Mumblr Bytes

“I just want to this about that.”
― Steven C. Smith

Pongal, Sugarcane, and the Art of Holding On

The Tamizh month of Thai comes with promises of new beginnings. My grandmother always used to say, “Thai pirandhal Vazhi pirakkum”—when Thai arrives, new paths emerge. Pongal is not just a festival. It’s a connection to home and to a different time. A time when life was carefree, when simple acts nourished the soul, and joy didn’t come with a price tag.

My fondest memories of Pongal begin with Sakkarai Pongal. Bubbling in a mud pot over a stoked fire of fresh pieces of wood. The pot brimming with jaggery, filling the air with the richness of ghee. And then, sugarcane. Thick, juicy, and wonderfully messy. Sugarcane is a festival in itself. Chewing through it feels like embracing life’s natural sweetness, mess, shaff, and all.

These days, traditional festivals are more than just about food. They’re my tenuous link to my roots. They transport me back to memories of innocence, laughter, and togetherness. A quiet search for belonging, perhaps.

For those of us living far from home, these festivals become something more. They are no longer simply celebrations but yearnings—yearnings for the familiar sounds, smells, and sights of a life left behind. Pongal, like so many other traditions, brings with it a longing for a time and place that feels so close yet so far! It’s a reminder of where I come from, even as I navigate a different life filled with its own rhythms and routines.

It’s easy to stay blind to that longing. Life in a different home, with its own traditions, aromas, and sounds, is a new reality. A rich one at that. Yet, I can’t deny the reality of the longing. Dipping into nostalgia won’t change the reality of distance—of time and geography. But making the effort to celebrate, even in small ways, perhaps soothes the soul. Pongal made on a gas stove or shared in a simple gathering refreshes me beyond what the jaggery can.

These traditions dig deeper, clearing the confusion about the “why” of what I do every day. Sure, they can seem like symbolic motions. And yes, symbols can sometimes feel superficial. But not this one. This one puts a little spirit back into the soul. I don’t have a perfect answer if you ask me why that is. Perhaps, I don’t want to find out. Besides, I have some Pongal to dip into and sugarcane to chew on.

This year, I’ve reminded myself to carve out time. To pull out old pictures. To tuck into some Pongal. To relive the times gone by. Perhaps even to sit down and write. After all, holding on to these traditions, even in small ways, is like holding on to a part of yourself.

( Here’s something that I wrote in 2009. Something things done change. Even as change dances all around me).

My Word Of The Year for 2025

A Word of the Year (WOTY) has been my annual fling with optimism. It’s my way of tying a metaphorical balloon to my tent of goals, hoping it doesn’t drift off while I’m busy untangling earphones.

Past words like ‘Dare’ and ‘Believe’ have served me well—prodding, poking, and occasionally tripping me into action. This year’s word, however, comes with walking (I wanted to say ‘running’) shoes and a firm handshake. My WOTY for 2025 is ‘Stride’.

But Why?

Because life isn’t a sprint. That alone is good enough. Ask any entrepreneur. Your progress is as good as mer next stride.

Stride feels right. Purposeful. Measured. It’s the Goldilocks of movement—neither too fast nor too slow.

Stride, to me, suggests progress without panic. It’s walking into a room like you belong there, even if you’re mentally rehearsing your introduction. It’s moving ahead, step by step, with just enough confidence to take the next stride!

Lessons from Last Year

In 2024, my WOTY was ‘Believe‘. And believe, I did. Frankly, I couldnt have made it through the year without it. I believed when optimism felt like an economy seat in an airline that charges extra for a stale sandwich—cramped and uncomfortable. I believed, and sometimes, things actually worked out.

But belief works best with motion. Otherwise, it’s just hope in a yoga pose. Hence, ‘Stride’.

