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  • When Books Became the Last Un-curated Object

    On a weekday morning in New York, a man pulls a paperback from his tote bag and props it against his knee. In a subway car full of phones, the gesture feels almost declarative. Across the aisle, someone glances over, not out of curiosity, but recognition.

    Scenes like this are becoming more noticeable. In London, on the Overground, in Seoul, in study cafés that fill by noon, and even in Bengaluru, in library-cafés where people come as much to sit with a book as to escape the heat. Reading in public isn’t new. What’s new is how visible it feels.

    Part of that visibility comes from contrast. Nearly everything else we consume now arrives pre-filtered. The shows we watch, the music we hear, the news we encounter, even the jokes that find us are shaped by recommendation systems designed to anticipate our preferences. The book, oddly enough, still resists that logic. It doesn’t auto-play. It doesn’t refresh. It doesn’t quietly optimize itself to keep you engaged.

    That resistance has started to matter. Despite years of predictions about the death of print, physical books remain dominant. In the United States, print accounted for close to three-quarters of publishing revenue as recently as 2022. Surveys also suggest that print remains the most widely used format across age groups, even as younger readers increasingly move between print, e-books, and audiobooks.

    E-books haven’t disappeared, but they haven’t replaced print either. Digital reading has grown steadily, especially in genres like romance, where speed and volume matter. What’s emerging instead is a split. Screens for convenience and paper for presence. The choice feels less about format and more about how people want their attention handled. In markets like India, where access to e-readers, stable connectivity, and digital payment systems is uneven, print remains the default rather than a preference.

    That distinction becomes clearer in public. In Tokyo, dedicated reading spaces and silent cafés have emerged as environments designed for sustained focus. In Seoul, book cafés offer multi-hour seating for readers who want to stay in. In India, informal reading communities like SGNP Reads and South Bombay Reads have begun organizing public reading sessions, turning parks and promenades into shared quiet spaces. In New York, the subway has always had readers, but the sight of a paperback now stands out against endless scrolling.

     

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    Many younger readers move fluidly between print, audiobooks, fan fiction, and online communities. The book offers texture where the screen offers flow.
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    Part of the appeal is physical. A book takes up space. It occupies both hands. It sets a pace you can’t speed up without effort. In a life where work, leisure, and socializing all collapse onto the same glowing rectangle, the book reintroduces a boundary, albeit a modest one.

    Yet, that boundary is increasingly rare. Work messages arrive on the same screen as entertainment. News alerts interrupt conversations. Even leisure is measured, tracked, and optimized. The book doesn’t participate in that economy. It doesn’t ask who you are or adjust itself based on past behavior. In a culture obsessed with personalization, the book remains curiously indifferent.

    Of course, books are not untouched by algorithms. Covers are tested, titles are optimized, and BookTok can turn a novel into a bestseller overnight. But the act of reading, especially reading in public, still resists total mediation. Once the book is open, the feed stops.

    That is perhaps why books have become visual objects again with bold covers. Publishers seem to have leaned into this visibility with spine-forward design becoming more common. Special editions of books like Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros, with sprayed edges and highly stylised covers, have been designed as much for display as for reading, particularly within BookTok-driven genres.

    Is this nostalgia, or is it compensation? Historically, reading has always moved in cycles. Moments of rapid technological change often produce counter-movements toward slower forms of media.

    This shift isn’t exactly a revival. Print never disappeared. What’s changed is how visible and intentional it now feels. Many younger readers move fluidly between print, audiobooks, fan fiction, and online communities. The book offers texture where the screen offers flow. This helps explain why independent bookstores are opening again. In the United States, their numbers have grown by roughly 70 percent since 2020, with more than 400 new stores opening in 2025 alone.

    It would be easy to frame this as a romantic shift. But something more pragmatic seems to be underway. In a world where nearly everything is curated in advance, the book remains one of the few experiences that unfolds without anticipating you. It doesn’t adapt, optimize, or respond. It simply demands attention. And increasingly, that seems to be the point.

  • India’s Iconic Bookstores

    For those who live for the love of books, bookshops end up becoming much more a retail space. The longer the legacy, the more they serve as repositories of memory, conversations, and culture. These are spaces in which generations of readers have stumbled upon new ideas, entered unfamiliar worlds, and found refuge in the companionship of books or people who are regular customers. Across India, a few such bookstores have transformed into cultural landmarks in their own right. 

    A few have stood firmly in the same spot for decades, witnessing monumental changes such as the country’s independence, or changing reading habits, and the rise of digital commerce. Others have reinvented the traditional bookstore by transforming themselves into community spaces that host literary festivals, author interactions, and public discussions.

