The Healing Crisis: When Medicine Became Business

A Reflection on Modern Healthcare and the Ancient Wisdom of Ayurveda

"The art of healing comes from nature, not from the physician. Therefore, the physician must start from nature, with an open mind." — Paracelsus

Walk into any major hospital today, and you'll notice something peculiar. The people making critical decisions about patient care, hospital operations, and treatment protocols are increasingly not the doctors who've spent years understanding the human body, but MBAs who've spent years understanding spreadsheets. This shift from healer-led to business-led healthcare represents one of the most profound transformations in medicine, and it's worth pausing to consider what we've gained and what we've lost in the process.

The Corporatization of Healing

Modern hospitals have become sophisticated businesses, and there's no denying that business acumen has brought certain improvements. Better resource management, improved efficiency, standardized protocols, and financial sustainability are all valuable contributions. The MBA mindset has helped hospitals serve more patients, adopt new technologies faster, and operate with greater accountability.

But something fundamental shifts when healing becomes a business model. When hospitals are run primarily as profit centers, every patient interaction becomes a transaction. Tests are ordered not just because they're medically necessary, but because they contribute to revenue targets. Treatments are evaluated not solely on healing outcomes, but on their profit margins. The average time a doctor spends with a patient shrinks because time is money, and consultations must be optimized for throughput.

The Metrics That Matter

In MBA-run hospitals, success is measured in bed occupancy rates, average revenue per patient, and operational efficiency ratios. These are important metrics for sustainability, but they tell us nothing about actual healing. They don't measure whether patients truly recovered, whether they understood their condition, or whether they received care that addressed their root problems rather than just their symptoms.

The doctor, who once held the dual role of healer and decision-maker, increasingly becomes an employee in a system designed by people who've never treated a patient. Clinical judgment gets overruled by administrative policy. The intuition that comes from years of practice is subordinated to standardized protocols designed for efficiency rather than individual care.

The Symptom-Focused Paradigm

Modern medicine, particularly as practiced in corporate healthcare settings, has evolved into a remarkably sophisticated system for managing symptoms. You have high blood pressure? Here's a pill to lower it. Your cholesterol is elevated? Take this statin. Experiencing chronic pain? We have medications for that too.

This approach delivers quick, measurable results, which suits both patients wanting immediate relief and healthcare systems measuring quarterly performance. Blood pressure numbers improve. Cholesterol levels drop. Pain becomes manageable. The symptoms are controlled, the metrics look good, and everyone moves on to the next patient.

But here's the uncomfortable question that rarely gets asked in the hurried corridors of modern hospitals: Why did the blood pressure rise in the first place? What's causing the chronic inflammation that's elevating cholesterol? What underlying imbalance is manifesting as persistent pain?

In a system optimized for efficiency and throughput, there's little time or incentive to explore these deeper questions. The fifteen-minute consultation doesn't allow for it. The revenue model doesn't reward it. The standardized protocols don't accommodate it.

Modern Medicine Approach

Focus: Symptom suppression and disease management

Timeframe: Immediate relief, ongoing treatment

Philosophy: Body as machine with parts to fix

Outcome: Controlled symptoms, continued dependency on medication

Ayurvedic Approach

Focus: Root cause identification and balance restoration

Timeframe: Gradual healing, lasting correction

Philosophy: Body as integrated system seeking equilibrium

Outcome: True healing, reduced medication dependency

The Ayurvedic Alternative: Healing from the Root

Ayurveda, the five-thousand-year-old system of medicine that originated in India, operates on fundamentally different principles. It's not that Ayurveda rejects the value of addressing symptoms—acute symptoms need attention. But Ayurveda refuses to mistake symptom management for healing.

In Ayurvedic philosophy, symptoms are seen as the body's intelligent communication system, signaling that something deeper is out of balance. Suppressing these signals without addressing their cause is like disconnecting your car's check engine light instead of fixing the engine. The warning disappears, but the problem persists and often worsens.

The Ayurvedic principle is elegant in its wisdom: The body possesses an inherent intelligence and capacity for self-healing. Disease arises when this natural balance is disturbed. True healing comes not from suppressing symptoms or overpowering the body's processes, but from removing obstacles to health and supporting the body's return to its natural state of balance.

This approach requires patience, something modern life and modern medicine have largely abandoned. When you take antibiotics for an infection, you feel better within days. When you adjust your diet, lifestyle, and use Ayurvedic herbs to strengthen your immune system and correct the imbalances that made you infection-prone, results take weeks or months. The first approach is faster, but the second actually fixes the problem.

The Three Pillars of Ayurvedic Wisdom

Ayurveda recognizes that true healing must address three fundamental aspects of human existence:

First, constitutional individuality. Ayurveda understands that each person has a unique constitution, their prakriti, which determines how they'll respond to foods, environments, and treatments. What heals one person might harm another. Modern medicine's one-size-fits-all protocols ignore this fundamental reality. Ayurveda tailors treatment to the individual, not the disease label.

