**The Merchant and the Silly Thief**

Long ago in India, a merchant—a man who sells things—went far away to work. He worked hard and saved five hundred rupees. “Time to go home!” he said.

A thief saw him. The thief’s eyes went pop! “Five hundred rupees!” he whispered. “I will follow him.”

The thief ran up. “Hello, sir! Where are you going?”

“Home,” said the merchant.

“Wow! Me too!” said the thief. “Can I walk with you?”

“Sure,” said the merchant. “Come along.”

They walked and walked. At a little hotel, the merchant went to eat dinner. The thief searched for the room. Search, search, search! Pockets? No. Bed? No. Pillow? No. Sock? Only toes. Not one penny!

“He is tricking me,” thought the thief. “He has no money at all!”

The next day, the thief asked, “Sir, how many rupeess do you have?”

“Five hundred,” said the merchant.

At the next little hotel, the merchant went to dinner. The thief searched and searched. Under the pillow. Under the sheet. Behind the door. Inside a shoe. Nothing! Not one penny!

“He is tricking me again!” thought the thief.

At last, they came home. The merchant opened his purse and took out five rupees.

“Here,” he said. “These are for you.”

“No, thank you,” said the thief. “I don’t want one rupee. But may I ask one question?”

“Yes,” said the merchant.

“I am a thief,” said the thief. “You are safe at home now. I won’t steal from you. I was after your five hundred rupeess. You showed me you have it. But please tell me: where did you hide it when you went to dinner?”

The merchant smiled. “I put it under your pillow.”

The thief’s mouth felt open. “Under MY pillow?!”

“Yes,” said the merchant. “Every time. Before dinner, I tiptoed over and slipped it under your pillow.”

The thief groaned. “I searched your pillow! I never searched for my own pillow! I am a very silly thief!”

“Very silly,” said the merchant. “But very polite.”

“Thank you,” said the thief. “I will go home and search my own pillow. Goodbye!”

And that is like people looking for God outside. They run here. They run there. They look under every pillow—except the right one. God is not lost far away. God is very close, inside your heart.

The Four Blind People and the Elephant

 The Four Blind People and the Elephant

Once upon a time, four blind people were sitting beside a road. They had heard people talking about a large animal called an elephant, but none of them had ever met one.

“I wonder what an elephant is like,” said the first person.

“I would like to know too,” said the second.

Just then, a kind man came along with his elephant.

“Would you like to touch the elephant?” he asked.

“Yes, please!” said the four friends.

The kind man led them close to the elephant. Each person reached out and touched a different part.

The first person touched the elephant’s leg.

“Ah!” he said. “An elephant is like a big tree trunk.”

The second person touched the elephant’s trunk.

“No,” he said. “An elephant is like a long, thick snake.”

The third person touched the elephant’s tusk.

“You are both wrong,” he said. “An elephant is hard and smooth like a pointed stick.”

The fourth person touched the elephant’s ear.

“No, no!” she said. “An elephant is like a huge leaf.”

Soon, the four friends began to argue.

“An elephant is like a tree trunk!” said the first.

“It is like a snake!” said the second.

“It is like a pointed stick!” said the third.

“It is like a giant leaf!” said the fourth.

The kind man listened for a moment. Then he smiled and said, “You are all partly right. Each of you touched one part of the elephant. But none of you touched the whole elephant.”

The four friends became quiet. They understood that each person had learned a small part of the truth.

Moral

Sometimes people argue because each person sees or knows only one small part of a bigger truth. We should listen to others, learn more, and try to understand the whole picture before saying that we are completely right.

 

The Three Point Puzzle

 

Episode 2: The Three-Point Puzzle

When the initial dust settled—and when journalists realized they couldn't simply ask, "Who exactly are these Dimagi Naxals?" without getting a philosophical thesis in response—the government decided to clarify.

Enter **Union Minister Kiren Rijiju**, armed with a three-point description that he delivered with the confidence of a man who had just solved a particularly difficult crossword puzzle:

Point One:  Those who support Maoists and reject the Indian Constitution.

Point Two: Those who stand with separatists and support Article 370 (the former special status of Jammu & Kashmir).

Point Three: Those who allegedly want to cut the "Chicken's Neck" (the Siliguri Corridor) to separate India's Northeast from the rest of the country.

The nation digested this information.

Some nodded sagely. Some scratched their heads. Some wondered if they had accidentally supported Article 370 at a dinner party once and should now be worried.

The government stressed that the term was *not aimed at ordinary opposition leaders or critics*a clarification that, obviously, made everyone wonder if they were the exception.

