Category: history

Went for the Botticelli, Stayed for the Harappan Figurine

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There are few relationships as universal as that between a mother and her child. Yet the ways in which we imagine, represent and revere motherhood vary enormously across cultures and centuries. This is the idea at the heart of One Mother, Many Mother Tongues, an exhibition at the National Gallery of Modern Art (NGMA), Bengaluru, curated by Naman P. Ahuja and Andrea Anastasio. Bringing together works from India and Italy, the exhibition spans more than two millennia, inviting us to look beyond familiar images of the mother as nurturer and caregiver. Here, motherhood encompasses protection, fertility, sacrifice, regeneration and even ferocious power. The striking juxtaposition of an Italian Renaissance painting with ancient Indian sculptures makes this more than an exhibition about mothers: it is a conversation between civilisations about what the maternal represents.

The star attraction was billed as Botticelli’s Madonna and Child, but honestly, there were so many works more jaw dropping.

The Italian Attraction

Not to diss the Madonna and Child, painted around 1490 by Sandro Botticelli, one of the great masters of the Italian Renaissance. Seeing a work by Botticelli in Bengaluru is an occasion in itself. The painting depicts the Virgin Mary with the infant Jesus, a subject that Botticelli returned to repeatedly during his career. As per historians, this is not simply a tender portrait of a mother and baby. Look closely, and the relationship seems weighed with foreknowledge. Mary’s red robe evokes her earthly presence, while her blue veil suggests the celestial. Her expression is melancholy, and her hands appear to be opening rather than clasping the child to herself. The infant, meanwhile, seems to gaze beyond the immediate moment, towards a future that his mother may already understand.

In Christian tradition, the infant Jesus is destined for sacrifice, and the painting can be read as a meditation on a mother’s love shadowed by the loss she must eventually endure. It is an image of motherhood in which love does not mean possession: the mother must ultimately release the child to a purpose larger than herself.

The Harappan Mother and Child

But the most goose-bumpy moment was a small terracotta Mother and Child figurine from the Indus Valley civilisation, dating back to around 2500 BCE, loaned by the National Museum, New Delhi. It is modest in scale and material. Yet its emotional appeal is immediate. The mother cradles her baby. The simple act of holding a child is enough.

We cannot know precisely what the maker intended, whether the figurine had a domestic, ritual or other purpose, or whether it represented a particular deity. But the image does invite us to reflect on the enduring human experience of motherhood. Across the vast gulf of time, a small piece of baked clay brings us face to face with a familiar gesture: the holding of a baby close.

Baby in a Basket

Perhaps the most charmingly matter-of-fact image of motherhood in the exhibition is the small (less than 6 inches high) ivory/bone figure from the Shunga–Kushan period, around the 1st–2nd century CE. A mother carries a basket on her head, with her baby girl (yes, you can make out the sex of the baby on such a tiny figure!) safely tucked inside it. If the detailing of her clothes and jewels is intricate, what I found more intriguing was, why was she carrying the baby in a basket on her head? Where was she going? Again, we have no clue about the situation or the artist’s intentions.

The Yogini: Motherhood Beyond the Human

The exhibition becomes particularly intriguing when it moves beyond the conventional mother-and-child image to the world of Indian goddess traditions. The Yogini tradition, associated with powerful female divinities and Tantric practices, does not always fit neatly into familiar categories of motherhood. One of the works highlighted in the exhibition is Vrishabhayogini, a reminder that these figures are not merely idealised representations of feminine beauty or domestic care. The Yoginis belong to a complex religious and artistic world in which female power can be mysterious, unsettling and difficult to contain within a single definition. Their forms and attributes invite us to think about the sacred feminine as something more expansive than the familiar image of a mother holding a baby.

Beyond the Familiar Mother

The exhibition’s other highlights include ancient Etruscan representations of Mater Matuta, a goddess associated with the protection of children, fertility, dawn and renewal, offer a compelling parallel with Indian mother-goddess traditions. The Buddhist goddess Hariti has an especially remarkable story: once depicted in Buddhist narratives as a demoness who abducted and ate children, she was transformed into a protector of children after the Buddha confronted her with the loss of one of her own. Also striking are the Indian Matrikas, or mother goddesses, and the fierce Chamunda, whose fearsome appearance stands at the opposite end of the spectrum from Botticelli’s sorrowful Madonna. A sculpture of Skandamata, the mother of Skanda, adds another dimension to the many ways maternal divinity has been imagined.

