For over 2,000 years, the Brahmin was assured of his profession as a bureaucrat in the king’s court. The entire system was based on his framework, his rules, his language. His son and nephews inherited his role, no matter who was king. The jati-varna system ensured it. When the Muslim kings came 800 years ago, only the court language changed to Persian. On the ground, everything remained the same. The Brahmin was in charge of administrative affairs. But then came Macaulay, and everything collapsed.

Education changed. Language changed. Systems changed. And most importantly the hegemony was gone. Meritocracy was introduced—provided you studied English and were rich enough to travel to London for the civil services exam. It’s a wound that still has not healed. It was made worse when reservations returned post Independence favouring those the Brahmin once considered ‘untouchable’. Modern India is repeatedly told that Macaulay destroyed a glorious Indian education system.

But the older system that existed before the 19th century was not a universal structure meant for all Indians or even Hindus. It was a patchwork of local institutions aligned to elite groups. They were controlled by hereditary scribes, priests, and court scholars who monopolised state paperwork, temple accounts, land records, and legal interpretation. It was a caste-linked and lineage-linked system that gave predictable employment to specific communities.

Into this world entered Macaulay. He despised all things Hindu or Indian. His ideas were shaped by the needs of the British Empire. But his reforms disrupted a very old monopoly. By insisting on English as the administrative language and pushing for recruitment based on written exams, he attacked the privilege of hereditary scribes. It favoured a new mindset shaped by English literature and classical studies. Not Kalidasa, but Keats. Naturally this favoured a new kind of elite. But it broke the older caste guarantee that knowledge, power, and employment would pass from father to son. The resentment of Brahmin groups toward Macaulay is rooted in this loss. The modern call for decolonisation often hides this tension.

According to Christian missionaries, in the 19th century, there were 1,00,000 schools in Bengal, one school for about 500 boys. The Presidency of Madras had indigenous schools where there were more students from lower castes or ‘shudra’ groups. These are facts. And this information is being widely shared across social media today to show the pre-modern education system was not as horrific as Macaulay portrayed. In fact, it was far superior to the clerical education imposed by the British. It had a deeper sense of Indian civilisation. But this cleverly hides a major fact—that ‘shudra’ has different meanings in North and South India.

The traditional four-fold chatur-varna system is a theoretical construct more applicable to North than to South. In the North, the Rajputs occupied the Kshatriya position. The Vaishyas were clearly identified as Baniyas. Then came Shudras. In the South, there was no equivalent of Kshatriyas. Nayaka kings of Tamil lands were traders but often referred to as Shudras. Kakatiya kings of Telugu lands proudly claimed to be Shudras. In most parts of peninsular India there were only two castes: Brahmins and Shudras. Shudras were split into the ‘elite’ right-hand group and the ‘peasant’ left-hand group. Elite Shudras included land-owning and mercantile families. They went to school. Not the rest.

The idea that pre-Macaulay India had a uniformly open education system to all castes is a lie. What remains even more unspoken is the fate of the ‘impure, polluted, untouchable’ castes and tribal communities, each constituting 10 per cent of India. This bottom fifth is rarely spoken even when academicians speak of India’s ‘fluid’ caste system that was made rigid by British documentation.

After Macaulay, English education gradually opened to many castes and communities. It did not erase inequality. But it offered new routes of mobility. A child from a non-elite family could now enter administration by mastering a new language rather than inheriting social capital. This shift is what angers sections of the old elite. Scrapping civil service exams today would not create equality. It risks bringing back recommendation, family ties, and caste influence, much like the collegium system in the judiciary, where networks and kinship dominate selection, where a non-Brahmin judge is something to be proclaimed and showcased as a case study.

Decolonisation must therefore be understood with care. If it means revaluing regional languages and restoring neglected knowledge, it is meaningful. But if it means reinstating old hierarchies in the name of heritage, then it becomes a political tool to regain lost privilege.

Today, anyone who questions traditional medicine or ritual practice is accused of being anti-national. A society that silences doubt collapses into dogma. The debate around Macaulay, English, and education is not just about colonialism. It is about whether India wants a future shaped by open inquiry or a past shaped by inherited authority.

