4th Dimension

I came across an intriguing article by Duvvuri Subbarao titled "Has IAS Failed The Nation?” made me reflect on the most interesting subject, bureaucracy in India, something very close to the heart of Indian governance and yet so far from its brain: the Civil Services. More specifically, why they began with the promise of nation-building and somehow evolved into glorified WhatsApp forwarding departments with fancy stationery and painfully slow Wi-Fi. Post-Independence, we had dreams. Big ones. Dams, democracy, development. Nehru spoke like a poet, Patel acted like a surgeon, and somewhere in between, the Indian Administrative Service (IAS) was born, our very own homegrown bureaucracy. It was supposed to be the steel frame of India. Spoiler alert: today, it’s more mild steel—looks shiny but bends under pressure. Let’s rewind and see how we got here. When the British left, they bequeathed to us three things: tea addiction, cricket obsession, and the Indian Civil Service-an institutio...

Yesterday, I met my ex-neighbour at a temple. Not just any temple. The Umiya Devi temple—the unofficial parliament for a certain caste’s community matters. He was beaming. Turns out, his caste group is organising a National Business Summit. Not a business summit. A caste-based business summit. For businesspersons of their caste only, thank you very much. Proudly, he informed me that he’s on the executive organising team. Big deal. Big pride. Big caste. And then it hit me. Again. My city just hosted a Global Patidar Business Summit. Before that, a Global Brahmin Summit. Add a couple of Yadav Yatras and Vaishya Ventures, and we’ve basically got an unofficial caste-based G20 happening every few months. Now, as someone who eats, sleeps and occasionally overthinks sociology, caste always felt like that stubborn stain on your white shirt. It fades, sure. But it never disappears. And yesterday, I saw why. Caste survives because it accommodates. It makes room for people who are left out by the...

Recently, I got an opportunity to visit the famous Bahucharaji temple with Limbach mā temples at Unva and Patan. At the same time, I also paid a visit to Ambaji temple in Gujarat. What stuck in my mind was the socio -cultural dimensions of these temples, rituals and goddesses which remained divorced from Brahminical and puranic frameworks. let me ask you something, if you ever find yourself in a dusty corner of North Gujarat or Saurashtra, or deep inside the rice belts of central Gujarat, and someone points you towards a neem tree wrapped in red threads or a stone smeared with vermilion near a dried-up well, don’t be deceived by the simplicity. You are not looking at folk superstition. You are staring at the living remnants of a subaltern theology—what the villagers might call Meldi no Maṇḍ, Momai na sthān, or Bahucharā no dero. These are not minor goddesses. They are the pulsing, breathing soul of local religiosity—sovereign, sensory, and disruptive. Before Temples, There Was Earth Th...

I was having lunch with my faculty colleagues, just trying to survive the afternoon, when the topic of parenting popped up. Again. Except this time, it wasn’t just casual griping about screen time or school fees. It turned into something oddly philosophical. My colleagues, all seasoned parents, started discussing “how we were raised” versus “how we are raising.” And there I was—a new dad, wide-eyed, mildly confused, and deeply conflicted. I’m a 90s kid. Grew up on a healthy diet of cartoon violence, weekend Doordarshan movies, and the constant fear of being shouted at for no reason. Our parents didn’t negotiate. They didn’t ask how we felt. They didn't even ask why  and what happened in the class. You didn’t get time-outs. You got “the look”—you know, the one that made your soul shiver. Now, here I am, trying to parent in an age where I’m supposed to gently narrate my toddler’s emotions back to him while she’s screaming because the spoon is the wrong colour. Honestly, it's enou...

The Hanuman Chalisa emerged from the soul of a poet in the 16th century—Tulsidas, a sage steeped in bhakti and awakened vision. He composed it in Awadhi, the dialect of the common people, far removed from the learned tongue of Sanskrit. This was a radical act: to take devotion out of the temples and place it on village lips. The hymn’s legend is just as powerful as its verses. Imprisoned by Emperor Akbar, as one narrative goes, Tulsidas composed the Chalisa during forty days of confinement. Each day, he recited a verse. On the fortieth day, an army of monkeys stormed the court, leading to his release. History may not confirm the tale. But the power of the story is symbolic—it speaks to what devotees know: Hanuman comes where he is called. Architecture of the Divine The Chalisa begins with a homage to the guru, before flowing into forty chaupais—couplets extolling Hanuman’s strength, wisdom, and unwavering devotion to Rama. It ends with verses promising protection, courage, and spiritua...

Things I never expected in Vadodara include uncivilized public behaviour. But the recent drink and drive case of Rakshit Chaurasiya is intriguing to me. he shouted "Another Round" , "Nikita" and "Om Namah Shivay" after killing and injuring innocents. Which is not unknown to us. It has become a very common scenario where a late-night street in a bustling city, a luxury car speeds past, a loud thud, a body on the ground. The driver? Gone. The headlines the next morning scream outrage, but within weeks, the case disappears into legal oblivion. It’s a script we’ve seen play out time and again, especially in recent years, where young, affluent men behind expensive wheels seem to treat traffic laws as mere suggestions. But has it always been this way? Have hit-and-run cases always plagued India, or is this a new, ugly side-effect of rising wealth, urbanisation, and the lack of consequences? Let’s take a journey through the decades, from post-independence India’s...

Holi’s roots extend deep into antiquity, with references appearing in early Sanskrit texts such as the Purva Mimamsa Sutras and the Kathaka Grihya Sutras, which describe springtime festivities resembling Holi. The Puranas further elaborate on Holi’s significance, particularly the Narada Purana and the Bhavishya Purana, which mention a festival named Holika or Holikotsav. These accounts, along with a 300 BCE inscription from Central India referencing Holikotsav, confirm its existence as an ancient public celebration. The festival was initially tied to agricultural cycles and lunar worship, particularly the full moon of the Phalguna month. Early celebrations were likely intimate family rituals performed by married women seeking prosperity for their households. However, as Holi merged with broader social customs, it evolved into a more exuberant communal festival marking the arrival of spring. Mythology also played a crucial role in Holi’s rise. The most well-known legend is that of Prahl...

I used to think laughter was just laughter. You know, that thing you do when someone slips on a banana peel, or when you realise your entire life is just a series of awkward moments held together by caffeine and bad decisions. But then, while working on theology of Devi Puran and the social construction of power (fancy, right?), I realised: laughter is a weapon. Not the kind you use in a bar fight, but one that humiliates, strips power, and occasionally, starts wars. The Goddess Who LOL’d at a Demon Mahishasura, the mighty demon, strutting onto the battlefield, flexing his muscles, feeling invincible. And then—BOOM—Durga enters the scene and lets out the loudest, most epic guffaw ever (अट्टहास, for those who enjoy dramatic Sanskrit terminology). Mahishasura, poor guy, suddenly feels… small. Like a man who just realised his Wi-Fi is down. His confidence crumbles. That’s the thing about mockery—it’s not just ha-ha funny; it’s uh-oh powerful. Durga wasn’t just laughing for fun. She was ma...