Mahasweta Devi (1926–2016), whose birth centenary we are observing this year, remains a powerful voice through her novels and short stories. She’ll always be remembered for her literary brilliance, but no less for her social activism and the empathy that animates her works. A winner of many prestigious awards, including the Magsaysay and Jnanpith, her work has inspired memorable plays and films such as Govind Nihalani’s Hazar Chaurasi ki Maa.

Former professor of human sciences Subhoranjan Dasgupta, who was lucky to have known her well, recounts a previously unpublished conversation.

In your very first book Jhansir Rani (Queen of Jhansi, 1956), you abjured the typical biographical format, which might have presented her as a figure of romance.

Yes, I broke new ground. My book was not a biographical novel in the accepted sense of the term. On the contrary, I depended on meticulous historical research rooted in that region and in the imagination of the common people, particularly villagers.

I examined local ballads and folklore, engaged in long interactions with people who ransacked their memories to recall the queen as she had been handed down through generations. The result of this grassroot exploration was the production of a ‘human history’ centred around the queen, as recollected and retold by the people themselves.

You followed the same method in later masterpieces too, like Aranyer Adhikar (Rights of the Forest, 1977) and Titumeer (1998).

Yes. I tried to create a form of historical fiction where the stress is on the revolt of the trampled and the exploited, be it under the great Muslim peasant-rebel Titumeer of Bengal or under Birsa Munda in Jharkhand (then Bihar).

I confess I have a special weakness for Aranyer Adhikar because there I tried to interweave two layers — documentation and fearless battle. We have to admit that the conventional historiography of our freedom movement has not given the Santhals the respect they deserve for their rebellion against ruthless colonial exploitation.

I wanted to fill this unpardonable gap, and what helped me immensely was my first-hand knowledge of the region and my intimacy with the local people. Once again, their memories, folk ballads, in short, their many-faceted invocation of the past ‘humanised’ my narrative.

You are perhaps the only Indian author of our times who consciously penetrated into the lives of the rural folk and tribals — exploited, cheated, impoverished at every step, yet so vibrant. This was not the occasional foray of an urban intellectual but a lifelong passion. Can you explain this deliberate choice?

I cannot explain it. I can only say that I made a choice. I ignored the mainstream and I opted for them. I did not go to the Ganga and Jamuna, I went to the unknown hills and rivers deliberately. And do you know what I discovered? The great respect and great love the Adivasis and tribals aroused in me. Let me say in all candour: the tribal society of our country is much more civilised, knowledgeable, even more sophisticated than those who clutter our metropolises. I went to them to seek inspiration.

In the process, you came very close to the Lodhas, Sabars and other tribal communities. Did this intense engagement reduce your output?

Tell me, who measures the genuine worth of creativity by quantity? Many urban writers are churning out thousands of books every year on the trials and travails of the middle class. Don’t we consign this abundance to oblivion?

On the contrary, my social activism has deepened my experience — giving it concrete-existential shapes — and defined the nucleus of my commitment. This valuable experience is layered with the invocation of myths, legends, folktales, collective memory. In short, magic realism.

When you read Budhani Ekti Raat Kahani (Budhan, a Tale of Night, 2001), you confront the intensity of this magic realism. Or, when you read Bashai Tudu (1978), the mysterious story of a Naxalite who revives miraculously after every encounter that riddles him with bullets.

Are you the only one in contemporary Bengali literature to have transcribed the experience of ‘the wretched of the earth’ in literary texts?

I need to correct a possible erroneous impression that only I have concentrated on the marginalised and the lowly. In West Bengal, powerful novelists like Debes Ray and Amiya Bhusan Majumdar, who were never popular in the obvious sense of the term, have also traversed the same tormented terrain. For example, Debes Ray’s magisterial Teestaparer Brittanto (A tale from the banks of the Teesta, 1988) is devoted to the subalterns, their woes, their struggles.

Similarly, in Bangladesh, Hasan Azizul Huq, probably the most forceful short story writer of our time, and novelists like Shawkat Ali and, above all, Akhtaruzzaman Elias have highlighted, with rebellious rigour, the deprivation and resistance of people condemned to the lowest rungs in towns and villages. In fact, I would like to salute Elias as the greatest novelist of our day, the very best, after Manik Bandopadhyay. Believe me, he has attained this exemplary status in both Bengals by writing just two novels. Elias proved that it isn’t quantity that matters, but quality, dedication and commitment.

I would also like to stress that our literary movement, limited though resolute, has received due recognition: renowned directors have turned our texts into stirring plays and films. Though we have never craved the applause of millions, Usha Ganguli’s marvellous dramatisation of Rudali (The Mourner), that too in Hindi, was hailed as a landmark production in West Bengal. Elias’s epic-like Khwabnama (Dream Elegy) and Chilekothar Shepai (Sentry of the Attic) were staged in both Dhaka and Kolkata with marked enthusiasm.

Last but not least, my Hazar Churasir Ma (Mother of 1084) inspired Govind Nihalani to create the moving Hindi film Hazaar Chaurasi ki Maa (1998). The oppressed and erased, in short, the subalterns, won the recognition they deserve, a solemn acknowledgement, neither cheap nor tawdry.

You are hundred per cent leftist, but what sort of leftism appeals to you? Do you feel closely attached to any particular party?

You have put a delicate and difficult question but I shall answer it. You know that I come from an illustrious leftist or rather communist background. My father Manish Ghatak (pseudonym ‘Jubanashwa’) was a rebel-poet of sorts. My uncle was the filmmaker Ritwik Ghatak whose adherence to Marxism calls for no special mention. And my first husband, the famous dramatist Bijan Bhattacharya, heralded the new movement of Bengali drama by writing Nabanna (1944) in the glory days of IPTA (Indian People’s Theatre Association).

When I dwell on this background, I find that our official communist movements have not been able to address the burning questions of our country and society. They have become far too ‘parliamentarised’ and this tendency partly explains why I wrote Bashai Tudu and Hazar Churasir Ma, two creative texts which unforgivingly expose the brutality of state machinery.

Does this mean that I regard the extremist, Naxalite movement as the only answer? Not at all. I expose the sheer mercilessness of the state and cry for a system that will not provoke desperate young men to take up the gun.

I myself have adopted the constitutional route and opposed the death penalty of several extremists. My appeal was explicit in my letter to the President of India, ‘In the land of Buddha, Mahavir and Gandhiji, let it not be said that there is no place in our hearts for mercy’. I remain a leftist, an ardent one. I am still searching for an appropriate path to human and social deliverance.

And this aspired-for deliverance focuses inevitably on the emancipation of the tortured, tormented Indian woman. I am referring to characters in Rudali (1979) and Gohumani (1993)…

Of course, women fight against semi-feudal, patriarchal oppression, particularly in villages, because they have to live and win. Live — not just survive. I cherish a special weakness for Gohumani. Though bonded labour was abolished by law in 1976, it continued to survive in Palamau. In 1979-80, when the bonded labourers began their fight, I joined them. Gohumani is an outcome of that actual experience and struggle.

What surprises you most?

You know, I have lashed out against the powers that be without mincing words. For example, I opposed the CPI(M) regime tooth and nail during the Nandigram tragedy. But still, god knows why, the rulers choose me as their country’s voice. Why? I was requested to lead the Indian delegation to the 2006 Frankfurt Book Fair where India was honoured as the partner-country. You know what I said in my inaugural address? “My country, torn, tattered, proud, beautiful, hot, humid, cold, sandy — my country.”

