Friday, September 25, 2026

Prashant Kishor: From the Man Behind the Campaign to the Man on the Ballot


Prashant Kishor NOT FINISHED | बांकीपुर में कैसे पलटा खेल? | 9 महीने का Comeback? Nitin Nabin | BJP

For more than a decade, Prashant Kishor was known as the man who helped politicians win elections.

He did not begin as a politician. After working on public-health programmes associated with the United Nations, Kishor entered the world of political campaigning. His association with Narendra Modi's 2012 Gujarat campaign and the BJP's successful 2014 Lok Sabha campaign brought him national attention. He subsequently worked with a remarkably diverse range of political parties and leaders, including Nitish Kumar, Congress, Mamata Banerjee, the YSR Congress, DMK and others.

His reputation was built on understanding voters, constructing narratives, organising campaigns and turning political communication into something more systematic and professional.

But there is an interesting question that eventually confronted every strategist:

Can the person who teaches others how to win actually win an election himself?

Kishor decided to find out.

His answer was Jan Suraaj — initially a political movement and subsequently a political party built around the idea of changing the way Bihar is governed. The transition was not easy.

The 2025 Bihar Assembly election was a particularly painful chapter. After years of advising successful political campaigns, Kishor's own political project failed to win a single Assembly seat. For someone whose public image had been built around electoral success, the defeat was difficult to ignore.

But perhaps that failure was important.

A strategist can study elections from the outside. A politician has to stand before the electorate and ask people to trust him personally.

Kishor stayed with the experiment.

Then came Bankipur.

In August 2026, Prashant Kishor won the Bankipur Assembly bypoll, giving Jan Suraaj its first electoral victory and Kishor his first victory as a candidate. More significantly, he defeated the BJP in a constituency where the party had held sway for around 35 years. Pride comes before a fall. BJP had claimed it would win the seat even if it let a Dog or a Cat stand there as a candidate. The loss is heavy for BJP as this was the seat of the candidate who had become BJP's party president. Nitin Nabin, a five‑time MLA from Bihar, became the youngest BJP National President on 20 January 2026.

The symbolism was difficult to miss.

The man who had spent years helping other politicians fight electoral battles had finally entered the battlefield himself — and won.

But perhaps the most interesting part of Kishor's journey is not the victory. It is the sequence of success, failure, persistence and eventual success.

His career demonstrates that the skills required to analyse an election and the skills required to win one personally are not identical. A strategist can advise. A politician has to build trust, absorb criticism, face rejection and remain visible long after the campaign slogans have disappeared.

Kishor has himself argued that his earlier successes were not the result of being a “wonder kid,” but of working with commitment and without fear of failure.

That makes his journey more interesting than a simple story of an election strategist becoming a politician.

It is a story about reinvention.

Perhaps that is also why statements made about a political career are sometimes best judged with time. Today's failure becomes tomorrow's footnote; today's victory becomes part of a much longer story.

And perhaps Kishor's journey leaves us with a more universal thought:

People may analyse your failures, celebrate your victories and write their opinions about you while you are alive. But sometimes the full meaning of a journey can only be understood after it is over.

Until then, the only option is to keep walking — and, occasionally, to prove the critics wrong at the ballot box.

Manoj K. Jayan and Urvashi: A Love Story That Took Another Turn



Some relationships in cinema begin almost like a film script. Two successful actors meet, fall in love, marry and build a family — only to discover that the life behind the screen can be far more complicated than anything they portray on it.

That was the story of Urvashi and Manoj K. Jayan.

The two actors had been in a long relationship before they married. Urvashi has later said that she chose to marry Manoj despite strong opposition from her family. She believed that the problems would eventually settle and, in her own words, was determined to prove that her decision was right.

They married in 2000 and had a daughter, Tejalakshmi, affectionately known as Kunjatta. For some years they continued their professional lives while raising their child. But the marriage eventually became strained, and the couple separated in 2008, after eight years of marriage.

What happened inside the marriage is more complicated than a simple story of one person being responsible for its failure.

In later interviews, Urvashi described the difficulties of adapting to a very different family environment and said that, over time, she felt she was becoming a different person. She also spoke about struggles with alcohol and the effect they had on her health and emotional well-being. Her account was that she had tried for a long time to make the marriage work.

Manoj K. Jayan has given a somewhat different perspective. He has spoken of the compromises both partners make in a marriage and said that after several years of trying to adjust, he reached the conclusion that they could no longer continue together.

Then came the most difficult part — their daughter.

The divorce did not simply mean two adults going their separate ways. Kunjatta was caught between two parents and two households. In 2012, a court proceeding concerning her custody became highly public, with the then ten-year-old girl present in court.

It would be unfair, however, to assume from the public drama alone what the experience meant to her emotionally. What is more revealing is what happened later.

Manoj has spoken warmly about Urvashi and about maintaining relationships between Kunjatta and her mother's family. He has said that his daughter remained connected to Urvashi and that his present wife, Asha, also developed a close relationship with Kunjatta. He has even described situations in which Kunjatta would spend time with Urvashi's family.

Years later, when Kunjatta entered the film industry as Tejalakshmi, the story seemed to come full circle. Manoj became emotional while speaking about his daughter's debut and recalled bringing her from Chennai when she was seven, at a time when he had imagined a completely different future for her. He also publicly praised Urvashi's abilities as an actress.

Perhaps that is the most hopeful part of their story.

A marriage can end without every relationship having to end with it.

The love between two adults may change form. Families may become complicated. Children may experience the consequences of decisions they did not make. But, over time, people can choose whether those old wounds continue to define their relationships.


In the end, perhaps the real measure of a failed marriage is not whether the couple stayed together, but whether they were eventually able to build peaceful relationships around the life they once shared.

-----

As of 25 September 2026:

  • Manoj K. Jayan was born 15 March 1966, so he is 60 years old.
  • Urvashi was born 25 January 1969, so she is 57 years old.
  • Therefore, Manoj K. Jayan is about 2 years and 10 months older than Urvashi.

There is a little inconsistency in some online biographies about Urvashi's birth year, but 25 January 1969 is the date supported by multiple sources.

Who has been more successful?

If by “successful” you mean overall acting recognition, awards and longevity, the documented record is quite striking for Urvashi.

UrvashiManoj K. Jayan
Career began1980sLate 1980s
Major industriesMalayalam, Tamil, Telugu, KannadaMalayalam, Tamil, Telugu
Kerala State Film Awards6 Best Actress awards3 State awards for acting
National Film Awards2 Best Supporting Actress awards—
Major recognitionBest Actress + Supporting Actress across decadesStrongly acclaimed character performances
Notable rolesThalayanamanthram, Kaliyoonjal, Achuvinte Amma, Soorarai Pottru, UllozhukkuPerumthachan, Sargam, Parinayam, Anandabhadram, Pazhassi Raja, Kaliyachan

Urvashi holds the record for the most Kerala State Film Awards for Best Actress — six. She has also won two National Film Awards for Best Supporting Actress, for Achuvinte Amma and Ullozhukku.

