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  Mango Memories Mixups Summer and mangoes have a way of making otherwise sensible people do strange things. One minute you're eating a perfectly respectable slice of mango, and the next you're conducting culinary experiments worthy of a mad scientist. I plead guilty. This season's adventures produced two rather unlikely creations, each carrying its own cargo of memories. "Bittersweet Memories" Some drinks quench thirst. This one stirs the soul. Into the shaker went a peg of espresso coffee for life's wake-up calls, a peg of rhododendron juice lovingly preserved from my last trip home to the hills, and a peg of passion fruit juice that instantly transports me back to my grandmother's orchard, where childhood seemed endless and fruits mysteriously tasted sweeter. Then came generous chunks of freshly cut mango and a handful of ice cubes. Shake. Stir. Sip. The result? A strangely delightful blend of sweet, tart and bitter notes—rather like memory itself. Ever...

We belonged to a generation that grew up before televisions, the internet, and mobile phones slowly invaded our homes, our hands, and eventually our minds: in that order. Childhood was spent outdoors, among games, excursions, and endless adventures. But there was another world that captivated us just as much: comics. Trips to the market were rare, perhaps once a month, but they always came with one sacred ritual—a visit to the bookstore. We would stand before the shelves, eyes wide with wonder, secretly coveting the newest arrivals. There was never enough money for more than one comic, bought for the princely sum of five rupees. Amar Chitra Katha introduced us to India's myths, legends, and history, while Indrajal Comics opened doors to Mandrake the Magician, the Phantom, the man who never died, and Bahadur, our homegrown hero. The glossy DC and Marvel comics looked magnificent but belonged to another world, one we admired from afar. Like all resourceful children, we found ways aro...

Summer in the vast plains of Northern India is not for the faint-hearted. The sun blazes relentlessly, temperatures soar, and stepping outdoors can feel like volunteering for a slow roast. But just when the season seems unbearable, nature offers its sweetest consolation prize: mangoes. And not just a few mangoes. This year, mango season arrived with the enthusiasm of an overgenerous colleague. Living in the city, where mango trees are about as common as parking spaces, we depend on friends who still have orchards in their backyards. Thankfully, they remember us every summer. The mango invasion began innocently enough with three crates. Then came a bulging bagful. Then another. Add to that the daily temptation from the friendly fruit vendor down the street, and before long, our home looked less like a residence and more like a wholesale mango warehouse. The question was no longer "Do we have mangoes?" but rather "What shall we do with all these mangoes?" Naturally, ...

On a round metal moon I stand, Barefoot, bronze, and bravely canned. Upon my shoulders—what a sight!— A parliament of pots in polite delight. I carry many compartments in my head, They clang like empty kettles instead. Lids rattle with important steam, Spouts point outward as if to dream. Oh, how I fancy I’m brewing tea For thirsty crowds who look to me. I tilt my thoughts, I strike a pose, I pour from every eager nose. But listen close—no liquid flows. Just echoing tins and windy prose. The glasses dangle in my hand, Clear as truth I barely understand. For kettles shine and kettles boast, They promise warmth, they host the toast. Yet empty vessels only sing A hollow, hopeful, tinny ring. So here I stand, all noise and show, A stovetop sage with little to bestow. Until I fill what I contain, My tea is thunder without rain. Perhaps one day I’ll learn the art— To heat the water of the heart. And then these clanging thoughts above Will steep in silence… and pour out love.

While returning from office last evening, I halted at a traffic signal behind a small but unusual goods vehicle. The rear carriage, meant for transporting cargo, had been ingeniously divided into vertical tiers. On the lowest level, two family members sat among neatly stacked clay pots arranged almost like a storefront. The middle tier resembled a compact storeroom. Above, bedding, clothes, and curtains hung along the frame, forming what appeared to be a makeshift bedroom. This was not merely transport: it was home, shop, warehouse, and livelihood woven into one moving structure. In my travels across India, I have often seen travelling trader families walking with tents and bundles balanced on their heads. This vehicle felt like an “upgrade”: a mobile ecosystem of survival. Yet mobility for such tradespeople is not adventure; it is economic necessity. They move from town to town selling pottery, utensils, tools, toys, or offering repair services. Weekly haats, roadside halts, and vil...