How Indore’s famous stuffed leather toys are made

 

A hundred horses, each one with its forelegs in the air, are sunning on the terrace of Anil’s house. They are well-muscled steeds, and Anil’s year-old son totters towards them gleefully, but he is picked up halfway to them and the danger passes.

The sun is shining brightly after three wet winter days and all hands are busy making up for lost time. Pulp casts of elephants and camels are hanging from the tin shed. A boy is twisting wire into frames for making tigers, another is pressing a mould with paper pulp inside, a woman is pasting leather on to the dried and touched-up casts, and I am witnessing the birth of Indore’s lifelike soft toys.

When the toys are finished, they will be packed and shipped to the metros, and even to Australia and the US. Although a traditional craft, they are not much in demand within Indore city, and are mostly sold at a few shops around the old palace, Rajwada. However, Mhow, just 23km away on NH-3, is a big market with its cosmopolitan mix of servicemen and their families from all over the country.

Toy making is an old craft in Indore, but it changed in one important way a few decades ago. While traditionally the stuffed toys were covered with velvet, the city’s craftsmen now use sheep or goat leather as it imparts a lifelike quality to the animal figures. “The muscle tone shines through leather,” says Anil. It is skin, after all, but why not use the more common buffalo hide?

Anil says three qualities make sheep and goat skins ideal for this work: “They are thinner than other hides, and take the shape of the cast that they are stuck upon.” Secondly, he says, “They absorb colour very nicely, which is essential to make the animals look lifelike.” Finally, though they are expensive, their supply is abundant.

Leather is the only raw material that comes from outside Indore. While it is supplied from Hyderabad, the paper pulp comes from Malwa Mills nearby. In fact, the area around this mill has most of Indore’s 20-odd soft toy factories. The remainder operate from Scheme Number 78, Nehru Nagar and Marimata Crossing. As for the little things like eyes and hooves of animals, these are available in the old markets around Rajwada.

With the raw material in place, how are all those beautiful animal figures crafted? The process seems simple enough, with not a single machine being used. But it requires a high degree of skill, which the craftsmen acquire with years of practice. Be it a horse, tiger, camel, elephant or any other animal, they all start out as a wire frame twisted deftly inside a minute. The same hands then bind straw over this frame to create a rough form upon which paper pulp is moulded.

The first workman completes his job within five minutes, and then another presses paper pulp onto this ‘skeleton’ with a mould. Since the pulp is wet and tender, the figure is left out in the open to dry, for a day. The next day, before the pulp hardens completely, an artist touches up the cast animal by defining its muscles and checks for any serious flaws that might result in rejection later on. All this takes just 15 minutes, and after some more drying the piece is ready to get its skin.


The glue used to stick the skin on to the cast is also special. It is made from tamarind seeds, by first roasting, then powdering them, and finally boiling the powder. Sticking the skin onto the cast requires a lot of skill as several small pieces of leather are stuck and yet the final skin has to appear seamless. The pasting is finished within 20 minutes, and then the pieces are set out to dry in the sun again, for a day

The basic toy is now ready, but to be saleable it needs vital finishing touches, like painting and embellishment. This job is done not in the factories but in the homes of the workmen. Each toy takes a few minutes to finish, but the pieces are returned only after a day, when they are a sight to behold. Especially the horses, which return not only richly painted but also equipped with tiny saddles and reins.

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How Shimla got electricity early in the 20th century

The summer capital of British India had an acute water shortage, and electricity was needed to lift water with pumps. A hydel station at Chaba resolved the crisis

By the 1880s Shimla had electricity, but it was such a rare treat that even the viceroy, the most powerful man in India, had to use it sparingly.

When Lord Dufferin and his family moved into the brand-new Viceregal Lodge (now Indian Institute of Advanced Study) at Shimla, in July 1888, they didn’t have enough electricity to turn on all the lights at once.

“The upper part of the house is usually left in darkness when the lower is fully lighted, as the batteries are not strong enough to light up the whole brilliantly at once,” says an entry dated September 15, 1888, in the journal ‘Indian Engineering’.

That was alright. People were so used to their candles and fireplaces that electric lights were more of a party trick. There was no pressing need to install more dynamos for lights.

But there was another problem that soon pushed the administration to build a power station for Shimla – the scarcity of water in summer.

Parched capital

Shimla was cool and scenic, which is why the British had made it their summer capital. But it simply didn’t have enough water for all the people who descended upon it in the season. The local stream used to run dry, almost.

“The supply at times becomes so scanty that people have to wait an hour or more to fill their vessels, and European families have been sometimes put on an allowance,” says W H Carey’s ‘A Guide to Simla’, published in 1870.

