Rain measure.

THE RAIN GAUGE THAT CAME BEFORE KOREA

Seventeen centuries before Korea's famous Cheugugi, India was already measuring rain.

Look at the humble bowl in the picture.

It does not look like a great scientific instrument.

But according to the Arthaśāstra of Kauṭilya, written in the Mauryan period, a bowl specifically meant for measuring rainfall was to be placed in front of the state storehouse.

It was called a Varṣamāna — literally, a measure of rain.

And Kauṭilya did not merely say, "Keep a bowl outside."

He specified its size.

The Arthaśāstra says that a kuṇḍa, or bowl, with a mouth one aratni wide — 24 aṅgulas, approximately 18 inches — should be installed as a rain gauge.

This is striking because the Arthaśāstra was not a book on meteorology.

It was a manual of government, administration, agriculture, taxation, trade, defence and public finance.

Rain mattered because agriculture mattered.

And agriculture was the foundation of the state.

Kautilya even knew that different parts of India received different amounts of rain

In Book 2, Chapter 24, while discussing agriculture, Kauṭilya gives regional rainfall figures.

For dry regions, he gives 16 droṇas.

Moist regions received one and a half times that amount.

Aśmaka is given 13½ droṇas.

Avanti is given 23 droṇas.

Some western and Himalayan regions are described as receiving very abundant rainfall.

He goes further.

Rainfall was not simply about how much rain fell.

When it fell mattered too.

Kauṭilya says that a good rainy season was one in which approximately one-third of the rain came in the first and last months, with two-thirds coming in the middle months.

In other words, ancient Indian administrators were thinking about rainfall distribution, not merely rainfall totals.

And the amount of rain was linked to agricultural decisions.

Depending on whether rainfall was plentiful or scarce, the superintendent of agriculture was instructed to choose crops requiring more or less water.

Then came Korea's Cheugugi

Nearly 1,700 years later, in 1441 CE, Korea developed the celebrated Cheugugi during the reign of King Sejong.

By 1442, Korea had established a nationwide system of standardized rainfall measurement.

The instrument had fixed dimensions. Rainwater was collected in it, its depth was measured with a standardized ruler, and rainfall observations were recorded and reported from government offices across the country.

This is why the Korean Cheugugi is rightly regarded as a landmark in the history of systematic quantitative rainfall observation.

But the Indian story is older.

The remarkable point is not simply:

"India had a rain gauge before Korea."

The more interesting point is why the rain gauge existed.

Rain was data.

Data was administration.

For Kauṭilya, rainfall was not an abstract scientific curiosity.

It affected:

what could be planted,

how much could be harvested,

how irrigation should be managed,

and ultimately how the state could plan its agricultural economy.

The Arthaśāstra also records agricultural taxation in terms of produce, while irrigation itself was subject to different charges depending on how water was obtained.

So the ancient Indian state was already thinking in a remarkably practical chain:

Rain → Water → Crops → Produce → Revenue.

That is the real story of the Varṣamāna.

It was not a bowl sitting in a courtyard merely because someone was curious about the weather.

It was a small instrument embedded inside a much larger system of agricultural and administrative knowledge.

And perhaps that is what makes the little bowl so fascinating.

Sometimes the history of science is not found in a grand observatory.

Sometimes it is found in a simple bowl placed outside a granary —

waiting for the monsoon.

Permission to pause.

 There is a special kind of happiness in simply watching rain.

Not travelling.

Not doing.

Not achieving.

Just sitting quietly and watching the sky pour itself onto the earth.

The sound on the roof, the silver curtains of water, the smell of wet earth, the leaves suddenly looking greener, the little rivers forming along the road—all of it seems to slow the world down.

Rain gives us permission to pause.

Perhaps that is its greatest pleasure: nothing is expected of us while it rains.

We can sit by a window with a cup of coffee or tea, watch the drops race down the glass, listen to the rhythm outside—and for a few precious minutes, simply be.

Rain is nature's way of saying:

“Come. Sit quietly. Watch. You don't have to do anything.”

THE ART OF PAUSING — AND WATCHING NATURE

We are always rushing.

We wake up thinking about what has to be done. We move from one task to another, one message to another, one responsibility to another. Even when we are sitting quietly, our minds are often somewhere else.

And in the middle of all this activity, something extraordinary is happening outside our window.

It is raining.

And we may not even notice.

There is a quiet pleasure in stopping whatever we are doing and simply watching.

