Lal Ded, a saint poetess from Kashmir, Feeling Lost
I had a wooden bow
And only grass for an arrow.
I wanted to build a grand palace,
But I did not know how.
In a busy market,
I left my little shop open.
I searched outside for holy answers,
But my heart still felt unsure.
Lal Ded says:
“When we feel confused,
we need a wise guide—
and we must also listen
to the good, quiet voice inside us.”
9-17-2026
Birthday satire
poem
A Chai Cup, a
Pill, and a Puffa
On the 76th birthday of Prime Minister Narendra Modi
With birthday greetings from Sham Misri
From Vadnagar’s lanes, where kettles sang
And railway whistles rose and rang,
A young boy served the
steaming chai,
Who knew he’d one day make the headlines fly?
No dynasty’s gate, no silver spoon,
No English accent in a drawing room;
Just tea, hard work, a dream held tight,
And a habit of turning talk into light.
He debated boldly, swam with cheer,
Played kings and heroes without fear;
Then toward the Himalayas he went one day,
To ask the silent peaks the way.
From ashram paths to public ground,
He found a louder calling sound;
From Gujarat’s charge to Delhi’s throne,
He made the vastest stage his own.
At seventy-six, the birthday bells
Ring louder than political decibels;
For while some leaders count their years,
He counts new projects, goals, and cheers.
At Red Fort, where the tricolour flies,
He sent one phrase into the skies;
The nation paused, the anchors yelled,
And every panellist’s heartbeat swelled.
“Dimagi Naxal!”—the words took flight,
And studios booked debates that night;
Some clapped with joy, some frowned with pain,
Some searched the phrase again and again.
“Is it me?” cried one intellectual face,
While scrolling fast in digital space;
“Is it him?” asked another with dread,
As prime-time thunder shook the head.
Then at SRCC, with comic skill,
He called that phrase a homoeopathy pill;
A little dose, a gentle bite—
Yet critics coughed the whole long night.
“No substance there!” some loudly said,
“But why has everyone lost sleep instead?”
The pill was small, the reaction grand—
A self-diagnosis across the land!
Then came the Naraz Puffa, round and sore,
With spectacles, outrage, and much more;
He puffed at breakfast, puffed at tea,
And puffed at every TV screen he’d see.
His WhatsApp group had admins galore—
One thousand twenty-four, perhaps more;
Their daily prayer, both sharp and rough:
“Why is this chai-wallah doing so much stuff?”
One elder Puffa rose to say,
“Our old privilege is slipping away!
Words must come from elite salons—
Not railway stalls or humble lawns.”
A younger Puffa, meek but wise,
Looked through his foggy, worried eyes:
“But sir, he is Prime Minister now.”
The elder puffed: “That is the problem—how?”
Then Bharat Mandapam opened wide,
And world leaders came from every side;
At BRICS, in Delhi, India stood
With handshakes, dialogue, and global good.
Brazil and Russia, China too,
South Africa and partners new;
They came to speak of trade and peace,
Of innovation, growth, and global ease.
The New Delhi Declaration took its place,
With cooperation written face to face;
Resilience, sustainability, innovation’s flame—
And India chaired the global game.
The Naraz Puffas watched in fright:
“Why are global leaders here tonight?
Why is Bharat in the centre seat?
Why does this diplomacy look so neat?”
Xi and Putin, presidents near,
A summit full of global gear;
And there stood Modi, calm and bright,
Turning a meeting into India’s spotlight.
At seventy-six, on September’s day,
The greetings came from far away;
For a son of Vadnagar, born in 1950,
Still sets the nation’s clock safely.
Then memory opens February’s door,
When I met Modi ji—not once before;
A warm handshake, steady and bright,
With a calm, smiling face and eyes of light.
No camera crew, no breaking-news cry,
No panel shouting, “Explain this, why?”
Just one firm clasp—yet I must confess,
My hand felt charged with political excess!
His smile was calm—serene and bright,
It made a nervous author feel quite light;
I thought, “This is no ordinary chai—
It is courage and energy passing by!”
Even now that handshake stays in mind,
A memory warm, enduring, and kind;
Its wave still travels through palm and pen—
Perhaps that is why I am writing again.
The Naraz Puffas, on hearing this tale,
Turned pale, then puffed beyond the scale:
“A handshake too? This will not do!
Now Sham Misri will write a poem or two!”
But I replied, with a writer’s grin,
“When warmth and goodwill travel within,
Let Puffas protest, let pundits sigh—
I shall still raise my cup of chai.”
So, raise a cup—not only tea—
For service, strength, and energy;
For phrases that make the pundits cough,
And Naraz Puffas puff and scoff.
May health and purpose light your way,
May Bharat rise in every day;
From Sham Misri comes this birthday cheer:
“Modi ji, may your vision shine year after year!”
And now, before the banquet ends,
Before the Puffas call their friends,
One final Kashmiri cry we hear—
A grievance, comic, loud, and clear:
“Yed vaer!”
“Why was no non-vegetarian dish served
here?” [2]
The Puffas sighed, their faces tough—
“Global leadership is fine enough…
But without a proper feast, we say—
What kind of birthday is this, anyway?”
With warmest wishes, Modi ji, may your purpose
ever shine,
Sham Misri
salutes your journey, strength, and vision divine.
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
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.
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 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.
(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.
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.
