A Just War: St. Augustine of Hippo

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Pope Leo XIV’s recent visit to Algeria had a special personal significance for His Holiness. The current Pope is the first Augustinian Pope; he is a member of the Order of St. Augustine. The Pope visited the archaeological site of ancient Hippo, (modern day Annaba) where once stood the Basilica of Peace church where St Augustine was Bishop was 34 years. He described it as “a profoundly emotional and spiritual moment”.

Who was St Augustine, and why is he significant even today, even though he lived 16 centuries ago? 

St. Augustine of Hippo was a theologian, writer, preacher, rhetorician, and bishop. Before he became a saint, Augustine’s life saw many different phases. He was born in 354 AD in Thagaste, presently called Souk Ahras in modern-day Algeria, which was then a part of the Roman Empire. He was African, and not white, as later depicted. His mother Monica was a devout Christian, and his father, a tax collector who converted to Christianity only on his deathbed.

Augustine was bright student, and he had great rhetorical skills; he travelled to Carthage to study rhetoric. But in his teenage years he was irreligious and led a wild life, in spite of his mother’s prayers and counselling. In his twenties Augustine was restless and in his quest to discover ‘the truth’ he experimented with the cult of Manichaeism, a concoction of Christian, Buddhist, astrological and pagan elements. He then became influenced by Neo-Platonism, which drew from Plato. Augustine was still lost and wandering, much to his mother’s despair.

His wandering led him to Milan, where an encounter with the bishop of Milan, Ambrose, changed his life path. The bishop, who was considered one of the greatest orators in the Roman world influenced Augustine, at the age of 33, to convert to Christianity in AD 347. Augustine was ordained a priest in 391 and he became Bishop of Hippo (today’s Annaba, Algeria) in 395.

After his conversion, Augustine used his skills as a thinker and writer in service to the church. He moved back to North Africa and eventually became bishop of a town named Hippo. He continued not only to speak eloquently, but was also a prolific writer. His personal journey, the story of his spiritual quest, formation and conversion, is documented in The Confessions. Written in 401, this work is a model for modern autobiography as it depicts the formation of a mind and character.

St. Augustine also wrote several other noteworthy books. Perhaps the most relevant today, are his thoughts and writings on war and peace. He was one of the first people to articulate a philosophical statement of war and justice. Augustine drew upon Christian teachings as well as Greek and Roman philosophy to propose a set of principles that defined a ‘just’ versus an ‘unjust’ war. He laid the groundwork for what became known as the Just War Doctrine.

St. Augustine lived in volatile times. In a period when there was a race to expand Empires, St. Augustine questioned the value of such expansion, comparing it to a human body, arguing that a moderate stature with good health is preferable to an oversized, unhealthy body (and by extension, empire).

He viewed war with deep sorrow and profound skepticism regarding its ultimate value. Acknowledging that war is inevitable in some situations, he laid down certain criteria under which war is a permissible recourse. 

Just Cause: to confront “a real and certain danger” to protect innocent life.

Competent Authority: declared by those with responsibility for public order.

Comparative Justice: Are the values at stake critical enough to override the presumption against war?

Right Intention: War can only be conducted to satisfy the just cause.

Last Resort: All peaceful alternatives have already been exhausted.

Probability of Success: The outcome cannot be disproportionate or futile.

Proportionality: inflicted damage must be proportionate to the good expected.

St. Augustine also drew upon earlier Roman conventions about war. For example, that it must be declared by proper authorities and not by angry mobs. The Empire also had a policy — not always followed — of allowing conquered people to keep their own customs, religions, and local laws.

Which wars are not just? These would be wars marked by selfish intent. Wars to seize territory, wealth, or power are not just. Wars fought for personal glory or out of vindictiveness are not just.

While he agreed that a ‘just war’ could be fought to restore peace or punish injustice, he viewed it as a ‘necessary evil’ rather than a good. He maintained a fundamental belief in the futility of war for achieving lasting, meaningful human happiness.

As early as the fifth century St. Augustine was considering the moral consequences of war. For Augustine, any conflict that does not have the final establishment of a stable, just peace as its sole purpose, is useless and immoral.

Writing in 418 A.D., he wrote: “Peace should be the object of your desire; war should be waged only as a necessity…in order that peace may be obtained. Therefore, even in waging a war, cherish the spirit of a peacemaker, that, by conquering those whom you attack, you may lead them back to the advantages of peace…As violence is used toward him who rebels and resists, so mercy is due to the vanquished or captive.”  

In his book City of God, he noted that even a ‘just war’ is characterized by cruelties and miseries. He viewed the brutality of war with profound lament and often expressed a “deep hatred of war” and contempt for those who glorified military victories. The Just War doctrine emphasizes that a set of rules for military combat must be followed. This means treating non-combatants such as women, children, elderly, wounded, and prisoners of war humanely.

The Just War theory has become an integral part of Western philosophy. Even today it is reflected in international humanitarian law.

St. Augustine regarded the power-seeking know-it-alls of the day as ‘dangerous fools armed with the pretense of knowledge’. In our current turbulent period of history, we are witness to how international and humanitarian law is being flouted with arrogance and impunity by exactly the same kind of people.

