Basava Jayanti: Message for a Fractured Indian Polity.

On Basava Jayanti, a call to move beyond caste arithmetic to rediscover the egalitarian traditions professed and practised by Basavanna

In India, we often celebrate our social reformers in ritualistic fashion, but rarely contemplate practicing the transformative ideas they championed. One such social reformer who we remember on his Jayanti (birthday) is Basaveshvara. 

Today, 20 April, we commemorate Basava Jayanti, the birth of the 12th-century philosopher, social reformer, thinker, poet, philosopher and a saint, Bhagwan, Basaveshwara, also referred to as Basavanna. He was born on Vaishaka Shudda Tritiya, Rohini Nakshatra in 1931 CE, in the present-day state of Karnataka. Basava Jayanti, celebrated across Karnataka, and in the bordering states and so also across the nation and internationally by the followers of Basavanna, demands more than ceremonial homage. It calls for a deeper reflection on how his revolutionary vision of an egalitarian society stands in stark contrast to the increasingly caste-fragmented political discourse of contemporary, “secular India”.

Basava Jayanti, this year comes amid developments that once again highlight the fissures within our polity. The Parliament witnessed the defeat of a proposed Constitution Amendment Bill on the Women’s Reservation, post an acrimonious and sharp political exchanges in the Parliament. The Prime Minister addressed the nation through Doordarshan, offering apologies for the failure to pass the legislation, even as the opposition accused him of misusing a public broadcaster for political messaging in the midst of elections. This episode, irrespective of partisan interpretations, underlines a deeper truth: the secular democracy in India often operates more in letter than in spirit. 

It is precisely in such moments that the philosophical legacy of Basavanna and the deliberative model of the “Anubhava Mantapa” acquire renewed relevance. Basavanna emerged in an era when rigid caste hierarchies dominated social and religious life. His response was a transformative egalitarian social movement rooted in equality, dignity of labour, and universal humanism. The Anubhava Mantapa, an assembly of mystics, philosophers, and social thinkers drawn from all sections of society—women and men, Brahmins and Dalits, artisans and scholars, cutting across caste, creed, gender and religion — was used as a Parliament like platform to deliberate freely on spiritual, social, and economic issues. Anubhava Mantapa therefore, has rightly been described as one of the earliest forums of participatory democracy, where individuals transcended caste identity to engage as equals and its existence was brought to international notice by PM Modi, who talked about it extensively including during the opening of the New Parliament.

Today, when we see a highly fractured polity in India with each accusing the other of divisive politics, antagonistic to the secular ethos of our country - cultivating a social ethos that transcend divisions of caste, creed, and community - Basavanna’s 12th-century experiment become remarkable.  In essence, Basavanna created a participatory forum rooted in equality and dialogue, a democratic tradition far ahead of its time.

Yet, centuries later, India’s public discourse appears to move in the opposite direction. Elections - whether parliamentary, state, or even local - are increasingly analysed by all concerned stakeholders of our democracy through the prism of religion and caste arithmetic. The 24×7 media ecosystem, with its endless panels and so called “data-driven” commentary, routinely dissects the electorate into caste blocs. Citizens are treated not as individuals with aspirations but as homogeneous groups presumed to vote according to inherited identities. Analysts confidently predict which caste will support which party, how sub-castes will shift loyalties, and what numerical combinations might secure victory. Who gets to sit on the CM Chair and how is that decision influenced by the caste and many more. Such discourse does not merely interpret society; it shapes it leading to the fissures in the society.

Through the 24x7 news coverage of politics in India, by innumerable news channels, the citizens are repeatedly told that their primary identity is caste. This messaging egged by its hyper-amplification by the political class and such other vested interest groups, democracy risks being reduced to demographic bookkeeping.

The language itself betrays the distortion: instead of citizens casting their vote, commentary implies that castes “vote” collectively, perhaps a harsh reality. But then this subtle but significant shift transforms individuals into categories. In the guise of sophisticated analysis, society is encouraged to view itself through narrow lenses, reinforcing divisions that reformers like Basavanna perspired to dismantle.

The consequences are far-reaching. A polity that constantly emphasises caste divisions risks creating ghettos of identity. Communities begin to see themselves as competing blocs rather than participants in a shared democratic project. Political actors, in turn, find incentives to mobilise along these lines, deepening the fractures. The result is a cycle where social divisions feed political strategies, and political strategies further entrench social divisions.

History offers a sobering lesson. India’s long experience of foreign rule—particularly under colonial powers—was facilitated by internal divisions. The British, with relatively small numbers, governed a vast and diverse population partly by exploiting differences of caste, religion, and region. Communities were pitted against one another, weakening collective resistance. While contemporary India is vastly different, the persistent emphasis on identity-based divisions raises uncomfortable echoes. A society fractured along narrow lines becomes vulnerable—not necessarily to external rule, but to internal discord and weakened democratic cohesion, which shows up if we see it dispassionately.

