Ladakh’s Modern Satyagrahi: How Sonam Wangchuk Channels Gandhi’s Spirit And Ambedkar’s Vision

Few contemporary Indians evoke comparisons with both Mahatma Gandhi and Dr BR Ambedkar. Sonam Wangchuk does. The Ladakhi engineer, educator and climate activist has never sought such parallels, repeatedly insisting he is "neither Gandhi nor a hero". Yet his work — spanning education, environmental innovation and non-violent public action — has prompted many to view him through the prism of India's greatest reformers.

Now 59, the Ramon Magsaysay Award winner is once again at the centre of national attention. His hunger strike in Delhi, in solidarity with students demanding accountability over examination irregularities and reforms in India's education system, has expanded his image beyond that of a climate campaigner. It has reinforced a reputation built over more than three decades of challenging institutions through peaceful means rather than political power.

The strongest comparison with Ambedkar lies in Wangchuk's unwavering belief that education is society's greatest equaliser. Growing up in the remote village of Uleytokpo in Ladakh, he experienced first-hand how a centrally designed education system failed children in the Himalayas. 

Instead of merely criticising it, he helped establish the Students' Educational and Cultural Movement of Ladakh (SECMOL) in 1988, creating a model that replaced rote learning with practical knowledge, local culture, critical thinking and self-confidence. Much like Ambedkar, who saw education as the foundation of dignity and social transformation, Wangchuk has argued that meaningful change begins in the classroom.

His current support for students protesting examination irregularities, including the fallout from paper leaks and demands for greater accountability, is a natural extension of that philosophy. Rather than treating these controversies as isolated administrative failures, Wangchuk has framed them as a crisis of trust in India's education system — one that deserves both public scrutiny and institutional reform.

If Ambedkar's influence is visible in Wangchuk's educational vision, Gandhi's legacy is reflected in his methods. Hunger strikes, peaceful marches and appeals to public conscience have become Wangchuk's preferred instruments of protest. 

Whether campaigning for Ladakh's fragile ecology or standing with students seeking a fair education system, he has consistently embraced moral persuasion over confrontation. His approach echoes Gandhian satyagraha — not as imitation, but as a belief that non-violence can still shape public discourse in modern India.

The parallels extend beyond protest. Gandhi championed self-reliance, local economies and living in harmony with nature. Wangchuk's innovations embody those ideals in contemporary form. His internationally acclaimed Ice Stupas — artificial glaciers that store winter water for use during the dry season — offer a practical response to climate change in the Himalayas. His solar-heated mud buildings demonstrate how traditional wisdom and modern engineering can coexist, making sustainability not merely aspirational but achievable.

Some observers also see shades of Rabindranath Tagore's educational philosophy, with its emphasis on experiential learning, creativity and learning rooted in one's surroundings. Others compare Wangchuk's environmental stewardship to Chipko leader Sunderlal Bahuguna, whose campaigns highlighted the inseparable relationship between communities and their ecosystems.

Of course, no comparison is exact. Ambedkar was the principal architect of India's Constitution. Gandhi led a national freedom movement. Tagore reshaped Indian literature and education. Wangchuk belongs to a different era with different battles. His struggles concern climate resilience, educational integrity, indigenous knowledge and democratic accountability rather than colonial rule or caste discrimination.

Perhaps that is precisely why these comparisons endure. They are not claims of equivalence but recognition of shared values. Like the reformers who shaped modern India, Wangchuk has chosen ideas over ideology, innovation over rhetoric and peaceful resistance over confrontation. In an age dominated by spectacle and polarisation, his influence rests not on political office or mass mobilisation but on credibility earned through decades of work in classrooms, villages and the mountains of Ladakh.

Whether history ultimately places Sonam Wangchuk alongside India's greatest reformers remains to be seen. What is already evident is that his life reflects many of the principles they championed: education as liberation, sustainability as a moral responsibility and non-violence as a powerful instrument for demanding change.

