Divali of Chinyaa :The Joy of Fireworks

 On one side of the road were big bungalows, and on the other side, a slum. A common sight in any big city. Ten-year-old Chinya lived in one such slum. Like other children, he too wished to burst crackers like anar, chakri, and rockets during Diwali.

His father had bought him a small toy pistol. After bursting small crackers all day, Chinya got bored. In the evening, he saw rockets flying in the sky and felt sad—his father couldn’t afford fancy crackers like anar. “We are poor,” he thought, and that feeling hurt him.

“Chinya, why are you sitting inside? Come out! The bungalow guy is going to burst a big anar!” his father called out. Chinya came out. A man in front of the bungalow lit an anar. A tall, colorful fountain sparkled in the sky.

“Wasn’t that fun?” his father asked.

“What fun? I didn’t burst it,” Chinya replied.

“Look at those kids clapping and jumping. They didn’t burst it either,” his father explained.

“They didn’t, but their servant did!” Chinya said.

“If that were true, only the servant would be happy—not the kids,” his father said gently.

Chinya stayed silent.

“Look, Chinya,” his father continued, “Big people—kings, rich men—they don’t do things themselves. Their servants do it for them. Imagine this servant is bursting crackers for you. See how fun it feels!”

“So we should think he’s our servant?” Chinya asked.

Just then, Chinya noticed, “Papa! That servant is going to burst another anar!” he shouted excitedly.

Looking at the servant, Chinya yelled, “Hey Bhaiya! Burst one for us!”

The servant looked up and saw the little Chinya in front of his shack.  He was reminded of his own son in the village- his wistful little face lit with excitement.  The servant picked up a big, fat anar waved it to Chinya and ignited it.  And Lo! The sparks- red and blue and golden danced high and lit up the sky.  .  Red, blue, and white sparks lit up the sky.

Chinya clapped and jumped with joy.  A cheerful smile greeted the servant across the road. The servant gave back a broad smiled- the sad smile of a helpless father.

Seeing that smile, his father’s eyes filled with tears. The tears of powerless fathers.

The Dilemma of Yayaati: The Thirst That Never Ends

 

The wise and powerful Yayaati is granted dominion over Earth. The sages advise him: “You must protect all living and non-living beings. Forgiveness, compassion, and tolerance are the true ornaments of humanity. Only through sacrifice alongside enjoyment does life find meaning. If you follow this path, you may enjoy Earth until the end of time.”

But Yayaati is intoxicated by his own knowledge and power. He believes that forgiveness and compassion are the language of the weak. He declares that Earth is meant for the strong to enjoy, and the weak have no right to live here.

He crushes the lives of the lowly underfoot. Even great creatures become tools for his entertainment. He is enchanted by the eternal beauty of Earth, but his demonic desire consumes it. He becomes erratic and violent, tearing apart Earth’s green garments. His brutal cruelty leaves deep wounds on Earth’s body. These wounds fester, releasing foul, poisonous air into the atmosphere. Even Yayaati begins to struggle to breathe.

The celestial gods warn him: “Your life is tied to Earth. Abandon the path of indulgence and save her—or you will perish with her.”

Yayaati looks at the gods with disdain. He dreams of using his intellect to find earth like another planet in space, or of overthrowing the gods and enjoying endless pleasures in heaven with celestial nymphs. Sometimes he wonders if the nectar of heaven could finally quench his thirst.

But destiny is hidden in time. Will Yayaati abandon the path of indulgence and choose sacrifice and penance? Or will he be lost in the infinite darkness of space?

For now, Yayaati is confused and uncertain.

"The Throne and the Price of Power: Vikramaditya’s Silent Bargain"

King Vikramaditya wished to use power not for personal glory, but to relieve the suffering, poverty, and injustice faced by the  people of Ujjain. He believed that governance should serve the public, not the privileged. With this noble intention, he decided to worship the goddess of sovereignty—Rajyalakshmi—hoping that her blessings would grant him the throne, which he would then use for the welfare of farmers, the poor, and the oppressed.

He vowed to keep a sharp, eagle-like eye on corrupt officials and criminals, and to punish those who harmed the innocent. After sincere devotion, Rajyalakshmi was pleased. On an auspicious day, Vikramaditya approached the throne to ascend it.

