A Passion for Pachyderms: R. Sukumar

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Photo: https://twas.org/article/elephants-and-people

August 12 is marked annually as World Elephant Day. It is a day dedicated to raising awareness about the urgent issues faced by elephants in the wild due to a number of factors including poaching for ivory, habitat loss and human-elephant conflicts. Initiated in 2012 as a plea to stop poaching, this day has grown into a full-scale movement linking scientists, rangers, and ordinary citizens with one goal: to keep elephants alive in their own habitats.

While this day brings together people from diverse areas of interest (perhaps for one day of the year), there are scientists who have dedicated their life to studying and understanding these majestic creatures. Research is an essential input for the management and conservation of elephants. In India, the scientific study on the ecology and the behavior of the elephant began as early as the 1970s. During this period a major study on elephants was carried out by the Centre for Ecological Sciences, Bangalore.

Following this, several scientific and research institutions in India have been studying various aspects of elephants in India.

One of the earliest scientists to study elephants in India has been Raman Sukumar. His jumbo journey began almost five decades ago. What sparked his interest, which grew into a passion, and led to significant contributions to the study of elephants?

Here is his story in his own words.

There was no hint during my early days of what I was eventually going to do. I was the usual city-bred child interested in games and various hobbies. I was very fond of books, an interest that I attribute to my maternal grandfather who was a bookseller. My maternal grandmother seems to have recognized a streak of the naturalist in me quite early on. I recall that for some reason she used to call me a vanavasi much before I ever went to a forest.

It was only when I reached high school that my eyes opened to the profound beauty of living creatures. At that time the world was also waking up to the crisis facing our environment—caused by pollution and the reckless exploitation of nature. The modern conservation movement was gathering momentum.

I had a passion for science and wanted to work in conservation. With this goal in mind I pursued botany at Loyola College and later at Vivekanand College in Madras. I was fortunate to have teachers who encouraged creative pursuits outside the framework of the regular syllabus.

I was also fortunate to be in Madras, which is almost unique in having a national park, the Guindy National Park, within the city. I spent most of my weekends at Guindy Park in the company of Selvakumar who was pursuing his studies in zoology. He had an amazing ability to describe anything, from an ant to a whale.

I still did not have the faintest idea of getting involved with elephants, although a passion for these pachyderms must have been latent in me. My first sighting of a wild elephant was not at all spectacular. In fact, I doubt if I saw an elephant at all. Our class was on a botanical tour of Mudumalai which is well known for its elephant population. I was talking to the Warden of Mudumalai when a rickety car rolled up and a familiar figure leaned out and boomed: “Hey boy what are you doing here?” It was Siddharth Buch, a naturalist-photographer and one of my earliest gurus in wildlife pursuits. He and some friends had driven from Madras in a rickety old jalopy. He enquired whether I had seen any elephants. I explained to him that we had only just arrived. He asked me to hop in as they were going for a drive along the Mayar river.

We had hardly gone a kilometer when Siddharth stopped the car and pointed towards a hillock and said “There is an elephant moving up the slope”. I strained my eyes but could not see any elephant. “Can’t you see the black shape moving through the bushes? That’s the back of the elephant.” It was midday and the jungle was a patchwork of light and shadow. I guess I did see something darker than a shadow but I could not see it moving. It may have been a rock but I nodded dutifully, meaning that I could indeed see a dark shape. “There my boy! I have shown you your first wild elephant!” announced Siddharth triumphantly. Whatever the true identity of that object, with the benefit of hindsight I must caution readers unaccustomed to the ways of wild elephants that it is always better to mistake a rock for an elephant than an elephant for a rock.

In August 1979 I joined the doctoral programme in ecology at the Indian Institute of Science in Bangalore. Madhav Gadgil had established the country’s first academic programme in modern ecology. When the time came to select a research topic for my thesis Madhav suggested some problems, among them a study of elephant-human conflict. My ears pricked up when he mentioned elephants. I had wanted to work on large mammals and what was better than studying elephants, although I must confess that such a thought had never occurred to me earlier.

Thus began my study of elephants in southern India in 1980, and which continues for the rest of my life. Over nearly five decades I have been studying them, photographing them, chasing them, and being chased by them. To even begin to understand this fascinating animal one has to spend several years in the field. Every month, every year, one learns some new facet of its character.

Elephants can be funny. Elephants can be frightening. They can be heartwarming and their study can be addicting. If the tiger is the spirit of the jungle, secret and elusive, the elephant is its body, large, majestic, making its presence felt with authority.

We at CEE were fortunate to have interacted with Dr Sukumar, and gained tremendously from his long experience and patient guidance. This piece by him, written at our request, was originally published in a CEE publication Walking the Wild Path. Dr Sukumar was also one of the reviewers of CEE’s NatureScope India for the special issue on Endangered Elephants.   

Raman Sukumar is Professor and Chairman at the Centre for Ecological Sciences, Indian Institute of Science, Bangalore, India, and Founder Trustee of the Asian Nature Conservation Foundation, Bangalore, India. He is the author of several books.

–Mamata

QR Code Day: The Little Square That Changed the World

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If you have bought vegetables from a roadside vendor, paid your electricity bill, entered a museum, ordered food at a restaurant, or even boarded a flight in the last few years, chances are you have pointed your phone at a strange-looking square filled with tiny black-and-white patterns.

That little square is a QR code. It has quietly become one of the most useful inventions of the digital age.

QR Code Day is celebrated every year on August 8 (the birthday of the inventor, Masahiro Hara) recognising a technology that has transformed the way we exchange information, make payments, and connect the physical and digital worlds.

What exactly is a QR code?

QR stands for Quick Response. Unlike a traditional barcode, which stores information in one direction using a series of vertical black lines, a QR code stores information both horizontally and vertically. This two-dimensional design allows it to hold hundreds of times more information than a standard barcode.

A barcode usually contains a product number that must be looked up in a database. A QR code, on the other hand, can directly contain a website address, contact information, payment details, Wi-Fi credentials, a ticket, a digital menu, or even a short piece of text.

Most importantly, it can be read almost instantly by the camera on an ordinary smartphone.

