Reading Louis Pasteur's Biography by René Dubos

I had just passed the 7^th standard examination and was eagerly looking forward to becoming a High school student – with a capital h. Sharada Vilas High School (Mysore) was the school of choice. The application form gave a choice of the medium of instruction - Kannada or English. Having studied in Kannada until the seventh standard and my father being a vocal supporter of mother tongue as the medium of instruction, it was perhaps natural to choose Kannada. My father suggested that I do so. For the first time in my life, or so it seems to me, I rebelled against my father. Rebelled sounds sexy and macho but I guess I only whimpered and sulked and whined that I wanted to study in English. My father tried his best to persuade me to choose Kannada but his logic and reasoning did not have any effect on me. I was more worried about all my friends choosing English and my being left alone. Finally, my father conceded and I filled the form, with great relief. And thus, I started attending my high school classes.

The enormity of what I had gotten myself into, sunk in very soon.  In the lower classes, I had scored very good marks in English. Now, I hardly understood what was being taught. I realized that I did not have enough English to navigate the higher classes. This was a revelation.

I went to my father sheepishly and confessed what was happening and asked him what I should do. Now, when I look back, I am surprised (and am a little proud too, let me admit) that I did so. To his credit, he did not say, “I told you so” and ask me to change over to Kannada. (People who know my father, will chide me about the last sentence. How could I even suggest that he would do anything like that, is what they would say, I am sure)

He thought for a moment and asked me to read English books. I asked him what I should read. This appears to me to be a pretty silly question, now. My father had filled our house with books of all sorts. Children’s books, books on philosophy, science, politics, history, literature, art, dictionaries and encyclopaediae, you name it and he had books that would fall under that classification. All I had to do was explore and soon I would find what I could read. He did not tell me what to read right away. He again looked thoughtful and said he would give me something to read. In a day or two I asked him again and the book he chose was René Dubo’s biography of Louis Pasteur.

In my schoolboy eyes, it was a big book but not intimidatingly so. I sat in a corner of his room, (always referred to as Annan room – father’s room) and started reading the book. I plodded through some twenty-five pages and felt disheartened. Not much was going in. I had a faint idea of ‘what was happening’ but I was not sure. I hung my head and went back to him and told him what was happening. He suggested that I go through the book, not being concerned if I understood individual words or sentences. Read a sentence and move on to the next, but finish reading the book, was the message, if I remember right. 

I do not know when the magic happened. Soon, I was lost in reading. In a day or two I had finished it. I felt that I had understood whatever I had read. And the rest, as they, is history. At least my history, not world history. I was hooked. I read and read. There were enough books at home to choose from and I read obsessively. One casualty was Kannada books. I had read lots of those earlier and now I was bitten by the English bug. That too changed over time and my reading included a good sprinkling of Kannada too, again.

Decades later, this experience had an unexpected consequence. I had developed a fascination for the German language. I had the opportunity to attend some German language classes. I learned fairly well in an equivalent of the first level course of German as a foreign language prescribed by the Goethe Institute based on books called Moment mal. Grundstufe eins is what this course used to be called. I could not attend further classes due to work and family responsibilities. The desire to learn more and improve my knowledge of German lingered. 

It occurred to me one day: “If I could improve my English just by reading, after learning a little English, why not German too?” I decided to give it a shot. I searched on the web to find something suitable to read. I came across Der Spiegel online and found that I could subscribe to its newsletter. Using the minimal knowledge of the language I had, I did subscribe. I found that I could understand a little bit of the articles and news reports on science – Wissenschaft. I persisted and every day I read at least one article. Since a lot of the content in a report is already known - the background to the news item - it was fairly easy to understand or guess what it was saying. Over time, I started reading the sections on art, culture and travel too. (Kunst, Kultur, Reise). A friend, Pradeep, had generously gifted me his Langenscheidt Taschenwoerterbuch (Pocket Dictionary. A fairly large pocket, mind you) came in very handy. So did dict.cc – an online translation dictionary. dict.cc is now like a one stop shop for translating words from practically any European language to any other.

I have enough German to read and even translate German documents. This became a great asset since, in my professional life, I came across German Patent documents. I did not have to wait for a professional translation.

The motivation for writing this post is the earnest hope that it acts as a trigger or it gives hope and encourages to someone who wants to learn (or improve) a new language. 


