ALMOST 20 YEARS AGO, I read that Pluto is no longer considered a planet. The International Astronomical Union classified it as a dwarf planet because it did not meet one of its three parameters for planets.
I was told, in layman’s terms, that planets must orbit the sun, must have enough mass to be roundish, and have enough gravitational force to clear their ilaaka (territory) of “other bodies of comparable size”. Apparently, Pluto is not strong enough a goonda to enforce the third parameter.
I wrote here earlier that my generation has lived long enough to see things taught to us in school being disproved. I had the same feeling when I looked at THE WEEK’s cover this week and realised that Xuanzang is an old friend whose name is now spelled differently. As a history student in college, I knew him as Hiuen Tsang, the “prince among pilgrims”.
After reading Senior Assistant Editor Pratul Sharma’s account of retracing Xuanzang’s ancient trail, I am tempted to dub Deepak Anand the pilgrim among engineers. Pratul writes that Anand’s research has brought long-forgotten Buddhist sites back into the public eye. The interview with Dr Max Deeg of Cardiff University lends weight to the cover story.
I am certain that you will enjoy the mid-year special edition, dear reader. Just as journalists cannot be armchair commentators, studying history also demands fieldwork for fresh perspectives. I was fascinated to read about Valerie and Surinder Hara’s farm in Amdalpur village, Haryana, and the artefacts they found when digging for their swimming pool. Talk about history under one’s feet.
From the ancient Chinese writer, Social Media Coordinator Tanu Kapoor takes us to the invisible editors of the internet who decide what you should read. She also shares tips to reclaim control from the online censor board.
Another favourite section of mine in this issue is Special Correspondent Anjuly Mathai’s take on love in the time of conflict. She met a couple who got married in a cooking pot, another who had a 52-hour date, and a couple who were Maoists and now see hope in the eyes of their three-year-old son. Anjuly’s intro, however, dwells on letters between partners and lovers.
Across the road from my office is a tea stall that opens at dawn and shuts its shutters only around 2am. The place is thrumming with happy, young people who do not have to worry about blood pressure, glucose levels or clogged arteries. I see them eat deep-fried snacks, drink sugary tea and pay by UPI. As I watch them, I feel today is a magical time to be alive.
How many of them, I wonder, would have felt the magic of receiving a letter, though? A love letter, perhaps. Or, any letter (other than from the bank). Emotions and thoughts flowing down one’s arm into a pen, into ink, onto paper. And then the unique attempts by some to pour more of themselves into that epistle. A lipstick smudge. A dried flower. A dab of perfume. A fallen teardrop that smudges the ink and wrinkles the paper.
There is magic in the written word. And Xuanzang proves it, almost 1,400 years after he wrote it all.