Mahakaleswar, the timeless Lord.

 Mahakaleswar, the timeless Lord.

Brief Description

The Mahakaleswar Jyotirlinga Temple, dedicated to Lord Shiva, is one of the 12 revered Jyotirlingas, located in Ujjain, Madhya Pradesh, on the banks of the Shipra River. According to legend, King Chandrasena, a devout Shiva follower and a farmer’s son, Shrikhar, prayed fervently when Ujjain was attacked by rival kings and the demon Dushan. Shiva appeared as Mahakala, destroyed the enemies, and agreed to reside in Ujjain as a self-manifested lingam, offering protection and blessings to devotees.

The temple’s unique feature is its Dakshinamurthi idol, facing south, a rarity among Jyotirlingas. The sanctum also houses idols of Ganesh, Parvati, Karttikeya, and Nandi. The Nagchandreshwar idol is unveiled only on Nag Panchami. The temple, with its towering shikhar, stands as a symbol of timeless Hindu traditions, dominating Ujjain’s spiritual and cultural life.

The temple faced destruction during invasions by Iltutmish and the Khiljis but was rebuilt by Maratha Diwan Ramachandra Baba Sukthankar. The Shiva Purana describes the Jyotirlinga as a fiery column of light, symbolizing Shiva’s infinite nature. The temple’s rituals, including the grand Maha Shivaratri celebrations, have been immortalized by poet Kalidasa in Meghaduta.

The story of King Bharthari, who renounced his throne after realizing the futility of worldly attachments, adds to the temple’s rich history. His journey to enlightenment culminated at the Srikalahasti Temple, where he attained salvation. Today, Mahakaleswar remains a beacon of devotion, embodying the eternal presence of Shiva as the Lord of Time.

…

A Poetic Tribute to Mahakaleshwar

Ode to Mahakaleswar (Ujjain, M.P.)

Beneath the skies of Ujjain’s grace,

Where Shipra’s waters softly trace,

Stands Mahakal, in timeless might,

A Jyotirlinga, bathed in light.

From Avantika’s ancient lore,

Where wisdom’s streams forever pour,

A city blessed by Shiva’s hand,

A sacred jewel in Bharat’s land.

Chandrasena, the king devout,

With chants of Shiva, none could doubt,

Yet Shrikhar, a farmer’s son,

In prayer, their fates were spun.

By Kshipra’s banks, the faithful cried,

As demons raged and kingdoms vied,

But from the chaos, fierce and dire,

Arose Mahakal, a column of fire.

Dakshinamurthi, facing south,

A tantric flame from Shiva’s mouth,

Omkareshwar above does gleam,

A cosmic dance, a divine dream.

Ganesh, Karttikeya, Parvati,

In cardinal winds, they guard the shrine,

While Nandi, steadfast, gazes still,

At Mahakal, the soul of will.

On Nag Panchami, serpents wake,

As Nagchandreshwar’s form they take,

In courtyards vast, by walls embraced,

The lake reflects the temple’s grace.

Through centuries of storm and strife,

The Jyotirlinga guards its life,

From Iltutmish’s ruthless hand,

To Maratha’s love, it rose to stand.

On Shivaratri, the night turns bright,

With chants that pierce the veil of night,

Kalidasa sang of sacred art,

Of nada-aradhana, the devotee’s heart.

Bharthari’s tale, a king’s release,

From love’s betrayal, to inner peace,

In Kovanam, he found his way,

To Srikalahasti’s freeing ray.

O Mahakal, the Lord of Time,

In your presence, the mortal climb,

Dissolves in light, in endless flow,

A timeless truth, the devotee’s glow.

In Ujjain’s heart, you reign supreme,

A Jyotirlinga, a cosmic dream,

Forever worshipped, forever adored,

Mahakaleswar, the timeless Lord.

Sham S. Misri, a name so dear, 

A bridge of cultures, far and near. 

Through his words, keeping the KP culture going,

A legacy of love, from dusk to dawn.

 

The Three Miracle Seeds

Combine chia, flax (alsi), and pumpkin seeds into a powerful morning health blend. For best absorption—especially to unlock the nutrients in flaxseeds, which are indigestible whole—grind equal parts of the trio into a fine powder. This synergistic mixture delivers a concentrated dose of plant-based omega-3s, fibre, protein, magnesium, and zinc. Together, they promote heart health, bolster immunity, aid restful sleep via tryptophan, and stabilise blood sugar. Simply prepare the powder, store it, and take one spoonful daily, first thing in the morning, with water or stirred into breakfast for a convenient nutritional boost.

Chia seeds-

Chia seeds are minute, known for absorbing liquid to form a gel, making them a great source of fibre, omega-3s, protein, and antioxidants. They can be eaten whole or ground and added to foods like smoothies, yoghurt, and oatmeal, or used to make puddings and egg substitutes.

Alsi seeds

They are also called flaxseeds or linseeds. They are a rich source of plant-based Omega-3 fatty acids. The extracted oil is known as flaxseed oil or linseed oil and is used for dietary supplements.

