Category: Meena Raghunathan

Celebrating Meditative Speed: Shorthand Day

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Before we started using ‘idk’ for ‘I don’t know’, or ‘rn’ for ‘right now’ or ‘fr’ in place of ‘for real’, was another type of shorthand. A shorthand that people had to spend months to master–the shorthand used by stenographers, the shorthand considered an essential skill in middle class families in the ‘40s and ‘50s. Beginners could take down dictation at 60-80 words per minute (wpm), while skilled professionals like journalists or court reporters, usually could do 100-120 wpm , with experts reaching 160 wpm+! This was no mean feat, as they had to listen, process, and record all at once.

A Glimpse of a Page from PITMAN SHORTHAND INSTRUCTOR AND KEY

January 4, marked as Shorthand Day or Stenographers’ Day is the birth anniversary of Sir Isaac Pitman, the inventor of the most widely used system of shorthand.  Pitman, born on January 4, 1813, in England, developed the phonetic shorthand system that uses symbols to represent the sounds words make, allowing writers to take notes quickly. His motto was “time saved is life gained”. 

A History in Shorthand

The story of shorthand begins in ancient Greece, where scribes experimented with symbols to capture speeches. But it was the Romans who elevated it into a fine craft. The best-known system, Tironian notes, is attributed to Marcus Tullius Tiro, the freedman and secretary of Cicero. Imagine him in the Senate, stylus poised, capturing the flights of Cicero’s rhetoric in tiny, elegant symbols at a pace that would daunt even today’s stenographers.

After Rome faded, so did shorthand, only to be revived in Renaissance Europe as printing presses and new bureaucracies demanded speed. From the seventeenth century onward, English-speaking countries became hotbeds of shorthand innovation. Each new system claimed to be the fastest, most logical, most “learnable.”

The Many Styles of Speed

Pitman Shorthand (1837)
Perhaps the most famous, , Pitman is all about economy of movement. It uses line thickness and angle—thin for “p,” thick for “b”—and trusts that your hand can switch gears mid-stroke. Generations of journalists swore by it, and some still do.

Gregg Shorthand (1888)
An American rival, and the stylish one. Gregg is curvy, loopy, and feels like it was designed by someone who thought in cursive. It became the favourite of secretaries through much of the twentieth century, taught in business schools and tucked into shorthand notebooks everywhere.

Teeline (1968)
The modern British system, simpler and easier to learn. Teeline keeps only the essential letters, streamlining the alphabet without demanding Pitman’s precision or Gregg’s artistic flourish. Journalism schools still teach it.

Stenotype Machines
And then came the tap-dance keyboards—stenotype machines that look like something between a typewriter and a miniature piano. Court reporters can reach 200–250 words per minute with these, a speed human handwriting simply cannot match. Here, shorthand transforms from strokes to chords: multiple keys pressed at once to create whole syllables or phrases.

Shorthand in India: Many Languages, Many Scripts

While shorthand is often associated with English, India has a surprisingly rich tradition spanning Hindi, Marathi, Tamil, Telugu, Kannada, Bengali, Urdu, Gujarati, and Malayalam. This diversity is driven by India’s multilingual bureaucracy: courts, legislatures, railways, and administrative offices all needed stenographers who could capture speech in local languages at lightning speed.

Hindi and Marathi were early adopters. The Gopal System of Shorthand, developed by Dr. Gopal Datt Gaur in the 1930s, adapted shorthand principles for Devanagari scripts, making it possible to record Hindi and Marathi speeches with remarkable speed and accuracy. In Maharashtra, government offices and the press used both the Gopal system and Hindi adaptations of Pitman, blending classical shorthand speed with local scripts.

Tamil shorthand took inspiration from both Pitman and Gregg systems, translating their principles into Tamil’s script. Training in Tamil shorthand was common among court and administrative stenographers, and many journals and newspapers relied on it to ensure fast, precise transcription. Telugu and Kannada shorthand followed a similar path, mostly adopting Pitman’s phonetic methods but preserving the unique characters and vowel markers of their scripts. In Andhra Pradesh, Telangana, and Karnataka, shorthand exams still train stenographers in these systems, though technology has greatly reduced demand.

Bengali shorthand was adapted from Pitman and, to a lesser extent, Gregg. In pre-Independence Calcutta, it was the lifeline of the High Court and newspapers, allowing reporters and clerks to capture speeches and legal proceedings without missing a word.

Urdu shorthand, tailored for the flowing Nastaliq script, helped stenographers in North Indian courts and administrative offices maintain the rhythm and elegance of spoken Urdu while working at high speed.

Gujarati and Malayalam also developed shorthand variants, often Pitman-based. While they never became mainstream, they are proof that shorthand was not a one-size-fits-all skill, but a highly customized craft.

