Category: Excerpts

What does it take to create something that changes your life and perhaps the lives of millions of others? Everyday Creativity by Pavan Soni explores this question through the stories of remarkable creators who transformed imagination into reality.

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Meet Joanne, a shy girl who preferred languages over sciences in school and fantasy over realism at home. She had the ‘fertile imagination of the born storyteller’, as the Dictionary of National Biography later described her. Joanne’s unbridled imagination was stoked by her mom and shaped by books such as Hons and Rebels by Jessica Mitford, Emma by Jane Austen, The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge and The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien.

‘I was the epitome of a bookish child—short and squat, thick National Health glasses, living in a world of complete daydreams, wrote stories endlessly and occasionally came out of the fog to bully my poor sister and force her to listen to my stories and play the games I’d just invented,’ is Joanne’s self-description. She preferred being a closet writer, away from the scrutiny of the world. Joanne’s uneventful upbringing and education offered the perfect backdrop on which a storyteller was getting shaped, only to be rudely shocked as an adult.

It started with Joanne’s mother’s untimely death due to multiple sclerosis, followed by a strained relationship with her father, then spiralling into a disarrayed career, financial distress, a miscarriage, an abusive marriage, a public divorce and social ostracization. In just a few years, this aspiring writer was reduced to queuing up at post offices to collect her £69 per week from Social Security and with a threemonth-old daughter to look after. Her only possession was the manuscript of the story of a boy wizard. How did that idea come about?

‘All of a sudden the idea for Harry just appeared in my mind’s eye,’ describes Joanne of the epiphany on one of her routine Manchester–London train rides. ‘I can’t tell you why or what triggered it. But I saw the idea of Harry and the wizard school very plainly. I suddenly had this basic idea of a boy who didn’t know who he was, who didn’t know he was a wizard until he got his invitation to wizard school.’ It was her own story and her life experiences filled in the details. Characters emerged from her teachers, settings conjured out of her years at Wyedean and the University of Exeter and of the places she frequented. Nothing went to waste. ‘Harry has always been my favourite boy’s name and Potter was the surname of the family who used to live near me when I was seven.’ She already knew that it would be seven books, except that her first book was far from finished and there wasn’t any publisher.

‘I never expected to mess up so badly that I would find myself in an unheated mouse-infested flat, looking after my daughter,’ was Joanne’s admission. The manuscript of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone was laboured, with Joanne teaching at schools, hopping coffee houses with a toddler in tow and securing funds to keep her house warm. Seven years after that light-bulb day on the train, twelve rejections later and with no money to even photocopy her manuscript, Joanne got a break with Bloomsbury Publishing. ‘You’ll never make any money out of children’s books, Jo,’ was the prophecy from Bloomsbury’s Barry Cunningham. When suggested that young boys wouldn’t like reading a fantasy book written by a woman, Joanne adopted her grandmother’s name Kathleen, giving us J.K. Rowling (1965–).

J.K. Rowling’s first book appeared in 1997 and six books and 600 million copies later, she has become the world’s highest-paid author. By 2004, Rowling was the world’s first billion-dollar writer, sharing the Forbes list with Steven Spielberg, George Lucas and Oprah Winfrey. ‘In practical terms, it will mean security,’ she clarifies. ‘We’ve been getting along but it has been hand-to-mouth on occasions. I don’t want to dramatize it—we weren’t starving or anything, but single parents are never going to get rich. It’s amazing to think something you have done is worth that amount of money to someone else, but then I look at my daughter and think, thank God for it.’

I can list out the trials and tribulations of Joanne, but I will spare you the details and Joanne some irritation (if she ever gets to reading this). Let me instead draw out the insights on creativity—what it takes to create.

‘I admire bravery above almost every other characteristic,’ reflects Joanne. Her story is that of imagination, intelligence, talent, perseverance, rigour, patience and luck. It’s a relatable story, one which shows that creativity is an achievable feat rather than god’s gift, or ‘hitting the jackpot’. That creativity is ‘in spite of’ and not ‘because of’ and that you can afford to be creative even when your life doesn’t seem fair. This book intends to simplify creativity, making it accessible to you daily and with a hope that the next story could be yours.