Jaideep Ahlawat has earned a reputation for stealing scenes with quiet intensity, but he insists it’s never the actor, but the story, that shines. With the new season of The Family Man, he steps into Rukma, a character whose arc unfolds from the first frame. In this conversation, he reflects on working alongside Manoj Bajpayee, the craft of building a role, and the way OTT has reshaped stardom.

What attracted you to Rukma’s character in The Family Man series?

When you know the franchise, you know that the ground is prepared. There are zero chances to go wrong in any direction. You see Rukma’s journey from the opening scene. You can see the arc of his character in the entire season. Besides, I was very keen to work with Manoj Bajpayee, and I knew I would have scenes with him. There was no reason to say no to the show.

Were there any pressures about working with Manoj Bajpayee, known for his impeccable performances?

I always believe that if you have great players in the opposite team, the pressure is less. I was being led by a great performer, so why would that worry me? I knew Bajpayee would not let me spoil a scene. I had to go with my detailing and work on my character. An actor is like a prism—you have to be at the right angle to shine like a rainbow.

How do you prepare for a character?

There isn’t much to it. But I read the script repeatedly. And because of this, after some time, I start to see the character slowly before my eyes. When our grandmothers told us stories as children, a different world would unfold before our eyes. I also try to create a world in this way. A good character has subtle nuances, which is why the character can be presented more strongly on screen than on stage.

After the arrival of OTT, do you think that the value of an actor has increased over that of a star?

I believe that the film’s story is the real star. And when the story is the star, everyone else is just a part of it. And a good story gives birth to a good film. A story makes an actor a star.

As an actor, how obedient are you to the director?

The director is the true captain of a film. So, one has to follow their vision. However, if I disagree with the director somewhere, I explain it to them. On the other hand, an actor also has their own perspective about the story or the character. A project turns out well through the convergence of both perspectives.

You and Vijay Varma are good friends from FTII. Have both of you ever had a friendly competition?

Not at all. Our relationship is like that of brothers. The other day we were playing cards together. Work has never come between our friendship. In the early days of our careers, a few friends from FTII opened a WhatsApp group. In this group, we would share where we were going for auditions. I feel that if Vijay is in a film, half the battle is won. That’s my feeling about him.

How do you handle rejection?

Rejection is a part of life. It’s not that big a deal. Rejection makes an actor better. And I don’t think an actor is rejected. I am rejected when I am not suitable for a character. However, it certainly feels a little bad.

Do you believe that the advent of OTT has helped you with recognition?

Definitely, OTT has given me many great opportunities. Especially a series like Paatal Lok, which gave me the recognition I deserved.

In any film or series, your presence is often more commanding than that of other actors. What would you like to say about this?

The dominance of my character, not mine. Actors bring some character to the screen. This does not mean we are trying to suppress another actor; we only try to suppress the character they are playing, based on the script.

Clay is having a moment again—no longer confined to studios, it now shapes the visual language of contemporary living. From functional objects to sculptural accents and collectible editions, pottery-derived forms are reclaiming centre stage. Clay has become a renewed status symbol, shaped by its material honesty, its tactile richness and the luxury of space required to display it.

“Art has always had a story to it—a personal journey of making as the artist spends endless hours evolving with the work, or a narrative the piece itself communicates,” says Mumbai-based ceramic artist Rashi Jain, founder of Studio Karva. Today, those stories are finding their way into homes through functional objects and mass appeal, as the boundaries between art, design and utility soften. A pooja thali becomes a design statement; a vase doubles as sculpture; a platter becomes a collectible.

Chef and designer Eeshaan Kashyap recounts being asked to create something as specific as a remote-control holder—an example of how everyday objects are gaining an artistic, handcrafted sensibility. It signals a new kind of consumer: one fluent in the language of lifestyle retail, yet drawn to the aura of the handmade.

Designer editions and limited batches have made ceramics deeply aspirational, with prices spanning from a few hundred rupees to over 50 lakh. The shift started during the pandemic, making the tactile feel precious once more. Social media further magnified it, spotlighting the pieces that look singular, imperfect, and richly material.

