Category: Mamata Pandya

Multi-faceted Lexicographer: Samuel Johnson

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October 16 is celebrated as Dictionary Day in the United States to mark the birth anniversary of Noah Webster who was born on this day in 1758. Noah Webster is known as the Father of the American Dictionary. Until the publication, in 1806, of his A Compendious Dictionary of the American Language, the authoritative English language resource in America was Samuel Johnson’s 1775 Dictionary of the English Language. However, America had declared freedom from British rule in 1776, and a section of the American population wanted that the newly independent nation should have its own national dictionary. While Noah Webster’s long labour eventually produced such a dictionary, the story of the one of the most famous dictionaries in the history of the English language is equally a tale of another labour of love. 

Samuel Johnson

Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language, first published in 1755, took over eight years to compile, required six helpers and listed over 40,000 words. It was a more extensive and complex dictionary than any of its predecessors, a huge scholarly achievement. Each word was defined in detail, and the definitions illustrated with quotations covering every branch of learning.

For nearly a century before Johnson embarked upon his Dictionary there had been a growing feeling within the upper echelons of English society that there should be some sort of standardisation within the English language. In the preface to the Dictionary, Johnson wrote how he felt that the English language was in desperate need of some discipline. In his view, he had found the language to be “copious without order, and energetick without rules”. But it took a whole century before he got his chance to bring some order to the language.

Samuel Johnson was born in Lichfield, Staffordshire, on 18 September 1709. His father was a bookseller. He was educated at Lichfield Grammar School and spent a brief period at Oxford University, but was forced to leave due to lack of money. Unable to find teaching work, he drifted into a writing career. In 1735, he married Elizabeth Porter, a monied widow, more than 20 years his senior. He then moved to London to seek fame and fortune, as well as to further his efforts as a poet. However, he spent several years as a hack writer trying his hand at all kinds of writing, just to make ends meet. The turning point in his fortunes came in 1746.

Over his time in London, Samuel had gradually acquired a literary reputation, and a syndicate of printers commissioned him to compile a ‘Dictionary of the English Language’. This was a lengthy and perilous project, funded by a partnership of booksellers. The booksellers invested in the project because they foresaw good sales, as dictionaries and encyclopedias had a good market in the general public. The partnership shared the costs and the risks, while the copyright of such items usually belonged to the publisher. Thus once the compiler had been paid the agreed sum, he was not entitled to any form of royalty on the sales, while the booksellers made a hefty profit.

In 1746, Samuel Johnson entered into the agreement with the booksellers to write an English dictionary. He began work the same year with only six assistants to aid him. Samuel projected that the scheme would take about three years.  A year later, he was only able to publish a plan for the dictionary in which he outlined his reasons for undertaking the project, and explained exactly how he intended to compile his work. However, he seriously underestimated the scale of the work involved, and in the end it took him three times his estimated length of time to complete his magnum opus.

In the process of compiling the dictionary, Samuel Johnson recognised that language is impossible to fix because of its constantly changing nature, and that his role was to record the language of the day, rather than to form it. Thus he used citations for the words listed, using quotations from a number of literary sources including Shakespeare, Milton, and Spenser. For this he scoured ‘great works’ dating back to the sixteenth century. He managed to select 114,000 illustrative quotations from every field of learning and literature. Albeit, Samuel was also not averse to twisting or rewriting some of the original words to fit the meaning he was trying to convey. However, Samuel Johnson was the first English lexicographer to use citations in this way, a method that greatly influenced the style of future dictionaries.

Samuel Johnson’s dictionary was far from comprehensive, even by mid-eighteenth-century standards. It contained 42,773 entries; but even during Johnson’s time, there were at least 250,000 words in the English language. Samuel Johnson was certainly selective in his choice of words to include. The story goes that several cultivated ladies of London society congratulated the great Doctor for having left all indecent words out of his Dictionary, to which Johnson is said to have retorted, ‘Ah, ladies, so you have been looking for them?’

