Krishna

A Poem

Krishna

He is the lord of love and grace,
Protection found in his embrace.
An avatar, divine and deep,
The shepherd-heart all hearts shall keep.

In late August or early fall,
His birth devotees all recall—
Janmashtami's sacred rite,
By lunisolar silver light.

His life, a Līlā, tales retold,
Of prankster young, of hero bold.
In the Mahabharata's great war,
He speaks as Gita's guiding star.

A child who steals the butter sweet,
A flute that makes the gopis fleet,
With Radha by the moonlit grove,
Or charioteer in wisdom's trove.

His names are dark as monsoon sky—
Krishna, the black, the blue, the shy.
Yet Govinda, Gopala, call him friend,
The soul's protector without end.

From Vrindavan to Dwarka's shore,
In Jagannath, he lives once more.
In dance—Bharatanatyam's grace,
Odissi, Kathakali trace.

A hero-god of Vrishni clan,
With Vasudeva, Krishna ran.
Through centuries, the streams converged,
And Vishnu's form within him emerged.

On ancient coins, his symbols show—
The conch, the wheel, the mace, the plow.
A fragment carved in Mathura's stone
Shows baby Krishna carried home.

Now Westward too his worship spread,
Where ISKCON's saffron flags are spread.
All names, all forms, in him reside—
The dark-eyed one, the heart's true guide.

 Sham Misri

 Krishna

Krishna (Sanskrit: Kṛṣṇa) is a major deity in Hinduism. He is worshipped as the eighth avatar of Vishnu and is regarded as the god of protection, compassion, tenderness, and love.

His birthday is celebrated annually by Hindus on Krishna Janmashtami, according to the lunisolar Hindu calendar, which typically falls in late August or early September on the Gregorian calendar.

The anecdotes and narratives of Krishna's life are collectively known as Krishna Līlā. He is a central figure in the Mahabharata and the Bhagavad Gita.

Hindus view Krishna in various aspects: as a godchild, a prankster, a model lover, a divine hero, and the universal supreme being. His iconography depicts him at different stages of life—such as an infant eating butter, a young boy playing a flute, a handsome youth with Radha or surrounded by female devotees, or a friendly charioteer offering counsel to Arjuna.

The name and synonyms of Krishna have been traced to literature and cults from the 1st millennium BCE. Krishna-related literature has also inspired numerous performance arts, including Bharatanatyam, Kathakali, Odissi, and Manipuri dance.

He is revered in Vrindavan (Uttar Pradesh), Dwarka and Junagadh (Gujarat); in his form as Jagannatha in Odisha; and in Mayapur (West Bengal). Since the 1960s, the worship of Krishna has spread to the Western world, largely through the efforts of the International Society for Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON).

Name and Etymology

The name "Krishna" derives from the Sanskrit word kṛṣṇa, meaning "black," "dark," or "dark blue." The waning moon is called Krishna Paksha, relating to the adjective meaning "darkening." While some Vaishnava traditions interpret the name as "All-Attractive," this meaning is not found in Sanskrit.

Krishna is often depicted in idols with black or blue skin. He is also known by numerous other names and titles reflecting his many attributes. Among the most common are Mohan ("enchanter"), Govinda, and Gopala ("Protector of the Go," where go can mean "soul" or "cows"). Some names hold regional significance; Jagannatha, a popular form of Krishna enshrined in the Puri temple, is especially venerated in Odisha and neighbouring regions of eastern India.

Origins and Historical Development

The tradition of Krishna appears to be an amalgamation of several independent deities from ancient India. The earliest attested is Vāsudeva, a hero-god of the Vrishni tribe, whose worship is documented from the 5th–6th century BCE in the writings of Pāṇini and from the 2nd century BCE in the Heliodorus pillar inscription.

It is believed that the Vrishnis later merged with the Yadavas, whose own hero-god was named Krishna. Vāsudeva and Krishna subsequently fused into a single deity, as reflected in the Mahabharata, where they also became identified with Vishnu. Around the 4th century CE, another tradition, the cult of Gopala-Krishna (the protector of cattle) associated with the Ābhīras—was absorbed into the evolving Krishna tradition.

