The Matilda Effect: When Women-Scientists are Written Out

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As appropriate to the month when we mark International Women’s Day, our pieces have revolved around women, their achievements and barriers to their growth. This week, we look at an uncomfortable historical pattern: how many of the contributions made by women have been ignored, minimized, or credited to men. This phenomenon has a name — the Matilda Effect.

The term was coined in 1993 by historian of science Margaret W. Rossiter, who used it to describe the systematic denial of recognition to women-scientists whose work was often attributed to male colleagues. Rossiter named it after the 19th-century American activist Matilda Joslyn Gage, who had earlier observed how women’s intellectual achievements were routinely erased from public record.

In simple terms, the Matilda Effect refers to the tendency for women’s scientific or scholarly contributions to be overlooked while men receive the credit.

Why the Matilda Effect Matters

Recognition is not just about credit; it shapes opportunity.

Academic promotions, research funding, leadership roles, and history are all tied to who gets acknowledged. When women’s contributions are under-recognized, it creates a cycle in which fewer women are visible as role models for the next generation.

Young girls interested in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics often search for people who look like them in positions of intellectual authority. When those figures are missing from textbooks and public discourse, aspirations can quietly narrow.

The Matilda Effect therefore operates not only as a historical injustice but also as a structural barrier to gender equity in knowledge systems.

History’s Striking Examples

Consider Rosalind Franklin’s whose X-ray crystallography images were critical to understanding the structure of DNA and enabled the breakthrough model proposed by James Watson and Francis Crick. Yet when the Nobel Prize was awarded in 1962, Franklin — who had already passed away — received little recognition for her role.

Another well-known case is of Lise Meitner, the Austrian physicist who played a key role in explaining nuclear fission. The Nobel Prize for the discovery went solely to her collaborator Otto Hahn.

India’s own intellectual history reflects similar patterns.

Take Janaki Ammal, the pioneering botanist and cytogeneticist whose work significantly advanced plant breeding and biodiversity studies in India. Despite her groundbreaking research, she remained far less publicly known than many of her male contemporaries.

Or Anna Mani, the pioneering physicist and meteorologist whose work laid the foundation for modern meteorological instrumentation in India. She played a crucial role in standardizing weather measurement systems and advancing research in solar radiation and wind energy, contributing significantly to India’s renewable energy potential. Despite the far-reaching impact of her work, she remained relatively under-recognized outside scientific and policy circles.

(MM blogs on these two amazing ladies are linked below)

Similarly, Asima Chatterjee, one of India’s foremost organic chemists, made pioneering contributions to the chemistry of natural products and anti-malarial drugs. Although widely respected within scientific circles, her name rarely appears in popular narratives of Indian science.

Signs of Change

Things are hopefully changing. An example is Tessy Thomas, often called India’s “Missile Woman.” As a senior scientist at the Defence Research and Development Organisation, she played a key role in the development of the long-range ballistic missile Agni‑V. Her journey from a small town in Kerala to leading strategic defence projects has made her an inspiration for many young women considering careers in engineering and defence research.

Another widely admired figure is Gagandeep Kang, a leading medical scientist known for her work on infectious diseases and vaccines. As the first Indian woman elected Fellow of the Royal Society in the field of biomedical science, she has become a powerful role model for girls interested in medical research and public health.

In the world of space science, Ritu Karidhal and Muthayya Vanitha gained national recognition for their leadership roles in India’s lunar mission Chandrayaan‑2 at the Indian Space Research Organisation. Their visibility during the mission helped reshape public perceptions about who leads complex scientific and technological projects.

Similarly, Nandini Harinath, another senior scientist at ISRO, became widely known after the success of the Mars Orbiter Mission, where she was part of the core navigation and mission design team.

Dr. Gagandeep Kang

What distinguishes these scientists is not only their technical expertise but also their public presence. Through lectures, interviews, and outreach programs, they actively encourage young girls to consider careers in STEM — science, technology, engineering, and mathematics.

Recognition is the first step. Structural barriers — from access to research funding to representation in leadership — still need attention.

Here is to women-scientists having their day and say in scientific research!

–Meena

Picture: Indian Academy of Sciences

​See Magnoila Lady Janaki Ammal https://millennialmatriarch464992105.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=2994&action=edit

and Weather Woman Anna Mani at https://millennialmatriarch464992105.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=3235&action=edit

The March to Freedom: Women and the Salt Satyagraha

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March is a significant month in the history of India’s freedom movement. On 12 March 1930 Mahatma Gandhi set out from the Sabarmati Ashram in Ahmedabad on a journey that was to cover many milestones, in more than one way.

On 2 March 1930 Gandhiji had written a letter to the Viceroy giving notice of his intention to launch a civil disobedience movement by symbolically breaking the Salt Law which in his opinion was “the most iniquitous of all from the poor man’s standpoint.” He was snubbed in return; which strengthened his resolve. He selected Dandi, a seaside village in Gujarat as the site for his symbolic gesture, and planned to walk the distance of 241 miles from his Sabarmati Ashram in Ahmedabad, along with a select band of co-workers. The date for setting off on the march was fixed for 12 March, and 6 April was the date set for the ‘breaking of the salt law” at Dandi. Gandhiji also vowed not to return to the ashram until the Salt Act was repealed, and Swaraj was won.

On March 12, 1930 at 6.30 a.m. Gandhiji, left the Ashram accompanied by 78 satyagrahis. These represented a cross-section of the people from all over the country: Andhra Pradesh, Bengal, Bihar, Bombay, Gujarat, Karnataka, Kerala, Kutchh, Maharashtra, Punjab, Rajputana, Sind, Tamil Nadu, U.P. Utkal, and even Nepal. The group included members of all communities. They fell in a wide age spectrum from 16-year-old Vitthal Liladhar Thakkar to 61-year-old Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi! The main criteria for the selection, that he personally made, was that the marchers were disciplined, and strictly adhered to the principles of ahimsa and satyagraha.