Manoj K. Jayan, meanwhile, has won the Kerala State Film Award three times for acting, including for Sargam, Pazhassi Raja and Kaliyachan.

So rather than simply saying one is “better,” the factual distinction is:

Urvashi has the stronger award record and a much larger body of work as a leading actress across South Indian cinema. Manoj K. Jayan has had a highly respected career as a character actor, with several memorable and critically acclaimed performances.

And there is an interesting point here: Urvashi's career is unusually long for a leading actress — she began very young, became a major heroine in the 1980s–90s, took a break, and then returned to increasingly varied character roles. Her two National Awards, including the recent Ullozhukku win, show that her recognition has extended well beyond her peak heroine years. 

Bethlehem Kudumba Unit: Nothing New, Yet Somehow Fresh

 


Everyone seems to be talking about Bethlehem Kudumba Unit as a uniquely new kind of Malayalam film.

But is it really that new?

Perhaps the more interesting thing about the film is that almost everything in it has been seen before.

Take the title itself.

From Summer in Bethlehem in 1998 to Bethlehem Kudumba Unit in 2026, Malayalam cinema has returned to Bethlehem. The connection goes beyond the name. Summer in Bethlehem gave us Manju Warrier as Abhirami, a young woman arriving into an extended-family holiday at a beautiful estate, surrounded by cousins, friendships, romance, secrets, songs and mischief. The film became one of the popular successes of 1998 and remains remembered especially for its ensemble, locations and music.

Almost three decades later, Bethlehem Kudumba Unit gives us Mamitha Baiju in another Bethlehem, again surrounded by a world of family, friends, eccentric characters, romance and music. Ashley; the parallel. It is not that they are playing the same kind of character, but that both films place a prominent young female character within a Bethlehem-centred ensemble/family world.

That is quite a coincidence.

Or perhaps it is a reminder that audiences don't necessarily need new ingredients. They need familiar ingredients served differently.

The family-and-cousins setting is hardly new. Neither is the holiday atmosphere, the ensemble of friends, the romantic thread running through a larger group of characters, the eccentric supporting cast, the beautiful Kerala landscape or the use of music to carry the mood.

Even the film's playful relationship with cinema is not accidental. Co-writer Kiran Josey has acknowledged that Bethlehem Kudumba Unit contains references to films, memes and popular culture. The references are woven into situations rather than simply inserted as jokes.

And then there is magic.

This may actually be one of the cleverest recurring ideas in the film.

The song “Manthrikam” literally begins the journey into magic. Lyricist Vinayak Sasikumar has said that it was written around the idea that falling in love — especially the bewilderment and excitement of first love — feels like magic. Interestingly, he first wrote the title as Mayikam before it became Manthrikam.

The idea did not stop there.

  • Manthrikam.
  • Varnajaalam.
  • Indrajaalam.

Three different expressions associated with magic become a thread running through the soundtrack. Composer Vishnu Vijay suggested continuing the idea of magic as a connecting concept, and Sasikumar developed it further. Even “Muttayi Vandi” plays with the same idea, but from a different point of view.

So the film is almost magical in two senses — literally and musically.

And yet, none of this is entirely new.

That may actually be the point.

Cinema has always borrowed, remembered, echoed and reinvented. Summer in Bethlehem itself had a large extended family arriving at a holiday estate, with friendships, romance, misunderstandings, secrets and songs forming the entertainment. Bethlehem Kudumba Unit uses some of those emotional ingredients again, but gives them a contemporary rhythm, a different age-gap romance, a different set of characters and Girish A.D.'s particular brand of humour.

Even the film's greatest strength — its supporting characters — is not revolutionary in concept. What is different is the chemistry between them. Reviews have particularly highlighted the supporting cast and the way their comic timing becomes an important part of the film's charm.

So perhaps calling Bethlehem Kudumba Unit “unique” is slightly misleading.

Its ingredients are not unique. Its magic lies in the mixing.A well cooked recipe for success. 

  • A little Summer in Bethlehem.
  • A little family entertainer.
  • A little romantic comedy.
  • A little nostalgia.
  • A lot of pop-culture references.
  • A generous helping of music.

And characters who seem to have wandered in from real life.

What Girish A.D. has done is not invent a completely new recipe.

He has taken a recipe Malayalam audiences already know and made us hungry for it again.

And perhaps that is a more difficult achievement than it sounds.

Because making something new is one thing.

Making something familiar feel new again — that is a different kind of magic. Ingredients are not unique; the magic lies in the mixing

What is being called “new” about Bethlehem Kudumba Unit is actually a very old Malayalam-film recipe — family, cousins, friendship, romance, humour, music, a beautiful location and a little magic. What feels fresh is the way Girish A.D. rearranges these familiar ingredients.

That is also more defensible. Girish's screenplay deliberately uses references to films, memes and popular culture.the three “magic” songs: Manthrikam, Varnajaalam and Indrajaalam. Lyricist Vinayak Sasikumar has explained that the idea of magic was deliberately carried across these songs; Muttayi Vandi also explores the same idea from a different perspective.

What is cringe to one may be charm to another. And perhaps that is the secret of popular cinema: it doesn't have to work for everyone; it only has to work for enough people.

Divine Intervention

 


What we experience may come in many forms—

They come to us:

  • from our travel, 
  • from the books we read, 
  • from people we meet or
  •  just by standing and staring at the wonders of nature. 
  • a darshan, a divine vision;
They come to us in the form of:

  • a revelation, when something sacred is unveiled to us;
  • an inner experience or manifestation, when the Divine becomes perceptible within and around us;
  • or an incarnation, when the Divine takes form.

There have been four great divine manifestations, or divine forces, that have come forward at different times to help us and guide us. They have reached out to us when we needed them, supported us at different moments, and continued to accompany us on this journey.

For all this divine grace, I offer my deepest gratitude and countless pranams.

There have been so many such moments—moments of discovery, moments of revelation, moments when the Divine seemed to make itself known in ways I could never have imagined.

For every such experience,

for every blessing,

for every moment in which the Divine has reached out to us and guided us,

my deepest gratitude and countless pranams.



Channel and Not self

 Namaskaram.

“Your thoughts are not your thoughts.

Your body is not your body.
Your mind is not your mind.
The Self is only a concept.”

People say, “Mountains cannot stop me. The wind cannot blow me away. Fire cannot burn me. Weapons cannot wound me.”