Early Depictions and Iconography

Around 180 BCE, coins discovered in Afghanistan bear images now interpreted as early Vaishnava iconography. These coins depict Saṃkarṣaṇa-Balarama with attributes such as the gada (mace) and plough, alongside Vāsudeva-Krishna with the shankha (conch) and sudarshana chakra (discus).

The first known depiction of a scene from Krishna's life appears relatively late, on a relief from Mathura dated to the 1st–2nd century CE. This fragment likely shows Vasudeva, Krishna’s father, carrying the infant Krishna in a basket across the Yamuna River. The relief features a seven-hooded naga crossing the river alongside a thrashing makara (crocodile), while at the other end, a figure appears to hold a basket over his head.

 Depiction in coinage (2nd century BCE)

Vasudeva-Krishna, on a coin of Agathocles of Bactria, c. 180 BCE.  This is "the earliest unambiguous image" of the deity.

The Mulberry Tree- A letter from an old student

 My Dearest Sham Ji,

Do you remember the mulberry tree?

It stood in the corner of that courtyard, its gnarled roots breaking the earth like the knuckles of a wise old hand. The summer heat would make the air thick with the scent of ripening fruit, staining our fingers purple as we sat in its dappled shade. That is where my memory of you truly begins—not just at the tuition desk, but under that tree. You would lean against its trunk, a book of poetry in your hands, and the world would fall away. The cooing of the doves, the distant clatter of kitchenware, the hum of a passing scooter all became a soft soundtrack to your voice.

It was there, on a particularly warm afternoon, that you first taught me “Go, Lovely Rose.” A cool breeze, heavy with the promise of evening, rustled the mulberry leaves above us, and you began to speak.

You said this was Edmund Waller’s best-known poem, and that it shone because of its structural unity and symbolic depth. You spoke so gently, so passionately, and I—oh, I was all ears, soaking in every single word like soft rain on thirsty soil. My skin prickled with goosebumps, not from the cold, but from the sheer presence of you. I can still feel the rough bark of the tree against my back and the way my heart would beat a little faster whenever you looked my way.

You said the poem was written in the mid-17th century, when ideals of courtly love floated through poetry like perfumed air. To be honest, Sham Ji, back then, I didn’t quite grasp why the poet used “thee” and “thou.” It sounded old, distant. But when you said those words, they felt intimate—almost like secrets whispered between close friends.

It wasn’t until I studied English in my MA that I truly understood. But even now, when I read that ABAB rhyme scheme or trace the lyrical grace of the poem, I hear your voice. I hear you.

You said the commanding mood runs through the poem, with the rose sent forth like a gentle messenger. I remember how you paused, looked at my face, and said, “The poet urges a young woman to recognise her beauty and accept admiration before time steals it away.”

Why did you pause, Sham Ji? Why did you look at me just then? That moment stayed with me—like a rose pressed in a book, its fragrance lingering long after the petals have dried. In that pause, under the mulberry tree, I felt a shift. It was no longer just a lesson; it was a message meant for me.

You went on, explaining how beauty’s worth is tied to being seen, and how the poem carries a subtle urgency: “Beauty from the light retired” has “small is the worth.” And then, the closing stanza—so tender, so true—about the fleeting nature of all things rare and sweet.

Sham Ji, your words echo in my heart even now. You made poetry feel alive, like it was breathing just for us. I admired you so much back then—your calm, your clarity, your quiet passion. You made me fall in love with literature. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit with you too.

I knew you were young, a brilliant tuition master with a polish in your speech and a warmth in your gaze. You said Edmund Waller’s style was smooth, graceful, controlled—but your teaching was anything but controlled. It was alive. It stirred something in me that still hasn’t settled.

