4th Dimension

 I grew up being told that my name, Pratham, comes from a Gujarati bhajan “pratham pela samariye…” Before anything, we remember you. As a Barodian, this wasn’t presented to me as philosophy. It was just… how things were done. You start with him. You invoke him. You don’t really ask why. And for a long time, I didn’t. But at some point, that unquestioned habit starts to itch a little. Why him? Why this particular figure, round-bellied, elephant-headed, seated with sweets in hand and a mouse at his feet, presiding over beginnings of all things? Businesses, weddings, journeys, exams. Everything begins with Ganesha. If you ask around, you’ll get the standard answer: he removes obstacles. Which sounds satisfying, until you pause long enough to realise it explains almost nothing. Because it raises a better question: why does the remover of obstacles look like that? For many outside India, the conversation rarely gets past the elephant head. It’s treated like a visual quirk,interesting, ...

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...

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...