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In this answer I am going to explain few of the incidents that actually took place in the ancient India that continues to fascinate us till this day. 1883 was the year when the translation of Mahabharata in English began.The beginning of 20th century also witnessed the great discovery of Indus valley civilization in north western part of India.With the passage of time many hypotheses were cooked up the most prominent among them being the spectacular theory that "Ancient Indians used nuclear weapons and had a thorough knowledge about it"Some of the hypotheses are:a) CITATIONS FROM MAHABHARATA1)There are a few verses in Mahabharata which are as follows:"A single projectile charged with all the power in the Universe…An incandescent column of smoke and flame as bright as 10,000 suns, rose in all its splendor…it was an unknown weapon, an iron thunderbolt, a gigantic messenger of death which reduced to ashes an entire race."The corpses were so burned as to be unrecognizable. Their hair and nails fell out, pottery broke without any apparent cause, and the birds turned white."After a few hours, all foodstuffs were infected. To escape from this fire, the soldiers threw themselves into the river."2) Also Mahabharata is found to contain a verse:anor aniyan mahato mahiyanatmasya jantor nihito guhayamtam akratuh pasyati vita-sokodhatuh prasadan mahimanam atmanah(Katha 1.2.20)It means that the greatest of the great is hidden in the smallest of the small. This forms the basis for the atomic energy.Conclusion DrawnA few scholars opine that such a vivid impression of a weapon could be possible only by an eye witness account. The descriptions mentioned are so clearly presented that it gives the idea of an actual nuclear bomb used in wars in ancient India.This theory became so popular that it was also used by western researchers to candidly project the idea of a nuclear war in ancient world.“Researchers” like David Hatcher Childress fervently argue that the verse mentioned in Mahabharata is clear proof of knowledge of the nuclear weapons possessed by ancient Indians. Such knowledge could have been possible only if the destructive weapon was used by the ancient Indians.Actuality Behind the Hymn.However there are two things to note in this regard:1)Firstly the verse of Mahabharata that was taken for citation was not the exact one as written by Kisari Mohan Ganguli. However, this quotation is translated into English from an 1889 German translation of the Sanskrit original, with no indication of where in the 1.8 million words of the epic the quotation came, or in what context this amazing weapon worked.2)This passage does not appear in the 1.8 million words of the Mahabharata. Instead, it appears to be carefully and purposefully rewritten from genuine passages, combining texts at will to create a misleading paragraph that seems to indicate anomalous knowledge of nuclear bombs.b)GIANT CRATER FOUND NEAR MUMBAIDavid Hatcher Childress in Nexus Magazine put forward some interesting facts about the Crater:1. The lake has two distinct regions that never mix — an outer neutral (pH 7) and an inner alkaline (pH 11) each with its own flora and fauna. You can actually do a litmus paper test here and check this for yourself.2. There is a perennial stream feeding the lake with water but there seems to be no apparent outlet for the lake’s water. And it is also a big unsolved mystery where the water for the perennial stream comes from, in a relatively dry region like Buldhana. Even in the driest months of May and June, the stream is perpetually flowing.3. No trace of any meteoric material has been found at the site or in the vicinity, and this is the world’s only known “impact” crater in basalt. Indications of great shock (from a pressure exceeding 600,000 atmospheres) and intense, abrupt heat (indicated by basalt glass spheres) can be ascertained from the site.Conclusion DrawnThe nearly circular 2,154-metre-diameter Lunar crater, located 400 kilometers northeast of Mumbai and aged at less than 50,000 years old, could be related to nuclear warfare of antiquity.Scientific ReasonHowever extensive study carried out by renowned institutes of the world provided with a different aspect of this mysterious crater.Lunar Lake lies within the only known extraterrestrial impact found within the great Deccan traps formation of India.The lake was thought to be initially of volcanic origin but now it has been found to be formed as an impact crater by hyper velocity of comet or a meteorite.The presence of plagioclase that has been either converted into maskelynite or contains planar deformation features (PDFs) has confirmed the impact origin of this crater. It is argued that only shock metamorphism caused by hypervelocity impact can transform plagioclase into maskelynite or create PDFs.c)RADIOACTIVE SKELETONS OF MOHEN JODAROA few bizzare views of the skeltons and the obvious questions raised in Mohen jodaro were:1)Skeletons were found lying face down in the street – many holding hands. Their faces and body positioning