It is a time to remember another valuable insight from St Augustine–The idea that you were bigger or better, or more self-righteous, or somehow immune from the rules that govern others — the absence of humility, in other words, gave you license to do unto others what you would never allow them to do unto you.

Just War?  Or A Just War?

–Mamata

Another Day, Another Breath

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We mark days for everything—as we have seen over the last few weeks, serious ones like World Environment Day or International Women’s Day, and then the quirkier ones that sneak into our calendars and make us pause, smile, or wonder. Tucked quietly among them is World Breathing Day—observed each year on April 11th—a day that, at first glance, feels almost unnecessary. After all, breathing is the one thing we do without reminders.

But that is precisely the point.

Breathing is so automatic that we rarely stop to notice how we breathe. Or that something as ordinary as your nose is quietly running a sophisticated system in the background. One of its most fascinating features? The nasal cycle—a built-in rhythm that ensures your two nostrils are never quite doing the same thing at the same time.

The Nose That Works in Shifts

Try this: close one nostril and breathe, then switch sides. Chances are, one side feels clearer than the other. That’s not a cold coming on—it’s your nasal cycle at work.

The nasal cycle is a natural, unconscious process in which airflow alternates between nostrils every few hours. At any given moment, one nostril is “dominant,” allowing more air in, while the other is slightly more congested and handling less airflow. This swap happens throughout the day without you noticing.

Think of it as a relay race. One nostril takes the lead while the other steps back—not idle, but recovering, recalibrating, and preparing to take over again.

Why Two Nostrils, Not One?

It may seem redundant—why not one efficient airway instead of two? But evolution, as always, prefers nuance over simplicity.

Your nose isn’t just a passage for air. It’s a full-fledged processing unit. Before air reaches your lungs, it is filtered, warmed to body temperature, and humidified. Without this preparation, the air would irritate your airways and make breathing far less comfortable.

Having two nostrils allows this system to work continuously without burnout. While one nostril handles the bulk of airflow, the other gets a chance to restore moisture and recover from constant exposure to dust and microbes. This explanation is widely accepted, though the exact mechanisms are still being studied.

It’s like having two alternating air-conditioning units—one working, one servicing.

The Secret to Better Smelling

Here’s where it gets even more interesting: your nostrils don’t just alternate breathing—they may also influence how you perceive smells.

Air moves faster through the dominant nostril and slower through the less active one. This difference in speed can affect how odour molecules dissolve and interact with receptors.

Your brain combines these signals into a single perception, giving you a richer sense of smell than you might expect from something so routine.

Built-In Backup (and Defence)

If you’ve ever had a cold, you’ve probably noticed how one nostril feels completely blocked while the other carries on. That’s not entirely a flaw—it’s partly a reflection of how your system already works.

Because of the nasal cycle, your body is used to relying more on one side at a time. So when one nostril becomes congested due to infection, the other can often compensate more effectively.

There is also a suggestion that this alternating congestion may help in dealing with infections—for instance, changes in airflow and temperature might influence how certain viruses behave.

So your nose isn’t just breathing—it may also be quietly supporting your body’s defences, even if the details are still being understood.

What Yoga Figured Out Long Ago

Long before modern physiology described the nasal cycle, practices like pranayama in yoga had already drawn attention to the idea that the two nostrils behave differently.

In techniques such as alternate nostril breathing (often called Nadi Shodhana), practitioners consciously switch airflow between nostrils, believing it balances energy, focus, and calm. Interestingly, this mirrors the natural alternation your body is already doing on its own.

Some modern studies suggest that breathing through one nostril versus the other may have subtle effects on heart rate, attention, or relaxation. But—and this is important—these effects are often small, context-dependent, and sometimes overstated in wellness spaces.

So while yoga didn’t “discover” the nasal cycle in a scientific sense, it certainly noticed something real—and built a practice around paying attention to it.

A Rhythm You Never Notice

What makes the nasal cycle so remarkable is how invisible it is. Unlike your heartbeat after a sprint or your lungs during a yoga session, this system operates entirely under the radar.

Most of us go through our days unaware that we are breathing unevenly—that one nostril is doing more of the work at any given time before switching later.

It’s a reminder that the body is full of such quiet rhythms—processes that don’t demand attention, but deserve appreciation.

So when World Breathing Day comes around, it might be worth pausing—not for a grand gesture, but for a small awareness.

Take a breath. Then another.

Notice which nostril feels clearer. Notice how the air feels as it enters—cool, filtered, softened. Notice that what feels effortless is actually the result of a finely tuned biological system working in shifts, balancing efficiency with care.

In a world that celebrates constant output, the nasal cycle offers a quieter lesson: even the body alternates between effort and recovery.

And perhaps that’s something worth marking on the calendar too.

–Meena

The Lady at the Helm: Sumati Morarji

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Among the many days, significant or silly, that are being celebrated, this week marked a special day in India’s maritime history. April 5 is celebrated annually as National Maritime Day.

