Avi sets out to buy figs for his grandfather. Crossing the road is easy enough when the traffic policeman is on duty. But on the way back, the crossing has changed. The policeman is gone. Cars zoom forward, scooters weave around, and even cycles seem ready to jab with their handlebars. Avi freezes on the edge of the road, unsure how to step into the chaos.

Just then, a cheerful “Hanuman” appears — not the mythic hero, but a kind stranger who shows Avi how to cross safely and confidently.

Can a city be kinder to its pedestrians? This story introduces young readers to simple road rules and the everyday realities of walking in a busy Indian street.

Story: Vijee

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Every serious movie buff who loved Drishyam has heard the rumor: its plot echoes The Devotion of Suspect X. To my mind, the more interesting question is what Jeethu Joseph did with that inspiration.

The book, on which the movie was based, was written by Japanese author Keigo Higashino. It features Detective Galileo, a physicist‑sleuth who teaches at a fictional elite university in Tokyo and occasionally consults for the Tokyo Metropolitan Police when cases involve scientific puzzles or anything requiring deep analytical reasoning.  Most importantly he can read people. He is to the Tokyo police force what Sherlock Holmes was to Scotland Yard.

Science‑history buffs will recognize that the sleuth’s name is a nod to theoretical physicist Hideki Yukawa, Japan’s first Nobel laureate in 1949. There is even a Chennai connection — there always is in most things I write — the creation of The Institute of Mathematical Sciences was inspired by the Yukawa Institute of Theoretical Physics in Japan. It’s a reminder of how ideas travel across borders long before films do.

Anyway, who is Detective Galileo up against in this particular case? Tetsuya Ishigami, a high‑school mathematics teacher, is the worthiest of adversaries. A veritable monk, he is moved to help his neighbor, who has accidentally killed her abusive ex‑husband—a newly released convict who was harassing her and her teen daughter. Ishigami gives them ironclad alibis so they can escape any further investigation by the police. Higashino sketches the neighbor lightly, but we sense her desperation; Ishigami fills in the rest with his devotion.

Ishigami, it turns out, is Galileo’s classmate from college. Back then, he was known as Ishigami the Buddha, destined for glory in mathematical research. His professors had said that Ishigami had the kind of first‑rate mind that comes along maybe once in a century—a Srinivasa Ramanujan‑like figure. His mind is wasted; it is wasted in obscurity. The man is also physically strong and practices martial arts at the dojo, a detail that underscores his discipline rather than his aggression.

In Drishyam, the protagonist George Kutty is a self‑made man, an orphan who has not even had a chance to complete primary school. As the owner of a small cable‑television business, he watches movies at work nearly all day. The movie buff has also picked up plenty of practical information from the films. Thanks to all this, and his street smarts, he manages to devise the perfect cover‑up for the inadvertent killing of a voyeuristic teen at the hands of his older daughter. George Kutty’s education is entirely cinematic; if that isn’t a tribute to Indian films, what is?

Unlike Detective Galileo, Ishigami never had time for art—perhaps he has never even been inside a cinema hall. Ishigami the Buddha had planned to devote his life to mathematics, but due to family circumstances, he could not complete his Ph.D. Now he is stuck teaching mathematics at a school where his students couldn’t care less about the subject. The school board wants every student to pass, and so he has to dumb everything down. There was no point in even teaching math at this low level, he thinks. Wasn’t it enough to let the students know “there was this incomprehensible thing out there called mathematics and leave it at that?”

Ishigami has no one in his life. The neighbor, a woman he had come to care about, turns out to be in love with someone else. Ishigami turns himself in so the woman can be free even of the suspicion of guilt. She and her daughter can have a shot at happiness. For a moment, you even feel Ishigami might be better off in jail—freed from that terrible job, alone with his pencil and paper, with time to return to the mathematics he loves deeply.But the neighbor’s teenaged daughter cannot get over the trauma of the murder. The mother too breaks down when she realizes what her benefactor has done and confesses to the police.

Higashino denies his characters even the small mercy of a perfect crime. In the end, the devotion of the mathematician comes to nothing. Both the prodigy and his neighbor go to jail. The book ends with a primal sob of the brilliant man who realizes he had turned into a murderer for nothing.

It is all over, finished. There is no scope for anything more. Nobody is saved.

