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Outsider to Insider: What’s So Special about Goa Anyway?

Step into the vibrant world of Becoming Goan by Michelle Mendonça Bambawale, a heartfelt journey through Goa’s beauty and culture. From inheriting a 160-year-old house in Siolim to discovering quirky legends, Michelle’s memoir is a colorful exploration of identity, love for the land, and concerns about its environment.

Read this exclusive excerpt to dive into the simplicity, warmth, and joy of Goa and ultimately Becoming Goan.

 

Becoming Goan
Becoming Goan || Michelle Mendonça Bambawale

 

‘Nothing is simpler than being a Goa . . . For God in his infinite sagacity has divided the world into two continents, Goa and the rest of the world, and the whole of humanity into two distinct races: Goans and non-Goans,’ 19 concluded poet and writer Manoharrai Sardessai in his Goa Today editorial.

 

A Goan’s love for the state is our foremost attachment. Its breathtaking beauty has made us fiercely proprietorial. You will hear: ‘Our Goa or our Goan.’ Being Goan comes first, before our Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Sikh, Parsi, Jain, Jewish, Buddhist, atheist, or environmentalist beliefs. We are united by our love of this blessed land, its mangoes and feni. Goan men across religious and other persuasions have gout— the gift of a rich diet.

 

Goa is some sort of strange east–west hybrid. Estranged from the rest of India because of its longer Portuguese colonization, Goan Catholics were forced to adapt Westernized dress and food habits when they were converted. Over the centuries, there was a synthesis with the Latin culture and Goa got the ‘eat, drink, sing, dance and be merry’ stereotype that we still have today. With its wines, women and songs, Goa is seen as more western from the rest of India and is the exotic east for those from the West. Goans have a unique sense of who we are. We have a strong joie de vivre. To some, it is heritage—the land, tambdi mati, Konkani, mandos and dulpods, kunbi and dekni, house and property, laterite, Xittcodi, feni, football and the monsoons. To others, it is modernity—education and transportation for all, accountable politics, the fight against mining, construction, corruption and casinos. Many are proud: ‘We have one of the highest rates of literacy, voter turnout and GDP in the country.’

 

 

The Goa Migration Study 2008 discusses, ‘Though the Portuguese spent 451 years in Goa—making it one of the longest colonial dominations in history—the regime unleashed its proselytizing zeal only on its ‘Old Conquests’ in the talukas of Bardez, Salcete, Tiswadi and Mormugao. The Old Conquests were densely populated, but the Portuguese did little to set up industries or generate employment in these areas. Consequently, nearly one-tenth of the population was forced to migrate.

 

 

I suspect there is some unwritten hierarchy involved in where Goans migrated to. The biggest and most influential clusters were economics—the sophisticated Bombay Goans (Bombaikars) with big city conveniences and attitudes, the Karachi Goans, who now have Indian passports, visa-related challenges and complications with their land being confiscated and labelled ‘enemy property’, and the East African Goans (Africanders), who are Westernized in their dress and attitude and prefer to be called either Goans or Portuguese, not Indians or East Africans. Then there were also Goans like my grandparents who moved to Poona, Belgaum, Dharwad, Hubli, Nagpur or Bhusawal for education and employment. Somehow, the poor Goans in Goa don’t rank very high and are left behind. Hence, I am asked, ‘Why would you choose to live in such an old-fashioned place? You have to leave to succeed.’ It is similar to the power and hierarchy of passports, where a Canadian, Portuguese or Australian, is perceived to be more powerful than an Indian, Pakistani or Bangladeshi one.

 

Academicians and historians have studied and documented the Goan diaspora, including prominent personalities of Goan descent. While there are many that hold public office, including the re-elected Prime Minister of Portugal, Antonio Costa, several others are soldiers, artists, writers, musicians, athletes, doctors, engineers, nuns and priests, who have made the world a better place, saved lives and won hearts and accolades. Uncle Clarie, my godfather, Mummy’s younger brother aka Wing Commander Clarence D’Lima, was an elite and decorated Indian airforce pilot, who laid down his life (at the young age of thirty-none) in the service of this country. In November 1977, he was piloting an aircraft carrying then prime minister Morarji Desai and other VVIPS that crashed close to the storm-soaked Jorhat airfield in Assam, as they attempted to land under extremely adverse and challenging flight conditions. All the passengers survived while all the flight crew perished.

 

In honour of his heroic service, a road is named after him in Pune (close to where he lived) and in Limavaddo in Socorro, Goa (his ancestral village).

 

Plenty of the Goan diaspora remain very interested in their ancestry. Committed to the cause, they spend time, effort and money building a family tree that goes back generations and centuries, digging through church, public, family records and photographs and know their Hindu last names before conversion to Catholicism. Nowadays, they even use technology, online family trees and DNA testing to prove how Goan they are. They organize family reunions in Goa, Portugal or both.

***

Get your copy of Becoming Goan by Michelle Mendonça Bambawale wherever books are sold.

A Kaali-Peeli Bombay Taxi Wins the Race and How!

Join the exciting ride with Alok Kejriwal in Getting Dressed and Parking Cars. The book takes us into the world of Games2win, a startup that dreams big in the gaming world. Imagine creating a game inspired by the crazy streets of Mumbai and the Iconic Kaali-Peeli Bombay taxi– it’s all part of the fun!

Read this exclusive excerpt for a quick ride in the taxi that’s set to win the race.

Put your seatbelts on!

Getting Dressed and Parking Cars
Getting Dressed and Parking Cars || Alok Kejriwal

***

 

I quietly assembled a small team from my previous companies to fire up the Games2win engines and was happy to see how excited they all were. My team and I had been involved in client service for years, and we were yearning to get started on building our own products.

 

I again turned to my colleague Dinesh Gopalakrishnan and decided he would be responsible for the car games vertical. My instructions to him were clear—‘Dinu, you need to start making brand new parking and driving games. They need to be casual, differentiated and fun. Also, I need at least ten unique titles split equally between the two types. So, step on the pedal and hit the road now (pun intended)!’ Dinesh was excited and went all in.

