“Bhaiya, aadha Kg laddoo dena,” I told the salesman at my favourite sweet shop in Jakhan, Dehradun.

“Sir, pehle wala daam nahin hai. Badh gaya hai,” he informed me as he started packing the laddoos.

“Kya ho gaya?” I asked innocently.

“Sir, pehle to gas mehngi ho gayi thi. Ab chini ho gayi hai,” he explained patiently.

“Thik hai, jalebi de do.”

“Woh bhi same, sir.”

“Peda, barfi, imarti, kuch to same hoga,” I argued.

“Sir, kya baat kar rahe ho. Sab cheez mein chini padti hai,” he said, trying to control his irritation.

Suddenly, the laddoo that I had habitually put in my mouth tasted bitter. What is happening? Things are really going out of control. “Trump has sorted us out,” I muttered. The salesman looked at me. “Trump?” “Nothing. Globalisation,” I said, pretending to understand economics. The truth, however, is rather less amusing.

A mini sugar war has broken out in the media. As I checked my Instagram feed, I was informed that India is facing an unusual sugar-price squeeze just as the festive season approaches. Sugar prices have skyrocketed from Rs 48.18 a kilogram in Jul 2026 to Rs 55.70 in Aug 2026^[1]. That is an increase of more than 15.6% in one month, I calculated mentally. The pro camp declares that the shortage is temporary and the government is taking all measures to tackle the situation. The government’s initial estimate was around 343 lakh tonnes of sugar production, which has been revised down to approximately 306 lakh tonnes. The reasons include sugarcane diseases such as Red Rot and Top Borer, along with waterlogging caused by excessive rainfall^[2]. It has been stated that strict action will be taken against anyone hoarding sugar to make a windfall. The anti-camp blames the system for poor management. How has India, which was once exporting sugar, has come to import it? Thunders one analyst. Another one blames the government’s ethanol push and the move towards E20 petrol. However, according to the Ministry of Consumer Affairs, the proportion of sugar diverted towards ethanol actually declined from about 12 per cent in 2022-23 to around 9 per cent in 2025-26. The government has also permitted duty free import of upto 10 lakh tonnes of raw sugar^[3]. It is the first such import intervention in nearly a decade.

Depending on which side you are on, the laddoo can taste sweet or bitter to the taste buds.

“Sanu ki karna hai,” I think as I scroll past one post to another. I am only concerned why my laddoo is more expensive? My experience told me not to get into economics, because it is all like a jalebi—everything goes round and round before you get to the answer.

I am now worried about the approaching festival season. Should I buy sweets for the Raksha Bandhan or not? What will happen during Ganesh Chaturthi, Dussehra, Diwali? I guess, I will have to work something out by jugaad. Maybe gud will a good replacement I think to myself, or maybe good old Cadbury chocolate. And, of course, the ubiquitous cup of tea. A serious call needs to be taken at home.

On a more serious note, is it indeed a problem of sugar management in the country? Too much sugar in the market can hurt the farmer as the prices drop. Too little sugar hurts the consumer as the prices rise. Cheap sugar hurts the mill as their profit goes down. Expensive sugar hurts the household budget including the good old cup of tea.

Sugarcane farmers need remunerative prices, sure, no one can argue that. Sugar mills need viable economics, sure, no one can argue that. Consumers want affordable sugar, sure, no one argue that. The government wants ethanol, hmmm. We can debate that. The country wants energy security, sure no one can argue that. And environmentalists worry about the enormous quantities of water required to grow sugarcane. That is also a point for consideration. Suddenly sugarcane seems to the king of the crops. Everyone needs it – it feeds us, fuels us, employs us, pays farmers, keep sugar mills alive and contributes to India’s energy security.

My humble laddoo is the very end of a complex socio-economic-political chain. There are no simple answers or solutions.

Back to the laddoo I looked at the half-kilo packet. “Kitne hue?” He told me the price. I stared at him. “Sir, chini mehngi hai,” he repeated. This time I didn’t argue. I opened my UPI app – I only hope that UPI is not going to become costly, I let out a silent prayer.

Then I remembered my own words. “Trump has sorted us out.” Maybe I was being unfair to Trump. Perhaps this time the real culprit is not in Washington. Perhaps it is hiding somewhere between a sugarcane field, a changing climate, a sugar mill, a government policy and our own extraordinarily sweet tooth.

But one thing is certain. The next time someone offers me a laddoo, I may first ask for its price—and then its sugar content. Because these days, in India, even sweetness comes with a price.

“No sugar in your cuppa, dear,” I told my wife as I handed her the customary evening cup of tea, with a mischievous smile on my face. She looked at me suspiciously. “Why?” I waited silently for her to take her first sip. Sure enough, she grimaced and handed the cup back. Suddenly, the evening tea tasted as bitter as the laddoo had that morning. Perhaps that is the real price of sugar inflation—not merely that sweets become expensive, but even ordinary sweetness begins to feel like a luxury.

(the author blogs at NotesfromDehradun@Atul Rawat)

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^[1] Ministry of Consumer Affairs — Government Acts to Curb Sugar Price Rise, 21 August 2026

^[2] PIB — Analysing the Current Sugar Price Hike

^[3] News On AIR — Government allows duty-free imports of 10 lakh metric tonnes of raw sugar until 31 October

“Bhaiya, kaunsa petrol hai?” I asked the attendant at the Petrol Station.

“Sir, hamare pass sirf E20 petrol hi milta hai.”

I paused for a moment. Had I, as a consumer, quietly lost the ability to choose what fuel went into my own car?

Few energy policy decisions in recent years have generated as much public discussion as India’s transition to Ethanol Blended Petrol (E20). For most Indians, buying fuel has always been an emotional calculation of two things - price and mileage. Both matter.

Over the last decade, we have witnessed that price of fuel burden on the consumers has steadily increased. According to the Petroleum Planning & Analysis Cell (PPAC), the average retail price of petrol in Delhi has risen from Rs 61.59 per litre in FY2015–16 to Rs 94.74 per litre in FY2024–25 (it is over Rs 100 per litre today – Aug 2026)^[1]. There is no doubt that both the nation and the consumers have endured several geo political and geo economic upheavals in the recent times. The COVID-19 pandemic, conflicts in Europe and West Asia, and repeated volatility in global crude oil markets resulting from disrupted flow through Hormuz to sanctioned Russian crude imports. These have added to price volatility. However, much to the bad luck of the of the consumer, every crisis has eventually found its way to the petrol pump - and to his pocket.

It is against this backdrop that the Government has made E20 petrol as the default fuel across much of the country.

The objective is difficult to dispute as the facts speak for themselves. India imported about 88% of its crude oil requirement in FY2024–25, making energy security one of the country’s biggest strategic vulnerabilities. Every spike in international crude prices widens the import bill and has a direct bearing on the rupee and the inflation. In its effort, if India is able to lower oil imports, then it would definitely help to improve not only India’s current account balance but also strengthen India’s resilience against future oil price shocks.

Seen in this light, the Ethanol Blended Petrol Programme is designed to address precisely this challenge. According to the Ministry of Petroleum and Natural Gas, India achieved 20% ethanol blending in 2025, ahead of its original target^[2]. The Government estimates that the programme has saved more than Rs 1.44 lakh crore in foreign exchange and displaced nearly 245 lakh metric tonnes of crude oil. It also estimates that ethanol blending has reduced around 736 lakh metric tonnes of carbon dioxide emissions while generating more than Rs 1.2 lakh crore in payments to farmers and distilleries. Simultaneously, ethanol production capacity has expanded from about 421 crore litres in 2014 to nearly 1,900 crore litres in October 2025^[3].

There is no doubt that these are impressive achievements. Beyond reducing oil imports, ethanol has created a new market for agricultural produce such as sugarcane juice, molasses and maize. It has also encouraged investment in distilleries and generated additional employment. Scientifically stating, Ethanol has a higher octane rating than conventional petrol. Hence it is well suited for engines that are specifically designed to operate with petrol with increased ethanol blend.

As citizens, there is no arguing against these national objectives. The question that therefore arises is just not about whether these objectives are desirable, but how the costs and benefits of achieving them are shared between the policy makers and individual consumers?

Here, the consumer’s perspective gains importance.

Since ethanol contains about one-third less energy per litre than petrol, the fuel economy achieved reduces as we increase the ethanol content in petrol. The Government’s own Roadmap for Ethanol Blending in India acknowledges that E20 could reduce fuel efficiency by around 6–7% in four-wheelers originally designed for E0 and calibrated for E10, although the loss could be reduced through appropriate engine hardware and tuning^[4]. It would be appreciated that in practice the actual reduction in fuel economy varies with the type of vehicle design and the driving conditions. These are likely to be different from laboratory estimates. Vehicles compatible with E20 began to be rolled out from April 2023, with E20-tuned vehicles were envisaged from April 2025. However, lakhs of older vehicles which continue to ply on the roads are not. These vehicles were purchased before E20 compatibility became a consideration and now must incur additional costs in maintenance of rubber parts, fuel-system parts, engine calibration issues etc.

When we study the roll out of blended fuel, Brazil is often cited as the global success story. Brazil introduced flex-fuel vehicles before making higher ethanol blends ubiquitous. It thus allowed the consumer to have a choice during the crucial period of transition and acceptability. In comparison, India’s rollout has been considerably faster.

As consumers, we are entitled to ask a simple question - What is the roadmap?

If India has already achieved 20% blending, when can citizens expect to see a meaningful reduction in India’s crude oil import dependence? Ten years? Fifteen? Twenty? The answer is more complicated than we assume because petrol represents only one component of India’s petroleum consumption. Whereas, diesel, aviation turbine fuel, LPG and petrochemical feedstocks continue to have a large share of crude oil demand.

The environmental debate is also equally important.

We are aware the Sugarcane, which is India’s principal ethanol feedstock today, is among the country’s most water-intensive crops, typically requiring 1,500–2,500 mm of water during a growing season—equivalent to 150–250 lakhs litres per hectare^[5]. NITI Aayog’s Composite Water Management Index warns that water-intensive crops such as sugarcane can intensify pressure on groundwater, particularly in regions with declining water tables, and recommends aligning cropping patterns with regional water availability and promoting water-efficient irrigation technologies^[6].

Another debate is about food versus fuel. Incentivising, crops for ethanol production have the potential for them to be diverted away from food security. This is precisely what International organisations such as the FAO and studies by NITI Aayog have cautioned wrt first-generation biofuels derived from food crops. To its credit, the Government is already encouraging second-generation ethanol. This is produced from agricultural residues such as rice straw, bagasse, bamboo and other biomass. As a result, their dependence on food crops is much reduced. Hence, long term sustainability of this programme will therefore depend on second-generation biofuels rather than continued expansion of food-based feedstocks.

There have been arguments that ethanol is carbon-neutral. Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) stresses that the climate benefits of bioenergy must be assessed on a life-cycle basis. Its overall emissions depend not only on the fuel’s use but also on factors such as biomass production, land-use change, fertiliser use, water use, conversion processes, and the energy used to produce and transport the biomass. The relevant metric is therefore not tailpipe emissions alone but the fuel’s full life-cycle carbon footprint^[7].

