Category: Meena Raghunathan

Shades of a Purple Summer

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The Indian summer is when our trees put up the most spectacular flower shows. Flame of the Forest—Butea monosperma whose flowers arrive in blazing orange. Different in tone, is the gulmohar—Delonix regia, with its wide, umbrella-like canopy and bright red blooms. The golden counterpart to these reds is the amaltas—Cassia fistula. Long cascades of yellow flowers hang down in late spring and early summer. The ubiquitous neem–Azadirachta indica has small white flowers which are easy to miss, but their scent. And they are an important part of New Year celebrations in many states.

Among all these are the purples. Three of them are commonly seen–the Pride of India, the loosely termed Indian Princess Tree, and the jacaranda form a quiet sequence of lilac and violet. Less flamboyant, but with gravitas.

The Pride of India or Lagerstroemia speciosa, is both widespread and rooted. Native to the subcontinent, it thrives across peninsular and eastern India, and is deliberately planted in northern cities. It is a familiar presence along older avenues, institutional campuses, and residential roads—part of an earlier approach to urban planting that valued seasonal change as much as shade.

It flowers in dense clusters of lilac, mauve, and pink when most trees recede. The effect is immediate. A single tree can alter the look of a street. The name reflects thatm rather than any scientific classification—an attempt to capture abundance and presence.

After flowering, it produces dry capsules that split open to release light, winged seeds, dispersed by wind. The process is largely unnoticed but effective, allowing the tree to regenerate in suitable conditions. Its flowers attract insects; in turn, birds move through its branches while foraging. Species such as the Red-vented Bulbul and Common Myna are frequent visitors, while others use it as a perching and nesting site, especially in dense urban areas where such cover is limited. In peak summer, its canopy becomes a resting space—shade functioning as habitat.

There is another layer to its presence. The leaves of Lagerstroemia speciosa—often called banaba—are used in traditional medicine, particularly in managing Type 2 Diabetes. They are associated with blood sugar regulation, as well as anti-inflammatory and antioxidant properties. This makes the tree unusual among urban ornamentals: it is not only seen and inhabited, but also used.

The Indian Princess Tree, often linked to Paulownia tomentosa, sits less comfortably in place. Despite the name, it is not native to India and is only sporadically seen—mainly in cooler hill regions or curated landscapes. The “Indian” prefix reflects randomness in naming rather than origin.

Its appeal lies in its restraint. Pale violet flowers, broader leaves, and a more open form create a softer effect than the Pride of India. The “princess” is probably drawn from this visual delicacy.

Its biology, however, is less restrained. After flowering, it produces capsules filled with thousands of fine, papery seeds, designed for long-distance wind dispersal. Given open ground and the right climate, these seeds germinate quickly. The tree grows fast, which explains both its horticultural appeal and its reputation, in some regions, as invasive. In India, its presence fortunately remains controlled and limited.

Ecologically, it plays a lighter role, probably because it is non-native. Its flowers attract insects, and birds may use it for cover or occasional nesting, but it is not a significant food source.

Between these two sits the Jacaranda—Jacaranda mimosifolia—not native, but now visually embedded in cities such as Bengaluru. Its lavender-blue flowers arrive earlier, often bridging spring and summer. For a brief period, roads are edged and sometimes carpeted with fallen blooms, before other trees come into flower.

Jacaranda’s role is largely aesthetic, but not only. Its spreading canopy provides filtered shade, and like the others, its flowering attracts insects, drawing in birds that follow.

Together, these trees complicate their own names. One is called “of India” and is largely at home. One is called “Indian” and is not. One carries no such label and yet feels entirely part of the Indian landscape. Naming suggests belonging; ecology tells a more precise story.

These three trees also differ in how they are encountered. The Pride of India tends to define a street, its flowering visible from a distance. The Princess Tree, where it appears, is noticed more gradually—through proximity, through shade. Jacaranda sits between the two, its colour spreading outward, often first seen on the ground before it is traced back to the tree.

What they share is timing. Each blooms when the landscape offers little else. Their flowering is staggered, creating a sequence rather than a single event. Jacaranda fades as the Pride of India strengthens; elsewhere, other species take over. The effect is not continuous bloom, but continuity of change.

In older Indian neighbourhoods especially in Bangalore, such trees point to a different planning logic. Streets were planted not just for shade but for variation—for shifts in colour, density, and light across months. As urban density increases and tree cover becomes more functional than expressive, these older plantings remain as records of that intent.

A shift in colour. A canopy that briefly interrupts heat. And, overhead, a dry capsule opening—unseen, but already carrying the next season forward. That is the Indian summer.

–Meena

When Prizes Change the World: What Innovation Contests Teach Us (and Why India Should Care)

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Most prizes are given to those who have already changed the world: the Nobel, the Magsaysay, any number of national recognitions. These prizes are ways in which the world recognizes a lifetime’s work, a breakthrough discovery, timeless writing, selfless humanitarian aid. The awards in these instances are however collateral benefits. For these greats, often the wok is their own reward.

