Month: May 2026

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Micro-Blue Moon: A Celestial Rarity

What is a Blue Moon?

A Blue Moon is traditionally defined as the second full moon occurring within a single calendar month. On May 31, 2026, a full moon will follow the Flower Moon of May 1. This particular event will also be an Apogee Micro-Moon, meaning the moon will appear slightly smaller and dimmer than average.

This exceptionally rare phenomenon of Micro Blue Moon—a convergence of two events: the second full moon of the month and the moon reaching apogee, its farthest point from Earth in its orbit. As a result, it will be the smallest and dimmest full moon of 2026, a Blue Moon and the most distant full micromoon of the year. It is also the Flower Moon.

The May 30–31 full moon will appear roughly seven percent dimmer than an average full moon and approximately 25 to 30 percent dimmer than a Supermoon—that is, a particularly close full moon.

What is a Flower Moon?

Scientifically, a Flower Moon is simply a standard full moon phase, during which Earth sits directly between the sun and the moon, making the lunar disk appear completely illuminated from our perspective. The moon does not physically change shape or sprout petals; the name is entirely seasonal.

The name Flower Moon originates from The Old Farmer’s Almanac, which compiled traditional names used by Native American, Colonial American, and European sources. The specific term Flower Moon is attributed to Algonquin communities, honouring the abundance of spring wildflowers that bloom across North America during May.

What is a Blue Moon?

The concept of a Blue Moon as the second full moon in a month is more recent. It stems from the March 1946 issue of Sky and Telescope magazine, which published an article titled Once in a Blue Moon by James Hugh Pruett. He referenced the 1937 Maine Farmer’s Almanac, which defined Blue Moons as the third of fourth full moons in a season. However, he inadvertently simplified the definition, writing: ‘Seven times in 19 years there were – and still are – 13 full moons in a year. This gives 11 months with one full moon each and one with two. This second in a month, so I interpret it, was called Blue Moon.‘

Had Pruett examined the actual date of the 1937 Blue Moon, he would have found it occurred on August 21, 1937. Moreover, there were only twelve full moons in 1937; a calendar year generally requires thirteen full moons to have two full moons within a single month. Despite this oversight, his interpretation gave birth to a new and perfectly understandable definition of the Blue Moon.

This notion lay buried for decades. Then, in the late 1970s, EarthSky’s Deborah Byrd chanced upon a copy of the old 1946 issue of Sky and Telescope in the stacks of the Library at the University of Texas Astronomy Department. Subsequently, she began using the term Blue Moon to describe the second full moon in a calendar month on the radio series StarDate, which she wrote and produced.

Later, this definition was popularised by a children’s book by Margot McLoone-Basta, titled The Kids’ World Almanac of Records and Facts, published in New York by World Almanac Publications in 1985.

Looking Ahead

The next seasonal Blue Moon will fall on May 20, 2027—another opportunity to gaze up and marvel at the poetry of our skies, where even a “simple” moon can carry centuries of stories, misunderstandings, and wonder.

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The Transistor, LOC, and Bollywood

The Unwritten Truce

My first assignment to the Kashmir Valley – along the Line of Control (LOC) – came in 1987. I was a young Captain, serving as the Artillery Observation Post Officer with a Punjab Battalion. Fifty metres across the LOC lay the Pakistani post. By an odd coincidence, it was manned by a Punjab Battalion of the Pakistani Army. Between us lay a few hundred meters. Zero No man’s land. Classic eyeball to eyeball. Despite the 24/7/365 vigil, an unwritten truce prevailed. There was hardly any exchange of fire.

The area we defended was shaped like a tongue jutting into Pakistan, surrounded on three sides by Pakistani territory. Behind us loomed a massive mountain range with a single pass – Sadhana Pass. Local lore had it that when the Indian Army chased out Pakistani intruders in 1948, various mountain tops were captured as our forces rolled forward. The posts were named after the wives of the Company Commander who had captured them. Thus, the posts bore names: Sadhana, Ragini, Bimla, Thaya, and others.

The Companion

Our only source of entertainment was the transistor radio. At times, by positioning the antenna at a precise spot and angle, we could catch Sri Lankan Broadcasts. Otherwise, it was mostly Radio Pakistan. That little transistor was my life line; my window to the world, my music teacher, and, as I later discovered, my secret weapon.

