Category: Features

As India entered a turbulent new decade marked by political change and military history, India’s Most Dangerous Serial Killer uncovers the far darker story of Shankariya Kanpatimar, whose brutal murders left nearly seventy people dead across Rajasthan, Punjab and Haryana.

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1973, The Year That Was 

The year 1973 began with a historic military development: chief of the Indian Army, Gen. S.H.F.J. Manekshaw, was made India’s first field marshal.

Indian Express quoted a defence ministry press note stating that the promotion was ‘in recognition of his outstanding services’. The note further said that Gen. Manekshaw would hold the rank of Field Marshal for life.

According to British Army tradition, when an outstanding general is promoted to field marshal in peacetime, his name continues to remain on the army list and he receives a higher pension, though he ceases to be in effective service. He is also given certain perquisites, such as an office in Army Headquarters and some personal staff. The American Army does not have the rank of field marshal, but they have the rank of a five-star general. A full general of the army in the US is usually called a four-star general.

The Government of India followed the British practice in the case of Field Marshal Manekshaw.

Gen. Manekshaw, who took over as the Army Chief on 8 June 1969, succeeding Gen. Kumaramangalam, was due to retire on 3 April 1972 upon completing fiftyeight years of age. But the uncertain security situation in the country following hostilities in December 1971 led to his receiving an extension for an unspecified duration. The retiring army chief was later involved in negotiations with Pakistan over the delineation of the Line of Control in Jammu and Kashmir and the withdrawal of forces along the international border.

Gen. Manekshaw was rewarded for his role in all this. As chairman of the Chiefs of Staff Committee during the conflict, he was responsible for coordinating the overall strategy and the general conduct of the war with Pakistan following the large-scale influx of refugees from the then East Pakistan. He has been credited with fostering teamwork among the services in the planning and execution of the operations.

Earlier, when he was general officer commandingin-chief (GOC-in-C), Eastern Command at Calcutta, Gen. Manekshaw was responsible for containing the revolt by Mizo rebels, which began in April 1966. During his tenure as Eastern Army commander, a large number of Naga hostiles returning from China after training, and carrying weapons, were intercepted and captured, leading to demoralization among the underground army.

Commissioned into the Frontier Rifles in April 1934, Gen. Manekshaw served as brigadier-major of the Razmak Brigade in Waziristan in 1943–44 and saw active service in Burma and French Indo–China in 1945–46. He was awarded the Military Cross. When the Frontier Rifles was transferred to Pakistan at Independence, Gen. Manekshaw moved to the Gorkha Rifles. He was general staff officer in the Military Operations Directorate at Army Headquarters in 1946–47. He served as director of military operations from 1948 to 1952 and took over command of the Infantry School at Mhow in 1955. Following a course at the Imperial Defence College, London, he was promoted to major-general in December 1957 and given command of a division in Jammu and Kashmir (J&K). Gen. Manekshaw was Commandant of the Defence Services Staff College, Ootacamund (presentday Ooty), during 1959–62. After serving as a corps commander during 1962–63, he was GOC-in-C, Western Command, in 1963–64. He took over as GOC-in-C, Eastern Command, in November 1964 and moved to the capital as army chief in June 1969.

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Ancient curses. A grieving husband. A demon that tells stories before it kills. Vikram and Betaal: Night of the Blood Moon reimagines the legendary Vikram-Betaal folklore as a gripping supernatural thriller where love, death, and immortality blur beneath a blood-red sky.

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‘Would you like to hear a fascinating tale before I slaughter you? Mercilessly, I’m afraid.’

The demonic entity, its eyes patient and unnatural, hissed this into the ear of the man it had pinned to the ground. Its long, sharp, rotting fingernail hovered above the man’s chest, eager to slice through flesh and bone.

The man said nothing, his breath harsh and uneven, eyes wide and unblinking. Sweat formed trembling beads across his forehead, trickling slowly down his temples.

‘Of course you would,’ the demon sneered, cracking a grotesque smile, which stretched the pale, rotting skin of its face so taut it seemed ready to split open.

Long ago, longer than your mind can stretch, there lived a prince in the northern valley, on the mortal side of the Vaitarani River.

His name was Daripodar.

One night, during a hunting expedition deep in an unfamiliar jungle, Daripodar passed by a massive rudraksha tree. There, he spotted something strange—a young ascetic, suspended upside down from a thick branch.