Why wasn’t a barcode enough?

Barcodes revolutionised retail after their introduction in the 1970s. They made supermarket checkouts faster and inventory management more accurate. But they had limitations.

A typical barcode stores only around 20–25 characters of information. It also has to be scanned from a particular angle.

QR codes solved these problems.

Because information is stored in two dimensions, a standard QR code can hold over 7,000 numeric digits or around 4,000 alphanumeric characters, depending on the type of data. It can also be scanned from almost any direction.

Even more impressive is its built-in error correction. QR codes use mathematical techniques that allow them to be read correctly even if part of the code is dirty, scratched, folded, or damaged. Depending on the level of error correction used, up to about 30% of the code can be missing while still remaining readable.

That is why QR codes continue to work on worn posters, crumpled tickets, and faded packaging.

Who invented the QR code?

The QR code was invented in 1994 by Masahiro Hara, an engineer at the Japanese company Denso Wave, then a subsidiary of Toyota.

The automotive industry was becoming increasingly complex. Assembly lines required thousands of different components, and the existing barcode system was proving too slow and unable to hold enough information.

Hara and his team were asked to develop something faster and more powerful.

Legend has it that the distinctive square pattern was inspired by the black-and-white arrangement of pieces on a Go board, the traditional Japanese strategy game. The team also designed the three large squares in the corners so that scanners could instantly recognise the code’s orientation.

Their goal was simple: enable rapid scanning from any angle while storing much more information.

They succeeded beyond anyone’s imagination.

The remarkable decision that changed everything

Many groundbreaking technologies remain locked behind patents or expensive licences.

QR codes took a different path.

Although Denso Wave patented the technology, the company made a remarkable decision. It announced that it would not exercise its patent rights for general use. Anyone could create, print, or scan QR codes without paying royalties or seeking permission.

This openness encouraged software developers, manufacturers, businesses, and governments around the world to adopt the technology.

Imagine if every QR code required a licence fee. It is unlikely that QR codes would have become as universal as they are today.

Sometimes the greatest contribution an inventor makes is not merely creating a technology—but allowing everyone else to build upon it.

The pandemic accelerated everything

QR codes had been around for more than two decades before they truly entered everyday life.

The COVID-19 pandemic dramatically accelerated their adoption.

Restaurants replaced printed menus with QR codes. Hospitals used them for registrations. Airlines issued contactless boarding passes. Museums, schools, offices, and public events adopted QR-based entry systems.

People who had never before scanned a QR code suddenly found themselves using them several times a day.

India’s QR revolution

Few countries have embraced QR codes as enthusiastically as India.

Thanks to the success of the Unified Payments Interface (UPI), QR codes have become the face of India’s digital payments revolution.

Today, whether you are buying a coconut on a beach, paying a neighbourhood tailor, contributing at a temple, purchasing vegetables from a pushcart, or settling the bill at a five-star hotel, the same familiar QR code often greets you.

The beauty lies in its simplicity.

A small shopkeeper no longer needs an expensive card-swiping machine. A printed QR code costing almost nothing can receive payments instantly into a bank account.

For customers, there is no need to carry cash or even remember account numbers. A quick scan, confirmation of the amount, and payment is complete in seconds.

This has helped bring millions of small businesses, street vendors, self-employed workers, and rural entrepreneurs into the formal digital economy.

Today QR codes now do much more than transfer money.

They connect us to museum audio guides, restaurant menus, vaccination certificates, railway tickets, product manuals, educational resources, event registrations, digital business cards, and government services.

Manufacturers use them for product authentication and traceability. Farmers use them to provide information about produce. Schools use them to link printed textbooks with videos and interactive lessons.

The humble square has become a bridge between the physical and digital worlds.

Looking at a square with fresh eyes

Most great inventions are dramatic—a steam engine, an aeroplane, or a computer.

The QR code is different.      

It has no moving parts. It makes no sound. It occupies barely a few square centimetres.

Yet it has quietly transformed commerce, communication, education, healthcare, travel, and finance.

Next time you scan one without a second thought, remember that behind those tiny black-and-white squares lies an elegant piece of mathematics, an ingenious engineering solution, and an unusually generous decision to share an invention freely with the world.

Sometimes, the technologies that change our lives the most are the ones we hardly notice.

–Meena

Senbazuru: 1000 Cranes for Peace and Health

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6 August 1945. World War II was raging across Europe and new fronts were opening across the world every day. But this day witnessed perhaps the most devastating demonstration of the scourge. One that continues to haunt even today.

At 8:15 a.m. an American bomber called the Enola Gay dropped an atomic bomb on the Japanese city of Hiroshima. The city was instantly levelled to rubble, and 80,000 people died in the first few minutes. Thousands would die later from the effects of radiation.

2-year old Sadako Sasaki who lived not far from where the bomb fell, miraculously survived. She grew into an enthusiastic, energetic, athletic girl. The impact of the of the A-Bomb began to reveal itself a decade later. Starting with minor ailments, Sadako began to feel progressively weaker until she was unable to get up. Medical tests indicated that she had leukaemia, that was commonly called the ‘A-bomb disease’—a fall-out from exposure to radiation. She was admitted to hospital, but the chances of surviving this disease were slim.

Sadako’s best friend used to visit her in hospital, and she brought with her some origami paper. In Japanese culture the crane is a mystical creature believed to live for 1000 years. It is believed that if someone folds 1000 paper cranes, they will be granted good fortune, healing from illness, or a single special wish. Sadako decided that she would fold 1000 paper cranes with the wish that she get well again; and she continued with her folding, even through periods of great pain and discomfort. Sadako died on October 25, 1955, ten years after bombing of Hiroshima. While one version of her story claims that she completed folding 1000 cranes before she passed away, another one claims that she was able to finish 644 and the remaining 356 were folded by her friends and loved ones.