The administration had built a pumping station on another small stream at a place called Cherot on old Shimla’s outskirts. It had a steam-powered pump, but by the 1890s this pump was inadequate. And adding another steam engine would have meant carting more coal from the plains, which was not economical.

The obvious solution was to use hydroelectricity. The Satluj, a major river of Punjab, flowed in a valley to Shimla’s west. The Pabbar, a smaller but perennial stream, flowed in a more distant valley to the east. The Satluj was the favourite, of course, but surveys showed taming it to generate power would have been too expensive.

“One of Messrs Siemens’s engineers has been examining the project for drawing the requisite power from Sutlej; but on account of the expense this project is likely to be given up in favour of another, which would draw the power from the municipal waterworks,” a trade journal called ‘The Electrical Engineer’ reported in 1892.

Waiting for an investor

Shimla’s municipal waterworks was based on a small stream called Nauti Khad. Major General Beresford Lovett and Arthur Pook had made a plan to generate electricity from it in the 1890s, but work didn’t start on it for almost 10 years as no private investor showed interest.

“The development of such proposals has been hampered by the difficulty of finding capital for the purpose, whether in India, in Europe or in America,” says the journal ‘Electrical World’ of July 1-December 30, 1909.

Tired of the delay, the government decided to hand over the work to the Shimla municipality, and construction finally started right after the monsoon in 1909.

Although Nauti was close to Shimla, the powerplant had to be built at a lower height for the water to gather speed to drive the turbines. So, a site was selected at Chaba, on the left bank of the Satluj.

Not ambitious enough

Looking back, it was a short-sighted plan. Based on their then current power requirement, the British thought generating 350kW at Chaba would suffice. Their surveys had shown that Nauti Khad had enough water to produce 745kW “even without damming or collecting water by reservoirs”.

At the second All-India Sanitary Conference held in Madras (now Chennai), during November 11–16, 1912, Shimla officials had claimed: “The gaugings of the Nauti show that at the driest time of the year, we may expect 28 cusecs (cubic feet per second) flow.”

But time belied their calculations. By 1918–19, Nauti Khad’s ‘minimum perennial flow’ had reduced to 19 cusecs, and in the summer of 1932, “The minimum discharge in Nauti Khad fell to 7 cusecs during daytime and 12 cusecs at night as farmers were lifting water for irrigation.”

Fortunately, just before construction started, the planners had decided to build a reservoir for the Chaba plant. They had also agreed to make the plant in two equal parts. There would be the initial 750kW plant with three generators of 250kW each, and then scope for adding three more turbines and generators for a total capacity of 1.5MW.

Nature poses a hurdle

When work on the plant started in 1909, the deadline was 1911. However, unstable slopes and other unexpected difficulties delayed the work. Only one of the two tunnels that would have carried water down to the powerhouse was ready late in 1911.

The second tunnel had run into a wall of solid rock. Special drilling machines were needed, so two challenges arose. One, to build a road to the site, and two, to keep the machinery small and light enough for transportation on the backs of coolies.

The machinery had to be sent from London, but the India Office sat on the order for 6 months, and when instructions went out to send it as soon as possible, labour problems started in the UK and the machinery was delayed further.

A genius in charge

By this time Captain Basil Condon Battye of the Royal Engineers had taken charge of the project. He is a very interesting historical figure. During the first World War he invented a hand grenade that became famous as the ‘Battye bomb’, and was used a lot in France. He also proposed and supervised the construction of the 48MW Shanan powerhouse on the Uhl river in Mandi district.

After almost four years of construction, the Chaba plant started producing electricity on July 15, 1913. It was a marvel of engineering at the time as roads had been built especially for it, hills tunneled, one hilltop flattened, and a tank dug. Even with the imported machinery the project cost Rs 13,20,264, nominally the same as a small SUV these days.

Many aspirations bloom

The Chaba plant had opened with three generators producing a total of 750kW. Power from two generators (500kW) was reserved for the new “electrically-driven turbine pump” at Cherot, and the rest was used to fulfill people’s modern aspirations.

Starting in 1912, electric streetlights had been installed, and government buildings and private bungalows had been wired up. Each street pole was fitted with “one or two tungsten filament lamps, controlled at suitable spots by hand or automatic time switches.” The lamps produced light equivalent to LED lights of 7-10 watts each.

In the early days of municipal electricity, Shimla residents were charged one rupee per month for every light point in the house. The charges had to be paid regardless of whether the lights were used all day or not at all. Still, “quite a large number of shopkeepers on the Mall are already availing themselves of it.”

