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.

“The Ember That Never Died”

  (A tale of love, silence, and the fire that memory keeps alive)

That day was a Saturday. I had just stepped out of a government office in Connaught Place around 2:30 in the afternoon. As I walked toward the metro station, I saw her—coming from the opposite direction. She saw me too.

“Vivek!” she called out, rushing toward me. For a moment, it felt like she wanted to embrace me. But just as she reached me, she stopped. She looked just the same. Slender, radiant, her Punjabi complexion still glowing—only her hair had turned slightly grey. Her face shimmered with both joy and fear.

“You haven’t changed at all,” I said. “You look exactly as you did thirty-five years ago.” She laughed. “Neither have you—except for the white hair.” I smiled. “We’ve aged. Shall we go to the Coffee House? We could talk.” Without thinking, I took her hand in mine, and we began walking.

It must have been August 1981. I had landed a temporary job at a traders’ association in Rajendra Place. She worked nearby, in another company. We were the same age. She lived in Tilak Nagar. We met on a chartered bus. She was in her final year of B. Com, struggling with accounts. I was good at it. On Sundays, she’d come to my place to study.

One day, after a study session, I was walking her to Jail Road. A few bikers from my neighbourhood passed us, staring oddly. I realized my hand was resting on her shoulder. Embarrassed, I withdrew it and said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

She took my hand and placed it back on her shoulder. Smiling, she said, “You fool. You understand nothing.” She had fallen in love.

Back then, offices closed early on Saturdays. After work, we’d watch movies at Rachna Cinema Hall. We wandered through Buddha Garden like Bollywood lovers.

But fate had other plans. It was likely September 1982. She hadn’t met me in days. One afternoon, her colleague came to my office with a message: “Vivek, don’t try to meet her.”

“What happened?” I asked. Her friend explained: Her father had proposed her marriage to her elder brother’s friend. She refused, saying, “How could you even think I’d marry that drunkard?” Her brother exploded. “I told you not to let her work. She’s probably flirting outside.” She snapped back, “Yes, I do. What will you do? He’s not liked your drunk friend. He’s clean, and from a good Brahmin family.”

Her father lost control. In those days, the air in Delhi was thick with Khalistani tension. He removed his belt and beat her, trying to force her to tell my name. But she didn’t utter a word. Her mother somehow saved her. Her brother swore to find and beat me. Two or three days later, he came to my office. “She had an accident,” he said. “She won’t be coming back.” Then he leaned in and whispered, “She has a boyfriend. She wants to meet him. I need to deliver her message.” His expression triggered my sixth sense. I replied, “We’re just office friends. I don’t know what she does outside.”

"He muttered", I will handle him myself.

Even our manager suspected something was wrong. The next day, we visited her home. Only her mother was there. While making tea, she said, “Tell Vivek, not to try meeting me for a few months. My brother is trying to go to Canada. Once he leaves, I’ll meet Vivek myself.”

In November, I got a government job. Our financial situation improved. By January 1983, we moved to a flat in Hari Nagar.

One day, I visited her office. Her friend said, “She never came back. I visited her home—it was locked. Her father sold their house to send her brother to Canada and bought a flat somewhere else in Delhi. Where would I even begin to search? My love story ended—unfinished."

Over coffee, she asked, “How’s your family?”

“I lost track of you,” I said quietly. “After I turned twenty-five, I married the girl my mother chose. We have two children now—one’s already married. And you? What path did your life take?

She replied, “Six months after my brother left for Canada.  A week later of his departure, my parents met with an accident. A truck hit their scooter. My father was bedridden. My mother too, for a year. I had no time to think of myself. He sold the shop, invested the money. We survived on the interest from our savings and the remittances my brother sent from abroad. "A year after the accident, my mother took her first steps again, leaning on a walker. I tried to reach you, but you were gone. The friend who might have known had left the office. I had no thread left to follow."

Her brother married in Canada and stopped sending money. Their savings dwindled. She began tutoring at home and prepared for government exams. By late 1986, she got a job. She found out I was married. Her voice trembled: 'I was shattered. Maybe I was meant to serve my parents—that was my fate. And perhaps that’s why destiny pulled us apart.'"

“How are they now?” I asked. “Father passed away after four or five years. He was the only son—his my brother, I mean but he didn’t even come for the funeral. I performed the rites myself. Mother broached the subject of my marriage. But how could I leave her? She passed away last year. Now I’m alone.”