    From the chilly hills of Darjeeling to the busy streets of Mumbai, these bookstores reflect the literary character of the cities that they are found in. Whether they specialize in rare academic texts, second-hand treasures, or beautifully curated contemporary titles, each offers a distinct experience. Here are five iconic bookshops across India that deserve a place on every reader’s travel itinerary.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • The Great Indian Remedy

    We all have a few medicines that sit in the back of the cupboard, ones perhaps our grandmother brought over on her last visit, citing their numerous health benefits. Often bottled in green and brown-hued glass jars with handwritten labels sourced from the local vaid (Ayurvedic healer), we associate them with a past time; one where kitchen ingredients were the most sought-after medicines and all it took for a fever to wear off was a cold-water compress and a good night’s sleep.

    However, even as modern-day science progresses by leaps and bounds and accessibility to Western medicine is growing by the minute, the younger generations are reaching back for those old bottles; only this time, they’re packaged and marketed as high-value supplements instead of simple cabinet finds. The most recently viral Ayurvedic ‘wonder’ is Berberine, a natural plant compound taking grocery stores and household cabinets by storm, said to work as ‘Nature’s Ozempic’.

    The Berberine compound has been in rotation in Eastern medicine for over 3000 years, with roots in Mesopotamia, China, and India. While its uses span treatment of infectious diseases and digestive disorders, its recent surge in popularity is attributed to its alleged efficacy in weight loss. This identity comes from its studied use in the treatment of type-2 diabetes. Now sold as a dietary supplement, its global market share is expected to reach a whopping USD 1520.8 million by 2034, with North America capturing 44.5% as of 2024. 

    This constitutes a larger movement towards the use of supplements aiding in metabolic health and nutrition, with approximately 75% of Americans taking a daily dietary supplement, according to the Food and Drug Administration (FDA). 

     

    Image Courtesy: Pexels / Xrona

     

    But why the US, and why now? While it is easy to assume that eastern medicine is fairly new to the West, interest in the field began in the late 1800s and early 1900s – with Indian spiritual leaders such as Swami Vivekananda and Ayurvedic doctors bringing this knowledge with them when they visited the country. Its prominence has ebbed and flowed over time, but its reintroduction to mainstream American health routines can be credited to a growing preference for organic, long-term health benefits in an effort to maintain a ‘clean’ lifestyle. 

    Such a lifestyle has seen growing importance on social media, with wellness creators showing off their whole foods diet, borderline-obsessive workouts, and 10-step morning routines. Berberine as Ozempic isn’t the only ‘healthy’ alternative the internet has come up with; basil seeds are said to work as natural Botox, and apple cider vinegar is considered a sure shot for weight loss and dental care. Natural becomes moral, while mass-produced pharmaceuticals become impure. But the intent never changes; skinny is still sexy, whether it is achieved through biology or chemistry. 

    Some doctor-turned-creators such as @doctorsoood tout the benefits of Berberine as aiding in insulin sensitivity and metabolism, garnering tens of thousands of views. Actor Ian Somerhalder has his own supplement company, The Absorption Company, which sells Berberine and other natural supplements said to have “pharmaceutical-grade absorption”. Indian creators such as @twoinrhythym and @yogwishi also populate Instagram and Facebook with descriptions of their Ayurvedic wellness habits and ancient Indian health and beauty secrets. 

    This raises a pertinent question: is the growing popularity of natural remedies driven only by a commitment to holistic wellness, or also by social media narratives that make particular beauty ideals feel more attainable to a wider audience? Indian or not, the objective standards of beauty remain the same. The popularization of Ayurveda and the turn to older, simpler practices both echo the sentiment of perfection dressed up as wellness. It is interesting to note that the use of Allopathy hasn’t subsided; Ayurveda is the fad of the moment, for some. Those old bottles our grandmothers brought us weren’t a quick fix to get that hot summer bod everyone seems to be after, but part of a holistic lifestyle that favored internal health over external beauty.

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    Natural becomes moral, while mass-produced pharmaceuticals become impure. But the intent never changes; skinny is still sexy, whether it is achieved through biology or chemistry.
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    This is not to say that Ayurveda isn’t well respected in the West. Through many medical institutes and practitioners devoted to the study – the California College of Ayurveda, the Kerala Ayurveda Academy located in California and Washington, and the Kripalu School of Ayurveda in Massachusetts – we see the seeds that Yogis planted flourishing. Ayurvedic medicines are regulated as dietary supplements in the US, with its legitimacy as an FDA approved drug hanging in the balance. And yet, India rises to an estimated value of USD 286.1 billion by 2030 in the medical tourism market, indicating that institutional recognition need not affect proliferation. 

     

    Image Courtesy: Pexels / Leo Arslan

     

    The commodification of Ayurveda is thus a double-edged sword. While it brings millions of new eyes to the ancient practices of Eastern medicine, it also enables the perpetuation of an economy where big Indian brands like Vadham sell Berberine supplements for around $16, and Target sells them for $20 to $40 a pop. This juxtaposition is concretized when the same ingredient is sold in India under its traditional name, Daruharidra, for just about $5 to $6. The jar in the cupboard remains collecting dust while its newer, plastic covered counterparts with shiny branding takes its place in the forefront.