Second, the interconnection of body, mind, and spirit. You cannot heal the body while ignoring the mind's stress, anxiety, and emotional turmoil. You cannot address physical symptoms while neglecting spiritual disconnection and lack of purpose. Ayurveda treats the whole person, recognizing that true health encompasses physical vitality, mental clarity, and spiritual contentment. Modern medicine, departmentalized and specialized, often treats the knee without considering the person attached to it.

Third, harmony with nature's rhythms. Ayurveda recognizes that we're not separate from nature but part of it. Our health depends on living in sync with natural cycles—daily rhythms, seasonal changes, life stages. Modern life, with its artificial lighting, climate control, and twenty-four-hour schedules, has disconnected us from these rhythms. Ayurveda helps us reconnect.

"When diet is wrong, medicine is of no use. When diet is correct, medicine is of no need." — Ancient Ayurvedic Proverb

The Power of Holistic Understanding

Consider how Ayurveda approaches a common modern ailment like chronic digestive issues. Modern medicine might prescribe antacids, proton pump inhibitors, or antibiotics. These provide relief, but many people remain on these medications indefinitely because the underlying problem was never addressed.

An Ayurvedic practitioner would explore questions modern doctors rarely have time to ask: What is your daily routine? When and how do you eat? What's your emotional state during meals? How's your sleep? What's your stress level? Are you experiencing life transitions or emotional difficulties? What's your diet composed of, and does it suit your constitution?

The practitioner might identify that the person eats while working, rushing through meals in a state of stress. They might discover inappropriate food combinations or foods unsuited to the person's constitution. They might find irregular eating times, poor sleep patterns, or unresolved emotional issues affecting digestion. The treatment would then address these root causes through dietary modifications, lifestyle adjustments, stress management techniques, and specific herbs to restore digestive fire and balance.

This takes time. It requires the patient's active participation. Results aren't instant. But when healing occurs, it's genuine and lasting. The person doesn't just manage their symptoms; they understand their body better and know how to maintain their health going forward.

It's worth reflecting on this difference: Modern medicine makes you dependent on it for symptom management. Ayurveda aims to make you independent by teaching you how to maintain your own health. One creates patients. The other creates partners in healing.

The Role of Prevention

Perhaps Ayurveda's greatest wisdom lies in its emphasis on prevention. The ancient texts classified Ayurvedic practice into eight branches, and the first was about maintaining health in healthy people—preventive medicine. This is profound. The highest form of medicine isn't treating disease but preventing it.

Modern healthcare systems, despite paying lip service to prevention, are fundamentally designed around disease treatment. Hospitals make money when people are sick, not when they're healthy. Insurance reimbursements favor interventions over prevention. This creates perverse incentives where there's little institutional motivation to keep people truly healthy.

Ayurveda, arising from a healing tradition rather than a business model, never had these conflicts. Its practitioners' reputation depended on keeping people healthy. The wisdom it developed over millennia—about daily routines, seasonal practices, appropriate diet, preventive therapies—represents humanity's most sophisticated system for maintaining health rather than just fighting disease.

Finding Balance Between Systems

This exploration isn't meant to dismiss modern medicine's remarkable achievements. In acute emergencies, trauma, infections, and many other situations, modern medical interventions are lifesaving and invaluable. Surgery, antibiotics, emergency care, diagnostic technology—these are tremendous gifts to humanity.

The criticism is more subt

Read More

The Last Innocent Decade: A Love Letter to the 90

The Last Innocent Decade:
A Love Letter to the 90s

If you know the intricate relationship between a generic hexagonal pencil and a cassette tape, you are part of an exclusive club. You are a 90s kid.

We live in an era of instant gratification. Food arrives in ten minutes, movies stream in seconds, and we can video call someone on the other side of the planet while sitting on the toilet. It is convenient, sure. But somewhere between the high-speed internet and the high-definition screens, we lost the magic of the slow, simple life.

The 1990s was the "Goldilocks" decade—not too primitive, not too futuristic. It was the sweet spot where technology existed to help us, but it hadn’t yet taken over our souls. As we march further into the digital age, here are the moments from that glorious decade that we miss the most.

The Art of Patience and The Landline

Today, if a friend doesn't reply to a WhatsApp message in three minutes, we assume they are dead or angry. In the 90s, patience wasn’t a virtue; it was a lifestyle.

We didn’t have smartphones glued to our palms. We had the landline. It sat in the hallway, often on a lace doily, commanding respect. Calling a crush meant risking it all: you had to hope their dad didn't pick up first. If the line was busy, you waited. There was no "call waiting" notification, just the rhythmic, taunting beep of engagement.

Conversations were deliberate. You couldn't multitask while talking. You sat on the floor, twisting the coiled wire around your finger, actually listening to the other person. And when you left the house? You were free. No GPS, no constant pings. You were happily unreachable.

