In Be Better, Live Better, Dr Hansaji Yogendra explores a powerful idea: that true happiness doesn’t come from chasing more, but from living in greater harmony with ourselves, with others and with life itself. 

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If you look closely enough, you will see that the universe is not a chaotic mess held together by chance. It is precise. Measured. Alive in its own way. It has its own survival instincts.

We often speak of evolution as a biological process. But existence itself evolves. The entire cosmos, from the tiniest particle to the largest galaxy, functions with remarkable balance. What continues to exist is that which fits into this larger harmony. What disturbs it fades.

Science has long pointed to something mysterious: the fine-tuning of the universe. If even one of the fundamental laws or constants of physics were altered just slightly, life could not exist. In fact, not even matter as we know it could hold together. There is a balance to everything.

It is deeply aligned with survival—not just for individual forms, but for the whole. And in this system, only what supports the balance, what adds to the stability of the whole, is allowed to stay. Everything else is either absorbed, transformed or dissolved. That is why what survives in this universe is not the strongest nor the fastest, but the most attuned.

Even destruction, when it happens, serves a purpose. Black holes consume, but in doing so, they also recycle. Supernovas explode, but in their death, they birth new elements that make life possible. The universe is not wasting anything. It is always, somehow, balancing itself.

So when we speak of stability, sustainability or harmony, we are not speaking in moral terms. We are speaking in universal terms. These are not human values. These are cosmic principles. The universe does not run on good or bad. It runs on what works.

And perhaps the real wonder is this: that we, as tiny fragments of this great whole, can even begin to sense this intelligence. Maybe our own longing for balance is not separate from the universe. Maybe it is the universe recognizing itself through us.

Among all that exists in the universe, living beings hold a unique position. Stones may rest, stars may burn, but it is life that breathes, grows, adapts and chooses.

We, as living beings, are not merely drifting particles in space. We are active participants in the unfolding of existence. But here is the truth: only those who contribute to that balance are sustained and supported by the universe. Like a tree that gives shade, a bee that pollinates or a mother who nurtures her young, when life supports life, it is preserved. It is allowed to thrive.

Imagine this universe as a vast ecosystem, or even a great company, if you will. In any thriving organization, those who add value, who contribute to growth and stability, are cherished. They are given more responsibility, more freedom, more opportunity. Those who don’t— who disrupt, consume or pull away from the collective purpose—are slowly phased out.

The universe works the same way.

It retains that which contributes to its harmony. It nurtures beings—plants, animals, humans—who participate in the symphony of balance. A forest that heals the earth will flourish. An animal that keeps an ecosystem in check will be preserved by nature. And a human who lives not just for personal gain but also in service of life, of growth and of others’ well-being will be supported by unseen hands.

In the Indian tradition, this principle is known as Dharma. It is not religion. It is not a duty imposed from outside. It is the inner alignment of a living being with the cosmic need. Dharma is that which holds, that which sustains. When a being—human or otherwise—functions in accordance with their dharma, the universe has a place for them. They are needed. They are upheld.

But when a life form becomes parasitic, when it consumes but does not contribute, takes but does not nurture, then slowly, over time, it loses its place in the larger scheme. Its presence becomes irrelevant to the grand balance, and nature lets it go.

So ask yourself: What does the universe want from me as a living being? It wants you to participate. To grow in a way that helps others grow. To live in a way that adds to the harmony. To think, speak and act in ways that stabilize, not disturb, this existence.

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Root, Leaf, Fire by Luke Coutinho and Sheeba De Souza reimagines wellness as a way of living—one that begins with mindful eating and extends to sleep, movement, emotional balance and the small daily rituals that bring meaning, nourishment and joy to everyday life.

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Root is where everything begins. It is the quiet ground beneath everything else: the way we sleep, the way we eat and the small rituals that steady us when life feels fast. Root is not about perfection; it is about rhythm and steadiness. These are the practices that hold us together, the ones we return to, no matter what.

When we pay attention to the foundations of food, rest, movement and stillness, life feels more balanced, cooking becomes joyful and health feels less like a struggle and more like a natural flow. This part of the book is about those roots: the choices that are simple but powerful and the reminders that balance is built one small step at a time.

Health Philosophy

Food is fuel, but it should also be enjoyable and satisfying. Eating simply with intention and without guilt lets us enjoy food as both nourishment and joy. Beautiful meals matter, not because they are perfect, but because they encourage us to slow down and savour. Chocolate can sit alongside lentils and greens. Health is about balance.

True wellness isn’t built on strict rules. It grows out of real meals, simple movement, meaningful rest and listening inward. Food also carries the energy we put into it, the joy of chopping fresh herbs, the calm of stirring a pot slowly and the laughter shared at a table. Cooking is not only about nutrition; it is about sharing warmth, creativity and good energy with the people we love.

Health philosophy is not a rigid system to follow. It is a remembering: that our bodies know, that our minds and guts are deeply connected and that food can be nourishing, healing and full of positive energy.