Title: The Good Reporter

Authors: Disha Mullick with Geeta Devi, Harshita Verma, Kavita Bundelkhandi, Lakshmi Sharma, Lalita, Meera Devi, Nazni Rizvi, Shyamkali, Suneeta Prajapati

Publisher: Simon & Schuster India

Price: Rs 699 (hardcover)

The kernel of who and what we are, local journalists and a local news product, emerged in the nineties in India. It was a moment of globalization with new kinds of resources and ideas for ‘development’ work. We emerged in the fertile environment of policies and programmes that brought women into the public domain as proactive subjects, like the Mahila Samakhya programme and the 73rd Amendment to the Constitution.

The Mahila Samakhya programme, for instance, launched after the formulation of the National Policy on Education of 1986, introduced the idea of education as a critical tool and process to empower adult women. Chitrakoot, where we would start Khabar Lahariya, was one district where this programme was implemented. Our access to education that could question structures of power, and our introduction to local, participatory processes of literacy and knowledge creation, came from this programme.

The 73rd Amendment to the Constitution in 1992 introduced one-third reservation for women in local governance institutions. Although women have always had suffrage in independent India, this law mandated women to participate in political processes at the rural level and triggered numerous confrontations with how organizing structures like gender and caste ensured the continuation of the status quo. The control of our bodies, labour and voice was no longer the prerogative of our patriarchal homes.

Khabar Lahariya came out of an idea piloted in 1993 in a residential adult literacy centre run in the nineties in Banda district of Uttar Pradesh, as part of the Mahila Samakhya programme. A broadsheet was developed in workshops with women students and distributed to rural communities. It quickly gained popularity.

It was the first and only piece of mass media in the local language, Bundeli, centring remote rural audiences and prioritising stories of their everyday lives. And it was created by women.

This literacy product took on an unexpected significance — that prophesied its future outside of the world of development that it was born in — when the women who produced it began to price and sell it. Dehati, unpaid women selling a broadsheet! Stepping out of their homes, piling into jeeps, and wading through rivers to get people to buy and read! And people paid. This propelled the idea of a more permanent local newspaper, which eventually launched as Khabar Lahariya in 2002.

Khabar Lahariya had, at its heart, the desire to bring into the public domain stories about everyday rural lives from the perspective of those considered most unlikely — because of their castes, and their history of exclusion from education — to have a public voice. We were in a prime location to put this corrective desire into action. Uttar Pradesh is the largest state in the country, with the largest number of members of Parliament. It is densely populated and, from its cities to its smallest hamlets, holds firmly and distinctively to the norms of caste, class and gender.

Bundelkhand, where Banda is located, is on the southern border of the state — rocky, stricken by drought, and with a history of underdevelopment and poverty. Here, sensational crime abounded, yet the politics of the well-oiled, deeply striated, feudal system operating within the democratic structure of the panchayat found little space in the newspapers in circulation.

The broadsheets available were densely packed with stories in small print, in a language that no one spoke (or read, in these districts with dismal literacy rates) and mostly included stories about cities far away and unrelated to the everyday lives of rural people. They were — and mostly still are — owned by large businesses or politicians, and reporters and stringers were predominantly ‘upper’-caste’.

Khabar Lahariya became the only newspaper that represented rural lives in intimate detail, reported and distributed by women who knew life and work, hardship and violence, and the culture in these villages better than anyone else. It was written in the language we spoke and our neighbours spoke — as well as our village heads, panchayat secretaries and officials.

It made some of them smile, even snigger, but it made them subscribers. Not being able to read was no barrier; copies were bought and read aloud by the often-theatrical men found on the village chabutra, or school-going children to their mothers while they cooked and worked.

With the gaze and language of rural women, Khabar Lahariya brought an understanding of the business of the rural public space that no ‘mainstream’ newspaper had. It brought into the ambit of the public forum why Kalavati being burnt alive by ‘accidental’ fire while she was making chapatis was suspicious; why Gangaram Tiwari, with his three buffaloes, ten bighas of land and government job, had his application for a house under the rural housing scheme for the poor passed immediately, but landless, sickly Kallu Ahirwar’s application was delayed for years; why Tabassum couldn’t get her meagre widow pension from the bank; or why Raju (urf Abbas), a local stringer with a portfolio of reports praising the local administration, seemed to have more modern amenities in his house than anyone else in the village.

And since it was written in the language that was spoken not just in the rural public, but inside homes, on fields, in brick kilns, by the well, in the panchayat bhavan and the taluk office, it was anticipated eagerly, it resonated and it was relished. If it ruffled feathers — it did, it did — it also built credibility with rural audiences who saw their realities being recognised, and with local administration who acknowledged the hard work of going where others were reluctant to go.

This, then, became Khabar Lahariya’s foundational principle, and eventually, our ‘brand’: ‘Aapki khabar, aapki bhasha mein’, your news, in your language. It was not media affiliated with a certain community. It was media that attempted to bring the contradictions and tensions of our unequal identities — including, and not limited to, the shifting, malleable, knotty politics of caste — into the newsroom. We were a rural newspaper run by women who were not seen by the public as knowledge creators, but who have been able to present knowledge from a perspective and idiom that lays bare the mechanics of life in rural north India.

Koji Suzuki, the Japanese novelist whose chilling psychological horror stories reshaped the genre and inspired globally successful film adaptations including Ring (1991), died at a Tokyo hospital on Friday, 8 May. He was 68.

Widely regarded as one of the defining voices of modern Japanese horror fiction, Suzuki built an international following through stories that blended supernatural terror with emotional unease, social anxieties and psychological suspense. His breakthrough novel Ring (1991) became a cultural phenomenon in Japan before spawning one of the most influential horror franchises in the world.

Born in Japan on 13 May 1957, Suzuki began his literary career at a time when horror fiction occupied only a limited space in mainstream Japanese publishing. He made his debut as a novelist in 1990 with Rakuen (Paradise, 1990), which won a superior prize at the Japan Fantasy Novel Award and immediately marked him out as a promising new voice.

But it was Ring that transformed Suzuki into a household name. The novel centred on a cursed videotape that killed viewers days after watching it — a premise that tapped into growing fears surrounding technology, media and isolation in late 20th-century society. The story’s eerie atmosphere and restrained storytelling distinguished it from more graphic horror traditions and helped establish a new template for Japanese psychological horror.

Ring was adapted into the hugely successful Japanese film Ringu (1998), directed by Hideo Nakata. The film’s haunting imagery, particularly the ghostly figure of Sadako emerging from a television screen, became iconic worldwide. Its success triggered a wave of Japanese horror films that found international audiences and later inspired Hollywood remakes, including the 2002 American adaptation The Ring.

Suzuki followed up Ring with sequels and companion works including Rasen (Spiral) (1995), which expanded the mythology of the original novel and won the prestigious Eiji Yoshikawa literary award for newcomers in Japan. His stories often moved beyond conventional horror, incorporating themes of science fiction, philosophy and existential dread.

Over the years, Suzuki’s work earned both domestic and international recognition. His novel Edge (2008) received the Shirley Jackson Award in the United States, underlining his influence beyond Japan and his standing among contemporary masters of literary horror and suspense.

Apart from Ring and Spiral, Suzuki produced a diverse body of work that included Honogurai Mizu no Soko kara (Dark Water, 1996), another acclaimed supernatural tale later adapted for cinema. Other notable works included Kamigami no Promenade (Promenade of the Gods, 2003) and Ubiquitous (2005).

Critics often credited Suzuki with helping redefine horror for a modern audience by relying less on gore and more on atmosphere, suggestion and deeply human fears. His writing influenced filmmakers, authors and screenwriters across the world, particularly during the late 1990s and early 2000s, when Japanese horror enjoyed a global boom.

Though best known for terrifying readers, Suzuki’s stories were equally noted for their melancholy and emotional depth. His legacy endures not only through his novels, but also through the vast cinematic universe and cultural impact that emerged from them.

With media inputs

The passing of Shereen Ratnagar marks the end of an era in Indian archaeology and historical scholarship. Reports of her demise on 25 May 2026, accompanied by tributes from scholars and academic bodies including The Indian History Congress, have evoked profound sorrow across academic circles.