The Sunday Morning Ritual

Streaming services have killed the collective experience of watching TV. Today, we binge-watch in isolation. But in the 90s, television was an event.

Sunday mornings were sacred. Whether it was Jungle Book (Mowgli), DuckTales, or Shaktimaan, the streets would empty out. We didn't have "Skip Intro" buttons. We sat through commercials, anticipating the return of our heroes. If you missed an episode, you missed it. There was no rewind, no catch-up TV. That scarcity made us value entertainment in a way that is impossible to replicate today. The next day at school, everyone discussed the same episode. It was a shared cultural language that bonded us together.

Tangible Memories: The 36-Exposure Roll

Photography today is disposable. We take fifty selfies to get one right, filter it, and forget it.

In the 90s, cameras had film rolls with only 36 exposures. You had to be strategic. You didn’t waste a shot on your lunch or a sunset that looked better in real life. You took photos of people. And the best part? The anticipation. Dropping the roll at the studio and waiting three days to see if your thumb was covering the lens in half the shots.

The photos that came back were often blurry or overexposed, but they were real. We put them in physical albums, not cloud storage.

The Joy of Unstructured Play

If you wanted to play in the 90s, you didn't log into a server; you went outside.

Our social network was the neighborhood. We played cricket in narrow lanes, making up rules as we went along (one tip, one hand). We scraped our knees, climbed trees, and played hide-and-seek until the streetlights flickered on—the universal signal to go home for dinner.

We drank water from the garden hose, not bottled mineral water, and somehow, we survived. We owned WWF (now WWE) trump cards and compared stats like they were currency. We didn't need high-end graphics cards to have fun; we just needed a ball, a stick, and an imagination.

The Music Connection

Music wasn't an algorithm suggesting what you might like. It was a treasure hunt. We recorded songs from the radio onto blank tapes, praying the RJ wouldn't talk over the outro. We owned Walkmans that ate batteries like candy. We listened to albums from start to finish because skipping tracks was a manual labor. We learned the lyrics by reading the paper inserts inside the cassette case. We truly owned our music.

---

The Simplicity We Left Behind

We can't go back. Nor should we—antibiotics and GPS are objectively good things. But looking back at the 90s isn't just about nostalgia for objects; it's nostalgia for a feeling.

We miss the simplicity. We miss the time when we weren't constantly being sold something, tracked by something, or notified by something. We miss the era when we were more connected to the people right in front of us than the strangers on a screen.

The 90s were the last time the world felt big, mysterious, and slow. And while we love our iPhones, a small part of us will always be waiting by the landline, hoping for the phone to ring.

Author's Note: Did this trip down memory lane unlock a core memory for you? Share your favorite 90s moment in the comments below!

Read More

summary of book "Drunk: How We Sipped, Danced, and Stumbled Our Way to Civilization" by Edward Slingerland (2021) "

Drunk: How We Sipped, Danced, and Stumbled Our Way to Civilization

"Drunk" by Edward Slingerland presents a fascinating paradox: if alcohol is so bad for us—impairing judgment, damaging health, and reducing productivity—why have humans been brewing and consuming it for at least 10,000 years? Slingerland, a professor of Asian studies and philosophy at the University of British Columbia, argues that intoxication has actually provided significant evolutionary and social benefits that help explain its persistence across virtually every human culture.

The Central Argument

Slingerland challenges the conventional view that alcohol consumption is purely a harmful evolutionary mismatch or "hijacking" of our brain's reward system. Instead, he proposes that getting drunk served important functions for our ancestors and continues to offer benefits today, albeit ones that come with serious costs in modern society.

Key Benefits of Intoxication

The book identifies several ways alcohol has been useful to human societies:

Creativity and Innovation: Alcohol temporarily dampens the prefrontal cortex, our brain's critical, logical center. This chemical lobotomy can actually enhance creative thinking by allowing more free-flowing, associative thought patterns. Many breakthrough ideas and innovations have emerged during or after drinking sessions.

Social Bonding: Perhaps most importantly, shared intoxication creates trust and strengthens social bonds. When people drink together, they become vulnerable together, signaling that they trust one another. This helped forge the tight-knit groups necessary for human survival and cooperation. The chemical changes in our brains while drinking make us more open, less guarded, and more willing to form connections.

Religious and Spiritual Experience: Throughout history, alcohol has facilitated altered states of consciousness that people interpret as spiritual or transcendent experiences. These shared experiences helped unify communities around common beliefs and practices.

Stress Relief: Alcohol provides genuine relief from anxiety and stress, helping people cope with life's difficulties. In moderation, this served as a valuable psychological release valve for our ancestors.