After a pause, I asked, “Will you give me your address and phone number? In case…”

She took my right hand in hers. Her touch burned with intensity. “Vivek,” she said softly, I’ve touched only one man in my life. When the nights grow restless, I remember your touch—it still calms me. That single moment of love… it’s enough to carry me through this life.” After a deep sigh, she added, Don’t ask for my address. Don’t ask for my number. If you see me again, walk the other way. Don’t come near me. If the dam of my emotions breaks, we’ll both be consumed. Even your family will be destroyed.” Her breath quickened. Her voice trembled. She stood up, grabbed her purse, and walked swiftly in the opposite direction. She didn’t look back.

I sat there, stunned. Tears welled in my eyes. Her touch still burned on my skin. She had ignited from within, yet she held herself together—and left, carrying my touch into the silence of her life.

For many nights, I couldn’t sleep. Questions haunted me. Why didn’t I search for her? Why did I rush into marriage? Why couldn’t I wait? But the past never answers. We are all slaves to fate.

She had learned about my life yet never came looking. Not once. She didn’t want her shadow to fall across the happiness I had built. By then, she was a gazetted officer—her name, her address, her number… none of it was hidden. But I never searched. Maybe I was afraid of what I’d find. Or worse, of what I wouldn’t.

She chose silence over intrusion, memory over presence. And so she lived—carrying the echo of my touch like a sacred flame. That single moment between us… it was enough for her. Enough to call it love. And I know now, she had truly loved me. Quietly. Entirely. Without asking for in return. She had truly loved me.

But I… I never knew what I felt. Not fully. Not then. And now, years later, I still search for the answer in the spaces she left behind—in the memory of her voice, the warmth of her touch, the absence that became a presence. 

Some questions don’t ask to be answered. They simply live inside us.

Silent Witnesses at the Temple

 

In a deserted forest stood a temple. A ritual was underway. Inside the sanctum, a priest and two men were present. After the prayer, the priest said, “This deity is awakened. Whoever sincerely asks for forgiveness is granted mercy.”

The first man folded his hands and prayed, “Lord, you know I perform my duties with full devotion. But the hospital where I work kept dead patients on life support during the epidemic, just to make money. I witnessed it all. I stayed silent, even though I saw everything with my own eyes. Survival is a harsh struggle. I was helpless. Please forgive me.”

The second man prayed, “My father died in that epidemic. He was a good man. If he unknowingly committed any sin, please forgive him. Give him a place at your feet.”

The priest said, “So be it.” Both men stepped outside the temple.

The first man asked, “Sir, in which hospital did your father pass away?”

The second man named the hospital.

The first man fell at his feet and said, “Sir, I work at that very hospital. I beg your forgiveness.”

The second man’s heart was flooded with emotions—anger, hatred, sorrow. He closed his eyes and tried to steady himself. Within moments, tears began to flow from his eyes.

The first man asked, “Sir, why are there tears in your eyes?”

The second man replied, “I too am a silent witness, just like you. I knew what was happening. My father is no longer alive, but because of my love for him, I too remained helpless.”

Who kept Dalits away from education?

The British spread the idea that before their arrival, women and Shudras in India had no right to education. Even after independence, British-influenced governments continued this propaganda. The aim was clear: divide society and rule. But truth cannot remain hidden. Today, with the help of AI and old references, the reality comes to light. Let us begin from the Vedic age—did Shudras have the right to education then?
 
शूद्रोऽपि विद्वान् भवति यद्यपि शूद्रजातः ।
विद्या हि सर्वं विश्वस्य संनादति ॥ (अथर्ववेद १९.६२.१)
 
A Shudra, though born as a Shudra, can become learned, for knowledge resounds throughout the universe and is available to all.
 
The Vedas themselves prove that Shudras and non-Aryans had full rights to education.

• ऋग्वेद ९.११२.३: “ब्रह्मराजन्याभ्यां शूद्राय चार्याय च स्वायचारणाय च” — Vedic knowledge is for Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Shudras, and non-Aryans alike.

• ऋग्वेद १०.५३.४: “यद् विश्वा अश्विना… शूद्राय वा ददथुरार्याय वा” — The Ashvins gave knowledge equally to Shudras and Aryans.

• अथर्ववेद १९.६२.१: “शूद्रोऽपि विद्वान् भवति… विद्या हि सर्वं विश्वं संनादति” — Even a Shudra can become wise; knowledge is universal.

• यजुर्वेद (वाजसनेयी संहिता २६.२): “शूद्राय च परं ब्रह्म दत्तं भवति” — Shudras too can attain the supreme knowledge of Brahman.

 
Clearly, in the Vedic age, varna was determined not by birth but by learning and deeds. Shudras and non-Aryans participated equally in Vedic study, sacrifices, warfare, medicine, and leadership.
Varna by Knowledge, not Birth
 
शूद्रो ब्राह्मणतामेति ब्राह्मणश्चैति शूद्रताम् ।
क्षत्रियात् जातमेवं तु विद्वत्त्वात् सागरादयः ॥ (महाभारत अनुशासनपर्व १४३.४९-५०)
 
A Shudra can become a Brahmin, and a Brahmin can become a Shudra. A Kshatriya too, by acquiring wisdom, can attain Brahminhood. Vyasa, the author of the Mahabharata, himself born of mixed lineage, fathered Dhritarashtra and Pandu. His son Shukadeva attained Brahminhood through Vedic study and self-realization.
 
