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Solace. He turned the roll of paper between his fingers and wondered if that had not been his error—to search always for solace when there was other game to hunt in the forest. Had he had more spirit, more nerve, more desire and ambition, then perhaps he would have instead hunted for success, distinction, magic. Perhaps he would have followed in pursuit of an art, published a book of poetry, earned a name for himself, a little fame, even gold bangles for Sarla...

But the thought was puerile that it was made him spit out a bitter shred of tobacco. Every effort he had made had ended in defeat: most of the poems he had written and sent to Murad had been rejected, his monograph never published; his wife and son eyed him with blatant disappointment; nor had he won the regard of his colleagues or students. The inherent weakness in his father that had made him an ineffectual, if harmless, teacher and householder, had been passed on to him. He felt it inside him like an empty hole, one he had been staring at all his years, intimidated by its blackness and blankness. Even his attempt to fill it with a genuine and heartfelt homage to a true poet, a man who had distinguished himself as he would have liked to do, had been defeated by all the obstacles that sprang up in his life like shards and pebbles sent up at every step. It was one more blow, and perhaps the bitterest of all.

Solace. He turned the roll of paper between his fingers and wondered if that had not been his error—to search always for solace when there was other game to hunt in the forest. Had he had more spirit, more nerve, more desire and ambition, then perhaps he would have instead hunted for success, distinction, magic. Perhaps he would have followed in pursuit of an art, published a book of poetry, earned a name for himself, a little fame, even gold bangles for Sarla...

But the thought was puerile that it was made him spit out a bitter shred of tobacco. Every effort he had made had ended in defeat: most of the poems he had written and sent to Murad had been rejected, his monograph never published; his wife and son eyed him with blatant disappointment; nor had he won the regard of his colleagues or students. The inherent weakness in his father that had made him an ineffectual, if harmless, teacher and householder, had been passed on to him. He felt it inside him like an empty hole, one he had been staring at all his years, intimidated by its blackness and blankness. Even his attempt to fill it with a genuine and heartfelt homage to a true poet, a man who had distinguished himself as he would have liked to do, had been defeated by all the obstacles that sprang up in his life like shards and pebbles sent up at every step. It was one more blow, and perhaps the bitterest of all.

Solace. He turned the roll of paper between his fingers and wondered if that had not been his error—to search always for solace when there was other game to hunt in the forest. Had he had more spirit, more nerve, more desire and ambition, then perhaps he would have instead hunted for success, distinction, magic. Perhaps he would have followed in pursuit of an art, published a book of poetry, earned a name for himself, a little fame, even gold bangles for Sarla...

But the thought was puerile that it was made him spit out a bitter shred of tobacco. Every effort he had made had ended in defeat: most of the poems he had written and sent to Murad had been rejected, his monograph never published; his wife and son eyed him with blatant disappointment; nor had he won the regard of his colleagues or students. The inherent weakness in his father that had made him an ineffectual, if harmless, teacher and householder, had been passed on to him. He felt it inside him like an empty hole, one he had been staring at all his years, intimidated by its blackness and blankness. Even his attempt to fill it with a genuine and heartfelt homage to a true poet, a man who had distinguished himself as he would have liked to do, had been defeated by all the obstacles that sprang up in his life like shards and pebbles sent up at every step. It was one more blow, and perhaps the bitterest of all.

Day had broken cold and grey when the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail. He climbed the high earth‑bank where a little‑travelled trail led east through the pine forest. It was a high bank, and he paused to breathe at the top. He excused the act to himself by looking at his watch. It was nine o’clock in the morning. There was no sun or promise of sun, although there was not a cloud in the sky. It was a clear day. However, there seemed to be an indescribable darkness over the face of things. That was because the sun was absent from the sky.

This fact did not worry the man. He was not alarmed by the lack of sun. It had been days since he had seen the sun. The man looked along the way he had come. The Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice. On top of this ice were as many feet of snow. It was all pure white. North and south, as far as his eye could see, it was unbroken white. The one thing that relieved the whiteness was a thin dark line that curved from the pine‑covered island to the south. It curved into the north, where it disappeared behind another pine‑covered island. This dark line was the trail—the main trail. But all this—the distant trail, no sun in the sky, the great cold, and the strangeness of it all—had no effect on the man.