To be continued…Posted 13-9-2026

 

The Hundred Swans

The great war of Kurukshetra was over. The land was silent, heavy with the memory of countless lives lost. In the royal tent, the blind King Dhritarashtra sat in deep sorrow. His hundred sons were gone. The victory belonged to his nephews, the Pandavas, but for him, the cost was everything.

One day, Lord Krishna came to console him. The king, his voice trembling with grief, asked a question that had been tormenting him.

"O Lord," he began, "I am a man of Dharma. I have tried to follow my duty. I understand that my eldest son, Duryodhana, was consumed by pride and jealousy. He was of bad deeds. My other son, Dushashan, was cruel and arrogant. They earned their fate. But what of my other ninety-eight sons? They were not like them. They were good, brave, and followed the path of a warrior. They did nothing wrong. Why did they have to die?"

Lord Krishna looked at the grieving father with compassion. His voice was calm and deep, like the ocean.

"O King," he said, "Karma is a powerful law. It is not limited to one lifetime. The soul carries its deeds from one birth to the next. To understand the fate of your ninety-eight sons, you must look back to a previous life."

Dhritarashtra listened intently.

"In a past life," Krishna continued, "you were also a king of great fame and virtue. One day, a holy man, a sadhu, came to your court. He was leaving on a long pilgrimage and needed a safe place for his most treasured possessions. He had raised a family of royal swans—two parents and two young ones. He loved them as his own children."

"The sadhu trusted you. He placed the four swans in your care, believing they would be safe in the royal palace. You accepted the trust."

Krishna paused, letting the weight of the story settle.

"The sadhu went on his journey. Sometime later, you were on your palace terrace, looking out at the beauty of your kingdom. Your eyes fell upon the four beautiful white swans gliding peacefully in the royal pond. In that moment, a desire arose in your mind. You turned to your servants and gave a single, terrible order: 'I want to taste the flesh of the swan.’

"The servants, bound to obey their king, killed one of the baby swans and prepared a dish for you. You found it to be a rare delicacy. 'What a delight!' you exclaimed. 'Bring me more tomorrow.' And so, your order was followed again. The second baby swan was killed. Then, the next day, the mother. And the day after, the father."

"Each day, your desire grew. Each day, a life was taken to satisfy your whim. You did not think of the trust that had been placed in you, or the sadhu’s love for his birds. You only thought of your own pleasure. By the time the sadhu returned from his pilgrimage, he found the pond empty. In your care, all one hundred swans—for the parents and their future generations that you also consumed—had been killed."

Lord Krishna looked gently at the blind king.

"O Dhritarashtra," he said, his voice firm but kind, "that was your deed. That was your Karma. You, who are so grieved by the loss of your hundred sons, were the cause of a hundred deaths in your past life. The trust you broke, the lives you took for pleasure, have now returned to you."

"The hundred sons you lost in this war are the karmic return for the hundred swans you had killed. The soul remembers what the mind forgets. This is the wheel of Karma. No action, good or bad, is ever lost."

The king sat in stunned silence. The tears for his sons were now mixed with the terrible understanding of a debt repaid from a forgotten life. The story of the hundred swans had answered his question, revealing the profound and inescapable justice of Karma.

 

Dimagi Naxal and Naraaz Fufa

(The Unofficial Guide to India's Most Confusing Political Phrases (And the People Who Use Them)

By

Sham Misri

The Curious Case of the "Dimagi Naxal":

A Story of Words, Wars, and Wit

Introduction: A Boy from Vadnagar

Once upon a time, in the dusty lanes of Vadnagar, Gujarat, a young boy named Narendra would stand beside his father at a modest tea stall near the railway station. Little did anyone know that this chai-wallah's son would one day invent a phrase that would send the entire Indian political ecosystem into a tizzy—half of them applauding, clapping and congratulating, the other half anxiously and agitatingly googling whether they themselves might be one.

But we're getting ahead of ourselves.

Young Narendra was, by all accounts, a delightful storyteller. He would wander into villages and hold audiences intent and captive with tales of heroes and mythology. His teachers remembered him as a gifted debater, a passionate swimmer, and a theatrical soul who loved portraying larger-than-life characters on stage.

One might say he was preparing for a lifetime performance.

At seventeen, driven by spiritual curiosity, he left home and wandered the Himalayas, visiting ashrams and seeking directions. He returned to Gujarat, joined the RSS, and eventually found his way to politics—where he discovered that the biggest stage of all awaited him.

