Whispers of Winter: My Love Affair with the Cold

Whispers of Winter: My Love Affair with the Cold

There’s something profoundly poetic about the cold — a stillness that seeps into your bones not to numb, but to awaken a different rhythm of life. While many may shrink from the shivers of winter, I have always leaned into its embrace. For most of my life — from my schooling years to my professional chapters — cold weather wasn’t a seasonal guest, but a steadfast companion. Nepal, Darjeeling, Mussoorie, Dehradun, Shimla — these weren’t just places on a map; they were stages upon which the drama of my life unfolded, draped in mists and wrapped in woollens.

The chill in the air, the crackling of dry leaves underfoot, the bite of the wind on one’s cheeks — these sensations are etched in my memory like a timeless hymn. The cold brought with it more than weather. It carried quietude, discipline, introspection, and above all, a peculiar sense of warmth found only in contrast.

In Nepal, winter mornings often began with the reluctant parting of warm blankets and a quick dash to a brass basin filled with icy water. One didn’t need an alarm clock when the cold slapped you into consciousness! But even those frosty awakenings built resilience — the kind that stays with you long after the fog clears.

The hill stations of Darjeeling and Mussoorie were my poetic playgrounds. The fog often played hide-and-seek with the landscape, creating silhouettes that danced like shadows in a dream. Tea tasted better when the fingers around the cup were half-frozen. Every breath that fogged my spectacles reminded me I was alive — very much so.

As a professional in the educational sphere, the cold served as both a teacher and a test. It demanded preparedness, punctuality, and perseverance. There was no room for lethargy when the first bell rang amidst a frosty dawn. I still remember those chilly assemblies — students bundled in layers, breath visible like little clouds of purpose, and the school anthem echoing through pine-scented air. The cold taught us to be still, to be solemn, and at times, even to be silent — all vital virtues in a world full of noise.

Of course, the cold isn’t always kind. It has its sharp edges. Doors creaked, water pipes froze, and heaters failed at the most inconvenient hours. But life, much like the weather, doesn’t promise comfort — it offers character.

Philosophically, winter has always been a metaphor for inner growth. In Indian mythology and spiritual texts, the season is often viewed as a time for contemplation and renewal. The Mahabharata speaks of the forest exile during the colder months as a time of spiritual refinement. Similarly, the Upanishads remind us that knowledge, like fire, glows brighter in the stillness of a meditative mind — and what better ambience for such contemplation than the calm of a Himalayan winter?

There’s a certain joy in watching the world slow down — to hear the silence of snowfall, to smell wood smoke curling from a distant chimney, to feel the crunch of frost under one’s boots. The cold doesn’t just touch the skin; it caresses the soul.

In retrospect, I owe a great deal to the cold. It honed my discipline, nurtured my love for books and music, and gave me a lifelong admiration for silence and stillness. It taught me to seek warmth — not just in fire or flannel, but in friendships, faith, and self-reflection.

Cold weather, to me, is no antagonist. It is a wise old friend — austere, but deeply affectionate. And as I sit now in a city where winters are less biting, I sometimes close my eyes and imagine a walk down Mall Road, Mussoorie — the smell of roasted peanuts in the air, the clang of church bells, and the comforting cold that whispered, “Keep going, you’re on the right path.”

When Silence Screamed and Time Bled: A Handful of Pain, A Heartful of Grace

When Silence Screamed and Time Bled: A Handful of Pain, A Heartful of Grace

There are days when the sun rises like any other, but by dusk, nothing remains the same. One such day drove through me like a phantom wind—leaving splinters of memory and scars carved in bone and soul.

I was returning alone from Karnal to Ludhiana, a road I had travelled many times before. The trees whispered along the highway, and the asphalt ribbon unrolled steadily under my wheels. I remember the music, the open sky, and the solitude that often becomes a companion in one’s seasoned years. Little did I know, I was speeding into the heart of a storm.

A car—driven recklessly by intoxicated youth—came hurtling from the front. I barely had time to breathe when a truck rammed me from the rear. In an instant, my car was reduced to crushed steel—twisted like a paper crane in a child’s furious hand. I was trapped—pinned between the steering wheel and the caving roof, time suspended like a painting held mid-stroke.

Between Screams and Stillness

I don’t remember screaming—but I remember silence. The kind of silence that rings loud in your ears, drowning even your heartbeat. My left hand and fingers bore the violence of the impact—broken, bleeding, throbbing. But I had no luxury to mourn them. With a will summoned from the deepest chambers of my being, I forced my way out—one movement at a time, like emerging from the womb of calamity.