Shorthand Today: Not Gone, Just Quieter

While shorthand no longer fills classrooms the way it did in the 1950s, it has found unexpected pockets of revival. Hobbyists post their notes online. Court reporters remain a highly specialised and respected profession. Some journalists still rely on Teeline, especially when accuracy matters more than verbatim transcripts. And in India, Devanagari, Tamil, Telugu, Bengali, and Urdu shorthand still quietly exist in government stenography courses and niche professional spaces.

It may be a skill worth picking up in the New Year! There’s the quiet power of having a private script. Many of us have kept diaries in shorthand—half secrecy, half aesthetic pleasure. Those swooping Gregg curves or precise Pitman strokes can turn even a grocery list into a small piece of art.

–Meena

A New Year, and the Quiet Power of Giving

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The start of a new year is not only a fresh beginning for our personal goals, but also invites a pause to reflect on what really matters. In spite of the wars, the violence and the turmoil there are parts of the 2025 story which are happy, especially the story of how we in India give back.

The recent India Philanthropy Report 2025 — a collaborative effort between Bain & Company and Dasra — offered a thoughtful snapshot of giving across the country. It didn’t just measure how much was donated; it shed light on how giving is changing in character. According to the report, private philanthropy — gifts from individuals, families, and organizations — reached an estimated ₹1.31 lakh crore in FY 2024 and is poised to accelerate rapidly over the next several years.

The EdelGive Hurun India Philanthropy List 2025 also reminds us that India’s giving spirit is alive at the very top levels. Leading philanthropists collectively donated more than ₹10,000 crore last year, with figures rising dramatically over the past few years.

Families are reshaping India’s philanthropic landscape. Where giving might once have been an occasional gesture, it is increasingly becoming a way of life — woven into the rhythms of how families think about purpose and legacy. More than a third of philanthropic households now include intergenerational or next-gen givers whose influence is helping steer funds toward ecosystem building, climate action, and gender equity — areas that were once sidelined in favour of more traditional charitable causes.

This evolution of giving reveals something profound. That there has always been generosity is not to be debated But now generosity in India is becoming more intentional. It’s not just about supporting the familiar or the immediate. It’s about recognizing that the greatest impact often comes from building capacity — strengthening systems, forging partnerships, and investing not just in charity, but in change makers themselves.

Philanthropic journeys are no longer ad hoc, isolated one-off donations, but rather, they are long term commitments. Families — both established and newly affluent — are hiring dedicated staff to manage their giving portfolios, thinking in terms of grant-making and strategic partnerships, and using data and collaboration to guide decisions. It’s a shift from charity to investment. From transactions to transformation.

The sheer breadth of causes gaining traction — education, healthcare, climate resilience, gender equity — reflects a maturing sense of social responsibility.

But I suspect that giving in India is truly underestimated. The true pulse of generosity extends far beyond headline gifts. It lives in the young alumni who pledge to fund scholarships that unlock opportunity. It lives in the professionals who commit a portion of their income to social causes they care about. It lives in the quiet choices families make to support education of their staff, to step in during health emergencies, to support NGOs.

Not just money. I am inspired by an 80 year old who volunteers at government hospitals to help less empowered patients to navigate the system and his 75 year old wife who gives free tuitions; a post graduate student who takes government school students on nature trails over the weekends; a retired professor who motivates college students to undertake plantation drives.

Each one of us is doing it. But it does not get reflected in the statistics, because it often flows through informal channels. If we could count all this, I think the figures would skyrocket far beyond the official ones.

As we step into 2026, perhaps the most hopeful thing isn’t just that giving is growing in size. It’s that we are recognizing that giving in its many forms, isn’t just a response to crisis; it’s a part of how we build the future we want to see.

So if your New Year asks you to think about what you can do, consider what you can givee, not just in money, but in time, attention, skills and compassion. Everyone of us can make a greater difference to the possibility of a better tomorrow — for all of us.

✨ Here’s to a year of deeper giving, rooted in purpose, and defined by connection.

–Meena & Mamata

Trending for Christmas: Advent Calendars, Elves on Shelves

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Time was when December was a time of plum cakes, rose cookies, carols, visiting malls decked up for the festivals, meeting and greeting friends. But of the last few years,  two unlikely stars dominate the Christmas season: the Advent calendar and the Elf on the Shelf. One ancient, one very new—both now deeply embedded in how we count down to Christmas.

A brief history of Advent calendars

The idea of Advent itself is old—older than Christmas trees. Advent, from the Latin adventus meaning “coming,” marks the four weeks leading up to Christmas in the Christian calendar, a time traditionally associated with reflection, anticipation, and restraint.

In 19th-century Germany, families found little ways to help children visualise this waiting period. Chalk marks appeared on doors. Some households lit one candle a day; others hung up devotional images. By the early 1900s, the first printed Advent calendars were produced—simple paper sheets with numbered windows, behind which lay Bible verses or illustrations.