Day had broken cold and grey when the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail. He climbed the high earth‑bank where a little‑travelled trail led east through the pine forest. It was a high bank, and he paused to breathe at the top. He excused the act to himself by looking at his watch. It was nine o’clock in the morning. There was no sun or promise of sun, although there was not a cloud in the sky. It was a clear day. However, there seemed to be an indescribable darkness over the face of things. That was because the sun was absent from the sky.

This fact did not worry the man. He was not alarmed by the lack of sun. It had been days since he had seen the sun. The man looked along the way he had come. The Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice. On top of this ice were as many feet of snow. It was all pure white. North and south, as far as his eye could see, it was unbroken white. The one thing that relieved the whiteness was a thin dark line that curved from the pine‑covered island to the south. It curved into the north, where it disappeared behind another pine‑covered island. This dark line was the trail—the main trail. But all this—the distant trail, no sun in the sky, the great cold, and the strangeness of it all—had no effect on the man.

Day had broken cold and grey when the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail. He climbed the high earth‑bank where a little‑travelled trail led east through the pine forest. It was a high bank, and he paused to breathe at the top. He excused the act to himself by looking at his watch. It was nine o’clock in the morning. There was no sun or promise of sun, although there was not a cloud in the sky. It was a clear day. However, there seemed to be an indescribable darkness over the face of things. That was because the sun was absent from the sky.

This fact did not worry the man. He was not alarmed by the lack of sun. It had been days since he had seen the sun. The man looked along the way he had come. The Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice. On top of this ice were as many feet of snow. It was all pure white. North and south, as far as his eye could see, it was unbroken white. The one thing that relieved the whiteness was a thin dark line that curved from the pine‑covered island to the south. It curved into the north, where it disappeared behind another pine‑covered island. This dark line was the trail—the main trail. But all this—the distant trail, no sun in the sky, the great cold, and the strangeness of it all—had no effect on the man.

Day had broken cold and grey when the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail. He climbed the high earth‑bank where a little‑travelled trail led east through the pine forest. It was a high bank, and he paused to breathe at the top. He excused the act to himself by looking at his watch. It was nine o’clock in the morning. There was no sun or promise of sun, although there was not a cloud in the sky. It was a clear day. However, there seemed to be an indescribable darkness over the face of things. That was because the sun was absent from the sky.

This fact did not worry the man. He was not alarmed by the lack of sun. It had been days since he had seen the sun. The man looked along the way he had come. The Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice. On top of this ice were as many feet of snow. It was all pure white. North and south, as far as his eye could see, it was unbroken white. The one thing that relieved the whiteness was a thin dark line that curved from the pine‑covered island to the south. It curved into the north, where it disappeared behind another pine‑covered island. This dark line was the trail—the main trail. But all this—the distant trail, no sun in the sky, the great cold, and the strangeness of it all—had no effect on the man.

In 1991, the 87-year-old J.R.D. Tata had been the chairman of the Tata Group for over 50 years. The group was known for its stability but lacked energy and dynamism. That year, a relatively young Ratan Tata, aged 53, was chosen as the new chairman. His selection raised doubts about his capabilities and acceptability, especially among the older leadership. However, these questions were answered over time, and Ratan Tata gradually earned acceptance, often by making tough changes.

Two decades later, as Ratan Tata planned his retirement in 2012, the Tata Group had transformed into a symbol of vibrancy and innovation. Under his leadership, the group embraced daring ideas, expanded overseas, and maintained a tight brand discipline. As Rahul Bajaj remarked, “Ratan Tata has changed the DNA—almost entirely for the better.”

When India began its journey of liberalization, globalization, and privatization in 1991, the Tata Group underwent a significant transition with Ratan Tata taking over from J.R.D. Tata. The older leadership, loyal to J.R.D., initially resisted the change, as Ratan Tata had no major achievements to inspire confidence. Still, J.R.D.’s decision went unquestioned, and Ratan Tata’s era began.

With the introduction of a younger leadership, the Tata Group evolved into a forward-thinking organization, pioneering bold strategies and maintaining its status as a leader in Indian industry.

In 1991, the 87-year-old J.R.D. Tata had been the chairman of the Tata Group for over 50 years. The group was known for its stability but lacked energy and dynamism. That year, a relatively young Ratan Tata, aged 53, was chosen as the new chairman. His selection raised doubts about his capabilities and acceptability, especially among the older leadership. However, these questions were answered over time, and Ratan Tata gradually earned acceptance, often by making tough changes.