It is a great novel, but if the writer‑director of Drishyam had stuck to that plot, all we would be left with is an “award‑padam,” as we folks in Madras used to call it back in the day when Doordarshan screened such movies on Sunday afternoons—slow‑moving films critics love but the rest of us would happily avoid. Instead, Jeethu Joseph has given us a Malayalam thriller where the hero and his family kill someone, do the cover‑up, escape legal punishment, and we still root for them. This moral alignment—rooting for the transgressor—is rare in Indian cinema, and Joseph pulls it off with astonishing confidence. The film was remade in four other Indian languages and was a hit in every one of them.

Now Drishyam has spawned an organic sequel. And this may just be the beginning of something, a character says in the movie. The writer says in an interview that he has even thought of the climax of Drishyam 3. But I am not that greedy. Like many others in Madras, I will be happy if Papanasam 2 gets made.

Enough ink has been spilled over Drishyam vs The Devotion of Suspect X. Higashino builds a perfect crime that destroys everyone it touches; Joseph builds a perfect cover‑up that saves the people who matter. One story treats genius as a curse. The other insists it can be a lifeline. That difference — not the plot — is the real leap of imagination.

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The sun can set as late as 8.26 PM in the Boston summer.

That evening my mind refused to wind down well after the darkness had set in. The pandemic had upended so many lives in so many ways – a slightly disrupted circadian rhythm was the very least of it. Perhaps YouTube would do the needful? A thumbnail with a familiar face appeared in the sidebar: Bharathy Bhaskar. Recognizing the ever smiling, sharp‑tongued debater of Tamil network television, I clicked that link.

What I heard was not the voice of rhetoric flourishes and clever takedowns. In a quieter, but no less authoritative voice, she read a short story by Sujatha Rangarajan, a prolific writer whose name is practically a genre in Tamil. The title of that story was Oru Sikkal Illadha Kadhal (An Uncomplicated Romance). The plot involved two friends, residents of a medical college hostel: one, a confident, good-looking woman; the other, a good student who has not yet developed a sense of self-worth.

Immediately, I was transported to Sarayu, the only ladies’ hostel on campus during my college years in IIT, Madras. The incredulity of the less sought-after girl when the watchman announces that she has a visitor, her loneliness, or the fact that she feels like an orphan simply because she is away from home – all of it felt so real. At the height of her despair — almost at the verge of suicide — the budding physician saves another life even with her limited experience. Immediately, she finds her purpose. She has begun to love herself, which Oscar Wilde would have told her is the beginning of a lifelong romance. Sujatha’s addition is that it is the most uncomplicated romance there is.

Somewhere between the watchman announcing a visitor and the plain-looking protagonist realizing that she really did not need the attention of feckless young men – I understood that something unusual was happening.  What had appealed to me was not the bland nostalgia of it. It wasn’t even just the pleasure of hearing, in my mother tongue, a contemporary story I could relate to though yes, there was some of that. Here was the feeling of being read to by someone who took both you and the story seriously.

The Bharathy Bhaskar who appeared in those online storytelling sessions, was quieter, more deliberate, and, to my mind, far more radical than her television debater persona. Then format was deceptively simple. Each session began with a brief author introduction. No long‑winded biography. Just enough context to place the writer in time and space: T. Janakiraman, known as Thi. Ja, English teacher turned All India Radio employee, would have been a hundred that year. R. Chudamani, a pioneering feminist voice, had lived largely as a recluse because of a medical condition. Sujatha Rangarajan, a scriptwriter for Tamil hit films, needed no introduction, but she gave him one anyway, as if to say: even the familiar deserved to be properly seen.

And then she would read. She did not “perform” the story. No exaggerated voices, no theatrical sobs, no winks at the camera. Her laughter was there, but it never drowned out the joke. Her voice tightened at moments of tension, but it did not crack. She refused to compete with the text. Instead, she did something rarer: she trusted the power of literature. That trust was contagious. Listening to her, you began to trust the story too — to stay with it through a meandering opening, to follow it into a small town along the Cauvery, into a second‑class train compartment, into a cramped city hostel. You began to trust yourself as a reader again — even if you could read Tamil prose only haltingly, even though you spoke the language well enough. To me the script itself had become — oh, I will say it — mini jalebis intricate enough to bring on a headache!

