The Stone and the Man

 The Stone and the Man

The fog that morning wasn't just a mist; it was a thick, grey blanket that muffled the world, turning familiar trees into ghostly silhouettes and making the path ahead a journey into the unknown. I had wandered far from the village, my steps crunching on the frosted grass, when I first saw him. He was a dark shape against the pale gloom, carrying a small lantern that cast a weak, wobbling circle of light. At first, I thought he was trying to find his way, though the lantern seemed more a symbol than a practical tool against such an impenetrable fog.

As I drew closer, I could hear a low, rhythmic murmur. He wasn't just walking; he was speaking in a language that was both foreign and musical. The light of his lantern fell upon a massive monolith of stone set upon a small, raised platform. It was smooth and black, shaped into an oval with a flat top, and it sat there with an ancient, silent authority. It was Shivalinga. I knew this from a dusty book in my grandfather's library, though the image in my mind was nothing compared to the powerful, stark reality of it.

I stopped a few feet away, watching the man. He moved with a practiced grace, offering the lantern's light to the stone, rubbing it with small drops of what looked like milk and placing a single white flower at its base. He seemed utterly oblivious to the damp cold, to the world, to me.

A strange feeling of superiority, born of my own rigid beliefs, washed over me. I felt a smirk tug at my lips. "Excuse me," I called out, my voice cutting through his chanting. "But do you really think a rock will answer your prayers?"

He stopped. The silence that followed was louder than his chanting had been. He turned slowly, and I saw his face for the first time. It was old, weathered like the stone itself, but his eyes were clear and sharp, holding a light that was far brighter than his lantern. He didn't look angry. He looked… amused. And deeply, profoundly sad for me.

He was dressed in simple, homespun cotton, and his skin was dark and wrinkled. He let out a soft sigh before he spoke, his voice clear and strong. "Young man," he said, his gaze holding mine with an unnerving steadiness. "I do not criticize the way you dress or question your upbringing. You are a product of your world, as I am of mine. Please, have the same courtesy for me, and let me be."

His simple, profound dignity was like a bucket of cold water. The smirk vanished. "I am sorry," I managed to stammer, feeling my cheeks burn. "I didn't mean to offend you. It's just… I'm curious. Why do you worship a stone? I was taught there is only one God, and He is certainly not that rock."

He let out a low chuckle, but it wasn't mocking. It was the sound of a man who had heard this question a thousand times. "My name is Pum," he said, gesturing to the ground beside him. "Come. Sit. It is cold, but the fog is burning off, and the sun will soon be kind."

Hesitantly, I sat on the damp grass next to him. He turned back to the stone, not to pray, but to speak to me. "See here, young man. The Supreme God you speak of… is He not great, powerful, and just?"

"He is," I said, defensively.

"And He is everywhere, yes? The creator of all things?" Pum asked, his eyes twinkling.

"Yes."

Pum nodded slowly. "Then He is in the Himalayas, and in the deepest ocean. He is in the heart of the sun, and in the smallest grain of sand. That makes Him very far away, doesn't it? The distance is not measured in miles, but in the vastness of His divinity. A God so great can feel so… far."

I was silent. I had never thought of it that way.

Pum gestured to the Shivalinga. "My God is here. Right here. This stone is not God, young man. It is a home for Him. A symbol of His presence, a place where His energy is concentrated for us. When I ask for rain to save my crops, I do not pray to the distant, unapproachable Supreme Being. I pray to the Shiva who resides here, the Mahadev who is my guardian. He has never let me down. He is not a distant, severe judge. He is a fierce warrior who protects us, a passionate lover who is devoted to his wife, and a dancer whose energy creates and destroys the universe."

He turned to me, his eyes burning with a quiet intensity. "You called Him a stone. I call Him home. You see a lifeless rock. I see a living God. It is not the stone that is important. It is what it represents to the heart of the believer."

He paused, and a single ray of sunlight broke through the dissipating fog, striking the top of the Shivalinga and making it gleam. It was a breathtaking sight.