Startled, Daripodar halted the hunting party and sat beneath the tree, watching the man for hours. But the ascetic did not flinch or tremble. He hung there in perfect stillness, lost in deep meditation.

The prince’s attendants whispered that the man had been meditating in that position for years. Daripodar was mesmerized. He had never seen such complete control over the body or the mind.

Decades later, after the death of his father, Daripodar ascended the throne.

One evening, during another hunt, he returned to the rudraksha tree and was astonished to find the ascetic still suspended, older and frailer but deep in meditation.

Back at court, he summoned his ministers and subjects. ‘Whoever can break the ascetic’s determination,’ he announced, ‘will receive unimaginable wealth.’

The court erupted. The chief minister protested the extravagant reward, but the crowd cheered. Among them was Ruprekha, a cunning, beautiful courtesan, who boldly stepped forward.

‘Not only will I break his will,’ she declared, ‘I shall bear his child—and he himself will carry that child into this very court.’

Intrigued, Daripodar accepted her challenge, doubled the prize and gave her ten years. But he added a grim condition: if she failed, she would be publicly beheaded.

Ruprekha accepted. They sealed their vow with a betel leaf and she set off for the jungle that very night.

Days turned into weeks. Each morning, Ruprekha bathed in fragrant perfumes, wore tinkling ornaments and danced around the ascetic, hoping her charms would break his trance. But nothing worked.

Soon, she noticed how frail he’d become. His thin limbs, skin stretched tightly over brittle bones, his life barely holding on. Desperate, she prepared a sweetmeat from whatever she could gather and forcefed him, fearing he’d die and seal her fate.

Suddenly, the ascetic’s eyes snapped open. ‘Who dares disturb the sanctity of my eternal vigil?’ he demanded, voice weak but trembling with fury.

Feigning shock, Ruprekha replied softly, ‘I am the daughter of a god, descended to Earth. Your suffering was unbearable for me.’ Her voice trembled gently, eyes wide with practised innocence.

Gradually, the ascetic softened.

Over the following days, she brought him to her modest hut, caring for him until his strength returned. Then, one stormy night, Kama’s arrow found its mark. They gave in to desire, and soon after, Ruprekha bore his child.

Over time, Ruprekha grew genuinely fond of the ascetic, no longer desiring the king’s reward or youthful dreams of wealth. She abandoned her vow to King Daripodar, content with the simple life she’d built.

Years passed. Their son grew, but the ascetic struggled to provide for them, detached as he was from society. Misfortune struck again when Ruprekha fell gravely ill. On her deathbed, she begged the ascetic to ensure a better life for their child, urging him to bear their son on his shoulders to King Daripodar.

Confused, the ascetic honoured her last wish.

He arrived at court with their seven-year-old son perched on his shoulders. King Daripodar was ecstatic, immediately recognizing him, but the court burst into ridicule when the ascetic revealed his wife’s name and her claim to divine origin.

Though Daripodar offered the promised reward, the ascetic felt humiliated and betrayed upon learning the truth. He refused the riches, his voice trembling with rage as he cried out:

‘Who gave you the right to destroy my quest for immortality, you blasphemous king?’

Caught off guard, the king raised his hand to halt his guards. Stepping forward, he quietly replied, ‘My envy—of your resolve, your control.’ His words carried a subtle, twisted satisfaction.

The court continued mocking the ascetic, who turned away, burning with shame. But before leaving, he cast a final warning: ‘Not in this life, but in the next— or the ones thereafter—I will avenge this humiliation. Remember, King . . . my quest for immortality will be fulfilled when I sever your head in the presence of my son’s lifeless form, the child who carries the mark of the resolve you shattered, and ensure that nothing born of this betrayal remains.’

He left the king deeply unsettled.

Unable to bear the sight of his son, the ascetic, consumed by fury, burnt the child alive. Soon after, completing his final penance, he departed from this world.

Yet their story did not end there.

Their fates remained entwined, and ages later, all three were reborn. On the same night, at the same hour, beneath the same blood moon.

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What happens when your parents are in Antarctica, your social skills are … questionable, and every attempt to fit in spectacularly backfires? In Almost Sixteen, Arsh Verma turns teenage awkwardness into a sharply funny, painfully relatable coming-of-age journey.

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No one at his new school believed Ashwin when he told them his parents were in Antarctica.

But they were.