 

Before mandating Dinesh to make casual car games, I had thought very hard about the genre. How could I make driving and parking games ‘easy to play, but impossible to master’ (the magical recipe for creating great games)? What would make these games sticky and addictive despite being casual and snacky (meant to be played for short periods)?

 

My insight came quickly.
Real-life driving was the best reference!

 

In the real world, we drive or travel in a car from Point A to Point B without colliding with vehicles, objects or pedestrians. It’s impossible to imagine driving in the real world while having mini accidents on the way.

 

Leveraging this insight, I decided to build online car games with the opposite scenario. I wanted our online car games to be designed such that it would be impossible for a first-time player to navigate the car without an accident.

 

In the online game, while navigating congested roads and avoiding collisions with other vehicles, obstacles, pedestrians etc., players would not be able to complete a mission on the first attempt. After trying and losing the first time, the player would wish they had been more careful and would take another stab at playing the level.

 

Having bettered themselves, even if the player succeeded in winning the first level, the next level would be designed to ensure that a steep learning curve would be required to pass that level (play multiple times). The rest of the levels would gradually get harder and harder.

 

I was implementing the golden ‘easy to play, impossible to master’ game-level design mantra to make my first set of games.

 

Using this principle, a simple, well-designed game with minimum content could deliver multiple gameplays while providing endless entertainment to the player.

After understanding my design concept, Dinesh took up the task seriously and started game creation.

 

When we began thinking creatively for these car games, one exciting idea we devised together was a game called ‘Bombay Taxi’. The idea’s genesis was the streets of Mumbai. The ubiquitous black and yellow or kaali-peeli taxis, as they are fondly called, were unmissable and distinctly Mumbai.

 

If you haven’t sat in a Mumbai taxi, you should bump it up to the top of your list of must-dos. The varied interiors, stickers, idols of gods of all religions perched in the centre of the dashboard, and the beads, malas and flowers dangling from every available hook in the front section will awe you. And at night, the interior lights and illuminations on offer can give the world’s best designers a run for their money! Unsurprisingly, the first ever Apple store in India, which opened in 2023, is located in Mumbai and has drawn strong design inspiration from the inimitable kaalipeeli taxis!

 

Driving in Mumbai is hard. It means being super adept at navigating choking traffic, narrow roads, marriage, funeral and religious processions, avoiding crater-sized potholes, driving through flooded streets, zip-zapping two and three-wheelers and obeying all traffic rules and signals.

 

I often tell people, ‘If you can drive a car in Mumbai, you can drive a car anywhere in the world!’

 

The reality of Mumbai driving became our game design, and Dinesh created different types of Bombay taxis (typically, older generation Fiat cars, small SUVs and mini cars) with distinctive stylizations. He designed terrific ‘street levels’ in Mumbai that featured fisherwomen selling their wares on the road, confusing railway crossings, kids playing cricket on the main streets, hawkers selling their
wares almost everywhere, cows doing their own thing, food sellers, handcart pullers and the notorious ‘three-wheeler’ drivers, all contributing to the confusion and chaos that embodies the Maximum City .

 

Dinesh also amazingly recreated the sounds of Mumbai roads, featuring a cacophony of cars honking, hawkers shouting, trains, buses and trucks blowing their horns, street music and other typical Mumbai sounds.

 

The final car-driving game he produced was fantastic. The moment I started playing it, I couldn’t stop. When I finally did, about forty minutes had passed!

 

No sooner did the game go live on games2win.com than it became a super hit! It was bound to be.

 

***

Get your copy of Getting Dressed and Parking Cars by Alok Kejriwal wherever books are sold.

What It’s Really Like to Date with a Disability!

Ever wondered what it’s truly like to date with a disability? Abhishek Anicca spills the beans in his book, The Grammar of My Body. Buckle up for a journey into his world, where he breaks stereotypes and shares the real talk about love, relationships, and the unique adventures of being a queer-disabled man. Get ready to dive into a story that’s anything but ordinary!

The Grammar of My Body
The Grammar of My Body || Abhishek Anicca

 

That’s a match

In my fantasies

I draw you
with a pencil

I draw myself
with an eraser

I have a fear, buried deep down inside me. That someday, someone will find me attractive. Someone would want to touch me, make love to me. Running their hands over my disabled body. Not turned off by the proportions of my body or the way it lies on the bed, hunched, like it is walking through a dream.

 

What should I tell them before we make love? Should I tell them that I wear a diaper? They would know that eventually. How would I tell them that? Should I start with my history of diseases? I have to tell them about my scoliosis. And my infections. My urinary tract infections. Infections that recur with growing frequency these days. We would use a condom. We have to use a condom. ‘Here, take E. coli. And thanks for making love to me.’ I can’t do that to anyone. Not after knowing that they like my body.

 

The thought makes me scared. I don’t know if I am capable of having penetrative sex. I haven’t done that for almost a decade. Not since I became disabled. The first few years of being disabled were just about coping with disability. How to go out without your bladder getting the best of you. Or, worse still, when you lose control over your shit while walking outside, in a mall. You run towards the bathroom, but it’s already too late. The film is about to start. My friends are waiting. There is no way I can watch the film now. My nerves are aching. There is a spasm that makes it hard for me to use my right leg. ‘Sorry, I had some urgent work. Had to rush out.’ No more movie plans for me. Not before I learn how to empty my bowels before I step out of the house. And wear a diaper just in case my bowels betray me. Adult diaper, my best friend.

 

‘Adult diaper’, the words cause a flutter in the medical store. They pile up in my wastebasket every week till I pack them in a black dustbin bag and deliver them personally to the garbage bin. A secret document of my lived life, delivered without anyone noticing. I was scared about sharing this secret even with friends. The word might get out soon and ruin whatever chances I had of going out on a date. Not that wearing a diaper was the only deal-breaker.