    Social media trends, brand marketing, and institutional authorities will come and go. What matters is the people, and the habits and practices passed down from generation to generation that are finally making their way around the world. Our grandmothers were truly onto something; it is up to us to find it.

  • Bass-ackwards

    Maybe twenty years ago, India had a fledgling but passionate rave subculture. If you were in college, or perhaps a young office worker, the whispers would go round: so-and-so’s bungalow, sitting just on the fringes of Mumbai city, or a farmhouse in the Delhi suburbs, was opening its doors to ravers for the weekend. There was never anything official about it. People in the know would tell their friends, and so on and so forth, until the weekend came, and the bungalow would overflow. Electronic music would play all night. Sometimes the police would come round and bust the party; this was a matter of some pride. The next morning, exhausted hedonistic dancers would be scattered everywhere like ninepins, already keen to go for the next rave, held who knows where.

    Cut to 2026. Imagine sitting at Rajasthan’s Magnetic Fields Festival. For years, the festival was held in the state’s Shekhawati region, in a 17th C palace, with attendees flooding into courtyards and balconies. Its programming included international underground names like Four Tet, Bicep and DJ Koze alongside the creme de la creme of Indian electronica as well as local Rajasthani folk artistes). Magnetic Fields (and its current offshoot Magnetic Fields Nomad) collaborates with Hoegaarden, and sells cool merch, including bandanas, mugs, totes and T-shirts. Naturally, there is also press accreditation required. It began by hosting 500 people; it now boasts of at least 3,000. Glorious it certainly is. Underground? Debatable.

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    Everyone has brand partners to fund artists and shows, and some promoters believe that they are a necessity. Others believe that they muddy the cultural waters, detracting from the soul of a festival.
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    The causes are fairly obvious. Economic growth has produced a middle class with more disposable income than ever. Even more significant is the advent of the Internet and social media, which has completely altered the music available to listeners, widening the field beyond imagination. And it also did away with the whisper network; one Reddit post, one Instagram story, and the word spread like wildfire. There is now an Instagram page called Indian Ravers, with 189k followers – apparently “#1 Place For All The Electronic Music Updates in India, Connecting with Ravers around the World.”

    The festivals that anchor the scheme now are annual, commercial and multi-day, and they cater largely to young, urban, cosmopolitan Indians. There is now the Namas’cray Experience, held everywhere from Sri Lanka to Goa. There is Goa’s Sunburn, a multi-stage electronic festival co-founded by Nikhil Chinapa, the VJ / DJ who then acrimoniously parted ways to start Supersonic, supported by the television channel VH1. A legal scuffle would ensue.

    Everyone has brand partners to fund artists and shows, and some promoters believe that they are a necessity. Others believe that they muddy the cultural waters, detracting from the soul of a festival. The scene has completely transformed: influencers are everywhere, wielding camera phones and seeking cultural clout, while everyone seeks access to the VIP table. And the most recent travesty is the growth of the baby ‘rave‘, which contrary to its name, is not just a small-sized rave; it is a party for children, where a DJ spins songs like Baby Shark. None of this is bad or wrong, but it is a leap away from the old days.

    Image Courtesy: Pexels/ Ismail Cem Aycan

    These complaints are not particularly Indian. The same complaints echo in the Western music-scape as well, with veterans complaining that raves have become simulations of the real thing, that being seen is that ‘EDM’ is simply a corporate version of punky, rebel musical culture.

    What would a healthier scene look like? The answer perhaps would be for organizers to focus on the collective transformative experience, rather than privileging influencers or VIPs. India’s audience has never been tied to particular names, having come to the music through sound rather than celebrity. Its festivals have already shown that a Rajasthani palace can hold a dancefloor. And its illegal parties, however small, suggest that the itch for something less polished has not gone away. In India, as elsewhere, the real party is the one that is the hardest to find.

  • Wealth And The Animal Welfare Boom

    For a very long time, humanity believed that the precondition for speeding into modernity was to tame or wield control over the environment and the non-human animal. And for a very long time, they succeeded, causing such calamitous conditions that the Earth was propelled into the Anthropocene, an era that was named for the massive human impact on our climate and our ecosystems.

    And for a very long time, there was no other perceivable way to exist, especially in an urban environment. Resources were thin and communities had to narrow their lens to survival. We didn’t have the wherewithal to debate questions of animal welfare, when we were scrabbling to fill our own stomachs adequately.

    But along the way, something changed. Societies grew ever more prosperous, and in so doing, widened their window of welfare. There is an entire body of knowledge now that looks at sentience and questions human exceptionalism. But this was all abstract until the culture of pet ownership took firm root, especially during the pandemic. As a result, some amount of financial capital is being joggled loose for the purposes of animal welfare — and it is arriving in the form of technology, corporate money, and community infrastructure that would have been unthinkable a generation ago.