They were on a year-long scientific expedition, but by the time he got to the details, he had already lost his audience. It seemed like a made-up thing, like he was trying to be sassy. He had said it brusquely, too, when the geography teacher had asked, ‘What do your parents do?’

‘Oh, they’re in Antarctica.’

He may as well have said, ‘Oh, they’re on the moon.’

But it wasn’t the moon they were on. They were in Antarctica.

By the time Ashwin realized his mistake, the class had already moved on.

Ashwin sat in his seat and fumed. Off to a bad start.

‘Look,’ he said, shoving his phone in his neighbour’s face. ‘A collapsing ice shelf in Antarctica!’

‘I don’t give a shit, dude.’

‘Here,’ said Ashwin, now flaunting his phone under the nose of the girl sitting in front of him. ‘A family of emperor penguins. Look how cute the calf is.’

‘Pretty sure they’re called chicks, whatever-your-name-is.’

‘What are you doing, Ashwin?’ The teacher’s voice cut through the room. ‘Put that phone away!’

Ashwin stuffed the phone in his bag. He turned his attention to his wooden desk instead. It was more scribbled-upon than a jailbird’s back, gnarly and bumpy, like the carpenter hadn’t even tried to do an adequate job. One of the legs sat shorter than the others, and the desk see-sawed precariously.

‘Ashwin, are you trying to get in trouble?’ said the teacher, as the sound of Ashwin’s noisy, joyful rattling filled the classroom. ‘Well, I shan’t give you the pleasure. Get up here.’

As Ashwin headed to the front of the classroom, the teacher drew an irregular shape on the blackboard, something outside the scope of a ninth-grade geography book. ‘You know what this is?’

‘Head of a rhino?’ ventured Ashwin, which was what it looked like.

‘It’s Antarctica. Can you point out the Ross Ice Shelf?’

Ashwin guessed.

‘Nope, it’s actually over here,’ said the teacher, pointing elsewhere. ‘What about the Ronne Ice Shelf?’

Ashwin guessed again.

‘Wrong. This is it.’ The teacher indicated the opposite end of the rhino head. ‘So, why don’t we hold off the Antarctica business until we actually know what we’re talking about, yeah?’

Ashwin headed back to his seat amidst a lot of sniggering, much of which seemed ominously female.

When he returned home that afternoon, he already felt like an outcast.

‘Home’, for a year, meant his aunt and uncle’s place, on account of his parents’ expedition. His uncle—his mother’s sister’s husband—owned a pharmaceutical company. He was fabulously wealthy, and both he and his wife spent most of their time at ayurvedic spas, mud bath retreats and yak milk detox camps. This suited Ashwin just fine, it left him with a whole sumptuous villa and staff to himself.

But for that evening, he confined himself to his room—formerly his grown-up cousin’s—cultivating an image-restoration plan. The plan included a mastery over the geology, geography and ecology of Antarctica, over the course of which came a horrifying discovery.

‘That motherfucker . . .’ muttered Ashwin. ‘THAT MOTHERFUCKER!’

He’d been studying a topographical map. The Ronne Ice Shelf was exactly where he, Ashwin, had guessed it was! No doubt, the teacher had only pointed elsewhere to make him look foolish and secure the reprimand!

No matter, thought Ashwin, with savage delight. He would clear his name with the jury tomorrow. He’d make the teacher look like such a fool!

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In Half of Forever by Ravinder Singh, a man rebuilding his life after divorce begins to find his new beginning quietly unsettled.

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Sometimes we run into people by pure accident, and something about them quietly stays with us. In a world drowned in screens, real-life encounters feel richer—the unfiltered beauty of their presence! It’s refreshing to meet someone in person, in moments we never planned. I was working out in the gym at the clubhouse when I saw her for the first time. I’d turned my head to the right—and then almost forgot to turn it back. There she was—hair tied into a tight bun, torso bent over her wide-stretched legs as she moved through alternate toe touches. Her grey leggings and white sports bra framed a lean, supple figure. Her upper body swept from left to right, perfectly parallel to the ground. I still hadn’t seen her face. Before I could, someone from the outside called her name. She grabbed her yoga mat and walked out towards him. 

Who IS this girl? Who is that guy? 

I don’t remember the last time I got this curious about someone, this instantly. 

Was it because of her height? Oh yes, she was beautifully tall! Yes, I think that was the reason. I was wired to paying special attention to women who were about my height—one doesn’t easily get to see females that tall in India. 

