It has become something of a fashion to dismiss Nehru. Yet I suspect that very few who do so have read, or will ever read, The Discovery of India. Having read it myself, I can say it is a phenomenal piece of writing. Jawaharlal Nehru wrote the book while imprisoned in Ahmednagar Fort, working with only the limited resources available to him in jail. Knowing this makes the experience of reading it even more remarkable. I read the book very recently. However, I had watched the television series Bharat Ek Khoj by Shyam Benegal long ago, which is based on it. Even then, some parts felt extraordinary.

In the first 68 pages, Nehru tells us why he is telling the story of India. When someone takes 68 pages to explain the why, it shows how important it is for him to define his position on India, both for himself and for the world. Nehru wrote:

What is my inheritance? To what am I an heir? To all that humanity has achieved during tens of thousands of years, to all that it has thought and felt and suffered and taken pleasure in, to its cries of triumph and its bitter agony of defeat, to that astonishing adventure of man which began so long ago and yet continues to beckon to us. ..

The book is full of such prose, the kind that makes him a great writer. But what led me to write this newsletter is this question: why did he choose to write this book? Was it pure love for the country, or a way to assert his position before the British, or simply the urge to write? Honestly, after reading it, it is difficult to believe there is no attachment to this country, that it is merely an opportunistic act.

This question is also deeply personal to me because, in my own attempt to tell the story of India, I often ask the same thing. Telling the story of India can become a refuge when you are tired of the West and the many heavy and weird things it carries. Or perhaps it comes from feeling that I know this story too well. In either case, there is something very special about this country, and its story always feels worth telling. Nehru continues:

But there is a special heritage for those of us of India, not an exclusive one, for none is exclusive and all are common to the race of man, one more specially applicable to us, something that is in our flesh and blood and bones, that has gone to make us what we are and what we are likely to be.

The choice of title of the book is also striking. It is not The Story of India but The Discovery of India, as if one must look at one’s own homeland through a fresh, almost foreign lens. In my own weekend journeys, when my day job demands that I look West, I find something similar happening. When I visit a fort or a forgotten corner of Delhi that I have never seen before, I feel like an outsider. I feel that I am discovering India too. Nehru wrote in Discovery of India.

Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi’s An Autobiography: The Story Of My Experiments With Truth and Hind Swaraj, Rabindranath Tagore’s Nationalism and Gora, and Jawaharlal’s Nehru’s An Autobiography—is The Discovery of India

In those opening 68 pages, there is also a chapter on Kamla Nehru, his wife, her deteriorating health, and her death. Amid all his reflections, I find this part especially human. Nehru’s thoughts on this imperfect relationship reach toward what he calls the fundamental problem of human relationships, something often ignored in our arguments about politics . Grief and loss can be powerful motivators, and in those moments, we often feel the urge to create something that endures.

The problem of human relationships, how fundamental it is, and how often ignored in our fierce arguments about politics and economics. It was not so ignored in the old and wise civilizations of India and China, where they developed patterns of social behaviour which, with all their faults, certainly gave poise to the individual.

I have always found an urge to create or build a new project as a way to deal with my own struggles. This may sound cliche, but it feels true to me. Mohsin Hamid, the Pakistani writer, captures this feeling well when he says:

We are all refugees from our childhoods. And so we turn, among other things, to stories. To write a story, to read a story, is to be a refugee from the state of refugees. Writers and readers seek a solution to the problem that time passes, that those who have gone are gone and those who will go, which is to say every one of us, will go. For there was a moment when anything was possible. And there will be a moment when nothing is possible. But in between we can create.

The purpose of this newsletter is to engage with Nehru’s mind, yet I feel he is far too complex to fully comprehend. Forget Nehru, I do not even have a clear answer for why I do what I do. Perhaps it is enough to follow Mohsin Hamid’s suggestion and focus on creating. I plan to pick a few stories from The Discovery of India and attempt my own small acts of discovery in the next part.

Buy The Discovery Of India

Delhi is a storyteller because its walls whisper. Its ruins hum. Its markets argue.

A true Delhiwallah grows up not just hearing stories, but inheriting them. And what better way to meet the city again than through the books that understand it really well.

1. City of Djinns by William Dalrymple

When talking about books about Delhi, it has to begin with City of Djinns.

A wandering love letter to the city, this is perhaps one of William Dalrymple’s most popular works and one of my personal favourites. It is also among his earliest books, written at a time when he was deeply immersed in travel writing.

Dalrymple walks through centuries, moving across the many eras of Delhi with ease. If you walk through Chandni Chowk, you begin to see Shahjahanabad. If you pass by Nigambodh Ghat, it carries echoes of the Mahabharata.

Through conversations, ruins, and lived memories, he reveals a city that refuses to belong to just one time.

This is Delhi, layer upon layer of memory.

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2. Delhi: A Novel by Khushwant Singh

This is not a polite portrait of the city. It is a passionate one, unmistakably in Khushwant Singh’s style. Bold, irreverent, and unapologetically raw, the book reads like an intense love affair between the author and Delhi. And like all enduring love stories, it is messy, sensual, complicated, and deeply personal.

Through the character of Bhagmati, Singh journeys across Delhi’s long and turbulent history, from the profound bond between Nizamuddin Auliya and Amir Khusrau to the brutal invasion of Nadir Shah.

For me, the most memorable passages are those about Mir (Mir Taqi Mir), one of the greatest poets of Delhi. In those moments, the novel softens and turns almost lyrical, reminding us that even in a city repeatedly scarred by conquest, poetry endures.

This is Delhi in all its excess and contradiction, flawed, wounded, and impossible not to love.

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3. The Last Mughal by William Dalrymple

Delhi, in the past as much as in the present, has always been a centre of power. There is a reason power shapes the city’s imagination. Even when the British arrived, they could not resist its charm. Some began to live like Badshahs themselves. The era of the so-called “White Mughals” emerged from this fascination. David Ochterlony is one such example, embracing culture with ease.

To understand Delhi better is to understand 1857. The Last Mughal brings alive the fading grandeur of Bahadur Shah Zafar and the violent reshaping of the city during the Revolt. Through court records, letters, and forgotten voices, Dalrymple reconstructs a Delhi on the brink of irreversible change.

After reading this book, the Red Fort never looks the same. It no longer feels like a monument. It feels like the last sigh of a dying empire.

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4. Twilight in Delhi by Ahmed Ali

A slow, aching elegy to a vanishing Old Delhi. Written with lyrical tenderness, it captures the life of a Muslim household as empire crumbles quietly beyond its doors. This is a Delhi that no longer exists, preserved only in memory, in language, and in longing.

Each section opens with a couplet by Ghalib or Mir, setting the emotional rhythm of the narrative. The poetry does not feel ornamental; it breathes through the story. You can almost hear the qawwals in the background, their voices rising and falling, carrying grief, devotion, and nostalgia into the prose itself.

I am writing this during Ramadan, and perhaps there is no more fitting time to read it.

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5. Chandni Chowk: The Mughal City of Old Delhi by Swapna Liddle

A guided walk through one of the most storied markets in South Asia, this book invites you to slow down. It makes you pause at every haveli, every mosque, every narrow lane, reminding you that even chaos has design, and even noise has history.

I picked up this book deliberately for this article, and in reading it, I realised how much of Delhi I still do not know, like the practice of the Shah Jahan appearing at the jharoka each morning, a stone balcony projecting from the palace wall, to present himself before his people and symbolically display imperial power.

It is these fine details, about how Shahjahanabad, known today as Old Delhi, was planned, how its streets aligned, how its architecture spoke of authority and aesthetics, that make the book so compelling.

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As another year turns its page, I want to wish everyone who has supported the Bohemian Dialogue project and this little storytelling dream a very happy new year.

May 2026 be kind to you. May it give your unspoken wishes the time and patience to quietly take shape.

We’re excited to share something new: Bohemian Dialogue Shop, a space that carries Indian storytelling beyond the written word. Our journey begins with a thoughtfully designed collection of tote bags, inspired by the timeless tradition of storytelling under the tree, from kathakars to dastangos, and the folktales that have traveled from voice to voice.