Then the question arises: Who is this “me”?

The answer: It is the Mind.

This is the Capital Mind—the Capital Self.

There is one Capital Self, one Capital Mind, one Capital Body and one Capital Thought. All individual minds and all individual selves are part of this Capital Self.

This is the essence of a Gita shloka, which Sri Bhagavan has specifically referred to.

When the word “I” is used there, it refers to the Capital Self.

That is Paramatma.
That is Paramjyothi.
That is the Supreme Self.

It is the Ancient Self, the Ancient Body and the Ancient Thoughts.

The Small Self is only a concept.

Every living being carries what we call an individual or limited self. Bhagavan often refers to this as the Limited Self.

But the Small Self is only a concept. Everything ultimately arises from the Capital Self.

When someone criticises us, we usually feel hurt. When someone praises us, we feel happy.

These are all feelings.

The feelings of “mine” and “yours” cannot really be separated.

Bhagavan says that there is actually only one Mind—the Ancient Mind, the Capital Mind.

The content of every mind is essentially the same. The difference is only in the concept.

The content is one.

All emotions together constitute what we call the mind.

Take the example of a mango.

It is the combination of its colour, shape, beauty, taste and other characteristics that makes it a mango. Colour alone cannot make something a mango. Shape alone cannot make it a mango. Beauty alone cannot make it a mango.

It is the combination of all these characteristics that gives us the experience of “mango.”

Similarly, the different aspects of experience come together to create what we call the mind and the self.

In ancient times, human beings were afraid of wild animals and therefore lived in trees to protect themselves.

Today, people may be so afraid of the stock market that they may even hesitate to go to work and instead prefer to remain at home.

The underlying emotion is fear.

All fears are essentially the same.

Only the concept and the situation have changed.

The feeling that “this is my mind” is one of the main causes of suffering.

If there were no identities such as “mine” and “yours,” there would be no suffering.

But then comes the question:

How can we change a mind that is not even ours?

This is all part of the play of the Self.

Dasaji gave us another beautiful example.

Imagine a building with a water tank on the roof. Suppose there are twenty-five flats in that building. Can each resident say:

“This is my water tank. This is my water.”

No one can really claim that.

Even if the residents leave and new residents come into the building, they cannot claim ownership of the tank and its water merely because they now live there.

The residents change.

But the water tank on the roof remains the same, and the water in it remains the same.

In the same way, body, mind and thoughts together constitute what we call the Self.

This is what is referred to as the Limited Self.

Bhagavan now tells us that thinking, speaking and acting are all happening automatically.

There is no separate thinker.

There is no separate speaker.

There is no separate seer.

There is no separate doer.

These processes have been happening automatically for a very long time.

The feeling that there is someone behind our thoughts, speech, seeing and actions is merely an illusion.

This is what is referred to as Anatma—the mistaken identification with something that is not the true Self.

None of these things truly belong to us.

The belief that all of this belongs to us is Prajnaparadha—the failure of intelligence or mistaken understanding.

The Self is only a concept, an identity created for the purpose of functioning and survival.

Bhagavan often says:

“There are personalities, but there is no individual.”

The individual identity is something that we create.

It is only a concept.

For giving us such profound and beautiful knowledge, and for continuously inspiring and guiding us towards Paramjyothi, Amma Bhagavan, I offer countless prostrations.

Namaskaram.

Thursday, September 24, 2026

Gulzar & Rakhee

 The one and only undisputed wordsmith of India, Sampooran Singh Kalra a.k.a., Gulzar. 

Gulzar was born in the Jhelum District (now in Pakistan) back in 1934. During his childhood, he was mesmerised by the works of Rabindranath Tagore and had read a lot of his translations that had laid the foundation of his greatness.

Gulzar had worked in a garage at Bellasis road in Mumbai and was assigned with the job of giving touch-up to the damaged cars using colours. At that time, he was in love with that work because of the creative spark in him. 

On 15th May 1973, Gulzar had tied the nuptial knot with the golden girl of the industry, Raakhee Majumdar. In December 1973, the couple had welcomed their first child, their daughter, Meghna Gulzar. But astonishingly one year after Meghna's birth, Raakhee and Gulzar had decided to part their ways ending their relationship by signing for Yash Chopra's film, Kabhie Kabhie. 

On their relationship he said, she was his longest short story. 

"Even today, whenever I want to eat fish cooked by her, I first gift her a saree as a bribe like I used to do when we were courting. I gifted her so many sarees during our courtship days that I learnt to identify beautiful Dhakai and Tant sarees. I used to gift her the best ones. I still do."

Going further in his interview, the veteran lyricist had also highlighted the fact that both of them were always there for their daughter, Meghna and somehow, it the reason why they are still together. He had stated:

"From when Meghna was a child till the time she grew up, there hasn't been a single occasion, moment, incident or celebration that we haven't shared with each other. We have been together through it all — disagreements, fights and happy times. If this is not being together, then I don't know what is. We still have a little argument in every two-three hours. And that I think it is only fair."

Giving an insight into what true love is all about, Gulzar had talked about the likeliness between them and why there's no love without fights. He had explained:

"What kind of love is it, in which people don't differ, don't fight now and then? But to say that we are not two different identities would be wrong. She does what she likes. I do what I like. All good friends live like this."

He had added his thoughts on being honest in a relationship. She said:

"You're not close enough if you don't brush against each other. We are still just like we were all these years ago. I have always been honest about it. I didn't preach. I didn't give any lessons or explanations. And she understood. This is how it is."

Rakhee had also talked about her relationship with Gulzar in an interview with Stardust. She had stated:

"We deserve an award for the best-split couple. We are more well-adjusted than most married couples. Gulzar and I are there for each other. He treats me as if I were still his wife. He calls me from his house and tells me, 'I've called four friends for dinner. There's no food at home. So please, quickly send some jhinga curry.' I send it across. His other favourite is kheer, and he loves me to make it for him."

Well, just like his out-of-the-box poetries and songs, his love-life has been the one that is out of this world. However, the respect that both of them hold for each other teaches us a lot about the way we should be. And, there's no better way of ending this with one of his best lines, "Jabse Tumhare Naam Ki Misri Honth Se Lagai Hai, Meetha Sa Gham Hai, Aur Meethi Si Tanhai Hai."

Thought is Suffering

Here is the story of a person named Kendrick Stevens from America, and an incident that happened in his life. Following that experience, he was able to experience Param Karuna and Paramjyothi. Through this, he was also given an experience of divine compassion.

Today, we are going to go deeper into understanding transformation.

Thought is Suffering

Thought is suffering.

Thoughts are like the clouds we see in the sky. They come and they go. They are simply a flow.

When the class was over and everyone had left, the scholars who had attended the class  watched a movie.