The Modern Dilemma

Slingerland doesn't advocate for heavy drinking. He acknowledges that alcohol causes tremendous harm: addiction, health problems, accidents, and social damage. The challenge is that while our ancestors drank weak beer or wine in communal settings, modern society offers cheap, potent alcohol available 24/7, consumed often in isolation. We're dealing with Stone Age brains confronting industrial-strength intoxicants.

Drawing on Multiple Disciplines

The book weaves together evidence from archaeology, anthropology, evolutionary biology, neuroscience, and history. Slingerland examines ancient brewing techniques, religious texts, psychological studies, and cross-cultural drinking practices to build his case. He discusses everything from Dionysian festivals in ancient Greece to modern laboratory experiments on creativity and trust.

The Conclusion

Slingerland suggests we need a more nuanced approach to alcohol. Rather than prohibition or unrestricted access, he advocates for understanding drinking's genuine benefits while managing its costs. He proposes we might learn from traditional drinking cultures that embedded alcohol use within social rituals and community contexts, rather than treating it as mere recreational consumption.

The book ultimately argues that our relationship with alcohol reveals something profound about human nature: we're deeply social creatures who sometimes need help loosening our psychological defenses, and for millennia, controlled intoxication has been one tool we've used to bind communities together, spark innovation, and make life more bearable.

Read More

Beyond the Paycheck: Why Work Satisfaction Matters More Than Money

Beyond the Paycheck: Finding Meaning in Work

Why true fulfillment comes from purpose, not just profit

We spend roughly a third of our adult lives working. That's an astounding amount of time dedicated to our careers, making the question of why we work one of profound importance. While the obvious answer might be money—after all, we need to pay bills, put food on the table, and secure our future—this explanation only scratches the surface of what drives human beings to pour their energy into their work.

The truth is that work, at its best, offers us something far more valuable than a paycheck. It provides meaning, purpose, and a sense of accomplishment that money alone can never deliver. When we wake up each morning, what truly motivates us isn't just the thought of our bank balance growing, but the opportunity to create something, to solve problems, to make a difference, and to become better versions of ourselves in the process.

"Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life." This ancient wisdom captures a fundamental truth about human nature: we are driven by more than survival instincts.

Consider the artist who spends countless hours perfecting their craft, often earning far less than they could in a conventional career. Or the teacher who stays late to help struggling students, investing emotional energy that no salary can adequately compensate. These individuals understand something essential: satisfaction and accomplishment are currencies more valuable than money. They provide a richness to life that material wealth cannot purchase.

When we engage in work that aligns with our values and utilizes our strengths, something remarkable happens. Time seems to flow differently. We enter states of deep focus where hours pass like minutes. We face challenges not as burdens but as opportunities to stretch our capabilities. We go home tired but fulfilled, carrying with us the quiet pride that comes from knowing we've contributed something meaningful to the world.

This sense of accomplishment is deeply woven into our psychology. Humans are natural creators and problem-solvers. We feel most alive when we're overcoming obstacles, learning new skills, and seeing the tangible results of our efforts. Whether it's a software developer finally debugging a complex program, a chef presenting a perfectly crafted dish, or a nurse helping a patient recover, the moment of achievement brings a joy that transcends monetary reward.

Moreover, work connects us to something larger than ourselves. It's how we participate in society, contribute to our communities, and leave our mark on the world. The carpenter who builds homes understands they're creating spaces where families will make memories. The researcher working on medical breakthroughs knows their work might save lives. Even in seemingly mundane roles, there's dignity and purpose in serving others and being part of a functioning society.

This isn't to suggest that money doesn't matter. Financial security is crucial, and no one should feel guilty about needing to earn a living. The point, rather, is that money should be seen as a foundation that enables us to pursue work that satisfies deeper needs. When we're stuck in jobs we hate, solely for the paycheck, we're trading the majority of our waking hours for mere survival rather than truly living.

The most fulfilled professionals often speak of finding their "calling"—work that feels less like labor and more like a natural expression of who they are. They measure success not just in promotions and raises, but in the problems they've solved, the people they've helped, the skills they've mastered, and the positive impact they've created. Their work becomes an integral part of their identity, a source of pride and self-respect.

The journey to finding meaningful work isn't always straightforward, and it may require patience, experimentation, and sometimes sacrifice. But the pursuit itself is worthwhile.

In the end, when we look back on our careers, few of us will reminisce about the size of our paychecks. Instead, we'll remember the projects we're proud of, the colleagues who became friends, the obstacles we overcame, and the difference we made. We'll value the growth we experienced, the mastery we achieved, and the satisfaction of knowing we spent our time on earth doing something that mattered.

Work is not just about earning money. It's about crafting a life of purpose, building something lasting, and experiencing the profound satisfaction that comes from applying our talents to meaningful ends. When we approach our careers with this perspective, work transforms from a necessary burden into a source of fulfillment and joy—a gift that enriches not just our bank accounts, but our very souls.

Reflection: What gives your work meaning beyond the paycheck? Consider how you might bring more purpose and satisfaction into your daily tasks.

