In The Trials of a Nation, Priya Jain takes us back to the turbulent years after Independence to explore how India’s Constitution was shaped, debated and ultimately adopted—and how the foundations of the Republic were built.

***

Everything in this world, whether it’s a person, a religion, or an entire country, operates according to a specific set of rules and principles. These rules explain how things work and maintain order. India, too, has an instructive document that outlines how the nation operates, governs and protects its people. This document defines the powers and duties of institutions and guarantees rights to its citizens, making India an organized and civilized state. This document is the Constitution of India.

The end of the freedom struggle in 1947 marked the start of nation-building. The challenge was to create a sovereign, democratic republic that ensured equal rights, freedoms and opportunities for all citizens under the rule of law. Not only did we have to unite a very diverse population, we had to harmonize opposing interests and set up a framework to protect justice, liberty and equality for future generations. It was against this backdrop that the Constitution of India began to be drafted to establish legal structures and lay the foundation for democratic governance and national identity.

On 9 December 1946, in preparation for Independence, representatives from across India met in Constitution Hall, now known as Parliament House, in New Delhi, representing varied linguistic, religious, cultural and ideological backgrounds, to help shape the nation’s constitutional framework. The assembly included freedom f ighters, jurists, social reformers and visionaries who had opposed colonial rule. Many of those who had played a seminal role in gaining independence were now tasked with building the nation’s institutional framework.

The Constituent Assembly commenced drafting a Constitution to unify 565 princely states, numerous provinces and a population of over 300 million, with diverse aspirations, ideas, hopes and concerns that reflected the nation’s complexity.

The Constituent Assembly held extensive debates to create a sovereign, democratic republic that guaranteed equal legal rights and freedoms to all citizens. Over the next two years, eleven months and eighteen days, the assembly held extensive debates to create a sovereign, democratic republic through which it carefully examined and refined each clause, article and principle.

On 26 November 1949, the Constitution of India was officially adopted, marking both a significant legal achievement and the official establishment of modern India. But was the creation of the Constitution this straightforward?

How did it start?

The creation of the Constituent Assembly was a key moment in India’s political development. Although the idea had been talked about for years, it only took shape in the mid-1940s. The British Government, pressured by Indian leaders and global events after World War II, sent the Cabinet Mission in 1946 to create a constitutional framework for a free India. Their plan proposed that a body elected from the provincial legislatures and nominated by the princely states would draft the constitution of a free India. This recommendation paved the way for a representative assembly responsible for drafting a constitution that would represent an ancient civilization such as India and a nation about to achieve independence. Formation of the Constituent Assembly As per the plan put forth by the Cabinet Mission, the Constituent Assembly was not established through direct elections by the people. Instead, its members were elected by the provincial legislative assemblies using a system of proportional representation through the single transferable vote, which aimed to ensure representation of different political groups and communities. The princely states, which followed their own governance systems, were to nominate their representatives.

When the assembly first met on 9 December 1946, its total strength was 389 members: 292 from British Indian provinces, 93 from princely states, and 4 from the chief commissioner’s provinces. This composition changed significantly after the Partition of India in 1947, when the seats allocated to territories that became Pakistan ceased to be part of the assembly. As a result, the membership was reduced to 299, and the reconstituted assembly continued the critical task of drafting one of the world’s most detailed and enduring constitutions.

The Assembly’s first meeting served both a serious and a symbolic purpose. Dr Sachchidananda Sinha, the oldest member, served as temporary chairman to honour his seniority and contribution to public life. Soon after, Dr Rajendra Prasad was elected as the assembly’s permanent president. He approached this role with dignity, restraint and a devotion to building consensus.

H.C. Mukherjee became the vice president, and B.N. Rau, an accomplished civil servant and legal expert, was appointed as constitutional adviser. Rau’s role was essential as he prepared the initial drafts, researched other constitutions and guided the committees on technical issues.

