A Birthday Gift of Light and Precision for my dear friend, Dr. Umesh Chandra

A Birthday Gift of Light and Precision for my dear friend, Dr. Umesh Chandra, on His 65th Birthday – 27 January, 2026. 

While wishing my dear friend, Dr Umesh (Umi), a renowned Laparoscopic Surgeon, a happy 65th birthday today, I am reminded of a providential coincidence his birthday has with the profession and a later expertise which he has acquired in his surgical profession as a Laparoscopic surgeon of repute. This piece – science communication - is therefore a birthday gift to my dear friend Dr Umesh on his birthday, which I hope he will like it.

Providentially, my dear Umi (Dr Umesh Chandra) who was born on 27 January 1961, marked his entry into this world on the 80^th anniversary of a profound invention of an electric bulb by one of the legendary inventors – Thomas Alva Edison.  This providential coincidence of Umesh’s birth that marked the anniversary of Edisons Light bulb invention patent, foretold the influence that light would have in the professional career of Dr Umesh in the years ahead.

On 27 January 1880, Thomas Alva Edison was granted the U.S. Patent No. 223,898 for what the world remembers simply as the electric bulb. While popular memory celebrates Edison as the “inventor of light,” the truth—far more interesting—is that he perfected a system. Dozens before him had produced glowing filaments; Edison solved the deeper problem of sustained illumination, safe distribution, and commercial viability. In doing so, he did not merely light rooms—he reshaped time itself for which he was rightly awarded an US patent on 27 January, 1880.

It is therefore, a historical delight for me that Dr Umesh was born exactly eighty years after Edison’s patent, on the very day - 27 January - when light officially became a human companion, more importantly for medical practitioners to harvest its benefit for human good, later.

History often advances not through sudden leaps, but through quiet revolutions—moments when human ingenuity learns how to do more by disturbing less. The story of modern civilisation, more importantly the surgical medical profession, which my friend Umi practices, in many ways, is the story of precision gradually replacing brute force, of light replacing darkness, and of insight replacing incision.

The electric bulb helped human society - for the first time in human history, in ensuring that productivity was no longer hostage to the natural light, sunrise and sunset. The night became usable, predictable, and safe. Factories ran longer, hospitals functioned better, and scientific inquiry escaped the tyranny of absence of daylight at night. Human circadian rhythms adjusted; human civilisation quietly recalibrated to use of artificial light, manmade.

From Filament to Photon: A Brief History of Artificial Light

Edison’s original bulb used a carbon filament, glowing through resistance in a vacuum. It was inefficient, short-lived, and fragile—but it worked. Over the decades, tungsten replaced carbon, inert gases replaced vacuum, and efficiency steadily improved. Yet the true revolution arrived much later.

In the late 20th century, the invention of the blue Light Emitting Diode (LED)—based on Gallium Nitride—made it possible to generate bright white light with minimal heat and energy loss. This achievement earned the 2014 Nobel Prize in Physics, which was awarded jointly to Isamu Akasaki, Hiroshi Amano, and Shuji Nakamura for the invention of efficient blue LEDs. Their breakthrough enabled bright, energy-saving white light sources, transforming lighting technology. It fundamentally altered the energy economics of illumination. Light became cooler, sharper, portable, and precise.

This shift—from heat-heavy illumination (lighting) to cool, focused photons—finds an almost poetic parallel in the evolution of modern surgery.

Surgery Before Precision: The Age of the Open Incision

For most of medical history, surgery was necessarily macroscopic. To see, one had to open. To reach, one had to cut wide. Even the most skilled surgeon was constrained by anatomy, lighting, and the limitations of the naked eye.

Open surgery saved countless lives, but at great cost:

– large incisions

– significant blood loss

– prolonged hospital stays

– higher infection rates

– longer recovery times

Much like early lighting systems, surgery worked—but inefficiently and traumatically.

The dream of seeing inside the living human body without opening it haunted physicians for centuries. Incidentally, it all started clandestinely.

The Clandestine Foundation: Renaissance Roots to Modern Surgery.

