You Can’t Bomb a Currency: Why the Venezuela Narrative Misreads Power in 2026

 

A story has been circulating, asserted confidently in some quarters, that the United States struck Venezuela on January 3, 2026, seized Nicolás Maduro, and announced plans to “run” the country during a transition. Whether framed as breaking news or treated as fait accompli, the narrative is revealing regardless of its factual status. It exposes how readily we reach for an old explanatory crutch, the petrodollar. The claim goes like this, Washington, fearing de-dollarization, used force to reassert control over oil and thereby defend the dollar’s supremacy.

That reading is seductive. It is also wrong.

To see why, it helps to separate myth from mechanism and to ground the analysis in history, real, documented cases where oil, currency, and U.S. power intersected. When we do, a different picture emerges, one in which spectacle, domestic politics, and performative dominance matter far more than any coherent strategy to “save” the dollar.

Start with the petrodollar mythos itself. Yes, in the mid-1970s the U.S. and Saudi Arabia struck arrangements that entrenched dollar invoicing in global oil trade. And yes, “petrodollar recycling” channelled oil exporters’ surpluses into U.S. Treasuries, helping finance American deficits. But even at its peak, oil pricing was never the sole pillar of dollar dominance. The dollar prevailed because the United States offered what others could not, deep and liquid capital markets, a credible legal system, and unmatched financial infrastructure.

History is instructive here. When Iraq under Saddam Hussein switched some oil sales to euros in 2000, it did not dent the dollar’s reserve status. The euro did not surge, the dollar did not fall. Likewise, when Libya experimented with non-dollar oil transactions in the 2000s, global currency markets barely noticed. These episodes mattered symbolically, not structurally. Currency hegemony is not a light switch you flip by changing the invoicing unit of a few million barrels a day.

Contrast that with moments when the dollar truly wobbled. The Nixon Shock of 1971, ending gold convertibility, was a monetary event, not an oil war. The Volcker shock of the early 1980s, which restored confidence in the dollar through punishing interest rates, had nothing to do with crude supply. More recently, the dollar’s resilience after the 2008 financial crisis rested on the Federal Reserve’s role as global dollar lender of last resort, not on any assertion of control over hydrocarbons. When stress hits, the world runs toward dollar liquidity, not toward oil fields.

Oil itself has also changed position in the hierarchy of power. The 1973 oil embargo could bring advanced economies to their knees, the 2020 pandemic oil crash could not. Electrification, efficiency gains, and diversified energy portfolios have reduced the leverage of any single producer. The United States, now one of the world’s largest oil producers, is less vulnerable to supply shocks than at any point since World War II. If oil were still the master lever of monetary power, the shale revolution would have translated into an unassailable petrodollar renaissance. It didn’t, because the lever no longer works that way.

What has changed, and where real pressure on U.S. financial power exists, is payments architecture. This is where de-dollarization actually lives. China’s Cross-Border Interbank Payment System (CIPS) has grown steadily as a renminbi clearing layer. The BIS-backed mBridge project has demonstrated real-time, atomic settlement across central bank digital currencies. These systems don’t require oil, coups, or airstrikes. They require code, coordination, and patient institutional buy in. History again offers a parallel, SWIFT did not become dominant because NATO bombed Brussels, it became dominant because banks voluntarily joined the most efficient network available.

Venezuela’s role in this landscape is often overstated. It does hold vast reserves. over 300 billion barrels by common estimates, and it has talked loudly about escaping the dollar, pricing oil in yuan, and aligning with BRICS-adjacent initiatives. But talk is not transformation. Venezuela’s production capacity has been crippled for years by mismanagement and sanctions. Even at full tilt, Venezuelan crude cannot anchor a new monetary order. If controlling barrels were sufficient, Russia, one of the world’s top energy exporters, would not feel pressure to build alternative payment rails, oil wealth alone has not insulated it from financial sanctions.

This is where the rhetoric attributed to U.S. officials in the circulating story matters more than the mechanics. The emphasis was not on balance of payments stability or reserve composition. It was on “getting the oil flowing,” “capturing” a leader, and “running” a country. That language echoes past interventions driven less by systemic necessity than by political theatre.

Consider Panama in 1989. Manuel Noriega was removed under the banner of drug enforcement and democracy, but the operation also served as a dramatic assertion of U.S. dominance at the end of the Cold War. It was fast, overwhelming, and symbolic. It did not secure a currency regime or an economic doctrine, it secured a moment. Or look at Iraq in 2003. The war was sold on weapons of mass destruction, later reframed around democracy, and endlessly speculated about oil. Yet two decades on, the invasion weakened U.S. legitimacy, destabilized a region, and did nothing to fortify dollar hegemony. If anything, it accelerated global scepticism about American stewardship.