India, a peninsular subcontinent with more than 7000 km of coastline, has a long maritime history, dating way back to the Indus Valley Civilization. Since ancient times Indian sailors ventured out to sea thanks to their deep understanding of the ocean patterns and the monsoon winds. This allowed them to travel safely and efficiently, opening up trade routes to distant lands. It is speculated that the English word “navigation’ may have its roots in the Sanskrit ‘navgati’, a combination of ‘nav’ meaning ship or sailing vessel, and ‘gati’ meaning speed or progress. There are many stories in Indian mythology about the seas and oceans, and proof of Indian maritime operations can be found in Indian literature, sculpture, painting and archaeology.

The advent of the colonial powers replaced the traditional trade and trading vessels with what became a European monopoly. Over the next few centuries British companies dominated the shipping industry. In the early 1900s a far-sighted group of Indian industrialists, led by Walchand Hirachand, and including Narottam Morarji, Kilachand Devachand, and Lallubhai Samaldas dreamed of creating India’s own mercantile fleet—a swadeshi shipping enterprise.

They formed a company called the Scindia Steam Navigation Company, and purchased a steamer from the Gwalior royal family. The ship, the RMS Empress, originally purchased from the Canadian Pacific Railway had been used as a hospital ship for wounded Indian soldiers in World War I. It was a challenge to set up and sustain a marine mercantile enterprise in the face of the long-running British companies.

RMS Empress was renamed the SS Loyalty. On 5 April 1919, the now totally swadeshi SS Loyalty made its maiden voyage from Bombay to London. It carried 700 passengers and cargo. This was significant as it marked the beginning of breaking the British monopoly on maritime trade. This event continues to be commemorated as National Maritime Day on 5 April every year.

What makes the subsequent story of the founding company, the Scindia Steam Navigation Company more significant, is also the story of a remarkable woman who steered this company to exemplary success.

Sumati Morarji was born in 1909 in an affluent, and conservative, merchant family of Bombay. Named Jamuna by her parents, at the age of 13, she was married, with an extravagant wedding, to Shanti Kumar Morarjee, the only son of Narottam Morarji. Narottam Morarji, an eminent industrialist, was one of the co-founders of the Scindia Steam Navigation Company.

The young bride was extremely bright, and displayed a great thirst for learning. She was also keen on understanding more about her marital family’s business and its working. Her father-in-law Narottam Morarji recognised in the newly-wed teenager a sharp mind, and hidden potential.

He renamed her Sumati (a woman with superior wisdom), and invited and respected her insights into the family business. She equally demonstrated her management skills when she took over running of the household following her mother-in-law’s early demise. By the time she was 20, Sumati had demonstrated her capabilities in all spheres. Thus her husband Shanti nominated her to the Managing Board of Scindia Steam Navigation Company.

This was a time when the company was still in its infancy, having a few cargo ships running between India and Europe. With Sumati at the helm, the company’s strength and reputation increased greatly over the next few decades. As India was on the cusp of Independence, Sumati quietly assumed complete charge of the company, leading it from strength to strength as the newly independent nation began its journey to self-reliance and progress. 

Sumati was deeply influenced by Gandhii, and despite her business commitments took an active part in the underground operations of the freedom movement. In the aftermath of Partition, she used her ships to help safely transport Sindhis from Pakistan to India. She remained close to Gandhiji, with whom she corresponded regularly.

After Independence as Indian maritime trade was increasingly handled by Indian ships, Sumati’s insights, expertise, and experience in the field played a crucial part. She set a precedent as being the first woman in the world to head the Indian National Shipowners Association, a pioneer organisation of ship owners. She was globally recognised and elected as Vice President of World Shipping Federation in London in 1970.

Sumati Morarji managed the Scindia Steam Navigation Company for 69 years, and steered the company’s great success, until she passed away in 1998. She contributed in many national endeavours, and was a deeply spiritual person who helped in propagating Indian culture across many countries. But her primary passion was her ships, that she regarded as her daughters. No wonder, then, that she is called the Mother of Indian Shipping in every sense of the phrase.

National Maritime Day is a fit occasion to honour Sumati Morarji, a lady who quietly made waves across the oceans.

–Mamata

Is this Day for Real?

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One day we’re marking World Environment Day with a clean-up drive, or organizing a panel discussion for International Women’s Day. These “days” exist for good reason—they shine a spotlight on important causes, create opportunities for collective action, and remind us, at least once a year, to pay attention to things that might otherwise slip through the cracks.

And then, almost without warning, the calendar develops a personality. Not a dignified, solemn type anymore, but the slightly quixotic, overenthusiastic kind that insists everything deserves a moment in the spotlight.

Because once you stray beyond the serious list, you enter a parallel universe of observances—one where seriousness gives way to sheer creativity. Days that I call ‘Silly Days’.

The original of course is All Fools Day, April 1, which has a hoary past, though the precise origin is unknown. Common explanations link it to France’s 1564 Edict of Roussillon, which shifted New Year’s Day to January 1—those who continued celebrating near April 1 were mocked as “April fools.” Other scholars trace it to ancient spring festivals such as the Roman Hilaria, marked by masquerades and mirth. But it continues to be celebrated across the world as a day of hoaxes and pranks.

But now there a day for every crazy cause! There’s ‘International Talk Like a Pirate Day’, which asks otherwise respectable adults to say “Arrr” in meetings. There’s ‘World Emoji Day’, a tribute to the tiny icons substituting so conveniently for words. ‘International Caps Lock Day’ is marked each year on October 22 that humorously celebrates—or mocks—the use of the Caps Lock key. It originated as a light-hearted internet tradition highlighting the overuse of all-caps text online. ‘World Beard Day’ celebrates facial hair. ‘International Day of No Dieting’ offers a brief rebellion against restraint.