One Mother, Many Mother Tongues succeeds in showing us that motherhood is not one fixed image. It is a multitude of stories, beliefs and artistic expressions, each shaped by its own culture.

The juxtapositioning of mothers across geographies and time helps us to see how the mother-and-child motif travelled through different societies and acquired different meanings. Civilisations may differ in their beliefs and artistic conventions; the human bond between parent and child is enduring.

All in all, a wonderful experience!

–Meena

Karni Bharni: When a Jain Manuscript Turned Karma into Pictures

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What does karma look like?

It is a difficult question. We can explain karma, discuss it, preach about it and philosophise about it. But how do you actually show it?

Some Jain manuscript makers found an ingenious answer. They turned it into a sequence of pictures: this is what someone did and this is what happened as a consequence. The manuscripts came to be known as Karni Bharni, a phrase meaning “as you do, so you receive”. The Gyan Museum describes them as ‘an illustrated Jain didactic tradition in which actions and their consequences are laid out as a sequence of scenes’. The pictures were important precisely because the argument could be followed even by someone who could not read the accompanying text.

I saw a display of such a book when I visited the Museum of Arts and Photography last week. It is a particularly intriguing subject to encounter around Paryushan, when Jains turn their attention towards self-discipline, reflection, religious study, repentance and forgiveness. At the heart of the festival is the uncomfortable but useful exercise of looking at one’s own actions and their consequences.

Karni Bharni does much the same thing—but instead of asking us to imagine the consequences, it paints them.

These are not quite “picture books” in the modern children’s-book sense. They belong to the long and sophisticated manuscript tradition of Jain communities, particularly in western India. Jain bhandars, or manuscript repositories, preserved texts with remarkable continuity. Their importance goes well beyond religion to contributing to understanding the history of Indian painting, as these are some of the earliest surviving Indian paintings on paper.

And there is something wonderfully practical about the way Karni Bharni works. A page can show an action; another scene shows its result. The sequence does the teaching. The figures are deliberately schematic and punishments quite graphic! Their job is to be recognised and understood.

That makes the manuscripts surprisingly contemporary. We live surrounded by infographics, diagrams, animations and explainer videos because we have discovered that complicated ideas can sometimes be grasped more easily when they are visual. The Jain manuscript maker had much the same insight. Instead of writing several pages explaining the workings of karma, why not show the viewer?

Jain cosmology offered an elaborate universe of different realms, including the human world, celestial worlds and hellish realms. Karni Bharni manuscripts could bring this moral universe alive through images of actions, rewards and punishments. A page might therefore be visually dramatic as well as philosophically serious. Heaven and hell were not distant abstractions; they became places that could be imagined through colour, figures and repeated visual motifs.

The striking thing is that these manuscripts were not produced in isolation. Jain merchants and other patrons supported manuscript production, while scribes and artists developed traditions of copying, illustrating and preserving texts. The result was a remarkable interaction between religion, commerce, scholarship and art. The same Jain communities whose members were active in the world of trade were also among the important custodians of India’s manuscript heritage.

It was particularly appropriate that I saw the manuscript during Paryushan. The festival is not simply about fasting. It is a period of pausing long enough to examine how one has lived. Pratikraman involves reflecting upon transgressions and seeking to repair them; Michchhami Dukkadam, traditionally offered at the end of Paryushan, expresses the wish for forgiveness for harm caused knowingly or unknowingly.

The fundamental question these manuscripts answer is universal. Every parent has told a child that actions have consequences. Every schoolteacher has explained cause and effect. Every society has some version of the idea that what we do eventually comes back to us.

But the Jain manuscript tradition did something more ambitious. It made cause and effect visible.

So, during Paryushan, when the emphasis is on reflection, restraint and forgiveness, there is something rather fitting about looking at these old little books.

They remind us that karma was not always something to be explained in a philosophical lecture. Sometimes it was drawn in ink and colour, one scene after another.

If you would like to see some of this remarkable Jain manuscript tradition for yourself, the Gyan Museum in Jaipur offers a wonderful window into India’s rich heritage of art, manuscripts and material culture. Its collection brings together objects that tell stories not just about religion and art, but about the ways in which knowledge, craftsmanship and cultural traditions have been preserved across generations.