 

Sudama, the childhood friend of Lord Krishna

Sudama, the childhood friend of Lord Krishna, stood at the edge of what had once been his home. He was a man of humble means, his life defined by poverty and quiet devotion. On the occasion of a visit to his divine friend, he had offered Krishna a simple gift—a handful of beaten rice, given with a love that outweighed its meagre worth. Now, returning to his village, he found himself not before his familiar hut of dry twigs and branches, but before a magnificent palace. In the space where his small shelter had stood, something extraordinary had risen. Overwhelmed and disoriented, a lament broke from his heart.

Who shattered my cottage, my shelter so small?
Who held this dark malice, this envy unkind?
Who broke what I built with my heart and my mind?
My hut of dry twigs, the branches so dear—
Who left me with nothing but sorrow and tear?

Who shattered my cottage, my shelter so small?
Who answered my prayers with ruin and all?
O Murli Dhar, the flute-bearer, is this Thy decree?
Is this the favour Thou grantest to me?

Dead-tired and weary, Sudama approached the splendid structure, his eyes filling with tears that streamed bright and clear. He stood as a stranger before his own threshold, unable to comprehend the transformation.

“Who is this king in my dwelling so grand?
What magic is this, by whose unseen hand?”

Again, the question rose, a refrain of bewilderment and quiet anguish.

Who shattered my cottage, my shelter so small?
Who answered my prayers with ruin and all?
O Murli Dhar, is this Thy decree?
Is this the favour Thou grantest to me?

He looked around, searching for the familiar—the faces of his family, the simple garden where his sacred basil had grown. All had been swept away, replaced by opulence he had never known. His body was weak, worn by the journey, his stomach hollow from hunger and thirst.

Where is my family? Where do they roam?
Why do I stand in a place not my home?
Starved by my journey, by hunger and drought,
I search for my garden, my basil, my sprout.

Once more, his heart returned to the refrain, a prayer laced with confusion.

Who shattered my cottage, my shelter so small?
Who answered my prayers with ruin and all?
O Murli Dhar, is this Thy decree?
Is this the favour Thou grantest to me?

But as the tears began to clear from his eyes, his perception shifted. He looked again at the meadows spreading before him, so fresh and new, and at the blossoms that now bloomed where only dust had been. The sorrow in his voice began to give way to wonder. He saw not the destruction of his humble life, but its transformation into something beyond his wildest imagination. The ruin he had mourned was, in truth, the answering of a prayer he had never dared to speak aloud.

Where are the blossoms that silently grew?
Where are these meadows so fresh and new?
What wondrous fields spread wide in my sight?
What grace has transformed my sorrow to light?

And yet, the refrain returned one final time—not as a cry of anguish, but as a whispered acknowledgment of the mysterious, overwhelming love that had shattered his small world only to fill it with abundance.

Who shattered my cottage, my shelter so small?
Who answered my prayers with ruin and all?
O Murli Dhar, is this Thy decree?
Is this the favour Thou grantest to me?

Sham Misri

Letter From My Old Student

 My Dearest Sham Ji,

Do you remember the poem you taught me when I was in tenth class? I still carry it with me—like a bookmark pressed between the pages of my growing-up years. One of them was “Go, Lovely Rose.”

You began by telling me that this was Edmund Waller’s best-known poem, and that it shines because of its structural unity and symbolic depth. You spoke so gently, so passionately, and I—oh, I was all ears, soaking in every single word like soft rain on thirsty soil.

You said the poem was written in the mid-17th century, when ideals of courtly love floated through poetry like perfumed air. To be honest, Sham Ji, back then, I didn’t quite grasp why the poet used “thee” and “thou.” It sounded old, distant. But when you said those words, they felt intimate—almost like secrets whispered between close friends.

It wasn’t until I studied English in my MA that I truly understood. But even now, when I read that ABAB rhyme scheme or trace the lyrical grace of the poem, I hear your voice. I hear you.

You said the commanding mood runs through the poem, with the rose sent forth like a gentle messenger. I remember how you paused, looked at my face, and said, “The poet urges a young woman to recognise her beauty and accept admiration before time steals it away.”

Why did you pause, Sham Ji? Why did you look at me just then? That moment stayed with me—like a rose pressed in a book, its fragrance lingering long after the petals have dried.