India's Anger Crisis: Why Tempers Are Exploding

 

A tourist from Haryana is arrested after allegedly assaulting a local couple following a road rage confrontation on Mussoorie's Mall Road. Days earlier, a 17-year-old in Ghaziabad is allegedly abducted and beaten to death after his motorcycle brushes against a car. In Gurugram, a minor dispute over giving way on the Delhi-Gurugram Expressway leaves a motorist with grievous head injuries after he is attacked with iron rods. 

Across Uttarakhand, authorities were compelled to launch a special campaign against road rage and public disorder after a series of violent incidents involving tourists. Similar scenes have unfolded in Himachal Pradesh’s Manali, where viral videos of late-night brawls on the iconic Mall Road and clashes between tourists have reinforced concerns that destinations once associated with leisure are increasingly becoming flashpoints for aggression and lawlessness.

Individually, these incidents appear unrelated. Collectively, they point to something more unsettling. Across India, minor disagreements are increasingly ending in violence, ordinary frustrations are turning deadly and public spaces — from highways and markets to holiday destinations — are becoming theatres of confrontation. The question is no longer whether tempers are fraying. It is why India seems to be losing its patience.

Road rage has become the most visible expression of this simmering anger. What begins as a missed turn, an unnecessary horn or a scratched bumper can quickly escalate into assault or even murder. Police forces in several cities have acknowledged a rise in such incidents, prompting targeted enforcement drives and closer monitoring of habitual offenders.

The phenomenon extends far beyond the roads. Tourist destinations once associated with relaxation are witnessing ugly confrontations. In hill states, locals have repeatedly complained of drunken behaviour, reckless driving, vandalism and intimidation by visitors.

Social media has amplified the problem. Every confrontation now has an audience. Smartphones appear before tempers cool. Viral fame has become an incentive rather than a deterrent, with public aggression often performed as much for the camera as against the victim. Algorithms reward outrage, while online abuse has normalised a language of contempt that increasingly spills into everyday life.

The deeper causes are harder to measure but impossible to ignore. India's cities are louder, hotter and more crowded than ever. Long commutes, relentless traffic, financial pressures, rising aspirations and shrinking personal space leave millions living under constant stress. Mental health professionals have repeatedly linked urban fatigue and accumulated frustration to impulsive acts of violence when seemingly minor triggers appear.

There is also an erosion of social restraint. The fear of public shame has weakened, while the certainty of swift punishment often appears absent. Too many people now behave as though force is the quickest route to resolving disagreement. Ego frequently triumphs over empathy. Winning an argument matters more than preserving dignity — one's own or another's.

Politics and public discourse have hardly helped. Television debates reward confrontation. Social media thrives on polarisation. Public figures increasingly communicate through accusation rather than persuasion. Citizens inevitably absorb the tone set by institutions. When outrage becomes the dominant language of public life, it gradually becomes the language of private life as well.

India is not an angry nation by nature. It remains a society where strangers still help accident victims, communities unite during disasters and kindness survives in countless unseen acts every day. Yet these stories rarely trend.

The greater danger lies in accepting everyday aggression as normal. When abuse becomes routine, violence ceases to shock. A society does not become hostile overnight. It does so one argument, one assault and one moment of unchecked rage at a time.

Assam Elections: The 27 vs 72 Guwahati Central Gamble

Is Kunki Chowdhury Doing A Zohran Mamdani?

A 27-year-old University College London (UCL) postgrad with no political pedigree is taking on a 72-year-old BJP stalwart in Assam's most closely watched urban seat. The parallels with New York's viral new mayor are striking.

In one of the most watched contests of the 2026 Assam Assembly polls, 27-year-old Kunki Chowdhury has officially entered the electoral ring, bringing a high-academic pedigree and a fresh "inclusive regionalism" vision to Guwahati Central. She is an Assam Jatiya Parishad (AJP) first-timer with no political family behind her, “knocking on every door”, playing carrom to break the ice and speaking to young voters about drains, parking and skill centres — the unglamorous but urgent business of a city long ignored by those who govern it.

The optics are impossible to miss. Less than a year ago, Zohran Mamdani — a 33-year-old assemblyman from Queens — went from one per cent in the polls to becoming New York City's mayor, powered almost entirely by a ferociously smart, platform-native social-media campaign and genuine grassroots conviction. The question now being asked in political circles in Guwahati, as polling day on April 9 approaches, is whether Kunki is scripting her own version of that story.