And readers, from us to you: Michchhami Dukkadam!

–Meena

Pic taken at MAP of page from late 19th/early 20th century Kharni Bharni book from Gujarat..

Where Rupee Notes are Born: Happy Birthday Security Printing and Minting Corporation of India

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I still believe in cash, and a monthly trip to the ATM is an essential part of my routine. When I look at a ₹10  note, it seems to me, it probably has had a far more interesting life than I have. It may have travelled through a vegetable market, an auto-rickshaw, a school canteen and a neighbourhood shop, survived being folded into someone’s pocket, squeezed into a wallet and perhaps even taken through a washing machine.

This is where an organisation most of us have probably never heard of becomes interesting. Security Printing and Minting Corporation of India Limited, or SPMCIL, is the Government of India’s specialist organisation for making many of the physical objects that underpin our monetary and security systems. It took birth as an entity in September 2006, but it inherited production units whose histories go back much further. Today, its responsibilities stretch from banknotes and coins to security paper, security inks, passports, stamps and other highly secure documents. In other words, while most of us think of money as something we earn, spend or save, there is an entire industrial world whose job is to manufacture it safely.

And this is not a small printing operation tucked away somewhere. SPMCIL operates several currency presses–the Currency Note Press at Nashik and the Bank Note Press at Dewas, as well as the India Security Press at Nashik and the Security Printing Press at Hyderabad. It also has four Government Mints, in Mumbai, Kolkata, Hyderabad and Noida, and the Security Paper Mill at Narmadapuram, besides the Security Ink Factory at Dewas. Each has a very specialised role, because when the product is a banknote, “printing” is really only the visible part of the job.

Consider what goes into making a note difficult to counterfeit. The paper itself is specially manufactured, and the inks are not ordinary printing inks. There are watermarks, security threads, fluorescent features, microprinting, intricate designs, numbering and other security elements, some of which are intended for us to recognise, and others for machines and financial institutions to authenticate. SPMCIL’s Security Paper Mill produced 7,661.61 metric tonnes of security paper in 2024–25, while its Dewas unit produced 601.31 metric tonnes of security inks. Its currency presses produced more than 1.2 crore banknotes in the same year. It also makes passports, stamps, certificates and other documents where authenticity matters. In 2024–25, for example, SPMCIL produced over 1.5 crore passport booklets, including more than a million e-passports, alongside its currency, coin and security-printing work.

The numbers become even more impressive when we step back from the factory and look at India as a whole. At the end of March 2025, there were approximately 1,550.7 crore banknotes in circulation, with a total value of about ₹36.87 lakh crore. That is in addition to coins and the rapidly growing digital forms of money. The ₹500 note dominated by value, accounting for about 86 per cent of the value of banknotes in circulation, while lower denominations such as ₹10 and ₹20 remain important in sheer numbers.

India is preparing to try polymer, or “plastic”, banknotes, beginning with ₹10 and ₹20 denominations. The Government has approved field trials of 200 crore notes altogether, worth ₹3000 crore. The intention is not to banish our familiar paper notes; the polymer notes will initially circulate alongside them, allowing the Reserve Bank of India to see how they survive Indian conditions.

Polymer notes are expected to last considerably longer than conventional cotton-based currency, and that matters particularly for low-value notes that are handled constantly and therefore wear out quickly.

The case for polymer currency becomes particularly interesting when we look at the life of a banknote. Low-denomination paper notes have a relatively short life because they are handled so frequently; internationally, polymer notes have been found to last around 2–4 times as long as conventional paper currency, according to RBI Governor Sanjay Malhotra. The actual life of the proposed Indian ₹10 and ₹20 polymer notes, however, will only be established through the planned field trials and their performance under Indian conditions. The scale is substantial: as of November 2024, India had about 2528 crore ₹10 notes and 1370 crore ₹20 notes in circulation — together nearly 3898 crore notes.

