Senbazuru: 1000 Cranes for Peace and Health

August 6, 2026 ~ millennialmatriarchs ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–Mamata

Why July 22 Should Be International Pi Day

July 28, 2026 ~ millennialmatriarchs ~ Leave a comment

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

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

It is a wonderful moment. Knowledge triumphs over ridicule.

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

But there is a small problem.

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

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

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

Simple in concept. Impossible to write down completely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So by all means enjoy the festivities on March 14.

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

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

–Meena

A Tuneful AIR: Courtesy Walter Kaufmann

July 23, 2026 ~ millennialmatriarchs ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–Mamata

Wimbledon Shines On

July 9, 2026July 9, 2026 ~ millennialmatriarchs ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–Mamata

The Golden Mystery: Amber and the Lost Amber Room

July 7, 2026 ~ millennialmatriarchs ~ Leave a comment

Every year, 26 June is observed as International Amber Day, a celebration of one of nature’s most extraordinary creations. Unlike gemstones that are forged under immense heat and pressure deep within the Earth, amber begins life as something far more ordinary—sticky tree resin. Over millions of years, this resin hardens and fossilizes into a warm, golden substance that has fascinated people across cultures for thousands of years.

Amber is often called “sunshine trapped in stone.” Its rich honey, butterscotch, cognac, and cherry hues have inspired myths, jewellery, medicine, scientific discoveries, and one of history’s greatest unsolved mysteries—the disappearance of the legendary Amber Room.

Nature’s Time Capsule

Amber is not tree sap, as is commonly believed. Sap carries water and nutrients within a tree. Resin, on the other hand, is a protective substance produced when a tree is injured, sealing wounds and defending against insects and disease.

When resin flows over small insects, spiders, feathers, leaves, flowers, or even tiny lizards, these organisms can become trapped. If conditions are just right, the resin is buried under sediments and, over millions of years, transforms into amber. Unlike most fossils, which preserve bones or shells, amber often preserves entire organisms in astonishing three-dimensional detail.

These inclusions make amber invaluable to scientists. Tiny air bubbles reveal the atmosphere of prehistoric forests. Preserved pollen helps reconstruct ancient ecosystems. Even microscopic bacteria and fungi have survived inside amber for tens of millions of years.

For palaeontologists, amber is less a gemstone than a perfectly preserved archive of life on Earth. In fact, amber entered popular imagination through Jurassic Park, whose opening premise is that a mosquito that had fed on a dinosaur millions of years ago becomes trapped in sticky tree resin, which later fossilizes into amber, supposedly preserving the dinosaur’s blood—and its DNA—inside the mosquito’s abdomen. Scientists in the story use this DNA to clone dinosaurs, making amber the unlikely hero of one of cinema’s most iconic scientific adventures. While the preservation of insects in amber is entirely real, the survival of usable dinosaur DNA for 66 million years is not supported by modern science. Even so, the film brilliantly transformed a little-known fossil into a symbol of prehistoric mystery, inspiring countless people to take an interest in palaeontology and the natural world.

The Gold of the Baltic

Although amber is found in several parts of the world—including Myanmar, the Dominican Republic, Mexico, Canada, and even parts of India—the finest and most abundant deposits occur around the Baltic Sea.

For over 5,000 years, Baltic amber travelled across Europe through the famous Amber Road, an ancient trade route linking northern Europe with the Mediterranean. Long before the Silk Road became famous, merchants carried amber southwards in exchange for wine, glass, spices, and precious metals. The Romans valued amber so highly that it sometimes fetched prices exceeding those of gold by weight.

Many cultures also believed amber possessed healing powers. It was worn to ward off illness, ground into powders for medicine, and even carried as a protective charm.

The Eighth Wonder of the World

If amber itself is remarkable, its most famous artistic creation was extraordinary.

The Amber Room was one of the most lavish interiors ever built.

Constructed in the early eighteenth century in the Kingdom of Prussia, it featured over six tonnes of amber painstakingly carved into intricate decorative panels. Craftsmen combined amber mosaics with gold leaf, mirrors, gemstones, and exquisite carvings to create walls that glowed with warm golden light.

In 1716, Frederick William I presented the room as a diplomatic gift to Peter the Great, symbolizing growing ties between Prussia and Russia.

The room was eventually installed in the magnificent Catherine Palace, where generations of visitors marvelled at what many described as the “Eighth Wonder of the World.”

