The Matchbox and the Message Pandit Janki Nath Misri did not smoke. His aversion was not casual—it was grounded in science, discipline, and a certain moral clarity. To him, smoking was a form of chosen disorder—a small, private cloud one carried deliberately. During his tenure as Headmaster of the National High School in Srinagar, he encountered a formidable contrast to his own nature. The Secretary-cum-President of the governing body, Sri Kanth, was a man of authority—and of relentless habit. He smoked continuously. The staff often joked that the haze in the school corridors owed less to weather and more to his presence. There was an unspoken rule: No one corrected him. Janki understood this. He would not confront. But neither would he remain silent. The opportunity came unexpectedly. One afternoon, Sri Kanth discovered his matchbox was empty. Standing in the staff room, cigarette poised but unlit, he called out: “Misri! Do you have a matchbox?” Janki looked up from his papers. “Yes, sir,” he replied calmly. From his neatly arranged drawer—where everything had its place—he retrieved a matchbox. But he carried something else as well. A small, carefully folded note. He approached, placed the matchbox in Sri Kanth’s hand, and with a single fluid motion added the folded paper on top. “A small request, sir,” he said gently. “Please read this at your leisure. At home.” Then he returned to his desk. No confrontation. No instruction. Only a gesture. The room held its breath. Sri Kanth lit his cigarette, glanced briefly at the note, and slipped it into his pocket. Nothing more. But something had begun. In the weeks that followed, a subtle shift emerged. The constant haze began to thin. The chain slowed. The habit, though not gone, weakened. No announcement was made. No acknowledgment offered. Only change. Years later, the truth surfaced. At Master Ji’s bereavement, Sri Kanth—older now, quieter—drew Sham aside. “Your father,” he said, his voice low, “was a dangerous man. Not with anger—with precision.” He spoke of the note. “It did not accuse. It explained. It showed me what I was doing—clearly, calmly. I could not ignore it.” He paused. “I could not even enjoy a cigarette without remembering his handwriting.” Then, with a faint, reflective smile: “He did not fight my habit. He educated it out of me.” That was Janki’s method. He did not oppose force with force. He introduced clarity. He did not curse the darkness. He placed a candle quietly—exactly where it would be seen.

 The Matchbox and the Message

Pandit Janki Nath Misri did not smoke.

His aversion was not casual—it was grounded in science, discipline, and a certain moral clarity. To him, smoking was a form of chosen disorder—a small, private cloud one carried deliberately.

During his tenure as Headmaster of the National High School in Srinagar, he encountered a formidable contrast to his own nature.

The Secretary-cum-President of the governing body, Sri Kanth, was a man of authority—and of relentless habit. He smoked continuously. The staff often joked that the haze in the school corridors owed less to weather and more to his presence.

There was an unspoken rule:

No one corrected him.

Janki understood this.

He would not confront.

But neither would he remain silent.

The opportunity came unexpectedly.

One afternoon, Sri Kanth discovered his matchbox was empty. Standing in the staff room, cigarette poised but unlit, he called out:

“Misri! Do you have a matchbox?”

Janki looked up from his papers.

“Yes, sir,” he replied calmly.

From his neatly arranged drawer—where everything had its place—he retrieved a matchbox.

But he carried something else as well.

A small, carefully folded note.

He approached, placed the matchbox in Sri Kanth’s hand, and with a single fluid motion added the folded paper on top.

“A small request, sir,” he said gently. “Please read this at your leisure. At home.”

Then he returned to his desk.

No confrontation.
No instruction.

Only a gesture.

The room held its breath.

Sri Kanth lit his cigarette, glanced briefly at the note, and slipped it into his pocket.

Nothing more.

But something had begun.

In the weeks that followed, a subtle shift emerged.

The constant haze began to thin.
The chain slowed.
The habit, though not gone, weakened.

No announcement was made.

No acknowledgment offered.

Only change.

Years later, the truth surfaced.