suggested they suffered a sudden, violent death. What was something big that happened to these people?2)There were no evidences of scavengers.The human bones found were remarkably well preserved. Why did the wild animals avoided scavenging their remains, and why, even after thousands of years, have their bones not decayed?3)The presence of radiation at the site. An epicenter where vitrification is present.British researcher David Davenport claimed to have found a 50-yard-wide epicenter at Mohenjo Daro where everything appeared to have been fused through a transformative process known as vitrification.What lead to formation of the epicenter in the region?Conclusion DrawnAll the skeletons were flattened to the ground. A father, mother and child were found flattened in the street, face down and still holding hands. It has been claimed that the skeletons, after thousands of years, are still among the most radioactive that have ever been found, on a par with those of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.Scientific ReasonOne of the first problems with this theory is the city itself. Its buildings are still intact, some of which are 15 ft. high. And they are made out of mud.A nuclear weapon whose main destructive power is in the force of its blast wave would be able to topple most of the mud-brick buildings. So anomaly in the nuclear war theory arises.But moving on, what about these skeletons? And not only do these 37 bodies show no signs of dying suddenly, the date of their deaths vary sometimes as much as a thousand years from one another. None of the archaeologists involved thought these skeletons suggested a sudden catastrophe.What about the remarkable well preserved bones?This can be chalked up to Mohenjo Daro being literally one of the hottest places on earth, with temperatures reaching very high. And because it’s also really dry, it is a perfect climate for preservation . In fact this is also probably the reason the mud-brick buildings are still standing as well.The problem with the claims about there being radiation at Mohenjo Daro is that we don’t know where this claim came from. It certainly wasn’t any of the scientists involved with the Mohenjo Daro digs that claimed it, and the AncientAstronaut theorists don’t site any references with which to check this claim, so until the presence of radiation can be proven to exist at the site, there is no reason to address it.What about this epicenter of vitrification?Well, according to archeologists it wasn’t exactly an epicenter of anything. It was a small amount of broken pottery which, because pottery is put in a fire to harden it, it contains a specific type of vitrification called Frit.They threw in the word epicenter to make it seem more legitimate. But there is no epicenter of anything except pottery at this site. of a meteorite. There is Frit which is partially fused sand and other chemicals in the presence of heated pottery – that’s what was found at Mohenjo Daro.Mohenjo Daro People were not killed in a sudden disaster. In fact they died a thousand years apart in some cases, and were clearly buried. The cases of radiation are a non-factor. The vitrification was caused by pottery, and we noted that if it was a nuclear explosion it didn’t even knock down the mud-brick houses which are still standing at the site.This however continues to fascinate the historians and a documentary named Ancient Aliens was launched by History Channel.Sources:Ancient Atom BombsKisari Mohan GanguliAncient Nuclear WarfareLonar crater lakeFlying Aircraft and Nuclear War and Other Strange Occurences of the PastMahabharata War- A nuclear War???

I grew up in Iowa (northeastern Iowa) and I now live in the Quad Cities and had 2 businesses in Bettendorf (Iowa) and I’ve read the 2 other entries and found some things lacking on their lists. (One responder admits to being a recent transplant).Most of the things listed (agriculture, friendly, interested in politics, a hidden gem) are correct, but one of the answers focuses heavily on Des Moines and its offerings and Des Moines being the capital city is unique because it is the capital.Other cities (Davenport and Cedar Rapids) are quite different. One city that has really been ignored is Iowa City and the University of Iowa’s program in writing, (Writers’ Workshop) which is world famous. Of course, I’m prejudiced, being an Iowa graduate, but the University is truly one of the best cities in the state in which to live. Its hospital is also highly respected and ranks among the best in the world in disciplines such as vision. Failing to mention the state’s educational system, in general, is something that I’d like to correct, as Iowa, historically, has been among the best states for education at all levels. It is true that the recent elevation of Republicans to run the state has worked to the detriment of that, but, historically, the system was one of the top in the nation. I spent a week this summer helping set the standards on standardized tests for 7th and 8th graders in the state, and I think it is still among the best states in