In the morning mist, as the Taj Mahal emerges like a secret unfurling its silken veil, marble silence probes: Is love still that fathomless ocean, or shrunk to a smartphone glow? Where Mughal emperor Shah Jahan once imprisoned passion in stone, today, in its very shade, WhatsApp pings, missed calls, and dating apps weave fresh bonds. The question lingers like dawn dew: Can this newfangled romance endure through centuries?

In North India, the veil, aka Ghoonghat, is more than a tradition; it is a question mark placed over a woman’s very identity. This is the story of a silent revolution, the journey of one woman from a muffled existence to quiet liberation, where education and self-worth finally dismantled the barriers of the cloth.

Last week, during my morning walk, I suddenly ran into Bhatia ji. Age had taken its toll, his gait had slowed to a thoughtful pause, and there was a strange sense of relief in his eyes. As we talked, I learned that after 42 long years, he had finally packed up for good and bid farewell to America. The reason was simple: in his sunset years, the fragrance of his hometown's soil had pulled him back.

If India’s democracy is still standing after scams, cyclones, cult leaders and campaign speeches longer than the Constitution itself, the secret isn’t federalism, institutions, or constitutional checks and balances.

Adopted as India’s National Song by the Constituent Assembly in 1950, Vande Mataram was initially composed independently and later included in Bankim Chandra Chatterjee’s novel ‘Anandamath’, published in 1882. First sung by Rabindranath Tagore at the 1896 Congress Session in Calcutta.

Once, our lanes hummed with ‘Ram Ram’ and ‘Adaab’. Now, they crackle with expletives so inventive they'd make a gangster blush.