The movie they watched contained strong sexual content. Afterwards, they came to Bhagavan and spoke to him about what they had experienced. They came to Bhagavan's balcony and accepted him as their Guru, because Bhagavan gave them an important realization about what they had experienced.

After watching the movie, they were experiencing sexual thoughts. Bhagavan explained to them:

“Thoughts are not your thoughts. So don't get indulged in them.”

He helped them understand that the belief that these thoughts are our thoughts is itself a form of ignorance. It is an illusion. Thoughts are simply thoughts. They are not who we are.

Thought is suffering.

Bhagavan explained that thought is a neurobiological process in the brain. It happens automatically. It is also an electrical impulse.

The five senses receive and process electrical impulses. It is purely biological. Numerous neurons are continuously operating, and what we experience as thoughts arise from this biological process.

This biological process happens automatically.

When certain thoughts are repeated again and again, they become a kind of track or pattern.

Modern science also explains this reality. Thoughts flow from a very old field of accumulated thought patterns. We do not have complete control over them.

Behind every thought, there are numerous factors. The thoughts that arise depend upon those factors.

The problem is not simply that thoughts arise. The important thing is to understand where they come from and what they actually are.

Like Mahatma Gandhi. Although Gandhi was a strong advocate of non-violence, thoughts relating even to violence and killing could arise in his mind.

When he examined where such thoughts had come from, he discovered that there was a connection with the food he had consumed—the food had been prepared or handled by someone who was associated with killing.

The important realization is therefore this:

Thoughts are not ours.

Once we truly understand this, suffering disappears.

The ending of suffering leads us towards Mukti.

No thoughts, no stories.

No stories, no suffering.

No suffering is the way to Mukti.

If we want to attain this state, we need to establish a strong and unshakable connection with Paramjyothi Kalki, Amma Bhagavan.

It is thoughts that create our Prarabdha, our circumstances and experiences. Thoughts create our bondage and our conditioning. Whether they are good or bad, they continue to arise.

All these thoughts are received through the point at the top of the head and, through them, we move away from the state of Brahmananda, the state of supreme bliss.

The flow of our thoughts operates according to the ten programmes that have been established within us.

Therefore, we cannot say that we are the ones creating these thoughts. We are not the doers.

We are only the witnesses.

We simply have to observe our thoughts, experience them, and become aware of them.

That is all.

Suffering & Existance

Existential suffering, the suffering connected with our very existence, and liberation from that suffering. That is what is important.

Mukti cannot be attained merely through our own effort; another higher power has to give it to us.

We cannot identify any specific cause for existential suffering. Even the Buddha could not discover where this deep and disturbing suffering came from, how it arose, or why it existed.

There is always a feeling of emptiness, incompleteness and restlessness. A kind of unexplained discomfort remains within us. This reaches its maximum intensity around the age of twenty-three or twenty-four.

Our ancestors therefore introduced the institution of marriage as one way of addressing it. Marriage helped shift our mental state and bring about changes in our circumstances and surroundings.

Even after making efforts to find solutions through relationships, however, a certain dissatisfaction may remain. As a result, some people fall into depression, some turn to alcohol, some develop suicidal thoughts, and a very few turn towards spirituality.

And among those rare individuals, some ultimately move towards Mukti through spirituality.

The fundamental cause of this suffering is an escape from reality.

Because we are unable to find an answer to the question, “Why was this life given to me?”, we keep searching. We make discoveries, pursue different experiences, and look for fulfilment through various things. Yet the emptiness, restlessness and incompleteness continue to remain.

Some people transform this existential suffering into physical suffering, while others transform it into psychological suffering.

When a person is experiencing existential suffering, he or she is unable to see reality as it truly is.

In the coming times, as Artificial Intelligence and robots increasingly take over many aspects of human life, perhaps this will become even more apparent. We have already begun to see both suicidal tendencies and journeys towards Mukti emerging from these experiences.

The fundamental cause of this suffering is the sense of separation—the belief in a separate existence.

We can be liberated from this only when we realise that we are all deeply interconnected and are not truly separate from one another.

Only then will our identification with states such as “I,” “my,” “you,” “your,” “we,” and “ours” gradually begin to disappear.

And that is how, slowly and gradually, we move towards Mukti.

The Self and the Mind

When sensory coordination becomes faster, the sense of self is created.

Everyone who is born on this earth is engaged in a struggle for survival. That is the function of the self. That is the duty of the self. And that is what the self continues to do.

For its survival, the self even takes the help of the mind—the great gangster.

The biological self is the body.

The psychological self is the mind.

When these operate at tremendous speed, a false identification is created. That false identification is what is referred to as Anatma—the mistaken identification with what is not truly the Self. Like the blades of a fan rotating at full speed.

When the blades rotate extremely fast, we no longer see the individual blades clearly. We see them as one continuous form. In the same way, when the processes of the body, senses and mind operate at tremendous speed, we create a false sense of a separate, permanent self.

The self is also the reason why civilisation has grown to such an extent.

The self is necessary for growth—but only for a functional purpose.

We should use the self only for getting things done, for functioning in the world. Once its functional purpose is fulfilled, we should be able to set it aside.

We should never allow the self to become our master.

When sensory coordination is reduced, the activity of the self and the mind also slows down considerably.

That is when we begin to experience reality as it truly is.

We are capable of reaching that state.

And that is when Mukti becomes possible.

The fundamental cause of everything is this sense of separate existence.


The theelam should always remain below forty percent. That is the most important thing we need to pay attention to.



Wednesday, September 23, 2026

Different Paths, Different Resonances: Movies

 


Cinema thrives on diversity, and the contrasting journeys of Bethlehem Kudumba Yogam, Daayra, Hanuman Ansh, and Gondhal illustrate how success depends not on a single formula but on what resonates with audiences at a given moment.

Bethlehem Kudumba Yogam became a cultural phenomenon in Malayalam cinema. Its slice‑of‑life humor, relatable family dynamics, and festive release timing worked in its favor. The music by Vishnu Vijay added warmth, and the modest budget was amplified by repeat viewings and word‑of‑mouth. Yet, some found its pacing slow or sentimental especially in the second half. Also on the very logic of young girl marrying older neighbour and the impact it would have on society and parents role; proving that even hits can divide opinion.

In contrast, Meghna Gulzar’s Daayra struggled commercially despite critical praise. With a larger budget (₹50–55 crore), it aimed for investigative intensity and moral complexity. Every supporting characters including the leads Kareena Kapoor Khan and Prithviraj Sukumaran’s performances were lauded, but the film’s slower rhythm and niche appeal limited its reach. Here, strong craft did not translate into box office success, reminding us that timing and audience mood matter as much as artistry. 

