The Saffron Throne: Why the Hindu Elephant is dancing and West Bengal is the start

<p>Why did Atal Bihari Vajpayee lose the 2004 election despite testing nuclear weapons? The conventional wisdom offers complex economic theories, but the ground reality was far simpler. Vajpayee was doing good work, but his grand diplomacy backfired. He took a historic bus ride to Pakistan seeking peace, and in return, India got the Kargil War. It turns out that extended olive branches make excellent kindling for border conflicts. While Vajpayee kept talking statesmanship, the attacks continued, culminating in the 2001 Parliament attack under General Pervez Musharraf’s watch.</p> 

<p>For the BJP's core nationalist voter, the irony was unbearable: a party that campaigned on robust national security seemed unable to protect the capital. Feeling disillusioned, the core voters stayed home or walked away, proving that in Indian politics, an ignored core voter is a fast track to the opposition benches.</p>

<p>Congress might have been a one-term wonder, but Manmohan Singh’s US nuclear deal turned him into an unexpected darling for the middle-class voters who had previously championed Vajpayee. They wanted India to stand tall. Yet, over the next decade, that pride evaporated. A cascade of corruption scandals and a distinct perception of an anti-Hindu bias left voters feeling mocked. Soon enough, Congress found itself in the exact same quicksand that swallowed Vajpayee’s government.</p>

<p>Enter Narendra Modi, who initially tried the very same manual of Indian statesmanship. He flew to Pakistan for Nawaz Sharif’s daughter’s wedding, presumably hoping that wedding cake could bridge decades of geopolitical hostility. He got the Pathankot attack in return. For a brief moment, it looked like Modi, too, was trying to become an aloof statesman, forgetting the raw instincts of the people who elected him.</p> 

<p>But Modi’s defining trait as a politician is his lightning-fast course correction.</p> 

<p>When Uri happened, India did what its public had craved since 1947—something achieved only once before by Indira Gandhi in 1971. Modi borrowed a page from Mrs. Gandhi’s playbook: he crossed the line and hit them where it hurt.</p> 

<p>In a nation of 1.5 billion, there is hardly a family whose life, business, or security hasn't been touched by cross-border terrorism. By striking back, Modi cemented his appeal in the traditional martial belts of India—Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, Maharashtra, Madhya Pradesh, Uttarakhand, and Himachal Pradesh. The public didn't want their leader to be "nice"; they wanted a receipt for past damages. That collective rage was channeled perfectly.</p>

<blockquote>To use the famous phrase of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/K._F._Rustamji" target="_blank">K.F. Rustamji</a>, the legendary first Director General of the BSF: the "Hindu Elephant" had begun to rampage.</blockquote> 

<p>Granted, it hasn't been a flawless run. Recent slips like the NEET exam controversies and shifting UGC norms have caused genuine public anger. Yet, remarkably, the blame rarely sticks to Modi himself. Instead, the public demands accountability from his ministers, fully expecting that Dharmendra Pradhan will eventually be handed his walking papers while the CBI cleans up the mess. The plebeians remain convinced that Modi heeds their pulse—a reality made obvious by the BJP's seismic shifts in West Bengal.</p> 

<p>People have complaints, sure, but who else is there to vote for? The opposition inspires zero confidence. The Aam Aadmi Party is increasingly viewed by the nationalist core as a CIA-backed, anti-India project. As for the Congress? They might stand a fighting chance if they replaced Rahul Gandhi with a sophisticated mind like Shashi Tharoor, but Tharoor is in his twilight years, and Jyotiraditya Scindia—who actually had the youth and lineage to lead—is now sitting comfortably on the BJP benches.</p> 

<p>The ultimate flaw of the current Congress leadership is that they simply do not understand the ethos of <em>Bharat</em>. Up until Rajiv Gandhi, the family possessed an instinct for the country's pulse. Today, the party operates more like an NGO run by a foreign-influenced clique that has completely lost the plot of <em>Hindustan</em>. Consequently, they have lost the empire, much like Prithviraj Chauhan did.</p>