Visit the store: https://bohemiandialogue.shop

With warmth,

Bohemian Dialogue

For the city that gave me peace and refuge, with care - Saurabh Singh, Editor of Bohemian Dialogue

Over the past few months, I have wandered through Delhi as a vagabond, a digital nomad, and, in many ways, a traveler returning to a place I call home. Every corner of the city carries a story, layered with centuries of history. Since childhood, my favorite pastime has been to lose myself in the City of Djinns and relive its past.

My journey begins in Faridabad, the city of my birth. As I’ve shared before in one of our newsletters, my grandparents migrated here from eastern U.P., making it their home when Faridabad was rising as the “Manchester of Northern India,” celebrated for its thriving textile and steel industries.

From this city, I often set out for the capital, crossing the ancient Aravalis, the world’s oldest mountain range. And so, as I write this newsletter, I want to share with you my journeys to the city that I know so well, perhaps in search of myself.

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Tracing Delhi’s Echoes of Empire

As I journey from Faridabad to the heart of Delhi, I’m reminded that while the drive isn’t long without traffic, Delhi never lets you forget that traffic and history walk hand in hand here. I often pause at the Imperial Hotel, and for good reason. Not only is it one of Delhi’s oldest hotels, but it was also the very place where, at its legendary Patiala Peg bar, Nehru, Jinnah, Gandhi, and Mountbatten once sat together to debate the partition of India.

I like to think I’m tasting history when I sit there now, sipping my gin and tonic, the drink that has made this bar my personal ritual these days. Another cocktail in the menu is named East India, which instantly brings to mind William Fraser, one of the first few English residents and the so-called “White Mughals” who began living like the Mughal emperors. Fraser himself became the subject of Delhi’s enduring gossip: his Civil Lines residence, his love triangle, and his eventual murder. The tale is almost theatrical. Nawab Shamsuddin Ahmed Khan of Loharu, fueled by political tensions and a tangled love affair, is said to have arranged Fraser’s assassination.

Driving further, I finally reached Hotel Maidens, the oldest surviving hotel in Delhi. Between statesmen debating the fate of a nation in a bar, English officials adopting Mughal ways of life, and these colonial hotels still standing like monuments, I find myself reflecting on the strange lessons of history.

Tracing Delhi’s Echoes of Poetry

When William Fraser was killed in 1835, Mirza Ghalib mourned him with the grief of a son, writing that he felt as though he had lost his father a second time. In my other projects, I have tried to tell the story of Ghalib: his brilliance, his profound thought, and the way his poetry continues to echo across centuries. To truly grasp his depth, one must pause and reflect on one of his most philosophical ghazals:

na thā kuchh to ḳhudā thā kuchh na hotā to ḳhudā hotā

Duboyā mujh ko hone ne na hotā maiñ to kyā hotā

huā jab ġham se yuuñ be-his to ġham kyā sar ke kaTne kā

na hotā gar judā tan se to zaanū par dharā hotā

huī muddat ki 'ġhālib' mar gayā par yaad aatā hai

vo har ik baat par kahnā ki yuuñ hotā to kyā hotā

I have visited Ghalib’s haveli in Gali Qasim Jan many times. Unlike the crumbling remains of other poets’ homes, this haveli has been preserved with care, allowing one to step into the world where Ghalib once lived. For me, it stands as a rare monument to Delhi’s poetic heritage. Yet, when I think of poets like Mir Taqi Mir, my personal favorite, I cannot help but wonder how much of their world has been lost in the ruins of time.

Tracing the Sacred Echoes of Delhi

I have heard a lot about Yamuna Ghat and how peaceful it looks during the winter. When I read Delhi by Khushwant Singh, there’s a quote in the book that I often reflect on.

One day, I decided to visit Nigambodh Ghat myself. I had never been to a cremation ground before. I saw several pyres burning and, to my surprise, I didn’t feel afraid. It made me realize that many of our fears exist only in our imagination.

As I walked further, I reached the Yamuna Ghat, a ghat that carries centuries of history and legend. It is believed that during the Mahabharata era, Lord Brahma bathed here to recover his lost memory. That is why it came to be called Nigambodh Ghat, meaning “realization of knowledge.” It is believed that these ghats were established by Yudhishthira, the eldest Pandava brother.

As I retrace these journeys through the imperial corridors of Delhi’s past, the verses of its poets, and the sacred silence of its ghat, I realize that the city is less a destination and more a mirror. Each monument, each ruin, each flame on the Yamuna’s edge carries not just the weight of history, but an invitation to see myself within it. Perhaps that is why Delhi never feels finished; it is always waiting to be rediscovered, in its echoes and in our own.

Today, India is celebrating its 79th Independence Day. I have never felt this special about the occasion before; part of the reason is this project, which has brought me closer to my own country. For my research, I listened to classical and semi-classical music, and I must confess that I didn’t have the ear for it at first. But once I began to understand a little of Hindustani classical music, its different ragas, and the emotions they carry, I felt as though I had discovered an entirely new universe.

In 1915, after returning to India from South Africa, Gandhi ji embarked on a journey across his homeland on the advice of his mentor, Gopal Krishna Gokhale. From his birthplace in Porbandar to the Shantiniketan in West Bengal, where he met Rabindranath Tagore, Gandhi observed that there was alot about this country that he had not seen or knew about.

His travels brought him to the Banaras Hindu University in Varanasi, where an audience of princes, scholars, and noblemen awaited. In that sacred city, Mahatma Gandhi’s words froze the audience:

“It is a matter of deep humiliation and shame for us that I am compelled this evening, under the shadow of this great college in the sacred city, to address my countrymen in a language that is foreign to me.”

I am not suggesting that India’s fight for independence was a romantic yearning for a bygone age. Far from it, it was, in many ways, a political and economic necessity rather than a purely sentimental pursuit. Yet in every voice I have read, from Gandhi to Tilak, there is a shared conviction that India is a civilisation carrying its stories across countless millennia.

Perhaps Jawaharlal Nehru expressed this most clearly in The Discovery of India:

We can never forget the ideals that have moved our race, the dreams of the Indian people through the ages, the wisdom of the ancients, the buoyant energy and love of life and nature of our forefathers, their spirit of curiosity and mental adventure, the daring of their thought, their splendid achievements in literature, art and culture, their love of truth and beauty and freedom, the basic values that they set up, their understanding of life's mysterious ways, their toleration of other ways than theirs, their capacity to absorb other peoples and their cultural accomplishments, to synthesize them and develop a varied and mixed culture; nor can we forget the myriad experiences which have built up our ancient race and lie embedded in our sub-conscious minds.

The life and work of A.K. Ramanujan are deeply influential. A poet, scholar, folklorist, and professor of linguistics at the University of Chicago, Ramanujan had a remarkable ability to bridge cultures through language and storytelling.

In his acclaimed book Folktales from India, he gathered stories from 22 languages across the country. Notably, he titled it Folktales from India, not of India emphasizing that no single collection can fully capture the evolving, diverse spirit of Indian oral traditions.

One such story is The Barber’s Secret, a Tamil folktale often shared in the villages of Tamil Nadu, though versions of it appear in many other Indian languages as well.

I chose this tale for its wit and above all, its humor. While the story is often retold in schools and elsewhere, in this version, I’ve given it a fresh twist of my own.

The Folktale (The Barber’s Secret)

In Konkan, there once lived a mighty and generous king with an extraordinary gift. He could hear even the faintest whisper. No one knew how he had gained such a power, and many were curious.

One day, while shaving the king, the royal barber noticed something strange beneath his long hair. Startled, he realized the king had different ears. He froze mid-shave, deep in thought, trying to recall where he had seen such ears before.

“What’s the matter?” the king asked sharply.

The barber snapped out of his trance, blurting, “Ha! I’ve seen them, on a donkey!”

The king’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

The barber replied, “Your Majesty, your ears… they look like a donkey’s.”

The king turned red with anger, but then sighed, his rage fading. “They’ve been growing like this for some time,” he said quietly. But if you speak of it to anyone, I’ll cut off your head.