Along with electric lights, electric heaters also became popular rapidly. Initially, heaters were imported from Britain and were very expensive, but later FL Milne, an engineer with the Shimla electricity department, designed, patented and manufactured “radiators, water-boilers and several other types of heating apparatus” at “half to one-third of imported heaters”. The Shimla municipality offered special low rates on electricity for heaters to bring down the cost of heating to the level of coal fires.

Dream of electric mobility

By 1914, there was talk of introducing electric cars also. Until then, the people of Shimla used to go about on horseback or in rickshaws. Petrol cars were not suitable for the city’s steep roads, but electric cars were expected to have better gradability.

In 1915, Indian Engineering wrote: “There is no reason why small electric vehicles should not displace the rickshaw in hill stations, where these are in general use. Electric vehicles are now on the market that will take most of the gradients found in and about Simla.”

The American journal ‘Electric Vehicles’ wrote in its January 1917 issue: “In view of the attention now being given to the development of the electric automobile in this country, it is interesting to note that the matter is also exciting interest in Simla.”

The plans for electric cars were surprisingly modern. Shimla’s administrators thought the cars could be charged at night when demand for electricity fell. Battye proposed an electric car that would be 10.5 feet long and 5 feet wide – slightly larger than the hill rickshaws. With a 10-horsepower motor it would carry “two people and a third on the dicky seat” and climb “any hill in Simla over which the wheels could obtain a grip,” He also proposed having a removable battery in the car – the same idea is today known as “battery swapping”.

Insatiable appetite for power

The cars didn’t materialise but Shimla’s hunger for electricity went on increasing. The Chaba plant’s 750kW output was inadequate by April 1916. So, a fourth generator of 500kW was installed. Another 500kW generator was added in the 1920s. The proposed sixth generator was never installed as Nauti Khad’s water flow had reduced.

The water in the Nauti reservoir had been enough to run the 750kW powerhouse for eight hours, but as the capacity increased to 1.75MW, it was just enough for three hours and 20 minutes.

I have been to the Chaba plant thrice – in September 2000, May 2004 and June 2016 – and seen its turbines running. It’s a pleasure to watch the ageless machines spin and roar under the care of the powerhouse staff. Chaba’s output may be negligible compared with Shimla’s needs but it’s a living reminder of the summer capital’s tryst with electricity.

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It’s been 109 years of electricity in Shimla!

 

Chaba power plant overlooks the Sutlej near Tattapani/ May 2004

July 15 is an important date in the history of Shimla. It was on this day, in 1913, that the city got municipal electricity. The Viceregal Lodge and important installations like the waterworks had their ‘dynamos’ for years, but on July 15, 1913, electricity became a convenience that the common resident of the British summer capital in India could apply for and get.

Shimla could plug in because a little powerhouse at a place called Chaba, down in the valley of the Sutlej, came on stream. It was the first hydel plant in the region, built over four years. With just three 250kW Siemens generators at the time, it produced electricity that might not suffice for the needs of a few AC-running housing blocks these days, but a century ago 750kW was so much power that engineers were rushing to their drawing boards thinking up trams and electric cars, and other uses for it.

In time, two bigger generators of 500kW each were added, and Chaba became a 1.75MW installation. All five of those original units still roar dutifully every day, evidence of their sturdy construction and the engineering skills of Captain B C Battye’s team that built the power house.

I have visited this little gem in the hills thrice, and each time I have come away feeling happy because not only does the machinery recall an older, unhurried world, but also the people who keep it going show a degree of attachment to it that you do not associate with ‘sarkari’ jobs. They are proud of it, house-proud, in fact, the way you would be of a colonial inheritance up in Shimla city.

First visit: September 2000

I was a rookie reporter with a new bike. Early one morning I rode to Tattapani from Chandigarh (160km), knowing only that the place had hot water springs. What I did not know was that it had been ravaged in a flood a month earlier. On the night intervening July 31 and August 1, the Sutlej had risen in a cataclysmic flood that’s expected to occur only once in 61,000 years. The news did not get the space it deserved.

For a few hours, the river’s level increased by 60 feet over the normal – the height of a six-storey building. The torrent washed away 20 bridges on a 200km stretch and killed 135 people and 1,673 cattle. Property worth Rs 1,500 crore was destroyed. Tattapani, which at around 650m is almost the last point in the river’s steep mountainous course, was lucky because the flood waters reached it early morning and the villagers were able to scurry up the hill banks. But the village itself was a mess. The receding waters left rooms packed with silt up to the window sills.

