In Cashless Nation, Santanu Paul and B. Sambamurthy revisit the dramatic night of 8 November 2016, when India’s currency landscape changed overnight—and trace how that disruption helped set the stage for the digital payments revolution that followed.

***

It was 8 November 2016, and the day had felt like any other. Barely ten days had passed since Diwali, and India was beginning to emerge from its after-effects. Diwali motivates and excites Indians like no other festival. From lighting oil lamps to setting off colourful fireworks, from buying shiny gifts to wearing new clothes, from scrubbing homes to gorging on sweets, Diwali is an opportunity to indulge in jubilant and boisterous excess. The celebrations of 2016 had been no exception.

Of all Indian festivals, Diwali enjoys a special relationship with money, or more specifically, currency notes. This year too, clean and crisp currency notes flowed like a river through families, businesses and society. The clamour for freshly minted notes had reached a frenzy, and the affluent class did not mind paying a tidy premium to get their hands on them. Elders gave them as gifts to young members of their families. Devotees offered them to Goddess Lakshmi as they prayed for their own financial prosperity. Workers in India’s massive informal economy invariably look forward to cash bonuses during Diwali. Their employers had not disappointed them this year.

Diwali is also a harbinger of new business cycles. As in other years, small businesses organized chopda pujan ceremonies to close the accounts of previous years and open new ledger books decorated with auspicious symbols. Despite it being a national holiday, stock markets opened briefly for muhurat trading so investors could make token trades for good luck. As the Diwali fever reached its zenith, consumers emptied their wallets, merchants offered cut-rate discounts and lenders teased borrowers with attractive schemes. Cash from new buyers rained down on sellers of bicycles and BMWs alike. The demand for currency notes was so great that even the Reserve Bank of India, or RBI, the country’s central bank, advised commercial banks to generously overstock their currency chests. By early November, with the madness behind them, everyone heaved a sigh of relief.

Yet, as day turned to dusk, there was a sudden buzz in the air that Prime Minister Narendra Modi might address the nation later that evening. Elected a little over two years earlier, Modi already had a burgeoning reputation for bold pronouncements and muscular action. Curiosity and speculation immediately ricocheted throughout the country. Mercifully, the wait was short. At 8 p.m., the prime minister appeared on national television and cleared his throat. Over the next twenty-five minutes, as tens of millions of Indians hung on to his words with a combination of incomprehension and anxiety, Modi laid out the case for why a whopping 86 per cent of India’s currency notes needed to be rendered null and void within the next four hours. Suddenly, the country was on the brink of the unknown.

‘There comes a time in the history of a country’s development when a need is felt for a strong and decisive step. For years, this country has felt that corruption, black money and terrorism are festering sores . . . To break the grip of corruption and black money, we have decided that the ₹500 and ₹1000 currency notes presently in use will no longer be legal tender from midnight tonight’, said the prime minister. And with that, Modi effectively banned ₹15.4 trillion of the nearly ₹18 trillion cash in circulation. It was a breathtaking act. From billionaires to beggars, from ministers to minions, from entrepreneurs to employees, no one would be spared the oncoming pain.

The sun rose on 9 November to not one but two black swan events. In India, the vast majority of currency notes had been demonetized overnight. In the United States, Donald Trump lost the popular vote to Hillary Clinton but inflicted an unexpected defeat on her in the electoral college. Proving most political pundits completely wrong, Trump was on his way to the White House as the next US President.

Overnight, the world’s two largest democracies had managed to jolt not just themselves but the entire planet. Would anything ever be the same again?

In I Died Too Early, bestselling author Sumitra Manda gives voice to the heartbreak, childhood wounds and quiet struggles we carry long after the pain has passed, offering a tender reminder that healing begins when we slowly find our way back to ourselves.

***

I grew up watching films

where lovers became enemies,

where rage shattered cities

and revenge split worlds.

But even the cruellest villain

could only wound the body,

bruise the will,

shake the ground beneath a life.

The heart, though,

has its own laws.

It has never been broken

by outsiders or adversaries,

only by the ones

who were invited in,

the ones who spoke softly

while holding the place

meant to keep me alive.

They say the heart is whole,

but mine beats in halves,

one still reaching for you,

the other learning to let go.

I walk around with symmetry broken,

lungs full of leftover prayers.

People call it heartbreak.

I call it surviving

without instructions.

