Long before modern sports entered the region, Dhop Khel thrived under the patronage of the Ahom Kingdom. Kings and nobles watched it as a spectacle, while villages embraced it as a celebration of strength and coordination. But the true reason for these games has always been the festival of Rongali Bihu. This is Assam’s New Year, and the festivities of Dhop Khel offer a grand welcome to spring.

During Bihu, everything in Assam comes alive. The music fills the air, traditional attire shines in colour, and open fields transform into arenas of joy. Thus, Dhop Khel becomes the heartbeat of this celebration, where competition coincides with festivity.

At first glance, the game looks simple: two teams, a ball, and an open field. But step closer, and you’ll see the precision behind it. The field is carefully marked, divided into zones, with circles called gher and boundary indicators guiding movement. Each team has 11 players, and every position carries a purpose, especially the katoni, who stands deep in the opponent’s territory, constantly under threat. The ball is called the dhop. It is small, but it controls the entire game.

The match begins with a throw: a high arc into the opponent’s side. What follows is a blur of motion. A catch can shift momentum instantly, and a simple miss can cost the game. Players aim carefully, targeting below the waist to eliminate opponents. One precise hit, and a player’s role changes – they become bondha, crossing into enemy territory, disrupting rhythm, creating chaos.

But this is where it becomes thrilling: a bondha is not out of the game. If they manage to catch the ball and return safely, they are reborn into play. Dhop Khel is not just about strength. It is about timing, awareness, and survival within movement.

Dhop Khel cannot be separated from the rhythm of Bihu. Around the field, you’ll hear the beat of the dhol, the sharp call of the pepa, and the laughter of spectators.

It exists alongside traditions:

• Husori performances move from home to home.
• Plates filled with pitha and laru.
• New clothes mark new beginnings.

The game reflects everything Bihu stands for: renewal, strength, and togetherness. It is not just about winning. It is about participating in a shared cultural moment.

Like many traditional games, Dhop Khel began fading as modern sports took over fields and attention. But it has not disappeared. Across Assam, cultural groups, schools, and local festivals are bringing it back, organising matches during Bihu melas, teaching younger generations, and reclaiming it as a symbol of identity. Because some traditions return through movement.

In March 2026, the Vanity Fair Oscars After-Party became an unexpected stage for Indian fashion. Bella Hadid walked in wearing a custom Prada ensemble, an ivory silk satin two-piece with a halter-neck blouse, a fitted skirt, and a trailing scarf. The global media described it as everything from a “modern 90s look” to a “bridal two-piece”.

But what many noticed, especially in India, was something far more familiar: a lehenga choli silhouette. And that scarf? A dupatta.

The resemblance was not subtle. The structure, the drape, and the styling all echoed a form deeply embedded in Indian fashion, popularised through generations and amplified by cinema. Yet, the narrative never once acknowledged that lineage. The 2026 Oscars circuit carried visible imprints of Indian silhouettes. But in mainstream coverage, Indian fashion remained unnamed.

A year earlier, in June 2025, Prada presented a pair of flat leather sandals at Milan Fashion Week. They were minimal, open-toed, and braided. They were also unmistakably the Kolhapuri chappals.

For centuries, Kolhapuri chappals have been handcrafted in Maharashtra and Karnataka, worn daily, shaped by local artisans, and recognised with a Geographical Indication tag. But on the runway, they were introduced simply as leather sandals. And to add to that, no mention of India or the local artisans who handcraft it every single day, for generations.

The backlash was immediate and genuinely invitational. Artisans, designers, and the public called out what they saw as a direct replication without credit. Months later, Prada acknowledged the inspiration and moved towards collaboration.

But the question remained: why does recognition come only after resistance?

In March 2026, at Paris Fashion Week, Ralph Lauren showcased large bell-shaped earrings as part of its Fall collection and described them as vintage accessories.

But in India, they have always had a name: jhumkas.

With a history spanning over two thousand years, jhumkas are not just ornaments. They are part of rituals, celebrations, and everyday identity. Their design is instantly recognisable across the subcontinent. And yet, on one of the world’s biggest fashion platforms, that identity was replaced with a generic label: vintage.

The modern runway is only the latest chapter. But the story of Indian fashion being adapted, renamed, and absorbed into Western narratives goes back centuries.

And one example is the cummerbund: a staple of Western formal wear, its origin lies in the Indian kamarbandh, a cloth tied around the waist during the Mughal period. It was practical, elegant, and widely used. British officers adopted it for comfort in the heat, and over time, it became a symbol of Western formal dressing. But its Indian origin quietly faded.

And another, the flowing robes: garments like the jama, angarakha, and choga defined royal dressing in India. Loose, layered, and climate-responsive, they influenced global silhouettes that are now seen as robes or kaftans. While these forms travelled through cultural exchange, their Indian context is rarely acknowledged.