From chocolate to collectibles

Somewhere in the late ‘40s, after the Second World War, when food shortages eased and printing techniques improved, Advent calendars with edible treats became widespread.Behind each window of the Advent calendar waited a tasty treat—a chocolate, a sugar plum, a sweet treat. What began as a teaching aid slowly transformed into something sweeter, more enticing, and with a marketing twist par excellence.

Today’s Advent calendars have undergone a full-blown glow-up. No longer confined to children—or to chocolate—they now house everything from artisanal teas and scented candles to skincare serums, craft beers, cheeses, socks, and even whiskies and dog treats. Luxury brands release limited-edition calendars months in advance, triggering waiting lists and re-sale markets.

This boom is no accident. The modern Advent calendar aligns perfectly with contemporary consumer psychology: daily rewards, unboxing pleasure, scarcity, and the gentle justification of indulgence because it’s the festive season. The whole month of December becomes a ritualised month of consumption—measured, paced, and delightfully guilt-free. And of course, culminating in the frenzy of consumerism, eating and drinking on Christmas day.

Ironically, this commercialisation has expanded the calendar’s appeal. Many adults who do not observe Advent religiously still cherish the countdown. Waiting, once an exercise in patience, is now sweetened—literally and figuratively.

Enter the Elf: Mischief, manufactured

If Advent calendars evolved slowly over centuries, the Elf on the Shelf arrived fully formed—and at speed. Introduced in 2005, The Elf on the Shelf: A Christmas Tradition was a book created by Carol V. Aebersold and her daughter Chanda Bell.

Neither Aebersold nor Bell were established writers at the time. It was a self-published book which went on to become a tradition–giving hope to all us children’s writers who wait in vain to hear from our publishers!. The book-and-doll set was released through their own company and initially sold through small gift shops and boutiques. Crucially, it was conceived not just as a story, but as a complete ritual-in-a-box: a narrative, a character, a rulebook, and a physical object, all bundled together. Only after it caught on—fuelled by word of mouth and parental enthusiasm—did it enter big-box retail and global markets. The story existed to support the ritual, and the ritual supported the product. Marketing genius!

Performance Pressure

The elf’s premise is simple. A magical scout elf arrives in early December, observes children’s behaviour, reports back to Santa, and relocates every night within the house—often leaving behind evidence of mild mischief. Children wake to surprise; parents stay up late staging scenes.The elf reflects a broader shift in how we experience Christmas: from shared tradition to curated spectacle, from inherited ritual to designed experience.

Unlike Advent calendars, which invite quiet participation, the elf demands performance. Parents become set designers, prank engineers, and continuity managers. Social media has amplified this, turning domestic whimsy into a seasonal arms race of elaborate elf escapades.

For some families, this is joyful creativity. For others, it’s exhausting.

And while children adore it, for many households, the elf reverses the equation, becoming less a surveillance tool and more a test for parents– putting pressure on the parents for performance, rather than on the children for good behaviour!

Why these traditions endure—side by side

At first glance, Advent calendars and elves on shelves seem worlds apart. One is rooted in centuries-old religious practice; the other is barely two decades old and unapologetically commercial. Yet they serve the same essential function: they make waiting visible.

Commercialisation is undeniable, but it isn’t the whole story. Families adapt these trends, soften their edges. Some replace chocolate with notes of kindness. Others ditch the elf’s moral policing and keep only the silliness.

Christmas Cheer

Tradition, after all, has always been fluid. So let us welcome all manifestations, old and new. But not forget the spirit of the season: JOY AND GOODWILL TO ALL!

Merry Christmas!

-Meena

Stupid Toy Day? Makes No Sense!

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Every year on December 16, the internet celebrates something most households have tripped over, stepped on in the dark, or quietly wished would disappear: the “stupid toy.” Officially, it’s called Stupid Toy Day—a day devoted to toys that serve no obvious purpose, promise no educational outcomes, and stubbornly resist all attempts at being “enriching.” They do not teach coding. They do not build emotional intelligence. They simply… exist.

A “stupid” toy, as the internet defines it, is not broken or unsafe. It’s just inexplicable. It does one odd thing. It refuses to justify itself. It looks faintly ridiculous. Pet Rocks. Rubber chickens. Slime. Talking dolls that say things no one programmed on purpose. Lights that flash for no reason at all.

And honestly? That’s exactly why I think there is no such thing as a stupid toy. Because anything that gives joy to a child and it wants to spend time playing with, is a good toy! Whether store-bought, found at home or contrived from the most mundane things, whatever floats a child’s boat, is a toy. Entire generations have grown up playing with objects that contributed nothing measurable—and yet somehow contributed enormously to childhood.