terms of education. One of the “best college” values that is often linked is Grinnell and all 3 of the state universities are excellent.RAGBRAI - Ragbrai stands for the Register’s Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa and bicyclists come from all over.The Bix Road Race - the Quad Cities hosts a foot race that has attracted the best runners in the world. People like Bill Rodgers have run in the Bix, named in honor of the legendary jazz great, and in recent years it has primarily been won by racers from countries in Africa.Sports - As others mentioned, there are no large sports teams to cheer for, but Iowans make up for it by rooting for the Hawkeyes or the Cyclones or the Cubs or the Chicago Bears. Sports, in other words, is a big interest.Beauty: For those who have never visited the state, perhaps they have seen the movie “Field of Dreams.” The gorgeous cornfields are beautiful and the Mississippi River forms the border with Illinois, which is where I live. I grew up one block from the Wapsi Pinicon River (Independence), which is quite picturesque and has an old mill on it, and then went to Iowa City where the Iowa River runs through it. I find now, that I miss being near a town with water, whether it is a lake or a river or an ocean. I don’t like being stuck in totally dry states like Arizona.The Des Moines Register - This newspaper is quite well-known both in and out of the state. Its polls are uniformly referenced during the first-in-the-nation caucuses.These are a few of the things I’d like to add to the other answers.

I was raised in a most unusual milieu—the American South during segregation. My political views were set quite early. I’ve added extensively to my outlook over the decades, but it’s all been of a piece and consistent with the original view.I was born in Seguin, Texas, in the summer of ’49, four years after the end of World War II. The town is significant, as it was the choice of my Tips forebears as a place to settle in 1849 when they arrived from Germany. They chose Seguin, a town roughly 30 miles east and slightly north of San Antonio, for another significant reason—the town was roughly equal parts Mexican (named for Juan Seguín’s father), Anglo and German—it had a reputation for being able to get along. The family felt they would benefit from exposure to Americans and Mexicans in ways unavailable had they moved to a strictly German community like Fredericksburg or New Braunfels.After the Civil War, Seguin was the first city in the South to open a trade school for former slaves. Apparently, my ancestors volunteered there, as blacks started taking family names in the years following Emancipation, and the (originally) Dutch name Tips is used by black families in Texas and New York.One of my fondest memories ages 4 to 6 was of walking (by myself, at least the last couple of years) the five blocks west across downtown from my grandmother’s house to the “Ranger Station,” a one-room smithy shop in a ramshackle wooden building easily close to a century old on a rocky bluff over Walnut Creek. The smith was a black man with a full, thick head of snowy white hair. I’m pretty sure my dad told me he was in his 80s and had been there “forever.” [I imagine his father learned blacksmithing at the trade school, and this man learned the trade working side-by-side with his dad.]He would not let me enter the shop. But I could stand in the doorway (big enough for a large wagon to enter). He’d show me everything he was doing and keep up a congenial dialogue of explanation. It was magical.My mother was a Lee, of the Lees of Virginia, with two signers of the Declaration of Independence and a famous Confederate general. Only she was a member of a branch that moved to Mississippi in the hopes of getting rich on cotton only to become sharecroppers during the Great Depression. They lost the farm when my mother was 8 or 9. From that point forward, she never had a store-bought toy nor store-bought outer clothes. From age 11, when not in school, she worked long days with a hoe in her hands or picking cotton.My earliest political memory was of mom dandling me on her knee and cooing, “God made each and every one of us, and He doesn’t play favorites.” Only, just before I started first grade, we moved to the Dallas suburb of South Oak Cliff.Ours was just about the first house finished on the block. One summer day before I started school, a lone carpenter showed up to work on the house across the street. In tow was his son about my age. I grabbed my next younger brother and we went over to play. At length my mother came out in the front yard and hurriedly called us home. Once inside, she told us we could not do that; we could not play with black children.