Sumitra Singh was around seventeen years old and a young mother, living in a joint family in rural Uttar Pradesh. Her life was simple, predictable, and deeply rooted in tradition. But in July 1985, something happened that changed her life completely.

For months, she had been experiencing strange episodes, trances, loss of consciousness, and moments where she spoke as if someone else was speaking through her. Her family sought help from local healers, attributing it to possession or divine influence.

Then came July 19, when she collapsed. Her breathing stopped, and her pulse could not be felt. For several minutes, she was still, lifeless, and her family started preparing for her funeral. But then, she woke up, just to shock everyone.

When Sumitra regained her consciousness, everyone had questions – how did she wake up, was she dead for a while and if she was not, why was she not breathing? Too many questions, and just one shocking response – “I Am Not Sumitra”.

She said her name was Shiva.

Sumitra spoke of another life, another home, another family. She claimed she had been murdered by her in-laws in a town called Dibiyapur, over sixty kilometres away. She demanded to be taken back to her children. She failed to recognise her husband and referred to him with distance, almost as a stranger. She did not even recognise her own child. Instead, she cried for children who did not belong to Sumitra at all but to some other woman named “Shiva” whom she claimed to be.

What made the case unsettling was not just the claim. It was the verification.

A woman named Shiva Tripathi had died just two months earlier. Her body was found on railway tracks under suspicious circumstances. Her parents alleged murder, while her in-laws claimed suicide. When contacted, Shiva’s parents visited Sumitra.

While Sumitra failed to recognise her own husband and children, she recognised Shiva’s parents instantly. She called her father “Papa” and used private nicknames to address the relatives that no outsider could have known. She identified relatives, family friends, and even details from old photographs with startling accuracy. She spoke of her marriage, her children, her college, and even specific objects kept in her home. Details that Sumitra, a minimally educated village woman from a different caste and location, had no way of accessing.

With time, Sumitra’s behaviour changed completely. She adopted habits that aligned with Shiva’s life. She woke earlier, spoke differently, and carried herself with a confidence she never had before. Her literacy improved, and she began writing letters, something she could barely do earlier. Her preferences shifted, which was a very unexpected thing considering the life Sumitra had. From food to clothing to social behaviour, everything reflected a different upbringing. She even displayed caste consciousness aligned with Shiva’s Brahmin background, distancing herself from her own Thakur identity. She was no longer pretending to be Shiva, but she was rather herself.

One that was bound to happen with this case was scrutiny.

Researchers Ian Stevenson and Satwant Pasricha investigated the incident extensively. Through interviews, cross-verification, and repeated field visits, they documented over fifty witnesses and numerous details that aligned with Shiva’s life. Their conclusion was that this case could not be easily explained through normal means.

From a psychological perspective, such incidents are often classified under dissociative disorders, where identity, memory, and behaviour fragment under stress. Some experts compare it to Dissociative Identity Disorder, where alternate personalities emerge. But this case challenges that framework.

In cultural contexts like rural India, the explanation is different: possession.

The idea that a spirit can enter a body, especially one that has temporarily “died”, is deeply rooted in belief systems. Many viewed Sumitra’s case as Shiva’s soul finding a new vessel. Researchers themselves referred to it as a “possession-type case”, rather than a typical reincarnation. Unlike common reincarnation claims, which involve children recalling past lives, this was a sudden replacement in adulthood.

Sceptics argue alternative explanations. Hidden information transfer, coincidence, or exaggerated accounts. They point out the lack of medical confirmation of death and the influence of cultural belief systems. But even within scepticism, one question lingers: How did she know what she knew?

The Sumitra case sits uncomfortably between two worlds: Science demands evidence, structure, and repeatability. Belief allows for experiences that do not fit within those boundaries.

This case offers both.

Over time, Sumitra reportedly began to accept parts of her former life. She acknowledged her husband and child, balancing two identities within one existence. But the core of the case never faded. It remains one of the most discussed examples in parapsychology, often cited in studies exploring consciousness beyond death.

Because at its heart is a question: can identity survive death?

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 school, Bhimrao Ambedkar was allowed to attend classes, but not to belong.

Ambedkar had to sit apart from other children, often on a sack that he had to carry for himself. Teachers avoided physical contact with him, and his notebooks were treated as if they carried impurity. These were not just acts of discrimination but a structured system that existed to constantly remind a certain class of their place in society.

