Raju and the Goddess of Bribes

 Raju was a simple man—never troubled anyone, lived a plain and straightforward life. After his father passed away, the responsibility of the household fell on his shoulders. For the first time, he had to offer a bribe to get his father’s death certificate.

Slowly, Raju realized that every task required a bribe. So, he stopped worrying. Without anger or complaints, he began offering bribes happily. Thanks to these “bribe bundles,” all his work got done quickly. He firmly believed:

 “If you must give a bribe, give it with joy.”

He treated bribes like offerings to a goddess—the Goddess of Bribes. Through experience, he learned exactly how much to offer at which office to get things done.

When his wife gave birth, the nurse came out and joyfully announced, “Sir, it’s a boy!” Raju placed a ₹100 note in her hand and went in to see his son. The hospital gave him no trouble. From that moment, he began worshipping the Bribe Goddess for his son’s future.

Whether it was the birth certificate or adding his son’s name to the ration card, Raju offered bribes with devotion. He paid donations (disguised bribes) to get his son into a good school, then a good college. Even when he had to take loans and sacrifice his own needs, he kept the Bribe Goddess pleased.

Finally, after offering bribes equal to a year’s salary, he got his son a job.

Raju was honest—and meticulous. Before his son’s wedding, he calculated all the bribes he had paid over the years and recovered them by demanding a hefty dowry. He felt proud that his offerings to the Bribe Goddess had finally paid off.

One day, Raju felt a sharp pain in his chest. He knew his end was near. He thought, “Maybe even Chitragupta, the divine accountant, will need a bribe to send me to heaven.” He called his son and expressed his last wish. Respecting it, his son placed a bundle of ₹100 notes on his funeral pyre.

Raju reached Chitragupta’s court. Chitragupta asked, “Where should I send you—heaven or hell?”

Raju bowed deeply and offered the bundle of notes at Chitragupta’s feet. He said, “Whatever you decide is right. Just one request—please don’t send me back to India. I’m tired of worshipping the Goddess of Bribes.”

Chitragupta smiled slyly and said, “Raju, you never caused harm to anyone, so I can’t send you to hell. But you tried to buy me with a bribe. You forgot—this isn’t India, this is the court of justice. Because of this offense, I can’t send you to heaven either.”

 “You have only one punishment…”

 Raju’s eyes went dark. Suddenly, he heard a woman’s voice in Hindi — “Sir, it’s a baby boy!”

Raju realized his fate: he was born again in India, destined to carry the bribe bundle once more. Cursing his luck, he let out a loud cry— “Ta-S-S!”

The Night of Sweet Union

It was the night of their wedding. She entered the room carrying a cup of saffron milk. As soon as he saw her, the words “Shubhamangal Savdhan” echoed in his ears. He remembered how Saint Samarth Ramdas had fainted and fled from his wedding. Even Gautama Buddha had left his wife and child in the darkness of night.
 
A thought struck him: “If I don’t leave now, I’ll never escape this cycle of worldly life. I’ll never break free from attachment and desire.”
 
He turned to his wife and said, “I got married only to fulfil my parents’ wishes. Now I’m free from that promise. I have no interest in family life. I want to reach heaven and see the gods. For that, I must undergo intense spiritual practice. I have no choice.” Saying this, he ran away.
 
He reached a deep forest, far from people. To attain heaven, he began severe penance. He wore simple bark clothes. The earth was his bed, the sky his blanket. He ate roots and fruits. He never thought of worldly pleasures. He spent his days in prayer and meditation. Time passed. He grew old and eventually died.
 
Chitragupta calculated his deeds. He had earned the merit to spend one day in heaven. He was happy—at least he would see the gods once. His life’s penance would be fulfilled.
 
Angels took him to heaven. They bathed him with fragrant oils and dressed him in rich silk robes. He was taken to Indra’s court, where Lord Indra and other gods were enjoying dances by celestial nymphs like Rambha and Urvashi.
 