Read More

Dharmendra to Manoj Bajpayee: How Bollywood’s Iconic On-Screen Duos Evolved Over Time

From Dharmendra–Amitabh to Manoj Bajpayee–Sharib Hashmi: The Evolution of Iconic On-Screen Pairs

Hindi cinema has always celebrated memorable on-screen duos whose chemistry transcended the screen and became the heart of their stories. Among them, the legendary pairing of Dharmendra and Amitabh Bachchan in Sholay stands tall as one of Bollywood’s most iconic partnerships. Their combination of warmth, wit, and emotional strength redefined male friendships in Indian films for decades to come.

In Sholay (1975), Dharmendra’s carefree, romantic and rugged portrayal of Veeru was perfectly balanced by Amitabh Bachchan’s calm, introspective Jai. Their distinct personalities blended effortlessly, making them the ultimate symbol of “dosti”. Indian audiences embraced them not just as characters on screen but as cultural icons embodying friendship and courage. The playful banter, comic timing, and emotional depth of Dharmendra gave the film both heart and humor, while Amitabh anchored it with intensity—creating a duo that every future filmmaker tried to replicate.

A decade and a half later, in the early 1990s, another pair caught the youth’s imagination: Rahul Roy and Deepak Tijori in Aashiqui. Their chemistry wasn’t built on action or comedy but emotional tension and contrasting personalities. Rahul Roy became the symbol of soft-spoken romantic intensity, while Deepak Tijori added energy and realism to the story. Their dynamic echoed the same balance that Dharmendra and Amitabh once offered—different temperaments serving a common narrative.

Moving into the mid-90s, Akshay Kumar and Saif Ali Khan carried forward this legacy of male camaraderie and contrast in films like Main Khiladi Tu Anari. Their bond was playful yet powerful—Akshay as the action hero with a strong moral center and Saif as the light-hearted, charming superstar. This successful pairing reflected a changing India where friendship and competition coexisted with humor and swagger.

Today, the spirit of those classic duos continues in the digital era through The Family Man series featuring Manoj Bajpayee and Sharib Hashmi. Manoj’s intense and layered portrayal of Srikant Tiwari finds its perfect balance in Sharib’s grounded and endearing JK Talpade. Their partnership blends tension and warmth, reflecting a matured version of the bond once seen between Dharmendra and Amitabh. Despite the shift from silver screen to OTT, the emotional core of friendship and teamwork remains unchanged.

From Dharmendra’s charm to Manoj Bajpayee’s realism, the evolution of on-screen pairs mirrors the transformation of Indian storytelling itself. Each generation redefines chemistry and balance in its own way—whether through laughter, loyalty, or life’s challenges. Yet, the timeless thread that began with Dharmendra in Sholay continues to inspire actors and audiences even today.

— A celebration of friendship, emotion, and timeless cinema.

Read More

familymnseason3 review

 The Family Man Season 3 delivers a gripping continuation of Srikant Tiwari's story, blending suspenseful espionage drama with sharp humour and family moments, while subtly integrating one of the smartest new-age product placements seen in Indian streaming content.

A standout aspect of this season is the remarkable visibility of Mahindra vehicles, especially the Thar, seamlessly woven into the plot and backdrop of action sequences. From chase scenes and dramatic escapes to candid moments in Srikant’s day-to-day life, Mahindra’s Thar is not just transport, but a character—symbolizing ruggedness and reliability. The portrayal is far from traditional advertising; instead, it is a masterclass in subtle brand integration, making the vehicles aspirational without intrusive sales pitches.instagram+1​

Many viewers and auto enthusiasts have noted how Mahindra has elevated the art of contextual product placement—this is modern advertising at its best, leveraging OTT narratives to enhance brand image while engaging audiences organically. This strategic integration by Mahindra in Family Man Season 3 sets a benchmark for future brand collaborations in Indian web series, ultimately nailing the concept of immersive, story-driven advertising.

1. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsauQx_Fwrg
2. https://www.instagram.com/p/DRNXwGzDGDn/
3. https://www.instagram.com/reel/DNVeHUUI2H4/?hl=en
4. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZnapjfATb6w
5. https://economictimes.com/magazines/panache/mahindra-shares-vintage-ad-showing-jeep-at-rs-12k-netizens-ask-if-offer-is-still-valid-this-is-how-he-reacted/articleshow/90072654.cms
6. https://www.reddit.com/r/IndianOTTbestof/comments/1ou9hsh/the_family_man_promotional_video_featuring_samay/
7. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWks09T5bIA
8. https://www.facebook.com/MahindraThar/posts/if-monsoon-is-the-season-of-romance-off-roading-is-the-love-of-our-lifeallnewmah/273913658723543/
9. https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/life-style/spotlight/byinvitation-road-safety-needs-better-enforcement-not-stereotypes/articleshow/125438311.cms

Read More

**Goan Xacuti Magic: Reliving Margao Memories in Bangalore’s Winter**

A Taste of Home in Bangalore's Chill

As the chill of Bangalore's November evening wrapped around us, a sudden craving hit me hard—for the fiery, aromatic Xacuti masala from Sharda restaurant in Margao, Goa, that we've savored through the years in our hometown. The bold spice blend, with its warm earthiness from roasted coriander, fennel, and cloves, mixed with the subtle sweetness of cinnamon and nutmeg, always transported us back to those lazy afternoons by the beach.