The barber swore never to speak a word. He finished the shave with trembling hands, and the king, hoping to buy his silence, handed him a satchel of gold.

On his way home, the barber began to shake with laughter. By the time he reached his door, he was nearly in tears. His mother greeted him, but he burst out laughing again. She stared at him, puzzled and a little hurt.

Later, as she served him food, he laughed so hard he nearly choked.

“What is it?” she cried. “Why are you laughing like a madman?”

The barber moaned, “How can I tell you? It’s the king’s secret. If I speak, I’ll lose my head!”

His mother thought for a moment. “Then don’t tell me,” she said. “Tell it to a tree. A tree won’t talk.”

The barber ran to the forest and found a tree. Standing close, he whispered the secret again and again, until it felt as if the weight had lifted from his chest. Satisfied, he went home, lighter in body and mind.

O tree, O tree, tell no one

what I tell you now.

…..

o tree of the forest, listen well

The great good king who rules our land has a donkey’s ears.

Some days later, a skilled musician searching for wood to make a new drum came upon that very tree. Finding it just right, he cut it down, carved a drum from its trunk, stretched leather over it, and tuned it carefully.

Soon after, he was invited to perform in the king’s court. The court singer began a majestic raga, then nodded to the drummer for a solo. The drummer played softly, making the drum “speak” with his fingers.

Tlang Tak Taka Taka Tlang

Tak Tlang Taka Tlang Taka Taka

The ears of the king are the ears of donkey

Tak Tlang Taka Taka Taka Tlang

The ears of the king are the ears of donkey

Now the king’s secret was no longer a secret. And at last, everyone understood how their king could hear even the faintest whisper.

Modern Retelling (The Whisperer Who Heard Himself)

A modern parable, adapted from Tamil folktale - The Barber’s Secret

In a glossy glass building in Lower Parel, Mumbai, there lived a manager named Mr. Ghosh. He wasn’t just any manager. He was legendary. He had an uncanny talent for knowing which employee was going to quit. Everyone feared and respected Mr. Ghosh at the same time.

Whether it was hesitation in a “Good morning” or a small change in a LinkedIn profile, he would notice everything. Once he noticed, he acted. The employee would either leave the company or get fired.

One day, a new intern joined the company. His name was Ved. He joined Mr. Ghosh for orientation. The first question Mr. Ghosh asked was about his LinkedIn profile. Ved said he didn’t have one. Mr. Ghosh was disappointed. Then he asked a series of strange questions: When are you planning to leave the company? Do you want to work somewhere better?

Ved answered as best he could, but he was confused. There was something about Mr. Ghosh that bothered him, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He asked around. He read old Slack threads. He even reached out to former employees on LinkedIn.

Then it hit him.

Mr. Ghosh wasn’t predicting anything. He was creating a story. A false narrative that everyone accepted. Even the people who left started to believe it.

Ved couldn’t believe he had cracked it. He wanted to share it, to make sense of it. So he opened a blank Google Doc and wrote:

“Mr. Ghosh is the Resignation.”

He didn’t mean to share it. Not really. He just left the tab open. But somehow, the link got copied into a company deck. Then into a team newsletter. Then into the onboarding folder.

By the next morning, it had reached every desk.

Nobody said anything, but something shifted. For the first time, people said good morning without hesitation. Someone updated their LinkedIn headline. Someone else wore flip-flops.

And Mr. Ghosh?

He began to notice that no one was afraid anymore. That’s when he started watching his own reflection in the glass, just a little longer than before. Trying to figure out what story he was in now.

Core Lesson: The Illusion of Perfection Will Always Leak

At its heart, the story is about authority trying to hide an embarrassing flaw, and how that flaw inevitably finds its way out. not through rebellion, but through nature, whispers, or accident.

A quiet walk through Old Delhi becomes a reflection on memory, poetry, and the soul of a city.

This video essay traces the footsteps of Mir Taqi Mir — one of 18th century Delhi’s greatest poets — and the fading echoes of Dastangoi, the art of oral storytelling. From the steps of Jama Masjid to the lanes of Chandni Chowk, we explore what remains of a city that once lived through verse, story, and sorrow.

It has been a while. This Dialogue was long overdue. The words eluded me as I wrestled with unread books and half-finished thoughts. I apologize. But now, my friend, I return to what I love the most: Telling Tales. This time, I want to tell you the stories of the ruins, which are always very special to me.

In this edition, I’ll walk you among ruins—silent witnesses to lost dreams, fallen empires, and civilizations that once pulsed with life. Our journey takes us to three haunting yet magnificent sites: Vijayanagar, Dholavira, and Kuldhara.

Vijayanagar: The Empire That Rose Like a Dream and Fell Like a Shadow

Imagine standing in a city so grand that it feels like a dream. Gilded palaces shimmer under the golden sun, majestic temples touch the skies, and bustling markets echo with traders' voices from distant lands. This was Vijayanagar—a city so vibrant that Portuguese traveler Domingo Paes called it “the best-provided city in the world.”

Toh Hazreen: From the dream of two brothers, Hakka and Bukka, came an empire that stood as a symbol of power, art, and culture."

Over the centuries, Vijayanagar flourished under the leadership of remarkable rulers who left their mark on its history.

Later came Krishnadevaraya, the empire’s most celebrated ruler, whose reign is often called Vijayanagar’s golden age. A warrior and visionary, he led the empire to its peak, defeating powerful enemies and expanding its territories.

Before he became one of India’s greatest emperors, Krishnadevaraya was just a younger son, underestimated and nearly erased. His father, Narasa Nayaka, a brilliant general, had seized power when the kingdom was weak. His elder son, Vira Narasimha, was ambitious and unstable. His younger son, Krishnadevaraya, was brave, sharp, and popular—but not first in line.

The kingdom’s most trusted advisor was Appaji, the prime minister—loyal, cunning, and fatherly to all. Add to this the mysterious spy from Kalinga, a little boy who loved sweets, and a young woman named Chinnadevi, who fell in love with a man she didn’t know was a prince.

Toh Hazreen: This is the story of power, betrayal, and regret.

VIRA NARASIMHA (on his deathbed): Appaji... I name my son as successor.

APPAJI (startled):  Your Majesty… he’s eight. Krishnadevaraya is ready. The people trust him.

VIRA (with effort): Then blind him. I want his eyes. That’s an order.

KRISHNADEVARAYA: Appaji? What’s going on?

APPAJI: Your brother… he wants you gone. I have to make it look like you’re dead.

KRISHNADEVARAYA: So… we’re faking my death?

APPAJI (gesturing to a goat): A small price. The king wants proof. Let him think you’re gone.

VIRA (examining a box): These eyes… they look strange.

APPAJI: Death does that, Your Majesty.

Krishnadevaraya vanished into the countryside. Disguised, wandering, learning. And that’s when he met Chinnadevi, a merchant’s daughter.

CHINNADEVI:You speak like a man who knows power.

KRISHNADEVARAYA (smiling): I’ve known danger. And I’ve known peace... here with you.

Meanwhile, in Vijayanagar, enemies circled. The Sultan of Gulbarga saw a child on the throne and sensed weakness.

MESSENGER: Appaji, the enemy marches. We’re leaderless.

APPAJI: Not quite. It’s time to bring the dead back.

CROWD (stunned): Krishnadevaraya?!

KRISHNADEVARAYA (emerging): The Sultan thinks I’m gone. Let’s show him I’m not.

He led the army, crushed the enemy, and returned a hero.

MINISTER: Crown him!

YOUNG PRINCE (relieved): Can I play marbles now?

Krishnadevaraya ruled long and well, and the kingdom flourished under his wisdom and strength. His son was next in line to succeed him, a boy full of potential—if only he had fewer distractions.

You see, the boy had a major weakness: he loved sweets.

PALACE MAID (to herself): So the prince likes sweets. And Appaji brings them…

The boy fell ill. Poisoned. And suspicion followed.

SERVANT: Appaji was seen going into the room with sweets…

KRISHNADEVARAYA (furious): Appaji... was it you?