     

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    Tata Group's Bombay House has, since a 2018 renovation, maintained a dedicated climate-controlled room with an access door so resident and visiting street dogs can come and go as they please.
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    A fair number of urban Indians now believe that we have a responsibility towards animals of every ilk. The question is far larger than vegetarianism and veganism (an already fraught subject in a country riven with caste and class prejudice).
    Through environmental laws, nature reserves, sanctuaries and shelters, we have begun to deliberately curtail some of our domination of the environment.

    A sliver of this benevolence appears to be extending to our free living canines and felines, with citizen-funded animal shelters and NGOs (admittedly always starved for funds) cropping up around the country. WhatsApp groups are formed with a view to bring together like-minded citizens who care about strays and animal adoptions. And technology is playing a part equally, with Mumbai’s Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation rolling out QR-coded reflective collars for vaccinated and sterilized stray dogs.

    In the same vein, Delhi-based Aseem Gupta’s venture, Marshi, developed a patented microchip for free living dogs that tracked their health and location. And now a plethora of citizen-created apps have entered the playing field. Emergency response has gone digital through platforms like Jeev, which lets users upload photos and live GPS pins of injured animals to alert nearby rescuers and vets, and Let It Wag, which connects rescuers with foster homes and crowdfunds emergency surgeries. PawPew has built an AI first-aid guide to walk untrained bystanders through critical care before professionals arrive.

     

    Image courtesy: Pexels / Los Muertos Crew

    Disproportionately though, the burden appears to fall on to the individual. Corporate social responsibility, mandated by the government of India, still allocates only the skinniest of amounts — roughly 1.5%, or about ₹315 crore out of ₹30,000 crore.

    Anant Ambani’s (extremely controversial) sanctuary is apparently his pet project. And the Tata Group of Companies has folded animal welfare into its CSR to some extent. Amongst other things, the late Chairman, Ratan Tata, an enormous dog lover, constructed a climate controlled room in the Tata head office in Mumbai, for strays to come and go as they please. One of his indies, Goa, became quite the Internet darling for a while. Another Tata property, the Taj Bengal, is famous for taking care of Thumki, a community doggy, who has become a part of the hotel’s ethos.

    Taken together then,  the trajectory appears to be shifting. With more wealth comes more welfare, and the collars, microchips, apps, and CSR line items point to the same underlying force: as India gets richer, it is choosing to spend some of that wealth on animals it once could only afford to ignore.

  • Diasporic Masculinity, Rewritten

    For all the chatter around Best of the Best, for the fusillade of comments directed at representation and nationality and the quality of dance and the offensiveness of parts of the humor, something still remains unsaid. Something rather significant, something that’s been a long time coming.

    We’re talking of course about changing ideas of masculinity within the Indian diaspora. Let’s review the evidence.

    Best of the Best is a film in which the father figure is almost non-existent, or shown only in passing. The most prominent men of the film are Arjun (played by Chaneil Kular) and Ronak (played by Ankur Rathee). Arjun is Maya’s (Maitreyi Ramakrishnan)  love interest, and although she teases him for being an ‘incel’ in school, he is the emotional core of the film, a man not afraid of showing his vulnerabilities. In an inversion of stereotype, Maya is afraid of showing her feelings. Arjun, on the other hand, craves a public display of affection.

    And the very fact that Ronak, who is Anjali’s (Priyanka Kedia) love interest, is the lead dancer is a counter to South Asian masculine stereotypes. Dance, after all, is one activity where South Asian men’s bodies, expressiveness, and desirability get to be visible and celebrated. Joy and expressiveness are celebrated, not castigated.

     

     

    To understand why this pivot is so significant, it helps to remember what it is shifting from.

    For generations, the entire idea of South Asian masculinity in the diaspora was built on a particular template. The bedrock of that template was the boilerplate idea of masculinity; the man was seen as the provider for the family, typically as an engineer, doctor or lawyer, sternly hewing to societal traditions, and expecting his children to follow in his footsteps. Patriarchy frowned upon male vulnerability, creative ambition and open affection – these were meant to be doled out in teaspoons; they could never be the full meal.

    Living in a Western diaspora added another layer of complication to this, by way of systemic racism and discrimination. Dr. Miraj Desai, in an article entitled Why Are South Asian Men ‘Angry’?, explained that “being and feeling invisible regularly deprives people of nourishment, warmth, and just basic human recognition. I don’t think people realize how much this has impacted the Desi community in this country, on multiple levels (cultural, social, economic, psychological, relational, etc.). Further, post-9/11 racism and racial profiling did a lot of harm to this community, much of which has not fully healed, as it lives on to this day.”