Picture, courtesy Wikipedia, designated as Public Domain. 
Studio portrait of Louis Pasteur, restored (removed dust, scratches, and what looked to be a water stain)
Date:    Before 1895
Source File: Louis Pasteur, foto av Félix Nadar.jpg

Reading the Black Panther of Shivanipalli

The Stage

In the year 1967, my father built a house and we moved into it. This is in an area called Saraswathipuram in Mysore and it was called Saraswathipuram Extension then. Before this extension came to be, Saraswathipuram was limited to seven or so main roads, running North – South, and half a dozen cross roads or so, running East - West. The extension had extended "old" Saraswathipuram up to the fourteenth main which was the eastern border of the city of Mysore then. Our house was on the twelfth main road. When we moved in, there were still many plots on which no houses were yet built. We had two such sites to the right of our house and all the sites till the next cross road to the left were “empty”. Weeds grew profusely in them, especially after the monsoons. It was before the invasion of Parthenium aka congress grass. Cattle and donkeys often grazed on these sites.

The Context

Around the year 1969, my father brought home books by Kenneth Anderson, often informally referred to as Jim Corbett of the South, from the University Library. They were hardbound, published by Allen and Unwin, with their logo embossed on the hard cover. It was a pleasure to hold them in one’s hand, smell the glue and 'Calico', and read the incredibly interesting stories about man-eating leopards, tigers  and rogue elephants hunted by Anderson. While the stories of Corbett appeared exotic because of where most of the stories took place, Kumaon, Andersons stories were nearer home, in South India. There was a sense of proximity and familiarity though the exact locale was as alien to me, really, as Kumaon.

I devoured the stories eagerly and lived the events vicariously as they unfolded. The very names of the books and stories still bring those memories back. Nine Man Eaters and a Rogue, Marauder of Kempakarai, The Aristocrat of Amligola, The Assassin of Diguvametta, The Black Rogue of the Moyar Valley, The Lame Horror of Peddacheruvu, The Crossed-Tusker of  Gerhetti – names to savour!

Reading the Black Panther of Shivanipalli

While I was reading the volume containing the story of The black panther of Shivanipalli I fell ill with a fever of unknown origin.

When anyone had a fever in the family the routine was something like this. For the sake of simplicity, I will use the first person singular pronoun. I was expected to stay in bed. All food, drink and medicines were brought to my bed. My father took my temperature as soon as I woke up in the morning, never letting me read the thermometer myself. When I asked him what the temperature was, he would smile and say cryptically, “Telling you the temperature is contra-indicated”. (By that hangs one of his nostalgic stories that is contra-indicated here, right now) He would take my pulse rate. He would do the same in the evening after he came home from work. The afternoon temperature taking and pulse taking was my mother’s responsibility. When the doctor visited or I was taken to the doctor, all these details were reported to him. I knew a few families where, if one of the children had a fever, the whole household looked gloomy. No such thing here. Everybody’s life went on as usual. But everyone walked in now and then to see how I was doing.

Once the fever subsided and I spent a night without a fever, my life would be allowed to return to normal in a day or two.

My father is a disciplinarian but, a gentle one. I did not even think of defying these rules! One of the rules was that I was not supposed to read when I had a fever. That was the hardest part. They were days without TV. Thankfully. I tuned the radio to various stations and managed to listen to classical music practically throughout the day. “Classical” included Carnatic, Hindustani, Western and even Jazz. The last being two half-hour slots on The Voice of America called the Voice of America Jazz Hour presented by the inimitable, deep, leathery, bass, disembodied voice of Willis Conover.

Coming back to the Shivanipalli story, I was desperate to read the story of the black panther – fever or no fever. On the third day, if I remember right, my fever had come down a little. When my father had taken my temperature that evening, it was around 101 (deg F). It was about 7 in the evening and was already dark outside. The world was very quiet. Mysore was a quiet city and the roads were deserted by 7:30 in the evening. Everyone else was either studying or busy with their own things. I quietly turned on the bedside lamp I had fixed to the bars of the window next to my bed.

This was a lamp that could be fixed practically anywhere by its vice like clamp. We called it “Bapa’s Lamp”. Bapa was my maternal grandfather. My mother’s family belonged to a Marathi speaking community and hence, my mother and her siblings called him Bapa. This lamp once belonged to him. It was perhaps made in England or the US and had an Edison type /screw type holder. I had found an Edison type bulb in the market and could use Bapa’s lamp to read in bed.