जन्मना जायते शूद्रः संस्कारात् द्विज उच्यते ।
वेदपठात् भवेत् विप्रः ब्रह्म जानाति ब्राह्मणः ॥ (मनुस्मृति १०.४)
 
By birth all are Shudras. Through samskara one becomes a dvija (twice-born). By Vedic study one becomes a scholar (vipra). By knowing Brahman, one becomes a Brahmin.
 
Thus, birth did not decide varna; education and spiritual realization did. Examples abound: Valmiki (Shudra by birth, yet author of the Ramayana), Vishvamitra (who became a Brahmarshi), Jabali, Satyakama, and Vyasa—all born of lower or mixed origins, yet attaining Brahminhood through knowledge.
 
Education also enabled Shudras to become rulers: Chandragupta Maurya, son of a maidservant, studied at Takshashila under Chanakya and founded the Mauryan Empire. Ajatashatru, son of a maid, became king of Magadha. Mahapadma Nanda, of Shudra origin, expanded the Nanda Empire. Pushyamitra Shunga, of humble birth, founded the Shunga dynasty. Divya, a fisherman, became king of Avanti. These examples prove that in ancient India, kingship and status came not by birth but by knowledge and deeds.
 
Just as Shudras had access to learning, women too were honored seekers of knowledge. The Vedic tradition recognized Sadyovadhu (studying before marriage) and Brahmavadini (lifelong learners). Women studied the Vedas along with music, arts, and martial skills. Rigveda and Upanishads mention scholars like Gargi, Maitreyi, Lopamudra, Apala. Gargi challenged Yajnavalkya in debate, while Maitreyi questioned him on immortality, showing their intellectual depth. Vedic texts also affirm daughters as equal heirs and encourage women in politics and warfare. Thus, women were respected as philosophers, teachers, and leaders shaping India’s knowledge tradition.
 
 
From the Vedic age until the Mughal period (1526 CE), India had a rich educational tradition. Great universities like Takshashila, Nalanda, Vikramashila, Vallabhi, Odantapuri, Jagaddala, Kashi, Ujjain, Mithila, Kanchipuram, and Sringeri flourished, along with hundreds of thousands of smaller gurukuls.
 
By the 18th century, there were over 600,000 gurukuls, with Shudras and Dalits forming the majority (75–80%). Gurukuls taught not only Vedas and philosophy but also mathematics, astronomy, medicine, arts, and 72 crafts—blacksmithing, weaving, carpentry, pottery, painting, architecture, metallurgy, ivory work, gem cutting, musical instruments, agricultural tools, and shipbuilding. This made villages self-reliant.
 
British surveys (William Adam, 1835–38 in Bengal-Bihar; G.W. Leitner, 1882 in Punjab) and Dharampal’s The Beautiful Tree (1983) confirm that nearly every village had a school, with Shudras forming most students.
 
But after 1857, the British crushed the gurukul system. Macaulay’s English-based education replaced it. Kings and landlords stopped supporting village schools. The British opened few schools in villages, focusing only on producing clerks.
 
By 1901, only 97,000 schools remained (down from 600,000 gurukuls). Literacy fell to 5.3% overall (men 9.8%, women 0.7%). Shudra-Dalit literacy collapsed from 70–80% to barely 1–2%. In Bengal, Brahmin literacy was 467 per 1,000 men, but Shudras like Chamars, Mahars, Gonds, and Kolis had only 8–54 per 1,000. Dalits were at 8 per 1,000.
 
Thus, within 50 years, Macaulay’s system made the majority illiterate. Brahmins, already urban and engaged in study, adapted easily to English education and gained government jobs. Shudras and Dalits, left in villages, became illiterate.
 
 
Conclusion
 
Macaulay’s policy benefited the upper castes but destroyed Shudra-Dalit education. The closure of gurukuls and the urban-English schooling system excluded the majority. The truth is: it was the British education system that deprived Shudras of learning.
 
Today, with schools in every village, and with reservations, scholarships, and social reforms, Dalits and girls are once again entering education in large numbers.
 
 
 
 

The Tragic End of Yakshpriya

Alka Nagari was Kubera’s rich and shining capital, full of golden roads and jewel-covered palaces. Beauty was everything here, and wealth was worshipped. But behind this glitter was a dark truth.

