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.

Wisdom Worm

 

Yesterday afternoon, while reading a particular corruption file at the office, I began to feel a sharp pain in my molar. Within moments, the pain intensified, and a headache joined in. Frustrated, I stopped reading the file.

After reaching home, I gargled with warm salt water and placed a clove in my mouth. But nothing helped. I spent the entire night writhing in pain.

In the morning, I went to the dentist. He looked at me with a mischievous smile and said, “This isn’t just any ordinary toothache. A deadly wisdom worm has infested your molar. If not removed immediately, it will crawl into your brain and start dismantling your wisdom. The consequences could be dire—you might be forced into premature retirement from government service. No pension. You’ll be left begging from door to door.”

Fireflies flashed before my eyes—could this really happen? Terrified, I shouted, “Doctor, remove the tooth! Take the wisdom worm with it!”

Once the tooth was out, the pain vanished. My body and mind felt calm. Back at the office, I carefully tied that particular corruption file with a red ribbon and placed it in the cupboard.

At home, I dressed in pure white clothes and stood before the mirror.

But I couldn’t understand why my face appeared stained with a dark blotch in the reflection.

The Fragrance of a Moment

He stood waiting for the bus. Beside him stood her—hair adorned with a garland of blooming jasmine. A gentle drizzle had begun, the kind that softens the world into memory.

Suddenly—CRACK- lightning split the sky.

“*Aai ga!” she gasped, instinctively clutching his arm. Just for a moment.

“Sorry!” she whispered, retreating as quickly as she had leaned in. Her bus arrived. She cast a single glance his way, then stepped aboard.

He stood frozen, eyes locked on her silhouette as it disappeared into the rain.

She was gone— But she had taken his heart with her. She left behind the warmth of her touch, the scent of her skin, And the lingering perfume of jasmine. The hands of his life’s clock stopped right there.

Even today, when thunder rumbles and the monsoon clouds gather,

At that same bus stop, You’ll find an old man— Still waiting. Still holding a jasmine garland in his hand.

 

“*Aai ga!” Oh! Mother

 

Duryodhana’s Poisoned End

Fleeing the battlefield of Kurukshetra with his life hanging by a thread, Duryodhana raced through time and space to the banks of the Yamuna in 21st-century Delhi. He reached Nigam Bodh Ghat gasping for breath and exhaled in relief: “I’ve survived this far. Now Bhima, Krishna, and the Pandavas can do nothing to find me in these waters.”
 
When Duryodhana prepared to leap into the river, Bhima’s roar cut through the air: “Coward! If you are truly the son of King Dhritarashtra, face me! Fight me here and now. Win, and the kingdom is yours; lose, and you’ll earn heaven. Don’t stain the Kuru lineage any further.”
 
Duryodhana merely sneered and replied, “Fool, your threats are empty. I’ll plunge into the Yamuna—if you’re brave enough, follow me. Fulfil your vow to slay me.” Mocking Bhima, he declared a duel at the riverbed and dove in.
 
Beneath the surface, Duryodhana relied on his mystical mastery of underwater respiration, which draws oxygen from the water to sustain life. But centuries of industrial runoff had rendered the Yamuna’s waters toxic and oxygen-depleted. No creature could live here, not even one with a supernatural gift.
 
As he reached the riverbed and attempted to breathe, the poisoned, oxygen-starved water filled his nostrils and lungs. Struggling for air, he realized it would be more honourable to return above and die in battle. He strove to swim upward, but the contaminated current crushed his strength. Duryodhana’s valiant heart finally broke under the weight of the river’s poison, and he met his end beneath the toxic waves.

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.
 
 

Beneath the Social Mask

In order to survive in this world, we inevitably wear masks. These masks are not deception but a social necessity. They serve as protective armour for our self-defence. Actors on stage or in film change masks every day—sometimes a king, sometimes a beggar, sometimes a villain, sometimes a deity. Yet these masks are not confined to performances alone. In real life, each of us also acts behind masks.
 
Take a husband and wife, for example. The same couple who hurls insults at each other in private will don a mask of love at home, cooing sweet nothings. They do this because they want to keep their household intact and preserve their standing in society.
 