‘We were put here on earth to act as agents of the Infinite, to bring into existence that which is not yet, but which will be, through us,’ notes Steven Pressfield, a novelist and screenwriter. ‘If you were meant to cure cancer or write a symphony or crack cold fusion and you don’t do it, you not only hurt yourself, even destroy yourself. You hurt your children. You hurt me. You hurt the planet.’7 By that argument, creativity is not a choice but an obligation. However distasteful it may sound, you will be remembered for what you ‘create’ and not what you manage. So, don’t waste your energies tinkering with someone else’s creation. Go about yours.

In Be Better, Live Better, Dr Hansaji Yogendra explores a powerful idea: that true happiness doesn’t come from chasing more, but from living in greater harmony with ourselves, with others and with life itself. 

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If you look closely enough, you will see that the universe is not a chaotic mess held together by chance. It is precise. Measured. Alive in its own way. It has its own survival instincts.

We often speak of evolution as a biological process. But existence itself evolves. The entire cosmos, from the tiniest particle to the largest galaxy, functions with remarkable balance. What continues to exist is that which fits into this larger harmony. What disturbs it fades.

Science has long pointed to something mysterious: the fine-tuning of the universe. If even one of the fundamental laws or constants of physics were altered just slightly, life could not exist. In fact, not even matter as we know it could hold together. There is a balance to everything.

It is deeply aligned with survival—not just for individual forms, but for the whole. And in this system, only what supports the balance, what adds to the stability of the whole, is allowed to stay. Everything else is either absorbed, transformed or dissolved. That is why what survives in this universe is not the strongest nor the fastest, but the most attuned.

Even destruction, when it happens, serves a purpose. Black holes consume, but in doing so, they also recycle. Supernovas explode, but in their death, they birth new elements that make life possible. The universe is not wasting anything. It is always, somehow, balancing itself.

So when we speak of stability, sustainability or harmony, we are not speaking in moral terms. We are speaking in universal terms. These are not human values. These are cosmic principles. The universe does not run on good or bad. It runs on what works.

And perhaps the real wonder is this: that we, as tiny fragments of this great whole, can even begin to sense this intelligence. Maybe our own longing for balance is not separate from the universe. Maybe it is the universe recognizing itself through us.

Among all that exists in the universe, living beings hold a unique position. Stones may rest, stars may burn, but it is life that breathes, grows, adapts and chooses.

We, as living beings, are not merely drifting particles in space. We are active participants in the unfolding of existence. But here is the truth: only those who contribute to that balance are sustained and supported by the universe. Like a tree that gives shade, a bee that pollinates or a mother who nurtures her young, when life supports life, it is preserved. It is allowed to thrive.

Imagine this universe as a vast ecosystem, or even a great company, if you will. In any thriving organization, those who add value, who contribute to growth and stability, are cherished. They are given more responsibility, more freedom, more opportunity. Those who don’t— who disrupt, consume or pull away from the collective purpose—are slowly phased out.

The universe works the same way.

It retains that which contributes to its harmony. It nurtures beings—plants, animals, humans—who participate in the symphony of balance. A forest that heals the earth will flourish. An animal that keeps an ecosystem in check will be preserved by nature. And a human who lives not just for personal gain but also in service of life, of growth and of others’ well-being will be supported by unseen hands.

In the Indian tradition, this principle is known as Dharma. It is not religion. It is not a duty imposed from outside. It is the inner alignment of a living being with the cosmic need. Dharma is that which holds, that which sustains. When a being—human or otherwise—functions in accordance with their dharma, the universe has a place for them. They are needed. They are upheld.

But when a life form becomes parasitic, when it consumes but does not contribute, takes but does not nurture, then slowly, over time, it loses its place in the larger scheme. Its presence becomes irrelevant to the grand balance, and nature lets it go.

So ask yourself: What does the universe want from me as a living being? It wants you to participate. To grow in a way that helps others grow. To live in a way that adds to the harmony. To think, speak and act in ways that stabilize, not disturb, this existence.

