"Uprooted"

 "Uprooted"

I was torn from my roots, so deep and so wide,
Like an old mulberry upended by time’s cruel tide.
The land of my fathers, of love and pain,
Now lives in my blood, yet I’m severed in vain.

The stones bore the weight of my ancestors’ hands,
Their sweat built these walls that no longer stand.
Each brick held a story, each step had a prayer,
Now dust on the wind—gone, as if never there.

The hearth where we gathered, where embers would glow,
Now whispers are ashes, the breezes will blow.
The laughter, the weeping, the songs left unsung,
Are ghosts in the echoes of a tongue now unstrung?

I walk with the shadows of all left behind,
A relic of ruins no stranger would find.
What’s lost can’t return, yet it clings to my soul—
A home now just memory, half-mended, half-whole.

So, I bear the weight of a name without ground,
A seed without soil, yet still longing for sound.
For though I was taken, though all seems erased,
The land lives within me—unbroken, though displaced.

"The wind whispered secrets the trees dared not keep,
Their silence too heavy, their roots dug too deep.
I reached for the echoes—so faint, yet so true—
But the past, like a storm, tore the world that I knew."

Sham Misri

(Sundra)

"The Camel’s Odyssey: From Ancient Toes to Distant Roads"

 

"The Camel’s Odyssey: From Ancient Toes to Distant Roads"

I. Ancestral Shadows

No child of dunes, yet king of sand,

Your lineage walks a stranger land—

Once, fox-small feet with fourfold tread

Pressed forests where the west wind fled.

Giraffe-camels browsed the dawn,

Their necks like creaking masts withdrawn,

Till fate’s tide turned: some eastward crept,

Some south where Andean glaciers wept.

North’s last sons sank into stone,

Their bones the only markers known.

II. South American Kin

Now vicuñas, light as mist,

Dance where freezing summits twist—

Soft as camel-pads they go,

Grazing slopes where thin winds blow.

Sentinel and swift retreat,

Their fleece more dear than kings’ conceit.

While guanacos, broad and dour,

Mass like storms on Patagonia’s floor—

Wild kin tamed to llama’s load,

The Inca’s weight on mountain road.

Alpaca’s coat, though fine it gleams,

Ne’er matches vicuña’s moonlit dreams.

III. The Bridge of Service

When Columbus breached the sea,

No hoofbeat shook the land—save thee,

O llama! Sole beast bowed to bear

Gold and corn through thinning air.

Still today your patient frame

Climbs where engines fear to claim.

IV. Global Steed

From Australia’s rabbit-warred plain

To Zanzibar’s monsoon-slung chain,

You hump the wire, you haul the bale,

A nomad still, though leased to sail.

Canary isles or Tuscan hill,

You bend—but never to man’s will.

V. Epilogue: The Eternal Stranger

Melancholy architect,

Building roads none could erect—

Your toes pared down by time’s harsh hand,

Yet still you walk each demanded land.

Sundra

The Blind Experts

 The Blind Experts

A noble king on Andhak’s throne heard every subject’s plea,

When came an old man, bowed with need, from shackles of poverty.

“A loan,” he begged, “of gold, a sum, a thousand coins to hold,

I leave my sons, both blind, as pledge—a tale will soon unfold.”

The king, intrigued, then asked him how such sons could serve his hand,

The old man swore on skill and sense they’d faithfully command.

“The elder smells the soul of steeds, the younger gems can tell,

By touch and scent, their judgment’s pure—they read what truths compel.”

The gold was paid, and the sons remained within the royal keep,

Till traders came with goods to sell—with promises so deep.

A horse was brought, of noble breed, or so the seller swore,

But when the blind boy touched its flank, truth rose from folklore.

“This horse will throw its rider down—it knows a milkman’s hand!

It drank from buffalo’s own milk and grew on that man’s land.”

The trader shamed, confessed the lie, and left within the hour,

The king now knew the blind boy’s gift—a rare and potent power.

