Slice of Life

The reduced footprints unleashed a burst of life. Squirrels roamed freely, butterflies flitted, and fish leaped. Birds—ducks, cormorants—danced for their prey, their excitement palpable. Stray dogs, or “adopted” ones, rested on concrete steps, secure in the quiet. Life was coming alive.

A group of Muslim folks walked in sarees, smiles, and all into this Hindu-epic-named joint. Panchavati hosting Ramayana’s opposites ?

“This is our Hindu festival,” she declared firmly. “You must follow certain rituals, at least tomorrow—it’s an auspicious day for Hindus.”

When meritocracy works, it’s a powerhouse. By placing capable individuals in positions of influence leaders who’ve earned their stripes

It’s a survival relic, a personal shield, a social glue. We’re stuck with the instinct, but the target people, acts, things depends on what

Myths are everywhere. They’re the stories we tell ourselves about gods, heroes, or why the world ticks the way it does. But “myth” feels...

There’s a distinguished architect on our team—someone I’ve known for five years, whose expertise is undeniable. His command of our product and its underlying concepts is remarkable, and he carries a well-earned pride in his craft. But I’ve noticed something over time: that same expertise sometimes becomes a barrier rather than a bridge.

I can still smell it the wet earth after a monsoon shower, the sharp tang of mango blossoms, the smoke curling from a mud stove in my...

Yet history shows that progress often comes from those who dare to disturb. Take the example of India’s Green Revolution in the 1960s. At the time, the country teetered on the edge of famine, its agricultural system “working” just enough to keep people fed—barely. Scientists like M.S. Swaminathan and policymakers like C. Subramaniam took a gamble, introducing high-yield crops and modern farming techniques.

These companies, driven by profit, seldom bother to restore the roads they disrupt, leaving behind rough patches and heaps of displaced earth. The roads, like silent sufferers, bear the wounds of neglect, their uneven surfaces a testament to unfinished work. It’s as if the streets themselves cry out, their pleas unheard by those who prioritize convenience over care. This neglect is a bitter pill for the public to swallow, forced to navigate the chaos left in the wake of such

I don’t know what changed that day. Perhaps the sparrows carried a weight I couldn’t see, a quiet grief mirrored..

This is our family—imperfect, raw, and real. I feel bad for myself, for all of us, because I couldn’t hold us together today. But I know one thing: we’re not broken. Not yet. Tomorrow, I’ll try again—to listen, to heal, to remind Vikas he’s enough, to show Shilpa she’s understood, to make Vivek’s stories come alive once more. Because family isn’t just the sunny moments; it’s the courage to face the storms and find our way back to each other.

In India, the Charvaka school (~600 BCE) rejected Vedic rituals and blind faith in the supernatural, emphasizing sensory evidence over dogma

Dig into the dirt, and it’s murky. Ayodhya’s ancient excavations show settlements from 2000 BCE, per the Archaeological Survey of India

“The garbage collector hasn’t come in two days,” she explained, “and I needed to keep our house clean.” When I pressed her on why she’d chosen the open ground, her reply cut like a knife: “If everyone else does it, why shouldn’t we? What else can we do?”

“Little one,” it says, “you scatter your rain too freely. Save your strength for the valleys that need it most. The desert will drink you dry, and the ocean needs no more.” The budding cloud twirls, puzzled. “But raining feels good!” it replies. “Why should I hold back when the world sparkles below?”

Terrorists could choose peace, corruption could turn to honor, the impulsive could steady their hands. Even the option...

Then there’s the driver I knew. He hung a lemon-chili thread on his car, trusting it to shield him on Mysore’s chaotic roads. I warned him, “No ritual’s saving you if you don’t drive right—rules, focus, caution, that’s what counts.” Days later, he crashed. The thread dangled uselessly; the accident broke his faith. I wasn’t smug—I was sad. Sad that it took a wreck to show him what I’ve always believed: superstition’s a flimsy shield against reality.

Big mistake. Her eyes narrow. “You always dismiss my feelings with your ‘science says’ nonsense!”

So, the next time you feel the urge to speak without thinking, to react without reflecting, or to let your emotions spill over unchecked, picture the bottom of a broken kitchen sink. Ask yourself: Is this the version of me I want to present to the world? Is this the version of me that’s true to my consciousness?