Week after week, Bharathy Bhaskar came back with some of the best that Tamil literature had to offer.

One evening, it was Thi. Ja’s Silirpu (Goosebumps) 1953, set in a second‑class compartment on a long‑distance train. A young domestic worker, barely ten, was on her way to Calcutta to care for a judge’s children. The world had not been kind to this girl, a wage earner for her family. But her fellow passengers — strangers bound together for a few hours in that shared space — feel a tug of sympathy. A little boy shyly offers her his prized orange as a parting gift. His father, watching this small act of grace, is moved. When they step off the train, he picks up his son and hugs him close. Listening, I felt my eyes moisten. Didn’t we all, at some level, long for our parents to recognize our hidden — or apparent — good qualities and celebrate us?

Then there was R. Chudamani. The first story of hers that I heard through Bhaskar had all the melodrama of a black‑and‑white Tamil film from the 1960s: two brothers estranged by class, income, and the influence of their wives are reunited by a crisis. Annanin Azhaipu (The older brother’s invite) was a satisfying weepie — the kind of story that leaves you wrung out and oddly cleansed. But the next Chudamani story was something different. Its ending was so out of step with the era in which it was written, I found myself sitting up in bed. In fact, I had to replay the ending a couple of times to make sure I had heard correctly. I was in the presence of a woman who wrote without flinching, and another was unafraid to read a radical story out loud.

What made this a master class in Tamil literary appreciation, for me was this: The woman never told you what to think of a story. Instead, she offered one or two observations — a non‑obvious structural choice, a line of dialogue that revealed more than it said — a quiet act of rebellion tucked into a domestic scene — and then she stepped aside. The story continued to work on you long after the video ended. You found yourself thinking about a ten‑year‑old girl on a train, the contaminated pot of sambar, about two brothers who finally remembered how to be brothers. She was lending her powerful voice to the greats.

Contemporary Tamil literature has sometimes reached the mainstream through cinema. We knew the names of some writers because their stories became films, their dialogues became punchlines, their characters became archetypes. But the work that made them worth adapting to screen or won them invitations to scriptwriting — the short stories, the quiet novels, the experiments that never made it to the screen — could remain scattered, inaccessible, or simply overshadowed. She was leading some of us back to the source. In some cases, like that of Chudamani’s, you do have to wonder why the author’s stories never got a screen adaptation.

For someone like me, whose relationship with Tamil had been shaped by distance — geographical, linguistic, emotional — the reading meant more than I could admit. With Bharathy Bhaskar’s help, I could inhabit Tamil stories as a listener first, and later as a reader.  Moved by her reading, I even began my first translation.

Sometimes, I imagined her in the moment before she hit “record”: a stack of books nearby, a story chosen, a few notes scribbled about the author. The stage lights were off. The auditorium and live applause both absent. All she had was a camera lens and the faith that somewhere, on the other side of it, there were people who wanted to be read to in their own language.

 

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Yesterday, I ran into my professor and we talked about what else but the local IgNobel ceremony — an annual event for us here in Cambridge, MA for 34 years — which will be moving to Europe this fall. My professor mentioned that her husband’s cousin had won the IgNobel in Physics for their paper on Why Pregnant Women Don’t Fall Over.

Immediately, I burst out laughing. Then, I had to go find the Nature research paper where this result had been published. This research is a good example of what the Igs were all about. The committee honored the research because it revealed something quietly profound: pregnancy isn’t just a biological process. It’s a physics problem — and evolution answered it with a cleverly tuned spine. The study is the first of its kind to examine the evolutionary mechanisms that allow women to carry a baby to term, and the way that women’s bodies compensate for increased weight in the abdomen during pregnancy.

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Pregnancy, for a creature that walks upright, is a physics problem.

Charles Darwin suspected as much when he argued that bipedalism was the defining trait of early humans. Stand on two legs long enough and you begin to appreciate the delicate engineering involved: the elongated lower back, the stack of lumbar vertebrae, the graceful inward curve that keeps the torso balanced over the hips. That curve — the lumbar lordosis — is what lets us move through the world without pitching forward.