Then came a jeweller, gems in hand, with diamonds bright and clear,

The younger son held one and sensed a presence dark and near.

“This stone has blood,” the blind boy said, “and sorrow clings within,

It stole the lives of two who held—a cursed and tragic sin.”

The jeweller fled in silent dread—his secret had been told,

The king sat stunned by truths unearthed more precious than the gold.

Then came the father, gold repaid, to take his sons and go,

The king then asked, “And what of you? What special skill do you show?”

“I see the truth in any soul,” the old man spoke outright,

“Then tell me mine,” the king demanded, standing in his light.

“You are the son,” the old man said, “of one who lived by theft.”

Enraged, the king cried, “Off with heads! You leave me all bereft!”

Then Betal paused upon the path, mid-air and darkly hung,

“O Vikram, was this judgment just? Speak—hold or loose your tongue!”

The king replied, “The truth cuts deep, but spoken out of place,

The old man’s pride brought doom to all—a blind and reckless grace.”

Then Betal laughed—a chilling sound—and flew back to the tree,

And Vikram drew his sword and sighed… the quest still yet to be.

 

WHO WAS KING VIKRAMADITYA?

 WHO WAS KING VIKRAMADITYA?

There have been at least four Vikramaditya in history. 

Chandragupta II Vikramaditya had 'nine gems' in his court. They were –

1. Kalidas, 2. Dhanwantari, 3. Kshapanak, 4. Amar Simha, 5. Shanku, 6. Ghatkarpar, 7. Varahmihir, 8. Vararuchi and 9. Vaital Bhatt.

The name 'Vaital Bhatt', one of the nine gems of Chandragupta II Vikramaditya, has nothing to do with Betal 'The Vampire' of 'Vaital Panchavimshati'; because 'Bar Kaha' had been written a few centuries before Christ and 'Vaital Bhatt' was born a few centuries after Christ. Similarly, the Vikramaditya of 'Vaital Panchavimshati' does not have to do anything with Chandragupta II Vikramaditya. But a logical conclusion can be drawn that those who assumed the title of 'Vikramaditya' did it only to give recognition to their success and emulate his greatness by suffixing 'Vikramaditya' to their names. This means that these kings were greatly impressed by him, and this also means that King Vikramaditya, who has been depicted as a hero in Vikram and Betal, was born much earlier and has nothing to do with Chandragupta II Vikramaditya, who was the son of Samudragupta. But even though his historicity cannot be established, he remains a historical figure in a work of fiction.

'Katha Sarit Sagar' is a famous book in the Sanskrit language written by 'Somdeva'. In fact, it would be more correct to say that it was rewritten by 'Somdeva' from the book 'Vrihad Katha', which was a translation of the book 'Bar Kaha'. 'Bar Kaha' was written by 'Gunadhya' in Paishachi Prakrit language. 'Gunadhya' was a minister at the court of King Satvahan of Andhra dynasty around the period 495 B.C. It is said of 'Gunadhya' that he composed seven lakh couplets in a period of seven years and named it 'Bar Kaha'. First this book was translated into Sanskrit language by King Durvineet as 'Vrihad Katha'; but unfortunately neither 'Bar Kaha' nor Vrihad Katha' is available now.

'Somadeva' who was contemporary of King Awant of Kashmir (1029-1064 AD), rewrote 'Vrihad Katha' in the Sanskrit language and named it 'Katha Sarit Sagar', which consists of 21,388 couplets. 'Vaital Panchavimshati' or 'Betal Pachchisi' and 'Vaital Panchavimshati or 'Betal Pachchisi' and 'Simhasan Dwatrinshika' or 'Simhasan Battisi' are parts of 'Katha Sarit Sagar'. In 'Betal Pachchisi' the poet has made Betal tell twenty-five meaningful stories to King Vikramaditya and in 'Simhasan Battisi', the poet has used the thirty-two puppets to give a detailed introduction of King Vikramaditya one by one.

