Category: Excerpts

In Strategy for Life by Surya Ramkumar, a simple yet powerful idea takes centre stage: the biggest obstacle to success is often not a lack of solutions, but a failure to identify the real problem worth solving.

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‘Is my career about to disappear?’

This question haunts professionals across countless industries today. Samir, a thirty-two-year-old radiologist with ten years of experience and multiple responsibilities that include a mortgage, school fees and recurring family health expenses, is sitting at his workstation reviewing chest X-rays when he receives an article forwarded by a colleague: ‘AI System Outperforms Radiologists in Tumor Detection’.

He feels a knot in his stomach.

The mixed messages he has been receiving from the hospital management, the radiology webinars he attends and his lived experience create an unsettling dissonance he is unable to resolve. On the one hand, he is looking forward to the technological advances that would make his job easier, ‘take out the routine tasks, leaving the human to inject creativity and unique value,’ as one webinar host put it. On the other hand, he is swamped with more work than ever, the productivity increases that the new technology promised never quite kicking in. While the ambient threat of redundancy looms in the background, he tries to focus on the things that he can control on any given day.

‘How do I compete with AI?’ he asks himself, spending nights learning about machine learning algorithms and wondering if he should change specialties. But his attempts to solve this ill-defined problem leave him more anxious and confused.

Is his problem really about competing with AI in its current form? Is that something he can reasonably solve, and even if he were to solve it, wouldn’t the next technological advance be just around the corner? Will it materially change his life? And is it even a path that aligns with his skills and capabilities?

Samir’s situation illustrates a common challenge: when facing uncertainty about our futures, whether from technological disruption, economic shifts or personal transitions, we often rush to address symptoms rather than root causes or jump to narrow solutions without understanding the true nature of our challenges.

Trying to ‘master AI’ gives Samir the illusion of progress. But in the long run, he is running on a treadmill where technological advances are always one step ahead, and the latent anxiety remains ever present.

In a world where the horizons appear hazier than ever, we need a new approach, one that considers the ambiguity and uncertainty of our times yet utilizes our unprecedented agency in setting our own path. The first step of that approach starts with accurately identifying and defining the problem in a systematic way.

The Promise of a Problem

Every strategy starts with a problem. An invading king that you want to defend against. An opposing team with more talented players than yours. A competitor with more resources than you. All examples of problems that could lead to strategies, and thus to success. Yet even those who know the utility of a well-defined problem often struggle to get the first steps of a strategy right.

Based on a recent survey of venture capitalists and unicorns, McKinsey summarized the main factors that differentiated a successful unicorn from the other start-ups. One of these factors, very simply, was, solve something. Too often, the report went on to say, founders start with an idea or a product and then try to find a market. But the really successful ones are able to identify and solve a problem that matters. The same is true for each one of us.

In a world of positive thinking, we don’t always like to think of problems. Euphemistically, we may call them challenges or opportunities, but in my opinion, the best way to figure out what to do is to figure out the most vexing problem that you need solved and attack it head-on.

What is unique about a problem versus an opportunity, a passion or a purpose? A problem is a pain point that is hard to ignore. It cannot be described as a role or a job opening. It addresses something that matters to you, which is not easily solved.

Let’s say you have been working for several years, and you know your job inside out. You feel that you have trained and helped many new employees, but somehow that elusive promotion to a managerial role keeps slipping between your fingers. It may be tempting to fixate on getting yourself a job as a manager. But getting a job as a manager is not a problem. Being in a job where you don’t feel fully utilized and recognized is a problem. This reframing helps you articulate a wider range of solutions, rather than the narrowly defined possibility of getting promoted to a specific role.

The other wonderful thing about problems is that they have an uncanny ability to focus resources. People like opportunities, of course, but the human brain responds much better to an urgent and pressing problem. If you have observed teams at play or at work, crises often have a way of bringing them together in ways a new growth opportunity cannot. In the throes of crises, people forget their differences, debates abate and we are more willing to get into action mode. And deliberate action is exactly what we are after.