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Root, Leaf, Fire by Luke Coutinho and Sheeba De Souza reimagines wellness as a way of living—one that begins with mindful eating and extends to sleep, movement, emotional balance and the small daily rituals that bring meaning, nourishment and joy to everyday life.

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Root is where everything begins. It is the quiet ground beneath everything else: the way we sleep, the way we eat and the small rituals that steady us when life feels fast. Root is not about perfection; it is about rhythm and steadiness. These are the practices that hold us together, the ones we return to, no matter what.

When we pay attention to the foundations of food, rest, movement and stillness, life feels more balanced, cooking becomes joyful and health feels less like a struggle and more like a natural flow. This part of the book is about those roots: the choices that are simple but powerful and the reminders that balance is built one small step at a time.

Health Philosophy

Food is fuel, but it should also be enjoyable and satisfying. Eating simply with intention and without guilt lets us enjoy food as both nourishment and joy. Beautiful meals matter, not because they are perfect, but because they encourage us to slow down and savour. Chocolate can sit alongside lentils and greens. Health is about balance.

True wellness isn’t built on strict rules. It grows out of real meals, simple movement, meaningful rest and listening inward. Food also carries the energy we put into it, the joy of chopping fresh herbs, the calm of stirring a pot slowly and the laughter shared at a table. Cooking is not only about nutrition; it is about sharing warmth, creativity and good energy with the people we love.

Health philosophy is not a rigid system to follow. It is a remembering: that our bodies know, that our minds and guts are deeply connected and that food can be nourishing, healing and full of positive energy.

The Art of Eating Well

Eating well starts with simplicity. Seasonal, local, unprocessed foods eaten slowly and with joy form the foundation of a balanced diet. It isn’t about strict rules or tracking macros; it is about noticing how food makes us feel, whether light yet satisfied, nourished and content or energized. That sense of calm and clarity after a meal is what proper nourishment is all about.

In daily life, food doesn’t need to be complicated to nourish; it only needs to feel alive. At home, this is evident in different ways: one child leaning towards comfort and familiarity, while another is eager to explore something new. Similarly, each of us finds our own rhythm with food. What matters isn’t perfection but connection: listening, adjusting and finding joy in what resonates with us. A balanced plate often holds:

• A clean protein such as grilled tofu, paneer, moong chilla, lentils, eggs or fish

• Vegetables in at least two textures, raw and cooked, roasted and fresh, with something for crunch

• A wholesome carb such as sweet potato, millet, sourdough, red rice or ragi

• Good fats from avocado, seeds, nuts, ghee, cold-pressed oils or coconut

• A touch of acidity, lemon, fermented pickle, mustard seeds or a swirl of chutney

• And always, a touch of joy: a drizzle of something unexpected, a burst of colour or a garnish that makes the plate feel alive

Eating well isn’t about following a fixed system. It’s about creating meals that leave you feeling calm, clear and satisfied.

Luke’s Perspective

When it comes to eating, the fundamentals still apply. Choose seasonal and local foods because they are at their highest nutritional quality and easier for your body to digest. Keep meals simple and unprocessed. Eating slowly, chewing thoroughly and paying attention to your food can improve digestion, boost nutrient absorption and naturally reduce issues like bloating or overeating.

A balanced plate doesn’t have to be complicated. If you include lean protein, vegetables with different textures and colours, good-quality fats, wholesome carbs and a small amount of natural acidity, you’ve already met your body’s needs. Consistency in doing this daily matters more than perfection.

Over the years, I’ve seen people transform simply by following these basics. It’s not about dieting or strict food rules. It’s about respecting food, eating mindfully and allowing simple, steady habits to work in your favour.

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If you’ve ever wondered whether travel can truly change a person, Shivya Nath in Rootless and Restless offers a compelling answer through stories of friendship, adventure and discovery from some of the world’s most remote corners. 

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Perhaps the night I remember most fondly in Isfahan was our last one, when Amir’s mother and brother whipped up a vegan Persian feast for us, featuring the ubiquitous and scrumptious ghormeh sabzi, kebabs made from sprouted wheat and a sumptuous Instagram-inspired gooey chocolate cake. We sat at the dinner table till late at night, chatting about life in Iran and India and everything beyond. By now, I had noticed many times that Iranians of Amir’s mother’s generation, even though their words betrayed them, had a pervasive sadness in their eyes. Having experienced a much freer life in Iran before the revolution, these times must feel like wounds that never healed.

