Rodevra Republic

At weddings, the bride and groom may be at the centre, but human behaviour steals the show Having attended a wedding yesterday, I couldn’t help reflecting on how predictable, and yet strangely fascinating, these occasions are from beginning to end. The proceedings usually begin with a muhurat, solemnly printed on the invitation card in bold letters, as though everyone intends to honour it with military precision. Yet, when the auspicious time actually arrives, barely half the “close family and friends” are present. This, of course, is mostly a big-city phenomenon. In smaller towns and interiors, the actual wedding ceremony still remains the central event. People arrive just in time for the exchange of garlands, bless the couple, may not even have the meal, and disappear with remarkable efficiency, sometimes within fifteen minutes. Weddings are among the few occasions where one meets long-lost relatives and old friends. Sadly, funerals are the other. Time reveals itself most dramati...

Which of the great conductors did not need a baton? The question itself feels almost contradictory. The baton, after all, has long been the visible emblem of the conductor — that slender white wand through which orchestras are guided, shaped, restrained, and released. From Toscanini to Karajan, from Bernstein to Zubin Mehta, the baton became almost an extension of authority itself. And yet, while watching the Japanese conductor Seiji Ozawa, one gradually forgot the baton altogether. There it was — absent. No baton. Only hands shaping silence, emotion, and sound No sharp strokes cutting through the air, no rigid command. Instead, there were only hands moving with extraordinary grace, fingers shaping phrases almost as though they were touching something fragile and invisible. His body bent gently into the music, eyes often closed, as though he were listening from somewhere inside the composition itself. While listening to his favourite, Bach’s Air on the G String  (featured here) ...

Perhaps the missing circle was never outside the others, but quietly at the center all along The more I have looked at this diagram, the more I see that there is something fundamentally missing in it. That said, for decades in our professional lives we believed in it, as it brought clarity to an often chaotic life by encouraging us to distinguish between what we can control, what we may influence, what we must adapt to, and what ultimately lies beyond our reach. There was practical wisdom in this framework. It prevented wasted energy. It encouraged maturity. It taught realism. Yet today, as the intensity of working years has receded, I find myself free to look at these circles differently. The question that arose is: Is human life fully explained by control, influence, adaptation, and concern? Or is there another dimension, subtler and deeper, that these circles do not fully account for? What the framework primarily addresses is the mechanics of engagement with life. It helps us unde...

There comes a time when the briefcase can be set down—and need never be carried again I happened to pull out an old, time-worn copy of Power  by Michael Korda that had been lying quietly on the shelf for decades. Its pages had yellowed, turned brittle at the edges, as though time itself had handled it often. Leafing through it again, I was reminded of how lightly, almost playfully, it spoke of something so serious—power—and how, at the time I first read it, I had taken it largely as satire. Perhaps I was not wrong. One passage returned with particular clarity. It spoke of the briefcase—not merely as an object, but as a symbol. In those days, one often saw managers moving purposefully through corridors, carrying heavy briefcases filled with reports, contracts, documents, and files. There was a certain reassurance in that weight, as though authority could be substantiated by paper. The briefcase, in a curious way, seemed more important than the person carrying it. It contained explan...

Where the world narrows, something within begins to open Can you visualize a man whose circumstances are bleak—marked by loss, disgrace, and confinement—yet whose instinct is not withdrawal or complaint, but to turn outward? A man who, even while imprisoned, tries to create a certain moral warmth around him. This is Dr. Primrose in The Vicar of Wakefield by Oliver Goldsmith . In one of the prison scenes, surrounded by fellow inmates, he reflects on how he chooses to respond: “I endeavoured to comfort them, and spoke of the advantages of patience and resignation; and though I could not avoid feeling for my own situation, I resolved to make others happy.” He does not deny suffering. But he quietly suggests that even in reduced circumstances, one can arrange one’s inner life with a certain grace. It is not heroic in the usual sense. It is something quieter—and perhaps more difficult. To place this in context, we must go back to an earlier moment in the story, before misfortune arr...

  High above the city, where a simple thought begins to take shape. When my friend on the 56th floor called, at first I thought he was inviting me over for a drink, as he usually does. But when I answered, he said solemnly, “Come if you are free. No agenda.” Which, in his case, usually meant there was one. We sat on the balcony. Tea arrived, as it always did, without being asked for. After some routine talk, he came to the point. “I have been hearing this term—family constitution—these days. I have been mulling over it, and I think it makes sense.” I had a feeling he had already made up his mind and was merely airing his ‘loud thinking’, seeking confirmation more than discussion. He knew I was a writer of sorts, as I used to send him my articles. He claimed he read them; I strongly suspect he didn’t. But the point is, he knew he had in me a patient listener, and someone who could help give shape to his thoughts. He is the patriarch of a large and well-known family, with its members...