You went on, explaining how beauty’s worth is tied to being seen, and how the poem carries a subtle urgency: “Beauty from the light retired” has “small is the worth.” And then, the closing stanza—so tender, so true—about the fleeting nature of all things rare and sweet.

Sham Ji, your words echo in my heart even now. You made poetry feel alive, like it was breathing just for us. I admired you so much back then—your calm, your clarity, your quiet passion. You made me fall in love with literature. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit with you, too.

Happy 25th Marriage Anniversary, dear Sonali & Kamal Ji!

 Happy 25th Marriage Anniversary, dear Sonali & Kamal Ji! May God bless you with all happiness, good health and lifelong togetherness. Loads of love and laughter always.

It is me, Sarla, from Jammu.

Hello!

17th February isn't just another date on the calendar—it's a milestone! A whopping 25 years of marriage! 🎉 That's a quarter of a century of togetherness, tolerance, tea, and... more tolerance! 😄

May your next 25 years be even brighter—with good health, great wealth.🤭

A quarter century of shared sunrise,
Of building dreams with gentle ties.
Through cups of tea and all the unsaid things,
The lasting joy that silver anniversary brings.

May laughter still your daily bread and wine,
With health and wealth, your stars to shine.
And in the chaos, may you always find,
Sweet moments just for your peace of mind.

To Sonali and our dear Kamal Ji,
From Sarla Sham in Jammu, joyfully! 🥂✨

 A Joke -

"Travelling Light: A Barroom Tale of Physics and Punishment"

It was a slow Tuesday afternoon at the Institute for Advanced Studies, so a few of the physics department regulars decided to hit The Quark Bar for a quick bite.

Professor Davies was already at a corner table, chuckling to himself. "You hear about this?" he asked, holding up a dog-eared paperback. "I finally found that book on anti-gravity I've been searching for."

His colleague, Dr. Sharma, slid into the booth across from him. "Oh, the one by that new theorist? Is it any good?"

"It's un-put-down-able," Davies said with a straight face.

Before Sharma could groan, the door swung open and in walked a particle physicist they knew, looking particularly radiant. "Hey, Leon!" Sharma called out. "Grab a seat!"

Leon waved, a bright, beaming smile on his face. "Thanks, but I can't stay. Just passing through." He pointed to his single, small bag. "Gotta travel light, you know."

The barman, a weary fellow named Kevin who had long ago stopped trying to understand his clientele, shuffled over. "What can I get you, gents?"

"I'll have the fish and chips," Sharma said.

"One order of fission chips for the gentleman," Kevin repeated, jotting it down.

Sharma blinked. "No, I just said fish—" He paused, sighed, and waved a hand. "You know what? Forget it. Just bring it."

Davies, meanwhile, was staring intently at the saltshaker. "You know, I've been thinking about absolute zero. It's the ultimate limit."

"Cold subject," Sharma muttered, trying to get the terrible puns out of his system.

Just then, a man they didn't recognize shuffled in and took a seat at the counter. He was so still and expressionless, he seemed to radiate a kind of profound stillness. Davies nudged Sharma. "See that guy? Heard he's a bit of an odd duck. Apparently, he was recently cooled to absolute zero."

Sharma squinted at the man, who hadn't moved a muscle. "Really? He looks... fine?"

"He is," Davies said. "He's 0K now."

Sharma buried his face in his hands.

To change the subject, he pointed to the TV hanging in the corner, which was playing A New Hope on a low volume. "You know what I can't stand?" Sharma said. "When people get the physics in that movie all wrong. It's not 'May the Force be with you.' For a physicist, it should be, 'May the mass times acceleration be with you.'"

Davies nodded sagely. "Much more practical."

The door to the bar flew open with a bang, and in walked two of the institute's most famous—and most eccentric—professors: Werner Heisenberg and Erwin Schrödinger. They looked flustered.

"We were just pulled over!" Heisenberg announced to the whole bar, his hands trembling.

Kevin the barman leaned forward. "Did you know how fast you were going?"

"No!" Heisenberg exclaimed, his voice rising with panic. "But I could tell you exactly where we were!"