Large-format retail experiences and art fairs have also shaped this moment. Spaces like Nilaya Anthology and the India Art Fair now curate dedicated design showcases, giving clay a place alongside contemporary art. At the recent Art Mumbai 2025, Vikram Singh of Art Explore observed a noticeable shift: “The collector base is now getting younger. People in their mid-30s are now coming up to us with curious questions. I’m unsure if they truly understand the difference between functional and contemporary art, but this younger audience asks a lot of questions about the pieces’ artistic value: about the artist, their thought behind the piece, where the piece has been before, and so on.”

What is emerging is a clay renaissance—where objects perform as décor, as identity, as conversation. A material once considered humble is now shaping interiors with quiet confidence. It’s less about trend and more about the pleasure of materiality: weight, texture, imperfection, and the poetry of objects shaped by hand.

The first time Sathya Govindarajulu walked into the Brihadeeswarar Temple with a VR headset in hand, the priests paused mid-ritual. Visitors stared. A child tugged her arm and asked if she was “bringing a video game to Shiva.” Based in Thanjavur, the 52-year-old is building a technological bridge to India’s heritage. As the founder of TechVoyager, a virtual-reality solutions company, Govindarajulu is reimagining how we preserve, experience, and understand cultural memory. Using 3D scanning, VR, AR, terrestrial mapping, and 3D modelling and printing, TechVoyager transforms static monuments into living, breathing virtual experiences.

Founded in 2022, the company sits in the cultural capital of Tamil Nadu. “Thanjavur carries its history in stone,” she says. “Hundreds of our temples are still living spaces of worship… their stories are known only to locals or historians. That heritage stands at risk of being forgotten.” Through the platform, a visitor today can virtually meet Raja Raja Chola, interact with a 3D-printed Chola artefact, or take a guided virtual walk through a temple—all without leaving the room.

Govindarajulu’s journey began in a home where conversations drifted easily between languages, literature, temple lore, and the Chola legacy. “People rarely knew about our architectural brilliance, which deserved to be rediscovered,” she recalls. Tourism, she felt, had grown hollow. Travellers snapped photos, posted them online, and left without understanding what they had seen. “Immersive tech can transform that casual visit into a guided discovery,” she says.

Their first experiment felt like equal parts technology and theatre: an interactive 3D Raja Raja Chola who responds to a visitor’s greeting and narrates the stories of the Brihadeeswarar Temple.

Six of TechVoyager’s 14 team members are women, many of them local students. “We didn’t chase investors. Every rupee went into experimentation, hardware, and training. We wanted to build something big,” she says. From Thanjavur, their work wound its way through temples and archaeological sites. The work is time-taking, as it requires permissions from temple administrations and even the ASI. “There is no shortcut. You must approach the project like a partnership.” Even the sun dictates the day’s progress. Morning light, evening shadows, crowds, rituals—every element influences the data they capture. A single monument can take days to scan.

Ask her what truly drives her, and Govindarajulu doesn’t mention awards or metrics. She speaks of stories. “Preserving heritage is not about data. A sculpture won’t make an impression unless you know its story,” she says. “Our work matters because we can make our past continue to speak to the future.”

Spanish artist Salvador Dalí was the very definition of flamboyant. His needle-sharp moustache, pet ocelot, immaculate pinstripes and unapologetically decadent lifestyle crafted an avant-garde persona worthy of the surrealist movement he helped ignite—a movement now celebrating its centenary. Dalí thrived on creative provocation, so when he was commissioned in 1971 to imagine what men’s fashion might look like in the year 2000, he conjured 12 paintings that felt less like predictions and more like portals into his fantastical mind.

Today, those 12 dreamscapes become the blueprint for SCABAL’s newest triumph in luxury tailoring. The Société Commerciale Anglo Belgo Allemande et Luxembourgeoise—SCABAL, to the well-dressed—has shaped the vocabulary of men’s sartorial excellence since 1938. From its heritage Yorkshire mill emerge some of the world’s most coveted textiles: cloud-soft cashmeres, superfine Super 100 wools, and fabrics spun with diamond fragments and 24-carat-gold thread. These are the materials that travel from Savile Row to global ateliers.

