Thread & Thoughts

🌿  Ecological Wisdom from Hinduism: Ancient Teachings for a Planet in Peril  🌏 In an age where climate change, deforestation, and pollution threaten the very survival of our planet, it's humbling to look back and realize that answers may lie deep within our spiritual roots. Hinduism, one of the world’s oldest and most profound traditions, carries within its scriptures a blueprint for environmental harmony and sustainability. Unlike the modern mindset that views nature as a resource to exploit, Hindu philosophy sees nature as sacred, alive, and interconnected with the divine. Earth is not just soil—it is Bhumi Devi , a goddess, a mother who nourishes all life. 📜 The Puranas: Sacred Stories, Sacred Nature In the Bhagavata Purana , the Earth goddess laments the burden of human greed and exploitation. Rivers like the Ganga, Yamuna, and Saraswati are not just water bodies; they are divine mothers , purifiers, and life-givers. Trees are honored as divine beings, and planting ...

There’s something oddly comforting about that first sip of freshly brewed tea. The warmth, the aroma, the subtle balance of bitterness and sweetness—it hits different. But have you ever thought how life is a lot like that cup of tea? We crave stability. The perfect brew. But here's the catch: no matter how good the tea is, if you let it sit too long, it loses its essence. It cools down. It goes stale. The flavor fades. Life works the same way. We often want things to be “just right.” A settled routine, a well-ordered day, an ideal job, a perfect relationship. And sure—when everything is set just right, it feels amazing. But if we try to freeze that moment, refuse to stir things up, we miss out on the very essence of life: change, flavor, growth. A life that never stirs is like tea that’s been left too long—it becomes bland. So what do we do? Every morning, we need to brew a fresh cup. New hopes, new energy, new intentions. Maybe today it's sweet with joy, maybe s...

The Civilisational Role of Storytelling: Why Bharat Remembers Civilizations do not perish because their cities fall or their rulers die. They perish when they forget who they are. In the world of Game of Thrones , the Three-Eyed Raven symbolizes this axiom. He sees all that has happened, all that is happening, and all that will. He does not wage wars or pass judgments—he remembers. His memory is civilization itself. That is why the Night King targets him first. Because when memory dies, identity dies. The boundary between the living and the dead collapses. This allegory, though fictional, captures a very real truth—particularly relevant to Bharat, whose civilizational identity has survived precisely because it remembers. Memory as Resistance In the face of relentless invasions—first Arab, then Turkic, then Mughal—Bharat’s civilizational memory became its strongest armor. From the first Arab raids on Sindh in the 8th century by Muhammad bin Qasim, to the brutal campaigns of Ghazni...

"Game of Thrones: A Song of Power, Chaos, and the Human Condition" In the sprawling, blood-soaked world of Game of Thrones , dragons fly and dead men rise—but the most haunting battles are not fought with steel. They are waged in hearts, minds, and the fragile hopes of people caught in the machinery of power. Beneath its fantasy veneer, Game of Thrones is not merely a tale of kings, queens, and conquerors. It is an unflinching philosophical inquiry into the human condition, a meditation on power, identity, morality, and fate. I. The Illusion of Power: Who Really Rules? “Power resides where men believe it resides.” — Lord Varys This quote is more than political savvy—it is the thesis of the entire show. Westeros is a case study in perceived authority. Kings are crowned, murdered, replaced, forgotten. The Iron Throne becomes less a seat of command and more a symbol of mankind’s obsession with control. Yet, ironically, nobody truly controls the game. Tywin Lannister cont...

  There was a time — quaint and sepia-toned in memory — when the Cannes Film Festival was a celebration of cinema. A place where auteurs clinked glasses over existential scripts and journalists debated long takes and auteur theory. But in 2025, Cannes has fully evolved (or devolved?) into what it seems to want to be most: a luxury fashion pageant with occasional films politely shuffled in between sponsored afterparties. Lights, Camera... Couture? This year, the red carpet wasn’t walked — it was conquered. Not by filmmakers or actors with anything resembling a film to promote, but by a new species of Cannes attendee: the Fashion Influencer. Their natural habitat? Instagram. Their filmography? Entirely conceptual. Among them was Nancy Tyagi , a self-made Indian fashion influencer who gained headlines for stitching her own red carpet gown — a lovely Cinderella moment, if this were a sewing competition. But it’s a film festival. Or used to be. Still, Tyagi’s painstakingly handmade d...

कभी जो तू था मेरा हमसफ़र, अब तुझे देखूँ तो अजनबी लगे, तेरी अदा में वो तगाफ़ुल है, कि हर बात अब गुनहगार सी लगे। तेरे लबों पे नाम मेरा ना सही, ये भी कोई रंज़िश की बात नहीं, मगर जो आँखों से कह गए तुम, वो बेवफ़ाई की साज़िश सी लगे। अदावतें भी निभाईं तुमने, कुछ इस तरह सलीके से, कि लगने लगा हर शिकवा भी, कोई हुमनवाई की बात लगे। हम चल पड़े थे साथ मगर, रास्तों का मिज़ाज बदल गया, तू मोड़ पर रुक गया, और हमें तेरा इंतज़ार ही सफ़र लगे। English Translation You were once my companion on this road, Now when I see you, you feel like a stranger. There’s such indifference in your charm, Every word now feels like it's guilty of something. You don’t utter my name anymore— But that isn’t something to grieve about. Yet what your eyes confessed in silence, Felt like a conspiracy of betrayal. You carried your grudges with such grace, That even your complaints felt like a form of affection. We had once set out together, hand in hand— But the road changed its temperament. You paused at a turn, And your waitin...

When Ideology Becomes a Gag Order There is a brutal irony unfolding before our eyes. We are not just watching survivors—we are watching scripted characters trapped in a self-authored tragedy. Educated, articulate, and self-aware women openly confess: “I was molested. But I didn’t report him—because he was Muslim.” Or “I couldn’t speak up—he was a non-Brahmin.” Or “If I did, I’d be called a Sanghi, or an Islamophobe, or worse—a Brahmin stooge.” Let that sink in. This isn’t confusion. This is calculated paralysis. It’s not just cowardice. It’s narrative addiction. A craving to remain the "right kind" of victim. One who suffers, but never offends the group consensus. One who bleeds, but only if it fits the screenplay.This is not trauma. This is performance. When the abuser happens to be from a "marginalized" group—Muslim, non-Brahmin, progressive(?)—they gag themselves. They admit it openly: "I didn’t report him. I didn’t want to be seen as bigoted. I didn’t wan...