Anti-incumbency

Anti-incumbency is public dissatisfaction with the people or party currently in power—the incumbents. It often shows up when voters decide to vote them out, not necessarily because they strongly support an opponent, but because they want change.

I give a simple example:

 If a government has been in office for several years and people feel unhappy about unemployment, prices, corruption, poor services, or unfulfilled promises, voters may choose another party in the next election. That public mood against the ruling government is called anti-incumbency.

It is sometimes expressed informally as: “It is time to throw the current leaders out.”

I have been watching TV shows where a senior political leader confidently says that the current government is winning; the real question is not merely about electoral numbers; it is about the people’s verdict on governance. In politics, a government that has been in power for a long period is often expected to face anti-incumbency—public dissatisfaction or a desire to vote against those already holding office. Yet, if the government continues to receive public support and emerges victorious, it suggests that voters have looked beyond the usual call for change. They may have judged the government by its performance, its development work, the welfare it has delivered, and the opportunities it has created for ordinary citizens.

The disgruntled and frustrated leader keeps asking: why is the government not losing simply because it has been in office for a long time? Why has anti-incumbency not turned the tide against it? Yet, somewhere deep in his heart, he knows the answer. The government’s work has earned the trust, confidence, and gratitude of the people.

Apparently, he raises the cry of “anti-incumbency” not because he truly believes it, but because he wants to impress and energise his supporters. He repeats the phrase—anti-incumbency, anti-incumbency—as though repetition alone can create public anger. But the people do not live by political catchphrases. They judge what they can see and experience: development, public facilities, welfare, roads, bridges, hospitals, schools, and opportunities for their children.

A government does not win merely because it has remained in office; it wins when people feel that it has remained with them. And when trust is stronger than frustration, and visible work speaks louder than opposition rhetoric, anti-incumbency loses its force.

For the common citizen, development is not a slogan. It is the road that allows a farmer to reach a market, the bridge that keeps a village connected during the rains, the medical college that brings treatment closer to a family in distress, and the ITI that gives a young person a practical skill and the dignity of earning a livelihood. When governance reaches people in this concrete and visible form, gratitude can be stronger than mere political fatigue.

Anti-incumbency should not be treated as an automatic law of politics. A government does not lose public confidence merely because it has been in power for many years. If people can see and experience real change in their daily lives—if the poor receive support, villages and cities are connected by good roads and bridges, young people gain access to IIMs, ITIs, universities and medical colleges, and ordinary families find better hospitals, education, transport, electricity, water, and employment opportunities—then people have every reason to stand by that government.

A mature voter does not vote only for change; a mature voter also recognises sincere work. Change for its own sake is not always progress. Replacing a government that has built institutions, expanded opportunity, strengthened infrastructure, and worked for those who were long neglected may interrupt the very development people have begun to benefit from. Continuity can be as valuable as change when that continuity carries development, stability, and public welfare forward.

To include, I may say that a government that serves the people well does not fear anti-incumbency; it earns the people’s trust, gratitude, and renewed mandate. Developmental work can override anti-incumbency when people see genuine improvement in their everyday lives. Voters do not judge a government only by how long it has been in power; they also judge whether their villages, towns, and families have progressed. When roads, bridges, electricity, clean water, schools, hospitals, and public transport improve, development becomes a living reality rather than an election promise.

 

Thokur Kuth

In every Kashmiri Pandit home, there was a Thokur Kuth—the sacred prayer room where the family’s deities resided and where daily worship, rituals, and whispered hopes found their place. It was more than a room. It was the spiritual heart of the house: a quiet sanctuary where generations gathered, where bells rang at dawn, where incense rose toward the ceiling, and where faith seemed to live in the very walls.