The most painful reminder, however, came in the form of everyday thirst. While other children could walk up to a water source and drink freely, Bhimrao had to wait for a peon to pour water into his hands, but only from a safe distance. If the peon was absent, he simply had to pass the day without even getting a drop of water to quench his thirst, the entire day. For him and other kids from backward castes, school life was simply: no peon, no water.

BR Ambedkar’s understanding of class differences and how society treated lower castes as an abomination deepened during a trip that he undertook in his childhood – this was an experience that should have brought him exploration, but instead, it offered him a glance into the harsh realities of the society, something that a child that young hardly deserved.

While travelling with his brother and nephews to meet their father, he stopped at a dharmashala in order to take a pause from the overwhelming journey. They requested food and a place to rest, but when the moment they asked for water, there were only refusals on their way. The reason was simple – their caste made them untouchable, even to a vessel of water, a non-living, basic need of life.

That night, they rested there, thirsty and afraid, taking turns to stay awake and ensure that they were safe – it felt as if their caste made them untouchable but not immune to the crimes and cruelty of the world. The incident, later recounted in his “Waiting for a Visa”, marked a turning point in Ambedkar’s consciousness. It was no longer just about exclusion in isolated spaces. It was the realisation that the system itself denied him basic human rights.

Ambedkar’s journey from these experiences to global institutions like Columbia University and the London School of Economics is often seen as a story of triumph and revolution. But despite his advancement in life and even reaching an international platform did not free from the torments of his past. It only sharpened his understanding of how he was denied basic human rights, and accessibility was in control of a section that did not achieve anything but was born into circumstantial privilege. He came to recognise that caste was not merely a social issue that could be resolved through reform, goodwill, education, or even achievement. It was a system sustained by power, and thus, it needed a structural revolution.

This insight defined his eminent politics. For Ambedkar, dignity was never to be left to the mercy of others. It must be secured through rights, representation, and institutional safeguards – something that restored humanity without any challenge.

In 1932, the British government’s Communal Award proposed separate electorates for Dalits, enabling them to elect their own representatives, independently and without any interference. For Ambedkar, this was the logical extension of everything he had learned as a child. A society that denied him water could not be trusted to represent him fairly. Thus, separate electorates meant autonomy, a voice that could not be overridden, something that BR Ambedkar deeply envisaged in an independent India.

However, this proposal was strongly opposed by Mahatma Gandhi, who saw it as a threat to Hindu unity. While imprisoned in Yerwada Jail, Gandhi began a fast unto death. This one move of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi placed immense moral and political pressure on Ambedkar.

What followed was not a negotiation between equals, but a moment of profound dilemma. Ambedkar had to choose between holding onto a mechanism that guaranteed political independence for Dalits and preventing a situation that could lead to widespread violence against his community. And, the result was the Poona Pact.

Separate electorates were abandoned, and instead, reserved seats within a joint electorate system were increased. While this ensured greater numerical representation, it diluted the autonomy Ambedkar had fought for. He later viewed the agreement as a compromise made under duress, a moment where moral pressure overpowered structural necessity.

The thread connecting Ambedkar’s childhood to the Poona Pact did not end in 1932. It continued into his later work as the chief architect of the Constitution of India. The same boy who had once depended on a peon for water went on to design a framework where no citizen would have to depend on another person’s understanding of humanity and basic human rights goodwill for their dignity. Fundamental rights, equality before law, and reservation policies were not abstract ideals – they were his answer to a system that had once denied him dignity at every step.

BR Ambedkar’s life is often celebrated as a story of resilience, but it is equally a story of clarity. He understood early on that injustice was not accidental. It was organised, and thus, needed an organised response to counter.

The journey from a thirsty child in Satara to a leader negotiating the future of millions belonging to the backward classes in Poona was not just a personal story. It is a consistent reminder that true change does not come from constant negotiation and an approach to kindness, but from the creation of systems that make equality non-negotiable and compulsive.

While Ambedkar Jayanti celebrates his contribution to the India that we live in today, it is also vital to realise how an India that once discriminated against a little boy started working rationally only after his struggle in accessing basic human rights.

After World War I, the British Empire was celebrating victory. But across its colonies, from Egypt to Ireland, waves of unrest were rising. And one fear loomed large: losing India.

To suppress this fear, in 1919, the British introduced the Rowlatt Act – an act that stripped Indians of their rights even during peacetime. Arrest without a warrant, detention without trial, trial without a jury – this law was a direct attack on civil liberties. Protests were inevitable.

