Himal and Nagrai

Love is not always quiet and gentle. Sometimes, it is a force that dares, struggles, and refuses to give up. It gives people the courage to fight against fear and the strength to hold on, even when everything seems lost.

And sometimes, such love is not just a feeling, but a story waiting to be lived—hidden in quiet places, carried by ordinary hearts, and tested by extraordinary trials.

Such love is born in silence, like a whisper in the wind,
It chooses simple hearts and draws them into destiny.

Here is one story of Himal and Nagrai

In the valley of Kashmir, where rivers whisper and mountains stand like silent guardians, lived a girl named Himal. She was gentle yet strong, with eyes that held quiet dreams and a heart which was braver than it seemed.

In her small village by the shining river, people knew her for her kindness and calm grace, but few understood the quiet courage that lived within her.

One evening, as the fading light turned the waters gold, Himal wandered to the riverbank. There, she saw a stranger—tall, mysterious, and unlike anyone she had ever met. His name was Nagrai. There was something unusual about him, something hidden beneath his calm smile, as though he carried a secret as deep as the river itself.

One evening, as the sky turned golden, Himal noticed a young man standing by the river.

“Who are you?” she asked, stepping closer.

The stranger smiled softly. “My name is Nagrai.”

There was something unusual about his eyes that seemed deep, like hidden waters.

Days passed, and they met often by the river.

“You always come here,” Himal said one day. “Why?”

Nagrai looked at the flowing water. “Because this is where I feel closest to… who I truly am.”

Himal did not fully understand, but she trusted him.

Soon, their friendship turned into love.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Himal whispered one evening.

“You never will,” Nagrai replied, though a shadow crossed his face.

…

Love is a river, silent and deep,
It guards its secrets; it does not sleep.
Through storm and night, through fear and pain,
It finds its way again and again.

…

They married, and for a time, their home was filled with laughter and peace.

But one night, everything changed.

Himal’s brother had been watching.

“There is something wrong with him,” he told the family. “We must find out the truth.”

They followed Nagrai to the river. What they saw filled them with terror.

As moonlight touched the water, Nagrai’s form began to change—his human shape fading into that of a great serpent.

“A monster!” someone shouted.

Himal cried out, “No! He is not a monster—he is my husband!”

But fear had already taken over.

“Leave this place!” her family shouted at Nagrai. “Never return!”

With a heavy heart, Nagrai looked at Himal.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said softly. “But this is who I am.”

And then, he disappeared into the dark waters.

…

When truth appears in a fearful guise,
The heart must choose; the spirit decides.
Is love a flame that fades in fright,
Or one that burns through the darkest night?

…

“Himal!” her mother cried. “Forget him!”

But Himal fell to her knees by the river.

“I will find you,” she whispered. “No matter where you are.”

Days later, she left her home.

Through thick forests, she walked alone.

“Turn back!” travellers warned her. “No one returns from that path!”

“I must go,” she replied. “My heart is already there.”

She crossed icy rivers, climbed steep mountains, and faced storms that nearly broke her spirit.

At last, she reached the edge of a deep, silent lake.

“This is where he belongs,” she said.

Taking a deep breath, she called out, “Nagrai! I am here!”

The water stirred.

From the depths, Nagrai appeared.

“Himal… why did you come?” he asked, his voice filled with both hope and fear.

“Because I love you,” she said firmly. “Not just your human form—but all that you are.”

There was a long silence.

Then Nagrai stepped closer.

“You were never afraid?” he asked.

“I was,” she admitted. “But my love is stronger than my fear.”

At that moment, something changed. The barrier between their worlds began to fade.

Nagrai reached out his hand.

“And my love will never leave you again.”

Himal took his hand.

….

Love that walks through fire and sea,
Breaks every chain, sets spirits free.
No wall, no world can stand above,
The quiet strength of faithful love.

