Tag: #Articles

In our times—those sepia-tinted decades before love acquired apps, algorithms, and exit clauses—life unfolded at a leisurely, almost indulgent pace. A boy’s heart, like his bicycle, travelled freely through the neighbourhood. There was usually one girlfriend nearby, one at school, a quiet admiration for the best friend’s little sister, a sports girl who ran faster than your courage, and sometimes, mysteriously, a girl who seemed to appear from nowhere and decided—quite inconveniently—to fancy you.

That, more or less, was the first twenty-five years of life. After which came marriage:

a well-intentioned alliance arranged by elders, solemnly endorsed by family elders and sealed with the approving nod of Pandit ji.

Romance bowed respectfully to tradition, and life moved on—sometimes gracefully, sometimes with a limp, but always forward.

What we were experiencing along the way were not random emotions, but different chapters of love, each with its own grammar and music.

🌱Childhood Love — Puppy Love

“Puppy love” was innocent, largely platonic, and driven by curiosity rather than chemistry. It had no agenda and no deadlines. It thrived on shared laughter, stolen glances, and the thrilling possibility of holding hands without anyone noticing. Its charm lay in its lightness—love without possession, affection without fear.

“Bachpan ki mohabbat ko dil se na juda karna,

Jab yaad meri aaye milne ki dua karna..”

(Do not sever the love born in childhood, keep it close forever in your heart,

And when my memory stirs within your soul, pray for the moment we may meet again)

We didn’t know then that some loves are meant to remain exactly where they begin—in memory, untouched by reality.

💘Infatuation

Then came infatuation:

a hormonal uprising masquerading as destiny.

It was intense, irrational, and often spectacularly inconvenient. Logic took a long holiday, and obsession applied for permanent residence. Every song felt autobiographical; every setback felt like Greek tragedy.

Infatuation is love in italics—dramatic, breathless, and exhausting.

💓Romantic and Passionate Love

This phase brought intimacy, shared dreams, and the dangerous joy of planning a future together. This was love that spoke of values, compatibility, and “where do we see ourselves in five years?” It was earnest, idealistic, and hopeful.

This is where many believed love would remain forever—unchanged, unsullied, and undefeated by time.

🥰Pragmatic Love and Enduring Love

Life, however, has a remarkable sense of humour.

Pragmatic love arrived quietly, often after marriage, disguised as routine. It was the love of shared silences, glances that replaced paragraphs, and companionship through medical reports and minor crises. It was less poetic but deeply reassuring.

Enduring love followed—patient, seasoned, and resilient. It did not demand fireworks; it appreciated warm lamps. It knew that staying mattered more than sweeping declarations.

💙Transcendent Love

And then, for some fortunate souls, love evolved into something expansive and selfless—transcendent love.

It shed ownership and expectation, becoming universal, empathetic, and deeply humane. It wished well without wanting anything in return.

🔺The Changing Shape of Love

The Triangle of Love—comprising Intimacy, Passion, and Commitment—does not remain static.

In adolescence, the triangle leans heavily on passion, sometimes at the expense of sense. In later years, the triangle grows wide and sturdy with intimacy and commitment, while passion smiles indulgently from a corner, content but quieter.

Love matures, just as we do—less dramatic, more durable.

🌷Chalo Ek Baar Phir Se Ajnabi Ban Jayein Hum Dono

(Come, let us once again become strangers)

Transitioning from a youthful love to an elder-approved arranged marriage is often delicate. Ideally, it requires closure, honesty, and grace.

In reality, events sometimes move too fast, leaving no time for a proper goodbye. The regret of an unspoken farewell can linger stubbornly, like an unfinished sentence.

In such moments, one takes comfort in the iconic line from Eric Segal’s Love Story:

“Love means never having to say sorry.”

Perhaps it is less a justification and more a balm.

🌱Love, Memory, and Old Age

As one grows older, memory becomes a private cinema. Faces, moments, and voices drift across the mind’s screen. There is a fine line between nourishing nostalgia and disturbing the peace of present lives—especially when those past loves now belong to entirely different worlds.

Fairness in old age means restraint. It means ensuring that curiosity does not cause anxiety—to them or to the spouse who has shared your everyday life. Today’s world offers quiet reassurances.

Mutual friends, distant updates, and gentle knowing often suffice.

