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Immersing oneself in nature can profoundly impact physical health. Outdoor activities such as hiking, biking or walking in natural settings improve cardiovascular health, increase fitness levels and reduce stress. Breathing fresh air and soaking up sunlight also enhances vitamin D production, supporting bone health and boosting the immune system.

Nature is a powerful antidote to stress and anxiety, promoting mental and emotional well-being. Nature's sights, sounds, and smells calm the mind, reducing tension and enhancing mood. Studies have shown that spending time in natural environments decreases symptoms of depression and anxiety while increasing feelings of happiness and well-being. The beauty and tranquility of nature provide a much-needed escape from the pressures of daily life, allowing for reflection, mindfulness and relaxation.

Immersion in natural settings fosters a sense of awe, wonder and spirituality, encouraging contemplation and introspection. The rhythmic sounds of waves crashing on the shore, the rustling of leaves or the sight of a breathtaking sunset can evoke a sense of peace and serenity.

Engaging in gardening or spending time in green spaces has been recognised as "eco-therapy" or "green therapy." Working with plants, digging in the soil and tending to a garden have been shown to reduce symptoms of stress, anxiety and depression. Caring for living things and witnessing the growth and transformation of plants brings a sense of purpose and fulfillment. Furthermore, participation in nature conservation efforts allows individuals to contribute to the planet's well-being and fostering a sense of environmental stewardship.

Immersing oneself in nature can profoundly impact physical health. Outdoor activities such as hiking, biking or walking in natural settings improve cardiovascular health, increase fitness levels and reduce stress. Breathing fresh air and soaking up sunlight also enhances vitamin D production, supporting bone health and boosting the immune system.

Nature is a powerful antidote to stress and anxiety, promoting mental and emotional well-being. Nature's sights, sounds, and smells calm the mind, reducing tension and enhancing mood. Studies have shown that spending time in natural environments decreases symptoms of depression and anxiety while increasing feelings of happiness and well-being. The beauty and tranquility of nature provide a much-needed escape from the pressures of daily life, allowing for reflection, mindfulness and relaxation.

Immersion in natural settings fosters a sense of awe, wonder and spirituality, encouraging contemplation and introspection. The rhythmic sounds of waves crashing on the shore, the rustling of leaves or the sight of a breathtaking sunset can evoke a sense of peace and serenity.

Engaging in gardening or spending time in green spaces has been recognised as "eco-therapy" or "green therapy." Working with plants, digging in the soil and tending to a garden have been shown to reduce symptoms of stress, anxiety and depression. Caring for living things and witnessing the growth and transformation of plants brings a sense of purpose and fulfillment. Furthermore, participation in nature conservation efforts allows individuals to contribute to the planet's well-being and fostering a sense of environmental stewardship.

As I crossed the stream and began climbing the hill, the grunting and chattering increased, as though the langurs were trying to warn me of some hidden danger. A shower of pebbles came rattling down the steep hillside, and I looked up to see a sinewy orange-gold leopard poised on a rock about 20 feet above me.

It was not looking towards me, but had its head thrust attentively forward in the direction of the ravine. It must have sensed my presence though, because slowly it turned its head to look down at me. It seemed a little puzzled at my presence there; when, to give myself courage, I clapped my hands sharply, the leopard sprang away into the thickets, making no sound as it melted into the shadows.

I had disturbed the animal in its quest for food. But a little later I heard the cry of a barking deer as it fled through the forest; the hunt was still on.

The leopard, like other members of the cat family, is nearing extinction in India, and I was surprised to find one so close to Mussoorie. Probably deforestation had driven the deer into this green valley; the leopard, naturally, had followed.

It was some weeks before I saw the leopard again, although I was often made aware of its presence. A dry, rasping cough sometimes gave it away. At times, I felt almost certain I was being followed.

As I crossed the stream and began climbing the hill, the grunting and chattering increased, as though the langurs were trying to warn me of some hidden danger. A shower of pebbles came rattling down the steep hillside, and I looked up to see a sinewy orange-gold leopard poised on a rock about 20 feet above me.

It was not looking towards me, but had its head thrust attentively forward in the direction of the ravine. It must have sensed my presence though, because slowly it turned its head to look down at me. It seemed a little puzzled at my presence there; when, to give myself courage, I clapped my hands sharply, the leopard sprang away into the thickets, making no sound as it melted into the shadows.

