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.

When Paradise Eats the Planet

Uneducated and the fool Kalidasa sat on a tree branch, hacking away at its trunk with his axes. A sage passing by warned Kalidasa, “Fool, the moment this tree falls, you will fall with it—and perhaps perish alongside it.” Convinced by the sage’s words, Kalidasa climbed down. He would later become a great scholar and writer. Kalidasa, in his literary works, beautifully described the love between humans and animals, birds, creatures, and trees and flowers. He portrayed the splendour of nature with vivid elegance.
 
Today’s Yayati sought to taste the bliss of heaven right here on earth. He built a house of cement and concrete and filled it with wooden furniture, cupboards, and panelling. Every amenity—air conditioner, microwave, refrigerator, television, washing machine, computer—ran on electricity. A petrol-powered car waited in his garage. Yayati believed himself to be almighty, and for sport he hunted the forest’s creatures until they vanished from the land.
 
To satisfy his every craving, he stripped forests bare, gouged deep into the earth, and wounded her to extract vast mineral wealth. He mined coal by the ton for power and drew petrol from the earth’s blood to fuel his vehicles. The air grew foul, the water toxic, and disease spread unchecked. Instead of heavenly joy, Yayati now suffers hellish torment.
 
In desperation, Yayati sought refuge with the sages. They told him, “Yayati, liberation from this torment demands that you honour the right to life of every creature—animals, birds, plants, and trees alike. Cease drinking the earth’s blood and wounding her body. Nothing less will free you from your suffering.”
 
The question remains: will Yayati heed their counsel, or will he, driven by his lust for paradise, continue to endure the pains of hell?
 
*Yayati is a king from the ancient epic Mahabharata who once craved the pleasures of heaven during his lifetime. His desires knew no bounds until he finally awakened to the truth, renounced all worldly pleasures, and embraced the life of an ascetic.

Short Story: The Peepal Tree and the Suicidal Boy

He had failed his 12th-grade exams once again.

“A boy who can’t even pass his 12th—what’s he going to do in life? How long are we supposed to feed you for free? Whether you live or die, it’s all the same to us!”

His father’s harsh words kept piercing his heart. Thoughts swirled in his mind—I can’t even pass a simple exam. My life is useless. If I die, at least there will be one less mouth to feed at home.

He decided to end his life.

Near the village was a cliff where prisoners were once executed by being pushed off. When he reached the edge, he looked down to make sure a jump from there would be fatal. But what was this? Just below the cliff, between two cracks in the rocks, a small peepal tree was growing.

Its roots clung tightly to the stones, anchoring themselves without soil or water. Yet, the tree stood tall and swayed gracefully in the wind, defying gravity.

What if I jump and get caught in the branches of this tree? he wondered. But then another thought struck him—There’s no soil here, no water, just a crack between rocks—and yet this tree survives. It never complained about not having enough support and never gave up on life. It found its way even in the harshest conditions.

I have a roof over my head and food to eat. Am I really thinking of dying just because I failed an exam?

He realized that like the peepal tree, he too would surely find a way to live and thrive. Pushing away thoughts of suicide, he returned home, ready to start life afresh with new determination and hope.

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

Purpose of life: The Endless Journey

He walked on, lost in his own trance—forgetting thirst, hunger, and sleep. Many travellers crossed his path, yet he chose not to walk with any of them. He didn’t pause for even a moment’s rest. Alone, he marched on with unwavering resolve, along the endless road.

Eventually, the sun did set. His limbs grew weary, his eyes heavy. He could walk no further. He asked himself, “I’ve been walking since morning, yet why haven’t I reached my destination? Did I make a mistake?” For a fleeting moment, he opened his eyes. The entire creation was bathed in golden light—the eternal celebration of sunset, ongoing since time immemorial.
 
As he drew his final breath, he understood: to walk the endless road, scattering golden hues of joy—that itself is the purpose of life.
 

Snakebite - Two Short Stories

 

First Story:

The king’s soldiers captured a venomous serpent that had taken the lives of many citizens in the kingdom. The soldiers asked for the king’s command:

"Maharaj, what should be done with this venomous serpent?"

The king promptly ordered, "There is no need to think—crush it to death!"

Without delay, the soldiers killed the serpent.

Second Story:

The king’s soldiers captured a venomous serpent that had been responsible for the deaths of many citizens. They awaited the king’s command:

"Maharaj, what should be done with this venomous serpent?"

Instead of making a hasty decision, the king sought advice from his ministers.

First Minister’s Advice:

"Maharaj, without any second thoughts, this venomous serpent must be killed. If it is released, it will bite again and endanger the lives of more citizens. If left alive, more serpents from the nearby jungle will invade the city and threaten the people."

Second Minister’s Advice:

"Maharaj, we must also consider the serpent’s side. A serpent is venomous by nature, and its bite is deadly. However, we are civilized humans. 'An eye for an eye' is not our principle. Whether it is a citizen or a serpent, both deserve justice. Taking its life without deeper thought would be unfair."

The king found the second minister’s reasoning convincing and decided to consult a committee of esteemed citizens. The committee consisted of highly intelligent, progressive, and multi-talented individuals.

The committee of esteemed citizens advised the king:

"Maharaj, a serpent is venomous by nature, and biting is its instinct. It bit people simply because of its nature, not out of malice. Since its bite is poisonous, people died, but how can the serpent be blamed for that? Sentencing it to death would be unjust. Instead of killing the serpent, we recommend keeping it in a golden cage and offering it milk as an offering every Nag Panchami. This way, it will not escape or pose a threat."

The king agreed with the committee’s advice and spared the serpent’s life. He had the serpent placed in a golden cage and began offering it milk every year on Nag Panchami.

However, one Nag Panchami, while the king was offering milk to the serpent, it bit him, and the king died from the venom.

he Question:

Who was responsible for the king’s death?

Was it the serpent or the committee of esteemed citizens?

The sage Swami Trikaldarshi said:

"Whoever can answer this question correctly will never die from a serpent's bite."

Bhagiratha’s Solar Disc

 Long ago, King Bhagiratha of the Ikshvaku dynasty ruled the earth. One day, a demon named Halahal emerged from the netherworld and appeared before the people. He tempted them with the promise of comfort, wealth, and power, and they fell into his trap without realizing it.

Halahal bestowed lightning upon humankind but poisoned the air. Thousands grew sick from the toxic fumes, and multitudes perished. Seeing his people suffer, Bhagiratha resolved to defeat the demon, yet all his celestial weapons proved useless against Halahal’s dark might.
 
At last, Bhagiratha turned to the god of the sun, offering unwavering devotion. Pleased by his worship, the sun god granted him a radiant solar disc. With this divine weapon, Bhagiratha cleansed the poisoned air and vanquished Halahal, who fled back into the depths of the netherworld, subdued once more.
 
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* Halahal means poisonous monster