MACHINE ASR ACCESSIBILITY AID
Saving_Maithili_with_Code_and_Comics.m4a
Timestamped machine output
- 0:00–0:04Imagine for a second that you just want to send a simple text message to your mother.
- 0:04–0:05Right, like an everyday thing.
- 0:05–0:08Yeah, exactly. A totally mundane, everyday act.
- 0:08–0:13You pull out your phone, you open up your messaging app, you go to type.
- 0:13–0:16But when you look down at the digital keyboard on your screen,
- 0:16–0:20the letters of your native language literally just do not exist.
- 0:20–0:21They're just, they're not there.
- 0:21–0:23Right. There is no font.
- 0:23–0:26There's no toggle switch in the language settings.
- 0:26–0:30I mean the device in your hand, which is basically the gateway to the entire modern connected world
- 0:31–0:38Fundamentally does not recognize the language you think in. Yeah, the language you dream in or the one your ancestors have spoken for centuries
- 0:38–0:42Exactly. So if you want to communicate in the digital age at all
- 0:42–0:45You are essentially forced to adopt a completely different language
- 0:46–0:54Which is just um a really alienating reality. It really is and for tens of millions of people who speak the mathillie language
- 0:54–0:58This wasn't just some hypothetical thought experiment. It was their daily reality. It is
- 0:59–1:07It's a really profound kind of invisibility when you think about it for sure because you know we tend to think of little witch extinction as the sort of
- 1:08–1:09slow
- 1:09–1:10Romantic
- 1:10–1:16Fading away right like ancient words spoken by elders and remote villages right like a slow fade into history
- 1:16–1:19Yeah, exactly, but in the 21st century
- 1:19–1:23extinction happens way faster. It happens through digital emission.
- 1:23–1:25Oh, that's a great way to put it. Digital emission.
- 1:25–1:31Because if your language isn't actually encoded into the architecture of the web, it basically vanishes from the future.
- 1:31–1:35Which is exactly why today's deep dive is so vital.
- 1:35–1:39We are exploring a comprehensive, incredibly detailed book titled,
- 1:39–1:45Priyati Karan Setu Banal, Redefining Methyli, which was edited by Ashish Aynshinar.
- 1:45–1:47Yeah, it's a really fascinating source text.
- 1:47–1:52text. It really is. This document is essentially a critical appreciation of this extraordinary
- 1:52–1:58husband and wife duo, Kajendra Thakur and Priya Teetakur. Two really incredible people.
- 1:58–2:02Right. And these two, they looked at that blank digital keyboard we just talked about.
- 2:02–2:06They looked at a culture standing on the absolute precipice of modern irrelevance.
- 2:07–2:10And rather than just, you know, complaining about it to the government,
- 2:10–2:14they took it upon themselves to build the infrastructure from scratch.
- 2:14–2:18Yeah, they literally dragged Methili into the digital age.
- 2:18–2:23They really did. Preserving its historical records, its folklore, and its visual arts along the way.
- 2:23–2:28And to really grasp the sheer scale of what the Thakur family accomplished here,
- 2:28–2:31I think we need to understand the terrain they were operating in.
- 2:31–2:33Let's do it. Set the stage for us.
- 2:33–2:37Right. So we are talking about the Methila region. This is an area spanning across parts of the
- 2:37–2:42the state of Bihar in India and the eastern Terai region of Nepal.
- 2:42–2:43Okay.
- 2:43–2:50And Mathili itself is an Indo-Aryan language with just a staggeringly rich literary pedigree.
- 2:50–2:52Like how far back are we talking?
- 2:52–2:56Oh, we're talking about a language that produced legendary poets like Vijapati back
- 2:56–2:57in the 14th century.
- 2:57–2:59Wow, the 14th century.
- 2:59–3:03Yeah, and his romantic and diversional songs influenced the literature of the entire
- 3:03–3:05eastern subcontinent.
- 3:05–3:08And it has tens of millions of active speakers today.
- 3:08–3:09Tens of millions.
- 3:09–3:12So it's not some tiny niche dialect.
- 3:12–3:13Not at all.
- 3:13–3:17It's a massive demographic footprint with serious historical weight.
- 3:17–3:22And yet, despite all of that, it was functionally invisible in the spaces that dictate modern
- 3:22–3:23life.
- 3:23–3:24You mean like the internet.
- 3:24–3:25Exactly.
- 3:25–3:30The internet, modern software, dynamic media, it just wasn't there.
- 3:30–3:34You know what immediately stopped me in my tracks when I opened a Sheesh Anjanhar's
- 3:34–3:40book wasn't just the sheer volume of work this couple did, but how the editor actually structured
- 3:40–3:41the narrative.
- 3:41–3:42Yeah, the structure is very intentional.
- 3:42–3:46It is, because you read a lot of literary and historical biographies, right?
- 3:46–3:47Yeah.
- 3:47–3:52How often do you see a husband and wife evaluated side by side, chapter by chapter, as absolute
- 3:52–3:54co-equal architects of a cultural movement?
- 3:54–3:56It is exceedingly rare.
- 3:56–3:57I mean, I almost never see it.
- 3:57–4:02Right, because historically, especially in traditional South Asian literary circles
- 4:02–4:09and really globally, if we're being honest, the patriarchal norm dictates that the husband
- 4:09–4:10is framed as the visionary.
- 4:10–4:12Right, the active agent of change.
- 4:12–4:13Exactly.
- 4:13–4:16And the wife, well, if she's mentioned at all, she's relegated to the acknowledgement.
- 4:16–4:17Oh, totally.
- 4:17–4:20Like, thank you to my wife for her unwavering domestic support.
- 4:20–4:21Right.
- 4:21–4:26She's amused, or she kept the house quiet while the great man did his important work.
- 4:26–4:30But Priyatir Talan sent to Banhal completely shatters that convention.
- 4:30–4:31It really does.
- 4:31–4:35Preety Tarkour is not an appendage to Gagendra's work.
- 4:35–4:41She operates this completely different, yet equally vital machinery of cultural preservation.
- 4:41–4:42I noticed that.
- 4:42–4:45Gagendra is building the cold hard digital infrastructure.
- 4:45–4:47Like the coding, the databases, the fonts.
- 4:47–4:48Yes.
- 4:48–4:52But Preety is capturing the visual and narrative soul of the culture.
- 4:52–4:56And the editor points out a fantastic detail right up front, which is that Preety actually
- 4:56–4:59published her books before Gagendra published his.
- 4:59–5:01Yeah, that is such a crucial point.
- 5:01–5:07It is. Right. That structural choice by the editor immediately signals to you, the reader,
- 5:07–5:11that we are not looking at a traditional patriarchal history here.
- 5:11–5:15No, we are looking at a story about disrupting the status quo at literally every level.
- 5:15–5:16Exactly.
- 5:16–5:22The fact that her work preceded his in publication is highlighted precisely to disrupt those traditional
- 5:22–5:24reader expectations.
- 5:24–5:29It establishes this dynamic of two distinct intellectual heavyweights operating in parallel.
- 5:29–5:37But, you know, to truly understand the relentless, almost obsessive drive required to build these
- 5:37–5:40digital and artistic bridges, the narrative logically rewinds.
- 5:40–5:41Oh, yeah.
- 5:41–5:42We have to talk about the origin story.
- 5:42–5:43Right.
- 5:43–5:45Because it doesn't actually start with Gagendra or Prady.
- 5:45–5:50It takes us back a whole generation, the Gagendra's father, a man named Kripanan Thakur.
- 5:50–5:55I have to admit, at first, I wondered why we were spending so much time on the father's
- 5:55–5:56origin story in the book.
- 5:56–5:58It seems like a detour at first glance.
- 5:58–5:59Yeah.
- 5:59–6:03But when you read Siyarumja's account and he writes under the pen name Suras
- 6:04–6:09By the way of what life was actually like in the village of Mahanthi in the 1950s and 60s
- 6:09–6:15It completely collects it really provides the necessary context does because you cannot understand
- 6:15–6:20Could Jendra's absolute refusal to compromise with modern institutions
- 6:20–6:27Without looking at the physical and moral environment that his father had to survive and survival is absolutely the operative word there
- 6:27–6:28Oh, totally.
- 6:28–6:33Because Serum Cha paints a picture of rural Madhubani district that is completely stripped
- 6:33–6:36of any pastoral romanticism.
- 6:36–6:38No rolling green hills and happy farmers here.
- 6:38–6:40No, the conditions were brutal.
- 6:40–6:45This was an agrarian society entirely at the mercy of extreme weather patterns, scorching
- 6:45–6:47unforgiving summers and then freezing winters.
- 6:47–6:50And agricultural yields were totally unpredictable, right?
- 6:50–6:51Exactly.
- 6:51–6:52The poverty was systemic and absolute.
- 6:52–6:56The text actually notes that only about 5% of the Brahmin families in the village
- 6:56–7:00had some minimal means of sustenance.
- 7:00–7:03Just 5%. That is wild.
- 7:03–7:09And for the rest of the cast, the Yadavs, the Malaaz, the Paswan's life was just a
- 7:09–7:14daily grinding struggle, just to secure enough calories to make it to the next day.
- 7:14–7:19Yeah, when you are living in an environment where basic clothing is scarce and a daily
- 7:19–7:23meal is a question mark, the concept of education feels like it belongs to another
- 7:23–7:24planet.
- 7:24–7:26It's a massive luxury.
- 7:26–7:27It really is.
- 7:27–7:31Sending an able-bodied child to sit in a room and read books instead of working the fields
- 7:31–7:35is an immense sacrifice of essential labor for a family like that.
- 7:35–7:40And yet, for those who did try to navigate the local education system, the environment
- 7:40–7:42was staggeringly unforgiving.
- 7:42–7:46It functioned as an incredibly rigid gatekeeping mechanism.
- 7:46–7:49The educational infrastructure just wasn't designed to uplift the masses.
- 7:49–7:50Not at all.
- 7:50–7:54It was designed to filter them out based on incredibly strict parameters.
- 7:54–7:58There's this specific detail about the local school that illustrates this perfectly, I think.
- 7:58–7:59Oh, the English Require.
- 7:59–8:00Yes.
- 8:00–8:07The teachers were so fiercely rigid about academic standards that they enforced a blanket rule.
- 8:07–8:11If a student scored less than 30 marks in their preliminary English examinations, they
- 8:11–8:14were completely barred from sitting for their final board exams.
- 8:14–8:17Which is just an immense amount of pressure.
- 8:17–8:19It's insane pressure.
- 8:19–8:20Just think about it.
- 8:20–8:24We have children coming from mud dwellings with zero access to electricity, no books
- 8:24–8:30at home, trying to master the complex grammar of a completely foreign language, English,
- 8:30–8:34under the threat of having their entire academic future permanently halted.
- 8:34–8:40It was basically an academic crucible because English in post-colonial India was the ultimate
- 8:40–8:42currency of upward mobility.
- 8:42–8:43Right, you had to have it.
- 8:43–8:45Yeah, failing to master it didn't just mean getting a bad grade.
- 8:45–8:48It meant being locked out of the formal economy forever.
- 8:48–8:49Wow.
- 8:49–8:51Out of this extreme pressure cooker emerges
- 8:51–8:53Kripananthakur.
- 8:53–8:53The father.
- 8:53–8:56Right, against all geographical and economic odds,
- 8:56–8:58he navigates this rigid system,
- 8:58–9:00he masters the curriculum
- 9:00–9:02and he ultimately becomes an engineer.
- 9:02–9:05He graduates from MIT, Moos of Arpoir, around 1963.
- 9:05–9:09Now, the standard predictable narrative arc here
- 9:09–9:11is that the local boy from the impoverished village
- 9:11–9:14makes good, gets his fancy engineering degree,
- 9:14–9:16and moves to the big city, right?
- 9:16–9:18That's the usual story.
- 9:18–9:19Yeah, he escapes the poverty,
- 9:19–9:22Secures a comfortable middle-class life for himself
- 9:22–9:25and basically leaves the village in his rearview mirror.
- 9:25–9:28But that is precisely what Crominand did not do.
- 9:28–9:29He didn't.
- 9:29–9:31And his refusal to abandon his community
- 9:31–9:33becomes the moral blueprint
- 9:33–9:35for his entire family's legacy later on.
- 9:35–9:38He recognized that his education was a resource
- 9:38–9:40and he immediately began figuring out
- 9:40–9:42how to pipe that resource back into Mahanthi.
- 9:42–9:44I love that, piling the resources back in.
- 9:44–9:47The text details his efforts to bring the outside world
- 9:47–9:50literally and intellectually into this isolated village.
