Category: Meena Raghunathan

QR Code Day: The Little Square That Changed the World

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If you have bought vegetables from a roadside vendor, paid your electricity bill, entered a museum, ordered food at a restaurant, or even boarded a flight in the last few years, chances are you have pointed your phone at a strange-looking square filled with tiny black-and-white patterns.

That little square is a QR code. It has quietly become one of the most useful inventions of the digital age.

QR Code Day is celebrated every year on August 8 (the birthday of the inventor, Masahiro Hara) recognising a technology that has transformed the way we exchange information, make payments, and connect the physical and digital worlds.

What exactly is a QR code?

QR stands for Quick Response. Unlike a traditional barcode, which stores information in one direction using a series of vertical black lines, a QR code stores information both horizontally and vertically. This two-dimensional design allows it to hold hundreds of times more information than a standard barcode.

A barcode usually contains a product number that must be looked up in a database. A QR code, on the other hand, can directly contain a website address, contact information, payment details, Wi-Fi credentials, a ticket, a digital menu, or even a short piece of text.

Most importantly, it can be read almost instantly by the camera on an ordinary smartphone.

Why wasn’t a barcode enough?

Barcodes revolutionised retail after their introduction in the 1970s. They made supermarket checkouts faster and inventory management more accurate. But they had limitations.

A typical barcode stores only around 20–25 characters of information. It also has to be scanned from a particular angle.

QR codes solved these problems.

Because information is stored in two dimensions, a standard QR code can hold over 7,000 numeric digits or around 4,000 alphanumeric characters, depending on the type of data. It can also be scanned from almost any direction.

Even more impressive is its built-in error correction. QR codes use mathematical techniques that allow them to be read correctly even if part of the code is dirty, scratched, folded, or damaged. Depending on the level of error correction used, up to about 30% of the code can be missing while still remaining readable.

That is why QR codes continue to work on worn posters, crumpled tickets, and faded packaging.

Who invented the QR code?

The QR code was invented in 1994 by Masahiro Hara, an engineer at the Japanese company Denso Wave, then a subsidiary of Toyota.

The automotive industry was becoming increasingly complex. Assembly lines required thousands of different components, and the existing barcode system was proving too slow and unable to hold enough information.

Hara and his team were asked to develop something faster and more powerful.

Legend has it that the distinctive square pattern was inspired by the black-and-white arrangement of pieces on a Go board, the traditional Japanese strategy game. The team also designed the three large squares in the corners so that scanners could instantly recognise the code’s orientation.

Their goal was simple: enable rapid scanning from any angle while storing much more information.

They succeeded beyond anyone’s imagination.

The remarkable decision that changed everything

Many groundbreaking technologies remain locked behind patents or expensive licences.

QR codes took a different path.

Although Denso Wave patented the technology, the company made a remarkable decision. It announced that it would not exercise its patent rights for general use. Anyone could create, print, or scan QR codes without paying royalties or seeking permission.

This openness encouraged software developers, manufacturers, businesses, and governments around the world to adopt the technology.

Imagine if every QR code required a licence fee. It is unlikely that QR codes would have become as universal as they are today.

Sometimes the greatest contribution an inventor makes is not merely creating a technology—but allowing everyone else to build upon it.

The pandemic accelerated everything

QR codes had been around for more than two decades before they truly entered everyday life.

The COVID-19 pandemic dramatically accelerated their adoption.

Restaurants replaced printed menus with QR codes. Hospitals used them for registrations. Airlines issued contactless boarding passes. Museums, schools, offices, and public events adopted QR-based entry systems.

People who had never before scanned a QR code suddenly found themselves using them several times a day.

India’s QR revolution

Few countries have embraced QR codes as enthusiastically as India.

Thanks to the success of the Unified Payments Interface (UPI), QR codes have become the face of India’s digital payments revolution.

Today, whether you are buying a coconut on a beach, paying a neighbourhood tailor, contributing at a temple, purchasing vegetables from a pushcart, or settling the bill at a five-star hotel, the same familiar QR code often greets you.

The beauty lies in its simplicity.

A small shopkeeper no longer needs an expensive card-swiping machine. A printed QR code costing almost nothing can receive payments instantly into a bank account.