Sunlight reflecting from thousands of amber tiles created an almost magical glow unlike anything else in European architecture.

A Treasure Lost During War

The Amber Room’s greatest chapter is also its saddest.

During the Second World War, German forces invaded the Soviet Union in 1941. Conservators attempted to protect the fragile amber panels, but the material had become too brittle to dismantle safely. Instead, they covered the room with wallpaper in the hope that occupying forces might overlook it.

The attempt failed.

Specialist German units removed the entire room in just over a day, packed it into dozens of crates, and transported it to the Königsberg Castle, where it was publicly displayed once again.

Then, it vanished.

As Allied bombing intensified and the war drew to a close, the Amber Room disappeared. Whether it was destroyed in fires, hidden in underground bunkers, loaded onto ships that later sank, or concealed in forgotten mines remains unknown.

Despite decades of investigations across Germany, Poland, Russia, and the Baltic region, no verified trace of the original Amber Room has ever been found.

The mystery has inspired countless books, documentaries, archaeological expeditions, and treasure hunters. Every few years, reports emerge claiming that the room has finally been located in caves, tunnels, castles, or shipwrecks. None has yet been confirmed.

The Amber Room remains one of the greatest missing treasures of the twentieth century.

Recreating a Masterpiece

The story, however, did not end with its disappearance.

In 1979, Soviet conservators embarked on an ambitious project to recreate the Amber Room using surviving photographs, architectural drawings, and traditional amber-working techniques.

The painstaking restoration took more than two decades. Craftsmen had to relearn skills that had nearly disappeared, sourcing thousands of kilograms of Baltic amber and hand-carving each decorative panel.

The reconstructed Amber Room was formally inaugurated in 2003, coinciding with the 300th anniversary of Saint Petersburg.

Visitors today can once again experience something close to the original splendour, even though the fate of the authentic masterpiece remains unknown.

Why Amber Still Matters

On International Amber Day, perhaps the greatest lesson is that the most valuable treasures are not always those that glitter the brightest. Sometimes they are those that preserve the memories of worlds long gone—whether hidden inside a tiny fossilized drop of resin or concealed somewhere, perhaps still waiting to reveal the final chapter of the Amber Room’s remarkable story.

–Meena

PIC: SMITHSONIAN MAGAZINE

Every Word Counted: Postcards

July 2, 2026 ~ millennialmatriarchs ~ 1 Comment

Long before automatic word counts, and apps that restrict the number of words, people used to carefully pen the maximum number of words that would legibly fit onto the surface area of a rectangular piece of stiff paper, not counting one fourth of the space that was kept blank for the address of the intended recipient, and the stamp of the post office. A unique medium of communication that allowed messages to be sent out without the need for an envelope. This was the ubiquitous Postcard.

Postcards carried all kinds of news—from good to bad. News of a forthcoming marriage, of an exam passed or failed, of a job appointment, an impending visit from a relative, a birth in the family, as well as of a death. Post cards were cheap, convenient, easily available and transported in their thousands across the length and breadth of the country. For most people of a certain generation this was the primary means of communication. And for many, this was a very “Indian” product.

However, the postcard had already made its debut in Europe. Following earlier experiments in Austria-Hungary and Britain, the first postcard in the world was issued in Austria on 1 October 1869. This was yellow in colour; it was 12.2 cm long and 8.5 cm wide. One side was left blank for writing the message and the other side had space for writing the address. In Britain, postcards without images were issued by Post Office, and were printed with a stamp as part of the design, which was included in the price of purchase.

In British-ruled India the postcard was officially introduced by the Post Office of India on 1 July 1897. The postcard was light brown in colour, with East India Postcard printed on it. The coat of arms of Great Britain was printed in the centre and in the upper right corner was the crowned face of Queen Victoria, printed in red brown. It was 14 cm in length and 9 cm in width.

The card was priced at one fourth of an anna or 3 paise. It was the cheapest form of post and proved a huge success. It is believed that postcards worth about ₹7.5 lakh were sold in the first three quarters of the inaugural year itself. The convenience of this form of communication led the government to also introduce postcards meant specifically for government use in April 1880. Ten years later reply postcards were introduced. In all cases the specs were uniform: The postage was prepaid in full; the weight of the card was not to exceed 5 grams; the cards shall have a legend Post Card written in Hindi or English or printed on the address side. Thus postcards, while uniform in form, took on multiple roles and uses which continued even after India became independent and do so till this day.