- 9:50–9:54The story of the Rambahadur Sarvajanak Pustakalaya,
- 9:54–9:56the Pupil Library is just incredible.
- 9:56–9:57It really shows his leadership.
- 9:57–9:58It does.
- 9:58–10:01There was this tragic event where a local youth
- 10:01–10:03named Rambahadur died prematurely.
- 10:03–10:05And instead of just mourning and moving on,
- 10:05–10:08Krippan used that moment of communal grief
- 10:08–10:09to mobilize the whole village.
- 10:09–10:11He brought everyone together.
- 10:11–10:14Right, he managed to get all these different,
- 10:14–10:16often fractured factions of the village
- 10:16–10:19to agree on a single location.
- 10:19–10:21They pooled what little they had,
- 10:21–10:23people were donating bamboo,
- 10:23–10:24thatch, physical labor.
- 10:24–10:25Wow.
- 10:25–10:27And they built a sanctuary for reading
- 10:27–10:30right in the middle of extreme poverty.
- 10:30–10:33It is such an early example of infrastructure building,
- 10:33–10:35not for personal gain, but for communal access.
- 10:35–10:36Yes, exactly.
- 10:36–10:39And he didn't stop with physical books,
- 10:39–10:41the timeline here is actually crucial.
- 10:41–10:42Right, the early 60s.
- 10:42–10:44Yeah, in 1962,
- 10:44–10:49India was plunged into the tense deeply unsettling period of the Sino-Indian War.
- 10:49–10:49Okay.
- 10:49–10:55So information was suddenly a matter of national survival, but a rural village in Bihar was
- 10:55–10:57essentially cut off from real-time news.
- 10:57–10:58They had no way of knowing what was happening.
- 10:58–11:03Exactly. So Kripanan managed to acquire a community radio from the central government
- 11:03–11:04for the new library.
- 11:04–11:07Okay. We really have to talk about the logistics of this radio.
- 11:07–11:07Yeah.
- 11:07–11:11Because Sriram Chah's description of it is easily one of the most vivid images I took away
- 11:11–11:12from these sources.
- 11:12–11:15It's definitely not what you picture when you hear the word radio.
- 11:15–11:16No.
- 11:16–11:20We aren't talking about a slick little transistor radio sitting on a side table.
- 11:20–11:24The government-issued radio they received didn't even have a built-in speaker.
- 11:24–11:26Wait, no speaker.
- 11:26–11:27No speaker.
- 11:27–11:31To make it audible at all, they had to hook it up to a massive external horn, almost
- 11:31–11:33like a giant old gramophone.
- 11:33–11:34Oh, wow.
- 11:34–11:37And placing it inside the library wouldn't really work, right?
- 11:37–11:40Because the sound would just be muffled and only a few people could fit inside the
- 11:40–11:41building anyway.
- 11:41–11:42Exactly.
- 11:42–11:44The whole goal was village-wide dissemination.
- 11:44–11:46So what did they do?
- 11:46–11:50So they mount this massive horn on top of a 30-foot high bamboo pole.
- 11:50–11:5130 feet?
- 11:51–11:5330 feet in the air.
- 11:53–11:57They hoisted into the sky so the audio can project across the fields and the different
- 11:57–11:58hamlets.
- 11:58–12:01But here's the mechanism that absolutely blew my mind.
- 12:01–12:02Okay.
- 12:02–12:03The horn was directional.
- 12:03–12:06It only broadcasts sound in one specific direction.
- 12:06–12:09Oh no, so half the village wouldn't hear it.
- 12:09–12:10Right.
- 12:10–12:14that the entire village could hear the news broadcast about the war, someone literally
- 12:14–12:20had to stand at the base of this 30-foot pole and manually rotate the bamboo trunk every
- 12:20–12:2130 minutes.
- 12:21–12:22That is amazing.
- 12:22–12:24Think about the communal experience of that.
- 12:24–12:31You have an entire village, farmers, laborers, families, pausing their intense daily labor,
- 12:31–12:37looking up at this bamboo pole slowly spinning against the sky, listening to the crackling
- 12:37–12:41news of troop movements hundreds of miles away in the Himalayas.
- 12:41–12:42That's such a cinematic image.
- 12:42–12:47It really is a profound visual metaphor for what Kripanand was doing.
- 12:47–12:52He was personally acting as the axle, you know, rotating the mechanism that connected his
- 12:52–12:54isolated community to the wider currents of history.
- 12:54–12:58It fundamentally changes their relationship to the world.
- 12:58–13:03And he extended this philosophy of communal experience into local culture too, specifically
- 13:03–13:04through theater.
- 13:04–13:05Yeah, the drama troupe.
- 13:05–13:09Yes, Yeram Chah recounts Krippin then's heavy involvement in a local drama troupe.
- 13:09–13:12And they weren't just putting on light entertainment or silly comedies.
- 13:12–13:15They tackled heavy, historically charged material.
- 13:15–13:16He did.
- 13:16–13:21There's this fantastic anecdote where the village decides to stage a play about Pagat Singh,
- 13:21–13:25who was the famous Indian revolutionary who fought against British rule.
- 13:25–13:26Right.
- 13:26–13:29And naturally, the role of Pagat Singh is the hero of the story.
- 13:29–13:30Of course.
- 13:30–13:35this highly respected educated engineer volunteers to take on the role of Saunders.
- 13:35–13:36The British officer.
- 13:36–13:43Exactly, the British police officer who serves as the play's primary antagonist and symbol of colonial oppression.
- 13:43–13:46And he completely disappears into the role.
- 13:46–13:51He doesn't just read the lines, he commits to the sheer villainy of the character.
- 13:51–13:52He goes all in.
- 13:52–13:57He does. He wears the colonial hat, he puts on the fake mustache, he paints his face to look the part,
- 13:57–14:00But more importantly, he delivers his dialogue
- 14:00–14:04with such convincing, visceral arrogance and cruelty
- 14:04–14:06that he completely shatters the barrier
- 14:06–14:08between the stage and the audience.
- 14:08–14:10Which is actually kind of dangerous.
- 14:10–14:11It was.
- 14:11–14:13Céarra and Xiao writes that the village audience,
- 14:13–14:14and these are his neighbors, right?
- 14:14–14:16People who know him perfectly well in real life,
- 14:16–14:19they became so enraged by his performance
- 14:19–14:21that they actually started throwing their shoes
- 14:21–14:23and hard clods of dirt at him on the stage.
- 14:23–14:25That is hilarious, but also terrifying.
- 14:25–14:29terrifying they were shouting very real threats from the crowd.
- 14:29–14:35He was so effective at embodying the oppressor that he nearly incited a riot against himself
- 14:35–14:36in his own village.
- 14:36–14:40It's such a funny anecdote, but you're right, it illustrates a core psychological trait.
- 14:40–14:41Which is?
- 14:41–14:46When Krypanon committed to a task, whether it was building a library or playing a
- 14:46–14:49villain, he threw his entire being into it.
- 14:49–14:55He completely disregarded personal discomfort, ego, or in this case, flying footwear.
- 14:55–14:56Yeah, flying shoes.
- 14:56–14:58Which perfectly sets up the defining moment
- 14:58–14:59of Kripenand's character.
- 14:59–15:00Yes, the bridge story.
- 15:00–15:01Exactly.
- 15:01–15:04This is the moment where the moral architecture
- 15:04–15:06of the Thakur family is truly cemented.
- 15:06–15:09It happens in 1980 or 1981.
- 15:09–15:09OK.
- 15:09–15:11Kripenand is no longer in the village.
- 15:11–15:13He is working as an inspector on one
- 15:13–15:15of the most massive infrastructure projects
- 15:15–15:17in the country at the time, the Gandhi set to.
- 15:17–15:18Which is a huge deal.
- 15:18–15:19A massive deal.
- 15:19–15:22This was a 5.75 kilometer long bridge being
- 15:22–15:25build over the immense expanse of the river Ganga.
- 15:25–15:29And the engineering skill that Gandhi said to just cannot be overstated.
- 15:29–15:31It was a total marvel of its time.
- 15:31–15:31Abs.
- 15:31–15:36And when you have an infrastructure project of that magnitude,
- 15:36–15:38the financial stakes are astronomical.
- 15:38–15:42Hundreds of millions of rupees are tied up in contractor timelines,
- 15:42–15:44material sourcing, and government payouts.
- 15:44–15:47And inevitably, where there are astronomical financial stakes,
- 15:47–15:51there is the potential for equally astronomical corruption.
- 15:51–15:51Always.
- 15:51–15:52Right.
- 15:52–15:57And as an inspector, Krypunon was the final bottleneck for quality control.
- 15:57–15:59He was the guy signing off on it.
- 15:59–16:00Exactly.
- 16:00–16:05His specific job was to inspect the massive concrete segments being poured by
- 16:05–16:08the construction company before they were integrated into the bridge.
- 16:08–16:11If the steel rebar wasn't aligned properly, or
- 16:11–16:15if the concrete mix was diluted to save money, it was his job to reject it.
- 16:15–16:19Because if you put weak concrete into a bridge spanning the Ganga,
- 16:19–16:20eventually people die.
- 16:20–16:21Right.
- 16:21–16:26The structural integrity of the bridge literally depended on his signature, and he was notoriously
- 16:26–16:27uncompromising.
- 16:27–16:28I can imagine.
- 16:28–16:31The text notes that he had already rejected dozens of these substandard segments.
- 16:31–16:37Now, rejecting a massive, poured, concrete segment isn't just an inconvenience.
- 16:37–16:40It means the contractor has to absorb a massive financial loss.
- 16:40–16:44They lose the cost of the materials, the labor, and they fall behind schedule, which
- 16:44–16:46incurs further penalties.
- 16:46–16:51So Kripanan was severely damaging the profit margins of some very powerful, well-connected
- 16:51–16:52entities.
- 16:52–16:57He was costing them a fortune, which leads to a scene that honestly reads like it was
- 16:57–16:59pulled straight out of a noir thriller.
- 16:59–17:01Oh, it really does.
- 17:01–17:02It's late at night.
- 17:02–17:06Kripanan is alone in his small inspection camp on the Dark River Bank.
- 17:06–17:07Creepy.
- 17:07–17:08Yeah.
- 17:08–17:10A jeep pulls up outside.
- 17:10–17:13Two men step out and enter his dimly lit quarters.
- 17:13–17:15And the text is very specific here.
- 17:15–17:18One of the men is explicitly described as looking like a decoy.
- 17:18–17:20Like a hardened, armed bandit.
- 17:20–17:21Exactly.
- 17:21–17:24He has a heavy pistol openly holstered at his waist.
- 17:24–17:26So the implicit threat of physical violence
- 17:26–17:27is immediate and undeniable.
- 17:27–17:28Oh, absolutely.
- 17:28–17:29But they don't lead with a gun.
- 17:29–17:30They lead with a carrot.
- 17:30–17:31Right, the bribe.
- 17:31–17:34Yeah, they open briefcases right there in his quarters,
- 17:34–17:35briefcases packed full of cash.
- 17:35–17:37And the proposition is very clear.
- 17:37–17:40They basically say, look, we know you are an honest man.
- 17:40–17:43We know your government salary is modest.
- 17:43–17:45And we know you have a family to provide for.
- 17:45–17:48Just take the cash, sign the approval forms
- 17:48–17:51for the bad concrete, and everyone walks away happy.
- 17:51–17:52There's plenty more where this came from.
- 17:52–17:54It's the ultimate stress test
- 17:54–17:56of a person's character, isn't it?
- 17:56–17:57It really is.
- 17:57–17:59I mean, how does a man who grew up
- 17:59–18:03in the crushing, starving poverty of Mahanthi,
- 18:03–18:06a man who intimately knows the terror
- 18:06–18:08of having nothing respond
- 18:08–18:11when a literal briefcase of life-changing wealth
- 18:11–18:13is opened in front of him in the dark?
- 18:13–18:14He refuses.
- 18:14–18:15Just flat out refuses.
- 18:15–18:19He does, and the manner of his refusal is what makes this story legendary within the text.
- 18:19–18:22He doesn't just politely decline or say he needs to think about it.
- 18:22–18:26He looks at the armed enforcer, he looks at the massive pile of cash, and he tells them
- 18:26–18:33that taking Haram money, illegitimate sinful money, would fundamentally poison his household.
- 18:33–18:35His exact reasoning is incredible to me.
- 18:35–18:40He tells them that if he fed his children with corrupt stolen money, the food itself
- 18:40–18:41would be tainted.
- 18:41–18:45He says that raising children on bribes would guarantee that they grow up to be criminals
- 18:45–18:49and thugs no different than the armed men standing in his room right then.