Despite so much diversity, there was one lacuna in the composition of the marchers.  The group did not include any women. One of the later historians attributed this to Gandhi’s concern that the British would taunt the marchers for being cowardly and “hiding behind the women” in the battlefield. But many women were eager to join the battle. Gandhiji was inundated with letters, telegrams and personal appeals from women to permit them to take active part in the struggle. Gandhiji had other plans for their engagement. In a piece published in Young India, titled To the Women of India Gandhiji wrote: “I feel that I have now found that work. …Let the women of India take up these two activities, specialize in them; they would contribute more than man to national freedom. They would have an access of power and self-confidence to which they have hitherto been strangers.”

Women in Bombay with sea water to make salt https://www.mkgandhi.org/articles/a-fistful-of-salt.php

At each of the 24 villages that Gandhiji and his yatris halted for the night enroute to Dandi, Gandhiji urged women to step out of their homes and make salt locally. He also encouraged women to participate and contribute to the struggle by taking up picketing of liquor shops and foreign cloth, and taking up spinning. Hundreds of women from the neighbouring villages came to see and hear Bapu. Many of these women were unlettered, and followed strictly subscribed traditional roles. But Salt struck a common chord in every one of them. It was the ingredient that linked the domestic with the national.  

Women from all walks of life took up Bapu’s clarion call with great energy and commitment. They related closely to the symbolic power of salt. As Kamaladevi Chattopdadhyay, who was on the forefront of the movement wrote: “The salt satyagraha must stand out as not only unique but as an incredible form of revolution in human history. The very simplicity of this weapon was as appealing as intriguing. So far as women were concerned it was ideally tailor-made for them. As women naturally preside over culinary operations, salt is for them the most intimate and indispensable ingredient”.

Kamlaladevi organized volunteers for a variety of programmes including prabhat pheris (dawn processions), gathering salt and brine on the beaches of Bombay, and moving across the city distributing small packages of illicitly made salt. Women in the hundreds came out onto the streets to take part in these activities. Once in the fray, women were not to be daunted nor afraid of police batons.

In the following months the movement spread across the country, as more and more women poured out of their homes to join the activities. Women started organizing prabhat pheris on the streets of Bombay and Ahmedabad, where they sang songs about the bounty of the motherland. They helped put together vanar senas, or monkey brigades, consisting of children who supported the activists in offering resistance to the British. As their presence grew, and activities expanded the police became less restrained. The women faced brutal lathi charges, and a record number ended up in prison for the first time in the history of the subcontinent.

Chroniclers of that period have noted that while the original Dandi March began with a troop of males, the subsequent events inspired an unprecedented movement of women from every walk of life to move out of the private spaces of their homes, and traditionally designated roles, and enter public spaces to join a national movement.

Jawaharlal Nehru wrote in The Discovery of India, “Here were these women, women of the upper or middle classes leading sheltered lives in their homes, peasant women, working-class women, rich women, poor women, pouring out in their tens of thousands in defiance of government order and police lathi.”

The Dandi March was a turning point not only in the history of India’s freedom  movement, but also in the participation of Indian women in a political cause. It was a catalyst for women to claim public spaces in large numbers, united by a common cause.

March 8 is celebrated as International Women’s Day. In the United States the month of March is marked as Women’s History Month to honour women’s contributions in  American history. In India too we must celebrate the month of March as significant, the month in which, several historic events brought the women of India into the public space, and a movement that saw the emergence of women as warriors in a non-violent war.

–Mamata

WOW, AN AMBIGRAM!

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Once in a while, you come across something that makes you pause and look twice. Not because it is complicated — but because it bends the rules you thought were fixed. Ambigrams fall in that category.

An ambigram is a word or phrase designed so that it can be read in more than one way (like ‘WOW’ in the title, and the word ‘ambigram’ itself above). Sometimes you can rotate a word upside down and it still reads the same word. Sometimes a mirror reveals a hidden twin. Sometimes the letters rearrange themselves into an entirely different word depending on how you look at them. For example, bud turns into dub, while Malayalam reads the same both ways. And when turned upside down, swims reads the same, while wow turns into mom. Some ambigrams are natural (such as dollop), while others can be designed or created with calligraphy. Calligraphic ambigrams are quite popular and are often used as logos or tattoo designs.

It is typography performing a magic trick.And once you notice ambigrams, you start seeing them everywhere.

The graphic artist John Langdon’s mind-bending designs brought the form into the public eye. His work gained global attention when Dan Brown used ambigrams as visual motifs in the thriller Angels & Demons. Words like Earth, Air, Fire, and Water appeared as rotational ambigrams through artistic interpretations in the novel, sparking a wave of fascination with this unusual art form.

But ambigrams are older than that sudden burst of fame.

Some of the earliest playful experiments with reversible words appeared in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when typographers and puzzle-makers began exploring the idea that letters could be visually flexible rather than fixed. The concept was formally named “ambigram” by cognitive scientist Douglas Hofstadter, author of the well-known book Gödel, Escher, Bach. Hofstadter loved patterns that blurred the line between art, mathematics, and perception — and ambigrams fit that fascination perfectly.

Unlike normal typography, where letters follow strict shapes, ambigram artists must negotiate between readability and symmetry. A single letter might need to transform into another when flipped. Curves may double as stems. Serifs may become loops.

There are several kinds of ambigrams, and each works its magic differently.

Rotational ambigrams are perhaps the most famous. Rotate the word 180 degrees and it still reads correctly. Sometimes it turns into a different word. One classic example transforms “sun” into “sun” again after rotation, while more complex designs might flip “love” into “hate.”

Mirror ambigrams reveal their secret when placed beside a mirror, completing the word through reflection.

Perceptual shift ambigrams are subtler. They rely on the brain’s tendency to interpret shapes differently depending on context. A letter that looks like an “M” in one moment might suddenly become a “W” the next.

The joy of ambigrams lies in the way they invite interaction. Unlike ordinary text, which we simply read, ambigrams ask us to play. We rotate the page. Tilt our heads. Squint slightly. The moment when the hidden reading suddenly appears produces a spark of delight — a reminder that perception is not always as fixed as we think.

