Category Archives: short story

JANMASHTAMI: Celebrating Krishna’s Arrival

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JANMASHTAMI: Celebrating Krishna’s Arrival

Kamlesh Tripathi

    Janmashtami celebrates the stormy midnight birth of Lord Krishna, the eighth avatar of Lord Vishnu, on the eighth day (Ashtami) of the dark fortnight (Krishna Paksha) in the Hindu month of Bhadrapada, during the waning phase of the moon. The hour is symbolic.

    The story begins with Kansa, the tyrannical king of Mathura. A divine prophecy warned him that the eighth child of his cousin, Devaki, would cause his death. Terrified, Kansa imprisoned Devaki and her husband Vasudeva and killed their first six children. The seventh child, Balarama, was miraculously transferred to the womb of Rohini, the first consort of Vasudeva and was thus saved.

    A comparison can be drawn with the Greek hero Perseus, who survives despite his grandfather Acrisius’ dastardly attempt to kill him. Though he is abandoned and left adrift in a wooden chest at sea with his mother, the gods protect him. On the other hand, Krishna, the eighth child of Devaki, is secretly carried away from the prison and saved, while Kansa kills infants in his attempt to escape fate. Both narratives show the failure of human power against divine will.

    Krishna was born in the prison of Mathura. Legend has it that when divine forces intervened, the chains of Vasudeva fell away, the prison doors opened, and the guards were overcome by sleep. Vasudeva carried the newborn Krishna across the swollen Yamuna to Gokul, where he left him in the care of Nanda and Yashoda. In return, he brought back their newborn daughter.

    Although born to Devaki and Vasudeva, Krishna became the beloved son of Yashoda and Nanda. He belonged simultaneously to the royal world of Mathura and the pastoral world of Gokul and Vrindavan.

    Krishna stole butter, teased the gopis, played his flute and wandered through the lanes of Vrindavan with his friends. His childhood is remembered not for grandeur but for mischief. Yashoda sometimes had to chase him, scold him and even tie him to a wooden mortar.

    The famous episode of Yashoda looking into Krishna’s mouth is especially symbolic. She saw the entire universe in it. The child she was trying to discipline was none other than the cosmic being himself. He is simultaneously the God, child, philosopher, prankster, warrior, lover, king and the cowherd.    

    In temples and homes, devotees fast and stay awake until midnight, waiting for the moment believed to be Krishna’s birth. At midnight, the idol of the infant Krishna is placed in a cradle. He is bathed and dressed in new clothes and adorned with flowers. Devotees sing bhajans and chant Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna as bells ring and conch shells are blown.

    In Maharashtra, the festival takes a particularly lively form through Dahi Handi. Inspired by Krishna’s childhood habit of stealing butter, young men and women form human pyramids to reach and break a pot of curd or butter suspended high above the ground.

    In Mathura and Vrindavan, the celebrations have a special emotional intensity. These are the lands associated with Krishna’s childhood, his flute, his friends and the Gopis. Temples are beautifully decorated, devotional music fills the streets, and the atmosphere becomes one of collective remembrance. Even homes are decorated with jhankis of Krishna. Janmashtami is celebrated all over India and in many parts of the world by the Indian diaspora. In Dwarka, the main ritual and midnight Abhishek take place at 12:00 AM, marking the birth of Lord Krishna.

    Krishna’s greatest gift to humanity is his wisdom. On the battlefield of Kurukshetra, Krishna became the charioteer of Arjuna and delivered the Bhagavad Gita. There he addressed one of humanity’s oldest dilemmas: That one must perform one’s duty without becoming enslaved by the fruits of action. Karmanye vadhikaraste ma phaleshu kadachana—you have a right to action, but not to its fruits.

    He also teaches balance. Life is neither entirely about renunciation nor entirely about indulgence. Krishna played the flute, loved music, enjoyed friendship, fought battles, ruled a kingdom and imparted spiritual wisdom. His life embraced the world without becoming imprisoned by it.

    To a child, he is the mischievous Kanha who steals butter. To a mother, he is the adorable little boy whom Yashoda lovingly disciplines. To a devotee, he is the supreme Lord. To a philosopher, he is the teacher of the Gita. To a lover of poetry and music, he is the flute-playing Krishna of Vrindavan. And to those facing moral dilemmas, he remains the divine charioteer of Kurukshetra.

    Janmashtami asks us to discover Krishna within ourselves. It is the courage to confront Kansa-like forces of fear and tyranny. The symbolism of his midnight birth is perhaps the most powerful message of all. When the world appears darkest, hope can still be born. When injustice seems invincible, righteousness can still emerge. And when life appears imprisoned by circumstances, a new beginning may be waiting behind the closed doors. That is the enduring magic of Janmashtami.

Written and posted by Kamlesh Tripathi

Author, Poet, & Columnist

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https://kamleshsujata.wordpress.com

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Shravan Charity Mission is an NGO that works for poor children suffering from life-threatening diseases, especially cancer. Our posts are meant for our readers, including children and adults, and have a huge variety of content. We also accept donations for our mission. Should you wish to donate to the cause of cancer? The bank details are given below:

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The Guru: The Silent Architect of Our Lives… by Kamlesh Tripathi

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The Guru: The Silent Architect of Our Lives

Kamlesh Tripathi

    There are few relationships in life as transformative as that between a teacher and a student. Parents give us life, but it is the teacher, the guru, who teaches us how to live it. A guru does not merely impart knowledge; he or she shapes character, awakens curiosity, nurtures confidence, and instils values that remain with us long after the classroom has been left behind. A teacher is the candle that burns itself to illuminate the lives of others.