Discussing it with my wife Deepali, she lit up, remembering the packet of Indyum Xacuti masala tucked away in our pantry—a premium blend of 17 stone-ground spices that promised authentic Goan punch. We quickly ordered fresh chicken from Licious, letting it marinate briefly in the masala's vibrant mix of dry red chilies, cumin, poppy seeds, and star anise for that signature spicy kick.

Deepali, ever the expert, grated fresh coconut in the traditional way, blending it into a rich, coconutty gravy that simmered to perfection, releasing waves of complex, aromatic flavors—earthy and mildly tangy, deeply satisfying. The result was impeccable, mirroring Sharda's legendary version: tender chicken enveloped in a thick, spicy curry where every bite balanced heat, sweetness, and Goan umami, evoking the region's coastal soul.

Paired with Deepali’s specialty—soft, fluffy chapattis rolled in the typical Satara style, thin yet pillowy—each morsel brought warmth and nostalgia, spreading through us against the Bangalore cold. Indyum's masala truly elevated the dish, making our home feel like Margao once more.

सुकून और स्वाद—Goa की खुशबू Bangalore में!

Read More

weekly exercises

Hemiplegia Daily Exercise Checklist

✅ Perform slowly, with focus and gentle breathing. 🧠 Mental practice counts even if the left hand doesn’t move yet. ⚠️ Stop if you feel pain, fatigue, or dizziness.

1. Warm-Up (5–7 mins)

Shoulder supported lift – 10 reps Elbow bends (assisted) – 10 reps Wrist rotations – 10 each direction Gentle breathing – 10 slow breaths

2. Finger & Hand Exercises (10 mins)

Passive finger opening – 2 rounds Thumb opposition (touch fingers) – 5 reps each Table slide (use cloth) – 10–15 reps Finger press on table – 10 reps

3. Strength & Grip (8–10 mins)

Soft ball squeeze – 10 reps Towel scrunch or object hold – 5 reps Wrist bend up/down – 10 reps

4. Mirror / Mental Therapy (5 mins)

Watch right hand in mirror doing open/close Imagine left hand moving in sync

5. Cool Down & Relaxation (3–5 mins)

Gentle finger stretch hold – 10 sec each Shoulder supported rest & breathing Light tapping or massage on left forearm

🗓️ Daily Progress Check

No shoulder pain or fatigue today Felt slight muscle activation on left side Used left hand during a daily task (e.g., hold paper, touch cup)

Repeat this checklist twice daily if comfortable — morning & evening. Consistency matters more than intensity. © 2025 Hemiplegia Recovery Guide

Read More

My favorites: "Delhi's Dosa Disaster: A Culinary Crime Scene

 

The Great Delhi Dosa Disaster: A South Indian's Nightmare

There's a special place in hell reserved for what Delhi has done to the humble masala dosa, and I'm pretty sure it's got neon lights, disco balls, and serves "Cheese Burst Chocolate Dosa with Extra Mayo."

Let me take you back to simpler times. The masala dosa, in its pure, unadulterated form, is a crispy fermented crepe filled with spiced potatoes, served with coconut chutney and sambar. That's it. Three components. Holy trinity. Perfection achieved somewhere in the mists of South Indian time, probably by someone who understood that not everything needs "fusion" slapped onto it.

But then Delhi got its hands on it.

I don't know which culinary mad scientist first looked at a perfectly innocent dosa and thought, "You know what this needs? EVERYTHING." But whoever you are, we need to talk. Preferably in a room with a therapist present.

Walk into any "South Indian" joint in Delhi, and the menu reads like a fever dream after binge-watching the Food Network at 3 AM. Cheese Dosa. Paneer Tikka Dosa. Schezwan Dosa. Pizza Dosa. Pasta Dosa. At this point, I'm convinced someone's working on a Biryani Dosa, and honestly, I'm scared to ask.

The audacity reached its peak when I saw "Mexican Dosa" on a menu in Connaught Place. Beans, jalapeños, salsa, and sour cream wrapped in what was once a respectable South Indian staple. The dosa looked confused. I felt confused. My Tamilian friend needed to sit down.

But wait, there's more! Because why stop at savory when you can commit crimes against dessert too? Enter the "Chocolate Dosa" – a crispy dosa generously slathered with Nutella, topped with banana slices, and if you're really unlucky, drizzled with chocolate syrup AND condensed milk. Some places throw ice cream on top because apparently, we've collectively decided that moderation is for quitters.