—Half a heart

In The Second Orbit, Shubhanshu Shukla takes readers beyond the launchpads and headlines, into the deeply personal journey of becoming an astronaut—where years of discipline, uncertainty and belief culminate in one life-changing phone call.

***

There’s a peculiar physics to the days before significant travel. Time doesn’t flow normally. It compresses and dilates simultaneously, hours vanishing like water through cupped hands while individual moments stretch into strange elasticity. The universe, it seems, has little patience for leisurely goodbyes.

My final three days before departure operated under this distorted chronology. Seventy-two hours to compress an entire life into luggage allowances and administrative boxes. Pack belongings for a year’s absence, not just clothes and necessities but the careful curation of what parts of yourself you’ll carry into this new existence. Put the house in order, which is a euphemism for ensuring that life continues smoothly in your absence, that the machinery of daily existence won’t grind to a halt simply because you’ve stepped away from it. Complete endless administrative formalities, paperwork that governments and institutions demand as tribute before releasing you to pursue your dreams. And perhaps most challenging: mentally prepare yourself to leave, to say goodbye not just to people but to a version of yourself that will cease to exist the moment you board that flight. Three days for all of this.

Three days that have dissolved in memory into a single undifferentiated blur, like watching a film on fast-forward, where you catch impressions rather than details. Faces appear and vanish. Conversations happen but their specific words evaporate. Tasks get completed though you can’t quite remember the sequence. It’s all there in memory, somewhere, but merged into one continuous stream of motion and momentum.

And yet, and here’s the mysterious grace that governs these transitions—everything fell into place. It always does, somehow. The chaos resolves. The impossible checklist gets checked. The bags get packed, the forms get filled, the goodbyes get said. Not because you’re particularly organized or efficient but because departure creates its own gravity, pulling everything into alignment through sheer inevitability.

My flight was scheduled for 3 a.m., that particular hour that belongs to neither the night nor morning—when the world exists in suspension between yesterday and tomorrow. An ungodly time, really, chosen not by human preference but by the algorithmic optimization of airline scheduling systems that care nothing for sentiment or convenience.

I had made up my mind. There would be no airport farewells, no bleary-eyed goodbyes under fluorescent lights, no forced smiles hiding the weight of what was left unsaid. I wanted our parting to happen the way all sacred things should—at home, in the warmth of familiar walls, where every corner holds a memory and every room breathes with the life we have built together.

And, if I am being honest with myself, I was also protecting something deeply selfish and deeply necessary—the image of my family I wanted to carry across the miles. Not their tired faces at the departure gate, waving behind a rope of strangers. I wanted to carry them, the way my wife laughs with her whole face, the way my son sleeps with his arms flung wide like he owns the world. I wanted the last picture in my heart to be of home as it truly is, not home performing its goodbye.

So I rose early. And I found her already awake.

She hadn’t slept. Of course she hadn’t.

She sat in that quiet, not dramatically, not demanding comfort, just present. Carrying everything and saying nothing. I sat beside her holding my coffee.

And then I began to speak because silence frightened me more than the journey ahead.

I talked about the electricity bill, the school fees, the dates she needed to remember, the neighbour who would check in, the bank account, the passwords. I was reciting logistics like a man trying to prove he had thought of everything, as if planning could be a substitute for staying.

She let me go on for a while. Then, gently, the way she always reins me in, she said: ‘Stop with the logistics. It will all get done.’

And just like that, the words dried up.

We sat together in the hush of that early hour, no television, no phones, just the sound of the house settling into its own stillness. And in that silence, somehow, everything that needed to be said was said. More passed between us in those wordless minutes than in all my frantic planning. She knew. I knew. Some goodbyes don’t need sentences.

When the time came, I stood at the door of my son’s room. He was asleep, arms sprawled, lost in some dream only children are lucky enough to have. I leaned over and kissed his forehead softly, so softly, the way you touch something you are terrified of waking, terrified of losing.

He didn’t stir.

I picked up my bag. My wife walked me to the door. She straightened my collar, as if sending you off well-pressed is how she holds you together when she can’t hold you at all.

I stepped outside.

In The Fourth Girl by Arefa Tehsin, a long-buried disappearance brings three former friends face-to-face with the secrets they thought they had left behind and a question that refuses to stay buried: what really happened to the fourth girl?