For generations of historians, archaeologists, and students, Ratnagar was not merely a scholar of the ancient past; she was among the fiercest defenders of intellectual honesty in the present.

To speak of Shereen Ratnagar is to speak of a scholar who refused comfort, conformity, and ideological compromise. In a public sphere increasingly vulnerable to myth dressed as history, she stood firmly on the side of evidence, excavation, and reason. Her scholarship on the Indus Valley Civilisation transformed understandings of early urbanism, trade, technology, and social organisation in South Asia. Yet her significance extended well beyond the archaeology of Harappa. She became one of the most important public intellectuals defending secular and scientific history-writing in contemporary India.

Excavating the Indus Beyond Romanticism

Born into a generation of scholars shaped by post-Independence intellectual optimism, Ratnagar approached archaeology not as a glorified search for civilisational pride, but as a disciplined inquiry into human societies. Educated at Deccan College in Pune and later trained in Mesopotamian archaeology at University College London, she brought to Indian archaeology a rare combination of global perspective and methodological rigour.

Her work fundamentally altered the study of the Indus Valley Civilisation. At a time when many interpretations of Harappan society remained descriptive and artefact-driven, Ratnagar insisted on asking larger structural questions: How did trade networks function? What forms of political organisation existed? What ecological and economic pressures contributed to urban decline? What did craft production reveal about class and labour?

Books such as Encounters: The Westerly Trade of the Harappa Civilisation and Understanding Harappa, and The End of the Great Harappan Tradition remain indispensable texts for students of ancient India. They revealed the Indus world not as an isolated marvel frozen in antiquity, but as part of a vast interconnected Bronze Age network stretching from Mesopotamia to the Arabian Sea.

Ratnagar challenged simplistic narratives that reduced the Harappan civilisation to nationalist symbolism. She consistently warned against reading modern religious identities into prehistoric societies. For her, archaeology was not a tool for validating political mythologies; it was a discipline grounded in material evidence and critical interpretation.

A Scholar Who Refused Silence

What distinguished Shereen Ratnagar from many accomplished academics was her refusal to remain confined within university walls. Even after retiring from the Centre for Historical Studies at Jawaharlal Nehru University, she continued to intervene courageously in public debates over history, secularism, and communal politics.

During the long and contentious disputes surrounding Ayodhya, Ratnagar emerged as one of the scholars who openly challenged the politicisation of archaeology. She argued that archaeological evidence must never become subordinate to religious mobilisation or majoritarian sentiment. Whether or not one agreed with every aspect of her interpretation, there was little doubt about the intellectual courage involved in defending scientific standards amid a highly charged political atmosphere.

In an age increasingly hostile to dissenting scholarship, Ratnagar represented a generation of historians who believed that evidence mattered more than ideology. She belonged to that shrinking tribe of public intellectuals willing to endure vilification in defence of academic integrity.

Writing history from the margins

Another remarkable aspect of Ratnagar’s work was her attention to communities often neglected in conventional historical narratives. Her writings on pastoralists, tribal societies, and marginalised peoples reflected a deep concern with social histories excluded from elite-centric accounts of civilisation.

She recognised that archaeology was not simply about kings, monuments, or urban grandeur. It was also about forgotten labourers, craftspeople, migrants, herders, and ordinary communities whose lives shaped history but rarely entered textbooks. In this sense, her scholarship possessed an unmistakably democratic impulse.

Her prose, though rigorous, was never inaccessible. Students remember her not only as a formidable scholar but also as a teacher capable of making ancient history intellectually alive and politically relevant. She inspired generations to see archaeology not as treasure hunting, but as an ethical engagement with the past.

The Defence of Secular History

The grief surrounding Ratnagar’s passing is also tied to the larger anxiety about the future of critical scholarship in India. She represented an intellectual tradition that viewed secularism not as a slogan, but as a scholarly obligation. Historical interpretation, she believed, must remain independent of religious chauvinism and state patronage.

At a time when mythology is often presented as historical fact and professional historians are routinely subjected to ideological attacks, Ratnagar’s life acquires even greater significance. She demonstrated that scholarship requires not only knowledge, but moral stamina.

Her generation of historians — including figures who defended plural and evidence-based historiography through turbulent decades — understood that the battle over the past is ultimately a battle over the character of the Republic itself. Ratnagar never separated historical inquiry from democratic responsibility.

An Irreplaceable Intellectual Loss

The sorrow over Shereen Ratnagar’s passing is therefore not merely institutional. It is civilisational in a deeper sense. India has lost one of the sharpest minds devoted to understanding its ancient past without surrendering to romantic nationalism or sectarian distortion.

Her books will continue to be read in classrooms and libraries, but her absence will be felt most acutely in public discourse — especially in moments when historians are called upon to defend reason against propaganda.

In mourning Shereen Ratnagar, India mourns more than an archaeologist. It mourns a scholar who insisted that history must remain accountable to evidence, complexity, and truth. Such voices are never easily replaced.

Hasnain Naqvi is a former member of the history faculty at St. Xavier’s College, Mumbai

The death of veteran filmmaker, screenwriter, and actor P. Bharathiraja, 84, in Chennai on the morning of 10 June brings to an end an era of a towering titan who broke the shackles of studio-bound filmmaking to inject raw, rural realism into Tamil screenplays.

The national award-winning director had been battling prolonged age-related ailments and recurring respiratory complications for several months. Family associates noted that his physical decline was accelerated by severe emotional trauma following the sudden demise of his son, actor-director Manoj Bharathiraja, in March 2025. He is survived by wife, Chandraleela, and daughter, Janani.

Chief minister C Joseph Vijay was among the early visitors at the director's residence to pay tributes. In his condolence message he said, “A director who rose from a rural background and infused his films with vibrant life and realism, Mr Bharathiraja left a distinct mark on Tamil cinema with numerous successful films. For his work, he received many national and state honours, including the prestigious Padma Shri.”

The CM announced that in recognition of his contributions to cinema, state honours would be accorded to Bharathiraja.

The actor-director was known as a trendsetter for his choice of stories and their treatment. A multiple national award winner known for his predominantly rural content, Bharathiraja shot to fame with his debut directorial venture 16 Vayathinile in 1977. It also marked his maiden association with legendary musician Ilayaraja as the songs went on to become chartbusters.

Kamal Haasan and the late Sridevi were the lead pair, with superstar Rajinikanth playing the villain in a film that went on to rule the box office. 16 Vayathinile is rated one among the best Tamil films even today.

Rajinikanth and Kamal Haasan were also among those who visited Bharathiraja’s residence.

In an emotional tribute, Kamal Haasan said, “The gentleman has gone, but his art will continue to live on. I'm not counting the losses; I'm counting the gains. He was there, and he made films with me. I am very grateful."

Rajinikanth recalled how his ‘dear friend’ Bharathiraja was open-hearted. “He was like a child at heart. Whatever he felt, he would say it directly. He used to criticise me too. He would tell me, I like you as a person, but I don't like your acting. That was the kind of honesty he had.”

Born Chinnasamy on 17 July 1941, in Allinagaram, Theni district, Bharathiraja rose from humble beginnings to alter the trajectory of South Indian cinema permanently. Before his arrival in the late 1970s, Tamil cinema was heavily dominated by indoor studio sets, high-decibel theatrical melodramas and urban-centric narratives.

Bharathiraja shattered this status quo by taking his cameras out of the studio floors and onto the dusty, sun-drenched tracks of actual villages. He introduced mainstream audiences to an unglamorous, authentic rural landscape. 16 Vayathinile became a cultural phenomenon and established a new lexicon for commercial filmmaking.