A month later, people were still carting away the sand. The school ground and every single street were still under a grey, gritty blanket. My five-hour ride seemed wasted until, on the way back, I spotted the sign for Chaba. I rode there expecting to be turned away as you would be from any other dam or power installation in this country, but what I got was a surprised and warm welcome.

The powerhouse had also silted up in the flood and had to be closed, but the workmen had got it going again within weeks. That afternoon they were cleaning up and repairing the yard and their officer gave me a quick tour with permission to shoot at will. I stayed only about an hour because home was far away, but it remains one of my dearest travel memories.

Second visit: May 2004

In May 2004, I went on a tour of Himachal Pradesh’s Mandi district in my little Maruti 800. I chose to return by the Shimla road to revisit Tattapani and Chaba. On reaching Tattapani, I was surprised to find an arched concrete bridge being built over the river. Until then, there had only been a shaky suspension bridge of some antiquity over which vehicles passed one at a time.

The staff at Chaba was just as friendly. It was late afternoon and nearing time for all of the power plant’s five generators to come to life. Although it stands beside the Sutlej, the Chaba plant runs on water from a stream called Nauti Khad, and under full load (1.75 MW) the water in its reservoir lasts for only three hours and 20 minutes. So, through the day, only one small unit is run, while in the evening all five are turned on.

They turned on one of the big ones just to let me get a shot for the magazine I then wrote for. I walked around and found an old Chubb brass lock on a door, a ceiling fan with wooden blades inside an office, and a concrete bomb shelter built in 1942 that was being used as a store. The whole place was a living museum.

Last visit: June 2016

I passed twice through Tattapani in the monsoon of 2006 but couldn’t visit Chaba. The new bridge was ready and the old one had burnt down within a week of its opening, locals said. Its skeleton still hung over the fearsome gorge. But when I returned in 2016, not a trace of the old bridge remained. The turbulent Sutlej had become a vast lake because of Kol Dam that had come up downstream. It wasn’t what I had brought my wife and son to see. We turned back without stopping and went to Chaba.

The 4km link road to the hydel plant was busier, there were many new buildings and we drove past the plant without seeing it. Coming back, I found it a quieter place, desolate almost. Had it been shut down? We squeezed past the locked gate and found 3-4 staffers, and the same smiling welcome, and the same Chubb lock and the same Siemens generators. Everything working fine. Truly timeless.

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Why India had 10-year waiting lists for scooters in the 1970s

 

India is a major scooter and motorcycle exporter today. During April-September last year it shipped 22.5 lakh two-wheelers abroad. But back in the 1970s it didn’t make enough of these vehicles for its own use.

At the start of the 1970s the waiting period for a scooter in India was 7 years. With 2.6 lakh pending bookings and annual production of just 48,392 scooters in 1970, this wasn’t surprising.

If you booked a scooter before your wedding, you had school-going kids by the time your scooter arrived. And things got worse before they got better – by the end of the decade the waiting period had increased to 10 years.

Test Of Patience

Buying a scooter in the 1970s was a test of patience. It started with you writing an application to the dealer. Then you went to a post office, opened a savings account and made a security deposit of Rs 250. The post office gave you a passbook, which you submitted to the scooter dealer as proof of intent to purchase.

And then the long wait started. When your turn came after 7, 8 or 10 years, the dealer returned the passbook and “authorised” you to withdraw your Rs 250 to make the full payment. To check blackmarketing, you weren’t allowed to sell your new scooter in the first year of purchase without the state transport commissioner’s permission.

This procedure had been laid down in a 10-year-old rule called ‘Scooters (Distribution and Sale) Control Order, 1960.’

Shifting Goalposts

The scooter shortage had been building up over the years, and the only way out of it was to increase production, but the government’s policies and attitude made it difficult. 

Those days, any project that needed an investment of more than Rs 10 lakh in foreign exchange had to be cleared by the ministry for Industrial Development, Internal Trade and Company Affairs. In 1965–66, many industrialists had applied for permission to set up scooter factories in India, but the ministry sat on their applications.

Eventually, all of those private proposals were scrapped and the government came up with a new rule allowing private companies to make scooters only if they did so “without foreign technical know-how and without foreign assistance.” 

How was somebody with zero experience of automobile manufacturing to make a scooter without a technology tie-up? This rule was unfair also because Automobile Products of India (API) and Bajaj Auto had been making Lambretta and Vespa scooters, respectively, with foreign know-how, for years. And their components were still not fully localised. But the government said their licences were up for renewal in less than a year, after which they would be expected to make every part in India.