It is in this context that Basavanna’s message becomes extraordinarily relevant. He rejected caste hierarchy outright, asserting that human worth cannot be determined by birth. His concept of “Kayaka” emphasised dignity of labour, dissolving occupational hierarchies. “Dasoha” promoted sharing and social responsibility, fostering solidarity. Most importantly, the Anubhava Mantapa created a lived experience of equality, where dialogue replaced division. Basavanna did not merely preach unity; he institutionalised it.

Today as we celebrate Basava Jayanti while navigating the West Asia crisis, let us draw inspiration from Basavanna’s vision of a just and equitable society. As we honour Basavanna, may I request those who are interested in a deeper understanding of the life and works of Basavanna, to read my blog post from 2021, which delves deeper into Basavanna’s life and legacy:

https://khened.blogspot.com/2020/04/basava-jayanti-birth-anniversary-of.html

Happy Basava Jayanti

A Jayanti Tribute to Dr. Ambedkar – Reminiscing Cricket and Politics

 

A Jayanti Tribute to Dr. Ambedkar – Reminiscing Cricket and Politics

Every year on 14 April, we commemorate and remember two legends – both Bharat Ratna awardees – Dr. B. R. Ambedkar and Sir M Visvesvaraya. The former, chief architect of our Constitution and one of the most transformative social reformers in modern Indian history, was born on this day in 1891 and the later, a legendary engineer and nation builder, passed away in this day in 1962 in Bangalore.

In a tribute I had written earlier on my blog (https://khened.blogspot.com/2023/04/tribute-to-dr-bhimrao-ramji-ambedkar.html) I had recalled how Ambedkar’s journey began amid severe social discrimination. Born on 14 April 1891 in Mhow into a family considered “untouchable,” Dr Ambedkar encountered exclusion from childhood — segregated seating in classrooms, denial of water, and social humiliation. These experiences, as I had noted in my blog, forged in him a “steely grit” that shaped his lifelong struggle against caste discrimination and for equal rights.

Despite these adversities, Ambedkar rose through education — from Elphinstone College to Columbia University and the London School of Economics — eventually becoming a scholar, lawyer, and reformer who reshaped India’s social and constitutional landscape. His intellectual contributions culminated in drafting a Constitution that promised equality, dignity, and justice to all citizens.

Today as we celebrate Dr Ambedkar’s Jayanti during a season when elections dominate headlines and the Indian Premier League captures national imagination, it is worth reflecting on a lesser-discussed irony: the architect of India’s democratic framework himself faced back to back electoral defeats, often shaped by the rough and tumble of political rivalries and the politicking that gets played out in politics.

Beneath the grand statues and floral tributes that are offered to Dr Ambedkar on his Jayanti, all across the nation, lies a narrative of profound irony—a story of a man who could craft the foundational document of the world’s largest democracy but ironically, could not secure a seat in its inaugural Parliament. The story becomes particularly interesting when viewed through the lens of cricket.

Pre-independence Bombay cricket, especially the Quadrangular and Pentangular tournaments, produced legendary figures like Palwankar Baloo. A Dalit cricketer who rose to prominence in an era of entrenched caste divisions, Baloo became a symbol of social mobility and excellence. His exploits were not merely sporting achievements; they challenged caste hierarchies in public life. The celebrated book by Ramachandra Guha, A Corner of a Foreign Field, recounts how Baloo and his brothers transformed cricket into a stage for social assertion.

Ambedkar admired such figures. He believed that showcasing role models from marginalized communities could inspire collective upliftment. It is said that Dr Ambedkar prepared Marathi booklets highlighting contributions of prominent Dalit achievers — including Baloo — to create awareness and pride within the community. However, politics often turns admiration into rivalry.

During the 1937 provincial elections under the Government of India Act 1935, Palvankar Baloo was pitted against Dr Ambedkar in the Bombay Presidency. The contest symbolised more than an electoral battle; it reflected ideological divisions and strategic calculations. Fortunately, Ambedkar won, but narrowly — a result that revealed how even icons belonging to the same community, could be drawn into competitive political narratives. This electoral contest between Baloo - a Gandhian and also the man who supported Gandhi on his Pune pact against Ambedkar who was its staunch opponent -  and Ambedkar, has often been interpreted as an attempt by Congress leaders, including those aligned with Mahatma Gandhi, to counter Ambedkar’s influence by supporting another respected Dalit leader. Whether this was direct intervention or broader party strategy remains debated, but the bitterness of politicking was unmistakable.

It must be recalled that the Poona Pact of 1932, forced by Gandhi's fast-to-the-death, had denied Dalit’s separate electorate, ensuring they would always be dependent on the majority (often Congress-leaning) vote to win. Incidentally Baloo, besides Nehru and others in the Congress had convinced a reluctant Ambedkar to give in to accept the Pune Pact. Independent India did not soften these realities and political rivalries.

The irony reached its zenith during the first General Elections in 1952. Ambedkar, having resigned from Nehru’s cabinet over the stalling of the Hindu Code Bill, contested from the Bombay North Central constituency (reserved). It should have been a walkover for a man of his stature. However, the political machinery of the Congress, led by Jawaharlal Nehru and steered locally by the formidable S.K. Patil, had other plans. Their main aim was to defeat Ambedkar to reduce his stature.