I had disturbed the animal in its quest for food. But a little later I heard the cry of a barking deer as it fled through the forest; the hunt was still on.

The leopard, like other members of the cat family, is nearing extinction in India, and I was surprised to find one so close to Mussoorie. Probably deforestation had driven the deer into this green valley; the leopard, naturally, had followed.

It was some weeks before I saw the leopard again, although I was often made aware of its presence. A dry, rasping cough sometimes gave it away. At times, I felt almost certain I was being followed.

As I crossed the stream and began climbing the hill, the grunting and chattering increased, as though the langurs were trying to warn me of some hidden danger. A shower of pebbles came rattling down the steep hillside, and I looked up to see a sinewy orange-gold leopard poised on a rock about 20 feet above me.

It was not looking towards me, but had its head thrust attentively forward in the direction of the ravine. It must have sensed my presence though, because slowly it turned its head to look down at me. It seemed a little puzzled at my presence there; when, to give myself courage, I clapped my hands sharply, the leopard sprang away into the thickets, making no sound as it melted into the shadows.

I had disturbed the animal in its quest for food. But a little later I heard the cry of a barking deer as it fled through the forest; the hunt was still on.

The leopard, like other members of the cat family, is nearing extinction in India, and I was surprised to find one so close to Mussoorie. Probably deforestation had driven the deer into this green valley; the leopard, naturally, had followed.

It was some weeks before I saw the leopard again, although I was often made aware of its presence. A dry, rasping cough sometimes gave it away. At times, I felt almost certain I was being followed.

As I crossed the stream and began climbing the hill, the grunting and chattering increased, as though the langurs were trying to warn me of some hidden danger. A shower of pebbles came rattling down the steep hillside, and I looked up to see a sinewy orange-gold leopard poised on a rock about 20 feet above me.

It was not looking towards me, but had its head thrust attentively forward in the direction of the ravine. It must have sensed my presence though, because slowly it turned its head to look down at me. It seemed a little puzzled at my presence there; when, to give myself courage, I clapped my hands sharply, the leopard sprang away into the thickets, making no sound as it melted into the shadows.

I had disturbed the animal in its quest for food. But a little later I heard the cry of a barking deer as it fled through the forest; the hunt was still on.

The leopard, like other members of the cat family, is nearing extinction in India, and I was surprised to find one so close to Mussoorie. Probably deforestation had driven the deer into this green valley; the leopard, naturally, had followed.

It was some weeks before I saw the leopard again, although I was often made aware of its presence. A dry, rasping cough sometimes gave it away. At times, I felt almost certain I was being followed.

As I crossed the stream and began climbing the hill, the grunting and chattering increased, as though the langurs were trying to warn me of some hidden danger. A shower of pebbles came rattling down the steep hillside, and I looked up to see a sinewy orange-gold leopard poised on a rock about 20 feet above me.

It was not looking towards me, but had its head thrust attentively forward in the direction of the ravine. It must have sensed my presence though, because slowly it turned its head to look down at me. It seemed a little puzzled at my presence there; when, to give myself courage, I clapped my hands sharply, the leopard sprang away into the thickets, making no sound as it melted into the shadows.

I had disturbed the animal in its quest for food. But a little later I heard the cry of a barking deer as it fled through the forest; the hunt was still on.

The leopard, like other members of the cat family, is nearing extinction in India, and I was surprised to find one so close to Mussoorie. Probably deforestation had driven the deer into this green valley; the leopard, naturally, had followed.

It was some weeks before I saw the leopard again, although I was often made aware of its presence. A dry, rasping cough sometimes gave it away. At times, I felt almost certain I was being followed.

He walked into my clinic and placed a bottle on my table. A bottle of insecticide.

This disease has long been called the 'suicide disease'. In recent times, it briefly returned to public conversation when actor Salman Khan spoke about his experience with facial pain. But two decades ago one man gave me a lesson in its brutality I will never forget.

Until 2004, I performed Microvascular Decompression [MVD] surgery for Trigeminal Neuralgia but not with the urgency and singular focus that now defines my practice. Then came an afternoon that changed the course of my life and shape of the work that we do at our neurosurgical centre in Pune today.

My clinic hours were over and I was ready to leave when my secretary hesitated at the door. "There's a gentleman who has come from very far", she whispered. "He looks quiet distressed. I think you should see him. I asked her to send him in. Years of treating this disease had prepared me for patients in pain, yet this man's appearance was startling. He was unshaven for days, his eyes were heavy. His right hand clutched a bag- his last hope.