APPAJI (shocked): Majesty, no. I would never—

KRISHNADEVARAYA: Then explain. Why is my son dead?

APPAJI: Ask your spies. Ask your conscience.

KRISHNADEVARAYA (cold): Blind him.

And so the man who once saved a prince lost everything—his sight, his home, and his king’s trust.

APPAJI (in exile): I gave him a kingdom. He gave me darkness.

Krishnadevaraya ruled long and well, but his greatest victories were shadowed by the silence of the man who once called him son.

Krishnadevaraya was also a great patron of literature, commissioning works in multiple languages and building magnificent temples. Under his rule, Vijayanagar became a land of unmatched prosperity and cultural brilliance.

But no empire, no matter how mighty, is eternal. In 1565, the Battle of Talikota brought disaster. Allied forces of rival kingdoms struck a devastating blow to Vijayanagar. Invaders stormed the city, burning its palaces, looting its treasures, and reducing it to ruins. The streets once filled with life fell silent, and the empire's glory faded like a dream at dawn.

Today, the ruins of Vijayanagar whisper tales of its rise and fall. The crumbling walls, carved pillars, and remnants of majestic temples stand as silent witnesses to an empire that rose like a dream, flourished under legendary rulers, and fell like a shadow, leaving behind a legacy that refuses to be forgotten.

Dholavira: The 5,000-Year-Old City That Still Speaks in Code

Deep in the arid landscapes of Kutch lies Dholavira, an ancient city that rose to prominence over 5,000 years ago. It was a jewel of the Indus Valley Civilization, a society far ahead of its time. Here, ingenuity shaped the land—meticulously planned streets crisscrossed the city, massive reservoirs stored precious water, and sophisticated drainage systems kept the settlement clean and thriving.

Dholavira wasn’t just a city but a marvel of engineering and vision. Its grand citadel stood as a symbol of authority, while its lower town buzzed with life—markets bustling with traders, artisans crafting pottery and jewelry, and workers constructing monumental structures. The city's residents lived in harmony with the harsh environment, using advanced techniques to harvest water and manage resources in a region prone to droughts.

But amidst its grandeur lies its greatest mystery: the Mysterious Signboard. Archaeologists discovered a 10-character inscription carved on a massive wooden slab at the city's entrance. It is the longest-known script of the Indus Valley Civilization, yet its meaning remains an enigma. Was it the name of the city, a declaration of power, or a message meant to endure the ages? The code remains undeciphered, a silent witness to a lost language and a forgotten world.

I struggled to find a story to tell here. Then I imagined—two elders, standing before the newly erected signboard, their eyes tracing the strange symbols as dusk settled softly over their city.

Toh Hazreen: This is the story of legacy and memory.

The sun dipped low over the stone reservoirs. Two city elders stood beneath the towering signboard, their eyes fixed on the strange symbols carved in silence.

Elder 1: “Do you still believe the message will be understood one day?”

Elder 2: “Not by us. But someone will come—someone who can hear what these stones are trying to say.”

They stood quietly for a while, listening to the desert wind move through the empty streets.

Elder 1: “If the rains don’t return, we will have to leave.”

Elder 2: “And if we do... this city must remember us. Even if the world forgets our names.

Today, Dholavira stands as a haunting yet awe-inspiring reminder of the resilience and brilliance of the Indus Valley people. Its carefully laid-out ruins still tell stories of a society that thrived against all odds, and its mysterious script challenges us to uncover secrets that have been lost for millennia. As we walk through its silent remains, Dholavira invites us to step into its world—a world that feels both distant and eerily familiar, leaving us in awe of the rise and fall of one of humanity’s greatest civilizations.

Kuldhara: The Village That Disappeared Overnight—And Left a Curse Behind

Visitors who walk through the empty streets of Kuldhara often speak of a strange feeling—like something unseen still lingers in the air. A presence that clings to the ruins, like a song that has been forgotten but not gone.

Kuldhara was founded in the 13th century and once thrived under the Paliwal Brahmins, a community known for their knowledge and prosperity. But by the early 1800s, it was suddenly abandoned.

No one knows for sure why. Some say it was because the water ran dry. Others believe there was an earthquake. But the most famous story blames Salim Singh, the cruel minister (Diwan) of Jaisalmer, who wanted to take the headman’s daughter for himself. The villagers, unwilling to give in, made a choice.

My grandfather once told me our ancestors may have lived near that region. After hearing his stories and reading about Kuldhara, I often imagine what it might have been like.

Toh Hazreen,
It’s a story about strength and unity.

The Last Night

Under the light of a pale moon, the headman gathered the villagers.

Headman:
“At sunrise, the Diwan will return.
He’ll take what he wants.
If we resist, he will destroy us.”

A silence followed, until an old woman spoke.

Elder Woman:
“Then we must go. All of us. Tonight.”

The headman looked at his daughter. Her eyes were calm but determined.

Villagers:
“Let him find only dust and silence.”

The headman turned to the temple, where the sacred flame flickered.

Headman:
“We will leave our homes—but not our honor.
And may no one ever live in Kuldhara again.”

By morning, the village was empty.

They left behind their homes, but also a warning. Some say they left a curse. People tell stories of ghostly voices, footsteps in the dark, and shadows that move on their own. Many believe the spirits of the villagers still protect Kuldhara.

Today, the village stands as a quiet reminder. People from around the world come to see it—not just for the mystery, but for what it represents.

Kuldhara is a symbol of courage—of choosing dignity over fear.
Even in silence, its story speaks.
Every stone has something to say.

It’s winter in Delhi. Pollution hangs in the air, and the sun seems to have abandoned the city. The days feel heavy, as though the city is grieving something it has lost—its charm, perhaps.

I think about Mir, the great poet of the eighteenth century, Mir Taqi Mir, who watched his beloved Delhi fall apart around him. He must have felt the weight of the city’s sorrow, much like this, when he decided to leave for Lucknow.

When Mir arrived in Lucknow, the city welcomed him in its own way. That evening, there was a Mushaira. A candle was placed before him. Mir performed one of his most celebrated verses there.

Kya bood-o-baash poochho ho, poorab ke saakino ?
Hum ko ghareeb jaan ke, hans hans pukaar ke
 
Dilli jo ek sheher tha, aalam mein intekhaab
Rehte thay muntakhab hi jahaan rozgaar ke
 
Us ko falak ne loot ke veeraan kar diya
Hum rehne waale hain usi ujde dayaar ke
 

What whereabouts do you ask of me, O people of the East ?
Considering me an alien and laughing at me
 
Delhi, that was a city unique on the globe
Where lived only the chosen of the time
 
Destiny has looted it and made it deserted
I belong to that very wrecked city

(The quoted verse is taken from Saif Mahmood's article, "Mir Taqi Mir: The Romancer of Delhi," published on SabrangIndia. Read the full article here: https://sabrangindia.in/column/mir-taqi-mir-romancer-delhi.)

I see myself looking at Delhi the way Mir once did—through a lens of loss and longing. The city has lost its charm, veiled by a thick layer of polluted air that stings my eyes if I don’t wear sunglasses. I hate wearing a mask; it feels more suffocating than the 450 AQI around me.

This weekend, I went to Chandni Chowk with a new setup: a gimbal and my phone camera. If you follow our Instagram page, you’ll catch glimpses of it. I parked my car near Jama Masjid, and as I stepped out and walked toward it, the sight of the mosque’s steps stopped me in my tracks.

I thought of the Dastangos, the storytellers, who once wove long, intricate tales on these very steps.

As I walked, my eyes were drawn to the rooftops. Some looked as they always had, while others had transformed into cafes. I thought of Mir again—when he first arrived in Delhi, a Mushaira had been arranged on a mansion’s rooftop, not here, but somewhere close, in Daryaganj.

My gaze returned to the new cafes nestled amidst the historic alleys. They seemed to blend the old with the new, creating a strange kind of harmony. It made me wonder: what will be the future of Delhi?

