New on Shelves: ‘Whose Urdu is it Anyway?', ‘God's Own Empire' and more
Contrary to the current perception that Urdu is the language of Muslims alone, reality tells a different story. Some of the greatest non-Muslim writers, like Munshi Premchand, wrote in both Hindi and Urdu. Rakhshanda Jalil translates 16 Urdu stories by non-Muslim writers in this collection to drive home the point beautifully. Published by Hachette India, 304 pages, ₹ 599
Neurologist Pria Anand's debut book explores the mysterious ways in which the human brain often tends to work. Like a detective on a quest, she recounts some of the quirkiest cases of her career, including a family afflicted with acute insomnia and a young woman who believes she is possessed by the Holy Spirit. Science meets humanity in her gift for telling stories. Published by Penguin Random House, 272 pages, ₹ 499.
Raghu and Pushpa Palat revisit the forgotten legacy of Marthanda Varma, the heroic ruler of the kingdom of Travancore, who crushed the Dutch East India Company at the Battle of Colachel in 1741. Not only did this victory end Dutch colonial ambitions in India forever, it also ushered in an era of reform and righteous rule. Published by Penguin Random House, 304 pages, ₹ 799
Lt General Shakti Gurung was the first ethnic Gurkha officer to rise to the highest levels of the Indian Army. From leading a frontline corps along the Line of Actual Control to serving as India's defence attaché in Myanmar to retiring as the military secretary, the story of his career is told in this book through anecdotes, reflections and sharp observations.
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
The Wire
an hour ago
- The Wire
C.M. Naim's First Day in the US
'I have experienced exploitation and racial prejudice. But thanks to that day I have always managed not to blame some anonymous America for my troubles.' Uttar Pradesh-born scholar and respected expert on Urdu and other South Asian languages, C.M. Naim passed away last week. Below is his piece for The First Days Project of the South Asian American Digital Archive (SAADA), that shares stories from immigrants and refugees about their first experiences in the US. It was a date in mid-September, 1957, when the Pan Am round-the-world flight I had caught in Calcutta reached San Francisco. There was no one to meet me at the airport; the professor who had invited me to work with him was in the hospital. He had however sent me detailed instructions: I was to take a bus into the city, then two other buses to get to Berkeley, and finally a fourth bus to get to the International House. I was bone-tired, not only from the long journey but also from the three months of uncertainty. The perversity of Indian bureaucracy and an appendectomy that had become complicated as I had rushed around from one office to another had left me drained, both physically and in spirit. I have no memory of how I got through the customs and found the bus to the downtown terminal, which then was just a large hall on a side street where buses gorged and disgorged airline passengers and their baggage. Jostled around by the crowd I somehow managed to find my heavy, unwieldy suitcase, but could not locate the equally stuffed Pan Am airbag. Among other things it contained my degrees and passport, the instructions from my professor, and all my American money, a grand sum of twenty-five dollars. My panic increased as I rushed around, dragging my suitcase with me. If I collided with people, I didn't notice. If they spoke to me, I didn't hear. I didn't know what to do. I had no experience with telephones, nor did I know anyone's phone number to call. All such information was in that bag. As the hall emptied and it became clear that my bag was nowhere in sight, I sat down on a bench and quietly cried. Then the elderly black man whom I had seen helping passengers with their bags and taxis came over and spoke to me. At first I didn't understand him—I had never heard anyone talk that way—but gradually some sense of what he was saying came through to me. He wanted to know why I was crying. He asked me if I needed some help. Somehow I managed to explain my situation—my loss and my not knowing what to do. Neither my accent nor my dilemma seemed to him insurmountable. According to him, the bus that had brought me had also brought a woman who had a vast assortment of bags and parcels with her. He was sure she had unknowingly gone off with my bag too. He assured me it was not a big problem since he knew the cabs that had come that morning, and that he was going to send out a radio call for a particular cab to come back to the terminal. I heard the words but couldn't make any sense of