Arashiyama Bamboo Grove, Kyoto — where towering stillness above rests on years of unseen growth below There are some images that do more than capture a place—they draw you into a certain stillness. This photograph of the Arashiyama Bamboo Forest in Kyoto is one such image. Tall bamboo rises and converges in an almost cathedral-like formation. There is a sense of vibrant life in these trees, yet what one feels is a deep calm, as if the grove holds its own quiet rhythm and invites you to slow down and notice it. Incredible as the setting is, what is perhaps more revealing lies beneath—an extensive rhizome network below these trees. Unlike what we may instinctively imagine, this is not a collection of individual trees standing apart. Beneath the ground runs a connected, spreading system—an underground stem network from which roots descend and shoots rise. What appears above the surface as many separate forms is, in fact, sustained by a shared foundation. In the early years, the plant i...

A tool may shape the words, but not the thought behind them From time to time, readers may wonder whether tools based on artificial intelligence play any role in the preparation of these posts. In an age when such tools are becoming increasingly common, the question is understandable, and it seems only fair to address it openly. The answer is yes, though perhaps not in the way one might imagine. When I first encountered these tools, I approached them with some hesitation. Writing that deals with reflection, experience, and the subtleties of the inner life seemed unlikely territory for something so technical. There was a concern that a machine might smooth the language while missing the spirit behind it. Over time, however, it became clear that, when used carefully, such tools can serve a limited but useful purpose. They can help refine language, improve clarity, and gently polish a piece once it has already taken shape. The reflections themselves still begin in the same way they always...

This is not a quiz in the usual sense.  There are no scores, no right or wrong to worry about. Think of it instead as a quiet walk through the many moods of Asha Bhosle . Each clue is only a small doorway, sometimes a year, sometimes a musical hint, sometimes just the way a word is held a little longer than expected. If a song comes to mind, stay with it for a moment. If it doesn’t, let the clue linger. The recognition often arrives unannounced. What unfolds, perhaps, is not just a set of songs, but a journey, from a young voice finding its space, to one that could play, provoke, seduce, and finally, transcend form itself. These are songs that did not merely become popular. They became memorable because of how they were sung. So take your time with it. Let the clues lead you where they will... 1. The Early Monsoon (early 1960s) Composed by Ravi .  A rain song where her voice is light, unhurried, and unadorned. No dramatics—just a gentle flow, like f...

Every song - a moment lived The answers, as promised, to the quiz in the previous post, "Asha Bhosle — A Musical Journey in 10 Clues" But perhaps they are only a small part of what these songs hold. What follows are a few glimpses,  small moments that make each of them stay, often for reasons that are not immediately obvious. 1. Ab Ke Sajan Saawan Mein / Early years, with  Ravi . There is a simplicity here that feels untouched. Before the voice acquired its many shades, it had this easy, flowing quality. The rain does not pour—it settles. 2. Piya Tu Ab To Aaja / With R. D. Burman . That stretched, breathy call changed something. It brought breath itself into singing as expression. What could have been excessive somehow becomes unforgettable. A small aside: the “Monica… oh my darling…” was not just a line—it became a cultural echo. Even those who don’t recall the full song remember that call. 3. Aao Huzoor Tumko / With O. P. Nayyar . She d...

Asha Bhosle in her early years, before the legend, when life had already begun asking difficult things of her An enduring journey, of adaptability, reinvention, and quiet strength Much has been spoken about Asha Bhosle, but there is one quality that stands out and defines much of her journey. It was her fluid strength—the ability to bend without losing direction. She did not confront struggle head-on in a dramatic way. She flowed around it, and in doing so, outlasted it. It was a kind of restless adaptability combined with an emotional detachment from defeat. She did not just endure hardship, she refused to be defined by any single phase of it. After the death of her father, Dinanath Mangeshkar, the family was suddenly pushed into survival mode. Much is said about the struggle, but what is less spoken of is this. She began working not with a sense of artistic calling, but almost as a practical necessity. Unlike some artists who are nurtured into refinement, she entered the field withou...