The boys in the other car were dangling on the parapet that divided road from canal—barely clinging to life. I don’t know how I found the strength, but I pulled them out—one by one. Strangers in blood, yet bound by a sacred thread of humanity. The highway was jammed, yet help remained a rare commodity. A crowd had gathered, but empathy is often the first to vanish when danger arrives.

The Anatomy of Pain

Eventually, familiar faces appeared. My car was towed, my body transported, and my spirit sedated. In the sterile walls of a hospital, I was operated upon—stapled back into function, though never quite the same. The insurance claim, like many promises, delivered less than it vowed. My car was eventually repaired, but I was not.

There is a peculiar loneliness in recovering with broken bones and a broken career. I lived those months like a ghost between rooms—left hand wrapped in plaster, heart wrapped in silence. Interviews came, like clouds without rain—turning me down not for lack of skill, but because I was “damaged goods.”

With One Hand and an Undying Heart

But pain, if it doesn’t break you, builds a new person within you.

One morning, with the defiance of a man who refuses to kneel before destiny, I opened my own plaster. My fingers screamed, but my soul sang. I took the wheel again—this time with one hand—and drove from Ludhiana to Dehradun. Not just to reclaim a job, but to reclaim my name, my pride, and my narrative.

And life, as if moved by this reckless leap of faith, opened a door. I walked into a Principal’s office, not just to lead a school—but to lead myself out of the shadows.

The Lump that Remains, and the Lessons that Live

Even today, my left hand bears a lump. A silent hillock of memory. The pain lingers in my fingers, like autumn’s ache in a tree that once stood through storm. But I no longer curse it. I have learned to live with the hurt—like one learns to live with the memory of an old love, or a melody that plays softly in the background of one’s solitude.

A Life Rewritten with a Broken Pen

Philosophers say the body is the chariot, the mind the reins, and the soul the charioteer. That day, my chariot crashed—but the charioteer did not falter. I realised then: we are not what happens to us. We are what rises from it.

If you’re reading this and carrying your own fractures—visible or not—remember: healing isn’t always about erasing the pain. Sometimes, it’s about finding beauty in how we endure.

And so the road continues…

I still drive. I still write. I still feel the occasional jab in my hand. But now, it only reminds me that I survived.

That I chose to survive.

That even when silence screamed and time bled—I answered, not with fear, but with fire.

As the wheels of life turn on, I leave you with this thought:

“In the furnace of pain, the soul is tempered.
In the silence of suffering, the self is revealed.”

And as the Gita reminds us:
“श्रेयान्स्वधर्मो विगुणः परधर्मात्स्वनुष्ठितात्।
स्वधर्मे निधनं श्रेयः परधर्मो भयावहः॥”
(Shreyān swadharmo vigunah paradharmāt svanushṭhitāt.
Swadharme nidhanam shreyah paradharmo bhayāvahah.)
— Bhagavad Gita 3.35
“Better to live your own path imperfectly, than to follow another’s perfectly. Death in your own path is noble; fear lies in another’s way.”

So, I chose to walk my path—broken hand, unbroken spirit!

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Walking the Tightrope: The Art of Balancing Work and Home Life

Walking the Tightrope: The Art of Balancing Work and Home Life

In the ebb and flow of daily life, the balance between work and home often resembles a tightrope walk over a bustling bazaar—one misstep, and chaos ensues. But finding that fine line is not merely a matter of routine; it is a cultivated discipline, honed over time, and deeply rooted in age-old wisdom.

From ancient scriptures to modern-day self-help shelves, the pursuit of balance has been a perennial concern. The Bhagavad Gita reminds us: “Yogasthaḥ kuru karmāṇi“—Perform your duties being steadfast in yoga, with equanimity. Lord Krishna’s counsel to Arjuna was not to renounce action, but to perform it with detachment and inner balance. A lesson as relevant to our boardrooms as to our living rooms.

1. Time: The Monarch of All

As Chanakya wisely observed, “A person should not be too honest. Straight trees are cut first and honest people are screwed first.” In context, this teaches that while sincerity is noble, practicality is paramount. Likewise, managing time judiciously—discerning what truly matters from what merely appears urgent—is the cornerstone of balance. Time is a sovereign ruler, and we, its loyal subjects; wise is the one who keeps the royal court in order.