Hanuman Ansh took a devotional route, dramatizing Neem Karoli Baba’s life. Its Hindi base was enriched with Sanskrit chants and Tamil references, making the music feel pan‑Indian. The film’s relatively moderate budget was offset by its spiritual appeal, and it became one of the most profitable Hindi films of 2026. What worked was its authenticity and inclusivity; what did not work for some was the heavy devotional tone, which may feel inaccessible to viewers seeking lighter entertainment.

Finally, Gondhal leaned into Marathi cultural traditions, blending folk music and ritualistic energy. Its success lay in celebrating local identity, though its regional focus limited nationwide traction. The music was vibrant, but the film’s reach depended on cultural familiarity. The oscar nomination hopefully will boost its reach. 

Together, these films show that what works for one may not work for another. A family comedy, a serious investigation, a devotional biography, and a cultural folk drama each speak to different needs. In times of real‑life violence and unrest, audiences may gravitate toward light‑hearted cinema, but others may seek depth or spirituality. Also when there is age restriction on a movie the reach would be limited and the scope of rewatching minimised though not eliminated.  The key is to voice opinions respectfully: “It did not work for me, and here’s why.” Such differences prevent echo chambers and ensure cinema evolves with society’s changing pulse.

Another interesting fact is that Malayalam film industry is now flooded by female leads:

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I recently came across an interview with Manoj Bajpayee where he said something intriguing: for him, Shah Rukh Khan’s character Veer is the villain in Veer-Zaara. At first, this sounds almost absurd. How can Veer, the film’s great romantic hero, be the villain? But Bajpayee’s statement becomes fascinating when viewed through the lens of perspective.

Bajpayee played Raza, Zaara’s fiancé. Most of us watch the film through Veer and Zaara’s eyes. We see two people falling deeply in love, separated by circumstances and borders. Raza, therefore, becomes the obstacle—the villain standing between the lovers.

But what if the story were told from Raza’s point of view?

He is engaged to Zaara and believes they are going to build a life together. Then another man enters her life, wins her love and threatens the future he thought was his. From Raza’s perspective, Veer is not a romantic hero. He is the man who has disrupted his life and taken away the woman he was supposed to marry.

This does not necessarily make Raza right, nor does it make Veer wrong. It simply reminds us that understanding someone's perspective is not the same as agreeing with it.

Perhaps this is what Bajpayee was trying to convey as an actor. He cannot play Raza by thinking, “I am the villain.” He has to enter the character’s mind and understand why he believes his actions are justified.

And that is the larger lesson: every story changes when the camera moves.

The hero of one person's story can become the villain in another person's story.Maybe, then, the most interesting question is not Who is the villain? but Whose story are we watching? More on it next...

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One interesting thing about films that succeed is something we often overlook: the team behind the film matters as much as the person in front of the camera.

Take Bethlehem Kudumba Unit. It is not a one-man show.



There is director Girish A.D., co-writer Kiran Josey, and behind them the three people of Bhavana Studios — Fahadh Faasil, Dileesh Pothan and Syam Pushkaran. Director of Photography (DOP) / cinematographer of Bethlehem Kudumba Unit is Ajmal Sabu.

What makes this interesting is that these are not conventional financiers who simply put money into a project and wait for the returns. They are filmmakers themselves — an actor, a director and a writer — bringing different creative perspectives to the table.

That creates something a one-person operation may find difficult to create: a room full of people who can question an idea, challenge a decision, improve a scene and see possibilities that one person may miss.

And there is another, less tangible advantage.

When a film has many respected people genuinely invested in it, it naturally creates a larger circle of well-wishers — people who talk about it, recommend it, defend it when necessary and bring others into the conversation.

That doesn't guarantee a hit. But in an industry where word-of-mouth can determine whether people decide to watch a film, having a strong network of people who believe in the work can certainly help it find an audience. It can also create a buffer against the negativity that often surrounds a new release.

Perhaps this is the lesson worth noticing.

Cinema may have a hero on screen, but there need not be a hero behind the screen.

Sometimes, the film succeeds precisely because nobody is trying to be the only hero.

What is cringe to one may be charm to another. And perhaps that is the secret of popular cinema: it doesn't have to work for everyone; it only has to work for enough people. No formula will work everytime or for everyone. 

Veer-Zara: Manoj Bajpayees perspective

 In his 2024 Pinkvilla interview, Bajpayee explained that when he receives a role, he tries to think entirely from that character’s point of view, because that is what makes the performance believable. He was playing Raza, Zaara’s fiancé, and from Raza’s perspective, Veer was the man who had entered his relationship and taken away the woman to whom he was engaged.


This particular pic also takes me to similar scene in Aa Dil hai Mushkil


Fact, opinion, or perspective?

I would separate it like this:

Statement:                                              What it is

Manoj Bajpayee played Raza Shirazi, Zaara's fiancé in Veer-Zaara Fact

Veer and Zaara fall in love despite Zaara being engaged to Raza Fact within the film's story

Raza sees Veer as the person threatening his relationship Character perspective

Bajpayee said, “For me, Shah Rukh was the villain” Bajpayee's opinion/interpretation

Therefore Shah Rukh's Veer is actually the villain Not an objective fact

And this distinction is precisely what makes his comment fascinating.

The same story changes when the camera moves

Most of us watch Veer-Zaara through Veer and Zaara's eyes.

We see:

Veer → love → Zaara

and therefore:

Raza → obstacle → villain

But imagine the camera following Raza.

He is engaged to Zaara. He believes they are going to marry. Then an Indian man enters her life, they fall deeply in love, and suddenly the future he believed was his is disappearing.

From his emotional position, the story becomes:

“I am not stealing somebody's love. Somebody is taking away the woman who was promised to me.”

That doesn't automatically make Raza morally right. But it makes him human.

And that is where Bajpayee's acting philosophy becomes important.

He wasn't asking:

“How do I play the villain?”

He was asking:

“Why would Raza behave this way if he believed he was the hero of his own life?”

That is a much deeper question for an actor.

And there is another fascinating layer

Raza isn't even a conventional Bollywood villain.

He doesn't arrive saying, “I am evil.”

He has a legitimate relationship with Zaara. He has social standing. He is powerful. He has expectations of marriage. His conflict comes from possession, wounded love, social honour and power.

The crucial point is that Bajpayee himself acknowledged Raza's power. He explained that because Raza was powerful, he could trap Veer; otherwise, he might have had to live with the heartbreak or become something like a Devdas.

That gives the character another dimension:

Power changes what a person can do with pain.

A powerless person may simply suffer.

A powerful person may be able to make someone else suffer.

That's a very interesting psychological observation—not merely about Raza, but about human behaviour.

And this is where Veer-Zaara becomes more than a love story

There are actually three perspectives operating in the film.