At Master Ji’s bereavement, Sri Kanth—older now, quieter—drew Sham aside.

“Your father,” he said, his voice low, “was a dangerous man. Not with anger—with precision.”

He spoke of the note.

“It did not accuse. It explained. It showed me what I was doing—clearly, calmly. I could not ignore it.”

He paused.

“I could not even enjoy a cigarette without remembering his handwriting.”

Then, with a faint, reflective smile:

“He did not fight my habit. He educated it out of me.”

That was Janki’s method.

He did not oppose force with force.

He introduced clarity.

He did not curse the darkness.

He placed a candle quietly—exactly where it would be seen.

Pandit Janki Nath Misri did not smoke.

His aversion was not casual—it was grounded in science, discipline, and a certain moral clarity. To him, smoking was a form of chosen disorder—a small, private cloud one carried deliberately.

During his tenure as Headmaster of the National High School in Srinagar, he encountered a formidable contrast to his own nature.

The Secretary-cum-President of the governing body, Sri Kanth, was a man of authority—and of relentless habit. He smoked continuously. The staff often joked that the haze in the school corridors owed less to weather and more to his presence.

There was an unspoken rule:

No one corrected him.

Janki understood this.

He would not confront.

But neither would he remain silent.

The opportunity came unexpectedly.

One afternoon, Sri Kanth discovered his matchbox was empty. Standing in the staff room, cigarette poised but unlit, he called out:

“Misri! Do you have a matchbox?”

Janki looked up from his papers.

“Yes, sir,” he replied calmly.

From his neatly arranged drawer—where everything had its place—he retrieved a matchbox.

But he carried something else as well.

A small, carefully folded note.

He approached, placed the matchbox in Sri Kanth’s hand, and with a single fluid motion added the folded paper on top.

“A small request, sir,” he said gently. “Please read this at your leisure. At home.”

Then he returned to his desk.

No confrontation.
No instruction.

Only a gesture.

The room held its breath.

Sri Kanth lit his cigarette, glanced briefly at the note, and slipped it into his pocket.

Nothing more.

But something had begun.

In the weeks that followed, a subtle shift emerged.

The constant haze began to thin.
The chain slowed.
The habit, though not gone, weakened.

No announcement was made.

No acknowledgment offered.

Only change.

Years later, the truth surfaced.

At Master Ji’s bereavement, Sri Kanth—older now, quieter—drew Master Ji's son, Sham, aside.

“Your father,” he said, his voice low, “was a dangerous man. Not with anger—with precision.”

He spoke of the note.

“It did not accuse. It explained. It showed me what I was doing—clearly, calmly. I could not ignore it.”

He paused.

“I could not even enjoy a cigarette without remembering his handwriting.”

Then, with a faint, reflective smile:

“He did not fight my habit. He educated it out of me.”

That was Janki’s method.

He did not oppose force with force.

He introduced clarity.

He did not curse the darkness.

He placed a candle quietly—exactly where it would be seen.

Charles Chaplin and Einstein

I have tried to set the scene with care: Hollywood, 1931. Flashing cameras. Elegant crowds. The greatest scientific mind of the age, standing beside the most beloved silent actor in the world. One man carried the equations of the cosmos in his head; the other carried the laughter and sorrow of humanity in his walk. 

“Einstein,” “looked at Charles Chaplin and told him, ‘What I admire most about your art is its universality. You do not say a word, and yet the whole world understands you.’”

Then came the pause.

“And Chaplin,” he would continue, eyes brightening, “replied, ‘That is true. But your fame is even greater. The whole world admires you, even though no one understands you.’”

The children would burst into laughter.

Even Soma, who sometimes pretended not to encourage too much cleverness at the table, would smile. It was impossible not to. Chaplin’s reply had mischief, humility, and truth all packed into one sentence—exactly the kind of wit I cherished.

But for him, the anecdote was more than cleverness. It carried a complete philosophy.