- 18:49–18:50That takes guts.
- 18:50–18:51Serious guts.
- 18:51–18:57He states categorically that neither he nor his superior officer, B.N.J., are for sale
- 18:57–18:58at any price.
- 18:58–19:03And then, completely unarmed, he orders the men with the gun out into the night.
- 19:03–19:06It is a stunning display of moral fortitude.
- 19:06–19:11He recognized that compromising his integrity wouldn't just be a localized failure, it would
- 19:11–19:15structurally compromise the future of his own children.
- 19:15–19:19He wanted his children to be healthy in mind and body, and he believed that required an
- 19:19–19:23absolutely honest foundation, even if it meant remaining on a very modest income.
- 19:23–19:26And you know, this is why we spent time unpacking this story.
- 19:26–19:28Right, it's not just a tangent.
- 19:28–19:29No.
- 19:29–19:32Because this isn't just a cool anecdote about a brave engineer.
- 19:32–19:36This is the genetic and moral code being passed down to the next generation.
- 19:36–19:42You can draw an absolute direct line from Krypanon standing up to armed goons in the
- 19:42–19:46dark to protect the physical integrity of Bridge, to his son, Gagendra, standing up
- 19:46–19:52to the massive literary and cultural establishment decades later to protect the structural integrity
- 19:52–19:53of a language.
- 19:53–19:54That's so true.
- 19:54–20:00It is the exact same unyielding energy simply applied to a different kind of engineering.
- 20:00–20:03That is a really brilliant synthesis of the timeline.
- 20:03–20:07The father built physical infrastructure across the Ganga.
- 20:07–20:11The son decided to build digital infrastructure for the Mithili language across the internet.
- 20:11–20:12Exactly.
- 20:12–20:17Gajendra Thakur basically inherited that absolute refusal to compromise.
- 20:17–20:22And to understand the magnitude of Gajendra's work, we have to look at what the landscape
- 20:22–20:25of Mithili activism actually looked like when he began in the early 2000s.
- 20:25–20:27Right, because it wasn't an empty landscape.
- 20:27–20:29There were people doing things.
- 20:29–20:35The editor, Ashish Antinhar, lays out a surprisingly harsh critique of what the mainstream Mathili
- 20:35–20:37language movement looked like at that time.
- 20:37–20:39It's a very pointed critique.
- 20:39–20:40It is.
- 20:40–20:43If you looked at it from the outside, it seemed incredibly active.
- 20:43–20:48There were constant rallies, protests, and court cases.
- 20:48–20:51Activists were constantly petitioning the state government.
- 20:51–20:52What were they demanding exactly?
- 20:52–20:57Well, they were demanding that Mithili be officially recognized, and more specifically,
- 20:57–21:02that proficiency in my Thillie be a qualification for securing stable government jobs.
- 21:02–21:04Okay, so it was heavily tied to employment.
- 21:04–21:07Exactly. It was a movement characterized by immense volume,
- 21:07–21:10but very little practical application.
- 21:10–21:11What do you mean by that?
- 21:11–21:17Well, Anshinhar points out a glaring, deeply uncomfortable hypocrisy at the heart of this
- 21:17–21:19mainstream activism.
- 21:19–21:20Oh, right. The schools.
- 21:20–21:25Yes. These same vocal leaders who are organizing rallies and demanding that the government save
- 21:25–21:30their mother tongue were simultaneously abandoning the language in their own private lives.
- 21:30–21:35Right. The economic pragmatism completely overpowered their cultural pride.
- 21:35–21:39They were loudly demanding Mathili medium schools for the masses,
- 21:39–21:43but they were quietly sending their own children to expensive
- 21:43–21:48English medium private schools to ensure they had better career prospects in the globalized economy.
- 21:48–21:50It's a huge double standard.
- 21:50–21:54It is. They weren't purchasing or reading modern midfili literature at home.
- 21:54–21:59They were treating the language as a political tool for securing employment quotas
- 21:59–22:03while allowing it to actively atrophy as a lived domestic language.
- 22:03–22:08It really highlights a fundamental misunderstanding of how languages actually survive.
- 22:08–22:08How so?
- 22:08–22:14Well, a language does not survive because a constitution lists it in an official schedule.
- 22:14–22:16A language is a living organism.
- 22:16–22:16Right.
- 22:16–22:21It survives because people use it to argue, to joke, to write poetry,
- 22:21–22:23and crucially to interact with modern technology.
- 22:23–22:24Yeah.
- 22:24–22:27The old guard of activists were fighting for administrative validation,
- 22:27–22:32completely blind to the fact that the entire digital revolution was passing them by.
- 22:32–22:39And Genre recognized this massive blind spot. He saw that while people were fighting in the courts,
- 22:39–22:43the internet was rapidly becoming the primary domain of human interaction.
- 22:43–22:45And the Philly simply wasn't there.
- 22:45–22:46It was invisible.
- 22:46–22:52Yes. So instead of joining the protests, he bypassed the political establishment entirely.
- 22:52–22:55He sat down at his computer alone and just started building.
- 22:55–23:00And the sheer volume of what he accomplished single-handedly is difficult to overstate.
- 23:00–23:04He essentially functioned as a one-man tech startup for an ancient language.
- 23:04–23:07That's a perfect way to describe it. One-man startup.
- 23:07–23:12The text lists his firsts and they form this incredible road map of digital survival.
- 23:13–23:18In the year 2000, he created the very first monthly presence on the internet by launching a
- 23:18–23:21blog. Which in the year 2000 in India is wild.
- 23:21–23:28Right. In the context of the early Indian Internet where regional language support was practically non-existent, that is pioneering work.
- 23:28–23:34Then in 2008 he takes a massive leap forward and launches Videa, which was the first Mathili e-magazine.
- 23:34–23:37And Videa wasn't just some casual project.
- 23:37–23:45No. He didn't want it to just be a casual PDF floating around on forums. He wanted it to carry international academic weight.
- 23:45–23:52So, Videa became the first monthly publication to ever receive an ISSN, an international standard, serial number.
- 23:52–23:57He basically forced the international indexing systems to recognize a language they had previously ignored.
- 23:57–24:04Yes. But the detail about Videa that truly fascinated me was how he handled the different scripts.
- 24:04–24:07Oh, you're referring to his use of transliteration algorithms.
- 24:07–24:08Yes, exactly.
- 24:08–24:13This is where Gagendra's technical expertise truly intersected with his cultural historical knowledge.
- 24:13–24:17To understand this, we have to briefly touch on the history of Mithili scripts.
- 24:17–24:17Okay.
- 24:19–24:23Today, Mithili is primarily written in the Devanagari script, which is the same
- 24:23–24:26script used for Hindi and Sanskrit.
- 24:26–24:26Right.
- 24:26–24:31But historically for centuries, Mithili actually had its own distinct native script called
- 24:31–24:34T'huta. It's also known as Mithilakshar.
- 24:34–24:38So why did they stop using T'huta? Did the government ban it or something?
- 24:38–24:42No, it wasn't a ban. It was a combination of technological limitations and political
- 24:42–24:48assimilation. When the early printing presses arrived in the region, creating metal typefaces
- 24:48–24:53for the complex ligatures of Tirhuda was incredibly difficult and expensive.
- 24:53–24:56Oh, that makes sense. The physical printing blocks were hard to make.
- 24:56–25:00Exactly. Devanagari typefaces already existed and were cheaper to produce.
- 25:01–25:06Over time, for economic and political reasons, Devanagari became the default,
- 25:06–25:10and the ability to read the ancient Tirhuda manuscripts faded away from the general
- 25:10–25:16population. Wow, so the script just sort of died out because of printing costs. Basically, yeah.
- 25:16–25:21But Kijendra wanted to revive it. He didn't just want modern readers to access Fideha,
- 25:21–25:26he wanted to preserve the visual and historical textuality of the language. Right. So he utilized
- 25:26–25:33transliteration. And for you, the listener who might not be a coder, transliteration is different
- 25:33–25:38from translation. It doesn't change the meaning of the words, it purely maps the phonetic
- 25:38–25:41sounds of the language to a completely different set of visual symbols.
- 25:41–25:44It's changing the alphabet, not the language.
- 25:44–25:45Exactly.
- 25:45–25:50And Gijendra set up the back end of Edea so that a reader could click a button and consume
- 25:50–25:55the exact same Methili text in up to 11 different scripts simultaneously.
- 25:55–25:59Which is just a monumental coding achievement for one guy.
- 25:59–26:0011 scripts.
- 26:00–26:05Yeah, he mapped the Methili language to Devanagari, to the ancient Tirhuda scripts,
- 26:05–26:10to Kythe, to Noori, and most astoundingly to Braille.
- 26:11–26:12Braille, yeah, that is so.
- 26:12–26:14He wrote the algorithms to generate
- 26:14–26:16the first Missilly book in Braille,
- 26:16–26:18providing access to the visually impaired,
- 26:18–26:21which is a demographic that traditional activists
- 26:21–26:23and the government had entirely neglected up to that point.
- 26:23–26:26It's a level of inclusivity that is just staggering.
- 26:26–26:27It really is.
- 26:27–26:29But he knew that a single magazine,
- 26:29–26:30no matter how advanced it was,
- 26:30–26:32wasn't enough to secure the language.
- 26:32–26:33He had to weave Mephili
- 26:33–26:36to the foundational platforms of the global internet.
- 26:36–26:37Or big ones.
- 26:37–26:37Right.
- 26:37–26:40The text details his multi-year grueling campaigns
- 26:40–26:43to get Mothelli integrated into Wikipedia and Google
- 26:43–26:44Translate.
- 26:44–26:46And we really must emphasize that this isn't simply
- 26:46–26:50a matter of sending an email to Google or Wikipedia
- 26:50–26:53and asking them to politely add your language.
- 26:53–26:54No, there's no suggestion box for that.
- 26:54–26:55Right.
- 26:55–26:58These platforms require immense proof
- 26:58–27:01of active dynamic usage before they'll even consider it.
- 27:01–27:06For Wikipedia, a language first enters what they call an incubator phase.
- 27:06–27:07What does that involve?
- 27:07–27:13Well, you have to build a critical mass of verified, accurately translated articles.
- 27:13–27:18You have to standardize a lexicon for modern terms that might not exist in ancient poetry.
- 27:18–27:24You have to invent or agree upon words for software or climate change or cryptocurrency.
- 27:24–27:27Because Vigipati wasn't writing about Wi-Fi in the 14th century.
- 27:27–27:28Exactly.
- 27:28–27:30to recruit and train a team of volunteer editors
- 27:30–27:32to actually maintain the pages.
- 27:32–27:35Gajendra spearheaded this massive organizational
- 27:35–27:37and technical effort for years,
- 27:37–27:40finally achieving official Wikipedia approval in 2014.
- 27:40–27:42And he did the same thing with Google Translate,
- 27:42–27:44which was finally approved in 2022.
- 27:44–27:46A huge milestone.
- 27:46–27:46It is.
- 27:46–27:49And I wanna pause here and ask the crucial question
- 27:49–27:51for anyone listening who might be wondering
- 27:51–27:53why this technical minutiae matters.
- 27:53–27:55Why it's a big deal.
- 27:55–27:55Right.
- 27:55–28:00Because if a farmer in Matubani is perfectly capable of speaking my silly to his family
- 28:00–28:05at the dinner table, why does it matter if Google Translate recognizes the language?
- 28:05–28:12Because the dinner table is no longer the sole or even primary arena of human validation.
- 28:12–28:13That's a great point.
- 28:13–28:16The modern world operates through digital interfaces.
- 28:16–28:23A teenager today interacts with education, commerce, and social life through a screen.
- 28:23–28:27If they go to search for information for a school project and their mother tongue yields
- 28:27–28:32zero results on Wikipedia, they are forced to switch to English or Hindi.
- 28:32–28:37If they want to text a friend and their phone's keyboard doesn't support their language, they
- 28:37–28:38switch.
- 28:38–28:39Over time that builds up.
- 28:39–28:43Over just a few years, the subconscious message internalized by that teenager is that their
- 28:43–28:48native language is useless for anything outside of speaking to their grandparents.
- 28:48–28:50That is the exact path to digital extinction.
- 28:50–28:56By coding Mathly into Wikipedia and Google Translate, Gagendra ensured that when the next
- 28:56–29:00generation reaches for their phones, their language is waiting for them.
- 29:00–29:03It is fully functional in the modern world.
- 29:03–29:06He built the digital infrastructure so the language wouldn't be locked out of the future.
- 29:06–29:07Precisely.
- 29:07–29:11And he applied the same ethos of accessibility to publishing, too.