A part of me wanted to follow her just to see her face, but something held me back. I simply stared until she and the guy disappeared from sight. After they had left, my gaze kept drifting to the entrance, hoping she’d return. Twenty minutes passed. Nothing! I eventually gave up, pressed the speed button on my treadmill and got back to my jog. By the time I finished, I’d almost forgotten about the mysterious stranger. A work call came through and I slipped into a discussion with my publisher about my next book. Earphones in, protein shake in hand, I pushed the glass door to leave—and she appeared right in front of me, on the other side of the door. 

I wasn’t prepared. 

‘One second,’ I told my publisher, eyes locked on her. Her sudden arrival in front of me got me confused and I wondered if I was going to push that glass door or pull it. Here comes my stupid panic attack! 

Two people reached for the same door from opposite sides. And I don’t know why on seeing her take hold of the door, I took my hand off it and stood there paralysed and staring at her like an idiot. I hated the sudden loss of confidence, the clumsy confusion and a dozen other flaws that chose that exact moment to show up. 

She, however, didn’t care. She didn’t even look at me. She walked past as if I wasn’t even there. It bothered me. 

She had a pretty face; not extraordinarily pretty, but pretty—gentle features, eyes that carried a trace of thoughtfulness, a smile that was soft, the sort of beauty that comes alive when you aren’t even trying. Meanwhile, she was busy chatting with that other guy. She passed me by. Come to think of it, her not noticing me was a good thing at that moment. There was nothing I had done anyway that was worth noticing. At least I wasn’t stuck holding the door open like some invisible doorman. 

Nevertheless, in those few seconds of her walking past me, I managed to eavesdrop on their conversation. I was able to figure out he was her trainer. I’d still not heard her name though, but there was no way I was going to make a U-turn and follow her back into the gym to find that out. It wasn’t about my pride. I was only trying to avert any further opportunity to embarrass myself. 

And as it happens with all the episodes of embarrassment, I walked out replaying the scene in my head, imagining alternate versions of myself doing less stupid things. And because my curiosity about her had only grown, I started wondering where she lived. Which tower? Which floor? Was she on the society WhatsApp group with its 695 members? Would her DP be visible? 

‘Ravin, are you there?’ my publisher’s voice suddenly cut in. I had totally forgotten her. 

‘Oh no! Oh yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes . . .’ 

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In March 1998, a single conversation in a sunlit Dubai office set Sanjiv Mehta on a path that would redefine his career—and eventually reshape leadership across some of the world’s most complex markets.

A CEO’s Brew: Stirred with Passion, Purpose and Humbition captures this pivotal moment and the remarkable journey that followed.

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Crossing Borders: The Bangladesh Years

The evening sun stretched out into small pools of light inside the Unilever office at Jebel Ali in Dubai. Tom Stephens, the chairman of Unilever Arabia looked me, as always, in the eye. ‘Sanjiv,’ he said, ‘I have plans for you.’

I had joined the Dubai office towards the end of 1992. Five years had flashed by without me even realizing how much of a Unilever man I had become. A Unilever man, people will tell you, can be spotted a mile away. They are as comfortable in a small grocery store as they are in the boardroom discussing the strategy of a multibillion-dollar brand.

Working with legacy brands teaches you a lot. There is a sense of purpose that gets embedded in every function, and one realizes quite early on that there is no formula to building brands that last a lifetime. Every brand works differently in different markets, and I was beginning to understand the Middle East, its people and the relationships that the country had built with the company and its products.

However, to get back to that day in March 1998, I looked at Tom with a hint of anticipation. Tom had spent many years in the company primarily in the US; his towering presence by my side had helped me work through many challenges at the Dubai office. He was a quintessential Ivy League-educated American and, like me, a finance professional by training; his hallmarks were clarity of thought, rigour and the ability to join the dots. ‘By the end of the year, we want you to be on the board of a Unilever company as a Work Level 4 manager,’ Tom said, drawing out the words slowly in his typical American drawl. I could see Tom was serious and I could feel the weight of his words settling around me in the room. It was clear that there was an opportunity lurking in the moment, but there was also uncertainty and risk. In hindsight, this was a big moment, and it would unfold in ways that I would not have much control over, but it would change the way the game had to be played.

I looked at him intently and said, ‘Great Tom. I do look forward to it.’