The thing about calling a toy stupid is that the word never really belongs to the object. It belongs to the adult standing next to it and judging it.

When parents complain about “stupid toys,” they rarely mean toys that fail the child. They mean toys that fail them. Too loud. Too sticky. Too impossible to clean. Too bright. Too many pieces. Too much glitter. Too much slime. Too much mess. Too much noise. Too much… joy, possibly, expressed in a form that requires major clean-ups. Seems to me, most “stupid” toys are simply inconvenient toys. Toys which seem pointless to an adult.

AN ARVIND GUPTA TOY

But to my mind, there is one category of toys that are stupid. A toy becomes exponentially more “stupid” the minute it costs a small fortune. A plush animal that costs as much as a phone. A doll with a wardrobe bigger than yours. A remote-controlled something that breaks in three days. High price and low value—what could be stupider?

Brian Sutton-Smith’s work on toys and play is powerful. In Toys as Culture, he argues that toys don’t live in one neat category like “fun” or “education.” They exist in overlapping worlds—family, technology, education, and marketplace. Toys can be consolation, security and companionship. They can be tools, machines, friends, achievements. They are not just objects; they are emotional support.

A glitter jar might look like a mess waiting to happen.
To a child, it might be the universe in a bottle.

A noisy toy might feel like an assault on adult nerves.
To a child, it might be power.

A useless toy might be, in truth, a deeply useful one—the kind that absorbs loneliness, invents stories, and makes space for imagination.

We forget that children do not play with toys to improve themselves. They play to live inside themselves.

And children by themselves never measure toys by price or return on investment. But sadly, there is no refuting that peer pressure and media pressure have enormous influence on a child perceiving a toy as highly desirable. And that is a worry.

Stupid Toy Day, at its best, quietly reminds us that joy doesn’t require justification. It doesn’t need a developmental framework or a learning outcome chart. Play is not a performance. It is a state of being.

Basically, Stupid Toy Day is STUPID!

Honour the toy that made no sense but means everything. And remember: not everything precious needs to be practical. And in this holiday season, as we go about buying things left and right, remember, a child will be as happy playing with the cardboard carton as the toy which was packed in it. Remember Calvin, Hobbes and their time machine? And Arvind Gupta’s Toys from Trash? Money does NOT equal toy-joy.

–Meena

The Joy of the Bouncy Bite

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Did you know that Q is a word? No, not QUEUE, but just plain Q. It is the Taiwanese name for a range of textures best translated, imperfectly, as “bouncy.” It is the degree of chewiness of a given food and how it feels against the teeth and tongue.

If you’ve ever bitten into something that resisted you just a little—neither soft nor hard, but springy, elastic, and alive—you’ve probably encountered Q without knowing its name. Think sabudana, tapioca pearls in bubble tea, or handmade noodles that snap faintly between your teeth. That sensation—the cheerful recoil, the gentle resistance—is Q.

What makes Q fascinating is that it describes not one texture, but a spectrum. There is nen-Q, soft and tender; cui-Q, crispy-bouncy; tan-Q, chewy-springy. Noodles are Q: resilient but not rubbery, lively but not tough. (In the case of pastas, I suppose ‘al dente’ is the equivalent,) Even sweets and desserts aspire to it—marshmallows, herbal jellies or sweet potato balls.

In Taiwanese food culture, to say something is Q is high praise. Q is considered one of the keys to good food in Taiwan, on par with taste, color, and consistency. It’s not about indulgence alone; it’s about skill. Achieving Q often requires precise technique: the right ratio of starch to water, the correct kneading time, the ideal temperature.

What’s intriguing is how Q resists quick translation. “Chewy” is too blunt. “Springy” is closer, but incomplete. “Bouncy” catches the spirit but misses the nuance. Q is pleasant resistance, playful elasticity, a sassy texture. It invites you back for another bite. It’s the opposite of mushy or limp.

Q became a recognised food term in Taiwan in the late 20th century — roughly the 1980s to early 1990s,when it moved from slang into mainstream food language. Interestingly, the letter Q itself is not traditional Chinese. It entered Taiwanese usage as a borrowed symbol from English, chosen because:

  • the sound (“kyu”) suggested elasticity
  • the shape felt visually “springy”
  • and there was no single Chinese word that captured the idea precisely

At first, it was slang but now it’s formal enough to appear in Taiwanese dictionaries, culinary writing, product labels and restaurant menus

In Taiwan, the term has gone beyond the kitchen and found its way into everyday speech, where it can describe hair, skin, or even the bounce in someone’s step.

In a world increasingly obsessed with flavour profiles—smoky, umami, citrusy—we sometimes forget texture altogether. Yet Q reminds us that eating is as much about feel as it is about taste.

