IT geek Suresh Bhai had to get to a restaurant in Delhi's Daryaganj area from Vasant Vihar, carrying a gift for his fiancée’s anniversary party. Filled with enthusiasm, he entered the restaurant only to find the celebration over. Suresh blamed the traffic jam, but Sheela wouldn't hear any excuses and left with her old friend Abhinav. Truly, traffic jams have given people all kinds of bittersweet experiences.

Once soaring like an eagle, India today finds itself caged within shrunken borders. This is the same civilisation that once ruled from Kandahar to Burma, from Tibet to Sri Lanka, whose influence touched Java and Sumatra.

The devastation unleashed by relentless rains in northern India has once again drowned entire regions, from the historic Taj Mahal in Agra to the sacred soil of Mathura-Vrindavan.

There was a time when a family’s prosperity shone in the smiles of its elders, and their presence was a cherished blessing. Today, those same elderly people—whose prayers once protected their families—often find themselves alone and neglected in the twilight of their lives. The darkness now clouding their eyes is not merely from age, but from the indifference of loved ones. In the tangled jungle of modern relationships, many seniors become homeless in their very own homes.  

Not just spirits (alcohol), even spirituality today is big business. Riding on the modernisation of Vrindavan and heavy investments across the Braj region, the Yogi Adityanath government aims to propel India’s growing ‘religious industry’ to new heights.

It all started with me getting lost in Chennai last winter. Not in thought—though that too happens once in a while—but in actual space. As I bumbled through unfamiliar streets, I collided with a leather belt and wallet vendor. Naturally, I asked for directions—in English. He shot back a reply in Hindi, which mildly shocked me because the accent had that familiar sweet, tangy flavour of Braj. Suspicious now, I asked the obvious question, “Bhaiya, kahaan se ho?” He hesitated. “Agra,” he muttered. “Kaunse gaon?” I pressed. “Etaura ke paas!” he whispered, as if revealing state secrets. Turns out, his whole village might’ve migrated here!!