Use of planners, alarms, and digital reminders is modern-day astrology—we may not chart the stars, but we can certainly plot our hours.

2. Boundaries: The Great Wall Within

Much like the Ashokan edicts carved in stone to demarcate values, boundaries must be defined to protect one’s sanity. In the Upanishadic tradition, the self is not isolated but layered. Each layer—professional, personal, emotional—requires its sanctum.

A designated time for home and another for work is akin to the Lakshman Rekha—not to imprison, but to preserve peace. Crossing it often results in Ravana-like disruptions—be it stress, burnout, or strained relationships.

3. Work with Dharma, Rest with Delight

Dharma, in its truest sense, is duty done in harmony with one’s nature and situation. Pouring oneself into work with mindfulness and resting without guilt forms the perfect symphony. It is said that even Lord Vishnu, the preserver of the universe, takes his yogic slumber (yoganidra) on Sheshnag between cosmic cycles. If rest, befit the divine, why should mortals deny themselves?

Be it a hot cup of chai under the evening sky or a quiet moment with a book, rest is not idleness—it is renewal.

4. Delegation: Lessons from History

Even the mighty Akbar had his Navaratnas. Leadership lies not in doing it all, but in knowing whom to trust and when to let go. At home and work, delegation is wisdom in motion. It shows humility and vision—the mark of those who build legacies, not just empires.

5. Reflection: The Mirror of the Soul

Socrates famously declared, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” In our context, the unbalanced life is not worth the burnout. A few moments each day to pause, reflect, or offer a prayer can realign the axis of a weary mind.

The practice of sandhyavandanam, or quiet reflection at dawn and dusk, is not mere ritual—it is a spiritual reset button, a habit that blends the sacred into the schedule.

6. Celebrating the Midst

Balance is not a tight-lipped exercise in restraint—it is a joyful equilibrium. Just as Indian classical ragas flow between notes with grace, life too must glide between roles with fluidity. A hearty laugh in the middle of a spreadsheet or a warm conversation amidst deadlines is not escapism—it is enlightened living.

In Closing…

Balancing work and home is not about being everything to everyone—it is about being true to oneself in every role. The ancient wisdom of both the East and West echoes the same truth: fulfilment lies in harmony. As the Rig Veda says, “Let us move together, let us sing together, let us come to know our minds together…”—this call for unity applies equally to the parts within us.

So, walk your tightrope not in fear, but in grace. Wear your responsibilities like a well-draped dhoti or sari—neither too loose to trip over, nor too tight to restrict breath. After all, it’s not about balancing time—it’s about balancing the soul.

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The Unseen Altars Where I Laid My Dreams

The Unseen Altars Where I Laid My Dreams

Some lives are composed like ballads—rich in rhythm, remembered in chorus. Others, like mine, are quieter—more akin to ancient ragas heard in distant temples, their notes soaked in longing, discipline, and grace.

I did not inherit a staircase to climb. Instead, I found a rope and began to braid it with strands of hope, toil, and unyielding faith. In the theatre of life, where many actors change masks to suit the script, I remained the stagehand—sweeping, arranging, enduring—so that others could perform without stumbling. And yet, there was no audience to applaud.

In the earliest chapters of my journey, while others memorised poems or solved equations under lantern light, I was learning the science of survival. Education was not handed to me; I chased it like a famished soul runs after a mirage. There were days when books were a luxury and meals a miracle. But I swallowed my hunger, fed my dreams instead, and walked miles not only to reach school, but also to escape the gravitational pull of despair.

I wore hand-me-downs stitched with dignity. I learnt to smile through the fog of want. Festivals arrived at my door not with sweets or sparklers, but with questions: “Can I afford a gift of joy this year?” Even so, I lit my own lamp—a flickering resolve that kept burning through the darkest nights.

As the wheel of life turned, I stepped into roles that demanded more giving than receiving. I became the provider—not just of food and fees, but of courage, confidence, and quiet wisdom. There were moments I stood on the edge of exhaustion, but turned back—not because I couldn’t jump, but because there were others depending on my balance. I sacrificed dreams of travel, ambitions of grandeur, and at times, even the luxury of rest. Each sacrifice folded into another, like origami—plain from outside, but carrying intricate design within.

I’ve walked through life like an unsalaried saint—offering my time, intellect, and intuition to the altars of duty. I postponed pleasure, parked my passions, and politely declined desires that didn’t align with necessity. I trained others to fly while I stitched my own broken wings quietly behind the curtain.