In The Skincare Guide That Will Save Your Life, dermatologist Dr Deepali Bhardwaj explores the fascinating science of probiotic skincare and explains how nurturing your skin’s microbiome could be the key to a stronger, calmer and more resilient complexion.

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(Some) Bacteria Are Our Friends

How probiotic beauty products are the way forward

‘I started taking the probiotic Dr Deepali suggested, and within three weeks my skin allergies reduced drastically. The irritation on my skin subsided too. My gut feels lighter and my skin looks calmer than it has in years. No other doctor had suggested this to me. Thank you so much!’ —N.P.

‘You want me to put kimchi on my face? Like a beauty mask?!’

If my reaction to this statement had been recorded, it would have become a viral meme by now.

I was talking to Neeta, a patient, about changing her skincare routine and introducing some probiotic products to it, and this is what she asked incredulously. After I got a hold on myself, I realized she wasn’t wrong in asking that question. We all associate the word ‘probiotic’ with the foods we need to eat to ensure we always have a healthy gut. But probiotic products are not just limited to foods. There is now a whole range of beauty products that contain probiotic ingredients, which are great for your skin.

But what exactly do we mean by ‘probiotic’?

The Good Bacteria

Our skin is home to millions of bacteria, fungi and viruses. Altogether they are called the skin flora or skin microbiota. One type of skin microbiota are probiotics. Human bodies are home to millions of microorganisms. Not all microorganisms are helpful to us; some types like germs are, in fact, harmful. But probiotics—live microorganisms—are beneficial to us.

Probiotics are found naturally within and on the body, and they greatly impact our skin’s health and overall appearance.

The concept of probiotics dates back to 1900, when French chemist and pharmacist Louis Pasteur studied fermentation microbes in the 1800s. However, the first probiotic product was introduced to the world in 1907–08 when scientist Élie Metchnikoff created ‘Lactobacilline’ consisting of Lactobacillus bulgaricus bacteria, a true forerunner of modern probiotics. The term ‘probiotic’ was first used in 1965 by Daniel Lilly and Rosalie Stillwell. In the human body, probiotics make up part of the microbiome, which is a collection of microorganisms that are naturally found in the digestive tract, skin and other parts of the body.

Like the gastrointestinal tract, the skin’s microbiome helps keep the skin barrier healthy and strong. It is estimated that around 1 million bacteria are present per square centimetre of the skin. Probiotics are part of this microflora. Their main job is to help the skin’s microbiome stay in balance. They do so by keeping harmful bacteria in check and preventing them from over-proliferating. This, in turn, helps to boost skin barrier health, control inflammation and prevent water loss in your skin.

Inversely, a dysfunctional microbiome results in inflammatory skin conditions such as acne, eczema and rosacea. Simply put, the good bacteria are constantly putting up a fight against the bad ones—the ones that can cause several skin diseases.

There are three main components in your skin microbiota—probiotics (the good microbes), prebiotics (the food on which the good microbes feed on) and postbiotics (the chemicals released by the microbes). These chemicals, like anti-bacterial peptides, are of immense benefit to us as they eliminate harmful bacteria.

What Is Probiotic Skincare?

Products that promote the skin microbiome are a part of the probiotic skincare routine. Probiotic skincare incorporates ingredients derived from beneficial bacteria or their byproducts. They are designed to nurture your skin’s natural ecosystem. These products work to maintain the microbiome’s balance, promoting a strong, more resilient skin barrier.

Probiotic-based skincare products contain ingredients like inulin, alpha-glucan oligosaccharide and thermal spring water. Sulphate-free cleansers, pH-balanced face washes (around 5–5.5) and barrier-repair moisturizers with ceramides are some of these products. If you’re already using a gentle cleanser, a ceramide-based moisturizer or a serum with fermented extracts, you’re likely supporting your skin microbiome without even realizing it.

A large part of understanding probiotic skincare is learning that bacteria are not always bad. They play a vital role in the human body and that billions of microorganisms work together on the skin’s surface to protect and reinforce its strength.

Probiotic foods contain live bacteria that improve your gut health. But that is not the case in probiotic skincare. Here, the bacteria are stabilized and formulated to allow the product to remain well-preserved.

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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