‘International Talk Like Shakespeare Day’ is celebrated annually on April 23, honouring the birthday and death date of playwright William Shakespeare. On this day, participants imitate Shakespearean English in speech, writing, and social media, celebrating his linguistic influence and dramatic legacy.

There is ‘International Left-Handers Day’, finally giving lefties their moment in a right-handed world. There’s ‘World Sleep Day’, which feels less like a celebration and more like a universally shared aspiration. On the opposite end of the energy spectrum sits ‘Global Running Day’—a day that divides humanity neatly into those who lace up enthusiastically and those who scroll past quietly.

There are also the ‘International Day of Happiness’ and ‘International Joke Day’. And then, just when you think it can’t get more niche, along comes ‘International Day of Awesomeness’!

Food is a major part of this landscape. There is ‘International Pancake Day’, ‘World Nutella Day’, and ‘International Sushi Day’—as if these foods were at risk of being forgotten without formal intervention.  There is even International Coffee Day—arguably redundant, given that many already observe it daily, without prompting. In India, we have ‘World Idli Day!’

As are animals—’International Cat Day’ celebrates creatures that barely acknowledge our existence, while ‘World Penguin Day’ honours birds most of us will never meet.

There are some days which feel like gentle nudges toward better behaviour. ‘World Kindness Day’ and ‘World Compliment Day’ ask us to be just a little nicer, a little more generous with our words.

And then there are the truly puzzling ones. ‘World UFO Day’ invites us to look skyward–just in case. ‘International Day of Failure’ encourages us to celebrate our missteps—a concept that feels admirable in theory and mildly uncomfortable in practice. ‘World Password Day’ is perhaps the only observance that comes with an implicit to-do list.

But the day that has fast become my favourite is the one suggested by my 7-year old grandchild. She has the gift of being able to burp at will, and a few weeks ago, she was exercising the gift incessantly. When told that it was very rude, she countered saying that it was ‘International Burping Day’, and that she was obligated to burp. She followed this up by making a poster for the day!

My calendar now feels less like a schedule and more like a collage of human quirks—earnest, excessive, occasionally absurd. And perhaps that’s the point. In trying to give everything its day, we reveal not just what we value, but also what makes us smile, pause, or raise an eyebrow and think: really, this too?

–Meena

Art by Barnalee

Rainbow Island: Hormuz

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Just over a month ago, the name Hormuz did not mean much for a large population of the world. Today the word is making headlines across the globe. The blockade of the Strait of Hormuz is having a ripple effect far from the waters of the Persian Gulf. Sadly, its claim to fame is rooted in the fall-out of a war that the world did not, and does not need.

For centuries ships have been sailing through the waters of the Persian Gulf, carrying people and cargo, and perhaps, not as visibly, culture. These waters are not just transporters, they are also the space for small land formations, many of which are unique in their geology and biogeography. One such island is the island of Hormuz.

Hormuz Island is a part of the Hormozgan Province of Iran. Located about eight  kilometres from Bandar Abbas on the coast of Iran, and 18 km from Qeshm Island in the Persian Gulf, it is strategically perched where the Persian Gulf and the Gulf of Oman meet. Hormuz island covers an area of approximately 42 square kilometres.

The ancient Greeks called it Organa; during the Islamic period it was known as Jarun, and later took the name Hormuz from a significant mainland port of Ormus. It is believed that around 1300 A.D. the ruler of this town and its inhabitants shifted to the island in order to evade attacks by Mongolian and Turkish troops. Thus they called their island home New Hormuz. Today it continues to be recognized simply as Hormuz.

Its strategic location at the entrance of the Persian Gulf has historically made Hormuz Island a key trading post. It was an important stop for traders on the Silk Road. In the 15th century a Russian merchant described it as “a vast emporium of all the world”.  

It was part of a flourishing kingdom during the medieval period. This attracted the attention of the European powers. In the early 16th century it was taken over by the Portuguese who established a fort there, which helped the Portuguese to control strategic trade routes between Europe, India, and the Far East, and dominate the spice trade.

It remained a Portuguese colony for almost a century and a half, before being taken over in 1622, by the Safavid Empire, run by a powerful Iranian dynasty. It has been a part of the Persian empire since then, and is today a part of Iran.

Even today the island’s culture and customs reflects a blend of the Arab influences from neighbouring countries, as well as past interactions with Portuguese, English, and Indian merchants. The island today is home to Persians Arabs, and the indigenous Hormuzis, each contributing to the rich cultural mosaic.

