The Night of Sweet Union

It was the night of their wedding. She entered the room carrying a cup of saffron milk. As soon as he saw her, the words “Shubhamangal Savdhan” echoed in his ears. He remembered how Saint Samarth Ramdas had fainted and fled from his wedding. Even Gautama Buddha had left his wife and child in the darkness of night.
 
A thought struck him: “If I don’t leave now, I’ll never escape this cycle of worldly life. I’ll never break free from attachment and desire.”
 
He turned to his wife and said, “I got married only to fulfil my parents’ wishes. Now I’m free from that promise. I have no interest in family life. I want to reach heaven and see the gods. For that, I must undergo intense spiritual practice. I have no choice.” Saying this, he ran away.
 
He reached a deep forest, far from people. To attain heaven, he began severe penance. He wore simple bark clothes. The earth was his bed, the sky his blanket. He ate roots and fruits. He never thought of worldly pleasures. He spent his days in prayer and meditation. Time passed. He grew old and eventually died.
 
Chitragupta calculated his deeds. He had earned the merit to spend one day in heaven. He was happy—at least he would see the gods once. His life’s penance would be fulfilled.
 
Angels took him to heaven. They bathed him with fragrant oils and dressed him in rich silk robes. He was taken to Indra’s court, where Lord Indra and other gods were enjoying dances by celestial nymphs like Rambha and Urvashi.
 
Lord Indra welcomed him and offered him a seat. A nymph brought him a cup of divine nectar. Lord Indra said, “Enjoy the dance of heavenly nymphs. Drink this nectar. Tonight, you may spend time with your favourite apsara. Don’t waste this moment. This is the reward of your lifelong penance.”
 
He looked around. Rambha and Urvashi were dancing in a drunken trance, their clothes disheveled, revealing more than they should. But they felt no shame. The gods were also intoxicated, enjoying the nectar touched by the lips of eternal beauties. Their clothes were more revealing than movie stars on Earth. The gods were celebrating lust openly.
 
Seeing this, he remembered a New Year’s party his friend had once taken him to at a farmhouse. There, bar girls in skimpy clothes served drinks. Men and women danced without shame, drunk and wild. That party had made him feel detached from worldly life.
 
Now, seeing the same scene in heaven, he wondered—was this the reward of his penance? Such pleasure could be bought on Earth with a little money. He had spent his whole life for this? He felt ashamed. He remembered his abandoned wife. He had hurt her for something so trivial. He wanted to ask her forgiveness.
 
He left Lord Indra’s court. But where would he find her now? Suddenly, he saw a faint figure—it was her. He shouted, “Forgive me!”
 
She replied, “What happened to you? What forgiveness? Did you see a dream?”
 
He was startled. He realized he was lying in bed. He quickly composed himself, took the cup of saffron milk from her hand and said, “The night of sweet union should be spent awake. I fell asleep. I’ve committed a sin. The guilty must be punished.”
 
She laughed and said, “There’s still plenty of night left. I’ll punish you as you wish.”
 
What happened after that—who punished whom, and how—was lost in the darkness.
 

he Blue Butterfly: A Quiet Guilt”

 
 
About 25 years ago, we lived in a small house with a front yard. In the yard stood a guava tree, a Madhu Malati vine, and pots filled with roses. Every morning and evening, sparrows chirped. The children loved feeding them and chasing butterflies.
 
But humans are selfish, restless, and never satisfied. I’m no exception. As our children grew, space felt tight. Sunlight barely entered the house because neighbours had covered their verandas. I kept thinking—if we build a bigger room in front, the house will look better and we’ll have a nice sitting area.
 
Eventually, whether due to my wife’s constant remarks or my own hidden desire, I decided to build that room. Naturally, the guava tree and Madhu Malati vine had to be cut down. In a few months, the new sitting room was ready. We moved the Tulsi plant and flower pots to the terrace. We even kept a water bowl for the sparrows. But they were gone. Without the vine, they had no place to nest. A few still came to the terrace for food and water.
 