"Are you Dr. Jayadev?" he asked with teeth clenched. Then he reached his bag and placed a bottle on my table labelled 'insecticide'. "Please tell me you can cure me or I will drink this and end the pain."

He had been suffering for six long years, surviving on high dose of anti-seizure medications. This man- a living proof that the disease could drive a person to the edge. Like the other patients he had been to various dentists in vain. The day he came to me, he was convinced that he needed surgery and so was I. Operation done, culprit found, a small artery.

He walked into my clinic and placed a bottle on my table. A bottle of insecticide.

This disease has long been called the 'suicide disease'. In recent times, it briefly returned to public conversation when actor Salman Khan spoke about his experience with facial pain. But two decades ago one man gave me a lesson in its brutality I will never forget.

Until 2004, I performed Microvascular Decompression [MVD] surgery for Trigeminal Neuralgia but not with the urgency and singular focus that now defines my practice. Then came an afternoon that changed the course of my life and shape of the work that we do at our neurosurgical centre in Pune today.

My clinic hours were over and I was ready to leave when my secretary hesitated at the door. "There's a gentleman who has come from very far", she whispered. "He looks quiet distressed. I think you should see him. I asked her to send him in. Years of treating this disease had prepared me for patients in pain, yet this man's appearance was startling. He was unshaven for days, his eyes were heavy. His right hand clutched a bag- his last hope.

"Are you Dr. Jayadev?" he asked with teeth clenched. Then he reached his bag and placed a bottle on my table labelled 'insecticide'. "Please tell me you can cure me or I will drink this and end the pain."

He had been suffering for six long years, surviving on high dose of anti-seizure medications. This man- a living proof that the disease could drive a person to the edge. Like the other patients he had been to various dentists in vain. The day he came to me, he was convinced that he needed surgery and so was I. Operation done, culprit found, a small artery.

He walked into my clinic and placed a bottle on my table. A bottle of insecticide.

This disease has long been called the 'suicide disease'. In recent times, it briefly returned to public conversation when actor Salman Khan spoke about his experience with facial pain. But two decades ago one man gave me a lesson in its brutality I will never forget.

Until 2004, I performed Microvascular Decompression [MVD] surgery for Trigeminal Neuralgia but not with the urgency and singular focus that now defines my practice. Then came an afternoon that changed the course of my life and shape of the work that we do at our neurosurgical centre in Pune today.

My clinic hours were over and I was ready to leave when my secretary hesitated at the door. "There's a gentleman who has come from very far", she whispered. "He looks quiet distressed. I think you should see him. I asked her to send him in. Years of treating this disease had prepared me for patients in pain, yet this man's appearance was startling. He was unshaven for days, his eyes were heavy. His right hand clutched a bag- his last hope.

"Are you Dr. Jayadev?" he asked with teeth clenched. Then he reached his bag and placed a bottle on my table labelled 'insecticide'. "Please tell me you can cure me or I will drink this and end the pain."

He had been suffering for six long years, surviving on high dose of anti-seizure medications. This man- a living proof that the disease could drive a person to the edge. Like the other patients he had been to various dentists in vain. The day he came to me, he was convinced that he needed surgery and so was I. Operation done, culprit found, a small artery.

He walked into my clinic and placed a bottle on my table. A bottle of insecticide.

This disease has long been called the 'suicide disease'. In recent times, it briefly returned to public conversation when actor Salman Khan spoke about his experience with facial pain. But two decades ago one man gave me a lesson in its brutality I will never forget.

Until 2004, I performed Microvascular Decompression [MVD] surgery for Trigeminal Neuralgia but not with the urgency and singular focus that now defines my practice. Then came an afternoon that changed the course of my life and shape of the work that we do at our neurosurgical centre in Pune today.

My clinic hours were over and I was ready to leave when my secretary hesitated at the door. "There's a gentleman who has come from very far", she whispered. "He looks quiet distressed. I think you should see him. I asked her to send him in. Years of treating this disease had prepared me for patients in pain, yet this man's appearance was startling. He was unshaven for days, his eyes were heavy. His right hand clutched a bag- his last hope.

"Are you Dr. Jayadev?" he asked with teeth clenched. Then he reached his bag and placed a bottle on my table labelled 'insecticide'. "Please tell me you can cure me or I will drink this and end the pain."