<p>Modi has effectively established himself as the modern "Priest King"—the first unapologetic Hindu ruler on the throne of Delhi since <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hemu" target="_blank">Hemu</a>. History will remember him, and his contemporaries already do.</p> 

<p>With the North, West, and East already painted saffron, the focus now shifts southward. The grand "Conquest of the Deccan" is about to begin, and the roadmap relies heavily on the opposition making predictable strategic blunders.</p> 

<p>Expect the current regimes in Tamil Nadu and Kerala to double down on tone-deaf, anti-Hindu statements. It’s their favorite political playbook, but they are playing with fire. The Hindu blood of the South takes a long time to boil—it is a slow-cooking anger—but once it reaches its threshold, the Hindu elephant won’t just rampage; it will start trampling and dancing.</p> 

<p>The Hindus of the South, whose ancestors once launched massive navies to rule entire swathes of Southeast Asia, are beginning to shed the deep-seated passivity drilled into them by centuries of foreign rule. The cobwebs of time are clearing out, and the old martial traditions, might, and pride are staging a massive comeback.</p> 

<p>If the BJP central leadership has even an ounce of political foresight, they already know who is destined to lead this southern renaissance. In all likelihood, the first true South Indian BJP Prime Minister will be K. Annamalai.</p> 

<p>Telangana is poised to fall next, the fierce ideological battlegrounds of Tamil Nadu are shifting, and Kerala's volatile political friction is bound to boil over. The throne of Delhi looks set to stay saffron for years to come. Grab your popcorn and enjoy the ride.</p>

वो छोटा सा टुकड़ा और घर की आस

शहर की इन ऊँची इमारतों में, अक्सर दम सा घुटता है मेरा,

बड़े होने का सच बहुत कड़वा है, बहुत अकेला है ये बसेरा।

छूट गए वो चीड़ के जंगल, और वो सीढ़ीनुमा अपने खेत,

एक पहाड़ी की किस्मत में शायद, लिखी है बस परदेस की रेत।

त्यौहारों पर भी जब घर का आँगन, दूर से सूना नज़र आता है,

बन्द कमरे में ये मन, अपने पहाड़ को याद कर अश्क बहाता है।

माँ के हाथों की वो गर्माहट, बाबुजी की वो फिक्र याद आती है,

ये रोज़ी-रोटी की मजबूरी भी, हमें कैसे-कैसे दिन दिखाती है।

पर इस उदासी के अँधेरे में भी, मैंने एक उम्मीद की लौ जला रखी है,

गाँव की ढलान पर, अपने हिस्से की वो थोड़ी सी ज़मीन बचा रखी है।

भले ही बहुत छोटा सा है वो टुकड़ा, पर उसमें मेरी पूरी जान बसती है,

उसी माटी के ख्यालों में छुपकर, मेरी एक नई दुनिया हँसती है।

एक दिन लौटूँगा ये शहर छोड़कर, ये मेरा आज खुद से वादा है,

उसी ज़मीन पर अपना घर बनाना, अब ज़िन्दगी का इकलौता इरादा है।

पत्थर और लकड़ी का वो छोटा सा मकान, जहाँ फिर से चूल्हा जलेगा,

ज़िन्दगी की ढलती शाम में, मेरे पहाड़ पर मेरा अपना सवेरा खिलेगा।

Mukteshwar: A Little Slice of Heaven, or Memories Are All That Is Left of Me

 Many eons ago, when the world did not have cell phones, and the Ambassador ruled the road, and the cool owned a Gypsy, life was a little slow. You did not have all the fancy vaccines that you have now. When The Sound of Music, My Fair Lady, and Mary Poppins were considered must-watch, with schools holding special screenings for them; when Richmal Crompton, P.G. Wodehouse, Jim Corbett, James Herriot, and Agatha Christie were found in the club library. And yes, people went to the club to read books! Apart from bridge, tennis, and badminton, typical evenings were in clubs, and you would turn in at 8:00-ish for dinner. When boarding schools were where all the chaps went, and you came home in winters for around 3 months.

