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.