Lord Indra welcomed him and offered him a seat. A nymph brought him a cup of divine nectar. Lord Indra said, “Enjoy the dance of heavenly nymphs. Drink this nectar. Tonight, you may spend time with your favourite apsara. Don’t waste this moment. This is the reward of your lifelong penance.”
 
He looked around. Rambha and Urvashi were dancing in a drunken trance, their clothes disheveled, revealing more than they should. But they felt no shame. The gods were also intoxicated, enjoying the nectar touched by the lips of eternal beauties. Their clothes were more revealing than movie stars on Earth. The gods were celebrating lust openly.
 
Seeing this, he remembered a New Year’s party his friend had once taken him to at a farmhouse. There, bar girls in skimpy clothes served drinks. Men and women danced without shame, drunk and wild. That party had made him feel detached from worldly life.
 
Now, seeing the same scene in heaven, he wondered—was this the reward of his penance? Such pleasure could be bought on Earth with a little money. He had spent his whole life for this? He felt ashamed. He remembered his abandoned wife. He had hurt her for something so trivial. He wanted to ask her forgiveness.
 
He left Lord Indra’s court. But where would he find her now? Suddenly, he saw a faint figure—it was her. He shouted, “Forgive me!”
 
She replied, “What happened to you? What forgiveness? Did you see a dream?”
 
He was startled. He realized he was lying in bed. He quickly composed himself, took the cup of saffron milk from her hand and said, “The night of sweet union should be spent awake. I fell asleep. I’ve committed a sin. The guilty must be punished.”
 
She laughed and said, “There’s still plenty of night left. I’ll punish you as you wish.”
 
What happened after that—who punished whom, and how—was lost in the darkness.
 

he Blue Butterfly: A Quiet Guilt”

 
 
About 25 years ago, we lived in a small house with a front yard. In the yard stood a guava tree, a Madhu Malati vine, and pots filled with roses. Every morning and evening, sparrows chirped. The children loved feeding them and chasing butterflies.
 
But humans are selfish, restless, and never satisfied. I’m no exception. As our children grew, space felt tight. Sunlight barely entered the house because neighbours had covered their verandas. I kept thinking—if we build a bigger room in front, the house will look better and we’ll have a nice sitting area.
 
Eventually, whether due to my wife’s constant remarks or my own hidden desire, I decided to build that room. Naturally, the guava tree and Madhu Malati vine had to be cut down. In a few months, the new sitting room was ready. We moved the Tulsi plant and flower pots to the terrace. We even kept a water bowl for the sparrows. But they were gone. Without the vine, they had no place to nest. A few still came to the terrace for food and water.
 
About a year later, one evening after work, my children shouted, “Dad! Dad! There’s something like a bug on the wall!” I looked closely; it was a cocoon, with a faint blue colour inside. “It’s a butterfly cocoon,” I said. “Soon, a butterfly will come out.”
 
Maybe the butterfly’s mother had come out of habit to lay eggs. With no tree or vine, she must have laid them on a flower pot. The caterpillar crawled into the room, searching for a safe place to form its cocoon.
 
A few days later, I came home to find my kids dancing with joy. “Look, Dad! The butterfly!” A beautiful blue butterfly was flying around the room. The children were thrilled. They had turned off all the fans so it wouldn’t get hurt.
 
That night, they gently guided the butterfly out of the room, shut the doors, turned on the cooler, and went to sleep.
 
Next morning, I washed my face in the back veranda and entered the sitting room. In one corner, the butterfly lay dead. Maybe it had entered again and got caught in the fan. I stared at it for a while, feeling guilty.
 
What was the butterfly’s fault? Its mother didn’t know that a selfish man had cut down the trees. She came, didn’t find the vine, and laid eggs on a pot. The butterfly was born in a closed room instead of open nature. If it had survived, it might have returned to lay eggs here again. But now, that cycle was broken.
 
I picked it up with a heavy heart and threw it outside. Then I scrubbed my hands at the washbasin. While washing, I remembered Lady Macbeth—can we ever wash away our guilt?
 