Stride Means Moving (Even When It’s Awkward)

Stride is about:

  • Showing up, even when the mirror suggests sweatpants.
  • Taking the stage, even when I feel my voice is wobbly.
  • Keeping pace, even when the road ahead feels like a labyrinthine maze.

Stride is a reminder that confidence isn’t a pre-requisite—it’s often a by-product. The act of moving forward builds it. One step at a time.

Stride also suggests dressing the part. Not just in tailored blazers, but in chiseling a mindset. It’s about carrying myself like someone who belongs in the big leagues, even if my inner voice occasionally snorts. It’s asking, “What’s the next step?” rather than “What’s the worst that could happen?”. It’s rarely as bad as imagined.

Striding into 2025

As I take these strides, I know it won’t be a solo effort. The world has a funny way of turning eyebrow-raising surprises into head-nodding support when it sees genuine effort. And I’ll need plenty of that. Striding into bigger challenges and broader horizons isn’t going to be possible without the encouragement, belief, and occasional push from those around me. So, here’s to striding together—one deliberate step at a time.

This year, I plan to stride into rooms I’ve avoided. Conversations I’ve postponed. And challenges that look suspiciously like hurdles but might just be stepping stones if I’m willing to move closer.

Stride isn’t about theatrics. It’s about steady, deliberate steps. The kind that leave footprints worth following.

What About You?

What word will you walk—or stride—into the new year with? Pick one. Give it some teeth. And then, take the first step.

As for me, my shoes are laced. Ready to take the next stride. And one more from there on. One stride at a time.

Happy New Year!

Heroes Without Headlines

There’s a certain kind of magic in talking to ordinary people. Not the kind who wear capes, but the kind who wear aprons, helmets, or binoculars slung casually around their necks. They don’t ask for attention. Yet, they grab it—not by making noise but by making sense.

My hairdresser, for instance, lives with a quiet grace that reveals the wisdom in ordinary lives. In between snips and sprays, he shares thoughts sharper than his scissors. His adult kids are settled, but he keeps going. Responsibilities don’t tire him. Business has its ups and downs, but I’ve never seen his outlook twitch. He takes his work seriously but himself lightly, reminding me how much there is to learn from the ordinary.

Or take Shashikant, the paan seller in Matheran. A man who redefined priorities for me. He’s fully present during business hours. His paan is carefully crafted, perfectly folded, and handed over with a flourish. And the conversation that comes free with it? Better than anything money can buy. As he explained the balance between work and life, I found myself wondering if I had been chewing over the wrong priorities. Shashikant’s ability to delight customers while keeping his focus firmly on life outside work is a lesson I’m still learning. Proof, yet again, that wisdom in ordinary lives often arrives wrapped in betel leaves.

The Padma Shri award-winning photographer I once met was another revelation. You’d think a person with a national honour might carry it like a crown. Not him. He carried his photograph-laden presentation instead. No fuss. No airs. Just the weight of stories waiting to be told. His photographs spoke louder than he ever did, pulling you into their frame and making you linger. About people you’d rather not see. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t about awards but about angles and light and the sheer joy of capturing and bringing alive lives that are lived in obscurity. If wisdom in ordinary lives had a lens, he owned it—and he used it to focus on the world, not himself.

Khan, my newspaper guy in Madurai, is another example of this quiet brilliance. He delivers headlines about the world while quietly living a life worth a front-page story. Rain, heat, elections, pandemics—he has shown up. Every single day. Once, I asked him why. “Because I don’t want to depend on anyone,” he said. Then he pedalled off, leaving me to think about independence and its quiet power.

The goat herder in Satara offered lessons without meaning to. No TED Talk. No book deal. But his sheep-herding philosophy deserves its own stage. “Keep the herd moving, but don’t rush them,” he said. Then added, “Come to nature often,” as he wandered off into a winding road. I stood there, wondering if he realised the depth of what he had just said. Probably not. And perhaps that’s why his words stayed with me. They were free of pretence, rooted in the kind of clarity that only comes from experience. It’s another example of the wisdom in ordinary lives—steady, grounded, and honest.

