National Insurance Awareness Day: Protecting What Matters Before It Is Too Late

Every year, National Insurance Awareness Day, observed on 28 June, reminds us of a simple but often overlooked truth: life is unpredictable. While we cannot foresee accidents, illnesses, natural disasters or financial setbacks, we can prepare for them. Insurance is one of the most effective ways to do exactly that.

Ironically, insurance is often appreciated only after a crisis strikes. A medical emergency, a road accident, a house damaged by floods, or the sudden loss of a family’s breadwinner can instantly transform insurance from an overlooked expense into a financial lifeline. National Insurance Awareness Day encourages us to make that preparation before adversity strikes rather than after it is too late.

Why National Insurance Awareness Day?

Unlike many officially designated observances, National Insurance Awareness Day appears to have originated as an industry-led initiative to encourage people to review their insurance needs and better understand the role insurance plays in financial security. Over time, it has gained wider recognition as an occasion to promote financial literacy, preparedness and responsible planning.

The day is particularly relevant today because the risks confronting individuals and businesses have become more complex. Healthcare costs continue to rise sharply. Climate change has increased the frequency of floods, cyclones, heatwaves and other extreme weather events. Cybercrime threatens businesses and individuals alike, while economic uncertainties can disrupt livelihoods with little warning. Insurance cannot prevent these events, but it can prevent them from becoming long-term financial catastrophes.

At its heart, insurance is about sharing risk. Millions of policyholders contribute relatively small premiums into a common pool, enabling those who suffer losses to receive financial support. This principle has made insurance one of the cornerstones of modern economies, helping families recover from setbacks, businesses resume operations after disasters, and communities rebuild after crises.

The State of Insurance in India

India’s insurance sector has expanded dramatically over the past two decades. Today, the country has 74 insurers operating across life, general, health and reinsurance businesses. Together, they offer protection against a wide range of risks, including life, health, motor, property, travel, crop, marine and cyber risks.

Yet, despite this growth, India remains significantly underinsured.

According to the latest data from the Insurance Regulatory and Development Authority of India (IRDAI), insurance penetration—measured as insurance premiums as a percentage of GDP—is about 3.7%, almost half the global average of roughly 7%. This suggests that millions of Indians either have no insurance at all or lack adequate coverage.

Health insurance presents a similar challenge. While government schemes such as Ayushman Bharat, employer-provided insurance and private policies have expanded coverage, only about 40–45% of Indians have some form of health insurance. Consequently, out-of-pocket medical expenditure remains among the highest in the world, often forcing families to dip into savings, borrow money or even sell assets to meet healthcare expenses.

Recognising this protection gap, IRDAI has articulated a vision of “Insurance for All by 2047.” Achieving this goal will require not only greater availability of insurance products but also improved financial literacy, stronger consumer confidence and wider public awareness of the role insurance plays in protecting financial well-being.

More Than Just a Financial Product

Many people still view insurance as something they purchase only because it is compulsory. Motor insurance is mandated by law. Health insurance may come through an employer. Home insurance is often bundled with a housing loan.

But insurance is far more than a legal requirement or a financial product. It is a vital component of sound financial planning.

Savings help meet planned expenses and short-term emergencies. Investments help create wealth over the long term. Insurance serves a different purpose—it protects against low-probability but high-impact events that can wipe out years of accumulated savings in a matter of days.

The COVID-19 pandemic offered a powerful reminder of this reality. Families with adequate health and life insurance were generally better equipped to cope with hospitalisation costs, income loss and financial uncertainty than those relying solely on savings. Insurance cannot eliminate hardship, but it can prevent adversity from turning into financial ruin.

A Good Time to Review Your Cover

National Insurance Awareness Day is not simply about buying another insurance policy. It is an opportunity to review whether existing protection is still adequate.

It is important to understand that as life changes, so do insurance needs. Equally important is understanding what a policy covers—and what it excludes. Reading policy documents, updating nominees and checking whether the sum insured remains adequate can save considerable stress later.

A few simple questions are worth asking:

  • Is my health insurance sufficient given rising medical costs?
  • Does my life insurance adequately protect my family’s future?
  • Are my home and valuable assets insured?
  • Have I updated my nominees?
  • Do I fully understand my policy’s terms, exclusions and claim process?

Investing in Peace of Mind

Insurance ultimately provides something that is difficult to quantify—peace of mind. It allows individuals, families and businesses to pursue opportunities with greater confidence, knowing they have a financial safety net should the unexpected occur.

On this National Insurance Awareness Day, perhaps the wisest investment is not simply buying another insurance policy, but understanding the protection we already have, identifying the gaps that remain, and taking timely steps to safeguard what matters most.

–Meena

Kempegowda: The Visionary Who Gave Bengaluru Its Soul

Many cities have founders. Few have one whose vision continues to shape the city nearly five centuries later. As Bengaluru marks the anniversary (27 June) of its founder, Nadaprabhu Kempegowda, it is worth pausing to reflect not merely on the man, but on the remarkable administrator, planner and leader whose foresight laid the foundations of a city that would one day become India’s technology capital.

For most Bengalureans, Kempegowda is a familiar name. His statue greets travellers at the airport, major roads bear his name, and schoolchildren learn that he founded Bengaluru in 1537. Yet the true significance of his achievement lies beyond the simple fact that he established a town. What makes Kempegowda extraordinary is the quality of governance and urban planning he brought to his vision.

Born into a family of local chieftains under the larger framework of the Vijayanagara Empire, Kempegowda inherited responsibility for a region that consisted largely of villages, agricultural lands and trading settlements. Instead of merely ruling over existing territories, he imagined something larger—a thriving urban centre that could serve as a hub of commerce, culture and administration.

