanding is not virtue.

Over time, rituals rose above thought. An idea was accepted as truth merely because it was ancient, and a practice was considered just because it was followed by the majority. Explanation became unnecessary. Suffering was taught to be endured, injustice to be accepted, and authority to be agreed to without question, all in the name of destiny. In such conditions, people are not trained to think but are conditioned for obedience. Where thinking is removed, authority does not require justification. Fear alone is sufficient. Rationalism dismantles these structures because it removes fear. The moment the question “why” arises, systems of oppression begin to shift.

From here is where "Atheism" emerges. It is not born as a voice. It comes from observation. When rituals are enforced without reason, when morality is removed from conscience, and when inequality is divinized, the thinking mind slowly opts out. It does not declare rejection, but it stops cooperating.

The effects of the absence of rationalism are all around us. Superstition comes in place of science. Falsehood is accepted as truth because it is ancient. Medical decisions are postponed. Social injustice is sanctified. Instead of examining systems, fate itself is blamed. Here responsibility disappears and suffering becomes normal.

Rationalism does not provide comfort. That is why it is opposed. It removes simple answers and places uncertainty in front of us. It does not give reasons. It gives responsibility. Faith feels safe because answers are already written. Thought is not like that. It demands courage.

Rationalism does not destroy belief. It disciplines it. Belief may be personal, but it must not rule over others. Spirituality may exist, but logic must not be stopped. Morality should be formed not by fear, but by humanity. Danger is not in belief. It lies in unthinking belief. A society that rejects rationalism does not create citizens. It creates slaves. There wisdom does not grow instead slavery does.

Rationalism is not the loss of culture. It is the act of choosing it. Separating what is meaningful from habit, and freeing humanity from hierarchy  is its task. Progress without rationalism is accidental. Progress with it is formed with intention.

Rationalism asks for only one thing. Understand before accepting. That alone can change the breath of a society.

The Habit of Comparing Pain

Pain is one of the most personal experiences a human body can carry, yet it is repeatedly dragged into public judgment. Instead of being acknowledged, it is often compared and dismissed, as though suffering requires certification before it is allowed to exist. The impulse to compare pain rather than understanding it, exposes the lack of empathy people have.

At the core of this problem lies the habit of disregarding another person’s pain the moment it does not fit a familiar narrative. When discomfort is voiced, what is needed is simple presence and understanding, but it is frequently tackled with comparison. "I have had worse pain. You belong to this gender, so your pain tolerance is low. You are making a scene out of nothing. It is just a small thing. Everyone has pain." When pain is treated as something to be compared, it tells the person experiencing it that their reality is not enough and that their body’s response is incorrect.

Equally troubling is the belief that certain forms of pain are more legitimate than others. Some experiences are turned into symbols of ultimate suffering, while everything outside that frame is treated as secondary or exaggerated. This does not honour those experiences instead it shows lack of compassion. When pain is used this way, it no longer connects people, instead becomes a tool for denial.

Layered into this is the persistent assumption that endurance can be defined by identity. That certain bodies are naturally equipped to bear pain while others are inherently weaker. This belief has no grounding in biology or medicine. Pain perception varies widely across individuals due to nerve sensitivity, psychological state, prior injury, stress levels, and countless internal factors. Any inclination to generalise tolerance based on gender is not understanding, but stereotype dressed up as fact.

What is often missed in these exchanges is that expressing pain is not an attempt to compete. 

It is not about weakness but simply a moment of honesty. When someone speaks about discomfort or pain, they are not asking whose pain is greater. They are asking for recognition. When comparison is used as a response, the focus moves away from understanding and toward hierarchy.

There is cruelty in telling someone that their pain is insignificant because another pain exists. Suffering does not cancel itself out. One experience does not invalidate another. The human body does not consult social narratives before reacting. It responds as it must. Respecting that response does not diminish anyone else’s endurance instead it strengthens the space where empathy can exist without criteria.

If you notice yourself responding to pain with comparison, it is worth stopping. It speaks less about understanding and more about establishing whose pain was worse and whose can be set aside. Choosing not to do that is very much possible. Being kind does not cost you anything.

Why Gold Is Not an Investment

The growing fascination with gold has led to a widespread misuse of language. Gold is described as an investment, placed alongside equity or productive capital. This description is not just inaccurate but conceptually flawed. Gold may be valuable and historically significant, but value alone does not qualify something as an investment. The confusion lies in failing to distinguish between preservation of wealth and the creation of wealth.

An investment in its most fundamental sense is the allocation of capital into an activity or instrument that generates additional value over time. It produces returns through productivity, participation and growth. Equity in a business generates profit through operations. Bonds yield interest through lending. Real estate produces income through rent or appreciation driven by development and demand. In every case an investment is tied to output. Capital is put to work.