And then another, paisley: what the world recognises as a Scottish print began as the buta motif in Kashmir. Over time, it was reproduced in Europe and renamed, losing its original identity in the process.

There is a pattern in how Indian fashion is absorbed into global spaces.

Lehenga becomes a “two-piece set”.
Dupatta becomes a “scarf”.
Kolhapuri becomes “leather sandals”.
Jhumka becomes “vintage jewellery”.
What is removed is not just the name. It is the context.

Because once a cultural element is stripped of its identity, it becomes easier to reposition it as something new, something marketable without history. What has changed, however, is the response. With social media, designers and policymakers in India are increasingly calling out these omissions. The conversations are shifting from just fashion to ownership, credit, and cultural memory. In some cases, this pushback has led to acknowledgement and collaboration. In others, it has simply exposed the gap between inspiration and attribution.

Indian fashion has never been confined to trends. It has always been an extension of identity, geography, and history. And, the world is clearly inspired by it. But inspiration without acknowledgement raises a simple question. Is it appreciation, or is it appropriation?

The name feels almost paradoxical. How can a day marked by suffering be called “good”?

Within Christian belief, the crucifixion is not seen as defeat, but as the ultimate act of love and redemption. Jesus’ sacrifice is believed to atone for humanity’s sins, offering forgiveness and the promise of eternal life. It is “good” not for the pain it holds, but for the meaning it carries.

Across the world, Good Friday is observed with solemnity.

Churches fall quiet, altars are stripped bare, and bells do not ring. Scripture readings recount the Passion of the final hours of Christ, his trial, suffering, and crucifixion. Devotees pray, fast, and often abstain from meat. In many traditions, the Eucharist is not celebrated, marking the absence felt on this day.

The cross becomes central. Believers approach it with reverence – bowing, kneeling, or touching it in silent prayer.

In India, where Christianity has deep roots, Good Friday is a national public holiday. From Kerala to Goa, Tamil Nadu to the Northeast, the day unfolds with quiet devotion.

Churches hold extended services, and communities gather in prayer. In many regions, processions and open-air enactments recreate Christ’s journey to the cross, turning streets into spaces of reflection.

In Goa, elaborate processions reflect Portuguese heritage. In the Northeast, large gatherings mark the day with prayer. In southern states, the focus remains inward, on fasting, penance, and stillness.

Nowhere is Good Friday felt more deeply than in Kerala, where it is known as Dukha Velli, the Sorrowful Friday. Here, faith is not just remembered; it is experienced.

The day begins early with long church services. The Passion is read with intensity, and instead of bells, a wooden clapper, the maramani, fills the air.

One of the most powerful traditions is the Way of the Cross. Devotees walk in solemn processions, often barefoot and carrying wooden crosses, stopping at fourteen stations that mark Christ’s journey to Calvary.

A deeply symbolic ritual follows, a bitter drink made of gourd juice and vinegar, recalling the sour wine offered to Christ. The taste is sharp, almost jarring. But that is the point, to feel, even briefly, the weight of suffering.

As the day ends, the fast is broken with humility. Communities share Nercha Kanji, a simple rice gruel served with green gram and pickle. Prepared collectively, it reflects restraint, equality, and togetherness.

There is no excess. Only sharing.

Good Friday ends in quiet. No celebration follows. The world waits, between grief and hope, between sacrifice and resurrection.

In that silence lies its power. It reminds us that meaning often emerges not in triumph, but in endurance, and that the greatest acts of love are those that give everything, asking nothing in return.

Let that sink in for a second.

The latest DNA study of the Shroud of Turin has revealed that nearly 40% of the human genetic material found on the famous linen traces back to Indian lineages, raising the startling possibility that the cloth may have originated in the ancient Indus Valley.

The researchers – led by Professor Gianni Barcaccia – did not work with fresh samples. In 1978, a major international research effort called the STURP project ran exhaustive tests on the cloth. As part of that work, scientists vacuumed microscopic dust particles directly from the surface of the linen. That material was preserved. Barcaccia’s team put those same 1978 samples through Next Generation Sequencing — a modern genetic technique capable of identifying DNA from extraordinarily small and degraded fragments.

What they found was messy, complex, and deeply fascinating.

Beyond human DNA, the study uncovered genetic traces from a wide variety of sources — domestic animals such as cats and dogs, farm animals, and wild species like deer and rabbits and fish species. This cloth has been around a long time, and it shows.

But the human DNA – that is where India walks in.

There are two main theories behind this, and both are genuinely interesting.

First theory: The linen itself may have been manufactured in India. The Romans were known to import fine textiles from the Indus Valley, and some scholars have long noted that the original Latin name for the shroud, Sindon, may derive from Sindia or Sindien — referring to fabric from the Sindh region of India.

Think about that for a moment. The very word used in the Gospels to describe the burial cloth of Jesus – sindon – may literally mean “cloth from Sindh.”