In Everyday Etiquette: The Art of Mindful Living, Manik Kaur challenges the idea that etiquette is about rigid rules and social status, and instead reclaims it as something far more meaningful: mindfulness in action.

***

Busting Myths and Reclaiming the Lost Art of Grace

Say the word ‘etiquette’ and most people immediately think:

‘Too old-fashioned.’

‘Too elite.’

‘Too stiff for the real world.’

It conjures up images of girls in white gloves balancing books on their heads or men learning to hold cutlery like weapons of social status. A concept tucked away in drawing rooms, wedding invites or five-star hotel lobbies.

But let me tell you a secret: the most powerful form of etiquette doesn’t need a ballroom.

It shows up in the simplest moments—when you respond to a junior’s email with kindness, when you greet your house help with eye contact or when you let someone finish speaking before jumping in with your point.

True etiquette is not a performance. It’s presence.

Real-Life Moment: When a Junior Taught Me a Lesson

Years ago, during a corporate workshop in Delhi, I met a young HR assistant from a Tier 2 city. She was quiet, observant and barely spoke during the session. But at lunch, when I couldn’t find a spoon at the buffet, she walked up, offered hers and said, ‘Ma’am, you speak so kindly about mindfulness. I just thought you shouldn’t have to go searching.’

It was such a simple gesture—yet it told me everything about her upbringing, self-awareness and emotional intelligence. No expensive course, no finishing school. Just real values, practised quietly, without an audience.

That, to me, is etiquette in its purest form.

A few months later, I witnessed another moment that said even more about human awareness—this time, at the Delhi airport.

It was a busy morning flight. The check-in queue was long, and everyone was buried in their phones or staring at their boarding passes. Ahead of me stood a young man in jeans and a plain T-shirt.

A few steps behind us, an elderly lady struggled with her luggage trolley. Most passengers noticed but conveniently looked away. Before I could move, the young man quietly stepped aside, gestured for her to come ahead and helped lift her bag onto the conveyor. No fanfare, no performative smile—just a quiet act of presence.

She thanked him softly; he nodded, almost embarrassed by the attention. The line moved on.

But in that instant, I was reminded that refinement isn’t about status or fashion—it’s about sensitivity. That one small act of awareness spoke louder than any perfectly crafted selfpresentation.

Because grace doesn’t shout. It simply notices and acts.

The Real Definition: Mindfulness in Action

Forget what you’ve been told. Etiquette isn’t about being prim and proper. It’s about being aware—of your surroundings, your words, your timing and your impact.

It reveals itself in how you speak—not in volume but in clarity and warmth. In how you listen—not waiting for your turn to reply but genuinely holding space for someone else’s words. In the energy you carry into a room—composed, considerate and present. In the simple act of looking up from your phone when someone is speaking to you.

Try this simple experiment: say, ‘Hi’ to someone. You’ll almost always get a cheerful, ‘Hi! How are you?’ in return. But before you can answer, their gaze will have drifted elsewhere. The question was never meant to invite an answer; it was just a polite reflex. We’ve reduced genuine connection to a social cue. No one seems to be interested in the real, descriptive answer. Everyone seems to just expect the short and standard, ‘I’m fine’ or ‘I’m good/great!’ Don’t you agree?

Real listening requires more than ears; it requires presence. It means holding space for someone else’s words, even if it’s for thirty seconds, without mentally preparing your next line or glancing at a screen. Because when you listen with full attention, you’re silently saying, ‘You matter.’

In the simplest of terms, etiquette is how we say, without words: ‘I see you. You matter.’

What happens when a college dare turns into a love story—and the perfect Instagram relationship starts revealing its not-so-perfect side? Days with My Red-Flag Girlfriend by Kajol Aikat dives into the messy, addictive world of modern college romance, where couple reels become relationship receipts and red flags are harder to ignore than ever.

***

The first weekend of college felt like a house party with no curfew. 