His signature technique coupled folk aesthetics, localised dialects, and complex human vulnerabilities. For generations of viewers, the filmmaker's booming, emotive voiceovers introducing his works with the iconic phrase, ‘My dear Tamilians’ became synonymous with high-quality, rooted storytelling.

Over a prolific career spanning nearly five decades, Bharathiraja helmed more than 40 feature films across Tamil, Telugu and Hindi. He demonstrated a remarkable stylistic range, moving effortlessly from rural dramas to psychological thrillers.

His pathbreaking films in Tamil include Sigappu Rojakkal (1978), a sophisticated, gritty psychological thriller that broke his rural mould; Alaigal Oivathillai (1981), a poignant, critically acclaimed romance addressing caste and religious barriers; Mudhal Mariyathai (1985), a masterful, mature narrative on platonic love featuring Sivaji Ganesan; and Karuthamma (1994), a hard-hitting social commentary tackling the menace of female infanticide.

Beyond his technical prowess behind the lens, Bharathiraja was widely recognised as the industry’s ultimate star-maker. He possessed an uncanny eye for raw talent and systematically introduced a generation of performers who would go on to shape the future of Indian cinema.

In a characteristic and superstitious tradition, he frequently rechristened his lead actors with names beginning with the letter "R". Through this unique grooming school, he introduced iconic artistes such as Radikaa, Revathi, Radha, Rekha and Vijayashanti. He was also instrumental in launching the careers of male stars like Karthik and Pandian, alongside legendary technicians, comedians, and character actors.

Furthermore, the Bharathiraja School of Filmmaking served as a foundational training ground for several highly successful directors, including K Bhagyaraj, R Parthiban, and Pandiarajan, all of whom began their careers as his assistant directors.

In the latter half of his career, Bharathiraja seamlessly transitioned to the front of the camera, reinventing himself as a formidable character actor. His powerful screen presence and distinct dialogue delivery earned him widespread critical acclaim from younger generations of filmgoers.

As a director, his final creative output was a critically praised segment in the 2023 OTT anthology 'Modern Love Chennai'.

He was conferred the Padma Shri in 2004. His illustrious trophy cabinet also included six national film awards, four Filmfare awards south, and six Tamil Nadu state film Awards.

Every time I stepped outside the city and told someone where I was from, the reaction was almost scripted. Either they would immediately start talking about kababs, nihari, biryani… or they would laugh at my insistence on saying ‘hum’ and my talaffuz. Nobody has ever heard ‘Lucknow’ and responded with, “Ah yes, rewdi.” Nobody.

The smell that rises after maghrib (Arabic for sunset) from countless tandoors and grills across old Lucknow is practically one of the three reasons I moved back. People gather around hole-in-the-wall hotels to eat Rahim ki nihari, Mubeen ke pasande, Idrees ki biryani, Tundey kabab… Standing shoulder to shoulder, sometimes waiting for a plate of kababs so soft they melt in your mouth, just like your slightly liberal political opinion might in front of your right-wing papa.

I grew up proudly telling people that Lucknow boasts of over forty varieties of kababs and that Awadhi cuisine is what truly puts us on the map. Galawati kabab so delicate they were supposedly invented for a toothless nawab. Dhaagey ke kabab tied carefully with thread so the meat would not disintegrate before cooking. Shami kabab and the endless debate about how crisp they should be. Nargisi kabab, boti kabab, pasande, koftey, Kakori kabab, majlisi kabab... Even lauki ke kabab.

And this is just kababs. I have not even started on nihari-kulcha breakfasts after winter fog, paya simmering overnight, bheja fry at weddings, yakhni pulao, or even home-cooked adraki gosht, methi machhli ka saalan or even gosht ka achaar.

I am listing all this because one Uttar Pradesh government list would have us think that all of UP survives on vegetarian snacks. I truly hope this list does not reach my Lucknawi friends Tullika or Madhvi or Shabnam apa, who would launch a protest almost instinctively when they find out that only rewdi, mango produce and chaat made it to the Lucknow district cuisine.

Now listen, I have absolutely nothing against rewdi. What problem could I possibly have with those little gur-and-til discs sold every winter in every gali and every train stopping at LJN? I love them. I am also deeply loyal to ‘mango produce’. I’ll physically defend the honour of Lucknawi chausa mangoes, if need be. So, this is not just about me taking the absence of kababs on that list personally.

Or maybe it is.

Because the curious case of the missing kababs from UP’s grand ‘One District One Cuisine’ list is absurd (and dangerous). According to ministers, district-level committees were formed across all 75 districts. District magistrates chaired them. Teachers, professors and local experts were consulted. Surveys were conducted. Files moved. Meetings happened. Chai was consumed.

Can you imagine this? A full-blown committee of experts sat together to decide what the historic Lucknow district should boast of culturally and arrived at the revolutionary conclusion that the city globally associated with Awadhi meat cuisine should pretend kababs don’t exist. Or can be packaged and sold and benefit communities.

This government is asking us to believe that only vegetarian items can serve MSME interests. Seriously? In the whole of Lucknow district? Which has mastered the art of packaging even malai makkhan, a dessert so delicate it practically evaporates if exposed to sunlight for three minutes. Somehow, that made the list.

Now, I’m a huge fan of malai makkhan. But one cannot ignore the saffron tint of practically any new policy. And by saffron, I do not mean the zafran lovingly sprinkled over our biryani. I mean the saffron draped over legislative and policy processes.

The state insists the omission of meat is ‘not intentional’. Which is as far from the truth as malai makkhan is from boti kabab. The uncooked truth is this state-driven cultural and palate cleansing is a way to impose a savarna upper-caste vegetarian worldview on us all.

They are using food to shape identity, memory, nationalism and power. The state decides whose cuisine becomes ‘heritage’, whose food gets subsidies and branding support, and whose food is made to disappear from official memory.

This is not even about some exoticised Nawabi nostalgia. Lucknow’s food culture survives in small businesses tucked inside narrow lanes, in qasai mohallas, in winter nihari breakfasts, in bhuni kaleji stalls, in Kayastha kitchens cooking khade masale ka gosht, in Eid daawats where shami kababs disappear before the second roti arrives, and in paya simmering overnight for workers heading out before sunrise.

****

What’s being erased in this sanskari project is the food of meat-eating communities and economies built around them. Out with Muslim food traditions! Out with Dalit food traditions! And their kitchens, roadside stalls, butchers, women preserving recipes through generations, and the labouring castes whose cuisines emerged from resilience and survival. None of this should sully our ‘One District One Cuisine’ list.

And how they love their unitary fantasies! One District One Cuisine, One Nation One Election, One Nation One Tax, One Nation One Ration Card, One Nation One Grid… One language. One culture. One Supreme Leader. One (political) Party. Obliterate all and everything that does not fit their notion of a Hindu rashtra cooked in the Nagpur kitchen.

Remember this cuisine list is tied directly to state benefits, subsidies, packaging support, branding and promotion. So the question arises: whose food entrepreneurs will benefit? Whose labour will get visibility? Whose cuisines will the state deem worthy of investment?

It’s almost comical to think that UP has been one of India’s largest exporters of buffalo meat. UP is perfectly comfortable exporting buffalo meat all over the world, generating crores through slaughterhouses and meat-processing infrastructure. A fully packaged buffalo can board an international cargo ship, but the kabab cannot enter a tourism brochure.

We are casually informed that the ODOC list is ‘flexible’, that additions can later be approved by the chief minister. Will he approve my kababs? I won’t hold my breath.

But this isn’t about my beloved kababs. I’m angry because this is part of a much larger political project of omission and erasure — of food, language, culture, names, love stories, entire histories!

I’m sure this woman from Lucknow district is not the only person enraged about this list. So, friends from other districts, do speak up! I refuse to believe Azamgarh is happy to be represented by tehri — and I say this as someone who considers tehri deeply emotional comfort food.