Then much later, as the stories in 'Katha Sarit Sagar' aroused interest and curiosity in the minds of people, Mohammad Shah, a Mughal Emperor, got it translated into Braj language by 'Sorath', a poet at the court of Sawai Raja Jai Singh. Next, it was Captain Mart who got it made more comprehensible and intelligible by Tarinicharan Mishra and introduced it in the schools of Bengal during the British period in India.

This book consists of twenty-five stories told by Vaital to King Vikramaditya. But who was King Vikramaditya and what place he held in the history of India is a matter of debate. There is no historical evidence; there is nothing that can establish the historicity of King Vikramaditya mentioned in the book Vaital Panchavimshati. But it seems he played an important role in the historical process, because, as is evident from the history of ancient India, there had been about twelve Vikramadityas and each one embraced this title after having achieved some kind of great success as a title of honour. Even Chandragupta II Vikramaditya, who ruled from 375 AD to 415 AD, assumed this title only after having conquered Gujarat and Kathiawad which was indeed a great success.

Some anecdotalists have made available a little of anecdotal material which will, we are sure, make interesting reading. Thus goes the story-

There was a shepherd lad in a village. He used to take his sheep out for grazing, and some other village boys would also accompany him. After having shepherded his sheep towards a pasture, he used to start playing with his friends. And every day, while playing, he would go and sit on a mound of earth and call himself a king. His friends, too, enjoyed this game and posing themselves to be his subjects, they would come with their grievances, which were, of course, not real, and the shepherd lad would pronounce his judgment like a just king. Gradually, the villagers too came to know about his great sense of justice. Whenever there was a problem among them and they could not solve and settle the matter, they would come to the shepherd lad, and this boy would go and sit on that particular mound of earth, listen to both the parties patiently and pronounce his judgement; and both the parties would go back satisfied.

It took no time for the story to spread like wildfire and the then ruling king Raja Bhoja Dev also came to know about it. He called the boy at his court and tried to test his sense of justice, but to his astonishment, he found him to be a most ordinary boy.

"I have heard a lot about your sense of justice, but now I find you are a most ordinary boy," said Raja Bhoj Dev.

To this, the shepherd lad said, "Sir, I have never had education and am indeed a very ordinary boy. But sir, there is a mound of earth in the hilly region in the north-west province of your kingdom. When I sit on that mound, sense of justice starts flowing automatically from above; I begin to feel that I am a great king."

Raja Bhoj Dev sensed some meaning in what the shepherd lad said. He asked him to lead him to the mound of earth. After reaching there Raja Bhoj Dev made the boy sit on the mound and posed a very complicated problem before him. This was a case to which he himself had given several hearings in his court and had not yet been able to solve it, owing to its complicatedness. But to his utter bewilderment, the boy, after giving a patient hearing, solved the case as if it was a very simple one.

The Third Suiter

  

The Third Suiter

[Tale from Vikram and Betal]

Betal spoke from the corpse’s hold, as Vikram walked the night,

“Another tale of choices bold, of wisdom, love, and might.

In Magadh lived a princess fair, with beauty like the moon,

Who turned away each prince’s prayer, and every splendid groom.

‘What gift have you?’ she asked each one, ‘to win me as your wife?’

The first could read fate’s course begun—the prophecies of life.

The next, a chariot that could soar o’er mountain, stream, and vale,

The third, a sword that rocks would tear—a warrior without fail.

But fate then played a cruel hand—the princess disappeared,

Abducted by a giant’s hand, to all, her loss was feared.

The seer prince divined the place where she was held in dread,

The charioteer flew through the space to where the foe was spread.

The warrior prince, with blade held high, did face the monstrous brute,

And struck the giant so he died—one swift and fatal cut.

The palace vanished with the blow—the princess stood there, free,

But then the princes claimed her hand—each one for all to see.

The seer said, ‘I found the way!’ The charioteer, ‘I flew!’

The warrior cried, ‘I won the day! The giant, I overthrew!’

So tell me, Vikram, wise and true, beneath this starry dome—

Which prince deserved the hand he drew? Speak, king, and bear me home.”