But we listened to one programme religiously: Binaca Geetmala – the weekly Hindi film music countdown hosted by the iconic Ameen Sayani from 1952 to 1994. It ranked popular Bollywood songs based on record sales and listener requests. To me as with most Indians, Bollywood music was a passion. He provided details about the film from which the song came, including the producer, director, and lead actors. Sayani also shared behind-the-scenes stories about popular composers, lyricists, and playback singers.

The most popular Hindi film song programme on Akashvani (All India Radio) dedicated to the armed forces during the 1980s was Jaimala, which was broadcast on the Vividh Bharati service daily at 7:00 PM. It featured Hindi film songs requested by soldiers stationed in far-flung, remote border areas. Popular film stars and celebrities of the 1970s and 80s were often invited to present their favourite songs. While Jaimala was a top favourite, other shows that soldiers listened to were Aap ki Pasand and Bhoole Bisre Geet,

Romance of a Nation

Back then (and perhaps even now) social decorum often restricted the outward expression of intimacy. So, Bollywood music functioned as the primary language through which the Indian psyche conceptualised and experienced romance. These melodies provided a vital emotional outlet, using poetic metaphors of nature and longing to articulate feelings that remained unsaid in the pragmatic reality of everyday life. The music transformed the modest dreams of the salaried class into something cinematic and grand. Ultimately, these songs not only provided a backdrop for love, they also defined the very aesthetic of courtship, teaching an entire generation how to pine, how to woo, and how to find beauty within the boundaries of their social fabric.

A Daughter’s Question

In 2010, our daughter Nidhi was pursuing a B Sc at York University, Toronto. She had chosen an optional subject that intrigued me: The Music of Bollywood Films. The course explored the cultural evolution, history, instrumentation, styles, and societal impacts of Indian cinema’s soundtracks—from the days of Alam Ara through the films of Guru Dutt, Raj Kapoor, and Dev Anand, covering roughly 1940 to 1970.

Nidhi began quizzing me:

“Inhi logon ne, inhi logon ne…”

I answered without hesitation: “Pakeezah. Lata Mangeshkar. Filmed on Meena Kumari. Music Director: Ghulam Mohammed. Lyricist: Majrooh Sultanpuri.”

“Pyar Kiya To Darna Kya?”

“Mughal-e-Azam. Lata Mangeshkar. Filmed on Madhubala. Music Director: Naushad. Lyricist: Shakeel Badayuni.”

“Matwala jiya dole piya?”

“Mother India. Lata Mangeshkar and Mohammed Rafi. Filmed on Nargis and Sunil Dutt. Music Director: Naushad. Lyricist: Shakeel Badayuni.”

“Jane Kya Tune Kahi?”

“Pyaasa. Geeta Dutt. Filmed on Waheeda Rahman and Guru Dutt. Music Director: S.D. Burman. Lyricist: Sahir Ludhianvi.”

The quizzing continued for two weeks. I managed to answer about sixty percent – a feat that surprised even me.

The Secret Revealed

Nidhi wanted to know how I knew so much about Bollywood music. I smiled and revealed my secret: the transistor radio during my first Kashmir deployment.

Then I asked a question with genuine authority: “Why are songs from that era only about three minutes long?”

She did not know. I showed off my knowledge, courtesy of Binaca Geetmala and Ameen Sayani.

In those days, music was recorded on His Master’s Voice (HMV) records. Each record could hold about three to four minutes of audio. Placing the grooves too close together significantly reduced sound quality. For optimal sound quality, three minutes was the recommended duration. The constraint of technology shaped the art – and the art, in turn, shaped a generation.

Luckily for me, this very question came in the final exam and Nidhi got it right!!!!

Epilogue

Decades later, sitting in Canada, answering our daughter’s university questions about Bollywood’s golden era, I realised something: the lonely months at the LOC, the crackling transistor, the voice of Ameen Sayani – they had given me more than entertainment. They had given me a cultural education that would one day bridge continents and generations.

And somewhere in Kashmir, on the windswept posts named after forgotten wives, I imagine the ghosts of those songs still linger, three minutes at a time.

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The Anteroom at NDA: A Sanctuary of Music and Memory

For every music enthusiast at the National Defence Academy (NDA), Apollo Music House on the Main Street in Poona was a pilgrimage site. It was there that we purchased records for the turntable in our Squadron Ante-Room – a privilege reserved exclusively for the VI Termers, the seniormost among cadets, who alone held the right to select the music.  The shop does not exist today; vinyl records, which were once its staple, have also become obsolete.