Clearly, Tom had been thinking about this for a while, and he set the wheels in motion almost instantaneously. He reached out to the gentleman whom he knew would waste no time in getting things done. Guy de Herde was the human resources (HR) director at Unilever Arabia. His easy smile, warm handshakes and infectious laugh camouflaged a steely focus on the task at hand. Tom tasked Guy with the responsibility of looking for Unilever businesses that would soon require a Board member.

Within four months, the two men were back in my room. Are you ready, they asked, to pack your bags for Bangladesh?

New Beginnings, New Learnings

Is anyone ever ready for change? More to the point, was I ready to move countries? Again?

I grew up in Mumbai, a city that is an amalgam of islands. But it is also so much more than that—it is the financial capital of the country with a long and layered history of politics, business, and social changes.

There are numerous clichés attached to its name—the city of dreams, the city that never sleeps, the city whose streets are paved with gold and so on. For me, Mumbai, or Bombay as it was known when I was growing up, is endowed with a remarkably indefatigable spirit; there is nothing that can stop the city in its tracks. Floods, riots, bomb blasts, mayhem on its streets—whatever adversity is thrown at it, the city steps around it. It is a way of living and coping that Mumbai inadvertently passes on to all its citizens. Like a gift, it has passed it on to me too, I think, preparing me for all the challenges that came my way.

The other thing is that I grew up in a household of immigrants. My parents had moved under very different and highly difficult circumstances. They came from Lahore and Gujranwala in undivided India, and moving countries for a new job was hardly as daunting as what they had been through. I had grown up with stories about the homes that they left behind and the struggles that marked their early years in independent India. They had instilled a deep sense of pride in the post-Independence nation building that they had been a part of, and I think that has stayed with me right through my life. So, to answer the question of whether one is ever ready to move countries, it’s a yes and a no. One is never ready but then one can never be ready for such a move either.

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In From Chaos to Clarity, nutritionist Shonali Sabherwal unpacks cancer not as an external invader, but as a complex, evolving disease rooted within our own cells – offering a fresh, holistic perspective on prevention, treatment and healing.

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The History and Nature of Cancer

Cancer is a prehistoric disease, one recognized since the time of the ancient Egyptians. It has walked this earth at least as long as we have, as an ever-present adversary. Its longevity makes it unique amongst maladies that have come and gone. Smallpox and the Black Death once devastated the world, but largely disappeared from the modern pantheon of health concerns. But cancer? Cancer was there in the beginning. It was there in the middle. And it’s here now, worse than ever.

Despite several thousand years of advancing medical knowledge, cancer still ravages us. It was likely rare in ancient times because it was associated with ageing, and life expectancy was low. Since people were dying young from famine, pestilence and war, cancer was not a big concern. The Greek physician Hippocrates (ca. 460 –ca. 370 ), who is often called the father of modern medicine, may have appropriately named our ancient foe using the word karkinos, meaning ‘crab’. This is a surprisingly astute and accurate description of cancer. Examined microscopically, cancer extends multiple spicules (a spikelike tendril) out of the main body to grab tenaciously onto adjacent tissue. Like the miniature versions of its namesake, cancer distinguishes itself from other deadly diseases by its ability to scuttle around the body from one location to another. A cut on your thigh does not metastasize into a cut on your head, but a cancer in your lung can easily become a cancer in your liver.

Cancers are divided into benign and malignant varieties. Benign cancers grow but don’t metastasize and are not deadly. It is the ability to move and spread, or metastasize, that is responsible for the majority of cancer deaths. For example, malignant tumours are a type of tumour that carries with it the volition of growing bigger as they are cancerous. The key difference between a malignant tumour and a benign (non-cancerous) tumour is its harmful nature—its tendency to grow uncontrollably and invade or damage other organs. For instance, in colon cancer, a tumour on the colon may exert pressure on the rectum or surrounding organs by increasing in size.

There are many types of cancer (breast, colorectal, prostate, lung, myeloma, etc.) which are generally named from the cell of origin. There are likely as many types of cancers as types of cells in the body. These cancers continue growing without limit and have the ability to leave the site of origin to reestablish at a distant site.

All cancers are derived from normal cells. Breast cancer originates from normal breast cells. Prostate cancer originates from normal prostate cells. Skin cancer originates from normal skin cells. This is a particularly vexing and unusual characteristic—it originally derives from ourselves. Cancer is not a foreign invader; it’s an internal uprising. The war on cancer is a war on ourselves.

Is the cell your answer for unlocking the mystery of cancer? The answer to that is yes, it is.