Sometimes, knowing they are well—surrounded by grandchildren, absorbed in their own stories—is enough. Speaking becomes unnecessary. After all, the girl you once knew is now a woman shaped by decades of joys and sorrows that have nothing to do with you.

The ultimate act of love is often leaving someone in peace.

🥀Rang Dil Ki Dhadkan

My advice is disarmingly simple.

Whenever nostalgia knocks too insistently, listen to this song:

“Rang dil ki dhadkan bhi lati to hogi,

Yaad unko meri bhi aati to hogi…”

(Surely the colour of my heartbeat must reach them,

Surely my memory must visit their souls.)

And then—return home.

Sing, smile, and perhaps even dance with the partner who has walked beside you through the unglamorous miracles of daily life:

“Aey meri johara jafi tu abhi tak hai haseen aur main jawaan..”

(O my radiant jewel, my precious embrace, you are still as beautiful as ever, and I remain youthful in your love.)

Because love, in its highest wisdom, teaches us this:

Some people are meant to be remembered with tenderness,

but only one is meant to be held while the music plays.🔸

When I look back at my life, I find four achievements standing in a neat little row, like well-behaved schoolboys waiting for inspection. First, I was selected as a National Science Talent Scholar — a title that sounded so grand that even my mirror began to treat me with a little extra respect. Second, I joined the State Bank of India as a Probationary Officer, which, in polite society, is considered a respectable way of announcing that one has arrived, even if one isn’t entirely sure where. Third, I qualified as a Behavioural Science Trainer, which meant I finally understood why people behave the way they do — including why they persist in behaving that way despite knowing better. And fourth, I was certified as a Laughter Yoga Master Trainer, which officially authorised me to laugh at life before life could laugh at me.

Any one of these achievements, taken seriously and pursued with monastic devotion, could have taken me much further than where I now find myself. But, like a man who owns four fine umbrellas and still manages to get drenched, I somehow mastered the art of not quite going all the way with any of them. It appears I subscribed, unconsciously and quite enthusiastically, to the philosophy that hard work defeats talent when talent doesn’t feel like working very hard.

There are days when I suspect that the poet John Tottenham had me in mind when he penned his little masterpiece on the tragedy of potential. The poem speaks of recognising the ideal, admiring it from a comfortable distance, and then sensibly deciding to admire one’s own imagined capabilities instead of the sweaty business of realising them. It is a poem about basking instead of striving, about settling for less while applauding oneself for knowing one could do more — a slow, dignified resignation to failure, cushioned by the velvet pillows of unrealised promise. If potential had a graveyard, my name would be engraved on a particularly well-maintained tombstone.

And yet, here I am — a curious hybrid of ambition and amusement, of insight and inertia. Through incessant efforts, reflective wanderings, and a career that zigzagged like a drunken butterfly, I feel I have acquired enough wisdom to contribute meaningfully to the happiness and well-being of mankind. I possess tools, techniques, perspectives, and even a certified licence to spread laughter. In short, I am all dressed up and nowhere to go.

Perhaps that is the final joke life has played on me — or perhaps the joke I have played on life. I stand on a modest heap of achievements, gazing wistfully at the mountains I might have climbed, consoling myself with the thought that at least I enjoyed the view along the way. If nothing else, I have learnt this: talent is a charming fellow, but without the company of hard work, he becomes an unreliable houseguest who eats all your snacks, praises your potential, and leaves before doing any real work.

So I smile, adjust my philosophical waistcoat, and carry on. After all, if I cannot yet save the world, I can at least make it chuckle — and perhaps, one day, prod it gently into thinking. And who knows? Even a man basking in the glory of potential may yet rise, dust himself off, and decide that it is time to stop rehearsing life and finally step onto the stage.🔸

Watching the PSLV-C62 mission encounter a snag in its third stage is deeply saddening, especially coming so soon after the C61 setback in May 2025. To the incredible scientists at ISRO, we feel your pain. We know how many years of sleepless nights and precision engineering go into every single second of flight.

​While today is difficult, it is important to remember why the PSLV is called the “Workhorse of ISRO”:

✨​A legendary track record with a 90%+ success rate over 60+ missions.

✨​The backbone of global milestones like Chandrayaan-1, the Mars Orbiter Mission (Mangalyaan), and the world-record launch of 104 satellites in a single go.