    Moving away from this is an extraordinary vibe shift. The new diaspora man is funny and creative and entirely himself, and happily, popular media is reflecting this.

    Another recent example? Never Have I Ever in which Ramakrishnan’s father is gentle, loving, understanding – although very dead. The trope of the stern immigrant dad, cracking the whip on his recalcitrant daughter, seems to be fading away entirely.

     

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    For generations, the entire idea of South Asian masculinity in the diaspora was built on a particular template. The bedrock of that template was the boilerplate idea of masculinity.
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    These didn’t spring from the blue either. Their antecedents were born of shows like The Big Sick starring Kumail Nanjiani, who redefines South Asian masculinity by moving towards vulnerability and edging away from patriarchal arranged marriage norms pushed on to him by his traditional parents. The Big Sick and Master of None put immigrant parents and their sons’ relationships with them on screen with warmth and specificity. The jokes make the subject feel permissible, and the sincerity underneath is what lands.

    Master of None’s second episode, in which the protagonist examines his relationship with his stern parents, became an enormous cultural moment for the South Asian diaspora, with publications such as Buzzfeed asking 11 first-generation kids how they felt about the ‘Parents’ episode.

    And comedians such as Russell Peters have used humor to question why his father, and by extrapolation, men of his generation, were emotionally distant and unavailable. Humor became a safe route for discussing complicated topics.

    Meanwhile, the podcast, Almost Macho, is framed around the question “What is the definition of a modern man?”, stating that this was a conversation about shedding scripts about ‘male’ values, identity, marriage, money, fatherhood, and legacy. An episode on fathers addresses the topic directly: it covers respect built on fear, the inexpressive parental figure, and work stress transforming into anger at home, and it speaks about fatherhood in India and the diaspora. It is a clear example of men reexamining their own fathers while trying to parent differently.

     

     

    That’s not to say that toxic masculinity doesn’t rear its ugly head every so often; it absolutely does, and sometimes men such as Aziz Ansari perform progressiveness on screen, and fall short in reality.  Besides, many of the positive examples fall squarely on the shoulders of privileged, cis-het males, while representations of queer South Asian males are still sidelined.

    It is easy to over-read a cultural moment. Still, progress is progress. The conversation around masculinity has certainly changed course: it is mainstream and increasingly open. Whether behavior in homes, marriages and families has changed to match is harder to know. The honest claim is that South Asian men have gained a vocabulary, a set of images and an audience. What they do with them is still being written.

  • The Nostalgia Machine

    There is a certain pattern that keeps repeating itself in our current cultural moment. We are now often looking backward with a strange ache, for the bygone days of our youth or childhood. For some generations, it is about time periods that they have not even witnessed.

    Gen Z and millennials are looking at time periods that cut across each other, the 1980s, the 1990s and even the 2000s, and after a while it becomes difficult to keep track of which time period people are yearning for. These eras were marked by landline telephone calls, physical media that one could own (cassettes, DVDs), and the absence of portable screens to get addicted to. The television, of course, was making its presence felt across households during this period. Yet, this longing might have given birth to a nostalgia machine, a cultural feedback loop wherein memories are continually recycled and sold back to us.

     

    Vintage is the look of the future | Image courtesy: Pexels / Sharath G.

     

    The passing of the music legend Dolly Parton triggered a wave of reminiscence. The September 7th cover of The New Yorker illustrated this grief with a painting of Dolly Parton. An era had come to an end. Just a while before she passed, Bonnie Tyler, whose hit song Total Eclipse of the Heart has achieved legendary status over several decades, had died. Not only do losses like these leave a void, but they spark acts of remembrance that play out online. With Parton’s passing, people weren’t just playing her songs, such as 9 to 5 or I Will Always Love You (a major debate surfaced regarding who sang it better: Parton or Whitney Houston?). The internet was also abuzz with deep dives on Jolene. Listeners attempted to decode the lyrics and asked questions. Who was Jolene? What point did the song make about rivalry among women and vulnerability? Articles were written, and reels were made. This could make one think about the late-1990s boyband that produced I Want It That Way. Not only was the song popular at the time of its release, it also regained some meaning, as it was instrumental in providing one of the most memorable cold opens on Brooklyn Nine-Nine. If you didn’t hear it from the horse’s mouth, chances are you heard it somewhere else, at some other time.

    In India, the nostalgia machine works in its own unique ways, as it is loaded with cultural references best known to Indian audiences. While pop stars from the West have their space among elite groups in India, nostalgia is also about the collective memory of growing up in the late 1990s and 2000s, and idolizing television stars along with film stars, of course. These examples could include being nostalgic about Javed Jaffrey’s hilarious Hindi commentary on the Japanese game show Takeshi’s Castle, which used to air on Pogo. Children would huddle in front of television sets to watch cartoons such as Oswald and Noddy, all dubbed in Hindi. There was also space for Disney shows like Shararat, a story about three generations of fairies with magical powers living among humans.