The Dialogue

We asked the Bohemian Dialogue community to share their thoughts on winters in Delhi. What moments or memories does this season brings to them?

Voices from the Community

@monachopsis_____: It's like I went back to my old toxic boyfriend. It's cozy, ironically warm, but I'll he'll probably take my life in near future with his toxicity!

Just like Delhi was to Mir—a lover of the city and a witness to his heartbreak—these winters have that same pull: cozy and familiar yet undeniably harsh.

Reflections and Further Reading

For this week’s exploration of Delhi’s winters, we drew inspiration from Khushwant Singh’s Delhi. If you’re eager to delve further into the city’s rich history and culture, we recommend:

• The City of Djinns by William Dalrymple

• Delhi by Khushwant Singh

Each offers a vivid journey through the heart of this complex, ever-evolving city.

In 629 CE, Xuanzang, a Chinese buddhist monk left China for India to find the original teachings of Buddhism, as he feared that his studies had been corrupted, he sought to discover the true source. He’d heard that Nalanda University held the complete Buddhist scriptures, including the Yogacara philosophy taught by the renowned scholar Shilabhadra. The story follows the Xuanzang’s remarkable six-year adventure to Nalanda.

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When Xuanzang finally arrived at Nalanda, he saw separate courtyards dedicated to different teachings. At the center of the university was a stupa-like library, where he walked in reverence. He toured lecture halls, temples, and courtyards lined with apartments for 10,000 monks and scholars. These scholars studied not only Buddhism but also the Vedas, philosophy, medicine and mathematics.

The Dialogue

This week, we asked the Bohemian Dialogue community to share their thoughts on Nalanda University at its peak. What images or ideas come to mind when they think of this legendary institution in its prime?

Voices from the Community

@eh_mant: I have hunch that people didn't have to take loans to do their education? I'm pretty sure education was way more affordable and accessible unlike our modern world class universities😂😂😂

Understanding the logistics behind an institution as grand as Nalanda is fascinating. King Harshvardhan of Kannauj, a great patron, granted 100 villages to Nalanda University, with each village leader entrusted to provide supplies to support the monks. Education at Nalanda Mahavihara was free, yet entry was highly selective. New students underwent a rigorous intellectual screening, where senior monks and experienced scholars tested their knowledge, curiosity, and dedication to learning before granting admission.

@womanwholivedlong: learning would've felt like a spiritual practice, wisdom and true knowledge and not like this freaked up system as of now where all we know is to wear the masks of morality and respect and stay as the victim of oppression and suppression and teachers are using this.

A spiritual practice is a consistent, intentional action that fosters spiritual growth and insight. To understand this, let’s look at Xuanzang’s observations when he arrived at Nalanda Mahavihara. He saw students engaged in discussions from morning until night, immersed in learning and reflection. Every day, lectures took place in over a hundred halls, and the students dedicated themselves wholeheartedly to their studies.

@leanwitme_._: presence of real knowledge unlike these modern education system. it was way more about spirituality, we are the only one who can save it

Let’s explore this from the perspective of Xuanzang and his teacher, Shilabhadra. Xuanzang journeyed to Nalanda with the aim of mastering Yogacara, a school of thought that emphasizes meditation and offers a deep psychological analysis of the mind. After three intense years of study under Shilabhadra's guidance, Xuanzang finally uncovered the profound secrets of Yogacara. In addition to their focus on Buddhism, the scholars at Nalanda engaged with a wide array of subjects, including the Vedas, philosophy, medicine, and mathematics.

Reflections and Further Reading

The insights shared by our community shed light on the unique educational environment of Nalanda University, where learning was not just an intellectual pursuit but a holistic, spiritual practice. How can contemporary education systems draw inspiration from Nalanda's model to create more inclusive and enriching learning environments?

For those interested in exploring this topic further, we recommend The Golden Road by William Dalrymple, which delves into the rich history and cultural significance of Nalanda.

Crafted with care, just for you.

The legendary tales of King Vikramaditya are masterfully narrated in Somadeva's Kathasaritsagara (Ocean of the Streams of Stories). In this newsletter, we aim to breathe life into these stories, focusing on the thrilling adventures of King Vikramaditya and Vetala. For my research, I’ve drawn upon Tales from the Kathasaritsagara translated by Arshia Sattar, selecting stories that capture the essence of her compelling translation. I've also attempted to narrate these stories in our way, presenting them as a dialogue to create an engaging experience. This newsletter aims to highlight the recursive nature of Kathasaritsagara—a series of tales nested within each other, weaving together to form a larger, interconnected narrative.

Disclaimer: These narratives are contextualized in our way. Please note that the author's perspective is subjective and may not encompass all interpretations of the original texts.

Kathasaritsagara is an ocean of stories that has profoundly influenced storytelling across the world. This renowned 11th-century collection of Indian legends and folk tales was retold in Sanskrit by Somadeva, a scholar from Kashmir. Believed to have lived during this time, Somadeva was a court poet, serving under King Ananta of Kashmir. The Kathāsaritsāgara comprises 18 lambhakas (or "books") containing 124 taramgas (chapters referred to as "waves") and approximately 22,000 ślokas (distichs), along with prose sections. Each śloka consists of two half-verses, each with 16 syllables.

For this newsletter, we have chosen to highlight the story of King Vikrama and Vetala, found in the book Sasankavati of the Kathāsaritsāgara.

In The ancient city of Pratiṣṭhāna, there ruled by the legendary King Vikrama. Every day, a mysterious mendicant would visit his court, bow low before the king, and offer him a fruit.This continued for a very long time, with the king accepting the gift without much thought.But soon, curiosity gnawed at him. Why did the mendicant present him with a fruit every single day?

The king tossed the fruit to a little monkey nearby, and as the monkey bit into it, a precious jewel fell out. Astonished, the king picked up the jewel and turned to his treasurer.

King Vikrama: Treasurer, I have been giving you these fruits for so long. What have you done with them?

Treasurer: I just throw them inside the treasury through the window.

King Vikrama: Go to the treasury and check those fruits immediately.

Treasurer: Sure, my Majesty!

The treasurer rushed to the treasury and discovered that all the fruits had rotted, there’s a pile of jewels. Excited, he hurried back to inform the king.Impressed but also intrigued, King Vikrama decided to confront the mendicant the next day. When the mendicant arrived with his usual gift, the king refused it.

King Vikrama: Why do you offer me these fruits filled with valuable jewels?

Mendicant: : I seek your help, O King. I need someone as brave and noble as you to assist me with a mantra. The dark fortnight of the moon is approaching. At nightfall, I’ll be under a huge banyan tree, inside the cremation ground. Meet me there!

Agreeing to the mendicant's request, King Vikrama prepared himself. As night fell, he mounted his horse and rode to the mendicant’s dwelling.

King Vikrama: I am here, Tell me what do you want?

Mendicant: Listen king, I want you to go to the south. There’s a corpse on the tree. I want you to bring it back for my mandala

King Vikrama agreed to travel south. Upon reaching his destination, he saw a corpse hanging from a tree. As he brought it down to the ground, a sudden burst of laughter filled the air—the corpse was possessed by a vetala. Undeterred, King Vikramaditya lifted the corpse onto his shoulder and began his journey. The vetala chuckled and said, "It's a long journey Vikram. Let me tell you a story

In the city of Ujjain, there lived a Brahmin named Harisvami, who had a son and a daughter named Somaprabha. One day, Somaprabha conveyed a message through her mother to her father and brother, expressing her wishes for a man with three qualities: someone who has courage or prescience or magical powers. Harisvami and his family were approached by three Brahmins to marry Somaprabha

Somaprabha’s Father: My daughter seeks a suitor with magical powers, courage, or prescience. What can you offer?

First Brahmin: I possess magical powers. I can summon a chariot and make it soar to the heavens. Watch as I create the chariot now and take you there and back.

The Brahmin demonstrated his powers, taking Somaprabha’s father to the heavens and returning safely. Impressed, the father agreed to the marriage and set the date for seven days later.

Somaprabha’s Brother: The brother was approached by Brahmin and asked, “My sister seeks a suitor with magical powers, courage, or prescience.. What can you offer?