The Congress, therefore, deployed a two-pronged strategy that leveraged both personal loyalty and community sentiment. They fielded Narayan Sadoba Kajrolkar - Ambedkar’s former personal assistant - as their primary candidate. But the masterstroke (or the "cruellest decision”, depending on your perspective) was the involvement of Palwankar Baloo. By then, the legendary cricketer had joined the Congress. While Kajrolkar was the official opponent, Baloo’s presence in the Congress camp and his campaigning against Ambedkar created a fractured mandate within the very Dalit vote bank Ambedkar had painstakingly built. The man Ambedkar had once championed as a role model was now a “tool” in the hands of the establishment used to ensure his electoral defeat.  

Despite his towering stature, Ambedkar lost to his former assistant. Many political analysts have suggested that the Congress organisation, led by Jawaharlal Nehru, mobilised strongly against him after ideological differences emerged following his resignation from the Cabinet. The defeat was symbolic — a reminder that electoral success often depends as much on organisational strength as on intellectual authority.

Ambedkar tried again in the 1954 Bhandara by-election, but was defeated once more, finishing third. These setbacks highlight a paradox: the man who empowered millions politically struggled within electoral arithmetic himself. It underscores an enduring truth — politics, like cricket, is a game of strategy, alliances, and sometimes unpredictable pitches.

The cricketing analogy is compelling. Even the greatest batsman can be undone by a difficult wicket or a clever field placement. This was seen in yesterday’s IPL match where the dashing youngster – Vaibhav Suryavanshi - was out for a duck. Similarly, Ambedkar’s political innings unfolded on a pitch shaped by ideological divisions, organisational rivalries, and shifting loyalties. The rivalry of Dr Ambedkar with Baloo in 1937, the contest against Congress candidates in 1952, and the defeat in 1954 all reveal how democratic competition can be intensely personal and strategically driven.

Yet, Ambedkar’s legacy transcends electoral wins and losses. As I had emphasized in my earlier tribute, his greatest contribution was the Constitution — framed after nearly three years of deliberation, providing equal rights and opportunities to all citizens. Ambedkar ensured that democracy would not merely be a political arrangement but a social revolution. Reservations, fundamental rights, and constitutional safeguards for marginalized communities all bear his imprint.

In cricket, players are ultimately remembered not for a single innings but for their overall contribution to the game. Similarly, Ambedkar’s stature lies not in electoral outcomes but in institutional transformation. His defeats did not diminish his achievements; rather, they humanized him, showing that even giants must navigate the rough edges of democratic politics.

Today, as election campaigns intensify and IPL matches dominate conversations, Ambedkar’s life offers a timely reminder. Rivalries may emerge even among admirers. Political strategies may override shared goals. But the true measure of leadership lies in enduring ideas and societal impact.

Ambedkar’s innings, unlike many political careers, was not defined by the scoreboard. He changed the rules of the game itself. If politics occasionally dealt him a difficult pitch, he responded by building institutions that ensured fairness for generations.

That is why, on his Jayanti, the most fitting tribute is not merely to recall his victories but to acknowledge the challenges he faced — including the bitterness of politicking — and to recognize that his legacy rose above them. Like a legendary cricketer who transforms the sport, Ambedkar transformed Indian democracy. 

The match may have seen setbacks, but the series belongs to him — and to the nation he helped reshape.

Long Live Dr BR Ambedkar.

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From Sun Dial to Quantum Time

 From Sun Dial to Quantum Time: Nostalgic Memory of my three decade old Article.

More than three decades ago, I wrote an article for the Science Reporter titled “From Sun Dial to Star Clocks”, which was published in the December 1995 issue. It chronicled the history of time keeping tracing humanity’s remarkable journey in measuring time — from observing shadows cast by the Sun to harnessing the oscillations of atoms. At that time, atomic clocks represented the ultimate frontier of precision. Here is a link to the Pdf copy of this article published in December,1995 issue of Science Reporter.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/17g6AlPXWMYXzUpb9F7IWWtDHy2c7AZ81/view?usp=drive_link

This publication was brought to my notice by my colleague from the National Science Centre, Delhi, who chanced upon this article and shared a copy of that with me, bringing back nostalgic memories. Revisiting the article after thirty years has been both nostalgic and humbling. The piece reflected the scientific understanding of its era. Yet, the developments since then have been transformative, far exceeding what one could have imagined in the mid-1990s

The Evolution Beyond Atomic Clocks

In 1995, the atomic clock marked the pinnacle of accuracy. Today, timekeeping has moved even further. Optical lattice clocks, based on atoms such as strontium and ytterbium, now promise accuracies so extraordinary that they would lose less than a second over billions of years. Researchers are exploring quantum entanglement to create next-generation time standards, and miniaturised chip-scale atomic clocks are being embedded in handheld devices.

The consequences of this progress extend far beyond laboratories. Modern telecommunications networks, financial markets, power grids, internet infrastructure and so also modern warfare all rely on precisely synchronised clocks. Without nanosecond-level accuracy, data packets would collide, stock trades would fail to sequence correctly, and navigation systems would drift and even munitions (bombs) could miss their intended target.