And, so were British crackdowns. In Amritsar, leaders Dr Satyapal and Saifuddin Kitchlew were arrested, angering the public. On 10 April 1919, riots broke out. A missionary was attacked, buildings were burned, and some Europeans lost their lives. This single incident became the trigger for the British administration. Brigadier General Reginald Edward Harry Dyer was sent to Punjab.

He had one mission – to crush the rising fire of freedom in India. His goal was clear – to ensure that 1919 did not become another 1857.

On 13 April 1919, while Amritsar prepared to celebrate Baisakhi, General Dyer was preparing for something else. A proclamation was announced that there shall be no gathering of more than four people, and a strict curfew was imposed. Yet, a troubling fact remains: while parts of Amritsar received this order, areas like the Golden Temple and Jallianwala Bagh were never informed – a detail even acknowledged in the Hunter Commission report.

Was this a conspiracy? Perhaps.

What followed was inevitable.

On Baisakhi, between 10,000 and 20,000 people gathered at Jallianwala Bagh, near the Golden Temple – unarmed, celebrating the festival, carrying hope and prayers for freedom. To the British, this gathering was defiance and a growing threat of rebellion, terrorism, and unrest.

General Dyer arrived with armed troops. Why?

To prevent potential riots and to create a “moral effect”, a fear so deep that it would extinguish any spark of rebellion across Punjab. Within 30 seconds, Dyer made his decision. Without any warning or explanation, he ordered his troops to open fire on the unsuspecting crowd. The soldiers were Gorkhas, Pathans, Sikhs, Baluchis, not a single British soldier among them. It seemed as if Indians were being made to stand against Indians. When some soldiers paused or fired into the air, Dyer moved among them, ensuring that every bullet hit the crowd.

Jallianwala Bagh was enclosed on three sides, with only one narrow exit, blocked by Dyer himself. There was no escape. For the next ten minutes, 1,650 rounds were fired, and they continued until the ammunition ran out. What remained was blood-soaked ground, bodies piled in wells, and bullet marks etched into walls, marks that still exist today.

Even help was denied. Local leaders collecting funds for the injured were threatened. The wounded received no medical aid, no support. For Dyer, this was not a mistake; it was a “military necessity.”

The British Indian Government maintained a clear stance: Dyer made his decision in just 30 seconds. It was not planned. It was a “mistaken conception.”

Officially, 379 people were declared dead, while eyewitnesses and records suggest over 1,000 bodies. News of the massacre was suppressed. Even Great Britain itself learned of it months later, in December. Excerpts such as Khooni Vaisakhi, a firsthand account by poet Nanak Singh, were destroyed.

And then came in the Hunter Commission. It concluded that Dyer had erred, but only out of fear of rebellion. There was no real punishment, and the only consequence Dyer ever faced was to simply be forced to retire. Some Indian accounts even mention a man named Hans Raj, who allegedly misled the crowd and supported Dyer. For the people of Punjab, this was not a military action; it was a conspiracy. But for the British Government, it was neither planned nor supported – just a momentary error in judgment.

This story has two sides.

In 1920, debates were held in the British Parliament. Leaders like Edwin Montagu and Winston Churchill called Dyer’s actions “monstrous” and “terrorism.” Yet, when records were formalised, discussions about Amritsar were minimised, overshadowed by World War I narratives. Newspapers like The Times and Manchester Guardian described the firing as “excessive” – not wrong, just too much. The Morning Post even raised funds for Dyer.

Books over the years have reflected varying perspectives:

• Nigel Collett’s The Butcher of Amritsar highlights imperial arrogance as common among British officials.
• Alfred Draper’s Amritsar: The Massacre that Ended the Raj presents the massacre as a turning point that ultimately harmed British rule.
• Kim A. Wagner’s Amritsar 1919 describes it as a product of fear – the fear of losing an empire.

At the time, much of the British public saw Dyer as a hero, a man who “saved” Punjab. The House of Lords even honoured him with a sword. Honour, probably for the daylight genocide of thousands of unarmed civilians.

General Dyer died in 1929.

But another key figure remained – Punjab’s Lieutenant Governor, Michael O’Dwyer, who had supported Dyer’s actions. Seeking justice, Sardar Udham Singh, one of the survivors of the Jallianwala Bagh Massacre, travelled to Britain.