In politics, the game of masks grows even more intricate. A nation’s leader embraces the head of an adversary state, wearing a façade of friendship that we see on television. But beneath that veneer lie suspicion, danger, and carefully laid strategies.
 
Lawyers enter courtrooms and defend those who plunder the public, all under a mask of falsehood. Their role is to win arguments, not to uncover truth.
 
Teachers adopt a mask of ideal authority in front of their students, hiding their personal aches, dissatisfaction, and exhaustion behind that composed exterior.
 
An employee, even if dissatisfied, will wear a mask of humility before the boss, because a good salary and promotion are at stake.
 
At social gatherings, we bury loneliness, stress, and sorrow beneath a cheerful mask, laughing and chatting as if all is well. Even when we feel ourselves crumbling inside, we still say, “I’m fine.”
 
To achieve success in life, one must maintain a well-organized wardrobe of masks. We need different masks for different occasions—sometimes humility, sometimes self-assurance, sometimes compassion, sometimes strictness. Those who can deploy the right mask at the right time and place truly succeed. Wealth, a car, a house, a beautiful spouse, and social prestige follow their triumph.
In playing this mask game, do we forget our true face? We wear so many masks that, in the end, it becomes hard to recognize ourselves. Our genuine feelings, real thoughts, and true sorrows get suppressed. We lose sight of whether we are engaging with others as our authentic selves or through yet another mask. Mental stress and depression take hold.
 
Wearing masks is essential to navigate the world, but we must also learn to remove them and connect sincerely. That requires setting aside a few minutes each day to converse with our own inner being. We must tear off and discard the masks that wound our spirit and cause mental or physical strain. Instead of speaking with the mask of others’ expectations, we should find the courage to speak without any mask about what is right.

The Golden Notebook of Dreamlike Words

 
In the evening of my life, I was struck by the memory of my mother. I remembered the old mansion in our village, the dew on rose petals like strings of pearls at dawn. The fragrance of jasmine crawling along the walls, the temple bell’s solemn echo. The river laughing as it flowed, running after the oxen, dust swirling in the golden light of the setting sun. In that dreamlike time, words grew wings. To draw those winged words, my mother had brought me a golden notebook. I remembered it all.
 
All my life, I had been trapped in the clinging embrace of worldly love, running frantic errands for my belly. Every day I recorded a false ledger of words on paper. My creativity was virtual. At poetry gatherings, I performed empty wordplay and took lavish honoraria. I began to think of myself as a creator of worlds, flaunting my learned airs in condescending verses. Yet only I knew that my words were hollow, scentless, and devoid of feeling. My golden notebook of dreamlike words was lost. My very being, my dreams, had vanished.
 
Could I ever hear my mother’s sweet lullaby again? Could I nestle once more in her arms? Would she help me find my lost golden notebook of dreams? My heart was knotted with questions I could not ignore. I called out to my mother. Suddenly her divine voice echoed in my ear: “Child, that golden notebook is locked within the chest of your own heart. It lies hidden beneath the soft dust of desire and faded affection."
 
Just then my phone rang. “Honoured Poet, we’ve scheduled a comedy-poetry gathering next Sunday with a generous honorarium,” the voice announced. My heart wavered. And at last, I found my answer. “I will not attend,” I said, and switched off the phone. “And in that quiet moment, I reclaimed the golden notebook buried in my heart.”

Chameleon & Leader: Art of Changing Cap

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.”

Bowing at the man’s feet, the chameleon said, “Guruji, will you teach me this art?

"The Last Bend of the Dying River"

A tired, defeated, and thirsty river was wandering through a dreadful, deserted desert in search of water. Her once-confident flowing voice had faded. Along the way, she saw no signs of life—no humans, no animals, not even birds on the riverbanks.
 
Suddenly, she noticed a vulture circling above her in the sky. Gathering all her remaining strength, the river asked,

“Brother Vulture, will I find life-giving water anywhere?”

The vulture laughed wickedly and replied,

“Sister, don’t ask about water. But at the next bend, you will surely find the path to liberation.”
 
The river reached that bend. There stood a dry banyan tree. Hanging from one of its branches was a corpse. Beneath the tree lay a large pile of animal skulls. The river saw the vulture’s playful children jumping on the skulls, playing football.
 