The Art of Eating Well

Eating well starts with simplicity. Seasonal, local, unprocessed foods eaten slowly and with joy form the foundation of a balanced diet. It isn’t about strict rules or tracking macros; it is about noticing how food makes us feel, whether light yet satisfied, nourished and content or energized. That sense of calm and clarity after a meal is what proper nourishment is all about.

In daily life, food doesn’t need to be complicated to nourish; it only needs to feel alive. At home, this is evident in different ways: one child leaning towards comfort and familiarity, while another is eager to explore something new. Similarly, each of us finds our own rhythm with food. What matters isn’t perfection but connection: listening, adjusting and finding joy in what resonates with us. A balanced plate often holds:

• A clean protein such as grilled tofu, paneer, moong chilla, lentils, eggs or fish

• Vegetables in at least two textures, raw and cooked, roasted and fresh, with something for crunch

• A wholesome carb such as sweet potato, millet, sourdough, red rice or ragi

• Good fats from avocado, seeds, nuts, ghee, cold-pressed oils or coconut

• A touch of acidity, lemon, fermented pickle, mustard seeds or a swirl of chutney

• And always, a touch of joy: a drizzle of something unexpected, a burst of colour or a garnish that makes the plate feel alive

Eating well isn’t about following a fixed system. It’s about creating meals that leave you feeling calm, clear and satisfied.

Luke’s Perspective

When it comes to eating, the fundamentals still apply. Choose seasonal and local foods because they are at their highest nutritional quality and easier for your body to digest. Keep meals simple and unprocessed. Eating slowly, chewing thoroughly and paying attention to your food can improve digestion, boost nutrient absorption and naturally reduce issues like bloating or overeating.

A balanced plate doesn’t have to be complicated. If you include lean protein, vegetables with different textures and colours, good-quality fats, wholesome carbs and a small amount of natural acidity, you’ve already met your body’s needs. Consistency in doing this daily matters more than perfection.

Over the years, I’ve seen people transform simply by following these basics. It’s not about dieting or strict food rules. It’s about respecting food, eating mindfully and allowing simple, steady habits to work in your favour.

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If you’ve ever wondered whether travel can truly change a person, Shivya Nath in Rootless and Restless offers a compelling answer through stories of friendship, adventure and discovery from some of the world’s most remote corners. 

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Perhaps the night I remember most fondly in Isfahan was our last one, when Amir’s mother and brother whipped up a vegan Persian feast for us, featuring the ubiquitous and scrumptious ghormeh sabzi, kebabs made from sprouted wheat and a sumptuous Instagram-inspired gooey chocolate cake. We sat at the dinner table till late at night, chatting about life in Iran and India and everything beyond. By now, I had noticed many times that Iranians of Amir’s mother’s generation, even though their words betrayed them, had a pervasive sadness in their eyes. Having experienced a much freer life in Iran before the revolution, these times must feel like wounds that never healed.

She didn’t talk a lot that night, so I was surprised to see her change the subject and say how much she loved Bollywood music. Could we play one of our favourite songs for her? I chose the sombre and somewhat apt ‘Kal Ho Naa Ho’ (a modern Bollywood classic on the transient nature of life) on my phone, but she said it was too dull. Could we play something upbeat? Well, the only upbeat Bollywood song I could find on my phone was ‘London Thumakda’ from the film Queen! As the late Labh Janjua’s voice bellowed on my phone speaker, the mood changed. ‘Angrezi padhdi, ghit-pit tu kardi . . .’ She got up, turned off the bright lights and let her body follow the beat. Soon, she was dancing with a fervour that spread through all of us. We danced together with careless abandon, to song after exuberant Bollywood song, like friends reunited aft er a long separation. What a night it was.

In his book Th e Discovery of India, Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s former Prime Minister, quotes an Iranian scholar:

‘The Iranians and Indians are like two brothers who, according to a Persian legend, had got separated from each other, one going east and the other to the west. Th eir families had forgotten all about each other and the only thing that remained in common between them were the snatches of a few old tunes which they still played on their flutes. It was through these tunes that, after a lapse of centuries, the two families recognised each other and were reunited.’

That night, it felt as though we had recognized the tunes in each other’s hearts.

We were in no mood to bid goodbye to our new-found friends in Isfahan, but our visa was running out. During our after-dinner readings with Ali, I had once asked him if I could buy a scroll or piece of Persian poetry or calligraphy as a keepsake. Something that captured a line or two of the words he’d read to us. He promised to look into it, but as the days went by, he seemed to have forgotten the ask, and I did too. On our last day however, he surprised me with a scroll of Persian poetry. It was Saadi’s words, and they read:

Shab o rooz raft bayad, qadam-e ravandegan ra

Cho be ma’mani residee, degarat safar nabashad

Th e traveller’s footsteps should always be on the go

So if you reach a shelter, you’re not a traveller, no more

With no home to hang it, I carried it in a folder in my backpack for some years, a reminder not just of the wanderer’s ways, but of the howzkhaneh life we had shared with our friends in Iran. Ironically, when the pandemic hit, and I found myself confi ned to one place, I had the words framed and hung on my wall. A traveller no more.