Sadako’s classmates who had lost many of their friends to the A-bomb disease decided to form a unity club to honor their friend, and stay in touch after they all left school. The movement grew. The simple act of folding a crane started by Sadako and her classmates turned into a national, then an international, children’s peace movement. This developed into a plan to build a monument to recognize the many children who lost their lives because of the bomb. This is now known as the Children’s Peace Monument and is located in the center of Hiroshima Peace Park, close to the spot where the atomic bomb was dropped. Children from all over the world still send folded paper cranes to be placed beneath Sadako’s statue in the park. In so doing, they fulfill the wish engraved on the base of the statue: This is our cry, This is our prayer, Peace in the world.

Sadako’s story continues to be a reminder of the long-reaching and devastating effects of nuclear war, and the 1000 paper cranes have come to symbolize the hope for peace and health.  ‘1000 cranes’ is translated in Japanese as Senbazuru. This traditional practice is now universally associated with peace and good health. The cranes represent prayers for peace and the end of conflict; as also wellness wishes for the ill or injured.  Unlike the legend, they do not have to be completed by one person alone, they are often collaborative efforts, of classes of school children, or families.  

While the “unforgettable fire” of the atomic bomb annihilated tens of thousands of lives, those who survived had to live with the many dreadful effects of exposure to radiation. They not only suffered from ill health, but also discrimination, as it was rumored that they could infect others. These survivors are referred to in Japanese as Hibakusha or “bomb-affected people”. The word is still used to describe any person exposed to radiation from the nuclear fuel trajectory through the use, production and testing of nuclear weapons, as well as the processes that create and produce nuclear power, and nuclear waste.

The Nihon Hidankyo (the Confederation of A and H Bomb Sufferers) was formed in 1956 to fight for justice for the victims. Even though not many original hibakusha are alive today, the organization continues its mission which was recognized and honoured with the 2024 Nobel Peace Prize. 

Hibakusha Stories is an offshoot which works to facilitate the sharing of stories, not only  of survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki; but all individuals and communities who have been exposed to radioactive fallout and contamination from atmospheric nuclear weapons testing or nuclear production facilities, as well as Indigenous Peoples, nuclear test survivors and other affected communities to take action for disarmament.

The stories of the hibakusha teach courage in the face of threat, conviction that nuclear weapons are the ultimate crime against life; compassion and humanity, and above all, the urgent call to take action for disarmament.

In a world which is perilously close to exploding, thanks to the war-thirsty egotists and power brokers, and the threat of use of nuclear weapons looms like an ominously low-hanging storm cloud, these voices are almost drowned out. Maybe we need a reminder of Hiroshima and Nagasaki to jolt us to some semblance of sanity.

May the legend of Senbazuru bring a glimmer of hope for peace and health.

–Mamata

Celebrating Wiggle Your Toes Day – 6 August

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Ask anyone to name the five toes, and the answer is almost always silence beyond ‘big toe’. In fact, do our poor toes have names at all?

That’s sad because our toes work remarkably hard. They balance us, propel us forward, absorb the shock of every step, help us run, jump, climb, dance, and even tell our brains where our body is in space. Yet, apart from the “big toe” and the “little toe,” the other three don’t even get names in everyday conversation.

Do Toes Actually Have Names?

Not officially. Anatomists prefer numbers rather than names. Beginning from the inside of the foot:

  • Hallux – the big toe
  • Second digit
  • Third digit
  • Fourth digit
  • Fifth digit – the little toe

The word ‘hallux’ comes from Latin and is the proper anatomical name used by doctors, physiotherapists and podiatrists. Likewise, the little toe may simply be called the fifth digit or digitus minimus pedis in formal anatomy.

But outside medicine, people have invented all sorts of imaginative alternatives.

The big toe has been called Hallux, Great toe, Master toe or Captain.

The second toe is sometimes known as Pointer toe, Index toe or Long toe

The middle toe has earned names like Middle toe or Centre toe

The fourth toe occasionally becomes Ring toe or Companion toe

The little toe enjoys the richest collection of nicknames Pinky toe, Baby or Little Toe.

None of these is official. They’re simply examples of how language invents personality where anatomy prefers numbers.

But someone has given toes Latin names too! While these sound official, they are not! John Phillips of Yale University School of Medicine felt strongly about the toes not getting their due. In his letter “Higgledy, Piggledy” published on February 14, 1991, in The New England Journal of Medicine, he proposed whimsical Latin-style phrases for the toes, based on familiar children’s poem ‘This Little Pig..’. His names went like this:

“This little piggy went to market” → First toe: Porcellus fori (“Piglet of the marketplace”)

 “This little piggy stayed home” → Second toe: Porcellus domi (“Piglet of the home”)

 “This little piggy had roast beef” → Third toe: Porcellus carnivorus (“Meat-eating piglet”)

 “This little piggy had none” → Fourth toe: Porcellus non voratus (“Piglet having not eaten”)

“This little piggy cried ‘Wee! Wee! Wee!’ all the way home” → Little toe: Porcellus plorans domum (“Piglet crying homeward”)

The Hardworking Toes

Whether or not toes have names, they are critical to us. They are far more sophisticated than they appear. Together with the 26 bones, 33 joints and over 100 muscles, tendons and ligaments in each foot, they form a highly responsive system that constantly adjusts your posture and movement. Tiny sensory receptors in the skin, muscles and joints of the toes send continuous information to the brain about pressure, balance and the position of the body—a sense known as proprioception. This feedback enables you to stand upright without consciously thinking about it, maintain balance on uneven surfaces, and make rapid adjustments while walking, running or climbing.

The hallux (big toe) is especially important, bearing much of the body’s weight during the final “push-off” phase of each step and contributing significantly to walking efficiency. Research has shown that weakening or immobilising the toes can reduce balance, alter gait and even increase the risk of falls, particularly in older adults. In short, every step you take is the result of an intricate partnership between your toes, feet, nerves, muscles and brain. The other four toes act like a team. Together they maintain balance, spread body weight, adapt to uneven group, improve grip while walking barefoot, and help us change direction quickly.

So Give Your Toes Some Love

In America, they celebtrate ‘National Wiggle Your Toes Day’, every year on 6 August. Surley this is a custom that should be adopted across the world. A perfect day to pay a little attention to these unsung heroes.