She didn’t talk a lot that night, so I was surprised to see her change the subject and say how much she loved Bollywood music. Could we play one of our favourite songs for her? I chose the sombre and somewhat apt ‘Kal Ho Naa Ho’ (a modern Bollywood classic on the transient nature of life) on my phone, but she said it was too dull. Could we play something upbeat? Well, the only upbeat Bollywood song I could find on my phone was ‘London Thumakda’ from the film Queen! As the late Labh Janjua’s voice bellowed on my phone speaker, the mood changed. ‘Angrezi padhdi, ghit-pit tu kardi . . .’ She got up, turned off the bright lights and let her body follow the beat. Soon, she was dancing with a fervour that spread through all of us. We danced together with careless abandon, to song after exuberant Bollywood song, like friends reunited aft er a long separation. What a night it was.

In his book Th e Discovery of India, Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s former Prime Minister, quotes an Iranian scholar:

‘The Iranians and Indians are like two brothers who, according to a Persian legend, had got separated from each other, one going east and the other to the west. Th eir families had forgotten all about each other and the only thing that remained in common between them were the snatches of a few old tunes which they still played on their flutes. It was through these tunes that, after a lapse of centuries, the two families recognised each other and were reunited.’

That night, it felt as though we had recognized the tunes in each other’s hearts.

We were in no mood to bid goodbye to our new-found friends in Isfahan, but our visa was running out. During our after-dinner readings with Ali, I had once asked him if I could buy a scroll or piece of Persian poetry or calligraphy as a keepsake. Something that captured a line or two of the words he’d read to us. He promised to look into it, but as the days went by, he seemed to have forgotten the ask, and I did too. On our last day however, he surprised me with a scroll of Persian poetry. It was Saadi’s words, and they read:

Shab o rooz raft bayad, qadam-e ravandegan ra

Cho be ma’mani residee, degarat safar nabashad

Th e traveller’s footsteps should always be on the go

So if you reach a shelter, you’re not a traveller, no more

With no home to hang it, I carried it in a folder in my backpack for some years, a reminder not just of the wanderer’s ways, but of the howzkhaneh life we had shared with our friends in Iran. Ironically, when the pandemic hit, and I found myself confi ned to one place, I had the words framed and hung on my wall. A traveller no more.

And so, carrying on in the wanderer’s ways, we once again embraced heartache-fi lled goodbyes and long bus journeys. We only had a few more days to make it to the Armenian border.

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Discovery of New India by Aakar Patel (PenPencilDraw) is a sharp and accessible graphic novel that explores Indian politics, governance, nationalism, freedom and public policy through the journey of two young people from vastly different worlds.

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Through the story of Momo and Coco, Ambika Agarwal in Out of the Nest turns modern parenting into an emotionally rich and surprisingly reflective story about control, trust and emotional safety.

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High Above the Jungle

High up in the trees, far above the jungle floor, there was a wide branch. And on that branch sat two nests.

They sat near each other, but each had its own space. They shared the same sky, the same tree, the same branch. But inside, they felt worlds apart.

In Nest A, everything was quiet. Still. Careful.

This was the home of Momo, a small bird with soft feathers and thoughtful eyes. Momo didn’t talk much. He watched. He listened. He thought deeply, even when no one asked him to.

His parents, Paul and Piku, had built this nest with great care. Every twig had been picked for strength. Every wall was high. The floor was woven tight and smooth, pressed down to avoid cracks. It didn’t wobble. It didn’t shift.

It was made to be safe. And safe meant strong. Strong meant precise.

Paul believed in safety. He believed in order.

Each morning, he stood at the edge of the nest like a soldier, tall and still, eyes scanning the sky. Not because he feared the sky . . . but because he feared what could happen if he stopped watching, he felt it was his job to watch, to protect.

His feathers were always tidy. His eyes didn’t miss a thing. He didn’t smile much. He wasn’t cold. Just serious.