For customers, there is no need to carry cash or even remember account numbers. A quick scan, confirmation of the amount, and payment is complete in seconds.

This has helped bring millions of small businesses, street vendors, self-employed workers, and rural entrepreneurs into the formal digital economy.

Today QR codes now do much more than transfer money.

They connect us to museum audio guides, restaurant menus, vaccination certificates, railway tickets, product manuals, educational resources, event registrations, digital business cards, and government services.

Manufacturers use them for product authentication and traceability. Farmers use them to provide information about produce. Schools use them to link printed textbooks with videos and interactive lessons.

The humble square has become a bridge between the physical and digital worlds.

Looking at a square with fresh eyes

Most great inventions are dramatic—a steam engine, an aeroplane, or a computer.

The QR code is different.      

It has no moving parts. It makes no sound. It occupies barely a few square centimetres.

Yet it has quietly transformed commerce, communication, education, healthcare, travel, and finance.

Next time you scan one without a second thought, remember that behind those tiny black-and-white squares lies an elegant piece of mathematics, an ingenious engineering solution, and an unusually generous decision to share an invention freely with the world.

Sometimes, the technologies that change our lives the most are the ones we hardly notice.

–Meena

Why July 22 Should Be International Pi Day

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One of the most memorable scenes in Life of Pi has nothing to do with a Bengal tiger or a lifeboat.

Piscine Molitor Patel has had enough of being teased about his unusual name. On the first day at his new school, he goes to the blackboard, writes the Greek letter π, and begins reciting its value to an astonishing number of decimal places. The classroom falls silent. His classmates never call him Piscine again. From that day on, he is simply “Pi.”

It is a wonderful moment. Knowledge triumphs over ridicule.

Every year on March 14, mathematicians and science enthusiasts celebrate Pi Day because, in the American style of writing dates, 3/14 resembles the first three digits of π—3.14. There are quizzes, lectures, pie-eating contests and social media posts celebrating perhaps the world’s most famous number.

But there is a small problem.

Outside the United States, most countries write dates as day/month, not month/day. In India, the United Kingdom, Australia, New Zealand, Singapore, Malaysia, and across most of Europe, Africa and Latin America, March 14 is simply 14/3. The neat mathematical coincidence disappears.

If there is one date that deserves to be celebrated as Pi Day, it is July 22. Written as 22/7, it represents the most famous fractional approximation of π—one that generations of students have learned long before they encountered calculators or computers.

The story of π begins with a deceptively simple observation. Measure the circumference of any circle and divide it by its diameter. Whether the circle is a coin, a bicycle wheel, a temple dome or the orbit of a planet, the answer is always the same mysterious number.

Simple in concept. Impossible to write down completely.

Its decimal expansion—3.1415926535…—goes on forever without repeating. It is an irrational number, one that can never be expressed exactly as a fraction.

Yet for thousands of years, practical mathematics has relied on approximations.

The fraction 22/7 is associated with the Greek mathematician Archimedes, who, more than 2,200 years ago, proved that π lay within a narrow range that included this elegant fraction. It is not exact, but it is remarkably accurate and wonderfully easy to remember. Builders, engineers, surveyors and schoolchildren have relied on it ever since.

India has one of the world’s oldest mathematical traditions, and its contribution to understanding π is fundamental. Around the fifth century CE, the great mathematician and astronomer Aryabhata gave a remarkably accurate value for π in his Aryabhatiya. His approximation—3.1416—was correct to four decimal places, an extraordinary achievement for its time. Even more impressive was his suggestion that this value was only an approximation, revealing an understanding that π could not be captured exactly.

Nearly a thousand years later came another remarkable breakthrough. Mādhava of Sangamagrama, founder of the Kerala School of Mathematics, developed infinite series for calculating π with astonishing precision. These methods anticipated ideas that later became central to calculus in Europe. By the fourteenth century, Indian mathematicians were calculating π to many decimal places using techniques that were centuries ahead of their time.

Today, historians increasingly recognise that. Egyptians, Babylonians, Greeks, Chinese, Arabs and Indians all advanced humanity’s understanding of numbers. Pi belongs not to one nation, but to civilisation itself. That makes July 22 an especially meaningful day.

