Category: Meena Raghunathan

Is this Day for Real?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–Meena

Art by Barnalee

Of Birds and Birdwatchers: International Bird Day — 1 April

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–Meena

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

The Art of Yuck

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–Meena

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


The Matilda Effect: When Women-Scientists are Written Out

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

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

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

Why the Matilda Effect Matters

Recognition is not just about credit; it shapes opportunity.

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

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

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

History’s Striking Examples

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

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

India’s own intellectual history reflects similar patterns.

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

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

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

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

Signs of Change

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

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

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

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

Dr. Gagandeep Kang

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

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

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

–Meena

Picture: Indian Academy of Sciences

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

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

WOW, AN AMBIGRAM!

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

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

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

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

But ambigrams are older than that sudden burst of fame.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In that sense, ambigrams are more than clever design.

They are small lessons in perception.

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

–Meena

Image source: Wiktionary

In Pursuit of Criminals: A Women’s Day Special

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

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

The Dollhouse Decorator

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

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

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

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

The Woman in the Mass Graves

Fast forward to the 1990s.

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

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

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

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

The Woman Who Said, “Check Again.”

Then there is contemporary Britain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Closer Home…

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

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

Dr. Rukami Krishnamurthy

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

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

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

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

Happy Women’s Day!

–Meena

Complexifying the Simple

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

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

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

Yet over time, the joke evolved into a genre.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–Meena


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Republic of Whangamōmona established:

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

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

The candidates over the years have included:

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

A race to choose the President

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

Isolation as Identity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why This Tiny Republic Matters

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

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

There is no bitterness in it now. Only tradition.

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

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

Who gets to decide where we belong?

Sometimes the answer is: we do.

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

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

That choice tells you everything.

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

–Meena

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

The Long Ride: Of Bicycles and Their Accessories

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A few weeks ago, we looked into the renewed focus on cycling in India. From looking forward, this week we look back to the history of cycles and associated accessories.

When the first velocipedes (how dinosaurish does that sound??) rattled down European streets in the mid-19th century, they were little more than mechanical curiosities. Wooden frames, iron tyres, no brakes worth the name. Riding one was only for the reckless! The penny-farthing that followed —towering front wheel and precarious balance — made cycling a performance. Only the young and fearless could mount it, and the fall was as much a part of the experience as the ride.

Everything changed with the “safety bicycle” of the 1880s: two wheels of equal size, a chain drive, pneumatic tyres. Suddenly, cycling became practical. You could ride to work, to the market, to visit a friend. No fuel, no maintenance.

And practically no special gear in those days.

But soon came the humble trouser clip did make riding more convenient for men. To modern eyes, it looks medieval: a spring-loaded strip of metal hugging the ankle, holding fabric away from a greasy chain. But for decades, it was an essential. Men could cycle to office or factory without rolling up their trousers like labourers or risking oil-stained cuffs. Infact, I remember my father had one!

In Britain and Europe, cyclists also used trouser straps made of leather, elastic bands with buckles, even improvised safety pins. In India, where bicycles quickly became tools of work — for clerks, teachers, postmen — it was a metal slip-on around the ankle.

Women faced a more complicated problem. In the West, corsets, long skirts, layers of petticoats, and in India, the sari — none were designed for pedalling. Accessories stepped in stepped in because dressing styles took their time to change. Skirt guards– mesh or wire panels fitted over the rear wheel–prevented fabric from tangling in spokes. In India, the chain guard became standard, not optional — a solid metal shield protecting sarees, dupattas, school uniforms.

Other innovations took root in India, to cater to the specific needs. Rear carriers grew wider and sturdier– for schoolbags, milk cans, whole families. Bells had loud, rings that announced presence on crowded roads.

Lighting tells another story of evolution. Early bicycles relied on oil lamps and carbide lamps — lovely if moody. Then came the dynamos.  Today’s LEDs and rechargeable lamps are brighter and lighter, and fulfil the same needs — that the cyclist be seen, that night need not be a barrier. But in India, there has been a regression. From lights being quite common specially in the South, they are seldom to be seen today.

And then there is the helmet — the most contested accessory of all.

For most of cycling history, helmets did not exist in any recognisable modern form. Riders trusted balance, experience, and luck. It was only with the rise of fast motor traffic and increasingly hostile roads in the late 20th century that helmets entered everyday cycling conversations.

Countries with strong everyday cycling cultures like the Netherlands, Denmark, Germany, and the United Kingdom tend to prioritise safer infrastructure and do not have compulsory helmet laws for cyclists.

But in most countries, there is neither a mandatory helmet rule, nor an effort towards safter infra. Very few places in the world make helmets mandatory for all bicycle riders. Nations that mandate helmets for all riders often do so in environments where cycling is seen as high-risk.

Countries with universal bicycle helmet laws — applying to adults as well as children — include Australia and New Zealand, where nationwide mandates have been in place for decades. A smaller group of countries, including Argentina, Costa Rica, Namibia, Cyprus, Singapore, and parts of the United Arab Emirates, also require cyclists to wear helmets by law, though enforcement and penalties vary.

Some countries like Japan, have introduced a legal duty to wear helmets for cyclists, but without the kind of fines or policing associated with traffic offences.

Far more common are age-based helmet laws, where children or teenagers must wear helmets but adults are exempt. Yet other countries do not require helmets in cities, but helmets are compulsory for cyclists outside urban areas.