The Bengaluru he envisioned was not a city that grew by accident. It was carefully planned. Historical records suggest that he built a mud fort, established marketplaces, encouraged trade and developed infrastructure to support economic activity. In an age when rulers often focused on conquest, Kempegowda focused on creating conditions for prosperity.

Perhaps his most famous contribution to urban planning was the establishment of the four watchtowers that marked the city’s boundaries. Today, Bengaluru has expanded far beyond those limits, but the towers remain symbols of a leader who understood the importance of defining and managing urban growth. In modern governance language, we would call this spatial planning. Kempegowda practised it centuries before the term existed.

His administrative wisdom is equally noteworthy. Successful governance requires balancing multiple interests—farmers, traders, artisans, religious institutions and local communities. Evidence from historical accounts suggests that Kempegowda actively promoted trade and agriculture while ensuring public works were developed for the common good. Tanks and water bodies received attention because he understood a truth that remains relevant today: cities cannot flourish without secure water resources.

Indeed, one of the lessons modern Bengaluru can learn from Kempegowda concerns sustainability. Long before urban planners spoke of environmental resilience, he recognized the importance of lakes and irrigation systems. Many of the tanks developed during his period supported agriculture, groundwater recharge and community life. As Bengaluru grapples with water shortages and environmental challenges, Kempegowda’s approach offers a reminder that good governance means planning not only for today’s needs but also for future generations.

Another aspect of his leadership was inclusiveness. The markets and settlements he established attracted people from different communities and occupations. Bengaluru’s reputation as a welcoming city—a place where people from across India come to work, study and build new lives—can be traced back to these early foundations. The cosmopolitan spirit for which the city is celebrated today did not emerge overnight; it has deep historical roots.

What also stands out is Kempegowda’s ability to combine vision with execution. Many leaders dream of transformation, but fewer possess the administrative capability to turn ideas into reality. Founding a city required mobilizing resources, maintaining law and order, coordinating construction, encouraging settlement and ensuring economic viability. These are not merely political tasks; they are governance challenges. Kempegowda appears to have met them with remarkable effectiveness.

For citizens of modern Bengaluru, his legacy extends beyond monuments and commemorations. It is visible in the city’s enduring role as a centre of enterprise and innovation. Bengaluru’s global reputation as a hub for technology and entrepreneurship reflects qualities that Kempegowda himself valued: openness, opportunity and a willingness to build for the future.

Of course, no historical figure belongs entirely to the present. Kempegowda lived in a different era, under different political circumstances. Yet certain principles are timeless. Strategic planning, investment in public infrastructure, stewardship of natural resources and a commitment to creating opportunities for people remain the hallmarks of good governance today, just as they were in the sixteenth century.

As Bengaluru celebrates Kempegowda’s anniversary, the occasion should be more than a remembrance of the past. It should also be an invitation to reflect on the kind of city we wish to build. Rapid growth has brought immense opportunities, but also challenges of traffic, water, housing and environmental sustainability. Addressing these issues requires the same blend of vision and administrative competence that Kempegowda demonstrated centuries ago.

The founder of Bengaluru gave the city more than its beginning. He gave it a blueprint: plan thoughtfully, govern wisely and build for generations yet to come. That is why, nearly 500 years later, Kempegowda remains not just a historical figure, but a living presence in the story of Bengaluru.

Thank you, Kempegowda! Help us do justice to your vision!

–Meena

Pic: Courtesy The Hindu

Surgeons’ Day and the Extraordinary History of Self-Surgery

Every year on 15 June, India observes Surgeons’ Day, an occasion promoted by the Association of Surgeons of India and other medical institutions to recognize the contribution of surgeons to healthcare. The day is marked by professional meetings, public awareness programmes, health camps, and discussions on advances in surgical practice.

In the Indian context, it is also important to remember Sushruta, the author of the Sushruta Samhita, who over two millennia ago, described surgical instruments, operative techniques, wound management, and reconstructive procedures. His work is among the earliest known systematic texts on surgery anywhere in the world.

Self-Surgery

While surgery is usually associated with teams of highly trained professionals working in carefully controlled environments, history records unique cases in which individuals performed surgical procedures on themselves. These episodes occurred under very different circumstances, but each has become part of medical history because of the unusual challenges involved.

Leonid Rogozov: Appendectomy in Antarctica

One of the best-known cases is that of Leonid Rogozov, a Soviet surgeon stationed at the Novolazarevskaya research station in Antarctica in 1961.

Rogozov developed acute appendicitis while serving as the only physician at the base. Weather conditions made evacuation impossible. On 30 April 1961, assisted by colleagues who handed him instruments and held mirrors, he performed an appendectomy on himself using local anaesthesia.

The operation lasted approximately two hours. Rogozov recovered and resumed his duties within weeks. His case is widely cited in medical literature as a unique example of self-performed emergency surgery.

Evan O’Neill Kane and Surgical Experimentation

In 1921, American surgeon Evan O’Neill Kane carried out an appendectomy on himself at a hospital in Pennsylvania.

Kane’s purpose was not emergency treatment but the demonstration of local anaesthesia for abdominal surgery. He believed that local anaesthesia offered advantages over general anaesthesia in selected cases and used his own operation to support that view.

In 1932, he reportedly performed a second self-operation to repair an inguinal hernia. These procedures attracted significant public and professional attention at the time.

Inés Ramírez Pérez and a Self-Performed Caesarean Section

In 2000, Inés Ramírez Pérez, living in a remote rural area of Mexico, carried out a self-performed caesarean section after prolonged labour and the absence of medical assistance.

Following the delivery, she sought help from local residents and was transported to a hospital. Both she and her baby survived. Medical reports published subsequently documented the case, which is considered one of the rare recorded instances of a successful self-performed caesarean section.

