The Voice of Bullet Never Died

 

Constable Balwan Singh shouted, “Sir! The Naxalite commander who attacked us and killed many of our men is lying right here. What should we do with her?”

The Commandant walked over to her and looked down. She was writhing in pain, lying in a pool of blood on the forest floor. He thought to himself: in this dense jungle, help would take hours to arrive. She wouldn’t survive that long. Ending her suffering might be the only mercy.

He raised his gun and aimed at her chest. For a moment, his eyes met hers. He felt as if her gaze was pleading, “Sir, don’t kill me. I want to live.” The Commandant closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

 Dhāyn-Dhāyn—the gunfire echoed through the forest. A bird took flight into the sky.

 That day’s encounter had shattered many lives. Dreams were broken. Families torn apart.

Years passed. The Commandant had retired. Every night, he took sleeping pills—yet sleep eluded him. All night long, for years and years her voice has been echoed in his ears.

“Sir, don’t kill me. I want to live.”

War stories are never glorious. They are deeply painful.

 

…

Rain of Love, Birth of Life"

In the beginning, the Creator shaped the Earth. He formed the land and the sea, crafting a world of contrast and potential. To awaken life, He infused His creation with love and desire—forces that stir movement, longing, and union.
 
Yet a divine law governed this realm: if Earth and Sea, driven by passion, ever embraced, their union would dissolve boundaries and summon catastrophe. Earth would merge with Sea, and the world would drown in deluge. So, the Creator bound the Sea with a solemn vow: “Until the end of the age, you must remain distant from the Earth.”
 
Without love and desire, life could not be born. But where love exists, a path always emerges.
 
Under the blazing sun, Earth burned with the fire of longing. The Sea too suffered—its waters turned to sweat, rising as vapor into the sky. That vapor gathered, swelling into storm clouds, heavy with the Sea’s yearning.
The storm ascended, dark and fierce, filled with the soul of the Sea. Earth gazed upon it and saw her beloved within. She raised her arms to welcome the tempest.
 
In the downpour of love, Earth was drenched. She conceived. And from her womb, life was born.
 
The storm comes and goes; it’s a never-ending cycle.  Each time, Earth and Sea touch briefly, birthing new life. The Creator’s vow becomes a rhythm, not a rule. Rain becomes ritual.

The Last Nest: A Tale of Love Beneath the Banyan

For a lifetime, the old banyan tree had sheltered thousands of birds. Generations had built their nests upon its branches, nurtured love, and taught their fledglings to fly. With every chirp, the tree’s heart seemed to beat in rhythm with theirs.
 
But now, the banyan was weary. Its trunk had been hollowed out by termites. Its leaves had fallen, leaving only dry, lifeless limbs—like remnants of forgotten memories.
 
One by one, the birds had flown away, seeking new skies and safer homes. Yet one sparrow remained, nestled in a hollow of the tree—alone, but surrounded by memories.
 
One quiet evening, the banyan spoke in a trembling voice:
“Sparrow brother, you too must leave. I can no longer be trusted. The monsoon is nearby. Lightning dances in the clouds. I fear I won’t survive the coming storm.”
 
The sparrow was silent for a moment. Then he replied softly:
“Dear elder, it was on this very tree that I met my beloved Chivtaai. In her eyes, I saw my sky. We built our nest here, together. You gave us grain, shelter, and shade. Our chicks played and grew on your branches. And one day… my Chivtai breathed her last in that very nest. Even in her final breath, she whispered your name. Her memories are woven into this hollow. How can I leave you?”
 
That night, the sky split open. A storm raged. Thunder roared. Rain poured. The banyan collapsed. And with it, the sparrow fell.
 
But far away, in a quiet corner of the sky, Chivtai was waiting. Her eyes glistened with love once more.
“I waited so long for you…” she said.
 
The sparrow smiled, closed his eyes. And in that moment, they soared together again—never to be parted.
 

Two Shores, One Fate

The river’s two banks set out joyfully, hand in hand, to meet the sea. Had they journeyed together, they would have reached it with ease. But something changed between them.