And so, carrying on in the wanderer’s ways, we once again embraced heartache-fi lled goodbyes and long bus journeys. We only had a few more days to make it to the Armenian border.

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Discovery of New India by Aakar Patel (PenPencilDraw) is a sharp and accessible graphic novel that explores Indian politics, governance, nationalism, freedom and public policy through the journey of two young people from vastly different worlds.

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Through the story of Momo and Coco, Ambika Agarwal in Out of the Nest turns modern parenting into an emotionally rich and surprisingly reflective story about control, trust and emotional safety.

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High Above the Jungle

High up in the trees, far above the jungle floor, there was a wide branch. And on that branch sat two nests.

They sat near each other, but each had its own space. They shared the same sky, the same tree, the same branch. But inside, they felt worlds apart.

In Nest A, everything was quiet. Still. Careful.

This was the home of Momo, a small bird with soft feathers and thoughtful eyes. Momo didn’t talk much. He watched. He listened. He thought deeply, even when no one asked him to.

His parents, Paul and Piku, had built this nest with great care. Every twig had been picked for strength. Every wall was high. The floor was woven tight and smooth, pressed down to avoid cracks. It didn’t wobble. It didn’t shift.

It was made to be safe. And safe meant strong. Strong meant precise.

Paul believed in safety. He believed in order.

Each morning, he stood at the edge of the nest like a soldier, tall and still, eyes scanning the sky. Not because he feared the sky . . . but because he feared what could happen if he stopped watching, he felt it was his job to watch, to protect.

His feathers were always tidy. His eyes didn’t miss a thing. He didn’t smile much. He wasn’t cold. Just serious.

Because to Paul, love meant keeping your family safe.

And keeping them safe meant being in control. Inside the nest, Piku moved with a quiet rush. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t bark orders. But she never stopped moving.

She smoothed corners again and again, even when they were already neat. She rearranged berries in small piles, only to move them back. Her wings fluttered often, small and unsure, like whispers. She cleaned. She adjusted. She checked. Then started over. And over again.

She wasn’t angry.

She wasn’t loud.

She was afraid of getting it wrong.

And the only way she knew how to love was by fixing things. Fixing made her feel needed. And being needed made her feel calm.

In the middle of the nest, Momo lay quietly, curled into himself. He was already awake. But he didn’t move.

He didn’t stretch his wings like some young birds do at sunrise. He just stayed still.

Not because he was lazy. Not because he was sleepy. But because he was waiting.

In Nest A, the day never began from inside you.

It always began when someone else said, ‘Start.’

Across the same branch, another sound floated in the air—carefree, bright, full of laughter.

Nest B was awake too.

This was the home of Coco, a small bird with bright eyes and restless wings. Coco moved before he thought, but he was deeply kind and empathetic, always noticing how things felt for himself and for others. He laughed easily and sensed when others didn’t. He explored the world with his whole body and an open heart, as if every moment was an invitation, not just to play, but to understand and connect.

His parents, Ray and Raina, had built their nest differently.

Ray believed in trust. Not control.

Each morning, he watched Coco with an easy smile.

To Ray, love meant letting him stumble. Letting him learn where his own wings could take him.

Raina believed in listening. Not just to words, but to pauses, to shifts, to the quiet between moments.

The way she knew how to love was by noticing. Noticing helped Coco feel understood. And when Coco felt understood, Raina felt calm.

It showed in the way their mornings unfolded. Coco was spinning in circles, laughing loudly, his wings flapping out of rhythm. His movements were not graceful. But they were full of joy. He looked like a little puff of wind, tumbling without a care.

‘One more spin before breakfast!’ called Ray, his father, laughing with him.

‘Easy now, feel your balance, little feather!’ added Raina, his mother, with a voice like a song.

But she didn’t rush to stop him. She didn’t grip his wing. Her words were soft, like a gentle cushion instead of a wall.

There was no hurry in Nest B.

No sharp orders.

Just warmth, and space, and time to be yourself.

Their nest wasn’t perfectly shaped. The twigs poked out a little. The edges weren’t even. But it felt like a place where things could grow.

Something across the branch caught Momo’s eye.

Momo turned his head, just a little, peeking through a small space in the wall of his nest.

He saw Coco spinning.

He saw Raina smiling.

He had seen this many times before.

And as always, a small flutter rose in his chest, light and strange, almost like a wing wanting to stretch. He didn’t know the word for it. But he felt it, often.

And as always, he tucked the feeling back inside and looked away.

‘Momo,’ Paul called, his voice steady. ‘Time to get up.’

Momo sat up quickly. His feathers were messy from sleep. He tried to fix them with one wing. But Paul reached over first, brushing them down.

‘Posture,’ he said. ‘Discipline starts with the body.’

Momo nodded. He didn’t ask why. He never did. He just followed. Because in Nest A, getting it wrong meant repeating the drill.

And getting it right meant peace.

Outside, both nests still looked the same. Two shapes on the same branch. Two homes under the same sky.

Inside, two different mornings had begun.

And mornings don’t always tell the whole story.

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