In this jigsaw puzzle, the consumers are definitely entitled to ask an important practical question - Why hasn’t the prices dropped at the pump? Will E20 reduce my fuel bill?

For many consumers, not immediately. Any savings arising from reduced crude oil imports accrue primarily at the macroeconomic level. At the household level, lower mileage may offset much of the benefit at least for owners of older vehicles.

None of these concerns diminish the importance of ethanol blending. India’s programme is a strategically important step towards greater energy security, lower import dependence and stronger rural incomes. But its long-term success will depend on balancing these gains against concerns over water use, food security, vehicle compatibility and sustainable agriculture. Also, the government needs to layout clear milestones to the consumers and most importantly have an honest communication with evidence that the costs they bear today will translate into measurable national benefits tomorrow.

It is important that the transition is made in a manner that is scientifically sound and economically efficient. We the citizens are willing to contribute to India’s energy security. But public support for any national mission ultimately rests on trust. That trust grows when people understand not only the destination, but also the route, the timeline and the price of the journey.

Jai Hind!!

(the author blogs at NotesfromDehradun@Atul Rawat)

^[1] Petroleum Planning & Analysis Cell (PPAC), Ministry of Petroleum & Natural Gas, Ready Reckoner on Retail Selling Prices and PPAC Annual Report 2024–25, Statistical Annex (average retail selling prices of petrol and diesel; crude oil import dependence)

^[2] Ministry of Petroleum & Natural Gas / Press Information Bureau, India Achieves 20% Ethanol Blending Ahead of Target (2025): foreign exchange savings, crude oil substitution, CO₂ emission reduction and payments to farmers

^[3] Department of Food & Public Distribution, Annual Report 2024–25, Chapter on Sugar and Biofuels (ethanol production capacity)

^[4] NITI Aayog & Ministry of Petroleum & Natural Gas, Roadmap for Ethanol Blending in India 2020–2025, Executive Summary and Chapter 6 (vehicle compatibility and expected fuel economy impact)

^[5] FAO, Crop Water Information: Sugarcane (seasonal crop water requirement of approximately 1,500–2,500 mm)

^[6] NITI Aayog, Composite Water Management Index (discussion on water-intensive crops and groundwater stress)

^[7] Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), Sixth Assessment Report (AR6), Working Group III, Chapter 12 (life-cycle greenhouse gas emissions of biofuels)

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Back in the days, belonging to India’s Middle Class was a badge of honour. It was built on a simple promise - work hard, study well, pay your taxes, and life would steadily improve. Wealth was rarely inherited; it was painstakingly built over decades through education, discipline and savings. Doctors, teachers, engineers, defence personnel, lawyers, media personalities and civil servants embodied this ideal. Good education opened doors, not only within India but across the world.

Following the economic reforms of 1991, the middle class became the engine of India’s transformation. The rise of Indian-origin global business leaders such as Sundar Pichai (Google), Satya Nadella (Microsoft), Arvind Krishna (IBM) and Shantanu Narayen (Adobe) reflects the power of merit, education and aspiration. Entrepreneurs such as N.R. Narayana Murthy built Infosys into one of India’s most respected global technology companies.

Cut to today, that promise appears to be under strain.

Over the past two decades, India’s economy has weathered successive shocks - the global financial crisis (2008-09), the COVID-19 pandemic, geopolitical conflicts such as the Russia - Ukraine war and the conflict in West Asia, and persistent global uncertainty. While the economy has continued to grow, income growth for many salaried households has not kept pace with rising living costs. While nominal salaries have risen over time, real wage growth for many salaried employees has been modest after accounting for inflation, particularly in urban areas.

Housing has become significantly more expensive in urban India. Education, once seen as the surest path to prosperity, is now one of the largest household expenses. Healthcare costs continue to rise faster than inflation, making even routine medical treatment financially stressful for families without comprehensive insurance. For many urban middle-class households, housing, education and healthcare together can account for around one-third of total household expenditure.

Illustration Source : AI

At the same time, debt has become a defining feature of middle-class life. For many salaried households servicing home, education and vehicle loans, loan repayments can consume around 25 percent to 30 percent of monthly income. Consequently, many families earn more than they did a decade ago, yet feel financially insecure. RBI data^[1] on the flow of household financial assets and liabilities show that household financial liabilities have risen steadily in recent years while net financial savings have moderated after the pandemic surge, indicating increasing financial stress on many households.

The traditional middle-class equation - Education + Hard Work = A Better Life - is also under pressure.

According to the All India Survey on Higher Education (AISHE) 2023–24, Ministry of Education^[2], India’s higher education system today has over 4.5 crore students enrolled, of whom nearly 3.5 crore are pursuing undergraduate degrees. Every year, millions of young Indians enter the job market from universities and colleges, even as the creation of high-quality formal employment struggles to keep pace. The India Employment Report 2024^[3] observes that India’s employment challenge is increasingly one of educated unemployment, and not merely lack of education. In addition, a large share of a large share of workers remain in the informal sector without provident fund coverage, health insurance or meaningful career progression. Another challenge facing the middle class is no longer merely finding employment, but securing high-quality formal jobs with stability and career progression. This has also been highlighted by Economic Survey of India 2025–26^[4].

The IT sector, once the crown jewel of India’s white-collar economy, is also undergoing rapid change. AI, automation and remote working are transforming hiring patterns. A recent Cognizant–Pearson study^[5] estimates that around 37% of tasks performed by entry-level workers are highly exposed to Generative AI, suggesting significant changes in future hiring and skill requirements.

What about taxation? Perhaps, no issue generates greater frustration for the middle class than taxation.

According to the Income Tax Department^[6], while over 8 crore income-tax returns are filed annually, only about 2.8 crore individual returns reported a positive income tax liability in Assessment Year 2023–24. In other words, only a very small fraction of India’s population—and less than one in twenty workers—actually pays positive income tax. Unlike many advanced economies, India’s direct tax base remains relatively narrow, placing a disproportionate burden on a comparatively small segment of salaried taxpayers. This relatively small group contributes a disproportionately large share of India’s direct tax revenues while also paying GST, fuel taxes, property taxes and numerous user charges. Since taxes are deducted at source, salaried taxpayers have limited opportunities for tax planning.

Direct taxes contribute significantly towards funding welfare programmes such as the National Food Security Act and the Pradhan Mantri Garib Kalyan Anna Yojana. These provide free or subsidised food grains to nearly 80 crore beneficiaries. Few would dispute the moral necessity of supporting vulnerable citizens. Yet many middle-class families feel excluded from both ends of the spectrum - they earn too much to qualify for welfare but not enough to enjoy genuine financial comfort.

The result is growing financial fragility. Today’s middle-class household often begins adult life with an education loan, purchases a home through a long-term mortgage, finances a vehicle through EMIs and simultaneously saves for children’s education and ageing parents’ healthcare. A single medical emergency or prolonged job loss can wipe out years of savings.

The middle class deserves attention not because it is the loudest constituency, but because it remains one of India’s most productive. It pays taxes, creates businesses, drives consumption, invests in education and raises the next generation of skilled professionals. Its confidence matters for the country’s long-term economic health.

So, what do we do? The way forward is not to weaken welfare but to strengthen opportunity. India needs more high-quality formal employment, greater investment in manufacturing and advanced services, stronger public healthcare and education to reduce household costs, and continuous reskilling for an economy increasingly shaped by artificial intelligence. Policymakers must strike the right balance between economic growth, social welfare and the aspirations of the middle class.

For generations, India’s middle class has been the country’s silent nation-builders - raising families, paying taxes, creating enterprises and believing that hard work would eventually be rewarded. If India is to realise its ambition of becoming a developed nation, preserving the confidence of its middle class may prove to be one of its wisest economic investments.

Jai Hind!

(the author blogs at NotesfromDehradun@Atul Rawat)

Bibliography –

1. Reserve Bank of India (RBI)

2. Ministry of Finance / CBDT

3. Ministry of Statistics and Programme Implementation (MoSPI)

4. Ministry of Education (AISHE)

5. Economic Survey 2025–26

6. India Employment Report 2024 (ILO & Institute for Human Development)

^[1] Reserve Bank of India, RBI Bulletin, May 2025.

^[2] Ministry of Education, All India Survey on Higher Education (AISHE) 2023–24.

^[3] ILO & Institute for Human Development, India Employment Report 2024.

^[4] Ministry of Finance, Economic Survey 2025–26, Chapter 12 (Employment and Skill Development: Getting Skilling Right) and Chapter 14 (Evolution of the AI Ecosystem in India).

^[5] Cognizant & Pearson, The AI Workforce Pulse: The Adaptability Imperative (June 2026).

^[6] Central Board of Direct Taxes (CBDT), Income Tax Return Statistics: Assessment Year 2023–24.

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“Please call for an urgent review meeting,” the mighty Himalayas instructed his Principal Secretary. Within minutes, the Crisis Management Room was filled with Cabinet Ministers and Principal Secretaries. The agenda appeared on a giant screen - Status Of Human Activities In The Himalayan Area Of Responsibility (AOR).

The First Minister looked at the slide and said, “Sir, humans have undertaken unprecedented infrastructure development across your AOR. Highways are being widened, tunnels are being bored, rivers redirected, forests cleared, and entire mountainsides persuaded to relocate.”

The Second Minister peered through his file and reported, “Sir, your annual health report is also a matter of concern. Unseasonal rainfall, rising temperatures, retreating glaciers and frequent landslides suggest that your health is steadily deteriorating.”

The Himalayas sighed and walked over to a mirror. A look at his reflection revealed deep scars running across his slopes. “I do look rather worn out,” he murmured.

Back on Earth, it was business as usual.

Here in our beloved Himalayas, another hillside was being cut, another tunnel excavated and another forest was being cleared in the name of infrastructure expansion. Luxury homes with names such as The Green Woods, Forest View Residency and Nature Valley Enclave—were being built where forests once stood.

Progress to us humans is nothing but another set of data point - kilometres of highways built, megawatts of electricity generated and tourist arrivals recorded. For centuries, humans have been the master of nature. Human endeavour has conquered the mountains, rivers diverted, forests cleared and oceans waves tamed. In this endeavour, our lives have undoubtedly improved, but we are fast reaching the tipping point. Every ecosystem has its limits.

Over the last few years, we have witnessed that a balance the natural balance which had slowly bent is now beginning to break. Climate change—the oft-quoted villain of the piece—is after all is largely a consequence of our relentless pursuit of unchecked growth. Consequently, cloudbursts are being reported with increasing frequency across the Himalayan region, glaciers continue to retreat, and rising temperatures are fuelling forest fires that burn for days and sometimes weeks. Natural water springs that had sustained villages for generations are fast drying up. Across India and around the world, floods are arriving with greater frequency and ferocity, while heatwaves, droughts and storms are becoming increasingly intense.

Nature, I believe is simply responding to the choices we have made.

Our economic ambitions have steadily outrun the ecological limits of the mountains. The question, therefore, is simple - Is it time to pause and reassess our priorities? As a nation, we must continue our journey towards modernisation. But we also need to ask an existential question: How much development in our beloved mountains is sustainable? What kind of Himalayas do we wish to leave for our children and for generations yet unborn? Will this fragile mountain ecosystem be able to sustain the pace we have set over the next ten or twenty years?