At present, when notes return from circulation, the RBI’s Currency Verification and Processing Systems sort them into fit and unfit notes; fit notes are reissued, while soiled or unfit notes are shredded through the Shredding and Briquetting System and compressed into briquettes. The RBI describes this mechanised process as an environmentally preferable alternative to the earlier practice of burning old notes. For the proposed polymer notes, however, there is as yet no publicly declared Indian end-of-life disposal or recycling system. This is an important gap in assessing their environmental credentials: a longer-lasting note could reduce the number of notes that need to be manufactured and destroyed, but the sustainability story would also depend on how the polymer notes are collected and recycled when they finally become unfit for circulation. International experience suggests that polymer notes can be recycled into other plastic products, but India has not yet announced its own specific recycling/disposal arrangements for the proposed notes

Polymer notes may last longer, but they are still made from a synthetic material, so their manufacture and eventual disposal have to be considered carefully. That is one reason a field trial makes sense. A banknote has to survive Indian heat, humidity, dust, monsoon rains, crowded pockets, ATMs, cash-counting machines and the wonderfully creative ways in which Indians manage to fold, crumple, staple and otherwise abuse currency, otherwise, it cannot be justified from a sustainability perspective. The RBI has specifically said that the notes will be tested for their durability and adaptability to Indian conditions before any wider decision is taken.

If polymer notes are introduced, the SPMCIL printing presses will probably remain central, but the Security Paper Mill’s role in those particular denominations would change. The challenge would move partly from making specialised cotton-based banknote paper to acquiring/producing, testing and securely handling a polymer substrate.

So change is in the wind! Hopefully we, including SPMCIL, can all adapt.

–Meena

Finger Wrestling: The Sport Where One Finger Can Make You a Champion

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We use our fingers for all sorts of important things these days: typing, texting, scrolling, swiping and, occasionally, pointing out to someone that they have been on their phone too long.

But in Bavaria, one group of people puts a rather different value on their fingers. They wrestle with them.

Welcome to Fingerhakeln, or finger wrestling—a wonderfully peculiar traditional sport in which two people sit across a table, hook their middle fingers into a leather loop and try to pull each other towards themselves.

And before you dismiss this as something that happens after too many beers at a German village festival, consider this: it has rules, clubs, training, weight and age categories, referees and national championships.

The rules are almost comically simple. Two competitors sit opposite each other at a specially designed table. Their middle fingers are hooked into a short leather strap. At the signal, they pull. The objective is to drag the opponent’s finger across a marked line.

Except that pulling another person’s finger with maximum force is apparently considerably harder—and more painful—than it sounds.

A bout may be over in just a few seconds, although the toughest can last nearly a minute. That may not sound like long enough to constitute a sporting ordeal, until you remember that the entire time is spent exerting enormous force through one finger. Competitors train specifically for the sport, strengthening their hands and fingers and learning how to use leverage, body position and technique.

So if you are now looking at your own hands and thinking, Surely I could do that, please resist the temptation to challenge your spouse, colleague or unsuspecting dinner companion. This is not an after-dinner game. There are good reasons not to underestimate the sport. The finger is subjected to considerable force during a contest, and injuries can occur. Competitors warm up, condition their hands and fingers and develop techniques for pulling and bracing.

               PIC: https://www.euronews.com/

From Alpine tradition to national championship

Fingerhakeln is particularly associated with Bavaria and the Alpine regions of Germany and Austria. Its precise origins are difficult to establish, but the tradition goes back generations. Like many folk sports, it appears to have started as a simple test of strength. Who was stronger? There was no need for a boxing ring or wrestling arena. Just sit down, hook fingers and find out.

Over time, the pastime became organised competition. Today, finger wrestlers compete in different age and weight categories, with regional championships and a German national championship. The sport has managed to remain both fiercely competitive and closely connected to local culture.

In an age when sporting events can involve billion-dollar broadcasting deals and athletes who are global celebrities, Fingerhakeln remains resolutely local. It is rooted in the Alpine region, but the annual German championship gives its strongest competitors a national stage.

The seriousness of the sport becomes obvious when you watch the competitors. There is very little movement and certainly none of the dramatic action associated with conventional wrestling. The struggle is concentrated in the hands and arms, while the two competitors sit almost motionless, each waiting for the other to give way. And then, often within seconds, it is over.

That combination of stillness and sudden force is part of what makes Fingerhakeln so fascinating to watch. It looks almost absurdly simple, until you realise just how much strength and pain tolerance are packed into those few moments.

For all its eccentricity, Fingerhakeln has the trappings of any serious competitive sport: champions, categories, training and even sporting families. At the 2025 Bavarian championships, Franz Foos won the heavyweight title, Andreas Sturm took the lightweight category, while Gerhard Sturm won the senior category for competitors over 60. The Sturms are a nice example of how traditional sports can become family traditions, with skills and enthusiasm passing from one generation to the next.