    A teacher is a nation builder in the truest sense. Every doctor who heals, every engineer who creates, every scientist who discovers, every artist who inspires, and every leader who serves has, at some point, sat before a teacher. Behind every visible success stands an invisible mentor whose patience, encouragement, and wisdom made that success possible. Teachers seldom occupy the limelight, yet they illuminate the path for countless others.

     The role of a guru extends beyond textbooks and examinations. A true teacher recognises potential even when the student cannot see it. They encourage the timid to speak, inspire the hesitant to dream, and challenge the complacent to strive for excellence. They transform the illiterate into the educated, the ordinary into the extraordinary, and the uncertain into the confident.

    Teaching is also an act of faith. Every lesson delivered is an investment in an unseen future. Teachers sow seeds whose fruits they may never witness. They devote years to nurturing young minds, often receiving little recognition beyond the quiet satisfaction of seeing their students flourish. Their influence cannot be measured in awards or wealth.

    But the world has changed. The reverence once naturally accorded to teachers appears to have diminished. In an age where information is available at the touch of a screen, wisdom is sometimes mistaken for mere data, and experience is undervalued. Many teachers carry increasing responsibilities, administrative burdens, and societal expectations while receiving less appreciation than they deserve. Perhaps this is why the smiles of some educators seem less frequent than before. Their calling remains noble, but the journey has become more demanding.

    Even so, the timeless truth endures. Students who respect their teachers gain far more than academic knowledge. Respect opens the mind to learning, fosters humility, and strengthens character. It creates a bond through which knowledge flows with greater meaning. Conversely, those who dismiss or disregard their teachers often lose the opportunity to benefit from experience that no textbook can provide.

    Guru Purnima is therefore more than a ceremonial observance. It is an occasion for gratitude and reflection. It reminds us to acknowledge those who believed in us before we believed in ourselves, who corrected us when we erred, who celebrated our progress, and who quietly rejoiced in our achievements.

    In the busyness of modern life, it is easy to forget the people who helped us become who we are. A simple message, a visit, a phone call, or a heartfelt expression of thanks can mean more to a teacher than any material gift. Gratitude is not merely a gesture. It is an affirmation that their labour has not been in vain.

    A guru is not simply an instructor but a torchbearer. While others may pass on information, a guru passes on vision. While others prepare us for examinations, a guru prepares us for life. Their greatest lesson is not confined to the classroom. It is reflected in the values they inspire, the confidence they awaken, and the humanity they cultivate.

   As we celebrate Guru Purnima, let us renew our commitment to honour our teachers, not only with words, but through our conduct. The finest tribute we can offer a guru is to live with integrity, compassion, and excellence, carrying forward the light they once kindled within us. For when we honour our teachers, we honour the very foundation upon which our lives, our society, and our nation are built.

Written and posted by Kamlesh Tripathi

Author, Poet, & Columnist

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https://kamleshsujata.wordpress.com

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Shravan Charity Mission is an NGO that works for poor children suffering from life-threatening diseases, especially cancer. Our posts are meant for our readers, including children and adults, and have a huge variety of content. We also accept donations for our mission. Should you wish to donate to the cause of cancer? The bank details are given below:

NAME OF ACCOUNT: SHRAVAN CHARITY MISSION

Account no: 680510110004635 (BANK OF INDIA)

IFSC code: BKID0006805

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The Fairy-tale connection between the Barog Tunnel, Himachal Pradesh, and Five Go Off to Camp by Enid Blyton… by Kamlesh Tripathi

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Barog Tunnel

The Fairy-tale connection between the Barog Tunnel, Himachal Pradesh, and Five Go Off to Camp by Enid Blyton

    Recently, I had an opportunity to visit the Barog Tunnel in the Solan district of Himachal Pradesh. As I walked through the area, I was reminded of Five Go Off to Camp, the famous adventure novel by Enid Blyton. While the comparison is not exact, the atmosphere of the place instantly brought back memories of the Famous Five’s mysterious ghost train adventure. Quite coincidentally, there were five of us on the trip, our own “unfamous five.”

    Our driver dropped us on the highway above the station, and we had to make a steep descent on foot to reach Barog Railway Station. With every step downhill, I felt myself travelling back in time to my childhood, when I had first read Blyton’s novel.

    A major part of Five Go Off to Camp revolves around the mystery of a “ghost train” that is said to appear at night and disappear into the hills. The Famous Five initially dismiss the stories as mere superstition, but they eventually discover that the ghost train is linked to a network of abandoned tunnels and a criminal operation. Blyton’s vivid descriptions of the train moving silently through the darkness, the strange lights, and the underground passages make it one of the most atmospheric mysteries in the Famous Five series. The Barog Tunnel, however, bears no direct resemblance to the novel. The tunnel was completed in 1903, whereas the book was first published in 1948.

    The Barog Tunnel, officially known as Tunnel No. 33, is one of India’s most remarkable engineering landmarks. Situated near Barog on the Kalka–Shimla railway line, it is the longest tunnel on this famous mountain railway. Apart from being an engineering marvel, it is also associated with one of India’s best-known railway legends.

    During the late nineteenth century, the British government decided to construct a railway linking Kalka with Shimla, then the summer capital of British India. The line had to pass through the steep and rugged Shivalik Hills, presenting enormous engineering challenges. The route required more than a hundred tunnels, hundreds of bridges, and numerous sharp curves. Construction began in 1900 and demanded exceptional engineering skill and perseverance.

    A British railway engineer, popularly known as Colonel Barog, was entrusted with constructing one of the longest tunnels on the route. To save time, he adopted a standard engineering method by excavating tunnels simultaneously from both ends of the mountain, expecting the two sections to meet precisely in the middle.

    This technique required extremely accurate calculations. Unfortunately, an error occurred during the survey or alignment. As the excavation progressed, it became evident that the two ends would not meet correctly. The mistake meant that a substantial amount of work would have to be abandoned.