Unfortunately, nature neither negotiates nor has lobbyists, movers and shakers. It does not issue press releases, contest elections or participate in television debates. It simply responds to our actions. And the signs are there for all to see. The warning signals are now impossible to ignore—far clearer than the coded signals our predecessors once used to communicate danger. It is for us to read them and take corrective measures.

Recently, the proposed felling of more than 4,000 trees for the Bhaniyawala–Rishikesh highway widening project hit the headlines. The project had earmarked approximately 4,000 trees for felling. This was however suspended pending greater consultations with the stakeholders. These trees, some of them more than a century old, have witnessed generations of human progress. They are now threatened in the name of the very human enterprise they have silently nurtured for generations. Scientists and planners may calculate the trade-off between carbon sequestration, biodiversity loss and reduced travel time. The numbers are important—but so is the wisdom behind the choices we make.

The good news is that this relationship can still be repaired.

It will, however, require sustained hard work from us all—not mere slogans. A safer future will not emerge from declarations, conferences, slogans or commemorative days. It will emerge only when rivers are treated as rivers, forests as forests, and the environment as the life-support system it truly is—not merely as a warehouse of natural resources.

What we need is a collaborative approach based on science and mutual coexistence. Well then, who should bell the cat? Should it be the citizens? The governments at the local, state and central levels? Perhaps the scientists? What about the media and the judiciary? Will they play an active and constructive role in helping restore the balance? The answer is that all of us have a responsible and unbiased role to play, because protecting the environment cannot be someone else’s responsibility.

Encouragingly, examples from around the world show that economic development and environmental stewardship need not be opposing goals. Tunnel alignments can be redesigned to minimise ecological damage and compensatory afforestation can be scientifically planned rather than mechanically implemented. These infrastructure projects must be accompanied with unbiased geological, hydrological and ecological assessments which show the correct picture rather then tweak it in favour of the champions of infrastructure development.

The question is not whether we should develop, but whether we possess the wisdom to develop responsibly. The answer is not difficult to find. It lies not in choosing between development and conservation, but in recognising that the two are inseparable. Sustainable growth is not the enemy of progress; it is the only form of progress that can endure. After all, we may succeed in cutting through every mountain. But if, in the process, we destroy the very mountains that sustain us, it will not be the Himalayas that will have lost.

It will be us.

Jai Hind!!

(The author blogs at NotesfromDehradun@Atul Rawat)

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Just as the Sun rises in the east every day, so too is it a universal truth that rivers are the cradle of civilisation and the soul of a nation.

From the Tigris and Euphrates in Mesopotamia to the Nile in Egypt, the Indus in the Indian subcontinent, the Yellow River in China, the Amazon in South America and the Mississippi in North America, rivers have nurtured civilizations for thousands of years. Long before roads connected cities, these mighty rivers carried people, trade, ideas and culture. Every great civilisation flourished on their banks. They nourished the land, sustained life, and quietly shaped history.

In the case of India, the relationship with her rivers goes beyond mere geography.

We do not merely see them as flowing water. We call them Mother. We invoke Maa Ganga with reverence and we worship rivers as goddesses, life-givers, and purifiers. We sing hymns to them, perform elaborate ceremonies on their banks, and undertake long pilgrimages to seek their blessings. Millions of us take a sacred dip in their holy waters believing that these rivers cleanse not only the body but also the soul. Few nations express such profound devotion towards their rivers as we do in India. India is blessed with numerous perennial rivers that are revered across the country—Ganga, Yamuna, Brahmaputra, Narmada, Godavari, Krishna, Jhelum, and Sutlej, to name just a few.

Illustration Source : AI

Yet the true measure of our devotion is not how magnificently we worship a river, but whether we leave it capable of sustaining the next generation. A clean river is perhaps the sincerest prayer we can offer. Over the years we have seen that when prayers end, plastic bags follow. Sadly, faith remains on the riverbank only. Somehow, we have come to treat faith and responsibility for a clean river as mutually exclusive.

One cannot help but wonder what the river must think.

“Every morning they call me Mother.”

“Every afternoon they treat me like a dustbin.”

“I no longer know which version they truly mean.” One can almost imagine her bewilderment.

“This gentleman stood knee-deep in my waters at sunrise with folded hands. He prayed for prosperity, good health and happiness for his family. By evening, without the slightest hesitation, he returned to throw his garbage into my lap.”

“They ask me to wash away their sins.” “Who, I wonder, will wash away mine?”

Yet, like every benevolent mother, rivers absorb everything without complaint. Not only our faith but also our pollution.

To begin with, the rituals themselves are not the problem. After all they are beautiful expressions of faith, culture, and community. Over centuries they have connected generations and preserved traditions. The problem begins when our reverence ends at the riverbank and devotion gives way to convenience. Sustainability demands that every generation leaves its rivers healthier than it inherited them. Instead, we have become experts at passing on polluted water, shrinking floodplains and exhausted ecosystems for the next generation.

A devotee arrives carrying flowers wrapped in plastic.

“The flowers are sacred.” “What about the plastic?” “That is the river’s problem.” The immersion procession proudly proclaims its devotion. A few hours later, that very devotion is floating downstream, accompanied by assorted packaging material. The irony is difficult to ignore. We teach our children that rivers are the source of life. But our actions ensure that aquatic life has the smallest possible chance of surviving. Are they not important?

Every year, environmentalists publish alarming reports on pollution levels and faithfully governments announce ambitious river-cleaning missions with inspiring names, colourful logos, and generous budgets. Every year, enthusiastic volunteers gather for cleanliness drives while photographers faithfully record the event for social media.

Despite these efforts, the rivers endure untreated sewage, industrial effluents, relentless sand mining, shrinking floodplains, illegal encroachments, and the slow erosion of their natural ecosystems.

Yet the river continues to flow with silence and patience. Today, perhaps our relationship with rivers has become strangely one-sided. For centuries they have given us everything from drinking water to cultivating our fields. From fishes that sustain our livelihoods to channels to navigate. They have given us places to pray and nurture the civilisation itself.

And in return, what do we offer them – plastic and assorted garbage. It is time to understand that sustainability is nothing more than devotion expressed through daily behaviour. Rivers do not ask for grander ceremonies; they simply seek gentle care and a little gratitude. The greatest offering to a river may not be flowers, lamps, or ceremonial chants. It may simply be the quiet, radical act of leaving the water cleaner than we found it. And somewhere beneath the marigolds, the plastic wrappers, the thermocol, the sewage, and the ashes of countless rituals, it continues its journey towards the sea.

A sustainable river is not simply a cleaner river. It is a living river. One that flows freely, replenishes groundwater, supports biodiversity, irrigates farms, provides livelihoods, absorbs floods and continues to sustain civilisation, just as it has done for thousands of years.

The rivers certainly do not need another promise made on World Environment Day. It would be enough if the millions of ordinary citizens decide that they would not litter. Who will spearhead this campaign? Should we leave it to the government alone? Or should the citizens come forward? Should there be a public movement to keep our rivers clean? Or perhaps the holy men who supervise all the rituals? Meanwhile, there is no doubt that there is an urgent need to balance this contradiction of reverence and pollution.

Gradually, the rivers have begun to show the strain. Not only has the volume of water diminished, but the quality of what flows through these rivers has deteriorated as well. In our relentless exploitation of these rivers, we often forget a simple truth: our children depend on them, just as we do. And after them, their children will too. Of all the gifts that nature has bestowed upon us, rivers and water bodies are among the most precious. They are the one inheritance we simply cannot afford to compromise. The choices we make today will determine whether future generations inherit rivers that nourish life - or are merely channels of polluted water and forgotten memories. Perhaps the greatest prayer we can offer our rivers is not another hymn, but the promise that our grandchildren will inherit waters cleaner than those we inherited ourselves. When future generations judge us, they will not ask how many lamps we floated upon our rivers. They will ask whether the rivers still flowed. Sustainability is, after all, another form of reverence.

Our rivers are not merely sacred - they are held in trust. Protecting them is not merely an environmental obligation; it is an act of gratitude.

Jai Hind!!

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“Bhaiya, thoda aur ghumana please!” my sister shouted at the top of her voice.

“Beta, zyada ho gaya... thoda wapas ghumao,” instructed my father.

“Sab kuch chala gaya! Kya kar rahe ho?” despaired my mother.

And there I was, perched precariously on the roof, undertaking the great family engineering feat of aligning the television antenna in precisely the right direction so that it could catch the strongest signal. Only then could we hope to watch our favourite programme through a grainy, wavy picture accompanied by an ever-present hissing sound.

That, in essence, was the daily ritual in almost every household in the colony.

Television programmes were telecast only for a few hours each evening. Doordarshan was our only window to the outside world. It brought us Chitrahar, Hindi movies, Sunday serials, the Republic Day Parade, and an occasional cricket matches.

Illustration Source : AI

The whole family would gather around the television the moment the familiar Doordarshan logo appeared, accompanied by its unforgettable signature tune. We belonged to a generation where an entire neighbourhood waited for one man standing on the roof to rotate the antenna by a very precise degree. Back then, watching television was not an individual activity. It was a community project.

There was always a chain of communication. One person stood on the roof clutching the antenna like the Statue of Liberty. Another stationed himself on the balcony to relay instructions. A third guarded the television set inside the house.

“Is it clear now?”

“No!”

“A little left!”

“No, No... your left!”

“Stop!”

“Arre... you crossed it!”

The entire operation resembled ISRO trying to establish contact with its famed Mars orbiter, Mangalyan. Every family unknowingly produced its own antenna engineer.

Today, when I think of the precise moment when the picture that finally appeared on the screen, I cannot help but smile.

Yes, it is true that picture that appeared on the television screen had a personality of its own. Sometimes it arrived covered in snow. Sometimes mysterious horizontal waves drifted across the screen. Sometimes the colours vanished altogether. And sometimes, just when the identity of the real murderer was about to be revealed, the picture dissolved into dancing black-and-white dots accompanied by a hissing sound.

We had to cope not only with weak television signals but also with load shedding at the most inopportune moments. Needless to say, this invariably invited a chorus of loud protests, accompanied by language that was not entirely parliamentary.

Then came Chitrahar. Half the country adjusted their antennas with the seriousness of a heart surgeon because missing the opening song was nothing short of a household tragedy. During a cricket match, the antenna became sacred. No one dared touch it. If someone accidentally brushed against the cable, several voices would scream in unison.

“Kisne hila diya?”

Who can forget, the universally accepted repair technique? Whenever the picture misbehaved, someone would walk up to the television and deliver one perfectly measured slap on its side. And, miraculously...it worked. Every single time. No one Googled for the explanation. We simply accepted it as the done thing.

And, there were no remote controls either. That very thought brings a smile on my lips.

This unique honour was bestowed upon to the youngest child in the family, who was anointed as the remote control, much to his protestations – why always me?

“Beta, channel badlo.”

“Beta, volume kam karo.”

“Beta, awaaz badhao.”

There were only two channels. Yet the child still had to get up every five minutes.

The television also had its own little rituals. The TV took its own sweet time to warm up. Before transmission began, the colourful test card appeared on the screen. The rotary channel knob had to be turned gently. The antenna cable at the back of the television occasionally needed a little twisting. Somehow, that too improved the picture.