Watch the rain fall.

Watch the first light of dawn slowly spread across the sky.

Watch the sun rise, changing the colour of the world minute by minute.

Watch the sun set, when the sky seems to pause between day and night.

Watch the clouds gather and travel.

Watch lightning suddenly illuminate the entire sky.

Then listen to the thunder that follows.

Watch a bird sitting quietly on a branch.

Watch leaves moving in the wind.

Watch a flower open in the morning.

None of these things are asking for our attention.

And perhaps that is why they are so precious.

We have forgotten how to watch

We are accustomed to screens that constantly demand our attention.

Something is always happening.

A notification arrives. A message appears. A video begins. Someone wants a response.

Nature is different.

Nature does not send us a notification saying:

“Look! The sun is rising.”

If we are not looking, we miss it.

The sunrise happens whether we see it or not.

The rain falls whether we stop to listen or not.

The evening sky changes colour whether we notice it or not.

Nature is constantly offering us small spectacles—and asking nothing in return.

Pausing is not wasting time

We sometimes feel guilty about sitting and doing nothing.

But perhaps watching nature is not doing nothing.

It is allowing ourselves to be present.

For a few minutes, we are not planning tomorrow or remembering yesterday.

We are simply watching what is happening now.

Rain drops falling on leaves.

Light moving across a wall.

Clouds changing shape.

A bird taking flight.

The first star appearing in the evening.

These tiny moments bring us back to ourselves.

Even thunder and lightning have something to teach us

A storm can be dramatic.

Lightning tears across the darkness. Thunder rolls through the sky. Rain comes down with astonishing force.

And then, gradually, everything becomes quiet again.

There is something humbling about watching such power.

We realise that the world is much larger than our little schedules and worries.

The sky does not hurry.

The clouds do not worry about reaching their destination.

The sun rises without an alarm clock.

The moon appears without being invited.

The seasons change without asking our permission.

Nature has its own rhythm.

Perhaps we need to rediscover ours.

A small daily practice

We don't need a holiday in the mountains to experience this.

Just pause.

For five minutes, put the phone away.

Stand near a window.

Look at the sky.

Watch the rain.

Feel the morning breeze.

Listen to the birds.

Look at the changing light.

At sunset, don't immediately turn away.

Watch the last rays disappear.

And if there is thunder and lightning, instead of merely closing the windows and moving on, stand safely indoors and watch the drama of the sky.

These are free gifts.

And they are available every day.

Perhaps this is one meaning of being alive

Life is not only the big events we remember.

It is also these tiny moments we almost overlook.

A rainy afternoon.

A golden sunrise.

A violet evening.

The sudden flash of lightning.

The sound of distant thunder.

A cool breeze after a hot day.

A bird calling from a tree.

Sometimes happiness does not arrive as an event.

Sometimes it is simply noticed.

Perhaps we don't need to add more things to our lives.

Perhaps, sometimes, we only need to pause long enough to see what is already there.

And nature, patiently and generously, keeps putting on its show.

Every single day.

Exposed.

THEY LAUGHED AT HIS BODY—THEN ASHTAVAKRA EXPOSED THEIR WISDOM

They called themselves learned men.

They knew the scriptures. They could quote sacred texts, debate philosophy and argue subtle points of knowledge.

Then Ashtavakra entered King Janaka’s court.

The scholars looked at his body—bent and twisted in eight places—and burst into laughter.

They saw his body.

Ashtavakra saw their blindness.

And he laughed too.

The court was puzzled.

Why was this young sage laughing when everyone else was laughing at him?

Then came his unforgettable reply.

“I thought I had entered a gathering of wise men. But I find only cobblers here.”

The insult was deliberate—but it was not about their profession.

A cobbler looks at leather.

These scholars, despite all their learning, were looking only at the skin.

They had examined the outer covering and missed the one who lived within it.

They could see whether a body was straight or crooked, beautiful or unattractive, young or old. But they had failed to see the Ātman, the Self, which has no crookedness, no beauty, no ugliness, no age and no physical form.

That was Ashtavakra's lesson.

Knowledge is not the same as wisdom

A person may know hundreds of scriptures and still remain trapped in appearances.

We may know philosophy and yet judge people by their clothes.

We may speak of equality and yet notice someone's status first.

We may discuss the eternal Self and still reduce a human being to age, beauty, wealth, education or physical form.

Words can fill the mind without transforming the way we see.