What once began as a scientific curiosity for accurate time keeping, has become the backbone of the modern day digital world.

Precision Warfare: Time as a Strategic Asset

The significance of precision timekeeping becomes even more evident in the contemporary warfare, which we are witnessing in West Asia. Modern precision-guided munitions rely on satellite-based Position, Navigation and Timing signals. A guided bomb determines its location by calculating the travel time of signals from multiple satellites. Even a tiny timing error translates into an unwarranted positional error on the ground.

This brings us to the catastrophic event that took place in Iran during the mistaken bombing of Minab school in southern Iran on 28 February 2026, by the US. Investigations by media and preliminary military inquiries suggest an American precision strike inadvertently hit the school, killing over 100 children. Although experts point to severe lapses in intelligence or data verification it must also be noted that precision is paramount in such actions. This incident highlights that "precision" in modern warfare is an unforgiving equation where every variable must be perfect.

The Role of Precise Time in Modern Warfare and the Margin of Error :

In modern network-centric warfare, precise time is the invisible thread holding together GPS navigation, missile guidance, and real-time intelligence. Satellite navigation systems rely on nanosecond-accurate atomic clocks to calculate a munition's position; because radio signals travel at the speed of light, a calculation error of just a few microseconds can shift a missile’s impact point by hundreds of metres.

The tragic loss of life at the Shajareh Tayyebeh school in Minab demonstrates that enduring lesson of such some catastrophes which besides several other parameters also include technological precision in time and guidance and time needs rigorous, up-to-the-minute human verification of targets to ensure that the awesome speed and accuracy of modern weapons do not result in the unspeakable collateral tragedy of loss of innocent lives.

Missile defence systems also operate in a similar time-critical environment to avoid the strikes from the enemy. Radar networks detect incoming projectiles and calculate their future trajectory. Interceptor missiles must be launched at exactly the right moment to collide with the target mid-air. These systems function not merely through targeting, but through precise synchronisation of sensors, computation, and response, where precision plays a key role.

Modern warfare, therefore, is not only about firepower but about timing. Milliseconds can determine whether a missile is intercepted or strikes its target.

Satellites: The Invisible Infrastructure of Precision.

In modern warfare satellite and space technology play a pivotal role and their dependence on precise time is crucial. High precision is needed in space technology in placing satellites in their intended orbits for enhancing the strategic capability of any country. Military satellites enable; precision navigation, drone operations, real-time reconnaissance, secure communications, early warning systems and among others. Disruption of satellite timing signals can degrade the effectiveness of precision weapons. This explains why satellite infrastructure has become a critical strategic asset and why nations invest heavily in maintaining and expanding their constellations.

The journey from shadows cast by the Sun to quantum-controlled atoms has reshaped civilisation in ways unimaginable in earlier centuries.

Time, once measured to organise daily life, is now measured to synchronise satellites, guide missiles, intercept threats, and enable the digital world. The story continues — and perhaps the next chapter will move from atomic precision to quantum networks and cosmic time references.

Revisiting my three-decade-old article has reinforced a simple truth:

The science of timekeeping is not merely about knowing the hour. It is about defining the rhythm of modern civilisation — and increasingly, its security.

The Synapses of Dalal Street: Of Crick, Hardy, and the Middle East War Fog

 

As the smoke rises over the oil fields of Middle East, a different kind of fire has engulfed Dalal Street. The headlines across the country are staggering: "Lakhs of Crores Wiped Out,” "Sensex Bleeds as Oil Spikes.” Investors have lost approximately ₹14–15 lakh crore in market valuation, with wealth erosion exceeding ₹30+ lakh crore since the conflict

To the political class, this is an opportunity for finger-pointing; to the average investor, it is a tragedy of "lakhs of crores." But to me and my tribes, who work in science museums, curating the histories of science and mathematics, this "bloodbath" demonstrates a theory that spans from the double helix to the cricket crease. It is a moment where the "pure" science of the 20th century explains the "applied" chaos of the 21st.

​The Astonishing Market Hypothesis

​While researching the Human Genome Project for a 2003 curation, I found myself captivated by the post-DNA career of Francis Crick. Most remember him for his discovery of DNA, which earned him the Nobel, but Crick’s later career at the Salk Institute was dedicated to a much more elusive goal: the "Astonishing Hypothesis", which offers a revolutionary argument for the scientific study of the mind. He posited that our every emotion—including the visceral panic that triggers a "sell" order—is merely the result of a vast assembly of nerve cells and their associated molecules.

​Crick was obsessed with how neurons communicate through "spiking." A neuron does not simply pass along information; it waits until the stimulus reaches a critical threshold, and then it fires a rapid, all-or-nothing electrical signal. Today’s financial markets are essentially an externalized, global version of Crick’s neural networks. For months, the market absorbed the "noise" of regional tension in West Asia (Middle East). However, the recent escalation has hit a biological threshold.  