Television wasn’t merely watched. It was anticipated. It was celebrated.

Sunday mornings were sacred. An unusual silence would descend on the neighbourhood. Everything was planned around the telecast. On every such occasion, the neighbourhood wasn’t merely watching television - it was sharing an experience. It brought families together. People dropped in without invitation. Families who didn’t own a television, simply arrived with a smile, and became part of the audience. In between, the ladies gossiped and everyone was updated on the latest family news. Occasionally, a round of tea and Rasna was served. Children sat cross-legged on the floor, while adults occupied the prized sofas. Latecomers stood behind everyone else. No one complained. There was room for everyone.

Cut to today, we have few hundred channels, ultra-HD clarity, voice commands, streaming platforms, and fibre internet. Yet we spend half our lives scrolling endlessly, unable to find anything worth watching.

Back then, we had one fuzzy picture, one Doordarshan logo, one stubborn antenna, and somehow the entire family sat together - cheering during a cricket match, laughing through Yeh Jo Hai Zindagi, quietly shedding a tear during an emotional scene, humming along to Chitrahar songs, or waiting eagerly for the Sunday evening movie. Perhaps the picture was grainy, but the joy of watching together came in perfect high definition.

Bachpan ke din bhi kya din the!! The Television signal may have been weak, but family connections were very strong indeed.

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The lines below are from Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore, better known as Where the Mind is Without Fear.

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action—
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

Growing up, these lines left a deep and lasting impression on an entire generation. More than a century after it was written, the poem continues to resonate, serving as a timeless mantra for Indians on the ideals of responsible citizenship and enlightened nation-building. Although Rabindranath Tagore wrote this masterpiece during colonial India, the challenges he identified have not disappeared; they have merely changed their form.

“Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high”

Fear today is no longer confined to political oppression, as it was in Tagore’s time. It has assumed new forms - social, economic, cultural, and digital - in an age dominated by pervasive social media. Students worry whether examinations will be conducted fairly, while employees fear losing their jobs to increasing automation. Many citizens hesitate to express unpopular opinions, and social media often rewards conformity over independent thought. The fear that once stemmed from colonial rule has, in many ways, been replaced by the anxieties of a hyperconnected and rapidly changing world. In such an environment, intellectual courage is as important as political freedom.

Illustration Source : AI

“Where knowledge is free”

Never before has humanity enjoyed such easy access to knowledge. A smartphone now opens the doors to libraries, universities, and research from across the world. Yet our greatest challenge is no longer access to information; it is the ability to distinguish truth from misinformation. The moot question, therefore, is this: while knowledge may be freely available, does wisdom still require effort?

“Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls”

Today’s walls are rarely geographical. They are ideological, religious, political, linguistic, economic, and digital. Increasingly, algorithms confine us to echo chambers where we hear only voices that mirror our own. Long before the internet existed, Tagore warned us against the dangers of fragmentation and intellectual isolation. His vision was of a society where minds remained open, not enclosed within invisible walls of prejudice and partisanship.

“Where words come out from the depth of truth”

In an age of viral posts, clickbait, deepfakes, and manipulated images, truth itself is under pressure. Information travels faster than verification. Sharing has become effortless while more importantly fact-checking remains difficult. Technology may have amplified every voice, but has it amplified the truth?

“Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection”

Tagore did not glorify ceaseless activity; he celebrated purposeful striving. True progress, in his vision, was measured not by the pace at which we moved, but by the excellence, integrity, and inclusiveness with which we moved forward. Constant motion is no substitute for meaningful progress.

“Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit”

This is perhaps Tagore’s most profound warning. He cautioned us against a mindset that shuns debate and unquestioningly accepts inherited beliefs. Individuals develop habits, and so do institutions. Over time, both can become prisoners of those very habits.

Educational systems, bureaucracies, political institutions, and social customs often begin by serving society, but gradually become more concerned with preserving themselves. When habit replaces questioning, the clear stream of reason slowly disappears into what Tagore memorably called the “dreary desert sand of dead habit.” His warning is as relevant today as it was a century ago.

“Where the mind is led forward into ever-widening thought and action”

For Tagore, the purpose of education was never merely employment, degrees, or examinations. Its true purpose was to expand the human mind - to nurture citizens capable of understanding complexity, respecting diversity, exercising sound judgement, and acting responsibly.

That vision is even more relevant in the age of artificial intelligence.

AI can provide information, but it cannot provide character.

AI can generate answers, but it cannot determine values.

AI can imitate intelligence, but it cannot replace wisdom.

The responsibility, therefore, rests with us. We must cultivate the qualities that Tagore believed define a truly educated society - fearlessness, truthfulness, reason, curiosity, openness, empathy, and a commitment to the common good.

Every nation needs engineers, doctors, lawyers, accountants, and programmers. But every nation also needs citizens who can think critically, distinguish truth from propaganda, care for the environment, uphold ethical values, and exercise sound judgement.

In an age where information is abundant and intelligence can be simulated, these distinctly human qualities become our greatest strength.

Where the Mind Is Without Fear is, therefore, much more than a patriotic poem. It is a timeless blueprint for the kind of human being every age requires - industrial, digital, and now artificial. As technology becomes increasingly intelligent, the challenge before humanity is not merely to build smarter machines, but wiser societies.

Perhaps the greatest tribute we can pay Tagore is not simply to recite his poem, but to strive to build the society he imagined - one where the mind remains fearless, reason remains clear, and every head continues to be held high.

More than a century later, that prayer remains unfinished. Every generation must answer it anew. In the age of artificial intelligence and social media hyperbole, the question is no longer whether machines can think like humans, but whether humans can continue to think as humans - and act - with wisdom, courage, and compassion. That is the heaven of freedom to which Tagore still calls us.

Jai Hind!

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“Beta, please study”, I told my son who was peering over his mobile phone.

“Chill dad, AI hai na”, pat came the reply.

I grunted and turned the page of the Garhwal Post

“Beta, please finalise the decoration for the forthcoming event”, I told my daughter who was deep into her laptop.

“Chill dad, AI hai na”, she muttered.

I sipped my tea which was going cold.

“Dear, please finalise the menu for the forthcoming dinner party over the weekend”, I told my wife who was busy posting a reel on her Instagram account.

“Chill dear, AI hai na”, came a dismissive reply.

I groaned. I have had it. Yeh AI – AI kya hai, I wondered.

AI is Artificial Intelligence. To me it appears to be an oxymoronic phrase.

Can intelligence be artificial. I wondered.

Illustration Source : AI

Perhaps I am the one who is out of touch. Everything today seems artificial—jewellery, appearances, social status and, increasingly, even human relationships.

If the intelligence is artificial then what about the humans who are using it. Are they real.

Perhaps, that is how we are evolving in the 21^st century and moving towards the Amrit Kal. When the steam engine was invented, it expanded the world while reducing human labour. Then came the smartphone. Instead of moving us across the world, it brought the world into our palms. I could do anything using the device. And now Artificial Intelligence has arrived. I wonder what will happen to the real intelligence. Maybe it will be digitised into bits and bytes.

Sometimes I feel that I have outsourced my brain to a search engine and rented out my thinking to an algorithm.

Reading good morning greetings, birthday and anniversary wishes from my friends I wonder if these wishes too are generated by AI. The words are perfect, but the warmth feels outsourced.

The irony is poetic.

Humans created Artificial Intelligence. And now, Artificial Intelligence is quietly creating artificial humans.

In the urbanised world, I wake up to the artificially generated chirping of the bird from my smart device. My app tells me what to do. It helps me to converse through emojis and helps me to maintain my friendship through the blue tick. I wonder whether romance can survive autocorrect, predictive text and suggested replies.

Children no longer ask me any questions. They know that AI will tell them much better and faster without the associated gyan that will come from me.

On the dining table too also, we are in the lap of AI and blissfully unaware of the real someone sitting next to you.

Wasn’t, AI supposed to free humans for creativity and reflection? It was. It has now metamorphosed into endless scrolling, online outrage and watching strangers do strange things for the reel. Are they for real? I wonder. What antics they do, for a few likes. Likes of strangers are more important than your own.

The machine is learning rapidly. The human, meanwhile, cannot remember passwords, phone numbers, anniversaries or “excuse me where was I”.

Instead, humans became machines first.

Everyday life now runs on various AI prompts - from “Suggest a reply”, to “Suggest a caption.” From, “Suggest a personality”, to “Suggest a purpose in life”

Somewhere along the line, we stopped asking ourselves.

The real question is no longer what Artificial Intelligence can think. It is whether natural intelligence still wishes to. This glowing digital paradise is addictive. Amidst all this digital razzmatazz, the soul seems to have quietly retreated into a dark corner.

Perhaps, in the final stage of modern civilization machines will become more emotional while humans will become more artificial.

One day AI may finally pause and ask, “Why are humans behaving so mechanically?”

And humanity, after consulting five apps and three notifications, will reply, “Sorry, your query could not be processed right now.”

Sigh, enough of this emotional gyan. Let me ask my AI assistant what I should have for lunch today.

There is no place quite like our very own Doon. The city has a charm that refuses to fade.

The people are gentle and the mountains lush and inviting. Ancient trees arch gracefully over the roads, their sprawling branches forming a green canopy that seems to embrace every passerby.

And then there are places that have become part of our collective memory—Rajpur Road, Ghanta Ghar, Paltan Bazaar and Sai Mandir, to name just a few. There are old bakeries whose irresistible aroma has tempted generations, and the cafés where conversations linger long after the coffee has gone cold. Every corner has a story to tell. These are more than landmarks; they are repositories of memories, woven into the everyday lives of those who have called Dehradun home. They are the threads that bind the city’s past to its present, reminding us that a place is defined not merely by its buildings or roads, but by the countless moments lived within them.

As a whole new generation embraces modernity and affluence, our Doon has acquired a new character. Buildings have begun to outnumber the trees. Snarling traffic and the relentless chorus of honking vehicles have become our constant companions. The quiet charm of unhurried roads has given way to the urgency of a city forever in motion.

And then there are the hoardings. They are both gigantic and colourful, and are impossible to ignore. They stand proudly along the roadsides, rise from traffic islands, tower above buildings, cling to electric poles, and appear almost anywhere that gravity permits. They don’t merely occupy space—they dominate it, demanding the attention of every passerby.

Some advertise apartments. Others promote coaching institutes or weekend sales. And then there are those that advertise people who seem permanently engaged in wishing the rest of us on every conceivable occasion. Happy Birthday. Happy Independence Day. Happy Diwali. Congratulations. Welcome. Best Wishes.

Illustration Source : AI

Every occasion appears incomplete unless accompanied by a large smiling portrait. It makes one wonder whether these important personalities ever find the time to live their own lives. They seem permanently occupied wishing the rest of us.

Some hoardings are so enormous that they seem to proclaim not just a message, but the financial might of those who erected them. The passerby instinctively looks beyond these towering displays, hoping for a glimpse of the mountains that have long defined Dehradun’s skyline. Driving along Rajpur Road, you occasionally catch sight of the distant range—provided it isn’t obscured by a giant smiling face announcing yet another grand inauguration, celebration, or congratulatory message.