A postgraduate in Education Leadership from UCL and a BBA graduate from NMIMS Mumbai, Kunki told the Assam Tribune: "I did my masters in London and then joined my family business. The opportunity to join politics came only last month when the AJP approached me — I decided to come to politics to bridge the gap between the government and society." 

That gap — between Guwahati's lived reality and the rhetoric of those who represent it — is exactly what her campaign is organised around. Her five concrete promises address drainage, skill hubs, parking, garbage disposal and the gas pipeline scheme — the neglected basics of a city that has heard grand promises for decades.

Across the constituency, her opponent is a vivid contrast. Vijay Kumar Gupta, 72, the BJP's long-time party worker, reacted to his Gen Z opponent by declaring there are "no challenges" for him in this election. He brings the full machinery of India's ruling party — buses, organised rallies and a well-funded social media operation — along with decades of institutional heft. 

His reported promise to transform Guwahati into something resembling "Switzerland, Shimla and Shillong" has, according to local reports, attracted satirical treatment online — terrain on which Kunki is rather more comfortable.

The Mamdani parallel is not merely cosmetic. Mamdani weaponised youthfulness and educational credibility, turning establishment outsider status into an asset. His team used Instagram, TikTok and YouTube in ways that prioritised authenticity over polish — running into the Atlantic to advertise rent freezes, referencing Bollywood films to explain wealth inequality. 

He captured 78 per cent of voters aged 18 to 29. Kunki's instincts appear similar: her door-to-door campaign, documented through shareable video clips and images circulated via her own social media handles, including carrom and cricket on doorsteps, follows the same grammar of unscripted, tactile, eminently viral political content.

The demographic arithmetic is hospitable to exactly this kind of appeal. Assam has 72.83 lakh youth voters aged 18 to 29 — a rise from 69.35 lakh in 2021. In Guwahati Central, with its approximately 1.91 lakh urban electors, young voters frustrated by waterlogging and joblessness represent a formidable base if consolidated.

Where the parallel strains is in resources and runway. Mamdani had over a year of sustained campaigning and access to 70-plus content creators boasting a combined following of 77 million. Kunki was asked to contest barely a month before polling. She is running a digital insurgency against a party with state-level resources and a Chief Minister whose own social media presence is nationally formidable.

But what distinguishes her candidacy from mere youth tokenism is that her educational background is substantive, not decorative. She has not shied away from critiquing the BJP's flagship Orunodoi welfare scheme as "superficial," arguing that cash transfers are no substitute for sustainable livelihoods and advocating instead for skill-building integrated with employment. This is not the language of political apprenticeship. It is the language of someone who has thought carefully about systems and is applying that thinking to a political context for the first time.

Young voters in the constituency echo mixed views — some praising welfare schemes, others demanding jobs, better college infrastructure and reduced textbook prices. It is precisely this constituency — educated, restless, unpersuaded by freebies — that Kunki is betting on. Whether Assam's political terrain will reward that bet is the question that May 4 will answer.

Reels, monkey antics and rubbish: When civic sense takes a Himalayan tumble

Somewhere between the plains and the first hairpin bend into Himachal Pradesh or Uttarakhand, something curious happens to the average tourist. Civic sense quietly disembarks. It simply disappears. 

What follows every long weekend is now painfully familiar. Tourists from the plains storm the hills like they’ve won a lifetime supply of irresponsibility vouchers, transforming snow-capped serenity into a giant, litter-strewn tailgate party. 

Having pored over the endless circus in news clips and social media feeds — those viral jams, trash avalanches and tone-deaf shirtless antics — one cannot help but chuckle bitterly at the annual ritual: plenty of selfies, zero self-awareness.

Behold the majestic 13-km Manali-Patlikuhal jam, where Delhi-NCR and neighbouring states day-trippers ditch their low-slung sedans and porter luggage like reluctant sherpas, auditioning for Survivor: Himachal Edition. 