Because to Paul, love meant keeping your family safe.

And keeping them safe meant being in control. Inside the nest, Piku moved with a quiet rush. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t bark orders. But she never stopped moving.

She smoothed corners again and again, even when they were already neat. She rearranged berries in small piles, only to move them back. Her wings fluttered often, small and unsure, like whispers. She cleaned. She adjusted. She checked. Then started over. And over again.

She wasn’t angry.

She wasn’t loud.

She was afraid of getting it wrong.

And the only way she knew how to love was by fixing things. Fixing made her feel needed. And being needed made her feel calm.

In the middle of the nest, Momo lay quietly, curled into himself. He was already awake. But he didn’t move.

He didn’t stretch his wings like some young birds do at sunrise. He just stayed still.

Not because he was lazy. Not because he was sleepy. But because he was waiting.

In Nest A, the day never began from inside you.

It always began when someone else said, ‘Start.’

Across the same branch, another sound floated in the air—carefree, bright, full of laughter.

Nest B was awake too.

This was the home of Coco, a small bird with bright eyes and restless wings. Coco moved before he thought, but he was deeply kind and empathetic, always noticing how things felt for himself and for others. He laughed easily and sensed when others didn’t. He explored the world with his whole body and an open heart, as if every moment was an invitation, not just to play, but to understand and connect.

His parents, Ray and Raina, had built their nest differently.

Ray believed in trust. Not control.

Each morning, he watched Coco with an easy smile.

To Ray, love meant letting him stumble. Letting him learn where his own wings could take him.

Raina believed in listening. Not just to words, but to pauses, to shifts, to the quiet between moments.

The way she knew how to love was by noticing. Noticing helped Coco feel understood. And when Coco felt understood, Raina felt calm.

It showed in the way their mornings unfolded. Coco was spinning in circles, laughing loudly, his wings flapping out of rhythm. His movements were not graceful. But they were full of joy. He looked like a little puff of wind, tumbling without a care.

‘One more spin before breakfast!’ called Ray, his father, laughing with him.

‘Easy now, feel your balance, little feather!’ added Raina, his mother, with a voice like a song.

But she didn’t rush to stop him. She didn’t grip his wing. Her words were soft, like a gentle cushion instead of a wall.

There was no hurry in Nest B.

No sharp orders.

Just warmth, and space, and time to be yourself.

Their nest wasn’t perfectly shaped. The twigs poked out a little. The edges weren’t even. But it felt like a place where things could grow.

Something across the branch caught Momo’s eye.

Momo turned his head, just a little, peeking through a small space in the wall of his nest.

He saw Coco spinning.

He saw Raina smiling.

He had seen this many times before.

And as always, a small flutter rose in his chest, light and strange, almost like a wing wanting to stretch. He didn’t know the word for it. But he felt it, often.

And as always, he tucked the feeling back inside and looked away.

‘Momo,’ Paul called, his voice steady. ‘Time to get up.’

Momo sat up quickly. His feathers were messy from sleep. He tried to fix them with one wing. But Paul reached over first, brushing them down.

‘Posture,’ he said. ‘Discipline starts with the body.’

Momo nodded. He didn’t ask why. He never did. He just followed. Because in Nest A, getting it wrong meant repeating the drill.

And getting it right meant peace.

Outside, both nests still looked the same. Two shapes on the same branch. Two homes under the same sky.

Inside, two different mornings had begun.

And mornings don’t always tell the whole story.

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In The Star from Calcutta, Sujata Massey blends murder, monsoon-soaked Bombay and the frenzy of India’s silent film era into a historical mystery where every spotlight hides another secret.

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CALL TO SET

Fall 1922

Sometimes Perveen Mistry felt like the only person in Bombay who didn’t care for the summer monsoon. Yes, the rain was a relief after springtime’s burning temperatures and thick humidity. A solid deluge was necessary for the life of plants and animals. Yet every year, from June through September, the ferocious rainfall brought floods that washed away shanties, houses, and even people. One couldn’t hang laundry in the morning without knowing whether it would be wetter by day’s end. Rainy season was like the worst legal opponent: someone with unlimited resources to draw out the battle.

