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Festivals That Belonged to Everyone: When Eid, Diwali, and Holi Had No Borders In the tightly knit fabric of the chawl or the bustling slum colony, there was a beautiful, unspoken rule about festivals: they belonged to everyone. There were no invitations, because invitations imply a boundary between host and guest. In our world, there were no guests—only family. The beauty of growing up in a diverse, mixed community was that our festival calendar was impossibly rich. We didn't just wait for "our" festival; we eagerly anticipated them all. And in that anticipation, we learned something profound: joy multiplies when it is shared. The Sweetness of Eid Eid morning in a mixed neighbourhood had a distinct flavour. The aroma of sheer khorma (sweet vermicelli) and succulent biryani would waft through the air, escaping the narrow kitchen windows and inviting itself into every nostril on the block. As Hindu children, we didn't wait for an invitation. We simply followed our nose...

The Ordinary Magic: When Sharing Wasn't Special, It Was Just Normal There is a strange phenomenon that happens when we look back at our childhoods in the chawls and slums. We describe moments of immense generosity and kindness, and yet, to us, they don't feel like sacrifices or grand gestures. They feel... ordinary. Because they were. Sharing water, food, festivals, and laughter wasn't a "community initiative" or a "charity drive." It was just how Tuesday worked. It was the default setting of life. And perhaps that is the most beautiful part of it all—it felt normal, not special. The Tap That United Us In the old chawls, the water tap was a great equalizer. It wasn't a private utility; it was a social hub. We would line up with our buckets, grumbling about the morning chill, but also sharing the latest gossip. If someone's bucket was filled out of turn because they were late for work, nobody called it an "act of kindness." It was just t...

The Classroom Without Walls: How Living Together Taught Us Real Unity In an age where we preach tolerance through textbooks and preach harmony through hashtags, there is a generation that looks back and smiles. We didn't learn unity in a classroom. We didn't chant slogans about brotherhood during a school assembly and call it a day. We learned it the only way it truly sticks—by living it. For those of us who grew up in the crowded chawls, mixed neighbourhoods, or close-knit slum colonies, unity wasn't a lesson; it was the atmosphere. It wasn't written on a placard; it was written in the way we shared a glass of water on a hot afternoon, regardless of who drew it from the well. The Unspoken Curriculum Think about your childhood. Did anyone ever sit you down and say, "You must respect all religions"? Probably not. But you learned it anyway. You learned it when you saved the best part of your thali for your friend who was fasting for Ramzan. You learned it when y...

Walls of Home, Not Hostility: When Diversity Was Our Greatest Strength In the narrow bylanes of the old neighbourhoods and the stacked balconies of the chawls, India didn't just exist on a map; it lived and breathed in every corridor. We grew up in a beautiful, chaotic melting pot where religion, region, and language swirled around us like the colours of Holi. And the most beautiful part? They never became walls. We didn't have playdates that sorted children by community. We had street cricket where the team was chosen based on who could hit the ball farthest, not which god they prayed to. The boy celebrating Eid one day was the same boy saving a spot for his friend during the Ganesh immersion procession the next. Diversity wasn't a topic for a seminar; it was the texture of our everyday life. The Many Flavours of Friendship Our homes were a culinary map of India. If you grew up in a diverse neighbourhood, your taste buds were probably more secular than any political slogan...

The Strange Talent of Hatred: A Masterclass in Performing Disgust Without Saying a Word Oh, darling, gather round for today’s TED Talk nobody asked for: How to Hate Like a Pro. Forget actual talent, skill, or basic human decency—these artistes have elevated performative loathing to an Olympic sport. They won’t meet your eyes (too pure, apparently), but they’ll make damn sure you feel the burn. A strategic spit on the road? Check. Sudden neck-crane away from your face like you’re contagious plutonium? Double check. And the pièce de résistance: separating your plate, cup, and spoon like they’re radioactive relics from Chernobyl. Because nothing says “I’m spiritually superior” quite like treating cutlery like it needs a caste certificate. Bravo. Standing ovation. Someone get these legends a Grammy for Best Supporting Bigot in a Daily Ritual. The irony? These same paragons of purity worship at the altar of caste, colour, food taboos, and fashion police. “Oh no, your shirt is the wrong shad...

The Stories We Tell Ourselves: Why Assumptions Are the Real Problem Have you ever been upset by something, only to find out later that you completely misunderstood the situation? You felt ignored—but they were dealing with a family emergency. You felt disrespected—but they were actually trying to pay you a compliment that came out wrong. You felt excluded—but the invitation simply got lost in the chaos of life. Sometimes the problem is not what happened—but what we assumed happened. The Mind's Shortcut Our brains are wired for efficiency. When we encounter a situation with missing information, we fill in the blanks automatically. We create a story that makes sense of the discomfort. The problem? The story is usually wrong. And worse, it is usually negative. We assume the worst intentions because, on some level, it feels like protecting ourselves. But this "protection" comes at a cost. It builds walls where bridges could have stood. The Three-Step Antidote The next time yo...