In Yeh Dil Maange More, Anupma Mehta and Vishal Batra bring us closer to the man behind the legend—Captain Vikram Batra, remembered not only as a Param Vir Chakra awardee and Kargil hero, but as a beloved son, brother and friend.

***

‘Hello, Brother’—these words are still ringing in my ears more than twenty-five years after they were uttered as I recollect my last physical encounter with Vikram. And even today, I can feel the warm squeeze of his bear hug as his arms encircled my shoulders, oozing the warmth and collegiality that defined our relationship from the time we emerged together from our mother’s womb. His embrace was tighter than usual, perhaps a premonition that there would never be another.

Vikram was on his way to Sopore, in the Baramulla district of Jammu and Kashmir, where he was posted immediately prior to the outbreak of the Kargil War in the summer of 1999. During his tenure at Sopore, we kept hearing intermittent and disturbing news of the escalating war with India’s perennial foe, Pakistan, at Kargil. His unit, 13 Jammu and Kashmir Rifles, was scheduled to travel to Shahjahanpur, Uttar Pradesh, where an advance party had already set up base. However, soon thereafter, the entire unit was instructed by the army authorities to prepare to move to Dras, Ladakh, in anticipation of the mounting hostilities at Kargil.

On the day of our final meeting, Vikram was still a lieutenant, not yet having been promoted to the rank of captain. As I looked at him, soaking in his warm and compelling presence, I realized that though Vikram had been commissioned in the army just fifteen months ago at the age of twenty-three, he already seemed to have matured much beyond his twenty-four years, while still holding only his first rank and occupying his first posting as a soldier.

Our meeting occurred just at the conclusion of Vikram’s commando’s course before he was slated to report at Shahjahanpur along with his unit. The course, offered at the Commando Training School at Belgaum, Karnataka, which has to be mandatorily completed by all infantry soldiers in the army, signifies one of the toughest training regimens in the world. The thirty-five-day programme, focused on honing the mental and physical endurance of soldiers, is aimed at inculcating in them advanced skills such as close-quarter battle, demolition, deep-sea diving, survival techniques and weapon handling. After completing the course, soldiers become members of their respective unit’s Ghatak Platoon, serving as elite first responders in combat situations. For visual reference, the 1991 Hindi action movie Prahaar, starring Nana Patekar and Madhuri Dixit, graphically elucidates the participants’ actual experiences during the course.

My meeting with Vikram at the railway station at New Delhi, almost a déjà vu of our teenage memories of the movie, thus acquired an even deeper significance. The completion of his commando’s course, characterized by the rigorous and back-breaking training that he had undergone, symbolized a radical transformation in his persona. My mischievous and carefree childhood mate, though still radiating guts and gall, had clearly evolved into a maturer, stronger yet calmer individual, ready to face head-on every challenge that life would lay down in his path.

The course, lasting from 27 January to 7 March 1999, had obviously had a seminal effect on Vikram’s personality. What, however, remains irrevocably etched in my memory is the emergence of a tall, thin and totally bald man from the train, like all the other commandos who were mandated to shave their heads while being enrolled in the course. The moment and the date, 9 March 1999, have a profound connotation in my life, as that was eventually the last time I saw Vikram alive, with that image remaining perpetually ingrained in my consciousness.

I was at the time posted in Delhi, working for a well known finance company, when Vikram messaged me that he would meet me while passing through the Hazrat Nizamuddin station in New Delhi on his way back to join his unit at Sopore. He deboarded at the station from the Goa Express around 7.30 a.m. I was eagerly waiting to pick him up in my cousin Sunny’s brand-new Maruti 800, having, in fact, just completed my driving lessons. The number plate of the car, carrying the number, UAW4359, is also clearly engraved in my mind. Since we used to exchange letters often, Vikram knew that I was learning to drive, and I was impatient to show off my driving skills as I reached the station. But my elation soon turned to utter bewilderment, watching more than 150 identically dressed bald commandos emerging from the train, which was then the only means of transport for the army personnel returning after concluding their course.

I was trying desperately to spot Vikram from among the maze of similar-looking men wearing similar outfits, when I felt a large hand patting me on my back. I turned around to see a chikna, ganja, thin guy, vaguely looking like my brother. ‘What happened to you, Man?’ was my befuddled question. Notwithstanding his thin visage, the glow on his face was undimmed and our constantly positive vibes ensconced us as we hugged each other, our silence exuding emotions louder than any words.

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.