Shimla-Manali reels under 8,000-10,000 vehicles daily, trapping even the culprits for 24-hour marathons in their own chaos — three lakh invaders projected, because why plan when you can honk? Cops play human Tetris to free the mess, while locals ponder if Everest was this exhausting.

Nullahs bloated with plastics, Tirthan Valley’s pristine brooks auditioning as Delhi’s next landfill. Apparently, 70% NCR tourists mistook ‘leave no trace’ for ‘leave your trash’. Viral Sissu clips capture sunroof revellers boozing through a 40-day tourism ban, as if ‘customs’ meant ‘costumes for clowns’. 

Mussoorie, the so-called Queen of Hills, chokes on wrappers while polite foreigners play cleanup crew - talk about role reversal with a side of rubbish.

Sari-stripping in Manali? Pistol-waving at Parwanoo-Shimla tolls? These gems have ministers begging for ‘civilised conduct’ on sacred Dev bhoomi, as if hill etiquette came with a spoiler alert. Shimla’s Mall Road? Locals’ no-fly zone amid selfie zombies and VIP tantrums, nothing screams ‘holiday’ like treating apple carts as photo props.

Uttarakhand's 2023 pledge to assess limits in 15 towns - from Mussoorie to Pithoragarh - gathers dust, ignoring NGT pleas for tourist registration tied to parking and rooms. Himachal splurges Rs 3,000 crore on tunnels and tamashas, blind to sewage tsunamis and landslide encores post-Joshimath. 

Activists like Anoop Nautiyal scream into the void: revenue’s golden egg hatches scarcity, smog and sobbing locals. Who needs limits when selfies are infinite?

At the heart of this seasonal circus is entitlement. A belief that paying for a hotel room includes the right to block roads, ignore rules and treat fragile ecosystems as disposable backdrops. Authorities respond with fines, caps and barricades, but enforcement has limits. Civic sense, unfortunately, cannot be outsourced to the traffic police.

So, what’s the solution to this recurring theatre of the absurd? Perhaps it is time for a radical idea: treat hill towns like places where people actually live. Drive less, walk more. Carry your rubbish. Lower the volume. 

Cap homestays, ape Sikkim’s plastic purge, slap ‘civic deposits’ refunded minus your landfill donation. Ban sunroof DJs, snow-illiterate cars and blast PSAs: ‘Hills ain’t your highway, hotshot’. 

The mountains have been patient hosts. The question is whether tourists can learn to be guests rather than invaders. Until then, civic deficient nomads will keep re-enacting Mumbai rush hour at 10,000 feet, one flung bottle at a time. 

Zubeen Garg lived like a king, died like an emperor

There are some voices you don’t just hear — you live inside them. Zubeen Garg was one of those. A singer, actor, poet, provocateur, dreamer — he belonged everywhere and nowhere, like the Brahmaputra itself: restless, untamed, carrying with it the music of a thousand shores.

When he sang Ya Ali, the country swayed. But long before Bollywood made him a national name, Assam had already claimed him as its restless son. His voice was the soundtrack to tea-garden evenings, rain-swept bus journeys, and lovers’ quarrels by the river. He didn’t just sing songs, he inhabited them, dragging us into the depths of heartbreak, rebellion and wild joy.

To call Zubeen simply a “singer” is to call monsoon simply “rain”. He could sing in dozens of languages, slip between bhajans and blues, croon to the stars or roar at the streets. One night you’d find him in a studio, barefoot, chasing the perfect raga; the next, at a rally, his voice turning into protest. Always unpredictable, always unapologetically Zubeen.

And then there was the man himself — mercurial, fiery, funny, infuriating, generous. He could make you weep with a line, then grin wickedly in the next breath. He sparred with politics, toyed with cinema, flirted with controversy — but he never abandoned music. It was his truest rebellion.

His sudden passing in Singapore feels almost like one of his songs — abrupt, startling, leaving you with an unfinished note that aches in the silence. Yet perhaps that is the only way someone like Zubeen could leave. He was never made for neat endings.

What remains now is his echo in roadside speakers blaring his anthems, in the hush of an Assamese kitchen where his ballads drift in with the evening tea, in the hearts of millions who grew up under the shelter of his sound.