The dictionary was published in two large volumes on 15 April 1755. The full title was was A dictionary of the English Language: in which the words are deduced from their originals, and illustrated in their different significations by examples from the best writers. To which are prefixed, a history of the language, and an English grammar.

It was not the first such dictionary, but was certainly the most important for that time. In Johnson’s lifetime five further editions were published, and a sixth came out when he died.

From then on Samuel Johnson’s fame was assured. He became known as Dictionary Johnson; but he never made a fortune. Even today, Samuel Johnson is the second most-quoted Englishman according to the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations. Among the quotes attributed to him are: “Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel” and “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life”. He himself never tired of London where he died at the age of 75 in 1784.

Poet, playwright, essayist, satirist, moralist, literary critic, biographer, editor, and lexicographer–This was the multi-facted “Dr Johnson”, as he was often referred to.

Read more about Noah Webster and his Dictionary https://millennialmatriarchs.com/2021/07/22/from-colour-to-color/

–Mamata

A Hundred Years of Friendship: Winnie-the-Pooh & Co.

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It is common to mark the milestone centenary of a popular personality or a historical event, but not so common to celebrate a book and its fictional characters for reaching the hundredth birthday. This week, a centenary celebration marks the debut of a timeless favourite character Winnie-the-Pooh, and his motley band of friends, who have been delighting and comforting generations of children, as well as much older ‘children at heart’.

The little bear and his small gang of Hundred Acre Wood have captivated children’s imagination for a hundred years. Pooh, along with Tigger, Eeyore, Piglet, Rabbit, Kanga, Roo, Owl, and the little boy Christopher Robin were the literary creations of English writer AA Milne.

Alexander Alan Milne was born in London on 18 January 1882. He studied at Henley House School, a small independent school run by his father. One of the teachers at the school was HG Wells. After earning a degree in mathematics from Cambridge University, AA Milne moved back to London where we worked as assistant editor of the humour magazine Punch for eight years. Despite being a staunch pacifist he was drafted in World War 1 and served for the British army. He was injured in the Battle of Somme; and returned to England suffering from post-traumatic stress caused by his experience in the war. He could not take the busy life of London and moved his family to the countryside outside of East Sussex. As he slowly recovered, he spent a lot of time in the woods in the area with his only son Christopher Robin, nicknamed Billy Moon. These woods became the setting for the forthcoming adventures of the Hundred Acre Wood gang of friends.

How did the woods become populated with these characters whose charm has remained undiminished for a hundred years? Christopher Robin himself was introduced by his father in a poem titled Vespers which was published in 1923. Another poem mentions a Mr Edward Bear, which was the name of the toy bear that Milne had given his son on his first birthday. But a visit to London Zoo where Christopher saw a black bear rescued from Winnipeg in Canada, led to the renaming of Edward the toy bear as Winnie. The christening was complete when Christopher told his father about a swan that he fed every morning, and how, if the swan did not come, Christopher would say “pooh” implying ‘I don’t care!’ Thus, on Christmas Eve 1925, AA Milne’s short story The Wrong Sort of Bees formally introduced Winnie-the-Pooh, the teddy bear often dragged down the stairs by his owner Christopher Robin. In no time, the big-hearted, but slightly slow-witted bear won the hearts of all children, and the child-at-heart. In the stories that followed, the little boy and his bear were joined in their woodland adventures by their equally quirky, but loving, furry and feathered friends.

The characters were brought to life by pencil illustrations by Ernest H Shepard. Milne and Shepard were old friends; they had also served together in World War I. The writer and illustrator continued their association through all the books.

Shepard based his drawings on some stuffed toys that Christopher played with in his childhood. However, Pooh bear was based on his own son’s teddy bear named Growler. The original stuffed toys that gave form to Tigger, Eeyore, Piglet, and Kanga are still preserved in the New York Public Library, a bit bedraggled over time, but still tugging at heartstrings.