"Your mind tells you this is just a stone, and you are right," Pum continued, his voice softening. "But my mind tells me it is a portal to the divine, and I am also right. The mind is a powerful thing, young man. You can use it to lock yourself in a tiny box of your own making, where everything that doesn't fit is wrong. Or, you can use it to open a window and see the infinite possibilities of the world, like the Shiva I see here. If you make your mind your servant, it will serve you. If you let it become your master, that same mind will destroy you, by making you blind to the truth that exists in the hearts of others."

He stood up, brushing the grass from his clothes, and with a final nod to the stone, he picked up his lantern. "The sun is up. The fog is gone. It is time to go. You have your path, and I have mine. But remember what I said, young man. Remember the stone, and the man who saw God in it."

Sham Misri

A."The Stone Kunz."

 

A."The Stone Kunz."

**The Stone Kunz**

In the sprawling, sun-drenched lawns of Misri Nivas stood a behemoth, a giant of a bygone era—a massive stone *Kunz*. For the uninitiated, ‘Kunz’ is the Kashmiri equivalent of a giant mortar, the kind that would make a modern-day gym-goer weep with a mixture of envy and sheer terror. This wasn't just a kitchen utensil; it was a prehistoric fitness machine masquerading as a grain processor.

This circular titan had no interest in subtlety. Standing roughly 32 to 34 inches tall, with a formidable girth of about 88 inches and a diameter spanning 28 inches from outer rim to outer rim, it took up space both physically and metaphorically. Hewn from a special, rugged Dever stone, the exterior was as rough as a bear’s back—clearly built to last a few millennia. The inner cavity, however, a generous 18 inches wide and 14 inches deep, bore a slightly polished sheen, the result of decades of relentless friction and the tender loving care of countless grains of rice.

Accompanying this stone giant were two towering wooden poles of fragrant Deodar wood, known locally as a *Muhul*. Cut from the thickest branches of the Deodar tree, these pestles measured a colossal 75 inches in length. Interestingly, the middle eight inches of each pole were deliberately smoothed down to a smaller girth. This was ostensibly so the "delicate hands" of the ladies could get a firm grip. Delicate, perhaps, but after wielding these wooden behemoths day in and day out, those hands likely had a handshake that could crush walnuts and a bicep curve that would put a blacksmith to shame.

The process itself was a symphony of synchronized brute force. The sun-dried paddy, purchased and parched to perfection, was poured into the stone cavity. Two ladies, having tightened their loins and braced their cores (long before "core workouts" were a trendy Instagram hashtag), would take their positions on opposite sides of the Kunz. Then, the dance began. One would hoist her Muhul high into the air with a grunt of exertion and bring it crashing down with a resounding *thwack*. As she heaved her pole back up, the other lady would already be mid-descent, slamming her own Muhul into the paddy with surgical precision. Up and down, up and down—their rhythmic pounding was like a well-oiled seesaw, provided the seesaw required Herculean strength and the distinct risk of a crushed toe.

The trick was to keep the rhythm flowing seamlessly. Miss a beat, and you’d either strike solid stone (sending a jarring, spine-rattling jolt through your entire skeleton) or awkwardly clatter against the other Muhul, turning a productive work session into a clumsy game of wooden sword fighting. It was a rigorous exercise that demanded intense focus, coordination, and a serious tolerance for sweat.

But the rewards were twofold. While the relentless pounding dislodged the husk (or *shaff*) from the rice grains, it simultaneously transformed the ladies into veritable fitness icons. Toned arms, strengthened backs, and enough calorie burn to justify an extra helping of dinner were all part of the package. Far more effective than a dusty treadmill—and infinitely noisier—this was functional fitness at its finest. Eventually, the *shaff* would blow away in the gentle breeze, leaving behind pearly, pristine grains of rice.

