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

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

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

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

Tum jiyo hazaro saal, bas yahi hai aarzoo.

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

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

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

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

‘Show me a magic trick!’

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

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

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

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

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

‘You’re stupid,’ says the kid.

‘Do you want to see a card trick?’

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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The Founder Manual by Utsav Somani reveals that most successful startups don’t begin with a genius masterplan—they begin with founders obsessing over frustrating, messy, deeply human problems that nobody else is solving well enough.

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Building a Strong Foundation

1.1 Validating the Idea

Every business begins with an idea—sometimes a bolt of lightning, sometimes a slow-burning ember.

But where do these ideas come from? Are they divine epiphanies in the shower, careful observations of market gaps or just personal frustrations that demand a fix?

Let’s stroll through the minds of successful founders and how they arrived at their game-changing ideas.

The Eureka Moment!

Some ideas hit like a song you didn’t know you needed until you heard it. Sudden, electric and impossible to ignore.

Here’s how Vishesh Khurana, co-founder of Shiprocket, went about his idea.

Walking in the shoes of small business owners, he saw the glaring inefficiencies of logistics. He embedded himself in their world to uncover more challenges. He parked himself in their offices, shadowed their processes and took notes like a detective chasing the ‘aha’ moment.

One of the biggest pain points revealed itself in a string of frustrated conversations—sellers manually handling orders, juggling multiple courier partners and toggling between providers like overworked air traffic controllers. The delays, errors and extra costs were deal-breakers.

This hands-on research led him to develop Shiprocket as a one-stop solution—that integrated multiple courier partners on to a single platform, allowing sellers to access affordable and efficient shipping without the logistical nightmare of managing multiple vendors.

Shiprocket’s affordable, reliable shipping has made life easier for small and medium businesses, especially in Tier 2 and Tier 3 cities of Bharat, where e-commerce is booming.

But Vishesh’s approach to customer-driven innovation didn’t stop there. He turned his customers into product managers. He launched Shiprocket Yatra—a unique initiative where he and his team travelled across umpteen Indian PIN codes, hosted meetups with sellers to understand their pain points and implemented tailored solutions.

One such pivotal moment happened in a small Uttarakhand pickle factory. The vendor whom Vishesh was interviewing was distraught. She was losing customers, left, right and centre. Customers ordered from her, but as we know, delivery in the hilly regions is a time-consuming process compared to a Tier 1 city. Radio silence between the order and actual delivery made the experience an anxious one for the customers. They were reluctant to place orders.

Vishesh scribbled in his notebook: ‘What if you sent updates on WhatsApp? Pictures of the pickles being packed, ready to go?’

The vendor blinked. A slow smile stretched across her face, ‘That could work.’

And just like that, a new feature was added to Shiprocket’s road map—straight from a vendor’s lived reality. Soon, it became a method. A rhythm. A practice.

This solution worked for both urban and rural customers alike.

In Delhi, e-commerce businesses struggled with incorrect product shipments. To tackle this, Vishesh implemented a system where sellers could send customers a picture of the packed order before dispatch to ensure accuracy. Vendors could send real-time updates on order progress, which helped keep buyers engaged and, most importantly, reduced cancellations.

This ability to iterate and refine solutions based on first-hand market insights is what set Shiprocket apart.

How Founders’ Lived Experiences Inform Business Ideas

Not all businesses are built on a single insightful moment. Some ideas come from founders’ lived experiences or problems they experience in their daily lives.

Like countless young professionals in India’s urban centres, Geetansh Bamania, founder of Rentomojo, faced the challenge of setting up his first independent home on a starter salary. Determined to prove his financial independence, he spent nearly five months’ worth of his salary furnishing an apartment, only to realize the financial burden it created.

‘I made the classic young professional’s mistake,’ he told me over a cup of coffee. ‘Blowing through months of earnings just to set up a place. The cost of furniture was tying me down when life itself was unpredictable.’

This personal experience led him to rethink the traditional model of ownership. You would agree on how life’s unpredictability, say, job relocations, career shifts and even sudden family obligations, often force people to move at short notice.

So he thought, instead of forcing consumers to make hefty investments in furniture, why not offer a flexible, subscriptionbased alternative?

That’s when he decided to start Rentomojo as a subscriptionbased furniture rental model that lets you travel light without breaking the bank.

It became a fresh alternative to traditional EMIs and appealed to a consumer base beyond young professionals.

‘It’s fundamentally different from a loan because there’s no debt hanging over your head,’ Bamania explained. ‘Traditional ownership models simply aren’t keeping pace with the dynamic lifestyles of urban India’s youth.’