“But, mom…” She would not address the objections I raised… refused to discuss the matter. It was my first major conundrum in life, made all the more perplexing by her subsequent behavior…My mother was a fun-loving, easy-going, exceptionally charming woman. Once I was in school, she headed up every canned-food drive (common in those days) for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I’d help her distribute the goods. We’d walk up the sidewalk to a black apartment to usually a cool reception; only, soon, my mom and the lady of the house would be at the kitchen table hooting and hollering like old times, while I was out in the living room playing with the children of the family. I developed some suspicions about my mom, indeed, her whole family, that would not be confirmed for almost sixty years.My dad was Central Texas German, but with an Irish grandmother whose own grandfather had fought with Houston at the Battle of San Jacinto and with a mother who was French. We were Texans, by God, and don’t you forget it.He’d been a captain in the Army Air Corps during World War II after losing his deferment as the sole support of his mother, with two brothers already serving. My grandfather, a pursuit pilot in World War I, had died in a training accident in ’40 teaching RAF pilots combat maneuvers at nearby Randolph Air Field. He had to sell the family business.Because my dad was an excellent typist, he spent the war as head clerk to a colonel stationed at Hickham Field in Hawaii. After the war, like all of his peers, he stayed in the Reserves in order to collect the extra $35 a month. And like most of them, he was called up. My earliest memories are of Albuquerque, where he was billeted on some nuclear mission. He spent a year in Morocco. I don’t know if it was Albuquerque or Morocco, but he was commandant of a base with nuclear weapons.When he was called up for Korea, he had to sell the family business a second time, to the same gentleman, who this time insisted on a five-year non-compete clause to prevent losing all the customers he’d purchased as he had the first time. Not being able to live, after being released from service, in his home town irked my dad for decades. He tried working as an accountant, but soon we bopped to Houston and then Dallas.I loved my neighborhood in South Oak Cliff. I loved my friends. I focused on school work and play with my buds until sixth grade, when Kennedy ran against Nixon. My parents did not tip their mitts. (It was not until Johnson-Goldwater I discovered that both were dyed-in-the-wool Republicans, a rare thing in the South.)The funny thing was, with the great majority of my classmates being from Democratic families, they’d go down the school corridors between classes chanting in unison, “Nixon! Nixon! He’s our man. Kennedy belongs in the garbage can!” Southern Democrats had no use for Catholics, even from their own party. The funny thing was, the more I paid attention, the less I liked Nixon and the more I liked Kennedy… the Democrat!And that year, the first black family moved into our neighborhood. Before I knew it, I was white-flighted out of my neighborhood, but not to the other Dallas neighborhoods where my friends fled. No, dad spotted a little town an hour north, twenty minutes north once Interstate 35 was completed shortly after we moved, and that was the attraction. My dad had been in insurance and real estate, and he spotted Lewisville as the epicenter of a coming growth boom.The city limit sign, posted after the ’60 census, boasted something like 3586 souls. I soon found out that they were mostly related to each other and that their parents, often both, worked as furniture assemblers or grocery store butchers or owned a service station. My first day of 7th grade, first period, Jesse Peters had his switchblade confiscated for carving his initials into his desk, and Leland Davenport had his Zippo confiscated for setting his desk on fire.I went home and pleaded with my mother, “Please, please get me out of this place. I’m going to DIE!” She just chuckled and assured me I’d be fine. I was one bitter little bugger. I would wait out my sentence in hell—screw ALL these people—and bolt away to college as soon as I could.I was resentful as hell toward my father. It was his racism that had landed me in this purgatory. Why couldn’t we live side-by-side with black people? Go to school with black kids? God doesn’t play favorites!!! Remember?It was another fifty years before I had my suspicions about my dad disconfirmed.The two big political influences in my teen years were Martin Luther King, Jr—everything he said in those years went straight to a spot in my brain that instantly stamped it TRUTH—and Hugh Hefner—I never missed an installment of his Playboy Philosophy, which basically claimed the government had no business getting involved in personal morality or consensual sexual activity (of which I was yet to have any).At 14, a seminal and galvanizing event occurred. I was in freshman Spanish when a commotion could be heard in the hallway minutes before class was to be over. A senior who helped in the principal’s office scurried in with a worried mien, leaned and whispered to our teacher, an ardent Conservative Democrat. He beamed. “Oh, maybe nothing’s wrong,” I thought. Minutes later, when the bell rang, as we filed out, he chuckled, “By the way, kiddies, your president has been shot.”I had never experienced such depth of hatred. Oh, several