While today there are ‘privacy issues’ related to the sharing of data, the postcard, by its very form, was open and public. It was open to be read by anyone from the clerk in the post office, to the postman who carried it in his bag, to the actual recipient. At the receiving end, sometimes in a remote village, it was often read out loud by the postman himself, or by a literate member of the community; or the contents were shared under a tree where the elders gathered. Whether it bore good news or sad news, the emotions that it conveyed were equally shared by the community.

The size of the postcard (which has remained unchanged since it was introduced) and the space available for writing presented a silent challenge to every writer. Squish the handwriting or condense the message? This was no place for waxing eloquent or beating around the bush! Keep it short and neat!

Postcards soon became the cheapest and most accessible form of communication, revolutionizing mass correspondence. Though introduced in India by the British, postcards played a key role in the sharing of information during the movement to gain freedom from the British rule. No one utilized this means of communication better than Mahatma Gandhi.

A prodigious writer of letters, Gandhiji actively used postcards for the majority of his vast correspondence. As a highly practical and budget-conscious communicator who constantly traveled, he found that postcards were the most efficient method to share updates with friends and relatives without wasting time or money. With his unerring logic he explained that postcards were cost-effective, as they cost much less than standard envelopes. Indeed, they did not require an envelope at all, nor the hassle of buying, keeping, and pasting stamps. They were more durable than ordinary writing paper. And their news was transparent, anyone could read the message, and Gandhiji had nothing to hide! And, as a person who could not abide waste in any form, Gandhiji appreciated that the limited space forced the writer to express themselves concisely and clearly.

While Gandhiji wrote perhaps thousands of postcards to people from all walks of life, people from all parts of India and the world also reached out to him through postcards. Throughout the freedom struggle, Gandhiji was constantly on the move, but people who wrote to him were not worried about his address. They simply wrote postcards with his name, and sometimes added “Wherever he may be”. And these postcards did reach him, wherever he was! We can still see some of these original postcards in archives and exhibitions.

Independent India’s first requirement was to collect reliable demographic statistics. A census was considered to be central to this. But the government faced two immediate challenges: how to persuade people to participate in the census, and how to maintain communication between enumerators and census officials across a vast, poor and largely rural country. By then the postal department was the largest unified communications network available to the Indian state. In the run up to the first census in 1951, government used a bilingual pictorial postmark stamped on postcards and letters travelling across the country to educate the public and mobilize participation. The postmark showed a family of three framed by the words “Census of India” in Hindi and English. Subsequently postcards and postmarks were used for different mass pubic campaigns.

When they were first launched, only plain government postcards were permitted, printed and sold by the Indian Post Office. In 1898 the Post office formally permitted privately printed postcards, provided that adhered to size, layout and message restrictions. This opened up a large picture postcards industry in India. Publishers began printing scenic views, cultural monuments, and daily life in India, which became popular.

Almost a century later, India Post introduced Competition Postcards, following the immense popularity of Doordarshan’s show Surabhi where viewers were invited to send in answers to the quiz questions of the week. Initially viewers used the standard 15 paise postcard to send in responses. The response was so overwhelming that the postal department issued a different category of blue-coloured postcards priced at Rs 2/- each to send in responses. These Competition Postcards were subsequently used for many competitions inviting mass public responses.

The Competition Postcards are not currently available, but there are three types of postcards available in post offices. Normal postcards (50 paise), Reply postcards: A double card format which has an attached pre-paid flap that the recipient can detach and send a reply message (Rs 1). Meghdoot postcards wherein the address side features pre-printed colourful advertisements allowing the post office to generate revenue while subsidizing the cost (25 paise). So much to be communicated in so little, literally and cost-wise.

While there is still a generation for which postcards evoke a lot of nostalgia, sadly there is a generation for whom communication has a whole new meaning.

–Mamata

Kempegowda: The Visionary Who Gave Bengaluru Its Soul

June 23, 2026 ~ millennialmatriarchs ~ Leave a comment

Many cities have founders. Few have one whose vision continues to shape the city nearly five centuries later. As Bengaluru marks the anniversary (27 June) of its founder, Nadaprabhu Kempegowda, it is worth pausing to reflect not merely on the man, but on the remarkable administrator, planner and leader whose foresight laid the foundations of a city that would one day become India’s technology capital.