Rampur, my friend, are you okay with this list? And Moradabad? Bareilly? Meerut? Will you just sit quietly while your food histories are vegetarianised under your noses?

For the nonce, if someone asks what in Lucknow they must absolutely try, I guess I’ll have to offer: “Ye lijiye, rewdi naush farmaiye”.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get a plate of kababs to calm my nerves.

With the passing of Dr Bashir Badr on Thursday, 28 May at 91, Indian literature loses one of the last towering figures of the modern Urdu ghazal — a poet whose words escaped the confines of literary gatherings and settled permanently in the emotional vocabulary of ordinary people.

Dr Badr was not merely a celebrated Urdu poet; he was a cultural phenomenon. His couplets travelled effortlessly across generations, classes, and linguistic boundaries. They appeared in mushairas and newspapers, films and political speeches, handwritten letters and, more recently, across social media timelines. Few poets in post-Independence India achieved such intimate public presence.

At a time when poetry often risked becoming either excessively ornamental or intellectually inaccessible, Badr restored to the ghazal its most essential quality: emotional immediacy. He spoke a language people recognised — the language of longing, dignity, heartbreak, civility, memory, and survival.

Born Syed Muhammad Bashir on 15 February 1935 in Ayodhya, Bashir Badr belonged to a generation shaped by both the cultural richness and political upheavals of 20th-century India. As the trauma of Partition altered the landscape of Urdu literature, Badr emerged as one of the writers who ensured that Urdu would continue to flourish within India’s composite cultural imagination.

Educated at Aligarh Muslim University, where he later completed his doctoral studies, Badr combined academic sophistication with remarkable accessibility. Unlike many classical poets whose verses demanded extensive familiarity with Persian symbolism and literary tradition, Badr’s poetry spoke directly to lived experience.

He wrote about broken homes, fading relationships, loneliness, communal wounds, urban alienation, and fragile hope — all with extraordinary simplicity.

Perhaps no couplet captures his moral clarity more powerfully than this immortal sher:

Log toot jaate hain ek ghar banane mein/ Tum taras nahin khate bastiyan jalane mein

(People break themselves building a single home/ Yet you feel no pity while burning entire settlements)

These lines became far more than poetry. They became an indictment of violence, hatred, and the casual destruction of human lives. Decades after they were first recited, they continue to resonate in moments of communal tension and political unrest..

The genius of Bashir Badr lay in making profound truths appear effortless. His verses seemed conversational, almost casual, yet beneath their simplicity rested deep philosophical reflection and emotional intelligence.

Har dhadakte paththar ko log dil samajhte hain/ Umr beet jaati hai dil ko dil banane mein

(People mistake every beating stone for a heart/ A lifetime passes before a heart truly becomes a heart)

In another widely quoted couplet, he distilled the ethics of disagreement and coexistence:

Dushmani jam kar karo lekin ye gunjaish rahe/ Jab kabhi hum dost ho jaayein to sharminda na hon

(Be enemies with conviction if you must/ But leave enough room that friendship may someday return without shame)

Behind the gentleness of Badr’s poetry lay deep personal sorrow. During the communal violence that scarred parts of northern India in the late 20th century, his house in Meerut and a large part of his personal library were reportedly destroyed in a fire. Manuscripts, books, and years of memories vanished overnight.

That experience of loss and displacement quietly transformed his poetry. Themes of exile, fragility, and remembrance became more pronounced in his later work. Yet remarkably, he never allowed bitterness to overpower his writing. Instead, he responded to cruelty with introspection and compassion.

His poetry often carried the ache of someone searching for humanity amid devastation:

Ujaale apni yaadon ke hamaare saath rehne do/ Na jaane kis gali mein zindagi ki shaam ho jaaye

(Let the lights of memory remain with me/ Who knows in which street life’s evening may descend)

Alongside poets such as Nida Fazli and Rahat Indori, Bashir Badr helped redefine the public life of Urdu poetry in post-Independence India. His mushaira recitations attracted enormous audiences, yet he never relied on theatricality. The power of his poetry lay in its emotional recognisability.

He avoided unnecessarily dense vocabulary and instead embraced the shared linguistic space of Hindustani. That openness widened the reach of Urdu poetry at a time when the language itself faced cultural and political marginalisation.

Ironically, the digital age further expanded his legacy. Today, countless people quote Badr online — often without realising they are reciting one of the greatest Urdu poets of modern India.

One of his most perceptive verses remains especially relevant in an age obsessed with power and proximity:

Bade logon se milne mein hamesha faasla rakhna/ Jahaan dariya samandar se mila, dariya nahin rehta

(Always keep some distance from the powerful/ When a river meets the sea, it ceases to remain a river)

Over his long and distinguished literary career, Bashir Badr received numerous honours, including the Sahitya Akademi Award and the Padma Shri. His poetry collections — among them Subah Ki Pehli Kiran, Aas, Bisat, and Udāsī — became landmarks of contemporary Urdu literature.

Yet his true achievement cannot be measured through awards alone.

Bashir Badr succeeded in something far rarer: he became part of public memory. His poetry accompanied people through love, separation, migration, ageing, grief, and reconciliation. His verses survived because they offered comfort without sentimentality and wisdom without arrogance.

His passing leaves behind an irreplaceable void in Urdu literature. He represented a tradition where poetry was not merely performed but lived — where language carried ethical grace, emotional restraint, and cultural civility.

In an increasingly polarised world, Bashir Badr’s poetry reminded readers that kindness itself could be an act of resistance.

As tributes pour in from writers, scholars, artists, politicians, and admirers across the world, one realises that Bashir Badr was never simply a poet of romance. He was a poet of human fragility.

And perhaps that is why his words continue to endure.

Today, as the curtains fall on one of Urdu’s most cherished voices, his own lines return with haunting poignancy:

Mohabbaton mein dikhawe ki dosti na mila/ Agar gale nahin milta to haath bhi na mila

(In love, do not offer friendships of pretence/ If you cannot embrace me, do not even extend your hand)

Bashir Badr may have departed, but his poetry will continue to inhabit the emotional life of the subcontinent — quietly, gracefully, eternally.

Hasnain Naqvi is a former member of the history faculty at St Xavier’s College, Mumbai. More of his writing here

Kolkata witnessed an unusually subdued Eid-ul-Adha this year, with many residents saying the city felt very different from previous celebrations. Across several traditional Muslim neighbourhoods, the familiar festive rush, crowded livestock markets, roadside fairs and cultural programmes were largely absent, leaving many people emotional and disappointed.

At Kolkata’s historic Tangra slaughterhouse, which usually becomes one of the busiest places in the city before 'Bakri Eid', there was an eerie silence. Muhammad Javed, who has worked there for 35 years, stood near the gates and looked around in disbelief.

“I have never seen such a gloomy atmosphere before Eid-ul-Adha,” he said. “In earlier years, there would not be even standing room. People used to come from far away to buy cattle. This year, if someone visited for the first time, they would not even realise Eid is being celebrated.”

That is possibly because this year, cattle were almost completely absent from markets across Kolkata and several districts of West Bengal. In areas such as Kidderpore, Mominpore, Iqbalpore and Tangra, where large temporary cattle markets used to attract thousands of buyers, only goats and sheep could be seen.

The change followed the state's new BJP government's strict enforcement of provisions under the 1950 Livestock Act. The rules require official veterinary certification and permit slaughter only at designated facilities. Though cow slaughter was not formally banned, traders and buyers said the legal procedures and transport-related difficulties made the cattle trade nearly impossible this year.

Mohammad Farooq, a resident of Tangra, explained, “Nobody has stopped us from performing Qur'an, but people are afraid of legal complications and harassment during transport. As a result, cows are simply not reaching the markets.” 

Many traders also pointed to severe disruptions in cattle transport from neighbouring states such as Uttar Pradesh. Vehicles carrying cattle were allegedly stopped repeatedly on highways, discouraging suppliers from bringing animals into Bengal.