A police officer, who had followed them in, stepped forward, holding his ticket book. "I can tell you, sir. You were doing 200 kilometres an hour!"

Heisenberg threw his arms up in the air in exasperation. "Great! Now we're completely lost!"

The officer, trying to regain control of the situation, cleared his throat and looked at Schrödinger. "Sir, is this your vehicle? Do you have anything in the trunk? Alcohol, weapons, anything I should know about?"

Schrödinger thought for a moment. "Just a cat," he said calmly.

The officer's eyes narrowed. He walked outside, and a moment later, they heard the trunk pop open. A few seconds after that, the officer stormed back in, his face red. "Hey! You said there was a cat in there! That cat is dead!"

Schrödinger slammed his palm on the bar, making the saltshaker jump. "Well, he is now!"

The entire bar fell silent, save for the faint TV audio. Professor Davies slowly lowered his copy of the anti-gravity book, a look of profound respect on his face. He looked at Dr Sharma. "You, see?" he whispered. "It's not just the universe that's governed by quantum mechanics. It stops, too."

The Great Birthday Caper: When Love (and Strangers) Came to Call Sham Misri

 The Great Birthday Caper: When Love (and Strangers) Came to Call Sham Misri

Today, the universe decided to remind me that I’m an octogenarian. Yes, it was my birthday. Now, in our household, this day isn’t just a date on the calendar; it’s a high-octane, multi-course culinary event. My wife, Sarla, operates under the ancient and unshakable Kashmiri wife’s decree that her husband’s birthday is the most important day of the year. And let me tell you, at her age, she hasn't lost an ounce of that stamina. The woman can still out-cook a five-star hotel. To add to the pomp and circumstance, it was also Ashtami – a goddess’s day – so the universe itself seemed to be in on the secret. The menu was set: a vegetarian festival was about to begin. My first task? A noble quest to the market for vegetables and paneer, the essential building blocks of this edible love letter.

We had kept the guest list small and exclusive, mainly because most of our relatives live in places like "Outside Jammu" – a far-off land that requires a passport and a week's notice. But as I was to discover, the best-laid plans of mice and men are no match for the mischief of a beloved nephew, Er. Suneel Ganju.

I was out on my errand, chauffeured in my car (because at eighty, even heroes deserve a ride), blissfully unaware of the storm of surprises brewing in my living room. I had been dispatched for the critical mission of procuring curd. I returned home, a humble container of yoghurt my only trophy, and walked into my drawing room to find... chaos. Two utterly unknown faces were beaming at me from my sofa. Before I could ask, "Have you come to read the meter?", the room erupted.

"Happy birthday! Happy birthday!" The walls echoed, the ceiling reverberated, and I’m pretty sure a picture frame wobbled in surprise. For a solid, confused moment, I thought old age had finally short-circuited my brain, and I was hallucinating friendly strangers. But then, from behind this dashing couple, popped my beloved nephew, Suneel Ganju, with a grin as wide as the Chenab River.

The mystery was afoot! It turned out the unknown couple were not friendly ghosts, but Anil Kak and Neelam (Thusoo) Kak. As Neelam introduced herself, the fog cleared. "I'm Neelam Thusoo," she said, "your neighbour from Dadikadal, Tankipora!" And just like that, a lifetime of memories came flooding back. In one go, I could see our old lane, the chatter, the familiar faces from a life we left behind in Srinagar. This unknown couple had brought with them a suitcase full of nostalgia.

But the surprises were just getting started. The Kaks, it transpired, were not just chance visitors. They were part of a full-blown conspiracy. My nephew Suneel, desperate to be here, couldn't get a flight from Noida. So, he did what any self-respecting engineer with a flair for drama would do: he roped in his friend Anil Kak, who had just flown in from Canada for a wedding, to be the advance party. The plot? To give their "Mammaji" (that's me!) the surprise of his life. It was a covert operation with more planning than a bank heist, and the prize was an old man's joy.