That disturbing, terrifying scene drained the last drop of hope from the river’s soul. In that dreadful, lifeless desert, the river met her end. The vulture circling above calmly descended onto her lifeless body.

 

Two Shades of Fog: A White Dream and a Dark Shadow

Fog is like a soft white blanket draped over the sleepy earth. Walking through it in the early morning brings a sense of peace. Dewdrops sparkle like pearls on flowers, and the rising sun in the east paints the fog with golden light. When sunlight pierces through the mist and touches the skin, the joy of that moment is beyond words. The heart feels refreshed and uplifted.
 
But times have changed. In search of jobs and comfort, millions of people migrate to big cities like Delhi. The city is filled with factories that release thick smoke, and roads are crowded with vehicles emitting exhaust every minute of every day. On quiet winter mornings, fog begins to spread across the sky. The entire city disappears into this fog—but it’s not white. It’s dark, heavy, and suffocating.
 
In Delhi, this fog is called smog. Doctors warn morning joggers in parks to stay away. Breathing this smog while walking or running is harmful to health. You may wonder—what exactly is smog?
 
It’s a toxic mix: microscopic particles from vehicle exhaust, poisonous fumes from factory chimneys, and chemical-laden air from industrial zones. When all of this blends with the morning fog, it becomes smog. It causes illnesses like colds, coughs, and asthma. Even the leaves on roadside trees turn black and fall. Whether it’s animals or plants, this smog threatens all life.
 
This dark fog is often seen as a sign of progress—a result of chasing comfort and convenience. But if humanity keeps running in this direction, one day it may lose itself in this very darkness.

"The Curse of the Reflection"

There once was a princess. And as one might expect of a princess, she was beautiful. Her smile revealed a dazzling row of teeth—not pearly like the old saying goes, for pearls are delicate and tarnish with time. No, her teeth were like diamonds: radiant, strong, and enduring.
 
She adored dressing up. Her wardrobe was a treasure trove of exquisite garments from around the world—salwar kameez, lehengas, jeans, jerseys, coats and pants. And her collection of sarees? Unbelievable. From rich Banarasi silks to the traditional Marathi nine-yard drapes, she owned hundreds in every imaginable hue.
 
In her palace stood a grand mirror. But this was no ordinary mirror—it could speak. Every morning, the princess would dress in something new, adorn herself with care, and stand before the mirror. She would ask, “Tell me, Mirror, how do I look today?”

And the mirror would reply with joy, “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.”

Hearing this, the princess would beam, snap a selfie, and post it on social media. Heaven knows how many hearts broke daily upon seeing her photos.
 
One morning, she wore a traditional nine-yard saree and stood before the mirror. A thought crossed her mind: “Every day I post my selfie. Today, I’ll post one with my reflection.”

She took a selfie with her own image in the mirror and, as always, asked, “Tell me, Mirror, who looks more beautiful—me or my reflection?”
 
The mirror hesitated. It wasn’t a politician skilled in diplomatic answers. It was used to speaking the truth. It replied, “Princess, your reflection looks more beautiful than you.”

Ahhh…
 
“My own reflection has become my rival…”
 
The next morning, the palace cleaner found shards of glass in the trash heap.
 

The Ocean Beneath the Whirlpool

 

He stepped out of his home in search of true love. In the dim light of dusk, his feet crushed the dry leaves beneath him as he walked. He longed to feel the touch of love—one that lay beyond words. But he never found the other end of love’s circle. He remained parched all his life…

And truly, has anyone ever found it?

This world is a whirlpool of desire, illusion, and temptation. We keep floundering within it, endlessly. The vast, mysterious ocean of love remains untouched. To experience it, one must unlock the heart’s chambers—sealed by ego. Only when these doors open will the light of love spread everywhere.

In that light, it becomes clear: In water, earth, and sky—in all of creation—only one essence pervades. That essence is love.

Love is both visible and invisible. It is love that sustains the existence of the world. To truly experience it, one must look with

Vetal and Vikram: Vetal’s last flight

Vikram, I will let you go—but before that, you must answer my question.