The impact was visible not only among Muslim families but also among Hindu traders and workers who depend on the seasonal livestock business. A cattle seller from Murshidabad said sadly, “I had hoped to repay my debts by selling cows before Eid. This year, the market has collapsed.”

With cows missing from the markets, demand for goats and sheep rose sharply. Goat sellers at Kolkata’s Narkeldanga Bakri Market reported unusually high prices this year. Nilu Singh, who brought goats from Uttar Pradesh, said, “Goats are moving freely, so traders have shifted to goats instead of cattle. Prices are much higher because demand has increased everywhere.”

Despite the disruption, many residents tried to adapt to the situation calmly. Sheikh Zahid from Tangra joked, “Perhaps it is better this way. A cow would cost more than Rs 1 lakh, while a goat costs around 20,000.”

Religious leaders also appealed for peace and adjustment. Maulana Mohammad Shafique Qasmi of Kolkata’s Nakhoda Mosque urged Muslims to avoid sacrificing cows this year and instead buy goats. “Our main duty is to perform qurbani peacefully. People should respect the law and maintain harmony,” he said.

Alongside the missing cattle markets, another noticeable change this year was the disappearance of the small Eid fairs that traditionally brought colour and excitement to many neighbourhoods across Kolkata. These temporary fairs would appear in open grounds and street corners in areas such as Kidderpore, Park Circus, Metiabruz, Rajabazar and Mominpore. Families from all communities enjoyed the food stalls, toy shops, clothes, rides and evening gatherings.

This year, however, many of those grounds remained empty. In some areas, only a handful of small stalls were seen.

Abdul Rahman, a resident of Mominpore, said, “Children wait for these fairs every year. Earlier there would be lights, food stalls and crowds till late night. This time, everything feels incomplete.”

The absence of cultural programmes has also deeply affected local artists and small businesses connected to Eid celebrations. Traditionally, local clubs and community groups organised musical evenings where singers performed popular songs of Mohammed Rafi, Kishore Kumar, Kumar Sanu, and other popular singers. Decorators, sound system operators and stage workers would receive steady work during the festive season.

This year, many such programmes were cancelled altogether. Shahid Ali, a sound equipment supplier from Park Circus, said, “Usually during Eid we work continuously for nearly ten days. We instal stages, lights and sound systems in different neighbourhoods. This year, hardly any bookings came.”

Local singer Imran Khan shared a similar disappointment. “Every year, we perform old Hindi classics during Eid evenings. Families gather together and it creates a beautiful atmosphere. This year, there are no stages and no programmes. Many artists have lost important seasonal income.”

Decorators and lighting workers also said business had fallen sharply because fewer community celebrations were being organised.

Even the city’s Eid prayers saw a major change this year. For decades, Kolkata’s main Eid congregation had been held at Red Road near the Maidan. However, following new government restrictions on prayers on public roads, the main gathering was shifted to the Brigade Parade Ground under heavy security.

Despite all these changes, Eid prayers were completed peacefully across the city. Many residents said the spirit of Eid remained alive, even though the celebrations were quieter and simpler than before.

'Be very careful! The Census operation has begun. The enumerators may insist that you mention your religion as Hindu. Never do that. Mention Sarna as your religion. Sarna is the identity of the Adivasis. We must not lose that.’ Even the most casual observer can hear the campaign’s resonance across Jharkhand.

The longstanding demand of Adivasis in Jharkhand and neighbouring states for a separate Sarna code in the Census has acquired renewed urgency with the Union government’s proposal to abolish the ‘Other Religions and Persuasions’ (ORP) category (Code 7). Many Adivasi organisations view this proposal as an extension of demands advanced by the RSS and allied organisations to ‘delist’ Adivasi Christians from the Scheduled Tribe category.

As an Adivasi activist remarked at a street corner meeting in Dumka in mid-May, the move is “an attack on Adivasis who have increasingly been asserting their distinct identity.” In his view, the government is not only rejecting the demand for recognition of Sarna but also eliminating the limited space for indigenous religious self-identification available under the ORP category.

Coupled with the campaign for delisting, the proposal is widely seen as an attempt to weaken both Adivasi identity and constitutional protections. Consequently, the demand for a separate Sarna code has become a broader assertion of ‘Adivasiyat’, or Adivasi peoplehood. The campaign has found support beyond Jharkhand. A massive rally held on 23 May in Jashpur, Chhattisgarh, against delisting echoed the demand.

In contrast, organisations aligned with the government have intensified efforts to push Adivasis to join the broader Hindu fold. On 24 May, the Janjati Suraksha Manch (JSM) organised a rally in New Delhi under the slogan: ‘Tu main ek rakt, vanvasi-gramvasi-nagarvasi, hum sab Bharatvasi (you and I are one blood, forest-dwellers, villagers, city-dwellers, we are all Indians).’

The use of ‘vanvasi’ — long promoted by Hindu nationalist organisations — instead of Adivasi is significant, as it rejects the indigenous status implied by Adivasi. Home minister Amit Shah, the principal speaker at the event, also consistently used the term vanvasi.

Adivasi apprehensions are, therefore, not unfounded. The proposal to abolish ORP, combined with the campaign to delist and the refusal to recognise a Sarna code, is a deliberate attempt to reshape the politics of identity, representation and power.

Let us look at the demographic background. According to the 2011 Census, about 79.4 lakh Indians — 0.66 per cent of the national population — were enumerated under ORP. The largest concentrations were in Jharkhand (42.4 lakh), Madhya Pradesh (6 lakh), Chhattisgarh (4.9 lakh), Odisha (4.8 lakh) and Arunachal Pradesh (3.6 lakh).

Nationally, Sarna constitutes the largest indigenous religion within the ORP category. Nearly 62.5 per cent of all ORP adherents identified as Sarna followers in 2011. If followers of Sari Dharam, who share the same broad community base (specifically Santal), are included, the proportion is even higher. The next largest categories — Gond/Gondi and Sari Dharma (considered separately) — accounted for only 12.9 per cent and 6.4 per cent, respectively.

The political import of these figures is most evident in Jharkhand. The state recorded 42.4 lakh persons under ORP, representing 12.8 per cent of its population. More than 41.3 lakh identified as Sarna, constituting 97.5 per cent of the state’s ORP population. Among Jharkhand’s Adivasis, Sarna followers substantially outnumber those who identify as Hindu.

This demographic reality has major political implications. Regional parties such as the Jharkhand Mukti Morcha (JMM) have derived much of their legitimacy from questions of identity and self-determination. The demand for a separate Sarna code has emerged as one of the most visible expressions of this assertion. Indeed, identifying with Sarna in Jharkhand is a feature well reflected in the 1991 and 2001 Census.

The continuing electoral success of the JMM-led coalition, despite the broader expansion of the BJP across eastern and central India, demonstrates the enduring political strength of Adivasi identity. In this context, abolishing ORP would do far more than eliminate a census category. If Sarna followers are compelled to identify as Hindus or any other recognised religion, their collective visibility in official statistics will disappear.

Such a move would strengthen the claim that Adivasis are part of the Hindu fold while weakening the demographic basis of political mobilisation around a distinct indigenous identity. In electoral terms, this will work to the BJP’s advantage.

The implications extend beyond Jharkhand. West Bengal — where the BJP has made significant gains among the Adivasis, who share a common cultural, linguistic and clan membership with Jharkhand’s Adivasis — also has a substantial ORP population. According to the 2011 Census, nearly 10 lakh people in the state were enumerated under ORP, with Sarna and Sari Dharam followers comprising the majority.