Gold does none of this. It generates no income and expands no capacity, nor does it participate in economic activity. It sits. Its value does not grow through productivity but fluctuates based on external conditions such as inflation, currency depreciation, fear and scarcity perception. When gold rises in price, nothing has been produced. No additional value has been created. Only the measurement of currency against it has changed.

This distinction matters because price movement is not the same as return. An increase in price does not imply that something has functioned as an investment. Speculation relies on price movement. Investment relies on value creation. Gold belongs to the former category. It just responds to instability.

Historically, gold has served as a store of value. This role is legitimate and important. A store of value protects purchasing power across time. It resists erosion during inflationary periods. It provides psychological and financial security during economic stress. These are qualities of an asset and not an investment. "Assets preserve but Investments produce."

Calling gold an investment often stems from observing long term price appreciation without understanding its cause. Over decades gold appears to have increased in value, but this increase only shows the declining purchasing power of currency rather than the intrinsic growth of gold itself. Gold does not compound when put against stable benchmarks. It does not outperform productive assets when adjusted for opportunity cost. It merely holds ground.

The current surge in gold enthusiasm further illustrates this confusion. Demand for gold rises as economic uncertainty grows. Accumulation driven by fear is defensive in nature rather than enterprising. Defensive allocation is sensible but it is not investment. Protecting wealth and growing wealth are fundamentally different objectives, and treating them as identical leads to poor financial understanding.

Another overlooked factor is liquidity and utility. Gold does not contribute to cash flow. It cannot be deployed without being sold. Its usefulness ends at preservation. In contrast investments continue to generate returns while held. They participate in markets, generate returns and also compound over time. Gold remains inert.

This does not diminish gold’s importance. It simply places it correctly. Gold is an asset. A hedge. A form of insurance against systemic risk. It belongs in discussions of risk management, diversification, and capital preservation. It does not belong in discussions of investment, performance, or wealth creation.

Precision in language shows precision in thinking. Calling gold an investment collapses the distinction between growth and safety. People begin to expect returns from an instrument designed only to endure. This misunderstanding leads to poor allocation decisions. Gold does not fail by not being an investment. It succeeds by being exactly what it is. A stable asset that protects value when systems weaken. Treating it as an investment does not elevate gold. It only dilutes the meaning of investment itself. 

Without Asking Why

There is always that one person who does not need a reason. A call at an odd hour is enough. A random plan is enough. A sudden need to step out for tea, a last minute movie, sitting beside them in silence, or a night spent ranting about the same things again. They do not ask why now or why again. They only ask where and when.

Half the time you do not even notice when they become part of the day. They fit into whatever is already happening. They listen when the story absolutely goes nowhere. They stay even when there is nothing left to say. They stand with you without judgment. What sets them apart is how consistently they show up. They understand that sometimes all a person needs is company, not advice.

They are not always cheerful or wise. Sometimes they are tired too. They show up anyway. Life begins to feel lighter around them. You step out more easily because someone will join without asking for details. You speak more freely because there is no need for clarity. Even uneventful moments feel complete simply because they are shared. Their presence does not solve anything but it removes the sense of carrying everything alone.

Realization comes much later. You realize how many days were held together by their presence. How often they were the first person you thought of when something small happened. How many evenings ended gently because someone was willing to stay. Maybe, without knowing it you have been that presence for someone else too.

Think of that person now. The one who answered every call. The one who never made you feel like a burden. This is for them. For their patience and their availability. If you can, reach out to them. Tell them what their presence meant. Sometimes acknowledging someone is enough to honour what they have given.

7:42

Mr. K wrote horror stories for a living, which meant he was always rearranging things until they made sense. He wrote most of his stories at the small kitchen table, where he could pretend things were under control. 

Each night he returned to the kitchen in his apartment above a shuttered bakery. It had closed after a small fire no one had ever said how it started. Everything inside stayed exactly as he left it. The chair. The clock. The towel. He missed the mug he used to drink from. Even the knife was always left in the same place, blade turned inward. He kept it that way because he remembered what it felt like to want the blade too close. But by evening, the kitchen no longer felt like a place he belonged. 

He was holding a knife when the phone rang. It was not aiming at anyone. It was just there in his hand, as natural as if he had been peeling an apple. He could not remember the last time he had eaten one. The ringing touched something in him because it meant it had not happened yet.

The clock above the fridge said 7:42.

The second hand in the clock made a loud ticking sound every time it moved. He had never noticed that before. The stew on the stove had been left for too long and a dark brown ring had burned into the bottom of the pot. The burn in the air had the same sweetness the bakery once did. The heat rose from it until steam fogged the small window above the sink hiding whatever lay beyond it. It felt safer not to see. A towel lay on the floor out of place. It was damp.