About a year later, one evening after work, my children shouted, “Dad! Dad! There’s something like a bug on the wall!” I looked closely; it was a cocoon, with a faint blue colour inside. “It’s a butterfly cocoon,” I said. “Soon, a butterfly will come out.”
 
Maybe the butterfly’s mother had come out of habit to lay eggs. With no tree or vine, she must have laid them on a flower pot. The caterpillar crawled into the room, searching for a safe place to form its cocoon.
 
A few days later, I came home to find my kids dancing with joy. “Look, Dad! The butterfly!” A beautiful blue butterfly was flying around the room. The children were thrilled. They had turned off all the fans so it wouldn’t get hurt.
 
That night, they gently guided the butterfly out of the room, shut the doors, turned on the cooler, and went to sleep.
 
Next morning, I washed my face in the back veranda and entered the sitting room. In one corner, the butterfly lay dead. Maybe it had entered again and got caught in the fan. I stared at it for a while, feeling guilty.
 
What was the butterfly’s fault? Its mother didn’t know that a selfish man had cut down the trees. She came, didn’t find the vine, and laid eggs on a pot. The butterfly was born in a closed room instead of open nature. If it had survived, it might have returned to lay eggs here again. But now, that cycle was broken.
 
I picked it up with a heavy heart and threw it outside. Then I scrubbed my hands at the washbasin. While washing, I remembered Lady Macbeth—can we ever wash away our guilt?
 
It wasn’t just one butterfly. I had destroyed generations of butterflies for my own comfort. Since then, I’ve never seen a blue butterfly near our home.
 
Even today, whenever I see a butterfly, I remember that one. And one question keeps haunting me: While building that room, why didn’t I think even once about the lives that lived on those trees and vines? If I had, maybe that blue butterfly would still be alive.
 

The Poisoned Lake: A Dialogue Between Yaksha and Yudhishthira

 
After waiting a long time, Yudhishthira finally set out to search for his brothers. The desert stretched endlessly—no trees in sight, and the sun blazed mercilessly. His throat burned with thirst. At last, he spotted a shimmering lake in the distance. Hope surged: water at last, relief from thirst.
 
But as he approached, he was struck with grief—Bheem, Arjuna, Nakul, and Sahadeva lay lifeless by the lakeside. Yudhishthira was devastated. Who could have brought down the mighty Bheem and Arjuna? Perhaps the guardian of the lake—a Yaksha—had punished them. Maybe they drank water without permission.
 
Yudhishthira called out, “O Yaksha, you are compassionate. You guard this water in the barren desert and quench the thirst of weary travellers. My brothers may have erred. Please forgive them.”
 
The Yaksha appeared. Yudhishthira bowed and begged for his brothers’ lives.
 
The Yaksha replied, “Yudhishthira, I am not the one to forgive. Your brothers came here, desperate with thirst. I warned them—the water is poisoned, unfit to drink. But they ignored my words and drank. Death was inevitable.”
 
Yudhishthira pleaded again, “O Yaksha, you are wise. Is there no remedy? In ancient times, the Himalayas held the Sanjeevani herb. Hanuman used it to save Lakshmana. But now, not a single tree remains. The herb is lost.”
The Yaksha paused and asked, “What is the ultimate truth of life?”
 
Yudhishthira answered, “Death is the ultimate truth of life?”
 
The Yaksha laughed, “You understand truth well, Yudhishthira. Your brothers cannot be revived. There is no drinkable water here. You have two choices: drink this poisoned water and die swiftly, or die slowly of thirst.” The Yaksha vanished.
 
Yudhishthira sat in silence. “If death is certain, better to die with my brothers,” he thought. He drank the poisoned water. His thirst vanished. Moments later, so did his life.
 
All five Pandavas lay lifeless by the lake. The Mahabharata ended prematurely—not with the triumph of truth over falsehood, but with pollution’s triumph over humanity.
 
(Note: This is a vision of the future. In the coming decades, poisoned water may claim more lives than war. Conflicts over water—civil and global—may unfold before our eyes.)
 
(Inspired by Dr. Subhash S. Naik’s poem “Yaksha,” shared with generous permission for adaptation.)
 

