Latest news with #SDCollege
The Hindu
5 days ago
- Health
- The Hindu
Second phase of cancer awareness campaign launched in Alappuzha
The Health department has launched the second phase of the Arogyam, Anandam - Keep Cancer Away campaign in Alappuzha. It was inaugurated by H. Salam, MLA, in a function held at SD College, Alappuzha, on Thursday. Officials said the aim of the second phase was to detect and prevent oral cancer and colon cancer in men at an early stage. The Health department launched the campaign in Alappuzha on World Cancer Day on February 4. The first phase was aimed at strengthening awareness and screening for breast cancer and cervical cancer, which specifically affects women. It targeted women in the 30-65 age group. The department aims to ensure that as many men as possible undergo screening to facilitate early detection and treatment. Officials said those diagnosed with the disease would receive treatment at Government Medical College Hospital, district/general hospitals, Regional Cancer Centre, Thiruvananthapuram, and so on in accordance with established guidelines. SD College Principal V.R. Prabhakaran Nair presided. District Medical Officer Jamuna Varghese, Kudumbashree District Mission coordinator S. Renjith and others attended.
Time of India
25-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
Olfactory hijack: A journey through tiffins and tracks
Sonika Sethi is Associate Professor of English in S D College, Ambala Cantt. Her articles are regularly published in Hindustan Times, The Tribune, etc. and has published more than 150 articles. She is the author of the weekly column 'Spell-Bound by Sonika' published on She is the Executive Editor of monthly literary magazine, Rhyvers Beat. She is on the editorial board of 8 academic journals and has 7 books to her credit. Her books include: From the Sidewalks of Life, Easter Lilies and Other Stories, Of Gulmohars and Kaners and Other Stories, Rohinton Mistry's Fiction: A Postmodern Approach, Cinematic Adaptations of Literary Texts, Brewing Memories and Shades of Love. Her book Easter Lilies and Other Stories was long listed for Times of India Auther Awards. The book also won the Best Fiction Book Award by Asian Literary Society. Recently her book has been included in the Top 100 Books of India. She conducts lectures and workshops in schools, colleges and universities on the art of storytelling, creative writing, soft skills, Intellectual Property Rights and communication skills. LESS ... MORE The other evening, as my maid and I sipped our usual cup of tea, she recounted a charming anecdote from her train journey home, a few months ago. Seated opposite her in the compartment was an elderly couple who, having boarded earlier, already appeared quite settled. As soon as the train pulled out of a particular station, the woman opened her modest bag and took out a steel bowl, a knife, and two plump mangoes. With practiced ease, she began peeling and chopping the mangoes into neat cubes, dropping them into the bowl. She then added two green chillies, finely sliced, followed by a sprinkle of salt and a generous squeeze of lemon. The air inside the compartment was soon filled with the tangy, fruity aroma of this rustic mango salad. This simple yet flavourful mix was their accompaniment to a few stale rotis packed for the overnight journey. It wasn't a grand feast by any means, yet the couple relished every bite, their faces glowing with contentment. A few minutes later, another family opened their repurposed cold drink bottles, now filled with boiled Bengal grams. With practiced hands, they added chopped onions, a sprinkle of salt, and a dash of lemon juice. The tangy aroma wafted through the compartment as they mixed the contents and began to enjoy the simple yet delicious snack. What made the moment special was their generous spirit— they shared the dish not just among themselves but with fellow passengers, spreading warmth and camaraderie. What struck my maid, and stayed with me, was the quiet dignity and resourcefulness with which they made a humble meal feel whole. Meanwhile, other passengers looked on, their mouths watering, perhaps reminded of the simple joys that lie hidden in everyday moments. What's truly fascinating is how an ordinary, everyday meal, when shared, can outshine even the finest gourmet dishes served in upscale restaurants. Think of that one tiffin opened prematurely by a ravenous classmate before lunch break—the moment the aroma of mango pickle escaped, it tantalised every taste bud in the room. It's a reminder that food isn't just about flavour, but connection and nostalgia. Most weekdays, I find myself in a 1 pm class—right when hunger strikes hardest, and post-lunch drowsiness begins to creep in, making concentration an uphill task. My standing instructions to students in these post-lunch classes are simple: feel free to sip water or sneak a bite from your tiffin— no permission needed. After all, who am I to stand between a hungry soul and their paratha? But I must admit, the real test of willpower begins when those lunch boxes pop open. One whiff of achar or tadka, and my own stomach starts grumbling in protest, while my olfactory nerves do a little hip hop. It's a daily battle between decorum and digestive envy! All said and done, the message is clear— Food is far more than sustenance. Food doesn't just nourish the body; it stirs the soul and weaves stories. Each dish carries a memory, a tradition, or a slice of someone's life. A train ride becomes unforgettable because of a shared bowl of mango salad. A classroom moment becomes a cherished anecdote thanks to the aroma of someone's lunch. Recipes are passed down like heirlooms, and meals mark celebrations, comfort losses, and anchor friendships. In sharing food, we also share stories of where we come from, who we are, and what we hold dear. In essence, food is storytelling served on a plate. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