Ancient India maintained robust maritime and overland trade with the Roman Empire, Mesopotamia, Egypt, and the Hellenistic world. Roman texts mention the high demand for Indian textiles, spices, and goods, with ports like Bharuch and Lothal facilitating these exchanges.

Second theory is slightly less dramatic but equally plausible: the cloth may have simply passed through the hands of people of Indian origin over many centuries – pilgrims, merchants, traders – each leaving behind a microscopic genetic trace.

The presence of Indian DNA can also be explained by the presence of fine Indian linen at the Temple of Jerusalem, used for the garments of the High Priest during the afternoon rituals of Yom Kippur.

Either way, India is in the story. Quite literally woven into it.

Fair question. In 1988, three independent laboratories carbon-dated a sample from the cloth and concluded it was made sometime between 1260 and 1390 AD – which coincides with the first certain appearance of the shroud in the 1350s, much later than the burial of Jesus.

Case closed, right?

Not quite. Here’s the thing – the scientists who ran the test all used samples cut from the same single corner of the cloth. Just one corner. And that corner happened to be the most handled, most repaired, most contaminated part of the entire shroud. Later researchers went back and looked at the raw data more carefully, and found that the three labs were actually getting slightly different results from each other – which is not supposed to happen if the test is clean and reliable.

In other words, something was off. The sample may not have been representative of the cloth as a whole. And a compromised sample gives you a compromised date.

The 1988 result has never been fully overturned – but it has never been fully settled either. Scientists are still arguing about it. Which, for a cloth this old and this important, feels oddly fitting.

Here is the honest answer: nobody knows for certain. The study invites renewed reflection on the Shroud of Turin not only as a religious artefact but as a historical textile that has traversed continents, carried human and ecological imprints, and connected cultures over the centuries.

What we do know is this – one of the most debated objects in human history has Indian fingerprints on it. Quite literally. And that is not a small thing.

The Indus Valley was producing some of the world’s finest woven fabrics thousands of years before Rome existed as an empire. Indian linen was moving westward through Persian Gulf ports and Arabian Sea shipping lanes long before anyone had thought to call those routes the Silk Road.

The idea that a thread from ancient India may have ended up as the burial cloth of the most written-about figure in Western history – that is not just a science story. That is history reminding us that civilisations have always been more connected than we imagine.

Whether the Shroud is authentic or not, that part of the story deserves to be told.

What makes the birth of Lord Ram very special to the people of Ayodhya is that he descended from the heavens at the moment when the entire kingdom bore silent sorrow. Once resplendent, Ayodhya had no heir to carry forward the legacy of its king, Dashratha. While he had three queens, namely Kaushalya, Kaikeyi, and Sumitra, there were no children whose laughter could echo around the palace.

It was not until the consultation of Guru Vashishtha that Dasharatha performed the sacred Putrakameshti Yagya that the magic happened. Just when the king offered the final offerings, and they dissolved into the sacred fire, the kingdom received a boon. Agni Dev emerged from the fire. With him, he brought a bowl of divine payasam that changed the destiny of the kingdom and the entire Bharatvarsha.

The payasam was distributed to the queens. The largest portion was acquired by Kaushalya and the next by Kaike,yi while two portions were offered to Sumitra. And it was just a matter of time before all three queens gave birth to four sons.

At noon, under the auspicious Punarvasu nakshatra, Lord Rama was born to Queen Kaushalya. He was not just any infant. When he was born, he revealed himself in his divine form of Lord Vishnu. It was the motherly prayers and maternal love of Kaushalya that convinced him to assume a human form, which she could embrace and parent. And it was then that the infinite became intimate.

What makes Lord Ram truly celebrated and divine is not just the story of his birth. It is how he chose to let his morals define him and not the antiquated way of society. For him, justice was not reserved for the powerful and those who could easily get access. It belonged to each and every one who was present in his kingdom and even beyond.

One day, when Lord Ram concluded his Royal court, he asked around if an audience still awaited discussion on some matter. It was then that a stray dog stepped forward. The concern of the dog was simple. It brought forward a complaint against a man who had struck it with a stone.

This was an unusual case and had never been such a complaint by any non-human that had been entertained by a king.

It spoke of injustice; a man had struck it with a stone. Rama summoned the accused and, with characteristic fairness, asked the dog what punishment it desired.

What followed was unexpected.

“Make him the head of a village,” the dog replied.

The court fell silent. Why reward wrongdoing?

The dog, wiser than it seemed, explained: a leader endures constant grievances, burdens, and criticism. The suffering of leadership, it is believed, would surpass the pain of a single blow.

Rama, recognising the depth of this reasoning, granted the request.

In that moment, justice transcended punishment. It became insight, empathy, and balance.

Not all battles are fought with weapons; some are fought with restraint.