I stole out of the mosquito net tiptoed to the bookshelf and fetched the book and started reading this most interesting story about the panther with hypermelanism. In an hour or so, I had reached the climactic part of the story. Anderson is trying to hunt a big black cat on a new moon day! He is wandering in the forest randomly, without a plan, but with the hope that he runs into his prey. He enters a clearing. He suddenly feels that someone or something is watching him. He stops, unlocks the safety latch of his double barrel gun, raises it to his shoulder into shooting position and slowly turns around - not sure who or what is watching him and from where.....

I suddenly jumped in my bed, cried out aloud, took a sharp breath in – all at the same time. The book fell to the floor with a loud thud. And I was shivering.

A donkey was grazing just outside our compound wall, very close to the window next to me. Perhaps an insect had entered its nostril and it had snorted loudly and long! The suppressed excitement and tension brought on by the narrative had been rudely shaken by the snorting of the donkey and had scared the living daylights out of me.

My mother walked into my room, turned the light on and saw my flushed face. She knew immediately that I was stealing a read. She picked the book up, lifted the mosquito net and touched my forehead. It was hot. She brought the thermometer and took my temperature and it was 103+! She scolded me, turned the lights off and went out to bring my dinner - perhaps some bread and milk and semolina porridge. Once dinner was done, she gave me my medicine, including some paracetamol to bring the temperature down, and ordered me to sleep. She took the book away to her room.

Agony!! I had to wait another thirty-six hours or so to read the last few pages of the story.

Do buy the two-volume paperback edition of the Kenneth Anderson Omnibus published by Rupa and read them. Money and time well spent, I can guarantee you.

An Interlude with Prof. A. N. Murthy Rao

I was visiting my parents. It was sometime in the late 1990s. My father appeared a little pensive. I asked him what the matter was. In his usual thoughtful way, he said, “Murthy Rao asked me if I can take him to the Maharaja’s college. He is feeling nostalgic about his days there and wants to walk the corridors and see the classrooms where he studied and later taught. I was looking for someone with a car whom I could ask.”

I was amused. The solution was sitting right in front of him and talking to him and he had not recognised it. I said, “I may have a solution to the problem.” He cheered up and said, “Who?” I said, “I happen to have a car and I think I am willing to take him there”.  He banged his forehead (actually acted as if he did) and looked sheepish and laughed with relief. “Look at me! It never occurred to me!”

It is another story that my car was a Premier Padmini of 1976 vintage, was in a pretty bad shape. I had paid more than it deserved and spent a mini fortune, at least by my financial status then, to make it roadworthy. You had to be a jugaad wizard to use that car but, I was not. In spite of that, I have fond memories of my first car.

Anyway, the date and time were fixed. On the appointed day, I went to my father’s place, picked him up and he directed me to Prof. A N Murthy Rao’s nephew’s place. My father then moved to the back seat so that the professor could sit more comfortably in the passenger seat. I drove very carefully because this great man looked fragile. He was in his late nineties. He was, by far, the most precious cargo this car had ever carried. I am always a careful driver trying to follow all the road rules and conventions. There was some incident that I do not remember that made my father tell the professor, “He is a very conscientious driver.” That filled me with pride, more so when the professor nodded his head in approval.

We reached the college without incident and I could relax. It was a pleasure to see this old frail gentle gentleman savour every moment with childlike enthusiasm. He walked up the steps unaided and beamed at the quadrangle. He walked the corridors. He commented on every aspect of the building. With effort bu without complaint, climbed the broad staircase to the first floor. “This is where Rollo’s (Sir J C Rollo) room was. This is the junior BA hall. This is where I gave my first lecture as a teacher…..” He shared his thoughts with us.  It was such a pleasure to see the college through his eyes.

At one point, my father said, with great pride and nostalgia, “Prof. B M Srikantiah taught us Macbeth”. The hair on the nape of my neck stood up. B M Sri is such a legend and to have had the good fortune of being taught Macbeth by him! B M Sri was simultaneously the professor of English and Kannada, he was called the silver tongued orator, he taught English through Kannada and Kannada through English and many such stories give you an idea of the legend that he was. The professor turned back and said, feigning great pity, “I pity you, Lakshmana Rao, I pity you!” Now, what was happening here!? In response to my father’s unvoiced question but his whole posture a question mark, the professor said, “Rollo(*) taught us Macbeth”.  

Ah!