The first collection of stories Winnie the Pooh was published on 14 October 1926. It was a huge success and helped to introduce the characters to audiences beyond England. The stories with their innate innocence, childhood joys, and idyllic countryside provided comfort in times that still echoed with the brutality of World War I. They also touched upon universal sentiments of friendship and bonding.

In the hundred years since, the books have sold millions of copies worldwide; the characters remain evergreen, and their stories embrace us in a warm reassuring hug. Why do they still tug at our hearts?

The characters are relatable. From the innocent simplicity of Pooh, to the melancholic realism of Eeyore; Piglet’s anxious loyalty, to Tigger’s boundless enthusiasm, we find ourselves comparing these with our own self, and our friends. Wouldn’t it be so boring if all our friends were exactly like us?!

Distinct personalities, each with their own quirks that can be so irksome! But wouldn’t it be so boring if all our friends were exactly like us?! That diversity is what makes the pot pourri so charming. Quibbles and squabbles, all part of life and times in the Hundred Acre Wood. And yet, despite the differences, these friends stand by each other through adventures and mishaps. The friend in need, indeed!

There is no one-upmanship, no one tries to be ambitious, or grand or perfect. The friends accept each other as they are. Cantankerous, timid, scared, anxious, pessimistic, scatterbrained…who is judging here? These traits are not highlighted or analysed, just accepted as an integral part of what makes your friend your friend.  

Life in the Hundred Acre Wood may have its little moments of drama and adventure, but the real “high” for its residents comes from everyday joys—an impromptu picnic; sharing a jar of honey; a walk in the woods, or simply sitting in silence with a friend.

But, to get to this point does require effort. As Pooh reminds us, you cannot just wait in your corner of the forest for friends to come to you; you have to reach out.

Simple and timeless truths. These are being celebrated in different ways this week to remind us, and refresh us. The New York Public Library is hosting a special exhibition featuring the original illustrations by Shepard, the first editions of the 1926 book, and the original stuffed animals that inspired the characters in the stories. The Ashdown Forest in England which inspired the Hundred Acre Wood is planning walking trails and a redesigned visitor centre that looks like a life-sized pop-up book. Perhaps for those of us who have fond memories of Pooh and pals, it is a good time to revisit Winnie-the- Pooh, and savour once again the simple innocence of childhood.

The original books, published following the horrors of World War I, provided a much-needed solace in a time of great sadness, a connection to the innate wonder of childhood. Today as we are inundated with images of hundreds of thousands of children in the world’s many war-ravaged zones; children deprived not only of the basic necessities for survival, but the very innocence and joy of childhood, we need reminders of these very gifts that make life and living worthwhile.

–Mamata

Johnny Appleseed of the Himalayas: Samuel Stokes

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In the days before cold storage and “imported” made all kinds of fruits and vegetables available in all seasons, there was a strong seasonal association with these. There were distinct summer fruits, reigned over by King Mango, and bitter karela that matched well with the pungent jamuns in the rainy season. There were the winter favourites ushered in by carrots and peas, and fruits like custard apple and guava.

Growing up in Delhi in those days, for us October was always associated with the Apple season. It was around Dussera time that the Golden Delicious variety of apples made their way from Himachal Pradesh to the markets of the plains. The smooth green crunchy apples had a distinct personality from the red apples from Kashmir. Today these are not easily seen, and not many would even bother to know the difference. An apple is an apple, after all.

The history of apples in Himachal Pradesh is linked with a person whose life and work was a curious journey that took many turns. This was a man who was born in the United States as Samuel Evans Stokes, and died as Satyananda, in the service of the poor in India.

Samuel Stokes was the son of a wealthy American businessman. It was expected that he would continue the family business, but even from his early youth, it was not profit but service that motivated him. This quest led him to join the Christian Quakers religious movement which led him to India as missionary at the age of 22 years. His father initially indulged what he believed was his son’s youthful quest, and even financed his trip.

Stokes arrived in India  in 1904. He began work in a leprosy home in Solan district of Himachal Pradesh. His parents were afraid that he would get leprosy and never return home. Samuel survived, but did not return home.