What makes Hormuz Island unique are its dazzling geological features. It is one of the biggest salt domes—where a mound of salt layers rises up through overlying layers of rock. The formation glows with brilliant shades of red, yellow and orange. This palette is created by the deposition of minerals which constitute the layers of shale, clay, and volcanic rock. Geologists believe that hundreds of million years ago shallow seas formed thick layers of salt around the margins of the Persian Gulf. These layers gradually collided and interlayered with mineral-rich volcanic sediment in the area, leading to the formation of the brilliantly coloured soil and mountains. The high percentage of minerals, including iron, gypsum, oligiste, apatite and quartz has given colour to all the geographical features—ochre-coloured streams; beaches with sand ranging from white, silver and gold, to crimson; the Rainbow Mountains whose vibrant colours range from deep reds and oranges to purples and yellows, and natural salt caves that resemble vibrant works of art. The beaches are covered in crimson sand, and when the waves wash over these, the water also takes on reddish and pink hues. Because the beach’s red glow could be spotted from far out at sea, sailors once used it as a natural navigation marker in the Strait of Hormuz.

The geological formations on the island include the Valley of Statues, a surreal landscape with natural rock formations; Silence Valley which is has an eerie landscape of salt formations and is completely silent; and the Cave of the Salt Goddess formed over thousands of years by water erosion and salt crystals, the walls of which shimmer with vibrant shades of whites, blues, purple and pinks.

In this stunning landscape, the Red Mountain stands tall. This is even more unique because not only is its soil is bright red, it is also edible!  

The red soil is caused by haematite, an iron oxide which comes from the islands volcanic rocks. The mineral is valuable in the production of cosmetics, paper, plastic, stainless steel, ceramics, tiles, pottery and glass, and was exported for this, but the exports have now been reduced to prevent overexploitation. This soil is found nowhere else in the world; however it is not permitted to carry any samples out of the island, even as a souvenir.

The soil plays an equally important part in local cuisine! Known as Gelack, it is an important ingredient, in local cuisine. It is used as a spice, especially in the traditional fish curry called sooragh. A rare edible soil that is a valued spice in itself!  

If Hormuz Island is renowned for its geological features, it is equally rich in biodiversity. A patch of mangroves at its northern end adds a touch of green to the vibrant palette. The island ecosystem harbours a rich variety of bird species, and the waters are home to thriving marine life.

With its kaleidoscope of natural colours, Hormuz aptly deserves the title of Rainbow Island. Sadly the rainbow is today eclipsed by the dark clouds of war.

-Mamata

Of Birds and Birdwatchers: International Bird Day — 1 April

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April 1 traces back to the International Convention for the Protection of Birds, one of the earliest international efforts to formally recognise the need to conserve avian life. On International Bird Day, observed each year on April 1, the focus is usually on birds themselves—their fragile habitats, their migrations, their role in holding ecosystems together and the threats they face.

But today we are looking more at the people who watch birds and their idiosyncrasies.

Every obsession develops its own private vocabulary. Birdwatchers—or birders, as they prefer—have taken this instinct a step further. Over time, they have shaped a dictionary so distinctive that to outsiders it can sound faintly eccentric. Words here behave differently: they slip free of their everyday meanings, acquire new ones, and quietly signal who belongs.

Consider twitching. To most people it suggests nervousness or involuntary movement. In birding, it means deliberate, often hurried travel to see a rare bird reported elsewhere. A twitcher is someone who drops everything at short notice and sets off, binoculars in hand to chase that possibility. The term emerged in mid-twentieth-century Britain, when news of sightings spread through phones and handwritten notes, carrying with them a sense of urgency and barely contained excitement.

This habit of birders to repurpose language runs deep. A tick is not a parasite but a small victory—a species added to one’s personal list. A lifer marks a first-ever sighting, the kind that stays with you. A dip, on the other hand, captures a very specific disappointment: travelling all that way and missing the bird.

Some of the most intriguing expressions describe perception. Jizz—sometimes softened to giss—refers to the overall impression of a bird: its shape, posture, movement, the rhythm of its flight. You may not catch every marking, but you recognise it instinctively. “It had the jizz of a harrier.” There is no real substitute for this word, which perhaps explains why birders defend it with quiet determination.

Then come the social terms, edged with humour. A stringer is someone suspected of stretching the truth about sightings—their records “on a string.” A lagger arrives too late. A gripper is not an object but a bird so rare it inspires envy, and to be gripped off is to feel that envy keenly while still offering polite congratulations.

Even equipment is linguistically reshaped. Bins are binoculars. A scope is a spotting-telescope. To lock on is to get your optics trained on the bird before it disappears. These are practical words, forged in moments where seconds matter.

Place, too, carries its own vocabulary. A patch is a birder’s regular haunt, revisited across seasons and years. A stakeout involves waiting patiently at a known location. Suppression refers to an ethical choice—not publicising a rare bird’s location if attention might disturb it. To flush a bird is simply to make it fly off, usually by getting too close, and is generally frowned upon.

What stands out is how emotionally evocative this language is. It does not just describe birds; it maps the experience of pursuing them. Like any specialised language, birding slang creates community. To know the terms is to belong; to learn them is to enter gradually. Yet many of these words travel beyond their niche. Twitching now describes reactive behaviour more broadly. Jizz has been borrowed into design and art. Patch has found a life in other forms of local attachment.

Colour, in birding, acquires a precision that everyday language rarely demands. Birds are not simply brown or grey; they are rufous, buff, ochre, slate, ashy, olive, chestnut. A drab-looking bird, on closer inspection, becomes a composition of tones—warm on the flanks, cooler on the crown, a faint wash along the breast. These are not ornamental choices of words but functional ones, allowing birders to separate one species from another in seconds. To say “yellow” is often useless; to say “sulphur-yellow with a greenish wash” is to narrow the field.