He talked about someone from the past who had done something really noble. Without thinking, I said something like, “where have all such people gone!?”  He took me to task immediately but very gently. “I am surprised that you say that. Such people have always been there, they are here now and will always be there.  We may not hear about them. To assume that they are an extinct species is not right. To look at the past with rose-tinted glasses is extremely dangerous”. I felt foolish but hung on the fact that he was surprised that I had said what I had. Tenuous, but I held on to it.

After he felt satisfied with the visit, we started back. My father started giving me directions again.  I told my father that since we had been there earlier that day, I knew the way. I am usually very good at remembering the way to places which I have visited. (I have to admit that it seems to be waning.)  My father said jocularly, “This is one area in which Anil is far superior to me.”

“Or the one you care to admit!” came the immediate reply. This man was in his late nineties. Had just completed something that must have been, at least mildly, strenuous. My father was in the back seat and the professor did not have the advantage of the visual assistance one derives from seeing people speak. Above the noise of the old car, he heard and his response was immediate, gently humorous and logical!

And in my support to boot!

Caveat: I am writing this in admiration of one of the finest people I have had the good fortune of knowing. I do not want to bask in reflected glory. I have no claims about knowing so great a man. It was purely accidental – that I am my father’s son!!

* I could not get a suitable link to J C Rollo. The picture below gives a hint of how great a teacher he was.

Thank You, GP Miss

I picked up two wire clips from a box, kept them on the bunch of papers that I wanted to clip, returned the box to its place. When I came back to the papers and the clip, there was only one clip. I shouted at myself theatrically, “You are thoroughly useless! You have not improved since then!”

The “then” was, perhaps, 1966. I was in 6^th standard. . It was a dark evening. My classmates and I were rehearsing a play for the annual day. We were in our classroom and there was much noise and excitement. Children from other classes were in their classrooms too rehearsing.

My group needed four pins for something. Our class teacher bade me follow her and I did. We walked across a larger quadrangle with many coconut trees and unclipped grass (no lawn there). The quadrangle was not lit. It was illuminated only by the lights in the classrooms. I followed the white-clad teacher as she walked to the office room. She unlocked the door, turned the light on, went to a steel almirah (called a Godrej whether made by Godrej company or not) and unlocked it. She took out the roll of paper on which the pins were stuck in neat rows. I can still see the blue coloured print on that paper. She took out four pins and handed them to me. She locked the almirah, turned the light off, and we came out. She locked the door and I again followed her white-clad figure across the quadrangle.

When were back in the classroom, she asked me for the pins. I proffered my hand and DISASTER! There were only three pins in my hand. She flew into a rage, berated me no end. I stood there, head hanging in shame as she went on and on.  “You are thoroughly useless! You will never come to any good. If you can’t even carry some pins without losing them, what else can you do? Blah blah..” The barrage of high-pitched insults coming from that towering figure shut my senses out. (She was actually short and frail. But I was shorter and frailer!) My classmates stood in absolute stillness until the harangue was over. Once she was done we repeated the whole process of getting the pins and I held on to that single pin as I had never hung on to anything before or since. We came back and I was relieved to deliver that pin and we could get on with things.

None of my classmates offered me any sympathy. Of course, by the next morning everyone seemed to have forgotten the incident. But, not me.  I was still smarting. Was it such a big mistake? Was it necessary to scold me so long, that too in front of all my classmates? I do not remember how long but it hurt a long time.

The upshot of this was that I am extremely careful about things that I carry and hardly ever lose them. I might still misplace stuff and search for them in a panic. But I hardly ever lose stuff that I carry. Of course, there are exceptions. Soon after, my father bought me a good fountain pen - my first. It was called Doctor. I lost it the very next day! My father, who loves fountain pens (always with blue - black ink, mind you) showed his displeasure on his face but said nothing.

No, I am not scarred for life. Though I resented her for a long time, I do not think it ever changed my behavior towards her. Over time, I have felt a sense of deep gratitude instead. She did change me in some way for the better.  And every time I pick up a pin or a clip or any such small thing.  I remember GP miss.

Yes. That is what we called her. Her name was G Parvati. She initialled our assignments and test sheets with a GP and that is what she was to us. She was diminutive, had short boyish hair (a rarity in those days) and a slight squint. She always wore white that exposed only her face and hands. She was indeed short tempered and severe and austere. Children were scared of her since she used the wooden ruler, often mercilessly, on an offender who made her really angry.