As he started work with leprosy patients, Samuel realised that he would always be seen as a ‘white outsider’. While he could not change his skin colour, began to dress like the local people and learnt the Pahari dialect so that he could directly communicate. Gradually he integrated with the local community and culture.

In 1912, he fell in love with Benjamin Agnes, a daughter of a first-generation Rajput Christian. Together, they bought a large plot of land in the foothills of the Himalayas and settled there. Harmony Hall became the centre of his new passion–horticulture. However, the poverty of the local people and the need to support them was always on his mind. As Samuel decided to turn to farming and embarked on several experiments in cultivating pear, plum and apples, he began to feel that large-scale fruit growing in the area could help to boost the local economy.

In 1914, Samuel went to America carrying soil samples from his land, and returned with saplings of apples of various varieties that he believed would be suited to the climate and terrain of Himachal. After experimenting with these for a year or two, he found that the Red Delicious variety worked best. Then his mother sent him saplings of the Golden Delicious variety which he added to the mix. While apples were not unknown on the Indian subcontinent, they were mainly grown in Kashmir. The few varieties that grew in Himachal were wild, small, and sour. Once Samuel’s apples were doing well, he started distributing saplings to encourage local farmers to start apple cultivation. They were initially reluctant to replace food crops with fruit which took seven years to yield fruit, but Samuel supported them in the sale and export of the produce as they made the transition. Stokes also built a school for children who worked for him in his orchards in lieu of the fee.

By 1928 apples from Harmony Hall had taken over the Himachal valleys. Samuel also set up a training school for future horticulturists on his estate. Himachal Pradesh officially became the Apple State of India.

Stokes had always fought for the rights of the local labourers in Himachal, and fought against injustice. In the meanwhile, Stokes’ close friendship with CF Andrews led him to Gandhi. The Jallianwala Bagh incident which brutally exposed British violence against people led him to join the freedom movement. He attended the Nagpur session of the Indian National Congress in 1920, and was the only non-Indian signatory to the declaration urging Indians to shun government service. He travelled with Gandhi around the United Provinces to spread the message of swadeshi and soon took to wearing khadi kurtas and churidars, topped with a Gandhi cap. His articles in support of non-cooperation and against British rule led to his arrest for sedition in December 1921. In prison, he protested against the preferential treatment accorded him as a European – he considered himself a British Indian and a Congressman.

Stokes officially gave up politics in 1924 but continued to correspond with Gandhiji. He described himself as more of a philosopher than a politician. He devoted himself to working for the land and the people of Himachal. His own life journey then took a spiritual turn. In a simple conversion ceremony, he embraced Hinduism in 1932, and took the name Satyananda Stokes. His desire to serve remained the guiding principle of his work and life till the very end. He died on 14 May 1946 at the age of 64, and is buried in Kotghar, Shimla.

This season, as we savour the Delicious Apples from Himachal Pradesh, it is a good time to remember Samuel Stokes who can be aptly described as the Johnny Appleseed of the Himalayas.   

–Mamata

 

Patient Observations

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In the past few months I have had occasion to visit three hospitals, as a patient. A small private hospital, a medium-sized corporate hospital, and a public hospital. Each one had its standard procedures and code of conduct. It was interesting to observe and experience the similarities, and the differences. It was also an opportunity to think about a subject that would not normally feature in my list of ‘explore and discover’ topics.