Aron Ralston’s Self-Amputation

In April 2003, American mountaineer Aron Ralston became trapped in Utah’s Bluejohn Canyon when a falling boulder pinned his right arm.

After remaining trapped for several days and exhausting his supplies of food and water, Ralston amputated his own arm using a small multi-tool and then climbed out of the canyon to seek assistance.

His experience was later described in his memoir Between a Rock and a Hard Place and dramatized in the film 127 Hours.

Claude Martin’s Procedure in Lucknow

An earlier and less widely known example has a connection to India.

Claude Martin (1735–1800), a French soldier and entrepreneur who spent much of his life in Lucknow under the East India Company, suffered from bladder stones. Around 1782, he devised an instrument that he used on himself over an extended period in an attempt to break down or remove the stone.

Martin later described the procedure in correspondence and records that came to the attention of medical practitioners in Europe. Historians of medicine have noted similarities between his approach and later methods of lithotripsy, the technique used to break up urinary stones without major surgery.

Today, Martin is better known as the founder of the La Martinière schools in Lucknow and Kolkata, but his medical experiment remains a noteworthy episode in the history of self-treatment.

As India marks Surgeons’ Day each year, the occasion serves not only to recognize today’s surgeons but also to remember the long and often remarkable history of surgical practice, innovation, and human resilience.

–Meena

The Bee’s Knees and Other Curious Creatures of Language

Language is a strange and wonderful thing.

Every day, we use expressions that roll effortlessly off the tongue without pausing to think about what they actually mean. We wish people the “best of luck,” promise to “keep an eye on things,” and complain when life becomes “a rat race.” Most of the time, these phrases do their job so well that we never stop to examine them.

But every now and then, an expression invites a second look.

Take the phrase “the bee’s knees.”

If someone describes a new restaurant, a favourite book, or a clever invention as the bee’s knees, they mean it is excellent—something special, perhaps even the best. Yet the moment one stops to think about it, a question arises.

Why a bee?

And why its knees?

Bees are many things. They are hardworking pollinators, builders of intricate hives, and producers of honey. But their knees do not seem especially famous. No one admires a bee and immediately thinks, “What magnificent knees!”

Yet for more than a century, English speakers have happily used the phrase without demanding an explanation.

The story begins in the United States during the roaring 1920s. It was an age that loved novelty. Jazz filled dance halls, fashions changed rapidly, and language became a playground for creativity. People delighted in inventing colourful slang. Something impressive might be called “the cat’s pajamas,” “the eel’s ankle,” “the monkey’s eyebrows,” or “the bee’s knees.”

These expressions were not meant to be logical. In fact, their appeal often came from their absurdity. The more unlikely the combination, the more amusing it sounded.

Most of these phrases disappeared as fashions changed. Yet a few survived. The bee’s knees buzzed on while many of its companions faded into obscurity.

Perhaps it endured because bees themselves occupy a special place in the human imagination.

Across cultures, bees have long been symbols of industry, cooperation, and diligence. Ancient Egyptians kept bees. Greek philosophers admired their organisation. Medieval monasteries prized beeswax for candles. Farmers depended on pollination long before anyone fully understood the science behind it.

Today, we know that bees are among the most important creatures on the planet. Their daily work helps pollinate crops, wildflowers, fruit trees, and countless other plants. A world without bees would be a poorer and less colourful place.

And in an amusing twist, bees do have something noteworthy on their legs. Worker bees collect pollen in specialised structures on their hind legs known as pollen baskets. If you have ever seen a bee carrying bright yellow clumps of pollen, you have witnessed one of nature’s most efficient collection systems at work.

So while the phrase was probably invented as nonsense, modern biology has accidentally given it a touch of credibility.

The bee’s knees are, in their own way, quite remarkable.

The phrase also reminds us of something larger: language is filled with animals.

Consider how often creatures appear in everyday speech.

When we hear information directly from the original source, we get it “straight from the horse’s mouth.” The expression likely comes from horse traders, who could estimate a horse’s age by examining its teeth.

When someone raises a false alarm repeatedly, we say they “cry wolf.” The phrase traces its roots to one of Aesop’s famous fables, in which a shepherd boy repeatedly tricks villagers into believing a wolf is attacking his flock. When a wolf finally appears, no one believes him.

If a person sends us on a pointless errand, we call it “a wild goose chase.” The expression was popularised by Shakespeare, who used it in Romeo and Juliet. Today, it describes any pursuit that is unlikely to succeed.

Then there is the curious warning not to “look a gift horse in the mouth.” Once again, horses are involved. Since age and health could be judged from a horse’s teeth, examining the mouth of a horse that had been freely given was considered ungrateful.

Some animal expressions are easier to understand.

Someone who is “busy as a bee” needs little explanation. A person with “eagle eyes” sees details others miss. A “social butterfly” moves easily from one conversation to another.

Others are delightfully baffling.

Why do we have “ants in our pants” when we are restless? Why are secretive people said to be “as sly as a fox”? Why do difficult situations become a “dog’s breakfast” in some parts of the English-speaking world?

The answer often lies in history. These phrases are linguistic fossils, preserving traces of old occupations, folk tales, observations of nature, and forgotten jokes. Long after the original context disappears, the expression remains.

In this way, language resembles an attic filled with heirlooms. We continue to use objects whose stories have been partly forgotten. Their meanings survive even when their origins grow hazy.

That may be why expressions such as “the bee’s knees” continue to charm us. They remind us that language is not merely a tool for communication. It is also a record of human imagination.

Generations of speakers have played with words, invented absurd images, borrowed ideas from animals, and passed them on. Most vanished. A few endured.

And among those survivors is a tiny insect whose unlikely knees have become a symbol of excellence.

Not bad for a creature that was probably never consulted on the matter.