Yet nature carries on with quiet dignity. Flowers continue to bloom. The mountains stand patiently in the distance. The old trees keep stretching their branches over the roads, asking for nothing and expecting even less.

It is only the humans who are at their best to hide these natural beauties behind forty-foot rectangles of vinyl. Finding a road sign has become something of a treasure hunt. One peers around the hoardings hoping to spot it. “Turn left after the giant politician.” “No, not that one—the giant luxury apartment.”

In fact these hoardings have now become our new landmarks.

“Meet me near the giant mobile phone advertisement.” “Which one?” “The one next to the giant coaching institute.”

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if a benevolent fairy appeared one night and, with a single wave of her wand, made every hoarding disappear.

The mountains would suddenly become taller. The roads would seem wider. The trees would look greener. Even the electric poles might finally discover what they actually look like. Tourists would probably think the city had undergone a massive beautification drive.

In reality, we would simply have removed everything that was hiding its beauty. Of course, this is only wishful thinking. They are now part of the modern urban aesthetics. Maybe natural beauty is no longer considered complete unless someone has erected a twenty-foot banner in front of it.

Perhaps one day tourists won’t ask, “Where are the mountains?”

Instead they’ll ask, “Can someone move that advertisement? We’d like to see Dehradun.”

Until then, Doon remains every bit as beautiful as it has always been. The mountains are still there. The trees are still there. The quiet grace of the valley is still there. It is simply waiting to be seen again. Perhaps one day we will discover that the finest advertisement for Dehradun was never printed on vinyl. It was the city itself.

Growing up, we were genuinely terrified of the Bollywood baddies. We hated their sinister smiles. We hated their menacing laughter. We hated their sidekicks with long sideburns, bell bottom pants and a thick belt with a big buckle.

We silently begged the hero to hurry up before he was tied to another conveyor belt heading towards certain death. We silently pleaded with the heroine not to open that door. We wanted the hero’s mother to stop believing every forged letter conveniently delivered by the villain’s henchman.

Yet, strangely, we loved them.

Long after we forgot the storyline, we remembered their dialogues.

“Arre O Samba... kitne aadmi the?”

“Tera kya hoga Kaalia?”

“Mona... darling!”

“Isko liquid oxygen mein daal do.”

The heroes came and went.

The villains became legends.

Illustration Source : AI

Long before corporate fraudsters, ransomware gangs and cyber criminals arrived to terrorise us, Bollywood’s baddies ruled the underworld with remarkable professionalism.

They were very good at branding. Every villain had a signature laugh, a signature cigar, signature dialogue delivery and signature shoes with different numbers.

His introduction was always magnificent. Somewhere in the Arabian Sea, a speedboat sliced through the waves. It reached an enormous yacht. Out stepped the villain—immaculately dressed in white, puffing a Cuban cigar. Beside him stood his glamorous companion in an itsy-bitsy floral dress wearing oversized sunglasses.

He would remove the cigar, look into the horizon and ask in slow motion, “Michael... gold biscuits ka shipment pahunch gaya?” And, in the background, a crescendo would erupt.

Every respectable villain operated from an underground den. This was not an ordinary hideout. It was like the Pentagon. Flashing red lights. Flashing blue lights. Huge world maps. Secret tunnels. Hydraulic doors. Buttons. Switches. Levers. Television screens showing every corner of the globe. One wondered whether he was planning a robbery or launching a cruise missile.

Oddly enough, despite this technological superiority, he never managed to stop one unarmed hero from entering through an air duct, somehow avoiding the giant rotating fan blades.

Security was extraordinary. The entrance required passwords. The guards carried machine guns.

Yet, once every week in the evening the entire security apparatus paused for a cabaret performance. Apparently international crime syndicates believed cultural programmes were essential for team building. The vamp in her fishnet stockings and plumed hairstyle would gyrate to a foot tapping number. The vamp was an essential part of the underworld. Wrapped in sequins, she was surrounded by cigarette smoke and performed impossible dance moves. All this while, fifty international smugglers politely watched her without spilling their drinks. And, during the third verse, she would have overheard the villain’s master plan and passed the information to the hero. After all, she had a golden heart and secretly pined for the hero.

His other trusted lieutenants also had a personality of their own. While one was bald, the other one had an eye patch. One had a scar running dramatically across his face, while another wore dark glasses indoors, even at night. No one ever asked how they got these injuries.

And who can forget those elaborate midnight meetings—at lonely jetties, in the middle of the sea, or in abandoned factories—where coded lights flashed in the darkness and halves of torn banknotes became the ultimate password.

No self-respecting villain could function without crocodiles. These poor reptiles waited patiently beneath a trapdoor for years, hoping a hero would eventually arrive. Why every criminal empire dealing in gold biscuits required a live crocodile remains one of Indian cinema’s greatest unsolved mysteries.

The methods of execution were wonderfully theatrical. Nobody simply shot the hero. There was no entertainment in this simple act. Instead, the Baddy would drawl,

“Isko liquid oxygen mein daal do.”

“Isko acid ke tank mein phenko.”

The villain would then leave the room without checking whether the job had actually been completed. This remarkable confidence in middle management cost him dearly in every single film. Delegation, it turned out, was the greatest weakness of organised crime.

The police, meanwhile, maintained impeccable consistency. A convoy of jeeps, sirens blaring heroically, would arrive exactly five minutes after the villain had escaped. The escape was also dramatic. Sometimes he used the helicopter, sometimes the submarine and sometimes he just sped in a speedboat to be chased by the hero.

Smuggling itself was refreshingly uncomplicated. There were no shell companies in those days. There were no offshore tax havens. There were only shiny gold biscuits, which were always neatly packed.

The grand finale never disappointed.

There would be hundreds of bullets flying all over. There would be thousands of punches, kicks, somersaults and gravity-defying jumps. Glass bottles would shatter with astonishing frequency. Whenever the hero—or, occasionally, even the heroine—threw a punch, ten henchmen would fly through the air in perfect synchronisation. The fight would finish with a small cut on the hero’s forehead, which would be lovingly bandaged by the heroine. The villain would fall dramatically from the highest available platform. Justice was restored. The national economy survived yet another gold (biscuit) crisis.

Looking back, those villains were strangely comforting. They had style. They had manners. They announced every evil plan in advance. More importantly they never hid behind fake social media profiles or anonymous emails.

Sadly, today’s protagonist is often the baddie himself. He is no longer the spotless hero we grew up with, but a deeply flawed character—someone who drinks heavily, teases women, breaks the law, and lives in shades of grey. Perhaps cinema is merely reflecting the changing values and complexities of the society it serves.

Frankly, I miss the old Bollywood baddies. He arrived without statutory health warnings, without sensitivity disclaimers, and without social media outrage waiting outside the theatre. He was simply the villain—and gloriously so.

And somewhere, deep inside an underground den illuminated by flashing red bulbs, a bald henchman is probably still standing beside a crocodile while waiting for Michael to confirm that the shipment of gold biscuits has finally arrived. Dhisoom! Dhisoom!

“Papa, get ready to vote!” My daughter appeared excited over the phone.

“Have you checked your name on the voter list?” “Do you know your Booth Level Officer?”

“Have you located your polling booth?”

Over the barrage of questions and instructions, she genuinely appeared excited! Before I could answer the first question, three more had already arrived. I realised this wasn’t a conversation. It was a pre-election audit.

“Papa, don’t you know? We are the largest democracy in the world!”

I smiled.

“Yes, beta... and apparently you are the Chief Election Commissioner of our family.”

Well, being the world’s largest democracy is a badge of honour every Indian proudly wears, I mused. From Independence in 1947, to the adoption of our Constitution in 1950, to the first general election in independent India in 1951-52, our democratic journey has been extraordinary. Every five years, this great festival of democracy returns with remarkable regularity.

In fact, elections have become our favourite national season.

If there isn’t a Parliamentary election, there is an Assembly election. If not an Assembly election, there is a Municipal election. If not a Municipal election, there is a Panchayat election. Somewhere in India, someone is always folding hands, promising development and discovering long-lost affection for us common citizen.

Every year, millions of young Indians turn eighteen and proudly join the electorate.

Every year, an equally enthusiastic crop of aspiring politicians joins the race to become “public servants”—a designation that regularly transforms into “public celebrities” immediately after the results.

Campaign season is fascinating. Roads that have been ignored for five years suddenly become important enough to deserve inspection. Street lights begin functioning. Potholes are treated with more urgency than ever before.

Politicians develop astonishing stamina. They visit temples, mosques, churches and gurudwaras with equal devotion, attend weddings of people they have never met, mourn relatives they never knew existed, and somehow remember every citizen by saying, “Aap to apne hi hain.” Women suddenly become the most important citizens of the country.

There are Manifestos galore. Every promise is bigger than the previous one. Employment for all. Free electricity for all. Monthly stipend for the needy. Free this and free that - subject, of course, to electoral success.

The electorate smiles knowingly. We have heard these promises before.

Yet, hope remains democracy’s most renewable resource. So, we stand patiently in long queues, ink our finger with pride and cast our vote. Upload our pics on the social media and feel proud of having done our democratic duty.

And soon enough, the results arrive. One side celebrates as though the civilisation has just been saved. The other behaves as though the civilisation has ended. Television studios declare winners, losers, kingmakers, giant killers and political Chanakyas—all before lunch.

This is where the real test begins. The voter assumes that the elected representative will now stop doing election politics and begin doing governance. Unfortunately, politics often refuses to take retirement. Governance quietly moves into the capable hands of bureaucrats while politics continues at full speed. The electorate returns to potholes, electricity bills, overflowing drains, traffic jams and pending applications.

The elected returns to television debates, strategy meetings and the next election. After all, in modern politics, campaigning seems to be a full-time profession interrupted only occasionally by governance.

Then comes the plot twist. Halfway through the term, our representative suddenly discovers that his ideology has evolved overnight. He crosses over to another political party. Yesterday’s ideological enemy becomes today’s beloved leader. The speeches remain identical. Only the party scarf changes colour.

Illustration Source : AI

One begins to wonder whether political ideology is now available in reversible fabric.

The voter watches in disbelief.

“Weren’t you warning us against this very party six months ago?”

Apparently, yesterday’s disaster becomes today’s destiny after a suitable press conference.

Now the electorate is left thoroughly confused. The trust that was carefully deposited in one political account has been transferred elsewhere without the account holder’s consent.

The voters, wonder if the meaning of democracy is merely to conduct elections. Our forefathers envisaged that the trust between the elected and electorate is sacred. Every vote is more than a mere mark on the ballot paper. It is a sacred socio-political contract. When that trust is casually discarded, something deeper than political allegiance is lost.

Citizens begin questioning not merely the politician but the very value of participation. And that is dangerous for any democracy. Sometimes I wonder who really wins this great political tournament. Certainly not the voter. Political parties gain numbers to form the government and leaders become ministers. Television channels gain TRPs. Social media gains hashtags.

Only the citizen seems to gain another lesson in political adaptability. Perhaps political football is even more competitive than the FIFA World Cup. At least in football, players do not switch teams during half-time and start celebrating the opponent’s goals.

I looked at the indelible ink on my finger after voting, one thought stayed with me. The ink will disappear in a few days, but the trust behind that ink should last for five years. Perhaps that, more than anything else, is the true test of a mature democracy.

