Posted on by nikita

The Dimaagi Naxals

row of soldiers with weapons

Disclaimer: I am a proud Indian, and I am not a ‘Dimaagi Naxal’.

In his address on the 80th Independence Day of India, the Prime Minister used the term dimaagi naxal, presumably referring to those intellectual minds and forces that work against the holistic growth of India. And obviously, as expected, repercussions followed. In no time, many across India fell into his rhetorical trap. Koi shak!

A Gujju at heart, we are told farti topi pehri nai levani, which figuratively means don’t let anyone trick you. Nevertheless, without naming anyone, many were tricked by the Gujju PM, and we had senior leaders like P. Chidambaram who proudly claimed to be a dimaagi naxal. 

Most of us know that Naxalism refers to a militant Maoist movement in India that advocates armed struggle to overthrow the state and establish a communist order. I am sure Mr Chidambaram is also well versed with its definition; after all, he served as the Home Minister of India when naxalites still existed in India.

And it’s not just him. Many politicians and non-supporters of the government had their own interpretations, eventually leading to political mudslinging. 

While everyone was pointing at the outside traitor, my mind immediately identified a traitor within my body—the rebellious hormones. 

Based on my research, in a woman’s body, hormones like estrogen, progesterone, testosterone, and many more work for years in harmony with her body, only to seemingly rebel against it as she ages, snailing towards perimenopause and menopause. 

These insurgent hormones start disrupting the body that seems to control them. They fluctuate within her, sometimes drastically, leading to severe anxiety and irritability, much like many in Gen Z. While they are, for obvious reasons, worried about their futures and irritated by the local and global upheaval, many women get irked by something as mundane as thinking about what to prepare for lunch or dinner. 

And I wonder, how come men don’t face such a backlash during andropause? Why don’t they have similar ‘pauses’ in their lives like women after a certain age? 

Disturbed by one more example of inequality, I did some research. Research says many men don’t even realize that their hormones—many of them the same as women’s—interfere in their everyday life. That’s because their hormones vary in amounts and patterns. Their irritation, anger, mood swings, and other symptoms are more about lifestyle than hormones.  

Once I was enlightened, the dimaagi naxal (the result of my fluctuating hormones) within me was struck with an idea. Right now in our country, protests are the new normal, popping up like mushrooms. Why not the women of India rise to a new protest, demanding equality of physical and mental pain for men?

Laughable, of course.

The idea was immediately followed by the realization that such a protest might not gain traction across India. But women can do one thing for sure—begin with creating awareness about male menopause and its symptoms akin to sowing a seed. Scare them with some medical jargon. Hyper-aware them. Podcasts after podcasts on male menopause or late-onset hypogonadism, making them more anxious. Let normal ageing signs worry them. Make them feel that they are victims of some unique changes in their body, thereby putting men and women on an equal pedestal. Dimaagi naxal, of course, because of hormones.

If this kind of protest doesn’t work, women can initiate a fifth wave of feminism, taking inspiration from RaGa’s slogan ‘Smash the patriarchy’ that reverberated at the Chhatron Ki Goonj event in Pune. Surprisingly, the event was exclusively for young women! Why wasn’t it considered relevant for young men?  

Those who got an opportunity to speak from the stage voiced their anger against patriarchy, but no one questioned Mr Gandhi, “Sir, why don’t you begin with smashing the patriarchy by supporting a 33% seat quota for women in Parliament?”

We know the dimaagi kidaa of patriarchy cannot be wiped completely from any society, since the conditioning goes back to eras. Today, in the so-called progressive world, patriarchy is like a sloth; it often stays completely still for long periods to conserve energy, waiting for a predatory moment akin to naxal-like guerrilla attacks. They may not always leave visible physical harm, but they do create a mental dent. True for women and men both. 

Even today, many men in Indian society have not been able to smash the patriarchal concept of mard ko kabhi dard nahi hota—an irony in itself for a manly man. It is this mindset that refrains them from exhibiting their vulnerable, feminine qualities, eventually leading to depression and suicides.

According to the latest official data from the National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB) report, 73.5% of men commit suicide across the age spectrum. And the most common recorded reason is family problems. 

It’s okay to be called sissy sometimes, man. We are all born with masculine and feminine qualities. Explore them like women. Smash the patriarchy.

BTW, shouldn’t women bear a grudge against ‘sissy’ being used as an insult for men?

*****

Brother: Who, according to you, is a dimaagi naxal?
Sister: Let’s leave that question for today. It’s Raksha Bandhan.