Even the narcotics pretext, often invoked in Latin American interventions, has a thin empirical record. In the 1980s, drug rhetoric justified militarization from Colombia to Panama without reducing U.S. demand or overdose deaths. Today, the opioid crisis is driven primarily by synthetic drugs produced and trafficked through networks far removed from Venezuelan territory. History shows that “drug wars” abroad are politically useful narratives at home, not effective strategies.

Seen through this lens, the Venezuela story, real or rumoured, fits a familiar pattern. Oil becomes a prop. Currency becomes a post-hoc justification. The underlying logic is exhibitionist, demonstrate power, punish defiance, create a made for television victory. That is politics of spectacle, not monetary statecraft.

And the irony is sharp. If the lesson absorbed by the rest of the world is that challenging U.S. financial dominance invites coercion, the rational response is not submission, it is diversification. After the freezing of Russian reserves in 2022, central banks openly discussed reducing exposure to dollar assets. That debate did not require bombs, it required precedent. Force, far from preserving hegemony, can hasten the search for exits.

The dollar remains dominant because it is useful, liquid, and embedded in institutions people trust. Those qualities cannot be enforced at gunpoint. They can only be maintained by law, openness, and predictability. History tells us that when empires confuse spectacle for strategy, they win headlines and lose foundations.

If the goal were truly to defend the dollar, the battlefield would be regulatory standards, financial plumbing, and digital rails, not Caracas. You can seize a refinery. You can even topple a government. But you cannot bomb a payment protocol.

Cheers.

ravivarmmankkanniappan@12520501263.1491° N, 101.6534° E

©Copyright reserve

A World Too Certain to Be Human

 

A World Too Certain to Be Human

Have you noticed how much we try to control life these days? From planning every detail of a wedding to predicting the gender of a baby before birth, we seem obsessed with certainty. We track, test, forecast, and optimize everything, as if life were a spreadsheet waiting to be perfected. We want guarantees, about careers, relationships, children, success, and even happiness. But when everything becomes predictable, when uncertainty is treated as a flaw rather than a feature, do we lose the magic of living itself?

For thousands of years, people have spoken about equality. From the wisdom of the Vedas to Greek philosophers and Renaissance thinkers, the idea of fairness between men and women has never been absent from human thought. Yet when we look around today, the world still does not feel fully equal. Beneath modern language, progressive laws, and polished speeches, old preferences and power structures quietly persist. One of the clearest examples appears in how societies celebrate birth. Many families still hope for “at least one boy.” This is not just a private wish, but researchers have documented it across cultures and continents. Inheritance laws, family lineage, social security in old age, and long-standing customs have shaped this mindset for centuries, making it feel natural even when it is deeply biased.

Ancient Tamil wisdom cuts through this obsession with remarkable clarity. Thiruvalluvar never speaks of sons or daughters when he speaks of wealth. “Of all the wealth a man can earn, none is greater than having wise children,” he says. And in another couplet, he writes, “Sweeter than nectar is the porridge stirred by your child’s tiny hands.” The joy he describes is universal, untouched by gender. What matters is character, affection, and wisdom, not chromosomes. Yet in our age of gender reveals, prenatal predictions, and social pressure, we often forget this simple truth and reduce life to checklists rather than relationships.

The lives of Kadambini Ganguly and Anandibai Joshi remind us how powerful uncertainty can be when met with courage. In the late nineteenth century, when women in India were barely encouraged to read, these two women dared to imagine something almost unthinkable, becoming doctors trained in Western medicine. Their journeys were filled with uncertainty, ridicule, resistance, and isolation. Anandibai Joshi traveled across oceans to study medicine at a time when crossing the seas was considered taboo, especially for women. She faced illness, cultural alienation, and constant scrutiny, yet she persisted. Kadambini Ganguly fought not only patriarchal norms but also colonial prejudice, enduring public attacks on her character simply because she stepped into a profession reserved for men. Neither woman could predict success. There were no role models to follow, no assurance of acceptance. And yet, precisely because they embraced uncertainty, they transformed history. Their triumph was not merely personal, it expanded what society believed was possible for women.

Steve Jobs’ life offers a powerful modern echo of this idea. He was adopted at birth, unwanted by his biological parents, and raised without knowing where his life would lead. By today’s standards, his beginnings were uncertain, even imperfect. Yet that uncertainty shaped him in profound ways. Had his life been “optimized” from the start, had every variable been controlled and predicted, the world might never have seen Apple. Jobs himself famously said, “You can’t connect the dots looking forward, you can only connect them looking backward.” His story reminds us that unpredictability is not a flaw in life, but it is its fuel.