 

What does it mean to love a disabled person? Does it mean empathy? Do you empathize with your lover? Maybe it’s about passion. And understanding. But can you understand someone without empathizing with them? ‘I love you. I am sorry but I don’t want to be a
burden on you.’ My friend says disabled people can be negative. I agree. We are so negative that sometimes the able-bodied mind never reaches us. The distance is too far on a number line.

 

Recently, a cab driver asked me if I was married. I said no. He said ‘Oh! You have money, you must be getting laid anyhow.’ I looked at his face in the mirror beside him. A young man in his twenties. Maybe for him, access to sex was just about money. Maybe he had been rejected by someone because of money. Maybe I didn’t tell him that my only date, through an online dating site, was with a disabled girl. We went on a date and she only wanted to talk about our disability. Plus, getting sex was not a problem for her. ‘Men are bastards, they
don’t care if you are disabled, they just want to do it.’ I wasn’t envious any more.

 

There are times when I am full of self-hatred for my body. I don’t have a dressing table at home. It makes me feel better about myself. I keep telling myself that I am losing weight. But T-shirts don’t lie. I was in the hospital for a month around January with a severe kidney infection and by March, all of my T-shirts were tight. I thought you were supposed to lose weight when you fell ill. All givens escape me

 

Being fat is the least of your problems when you are wearing a diaper and have a urinary tract infection all the time. You pee so much that you forget male genitalia has any other purpose. It’s when you get better that your desire reawakens. But then, everyone makes you look in the mirror. You are still fat and disabled. You become sad. And then depressed. Spells of decent physical health occupied by bad mental health. Till it becomes a self-repeating cycle.

 

In my defence, I would like to say I love myself. But that is probably going too far. The first time I proposed to a girl as a twenty-year-old, she told me she liked me but didn’t love me. I think I agree with her. Even I possibly only like myself.

 

The thought of not being loved doesn’t haunt me any more. It bothers my romantic heart sometimes. But there are so many people who can’t find love. So I go out, have fun with friends, read books, write poetry and enjoy long platonic conversations

 

It’s just a few minutes every day. Probably around midnight. When my body hurts. It laments everything that eludes it. Every touch. Every sensation. And only then it is reminded of its incompleteness. Incomplete. Yearning. Longing. It’s like a melancholic song that never ends.

 

***

Get your copy of The Grammar of My Body by Abhishek Anicca wherever books are sold.

 

Can Nik and Tanvi’s Fake Engagement Save the Day?

Let us introduce you to the dazzling world of  All That Sizzles by Sakshama Puri Dhaliwal, where wedding planner Tanvi Bedi faces a spicy challenge – organizing a $100 million wedding for a media heiress. The twist? She needs chef Nik Shankar, a guy who avoids weddings like the plague. And well…Nik must find a life partner to secure that bag because…REASONS!

Join the fiery passion as Tanvi and Nik embark on a fake engagement that might just turn into the love story they never knew they needed.

Can you hear the sizzle?

All That Sizzles
All That Sizzles || Sakshama Puri Dhaliwal

‘And to my grandson, Nikhil, I transfer the following assets:
1. Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore (first edition, hardcover, 1912) [Annexure II]
2. 1924 Rolls-Royce [Annexure III],
3. The apartment in Mayur Vihar, New Delhi [Annexure IV/A]
4. The property in Ambargarh (Alwar, Rajasthan) [Annexure IV/B]
5. Rs 8.62 crore in fixed deposits and bonds [Annexure V] conditional upon his marriage.’

 

Ruq frowned. ‘What happens if he never marries?’
‘As per a caveat in Clause 13.2, the condition expires in 2035,’ Rahul said.
‘So, I have until 2035 to get married?’ Nik asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘Clause 13.4. The assets will transfer to the Ministry of Culture.’
‘Can I trade the other assets for Ambargarh?’

 

Rahul looked at him like he had taken leave of his senses. ‘That doesn’t make sense financially. The car alone is worth more than—’
‘Can I do it?’ Nik asked.
‘Unfortunately, not.’
‘Can I buy it back from the government?’
‘You can try,’ Rahul said drolly. ‘Good luck navigating the reams of red tape.’

 

For the first time in years, Nik felt a hot, blinding rage towards the sadistic bastard that was his grandfather. Over the last decade, he had carefully cultivated a feeling of indifference towards the man, deigning to give him mind space only when their last remaining connection came up: Ambargarh.

 

The property had been bequeathed to Nik’s mother, Suchitra Devi, by her great-uncle, the Prince of Alwar, but had been under dispute for several years. After the fateful night that had ripped their family apart, Suchitra had moved into an ashram in Kerala, leaving her father— Nik’s grandfather—Vijay Pratap Singh Chauhan, as the attorney-in-fact.
Last year, the courts had finally awarded the property to Suchitra, leaving Vijay Pratap to do with it as he deemed fit.
Nik wanted it more than anything in the world.
And that sonofabitch knows it, he thought bitterly.

 

‘Ghost pepper,’ Nik muttered.
‘Huh?’ Rahul asked.
‘He’s pissed off,’ Ruq explained.
‘He is?’ the lawyer asked sceptically. His client seemed extremely composed, almost zen like.
But Ruq knew better. For years, she had witnessed Nik’s involuntary reflex of naming foods that accurately captured his thoughts in the moment. The ghost pepper was one of the spiciest chilli peppers in the world and certainly the hottest one they used in their kitchen.
Nik might be known for his patience and even temper, but Ruq could bet that underneath his calm demeanour, the chef was simmering.
‘He is,’ Ruq confirmed.
‘I’m fine,’ Nik gritted, his tone belying his words.
Rahul casually brushed a piece of lint off the lapel of his charcoal grey suit. ‘You could just speak to your grandfather, you know? Ask him to reconsider the terms of—’
‘I would rather die,’ Nik said.
‘I suppose that limits your options,’ Rahul shrugged.
‘To what?’ Ruq asked.
‘Marriage,’ Rahul said bluntly.
‘What if he gets married, takes possession of the assets and divorces his wife?’ Ruq asked.
‘Now that definitely sounds like a bad movie,’ Rahul said dryly.
Ruq arched an eyebrow, waiting for a response.