    The failed alignment embarrassed the British administration. According to the popular account, Colonel Barog was officially reprimanded and fined one rupee, a symbolic rather than a financial punishment. However, for an engineer of his standing, the public humiliation proved deeply distressing.

    Unable to bear the disgrace, he reportedly walked into the surrounding hills with his dog and took his own life by shooting himself. He was buried near the unfinished tunnel. Over time, the nearby settlement and railway station came to be known as Barog in his memory.

    Modern historians, however, have questioned several aspects of this well-known story.

    Research based on British engineering journals and newspapers from the early twentieth century suggests that the legend may have been embellished over time. Contemporary records describe difficult geological conditions, underground springs, and slow construction progress, but they do not clearly mention a disastrous surveying error or a major delay caused by incorrect alignment. Even more interestingly, historical documents indicate that the name “Barog” was already in use for the locality before the tunnel was completed, suggesting that the town may not have been named after the engineer. Thus, while the tragedy of Colonel Barog has become an enduring part of local folklore, some details remain historically uncertain.

    Following the failure, the project continued under the supervision of Chief Engineer H. S. Harrington. Local tradition holds that a village guide named Baba Bhalku helped the engineers identify the correct alignment through the mountains. Whether through remarkable local knowledge or extraordinary intuition, Baba Bhalku became closely associated with the successful completion of the railway. His contribution continues to be honoured today, and the railway museum in Shimla bears his name.

    A new alignment was selected, and work resumed. The present Tunnel No. 33 was completed in 1903. It measures 1,143.61 metres (3,752 feet), making it the longest tunnel on the Kalka–Shimla Railway. Trains take approximately two and a half to three minutes to pass through it. In 2008, the railway was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site as part of the Mountain Railways of India.

    No account of Barog is complete without mentioning its famous ghost legend. Local residents believe that Colonel Barog’s spirit still wanders near the abandoned tunnel. Some visitors claim to have heard footsteps or whispers, while others report seeing a solitary figure dressed in old-fashioned clothes. Interestingly, many describe the ghost as friendly rather than frightening.

    There is, however, no scientific evidence to support these paranormal claims. The tunnel’s haunted reputation survives largely through folklore, travel stories, and popular media rather than verified historical or scientific evidence.

    The old abandoned tunnel, where the original excavation is said to have failed, still exists in the nearby forest. It has become a popular destination for trekkers, photographers, and history enthusiasts interested in the legend surrounding Colonel Barog.

    Today, Barog is a peaceful hill station surrounded by pine and oak forests. The toy train continues to stop at Barog station, and travellers enjoy the dramatic experience of emerging from the long tunnel into the beautiful valley beyond. The station was once well known for serving leisurely lunches to British officials travelling between Kalka and Shimla.

   The story of the Barog Tunnel remains memorable because it brings together several compelling themes: human ambition and engineering excellence, the consequences of a single mistake, the pressures of professional honour, the importance of local knowledge represented by Baba Bhalku, and the fascinating blend of history with folklore and ghost stories.

    Whether every detail of Colonel Barog’s life is historically accurate or partly legendary, the Barog Tunnel remains one of India’s most remarkable railway monuments. It stands not only as an outstanding engineering achievement but also as a reminder that history often becomes richer when facts and folklore travel together.

Written and posted by Kamlesh Tripathi

Author, Poet, & Columnist

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https://kamleshsujata.wordpress.com

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Shravan Charity Mission is an NGO that works for poor children suffering from life-threatening diseases, especially cancer. Our posts are meant for our readers, including children and adults, and have a huge variety of content. We also accept donations for our mission. Should you wish to donate to the cause of cancer? The bank details are given below:

NAME OF ACCOUNT: SHRAVAN CHARITY MISSION

Account no: 680510110004635 (BANK OF INDIA)

IFSC code: BKID0006805***

SHORT STORY: RETURN OF SANGEETA

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SHORT STORY: RETURN OF SANGEETA

Kamlesh Tripathi

    The final thumak of Sangeeta’s thumri faded into silence. The auditorium erupted in applause. The audience rose from their seats in a standing ovation as the curtains descended. It was Sangeeta’s maiden performance in Lucknow after a decade. The next day, she was flying back to Mumbai. As she stood backstage, she drifted into a reverie.

    Lucknow was her hometown. It was here that she had received her classical training in the Lucknow Gharana and later graduated from the Bhatkhande Sangeet Vidyapeeth. Some of her fondest childhood memories were woven around the serene banks of the River Gomti. Her father was a modest trader, and among her many school friends, three shared her passion for classical music—Amrit, Shalini, and Firdaus.

    Of the four, Sangeeta was the most gifted, with Shalini closely behind. Her ghazals and thumris won admiration wherever she performed. After graduating, life took the friends in different directions. Amrit and Firdaus married and settled into family life. Shalini married into an influential family in Lucknow but continued to pursue music.

    Sangeeta, too, flourished. As her popularity grew, she gradually emerged as a rival to Shalini. Soon, both singers were receiving invitations to perform at classical concerts. Since Lucknow was still a relatively small city, news of their achievements spread rapidly through its cultural circles.

    Shalini was unhappy with this development. She didn’t want Sangeeta to rise alongside her. Jealousy had taken root in her heart.

    One day, Sangeeta received invitations to perform for All India Radio and later for Doordarshan. She was thrilled, and her parents were immensely proud. But her success did not sit well with Shalini. Using her influence, she managed to have Sangeeta removed from both opportunities and secured her own place instead.

    The incident tarnished Sangeeta’s reputation in Lucknow. She felt humiliated and isolated. Though Shalini denied any involvement, rumours spread through the city, and the two singers stopped speaking to each other. The melody queens of Lucknow had drifted apart.