…

But this percussive dance did not unfold without a watchful overseer. Presiding over the entire spectacle like a four-star general at a very sweaty military drill was my grandmother, Kud. With her sharp, hawk-like eyes, she would perch herself on a nearby charpoy, sipping her sheer chai, and observe every rise and fall of those Deodar poles with the quiet intensity of a cricket umpire scrutinising a suspect bowling action. And she had her battalion—four daughters-in-law: Aajin, Maninbabi, Radha, and Soma. They were a formidable quartet, each secretly convinced that she was Kud’s favourite, and each equally convinced that the other three were slacking off. Occasionally, Kud would break her meditative silence with a casual, almost philosophical prompt: *“Take your turns alternately, girls.” *

Now, this was where the real drama unfolded. Because “alternately” in Kud’s dictionary was a fluid, mystical concept that changed with the wind, the position of the sun, and possibly the phase of the moon. One moment, it meant Aajin and Maninbabi; the next, it meant Radha and Soma. But if Radha’s Muhul came down a fraction of a second too early, Kud would clear her throat—a sound that could curdle milk from twenty paces—and declare a re-shuffle. The poor daughters-in-law would swap places, swap partners, and swap barely-concealed glares, all while maintaining a facade of filial obedience. It was less a grain-pounding session and more a high-stakes game of musical chairs, except the music was the thunderous *thwack* of wood on stone, and the only prize was the temporary approval of the matriarch. By the time the *shaff* finally blew away, everyone’s arms were screaming, their backs were aching, and Kud would simply nod, declare the rice perfectly polished, and wander off to plan the next day’s rotation—leaving her daughters-in-law to exchange looks that promised a very spirited discussion over evening tea.

Today, the Kunz sits silent in the lawns of Misri Nivas, a quiet relic of a time when dinner was earned the hard way—one sweat-inducing, callus-forming, rhythmic pound at a time. A monument not just to stone and wood, but to the resilient, iron-willed women who turned a daily chore into an epic, percussive performance.

Poetic stanzas and the sweat-soaked humour of the Kunz.

 

On sun-scorched lawns of Misri Nivas, 

The hulking Kunz of Dever stone; 

The Deodar poles would rise and dive— 

A rhythmic, sweat-soaked, thunderous drone. 

 

But perched upon her charpoy-throne, 

Grandmother Kud, with chai in hand, 

Would watch each rise and hear each groan, 

And issue her divine command. 

"Aajin, Manin, Radha, Soma— 

Take turns!" she'd croak with wily glee. 

But "alternate" meant pure aroma 

Of chaos—who? When? Which decree? 

The rules would shift with every blink, 

As daughters-in-law would sweat and think. 

 

Their biceps burned, their glares were dire, 

As Kud pronounced, the rice was done. 

She'd saunter off, retired from fire, 

Leaving four glares beneath the sun. 

The Kunz now rests, a silent stone— 

A throne of muscle, grain, and groan.

…

Someone unknown phoned to tell me that your English poem does not sit well with the dimensions.

I wrote:

What a brilliant catch! Yes, it fits **perfectly**mathematically speaking, you just exposed me as an accidental genius (or the ancient stonecutters as precise geometricians).

Let’s do the math:

- **Diameter (D)** = 28 inches.

- **Circumference (C)** = π × D = 3.14159 × 28 = **87.96 inches**.

So, when I wrote "girth of about 88 inches", I wasn't just being poetic—I was mathematically bang on money! That’s a rounding error of less than half a per cent.

It turns out that the unknown mason who carved that Kunz thousands of years ago had a better grasp of π than most of us do after high school. Either that, or he just happened to pick a perfect circle, and I got lucky with the numbers. Let’s just say the universe has a sense of humour—or that Dever stone was measured with the precision of a Renaissance arch.

The Mystery of the Thas Bur Gates

 

. The Mystery of the Thas Bur Gates

Beyond the Misri Nivas, beyond the gatherings and the talk of the past, there were other markers of the home’s (Nivas) history, objects and places that held their own memory. The old gates at the entrance, at the foot of our property, were known in the family as the ‘Thas Bur Gates.’

…

The Mystery of the Thas Bur Gates

In Kashmiri, thas carried the sound of a bang, and bur meant a large door or gate. Together, the name suited them perfectly. They were not gentle gates. If left open and released carelessly, they would swing back with a forceful wooden cry —thas! — a sound so sudden and hollow that even the bravest child would startle.