The next time someone describes a book, a meal, a holiday, or a grandchild as “the bee’s knees,” spare a thought for the strange journey of that phrase. It has travelled through jazz-age slang, survived changing fashions, outlived dozens of rival expressions, and settled comfortably into modern English.

That, one might say, is the bee’s knees of linguistic success.

–Meena

The Report Card Nature Gives Us

Every year, World Environment Day arrives with familiar images — children planting saplings, speeches about sustainability, green logos replacing corporate blue for a day, and social media flooded with pictures of forests, oceans, and endangered animals.

And then, by the next morning, the world goes back to business as usual.

Factories continue to pollute rivers. Wetlands quietly disappear under concrete. Species vanish before most people even learn their names. Cities expand. Forests shrink. Temperatures rise.

Which raises an uncomfortable question: if every country claims to care about nature, who is actually doing a good job?

Surprisingly, the world has no single official answer.

There is no universally accepted “Nature Conservation Score” for countries. No equivalent of a cricket points table or Olympic medal tally for ecological responsibility. Instead, scientists, universities, conservation groups, and international organisations have created different systems to measure different aspects of environmental performance.

One of the best-known systems is the Environmental Performance Index (EPI), developed by Yale Center for Environmental Law & Policy and Columbia University. The EPI attempts to rank countries using indicators such as air quality, climate policies, biodiversity protection, water management, pollution control, and ecosystem vitality. In essence, it asks a broad question: How seriously is a country managing its environmental responsibilities?

The rankings often produce interesting results. Countries celebrated for economic growth may perform poorly environmentally. Others, less visible on the global stage, emerge as ecological leaders because of stronger conservation policies or lower environmental damage.

But the EPI is only one lens.

More recently, researchers introduced a more focused Nature Conservation Index (NCI) — an attempt to specifically measure how well countries protect biodiversity and ecosystems. Unlike broader environmental rankings, the NCI looks more directly at habitat conservation, threats to species, land-use pressures, governance systems, and future ecological risks.

This distinction matters. A country may have good urban pollution control but still destroy forests. Another may generate renewable energy while severely damaging wetlands. Environmental protection is a complex web of interconnected systems.

Then there is the Living Planet Index, produced by World Wildlife Fund. This index does not mainly rank countries. Instead, it tracks wildlife populations across the planet. And its findings are sobering. Many species populations worldwide have shown dramatic declines over the past decades. The Living Planet Index functions almost like a planetary pulse monitor. It asks: Is life itself becoming richer or poorer?

Another globally influential system comes from the International Union for Conservation of Nature — better known through its famous Red List of threatened species. The Red List categorises plants and animals according to extinction risk: vulnerable, endangered, critically endangered, and so on. When a species enters those categories, it becomes more than a scientific statistic. It becomes a warning signal about collapsing ecosystems.

Meanwhile, the Convention on Biological Diversity, linked to the United Nations, tracks biodiversity targets globally. Countries commit to goals involving protected areas, restoration, invasive species control, and ecosystem protection. These are not rankings in the conventional sense, but they form a vast international attempt to monitor humanity’s relationship with nature.

Why do all these measurements matter?

Because societies pay attention to what they measure.

Governments obsess over GDP growth because GDP is measured constantly. Investors track stock indices daily. Universities chase rankings. Sports teams live by points tables.

Environmental indicators attempt to bring the same discipline to ecological survival.

Without measurement, environmental destruction easily hides behind rhetoric. Governments can announce “green missions” while rivers die quietly. Corporations can advertise sustainability while their activities may lead ecosystems to degrade invisibly. Numbers are imperfect, but they create accountability.

And they also expose an uncomfortable truth: economic success and ecological wisdom are not always the same thing In fact, they are usually contrary..

Modern economies often reward extraction more than preservation. A forest cut down for mining can increase GDP immediately. A wetland converted into real estate may generate investment and jobs. Yet the ecological loss — biodiversity, groundwater recharge, carbon storage, flood protection — rarely appears in economic accounting.

India illustrates the challenge vividly. Few countries possess India’s ecological diversity — Himalayan ecosystems, rainforests, mangroves, coral reefs, deserts, grasslands, and rich wildlife habitats. At the same time, India faces immense developmental pressures: urbanisation, infrastructure expansion, industrialisation, mining, and rising consumption.

This creates difficult questions with no easy answers.

How much forest should be sacrificed for highways?

Can renewable energy projects damage fragile ecosystems?

How should tourism be balanced against biodiversity protection?

Every country now faces versions of these dilemmas.

That is why World Environment Day should perhaps evolve beyond symbolic tree-planting ceremonies and recycled slogans. The real environmental challenge is not whether humanity loves nature in theory. It is whether nations are willing to measure honestly what they are destroying, preserving, or restoring.

Nature conservation measures try to correct this blindness. Because ultimately, these indices are not really judging forests or rivers. They are judging us. They ask whether humanity is behaving like a responsible custodian of the planet — or merely a temporary consumer exhausting an inheritance built over millions of years.

And perhaps the most unsettling reality is this:

Nature does not care about our speeches, campaigns, or hashtags.

It responds only to actions.

–Meena

Jack de Sequeira: The Man Who Helped Goa Choose Its Own Future

In the story of modern India, there are some leaders whose influence stretches far beyond the offices they held or the elections they won. They altered the direction of history itself. One such figure was Jack de Sequeira — often remembered as the “Father of the Opinion Poll” in Goa.

At a time when the newly liberated territory of Goa stood at a crossroads, Jack de Sequeira championed something radical for the era: the right of ordinary people to decide their political future directly. His efforts culminated in the historic Goa Opinion Poll of 1967 — the only referendum-like exercise ever conducted in independent India on a major political merger question. Its consequences continue to shape Goa’s culture, language, identity, and politics even today.