In those days, one day in the summers, I found myself summoned to Mukteshwar, as my dad was looking at some land revenue records. And as is the wont of burra saabs, he takes justice to the village and the harbinger, the patwari, whose rope can magically reduce the land holding or increase it as he wants—sometimes for fun, sometimes for spite, and more often for money. However, as is his wont, the burra saab understands the vagaries of the marriage market, and using that excuse, many a Tehsildar and Patwari escape the wrath of justice, but they do get transferred into extremely interesting places. For example, Jat land where farmers love taking potshots; the Terai area where female mosquitoes have a habit of drinking blood. Believe me, there is nothing a man from the mountains fears more than having his blood drunk by his wife and a mosquito. Then there is Ballia; for some reason, everyone is scared. And then come the ravines of Chambal, where the dacoits love to kidnap revenue staff and take money from their family.

But I am digressing from the story of a boy, mumps, and a stay in a PWD guesthouse which extended for 3 weeks. So I was summoned, and I reached Mukteshwar in an open-top Gypsy with a couple of cops giving me company. The area was well known to me, and I skipped going to the Neem Karoli temple on the way because my mother, who had an affinity to temples and godmen, sadhus, and the whole bevy of them, was not with me. Crossing this temple without the mandatory visit would somehow inspire the Durga in her, and that was something my father and I had learnt to try and avoid for peace—which, they tell me, was not only important in the Mahabharata, but the modern man too wants war only in the office. Plus, in those days, the temple was not full of people, and there was no queue, and you could reach his cave in summers where he used to practice meditation, which is what my mother liked to do.

So we pressed on. It was a balmy day, and then, like it happens in Kumaon, the gods—perhaps angered, perhaps because they were having a difficult time from their wives... ah yes, dear reader, in India the gods are like your bros; we are not scared of them like those in the West, but here we are like a "my dear fellow" type of acquaintance with our gods. So Indra Dev, who probably resents me for being born in Krishna Paksha, and since he could do nothing to the original fellow, loves to take it out on me, and he sent in a gentle Himalayan rain. Somehow, being aware of the vagaries of God and having given up on him, I have learnt to enjoy the rain. And plus, if you are driving in it, you don’t get wet for some time, especially if you have a windscreen in front of you. But somewhere down the line, the driver stopped and put up the soft top, and we had sweet tea in brass glasses. And for reasons unknown to me, tea in Kumaon seems much nicer than anywhere else. Or, as my maternal grandmother used to say, unless the person making the food does it with love, the food does not taste good. I don’t know about you, but the dal chawal of my nani, the tehri, rice cake, pizza, etc., and the fruit cream of my mom... well, I have searched high and low but never found it, not even in Michelin-star restaurants. That food was for the soul, perhaps cooked with love, and that love is long gone. Perhaps that is why it's not there, like many other things in life.

But I reached the guest house. It overlooked a lovely little garden which somehow felt huge to me, but now seems little. And my two dogs, who I personally believe had replaced me in my parents' life, bounded up to me like dogs do, and since they were Segals, by nature they did not take kindly to being chained. So they bounded up. Then Dollar, the more social of the two, took me to meet his friends; of course, they were all doggies of all shapes and sizes. In fact, he was so social that when we were away, he would invite them for lunch, and at times we would find them jumping on the bed, something that irritated my mother, who would change the sheets of the bed. Plus, his friends tended to ignore her while running out when my father yelled at them. It did result in bad blood, and she would not allow him in her kitchen, while Jack was always there at the entrance. Over a period of time, Jack went with my mother and Dollar stuck by my father. Dogs, it seems, have their favorites. In fact, the first AC came for them and not me. Go figure, I was just the son.