***

The Swimming Club

Colombo

4 March 2019

The air was peppered with sea salt and coconut. Egrets flew in formation comparing notes of the summery evening. The sun was a bindi on the forehead of the horizon, shifting shyly towards the ocean with matrimonial intent. A few ships stood still on the waves, buoyant as corks. The raucous shrieks of kids playing in the club’s saltwater swimming pool were drowned out by a rattling train. The tracks ran parallel to the club. The train thundered past on its seaside tracks against a perfectly immobile sky.

‘You know what is disarming about Sri Lanka? Even the ocean here seems to be swirling her skirts to the tune of baila.’ Qailah took a long drag off her cigar. ‘In Bombay, it slams on the Bandra rocks as if it were the police, whacking the asses of honest people.’

‘You mean Mumbai?’ Siddhesh felt duty bound to correct his countrymen (and women), even when he felt intimidated by them. Pride in one’s origins was not to be taken lightly.

Qailah let out a low chuckle. ‘Is that your next question?’ Her red lips matched the bloodthirsty dusk sky. And her eyes the biscuit brown of the butter cookies on the table. She rolled a lock of hair around her finger. The dampness of the sea breeze had made her curls frizzy.

Beauty scared Siddhesh even more than the constant fear of chewing his nails in public. He fumbled as he flipped his notebook for the questions. There was such dignity in being orthodox. Taking notes on your phone or tablet was the most vulgar thing to do.

‘I know you generally don’t do interviews, Qailah ji. Such a successful Indian author based in Sri Lanka—the largest selling romance author of the Indian subcontinent with three major Bollywood films made on her books. It’s an honour for me.’

‘It is for my own benefit, Siddhesh ji. I was alarmingly bored socializing with the usual suspects.’ She studied him with her kohl-lined eyes, tapping her painted nails on the table to a distant music. ‘I know you came from India to cover the funeral of Kehan Karunaratne, KK, who passed away early morning today. The internationally acclaimed editor-in-chief of The Punchline. You’re doing this interview as a side story.’

He felt a surge of uneasiness and let out an embarrassed cackle. ‘In-In Jaipur Literature Festival last year, you recited a poem on the increasing incidents of mob justice and lynching. And I quote . . .’

‘Yes, I spoke about that noble band who want the others to do exactly what they like. But must we continue in this depressing vein?’ A spicy cloud from her cigar twirled before eloping with the sea breeze.

‘Uh-huh . . . No, Qailah ji, not if you don’t like. Um . . . let me see. What is your favourite character in literature?’

‘You really mean to ask this question?’ She raised a perfectly arched brow.

‘No, actually . . . the favourite character you have written?’

‘Have you read my books? What is your favourite character from my novels, Siddhesh ji?’

Siddhesh almost took his gnawed nails to his teeth and stopped midair, horrified, directing his hand to scratch his chin instead. Tickle it, more likely, with the nailless fingers.

‘I have not had the honour . . . um . . . of reading . . .’

‘Gawd, the impoliteness of being polite all the time! That’s okay, you don’t look the reading type to me. Just the writing type.’ Qailah gestured at a crisp waiter with her cigar. ‘Malinga, can you be a saviour and see they don’t put more than two olives in my dry martini?’

‘Sure, Ma’am.’

‘What will be your poison tonight?’ she asked Siddhesh.

‘Er . . . just a cup of coffee. Cappuccino please. Extra milk.’ The waiter gave an efficient nod before striding away purposefully.

The bar was beyond the archways and a black and white chequered passage. The twentieth-century club with its white-washed walls stood right opposite Temple Trees, the prime minister’s official residence. Shouldering the American Embassy on one side and an ugly high rise under construction on the other, the club opened its arms to the Indian Ocean.

The scattered tables around the terrace and lawns had started filling up. The sun had sunk and the kids, wrapped in purple pool towels by their attending maids, were being marched to the changing rooms. They looked like walking banana flowers.

In Courage Under Fire, former Nestlé India Chairman Suresh Narayanan draws from four decades of experience to explore what leadership truly demands—especially when uncertainty is high and the stakes are even higher.

***

Why is leadership important? What makes someone a good leader? Is leadership a natural calling, or simply a role people learn to play? Are leaders born, or can leadership traits be developed over time?

All of these are meaningful questions. But for our purpose, we will focus on two:

What makes a good leader? And why is leadership especially important during a crisis?