“Chaplin needed no words,” I would explain. “That is the power of art. A hungry man, a proud man, a foolish man, a lonely man—everyone could recognise himself in Chaplin. The heart understood before the mind had time to interfere.”

Then, to turn to Einstein.

“And Einstein was different. People did not understand his equations, but they sensed that he had touched something vast. They felt there was a hidden order behind the visible world, and here was a man who had glimpsed it.”

Mohan — The First Light

 Mohan — The First Light

Mohan’s birth came like a quiet blessing into a household already shaped by discipline and hope.

Born in the crisp air of Baramulla, he was Soma’s firstborn—a child of radiance and promise (“spun from sunlight”. Fair, robust, and full of restless energy, he seemed to carry movement within him. The compound of their home became his kingdom, and he its laughing, tireless ruler.

Soma watched him often from the window, her heart swelling with pride so intense it bordered on fear. He ran faster than the other children, led their games, and invented their mischief.

The mohalla knew him well.

“Soma-ji, your Mohan is the ringleader again!” the aunties would call.

“He has them all climbing trees!”

She would apologise, but never quite hide her smile.

These were no complaints. They were confirmations of life.

…

Mohan’s birth? "Soma's Shock."

To her, their complaints were just another verse in the song of her son’s vibrant, healthy life.

Then, the music stopped.

It began not with a crash, but with a whisper. A slight fever, an unusual lethargy that dimmed his bright energy. Soma tucked him into bed, murmuring assurances, blaming the changing season. But the fever did not break. It clung to him, a malevolent fog, and when it finally receded, it stole something essential in its retreat.

The first time he tried to get out of bed and his legs buckled beneath him, a cold knot tightened in Soma’s stomach. The second time, a silent scream began to build in her throat. The vibrant little boy who ran was gone, replaced by a child who could only drag himself across the floor, his legs trailing behind him like forgotten things. His small face, once creased with laughter, was now etched with a confusion so profound it shattered Soma’s world.

“What happened?” The question became a desperate mantra, echoing off the walls of their suddenly silent home. It was asked of local hakims, of travelling doctors, of elders who came with remedies and prayers. The answers were shrugs, shaken heads, and fearful glances. Nobody knew. It was a curse, some whispered. A twist of fate said others. A great, suffocating shock settled over the family, a pall of grief for a loss they could not name or understand. The house compound, once filled with the echoes of his play, was now a vast, aching emptiness.

xxx

Soma’s Shock

Then, without warning, the music stopped.

It began quietly—a fever, a strange stillness in a child who had never known how to be still. Soma dismissed it at first, as mothers often do, blaming the season, the air, the change.

But the fever lingered.

And when it finally left, it took something with it.

The first time Mohan tried to stand and fell, a cold unease gripped him. The second time, fear took form. The third time, truth arrived.

The boy who had run now dragged himself across the floor, his legs trailing behind him. His laughter faded into confusion—an expression no mother is prepared to meet.

“What has happened?” became the question that filled the house.

Hakims were called. Doctors consulted. Elders offered remedies and prayers. But answers did not come—only silence, speculation, and dread.

Then came the word.

Polio.

It arrived not as an explanation, but as judgment. A disease barely understood in their world, cruel in its randomness, final in its effect.

For Soma, the shock did not pass—it settled. The memory of Mohan running became a ghost she carried daily.

Her son would not walk again.

And in that realization, something in her broke—and something else hardened.

 

Alexander’s Magnanimous Conduct

 Alexander’s Magnanimous Conduct

Once, when the army marched across burning sand under a fierce sun, water was far away, and the soldiers were weak with thirst. Alexander, though just as tired, chose to walk on foot with his men so they would not feel alone in their suffering.

A few light-armed soldiers went in search of water. After a long effort, they found a small, shallow spring. It gave only a little water, and even that was hard to collect. Carefully, they filled in a helmet and hurried back, hoping to help their king.

They offered the water to Alexander. He thanked them and praised their effort. Then, in front of the entire army, he poured the water onto the ground.