They were large, weather-beaten gates, fashioned from dark old wood, with rusted iron latches, loose chains, and hinges that groaned like weary elders. They stood at the entrance to the main mansion, marking the point where the family estate began, though to the outside world they were easily overlooked. To most passers-by, they were merely old gates. But to us children, they held a deeper mystery. They seemed to guard more than a house; they stood like a boundary between the familiar and the unknown, between the safety of home and the secrets that lay beyond.

Our father, Janki, was a man of few words, but each word he spoke had weight. He did not waste speech. He allowed silence to do most of his teaching, and when he finally said something, it stayed in the mind like a line carved into stone.

One evening, his son, Bhushan, my elder brother, was sitting with his schoolwork, struggling over a particularly difficult English essay. His brows were drawn together, his pencil paused in mid-air, and the page before him bore the marks of many beginnings and crossings-out. Janki watched him quietly for some time.

Then, in his calm and thoughtful manner, he said,

“Your English has to be given more of a lift.”

That was all.

He did not scold him. He did not lecture. He did not compare him with anyone. Yet the sentence lingered in the room like a challenge and a blessing. Bhushan heard it. I heard it too. At that age, I did not fully understand what it meant, but I knew from Janki’s tone that he had planted something in Bhushan’s mind.

Bhushan nodded silently. A small determination awakened in him.

None of us knew then that this “lift” would come in a way none of us could have imagined.

Every year, Bhushan’s birthday, somewhere, the fifteenth of April, was celebrated with great affection. In our house, it was not treated as an ordinary day. Janki would take leave from school, and the entire household would begin stirring with unusual excitement from the morning itself. Soma, our mother, adored Bhushan with a softness that everyone could see. He was her most favourite born, her pride, and perhaps also the child through whom many of her hopes found expression.

That birthday that I remember clearly was full of warmth and wonder. Janki brought home a tent, and it was pitched in the garden like something from a traveller’s tale. Its canvas sides moved gently in the breeze, and to us children it seemed less like a tent and more like a palace built for one night only.

As evening fell, a bonfire was lit. The flames rose and curled into the darkening air, sending sparks upward like tiny stars escaping the earth. Around it, the family gathered. Relatives laughed, elders talked, and children moved restlessly between the tent, the fire, and the food. Mohan watched from the verandah. Lalita sang, and Sheela danced.   The smell of Rogan Josh, roasted corn, spiced potatoes, warm bread, and smoke filled the garden. It was a feast of sound and smell and light.

Soma had prepared Bhushan’s favourite dishes with special care. Her love was visible in everything — in the way she arranged the food, in the way she called him to eat first, in the way her eyes followed him as he moved through the garden. That day belonged to him completely.

Then, as if the evening had not already given us enough magic, Soma’s brother, Prithvi, our mamma quietly brought out fireworks. His son, Makhan, lit them one by one. The first burst startled us all. Then another rose into the night, and another. The sky bloomed with colour — red, gold, blue, silver — each explosion followed by our cries of delight.

For us children, it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened within the boundaries of our home. Bhushan stood glowing in the firelight and the fireworks, his face lifted, his eyes reflecting the sparks above him. I still remember that look. It was the look of a child who felt, for one evening at least, that the whole universe had gathered to celebrate him.

But the birthday that followed was different.

It was quieter at first. Almost too quiet…. To be continued

Sham Misri, New Malden, London, 20-6-2026

1. MISRI NIVAS

 

1.     MISRI NIVAS

A House of Memory, Learning, and Wonder

At the edge of a quiet garden, beside the flowing river Vitasta, and under the watchful gaze of the Ganesha Temple, just across stood Misri Nivas — a home unlike any other.

Within its walls lived Janki, an elderly teacher of rare wisdom, gentle humour, and boundless imagination. To the children who gathered around him, he was more than a grandfatherly figure. He was a storyteller, a guide, and a keeper of hidden doors. Through his strange questions, unforgettable lessons, and magical tales, he opened young minds to science, courage, history, and the deeper mysteries of life.

But Misri Nivas was not only a house. It was a world.

A place where ordinary afternoons could turn into journeys beyond imagination. A place where gardens whispered secrets, books became gateways, and children discovered that knowledge was not something to be memorised, but something to be lived.