Goa After Liberation: A Question of Identity

When Indian forces ended Portuguese colonial rule in Goa in December 1961, the region entered a completely new political reality. Goa, along with Daman and Diu, became a Union Territory of India. But soon another question emerged: should Goa remain distinct, or should it merge with neighbouring Maharashtra?

The merger proposal was not merely administrative. It involved deeper questions of language, culture, identity, and history. Many leaders in Maharashtra argued that Goa’s Konkani-speaking population shared cultural ties with Marathi-speaking Maharashtra and should therefore be integrated into it.

But others feared that Goa’s unique identity — shaped by centuries of interaction between Indian and Portuguese traditions — would disappear within a much larger state.

This was the moment when Jack de Sequeira emerged as a defining voice.

The Rise of a Reluctant Hero

Born in 1915 in Portuguese Goa, Jack de Sequeira was not a fiery revolutionary in the conventional sense. He was measured, thoughtful, and deeply democratic in temperament. Yet beneath that calm exterior was remarkable political courage.

He founded and led the United Goans Party, which became the principal force opposing Goa’s merger with Maharashtra. At the time, this was not an easy or universally popular stand. Powerful political groups supported merger, including influential sections of the ruling establishment.

But Sequeira argued that Goa possessed its own cultural personality — expressed through Konkani language, local traditions, village institutions, architecture, cuisine, music, and social life.

Today this argument may sound obvious. In the 1960s, it was fiercely contested.

The Historic Opinion Poll

Rather than allowing politicians alone to decide Goa’s fate, Jack de Sequeira demanded that the people themselves should choose.

This was a bold democratic idea. Independent India had never before conducted a public vote of this nature on whether a territory should merge with another state.

After intense political campaigning and negotiations, the Government of India agreed. On January 16, 1967, Goa held the historic Opinion Poll.

Voters were asked a straightforward question:
Should Goa merge with Maharashtra, or remain a separate Union Territory?

The campaign was emotional, passionate, and deeply personal for many Goans. Villages debated the issue intensely. Families argued over it. Public meetings drew huge crowds.

Jack de Sequeira became the symbolic face of the anti-merger movement. His speeches often emphasised dignity, self-respect, and the importance of preserving Goa’s individuality.

When the votes were counted, the anti-merger side won decisively.

Goa would remain separate. The Opinion Poll permanently altered Goa’s trajectory.

Saving Konkani and Goan Identity

The Opinion Poll strengthened the long campaign for recognition of Konkani as a distinct language rather than merely a dialect of Marathi. Decades later, Konkani would gain official recognition in the Eighth Schedule of the Indian Constitution.

Equally important, Goa retained a political structure that allowed local culture to flourish on its own terms. Its distinctive blend of Indian and Lusophone heritage survived not as a museum piece, but as a living social reality. (BTW, Lusophone refers to any person, country, or community that speaks the Portuguese language. Derived from the ancient Roman province of Lusitania (roughly modern-day Portugal), the term is also used as an adjective (Lusophone Africa) or to describe the global Portuguese-speaking culture and community –the “Lusophone world”.)

Many Goans today — whether Catholic, Hindu, urban, rural, Konkani-speaking, English-speaking, or Marathi-speaking — continue to see the Opinion Poll as a foundational moment.

A Legacy Larger Than Politics

Jack de Sequeira later served in Parliament and remained respected across political divides. But his greatest legacy was not electoral success. It was helping a small territory articulate confidence in its own identity.

Interestingly, his leadership style contrasts sharply with modern political culture. He was not known for theatrical populism or aggressive rhetoric. Instead, he relied on persuasion, consensus-building, and democratic principle.

That may partly explain why his memory still carries unusual moral weight in Goa.

Today roads, institutions, and memorials honour him. Yet perhaps the most enduring tribute is Goa itself — a state that still retains a distinct cultural voice within India.Top of Form

Any time you visit Goa, don’t forget to give thanks to him—Goa is what it is today because of him!

And as the debate about the identify, administration and control of Ladakh are ongoing, it is a good time to remind ourselves of how we handled such situations in the past.

–Meena

x

In the story of modern India, there are some leaders whose influence stretches far beyond the offices they held or the elections they won. They altered the direction of history itself. One such figure was Jack de Sequeira — often remembered as the “Father of the Opinion Poll” in Goa.

At a time when the newly liberated territory of Goa stood at a crossroads, Jack de Sequeira championed something radical for the era: the right of ordinary people to decide their political future directly. His efforts culminated in the historic Goa Opinion Poll of 1967 — the only referendum-like exercise ever conducted in independent India on a major political merger question. Its consequences continue to shape Goa’s culture, language, identity, and politics even today.

Goa After Liberation: A Question of Identity

When Indian forces ended Portuguese colonial rule in Goa in December 1961, the region entered a completely new political reality. Goa, along with Daman and Diu, became a Union Territory of India. But soon another question emerged: should Goa remain distinct, or should it merge with neighbouring Maharashtra?

The merger proposal was not merely administrative. It involved deeper questions of language, culture, identity, and history. Many leaders in Maharashtra argued that Goa’s Konkani-speaking population shared cultural ties with Marathi-speaking Maharashtra and should therefore be integrated into it.

But others feared that Goa’s unique identity — shaped by centuries of interaction between Indian and Portuguese traditions — would disappear within a much larger state.

This was the moment when Jack de Sequeira emerged as a defining voice.

The Rise of a Reluctant Hero

Born in 1915 in Portuguese Goa, Jack de Sequeira was not a fiery revolutionary in the conventional sense. He was measured, thoughtful, and deeply democratic in temperament. Yet beneath that calm exterior was remarkable political courage.