Jobs’ journey was filled with detours that no life plan would have approved. He dropped out of college, wandered into a calligraphy class out of pure curiosity, and later admitted that it seemed useless at the time. Yet that single, unplanned decision shaped the typography of the Macintosh and changed digital design forever. He was fired from the very company he founded, a public humiliation that felt like failure. But that loss led him to new ventures, new insights, and ultimately to a return that redefined Apple. None of this could have been scripted. Creativity, innovation, and meaning emerged not from control, but from openness to the unknown.

History repeatedly warns us what happens when humans try to control life too tightly. China’s one child policy, designed to engineer economic stability and population control, left behind an aging society and deeply imbalanced gender ratios. The attempt to regulate birth through policy ignored the cultural realities beneath it, producing long-term consequences that continue to haunt the nation. Nazi Germany’s Lebensborn program sought to manufacture a “perfect race,” reducing human beings to biological experiments in the name of ideology. Both arose from the same dangerous belief, that life can be designed without moral consequence. When humans play god, the cost is always paid by future generations.

Tamil literature captures this danger through moral storytelling rather than statistics. In Silappathikaram, Kannagi’s quiet strength turns into righteous fire when justice is denied. Her husband is wrongfully punished, and her anguish burns Madurai. not out of blind rage, but out of moral clarity. Her story reminds us that a society without fairness, without ethical grounding, will eventually collapse no matter how powerful it appears. Control without justice becomes destruction, and authority without compassion leads only to ruin.

The twentieth century gave the world another towering lesson in the power of uncertainty through Nelson Mandela’s life. Mandela entered politics knowing full well that the path ahead offered no guarantees. When he chose resistance against apartheid, he did not know whether he would live to see freedom, or whether his struggle would succeed at all. He spent twenty seven years in prison, cut off from family, stripped of freedom, and subjected to profound isolation. At any point, he could have chosen bitterness or surrender. Instead, he embraced an inner uncertainty, uncertain about outcomes, but certain about principles.

Mandela’s greatest triumph was not merely the end of apartheid, but the moral imagination he displayed afterward. When he emerged from prison, he surprised the world by choosing reconciliation over revenge. Many expected anger, retaliation, and bloodshed. Instead, Mandela chose forgiveness, a path far riskier than vengeance. There was no assurance that forgiveness would work, no data to guarantee peace. Yet that willingness to step into the unknown saved South Africa from civil war and offered the world a rare example of moral courage. Mandela’s life teaches us that uncertainty is not weakness, it is often the birthplace of ethical greatness.

Today, science once again tempts us with control. Gene editing, embryo screening, and the idea of “designer babies” promise a future where disease is eliminated and traits are selected. While medical advances can and should reduce suffering, the dream of choosing intelligence, creativity, or personality remains largely science fiction. More importantly, it raises a deeper question, even if we could choose everything, should we? Intelligence without empathy, strength without humility, and perfection without struggle risk creating hollow lives. The stories that inspire us, Mandela’s endurance, Anandibai’s courage, Kannagi’s justice, Jobs’ creativity, are powerful precisely because they were uncertain.

Thiruvalluvar reminds us that knowledge without ethics is empty, “Learning is worthless if it does not shape conduct.” He also says, “Compassion enlarges the heart.” These lines speak directly to our age of technology. Innovation without humanity becomes tyranny. Progress without empathy becomes oppression. Steve Jobs understood this balance instinctively. He believed technology should serve human intuition and beauty, not dominate it. That is why Apple products were not just functional but emotional, imperfect yet deeply human.

Some voices today claim men are in crisis, pointing to higher suicide rates among men. This is a serious issue that demands compassion, mental health support, and cultural change, but not a return to rigid gender hierarchies or nostalgic dominance. Panic driven narratives help no one. Similarly, sensational headlines about the Y chromosome disappearing ignore scientific reality. Fear thrives where understanding is absent, and fear often pushes societies toward greater control rather than deeper care.

The deeper issue beneath all these debates is our discomfort with uncertainty. We want guarantees, about gender, success, happiness, identity, and meaning. But life has never worked that way. Mandela did not know he would become a symbol of freedom rather than a forgotten prisoner. Kadambini Ganguly did not know she would open doors for generations of women. Anandibai Joshi did not live long enough to see the full impact of her courage. Jobs did not know he would be fired from his own company or that the setback would lead him back stronger. Kannagi did not know her silence would become legend. Thiruvalluvar did not prescribe formulas, he offered values.

When we remove surprise from life, we remove wonder. We lose the unexpected laugh, the unplanned question, the sudden turn that reshapes everything. A world where every child is designed, every path preselected, and every outcome predicted may be efficient, but it would be lifeless. The human spirit grows through friction, uncertainty, and risk. Equality itself has always advanced not through certainty, but through brave individuals willing to step into the unknown.