Q—Taiwan’s playful word for “bouncy”—captures that perfect bite: springy, chewy, lively, and irresistible. From bubble-tea pearls to handmade noodles, Q celebrates food that pushes back just enough. It’s a texture so prized in Taiwan that it’s become part of the language itself, standing alongside taste and aroma. Every culture has its version of Q—al dente pasta, mochi-mochi rice cakes—and we in India find it in sabudana, fresh idlis, rasgulla, modak and more. Q is not just what you chew, but what you feel: a small, elastic joy.

Maybe every culture has its own version of Q, a word for the textures it prizes most. Italians chase al dente, the Japanese revere mochi-mochi and kori-kori. But Taiwan’s Q feels particularly evocative—a single letter carrying a thousand sensations.

So the next time you sip a bubble tea and play absently with the pearls at the bottom, or tear into a dumpling that seems to smile back at your teeth, remember this small, clever word. Q is not just what you’re chewing. It’s what you’re feeling—a quiet, elastic joy.

And here is a tour of Indian Q foods that I can think of: sabudana, fresh idli, rasgulla, modak, noodles, dhokla,  sevai, and appam.

Any others?

–Meena

Sandow in our Lives

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The end of the year is a time of going back in time and re-living memories.

And one of the enduring memories for those of us who grew up in the  1950s, 60s and 70s, is the word Sandow. It was a part of everyday lives—an integral part of the pencil box, a dirty grey rubber that erased pencil marks.

For us in India, “rubber” was the term for eraser, a usage inherited from British English and reinforced through colonial schooling. A child did not “borrow an eraser”; they asked for a rubber. And the most trusted rubber of all in our times was the Sandow.

These erasers were made of natural vulcanised rubber, not vinyl or plastic as most modern erasers are. They were firmer, slightly gritty, and erased by abrasion — scraping graphite off paper rather than gently lifting it. They left dark crumbs behind and wore down slowly. A new Sandow rubber meant clean pages. A worn one told the story of errors made and lessons learnt.

Where did Sandow rubbers come from?

The earliest Sandow erasers were almost certainly manufactured in Britain and exported to India during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries through British stationery suppliers. During the colonial period, Indian schools depended heavily on imported notebooks, inks, slates and erasers.

Stupid Toy Day (December 16) is a celebration of the wonderfully useless things from childhood—rubber chickens, yo-yos, slinkies, and strange plastic objects that made no sense but brought endless joy. From ridiculous toys to unsettling antique dolls that now star in creepy museum contests, this post reflects on how toys—whether silly or sinister—stay with us long after childhood ends. A nostalgic look at why useless never really meant unimportant.

After Independence, Indian factories began manufacturing erasers using similar formulations and — crucially — the same name. By the 1950s, most Sandow erasers sold in India were produced locally. However, the word “Sandow” was never firmly trademarked in India, allowing multiple manufacturers to use it freely. Over time, it became not a brand but a category. “Sandow rubber” simply meant “the regular school rubber.”

Sandows were not the only erasers available. There were white, scented rubbers, with a gel-like coloured top. But alas, most of us never possessed one, given they were about four or five times more expensive!

And a Strongman called Sandow

Another Sandow (though of older vintage) was part of our childhoods too. He lived on barbershop calendars and tattered posters: a muscular European strongman frozen in permanent flex.

Eugen Sandow (1867–1925) was a Prussian-born showman, athlete and entrepreneur who became the world’s first international bodybuilding celebrity. He toured Europe, Britain and America performing feats of strength before royal families and packed audiences.

Sandow was much ahead of his time, and would have done great in the current days, surely becoming a hero of Insta reels, posing as he did to deliberately display his muscularity. He was also a businessman. He published training manuals, endorsed health products, sold exercise equipment, and promoted physical culture as moral discipline. King George V even appointed him “Professor of Scientific and Physical Culture” in Britain — a title that further elevated his image as a respectable authority on fitness.

In India, encounters were through his images — black-and-white posters, calendar art, tins, and labels that travelled through imperial trade routes. But nevertheless, his name was well known, whether with urban kids or rural youth.

Were the rubber and the strongman officially connected?

There is no evidence that Sandow ever licensed his name to an eraser manufacturer. No contract, no advertisement, no endorsement exists in any reliable archive.

However, the naming may have had a connection. The two existed at around the same time, and the name ‘Sandow’ symbolised durability, strength and European modernity. Calling an eraser “Sandow” suggested that it would last, work hard and not fail easily. In an era with loose branding laws, borrowing famous names for product credibility was common.

Today…

Now, erasers come in neon colours and cartoon shapes. Eugen Sandow is remembered only by historians and fitness professionals. But for those who grew up in that older India, the word still carries a double image: fingers dusted with graphite, and a chest forever flexed on fading paper.

Sandow was never just an eraser.
And Sandow was never only a man.