Fairy lights blinked across balconies, bass thudded through the walls and the hostel rooftop buzzed with laughter, smoke and the scent of instant noodles and cheap cologne. Freshers Week at Hansraj College was less about orientation and more about becoming someone new. 

I leaned against the water tank, nursing a warm Coke and pretending to enjoy the music. My curly hair had that stubborn post-shower puff; my black T-shirt clung to my back in patches of nervous sweat. I didn’t know half the people here, and the ones I did were already performing for someone else’s Instagram story. 

‘Vikrant bro, you’re the only one here not looking for content,’ said Karan, one of my newly adopted dorm-mates, slapping me on the shoulder. ‘Chill. Loosen up.’ 

‘I’m chill,’ I muttered, eyeing the dancing crowd. 

‘You look like you just got dumped by someone you’ve never dated.’ 

‘Thanks, Freud.’ 

The music changed to a desi-pop remix, and a louder whoop erupted from the group by the speaker. That’s when she walked in. 

Tara Neer. 

Crop top, cargo pants, hoop earrings and a messy bun that looked way too intentional to be an accident. Her smile wasn’t just charming—it had the weight of thousands of double-taps behind it. People parted for her like she was wearing a neon sign that said: Verified in Real Life. 

‘Speak of the algorithm,’ Karan whispered. ‘Queen T. Two lakh followers and climbing.’ 

I glanced at her and quickly looked away. She was beautiful—and completely out of my orbit. 

‘I dare you,’ Karan said suddenly. I raised an eyebrow. ‘To what?’ 

‘DM her. Right now, behenchod! Slide in, make her laugh. Let’s see those writer skills in action.’ 

‘Nope.’ 

‘Oh, come on. You write romantic poetry and quote Rupi Kaur when you’re drunk.’ 

‘That was once. And it was Nayyirah Waheed.’ 

Karan smirked. ‘Exactly. You have the soul of a simp. 

Time to put it to use.’ 

Another guy in the group chimed in. ‘We’ll even pitch the first line for you: “Hey, are you a filter? Because you just made my day look better.”’ 

The group cracked up. 

I rolled my eyes, pulling out my phone anyway. The screen lit up. I opened Instagram and searched: @taraneerx. 

There she was. Her profile photo was a mirror selfie in natural light, #NoFilter vibes with a caption that read: Mood: Nobody’s type but still trending. 

I hesitated. Then typed: ‘Your last reel had more personality than half the people at this party.’ 

I hovered over the send icon. My heart thumped. Karan nudged me. ‘Come on, Romeo. Slide.’ 

I hit send. 

Nothing happened. Obviously. 

By the time I returned to my room, the Coke had gone flat and so had my mood. The ceiling fan made a rhythmic thak-thak-thak noise that matched my overthinking. I opened my phone. 

Seen. 

No reply. 

I groaned and tossed the phone across the bed. ‘Well, that was fun,’ I muttered. 

Minutes passed. Then— 

Ping. 

My phone lit up. 

‘That’s because I only spoke to half the people at that party.’ 

I blinked. 

Is this . . . real? I wondered. 

Before I could overthink it, another message appeared. 

‘And I spoke only to the ones who send better pick-up lines than “Are you a filter?’ 

I sat up straight, adrenaline washing away my exhaustion. 

Think of a fucking pick-up line, genius! It was hardest to come up with those lines when you needed them the most. 

In Did You Ever Love Me?, bestselling author Rithvik Singh offers a heartfelt reminder that healing begins when you choose yourself—guiding readers through love, loss, and the quiet journey back to self-worth.

***

A mother sits alone

for breakfast

on a table of four,

dipping toast in chai.

Five missed calls,

her daughter’s phone says

but she was working all night,

and so she must’ve turned

the ‘flight mode’ on

and retired to bed.

The mother leaves for work

and when she comes back home,

her table greets her,

like a loyal dog wagging its tail.

She notices the dust settling

on the chairs other than her own.

Eleven missed calls,

her son’s phone says.

He calls her back

and talks about his day.

