The votes are cast. The noise has faded. But the silence is louder than ever. From Delhi’s power corridors to Kolkata’s narrow lanes, a single question hangs in the air: who will rule West Bengal?

The wind is changing. Its mood and its colour too. From narrow lanes to polished corridors, from village chaupals to bustling tea stalls, a faint saffron hue seems to linger in the air.

Is the caste certificate still the real passport to winning elections in India? Yes, to a large extent, it still is...

Chambal. Merely uttering the name once made the heart skip a beat. Straddling the borders of Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, and Rajasthan, the ravines of Chambal were no ordinary geographical feature. They resembled the torn chest of the earth itself, deep, twisting, mysterious. Even sunlight seemed hesitant to descend fully there, as if afraid it might never return. Dust rose in clouds, each particle carrying the weight of an unfinished story. In places, the silence was so thick it rang in the ears; elsewhere, a sudden sound from an unknown direction would quicken the pulse.

Journalism is often described as literature written in a hurry. The dividing line between the two is thin, sometimes almost invisible, because both share several features of expression, narration, and engagement with readers. Yet, despite these similarities, the differences in content, style, purpose, and permanence are too obvious to ignore. Literature tends to possess an enduring, timeless quality, while journalism is often immediate, transient, and at times superficial. What appears in a newspaper today may become outdated tomorrow.

War drums are beating again. Loud. Relentless. Almost theatrical. But here’s the uncomfortable truth: every war is not ours. And every fire does not demand that India jump in with a bucket.