Creating an ambigram requires patience and experimentation. Designers sketch dozens of variations before discovering the balance where form and meaning finally align.

Interestingly, ambigrams often appear in unexpected places. Tattoo artists love them because they can encode dual meanings into a single design. Logos sometimes use them to create visual symmetry. Puzzle books and optical illusion collections frequently feature them as playful brain-teasers.

We live in a time when language moves quickly — texts, tweets, captions, headlines. Words flash past our eyes faster than we can savour them. Ambigrams slow things down. They ask us to look at words, not just read them.

They remind us that letters are shapes. That meaning can shift with perspective. That the same word can contain more than one story.

In that sense, ambigrams are more than clever design.

They are small lessons in perception.

Turn the page around, and the world might look different!

–Meena

Image source: Wiktionary

Superslueths: Lady Detectives

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Continuing Meena’s celebration of women in unconventional professions. While forensic scientists do a lot of their work in labs, there is a band of sleuths that follow clues on the ground. These are the women detectives. Crime fiction through the ages has had its share of popular female detectives. From Jane Marple, the gentle (but canny) epitome of an old English aunt, to Mma Ramotswe, the generously proportioned Botswana detective, these fictional detectives have a dedicated band of followers. Not many readers may even stop to wonder if such sleuths exist in real life. Indeed, they do! And the real lady detectives probably date back as far back as the fictional ones.

In Victorian England several stories of female detectives appeared in newspapers in the 1850s and 1860s. These ladies donned disguises to pursue thieves, and spy on adulterous husbands. Most of these ladies were initially part of male-led detective agencies, but by the 1880s women were beginning to set up their own agencies. Maud West was one of the most popular and well-known private detectives of her time in England. She was famous for her disguises. In 1905 she set up her own private detective agency. Over the next century such lady detectives were in demand especially as they were discreet, ingenious, and smart at surveillance.

But it took until the early twentieth century for a woman to join Scotland Yard as a detective. On December 27, 1922, Lilian Wyles became the first woman in the history of the Metropolitan Police to join the Criminal Investigation Department (C.I.D.) as an inspector. She was promoted to Woman Detective Inspector First Class on February 18, 1935.

Alice Clement: Queen of Dramatic Arrest

Meanwhile across the Atlantic, women were also entering what was considered to be a male domain. In 1856 a self-possessed young woman walked into the Chicago office of Pinkerton Detective Agency looking for a job, but not a job as a secretary. Kate Warne was hired, becoming the first female detective in the United States of America. She proved herself to be fearless, and adept at digging out valuable information. In one investigation she posed as a fortune teller to entice secrets from a suspect; in another she made friends with the murderer’s wife. The most defining case of her career was to foil an attempt to assassinate President Abraham Lincoln while on a train trip. She infiltrated the plotters by cultivating their wives and daughters. Her exploits encouraged other women to explore this field. Kate Warne rose to become the superintendent of the female bureau of the Chicago office of Pinkerton Detective Agency.  

While Kate was into private investigation, the official law and order agencies still had to engage women. In 1913, Alice Clement was the only woman in the class of almost 100 new police officers in Chicago’s police force. And Alice made no attempt to colorlessly blend in with the uniforms. She flaunted fashionable dresses, ropes of pearls, and a sophisticated haircut, even as she brandished a submachine gun, and practiced martial arts. She was passionate about her chosen profession, famous for her undercover work, and solving difficult murder cases. The Queen of Dramatic Arrest as she was called, was feared by even the most hardened criminals of the day. Alice Clement was a major advocate for women’s rights including the right to vote. She also travelled across the United States making a case for police departments to include policewomen, leading to several cities opening up this career for women. The substantial presence of women officers in the police dramas that we see on TV today, are not just reel characters but reflections of the real women who are integral to investigation of crime.

It took almost a hundred years after these pioneering PIs, for India’s first female detective to make her presence felt. Rajani Pandit the daughter of a CID officer, did some instinctive sleuthing while in college.  She tried to find out why one of her classmates was behaving out of character, unraveled the mystery; and informed the parents who were grateful. Rajani was now bitten by the bug, and began to pursue investigative work, more as a passion than profession. Her father was not too happy with his daughter’s choice of work. But news of Rajani’s successful investigations spread through word of mouth, followed by some media publicity. Cases started pouring in, and in 1986 she set up her own detective agency–Rajani Investigative Bureau. From a time when the idea of a female detective was met with disdain, Rajani and her bureau have solved 75000 cases. These cover a range, from extramarital affairs to corporate espionage, missing persons to murder.

Today more women are making a foray in this field. Perhaps the youngest female detective to set up her own agency is Tanya Puri. Still in her 20s she runs Lady Detectives India. The agency has half-a-dozen female investigators. They call themselves the Girl Squad, and usually work in pairs when out late on Delhi’s streets.

Female detectives nowadays carry out undercover operations, conduct surveillance, take charge of high-stakes investigations, cases of corporate espionage, and sensitive matrimonial investigations. Women in India can legally lead investigations.  

What makes women excellent investigators? As a veteran male detective observed: They are highly perceptive, they know how to get access locations and discussions that men can’t, and they’re very organized. Women communicate empathy which engenders trust.  

Mma Ramotswe summed this up neatly: Women are the ones who know what’s going on. They are the ones with eyes.   

On this Women’s Day celebrating the spunk in every woman—past, present and future!

–Mamata

In Pursuit of Criminals: A Women’s Day Special

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Not chocolates and roses. Here is a Women’s Day post that is about gore and crime.

Though not often associated with forensic science, women down the ages and across the world have played a huge role in defining it. We celebrate a few of them.

The Dollhouse Decorator

At a time when women were expected to add beautiful touches to drawing rooms, Frances Glessner Lee was building miniature crime scenes.