Despite this near-impossible condition of indigenous design and production, private businesses responded enthusiastically. By February 1970, there were 31 proposals before the government, but once again it sat on them. In May that year, then industries minister (later President of India) Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed said, “Within six months some decision will be taken.”

Scooters India Fiasco

But the decision that followed surprised everybody. The government announced it would set up its own scooter company “with indigenous know-how”. On May 11, 1970, Ahmed said in Parliament: “Jo public sector mein karkhana lagaya jayega, vah bhi yahin ke maal ke upar lagaya jayega jo ki hamare mulk mein banaya ja raha hai (all equipment used in the government scooter factory will be fully indigenous).”

For two years the government did nothing, and then, proving the absurdity of its own policy, it went and bought Italian scooter-maker Innocenti’s factory in Milan for $1.85 million (Rs 1.5 crore in those days at an exchange rate of about Rs 8 to a US dollar). It bought the “entire plant along with all auxiliaries as well as the technical know-how, including worldwide trademark and export rights… of M/s Innocenti, owners of the Lambretta brand”.

The government admitted that bringing a scooter to market from the drawing-board stage would have taken 7-8 years, so an outright purchase was the wiser option. It promised to make 1 lakh scooters every year to shorten the waiting lists. But that was wishful thinking as the first scooter from the government-owned company – Scooters India Limited – was not expected to roll out for at least two years.

Besides, in correcting one mistake the government had made another. It had sunk its money in a scooter that had lost the race to Vespa globally and was a distant second choice in India. As against 84,883 pending Lambretta bookings on March 31, 1970, there were 176,933 bookings for Vespa scooters. So Scooters India Limited never ran to capacity even in those shortage years. Instead, it ran up huge losses before it went bust. 

Queues Grew Longer

Meanwhile, the waiting period for a scooter went on increasing. A study group of the government’s Planning Commission estimated that 2.1 lakh scooters would be needed in 1973–74. The think tank National Council of Applied Economic Research (NCAER) said annual demand would increase to 243,000 scooters within eight years, by 1979–80. But yearly scooter production in 1971 was less than 70,000 units.

Once again, government policies were holding back production. API and Bajaj were allowed to make only 50,000 scooters each. When they  applied for permission to increase production capacity to 100,000 units each per annum, the government started reviewing their applications under the Monopolies and Restrictive Trade Practices Act.

As for the new companies that wanted to get into scooter manufacturing, the government told them it would grant licences based on “what price they are going to charge the consumer and whether they can efficiently manufacture the scooter or not”.

But the new licensees would also have faced the production cap of 50,000 scooters per annum, making it difficult for them to compete with API and Bajaj on price. So, the new suitors dispersed, Scooters India Limited disappointed, and the waiting period for a scooter in India gradually increased to 10 years.

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How airbags transformed from a feared device to a must-have

 

On November 28, 1996, a ghastly accident occurred in the US state of Idaho. A woman drove her car into the back of another car. Her one-year-old daughter, Alexandra, who was in the front passenger seat beside her, was decapitated. Her head was thrown “through the door window and into the parking lot,” news agency AP reported.

But it was not a high-speed crash. The two cars were inside a mall parking lot. The culprit was the passenger airbag in Alexandra’s mother’s car, which had expanded with its full force at 320 kmph.

By April 1997, airbags that were meant to save lives had killed 63 Americans, of whom 38 were children. Alexandra’s case was the goriest, but all were equally tragic. The American public was scared. Some 35 million cars and light trucks already had airbags, and from September 1, 1997, front airbags were going to be mandatory across America. There was a clamour for a switch to disable airbags.

Yet, here we are 25 years later when the number of airbags in a car is considered a measure of safety. People want airbags, and transport minister Nitin Gadkari is pushing carmakers to oblige. So, how did the once-feared airbag become a must-have? Let’s rewind 50 years.

Cushion for the careless

We now see airbags as the primary safety device in a car, but 50 years ago that was not the case. The seat belt was, and perhaps still is, the single most important safety device in your car. Although seat belts in the 1960s and 1970s were basic lap belts (there was no strap across the shoulder), they did save lives.

As Ford’s executive vice-president Fred Secrest told a US Senate Committee hearing on August 1, 1973: belts alone were more effective than airbags “primarily because belts keep people from being thrown out of the car…. The chances of an occupant being killed in an accident are four times greater if the occupant is ejected from the car.”

A front airbag only protected the occupant from injuries that occurred due to impact on the steering wheel and the windshield, but a three-point belt (shoulder+lap) was just as good. Secrest said: “The airbag was intended to be a superior crash pad, to reduce the severity of the second collision impact of a lapbelted occupant in a frontal collision.”