Second Brahmin: I am courageous and fearless in the face of danger. I am skilled in all forms of combat.

The brother was equally impressed by his skills. He consulted with the astrologer and set the wedding date for seven days later.

Somaprabha’s Mother: The third Brahmin approached Somaprabha’s Mother, and she asked, “My daughter seeks a suitor with magical powers, courage, or prescience.. What can you offer?”

Third Brahmin: I possess prescience.

Somaprabha’s mother,impressed agreed to the marriage and set the date for seven days later.

However, when Harisvami informed his wife and son that he had arranged Somaprabha’s marriage, they revealed that they too had promised her hand—to different suitors, all on the same day. With three suitors lined up, confusion arose.

On the day of the wedding, Somaprabha mysteriously disappeared. The family soon learned that a rakshasa, an evil demon, had abducted her.

The first Brahmin offered his magical chariot, and the three suitors flew together to the forest of the Vindhyas, the location that the prescient Brahmin had predicted. Once there, the second Brahmin, with his bravery and combat skills, confronted and defeated the demon, rescuing Somaprabha.

Now the question remained: which suitor should Somaprabha marry? Each had played a vital role in her rescue, leading to a dilemma.

The Vetala then asked King Vikrama, "Which suitor should Somaprabha marry?"

King Vikrama: Somaprabha should marry the second Brahmin, as he was the most courageous and ultimately defeated the rakshasa. While the other two suitors played important roles but they were mere instruments in the plan, it was the second Brahmin's bravery that truly saved her.

As we delve into this story, we find ourselves captivated by the beauty of the recursive structure present in Kathasaritsagara. This artful inception of a tale within a tale enriches the narrative, weaving multiple layers of meaning and perspective that invite readers to explore deeper truths.

The Kathasaritsagara is notable for its intricate structure of nested narratives, which serve multiple thematic and structural purposes:

1. Structural Complexity

The text features multiple layers of stories, allowing plots and subplots to interconnect. This complexity mirrors life’s intricate nature, suggesting that individual stories are often shaped by broader contexts.

2. Thematic Depth

Nested narratives deepen thematic exploration by presenting various perspectives on morality and human experience. For instance, the vetala’s riddles not only entertain but also provoke moral reflection, enriching the reader’s understanding.

Crafted with care, just for you.

Storyline & Structure of Meghadūta

The Meghdoot is a lyrical poem divided into two parts: Poorvamegha (The First Cloud) and Uttaramegha (The Later Cloud). It revolves around a Yaksha (a nature spirit) who is separated from his beloved wife due to a curse from his master, Lord Kubera. Exiled to the distant place. Yaksha is overwhelmed with sorrow and longing for his wife.

In his desperation, the Yaksha sees a monsoon cloud passing by and pleads with it to be his messenger. He asks the cloud to deliver a message of love and longing to his wife, describing the journey the cloud must take. The poem is not just about the message but also about the vibrant, picturesque description of nature, landscapes, cities, and people, all seen through the poetic vision of Kalidasa.

Meghdoot is written in Mandakranta meter, a rhythmic and melodic meter that enhances the poem’s lyrical beauty. The poem consists of 120 stanzas, each capturing a different aspect of the journey and emotions.

Kalidasa’s genius shines through in the way he interweaves geography, emotions, and nature.

Meghadūta by Kalidasa

The translations provided are loose interpretations based on the original Sanskrit text of the verse. They aim to capture the essence and imagery of the poem while making it accessible in English and Hinglish.

For a more accurate understanding, it is recommended to refer to the original text and the references below.

Us mahine ki baat hai jab baarish se bhara duniya junoon se bhara hota hai,
Jo us naazuk, keemti jeevan ka intezaar karta hai, jo sapnon par aadharit hai.

Usne aasha kiya ki baadal door tak uski khairiyat ka sandesh le jaaye,
Ab wo jhuk kar apne mehmaan ke liye ek shreshth arghya tayyar karta hai,
Aur naye khile kuttaj ke phool bikherta hai, jo khushi se khilte hain,
Aur khushi se baadal ka swagat karta hai, bolta hai, "Svāgata!"

The month at hand when the rain-kissed world overflows with wild passion,
Driven by a desperate longing for that frail, precious life sustained by dreams.

In hopes that the cloud might carry news of his well-being across distant lands,
He kneels to prepare a noble offering for his guest,
Scattering fresh summer blossoms that have suddenly bloomed with joy,
And joyfully welcoming the cloud, saying, "Welcome!"

Interpretation:

In this verse, the Yaksha is deeply connected to the changing season, which mirrors his own emotional turmoil. The rain-kissed world symbolizes renewal and longing, resonating with his desire to reconnect with his beloved. His act of kneeling and preparing an offering reflects both reverence and hope, showing that he sees the cloud as a potential messenger of good news.

The fresh summer blossoms signify the joy of new beginnings and the vitality of life, even amidst sorrow. By welcoming the cloud with affection, the Yaksha expresses his deep yearning and hope for communication, highlighting the powerful connection between nature and human emotion. This moment encapsulates the beauty of longing and the hope that love brings, making it a poignant reminder of the heart’s desires.

Dhuaan, aag, paani aur hawa ka sangam, kya baadal hai?
Aur sandesh ka kaam kya in tej indriyon waale praniyon se karaya jaata hai?
Lekin apne utsukta ke karan in baaton ko anignore karte hue, us Yaksha ne usse vinti ki.
Kyuki jo prem mein vyakul hote hain, wo prani aur aprani dono se hi daya ki aasha karte hain.

What is a cloud, but a convergence of smoke, fire, water, and wind?
Can messages really be conveyed by these skillful beings?
Yet, ignoring such thoughts due to his eagerness, the Yaksha pleaded with it,
For those who are tormented by love seek compassion from both sentient and insentient beings.

Interpretation:

In this verse, the Yaksha contemplates the essence of a cloud and questions its ability to serve as a messenger. Despite these doubts, driven by his intense longing, he appeals to the cloud, reflecting on how lovers in distress often seek solace from all elements of nature.

References:

• Kalidasa. Meghaduta: GRETIL Text Archive.

• Kalidasa. Meghaduta: With Commentary by Mallinatha and Translation by M.R. Kale. Amazon, Link to Book.

Crafted with care, just for you.

The Origins of Kalidasa Plays

Kalidasa wrote several types of plays, the most famous being Abhijnanashakuntalam (The Recognition of Shakuntala), Malavikagnimitram (Malavika and Agnimitra), and Vikramorvashiyam (Urvashi Won by Valor). These plays are notable for their lyrical quality, poetic dialogue, and deep exploration of emotions.

Among them, Abhijñānaśākuntalam ("Of the recognition of Śakuntalā") is generally regarded as a masterpiece. It was among the first Sanskrit works to be translated into English, and has since been translated into many language

Abhijñānaśākuntalam (Of the recognition of Śakuntalā)

King Dushyanta is chasing a deer in his chariot when a hermit stops him, explaining that the deer belongs to a protected hermitage. The hermit invites Dushyanta to visit, mentioning that the sage Kanva is away but his daughter Shakuntala is there. Dushyanta enters the hermitage and secretly watches Shakuntala and her friends, Anasuya and Priyamvada. When a bee troubles Shakuntala, Duhshanta leaves his hiding place, but does not reveal that he is the king, though he gives to Shakuntala a ring that suggests his identity. The king’s soldiers disturb the hermitage and he leaves to draw them away. King Duhshanta, having revealed his identity, stays at the hermitage and secretly observes Shakuntala and her friends, as they discuss matters of romance. It becomes clear to him that Shakuntala is in love with him. When Shakuntala recites a love poem expressing her feelings, the king steps out from his hiding place and openly declares his love for her. Their mutual declarations effectively constitute a secret marriage. and soon after, Shakuntala becomes pregnant.