Two decades later, as Ratan Tata planned his retirement in 2012, the Tata Group had transformed into a symbol of vibrancy and innovation. Under his leadership, the group embraced daring ideas, expanded overseas, and maintained a tight brand discipline. As Rahul Bajaj remarked, “Ratan Tata has changed the DNA—almost entirely for the better.”

When India began its journey of liberalization, globalization, and privatization in 1991, the Tata Group underwent a significant transition with Ratan Tata taking over from J.R.D. Tata. The older leadership, loyal to J.R.D., initially resisted the change, as Ratan Tata had no major achievements to inspire confidence. Still, J.R.D.’s decision went unquestioned, and Ratan Tata’s era began.

With the introduction of a younger leadership, the Tata Group evolved into a forward-thinking organization, pioneering bold strategies and maintaining its status as a leader in Indian industry.

In 1991, the 87-year-old J.R.D. Tata had been the chairman of the Tata Group for over 50 years. The group was known for its stability but lacked energy and dynamism. That year, a relatively young Ratan Tata, aged 53, was chosen as the new chairman. His selection raised doubts about his capabilities and acceptability, especially among the older leadership. However, these questions were answered over time, and Ratan Tata gradually earned acceptance, often by making tough changes.

Two decades later, as Ratan Tata planned his retirement in 2012, the Tata Group had transformed into a symbol of vibrancy and innovation. Under his leadership, the group embraced daring ideas, expanded overseas, and maintained a tight brand discipline. As Rahul Bajaj remarked, “Ratan Tata has changed the DNA—almost entirely for the better.”

When India began its journey of liberalization, globalization, and privatization in 1991, the Tata Group underwent a significant transition with Ratan Tata taking over from J.R.D. Tata. The older leadership, loyal to J.R.D., initially resisted the change, as Ratan Tata had no major achievements to inspire confidence. Still, J.R.D.’s decision went unquestioned, and Ratan Tata’s era began.

With the introduction of a younger leadership, the Tata Group evolved into a forward-thinking organization, pioneering bold strategies and maintaining its status as a leader in Indian industry.

In 1991, the 87-year-old J.R.D. Tata had been the chairman of the Tata Group for over 50 years. The group was known for its stability but lacked energy and dynamism. That year, a relatively young Ratan Tata, aged 53, was chosen as the new chairman. His selection raised doubts about his capabilities and acceptability, especially among the older leadership. However, these questions were answered over time, and Ratan Tata gradually earned acceptance, often by making tough changes.

Two decades later, as Ratan Tata planned his retirement in 2012, the Tata Group had transformed into a symbol of vibrancy and innovation. Under his leadership, the group embraced daring ideas, expanded overseas, and maintained a tight brand discipline. As Rahul Bajaj remarked, “Ratan Tata has changed the DNA—almost entirely for the better.”

When India began its journey of liberalization, globalization, and privatization in 1991, the Tata Group underwent a significant transition with Ratan Tata taking over from J.R.D. Tata. The older leadership, loyal to J.R.D., initially resisted the change, as Ratan Tata had no major achievements to inspire confidence. Still, J.R.D.’s decision went unquestioned, and Ratan Tata’s era began.

With the introduction of a younger leadership, the Tata Group evolved into a forward-thinking organization, pioneering bold strategies and maintaining its status as a leader in Indian industry.

He had no idea what it would be like, of course, and was pleased when Robinson Street proved to be leafy and relatively quiet, lined with large mansions. Number twenty-two was one of the older buildings, a massive four-storey edifice, studded with graceful columned balconies: probably once the grandest building on the street, its Doric facade was now much bruised and discoloured, its plaster blacked with mildew. He went up to the fourth floor in a rattling birdcage of a lift that ascended through the center of a winding teak wood staircase. When the lift came to a stop, Murugan stepped gingerly on to the splintered planks of a wooden landing. A beam of sunlight, shining through a hole in a stained-glass window, revealed a small sign beside the tall door to his right. It said: ‘The Robinson Guest House’. Beneath it was a nameplate for ‘N. Aratounian’. Dragging his leather suitcase behind him, Murugan went to the door and rang the bell. Several minutes later, he heard footsteps on the other side. The door swung open, and he found himself looking at an ashen-faced, elderly woman in a frayed dressing gown and rubber slippers. ‘Hi,’ said Murugan, sticking out a hand. ‘Any vacancies today?’ Ignoring his hand, the woman looked him up and down, frowning through her gold rimmed bifocals.