Some might ask, “Was it worth it?” But worth is not always measured in wealth or recognition. I measure it in the smiles I lit, the silences I endured, and the souls I nurtured. I measure it in the mornings when the sun rose upon a roof I could call my own, however modest. In the pride of seeing others stand taller because I chose to bend.

Philosophers say that true sacrifice is when you give up something valuable, not expecting anything in return. But I did not give in despair. I gave with the quiet confidence that some blessings are born only through burning—like camphor offered to the divine.

Today, I walk slower, with the scent of wisdom in my stride. I no longer run after recognition; I carry contentment in my satchel. I still have dreams—simpler ones, perhaps, but not less sacred. A walk under the trees, a good book, a warm cup of tea, and a quiet evening where no one needs anything from me anymore. That, too, is a triumph.

And if my story is never told in grand auditoriums or printed in glossy magazines, so be it. The universe keeps a more accurate record—in stardust, in echoes, in the silent applause of the soul.

For I have lived a life of giving—uncelebrated, perhaps, but undeniably noble.

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Beads of Eternity: The Rosary I Wear and the Spirit It Sustains

Beads of Eternity: The Rosary I Wear and the Spirit It Sustains

As I began my day today, buttoning my shirt and preparing myself for yet another chapter in life’s unpredictable story, a gentle weight tugged at my attention — familiar, steady, unassuming. It was my rosary — the oldest thing I am wearing today.

Not old in the way an heirloom is admired or antiques are appraised. It is old in the way rivers are old — having flowed quietly across the terrain of my soul, shaping it, smoothing it, and occasionally rising in tide when I needed it most. This rosary, made of dark wooden beads and a modest crucifix, has become more than an accessory. It is my silent companion, my spiritual compass, and, in many ways, the keeper of my inner monologue with the Divine.

There is something profoundly moving about wearing something that has absorbed your tears, echoed your prayers, and rested against your heartbeat during sleepless nights and quiet sunrises. Each bead carries the memory of intentions whispered — some fulfilled, others deferred — and the soundless cries that words could never quite hold.

My rosary has aged with me. The beads, once glossy, have dulled from the faithful touch of fingers that have returned to them over and over again, in joy, in despair, in thanksgiving. The string has weakened but held, much like my body at times, or my resolve — stretched, but never snapped. And the crucifix, though simple, stands like a sentinel — witnessing the confessions I’ve made not aloud but through silence.

Rosaries have long been misunderstood by those who see only ritual and not relationship. For me, it is not merely a religious object. It is a thread that connects earth to heaven, self to spirit, chaos to calm. It is theology strung into rhythm — a living manuscript written bead by bead through the soul’s interaction with eternity.

In the religious tradition, and in many other strands of religion and even other faiths, prayer beads are not meant to decorate. They are meant to deepen. They are used not to show off piety but to train the heart into stillness and the mind into remembrance. My rosary reminds me to breathe deliberately, to forgive often, to intercede for others, and to reflect on mysteries far beyond my limited understanding.

There is deep symbolism in this object. The circular form of the rosary represents the eternal nature of God. The repetition of prayers is not vain muttering, but spiritual rhythm — like a mantra, a lullaby, or the beating of a heart — drawing us back again and again to the centre of all love. It demands neither noise nor display, only presence.

In a world obsessed with what’s new, what’s trending, and what’s showy, wearing something so deeply personal, so spiritually resonant, feels like a quiet act of rebellion — or perhaps, of surrender. I don’t wear it for others to see. I wear it so that I see — myself, my purpose, my failings, and my faith.

The rosary does not promise answers, but it helps me live the questions. It does not erase the pain of the world, but it lends me the grace to endure it. It does not grant me control, but it teaches me to trust.

And in its silent company, I have found not just routine, but relationship — with God, with the world, and most importantly, with myself.

So yes, the oldest thing I wear today is not a badge of honour or a sign of past success. It is a loop of beads — fragile, yet powerful. A string of hope and history. A soft tether to the eternal. And in its quiet weight, I feel lifted.

And you — what do you carry that carries you?

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To Lead or to Follow: The Compass Within

To Lead or to Follow: The Compass Within

Leadership is not always about standing at the front, nor is following always about trailing behind. Both roles demand strength, vision, and discernment. In the orchestra of life, some wield the baton, while others play the notes that give symphonies their soul. So, am I a leader or a follower? I would say—I am both, and neither, depending on the moment and the mission.