- 29:11–29:16The book mentions he founded Shruti Publication to combat the exploitative practices of
- 29:16–29:18regional publishing.
- 29:18–29:19Yes.
- 29:19–29:20Shruti Publication.
- 29:20–29:25This traditional publishing in regional languages can be a highly predatory environment.
- 29:25–29:26How bad was it?
- 29:26–29:30Well often, authors are forced into vanity publishing.
- 29:30–29:33They have to pay the printing costs out of their own pockets and the publishers retain
- 29:33–29:37the copyright, effectively controlling the author's intellectual property.
- 29:37–29:40So the author takes all the risk and loses the rights.
- 29:40–29:41Exactly.
- 29:41–29:45Gajendra looked at this model and saw another massive barrier to the growth of modern
- 29:45–29:47Missailly literature.
- 29:47–29:51So with Shreddy Publication, he instituted a radical open source ethos.
- 29:51–29:52What did he do?
- 29:52–29:57He did not charge authors a single rupee to publish their books, and he allowed them to
- 29:57–30:01retain full, unencumbered copyright of their own work.
- 30:01–30:05He essentially removed the financial gatekeepers from the creative process entirely.
- 30:05–30:06He did.
- 30:06–30:07It's incredibly noble.
- 30:07–30:12But you know, democratizing fonts and publishing books is generally universally applauded, right?
- 30:12–30:16Everyone loves a guy who helps blind people read and fights creditory publishers.
- 30:16–30:17It's a feel-good story.
- 30:17–30:24However, his drive to democratize information eventually led him to a project that was deeply
- 30:24–30:25controversial.
- 30:25–30:27This is the turning point.
- 30:27–30:28It is.
- 30:28–30:32And it tested whether his community was actually ready for ultimate democratization.
- 30:32–30:39Because he didn't just digitize fonts, he decided to digitize his culture's most deeply guarded secrets.
- 30:39–30:42This represents a massive pivot in Gajendra's legacy.
- 30:42–30:48He transitions from being a universally celebrated digital architect to a highly polarizing cultural
- 30:48–30:49disruptor.
- 30:49–30:50Yeah, disruptor is the right word.
- 30:50–30:54And to understand why, we have to deeply examine the Ponji Prabanda system.
- 30:54–30:55The Ponji.
- 30:55–31:01These are essentially ancient, incredibly meticulously maintained genealogical records, primarily
- 31:01–31:04of the Mephile Brahmans, though they cover some other casts as well.
- 31:04–31:07And the records date all the way back to the 14th century, during the rule of the
- 31:07–31:10Carnata dynasty.
- 31:10–31:16If you can imagine a vast, sprawling, interconnected family tree covering hundreds of thousands of
- 31:16–31:22individuals over six or seven centuries tracking every birth, every marriage, and every specific
- 31:22–31:24lineage that is the Ponchi.
- 31:24–31:26It is an unparalleled historical archive.
- 31:26–31:32I mean, in a pre-digital age, maintaining a database of that magnitude across centuries
- 31:32–31:35is a staggering achievement of human administration.
- 31:35–31:36Seriously.
- 31:36–31:39But traditionally, these records were not public documents.
- 31:39–31:44They were written on fragile palm leaves and ancient paper manuscripts and they were fiercely
- 31:44–31:49guarded by a specific, highly trained class of genealogists known as Panjikaras.
- 31:49–31:52And the Panjikaras essentially operated as the ultimate social gatekeepers.
- 31:52–31:54They held all the cards.
- 31:54–31:55They did.
- 31:55–31:59If a family wanted to arrange a marriage, they couldn't just do it.
- 31:59–32:01They were required to consult a Panjikara.
- 32:01–32:06The genealogists would consult the massive records to verify the purity of the blood
- 32:06–32:11lines and ensured that the perspective of pride and groom did not share any prohibited degrees
- 32:11–32:17of consanguinity. Meaning they weren't too closely related. Exactly. Because these records were the
- 32:17–32:22sole authority on social standing and marriage legality, the Panjikars wielded immense power.
- 32:23–32:28The knowledge contained in the Panjik was treated as proprietary intellectual property. It was
- 32:28–32:33locked away. And the sheer density and historical value of these records eventually attracted
- 32:33–32:38international academic attention. The source text notes a specific initiative by the genealogical
- 32:38–32:43society of Utah and the United States. They recognize that the Ponji represented a historical
- 32:43–32:47gold mine for understanding medieval North Indian social structures.
- 32:47–32:48So what did they do?
- 32:48–32:54They sent teams to Mithila and they utilized financial resources to pay local families and
- 32:54–32:59panchikaras for temporary access to these fragile manuscripts so they can microfilm and digitize
- 32:59–33:01them. Okay that sounds good in theory.
- 33:01–33:06Right, but the text is highly critical of the outcome of that Utah project.
- 33:06–33:07Why?
- 33:07–33:14Because they extracted this incredibly vital cultural data, digitized it, and then locked it
- 33:14–33:16away behind their own institutional paywalls.
- 33:16–33:17Oh wow.
- 33:17–33:23The digitized archive was primarily available for their own private research and academic use.
- 33:23–33:29It did not benefit the Methyl people. It benefited Western academia. They just replaced
- 33:29–33:31a local gatekeeper with an international one.
- 33:31–33:36And Gijinder Thakur, operating with the exact same ethos of public service we saw in his father,
- 33:36–33:40Kripanand, remember, the man who built the public library so everyone could read,
- 33:40–33:43looked at this situation and found it completely unacceptable.
- 33:43–33:44Yeah, he hated that.
- 33:44–33:48He believed that the history of a people belongs to the people themselves.
- 33:48–33:51He shouldn't be hoarded by elitist local genealogists,
- 33:51–33:54and it certainly shouldn't be locked inside an American university database.
- 33:54–33:57So he took matters into his own hands.
- 33:57–33:57He did.
- 33:57–34:03He embarked on this monumental solo effort to track down surviving Ponji manuscripts,
- 34:03–34:08painstakingly decipher the ancient scripts, type out these labyrinthine genealogical webs,
- 34:08–34:12and upload them to the internet. Freely available to everyone.
- 34:12–34:16And the generosity of his approach is highlighted by a specific anecdote from 2007.
- 34:16–34:17Oh, the researcher.
- 34:17–34:22Yeah, an American researcher named Anne Suman Panda was working on his PhD,
- 34:22–34:25focusing on medieval North Indian history.
- 34:25–34:29Gajendra essentially handed him a complete, digitized,
- 34:29–34:31typed out set of the Pangee records,
- 34:31–34:33and asked for absolutely nothing in return.
- 34:33–34:35No money, no exclusive publishing rights.
- 34:35–34:36Nothing.
- 34:36–34:37He treated the history of his people
- 34:37–34:39as an open source public good.
- 34:39–34:42It fundamentally altered the landscape of research
- 34:42–34:43in that specific field.
- 34:43–34:46However, the controversy and the intense backlash
- 34:46–34:49ignites when we look at exactly what Gajendra published.
- 34:49–34:51Right, because he did not just publish the clean,
- 34:51–34:55sanitized socially acceptable versions of the family trees?
- 34:55–35:01No, he didn't. He published the Dushan Pangee. And this is where the story gets incredibly tense.
- 35:01–35:06Yeah, the Dushan Pangee translates essentially to the registry of flaws or the record of blemishes.
- 35:06–35:11If the main Pangee was the record of a family's pride and pure lineage,
- 35:11–35:14the Dushan Pangee was the meticulously kept record of its shame.
- 35:14–35:15The dark secrets.
- 35:15–35:19Yes. These were the hidden entries detailing every scandal,
- 35:19–35:27every defect, every illicit affair, every unauthorized intercast marriage, and every resulting excommunication
- 35:27–35:31that families had desperately tried to sweep under the rug over the last several centuries.
- 35:31–35:35By publishing the Duchenne Ponzi alongside the main records,
- 35:35–35:38Gajendra completely shattered the illusion of historical purity.
- 35:38–35:39He blew it wide open.
- 35:39–35:44He did. The rigid rules of caste and social standing in mytholo were based on the premise
- 35:44–35:47of unbroken, pure bloodlines.
- 35:47–35:50Gagendra's digitized records provided irrefutable proof
- 35:50–35:53that those rules had been broken constantly
- 35:53–35:55by almost every major family throughout history.
- 35:55–35:57And the reaction from the community was explosive.
- 35:57–35:58I can only imagine.
- 35:58–36:01The text explicitly states that as a result
- 36:01–36:02of publishing these records,
- 36:02–36:05Gagendra received severe verbal abuse, hate mail,
- 36:05–36:07and very real physical threats
- 36:07–36:09from within his own community.
- 36:09–36:12Wow, physical threats over genealogical records.
- 36:12–36:13Yes.
- 36:13–36:16People were absolutely furious that their ancestral laundry,
- 36:16–36:18the darkest secrets of their Great-Great-Grandparents
- 36:18–36:21was suddenly available for anyone to read on the internet.
- 36:21–36:22Huh.
- 36:22–36:24And honestly, this is where I wanna push back a little bit.
- 36:24–36:25Okay, let's unpack that.
- 36:25–36:29I understand the open source ethos, I really do.
- 36:29–36:30But it feels like a massive clash
- 36:30–36:35between historical transparency and ancestral privacy.
- 36:36–36:37He is taking what was essentially
- 36:37–36:40a community's locked diary records,
- 36:40–36:44maintain with an expectation of privacy by specific families
- 36:44–36:46and publishing it on the front page of the internet.
- 36:46–36:48It's a very aggressive move.
- 36:48–36:50Does the desire for a digital archives
- 36:50–36:53justify violating that profound cultural trust?
- 36:53–36:56It is the central ethical tension of his career,
- 36:56–36:58and the text breaks down his reasoning.
- 36:58–36:59What was his defense?
- 36:59–37:00The core philosophy driving gajendra
- 37:00–37:02was that information kept in the dark
- 37:02–37:04inevitably serves only the privileged.
- 37:04–37:07The Panjikaras use the secrecy of the records
- 37:07–37:10to maintain social control and extract resources.
- 37:10–37:10Right.
- 37:10–37:16More importantly, Gajendra argued that a society cannot truly heal or understand itself if
- 37:16–37:20it only looks at a sanitized mythological version of its past.
- 37:20–37:25It's the idea that you can't build a stable future on a foundation of historical lies.
- 37:25–37:26Precisely.
- 37:26–37:31By democratizing the Panjhi flaws included, Gajendra stripped away the elitist gatekeeping
- 37:31–37:33of history.
- 37:33–37:38He forced a highly traditional culture to look in the mirror and face its factual,
- 37:38–37:40wonderfully complex reality.
- 37:40–37:44So he was kind of playing the role of the bad guy for the greater good.
- 37:44–37:46Exactly. He was essentially telling his community,
- 37:46–37:48look, this is who we actually are, warts and all.
- 37:48–37:50The purity you cling to is a myth,
- 37:50–37:53and we cannot move forward until we own our actual history.
- 37:53–37:54Wow.
- 37:54–37:57It was a painful, highly unpopular historical reckoning,
- 37:57–38:00but from his perspective, an absolutely necessary one.
- 38:00–38:02It's the ultimate bitter medicine.
- 38:02–38:04He built the digital fortress,
- 38:04–38:07and then he forced everyone to look at the unvarnished,
- 38:07–38:10often uncomfortable blueprints of their own society.
- 38:10–38:14But data and blueprints, no matter how truthful,
- 38:14–38:16don't give a culture its soul, do they?
- 38:16–38:18You can have all the Wikipedia pages,
- 38:18–38:21the Unicode fonts, and the digitized genealogies
- 38:21–38:23in the world, but if the emotional resonance
- 38:23–38:25of the culture isn't breathing,
- 38:25–38:28it's just a highly efficient digital museum.
- 38:28–38:29Which perfectly transitions us
- 38:29–38:32to the missing half of this extraordinary equation.
- 38:32–38:33Prety.
- 38:33–38:36Yes, the work of Prety Thakur.
- 38:36–38:39While Gagendra was wrestling with Unicode consortiums,
- 38:39–38:41writing algorithms and dodging threats
- 38:41–38:43from angry genealogists,
- 38:43–38:45the visual and narrative heart of the culture
- 38:45–38:48required an entirely different kind of preservation.
- 38:48–38:49A softer touch.
- 38:49–38:51Right, the critics in Preedy Karanthathubhan Hall
- 38:51–38:53evaluate Preedy's contributions
- 38:53–38:56as equally monumental to her husbands,
- 38:56–38:58yet they operate in a completely different register.