    Over time, Shalini’s influence in the city’s music circles grew stronger. Organisers hesitated to invite Sangeeta to their programmes. With only limited opportunities available, Shalini received most of the invitations while Sangeeta was ignored.

    Desperate to restore peace, Sangeeta tried to meet Shalini. She was even willing to apologise for any unintended offence and play second fiddle if necessary. But Shalini refused to even meet her.

    The doors of the music world had effectively closed on Sangeeta in Lucknow. People whispered that her only fault was being more talented than Shalini. Gradually, friends advised her to seek opportunities elsewhere. Finally, she made the difficult decision to leave Lucknow and boarded a train to Mumbai.

    The sprawling metropolis was an ocean of talent where she would encounter many Shalinis. Yet there was one crucial difference: nobody there bore personal ill will toward her. She was an unknown face, judged not by local politics but by her ability. Mumbai offered a more professional environment where talent mattered more than personal influence.

    Through perseverance, hard work, and talent, Sangeeta eventually received her first break. After years of struggle, she finally found her place.

    Today, she had returned to Lucknow as a celebrated singing sensation.

    As she emerged from the theatre after her performance, she was greeted by a sea of admirers. Amid the crowd stood Shalini, withdrawn and remorseful.

    Though the crowd pulled her in another direction, Sangeeta gently broke away and walked towards her former friend. Without hesitation, she embraced Shalini.

    Overcome with emotion, Shalini apologised for her past actions. As an act of repentance, she confessed that she had stopped performing altogether.

    Soon, Amrit and Firdaus also appeared. For Sangeeta, it was a moment of profound joy. She was witnessing the kinder and more compassionate face of her hometown. The next day, she returned to Mumbai.

    About a week later, there was a knock on Shalini’s door. An elderly gentleman stood outside.

    “My name is Raunaq,” he said politely. “May I speak with you for a while?”

    “Certainly,” replied Shalini. “What is it about?”

    “We are organising a musical concert, Sangeet Sandhya, next month in Lucknow. Madam Sangeeta has agreed to grace the occasion, but only on one condition, that you sing a duet with her. The concert is being held for the welfare of underprivileged children.”

    “Me?” Shalini exclaimed. “But I no longer perform on stage.”  Raunaq handed her a sealed note. It read:

    “Dear Shalini,

    By the time you receive this note, I shall be touring Europe for performances. I will return a week before the programme. I would be delighted if you could sing a duet with me. That is my only condition for participating in Sangeet Sandhya.

Please do not refuse. As a true friend, I feel it is my responsibility to bring you back to the stage. Let us leave the past behind. I am aware of your financial difficulties, and returning to music will help you regain both confidence and stability. Raunaq will explain the rest.

With affection,

Sangeeta.”

       In the weeks that followed, banners announcing Sangeet Sandhya appeared across the city, carrying photographs of both Sangeeta and Shalini.  The concert was a grand success.

    For the audience, it was a memorable musical evening. For Sangeeta and Shalini, it was the beginning of a renewed friendship.

    After Sangeeta returned to Mumbai, Shalini slowly found her way back to music. It was Sangeeta who had rekindled her lost passion. Two months later, while watching the evening news, Shalini froze at the headline: “Celebrated singer Sangeeta passed away in Mumbai after battling a terminal illness.” The dinner plate slipped from her hands.

    In an instant, everything made sense. Sangeeta’s insistence on the duet, her warmth, her forgiveness, and her silence after returning to Mumbai. With tears in her eyes, Shalini realised that even while facing death, Sangeeta had chosen to heal a broken friendship and restore another singer’s life.

    Six months later, Lucknow organised “Sangeet Bhari Shaam” to honour its beloved daughter. As the driving force behind the event, Shalini stood before Sangeeta’s garlanded portrait and whispered,

“You never really left us, Sangeeta. You returned through your music, your kindness, and your forgiveness.”

And as the hall echoed with her melodies, it seemed that Sangeeta had come home once again.

Posted by Kamlesh Tripathi

Author, Poet, & Columnist

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https://kamleshsujata.wordpress.com

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Shravan Charity Mission is an NGO that works for poor children suffering from life-threatening diseases, especially cancer. Our posts are meant for our readers, including children and adults, and have a huge variety of content. We also accept donations for our mission. Should you wish to donate to the cause of cancer? The bank details are given below:

NAME OF ACCOUNT: SHRAVAN CHARITY MISSION

Account no: 680510110004635 (BANK OF INDIA)

IFSC code: BKID0006805

***

SHORT STORY: TWILIGHT TREMORS … by Kamlesh Tripathi

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TWILIGHT TREMORS

Kamlesh Tripathi

    Rita drew the curtains of her room while gazing at the setting sun sinking below the horizon, as if quietly closing a chapter of her own life. In that lingering gaze, she caught the first twinkling stars and the scattered lights amid the rolling hills of Shillong, once called the Scotland of the East, from her home in Laitumkhrah.

   Twinkling lights…. perhaps, that was all that had remained, after she had decided to give Griffith a miss.

    Today, Griffith was flying back to Melbourne from Guwahati. By now, he was likely airborne, cutting through clouds with pleasant memories. He had entered her life late, yet in that brief span, they had shared moments of rare warmth. At times, she wondered, was it a gift or a gentle disruption? Should she move forward with him, or retreat into the life she had carefully built?

    A practising doctor and a lifelong bachelor, Griffith had come into her world when she had long accepted solitude. After her husband’s passing, Rita had lived alone, her children absorbed in their global careers. Yet Griffith’s presence had stirred something within her, making her feel alive again, almost defying the quiet onset of age.

    He was attached to a clinic in Shillong, often visiting for missionary work, having seen life closely through service to the underprivileged. They had met at the library of the Shillong Club, united by their love for books. He had proposed, gently but sincerely. Rita, however, had chosen friendship, deep, meaningful, but contained.