Life’s beauty lies in its unpredictability. When we try to control every detail, gender, genetics, destiny, we risk losing the very essence of being human. As Thiruvalluvar reminds us, the joy of a child’s touch is sweeter than nectar, and as Kannagi shows, justice and virtue matter more than power or perfection. Nelson Mandela teaches us that forgiveness can be stronger than revenge, Kadambini Ganguly and Anandibai Joshi show us that courage can rewrite social limits, and Steve Jobs proves that creativity flourishes where certainty ends.

Perhaps the wisest thing we can do is loosen our grip, trust life a little more, and allow its surprises to shape us into something better than we ever planned to be.

CHEERS.

ravivarmmankkanniappan@1427030120263.0567° N, 101.5851° E

WITH DIVINE MERCY

 

Arjuna & Krishna

(Geetha Upadhesam)

There are phrases we hear often and pass by without stopping, “with God’s mercy” being one of them. I had done so myself, until a quiet moment of reading changed its weight for me. In a passing comment by someone who had attended a discourse on the Bhagavad Geetha, I encountered the words, “…. unless one is fortunate to receive the mercy of Krishna….”. The line lingered, as some words do, asking to be held a little longer. It stirred a feeling that something subtle in the Geetha had escaped my notice. What follows is born of that pause, not certainty, but a wish to listen more closely, and to understand what ‘mercy’ might mean when spoken of in the language of the divine.   

Within spiritual discourse it is commonly stated that one can cross the ocean of material existence only by the mercy of Krishna or His devotee. While such language has devotional and relational significance, a critical reading of the Bhagavad Geetha itself reveals that the idea of “mercy” as an emotional or selective intervention of the Supreme is philosophically unnecessary and potentially misleading. Bhagavan Krishna is omnipotent, omnipresent, and omniscient, and therefore does not operate through fluctuating emotions such as favouritism or pity. Rather, He functions through immutable laws governing consciousness, action, knowledge, and causality. Spiritual advancement, accordingly, is not dependent on an external bestowal of grace but on an individual’s disciplined alignment with these eternal principles.

This is precisely the method Krishna employs in instructing Arjuna. He does not console Arjuna emotionally or promise deliverance through favour, instead, He reorients Arjuna through clarity, responsibility, and detachment. Bhagavad Geetha 2.47 establishes this foundation unequivocally, one has the right to perform prescribed duty but no claim over the fruits of action. This instruction removes entitlement and expectation from spiritual life. If liberation were contingent upon mercy, one would remain psychologically attached to outcomes, even spiritual ones. Krishna instead demands action free from hope, fear, or emotional bargaining. This discipline is further defined in 2.48, where equanimity in success and failure is identified as yoga itself. Yoga, therefore, is not emotional devotion or passive reliance on divine intervention, but the stabilization of consciousness amidst dualities.

Krishna reinforces this principle in 3.19 by stating that one attains the Supreme by working without attachment to results. The verse leaves no room for selective grace whereby attainment follows naturally from correct action performed with the proper inner disposition. Liberation is thus not granted as a favour but realized as a consequence of alignment with truth. This framework makes clear that the Supreme does not interfere with the lawfulness of existence, but He reveals it.

The role of the spiritual master must be understood in the same light. Bhagavad Geetha 4.34 instructs the seeker to approach a realized teacher with humility, inquiry, and service, because such a person has seen the truth and can impart knowledge. The guru does not bestow liberation through mercy but transmits correct understanding. Knowledge is communicable but realization is personal. The necessity of the spiritual master lies not in divine favouritism but in epistemic precision. Just as ignorance in any discipline is removed by proper instruction, ignorance of the self is removed by those who know reality as it is.

Bondage itself is not moral or emotional in nature but mechanical, arising from false identification with the body and mind through ahankara across innumerable births. Conditioning persists due to ignorance, not because of divine neglect. Ignorance cannot be dissolved by grace alone, but it must be undone by knowledge. This is why Krishna declares in Bhagavad Geetha 7.2 that once this knowledge is realized, nothing further remains to be known. Knowledge is final, complete, and liberating. If mercy were the determining factor, such emphasis on knowledge would be redundant.

What is traditionally referred to as “mercy” is better understood as alignment with dharma, the eternal order governing existence. When action is performed without attachment, with equanimity, and guided by right understanding, liberation follows inevitably. There is no need for emotional appeal or expectation of intervention. The Geetha presents a rigorous spiritual science, not a theology of reward. Krishna does not save Arjuna instead He educates him. Arjuna is transformed not by grace but by insight and disciplined action.