At Misri Nivas, in Dadi Kadal Tanki Pora, we too had a large Thokur Kuth. It stood on the third floor of our ancestral home, slightly apart from the ordinary movements and sounds of the household. Rectangular in shape, it was about ten feet long and seven feet wide, enclosed on three sides, with an entrance so open that it seemed to invite everyone in. Yet, whenever one stepped inside, the space carried its own solemnity. Children lowered their voices. Elders removed their shoes. Even the sunlight appeared softer there.

Against one wall stood an open wooden almirah, about three feet wide and five feet high, with several shelves. On those shelves rested all the sacred articles needed for pooja: a small hand-held brass bell, a large conch shell, a long musical fork called Chumta, a drum, and other ritual objects, each with its own place and purpose.

At the center was a large Shiva Linga, placed in a broad trough. Every day, it was worshipped with water, flowers, sandalwood paste, and devotion. Around it were large framed pictures of the gods—Lord Shiva and Parvati, Ram, Sita and Lakshman, Lord Krishna and Radha—as well as images of saints and holy figures who had watched over our family for years. To my young eyes, they were not merely pictures. They were quiet presences: familiar, watchful, and somehow alive.

My eldest uncle, Pandit Sri Kanth—whom we lovingly called Bobji—performed the daily pooja. Each morning, after his ablutions, after washing and preparing himself, he would enter the Thokur Kuth and remain there for hours. The household would go on around him: people talking, utensils clattering, children running through the corridors. But from the third floor came another rhythm—the ringing of the bell, the low murmur of mantras, and, at intervals, the deep, lingering sound of the conch.

Three times the conch would be blown.

Its sound would rise through Misri Nivas, pass into the narrow lanes of Dadi Kadal, and seem to travel beyond the rooftops. Across from our house stood the Ganesha temple, where the evening aarti and prayers were also performed. Yet, somehow, Bobji’s pooja never clashed with the temple aarti. The two sounds—his ancient conch and the temple bells—seemed to know each other. They belonged to the same sky, the same faith, the same old Kashmir.

The conch was unusually large. Its surface had become worn and dull with time, its whiteness softened by the touch of many hands. Bobji often told us that it was an ancestral Shankh, handed down from his grandfather to his father, and then entrusted to him. It had belonged to the family for generations.

“This Shankh is very special,” he would say.

Naturally, I wanted to know why.

“What is so special about it, Bobji?” I once asked.

He looked at me with a small smile and said, “Come to the Thokur Kuth. I will show you.”

One Sunday, I followed him upstairs. I remember standing before him with the reverence a child reserved for elders and sacred things.

“Yes, Bobji,” I said softly.

“Sit,” he told me.

He lifted the old conch with both hands and placed it carefully before me.

“Look closely,” he said. “This is not an ordinary Shankh. It has been with our family for generations. It has passed from the eldest head of the family to the next descendant.’

Then he ran his index finger gently over a faint, wavy marking on its surface.

“See this?” he asked. “What does it look like?”

I peered at it with all the seriousness I could gather.

“It looks like a zero,” I said.

Bobji shook his head.

“No. It is not zero. It is ‘O.’”

Then he moved his finger to another pale marking on the shell.

“And what do you see here?”

I studied it again.

“It looks like a ‘W,’” I replied.

“Oh no,” he said, almost amused by my ignorance. “It is ‘M.’ You must learn to read the marks carefully.”

He placed his finger first on the O and then on the M.

“Together,” he said, “they make OM.”

Then, in his patient, gentle way, he explained the sacred sound to me. Om—or Aum—was not merely a word. It was the sound of existence itself.

“A,” he told me, “is life.”

“U” was birth.

“M” was death.

I did not fully understand the depth of his explanation then. I was too young to understand how life, birth, and death could be contained within one sound, or how a weathered conch could carry the memory of generations. But I understood that Bobji believed in it completely. And because he believed, the Shankh seemed to hold a mystery far greater than its size.

Years later, that mystical conch was lost.

And soon after, we too were scattered.