The Measure of a Leader

True leadership is not conferred by title or authority but by the power to inspire, to act with conviction, and to bear responsibility without flinching. My life’s journey—shaped by challenges, shaped by learning, shaped by the sheer will to stand when it would have been easier to sit—has given me opportunities to lead. As a teacher, mentor, and Principal, I have had the privilege to influence, to mould, and to show the path. I have spoken in assembly halls with gravitas and held the hand of a trembling child with quiet assurance. Leadership, I have learned, is a lonely hill sometimes, where applause is faint but the echo of one’s conscience is loud.

But I also know that no leader stands alone. Behind every wise decision lies a thousand small learnings—many drawn from quietly following the wise, the experienced, the humble. A leader must first be a good follower—of truth, of principles, of collective good.

The Grace in Following

The word “follower” often bears an undeserved stigma, especially in an age that glorifies visibility. But following is an art. It requires humility, discipline, and clarity of purpose. To follow a cause, a conscience, or a community with sincerity and integrity is as noble as leading a charge.

I have followed the teachings of ancient scriptures, the philosophy of the wise, the science of reason, and the voices of those who dared to walk paths I hadn’t yet imagined. Following has helped me grow roots before I reached for the sky.

The Balance of Being

Life is not a linear journey from follower to leader; it’s a circular dance of roles. One must know when to hold the torch and when to light someone else’s path. The greatest leaders I have known were also great listeners. They could kneel to lift, pause to ponder, and walk behind to push someone forward.

To use an idiom, “A wise man changes his mind, a fool never.” In knowing when to lead and when to follow, I find not contradiction, but complementarity.

Drawing from Philosophy

Indian scriptures teach of dharma—righteous duty—not just to act, but to act rightly, whether by taking the reins or by lending strength from behind the scenes. The Bhagavad Gita doesn’t just show Krishna leading Arjuna, but also standing as a charioteer, guiding from the shadows. What a splendid metaphor for life’s dual roles.

Greek philosophers, too, pondered the concept of the phronimos—a practically wise person who knows the right thing to do in the right manner at the right time. Sometimes, that means taking charge; sometimes, stepping back.

The Compass Within

So, am I a leader or a follower? I would say I am a compass-bearer, guided not by position but by purpose. I lead when duty calls me to speak, to act, to uplift. I follow when wisdom lies in stillness, silence, and support. The joy lies not in being one or the other, but in knowing which role the moment asks of me.

Because in the grand scheme of things, leadership is not a throne to occupy, and following is not a shadow to hide in. Both are paths of dignity, if walked with truth.

And in the end, whether you lead or follow, walk with grace—because someone, somewhere, is watching your footsteps.

Fruits of the Indian Soil: Nature’s Sweet Story in Five Flavours

Fruits of the Indian Soil: Nature’s Sweet Story in Five Flavours

India, a land resplendent with diversity, colour, and vitality, finds expression in its fruits as much as in its festivals, folklore, and flora. Among the many treasures borne of her generous soil, five fruits – Mango, Guava, Blackberry, Berries, and Oranges – stand out not merely as delicious delights but as threads in the cultural and mythological tapestry of this ancient land. Let us peel back the layers and bite into their story – a mix of nourishment, nostalgia, seasons, and symbolism.

1. Mango – The King That Wears a Crown of Summer

Origin & Cultivation
The mango, Mangifera indica, is a true son of Indian soil, with references as far back as 2000 BCE. It has spread its sweetness across continents, but its heart remains Indian. The states of Uttar Pradesh, Andhra Pradesh, Maharashtra, and Bihar are primary mango-producing regions, with varieties like Alphonso, Dasheri, Langra, and Banganapalli being household names.

Season of Plenty
Mangoes ripen with the Indian summer, peaking between April and June, when the sun bestows both heat and harvest.

Nutrition at a Glance
Rich in Vitamin A and C, antioxidants, and fibre, mangoes aid in immunity, digestion, and skin health. A mango a day, in the right portion, keeps your gut and glow on display.

Myth and Meaning
In Hindu mythology, mangoes are associated with prosperity and love. The mango blossom is sacred to Kama, the god of love. Legend holds that Lord Buddha rested in mango groves, which symbolised peace and mindfulness.

Fun and Frolic
Who can forget the pleasure of sucking on a juicy langda aam, competing in mango-eating contests, or relishing aamras with puris? It’s a festival in itself – the grand Indian mango season!