In its latest Vision collection, SCABAL distills Dalí’s irreverent imagination into fabrics that feel both daring and devastatingly refined. “A thoughtful translation of Dali’s artistic innovations into textiles that are both luxurious and refined, yet true to the eccentric spirit of his work,” is how Sarbinder Singh Bindra, founder of TSB Overseas and distributor of SCABAL in India, describes it.

The translations are subtle yet spectacular. A dark grey suiting, sliced with broken pinstripes in soft blue and deep purple, nods to the toggles on a violet cravat Dalí once sketched for an imaginary financial titan. A dandy in a double-brim hat—painted in airy red—reappears as two tiny hats, scattered like secret signatures across navy wool using delicately stitched mouliné yarn.

The standout, however, is SCABAL’s reimagining of Dalí’s most deliciously bizarre concept: the uniform of a footman attending a homeless vagrant. In Dalí’s painting, a lion’s head anchors the extravagance. In SCABAL’s hands, that lion becomes a micro-weave of swirling mane curls in dark blue suiting, layered with a restrained red check. The result is a fabric with a nocturnal gleam—aristocratic, enigmatic, almost hypnotic.

For its Indian debut, TSB Overseas invited homegrown designers to bring Dalí’s surrealism to the runway. Curated by fashion impresario Prasad Bidapa, the showcase featured three looks each from four distinguished ateliers—The Darzi Group, Diwan Saheb, Jade Blue and P N Rao. Their interpretations ranged from razor-sharp three-piece suits to whimsical bandhgalas, each ensemble cut from one of the twelve Vision fabrics, each a quiet marvel of craftsmanship.

And then came the finale—a gender-fluid sequinned masterpiece by Dhruv Kapoor. Navy, embroidered, corseted and gleaming under the lights, its sharply contoured blazer revealed just a whisper of skin, paired with wide-leg trousers that swayed with sculptural intent. It was audacious yet elegant, modern yet mythic. A look that didn’t just honour Dalí’s surrealism, but seduced it into the now.

Across Indian homes, the way we entertain is evolving—towards spaces that feel intentional, tactile, and beautifully crafted. Answering this shift with sculptural elegance is ellementry’s Marble-Metal Collection. Founded in 2018 by Ayush Baid, ellementry has become synonymous with mindful design and the beauty of handcrafted imperfection. The Marble-Metal Collection captures that philosophy effortlessly. Think sculptural forms with a whisper of quiet luxury: cool marble softened by warm metal, sleek silhouettes accented with brass frangipani motifs, and airy hand-woven detailing.

“The collection is a study in balance—of textures, materials, moods,” says Riddhima Khandelwal, co-founder and Creative Head, ellementry. “The raw meets the refined, and together they create a timeless harmony that elevates everyday living.”

Hero pieces include the Frangipani Marble & Metal Bowl, a rounded Marble Trinket Box, a sleek Marble & Metal Platter, and Weave Pillar Candle Holders and Baskets—each one transforming effortlessly from functional serveware to sculptural décor. True to ellementry’s ethos, every piece is handcrafted using time-honoured techniques, all produced within a vertically integrated ecosystem that guards quality, authenticity, and craft.

The Western literary canon that seems an indestructible pillar of the Indian syllabi is Eurocentric, flawed, and so incomplete that it is a pity. It misses the voices of global literary eminence, a collection of South American poets and thinkers, whose thought towers over much of the world’s imagination. We discover them mostly as a private mission: Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Jorge Luis Borges, Mario Vargas Llosa, Pablo Neruda, or Roberto Bolano. And Octavio Paz, the subject of Indranil Chakravarty’s The Tree Within: The Mexican Nobel Laureate Octavio Paz’s Years in India, is one such entity, a literary giant we know little about. The book presents a rather unique biography of the poet. Not only is it thorough enough to sketch out his life in painstaking detail, but it also delves into background philosophies and movements that shaped Paz’s mind. Yet the most unique element of this biography is that it traces his links to Indian thought and culture, especially his stint in India as a foreign dignitary.