It’s a reminder that these ten small digits quietly support us every single day. A barefoot walk on grass, a gentle foot massage, comfortable footwear, trimmed nails, or simply taking a moment to stretch your feet can make a surprising difference.

After all, life is a little more interesting when even your smallest toe has a story.

–Meena

Why July 22 Should Be International Pi Day

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One of the most memorable scenes in Life of Pi has nothing to do with a Bengal tiger or a lifeboat.

Piscine Molitor Patel has had enough of being teased about his unusual name. On the first day at his new school, he goes to the blackboard, writes the Greek letter π, and begins reciting its value to an astonishing number of decimal places. The classroom falls silent. His classmates never call him Piscine again. From that day on, he is simply “Pi.”

It is a wonderful moment. Knowledge triumphs over ridicule.

Every year on March 14, mathematicians and science enthusiasts celebrate Pi Day because, in the American style of writing dates, 3/14 resembles the first three digits of π—3.14. There are quizzes, lectures, pie-eating contests and social media posts celebrating perhaps the world’s most famous number.

But there is a small problem.

Outside the United States, most countries write dates as day/month, not month/day. In India, the United Kingdom, Australia, New Zealand, Singapore, Malaysia, and across most of Europe, Africa and Latin America, March 14 is simply 14/3. The neat mathematical coincidence disappears.

If there is one date that deserves to be celebrated as Pi Day, it is July 22. Written as 22/7, it represents the most famous fractional approximation of π—one that generations of students have learned long before they encountered calculators or computers.

The story of π begins with a deceptively simple observation. Measure the circumference of any circle and divide it by its diameter. Whether the circle is a coin, a bicycle wheel, a temple dome or the orbit of a planet, the answer is always the same mysterious number.

Simple in concept. Impossible to write down completely.

Its decimal expansion—3.1415926535…—goes on forever without repeating. It is an irrational number, one that can never be expressed exactly as a fraction.

Yet for thousands of years, practical mathematics has relied on approximations.

The fraction 22/7 is associated with the Greek mathematician Archimedes, who, more than 2,200 years ago, proved that π lay within a narrow range that included this elegant fraction. It is not exact, but it is remarkably accurate and wonderfully easy to remember. Builders, engineers, surveyors and schoolchildren have relied on it ever since.

India has one of the world’s oldest mathematical traditions, and its contribution to understanding π is fundamental. Around the fifth century CE, the great mathematician and astronomer Aryabhata gave a remarkably accurate value for π in his Aryabhatiya. His approximation—3.1416—was correct to four decimal places, an extraordinary achievement for its time. Even more impressive was his suggestion that this value was only an approximation, revealing an understanding that π could not be captured exactly.

Nearly a thousand years later came another remarkable breakthrough. Mādhava of Sangamagrama, founder of the Kerala School of Mathematics, developed infinite series for calculating π with astonishing precision. These methods anticipated ideas that later became central to calculus in Europe. By the fourteenth century, Indian mathematicians were calculating π to many decimal places using techniques that were centuries ahead of their time.

Today, historians increasingly recognise that. Egyptians, Babylonians, Greeks, Chinese, Arabs and Indians all advanced humanity’s understanding of numbers. Pi belongs not to one nation, but to civilisation itself. That makes July 22 an especially meaningful day.

Unlike March 14, which owes its popularity to one country’s date format, 22/7 is a mathematical symbol recognised across generations and across classrooms. For millions of students, it was their first introduction to π. Before calculators became commonplace, “Take π as 22/7” was almost a universal instruction.

Pi itself is everywhere. It appears in wheels and bridges, domes and tunnels, clocks and satellites. Engineers use it to design aircraft. Doctors encounter it in medical imaging. Astronomers use it to understand the cosmos. Physicists find it in equations that have little to do with circles. Even the digital technologies that shape our lives rest on mathematical foundations where π quietly makes an appearance.

Perhaps that is why Pi Patel chose the symbol as his new identity. It represented something larger than a number.

Celebrating July 22 would not simply honour a mathematical constant. It would celebrate curiosity, scientific temper and humanity’s enduring quest to understand the universe.

So by all means enjoy the festivities on March 14.

But when July 22 comes around, take a moment to remember Aryabhata, Archimedes, Mādhava—and perhaps even Pi Patel, the schoolboy who silenced his bullies not with fists, but with an endless stream of digits.

Perhaps it is time we celebrated July 22 as the International Pi Day—a day that honours not only one extraordinary number, but the shared human pursuit of knowledge that transcends borders, languages and centuries.

–Meena

A Tuneful AIR: Courtesy Walter Kaufmann

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It was the pied piper’s tune that we woke up to, and one that drew the family together at 9 pm every night to catch up on the news of the country and the world. It was the signature tune of All India Radio that gave structure to the day, and a sense of common purpose. The radio was the meeting point for all generations, and the source of connection to national and international events. And indeed, it was All India Radio that defined this coming together, and the tune that summoned the gathering.

The origins of AIR as it was popularly called, go back before India became independent. Radio broadcasting services started in India during the British rule in 1922-23 under the initiative of the Bombay Presidency Radio Club.  In 1927, the Indian Broadcasting Company (IBC) was set up as a private entity and was granted permission to operate two radio stations. On 23 July 1927 the IBC made the first ever radio broadcast in the country from the Bombay Station. This event marked the start of organized radio

IBC dissolved its operations on 1 March 1930; thereafter the Imperial Government took over the broadcasting operations. The Indian State Broadcasting Service (ISBS) was started on 1 April 1930 on an experimental basis for two years, and then permanently from May 1932. Eventually on 8 June 1936, it became what came to be known as All India Radio. It was also in 1936 that the first daily news bulletin was introduced.

After Independence, AIR’s offerings began to expand beyond news and important announcements to a wide range of programmes—music, drama, live commentaries, and more. It was the primary source of news as well as entertainment.

AIR adopted the name Akashvani in 1956. The name meaning Voice from the Sky was derived from the title of Rabindranath Tagore’s poem written in 1938 for the inauguration of Calcutta All India radio’s shortwave transmission service. AIR and Akashvani were used interchangeably until 3 May 2023 when Akashvani became the exclusive name.