When the sage Durvasas arrives at the hermitage, Shakuntala, preoccupied with thoughts of her lover, inadvertently neglects to greet him properly. Angered by this, Durvasas curses her, declaring that her lover, King Dushyanta, will forget her entirely. However, when Priyamvada pleads with the sage to reconsider, he relents slightly, allowing that the king's memory will be restored if he sees the signet ring he gave to Shakuntala. Following this, Shakuntala prepares to leave the hermitage and journey to the king’s palace, with emotions running high as she departs.

King Dushyanta is surprised and uneasy when he receives news of an approaching party from Kanva’s hermitage. When Shakuntala arrives, she informs the king that she is pregnant and asks to be accepted as his wife. However, the king, having forgotten her entirely, denies any connection with her. Shakuntala tries to present the signet ring as proof, but realizes it has gone missing. Confused and defensive, the king accuses her of deception. Despite this, a court priest suggests allowing Shakuntala to stay until she gives birth to the child. Dusyanta eventually agrees to shelter Shakuntala until she gives birth, but before he can act on this decision, Shakuntala is spirited away to the celestial realm by nymphs.

A poor fisherman finds the King's signet ring inside a fish and is threatened with execution, but the King, recognizing the ring and recalling everything, confirms his story and rewards him. Shortly after, Sanumati, a nymph and friend of Shakuntala's mother, secretly observes the palace to discover why the spring festival has been canceled. She learns that the King, consumed by depression and guilt over Shakuntala, has called off the celebration. King Dushyanta remains fixated on the situation until Matali, the charioteer of the god Indra, arrives at the palace and takes him on an urgent mission to battle demons.

Six years go by. King Dushyanta, having defeated the demons, is honored by Indra. While touring the earth in a flying chariot with Matali, they descend to Marica’s hermitage. There, the King is amazed to encounter a young boy who bears a striking resemblance to him. When he picks up the boy’s protective amulet—something only the boy and his parents can touch—he realizes that the child is indeed his son and the foretold ruler of the world. Shakuntala then appears, and although it takes her a moment to recognize the King, they soon reunite with tears of joy. The three of them speak with the sage Marica, who explains Durvasa’s curse and advises the couple not to blame themselves or each other. Marica confirms child destiny, blesses the family, and sends them back to live in Dushyanta’s court.

Through his masterful storytelling, Kalidasa takes the reader on a journey through the mystical forests and grand palaces of ancient India, immersing them in a world where love and destiny intertwine in the most beautiful of ways.

Our newsletter is evolving into a safe space where you can sit back and truly enjoy the art of storytelling. In this world full of distractions, we want to offer you a clutter-free space where stories can unfold at their own pace, with all the richness and depth they deserve.

We believe that stories matter. They are a reflection of our shared humanity, and through them, we can explore, understand, and connect with each other in profound ways.

So, join us on this journey. Let Bohemian Dialogue be the place where you find stories that touch your heart and transport you to new worlds. This is your safe space, your haven, your Bohemian Dialogue.

Disclaimer: The information contained in this week newsletter is for informational purposes only and is not a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your qualified mental health professional with any questions you may have regarding a mental health condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read here.

Imagine yourself sitting beside a calm river, watching its gentle current flow by. Each ripple in the water reflects a thought in your mind. Psychologist William James once said, “The stream of thought flows on; but most of its segments fall into the bottomless abyss of oblivion. Of some, no memory survives the instant of their passage. Of others, it is confined to a few moments, hours, or days..“ Similarly, in Buddhism, they study how thoughts come and go in the mind, like waves rising and falling in the ocean. Understanding this transient nature of thought makes life super simple.

I've struggled with anxiety and OCD in the past. While there's a common misconception that OCD solely revolves around contamination and cleanliness, it encompasses far more, including obsessive thoughts and corresponding compulsions. This complexity renders it one of the most debilitating conditions. One pivotal aspect of overcoming anxiety and OCD for me has been delving into mindfulness and comprehending the ephemeral essence of thoughts and understanding that these thoughts doesn’t define you.

However, mindfulness is just one piece of the puzzle. Therapy, particularly Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) with Exposure and Response Prevention (ERP), has been established as a highly effective treatment for OCD. ERP helps you gradually confront your triggers and resist compulsions, ultimately reducing their power over you.

If you're struggling with OCD, know that you're not alone and there is help available. Here are some resources to get you started: International OCD Foundation: https://iocdf.org

"Dhi," a Sanskrit term, carries multifaceted meanings all intertwined with the workings of the mind. It embodies "intellect," "understanding," "imagination," "opinion," "notion," "true knowingness," and even "mind" itself. As a verb, it signifies "to place" or "to hold," portraying the mind as a vessel or receptacle for thoughts.

In Hindu philosophy, none of these translations encapsulates the essence of "dhi" entirely. It transcends mere intellect, representing the mind's nuanced processing of a specific thought, akin to a gut feeling or intuition. Convincing the "dhi" is paramount for a thought to be embraced and integrated.

By practicing mindfulness, you can cultivate a deeper understanding of your thoughts – their impermanence and how they influence your dhi. This awareness can empower you to choose how you react to your thoughts.

The term "White Mughals" encapsulates a fascinating group of British residents profoundly influenced by the culture and lifestyle of Mughal emperors, leading them to adopt a way of life reminiscent of the Mughal court. These individuals, including notable figures like David Ochterlony, William Fraser, James Achilles Kirkpatrick, and others, blurred the lines between British and Mughal traditions. They embraced Mughal attire, indulged in Sheesha or Hookah, and engaged in polygamous relationships, creating a unique cultural blend.

The White Mughals era unfolds like a captivating historical soap opera, exemplified by the love affair between James Achilles Kirkpatrick and Khair un-Nissa. Kirkpatrick's transformation into a White Mughal and his intriguing dual role as a double agent against the company are vividly chronicled in William Dalrymple's "White Mughals." Another gripping episode is found in Shamshur Rahman Faruqi's "The Mirror of Beauty," detailing the meticulous assassination of William Fraser. Dalrymple's "The Last Mughal" delves deep into the intricate life of Thomas Metcalfe, highlighting his unique role and the remarkable differences that set him apart from other White Mughals.

During my recent visit to Metcalfe House in Delhi, situated in the Mehrauli Archaeological Park, I was transported into the past. The weather in the city had improved, allowing for an enjoyable walk. As Delhiites, we could finally relish some sun after cold, chilly afternoons. The Metcalfe boathouse, visible from the entrance, provided a striking view. Unlike his Mughal-influenced predecessors, Thomas Metcalfe maintained a distinct British identity, despite sharing a love for Hookah or Sheesha. The Metcalfe house also unveiled another layer of history – the English-style refurbishment of Quli Khan's tomb by Thomas Metcalfe's son, Theophilus (Theo), resulting in the creation of the second Metcalfe house.

In the accompanying image, you can catch a glimpse of both the building and myself standing like the Batman, standing amidst the echoes of history, reminiscent of a bygone era.

I noticed that a few buildings in the complex have been revamped into interesting cafes. The majority of the public is attracted to these places. It’s interesting to see how people have managed to bring past and present together. I ordered a hot chocolate and a paneer kulcha and decided to enjoy my meal in front of Theo’s house.

Notably, some buildings in the complex have been revamped into interesting cafes, attracting a majority of the public. It's fascinating to observe how people have brought the past and present together. I ordered a hot chocolate and a paneer kulcha and decided to enjoy my meal in front of Theo’s house.

As twilight descended, I sat on the bench near Theo’s house, enjoying a beautiful view of Qutub Minar. Sipping my hot chocolate, I couldn't help but imagine how the Metcalfe family celebrated Christmas here in the 19th century.

Last week, I decided to craft a newsletter centered around the Ancient Travelers who traversed the globe from the 11th century to the 16th century and shared their unique perspectives on India throughout various epochs. Building on that theme, this week, I was eager to finalize and send it out.