     

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    At the end of the day, nostalgia might be less about a particular era because people long for many eras all at once. It is more about what the era might represent when compared to our present.
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    It was also the phase in which some songs that existed outside the realm of films were immensely popular. Today, actors who were involved in the production of these shows and songs frequently take to social media platforms to reconnect with audiences. Nina Sarkar’s Instagram bio reads, “Yep, I’m the OG Leja Leja Re Girl.” Leja Leja, for the uninitiated, was a song sung by Shreya Ghoshal as part of an album titled Ustad & The Divas. Hazel Crowney, who played the lead in the film Mera Pehla Pehla Pyaar, more popularly referred to as MP3, recently spoke about her alleged disappearance after starring in it.

    Another prominent example is that of Shruti Seth, who played the confused teenage fairy Jia in Shararat alongside the film and television icon Farida Jalal. Seth often interacts with her fans online, sharing memories from the show, but is also firm in her stance about reminding viewers that aging is a natural process, and that they should expect their childhood celebrity crushes to change with time. This dynamic also leads us to another important question: is there a resistance to letting our childhood stars grow old? When audiences react with shock to an actor’s changing appearance, it might not really be about them, but about a refusal to confront the very essence of mortality.

     

    The Tate Britain hosted an exhibition that harked back to the 1990s | Image courtesy: Wikimedia Commons / Tony Hisgett / Magnus Manske

     

    Nostalgia is also not limited to the realm of popular culture, but is a force that museums have tapped into time and again. In the United Kingdom, Tate Britain is revisiting a version of the past. While speaking about his curation for the exhibition titled The 90s: Art and Fashion, fashion editor Edward Enninful found himself reflecting on the spirit of the era. He mentioned that the 1990s represented a unique moment of undiluted creative freedom. reflected on the limited number of magazines that existed then. Art directors and stylists were also fewer, and it took as many as six months to process ideas, and weeks went by before they were executed! Alas, do people possess that kind of time these days? There is always pressure to increase one’s output and work within tight deadlines, and a slower pace is something creatives in particular might be yearning for in contemporary times.

    At the end of the day, nostalgia might be less about a particular era because people long for many eras all at once. It is more about what the era might represent when compared to our present. We project our desires onto the past because it gives off the impression of a time period in which human creativity flourished without machines interfering in the process. Perhaps the weather was better and the skies were bluer. People are kinder to past political climates too, as the current one feels almost inimical to our existence. Life was centered on physical spaces and was not confined to consuming content endlessly on digital devices. Sometimes the nostalgia machine is run by big players, which might prod you to create an AI image of yourself, but it can take much less than that to trigger our senses. The scent of a perfume that is no longer formulated, shades of cool-toned, frosted lipsticks that looked almost like liquid silver and are no longer in vogue, or the opening chords of an old song: maybe some of these things are just enough to turn back the clock, even if it’s for a few seconds.

  • In The Mood For Love

    Imagine this: you’ve downloaded a dating app for the first time, dipping your toes into seemingly perilous waters, filling in the prompts one by one. Finally, after a painstaking amount of time curating your profile to seem like the most compelling and charming individual on the app, you receive a notification from your nosy aunt. By some disastrous means, she has seen the six deliciously confident selfies you’ve framed your profile with; only she doesn’t find them as intriguing as potential suitors may. Anger ensues, and panic sets in. 

    While this seems hyperbolic, traditional families haven’t seemed to fully catch up with modern-day dating in India. And yet, dating apps like Hinge are booming in the country. Founded in the US by Justin McLeod in 2012, India was one of the first four countries Hinge expanded to in 2014, alongside UK, Australia, and Canada. Now, the app has rolled out a special set of new features specifically for the Indian market. 

    With India being Hinge’s second-largest country by downloads, Chief Executive Officer Jackie Jantos emphasizes the wish to adapt the app to the needs of singles of India. “We’re excited to help more people in India find meaningful relationships in a way that feels right for their lives,” she says in the official Hinge newsletter. 

    Using a Nobel-Prize-winning algorithm, Hinge works towards improving quality, not quantity. These new features emphasize just that. The most intriguing is the ‘Block List’, which works to avoid a scenario akin to the one described in the introduction. Hinge will now allow users to choose contacts to block: a toxic ex, a snoopy neighbour, or a too-close-for-comfort colleague. 

    More interesting still, new users joining Hinge will enter through a waitlist, designed to remind downloaders to pause and create their profile with intention. Shn Juay, the Chief Executive of US matchmaking app Coffee Meets Bagel, explains how Asian users are more likely to swipe right if they can indicate time and effort put into the profile, “If you leave gaps, it is seen as disrespectful.” Other new features specifically for the Indian market include Face Check and Screenshot Protection. 