But in some cases, the prize itself is the motivator, it is the way to spur developments to change the world. Some of the most transformative technologies in human history were sparked by something deceptively simple: a prize.

A problem recognized. A deadline set for its solution. A reward announced for the solution.

And then—an open invitation to anyone bold enough to try.

Take the British Parliament’s Longitude Prize of 1714. Navigation at sea was perilous because sailors could not accurately determine longitude. The reward on offer was up to £20,000—an astronomical sum at the time. The solution did not come from a celebrated astronomer, but from a self-taught clockmaker, John Harrison. His marine chronometer worked—but recognition did not come easily. Payments were staggered, disputed, and delayed. Even when innovation succeeds, institutions do not always know how to respond.

A century later, war catalysed innovation. Napoleon Bonaparte, seeking to feed his armies, offered 12,000 francs for a reliable food preservation method. The result? Nicolas Appert’s pioneering work on canning. With his innovation, food for armies could be preserved for months and years, and could keep armies fed on long campaigns to distant lands. Explorers and sailors started depending on them, opening up new frontiers of discovery. Canned food gave a fillip to farmers, now that their produce could have extended lives. And brought convenience to dining. One competition, one process, many benefits!

These early contests reveal something important: prizes work best when the problem is urgent, the goal is clear, and the reward is meaningful enough to sustain effort over time.

Rainhill Trials

Fast forward to the industrial age. The directors of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway had originally intended to use stationary steam engines to pull trains along the railway using cables. However, their engineer George Stephenson strongly advocated for the use of steam locomotives instead. As the railway was approaching completion, the directors decided to hold a competition to decide whether locomotives could be used to pull the trains. The Rainhill Trials of 1829 offered a prize of £500 for the best way to haul the trains. George Stephenson’s Rocket won decisively, and its design quickly became the standard for locomotives. Here, the feedback loop between competition and adoption was almost immediate.

Then came the age of flight. The Raymond Orteig Prize promised $25,000 for a nonstop transatlantic flight. Charles Lindbergh claimed it in 1927—but only after multiple failed attempts and fatal crashes by others. The prize went to Lingberg, but more importantly, it accelerated aviation as an industry.

By the late 20th century, competitions had evolved into global innovation platforms. The XPRIZE Foundation’s Ansari X Prize offered $10 million for private human spaceflight—and catalysed over $100 million in investment before it was eventually won. The DARPA Grand Challenges, with prizes of $1–2 million, helped lay the groundwork for self-driving cars.

And in the digital age, contests have become even more distributed. The Netflix Prize offered $1 million to improve its recommendation algorithm—successfully claimed, and now foundational to digital platforms. Competitions on Kaggle for machine learning and data science challenges are designed to solve complex, real-world problems using crowdsourced predictive modelling. They routinely offer prizes ranging from a few thousand dollars to over $1 million, with winning models often deployed in real-world systems.

Not all prizes, however, are claimed. The Google Lunar X Prize, sponsored by Google, famously went unawarded when no team met the deadline. And yet, several participating teams went on to become serious space ventures. More recently, the rebooted Longitude Prize on antibiotic resistance—run by Nesta with a purse of £10 million—was eventually awarded after years of global effort.

Enter the Hackathon: The New-Age Contest

If prizes defined earlier centuries, hackathons define ours.

From college campuses to corporate offices, hackathons have become the default format for innovation challenges. India, in particular, has embraced them at scale through initiatives like the Smart India Hackathon, where winning teams typically receive ₹1–5 lakh, along with visibility and recognition.

At first glance, hackathons look like a natural continuation of the prize tradition. But look closer, and a crucial distinction emerges.

Hackathons are built for speed. Typically compressed into 24 to 72 hours, they excel at generating ideas, prototypes, and energy. They uncover talent and encourage collaboration. But they are not designed for depth.

The breakthroughs that defined earlier prize competitions were the result of years of iteration, backed by incentives large enough to justify sustained commitment. Even modern competitions on Kaggle run for months, allowing refinement and optimisation. Hackathons, by contrast, often end at the stage of a promising prototype.

This is not a weakness. It is a different role.

Hackathons are the sparking mechanisms of the tech world.

Lessons for India: Moving from Events to Ecosystems                            

India is no stranger to ingenuity—though often of the jugaad class. We could surely use the powerful lever of structured, sustained innovation contests.

1. Define Grand Challenges That Matter Locally
India’s problems—air pollution, water scarcity, affordable healthcare—require sharply defined challenges and serious prize money. Rewards must be large enough to sustain effort beyond a weekend.

2. Open Participation Beyond Credentials
Breakthroughs often come from unexpected quarters. Platforms must include informal innovators, practitioners, and non-traditional problem-solvers.

3. Build a Pipeline, Not One-Off Events
Hackathons should be the starting point, not the endpoint. Without this pipeline, ideas from initiatives like the Smart India Hackathon risk fading away.

4. Shift from Inputs to Outcomes
Prize systems reward results, not proposals—encouraging creativity and reducing bureaucratic inertia.