That is why the story is so uncomfortable.

The crookedness everyone noticed was visible on Ashtavakra's body.

But the deeper crookedness was invisible.

It was in the eyes of those who laughed.

Ashtavakra had not come to prove that his body was beautiful.

He came to show that the body is not the measure of the person.

The body belongs to the world of changing forms.

The Self is the witness of those forms.

And the moment we mistake the outer form for the whole person, we have already stopped seeing.

Perhaps that is why this ancient story still speaks so sharply today.

We have more information than ever before.

We can read thousands of books, listen to lectures, quote philosophers and argue endlessly about what is true.

But the real test of knowledge is much simpler:

Has it changed the way we see another human being?

If we can see only the surface, we may be learned.

If we can see beyond the surface, we are beginning to become wise.

Ashtavakra entered the court with a crooked body.

He left behind a perfectly straight question:

When we look at another person, what are we actually seeing?

The body?

The personality?

The reputation?

Or the same consciousness that looks through our own eyes?

That is the question Ashtavakra placed before King Janaka's court—and, centuries later, before us.

Inspired by the traditional story of Ashtavakra in King Janaka's court. The “cobbler” episode appears in traditional retellings; the wording here is a modern rendering of its teaching, not a direct quotation from the Ashtavakra Gita.

The One Who Cannot Be Seen

If the Ātman can never be seen, how do we know that it exists?

It sounds like a simple question.

But it hides a remarkable assumption:

Must everything that exists be something that can be seen?

We see a tree.

We see a river.

We see another person.

We can hear music, smell a flower, touch a stone.

And then we look for the Ātman.

“Show me the Self.”

But Vedānta asks us to stop and examine the question itself.

Who is asking to see?

The eye sees the world.

But the eye itself is known.

The mind watches thoughts arise and disappear.

But what knows the movement of the mind?

A thought comes:

“I am happy.”

Another comes:

“I am worried.”

Another:

“I don't understand this.”

Each thought changes.

Yet something knows that the thoughts have changed.

Even doubt is known.

So who is the Knower?

This is where the Upaniṣadic teaching becomes extraordinary.

The Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad says that the Imperishable is “never seen, but is the Witness; never heard, but is the Hearer; never thought, but is the Thinker; never known, but is the Knower.” 

Why can it not be seen?

Because it is not an object before the eyes.

It is the very principle by which seeing is possible.

We cannot turn the Seer into another object and place it in front of the Seer.

That would be like asking:

“Show me the eyes with which I am seeing.”

A mirror can show the appearance of the eyes, but the seeing itself is something different.

The same reasoning is extended to the mind.

We can observe our thoughts.

Therefore, in this philosophical inquiry, the observer cannot simply be identified with any particular thought.

And this is where the word Ātman becomes so profound.

The Self is not being described as another thing hidden somewhere inside the body.

It is being approached as the Witness of experience.

The lamp does not need another lamp

A lamp illuminates other objects.

We don't normally ask:

“What lamp will illuminate the lamp?”

The sun does not require another sun standing beside it to make it visible.

In the same spirit, Vedānta says that Consciousness does not need another consciousness standing outside it to reveal it.

The question has turned completely around.

Instead of asking:

“Where is the Ātman? Show it to me.”

the teaching asks:

“Who is the one asking to see?”

And suddenly the search becomes an inward inquiry.

Not a search for an object.

A recognition of the Seer.

A small historical note

The beautiful image circulating with the Aṣṭāvakra–Bandi conversation should therefore be understood as a modern philosophical reconstruction, rather than a verbatim exchange from the Mahābhārata.

The actual Aṣṭāvakra–Bandi debate in the Vana Parva is itself fascinating: the two engage in an extraordinary contest of numbers, Vedic references and riddles, progressing from one to thirteen. 

The philosophical idea expressed in the image, however, has a very strong Upaniṣadic foundation, particularly in the teachings of Yājñavalkya in the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad. 

And perhaps that makes the thought even more beautiful.

A question attributed to Aṣṭāvakra may have been reconstructed in modern language—but the question it raises is genuinely ancient.

Who is the one who sees?

And if you follow that question far enough,

you may discover that the seeker and the Seer were never two.

Rainbow without rain.

Mars Has Rainbow-Colored Clouds 

Look up at the sky on Earth and a rainbow usually means one thing — sunlight passing through raindrops.

But on Mars, something wonderfully different can happen.

