The Past of the Present is in the Future of the Now

Welcome to the golden age of ideological MRI scans, where your political orientation is less about Marx or Milton Friedman and more about the real estate between your ears. That’s right, in the age of dopamine-driven democracy, your vote might just be a byproduct of your amygdala throwing a tantrum. According to Leor Zmigrod and the mischievous gang of neuroscientists poking around inside our skulls, we are no longer citizens of nations, but of neural configurations. Forget manifestos — it’s all about matter. Brains matter. Let’s begin with the amygdala , that adorable almond-shaped piece of gray gloom that stores our emotional fear files: threats, disgust, the unsettling realization that pineapple might belong on pizza. Conservatives, the studies say, tend to have bulkier right amygdalae, brimming with vintage fears — immigrants, gender pronouns, and tofu. Meanwhile, liberals, with more vibrant prefrontal cortices (PFCs) — the crown jewels of high...

As the nation remembers the birth anniversary of Maharana Pratap today, my heart travels back to the flickering tube light evenings of my childhood in South Extension, New Delhi.  I still remember sitting cross-legged on the floor, my eyes wide with awe, listening to Papa as he narrated tales of the great Rajput warrior. There was something in the way he spoke of Maharana that made the warrior seem larger than life—his every word dipped in reverence, his eyes glowing with pride. To us, Maharana Pratap wasn’t just a figure from history; he was a living embodiment of honour, courage, and unwavering patriotism. Growing up in a home where stories of valour were shared like family heirlooms, Maharana Pratap stood tallest among heroes. And in every story, right by his side, was his loyal and noble companion—Chetak, the bright eyed horse who galloped into legend. The Hero and His Steed Chetak was no ordinary horse. He wasn’t just swift and majestic—he was a soul moulded from t...

By the grace of gears and the benevolence of brakes, allow me to present the epic, thigh-burning saga of Ashutosh Tewari(me)— a man whose relationship with the humble bicycle has outlasted School, NDA,  girlfriends (if any), and even his pain of knee surgery.  Chapter 1: The School/Training-Wheel Days It all began on a sturdy Atlas cycle with training wheels that squeaked louder than a conspiracy theory WhatsApp group. Little Me, in Whites in School and a heart full of mischief, rode through the bylanes of childhood, dodging buffalo dung, aunties,puddle potholes and the occasional kite-string ambush. The cycle was freedom. It was rebellion. It was speed — at a breathtaking 7 kmph. It was also the only vehicle where the horn didn’t work but your mouth did: “SIDE DEY BHAIYA!” Chapter 2: The NDA Ninja Enter the National Defence Academy: where bicycles weren't just a mode of transport, they were survival tools. Imagine a place where your cycle b...