On 13 March 1940, in London, he assassinated O’Dwyer. Within four months, on 31 July 1940, Udham Singh was executed in Pentonville Prison. For Britain, he was a terrorist. But Udham Singh had been just 19 years old when he witnessed the horrors of Jallianwala Bagh. In the UK, however, there was no sympathy, only a label. The logic they were citing for Dyer paled in comparison to what they alluded to at the time of Sardar Udham Singh’s trial.

Singh never wanted to get acquitted – he dreamt of the label of “shaheed”. He wanted justice for his people – innocent, armless, innocuous – who were brutally murdered by a callous government and their sheer conspiracy to restrict the rebellion that was definitely the right of Indians.

And, the trail of Sardar Udham Singh was yet another evidence of the British brutality that continued to persist, and the striving freedom fighters of India implored the world to observe. The men that the British Government failed to even hold accountable led a life of honour, but the victims were treated like fodder to establish their colonial vainglory.

If one expects that, after 107 years, perspectives may have changed, disappointment is what stands ahead in the course.

• In 1997, Queen Elizabeth II visited India and called the massacre “deeply shameful” – but offered no apology.
• In 2013, Prime Minister David Cameron acknowledged it as regrettable but avoided apologising, saying he did not want to revisit the past.
• In 2019, Prime Minister Theresa May termed it a “shameful scar” on British-Indian history – yet again, no apology.

In 2025, after the release of the film Kesari 2, Caroline Dyer’s earlier remarks resurfaced, where she called the victims “looters” and Dyer an “honourable man.” Millions of Indians demanded an explanation. Social media was flooded with Indians calling out the insensitivity. The world was astonished at the temerity. There was an unbridled need for an action – an apology. And, none came.

Yet, there are voices within Britain that acknowledge the truth: Many of Dyer’s own relatives expressed shame over such statements. The British public today largely recognises the massacre as an atrocity. And, media outlets like the BBC and The Guardian, along with historians, have condemned it. In 2025, MP Bob Blackman once again demanded a formal apology in Parliament, citing the need for stronger India-UK relations. And, this is what continuously serves as optimism for Indians that one day, an apology will reach their doors. History cannot be reversed, but traumas can be put to rest with acknowledgement and closure. The apology shall imply that Britain has realised the extent of their grotesque regime just to build an empire onto which the sun could never set.

Today, the British stand in this court of history with the same argument: Jallianwala Bagh was a tragedy.

General Dyer was afraid and made a mistake, but it was neither a crime nor a conspiracy. While India still mourns, carrying the trauma of colonial brutality, standing before the bullet-scarred walls of Jallianwala Bagh in pain, the British position remains unchanged after 107 years.

No accountability. No responsibility.

Whether it is called acceptance or acknowledgement, the outcome remains the same: No apology.

India has been striving hard for years with the three-stage nuclear programme.

In the second stage of this program, India uses Plutonium, a byproduct of the first stage. In the breeder reactor, the main aim is to produce, or simply breed, more plutonium than it consumes. And this is exactly what India has started working towards.

So far, the amount of fuel being used has been higher than the amount of fuel being produced. And now, after the achievement of the first criticality, a stable self-sustaining reaction has begun, which shall pave the way for the production of a larger amount of fuel than is being used.

This is where things get interesting.

India has limited uranium resources, which we partly import since the mining of uranium in India is not only a difficult process but also an expensive one. But there are some of the world’s largest reserves of thorium present on the sand beaches of South India, and this is the material that can fuel nuclear reactors for centuries.

But there was one challenge – Thorium cannot be used directly as fuel. It needs to be converted into a usable form first, which is not an easy feat.

India had a vision back in the 1950’s, which was conceived by the legendary physicist, Homi J. Bhabha, and later defined by the critical funding and political momentum provided by the former Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee in 2003. The main aim was simple – to turn the limited uranium into a bridge that unlocks the vast thorium reserves.

Thus, the three-staged nuclear power programme was implemented from research into infrastructure. The Atal Bihari Vajpayee Government further incorporated Bharatiya Nabhikiya Vidyut Nigam Limited (BHAVINI) in September 2003 to support the programme with dependable infrastructure. This organisation was tasked with constructing and commissioning the Prototype Fast Breeder Reactor PFBR at Kalpakkam, which achieved the milestone in April 2026.

If the nuclear power programme meets its desired fate, it shall sustain the Indian energy requirement for centuries, without major dependency on Uranium and imports. But this process is not as quick and easy as it sounds. This is a difficult reaction to crack, and in order to sustain this process, the programme might even take decades to reach completion.