When Rama’s army reached the vast ocean on their way to Lanka, the path ahead seemed impossible. Yet, Rama did not resort to force. Instead, he prayed to the Sea God calmly, patiently, and with unwavering faith for three days and nights.

The ocean remained silent.

Only then did Rama prepare to act. His arrows, capable of drying the seas, stood ready. It was not anger, but necessity.

At last, the Sea God appeared, humbled and fearful, offering a solution: a bridge could be built across the waters. With the help of the vaanara sena, led by Nala and Neela, the legendary Ram Setu took form.

This episode reveals a profound truth that power, when guided by patience, becomes purposeful. Rama did not reject strength; he simply chose when to use it.

In the kingdom of Mithila, a challenge awaited, one that no king or warrior had conquered.

The swayamvara of Sita was no ordinary ceremony. To win her hand, one had to lift and string the mighty bow of Lord Shiva, Pinaka. Many tried; none succeeded. The bow remained unmoved, as if waiting. Then came Rama.

With effortless grace, he lifted the bow. As he attempted to string it, it broke with a thunderous sound that echoed across realms. In that moment, destiny revealed itself.

It was not a display of arrogance, but of quiet strength, power restrained within humility. The breaking of the bow was not just a feat; it was a declaration that divinity often arrives without spectacle, yet leaves an undeniable mark.

Ram Navami is not confined to rituals alone. It lives through recitations of the Ramayana, through fasting, through grand processions, and through the enactment of Ram Lila, where stories are not merely told, but relived.

In some temples, Rama and Sita’s wedding is symbolically celebrated. In others, particularly in places like Bengaluru, classical music becomes an offering of devotion expressed through melody.
Each tradition, though varied, converges on a singular truth: the triumph of righteousness, the strength of patience, and the enduring power of compassion.

What makes these stories endure is not just their divinity, but their humanity.

Rama listens, even to a voiceless creature. He waits, even when he has the power to command. He acts, not out of impulse, but out of principle. In a world that often rushes, reacts, and forgets, Rama’s life offers a different path, one of balance, dignity, and unwavering adherence to dharma. And perhaps that is why, year after year, Ram Navami is not merely celebrated, it is felt.

The Gangaur Festival is not just simply a celebration, but an emotion that weaves women of different generations. It has passed on like a sacred tradition through generations, and families celebrate it with devotion, patience, and optimism.

Just as the colours of Holi simply fade into the background as annual memories, the land of Uttar Pradesh and Rajasthan begins to feel a different rhythm. But this rhythm is gentler and profoundly enduring. From the courtyard of Jaipur and Udaipur to the heartland of Braj and Bundelkhand, this festival honours divinity, companionship, fertility, and strength of faith.

The word Gangaur is derived from “Gana”, which simply means Lord Shiva, and “Gaur”, which signifies Goddess Gauri. This festival is a tribute to the union of Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati and is led by women, for women, in order to honour women.

The festival begins on the day after the Holika Dahan. This is the beginning of a sixteen to eighteen-day spiritual journey that the women go through. Every morning, women gather with clay or wooden idols of Gauri and Isar. They begin to carefully craft or repaint them, and adore them in hues of vermilion and gold. The idol of Gauri is decorated as the resplendent bride, while the idol of Isar is the eternal consort.

One thing about the Gangaur Festival is that the rituals and the festivities are never fast-paced. The proceedings are conducted in a manner that everything seems carefully intended,d and there is an ample amount of space for spirituality.

Throughout the festival, unmarried girls observe a fast and rely on one meal every single day. Meanwhile, married women fast discreetly, while praying for the longevity and happiness of their husbands.

During the ritual, wheat or barley seeds are sown in the earthen pots. The time passes, and they grow gradually. This symbolises life renewal at harvest. Additionally, women apply Mehndi or henna on their palms and feet. For many people, this might be just ornamentation, but for the women who celebrate the festivities of Gangaur, it is a sacred language of patterns: the sun, the moon, and blooming flowers. For them, each motif carries whispers of prosperity and love, signifying the beauty of this festival.

As the days pass, the Gangaur festival turns vibrant. Groups of women and young girls precede the celebrations by singing traditional folk songs. These are not just any songs, but melodies that have transcended through generations and centuries, each carrying a special meaning with it.

But there is one tradition throughout the festivities that outshines. It is the ritual of ghudlia. Unmarried girls carry beautifully crafted earthen pots, pierced with intricate patterns, with a lamp glowing within, while balancing them upon their heads. The girls move from house to house, singing the traditional melodies and collecting small offerings from them.

The glow of the lamp through the perforations casts delicate patterns on the ground, like fleeting constellations. On the final day, the pots are ceremonially broken, and then follows a feast to mark the celebration.

Every ritual of the Gangaur festival is anchored in a tale that recites humility, devotion, and divinity. Legends believe that once, Lord Shiva, Goddess Parvati, and Sage Narada journeyed across the earth. In a humble village, poor women welcomed them with simple offerings like water, fruits, and flowers. Moved by their sincerity, Goddess Parvati blessed them with nectar, ensuring enduring marital bliss.