2. Guava – The Humble Healer

Origin & Cultivation
While native to Central America, guava (Psidium guajava) has become an Indian staple. It thrives in tropical and subtropical climates and is widely cultivated in Allahabad, Maharashtra, and parts of Karnataka.

Season of Plenty
Guava trees fruit twice a year, with the best harvest in winter (November to February).

Nutrition at a Glance
A powerhouse of Vitamin C – even more than oranges – guavas boost immunity, help digestion, and regulate blood sugar. With pink, white, or red flesh, they’re a rainbow of health.

Myth and Meaning
Though not strongly embedded in Indian mythology, guava is often regarded in rural folk stories as the fruit of the wise. Its leaves are used in traditional Ayurvedic remedies.

Fun and Frolic
Peeling guavas, sprinkling them with salt and chilli, or munching them with the skin on during a winter walk is pure rustic delight. It’s also a common trope in village tales and childhood memories.

3. Blackberry – The Monsoon’s Midnight Kiss

Origin & Cultivation
In India, the term ‘blackberry‘ often refers to Jamun (Syzygium cumini), not to be confused with the Western Rubus varieties. Native to the Indian subcontinent, Jamun trees flourish in Uttar Pradesh, Maharashtra, and Tamil Nadu.

Season of Plenty
Come monsoon – June to August – and the streets are speckled with purple, as vendors pile high their carts with this dusky treat.

Nutrition at a Glance
Jamun is known for its low glycaemic index, making it ideal for diabetics. It’s also rich in iron and antioxidants.

Myth and Meaning
Lord Krishna’s skin colour is often likened to the rich, dark hue of Jamun – Shyam varna. According to folklore, it was the favourite fruit of sages, symbolising inner peace and spiritual calm.

Fun and Frolic
Purple tongues and giggles, climbing trees, and spitting seeds – the antics of Jamun time are etched in the childhood of many Indians. Sticky fingers, purple smiles, and monsoon memories abound.

4. Berries – Nature’s Dainty Darlings

Origin & Cultivation
India grows several local berries like Ber (Indian jujube), Phalsa, Karonda, and Raspberry. These wild gems are cultivated in Rajasthan, Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, and hilly terrains of the North-East.

Season of Plenty
Different berries have different harvest times, though most flourish between spring and summer (February to May).

Nutrition at a Glance
Tiny yet mighty, berries are rich in Vitamin C, potassium, and fibre. They are gut-friendly, anti-inflammatory, and a good source of natural sugar.

Myth and Meaning
The Ramayana tells of Shabari, a tribal devotee of Lord Rama, who offered him wild berries after tasting them to ensure their sweetness. This simple act of love and devotion underscores the spiritual purity of these modest fruits.

Fun and Frolic
Berry-picking trips, roadside treats wrapped in leaves, and tart-sweet explosions in the mouth – berries bring rustic joy and countryside adventure.

5. Oranges – The Sunshine in Your Hand

Origin & Cultivation
While oranges (Citrus sinensis) trace their origin to Southeast Asia, India has embraced them wholly. Nagpur in Maharashtra is famously called the ‘Orange City’, producing the finest and juiciest variety.

Season of Plenty
Oranges shine in the winter months, typically from November to March.

Nutrition at a Glance
They are a quintessential Vitamin C source, hydrating and rejuvenating, aiding iron absorption, and a great post-illness pick-me-up.

Myth and Meaning
In some Jain traditions, oranges are offered to deities due to their purity. Their golden hue is symbolic of knowledge, warmth, and the sun’s bounty.

Fun and Frolic
Peeling oranges with chilled fingers on a wintry morning, juice trickling down the chin, is a cherished moment. Orange squash, marmalade, and even orange-flavoured toffees owe their joy to this fruit.

A Country in a Fruit Basket

India’s fruits are more than a medley of flavours – they are cultural landmarks, seasonal companions, and bearers of stories, songs, and smiles. Whether it’s the golden mango of summer, the peppery guava of winter, the mystical Jamun of monsoon, the sacred berry of lore, or the citrus glow of the orange – each fruit is a chapter of India’s natural epic.

So next time you bite into one, remember – you are not just tasting a fruit, but a story ripened by the sun, nourished by rain, whispered by myth, and gifted by the soil.

Let us cherish these fruity gifts, not just for their taste but for the traditions they carry, the health they nourish, and the joy they bestow – season after season.

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