Thus, the Bhagavad Geetha consistently teaches that freedom arises through inward mastery, sustained inquiry, and unwavering discipline. Grace, if the term is to be retained at all, is not something to be awaited or granted selectively, it is already embedded in the very structure of reality. The task of the seeker is not to seek mercy, but to become fit to recognize and live in accordance with truth as it eternally is.

AUM TAT SAT

Cheers.

ravivarmmankkanniappan@1331131220253.0567° N, 101.5851° E

Uncertainty: Catalyst or Obstacle? A Dialogue Between Science, Existentialism, and the Mahabharata

 

Geetha Upadesam

(Mysore Rosewood inlay Painting)

*Richard Feynman’s observation that “If you know that you are not sure, you have a chance to improve the situation” frames uncertainty as a productive starting point, a form of scientific humility that opens the door to deeper understanding. Within the domain of scientific inquiry, this attitude is invaluable. It signals openness to revision, a willingness to question assumptions, and the intellectual flexibility that drives discovery. In science, acknowledging uncertainty about the world is not weakness but strength, for it creates the conditions for progress.

However, when examined through other philosophical lenses, particularly existentialism and the Mahabharata, uncertainty does not always appear as a virtue. Instead, it can represent a weakening of will and an obstacle to authentic action. Here, the distinction between “not knowing” and “being unsure” becomes crucial. To admit ignorance is an act of intellectual honesty that can ignite deliberate seeking. But to confess that one is “not sure” about oneself or one’s commitments reflects a deeper existential instability, a reluctance to claim responsibility and a failure to stand firmly in freedom.

Existentialist thinkers such as Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, and Sartre argue that human freedom demands a fierce clarity of self-awareness. Authenticity, in this tradition, depends on the individual’s willingness to confront their condition directly, without hiding behind ambiguity. Sartre warns against bad faith, the tendency to evade responsibility by clinging to vague or uncertain attitudes. From this perspective, being “not sure” is not a virtue, but it is a refusal to fully own one’s freedom. It signals hesitation to embrace either knowledge or ignorance decisively. Ignorance can propel inquiry, but uncertainty about oneself leads only to paralysis. Clarity, even the clarity of one’s ignorance, is essential for courage and meaningful action.

This distinction emerges vividly in the Mahabharata, particularly in Arjuna’s crisis on the battlefield. Arjuna does not falter because he lacks information, but he falters because he becomes unsure of himself. His doubt is not mere ignorance but an emotional and existential confusion that robs him of the will to act. Krishna does not praise Arjuna for acknowledging uncertainty. Instead, he challenges him to rise above this fog of doubt. For Krishna, uncertainty is a **tamasic state, where one that obscures dharma, corrupts resolve, and clouds judgment. True growth comes not from lingering in hesitation but from disciplined inquiry followed by decisive action. It is the transformation of Arjuna’s uncertainty into clarity and not the uncertainty itself, that enables moral and spiritual progress.

Both existentialism and the Mahabharata converge on a critical insight, whereby the real danger lies not in ignorance but in self-doubt. Ignorance can awaken the desire to learn but self-doubt weakens the will to seek. History and modern life offer striking illustrations of this principle.

Marie Curie ventured into the invisible world of radioactivity not because she doubted herself, but because she trusted the steadiness of her purpose. Nelson Mandela faced the vast uncertainty of a nation in transition not from existential wavering, but from an unshakeable sense of identity and mission.

Similarly, Steve Jobs and Elon Musk, often celebrated for their audacity, did not act from existential confusion. Jobs reshaped personal computing from a near-monastic clarity about design and purpose. Musk pursued electric mobility and interplanetary ambition from a resolute conviction that these were the problems he was meant to confront. Their bold ventures were not products of self-doubt but of self-knowledge. The unknown invited them only because they already knew where they stood.

Rajendra Chola’s reign (1014–1044) offers a vivid historical parallel. His audacious naval expeditions, from Southeast Asia to the banks of the Ganges, did not arise from confusion about identity. They flowed from an unwavering sense of duty, lineage, and destiny. His conquests were not acts of a man trying to find himself, but they were expressions of one who already knew. Anchored in clarity, he extended the Chola realm across oceans, demonstrating that great ventures arise not from existential uncertainty but from inner conviction.

In both science and statecraft, the courage to face the unknown does not arise from confusion about the self but from conviction within it. These lives remind us that exploration, whether of matter or of justice, begins with an inward anchoring.

Whilst Feynman’s statement concerns epistemic uncertainty about the world, the critique here points toward existential uncertainty about the self. Scientific inquiry may benefit from the former, but human action and moral responsibility cannot be built upon the latter.

On the other hand, both existentialism and the Mahabharata insist that one must know where one stands before stepping into the unknown. The impetus to discover does not arise from being unsure but from the confidence that one can confront what one does not yet know.