But pregnancy threatens to upend that balance. As the fetus grows, the abdomen swells and the body’s center of mass creeps forward, pulling the trunk toward the ground like a weight on a lever. For a biped, that shift is destabilizing. For a pregnant biped, it could be disastrous. And yet human mothers‑to‑be do not topple over. They walk, work, and carry on, often with surprising ease. The question is: how?

A team of researchers — Katherine Whitcome, Liza Shapiro, and Daniel Lieberman — found the answer lay in the design of the spine. After studying 19 pregnant subjects, Whitcome found that the lumbar, or lower back, curve in women extends across three vertebrae, as opposed to just two in men. Their lumbar vertebrae are shaped and angled to create a deeper, more flexible curve — one that increases as pregnancy advances. This extra curvature acts like a counterweight, shifting the upper body back over the hips, neutralizing the forward pull of the fetus. Reinforced joints help distribute the load, sparing the spine from dangerous torque.

The adaptation is not just modern. When the researchers examined fossil vertebrae from Australopithecus, a hominin that lived more than two million years ago, they found the same pattern of female‑specific spinal features. Long before the genus Homo emerged, early bipeds were already solving the mechanical challenge of carrying a pregnancy upright.

It’s a story that begins with Darwin, detours through biomechanics, and ends with a quiet evolutionary triumph: the human spine, tuned over millennia to keep mothers on their feet.

A woman’s body knows how to make room for new life without losing its balance — and there’s a quiet poetry in the fact that a woman scientist uncovered the mechanism behind it.

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The man told me this story to illustrate how, given the sparseness of his school education, he had to catch up with this extreme measure. But I, starved for time like many others these days, had in my mind an opposite reaction. What bliss to be able to devote yourself in this manner to reading! Not a shallow hour snatched here or there, but life itself structured around the act of deep reading!

It reminded me of a short article I wrote years ago, for a site called The Fabulist. It was an odd publication, conceived by my friend Rafil Kroll-Zaidi but funded by Aesop, the manufacturer of luxe brody products. The Fabulist’s archives aren’t online anymore, alas. So I figured I’d replay the piece for you here: the story of a woman who decided, one day, that enough was enough, and that life was too short to not spend it reading all day.

——————————————————————

For the purposes of this story, let’s call my friend Anamika, Sanskrit for “the anonymous woman.” Apart from myself, no one in her circle of family and friends knows that she has spent the past three-and-a-half years in a library.

It goes without saying that Anamika has always loved to read. During the decade I’ve known her, I’ve learned little about her past or her family or the material contours of her life; we talk almost exclusively about writing and books. I don’t know what precisely transpired in September 2011, when she quit her job at a technology firm in Chennai. Perhaps her work, which she spoke of with grim tolerance, had become positively loathsome, or perhaps her ardor for books simply overwhelmed her. At any rate, she quit, and she began haunting the stacks of the Anna Centenary Library at Kotturpuram.

At first, Anamika insists, it was supposed to be temporary, a lovely little two-week hiatus before she sought another job. Then the library wrapped itself around her. Nearly every morning since then, she has taken a bus the few miles to the library. She spends the day reading and writing and drinking coffee out of her thermos, with a short break for lunch. Then she returns home to her parents, with whom she lives, and who are still under the impression that she is gainfully employed. Even her frugal life has, over time, drained her finances, so this state of affairs won’t last, she knows. For the moment, though, it is the most glorious limbo imaginable.

The library itself is in limbo. It was commissioned by the previous Tamil Nadu state government, and intended to be one of Asia’s largest libraries. The chief minister declared it open in September 2010 and named it after a Tamil politician of the mid-twentieth century, C. N. Annadurai—“Anna” (“elder brother”) for short. A statue of Anna, in black bronze, rests on a plinth in front of the library’s entrance; he is seated cross-legged, engrossed in a book. At the time of the opening, only the physical structure of the facility had been completed: a nine-storey building, its façade composed largely of dark-tinted windows, set amid compact lawns. “Even when I began coming here, a year after it opened, they had only just finished the cataloguing,” Anamika says. Millions of dollars’ worth of books had been ordered, but they hadn’t all found their way onto the shelves. “There were stacks of books on the floor everywhere.”