Then Vikram thought and gave a reply, “Though all played their own part,

The one who dared to fight and die—the warrior, strong of heart.

For might makes right when darkness falls—his sword brought freedom’s breath,

Without that blow, the giant’s halls had been the princess’s death.”

“You judge with truth,” Betal declared, “but still, you spoke—you failed!”

And so, the ghost, no longer shared, to the distant treetop sailed.

And Vikram, with a determined sigh, held his sword in the air,

Set out once more to fetch the fly—to conquer and ensnare.

King Vikram and Betal

 King Vikram and Betal

A hermit came to Vikram’s court, a king of fearless might,

And offered him a simple fruit, a humble, daily sight.

The just king, thinking of his realm and all beneath his care,

Declared the gift belonged to all and placed it with great care.

Day after day, the sage returned, this ritual to repeat,
Until he asked to see the fruits, now rotting and complete.

The king then cut one open, and a brilliant gem was found,
A priceless, gleaming treasure from within the earthly mound.

The hermit spoke of occult arts and promised greater wealth,
If Vikram would perform a task to bolster kingdom’s health.

To fetch a corpse from distant woods where Krishna’s waters flow,
From a lonely Peepal tree where darkest shadows grow.

And so the king on a moonless night did venture to the wood,
And found the body hanging where the haunted tree once stood.
He placed it on his shoulder to begin the lengthy trek,
When from the corpse a voice did speak, the ghostly soul of Betal.

“I’ll tell a tale to pass the time,” the clever ghost then said,
“But you must not utter a word until our path is sped.
And within my story’s fold, a puzzle you must solve,
Or else your royal head, O King, I promise will dissolve.”

So, Vikram walked in silent thought, beneath the starless dome,
As Betal wove a tangled web of love and terror home.
A test of wisdom, will, and truth on that dark path began,
The legendary dialogue of the king and the ghost, Betal.

Kashmir-My Birthplace

 Kashmir-My Birthplace

The Flight from Kashmir
In the chill of December 1990’s frost,
A Kashmiri Pandit Sham’s heart was lost.
Forced to flee, his homeland betrayed,
Leaving behind the life his ancestors made.

The Abandoned Home
Lifelong treasures, gathered with care,
Left behind in despair.
Eyes welled up, tears like rain,
A heart in anguish, screaming in pain.

It felt as if, without a plea,
Someone tore my soul from me.
“O,” I cry, “I feed my veins,
With my own blood, in endless chains.”

The Burning House
Like running from a house aflame,
I left my home, in sorrow and shame.
Doors ajar, windows wide,
Unbolted, open, nowhere to hide.

I don’t recall who holds the keys,
To my home, now lost in the breeze.
Hands folded, I stepped inside,
The pooja room, where gods reside.

The Ancestral Shiv Linga
The Shiv Linga, ancient and divine,
I poured milk, one last time.
A fleeting prayer, a hurried plea,
“Protect this home, though I must flee.”

The Beloved Cows
I garlanded the cows with marigold,
Fed them dry brawn, my heart so cold.
A newborn calf, in the shed I placed,
Kissed its forehead, my tears embraced.

“O,” I whispered, “forget me not,
Though I leave, this sacred spot.”
With a heavy heart, I turned away,
From the life I loved, now in decay.

The Kangar’s Warmth
The freezing cold, it bit my skin,
I feared the night would do me in.
Quickly, I grabbed the Kangar old,
Filled with charcoal, its warmth to hold.

The Last Glimpse
I walked the lane, my steps so slow,
Turned for a glimpse, my heart aglow.
Tears streamed down, my soul bereft,
One last look, and then I left.

The Eternal Farewell
With family in tow, in fear and fright,
We left the valley, that fateful night.
Kashmir, my home, forever gone,
A shattered dream, from dusk to dawn.