Perhaps the biggest trail of exploration was triggered by my visit to the Civil Hospital in Ahmedabad. Locating the building that we had to reach was the first step. The real eye opener was the sight of hundreds and hundreds of people going and coming, and waiting…One would imagine that such a huge moving population would end up in a railway station-kind of melee with noise, jostling, shoving, and seeming chaos. Here however, there was no unnecessary noise, people (patients as well as their accompanying members) were seated in an orderly fashion on chairs as they awaited their turn to reach one of the several registration desks. This was the first step in what would become the ‘case file’ that would be the key document for their future treatment. This process certainly involved a great deal of filling of forms, and being sent off from section to section to go through the numerous steps required. It was heartening to see that most of the staff were helpful in guiding a large number of people who were from all walks of life, some obviously from distant rural areas who had come here for treatment. This was creditable considering that the continuous stream of people certainly could have tried the patience of a saint. All said and done, things were moving. We too joined the flowing mass of humanity, as we were directed from counter to counter and building to building, over a large part of the day; experiencing how a large part of India’s population encounters the public health system, but also discovering some fascinating facts about the civil hospital.

The Civil Hospital as it is loosely described, is in fact a complex of a number of large medical institutions spread over area of 110 acres in the Asarva area of Ahmedabad. The complex includes facilities for specialized diagnostic, therapeutic and rehabilitative care starting with the general outpatient department to dedicated institutions providing medical and surgical treatment for specific diseases including cancer, TB, kidney and heart, and dental ailments. The campus also houses the BJ medical college, the Gujarat  Medical Council, Gujarat State Pharmacy Council and Gujarat Nursing Council.

No wonder then that this complex, familiarly called Civil Hospital is Asia’s largest public hospital, and possibly the oldest. It’s unique history and heritage goes back 168 years.

 It origins as an institution can be traced back to 1841 when it started operating from the Collector’s Office. The brick and mortar building of the hospital was constructed in 1858 at a cost of Rs. 96,000. This was an immense sum in those days, and the then colonial government had no role in its funding. But Ahmedabad also has a long history of philanthropy, when the affluent merchants of city contributed generously to public causes. Two prominent citizens Shri Hutheesing and Shri Premabhai were among the key donors for establishing the hospital, along with an Englishman, D. Wyllie, who was the Surgeon General at the time. A block of the hospital was named the Wyllie Ward after him. The objective was to provide free health services, aid and treatment to the people. The Old Civil Hospital was located at the Collector’s Office in Gheekanta. There were 12 wards and rooms for 92 in-patients. A medical school attached to the hospital was started in 1871 with 14 students who were designated as Hospital Assistants. As patients continued stream in, there was a need for expansion of space and facilities. Once again, the philanthropists of the city stepped in. Over the few decades, donations helped to open a Medical College, an eye hospital, outdoor patients section, and construct a maternity unit and women’s and children’s wards. The common people of Ahmedabad also contributed. From funds collected by the public, a well-equipped surgical ward was created; it was named the Mary Lambert Operation Theatre.

Despite these extensions and expansions, the hospital could not meet the huge need and demand for its services. Thus work, funded by the government, began on new premises in the Asarva area, starting in 1952. The New Civil Hospital as it was called shifted here in November 1953. Over the years, the campus has grown and spread to earn its distinction as the largest public hospital in Asia. The New Civil Hospital has more than 2000 beds and 44 wards for indoor patients. Over 1 lakh indoor patients are treated here every year. And over 9 lakh patients avail of the OPD facilities annually. And all treatments and investigations are provided free of charge, or at minimal charges. Mind boggling, to say the least.

No doubt, the system is not without its flaws and issues. And an equal number of stories may be shared about harrowing experiences. But the fact that such a complex of facilities continues to function, where even a common person can avail of medical treatment at minimal cost, is certainly worthy of commendation. Yes, there are crowds, there are long waits, there are points of confusion and frustration. But then, one hears of months-long wait in Britain’s NHS system to get a bed for a routine surgery; and the American system where one needs to wait months before one can get an appointment to see a specialist, or an MRI when quick diagnosis and treatment are of the essence…

In our own quest to be leaders in ‘medical tourism’ today we are seeing an upsurge of huge corporate hospitals springing up. These are bewildering concrete and glass jungles in themselves, where even a critically-ill patient cannot be admitted until the Billing Desk declares them “fit to pay”. Where every breath, and every procedure and pill is billed, and from where it is a challenge to emerge sound in body, mind, and bank balance!