“To die, but leave behind a legacy”—Why I became a writer on the internet

 
 A few days ago, a friend asked me, “Pataitji, tell me honestly—why did you start writing online?” His question made me pause. Why did I really begin writing on the internet? Unknowingly, the words of Samarth Ramdas came to mind: “To die, but leave behind a legacy.”
 
Every mortal being secretly wishes to be immortal. We can’t live forever in body, but we can live on through our legacy. Perhaps that desire was hidden somewhere in me too. I’m no King Harishchandra, but I shared the truth I had discovered with my friend.
 
People’s fame lasts for generations only when they’ve done something great. From Lord Ram to Gandhi, many figures are remembered for their deeds. But someone like me—a middle-class man, average in studies, who barely made it from clerk to officer—never imagined doing anything grand.
 
I didn’t have the drive for social service like Baba Amte. As Saint Tukaram said, “Let your son be such a rogue that his flag flies in all three worlds.” But with my single-boned frame, even rogue-hood was out of reach. Besides, fear is fed to the middle-class Marathi man from birth.
 
I didn’t achieve much in education either. The time to become a doctor or engineer had long passed. Even pretending to do social work wasn’t possible—my government job kept me too busy. From stenographer to PPS, I spent 39 years saying “Yes Sir,” including 18 years in the Prime Minister’s Office. Leaving home at 7 a.m. and returning at 9 or 11. p.m. there was no time for local committees or public service. Household responsibilities fell on my wife. Today, in my own neighbourhood, I’m known by my wife’s or son’s name.
 
Only one path remained—becoming a writer. To be a writer, you don’t need grand achievements or deep study. You just need to put your thoughts on paper. I had tried once in my twenties—sent some poems to magazines. None were published, none returned. Only the postal department earned a hundred rupees. Eventually, I accepted the truth: “I won’t become famous,” and gave up the idea of writing.
But they say—when one door closes, another opens. Twenty-five years passed. In 2010, I got internet at home. Maybe the internet was born to fulfil the unfulfilled desires of people like me. By then, I had developed a strong pride in being Marathi.
 
The first site I saw online was “Marathisrushti.” It boldly said, “Awaken the writer within you!” A blind man asks for one eye—here, I got two for free! I couldn’t believe it. Nervously, with Google’s help, I typed my first article. To my surprise, it appeared on the site the very next day.
 
That was it—my hidden desire came alive. I started a blog in my own name. I typed whatever came to mind. No worries about grammar or language. Within months, I discovered other Marathi sites like “Misalpav” and “Aisi Akshare.” I began posting my articles everywhere.
 
If there were mistakes, readers would quickly respond. Some praised the writing, others scolded me. But through essays, poems, blogs—and even the experience of my work being stolen. I learned one thing:
To earn recognition, you don’t need to slay a demon or win a war… you just need to install the internet.
 

Ideal Qualities of a King

 
In the nineteenth decade of Dasbodh, under the section Rajkarannirupannaam, Samarth Ramdas describes the qualities of a king or leader:
 
Wise and detached, with desire for community,
Through calm reflection, serve solitude. (1)
 
According to Samarth Ramdas, a king must be wise (discerning) and detached (free from worldly greed). Even if he desires to expand his community, he must first sit in solitude and reflect deeply. Solitary contemplation reveals the true reality of time and circumstances, and sustainable solutions emerge naturally.
 
Where planning is understood, constant scrutiny arises,
The condition and movement of all beings becomes clear. (2)
 
A king must not be lazy. If he neglects political duties and spends time in leisure or rest, governance will collapse and power will slip away. Hence, a king should never indulge in idleness or excessive rest. For example, it is said that Prime Minister Modi never takes a holiday.
 
Hold the main principles in hand,
Execution must be done through others,
Many obstacles will arise in politics. (18)
 
The king must take the main decisions himself, but delegate their execution to others. Yet he must remain vigilant, constantly overseeing their work. Wherever corruption or disorder appears, immediate and strict action is necessary. Thus, Samarth says:
 
He who relies on others, his work is ruined.
He who labors himself, he alone prospers. (16)
 
If a person depends entirely on others to do his work, the task will often fail or be neglected. Relying blindly on others means losing control over the outcome. A king must monitor the work of his ministers and other functionaries, and wherever required, he should take charge himself to achieve the desired results.
 