Sham Misri (Sundra)

Story:

The Flight from Kashmir
In the icy grip of December 1990, a Kashmiri Pandit stood at the crossroads of his life. The land of his ancestors, the valley of Kashmir, was no longer his sanctuary. Forced to flee, he left behind a lifetime of memories, treasures, and the sacred soil that had nurtured his family for generations.

The Abandoned Home
His home, once filled with laughter and love, now stood silent and forsaken. Lifelong possessions, painstakingly collected by him and his forebears, were left behind. His eyes, swollen with tears, mirrored the rain that fell from the heavens. His heartbeat with a rhythm of sorrow, each thud a cry of anguish, a scream of despair. It felt as though his very soul was being ripped from his body, a pain so raw, so visceral, that no anaesthesia could dull it.

“O,” he cried, “I feed my own veins with my blood, and still, I must leave.”

The Burning House
He fled as one would from a burning house, leaving doors ajar, windows open, and the unbolted entrance a silent testament to his haste. In his panic, he couldn’t recall to whom he had handed the keys. With trembling hands, he entered the pooja room, taking one last step into the sanctum of his faith.

The Ancestral Shiv Linga
Before the ancient Shiv Linga, worshipped by his family for generations, he poured a streak of pure milk. It was a hurried offering, a desperate plea for protection. “Guard this home,” he whispered, though he knew he might never return.

The Beloved Cows
In the courtyard, his cows stood, their gentle eyes filled with confusion. He garlanded them with marigold, fed them dry brawn, and kissed the forehead of a newborn calf. “Forgive me,” he murmured, his tears mingling with the calf’s soft fur.

The Kangar’s Warmth
The biting cold of December gnawed at his bones. Fearing he might not survive the freezing night, he hastily filled an old Kangar with live charcoal, clutching its warmth as he stepped into the unknown.

The Last Glimpse
As he walked down the lane, he turned for one last glimpse of his home. Tears streamed down his face, each drop a memory, a piece of his heart left behind.

The Eternal Farewell
With his family by his side, their faces etched with fear and panic, he left the valley forever. Kashmir, his homeland, was now a distant dream, a chapter closed too soon.

This is my story, which delves deeper into the emotions and details of the Kashmiri Pandit’s heartbreaking farewell. 

Pakeezah (1972): A Timeless Tale of Love and Redemption

 A Poem of Love and Longing

Pakeezah (1972): A Timeless Tale of Love and Redemption

Pakeezah (meaning "Pure One") is a 1972 Indian musical romantic drama directed by Kamal Amrohi. The film stars Meena Kumari as Sahib Jaan, a Lucknow-based courtesan (tawaif), whose journey revolves around love, societal stigma, and self-sacrifice.

In Urdu, the word tawaif primarily refers to ‘a courtesan, a woman skilled in music, dance, and other arts who provides entertainment and companionship to the elite. However, the term also carries historical baggage, particularly during the British Raj, where it became associated with prostitution due to the decline of the tawaif's social status and a lack of alternative opportunities.’

While travelling by train, Sahib Jaan receives an anonymous note from Salim (Raj Kumar), a forest ranger, who admires her beauty. Later, after a chance encounter during a boat accident, they meet, and Salim—unfazed by her profession—falls in love with her. Despite his determination to marry her (even renaming her "Pakeezah" as a symbol of purity), Sahib Jaan leaves him to shield him from societal scorn. Their separation leads to a tragic yet poignant reunion at Salim’s wedding, where long-buried family secrets are revealed, ultimately uniting them.

Conceived as a tribute to Meena Kumari (Amrohi’s then-wife), Pakeezah endured a turbulent 15-year production, delayed by the couple’s separation, Kumari’s health struggles, and financial hurdles. The film was completed in 1971.

Though initially met with mixed reviews for its tragedy and lavish sets, Pakeezah emerged as 1972’s highest-grossing Hindi film, earning ₹60 million. Its legacy was cemented after Kumari’s death weeks post-release, transforming it into a cultural touchstone. The film won the Filmfare Award for Best Art Direction, Best Director, and Best Actress.