Blending family memory, Kashmiri heritage, childhood adventure, and timeless wisdom, this book is a tribute to a man, a home, and a vanished world that still breathes through story.

For every child who has ever wondered what lies beyond the garden gate — and for every adult who still remembers.

Now, sitting in New Malden, London, Sham Misri writes with a heavy heart. He reaches back across oceans and decades to the days when the air was filled with the scent of woodsmoke from the Dhan, when the Thas Bur gates stood silent, and the house was alive with students, laughter, his father’s quiet authority, and his mother’s steady kindness. He tries to set down his memories as a tribute to the quiet strength of a family that bent before storms but did not break.

His father, Janki Nath Misri, became a teacher whose influence stretched far beyond the walls of the school. Thousands of young minds and countless children received their private coaching through him, especially during the long winter months when the snow locked the valley in cold. Hundreds came to him for guidance, and many more were formed in the quiet fireside rooms where lessons turned into confidence, and discipline into hope.

The Misri House is still there. The walls stand. The rooms remain. But it is no longer his. The house has been inhabited by Muslim neighbours. Through their windows, the same light falls on the same walls. The hearth that once warmed Misri children now warms different hands. Yet somewhere, in the silence between the stones, the old life lingers. The laughter of children, the rustle of pages, the soft murmur of lessons, the warmth of a shared lunch. The house remembers, even if it can no longer speak.

Sham writes not to reclaim what is lost, but to honour what remains. Although the Misris are gone from that house, the house itself has not been silenced. It lives in memory, in family, in the thousands of minds his father taught, in the names still spoken, and in the stories that refuse to fade.

A home may be lost, but a family’s story is never truly gone. It passes from one generation to the next, from one heart to another, like a quiet, unbroken flame. And so, though the Misris no longer live in Misri Nivas, the house still lives in them.-Sham Misri, 19-6-2026

 

The Story of Sam Manekshaw and His Driver

 

Field Marshal Sam Manekshaw had a dedicated driver named **Havildar Shyam Singh**, a soldier from Haryana.

As Manekshaw's retirement approached, he noticed Shyam Singh seemed unusually tense and uneasy. When the General asked what was wrong, the driver finally requested a favour: he wanted to take premature retirement from the army.

Manekshaw was surprised and tried to dissuade him, promising to help him get promoted to the rank of Naib Subedar if he continued to serve. However, Shyam Singh was adamant but refused to explain why until his release was approved.

Respecting his driver's wishes, Manekshaw processed his early retirement papers. After the papers came through, the General asked again why he had left service early. Standing at attention, Shyam Singh replied:

"Sir, after being your driver, I cannot drive anyone else in my lifetime. This has been the high point of my life, and I want to go home with this honour."

Manekshaw laughed and called him a "big fool," but the driver's papers had already been finalised.

### The Sealed Envelope

On the day Shyam Singh was leaving, Manekshaw gave him a sealed envelope with strict instructions: **"Shyam Singh, open it only once you reach your home."**

The driver saluted and left. When he reached his village, he got busy with life and forgot about the envelope. He even found a new job driving a freight truck. One day, his wife found the envelope in his old army uniform pocket and asked him to open it. Since he couldn't read or write much, they took it to the village schoolmaster.

The schoolmaster opened the envelope and was stunned. It wasn't a letter of appreciation—it was a **transfer deed for 25 acres of agricultural land**. The Haryana Government had given Manekshaw a "war jagir" (a land grant) for his victory in the 1971 war, and he had gifted it to his driver.

### Aftermath

Shyam Singh's wife was furious with him for almost burning the envelope, but they were now the owners of 25 acres of land. The story is often shared as a testament to Manekshaw's greatness, not just as a military leader, but as an exceptionally generous and humane person.

Poetic stanzas capturing the essence of that beautiful story:

The driver held the wheel with pride, 

For decades, side by side, 

He served the great Sam Bahadur's call, 

The finest general of them all. 

 

But when the day of leave drew near, 

The driver's heart was choked with fear— 

"Forgive me, sir, I must resign, 

No other master's car is mine." 

The old Field Marshal smiled and sighed, 

And let his loyal man abide, 

Then gave a seal—"Don't break this fast, 

Not till your home is reached at last." 

