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.