I. The Courtesan’s Lament
"Aapke paon dekhe, bahut haseen hain..."
(Your feet are beautiful—do not let them touch the ground.)

A whisper on the wind, a love without a sound.

She dances in gilded cages, a bird with clipped wings,
Her songs are laced with sorrow, her anklet still sings.

II. The Stranger’s Note

A train hums through the midnight hush,
A sleeping beauty, a stranger’s blush.
A note beside her, soft as dew—
"The world is cruel, but I see you."

III. Love in Shadows
He names her Pakeezah—pure, untouched by sin,
But the world sees only where she has been.
A ranger’s heart, a courtesan’s tear,
Love is a fire that burns too near.

IV. The Sacrifice
"Leave me," she says, "for your name’s sake,"
A love forsaken, a soul awake.
The brothel bells still chime her name,
But in her heart, only his remains.

V. The Wedding Dance
Years pass like smoke, the music swells,
A wedding hall, a dancer’s spells.
"Look closely—she is your own blood!"
A shot rings out, a cry, a flood.

VI. The Final Embrace
The doli arrives at the house of sin,
Redemption woven where threads begin.
A dying wish, a last decree—
"Love her, though the world disagrees."

VII. Legacy
Fifteen years of pain and art,
A broken wife, a director’s heart.
Meena’s last sigh, the screen grows dim,
Pakeezah lives—pure, within.

Pakeezah transcends its era as a meditation on purity, restoration, and the cost of love in a rigid society. Its haunting melodies and Kumari’s tragic aura ensure its place as a Bollywood classic.

The Birth of Pakeezah: A Cinematic Odyssey

Kamal Amrohi's magnum opus began as a love letter - both to his art and his muse, Meena Kumari. After their 1953 collaboration Daaera faded at the box office but lingered in their hearts, Amrohi conceived a story that would take fifteen turbulent years to realize. Like the film's protagonist, the production became a dance with destiny - interrupted by their 1964 separation, Kumari's struggling health, and the relentless march of time. When the cameras finally stopped rolling in November 1971, they had created not just a film, but a monument to enduring love.

A Tapestry of Tragedies
Verse Interlude:
"The qabristan winds whisper her name,
Nargis - lightning without rain.
A daughter born in death's embrace,
Destiny writes in blood, not lace."

Nargis, the Lucknow courtesan with Nawabi dreams, finds her love for Shahabuddin shattered by familial scorn. In the mournful solitude of a cemetery, she breathes life into Sahib Jaan with her dying breath - a letter her daughter won't read for years, when she too has become a prisoner of the same gilded cage.

The Dance of Fate
Verse Interlude:
"A train's steel hymn through midnight's veil,
A sleeping beauty, a poet's tale.
'Your feet must never touch the earth' -
The first love note of Pakeezah's birth."

The grown Sahib Jaan’s world turns when a stranger's note pierces her jaded heart. The forest ranger Salim sees beyond the tawaif's jewels to the woman beneath - but society's chains prove heavier than love's promises. Their star-crossed romance becomes a symphony of near-misses: a boat attacked by elephants, a runaway gharara snagged on railway tracks, a mujra* performed for one's own wedding feast.

*Mujra refers to a specific form of dance, often performed by courtesans, that combines elements of classical Kathak with local music and poetry. It also denotes a respectful salutation or a bow, particularly in the context of paying homage. Historically, it was a royal affair performed in intimate settings like kothas or mehfils. 

The Final Reckoning
Verse Interlude:
"The gunshot echoes, the truth laid bare,
A father's sin, a daughter's prayer.
The doli comes to the kotha's gate -
Redemption arrives, but far too late."

In the film's devastating climax, generations of secrets unravel as Nawabjaan reveals Sahibjaan's true parentage. Shahabuddin falls to a bullet meant to silence the truth, his dying wish a plea to break the cycle of shame. As Salim's wedding procession defiantly arrives at the brothel, Pakeezah achieves its bittersweet resolution - a triumph of love over convention, shadowed by the costs paid along the way.