He had no idea what it would be like, of course, and was pleased when Robinson Street proved to be leafy and relatively quiet, lined with large mansions. Number twenty-two was one of the older buildings, a massive four-storey edifice, studded with graceful columned balconies: probably once the grandest building on the street, its Doric facade was now much bruised and discoloured, its plaster blacked with mildew. He went up to the fourth floor in a rattling birdcage of a lift that ascended through the center of a winding teak wood staircase. When the lift came to a stop, Murugan stepped gingerly on to the splintered planks of a wooden landing. A beam of sunlight, shining through a hole in a stained-glass window, revealed a small sign beside the tall door to his right. It said: ‘The Robinson Guest House’. Beneath it was a nameplate for ‘N. Aratounian’. Dragging his leather suitcase behind him, Murugan went to the door and rang the bell. Several minutes later, he heard footsteps on the other side. The door swung open, and he found himself looking at an ashen-faced, elderly woman in a frayed dressing gown and rubber slippers. ‘Hi,’ said Murugan, sticking out a hand. ‘Any vacancies today?’ Ignoring his hand, the woman looked him up and down, frowning through her gold rimmed bifocals.

He had no idea what it would be like, of course, and was pleased when Robinson Street proved to be leafy and relatively quiet, lined with large mansions. Number twenty-two was one of the older buildings, a massive four-storey edifice, studded with graceful columned balconies: probably once the grandest building on the street, its Doric facade was now much bruised and discoloured, its plaster blacked with mildew. He went up to the fourth floor in a rattling birdcage of a lift that ascended through the center of a winding teak wood staircase. When the lift came to a stop, Murugan stepped gingerly on to the splintered planks of a wooden landing. A beam of sunlight, shining through a hole in a stained-glass window, revealed a small sign beside the tall door to his right. It said: ‘The Robinson Guest House’. Beneath it was a nameplate for ‘N. Aratounian’. Dragging his leather suitcase behind him, Murugan went to the door and rang the bell. Several minutes later, he heard footsteps on the other side. The door swung open, and he found himself looking at an ashen-faced, elderly woman in a frayed dressing gown and rubber slippers. ‘Hi,’ said Murugan, sticking out a hand. ‘Any vacancies today?’ Ignoring his hand, the woman looked him up and down, frowning through her gold rimmed bifocals.

He had no idea what it would be like, of course, and was pleased when Robinson Street proved to be leafy and relatively quiet, lined with large mansions. Number twenty-two was one of the older buildings, a massive four-storey edifice, studded with graceful columned balconies: probably once the grandest building on the street, its Doric facade was now much bruised and discoloured, its plaster blacked with mildew. He went up to the fourth floor in a rattling birdcage of a lift that ascended through the center of a winding teak wood staircase. When the lift came to a stop, Murugan stepped gingerly on to the splintered planks of a wooden landing. A beam of sunlight, shining through a hole in a stained-glass window, revealed a small sign beside the tall door to his right. It said: ‘The Robinson Guest House’. Beneath it was a nameplate for ‘N. Aratounian’. Dragging his leather suitcase behind him, Murugan went to the door and rang the bell. Several minutes later, he heard footsteps on the other side. The door swung open, and he found himself looking at an ashen-faced, elderly woman in a frayed dressing gown and rubber slippers. ‘Hi,’ said Murugan, sticking out a hand. ‘Any vacancies today?’ Ignoring his hand, the woman looked him up and down, frowning through her gold rimmed bifocals.

The aim of life should be to reach one’s full potential in body, mind, heart, and spirit. When we see an electric bulb, we think of Thomas Edison, the inventor of the bulb and lighting system. The sound of an aeroplane reminds us of the Wright Brothers, who proved man could fly. A ringing telephone brings to mind Alexander Graham Bell. A unique scientist, Sir C.V. Raman, pondered why the horizon looks blue during sea travel, leading to his Nobel Prize-winning explanation of light scattering.

The world is fortunate to have Mahatma Gandhi, who fought for India’s independence and inspired South Africa’s fight against apartheid. Madam Marie Curie won two Nobel Prizes—one in 1903 for discovering radium and another in 1911 for her research in chemistry. She is the discoverer of radiation that saves the lives of cancer patients today, improves crop yields, powers industry and nuclear weapon systems.