Two Loves, Two Fates: The Tale of Laila-Majnun and the Pune Fort Murder

Two Loves, Two Fates: The Tale of Laila-Majnun and the Pune Fort Murder

For the last few days, I have been watching the Pune Fort trekking murder case that the Indian media has been reporting on. In that case, police allege a bride-to-be and her lover conspired to kill her fiancé, Ketan Agarwal, by pushing him into a gorge at Lohagad Fort; what first looked like an accident was later treated as a planned murder. According to reports, Agarwal went trekking with his fiancée, Siya Goyal, and police later said her alleged lover, Chetan Chaudhary, was also involved. Investigators believe Goyal did not want the marriage to go ahead because of her relationship with Chaudhary, and the pair allegedly plotted to eliminate the would-be groom.

As I read this chilling tale of betrayal, my mind wandered to another story from the ancient sands of Arabia, where love was not a weapon but a wound, where hearts broke not from treachery but from fate's cruel hand. The contrast struck me like a thunderbolt. In one story, we see love twisted into murder; in the other, we see love transformed into madness and martyrdom. Both tales speak of lovers and unwanted marriages, but where one woman used treachery to avoid marriage, another would offer her life for it. Let me take you now to that timeless desert legend—a story that will make your heart ache and your eyes overflow with tears.

---

The Legend of Laila and Majnu: A Love Written in the Stars

In the heart of the vast, unforgiving Arabian desert, under a sky full of a million glittering stars, there lived a young man named Qais. He was the son of a respected chieftain, a boy with a gentle heart and a head full of poetry. His world was simple, full of the scent of date palms and the warmth of the desert sun. But his life was forever changed the day he met Laila.

It was at a school for the children of the tribe. Laila was like a mirage made real, a girl with eyes as dark as the desert night and a smile that could rival the morning sun. Her laughter was like the tinkling of silver bells, the most beautiful sound Qais had ever heard. He was mesmerised.

From that day on, Qais was a changed man. He spent his days stealing glances at Laila, his heart beating an agitated rhythm against his ribs. His only wish was to hear her voice, to see her smile. He began to write poems, not about the desert or his tribe, but about her. He filled his notebooks with verses praising her beauty and his devotion.

 

"I have lost my heart to Laila,"* he would whisper to the wind.

"She is not a girl; she is a moon, and I am but a moth drawn to her light."

Laila, in turn, felt a deep affection for Qais. She saw the sincere poetry in his eyes and the gentleness in his soul. In a world where women were often seen and not heard, Qais saw her. He saw her spirit, her intelligence, her very soul. They would exchange secret glances, their hearts speaking a language that needed no words. He would leave her small gifts—a desert flower, a perfectly smooth stone—and she would blush and hide them in the folds of her dress. Their love was an innocent, all-consuming fire that grew stronger with each passing day.

But their love was not meant to be a simple one. Their families belonged to rival tribes, and such a union was unthinkable. The elders, bound by old traditions and pride, would never allow it. When Qais's father, seeing his son's mad devotion, went to Laila's father to ask for her hand, he was met with a stern refusal.

 

"Laila is promised to another, a wealthy merchant from a powerful tribe,” Laila’s father declared, his voice cold as steel. "Your son is a dreamer, a poet. He is not worthy of my daughter."*

The news shattered Qais. It was as if the desert sun had been extinguished out, leaving him in eternal darkness. The world that had once been so full of colour and light turned grey. He could not eat, could not sleep. His poetry, once filled with beauty, became filled with sorrow. He roamed the desert, talking to the stars, his cries echoing into the empty night.

 

It was then that the people started calling him "Majnun," which means "The Mad One." He had gone mad with love. His eyes, once full of life, now held a vacant, haunted look. He wore tattered clothes and let his hair grow long. He was no longer Qais, the chieftain's son. He was Majnun, the wandering lover, the mad poet of the desert.

Laila, meanwhile, was forced into a marriage she did not want. She was taken to her husband's tent, a prisoner in a gilded cage. Her heart, however, remained in the desert with her Majnun. She would hear stories of his madness, of how he wandered the dunes crying her name, and her tears would flow like rivers. She was trapped, a beautiful bird in a cage, forced to sing for a master she did not love. The news of his suffering was a slow poison, killing her spirit day by day.

 

One day, Majnun learned that Laila was ailing. He rushed to the outskirts of her tribe's village, but he was not allowed to see her. He stood on the edge of the dunes, screaming her name into the wind. He composed a final, heartbreaking poem for her, sending it on the wings of a pigeon.