Even familiar colours are subtly reworked. A “black” bird may, to a birder, show glosses of blue or green; a “white” wing might carry a hint of cream or grey that matters enormously in identification. Terms like supercilium (the eyebrow stripe), mantle (the upper back), and primaries (the outer flight feathers) turn the bird’s body into a map where colour is carefully located, not loosely described. Over time, birders learn to see in these finer gradations, and the language follows suit—less about naming colours as we know them, more about learning to see them as birds wear them.

Some colour words have travelled the other way—borrowed not to describe birds, but from them. Teal is the most familiar example, a word that once referred primarily to the small freshwater duck, the Eurasian teal, whose striking greenish-blue patch lent its name to a shade now used everywhere from fashion to design. What began as a bird became a colour, and then quietly detached itself, so that many people use “teal” today without any awareness of its avian origin.

This is not an isolated case. Duck-egg blue, robin’s egg blue, and peacock blue all carry traces of the natural world into everyday speech. The Indian peafowl, for instance, has given us a whole palette of iridescent blues and greens, while the soft tint of a robin’s egg has become shorthand for a particular pastel. In these instances, birding has quietly shaped how colour is named and imagined—proof that even those who never lift a pair of binoculars are, in some small way, speaking a language borrowed from birds.

In an age where English is increasingly standardised, birdwatching offers a reminder that language still evolves wherever people care deeply enough. These words were not coined for effect. They emerge out of necessity—to express experience, to share feeling, to laugh gently at oneself.

So this International Bird Day, stand quietly at the edge of a wetland or in your garden. Watch the birds and hopefully, you will get a tick!

–Meena

Pic: BNHS https://www.bnhs.org/nature-trails-details/

Dedicated to Serve: Dr Ida Scudder and Christian Medical College, Vellore

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A young American girl, born and brought up in a missionary family in a small town in Tamil Nadu was expected to continue the family’s tradition of service to the neediest of the people. Ida Scudder, born in 1870, the only sister to seven boys, was exposed at an early age to the poverty and deprivation of the local population through her parents’ work.  But Ida was repelled by all this. She was young and pretty, and dreamt of enjoying life, and eventually making a comfortable marriage. Her parents, both long-time missionaries in South India returned to the United States for a few years with their large family when Ida was eight years old. The comfortable life in America was a huge change from the challenging missionary work in India. After a few years of school, Ida moved to the Northfield Seminary for Young Women in Massachusetts while her parents returned to Tamil Nadu.

When Ida was 20 years old she came to visit her ailing mother in Tamil Nadu. While she was there, one night three different men came to seek medical help for their wives who were about to deliver, and were in distress. They appealed to Ida to attend to them. Ida had no medical training; her father was the doctor in the family. But the conservative community would not let their women be treated by a male. The next morning Ida heard that all the three young women and their babies had died in the night due to lack of medical attention. This was a life-changing experience for Ida. She found her calling.

But in order to be in a position to really help women medically, Ida herself had first to undergo medical training. She returned to the United States and enrolled in the Philadelphia Women’s Medical College, and studied further at Cornell Medical College where she was among the few female students. After 10 years of rigorous study and training she returned to India where she hoped to work alongside her father. Sadly, her father died not long after her return.

But Ida was here to stay. She determined to carry on his work, now focussing on women’s health. Her vision was that women should have the same access to quality and compassionate healthcare that men did, regardless of religion and ability to pay for it.

She began her practice from her family home in Vellore, 135 km west of Madras, by opening a small clinic for women. Ida was initially unsure how her presence and engagement would be received by the local community; but patients trusted her, and the numbers grew greatly.

A donation from an American who wanted memorialize his late wife, led to the building of the 40-bed Mary Taber Schell Memorial Hospital for women in 1902. Ida also started organizing roadside medical camps in villages around Vellore, travelling across difficult terrain to treat people and give health education.

Given the huge need and demand for medical care for women, Ida realized that as a single person there was only so much that she could achieve. It was critical to train and educate more people in this field. In 1903 she started to train compounders, and in 1909 nurses. Her vision was to set up a world class medical college. Many scoffed at such an ambition, but Ida was tenacious and managed to raise funds to support her cause.

The Union Mission Medical School for Women was set up in Vellore in 1918. Sceptics felt that there would be no takers. But the very first year there were 150 applications, and 18 women were selected for the first batch who went on to secure a Medical Practitioner Diploma.

Dr Ida Scudder’s words to the first batch of graduating students to pass out, reflect her professional dedication, her tenacity, as well as her missionary spirit: “You will not only be curing diseases, but will also be battling with epidemics, plagues and pestilences and preventing them. Face trials with a smile, with head erect and a calm exterior. If you are fighting for the right and for a true principle, be calm and sure and keep on until you win.​”

In 1938 the British Government announced that it would only recognize an MMBS degree, and not a diploma. This necessitated that Ida’s medical school, be upgraded to a medical college. Thus was born the Christian Medical College of Vellore. The original women’s college also became co-educational in 1945. Ida was completely engaged in every aspect of the institution—teaching, medical practice, as well as administrative responsibilities including fund raising.