But the throne was guarded by four mystical steps, each with a statue that posed a condition:

• First step: A statue with a blindfold said, “A king must not see evil.” Even if corruption and injustice are visible, he must ignore them. Vikramaditya agreed and covered his eyes.
• Second step: A statue with covered ears said, “A king must not hear evil.” He must not listen to cries of hunger, suicides of farmers, or tales of suffering. Vikramaditya accepted and covered his ears.
• Third step: A statue with a finger on its lips said, “A king must not speak of evil.” Even if Ministers are corrupt, he must remain silent. Vikramaditya agreed and embraced silence.
• Fourth step: A final statue appeared and said, “Even if you blind your eyes, block your ears, and silence your tongue, your soul will still feel restless. A just king loses power. "Give me your soul.” Eager to rule, Vikramaditya surrendered his soul and sat on the throne.

As he took his seat, a divine vision unfolded before him: lush green fields, smiling farmers, joyful children playing in the streets, bustling markets, and a peaceful, prosperous society. There was no trace of sorrow, poverty, or injustice. Every home was filled with laughter, every heart with hope, and every step with joy. Vikramaditya believed this was the blessing of Rajyalakshmi—a heavenly kingdom granted to him.

 

Even today, many leaders who promise justice and honesty often change once they gain power. This story was born from that observation—a tale of how ideals are traded for authority, and how silence becomes the price of the throne.

 

A Memory – Gotu and the Cricket Ball

 

I must have been around twelve years old then. I had grown up a little and started going out of the lane to play with my friends. In Old Delhi, our playground stretched from outside Mori gate all the way to the Yamuna — vast gardens where we played freely.

Just outside Mori gate was a large ground where we played cricket. Part of it belonged to St. Stephen’s College, so people called it “Stephen Ground.” During holidays, 25–30 teams would play there. With so many players and balls flying around, you never knew when one might hit you on the head.

We were a group of 5–6 Marathi boys, a few from the neighborhood, and 2–4 Muslim boys who joined us occasionally. All of us came from poor or lower-middle-class families. We would collect 10–20 paise each, gather 2–3 rupees, and buy a cork ball to play. At that time, a proper cricket ball cost around ₹10–14.

We envied the rich boys — their white clothes, good bats, and most of all, their real cricket balls. It felt like we’d never get to play with one.

One day, we met a boy named Gotu on the ground. He was about my age and had 2–3 cricket balls with him. Seeing their quality, we couldn’t resist asking, “How much?” He said, “I have balls from ₹1 to ₹5. Take if you want.”

My friend was suspicious and asked, “Where do you get such cheap balls?” Gotu replied proudly, “I have contacts in DDCA (Delhi District Cricket Association). After matches, they sell used balls to known people at low prices. Some are just 1–2 overs old.” He bought them in bulk and sold newer ones for ₹3–4, older ones for ₹1–2.

Naturally, we started buying balls from him — sometimes for ₹1, sometimes ₹1.50, and if it was a fresh one, ₹3. Gotu was a good player too. He occasionally joined us in morning matches. A few days later, we learned that “Gotu” was just a nickname. His real name was Aslam, and he lived in Ballimaran.

During the winter holidays, Gotu promised to bring us a ball but didn’t. Later, we found out he had sold the ball meant for us to another team for ₹2. My friend scolded him, and finally, he said he was going to Feroz Shah Kotla at 11 a.m. If he got balls, he’d bring one the next morning.

We didn’t trust him. My friend and I decided to go there and see who he bought balls from. If we found the source, we could buy directly and maybe even sell them ourselves.

Around 11 a.m., we walked to Delhi Gate. Back then, Feroz Shah Kotla Stadium wasn’t as big as it is today. A road from Delhi Gate led to Rajghat. On one side was the old city wall, behind it Darya Ganj, and in front, gardens. On the other side were a football stadium, a bus stop, and a lane leading to the cricket stadium. Between the lane and the stadium wall was a small ground with nets and a pitch — where DDCA league matches were held.

We reached and saw Gotu sitting at the corner of the lane. A match was going on. Seeing us, he smirked and said, “Here to learn the secrets of my business? Don’t trust me, huh?” I replied, “If we trusted you, we wouldn’t be here. We’re not interfering in your work. We just want the ball.”

He said, “The match is still on. You’ll have to sit in the sun for a while.” I suggested we sit under a tree nearby — better view, more shade. He laughed and said, “Now that you’re here, sit quietly and enjoy the show.”

