Rodevra Republic

A quiet ensemble in motion — where each note flows gently into the next, echoing a calm that needs no display Bach: Air on the G String (orchestra Suite No.3) Have you ever had a piece of music, a song or a tune, that has stayed with you through the years, surfacing in moments of both joy and grief? Something that feels like the background score of your life, a kind of leitmotif  that returns when words fall short? For me, that piece is Bach’s Air on the G String. For want of a newer topic, I decided to feature it in this Weekend Story. When you listen closely, you’ll notice it has no grand gestures, no dramatic peaks; its beauty lies in an unbroken, flowing line. Bach takes a simple melodic phrase and lets it breathe, with long, sustained notes supported by the gentlest harmonic movement beneath. There is space between the notes, and this space is as important as the notes themselves, much like the pauses between our thoughts in a quiet mind. The music never tries to impress. Inst...

  “Faith is the bird that sings when the dawn is still dark.”   — Rabindranath Tagore Before every dawn, there is a stillness so complete that even the world seems to wait, and then, from somewhere unseen, a bird begins to sing. It sings not because the light has come, but because it knows  the light will come. That, Tagore tells us, is faith, not blind belief, but the quiet strength that endures even when there is no light to guide it. Tagore’s words carry the fragrance of a life fully lived, a life that knew both the tenderness of joy and the ache of loss. He lost his wife, two of his children, and several dear friends, yet his poetry never gave in to despair. From sorrow, he distilled something luminous, “Trust love even if it brings sorrow”  he wrote, and later, near the end of his life, “Let this be my last word, that I trust in Thy love.” To Tagore, trust was not naïve optimism, it carried the tremor of surrender. To trust love, divine or human, even w...

When the French writer and humanitarian Dominique Lapierre first arrived in Calcutta in the early 1970s, he expected to find a city drowning in poverty. What he discovered instead was a city overflowing with life, chaotic, noisy, but strangely luminous. It was, as he would later describe in The City of Joy , a place where “the poorest of the poor” taught him the true meaning of dignity and grace. One evening, wandering through the narrow lanes of a slum without electricity, he saw people preparing for a festival. The houses were dark, no bulbs, no power lines, no electric glow spilling from windows. And yet, the lanes shimmered. Rows of earthen lamps flickered on mud walls, marigolds hung from bamboo poles, and barefoot children dashed about, their sparklers drawing brief golden arcs in the night. It was Diwali, the festival of lights. Lapierre stood still, watching. The light came not from power stations but from people, from their laughter, their songs, their sheer will to celebrat...

There is no doubt a scientific explanation for the white ball to reach first like its volume, mass, however from our point of view, what is more inspiring is knowing that life is not a race.  More than that if we take a multi-dimensional worldview, there are no starting and ending points either. There are no linear paths in life and no fixed points. There is no one to ‘be’ or nowhere to ‘arrive’ at, but rather to live life at your own pace with the knowledge that in the so-called tribulations and trials of life there is spring of pure wisdom flowing. Different paths, different pace — a gentle reminder that life is not a race, but a journey unfolding in its own time If you wish, you may explore the Rodevra website

Lolla Kutty has so nicely echoed the sentiments of many of us, when we are ripped off by fancy restaurants and their bite-sized portions of food. Inspired by Lolla Kutty’s brilliant take on “fine dining”, and your comments, here’s how Mr. and Mrs. Chopra experienced their own brush with culinary refinement. “Rajeev, are you sure this is a restaurant?” Mrs. Chopra looked around, wondering if they had walked into a museum or a spa. The white walls, the whispering waiters, and the faint smell of lavender gave nothing away. “Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Chopra, looking confident. “It’s Le Papillon. _ They say it’s a culinary experience, not just food.”   As they sat down, she froze. In front of her was an army of cutlery, six forks, four spoons, and two knives, all arranged like a puzzle. “Rajeev,” she whispered, “are we performing surgery or eating?” He smiled indulgently. “Each has a purpose, darling. You see, fine dining is about _culture, precision, and refinement of taste.”...

A Woosterian exchange — where language, wit, and a perfectly timed anecdote come together with effortless charm As related by Bertram Wooster I say, Jeeves, our old pal Hormazd, fine fellow, first-rate chap, but occasionally inquisitive to a fault, has just fired off a query about the origin of the word “cocksure.”  Says he admires the purity of my English, which is dashed decent of him, but now expects me to explain the thing like a walking dictionary. Jeeves, as ever, looked thoughtful. “Indeed, sir? If I may, there exists a rather instructive anecdote on that very subject. Possibly apocryphal, but most edifying.” “Carry on, Jeeves,” I said, adjusting the old cravat. “Well, sir, it concerns a certain Earl Hugo-James Fearnley-Whittingstall and his good lady, the Countess Emma-Kate, residents of the stately Woburn Abbey. It was a household distinguished by its hyphenation — both parties double-barrelled, and even the butler, a Theodore-John, so named as if the thing were compulsory...