Time of India
18-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
Xeroxed Struggles and Unxeroxed Lives: Lessons outside the lecture hall
Sonika Sethi is Associate Professor of English in S D College, Ambala Cantt. Her articles are regularly published in Hindustan Times, The Tribune, etc. and has published more than 150 articles. She is the author of the weekly column 'Spell-Bound by Sonika' published on She is the Executive Editor of monthly literary magazine, Rhyvers Beat. She is on the editorial board of 8 academic journals and has 7 books to her credit. Her books include: From the Sidewalks of Life, Easter Lilies and Other Stories, Of Gulmohars and Kaners and Other Stories, Rohinton Mistry's Fiction: A Postmodern Approach, Cinematic Adaptations of Literary Texts, Brewing Memories and Shades of Love. Her book Easter Lilies and Other Stories was long listed for Times of India Auther Awards. The book also won the Best Fiction Book Award by Asian Literary Society. Recently her book has been included in the Top 100 Books of India. She conducts lectures and workshops in schools, colleges and universities on the art of storytelling, creative writing, soft skills, Intellectual Property Rights and communication skills. LESS ... MORE 'Don't! Don't you dare pick up that lauki!' my husband hissed dramatically, as if I were about to defuse a bomb instead of choosing a vegetable. We were standing by the local vegetable cart one pleasant evening, amid tomatoes, bhindi, and the occasional buzzing fly. I held up a plump, soft lauki with reverence, admiring its pale green sheen like it was a trophy cucumber. 'Be quiet,' I muttered, elbowing him gently, and dropped it triumphantly into our basket. The teenage girl at the cart watched us with barely disguised amusement, clearly enjoying the free entertainment. 'See? She's always bossing me around,' my husband turned to her with the exaggerated misery of a soap opera hero. The poor girl tried to maintain a serious face, but a giggle escaped, like steam from a pressure cooker. 'Who even eats lauki?' he continued, as if he were launching a national debate. 'Do you like it?' he asked her, carrying forth his nautanki, not only to escape the dire fate of eating bottle-gourd but also for the entertainment of the young girl. 'I like it,' the girl said shyly, her impish smile fading. 'I like all vegetables,' she added, her tone softening as she quietly weighed the items in my basket and slipped them into a polybag. The shift in her expression didn't escape me. 'Do you go to school?' I asked gently. She nodded, eyes lowered. 'Which class?' 'Ninth,' she murmured, just as another customer asked the price of ladyfinger. In that brief moment, the playful banter gave way to something quieter—an unspoken glimpse into her world, where vegetables and textbooks seemed to jostle for space in a single day. We paid and walked away, but the young girl's subdued expression lingered in my thoughts. As a college teacher, I interact with young boys and girls every day. Some are there simply to pass time, their fees effortlessly paid by indulgent parents. Others, however, battle real odds just to stay enrolled, juggling part-time jobs, family responsibilities, and financial stress. That girl, quietly manning a vegetable cart and still attending school, reminded me of the stark contrasts I witness daily—of privilege and perseverance, of those who drift through education and those who cling to it like a lifeline. I will never forget the day I asked a student during one of my lectures why she hadn't xeroxed the text I had assigned. Her response was sharp, almost defiant: 'I had problems.' 'Would you care to explain after class?' I asked a bit sternly. 'Sure, ma'am,' she replied, with quiet rebellion. Later, when she came to see me, I was curious, almost impatient for an explanation. 'I didn't have the money to get the text xeroxed,' she said, her voice faltering as she fought back tears. 'You didn't have ten rupees for just five pages?' I asked, unable to hide my disbelief. 'My father is no more,' she said quietly. 'My mother works at the Anganwadi. She hasn't received her salary in three months.' Her words hit me like a thunderclap. The triviality of the Xerox faded in that instant. 'How are you managing?' I asked gently. 'We're just getting by. We don't buy milk for tea anymore. I come to college only when my mother can spare the bus fare.' Her honesty, her quiet strength, and the dignity with which she bore her struggle moved me deeply. It was a moment of awakening—a reminder that not all battles are visible. I blinked back the tears threatening to spill and turned my gaze toward her friend, who stood silently beside her, disbelief written all over her face. 'How could you not know what your friend was going through?' I asked gently, but firmly. 'What kind of friend are you, if you never noticed her struggles?' A little while later, the two walked away together, smiling as they disappeared down the corridor. What I did to support the young girl is not something I need to share— it isn't the point of the story. What matters is that the very next day, she walked into my class, holding her text close as if it were a prized possession. And from that day onward, she never missed another lecture. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
Time of India
11-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
No filter, just flavour: My Vadodara jam