Often called the ‘Mother of Forensic Science’, she started recreating dollhouse-scale reconstructions of unexplained deaths in exquisite detail. This stemmed from her inherent interest in solving crimes, and inputs from a close friend who was a medical examiner, who believed that investigators often disturbed crime scenes, missed small but critical evidence and jumped to conclusions too quickly.

These “Nutshell Studies” became training tools for investigators at Harvard University. Every curtain hem, every blood spatter, every overturned chair was re-created down to the smallest detail. Trainees had to study the model for a fixed amount of time, take notes, propose the cause and manner of death, and defend their reasoning. Thousands of police personnel were trained using these tools which contributed greatly to the professionalization of forensic science

Born in 1878 to a wealthy family, she was denied a formal education in medicine simply because she was a woman. Later in life, after inheriting a substantial fortune, she used her resources to support the emerging field of forensic science at Harvard University.

The Woman in the Mass Graves

Fast forward to the 1990s.

In post-genocide landscapes in Rwanda and the Balkans, a young forensic anthropologist named Clea Koff was working with teams assisting the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda and the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. 

She is best known for her work investigating mass graves and gathering forensic evidence of genocide and crimes against humanity for United Nations tribunals in the 1990s and early 2000s. In Rwandashe worked in exhuming mass graves of victims from the 1994 genocide, documenting and recovering remains used as evidence in genocide prosecutions; in Bosnia, Croatia, Serbia, and Kosovoshe participated in multiple missions documenting war crimes and crimes against humanity.

Her efforts in unearthing skeletal remains, establishing identity, and collecting evidence to support criminal prosecutions helped in proving many crimes against humanity.

She is also known for her widely read memoir The Bone Woman.

The Woman Who Said, “Check Again.”

Then there is contemporary Britain.

Angela Gallop, born 1950, joined the Forensic Science Service in 1974 as a senior biologist — one of the few women in the laboratory at the time. She visited her first crime scene in 1978, investigating the murder of Helen Rytka by the Yorkshire Ripper.

She contributed decisively to many cases: in the case of Roberto Calvi, she could prove murder rather than suicide; her meticulous re-examination of microscopic blood evidence helped to identify the real criminal in the Lynette White murder; she found evidence to tie the murderer to the crimes in the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path Murders. Her work helped to re-open several cases like the Rachel Nickell murder

She was also involved in the review of the death of Diana, Princess of Wales, finding no scientific support for conspiracy theories.

After her contributions to the government, she founded Forensic Alliance, an independent consultancy known for revisiting controversial cases.

She was one of the first people to warn about confirmation bias–the human tendency to decide first and prove later. Her stance was always that evidence must lead.

Thanks to her, criminals were brought to book, and maybe even more importantly, innocents were released.

And Closer Home…

Dr. Rukmani Krishnamurthy is widely recognised as India’s first woman forensic scientist.

She entered forensic science in 1974 (the same year that Angela Gallop began her career!), joining the Directorate of Forensic Science Laboratories (DFSL) in Mumbai at a time when the field was overwhelmingly male-dominated and went on to become Director of DFSL Maharashtra and later took up many senior forensic leadership roles.

Dr. Rukami Krishnamurthy

She led major forensic examinations in high-profile cases such as the 1993 Mumbai blasts, the Matunga train fire, Joshi-Abhyankar serial killings, dowry deaths, and others.

Under her leadership, forensic labs adopted advanced methods including DNA profiling, cyber forensics, and lie detection techniques.  She helped transform Indian forensic practice from a peripheral support function to a central scientific pillar in criminal investigations.

Another star is Sherly Vasu, a trailblazing forensic pathologist and surgeon, known for her deep impact in medico-legal work in Kerala. She completed her MD in Forensic Medicine and became the first woman forensic surgeon in the state.  She headed departments of forensic medicine at prestigious medical colleges and later served as Principal of a medical college. She has not only trained generations of forensic scientists, but has conducted around 15,000 autopsies and contributed to evidence in many criminal cases.

So this Women’s Day, let us pay homage to these women who made their mark in a very offbeat career path—bringing criminals to book. It is women like them, who quietly established that expertise is all that counts, who have paved the way for all women in all careers.

Happy Women’s Day!

–Meena

Boi Mela: A Book Fair With History

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Just as the winter season of book fairs and literature festivals around the country was coming to a close, the temperature heated up with an article in a British newspaper that alleged that the hundred or more literature festivals that covered all parts of the country were more about “being seen” rather than a serious love for books and reading. The article unleashed a flurry of responses, rejoinders and rebuttals. And the debate may continue until the next literature festival.

While the somewhat glitzy avatar of literature festivals might be relatively recent, it may be a surprise to discover that book fairs have a long history in India, and have always had a substantial attendance. In fact, the first book fair in India was held in 1918 in Calcutta. The Boi Mela as it was called, was held at College Street, the hub of Bengal’s learning and publishing industry. This was not a society event, although it was certainly helmed by some of the most prominent intellectuals of the day in Bengal including Rabindranath Tagore, Lala Lajpat Rai, Gurudas Banerjee, Bepinchandra Pal, and Aurobindo Ghosh, among others.

The Book Exhibition, as it was called, was one of the activities that were being planned and carried out as part of the nationwide wave of Swadeshi. The Swadeshi Movement is largely associated with Gandhiji who gave the call for boycott of British goods and adoption of hand-spun khadi as part of the Non-Cooperation Movement launched in 1920-21. However, the swadeshi movement had its roots much before that, in response to the British plan to bifurcate Bengal in 1905. In August 1905, a massive meeting was held at Calcutta Town hall where the formal declaration of the Swadeshi Movement was made. There was a call to boycott Manchester cloth and Liverpool salt. The formal partition of Bengal in 1905 strengthened the call, and the involvement of people from all walks of life in boycotting all British goods and services. The people were fired by the patriotic songs composed by Rabindranath Tagore. 