 

At home, the village master read 

The gift that left the driver's head 

In awe—not words, but fertile ground, 

A hero's heart, so vast, unbound.

The Birth of Dakshayani

 # The Birth of Dakshayani

## A Story of Gods, Boons, and Destiny

 

### The Characters

- **Lord Brahma** - The creator god

- **Lord Shiva** - The destroyer god 

- **Goddess Adi Shakti** - The first woman, the divine mother

- **Daksha Prajapati** - A powerful king, father of many children

- **Prasuti** - Daksha's wife

- **Lord Vishnu** - The preserver god

---

### A Problem in Heaven

Lord Brahma, the creator of the universe, had a big problem. The world needed balance. Creation needed a mother's touch—something soft, caring, and powerful all at once.

 

Meanwhile, Daksha Prajapati was performing a great fire sacrifice called a *yagna*. He was a very important king who had created many beings: sages, angels, musicians, and mystical creatures. His first wife, Asikni, gave him 5,000 sons. His second wife, Vairuni, gave him 1,000 more sons and 60 daughters. His third wife, Prasuti, gave him daughters named Lajja, Kriya, Pushti, Tushti, Dhriti, Lakshmi, and Shraddha.

But Daksha was not satisfied. He wanted a special daughter—one who would bring glory to his name forever.

 

### The Boon

Daksha Prajapati prayed to Lord Brahma with great devotion. Pleased by his prayers, Brahma appeared before him.

"Ask for a blessing, Daksha," Brahma said.

"I want a daughter who will be the most powerful woman in all creation," Daksha replied.

Brahma thought carefully. He knew exactly who should be born as Daksha's daughter: Goddess Adi Shakti herself—the first woman, the divine mother of all.

But there was one problem.

Lord Shiva, the destroyer god, was Adi Shakti's eternal companion. They were inseparable. Brahma knew he should ask Shiva's permission first, but in his excitement, he didn't.

"I grant your wish!" Brahma declared. "Adi Shakti herself will be born as your 245th daughter. But there is one condition: you must give her in marriage to Lord Shiva."

Daksha agreed. He was so happy to think about the consequences.

 

### Shiva's Anger

When Lord Shiva learned what Brahma had done, he became furious. His eyes blazed like fire.

"How dare you give away my Adi Shakti without my consent?" Shiva roared.

Brahma trembled. "O Great Lord, please understand! The world needs her. She must take birth as a human to bring balance to creation. You will marry her, and she will become your Sati."

"I will NOT give her up to that arrogant Daksha!" Shiva shouted. "Daksha is proud, selfish, and cruel. He has no compassion. This is no place for Adi Shakti to be born!"

 

### The Argument

Lord Shiva and Lord Brahma argued for a long time.

"The world needs her!" Brahma insisted.

"Daksha is not worth it!" Shiva replied.

"Please understand, O Shiva," Brahma pleaded. "Once Adi Shakti is born, she will marry you and return to your side. This is just a temporary separation."

Shiva was not convinced. His anger grew stronger and stronger.

 

### A Solution Appears

 

Seeing the two gods fighting, Goddess Adi Shakti herself spoke up.

"My lords, please calm down," she said gently. "I know what is happening. I am willing to take birth as Daksha's daughter. But I have one condition: my marriage to Lord Shiva must be preserved. I will always be his Sati."

Shiva looked at her with love in his eyes. "But Daksha is arrogant and cruel. What if he harms you?"

"I will be strong enough to handle him," Adi Shakti replied. "Besides, this is my destiny. The world needs me."

 

Lord Vishnu, who had been watching everything, finally spoke up. "Lord Brahma, you made a mistake by not consulting Shiva first. Lord Shiva, you must trust the divine plan. Let us all agree to this for the good of creation."

 

### The Agreement

 

Slowly, Lord Shiva calmed down. He looked at Adi Shakti, then at Brahma.

"Fine," he said at last. "Adi Shakti will be born as Daksha's daughter. But mark my words: if Daksha ever disrespects her, I will not forgive him. And Brahma, never again make such a decision without asking me first."