HAPPY RAKSHA BANDHAN

Posted on by nikita

Protests, Poribortan, and Paltu Rams

As much as I would like to avoid processed food, I can’t be completely off it. Recently, when I went to buy a packet of puffed lemon rice from a nearby general store I frequently visit, the shopkeeper asked me whether I would be willing to change my preference to the new food time introduced by the famous company. He asked me to try a jhalmuri snack instead. 

‘Oh! Jhalmuri! The one Modiji tasted before paltifying the TMC rule in Bengal?’ I confirmed. But I wasn’t ready for a sudden change in my identity — from a Gujarati surti to a Bengali maanus. Poribortan takes time.  

Walking home, I tumbled into the metaphorical rabbit hole of fantastic thoughts. 

First, I came across a group of angry chameleons. They appeared really upset with humankind, especially the recent Paltu Rams in politics — the ones who defected from their political party for paisa, power and position. How willingly would they change their narrative to suit their political career! 

The reptiles were surprised at humankind’s ability to change colours just as naturally as they did, making it difficult for them to classify them as humans.

Unanimously, the chameleons decided to file a defamation case against the ministers, specifically those who defected from their party. They felt that in the name of freedom, these Paltu Rams are maligning their biological and evolutionary identity. So, the famous chameleon Trumpy, known for its agility to change colours, shouted, Are you with me or with me?, and the sound of cheerful ‘Yay’ reverberated in the hole. 

When I fell deeper into the hole, I saw a small group of cockroaches. They had also gathered for some sort of protest. Eavesdropping on some conversations made me realise that they were discussing India’s current education system. A genuine concern, though. A much-needed poriborton after the NEET paper leak and CBSE controversy.

Suddenly, there was a loud announcement by their leader, who stood on a mound and called himself Tipke. Oh! The same cockroach guy who claimed to have a million followers. But I was surprised to see that only a small percentage of them had turned up for the protest. 

Tipke began with his address to his fellow cockroaches gathered there. ‘Friends, Indians, Gen Z, we demand educational reforms and accountability from our government.’

Mm-hmm.

I could see many cockroaches swiftly running here and there as if they weren’t even aware of what was being said. They seemed unaware of the agenda. Not a fan or follower of cockroaches, I decided to interview a few of them.

One of the youth members told me he was there to demand the resignation of Amit Pradhan, the Minister of Education.

Huh! Amit Pradhan? 

The other cockroach, flaunting his black coat (he said he had come directly from the High Court), told me his bhai, standing next to him in a black coat, would answer the question since he wasn’t aware of the issue at hand. 

Woowww!!! 

Like an enthusiastic young Indian, I approached a group of Gen Z, probably discussing something important. On questioning, one of them belligerently complained about the hacking of EVM machines by the current government in particular states. And the best part was that he even prophesied about the hacking that would happen in Kerala and Tamil Nadu in the next election. 

Uhhm!! 

Finally, I went to a baby cockroach and inquired about the reason for her attending the meeting. Confused, with a fluttering voice, she said she was there to ask the government to stop the war between America and Israel. 

Whaaaattt?? 

Baffled by such responses and the engulfing darkness, I opened the door at the other side of the hole and entered my house. Finally, it was all light and radiant. 

*****

Friend: Be the change you wish to …
Me: Ahha!

Posted on by nikita

Your intention matters. Does it? 

serene beach sunset in huarmey peru

Intentional living. A concept gaining momentum in our fast-paced lives. And rightfully so.

To the uninitiated, Intentional Living, according to the easily approachable baba Google, is about identifying your core values and actively designing your daily life—your time, energy, and resources—to align with those beliefs. It is the practice of moving off “autopilot” and making deliberate choices about who you want to be and how you want to spend your life. 

Since one of my life goals is to live healthily, I’ve been trying to practise this concept so passionately that while eating food, I make a conscious attempt to ensure that each of the misaligned teeth in my jaw gets to chew every morsel I eat. Only then do I allow it to enter my belly. In doing so, sometimes I tire my family that waits for me to finish my meals, so they can quickly move on with their lives. 

Mind you, water also receives a similar treatment. I make sure that the water I sip after food visits every corner of my small mouth, dislodging the debris along my gums and crevices. Only then is it allowed to mix with the food in the belly.

Following Maddy’s (R. Madhavan’s) advice on wellness and health, I drink my food and chew my water.