The phone kept ringing.

When he picked it up there was no voice, only someone breathing slowly on the other end. It sounded like the breathing of someone asleep on the other side of the room. It sounded too close to be coming from the phone. Then it stopped.

He had once written a scene like this years ago, and hated himself for remembering it now.

He stood there, staring at his reflection in the microwave door. Something about his face made him feel watched by himself. The reflection held an unfamiliar smile that his real face had not yet made. 

He rinsed the knife and slid it back into the drawer. Only after it was closed did he realize the blade was no longer turned inward. The sense of being too close to something sharp returned. He did not open it again.

That night his sleep came and went. Each time he drifted off he saw the kitchen again, but not from where he had stood. From above. From the corner of the ceiling. Like footage from a CCTV camera. He watched himself walk across the floor, open drawers, check the front door, wipe the counter with the towel, then wipe it again. In the dream he never looked up.

On the kitchen table in the dream lay a single sheet of paper. He was certain he had not left it there. It was one of his drafts. A story he had abandoned because it had started to feel like something he had lived through. The words were his, but a few lines had been added.

The last line described a man standing in his kitchen at 7:42, holding a knife, while the phone rang. He folded the page and placed it under his notebook, as though trying to keep it from being seen.

Next morning, the smell of stew was still in the room even though the pot was empty. The bottom was scraped clean. There was a pale reddish smear on the rim that did not look quite like food.

The calendar on the wall had today crossed out.

He had no memory of doing that. The ink was darker than the other days.

Small things kept moving. A mug had appeared up in the sink. It was the one he had stopped using after it broke. His shoes were polished and waiting by the door even though he had not gone out. There was a stain on the sleeve of his shirt that would not wash out no matter how long he held it under running water. He had seen a stain like that before, in a story he never let himself finish.

It felt like the apartment was being used by someone who knew it better than he did. Better than he knew himself.

A note appeared on the fridge.

"It is done. Do not look back."

It was in his handwriting. The paper was creased, as though it had been folded and unfolded many times.

He searched every room. There was no sign of anyone else. No broken glass. No blood. Just everything in its place in a way that felt wrong, like a room cleaned after something had been erased.

Time passed, but by evening, the kitchen no longer felt like a place he belonged.

Then the phone rang.

The clock above the fridge said 7:42.

Love For Yamaha

Bikes have always held a special place. Even for those who do not ride there is something about a motorcycle that stirs curiosity and admiration. The sound, the stance or the way a machine feels alive even when standing in idle. For some it is transport and for others it is memory, identity or emotion. For me bikes were never just machines during my childhood. They were dreams parked on roadsides, posters on bedroom walls and a factor that shaped childhood.

My love for Yamaha began in 2009. I did not ride one then. I only looked at the R1. That single bike was enough. As a child I did not understand engine configurations or spec sheets but I understood road presence. The R1 did not just look fast it looked sharp and unapologetic. That was the moment something settled inside. Seventeen years later that feeling has not changed.

The first bike I truly owned was the RX100 in 2018. It was raw, loud and light. Every throttle input, every vibration and every sound felt connected back then. It taught me what a motorcycle could feel like. Later came the R15 V3 in same year. That bike felt special in a different way. It looked like a proper sport machine yet welcomed everyday riding. Precision, Balance, VVA technology or the way it held corners and responded to inputs made it feel like a bike that wanted to be ridden well. It was not just about speed but about connection.

Today I no longer own a Yamaha. I ride a Royal Enfield now. It suits a different phase of life a different rhythm of riding. Yet the love for Yamaha never left. That says something. Brands come and go from garages but only a few stay in the heart.

Yamaha as a brand has always stood for something clear. They do not go behind trends blindly. They build machines with intent. Their engines are refined yet aggressive. Their bikes are known for rider focused engineering. Yamaha machines often feel lighter than they are, sharper than expected and eager in character. Whether it is a commuter, a sport bike or an adventure machine, there is always a sense that the rider was considered first.

Even today if asked to dream the answer remains the same. One day an R1. If the question is adventure the answer is still Yamaha. The Tenere would be my choice without hesitation. That speaks volumes. It is not nostalgia alone but a trust. Trust built over years of watching, riding, owning and admiring a yamaha.

This love comes from the inner child who once stared at a bike more than he ever looked at his books. The child who believed machines could have a soul. That child still exists. He still slows down when a Yamaha passes by. He still listens to the engine note. He still smiles.

Bikes change. Garages change. Life changes. But the love for yamaha does not.

Some choices are made early and never really change. What was yours?