Pride crept in—each bank began to believe it was superior. The venom of stubbornness bit deep. The left bank thought only it knew the way to the sea. The right bank must follow.

The right bank scoffed—believing the left was foolish, that only it held the true path, and the left must obey. Their quarrels grew louder, more frequent. One day, the fight turned fierce.

The left bank veered east, the right turned west. The river’s waters, once held between them, spilled into the desert and was lost soaked into the bottomless sand.  Without water, the path forward vanished. Parched and powerless, both banks withered in the wasteland.
 
The river’s water was the love between husband and wife.
To build a happy life together, that love must be preserved—

Even if it demands sacrifice, it must be made.

Cliff Where Life Refused to Die”

At the break of dawn, weary of life, he reached the edge of the cliff. He peered down to make sure—if he jumped from here, death would be certain.

But what was this? Just below the edge, nestled between two rocks, a peepal tree was sprouting. Its roots had gripped the stones tightly, stretching far and wide. Defying gravity, the tree swayed freely with the wind.
 
In that moment, a thought stirred within him: No soil, no water—only a crack in the rock—yet the tree was alive. Instead of complaining about the lack of earth, the peepal had made the stone its anchor. It had found a way to live within the very obstacle.
 
A ray of light danced in his eyes. He whispered to himself, “Like the peepal, I can carve hope even on rocky ground.”
 

The Daughter of the Storm

 
 
The storm raged. Rain poured in torrents. Suddenly, her eyes fell on him. Tall, dark, and imposing like a mountain, he drank in her rain-soaked, radiant beauty with his gaze.  A bolt of lightning cracked through the sky. Startled, she threw her arms around him. In her embrace, he left behind a spark of life— and vanished into the unknown.

 
Years passed. Once again, the storm returned. Rain lashed the earth. A mother and young daughter stood soaked beneath the sky.
 
“Varuna!” the mother called. “You must know—who is your father?” That day too, the rain had poured like this. 

A sudden, thunderous bolt had struck somewhere nearby. Terrified, the young girl had buried herself in her mother’s arms. Now, wiping the tears streaming from her mother’s eyes, she said softly,
 
“Mother, I understand the mystery of my birth.” She looked up at the dark, brooding clouds. With her head held high, she declared: “I am Varuna, daughter of the storm god Varun.”

The genie removed pollution

 
Aladdin was taking a morning stroll through Lodhi Garden when a sudden gust of wind carried the acrid stench of petrol. Wrinkling his nose, he muttered, “Even here, in nature’s lap, there is no clean air. Something must be done about this pollution.”
 
Just then, his foot struck something hard. He stumbled, but didn’t fall. Glancing down, he saw an old, grimy lamp. Intrigued, he picked it up. “Looks ancient… might fetch a decent price,” he thought. Wiping it with his handkerchief, he began to polish the surface.
 
In an instant, smoke erupted from the lamp—and a genie emerged.
 
“What is your command, master?” the genie asked.
 
Startled, Aladdin stammered, “No command. Just go back into the lamp.”
 
The genie bowed slightly. “Master, I cannot return until I fulfil a command. You must give me one.”
 
Regaining his composure, Aladdin realized the genie was bound to serve him. “So, tell me—what are you capable of?”
 
“Nothing is beyond me,” the genie replied. “I can do what no human can.”
 
Amused, Aladdin decided to test him. “Fine. Eliminate all pollution from the earth—completely and instantly.”
 
The genie stood still, hands folded, silent.
 
Aladdin scoffed. “Why the silence? Has pollution defeated even you? I knew it—this task is beyond your powers. Go back into the lamp and sleep. I’ll call you when I have a job worthy of your talents.”
 
The genie’s voice trembled with restraint. “Master, I can remove pollution from its root… but—”
 
“But, but, but!” Aladdin snapped. “You have also learned human excuses well. Obey your master—or admit you are powerless.”
 
The genie bowed deeply. “As you command. I shall erase pollution from its root.”
 
He closed his eyes and chanted a spell. In the very next moment, all humans—including Aladdin—were cast into hell.
 
And soon after, the earth was utterly cleansed of pollution. Once again, the planet bloomed green.