These individuals walked unexplored paths and strived to be unique, leaving lasting contributions to humankind. Every youth desires to be unique, but society often pressures them to conform. The challenge is to fight the hardest battle to become a “Unique You.”

Alexander Graham Bell once said, “Don’t stay on the beaten path; explore the woods. You’ll find something new. Follow it; one discovery will lead to another.” This advice inspires us to leave familiar trails and discover our potential.

Are you willing to become a unique personality, or will you settle for being like everyone else? The choice is yours.

The aim of life should be to reach one’s full potential in body, mind, heart, and spirit. When we see an electric bulb, we think of Thomas Edison, the inventor of the bulb and lighting system. The sound of an aeroplane reminds us of the Wright Brothers, who proved man could fly. A ringing telephone brings to mind Alexander Graham Bell. A unique scientist, Sir C.V. Raman, pondered why the horizon looks blue during sea travel, leading to his Nobel Prize-winning explanation of light scattering.

The world is fortunate to have Mahatma Gandhi, who fought for India’s independence and inspired South Africa’s fight against apartheid. Madam Marie Curie won two Nobel Prizes—one in 1903 for discovering radium and another in 1911 for her research in chemistry. She is the discoverer of radiation that saves the lives of cancer patients today, improves crop yields, powers industry and nuclear weapon systems.

These individuals walked unexplored paths and strived to be unique, leaving lasting contributions to humankind. Every youth desires to be unique, but society often pressures them to conform. The challenge is to fight the hardest battle to become a “Unique You.”

Alexander Graham Bell once said, “Don’t stay on the beaten path; explore the woods. You’ll find something new. Follow it; one discovery will lead to another.” This advice inspires us to leave familiar trails and discover our potential.

Are you willing to become a unique personality, or will you settle for being like everyone else? The choice is yours.

The aim of life should be to reach one’s full potential in body, mind, heart, and spirit. When we see an electric bulb, we think of Thomas Edison, the inventor of the bulb and lighting system. The sound of an aeroplane reminds us of the Wright Brothers, who proved man could fly. A ringing telephone brings to mind Alexander Graham Bell. A unique scientist, Sir C.V. Raman, pondered why the horizon looks blue during sea travel, leading to his Nobel Prize-winning explanation of light scattering.

The world is fortunate to have Mahatma Gandhi, who fought for India’s independence and inspired South Africa’s fight against apartheid. Madam Marie Curie won two Nobel Prizes—one in 1903 for discovering radium and another in 1911 for her research in chemistry. She is the discoverer of radiation that saves the lives of cancer patients today, improves crop yields, powers industry and nuclear weapon systems.

These individuals walked unexplored paths and strived to be unique, leaving lasting contributions to humankind. Every youth desires to be unique, but society often pressures them to conform. The challenge is to fight the hardest battle to become a “Unique You.”

Alexander Graham Bell once said, “Don’t stay on the beaten path; explore the woods. You’ll find something new. Follow it; one discovery will lead to another.” This advice inspires us to leave familiar trails and discover our potential.

Are you willing to become a unique personality, or will you settle for being like everyone else? The choice is yours.

The aim of life should be to reach one’s full potential in body, mind, heart, and spirit. When we see an electric bulb, we think of Thomas Edison, the inventor of the bulb and lighting system. The sound of an aeroplane reminds us of the Wright Brothers, who proved man could fly. A ringing telephone brings to mind Alexander Graham Bell. A unique scientist, Sir C.V. Raman, pondered why the horizon looks blue during sea travel, leading to his Nobel Prize-winning explanation of light scattering.

The world is fortunate to have Mahatma Gandhi, who fought for India’s independence and inspired South Africa’s fight against apartheid. Madam Marie Curie won two Nobel Prizes—one in 1903 for discovering radium and another in 1911 for her research in chemistry. She is the discoverer of radiation that saves the lives of cancer patients today, improves crop yields, powers industry and nuclear weapon systems.

These individuals walked unexplored paths and strived to be unique, leaving lasting contributions to humankind. Every youth desires to be unique, but society often pressures them to conform. The challenge is to fight the hardest battle to become a “Unique You.”

Alexander Graham Bell once said, “Don’t stay on the beaten path; explore the woods. You’ll find something new. Follow it; one discovery will lead to another.” This advice inspires us to leave familiar trails and discover our potential.