Later, when wealthier women arrived with lavish dishes, it was then that Goddess Parvati found herself with no nectar left. In an act of profound compassion, she pricked her finger. It was her blood that transformed into nectar in order to bless them as well.

In that moment, devotion transcended material wealth. It became clear that sincerity of heart, not abundance of offering, invites divine grace. Thereafter, Parvati worshipped Shiva with a sand lingam by the river, and Shiva, pleased by her devotion, granted that any woman who observed this ritual on the sacred day of Tritiya would be blessed with conjugal harmony.

As the festival approaches its culmination on Chaitra Shukla Tritiya (21 March 2026), the air transforms. Idols are dressed anew, adorned with jewellery and vibrant garments. Women gather for the final procession, carrying Gauri and Isar towards gardens, wells, or riverbanks.

Songs take on a poignant tone, of departure, of a daughter returning to her marital home. It is a moment layered with symbolism: of love, of separation, and of the cyclical nature of life itself.

In Rajasthan, particularly in Jaipur and Udaipur, these processions are grand spectacles, with elephants, palanquins, and folk performers. In Uttar Pradesh, especially in the Braj and Bundelkhand regions, the celebrations are more intimate, rooted within homes and local communities, yet equally profound in their devotion.

The idols are finally immersed in water, marking both an end and a beginning.

Gangaur is, in essence, a celebration of continuity of traditions carried forward, of relationships nurtured with care, and of faith that does not waver.

It is a festival where devotion is not declared loudly but practised quietly, where fasting is not an obligation, but a personal offering. Where women, often unseen in grand narratives, become the central force of cultural preservation.

Even today, as modernity reshapes the contours of life, Gangaur remains steadfast, bridging the past and present with remarkable grace.

And perhaps that is its greatest beauty: in a world that moves swiftly, Gangaur invites us to pause, to reflect, and to honour the enduring power of devotion, love, and the sacred feminine.

Unlike Sharad Navratri, Chaitra Navratri arrives very subtly and is more rooted in spirituality than simply celebrations. It is usually celebrated during the spring in India. Between the months of March and April, the Hindu calendar resets and the Hindu New Year, also known as Vikram Samvat, begins. It is then that this festival takes the shape of variants like Gudi Padwa, Ugadi, and Navreh.

But while the calendar resets and so does the season, there is something that spiritually resets within Hindus.

One of the most common stories associated with Navratri is of Durga slaying Mahishasura. But what often goes unnoticed is that each of the nine days is not about that. They are about spiritual awakening and harmony.

All nine forms of Durga worshipped during Chaitra Navratri trace a complete journey together, starting from innocence and inching towards power. From creation to destruction and transcendence, the festivities of Navadurga puja are not just mythology, but a mirror.

The journey of Chaitra Navratri begins with Maa Shailaputri, the daughter of the mountains.

It is believed that after the rebirth of Sati, she reimagined herself into a form that represents grounding. This was the kind of strength that did not need to prove itself, and a quiet power that was even respected and acknowledged by the Gods themselves.

The next day of Chaitra Navratri marks the celebration of Maa Brahmacharini. She is imagined walking barefoot, choosing penance over comfort and associated with years of tapas with no shortcuts and no distractions. She is a constant reminder that becoming powerful is not loud but consistent.

By the third day, the festivities pursue the transformation of Maa Durga into Maa Chandraghanta.

She is calm, composed, yet ready for battle. Legends state that when Shiva arrived in his fierce form at their wedding, it was she who balanced the chaos with her grace and strength together.

After the third day, something shifts, and the next series of worship begins.

The fourth day starts with Maa Kushmanda, who signifies creation. It is believed that in complete darkness, she simply smiles, and the entire universe is born from the radiance of her smile. She quietly reminds us that even the smallest spark can create something vast and powerful.

On the fifth day, Maa Skandamata is worshipped. She is always imagined holding her son Kartikeya and is considered power in its gentlest form. She is nurturing, protective, and quietly powerful.

The sixth day is marked by Maa Katyayani, who is also the warrior. She is born from the divine energy, and she is the one who slays Mahishasura. The main significance behind this story is that this form of Goddess Durga fights the evil, and not the others, exposing the layers in the character traits of the goddess. It signifies how humans can have different variants of their personalities and how each personality balances the other.

Just when it feels complete, Navratri takes you deeper and into darkness.

The festivities of the seventh Day are marked by the arrival of Maa Kalaratri. She is for Maa Durga, who is fierce, untamed, and terrifying. She is known to have engaged in a battle against Raktabija, reflecting that the chaos multiplies if it is not faced. The battle aims to convey that confrontation is important even when you feel like avoiding it because light can only return once the darkness is over.