I might get a raise

if I move further away.

She doesn’t respond.

He wasn’t asking anyway.

Someone who could move a little away

could move a lot away too.

That’s just how the world works.

When her daughter calls her at night,

she tells her she’s selling off

the family dining table.

These chairs keep mocking me, she tells her.

You thought your

children would stay?

The chairs kept creaking

through and through,

until they were gone, too.

Blending personal experience, expert medical insights, and holistic wellness practices, Women-O-Pause: A Mid-Life Guide for Women and Their Men by Lenaa Kumar empowers women to understand the profound physical and emotional changes of midlife and embrace them with awareness instead of fear.

***

Awareness Is the First Medicine

From here on, we move differently.

• You’ll stop blindly following any one-size-fits-all health advice.

• You’ll begin asking deeper questions—not just ‘what’s wrong with me’, but ‘what’s changing in me?’

• You’ll stop reaching for quick fixes and start supporting long-term restoration. Let’s summarize what’s really going on in your forties:

1. From Ovaries to Adrenals: The Real Shift

• Estrogen and progesterone were mainly produced by the ovaries until now.

• As you enter perimenopause, ovaries reduce production gradually.

• Adrenal glands are biologically designed to take over post-menopause.

• If your adrenals are burned out, symptoms will feel overwhelming.

2. What Can Go ‘Wrong’ When the handover is rocky:

• Mood swings, irritability

• Insomnia or erratic sleep

• Brain fog and memory lapses

• Anxiety and restlessness

• Exhaustion after minor tasks

• Weight gain around belly

This is not your body failing. It’s your body asking for help.

3. Why You Might Be More Vulnerable

• High stress and poor boundaries

• Excess caffeine and low nutrient reserves

• Disrupted circadian rhythm

• Skipping meals and overexercising

• People-pleasing and giving too much time to things that matter less

• Lack of rest and emotional processing

4. How to Support the Shift

• Sleep: Prioritize getting at least seven hours of sleep.

• Food: Eat low glycaemic warm, whole foods and healthy fats.

• Supplements: Take functional medicine practitioner guided supplementation based on general deficiencies during perimenopause as well as your blood report.

• Herbs: Adaptogens like ashwagandha, shatavari, Ashoka (guided by a Ayurveda practitioner).

• Rest: Schedule as much rest as your body and mind need. Rest is not you being lazy.

• Movement: Regularly practise gentle strength training, walking, breathing exercises or yoga.

• Nature: Spend twenty minutes with the morning sunlight on your skin. Spend time in nature and walk barefoot whenever possible to ground your energy.

• Routines: Create a routine that suits your personal lifestyle and prioritizes your health. Regularity signals safety to the nervous system.

5. The Bottom Line: Ignorance is not bliss

Become conscious of the state of the body and mind by getting regular and thorough blood tests done as well as recognizing your symptoms, both physical and psychological. Do your own research on perimenopause and discuss them with your doctor, friends and family.

Awareness is the first step to relaxing your mind that is desperately trying to find the source of its anxiety and blaming it on outside circumstances and people (especially close family).

This isn’t a decline.

This is a realignment.

Your job isn’t to fix your body.

Your job is to support its brilliance.

What if the stories we dismiss as myths are actually memories of how we once lived with nature? Ghosts on Peepal Trees is a tender, deeply reflective memoir that uncovers the wisdom hidden in childhood, folklore and faith—and how they can still guide our relationship with the natural world today.

***

Granny came to help my mother when I was born, but in truth, she came to command the household. A watchtower in a white Punjabi salwar kameez, she would stay with us for the next twenty years, through Dalhousie, Kolkata and Dehradun, until she finally moved to Allahabad (now Prayagraj) to live with her youngest son. Twenty years in her orbit were enough to lay the foundations of my character. As people say, the first twenty decide the next sixty. From my birth to my graduation (1966–86), I found myself in her presence.