Unlike March 14, which owes its popularity to one country’s date format, 22/7 is a mathematical symbol recognised across generations and across classrooms. For millions of students, it was their first introduction to π. Before calculators became commonplace, “Take π as 22/7” was almost a universal instruction.

Pi itself is everywhere. It appears in wheels and bridges, domes and tunnels, clocks and satellites. Engineers use it to design aircraft. Doctors encounter it in medical imaging. Astronomers use it to understand the cosmos. Physicists find it in equations that have little to do with circles. Even the digital technologies that shape our lives rest on mathematical foundations where π quietly makes an appearance.

Perhaps that is why Pi Patel chose the symbol as his new identity. It represented something larger than a number.

Celebrating July 22 would not simply honour a mathematical constant. It would celebrate curiosity, scientific temper and humanity’s enduring quest to understand the universe.

So by all means enjoy the festivities on March 14.

But when July 22 comes around, take a moment to remember Aryabhata, Archimedes, Mādhava—and perhaps even Pi Patel, the schoolboy who silenced his bullies not with fists, but with an endless stream of digits.

Perhaps it is time we celebrated July 22 as the International Pi Day—a day that honours not only one extraordinary number, but the shared human pursuit of knowledge that transcends borders, languages and centuries.

–Meena

Purple Tongues and an Ancient Land: Why India Was Once Called Jambudweep

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This has been a spectacular year for jamuns. Friends have been arriving at my doorstep with bowls of freshly picked fruit. Street vendors are doing brisk business. The paving beneath our neighbourhood tree is squishy and squashy with purple. Even the birds appear to be celebrating. Bulbuls squabble noisily over the ripest fruits, parakeets descend in unruly flocks.

As always, theories abound. “It mean there is going to be drought,” says one person with great confidence. Another attributes it to the delayed rains. A third insists that trees produce more fruit when they are stressed. But horticulturists point out that fruiting depends on a complex interplay of weather, flowering, pollination, soil moisture and tree health. A dry spell at one stage may help fruit set; a prolonged drought at another can reduce it. Hence they caution against any simple cause-and-effect attributions.

Whatever the reason for this year’s abundance, it has reminded me how easily we overlook one of India’s most extraordinary native trees.

The jamun (Syzygium cumini) has grown on this land for thousands of years. It belongs here. Long before apples arrived from colder climates or kiwis and dragon fruit found a place in our supermarkets, the jamun flourished in forests, along riverbanks, in village commons and temple courtyards. It asked for very little in return. A mature tree can withstand fierce summers, survive erratic rainfall, provide generous shade and still produce an astonishing crop of fruit when the monsoon arrives.

Its flowers feed bees and other pollinators. Its dense canopy shelters birds through the hottest months of the year. When the fruits ripen, they become a banquet for parrots, barbets, bulbuls, mynas, fruit bats, monkeys and squirrels. The fruits that fall to the ground feed insects and enrich the soil. A single old jamun tree supports an entire community of life, quietly performing ecological services long before we coined terms such as “biodiversity” and “ecosystem services.”

For us humans, the jamun has always been more than a seasonal treat. Rich in antioxidants, iron, vitamin C and fibre, it has occupied a respected place in Ayurveda for centuries. The seeds are traditionally dried and powdered, particularly for managing blood sugar, while the bark and leaves have found their way into a variety of medicinal preparations. Modern science continues to investigate many of these traditional uses, and although not every claim has been conclusively proven, there is little doubt that the jamun deserves its reputation as one of our healthiest indigenous fruits.

Yet what fascinates me most is not its nutritional value or even its ecological importance. It is the extraordinary honour that our ancestors bestowed upon it.

There was a time when this land was known not only as Bharat, but also as Jambudweep.

The name is deceptively simple. In Sanskrit, jambu means the jamun tree, while dvipa refers to a great landmass or continent. Put together, the name means “the land of the jamun.” It appears in Hindu Puranas, in Buddhist texts and in Jain cosmology. Each tradition interprets Jambudweep a little differently—sometimes as the central continent of the known world, sometimes more specifically as the Indian subcontinent—but all recognise it as the land associated with the magnificent jambu tree.