Both were a part of our simple, innocent youth!

–Meena

Photocredit: Wikipedia for Mr. Sandow

ebay for the Vintage Tin advertising the eraser

Listen carefully. Listen widely. Listen without assumptions: Gallup Polls

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For many of us who grew up reading international newspapers, Gallup was a familiar name—almost a synonym for “what America thinks.” Their polls were quoted in classrooms, editorials, speeches, and policy discussions. If Gallup said Americans trusted an institution, or were worried about unemployment, or supported a policy, it felt as if a nation had spoken.

November 19 marked the anniversery of the birth of the man who started it all–George Gallup, a career journalist. His interest in politics led him into the areana of forecasting polls, and he set up a company to do this. He set up the American Institute of Public Opinion in 1935 to do this, at a time when the idea of systematically measuring public opinion was almost revolutionary.

Gallup polls represent a methodology of scientific polling initiated by George S. Gallup in the 1930s, aimed at accurately assessing public sentiment. This was a significant departure from earlier, less systematic polling methods, as it emphasized the importance of selecting representative samples of the population. Gallup polls gained widespread recognition in 1936 for successfully predicting Franklin D. Roosevelt’s election victory but faced criticism in 1948 when they incorrectly forecasted Harry S. Truman’s defeat. These setbacks led to learnings, and Gallup refined his polling techniques, employing random sampling and continuous polling to enhance accuracy, particularly in presidential elections during the 1950s.

When Gallup moved to random sampling in the 1950s and began polling continuously until the eve of elections, he wasn’t chasing precision for its own sake. He recognised a deeper truth: societies shift quietly, between headlines. Polls must therefore be reliable mirrors, not hurried sketches.

Over the years, Gallup polls have become integral to political campaigns, influencing candidate nominations and public policy discussions. They have also mirrored societal changes, capturing evolving attitudes on issues such as gender equality and civil rights. Despite their utility, there is ongoing debate about the reliance on polling data by political leaders, with critics cautioning against using polls as the sole measure of success. Overall, Gallup polls continue to play a vital role in understanding public opinion and shaping political discourse.

But over the past twenty years, America has changed dramatically. People stopped answering landlines. Survey participation dropped. Voter behaviour became harder to predict. And suddenly, the organisation that once defined polling found itself struggling to keep pace with a shifting landscape.

There were headline moments—for example, missing the mark in the 2012 US presidential election—that forced painful introspection. To their credit, Gallup did omething rare: they hit pause. They stepped back from national election polling, admitted where methods were no longer working, and began a long process of rebuilding.

Today, Gallup occupies a different—but still significant—place in American public life.

They no longer dominate political horse-race coverage the way they once did. But they have pivoted towards areas where long-term, stable measurement matters more:

  • Public trust in institutions
  • Wellbeing and life evaluation
  • Workplace engagement
  • Social attitudes that evolve over years, not election cycles

Their “State of the American Workplace” and “Global Emotions Report” are now widely cited, not for predicting results, but for revealing how people feel about their lives and work. In a country where political noise can drown out quieter realities, Gallup’s longitudinal datasets offer something precious: continuity.

And that, perhaps, is Gallup’s place today. Not the sole voice of American opinion, but a steady, methodical listener in a crowded room.

And Then Comes the Indian Question…

All this inevitably leads to a Indian doubt: Do we do anything like this?

India is a nation where elections are larger than many countries, where tea stall debates spill into WhatsApp forwards, and where “sentiment” is often declared loudly—but loosely. So who is actually listening methodically?

The answer is both reassuring and sobering.

Yes, India does have organisations that follow rigorous polling practices—most famously CSDS-Lokniti, which uses sampling frames, stratified selection, field-tested questionnaires, and detailed post-poll analysis. Some private agencies also attempt scientific sampling, though with varying transparency. But polling in India faces unique challenges: population size, linguistic diversity, urban-rural divides, accessibility, and the sheer logistics of reaching voices beyond the easily reachable.

The result? While we do have pockets of high-quality research, we also have a landscape crowded with “quick polls,” “mood trackers,” and “snap surveys” whose methodology, if printed, might fit on the back of a bus ticket. Till today, election forecasts have minimum credibility.

Let’s see if all the bad press drives election forecasters to move towards more statistically sound and scientifically based approaches. Well, we can hope!

–Meena

Pic from: The India Forum

When Feet Take Flight: A Memory and the Magic of Sepak Takraw

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Some memories come back vividly when there is a trigger. Sadly, the trigger for this memory was a newspaper item reporting an accident involving a Sepak Takraw team.

But the memory itself is joyful. A trip to Burma, about fifteen years ago. It was a warm afternoon in Yangon. The tea stalls were buzzing, the pagodas gleamed in the sun, and somewhere between wandering and people-watching, I found myself drawn to a small patch of open ground near a quiet lane.