And then there are the naturalists Anil Zachariah and David Raju. Men who have entire species named after them. But you wouldn’t know it unless you sat with them long enough—long enough for their humility to wear thin and their quiet brilliance to slip through. I spent hours talking to one, mistaking their silence for simplicity. Until, slowly, their stories unfolded—tales of forests explored, creatures discovered, and legacies etched in scientific journals. They chipped away at my expertise-led arrogance and left me feeling like a novice. It was humbling, to say the least. Proof that wisdom in ordinary lives often hides in plain sight, camouflaged by humility and patience.

The cab driver in Surat took this further. He taught me the essence of the Gita without ever mentioning it. He spoke of duty without expectations. And the fallacy of not putting in effort. It was a 35-minute ride, but it felt like a masterclass in doing what matters. I’m no Arjun. But that day, I felt like I’d met the Parthasarathy himself. Sometimes wisdom in ordinary lives comes wrapped in unexpected conversations. You just need to listen carefully enough to catch it.

And then there’s Mr Patwardhan. The man could out-think most think tanks and still stop to ask if you wanted chai. His curiosity could power a research lab, and yet it’s his interest in solving real people’s real problems that sets him apart. Every conversation with him feels like a spiral staircase—you keep going up, pausing now and then to catch your breath, only to realise he’s already a few steps ahead. Reinvention isn’t a buzzword for him; it’s a daily habit. Central to life and living. He doesn’t just collect knowledge. He questions it, reshapes it, and dares it to evolve—often dragging those around him along for the ride.

I met these people in 2024. They made my year—and the years ahead—better. I’ve been meaning to write about them before their words slip away. Next year, I plan to take better notes. Build a longer list. Because the list is endless. These are the unsung philosophers among us. They are reminders that wisdom in ordinary lives is everywhere—folded in a newspaper, shared in a cab, or handed over with a haircut and a smile.

May we talk to them more often. And may we listen.

Trapped in Feedback: A Day in the Life of Ratings and Reviews

It started as a regular day. A taxi ride to the airport. Smooth. No complaints. As I got out, the driver smiled. “Please rate your ride,” he said. I tapped a number on my phone. Simple enough—or so I thought.

Next stop—the airport restroom. I washed my hands and reached for a towel. An attendant appeared with a clipboard. “Feedback, please,” he said, shoving a form into my damp hands. I scribbled something quickly. Who rates restrooms anyway?

Coffee time. The coffee was lukewarm. The feedback form was fresh. “How would you rate your drink?” the barista asked. I stared at the form. Then at my cup. Was I rating taste? Temperature? Or my general disappointment with life? I gave it a “3.” It felt safe.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? The 5-point scale. Looks simple. But what does “3” even mean? “Okay, I guess”? Or “I don’t want to be rude”? What about “2” and “4”? Are they just there to confuse us?

I was on edge by then. Would I be asked to rate the waiting area chairs? Or the airport temperature? Just as I relaxed, my phone rang.

“Your car has been serviced,” the voice said. “You’ll get a feedback form shortly.” Of course, I would. Why stop now?

And then came the upgrade—the 7-point scale. Or the 10-point one. As if we needed more ways to be unsure. How do you rate coffee between “lukewarm” and “slightly less lukewarm”? Can anyone tell the difference between a “6” and a “7” on a 10-point scale?

The day dragged on. More forms. More questions. It felt like a game show where the prize was exhaustion. No moment was safe from feedback.

Finally, I got home. Kicked off my shoes. Sank onto the couch. Peace.

Then I heard it.

“Dad,” my daughter asked sweetly, “on a scale of 1 to 5, how was your day?”

I stared at her. Then I laughed. Because, really, what else could I do?

Even at home, the Likert Scale had followed me.