But even today, when I wear my pair of Kolhapuri chappals, I still can’t digest the fact that the modest, traditional Indian chappals, generally priced between ₹500-₹1,500, were displayed as leather sandals, at around ₹84,000 to ₹1.2 lakh, in the 2025 Milan menswear show by the Italian luxury fashion brand Prada. And the devil wore Kolhapuri without even acknowledging the Indian artisans who are the original creators.

Those in the leadership position should have at least thought through their intentions before designing a sheer fashion heist. Such a cultural appropriation cannot be as discreet and simple as making haldi dudh turmeric latte.  

Inspired by our PM’s aggressive warning, ‘ghar mein ghus kar maarenge’, the nationalists hit Prada left, right, and center through social media trolls. Eventually, the brand made a conscious effort to ethically collaborate with artisans from Maharashtra and Karnataka, thereby expanding India’s reach to global luxury markets.

Markets remind me of the economic inflation driven by global markets, and the PM’s appeal to the nation to practice austerity. Following his example, after some reflection, I decided to reduce the number of vehicles I use from one to zero. On some days, irrespective of an odd-or-even-number date, I walk down the streets to buy (hopefully) unadulterated milk and paneer, watermelons and mangoes that aren’t injected with any toxic chemicals or sweeteners, and vegetables whose price rises like the summer temperature in the city. 

While the heat of the sun is exhausting, equally draining would have been the news of the cancellation of the NEET-UG 2026 exam for aspiring doctors due to the choices of a few corrupt people in the system. Devdutt Pattanaik, the Indian mythologist and author of Escape The Bakasura Trap and many other books, would call these people Bakasura, trapped in the cycle of insatiable hunger—hunger for money? Power?  

Would a timely reflection before leaking the question papers have saved many futures?

That’s the question they should be pondering behind bars. Of course, if they are made to stay there for long.

But for me, nowadays, the question to mull over is: Should I chew hafooz or drink hafooz? 

*****

Me: Can I ask you a question?
Friend: Introspective? Umm … Leave it.

Posted on by nikita

Ye tera ghar ye mera ghar …

view of hillside buildings in shimla

One … two … three … four … the number reached almost twenty-five — almost twenty-five iron nails, used in construction. The nails I was busy picking up with a fridge magnet tied by a fragile sewing thread to one end of a rod. Given the size of my hands — jo kanoon ke haath jitne lambe nahi hain — it was difficult to grab them by bending over the washing area parapet. 

Lo and behold! There weren’t just nails. At the far end, there was a well-woven pacca house, constructed with pieces of rusty binding wire. I didn’t even get a whiff of this plan. It was built right under my nose, under the AC unit. No loose threads, no twigs, no leaves. Nothing. A sheer example of Vikshit Bharat. 

Apparently, without my knowledge, the grey-winged couple, who kept flying around the parapet, possibly scanning the place, finalized one of the chhajjas of my rented flat to build their nest. Lucky them! Neither do they need any legal papers nor any paper money to officiate over any territory, unlike many of us, who spend most of our lives saving money to buy a ghar that could be called mera. 

Like a gardener checking for weeds, the pigeons identified a seemingly safe spot and unanimously decided to lay the foundation of their sweet home. While they had already hammered the nail without much ado, I frantically kept trying to shoo them away by throwing water, only to fail. To my soft ears, their constant gutargoo began to sound like that duet song by Jagjit Singh and Chitra, Ye tera ghar ye mera ghar … 

The nest is not a problem; it is the squalor and the stench that accompany it. 

Every time I tried to dismantle the wires and nails with the same rod, these winged animals would work with more perseverance to assemble them. It seemed that every other day, we were testing each other’s patience and will. Neither of us was ready to give up like Putin and Zelenskyy, who are still at war even after 4 years. (This time I would Epstein from drawing a comparison with Mr Trump.)

But … but … but … The more you try to resist something or someone, the higher the possibility that you will fall for the same person or thing. And I’m as human as you, my readers. 

That’s the sole reason for me to keep coming back to the adamant and obdurate Mr Trump, who has the gumption to denigrate the Supreme Court justices on social media, calling them ‘Fools’ and “Lapdogs’, because for him, what matters is simply bringing back the era of MAGA — Make America Great Again. That’s what he often claims. But isn’t America still the most powerful country?

Is it the dignity of and duty towards the White House he’s worried about, or the profitability of his own house? Quite a debatable question.