​The lineage of modern surgery does not begin in a sterile theatre, but in the candlelit basements of 15th-century Italy. While the medical world credits Andreas Vesalius (1514–1564) with the first formalisation of human anatomy in De humani corporis fabrica, his precision was preceded by the clandestine brilliance of the legendary Leonardo da Vinci

​Da Vinci, driven by an insatiable scientific "foresight," dissected over 30 cadavers in secret—at a time when such acts were often socially or legally perilous. He was the first to realize that to heal the body, one must first "see" it from within. His anatomical drawings were the world’s first "laparoscopic views"—mental sections of the body that revealed the layers of fascia, the branching of arteries, and the mechanics of the organs. This era established the fundamental law of surgery: clarity of vision dictates the success of the intervention.

The Birth of Laparoscopy: Seeing Without Opening

The roots of laparoscopy go back further than many realise. In 1901, the German physician Georg Kelling performed the first known endoscopic examination of the abdominal cavity on a dog, using a cystoscope and filtered air. A few years later - 1910, Hans Christian Jacobaeus of Sweden extended the technique to humans and coined the term laparothoracoscopy.

However, early laparoscopy remained a diagnostic curiosity. Poor lighting, crude lenses, and limited instrumentation kept it from widespread adoption.

Everything changed with three technological convergences:

Optics – the development of rod-lens systems by Harold Hopkins dramatically improved image clarity.

Light sources – cold light, fibre optics, and later LED illumination eliminated tissue burns and shadows.

Instrumentation – fine, specialised tools allowed surgeons not just to look, but to operate.

By the late 20th century, laparoscopy transitioned from diagnosis to definitive surgery. In the year, 1987, Philippe Mouret (France) performed the first laparoscopic gallbladder removal (cholecystectomy), which transformed the profession.

The Laparoscopic Revolution: Less is More

The 1980s and 1990s marked a turning point. Procedures once thought impossible without large incisions—cholecystectomy, appendectomy, hernia repair, gynaecological surgeries—were now being performed through keyhole openings.

The benefits were transformative:

minimal tissue trauma

reduced postoperative pain

faster recovery

shorter hospital stays

quicker return to normal life

In essence, laparoscopy did to surgery what the LED did to lighting: maximum output with minimum collateral damage.

Light as the Surgeon’s Ally

There is a profound symbolism at the heart of laparoscopic surgery. The surgeon no longer relies solely on touch and exposure, but on light itself—guided through fibre optics, magnified by lenses, and translated into high-resolution images.

Healing is achieved not by opening the body to daylight, but by bringing light into the body. This is where technology, biology, and philosophy quietly intersect.

Laparoscopic Surgery in India

In India, the true pioneer of laparoscopic surgery was Dr. Tehemton Erach Udwadia, widely regarded as the father of laparoscopic surgery in the country. He was a master surgeon, a passionate teacher, a pioneer, an influencer of Indian and world surgery and an inspiration to countless surgeons. His interest in laparoscopic surgery began with a chance moment of curiosity.

 It was one of those occasions - in the year 1971 - while waiting for an anaesthetist he observed a gynaecologist colleague, Dr. Narges Motashaw perform a diagnostic laparoscopy. Dr. Udwadia became fascinated with this technique. He travelled to Germany soon thereafter and met with Dr. Karl Storz – the renowned instrument manufacturer – to acquaint himself of the basic knowledge and understanding of laparoscopic instruments. Thereafter, on his return to India he sourced one of these instruments at JJ Hospital, Mumbai, where he worked. This instrument was used for over 20 years for performing peritoneoscopy (as laparoscopy was called back then) and helped thousands of patients by hastening “the diagnosis and treatment of abdominal pathology before the advent of modern imaging”.

Although he was a renowned surgeon known for his manual extraordinary surgical skills, his understanding of the diagnostics using laparoscopy at JJ Hospital helped him gravitate towards using this technology to assist him in his surgery. It was, therefore but natural that Dr. Udwadia became the first Indian surgeon to perform a laparoscopic cholecystectomy in India on 31^st May 1990 at J J Hospital. He was convinced that this advance surgical procedure was relevant in a developing country like ours as it would be in the Western world. Therefore, he started presenting his series of cases and demonstrating this novel surgery at conferences and workshops across India.