The old house at Misri Nivas, the Thokur Kuth on the third floor, the Shiva Linga, the brass bell, the pictures of the gods, Bobji’s long morning prayers, and the sound of the ancient Shankh—everything belongs now to memory. Yet memory, like prayer, has its own way of keeping what the world has taken away.

Whenever I think of that Thokur Kuth, I do not remember it only as a room. I remember it as the soul of our home. I remember the fragrance of incense, the soft glow of the oil lamp, the sound of the bell, and Bobji’s finger tracing the letters of Om on the old conch.

That Shankh may be gone, but its sound still echoes somewhere within me—like a call from a lost home, a lost childhood, and a Kashmir that continues to live in the prayers of its people.

Echoes from the Thokur Kuth

In Misri Nivas, on the quiet third floor,
Our Thokur Kuth held more than gods—
It held the breath of ancestors,
And the soft, unbroken pulse of home.

The brass bell trembled in Bobji’s hand,
The lamp bent low before Shiva’s grace;
Then the old Shankh filled the morning air,
Its sacred voice travelling through every lane.

Upon its weathered shell, he showed me, Om—
Not merely a mark, but life’s secret song:
“A” for life, “U” for birth, “M” for death—
A universe folded into one ancient sound.

The Shankh was lost, and we were scattered,
Like autumn leaves from our cherished tree;
Yet somewhere within my remembering heart,
Its call still rises—bringing Kashmir back to me.

 

O Seeker of Truth-a poem

 O Seeker of Truth-

O Seeker of Truth, to gain pure awareness,
Free your mind from thoughts, from all weariness.
A realm will dawn where conflicts cease,
The soul aglow in radiant peace.

With purity shining, wise and all-seeing,
It knows the depths of each living being.
To endless calm, the path is shown,
By mastering senses, self-awareness grown.

In moments of light, enlightenment springs,
The Almighty’s grace, such joy it brings.
Blessed by Shiva, I soared with speed,
Through galaxies vast, to fulfill my need.

To the realm where the Lord resides on high,
In the company of saints beyond the sky.
He placed me aboard a celestial boat,
To heavenly joys, I set afloat.

Across the grandeur of heavens wide,
With ecstasy and grace as my guide.
I saw great souls, in shimmering light,
Particles of wisdom, glowing bright.

They blessed me with nectar from divine bowls,
Filling my being, enriching my soul.
My body shone with a glorious glow,
Spiritual kindness began to flow.

In blissful wonder, I danced with delight,
As saints beheld my spirit’s flight.
In heavenly gardens, joy was mine,
Between Godhood and grace, I intertwine.

Oh, joy unending, I’ve reached my release,
My soul liberated, bathed in peace.
A guiding star, steady and bright,
I shine for others, a beacon of light.

The chains are broken, my essence soars,
A star of my clan, I illuminate shores.
With body intact, I’ve achieved my aim,
Eternal freedom, in the Shiva’s name.

In spirituality, Lal of Kashmir shines bright,

Sham, the Shiv Bhakta, walks in her light. 

A Tribute to Lal Ded of Kashmir on her 705th birth anniversary

 A Tribute to Lal Ded of Kashmir on her 705th birth anniversary

Namaskar to all respected guests, brothers, sisters, and friends assembled anywhere and everywhere.

I am Sham Misri from Seattle, Washington, USA. Here is my respectful poem in praise of Mata Lalleshwari on her 705th birth anniversary. It may be read with devotion:

#LV-S-2019

Ode to Lal's Blooming Lotus

(A Tribute to Lal Ded)

2.1       O Lal, you shed all earthly ties,

Desire, anger, greed, and lies.

Your lotus bloomed, so pure, so bright,

A beacon of wisdom, bathed in light.

Through deep devotion, your soul is refined,

O Lal, you shed the chains of pride,

Kam, Krod, Lob, Moh—left behind.

Your thoughts like lotus, fresh and fair,

Were born of meditations deep and rare.

‘O Lal! With each step you walked, your truth aligned.