​What the "pink papers" call a "crash," Crick would have recognized as a neural cascade. Interestingly, modern economists like David Reid and others have recently pioneered the use of "Spiking Neural Networks" (SNNs)—models directly inspired by Crick’s biological descriptions—to predict market volatility. They found that market movements are not continuous; they are "spiky." The BSE’s sudden fall is a synchronized firing of fear neurons across millions of traders, a biological reflex to the pain of uncertainty that no amount of rational economic policy can easily override.

​Hardy, Keynes, and the Bradman Class

​This biological volatility finds its mathematical counterpart in the work of G.H. Hardy. While curating the “Cricket Connects: India – England” exhibition, I used Hardy’s "Bradman Scale" to bridge the world of number theory and sport. Hardy, the Cambridge Mathematician, who brought the genius of Srinivasa Ramanujan to the world, famously ranked mathematicians by the standards of the "Don and placed Ramanujan in this class, while placing himself far below. 

​Hardy’s memoir, A Mathematician's Apology, is a manifesto for the "purity" of mathematics, famously asserting that his work was "useless" for any practical application like war. Yet, the irony is thick. His close friend, C.P. Snow, noted that if Hardy had applied his genius for spotting patterns in cricket scores to the stock market, he would have "minted a fortune."

​Snow recalled that even the legendary economist John Maynard Keynes—a contemporary and friend of Hardy’s—had once remarked that Hardy’s unique ability to handle the "Partition Theory" and the "Circle Method" was exactly what the financial world needed. Partition theory, which Hardy and Ramanujan developed to understand how numbers can be broken into components, is the mathematical ancestor of modern Risk Partitioning and Portfolio Diversification. While Hardy watched the cricket scoreboard with a feverish intensity even when he was unwell, modern "Quants" now use his Hardy-Littlewood Circle Method to calculate "asymptotic distributions" in stock prices—essentially trying to find order within the market’s chaos.

​The Fallibility of Prediction

​The current crisis in West Asia has forced a collision between these two worlds. The "Crickian" biological panic has broken the "Hardy-esque" mathematical models. Most newspapers in India have spent the last few days trying to find "reason" in the crash, often to blame the Government. But this assumes the market is a logical machine that can be "managed."

​Crick’s later work showed that high-stress stimuli cause the brain’s "synapses" to prioritize survival over long-term processing. Similarly, when Brent crude nears $120, the market’s survival instinct takes over.  Modern economists like Andrew Lo, with his "Adaptive Markets Hypothesis," have since validated this, bridging Crick’s biology with the market's behaviour—suggesting that competition, mutation, and reproduction drive stock prices just as much as dividends do.

​A Curatorial Perspective on Loss

​As a curator, one learns that history is rarely a straight line; it is a series of connections. My research into the Human Genome in 2003 showed me that even the most complex biological systems have "fault lines." My work on the India-England cricket connection showed me that even in sport, we seek mathematical perfection in a Bradman or a Ramanujan.

​Today, the Indian investor is caught between these fault lines. We have built a financial system on the "pure" mathematical dreams of Hardy, but it is populated by the "astonishing" biological nerves described by Crick. The staggering loss of lakhs of crores is a reminder that we are still far from being the "masters" of our own economic destiny.

​When the war rages in Middle East, our sophisticated algorithms don't just fail; they "flinch." Perhaps, instead of using the market as a political cudgel, we should view it with the scientific temper that both Crick and Hardy championed—recognizing that some systems, whether they are prime numbers, DNA strands, or the BSE Sensex, possess a radical unpredictability that is as beautiful as it is terrifying. We are, in the end, just a collection of nerves trying to make sense of a world that refuses to be calculated.

 

​

World Water Day 2026: Remembering “Water for Life” in an Age of Thirst

 

On World Water Day 2026, it is tempting to speak in statistics: of depleting aquifers, erratic monsoons, melting glaciers, and cities inching toward “Day Zero.” Yet, beyond the data lies a quieter, more unsettling truth—we are not facing a crisis of water alone, but a crisis of memory, of values, and of collective will.

More than a decade ago, during my tenure as Director of the Nehru Science Centre, we attempted to engage with this challenge in a manner that went beyond charts and policy briefs. There were two major events, one in the year 2013 when we organised a National Science Seminar 2013 for students on the topic Water Cooperation and another in the year 2015 under the title Water the Elixir of Life with support from JSW Foundation. In 2015, as the world marked the culmination of the UN International Decade for Action ‘Water for Life’ 2005–2015, we curated an exhibition titled “Water for Life.” It was not merely an exhibition—it was an effort to create a living dialogue between science, society, and culture.

Two richly illustrated publications of both events are available under the old publication section of the Nehru Science Centre website - for those who it may interest - for free download. I had the honour to write the genesis part of the publication in the two publications which we published. 

The initiative drew inspiration from global voices, including messages from Ban Ki-moon and Irina Bokova, who reminded us that access to clean water is not a privilege but a fundamental human right. But what made the effort truly meaningful was its rootedness in India’s own civilisational wisdom and its engagement with ordinary citizens—students, artists, scientists, and community leaders.