 

Rahul resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ‘I suppose he could. With an ironclad prenup.’
‘Can they prove that he’s not married?’ Ruq asked.
‘What?’ Rahul asked, bemused.
‘What?’ Nik repeated.
Ruq’s eyes widened, and Nik could almost see the wheels in her head turning. ‘Can they prove he’s not married?’
‘Can you prove he is?’ Rahul countered.
‘What proof do we need?’ Ruq asked.
‘A marriage certificate. A wedding card. Photos. Not to mention . . .’ Rahul paused for effect. ‘. . . a wife.’
‘What if she’s not his wife yet, but—’
‘I can guess where this is going,’ Rahul held up a hand. ‘The less I know, the better. As Nik’s lawyer, I can only advise him to pursue a legal path.’
‘But isn’t the law open to interpretation?’ Ruq argued. Rahul looked at her like she was deranged.
‘Call Prabhakar inside,’ Ruq said.
Rahul ignored that. Ruqsana might be Nik’s partner,
but Rahul didn’t take orders from her. He turned to Nik.
‘What do you want me to do?’
Nik looked at Ruq, What the hell are you playing at?
She gave him a reassuring nod. Trust me.

 

A few minutes later, a stout bespectacled man walked into the room. In contrast to his thinning hair, his moustache was thick and bushy, covering most of his upper lip. He wore an old, cheap suit over a striped polyester shirt. The buttons barely held his shirt together
and his stomach threatened to break free from their shackles any minute.

 

‘So? We have reached agreement?’ Prabhakar asked in his broken English.
‘Apparently,’ Rahul said with a resigned sigh, gesturing to Ruqsana.
‘Do you think Mr Chauhan would consider relaxing the condition to “engaged” instead of “married”?’ Ruq asked.

Understanding flashed in Nik’s eyes.
‘You are engaged?’ Prabhakar frowned at Nik.

 

***

Want to know what happens next?

Get your copy of All That Sizzles by Sakshama Puri Dhaliwal wherever books are sold.

Are Desk-Bound Individuals More Susceptible to Health and Mobility Issues?​

Ever feel the ache from sitting too much at your desk? Shikha Puri Arora has the game plan you need in her latest book, Move Better.  This book isn’t just about sitting less; it’s your ticket to feeling awesome every day and staying away from ache-y postures and limited mobility.

Read this exclusive excerpt to learn simple tricks that can make sitting at your desk a breeze, keeping discomfort away and bringing more pep to your step.
Say goodbye to desk discomfort and hello to a healthier, happier you!

Move Better
Move Better || Shikha Puri Arora

***

A comprehensive approach to employee quality of life needs to be adopted so that they can deliver top-notch performance while thinking of their long-term well-being. Most approaches ignore the following factors:

• Most individuals are sedentary twenty-three hours a day and move just an hour. This makes them struggle with the basics of human function and health.

 

• A deskbound individual has limited range of motion in the joints and stiff muscles that are the consequence of inadequate hydration and poor posture. Efforts to increase mobility without addressing the causes are of little use.

 

• Stored muscle tension and emotions that are not removed from the physical body cause breathing limitations, which lead to anxiety and nervous tension. The state of the body detracts from the value of the courses undertaken to improve mental health. Troubleshooting the physical body thus becomes a pre-requisite for mental health.

 

• Basic movement mechanics of spinal stability, sitting, bending, standing, walking are untrained, thus neutralizing any benefit derived from fitness activities.

 

General fitness and corporate programmes don’t provide solutions to these causes and their effects. Employee welfare can be addressed only by including all these above aspects into a programme that focuses on the basics of health and well-being.

 

These techniques must be used by deskbound individuals to add mobility solutions to their daily life. Besides combating pain, the solutions provided make the brain alert and promote relaxation in the body. None of these divert the already preoccupied mind while working and can be used every day to increase blood circulation. These self-care techniques counter the effects of daily life stress and come with many benefits.

 

 

• Sitting with a wedge cushion keeps the spine erect and brain alert. The spine can stay erect longer without a back support and feel no fatigue. This is half the battle won as mobility isn’t compromised.

 

• Using a stick/rolling pin or ball under the foot at a standing desk prevents the fatigue (from standing), enhances posture and increases blood circulation. This is a position that encourages brain activity, improves concentration and creativity, and charges up the brain with ideas, increasing output. This is also a great way to increase NEAT calories for those individuals who have excessive sedentary hours.

 

• Rubbing a myofascial ball along the sides of the neck, jaw and head is an anxiety and stress-buster that increases circulation in the head and eyes. The entire action is inconspicuous!

 

• Myofascial release for the glutes keeps the hip mobile. Simply place a hard to medium ball under the buttocks. To prevent the ball from sinking into your chair you can use a hard placemat under the ball. This technique also massages the glutes and increases blood circulation in the area.

 

• Myofascial release for hamstrings ensures you will never have to experience back pain because of sitting! Imagine the magic of lengthening your hamstrings while you sit. For details on the technique, refer to page 205.

 

 

• Wrist, palm and forearm release with a ball not only improves mobility in the wrist, fingers and forearm, but it counters the stress on the palms, fingers, wrist and forearms caused by using devices.

 

Image 1: Place a ball under the wrist with your palms facing upwards. Place the other hand on top to put a gentle pressure and mobilize the wrist by moving it up and down. This instantly gives relief from wrist pain.

 

Image 2: While standing, lean forward and put your body weight on a medium to hard ball placed under your palms. The pressure will automatically make your palm and fingers feel light. Those with carpal tunnel will get some ease from this simple release technique.

 

Image 3: Place a hard to medium ball on one forearm and dig into various areas of the forearm. This gives instantly relief for those suffering from tennis elbow.