The mountain of spirit, you claimed its height,

With Gyan’s nectar, you gained your sight.

Your guru’s blessing, a sacred guide,

Cleared all doubts you held inside.

 

2.2       ‘O Lal,’ your faith was fierce, untamed,

A disciple’s heart, in duty, framed.

Though trials tested your resolve,

Through patience, all doubts dissolved.

Irritated, frustrated, yet you stayed,

Until the lotus of wisdom displayed.

 

‘O Lal, ‘Through steadfast practice, you walked the line,
Each step is a prayer, each breath divine.
In silence, you meditated long,
Your spirit is strong, your will so strong.
When you emerged, the mountain tall,
Of spiritual wealth, you shared with all.
Your knowledge vast, like sacred streams,
An 'Amrit' flowing from your dreams.

‘O Lal,’ Through nights and days, you chased your art,

With meditation’s fire, you lit your heart.

The charms and spells you cast aside,

For truth alone, became your guide.

 

O Lal, your power soared above,
A beacon bright, a flame of love.
Your lotus bloomed, your light did shine,
Through your Tap and meditation, divine.
From Sid, your guru, wisdom flowed,
Abundant knowledge, in you it showed.
A disciple pure, a soul so clear,
You banished doubt, you banished fear.

2.3       O Lal, your journey took great strife,
Through night and day, through struggle’s life.
Frustration sometimes clouded your way,
Yet you persisted, come what may.
Kam, Krod, Lob, Moh, Ahankar, all fell,
In the bloom of your lotus, all was well.

O Lal, your lotus bloomed with grace,
In meditation, you found your place.
Your yoga, your tap, they worked such charms,
Bringing miracles from the stillest arms.

O Lal, your yoga worked divine,

In love for Shiva, your soul aligned.

Your lotus bloomed in celestial grace,

A masterpiece -of time and space.

And now, in love’s ecstatic glow,

With Sham’s rhythm, you flow.

The lotus petals, Shiva’s boon,

Forever blooming, beneath the moon.

2.4       Your Journey’s tale, a timeless song,

Where virtue triumphs over wrong.

O Lal, your lotus blooms so high,

A living beacon that will never die.

‘O Lal,’ your lotus has truly bloomed,
Through Tap's fire, where the light was groomed.
Your yoga’s power worked wonders profound,
In your heart, divine rhythms resound.

The lotus petals, pure and divine,
Adorn Shiv's altar, in sacred design.
But these I gather, not from within,
At market stalls, where trade begins.

When will my lotus bloom?  I humbly implore,
Yearning to join where your blessings pour.

Yet petals of the lotus, Sham seeks with care,
From the market’s stall, Sham buys and share.

Lal Leela: OM

 

#LV-S-2018

Lal’s Life-Biography [Poetic]

Lal Leela: OM

Lal chanted "OM" with each breath she took,

A sacred sound, her soul it shook.

In her heart, its melody grew,

In every pulse, its power flew.[2]

Engraved in her heart, its essence grew,

In its sacred rhythm, her spirit flew.[2]

 

With- devotion, she shaped its tone,
In every struggle, she found it grown.[2]

Focused and true, she embraced its grace,
From ignorance's ashes, she found her place.[2]

 

Your amulets and charms, you sought in quest,
To gain the wisdom, to reach the crest.[2]

 

Days and nights, and months you spent,
In silence deep, your soul's intent.

Through introspection, you found the key,
A world of knowledge, vast and free.

 

In the ecstasy of love, Sham swayed,
Where dance of devotion with the cosmos played.

Lal Ded Feeling Lost

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.”

Congratulating PM Modi Ji

 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

Part-I [From Vadnagar]

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.

Part-II [Dimagi Naxal]

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.

Part-III [Homoeopathy Pill]

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!

Part-IV [Naraz Puffa]

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?”

Part-V [At BRICS]

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.

Part-VI [Modi at 76]

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!”

Part-VII [Yed Vaer]

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.