For elections can produce governments. Only mutual trust can produce good governance.

Jai Hind!

Growing up, every home in the colony had a mini library, and every child knew exactly where it was.

It usually occupied the elder sibling’s room and was treated with reverence. It was a prized possession, guarded with greater zeal than the gold in Fort Knox and accounted for more carefully than the reserves of the Reserve Bank itself.

Nothing left its shelves without permission.

The collection grew with the family. Every birthday, every school prize, every visiting uncle from abroad added another treasure.

The shelves held everything imaginable.

Illustration Source : AI

Tintin, Asterix, Mandrake, Phantom, Tarzan, Flash Gordon, Richie Rich, Archie and countless others. Champak, Nandan, Chacha Chaudhary, Amar Chitra Katha, Diamond Comics and many more. Enid Blyton’s Famous Five, Hardy Boys mysteries, Alistair MacLean thrillers, Sudden westerns, Hindi detective pocket books full of ingenious scams and mysterious villains.

There were encyclopedias, school prize books displayed proudly, and old magazines tied neatly with string, waiting for their next reader.

It was the glorious age of comics and novels.

Our childhood was built upon the adventures of superheroes, detectives, pranksters and jungle kings.

Comics were never the “content.” They were social currency.

The neighbourhood operated a highly sophisticated informal exchange economy long before economists invented complicated theories.

One Tintin could fetch two Richie Rich comics. A bound volume of Asterix carried a trading value equivalent to national gold reserves.

Comic exchanges were negotiated with the seriousness of international diplomacy.

“You folded the corner last time”, the lender grumbled.

“You stained the cover”, he complained.

“My Mama brought this from London”, he moaned.

“Return it tomorrow or there will be no exchange in future”, were the strict instructions.

Trust was everything.

Anyone who failed to return a comic or damaged it risked immediate social isolation. Reputations could collapse over a missing issue of Phantom.

The library also reflected the personality of every household.

One specialised in mythology, another in medicine, another in detective fiction. Some homes had shelves full of Amar Chitra Katha, while others possessed foreign comics that everybody wanted to borrow.

The news of the arrival of a new comic spread through the colony like breaking news. A borrowing queue instantly formed, following a strict hierarchy known only to children.

Every colony had one legendary figure—the big brother who served as the unofficial Chief Librarian. Being in his good books had enormous benefits.

He always batted first in gully cricket. He was allowed to win board games.

Everyone wanted to be on his team. His instructions accompanied every loan.

“Don’t exchange this further.” “Bring it back tomorrow.”

Needless to say, these rules were honoured more in principle than in practice.

Many comics returned carrying unmistakable evidence of national integration—oil stains and folded corners.

Yet nobody minded much.

Books were meant to circulate. Stories were meant to travel.

Today, children possess tablets containing thousands of digital titles. Yet nobody exchanges anything anymore except reels and likes.

Homes have larger televisions but smaller bookshelves.

The comic exchange economy has collapsed completely. Earlier, friendships deepened through borrowed books.

Now friendships survive through forwarded emojis.

The accidental joy of discovering a forgotten comic on someone else’s shelf has quietly disappeared.

Today a child enters a friend’s house and asks, “What’s the Wi-Fi password?”

We used to ask, “Anything new to read?”

The books usually passed from hand to hand and the stories travelled across homes.

Imagination belonged to everyone. Perhaps that is why those old comics remain unforgettable. The skull-shaped cave of Phantom, the Ghost Who Walks or the thunderous jungle cry of Tarzan swinging from one tree to another took us to the deep jungles. The adventures of Tintin along with Snowy, Captain Haddock and Mr Thomson and Thomson took us to varied parts of the world. Astrix and his loyal friend Obelix taking on the entire platoons of the Roman soldiers always excited us to no end. Closer to home, we marveled at the razor sharp intellect of Chacha Chaudhary and the timeless wit of Birbal.

Between faded pages and dog-eared covers lived an entire neighbourhood that laughed at the same jokes, waited for the same heroes and dreamt the same dreams—one borrowed book at a time.

And whenever life slows down and memory opens one of those invisible shelves, a familiar sigh escapes effortlessly—

“Bachpan ke din bhi kya din the.”

Every few years, the world discovers a new crisis. Today it is West Asia. Yesterday it was somewhere else. Tomorrow it will bear a different name.

Elected leaders debate national interests. Military planners draw up strategies. Governments make decisions. Markets react. Television studios fill with experts who dissect the conflict for hours on end.

Thousands of kilometres away, an ordinary family wonders whether the next sound they hear will be another drone or another missile.

Who is right and who is wrong is a question history will continue to debate. The more immediate question is simpler - who judges the loss of millions of ordinary lives and livelihoods? Is there no higher authority? Are the rules only for the weak?

Some proclaim that the world is safer after every military operation. Others spend the rest of their lives picking up pieces of homes, businesses and memories buried beneath concrete and dust.

Everyone seems to have a voice except those who suffer the consequences.

Presidents speak of strategic national interests. Diplomats respond in nuanced jargon.

Illustration Source : AI

Military spokespersons count sorties flown, targets destroyed and battle damage assessments. Television anchors echo the narrative of those in power. Ratings matter.

Economists calculate the impact on GDP, inflation, energy prices and exchange rates.

Only the civilians caught in the geopolitical crossfire remain speechless.

Leaders declare, “The operation has achieved its objectives.” A victory parade is organized.

Unfortunately, the grocery shop that disappeared under the rubble had objectives too.

The school that will never reopen had objectives. So did the hospital that ran out of medicines had objectives.

The family business built over three generations had objectives. So did the young student whose future vanished overnight had objectives.

Yet we were naïve enough to believe that large-scale wars belonged to history books.

Those who give the green light remain protected inside physical and economic cocoons, insulated by security details, reinforced buildings and stable supply chains.

Others walk for days carrying everything they own in a single suitcase. They wait in refugee camps, search lists of the missing, and depend on the kindness of strangers in countries they never imagined calling home.

To history, they become statistics.

History remembers the Generals and the Presidents. It remembers the Treaties and the Victories. Rarely does it remember the innocent civilians caught in the geopolitical crossfire. They remain just numbers.

The headlines move on. TRPs demand a new story.

Governments move into another election cycle, once again promising a safer and better world.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the rain and cold, a family searches for clean water, a blanket, a meal and a missing child.

The economic consequences travel far beyond the battlefield. Food becomes more expensive thousands of kilometres away. Fuel costs rise. Inflation quietly pushes another struggling family below the line of survival. Recovery rarely arrives; hardship simply becomes the new normal.

Who accepts responsibility for all of this? Who should accept the responsibility for all of this?

Perhaps those who press the button should spend a few scary days the battle zone—standing in line for a morsel of food, searching the ruins of a school, waiting outside a bombed hospital, or living in a shelter where privacy and dignity have become distant memories.

Perhaps then phrases like “acceptable losses” would become harder to pronounce.

Some justify the military action to make the world safer.

Perhaps they are right.

But safer for whom?

Humanity has been divided into invisible boxes. Our fate is often determined by the place of our birth, while the rest is left to the unpredictable currents of geopolitics.

Soon governments will change. Alliances will shift.

The present crisis will fade from memory. Another will take its place.

And somewhere, once again, an ordinary family will discover that the decisions taken in a distant, dimly lit war room have arrived uninvited at their front door.

In a conflict, truth is the first casualty, memory is the second casualty—and the ordinary civilian is often the third. Amen!

“Trouser – 01
White Shirt – 02
T-Shirt – 02
Towel – 01...”

There was a time when sending clothes for washing was almost a sacred household ritual. It was never a casual errand; it was a solemn process.

Every garment was counted before it left the house and meticulously checked on its return. There was always an observation.

“Button phir tod diya hai, bhaiya.”

“Neel zyada daal diya... poora kapda neela ho gaya hai.”

It was a beautiful human relationship that families built with the neighbourhood dhobi. One could never cease to marvel at his memory—his own personal “computer” that kept track of hundreds of garments. Not a single handkerchief or pair of socks would get mixed up.

With an enormous bundle of clothes balanced on his bicycle, he would make his way through the neighbourhood, season after season, year after year.

Over time, he became part of the family.

Illustration Source : AI

He knew everything that was happening in the house—examinations, celebrations, heartbreaks, visiting relatives, and even what was cooking in the kitchen.

Sometimes, over a cup of tea or a glass of lemonade, he would share stories of his own life—his grandfather, his father, his wife, his children, and his everyday struggles.

The relationship quietly grew beyond a service transaction into something deeply human.

In today’s world of washing machines with “AI Mode” and detergents promising “mountain freshness,” it is almost impossible to explain the emotional significance of the legendary Dhobi List.

And what a list it was.

A handwritten document maintained by every respectable household with the precision of a bank ledger.

“Do white kurtas... one with a loose button.”
“Teen school shirts.”
“Ek bedsheet blue border wali.”
“Ek kaali pant....”

Every item was recorded with astonishing detail.

“Bhaiya, kal jaldi aa jana. Kal office blue shirt pehen kar jana hai.”

In a world without mobile phones or WhatsApp reminders, such planning and commitment ensured that life ran smoothly.

Then he would arrive, balancing an impossible mountain of freshly ironed clothes on his bicycle, open the gate with one hand, greet the family dog, and sit cross-legged in the verandah while the lady of the house began counting garments with the intensity of an auditor.

The freshly ironed clothes carried that unforgettable fragrance of a coal-heated iron.

“Ek... do... teen... arre, ruko... yeh baniyan hamara nahin hai.”

He would respond with complete confidence:

“Nahin didi, ye bhai saheb ki hi baniyan hai. Pichli baar bhi yehi baniyan gayi thi.”

The counting resumed.

Inevitably, there would always be one mysterious extra item.

He would calmly declare,

“Arre didi, yeh Kusum didi ke ghar ka hai.”

And somehow, by the following week, every missing garment mysteriously found its rightful owner.

The whole process also had its signature moment—the tying of clothes into the sacred bedsheet bundle.

Not plastic bags.

Not laundry baskets.

A proper cotton bedsheet tied diagonally into a giant knot that looked capable of surviving the worst natural calamity.

There were always moments of anxiety.

“Pillow cover paanch the ki chhe?”

And once again, the counting began.

Nobody questioned the system.

This was simply the Circle of Life.

“Theek se check kar lo!”

“Pichli baar bhi ek napkin kam tha!”

Today, of course, none of this exists. Somewhere along our journey towards Amrit Kaal, this entire exchange has quietly disappeared.

Now I simply put the clothes into a washing machine, press a few buttons, and trust something called “TurboWash 360.”

No arguments. No Dhobi List.

No neighbourhood diplomacy. No suspense.

No accidental exchange of bedsheets between families.

Efficiency has won.

Humanity has quietly stepped aside.

The old dhobi system was never merely about washing clothes. It was a social interaction, accounting practice, emotional endurance training, neighbourhood gossip, and low-level detective work—all wrapped in a faded cotton bedsheet.

And somewhere, inside an old steel almirah in an old Indian home, lies a yellowing Dhobi List, its fading handwriting preserving the memory of a slower, noisier, wonderfully complicated India. Those of us who grew up in boarding schools can relate equally well to the priceless Dhobi List—it was such an important part of our school life.