Is some of it forced? Was India one of the many minor influences that make up the poet’s world, but is blown up in the author’s imagination? “In India, when the night sky was brilliantly lit up with fireworks and all houses joyously decorated with lamps on Diwali night, they would remind him of Mixcoac.” Though here, the author almost ventures into fanfiction. Yet it does not detract from the book; it is legitimate to posit a hypothesis and research of such a subject. And the book does justice to this quest.

India and Indology played a huge role in the fabric of the society in which Paz grew up. Francisco I. Madero, who spearheaded the Mexican Revolution and later became President, was inspired by the Bhagavad Gita; except, he took it to mean that true winning came from bloodshed and revolution. Paz’s father-in-law, Garro, was both an Indologist and a Theosophist, learned in the Upanishads, and was introduced to Jiddu Krishnamurthy. Both Frida Kahlo and Garro were profoundly influenced by this new-age philosopher and mystic, and felt the way forward was to bypass the teachings of the West for a new interchange among other cultures and ancient thought systems. Lawyer and philosopher Vasconcelos sought a bridge between the Western and Eastern traditions. He admired Buddhism and Hinduism, the Upanishads and Advaita Vedanta. His influence extended to many writers and thinkers exploring Indian philosophy and thought, a kind of Hispanic Orientalism. There is also La China Poblana, a kidnapped Mughal princess whose clothes became symbolic of Mexican identity—the name being a misnomer.

This is an accidental book; the author was researching for a film on the same topic. Funding fell through, and cinema’s loss became literature’s gain. The book is definitely one put together by a researcher: detailed, exhaustive, and very exacting, even if somewhat dry. In preparation for the visual medium, the book has a plethora of unbelievable photographs and illustrations that really have not translated well into a paperback. Though that is the constraint of publishing, because an art book would have to be priced unreasonably high. But despite this, the grainy reproductions convey a thousand interesting stories.

Perhaps the greatest element in The Tree Within, one that makes it shine and validates its place among books of note, is that the Chakravarty copiously quotes from the Paz’s work. For each poem quoted, he presents the backdrop and, in a sense, explains the mindset behind the poem. It is easy to see a Nobel Laureate at work here; the poems are unreal, almost divine in origin. “I was there/ I don’t know where/ I am here/ I don’t know is where/ time/ holds me in its empty hands – Balcony”.

The progress towards his best-known work, The Labyrinth of Solitude, is organic. It is a total of his anguish and his art, carving a way through where none existed. “I begin and begin again. And do not move forward. When I reach the fatal letters, my pen falls back: an implacable prohibition blocks the way….”

“Eyes speak,/ words look,/looks think./ To hear/ thoughts,/ see/ what we say,/ touch/ the body of an idea. –Entre lo que veo y digo.” A great part of Paz’s time in India is told through Satish Gujral, the great artiste and muralist. An accident left him with hearing and verbal challenges, and it was through Paz that he found his way to Mexico to intern with the maestro Diego Rivera. That experience made him one of India’s foremost muralists. And the same art breathes through Paz’s poetry. “…the red walls of San Ildefenso/ are black, and they breathe:/ sun turned to time,/ time turned to stone,/ stone turned to body…/We walk through galleries of echoes,/ past broken images:/ our history./ Hushed nation of stones.”

Mohammad Khalil remembers the first lock he ever opened. He was barely 10, standing beside his father in their cramped workshop on Railway Market Road. Decades later, at 60, he still stands in the same bustling lanes where tiny shops hum with the quiet authority of Aligarh’s legacy: locks of every kind and size. “My father was a locksmith, then I got into the business, and now my sons are taking it forward,” he says. “Locks aren’t just metal for us—they’re family.” A few shops away, Mohammad Mukhtadir shares the feeling. His extended family, scattered across India, is somehow threaded together through the lock trade. “I live in a house built 20 years ago, and we’ve been using the same lock ever since,” he laughs. “That’s Aligarh for you.”