He had been suffering for six long years, surviving on high dose of anti-seizure medications. This man- a living proof that the disease could drive a person to the edge. Like the other patients he had been to various dentists in vain. The day he came to me, he was convinced that he needed surgery and so was I. Operation done, culprit found, a small artery.

He walked into my clinic and placed a bottle on my table. A bottle of insecticide.

This disease has long been called the 'suicide disease'. In recent times, it briefly returned to public conversation when actor Salman Khan spoke about his experience with facial pain. But two decades ago one man gave me a lesson in its brutality I will never forget.

Until 2004, I performed Microvascular Decompression [MVD] surgery for Trigeminal Neuralgia but not with the urgency and singular focus that now defines my practice. Then came an afternoon that changed the course of my life and shape of the work that we do at our neurosurgical centre in Pune today.

My clinic hours were over and I was ready to leave when my secretary hesitated at the door. "There's a gentleman who has come from very far", she whispered. "He looks quiet distressed. I think you should see him. I asked her to send him in. Years of treating this disease had prepared me for patients in pain, yet this man's appearance was startling. He was unshaven for days, his eyes were heavy. His right hand clutched a bag- his last hope.

"Are you Dr. Jayadev?" he asked with teeth clenched. Then he reached his bag and placed a bottle on my table labelled 'insecticide'. "Please tell me you can cure me or I will drink this and end the pain."

He had been suffering for six long years, surviving on high dose of anti-seizure medications. This man- a living proof that the disease could drive a person to the edge. Like the other patients he had been to various dentists in vain. The day he came to me, he was convinced that he needed surgery and so was I. Operation done, culprit found, a small artery.

There was only one small chink in the armour of austerity that had sat so heavily on my grandmother ever since I could remember: she had a secret fondness for jewellery.

She had stopped wearing jewellery, after she was widowed. But there was one piece of jewellery that she had never parted with. It was a long, thin chain with a tiny ruby pendant. She had never taken it off, at least not in my recollection. I wear it because He gave it to me, she explained to me once. You know your grandfather. It was the first thing He ever gave me in Rangoon, soon after we were married.

One afternoon I came home from school to find the radio blaring at the top volume in my grandmother's room, upstairs. I ran in and found my mother lying prostrate on her bed, with her fingers jabbed against her temples and a wet cloth draped over her eyes.

What's going on? I asked her.

Who's to know but God? She said, Your Tha'mma went out of the house at ten this morning and came back a couple of hours later. She wouldn't have anything to eat, instead she went upstairs and turned on her radio and it's been going on like that ever since.

I ran upstairs and pushed my grandmother's door open. I could only see her back. She was crouching over the radio.

Tha'mma! I shouted. What happened to your chain? What have you done with it?

She turned to look at me then. Her hair were hanging in wet ropes over her face; her eyes glazed and her spectacles had fallen off. I was frightened by the sight of her.

I gave it away, she said, her eyes glazed, unfocused eyes alighting, not on me but on a point on the wall above my head. Why Tha'mma? I said, why did you do that?

I gave it away, she screamed. I gave it to the fund for the war. I had to, don't you see? For your sake; for your freedom. We have to kill them before they kill us; we have to wipe them out.

There was only one small chink in the armour of austerity that had sat so heavily on my grandmother ever since I could remember: she had a secret fondness for jewellery.

She had stopped wearing jewellery, after she was widowed. But there was one piece of jewellery that she had never parted with. It was a long, thin chain with a tiny ruby pendant. She had never taken it off, at least not in my recollection. I wear it because He gave it to me, she explained to me once. You know your grandfather. It was the first thing He ever gave me in Rangoon, soon after we were married.

One afternoon I came home from school to find the radio blaring at the top volume in my grandmother's room, upstairs. I ran in and found my mother lying prostrate on her bed, with her fingers jabbed against her temples and a wet cloth draped over her eyes.

What's going on? I asked her.

Who's to know but God? She said, Your Tha'mma went out of the house at ten this morning and came back a couple of hours later. She wouldn't have anything to eat, instead she went upstairs and turned on her radio and it's been going on like that ever since.

I ran upstairs and pushed my grandmother's door open. I could only see her back. She was crouching over the radio.

Tha'mma! I shouted. What happened to your chain? What have you done with it?

She turned to look at me then. Her hair were hanging in wet ropes over her face; her eyes glazed and her spectacles had fallen off. I was frightened by the sight of her.