It was during one of those conferences and talks which my friend Umesh attended in Mumbai during the period when he was working at the KEM Hospital that Umesh was immediately drawn to this new surgical technology. On his return to his native place, Kalaburagi, and while working at the Surgery department with the at the Mahadevappa Rampure Medical College (MRMC), he conceived of an idea to explore Laparoscopic surgery in Kalaburagi, a relatively smaller town where there was little understanding about this new surgery in the mid-1990s.   

Dr. Umesh and Kalaburagi: Global Science, Local Impact

In cities like Kalaburagi, the adoption of advanced medical technology is never merely technical—it is cultural. Introducing laparoscopy meant changing mindsets: of patients, families, institutions, and even fellow practitioners. In the year 1997-98, Dr Umesh decided to take a plunge in to this new technology. He decided to travel to Germany to study and understand about this new technology and its use in surgery.

In late 1997, he travelled to Frankfurt for a six-week study and training at the Städtische Kliniken Mönchengladbach, Hospital in Germany, and the rest is history.

On his return to Kalaburagi (Gulbarga then), from Germany, the country which had pioneered this technology in surgery, Umesh soon embraced and pioneered laparoscopic surgery and became part of that long lineage of applied scientists who translate global innovation into local wellbeing. I vividly remember, the day when he inaugurated his Laparoscopic surgical instrument at his hospital. I also remember his anxiety and trials that he had to go through to convince not just his patients but also his peers, the advantage of this surgery which was then quite alien to the tier 2 and tier 3 cities, more importantly in Kalaburagi.

I remember an anecdotal story which Umesh had shared with us, his close friends, of his first surgical experience using this technology. It was a surgery in which he had to work on a gall bladder. Normally such surgeries and the recovery of the patients would take about a week or so and sometimes the patient had to stay in hospitals for 2 weeks. It was with great difficulty and help from an acquaintance known to the patient that Umesh managed to convince the patient that he would perform the surgery using a robot-like instrument, which may help him get an early discharge. As expected, notwithstanding a number of such surgical procedures which he had performed helping the surgeons at Germany, Umesh was tensed, since this was his first experience on an Indian patient and that too in Kalaburagi. Any mishap could lead to disastrous consequences, yet his confidence in the technology and his extraordinary surgical skills had convinced him to go ahead.  

Dr Umesh completed his surgery successfully and the patient was shifted from the Operation Theatre to the ward for post-surgery care. Next day when he went on a round of the wards, Dr Umesh was aghast when he did not see the patient on the bed. Strange thoughts passed through his mind, including of the patients passing and the consequences of this eventuality on his future career. Lo and behold when he enquired, to his disbelief, he learnt that the patient was discharged since he had recovered completely from the surgical wounds. Later in the day, he made a trip to patients’ home to happily realise that he was hale and hardy. From that first surgery in early 1998, he and his equally competent and able Doctor wife, Dr Suman, they have performed hundreds of surgeries and continue to do so even today.

Thus, Dr Umesh helped Laparoscopic surgical procedures, which were once available only in metropolitan centres, accessible closer to home, sparing countless patients unnecessary suffering.

Much like Edison’s bulb did not remain confined to Menlo Park, but travelled into homes across the world, laparoscopic surgery under Dr. Umesh’s hands travelled into lives that might otherwise never have encountered it. Today the city of Kalaburagi is home to many surgeons who use this technology but then it was my friend Umi who started it in Kalaburagi.

A Personal Reflection on Friendship and Science

As someone who observes science not from the operating theatre but from the page, I find it deeply moving that my friend Umesh’s life’s work revolves around precision guided by light—a theme that echoes from Edison’s laboratory to the modern operating room.

If history teaches us anything, it is that progress belongs not only to inventors, but to early adopters, interpreters, and practitioners—those who trust new technologies and ideas enough to place human lives in their care.

On your 66th birthday, Umi, this essay stands as a modest gift from a poorer friend in material terms, but a rich admirer of your medical surgical contributions and your early adoption of technology to further your objective of better caregiving for your patients.  

Happy Birthday, Dr. Umesh.

May your hands remain steady, your light remains focused, and your legacy continue to heal—one precise incision at a time.