And then came the cake. Oh, the cake! Anil Kak and Neelam Kak presented me with a magnificent creation. The first look was awesome. Now, I’m a man who has walked the streets of London and the avenues of the USA, but I had never, in all my years, seen a cake like this. It was a 'Red Velvet Cake'—a crimson tower of confectionary art. I stared at it, half expecting it to start singing. We made our friendship official on the spot, accepting a Facebook friend request. From unknown visitors to dear friends, all in the span of a single, red-velvet afternoon.

But wait, there’s more! As if one architectural marvel of a cake wasn't enough, our dear Simmi (Aima) Raina swept in with another contender: a 'Chocolate Fudge Cake' so decadent, so sinfully rich, it looked like it was made by the gods themselves. The cake-cutting ceremony commenced. I, Sham Misri, wielder of the knife, prepared for a dignified slice. But Sarla, my wife of countless years, had other plans. With the speed of a striking cobra, she snatched the first piece and—shlap—shoved it directly into my mouth. And then, for the grand finale, she smeared a generous portion of it on my clean-shaven face. In six decades of marriage, she has never attempted such a sugary assault. It was a first. It was shocking. It was... strangely wonderful. Does old age increase love, or just the urge to publicly embarrass your spouse? I leave that for you to ponder. Simmi, not content with two cakes, also produced tinned biscuits of such exquisite promise that just looking at the package made you want to devour the entire thing in one go. It was all love, pure and delicious.

The gift-giving began in earnest. My nephew Suneel Ganju handed me a magnificent bag. "What's this?" I asked. "A present from your sister, Behna," he said. Inside? A treasure trove of almond kernels and—oh my gosh—a whole lot of money. Her absence was a physical ache, but her love had travelled in that bag. Then, Suneel Ganju and his wife, Sugandhi (whose name truly means 'fragrance', and she lives up to it), gave me a dazzling shirt. 'O, what a glamorous one!' I thought. I wanted to wear it right then; my heart was already donning it.

And the love kept flowing! Sarla’s brother, Suneel Gurtoo, arrived with a bag of wonders. It contained the most honoured 'Atta hoar' – a sacred, twisted dough ornament, so auspicious you're supposed to hang it over your ears (don't ask, it's a Kashmiri thing). His wife, Basanti, brought a hoard of 'bagirkhani' – specially made flatbreads that were devoured at teatime in a frenzy of buttery delight. They even presented a matching suit for Sarla and me! I thought that "his and hers" fashion was a Western conspiracy, but no, it has clearly reached Jammu. The colours were perfectly coordinated. Their dear Anju Gurtoo was there too, and her husband Sanju sent his love in the form of a giant envelope of premium Afghan almonds. "Taste some, Gasha Ji," they urged. I did. Oh, they were yummy and full of love.

Then my Babi, Tosha Ji, hugged me, kissed my forehead, and handed me a colourful bag of dry fruits. My eyes got wet. In that simple gesture, I was a young man again, and the years just melted away.

Through this whirlwind of family and food, Neelam Kak, my new/old friend, quietly intervened. She had apparently seen my YouTube videos where I recite Lal Vakhs, the ancient mystic poetry of Kashmir. "Recite one!" she begged. And so, extempore, surrounded by the happy chaos, I spoke. Anil Kak was thrilled. Neelam was excited. "Make us your Facebook friends!" they exclaimed again, and we sealed our newfound, decades-old friendship in the digital world.

Just as the sugar high was peaking, Sarla, the general of this domestic operation, pronounced, "Lunch is ready!" The dining table, with its six chairs, became a command post. The six men attacked first. "So delicious, so delicious," was the only phrase uttered between mouthfuls. It was a symphony of flavours, a taste of home we hadn't experienced in so long. Then came the ladies' session, and they cleared the decks with equal efficiency. Finally, tea arrived with fresh, flaky 'Katlam', and we all sat there, stuffed, content, and buzzing. It wasn't just food we were sharing; it was only LOVE. Love that had travelled from Noida, from Canada, from across the globe in phone calls, and most importantly, love that had filled our quiet home to the brim, turning an ordinary birthday into an extraordinary, unforgettable caper.

Sham Misri