Veer:

"I love Zaara. Our love is true.”

Zaara:

“I love Veer, but I am caught between love, family, duty and society.”

Raza:

“She is my fiancée. Why should I accept that another man has entered our relationship?”

Each person has a story that makes sense from inside their own world.

That doesn't mean every action is equally justified.

It means understanding someone's perspective is different from agreeing with them.

And perhaps that is the most valuable takeaway from Bajpayee's comment.

There is also something very Manoj Bajpayee about this

He has often been associated with morally complicated characters rather than characters who can be neatly divided into “good” and “bad.” His approach to Raza demonstrates the same philosophy.

Interestingly, Bajpayee recalled that a Pakistani woman once confronted him about his negative role and essentially blamed him for coming between Veer and Zaara. His response was that she wasn't looking at the story from Raza's point of view.

That anecdote actually explains his statement better than the headline does.

He wasn't seriously claiming:

“Shah Rukh Khan is the villain of Veer-Zaara.”

He was saying, in effect:

“If I am Raza, I cannot enter the scene thinking that I am the villain. I have to believe that Veer is the person who has disrupted my life.”

That is character perspective, not a verdict on the film.

And there is one more beautiful irony: Yash Chopra apparently made Bajpayee feel that his small role was as important as the lead roles. Bajpayee later recalled that Chopra treated him with great respect on set and believed audiences would remember Raza.

So perhaps the most interesting way of putting it is:

Every villain is the hero of his own story.

Not necessarily because every villain is secretly good—but because human beings rarely experience themselves as villains.

And that is why Manoj Bajpayee's interpretation of Raza makes us look at Veer-Zaara differently. Change the point of view, and the emotional geometry of the entire story changes.

Monday, September 21, 2026

Knife: Time

 

Time 

Gradually

Carving life out of people. 

You see them now, 

And they appear 

So different

From what your memories

Fed you.

Happy, vibrant souls

Of the past, now

Shrunken to shells,

Seemingly purposeless, 

And incomplete, 

Struggling

To make sense, 

Adapt, 

And

Remember. 

I see them all around me, 

As I myself, 

Devastated,

Grow out of my past. 

Global Cities Index

 



The Oxford Economics Global Cities Index is a benchmarking survey ranking the world’s 1,000 largest cities across five dimensions — Economics, Human Capital, Quality of Life, Environment, and Governance. 

https://www.oxfordeconomics.com/global-cities-index/

According to the report from India we have no cities in the top 250. Our top ten rankings are Delhi-268, Banglore-311, Mumbai-330, Chennai-381, Hydrabad-421, Pune-427, Thrissur-477, Ernakulam-489, Kolkotta-496, Kozhikode-499 . In total we have 91 cities from India.


We have three states from Kerala of the first 10, Thrissur 477 in all categories, 334 in Economics, 611 in Human Capital, 584 in Quality of Life, 468 in Environment and 415 in Governance. Followed by Ernakulam and Kozhikode.


Other cities from Kerala are Kollam - 623, Trivandrum -624, Kottayam -696, Kannur - 772


Its relevance lies in helping businesses, policymakers, and investors understand urban strengths, weaknesses, and future potential.


This Survey Covers 1,000 major urban economies worldwide, from established capitals like New York and London to fast-rising Asian megacities.


It evaluates cities using five categories:


Economics – GDP size, growth, productivity.


Human Capital – education, skills, workforce quality.


Quality of Life – healthcare, housing, safety, cultural amenities.

Environment – sustainability, pollution, green infrastructure.


Governance – institutions, stability, policy effectiveness.


It's relevance is:


For Governments: Identifies policy gaps and areas needing investment (e.g., infrastructure, education).


For Businesses: Guides market entry, expansion, and risk assessment by showing which cities are economically resilient or talent-rich.


For Investors: Highlights emerging urban hubs with strong growth potential, especially in Asia and other dynamic regions.


For Researchers/Students: Provides a comprehensive dataset for studying urbanization, economic geography, and sustainability trends.


2026 Highlights:


Top Cities: New York (#1), London (#2), Paris (#3), Seattle (#4), San Francisco (#5).


Rising Influence: Asian cities like Shenzhen, Taipei, Kuala Lumpur, and Ho Chi Minh City are climbing rapidly.


Environment – sustainability, pollution, green infrastructure.


Governance – institutions, stability, policy effectiveness.


Methodology: Combines quantitative forecasts with qualitative datasets, offering a forward-looking view rather than just a static ranking.

Sunday, September 20, 2026

The Dual Reception of Bethlehem Kudumba Unit

 The Dual Reception of Bethlehem Kudumba Unit and it is becoming an Industry hit made me ponder. People love family, real life, relatable stories with no age restrictions. It would sell more. People can go and watch in repeat mode with family, friends and cousins. 

Malayalam cinema has recently witnessed the extraordinary success of Bethlehem Kudumba Unit, directed by Girish A.D. The film struck a chord with audiences by weaving together slice‑of‑life humor, neighborhood gossip, and a tender romance between Justin (Nivin Pauly) and Ashley (Mamitha Baiju). Its relatable characters, festive Onam release timing, and strong technical support—Vishnu Vijay’s music, Ajmal Sabu’s cinematography, and Akash Joseph Varghese’s editing—helped transform it into a cultural event. Families flocked to theaters, and repeat viewings pushed its box office past historic records.

Yet, the film’s reception is not universally positive. Some viewers find the pacing slow, especially in the first half, where jokes occasionally fall flat. Others criticize the sentimental tone, feeling that emotional manipulation overshadows narrative depth. The age‑gap romance, though sensitively handled, remains uncomfortable for certain sections of the audience. Critics also point to predictable arcs and unresolved subplots, which dilute the impact of an otherwise warm narrative.

The film’s popularity highlights a broader trend: when one movie succeeds, others often imitate its formula, creating a bandwagon effect. Sequels and spin‑offs can extend a story’s life, but they risk exhausting audiences. Drishyam, for instance, could have ended with its powerful first installment, yet sequels followed because new perspectives emerged and many fans enjoyed revisiting Georgekutty’s journey. Ultimately, cinema thrives on diversity of taste. What feels sentimental or repetitive to one viewer may be deeply satisfying to another.

Bethlehem Kudumba Unit proves that success lies not in pleasing everyone, but in capturing the spirit of everyday life with honesty and charm.

Crime Thrillers, Bandwagons, and the Burden of Sequels

 

In the last decade, Malayalam cinema has seen a remarkable surge in crime‑investigation stories. Films such as Drishyam, Drishyam 2, Ancham Pathira, and Cold Case have captured public imagination, with audiences celebrating them across social media. Their technical finesse and narrative ambition often lift them above average. Likewise, in Hindi cinema, titles like Talvar, Raazi, and the recent Daayra have shown how investigative thrillers can combine realism with mass appeal.