He founded and led the United Goans Party, which became the principal force opposing Goa’s merger with Maharashtra. At the time, this was not an easy or universally popular stand. Powerful political groups supported merger, including influential sections of the ruling establishment.

But Sequeira argued that Goa possessed its own cultural personality — expressed through Konkani language, local traditions, village institutions, architecture, cuisine, music, and social life.

Today this argument may sound obvious. In the 1960s, it was fiercely contested.

The Historic Opinion Poll

Rather than allowing politicians alone to decide Goa’s fate, Jack de Sequeira demanded that the people themselves should choose.

This was a bold democratic idea. Independent India had never before conducted a public vote of this nature on whether a territory should merge with another state.

After intense political campaigning and negotiations, the Government of India agreed. On January 16, 1967, Goa held the historic Opinion Poll.

Voters were asked a straightforward question:
Should Goa merge with Maharashtra, or remain a separate Union Territory?

The campaign was emotional, passionate, and deeply personal for many Goans. Villages debated the issue intensely. Families argued over it. Public meetings drew huge crowds.

Jack de Sequeira became the symbolic face of the anti-merger movement. His speeches often emphasised dignity, self-respect, and the importance of preserving Goa’s individuality.

When the votes were counted, the anti-merger side won decisively.

Goa would remain separate. The Opinion Poll permanently altered Goa’s trajectory.

Saving Konkani and Goan Identity

The Opinion Poll strengthened the long campaign for recognition of Konkani as a distinct language rather than merely a dialect of Marathi. Decades later, Konkani would gain official recognition in the Eighth Schedule of the Indian Constitution.

Equally important, Goa retained a political structure that allowed local culture to flourish on its own terms. Its distinctive blend of Indian and Lusophone heritage survived not as a museum piece, but as a living social reality. (BTW, Lusophone refers to any person, country, or community that speaks the Portuguese language. Derived from the ancient Roman province of Lusitania (roughly modern-day Portugal), the term is also used as an adjective (Lusophone Africa) or to describe the global Portuguese-speaking culture and community –the “Lusophone world”.)

Many Goans today — whether Catholic, Hindu, urban, rural, Konkani-speaking, English-speaking, or Marathi-speaking — continue to see the Opinion Poll as a foundational moment.

A Legacy Larger Than Politics

Jack de Sequeira later served in Parliament and remained respected across political divides. But his greatest legacy was not electoral success. It was helping a small territory articulate confidence in its own identity.

Interestingly, his leadership style contrasts sharply with modern political culture. He was not known for theatrical populism or aggressive rhetoric. Instead, he relied on persuasion, consensus-building, and democratic principle.

That may partly explain why his memory still carries unusual moral weight in Goa.

Today roads, institutions, and memorials honour him. Yet perhaps the most enduring tribute is Goa itself — a state that still retains a distinct cultural voice within India.Top of Form

Any time you visit Goa, don’t forget to give thanks to him—Goa is what it is today because of him!

And as the debate about the identify, administration and control of Ladakh are ongoing, it is a good time to remind ourselves of how we handled such situations in the past.

–Meena

Nature’s Rule-Breakers: Flora and Fauna That Refuse to Behave “Normally”

When we are children, nature is explained to us in neat categories. Birds fly. Fish swim. Spiders spin webs. Plants make food from sunlight and quietly stay rooted in place. Mammals give birth to live young.

And then, slowly, nature begins to reveal its mischievous side.

A spider hunts like a tiger instead of spinning a web. A fish walks on land. A plant eats insects. A mammal lays eggs. A mushroom traps worms. The more one studies biology, the more one realises that evolution has very little respect for the tidy boxes humans create.

Take the Huntsman spider, for instance. Most of us imagine spiders as patient architects sitting in intricate webs, waiting for prey to blunder in. The huntsman spider does something entirely different. It stalks and ambushes prey, relying on speed and agility rather than silken traps. In many ways, it behaves more like a tiny leopard than a conventional spider.

It is not alone.

The Jumping spider has remarkably sharp vision and leaps onto prey with astonishing precision. The Wolf spider actively chases its victims across the ground. The Trapdoor spider lives in underground burrows and springs out like an ambush attacker in a war film.

These creatures remind us that even within a single group, evolution can produce wildly different lifestyles.

Then there are mammals — supposedly the most familiar class of animals to humans. Mammals, we are taught, give birth to live young. Except some do not.

The Platypus looks as though it was assembled from spare parts: duck bill, otter feet, beaver tail — and it lays eggs, and it is a mammal! The male even has venomous spurs. Its cousin, the Short-beaked echidna, also lays eggs despite being a mammal covered in fur.These monotremes are evolutionary oddities, survivors from a far older branch of mammalian history. If they were discovered as fossils rather than living creatures, many scientists might have assumed them to be fictional hybrids.

Birds, too, refuse to follow the script.

We instinctively associate birds with flight, yet the Ostrich abandoned the skies to become the world’s fastest running bird. The Penguin transformed wings into underwater flippers and effectively “flies” through the sea instead of air. The Kiwi of New Zealand behaves almost like a nocturnal mammal, shuffling through forests at night with a powerful sense of smell.

And some creatures seem unable to decide whether they belong on land or in water. The Mudskipper spends large amounts of time outside water, “walking” across mudflats using its fins. The Walking catfish can wriggle across land between ponds. The Climbing perch survives out of water for surprisingly long periods.

Plants provide perhaps the most startling examples of all because we rarely think of them as active or predatory. The Venus flytrap snaps shut on insects with startling speed. Pitcher plant species lure prey into liquid-filled traps where victims drown and decompose. The Sundew uses sticky tentacles to ensnare insects. The underwater Bladderwort employs tiny vacuum traps. These carnivorous plants evolved in nutrient-poor soils where ordinary plant life struggled. Instead of relying solely on the earth for nourishment, they turned to meat.