times already, towns people had called me “nigger lover” to my face when they suspected my parents were Republican (back in those days, one dared not put any bumper stickers on the car or yard signs on the lawn—but then, if you didn’t put Democratic ones up, you were suspect).With the KKK also active in the Deep South and committing atrocities, it suddenly hit home why my mother had been so distraught at my brother and I playing with that black boy—harm might well have befallen him and his father. She did not want to discuss it because she did not want to tell us how ugly the world actually can be at such a tender age.It wasn’t getting any less ugly. My sophomore year, we learned we would be integrating the following year. Teachers were urging resistance. Taking a test in one class, I went to the window to sharpen my pencil. The teacher walked over, put his arm around my shoulder and pointed to a young black male coming into view down the street. “That’s the kind of nigger trash that’s going to be going to school next year. What do you think about that?” I ducked his embrace and went back to my seat, where I glowered at him.I was young, but there was no escaping taking a stand in those days. The most memorable instance had come a couple of years earlier visiting family in Mississippi. I went with a cousin quite a bit older into a Delta town, where he was joined by a friend. They chatted, when suddenly the friend blurted, “Look at that nigger buck walking down the sidewalk.” Then, right in my face, “I wouldn’t walk across the street to spit on a nigger…”I hoped my cousin would intercede, but I wasn’t sure of his politics. I knew I was being forced to declare. All at once I realized I had a clean way out, “neither would I,” I remarked perfectly honestly. It seemed good enough for that young tough, and he went back to chatting with my cousin. My heartbeat slowly returned to normal.And so my politics was formed at this time in this crucible. As a Lockean lover of liberty, I was a liberal, in the unambiguous usage of the time. Progressivism had not yet revitalized to renew its phony claim on that label, originally stolen by Franklin Roosevelt when he dared not run for the presidency truthfully after progressivism had taken a huge black eye over Prohibition.And so, I marched off to college, mere days after my graduation, a libertarian, radically liberal. It was the Summer of Love, 1967, and I couldn’t wait to wade into politics.But before we go there, I had two years of integration to go through to finish high school. I arrived fall of my junior year expecting to have to take a stand again. There was only one other classmate from a Republican family—all the rest, Southern Democrats, more properly known as Conservative Democrats. Instead, it all went seamlessly. My classmates openly welcomed our new students. Half a dozen were in our class, and the story was the same in the other classes. There was never an untoward event, and the teachers who’d been urging resistance kept their mouths shut. Obviously, there had been some considerable planning on the part of the student body, but I hadn’t heard of it. All of a sudden, my classmates didn’t seem like such clods to me.I had just ridden one of the great tidal waves in American history, but what exactly went on was a mystery to me for another 41 years.The day after graduation, someone casually mentioned that one classmate had been Catholic. “What! I know a Catholic!?” It was a shame I’d missed the chance to know him better. Once in Austin at the University of Texas, I wasted no time getting into the thick of things. Because I had a notion that publishing might one day be a good career field for me but wanting nothing to do with journalism school, I volunteered for the school paper and was accepted as an editorial page editor writing a weekly opinion column, which put me right in the thick of the political ferment of the times.At meetings to plan rallies and resistance, the “soshes” outnumbered us libertarians three or five to one. Indeed, it was a matter of years before I could reliably tell political stripes apart. I was shoulder-to-shoulder with individuals who could recite Gramsci or Guevara or Mao or Fanon. Half the professoriat was radicalized, and I was assigned Marcuse and Brown and Freud and Marx.At first, we were all brothers in arms. Then my take became “politics makes strange bedfellows.” Finally, it became, “you’ve got your politics; I’ve got mine.” Fortunately, that occurred before I had to read Derrida, Foucault or any of the other postmoderns.But I got restless early on. I had been raised WASP in a sea of other WASPS. While the three black girls in our class had readily socialized, the three boys had not. I felt I had not known anyone different. In typical Charles Tips “anything worth doing is worth overdoing” fashion, I hitchhiked to New Orleans, went to the Seafarer’s International Union hall and signed up for the Harry Lundeberg School of Seamanship. Next thing you know, I’m flown to San Francisco and put aboard the S. S. Steel Executive bound for