Granny was, by herself, a thriving ecosystem. When Granny entered a home, she didn’t just take over the kitchen; she took over everything she touched. Pots obeyed her, doors stayed ajar for the breeze she approved and even the walls seemed to grow warmer in her presence. She had a way of settling the air, of turning ordinary rooms into breathing spaces. Looking back, I realize how complete she was: self-contained, inventive, infinitely patient with the world, yet impatient with disorder. She fascinated me not because she preached, but because she practised. At six, she taught me to make compost from kitchen leftovers. ‘Waste nothing,’ she’d say, handing me a bowl of vegetable peels. ‘Even what you throw away has some shame; let it find new life.’

Every morning, it was my job to carry the kitchen scraps down to the backyard where two neat pits waited like silent mouths. I’d lift the lid, a tin sheet weighed down by a stone, and empty the bowl, watching the slow alchemy begin. To me, it was magic; to her, it was routine. From refuse, she created renewal. That patch of soil was my first schooling in the environment. There I learned that the earth listens, that water has moods, that a seed is a promise that never forgets.

‘Keep the soil moist, not drowned,’ Granny would warn, tapping the edge of the watering can.

‘Yes, Amma,’ I’d answer, trying to imitate her sternness.

‘If you listen, the plants will tell you what they need.’

And indeed, they did. The beans sulked when overwatered, the spinach shimmered when pleased. I learned to watch their leaves for answers.

Our house in Dehradun backed onto a litchi orchard owned by a Nepali family, rumoured descendants of the royal line. In May, when the litchis ripened, their perfume filled the evenings. I’d climb the low branches, scrape my knees and come home sticky-fingered and proud. Granny would laugh. ‘Sweetness demands a little pain,’ she’d murmur, dabbing antiseptic on the cuts. Those words became a proverb in my life.

Our walks became lessons, too. Every Sunday, we walked to the bazar—Paltan Bazar, Chakrata Road, Rajpur Road, sometimes all the way to the foothills of Mussoorie. Granny greeted every vendor by name. She knew who sold the sweetest guavas, which sadhu had turned into a gardener and which rickshaw-puller was fasting that week. To me, she seemed to carry an invisible map of kindness. She stopped to speak to stray dogs, to bless children, to drop a handful of grain near temples. ‘Everyone must eat,’ she’d say, and that included sparrows.

It was she who introduced me to the forests of Uttarakhand, Corbett, Rajaji, Haridwar, Rishikesh, Narendra Nagar, Tehri, Uttarkashi, Nainital and Almora. We travelled in old jeeps and army buses, staying in rest houses that smelled of kerosene and monsoon. I remember bathing in the Ganga at Haridwar when its waters were still crystal clear, and walking across Lakshman Jhula when it was a bridge of silence. Saints, vendors, gardeners, ghosts— Granny knew them all. She belonged to every landscape.

Those were the days of earthen pots beneath peepal trees, of sadhus who told stories instead of sermons, of lanes where one could hear one’s own footsteps. Granny seemed to be on first-name terms with every God. ‘They listen better when you whisper,’ she’d say, lighting a lamp under the peepal.

She taught me that roots can travel, that faith can compost itself into growth and that under every peepal tree, a ghost of wisdom waits to whisper to those who listen.

Granny’s jurisdiction extended beyond human affairs: to trees, ghosts, fish and kitchen gardens. Her reign was total, and her subjects were living, breathing, growing things—soil, saplings, sunlight. By the time we reached Pune, my destiny was well under her management.

At the time, I did not realize it, but these small routines were shaping everything that would follow.

In Once Elephants Lived Here, International Booker Prize-winning author Geetanjali Shree transforms the familiar into the uncanny, using language that is lyrical, satirical, and deeply political to challenge everything we expect from a short story.