During the Navaratri festival, I had visited a family friend’s house for Devi puja. In conversation, the elderly gentleman, a self-confessed purist of the English language, was grumbling about the declining standards of writing and rattled off names of editors and journalists of the bygone age - Inder Malhotra, Tavleen Singh, Kuldeep Nayar, Vinod Mehta, Shekhar Gupta - whose editorials, he said, were models of perfection. He also complained about how people speak and write these days. His complaint was simple but sharp: “The meeting is Wednesday,” they say. But where is the 'on'? I saw the point and it stayed with me. He once told me, "You have all the makings of a journalist - you convey sensitively the core of any subject matter". With the background of his erudition, I took his point seriously and pondered about it.  That missing little word suddenly opened my eyes to how much English has changed around us. Prepositions are vanishing, commas are going on holiday,...

A few days back I was reminded about the World Post Day, which was on 9th October. It made me recollect my own interactions with the post people and particularly certain unique experiences I have had. A year ago I came to know that Posts had started a Digital Bank account called IPPB (Indian Post Payments Bank), which you could use for online banking as well as for making mobile payments. This could be linked to your Postal Savings Bank (PSB) Account with which you could sweep in and sweep out money. It had zero balance facility as well, compared to other banks like HDFC which requires Rs.10,000 as minimum balance. Since I had already had PSB accounts, thought it would be good to make use of the new digital account.  I set out to open the account and enquired at my closest Post Office at Hughes Road. They told me it can be opened only at a major Post Office like the Grant Road one. I went there and was told to come inside the office. I assume it cannot be opened across the counter....

László Krasznahorkai, a writer who finds beauty not beyond darkness, but within it When the Hungarian writer László Krasznahorkai was awarded the 2025 Nobel Prize for Literature, the Swedish Academy described him as a writer “for his compelling and visionary oeuvre that, in the midst of apocalyptic terror, reaffirms the power of art.” Another note from the Nobel committee called him “ a writer who captures the texture of present-day existence in scenes that are terrifying, strange, appallingly comic and often shatteringly beautiful.”   These are cryptic words at first glance, but within them lies a key to understanding why this award matters, not just to literature, but to our times. Krasznahorkai’s world is one where despair is never neatly resolved, and pain has no tidy ending. His characters move through chaos and futility, yet amid the ruins, there is always an ember of meaning, not in salvation, but in endurance itself. His art does not redeem life through a single spiri...

“Our startup is on an incredible journey.” “I love the energy of this café.” “We need to change the narrative.” “She brings great vibes to the team.” “This is a safe space to share.” “Our brand is built on authentic connections.”   What’s common to all these sentences? They sound familiar, even agreeable - yet they lean on fashionable words that have been used so often, they’ve lost their freshness. Journey, energy, narrative, vibe, space, authentic   - all once vivid and meaningful, now drift through conversations like background music we no longer notice. They’re bandied about without much sense of their depth – as if people wish to sound chic, in tune with the times, or intellectual.   Now imagine if we simply said:   “Our startup is growing fast.” “I like this café.” “We need to see things differently.” “She works well with everyone.” “This is a friendly place to talk.” “Our brand is trustworthy.” The meaning stays almost the same, b...

Having embraced art as a way of life, seeing beauty in the world around me and drawing inspiration from it, it's worth asking: What role does art play in our lives, and how can it transform our everyday existence? Can we draw a parallel between the traditional world of art and the art of living? If living is an art, then the art of living  is about mastering the balance between being present and evolving. It’s about finding harmony between purpose and pleasure, discipline and spontaneity, self-awareness and connection with others. Like any great art, living well requires creativity, resilience, and a willingness to embrace both joy and struggle. It means cultivating gratitude, being open to learning, and expressing oneself authentically while respecting the rhythm of life. So if we draw a parallel between the traditional world of art and the art of living, we could see life itself as a canvas, a sculpture, or even a symphony, each requiring creativity, technique, and emotional ...

A man may think he is clever, but his wife usually knows the script better The experienced of the married men would know the tricks of how to look at women even in the presence of their wives. There are a few easy and safe one's. For example, while looking at the woman, make a casual remark about her: “Her dress doesn’t suit her”  or “That bag looks fake.”  Obviously these comments are only to distract your wife while you keep looking at the woman. Your wife feeling superior, nods are head and agrees. Mission accomplished! Another safe ploy is a variation on the above. You complement your wife telling her that no one can match her grace and charm and say, "Look at that woman, just putting heavy make-up will never give the radiant beauty of a natural complexion like yours".  If you are adventurous enough you may add "Real beauty comes from within."  All this while you have the license to ogle at the woman to your hearts content, with your wife wanting to know...

One glance, a world of meaning—Hollywood glamour, rivalry, and quiet grace in a single frame Sixty-five years ago, Hollywood’s two most glamorous sex symbols created a moment that still fascinates. The most famous side-eye in history belongs to Sophia Loren, caught glancing at Jayne Mansfield’s rather… abundant charms. The photo was taken at a Paramount party in Beverly Hills in 1957, held in honor of Loren, then a newcomer to Hollywood. The guest list glittered with stars, but the last to arrive was blonde bombshell Jayne Mansfield. She made sure every head turned as she sat down at Loren’s table, alongside actor Clifton Webb. Mansfield’s barely-there dress was part of a calculated publicity stunt, designed to shift the spotlight away from the Italian newcomer. And it worked - cameras clicked furiously as Mansfield’s plunging neckline revealed more than the censors could handle. Loren’s gaze, frozen forever in that iconic image, told the whole story. “I’m staring at her nipples,” ...