I gave it away, she said, her eyes glazed, unfocused eyes alighting, not on me but on a point on the wall above my head. Why Tha'mma? I said, why did you do that?

I gave it away, she screamed. I gave it to the fund for the war. I had to, don't you see? For your sake; for your freedom. We have to kill them before they kill us; we have to wipe them out.

There was only one small chink in the armour of austerity that had sat so heavily on my grandmother ever since I could remember: she had a secret fondness for jewellery.

She had stopped wearing jewellery, after she was widowed. But there was one piece of jewellery that she had never parted with. It was a long, thin chain with a tiny ruby pendant. She had never taken it off, at least not in my recollection. I wear it because He gave it to me, she explained to me once. You know your grandfather. It was the first thing He ever gave me in Rangoon, soon after we were married.

One afternoon I came home from school to find the radio blaring at the top volume in my grandmother's room, upstairs. I ran in and found my mother lying prostrate on her bed, with her fingers jabbed against her temples and a wet cloth draped over her eyes.

What's going on? I asked her.

Who's to know but God? She said, Your Tha'mma went out of the house at ten this morning and came back a couple of hours later. She wouldn't have anything to eat, instead she went upstairs and turned on her radio and it's been going on like that ever since.

I ran upstairs and pushed my grandmother's door open. I could only see her back. She was crouching over the radio.

Tha'mma! I shouted. What happened to your chain? What have you done with it?

She turned to look at me then. Her hair were hanging in wet ropes over her face; her eyes glazed and her spectacles had fallen off. I was frightened by the sight of her.

I gave it away, she said, her eyes glazed, unfocused eyes alighting, not on me but on a point on the wall above my head. Why Tha'mma? I said, why did you do that?

I gave it away, she screamed. I gave it to the fund for the war. I had to, don't you see? For your sake; for your freedom. We have to kill them before they kill us; we have to wipe them out.

There was only one small chink in the armour of austerity that had sat so heavily on my grandmother ever since I could remember: she had a secret fondness for jewellery.

She had stopped wearing jewellery, after she was widowed. But there was one piece of jewellery that she had never parted with. It was a long, thin chain with a tiny ruby pendant. She had never taken it off, at least not in my recollection. I wear it because He gave it to me, she explained to me once. You know your grandfather. It was the first thing He ever gave me in Rangoon, soon after we were married.

One afternoon I came home from school to find the radio blaring at the top volume in my grandmother's room, upstairs. I ran in and found my mother lying prostrate on her bed, with her fingers jabbed against her temples and a wet cloth draped over her eyes.

What's going on? I asked her.

Who's to know but God? She said, Your Tha'mma went out of the house at ten this morning and came back a couple of hours later. She wouldn't have anything to eat, instead she went upstairs and turned on her radio and it's been going on like that ever since.

I ran upstairs and pushed my grandmother's door open. I could only see her back. She was crouching over the radio.

Tha'mma! I shouted. What happened to your chain? What have you done with it?

She turned to look at me then. Her hair were hanging in wet ropes over her face; her eyes glazed and her spectacles had fallen off. I was frightened by the sight of her.

I gave it away, she said, her eyes glazed, unfocused eyes alighting, not on me but on a point on the wall above my head. Why Tha'mma? I said, why did you do that?

I gave it away, she screamed. I gave it to the fund for the war. I had to, don't you see? For your sake; for your freedom. We have to kill them before they kill us; we have to wipe them out.

There was only one small chink in the armour of austerity that had sat so heavily on my grandmother ever since I could remember: she had a secret fondness for jewellery.

She had stopped wearing jewellery, after she was widowed. But there was one piece of jewellery that she had never parted with. It was a long, thin chain with a tiny ruby pendant. She had never taken it off, at least not in my recollection. I wear it because He gave it to me, she explained to me once. You know your grandfather. It was the first thing He ever gave me in Rangoon, soon after we were married.

One afternoon I came home from school to find the radio blaring at the top volume in my grandmother's room, upstairs. I ran in and found my mother lying prostrate on her bed, with her fingers jabbed against her temples and a wet cloth draped over her eyes.

What's going on? I asked her.

Who's to know but God? She said, Your Tha'mma went out of the house at ten this morning and came back a couple of hours later. She wouldn't have anything to eat, instead she went upstairs and turned on her radio and it's been going on like that ever since.

I ran upstairs and pushed my grandmother's door open. I could only see her back. She was crouching over the radio.