Between A Million And A Billion

A few weeks ago, I was in a coffee shop, catching up with an old friend. It was one of those moments when life feels paused. The aroma of coffee and the low hum of conversations hung in the air.

My friend, ever buoyant, declared with dramatic flair, “I’m so happy you’ve embraced entrepreneurship!”

I said nothing. Not because I disagreed, but because I didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t done, though. With a sly smile, she added, “At least you’ve jumped off the corporate salary bandwagon.”

I stirred my black coffee. It didn’t need stirring. In my head, I weighed her words. Should I tell her the truth? That entrepreneurship isn’t all glamour. It’s fulfilling, yes, but relentless.

Before I could decide, she dropped the next bombshell. “Someday, you’ll be a millionaire. Or even a billionaire!”

I almost choked. “Excuse me?”

The table next to us went silent. Two young men, mid-presentation, froze. Their audience, a man who looked like he made important decisions daily, turned to look at me too. The room suddenly felt charged.

I shuffled in my seat and mumbled something about the weather.

The moment passed. The other table wrapped up. The young men collected their notes. The polished man stood, slipping into his jacket.

He turned to the presenters. His voice was calm but sharp. “A million seconds is about 11 days. A billion seconds is roughly 32 years. There’s a big difference between a million and a billion.”

He glanced at them, then at my friend, and finally at me.

And then he walked away.

I turned to my friend. “There’s a lesson there,” I said.

Her eyebrows rose. “And what’s that?”

I smiled. “A million and a billion are one letter apart—with a lifetime in between.”

When The Sky Falls

Three or four Fridays ago, I was taking a stroll. It had been a tough day, and the retreating monsoon had left its mark in the morning. As usual, I was out unwinding, trying to move on from the dreadful day’s leftover froth. That’s when a styrofoam cup, freshly emptied of its coffee, but not fully of its froth, landed an inch from my feet. I looked up, but amidst the maze of dull and dead windows in the apartment building, it seemed ghosts had just had their strong coffee. There wasn’t a soul in sight. The only thing moving was up in the sky: a big plane, its underside letting go of a bold golden scream: ‘Emirates’.

For a moment, I wondered—could the cup have come from the plane? My mind quickly jumped to The Gods Must Be Crazy, a film I watched as a kid. A film that left its mark. In the film, a simple Coca-Cola bottle thrown from a plane brings chaos to a peaceful tribe. It was funny, absurd, and deeply thought-provoking.

But as I stared at that cup and thought about the plane above, another question popped into my head—the kind of question that drags me down a rabbit hole, as though my brain were a carrot offered to a waiting rabbit.

What if the cup didn’t come from the plane? What if it came from space?

Falling Debris—Not Just a Styrofoam Cup

Once home, I found myself reading about Alejandro Otero in Florida. Something had crashed into his home—not a styrofoam cup, but a chunk of metal alloy weighing 1.6 pounds, falling from space. No, it wasn’t an alien invasion—it was space debris. Till recently, it was part of the International Space Station.

NASA’s response? “The hardware was expected to fully burn up during entry through Earth’s atmosphere on March 8, 2024. However, a piece of hardware survived and impacted a home in Naples, Florida.” Roughly translated: Oops.

In the next hour of scrolling, I found that NASA isn’t the only space cowboy littering stuff up there. SpaceX debris once flattened an animal enclosure in Indonesia. Fortunately, no animals were present. Or take the case of the 20-tonne Chinese Long March 5B rocket, which hurtled from Los Angeles to New York in under nine minutes. Eventually, it broke apart, and pieces fell into a village in the Ivory Coast. Well, God is kind.

The Sky Is (Literally) Falling

As I jumped from one URL to another, it became clear that these incidents aren’t isolated. Space debris is piling up. The European Space Agency estimates there are 36,500 pieces of debris larger than 10 cm orbiting Earth, with a total mass exceeding 11,500 metric tons. We’re talking about everything from paint flecks to dead satellites. The more we launch, the more junk we leave behind.