     

    Image courtesy: Pexels / Ekam Juneja.

     

    The introduction of these features can be attributed to India’s fast-growing consumer base for such apps. According to Grand View Research, the Indian online dating app market is projected to generate a revenue of USD 1.02 billion by 2030, with Match Group Inc (owner of Hinge, Tinder, and other popular dating apps) as one of the top contributors. 

    The idea of a dating app curating its features to be successful in a particular market isn’t new. French matchmaking app Happn has been seen to have ‘reinvented itself’ to maintain appeal in the Asian market, upon acquisition by a Chinese social networking company in 2025. Juay also speaks to the growing independence of Asian users, and the need to maintain the balance between making space for local cultural norms and expanding to fill the gap that a declining reliance on traditional matrimony services have left behind. “Women are no longer relying on family and friends to introduce them to their future partners”, she says. 

    However, the noble intentions of dating apps to help one find love grow cloudy when faced with an Indian market defined until too recently as conservative. These new features, especially targeting new users from Tier 2 and Tier 3 cities, take into account the stigma independent women face in the country. Up until now, most of the download traffic comes from cities such as Delhi and Mumbai. Arpita, a 22-year-old communications professional who spent most of her life in Durgapur, describes users facing notoriety among smaller, interconnected communities. “The whole ‘aunties would talk in the locality’ thing is extremely real,” she says. 

    This pushback does not only apply to online dating. Indian hotel chain OYO, which was popularized on social media as a safe haven for unmarried couples, closed its doors to them in 2025 following dissent from civil society groups.

     

     

    “
    The noble intentions of dating apps to help one find love grow cloudy when faced with an Indian market defined until too recently as conservative.
    ”
     

     

    On the other hand, Zara, a 22-year-old creative strategist from Bengaluru, says being ‘on the apps’ is very normal. Having been a part of the online dating culture on and off from the age of 18, she hasn’t faced much stigma from her peers, stating the only thing that might discourage her from partaking is a few select people coming across her profile. Therefore, these new features help to create an environment wherein Indians can let their interest take them on or off the apps, rather than societal norms. 

    For the younger generations living in the metropolitan cities of India, this means wading through potential love interests or casual partners has become less daunting and more pleasurable, signifying a clear cultural shift. This extends to LGBTQ+ relationships as well, as Hinge, Bumble, and other dating apps in India offer the option to choose from a range of gender and sexuality orientations. According to a 2019 report, 1 in 3 LGBTQ+ Indians are finding love through dating apps. Many young Indians also note that they came out on dating apps like Tinder before doing so in real life. The screen offers a level of comfort that in-person interactions often can’t, with Hinge’s new features securing this further. 

    Hinge’s competitors are aplenty, working with similar core principles of curation and exclusivity. Raya is one such membership-based app, where celebrities and members of the glitterati seem to flit about, unencumbered by the rest of the dating-curious population. The League is another such app. Hinge’s waitlist feature seems to attempt a similar USP, although its success is yet to be gauged. 

    So what do these new features mean? It means that Hinge is taking notice of its third-largest user base in a single country, and designing features unique to its makeup. It signifies a greater change, one where India’s consumer base is not seen as a problem to be solved, but a standard to uphold. Hinge demonstrates allegiance to its values of connection and intimacy through the clear intention behind these updates. What is yet to be seen is how successful this intention will prove to be. 

  • The Routes Back To Their Roots

    Maitreyi Ramakrishnan rarely talks about being simply “South Asian”. The Canadian actor, best known for Never Have I Ever, is always precise about her origins: she is Sri Lankan Tamil. In interviews, she has spoken openly about her family’s heritage, Tamil culture and the experience of growing up in a Sri Lankan Tamil household in Canada. Her identity is not an incidental detail of her biography, but something she returns to, explains and sometimes brings into her work.

    But Ramakrishnan’s origins are beside the point of this piece. Her insistence on specificity, on the other hand, is very much the point. For a long time, the South Asian – and Indian – diaspora were painted with the same brush. Whether their roots were from the Konkani-speaking communities of Goa or the Punjabis up north, ‘Indian’ became a useful shorthand and a way of communing with diverse communities in a strange land.

     

     

    But across the diaspora, a subset of the younger generation is gradually growing curious about the languages their parents spoke, the regions their families left, the communities they belonged to and the histories that were compressed into the simple word ‘Indian’. An older generation trying to fit into a new country urged their children to learn the English language; speaking it with facility signalled belonging in a way nothing else would. But their kids are equally comfortable in their native tongues, fluent in Bengali, Punjabi, Tamil or Malayalam. Others are researching family histories, returning to ancestral towns, following regional creators on YouTube or consuming the specific music, films, literature of their parents and grandparents.