Some plants go further still and become outright thieves. The parasitic Dodder wraps itself around other plants and steals nutrients directly from them. The Indian pipe is ghostly white because it lacks chlorophyll almost entirely.

Even fungi refuse to stay within expectations. Certain fungi trap microscopic worms using tiny snares and digest them alive. The common Oyster mushroom can behave like a microscopic predator. Ophiocordyceps unilateralis goes a step further, infecting ants and manipulating their behaviour before killing them in locations ideal for fungal growth.

Nature’s rebels are not limited to these. The Electric eel generates electricity powerful enough to stun prey. The Leaf sheep, a tiny sea slug, steals chloroplasts from algae and briefly becomes “solar-powered.” The New Caledonian crow manufactures tools, while the Naked mole-rat lives in colonies resembling ant societies, complete with a queen.

The deeper one looks into nature, the clearer it becomes that “normal” is mostly a human invention. Evolution does not work toward ideals or categories. It experiments endlessly. If a strange adaptation improves survival — whether that means a spider abandoning webs, a fish walking on land, or a plant eating insects — nature keeps it.

In fact, these biological rebels may teach us the most important lesson of all: survival often belongs not to the strongest or fastest, but to the adaptable, the unconventional, and the creatures willing to break the rules.

–Meena

Pic: Hunstman spider, Meena Raghunathan

State Vs. Plate: India’s Long History of Food and Consumption Restrictions

Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s recent appeal asking citizens to avoid unnecessary foreign travel, cut discretionary fuel use, postpone non-essential purchases, and embrace restraint in consumption has revived an old Indian political tradition: the call for austerity in moments of uncertainty. The appeal, made in the context of global tensions and fears over fuel and supply disruptions linked to West Asia, was framed as a precautionary economic measure.

By no means is this new. India has heard such calls before.

Since Independence, governments across political ideologies — Congress, socialist coalitions, Janata regimes, and even regional administrations — have periodically attempted to regulate what people eat, how much they consume, how lavishly they celebrate, and even how many guests they invite. Sometimes these restrictions emerged from genuine shortages. Sometimes they reflected wartime economies. Sometimes they were moral projects tied to ideas of discipline, simplicity, Gandhian restraint, or anti-elitism. And at times, they became deeply political.

The Era of Scarcity: Rationing and Food Controls

In the first decades after Independence, India was a food-deficit country. Grain shortages, droughts, foreign exchange crises, and dependence on imports shaped policy thinking.

The ration card became one of the defining documents of Indian life. Urban Indians especially grew up in a world of controlled sugar, kerosene, rice, and wheat distribution. The Essential Commodities Act of 1955 empowered governments to regulate production, storage, transport, and distribution of key goods.

This was not merely administrative economics; it shaped everyday culture.

Families planned meals around availability. Weddings became simpler in drought years. Restaurants faced restrictions on serving certain foods. In many states, governments imposed “rice control orders” limiting movement and stocking of grains. Hoarding and black marketing became criminal offences.

During severe shortages in the 1960s, Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri famously urged Indians to skip one meal a week. “Monday fasts” became a patriotic exercise in many households. Restaurants in several cities reportedly shut on Monday evenings in support of the campaign.

The symbolism mattered as much as the economics. Food restraint was projected as national duty.

Wedding Restrictions: When the State Counted Your Guests

Perhaps the most striking example of state intervention in private consumption came through attempts to regulate weddings.

India’s long-standing anxiety over “wasteful expenditure” often found weddings at the centre of policy debates. Lavish feasts were criticised not only as economic excess but also as drivers of social inequality.

The most famous attempt came during the Emergency (1975–77), when the government imposed restrictions on the number of guests and dishes at weddings in several places. Though implementation varied across states and districts, stories abound of officials inspecting marriage halls and counting attendees.

Even outside the Emergency, states periodically experimented with controls:

  • Limits on the number of dishes served.
  • Restrictions on use of electricity and lighting during shortages.
  • Curbs on late-night celebrations.
  • Controls on loudspeakers.
  • Taxes or permissions for large gatherings.

In the 1970s and 1980s, “simple marriage” campaigns were encouraged by politicians and social reformers alike. Government employees in some sectors were informally encouraged to avoid extravagant ceremonies.

These debates continue today in different forms. Environmental concerns, food wastage, traffic congestion, and conspicuous consumption have all entered the conversation.

Ironically, Indian weddings evolved in the opposite direction. Liberalisation in the 1990s transformed them into giant economic ecosystems involving tourism, fashion, catering, décor, jewellery, entertainment, and destination hospitality.

The “Big Fat Indian Wedding” became both aspiration and industry.

Meatless Days and Regulating Food Habits

Food restrictions in India have rarely been only about economics. They are also about morality, religion, and identity.

Across decades, many Indian cities and states have periodically imposed bans on slaughter or meat sales during religious festivals.

These restrictions reveal a deeper Indian tension: food is intensely personal, but also intensely political.

The Anti-Waste Moral Economy

A recurring theme across Indian public life is the suspicion of conspicuous consumption.

During crises — wars, droughts, inflationary periods, oil shocks — governments often invoke the language of sacrifice.

In the 1970s oil crisis, many countries experimented with fuel-saving measures. India too promoted conservation campaigns. More recently, during COVID-19 lockdowns, public messaging encouraged minimal movement, reduced fuel consumption, and simplified social ceremonies.

The latest appeal by the Prime Minister fits into this long tradition. Public reactions, unsurprisingly, have been mixed.

On social media, some users compared the moment to earlier periods of austerity and wartime discipline, while others questioned whether ordinary citizens should bear the burden of global crises. Online discussions reflected anxieties about fuel prices, inflation, work culture, and economic uncertainty. (reddit.com)

This duality is very Indian.