I once witnessed a "Oreo Dosa with Vanilla Ice Cream" being served. The person at the next table actually ordered it. Willingly. With money. The dosa was there, sad and crispy, acting as a vehicle for what was essentially a deconstructed milkshake. I'm pretty sure I heard ancestors weeping in the distance.

The sauces situation deserves its own paragraph. Where coconut chutney once reigned supreme, Delhi's dosa vendors have created a sauce arsenal that would make a Subway sandwich artist jealous. Mayonnaise (why?), thousand island dressing (HOW?), mint mayo (STOP), tandoori mayo (PLEASE STOP), schezwan sauce, red chili sauce, cheese sauce, and something ominously labeled "special sauce" that I'm convinced is just all the other sauces mixed together in a desperate cry for help.

The toppings have achieved sentience at this point. I've seen dosas topped with: corn (fine, weird but fine), capsicum (okay, getting experimental), cottage cheese (we're losing the plot), jalapeños (full detour), olives (WRONG CONTINENT), pineapple (we need to talk), gummy bears (this is a CRY FOR HELP), and yes, at one particularly adventurous stall in Kamla Nagar, POPCORN. Buttered popcorn. On a dosa. The vendor looked me dead in the eye and called it "Popcorn Masala Dosa." Masala was doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence.

My favorite part is when they try to justify it. "Bhaiya, fusion food hai, modern hai!" Modern? MODERN? The dosa is ancient. It has survived centuries. It survived colonization. It did NOT survive Delhi's innovation phase.

And yet, plot twist: they're always packed. Lines out the door. People are LOVING this chaos. Instagram is full of reels of people taking that first bite of "Maggi Dosa" (yes, that's instant noodles IN a dosa) like they've discovered fire. Maybe I'm the crazy one. Maybe I'm the dinosaur refusing to evolve while the world moves on without me.

But I'll die on this hill, clutching my simple masala dosa with exactly three accompaniments, muttering "this is the way" like a culinary Mandalorian, while Delhi continues its rampage through every cuisine known to mankind, one dosa at a time.

Somewhere in Tamil Nadu, a grandmother just felt a disturbance in the force.

Read More

When Bangalore Was Ours: Cinema Halls, Bookshops, and Brotherhood

 

Bangalore Diaries: Three Friends in the Garden City (Early 2000s)

There's something about the early 2000s in Bangalore that feels like a lifetime ago, yet remains vivid in memory like yesterday's dream. Those were the days when the city still felt like a garden, before the tech boom transformed it completely, before it became Bengaluru officially, before every conversation started with traffic complaints. For three friends—Arun, Vikram, and me—those years were our coming-of-age chapter, written in the language of cinema halls, bookshops, and endless cups of coffee.

The Theatre Circuit: Our Weekend Religion

Our weekends had a sacred routine, and it always began with the question: "Rex or Symphony?" These weren't just cinema halls; they were our temples of celluloid dreams. Rex, with its old-world charm on Brigade Road, had that musty smell of decades-old carpets mixed with fresh popcorn. The seats creaked, the AC was temperamental at best, but there was something magical about watching a film there. Symphony, newer and shinier, was where we went when we wanted to feel sophisticated, when we had saved up enough to afford the balcony tickets.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—compared to the day we watched Dil Chahta Hai at Kaveri Theatre in 2001.

I remember we had to book tickets two days in advance. The three of us took an auto from our PG accommodation in Koramangala, each of us secretly wondering if this Aamir Khan film would live up to the hype. Kaveri, tucked away with its distinctive architecture, was packed that August evening. The moment those opening credits rolled, with that guitar riff, we knew we were watching something different. Here were three friends on screen, living their lives, making mistakes, growing up—and there we were, three friends in the audience, doing exactly the same.

When Akshaye Khanna said, "Tum nahin samjhoge," we exchanged knowing glances. When they sang their hearts out in Goa, we wished we were there instead of Bangalore's traffic. That film became our reference point for everything. For months afterward, we'd quote dialogues, argue about which character each of us was most like (nobody wanted to be Sid, everyone claimed to be Akash), and plan a Goa trip we'd never take.

Galaxy Theatre on Residency Road was our backup option, our reliable friend. Less glamorous than Rex, less pretentious than Symphony, Galaxy was where we watched everything else—the Karan Johar melodramas, the action potboilers, the comedies that made us laugh until our stomachs hurt. The popcorn was cheaper there, and the crowd was more forgiving when we cheered and whistled during action sequences.

When the City Stood Still

But all our movie plans came to a grinding halt in July 2000. Dr. Rajkumar had been kidnapped by Veerappan, and Bangalore transformed overnight into a city we barely recognized.