According to dictionary definition, an anteroom is a small, transitional space – a vestibule or lobby that serves as an entryway or waiting area preceding a larger, more principal room. Historically, such spaces provided privacy or a formal pause before entering the main chamber. The word traces its origins to the 18th century, combining the Latin ante (before) with room, likely adapted from the French antichambre.

The Anteroom: A Communal Heart Bound by Hierarchy

At the NDA, however, the anteroom takes on an altogether different significance. All eighteen Squadrons possess a dedicated, three-part anteroom located on the ground floor of the C-shaped building. These spaces are far more than mere waiting rooms – they are sanctums of squadron identity, decorated with trophies and memorabilia that chronicle years of achievement and rivalry.

The anteroom served as the squadron’s communal heart—a space where the collective life of the unit pulsed through daily rituals and shared moments. Its three sections—a main hall, a music room, and a pool room—provided spaces for cadets to gather, socialise, and forge bonds that would last lifetimes. Each evening, the squadron assembled here for the Orders Fall-in procedure, a solemn ritual where cadets received briefings, words of praise, and, when necessary, the sting of punishment. In this modest space, the squadron’s story unfolded day after day.

The designers of the anteroom, it appears, adhered faithfully to the word’s original meaning: a transient place, a mere vestibule meant for passing through rather than lingering. The size of the three rooms stands as testimony to this conception. Yet over the years, all 120 cadets of the squadron somehow crammed themselves into these confined quarters, transforming a space meant for transition into one of congregation.

The seating arrangements reflected the unspoken but iron laws of hierarchy. The VI Termers – the seniormost – occupied the coveted sofas with an air of entitlement earned through years of service. Junior cadets perched on chairs and benches, while the juniormost often found themselves seated on the floor, their position in the physical space mirroring their place in the squadron’s order. Thus, even in the cramped quarters of the anteroom, the structure of military life asserted itself – a reminder that in this world, one’s place was never forgotten, even in moments of leisure.

Music and Privilege

In our era, before television became ubiquitous, the turntable in the anteroom was our primary source of entertainment. The VI Termers exercised their privilege with discernment, selecting records that would define the sonic atmosphere of squadron life. Lesser mortals – the junior cadets – could only listen when permitted, usually on days of celebration following victories on the sports field or in various inter-squadron competitions.

Those moments were cherished. The music that filled the anteroom on such evenings carried more than melody; it carried the weight of shared triumph, the sweetness of earned celebration. For a few hours, the strict hierarchy softened, and all cadets – senior and junior alike – found common ground in the notes emanating from the turntable and danced to the music.

The anteroom, then, was more than a physical space. It was a repository of memory, a stage for ritual, and occasionally, a sanctuary where music united us across the boundaries of rank and term. Even now, decades later, the echo of those records lingers – a reminder that some privileges, when shared, become something far greater than the sum of their notes.

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An Accident: A Lesson for Grandfather in Language and Culture

The Call That Shook Me

On a Monday morning in October 2023, my phone rang. On the other end was the LKG class teacher of our grandson, James. “James had an accident and is not feeling all that well,” she said. “Can you pick him up from school? I tried calling his grandmother, but there was no answer.”

“I’ll come in half an hour,” I replied, a knot of anxiety forming in my stomach.

“Take your time and drive safely. James is at the reception. You can pick him up and take him home,” the teacher advised calmly.

I hung up, bewildered. What kind of teacher is this? She isn’t worried at all! Our grandson had an accident!

As I neared the school, another call came – this time from Catherine, our daughter Nidhi’s mother-in-law. “Sorry, Reji, for troubling you,” she said. “When the teacher called, I was in the dentist’s chair and couldn’t answer. She said you’re on your way to pick up James. You can bring him home; I’ll be there by then.“

I felt a slight relief, but again, I was struck by the absence of panic in her voice. Her grandson had met with an accident, and she sounded almost… casual.

The Revelation

When I reached the school reception, James ran and hugged me. “Grandpa, it was an accident,” he announced. “I told my teacher that my parents are away on a business trip to New York, and that’s why she called you.”

“Are you fine?” I asked, my grandfatherly concern still at full throttle.

“Sorry, Grandpa, I pooped in my pants.” He held up a plastic bag containing his soiled clothes. “Mom had placed a spare set in my bag, so I changed.”

“How are you feeling now?” I pressed.

“My stomach is a bit uneasy. So, I asked my teacher if I could go home. That’s why she called you,” he explained matter-of-factly.