We sat with him. Soon, a batsman hit a powerful shot and the ball bounced toward the road. Gotu seemed to be waiting for this moment. He ran, grabbed the ball, and shouted, “Run! Run!”

We didn’t understand at first, but seeing him dash across the road, we followed. Ignoring the kids playing nearby, we ran and slipped through a crack in the wall, finally catching our breath.

Gotu laughed and said, “Wasn’t that fun? Why were you sitting like fools? A little delay and we’d have been caught. They beat you up badly sometimes. Even hand you over to the police. I risk my life to get balls for you, and still, you don’t trust me.”

I thought — what if we had been caught? Even though we hadn’t done anything wrong, we’d have been beaten. If my family found out, I can’t imagine what would’ve happened. Cricket would’ve been banned for me, that’s for sure.

After a while, I asked Gotu, “Why do you take such risks to steal and sell balls? What do you do with the money?”

He looked at me silently. His eyes welled up. He said, “I have two younger brothers and a sister. My mother passed away two years ago. My father remarried. He sells vegetables in the evening market. I help him, but he’s harsh. He never gives me a single coin. At home, my stepmother doesn’t feed my siblings properly. If I say anything, my father scolds them. Sometimes he even hits them.”

“With the money I earn — risking everything — I secretly bring food for my little siblings.”

At that age, I didn’t know what to say. I quietly walked home. Before leaving, I promised him I wouldn’t tell anyone about what happened that day.

We kept that promise throughout the winter holidays.

But in the summer break, we didn’t see Gotu selling balls at Mori gate.

This year, while watching an IPL match, I don’t know why — but after 42 long years, I remembered him.

I wonder… what might he be doing now?

Ashes of a Riot

This is a story from my childhood, when I was around 12 or 13. Our school was in Paharganj, and since it was a morning school, 7–8 of us classmates would walk together from home. The route passed through Naya Bazaar, Qutub Road, Sadar Bazaar, Bara Tooti, and Motia Khan. It took nearly an hour to reach school.

Walking 3 km every morning and afternoon wore out our slippers and shoes quickly. In Motia Khan, a cobbler sat on the footpath. For 5–10 paise, he would repair footwear. His son, Chhotu, was our age and studied in a government school, which in Delhi runs in the afternoon. In the mornings, he helped his father with repairs.

Back then, Old Delhi saw 2–4 riots every year. To us, a riot meant looting and burning of shops. One such riot happened in Sadar Bazaar. Many clothing shops were looted.  Anyone, poor or not-so-poor, who could lay his hand on something took advantage and grabbed what they could.  Kids who wore torn clothes to school suddenly appeared in new outfits. That year, many celebrated Eid and Diwali in new clothes.

About 15–20 days after the riot, we were walking home from school. The sole of friend’s shoe suddenly came apart.  Chhotu was sitting at the shop in his worn school uniform. I wondered why he wasn’t in school. Maybe his father was unwell?

I asked, “Is your father sick?”

Chhotu replied, “I’ve left school. I’ll sit at the shop now.”

I asked, “Why?”

He said, “Abbu is in jail.”

That day, his mother had woken his father early and said, “Shops are being looted in Sadar. Our neighbour Nanake brought back cloth rolls. All the men have gone to the site. And you’re still sleeping?”

Abbu hesitated, but he hadn’t bought new clothes for his children in years. The whole neighbourhood—Hindu and Muslim alike—was looting.

He joined the crowd, entered a shop, and carried out cloth rolls. But at that movement the police arrived. He panicked, fell, and was caught red-handed.

At that age, I didn’t know what one was supposed to say in such moments. Still, I gathered courage and asked, “Have you hired a lawyer?”

He said, “Yes, we did hire one. But he says there’s solid evidence against Abbu. He’ll have to spend a few years in jail, no matter what.”

Chhotu said, “Abbu made a mistake. Bad luck, that’s all.”

His education ended. The burden of the household fell on his young shoulders.

That year, Eid and Diwali brought darkness to many homes.

“The Jasmine Veil”

 

After nearly thirty-five years, they met again. Their hair had turned white, their faces bore the lines of time, but the recognition in their eyes was still fresh. He remembered their last meeting—Nehru Park. She had jasmine flowers braided into her hair and was sitting close to him. Pretending to smell the braid, he had gently kissed her cheek.

“Move away! What do you think you’re doing? We’re not even married yet,” she had snapped.

“So when will you ask your father? It’s been a year since I got the job.”