Even after Independence, Christian Medical College continued to draw dedicated doctors from across the country and abroad. They came not for money or glory, but inspired by the founder Ida Scudder and her single-minded dedication to the cause of service to the sick.

Over a century after Dr Ida Scudder sowed the seeds that gave form to her vision, her legacy has blossomed into a spreading banyan tree. The tiny clinic has grown into CMC Vellore—one of India’s top-ranked educational, healthcare and research institutes.

The 40-bedded hospital has grown into a 3000-bedded multi-specialty health care system spread over six campuses. CMC cares for over twenty lakh patients, and trains one thousand doctors, nurses and other medical professionals each year. People from all walks of life and all parts of the country and beyond come here for the ethical, compassionate, and quality care that it is reputed for. Ida Scudder’s vision and work have outlived her.

This month, we have been celebrating women who have broken barriers, and led the way in many different ways, in widely diverse fields. We have shared stories of women who have truly “made a difference.” Who better epitomizes this than Dr Ida Scudder! 

–Mamata

The Art of Yuck

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There are artists who work with oil, watercolour, or clay—and then there is John Knuth, who collaborates with flies. Yes, flies. The kind most of us spend our lives trying to keep out of our homes are, in Knuth’s studio, co-creators in a process that is as fascinating as it is more than a little yuck.

Knuth’s technique is as unusual as it sounds. He feeds houseflies a mixture of sugar and watercolour pigment, then lets them loose over canvases. What follows is a kind of chaotic choreography: the flies land, wander, and of course regurgitate. These tiny deposits of coloured liquid accumulate into intricate patterns. From a distance, the works can resemble abstract constellations or delicate nebulae. Up close, however, the viewer is reminded of their origin—and that is where the discomfort, and perhaps the brilliance, lies.

At first glance, the idea feels deliberately provocative. Why flies? Why regurgitation? Why something that many would consider “yucky”? But Knuth’s work sits within a much larger artistic tradition—one that embraces the visceral, the biological, and the taboo to challenge our assumptions about art itself.

Consider Damien Hirst, whose work has long grappled with life and death. His installations featuring animals preserved in formaldehyde are iconic, but he has also worked with live flies—allowing them to hatch, feed, and die within gallery spaces. The lifecycle becomes the artwork. Similarly, Anicka Yi works with bacteria and scent, creating installations that grow, evolve, and even smell, drawing attention to the invisible microbial worlds that surround us.

Marc Quinn went inward, creating a self-portrait sculpture from his own frozen blood, while Chris Ofili incorporated elephant dung into his richly layered paintings.

Performance artists have pushed the boundaries of the body itself. Marina Abramović has repeatedly tested endurance and vulnerability, placing her body at the mercy of audience interaction. Stelarc has taken a more techno-biological route, suspending himself with hooks and even growing an ear on his arm through tissue engineering. Meanwhile, ORLAN has used surgical procedures as a medium, turning her own body into a site of artistic transformation.

Other artists have embraced decay and impermanence. Dieter Roth used perishable materials like cheese and chocolate, allowing them to rot and transform over time. Sam Taylor-Johnson captured the slow decomposition of a bowl of fruit in a time-lapse video, turning decay into a strangely mesmerizing visual experience.

Even animals—living or dead—have been incorporated in ways that unsettle viewers. Hermann Nitsch, associated with the Vienna Actionists, used animal blood and carcasses in ritualistic performances, while Eduardo Kac explored bio-art by creating genetically modified organisms, including a fluorescent rabbit.

Seen in this broader context, Knuth’s fly paintings feel like part of an ongoing conversation. What ties these diverse practices together is not merely their ability to shock, but their trying to expand the vocabulary of art. They challenge placing ink and paint above organic matter, permanence above decay, and control above chance.

Admirers say there is something quietly philosophical in Knuth’s process. By relinquishing control to flies—creatures we associate with randomness and disorder—he disrupts the notion of the artist as a creator who works with intent. The flies do not “intend” to make art; they simply follow instinct. And yet, the outcome is aesthetic. So is art defined by intention, or by perception? If something moves us visually, does it matter how it was made?

At the same time, Knuth’s work carries an undercurrent of commentary on consumption and excess. The flies, drawn repeatedly to sugar, mirror human appetites, of craving and consumption, overconsumption and waste.

Of course, not everyone is convinced. Critics often argue that such works lean too heavily on shock value, that the concept overshadows the craft. And it is a fair question: would these works hold the same appeal if we did not know how they were made? Perhaps not. But then again, conceptual art has always relied as much on context as on craft.

For viewers, encountering these practices can be an exercise in expanding one’s comfort zone. They ask us to look beyond initial reactions—whether fascination or revulsion—and to consider deeper questions about beauty, authorship, and the natural world. They remind us that art does not always have to be clean, controlled, or even pleasant.

Yucky? Perhaps. But also, undeniably, thought-provoking. And maybe that is precisely the point.

–Meena

Pic: Redhook Blackout by John Knuth. https://www.hollistaggart.com/


Rebel Nomad: Isabelle Eberhardt

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Continuing our celebration of path-breaking women this month. Through history, women have often been denied rightful recognition for their contribution in different fields. In STEM, their significant work has been eclipsed by the attention and glory garnered by men. While many of these female scientists and researchers are equally present in labs, they tend to lose visibility as their achievements advance. These achievements have been ignored, minimized, or credited to men. 