It wasn’t just one butterfly. I had destroyed generations of butterflies for my own comfort. Since then, I’ve never seen a blue butterfly near our home.
 
Even today, whenever I see a butterfly, I remember that one. And one question keeps haunting me: While building that room, why didn’t I think even once about the lives that lived on those trees and vines? If I had, maybe that blue butterfly would still be alive.
 

The Poisoned Lake: A Dialogue Between Yaksha and Yudhishthira

 
After waiting a long time, Yudhishthira finally set out to search for his brothers. The desert stretched endlessly—no trees in sight, and the sun blazed mercilessly. His throat burned with thirst. At last, he spotted a shimmering lake in the distance. Hope surged: water at last, relief from thirst.
 
But as he approached, he was struck with grief—Bheem, Arjuna, Nakul, and Sahadeva lay lifeless by the lakeside. Yudhishthira was devastated. Who could have brought down the mighty Bheem and Arjuna? Perhaps the guardian of the lake—a Yaksha—had punished them. Maybe they drank water without permission.
 
Yudhishthira called out, “O Yaksha, you are compassionate. You guard this water in the barren desert and quench the thirst of weary travellers. My brothers may have erred. Please forgive them.”
 
The Yaksha appeared. Yudhishthira bowed and begged for his brothers’ lives.
 
The Yaksha replied, “Yudhishthira, I am not the one to forgive. Your brothers came here, desperate with thirst. I warned them—the water is poisoned, unfit to drink. But they ignored my words and drank. Death was inevitable.”
 
Yudhishthira pleaded again, “O Yaksha, you are wise. Is there no remedy? In ancient times, the Himalayas held the Sanjeevani herb. Hanuman used it to save Lakshmana. But now, not a single tree remains. The herb is lost.”
The Yaksha paused and asked, “What is the ultimate truth of life?”
 
Yudhishthira answered, “Death is the ultimate truth of life?”
 
The Yaksha laughed, “You understand truth well, Yudhishthira. Your brothers cannot be revived. There is no drinkable water here. You have two choices: drink this poisoned water and die swiftly, or die slowly of thirst.” The Yaksha vanished.
 
Yudhishthira sat in silence. “If death is certain, better to die with my brothers,” he thought. He drank the poisoned water. His thirst vanished. Moments later, so did his life.
 
All five Pandavas lay lifeless by the lake. The Mahabharata ended prematurely—not with the triumph of truth over falsehood, but with pollution’s triumph over humanity.
 
(Note: This is a vision of the future. In the coming decades, poisoned water may claim more lives than war. Conflicts over water—civil and global—may unfold before our eyes.)
 
(Inspired by Dr. Subhash S. Naik’s poem “Yaksha,” shared with generous permission for adaptation.)
 

“To die, but leave behind a legacy”—Why I became a writer on the internet

 
 A few days ago, a friend asked me, “Pataitji, tell me honestly—why did you start writing online?” His question made me pause. Why did I really begin writing on the internet? Unknowingly, the words of Samarth Ramdas came to mind: “To die, but leave behind a legacy.”
 
Every mortal being secretly wishes to be immortal. We can’t live forever in body, but we can live on through our legacy. Perhaps that desire was hidden somewhere in me too. I’m no King Harishchandra, but I shared the truth I had discovered with my friend.
 
People’s fame lasts for generations only when they’ve done something great. From Lord Ram to Gandhi, many figures are remembered for their deeds. But someone like me—a middle-class man, average in studies, who barely made it from clerk to officer—never imagined doing anything grand.
 
I didn’t have the drive for social service like Baba Amte. As Saint Tukaram said, “Let your son be such a rogue that his flag flies in all three worlds.” But with my single-boned frame, even rogue-hood was out of reach. Besides, fear is fed to the middle-class Marathi man from birth.
 