With no major global players apart from Russia having had success on such a large scale, India has now joined this elite group.

India’s vision for energy sustainability is working in three stages:

Stage 1: Current Operating Reactors

India uses natural uranium, mined from the earth, without expensive enrichment, to produce electricity in Pressurised Heavy Water Reactors (PHWRs). Some part of this Uranium is what India imports from countries such as Kazakhstan, Canada, Russia, and Uzbekistan.

As a by-product, these reactors produce plutonium, which is a valuable fissile material.

Stage 2: Fast Breeder Reactors

The PFBR is India’s first large Fast Breeder Reactor. It uses plutonium, recovered from Stage 1 as fuel. In this stage:

• The reactor produces more plutonium than it consumes, which is why the process is termed “breeding”
• At the same time, a thorium blanket is placed around the reactor core that uses fast neutrons to convert Thorium, which India has in abundance, into Uranium-233, a new fissile material that can be used as fuel.

As a coolant, India uses 1,750 tonnes of liquid sodium that circulates through the reactor core to remove heat produced by nuclear fission.

On 6 April 2026, the PFBR reached criticality, marking a major step towards sustainable breeding of fuel.

Stage 3: Thorium-Based Power

In the third stage, India aims to use the Uranium-233 produced in Stage 2, along with abundant thorium, to generate electricity on a large scale.

Once fully operational, this stage will allow India to produce nuclear power for hundreds of years using domestic thorium reserves, reducing dependence on imported Uranium.

In Kalpakkam, India, the Prototype Fast Breeder Reactor began a controlled, self-sustaining nuclear chain reaction for the first time. This is a historic milestone in India’s nuclear journey.

This simply means that a stable chain reaction has been achieved and the reactor is now ready to move towards the breeding phase.

Only Russia currently operates large-scale fast breeder reactors. With the PFBR’s success, India has now become the second country in the world to achieve this milestone at such a scale. The dedicated teams at BHAVINI, IGCAR, and the entire Department of Atomic Energy have achieved this milestone for India.

And, this is not just about one reactor. It is a strategic step towards long-term energy independence for India. As the country’s energy demand grows rapidly, this programme offers a clean, reliable, and self-reliant path forward.

A country that was once sanctioned for its nuclear power programmes, both military and civilian, with funding halted and international backlash, has achieved this milestone largely through its own efforts.

Truly “Atmanirbhar Bharat” in the making!

At an altitude of over 2,600 metres, Chopta is often called the “Mini Switzerland of India”. But that title hardly uncovers the beauty that this place truly is.

Surrounded by dense forests of oak, pine, and rhododendron, and opening into vast alpine meadows, Chopta feels untouched and unprecedented. There are no overwhelming crowds, no loud distractions, and no high-end luxury properties that can make this a commercial experience. It is just a quiet stretch of land that sits between forests and sky and everything in between simply astonishes with its beauty.

On clear days, the horizon is lined with Himalayan giants. From there, you can spot Nanda Devi, Chaukhamba, Kedarnath, and Neelkanth – places that define the Devbhoomi that Uttarakhand is. They do not dominate the view. They simply add to the beauty of the picturesque landscape.

If there is one reason why April stands apart when we talk of Chopta and the trails that it offers – it is the bloom.

Rhododendron arboreum, locally known as buransh, begins to flower across the region. What was once a deep green forest slowly turns into a canvas of red, pink, and crimson. The trail from Chopta to Tungnath becomes something else entirely. Petals line the path, trees burst into red colour, and in certain stretches, it feels as if the forest itself is glowing.

What makes it even more exceptional is the contrast of colours and natural elements that are present there. While the lower trails are filled with blooming flowers, the higher sections still carry traces of snow. It is a brief overlap of seasons, where winter has not fully left, and spring has already arrived. And this scenery does not last long – a few weeks, at most. If you miss it, you need to wait another year to plan and arrange your vacation.

Beyond the beauty lies a journey.

The trek to Tungnath begins right from Chopta. A gradual, stone-paved trail that winds through forests, meadows, and open ridges, it is one of the most accessible high-altitude treks in the Himalayas.

But accessibility does not make it ordinary. At around 3,680 metres, Tungnath is the highest Shiva temple in the world. It is part of the Panch Kedar circuit and carries centuries of myth, belief, and devotion. According to legend, the temple is linked to the Pandavas after the Mahabharata. In April, the temple itself may still be closed, waiting to reopen after winter. But the path remains open. And sometimes, the journey matters more than the destination.