The film's ₹15 million budget produced something priceless - a visual ghazal that transcended its 1972 mixed reviews to become immortal. Kumari's final performance, completed through personal torment, remains Bollywood's most haunting swan song. Like Sahibjaan herself, Pakeezah emerged from adversity to claim its place as a crown jewel of Indian cinema - flawed, magnificent, and ultimately, pure.

Author’s notes:

Societal Hypocrisy: The film analyses the marginalisation of tawaifs, comparing their artistry with societal disregard.

Symbolism: Sahib Jaan’s clipped-wing bird and the train whistle reflect her trapped existence and yearning for freedom.

Eroticism Without Exploitation: Salim’s note”Your feet are beautiful; don’t let them touch the ground"—became iconic for its poetic sensuality.

Muslim Cultural Nuances: As a "Muslim social" drama, it explores Urdu lyricism, Nawabi grandeur, and familial honour.

Meena Kumari (in her final role) delivers a career-defining performance, blending vulnerability with resilience.

Raaj Kumar as Salim embodies aristocratic idealism, while Ashok Kumar portrays the conflicted Shahabuddin.

4. Sholay (1975) - A timeless blend of action, drama, and romance. It features an iconic cast, unforgettable dialogues, and the villain Gabbar Singh.

Some other movies about which he would frequently speak were: Sahib, Bibi Ghulam; Jagtae Raho; Barsat, Nagin, Piyasa, Baiju Bawra.

If Ink Were Ants: A Journey Through Books

 If Ink Were Ants: A Journey Through Books

Imagine if ink were ants—tiny, busy creatures that brought our words to life. Each letter we wrote would march across the page, creating living stories that moved and breathed. This magical idea isn't so different from how books shape our interests and dreams. They take us on journeys where science, history, and poetry come alive, just like a trail of ants building something wonderful.

When I first opened a science book, it felt like discovering an entire universe of tiny, curious explorers. Each word was like an ant, connecting complex ideas into understandable patterns. Books taught me to see the world with wonder, showing me how everything works, from the stars in the sky to the cells in my body. They inspired me to dream of becoming a scientist or an inventor, eager to explore the mysteries of the world.

History books were like watching ants recreate the past. Each story was a piece of a grand puzzle, and I became fascinated by how events and people shaped the world we live in today. I felt like a time-traveling ant, exploring ancient civilizations, great battles, and moments of human triumph. These stories taught me to appreciate our shared past and consider how my actions might shape the future.

Poetry, on the other hand, was pure magic. It was as if the ants of ink formed patterns that sang to my soul. The rhythm and beauty of poetry made me realize that words have power—not just to inform but to inspire and heal. Poetry opened my heart to emotions and dreams I never knew I had. It encouraged me to see the world through a creative lens and to express myself in unique ways.

If ink were ants, our words wouldn’t just sit still on the page; they would grow, change, and evolve—just like our dreams do when we read. Books have the power to take us anywhere, teach us anything, and help us discover who we want to be. They are the trails that lead us to new ideas, new worlds, and new possibilities.

Through books, the journey of my interests began, and my dreams took flight. Whether it was science, history, or poetry, the ants of ink formed a path that led me to imagine, explore, and believe in a brighter future. And that is the true magic of books.

Tansen

 Tansen, Date of Birth: 1506; Place of Birth: Gwalior, Madhya Pradesh; Birth Name: Ramtanu

Date of Death: 1586; Place of Death: Agra; Profession: Vocalist, music composer, instrumentalist; Spouse: Husseini; Children: Hamirsen, Suratsen, Tanras Khan, Saraswati Devi and Bilas Khan; Father: Mukund Mishra; Awards: The title ‘Miyan’ was conferred upon him by Akbar.