- 38:58–39:00I really love the dynamic between these two.
- 39:00–39:02If Gagendra is the logic, the code,
- 39:02–39:05the unyielding demand for absolute truth,
- 39:05–39:08Preeti is the color, the empathy, and the boundless imagination.
- 39:08–39:09She's an incredible artist.
- 39:09–39:10She is.
- 39:10–39:15The text recognizes her as a massive pioneer in her own right.
- 39:15–39:18She is celebrated as the very first full-time children's
- 39:18–39:20author in the Mathili language.
- 39:20–39:22The very first one.
- 39:22–39:23The first full-time one, yes.
- 39:23–39:26And the creator of the first Mathili Citracatha,
- 39:26–39:28which translates to graphic novels or comic books.
- 39:28–39:29Oh, wow.
- 39:29–39:31She began releasing translations in 2002.
- 39:31–39:34And by 2008, she was publishing her own original,
- 39:34–39:36fully realized graphic novels.
- 39:36–39:40And to understand why her work was so disruptive,
- 39:40–39:43we have to look at the artistic context of Mithila.
- 39:43–39:43Right.
- 39:43–39:46The region is globally famous for its visual art.
- 39:46–39:48If you mention Mithili art to a historian,
- 39:48–39:51they will immediately think of Madabani paintings,
- 39:51–39:54the intricate cobar murals used in wedding chambers,
- 39:54–39:57or the geometric Arapen floor art.
- 39:57–39:59Yeah, that highly stylized, beautiful artwork.
- 39:59–40:00Exactly.
- 40:00–40:02These forms are breathtakingly beautiful,
- 40:02–40:05highly intricate and deeply symbolic.
- 40:05–40:08However, they are fundamentally static.
- 40:08–40:09Static, like they don't move.
- 40:09–40:10Right, they are designed to capture
- 40:10–40:12a single eternal moment.
- 40:12–40:14A deity and repose a symbolic animal,
- 40:14–40:16a geometric pattern.
- 40:16–40:17They are magnificent,
- 40:17–40:18but they don't tell a moving story.
- 40:18–40:19Right.
- 40:19–40:21Critics in the texts, like Dr. Shifollika Verma
- 40:21–40:23and Vena Thakur, praise Priyati
- 40:23–40:26because she took that rich visual tradition
- 40:26–40:28and gave it forward momentum.
- 40:28–40:30She transformed methele visual art
- 40:30–40:33from static murals into dynamic, sequential,
- 40:33–40:35narrative comic book panels.
- 40:35–40:36She animated the culture.
- 40:36–40:37Exactly.
- 40:37–40:40But what makes her work truly revolutionary
- 40:40–40:42wasn't just the medium of the graphic novel.
- 40:42–40:44It was the specific stories she chose to tell.
- 40:44–40:46She wasn't just doing the classics.
- 40:46–40:47No.
- 40:47–40:50She didn't just translate generic Western fairy tales
- 40:50–40:54into Mathili or draw standard, safe, mythological stories.
- 40:54–40:57She aimed directly at the cultural and social jugular.
- 40:57–40:59Let's examine her treatment of Gonujah, for instance.
- 40:59–41:00Yes.
- 41:00–41:03Gonuchah is a legendary figure in Methil folklore.
- 41:03–41:08He is a trickster, a philosopher, a brilliant intellectual who uses wit to solve problems.
- 41:08–41:12But the text notes a deep lingering frustration among Methili scholars regarding how he is
- 41:12–41:13perceived.
- 41:13–41:18Historically, outside observers often lazily compare Gonuchah to Burble, the famous
- 41:18–41:21witty advisor to the mogul emperor Akbar.
- 41:21–41:23Which is kind of reductive.
- 41:23–41:24Very.
- 41:24–41:29Selly scholars feel that comparing Gonuchah to a court jester or a mere advisor diminishes
- 41:29–41:32his unique independent cultural weight.
- 41:32–41:34So how does Preeti address this through her art?
- 41:34–41:38She doesn't write an academic essay complaining about the comparison.
- 41:38–41:40No, that wouldn't reach the kids.
- 41:40–41:41Right.
- 41:41–41:45She draws a graphic novel where Gonuchah actually engages in a high level complex
- 41:45–41:48intellectual debate with the goddess Durga herself.
- 41:48–41:49Oh wow.
- 41:49–41:50Debating a god.
- 41:50–41:51Yes.
- 41:51–41:54Visualizing him sparring with the divine,
- 41:54–41:57she instantly elevates him from a clever peasant
- 41:57–41:59to a philosopher of cosmic significance.
- 41:59–42:01She reclaims the cultural icon
- 42:01–42:02through sheer visual framing.
- 42:02–42:04It's brilliant.
- 42:04–42:06But her most radical work,
- 42:06–42:07the work that critics in the source book
- 42:07–42:11revere her for as truly transformative
- 42:11–42:13lies in her choice to illustrate the stories
- 42:13–42:15of historically marginalized heroes.
- 42:15–42:17This is where she really pushes boundaries.
- 42:17–42:18She really does.
- 42:18–42:21For centuries, traditional Mothili literature
- 42:21–42:24was dominated by the narratives of the upper castes.
- 42:24–42:27The great poems and epics focused on high-cast poets
- 42:27–42:29or Sanskrit deities.
- 42:29–42:31The stories of the lower castes were kept alive
- 42:31–42:33through oral traditions,
- 42:33–42:36but they rarely made it into formal, published literature,
- 42:36–42:38and certainly not into visual art.
- 42:38–42:41And Prieti deliberately used the accessible,
- 42:41–42:44brightly colored, highly engaging medium of comic books
- 42:44–42:46to bring the subaltern epics,
- 42:46–42:48the stories of the oppressed castes
- 42:48–42:50into the mainstream literary fold.
- 42:50–42:53The specific examples given in the text are incredible.
- 42:53–42:56She illustrated the epic of Dina Bontri.
- 42:56–42:56Okay.
- 42:56–42:59These are the deeply revered martial heroes
- 42:59–43:01of the Musa cast, which is historically one
- 43:01–43:04of the most marginalized and severely impoverished communities
- 43:04–43:05in the entire region.
- 43:05–43:06What?
- 43:06–43:08She took their oral epic and gave it the high quality
- 43:08–43:10visual treatment usually reserved
- 43:10–43:11for mainstream Hindu deities.
- 43:11–43:13That's a huge shift in representation.
- 43:13–43:14It is.
- 43:14–43:17Even more shockingly for a highly traditional society,
- 43:17–43:20She wrote and drew the story of Reshma and Chuharmal.
- 43:20–43:22Ah, yes.
- 43:22–43:23The story of Reshma and Chuharmal
- 43:23–43:26is a famous deeply tragic romance in the region,
- 43:26–43:30but its core dynamic is highly subversive.
- 43:30–43:30It really is.
- 43:30–43:33It is a crosscast love story.
- 43:33–43:34It centers on the forbidden romance
- 43:34–43:37between a lower caste Dussad boy, Chuharmal,
- 43:37–43:40and a high caste Bumihar Brahman girl, Reshma.
- 43:40–43:42Right, and in a society that,
- 43:42–43:44as we saw with the Ponchi records,
- 43:44–43:49has historically obsessed over the absolute purity of cast lines and arranged marriages,
- 43:49–43:54taking a crosscast love story and turning it into a brightly colored graphic novel for
- 43:54–43:59children is a profoundly bold, almost dangerous move.
- 43:59–44:01It's basically a direct challenge to the establishment.
- 44:01–44:02It is.
- 44:02–44:04And this leads to my biggest realization while reading this.
- 44:04–44:08It's one thing for a progressive sociologist to write a dense, peer-reviewed academic
- 44:08–44:12paper about the least-for-cast unity and the importance of subaltern narratives.
- 44:12–44:13Right.
- 44:13–44:19Exactly. The only people who read those papers are other academics who already agree with the premise.
- 44:19–44:28Preeti took these radical ideas, cross-cast romance, the heroism of the oppressed, and packaged them into comic books for 10-year-olds.
- 44:28–44:31The strategy is so much deeper than just entertainment.
- 44:31–44:38The strategy is generational rewiring, and the expert reviews in the text articulate the psychology of this beautifully.
- 44:38–44:39It's all about reaching them young.
- 44:39–44:44them young. Exactly. Childhood is the critical window when cultural biases,
- 44:44–44:49prejudices, and social hierarchies are formed and permanently solidified in the
- 44:49–44:53human brain. Right. If a child grows up only ever seeing uppercast figures
- 44:53–44:57represented as noble, brave, and visually beautiful in their media, they
- 44:57–45:02subconsciously internalize that social hierarchy as a natural truth. But by
- 45:02–45:06giving children these dynamic, heroic, visual representations of characters from
- 45:06–45:11all levels of society, Preeti is actively subverting that subconscious programming.
- 45:11–45:13She's rewriting the visual language.
- 45:13–45:20She is. When a child reads her comic and sees a lower-caste hero like Chouharmal or Dina Badri
- 45:20–45:26drawn with the exact same visual reverence, the exact same heroic framing and dynamic action
- 45:26–45:33poses as a high-caste historical figure like the poet Vidyapati, it creates a cognitive equivalent.
- 45:33–45:38Exactly. She is quietly dismantling social prejudices for the next generation before
- 45:38–45:44those prejudices even have a chance to take root. She is using the very mechanics of visual
- 45:44–45:49storytelling to teach equality. The critics in the book call this a radical step for the language,
- 45:49–45:54and it is a perfectly accurate description. She isn't just preserving the Mephili language,
- 45:54–45:58she is utilizing the language as a tool to heal a deeply fragmented society.
- 45:58–46:02It is radical empathy disguised as entertainment.
- 46:02–46:05When you look at them together, the synergy of this couple is just breathtaking.
- 46:05–46:07They are a perfect team.
- 46:07–46:08They really are.
- 46:08–46:11Gajendra is out there fighting the establishment, taking the heat, breaking down the digital
- 46:11–46:15barriers, arguing with Google and exposing the uncomfortable historical truths of the
- 46:15–46:16Ponji.
- 46:16–46:18He is the shield and the architect.
- 46:18–46:23And Preedy is operating behind enemy lines, going straight to the minds of the children,
- 46:23–46:28using color and story to build a more inclusive, empathetic future.
- 46:28–46:32They address the survival of their culture from two completely different yet entirely
- 46:32–46:34complementary angles.
- 46:34–46:38They prove that cultural preservation is not a passive act of simply holding on to the
- 46:38–46:39past.
- 46:39–46:44It is an active, highly creative and frequently disruptive process of building new tools
- 46:44–46:45for the future.
- 46:45–46:46Absolutely.
- 46:46–46:50And as we wrap up this deep dive into the extraordinary lives of Gijendra and Preeti
- 46:50–46:55Thakur, I want to leave you, a listener, with a final thought to mull over.
- 46:55–46:56A takeaway.
- 46:56–46:57Yeah.
- 46:57–47:01been an hour exploring how one couple looked at a fading heritage refused to
- 47:01–47:05just hold up a protest sign and instead use computer code and graphic novels to
- 47:05–47:09save their culture from fading into digital oblivion. It's pretty inspiring.
- 47:09–47:13It is. Now I want you to look at your own life. Look at your own family history.
- 47:13–47:17Think about your local dialects, the weird hyper specific recipes your
- 47:17–47:21grandmother makes, the stories your grandfather tells about his youth that
- 47:21–47:25aren't recorded anywhere, the stuff that isn't written down. Right. If a massive
- 47:25–47:31digital blackout happen tomorrow and the cloud just vanished. How much of your identity, your
- 47:31–47:34history, your family's truth only exists on someone else's server?
- 47:34–47:36That was a scary thought.
- 47:36–47:40How much of it is actually written down, drawn, or deeply remembered in the physical world?
- 47:40–47:44Are you the active architect of your own history, like Krippenen,
- 47:44–47:48Gagendra and Prefipra Hathi? Or are you just renting fragile space on a server you don't
- 47:48–47:52control, hoping that someone else will do the hard work of remembering for you?
