The cabin I sit in at the Prime Minister’s Office is part of a large hall. There’s a central door, and on either side are six cabins separated by partitions about three and a half feet high. These cabins house private secretaries and other staff—around 24 to 25 people in total. As soon as the door opens, my cabin is the first one visible.
If the hall door is open, part of the cabin opposite mine gets hidden behind it. There’s a three-foot-tall cupboard there. Since it’s not easily visible, staff often leave their empty teacups and other items on top of it.
It was around 3:30 in the afternoon. Everyone had just finished their tea. Suddenly, the door swung open, and a staff member entered, visibly shaken, and announced loudly enough for all to hear, “The Prime Minister is coming this way!”
I was startled. I’ve been working in the PMO for 17 years, and never before has a Prime Minister—or even a senior-most officer—stepped into the staff cabins. Perhaps they never felt the need. As the saying goes, one must go to the temple to see God; rarely does God visit the devotee’s home.
Everyone scrambled to tidy up their space, but there was no time. Right behind the staff member, Prime Minister Narendra Modi walked in. Naturally, since mine was the first cabin, his eyes fell on me. He asked a few brief questions about my work. Then he went to each cabin, speaking with the staff.
Finally, he reached the cabin opposite mine. His gaze landed on the 7–8 empty teacups placed on the cupboard. With a playful smile, he remarked, “You all seem to drink a lot of tea.”
One of the staff replied, “Sir, not all these cups are ours. Others also leave their empty cups here.”
The Prime Minister chuckled and said, “Friends, have you heard the story of Akbar and Birbal?”
We all turned our attention to him, eager to listen.
He began narrating the tale (as I understood it in Marathi):
Once, Emperor Akbar visited Birbal’s home. He saw Birbal and his wife sitting on a platform, eating mangoes. Akbar’s eyes fell on the mango pits scattered on the floor. He thought to himself, “Birbal considers himself clever. Today’s a good chance to show him that the emperor is no less intelligent.”
Akbar counted the pits and said, “Birbal, I can tell how many mangoes you’ve eaten before I arrived.”
Using the number of pits, Akbar made his guess. But Birbal, ever wise, immediately understood the emperor’s intent. With a mischievous smile, he replied, “Your Majesty, you’re mistaken. These pits are from the mangoes I ate. My wife eats mangoes along with the pits.”
Prime Minister Modi paused and looked around. His meaning was clear. We all burst into laughter.
(As I interpreted the story: Birbal may have outwitted the emperor with his cleverness, but don’t try to fool me. Don’t blame others—clearly, you all drank the tea!)
The Prime Minister left. But a leader who engages with staff in this manner, telling them an Akbar–Birbal story, is perhaps one of a kind.
When the golden rays of dawn touch the skin, the heart feels serene. Morning sunlight feels gentle and desirable—just like gold, which humans cherish. With gold comes the fulfillment of worldly desires: clothes, cars, homes. And if there's enough gold, even a world beauty may grace the bungalow as a wife.
Long ago, an ignorant man found a gold coin on the road. Without thinking, he picked it up and pocketed it. Later, another man saw the same coin, looked around to ensure no one was watching, and took it. Then came a learned thinker. He saw the coin and pondered—whose might it be? Is it right to take it? After much inner debate, the thoughtful man made his decision: this is a sign of divine grace, and accepting the coin as a blessing from the Lord is perfectly justified. He picked up the coin and slipped it into his pocket.
By fate, all three died on the same day. Brought before the god of justice, the first was sentenced to one year in hell for enjoying unearned wealth. The second received five years for deliberate theft. Dharmaraja sentenced the thinker to a hundred years in hell. The man said, "I accepted the coin as a divine blessing from the Lord. I am innocent. You are handing out arbitrary punishments. I will file a complaint; I will go on a hunger strike."
Dharmaraja grew furious. "This is not India, where anyone can sit on a hunger strike at will. This is the court of Dharmaraja. You are an educated man—you understand what is right and wrong. Yet you committed theft, and worse, you dragged the divine into your wrongdoing. Your crime is grave. You cannot be forgiven. It is precisely because of the nature of your offense that your punishment has been made severe."
Thus, Dharmaraja delivered judgment upon all three.
Once, a chameleon living in the forest thought of going to the city and impressing people by showcasing his skill of changing colors. He went to the nearby city. There, he saw a man sitting on a chair in a government bungalow, wearing a white cap on his head.
The chameleon approached the man and said, “I am a forest-dwelling chameleon. I possess the art of changing colors. Wherever I sit—on a leaf or a flower—I blend into its color.”
He continued, “Let me show you
my art.”
He sat on green leaves—he
turned green.
He sat on a red flower—he
turned red.
In this way, the chameleon
changed colors and demonstrated his skill to the man.
The chameleon asked, “Can you change colors like me?”
The man laughed and said, “What’s so special about that? I can change colors while sitting right here in this chair. Just look at my cap.”
The chameleon looked at the man’s cap.
In an instant, the cap turned green, then red, then blue, then saffron. Finally, it turned white again.
The man was changing colors so effortlessly that the chameleon was astonished.
He said, “I’ve never seen a human change colors like this. Who are you really?”
The man calmly replied, “I am always seated in the chair of power. That’s why I’ve mastered the art of changing the color of my cap.”
The chameleon felt cheated, let down. Nobody dared compete with her in changing colours. But now with her face red and her body green with jealousy for the leader, she just crept on the tree and looking down at the human-chameleon said, I am defeated mate. Better is our forest and its inmates who would never change colour for selfish ends
Late at night, the police raided the place. Teenagers aged 15 to 18, from well-educated families and prestigious schools, were caught intoxicated. They were warned and released. Among them was Sonal.
Her mother’s voice rang through the house: “If she keeps behaving like this, we’ll have no face left in society!”
Sonal snapped, “Stop it! I’m sick of your sermons! What did I do? Had a little whiskey, had fun with friends—just like your cocktail parties at home!
Sonal’s parents failed to model the values they preached. Their own contradictions—between private indulgence and public morality—confused the child. When ideals are not lived, they lose their power to guide.