    Indians are the second-largest Asian-origin group in America, accounting for about one-fifth of the Asian population, After Hindi, Telugu, Gujarati and Tamil are among the most common languages spoken in Indian American homes. Weekend schools are often the hinge to this linguistic education, such as the American Tamil Educational and Cultural Center in St Louis. Similarly, the Illinois Tamil school, a nonprofit Tamil center has taught up to 300 students on the weekend. And in Massachusetts, Shishu Bharati began as a Sunday study group for immigrant parents and now offers programmes in Gujarati, Hindi, Marathi, Tamil, Telugu and Kannada.

     

    “
    In St Louis, a volunteer-run Tamil school has grown from a handful of children to more than 300.
    ”

     

    The Internet has of course considerably smoothed this process. There is suddenly a boom in regional language videos, and many vloggers such as America lo Telugodu Vlogs have built large diaspora followings by documenting American life in Telugu. Regional cinema and streaming services have built their own diaspora audiences as well, on platforms like Hoichoi, Chaupal and Sun NXT selling subscriptions abroad.

    Younger viewers are more likely to encounter their heritage through social media. Brooklyn-based Chaheti Bansal, who posts as RootedInSpice, built an audience of nearly 800,000 TikTok followers and 406,000 Instagram followers by posting reel after reel about the specific Indian dishes she grew up eating.

     

     

    Older generations kept their heritage alive, in part, through temple communities, and regional-language newspapers. The younger generation can claim all of those things, plus an algorithm that can lead from a Tamil language lesson to a Telugu comedian, a Bengali film, a Punjabi podcast or an obscure account of a family tradition.

    The result is a more complicated relationship with heritage. A young Indian American may feel little attachment to the broad category of “Indian culture” and yet be deeply interested in Tamil literature, Punjabi music, a Gujarati grandmother’s stories or the history of a particular town in Kerala. The search is becoming more specific as it becomes more accessible.

    The question is no longer simply whether the second generation will remain connected to its heritage. It is what happens when it starts asking what that heritage actually is.

  • Carrom’s Second Coming

    For most South Asians, the carrom board was a fixture at their grandparents’ homes, played during sun-scorched summer vacations when it was too hot to play outside. Guest houses and hotels from an older era had one, and a pair of bent heads over a wooden board was once a common sight. But things would change; younger generations began bending their heads over iPads and Instagram, and carrom boards grew dustier and dustier.

    Now, though, thanks to a band of enthusiastic carrom-heads, the game is gaining a fresh lease on life, halfway around the world from where it began. For it did most likely begin in South Asia.

    It’s origins are somewhat murky but signs seems to point to the fact that the game has been played in the subcontinent from at least 18th C (some sccounts date the game at least a century later). A glass-topped carrom board still survives in a Patiala palace, adding fuel to the story that it was a game once beloved by Indian royalty.

     

    Whatever its origins, one thing is clear; carrom became a game deeply beloved by South Asians. What might once have been the purview of clubs and rest houses moved squarely into the home, and by the 1930s, people were flicking away to glory in tournaments in Delhi, Madras, Calcutta and Allahabad. The All India Carrom Federation, founded in 1956, standardized equipment and rules and helped turn a family pastime into a sport. Before the Federation stepped in, we are told by the Federation website that “Players were taking their own time to make every stroke like chess. There was no ban on smoking and hence more time. The games were extended for the whole day and became boring for the spectators.”

    Naturally, such a beloved game was carried to the UK by the British as well as by diaspora communities, trying to take a tiny slice of home with them.

    “
    A glass-topped board survives in a palace in Patiala, feeding the story that Indian royalty played it, though other accounts place its development in the 19th century.
    ”

    Much of the momentum around the game today comes via Karrom, a UK-based community founded by Abdus Khan. Karrom pairs with prominent locales such as Dishoom to host regular carrom nights, and they are growing in popularity. At an event in Notting Hill, for example, 800 people applied for 44 places. There is even a Karrom Super League, the first in the world according to the organisers. One night of the Super League at Wembley drew 600 players and spectators, and the League has since set its sights on cities as far afield as Karachi, Riyadh and San Francisco.

    The pull of the board appears to have all the obvious reasons. Time spent focused away from screens, in communion with likeminded people of every age, without the pressures of an ordinary night out. Alcoholic lubrication is unnecessary, it is a fairly inexpensive game, and it is age agnostic. Anyone from a creaky-kneed nonagenarian to an enthusiastic teenager can play with equal skill.

     

    The younger audience is not only gathering around the carrom board. It is also moving it onto the digital arena. Miniclip’s Carrom Pool turns the game into a multiplayer mobile experience and has surpassed 500m downloads on Google Play, with nearly eight million reviews. In India it remains among the leading free online sports games.

    Perhaps the uncles and aunties playing the game in Panchgani and Bhubaneswar might be taken aback by these twists in a classic game. But the pleasure they handed down is the same one now spreading to a new generation: lining up the shot, flicking, waiting and seeing where the piece lands.