What was synonymous with Akashvani was its signature tune. The lilting violin notes played to the background of a tanpura, drawing upon the classical raga Shivranjani, are closely associated with timeless Indian heritage. It comes as a surprise therefore to discover that the tune was composed by a Czech Jew fleeing the Nazis in Europe, who took refuge in India. This was Walter Kaufmann, a multifaceted musician.

Walter Kaufmann was born in 1907 to Jewish parents, in Karlovy Vary, today a city in the Czech Republic. Music was always his passion, which he also pursued formally. He graduated with a degree in music from Berlin, and moved on to do a PhD in musicology from the German University in Prague. By this time, the anti-Semitic wave was building up in Europe. Walter was beginning to feel the sprinkling from the wave. He himself refused to accept his degree when he discovered that one of his teachers was a leader of the Nazi youth group. As the clouds of war and discrimination against Jews grew darker, the young musician fled Europe and landed up in Mumbai in 1934, carrying a violin case and a battered suitcase filled with sheet music. As he revealed later, there was no specific logic that drew him here, only the fact that it was the only place for which he could easily get a visa! Thus he arrived thinking that Mumbai would be a transition point for moving on, and that his stay would be brief. Walter ended up staying in India for fourteen years!

Having landed here Walter now had to find means of supporting himself. He was a trained musician but from the European school. He knew next to nothing about Indian music sounds that he initially found “alien and incomprehensible”. But he was also open enough to appreciate that this music was created by people with “heart and intellect” and had a rich heritage and history. He was willing to learn more about it. Using his earlier academic training in musicology, he began to study the tradition of Indian music; he attended concerts by the great singers of the day, and even travelled to record folk musicians. He published scholarly notes on Indian ragas. He began to incorporate elements of the Indian tradition into his compositions, not as ornamental add-ons, but skillfully and seamlessly fused. Through this process, over his time in India, Walter himself transformed from a European musician into a cross-cultural composer.   

In the meanwhile, he used his existing skills and experience to found the Bombay Chamber Music Society which started giving weekly performances of Western symphonies. As Walter learned how to present Western classical traditions to Indians, the Society’s performances began to attract more and larger audiences. He also tutored students in violin, among whom was the young Zubin Mehta who would go on to become an internationally renowned Western classical music conductor.

In 1936 Walter joined AIR, initially as supervisor of the Western Music Department, and then became Director of Music. He worked at AIR for the next ten years. It is in the early years of his time at AIR he was tasked with creating a signature tune for AIR that was emerging as a powerful cultural institution across India. Walter composed the signature tune that became the identity of the radio station. The tune drew upon the raga Shivranjani. Barely a minute long, began with the notes of the tanpura followed by the lyrical sound of the violin. The violin for the piece was played by Mehli Mehta, the father of Zubin Mehta, and himself a noted concert violinist.   

This was a time when the film industry was shifting from silent movies. Mumbai was the hub of the fledgling industry. Walter’s mastery over blending western music with Indian forms was useful in getting a foothold in the film music field. He composed the background score for several films. For a decade, Walter Kaufmann continued to blend his academic training in western music with his deep study of the music of his adopted country.

Just before India gained independence, Walter moved on, in 1946. He went first to London where he worked for the BBC; then to Canada where he conducted the Winnipeg Symphony Orchestra; and finally, in 1975, to the United States, where he joined the School of Music at Indiana University Bloomington as a professor of ethnomusicology. He taught till 1977, and died there in 1984. His connection to India endured, and his rich collection of field recordings, photographs and handwritten scores from his time in India are preserved at Indiana University’s Cook Music Library.

Walter Kaufmann was an ethnomusicologist long before the discipline was formally established. Not many in India know of his many contributions, academic as well as creative to the field of music. And fewer still may know that the tune that is so strongly the sound and symbol of All India Radio stemmed from the creative juices of Walter Kaufmann.

23 July is celebrated as National Broadcasting Day in India to mark the beginning of radio broadcasting in the country. A good day to remember the pied piper who played the tune that is an integral part of the nation’s cultural and social landscape.      

–Mamata

Purple Tongues and an Ancient Land: Why India Was Once Called Jambudweep

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This has been a spectacular year for jamuns. Friends have been arriving at my doorstep with bowls of freshly picked fruit. Street vendors are doing brisk business. The paving beneath our neighbourhood tree is squishy and squashy with purple. Even the birds appear to be celebrating. Bulbuls squabble noisily over the ripest fruits, parakeets descend in unruly flocks.

As always, theories abound. “It mean there is going to be drought,” says one person with great confidence. Another attributes it to the delayed rains. A third insists that trees produce more fruit when they are stressed. But horticulturists point out that fruiting depends on a complex interplay of weather, flowering, pollination, soil moisture and tree health. A dry spell at one stage may help fruit set; a prolonged drought at another can reduce it. Hence they caution against any simple cause-and-effect attributions.

Whatever the reason for this year’s abundance, it has reminded me how easily we overlook one of India’s most extraordinary native trees.

The jamun (Syzygium cumini) has grown on this land for thousands of years. It belongs here. Long before apples arrived from colder climates or kiwis and dragon fruit found a place in our supermarkets, the jamun flourished in forests, along riverbanks, in village commons and temple courtyards. It asked for very little in return. A mature tree can withstand fierce summers, survive erratic rainfall, provide generous shade and still produce an astonishing crop of fruit when the monsoon arrives.

Its flowers feed bees and other pollinators. Its dense canopy shelters birds through the hottest months of the year. When the fruits ripen, they become a banquet for parrots, barbets, bulbuls, mynas, fruit bats, monkeys and squirrels. The fruits that fall to the ground feed insects and enrich the soil. A single old jamun tree supports an entire community of life, quietly performing ecological services long before we coined terms such as “biodiversity” and “ecosystem services.”