Another aspect of this movement was to counter the education policies of the British Government by evolving a nationalist education system. This triggered a demand for a national university. By November 1905 the climate was charged with multi-pronged efforts towards this. Speeches, meetings, articles in newspapers and magazines endorsed the idea of a national university.  Prominent citizens gave generous donations for its establishment. At a conference held on 16 November 1905, a resolution was passed to “establish a National Council of Education… to organize a system of education — Literary, Scientific and Technical on National Lines and under National Control”. The process to work out the details took four months. A resolution formalizing this was passed on 11 March 1906.The Council’s prime objective was to “quicken the national life of the people.”

The National Council of Education (NCE) started the movement to spread science and technical education on national lines and under national control, to counter education and trade policies of the British government. On 14 August 1906, the Council’s first academic institute was inaugurated. This was the Bengal National College and School. Subsequently it also established the Bengal Technical Institute; both of which would later merge to form Jadavpur University.

This was several years before Gandhiji launched his nationwide stir for Swadeshi and set up the first Rashtriya Shala in 1920 to promote national education, manual labour, and handmade products. 

Aurobindo Ghosh was the first Principal of Bengal National College. In an article published in 1908 he wrote: ‘The Council is not merely an educational body nor is the College merely an educational institution; they are trustees to the people of a great instrument of National regeneration and should always work in that spirit.’ The founding members also felt that there was a need for widening education and people’s access to books.

It was in this spirit that NCE organized what is considered to be India’s first book fair in 1918. This event symbolized self-reliance and intellectual independence which was one aspect of the Swadeshi Movement. All the leading publishers of that time took part. The Book Exhibition, as it was then called, generated a lot of interest among citizens. It continued to be held annually for the next few years till the nationalist movement shifted its focus to a greater struggle against the British rule.

Over time memories of the first book fair slipped into oblivion until the 1970s when a group of young book lovers and publishers of Kolkata who met regularly at the College Street Coffee House started discussing how the publishing trade could be boosted. Someone gave the example of the Frankfurt Book Fair a commercial trade fair of books. The young publishers envisaged that a similar event could be held in Kolkata, but the older publishers were wary and skeptical about such an event. They felt that books were not commodities that could be sold in fairs. The younger group persisted and their efforts bore fruit when the first Kolkata Book Fair was organized on 5 March 1976. 34 publishers participated and 56 stalls were set up near Victoria Memorial. The entry fee was a nominal 50 paise. Book lovers flocked in. 

By 1983, the Fair achieved international accreditation and attracted larger and larger crowds. It moved to the larger Maidan grounds to accommodate growing participation of publishers as well as visitors. Despite challenges like the devastating fire of 1997, which destroyed 100,000 books, and rain damage the following year, the Fair’s resilience became its hallmark.

From 1991, the Fair introduced a focal theme every year, on the lines of the Frankfurt Book Fair. Each year one Indian state was selected to be the theme state for that year’s Fair, highlighting the literature and culture of the state. The first theme state was Assam. Subsequently foreign countries were also accorded theme status for each year.  From 1997, the focal theme has been a foreign country, starting with France.

In 2018 the centenary of the first Book Fair was celebrated with a modest book exhibition organized by the Jadavpur campus of National Council of Education.

Starting as a 10-day event, the Kolkata Book Fair gradually became a 12-day affair, usually starting in last week of January. Today the Boi Mela as it is locally called occupies as important a space in the calendar of Bengalis as does Durga Puja. It epitomizes the vibrant intellectual culture, and celebrates Kolkata’s history of reading, learning and sharing knowledge. It is also a reminder of the legacy of the Book Fair, a common meeting place for bibliophiles from every walk of life.

–Mamata

When Letters Took Flight: The First Air Mail

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As a member of the generation before email and ‘texting,’ and one who has always been an avid letter writer, there are many memories of trips to the local Post Office to buy stamps and personally drop the letter in the friendly red post box. The process was more complicated when mailing a letter to someone who was not in India. This meant taking a decision on whether the post should be sent by surface mail or air mail. Air mail was more expensive, albeit faster. There were two options for the air mail—the standard pre-stamped aerogramme, and the challenge to squeeze in as much text as possible in the available space, and an envelope which could accommodate more sheets and hence more matter. But then there was the issue of weight. The envelope would be weighed and the postage decided depending on the weight! Hence an earlier exercise involved acquiring the lightest, thinnest writing paper. (There was an ‘onion skin’ paper as I recall which was in itself more expensive!) Ah, the sweet travails of written communication then!

One always associated the entire concept of ‘air mail’ as having its origin in the West. Many decades later, I discovered that the very first air mail delivery happened in India!

The story goes back over a century ago. India was still under British rule but Indian festivals and fairs went on. One of the biggest of these was the Kumbh Mela held at Allahabad. It was to coincide with the Kumbh Mela of 1910-1911 that the then Lieutenant Governor of the United Provinces Sir John Prescott Hewett organized a national exhibition in Allahabad. It was a huge show housed in buildings with elaborate architecture. The twelve sections included exhibits for engineering as well as agricultural sciences, textiles, forestry, and display of handicrafts from around the world. There were cultural programmes featuring prominent singers and dancers of the day. The exhibition ran from December 1910 to February 1911.

As part of the many attractions, Captain Walter George Windham, one of the influential pioneers of aviation was invited to bring some flying machines from England to Allahabad and organize demonstration flights. These would be the first planes to fly in India. Captain Windham brought two aircraft to Allahabad and organized aerial demonstrations by the two pilots that accompanied the aircraft. One of these was a 23- year-old French pilot Henri Pequet.

When Captain Windham was in Allahabad, the Rev. Holland, warden of a hostel for Indian students in Allahabad asked him if he could help raise some funds for repair of the hostel and construction of a new one. Windham had the idea that sending post by air would attract a lot of attention, and hopefully raise funds. He obtained permission from the India Post Office. To send through this, at the time novel means, people were asked to send mail to Rev. Holland, addressed and stamped, at the regular rate, but requested to donate a nominal sum of 6 annas for every letter or card which would be sent on the flight, as a donation for the new buildings. This mail would be part of the airborne postal service. A special postmark was authorised for this batch; it was designed by Captain Windham and the die for this was cast at the postal workshop in Allahabad. It was four cm in diameter and magenta in colour. All postal arrangements were handled by the Exhibition Camp Post Office.