In such greatly changed times, and certainly in the face of huge challenges, it is humbling to know that the Civil Hospital continues to adhere to its original mission of “Providing the best healthcare services to all sections of society at free of cost through unrelenting strategy of motivation, quality improvement, value addition and dedication towards humanity with selflessness.”

–Mamata

I Am a Tree

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Meena’s recent musings on “her’ guava tree took me back to my early days as an environmental educator. One of our first assignments was to develop a series of worksheets for children which would help to spark curiosity, interest, and appreciation of the natural world. This meant that we ourselves needed to experience what we expected the children to experience. We decided to start small, with a single tree, rather than a forest. The exercise began with our own observations of a single tree.

Over days, as we began to explore the numerous dimensions of a single tree, we got caught up in a fascinating journey of observing, exploring, and discovering. Putting together our notes, and engaging in refreshing discussions, the worksheets and activities for guided observation began to evolve. Preliminary try-outs of these with teachers and students added new dimensions that enriched our own understanding.

One of the unplanned spin-offs from this experience was a poem that I wrote; an attempt to capture the wonderful web of life that a single tree nurtures.

Decades later, the poem about the guava tree evoked many memories, and led me back to these words, penned long ago.

I Am a Tree

I am a tree

so straight and free

all branches and twigs and trunk am i

but i stand alone

bare to the bone

i am a tree

so tall and free

who will come and be with me?

WE are the roots

from us will sprout the shoots

we dig deep and wide

spread out on every side

under the earth we hide

food and water we gather it all

to help the tree stand strong and tall.

WE are the leaves

we dance in the breeze

so many are we, different ones for every tree

some long, some short, some large some small

some yellow, some red, some grow some fall

we cover the branches and twigs like a screen

making a beautiful dress of green

to help the tree to breathe and dine

there’s lots to be done

but for that we need the sun.

WE are the insects

we live on the tree

we crawl, we creep, we hop, we fly

in cracks and hollows, some damp, some dry

we take our fill of fruit and flower

leaf and bark we lay our eggs and spin our webs

if you look hard you’ll see our mark.

WE are the birds of different feathers

we flock to the tree in all kinds of weather

we stitch, or weave, or build our homes

from twigs, on branches, in trunks with holes

we coo, we caw, we chirp, we chatter

we rest, we roost, we flutter, we patter.

WE are the children

we love the tree

in village, in city, town, and country

it gives us shade and fruit for free

it plays with us when we make believe

that we are a squirrel, a hawk, tarzan

up we go on it, one…two…three

look at the world like a monkey.  

A tree i am

so happy and free

so many friends are part of me

they make me a world of colour and sound

we help each other

from sky to ground.

I was a tree

once proud and free

i lived, i grew, i got i gave

some rain i brought, some soil i saved

i was a world for living things.

i am now a stump, just left to dry

cut up for wood. oh, how i cry

a table, a chair, a window, a door, a pencil, a paper, something more

a bonfire has been lit of me.

I that was tree

once tall and free  

While poets continue to wax eloquent about trees, no human can ever create a tree. That is exclusively Nature’s miracle and gift.

Joyce Kilmer reminded us of this in 1913.

   I think that I shall never see

  A poem lovely as a tree.

  Poems are made by fools like me,

  But only God can make a tree.

–Mamata

An Ode to Letters

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I recently read a book that resonated with me. The Correspondent by Virginia Evans is a novel narrated entirely through letters. The protagonist Sybil is a mother and a grandmother, divorced, retired from a distinguished career in law. Every morning at half-past ten, Sybil Van Antwerp sits down to write letters. Letters to family, letters to friends, even letters to authors whose books she has read, to share her own thoughts on these.  Sybil uses her letters to make sense of the world. And by the end of the novel, it is her letters that unfold the story of her own life.

As a person who has been a letter writer most of my life. And who persisted with writing on real paper with real ink, although by part-necessity, succumbed to emails, much after the rest of the world around, this book was the reiteration of the enduring value of ‘real’ letters.