The Constitution as a Visual Republic: How Art Illuminates India’s Democratic Soul

 

The Constitution as a Visual Republic: How Art Illuminates India’s Democratic Soul

On 26 January, every year, as dawn breaks over Kartavya Path in Delhi—once the Rajpath—the Republic Day Parade unfolds as a living tapestry of India’s civilisational soul. Regimented columns of marching troops, gleaming armoured formations, and airborne salutes of the armed forces stand shoulder to shoulder with vibrant tableaux that celebrate India’s astounding socio-cultural diversity. From snow-clad Himalayas in the north to sun-kissed coasts on the east and west, from ancient tribal traditions to classical and folk art forms, the parade mirrors a nation that is at once ancient and ever-renewing. The synchrony of military precision with cultural exuberance is no mere spectacle; it is a quiet assertion that India’s strength lies as much in its unity of purpose as in its plurality of expression. In this ceremonial march, our Republic reaffirms that its defence is not only guarded by weapons and valour, but also by the shared inheritance of our diversity in languages, faiths, customs, and traditions that bind its people together into an indestructible democratic whole.

26 January 2026, we mark the 77^th Republic Day. It was on this day, 26th January, 1950, that post ‘our tryst with destiny’, we gave ourselves an extraordinary gift - the Constitution of India. While wishing you all a very happy Republic Day in advance, I wish to take this momentous occasion to write about the beauty of our artistically elegant Indian Constitution, the only one of its kind with such an artistic elegance, which has served us very well for all these years and will continue to do so for eons, notwithstanding our vastly diverse and quite complex nature of our country and its citizens. It is therefore no wonder that the Indian constitution not only continues to intrigue and impress people across the world but also inspires national and international constitutional experts.

However, in recent months, the Indian Constitution has re-entered public consciousness in a curious way.

Images of leaders brandishing pocket-sized copies of the Constitution - both inside and outside the Parliament - have become visual shorthand for political protest, invoking alleged constitutional abuse and democratic erosion. The word Constitution is being spoken, waved, and weaponised more than it has ever been. And yet, there is a deep irony at play. Even as the Constitution is repeatedly invoked in the heat of political contestation, very few—perhaps even among those who most visibly wield it—seem aware of what makes the Indian Constitution truly exceptional. Beyond its length, beyond its clauses and amendments, it stands apart as a rare civilisational artefact: a handwritten, hand-illustrated manuscript where law is inseparable from art, and governance is consciously woven into India’s vast historical, philosophical, and cultural continuum.

As India marks this year’s Republic Day, there is likelihood of the public discourse around the Constitution often gravitating toward its amendments, interpretations, and political contestations. Rarely do we pause to reflect on one of its most remarkable and least discussed dimensions – the Constitution of India is also a carefully conceived work of art - a visual and aesthetic republic—which deserves to be brought back into public memory, for it tells a story far deeper and more enduring than the slogans of the moment.

Unlike any other constitution in the world, India’s founding document is handwritten, hand-illustrated, and visually narrated. Every one of the 22 Parts of the original Indian Constitution begins with an image—an artwork that anchors constitutional provisions within India’s long civilisational memory. This was not an ornamental indulgence. It was a deliberate act of nation-building. Each of these images with brief description of the parts and italics words for the artistic images, is given at the end of the essay.

A Constitution That Speaks Through Images

When the Constituent Assembly completed the drafting of the Constitution, it was decided that the document should not merely govern India but also represent India—its civilisational ethos, cultural depth, moral inheritance, and historical journey. The task of visually shaping this idea was entrusted to Nandalal Bose, one of India’s foremost artists and a leading figure of the Shantiniketan school.

Bose, assisted by a carefully chosen team of artists from Kala Bhavana—including Biswarup, Gouri, Jamuna, Perumal, Kripal Singh Shekhawat, and others—crafted 22 images, one for each Part of the Constitution. Together, these images form a chronological and symbolic narrative of India, from the Indus Valley Civilisation to the freedom struggle, and from ethical philosophy to geography itself. Each of these 22 images are appended at the end of this article.

Part I: Civilisation and Territory

The first Part of the Constitution, dealing with The Union and Its Territory, is adorned with decorative motifs derived from Mohenjodaro seals, including the Zebu Bull. This image reaches back over four millennia to the Indus Valley Civilisation, asserting continuity rather than rupture. The bull, symbolising strength, leadership, fertility, and sacrifice, subtly mirrors the idea of a Union that protects and sustains its people.