The Bavarian championship is a regional competition, however, and is distinct from the German national championship. That was held on August 23 in Pflugdorf-Stadl, where around 150 competitors took part. Ferdinand Seitz won the senior title, and afterwards described the experience of competing as “excruciating”—which seems a fairly convincing endorsement of the seriousness of the sport.

For the competitors, the few seconds at the table represented months and years of preparation. And that perhaps brings us to the more interesting question raised by this wonderfully odd sport: what exactly makes something a sport?

We tend to associate sport with speed, spectacular physical feats, enormous stadiums and global audiences. But strip it down and the essentials are rather simpler: physical effort, skill, training, rules, competition and the determination to win. Fingerhakeln has all of them.

It may never become an Olympic sport, but it does not need to. Its appeal lies partly in its connection to place and tradition. In a world where the same sports are watched from New York to New Delhi, Fingerhakeln remains distinctly Bavarian—a competitive tradition tied to its community and passed from one generation to the next.

There is something rather appealing about that. We spend so much time trying to make everything bigger, faster and more spectacular. Finger wrestling goes in the opposite direction. It strips competition down to its essentials: two people, a leather loop, considerable strength and a very determined finger.

For most of us, fingers are increasingly instruments of the digital age, busy with keyboards and screens. In Bavaria, some people still use theirs to settle a much older question: Who is stronger?

The answer, as it turns out, can be decided by a leather loop, a wooden table and a very determined middle finger.

Who knew one finger could carry so much sporting ambition?

–Meena

Seventy Years of Making India Book-Minded: Celebrating the National Book Trust

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On August 1, 2026, the National Book Trust, India—better known to generations of readers simply as NBT—completed 70 years. Its purpose, from the beginning, was not merely to publish books but to create a nation of readers.

The country had just become independent barely a decade before. Literacy was expanding, education was becoming accessible to larger sections of society, and there was an urgent need for affordable, good-quality books in the many languages of India.

The answer, in part, was the National Book Trust.

Dr S. Radhakrishnan speaking at the Foundation Day of the National Book Trust, India, August 1, 1957, at Vigyan Bhavan, New Delhi. Also in pic, then-PM Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru and then- Union Education Minister Maulana Abul Kalam Azad

A Trust Born with a Simple but Ambitious Idea

The Government of India decided to establish the National Book Trust in 1957. Its foundation day is observed on August 1, and the Trust was inaugurated at Vigyan Bhavan in New Delhi by Dr Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan. The idea was closely associated with Jawaharlal Nehru’s vision of making knowledge and literature accessible beyond a small, privileged readership.

NBT was created with an unusually broad mandate: to encourage the production of good literature in English, Hindi and other Indian languages; make books available at moderate prices; prepare catalogues; organise book fairs and exhibitions; and, in the memorable language of its mandate, take steps to make people “book minded.”

That phrase—book minded—still captures the spirit of the organisation.

NBT was not conceived as just another government publishing house. It was intended to bridge the distance between the writer and the ordinary reader. It would publish classics and contemporary writing, encourage translations between Indian languages, bring important works from other languages to Indian readers, and popularise modern knowledge.

In other words, its ambition was democratic: good books should not be a luxury.

Seventy Years, Thousands of Books

Over the decades, NBT has built an extraordinarily wide and diverse catalogue. Its publications have ranged from fiction, poetry and biographies to science, social sciences, history, the environment, education and technology. It has published books for children and young readers, for neo-literates, and increasingly in tribal languages and popular dialects as well.

One of its most important contributions has been to India’s multilingual literary ecosystem. India is not one book market. It is many book worlds, linked by dozens of languages. A reader in Kannada, Malayalam, Bengali, Hindi or Assamese should not have to remain confined to literature originally written only in that language.

Translation, therefore, has been central to the NBT idea.

The Trust’s mandate specifically includes publishing outstanding works of Indian authors and facilitating translation from one Indian language into another, as well as bringing significant foreign works to Indian readers.

This is a contribution that can easily be underestimated. Translation does more than move words from one language to another. It allows a Bengali reader to discover a Tamil writer, a Hindi reader to encounter Malayalam literature, or an English-language reader to enter literary traditions that might otherwise remain invisible.