In his book The Song of the Cell, Siddhartha Mukherjee has explained that cancer cells don’t build anew; they hijack or, more accurately, the cells that are fittest for survival, growth and metastasis are naturally selected. The genes and proteins that cells use to generate the building blocks required for growth are appropriated from the genes and cells that a developing embryo uses to fuel its fierce burst of expansion during the first days of life. The pathways used by the cancer cell to move across vast bodily spaces are commandeered from those that allow inherently mobile cells in the body to move. The genes that enable unfettered cell division are distorted, mutated versions of genes that allow cell division in normal cells. Cancer, in short, is cell biology visualized in a pathological mirror.

This is technically a departure from a healthy normal condition. Let’s first understand that no outside force has done this to you. It is your internal milieu that goes awry to manifest a cancer.

Over the last hundred years, our understanding of cancer has undergone three major paradigm shifts. First, we considered cancer a disease of excessive growth. That’s certainly true, but this did not explain why cancer was growing. Next, we considered cancer a disease of accumulated genetic mutations that caused excessive growth. Also, certainly true, but this did not explain why these genetic mutations were accumulating. Most recently, a completely new understanding of cancer has emerged.

Cancer is, improbably, a disease unlike any other we’ve ever faced. It is not an infection. It is not an autoimmune disease. It is not a vascular disease. It is not a disease of toxins. Cancer is originally derived from our own cells but develops into an alien species. From the paradigm of understanding, new drugs have been developed that threaten, for the first time, to end this war in the trenches.

This then begs us to answer the question: Do the cells shape the cancer destiny? And, I would answer yes to this as well. So, in my little view of what makes us ‘us’, I can say that we are mind and matter. The mind and matter (our physical body) have a deep connection to our flow of consciousness. Our physical body has microorganisms and cells.

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What if ageing wasn’t a slow decline but a process you could actively shape? The Longevity Code by Dr Sophia Pathai and Pullela Gopichand reframes the conversation – moving beyond just adding years to life, to building resilience, vitality and a longer healthspan through science, habits and intentional living.

Lifespan, Resilience and Healthspan

‘Lifespan is measured in years. Healthspan is measured in how fully you can live those years—with clarity, movement and purpose.’—PULLELA GOPICHAND

Ageing is often viewed as an inevitable, unstoppable decline—a slow and unsophisticated march toward physical and mental deterioration. For centuries, this view was widely accepted and for good reason, as we had to focus on dealing with any number of stressors in order to survive. From the threat of predators and the constant struggle for food and clean water to recurring waves of infectious disease and the trauma of war, most people lived in environments where ageing simply meant surviving. Today, instead of surviving, we are afforded the luxury to think about thriving. Ageing, we now know, is not solely dictated by the passage of time. It is the result of cumulative biological processes occurring within our cells, organs and tissues. These processes—while inevitable—are not beyond our influence, and as scientists and physicians, we are beginning to understand that ageing is, in fact, modifiable. Rather than thinking about ageing as an end-stage that we must all face, ageing can be approached as a process that we can influence and modify. We are at a pivotal moment where advances in scientific knowledge and cutting-edge technologies are converging—offering us unprecedented tools to understand, measure and actively influence the ageing process in ways that enhance the quality of life. These tools range from biological age testing and DNA-based tools for personal health insights to AI-enabled diagnostics and wearable biosensors—all of which we will explore in more detail throughout this book. As our understanding of the science and of the biology involved increases, we are learning how we might intervene, repair and adapt, shifting the trajectory of our health and our longevity.

Let’s face it, we place huge emphasis on chronological age—the number of years we have lived and the annual milestone celebrated as birthdays—particularly landmarks, such as attaining the ages of twenty-one, fifty or seventy-five. We commend the vitality of the younger generation, who embrace their career journeys with hungry ambition, who relish the challenge of passing a driving test, who anticipate and then savour the sublime experience of receiving their first paycheck. We equate being chronologically older with increased experience and wisdom yet simultaneously lament the passing of time, often quipping how it is all ‘downhill from now’. We all know family or friends who are chronologically old yet possess the energy, vitality and even physical attributes of someone much younger, and we are also aware of those who seem older, way beyond their chronological years. The late Fauja Singh, centenarian and marathoner exemplified this, and in the business world, Kiran Mazumdar-Shaw, entrepreneur and business leader, founded her company in 1978 and continues to contribute to the biotech world and beyond, with passion and purpose.