But success breeds imitation. When one film strikes gold, others rush to replicate its formula. This “bandwagon effect” has led to a glut of thrillers that mimic surface elements—grim police stations, courtroom drama, forensic jargon—without the deeper logic or narrative discipline that makes the genre truly compelling.

Detective fiction has long provided models of rigor and credibility. Internationally, Agatha Christie mastered medical accuracy and psychological detail, while Erle Stanley Gardner’s Perry Mason novels remain templates for courtroom thrillers. In India, readers of crime fiction often expect the same precision, but many films fall short—stretching coincidence, ignoring forensic advances, or leaving loose ends unresolved.

Real‑Life Incidents on Screen

Some of the most powerful films in this genre are those inspired by real events:

Talvar dramatized the 2008 Noida double murder case, using multiple perspectives to question justice.

Daayra echoes the 2019 Hyderabad police encounter case, probing the tension between law and vengeance.

Law & Order (Malayalam, 2024) drew from Kerala’s own courtroom sagas, blending fact with fiction.

These succeed because they anchor drama in lived reality, forcing audiences to confront uncomfortable truths rather than indulging in contrived coincidences.

Expertise from Within

Malayalam cinema even boasts a unique figure: a real‑life police officer turned screenwriter, whose insider knowledge of investigative procedures lends authenticity to crime narratives. This crossover shows how expertise from outside the film industry can enrich storytelling, grounding fiction in the realities of law enforcement.

Common Shortcomings

Despite polish, recurring flaws weaken many recent films:

Lack of logic: Characters act irrationally just to move the plot forward.

Overuse of coincidence: Stretching believability until the audience feels cheated.

Loose ends: Subplots vanish without resolution.

Medical inaccuracies: Misrepresentation of drugs and their effects.

Courtroom dramatics: Sacrificing credibility for spectacle.

Shallow forensics: Ignoring advances in science, leading to unintentional comedy.

Another trend is the relentless pursuit of sequels. When a film succeeds, producers often feel compelled to extend its universe. While some audiences enjoy revisiting familiar characters, others feel fatigue when the story stretches beyond its natural conclusion. Drishyam could have ended with the first film—its climax was complete, haunting, and memorable. Yet sequels followed, because there were new “takes” to explore and because many viewers loved watching Georgekutty’s saga unfold further.

Here lies the paradox: I am no one to decree that sequels must stop. Cinema thrives on diversity of taste. What feels like overextension to one viewer may be deeply satisfying to another. The challenge for filmmakers is to ensure that sequels are not mere cash‑grabs but genuine expansions of narrative depth.

Crime thrillers thrive when they balance technical authenticity with narrative cohesion. The best examples—Talvar, Raazi, Daayra, and Drishyam—show that audiences reward films which respect their intelligence. But when filmmakers jump on the bandwagon or drag a story into endless sequels without fresh insight, the result risks becoming “cringe” rather than compelling.

The lesson is clear: true success in this genre lies not in imitation or repetition, but in integrity and imagination.

Friday, September 18, 2026

Daayra : Crime & Punishment

 Daayra — When Justice and Law Stand on Opposite Sides.

When Justice Becomes Instant: What Daayra Makes Us Ask About Crime, Courts and Encounters in India?

I watched Daayra, Meghna Gulzar’s latest film starring Kareena Kapoor Khan and Prithviraj Sukumaran, and found myself thinking about something larger than the film itself.

At its heart, Daayra asks an uncomfortable question:

What happens when the system of justice is slow, and people begin to believe that taking the law into their own hands is the only way to deliver justice?

The film brings together two police officers—DCP Ajooni Kohli, played by Kareena, and DCP Raman Kumar, played by Prithviraj. Both are officers of the law. Yet they stand on opposite sides of a delicate line.

Ajooni believes in the boundaries of the law.

Raman believes that when the system repeatedly fails, someone has to act.

Neither character is presented as simply black or white.

And that is very much what Meghna Gulzar seems to have intended.

In her note about the film, she writes about how, as a student of Sociology, she learnt that society is not binary. There is a spectrum of grey. She says Daayra explores that grey—and, interestingly, attempts to dismantle it as well.

She describes Kareena's Ajooni as “fiercely righteous” and Prithviraj's Raman as “righteously fierce.”

That perhaps captures the film beautifully.

The two are, in Meghna's words, the “Ying and Yang of Daayra.” Their journeys keep moving between law and morality, conviction and doubt, procedure and emotion.



And then come the statistics at the end of the film.

A rape is reported approximately every 20 minutes.

A police encounter is reported approximately every day.

And only around 23% of rape cases result in conviction, according to the statistic cited by the film. Recent reporting also puts India's rape-case conviction rate at about 23% in 2024, while court pendency remains very high.

These numbers are difficult to absorb.

But there is an important distinction here: a 23% conviction rate does not mean that the remaining 77% of accused were necessarily proved innocent. Conviction rates relate to cases disposed of by courts, while a large number of cases remain pending.

And that is perhaps where Daayra becomes more than a crime thriller.

It asks us to look at the space between crime and justice, law and morality, anger and restraint.

When a young woman becomes a victim of a horrific crime, the instinctive human response is to demand immediate punishment. But when punishment happens outside the legal process, another question emerges:

Can something be called justice if it bypasses the law?

At the same time, if the law takes years to deliver justice, what happens to people's faith in the system?

Daayra doesn't seem interested in giving us a comfortable answer.

And perhaps that is its strength.

The film is not really asking us to choose between Ajooni and Raman. It is asking us to understand why both positions exist.

For me, the most interesting thought from Meghna Gulzar's note is this:

“Life and our society is not binary.”

Perhaps neither is justice.

And perhaps the uncomfortable grey space between what the law says, what society demands, and what an individual believes is right is exactly where the real conversation begins.

#Daayra #MeghnaGulzar #KareenaKapoorKhan #PrithvirajSukumaran #Justice #Law #IndianCinema #CinemaAndSociety #FilmReview #CrimeAndJustice

Crime, Punishment, Justice and deliverance of justice. Meghna Gulzar’s own intention behind the film. In particular, her idea that life and society are not simply black and white, but exist in a spectrum of grey—and that Daayra explores, and even tries to dismantle, that grey.

“Sach Ka Daayra captures the emotional core of the film. Gulzar sahab’s words, Amit’s composition and B Praak’s voice come together with an intensity that stays with you.”

https://youtu.be/Kv63oAhdY4E?si=4K-j12zaUUNYSouy

“Sach Ka Daayra makes you pause and think. The depth of the writing and the mood created by the music make it feel like another voice within the story,”



The film is particularly interesting because it is not simply a rape-revenge or police thriller. Its central question is much more uncomfortable: what happens when people begin to see an immediate act of punishment as justice?