One customer, for instance, had to relocate within a week for a dream job opportunity. Instead of worrying about selling or moving furniture, he simply returned it and moved on to his new residence—continuing his relationship with Rentomojo. No ghosting, no haunting, no breadcrumbing!

Rentomojo enabled mobility and financial freedom. Geetansh’s early customer interactions reinforced this belief. Many young professionals echoed his struggle, validating the need for a hassle-free solution.

‘Once I move in, I realize what I don’t have,’ customers told him. That insight fuelled the company’s expansion into a one-stop rental solution for everything a new home needs.

In an era where flexibility is king, Rentomojo carved out its niche by aligning itself with the needs of a modern, mobile generation. Indeed, it is great proof that sometimes the best business ideas come from solving your own biggest frustrations.

An idea can be about reinventing tradition, too. We learn that from Arjun Vaidya.

For him, Ayurveda was an underutilized goldmine. And rightly so. His family had been practising Ayurveda for 150 long years, but the industry lacked branding, structure and accessibility.

For many (urban) consumers, Ayurveda was either unfamiliar or dismissed as outdated home remedies, which bred a lack of trust. Arjun’s mission was to bridge that gap and to present Ayurveda with the big stage it deserved professionally.

***

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In Save Soil: 100 Days That Moved the World, Radhe Jaggi pulls readers into the exhilarating, sleep-deprived, wildly unpredictable reality behind Sadhguru’s 30,000 km journey to spark a global conversation on soil health.

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Eddie Reynolds

Europe PR team

‘Hold this sign, pass it to me, and then I’ll turn and blow a kiss.’ This was the first time I’d ever received an instruction like this. But by now, fifty-nine days into the Save Soil journey, unpredictable tasks were the norm.

We were in Sadhguru’s green room—a large, square space, beautifully decorated with a series of ornate sofas and tables placed next to each other along the walls. The guests who were due to have one-on-one conversations with Sadhguru were now, thankfully, in the room with us, interacting with members of the Save Soil PR team. To our left, CNBC was setting up in the corner for an interview with Sadhguru. Wires, lights and cameras were beginning to spread themselves into the space like mangroves. With so many moving parts and personalities to keep happy in the same space, we were walking a tightrope.

This was a common format following a Save Soil public event. Every moment that Sadhguru was stationary became a potential opportunity for an engagement. After all, the Save Soil movement was attempting to reach a target of 3.5 billion people—that’s not a small number.

‘You need to pass it to me slower, and don’t look at the camera,’ the instructions continued.

This particular guest was making a video of herself holding a Save Soil placard and then blowing a kiss, which ended with a shot of Sadhguru sitting in the background, mid-conversation with somebody else.

Take one, take two . . . take three . . . Looking around the room at the steadily increasing complexity of the situation, there was something comforting in repeating this simple exercise.

Radhe

Bharatanatyam dancer & performer

Meanwhile, me and a few of the Samskriti performers were on the other side of the venue, about to be interviewed about Project Samskriti2, by Janam TV, a local station. As they set up I noticed the audience was a little larger than I had anticipated. Until then, my main role on the journey had been performing at events and coordinating the other performances. The unfortunate passing of the UAE President (Sheikh Khalifa bin Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan) a few days earlier meant that, out of respect, the music and dance performances from Sounds of Isha3 and Project Samskriti had been taken off the schedule. So instead, today we were in ‘interview mode’.

With Janam TV’s audience predominantly Indian diaspora, I had a rough idea of the scale of the viewership, which was a digestible size. But as I was miking up, a large group of invited guests standing to my right began to pull out their phones.

Uh oh.

This group was going to be led in to meet Sadhguru after he had f inished the one-on-one interactions. The plan was for them to also watch his CNBC interview and later share their experience with their followers. I wasn’t supposed to be part of the plan!

As each one started to record me, the audience became international and then global.

I felt comfortable speaking about Project Samskriti, but what if they asked me about the movement? Did I have all the right statistics in my head? Who could end up watching this?

I really hoped that no one would ask me how many microorganisms were in a handful of soil.

***

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

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1973, The Year That Was 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

His name was Daripodar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gradually, the ascetic softened.

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

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

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

Confused, the ascetic honoured her last wish.

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

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

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

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

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

He left the king deeply unsettled.

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

Yet their story did not end there.

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

***

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

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

But they were.

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

‘Oh, they’re in Antarctica.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘I don’t give a shit, dude.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ashwin guessed.

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

Ashwin guessed again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

Who IS this girl? Who is that guy? 

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

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

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

I wasn’t prepared. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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Crossing Borders: The Bangladesh Years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Beginnings, New Learnings

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

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

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

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

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