For three decades, he was everywhere. His songs drifted from tea stalls across Assam and the NE, crackled on battered radios, thundered from cinema halls and lit up festivals. He belonged equally to the wedding band and the film set, to protest stages and to riverside picnics. One never “discovered” Zubeen Garg — he was simply there, like rain, like dusk, like the certainty of longing.

If Bollywood remembers him for Ya Ali, Assam remembers him differently: as the boy who turned folk into heartbeat, who carried Bihu into new decades without trimming its wild edges, who could switch from a devotional chant to a rock ballad without losing his centre. He sang in tongues most Indians will never hear in their lifetime — Karbi, Bodo, Tiwa, Adi — as though reminding us that every dialect carries its own music.

What startled audiences wasn’t just his versatility, but his refusal to be contained. Where others polished themselves into brands, Zubeen thrived on unpredictability. A concert by him could veer into an impromptu lecture, a joke, or a furious rant against politics. He seemed less performer, more medium — someone through whom music, in all its moods, passed unfiltered.

In Assam, people didn’t say, “He is a singer.” They said, “He is ours.” And that ownership came not from pride alone, but from intimacy. Zubeen could be found strumming a guitar at midnight in a friend’s living room, just as easily as headlining a festival abroad. He wrote poetry, acted in films, dabbled in direction. He raised funds for floods, argued with ministers, cracked jokes about himself, vanished when fame became too loud.

There was always a touch of mischief about him, as though he refused to take his own legend seriously. Yet beneath that playfulness lay a fierce loyalty — to his land, to its people, to the stubborn art of making music on one’s own terms.

On September 19, 2025, that voice fell silent in Singapore, in a sudden accident that feels too brutal, too abrupt to be real. He was only 52. Assam has declared three days of mourning, but the truth is, the mourning will last far longer. The loss is not just of a man, but of an entire soundscape.

At his cremation, people wept openly — young, old, men, women, children. Everyone sang his song Mayabini Ratir Bukut, as it became an anthem for millions of his grieving fans. Others stood mute, unable to believe that a voice so present could vanish. In Guwahati, Jorhat, Tezpur and across Assam played the song into the night, as though turning grief into a chorus.

How do you measure Zubeen Garg’s legacy? By the thousands of songs he recorded? By the instruments he mastered? By the bridges he built between folk, rock, and film music? Perhaps none of these. Perhaps it is better measured in the way an Assamese teenager today still turns to his songs to explain heartbreak, or the way a lonely migrant worker somewhere in India hums his tunes to remember home.

His story was not polished, nor free of contradictions. But maybe that is precisely why it mattered. In his ragged restlessness, in his refusal to be boxed in, Zubeen Garg became what artists are meant to be: mirrors, storms, companions.

The man is gone, but the echo remains — a river that keeps flowing, untamed, unstoppable. Listen closely — in the rivers, in the rains, in the humming of strangers on a bus — and you’ll find he is still here. Zubeen Garg was never just a singer. He was a weather system, a cultural monsoon, a man whose voice seemed stitched from the soil of Assam itself. He lived like a king, died like an emperor!

Binge-watching Panchayat? Congrats, you’re just 1984’s Doordarshan family on WiFi

 Let’s go back to a time when the idea of “Netflix and chill” was just “Doordarshan and dal-chawal”. India had one channel. One. If you missed Hum Log, you waited till someone in the neighbourhood retold the episode, usually with unnecessary spice.


And yet, with all that simplicity, Hum Log (1984) and later Buniyaad (1986) grabbed the nation by its collective heartstrings. You weren’t just watching a show, you were living with the Lalloos, Chhutkis and Havelirams. They cried, you cried. They hoped, you hoped harder.


Cut to today. Gen Z probably thinks Hum Log is a WhatsApp family group and Buniyaad sounds like an architecture app. They haven’t a clue. But here’s the twist, they still connect with Panchayat. How? Because awkward bosses, useless degrees, small-town boredom and the search for meaning are eternal themes. Also, Pradhan-pati’s sarcasm? That’s meme gold.