At its core, leadership is simply about being human— consistently, in every situation, whether times are good or extremely difficult. When we strip away all the impressive titles and adjectives, leadership comes down to a few basics: trust, values, behaviour, credibility and outcomes.

Leadership starts with selfawareness. It is the ability to understand your own purpose, values, strengths and limitations. These inner foundations shape how you behave and how you make decisions. Over time, your actions—repeated again and again, day after day—form the basis of your leadership identity.

You can lead a team of ten or a team of ten thousand. In both cases, the impact you create can be hugely meaningful or barely noticeable. What matters is not the size of your team, but the depth of your influence—how you show up, how people experience you and how you help them navigate uncertainty.

In a crisis, this becomes even more important. People look to leaders for clarity, confidence and direction. A leader’s presence can steady a team the way a lighthouse guides a ship on a dark night.

Great leadership is not about position; it is about responsibility, authenticity and the ability to inspire trust— especially when it matters most.

When I travel, I often choose to visit colleges that are not considered ‘toptier’. Instead of A or A+ institutions, I make it a point to go to B or Crated schools. These places hold tremendous untapped potential—potential that often needs the right mentor, the right voice of encouragement, to come alive.

In my interactions with students from these institutions, I’ve noticed something important: there is very little difference between them and students from well known colleges. In fact, many from lesser known schools display more dedication, gratitude and enthusiasm. What they sometimes lack are opportunities and mentors who believe in them.

I experienced this again during a field visit from Jaipur to Kanauta in Rajasthan—a bumpy 40minute ride where I was accompanied by Soniya Ojha, a 25 yearold sales officer from Chhapra, in Bihar. Throughout the drive, she shared her story of leaving her small village and joining one of the world’s largest food and beverage companies. Her energy was infectious. At one point, she stopped and shyly asked, ‘Main kya bahut baat kar rahi hoon? Aap bilkul papa jaise ho’—’Am I talking too much? You remind me of my father.’

That simple, heartfelt moment reminded me how deeply young professionals value a guiding presence. It reinforced a powerful truth: mentorship matters. Even brief interactions can strengthen confidence, shape aspirations and help the next generation stay committed to their leadership journeys.

This is not to take away from premier institutes—they have produced many exceptional leaders. But experiences like these show that leadership is shaped far more by individual attitude and the mentors who influence that attitude, rather than the prestige of one’s institution.

An essential leadership trait is the willingness to take on difficult tasks. I am always impressed by young employees who volunteer for tough assignments. They show courage, initiative and a desire to grow. Mentors play a key role here, too—often, it is a leader’s belief in a young professional that gives them the confidence to raise their hand for the harder job.

Ultimately, whether in a classroom or a corporate field visit, I’ve learned that leadership potential exists everywhere. What unlocks it is mentorship, opportunity and the courage to take on challenges.

In Glimpses of a Golden Childhood, Osho takes us back to the untamed beginnings of his life, where innocence, rebellion and an unwavering freedom of spirit shaped the enlightened storyteller he would become.

***

The wild geese

do not intend to make their reflections.

The water has no mind to receive their images.

Ahhh, so beautiful. Wild geese not intending to make their reflections, and the water not intending to receive them either, and yet the reflection is there. That is the beauty. Nobody has intended, and yet it is there – that’s what I call communion. I have always hated communication. To me communication is ugly. You can see it happening between a wife and a husband, a boss and a servant, and so on and so forth. It never really happens. Communion is my word.

I see Buddha Hall with all my people, just for a moment like a flash: so many moments of communion. It is not just a gathering, it is not a church. People do not come to it formally. People come to me, not to it. Whenever there is a master and a disciple – it may be only the master and just one disciple, that does not matter – communion happens. It is happening right now, and there are only four of you. Perhaps with my eyes closed I can’t even count, and it is good; only then can one remain in the world of the

unaccountable – and tax free too! If you can count, then taxation comes in.

I am unaccountable; nobody has ever taxed me.

I was a professor in a university. When they wanted to raise my pay, I said, “No.”

The vice chancellor could not believe it; he said, “Why not?”

I said, “Beyond what I am getting now I would have to pay taxes, and I hate taxation. I would rather remain with the pay I am getting right now than get more and be bothered by the income tax department.” I never went beyond the limit which was allowed to remain tax free.