"My Laila," he wrote in his most passionate verse.  "If you are to leave this world, let me be the one to carry you. Let my soul be your vessel. If you must perish, then take my heart with you, for it has always, and will always, belong to you."

Laila received the message. With tears streaming down her face, she read his beautiful, sorrowful words. The pain of their separation was too much for her fragile heart to bear. That night, under the same stars that had witnessed their love, Laila breathed her last.

She did not push anyone off a fort. She did not conspire. She simply died—because a heart that loves so purely cannot survive without its other half.

When Majnun heard the news, the world stopped. A silence deeper than the desert night fell upon him. He fell to his knees, and a wail of such pure agony erupted from his soul that the very sand seemed to tremble.

He had lost his Laila, the moon that had guided him through his darkness. There was nothing left for him in this world. He made his way to her grave, a simple mound of sand. He collapsed upon it; his body wracked with cries and tears. He didn't speak, didn't weep. He just lay there, his cheek pressed against the cold, rough sand that held his beloved. The sun rose and set. The desert wind screamed and shrieked, but Majnun did not move. He had found his peace. He had rejoined his Laila.

Many years later, the people of the desert who found their bodies were amazed. When they lifted Majnun's lifeless form from Laila's grave, they saw that the sand had been stained a deep crimson. The legend says that it was not from his blood, but from the tears of the heavens, crying for the two lovers who had defied fate itself.

They say that if you listen closely on a quiet desert night, you can still hear the echo of Majnun's poetry in the wind and see the spirit of Laila in the most beautiful of desert flowers, forever intertwined, an eternal love story written in the sands of time. Theirs was a love so strong, so pure, that it could not be contained in one life. It was madness, yes, but it was the most beautiful madness the world had ever known.

---

As I close this tale and return to the grim news of Pune Fort, I cannot help but wonder—what makes one heart choose murder and another choose martyrdom? Siya and Chetan chose violence to escape a marriage. Laila and Majnun chose to suffer, to pine, and ultimately to die—but they never chose to harm another soul. In their tragedy, there was nobility. In their madness, there was purity. And perhaps that is why, centuries later, we still weep for Laila and Majnun, while the names from Pune will fade into forgotten newsprint.

Love, when pure, is a flame that burns only lovers themselves. Love, when poisoned, becomes a fire that consumes everyone in its path. Choose your story wisely.

Sham Misri from Washington

7-4-2026

 

A kettle cannot balance itself on one stone; on three, however, it does.

A kettle cannot balance itself on one stone; on three, however, it does.

In a small village at the foot of a hill lived a boy named Sameer. One day, his mother asked him to cook rice while she went to visit a neighbour.

Sameer was excited. “I can do this easily,” he said.

He brought a metal kettle, filled it with water and rice, and went outside to make a fire. He found one large stone and placed the kettle on top of it.

“Perfect,” he said proudly.

He lit the fire underneath and waited. But soon, the kettle began to wobble. The water inside shook, and suddenly—clang!—the kettle fell over, spilling everything into the fire.

“Oh no!” Sameer cried.

Just then, his grandfather, who had been watching quietly, walked over. “What happened?” he asked.

“The kettle won’t stay still,” Sameer said. “Maybe the stone is not strong enough.”

His grandfather smiled. “The problem is not strength, but balance.”

He picked up two more stones and placed them carefully in a triangle. Then he set the kettle on top.

“Try again,” he said.

Sameer lit the fire once more. This time, the kettle stood steady. The water boiled calmly, and the rice cooked perfectly.

Sameer’s eyes widened. “It works! But why?”

His grandfather said, “A kettle cannot balance itself on one stone. On three, however, it does. Three points give it support.”

Sameer thought for a moment. “So… more support makes things stable?”

“Yes,” his grandfather replied. “And this is not just about kettles.”

He continued, “In life, you also need more than one support. A person who depends on only one thing—like strength, money, or luck—can easily fall. But with three supports, like hard work, wisdom, and patience, life becomes steady.”

Sameer nodded slowly, understanding the lesson.

That evening, when his mother returned, she was pleased to see the perfectly cooked rice.