And on that stage, decades later, he would introduce two phrases that would baffle linguists, energize supporters, and give opposition parties a collective migraine: **"Dimagi Naxal”* and **"Naraz Pupha."**

Xxx

This is the story of the first one.

Chapter 1: The Speech That Launched a Thousand Debates

The date was **15 August 2026**. India was celebrating its **80th Independence Day**. The Red Fort stood glorious, magnificent and brilliant , the tricolour fluttered proudly, and Prime Minister Narendra Modi stood at the ramparts, ready to address the nation.

The speech covered many topics—development, unity, youth mobilisation, and the glorious achievement of having largely eliminated armed Naxalism from the forests. The nation nodded approvingly. The forests were safer. The guns were quieter. Democracy, it seemed, had prevailed.

And then, with the skill and style of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, the Prime Minister introduced a new character to the national narrative:

**"Dimagi Naxal."**

The phrase hung in the air like a philosophical riddle wrapped in a political enigma, a riddle, a puzzle.

"The *hathariya* Naxals are gone," he declared, referring to the armed insurgents. "But the *dimagi* Naxal mindset still exists."

The nation paused. Tea stalls across India—including, one imagines, a certain stall near Vadnagar Railway Station—buzzed with confusion.

*Dimagi* meant "mental" or "intellectual." *Naxal* referred to the Maoist insurgents. Together, they formed a phrase that sounded like an upset designed by a committee of psychologists and political scientists.

The Prime Minister elaborated: these "Dimagi Naxals" were embedded in public life, in institutions, even in government committees. They were, he warned, looking for opportunities to create violence and unrest, to drag society down the wrong path.

His call to action was clear: **"We must identify these Dimagi Naxals, isolate them, and bring the youth into the mainstream."**

The phrase was launched. The missiles of interpretation were fired. And the battle of definitions began.

 

Ongul Diyus! cried Mamma

 “Ongul Diyus!” cried Mama

When Sham was in first class, he thought his big sister Lalita was the bravest person in the whole wide world.

Lalita went to Kathleshwar Girls’ High School in Zaindar Mohalla. One sunny day, she took Sham with her.

“Hold my hand tight,” she said.

Sham held it tightly—so tightly that Lalita giggled.

The school was only a five-minute walk from home, but to Sham it felt like a trip to a grand palace. A tall gate, busy classrooms, shiny shoes, and girls with long braids swinging like ropes.

“Oh, look at the little one!” said one girl.

“What rosy cheeks!” said another.

Someone patted Sham’s head. Someone gave him a tiny hug. And several girls offered him toffees.

“Thank you,” said Sham politely.

Soon his pockets were full: one red toffee, one green toffee, and one golden toffee that sparkled in the sun.

But Lalita bent down and whispered, “Do not eat them here. We will eat them at home.”

Sham nodded. He was a sensible boy.

Mostly.

The Very Sticky Toffee

Back home, Sham could not wait another minute.

He chose the golden toffee.

Crinkle, crinkle went the wrapper.

Pop! went the toffee into his mouth.

“Mmm,” said Sham.

Then—

“Cough! Cough! Hic!”

The soft, sticky toffee slipped the wrong way and stuck in his throat.

Sham’s eyes grew round.

He coughed again.

“Cough! Cough!”

“What happened?” called Auntie.

“Why is he coughing?” asked Uncle.

“A toffee!” cried Lalita. “A toffee is stuck!”

The room suddenly became very busy.

Chairs scraped. Feet hurried. Everyone talked at once.

Then Mama Soma’s voice rang out louder than all the others.

“Ongul diyus! Ongul diyus!”

Lalita blinked. “Ongul what?”

But Mama already knew what to do. She quickly helped Sham bend forward and carefully used her finger to help remove the sticky toffee.

Out came the toffee.

Plop!

Sham took a long, clear breath.

“Haaaaa!” he sighed.

Everyone sighed with him.

Then Sham began to cry—not because his throat hurt, but because his beautiful golden toffee was now sitting sadly on a little plate.

Papa Janki Explains

“Why did Mama say ‘Ongul diyus’?” Lalita asked.

Mama Soma smiled. “Onguju,” she said. “It means using a finger to help tickle the throat when someone must cough something out.”

Papa Janki, who always had a joke ready, lifted one finger.

“An ongul is also a finger-breadth,” he explained. “It is a very tiny old measure—about the width of one finger.”

Sham held up his finger.

“So, I am an ongul tall?”

Papa laughed. “No, no! You are many, many onguls tall.”

Auntie Jigri counted from Sham’s shoes to his head.

“One ongul, two onguls, three onguls…”

“Stop!” Sham squealed. “I will turn into a ruler!”