But as is my habit when I go toward my memories, I tend to ramble; after all, that is all that is left of everything I had once. But I reached, ran in the rain, jumped, got gloriously wet, soaking to the skin, and then had tea and pakoras while still sitting in wet shoes. People who have never done this have never lived their ghastly life; believe me, it builds immunity and character like nothing else. It was a good day. I had food that was tasty; when you eat in a mess, you somehow love the simple home food. Then I read a book, not worried about school work, and lo and behold, the next morning I had a fever. Of course, fever in India means it's your fault, and as is natural, I heard a lecture on being responsible, which I did not hear as I was already running in sunny England with William in my mind. But being an Indian, the expressions on my face were, I am told, sad, so this lecture would have ended in 15 to 20 mins in any case. They were generally my mother's idea, and my father would only do it for peace at home, is what I believe.

Then the next day, I felt huge pain in my jaws and swelling below my earlobes. My father identified it as mumps, and the local doctor also confirmed it, and the best days of my life started. I could eat whatever I wanted, including unlimited amounts of Maggi, which to my generation is like what khichdi is to you when you are a little old. Nevertheless, the advantage of being young is even when you have a fever, you have boundless energy, and I would go for walks, which my father told me made it risky for public health. So I shifted it to night. And believe me, the Mukteshwar Mahadev temple feels special at night when it's moonlit. Yes, leopards were supposed to eat me, but somehow I have felt a special affinity with them; they always felt a little cuddly and cute. And somehow, perhaps because I am a dog person, they really keep their distance from me. And also, I used to take my dogs for this walk. Always felt since Mahadev is also Pashupatinath, he and I get along fine, plus he is a loner at heart, and due to circumstances, so am I.

So I would roam over the temple, go to Churail ki Jhali, and hope to find the famous witch. She never came; like ghosts, ghouls, and other such creatures, they seem to have a strong dislike for me, though I dare say I have seen possessions and firmly believe they happen to chaps who are a little weak in the brain, to put it gently. Anyhow, these days were great for me. Moonlit walks with the two chaps who were my partners in crime, Jack and Dollar. Jack was the rather cautious type, always holding back, telling me, "You will get into trouble." Dollar was, "Oh yeah, let's see." He was rather too adventurous; once he jumped from the mountain peak, giving me a heart attack, but he knew what he was doing—there was a ledge he was jumping to. Generally, he would know, but at times he would get caught, and then came the famous Provincial Armed Constabulary who would rescue him using ropes, I believe Pandey ji from Ballia. Also Sharmaji from the Forest Department, who taught me the multiple miracles of the forest: like moss grows on the north side; don't wear perfume in the forest, or red t-shirts as monkeys can see color like us; stand behind a tree and the leopard can't see you unless you move; make a figure of 8 and dogs can't follow your trail; how pine trees make the best torches. Oh, it was fun. Look at it from my point of view: read what you want, walk where you want, do what you want even if it's late at night when your parents are asleep.

The time I spent down with mumps is the best I have ever had and more than what anyone deserves. Later on, my father told me that at the same guest house, he had broken a leg when brought by his father, and now I got mumps; he had stayed for 3 weeks, which is exactly the same period I was there. Weekends were spent talking about anything under the sun, from philosophy to religion. Those were good days, and I spent a long time remembering those days, been to Mukteshwar many times trying to find those Fursat ke raat din, but somehow never found it. As you grow old, I believe that you start to lose these small heavens, and eventually, you want to leave this plane and go to the next one. Perhaps that is life. Perhaps that is life, who knows. but if you find the answer let me know and if I am gone perhpas the comment section can tell others after me what it was and what it is

The Great Brick-and-Mortar Ballyhoo: A Plea for Our Vanished Verandas

Parliament panel calls for preserving British-era heritage sites not under ASI ambit - The HinduI say, have you taken a squint at our grand old edifices lately? It’s enough to make a chap’s monocle pop straight into his mulligatawny. One wanders past the old Collector’s Residency or the Secretariat, and instead of the crisp, authoritative snap of history, one finds the distinct, lingering aroma of "neglect." It is, to put it bluntly, a bit of a washout.