And the eighth day of festivities signifies the appearance of light, just like Maa Mahagauri, who is the embodiment of calm, radiant, and peaceful energies.

The festivities of the last day are marked by the worship of Maa Siddhidatri. She is the one who completes the journey of Nav Durga and Chaitra Navratri. She is known to bless the devotees, and with her duality dissolves into balance.

By the end of Chaitra Navratri, something shifts. The Hindu calendar resets, and the New Year begins. The weather starts changing, welcoming the spring and spiritually, the energies shift. And this is the beauty of the festival that it does not simply demand to be celebrated, but also awakens our spirits.

Carved into the walls of royal tombs of Egypt, including that of Ramesses VI, are nearly 30 inscriptions written in Tamil-Brahmi script that trace their origin back to almost 2,000 years. And, among them, one line appeared repeatedly.

“Cikai Korran came and saw.”

At first glance, this feels simple, nothing unusual and just a plain piece of information. But is it? What can be expected is a deeply complex story that quietly associated itself with the travels and human curiosity in the ancient world.

The presence of Tamil inscriptions in Egypt is reflective of nothing but the evidence of their presence. Back in ancient times, merchants from the Tamil regions sailed from ports such as Muziris to reach Egypt. They carried pepper, pearls, ivory, and fine textiles across the Arabian Sea to the Middle East. This is not new information. It has been known to mankind for far too long that the Tamil regions traded with the Egyptian land, but what is unknown is what happened after.

What is usually imagined is that these merchants simply arrived, traded, and returned. But the truth stands distorted because they travelled further ahead. From the Red Sea ports, they commuted more than 200 miles inland to reach the Theban necropolis. This is one of the most sacred spaces in ancient Egypt, and it was recognised for its faith and undying importance to the ancient civilisation of Egypt.

Thus, it is established that what happened between the Tamil lands of India and the inland of Egypt was no longer trade but passionate travel and exchange of cultures.

One thing that strikes about the Tamil inscriptions on the walls of ancient Egyptian walls is the repeated mention of Cikai Korran. This is a reflection of the importance that Cikai Korran held in society back in the time. It suggests Cikai was not an isolated visitor but a person of importance, a wealthy merchant.

The inscriptions suggest the description, “came and saw.” This is simply not a mention of a fact or information meant to be inscribed purposelessly for the future generation to read. This simply echoes a sentiment that, unlike Veni, Vidi, Vici, this was not about conquest. It was about travel experience and a curious exchange of cultures.

In the scriptures of ancient Egyptian civilisation, the Tamil inscriptions appear alongside Greek and other scripts. This reflects that the tombs in Egypt were not merely a local interest. They were well acknowledged across the globe and were visited by people from different regions. This coexistence of languages reveals an interaction and curiosity rooted in cultural acknowledgement and respect.

While we often imagine the global relations in the ancient world as simply economic or consquestial, the truth is that curiosity governed expeditions too, and in fact, added meaningful purposes to trades. Thus, every merchant was not just a trader but in fact a curious traveller who aimed to fulfil their aspirations to explore with international traditions, architecture, cultures, and rituals.

Nearly two thousand years later, the methods and purpose of travel have shifted and transformed. There are not just long voyages to trade and maybe, explore the world as an added benefit, but the intention to make curiosity the purpose of travel.

While we continue to cross distances, seek experiences, and document moments, the only difference lies in how we leave our mark. Where Cikai Korran carved his presence into stone, we capture ours through photographs and screens.

But these Tamil inscriptions tell a different story that trade was never just transactional, but it opened doors to travel in a way that Indian merchants could stand inside Egyptian tombs, not just as traders, but curious about a distinct culture.

For generations, Raulane Festival Himachal Pradesh has lived quietly in regions such as Kalpa, Kothi, Sangla, and Ropa. Villagers participated with devotion, and elders have passed down the rituals through memory, while the mountains witnessed a ceremony that is believed to be thousands of years old.

However, something changed recently.

Photos and short videos of the masked figures that are associated with the festival went viral on social media. Suddenly, people across the internet began sharing the images with fascination and amusement. For many viewers, the unusual costumes and masked dances looked mysterious, even entertaining.

But inside Kinnaur, the reaction has been very different. Many locals feel uneasy. The ritual that has belonged to their spiritual world now risks becoming a spectacle for outsiders. And this raises a difficult question. Sometimes, is it better for a tradition to remain unknown than to become viral?

The Raulane Festival marks the end of winter in the high Himalayan valleys. It usually begins just after Holi, when the snow slowly melts from the alpine meadows. In 2026, the celebrations in Kalpa started around 7 March and continued for about five days.

According to local belief, the valleys are protected during winter by celestial spirits known as Saunis. Villagers describe them as gentle beings woven from frost and moonlight. These spirits descend from the high mountains to guard livestock, crops, and people during the harsh winter months.