So, why were automobile companies spending millions of dollars developing airbags, and why was the Senate committee so eager to see them installed in cars?

The problem was, although cars came fitted with belts people didn’t use them. In 1972, just 20% of American car users wore seat belts even though 38,000 car occupants had been killed and 3.5 million injured in crashes that year. Wearing a seat belt was not compulsory, and imposing a countrywide seat belt rule was politically difficult.

That’s why lawmakers were keen to have a “passive restraint system” that would protect careless car occupants in a crash. Insurance firm Allstate’s director of automotive engineering, Jack Martens, told the committee, “The airbag is a device that works in spite of occupant apathy.”

The insurance industry said 66% of accidents were front-end collisions, and 89% of accident deaths occurred in the front seats. So, the focus was on providing front airbags. In fact, a rule to make airbags mandatory in all cars sold in the US after August 15, 1975 was announced but it was stalled by a court over doubts regarding the design of crash dummies used to test airbags.

Lifesaver from the start

Nonetheless, carmakers had extensively tested airbags by 1973. About 2,000 GM and Ford cars had covered 55 million kilometres between them, and there had been 12 crashes in which their airbags had deployed. The results were largely excellent. In one case, a Mercury (Ford) driver had driven into the back of a parked car at 109kmph without a seat belt. He had slid forward in his seat and fractured his knee but was unharmed otherwise.

A minor girl had driven her car into a railway sign. The impact had broken the engine mountings but the girl and her friend had walked away from the crash unharmed.

It won’t be allowed today but some of the early airbag testing was done using baboons in place of dummies. And to ensure that the gas that inflated the airbag was not toxic, monkeys were exposed to it in a sealed space for 30 minutes.

Though the airbags performed well, they were very much a work in progress. There were doubts about their reliability in very cold places like Alaska, and concerns about permanent hearing loss from their explosive deployment. But all the testers who had been in an accident said they had never heard the bag deploy as the crash itself had been louder.

So, how did the ‘benign’ airbags of the early 1970s turn into somewhat dangerous and unpredictable devices by the 1990s?

Powerful to a fault

Well, this was a result of trying to protect occupants who did not wear belts. US guidelines at the time required that airbags should be able to protect an “average adult male not wearing a seat belt”. But the average US male was heavy. The current figure is about 200 pounds or 90kg.

To stop a heavy man from crashing into the steering wheel during an accident, the airbag had to deploy with great force. At the 1973 Senate committee hearing Ronald H Haas from GM’s Oldsmobile division had said that in a 50kmph crash, the time available to deploy was 0.04 seconds, or one twenty-fifth of a second.

The force was simply too much for lighter people, such as children and old women. While airbags were saving lives, they were known to sometimes cause arm fractures in drivers. If the car wasn’t moving fast, and the occupant’s body did not have enough forward momentum, the airbag “punched” their head backward with too much force. This could cause injuries to the face and the head, and also make the neck snap backwards. That’s how little Alexandra Greer had been decapitated.

The good news was that by the mid-1990s seat belt use had risen across the US, so experts advised depowering airbags by 20-35%. Another suggestion was to improve the way airbags were folded and tucked into the steering and the dashboard. The unravelling folds could be used to direct an airbag’s force away from the occupant.

Advanced sensors that could detect the speed of the vehicle, the size and weight of an occupant, and whether they were belted or not, also helped in making airbags safer with time.

A boon despite flaws

The airbag is still not perfect, and unlike a seat belt you can’t find out how good it is till you have an accident. And even if engineers develop the perfect airbag, the possibility of manufacturing defects can’t be wished away.

The Takata airbag recall that started in 2016 affects 67 million airbags in 42 million vehicles and is still not complete. These airbags sometimes malfunction in hot and humid conditions, especially when they are old. They contain an ammonium-nitrate-based propellant that can ignite spontaneously, sending metal shards from the airbag flying around the cabin.

At last count, faulty Takata airbags had killed at least 27 people worldwide since 2002, according to Consumer Reports. But on the other hand, airbags have saved at least 50,000 lives since 1987 in the US alone. So, on balance, the airbag is a device that you would rather have in your car.

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Here's proof Hyderabad was called Bhagnagar centuries ago

There might not be conclusive evidence to say Hyderabad was first called Bhagyanagar, but there is enough evidence to show Bhagnagar was its common name from almost the beginning

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In the 1660s, a French traveller named Jean de Thevenot visited the kingdom of Golconda and wrote: “The capital city of this kingdom is called Bhagnagar; the Persians call it Hyderabad; it is 14 or 15 leagues from Bijapur.”