I didn’t achieve much in education either. The time to become a doctor or engineer had long passed. Even pretending to do social work wasn’t possible—my government job kept me too busy. From stenographer to PPS, I spent 39 years saying “Yes Sir,” including 18 years in the Prime Minister’s Office. Leaving home at 7 a.m. and returning at 9 or 11. p.m. there was no time for local committees or public service. Household responsibilities fell on my wife. Today, in my own neighbourhood, I’m known by my wife’s or son’s name.
 
Only one path remained—becoming a writer. To be a writer, you don’t need grand achievements or deep study. You just need to put your thoughts on paper. I had tried once in my twenties—sent some poems to magazines. None were published, none returned. Only the postal department earned a hundred rupees. Eventually, I accepted the truth: “I won’t become famous,” and gave up the idea of writing.
But they say—when one door closes, another opens. Twenty-five years passed. In 2010, I got internet at home. Maybe the internet was born to fulfil the unfulfilled desires of people like me. By then, I had developed a strong pride in being Marathi.
 
The first site I saw online was “Marathisrushti.” It boldly said, “Awaken the writer within you!” A blind man asks for one eye—here, I got two for free! I couldn’t believe it. Nervously, with Google’s help, I typed my first article. To my surprise, it appeared on the site the very next day.
 
That was it—my hidden desire came alive. I started a blog in my own name. I typed whatever came to mind. No worries about grammar or language. Within months, I discovered other Marathi sites like “Misalpav” and “Aisi Akshare.” I began posting my articles everywhere.
 
If there were mistakes, readers would quickly respond. Some praised the writing, others scolded me. But through essays, poems, blogs—and even the experience of my work being stolen. I learned one thing:
To earn recognition, you don’t need to slay a demon or win a war… you just need to install the internet.
 

Ideal Qualities of a King

 
In the nineteenth decade of Dasbodh, under the section Rajkarannirupannaam, Samarth Ramdas describes the qualities of a king or leader:
 
Wise and detached, with desire for community,
Through calm reflection, serve solitude. (1)
 
According to Samarth Ramdas, a king must be wise (discerning) and detached (free from worldly greed). Even if he desires to expand his community, he must first sit in solitude and reflect deeply. Solitary contemplation reveals the true reality of time and circumstances, and sustainable solutions emerge naturally.
 
Where planning is understood, constant scrutiny arises,
The condition and movement of all beings becomes clear. (2)
 
A king must not be lazy. If he neglects political duties and spends time in leisure or rest, governance will collapse and power will slip away. Hence, a king should never indulge in idleness or excessive rest. For example, it is said that Prime Minister Modi never takes a holiday.
 
Hold the main principles in hand,
Execution must be done through others,
Many obstacles will arise in politics. (18)
 
The king must take the main decisions himself, but delegate their execution to others. Yet he must remain vigilant, constantly overseeing their work. Wherever corruption or disorder appears, immediate and strict action is necessary. Thus, Samarth says:
 
He who relies on others, his work is ruined.
He who labors himself, he alone prospers. (16)
 
If a person depends entirely on others to do his work, the task will often fail or be neglected. Relying blindly on others means losing control over the outcome. A king must monitor the work of his ministers and other functionaries, and wherever required, he should take charge himself to achieve the desired results.
 
Samarth also explains the importance and use of wicked people. In the twenty-third verse he says:
 
Understand the wicked, but do not expose them.
Treat them like the virtuous, giving them importance. (23)
 
In politics, even wicked people have their own significance. They constantly create obstacles. Therefore, they should not be completely ignored, but their nature should be used wisely. However, when the right time comes, their thorn must be removed decisively.
 
When the wicked appear among the people,
There will be constant disturbance.
Therefore, that path must be quietly blocked. (24)
 
While removing those who harm the state, it must be done secretly so that no suspicion falls upon the king. In serving the nation, the king must build a large community, but ensure strong and harmonious relationships within it. Not mere outward show, but mutual trust and unity are essential. At the same time, the king must remain alert to the movements of enemies, vigilant, and devoted to higher purpose- like a bird flying for spiritual welfare.
 
Unity of society, vigilance of the king, and proper use of the wicked—these are the three essential principles of politics.
 