What the film is about

 Daayra — the idea of a boundary or sphere within which one is supposed to operate.

The statistics at the end are quite striking

The film reportedly ends with three statistics:

A rape is reported approximately every 20 minutes.
A police encounter is reported approximately every day.
Only about 23% of rape cases result in conviction.

The third figure is particularly important, but it needs a little context.

Recent reporting based on crime and court data says that the conviction rate for rape cases fell from about 27% in 2013 to about 23% in 2024, while the proportion of rape cases pending in courts rose from about 83% to 89%.

So the film's 23% figure is not simply saying that 77% of rape accusations are proved false. That's an important distinction.

A conviction rate is calculated from cases disposed of by the courts; it is not the same thing as saying that 77% of all people accused of rape were found innocent. And court pendency is a huge part of the picture.

There is another interesting complication: reported crime is not necessarily the same as actual incidence of crime. An increase in registered cases can sometimes reflect greater reporting, improved registration, or greater awareness, rather than only an increase in crimes committed. For example, recent analysis of India's rape data notes that reporting increased substantially after the 2013 legal changes.

And this is where I think the film becomes relevant

It is the relationship between justice and public anger that is the core theme.





There are three layers:

  1. The Crime
  2. Quantity of punishment &
  3. Deliverance of Justice

Society is fluid, so these needs to be dynamic and cannot be text book prescribed. 

After a horrific crime, people understandably want immediate punishment. When the legal process takes years, an encounter can begin to look like instant justice. The film asks whether that feeling should be allowed to determine how the law operates.

Meghna puts it rather well when discussing the film's central idea: the law can be followed, interpreted, manipulated or exploited while still remaining technically within its boundaries.

That is a much richer question than "Are encounters right or wrong?"

It is:

If the system is slow, does that give an individual the right to become the system?

And perhaps the film's most uncomfortable question is the one that follows:

If justice is delivered outside the law, can we still call it justice?

Sugar In Milk : The Parsi Legend

 

The history of the Parsis in India is fascinating because it is a story of migration, survival, accommodation, enterprise and philanthropy. And the famous milk-and-sugar story captures, beautifully, how the community traditionally understood its relationship with India.


1. Why did the Parsis come to India?


The Parsis are followers of Zoroastrianism, one of the world's oldest monotheistic religions, founded by Zarathustra (Zoroaster) in ancient Persia.


After the Arab conquest of Persia in the 7th century, Zoroastrians gradually became a minority in their homeland. According to Parsi tradition, groups of Zoroastrians eventually left Persia and travelled eastward, reaching the western coast of India. The traditional account places their arrival at Sanjan in Gujarat around the 8th century, although the precise historical date is uncertain.


They gradually established themselves in Gujarat, particularly around Sanjan, Navsari, Bharuch (Broach) and Surat. Over several centuries, they became deeply rooted in Gujarati society while retaining their Zoroastrian faith and customs.


2. The beautiful story of the milk and sugar


There is a famous Parsi tradition about their arrival.


The story goes that when the Parsis sought permission to settle in Gujarat, the local ruler showed them a brimming glass of milk, symbolizing that his kingdom was already full and had no room for another community.


The Parsi leader is said to have responded by putting a little sugar into the milk without spilling a drop.


The message was beautiful:


We will blend into your society and make it sweeter, without displacing anyone.


The ruler is said to have accepted them on certain conditions, including adopting the local language and customs.


There is an important historical caveat: the milk-and-sugar story belongs to Parsi tradition and should not be treated as a documented historical event. But as a cultural story, it has become one of the most enduring ways of expressing the Parsi ideal of integration into Indian society.


And there is something rather lovely about it. They didn't say, “We will change the milk.” They said, in effect, “We will become part of it.”



3. How did they become so influential?


This is where the story becomes particularly interesting.


For centuries, Parsis were involved in trade, agriculture, textiles and commerce in Gujarat. When Bombay began emerging as an important British port, many Parsis moved south from Gujarat to the city.


The British found the Parsis particularly useful as merchants, shipbuilders, translators and intermediaries because of their commercial networks and familiarity with the region.


One fascinating example is the Wadia family. Lowji Wadia was brought from Surat to Bombay in the 18th century to build the British dockyard. The Wadia family subsequently played a major role in Bombay's shipbuilding industry for generations.


Parsis also became prominent in the cotton trade, banking, shipping and textile manufacturing. Bombay's rise as a commercial city therefore coincided with the rise of an influential Parsi mercantile community.


And then came some names almost everyone in India recognizes:


Jamsetji Tata and the Tata family.


The Parsis' contribution wasn't restricted to business. They established schools, libraries, hospitals, housing and charitable institutions. Parsi philanthropy became one of the defining features of the community's public life.


4. Why Mumbai became their great center


There was a kind of historical convergence.


Surat had been an important Parsi commercial center, but its port gradually declined. Bombay, meanwhile, was developing into a major international port under British rule.


Parsis moved there in considerable numbers.


By the 19th century, Bombay had become the principal Parsi center in India, and it remains the cultural heart of the community.


The community's institutions also grew. The Bombay Parsi Panchayat, traditionally dating back to the 17th century, became an important institution for community affairs and later for charitable work.


5. And their influence went beyond business


This is perhaps the part I find most remarkable.


The community was tiny, but its contribution was disproportionately visible.


Dadabhai Naoroji, a Parsi, became the first Indian elected to the British House of Commons and was an important figure in India's early nationalist movement.


Jamsetji Tata helped lay the foundations of modern Indian industry and scientific education.


The Tata family, Godrej family, Wadia family and many others contributed to industry, education, science, healthcare and philanthropy. Encyclopaedia Iranica notes, for example, that the Tatas played a major role in India's industrial development, including steel and scientific research.


So there is an interesting paradox in the Parsi story:


A community that arrived in India as a small group of refugees eventually became one of the communities that helped build modern Bombay—and, in many ways, modern India.


And perhaps that brings us back to the milk and sugar.


They were a small community entering a civilization that was already ancient and enormously diverse. Their traditional promise was not to fill the glass, but to add sweetness without spilling the milk.


Whether or not the story happened exactly as told, it has survived because it expresses something the Parsi story in India came to represent remarkably well:


to preserve who you are, while becoming part of where you are.


The “sugar in milk” story is a traditional Parsi legend, preserved in the Qissa-i Sanjan. It depicts the Zoroastrian newcomers asking King Jadi Rana for refuge; the king's full vessel of milk symbolised a kingdom already full, while the sugar represented the newcomers' promise to blend into society and add sweetness without disturbing it.