A group of young boys were playing a game I had never seen before. A boy leapt into the air, spun like a dancer mid-flight, and kicked a small rattan ball clean. I stood completely still, mesmerized. It was my first encounter with Sepak Takraw. We stood and watched for quite a while—the grace, the athleticism, the sheer joy of the players—was something amazing to watch. Fortunately on the way out, I found a Sepak Takraw at the airport and bought it.

All these years later, that moment still shines brightly in memory. Because Sepak Takraw is not a sport you easily forget.

For many of us in our generation, our playground sports were familiar—gully cricket, kho-kho, maybe a weekly volleyball session if your school had both a net and enough motivation to set it up. But Sepak Takraw feels like someone took volleyball, infused it with martial arts, added the grace of classical dance, and sprinkled it with sheer joy.

In the lanes of Myanmar, Malaysia, Thailand, and Indonesia, this sport has lived for centuries. Its early form, sepak raga, simply meant “kick the rattan ball.” Communities played in circles, keeping the woven ball aloft with feet, knees, heads—much like our own childhood attempts to keep a rubber ball bouncing on our legs, but infinitely more skillful.

Over time, the game evolved. Nets were added, rules refined, teams formed. What remained unchanged was the heart of the sport—rhythm, teamwork, and an almost balletic coordination.

What struck me in that first encounter in Burma was the joy. There was no crowd, no scoreboard, just a group of boys pushing the limits of their bodies, laughing, teasing, showing off impossible kicks.

Since then, as videos of Sepak Takraw swirl across the internet, the world has begun to share in that delight. Watching professionals play is like watching physics bend slightly. The killer kick—a full somersault that sends the ball crashing down at an angle—feels like something from a choreographed stage performance. The teamwork is intuitive, almost telepathic.

Interestingly, Sepak Takraw has been creeping into India’s sporting landscape too, especially in the Northeast. Manipur in particular has embraced it with enthusiasm, with players who train tirelessly and compete internationally. Perhaps some Indian traveller today will see a game in Imphal or Aizawl and feel the same quiet awe I felt in Yangon all those years ago.

Today the game is played at international level, and has entered the AsianGames. Efforts are on to get it into the Olympic list. 

But for me, it is the memory of that afternoon in Burma—the dusty field, the laughter of boys, the swift arc of a rattan ball against the sky. It is a reminder of how sport, in its purest form, connects us across borders and time.

–Meena

Our Dangerous Dunning-Kruger World: Why Ignorance Wins.

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Have you ever sat through a meeting where someone confidently proclaimed an idea that made you wonder if you were the only one who found it… well, questionable? Or listened to a neighbour explaining, with great authority, how to “fix the economy” or “end corruption,” in the time it takes for the traffic light to change?

Chances are, you’ve witnessed the Dunning–Kruger Effect in action — that quirk of human psychology where people with limited knowledge or skill in an area tend to overestimate their competence. Ironically, the more ignorant we are about something, the more certain we can feel about our opinions.

The term comes from two psychologists, David Dunning and Justin Kruger, who in 1999 published a study with the rather unexciting title “Unskilled and Unaware of It.” They were intrigued by a bizarre news story about a man who robbed banks after rubbing lemon juice on his face, believing it would make him invisible to security cameras. The man wasn’t joking — he genuinely thought he had found a clever loophole. Dunning and Kruger wondered how someone could be so wrong and yet so sure.

Their research showed that people who perform poorly on tests of logic, grammar, or humour not only make more mistakes — they also lack the skill to recognise those mistakes. In contrast, the truly competent often underestimate themselves, assuming that if something is easy for them, it must be easy for everyone.

So we end up with a world divided between the confidently incompetent and the competently cautious.

If this sounds like a comment on social media, well……. Platforms like X (formerly Twitter) and Instagram stories are veritable festivals of the Dunning–Kruger Effect — where the loudest voices are often the least informed. Whether it’s miracle diets, “instant wealth” advice, or armchair experts diagnosing global issues, confidence is never in short supply. Accuracy, on the other hand, might need a search party.

But before we roll our eyes at others, it’s worth pausing. The uncomfortable truth is that we’ve all been there. Remember that time you confidently assembled a piece of IKEA furniture without reading the instructions — and then found one mysterious screw left over? Or when you tried to give a five-minute explanation of blockchain to someone who actually works in finance? Yes, that too is Dunning–Kruger territory.

What makes this effect particularly sneaky is that it feeds on self-assurance. It feels good to be certain. Admitting “I don’t know” can feel like weakness. Yet, as Socrates famously said, “The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.” In other words, humility is intelligence in disguise.