There is another band of women, who have had to make efforts to disguise their real persona in order to pursue their passions. This has been the story of several women who have stepped into what is traditionally considered a ‘male domain’. Among these are women explorers who have boldly ventured into dangerous terrains on perilous missions; women who broke conventional barriers in more ways than one.

One such story is that of Isabelle Eberhardt—journalist, writer, explorer-adventurer, and rebel. Today she would also be identified as ‘feminist’.

Isabelle was born in February 1877 in Geneva, Switzerland. Her mother Nathalie was the daughter of a German and a Russian Jew. There is some uncertainty about Isabelle’s real father, but she always considered her mother’s husband Alexandre Trophimowsky as her father. Isabelle was taught by Alexandre, who was a tutor. She studied philosophy history and geography, and also learned many languages including French, Russian, German, Italian, Latin, Greek, and classical Arabic. She loved literature and read a great deal. Alexandre had liberal views and gave her a lot of freedom to explore, and develop, her own personality.

When she was 17 Isabelle started correspondence with a French officer in the Sahara desert wanting to know, in detail, all about life there. This triggered in her the yen to explore for herself. In the meanwhile, based on her correspondence, she began to write short stories about the region under a male pseudonym Nicolas Podolinsky. These were published in a magazine. By now Isabelle was eager to see and experience for herself.

She met a photographer from Algiers who offered to help her move to Algiers. In May 1897 Isabelle and her mother moved to Bone in Algeria. Isabelle was 20 years old. Both mother and daughter were distressed by how the colonial Europeans treated the local Arab population. They rented a house in the non-European part of town. This was an area where women were not expected to go out alone or without a veil. So Isabelle started wearing a burnous and a turban (the dress worn by the local men). She quickly became fluent in Arabic. She and her mother also converted to Islam. Isabelle found it easy to accept Islam because she believed in fate, and Islam gave meaning to this belief. Isabelle’s unusual lifestyle caused the French colonial settlers and officials to suspect her of being a spy.

Isabel converted her observations and experiences into fictional stories, some of which were published. Her mother’s death in the same year that they had moved to Algiers, was a great blow. She returned for a while to Geneva to look after her sick father. After he died, she mortgaged the family property and returned to Africa in 1900, and began to lead a nomadic life. She wandered restlessly in North Africa, usually alone, writing her diaries, stories and travelogues. To freely experience everything as a native would, she wore only male clothing, joined a local Sufi group, and even changed her name to Si Mahmoud Saadi. During her travels she met and fell in love with an Algerian soldier Slimane Ehnni. This heightened the suspicion of the French authorities. Isabelle continued to court danger; she was attacked and severely wounded by a man with a sword. She was ordered by the French to leave North Africa, and went back to France where she could barely make ends meet by working as a dock worker, disguised as a man. Meanwhile she continued with her writing.

A friend introduced her to Eugene Brieux, a writer who supported Arab freedom. He tried to publish her stories, but there was no market nor support for pro-Arab stories. The only ray of light was when Slimane Ehnni was transferred to a military unit near Marseilles. They did not need permission to marry in France, and the two married in 1901. The next year, her husband left the army and the couple returned to Algeria.

Back in Algeria she started working for the Al-Akhbar newspaper. Her novel Trimardeur also began to appear in parts in the paper. She worked hard, but only when she felt like it; and spent all her money on tobacco, books, and gifts for friends. She travelled for long periods on assignments.

Isabelle continued to lead an erratic life, travelling in perilous conditions; she indulged excessively in drink and drugs. But amid all this, her writing still occupied a central part of her life. Her articles and short stories appeared in the local press, and for a while she also wrote a regular column on the customs of Bedouin tribes. In 1903 when reporting on a battle she met the French general Hubert Lyautey, and helped him communicate with the local Arabs because of her fluency in Arabic.

Isabelle’s nomadic and often promiscuous lifestyle took a severe toll on her mental and physical health. By 1904 she was so spent and weak that she was admitted to a military hospital in Ain Sefra. Some weeks later she discharged herself, against medical advice, to meet with her husband who she hadn’t seen for almost a year. The very next day the town where they had rented a mud house was struck by a flash flood. Isabelle was missing. General Lyautey ordered a search; Isabelle’s body was found later, pinned under a beam of the house, and surrounded by the soggy pages of her latest manuscript. Isabelle was buried in Aïn Sefra with a marble tombstone with her adopted Arabic name and her birth name in French. Isabelle was only 27 years old; an untimely end to a short and tumultuous life.

The General tried to collect as many of Isabelle’s unpublished writings as he could manage to find. These were later published. Her first published story after her death, Dans l’Ombre Chaude de l’Islam (In the Warm Shadow of Islam), was highly praised in 1906. This book made Isabelle famous as one of the best writers about Africa. Streets were named after her in Béchar and Algiers.

Today Isabelle is perceived as an early feminist and anti-colonialist. In her own time, she was simply a woman ahead of her times—adventurer, chronicler, gender bender, and one who lived on her own terms.

–Mamata

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