For most Bengalureans, Kempegowda is a familiar name. His statue greets travellers at the airport, major roads bear his name, and schoolchildren learn that he founded Bengaluru in 1537. Yet the true significance of his achievement lies beyond the simple fact that he established a town. What makes Kempegowda extraordinary is the quality of governance and urban planning he brought to his vision.

Born into a family of local chieftains under the larger framework of the Vijayanagara Empire, Kempegowda inherited responsibility for a region that consisted largely of villages, agricultural lands and trading settlements. Instead of merely ruling over existing territories, he imagined something larger—a thriving urban centre that could serve as a hub of commerce, culture and administration.

The Bengaluru he envisioned was not a city that grew by accident. It was carefully planned. Historical records suggest that he built a mud fort, established marketplaces, encouraged trade and developed infrastructure to support economic activity. In an age when rulers often focused on conquest, Kempegowda focused on creating conditions for prosperity.

Perhaps his most famous contribution to urban planning was the establishment of the four watchtowers that marked the city’s boundaries. Today, Bengaluru has expanded far beyond those limits, but the towers remain symbols of a leader who understood the importance of defining and managing urban growth. In modern governance language, we would call this spatial planning. Kempegowda practised it centuries before the term existed.

His administrative wisdom is equally noteworthy. Successful governance requires balancing multiple interests—farmers, traders, artisans, religious institutions and local communities. Evidence from historical accounts suggests that Kempegowda actively promoted trade and agriculture while ensuring public works were developed for the common good. Tanks and water bodies received attention because he understood a truth that remains relevant today: cities cannot flourish without secure water resources.

Indeed, one of the lessons modern Bengaluru can learn from Kempegowda concerns sustainability. Long before urban planners spoke of environmental resilience, he recognized the importance of lakes and irrigation systems. Many of the tanks developed during his period supported agriculture, groundwater recharge and community life. As Bengaluru grapples with water shortages and environmental challenges, Kempegowda’s approach offers a reminder that good governance means planning not only for today’s needs but also for future generations.

Another aspect of his leadership was inclusiveness. The markets and settlements he established attracted people from different communities and occupations. Bengaluru’s reputation as a welcoming city—a place where people from across India come to work, study and build new lives—can be traced back to these early foundations. The cosmopolitan spirit for which the city is celebrated today did not emerge overnight; it has deep historical roots.

What also stands out is Kempegowda’s ability to combine vision with execution. Many leaders dream of transformation, but fewer possess the administrative capability to turn ideas into reality. Founding a city required mobilizing resources, maintaining law and order, coordinating construction, encouraging settlement and ensuring economic viability. These are not merely political tasks; they are governance challenges. Kempegowda appears to have met them with remarkable effectiveness.

For citizens of modern Bengaluru, his legacy extends beyond monuments and commemorations. It is visible in the city’s enduring role as a centre of enterprise and innovation. Bengaluru’s global reputation as a hub for technology and entrepreneurship reflects qualities that Kempegowda himself valued: openness, opportunity and a willingness to build for the future.

Of course, no historical figure belongs entirely to the present. Kempegowda lived in a different era, under different political circumstances. Yet certain principles are timeless. Strategic planning, investment in public infrastructure, stewardship of natural resources and a commitment to creating opportunities for people remain the hallmarks of good governance today, just as they were in the sixteenth century.

As Bengaluru celebrates Kempegowda’s anniversary, the occasion should be more than a remembrance of the past. It should also be an invitation to reflect on the kind of city we wish to build. Rapid growth has brought immense opportunities, but also challenges of traffic, water, housing and environmental sustainability. Addressing these issues requires the same blend of vision and administrative competence that Kempegowda demonstrated centuries ago.

The founder of Bengaluru gave the city more than its beginning. He gave it a blueprint: plan thoughtfully, govern wisely and build for generations yet to come. That is why, nearly 500 years later, Kempegowda remains not just a historical figure, but a living presence in the story of Bengaluru.

Thank you, Kempegowda! Help us do justice to your vision!

–Meena

Pic: Courtesy The Hindu

Surgeons’ Day and the Extraordinary History of Self-Surgery

June 16, 2026 ~ millennialmatriarchs ~ Leave a comment

Every year on 15 June, India observes Surgeons’ Day, an occasion promoted by the Association of Surgeons of India and other medical institutions to recognize the contribution of surgeons to healthcare. The day is marked by professional meetings, public awareness programmes, health camps, and discussions on advances in surgical practice.