    Rita herself was shaped by books and music. A Loreto Shillong alumna, she carried literature not on her shelves but within her being. It guided her silences, her reflections, and her sudden flashes of understanding. Music softened the edges of her loneliness.

    From Pride and Prejudice, she had learned discernment, the art of seeing beyond appearances, much like Elizabeth Bennet. The writings of Rainer Maria Rilke had taught her that solitude was not emptiness, but a sacred inward journey. William Shakespeare’s Hamlet lingered within her. It question, “To be or not to be”, echoing through her own dilemmas.

    And then there was the quiet surrender of “Que será, será,” popularised by Doris Day… a gentle acceptance of life’s unpredictability. The haunting transformations of Franz Kafka unsettled her, while the fear of the unknown, echoed in The Exorcist, sometimes mirrored the tremors of the earth beneath Shillong.

    Reading was not an escape. It was her way of becoming.

    Yet, even with her disciplined life, her fitness routines, her careful financial independence, her writing for newspapers, there lingered a faint despondency. Her children, one in Bengaluru and the other in the UK, belonged to worlds far removed from hers.

    Griffith had invited her to Australia for a long stay. She had prepared for it, even reached Guwahati airport, but at the final moment, something held her back. She returned home, choosing the familiarity of her inner world over the uncertainty of a deeper bond.

   She explained her decision to Griffith later. She could offer friendship, but not a life intertwined. He understood. And life carried them in separate directions.

   Days settled into months.

    Rita returned to her rhythms: morning exercise, quiet writing, walks through Police Bazar, cups of hot tea against the Shillong chill, and occasional visits to the Ward Lake and Shillong Club. Books once again filled her hours, though now, at times, a thought of Griffith would slip quietly between the pages. The tragedy of Romeo and Juliet touched her, and the tenderness of Dr Zhivago softened her.

    Six months passed in this gentle solitude.

    One winter evening, as she sat with a cup of tea, the doorbell rang. Her maid had left for the day. She walked to the door and asked, “Who is it?” There was no reply. She hesitated, then opened it.

    Griffith stood there.

    In his hands was a bouquet of white roses, her favourite. A small placard read: “For Rita, my bestest friend”.

    For a moment, she simply looked at him, as if unsure whether he belonged to memory or reality.

    “How…?” she began.

    He smiled, a little uncertainly this time. “Since you chose not to come to Melbourne, I thought I would come to Shillong. I’ve found work here. I’m… here, if you want me to be. We are both alone, Rita. Perhaps life is not about choosing between solitude and companionship, but finding a way to hold both.”

    There was a pause, soft, unhurried.

    The twilight outside had deepened, but something within her shifted, almost imperceptibly. For once, she did not search for meaning in a book, nor weigh her decision against borrowed wisdom.

She stepped aside.

And let him in.

Written and posted by Kamlesh Tripathi

Author, Poet, & Columnist

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https://kamleshsujata.wordpress.com

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Shravan Charity Mission is an NGO that works for poor children suffering from life-threatening diseases, especially cancer. Our posts are meant for our readers, including children and adults, and have a huge variety of content. We also accept donations for our mission. Should you wish to donate to the cause of cancer? The bank details are given below:

NAME OF ACCOUNT: SHRAVAN CHARITY MISSION

Account no: 680510110004635 (BANK OF INDIA)

IFSC code: BKID0006805

***

The Sparkling Colours of Holi

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Kamlesh Tripathi

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    Holi blossoms from the celestial love of Radha and Krishna. It celebrates love as boundless as the spring sky and as playful as the Yamuna in gentle tide. It is a festival where devotion and delight mingle, where laughter carries the fragrance of faith. Yet beneath its riotous colours lies a profound spiritual remembrance: the good over evil, the eternal victory of righteousness over tyranny, and of light over encroaching darkness.

    The ancient legend recorded in the Bhagavata Purana narrates about the formidable Asura king Hiranyakashipu, who, through severe penance, secured a boon that made him nearly invincible. The boon gave him five special powers like. He would neither be killed by a human being nor an animal, neither indoors nor outdoors, neither during the day nor at night, neither by an astra nor by a shastra, and neither on land nor in water or air. Armoured in this seeming immortality, pride consumed him; he demanded to be worshipped as the supreme lord of all creation.

    But his own son, the gentle and steadfast Prahlada, remained unwavering in his devotion to Vishnu. No amount of cruelty could shake the boy’s serene faith. In desperation, Hiranyakashipu enlisted his sister Holika, who possessed immunity against fire, to lure Prahlada into a blazing pyre. Yet destiny turned upon immunity. Holika was consumed by the flames, while the child-devotee emerged untouched, sheltered by the grace of God.

    Then, at twilight’s (neither day nor night) mystic hour, when day melts into night, Lord Vishnu manifested as Narasimha, the awe-inspiring Man-Lion (neither human nor animal), upon the palace threshold (neither indoors nor outdoors). He placed Hiranyakashipu upon his lap, which was neither earth nor sky nor sea, nor air, and with his claws that were neither astra nor shastra, he tore him to pieces and killed him spontaneously. Thus was Dharma restored, and the cosmos breathed again in harmony.

    Holi arrives on the full moon of Phalguna, when winter loosens its pale grasp, and the spring steps forth, in emerald splendour. It is the season when fields swell with the promise of the Rabi harvest, when old leaves drift earthward, and tender shoots unfurl like whispered hopes. Nature herself seems to celebrate, adorning the earth in rejuvenated hues, as though echoing the colours soon to dance around human figures.