For us humans, the jamun has always been more than a seasonal treat. Rich in antioxidants, iron, vitamin C and fibre, it has occupied a respected place in Ayurveda for centuries. The seeds are traditionally dried and powdered, particularly for managing blood sugar, while the bark and leaves have found their way into a variety of medicinal preparations. Modern science continues to investigate many of these traditional uses, and although not every claim has been conclusively proven, there is little doubt that the jamun deserves its reputation as one of our healthiest indigenous fruits.

Yet what fascinates me most is not its nutritional value or even its ecological importance. It is the extraordinary honour that our ancestors bestowed upon it.

There was a time when this land was known not only as Bharat, but also as Jambudweep.

The name is deceptively simple. In Sanskrit, jambu means the jamun tree, while dvipa refers to a great landmass or continent. Put together, the name means “the land of the jamun.” It appears in Hindu Puranas, in Buddhist texts and in Jain cosmology. Each tradition interprets Jambudweep a little differently—sometimes as the central continent of the known world, sometimes more specifically as the Indian subcontinent—but all recognise it as the land associated with the magnificent jambu tree.

So even today, every sankalpa begins with “Jambudweepe, Bharata Varshe, Bharata Khande”. A Sankalpa is a formal intention or vow made by a priest or an individual before starting a puja, homa, or vrat. We can think of it like a cosmic address. Just as you use a GPS to pinpoint your exact location on Earth, a Sankalpa uses ancient geography to state exactly where and when you are performing the ritual. It tells the universe your location on a grand, cosmic scale before focusing on your specific name, family lineage, and current location.

An entire civilisation identified itself with a tree.

Modern nations usually derive their names from tribes, kingdoms, rivers or rulers. They commemorate conquests, dynasties and political boundaries. Ancient India, on the other hand, also chose to remember a tree that must have been so widespread, so familiar and so deeply woven into everyday life that it became a symbol of the land itself.

The old texts speak of gigantic jamun trees growing on mountain slopes, their fruits so abundant that the juice flowed into nearby streams, tinting the waters a deep purple. No one imagines these accounts to be literal descriptions. Ancient literature delighted in metaphor and imagination. But beneath the poetry lies an important historical clue. Vast stretches of the subcontinent must once have supported thriving populations of jamun trees, making them one of the defining features of the landscape.

It is a reminder that our ancestors viewed trees not simply as resources to be harvested or obstacles to development. They were companions in daily life, providers of food and medicine, landmarks for travellers, gathering places for communities and, occasionally, symbols worthy of naming an entire civilisation.

How things have changed! We get excited about imported blueberries and Californian cherries, discuss the merits of avocados with great seriousness and happily pay premium prices for fruits that have travelled halfway around the world. Meanwhile, the jamun arrives quietly every monsoon, sold from baskets lined with newspaper, accompanied by a small paper packet of salt and chilli powder. It stains our fingers, our lips and invariably our clothes, yet never complains about the lack of sophisticated marketing.

Sadly, many of the old jamun trees have disappeared. Expanding cities, road widening and shrinking open spaces have claimed countless mature specimens. Because the fruit bruises easily and has a short shelf life, it has never become a commercial superstar in the way that mangoes or apples have. And so, without quite noticing, we have allowed one of our most remarkable native trees to fade into the background.

This year’s generous harvest, whatever the weather’s role in producing it, feels like a timely reminder. We should celebrate the jamun not merely because it is delicious or healthy, but because it is part of our natural and cultural inheritance. Every old tree that survives deserves to be protected. Every new one that is planted is an investment not just in shade and fruit, but in biodiversity, history and memory.

So the next season when you buy a paper cone of jamuns from a roadside vendor, savour them slowly. Let your tongue turn gloriously purple. Watch the birds helping themselves to the fruits higher up the branches. And remember that you are tasting a fruit so deeply embedded in India’s landscape and imagination that it once lent its name to an entire civilisation.

Jambudweep—the Land of the Jamun. It is an ancient name, but perhaps it still has something important to teach us about belonging, gratitude and the quiet grandeur of a tree we have too often taken for granted.Summary

–Meena

Championing Snakes: Romulus Whitaker

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Slimy, sneaky, slithering, scaly, creepy, fanged and deadly, these are some words that are used to describe snakes. These members of the natural world are rarely bestowed with the more complimentary adjectives that their walking, leaping, swimming fellow members often are. Thus, snakes are universally feared, avoided, badmouthed, and when encountered, the first instinct is to eliminate them.

https://www.globalindian.com

Fortunately, every snake has its day, and July 16 it is. This is celebrated as World Snake Day, a global observance which aims to reduce this negative stigma, dispel common myths, and highlight the ecological significance of these species. This day brings to mind my own journey of learning about snakes, and the person who sparked it. And to celebrate Romulus Whitaker who was one of the earliest champions of the snakes in India.

My snake story began probably in the first week that I started my career as an environmental educator. As part of our orientation, we went to Sundarvan, a small animal park with a collection of snakes. There we saw a Snake Show, as part of which, we were asked to touch a snake! The snake was a Red Sand Boa—a non-venomous snake. For someone who was, at that time, far from being a passionate wild-lifer, this was indeed an experience that served to dispel the many myths that one had grown up with. One of these were that snakes were “slimy”, and to be avoided at all costs. The skin of the sand boa felt dry and smooth, and we learnt that most snakes are in fact non-venomous.

And there began my long and fascinating journey in the natural world. A journey along which I had the most wonderful encounters with some of India’s best known naturalists and educators. One of these was Romulus Whitaker–the Snakeman of India.

Not so long after my induction by snakes, Romulus himself came to CEE and fascinated us with snake tales and the importance of breaking the myths that associated snakes with all things creepy and vile, and communicating the vital role of snakes in the ecosystem, especially as friends of farmers because they eat the rats that destroy crops.

A little later, Romulus graciously accepted to write a piece for a book that Meena and I were editing. In this he recounted how his early childhood years were spent exploring the fields and forests of northern New York State where he was born. Even as a toddler he was catching bugs and spiders, and soon graduated to catching snakes and keeping them in a terrarium in his room. At that point he was equally into dinosaurs and did not imagine that reptiles would one day become his passion as well as his profession. He was seven years old when his family moved to India. He recalled how “the snake charmers at Juhu Beach in Bombay were my first tutors but it wasn’t long before I outgrew their mixture of magic and nonsense.” His school days spent in Kodaikanal, amidst forests, gave him ample opportunity to roam in the wilderness. He returned to the United States for college studies, where he also worked at the Miami Serpentarium, then the biggest snake venom production lab in the world.