Plain text
Imagine for a second that you just want to send a simple text message to your mother. Right, like an everyday thing. Yeah, exactly. A totally mundane, everyday act. You pull out your phone, you open up your messaging app, you go to type. But when you look down at the digital keyboard on your screen, the letters of your native language literally just do not exist. They're just, they're not there. Right. There is no font. There's no toggle switch in the language settings. I mean the device in your hand, which is basically the gateway to the entire modern connected world Fundamentally does not recognize the language you think in. Yeah, the language you dream in or the one your ancestors have spoken for centuries Exactly. So if you want to communicate in the digital age at all You are essentially forced to adopt a completely different language Which is just um a really alienating reality. It really is and for tens of millions of people who speak the mathillie language This wasn't just some hypothetical thought experiment. It was their daily reality. It is It's a really profound kind of invisibility when you think about it for sure because you know we tend to think of little witch extinction as the sort of slow Romantic Fading away right like ancient words spoken by elders and remote villages right like a slow fade into history Yeah, exactly, but in the 21st century extinction happens way faster. It happens through digital emission. Oh, that's a great way to put it. Digital emission. Because if your language isn't actually encoded into the architecture of the web, it basically vanishes from the future. Which is exactly why today's deep dive is so vital. We are exploring a comprehensive, incredibly detailed book titled, Priyati Karan Setu Banal, Redefining Methyli, which was edited by Ashish Aynshinar. Yeah, it's a really fascinating source text. text. It really is. This document is essentially a critical appreciation of this extraordinary husband and wife duo, Kajendra Thakur and Priya Teetakur. Two really incredible people. Right. And these two, they looked at that blank digital keyboard we just talked about. They looked at a culture standing on the absolute precipice of modern irrelevance. And rather than just, you know, complaining about it to the government, they took it upon themselves to build the infrastructure from scratch. Yeah, they literally dragged Methili into the digital age. They really did. Preserving its historical records, its folklore, and its visual arts along the way. And to really grasp the sheer scale of what the Thakur family accomplished here, I think we need to understand the terrain they were operating in. Let's do it. Set the stage for us. Right. So we are talking about the Methila region. This is an area spanning across parts of the the state of Bihar in India and the eastern Terai region of Nepal. Okay. And Mathili itself is an Indo-Aryan language with just a staggeringly rich literary pedigree. Like how far back are we talking? Oh, we're talking about a language that produced legendary poets like Vijapati back in the 14th century. Wow, the 14th century. Yeah, and his romantic and diversional songs influenced the literature of the entire eastern subcontinent. And it has tens of millions of active speakers today. Tens of millions. So it's not some tiny niche dialect. Not at all. It's a massive demographic footprint with serious historical weight. And yet, despite all of that, it was functionally invisible in the spaces that dictate modern life. You mean like the internet. Exactly. The internet, modern software, dynamic media, it just wasn't there. You know what immediately stopped me in my tracks when I opened a Sheesh Anjanhar's book wasn't just the sheer volume of work this couple did, but how the editor actually structured the narrative. Yeah, the structure is very intentional. It is, because you read a lot of literary and historical biographies, right? Yeah. How often do you see a husband and wife evaluated side by side, chapter by chapter, as absolute co-equal architects of a cultural movement? It is exceedingly rare. I mean, I almost never see it. Right, because historically, especially in traditional South Asian literary circles and really globally, if we're being honest, the patriarchal norm dictates that the husband is framed as the visionary. Right, the active agent of change. Exactly. And the wife, well, if she's mentioned at all, she's relegated to the acknowledgement. Oh, totally. Like, thank you to my wife for her unwavering domestic support. Right. She's amused, or she kept the house quiet while the great man did his important work. But Priyatir Talan sent to Banhal completely shatters that convention. It really does. Preety Tarkour is not an appendage to Gagendra's work. She operates this completely different, yet equally vital machinery of cultural preservation. I noticed that. Gagendra is building the cold hard digital infrastructure. Like the coding, the databases, the fonts. Yes. But Preety is capturing the visual and narrative soul of the culture. And the editor points out a fantastic detail right up front, which is that Preety actually published her books before Gagendra published his. Yeah, that is such a crucial point. It is. Right. That structural choice by the editor immediately signals to you, the reader, that we are not looking at a traditional patriarchal history here. No, we are looking at a story about disrupting the status quo at literally every level. Exactly. The fact that her work preceded his in publication is highlighted precisely to disrupt those traditional reader expectations. It establishes this dynamic of two distinct intellectual heavyweights operating in parallel. But, you know, to truly understand the relentless, almost obsessive drive required to build these digital and artistic bridges, the narrative logically rewinds. Oh, yeah. We have to talk about the origin story. Right. Because it doesn't actually start with Gagendra or Prady. It takes us back a whole generation, the Gagendra's father, a man named Kripanan Thakur. I have to admit, at first, I wondered why we were spending so much time on the father's origin story in the book. It seems like a detour at first glance. Yeah. But when you read Siyarumja's account and he writes under the pen name Suras By the way of what life was actually like in the village of Mahanthi in the 1950s and 60s It completely collects it really provides the necessary context does because you cannot understand Could Jendra's absolute refusal to compromise with modern institutions Without looking at the physical and moral environment that his father had to survive and survival is absolutely the operative word there Oh, totally. Because Serum Cha paints a picture of rural Madhubani district that is completely stripped of any pastoral romanticism. No rolling green hills and happy farmers here. No, the conditions were brutal. This was an agrarian society entirely at the mercy of extreme weather patterns, scorching unforgiving summers and then freezing winters. And agricultural yields were totally unpredictable, right? Exactly. The poverty was systemic and absolute. The text actually notes that only about 5% of the Brahmin families in the village had some minimal means of sustenance. Just 5%. That is wild. And for the rest of the cast, the Yadavs, the Malaaz, the Paswan's life was just a daily grinding struggle, just to secure enough calories to make it to the next day. Yeah, when you are living in an environment where basic clothing is scarce and a daily meal is a question mark, the concept of education feels like it belongs to another planet. It's a massive luxury. It really is. Sending an able-bodied child to sit in a room and read books instead of working the fields is an immense sacrifice of essential labor for a family like that. And yet, for those who did try to navigate the local education system, the environment was staggeringly unforgiving. It functioned as an incredibly rigid gatekeeping mechanism. The educational infrastructure just wasn't designed to uplift the masses. Not at all. It was designed to filter them out based on incredibly strict parameters. There's this specific detail about the local school that illustrates this perfectly, I think. Oh, the English Require. Yes. The teachers were so fiercely rigid about academic standards that they enforced a blanket rule. If a student scored less than 30 marks in their preliminary English examinations, they were completely barred from sitting for their final board exams. Which is just an immense amount of pressure. It's insane pressure. Just think about it. We have children coming from mud dwellings with zero access to electricity, no books at home, trying to master the complex grammar of a completely foreign language, English, under the threat of having their entire academic future permanently halted. It was basically an academic crucible because English in post-colonial India was the ultimate currency of upward mobility. Right, you had to have it. Yeah, failing to master it didn't just mean getting a bad grade. It meant being locked out of the formal economy forever. Wow. Out of this extreme pressure cooker emerges Kripananthakur. The father. Right, against all geographical and economic odds, he navigates this rigid system, he masters the curriculum and he ultimately becomes an engineer. He graduates from MIT, Moos of Arpoir, around 1963. Now, the standard predictable narrative arc here is that the local boy from the impoverished village makes good, gets his fancy engineering degree, and moves to the big city, right? That's the usual story. Yeah, he escapes the poverty, Secures a comfortable middle-class life for himself and basically leaves the village in his rearview mirror. But that is precisely what Crominand did not do. He didn't. And his refusal to abandon his community becomes the moral blueprint for his entire family's legacy later on. He recognized that his education was a resource and he immediately began figuring out how to pipe that resource back into Mahanthi. I love that, piling the resources back in. The text details his efforts to bring the outside world literally and intellectually into this isolated village. The story of the Rambahadur Sarvajanak Pustakalaya, the Pupil Library is just incredible. It really shows his leadership. It does. There was this tragic event where a local youth named Rambahadur died prematurely. And instead of just mourning and moving on, Krippan used that moment of communal grief to mobilize the whole village. He brought everyone together. Right, he managed to get all these different, often fractured factions of the village to agree on a single location. They pooled what little they had, people were donating bamboo, thatch, physical labor. Wow. And they built a sanctuary for reading right in the middle of extreme poverty. It is such an early example of infrastructure building, not for personal gain, but for communal access. Yes, exactly. And he didn't stop with physical books, the timeline here is actually crucial. Right, the early 60s. Yeah, in 1962, India was plunged into the tense deeply unsettling period of the Sino-Indian War. Okay. So information was suddenly a matter of national survival, but a rural village in Bihar was essentially cut off from real-time news. They had no way of knowing what was happening. Exactly. So Kripanan managed to acquire a community radio from the central government for the new library. Okay. We really have to talk about the logistics of this radio. Yeah. Because Sriram Chah's description of it is easily one of the most vivid images I took away from these sources. It's definitely not what you picture when you hear the word radio. No. We aren't talking about a slick little transistor radio sitting on a side table. The government-issued radio they received didn't even have a built-in speaker. Wait, no speaker. No speaker. To make it audible at all, they had to hook it up to a massive external horn, almost like a giant old gramophone. Oh, wow. And placing it inside the library wouldn't really work, right? Because the sound would just be muffled and only a few people could fit inside the building anyway. Exactly. The whole goal was village-wide dissemination. So what did they do? So they mount this massive horn on top of a 30-foot high bamboo pole. 30 feet? 30 feet in the air. They hoisted into the sky so the audio can project across the fields and the different hamlets. But here's the mechanism that absolutely blew my mind. Okay. The horn was directional. It only broadcasts sound in one specific direction. Oh no, so half the village wouldn't hear it. Right. that the entire village could hear the news broadcast about the war, someone literally had to stand at the base of this 30-foot pole and manually rotate the bamboo trunk every 30 minutes. That is amazing. Think about the communal experience of that. You have an entire village, farmers, laborers, families, pausing their intense daily labor, looking up at this bamboo pole slowly spinning against the sky, listening to the crackling news of troop movements hundreds of miles away in the Himalayas. That's such a cinematic image. It really is a profound visual metaphor for what Kripanand was doing. He was personally acting as the axle, you know, rotating the mechanism that connected his isolated community to the wider currents of history. It fundamentally changes their relationship to the world. And he extended this philosophy of communal experience into local culture too, specifically through theater. Yeah, the drama troupe. Yes, Yeram Chah recounts Krippin then's heavy involvement in a local drama troupe. And they weren't just putting on light entertainment or silly comedies. They tackled heavy, historically charged material. He did. There's this fantastic anecdote where the village decides to stage a play about Pagat Singh, who was the famous Indian revolutionary who fought against British rule. Right. And naturally, the role of Pagat Singh is the hero of the story. Of course. this highly respected educated engineer volunteers to take on the role of Saunders. The British officer. Exactly, the British police officer who serves as the play's primary antagonist and symbol of colonial oppression. And he completely disappears into the role. He doesn't just read the lines, he commits to the sheer villainy of the character. He goes all in. He does. He wears the colonial hat, he puts on the fake mustache, he paints his face to look the part, But more importantly, he delivers his dialogue with such convincing, visceral arrogance and cruelty that he completely shatters the barrier between the stage and the audience. Which is actually kind of dangerous. It was. Céarra and Xiao writes that the village audience, and these are his neighbors, right? People who know him perfectly well in real life, they became so enraged by his performance that they actually started throwing their shoes and hard clods of dirt at him on the stage. That is hilarious, but also terrifying. terrifying they were shouting very real threats from the crowd. He was so effective at embodying the oppressor that he nearly incited a riot against himself in his own village. It's such a funny anecdote, but you're right, it illustrates a core psychological trait. Which is? When Krypanon committed to a task, whether it was building a library or playing a villain, he threw his entire being into it. He completely disregarded personal discomfort, ego, or in this case, flying footwear. Yeah, flying shoes. Which perfectly sets up the defining moment of Kripenand's character. Yes, the bridge story. Exactly. This is the moment where the moral architecture of the Thakur family is truly cemented. It happens in 1980 or 1981. OK. Kripenand is no longer in the village. He is working as an inspector on one of the most massive infrastructure projects in the country at the time, the Gandhi set to. Which is a huge deal. A massive deal. This was a 5.75 kilometer long bridge being build over the immense expanse of the river Ganga. And the engineering skill that Gandhi said to just cannot be overstated. It was a total marvel of its time. Abs. And when you have an infrastructure project of that magnitude, the financial stakes are astronomical. Hundreds of millions of rupees are tied up in contractor timelines, material sourcing, and government payouts. And inevitably, where there are astronomical financial stakes, there is the potential for equally astronomical corruption. Always. Right. And as an inspector, Krypunon was the final