On 18 February 1911, a Humber-Sommers bi-plane, piloted by Henri Pequet was loaded with 6,500 postal articles with the special postmark. The flight took off from the Allahabad polo field, witnessed by thousands of spectators. It landed near Naini railway station where there were no crowds, but a lone postal official who took the mail bags. From there, the post would continue to its destinations by the regular route, and with the regular charges.  The distance covered was approximately 11 km and the flight time was 13 minutes! Having delivered the first officially sanctioned airborne postal consignment in the world, Peqeut got back into the plane and returned to Allahabad. 

The use of a plane for delivering letters received world-wide attention once the letters with the special post mark reached England. 

Before this, some transport of post by ‘air’ was not entirely unknown. During the 1800s balloons and gliders carried some mail. The first sustained powered flight by the Wright brothers on 17 December 1903 did not carry any mail, but in the decade that followed, pioneering pilots would carry ‘unofficial’ mail on their short flights. This did not have official postal authorization. The Allahabad to Naini flight carried the first ‘official’ air mail. Following this, the world’s first scheduled airmail post service took place in the UK between the London suburb of Hendon and the Postmaster General’s office in Berkshire on 9 September 1911, as part of celebrations for King George V’s coronation.  

Subsequently, while the rest of the world saw rapid developments in postal air services, there was not so much happening in India. The first regular air service between India and UK was opened in 1929. Soon after that the first domestic route was opened between Karachi and Delhi. The Indian State Air Service as it was designated, ran for just two years during which it completed 197 scheduled flights, and carried 6,300 kg of mails. After its closure, the Delhi Flying Club was given permission to operate an exclusive mail service between Delhi and Karachi. Its one light aircraft carried over 7000 kg of mail during its operational period of 18 months. The big leap came in October 1932 when JRD Tata flew a Puss Moth airplane from Karachi to Bombay. The inaugural flight of India’s first air service was to become Tata Sons Ltd, and later grow into Air India, carried a load of mail. Karachi was chosen as the starting point because Imperial Airways terminated there with the mail from England, and the mail route chosen by Tatas was Karachi-Bombay-Madras (via Ahmedabad and Bellary). At the beginning the airplanes used were so small that the service was restricted to mail, but a single passenger was occasionally allowed to sit on top of the mail bags — usually with his heels higher than his head! Meanwhile the mail load had increased from about 10,500 kg in 1933 to about 30,000 kg in 1935. Larger aircraft were introduced only in 1936. While the government refused to subsidize the service, it could be sustained by a ten-year mail contact with the Government for transport of mails.

After Independence there was need for delivery of mail that was faster than through road and rail services. Daytime flights could carry only passengers. In 1949, Night Air Mail was introduced in which mail from Delhi, Calcutta, Bombay and Madras was collected at designated points in each city, delivered straight to the airport and flown to Nagpur, where it was sorted and flown back to the respective cities the same night, and delivered the next day. In the sixties there were as many as ten flights carrying mail to Nagpur in a single night. The service was discontinued in 1973. Subsequently the Indian Postal Service introduced many services including Speed Post. Today couriers and electronic exchange of information have overshadowed the work of the postal service. The postman, once eagerly awaited, and letters, eagerly opened and read and reread, have almost faded from memory. But it is important not to forget the pioneering efforts that brought us here. 

–Mamata

Complexifying the Simple

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If there is a monument to human overthinking, it has to be the Rube Goldberg machine.

Named after the American cartoonist Rube Goldberg, these contraptions perform the simplest of tasks—turning on a light, pouring a glass of water, popping a balloon—in the most complicated way possible. A marble rolls down a ramp, tips a spoon, flicks a switch, releases a toy car, which hits a domino, which startles a rubber duck… and several improbable steps later, the job is done. Eventually.

At first glance, Rube Goldberg machines seem like elaborate jokes. In fact, they began as precisely that. In the early 20th century, Goldberg drew cartoons of absurdly complex inventions that parodied America’s growing obsession with technology and efficiency. His most famous series, “Inventions,” featured machines with labels like “Self-Operating Napkin” or “Simple Way to Take Your Own Picture.” The humour lay in contrast: why build a 20-step mechanical circus to do what your hand can accomplish in two seconds?

Yet over time, the joke evolved into a genre.

At their heart, these machines are celebrations of cause and effect.

Each step must trigger the next with precise timing. A falling object transfers energy. A lever multiplies force. A pulley redirects motion. Though they look chaotic, good Rube Goldberg machines are carefully engineered systems. Behind the apparent madness lies an understanding of physics—gravity, friction, momentum, torque.

That’s why they are so beloved in STEM education. Today, Rube Goldberg machines are built in classrooms, engineering labs, art studios, and living rooms. There are national competitions in the United States run by the Rube Goldberg Institute, where students design multi-step chain-reaction machines to complete assigned tasks. The goal is not efficiency but creativity, reliability, and storytelling through mechanics. Building one requires planning, testing, recalibrating, and accepting failure—lots of it. If step 17 misfires, the entire sequence collapses. Students learn quickly that systems thinking matters. Every action has consequences, and tiny misalignments compound.

(From V. Raghunathan’s series ‘How Administrations Work!’ featured in the Financial Express. A satire on administration, based on Goldberg machines).

And yet, beyond physics, Rube Goldberg machines are deeply artistic.

Watching one in motion feels like choreography. There is suspense as the marble pauses on a narrow ledge. There is surprise when a balloon bursts. There is delight when the final flag pops up to declare success.

Modern technology hides complexity behind smooth interfaces. Tap a screen and food appears. Click a button and money transfers. Rube Goldberg machines do the opposite—they expose process. They revel in visible mechanisms, in levers and ramps and strings that refuse to disappear into abstraction.