And Sameer never forgot what he had learned—not just how to balance a kettle, but how to balance life itself.

 

 

THE BAT SUPPORTING THE HEAVENS, Space.

One evening in a quiet forest, the animals gathered under a large banyan tree. The sky was glowing red as the sun began to set, and a strange wind rustled the leaves.

“I heard something frightening,” said a rabbit, trembling nervously. “What if the heavens fall one day?”

The animals inhaled and gasped. A deer looked up at the sky. “The sky is so big! If it falls, we will all be crushed.”

A monkey clung tightly to a branch. “We must do something! We need a plan!”

Just then, a small bat hanging upside down from a branch cleared its throat. “Why are you all so worried?” he said calmly.

The animals turned to him.

“If the heavens fall,” the bat continued proudly, “I may be able to support them.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then the animals began whispering among themselves.

“You?” said the fox, raising an eyebrow. “You are so small!”

The bat flapped its wings and puffed up its chest. “Do not judge by size. I have strong wings and great courage. When the sky falls, I will hold it up.”

The animals were not fully convinced, but some felt comforted. “At least someone is brave,” said the rabbit.

Night fell, and soon a loud thunder echoed across the forest. Lightning flashed, and the sky seemed to roar.

“The heavens are falling!” cried the deer.

In a panic, all the animals ran in different directions. The bat quickly flew under a tree branch and clung tightly to it—with his feet pointing upward.

“See!” he shouted. “I am ready to hold up the sky!”

But nothing fell except rain. The storm passed after a while, and the sky became calm again.

Slowly, the animals returned. They saw the bat still hanging upside down, looking very serious.

“The sky didn’t fall,” said the monkey.

“Yes,” the fox added with a smile, “and it seems it didn’t need your help either.”

The bat quietly folded his wings, a little embarrassed. He had spoken big words, but nothing had really happened.

The wise old owl, who had watched everything from above, finally spoke. “It is easy to boast about strength when there is no real danger. True courage is shown in action, not in words.”

The bat said nothing. From that day on, he spoke less and thought more.

And the animals learned an important lesson: those who claim they can carry the weight of the sky often cannot even hold their own pride.

…

Poetic Stanzas

Here are two poetic stanzas shaped from the idea, with a reflective, allegorical tone:

Beneath a sky too vast to hold, the anxious creatures cried,
“What if the heavens split and fall, and nowhere left to hide?”
A bat, half-shadow, half-pride, from twilight’s edge declared,
“I dwell where earth meets trembling sky—I alone have dared.”

The storm then roared, the heavens flashed, yet nothing truly broke,
The bat clung tight to borrowed heights, a promise left unproved.
For those who boast of holding worlds that never ask their hand,
Are often safest in their claims—where none can test their stand.

Never walk behind a horse or before a king, as you will get kicked in either case.

 Never walk behind a horse or before a king, as you will get kicked in either case.

In the lively village of Awantipur lived a boy named Arif, known for two things: his curiosity and his talent for getting into trouble.

One morning, his father handed him a sack of grain to take to the mill. “And listen carefully,” his father said, raising a finger. “Never walk behind a horse or before a king.”

Arif grinned. “I’m not afraid of horses or kings,” he said boldly, and off he went.

On the way, he spotted a strong black horse tied under a tree. “What a fine animal!” Arif said. “Let me show I’m not afraid.” He tiptoed behind the horse, making funny faces as if to impress an invisible audience.

The horse, however, was not impressed.

With a sudden thud, it kicked backwards. Arif flew into a pile of hay like a tossed sack of potatoes. His turban slipped over his eyes, and he lay there groaning.

A farmer nearby laughed. “That’s what comes from making friends from the wrong end of a horse!”

Arif stood up, embarrassed but still stubborn. “Just bad luck,” he muttered, dusting himself off.

By the time he reached the mill, a royal procession was passing through. Trumpets boomed, soldiers marched, and the king rode proudly in the centre.

Arif’s eyes sparkled. “Today I’ll see the king up close!”

Ignoring the crowd stepping aside, he walked right into the path of the procession. He even waved.

The soldiers did not wave back.