Romulus’s own journey is a testament to how a childhood fascination can grow into a not only a profession, but also a meaningful lifelong mission to champion the snakes. In his own words: So you see, that a child’s single-minded interest in creatures that most people think are slimy and scary can develop into a profession that is totally fulfilling. My own, very self-centred fascination with reptiles has grown by leaps and bounds and resulted in the Snake Park, Croc Bank and exciting educative films. These are ways of sharing a love and passion for the creatures that have given me such an enjoyable life.

When he returned to India, Romulus was determined to set up a serpentarium, and start a long-term study of reptiles. In the meanwhile, he also had to earn a living. He started writing articles for newspapers and magazines, often accompanied by a photo. He also started writing his first scientific notes on interesting things that he had observed about reptiles for the Journal of the Bombay Natural History Society. At the same time, he was also scouting around for a place to start a Snake Park; Madras (now Chennai) seemed to be the best choice. As he recalled: “To make a long story very short, I badgered and bothered people in the Forest Department and the Secretariat in Madras and finally got permission to set up India’s first Snake Park within beautiful Guindy National Park, the green heart of the city.” The Snake Park was attracted a lot of visitors who had the opportunity of observing snakes at close quarters, as well as knowing more about these usually maligned creatures.

Romulus’s real knowledge about snakes came from the Irula, an indigenous community of traditional snake catchers of Tamil Nadu. They became his friends and mentors, sharing their experience in every aspect of these reptiles—from finding and catching them unharmed, to snake bites. While studying incidents of snakebites in India, Whitaker discovered that numerous lives were lost due to inadequate production and distribution of anti-venom serum. That is when he mobilised the Irula community to form a snake catchers’ cooperative, who under licenses from the Wildlife Department, extract and freeze-dry venom from snakes and sell it to anti-venom producing laboratories before releasing the snakes back into the wild.

His passion to show and tell more people about reptiles led Romulus to start making documentary films. Rom was aware that films were a medium that could reach out to large audiences. Rom teamed up with two school friends John and Loise Riber, and a young filmmaker Shekar Dattatri to make a film on India’s snakebite problem. Made on a shoestring budget, the film Snakebite went on to win several awards. Later many of his films were supported by National Geographic Television, and have won international awards.

Romulus Whitaker has won many accolades including an Emmy Award, Whitley Fund for Nature Award, Rolex Award for Enterprise, Peter Scott Award for Conservation Merit, Salim Ali Award for Nature Conservation. In 2018 Romulus was awarded the Padma Shri for nature conservation.

In one of the interviews following the award Romulus said “I believe that touching a snake opens people’s minds and changes it forever.” I personally can totally vouch for that! 

Thank you Romulus Whitaker for helping to open a new world not just for me, but for generations of young people. And for being a lifelong champion of the snakes.

–Mamata

Twiggy: The Quirky Bagworm Moth

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At first glance, it looks like a tiny piece of dried grass crawling across a wall.

Or perhaps a bundle of twigs that has mysteriously come to life.

Look closely, and you may be witnessing one of nature’s most ingenious engineers—the bagworm moth.

Bagworm moths belong to the family Psychidae, a group of over 1,300 species found across the world. India alone is home to more than a hundred recorded species, many of which remain little known outside scientific circles. Despite their modest size, these insects display a level of architectural skill that would put many builders to shame.

A House You Can Carry

Unlike most caterpillars, a bagworm larva begins life by building itself a portable home.

Using silk as mortar, it gathers whatever materials lie nearby—tiny twigs, dry leaves, grass blades, bark flakes, seeds, even grains of sand. Every species has its own choice of materials and characteristic style. Some create neat spindle-shaped cases, others make rough bundles of sticks, while tropical species may construct surprisingly elaborate structures.

The result is a camouflage masterpiece.

To an unsuspecting bird, the moving caterpillar looks like nothing more than a fragment of the tree itself.

And unlike a snail that outgrows its shell, the bagworm keeps enlarging its home as it grows, carefully adding fresh material throughout its larval life.

India’s Hidden Diversity

Bagworms occur throughout India—from the Himalayan foothills to the Western Ghats, from dry deciduous forests to urban gardens.

Entomologists from the Zoological Survey of India have documented more than 106 Indian species, although many more almost certainly await discovery, especially in biodiversity hotspots like the Western Ghats and Northeast India.

Several Indian species belong to genera such as Eumeta, Cryptothelea, Clania, Mahasena and Eumasia. Many feed on a wide range of plants, while others specialise on lichens growing on tree trunks.

People commonly refer to them simply as “bag caterpillars,” “case moths,” or by descriptive names equivalent to “leaf-bag insects” or “twig-case worms.” In Hindi, for instance, ‘jhola illi’ may be used; in Marathi, ‘pishvi ali’; in Kannda, ‘chila  ulu’; in Tamil, ‘pai or kuudu puzhu’, etc.   Generally, they are recognised more by the little bags hanging from trees than by the moth itself.

The Caterpillar That Never Really Leaves Home

The story becomes even stranger when adulthood arrives.

Male bagworms emerge as small, winged moths with feathery antennae, flying actively in search of mates.

Many females, however, never develop wings at all. Females of these species spend virtually their entire lives inside the protective case they built as caterpillars. They neither fly nor wander. Instead, they remain inside the bag while releasing pheromones that attract males. After mating, they lay eggs within the same case, and the next generation begins life inside the home built by their mother.

Nature has produced many unusual lifestyles, but few are as remarkable as an adult moth that never truly leaves its childhood home.

Forest Engineers in Miniature

The bag is much more than camouflage.

It protects the caterpillar from birds, parasitic wasps, spiders and sudden changes in temperature. Some cases are even pretty rain-proof.

Researchers believe the bags also reduce water loss during hot weather and provide insulation against cold nights.