Part II: Citizenship as Inheritance

Citizenship, dealt with in Part II, is illustrated through a Vedic Gurukul scene. Knowledge in ancient India was transmitted orally, through close teacher–student relationships. By choosing this image, the artists conveyed citizenship not merely as legal status but as belonging, learning, and shared values, passed down through generations. The Constitution, like the Gurukul, becomes the medium through which society remains connected to its foundational principles.

Part III: Fundamental Rights and the Triumph of Dharma

Part III, on Fundamental Rights, is illustrated with a powerful scene from the Ramayana—Rama’s victory over Ravana and the recovery of Sita from Lanka. This is not a religious assertion but an ethical metaphor. The celebration of Vijayadashami symbolises the triumph of dharma over adharma, justice over tyranny. By placing this image at the threshold of Fundamental Rights, Nandalal Bose visually underscored the purpose of these rights: to eliminate social evils and protect human dignity.

Part IV: Directive Principles and Moral Governance

The Mahabharata scene of Krishna propounding the Gita to Arjuna appears at the beginning of Part IV, the Directive Principles of State Policy. The choice is deeply philosophical. The Directive Principles are not enforceable laws but moral guidelines for governance. Krishna’s counsel to Arjuna—about duty, responsibility, and righteous action—mirrors the constitutional expectation that the State must actively uphold justice, welfare, and ethical governance.

Parts V & VI: Enlightenment and Authority

Scenes from the life of Gautama Buddha, including his first sermon at Sarnath, are placed in sections dealing with the Union and executive authority. Enlightenment here is not merely spiritual but civilisational—symbolising awakening, compassion, restraint, and diplomacy. Buddhism’s historical role in India’s international relations further reinforces the appropriateness of this imagery.

Similarly, scenes from Mahavira’s life acknowledge Jain philosophy and its emphasis on non-violence and ethical conduct, reinforcing the plural foundations of Indian thought.

Parts VII to XI: Empires, Art, and Knowledge

The spread of Buddhism by Emperor Ashoka, scenes from Gupta art, Vikramaditya’s court, and the depiction of Nalanda University collectively celebrate India’s classical age—when governance, art, science, and education flourished together. These images remind the reader that India’s constitutional vision is rooted in a long tradition of statecraft combined with intellectual pursuit.

Parts XII & XIII: Rhythm, Balance, and Prosperity

Part XII, dealing with finance and property, is illustrated with the iconic Chola Bronze Nataraja. Shiva as Nataraja embodies cosmic rhythm, balance, and order. The symbolism is profound: economic systems, like the cosmic dance, require equilibrium. Excess, imbalance, or chaos can destroy harmony. The choice of this image reflects an advanced understanding of governance as a dynamic, balanced process.

Parts XIV to XVI: Diversity and Resistance

Sculptural traditions from Mahabalipuram, followed by portraits of Akbar against Mughal architecture, and then Shivaji and Guru Gobind Singh, visually narrate India’s plural political history. These images celebrate administrative innovation, cultural synthesis, and resistance to injustice.

The portrayal of Tipu Sultan and Rani Lakshmibai marks the early organised resistance against British colonial expansion, reminding readers that freedom was neither sudden nor inevitable—it was earned through sacrifice.

Parts XVII to XIX: Freedom, Sacrifice, and Conscience

Mahatma Gandhi’s Dandi March and his Noakhali peace mission appear in Parts XVII and XVIII. These images represent two sides of freedom—defiance against unjust laws and moral courage in moments of communal strife.

Part XIX features Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose and other revolutionaries who fought from outside India. The border inscription seeking Gandhiji’s blessings acknowledges the diversity of strategies within the freedom struggle and honours Netaji’s decisive role in weakening British resolve.

Parts XX to XXII: Geography as Identity

The final parts of the Constitution are illustrated not with figures but with landscapes—the Himalayas, deserts, and oceans. These images quietly assert that the Republic belongs not just to its people but also to its land. Geography here becomes destiny, unity, and responsibility.