The exhibition sought to tell a simple yet profound story: that water is not just a resource; it is the very fabric of life. It explored the “many faces of water”—as a biological necessity, a cultural symbol, a driver of economies, and, increasingly, a trigger for conflict. It reminded visitors that while over 70 percent of our planet is covered with water, less than a fraction of it is accessible freshwater. The paradox is stark: abundance in appearance, scarcity in reality.

What struck me most during those months was not the scale of the problem—we were already aware of that—but the scale of disconnect. Urban visitors, especially the young, were often surprised to learn how much water is embedded in their daily lives: in the food they eat, the clothes they wear, the energy they consume. The idea that “we are thirsty because we are hungry”—that every act of consumption is also an act of water consumption—was a revelation to many.

And yet, this is not a new insight. India’s civilisational journey offers profound lessons in water stewardship. From the sophisticated urban planning of the Indus Valley Civilisation to the intricate network of reservoirs at Dholavira, from the stepwells of Gujarat and Rajasthan to the ancient wisdom embedded in texts and traditions, water was never seen as a commodity. It was revered, conserved, and shared.

The legendary engineer Mokshagundam Visvesvaraya, whose birth anniversary we commemorate as Engineers’ Day, understood this deeply. His life’s work was a testament to the idea that engineering is not merely about infrastructure but about stewardship—of resources, of communities, and of the future.

In contrast, our contemporary relationship with water is marked by excess and inequity. Cities like Mumbai draw water from hundreds of kilometres away even as local water bodies are encroached upon or polluted. Groundwater is extracted faster than it can be replenished. Rivers are reduced to carriers of waste. The very systems that sustain us are being pushed to their limits.

Globally, the situation is no less alarming. Climate change has intensified the water cycle, making wet regions wetter and dry regions drier. Extreme weather events—floods and droughts—are becoming more frequent and more severe. Water is increasingly becoming a geopolitical issue, with transboundary rivers turning into flashpoints of tension rather than avenues of cooperation.

In this context, the lessons from initiatives like “Water for Life” assume renewed significance. One of the most powerful aspects of that effort was its multidisciplinary approach. Scientists spoke alongside social activists like Rajendra Singh, artists interpreted water through their canvases, theatre groups brought its stories to life, and students participated in debates, competitions, and pledges. It was an acknowledgement that the water crisis cannot be solved by technology or policy alone; it requires a shift in consciousness.

Today, as we stand in 2026, that insight feels more urgent than ever. We have made progress—millions have gained access to improved water sources and sanitation—but the gains are uneven and fragile. Rapid urbanisation, population growth, and changing consumption patterns are placing unprecedented pressure on finite resources. The gap between availability and access continues to widen.

What, then, must we do?

First, we must rediscover the ethic of conservation that once defined our relationship with water. This does not mean romanticising the past, but learning from it—integrating traditional knowledge systems with modern science to create sustainable solutions.

Second, we must democratise water governance. Water cannot remain the domain of experts and policymakers alone. Communities must be active participants in managing and conserving this vital resource. The success stories across India—from community-led watershed management to rainwater harvesting initiatives—demonstrate what is possible when people take ownership.

Third, we must recognise that water is a unifying force, not a divisive one. In a world increasingly marked by conflict, water offers an opportunity for cooperation—between nations, states, and communities. The alternative is a future where scarcity breeds tension and inequality deepens.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, we must cultivate a culture of awareness and responsibility. Exhibitions, public engagements, and educational initiatives may seem modest in the face of a global crisis, but they play a crucial role in shaping mindsets. Policy can mandate change, but only awareness can sustain it.

As I reflect on the journey from the “Water for Life” exhibition of 2015 to World Water Day 2026, I am reminded that the challenge before us is as much moral as it is material. Water, after all, is not just about survival; it is about dignity, equity, and the kind of world we wish to leave behind.

The question is not whether we have enough water. The question is whether we have the wisdom to use it well.

Ugadi / Gudi Padwa (Vikram Samvat 2083)

 Ugadi / Gudi Padwa (Vikram Samvat 2083): The Many Flavours of Time and the Wisdom of Renewal

Today, March 19, 2026, as we celebrate the new year—Ugadi in Karnataka, Telangana, and Andhra Pradesh, and Gudi Padwa here in Maharashtra, now home to our family in Mumbai—I find myself drawn into a quiet reflection on time, memory, and the profound wisdom embedded in our festivals and the sociocultural traditions they represent.

Ugadi / Gudi Padwa marks not merely the beginning of a calendar year (Vikram Samvat 2083), but the renewal of life itself. Tradition associates this day with the victory of Emperor Vikramaditya over the Sakas and the beginning of a new era. Across regions, the forms of celebration may differ, yet the underlying message remains constant—to welcome the year with optimism and to accept, with equanimity, the joys and sorrows that life inevitably brings.

This year, that sentiment feels especially personal. I hope that this Ugadi brings some healing to my wife, who continues to grieve the loss of her beloved father, less than a month ago.