So even today, every sankalpa begins with “Jambudweepe, Bharata Varshe, Bharata Khande”. A Sankalpa is a formal intention or vow made by a priest or an individual before starting a puja, homa, or vrat. We can think of it like a cosmic address. Just as you use a GPS to pinpoint your exact location on Earth, a Sankalpa uses ancient geography to state exactly where and when you are performing the ritual. It tells the universe your location on a grand, cosmic scale before focusing on your specific name, family lineage, and current location.

An entire civilisation identified itself with a tree.

Modern nations usually derive their names from tribes, kingdoms, rivers or rulers. They commemorate conquests, dynasties and political boundaries. Ancient India, on the other hand, also chose to remember a tree that must have been so widespread, so familiar and so deeply woven into everyday life that it became a symbol of the land itself.

The old texts speak of gigantic jamun trees growing on mountain slopes, their fruits so abundant that the juice flowed into nearby streams, tinting the waters a deep purple. No one imagines these accounts to be literal descriptions. Ancient literature delighted in metaphor and imagination. But beneath the poetry lies an important historical clue. Vast stretches of the subcontinent must once have supported thriving populations of jamun trees, making them one of the defining features of the landscape.

It is a reminder that our ancestors viewed trees not simply as resources to be harvested or obstacles to development. They were companions in daily life, providers of food and medicine, landmarks for travellers, gathering places for communities and, occasionally, symbols worthy of naming an entire civilisation.

How things have changed! We get excited about imported blueberries and Californian cherries, discuss the merits of avocados with great seriousness and happily pay premium prices for fruits that have travelled halfway around the world. Meanwhile, the jamun arrives quietly every monsoon, sold from baskets lined with newspaper, accompanied by a small paper packet of salt and chilli powder. It stains our fingers, our lips and invariably our clothes, yet never complains about the lack of sophisticated marketing.

Sadly, many of the old jamun trees have disappeared. Expanding cities, road widening and shrinking open spaces have claimed countless mature specimens. Because the fruit bruises easily and has a short shelf life, it has never become a commercial superstar in the way that mangoes or apples have. And so, without quite noticing, we have allowed one of our most remarkable native trees to fade into the background.

This year’s generous harvest, whatever the weather’s role in producing it, feels like a timely reminder. We should celebrate the jamun not merely because it is delicious or healthy, but because it is part of our natural and cultural inheritance. Every old tree that survives deserves to be protected. Every new one that is planted is an investment not just in shade and fruit, but in biodiversity, history and memory.

So the next season when you buy a paper cone of jamuns from a roadside vendor, savour them slowly. Let your tongue turn gloriously purple. Watch the birds helping themselves to the fruits higher up the branches. And remember that you are tasting a fruit so deeply embedded in India’s landscape and imagination that it once lent its name to an entire civilisation.

Jambudweep—the Land of the Jamun. It is an ancient name, but perhaps it still has something important to teach us about belonging, gratitude and the quiet grandeur of a tree we have too often taken for granted.Summary

–Meena

Twiggy: The Quirky Bagworm Moth

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At first glance, it looks like a tiny piece of dried grass crawling across a wall.

Or perhaps a bundle of twigs that has mysteriously come to life.

Look closely, and you may be witnessing one of nature’s most ingenious engineers—the bagworm moth.

Bagworm moths belong to the family Psychidae, a group of over 1,300 species found across the world. India alone is home to more than a hundred recorded species, many of which remain little known outside scientific circles. Despite their modest size, these insects display a level of architectural skill that would put many builders to shame.

A House You Can Carry

Unlike most caterpillars, a bagworm larva begins life by building itself a portable home.

Using silk as mortar, it gathers whatever materials lie nearby—tiny twigs, dry leaves, grass blades, bark flakes, seeds, even grains of sand. Every species has its own choice of materials and characteristic style. Some create neat spindle-shaped cases, others make rough bundles of sticks, while tropical species may construct surprisingly elaborate structures.

The result is a camouflage masterpiece.

To an unsuspecting bird, the moving caterpillar looks like nothing more than a fragment of the tree itself.

And unlike a snail that outgrows its shell, the bagworm keeps enlarging its home as it grows, carefully adding fresh material throughout its larval life.

India’s Hidden Diversity

Bagworms occur throughout India—from the Himalayan foothills to the Western Ghats, from dry deciduous forests to urban gardens.