NASA’s Curiosity rover has photographed extraordinarily high clouds shimmering with delicate shades of red, green, blue and purple. They look almost like tiny rainbows floating in the Martian sky.

These are called iridescent clouds, sometimes described as “mother-of-pearl” clouds.

Not a rainbow — but something even stranger

The colours are not produced by falling raindrops.

Instead, sunlight interacts with cloud particles that are remarkably similar in size. As light passes through and around these particles, it is scattered and diffracted, producing soft pastel colours.

It is rather like nature painting the clouds with a very delicate brush.

Clouds made of dry ice

And here comes the really surprising part.

These clouds are found extraordinarily high in the Martian atmosphere — NASA’s observations indicate heights of roughly 60–80 kilometres above the surface.

At such extreme altitudes and in the extremely cold Martian atmosphere, the clouds are believed to contain frozen carbon dioxide — dry ice.

So the beautiful coloured clouds are not made of ordinary water droplets like many clouds on Earth.

Clouds that shine after sunset

There is another beautiful trick.

These high clouds can remain illuminated by the Sun even after the Martian surface below has fallen into darkness.

While Curiosity's surroundings may already be in twilight, the clouds high overhead can still catch sunlight.

They become almost like ghostly, glowing clouds in the evening sky.

Why are scientists excited?

The colours are not merely beautiful.

They give scientists information about the size and behaviour of the cloud particles.

By studying the changing colours and patterns, researchers can learn more about how Martian clouds form, grow and evolve — and therefore about the atmosphere of Mars itself.

It is a wonderful reminder that science often begins with simply noticing something beautiful.

Mars may look like a barren red world from millions of kilometres away.

Yet its sky can still surprise us with clouds that shimmer like mother-of-pearl.

The Red Planet has its own rainbow — but without rain. 

Avte varshe lokariya.

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Kathi

 Kathi — A Warrior Name That Became the Name of a Land”

The Kathi history of Saurashtra is fascinating, particularly because the Kathis were not simply one conventional “dynasty.” They were a group of Kathi Kshatriya clans who gradually established themselves as chiefs and landed rulers across Saurashtra. The region itself eventually became widely known as Kathiawar, a name associated with the prominence of the Kathis. 

The Kathis of Saurashtra — A People Who Gave Their Name to a Region

The peninsula we call Saurashtra today has had many names through history. In the colonial period it became widely known as Kathiawar—a name linked to the prominence of the Kathi people in the peninsula, particularly from the medieval period onward. 

Where did the Kathis come from?

This is where history becomes less certain.

Kathi traditions and older historical accounts preserve several different origin stories. Some traditions connect them with Sindh and earlier settlements farther north, while older colonial writers proposed still other origins. Modern historical treatment is cautious because the evidence is scattered and the genealogical traditions were recorded much later.

What is reasonably clear is that Kathis were established in Saurashtra by the medieval period, and by the 17th–18th centuries they had become an important political and military force there. 

An interesting early reference places Kathis in the service of the Chudasama rulers in the 11th century. Later traditions describe their movement through Sindh and Kutch into Saurashtra. 

The three great Kathi houses

The Kathi political tradition became particularly associated with three major branches:

Wala (Vala)

Khachar

Khumān

These developed into numerous branches and landed estates.

The Wala Kathis, for example, ruled or controlled places such as Chital, Barwala and Khari-Bagasara, while Khachar Kathis became particularly prominent around Chotila, Jasdan and neighbouring territories. 

The story of Chotila is particularly interesting. Historical district material records that the Khachar Kathis conquered the area from the Parmars, and many Khachar families subsequently traced their origins to the Chotila house. 

From warriors to rulers

The early Kathi chiefs were known for their horsemen, cattle, mobility and martial organisation. Older accounts describe a period when Kathi chiefs conducted raids and fought over territory.

But over generations many of these warrior groups became settled landed rulers.

This is an important transition:

warrior clan → territorial chief → landed estate → princely state

By the 18th and 19th centuries, Saurashtra contained a remarkable mosaic of small and large states, many ruled by different communities—Kathis, Rajputs, Jadejas, Gohils, Jhalas, Chudasamas and others.

The Kathis therefore became one of several important ruling communities of Saurashtra, rather than rulers of the entire peninsula. 

A fascinating Kathi tradition — land was divided

One feature makes Kathi political history particularly interesting.

Many Kathi estates followed a system of partible inheritance. Instead of the eldest son inheriting everything, ancestral territory could be divided among male heirs.