Panchayat doesn’t try to be deep, it just quietly is. Like a pressure cooker whistle in the distance. It’s where the biggest life lessons come hidden in cow dung disputes and solar panel dramas. And while the camera now pans in 4K, the soul hasn’t changed much since Ashok Kumar walked out of the fog and said, “Zara sochiye.”


From grainy Doordarshan screens to high-definition streaming, the technology has changed dramatically. But what’s stayed the same is the hunger for meaningful content. Whether it’s weekly episodes on the family Murphy radio or binging an entire season in one night, viewers remain emotionally invested - as long as it feels real.


Hum Log was post-Emergency India wrestling with identity, morality and the very idea of “progress.” It was the moral middle-class opera. Buniyaad looked back at Partition to help a fragmented nation understand where its fractures began. And it was India’s first epic of pain and perseverance.

Panchayat quietly critiques contemporary India where even digital India hasn’t bridged the gap between the cities and villages and ambition must learn to walk on unpaved roads.


The characters, all of them in different ways, are survivors of their systems. Chhutki dreamed of independence. Manju Devi holds power but has to be nudged into using it. Lalloo wrestled with fame. Abhishek wrestles with LinkedIn-worthy career choices. Haveliram built his life from rubble. Prahlad breaks down in a tearless funeral.


Ashok Kumar gave closing commentary with all the gravitas of a Shakespearean monologue. Panchayat gives you comedy wrapped in emotional landmines. When Prahlad speaks about his dead son with the composure of a man who’s tired of crying, no music swells, no slow motion, just stillness. That moment lands harder than a hundred tearjerker.

India has changed. But Indians? We still carry our dreams wrapped in anxiety, our sarcasm as armour, and our values jostling with modern pressures. These shows aren’t just entertainment, they’re emotional census data. They tell us that good storytelling doesn’t age. That subtlety can be more powerful than spectacle. And audiences will always make space in their hearts for characters who feel like home.


Whether it’s 1984 or 2024, we’re still those people. Looking for warmth. We might’ve swapped rabbit-ear antennas for Wi-Fi, but the longing for good storytelling - rooted, warm, human - still hits home. Whether it’s a refugee camp in Buniyaad or a photocopy machine in Phulera, we’re all just looking for connection. And maybe, just maybe, that’s our buniyaad.

Opinion: Pahalgam Attack A Calculated Strike On Kashmir’s Economic Revival?

The April 22 terror attack on tourists in Pahalgam, Kashmir, which left at least 26 dead and several others injured, is more than just a horrific act of violence. The deadliest such incident since the abrogation of Article 370 in 2019 is likely a strategic attempt to undermine the fragile economic resurgence that the region has painstakingly built in recent years. The timing, the target and the aftermath all point toward a deliberate effort to stall the economic momentum that has begun to erode the influence and recruitment base of separatist and terror groups.