At the same time, today’s global context weighs heavily on the mind. News of the ongoing conflict involving the United States, Israel, and Iran—now deep into its third week—brings with it images of destruction, loss of lives and livelihoods, and growing uncertainty. The targeting of energy infrastructure and its cascading effects on the global economy, including India, serve as stark reminders of how interconnected and fragile our world is. As millions celebrate the new year, one cannot but hope that wisdom prevails and that this conflict finds a peaceful resolution.

Ugadi, derived from Yugadi—the beginning of a new age—is deeply rooted in the lunisolar rhythms of the Indian calendar. It is believed to be the day when Lord Brahma began the creation of the universe. In that sense, every Ugadi embodies both an ending and a beginning—a moment of renewal infused with hope and continuity.

Yet, not all beginnings arrive in unalloyed joy.

The present moment brings back memories of Ugadi in 2020—just six years ago—when the world stood at the threshold of an unprecedented crisis. On March 24, 2020, the announcement of a nationwide lockdown marked the beginning of a period that would profoundly alter lives across the globe. The following day, Ugadi ushered in not only a new year but also the first day of that historic lockdown.

I remember that day vividly.

Mumbai—the city that never sleeps—had fallen into an unfamiliar silence. Streets were empty, trains halted, airports closed, and an entire nation retreated indoors. Like millions of others, I remained within the confines of our staff quarters at the Nehru Science Centre in Worli, watching unfolding events on television, trying to comprehend the scale of what lay ahead.

Yet, even in that moment of uncertainty, the day began as it always had—with the quiet insistence of tradition. An oil bath infused with neem leaves, followed by the Ugadi puja performed by my wife, with my passive participation. In the midst of global anxiety, we turned instinctively to rituals that had endured for centuries.

The preparation of bevu-bella—a mixture of neem (bitter), jaggery (sweet), along with tamarind and raw mango—became more than a customary offering. It became a metaphor for life itself.

At that moment, none of us could have fully grasped how prophetic that symbolism would prove to be.

The years that followed brought the bitterness of loss, isolation, and uncertainty. Families were separated, countless lives were lost, and the world witnessed suffering on an extraordinary scale. Yet, alongside this bitterness came unexpected sweetness—the resilience of communities, acts of kindness, the tireless service of frontline workers, and a renewed appreciation for human connection.

Like the bevu-bella, life revealed itself in its many flavours.

Looking back, what strikes me most is the depth of philosophical insight embedded in our traditions. Festivals like Ugadi do not merely celebrate; they prepare us. They remind us, with quiet clarity, that life is neither uniformly sweet nor permanently bitter—it is an ever-evolving blend to be accepted with balance and grace.

Even in that uncertain moment in 2020, I had written with hope—that collective prayers might mark the beginning of the end of the crisis. The journey, as we now know, was far longer and more arduous. Yet humanity endured. Science advanced, vaccines emerged, and slowly, the world found its way forward.

In many ways, the pandemic became a civilisational pause—forcing us to reflect on our vulnerabilities, our interdependence, and the delicate balance between progress and nature.

Today, six years later, as we step into Ugadi 2026, we are once again confronted by a global crisis—this time one of human making. The unfolding conflict in the Gulf region, particularly around the Strait of Hormuz, has once again highlighted how deeply interconnected our world is. A significant portion of global energy flows through this narrow passage, and any disruption has immediate consequences across continents.

Rising oil prices, strained supply chains, and growing economic uncertainty are not abstract developments—they directly affect the everyday lives of millions. Beyond these material impacts lies a deeper concern: the continued loss of human lives and the erosion of stability.

In many ways, this moment feels hauntingly familiar.

Just as in 2020 we hoped that a brief lockdown might contain a global crisis, today too we are confronted with uncertainty—how long will this conflict endure, and at what cost?

There is, however, a crucial difference. The pandemic was a challenge imposed by nature. The present crisis is a consequence of human action.

And perhaps that is where the timeless wisdom of Ugadi becomes even more relevant.

The bevu-bella we partake today is not merely a symbol of life’s inevitable mix of joy and sorrow—it is also a reminder of choice. While we may not always control the bitterness that comes our way, we can choose whether to perpetuate it.

On this auspicious beginning of Chaitra, it is only fitting that our prayers extend beyond personal well-being to embrace the larger world.

May wisdom prevail over impulse.
May dialogue replace destruction.
May restraint overcome retaliation.

And may leaders across the world be guided by a deeper sense of responsibility to humanity.

For if there is one lesson that both the pandemic and the present crisis teach us, it is this: the cost of delayed wisdom is always borne by ordinary people.

On this Ugadi and Gudi Padwa, let us therefore not only celebrate renewal, but also reflect—and pray—for peace that is enduring, for conflicts that find resolution, and for a world that chooses creation over destruction.

May this new year mark not just the passage of time, but a turning point towards collective good.

Ugadi Habbada Shubhashayagalu.
Gudi Padwa Shubhechha.

Let peace prevail.
And may this new year bring not just prosperity, but perspective.