“My father won’t marry his daughter to a boy living in a rented house.”

“So are we just going to stay like this?”

“I’m trying for a government job. Once I get it, I’ll tell Papa—I want to marry a smart, slightly foolish, but miserly boy. With both our salaries, we’ll manage the household. I’m sure he won’t refuse.”

“Miserly, me?”

“Of course! You bought your girlfriend a 65-paise first-row ticket at Chanakya cinema, one rupee popcorn, and a single cup of coffee for both. What a Romeo! By the way, did you ask your parents?”

“Who refuses a cow that gives milk?”

She had slapped his back hard.

“Ow! You hit so hard!”

“Better learn to say ‘wife ji’ now.”

“Meaning you’ll hit me even after marriage?”

“Yes, but with a rolling pin.”

After that, she disappeared. Later, he heard she had joined a government office in Mumbai and got married. He wasn’t a Devdas. He married the girl his mother had chosen.

“How are you?” he asked.

She replied, “You’re not angry with me, are you? My father found out about us. He plotted to separate us. My mother made me swear. You weren’t around either. I had no choice but to obey.”

“What did your husband do?”

“He’s no longer alive. He held a high post in a big company but drowned in alcohol and gambling. He became a demon when drunk, venting all his rage on me. He passed away within a few years. My son followed his path. Alcohol took him too. Now, after retirement, I may have to go to an old age home. Everyone has their fate. What about you?”

“I was angry when I heard about your marriage. But my mother explained life is like that. I married her choice. Once, after marriage, I took my wife to Odion cinema and bought balcony tickets for ‘Maine Pyar Kiya.’” A wistful smile floated on his face.

“Wow! Lucky woman—65-paise ticket for the girlfriend, balcony for the wife!” she teased, biting her tongue.

His eyes fell on a vendor selling jasmine braids. He thought—those white flowers would look lovely in her white hair. He paused and asked, “Would you like a braid?”

“Yes, buy it! For your wife. I like jasmine braids too.”

He bought two. Handed one to her.

She said, “I tried hard to forget you, but couldn’t. After they were gone, only your memories remained. Sometimes I felt you were still waiting for me. Sometimes I imagined you had a family. I tried to convince myself. When your memory overwhelmed me, I’d buy a jasmine braid, lock my room, decorate my hair, stand before the mirror and cry… I’ll cry today too.”

They stood silent for a few moments. Then her bus arrived, and she left.

Later, he looked at the jasmine braid in his hand. Despite his wife’s wishes, he had never bought one for her. And today… a storm of thoughts rose in his mind. Before marriage, his wife must have dreamed of a rainbow-colored world. But in reality, she spent her life struggling to run the household on his modest salary. She buried all her desires. Never asked for anything. Never insisted. He remembered—many times, after packing tiffin for him and the children, no vegetables were left. When he asked, “No sabzi for you?” she’d say, “I’ll manage.” Often, she’d eat roti with pickle or salt and chili.

She loved him with body and soul. But what had he given in return? Had he ever truly loved her from the heart? He made a decision—to forget everything and begin life anew. He went home and, with his own hands, adorned his wife’s white hair with a jasmine braid.

The Weight of Truth

Once, six sages—moved by a divine urge for the welfare of all—journeyed deep into the heart of the Himalayas. In their eyes burned curiosity, in their hearts, penance; and in their souls, a single longing: the search for Truth.

Upon a snow-clad peak, they began their austere meditation. Time stood still. The winds fell silent. And at last... Truth revealed itself.

Its radiance was so intense that each sage saw it differently—one as compassion, another as justice, one as love, another as emptiness. Each described Truth, and astonishingly, each description was different. Yet none spoke falsehood.

Finally, the eldest sage broke his silence. He said: "Truth is one, but its reflection appears differently in every heart. When followed, it becomes nectar. But when imposed, it turns to poison—and becomes the seed of destruction."

He sent the others back to the mortal world with a single teaching: Spread Truth, but do not bind others with it.

The sages returned to Earth. They spoke of Truth, but over time, they forgot the elder’s warning. Their disciples, blinded by pride, began to wield Truth like a weapon. Temples burned. Wars of thought erupted. And in the end...

Truth itself became the cause of humanity’s ruin.

Truth is a flame—illuminating the world yet scorching the soul. To digest it, one must renounce ego and honor the truths others have seen.

For Truth is not singular—it manifests in many forms. This is the final truth—not to be imposed but embraced.