them. I only stared at him with blank eyes. I think he brought me something to drink, then went away to do the 'magic' I had no reason to believe in. When he came back he told me that the cab he believed the woman had taken was a private one, and thus not equipped with a radio. He had, therefore, asked all Yellow Cab drivers to be on the lookout for that cab and send it back to the terminal when located. Needless to say, I had no idea what he was talking about. I sat there, numb with a fear of the unknown. I had no money, no way to contact my professor or find my way to the International House in Berkeley. What was I going to do? After nearly an hour, the old black gentleman came back with a white man, and explained to me that he was the driver of the taxi that took that woman to her hotel and that he was now going to take me to her. I'm sure I didn't believe what he said, but I picked up my suitcase, not letting anyone give me a hand with it, and went with the driver. At the hotel, I wanted to drag my suitcase with me but the cabman made me put it in the trunk. Then we marched up to the Reception and from there to an elevator that rose and rose until it opened on to a corridor of thick carpet and muffled lights. The cabman knocked briskly on a door; then explained to the lady who opened it why we had come. But I had already seen my precious bag in the midst of her suitcases and boxes scattered over the floor. I rushed forward and grabbed it, and zipped it open to show them its contents. My eyes glared: 'Look, this is mine—not yours.' She was flustered. She apologised. We marched out. I don't think I said a word until the driver and I were back in the cab; I then asked him if he could take me straight to the International House in Berkeley. It was on the other side of the Bay, and there were tolls to pay. I showed him the money I had. 'Was it enough?' He nodded, and away we went. Gradually, my senses crept back into me. I began to see the sights, hear the noises, feel the air blowing in. And then suddenly a whole new sense of confidence filled me. There we were, on that amazing bridge, with vast stretches of sun-lit blue water spread underneath us. A powerful machine was speeding me ever so smoothly to a destination that now seemed so certain. The cab no doubt had a roof, but it felt as if there was no barrier of any kind between this world and me. An openness prevailed. The new world held no terror for me any more. I had witnessed a miracle, wrought by a total stranger who had helped me when I had no one to turn to and lost all hope. I gained that day a kind of confidence and feeling of trust that has come to my rescue many a time since then. Not that I have not despaired since that day. I've hit the bottom several times. I have been lonely and angry and terrified, and worse. I have experienced exploitation and racial prejudice. But thanks to that day I have always managed not to blame some anonymous America for my troubles. This essay first appeared on the First Days Project's website. Read the original here. The Wire is now on WhatsApp. Follow our channel for sharp analysis and opinions on the latest developments.
New Indian Express
4 hours ago
- New Indian Express
Education minister hosts young Afghan guests for breakfast, leaves all feeling fulfilled
'We have students from other states and countries in Kerala, which could be one of the reasons why the state holds the second position in education,' the minister said, referring to the National Achievement Survey, where the state is ranked below Punjab by a point on the indicator. 'It was lovely to hear them speak Malayalam,' said the school's management committee chairman Suresh Kumar. The children, who are well-versed in English and Hindi as well, fare well in academics and extracurricular activities. The kids' class teachers and school PTA president Gopakumar R also joined them for the visit. Shafiq and his wife Zarghona plan to enrol their youngest children, Maher, 5, and Mehnaz, 3, in the pre-primary section in the coming days. Their eldest son was unable to make it due to health issues. 'This is a land of no complaints,' Shafiq said when asked about his family's equation with Kerala. But with Shafiq's research studies getting over this year, the family may return to their homeland. 'Leaving Kerala might not be something they are looking forward to,' said Suresh, mentioning the friendships that the siblings have built up here. Truly, home is where the heart is!
Time of India
6 hours ago
- Time of India
मंदिराला ८ एकर दान करणाऱ्या शेख अन्सारांचा आदर्श, बच्चू कडूंसोबत मनमोकळेपणाने चर्चा!
Donated 8 Acres To The Temple Muslim Farmer Spoke Loudly In Front Of Bachchu Kadu