Perhaps that is why they continue to fascinate adults as much as children.

Unlike automated factories or digital code, these machines often fail in spectacular fashion. A domino tilts the wrong way. A ramp shifts. A candle burns too slowly. The collapse is not embarrassing—it is part of the show. Viewers laugh, builders reset, and the experiment continues.

In this way, Rube Goldberg machines mirror creative life itself. Progress rarely moves in straight lines. We improvise. We overcomplicate. We learn through misfires.

As a STEM tool perhaps most importantly, it fosters curiosity.

Why does the marble move faster on a steeper incline? What surface reduces friction? How much force is needed to tip the spoon? Questions arise naturally when objects misbehave. The machine becomes a laboratory disguised as a toy.

More than a century after Rube Goldberg first skewered modern gadgetry, his name has become synonymous not with satire but with ingenuity. What began as mockery of unnecessary complexity has turned into a celebration of imaginative problem-solving.

Today, there are national competitions in the United States run by the Rube Goldberg Institute, where teams design multi-step chain-reaction machines to complete assigned tasks. The goal is not efficiency but creativity, reliability, and storytelling through mechanics.

Beyond competitions, the aesthetic has spilled into popular culture and design.

In 2003, Honda released its now-iconic “Cog” commercial featuring parts of a Honda Accord arranged in a flawless chain reaction. Gears tipped into springs, springs released bearings, bearings rolled into levers—culminating in the car moving forward. No computer graphics. Just painstaking mechanical precision.

Similarly, the band OK Go transformed chain reactions into performance art in their video “This Too Shall Pass,” filling a warehouse with cascading objects, swinging pendulums, and erupting paint cannons. The machine became choreography. Cause and effect became spectacle.

Kinetic artist Joseph Herscher constructs domestic Rube Goldberg devices that wake him up, butter his toast, or serve tea through absurd sequences of ramps and levers.

And then there are works that stretch the idea into art philosophy. Dutch sculptor Theo Jansen builds wind-powered walking structures known as Strandbeest—intricate skeletal forms that move across beaches through elaborate mechanical linkages.

More than a century after Goldberg first thought these up, his name has become synonymous not just with unnecessary complexity, but with imaginative possibility. What began as satire is now a tribute—to curiosity, to process, and to the delicate chain reactions that connect one moment to the next.

–Meena


A Whiff of Royalty: Mysore Sandal Soap

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A recent advertisement for an old soap in a new packing brought back many memories. Any visit to South India, or to the erstwhile Mysore Emporium in Delhi always included picking up several cakes of Mysore Sandal Soap. These were good gifts for friends, and  a special treat for us to use. The rich fragrance of sandalwood was very different from the light flowery fragrances like rose and jasmine that Lux, Cinthol and Rexona, the other popular soap brands of those days had, nor the medicinal smell and feel of ‘healthy’ soaps like Margo, Hamam and Lifebuoy. While Pears soap was a high-end soap that had a very English look and feel, Sandal Soap was regally Indian; sandalwood signalled luxury, and bathing with such soap made one feel like a princess!

It is only recently that I also learned about the fascinating history of this soap.

The saga goes back to the First World War.

But going back further, the kingdom of Mysore was the largest producer of sandalwood in the world. In the 1700s the largest buyer of sandalwood from Mysore was China, where the wood was used to make furniture for the affluent and also used in traditional medicine. In the early 1800s Germany became one of the main buyers of sandalwood for its oil. The Germans already had the know-how for distilling the oil from the wood. At that time Mysore was under British administration; sandalwood was a state monopoly. By the end of the 1800s the demand for sandalwood had risen considerably and it became an important source of public revenue. The demand continued to grow when the British restored the state of Mysore to the ruling Wadiyar dynasty. Sandalwood auctions were held which were attended by representatives of leading international perfumery houses. The process of sandalwood distillation to manufacture oil had, by then, been mastered by German chemists.

The outbreak of World War I in 1914 caused huge disruptions in international trade. Sandalwood exports to Germany were suspended, local auctions of the wood were stopped. With large stocks of sandalwood piling up, and no buyers, the revenue of Mysore State was adversely impacted. The Maharaja of Mysore realized that if the oil from the wood could be distilled to meet international standards, the extract could be exported. This it would be easier than transporting wood, and more lucrative. This was smart thinking!

For the execution of the idea the Maharaja selected Alfred Chatterton who had been principal of the college of engineering in Madras, and appointed him as the Director of Industries in Mysore state. Chatterton teamed up with two English chemistry professors from the Indian Institute of Science in Bangalore to experiment with distilling sandal oil in a lab. After extensive experiments and trials, the team finally discovered the right process to extract sandal oil. They continued to refine the process until they created a  product that would meet international standards. Now it was time to move from the lab to a larger scale of production.

A factory, headed by Chatterton, was opened in Mysore. It was called the Mysore Sandalwood Oil Factory. Production began, and by 1916, high-quality sandalwood oil  was being produced and exported to London. A second factory was opened in Bangalore, adding new equipment and machinery, and soon a third larger factory opened, also in Mysore. Chatterton remained Director for six years during which time he established what was then the largest sandal oil distillery in the world.

Mysore retained a near monopoly in the sandal oil market until about 1930, when it was challenged by Australian sandalwood oil.  

Until then the oil was used primarily in perfume making. But a foreign guest presented the Maharaja of Mysore Krishnaraja Wadiyar IV with a pack of soaps made by using sandalwood oil. Ironically the oil used for the soap had been produced in Mysore! The Maharaja saw an opportunity and discussed this with his trusted and foresighted Dewan Sir M. Visvesvaraya. Both of them were keen to encourage industrial development in the state. They agreed that manufacturing sandalwood soaps would provide such an opportunity. Visvesvaraya was a perfectionist; he wanted that the soap should be of the best quality, but also not so expensive that its market would be limited. He invited technical experts from Mumbai to start experiments on the premises of the Indian Institute of Science (IISc) in Bangalore. He also identified a researcher working in IISc. This was SG Shastry who had obtained a degree in Industrial Chemistry from England. Now he was sent to London to get advanced training in soap and perfume technology. Upon his return with the knowhow to incorporate pure sandalwood oil in soaps, the Maharaja set up The Government Soap Factory near Cubbon Park in Bangalore, and here began production of India’s first sandal soap. The first batch of soaps was produced in 1918. It was simply called Mysore Sandal Soap. The same year, another oil extraction factory was set up at Mysore to ensure a steady supply of sandalwood oil to the soap making unit.  