"Vikram, who is responsible for the pollution that has spread everywhere on Earth? You know the truth, and if you fail to tell it, a thousand pieces will fly from your head".

Vikram replied, “Vetal, pollution spreads because of human-made waste, plastic, petrol fumes, and so on. Since humans create these things, humankind alone is responsible.”

Vetal chuckled softly. “Vikram, your answer is true.” Saying this, he shot into the sky, but no matter how far he flew, he could not spot a single tree.

Exhausted and defeated, Vetal finally clung to an electric pole. A fierce 440-volt current surged through him. Vetal crashed to the ground with a thud. He found release.

And Vikram? He remained alive - to languish and die slowly in the hell of pollution.

 * Vetal means Ghost, evil spirit 

Govardhan: The Protector of Brij

Clad in emerald garments, Mount Govardhan stood with its head held high against the sky. Lush meadows stretched all the way to the distant Yamuna. At its foothills lay many lotus-laden lakes; the beautiful land of Braj was adorned with cranes, ducks, swans, and wondrous birds, as well as deer, tigers, and a host of wild creatures.
 
Along the Yamuna’s banks, groves thick with Kadamba, mango, guava, and myriad other plants and trees made leafy bowers. One day, herdsmen came into this region with their cows, buffaloes, and goats. As humans do, they felled trees to build and to burn—but they planted none in return. In a short time, Mount Govardhan was stripped of vegetation; only soil and stones remained. With each monsoon, the rain slashed the mountain sides and landslides wreaked havoc. The lakes at Govardhan’s base silted up with mud and rock. The bowers along the Yamuna vanished. The wild creatures too departed from Braj.
 
One day a storm came: clouds roared and a terrible rain fell. The Yamuna swelled in flood, with no trees along her banks to hold her back. Her waters entered the villages. Elsewhere, the treeless slopes of Govardhan crumbled. A torrent of mud surged down into the settlements. Hundreds of homes were levelled. Hundreds of herdsmen and thousands of animals were carried away. All believed it was the wrath of Lord Indra. They resolved to conduct a sacrifice to appease him. But Shri Krishna opposed the rite.
 
Krishna said, “This calamity has come upon us through our own folly. We ourselves destroyed the trees and plants on Mount Govardhan and along the Yamuna’s banks. We forgot that Govardhan is our guardian. Had we not been blinded by selfishness and acted foolishly, this terrible rain would not have harmed us so. We must restore Govardhan to his former glory.” The herdsmen accepted Krishna’s counsel. Under his leadership, they planted trees again upon the mountain. They revived the lakes at its base. Moreover, Krishna caused ninety-nine lakes to be made. Along the Yamuna he had thousands of trees planted, reweaving the groves.
 
Time passed. Braj once more grew rich in greenery. Wild creatures—beasts and birds—returned. One day another fierce rain came, but this time no muddy flood followed. The hundreds of ponds across the land gathered and held the rain. The trees along the Yamuna gentled the force of the flood. The herdsmen and their animals were safe. Mount Govardhan guarded Braj.

Krishna showed the world the way: when we protect nature, nature protects us. To keep nature safe, our sages endowed mountains, rivers, lakes, and forests with divinity. Today we have grown selfish; for petty gains we are destroying nature. The result: terrible floods, collapsing hills, thousands perishing. If we would save humankind, we must again follow the path Krishna showed.

The Reflection

 

“You are my soulmate across lifetimes. I simply cannot live without you.   “I can’t breathe without you. That’s how deep my love runs.” Saying this, he hung up the phone with a soft “Love you.”

 “Ha! Ha! Ha!”

The reflection in the mirror burst into mocking laughter.

 “What a liar you are, you vile demon. How many women’s lives will you ruin?”

“Who asked you to interfere? Stay quiet.”

“Wretched man, it’s in my nature to reveal your true face.”

“Oh, King *Harishchandra the truth-teller, your ranting is beyond my tolerance now. Time to deal with you.”

Smash!

In an instant, the reflection shattered into pieces.

He looked down.

There, lying in a pool of blood, was the man within him.

---

 

* Raja Harishchandra was a legendary king renowned for his unwavering commitment to truth and virtue—even sacrificing his kingdom, family, and freedom to uphold a promise and remain truthful.