Therefore, when Perveen awoke on a mid-September morning to a hammering sound on the roof, she was irritated. Three days had passed since she’d been able to get to the law office in South Bombay. She imagined a pile of damp, unread mail was moldering to bits inside. In that pile could be necessary work to finish . . . and perhaps a discreet letter from someone special.

She smiled, thinking of Colin Sandringham, in his flat close to the city center. By now, her secret paramour had probably finished his morning exercises and was either on to the newspapers or any one of the letters she’d sent him during the rainy season, when chance meetings between them seemed all but impossible. Resolutely, Perveen swung her feet from the bed down to the soft Agra carpet. She tied on the light summer-weight cotton dressing gown and trod along the black-and-white marble checkerboard hall and stairs.

The rain had been too fierce for the newspaper boy to come, so she had to make peace with rereading yesterday’s Bombay Chronicle and Samachar lying on the dining table. As usual, the family’s chief maid, Gita, had meticulously refolded the pages after her father’s inspection. Jamshedji Mistry, who was also the senior partner in their family law practice, always got the first read.

She wasn’t seated long before she heard the swift, soft footsteps of Hiba. The household’s baby-ayah carried in Khushy, who despite the early hour was already wearing a spotless white muslin frock and the creamy remnants of porridge on her cheek.

“Good morning!” Hiba greeted Perveen while placing the four-month-old on a small cotton mat on the floor for morning exercise. “Khushy’s glad to see her aunty’s come down. Rustom- sahib isn’t yet awake.”

Perveen smiled. Her older brother—Khushy’s father—was an infamous late sleeper. She picked up the small red ball that Hiba handed her and began rolling it back and forth with her bare foot—a morning exercise that benefited both aunt and niece, in a small way.

“Gah!” Khushy chortled, her tiny brown eyes fixed on the ball.

“Ball,” Perveen proclaimed in English, although the baby manual said that Khushy could not be expected to speak for several more months. “You are a clever one, aren’t you? Ba-a-all.”

After stretching out the word, she became suddenly uncomfortable.

“Let Khushy know her mother tongue,” Rustom had scolded Perveen and her parents at the dinner table a few nights earlier. The word “mother” had made Perveen wince, because Gulnaz, Rustom’s wife, was estranged from him and, at the moment, enjoying Paris with her parents. The fact was, the Mistrys had always spoken more English than Gujarati around the house—even Rustom himself. This was typical for ambitious Parsi families, who raised each generation to work and socialize closely with the British. Their staff, who were all from different religious and ethnic groups, spoke a mixture of English, Hindi, and Marathi.

Perveen kept rolling the ball as she turned to the newspaper. Amid advertisements for fail-proof umbrellas and anti-mildew powders, she saw a continuation of an article about the cotton market. Bombay’s chief commodity had lost value in recent years, and the impact of monsoon had been a slowing of orders worldwide. It was fortunate for the Mistry family that their specialty was in another field: construction. Perveen’s father, Jamshedji Mistry, had worked hard to persuade his family to let him take up the practice of law. But lawyers could work, regardless of weather, while her brother, Rustom, now in charge of the construction business, couldn’t keep his men working during the rains.

A sound in the hallway drew her attention away. Jamshedji Mistry had emerged from his study. It was his policy to be correctly dressed for a day of work, rain or shine. Today, he wore a lightweight gray wool suit that picked up the silver in his thick head of hair. Although fifty-four, he had the trim appearance and movements of a younger man.

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In Slow Burn, Amal Singh turns Mumbai into a fever dream where ambition, humiliation, fame and fantasy blur together – following one struggling actor who finally gets everything he ever wanted, only to discover the nightmare hiding beneath it.