When spring arrives, the community gathers to thank these protectors and send them back to the mountains. Therefore, the festival is not simply a celebration. It is a farewell ritual, expressing gratitude before the agricultural season begins.

Unlike many well-documented religious traditions, the Raulane Festival has no written origin story. There are no scriptures, historical documents, or formal records explaining when it began. Instead, the tradition survives entirely through oral memory.

Villagers simply say that the ritual has always existed. It is something that elders teach younger generations through participation rather than explanation. Historians often describe it as a rare example of pre-Vedic Himalayan folklore, rooted in indigenous nature worship rather than organised religion.

One of the most striking elements of the festival is the appearance of its central figures. Elders secretly select participants from each neighbourhood cluster. Among them are two symbolic characters who represent a divine couple. The first is Raula, the groom. The second is Raulane, the bride. Interestingly, both roles are played by men.

To transform into these figures, the participants cover themselves completely in heavy woollen clothing, masks, veils, and gloves. Not a single part of their identity remains visible. This anonymity allows them to become vessels for the spirits rather than individuals. Alongside them appear masked warders known as Zannpundulu, who protect the ritual space and symbolically ward off negative forces.

The festival begins with a slow procession through village lanes, accompanied by traditional drums. The masked figures move from house to house while villagers sing, chant, and offer grains, milk, flowers, or local liquor.

Gradually, the procession reaches the Nagin Narayan Temple, the spiritual centre of the ritual. Here, Raula and Raulane perform a slow, almost trance-like dance in the temple courtyard. The movements are deliberate and quiet, symbolising prayers for protection, good harvests, and harmony between humans and nature.

Over the next few days, more villagers join the celebrations. The festival grows into a collective expression of gratitude before concluding with a final farewell to the Saunis as they return to the mountains.

For centuries, the Raulane Festival existed only within the communities that practised it. However, viral videos on social media recently introduced it to a much wider audience. To many viewers online, the masked dancers appeared exotic or unusual. Yet for locals, the festival carries deep spiritual meaning.

This sudden visibility has created a sense of tension. Some residents worry that curiosity may turn into intrusion. Others fear that sacred rituals might eventually become tourist attractions rather than community traditions.

Because of this concern, local authorities and villagers now emphasise respectful behaviour. Visitors are asked to avoid intrusive photography and to remember that the festival is not staged for entertainment.

The story of the Raulane Festival reflects a modern dilemma faced by many indigenous traditions. Visibility can bring appreciation. However, it can also transform something intimate into something performative.

For the people of Kinnaur, the festival is not a spectacle. It is a quiet conversation between the mountains, the spirits, and the community that lives among them. Perhaps that is why the question still lingers in the Himalayan air. Sometimes, is being unknown the truest way for a tradition to survive?

The story of Jhanda Sahib Gurudwara Dehradun begins in the 17th century.

In 1658, after Aurangzeb seized the Mughal throne after defeating Dara Shikoh, he accused the Sikhs of helping Dara escape. Therefore, he summoned the Sikh Guru, Guru Har Rai, to Delhi after ascending the throne. The Guru sensed a trap and decided to send his eldest son, Ram Rai, instead.

During his time there, Ram Rai managed to exceptionally impress Aurangzeb but went ahead to the extent of altering a verse from the Adi Granth just to avoid offending him. This act deeply offended and hurt the sentiments of Guru Har Rai, who declared that anyone who changed Gurbani could no longer be a part of the Sikh Panth. Ram Rai was thus excommunicated and replaced by his younger brother Guru Har Krishan as the next Sikh Guru.

While the Sikh leadership rejected Ram Rai, he continued to remain in Aurangzeb’s good books, inviting many favours from him. The Mughal emperor found a friendship in Ram Rai and further wanted to weaken the Sikh forces and distance the family; therefore, he took on this opportunity and ensured that Ram Rai would settle differently and far from the Sikh centres in Punjab, as he wished to.

Aurangzeb supported Ram Rai and assisted him in moving further away from the settlements of Sikh communities. In 1675, Ram Rai arrived in the green valley between the Ganga and Yamuna rivers, surrounded by the snow-capped Himalayas, with the support of Raja Fateh Shah of Garhwal, who granted him several villages.

A year later, in 1676, Ram Rai established a spiritual camp and was acknowledged as the Guru by the people in the region. And, the camp was named – Dera.

Since the valley was known as Doon at that time, the settlement eventually turned into the name Dehradun, simply meaning the Dera in the Doon Valley. The camp was developed into the historic Shri Guru Ram Rai Darbar Sahib, today known as Jhanda Sahib Gurudwara Dehradun. To mark this establishment, Guru Ram Rai hoisted a sacred flag, which was the first Jhanda Sahib.

That single moment not only started an unwavering religious tradition that transcended generations but also laid the foundation for the capital city of Uttarakhand Devbhoomi.