***

The riots made this city famous. Well, not the riots themselves but the glitter and glamour that most definitely resulted from the riots. Had the city not been so jammed and jumbled, chaos would not have broken out. And if chaos hadn’t broken out, there would never have been such a clean-up. The factions were divided so neatly the city shone. One faction this side of the river, one that side, and each clearly recognizable in its place. As though factories had been built on either side to manufacture each faction’s particular costumes and masks, and absolutely everyone appeared only in their respective attire. Everyone wore their assigned uniform, and everyone wore the same mask. This side wore theirs, that side wore theirs.

The outcome of this clear division was that you found yourself well protected in this city, surrounded for a great distance by your own kind. The sort of protection you feel in your own home, amongst your own pots and pans, your own familiar things. You’re pleased as you look around and see your own trees, your own fruits and vegetables, your own shit. And why wouldn’t you be? Your eyes ears nose are familiar with their fragrance and appearance, they go down easy, they slip softly over your skin.

It is certainly the case that if, due to error, or clueless bravado, or a moment of sleepwalking, you set out towards the other side, then oh my God and mercy me, this city will surely show you how tangible the feeling of vulnerability can be—how complete and how pure! Nothing penetrates it, no cloud looms over it, no smoke obscures it. Clean, pure, blank, complete, this amazing feeling of vulnerability, which will befall any traveller who might stray, changing his state and form in such a way that he’ll get goosebumps all over, his hair will jump in terror towards the sky, his eyes will roll back until they see not ahead but behind, and his gait will be divided in two as though by a knife: the upper half, a father, frightened and running; the lower half, a child, lethargic, dangling from the father’s finger, limping backwards.

But you’d only stray like this if you had a habit of sleepwalking. Generally, this city has never been afflicted with that ailment, its people crisply brisk. Yes, some foreigners do indeed visit both here and there, but their case is unique.

Unique, and linked to another of the city’s specialties. That is, the great haste with which this city has not only adopted the look of Shanghai but gone on to give it a run for its money.

What this run consists of is that all the old Sultanate and Mughal-era buildings, as well as all types of domestic-style and foreign-style vine-carved buildings are being demolished, and from their ruins have arisen blue glass-walled buildings, taller and taller still, that contain homes, offices, shopping malls, computers, escalators, fountains, hamburgers and trees that aren’t really trees. And there are roofs that slice the sky into match-thin slivers and quantities of foreigners both domestic and imported. Confounding the clean division of the city, just a bit.

This in itself is a wonder. Since it does seem that these foreign people have descended from the sky to climb down into these blue buildings, and the people below have burst from the earth, and that these, too, are two distinct streams, through which the city is becoming new-old. But it’s as though a no man’s land surrounds them, so there’s no infiltration either from here or from there, and the two streams never collide, nor tangle, nor tussle. As though they too have a joint agreement to exist separately.

So, one crop with roots in the ground, another whose soil is the sky. Each in its own way is making the city a bazaar with its respective products, and Shanghai, peering over the malls and the multinationals and this and that side of the river, and taking in everything all together, is alarmed: Until now, there was only me! Who is this surpassing me? My God, woe is me, will their name be in the Guinness Book now? And then all the foreigners will want to go to them instead of coming to me?

There was already talk that this city would now be counted among the most beautiful in the world; global estimates were projecting such outcomes.

How could it be that foreigners would not flock to such a city? Sightseers came, businesspeople came. Foreign foreigners came and desi foreigners as well. In corporate, ironed uniforms. The foreign foreigners had: pale eyes, pale hair, pale skin; the desi foreigners had: hybrid dress, hybrid diets, hybrid lifestyles, hybrid languages.

In What Happened to Me? vs What’s Wrong with Me?, Gunjan Y. Trivedi, Riri G. Trivedi, and Hemalatha Ramani explore how childhood experiences silently shape adult mental health, relationships, and our sense of self—urging us to replace self-blame with self-understanding.