Finished Manuscript signed for posterity

The finished manuscript of the Constitution was signed by 284 members of the Constituent Assembly and adopted on 26 November 1949, which came into existence from 26 January 1950. While India has amended the Constitution many times, its artistic core remains untouched—a reminder that while laws may evolve, foundational values endure.

In viewing the Constitution through its art, one realises that India’s founders imagined democracy not merely as governance, but as a civilisational conversation across time. The illustrated Constitution asks us not only to obey the law, but to understand it—to see ourselves as inheritors of a long ethical, cultural, and historical continuum.

That, perhaps, is its most enduring lesson.

Happy Republic Day

Images : Courtesy Wikipedia

Part I – The Union and its Territory (Decoration with Mohenjo-Daro seals)

Part II – Citizenship (Scene from Vedic Asram (Gurukul))

Part III – Fundamental Rights Scene from Ramayana (Conquest of Lanka and recovery of Giya by Rama)

Part IV – Directive Principles of State Policy Scene from the Mahabharata (Srikrishna propounding Gita to Arjuna)

Part V – The Union (Scene from Buddha’s life)

Part VI – The States (Scene from Mahavir’s life)

Part VII – The States in Part B of the First Schedule (later repealed) (Scene depicting the spread of Buddhism by Emperor Asoka in India and abroad)

Part VIII – The Union Territories (Scene from Gupta Art. It’s development in different phases).

Part IX – No Part in original 1950 Constitution (Scene from Vikramaditya’s Court)

Part X – Scheduled and Tribal Areas (Scene depicting one of the ancient universities -(Nalanda))

Part XI – Relations between the Union and the States (Scene from Orissan Scupltures)

Part XII – Finance, Property, Contracts and Suits (Image of Nataraja)

Part XIII – Trade, Commerce and Intercourse within the Territory of India (Scene from Mahabalipuram Sculptures)

Part XIV – Services under the Union and the States (Portrait of Akbar with Mughal Architecture)

Part XV – Elections  (Portraits of Shivaji and Guru Gobind Singh)

Part XVI – Special Provisions relating to Certain Classes (Portraits of Tipu Sultan and Lakshmi Bai (Rise against the British Conquest))

Part XVII – Official Language (Portrait of the Father of the Nation (Gandhiji’s Dandi March))

Part XVIII – Emergency Provisions (Bapuji the Peace-Maker – his tour in the riot-affected areas of Nokhali).

Part XIX – Miscellaneous (Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose and other patriots trying to liberate Mother India from outside India)

Part XX – Amendment of the Constitution (Scene of the Himalayas)

Part XXI – Temporary, Transitional and Special Provisions (Scene of the Desert)

Part XXII – Short Title, Commencement, Authoritative Text in Hindi and Repeals (Scene of the Ocean)

Long live our Constitution and our great nation.

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From Dynamite to Diplomatic Travesty: The Nobel Peace Prize in Our Times.

Alfred Nobel, in whose honour the world's – understandably - most recognised prizes have been instituted, would definitely have appreciated this irony. After all, he made his fortune perfecting nitroglycerine (Dynamite)—an invention that could blast tunnels through mountains and, with equal eagerness, through human bodies. When a newspaper mistakenly published his obituary, calling him the “merchant of death,” Nobel reacted to the legacy he seemed destined for. His will, creating the Nobel Prizes, was an act of moral course correction: let the profits of destruction underwrite the celebration of human progress and peace. 

More than a century later, the Nobel Peace Prize still carries that original moral weight—though in recent times it has also begun carrying a rather heavy burden of theatre and theatrics. 

A Legacy of Merit and Omission 

Speaking of Nobel Prizes, I am reminded of the year 2001, which happened to be the 100th year of the Nobel Prizes, and to mark this important historical event, Mr I K Mukherjee, DG, NCSM, my parent organisation, decided to develop a traveling exhibition. I was accordingly tasked, in early 2001, immediately on my transfer from NSC Delhi to NSC Mumbai, to curate this exhibition. While it was a great honour to curate this exhibition “100 Years of Nobel Prizes” and take it across science centres in India, including IUCAA, I somehow was somehow able to present the Peace Prize, one of the most controversial, as an aspirational ideal. 