***

Get your copy of Move Better by Shikha Puri Arora wherever books are sold

Did Headhunting Hold the Key to Victory in Kohima? Find Out!

Ever wondered about a battle so significant that it’s hailed as the ‘Stalingrad of the East’ and marked the end of the British Empire?
Step into the fascinating world of His Majesty’s Headhunters by Mmhonlümo Kikon, a gripping tale that unveils the hidden history of the siege of Kohima during World War II.
Read this exclusive excerpt to discover the ancient practice of headhunting, a crucial aspect of Naga life, and how it played a vital role in defining their identity and survival.

 

His Majesty's Headhunters
His Majesty’s Headhunters || Mmhonlümo Kikon

***

‘On the question being once put to the Nagas whether they
would like to become the subjects of the Company, they promptly
replied, “No: we could not then cut off the heads of men and
attain renown as warriors, bearing the honourable marks of
our valour on our bodies and faces.”’

—John Butler,
A Sketch of Assam, 1847, p. 160

Decapitating with the right blow of the Dao, or Headhunting, wasthe most significant art of warfare practised by the Nagas from the
ancient times right up until 1994.

 

To win a war was signified by the number of heads the Naga warrior brought home. Without these heads of the enemies, the war meant nothing. Headhunting was a source of motivation for all aspects of life in a Naga village. It gave them vigour and to the warrior a renewed energy, translating into the virility of crops and wealth thereof; the warrior with the most heads found stardom and a place of privilege in the eyes of his villagers.

 

At first glance, the headhunting practice of the Nagas has simply been described by its action—savagery of the uncivilized.

 

It happened at a time when there was no knowledge of guns. And till the British arrived, the Nagas were using the dao and the spear. In present times it is best to imagine a machete and a javelin used for chopping firewood or as a sport—all for non-violent purposes. But through stories passed down generations, the agency of oral tradition has brought to light the principles of warfare and the significance attached to the glory and honour of taking off the heads in a battle. It is so intrinsic to any discussion on warfare among the Nagas that it is now considered by many to be the keystone of the survival of the race living across the mountainous ranges of Patkai and Saramati. The noted Naga writer, Temsula Ao, reflecting on ‘Headhunting’ writes, ‘In the oral histories of different Naga tribes, the overriding emphasis on head-hunting is that it was a necessary strategy for the survival of each village community. Living in an insulated environment, each tribe began a process of indoctrination that this practice was not only necessary but also good for the people.’

 

It was more survival than preservation of a race as one village would fight the other through a stratagem of surprise and ambush.
The stratagem was always meticulously developed.

 

There were many reasons for villages to attack each other. Sometimes when they formed a coalition to attack a bigger village or foe, it was to raid the granary of the bigger village. It was not an act of vengeance. Normally over the years feuds between villages developed for various causes and vengeance was sought. And this vengeance became the driving force of the warriors. In the brandishing of decapitated heads, the thirst for vengeance was met. It was a celebration, a decisive victory over the enemy, a proclamation of the strength and the prowess of the warrior over the defeated.

Deep within the thirst for the heads was the belief that the soul or the human spirit resides in the head and the act of chopping the enemy’s head is like depriving the enemy of the soul too. At least that was the belief that gave them a sense of gratification. The practice of taking heads was not limited to the Nagas alone. However, the practice was considered a rite of passage from childhood to manhood, to be precise, and it was the key to getting community permission to get married. Among many Naga tribes, no man could get married if he had not taken a head in the battlefield. Such conditions were put in the olden times to ensure that the village ensured a steady flow of warriors and developed a custom so entrenched in the social system that it cemented the practice of headhunting in the community.

 

‘An eye for an eye’ was the philosophy40 when it came to responding to any heads taken from the village by the enemy. In an interesting report by A.J. Moffatt Mills, he writes, ‘It is totally incompatible with the Naga honour also to forego taking revenge, and it is incumbent on him to ransom or recover the skull of a relative murdered or captured in war, years may elapse but the murder of a relative is never forgotten and when a favourable opportunity offers probably, twice the number of victims are sacrificed. Retaliation again ensues and consequently there can never be a termination to these exterminating feuds.’ Till the killing was avenged by hunting the head of the enemy, the village could not restore their pride.41 Ferocious and violent as it was, it established the reputation of the warriors as proficient and successful in headhunting. They were not only the role models for all future warriors in the community, but they also became the hunted and therefore needed more warriors to be trained and skilled in the art of warfare for their own protection. The experienced and successful warrior then became the most vicious head-hunter in the process—and the taking of his head by an enemy would ensure immediate fame. Vengeance was sought for every head taken and it went on for years and years till the dead were avenged, and the entire village sometimes carried the trauma of not having done justice to the soul thus taken.

***

Get your copy of His Majesty’s Headhunters by Mmhonlümo Kikon wherever books are sold.

Ants in the ICU? An Unbelievable Saga of The Patient in Bed Number 12

In The Patient in Bed Number 12 by Raj Kamal Jha, a sick father’s journey through illness takes us on a captivating ride through modern India. Battling various health issues, he becomes the lens through which we see the hopes and struggles of everyday people.

Read this exclusive excerpt to witness the simple yet powerful storytelling, through which Jha paints a picture of a society where dreams clash with reality.

 

The Patient in Bed Number 12
The Patient in Bed Number 12 || Raj Kamal Jha

***

AND now so alone I lie here, intubated, my diagnosis: sepsis, shock, lower respiratory tract infection, pleural effusion, chronic kidney disease, altered sensorium.

Means sometimes I talk crazy.

 

In this city where once emperors held court and where today, within a kilometre of this hospital, there’s one Mall of India, one Big Bazaar, one KFC, one Mainland China, one Café Coffee Day, one Burger King, one IndiGo airline’s reservation office, a dozen coaching centres where students stream in, morning, daytime, afternoon, evening, for lessons in maths, physics, chemistry, biology, law and civics.