Children can be cruel and said all sorts of things about her. So, in my eyes she was the underdog even though she was in a position of power over us and my sympathies always lie with the underdog. I have always remembered her with some fondness because she was unusual. Regrettably, she died young, I heard much later.

Thank you, GP Miss!

Monkeying with Evolution

"The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose." I was reminded of this line when I read the following part of a newspaper report.

Dhananjay further said that unlike the Constitutions of other countries, the Constitution of India expressly says that its citizens and children should cultivate scientific temper and rational thought. “When school children are repeatedly told that Darwin’s theory is already a scientific fact, their constitutional right to a scientifically acceptable curriculum is violated,” he said.

It cites one of the most progressives lines in our constitution to do exactly the opposite!!

Please read the full report here:

Monkey Trial or the Scopes Trial took place in 1925. More formally known as the “The State of Tennessee v John Thomas Scopes”, the defense lawyer in the case was none other than the inimitable Clarence Darrow. Since then the world, many of us thought, had moved and will move inexorably forward, but damnably, no!

You may also read the brilliant book, Clarence Darrow for the Defense by Irving Stone in which the Monkey trial takes the pride of place.

Many of the so-called fundamentalist Christians hold, or should hold, the pope as their moral and spiritual leader. The present pope has declared as reported here: “The theories of evolution and the Big Bang are real and God is not a magician with a magic wand”. Apparently, these people are holier than the pope!

Still, a large number of Creationists, Intelligent Design advocates, and their ilk believe that god created the world as we know it in six days and rested on the seventh, about 6000 years ago!

But, I digress. What surprises me in this case is the following. ‘Unaided schools’ is a euphemism for private schools. They are commercial establishments. All commercial establishments are characterized by self-interest. That means profit. They bend backwards to make their schools ‘better’, whatever form it may take. Do they really believe that this refusal to teach evolution makes their schools better and more attractive to the parents of their prospective students?

Either they are delusional or they have rightly sensed the mood of the prospective customers. I shudder at the thought that the second is the reality. The future generation of students will be shielded from the most profound scientific thought. If you believe the forwards on WhatsApp and posts on Facebook, many Indians are inordinately proud of the contribution the Indian diaspora makes to the greatness of US. Don’t bother about the contributions they did not make for the greatness of India. If we produce a huge body of students denied the knowledge about the fact of evolution, I wonder if they will be as welcome as hitherto anywhere. If they are not, and remain in India, the future of India, not to mention its science, is bleak indeed!

I hope that whichever honourable court that is burdened with this case, perhaps the Supreme Court, will throw it out as frivolous and inadmissible!

Remembering N Ramani, the Flutist

Vidwan N Ramani, the great flutist of our times, passed away yesterday.

I heard of him for the first time when I came across that delightful 33 1/3 rpm record which was called V Trio. It featured Lalgudi, Ramani and Venkataraman on the Violin, VENu and VeeNa. I am not sure V Trio was coined by the record label or someone else did. This album was parallel to the "Call of the Valley" LP featuring Chaurasia, Shivakumar Sharma and Brajbhushan Khabra - Flute, Santoor and Hawaiian Guitar respectively.

Since hearing of the LP, I have attended many concerts of Ramani over the years and enjoyed them immensely. However, one particular concert remains fresh in my mind albeit for a non-musical reason. But, it says a lot about Ramani the artist and the man.

It was sometime in the seventies. Ramani's concert was in full flow during the Ramanavami concerts at Mysore's unique venue - normally referred to as Bidaram Krishnappanavara Rama Mandira or just Bidaram. Its official name however, is Ayyanar College of Music. Everyone was engrossed in the music  when suddenly there was commotion on the stage. Ramani stood up and shook his dhoti vigorously and the Mridanga and other artists also jumped up in great confusion and concern. What had happened was that a gecko had fallen from the roof. Ramani had got rid of it somehow. No one really knew where it had disappeared.

There was confusion only for a few seconds. Next thing I knew, Ramani had sat down and was getting ready to continue. The accompanying artists were still standing up and joking about the incident and taking their time. Ramani glared at the Mridanga artist and, as if desperately, waved his palm commanding him and other accompanists to sit down and continue. Before they realised what was happening, Ramani started off seemingly where he had left off. The accompanists had to sit down hurriedly and pick their instruments up and join in.