Incidentally, the massive success of this exhibition, including the exhibition venue in the National Science Centre, Delhi, chosen to release the special publication by the Encyclopedia Britannica, resulted in successfully attracting the hosting of an exhibition from the Nobel Museum, Sweden, a decade later at the National Science Centre, Delhi, when I was its Director in 2010. This was an exhibition titled "Network of Innovation" from the Nobel Museum. This exhibition presented the genesis, the secrecy, and even the occasional missteps that were taken by Alfred Nobel, which were part of a grand human effort to reward those who had conferred the “greatest benefit to humankind”, the Nobel Prizes. 

India knows the weight of this Peace Prize legacy poignantly. Mahatma Gandhi—the most influential apostle of non-violence—never received the Nobel Peace prize. That omission remains the Prize’s most eloquent silence. In contrast, another Indian, Mother Teresa, accepted this honour with a quiet moral authority that turned the world's gaze toward the poorest of the poor rather than the podium. 

The Davos Circus and the Greenland "Quest" 

Which brings us, inevitably, to the present—and the 2026 World Economic Forum at Davos. What used to be a summit for economic sobriety – a venue which christened and coined the term Industrial Revolution 4.0 (IR4.0) that now governs us all, including the AI - has transformed into a stage for the surreal. Amidst the snow-capped peaks, the inimitable President, Donald Trump, dominated the halls not with trade or economic deals, but with a persistent, almost medieval quest to "acquire" Greenland.

In a speech that left not just the European leaders, but the world leaders stunned, Trump described the world’s largest island as a "piece of ice" that the U.S. "should have kept" after World War II. "How stupid were we to give it back?" he asked a silent audience, while Canadian Prime Minister Mark Carney warned that the world was facing a "rupture" where superpowers use coercion over cooperation. The sight of a U.S. President demanding "right, title, and ownership" of a sovereign territory felt less like 21st-century diplomacy and more like a property developer eyeing a distressed asset. 

The Nobel as a "Gift" 

The farce reached its zenith when the media conversation turned to the 2025 Nobel Peace Prize. Awarded to María Corina Machado for her democratic struggle in Venezuela, the prize was intended as a beacon of hope. Instead, it became a bargaining chip. In a move that sent shockwaves through the Nobel Foundation in Oslo, Machado symbolically "gifted" her medal to Trump. 

The irony was thick enough to choke on. Trump, who had just orchestrated the daring abduction of Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro and declared that the U.S. would now "run" the country and its oil, accepted the medal as validation. He claimed it was a "wonderful gesture" for a man who—by his own count—had "ended eight wars"- including Operation Sindhoor. 

At Davos, the pushback was visceral. French President Emmanuel Macron noted that Europe’s tolerance had been exhausted, while European Commission President Ursula von der Leyen spoke of building a "new, independent Europe" free from such "bullying." They saw the contradiction clearly: a leader who initiates a regime-change kidnapping and eyes foreign lands for annexation cannot, by any stretch of the imagination, be the "fittest" for a prize founded on the abolition of standing armies and the promotion of peace congresses. 

 Ownership Divorced from Meaning 

The Nobel Foundation was forced to issue a crisp, dignified reminder: a Nobel Prize cannot be transferred, gifted, or shared. The laureate and the Prize are inseparable. One may hold the gold disc, but the honour does not travel like a visiting card. 

It was a necessary clarification—and an unintentionally comic one. For here was a President in possession of the medal but not the honour; and a laureate in possession of the honour but not the medal. The Prize had become a metaphor for our times: ownership divorced from meaning. 

The Enduring Ideal 

And yet, for all this satire, the Nobel Peace Prize endures. It endures because Mandela received it. Because Martin Luther King Jr. received it. The controversies sting precisely because the Prize still matters. Alfred Nobel’s original paradox remains: Dynamite could be controlled; human ambition cannot. 

As for those who yearn for the medal through theatre rather than toil, history offers a gentle lesson: peace pursued for glory rarely earns either. And the Mahatma – MK Gandhi, unencumbered by gold discs, continues to remind us that the most enduring honours are the ones that can never be "gifted" away. 

Long live notwithstanding the controversy that may come its way.

Images: Courtesy Nehru Science Centre, Mumbai and National Science Centre, Delhi