The city’s roots in lockmaking run deep, reaching back to the British era when local karigars mastered the craft. Commercial production began in the 1870s with Johnson & Co., a British firm that trained local artisans. By the early 1900s, Aligarh had earned its moniker taalanagri—the city of locks—as workshops formalised and demand soared. “During British rule, there was suddenly a huge need for locks,” says Naveen Brijvasi, owner of Wolf Enterprises and Atom Locks. “And the raw materials and labour existed only in Aligarh. Things aligned perfectly back then, and they’ve stayed that way ever since.”

Today, Aligarh has grown into India’s largest lockmaking hub, home to roughly 6,400 registered companies that produce 75-80 per cent of the country’s locks. Yet, even with machines and modern production lines, much of the industry still rests in the hands of skilled karigars. In Shakeel Ahmed’s wholesale shop, decades of dusty files, brass keys, and unsold stock map the changing tides. “Our locks used to be exported, especially padlocks,” he says. “But that slowed down once China entered the market.” Demonetisation, fluctuating raw material prices, and cheap machine-made imports have weighed heavily on smaller sellers. Still, Mukhtadir believes Aligarh’s strength lies in sturdiness and range. “Even today, China cannot make lever locks the way we can,” he says. “Their products are limited in scope and heavily technology-dependent.”

But the soul of Aligarh’s lock industry lives in inherited craft. “I can’t operate a mobile phone,” Khalil admits, “but I know locks like the back of my hand.” And that is perhaps the city’s truest strength. Even as markets shift and pressures rise, Aligarh’s identity stays firmly fastened. As Ahmed puts it simply, “Everyone in Aligarh makes locks.”

The biggest appeal of Primitive War is its undeniably fun premise: the Vietnam War, but with dinosaurs. On a special mission to retrieve a missing US Army platoon, Sergeant Baker and his men, known as the Vulture Squad, find themselves battling ancient creatures deep inside the forests of Vietnam. From terrestrial to aerial to aquatic, the squad encounters every kind of dinosaur. Every action set piece, line of dialogue, and character arc feels like an answer to the question: “How would a cheesy 80s Hollywood action film handle this scene?” That, in fact, is one of the film’s greatest strengths. It is unapologetic about its influences. Even the visuals and lighting recall 80s jungle actioners like The Predator, and instead of feeling outdated, they add a sweet tinge of nostalgia.

The film is a glorious parade of familiar clichés. The most obvious example comes right at the beginning: US Army helicopters soaring over lush jungles to the quintessential Vietnam War anthem. From there, it is one action-movie cliché after another: a character sacrificing themselves for the group; a squad made up of pure tropes, from the wisecracking loudmouth to the clueless newbie; a mission that turns out to be fake before escalating into a fight to save the country or planet; a montage of memories before death. Instead of making the film predictable, these well-known clichés accentuate its cheesiness.

Primitive War knows its strengths and commits to them, which is commendable for a film about dinosaurs in the middle of the Vietnam War. But at times, in that pursuit of conviction, it takes itself too seriously. There are indulgent stretches that test our patience. Suddenly, the film feels compelled to discuss the politics of war and how soldiers are mere pawns, which may be true, but it lands awkwardly when it follows a scene where a Russian paleontologist explains her morphine addiction while revealing that her government accidentally brought dinosaurs back through wormholes. And it’s often hard to tell whether the dialogue is intentionally corny or just plain bad.

Even with its modest budget, the film does its best to bring the dinosaurs to life in all their terrifying glory. The distinct hollow thud of a T. rex snapping its jaw is one of the most memorable technical nuances. It hits its peak in the finale, as the survivors face off against hundreds of ravenous creatures with nothing but a barrage of bullets. If Primitive War had embraced its own absurdities instead of taking itself so seriously, it could have been more entertaining. What we get instead is an overlong celebration of action clichés weighed down by self-seriousness, built on what is essentially a wacky premise.