Are you willing to become a unique personality, or will you settle for being like everyone else? The choice is yours.

My summer holidays had begun, and I had promised my grandfather to join him on his morning walk. The mild sunshine and fresh air were new to me, as I had never been a morning person. My grandfather, an early riser, didn’t need gadgets to track his routine. On the first morning, I realised what I had been missing—the refreshing air, the scent of flowers, and the serenity reserved for early risers. The Sun painted the sky in hues of orange and yellow, creating a breathtaking view.

Dressed in track pants and sneakers, we followed his regular route. He called out to stray dogs, feeding them biscuits he carried daily. He knew their names and even their ages. Birds chirped melodiously, and sweepers cleaned the streets, their brooms making a rhythmic swishing sound. Other walkers milled around a tea shop, sipping hot tea. My grandfather exchanged pleasantries with them, displaying a warm camaraderie.

As we returned after an hour, the peaceful atmosphere gave way to the hustle of the day. Women decorated their homes with vibrant rangoli, a charming Indian tradition. During the walk, my grandfather shared insights about Indian life and stories from his past. I realised the walk wasn’t just exercise—it was a communion with nature and a lesson in appreciating life’s quiet beauty. Grateful for this new experience, I understood the profound value of these moments with my grandfather.

My summer holidays had begun, and I had promised my grandfather to join him on his morning walk. The mild sunshine and fresh air were new to me, as I had never been a morning person. My grandfather, an early riser, didn’t need gadgets to track his routine. On the first morning, I realised what I had been missing—the refreshing air, the scent of flowers, and the serenity reserved for early risers. The Sun painted the sky in hues of orange and yellow, creating a breathtaking view.

Dressed in track pants and sneakers, we followed his regular route. He called out to stray dogs, feeding them biscuits he carried daily. He knew their names and even their ages. Birds chirped melodiously, and sweepers cleaned the streets, their brooms making a rhythmic swishing sound. Other walkers milled around a tea shop, sipping hot tea. My grandfather exchanged pleasantries with them, displaying a warm camaraderie.

As we returned after an hour, the peaceful atmosphere gave way to the hustle of the day. Women decorated their homes with vibrant rangoli, a charming Indian tradition. During the walk, my grandfather shared insights about Indian life and stories from his past. I realised the walk wasn’t just exercise—it was a communion with nature and a lesson in appreciating life’s quiet beauty. Grateful for this new experience, I understood the profound value of these moments with my grandfather.

My summer holidays had begun, and I had promised my grandfather to join him on his morning walk. The mild sunshine and fresh air were new to me, as I had never been a morning person. My grandfather, an early riser, didn’t need gadgets to track his routine. On the first morning, I realised what I had been missing—the refreshing air, the scent of flowers, and the serenity reserved for early risers. The Sun painted the sky in hues of orange and yellow, creating a breathtaking view.

Dressed in track pants and sneakers, we followed his regular route. He called out to stray dogs, feeding them biscuits he carried daily. He knew their names and even their ages. Birds chirped melodiously, and sweepers cleaned the streets, their brooms making a rhythmic swishing sound. Other walkers milled around a tea shop, sipping hot tea. My grandfather exchanged pleasantries with them, displaying a warm camaraderie.

As we returned after an hour, the peaceful atmosphere gave way to the hustle of the day. Women decorated their homes with vibrant rangoli, a charming Indian tradition. During the walk, my grandfather shared insights about Indian life and stories from his past. I realised the walk wasn’t just exercise—it was a communion with nature and a lesson in appreciating life’s quiet beauty. Grateful for this new experience, I understood the profound value of these moments with my grandfather.

My summer holidays had begun, and I had promised my grandfather to join him on his morning walk. The mild sunshine and fresh air were new to me, as I had never been a morning person. My grandfather, an early riser, didn’t need gadgets to track his routine. On the first morning, I realised what I had been missing—the refreshing air, the scent of flowers, and the serenity reserved for early risers. The Sun painted the sky in hues of orange and yellow, creating a breathtaking view.

Dressed in track pants and sneakers, we followed his regular route. He called out to stray dogs, feeding them biscuits he carried daily. He knew their names and even their ages. Birds chirped melodiously, and sweepers cleaned the streets, their brooms making a rhythmic swishing sound. Other walkers milled around a tea shop, sipping hot tea. My grandfather exchanged pleasantries with them, displaying a warm camaraderie.