In 2011, the government changed. The new chief minister, in a fit of pettiness, announced that the books would be moved elsewhere, and that this eight-acre plot and its gleaming new building would be converted into a hospital. A lawsuit was filed in protest, and in December a court decided that, until a verdict could be reached, the library’s activities should be frozen. It could remain open, as one giant reading room, but it could buy no new books and had to operate with only a skeleton staff. “What a commotion there was at the library when this news broke,” Anamika says. “People were talking about it everywhere. I couldn’t read at all. Then some TV news crews arrived here, and one of them asked me for a byte. But I couldn’t do that! What if my parents spotted me on the evening news?”

Over two days in May, I accompanied Anamika to the library, to see it through her eyes and to observe her routine—although of course, in a sense, I had already altered her routine by being there. We checked our bags in, signed a register, and took the elevator to the seventh floor: History / Geography / Travel / Biography. Through the tall windows, you could see the distant ocean winking in the sun. Occasionally, an airplane passed overhead and its shadow swept the room. There were half a dozen other people there, reading or napping at the blond-wood tables.

Anamika read Italo Calvino’s Mr. Palomar. I strolled among the yellow metal racks, marvelling at the eccentric thoroughness with which a state bureaucracy had purchased its books. Stumbling upon, for instance, full hardbound sets of Records of Oman, Military Handbooks of Arabia, and Japan: Political and Economic Reports, I wondered whether anyone had ever consulted them. Then I found two volumes of The Complete Works of Gerrard Winstanley. I’d never heard of the man, so I looked him up. Winstanley, an English Protestant reformer in the time of Oliver Cromwell, founded the True Levellers, a group devoted to reclaiming public lands that had been privatized, digging them over, and planting them with fresh crops. Even learning as little as that about him, and seeing the plump anthologies of his writing on the shelf, sparked a short moment of giddy joy, the kind that bookstores and libraries so often inspire: a frisson of wonder at the infinitude of literature.

On the first afternoon, Anamika gave me a guided tour: “There are half a million books here, and I think I know where each one is, pretty much.” We wandered the various floors, through Engineering (Fourier Optics), Cinema (Vsevolod Pudovkin: Classic Films of the Soviet Avant-Garde), Theatre (the plays of Stephen Poliakoff), Business (Major Companies of Europe 2010, in seven volumes), and Self-Help (Teach Yourself Estonian). The second floor, devoted to Tamil literature, was striking: rack after rack of books with brightly colored spines, and near-complete sets of works by firebrands like Jayakanthan, Aravinthan, Asokamitran, Kalki Krishnamurthy and Charu Nivedita, their novels kneading and re-kneading the boundaries of religion, modernity, caste, and class. Anamika reads Tamil fluently; she had spent some time on this floor, she said, but not as much as on the fourth, where the English-language fiction lives. There she has truly unleashed her voracious appetite, upon American and British writers, but also upon translations of novels from Russian, Arabic, Spanish, and many languages of sub-Saharan Africa.

She wrote to me recently about having discovered the Icelandic writer Halldór Laxness, an author I have certainly heard of but whom I imagine I will never have the time to read. I respond to these emails with undisguised envy: I tell her she’s leading the life all true readers and writers really desire, a life unencumbered by daily work, pledged to the life of the mind. She claims I am mistaken—that she wants to hone her writing, which is still work even if it is hustled toward no particular deadline; that engaging deeply with great books, figuring out how they tick, requires a great deal of effort; and that even her loving attention towards her daily reading can sometimes slip, so that she spends an hour taking stylized selfies of her hand holding a book.

But the process—of understanding literature, and of then writing it—is important to her. “It may be my last hope to do well at something I love,” she says.

On the first day we spent at Anna Centenary, we were standing at a table next to the library’s cafeteria counter, which sold tepid coffee and wan pastries. She was eating a piece of chocolate cake.

“And what happens when you run out of money?” I asked.

“I’ll figure it out,” she said. “I’ve figured it out so far.”

Silence, except for the mastication of cake.

“Still, it’s a good life,” I said finally. My envy was undiminished.

“Isn’t it?” she said.

I drank my coffee and looked idly upwards, towards the library’s atrium. The glass was in dire need of cleaning, and on one wall, vast damp patches were sprouting a faint, creeping fuzz of green mold.

The post Anamika by Samanth Subramanian appeared first on Vijee Venkatraman.