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Six thousand, four hundred and ninety-two. Exclusive of taxes. That’s how much Rishi Tripathi is being paid to dance like a clown in front of a screaming child who is clutching a satin-wrapped gift box to his chest. The child’s mother claps her hands, mouthing ‘happy birthday’ but not saying the words. The child’s father flattens a crease on his otherwise perfectly-ironed shirt, and later, brushes a strand of hair from his eyebrows. The room smells of stale cake, sweat and incense. Baar baar din ye aaye, baar baar dil ye gaaye, plays on an iPhone kept on a polished mahogany desk. The living room is awash in the kind of opulence that is brought by too much money but no class. Maroon, velvety curtains that clash with the cyan-coloured walls around. Furniture that bends in entirely the wrong sort of ways. No clarity in design, no comfort in seating. Bleach to the eyes. But it made sense for the type of people who think a man in a clown costume is the idea of fun for their seven-year-old kid who looks disappointed in the world and would much rather play on a Nintendo Switch. Rishi Tripathi didn’t ask to be here.

Rishi Tripathi doesn’t want to be here at all.

He would much rather down cheap rum and sit on Versova beach, feet soaking in wet sand as he conjures dreams of a better life. There’s a dog whimpering nearby. A woman is walking barefoot and the salty water rushes in to immediately dissolve her footprints, taking their feeble memory with it, back to sea, where other such memories are cobbled up amid fish, crabs, seaweed and the cold. The woman is carrying bright red sandals, the colour of fresh blood. A cop yells at a teenager in Marathi. The scene is vivid in Rishi’s mind. Maybe he’ll take Manisha along with him to the beach.

Tum jiyo hazaro saal, bas yahi hai aarzoo.

Rishi shrugs off the image and focuses, yet again, on the sum assured to him. Six thousand, four hundred and ninety-two. A part of the money will fund his acting workshop. The remaining will go towards groceries and other expenses. A minute longer, and he would charge these guys extra. That’s what his manager had told him, sipping cheap whiskey.

‘Imagine the connections you will end up making in one evening! He’s a textile giant and is thinking of investing in the entertainment business.’

The only connection Rishi had made so far was plugging the charger of Mrs Lokhande’s Samsung Galaxy into the wall socket.

He checks his watch as the pay cheque moment draws near. As he twirls and raises both his arms in the air, grinning like a maniac clown, the birthday boy stops screaming and casts him a murderous look. In that moment, he’s the boy from The Omen, the child of the devil, eyes raging-red flames. Rishi jumps and goes down on his knees, crawling towards the child, hoping to dear God the little devil doesn’t pounce on him.

‘Show me a magic trick!’

Rishi stops in his tracks. He glances at the kid’s mother and father. Magic tricks are extra. That was the deal. Before he can try to negotiate, the kid grabs his collar and yells in his face. ‘Show me a trick, you clown!’

In times of distress, be polite. Be courteous. You don’t know who remembers. You don’t know who you would meet later in life beside a railway track or sitting with extra leg-space beside you in an airplane, ready to listen to you or ready with an icing knife. In a city like Mumbai, people remembered. That’s how someone became big or disappeared into obscurity. The town was filled with stories of both uncommon generosity and uncommon cruelty.

‘Darshan!’ The mother yells. She wants to let Darshan take charge of his happiness but can’t show it properly. Her voice is gentle; her manner is kind. It’s her first child. She has to be strict and yet pamper him. Rishi does the coin-behind-the-ear trick that fools most kids. But Darshan is a special sort of annoying. He has decided to remain unimpressed throughout the course of the evening.

Rishi jumps, throwing hands and feet in the air, lands and takes out a flurry of ribbons from inside his sleeve. He invites Darshan to take one end of the ribbon. Darshan grabs it and yanks hard. Rishi hopes his costume doesn’t rip from the inside. The endless ribbon trick works as long as the viewer believes that the trail is long enough. Most audiences are first surprised, but quickly get bored of the ribbons, their attention spans flickering, their eyes yearning for a flashier trick.

Darshan pulls and pulls the ribbon, until the frayed end of the cloth tumbles out of Rishi’s multicoloured sleeve.

‘You’re stupid,’ says the kid.

‘Do you want to see a card trick?’

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In Your Body, Your Gym, Namrata Purohit reminds us that fitness was never invented in a gym—it was built into human survival long before treadmills, dumbbells and workout apps ever existed.

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Be like a mountain. Aim to reach beyond the clouds but have your feet well grounded.