Everyone laughed.

Mama Soma hugged him close. “And now we have a new family rule.”

“No toffees without an adult nearby,” said Lalita.

“And no swallowing without chewing,” said Papa.

Sham nodded wisely.

From that day on, whenever he saw a shiny toffee wrapper, he remembered Mama’s loud, loving call:

“Ongul diyus!”

And he chewed very, very carefully.

Poetic stanzas about the author, Sham Misri, drawn from the little boy we meet in the story.

**The Boy Who Became a Storyteller**

A little boy with skin so fair, 

Held his sister's hand with care. 

Shy he was, yet full of wonder, 

At the world that pulled him under.

 

Curious heart and eager eyes, 

Tasting sweets in quick disguise— 

One soft toffee, round and sweet, 

Nearly stopped his tiny feet.

 

But a mother's finger, swift and sure, 

Curved to make his throat secure, 

Drew the danger out with skill— 

Saved his breath, and saved his will.

 

Then, his father, Janki, full of cheer, 

Turned the fright to laughter near. 

With a joke and wise old word, 

Lessons danced and wisdom stirred.

 

From that day, the child would see, 

Life is rich with memory. 

Every cough, and every cry, 

Holds a story by and by.

Now that boy, grown old and wise, 

Shares his past with twinkling eyes. 

Sham Misri, friend of pen and rhyme, 

Turns small moments into time.

Sham Misri, Seattle, Washington, USA

 

Musa’s Cotton

  Musa’s Cotton

(Musus Ti Kapas)

Characters:

Lawyer: Musa Khan

Shopkeeper: Lassajoo

In old Srinagar lived a lawyer named Mustafa, though everyone called him Musa Khan. He was famed for a tongue sharper than a winter wind and a mind so clever that even tangled and twisted court cases seemed to untie themselves out of embarrassment.

One day, a shopkeeper named Lassajoo came rushing to Musa Khan’s door, looking as though every creditor in Kashmir had chased him there with a ledger.

“Save me, Musa Sahib!” he cried. “I borrowed money, and now the interest has multiplied like rabbits in spring. The moneylender says he will take my shop, my house, and perhaps even the blanket off my bed. My wife has begun hiding the cooking pots.”

Musa Khan stroked his beard. “Do not worry, Lassajoo. When the law becomes too tight, a clever man must slip through it sideways.”

The next day, they appeared before the judge.

“Lassajoo,” said the judge sternly, “what have you to say in your defense?”

The shopkeeper gave a small twitch of the head and muttered, “Kapas.”

The judge leaned forward. “What was that?”

“Ka-p-as,” said Lassajoo, with great seriousness.

The judge frowned. “Has the man lost his senses?”

Musa Khan sprang to his feet, one hand pressed dramatically to his heart.

“My Lord, this poor fellow—kapas—is not responsible for his actions. Kapas! He was once a respectable dealer in cotton. Kapas! His storeroom was filled with fine bales, enough to make even a nawab sneeze. Kapas! Then came a terrible fire. Kapas! All his cotton went up in smoke, and with it, alas, his reason. Now he remembers only one word: kapas!”

The judge looked at Lassajoo, who stared solemnly at the ceiling.

“Kapas,” Lassajoo said sadly.

The judge sighed. “Very well. It would be cruel to press a case against a man in such a condition. The matter is dismissed.”

Lassajoo’s debt was cancelled. His shop was saved. His house was safe. Even the cooking pots could come out of hiding.

Outside the court, Musa Khan smiled broadly.

“Excellent acting, Lassajoo! You shook your head at precisely the right moment. Now then—my fee.”

Lassajoo blinked at him.

“Kapas.”

Musa Khan laughed. “Enough of that. The judge is gone. Pay me.”

“Ka-p-as.”

Musa Khan’s smile thinned. “Lassajoo, do not be foolish. I saved your shop.”

“Kapas.”

“I saved your house!”

“Kapas.”

“I saved your cooking pots!”

“Kapas! Kapas! Kapas!”

Musa Khan stared at him. The clever lawyer had built the trap himself—and Lassajoo had simply decided to remain inside it, safely out of reach of any fee.

At last Musa Khan threw up his hands and shouted to the people gathering around them:

“Look at this man! He says ‘kapas’ to the judge, he says ‘kapas’ to the moneylender, and now—may heaven help me—he says ‘kapas’ even to his own lawyer!”

And so came the Kashmiri saying: “Musus ti Kapas”—Musa’s cotton—a reminder that a clever trick may return to its maker, wrapped neatly in cotton.