5. Invest in Follow-Through
Mentorship, funding, and testing environments are what convert prototypes into deployable solutions.

6. Measure Success Beyond Winners
India must move beyond a binary view of success. Even if a prize is not claimed, the ecosystem it builds can be valuable.

Because sometimes, all it takes to change the world…is not just a prize—but a prize large enough, a timeline long enough, and a system strong enough to turn ideas into impact.

–Meena                  

Pic: http://www.rainhilltrials.org/

Another Day, Another Breath

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We mark days for everything—as we have seen over the last few weeks, serious ones like World Environment Day or International Women’s Day, and then the quirkier ones that sneak into our calendars and make us pause, smile, or wonder. Tucked quietly among them is World Breathing Day—observed each year on April 11th—a day that, at first glance, feels almost unnecessary. After all, breathing is the one thing we do without reminders.

But that is precisely the point.

Breathing is so automatic that we rarely stop to notice how we breathe. Or that something as ordinary as your nose is quietly running a sophisticated system in the background. One of its most fascinating features? The nasal cycle—a built-in rhythm that ensures your two nostrils are never quite doing the same thing at the same time.

The Nose That Works in Shifts

Try this: close one nostril and breathe, then switch sides. Chances are, one side feels clearer than the other. That’s not a cold coming on—it’s your nasal cycle at work.

The nasal cycle is a natural, unconscious process in which airflow alternates between nostrils every few hours. At any given moment, one nostril is “dominant,” allowing more air in, while the other is slightly more congested and handling less airflow. This swap happens throughout the day without you noticing.

Think of it as a relay race. One nostril takes the lead while the other steps back—not idle, but recovering, recalibrating, and preparing to take over again.

Why Two Nostrils, Not One?

It may seem redundant—why not one efficient airway instead of two? But evolution, as always, prefers nuance over simplicity.

Your nose isn’t just a passage for air. It’s a full-fledged processing unit. Before air reaches your lungs, it is filtered, warmed to body temperature, and humidified. Without this preparation, the air would irritate your airways and make breathing far less comfortable.

Having two nostrils allows this system to work continuously without burnout. While one nostril handles the bulk of airflow, the other gets a chance to restore moisture and recover from constant exposure to dust and microbes. This explanation is widely accepted, though the exact mechanisms are still being studied.

It’s like having two alternating air-conditioning units—one working, one servicing.

The Secret to Better Smelling

Here’s where it gets even more interesting: your nostrils don’t just alternate breathing—they may also influence how you perceive smells.

Air moves faster through the dominant nostril and slower through the less active one. This difference in speed can affect how odour molecules dissolve and interact with receptors.

Your brain combines these signals into a single perception, giving you a richer sense of smell than you might expect from something so routine.

Built-In Backup (and Defence)

If you’ve ever had a cold, you’ve probably noticed how one nostril feels completely blocked while the other carries on. That’s not entirely a flaw—it’s partly a reflection of how your system already works.

Because of the nasal cycle, your body is used to relying more on one side at a time. So when one nostril becomes congested due to infection, the other can often compensate more effectively.

There is also a suggestion that this alternating congestion may help in dealing with infections—for instance, changes in airflow and temperature might influence how certain viruses behave.

So your nose isn’t just breathing—it may also be quietly supporting your body’s defences, even if the details are still being understood.

What Yoga Figured Out Long Ago

Long before modern physiology described the nasal cycle, practices like pranayama in yoga had already drawn attention to the idea that the two nostrils behave differently.

In techniques such as alternate nostril breathing (often called Nadi Shodhana), practitioners consciously switch airflow between nostrils, believing it balances energy, focus, and calm. Interestingly, this mirrors the natural alternation your body is already doing on its own.

Some modern studies suggest that breathing through one nostril versus the other may have subtle effects on heart rate, attention, or relaxation. But—and this is important—these effects are often small, context-dependent, and sometimes overstated in wellness spaces.

So while yoga didn’t “discover” the nasal cycle in a scientific sense, it certainly noticed something real—and built a practice around paying attention to it.

A Rhythm You Never Notice

What makes the nasal cycle so remarkable is how invisible it is. Unlike your heartbeat after a sprint or your lungs during a yoga session, this system operates entirely under the radar.

Most of us go through our days unaware that we are breathing unevenly—that one nostril is doing more of the work at any given time before switching later.

It’s a reminder that the body is full of such quiet rhythms—processes that don’t demand attention, but deserve appreciation.

So when World Breathing Day comes around, it might be worth pausing—not for a grand gesture, but for a small awareness.

Take a breath. Then another.

Notice which nostril feels clearer. Notice how the air feels as it enters—cool, filtered, softened. Notice that what feels effortless is actually the result of a finely tuned biological system working in shifts, balancing efficiency with care.

In a world that celebrates constant output, the nasal cycle offers a quieter lesson: even the body alternates between effort and recovery.

And perhaps that’s something worth marking on the calendar too.

–Meena

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