    To early European travellers, Holi appeared as the carnival of the Hindus, a spring revel in honour of Lord Krishna, the mesmerising cowherd whose flute once enchanted the groves of Vrindavan. Yet Holi is far more than a spectacle. Its colours are not fleeting illusions like a rainbow’s arc. On the contrary, they are living expressions of cultural memory and collective joy. Indian cinema, too, has borrowed from its palette, immortalising its exuberance in songs and dance, reminding you of the famous Amitabh Bachchan song, ‘Khai Ke Pan Banaras Wala’ from the film Don.

    On the eve of the festival, towering bonfires blaze in the rite of Holika-Dahan, their flames leaping skyward as symbols of purification and moral triumph. Families carry home glowing embers, tokens of protection and auspicious beginnings. The following day, the air reverberates with laughter as clouds of abir and gulal (scented coloured powder) bloom like ephemeral blossoms. Water bursts from playful pichkaris, and voices ring out in cheerful abandon, “Bura na mano, Holi hai!” Tolis (friendly groups) wander from house to house, bearing greetings, songs, and embraces in the tender gesture of gale milna.

    Sweetmeats such as gujias fragrant with khoya, crisp shakkarpaare, cooling dahi-vadas—along with thandai and the occasional draught of bhang, lend flavour to the festivities. Yet the truest sweetness lies in reconciliation. Old grievances are dissolved like colour in water. Estranged hearts find renewed warmth. Holi becomes not merely a festival of hues, but a celebration of restored relationships and shared humanity.

    Though rooted in the Indian subcontinent, Holi’s vibrant spirit has travelled far with the diaspora, painting distant shores with its exuberant shades. Sometimes exoticised, sometimes misunderstood, it nonetheless endures as an indelible emblem of India’s cultural soul, and a radiant affirmation that after every winter of discord, spring returns in splendour, and goodness, like colour, inevitably prevails.

Written and posted by Kamlesh Tripathi

Author, Poet, & Columnist

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Shravan Charity Mission is an NGO that works for poor children suffering from life-threatening diseases, especially cancer. Our posts are meant for our readers, including children and adults, and have a huge variety of content. We also accept donations for our mission. Should you wish to donate to the cause of cancer? The bank details are given below:

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READER’S REWIND: I DREAMT OF UTOPIA

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READER’S REWIND: I DREAMT OF UTOPIA

Kamlesh Tripathi

    The world has become colourful. But the ‘Happy Prince’ is no longer alive to see it. So is the swallow, who carried out his last orders, but died in the frost, at his feet, before he could escape to Egypt. The lead metal statue of the ‘Happy Prince’ cracks in agony, but his leaden heart still beats for his kingdom and his subjects. But are there any such rulers left, anymore? Well, they are practically extinct or very rare. Perhaps you might remember the name of the author who wrote the story ‘The Happy Prince.’ I’m forgetting his name. Oh! I remember now. It was Oscar Wilde. But “What’s in a name? Wrote Shakespeare. “That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet.” Maybe Oscar Wilde would like to rewrite the story ‘Happy Prince’ in the context of the present day while residing in heaven. But does a happy man without a shirt exist anymore, as told in the Italian tale ‘The Happy Man’s Shirt’? A quintessential example in recent times was India’s Mahatma Gandhi, the father of the nation, whose simple attire—a loincloth and shawl (without shirt) during the 1930s, particularly around the 1931 Round Table Conference- was given the abrasive title of ‘half-naked fakir’ by the British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, to mock him. I’m more than sure there isn’t a happy man without a shirt anymore because the man now wears not only shirts but also colourful shirts, yet he remains unhappy.

    Utopia is now seized of polarising colours, such as red, blue, green and saffron, and certain adamant tenets and philosophies that rule the roost, along with the so-called isms, the right wing and the left wing, in the central pillar of democracy. Have we gone back in time? Are we proving the Greek epic poem Hesiod’s Theogony correct, which propagated the initial theory that dense darkness covered everything until the earth was born out of chaos? With Earth came the mountains, the sea, the sky and Uranus. Uranus and Earth came together and gave birth to the Titans. Later, the Titans and Gods, both from the same lineage and class, fought for supremacy, in which the Greek God Zeus won, just like Lord Krishna.

    But halt there. Take time off to think because the world leaders of today suffer from the same fear as Uranus, Cronus or the Kansa Mama of Mathura, who killed their would-be adversaries. Even Nigas tried to swallow Lord Vishnu in a television series, but that was in a different context. Ajatashatru killed his father Bimbisara to ascend the throne of the Magadha Empire, and in return, his son too killed him for the same throne. The Robinhoods are extinct now. The two biggest democracies are always in the news, but at times for the wrong reasons. The world is full of Brutus in present times, which may put the original Brutus to shame and the Bard into a wonder, ‘to be or not to be’.

    One can say goodness has eclipsed and is rarely seen and experienced. Much has evolved, but more is yet to come. So wait and watch. Be on the lookout for that happy man without a shirt, and the happy prince, with a lead heart that beats for the public even now. Fortunately, I dreamt, Utopia shall remain Utopia and not become a Dystopia.

Written and posted by Kamlesh Tripathi

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THE STORY OF SYAMANTAKA JEWEL

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                      (A Story from Srimad Bhagavata Purana)

    Satrajit, a Yadava king, was a great devotee of the Sun-God Surya. He had ten wives and three daughters named Satyabhama, Bratini and Prasvapini. Sun-God Surya, greatly pleased, offered him the dazzling Syamantaka jewel as a present, which had the power of conferring great wealth upon its owner. When Satrajit wore the jewel, its brilliance was such that he was mistaken for the sun god himself.