The complex of Jhanda Sahib Gurudwara Dehradun is not simply a monument to honour the excommunicated Guru, but reflects a crossover of cultures and political history. The architecture, stories, history, and symbolism at the complex are deeply eclectic.

After Guru Ram Rai Ji passed away in 1687, Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb sought to honour his friendship with him. He supported the construction of the Darbar Sahib complex between 1697 and 1707, and the architecture that emerged was strikingly different from typical Sikh religious structures or even the Mughal complexes.

The domes, arches, minarets, and courtyards resemble Mughal monuments, while the spiritual traditions inside remain deeply rooted in Sikh and Udasi practices. This blend simply is a living reflection of the friendship of Guru Ram Rai and Aurangzeb. But the real treasure was engraved and imprinted on the walls.

The moment and Gurudwara is home to more than 500 murals, making it one of the richest collections of wall paintings in the entire Himalayan region. Some of these artworks are even more than 300 years old. The paintings on the walls of Jhanda Sahib Dehradun look like a living exhibition of the history of the city.

When you take a stroll past the gates of the Darbar Sahib, you will find the paintings that capture centuries of artistic and political transformation that the city has been through over the years.

The earliest murals reflect the late Mughal atelier style. It is believed that it was created by artists familiar with imperial painting traditions of the Mughal courts. While the latter artworks simply reveal the influence of the Garhwal school of Pahari painting. These wall paintings were developed when Mughal court artists migrated to the Himalayan kingdoms in the 17th century. Some later paintings even demonstrate the influence of European artistry. This traces to the history of art in Dehradun and how the artists were adapting to evolving times as India went through consistent change of cultural and religious regimes.

The murals recount stories of various times:

• Tales from the lives of Sikh Gurus
• Episodes from Guru Nanak’s journeys
• Scenes from Hindu mythology, like Krishna Leela
• Royal courts such as Indra Sabha
• Portraits of saints, musicians, soldiers, and even certain British officials

Many murals on the main gate, which is also known as Jhanda Darwaza, include portraits of ordinary citizens such as clerks, guards, and attendants who were once associated with the complex or the governments and regimes that once ruled here. The walls of the Darbar Sahib are nothing less than a visual chronicle of Dehradun’s ever-evolving society and traditional history.

While the shrine of Jhanda Sahib Dehradun preserves history on its walls, the Jhanda Mela Dehradun keeps the history, tradition, and celebration of the founding stone of Dehradun alive every year, without fail.

The tradition of the festival was initiated in 1676, when Guru Ram Rai Ji hoisted the first sacred flag on Chaitra Shukla Panchami, just a few days after Holi. The date coincided with his birthday, and thus the celebration simply maximised the occasion.

It was since then that the sacred flag has been replaced and hoisted every single year for nearly 350 years. The new towering flag is always a massive 94 to 100-foot sal tree trunk, wrapped in muslin cloth and thousands of scarves offered by the devotees. The flag-towering involves a sacred ritual. During the ceremony, the old flag is lowered, the new one is bathed in milk, curd, and Ganga water, and then raised amidst chanting of prayers. The moment the new Jhanda Sahib rises, the Jhanda Mela officially begins.

The Jhanda Mela is simply one of the largest and most auspicious events in Dehradun. It carries a spiritual and celebratory moment for the people of Dehradun. In 2026, the festival began on 8 March and will continue until 27 March, Ram Navami, which implies nearly three weeks of celebrations.

Lakhs of devotees travel from Punjab, Haryana, Uttar Pradesh, Rajasthan, Delhi, and beyond, while many walk long distances to attend the festivities.

The festival is celebrated with continuous kirtan and prayers in the Gurudwara premises, 24-hour langar services for all visitors, religious celebrations and processions across the city, and markets, food stalls, and cultural gatherings in the proximity of the shrine. The streets around Jhanda Bazaar are decorated, and they transform into a vibrant religious fair where spirituality and community life blend seamlessly.

To the people of Dehradun, irrespective of religion, Jhanda Sahib Dehradun and the famous Jhanda Mela are a moment of commemoration of the city they deeply love. The towering flag of Jhanda Sahib simply represents the faith and founding of Dehradun. It is always said that whenever you cross the auspicious flag while you are at the Gurudwara or simply venturing through the streets of Jhanda Bazaar, you must bow down – and there is a way to do that. You might not enter the Gurudwara to do so – you just have to start tracing the flag pole with your eyes from bottom to top and fold your hands or close your eyes in respect.

More than three centuries after it commenced, the celebrations at Jhanda Sahib Dehradun are the spiritual and cultural heartbeat of the city. It recites the poetry of the history of Dehradun, inspires the cultural identity, and continues to unite communities every year through the festivities of Jhanda Mela. The celebrations and the Gurudwara are a constant reminder that the story of the city of Dehradun began, and where that story continues to be reminisced about every year.