About 20 years before him, a more famous French traveller, Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, had passed through the kingdom and noted:

“Bhagnagar is the name of the capital town of this kingdom, but it is commonly called Golconda, from the name of the fortress which is only 2 coss distant from it.... Bhagnagar...was commenced by the great-grandfather of the king who reigns at present, at the request of one of his wives whom he loved passionately…”

Is it possible that Hyderabad was never called Bhagnagar or Bhagyanagar, and yet 350 or 370 years ago travellers to the city heard this name, and were convinced it was the proper name they ought to record in their chronicles?

Quibbles Against It

Opponents of the Bhagyanagar theory say these travellers probably meant ‘Baghnagar’ not ‘Bhagnagar’ as Hyderabad was a city of gardens (bagh), but how could all of them have mixed up the sounds ‘bh’ and ‘gh’?

It occurs again in the memoir of the Abbé Carré, who visited Hyderabad six or seven years after Thevenot: “I also visited the large town of Bhagnagar, where I went about more freely, as it is a very spacious town, situated in flat country, watered by a fine river…”

Even if we grant that all the Frenchmen spelt ‘Baghnagar’ wrong, how could Aqil Khan Razi, a contemporary of Aurangzeb and a scholar or Persian, have mixed up the sounds in his Waqiat-i-Alamgiri, an account of the wars between Aurangzeb and his brothers? Razi wrote: “It was not till the prince had reached Bhagnagar that Qutub-l-Mulk learnt of the real state of affairs.”

And A Weak Assault

It is clear that through the 17th century, at least, Bhagnagar was a widely used name for Hyderabad. And stronger ‘evidence’ might be found in the writing of the man who denied the Bhagnagar idea most stoutly.

In his book ‘Muhammad-Quli Qutb Shah, founder of Haidarabad', Professor Haroon Khan Sherwani says that Faizi, the Mughal court’s agent in the Deccan during 1591-94 (late in Akbar’s reign), sent this dispatch: “Ahmad Quli is steeped in Sh’ism, and has built a city, Bhagnagar by name, after Bhagmati, the old prostitute who has been his mistress for a long time.”

To dismiss the Bhagmati-Bhagnagar legend as fiction, we must now presume that Faizi misled the Mughal court. He deliberately gave a false name to the city and also spun the yarn of Baghmati. And he did this right after the city’s founding when the right name and legend would have reached Agra from other sources also.

Was Faizi bent on career suicide, or worse? Sherwani thinks he was prejudiced against the Shia sultans of Golconda. He says the Bhagmati-Bhagnagar legend is false because these name do not occur in the semi-official history of the Golconda sultans compiled under Quli Qutub Shah’s successor.

But all such histories tell sanitised stories. It would have obviously left out embarrassing details of the previous king’s drinking and philandering.

Sherwani also says coins struck at Hyderabad in 1603 bear the name Hyderabad, not Bhagnagar. No coin minted at Bhagnagar has been found. But again, it is well known that Muhammad-Quli Qutb Shah renamed the city seven years after its founding. That would be in 1596 or 1598, depending on whether you take 1589 or 1591 as the founding year.

City of Fortune

In his 1927 book ‘Landmarks of the Deccan’, Syed Ali Asgar Bilgrami gives another reason to believe that Hyderabad was first called Bhagnagar. “Seven years after the completion of the city, ‘Farkhunda Bunyad’ became its chronogrammatic epithet,” he writes. This Persian name means “city of fortune”, which is a literal translation of Bhagnagar/Bhagyanagar.

While these excerpts support the belief that Hyderabad was once called Bhagnagar or Bhagyanagar, they do not in any way prove the existence of Bhagmati. However, the January 1943 issue of the journal ‘Islamic Culture’ “published under the authority of H.E.H. The Nizam’s Government” says:

“It is a pity that no local evidence comes to explain with any useful information the life of Bhagmati. The complete poetical works of Sultan Muhammad Quli Qutb Shah, which have recently been published under the patronage of Nawab Salar Jang Bahadur, do not bear any reference to her name except to that of a mistress of the name of Haidar Mahal. No doubt, there is a mention of Shahr-i-Haidar which literally can be interpreted as Hyderabad and it was perhaps named after that mistress who had been styled as Haidar Mahal in his poetry.”

So the story about Bhagmati being conferred the title Haidar Mahal might have a grain of truth. It just might.

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Is sodium about to dethrone lithium in the battery universe?