Then I read something that made me pause. Moriba Jah, an aerospace engineer, warned that falling debris will eventually kill someone. A 2022 study predicts a 10% chance of casualties by 2032. Jah might not be Nostradamus, but the data suggests that his concern isn’t far-fetched.

What If It Hits an Aircraft?

And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, another thought struck me: What if this random debris hit an aircraft? As is the way with the internet, it didn’t take long to find new material in that direction.

In 1996, a Boeing 757’s windscreen was cracked by an unidentified object at 31,500 feet. In 2013, another Boeing 757 had its nose-cone punctured by something unknown at 26,000 feet. Bird strikes were ruled out. Between voodoo and space debris, what do you think is the likelier cause?

As both air traffic and space junk increase, so do the risks. In November 2022, Spain and France even closed parts of their airspace because of a Chinese rocket body re-entering the atmosphere. Over 300 flights were disrupted.

What’s the Solution?

By now, I’d brewed some extra-strong espresso as there seemed to be no light at the end of this rabbit hole. What could be done?

One suggestion was to stop treating satellites as single-use. There’s precedent for this thinking. In the 1970s, the risk of oil spills led to calls for double hulls on tankers. The shipping industry resisted, but after the Exxon Valdez disaster in 1989, the US mandated double hulls. The world followed.

Today, space launches could be similarly regulated, with mandated disposal plans for satellites and rocket bodies. Hopefully, we won’t have to wait for an airplane full of passengers to be struck by a rogue satellite’s unhinged door before these regulations take effect.

The European Space Agency has announced a Zero Debris Charter aimed at tackling the problem at its root. I read about it, yawning without realising.

Meanwhile, I’ve made a few decisions of my own.

Take my strolls with care—the folks in my apartment building haven’t signed any charters! If I’m the unlucky one on any given day, it’s my problem.

And live with gratitude. When I deal with dreary email and deadly calls, I’ve resolved to remind myself that at least it’s not as bad as a debilitating piece of alloy from outer space.

Horlicks Whirled Wide

Mind Your Language, the old British sitcom, was a personal favourite. Actually, it continues to be. In one scene, the teacher, Mr Brown, asks Juan Cervantes, the Spanish bartender, “What’s unique to Britain?”

Juan fires back with a quick, savage reply: “Speak English!” It’s funny and true.

English is a British export, but different parts of the world have made it their own. In some cases, the meanings change so much that it’s funny — until it’s not.

Then I read this piece in The Guardian, which made me smile — until I realised I’d been using words and phrases that meant something completely different to a group from the other side of the Atlantic. The British and American divide, in full swing!

Reading it made me realise how often I use words that mean something else depending on where you are in the world.

Take “run up,” for example. In the US, it means to prepare for something, like the run-up to an event. In the UK, it can mean racking up expenses, like running up a credit card bill. Both meanings seem familiar, probably because I’m talking to both sides of the Atlantic quite often. You might say that’s clever — but be careful, in the US, that might not be a compliment at all!

Then there’s “gutted.” In Britain, if you’re gutted, you’re absolutely devastated. In the US, it sounds more like someone’s preparing fish for dinner. Or take the word “cheeky.” In Britain, it describes someone who’s playful and bold. Tell that to an American, and they might think the person is being rude.

Even simple phrases like “in the future” and “in future” mean different things. Going forward, let’s make a note of that! 🙂

Two moments recently made me smile. First, in a meeting with Australian colleagues, I used the phrase “the cat’s whiskers.” I said something like, “They think they’re the cat’s whiskers, but they’re not quite there.” I got some amused and confused looks.