     During a meeting, Krishna asked Satrajit to let King Ugrasena have the jewel, so that it could be used for the good of all. Proud of his possession, Satrajit refused to part with the Syamantaka.Top of Form

    One day, Satrajit’s brother, Prasena, borrowed the jewel from Satrajit and went into a forest to hunt. There, a lion killed him, took the jewel, and went inside a cave. The cave was of Jambavan, the immortal king of the bears. Jambavan killed the lion and took the jewel, and offered it to his son as a toy. When Satrajit did not hear from his brother, he suspected that his brother must have been killed for the jewel, and suspected Krishna of committing the deed. The rumour spread, and Krishna set out to recover the jewel himself in vindication.

    Learning that Prasena had been slain by a lion, which had in turn been killed by a bear on the side of a mountain, Krishna entered the bear’s den. He discovered that the jewel was being used as a toy by a child. Hearing the child’s nurse scream at the sight of the intruder, an enraged Jambavan attacked Krishna. They fought for 28 days and nights before Jambavan finally realised that Krishna was Rama’s reincarnation. Awestruck, Jambavan glorified Krishna and offered the Syamantaka, as well as his daughter, Jambavati, in marriage to the deity. Krishna accepted both of them and provided moksha to the bear king. He then summoned Satrajit to a royal assembly and narrated the tale of the recovery of the Syamantaka. He restored the jewel into the hands of the Yadav king Satrajit. Deeply ashamed of his accusation, Satrajit decided to offer Krishna the hand of his daughter, Satyabhama, regarded as a ‘jewel among women’, as well as the Syamantaka. Krishna married Satyabhama, but declined to receive the jewel, regarding it to be the property of Satrajit, as its donor had been Surya.

Written and posted by Kamlesh Tripathi

Author, Poet, & Columnist

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https://kamleshsujata.wordpress.com

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Shravan Charity Mission is an NGO that works for poor children suffering from life-threatening diseases, especially cancer. Our posts are meant for our readers, including children and adults, and have a huge variety of content. We also accept donations for our mission. Should you wish to donate to the cause of cancer? The bank details are given below:

NAME OF ACCOUNT: SHRAVAN CHARITY MISSION

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SHORT STORY: THE PRICK OF CONSCIENCE by Kamlesh Tripathi

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Enjoy my short story published in The Assam Tribune on January 5, 2025. Happy reading.

THE PRICK OF CONSCIENCE


    It reminds me of a time when I used to go to a park every day, early in the morning. The place was absolutely still and quiet and reminded me of those neat and peaceful words — pin-drop silence.
    It was a long walk from where I stayed. It was also the midway for me, where I used to take a break. The park was located on the banks of a river and was about 25 to 30 feet higher than the normal flow of the river water, and in between the two, there was a deep gradient. To secure the area from anyone falling into the river, a rugged railing had been raised only recently. The other end of the park touched the busy road, coming all the way from the airport and passing into the main city. Beyond the river, there was a tall, dark hillock that gave a great sense of scenic fulfilment.
    All around, it was lush green, especially during the monsoons, when the gushing water level, at times, used to rise and ripple past the edges of the gradient to enter the park. I normally sat there each day for about ten to 15 minutes, for some meditation and introspection that refreshed me to take on the tough day ahead. I had relocated to the city some six months ago as an inspector in the police department. In the park, I also met many health freaks coming for morning walks, and some just to lollygag.
    Close to the main gate of the park, there was a small tea stall. I guess it grossed all its revenue early in the morning while serving the morning walkers. Once in a while, it also served hot bhajiyas that tasted deadly with the hot tea.
    I had become a little pally with the tea stall owner, who was young and appeared somewhat educated. There was always a newspaper lying in the stall where tea buffs often rushed through the latest headlines, only to exchange informal barbs.
     As a regular visitor, I had started recognising quite a few faces there. Gradually, I even got to know the names of a few. One out of them happened to be an old person who was normally quiet. One day, the stall owner, who knew that I was a police inspector, introduced me to him. His name was Robert.
    In a matter of days, I started interacting with Robert and referred to him as ‘Uncle’. He must have been around 70. He spoke very little. But whenever he did, he was to the point. He was normally in his own world, and nothing amused him.
    The days passed on as usual. One day, Robert walked up to me and asked, “Are you in the police?”
    I said, “Yes.”
    “Then can you do me a favour?”
    I asked, “What favour?”
    He looked at me for a while and said, “Many years ago, when I was young, while playing in this park, I fought with my best friend. Unfortunately, the fight took an ugly turn. As a result, I pushed him down the slope over there. Sadly, he fell into the river. It was the peak of the monsoon when the river was in spate and he was swept away, never to return.”
    “Oh God! But did you tell the police that you had pushed him down the slope?”
    “No!”
    “But why?”
    “Because I was scared I’ll be arrested. So, the police registered a case of an accident stating that he didn’t know how to swim, so he drowned.”
    “So then, why are you telling me your story now, after so many years?”
    “After 50 years, to be precise, to clear my conscience. You’re in the police, if you want, you can still arrest me for the crime.”
    “Have you told this to anyone else?”
    “No.”
    “But why?”
    “Because he was my next-door neighbour.”
    “So how does that matter?”
    “It matters because, years later, I married his sister.”
    “But does she know that you were the one who pushed her brother?”
    “A few years ago, I did tell her. She couldn’t bear the shock and passed away within weeks.”
    “And what about your children?”
    “I have two sons. Both are in Australia. They don’t know about my crime. But maybe you can tell them after I’m arrested or I’m gone.” After that, he picked up his walking stick and started walking. Perhaps, he was heading home.
    After the unwelcome conversation, a couple of days passed, but I did not see Robert. One day, when I reached the tea stall. I was informed by the stall owner that Robert had committed suicide. I was shocked to hear the news. Perhaps, he was preparing for it, mentally, when he told me about his act of crime. I morosely attended his funeral, where I even got to meet his two sons, Richard and Simon, but I did not mention anything.
    After that, I continued with my morning walk, as usual. One day, when I arrived at the tea stall, the owner gave me a sealed envelope that Robert had left for me. I opened it. There was another sealed cover within, bearing the name and address of Richard in Australia, with a request to send it to him through a reliable courier, which I did.
    Robert, after losing his wife, couldn’t have taken a chance with his sons– he didn’t want them to commit suicide. But he wanted to confess his crime to his children, which he did after he was gone.
    Most certainly, your pricking conscience is the most relentless jury in you.