Coincidentally, just a few days later, I read that in an already-packed Calendar of “Days” there is a day which celebrates the disappearing art of putting pen to paper. World Letter Writing Day is marked on 1 September every year, as a reminder of the appreciation of handwritten correspondence. How ironic, and so sad that people need reminding of this. And yet, there is a new generation that has probably never sat down with a clean sheet of paper, a pen of their choice, and enough time to open their minds and hearts to a loved one. In this day of instant sharing of bullets of information, written in abbreviated code, and shot off with the tip of a finger, what are we losing?

Sybil, in one of her letters to a sceptic who wonders why she still writes each letter by hand explains: You also asked after the meaning of my practice of letter writing, calling it quaint and impractical. Imagine all that you have said to one another, all the commentary you have exchanged with friends over drinks, over the phone with colleagues and distant relatives, all the prattle sent quickly, mindlessly over the email, messages typed into your cellular phone, and really, the sum of this interpersonal communication is the substance of your life, relationships being, as we know by now in our old ages, the meat of our lives, but all of that is gone.  Vanished!

This mode of communication has been replaced by what another member of the letter-writers club describes as “relinquishing the post the envelope, a pen, a slower cerebral whirring, the use of our whole hands and not just the tips of our fingers.”

And yet, even more ironically, although electronic forms of communication have now largely taken over from the handwritten letter, perhaps even Gen Z secretly yearns to receive the kind of letters that their parents and grandparents talk about with nostalgia. A survey discovered that while 64% of people would not sit down and hand write a single letter over the course of a year, 69% said that receiving something handwritten through the post would mean more to them than a text, tweet or Facebook message.

The first ever personal handwritten letter was thought to have been sent by the Persian Queen Atossa in around 500 BC, according to the ancient Greek historian Hellanicus. The popularity of letters as a way of sending messages grew as more people became literate. While the exact contents or physical copy of this letter have not survived, letters as a form of communication have withstood the passage of times. Great authors have not just penned works of literature, they have revealed so many personal facets through hundreds of letters that remain timeless windows into another time, and other ways of seeing the world. Thankfully these letters are preserved today in archives, and several published.

What will remain of the ephemeral messages that today whiz across the virtual skies, and disappear like shooting stars? Where will there be the magical experience of joining someone, perhaps hundreds of years later, to peek into their relationships, their thoughts, and, reading between the lines, imagining the additional unpenned words? How will we be able to trace the contours of their lives, discover the greys on the fringes of the more obvious black and white? How will we experience the serendipitous excitement when we discover the words that suddenly connect their experience with ours, and the uncanny sense of bonding with the author?

For this, we need letters. And we need to be able to access these letters. But first, these letters need to be written.

Simon Garfield shares this angst in his book To the Letter: A Celebration of the Lost Art of Letter Writing.

Letters have the power to grant us a larger life. They reveal motivation and deepen understanding. They are evidential. They change lives, and they rewire history. The world once used to run upon their transmission — the lubricant of human interaction and the freefall of ideas, the silent conduit of the worthy and the incidental, the time we were coming for dinner, the account of our marvelous day, the weightiest joys and sorrows of love. It must have seemed impossible that their worth would ever be taken for granted or swept aside. A world without letters would surely be a world without oxygen.

Sybil, in her ruminations reiterates this sentiment:

And yet if one has committed oneself to the page…Imagine, the letters one has sent out into the world, the letters received back in turn, are like the pieces of a magnificent puzzle, or, a better metaphor, if dated, links of along chain, and even if those links are never put back together, which they will certainly never be, even if they remain for the rest of time dispersed across the earth like the fragile blown seeds of a dying dandelion, isn’t there something wonderful in that, to think the story of one’s life is preserved in some way, that this very letter may one day mean something, even if it is a very small thing, to someone?

–Mamata

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

A Passion for Pachyderms: R. Sukumar

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

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

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

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

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

Here is his story in his own words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–Mamata

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

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