The Cultural Divide

In that moment, the puzzle pieces fell into place. In Canada, children entering LKG are expected to develop self-sufficiency in personal hygiene, feeding, and classroom tasks. Toilet independence is a key milestone. Teachers do not assist with changing; that responsibility falls on the child or, if necessary, a parent. Only children with Individual Education Plans (IEPs) can be changed by a non-parental adult during school hours.

For me, accident meant a collision, an injury, a crisis. For James and his teacher, it meant a minor childhood mishap – a normal, unremarkable event.

During the Canadian winter, children must remove their snow-boots, snow-pants, and heavy jackets and place them in their designated spots before entering the classroom. When it’s time for recess or the end of the day, they are expected to put everything back on—entirely by themselves. This daily ritual teaches far more than just winter preparedness. It builds dexterity, sharpens hand-eye coordination, and fosters organisational skills and self-confidence. I often find it difficult to zip up my own jacket, my ageing eyes struggling with the task – a humbling reminder of how much these young ones accomplish on their own.

Evening Reflections

That evening, I spoke to Nidhi on the phone, still processing the morning’s stress. “I was so anxious when the teacher said James had an accident,” I confessed. “I thought he was hurt.”

“It’s what all kids do,” Nidhi reasoned. “Didn’t we also have accidents in LKG?”

“I thought he had met with an accident and was injured. When you had such accidents, the parents weren’t summoned to the school,” I insisted.

“Kids have a fall. They hurt themselves. They don’t ‘meet with an accident,'” she corrected gently.

“What do you call an accident on the road involving two cars?” I challenged.

“A crash or a collision” she replied adding with a hint of amusement, “You better familiarise yourself with the terms used in North America.”

A Funny Language Indeed

As I sat in silence after the call, Amitabh Bachan’s famous line echoed in my mind: “English is a funny language.” But North American English, I mused, appeared even funnier.

I was reminded of typical Indian English words and expressions which no one outside India understood; passing out from school, expired, co-brother, revert back, out of station, rubber, dicky, good name, prepone, do the needful, Time pass, cooling glass and several others which would leave anyone outside India thoroughly confused.

Was I now expected to compile a glossary of North American terms to navigate daily life in Canada? Perhaps. But more than words, I realised, I needed to understand the cultural nuances that shaped them – the independence instilled in children, the calm in the face of minor crises, the matter-of-fact handling of life’s little messes.

James’ accident taught me more than just a vocabulary lesson. It reminded me that language is not just about words; it’s about context, expectation, and the invisible cultural scripts we all carry within us. And sometimes, the most profound lessons come wrapped in the most unassuming moments – like that phone call from a LKG teacher on a Monday morning.

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The Bond That Began at Birth: A Grandfather’s Reflection

A Grandson’s Demand

Our daughter Nidhi and son-in-law Jay were away on a week’s vacation, and four-year-old James, our beloved grandson, came to stay with us. For three days, all went smoothly. Then came the demand.

“I want my Daddy!” James announced with unmistakable conviction.

“Don’t you want your Mummy?” I suggested hopefully.

An emphatic “No. I want my Daddy!” was his only answer.

I managed the situation with a video call that brought both parents onto the screen simultaneously. But the episode left me pondering: What creates such a powerful bond between father and son?

A Canadian Birth

James was born in Canada, where hospitals strongly recommend natural birth whenever possible. Nidhi and Jay attempted this, but the baby’s position necessitated a C-section. Throughout the process, Jay remained by his Nidhi’s side – as is customary in Canadian hospitals, where husbands stay with their wives during childbirth.

Immediately after the C-section, something significant happened. James was placed on Jay’s chest for skin-to-skin contact. That moment, I believe, forged a bond that continues to this day.

It is Jay who bathes him, feeds him, plays with him, and helps with school assignments. The attachment is palpable and profound.

The Science of Support

Having a spouse accompany a mother during delivery is not merely a cultural preference – it is strongly recommended by experts and supported by evidence-based studies. A supportive, trained partner acts as a crucial advocate, providing emotional comfort and physical aid that measurably improve both the birth experience and health outcomes.

Emotional Support and Reduced Anxiety

The presence of a trained husband significantly decreases a mother’s anxiety during labour. Through reassurance, encouragement, and a familiar loving presence in a high-stress environment, he provides comfort that no medical professional can replicate. This support empowers the mother, helping her feel safe and more in control – leading to a more positive birthing experience.