Their backpacks on the floor, they sit in classes twelve hours a day so that they can crack the exam, become the chosen few to run away from their homes towards a future, bright and shining, in medicine, engineering, law, civil service, technology, start-up, business, entrepreneurship, who knows what, Delhi, Mumbai, Bengaluru, Pune, who knows where.

 

My right kidney has atrophied to 6.3 cm. The renal surgeon said its filters are choked, the virus set off an uncontrolled infection, my left kidney is failing, fighting E. Coli, my Serum Creatinine is 9.7 mg/dl. Sister Shiny says that’s too high. There’s so much sugar inside me, she says, that red ants line up where my pee drips from the urometer tied to the bedpost, the ant-trail leading out of my room into the corridor at the end of which is the Notice Board with VIP Suite misspelt, the E missing or fallen off, next to which two security guards sit on vigil.

 

♦♦♦

Every hour on the hour, these guards do the rounds of the ICU. They should not be inside, but the nurses look the other way as they stop at my bed and want to chat. I, too, want to play along, get them on my side since, more than doctors or nursing staff, they are the ones who regulate and control access to the ICU and once you reach the hospital, they will be the ones who will let you see me even if it’s outside Visiting Hours, they are the ones who will take care of your child if you need to leave her unattended for a while.
Last night, one of them, Vinod Yadav, stops by my bed and asks me about you.

 

When is your daughter coming? he asks. Where is she coming from, have you spoken with her, how old is she, do you have her photograph?

Too inquisitive for my comfort.

 

I want to tell him I am tired, go away, take your questions with you. Instead, I tell him she should be here soon, and he says, don’t you worry, I am here, I shall ensure she faces no problems. He waits at my bedside for me to say something more, to add more detail, and so I turn to small talk.

 

I ask him, do you like your job, how long have you worked here? And he says, one year since I came from the village. Yes, I like it here, there isn’t much to do, I just sit and check Visitors’ Passes, I hold the lift for a stretcher to go in or out, it isn’t hard work like what my roommate has to do, who works at the Mall of India, right next door.

 

I close my eyes, maybe he will see I am tired, that he needs to leave, but he again brings you back into the conversation. As if you are familiar, he has seen you or knows something about you.

 

Your daughter should go to the mall, he says, they have everything she may need, that she may have forgotten to get with her. My roommate will help her, I will tell him, he is a bright young man.

 

Before he got the job, he was a part-time mathematics teacher, but it was a private school, he took test after test to get a government job but didn’t get through. Once he did reach the final stage of the interview but didn’t make it and then came this pandemic, the lockdown, even the job he had was gone, when the owner of his school decided that he couldn’t run it anymore, he couldn’t pay salaries, his school shut down.

***

Get your copy of The Patient in Bed Number 12 by Raj Kamal Jha wherever books are sold.

How Do the Young and Single Find Love in Bengaluru?

Welcome to Bengaluru, where the excitement of tech meets the search for love. Authors Malini Goyal and Prashant Prakash spotlight the experiences of young entrepreneurs, as they navigate the city’s startup culture and dating platforms. Gear up to unravel the complexities of modern dating in Bengaluru and find out whether this city, known for delivering everything on tap, can also deliver the elusive emotion of love.

Let the unboxing begin!

 

Unboxing Bengaluru
Unboxing Bengaluru || Malini Goyal, Prashanth Prakash

***

From coffee to condoms, this city of young techies can deliver everything on tap.

Well, everything except perhaps love.

I spoke to multiple male founders who are young and single to understand their point of view. On one Sunday in October, I spent a leisurely evening catching up with a well-to-do founder—let’s call him S. Ashwin—in his early 30s. He is an NIT engineer with an Oxbridge MBA. Founded in 2014, his startup had scaled up decently with 300-odd employees. For a long time, his monthly salary was a measly Rs. 60,000. ‘Initially, many women thought since I was a founder, I would be loaded. What they didn’t understand is that all my wealth was on paper,’ he says. Soon, he figured out how to signal correctly for his Tinder dates. He would arrive in his run-down scooter on first dates. Instantly, his conversion rate from first to second date dipped. But then the second to third date conversion rose sharply. ‘The elimination strategy worked,’ Ashwin says.

 

Whether they are men or women, for founders in general, the initial few years are always hard. They could be working seven days a week, twelve hours a day, with zero vacation time, little money and a rollercoaster life that is constantly on the edge. Consumed by their startup and the all-round pressure, there is little bandwidth for anything else. Such distractions or preoccupations during intimate conversations can be very off-putting. Lack of time for social engagements can be a deal-breaker. Raghav Chakravarthy, thirty-three, cofounder of Walnut Knowledge Solutions, experienced this first-hand. ‘Being an entrepreneur, I was so busy building my startup that I often found myself zoned out during conversations. There wasn’t enough time to build a relationship,’ he says. In 2022, as the startup stabilized, he finally took the plunge and got married.

 

 

However, there is a consensus among both men and women that dating platforms have made casual hook-ups very easy but finding love or companionship and building a long-term relationship very difficult. Start with the available pool on the platforms, with its gender and demographic skew. With a strong bias towards younger singles in their twenties, older singles have a tough time finding matches on these platforms.

 

Beyond this, men and women face different sets of issues. Women like Gowda and others worry about fake profiles, men lying about their relationship status and about falling prey to fraud. Men have very different problems. Many complain about not finding enough matches on dating apps. ‘On dating platforms, conventional attributes like tall, fair men with beards, good cars get many more matches than people like me,’ says pet parent Siddharth Ram. Ram has been using these dating apps for a few years now. He says the ratio on these platforms could be as bad as ten boys to one girl.

