Dregs of Yore

The question might seem, at first glance, to be a simple one. But the devil— or perhaps, in this case, the God— is buried deep in the details. It would be tempting to answer in haste, to offer platitudes about humanity rising above such quarrels, but that would be a lie. Up until now, I have sat quietly with my thoughts on the Israel-Palestine conflict. I have my own views, of course, but they mean little, for I have no personal stake in it. But now, something has stirred in me, something that compels me to write. I cannot help but see echoes of something similar in the ground I call my own and in the stories that shape my people’s lives. Of course, there is more than one reason why several Western nations choose to support Israel, but I’ll focus on just one in this piece — the religious and cultural one. Why the West Should Support Israel Returning to the question — is a fight over land justified? To answer that, one must first reckon with the land in question, for it is not just any ...

Where I come from, a corner of urban India nestled within the educated, middle-class fold, there’s an implicit understanding: it’s seen as almost wrong for young people to marry in their early twenties. Not every family thinks this way of course, and neither does every social class or state. India has variations, not least because it is a developing country and some parts develop faster than others. There are states where marriage comes early, places where it’s expected, and others where a young woman nearing her thirties, still unmarried, invites random people to speculate why she has still not tied the knot. This, though, has not been my burden to carry. My friends and I, we're the lucky ones, spared the same weight of expectations that pressed down on our mothers, or on others our age. But lately, I’ve found myself questioning whether this is an entirely good thing. All things considered, I'd say it's a step in the right direction that young people from urban, educated f...

A man finds it harder, somehow, to forgive his father for his mistakes than his mother for hers. Perhaps, we all see the holy virgin Mary in our mothers, her entire existence centred on her baby. If selflessness were a vice, she would stand condemned as well, as is sometimes the case when daughters, still new to womanhood, measure their mothers and find them wanting, punishing them for not being the kind of women they dreamed they’d become. But the lot of fathers— theirs is a sorrow doubled, for they are called to account by both their sons and daughters. And perhaps it is true that we ask too much of fathers—far more than we ask of mothers. I consider myself lucky, in that way, to have been able to "rescue" my father, at least in my own heart. I have seen great strength in the man. Great strength that once looked to me like great weakness. There are strange men in this strange world who carry their weaknesses as though they were shields. He was one of them. I loved my father...

Life sometimes presents us with strange choices. We might find ourselves deciding whether to act solely out of self-interest or to risk something dear for someone else’s sake. It’s the choice between leaving a game while we’re ahead or choosing to stay a little longer, braving the unknown to see how things might unfold. It’s the choice between pulling away from a friend or family member who seems to offer little immediate value and, instead, sticking by them through their darkest times, even if it costs us a measure of peace or personal growth. Prioritising oneself certainly has its merits, and rational calculation often seems the straightest path to a life of security and success. But I’ve learned, time and again, that my richest rewards—emotional and even financial—have come from taking a risk on another person. It could be a romantic partner, a family member with whom relations have been strained, or a friend whose struggles threaten to spill into your own life. To a person with a c...

Have you ever found yourself in a moment that, even as it unfolds, feels like one of life’s rare, complete fulfillments? I had one of those on a cool November morning, the 8th, right around 8 a.m. It was at a place called Char Dukan in Landour, a hill-town just beyond Mussoorie, which still carries the quiet grace of old British days. My boyfriend and I were ten days into a long trip, and, as we often do, we’d risen early to greet the dawn. We sat on the balcony in silence, watching the sky’s palette shift as the sun climbed, casting its warm, gentle light over the hills from new angles with each passing minute. When that tranquil half-hour had passed, we felt the pangs of hunger, and so, like pilgrims with a shared purpose, we set off down the road, hoping to stumble upon a breakfast as perfect as the morning. Char Dukan—meaning, simply, "four shops"—is what passes for the main market in Landour, though calling four shops a market is a stretch. Back in colonial days, it real...