For a moment, everyone was shocked. But then something changed. The soldiers felt stronger, as if each of them had taken a drink. Seeing their leader refuse water when they had none gave them the courage to go on.

Not long after, the army faced another danger. The guides could no longer find the way. The wind had blown away all tracks in the sand. There were no trees, no hills, and the guides did not know how to use the sun or stars to guide them.

Alexander decided to lead the way himself. He took a group of horsemen and rode ahead of the army. The heat was so great that many horses grew too tired to continue, and he had to leave most of the men behind. At last, with only five companions, he pushed forward.

Then, at last, they reached the sea.

Alexander dug into the pebbled shore and found fresh, clean water beneath. He quickly returned and led his army to the coast. For seven days, they marched along the shoreline, drinking water and regaining their strength. After that, they turned inland again, where the guides finally recognized the path.

Through courage, self-control, and care for his men, Alexander led his army safely through great danger.

Bucephalus

 Bucephalus

One day, a Thessalian visited the Macedonian court, offering to sell the King (Philip) an exceptionally beautiful horse named Bucephalus. When the royal grooms proved unable to tame the spirited animal, young Alexander asked his father whether he might try.

Philip reluctantly agreed on the condition that the boy pay a sizeable penalty (equal to the horse's value) if he failed. Alexander agreed and, having noticed that Bucephalus was frightened by his own shadow, simply approached his head and turned him toward the sun. The horse, thus becalmed, allowed Alexander to mount and ride him.

This anecdote describes the famous **taming of Bucephalus** by the young Alexander the Great.

**The story (as commonly told): **

When Alexander was around 10 to 13 years old, a horse trader named Philonicus of Thessaly offered to sell a magnificent black stallion to Alexander’s father, King Philip II of Macedon. The horse, named Bucephalus (meaning "ox-head"), was wild and unruly, rearing and bolting whenever anyone tried to mount him. Philip deemed the horse worthless and ordered it taken away.

Young Alexander, however, had noticed that the horse was afraid of its own shadow. He asked his father to let him try, promising to pay for the horse himself if he failed. Alexander calmly turned the horse toward the sun so it could no longer see its shadow, then gently spoke to it and ran alongside before leaping onto its back. He mastered the horse with patience and understanding, not force.

**Philip’s reaction (the quote provided): **

The court, witnessing the spectacle, broke into wild applause, and Philip, overjoyed, kissed his brilliant son. "Seek another kingdom that may be worthy of your abilities," he declared, "for Macedonia is too small for you."

 

**Significance: **

This anecdote foreshadows Alexander’s future as a great conqueror. It illustrates his courage, observational skills, empathy with animals (or enemies), and his ability to succeed where others fail. The horse, Bucephalus, became Alexander’s legendary war horse, carrying him through countless battles until it died in India (or of old age, depending on the source). Philip’s words proved prophetic—Alexander would go on to conquer the Persian Empire and much of the known world.

The Beggar Who Mocked an Emperor -Alexander

 

The Beggar Who Mocked an Emperor -Alexander

Who was the beggar? The beggar was Diogenes.

Who was the emperor? The emperor was Alexander.

Diogenes was a Greek beggar-philosopher who lived in extreme poverty. He owned only a begging bowl and a loincloth. One day, after a dog chased him into a river, he realized even a dog was freer than him (since he worried about wetting his clothes or losing his bowl). In a moment of joy, he threw away all his possessions and lived naked. He was known for sleeping in a large ceramic jar, begging for food, and declaring himself a "citizen of the world."

His Strange Behaviours

- He carried a lamp in broad daylight, saying, *“I am searching for a human being.”

- He criticised the famous philosopher Plato, who called him *“A Socrates gone mad.” *

- He was captured by pirates and sold as a slave. When asked what he could do, he replied, *“Govern men.” * Even as a slave, he was freer than his master.