As we returned after an hour, the peaceful atmosphere gave way to the hustle of the day. Women decorated their homes with vibrant rangoli, a charming Indian tradition. During the walk, my grandfather shared insights about Indian life and stories from his past. I realised the walk wasn’t just exercise—it was a communion with nature and a lesson in appreciating life’s quiet beauty. Grateful for this new experience, I understood the profound value of these moments with my grandfather.

Just as he was about to enter the laboratory, Farley noticed that a great deal of activity was taking place in a nearby anteroom. The assistant tried to hurry him past but by dint of dragging his feet Farley managed to steal a quick glance into the room. The sight that met his eyes was so bewildering that he uttered no protest when his guide maneuvered him through the laboratory door. What he saw was this: the woman, Mangala was seated at the far end of the room, on a low divan, but alone and in an attitude of command, as though enthroned. By her side were several small bamboo cages, each containing a pigeon. On the floor, clustered around the woman’s feet, were some half-dozen people in various attitudes of supplication. Two or three others were huddled against the wall, wrapped in blankets. Although Farley had glanced into their scarred, unseeing faces for more than an instant, he recognized at once that they, like the man he had seen in the bamboo thicket, were syphilitics, in the final stages of the terrible disease.

Now the young assistant began once again to perform the charade of the previous day, fetching slides, and hurrying back and forth across the room as though egging him on towards some extraordinary discovery. Farley went mechanically about the business of examining the slides they presented him.

His conscience called out to him to go outside and tell them not to waste their hopes on whatever quackery it was that this woman offered; to expose the falsehoods that she and her minions had concocted to deceive those simple people. It was his duty, he knew, to tell them that mankind knew on cure for their condition; that this false prophetess was cheating them of money they could ill afford.

Just as he was about to enter the laboratory, Farley noticed that a great deal of activity was taking place in a nearby anteroom. The assistant tried to hurry him past but by dint of dragging his feet Farley managed to steal a quick glance into the room. The sight that met his eyes was so bewildering that he uttered no protest when his guide maneuvered him through the laboratory door. What he saw was this: the woman, Mangala was seated at the far end of the room, on a low divan, but alone and in an attitude of command, as though enthroned. By her side were several small bamboo cages, each containing a pigeon. On the floor, clustered around the woman’s feet, were some half-dozen people in various attitudes of supplication. Two or three others were huddled against the wall, wrapped in blankets. Although Farley had glanced into their scarred, unseeing faces for more than an instant, he recognized at once that they, like the man he had seen in the bamboo thicket, were syphilitics, in the final stages of the terrible disease.

Now the young assistant began once again to perform the charade of the previous day, fetching slides, and hurrying back and forth across the room as though egging him on towards some extraordinary discovery. Farley went mechanically about the business of examining the slides they presented him.

His conscience called out to him to go outside and tell them not to waste their hopes on whatever quackery it was that this woman offered; to expose the falsehoods that she and her minions had concocted to deceive those simple people. It was his duty, he knew, to tell them that mankind knew on cure for their condition; that this false prophetess was cheating them of money they could ill afford.

Just as he was about to enter the laboratory, Farley noticed that a great deal of activity was taking place in a nearby anteroom. The assistant tried to hurry him past but by dint of dragging his feet Farley managed to steal a quick glance into the room. The sight that met his eyes was so bewildering that he uttered no protest when his guide maneuvered him through the laboratory door. What he saw was this: the woman, Mangala was seated at the far end of the room, on a low divan, but alone and in an attitude of command, as though enthroned. By her side were several small bamboo cages, each containing a pigeon. On the floor, clustered around the woman’s feet, were some half-dozen people in various attitudes of supplication. Two or three others were huddled against the wall, wrapped in blankets. Although Farley had glanced into their scarred, unseeing faces for more than an instant, he recognized at once that they, like the man he had seen in the bamboo thicket, were syphilitics, in the final stages of the terrible disease.

Now the young assistant began once again to perform the charade of the previous day, fetching slides, and hurrying back and forth across the room as though egging him on towards some extraordinary discovery. Farley went mechanically about the business of examining the slides they presented him.

His conscience called out to him to go outside and tell them not to waste their hopes on whatever quackery it was that this woman offered; to expose the falsehoods that she and her minions had concocted to deceive those simple people. It was his duty, he knew, to tell them that mankind knew on cure for their condition; that this false prophetess was cheating them of money they could ill afford.