Tourism is not just an industry in Kashmir - it is the backbone of its economy, directly and indirectly supporting hundreds of thousands of livelihoods. In the past few years, the region has witnessed an unprecedented boom. In 2023, a record 2.1 crore tourists visited Jammu & Kashmir, filling hotels to capacity and attracting major investments from both domestic and international players. The sector was projected to contribute up to 8.47% of the Union Territory's GDP, with ambitions to double that share in the coming years. This growth has had a tangible impact on the ground. Young Kashmiris, once vulnerable to the lure of militancy due to high unemployment and lack of opportunity, have increasingly turned to entrepreneurship, hospitality and allied sectors. The economic optimism has not only improved individual lives but also weakened the separatist narrative that feeds on despair and joblessness. The attack in Pahalgam was not random. It struck at the heart of the region’s peak tourist season, in a location known for its beauty and accessibility to pilgrims and travelers alike. By targeting civilians - especially Hindu outsiders - the perpetrators aimed to: > Instill fear among potential visitors, leading to mass cancellations and a sudden drop in revenue. > Shatter the image of normalcy and safety that the government has worked hard to project, both to Indian citizens and the international community. > Undermine investor confidence, jeopardizing ongoing and future projects that could further integrate Kashmir into the national economic mainstream. The immediate aftermath has been devastating. Reports indicate up to 90% cancellations in some segments, with hoteliers, taxi drivers and small business owners suddenly facing the prospect of loan defaults and financial ruin. The ripple effect threatens not just tourism but the entire tertiary sector, which accounts for over 60% of the region’s gross value added. There is compelling evidence that economic development, especially through tourism, directly undermines the recruitment strategies of separatist and terrorist groups. Studies and policy analyses consistently find that as young people gain access to stable jobs and rising incomes, the appeal of militancy diminishes. In the late 1990s and early 2000s, high youth unemployment was a key driver of insurgent recruitment. Today, with new businesses and employment opportunities, the separatist narrative is losing ground. For terror groups, this is an existential threat. Every successful entrepreneur, every family lifted out of poverty, is a loss for their cause. By attacking tourists and disrupting the economy, these groups hope to restore the climate of fear and uncertainty in which their ideology thrives. The attack is likely to have far-reaching consequences. Risk-averse investors may withdraw or delay projects, stalling infrastructure and job creation. Both domestic and international tourists may avoid the region, reversing years of painstaking image-building. And economic setbacks can breed frustration and resentment, potentially creating a new pool of recruits for extremist groups. The Valley’s resilience will be tested, but history shows that the people of Kashmir, given security and opportunity, choose prosperity over violence. The challenge now is to ensure that terror does not succeed in turning back the clock on hard-won progress. The response must go beyond security measures; it requires a renewed commitment to economic development, job creation, and the protection of the livelihoods that are Kashmir’s best hope for lasting peace.

Grooms Missing, Brides Quitting, Moms Eloping -- Just Another Day In UP

Uttar Pradesh’s wedding circuit has always been a riot of colours and chaos, but 2025 has truly outdone itself. The wedding season in the state of late has been less about “happily ever after” and more about “expect the unexpected.” 

If you thought the only thing running away at an Uttar Pradesh (UP) wedding was the groom’s nerves, think again. In the great Indian wedding circus, UP seems to be running the main tent with the most eyebrow-raising, head-shaking and side-splitting wedding mishaps from the heartland of India.

Mom Steals The Groom  (Aligarh, April 7, 2025)

Just nine days before the big day (scheduled for April 16), a 40-year-old woman from Aligarh’s Mandrak area eloped with her 20-year-old daughter’s fiance - along with Rs 2.5 lakh in cash and jewellery. The groom-to-be called his father to say, “I’m leaving. Don’t try to find me,” while the mother-in-law skipped even that courtesy. The family is now left with an empty mandap, a police complaint and a lifetime supply of awkward silences at family gatherings.

Bride’s Mom, Groom’s Dad (Badaun, April 11, 2025)

In Badaun, just days after the Aligarh escapade, 43-year-old Mamta (mother of four) ran off with her daughter’s father-in-law, Shailendra, on April 11. The duo absconded in a tempo, taking with them jewelry, cash and the last shreds of familial trust. The husband, a truck driver who was rarely home, is now left with a written complaint and a story that will haunt every future wedding toast.

Bride-to-Be Runs Away With… (Muzaffarnagar, February 18, 2025)

On February 18, a 26-year-old homeopathy doctor vanished from a beauty parlour hours before her wedding in Muzaffarnagar. To save face, her family faked her death, blaming a sudden “cardiac arrest.” The police, unimpressed by the amateur dramatics, tracked her down in Gwalior the next day, alive and well with her female friend. The only thing more dead than her willingness to marry was her family’s credibility.

The ‘Joota Churai’ Wars (Bijnor, April 7 & April 14, 2025)

• April 7, 2025: In Bijnor’s Garhmal village, a ₹50,000 demand during the joota churai (shoe-stealing) ritual sparked a brawl. The groom’s side offered ₹5,000, got thrashed and left without the bride. Police complaints flew faster than the shoes.
  
  
• April 14, 2025: Just a week later, another Bijnor wedding was called off after the bride’s sister demanded ₹15,000 for the shoes. The groom’s side countered with ₹2,100 and the ensuing scuffle sent the baraat packing. In UP, Cinderella stories end with police mediations and cancelled buffets.
  