Rejoice, dear citizen, for the Indian government has bestowed upon you the greatest of modern luxuries: an officially sanctioned surveillance app pre-installed on every new smartphone. Some people receive free data, some get cashback, but we, the true inheritors of a vibrant democracy, get something far more precious: constant supervision. Sanchar Saathi! What a lyrical name for a surveillance app. It sounds less like software installed permanently on your phone and more like a gentle charioteer from some lost epic, guiding you through the cluttered dharma-yudh of notifications, battery anxiety and late-night doomscrolling. One almost forgets its real purpose: to sit quietly in the corner of your device like a polite librarian who nevertheless remembers every book you ever touched, borrowed, skimmed, or secretly adored.

Why complain? After all, isn’t surveillance simply parenting, but with national ambition? We are a country of 1.4 billion children prone to terrible habits like thinking independently, reading the wrong news, or expressing opinions not endorsed by the Ministry of Acceptable Feelings. A little digital monitoring is the Republic’s way of gently patting our head and saying, “Beta, we’re watching you. Always.” Comforting, no? And let’s admit it: who among us hasn’t wished for a guardian angel? Well, forget angels; this is a far more reliable celestial presence. Angels don’t sync your data in real time. Angels don’t geo-tag you with the accuracy of a Google Maps intern who skipped lunch. Angels also don’t file neat little behavioural profiles to ensure your next political thought is suitably patriotic. The new app, however, does all this out of pure national love. There’s also the efficiency angle. Look at how tedious life used to be. If the state wanted to know where you were, it had to rely on antiquated methods such as tower triangulation, CCTV footage, and, heaven forbid, human intelligence. Now, with a simple tap of an icon, all that red tape is gone. This is what ease-of-doing-business truly looks like. Imagine the conveniences! Lost your phone? Don’t worry, the government already knows where it is. Wondering if the traffic police spotted your illegal U-turn? Don’t worry, they saw it live. Can’t remember your own political leanings? Don’t worry, the app’s algorithm has already decided them for you and stored the update in the cloud. Privacy activists, of course, will make a fuss. They’ll mutter things like “consent,” “civil liberties,” and “why is my phone suddenly sending screenshots of my WhatsApp conversations to a server in Noida?” But these are overreactions from people who don’t understand the joys of being known—truly known—by the state.

Besides, privacy is an outdated concept, a leftover from a time when doors had locks and people wrote diaries instead of posting their deepest insecurities on Instagram Stories. Today, transparency is a virtue, especially when it’s one-way. And think of the data scientists! Without your location, contacts, browsing habits, and midnight shopping searches for gluten-free khakhra, how will they train the next generation of machine-learning models? Your data is a patriotic donation like blood, but renewable. In fact, this surveillance app could become the next great Make in India success story. Imagine the export potential! Other countries may soon line up, eager to purchase our innovation in “Seamless, Unskippable Citizen Observation.” China will applaud, Europe will clutch its pearls and Silicon Valley will regret not thinking of it first. There is something beautifully ancient about this modern monitoring. India, after all, has a proud tradition of watchers and whisper-gatherers. The Mauryan Empire had its gudhapurushas: spies with sandalwood on their wrists and secrets in their sleeves. Medieval courts employed poets who doubled as informants, trapping treason in tercets. By comparison, Sanchar Saathi is simply the 21st-century update to the same civic choreography: a spectral scribe in your pocket, silently chronicling your digital footsteps with dutiful devotion. The surveillance app is not about monitoring; it’s about nation-building. A country that watches together, grows together. And if, in the process, we feel a little less alone and a little more, ahem, supervised; well, that’s just the warm glow of democracy keeping us safe. And literature has always understood the allure of being watched. Not the dystopian, Orwellian gaze—let’s avoid that cliched spectre—but the subtler forms: the ever-curious Chorus of Greek tragedy, forever observing; the sentient walls of Hawthorne’s gloomy mansion; the watchful, world-weary narrators of Dickens who peer through London fog with knowing eyes. Even the Mahabharata had Sanjaya, the ultimate remote commentator, live-streaming the Kurukshetra war to a blind king—proof that Indians were pioneering high-resolution reconnaissance long before 5G.

So go on, unbox your new phone with pride. Swipe up to accept the terms you never read. Smile for the front camera; you never know who’s watching. And remember: if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear, except perhaps low battery, which is when surveillance becomes truly nationalistic, because even the government must wait.