Sonika Sethi is Associate Professor of English in S D College, Ambala Cantt. Her articles are regularly published in Hindustan Times, The Tribune, etc. and has published more than 150 articles. She is the author of the weekly column 'Spell-Bound by Sonika' published on She is the Executive Editor of monthly literary magazine, Rhyvers Beat. She is on the editorial board of 8 academic journals and has 7 books to her credit. Her books include: From the Sidewalks of Life, Easter Lilies and Other Stories, Of Gulmohars and Kaners and Other Stories, Rohinton Mistry's Fiction: A Postmodern Approach, Cinematic Adaptations of Literary Texts, Brewing Memories and Shades of Love. Her book Easter Lilies and Other Stories was long listed for Times of India Auther Awards. The book also won the Best Fiction Book Award by Asian Literary Society. Recently her book has been included in the Top 100 Books of India. She conducts lectures and workshops in schools, colleges and universities on the art of storytelling, creative writing, soft skills, Intellectual Property Rights and communication skills. LESS ... MORE If you truly wish to taste the soul of a city, don't chase guidebooks— chase aromas wafting from smoky stalls and sizzling pans. The real magic simmers not on menus but in alleys known only to those who call the city home. Befriend a local, and they'll lead you to secret corners where samosas sing and jalebis swirl like golden dreams. They know where spices dance, where stories simmer, where hunger is not just fed, but enchanted. For every city speaks through its street food. And the natives? They are its poets, translating flavour into memory, one bite at a time. During a recent trip to Vadodara, I left no stone unturned, or menu unread, in my culinary quest. From swanky gourmet restaurants and chic multicuisine cafes to hyped-up Instagram spots and celebrity-endorsed bistros, I explored the city's entire gastronomic spectrum. But it was on my second night that the real surprise unfolded. A friend and his wife took us to a modest, almost hidden gem called Mirch Masala. The name, admittedly a tad overused, didn't inspire much excitement, and I braced myself for a predictable, run-of-the-mill meal. Tucked away in a semi-basement, the restaurant seemed unremarkable at first glance. But as we descended from the main road and into the space, we were taken aback— not by the crowd, but by the décor. We were greeted at the entrance by a thirty-minute wait. Clearly, something extraordinary was simmering inside this unassuming little place. By now, I was intrigued and just a little more hopeful. What I encountered was far beyond what I had imagined. The space exuded warmth without any extravagant décor— just an inviting, nostalgic charm. It was furnished with simple, old-style tables and chairs, surrounded by relics from our grandparents' era: oil lanterns, cast iron canisters, kettles, vintage radios, faded calendars, sturdy sandookchis, and even a lone chhikoo dangling from the rafters. One wall evoked fond memories of the postal era, proudly announcing, 'Stamps available here' and 'Money orders can be placed here.' The remaining walls transported visitors into the world of classic Bollywood, adorned with vibrant murals of iconic scenes— Gabbar Singh perched on a boulder, Amitabh Bachchan in his Coolie avatar, Kareena Kapoor as the spirited Geet from Jab We Met, and many more. The entire place felt like a beautiful pause in time— a tribute to cherished memories and cinematic nostalgia, blending the simplicity of the past with the magic of movies. No doubt the food was good, but the quaint charm of the place was the cherry on the cake! A few days later, while strolling through the neighbourhood market, we bumped into some friends. As we caught up, the couple warmly insisted that we join them for an ice cream before heading home. It was early evening, and we were torn. Was ice cream an after-meal dessert or an evening snack? Giving in to their gentle persuasion, we agreed to share a scoop from a nearby ice cream parlour. I was initially hesitant, unsure about trying dairy from a local market stall. Still, I decided to go with the flow and opted for their fig-flavoured ice cream. To my surprise, it turned out to be quite delightful—smooth, flavourful, and refreshingly satisfying. In fact, it far exceeded our expectations and was surprisingly better than what we had tasted the night before at one of India's premium ice cream chains known for their 'natural' offerings. The couple shared, with a hint of pride, that they belonged to a close-knit group of fifteen neighbourhood friends who had turned evening strolls into a cherished ritual. Every night, around 8 PM, they would wander out of their homes and gather on the steps of local shops—just to indulge in some light-hearted banter and a comforting scoop of ice cream. As we joined their easy camaraderie, the ice cream parlour owner, clearly sensing that we were not locals, walked over with a mysterious scoop of blush-pink ice cream, which he simply called jamfal. Curiosity piqued, I took a spoonful—and was instantly ambushed by a tangy-sweet explosion of flavour. It took a second to place it, but then it hit me: pink guava. That unassuming scoop didn't just wake up my taste buds—it ushered me right into the heart of Vadodara's everyday magic. A scoop of ice cream and a few off-the-map hangouts later, I had my epiphany: not everything that sparkles on social media is worth chasing. Sometimes, it's the low-key, no-filter neighbourhood nooks that serve up the real flavour—and the sweetest plot twists. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
Time of India
28-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
A spoonful of humble pie, please!