What if ageing could be reimagined as a process of optimization where the focus shifts from merely living longer to living better? By targeting the biological processes that underlie ageing, we have the potential to extend not just lifespan—the number of years an individual lives, from birth to death—but more importantly, healthspan—the number of years we live in good health. Healthspan is a more complex concept and refers to the number of years an individual lives in good health, free from chronic diseases and disabilities. There is considerable overlap between the two states of lifespan and healthspan, but there are notable elements where they differ. Healthspan is a component of lifespan, and ideally, a longer lifespan should include an extended healthspan. Traditional healthcare has largely focused on increasing lifespan by treating diseases as they arise. Lifespan can certainly be extended with medical interventions that keep people alive despite having a condition or a disease, but this does not necessarily mean that those years are healthy or free from disability. Think of someone kept alive in a hospital on a ventilator—their lifespan will be extended but not their healthspan. Both lifespan and healthspan seek to maximize the duration of life. However, healthspan aims to ensure those additional years are lived in good health. Adopting a mindset that embraces the shift from lifespan to healthspan is critical because it underscores the importance of quality over quantity—think of it as ‘adding life to years, not simply years to life’.

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Big weddings promise perfect beginnings. But in Farhad J. Dadyburjor’s Queerly Beloved, love refuses to follow a script, unfolding instead in all its messy, complicated and unexpectedly tender ways.

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Dressed in a royal gold-and-cream embroidered sherwani with matching jodhpuris on his feet and a large, bejewelled turban resting on his soft, floppy hair, Ved Mehra looked around him and admired the jasmine and marigold garlands dancing in the breeze. They covered the poles of the mandap like creepers—forming a drooping canopy after reaching the top. A small fire burned bright on little logs of wood in the centre of the stage in a shiny square vessel. The priest sitting cross-legged near it waited patiently for the ceremony to commence. Ved’s mother, Dolly, sparkling in a shiny maroon sequined saree on his right, was smiling from cheek to cheek as she gently pressed his sweaty hand in anticipation. Prem, his father, was just climbing onto the stage after welcoming some of their business clients who had taken their seats. Everyone admired the exquisite flower decorations all around and indulged in the posh nibbles and flutes of champagne being served as the Arabian Sea lapped gently a short distance behind them.

Ved smiled as his father hugged him and stationed himself on his other side, filled with pride on a day he had dreamed about for a greater number of years than he could remember. It had finally arrived, making Ved believe he was truly the luckiest man in the world for being able to marry his soulmate.

And there in the distance, the man of his life was approaching him. Carlos Silva, dressed handsomely in a dark blue Nehru jacket with tapered white pants, a pink kerchief placed spiffily in his jacket pocket that offset his tanned complexion and his slicked back light brown hair. Ved smiled with so much love that he felt as if his heart might just fall out. Here was the man he was ready to spend the rest of his life with.

But Carlos didn’t smile back. He seemed to be walking towards Ved hurriedly, his face flushed a deep red, an urgency in his stride.

Wait.

This was not how things were meant to go.

Carlos always had such a strong grip on his emotions. So, why was he suddenly looking so emotional? Was it last minute jitters? Had something happened to upset him?

Ved kept smiling goofily at him, egging him on, ignoring the sense of rotting dread deep inside of him as Carlos climbed onto the stage with tears streaming down his cheeks, took both of Ved’s hands in his tightly, looked at him pitifully for just a second, then said in a jittery voice, ‘Ved, I can’t do this . . . it’s over. I’m leaving you for someone else. Please, forgive me,’ and turned around, running out of the venue.

There was an audible gasp from the seated guests. Ved wanted to say something, but it was like his mouth was frozen. His face felt contorted and his body shook violently as he tried to hold back his tears. He could see his mother’s face filled with shock, his father supporting him from behind with trembling hands, the earth beginning to spin violently below him. Ved felt as if his mouth was being wrenched apart as he finally let out a scream, something so feral and frightening that it scared all the guests who hurriedly began scattering out of the venue.

And in that moment, when confusion reigned, the fire toppled over on to the stage and slowly started burning the sides, creeping up the wooden poles, eating the tiny white and orange flowers in its path. The priest shrieked frantically and ran off. His mother looked at him with tears in her eyes, waiting for Ved to do something. His father was shouting as the fire fast approached. But Ved seemed rooted to the spot, unable to move, staring helplessly as the burning flames started engulfing his feet.

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