Tha'mma! I shouted. What happened to your chain? What have you done with it?

She turned to look at me then. Her hair were hanging in wet ropes over her face; her eyes glazed and her spectacles had fallen off. I was frightened by the sight of her.

I gave it away, she said, her eyes glazed, unfocused eyes alighting, not on me but on a point on the wall above my head. Why Tha'mma? I said, why did you do that?

I gave it away, she screamed. I gave it to the fund for the war. I had to, don't you see? For your sake; for your freedom. We have to kill them before they kill us; we have to wipe them out.

Rao Bika Rathore established one of the most prominent kingdoms of Rajasthan, Bikaner in 1488. During his reign, Anup Singh (1669-1698) instituted a library in Bikaner that became a repository of manuscripts and paintings. As a result of long associations with the Mughals, Bikaner developed a distinctive language of miniature painting that was influenced by the Mughal elegance and a subdued colour palette. In Anup Singh's reign, Ruknuddin, whose ancestors came from the Mughal court, was the master artist, whose style was an amalgamation of the indigenous idiom with Deccani and Mughal conventions. He painted significant texts, such as the Ramayana, Rasikapriya and Durga Saptsati.

A prevailing practice in Bikaner was to set up studios called Mandi, where a group of artists worked under the supervision of a master artist. From inscriptions, it can be gathered that Ruknuddin, Ibrahim and Nathu managed some of these professional studios. On the completion of a painting, the court archivist entered the name of the master artist and the date behind the painting, which resulted in the name of the master artist being inscribed on the works of his students, who may not have necessarily painted in the same style. However, master artists would occasionally put finishing touches to the paintings, in a process called "gudarayi", literally meaning "to lift". Apart from its activities of making new miniatures, the studio was also entrusted with the practice of making "marammat" or repairing and also making "nakal" or copies of older works.

The custom of having portraits of artists is unique to the Bikaner school and most of them are inscribed with information regarding their ancestry. They are referred to as "ustas" or "ustads". Ruknuddin painted exquisite works in soft colour tones. Ibrahim's works have a misty, dreamlike quality, with dainty figures and heavily modeled faces. His studio appears to be the most prolific, as his name occurs on different sets of Baramasa, Ragamala and Rasikapriya.

Rao Bika Rathore established one of the most prominent kingdoms of Rajasthan, Bikaner in 1488. During his reign, Anup Singh (1669-1698) instituted a library in Bikaner that became a repository of manuscripts and paintings. As a result of long associations with the Mughals, Bikaner developed a distinctive language of miniature painting that was influenced by the Mughal elegance and a subdued colour palette. In Anup Singh's reign, Ruknuddin, whose ancestors came from the Mughal court, was the master artist, whose style was an amalgamation of the indigenous idiom with Deccani and Mughal conventions. He painted significant texts, such as the Ramayana, Rasikapriya and Durga Saptsati.

A prevailing practice in Bikaner was to set up studios called Mandi, where a group of artists worked under the supervision of a master artist. From inscriptions, it can be gathered that Ruknuddin, Ibrahim and Nathu managed some of these professional studios. On the completion of a painting, the court archivist entered the name of the master artist and the date behind the painting, which resulted in the name of the master artist being inscribed on the works of his students, who may not have necessarily painted in the same style. However, master artists would occasionally put finishing touches to the paintings, in a process called "gudarayi", literally meaning "to lift". Apart from its activities of making new miniatures, the studio was also entrusted with the practice of making "marammat" or repairing and also making "nakal" or copies of older works.

The custom of having portraits of artists is unique to the Bikaner school and most of them are inscribed with information regarding their ancestry. They are referred to as "ustas" or "ustads". Ruknuddin painted exquisite works in soft colour tones. Ibrahim's works have a misty, dreamlike quality, with dainty figures and heavily modeled faces. His studio appears to be the most prolific, as his name occurs on different sets of Baramasa, Ragamala and Rasikapriya.

Rao Bika Rathore established one of the most prominent kingdoms of Rajasthan, Bikaner in 1488. During his reign, Anup Singh (1669-1698) instituted a library in Bikaner that became a repository of manuscripts and paintings. As a result of long associations with the Mughals, Bikaner developed a distinctive language of miniature painting that was influenced by the Mughal elegance and a subdued colour palette. In Anup Singh's reign, Ruknuddin, whose ancestors came from the Mughal court, was the master artist, whose style was an amalgamation of the indigenous idiom with Deccani and Mughal conventions. He painted significant texts, such as the Ramayana, Rasikapriya and Durga Saptsati.