Just as he was about to enter the laboratory, Farley noticed that a great deal of activity was taking place in a nearby anteroom. The assistant tried to hurry him past but by dint of dragging his feet Farley managed to steal a quick glance into the room. The sight that met his eyes was so bewildering that he uttered no protest when his guide maneuvered him through the laboratory door. What he saw was this: the woman, Mangala was seated at the far end of the room, on a low divan, but alone and in an attitude of command, as though enthroned. By her side were several small bamboo cages, each containing a pigeon. On the floor, clustered around the woman’s feet, were some half-dozen people in various attitudes of supplication. Two or three others were huddled against the wall, wrapped in blankets. Although Farley had glanced into their scarred, unseeing faces for more than an instant, he recognized at once that they, like the man he had seen in the bamboo thicket, were syphilitics, in the final stages of the terrible disease.

Now the young assistant began once again to perform the charade of the previous day, fetching slides, and hurrying back and forth across the room as though egging him on towards some extraordinary discovery. Farley went mechanically about the business of examining the slides they presented him.

His conscience called out to him to go outside and tell them not to waste their hopes on whatever quackery it was that this woman offered; to expose the falsehoods that she and her minions had concocted to deceive those simple people. It was his duty, he knew, to tell them that mankind knew on cure for their condition; that this false prophetess was cheating them of money they could ill afford.

Obesity has nearly tripled globally since 1975, a first in the history of our species. It contributes to at least 200 known diseases and complications, including strokes and cancer. Now, there’s a way to solve that problem with a slash. New drugs like Ozempic can cause people to lose 5-24% of their body weight. In Magic Pill: The Extraordinary Benefits and Disturbing Risks of the New Weight Loss Drugs, Johann Hari offers a nuanced explanation, as an overweight person who takes these medicines himself.

Ozempic works by making food intake infeasible beyond small quantities. A hormone called GLP-1 in the gut and brain was found to affect insulin and blood sugar, and affect feelings of satiety. Drug companies invented ‘agonists’ or copies of this hormone that can last longer in the body.

In 2005, it was approved for use by diabetics. When it turned out that these patients were also losing a lot of weight, the Danish company Novo Nordic funded tests on whether it could be used on obese people. As per the official trial results of semaglutide, those who’d been given the drug lost 15% of their body weight, making it the most successful weight-loss drug in history.

Obesity has nearly tripled globally since 1975, a first in the history of our species. It contributes to at least 200 known diseases and complications, including strokes and cancer. Now, there’s a way to solve that problem with a slash. New drugs like Ozempic can cause people to lose 5-24% of their body weight. In Magic Pill: The Extraordinary Benefits and Disturbing Risks of the New Weight Loss Drugs, Johann Hari offers a nuanced explanation, as an overweight person who takes these medicines himself.

Ozempic works by making food intake infeasible beyond small quantities. A hormone called GLP-1 in the gut and brain was found to affect insulin and blood sugar, and affect feelings of satiety. Drug companies invented ‘agonists’ or copies of this hormone that can last longer in the body.

In 2005, it was approved for use by diabetics. When it turned out that these patients were also losing a lot of weight, the Danish company Novo Nordic funded tests on whether it could be used on obese people. As per the official trial results of semaglutide, those who’d been given the drug lost 15% of their body weight, making it the most successful weight-loss drug in history.

Obesity has nearly tripled globally since 1975, a first in the history of our species. It contributes to at least 200 known diseases and complications, including strokes and cancer. Now, there’s a way to solve that problem with a slash. New drugs like Ozempic can cause people to lose 5-24% of their body weight. In Magic Pill: The Extraordinary Benefits and Disturbing Risks of the New Weight Loss Drugs, Johann Hari offers a nuanced explanation, as an overweight person who takes these medicines himself.

Ozempic works by making food intake infeasible beyond small quantities. A hormone called GLP-1 in the gut and brain was found to affect insulin and blood sugar, and affect feelings of satiety. Drug companies invented ‘agonists’ or copies of this hormone that can last longer in the body.

In 2005, it was approved for use by diabetics. When it turned out that these patients were also losing a lot of weight, the Danish company Novo Nordic funded tests on whether it could be used on obese people. As per the official trial results of semaglutide, those who’d been given the drug lost 15% of their body weight, making it the most successful weight-loss drug in history.