However, a cinematic revelation disrupted my plans just last night. I delved into Satyajit Ray's cinematic masterpiece, "Pather Panchali," and the experience was truly mind-blowing. It was like stumbling upon an entirely new cosmos, leaving me mesmerized by the profound storytelling and cultural exploration woven into the fabric of the film. Unable to resist, I proceeded to binge-watch the complete Apu trilogy, comprising Pather Panchali, Aparajito, and the world of Apu. My fascination with Ray's work extended to his contributions to Hindi cinema, particularly "Shatranj ke Khiladi" (The Chess Players) and "Sadgati." Selecting "Shatranj ke Khiladi," I marveled at Ray's meticulous attention to detail and his unique adaptation of Premchand's short story.

Inspired by this revelation, I have decided to shift the focus of my newsletter to the world cinema of Satyajit Ray. To be completely transparent, while I always recognized Ray's genius, I regrettably hadn't had the opportunity to fully appreciate his films until now. Despite glimpses from online clips, the immersive experience of watching an entire Ray film was a revelation. It's a lamentable oversight that I hadn't indulged in the masterpieces of Ray's cinematic repertoire until this captivating encounter last night.

This moment is reminiscent of when I first discovered Martin Scorsese's films after college. There was a period when I couldn't resist watching Scorsese's works. In one of his lectures, Scorsese praised Ray's storytelling prowess, emphasizing the importance of directors interpreting the world visually before sharing it with the audience. According to Scorsese, great filmmakers filter the world through their own artistry, creating a unique lens for viewers to peer into various worlds, whether as vast as a nation or as intimate as apartment.

In this light, I believe Satyajit Ray is a master of this art. Each of his films felt deeply personal; I've lost count of how many times I've shed tears after watching the Apu trilogy. The genuine and heartfelt love portrayed, from Apu's sister Durga in "Pather Panchali" to his mother's longing in "Aparajito," and later from his wife in the world of Apu, is profoundly moving. As I pen these thoughts, there's a sincerity in the emotions that has brought tears to my eyes once again.

As I've grown older, I've found joy in simple things like hitting the gym, maintaining a healthy diet, and contributing to Bohemian Dialogue. Writing for the Bohemian Dialogue feels like a peaceful endeavor, and I view the ability to write, read, prioritize health, and eat well as a superpower. If you've been following my journey, you've likely noticed that Bohemian Dialogue aims to guide individuals in discovering history, literature, and the essence of life.

My exploration of history, particularly native history, has greatly influenced my personal growth, fostering responsibility and humility. While I initially shared what brings me happiness, it's crucial to acknowledge that this isn't solely my own luxury. I'd be too arrogant not to recognize the blessings from my family, friends, teachers, colleagues, and bosses. Furthermore, I mustn't forget the resilience of my ancestors and their sacrifices, considering my roots in a place that has endured countless invasions throughout history.It’s important to read the history and It’s even more important to make peace with it.

Delving into the pages of history unveils the profound impact of orientalism on our society. It always pains me to read about the erosion of oral storytelling, with its rich aesthetics and intricate details, in our country. As I trace back to ancient India, I uncover the marvel that was Magadha, home to the world's first residential university—Nalanda Mahavihara: The Greatest Centers of Learning in the Ancient World,

Xuanzang, a Chinese Buddhist monk, scholar, traveler, and translator from the 7th century, undertook a journey across India from 630 to 643 CE. His travels included visits to Nalanda in 637 and 642, where he stayed for approximately two years at the monastery. Nalanda warmly welcomed him, and during his time there, he was given the Indian name Mokshadeva. Under the guidance of Shilabhadra, the esteemed head of the institution, Xuanzang pursued his studies. He considered his challenging overland journey to India a success, as he had finally found an unparalleled teacher in Shilabhadra who instructed him in Yogachara, a school of thought that was only partially known in China at that time. In addition to Buddhist studies, Xuanzang attended classes in grammar, logic, and Sanskrit, and later, he also delivered lectures at the Mahavihara.

At Nalanda, there exist a grand library, a repository of untold wisdom and despite it’s destruction, the lingering question remains—what knowledge could it have unveiled if preserved to this day?

It's been quite a while since I last wrote a letter to you. A bunch of things have happened since then. Diwali came and went, and now we're in the midst of the Cricket World Cup. It's incredible to see our team make it to the finals and I've found myself becoming an ardent fan of Virat Kohli. His recent gesture of bowing down to Sachin on his 50th ODI century in the match against New Zealand left a lasting impression on me. Furthermore, the sportsmanship displayed by Kane Williamson, who maintained a gracious smile despite New Zealand falling short of the finals, beautifully encapsulates the essence of cricket as a gentlemen’s game.

In the absence of writing, my weekends found solace in the pages of books. On one such occasion, I delved into the "Northanger Abbey" by Jane Austen. The intricacies of its plot deserve a dedicated discussion. What particularly caught my attention was the unexpected mention of cricket within the narrative. Jane Austen wrote the book in the 18th century and It's fascinating how this old British sport's popularity shifted to South Asia, especially India.

The first reference to cricket as an adult sport was in 1611, and the first laws were written in 1744, later amended in 1774. The ICC website has a brief history of cricket that you can check out here.

I've always believed that once we understand a game, it's in our DNA to become its ultimate champions. Here's hoping our team becomes the champion and lifts the World Cup.

I’ll write again, my friend.

Yours,

Bohemian Dialogue

युद्ध और शांति , पाश

The poem "युद्ध और शांति" (War and Peace) by Pash (पाश) delves into the poet's reflection on the complexities of war and peace.

युद्ध हमारे सिरों पर आकाश की तरह छाया रहा

हम धरती पर खोदे गढ़ों को मोर्चों में बदलने से झिझकते रहे

डर कभी हमारे हाथों पर बेगार बन उग आया

डर कभी हमारे सिरों पर पगड़ी बन सज गया

डर कभी हमारे मनों में सौंदर्य बनकर महका

डर कभी आत्मा में सज्जनता बन गया

कभी होंठों पर चुगली बनकर बुड़बड़ाया

ऐ ज़िंदगी, हम जिन्होंने युद्ध नहीं किया  

Read the full poem here 

War and Peace, EDGELL RICKWORD

The poem "War and Peace" by Edgell Rickword explores the contrast between the experiences of soldiers during wartime and their transition to civilian life

In sodden trenches I have heard men speak,

Though numb and wretched, wise and witty things;

And loved them for the stubbornness that clings

Longest to laughter when Death's pulleys creak;

 

And seeing cool nurses move on tireless feet

To do abominable things with grace,

Deemed them sweet sisters in that haunted place

Where, with child's voices, strong men howl or bleat.

Read the full poem here 

Dear Friend,

Last night, I was driving back home with my siblings in the midst of a heavy rain. Surprisingly, my sister, who isn't particularly into literature, uttered a line that instantly brought forth echoes of Mirza Ghalib's Ghazal:

"Na Tha Kuch To Khuda Tha Kuch Na Hota To Khuda Hota."

At that moment, the three of us in the car were transported back to the poetic landscape of the 19th century in the Indian subcontinent. It felt as though we were right there with Ghalib, ready to exclaim "waah waah" just as we would have when he said:

"Duboyā mujh ko hone ne na hotā maiñ to kyā hotā."

We then delved into Ameer Minai's work, particularly one of his most beautiful poems i.e. “Hum loTte hain wo so rahe hain”, which was also featured as a song in Mira Nair's "A Suitable Boy." I realized that this song never fails to captivate me, no matter how many times I listen to it.

Once again, it felt as though we were right there with Ameer Minai, ready to exclaim "waah waah" just as we would have when he recited:

ham loTte haiñ vo so rahe haiñ

kyā nāz-o-niyāz ho rahe haiñ

kyā rañg jahāñ meñ ho rahe haiñ

do hañste haiñ chaar ro rahe haiñ

duniyā se alag jo ho rahe haiñ

takiyoñ meñ maze se so rahe haiñ

This is us, this is us," my brother exclaimed, drawing a humorous comparison to Minai's poem and my brother's bad habit of staying up late in bed.

We returned to the present moment when one of us pointed out the beautiful light shining over the Qutub Minar, the traffic on the road, and the car honking, while both of them started discussing life. Meanwhile, I couldn't help but think about Dagh Dehlvi.

I’ll write again, my friend.

Yours,

Bohemian Dialogue