The day the news broke, we were planning to catch an evening show. Instead, we found ourselves huddled in our PG, watching the drama unfold on our landlord's television. The city imposed a curfew. Buses stopped running. Shops pulled down their shutters. Brigade Road, usually buzzing with life, became a ghost town. For 108 days, Bangalore held its breath.

Those days taught us something about the city we were living in—its heart, its pulse, its fierce love for its matinee idol. We couldn't understand it at first, we north Indian migrants in this southern metropolis. But watching our Kannadiga friends, seeing their genuine anguish, listening to old film songs playing on loop from nearby houses, we began to grasp what Dr. Rajkumar meant to them. He wasn't just an actor; he was Karnataka's beloved son.

When he was finally released in November, the city erupted in celebration. We joined the crowds on MG Road, not quite understanding the depth of emotion but caught up in the collective relief nonetheless. Cinema halls reopened, life resumed, but something had changed. We felt more connected to Bangalore somehow, having witnessed its vulnerability and resilience.

The Book Lovers' Paradise

When we weren't watching movies, we were hunting for books. And Bangalore, bless its literary soul, was a book lover's paradise.

Gangaram's on Mahatma Gandhi Road was our first stop, always. Walking into that store was like entering a treasure cave. The smell of new books, the perfectly arranged shelves, the quiet rustle of pages being turned—it was intoxicating. We couldn't afford to buy many books on our meager stipends, but we'd spend hours browsing. Arun was into philosophy and would gravitate toward the Penguin Classics section. Vikram loved science fiction—Asimov, Clarke, Herbert—and I was forever stuck in the contemporary fiction aisle, juggling between buying the new Murakami or settling for a second-hand Rushdie.

The staff at Gangaram's knew us by sight, these three young men who touched every book but bought one every month. They were patient with us, sometimes even recommending titles they thought we'd like. I bought my first Arundhati Roy there, Vikram found his beloved Foundation trilogy, and Arun discovered Khalil Gibran's The Prophet—a book he'd quote from annoyingly often for the next several months.

Sapna Book House was where we went when we wanted variety and chaos. Unlike Gangaram's refined elegance, Sapna was sprawling, crowded, with books stacked everywhere. It was easier to get lost in Sapna, easier to stumble upon unexpected finds. Their magazine section was extensive, and we'd flip through international film magazines, tech journals, and music periodicals we couldn't afford to subscribe to.

But Higginbothams on MG Road held a special place in our hearts. It was the oldest bookshop, established in the 19th century, and it wore its history proudly. The wooden shelves, the creaking floors, the portrait of some British gentleman hanging on the wall—it all felt deliciously colonial and outdated. Higginbothams was where we bought gifts for each other's birthdays, where we'd meet after work on Friday evenings, where we'd argue passionately about whether Amitav Ghosh was better than Vikram Seth.

The In-Between Moments

Life wasn't just about movies and books, of course. It was also about the small moments in between. The filter coffee at Indian Coffee House that cost seven rupees and tasted like heaven. The masala dosas at Vidyarthi Bhavan that we'd trek to Basavanagudi for, convinced they were the best in the world. The long walks down MG Road on Sunday mornings when the streets were empty and the weather was perfect.

It was about splitting an auto fare three ways and still haggling over fifty paise. About calling home on STD booths and feeding coins into the machine while trying to convince our parents that we were eating well. About the excitement of email becoming common, and the three of us getting Rediffmail accounts and sending each other silly forwards.

We were young, broke, and far from home, but we had each other. We had a city that was still gentle enough to embrace us, still small enough to navigate without GPS, still affordable enough for our modest dreams.

The Transformation

Looking back now, from this vantage point of the late 2020s, that Bangalore seems like a sepia-toned photograph. The city has changed beyond recognition—bigger, faster, wealthier, more chaotic. Rex and Galaxy are long gone. Symphony has been renovated beyond recognition. Kaveri gone too for a new mall coming in its place, but the charm has faded. Higginbothams closed its MG Road store. Even Gangaram's has competition from giant chains and online retailers.

We've changed too. Arun moved to Mumbai, Vikram to Dubai, and I stayed back in what's now officially Bengaluru. We're married, have kids, have careers that keep us busy. We don't quote Dil Chahta Hai anymore, though we still remember every dialogue.

But sometimes, when I'm stuck in Bangalore's notorious traffic, when the city feels too big and impersonal, I close my eyes and I'm back there. Three friends, mid-twenties, walking down Brigade Road on a Saturday evening, arguing about which movie to watch, which book to buy, which restaurant to blow our money on. The air smells of rain and possibility. The future is unwritten. The city is ours.

Those early 2000s gave us our youth, our friendship, and our stories. Bangalore was our backdrop, our witness, our home. And somewhere in my heart, in the space between memory and nostalgia, it still is.

---

For Arun and Vikram—wherever you are, whatever you're doing, remember: our hearts still want it all. Dil chahta hai.

Read More