**The Meeting with Alexander the Great**

One day, Diogenes was lying on a riverbank in great pleasure and ecstasy. Alexander the Great, the most powerful emperor in the world, rode up on his horse and shouted, *“You wretched animal! What are you so ecstatic about?” *

Diogenes looked up and dared to ask, *“Would you like to be like me?” *

Alexander was shocked but admitted, *“Yes, what should I do?” *

Diogenes replied, “Get off that horse, throw away your clothes, and lie down here. This riverbank is big enough for both of us.”

Alexander confessed, *“I would love to be like you, but I do not have the courage.” * He promised to join Diogenes in the next life.

**The End of Alexander**

After this meeting, Alexander lost his passion for battle. He died at age 32. His final instruction was: *“Make two holes in my coffin so my hands hang out – to show everyone that even Alexander the Great goes empty-handed.”

**Moral of the story: ** True courage and freedom come from being happy with nothing, not from conquering the world.

“Visa to Paradise: The Ticket is Real; The Destination is Not.

 

Read a Chapter from my book. The Book will be released soon and available on Amazon.

“Visa to Paradise:

The Ticket is Real; The Destination is Not.

## Chapter 13: Raktabija Replication Ruling – The Blood That Broke Bureaucracy

Raktabija – the mighty asura commander, servant of Mahishasura, bearer of the terrible boon that each drop of his blood would birth another identical demon – was consumed by Goddess Kālī, who drank every drop before it touched the ground and danced the dance of cosmic dissolution. His last thought was not of defeat but of bureaucratic dread:

*“They’re going to make me fill out forms for every copy.” *

Then he died. And woke up in a beige hallway that stretched to infinity in both directions.

The sign read: **AFTERLIFE RECEPTION – ASURA COMMANDERS (BLOOD‑SEED DIVISION) – PLEASE TAKE A NUMBER**.

Raktabija took a number. It was **∞**. The display read *Now serving: 1*.

He waited. After a subjective eternity (but only three celestial hours), he reached the counter. The clerk was not a single being but a committee of seven yama dutas, each with a different coloured stamp, seated behind a desk that extended past the horizon.

“Name?” said the first clerk.

“Raktabija.”

“Also known as?”

“Blood Seed. The Duplicator. The One Who Overwhelmed the Gods. The Reason Kālī Had to Dance.”

“Yes, yes.” The clerk tapped a screen. “Your boon from Brahma: *‘Each drop of your blood that falls to the ground shall become another Raktabija, equal in strength and fury.’* That boon was activated during your battle with the gods. Approximately… let me calculate… based on the number of wounds inflicted by the devas, the Mātṛkās, and finally Kālī…”

A second clerk held up a scroll that unfurled across the floor. “You produced **eighteen million, four hundred thousand, seven hundred and eleven copies** before Kālī consumed the last drop.”

Raktabija’s jaw dropped. “That many?”

“Plus the original. You are copy number zero. The copies were all destroyed – devoured, stamped, eliminated. But under Celestial Law § 14, Subclause D: ‘Any entity that exists for more than one second with independent consciousness is required to file an afterlife intake form.’”

“Independent consciousness? They were me! They thought my thoughts!”

“Every copy, according to the testimony of the goddesses, screamed ‘I am Raktabija!’ and fought independently. That is evidence of separate identity. Therefore, you are responsible for filing **18,400,711 afterlife intake forms** – one for each copy, plus your own.”

Raktabija fell to his knees. “That’s impossible.”

The third clerk smiled. “Welcome to eternity.”

Raktabija requested a hearing. The court summoned Goddess Kālī as the primary witness. She appeared in her fearsome form, tongue extended, garland of skulls rattling. The courtroom temperature dropped to absolute zero.

“Kālī,” said the judge, “did you consume the Raktabija copies?”

“I did.” Her voice was the sound of galaxies collapsing. “I drank every drop. I devoured every duplicate. I danced until the world almost ended. Shiva had to calm me.”

“Did the copies have individual consciousness?”

Kālī laughed – a terrifying, beautiful sound. “They screamed. They fought. They tried to run. Of course they had consciousness. They were distinct enough to fear me.”