 

His experience on matrimony platforms like BharatMatrimony.com and Shaadi.com has been much better, but they pose another set of problems. ‘Here, I got fifty to sixty matches. It was a great morale booster. But it had another problem. It was the girl’s  parents who were the arbiters. So my condition was that I will not talk to parents. The thing with parents is that they just fuck up the entire dating experience. They don’t understand what figuring out is,’ he says. Also, these sites offer filters like horoscope, caste, gotra that often do not resonate with the younger lot. There are others, like IITian Shrrinesh Bala—who is now building his startup Mello—who are looking beyond dating apps. ‘I wasn’t very lucky on dating platforms. So I was surprised by the many interesting profiles I got through matrimony sites like IITIIMShaadi.com,’ he says.

 

What are these young men and women seeking on these dating platforms and in their relationships? Have things changed at all? It’s a question I ask many young people in the city. Sex and casual hook-ups are obvious. And it isn’t just men seeking it. ‘There is equal desire on both sides. Women are quite comfortable with it,’ says Ram.

 

For those looking for longer-term relationships, there are many filters, old and new. Like the decision to have kids. It is no longer a given. ‘Many more women today don’t want to have kids and are upfront about it,’ says Ashwin. Similarly, the topic of marriage or cohabitation does come up occasionally. For some, a shared love for pets is important and can be a deal-breaker. ‘In general, I notice that what they want isn’t very clear but what they don’t want is absolutely clear,’ he adds.

***

Get your copy of Unboxing Bengaluru by Malini Goyal and Prashanth Prakash wherever books are sold.

Meet Simone Singh: The Girl with Broken Dreams!

Ever wondered what it’s like to chase down a killer in the blistering Delhi heat while wrestling with your own inner demons? Meet Simone Singh, the fearless CBI investigator from The Girl with Broken Dreams by Devashish Sardana.

As she battles the sweltering sun and mandatory therapy sessions, her journey unfolds in a gripping tale where justice and personal struggles collide.

Read this excerpt to know more, but be sure to grab an icy glass of water or a comforting pillow—you might just need it for the thrilling ride ahead.

The Girl with Broken Dreams
The Girl with Broken Dreams || Devashish Sardana

 

***

Assistant Superintendent (ASP) Simone Singh flicks away beads of sweat streaming down her bald, squishy scalp, watching the clock on the Jeep’s dashboard flip over to 10:10. She is now ten minutes late for her appointment with the therapist.

 

Simone had arrived five minutes before her scheduled appointment, but she has been sitting in the crumbling, Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI)-issued Jeep without air conditioning since. A dry, sultry breeze rushes in through the fully open window, smacking her sweat-speckled face. She detests the summers in Delhi. Even more, she detests the heat crawling up her back and the sweat seeping down her spine.

 

Simone is parked in front of a plush red-brick bungalow in Delhi’s posh Lutyens Zone. The bungalow stands well back from the pavement behind lush jamun trees. Probably explains the sweetness in the searing breeze.

 

Her hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white. Simone is thinking, wondering if she wants to keep her job with the Indian Police Service (IPS). Her boss, Superintendent of Police (SP) Vijesh Jaiswal, had given her a simple choice after the ‘incident’ last month: meet the CBI-appointed therapist or get suspended. Simone would have happily gotten suspended—it wouldn’t be the first time anyway—rather than lie on a sofa and discuss her private affairs with a sham doctor, a stranger. But she knows it isn’t a choice. It is a direct order from a superior. And she isn’t one to break the chain of command. Orders ought to be followed. Period.

 

She pulls out her phone and flicks through her photos. Simone stops at a photo of her grandma, where she is beaming at the camera, waving a knife, about to blow out the candles on her eightieth birthday.

 

You see what I have to do because of you, Grams,’ she says aloud. ‘You had one job. One. To stay . . . alive.’ Her voice breaks.
Simone waits, hoping grandma would answer back, calling Simone ‘bachchu’ again in her sing-song voice. Sigh. If only photos could talk.

 

Let’s get this over with. Simone pockets the phone, puts on an N95 mask, tucks her police cap underneath her arm, and jumps out of the Jeep. She marches to the front gate of the bungalow.

 

A constable on sentry duty watches her approach, his gaze jammed on her shaved head. Her gleaming baldness has always invited glares. But she is used to the stares and the furtive glances. This is a choice. She had cut her locks two years ago when she had a run-in with the chief minister’s son in Bhopal and was wrongfully suspended. She has shaved her head ever since. Initially, as an act of defiance, now as a proud battle scar.

 

The constable sees the IPS insignia on her shoulder flash and salutes her immediately. ‘Good morning, madam ji!’

 

‘What’s the point of wearing a face mask that covers your mouth, but not your nose?’ Simone admonishes the constable, whose face mask has conveniently slipped to his chin. The pandemic might have fizzled out, but good hygiene shouldn’t. And neither should common sense.

 

The constable flashes a broad grin, his tobacco-stained teeth on full display. ‘Sorry, sorry.’ He hastily pulls up his mask, covering his hideous teeth. ‘How are you, madam ji?’

 

Simone recoils. She doesn’t have the patience for greetings or small talk. Simone has never understood why people do it. She comes to the point. ‘I have an appointment with Dr Dia Sengupta.’

 

‘Oh, minister sahab’s daughter?’ Simone narrows her eyes. Granted that the bungalow belongs to one of the cabinet ministers. But how does being the daughter of that minister define a grown, accomplished woman’s identity?

 

‘No, I’m not here to meet the minister’s daughter. I’m here to meet Dr Dia Sengupta, one of the leading therapists in Delhi,’ Simone corrects him.

 

The constable scrunches his forehead, confused. ‘Yes, madam ji. They are the same person. Same to same.’ She wants to thump the constable on the head because they are not the same.

 

But it’ll mean prolonging a conversation that she didn’t want in the first place. Abruptly, she turns away from the constable and strides to the unbolted front gate.

 

‘Wait, madam ji, you must sign the entry register,’ he calls after her.