Two guards grabbed him and pushed him aside so fast that he spun around and landed flat on the ground—again. The sack of grain burst open, and flour puffed into the air, covering him from head to toe.

Now he looked less like a brave boy and more like a walking cloud.

The crowd burst into laughter.

When Arif returned home, limping and powdered white, his father raised an eyebrow. “You look like you fought a storm and lost.”

Arif sighed. “First the horse kicked me, then the king’s guards threw me. I think I understand now.”

“And what is that?” his father asked.

Arif wiped flour from his face and said, “Never stand where danger kicks… and never stand where power pushes.”

His father nodded with a smile. “Exactly. Wisdom is knowing where not to stand.”

From that day on, Arif kept a safe distance—from hooves, crowns, and his own foolish bravery.

And the village? It never forgets the day a boy tried to challenge both a horse and a king—and lost twice.

 

Kashi Vishwanath Temple

 Kashi Vishwanath Temple

A short story

The Kashi Vishwanath Temple, one of the twelve Jyotirlingas, is a revered Hindu shrine dedicated to Lord Shiva in Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh. Known as the "Lord of the Universe," Vishwanath symbolises the formless divine reality.

Varanasi is the first Jyotirlinga to manifest itself. According to the legend, it was at this place that Shiva (the Hindu god of destruction) manifested as an infinite column of light (Jyotirlinga) in front of Brahma (the Hindu god of creation) and Vishnu (the Hindu god of preservation) when they had an argument about their supremacy.

To discover the origin of the luminous column, Vishnu took the form of a boar (Varaha) and tracked the column beneath the ground, while Brahma, who assumed the shape of a swan, scoured the heavens to locate the apex of the column. However, both were unsuccessful in identifying the source of the luminous column. Yet, Brahma deceitfully asserted that he had discovered the summit of the column, while Vishnu humbly admitted his inability to find the starting point of the radiant column. Due to Brahma's deceit over the discovery of the origin of the luminous column, Shiva penalized him by cutting his fifth head and placing a curse upon him. This curse entailed that Brahma would no longer receive reverence, whereas Vishnu, being truthful, would be equally venerated alongside Shiva and have dedicated temples for eternity.

The temple has a tumultuous history, repeatedly destroyed by invaders like Mohammad of Ghor and Aurangzeb, who built the Gyanvapi Mosque on its site. It was rebuilt multiple times, most notably by Ahilyabai Holkar in 1780.

The temple’s origins trace back to a legendary dispute between Brahma and Vishnu, where Shiva manifested as a fiery column of light, establishing his supremacy. The current structure, adjacent to the mosque, is a symbol of resilience and devotion. Major contributions, like gold plating by Maharaja Ranjit Singh and silver donations by Raghuji Bhonsle III, enriched its legacy.

In 2021, the Kashi Vishwanath Dham Corridor was inaugurated, connecting the temple to the Ganga River, boosting pilgrim numbers to over 45,000 daily. The temple remains a spiritual epicenter, embodying the eternal essence of Shiva and the enduring faith of devotees.

…

Ode to Kashi Vishwanath (U.P)

In Varanasi’s ancient, sacred glow,

Stands Kashi Vishwanath, where Ganga’s waters flow.

A Jyotirlinga, where Shiva’s light appears,

The Lord of the Universe, dispelling fears.

Through time’s cruel storms, it rose and fell,

From Ghurid raids to Aurangzeb’s shell.

Yet faith endured, like an eternal flame,

Rebuilt by Holkar, in Shiva’s name.

A fiery column, once pierced the sky,

Brahma and Vishnu sought, yet could not spy.

Truth triumphed, deceit met its end,

In Kashi’s heart, where devotions blend.

Five mandapas once held divine grace,

A sacred axis, time cannot erase.

From Man Singh’s hands to Ranjit’s gold,

The temple’s story, through ages told.

By Gyanvapi’s well, the echoes remain,

Of a temple’s past, through joy and pain.

Now corridors rise, by Ganga’s side,

A beacon of faith, in time’s vast tide.

O Kashi Vishwanath, eternal and true,

In your shadow, the cosmos renews.

A pilgrimage of souls, in devotion’s thrall,

You stand as the universe’s heart, above all.

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.

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.