​Space is hard. It is perhaps the most unforgiving frontier known to man. In 2025 alone, the global space community saw over a dozen orbital failures, including setbacks for SpaceX’s Starship, Japan’s H3, and private missions from China and South Korea. Even the most seasoned players face these “occupational hazards”—it is the price of pushing the boundaries of what’s possible.

​ISRO, you have taught us that failure is not the opposite of success, but a stepping stone toward it. We have no doubt you will analyze the data, fix the glitch, and come back stronger, just as you always have.

​We are with you, today and for every countdown to come. Carry on, Team ISRO! The stars are still waiting. 🌌✨

 ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

​#ISRO #PSLVC62 #SpaceExploration #IndiaInSpace #StayStrongISRO #ScienceAndTechnology #ProudI ndian #Sriharikota #WorkhorsePSLV

If the fragrance of an evening lingers till the next morning and leaves you quietly happy and grateful, you know you have been to a good place.

Last evening, my wife and I were invited to a dance programme where school-going children, radiant in bright costumes and complete classical make-up, presented Kathak, Odissi and Bharatanatyam with touching sincerity. The atmosphere was ethereal, soaked in positivity and bliss. Their movements, gestures, mudras, bhava-bhangima, abhinaya and nritya may not have been flawless, yet they were utterly adorable, brimming with innocence and promise, transporting us to a space beyond everyday reality. It was heartening to see dedicated teachers nurturing young minds in the true guru-shishya tradition, supported by proud parents and silent promoters who create platforms for raw talent without seeking returns. Having witnessed legends like Sitara Devi, Sonal Mansingh, Mallika Sarabhai, Pandit Durga Lal and Malavika Sarukkai live on stage, I can still say that the joy and fulfilment we felt last evening ran deeper. It rekindled a quiet confidence that our classical dance traditions are in safe, sensitive and capable hands.

 

#IndianClassicalDance #Kathak #Odissi #Bharatanatyam #GuruShishyaParampara #ArtAndCulture #DanceForTheFuture #BlissfulEvening

Hemant Bawankar

☆ Article ☆ The Subtle Art of Overeating Politely – Vikram Chandrashekhar ☆ Compiled by – Hemant Bawankar ☆

A hotel’s complimentary buffet breakfast is the closest thing to a polite catastrophe. At 6:30 a.m., grown adults who normally need three alarms to wake up are already hovering outside the restaurant door like it’s a flash sale. The moment it opens, civilisation leaves the room. People surge forward with the desperation of a species that fears the poori might run away.

The continental section sits there, lonely, untouched. Croissants looking depressed, bread slices drying in the AC because the true desi minimalists walk past them like past bad memories. Bread and eggs? Why again? They station themselves at the dosa counter with the same intensity that they used for land disputes.

Meanwhile the Full-Hog Overachievers begin their day’s construction work: plate upon plate stacked with paratha touching pasta touching pineapple touching ideological confusion. They aren’t here to eat; they are here to economically punish the hotel for daring to include breakfast in the tariff. A subset of them says “nothing is good” before they go for a second helping. Another guest drinks nine cups of masala chai and wonders aloud why his BP is rising. The rest of us know.

Then come the Protein Bros, those majestic creatures whose arms enter the buffet three seconds before the rest of their body. They demand fourteen egg whites and bargain like they’re at Chickpet. One bro even pours whey powder into sambar, declaring it a fusion dish. The chef’s soul quietly exits his body.

Nearby, a diabetic guest requests a strict egg-white omelette while simultaneously dual-wielding mango and pineapple juice like nutritional nunchucks. Their glucose meter files for voluntary retirement. And just when the buffet thinks it has seen enough, the rich sleepers float in at 11:20 a.m.Breakfast long gone, even the toaster unplugged. But time, to them, is a rumour. They demand pancakes from the void, and hotel staff obey with the resignation of civil servants during budget season. The order a la carte..

The business traveller meanwhile is on Day four and has a serving of toast–fried egg–coffee déjà vu. He pockets bananas like he’s smuggling state secrets, sips coffee with dead eyes, and silently wonders when he last felt joy. Children, on the other hand, are pure chaos wrapped in sugar.They are charging at waffles, drowning them in chocolate syrup, and rejecting anything that looks remotely like nutrition. The hotel staff steps aside as they sprint past, muffins in both hands like victorious gladiators. Their moms are trying to feed them something they detest. The dads overlook this event…

Uncles are the true apex predators: poori, dosa soaked in ghee, pongal the size of a meteor, five cups of chai, and then the inevitable announcement “I eat very light these days.”