Feynman is right when he says that the mind must remain uncertain about the world, for scientific discovery thrives on questioning, revision, and doubt. Yet the self must not remain uncertain about itself, for meaningful action demands inner clarity.

Science advances through doubt, the self-advances through clarity. Feynman’s uncertainty is a tool, not a worldview, while self-knowledge is the foundation upon which responsibility and courage rest. Both are necessary, and when seen in their proper place, they do not contradict but complete one another, allowing us to face the unknown with both intellectual humility and existential steadiness.

Cheers.

ravivarmmankkanniappan@0946171120253.0567° N, 101.5851° E

*Richard Feynman (1918–1988) was a brilliant, unconventional physicist whose work transformed quantum mechanics and quantum electrodynamics. A Nobel laureate, charismatic teacher, wartime researcher, and early visionary in nanotechnology and quantum computing, he charmed the world with curiosity, humour, and a knack for making physics come alive. Somehow, almost by accident, he also lived like an existentialist and a Gita-style Karma yogi, facing life’s uncertainties with playfulness and purpose, proving that one can achieve philosophical enlightenment without ever reading a single sacred text.

**tamasic refers to one of the three gunas (qualities of nature) in Hindu philosophy and this guna is associated with qualities such as darkness, ignorance, delusion, inertia, stupidity and indifference

When Perception Becomes Reality, Does Truth Still Matter?

 

CARRACK SHIP

(Spanish/Portuguese-circa 14th - 15th Century)

Just days ago, the BBC’s Director-General and News CEO resigned following public uproar over a Panorama documentary on Donald Trump. The controversy centred on an edited version of Trump’s January 6 speech, in which the phrase “peacefully and patriotically” was removed, leaving only “fight like hell.” Stripped of context, the edit created the impression that Trump had directly incited violence. More revealing, however, was how readily many viewers accepted this distorted version simply because it fit an existing narrative about him. When media selectively frames content, it doesn’t just report the story, it constructs it, subtly guiding public perception toward a preferred conclusion.

This is hardly a new phenomenon. It echoes the central warning of Wag the Dog, a film that remains disturbingly relevant. In the movie, political strategists manufacture an entirely fictional war to bury a presidential scandal, exposing how fragile truth becomes when political power and media manipulation intersect. What appears satirical is, in reality, a clear-eyed critique of a world where image-making supersedes fact. The film illustrates how easily public opinion can be steered when narratives are crafted with precision and delivered through trusted channels. It serves as a mirror to our present moment, reminding us that when entertainment and news converge, truth becomes a negotiable commodity.

A similar dynamic recently emerged in Malaysia, where an academic from an international university claimed, without credible evidence, that an ancient regional civilization had taught the Romans shipbuilding and imparted several other advanced technologies. Despite the lack of empirical support, the claims spread rapidly across public discourse. The reaction split into two camps, one firmly rejecting the assertions, and another embracing them out of cultural pride. The latter went as far as selectively citing historical anecdotes to reinforce a preferred narrative, even though these anecdotes collapsed under scholarly scrutiny. This episode reveals how identity and emotion can override critical inquiry, allowing speculative claims to be elevated to “truth” through sheer sentiment.

These three incidents expose a deeper condition of the modern information landscape. Narratives no longer succeed on the strength of evidence, they thrive when they cater to identity, confirm biases, or provide psychological comfort. In a society increasingly driven by consumerist logic, truth competes not with falsehood, but with convenience. People gravitate toward truths that affirm their conditioning, convenient truths, popular truths, socio-politically advantageous truths. As a result, objective reality becomes negotiable, shaped less by facts and more by the emotional needs of its audience.

This creates fertile ground for manipulation. Media institutions can amplify selective frames, political actors can weaponize narratives, and even academics can advance claims that resonate more with cultural sentiment than with scholarship. When such narratives are repeated widely and confidently, they gain the weight of legitimacy, regardless of their factual foundation. The erosion of objective truth then becomes not an aberration, but an inevitable outcome of an ecosystem where perception is more valuable than accuracy.

The consequences extend far beyond individual controversies. When societies begin to accept narratives not because they are true but because they feel true, the foundations of informed discourse weaken. Democracy depends on a shared baseline of reality, when that dissolves, public debate becomes a contest of illusions rather than ideas. The BBC edit scandal, the manufactured war in Wag the Dog, and the Malaysian historical controversy all illustrate the same unsettling trajectory, control of the story increasingly eclipses the truth itself.

We now live in a world where perception functions as currency, traded and manipulated by those who understand its power.

The pressing question, then, is not merely who shapes our narratives, but who safeguards the truth, and whether we still care enough to demand it.