If you had arrived at the concert 30 seconds after the gecko had fallen, you could not have known that there was an interruption, confusion and commotion only a few seconds before. This was much appreciated by the elderly connoisseurs of music who always sat right in front of the dais at Bidaram. I was immensely impressed by his attitude of great respect for the occasion and the audience. There is a term for this in Kannada, and perhaps in many other Indian languages. It is Sabha Maryaade. Ramani exemplified that.

Another aspect of this excellent artist was narrated to me by my Guru, Vidwan V. Desikachar. (He was the brother of the great Veene Maestro, Vidwan V Doreswamy Iyengar. Though he was a flutist by profession, his initial training in music was on the Veene. He played it elegantly. He taught both Veene and Flute though he never gave concerts. I too learned the Veene from him) My respect for him is such that I find it hard to mention him by name. It almost sounds disrespectful to do so. So, you may please imagine my hands joined in a Namaskara when I mention the name or performing the north Indian equivalent of touching ones ear as a mark of respect. Now, I paraphrase what he said, in first person. Alas, I can't convey the childlike honesty and wonder his eyes and body language conveyed while he narrated this incident to me.

"Though I had learned the flute to the best of my abilities I was not satisfied with my music. I had reconciled myself to the idea that this was all I could achieve. This is because I could not play long passages in one breath and convert my musical ideas into passages. I thought that I was not blessed with the lungs of a flutist.

Once I attended Ramani's concert and I was fascinated. He played with such ease. He played long passages in one breath. I also noticed that he was using a larger flute than I did then and the pitch was lower. After the concert, I met Ramani and asked him about his flute.

He was very forthcoming. He showed me his flute and explained that it was indeed larger and of a lower pitch. He explained that with such a flute, you did not have to blow hard, you could conserve your breath, and play longer passages.

In those days, we did not get such flutes in Bangalore and Mysore. Ramani is such a great man that he actually brought me a few on his next visit to Bangalore. I can't thank him enough. Now I could play with much greater ease and could execute my ideas with greater ease."

I am sure this incident says a lot about the two people. My Gurugalu was one of the finest people I have had the good fortune of knowing. I am sure his whole-hearted praise speaks volumes about Ramani.

The Best of Both the Worlds

Interventional X-Rays and cycling tracks; Digital Pathology and footpaths; Beehives and MRI; Healthcare Informatics Solutions and Services (HISS) and sheep. These pairs do seem a little odd, don't they? But it all makes sense if you are talking about the Royal Philips facilities at Best in The Netherlands.

Best is a town near Eindhoven - the birthplace, and for a long time the headquarters, of Philips. It is home to the MRI and Interventional X-ray (IXR) systems made by Philips. The facilities are a clutch of buildings in a sprawling area just outside Best.

Some time ago a team in Best took up the job of making the surroundings closer to nature. One of the initiatives was to get a shepherd to bring his flock twice or thrice a week. The sheep eat the grass and weeds keeping them under check. Their droppings provide the manure to enrich the soil. This also brings a touch if the rustic to the Hi-Tech facilities.

I really don't know the exact sequence of events, but soon they had a beekeeper set up a beehive. When it grew large enough they had him set up a second one. These activities have attracted butterflies to the area.

In a related incident, a colleague parked his car and went into the buildings to work. That day, the beekeeper was establishing a new hive - transferring a queen bee to the new hive. The worker bees who wanted to follow that settled on this colleague’s car, perhaps attracted by the shiny spots. He was dropped home by a colleague who also brought him to work the next day. No one wanted to disturb the bees just for the sake of taking one's car home.

They also changed the route taken by the trucks which deliver parts and ship equipment out so that they do not cross the cycling and walking paths and are limited to only one side of the area. Similarly, the cars are limited to a certain area.

What I find extraordinary about this is that this is as it should be, but we find it extraordinary. Nowadays Hi-Tech and nature, 'development' and the environment, are artificially pitted against one another. Trees, forests and water bodies are under threat. If you so much as raise an objection and suggest alternatives you are called anti-progress and worse.

Isn't there something for everyone all over the world to learn from this?

Concerned as I am with the possible fate of Kukkarahalli Kere in Mysore, the story of Best impressed and left me with a longing for a little more care and concern from everyone towards preserving what is precious! 

Acknowledgements:

My colleagues from Best generously provided me with information and photographs and allowed me to use them for my blog. I thank all of them for their generosity.