Sonika Sethi is Associate Professor of English in S D College, Ambala Cantt. Her articles are regularly published in Hindustan Times, The Tribune, etc. and has published more than 150 articles. She is the author of the weekly column 'Spell-Bound by Sonika' published on She is the Executive Editor of monthly literary magazine, Rhyvers Beat. She is on the editorial board of 8 academic journals and has 7 books to her credit. Her books include: From the Sidewalks of Life, Easter Lilies and Other Stories, Of Gulmohars and Kaners and Other Stories, Rohinton Mistry's Fiction: A Postmodern Approach, Cinematic Adaptations of Literary Texts, Brewing Memories and Shades of Love. Her book Easter Lilies and Other Stories was long listed for Times of India Auther Awards. The book also won the Best Fiction Book Award by Asian Literary Society. Recently her book has been included in the Top 100 Books of India. She conducts lectures and workshops in schools, colleges and universities on the art of storytelling, creative writing, soft skills, Intellectual Property Rights and communication skills. LESS ... MORE As a blogger and columnist, I've spent years presenting humanity in all its glory and gory. From the haloed heights of kindness to the potholes of petty behaviour, I've chronicled it all: the good, the bad, the ugly, and the downright baffling. I've even flung open the curtains on my own quirks—fears, faux pas, and the occasional feather in the cap. But here's the twist: rarely have I penned down those sneak-attack life moments that knocked the wind out of my ego and replaced it with a sheepish grin. Yes, those humbling experiences that whisper, 'You could have done better.' Earlier this year, I had the privilege of being a panellist at a poetry discussion during the New Delhi World Book Fair. The iconic venue, Pragati Maidan, had been transformed into a sprawling literary labyrinth — a massive arena meticulously divided into halls, which in turn branched into alphabetically coded zones. It was an organiser's marvel, a jigsaw puzzle seamlessly put together. But for someone like me, who falters at the slightest pressure of navigation, the space felt more like a maze— an endless loop of books and stalls, where each turn led to more confusion. Thankfully, my husband was with me— calm, patient, and familiar with my directionally challenged ways. Holding my hand, he helped me thread through the crowd and chaos to reach my designated hall just in time for the session. The panel discussion turned out to be everything I had hoped for— intellectually stimulating, engaging, and filled with heartfelt conversations about poetry. After the session, we made our way to the food stalls stationed at one corner of the venue. Since it was a Sunday, the crowd had swelled to an overwhelming number. Despite a sizeable arrangement of chairs and tables near the food trucks, every inch was occupied. We waited patiently and eventually managed to grab a small table with two chairs. But even as I sat down, the hum of the crowd around me was almost disorienting. The multitude of voices, the constant motion, and the sheer volume of people triggered a strange sense of detachment— a feeling of being momentarily lost in a sea of faces. Caught in the overwhelming flux of the crowd, I barely registered my husband's request to hurry. Startled into motion, I rose abruptly, my thoughts scattered like beans on the ground, fumbling to gather my belongings. Just then, a voice cut through the din — soft, but firm. 'Excuse me! Do you mind…' I looked up to see a young woman standing slightly diagonally from me, accompanied by her husband and a little girl, no older than seven or eight. Her expression bordered on a scowl. Assuming she had, like us earlier, been waiting for a table, I thought she was politely asking if she could take over ours. I quickly replied, 'Not at all,' and began stepping aside, eager to make room. But before I could move further, her voice sharpened. 'Excuse me! Do you mind clearing the table if you've finished eating?' For a split second, I was rooted to the spot, stunned by the unexpected tone. The moment hung awkwardly, stretched thin by embarrassment and confusion. Before I could react, my husband stepped in— composed as always. He apologised graciously, taking the hint, and began clearing the disposables from our table without delay. As he did, I stood silently, unsure of how to feel. But the woman, clearly still dissatisfied, continued sharply, 'It is basic courtesy to clear off your table once you've finished and are leaving.' Her words, clipped and pointed, were directed at both of us with unmistakable annoyance. In that moment, I couldn't deny that she was right. We should have been more mindful — it was, after all, a simple act of civic responsibility. Her rebuke wasn't unjustified, yet it struck a peculiar chord within me. A moment ago, I was just another soul adrift in the sea of people; now, I felt singled out, briefly judged, and reminded of how even simple gestures can take unexpected turns in the middle of chaos. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