In the Indian context, it is also important to remember Sushruta, the author of the Sushruta Samhita, who over two millennia ago, described surgical instruments, operative techniques, wound management, and reconstructive procedures. His work is among the earliest known systematic texts on surgery anywhere in the world.

Self-Surgery

While surgery is usually associated with teams of highly trained professionals working in carefully controlled environments, history records unique cases in which individuals performed surgical procedures on themselves. These episodes occurred under very different circumstances, but each has become part of medical history because of the unusual challenges involved.

Leonid Rogozov: Appendectomy in Antarctica

One of the best-known cases is that of Leonid Rogozov, a Soviet surgeon stationed at the Novolazarevskaya research station in Antarctica in 1961.

Rogozov developed acute appendicitis while serving as the only physician at the base. Weather conditions made evacuation impossible. On 30 April 1961, assisted by colleagues who handed him instruments and held mirrors, he performed an appendectomy on himself using local anaesthesia.

The operation lasted approximately two hours. Rogozov recovered and resumed his duties within weeks. His case is widely cited in medical literature as a unique example of self-performed emergency surgery.

Evan O’Neill Kane and Surgical Experimentation

In 1921, American surgeon Evan O’Neill Kane carried out an appendectomy on himself at a hospital in Pennsylvania.

Kane’s purpose was not emergency treatment but the demonstration of local anaesthesia for abdominal surgery. He believed that local anaesthesia offered advantages over general anaesthesia in selected cases and used his own operation to support that view.

In 1932, he reportedly performed a second self-operation to repair an inguinal hernia. These procedures attracted significant public and professional attention at the time.

Inés Ramírez Pérez and a Self-Performed Caesarean Section

In 2000, Inés Ramírez Pérez, living in a remote rural area of Mexico, carried out a self-performed caesarean section after prolonged labour and the absence of medical assistance.

Following the delivery, she sought help from local residents and was transported to a hospital. Both she and her baby survived. Medical reports published subsequently documented the case, which is considered one of the rare recorded instances of a successful self-performed caesarean section.

Aron Ralston’s Self-Amputation

In April 2003, American mountaineer Aron Ralston became trapped in Utah’s Bluejohn Canyon when a falling boulder pinned his right arm.

After remaining trapped for several days and exhausting his supplies of food and water, Ralston amputated his own arm using a small multi-tool and then climbed out of the canyon to seek assistance.

His experience was later described in his memoir Between a Rock and a Hard Place and dramatized in the film 127 Hours.

Claude Martin’s Procedure in Lucknow

An earlier and less widely known example has a connection to India.

Claude Martin (1735–1800), a French soldier and entrepreneur who spent much of his life in Lucknow under the East India Company, suffered from bladder stones. Around 1782, he devised an instrument that he used on himself over an extended period in an attempt to break down or remove the stone.

Martin later described the procedure in correspondence and records that came to the attention of medical practitioners in Europe. Historians of medicine have noted similarities between his approach and later methods of lithotripsy, the technique used to break up urinary stones without major surgery.

Today, Martin is better known as the founder of the La Martinière schools in Lucknow and Kolkata, but his medical experiment remains a noteworthy episode in the history of self-treatment.

As India marks Surgeons’ Day each year, the occasion serves not only to recognize today’s surgeons but also to remember the long and often remarkable history of surgical practice, innovation, and human resilience.

–Meena

The Bee’s Knees and Other Curious Creatures of Language

June 9, 2026 ~ millennialmatriarchs ~ Leave a comment

Language is a strange and wonderful thing.

Every day, we use expressions that roll effortlessly off the tongue without pausing to think about what they actually mean. We wish people the “best of luck,” promise to “keep an eye on things,” and complain when life becomes “a rat race.” Most of the time, these phrases do their job so well that we never stop to examine them.

But every now and then, an expression invites a second look.

Take the phrase “the bee’s knees.”

If someone describes a new restaurant, a favourite book, or a clever invention as the bee’s knees, they mean it is excellent—something special, perhaps even the best. Yet the moment one stops to think about it, a question arises.

Why a bee?

And why its knees?

Bees are many things. They are hardworking pollinators, builders of intricate hives, and producers of honey. But their knees do not seem especially famous. No one admires a bee and immediately thinks, “What magnificent knees!”

