Meenakshi Pai

Before 1994, India was home to 50 million vultures. A cheap cattle painkiller wiped out almost all of them within a decade. Then about half a million people died. The drug was called diclofenac. Indian farmers started giving it to cows around 1994 to treat pain and inflammation. It was fine for the cows. But when vultures fed on the carcasses, the drug destroyed their kidneys within days. This was the fastest collapse of any bird species since the passenger pigeon went extinct. The white-rumped vulture dropped 99.9% between 1992 and 2007. The long-billed vulture dropped 97.9%. In 2024, two economists, Eyal Frank at the University of Chicago and Anant Sudarshan at the University of Warwick, published a paper tracking the human toll. Their method was clever. They compared death rates in Indian districts that used to have lots of vultures against districts that never did. Where the birds disappeared, human deaths rose 4.7% above baseline. That came out to roughly 100,000 extra deaths a year between 2000 and 2005. About half a million in total. The economic damage from those early deaths: $69.4 billion a year. A group of vultures can strip a cow carcass clean in under an hour. Their stomach acid is strong enough to kill the germs behind anthrax, salmonella, and botulism. Remove the vultures and you get dead cattle rotting in fields or dumped in rivers. Feral dogs filled the gap, about 5 million more of them showing up. India is now the world's biggest hotspot for rabies, and rabies vaccine sales rose right alongside diclofenac use. I went looking for good news in the recovery data and couldn't find much. A 2024 Cambridge survey found vulture numbers have flatlined at very low levels, not rebounding. In 2025 the Wildlife Institute of India reported that 72% of the bird's old nesting sites sit empty. Part of the problem is biology. Vultures lay one egg a year and take years to reach breeding age. Part of it is policy. Diclofenac is still sold illegally for cattle, and other painkillers that also kill vultures stayed legal in India for years after the 2006 ban. Twenty years after the ban, the birds are still mostly gone.

What's your favorite shade of red?

This brainrot needs to be studied

Taste Atlas, what in the actual name of culinary heresy is this?! Three Indian dishes crack the top 50 best breakfasts in the world, and they’re Misal Pav at a suspiciously generous 18th, Paratha slumming it at 23rd, and Chole Bhature wheezing in at 32nd? I mean, come on! I respect the attempt at democracy in global taste buds, but this ranking feels like it was decided by a panel that’s never once woken up to the quiet poetry of a proper Bengali dawn. None of these heavyweights can hold a ladle, not even a teaspoon, to the luminous glory of Luchi with Shada Aloor Torkari or the transcendent Koraishutir Kochuri with Cholar Daal. None. Zip. Zero. My Bengali soul is personally offended on behalf of every mother who ever rolled out dough at 7 in the morning. Misal Pav? It’s a fiery, sprout-laden explosion from Maharashtra—spicy, tangy, pav soaked in that usal gravy like it’s trying to wake the dead. Fine for a chaotic Sunday brunch when you want your sinuses cleared or have stocked up on too many bottles of Aqua Ptychotis. Paratha? Fine but which paratha? The thick North Indian stuffed paratha that sits in your belly like a warm brick? Or the flaky, buttery, layered lachcha version that’s basically edible architecture? They can all be delicious, sure, but this is a vague entry. Almost like an all-encompassing tick mark in the India box. Chole Bhature? Those deep-fried maida balloons that puff up like edible clouds paired with chickpeas swimming in an indigestible masala is perhaps the best of the three entries. They’re crowd-pleasers, loud, bold, Instagram-ready. They shout. They conquer. They dominate the plate. But Bengali breakfast? It doesn’t need to shout. It whispers. It seduces. It wraps around your soul like a soft gamchha on a winter morning. Take Luchi with Shada Aloor Torkari. Maida dough rolled whisper-thin, dropped into hot oil, and blooming into a perfect, golden orb of puff. Crisp on the outside, feather-light and hollow inside, so delicate it almost feels like it might float away if you don’t pin it down with your fingers. And then the shada aloor torkari—white potato cubes, deliberately kept pale and gentle, no turmeric staining it yellow, no garam masala throwing a tantrum. Just simmered with a kiss of nigella seeds, green chillies, and maybe a hint of cumin. It’s humble. It’s comforting. It’s the culinary equivalent of a jadoo ki jhappi. One bite and you’re home. And then there’s Koraishutir Kochuri with Cholar Daal. This is the undisputed champion, the breakfast that deserves a throne, a crown, and its own national holiday. Kochuri—those little puffed breads stuffed with a fragrant mash of fresh green peas, green chillies, and just enough spice to make your nose tingle with joy. The peas burst with sweetness and earthiness inside that crisp, golden shell. And the cholar daal? Cooked to creamy perfection, lightly sweetened with a touch of sugar, tempered with hing, whole red chillies, and coconut slivers that add this subtle, nutty depth. It’s sweet-savory, silky, soul-stirring. Every bite is a love letter from Bengal’s kitchens. Balanced, nuanced, never overwhelming. Misal Pav might wake you up like a brass band; Paratha and Chole Bhature might fill you like a victory feast. But Luchi-Shada Aloor or Koraishutir Kochuri-Cholar Daal? They nourish. They linger. They remind you that true greatness in food isn’t measured by how loudly it shouts on a global list. It’s measured by how deeply it warms to your heart.

Purchased an ac last month for myself and now got an air cooler for parents. Grateful.

Prime Minister Narendra Modi will address the nation at 8:30 PM tonight.

New reading glasses, it’s buy one get one free everywhere. I don’t get why it’s so