Considered the greatest musician in India, Tansen is credited with the creation of the classical music that dominates the north of India (Hindustani classical music). Tansen was a vocalist and instrumentalist who created many ragas. He was initially the court singer of King Ram Chand of Rewa State. It is said that Emperor Akbar made him into his own musician after learning about his extraordinary musical skills. He went on to become one of the Navaratnas (Nine Gems) in the court of Mughal Emperor Akbar. The life of Tansen is associated with many legends. Some of the most common ones are his ability to create rain and fire by just using his musical skills. Whatever the legends may be, there is no denying the fact that he was the greatest among all musicians this country has ever produced.

Tansen was born into a Hindu family at Gwalior in present day Madhya Pradesh. His father, Mukund Mishra, was a famous poet and a wealthy person. Tansen was named Ramtanu at the time of his birth. As a child, Tansen could mimic birds and animals perfectly. It is said that he used to scare many priests and commoners passing through the forests by imitating wild animals like tigers and lions. Legend has it that Tansen was once imitating a tiger when he was spotted by Swami Haridas, a legendary saint and musician cum poet. Swami Haridas recognized Tansen’s skills and accepted him as his disciple.

Tansen began his musical journey at a young age when he was chosen as a disciple by Swami Haridas. He studied music under him for the next ten years of his life. Since Haridas was an exponent of the Dhrupad style of singing, Tansen developed an interest towards Dhrupad. It is said that Tansen learnt everything that he could learn from his master. Legend has it that Tansen, after completing his education, had no equal in the field of music apart from his guru.

It is said that Tansen was depressed after the death of his father. He became withdrawn from the outside world and would spend time by singing at a Shiva temple. During this difficult phase of his, Muhammad Ghaus, a Sufi mystic is said to have had a calming effect on him. It is he who influenced Tansen to embrace Islam. It is also claimed that Muhammad Ghaus had also doubled up as Tansen’s music teacher for a long time, a claim which is debatable even today. It is also said that Muhammad Ghaus was instrumental in Tansen learning about sufism, a mystical system in which he would fall in love with, later in his life.

"Of Humps and Patience: A Camel’s Ode"

 "Of Humps and Patience: A Camel’s Ode"

I. The Brethren of Burden

Two kings of thirst, two shapes of sand—

One curves its spine to Araby’s demand,

The other bears twin peaks like mountains low,

Where Bactrian winds through Gobi’s snow.

II. The Dromedary’s Design

O ship of dunes! Your frame confesses

A map of all the wildernesses:

Eyes shuttered dark with lashes’ lace,

Nostril-slits that seal your face,

Lips that read the wind’s dry tongue,

Feet that float where scorch has clung.

Your hide—the very hue of dust—

Mocks the sun’s deceiving lust.

III. The Bactrian’s Mantle

But you, shaggy lord of frost and stone,

Whose matted fleece outshines the down,

Whose clumped spring-shedding, gathered fine,

Weaves shawls to cloak a queen’s divan—

What need have you of jeweled robes,

When merchants trade your hair for gold?

IV. The Caravan’s Cadence

Left, then right, a rocking gait,

A thousand humps in slow parade.

Bone like ivory, dense and white,

Carves a path through day and night.

Swift dromedary, pacing steed,

Lopes where vultures take no heed—

While burdened kin, morose and lean,

Grind their teeth on spite between.

V. The Blood’s Strange Song

Not bird, nor beast, nor scaled thing,

Yet oval cells your currents swing—

No nucleus to mark their birth,

Like reptile spawned of salted earth.

Your fever dances with the sky,

No fixed degree, but wild and sly.

What thermostat controls your veins?

Only the desert’s harsh refrains.

VI. The Bite of Centuries

Beware the crunch of jaw’s despair—

Millennia of whip and glare

Have forged your fury, stiff as hide,

Till even kin you maim and ride.

Yet who could blame your tempered rage,

O slave of man’s ungrateful age?

VII. Epilogue: The Unbroken Road

No temple rose without your back,

No spice-road thrived where you turned back.

Still now you bear what planes decline—

Milk, meat, and hair; all yours, all mine.

Clumsy saint of patient pain,

The straightest thing about you’s name.

Sundra