Training for expectant couples in Canada is readily accessible through the public health system, which offers comprehensive prenatal and postnatal education through both in-person and online formats. These programmes cover essential topics ranging from pregnancy health and the stages of labour and delivery to newborn care and breastfeeding techniques. By equipping parents with knowledge and practical skills, these courses help build confidence and reduce anxiety, ensuring that families are better prepared for the transformative experience of welcoming a new child.

Physical and Practical Support

A spouse’s role extends beyond emotional comfort. He can assist with pain management through counter-pressure on the back, gentle rubbing, or breathing techniques. He handles practical tasks – wiping a brow, providing water, helping the mother move or change positions to aid labour. Research indicates that continuous partner support can lead to shorter labour times and reduced need for medical interventions, including pain relief medications.

Advocacy and Safety

Perhaps most crucially, a spouse acts as an advocate – communicating the mother’s needs and preferences to medical staff when she is unable to speak during intense labour. In busy hospital settings, he ensures she receives timely care and that her concerns are addressed. He helps her understand procedures and ensures her birth plan is respected, facilitating truly informed consent.

Bonding and Shared Experience

Being present allows the father to witness his child’s birth directly, creating an immediate, powerful bond with both mother and baby. Sharing this intense, life-changing experience deepens the emotional connection between partners in ways nothing else can. In the immediate postpartum period, the partner can assist with skin-to-skin contact, help with the first feeding, and support the mother as she begins her recovery.

The Proof in a Four-Year-Old

All this science explains what I witnessed in a simple four-year-old’s demand: “I want my Daddy!” James’ preference was not a rejection of his mother, but a testament to the bond forged in those first moments of life—when father and son met skin-to-skin, and a lifetime of connection began.

In demanding his daddy, James was simply expressing what the research confirms: that fathers matter from the very beginning, and that presence at birth is not a luxury but a foundation.

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The Shadows of a Reclamation: When Politics Mimics Conquest

By Brig Azad Sameer (Retd)

Earlier today, a friend sent me a digital poster. It featured a map of Bengal, a timeline of dynasties, and a bold headline: Hindus have reclaimed Bengal after 800 years. I am someone who by accident of birth is a Muslim, although the funny part is that some of my clan demand proof. To, me the image of the poster didn’t just feel like a political update; it felt like a silent, invisible boundary line being drawn across a shared past. My friend insisted it was just history and general knowledge. I accepted the words in silence. We continue to be the great friends that we have been all these years, bound by shared memories that predate these shifting sands. Yet, beneath that clinical defense lies a troubling psychological shift: the quiet transformation of a modern democratic mandate into a narrative of ancient civilizational warfare. It makes one wonder when our personal bonds became so fragile that they required the armor of historical justifications.

This uneasy realisation feels particularly sharp against the backdrop of my own life. I spent nearly three and a half decades serving in the Indian Army, retiring some fifteen years ago. In all those years of wearing the uniform, moving shoulder to shoulder with men of every conceivable background, I never once felt a sense of exclusion. The camaraderie was absolute, the shared identity unquestioned. But today, something seems to have changed decisively. A subtle, cold current has entered our collective consciousness, making me look back at my service not just with pride, but with a quiet, growing yearning for a time when belonging was simply understood.

When a political victory is framed as a religious reclamation, the implications feel heavy and deeply unsettling. It suggests that for more than a millennium, anyone not of a specific faith was merely an occupier, an interloper, or a guest whose time has run out. This mindset views the ballot box not as a tool for governance or social welfare, but as a sword for correcting history’s perceived grievances. It forces us into an archaic mindset, replacing the quiet dignity of a citizen with the harsh, binary identity of the conqueror or the conquered. We are no longer neighbors building a future together; we are ghosts re-enacting ancient battles.

If the majority begins to view political success as a religious re-conquest, the delicate concept of a pluralistic society starts to fracture. Where does that leave the minorities? It leaves them in a state of perpetual audition – constantly needing to prove their belonging to a land that their ancestors have called home for generations. It turns everyday neighbors into others and shared regional histories into a zero-sum game of winners and losers. There is deep loneliness in realising that the soil you walked upon, defended, and loved is suddenly being measured by a yardstick you can never meet.

True knowledge should tell us that history is a complex tapestry, woven with threads of coexistence, compromise, and shared survival. It is more often than not a perspective of the writer and the reader, not a scoreboard of tribal triumphs. When we celebrate a political win as a religious victory, we don’t just exclude millions; we diminish the very democratic values that allowed the win to happen in the first place. In trying to reclaim a past that cannot be changed, we risk losing the fragile, precious present we have built together.