This points to a contradiction in the BJP’s tribal strategy. While the party has expanded its electoral support among Adivasis, many of these communities continue to maintain religious identities outside Hinduism. The Jharkhand experience demonstrates how demands for religious recognition can evolve into broader claims for cultural autonomy, political representation and indigenous rights, thereby challenging projects of cultural assimilation and political absolutism.

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Their diversity also creates a potential faultline in Adivasi politics. A movement centred on Sarna can be perceived and presented as just one regional stream of indigenous assertion rather than representing the collective aspirations of all tribal peoples. While Sarna has become the principal symbol of indigenous religious assertion in Jharkhand, Odisha, West Bengal, Bihar and parts of Chhattisgarh, it is not the only indigenous faith tradition. The northeast presents a very different landscape.

In Arunachal Pradesh, nearly 90 per cent of the ORP population identifies with Doni Polo. In Manipur, more than 95 per cent identify as Sanamahi followers. Indigenous communities in Meghalaya follow the Khasi, Niamtre and Songsarek traditions, while Nagaland’s ORP population is dominated by the Heraka tradition. In Sikkim, many indigenous communities identify with Yumasam and related traditions.

These religions are rooted in distinct linguistic, cultural and historical contexts and have evolved independently of the Sarna movement. Consequently, Sarna may not automatically serve as a common religious identity for indigenous peoples across India.

The JSM gathering in New Delhi saw substantial participation from northeast tribal groups. While publicly presented as a celebration of ‘one tribal culture’ and ‘national unity’, it also demonstrated that different tribal communities can be mobilised through frameworks other than indigenous religious assertion.

The strategic significance of such mobilisation is its capacity to accentuate regional distinctions within India’s tribal population. If Sarna is portrayed (and seen) as primarily a Jharkhand-centric project, with communities from the northeast pursuing their own separate trajectories, the prospects for a unified indigenous political platform become considerably weaker. A broad movement for indigenous religious recognition, stretching from Jharkhand to Arunachal Pradesh, would pose a powerful challenge to projects of cultural homogenisation.

The debate over ORP, therefore, concerns much more than census enumeration. It is fundamentally a struggle over how Adivasis will be seen and counted in the Indian nation state. The proposed abolition of ORP advances two interconnected objectives: the absorption of indigenous communities into the Hindu fold and the fragmentation of a possible pan-Adivasi political identity by accentuating regional, ethnic and religious differences among India’s tribal communities.

Irrespective of whether diverse Adivasi traditions can (or should) be brought together within a broader framework of indigenous solidarity, the issue of the religious identity of Adivasis cannot be seen as an exclusive Adivasi concern. It should concern all practitioners of democracy.

Kumar Rana is a research activist

As India marks the bicentenary of Hindi journalism in 2026, the occasion deserves attention far beyond Hindi newsrooms. For anyone interested in the history of Indian journalism — whether they read in Hindi, English, or both — the story of Hindi journalism is inseparable from the story of India's modern public sphere.

Many of the debates that continue to define journalism today — about power, language, public accountability, commercial pressures, and the role of the press in a democracy — were first fought in the pages of Hindi newspapers and journals. From the modest pages of Udant Martand in colonial Calcutta to the sprawling and often chaotic digital ecosystem of today, Hindi journalism has served both as a witness to history and an active participant in shaping it.

Udant Martand and the birth of a public voice

The story began on 30 May 1826, when Pandit Jugal Kishor Shukla launched Udant Martand (the rising sun) from what was then Calcutta, making it India's first Hindi newspaper. At a time when English and Persian publications largely catered to colonial administrators and urban elites, the arrival of a Hindi newspaper marked a significant cultural intervention.

The choice of Hindi was not merely linguistic; it was political and civilisational. At a time when colonial education policies privileged English, Udant Martand sought to create a shared public vocabulary among emerging Hindi readers. Though the paper struggled financially and survived only briefly, it sparked a vernacular awakening whose influence would echo across the subcontinent.

Its legacy survives in the annual observance of Hindi Journalism Day on 30 May, a reminder that journalism in Indian languages emerged not merely as a business venture but as an instrument of public empowerment.

Journalism as cultural and political resistance

By the late 19th century, Hindi journalism had evolved into a powerful vehicle for cultural assertion and political critique. Bharatendu Harishchandra, widely regarded as the father of modern Hindi literature and journalism, used publications such as Kavi Vachan Sudha to combine literary renaissance with criticism of colonial exploitation. Through essays, satire and commentary, he nurtured an emerging nationalist consciousness without direct confrontation.

The early 20th century deepened this transformation. Madan Mohan Malaviya launched Abhyudaya in 1907 from Allahabad (now Prayagraj), turning it into an influential platform for Swadeshi ideas and nationalist debate. His later efforts also contributed to the establishment of the Hindi daily Hindustan in 1936, expanding Hindi news coverage across northern India.

Few figures embodied the fearless spirit of Hindi journalism more fully than Ganesh Shankar Vidyarthi. Through Pratap, founded in Kanpur, he championed peasants, workers and political dissenters while exposing colonial repression. His repeated imprisonment reflected the risks journalists embraced during the freedom struggle. His death in 1931 while trying to quell communal violence transformed him into a lasting symbol of moral courage and public service.

Hindi journalism during this period did more than report events; it helped shape the intellectual and emotional climate of anti-colonial resistance.

The Gandhian era and mass mobilisation

The decades between the 1920s and 1940s marked perhaps the most politically influential phase of Hindi journalism. Mahatma Gandhi understood that the freedom movement could not succeed through English-language communication alone. To reach ordinary citizens and rural India, he launched the Hindi edition of Navjivan in 1921, using it to promote Satyagraha, non-violence and social reform.

In Varanasi, Shiv Prasad Gupta's Aj emerged as a leading nationalist newspaper closely aligned with the Congress movement. Despite censorship, fines and colonial restrictions, it continued to inform and mobilise readers.

Literary journalism flourished alongside political reporting. Munshi Premchand's Hans, launched in 1930, combined literature with sharp commentary on caste, feudalism and colonial rule. Publications such as Matwala used satire and wit to challenge authority, while contributors including Suryakant Tripathi 'Nirala' sharpened Hindi journalism's critical edge.

During the Non-Cooperation, Civil Disobedience and Quit India movements, Hindi journalists often functioned as activists as much as reporters. When presses were confiscated, handwritten and cyclostyled publications circulated clandestinely. Colonial laws such as the Vernacular Press Act and later emergency regulations sought to suppress these voices, but repression often strengthened rather than silenced them.

Nation-building and the commercial turn

After Independence, Hindi journalism entered a new phase. The challenge was no longer anti-colonial resistance but democratic consolidation and nation-building. Newspapers such as Dainik Jagran, Dainik Bhaskar, Navbharat Times and Jansatta expanded into smaller towns and semi-urban India, bringing local concerns into national conversations and broadening democratic participation.

For millions beyond metropolitan centres, Hindi newspapers became the primary source of information and political engagement. They played a major role in language advocacy, electoral mobilisation and the articulation of regional aspirations.

Economic liberalisation in the 1990s, however, transformed the media landscape. Advertising overtook subscriptions as the dominant revenue model, intensifying competition and encouraging sensationalism. The rise of 24-hour television news accelerated a shift towards spectacle, where speed and ratings often competed with depth and nuance.

The result was a growing tension between journalism as a public service and journalism as a commercial enterprise.

Polarisation, 'godi media' and digital resistance

In recent years, Hindi media has faced increasing scrutiny over its relationship with political power. The term "Godi media", popularised by journalist Ravish Kumar, entered public discourse as shorthand for sections of the media perceived to be excessively deferential to the ruling establishment. Concerns over corporate concentration and editorial independence have deepened as large conglomerates expanded their influence across television and digital platforms.

Critics argue that shrinking space for dissent, tightly managed political access and pressures on independent reporting have weakened journalism's traditional watchdog role.