***

‘I Am Still Hiding Behind the Sofa’

As a child, Anant remembers hiding behind the sofa and covering his ears to block out his parents’ shouting. To him, as a little boy, the fights were terrifying. He watched his father hit his mother, smash plates and constantly threaten to leave. He sat frozen, afraid his father might turn on him next. When things were supposedly ‘calm’, the cold silent treatment would last for days, filling the whole house with heavy tension.

Unfortunately, the violence wasn’t limited to only between his parents. Anant’s mother often hit him too, sometimes for small mistakes, sometimes for no clear reason at all. He remembers feeling confused and hurt, never knowing or understanding what would set her off. Alongside the fear, there was neglect. He often felt invisible; his needs and feelings didn’t seem to matter to anyone.

One memory continued to haunt him even in adulthood. He remembered his mother locking herself in a room and threatening to kill herself. He could hear her crying and shouting from behind the door, while his father banged on it, pleading with her not to do anything. Even as a child, Anant felt a sickening mix of fear, anger and helplessness, always left wondering if he was somehow to blame.

That fear and confusion never really left him. As he grew up, Anant became anxious and hyper-alert, always on edge about upsetting people. In relationships, one moment he would hold on tightly and the next, he would be dismissive and push them away.

His fear of abandonment triggered anger at anyone who got too close. Arguments could turn into explosive outbursts he felt he had no control over, leaving him drowning in guilt and shame afterwards.

Inside, he felt empty, as if something were broken or missing within him. His moods swung between deep sadness, anger and numbness. Even small setbacks felt overwhelming. He struggled with trusting anyone, convinced they’d eventually hurt or leave him.

When he finally sought psychiatric help, he poured out these confusing, intermeshed, painful memories. The psychiatrist listened carefully and explained that he was living with major depressive disorder and borderline personality disorder. The labels stung, but they helped him make sense of the constant low feelings, fear of abandonment, emotional mood swings and the deep ache he’d carried since he was that little boy, waiting for the next fight to start. He was convinced that there was something wrong with him and the labels also confirmed this belief.

Anant’s story is not rare. Every day, at Wellness Space, we hear stories like his. They highlight to us the normalization in many families of childhood traumas, of abuse, violence.

The question we, parents, family and adults, need to ask ourselves, is: Are we okay with our behaviour towards our children? Or do we need to understand the long-term implications and ramifications of our behaviour?

Types of Childhood Trauma—Indian Perspective These painful experiences that children go through from birth to eighteen years are known as Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs). Witnessing domestic violence, like Anant did, seems more common than what we would have liked to believe. Other more commonly seen ACEs include being directly abused or neglected. Decades of global research show these early experiences can shape us for life, leading to mental health struggles, chronic illnesses and difficulties in forming healthy relationships.

But in India, there’s very little research on ACEs and even less awareness or sensitivity. Unfortunately, as a culture, we’ve often accepted beatings and harsh punishments as an essential part of disciplining, even praising that style of parenting. Many parents genuinely believe they cannot raise good children without hitting or threatening them, because that is how they themselves were raised and they believe they have turned out just fine!

Ironically, even parents who realize how much they have been impacted by such harsh disciplining methods, often struggle to break the cycle. They want to do better but when they’re stressed or triggered, their old wounds take over. Their trauma hijacks their good intentions and they end up repeating the very behaviours they once hated in their own parents.

Dr Vincent Felitti’s landmark ACE study highlighted earlier opened our eyes to how ten types of childhood trauma can have lifelong mental and physical health effects. As we talked to hundreds of individuals, we realized the original ten categories used by Felitti to measure ACEs needed to be modified to be applicable in the Indian cultural context. For example, the global questionnaire has ‘Parental Divorce or Separation’ as a trauma element, but in India, parents often stay together despite constant conflict, due to social pressures, or for the sake of the children, which is equally or more damaging than divorce or separation. Keeping this context in mind, we added four further categories—parents fighting, peer bullying, peer rejection and socio-economic position—to the original Felitti questionnaire, making it fourteen categories. This addition was made only after the required validation process and was later published in year 2025 in the Asian Journal of Psychiatry.