A battery multiverse is more likely. Lithium will rule applications where price is not a barrier, and sodium those where battery weight does not matter

Whether it’s an ordinary power plug or the charger of your phone, they bear the letter ‘V’ for volt – the electricity unit named after the Italian physicist Alessandro Volta. Volta made the first electric battery in the year 1800. He probably didn’t imagine a future when the world would be powered by batteries, but here we are two centuries later.

With the Earth getting hotter, time is running out for coal and other fossil fuels. We will be using more and more renewables like the Sun and the wind to power our homes, offices, factories and vehicles. But these sources of energy are not consistent. There are cloudy days and still nights. So, renewables work best with some kind of energy storage. Usually a battery that stores surplus energy when it is available, and supplies it when the Sun isn’t shining, or the wind isn’t blowing.

Sodium’s Moment

One interesting thing about Volta’s battery was that it used either ordinary salt water or caustic soda as an electrolyte between plates of different metals. Both salt and ‘caustic’ are compounds of the metal called sodium. Lithium, the wunderkind of modern batteries, wasn’t discovered until 17 years later.

After debuting on the battery stage, sodium left the scene like a one-song wonder. But it seems to be on a comeback tour now. Last year ended with Mukesh Ambani’s Reliance Industries picking up a $135-million stake in the British firm Faradion that has a head start in the field of sodium-ion batteries.

Other firms like California-based Natron (the name’s derived from sodium’s Latin name natrium) and China’s CATL have also rapidly improved their sodium-ion technologies. And there are many others.

So, why this sudden interest in sodium batteries? Are they better than lithium batteries? Will they allow cars to go 1000km on a single charge? Will they give your phone a week’s battery life?

Poor Man’s Lithium

Not really. Sodium and lithium are cousins on the periodic table. They live in the leftmost block. Lithium is one floor above sodium, and they behave alike in many ways, but lithium always tops the battery class. So sodium is the poor man’s lithium, and that’s what has made it so attractive now.

The problem with lithium is that its demand and price have hit the stratosphere. Lithium is a relatively scarce metal but everything from shavers to laptops and electric cars uses a lithium battery these days. So, the price of lithium hydroxide, which is a key raw material for making lithium-ion batteries, has shot up from about $4,500 in 2012 to almost $80,000. That’s why Elon Musk, the world’s richest man who needs tonnes of lithium to make Tesla cars and giant storage batteries, tweeted in April: “Price of lithium has gone to insane levels!”

But sodium hydroxide was at just $800 per tonne at the time. That’s to be expected because there’s hundreds of times more sodium than lithium in Earth’s crust, and it’s everywhere. With its vast coastline, India has an inexhaustible supply.

Not The First Choice

It’s abundant but sodium has some downsides as a battery material. Ounce for ounce, sodium batteries store less charge than lithium batteries. So you need a heavier battery for the same capacity. That’s why when the uses for rechargeable batteries were limited – camcorders and feature phones – scientists focused on developing lithium battery technology. In fact the 2019 Nobel in chemistry went to scientists who had worked in this field.

Sony launched the first gadget with a rechargeable lithium battery – a handheld video camera – in 1991. Since then, lithium batteries have improved a lot. The latest ones can be charged and discharged thousands of times. Current sodium batteries have a lot of catching up to do in this respect.

There’s also the question of scale. Although lithium is expensive, the scale at which lithium batteries are made keeps them affordable. Sodium batteries are expected to be 40% cheaper eventually, but that won’t happen until manufacturing scales up.

Made For Heavy Lifting

But sodium ion batteries have many advantages besides the promise of lower prices. Sodium itself is easy to extract and its batteries do not require cobalt – a metal mined at great human cost in central Africa.

While sodium batteries don’t store as much energy as the latest lithium batteries, by weight, they are far better than lead acid batteries used to start cars, and have reached the level where lithium batteries were a few years ago.

Faradion claims its batteries store about 160 watt-hours of energy per kilogram, which is similar to lithium batteries based on the older ‘lithium iron phosphate’ (LFP) technology. And with money pouring in for research, sodium batteries will keep getting better, even if they never catch up with lithium batteries.

Unlike lithium batteries, sodium batteries can be discharged completely for transportation, which eliminates the risk of fire in transit. They lose very little charge in cold conditions, and best of all, as they are very similar to lithium batteries, they can be made in the same factories without major retooling.

So, coming back to the question – is sodium about to dethrone lithium in the battery universe? The answer is they both might be kings in a battery multiverse. Lithium will remain the first choice for powerful cars, laptops and phones, while sodium will be a better fit for applications where high battery weight or low energy density do not matter. Giant storage batteries that power the grid, home inverters, and short-range vehicles like e-rickshaws and city cabs could all be run on it.

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