Then, in a meeting with British colleagues, a gentleman said, “He made a Horlicks of the proposal.” This time it was my turn to perk up. Growing up, I had to drink Horlicks to “grow strong”. It was also the go-to drink you bought when visiting someone in hospital. Just now, I learned that “to make a Horlicks” means to completely mess something up. (I quite liked this line. “There’s also a theory that the slang refers to the beverage’s fickle nature. A little too much powder, or an insufficient amount of stirring, and a glass of Horlicks can become a gritty, chunk-filled disaster.” For it triggered memories!)

English has shifted and changed — and keeps doing so. One of the joys of working with people from different cultures is encountering these quirks! Even when they leave me confused for a moment.

As for me, after learning what it means to “make a Horlicks” of something, I’m ready to see if I can get a Boost from moments like these!

Choices and Consequences: India’s Journey

After reading the post on Independence Day, a good friend wrote a long text listing everything that was wrong with the country. It was easy to agree with all that is wrong. We disagreed on what needed to be done. And when we got to listing the ‘why’ of the state of affairs, our gulf only widened. The gulf kept widening and threatened to never stop. Until I brought up one specific point from Karthik Muralidharan’s superb book which I have been relishing.

Everything must be understood within its proper context. I didn’t quite see it this way until I read this book. This book rearranged stacks of thoughts in my mind.

” …in assessing Indian democracy, it is important to note that India is historically unique, by being a country that adopted democracy based on universal adult franchise from the outset—at a much lower level of per capita income and state capacity than most other modern democracies. India’s choice of ‘democracy before development’ has in turn created a unique set of political incentives and constraints.

….reason is India’s decision to adopt democracy based on universal adult franchise. Most countries became more democratic as they grew richer. India, however, started highly democratic and has stayed that way throughout its post-Independence history. This is a unique historic exception, a phenomenon that Arvind Subramanian has referred to as India’s ‘precocious democracy’

India’s choice of universal adult franchise democracy at the very outset is a great moral triumph. Despite being ‘democracies’, countries like the US and the UK excluded large fractions of their population from voting in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, with voting rights essentially restricted to land-owning white men.

Further, the wealth of these nations was built at least in part on the back of extreme exploitation of either slaves (in the US) or the colonies (in the case of the UK). This is why India’s democracy, which empowers even the most marginalized groups in society, is a signature achievement that we should all be proud of. Consistent with the global patterns discussed above, this democratic empowerment of the poor has created political incentives for welfare spending in India as well. However, this has taken place at a much earlier point in our development trajectory.

For example, the US launched food stamps for the poor in the 1930s at a GDP per capita of ~$20,000 (in 2011 dollars). In contrast, India launched the public distribution system (PDS) for food security for the poor in the 1960s at a GDP per capita of ~$1250, which is less than a tenth of the analogous US figure. Similarly, India introduced free midday meals in government schools at lower levels of income than most other countries. These are again laudable moral achievements, which were facilitated by India’s universal-franchise democracy.

At the same time, ‘democracy before development’ in India has created political pressure to expand the scope of the Indian state before building its strength to meet this expanded scope.20 This pressure, in turn, has made it more difficult to invest in building the capacity of the state to deliver against these goals by creating two fundamental challenges… “

The choices that we make have downstream consequences and realities. We forget to shine enough light on the choices themselves and the context in which those choices were made. When we lament the lack of development—or its absence altogether—we must also remember the credit side of the balance sheet.

To have forged a forward-thinking base for democracy in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds is quite something. Whichever side of the aisle you sit on, you have to acknowledge that.

Thank God For Dosa

Kerala paratha? A flashback to my early professional life—years I could have spent differently. Filter coffee? That’s Mum. The smell of bread? Raja Barley, a bakery in Madurai. Crabs? Pier 39, San Francisco. Churros? San Gines in Madrid. Crisp dosa? Aiyappas in Matunga. Black coffee? I’m in Brisbane. Toast? Singapore. Kulcha? Amritsar. Pomfret? Calicut. Salads? Tokyo.

Not all of these meals were the best I’ve had. Some were far from it. Yet, they cling to my memory like stubborn guests who refuse to leave.