Yet the same period has witnessed a resurgence of independent media. Digital platforms, YouTube channels and online portals have enabled journalists such as Ravish Kumar, Ajit Anjum, Abhisar Sharma and Akash Banerjee to reach audiences directly, bypassing traditional gatekeepers. Platforms such as Satya Hindi, Public India and DB Live have cultivated large audiences for investigative reporting, long-form analysis and citizen-supported journalism.

At the same time, debates over digital regulation and broadcasting reforms continue to raise difficult questions about the balance between accountability, autonomy and state oversight.

The unfinished responsibility

The bicentenary of Hindi journalism is not merely a celebration of longevity; it is a test of relevance. Its journey mirrors India's own trajectory — from colonial subjugation to democratic assertion, from literary idealism to technological disruption.

Its greatest achievement has been the creation of a shared public sphere for millions who found their political and cultural voice through Hindi. That achievement remains invaluable in an age increasingly fragmented by algorithmic echo chambers, misinformation and ideological polarisation.

As commemorations, exhibitions and public discussions mark the bicentenary, the challenge before Hindi journalism is not simply to remember its past but to recover its foundational purpose: fearless inquiry, social responsibility, linguistic vitality and democratic accountability.

The spirit of Udant Martand still matters. Whether Hindi journalism's third century proves as consequential as its first two will depend on its ability to withstand commercial pressures, technological upheaval and political influence while remaining faithful to the ideals of truth, reform and public service that animated its beginnings.

The main editorial change I'd recommend is that this piece works best if it is framed not as "a history of Hindi journalism for Hindi readers", but as "a history of Indian journalism through the lens of Hindi journalism". That makes it relevant to a broader readership and gives the bicentenary a stronger justification.

Read this article in Hindi

Hasnain Naqvi is a former member of the history faculty at St Xavier’s College, Mumbai. More of his writing here

It is not my intention here to offer a comprehensive treatment of artificial intelligence, nor to give an overview of the extensive relevant literature, since authoritative contributions already exist, including within the ecclesial context. I limit myself to recalling a few essential elements for a moral and social discernment that safeguards the primacy of the human person, in order to ensure that it will always be human intelligence, with its conscience and freedom, that guides technical innovations and responsibly determines their use and limits.

It is appropriate to preface this discussion with two considerations. First, any statement regarding AI risks becoming quickly outdated, given the remarkable pace at which these systems are developing.

Second, all of us, including those who design them, possess only a limited understanding of their actual functioning. Indeed, current AI systems are more ‘cultivated’ than ‘built’, for developers do not directly design every detail, but instead create a framework within which the intelligence ‘grows’.

As a result, fundamental scientific aspects — such as the internal representations and computational processes of these systems — remain, at present, unknown. There thus emerges an urgent need for a twofold commitment: on the one hand, a deepening of scientific research; on the other, the exercise of moral and spiritual discernment.

It is not possible to provide a single, comprehensive definition of AI. What can be stated, however, is that we must avoid the misconception of equating this type of ‘intelligence’ with that of human beings. These systems merely imitate certain functions of human intelligence. In doing so, they often surpass human intelligence in speed and computational capacity, offering tangible benefits across many fields. Yet this power remains entirely tied to data processing.

So-called artificial intelligences do not undergo experiences, do not possess a body, do not feel joy or pain, do not mature through relationships and do not know from within what love, work, friendship or responsibility mean. Nor do they have a moral conscience, since they do not judge good and evil, grasp the ultimate meaning of situations, or bear responsibility for consequences.

They may imitate language, behaviour and analytical skills, or even simulate empathy and understanding, but they do not understand what they produce, for they lack the affective, relational and spiritual perspective through which human beings grow in wisdom. Even when these tools are described as capable of ‘learning’, their way of doing so is different from that of a human person.

It is not the experience of those who allow themselves to be shaped by life and grow over time through choices, mistakes, forgiveness and fidelity. Rather, it is a form of statistical adaptation based on data and feedback, which can be very effective, but does not imply inner growth.

[...]

A valuable tool that requires vigilance

The speed and simplicity with which information, complex analyses, media content and practical assistance can be accessed undoubtedly makes life easier. Yet they can also encourage excessive reliance and the search for readymade answers, and weaken personal creativity and judgment.

The apparent objectivity of the responses and suggestions these systems provide can lead us to overlook the fact that they reflect the cultural assumptions of those who designed and trained them, with all their strengths and limitations. The artificial imitation of positive human communication — words of advice, empathy, friendship and even love — can be engaging and at times genuinely helpful. However, for less discerning users, it can also be misleading, creating the illusion of a relationship with a real personal subject.

When words are simulated, they do not build genuine relationships, but only their appearance. The artificial imitation of care or support can become particularly risky when it enters contexts where real relationships and emotional bonds are lacking. Here, the danger is not so much that a person may believe they are communicating with another person, but rather that they may gradually lose the very desire to form genuine human connections.

Broadening our perspective to the use of AI in society, we see that it is now embedded in decision-making processes across many sectors and at multiple levels: in communication, management and control. The gains in efficiency and the potential to improve certain services are clear, yet rapidly and uncritically adopting them exposes us to a range of risks, including the tendency to overlook the environmental impact.

Current AI systems require enormous amounts of energy and water, significantly influencing carbon dioxide emissions, and place heavy demands on natural resources. As their complexity increases, especially in the case of large language models, the need for computing power and storage capacity grows too, which requires an extensive network of machines, cables, data centres and energy-intensive infrastructure.

For this reason, it is essential to develop more sustainable technological solutions that reduce environmental impact and help protect our common home.

Responsibility, transparency and the governance of AI

The use of AI is never a purely technical matter: when it enters processes that affect people’s lives, it touches on rights, opportunities, status and freedom.

Important and sensitive decisions — concerning employment, credit, access to public services or even a person’s reputation — risk being fully delegated to automated systems that do not know ‘compassion, mercy, forgiveness, and above all, the hope that people are able to change,’ and can therefore give rise to new forms of exclusion.

There are clearly harmful uses, such as the manipulation of information or violations of privacy. Yet there is also a subtler danger, for when AI systems present themselves as neutral and objective, they end up reflecting and reinforcing the stereotypes or ideological bias of their designers and developers.

Indeed, entrusting an algorithm in practice with the power to select who is worthy or not, without anyone bearing responsibility for that judgment, is to hand over the task of redefining the boundaries of human possibilities. In this process, political responsibility is also lost, not just empathy toward those excluded, which can, after all, be simulated.

The exclusion of the vulnerable becomes cloaked in a veneer of neutrality and objectivity, against which it becomes difficult to raise objections. In this way, injustice goes unnoticed, and compassion, mercy and forgiveness — understood not as mere appearances but as real political actions — gradually disappear from view.

From this follows a simple but compelling consequence: we cannot consider AI to be morally neutral. In reality, every technical tool embodies choices and priorities through what it measures, ignores and optimises, and how it classifies people and situations. If a system is designed or used in a way that treats some lives as less worthy, or excludes them without the possibility of appeal, then it is not merely a tool ‘to be used well’, since it has already introduced criteria that contradict the inalienable dignity of the human person.

For this reason, ethical discernment cannot be limited to asking whether we are using a system for good or bad purposes; it must also examine how that system is designed and what vision of the human person and society is embedded in the data and models that guide it.

For AI to respect human dignity and truly serve the common good, responsibility must be clearly defined at every stage: from those who design and develop these systems to those who use them and rely on them for decisions. In many cases, the internal processes leading to a result remain opaque, making it harder to assign responsibility and correct errors. This is where accountability becomes crucial: the possibility of identifying who must ‘account’ for decisions, justify them, monitor them and, when necessary, challenge them and remedy any harm caused.

Extracted from ‘Magnifica humanitas’, Pope Leo XIV's first encyclical published on 25 May 2026. Part 2 of this reflection will be published next week