A living example of Samarth Ramdas’s teachings is Prime Minister Narendra Modi. He is wise and detached, yet tirelessly works for national welfare. Holding the main principles himself, he takes decisions and delegates execution to others. As a result, India has witnessed revolutions in economy, infrastructure, digitalization, and the Swachh Bharat mission. On the path of self-reliance, India has advanced in defence production. By cleverly using adversaries, he integrates opponents into national interest. Through solitary reflection, he frames long-term policies such as Atmanirbhar Bharat and Vocal for Local. By taking firm action against terrorism, he has shown India’s strength to the world.
 
Under his leadership, India is moving towards becoming a global superpower. In line with Samarth’s teachings, he is detached yet altruistic- free from worldly greed, but soaring independently for public welfare. Such leadership ensures that the wisdom of Dasbodh does not remain confined to scripture, but manifests in real life, securing the nation’s progress.

King Bali and Microscopic Virus

The mighty King Bali, conqueror of the three worlds, decided to perform a grand Rajasuya Yagna on the banks of the Narmada River, in the city of Mahishmati. The city transformed into a spectacle akin to a Kumbh Mela. Lords and monarchs from across realms, including Indra—the king of gods—gathered to witness the ritual. Thousands of merchants, artists, Brahmins, and citizens thronged the city.
 
To accommodate the multitudes, vast forests were cleared. Lavish arrangements were made for food, shelter, and entertainment. For the amusement of the royals, hunting expeditions were organized. Thousands of wild animals were slaughtered for sport and feasting. Even the sacred ritual demanded the sacrifice of countless innocent creatures.
 
One night, as King Bali prepared to sleep in his royal chamber, he heard a voice: “Your Majesty, grant me refuge. Protect me.”
Startled, the king looked around—no one was visible. He called out, “O unseen spirit, reveal yourself. Fear not, you are under my protection.”
 
The voice replied, “I am revealed, O King. I am Microscopic Virus. I am so subtle, so minute, that your eyes cannot perceive me. I dwell in the bodies of animals in the forests of Narmada. But your soldiers and guests have hunted thousands of them. I have no shelter left. If I find a place within the human body, I shall survive. Humans host thousands of microbes- shall become one of them.”
 
Moved, King Bali said, “So be it.”
 
Microscopic Virus entered the bodies of thousands gathered in Mahishmati. Within days, fever swept through the city. Kings, nobles, and commoners alike fell ill. Thousands perished. The grand yagna remained incomplete. The guests returned to their lands.
 
Mahishmati was abandoned. The city of the three-worlds-conqueror lay desolate. King Bali, defeated not by armies but by a microscopic Virous, fled in fear of death. He retreated to the netherworld, deep in the southern realms, seeking refuge.
 
(Deforestation and changes in land use bring humans closer to wild animals, creating conditions for viruses like Ebola, HIV, Nipah, Dengue, and Yellow Fever to spread from forests and make millions of people sick. Together, these viruses kill millions every year.)

Prime Minister Narendra Modi Tells an Akbar–Birbal Tale

 

The cabin I sit in at the Prime Minister’s Office is part of a large hall. There’s a central door, and on either side are six cabins separated by partitions about three and a half feet high. These cabins house private secretaries and other staff—around 24 to 25 people in total. As soon as the door opens, my cabin is the first one visible.

If the hall door is open, part of the cabin opposite mine gets hidden behind it. There’s a three-foot-tall cupboard there. Since it’s not easily visible, staff often leave their empty teacups and other items on top of it.

It was around 3:30 in the afternoon. Everyone had just finished their tea. Suddenly, the door swung open, and a staff member entered, visibly shaken, and announced loudly enough for all to hear, “The Prime Minister is coming this way!”

I was startled. I’ve been working in the PMO for 17 years, and never before has a Prime Minister—or even a senior-most officer—stepped into the staff cabins. Perhaps they never felt the need. As the saying goes, one must go to the temple to see God; rarely does God visit the devotee’s home.