Entomologists from the Zoological Survey of India have documented more than 106 Indian species, although many more almost certainly await discovery, especially in biodiversity hotspots like the Western Ghats and Northeast India.

Several Indian species belong to genera such as Eumeta, Cryptothelea, Clania, Mahasena and Eumasia. Many feed on a wide range of plants, while others specialise on lichens growing on tree trunks.

People commonly refer to them simply as “bag caterpillars,” “case moths,” or by descriptive names equivalent to “leaf-bag insects” or “twig-case worms.” In Hindi, for instance, ‘jhola illi’ may be used; in Marathi, ‘pishvi ali’; in Kannda, ‘chila  ulu’; in Tamil, ‘pai or kuudu puzhu’, etc.   Generally, they are recognised more by the little bags hanging from trees than by the moth itself.

The Caterpillar That Never Really Leaves Home

The story becomes even stranger when adulthood arrives.

Male bagworms emerge as small, winged moths with feathery antennae, flying actively in search of mates.

Many females, however, never develop wings at all. Females of these species spend virtually their entire lives inside the protective case they built as caterpillars. They neither fly nor wander. Instead, they remain inside the bag while releasing pheromones that attract males. After mating, they lay eggs within the same case, and the next generation begins life inside the home built by their mother.

Nature has produced many unusual lifestyles, but few are as remarkable as an adult moth that never truly leaves its childhood home.

Forest Engineers in Miniature

The bag is much more than camouflage.

It protects the caterpillar from birds, parasitic wasps, spiders and sudden changes in temperature. Some cases are even pretty rain-proof.

Researchers believe the bags also reduce water loss during hot weather and provide insulation against cold nights.

The silk itself is extraordinarily strong. Scientists have noted that bagworm silk possesses impressive durability, making it of interest in materials research.

Friends…and Occasionally Foes

Most Indian bagworms quietly recycle plant material and form part of healthy forest ecosystems.

A few species, however, can become agricultural or horticultural pests when their numbers increase dramatically. They feed on leaves of ornamental plants, fruit trees and plantation crops, occasionally causing noticeable defoliation. Fortunately, such outbreaks are relatively uncommon, and natural predators usually help keep populations under control.

More to Come!

As recently as 2023, researchers described a previously unknown bagworm, Eumasia venefica, from Kerala. Unlike many relatives, its larvae have a close association with lichens and possess unusual case-building habits, reminding us that India’s insect diversity still contains many surprises.

Watch out for those walking twiggy bundles! Who knows if you will stumble on a new one!

–Meena

The Golden Mystery: Amber and the Lost Amber Room

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Every year, 26 June is observed as International Amber Day, a celebration of one of nature’s most extraordinary creations. Unlike gemstones that are forged under immense heat and pressure deep within the Earth, amber begins life as something far more ordinary—sticky tree resin. Over millions of years, this resin hardens and fossilizes into a warm, golden substance that has fascinated people across cultures for thousands of years.

Amber is often called “sunshine trapped in stone.” Its rich honey, butterscotch, cognac, and cherry hues have inspired myths, jewellery, medicine, scientific discoveries, and one of history’s greatest unsolved mysteries—the disappearance of the legendary Amber Room.

Nature’s Time Capsule

Amber is not tree sap, as is commonly believed. Sap carries water and nutrients within a tree. Resin, on the other hand, is a protective substance produced when a tree is injured, sealing wounds and defending against insects and disease.

When resin flows over small insects, spiders, feathers, leaves, flowers, or even tiny lizards, these organisms can become trapped. If conditions are just right, the resin is buried under sediments and, over millions of years, transforms into amber. Unlike most fossils, which preserve bones or shells, amber often preserves entire organisms in astonishing three-dimensional detail.

These inclusions make amber invaluable to scientists. Tiny air bubbles reveal the atmosphere of prehistoric forests. Preserved pollen helps reconstruct ancient ecosystems. Even microscopic bacteria and fungi have survived inside amber for tens of millions of years.