The State vs The Plate

India’s relationship with food control differs from many Western democracies because food here is not merely nutrition or commerce. It intersects with caste, religion, region, language, ecology, and politics.

At the same time, the Indian state has historically justified intervention using three broad arguments:

  1. Scarcity management.
  2. Social reform.
  3. Public morality.

The justification changes with the era.

In the 1960s it was famine anxiety. In the 1970s it was socialism and anti-elitism. In the 1990s it became public order and urban governance. Today it is often linked to sustainability, nationalism, health, or cultural identity.

What Restrictions Reveal About India

Food and guest restrictions may appear trivial compared to constitutional politics or macroeconomics. Yet they reveal something fundamental about India.

They show how deeply the state has historically engaged with everyday life.

They also reveal a persistent belief among governments that national crises require behavioural change from citizens — not just policy change from institutions.

Whether it was Shastri’s appeal to skip meals, Emergency-era guest limits, anti-hoarding drives, meat bans during festivals, or recent calls to reduce consumption amid global uncertainty, the underlying message has remained similar:

Private behaviour is seen as part of public national discipline.

India may change governments, ideologies, and economic models — but the debate over what citizens should eat, spend, serve, celebrate, or conserve never quite disappears.

A crisis leads to innovation and change. If this debate can lead to a re-think on the obscenely lavish weddings which have become the norm, it may be one of the good things to come out of this situation

–Meena.

Pic: BBC

The First Electrical Voting Machine

With election-fever and results-fever just abating, one the of the topics of discussion has of course been the controversial EVM—Electronic Voting Machine.

Where did it all start? Surprisingly with Edison—yes he of the light bulb fame.

In 1869, Thomas Edison patented what is widely regarded as the first electrical voting machine—an invention designed to automate and speed up vote counting. This was his very first patent–U.S. Patent 90,646 granted on June 1, 1869. It was s designed to allow legislators to vote “yes” or “no” using a switch that sent signals to a central board,

Edison’s vote recorder was technically sound. By all accounts, it worked exactly as intended. But when he demonstrated it to legislators in Washington, D.C., they turned it down. Not because it was flawed—but because it was too efficient.

At the time, voting in legislatures was a slow, deliberate process. Delays were not bugs; they were features. They allowed for persuasion, negotiation, and, frankly, political maneuvering. A machine that eliminated delay also eliminated strategy. Edison would later reflect that this rejection taught him a lasting lesson: invent only what people are ready to use. The vote recorder’s rejection wasn’t about engineering; it was about human systems resisting change.

Edison’s Curious Patent Portfolio

Edison went on to file over a thousand patents, many of them transformative, some delightfully obscure. Alongside world-changing inventions like the incandescent light bulb and the phonograph, there were also lesser-known creations: an electric pen for duplicating documents, a system for preserving fruit, even ideas for concrete furniture.

Some succeeded because they met an immediate need. Others failed because the ecosystem—technological, social, or economic—wasn’t ready. But probably sowed the seeds for many a current-day device.

The Slow March Toward Voting Machines

Despite Edison’s early setback, the idea of mechanizing voting didn’t disappear. By the late 19th and early 20th centuries, mechanical voting machines began appearing in the United States. These lever-based systems aimed to reduce fraud and standardize ballot counting.

Over time, technology evolved. Punch-card systems—infamously remembered from the 2000 United States presidential election, introduced new efficiencies, along with new vulnerabilities. Hanging ‘chads’ became part of vocabulary, illustrating how even small technical flaws could undermine trust.

By the late 20th and early 21st centuries, electronic voting machines (EVMs) emerged as the next step. These ranged from Direct Recording Electronic (DRE) systems to optical scan ballots and, more recently, hybrid systems with paper audit trails.

Trust, Technology, and Tension

Electronic voting systems around the world have sparked debate. Critics raise concerns about hacking, lack of transparency, and the difficulty of verifying results independently. Supporters counter that well-designed systems are more accurate and less prone to human error than paper ballots.

Countries have taken different paths. While Brazil has widely adopted electronic voting, others like Germany have rolled back its use, citing constitutional concerns about transparency. The Netherlands and Ireland have also stepped away from electronic systems after public and political pushback.

Even within the United States, practices vary widely by state, reflecting a broader unease about balancing efficiency with trust.

India and the EVM

Few countries have embraced electronic voting as extensively as India. Introduced on a large scale by the Election Commission of India, EVMs were designed to tackle logistical challenges: vast electorates, difficult terrains, and the need for rapid, reliable counting.

Indian EVMs are standalone devices, not connected to the internet, which proponents argue makes them more secure. The addition of VVPAT (Voter Verifiable Paper Audit Trail) systems is supposed to strengthen transparency by allowing voters to confirm their choices.

And yet, controversies and fears persist.

The Real Lesson: Technology Isn’t Neutral

Edison’s failed vote recorder reminds us of something we often forget: technology does not exist in a vacuum. It interacts with human behaviour, institutional norms, and political incentives.

Voting, perhaps more than any other civic act, depends not just on accuracy but on perceived legitimacy. A system can be technically flawless and still fail if people don’t trust it. The technical aspects may work fine, but is it still corruptible when the system itself is corrupt?

In that sense, the story comes full circle.

Edison built a machine to make voting faster. Lawmakers rejected it because speed threatened the very nature of their process. More than a century later, we are still grappling with the same tension—between efficiency and trust, innovation and acceptance.

The question is no longer whether we can build better voting machines. It is whether societies are ready to believe in them.

And if Edison were around today, he might recognise the problem instantly.

–Meena

Pic: https://edison.rutgers.edu/life-of-edison/inventions

Shades of a Purple Summer

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