I am sharing below the blog I wrote on that day in 2020—a personal account of a world on the brink of the unknown in the year 2020 on the eve of the Gudi Padva / Ugadi.

https://khened.blogspot.com/2020/03/ugadi-new-year-prayers-for-end-of-covid.html

Rethinking the Social Media in the Age of Bans

 

The debate over social media has entered a new phase. The Chief Minister of Karnataka, in his recent budget speech has announced that the state would introduce restrictions on social media use for children under sixteen, citing concerns about digital addiction and the psychological effects of excessive online exposure. Reports suggest that other states too are contemplating similar actions. These discussions on banning the social media are not occurring in isolation. Across the world, governments are grappling with the same dilemma. Countries such as Australia has enacted strict laws restricting social media access for minors, while several European nations are debating comparable policies. Such concerns and anxieties driving these decisions are understandable. 

Anyone who spends time on social networks is familiar with the flood of forwards, unverified claims, and sensational opinions that circulate endlessly. Social media platforms are frequently blamed for spreading misinformation, fuelling addictive digital behaviour, and amplifying unverified claims that many derisively label “WhatsApp University”, an epithet for the avalanche of misinformation that overwhelms digital conversations. 

In such a climate, rush to ban, regulate or restrict the medium appear both inevitable and politically attractive. However, a deeper question deserves reflection, is the platform the real problem, or is it the way we choose to use it?

Amid the torrents of triviality that populate the social media digital spaces, one occasionally encounters genuine nuggets of intellectual value—posts that inform, educate, and inspire.These reminders of scholarship reveal an important truth: the medium itself is not inherently flawed. The responsibility lies largely with its users—how they engage with it. 

History offers instructive parallels. Whenever transformative technologies emerge, society experiences both their benefits and concerns. The invention of the printing press by Gutenberg in the fifteenth century revolutionised the spread of knowledge. Books became more accessible, literacy expanded, and ideas began to circulate more widely than ever before. Yet the same printing presses also produced material filled with superstition,propaganda and sensationalism. The technology itself was neutral; its consequences depended on the intentions of those who used it, and therefore banning technology makes no sense. 

The pattern has repeated itself with nearly every major communication innovation—from radio to television and now to the digital networks. Social media is the latest chapter in that long historical narrative. Digital landscape today is not entirely devoid of meaningful content. A growing number of institutions - ISRO, Nobel Prize, Discovery, NASA - scientists and scholars have begun using these platforms to communicate directly to wider audiences. These examples illustrate an important point: the same platforms that spread filth can also disseminate knowledge.

The real challenge for the government is not merely to ban or regulate social media but to facilitate populating it with better and more meaningful content. This challenge assumes significance for India, where nearly two-thirds of the population is under the age of thirty-five and millions of young people rely on digital platforms as their primary gateway to information. Every year, government ministries, universities, publicly funded institutions and policy bodies produce a vast array of content, reports, surveys and scientific studies—often at public expense. Yet much of this valuable knowledge remains buried within ministry websites, institutional archives or technical reports that rarely reach the wider public. Only a small circle of specialists, policymakers or researchers are benefitted from this. For the vast majority of citizens, including the country’s digital-native generation, this knowledge might as well not exist.

The result is a peculiar paradox of the digital age: while societies speak of transparency and knowledge sharing, enormous reservoirs of information remain confined to institutional silos.

Social media can offer potential remedy.

Instead of allowing Social media to be dominated by sensational forwards and superficial debates, government and public institutions could proactively bring credible knowledge into the digital public sphere. Ministries, scientific laboratories, universities and public sector organisations could collaborate with young communicators, educators and digital creators to translate complex content into accessible summaries, short videos (reels), visual explanations and engaging narratives that younger audiences consume.

Such initiatives would not only improve public understanding but also democratise access to knowledge that taxpayers have already funded. Information that lies buried within institutional portals could reach millions through platforms that young citizens interact with daily. Equally important is the responsibility of scholars, educators and professionals who care about public knowledge. Rather than abandoning social media to superficiality, they too must be motivated to engage actively with these spaces. Thoughtful participation—whether through explaining scientific discoveries, contextualising historical events or sharing insights from research—can gradually reshape the quality of online discourse.

Finding knowledge in the digital age, however, still requires discernment. A helpful metaphor comes from the life of the pioneering scientist Marie Curie. In her research on radioactivity, Curie processed tonnes of pitchblende ore to isolate tiny traces of radium. The process demanded patience, perseverance and an unwavering belief that something valuable lay hidden within seemingly unremarkable material. Navigating social media today requires a similar effort. Amid vast quantities of digital “ore,” there are indeed fragments of genuine insight waiting to be explored. 

A society’s digital culture ultimately reflects the collective choices of its citizens. If millions circulate misinformation, misinformation will flourish. But if millions share thoughtful ideas, credible knowledge too will find its audience.

The question, therefore, is not whether social media is inherently harmful or beneficial. The question is whether we are wise enough to use it well.

In India, the challenge is not merely to regulate technology but to elevate its use. Governments, scientists, educators and communicators must recognise that the digital public space is here to stay. Rather than dismissing it or retreating from it, they must help shape it.

In the rush to regulate technology, societies would do well to remember an old journalistic wisdom: don’t shoot the messenger. The real task before us is not to silence the platform, but to ensure that it carries better messages.