Cheers.

ravivarmmankkanniappan@1203141120253.0567° N, 101.5851° E

IN THE GLOW OF MANY NAMES, ONE LIGHT REMAINS

 

Arunachala Hill,

(In the foreground, Annamalaiyar Temple Gopuram)

Thiruvannamalai, TN, India.

Every year, as the new moon (Ammavasai) of Kartika* darkens the sky, Hindu’s all over the world will light up Vilakku (oil lamp). The day when Deepavali or Diwali (often called the “festival of lights) is celebrated. But beneath its glow lie layers of history, faith, and regional memory that make it one of the most diverse celebrations in the world.

In parts of north India, people remember the homecoming of Lord Rama after fourteen years of exile and his victory over Ravana, an event described in the Ramayana vividly. As the story goes, the people of Ayodhya lit oil lamps to welcome him back, an image that still defines Deepavali’s luminous heart.

In south India, the same night recalls another triumph of good over evil, Lord Krishna’s slaying of the demon Narakasura, freeing the world from tyranny. The ritual oil bath before dawn is not just a cleansing act but a symbolic washing away of ignorance and ego.

Across western India, traders close their account books and perform Lakshmi Puja, inviting the goddess of wealth and prosperity into their homes and businesses.

In the east, the night belongs to Goddess Kali, fierce and protective, who destroys darkness to make way for renewal.

Beyond Hinduism, Deepavali carries light across different beliefs. Jains mark the liberation of Mahavira (the last Tirthankar aka Guru of Jainism). The Sikhs on the other hand, make reverence to Guru Hargobind Ji’s (the Sixth Guru of Sikhism) release from captivity and the event is called the Bandi Chor Divas (The Day of Liberation).

The stories differ, but their message converges, in the year’s darkest night, humanity lights its lamps, of hope, courage, and inner clarity. Deepavali endures not just as a festival, but as a reminder that light, in all its forms, must be tended.

But beyond the events that has occurred over time as above mentioned that makes it a day for reflection, contemplation and action, is there any other astronomical, astrological or scientific explanation for this day to be auspicious?

Astronomically, Deepavali marks the end of one lunar cycle and the quiet beginning of another, a cosmic reset. In Indian thought, the Sun represents consciousness, and the Moon represents the mind. When they unite, the mind dissolves into pure awareness. Lighting a lamp, then, is not just ritual, it’s a symbol of inner awakening.

Astrologically, this new moon (Ammavasai) occurs in Libra, ruled by Venus (Sukran), the planet of balance, beauty, and prosperity. The Sun, said to be humble here, reminds us to seek harmony, to pause before the new harvest or business year, and to honour both material and spiritual wealth.

 

Then, there is an all-practical reason too, Diwali arrives just after the monsoon, when dampness breeds insects and disease. So traditionally, oil lamps, incense, and fireworks helped purify the air, while the custom of cleaning homes and exchanging sweets renewed community bonds and morale.

But then what does the scriptures say about this entire phenomenon that reverberates in the conscience of Hindus.  As the monsoon retreats and India prepares for winter, the Hindu calendar unfolds one of its most meaningful spiritual sequences, from Mahalaya Paksha to Deepavali, and finally the Karthigai Deepam. Though each carries its own rituals, together they form a single journey, from remembrance to renewal, from ancestral gratitude to cosmic connection.

The cycle begins with Mahalaya Paksha (this year it was between 7th-21th September), a fortnight devoted to honouring one’s ancestors (Pitru). The tradition holds that during this period, the veil between human and ancestral realms thins, allowing blessings to flow through generations. The rituals of tarpanam (ancestral offering) is not act of mourning but of continuity, reminders that our lives are extensions of countless lineages. Today, science offers a poetic parallel, our genetic code literally carries the memory of those who came before us.

When Mahalaya ends, the focus turns outward. Deepavali (this year celebrated on 20^th October), when the new moon of the Karthigai month, marks the year’s darkest night, when the Sun and Moon align, and the sky turns inwardly quiet. Lighting lamps and bursting firecrackers often seen as mere celebrational, but in actual sense they symbolize the guiding of ancestral energies back toward the cosmic source, echoing through light and vibration. It is a ritual of farewell and renewal, a recognition that life and death, light and darkness, are part of the same cycle.

The journey culminates in Karthigai Deepam (this year will be celebrated on 4^th December) , when countless lamps are lit again, this time reaching skyward. The Agaya Deepam (lamp of the sky) represents light freed from the confines of earth and body. In Tamil Nadu, the great flame atop Arunachala Hill in Tiruvannamalai embodies Shiva as eternal fire, the infinite consciousness into which all life ultimately merges.