Everyone scrambled to tidy up their space, but there was no time. Right behind the staff member, Prime Minister Narendra Modi walked in. Naturally, since mine was the first cabin, his eyes fell on me. He asked a few brief questions about my work. Then he went to each cabin, speaking with the staff.

Finally, he reached the cabin opposite mine. His gaze landed on the 7–8 empty teacups placed on the cupboard. With a playful smile, he remarked, “You all seem to drink a lot of tea.”

One of the staff replied, “Sir, not all these cups are ours. Others also leave their empty cups here.”

The Prime Minister chuckled and said, “Friends, have you heard the story of Akbar and Birbal?”

We all turned our attention to him, eager to listen.

He began narrating the tale (as I understood it in Marathi):

Once, Emperor Akbar visited Birbal’s home. He saw Birbal and his wife sitting on a platform, eating mangoes. Akbar’s eyes fell on the mango pits scattered on the floor. He thought to himself, “Birbal considers himself clever. Today’s a good chance to show him that the emperor is no less intelligent.”

Akbar counted the pits and said, “Birbal, I can tell how many mangoes you’ve eaten before I arrived.”

Using the number of pits, Akbar made his guess. But Birbal, ever wise, immediately understood the emperor’s intent. With a mischievous smile, he replied, “Your Majesty, you’re mistaken. These pits are from the mangoes I ate. My wife eats mangoes along with the pits.”

Prime Minister Modi paused and looked around. His meaning was clear. We all burst into laughter.

(As I interpreted the story: Birbal may have outwitted the emperor with his cleverness, but don’t try to fool me. Don’t blame others—clearly, you all drank the tea!)

The Prime Minister left. But a leader who engages with staff in this manner, telling them an Akbar–Birbal story, is perhaps one of a kind.

Dharmaraja’s Court: Three men and a golden coil.

 

When the golden rays of dawn touch the skin, the heart feels serene. Morning sunlight feels gentle and desirable—just like gold, which humans cherish. With gold comes the fulfillment of worldly desires: clothes, cars, homes. And if there's enough gold, even a world beauty may grace the bungalow as a wife.

Long ago, an ignorant man found a gold coin on the road. Without thinking, he picked it up and pocketed it. Later, another man saw the same coin, looked around to ensure no one was watching, and took it. Then came a learned thinker. He saw the coin and pondered—whose might it be? Is it right to take it? After much inner debate, the thoughtful man made his decision: this is a sign of divine grace, and accepting the coin as a blessing from the Lord is perfectly justified. He picked up the coin and slipped it into his pocket.

By fate, all three died on the same day. Brought before the god of justice, the first was sentenced to one year in hell for enjoying unearned wealth. The second received five years for deliberate theft. Dharmaraja sentenced the thinker to a hundred years in hell. The man said, "I accepted the coin as a divine blessing from the Lord. I am innocent. You are handing out arbitrary punishments. I will file a complaint; I will go on a hunger strike."

Dharmaraja grew furious. "This is not India, where anyone can sit on a hunger strike at will. This is the court of Dharmaraja. You are an educated man—you understand what is right and wrong. Yet you committed theft, and worse, you dragged the divine into your wrongdoing. Your crime is grave. You cannot be forgiven. It is precisely because of the nature of your offense that your punishment has been made severe."

Thus, Dharmaraja delivered judgment upon all three.

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.”

The chameleon felt cheated, let down. Nobody dared compete with her in changing colours. But now with her face red and her body green with jealousy for the leader, she just crept on the tree and looking down at the human-chameleon said, I am defeated mate. Better is our forest and its inmates who would never change colour for selfish ends

What Went Wrong?

 

Late at night, the police raided the place. Teenagers aged 15 to 18, from well-educated families and prestigious schools, were caught intoxicated. They were warned and released. Among them was Sonal.

Her mother’s voice rang through the house: “If she keeps behaving like this, we’ll have no face left in society!”

Sonal snapped, “Stop it! I’m sick of your sermons! What did I do? Had a little whiskey, had fun with friends—just like your cocktail parties at home!