This produced an extraordinary political landscape of small estates, talukas and chiefdoms.

A ruler's sons could therefore become independent shareholders or chiefs of portions of the ancestral territory.

This helps explain why Saurashtra eventually had such a remarkable number of small princely states and estates. 

The Kathis and the British

By the 19th century, the British had established political control over the region without directly abolishing all its traditional rulers.

Kathiawar became a Political Agency, through which the British supervised the numerous princely states and estates.

The Kathi chiefs retained varying degrees of authority, land and prestige, although their independence was increasingly limited.

The old warrior world gradually changed into one of Darbars, landed estates, revenue administration and princely politics.

The title Darbar, still familiar in Gujarat, was used as an honorific for chiefs and members of the landed nobility, including Kathis and Rajputs. 

And then came 1947

Independence brought the end of this extraordinary political fragmentation.

In 1948, the numerous princely states and estates of Kathiawar were brought together into the United State of Kathiawar, subsequently called Saurashtra State. There were more than 200 princely states and estates in the peninsula. 

Saurashtra later became part of Bombay State and, in 1960, became part of the newly created state of Gujarat.

What makes the Kathi story special?

It is not really the story of a single dynasty like the Cholas or Chalukyas.

It is the story of a warrior community becoming a network of ruling clans, spreading across Saurashtra and eventually giving its name to the region in common historical usage.

And there is a lovely geographical connection:

Saurashtra → Kathiawar → Gujarat

The name Kathiawar itself preserves the memory of the Kathis' centuries-long presence in the peninsula. 

 Kachchhi people — the people of Kutch

Kachchh (Kutch) is the large region in northwestern Gujarat between the Rann of Kutch and the Arabian Sea. Its people developed a distinctive culture and, importantly, the Kachchhi language, which is closely related to Sindhi and belongs to the Indo-Aryan language family.

Kutch was historically a crossroads rather than an isolated region. Traders, pastoralists, agricultural communities and seafaring groups interacted with Sindh, Rajasthan, Gujarat and the Arabian Sea world.

The region came under the Jadeja Rajputs in the later medieval period. The Jadejas established themselves as the dominant ruling house, with Bhuj eventually becoming the principal political centre.

So a person saying “I am Kachchhi” can simply mean:

“My ancestral homeland is Kutch.”

It does not necessarily identify a caste.

Kachhi/Kachchi as a community or caste name

This is where things become more complicated.

Kachhi/Kachhi is also used as a community name in parts of western and northern India. Historically, many Kachhis were associated with agriculture, vegetable cultivation and horticulture.

The name is sometimes connected in popular explanations with kachcha—cultivation of land or produce—but we should be careful about treating that as the definite origin of the community's name.

Kachhi communities are found not only in Gujarat but also in Rajasthan, Madhya Pradesh, Uttar Pradesh and other parts of India, with regional differences in identity and customs.

And there is an important distinction:

Kachchhi = connected with Kutch

whereas

Kachhi = a community name in several parts of India

They can overlap in some families or historical contexts, but they are not automatically synonymous.

 Kachchhis who migrated from Kutch

This is perhaps the most interesting part for your series.

Kutch has historically had considerable migration and commercial mobility. People moved from Kutch into:

Ahmedabad

Rajkot

Jamnagar

Surat

Mumbai

Sindh

East Africa

the Gulf

and other parts of India.

Many retained their Kachchhi language, food, customs and community networks even after settling elsewhere.

This is why you can meet someone in Mumbai, Ahmedabad or even outside India who says:

“We are Gujarati, but originally we are Kachchhi.”

That is a regional/ancestral identity, not necessarily a caste identity.

And this gives us a very nice distinction

Name

What it generally refers to

Kachchhi

A person from Kutch / Kachchh

Kachchhi language

Language traditionally spoken in Kutch

Kachhi/Kachchi

Also a community/caste name in several parts of India

Kathi

A distinct warrior/landholding community historically prominent in Saurashtra

Kathiawar

Historical name for the Saurashtra peninsula, associated with the prominence of the Kathis

So Kathi and Kachchhi are not the same people.

And there is a beautiful geographical story here: Kutch and Kathiawar are neighbouring but historically distinct regions, both shaped by migration, trade, warrior clans, pastoral communities and princely states.

For your surname series, I would actually suggest a separate article:

“Kachchhi — When a Homeland Became an Identity".