Exercise, as we know it today, has evolved drastically over the years. Yoga in India, Tai Chi in China, Olympic training in Greece, some of the earliest forms of fitness go back by centuries. But as far as we remember, a defined regimen of exercise started somewhere in the 1960s with yoga, jazzercise, jogging and aerobics gaining popularity all over the world. However, physical activity has been a nonnegotiable part of our lives forever. The drive for being one’s fittest self goes back much further than we may even be able to define, back to a time when physical activity would not have been looked at as a workout but instead, as a way of life.

Centuries ago, there were no machines, weights or modern-day equipment. Still, people were in great shape. ‘Survival of the Fittest’ was not just a philosophical statement but the everyday reality—as witnessed by the evolution of humankind through the pages of history. To understand this better, let’s look back a little at the history of exercise and how it has evolved over the years.

Let’s travel all the way back, back to the primitive times, when mankind had to literally move to survive. During those times, physical development in all aspects followed a natural path. Human beings had to constantly be on the move, our ancestors had to learn how to navigate and survive in the wild by avoiding threats and seizing opportunities. As part of the survival plan, human beings had to know how to move efficiently, make tools and use natural objects, such as trees, stones and rocks, and learn how to defend themselves. At an early stage, we had to learn how to walk, run, balance, jump, climb, crawl, swim, lift, throw, catch and move in order to survive. The early human’s fitness levels and skills were not developed by a structured programme but instead revolved around their daily activities as they developed skills that were driven by necessity and practicality.

Another important part of human history and evolution is the agricultural revolution. Farming and raising cattle required immense amounts of daily activity and physical labour. Bending, squatting, twisting, lifting, pulling, pushing, reaching, tossing and catching were all part of a farmer’s daily routine. This ensured plenty of activity in many different planes and ranges of motion. However, these activities were more repetitive in nature and less unpredictable. The demand on the body and mind changed as compared to the primitive times. Activities were more defined and, in a way, less demanding. However, physical activity was still a way of life.

Preparation for war is another crucial part of our history that we cannot deny. Ancient military training was similar to the movements performed by people during primitive times but with a different end goal in mind and with more structure. Physical fitness was an important part of many ancient civilizations. Being physically fit and strong made men very valuable on the battlefield. At this stage, being physically fit not only meant having an attractive appearance but also showed power and strength and the body’s ability to adapt to various situations. They practised tasks such as running (on uneven terrains as well), jumping, throwing, crawling, climbing as well as combat training, thus developing skills and enhancing body movement through a more structured programme.

Around this time, sports and competitions testing physicality came into existence as well. All early records of these competitions show that the sports were based on natural everyday skills that were used in a more practical manner and related to movement in the wilds of nature or the skills needed for war. For example, there were races that tested speed, jumping like the long jump, throwing a javelin or discus, and even fighting. Athletes and even warriors developed specialized exercises to build strength and power. People trained using weights made of stone and metal as well as using their own body weight to do pushups, pull-ups and other moves that mimicked different tasks that the body might be put through.

In contrast, around the same time in India and China, there was an emphasis on physical fitness and exercise not only for military purposes but also for health. In India, yoga was developed, and while the exact date of its origin is still unknown, it has been practised for thousands of years. It emphasized the development of the mind, body and spirit as one. Indian philosophers also postulated that yoga played a vital role in controlling the mind and emotions through its physical experience, focus on breathing techniques and even nutrition. Through the practise of yoga and even martial arts, they found that people not only become fitter but healthier. For the first time, there was a relation drawn between the practise of physical activity (in this case, yoga or martial arts) and health and its ability to cure physical ailments.

At some point during the growth of our civilization, however, there was a temporary decline in the fitness levels of the general population, and only those eligible to join the military worked on their fitness levels. Materialistic goods and a lavish lifestyle led to a decline in physical activity. Entertainment and acquisition of wealth became a priority, and this impacted the general levels of fitness and health. This was especially evident in the Roman civilization. However, this change in priorities eventually took its toll as the Roman civilization was conquered by the physically superior Barbarians from Northern Europe. Therefore, despite the cultural setback, the focus shifted again towards physical health and fitness. Following this period, the Renaissance period dawned and there was renewed interest in cultural learning as well as the human body.

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