Dregs of Yore

Spiritual poverty is, arguably, the biggest curse of the younger, restless generation, which finds itself adrift, lost in the cold, unyielding terrain of objective thought. People proudly disavow religious beliefs as if it were their right, as if it were a personal triumph, oblivious to the value of what they are so eager to cast aside. We've been groomed to dissect, to measure, to view the world through a cold, clear lens of objectivity, so much so that when we try to pray, our thoughts scatter, searching for some solid ground to start from, a foothold in a landscape of certainty. Once we find that starting point, it is still easier to keep the prayer going.  I’ve walked into temples, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends, and watched as each one wrestled with the act of prayer, fumbling for words, searching the space for clues on how to begin. To them, prayer is often reduced to a transaction, a list of wants laid bare before an indifferent God, or a mimicry of the devout aroun...

Young folks these days love to “diagnose” the world around them. Their parents, their friends, even themselves. The language of psychology has seeped so deep into everyday chatter that it spills over onto social media. Words like "co-dependent," "dysfunctional," "trauma response," "projection," and "gaslighting" roll off tongues as easily as if they were born knowing them. But it makes you wonder—how much of this talk is truly helpful, and how much of it is just noise in the wind? Not everyone has the gift of eloquence, the ability to pluck just the right words to frame their experiences. I used to think that this absence of language might keep people from truly grasping their own lives, that without the right words, the truth of what happened would slip through their fingers. And to some degree, I still believe that. Yet, I’ve been surprised time and again by the people I’ve met. They aren’t poetic like John Steinbeck; their vocabulari...

My grandmother, my father's mother, is a formidable woman, carved from the raw stuff of endurance. At 94, she has seen more life than most—outliving her parents, her husband, the bulk of her siblings, and even two of her four children, along with a grandson. There’s a certain grit etched in the lines of her face, a stubbornness born not of defiance but of necessity, the kind needed to weather nearly a century's worth of storms. Widowed in her thirties, she bore the burden of raising four teenagers alone, with a strength that defied the odds. It goes without saying that a person like her would carry a trove of tales, each one more compelling than the last. I find myself drawn to her stories, as they transport me to a world that seems almost unrecognisable in today’s society. It’s been fifty years now since the old house, the one I still call home, was built back in 1974. Back then, my grandmother lived across the street, renting a room with her children. She recalls, with a cert...

This land —my land — finds its soul in the festivals that sweep across its fields and cities like waves—each one a tribute, not just to gods or spirits, but to the very relationships that bind its people together. Karwachauth is one example, where married women fast from sunrise to moonrise for the well-being and longevity of their husbands. Jamai Shashti is a unique celebration in Bengal, where mothers-in-law pamper their sons-in-law with special meals and gifts, strengthening the relationship between them. Teej is another festival that highlights the strength of marital bonds, particularly in northern India, where women pray for the health and happiness of their husbands and families. Yet, among these celebrations, there is one that stands out in the simplicity of its gesture. Rakshabandhan, the festival of the bond between brothers and sisters. On this day, a sister ties a rakhi—a sacred thread—around her brother’s wrist. This thread, fragile as it may seem, carries with it the weig...

There is a burning question in the hearts of many young women I know. Most of these women are of my age, approaching their 30s. Some are older, some are younger. Not too long ago, the same question nearly scorched a hole in my heart too.   The question being, “Why can’t my father let me provide for him?” Many times, I've seen my friends wrestle with this question, each in their own way, shaped by the cards life dealt them. Some have lost their mothers, leaving fathers to navigate a lonely old age. Others, though both parents still live, fight against financial problems. There are those without brothers, no one to share the burden of caring for ageing parents. Some are only daughters, without siblings to take turns with, while others are the eldest daughters of their families. They see it as a raw deal, the way their father won't think twice about taking money from his sons but hesitates when it comes to his daughters. To the daughters, this seems unfair. They can’t help but wo...