In a multilingual democracy, translation is cultural bridge-building.

From the Book Exhibition to the World Book Fair

Publishing books, of course, is only half the task. Readers have to find them.

Here too, NBT played a pioneering role. Its first book exhibition was inaugurated in 1964 by Dr Radhakrishnan. Then came one of its best-known and most enduring achievements: the first World Book Fair, organised in 1972.

The New Delhi World Book Fair has since grown into one of India’s major cultural events. The 2026 edition, organised by NBT, brought together publishers, writers and readers on a truly international scale. Government sources reported more than 1,000 publishers representing 35 countries and over 600 events involving more than 1,000 speakers.

Books for Children, and Readers Yet to Be Made

NBT has also paid sustained attention to children. It organised its first Children’s Book Fair in Calcutta in 1983, and its publishing programme today includes a substantial range of books for young readers.

Its current catalogue under the Rashtriya Bal Pustakalaya includes titles in English and many Indian languages, from picture books and stories to books connected with science, nature, history and culture. Recent additions include books by established names as well as new writers, with prices that remain strikingly accessible.

This commitment to affordability may be one of NBT’s most important achievements. At a time when beautifully produced children’s books can cost several hundred rupees, an ₹50, ₹70 or ₹100 book can make the difference between a book being an occasional gift and becoming an everyday part of a child’s life.

And that, surely, was always the larger objective: not simply selling books, but building the habit of reading.

NBT in a Changing India

Seventy years after its birth, the book world has changed beyond recognition.

There are e-books, audiobooks, online stores, independent publishers, self-publishing platforms and social-media book influencers. Yet the original NBT mission has not become irrelevant. If anything, the need to help readers navigate an overwhelming flood of information has become greater.

The Trust has moved into new initiatives as well. It continues to organise book fairs and literary events, support reading promotion, train publishing professionals, participate in international fairs and encourage Indian writing and publishing, young authors’ mentorship initiative and the expanding Rashtriya e-Pustakalaya ecosystem.

Meanwhile, its catalogue continues to grow, ranging from the National Biography series and books on India’s freedom movement and knowledge traditions to contemporary themes, children’s literature and new bilingual publications.

Where Can You Buy NBT Books?

The easiest place to begin is the official NBT website. Its online catalogue allows readers to browse by language, format, subject and series, while the official store enables online purchase of available titles.

Browse and buy directly from NBT: National Book Trust online catalogue and store

For children’s books: NBT’s Rashtriya Bal Pustakalaya catalogue

The official catalogue is worth browsing even if you do not have a particular title in mind. That is perhaps the most NBT-like way of buying a book: wander through the shelves, discover something unexpected and come away with more than you intended.

After all, for 70 years, the National Book Trust has been doing more than publishing books. It has been quietly pursuing a much larger project: making books affordable, accessible and visible in a country of immense linguistic and cultural diversity.

That is no small achievement.

So, as NBT enters its eighth decade, perhaps the best way to mark its 70th birthday is not with a ceremonial message alone.

Buy a book.

And read it.

Because somewhere in the founding vision of the National Book Trust was a wonderfully simple hope: that India would become a little more book minded.

And something that our PM Nehru said at the launch of NBT is still true today: ‘If people who go to cinema, give one-tenth of the money they spend on cinema to books, you would have enormous number of books sold in India.”

–Meena

Pic: Source: National Book Trust, India, NBT at a Glance.

Borden and the Baroda Libraries

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India celebrates National Librarian’s Day on 12 August every year to mark the birth anniversary of Dr S R Ranganathan who is known as the father of library science in India. Dr Ranganthan was a mathematics graduate who was not initially trained as a librarian, but in 1924 he was appointed as librarian by the University of Madras. He subsequently travelled to London to study library science and returned with a mission to modernize and expand library access, and transform libraries into user-focussed spaces. Towards this he created the Colon Classification system.

While Dr Ranganathan is revered and celebrated, not much is known about another librarian who travelled half-way across the world, and contributed to India’s library movement with missionary zeal.     

William Alanson Borden, was born in America in 1853. He got a degree in science but his passion for books led him to join a subscription-based library managed by Charles Cutter who was an innovator in library science. Borden went on to join many other libraries, learning on the job, even as he came up with innovative ideas about library organization, not only in terms of books, but also reader convenience.