As someone who has spent a fair chunk of their earthly pilgrimage within the hallowed corridors of Division Commissioner residences and those rather plush Railway Clubs, I find the current state of affairs to be a "shattering blow." These buildings—the PWD Dak Bungalows, the forest rest houses, the medical colleges where many a fine chap learned his anatomy—are not just piles of stone. They are Exquisite Masterpieces.

The Lucknow Lament: From Kotwali to Car Park

Take, for instance, the Kotwali of Hazargunj in Lucknow. A lovelier bit of police architecture you’d be hard-pressed to find in a month of Sundays. In its heyday, it stood with a certain "don't-mess-with-me" dignity. But what do we see now? It has been turned into a parking lot!

I ask you, is nothing sacred? Instead of the dignified tramp of the law, we have the undignified honking of hatchbacks. It’s a tragedy, I tell you—like using a Ming vase to hold your umbrellas or using a Stradivarius to swat flies. To see a site of such historical gravity reduced to "Zone B: No Parking" is enough to make a sensitive soul wilt.

The Freedom Factor: As Vital as the Cellular Jail

We must preserve these sites with the same fervour we reserve for the Cellular Jail. Why? Because these buildings housed the very souls who fought tooth and nail for our "Today." Many of our freedom fighters were processed, held, or defied the Empire within these very walls. To bulldoze them is to tear out the heart of the story.

The younger generation—bless their uninformed hearts—needs to see the physical evidence:

The Contrast of Luxury: They must see the "absolute velvet" in which the British lived while the rest of the nation was enduring the grim reality of famine.

The 250-Year Narrative: Two-and-a-half centuries of "uninvited guests" cannot be understood through a textbook alone. You need to see the high ceilings and the sweeping verandas to know exactly what was being taken from us.

A Note on the "Permanent Residents" (The Ghosts)

Now, here is the pièce de résistance. One cannot talk about a Dak Bungalow or a Forest Rest House without mentioning the Resident Spectres. It is a well-known fact that these places are positively crawling with the departed—spectral Majors, translucent Governesses, and perhaps the odd phantom postman.

I propose that these Ghosts be put up for preview! If we are opening the doors to the public, let us include the "Permanent Residents" in the itinerary:

Historical Accuracy: A ghost is, after all, the ultimate primary source.

The Spook Factor: Nothing brings history home like a sudden, chilly draft that makes one’s hair stand on end like a startled hedgehog.

"To preserve the brickwork but ignore the ghosts would be like serving a Christmas pudding without the brandy—perfectly edible, perhaps, but lacking that essential, tingly zing."

The Final Plea

We must throw open the gates! Let the public in to see the libraries and the grand halls. Let the children see exactly what was endured and what was reclaimed. If we don’t act now, we are essentially handing the future a blank map and wondering why they’re lost.

It simply won’t do, old bean. Not by a long shot. Let’s keep the masonry intact, the history vivid, and the spirits in their proper place—on the official tour guide’s list!

An ode to Training Fields of Birla Viday Mandir Nainital

Life is a battlefield, vast and wide,

Where storms may rage and tides may turn,

Yet every scar becomes a guide,

And every fall, a chance to learn.

The cannon roars, the dust clouds rise,

But courage walks through fire and rain,

For those who dare to meet the skies

Know loss is just the price of gain.

In the hills of Nainital, wrapped in mist,

Where oak trees stood like ancient souls,

At Birla Vidya Mandir, lessons kissed

My heart and made this warrior whole.

The classrooms hummed with quiet grace,

The playground taught me how to fight,

Not with fists, but with a steady pace 

To rise again, to seek the light.

The teachers there were more than guides,

They were the compass, north and true,

They showed me where the real strength hides

In gratitude, in me, in you.

So when life roars and wounds run deep,

I hear those Himalayan winds once more,

Reminding me of promises to keep

That I was built for so much more.

Thank you, Birla Vidya Mandir, dear,

For giving me my armor and my song,

You taught me there is nothing left to fear

On every battlefield, I shall belong.