bottleneck for quality control. He was the guy signing off on it. Exactly. His specific job was to inspect the massive concrete segments being poured by the construction company before they were integrated into the bridge. If the steel rebar wasn't aligned properly, or if the concrete mix was diluted to save money, it was his job to reject it. Because if you put weak concrete into a bridge spanning the Ganga, eventually people die. Right. The structural integrity of the bridge literally depended on his signature, and he was notoriously uncompromising. I can imagine. The text notes that he had already rejected dozens of these substandard segments. Now, rejecting a massive, poured, concrete segment isn't just an inconvenience. It means the contractor has to absorb a massive financial loss. They lose the cost of the materials, the labor, and they fall behind schedule, which incurs further penalties. So Kripanan was severely damaging the profit margins of some very powerful, well-connected entities. He was costing them a fortune, which leads to a scene that honestly reads like it was pulled straight out of a noir thriller. Oh, it really does. It's late at night. Kripanan is alone in his small inspection camp on the Dark River Bank. Creepy. Yeah. A jeep pulls up outside. Two men step out and enter his dimly lit quarters. And the text is very specific here. One of the men is explicitly described as looking like a decoy. Like a hardened, armed bandit. Exactly. He has a heavy pistol openly holstered at his waist. So the implicit threat of physical violence is immediate and undeniable. Oh, absolutely. But they don't lead with a gun. They lead with a carrot. Right, the bribe. Yeah, they open briefcases right there in his quarters, briefcases packed full of cash. And the proposition is very clear. They basically say, look, we know you are an honest man. We know your government salary is modest. And we know you have a family to provide for. Just take the cash, sign the approval forms for the bad concrete, and everyone walks away happy. There's plenty more where this came from. It's the ultimate stress test of a person's character, isn't it? It really is. I mean, how does a man who grew up in the crushing, starving poverty of Mahanthi, a man who intimately knows the terror of having nothing respond when a literal briefcase of life-changing wealth is opened in front of him in the dark? He refuses. Just flat out refuses. He does, and the manner of his refusal is what makes this story legendary within the text. He doesn't just politely decline or say he needs to think about it. He looks at the armed enforcer, he looks at the massive pile of cash, and he tells them that taking Haram money, illegitimate sinful money, would fundamentally poison his household. His exact reasoning is incredible to me. He tells them that if he fed his children with corrupt stolen money, the food itself would be tainted. He says that raising children on bribes would guarantee that they grow up to be criminals and thugs no different than the armed men standing in his room right then. That takes guts. Serious guts. He states categorically that neither he nor his superior officer, B.N.J., are for sale at any price. And then, completely unarmed, he orders the men with the gun out into the night. It is a stunning display of moral fortitude. He recognized that compromising his integrity wouldn't just be a localized failure, it would structurally compromise the future of his own children. He wanted his children to be healthy in mind and body, and he believed that required an absolutely honest foundation, even if it meant remaining on a very modest income. And you know, this is why we spent time unpacking this story. Right, it's not just a tangent. No. Because this isn't just a cool anecdote about a brave engineer. This is the genetic and moral code being passed down to the next generation. You can draw an absolute direct line from Krypanon standing up to armed goons in the dark to protect the physical integrity of Bridge, to his son, Gagendra, standing up to the massive literary and cultural establishment decades later to protect the structural integrity of a language. That's so true. It is the exact same unyielding energy simply applied to a different kind of engineering. That is a really brilliant synthesis of the timeline. The father built physical infrastructure across the Ganga. The son decided to build digital infrastructure for the Mithili language across the internet. Exactly. Gajendra Thakur basically inherited that absolute refusal to compromise. And to understand the magnitude of Gajendra's work, we have to look at what the landscape of Mithili activism actually looked like when he began in the early 2000s. Right, because it wasn't an empty landscape. There were people doing things. The editor, Ashish Antinhar, lays out a surprisingly harsh critique of what the mainstream Mathili language movement looked like at that time. It's a very pointed critique. It is. If you looked at it from the outside, it seemed incredibly active. There were constant rallies, protests, and court cases. Activists were constantly petitioning the state government. What were they demanding exactly? Well, they were demanding that Mithili be officially recognized, and more specifically, that proficiency in my Thillie be a qualification for securing stable government jobs. Okay, so it was heavily tied to employment. Exactly. It was a movement characterized by immense volume, but very little practical application. What do you mean by that? Well, Anshinhar points out a glaring, deeply uncomfortable hypocrisy at the heart of this mainstream activism. Oh, right. The schools. Yes. These same vocal leaders who are organizing rallies and demanding that the government save their mother tongue were simultaneously abandoning the language in their own private lives. Right. The economic pragmatism completely overpowered their cultural pride. They were loudly demanding Mathili medium schools for the masses, but they were quietly sending their own children to expensive English medium private schools to ensure they had better career prospects in the globalized economy. It's a huge double standard. It is. They weren't purchasing or reading modern midfili literature at home. They were treating the language as a political tool for securing employment quotas while allowing it to actively atrophy as a lived domestic language. It really highlights a fundamental misunderstanding of how languages actually survive. How so? Well, a language does not survive because a constitution lists it in an official schedule. A language is a living organism. Right. It survives because people use it to argue, to joke, to write poetry, and crucially to interact with modern technology. Yeah. The old guard of activists were fighting for administrative validation, completely blind to the fact that the entire digital revolution was passing them by. And Genre recognized this massive blind spot. He saw that while people were fighting in the courts, the internet was rapidly becoming the primary domain of human interaction. And the Philly simply wasn't there. It was invisible. Yes. So instead of joining the protests, he bypassed the political establishment entirely. He sat down at his computer alone and just started building. And the sheer volume of what he accomplished single-handedly is difficult to overstate. He essentially functioned as a one-man tech startup for an ancient language. That's a perfect way to describe it. One-man startup. The text lists his firsts and they form this incredible road map of digital survival. In the year 2000, he created the very first monthly presence on the internet by launching a blog. Which in the year 2000 in India is wild. Right. In the context of the early Indian Internet where regional language support was practically non-existent, that is pioneering work. Then in 2008 he takes a massive leap forward and launches Videa, which was the first Mathili e-magazine. And Videa wasn't just some casual project. No. He didn't want it to just be a casual PDF floating around on forums. He wanted it to carry international academic weight. So, Videa became the first monthly publication to ever receive an ISSN, an international standard, serial number. He basically forced the international indexing systems to recognize a language they had previously ignored. Yes. But the detail about Videa that truly fascinated me was how he handled the different scripts. Oh, you're referring to his use of transliteration algorithms. Yes, exactly. This is where Gagendra's technical expertise truly intersected with his cultural historical knowledge. To understand this, we have to briefly touch on the history of Mithili scripts. Okay. Today, Mithili is primarily written in the Devanagari script, which is the same script used for Hindi and Sanskrit. Right. But historically for centuries, Mithili actually had its own distinct native script called T'huta. It's also known as Mithilakshar. So why did they stop using T'huta? Did the government ban it or something? No, it wasn't a ban. It was a combination of technological limitations and political assimilation. When the early printing presses arrived in the region, creating metal typefaces for the complex ligatures of Tirhuda was incredibly difficult and expensive. Oh, that makes sense. The physical printing blocks were hard to make. Exactly. Devanagari typefaces already existed and were cheaper to produce. Over time, for economic and political reasons, Devanagari became the default, and the ability to read the ancient Tirhuda manuscripts faded away from the general population. Wow, so the script just sort of died out because of printing costs. Basically, yeah. But Kijendra wanted to revive it. He didn't just want modern readers to access Fideha, he wanted to preserve the visual and historical textuality of the language. Right. So he utilized transliteration. And for you, the listener who might not be a coder, transliteration is different from translation. It doesn't change the meaning of the words, it purely maps the phonetic sounds of the language to a completely different set of visual symbols. It's changing the alphabet, not the language. Exactly. And Gijendra set up the back end of Edea so that a reader could click a button and consume the exact same Methili text in up to 11 different scripts simultaneously. Which is just a monumental coding achievement for one guy. 11 scripts. Yeah, he mapped the Methili language to Devanagari, to the ancient Tirhuda scripts, to Kythe, to Noori, and most astoundingly to Braille. Braille, yeah, that is so. He wrote the algorithms to generate the first Missilly book in Braille, providing access to the visually impaired, which is a demographic that traditional activists and the government had entirely neglected up to that point. It's a level of inclusivity that is just staggering. It really is. But he knew that a single magazine, no matter how advanced it was, wasn't enough to secure the language. He had to weave Mephili to the foundational platforms of the global internet. Or big ones. Right. The text details his multi-year grueling campaigns to get Mothelli integrated into Wikipedia and Google Translate. And we really must emphasize that this isn't simply a matter of sending an email to Google or Wikipedia and asking them to politely add your language. No, there's no suggestion box for that. Right. These platforms require immense proof of active dynamic usage before they'll even consider it. For Wikipedia, a language first enters what they call an incubator phase. What does that involve? Well, you have to build a critical mass of verified, accurately translated articles. You have to standardize a lexicon for modern terms that might not exist in ancient poetry. You have to invent or agree upon words for software or climate change or cryptocurrency. Because Vigipati wasn't writing about Wi-Fi in the 14th century. Exactly. to recruit and train a team of volunteer editors to actually maintain the pages. Gajendra spearheaded this massive organizational and technical effort for years, finally achieving official Wikipedia approval in 2014. And he did the same thing with Google Translate, which was finally approved in 2022. A huge milestone. It is. And I wanna pause here and ask the crucial question for anyone listening who might be wondering why this technical minutiae matters. Why it's a big deal. Right. Because if a farmer in Matubani is perfectly capable of speaking my silly to his family at the dinner table, why does it matter if Google Translate recognizes the language? Because the dinner table is no longer the sole or even primary arena of human validation. That's a great point. The modern world operates through digital interfaces. A teenager today interacts with education, commerce, and social life through a screen. If they go to search for information for a school project and their mother tongue yields zero results on Wikipedia, they are forced to switch to English or Hindi. If they want to text a friend and their phone's keyboard doesn't support their language, they switch. Over time that builds up. Over just a few years, the subconscious message internalized by that teenager is that their native language is useless for anything outside of speaking to their grandparents. That is the exact path to digital extinction. By coding Mathly into Wikipedia and Google Translate, Gagendra ensured that when the next generation reaches for their phones, their language is waiting for them. It is fully functional in the modern world. He built the digital infrastructure so the language wouldn't be locked out of the future. Precisely. And he applied the same ethos of accessibility to publishing, too. The book mentions he founded Shruti Publication to combat the exploitative practices of regional publishing. Yes. Shruti Publication. This traditional publishing in regional languages can be a highly predatory environment. How bad was it? Well often, authors are forced into vanity publishing. They have to pay the printing costs out of their own pockets and the publishers retain the copyright, effectively controlling the author's intellectual property. So the author takes all the risk and loses the rights. Exactly. Gajendra looked at this model and saw another massive barrier to the growth of modern Missailly literature. So with Shreddy Publication, he instituted a radical open source ethos. What did he do? He did not charge authors a single rupee to publish their books, and he allowed them to retain full, unencumbered copyright of their own work. He essentially removed the financial gatekeepers from the creative process entirely. He did. It's incredibly noble. But you know, democratizing fonts and publishing books is generally universally applauded, right? Everyone loves a guy who helps blind people read and fights creditory publishers. It's a feel-good story. However, his drive to democratize information eventually led him to a project that was deeply controversial. This is the turning point. It is. And it tested whether his community was actually ready for ultimate democratization. Because he didn't just digitize fonts, he decided to digitize his culture's most deeply guarded secrets. This represents a massive pivot in Gajendra's legacy. He transitions from being a universally celebrated digital architect to a highly polarizing cultural disruptor. Yeah, disruptor is the right word. And to understand why, we have to deeply examine the Ponji Prabanda system. The Ponji. These are essentially ancient, incredibly meticulously maintained genealogical records, primarily of the Mephile Brahmans, though they cover some other casts as well. And the records date all the way back to the 14th century, during the rule of the Carnata dynasty. If you can imagine a vast, sprawling, interconnected family tree covering hundreds of thousands of individuals over six or seven centuries tracking every birth, every marriage, and every specific lineage that is the Ponchi. It is an unparalleled historical archive. I mean, in a pre-digital age, maintaining a database of that magnitude across centuries is a staggering achievement of human administration. Seriously. But traditionally, these records were not public documents. They were written on fragile palm leaves and ancient paper manuscripts and they were fiercely guarded by a specific, highly trained class of genealogists known as Panjikaras. And the Panjikaras essentially operated as the ultimate social gatekeepers. They held all the cards. They did. If a