Yet for more than a century, English speakers have happily used the phrase without demanding an explanation.

The story begins in the United States during the roaring 1920s. It was an age that loved novelty. Jazz filled dance halls, fashions changed rapidly, and language became a playground for creativity. People delighted in inventing colourful slang. Something impressive might be called “the cat’s pajamas,” “the eel’s ankle,” “the monkey’s eyebrows,” or “the bee’s knees.”

These expressions were not meant to be logical. In fact, their appeal often came from their absurdity. The more unlikely the combination, the more amusing it sounded.

Most of these phrases disappeared as fashions changed. Yet a few survived. The bee’s knees buzzed on while many of its companions faded into obscurity.

Perhaps it endured because bees themselves occupy a special place in the human imagination.

Across cultures, bees have long been symbols of industry, cooperation, and diligence. Ancient Egyptians kept bees. Greek philosophers admired their organisation. Medieval monasteries prized beeswax for candles. Farmers depended on pollination long before anyone fully understood the science behind it.

Today, we know that bees are among the most important creatures on the planet. Their daily work helps pollinate crops, wildflowers, fruit trees, and countless other plants. A world without bees would be a poorer and less colourful place.

And in an amusing twist, bees do have something noteworthy on their legs. Worker bees collect pollen in specialised structures on their hind legs known as pollen baskets. If you have ever seen a bee carrying bright yellow clumps of pollen, you have witnessed one of nature’s most efficient collection systems at work.

So while the phrase was probably invented as nonsense, modern biology has accidentally given it a touch of credibility.

The bee’s knees are, in their own way, quite remarkable.

The phrase also reminds us of something larger: language is filled with animals.

Consider how often creatures appear in everyday speech.

When we hear information directly from the original source, we get it “straight from the horse’s mouth.” The expression likely comes from horse traders, who could estimate a horse’s age by examining its teeth.

When someone raises a false alarm repeatedly, we say they “cry wolf.” The phrase traces its roots to one of Aesop’s famous fables, in which a shepherd boy repeatedly tricks villagers into believing a wolf is attacking his flock. When a wolf finally appears, no one believes him.

If a person sends us on a pointless errand, we call it “a wild goose chase.” The expression was popularised by Shakespeare, who used it in Romeo and Juliet. Today, it describes any pursuit that is unlikely to succeed.

Then there is the curious warning not to “look a gift horse in the mouth.” Once again, horses are involved. Since age and health could be judged from a horse’s teeth, examining the mouth of a horse that had been freely given was considered ungrateful.

Some animal expressions are easier to understand.

Someone who is “busy as a bee” needs little explanation. A person with “eagle eyes” sees details others miss. A “social butterfly” moves easily from one conversation to another.

Others are delightfully baffling.

Why do we have “ants in our pants” when we are restless? Why are secretive people said to be “as sly as a fox”? Why do difficult situations become a “dog’s breakfast” in some parts of the English-speaking world?

The answer often lies in history. These phrases are linguistic fossils, preserving traces of old occupations, folk tales, observations of nature, and forgotten jokes. Long after the original context disappears, the expression remains.

In this way, language resembles an attic filled with heirlooms. We continue to use objects whose stories have been partly forgotten. Their meanings survive even when their origins grow hazy.

That may be why expressions such as “the bee’s knees” continue to charm us. They remind us that language is not merely a tool for communication. It is also a record of human imagination.

Generations of speakers have played with words, invented absurd images, borrowed ideas from animals, and passed them on. Most vanished. A few endured.

And among those survivors is a tiny insect whose unlikely knees have become a symbol of excellence.

Not bad for a creature that was probably never consulted on the matter.

The next time someone describes a book, a meal, a holiday, or a grandchild as “the bee’s knees,” spare a thought for the strange journey of that phrase. It has travelled through jazz-age slang, survived changing fashions, outlived dozens of rival expressions, and settled comfortably into modern English.

That, one might say, is the bee’s knees of linguistic success.

–Meena

Jack de Sequeira: The Man Who Helped Goa Choose Its Own Future

May 26, 2026 ~ millennialmatriarchs ~ Leave a comment

In the story of modern India, there are some leaders whose influence stretches far beyond the offices they held or the elections they won. They altered the direction of history itself. One such figure was Jack de Sequeira — often remembered as the “Father of the Opinion Poll” in Goa.