 

Simone stops. Like it or not, she believes that rules must always be followed unless they contradict her values and ethics. She sighs. Turns around. The constable runs to her with an open register and a pen. She scribbles briskly and hands back the register.
The constable squints at what Simone has written. ‘Vijay Singh’s daughter?’ he reads aloud and looks up, confused. ‘Who is Vijay Singh? Your father?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

He chuckles. ‘Madam ji, you had to write your name, not your father’s name.’

 

Simone nods in agreement. ‘As you said, they are the same person. Same to same, right?’ Simone swivels on her feet and marches to the front gate without another word.

 

***

Get your copy of The Girl with Broken Dreams by Devashish Sardana wherever books are sold.

Am I Doing This Right? Insights from Priyanka Chopra’s Mom in ‘The Parents I Met’

Ever wondered, “Am I getting this parenting gig right?” In Mansi Zaveri’s The Parents I Met, take a stroll through chats with successful parents, picking up timeless tips for navigating the tricky path of raising kids. This book is like a friendly guide, saying, “Hey, in the middle of life’s chaos, what matters most is your love and commitment to your kids.” It’s an easy read, full of stories and advice that any parent can relate to, giving you a bit of comfort and a lot of insights along the way.

 

The Parents I Met
The Parents I Met || Mansi Zaveri

 

***

Initially, I had arranged to speak with Dr Madhu Chopra via Zoom, but after our conversation, I knew I had to meet her in person. She never made her career, marriage or the proper upbringing of her children a lower priority simply because she became a mother.  

 

Despite her initial doubts about whether her parenting practices from nearly three decades ago would still be relevant, she welcomed me with open arms and was happy to talk. Friendly as always, she paused to ask her assistant Zarin for a green tea in Gujarati, all the while considering which chai flavour would best prepare her for this exchange. She then took a sip and said,

 

‘Mansi, what was important is that I didn’t back down—that gave me immense confidence. That confidence emanates power and brings me respect from my kids even to this day. If they respect you, it becomes easy.’  

 

She has fond memories of working night shifts at the army hospital, which were always a family affair because she had to bring her two children along, Priyanka and her brother Siddharth. ‘I turned it into a game by telling Priyanka, “Mom’s on night duty, baby’s on night duty,” as she carried her toy backpack and squealed with excitement. I didn’t fall into the trap of feeling guilty because my work gave me immense joy. The guilt crept in only once when she talked back to my father and that made me wonder, “Is it because I am working?” Even the fancy well-planned tiffins of other kids who had stay-at-home moms couldn’t make me feel guilty as I sent the same tiffins every day, like a paratha roll or jam sandwich. I taught her to not compare these tiffins or feel deprived. Parenting is not a day’s job. It starts the day your baby is conceived and continues forever.’ 

 

I asked her if Priyanka had ever asked, ‘Why can’t you sit at home or why do you need to work?’ and she said, ‘No. She didn’t know any other way and took this as normal.’ Family was a huge support, with both sets of parents and relatives chipping in at every stage.  

 

Dr Chopra continued, ‘Both kids used to tag along. If mom had night duty, baby had night duty. She would pack her little bag to carry to the hospital because she knew she had to keep herself busy while I was away on duty. You see, we didn’t give them choices that didn’t exist.’ 

 

Dr Chopra then unapologetically admitted, ‘I am a great parent.’ To see a parent be so self-assured was refreshing. Especially when parents today second guess most of their decisions.  

 

When Priyanka was preparing for Miss India, her entire family pooled their resources to buy her new footwear, wardrobe and cosmetics. No one ever questioned who she was or why she would want to compete in a Miss India pageant. Some parents hope their children will follow in their footsteps and go into business with them or pursue a similar line of work, but Priyanka knew at the tender age of three that she did not want to become a doctor because she did not like the smell of hospitals and did not want to leave her child at home.’  

 

She added, ‘When your path is different from your kids, there is no tantrum and shouting but there is a conversation. You convince me or I convince you.’ The one time that we did push our wishes on a child who was a topper in her academics and extracurriculars, was when we asked her to sing and dance both. When her grades dipped, I backed off, but being a committed, competitive learner, she persevered. Her habit of seeking perfection in everything that she did was most evident when she helped her younger brother Siddharth learn his speech on Chacha Nehru. She corrected his work and sat all night rehearsing with him till he didn’t even miss a single word. 

 

She continued, ‘I think this is the temperament that has got her here and is keeping her here. Ours was a democratic house, and questions and curiosity were rewarded promptly. When Priyanka was in kindergarten and questioned why her name was missing from the name plate outside her house, her father, Dr Ashok Chopra, got it changed the next day and added “Priyanka Chopra-UKG”.’ 

 

Dr Chopra went on to say, ‘Dinner table conversations were animated ones, where you could pour your heart out and no one would be judged. No one raised their voices or banged plates—it was not allowed in my household. Our kids never saw us yell, fight or be violent—it started and ended in the bedroom, but even that was a discussion.’  

 

‘I was heartbroken when I sent her to boarding school at seven years old after she had talked back to my dad,’ she confessed, ‘but the end result of that decision was a polished, responsible pre-teen who could even parent me. She became so disciplined, much better than I could have ever done. Each leap of faith was made with my family as a safety net.’  

 

When I asked her if she had had any indication that Priyanka was exceptional before she turned eighteen, she said, ‘I knew my child was focused and never frivolous. She would make the most of every opportunity that was presented to her. You cannot be a great parent if you don’t have a receptive child.’ 

 

When I asked her how she managed to instil such a sense of hunger and determination in her children despite their privileged upbringing, she told me that teaching them to say ‘no’ was crucial, as was making them work for what they want.  

 

She said, ‘Don’t be afraid to be that “bad parent”. The word “no” carried great weight in the Chopra household. One parent’s “no” would never be followed by a “yes” from the other. Their “whys”, however, were never shunned but addressed with discussions and explanations of the consequences early on. My children knew from day one that their every action had a consequence and that would be theirs alone.’  

***

Intrigued to know more?

Get your copy of The Parents I Met by Mansi Zaveri wherever books are sold.

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