Perhaps that fragile piece of paper wasn’t merely a laundry record after all.

It was a register of trust.

The unfortunate and distressing news reaches us again like a thunderbolt. Another building fire. Another tragic death. Another family shattered. For a brief moment, our collective conscience is shaken. Questions are asked. Anger is expressed. Promises are made. And then, almost inevitably, life moves on.

Or has this cycle become so familiar that we no longer react with the urgency it deserves? Somewhere along the way, we have become de-sensitised by these recurring deaths. Each tragedy is reduced to just another headline, discussed for a day or two before it disappears from public memory. As long as it does not happen to us, it remains someone else’s loss—until, one day, it isn’t.

Across our towns and cities, fires in residential buildings, hospitals, commercial establishments, and public spaces continue to claim lives with alarming regularity. Investigations reveal the same familiar story—poor compliance with safety norms, blocked exits, inadequate firefighting equipment, unauthorized construction, and a culture of looking the other way until disaster strikes.

Illustration Source : AI

The tragedy is not merely the fire itself. The greater tragedy lies in the fact that most of these incidents are preventable.

Our cities suffer from the consequences of unplanned and often reckless urbanization. Approved building plans are routinely violated. Enforcement agencies either lack the resources to monitor compliance or fail to exercise the authority they possess. Substandard materials find their way into construction. Electrical systems age, deteriorate, and become overloaded. Buildings designed for one purpose are modified for another, often without regard for safety.

Poor urban planning has left many neighbourhoods with congested streets, narrow lanes, and unplanned development, making them virtually inaccessible during emergencies. Fire tenders are forced to battle traffic, encroachments, and inadequate access roads before they can even begin fighting the fire. Every minute lost in reaching the scene can mean the difference between life and death.

Every such disaster exposes a chain of failures. Builders cut corners. Authorities fail to enforce regulations. Inspections become routine paperwork. Residents and occupants remain unaware of basic fire safety procedures. When tragedy strikes, responsibility is diffused across institutions until accountability disappears into a maze of reports, inquiries, and committees.

Even where construction standards have been observed, maintenance is frequently neglected. Overheated electrical systems, poorly maintained air-conditioning units, and the storage of inflammable materials contribute to the rapid spread of fire. Regular safety checks are seldom undertaken.

Climate change may also be playing a role. Prolonged heat waves have increased the demand for cooling systems, placing additional stress on ageing electrical infrastructure. While not the primary cause, extreme temperatures can amplify existing vulnerabilities.

The citizens pay the ultimate price.

A society is judged not by how it mourns its dead but by how seriously it acts to prevent future deaths. Condolences and compensation are necessary, but they cannot become substitutes for reform. Fire safety cannot remain a box-ticking exercise. It must become a non-negotiable public priority.

Can something be done? Certainly.

Will it be done? That is a more difficult question.

There is no magic wand. No single policy or grand announcement will solve the problem overnight. Yet meaningful change not impossible. It requires enforcement of existing regulations, accountability for violations, regular safety audits, public awareness, and the political will to place citizen safety above expediency.

We often speak of smart cities, smart infrastructure, and smart governance. But no city can truly be called smart if it cannot protect its citizens from preventable disasters.

India has witnessed several major fire tragedies in the past few months, many of which have highlighted recurring concerns about fire safety compliance, emergency exits, electrical faults, and industrial safety.

Residential buildings, illegal fireworks factories and warehouses, commercial buildings housing coaching and animation centres, plastic and pharmaceutical factories, hospital ICUs, and several other establishments have all become scenes of devastating loss. Despite the different locations, the underlying causes—poor safety standards, lax enforcement, and inadequate preparedness—remain strikingly similar.

As the smoke clears from yet another tragedy, one hopes that this time the lessons will not be forgotten. Yet experience suggests otherwise.

And so, while the system debates, investigates, and promises reform, ordinary citizens are left with little more than prayers on their lips—and the uneasy knowledge that the next headline may already be waiting.

India is blessed with all the seasons, yet the monsoon stands apart as nature’s greatest gift. It arrives like a cool balm on a body scorched by the relentless summer sun. Year after year, we wait for those dark clouds to gather, for the cool breeze to blow, and for the first drops of rain to touch the earth. There is something about the monsoon that lifts us above the daily grind of life.

It also brings out the child within us and revives memories of carefree days when the rains meant nothing but unrestrained joy.

There was a time when the monsoon was more than a season; it was an entire ecosystem—emotional, social, and magical. The first shower transformed every neighbourhood. Children appeared outdoors within seconds, marveling at nature’s spectacle. No one cared about getting wet; that was merely incidental. The real excitement lay in discovering everything that arrived with the rain. Mothers shouted warnings about fever, cough and pneumonia from balconies while children hopped around jumping in the rain.

Illustration Source : AI

Soon the roads filled with puddles and water gushed through the drains. Within minutes, paper boats appeared by the dozen. Every child suddenly became an engineer, a naval architect and an explorer. The last few pages of old notebooks were gladly sacrificed for this grand maritime ambition.

These tiny vessels carried the dreams of every child. Every fold was crisp and every crease perfect. There were little ones and giant ones. Some fortunate children even had plastic boats.

Some sailed majestically. Others sank within seconds.

Yet every child launched the next boat with renewed optimism.

In the friendly neighbourhood, little tadpoles appeared as if by magic. These tiny black wriggly tadpoles in the roadside puddles fascinated an entire generation. Children observed them with the curiosity of young scientists.

“This one will become a frog tomorrow,” declared the eldest child of the colony.

It was gospel. No one fact-checked.

Nearby, full-grown frogs croaked in perfect rhythm, as though an orchestra had assembled for the occasion.

Entire afternoon disappeared while nature quietly performed miracles in muddy water. There were no curated YouTube videos. Life itself unfolded on a giant 70-mm screen.

The soundtrack was equally enchanting—the rhythmic tapping of rain on tin roofs, pressure cookers whistling in kitchens, waft of pakoras being fried, distant thunder rolling across the sky, the neighbourhood chaiwala calling out through the downpour, and somewhere, almost inevitably, the electricity transformer exploding.

Power cuts during the rains were accepted with remarkable philosophical calm.

Families gathered near windows to watch the rain instead of scrolling through social media. Conversations happened. Pakoras arrived. Tea circulated endlessly.

Then came the rainbow, bringing collective delight to everyone. It was nothing short of a miracle. How did seven colours appear suddenly in a perfect arc? Nobody worried about the science; everyone simply enjoyed the experience.

“Rainbow! Rainbow!”

Children ran outside. Adults pointed skywards. Everyone admired it together as though God Himself had launched a limited-edition colour scheme.

No photographs.
No filters.
No hashtags.

Just pure awe.

Cut to today.

Almost everything in the urban maze has disappeared. No one has time for any of it anymore. Paper boats are gone.

Tadpoles struggle to survive because the puddle has become a parking lot. The monsoon is now discussed in terms of traffic jams, network disruptions, waterlogging and delayed deliveries.

Even rainbows must compete with notification alerts.

Simple happiness has been replaced by Reel Mania and Insta Mania. Emotions themselves have become digitised.

The old monsoon slowed life down.

The new monsoon irritates people because it interferes with office schedules and food timelines.

The old monsoon connected people to nature.

The new monsoon connects people to the digital world. Google has already given me all the updates. There is no mystery anymore.

And perhaps that is the real loss—the disappearance of wonder itself.

How can anyone spend time with nature without checking a device every ten seconds? We even have wearable ones now.

God help us.

Yet the monsoon arrives faithfully every year.

The clouds still gather.

The frogs still sing.

The rain still carries the fragrance of wet earth and forgotten memories.

Alas, it is raining again.

Let me quickly send a picture to my daughter and the countless WhatsApp groups I belong to—before sentiment overtakes habit.

“Papa, we have to go to Mall of Doon,” my son announced.

Secretly, I groaned.

The destination was not the problem. The journey was. It would require nothing short of a herculean effort to plunge into the city’s clogged arteries, packed with vehicles of every conceivable size and shape. And, of course, our expedition would be actively supported by Doon’s famous decorative traffic lights.

Doon never fails to surprise you—with its majestic mountains, lush greenery, pleasant weather, charming bakeries, cosy cafés, and, naturally, its decorative traffic lights.

Just sit back in your car and enjoy the spectacle.

Elsewhere, traffic lights are expected to regulate traffic. In Doon, they are silent spectators, observing the chaos with admirable detachment.

The moment one approaches the Rajpur Road–Canal Road junction, traffic slows to a crawl. It is a clear indication that the lights are once again performing their decorative function.

Drivers sigh in resignation and begin manoeuvring their vehicles, jostling for space that exists only in their imagination. The intersection transforms into a live-action survival game.

Illustration Source : AI

Many use the opportunity to catch up with their co-passengers, scroll through social media, check the stock market, or read international news. After all, those are far more dynamic than the traffic lights. Eventually, everyone plunges headlong into the vortex—negotiating cars advancing from all four directions, giving way to two-wheelers that magically squeeze through microscopic gaps, and avoiding e-rickshaws that execute turns at angles previously unknown to engineering. Pedestrians simply fold their hands, whisper a silent prayer, and step forward in faith.

And yet, we love our Doon.

This is its flavour, its personality. Imagine how dull life would be without such a daily adventure.

In the middle of this grand performance stands the perspiring traffic policeman, bravely attempting to guide this force of nature with complete disregard for his personal safety.

Commuters express their frustration through a symphony of horns. A tourist driving an oversized SUV gives me a disapproving look before aggressively nudging his way ahead.

Meanwhile, our responsible motorists stop wherever inspiration strikes them, make majestic U-turns spanning half the road, park in impossible places, and stroll casually into the nearest showroom as though the rest of us are merely part of the scenery.

We love Doon and the irresistible charm of its decorative traffic lights.

Will the signal work today? Will it blink orange forever?

Will there be electricity?

Nobody knows.

That is precisely what keeps life exciting.

We love Doon.

Where else can one experience a suspense-filled three-Kilometre journey that offers action, stress, philosophy, patience, and spiritual growth—all absolutely free of cost?

And despite the chaos, the frustration, and the endless honking, we still love our city.

Though, admittedly, we would love it just a little more if the traffic lights occasionally decided to join the workforce.

The very foundation of Dev Bhoomi, nestled in the lap of the mighty Himalayas, rests upon its forest cover. Along with the snow-capped peaks, these forests are the soul of Uttarakhand. The towering pines, majestic sal trees, and stately deodars have stood guard over these mountains for centuries, protecting and nurturing the land and its people.

Walking along forest trails, one cannot help but marvel at their grandeur. The fragrance of the earth, mixed with the scent of pine needles, is both refreshing and deeply calming. These forests are more than a collection of trees; they are living ecosystems that define the identity of the state.

Yet, year after year, they continue to burn.

Every year, forest fires arrive with frightening predictability. Slowly but surely, a part of us burns along with these forests. Climate change is often cited as the principal cause, and rightly so, but many of these fires are also the result of human negligence and deliberate acts. Their contribution to this crisis is equally significant, if not greater.