Written and posted by Kamlesh Tripathi

Author, Poet, & Columnist

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https://kamleshsujata.wordpress.com

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Shravan Charity Mission is an NGO that works for poor children suffering from life-threatening diseases, especially cancer. Our posts are meant for our readers, including children and adults, and have a huge variety of content. We also accept donations for our mission. Should you wish to donate to the cause of cancer? The bank details are given below:

NAME OF ACCOUNT: SHRAVAN CHARITY MISSION

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THE STORY OF AJAMILA … A story from Srimad Bhagvatam by Kamlesh Tripathi

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    Once, in the city of Kanyakubja (present-day Kannauj), there lived a Brahmin named Ajamila. He had studied all the Vedic scriptures from a very young age. He was noble in character and conduct. Well-mannered, free from false pride, he was upright and kind to all living beings.

    One day, when Ajamila was gathering flowers in the forest for his daily puja, he saw a beautiful enchantress. Her beauty captivated him, and immediately he fell under her wicked spell.

    Soon, Ajamila drove out his faithful wife and elderly parents from his home. He married the enchantress and had many children with her. Ajamila, who had once led a chaste life, now spent his days trying to please his immoral wife. He indulged in many sinful activities that he would have never done before.

    Despite being born a Brahmin, Ajamila started killing innocent animals to feed his large family. He began stealing and cheating others, and even encouraged his sons to follow a similar sinful path.

    Among all his children, Ajamila was especially fond of his youngest son. His name was Narayana. The child’s innocent behaviour and playful ways had won over Ajamila’s heart. He spent most of his time with Narayana.

    Years passed, one day, when Ajamila was old and on his deathbed, he saw three Yamadutas, the terrifying servants of Yamaraja, the god of death, coming towards him. They had come to take Ajamila’s soul and punish him for all the sins that he had committed in his life.

    Gripped by intense fear, Ajamila began to weep. In panic, he started calling out the name “Narayana,” which was his beloved son’s name. And, he kept calling ‘Narayana’ on and on, without realising that he was actually chanting the holy name of Lord Narayana.

    The Vishnudutas, who were messengers of Lord Vishnu, heard the holy name of their Lord being chanted by Ajamila on his deathbed, and immediately, they rushed to the scene.

    Just as the Yamadutas were about to pull Ajamila’s soul out of his body, the Vishnudutas arrived there and tried to stop them. But the Yamadutas refused to listen. They insisted that Ajamila should be punished for his sins. The Vishnudutas then explained, “Ajamila has already atoned for his sins. Not only those sins committed in this life, but also for those committed over millions of lifetimes, simply by chanting the holy name of Narayana in his helpless state. The name of the Lord is divine. Even though Ajamila was unaware, each time he called his son by his name Narayana, he was actually chanting the Lord’s name and cleansing himself of his sins. Lord Narayana protects those who chant His Holy Name.”

    The Yamadutas were thus silenced by the profound wisdom of the Vishnudutas. Defeated, they returned to Yamaraja, their master, and recounted all that had happened. Yamaraja concurred with what they had been told. He said, “What you have heard is true. Although I’m your master, Lord Narayana is the Supreme Lord of the entire universe, and we are all His servants.” He added, “Just as a king has ministers to carry out his commands, I and other demigods work under the direction of the Supreme Lord.”

    Yamaraja then explained the rewards of chanting the holy name of Lord Narayana:

    “Even the most sinful person is taken to the Supreme Lord’s abode, and he is freed from all punishment if he chants the holy name of Lord Narayana at the time of his death. Lord Narayana will always protect those who chant His holy name.”

    He then advised his servants never to bring a person who chants the Holy Name or engages in the devotional service to Lord Narayana. Instead, they should bring only those who do not chant or fail to remember the lotus feet of the Supreme Lord.

    Ajamila sincerely bowed to the Vishnudutas when he realised he had been saved from the Yamadutas. He expressed gratitude for rescuing him from going to Naraka. Reflecting on his past sins, Ajamila was filled with remorse for having abandoned his first wife and parents. He now clearly saw the wrongs he had committed.

    Ajamila now understood the immense power in chanting the holy name of Lord Narayana. He deeply regretted wasting his life in sinful acts and resolved that, if given a second chance, he would dedicate himself to the service of the Lord.

    By the mercy of the Lord Narayana, Ajamila was granted a second chance to live. He seized the opportunity and went to Haridwar, where he spent the rest of his life chanting and serving Lord Vishnu, also known as Lord Narayana.

    One day, when Ajamila was meditating, he saw a golden aircraft descending from the sky. Inside it were the same Vishnudutas who had saved him earlier. They had now come to take him to his eternal home, the abode of Lord Narayana.

    Ajamila peacefully left his body on the banks of the sacred Ganga River in Haridwar and joined the Vishnudutas to serve his Supreme Lord forever.

Written and posted by Kamlesh Tripathi

Author, Poet, & Columnist

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https://kamleshsujata.wordpress.com

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Shravan Charity Mission is an NGO that works for poor children suffering from life-threatening diseases, especially cancer. Our posts are meant for our readers, including children and adults, and have a huge variety of content. We also accept donations for our mission. Should you wish to donate to the cause of cancer? The bank details are given below:

NAME OF ACCOUNT: SHRAVAN CHARITY MISSION

Account no: 680510110004635 (BANK OF INDIA)

IFSC code: BKID0006805

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