Indian Coffee House is one such guest. It’s not about the aroma or the taste; it’s the memories from decades ago that distort my senses. But there’s something magical about this place, something that keeps me coming back.

On countless walks down MG Road in Bangalore, decades ago, Indian Coffee House buzzed with life. Back then, I’d sit with a butter dosa, sipping coffee, watching the world pass by. People of all kinds. Old, young, rich, poor, men, women—everyone had a story. And in their eyes, in the conversations that filled those walls, I saw my own future unfold. Dreams!

Last month, I found myself in another Indian Coffee House. In another city.

As soon as I sat down and read the menu, it was clear: it wasn’t the food that drew me in. It was the pull of youth. A time when dreams were fresh, the road ahead sunlit, and time was something I could waste. Like in that Pink Floyd song…

“…And you are young and life is long, and there is time to kill today…”

As I sipped the rather unremarkable coffee, pretending it was gourmet, I became acutely aware of how my dreams and opportunities have evolved. They’ve changed colour. But I’m grateful for the dreams that once kept me company. They’ve shaped me, made me who I am today.

I’ve grown, I tell myself. Maybe that’s why I could enjoy that lacklustre coffee. “Thank God for dreams,” I wrote in my journal that night. At least, that’s what I thought I wrote. For when I looked again, it read, “Thank God for Dosa.”

Eclipse

Friends and family have watched the eclipse and sent pictures. All of them have squares atop their noses and face the sky. For the world that is so much into perpetually peering down into phones, this is quite a change.

Ever since I saw Alaska airlines’ interest in eclipses, I have been intrigued enough to consider travelling to catch an eclipse. The next big eclipse that I am excited about is happening on August 2027, over the Pyramids. That is perhaps something to be present for. That’s some time away.

When I think of how it all started, my awe of eclipses did not happen in a classroom. By the time I got to understand what it really was, it got a hazier tint. And no geography teacher could have done what Tintin did!

It was in Prisoners of the Sun, that Tintin gets to Peru. When on track to be executed, he commands the Sun to disappear much to the bewilderment of the locals. Of course, the knowledge of the eclipse coming in was masterfully used.

Much later, I learnt that this technique was not something that is something that Tintin came up with!

Krishna used it in the Mahabharata war. (And then, Chanced upon this paper recently).

Christopher Columbus & the Spanish used the knowledge of an eclipse in their conquest of America.

The battle of Halys resulted in a negotiated treaty after the eclipse.

Here’s a list of 6 eclipses that have influenced history.

With each additional story that I came to soak up, there came more interest in eclipses. The whole drill of wearing some fancy glass and peering into the Sun as it disappears and reappears was, and continues to be magical.

As kids, we were not allowed to watch eclipses! There were all kinds of reasons. And so, we ended up watching eclipses, half in protest!

Eclipsed? 🙂

Back to Tintin and Prisoners of the sun. It continues to be a favourite. And that status did not dim because I learnt later that it had an error in it. A kid pointed out to Herge that his depiction of the Eclipse in the Prisoners of War was not quite accurate!

“Hergé borrowed various elements from Gaston Leroux’s book Wife of the Sun, for the crucial eclipse scene, in the same way that La Fontaine borrowed from Aesop. He was equally inspired by the text from the book Christopher Columbus by C. Giardini, published by Dragaud, Paris, in 1970, in which the author describes how the Spanish succeeded in forcing the natives to submit completely thanks to a lunar eclipse which had been announced in a calendar.

© Hergé / Tintinimaginatio – 2024

It is also interesting to point out a mistake regarding the eclipse. In the book the eclipse moves from right to left, whereas in reality it should travel from left to right because Peru is in the southern hemisphere. This mistake was pointed out to Hergé by a child who wrote a long letter expressing his dissatisfaction.”

You could be the smartest of people in a room. All it takes is a child or a childlike curiosity to eclipse you.