When the Renaissance scientist Galileo defended the heliocentric model of the Universe, he was condemned by the Catholic Church. Modern scientists, however, frequently face their fiercest opposition not from religious authorities but from within their own ranks. In his new book, I Told You So!, Matt Kaplan—a longtime science correspondent for The Economist—traces a lineage of internal resistance to paradigm-changing scientific ideas from the Victorian era to today. The engaging narrative, which draws on historical archives and interviews with contemporary researchers, also highlights fault lines the scientific community must address to meet pressing challenges.

Central to Kaplan’s narrative is the story of Ignaz Semmelweis, an obstetrician at the Vienna General Hospital in the mid-19th century who discovered that puerperal fever was often spread by doctors moving directly from autopsies to the delivery ward. His remedy—thorough handwashing with calcium hypochlorite—could have spared countless women. Yet the finding languished for decades. Semmelweis’s observations were rejected at the time, Kaplan notes, partly because physicians resisted examining their own role in maternal deaths and partly because the obstetrician lacked a theoretical framework. Germ theory would later reveal microbes to be the true agents of infectious disease and explain the efficacy of Semmelweis’s intervention.

Louis Pasteur, who helped transform germ theory—a minor medical theory in the mid-19th century—into a cornerstone of modern medicine, drew on the work of rivals, omitted their contributions, and withheld methodological details to present a simplified narrative for funders. Those invested in Pasteur’s legend excuse these actions by saying that he “knew how to play the game.” Through Pasteur, Kaplan exposes a pattern: scientific prestige sometimes built on ethical shortcuts and a system that too often rewards them.

Such patterns persist in the modern scientific enterprise. Biochemist Katalin Karikó—a Hungarian immigrant to the United States—played a crucial role in developing the mRNA technology behind the COVID-19 vaccine, yet the implications of her research were not recognized immediately. At the University of Pennsylvania, where she spent nearly two decades, she was demoted and shunted between labs before leaving for the private sector, where her ideas finally received the support they deserved. She won the 2023 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine.

When a former colleague casually remarks to Kaplan that the university was right to fire Karikó because she did not bring in grants, he is stunned by the cold, mercenary logic. But the colleague is correct that securing funding is inseparable from doing science. Karikó’s story exposes a larger truth: Money tends to flow to projects with a better chance of success, leaving researchers with unusual ideas out in the cold.

Kaplan points to alternative funding mechanisms—among them a well-designed lottery system and the Villum Foundation’s “golden ticket” model, which allows individual reviewers to champion high-risk ideas that consensus-driven committees would almost certainly overlook. He also highlights proposals to reduce bias related to an investigator’s gender, nationality, or seniority by blinding committees to grant-seekers’ identities. The blinding tactic is hardly new, but it could be adopted far more widely than it is today.

Where big money flows, corruption can follow. Kaplan argues that the scientific community must devote more resources to identifying and punishing fraud, noting that publications, too, are a kind of currency. When gatekeepers admit low-quality or fabricated papers into the literature, they erode the very foundation of science, which depends on the reliability of prior results.

Kaplan also illustrates another fault line in science: Cooperation collapses under competitive pressure. Here, he recounts the story of two groups racing to rescue the northern white rhino who chose competition over collaboration. The contest to be the first to do so—despite the risk of dooming an endangered species—captures a deeper malaise. Just like Pasteur, he writes, these modern researchers were keeping their cards well concealed so that they could best reap the glory of their efforts by being first. Under these circumstances, he argues, collaboration should have been the only option.

Threaded through the book is Kaplan’s own story. With academic publications to his name as an undergraduate, he left paleontology for science journalism, provoking disdain from some of his research peers. That same background, however, makes him fluent in science’s language and culture, and it gives this book its authority and authenticity. If success in science requires knowing “how to play the game,” Kaplan invites readers to consider the possibility that the game itself is fundamentally flawed—no small achievement. I Told You So! makes a compelling case that if science is to remain faithful to its core principles, reform is overdue.

Here is the pdf.

Note:

The book’s message seems to have found resonance. I have been hearing from original thinking researchers who (rightly) think I am sympathetic to their cause. It does sound like the book’s message has some resonance. Another reason I am receiving these mails may be simply this: the author Matt Kaplan does not seem to have left contact information anywhere — not even on his excellent and aptly titled website.

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