I have never paid any income tax; in fact there is no income. I have been giving to the world, not taking anything from the world. It is out-come, not income. I have given out of my heart and my being.

It is good that flowers are allowed to be tax free, otherwise they would stop flowering. It is good that snow is allowed to be tax free, otherwise it would not snow, believe me!

I must tell you that after the Russian revolution something happened to the Russian genius; Leo Tolstoy, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Turgenev, Maxim Gorky – they all disappeared. Yet in Russia today, the writer, the novelist, the artist, is the most highly paid and honored person. So what happened? Why don’t they create books like Brothers Karamazov, Anna Karenina, Fathers and Sons, The Mother, or Notes from the Underground anymore? Why? I want to ask a thousand times, why? What happened to the Russian genius for writing novels?

I don’t think any country could compete with Russia. If you count only

ten novels of the world, just out of necessity you will have to include five Russian novels, leaving only five for the whole remaining world. What hap-pened to this great genius? It died! Because flowers cannot be ordered, there are no ten commandments for them. Flowers flower – you cannot order them to flower. Snow falls – you cannot issue a commandment, you cannot make a date with it. That is impossible. And that is so with the buddhas. They say what they want to say, when they want to say it. They will say, even to a single person, something which the whole world would like to hear.

Now you are here, perhaps only four. I say “perhaps” because my mathematics is poor, and with closed eyes – you can understand – and with tears in my eyes, not because only four are present but for this beautiful morning, for the sunrise.

Thank God. He thinks of me; although he does not exist, still he thinks of me. I deny him, and yet he thinks of me. Great God! Existence seems to take care. But you do not know the ways of existence: they are unpredictable. I have always loved the unpredictable.

My tears are for the sunrise. Existence has taken care of me. I had not asked.

Nor did it reply.

But still the care has been taken.

The wild geese

do not intend to cast their reflections.

The water has no intention to reflect their images.

That’s how I am speaking. I do not know what the next sentence is going to be or whether it is going to be at all. Suspense is beautiful.

I am reminded again of the small village where I was born. Why existence should have chosen that small village in the first place is unexplainable. It is as it should be. The village was beautiful. I have traveled far and wide but I have never come across that same beauty. One never comes again to the same. Things come and go, but it is never the same.

Some love stories end. Others simply wait for the right moment to begin again. You Were Never Meant To Read This by Shrijeet Shandilya returns to Dev and Tanishka’s story, where fifteen months after their goodbye, one unexpected message changes everything.

***

Thinking of her pulls me back to college. Specifically, the last few months.

Those last six months were a constant unsaid battle between me trying to move on and trying not to feel everything all the time. Assignments, deadlines and fake smiles acted as bandages to cover the wounds. Soon, it became difficult to tell whether I was busy living or busy hiding.

Time kept moving, tugging me along with it.

There was no contact with Tanishka. The last time I heard her name was from Avantika, someone I wish I’d never met, when she called me on my birthday.

October left Goa soon after, the way the monsoon does, slowly and softly with the promise of sun. Similarly, after that last call with Avantika, things with her didn’t end loudly, they just stopped. Only the sun never came.

College didn’t stop for me. Placements, late night parties, endless gossip, lectures—everything kept moving the way it always had. Helping me fill the days so that I wouldn’t have to sit with what was missing.

The day I got placed in ITL, my MBA degree unofficially ended. Everything felt different after. Lectures, group projects, getting a decent grade, everything became a formality.

By March, as college moved closer to actually ending, I realized how much it had changed. Most of the batch was placed, and now, there were only two categories of people left. The ones with an offer and those chasing the offers.

The ones still chasing didn’t talk much about it. They didn’t need to. You could see it on their faces. Every rejection was like a slap to the face. Every shortlisting felt like a thread of hope, only for it to be snatched away when the offer went to someone else. I could see it in their eyes, the quiet fear of being left behind.

Failure in placements is easy to measure. It’s black and white, yes or no. But when people drift apart, there is no rejection email. You just realize, slowly, that you’re no longer part of someone’s life the way you used to be. Like the smoke left behind after a candle is blown out, you get left behind without any explanation.

I wasn’t absent, I was right there with everyone, sitting in class, laughing in the canteen with people around me. On the surface I looked fine. But deep down, I was only waiting. Waiting for one thing.

Tanishka.

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.