The silk itself is extraordinarily strong. Scientists have noted that bagworm silk possesses impressive durability, making it of interest in materials research.

Friends…and Occasionally Foes

Most Indian bagworms quietly recycle plant material and form part of healthy forest ecosystems.

A few species, however, can become agricultural or horticultural pests when their numbers increase dramatically. They feed on leaves of ornamental plants, fruit trees and plantation crops, occasionally causing noticeable defoliation. Fortunately, such outbreaks are relatively uncommon, and natural predators usually help keep populations under control.

More to Come!

As recently as 2023, researchers described a previously unknown bagworm, Eumasia venefica, from Kerala. Unlike many relatives, its larvae have a close association with lichens and possess unusual case-building habits, reminding us that India’s insect diversity still contains many surprises.

Watch out for those walking twiggy bundles! Who knows if you will stumble on a new one!

–Meena

Wimbledon Shines On

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A photograph in the newspaper showed Roger Federer tennis’ GOAT sitting alone in the VIP Pavilion at Wimbledon. It made me wonder why? Wimbledon is one of the oldest and most revered of Tennis traditions, and to be a spectator at this venue which is teeming not only with the GOATs and future Greats of Tennis, but equally the crème de la crème of society from British monarchy to Hollywood icons, is a special privilege. Is it that this year the FIFA World Cup has eclipsed all other sporting events?

Be that as it may, Wimbledon remains the grand old lady of professional tennis. It’s interesting history dates back to 1877. The first tournament was hosted by the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club. It had originally been called the All England Croquet Club when it opened in 1869. But as the new game of lawn tennis was growing in popularity the club decided to provide tennis courts for their visitors. And also changed its name to include Lawn Tennis.

Tennis itself had its origins in a 13th century French handball game called je de paume or ‘game of the palm’ which developed into an indoor racket-and-ball game called real or ‘royal’ tennis.  In about 1873, an Englishman adapted indoor tennis to be played on grass, naming the game ‘sphairistike’, after an ancient Greek game. Sphairistike quickly became popular among the idle upper classes, who were itching for a new sport to play.

The game was promoted by the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club which laid down the rules of the game that codified and shaped the game. Since then the All India Club has been the ‘supreme court of appeal on the question of rules’.  

The club held its first lawn tennis tournament on 9 July 1877 at Wimbledon, then an outer suburb of London. The tournament continued for the next several days, including some non-playing days. The only event was the Gentlemen’s Singles tournament, where the winner would take home a 25-guinea prize. 200 spectators showed up. By the mid-1880s thousands were flocking the stands. By 1905 the championships were attracting competitors from overseas. Tennis was coming of age.

Twenty-two amateurs registered to compete in the first championship, but only 21 showed up on July 9 for its first day. Interestingly only ‘amateurs’ were allowed to compete in the championships, and that clause remained for the next 90 years. ‘Amateur’ was then a synonym of ‘gentleman’. For the elite running the country clubs, sport wasn’t sport until it was played in one’s leisure time on private estates. The term professional carried the stigma of the ‘manual labourer’.

In the 1950s, many tennis stars turned professional while Wimbledon struggled to remain an amateur tournament. It is only in 1968 that Wimbledon first allowed professionals—players who in some manner were paid for their tennis ability—to compete at the championships, ushering in the “open era.”

Women began playing at Wimbledon in 1884, seven years after the men. But it was only in 2007 that Wimbledon introduced equal prize money for women.

The annual championships continued uninterrupted except for the years during World War II. In preparation for Germany’s infamous Blitz bombing attacks on London, the grounds of the 150-year-old British tennis club were transformed into a Civil Defence camp. The grounds even became home to a small farmyard stocked with rabbits, pigs and hens. On 11 October 1940 Wimbledon’s historic Centre Court even took a direct hit from a 500-pound German bomb. The grounds were not fully repaired until 1949. And from then on, the annual tournaments were uninterrupted.

As with all things English, Wimbledon has its special traditions. The accepted outfit of choice for Wimbledon players in the nineteenth century was plain white long-sleeved shirts and trousers for men, and full-length corseted white dresses and hats for women. It was not until the 1920s and 1930s that the players, and particularly the female players, began to experiment with their clothing. Shorter skirts, shorts and sleeveless tops were all introduced, some more daringly than others, to provide ease of movement and a sense of individual personality. Today we have players like Naomi Osaka making her entrance to the court in outfits that attract as much (if not more) attention as her dramatic tennis.

The men have long been promoters of commerce. As far back as the nineteen thirties, the French grand slam winner Rene Lacoste promoted his own label by wearing crocodile emblazoned shirts on court. Today designer wear and multi-million dollar sponsorships which announce themselves with emblazoned logos, make players look like animated ads. Even the ball boys and girls have left behind the traditional Wimbledon colours of green and purple, and have sported navy and cream uniforms created by the American fashion designer Ralph Lauren since 2006. The tradition of having strawberries and cream has remained unchanged.

Bjorn Borg 1975

I cannot resist adding my own Wimbledon story. As a young student in England in 1975, one of the items on the ‘bucket list’ of things to do before I leave England was to catch a match at Wimbledon. So early one morning, a couple of friends and I set off by train from Brighton to the Wimbledon station. Having walked to the venue we joined the serpentine queues for the daily tickets. Our carefully saved few pounds would not let us anywhere near the luxury of season tickets, or seats for any of the later matches on the Centre Court, as the players advanced from quarter finals to crowning glory. Nevertheless, we could afford standing room for the day’s matches. We saved a few shillings to partake of the traditional strawberries and cream, as we flaunted our wide-brimmed straw hats. But we did get to see the rising star, and everyone’s current heart throb Bjorn Borg play. He lost that year’s Wimbledon title to Arthur Ashe, but the next month went on the win the French Open title.

Today 149 years after the first tournament was initiated on 9 July, the Wimbledon championships remain the only major tennis event still played on grass. The name and the game continue to make headlines as new comets emerge, skyrocket to fame and, when their time comes, give way to a new crop of stars. The glory of Wimbledon continues to glitter and gleam like old gold.

–Mamata