From Tungnath, a steeper climb leads to Chandrashila. It is only about a kilometre more, but the effort changes the experience entirely. At the summit, the Himalayas can be seen in their full glory and completeness. A 360-degree view of snow-covered peaks, stretching endlessly across the horizon. At sunrise, the first light touches the mountains slowly, turning them gold, then white, then impossibly clear – but quiet at the same time. And that is what makes it unforgettable.

Chopta is not just about reaching a peak. It is about everything in between.

There are trails that are not marked, forests that feel endless, and moments where you realise how little you need to feel complete. For those willing to explore beyond the main route, Chopta offers hidden paths, birdwatching trails, and quiet corners where the only sound is the wind moving through trees.

And while there are many times to visit the Himalayas, April holds a rare balance.

The weather is gentle, with clear skies and comfortable days. The harsh winter has begun to fade, but the monsoon has not yet arrived. The trails are open, the air is crisp, and the views are sharp. And then, there are the blooms.

It is the moment when it feels most alive!

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?

In March 2026, something happened that changed the way India operated: a new amendment came into force. This overturned the crucial principle established by the 2014 NALSA judgment. It questioned something that should have never been questioned: the right to self-identify.

In a country where history and even faith once defined identity as something that came from within, now required medical screening and state approval. The law narrows the definition of “transgender” to specific traditional groups like hijra or kinner, along with intersex variations. In doing so, it quietly removes space for trans men, trans women, and non-binary individuals, because, as per the new convention, they simply do not fit the category.

What was once an identity is now being treated as an eligibility, and this has shaken a section of the nation to its core. While many see this just as an exclusion, it is much more than that. It is an erasure of the ones being excluded, the ones who fought for their rights and identity throughout.

But here is where the irony begins.

What was gender fluidity before 2014, when the NALSA judgment came into being? It was not an unfound entity waiting to be discovered. Rather, it was a truth that passed down through generations and even faith that draws its inspiration from what many call the Indian Mythology.

In the Mahabharata, one of the two greatest epics known to the Indian society for ages, Shikhandi transitions and becomes pivotal in the war between the Kauravas and Pandavas. Not only Shinkhandi, but even one of the greatest warriors and archers India can recall, Arjuna, spends much of his time as Brihannala, embracing a different identity. And, in Tamil traditions, Aravan is married to Krishna in female form. This form is still honoured today, unconditionally unquestioned.

And then, there is Ardhanarishvara, an identity that no one even dares to deny or question. Ardhanareshvara is the deity that is both male and female, the Shiva and the Shakti in their inseparable and complete form – a representation that bolsters the case of trans identity in India.

Ancient India did not just accept fluidity. It worshipped it.

How did a country so rich in culture, with a rigidity in religious belief, reach here – this is a question that consistently pinches.

India has been through myriad changes of power and cultural influences throughout. Thus, the change with respect to the identities of the trans communities did not come from within. It was never a sudden realisation that changed everything. It was an influence that came in with the colonial rule.

The British, uncomfortable with what they could not categorise, introduced laws like the Criminal Tribes Act of 1871. This act strictly monitored and criminalised hijra communities. For the first time in India, an identity that sustained its existence and respect through various changes of powers and many ages, became something that was being controlled.

Post-independence, the stigma lingered until 2014, when it attempted to undo that damage. And now, in 2026, many argue, we are witnessing a return to that same surveillance-driven mindset that leads us to a new direction because we never went backwards with trans communities that we controlled and questioned their identities in any way or with any logic.

The most striking shift in the 2026 Bill is –

From “I am who I say I am” to “The system will decide who you are.”

A person must now undergo a medical evaluation, followed by approval from authorities, in order to be recognised as what they are, what they know themselves to be, or what they have always been.

While on paper, this is just a procedure. In reality, it is a question of dignity. Because identity, once questioned, stops being personal and becomes political.

Protests across the country, starting from Jantar Mantar, state capitals, and quiet gatherings, are not just reactions to a law. They are responses to a deeper fear: That identity is being reduced to a checklist.

Activists continue to raise a simple yet powerful voice: “We existed before your law. We will exist beyond it.”

And, this is what makes the Trans Bill 2026 more than a policy debate – a cultural contradiction. Because India has always been a land of layered identities: fluid, evolving, complex. The real question is not whether transgender identities fit into Indian culture. They always have. The question is whether modern India is willing to remember what it once knew.

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.