Pumpkin seeds

A pumpkin seed is the edible seed, typically flat and oval.

Pumpkin seeds pack a massive nutritional punch in a tiny serving. Their benefits include exceptional levels of magnesium for heart health and sleep regulation, and zinc for immune and prostate support. Eating just a small handful (about 28 grams) daily provides health advantages.

Rich in magnesium and healthy fats, they help regulate blood pressure. Their high fibre and protein content slows digestion, helping prevent energy crashes and stabilize blood sugar levels.

Poetic version:

The Three Miracle Seeds

The little chia begins to swell,
A quiet seed with much to tell.
Tiny chia, swift and bright,
Swells with water, soft as light.

Alsi, golden, brown, and wise,
Holds the strength of earth and skies.

Alsi shines in brown and gold,
A tiny store of strength untold.

Pumpkin seed, so small, so green,
Tucks in sleep and keeps you keen.

Pumpkin seed, so green and neat,
Brings gentle rest and heart-sure heat.

Blend them well in the morning air,
A spoonful fresh, a simple prayer.

Mix them well, then take them slow,

And let good health begin to grow.

Ref:

https://www.google.com/search?q=pumpkin+seeds+nutrition&rlz=1C1CHZN_enUS1010US1010&sca_esv=ca15315824d21703&biw=1523&bih=690&ei=nWdAap6vBcXm0PEP9dXM-Ag&oq=Pumpkin+seed&gs_lp=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&sclient=gws-wiz-serp

Mayo Clinic

Two ancient legends.

 

Kal and Arka: The Puranic Stories

Two ancient legends.

According to the Puranic tradition, the names Kal and Arka are associated with two ancient and curious legends.

Kal is identified with Brahma. In one story, Brahma became drawn toward his own daughter and followed her, an act that deeply angered Lord Shiva. Shiva then struck Brahma with his trident, and Brahma fled in fear to save his life.

Arka is linked with the sun. In the Vamana Purana, a demon named Vidyunmāli was granted a radiant golden aeroplane. As it moved behind the sun, its brilliance was so intense that night seemed to vanish. The sun god, enraged by this dazzling radiance, destroyed the aeroplane with his fierce rays. This, in turn, provoked Lord Shiva, who attacked the sun god. The sun god fled and finally fell at Kashi, and the place thereafter became famous as Lolarka.

Poetic stanzas:

Kal, they say, was Brahma’s name,
Who once forgot his godly fame;
He followed after his daughter fair,
And stirred the wrath of Shiva’s glare.

Then came Arka, the radiant sun,
Where golden visions brightly spun;
A demon’s chariot blazed afar,
And stole the peace of every star.

The sun-God burned that splendour bright,
Till flame consumed its dazzling light;
Then Shiva rose in holy wrath,
And turned his fury on the path.

At Kashi’s banks, the sun withdrew,
And Lolarka’s sacred name grew true;
Thus legend keeps in ancient rhyme
The memory of that distant time.

 

Mosi and Moli

 Mosi and Moli

Mosi the mouse and Moli the mole were best friends.
They lived in the jungle and were neighbours too.
Mosi lived in a little house inside an oak tree, and Moli lived in a cozy hole right under Mosi’s house.

Every morning, Mosi swept her hole.

“Sweep, sweep, sweep!”

Moli liked that very much. His home below stayed neat.

Every evening, Mosi swept her house.

“Sweep, sweep, sweep!”

Mosi kept everything clean and shiny.

But there was one small problem.

When Mosi swept her house, the dust and dirt fell into Moli’s hole.

At first, Moli did not mind.
Then he minded a little.
Then he minded a lot.

One evening, Moli went up to Mosi’s door and knocked.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Good evening, Mosi,” said Moli.

“Good evening, Moli,” said Mosi.

Moli smiled politely. “I want to tell you something. When you sweep your house, all the dust falls into my hole.”

Mosi looked surprised. “Oh, dear! I did not know that.”

Moli nodded. “I sweep my place in the morning, but by evening it is dirty again!”

Mosi thought for a moment. “That does sound unfair.”

Moli gave a small sigh. “It is a lot of work for one little mole.”

Just then, Mosi had an idea.

“I know!” she said. “I will sweep carefully, and you can put a small basket below to catch the dirt.”

Moli smiled. “That is a clever idea!”

So, Mosi swept, and Moli caught the dirt in his basket.

Soon, both friends were happy again.
Mosi had a clean house.
Moli had a clean hole.
And the jungle was quiet and cheerful once more.

Moli laughed and said, “Now that is what I call a clean solution!”

Mosi laughed too.
And from that day on, they always helped each other.

Moral: Good friends listen, share, and solve problems together.

Poetic Lines

Mosi the mouse lived up in a tree,
Moli the mole lived underneath, you see.
Mosi would sweep with a “swish” and a “swoop,”
And Moli would sigh as dirt hit his roof!

He knocked and said, “Mouse, this isn’t fair—
Your sweeping sends all my dust down there!”
Mosi said, “Oops! That really won’t do.”
Moli said, “Nope. Not for me, or for you!”