Viewed together, these festivals form a spiritual continuum rooted in both astronomy and awareness. From Mahalaya’s remembrance to Diwali’s renewal and Karthigai’s cosmic light, the message remains timeless, we are part of a living chain, of energy, memory, and light. and every lamp we kindle is both a tribute to the past and a beacon for the future.

Let us celebrate the illumination of light meaningfully.

Cheers.

ravivarmmankkanniappan@123521102025 3.0567° N, 101.5851° E

*In most of northern and western India, where the lunar Amanta calendar is followed, the new moon that marks Deepavali concludes the month of Ashwin and ushers in Kartika. Hence, it is celebrated as Kartika Amavasya. In contrast, Tamil Nadu and parts of South India follow a solar calendar, in which the same Amavasya usually occurs within the month of Aippasi (mid-October to mid-November). Thus, Tamils celebrate Aippasi Amavasai as Deepavali.

When the Soul of Education Dies at Home

 

Photo of Teachers from Standard Type Primary School Tamil

Lanadron Estate, Panchor, Johor.

My late Pappa is seated 6th from the right.

(circa 1959)

There was a time when schools were sanctuaries, places where children not only learned to read and write but also to think, feel, and grow into moral beings. Today, that sanctuary feels fractured. What once promised hope now often breeds fear, anxiety, and alienation. We read too often about bullying, suicide, violence, and neglect within the school system. These are not isolated tragedies, but in fact they are reflections of a deeper national ailment, the slow death of our educational soul.

But the decay didn’t start within the classroom walls. It began at home.

Education was never meant to be confined to textbooks or classrooms. It begins in the earliest moments of a child’s life, in the warmth of family, in the habits modelled by parents, in the values taught around the dinner table. Yet, the modern household has become a space of exhaustion. Parents are stretched thin, working tirelessly to put food on the table. In their struggle to survive, the art of nurturing has been sacrificed to the altar of necessity.

Among the more privileged, the problem takes on a different form. Many believe that as long as they provide access to gadgets, tutors, and “good” schools, their duty ends there. The upbringing becomes transactional, where education is outsourced to institutions, empathy delegated to teachers, and discipline left to the algorithmic influence of digital media. But virtue cannot be outsourced, and character cannot be downloaded.

Children now grow up with the internet as their moral compass. They learn not through wisdom passed down by their elders, but through trends and viral content. They mimic what they see, without the grounding of right and wrong. The result is a generation that can code, create, and communicate, but struggles to empathize, reflect, or apologize. They are intelligent, but emotionally adrift, connected, but spiritually hollow.

Within schools, the crisis is equally dire. Many teachers have become job holders rather than educators. This is not entirely their fault, the system has conditioned them so. Teaching, once a calling, has been bureaucratized into a career defined by key performance indicators and endless administrative tasks. Teachers who once inspired are now buried under paperwork and digital reporting systems, leaving little room for genuine engagement with their students.

When passion is replaced by procedure, and creativity is constrained by compliance, schools cease to be centres of learning. They become factories for exam results.

The consequences are grave. A half-trained doctor might take a few lives, but an uncommitted educator, one who teaches without heart or purpose, destroys generations. The loss isn’t immediately visible, but it reverberates through society, in workplaces devoid of ethics, in public discourse devoid of empathy, and in leadership devoid of vision.

Our national discourse on education remains trapped in shallow metrics, exam scores, rankings, and policy slogans. We celebrate rising averages while ignoring the psychological and moral collapse beneath. When a student dies by suicide or another is bullied into trauma, the response is always the same, statements of concern, promises of investigation, and silence that follows when the news cycle moves on.

The real crisis is not academic but cultural. It is the collective surrender to mediocrity and moral detachment. We have allowed education to be reduced to performance, not purpose. We value efficiency over empathy, results over relationships, and prestige over principle.

Reform, therefore, must begin not in ministries but in living rooms. Parents must reclaim their role as the child’s first teachers. Schools must rediscover their purpose as spaces that shape human beings, not merely produce workers. Teachers must be freed from bureaucratic chains and empowered to teach with passion again. And as a society, we must redefine success, not as grades or salaries, but as the ability to think deeply, feel compassionately, and act responsibly.

When homes lose their warmth and schools lose their soul, a nation loses its moral direction. What we are witnessing today, the rising violence, the emotional emptiness, the apathy, are symptoms of that loss.

If we do not change course, we will raise a generation that is intellectually brilliant yet spiritually bankrupt. A generation fluent in technology but illiterate in humanity. And when that happens, no policy reform or ministerial statement will be able to save us, because by then, we would have already forgotten what it means to educate a person.

Cheers.

The school today,

Originally built in 1903

(Photo courtesy, from Google Map)

ravivarmmankkanniappan@124318102025 3.0567° N, 101.5851° E