For palaeontologists, amber is less a gemstone than a perfectly preserved archive of life on Earth. In fact, amber entered popular imagination through Jurassic Park, whose opening premise is that a mosquito that had fed on a dinosaur millions of years ago becomes trapped in sticky tree resin, which later fossilizes into amber, supposedly preserving the dinosaur’s blood—and its DNA—inside the mosquito’s abdomen. Scientists in the story use this DNA to clone dinosaurs, making amber the unlikely hero of one of cinema’s most iconic scientific adventures. While the preservation of insects in amber is entirely real, the survival of usable dinosaur DNA for 66 million years is not supported by modern science. Even so, the film brilliantly transformed a little-known fossil into a symbol of prehistoric mystery, inspiring countless people to take an interest in palaeontology and the natural world.

The Gold of the Baltic

Although amber is found in several parts of the world—including Myanmar, the Dominican Republic, Mexico, Canada, and even parts of India—the finest and most abundant deposits occur around the Baltic Sea.

For over 5,000 years, Baltic amber travelled across Europe through the famous Amber Road, an ancient trade route linking northern Europe with the Mediterranean. Long before the Silk Road became famous, merchants carried amber southwards in exchange for wine, glass, spices, and precious metals. The Romans valued amber so highly that it sometimes fetched prices exceeding those of gold by weight.

Many cultures also believed amber possessed healing powers. It was worn to ward off illness, ground into powders for medicine, and even carried as a protective charm.

The Eighth Wonder of the World

If amber itself is remarkable, its most famous artistic creation was extraordinary.

The Amber Room was one of the most lavish interiors ever built.

Constructed in the early eighteenth century in the Kingdom of Prussia, it featured over six tonnes of amber painstakingly carved into intricate decorative panels. Craftsmen combined amber mosaics with gold leaf, mirrors, gemstones, and exquisite carvings to create walls that glowed with warm golden light.

In 1716, Frederick William I presented the room as a diplomatic gift to Peter the Great, symbolizing growing ties between Prussia and Russia.

The room was eventually installed in the magnificent Catherine Palace, where generations of visitors marvelled at what many described as the “Eighth Wonder of the World.”

Sunlight reflecting from thousands of amber tiles created an almost magical glow unlike anything else in European architecture.

A Treasure Lost During War

The Amber Room’s greatest chapter is also its saddest.

During the Second World War, German forces invaded the Soviet Union in 1941. Conservators attempted to protect the fragile amber panels, but the material had become too brittle to dismantle safely. Instead, they covered the room with wallpaper in the hope that occupying forces might overlook it.

The attempt failed.

Specialist German units removed the entire room in just over a day, packed it into dozens of crates, and transported it to the Königsberg Castle, where it was publicly displayed once again.

Then, it vanished.

As Allied bombing intensified and the war drew to a close, the Amber Room disappeared. Whether it was destroyed in fires, hidden in underground bunkers, loaded onto ships that later sank, or concealed in forgotten mines remains unknown.

Despite decades of investigations across Germany, Poland, Russia, and the Baltic region, no verified trace of the original Amber Room has ever been found.

The mystery has inspired countless books, documentaries, archaeological expeditions, and treasure hunters. Every few years, reports emerge claiming that the room has finally been located in caves, tunnels, castles, or shipwrecks. None has yet been confirmed.

The Amber Room remains one of the greatest missing treasures of the twentieth century.

Recreating a Masterpiece

The story, however, did not end with its disappearance.

In 1979, Soviet conservators embarked on an ambitious project to recreate the Amber Room using surviving photographs, architectural drawings, and traditional amber-working techniques.

The painstaking restoration took more than two decades. Craftsmen had to relearn skills that had nearly disappeared, sourcing thousands of kilograms of Baltic amber and hand-carving each decorative panel.

The reconstructed Amber Room was formally inaugurated in 2003, coinciding with the 300th anniversary of Saint Petersburg.

Visitors today can once again experience something close to the original splendour, even though the fate of the authentic masterpiece remains unknown.

Why Amber Still Matters

On International Amber Day, perhaps the greatest lesson is that the most valuable treasures are not always those that glitter the brightest. Sometimes they are those that preserve the memories of worlds long gone—whether hidden inside a tiny fossilized drop of resin or concealed somewhere, perhaps still waiting to reveal the final chapter of the Amber Room’s remarkable story.

–Meena

PIC: SMITHSONIAN MAGAZINE

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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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