Fitness Moms interrogate the buffet like they’re cracking a terror cell: “Which oil? Which farm? What breed of almond?” And after all this detective work, they consume three papaya cubes and radiate smug wellness.

Foreign tourists wander around in innocent confusion, eating idli with jam, mixing chutney with muesli, sipping sambar like broth until suddenly their tongue goes numb and they realise India has entered their bloodstream.

The lonely cereal guy sits surrounded by 800 calories of joy and chooses cornflakes anyway, crunching like he’s punishing himself for existing.

Somewhere, an influencer couple rearranges that poori for 40 minutes, taking photos from all angles. By the time they finish, the poori has the emotional stability of a punctured balloon. Nearby, professional buffet looters stuff muffins into handbags, slip bread rolls into jacket pockets, and walk out rustling like walking vegetable markets.

And through all of this, someone always makes an impossible request from masala cornflakes, gluten-free poha to a sugar-free gulab jamun while the staff stares into the horizon questioning every life choice.

A complimentary buffet breakfast is not nourishment. It is revenge, it is childhood trauma, it is class struggle, it is comedy, it is tragedy, it is a deeply personal confrontation with carbs.

It is the Olympics of Paisa Vasool. And after the dust settles, after the plates are cleared, after the last banana is smuggled away, everyone makes the same bold declaration:

“Tomorrow, I’ll eat light.”

And of course, as we leave, all of us are already telling the same lie to ourselves, the oldest lie in the history of complimentary breakfasts:

Tomorrow, we’ll behave better.

Tomorrow arrives.

We won’t.

But it’s sweet that we believe it.

****

Credits: Vikram Chandrashekhar (as posted on X)

Compiled by –  Mr Hemant Bawankar

Pune 

The Free Trade Agreement signed between India and New Zealand is a welcome and timely step. On balance, the agreement appears to tilt in India’s favour. Goods exported from India will now be able to enter New Zealand without customs duty, and our students and workers have been granted several meaningful relaxations in visa conditions. In addition, New Zealand has committed to investing in India, which strengthens the long-term economic partnership between the two countries.

However, there is one aspect that deserves a closer look. India has imposed relatively strict conditions on certain New Zealand products, which, frankly, seems somewhat unfair. What is more surprising is that the New Zealand government has accepted these terms. High tariffs have been retained on items such as milk, cheese, and butter. Even Manuka honey — regarded globally as one of the finest — continues to attract duties.

If there are Indian consumers who can afford these premium products, they should be allowed to benefit from fair pricing and wider choice. A trade agreement, after all, must serve the interests of both nations and their consumers. It should be a true win–win arrangement, not one that favours only one side.

Balanced trade builds trust, deepens relationships, and ultimately benefits people on both sides of the table.

 #FreeTradeAgreement #India #NewZealand

भारत द्वारा न्यूज़ीलैंड के साथ किया गया फ्री ट्रेड एग्रीमेंट स्वागत योग्य है। इस करार का पलड़ा हमारी ओर झुका हुआ है। भारत से सब समान अब बिना ड्यूटी के न्यूज़ीलैंड जा सकेगा। साथ ही, हमारे छात्रों और वर्कर्स को वीज़ा शर्तों में अनेक लाभ दिए गए हैं। इसके अलावा न्यूज़ीलैंड हमारे देश में निवेश भी करेगा।

लेकिन हमने उनपर कुछ कठोर शर्तें लगाई हैं, जो शायद उचित नहीं हैं। यह बात और है कि इन्हें वहां की सरकार ने स्वीकार किया है, जैसे दूध, चीज़ और मक्खन पर टैरिफ। वहां का मानुका हनी (शहद) विश्व में सर्वश्रेष्ठ माना जाता है। उस पर भी टैरिफ नहीं लगना चाहिए।

देश के उपभोक्ता जो इन प्रोडक्ट्स को अफोर्ड कर सकते हैं, उन्हें इसका लाभ मिलना चाहिए। कोई भी ट्रेड एग्रीमेंट दोनों देशों के लिए और उनके उपभोक्ताओं के लिए विन-विन समझौता होना चाहिए, न कि इकतरफा।

#FreeTradeAgreement #India #NewZealand