family wanted to arrange a marriage, they couldn't just do it. They were required to consult a Panjikara. The genealogists would consult the massive records to verify the purity of the blood lines and ensured that the perspective of pride and groom did not share any prohibited degrees of consanguinity. Meaning they weren't too closely related. Exactly. Because these records were the sole authority on social standing and marriage legality, the Panjikars wielded immense power. The knowledge contained in the Panjik was treated as proprietary intellectual property. It was locked away. And the sheer density and historical value of these records eventually attracted international academic attention. The source text notes a specific initiative by the genealogical society of Utah and the United States. They recognize that the Ponji represented a historical gold mine for understanding medieval North Indian social structures. So what did they do? They sent teams to Mithila and they utilized financial resources to pay local families and panchikaras for temporary access to these fragile manuscripts so they can microfilm and digitize them. Okay that sounds good in theory. Right, but the text is highly critical of the outcome of that Utah project. Why? Because they extracted this incredibly vital cultural data, digitized it, and then locked it away behind their own institutional paywalls. Oh wow. The digitized archive was primarily available for their own private research and academic use. It did not benefit the Methyl people. It benefited Western academia. They just replaced a local gatekeeper with an international one. And Gijinder Thakur, operating with the exact same ethos of public service we saw in his father, Kripanand, remember, the man who built the public library so everyone could read, looked at this situation and found it completely unacceptable. Yeah, he hated that. He believed that the history of a people belongs to the people themselves. He shouldn't be hoarded by elitist local genealogists, and it certainly shouldn't be locked inside an American university database. So he took matters into his own hands. He did. He embarked on this monumental solo effort to track down surviving Ponji manuscripts, painstakingly decipher the ancient scripts, type out these labyrinthine genealogical webs, and upload them to the internet. Freely available to everyone. And the generosity of his approach is highlighted by a specific anecdote from 2007. Oh, the researcher. Yeah, an American researcher named Anne Suman Panda was working on his PhD, focusing on medieval North Indian history. Gajendra essentially handed him a complete, digitized, typed out set of the Pangee records, and asked for absolutely nothing in return. No money, no exclusive publishing rights. Nothing. He treated the history of his people as an open source public good. It fundamentally altered the landscape of research in that specific field. However, the controversy and the intense backlash ignites when we look at exactly what Gajendra published. Right, because he did not just publish the clean, sanitized socially acceptable versions of the family trees? No, he didn't. He published the Dushan Pangee. And this is where the story gets incredibly tense. Yeah, the Dushan Pangee translates essentially to the registry of flaws or the record of blemishes. If the main Pangee was the record of a family's pride and pure lineage, the Dushan Pangee was the meticulously kept record of its shame. The dark secrets. Yes. These were the hidden entries detailing every scandal, every defect, every illicit affair, every unauthorized intercast marriage, and every resulting excommunication that families had desperately tried to sweep under the rug over the last several centuries. By publishing the Duchenne Ponzi alongside the main records, Gajendra completely shattered the illusion of historical purity. He blew it wide open. He did. The rigid rules of caste and social standing in mytholo were based on the premise of unbroken, pure bloodlines. Gagendra's digitized records provided irrefutable proof that those rules had been broken constantly by almost every major family throughout history. And the reaction from the community was explosive. I can only imagine. The text explicitly states that as a result of publishing these records, Gagendra received severe verbal abuse, hate mail, and very real physical threats from within his own community. Wow, physical threats over genealogical records. Yes. People were absolutely furious that their ancestral laundry, the darkest secrets of their Great-Great-Grandparents was suddenly available for anyone to read on the internet. Huh. And honestly, this is where I wanna push back a little bit. Okay, let's unpack that. I understand the open source ethos, I really do. But it feels like a massive clash between historical transparency and ancestral privacy. He is taking what was essentially a community's locked diary records, maintain with an expectation of privacy by specific families and publishing it on the front page of the internet. It's a very aggressive move. Does the desire for a digital archives justify violating that profound cultural trust? It is the central ethical tension of his career, and the text breaks down his reasoning. What was his defense? The core philosophy driving gajendra was that information kept in the dark inevitably serves only the privileged. The Panjikaras use the secrecy of the records to maintain social control and extract resources. Right. More importantly, Gajendra argued that a society cannot truly heal or understand itself if it only looks at a sanitized mythological version of its past. It's the idea that you can't build a stable future on a foundation of historical lies. Precisely. By democratizing the Panjhi flaws included, Gajendra stripped away the elitist gatekeeping of history. He forced a highly traditional culture to look in the mirror and face its factual, wonderfully complex reality. So he was kind of playing the role of the bad guy for the greater good. Exactly. He was essentially telling his community, look, this is who we actually are, warts and all. The purity you cling to is a myth, and we cannot move forward until we own our actual history. Wow. It was a painful, highly unpopular historical reckoning, but from his perspective, an absolutely necessary one. It's the ultimate bitter medicine. He built the digital fortress, and then he forced everyone to look at the unvarnished, often uncomfortable blueprints of their own society. But data and blueprints, no matter how truthful, don't give a culture its soul, do they? You can have all the Wikipedia pages, the Unicode fonts, and the digitized genealogies in the world, but if the emotional resonance of the culture isn't breathing, it's just a highly efficient digital museum. Which perfectly transitions us to the missing half of this extraordinary equation. Prety. Yes, the work of Prety Thakur. While Gagendra was wrestling with Unicode consortiums, writing algorithms and dodging threats from angry genealogists, the visual and narrative heart of the culture required an entirely different kind of preservation. A softer touch. Right, the critics in Preedy Karanthathubhan Hall evaluate Preedy's contributions as equally monumental to her husbands, yet they operate in a completely different register. I really love the dynamic between these two. If Gagendra is the logic, the code, the unyielding demand for absolute truth, Preeti is the color, the empathy, and the boundless imagination. She's an incredible artist. She is. The text recognizes her as a massive pioneer in her own right. She is celebrated as the very first full-time children's author in the Mathili language. The very first one. The first full-time one, yes. And the creator of the first Mathili Citracatha, which translates to graphic novels or comic books. Oh, wow. She began releasing translations in 2002. And by 2008, she was publishing her own original, fully realized graphic novels. And to understand why her work was so disruptive, we have to look at the artistic context of Mithila. Right. The region is globally famous for its visual art. If you mention Mithili art to a historian, they will immediately think of Madabani paintings, the intricate cobar murals used in wedding chambers, or the geometric Arapen floor art. Yeah, that highly stylized, beautiful artwork. Exactly. These forms are breathtakingly beautiful, highly intricate and deeply symbolic. However, they are fundamentally static. Static, like they don't move. Right, they are designed to capture a single eternal moment. A deity and repose a symbolic animal, a geometric pattern. They are magnificent, but they don't tell a moving story. Right. Critics in the texts, like Dr. Shifollika Verma and Vena Thakur, praise Priyati because she took that rich visual tradition and gave it forward momentum. She transformed methele visual art from static murals into dynamic, sequential, narrative comic book panels. She animated the culture. Exactly. But what makes her work truly revolutionary wasn't just the medium of the graphic novel. It was the specific stories she chose to tell. She wasn't just doing the classics. No. She didn't just translate generic Western fairy tales into Mathili or draw standard, safe, mythological stories. She aimed directly at the cultural and social jugular. Let's examine her treatment of Gonujah, for instance. Yes. Gonuchah is a legendary figure in Methil folklore. He is a trickster, a philosopher, a brilliant intellectual who uses wit to solve problems. But the text notes a deep lingering frustration among Methili scholars regarding how he is perceived. Historically, outside observers often lazily compare Gonuchah to Burble, the famous witty advisor to the mogul emperor Akbar. Which is kind of reductive. Very. Selly scholars feel that comparing Gonuchah to a court jester or a mere advisor diminishes his unique independent cultural weight. So how does Preeti address this through her art? She doesn't write an academic essay complaining about the comparison. No, that wouldn't reach the kids. Right. She draws a graphic novel where Gonuchah actually engages in a high level complex intellectual debate with the goddess Durga herself. Oh wow. Debating a god. Yes. Visualizing him sparring with the divine, she instantly elevates him from a clever peasant to a philosopher of cosmic significance. She reclaims the cultural icon through sheer visual framing. It's brilliant. But her most radical work, the work that critics in the source book revere her for as truly transformative lies in her choice to illustrate the stories of historically marginalized heroes. This is where she really pushes boundaries. She really does. For centuries, traditional Mothili literature was dominated by the narratives of the upper castes. The great poems and epics focused on high-cast poets or Sanskrit deities. The stories of the lower castes were kept alive through oral traditions, but they rarely made it into formal, published literature, and certainly not into visual art. And Prieti deliberately used the accessible, brightly colored, highly engaging medium of comic books to bring the subaltern epics, the stories of the oppressed castes into the mainstream literary fold. The specific examples given in the text are incredible. She illustrated the epic of Dina Bontri. Okay. These are the deeply revered martial heroes of the Musa cast, which is historically one of the most marginalized and severely impoverished communities in the entire region. What? She took their oral epic and gave it the high quality visual treatment usually reserved for mainstream Hindu deities. That's a huge shift in representation. It is. Even more shockingly for a highly traditional society, She wrote and drew the story of Reshma and Chuharmal. Ah, yes. The story of Reshma and Chuharmal is a famous deeply tragic romance in the region, but its core dynamic is highly subversive. It really is. It is a crosscast love story. It centers on the forbidden romance between a lower caste Dussad boy, Chuharmal, and a high caste Bumihar Brahman girl, Reshma. Right, and in a society that, as we saw with the Ponchi records, has historically obsessed over the absolute purity of cast lines and arranged marriages, taking a crosscast love story and turning it into a brightly colored graphic novel for children is a profoundly bold, almost dangerous move. It's basically a direct challenge to the establishment. It is. And this leads to my biggest realization while reading this. It's one thing for a progressive sociologist to write a dense, peer-reviewed academic paper about the least-for-cast unity and the importance of subaltern narratives. Right. Exactly. The only people who read those papers are other academics who already agree with the premise. Preeti took these radical ideas, cross-cast romance, the heroism of the oppressed, and packaged them into comic books for 10-year-olds. The strategy is so much deeper than just entertainment. The strategy is generational rewiring, and the expert reviews in the text articulate the psychology of this beautifully. It's all about reaching them young. them young. Exactly. Childhood is the critical window when cultural biases, prejudices, and social hierarchies are formed and permanently solidified in the human brain. Right. If a child grows up only ever seeing uppercast figures represented as noble, brave, and visually beautiful in their media, they subconsciously internalize that social hierarchy as a natural truth. But by giving children these dynamic, heroic, visual representations of characters from all levels of society, Preeti is actively subverting that subconscious programming. She's rewriting the visual language. She is. When a child reads her comic and sees a lower-caste hero like Chouharmal or Dina Badri drawn with the exact same visual reverence, the exact same heroic framing and dynamic action poses as a high-caste historical figure like the poet Vidyapati, it creates a cognitive equivalent. Exactly. She is quietly dismantling social prejudices for the next generation before those prejudices even have a chance to take root. She is using the very mechanics of visual storytelling to teach equality. The critics in the book call this a radical step for the language, and it is a perfectly accurate description. She isn't just preserving the Mephili language, she is utilizing the language as a tool to heal a deeply fragmented society. It is radical empathy disguised as entertainment. When you look at them together, the synergy of this couple is just breathtaking. They are a perfect team. They really are. Gajendra is out there fighting the establishment, taking the heat, breaking down the digital barriers, arguing with Google and exposing the uncomfortable historical truths of the Ponji. He is the shield and the architect. And Preedy is operating behind enemy lines, going straight to the minds of the children, using color and story to build a more inclusive, empathetic future. They address the survival of their culture from two completely different yet entirely complementary angles. They prove that cultural preservation is not a passive act of simply holding on to the past. It is an active, highly creative and frequently disruptive process of building new tools for the future. Absolutely. And as we wrap up this deep dive into the extraordinary lives of Gijendra and Preeti Thakur, I want to leave you, a listener, with a final thought to mull over. A takeaway. Yeah. been an hour exploring how one couple looked at a fading heritage refused to just hold up a protest sign and instead use computer code and graphic novels to save their culture from fading into digital oblivion. It's pretty inspiring. It is. Now I want you to look at your own life. Look at your own family history. Think about your local dialects, the weird hyper specific recipes your grandmother makes, the stories your grandfather tells about his youth that aren't recorded anywhere, the stuff that isn't written down. Right. If a massive digital blackout happen tomorrow and the cloud just vanished. How much of your identity, your history, your family's truth only exists on someone else's server? That was a scary thought. How much of it is actually written down, drawn, or deeply remembered in the physical world? Are you the active architect of your own history, like Krippenen, Gagendra and Prefipra Hathi? Or are you just renting fragile space on a server you don't control, hoping that someone else will do the hard work of remembering for you?