The Drunk Groom Case (Bareilly, February 22, 2025)

On February 22 in Bareilly, a 26-year-old groom arrived late and drunk, then garlanded the bride’s best friend instead of the bride. He tried to recover by garlanding a male friend and an elderly guest, but the bride had seen enough. She slapped him, called off the wedding and sent the entire baraat home. The police had to intervene—because in UP, even the garlands have plot twists.

Husband Of The Year (Sant Kabir Nagar, March 25–28, 2025)

In Sant Kabir Nagar, Babloo discovered his wife’s affair and, fearing for his own safety (thanks to a recent spate of “killer wives” in the news), arranged her wedding to her lover on March 25. Three days later, overwhelmed by childcare, he went to her new husband’s house and brought her back. The only thing more confused than the villagers is the marital status on everyone’s Aadhaar card.

Honorable Mention (Charkhari, October 16, 2024)

In a lighter moment, Akhilendra Khare, a 43-year-old petrol pump worker from Charkhari, publicly asked his MLA for help finding a bride, citing his vote as collateral. The MLA, caught off-guard, promised to help. In UP, even democracy doubles as a matrimonial agency.

So, if you’re planning a wedding in UP, don’t just worry about the caterer or the weather. The smart thing to do is keep an eye on the guest list and maybe invest in some GPS trackers for the groom and the in-laws. In the wild world of UP weddings, you never know who’ll say -  “I do,” or “I’m outta here.” One thing’s for sure - the only thing more unpredictable than the wedding menu is who’ll actually make it to the honeymoon.

The Great Indian Language Limbo

India, the only country where a signboard can trigger a national crisis, is again embroiled in its favourite pastime - the Great Indian Language War. If you thought cricket was divisive, wait till you see what happens when someone paints a word in Urdu, Hindi, Marathi or Kannada on a public wall.

Let’s start with Hindi, the language that keeps popping up like that one relative at every family function - uninvited, but impossible to ignore. With its three-language formula, the New Education Policy (NEP) 2020 has Tamil Nadu seeing red (and not just on its signboards). The state’s leaders swear by their two-language policy, convinced the NEP is a sneaky plot to smuggle Hindi into classrooms under the guise of “linguistic freedom.” After all, nothing says “freedom” like being told what to learn.

The Centre insists it’s all about choice, but if you believe that, you probably also believe that “One Nation, One Language” is just a catchy slogan, not a fever dream of uniformity. Tamil Nadu remembers 1965, when anti-Hindi protests set the state ablaze - literally. Since then, “Hindi imposition” has been the political equivalent of a spicy sambar: always on the boil, and guaranteed to make eyes water.

Meanwhile, Maharashtra has decided that if you can’t beat the language imposition game, join it. The state’s new Marathi-only policy ensures that all government communication, from official memos to the “chai ready” announcement, must be in Marathi. Outsiders and Adivasis? Sorry, you’ll need Google Translate (or maybe divine intervention). The policy, meant to preserve Marathi pride, has left linguistic minorities feeling like uninvited guests at a very exclusive Ganesh Chaturthi party.

Karnataka, not to be left behind, is now lobbying for a two-language policy - Kannada and English. The Kannada Development Authority wants to keep Hindi at arm’s length (preferably farther), arguing that the language burden is already heavy enough. Why should Kannadigas learn Hindi when no one in Delhi is queuing up for Kannada lessons? And let’s not forget the regional languages like Tulu, quietly wondering if anyone remembers they exist.

So, here we are, a nation where every language wants to be the only child and every policy is a potential custody battle. As the Supreme Court wisely put it, “Language is not religion. Language belongs to a community, to a region, to a people, and not to a religion.” But try telling that to the politicians, for whom language is the sharpest tool in the shed.

Language in India is sacred, but also weaponised. Instead of celebrating our multilingualism, we routinely turn it into a zero-sum game. As if elevating one tongue requires stabbing another in the back. 

And while we’re busy fighting over whose alphabet should appear first on a highway sign, our kids are growing up in English-medium schools, dreaming in Hinglish, watching Korean dramas with Hindi dubs and texting in emojis. The future isn’t choosing sides. It’s blending them.