A cloud of Ashad, sent by Lord Varun (God of Rain), was heading toward Alka Nagari. It carried water that was once pure like nectar, but now mixed with pollution, it had turned poisonous.

Yakshpriya, a beautiful woman living in one of the palaces, ran to the rooftop hoping to receive a message from her lover through the lightning. She remembered his words: “Even in darkness, you shine like lightning. You are like Rambha (apsara in lord Indra Court in Heavan) herself. Who needs lamps when you are here?”

As the rain began, she danced and got soaked for the first time in Ashad’s monsoon. But suddenly, her skin started burning. She rushed to her room and looked in the mirror. Her face and body were scarred by acid rain. She screamed. Would her lover still love her now? In Yaksha society, beauty was a woman’s only value.

Outside, the rain stopped, but the land was blackened. Trees were burnt; birds were dead. The cloud looked down and saw a crowd around a woman lying in blood—her face ruined by the toxic rain. People whispered: “Her husband is abroad, and she wanted to enjoy the rain. Didn’t she hear the warnings on TV and radio?” One said, “How will she live now that her beauty is gone?” Another said, “We’re all dying slowly in this poisonous world. No one cares. “Blaming the king for the tragedy, the crowd erupted in slogans against King Kuber". 

The cloud felt guilty. It remembered Yakshpriya and her lover waiting at Ramgiri. What would it tell him? For a moment, the cloud wanted to turn back and empty its water into the sea. But it remembered Varun’s command: fulfill your duty, no matter what happens on earth. The cloud shed two tears and moved on

Small Family, True Happiness

 
In our country today, the government promotes family planning through the slogan “Ham Do Hamare Do” (We two, our two) to control the growing population.
 
From ancient times, religion has taught that having a son was considered a sacred duty of household life. A son was needed to repay the debt to ancestors, continue the family line, and preserve tradition. Chanakya says in his Niti Shastra:
 
“Even one virtuous son is better than a hundred without qualities.
Just as one moon removes darkness, thousands of stars cannot.”
 
This means the purpose of having children is not desire or numbers, but to raise a virtuous child who brings wisdom, strength, and goodness to the family, satisfies the ancestors, and gives meaning to life. A son is not a burden but a worthy heir who keeps the family light shining.
 
Saint Samarth Ramdas, while traveling across the country, saw the misery of families with too many children. In Dasbodh (Book 10, Chapter 4), he describes how large families fall into poverty, worry, and suffering. Through the story of a rich man, he shows that wealth was destroyed, the family became beggars, and life turned sorrowful because of too many children.
 
Samarth says:
 
“When children became too many, Goddess Lakshmi (wealth) left.
The poor family had to beg, with nothing to eat.”
 
Too many children increase expenses, salaries fall short, wealth disappears, and even food becomes scarce. Daughters’ marriages become difficult, valuables are mortgaged, debts rise, and begging begins. The father is forced to leave home and work in low jobs abroad. Hard labour brings stress and illness.
 
The lesson is clear: a large family becomes a centre of sorrow, not happiness. Constant quarrels and confusion destroy peace. The burden of worldly duties grows, but true joy is lost.
 

Indian War: Gandhara’s Final Cry

 

(Midnight. Shakuni sat in a corner of his camp, staring at the chessboard, lost in thought. Suddenly, a voice broke the silence and interrupted his chain of thoughts).

Shakuni (startled): "Sister? You here? At this hour of night? And tears in your eyes... surely not for the blind king’s sons?"

Gandhari (calm but firm): "Shakuni, I still remember the vow we took when leaving Gandhara. Though the Kauravas were born from my womb, they are like snake lings—enemies of Gandhara. I will not shed tears for them. Today, Shalya has been killed in battle. The war is nearing its end.

(sobbing)I came to see you one last time... Tomorrow, perhaps, on the battlefield..."

Shakuni (interrupting with bitter laughter): "Ha! Ha! Ha! So, I’m going to die tomorrow—is that it? We both knew this truth from the very first day of war. Why cry now? Eighteen divisions of Indian armies have been destroyed. Three generations wiped out. And what loss did Gandhara suffer? Only a handful of soldiers, including us. Has such a thing ever happened in history?

No army of Bhishma will ever enter Gandhara again. No Gandhari will have to sacrifice her life again. Gandhara no longer fears India. Foolish Indian kings dance to foreign tunes for power. Now the world knows this. Hastinapur was full of foolish intellectuals that’s why our mission succeeded. Gandhari, wipe your tears. Look ahead.

The selfish Hindu and Buddhist kings of the Spata Sindhu region will not help King Dahir of Sindh. See, Gandhara’s cavalry is ready to destroy the Spata Sindhu region..."

(Both shouts together) "Victory to Gandhara!"

Though this story is ancient, it hides the true history of India’s subjugation