The judge turned to Raktabija. “The copies are legally separate entities. However – because they were all *identical* and *simultaneously existent*, the court will allow **bulk processing** using a new form: **Raktabija Schedule B‑Infinity**.”

Raktabija breathed a sigh of relief.

The judge continued: “You must fill out the bulk form by listing every copy’s *moment of creation*, *duration of existence*, and *method of destruction*. For eighteen million copies.”

Raktabija’s legal team (three pro bono pishachas) argued that tracking each drop was impossible. The court agreed to a mathematical approximation:

| Field | Entry |

|-------|-------|

| Name of Original | Raktabija |

| Number of Copies | 18,400,711 |

| Method of Creation | Blood drop on ground |

| Average Lifespan | 2.3 seconds |

| Cause of Death (All) | Devoured by Kālī |

| Did any copy escape? | No |

| Did any copy file a separate appeal? | No |

Raktabija signed. His hand cramped after the first million signatures (each copy required a “representative signature” – the court allowed a stamp after the first million).

He then argued that his boon was *unfair* because it led to his own destruction. Brahma’s deposition was read aloud: *“The boon was requested and granted. Raktabija asked for invincibility through multiplication. He did not ask for protection from goddesses who drink blood. The universe contains entities that drink blood. That is not my responsibility.”*

The final ruling was swift:

- **Original Raktabija**: Classified as **Asura Commander (Tier 2)** . Eligible for Purgatory with possibility of parole after 50,000 years.

- **Copies**: Classified as **Temporary Combat Duplicates** with no independent soul rights. Bulk processing approved. No further paperwork required from Raktabija.

- **Boon**: Upheld. It worked exactly as requested – but the universe has counters to every boon. Kālī was that counter.

- **Restitution**: Raktabija must pay 1 EterniCoin per copy to the **Celestial Cleaning Fund** (to compensate for the mess of blood on the battlefield). Total owed: 18,400,711 EterniCoins. He does not have this wealth. He will work it off as a Gaṇa labourer under Shiva’s supervision.

**Additional condition**: Raktabija is forbidden from ever bleeding on celestial property. He has been issued a **Divine Bandage** that seals all wounds instantly.

Raktabija now resides in a small cell in Purgatory Wing B‑7 (Blood‑Seed Annex). He spends his days polishing Shiva’s trident and his nights calculating compound interest on his eternal debt. Once a year, Kali visits. She does not eat him. She simply stares. He has learned to hold very still.

The 18,400,711 copies have no afterlife. They were consumed, erased, forgotten. But sometimes, in the wind of Mount Mandara, one can hear a faint scream – the echo of a million brief lives, ended by a goddess’s tongue.

**Plaque of the chapter: ** 

> *“Every drop becomes a demon. Every demon becomes a form. Every form becomes a meal. And the paperwork? Bulk processed. Next.” *

·       An Account of The Way of Yama.

Here’s your passage broken down into simple, easy bullet points:

·        Garuḍa asks Keśava (Vishnu) about the painful path to Yama’s world and how sinners travel there.

·        Vishnu warns that hearing about this path will be disturbing, even for a devotee.

·        The path has no shade from trees, so there is nowhere to rest.

·        There is no food available to sustain life.

·        There is no water anywhere, leaving souls extremely thirsty.

·        Twelve suns blaze overhead, making the heat unbearable (like the end of the world).

·        Souls are battered by freezing cold winds despite the intense heat.

·        The path is full of physical suffering:

o   Torn by thorns in some places.

o   Bitten by venomous snakes.

o   Attacked by lions, tigers, and dogs.

o   Stung by scorpions.

o   Burned by fire.

·        There is a HUGE forest of sword-like leaves:

o   About 2000 yojanas in size (vast and endless).

o   Leaves cut and tear the body.

o   Filled with crows, owls, hawks, vultures, bees, and mosquitoes.

o   Forest fires rage within it.