The flip side of the effect is equally interesting. Those who genuinely know their stuff often hesitate to speak up. They second-guess themselves, feel like impostors, and worry that they might be wrong. This is where the Impostor Syndrome meets the Dunning–Kruger Effect — a perfect psychological storm that ensures the least qualified sometimes take charge, while the best-qualified stay silent.

So how do we guard against it? A few simple habits can help:

  • Ask questions. Even if you think you know. Especially if you think you know.
  • Seek feedback. It’s not always pleasant, but it’s the antidote to self-deception.
  • Stay curious. The more you learn, the more you realise how much there is to learn.
  • Listen before leaping. Sometimes the quietest voices in the room hold the deepest insight.

The Dunning–Kruger Effect may make for amusing anecdotes, but it also reminds us to pair confidence with curiosity. As we navigate workplaces, communities, and conversations — maybe even family and friends WhatsApp groups— it helps to remember that certainty is not the same as wisdom.

In the end, perhaps the best safeguard against foolish confidence is a dose of humble awareness — and a willingness to laugh at ourselves when we realise, as we often do, that we didn’t know as much as we thought.

–Meena

Graph: Wikimedia Commons

Around a Continent in 18 Months: The First Circumnavigation of Australia

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When we think of great explorers, we picture men in naval uniforms, compasses in hand, charting “new worlds.” But tucked away in the annals of Australia’s history is a story that breaks that mould. It’s the story of Bungaree—the first Aboriginal man, and indeed the first Australian, to sail right around a continent.

His name is little known today, but his contribution to one of history’s most extraordinary voyages, in an exploration led by Captain Matthew Flinders, an English navigator was extraordinary.

From Broken Bay to the World

Bungaree was a man of the sea. Born around 1775 among the Kuringgai people near Broken Bay, north of Sydney, he grew up at a time when everything around him was changing. European ships had begun to appear on the horizon; new settlements were springing up on ancient lands. While many Aboriginal communities resisted the newcomers, Bungaree was curious. Quick-witted and charismatic, he learned to move between two worlds—his own and that of the British colonists.

By the time Flinders was preparing to embark on his grand voyage of exploration, Bungaree had already earned a reputation as a skilled sailor and interpreter. Flinders, who understood the need for a knowledgeable local person on his mission, invited Bungaree to join the expedition aboard HMS Investigator in 1801.

The Journey Around a Continent

The Investigator’s mission was to chart the entire coastline of the vast southern landmass known then as New Holland. Flinders hoped to prove it was a single continent—what we now call Australia. For this, he needed not just navigational skill, but also understanding—someone who could help bridge worlds. Bungaree became that person.

Throughout the voyage –from December 1801 to June 1803–Bungaree played a vital role as peacemaker and emissary. When the Investigator anchored near Indigenous communities, it was often Bungaree who stepped ashore first—speaking to local groups in shared gestures, explaining the strangers’ peaceful intent, and easing tensions that could have turned deadly. His presence gave the expedition a human connection that maps and compasses could not.

Flinders, for his part, admired Bungaree’s warmth and humour. In his journals, he wrote that Bungaree “was always of service wherever we went,” and that his “good disposition and open, manly conduct” won respect from both shipmates and the people they met. It was a rare acknowledgment of partnership in an age otherwise defined by hierarchy and conquest.

The Man Beyond the Maps

The voyage was gruelling. The Investigator battled storms, leaks, and disease. Food was scarce; scurvy stalked the crew. Yet through months at sea and thousands of kilometres of unknown coast, Bungaree remained cheerful and steadfast—a figure of resilience and adaptability. When they finally completed the first circumnavigation of the continent in 1803, Bungaree had travelled more of Australia’s coastline than any person before him.

And yet, history gave him only a passing mention. While Flinders returned to England (and was later imprisoned by the French), Bungaree returned to Sydney. There he became something of a local character—always dignified, dressed in military uniforms, wearing his medals proudly. He was lovingly referred to as “King Bungaree,”.

An Amazing Feat

So this was the veryfirst successful circumnavigation of an entire continent in recorded history–the first time anyone had completely circumnavigated a single, continuous continental landmass on Earth.

Other earlier famous circumnavigations (like Magellan’s) went around the globe or around islands (for example, Tasmania, which Flinders himself had circumnavigated earlier with George Bass in 1798). But going around a continent — that is, a vast mainland connected by continuous coastline — was unique. (Incidentally, while one can circumnavigate Africa, the Americas through the Panama Canal, and Antarctica when the ice permits, it is not possible to circle Asia and Europe).

Remembering Bungaree

Bungaree died in 1830 and was buried at Rose Bay. His resting place, like so much of his story, is unmarked. But in recent years, there has been a growing recognition of his contribution—not just as a companion to Flinders, but as a symbol of the spirit of adventure, resilience, and bringing two worlds together.

–Meena

PIC from ABC News