Samarth also explains the importance and use of wicked people. In the twenty-third verse he says:
 
Understand the wicked, but do not expose them.
Treat them like the virtuous, giving them importance. (23)
 
In politics, even wicked people have their own significance. They constantly create obstacles. Therefore, they should not be completely ignored, but their nature should be used wisely. However, when the right time comes, their thorn must be removed decisively.
 
When the wicked appear among the people,
There will be constant disturbance.
Therefore, that path must be quietly blocked. (24)
 
While removing those who harm the state, it must be done secretly so that no suspicion falls upon the king. In serving the nation, the king must build a large community, but ensure strong and harmonious relationships within it. Not mere outward show, but mutual trust and unity are essential. At the same time, the king must remain alert to the movements of enemies, vigilant, and devoted to higher purpose- like a bird flying for spiritual welfare.
 
Unity of society, vigilance of the king, and proper use of the wicked—these are the three essential principles of politics.
 
A living example of Samarth Ramdas’s teachings is Prime Minister Narendra Modi. He is wise and detached, yet tirelessly works for national welfare. Holding the main principles himself, he takes decisions and delegates execution to others. As a result, India has witnessed revolutions in economy, infrastructure, digitalization, and the Swachh Bharat mission. On the path of self-reliance, India has advanced in defence production. By cleverly using adversaries, he integrates opponents into national interest. Through solitary reflection, he frames long-term policies such as Atmanirbhar Bharat and Vocal for Local. By taking firm action against terrorism, he has shown India’s strength to the world.
 
Under his leadership, India is moving towards becoming a global superpower. In line with Samarth’s teachings, he is detached yet altruistic- free from worldly greed, but soaring independently for public welfare. Such leadership ensures that the wisdom of Dasbodh does not remain confined to scripture, but manifests in real life, securing the nation’s progress.

King Bali and Microscopic Virus

The mighty King Bali, conqueror of the three worlds, decided to perform a grand Rajasuya Yagna on the banks of the Narmada River, in the city of Mahishmati. The city transformed into a spectacle akin to a Kumbh Mela. Lords and monarchs from across realms, including Indra—the king of gods—gathered to witness the ritual. Thousands of merchants, artists, Brahmins, and citizens thronged the city.
 
To accommodate the multitudes, vast forests were cleared. Lavish arrangements were made for food, shelter, and entertainment. For the amusement of the royals, hunting expeditions were organized. Thousands of wild animals were slaughtered for sport and feasting. Even the sacred ritual demanded the sacrifice of countless innocent creatures.
 
One night, as King Bali prepared to sleep in his royal chamber, he heard a voice: “Your Majesty, grant me refuge. Protect me.”
Startled, the king looked around—no one was visible. He called out, “O unseen spirit, reveal yourself. Fear not, you are under my protection.”
 
The voice replied, “I am revealed, O King. I am Microscopic Virus. I am so subtle, so minute, that your eyes cannot perceive me. I dwell in the bodies of animals in the forests of Narmada. But your soldiers and guests have hunted thousands of them. I have no shelter left. If I find a place within the human body, I shall survive. Humans host thousands of microbes- shall become one of them.”
 
Moved, King Bali said, “So be it.”
 
Microscopic Virus entered the bodies of thousands gathered in Mahishmati. Within days, fever swept through the city. Kings, nobles, and commoners alike fell ill. Thousands perished. The grand yagna remained incomplete. The guests returned to their lands.
 
Mahishmati was abandoned. The city of the three-worlds-conqueror lay desolate. King Bali, defeated not by armies but by a microscopic Virous, fled in fear of death. He retreated to the netherworld, deep in the southern realms, seeking refuge.
 
(Deforestation and changes in land use bring humans closer to wild animals, creating conditions for viruses like Ebola, HIV, Nipah, Dengue, and Yellow Fever to spread from forests and make millions of people sick. Together, these viruses kill millions every year.)

Prime Minister Narendra Modi Tells an Akbar–Birbal Tale

 

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.