A prevailing practice in Bikaner was to set up studios called Mandi, where a group of artists worked under the supervision of a master artist. From inscriptions, it can be gathered that Ruknuddin, Ibrahim and Nathu managed some of these professional studios. On the completion of a painting, the court archivist entered the name of the master artist and the date behind the painting, which resulted in the name of the master artist being inscribed on the works of his students, who may not have necessarily painted in the same style. However, master artists would occasionally put finishing touches to the paintings, in a process called "gudarayi", literally meaning "to lift". Apart from its activities of making new miniatures, the studio was also entrusted with the practice of making "marammat" or repairing and also making "nakal" or copies of older works.

The custom of having portraits of artists is unique to the Bikaner school and most of them are inscribed with information regarding their ancestry. They are referred to as "ustas" or "ustads". Ruknuddin painted exquisite works in soft colour tones. Ibrahim's works have a misty, dreamlike quality, with dainty figures and heavily modeled faces. His studio appears to be the most prolific, as his name occurs on different sets of Baramasa, Ragamala and Rasikapriya.

Rao Bika Rathore established one of the most prominent kingdoms of Rajasthan, Bikaner in 1488. During his reign, Anup Singh (1669-1698) instituted a library in Bikaner that became a repository of manuscripts and paintings. As a result of long associations with the Mughals, Bikaner developed a distinctive language of miniature painting that was influenced by the Mughal elegance and a subdued colour palette. In Anup Singh's reign, Ruknuddin, whose ancestors came from the Mughal court, was the master artist, whose style was an amalgamation of the indigenous idiom with Deccani and Mughal conventions. He painted significant texts, such as the Ramayana, Rasikapriya and Durga Saptsati.

A prevailing practice in Bikaner was to set up studios called Mandi, where a group of artists worked under the supervision of a master artist. From inscriptions, it can be gathered that Ruknuddin, Ibrahim and Nathu managed some of these professional studios. On the completion of a painting, the court archivist entered the name of the master artist and the date behind the painting, which resulted in the name of the master artist being inscribed on the works of his students, who may not have necessarily painted in the same style. However, master artists would occasionally put finishing touches to the paintings, in a process called "gudarayi", literally meaning "to lift". Apart from its activities of making new miniatures, the studio was also entrusted with the practice of making "marammat" or repairing and also making "nakal" or copies of older works.

The custom of having portraits of artists is unique to the Bikaner school and most of them are inscribed with information regarding their ancestry. They are referred to as "ustas" or "ustads". Ruknuddin painted exquisite works in soft colour tones. Ibrahim's works have a misty, dreamlike quality, with dainty figures and heavily modeled faces. His studio appears to be the most prolific, as his name occurs on different sets of Baramasa, Ragamala and Rasikapriya.

Rao Bika Rathore established one of the most prominent kingdoms of Rajasthan, Bikaner in 1488. During his reign, Anup Singh (1669-1698) instituted a library in Bikaner that became a repository of manuscripts and paintings. As a result of long associations with the Mughals, Bikaner developed a distinctive language of miniature painting that was influenced by the Mughal elegance and a subdued colour palette. In Anup Singh's reign, Ruknuddin, whose ancestors came from the Mughal court, was the master artist, whose style was an amalgamation of the indigenous idiom with Deccani and Mughal conventions. He painted significant texts, such as the Ramayana, Rasikapriya and Durga Saptsati.

A prevailing practice in Bikaner was to set up studios called Mandi, where a group of artists worked under the supervision of a master artist. From inscriptions, it can be gathered that Ruknuddin, Ibrahim and Nathu managed some of these professional studios. On the completion of a painting, the court archivist entered the name of the master artist and the date behind the painting, which resulted in the name of the master artist being inscribed on the works of his students, who may not have necessarily painted in the same style. However, master artists would occasionally put finishing touches to the paintings, in a process called "gudarayi", literally meaning "to lift". Apart from its activities of making new miniatures, the studio was also entrusted with the practice of making "marammat" or repairing and also making "nakal" or copies of older works.

The custom of having portraits of artists is unique to the Bikaner school and most of them are inscribed with information regarding their ancestry. They are referred to as "ustas" or "ustads". Ruknuddin painted exquisite works in soft colour tones. Ibrahim's works have a misty, dreamlike quality, with dainty figures and heavily modeled faces. His studio appears to be the most prolific, as his name occurs on different sets of Baramasa, Ragamala and Rasikapriya.