And your dance manners? That day, wearing a backless sleeveless dress, clinging to Bas in front of everyone... and his hand—”

Smack. Sonal screamed.

Her father, dazed, watched the mother and daughter sobbing uncontrollably. He kept wondering—what went wrong?

Sonal’s parents failed to model the values they preached. Their own contradictions—between private indulgence and public morality—confused the child. When ideals are not lived, they lose their power to guide.

Ideal Qualities of a King

In the nineteenth decade of Dasbodh, under the section Rajkarannirupannaam, Samarth Ramdas describes the qualities of a king or leader:
 
Wise and detached, with desire for community,
Through calm reflection, serve solitude. (1)
 
According to Samarth Ramdas, a king must be wise (discerning) and detached (free from worldly greed). Even if he desires to expand his community, he must first sit in solitude and reflect deeply. Solitary contemplation reveals the true reality of time and circumstances, and sustainable solutions emerge naturally.
 
Where planning is understood, constant scrutiny arises,
The condition and movement of all beings becomes clear. (2)
 
A king must not be lazy. If he neglects political duties and spends time in leisure or rest, governance will collapse and power will slip away. Hence, a king should never indulge in idleness or excessive rest. For example, it is said that Prime Minister Modi never takes a holiday.
 
Hold the main principles in hand,
Execution must be done through others,
Many obstacles will arise in politics. (18)
 
The king must take the main decisions himself, but delegate their execution to others. Yet he must remain vigilant, constantly overseeing their work. Wherever corruption or disorder appears, immediate and strict action is necessary. Thus, Samarth says:
 
He who relies on others, his work is ruined.
He who labors himself, he alone prospers. (16)
 
If a person depends entirely on others to do his work, the task will often fail or be neglected. Relying blindly on others means losing control over the outcome. A king must monitor the work of his ministers and other functionaries, and wherever required, he should take charge himself to achieve the desired results.
 
Samarth also explains the importance and use of wicked people. In the twenty-third verse he says:
 
Understand the wicked, but do not expose them.
Treat them like the virtuous, giving them importance. (23)
 
In politics, even wicked people have their own significance. They constantly create obstacles. Therefore, they should not be completely ignored, but their nature should be used wisely. However, when the right time comes, their thorn must be removed decisively.
 
When the wicked appear among the people,
There will be constant disturbance.
Therefore, that path must be quietly blocked. (24)
 
While removing those who harm the state, it must be done secretly so that no suspicion falls upon the king. In serving the nation, the king must build a large community, but ensure strong and harmonious relationships within it. Not mere outward show, but mutual trust and unity are essential. At the same time, the king must remain alert to the movements of enemies, vigilant, and devoted to higher purpose- like a bird flying for spiritual welfare.
 
Unity of society, vigilance of the king, and proper use of the wicked—these are the three essential principles of politics.
 
A living example of Samarth Ramdas’s teachings is Prime Minister Narendra Modi. He is wise and detached, yet tirelessly works for national welfare. Holding the main principles himself, he takes decisions and delegates execution to others. As a result, India has witnessed revolutions in economy, infrastructure, digitalization, and the Swachh Bharat mission. On the path of self-reliance, India has advanced in defence production. By cleverly using adversaries, he integrates opponents into national interest. Through solitary reflection, he frames long-term policies such as Atmanirbhar Bharat and Vocal for Local. By taking firm action against terrorism, he has shown India’s strength to the world.
 
Under his leadership, India is moving towards becoming a global superpower. In line with Samarth’s teachings, he is detached yet altruistic- free from worldly greed, but soaring independently for public welfare. Such leadership ensures that the wisdom of Dasbodh does not remain confined to scripture, but manifests in real life, securing the nation’s progress.

“The Ember That Never Died”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He muttered", I will handle him myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silent Witnesses at the Temple

 

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

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

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

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

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

The second man named the hospital.

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

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

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

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

Who kept Dalits away from education?

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

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

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

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

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

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