But how was this new soap to stand out among the many soaps already in the market? SG Shastry proved to be as astute a marketer as he was a chemist! All the other soaps then were traditionally rectangular in shape and usually wrapped in colourful paper. Shastry felt that this soap should reflect its cultural heritage. To start with, this soap was oval in shape. In its centre was embossed the logo of the factory which depicted Sharaba, a mythological creature which had a lion’s body with an elephant’s head. This creature stood for wisdom strength and courage, which also represented the philosophy of Mysore state. It was felt that the soap needed to be dignified with a unique packing. The aromatic soap was first wrapped in white tissue paper, as a piece of jewellery would be, and then placed in a rectangular box printed with floral designs in tasteful colours.  Every box also carried the printed message Srigandhada Tavarininda (from the maternal home of sandalwood).

The next step was marketing this soap as a unique product. The soap was advertised through different channels—neon signboards, half page ads in major newspapers, and even match boxes and tram tickets with pictures of the soap carton. The promotion extended overseas. An exhibition was arranged in England; the soap was ceremoniously presented to Queen Victoria who liked the fragrance and ordered more for her family. A mark of its popularity was that its competitors used to mock it as My-sore soap! Meanwhile the soap was becoming a household name in Mysore.

The Mysore Sandal Soap has retained its popularity, and its niche as the first indigenous sandal soap with Sandal Note as its fragrance, along with other essential oils. Today the soap is manufactured by the company called Karnataka Soaps and Detergent Ltd (KSDL). In 2006 the brand received a GI (Geographical Indication) tag. It remains an iconic symbol of majesty and luxury that can be enjoyed by all.

–Mamata

Republic Day at Whangamōmona: When a Town (Sort Of) Seceded

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A few weeks ago, India celebrated Republic Day. It was, as always, a solemn occasion. For us, Republic Day marks the day when we adopted our Constitution and became a Republic.

But not all Republic Days are solemn. Nor do they come every year.  Whangamōmona, a small settlement in rugged New Zealand’s North Island, celebrates Republic Day in January,  but only every two years.  It last celebtrated its Republic Day on Jan 18, 2025, marking 36 years of independence. Hundreds of visitors attended the event, which featured rural activities, a sheep race, presidential elections

Whangamōmona has a funny backstory.  It seceded from New Zealand. How and why did this come about?

In 1989, New Zealand restructured its local government boundaries. For decades, Whangamōmona had been part of the Taranaki region. But the reforms shifted it into the Manawatū-Whanganui region instead. On paper, this was administrative housekeeping. On the ground, it felt like cultural displacement.

The town identified economically and socially with Taranaki. Farming networks, community ties, supply routes were all there.  But suddenly, they were told they belonged somewhere else.

So on 1 November 1989, in response to what they saw as distant bureaucratic meddling, Whangamōmona declared itself an independent republic.

But this wasn’t angry secession. It was satire with a straight face.

The Republic of Whangamōmona established:

  • A president
  • A passport (yes, you can get it stamped)
  • A national day
  • And a constitution — loosely interpreted

The tone was tongue-in-cheek, but based very much on community pride. Every two years, on Republic Day (in January), thousands of visitors descend on this tiny town of fewer than 50 permanent residents. There are sheep races. Gumboot throwing. Debates. Parades. And, most importantly, the presidential election.

The candidates over the years have included:

  • A goat (Billy Gumboot)
  • A poodle
  • A human (briefly)
  • And even a tortoise

A race to choose the President

Billy Gumboot, the goat, was perhaps the most iconic president. He reportedly served with dignity until his untimely death in 1999. His successor? Tai the poodle.

Isolation as Identity

Whangamōmona isn’t easy to get to. It lies along the Forgotten World Highway — which is honestly one of the best road names ever conceived. The route winds through dramatic hills, misty valleys, and farmland that feels cinematic in its remoteness.

In the early 20th century, Whangamōmona was a frontier settlement, established during railway expansion. It once had a hotel, a school, a hall, and enough settlers to sustain real momentum.

Then the railway declined. Young people left. Farms consolidated. The population shrank.

Like many rural communities worldwide, it faced the existential question: how do you survive when the economic centre shifts away?

Whangamōmona’s answer was genius: if you cannot compete on scale, compete on story.

The “Republic” became a brand. Visitors stop at the Whangamōmona Hotel (the town’s social nucleus), get their passports stamped, and take photos with the republic signage.

Instead of being “a place left behind,” Whangamōmona became “that place bold enough to declare independence.”

Why This Tiny Republic Matters

In a world where declarations of independence are usually soaked in conflict, Whangamōmona offers something softer: protest through humour.

It reminds us that governance is, at some level, a social agreement — and that local identity matters deeply. The town’s mock-secession wasn’t a rejection of New Zealand. It was a wink at centralised decision-making.

There is no bitterness in it now. Only tradition.

Republic Day is less about rebellion and more about reunion. Former residents return. Visitors become temporary citizens. The town swells with life.

For one weekend, the population multiplies many times over. And the republic thrives.

Who gets to decide where we belong?

Sometimes the answer is: we do.

And maybe that’s why this story resonates so widely. It’s about scale — how small places can assert symbolic power. It’s about humour as strategy. It’s about community cohesion in the face of administrative indifference.

Whangamōmona could have quietly faded into obscurity. Instead, it elected a goat.

That choice tells you everything.

A funny story with profound lessons about identity and self-assertion.

–Meena

Pic: https://www.rnz.co.nz/news/