At a time when the newly liberated territory of Goa stood at a crossroads, Jack de Sequeira championed something radical for the era: the right of ordinary people to decide their political future directly. His efforts culminated in the historic Goa Opinion Poll of 1967 — the only referendum-like exercise ever conducted in independent India on a major political merger question. Its consequences continue to shape Goa’s culture, language, identity, and politics even today.

Goa After Liberation: A Question of Identity

When Indian forces ended Portuguese colonial rule in Goa in December 1961, the region entered a completely new political reality. Goa, along with Daman and Diu, became a Union Territory of India. But soon another question emerged: should Goa remain distinct, or should it merge with neighbouring Maharashtra?

The merger proposal was not merely administrative. It involved deeper questions of language, culture, identity, and history. Many leaders in Maharashtra argued that Goa’s Konkani-speaking population shared cultural ties with Marathi-speaking Maharashtra and should therefore be integrated into it.

But others feared that Goa’s unique identity — shaped by centuries of interaction between Indian and Portuguese traditions — would disappear within a much larger state.

This was the moment when Jack de Sequeira emerged as a defining voice.

The Rise of a Reluctant Hero

Born in 1915 in Portuguese Goa, Jack de Sequeira was not a fiery revolutionary in the conventional sense. He was measured, thoughtful, and deeply democratic in temperament. Yet beneath that calm exterior was remarkable political courage.

He founded and led the United Goans Party, which became the principal force opposing Goa’s merger with Maharashtra. At the time, this was not an easy or universally popular stand. Powerful political groups supported merger, including influential sections of the ruling establishment.

But Sequeira argued that Goa possessed its own cultural personality — expressed through Konkani language, local traditions, village institutions, architecture, cuisine, music, and social life.

Today this argument may sound obvious. In the 1960s, it was fiercely contested.

The Historic Opinion Poll

Rather than allowing politicians alone to decide Goa’s fate, Jack de Sequeira demanded that the people themselves should choose.

This was a bold democratic idea. Independent India had never before conducted a public vote of this nature on whether a territory should merge with another state.

After intense political campaigning and negotiations, the Government of India agreed. On January 16, 1967, Goa held the historic Opinion Poll.

Voters were asked a straightforward question:
Should Goa merge with Maharashtra, or remain a separate Union Territory?

The campaign was emotional, passionate, and deeply personal for many Goans. Villages debated the issue intensely. Families argued over it. Public meetings drew huge crowds.

Jack de Sequeira became the symbolic face of the anti-merger movement. His speeches often emphasised dignity, self-respect, and the importance of preserving Goa’s individuality.

When the votes were counted, the anti-merger side won decisively.

Goa would remain separate. The Opinion Poll permanently altered Goa’s trajectory.

Saving Konkani and Goan Identity

The Opinion Poll strengthened the long campaign for recognition of Konkani as a distinct language rather than merely a dialect of Marathi. Decades later, Konkani would gain official recognition in the Eighth Schedule of the Indian Constitution.

Equally important, Goa retained a political structure that allowed local culture to flourish on its own terms. Its distinctive blend of Indian and Lusophone heritage survived not as a museum piece, but as a living social reality. (BTW, Lusophone refers to any person, country, or community that speaks the Portuguese language. Derived from the ancient Roman province of Lusitania (roughly modern-day Portugal), the term is also used as an adjective (Lusophone Africa) or to describe the global Portuguese-speaking culture and community –the “Lusophone world”.)

Many Goans today — whether Catholic, Hindu, urban, rural, Konkani-speaking, English-speaking, or Marathi-speaking — continue to see the Opinion Poll as a foundational moment.

A Legacy Larger Than Politics

Jack de Sequeira later served in Parliament and remained respected across political divides. But his greatest legacy was not electoral success. It was helping a small territory articulate confidence in its own identity.

Interestingly, his leadership style contrasts sharply with modern political culture. He was not known for theatrical populism or aggressive rhetoric. Instead, he relied on persuasion, consensus-building, and democratic principle.

That may partly explain why his memory still carries unusual moral weight in Goa.

Today roads, institutions, and memorials honour him. Yet perhaps the most enduring tribute is Goa itself — a state that still retains a distinct cultural voice within India.Top of Form

Any time you visit Goa, don’t forget to give thanks to him—Goa is what it is today because of him!

And as the debate about the identify, administration and control of Ladakh are ongoing, it is a good time to remind ourselves of how we handled such situations in the past.