A serendipitous meeting with Maharaja Sayajirao III of Baroda brought Borden to Baroda. The Maharaja was a progressive ruler of what was then the feudal state of Baroda. He had introduced several measures which were well ahead of their time including compulsory education for girls. As early as 1906 he proposed a network of circulating libraries to promote the habit of reading. Sayajirao’s administration also provided assistance to the subscription-based libraries started by Motibhai Amin, a noted educationist and librarian.

During the course of his visit to the United States, Sayajirao was deeply impressed by the public libraries in the United States. He also happened to meet William Borden, and, impressed by his vision and passion invited him to Baroda to create and direct a free public library system for the people of his state. Borden accepted his invitation, and came to Baroda in late 1910.

Borden was driven by the desire to make libraries accessible to a wide audience, and with the Maharaja’s patronage, he tried to make their common dream a reality. He introduced a system of “library cooperation”, under which the existing 241 libraries were linked in a network via his cataloguing system. This gave readers across the network – including at the district, town and village level – access to the cumulative collection of 10 lakh books, which included Sayajirao’s personal collection of over 20,000 books from the palace library.

With the Maharaja’s support, and Borden’s vision, there were significant developments.  A permanent space was commissioned for the Baroda Central Library. Reference sections were added to the Central and the district libraries, and an information bureau set up. Apart from this, travelling libraries on bullock carts, which had already been initiated, were given a boost with Borden’s interlinked system.

The setting up of reading rooms for women and children was an innovative measure. In Baroda city, a female librarian began taking books in ‘library boxes’ to a ladies’ club that had been meeting in a park Sayaji Baug, every Saturday since 1903. The Mahila Library, as it came to be called, was made a part of the Central Library in August 1914. To attract children to the Central Library, Borden brought a cinemascope from London, and lantern slides and films were shown.

Borden also designed a training programme for librarians, mainly in Gujarati. The comprehensive course taught pupils how to test paper quality, collate books, catalogue them and use the card system. Lessons in cursive penmanship were also given, as Borden was especially keen that librarians fill in catalogue cards neatly.  

By the end of Borden’s first year in Baroda state, there were nine town libraries, 60 newsrooms and 255 village libraries. All these were free for readers and sustained by the administration with mostly government funds. Borden however was of the opinion that there should be subscriptions for the use of the library, as this would instill a sense of ownership and involvement among members.

Borden could achieve a great deal in his three years in Baroda.  By the time Borden left Baroda on May 15, 1913, Baroda city had its Central Library, comprising Reference and Lending Departments with a book stock of 40,000 volumes; thirty six of the thirty eight towns had established their own libraries. Two hundred and sixteen of the four hundred and twenty-six large villages had founded their libraries. Even the small villages had come forward and had initiated their own libraries. There were 140 travelling libraries as well.

After Borden returned to the United States, he continued his interest in library engineering; among other things, he designed a “cantilever library stacking system” with moveable shelves and a flexible library card shelving system that remains in use. He also contributed to library science with the development of a Classification System which divides knowledge into 26 basic classes, each identified by a letter, similar to the Library of Congress System, developed during the same time-period. Classes are further subdivided with numbers to indicate subfields. The system became recognized  as the Borden Classification System which is unique because it has the ability to expand as knowledge develops and subfields come to light.

Borden was a multifaceted librarian who contributed to both the theory and practice of library science and use. Above all his lifelong commitment was to popularize libraries as far and widely as possible. As he wrote in 1912: Give them [the readers] books. Not the books you think they ought to have…give them the books they want to read. What you want to see is not a cupboard filled with soul-convincing titles, but a reading public. The finest library in the world is a room full of empty shelves, with the books out among the people. Build up the reading habit first and a habit can’t be built in a day, nor in a year; after this foundation is well started you may gradually and slowly erect your superstructure; but don’t start to build your house at the second storey.”

–Mamata

Senbazuru: 1000 Cranes for Peace and Health

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–Mamata

Why July 22 Should Be International Pi Day

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

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

It is a wonderful moment. Knowledge triumphs over ridicule.

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

But there is a small problem.

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

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

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

Simple in concept. Impossible to write down completely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So by all means enjoy the festivities on March 14.

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

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

–Meena

A Tuneful AIR: Courtesy Walter Kaufmann

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–Mamata

Wimbledon Shines On

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bjorn Borg 1975

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

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

–Mamata