In India, there is no nationwide law that makes helmets mandatory for people riding ordinary, non-motorised bicycles. Sadly, these laws do not even exist for motorized two-wheelers, or are not uniformly enforced even where they exist. Neither is there effort towards roads, lanes and infra to make cycling safter.

Given that India stands first in the world in absolute number of traffic deaths, and that two-wheelers including bicycles account for over 50% of these deaths, is it not time to make it mandatory of cyclists and two-wheeler drives to use helmets? And for city-planners to make roads safer for cyclists?

Safety please!

–Meena

A Flag for the Republic

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Every Republic Day, the tricolour appears with ritual predictability. It rises along Rajpath, flutters on homes, schools and government offices, slips into newspaper mastheads and WhatsApp greetings. We see it as a finished symbol, but the Indian flag, like the Republic it represents, took quite a while to take its final design.

The earliest Indian flags of the twentieth century were crowded and emotional. In 1906, a flag hoisted at Calcutta’s Parsee Bagan Square carried multiple colours, symbols, even words — less a flag than a manifesto. A year later, Bhikaji Cama unfurled another version in Stuttgart, turning cloth into quiet provocation. These were attempts to imagine India visually and politically, before it existed as a nation.

In 1917 came the Home Rule Flag designed by Annie Besant and Bal Gangadhar Tilak, including stars, stripes, the Union Jack, crescent moon and more. A design as complicated as the messaging.

By 1921, when Pingali Venkayya presented a tricolour to Mahatma Gandhi, the design had shifted towards restraint. After much discussion and a few changes, this basic design of three colour stripes and a wheel at the centre was adopted in 1931. Colours were chosen not just for beauty but for what they might stand for —values and ethical balance. The charkha at the centre had a strong message: spin, labour, self-reliance and progress. This was adopted as the flag of the Indian National Congress.

On 22 July 1947, the Constituent Assembly adopted the flag we know today. The charkha was replaced by the Ashoka Chakra — an ancient symbol pressed into modern service. Saffron, white and green were retained, standing for courage, peace and growth. There was no text, no ruler’s emblem, no date to anchor it to a single moment. It was a disciplined choice, and one that we are proud of.

When Design Meets Judgment

All flags are beloved by the people of the country. But there is also design aesthetics. What makes a flag good from this perspective? This question has spawned an entire subculture of passionate experts who evaluate flags with great seriousness. Their principles are deceptively simple: a flag should be easy to draw, limited in colour, free of text, and recognisable at a distance. A flag, they insist, must work when it is old, faded, flapping, or badly stitched. History may explain a design, but it does not excuse a cluttered one.

By these measures, many flags around the world falter. Coats of arms dissolve into visual noise. Mottos disappear into creases. Seals that look impressive on paper collapse on fabric. In the process, a curious truth emerges: symbolism ages better when it is spare.

The Curious Case of Flag Rankings

Over the last two decades, flags have been pulled into the modern compulsion to rank everything. Design schools, vexillological associations (i.e, association of people who study flags), online polls, children’s surveys, and pop culture lists have all attempted to crown the world’s most beautiful flags. The results vary, but patterns repeat.

Japan’s rising sun is endlessly praised for its calm authority. Switzerland’s square flag earns admiration for bold simplicity. Canada’s maple leaf is often held up as a model of contemporary national branding. Nepal’s double-pennant shape wins points simply for refusing to conform. These flags succeed not because they shout, but because they know exactly what they are.

The rankings are hardly neutral. Familiarity influences taste. Politics sneaks in. Yet when designers, schoolchildren and casual observers repeatedly gravitate towards the same flags, it suggests certain features which resound across cultures.

And Where Does India Stand?

India rarely tops these lists, but it almost never sinks either. In most design-based rankings, the tricolour settles comfortably in the upper third of the world’s flags. It is respected rather than sensational.

Its strengths are structural. The layout is clean. The colours are distinctive without being aggressive. The symbolism is layered but not overloaded. Most importantly, there is no text — a decision that has quietly protected the flag from linguistic politics and historical expiry dates.

The Ashoka Chakra is both the flag’s greatest strength and its mildest complication. Conceptually, it is rich: law, motion, moral order. Visually, it is intricate. Purists point out that twenty-four spokes violate the famous rule that a child should be able to draw a flag from memory. But perhaps that tension is apt. A flag is not meant to be reduced to a doodle.

In comparative terms, India often ranks above older European flags burdened with heraldry and below ultra-minimalist icons like Japan or Bangladesh. As a post-colonial flag, however, it scores especially well — modern without being rootless, symbolic without being authoritarian.

The Constitution and the Display

For decades after Independence, ordinary citizens were not freely allowed to fly the national flag. Its use was governed by strict rules, reserved largely for government buildings and official occasions.

But in 2002, a Supreme Court judgment affirmed that flying the national flag was a fundamental right under freedom of expression, the Flag Code of India was liberalised. The tricolour could finally enter homes, balconies and private spaces. It was a quiet but significant shift: the flag moved from being a state-controlled emblem to a shared civic symbol.

Republic Day is about the Constitution, but it is also about the quiet endurance of symbols. The Indian flag has survived regime changes, political churn, commercial misuse and overexposure. Today, it flies proudly over tanks and textbooks, protests and parades.

Happy Republic Day!

–Meena