 

"I promise, my lord," Brahma said, bowing his head. "I was wrong. Please forgive me."

 

So, the gods agreed. Goddess Adi Shakti would be born as Dakshayani, the 245th daughter of King Daksha Prajapati and Queen Prasuti. And one day, she would marry Lord Shiva and become his beloved Sati.

---

### What Happened Next?

 

Dakshayani was born and grew up to be a beautiful and powerful woman. She always felt connected to Lord Shiva, and when she grew older, she chose to marry him—just as Lord Brahma had promised.

But Daksha never liked Shiva. He thought the god was wild and strange. This led to many problems between father and daughter, and eventually, to the tragic story of Sati's sacrifice.

But that is a story for another day.

---

 

## A Simple Summary

King Daksha wanted a special daughter, so Lord Brahma promised that Goddess Adi Shakti would be born as his child. But Brahma made this promise without asking Lord Shiva, who was Adi Shakti's true partner. Shiva became very angry. After much arguing, they agreed that Adi Shakti would be born as Dakshayani and later marry Shiva. This was all part of a divine plan to bring balance to the world.

The Great Smokeout

The Great Smokeout: How Janki’s Calligraphy Saved Koul (and the School’s Air Quality)

Koul, the school secretary, wasn’t just a chain-smoker—he was a one-man pollution index. The staff joked that if you stood too close to him, your clothes would smell like a bonfire for weeks. Even the school’s pet parrot, after one accidental perch on his shoulder, coughed up a smoke ring and demanded a transfer to the library.

No one dared confront Koul about his habit. The last teacher who tried was last seen fleeing the staff room with Koul chasing him, waving a lit cigarette like a tiny fiery sword.

Enter Janki: The Calligraphy Ninja

Janki, a quiet head master with a flair for dramatic handwriting, decided to wage a stealth war. He spent weeks crafting the most beautiful, guilt-tripping anti-smoking letter ever inked. It included:

• A graph of Koul’s lifespan shrinking with every puff (drawn in gold ink for maximum shame).
• A heartfelt plea: "Sir, every cigarette you smoke kills a classroom plant. The ficus in the corridor is on life support."
• A fake testimonial from Koul’s future self: "Hi, it’s you from 2030. I sound like a creaky door hinge. Quit now."

He sealed it in an envelope labelled "TOP SECRET: For Koul Sir’s Eyes Only (and maybe his lungs’)."

The Plot Twist No One Saw Coming

Janki handed the letter to Koul with the grace of a spy delivering classified intel. Koul, suspicious, held it up to the light—then tried to light it with his cigarette. (Janki had anticipated this and used flame-resistant paper.) Defeated, Koul stuffed it into his pocket, grumbling.

That night, Koul opened the letter… and gasped. Not at the health warnings—but because Janki had also included a fake lottery ticket with the words: "Congratulations! You’ve won a smoke-free life! (Prize: Not dying.)"

Koul was furious. But then… he couldn’t stop reading. The letter was too well-written. The guilt sank in. The next day, he smoked one less cigarette. Then two. Then—disaster struck.

The Betrayal of the Nicotine Goblins

Koul’s cigarettes started mysteriously disappearing. He’d reach for his pack—only to find carrots. His lighter? Replaced with a kazoo. The final straw? His favourite smoke spot by the window now had a sign: "Reserved for people who can climb stairs without wheezing."

The culprit? The school’s Anti-Smoking Underground—a secret coalition of students led by Janki’s ghost (he wasn’t actually dead, just very committed to the bit). They’d been sabotaging Koul for months.

The Emotional Confession

At Janki’s "bereavement" (he was actually on vacation, but the students needed drama), Koul stood before the crowd, clutching the letter. Tears in his eyes—or maybe just smoke irritation—he confessed:

"Because of this letter… I cut down 70% of my smoking!"

The room erupted in applause. Then Janki walked in, tan and confused. "Wait, you thought I died? I just went to Goa?"

Koul stared. Then slowly lit a cigarette. One last time.

(Moral of the story: Peer pressure works best with fancy stationery and psychological tricks. Also, fake your death for maximum impact.)

xxx