But there can’t be any debate on the recent Taliban law regarding the legalization of domestic violence against women and girls, with terms and conditions applied — no broken bones and no open wounds. Sadly, these women are not even safe in their own homes. While world leaders seem to have turned a blind eye to this inhuman law, all eyes were turned on the robotic dog, or Robodog — a Chinese product passed off as Indian —  at the AI Summit back home. Undoubtedly, Indians are jugaadu in every which way. Or maybe, even today, the management of the Galgotia University (I like the name:)) believes in the 1950s Nehruvian slogan — Hindi-Chini Bhai Bhai.

Undoubtedly, Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam — the world is one family — is a good concept to practise, but not at the cost of maligning India’s rising fame. Professor Neha Singh’s fluttering responses to the media about the origin of the Robodog brought me back to the persistent fluttering of pigeons, which are also a part of the concept of Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam. 

I understand that as a part of this kutumb, I need to make more attempts to be empathetic. So, keeping my fingers crossed, I hope these pigeons will find a better place to build a ghar for themselves. 

They just need a good broker.

*****

RaGa: Ma, what happened?
Ma: Son, it’s time for Ghar Wapsi. 

Posted on by nikita

Chai pe charcha

street vendor making traditional indian chai

It wasn’t simply a conversation over a cup of tea, but the charcha was all about the amusing variety of ways people consume a cup of tea. 

For example, let me tell you about a friend of my cousin: he would arrange seven saucers on the dining table and pour tea into each of them. Then he would slurp it from every saucer, starting from 1 through 7. 

Instantly, this anecdote conjured up the image of Tom from my favourite Tom & Jerry cartoon in front of my unblinking eyes. Tom lapping his tongue, relishing what’s on a plate, before getting instigated by his all-time friend and foe, Jerry.

Just as their friendship is full of twists and turns, the real-world alliance of President Trump and his one-time dear friend, the Indian chaiwala, is also not immune to twists and turns. Lately, all his frequent taarif in honour of Mr. Modi seems to have turned into a virulent tariff. 

*****

Taarif karu kya uski jisne tumhe banaya…— an acquaintance who would empty the contents of the cup, the tea, into a thali and let the heat dissipate, thereby cooling it. By this time, she would get her daughter ready for school — dressing her in the school uniform, combing her hair, and preparing her lunchbox. Of course, she would know the difference between a tea that’s gone cold and iced tea. 

Just wondering, what she did with the tea scum? Would she just let it slip down her deprived throat, akin to kids who let bitter medicines glide down their resistant throat, or would she pinch it with her index finger and thumb, a neat pincer grasp, and discard the scum?

Surely, many of us must have come across people who remove tea scum and place it on the rim of a cup or on the side of a saucer. The sight of this waxy residue, stuck to the surface, is quite grotesque, like a ghostly skin on something once appealing. And if the vessels aren’t soaked or washed immediately, the scum gets as stubborn as it can, eventually bearing the brunt of the soapy scrub that is rubbed to and fro over it. 

*****

Scum. 

Sounds so derogatory. Like — ‘Hey! You scum! How dare you float on the surface of my tea! You thin, brown, good-for-nothing!’ 

Take a chill pill! I’m neither being racist nor disparaging. It’s just a vituperative outrage. Nowadays, the tu tadak and offensive language is considered normal, whether it’s satta, samaj, series, or cinema. Swearing seems to be the new vibe. 

Consciously or subconsciously, pejoratives are interwoven into many people’s day-to-day communication just like their staple food. It’s like daal-chawal for some, the absence of which is considered an incomplete meal; while, for others, it could be as soothing as an adruk ki chai.

*****

Chai adrukwali ho ya elaichiwali, no one dared to compete with a person I knew from my adolescent days when it came to drinking piping hot tea. For clarity’s sake, let’s assume that there were four people in a room who were to be served tea. This person would finish his tea before you reach the third person. We felt pity for the tender tissues of his mouth and tongue, and offered our condolences to them. But that’s how he enjoyed having his tea. 

And why just him? My aunt, who would always prefer things that are hot and happening, would cover her cup of tea with a tea coaster after pouring the first installment of tea into a saucer. Once she sips it, relishing every drop of it, she would pour the second portion into the saucer. That’s her style. 

It’s difficult to break the atomic habits she has built over the years, and why would anyone expect her to revise her preferences? After all, she doesn’t have to pay any GST on sipping the tea the way she wants. And, just as I decide what goes into my blog and what doesn’t, she also holds the fundamental right to determine what comes out of her cup.

*****

Journalist: SIR, how did you feel having tea with the ‘dead’ voters from Bihar?
Rahul: As dead as the Indian economy.