So, Mosi swept gently, Moli stood by,
They laughed at the dust as it fluttered high.
Now both kept clean in a cheerful way—
Two friends, one broom, and a happier day!

 

The Fat Hen

(Gilayaie)

She was a fat hen; there was no denying it. Not the plump, prosperous kind of fat that speaks of grain bins overflowing and a farmer’s soft heart. No, hers was a weary fat, a settled fat, the heavy-bodied resignation of a creature who had seen too many springs and hatched too few of them. Her feathers, once a russet bronze, had dulled to the colour of old mud, and her comb flopped over one eye like a stained, forgotten bonnet. She walked sideways, a slow, teetering crabwalk, as if the world were a tilting deck and she had long ago lost her sea legs.

The boy found her at the border of the woods, where the thin, frost-bitten grass gave way to the dark, breathing loam of the trees. He was not supposed to be there. He was supposed to be collecting kindling, but the afternoon had a hushed, amber quality that invited loitering, and the hen was a peculiar sight. Most creatures fled a small, noisy human. This one merely paused, swivelled a rheumy eye in his direction, and continued her sideways pilgrimage.

“Where will you go, O’ fat Hen?” he called out, the words emerging in a singsong he hadn’t intended. It was the shape of her, perhaps, that demanded a rhyme.

The hen stopped. A leaf, brown and skeletal, skittered over her foot. She did not look at him, but at the low, tangled line of the drystone wall that marked the boundary of Old Man Prendergast’s farm. “Going to the farm,” she clucked, her voice a dry rustle, like husks shaken in a sack.

The boy crept closer, drawn by the sound. He had heard hens cluck and squawk and shriek their egg-laying triumphs, but he had never heard one speak in that low, dusty monotone, a voice worn smooth as a river stone. “Why are you going to the farm, O’ fat Hen?”

For a long moment, she was silent. A crow shouted something rude from a birch branch and flew away. The hen shivered, a single, convulsive ripple that started at her beak and ended at the sad, limp fan of her tail. “To give warmth to the eggs,” she said at last. “So that they hatch.”

The boy felt a strange, hollow click in his chest. He thought of his own mother, who smelled of yeast and woodsmoke, who tucked the quilt under his chin on winter nights. Warmth. He understood warmth. “How many eggs have you, O’ fat Hen?”

She had resumed her sideways walk, a step, a pause, a step. Her feet were scaly and yellow, like tiny dragon’s claws. “Eleven or twelve,” she muttered, and the words seemed to cost her something. She said them not as a boast, but as a confession.

The boy trotted alongside her, matching her slow, awkward pace. The farm loomed closer, its barn a great, shadowed jaw, its hayricks like sleeping yellow beasts. A reckless, greedy thought bloomed in him, the kind that only children and kings can entertain without shame. He stepped directly into her path, forcing her to halt.

“Give one egg to me, O’ fat Hen.”

The effect was immediate and terrifying. The hen’s sideways gait ceased. She pulled herself up, and for a single, shocking moment, she was not fat or weary or old. She was a feathered column of fury. Her neck stretched out, thin and reptilian, and her eyes—those small, wet, black buttons—ignited with a fierce, dry fire.

“By god,” she rasped, and the words came out as a scalding whisper. “I have none.”

The boy stepped back, stung less by the refusal than by the violence of it. The air between them seemed to curdle. “But you said eleven or twelve,” he whispered, pointing a grubby finger. “What happened to the eggs, O’ fat Hen?”

The fire in her eyes did not die. It turned inward, a low, smoldering grief. She looked past him, toward the dark mouth of the barn, toward the places where foxes creep and rats scuttle and the cold indifference of the world seeps through the gaps in the walls. Her comb, that flopped-over bonnet, trembled.

“God’s curse!” she says.

And the boy, standing at the edge of the woods with the kindling forgotten at his feet, felt the afternoon grow suddenly, profoundly cold. He understood then that he had not been speaking to a hen at all, but to a small, feathered chronicle of loss. The eleven or twelve were ghosts. The warmth she carried was the memory of a warmth she had failed to keep. She walked sideways not by choice, but because the weight of her empty nest had pulled her off course, turning her toward the farm, toward the same dry straw, the same hopeless duty, the same god whose curse was simply this: to make a mother, and to give her nothing to mother but the cold shape of what she had already lost.

He stepped aside. The fat hen passed. And as she disappeared into the long shadow of the barn, she was already murmuring again, a soft, rhythmic clucking that might have been a lullaby, or might have been a prayer, or might have been the slow, aching count of all the eggs that never felt a thing. *Eleven or twelve. Eleven or twelve. *

Fat hen

Where will you go, you fat old hen, 

Walking sideways, past the glen? 

 

I go to the farm, the warm hay bed, 

To give my eggs the heat I've spread. 

How many eggs do you keep? 

Eleven or twelve in a nest so deep. 

Then give me one, dear hen, I plead. 

By God, I have none—not one small seed. 

 

What stole your eggs, what cruel design? 

She sighs, *God's curse! *—and that is mine.

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.