Pusan, Korea.I spent three years off and on hopping freight ships, and you could not get farther from WASP culture. I sailed with crews from Baltimore, Mobile, New Orleans, Houston, Long Beach, San Francisco and Seattle. Crews consisted of every race and nationality you could imagine. I spent good chunks of time in many countries and, in port, I palled around with Germans, Danes, Yugoslavs, Liberians, Spaniards, Chinese… you name it.It was a great education. But it was also more. It was confirmation that my mother had been thoroughly correct—there is no differentiating people by externalities. But moreover, it was eternally amazing how well the crews functioned in such a confined living arrangement. The crews could not have been more diverse, but it always worked… to the point I decided that the age-old suspicion of others is a mistake in need of correcting. We will reach our optimum as a species once we embrace our great diversity.But three years of bopping around the world put me graduating during the Watergate imbroglio. Slowly it dawned on me… hey, Nixon was the progressive back in ’60, Kennedy was, like me, the civil-rights loving, supply-side liberal [true sense of the word]… the only one ever elected president from the Democratic Party.By 2003, it was clear that California was headed in the toilet. I’d met my wife and raised three sons there. We decided it was time to move and Texas was the place. I wanted the glorious hills around Austin, but my wife insisted we be closer to her elderly parents in Kansas. So, we ended up in the same county where I went to high school, a place I thought I’d never return, a county that had been eighty percent Democrat in my youth and was now flipped to eighty percent Republican.We chose the school carefully, so that our middle son, going into his junior year, would have a top-notch baseball program. That put us here in Flower Mound, my old school district. And we were off to a baseball game in South Oak Cliff that next summer. I recognized that we were a mere five minutes from my old childhood house. I dragged my wife and son there.I knocked on the door. A black woman older than me answered. “Yes?”“My name is Charles Tips. I lived in…”“Come in,” she demanded.It was suddenly old-home week. She introduced me glowingly to her daughter and grandson (who had my old bedroom). At length, after asking about my father’s health, she inquired, “Do you know about your daddy?”“All I know is he moved us away in ’61 when blacks started moving in.”“You need to know. You see that dining room table right there? He sat there two nights a week for months. New people would bring their purchase contracts and home insurance contracts to him, and he would sit there with his ruler and his ballpoint pen [my dad alright] and strike through line after line and write new terms in the margin. His rewrites were never challenged. He saved every one of us a ton of money and a ton of grief, and he never asked for a nickel. When you see him next, tell him we all still think of him and wish him the best.”Well, I was dead wrong about dad. People in my parents’ generation were tight-lipped.My mother had passed away more than a decade earlier, but her youngest brother, Uncle Joe wanted a ride to Starkville to visit his brother John who was ill and didn’t seem like he would make it.That gave us eight hours there and eight hours back to talk, and Joe was the one talker in the family. What I learned was that on the farm they worked in the Mississippi Delta, they had been the only white family for miles around. All their hunting buddies and fishing buddies… black. All their “aunts” and “uncles”… black. Their “grandparents,” the elderly couple that lived on the backside of the farm with their “forty acres and a mule”… not just black but slaves in their youth.No wonder my mother had volunteered to head every canned-food drive. It was the only way she could socialize with blacks in the South of the ’50s! No wonder she had counseled my brothers and me over and over never to judge anyone on any basis other than their actions.In 2007, it was time for my 40th class reunion.Lo and behold, four-fifths of my classmates, the sons and daughters of racist Conservative Democrats, were now Republican!!! the same percentage as the county as a whole. The more I listened, the more I realized, the growth of the Republican Party in the South had been a generational thing. My Baby Boomer generation, in school at the time of integration, wholly rejected the old Democratic politics. In the South, you demonstrated your lack of animosity toward other races by joining the GOP, and that’s what they did.Afterward, my wife gave me holy hell. “How did you lose track of these people!? These are some of the greatest people I’ve ever met! Start inviting them over.” And I did. And she was right, and I had been wrong for four decades.But there’s your explanation for one the great schisms in US history as an entire generation broke with its parent generation.And there you have my personal political odyssey, still a hardcore libertarian after all these years.