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.

 

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=Egxnd3Mtd2l6LXNlcnAiDFB1bXBraW4gc2VlZCoCCAIyCBAuGIAEGLEDMg0QLhiABBiKBRhDGLEDMg0QABiABBiKBRhDGLEDMgsQABiABBixAxiDATIKEAAYgAQYigUYQzIKEAAYgAQYigUYQzIFEAAYgAQyDRAAGIAEGIoFGEMYsQMyBRAAGIAEMgoQABiABBiKBRhDSO1VULQeWIk7cAJ4AZABAJgBugGgAbcIqgEEMTEuMbgBAcgBAPgBAZgCD6AC3hWoAgrCAhAQABgDGI8BGOoCGLQC2AEBwgIKEC4YgAQYigUYQ8ICERAuGIAEGLEDGIMBGMcBGNEDwgIOEC4YgAQYigUYsQMYgwHCAhkQLhiABBiKBRhDGJcFGNwEGN4EGN8E2AECwgILEC4YgAQYxwEY0QPCAg4QLhiABBjHARivARiOBcICHBAuGIAEGIoFGEMYsQMYlwUY3AQY3gQY3wTYAQLCAhcQLhiABBiKBRixAxiDARjHARivARiOBcICFxAuGIAEGLEDGJcFGNwEGN4EGN8E2AECmAMG8QVlu4L5ti9LuboGBAgBGAq6BgYIAhABGBSSBwgxMi4yLjctMaAHhYACsgcEMTAuMrgHkgnCBwgwLjIuMTEuMsgHUoAIAQ&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.