​🌏 The Curious Case of Global Alliances: A Reality Check for India 🇮🇳

Lately, I’ve been looking at the geopolitical landscape and I can’t help but find the irony a bit… thick. Isn’t it "funny" how the world turns? 🧐

The "Ally" Paradox 🇵🇰🇮🇷🇺🇸

Take a look at Pakistan. They are frequently hailed as a key American ally, yet here they are: congratulating the new Iranian leadership and offering condolences for the "martyrdom" of the previous leader—a man the West consistently labeled a tyrant. It’s a fascinating bit of diplomatic gymnastics, isn't it? 🤸‍♂️

It makes you wonder: why is it that the "Champions of Democracy" often find it more comfortable to work with dictatorships while placing maximum sanctions on a thriving democracy like India? 📉

A History of "Friendship" (Or Lack Thereof) 🚢⚓

If we look back, the patterns are hard to ignore:

1971: While India was dealing with a massive humanitarian crisis, the US sent the 7th Fleet into the Bay of Bengal to intimidate us and support Pakistan—a nation that later harbored Bin Laden. 🚢💨

The Food Crisis: I often think back to the days of Lal Bahadur Shastri. When India was facing a severe food shortage, the US used food aid (PL-480) as a political lever, threatening to cut off supplies unless we fell in line with their demands. Shastri ji responded with "Jai Jawan, Jai Kisan" and asked the nation to fast one day a week rather than bow down. 🌾🚫

The Modern Friction 🇺🇸➡️🇮🇳

Even now, we see high-level advisors (including those around Trump) targeting India with talk of "unfair" trade and more tariffs. It’s a bit heartbreaking, honestly. 💔 Personally, I’ve always found Americans to be good, warm people on an individual level. But as a government? History and current policy suggest their "friendship" is often a one-way street.

A Path Toward Sovereignty 🇨🇳🛡️

Say what you will about the Chinese, but they understood something early on: Digital Sovereignty. By building their own alternatives to Google and other tech giants, they ensured their survival and freedom from external "off-switches." 💻🛡️

Perhaps it’s time for India to truly lean into its own "Atmanirbharta" (self-reliance). To keep our democracy alive and ensure the survival of our people, we must reduce our dependence on those who treat friendship as a transaction.

Freedom isn’t just about borders; it’s about who controls your food, your data, and your future. 🇮🇳✨

What do you think? Is it time for India to build its own "Digital Great Wall" or just a more robust, independent path? Let me know in the comments

When Dreams Remain Dreams: A View from the Quagmire

Many years ago, as I stood on the precipice of what at that time looked like happy marriage, I carried a specific vision for the future. I imagined a son who would follow my footsteps to my alma mater, Birla Vidyamandir, Nainital. He would live in my old house a legacy my nephews had already refused and he would become my dream and my ambition: an officer and a gentleman.

Even world weary men like me have dreams. But some dreams are destined to remain just that.

Today, I find myself "happily divorced," having learned that love is, at best, a farce. As for the Indian legal system? It is a quagmire worse than the British Empire that sired it ......a system so convoluted it makes our neighbors look like paradise by comparison. It is a machine that remains indifferent to the despair, the broken lives, and the suicides of the men trapped within its gears.

But I digress; sometimes the pain gets the better of me.

What remains of that era is a poem I wrote for a son who never arrived. It speaks of a flight that will never take off, and a sky that remains empty.

The Only Dream Left

Spread your wings and take the lead,

To heights where only dreams can tread.

While you conquer clouds and touch the blue,

I’ll be the one looking up at you.

With every mile and peak you gain,

I’ll cheer your name across the plain.

Go on, dear kiddo, touch the sky,

I’ll clap from earth as you soar high.

You are the only dream I have left

I have often said that if there is a God, He’s a sadistic bastard. Sometimes I think the very concept of "God" was a trick created by Saturn to punish the good. But that is a thought for another post.