Illustration Source – AI

Every year, we witness dense forests wrapped in smoke and orange flames crawling across mountain slopes through the night. For a state celebrated for its pristine mountains, sacred rivers, rich biodiversity, and spiritual serenity, forest fires are no longer isolated incidents. They have evolved into a full-blown ecological crisis.

The increasing pressure of infrastructure development, expanding road networks, and the arrival of several lakh tourists and their vehicles each year place an ever-growing burden on these fragile ecosystems. While development and tourism are essential for economic growth, they must coexist with responsible environmental stewardship.

The question is no longer whether there will be a tipping point, but when. Will it arrive in the next 10 years, 20 years, or by 2047? No one can say with certainty, but if the current trend continues, its arrival is only a matter of time.

Can we imagine these lush green mountains transformed into blackened landscapes? It is no longer unusual to travel through valleys filled with smoke for kilometres at a stretch. One wonders about the villagers who live amid these conditions, breathing smoke-filled polluted air for days on end. The smoke severely affects air quality, leading to respiratory illnesses, particularly among children and the elderly.

And what about the wildlife?

What happens to the birds whose nests are destroyed before their fledglings can fly, or to the small mammals, reptiles, insects, and countless microorganisms that perish silently? How long can the flora and fauna survive this relentless cycle of destruction?

The consequences of forest fires extend far beyond the flames. Entire ecosystems collapse. Medicinal plants disappear, fertile topsoil loses its nutrients and becomes vulnerable to erosion during the monsoon, and the forests gradually lose their ability to retain water. Springs and streams that sustain mountain communities begin to dry up, threatening both biodiversity and human survival.

For thousands of villages in the State, these forests are an indispensable source of fodder, firewood, water security, and livelihood. When they burn, rural communities lose much more than trees; they lose a way of life.

There is an urgent need to ensure that environmental consciousness keeps pace with rising human activity. Nature must be celebrated not merely for its beauty but also through responsible action and sustainable living.

The inevitable question arises: who should act?

Should it be the State Government, the Central Government, the Panchayats, or ordinary citizens? Or should the courts step in?

The answer lies somewhere in the middle. Every stakeholder has a role to play. Protecting the forests is not merely a governmental obligation but a solemn shared duty. There is no denying, however, that there is an urgent, mission-oriented need to address this issue.

The alternative is too frightening to be left to the mercy of the monsoon. When the flora and fauna are gone, what use will state-of-the-art infrastructure be?

It often appears as though nature is expected to heal itself from the damage inflicted by humans. Such a one-sided arrangement cannot last forever. What if one day nature decides that it can no longer fulfil its part of the bargain? The Himalayas are not infinite in their capacity to absorb the pain of human neglect. It is the proverbial death by a thousand cuts.

Forest fires cannot be tackled through seasonal panic alone. Every year, we witness temporary outrage, emergency meetings, and reactive firefighting efforts. Once the rains arrive, public attention fades until the next summer brings another round of devastation.

This cycle must end.

Perhaps the greatest challenge before us is not the fire itself but our collective indifference. The present generation continues to exploit natural resources, leaving future generations to bear the cost.

Environmental protection must move beyond speeches, slogans, and annual campaigns. It must become a collective civic responsibility and an everyday habit.

The forests of Uttarakhand are not merely trees standing on mountain slopes. They are the state’s natural heritage, its climate regulators, its water reservoirs, its biodiversity, and its spiritual soul.

If we fail to protect them today, future generations may inherit the Himalayas not as a living sanctuary of green cover but as a silent landscape of ash, smoke, and memory.

The choice, and the responsibility, are ours.

No other sport generates worldwide frenzy quite like football. It is time once again to welcome another edition of the World Cup, promising to be bigger and better than ever.

Football mania is once again sweeping across continents, cities, villages, cafés, television screens and social media feeds. From the streets of Mexico to the stadiums of USA, from Africa to Asia. The World Cup remains one of humanity’s greatest shared emotional experiences.

What is it about a leather ball being kicked around by twenty-two players that generates such extraordinary passion—not only among the players but also among millions of fans? Supporters have been known to go to any extent to back their favourite teams.

In no other sport is a nation’s passion represented in the manner that it is in football.

Many sports are closely associated with particular countries—cricket with India, basketball and baseball with the USA, and football with the Latin American nations. But none can match football in terms of its scope, magnitude and universal appeal.

Unlike many international tournaments, football cuts across language, class, religion, geography and politics.

The World Cup transforms ordinary people into passionate strategists, historians and dreamers. Streets empty during major matches. Giant screens appear in public squares. Children imitate famous goals in narrow alleys and school playgrounds.

“Papa, football dekhenge!” my son announces excitedly as the tournament approaches.

I groan silently when I look at the timings of the telecast. I am sure to turn into a bleary-eyed zombie for the next month, I tell myself.

Meanwhile, elaborate preparations are underway at home. Packets of chips are stocked, subscriptions to sports channels and OTT platforms are renewed to ensure football is available on every device. God forbid there is a power cut, but arrangements have been made for that contingency as well.

Everything is proceeding on a war footing. Even defence planners may not have planned their campaigns so meticulously, I wonder.

The conversation inevitably shifts to who will lift the trophy.

“Argentina,” says one.

“Brazil,” counters another.

“France.”

“Spain.”

Illustration Source : AI

There is no agreement. Everyone is an expert with statistics and historical records ready to demolish the other’s argument. Facts and figures fly across the room. Decibel levels rise steadily. I cannot help wondering that if India had qualified, whom would they all support? But that is a debate for another day.

Then comes the discussion on the greatest player.

“Messi,” declares one.

“Ronaldo,” insists another.

“Mbappé.”

“What about Neymar?”

The debate quickly moves to team selection. Should Neymar start? Should Messi be rested? Can Ronaldo still make the difference?

Football jerseys bearing the names of favourite players are taken out of cupboards and proudly worn. Posters mysteriously appear on bedroom walls overnight, as if by magic.

When emotions are running so high, can politics be left behind? Certainly not.

How will Iran fare in the USA? Is it fair to judge a football team by the politics of its nation? For perhaps the first time in recent memory, the tournament unfolds against the backdrop of not one but two ongoing wars, and in one of them the two countries on the opposing sides.

Once again, facts and figures fly, decibel levels soar, and punches and counter-punches—mercifully only verbal ones—are exchanged.

Finally, our local football expert takes center stage, enthusiastically explaining the five or six new rule changes introduced by FIFA. Another debate begins.

“Too much technology is taking the human element out of the game.”

VAR has become the new referee, the final arbiter.

VAR is everywhere. “Thank God it is not WAR,” I mutter to myself. Though, listening to the arguments around me, it seems remarkably close.

And yet, despite all the technology, the statistics, the arguments and the endless predictions, football remains gloriously unpredictable. Ninety minutes, a single moment of brilliance, one mistake, one save, one goal—and millions laugh, cry, celebrate or despair together.

That is the magic of the World Cup. It is not merely a tournament; it is a month-long festival where the world speaks one language—the language of football.

Happy viewing.

At the crack of dawn, as I stepped onto the Rajpur Road, I was greeted by a cool breeze blowing down from the north. The previous night’s rain and storm had quietly passed, leaving behind an unusual sense of peace, as though the road itself was taking a deep breath before the day began. A green corridor beckons, where every dawn begins with a birdsong, cool breeze, and the fragrance of the earth

The asphalt still glistened with rainwater, and the fragrance of the damp earth seeped into body and soul like a magic potion. Birds announced the arrival of a new day while the first rays of the sun filtered gently through the magnificent trees lining the Rajpur Road.

Over time, I have become a small part of this morning socio-cultural ecosystem. Walking beneath the thick canopy, the trees appear like elderly guardians, silently watching generations pass beneath them. I am certain they have witnessed the changing faces of the city and quietly observed its evolution. John Muir has rightly said - In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks.

Illustration Source - AI

The early morning belongs to the joggers and cyclists, dressed in elaborate sportswear and accompanied by the ubiquitous headphones that seem to have become an essential accessory of modern fitness.

Then come the walkers—a fascinating cross-section of society. Young and old, men and women, solitary souls and cheerful groups, silent observers and animated conversationalists. Every morning they weave together an ever-changing tapestry of humanity.

Their conversations travel effortlessly from the local to the global—from the price of tomatoes to the conflict in Iran, from hospital visits to soaring property prices. Rajpur Road is as much a debating chamber as it is a walking track.

Occasionally, a speeding two-wheeler or an impatient car cuts through the serenity, reminding everyone that the city is slowly waking up.

Street dogs keep a watchful eye on passers-by, well-groomed pets strain at their leashes, and monkeys supervise the proceedings from the trees and overhead wires. The monkeys, too, form an elaborate society. Entire families stake their claim to the roadside, with members of every size and age. Tiny infants cling tightly to their mothers while the older ones leap effortlessly from branch to branch. Even here, the division of labour between the genders appears remarkably evident.

Soon comes the chaiwala—the true representative of Rajpur Road’s economy. Half the city’s important decisions, one suspects, are taken over paper cups of overboiled tea. Nearby, the sabjiwala meticulously arranges tomatoes, apples and green vegetables with the precision of an artist preparing an exhibition.

The road also passes several places of worship where the morning unfolds with purpose and discipline. Flower vendors, incense sellers and shopkeepers catering to devotees begin their daily rituals long before most of the city has opened its eyes.

The road, too, has its own lessons to impart. It quietly transforms into a driving school for learners on scooties and in cars. Every now and then, one comes across a father patiently teaching his daughter or a husband encouraging his wife through her first uncertain turns. There is no impatience, no hurry—only quiet confidence and shared smiles. The emotions are as pure as the morning dew resting on the leaves.

Not everything, however, is picture-perfect. One must dodge the litter left behind by the previous night’s visitors—beer cans, chips packets, food cartons and plastic bags that silently testify to our collective disregard for public spaces. The evidence of “Swachh Bharat” lies scattered for all to see, and one’s blood pressure rises a few notches at the thoughtlessness of fellow citizens.

Suddenly, the sun feels noticeably warmer.

Just then, attention shifts to a group of children dressed in crisp martial arts uniforms, marching towards their morning practice with admirable discipline. Nearby, gym enthusiasts are already sweating through their workouts, chasing strength and fitness before the day gathers pace.

The newspaper delivery man has commenced his daily routine. With the expertise of a seasoned sharpshooter, he flicks each newspaper in a perfect arc. It sails effortlessly over gates and lands precisely in the verandah. One cannot help but marvel at the biomechanics of a skill perfected through years of practice.

The cafés slowly lift their shutters and prepare for the breakfast crowd. Young couples quietly occupy the corner tables, stealing a few precious moments of conversation and companionship before the demands of the day take over.

School buses rumble past, city buses follow close behind, and office-goers begin to fill the streets.

As the sun climbs higher, the intricate labyrinth of the Rajpur Road ecosystem comes fully alive—a harmonious blend of nature and commerce, devotion and routine, conversations and silence, memories and aspirations.

And every morning, without fail, Rajpur Road composes the same symphony with entirely different notes, welcoming another day in the life of the city.

It is a priceless treasure that the Doonites must preserve, just as our forefathers did when they nurtured and laid it out with such care. Yet, parts of it have already been scarred by the relentless symbols of modern development. The trees, silent witnesses to this transformation, seem to shed invisible tears for what is being lost at the altar of development.