Mr. Utterson, the lawyer was a man of rugged countenance, that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; and though he enjoyed the theater, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. It was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of down-going men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.

No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer's way. His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt, this was the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town.

Mr. Utterson, the lawyer was a man of rugged countenance, that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; and though he enjoyed the theater, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. It was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of down-going men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.

No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer's way. His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt, this was the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town.

Mr. Utterson, the lawyer was a man of rugged countenance, that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; and though he enjoyed the theater, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. It was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of down-going men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.

No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer's way. His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt, this was the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town.

Mr. Utterson, the lawyer was a man of rugged countenance, that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; and though he enjoyed the theater, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. It was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of down-going men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.

No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer's way. His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt, this was the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town.

Mr. Utterson, the lawyer was a man of rugged countenance, that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; and though he enjoyed the theater, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. It was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of down-going men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.

No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer's way. His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt, this was the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town.

Cricket is a passion for people around the globe. It is played everywhere from test match arenas to village greens, tropical beaches, and dusty backlots. Cricket is the world's second most popular spectator sport after soccer. The origin of cricket can be traced back to the Dark Ages. All research concedes that the game is derived from a very old, popular and uncomplicated pastime by which one player served up an object, be it a small piece of wood or a ball and another hit it with a suitably fashioned club. The game of cricket was recorded in 16th-century England and it was played in grammar schools, farming communities and everywhere in between. But things really took off when 18th-century nobles realised it was a great sport. The oldest surviving set of cricket laws dates to 1744, which was printed on a handkerchief. Naturally, it's now in the MCC Museum at Lord's in London. The first international match was held in 1877 when Australia beat England in Melbourne. The match was dubbed 'Test', since the grueling nature of playing over five days was deemed the ultimate test for any one side. However, it was Australia's first win on the English soil - in 1882 at The Oval in London - that led to matches between the two nations christened as the 'Ashes.' Following the defeat, newspapers published an obituary mourning "the death of English cricket", adding that "the body will be cremated and the ashes taken to Australia."

Cricket is a passion for people around the globe. It is played everywhere from test match arenas to village greens, tropical beaches, and dusty backlots. Cricket is the world's second most popular spectator sport after soccer. The origin of cricket can be traced back to the Dark Ages. All research concedes that the game is derived from a very old, popular and uncomplicated pastime by which one player served up an object, be it a small piece of wood or a ball and another hit it with a suitably fashioned club. The game of cricket was recorded in 16th-century England and it was played in grammar schools, farming communities and everywhere in between. But things really took off when 18th-century nobles realised it was a great sport. The oldest surviving set of cricket laws dates to 1744, which was printed on a handkerchief. Naturally, it's now in the MCC Museum at Lord's in London. The first international match was held in 1877 when Australia beat England in Melbourne. The match was dubbed 'Test', since the grueling nature of playing over five days was deemed the ultimate test for any one side. However, it was Australia's first win on the English soil - in 1882 at The Oval in London - that led to matches between the two nations christened as the 'Ashes.' Following the defeat, newspapers published an obituary mourning "the death of English cricket", adding that "the body will be cremated and the ashes taken to Australia."

Cricket is a passion for people around the globe. It is played everywhere from test match arenas to village greens, tropical beaches, and dusty backlots. Cricket is the world's second most popular spectator sport after soccer. The origin of cricket can be traced back to the Dark Ages. All research concedes that the game is derived from a very old, popular and uncomplicated pastime by which one player served up an object, be it a small piece of wood or a ball and another hit it with a suitably fashioned club. The game of cricket was recorded in 16th-century England and it was played in grammar schools, farming communities and everywhere in between. But things really took off when 18th-century nobles realised it was a great sport. The oldest surviving set of cricket laws dates to 1744, which was printed on a handkerchief. Naturally, it's now in the MCC Museum at Lord's in London. The first international match was held in 1877 when Australia beat England in Melbourne. The match was dubbed 'Test', since the grueling nature of playing over five days was deemed the ultimate test for any one side. However, it was Australia's first win on the English soil - in 1882 at The Oval in London - that led to matches between the two nations christened as the 'Ashes.' Following the defeat, newspapers published an obituary mourning "the death of English cricket", adding that "the body will be cremated and the ashes taken to Australia."