O Murli Dhar

Who broke my cottage, my moonlit nest?

Who tore my twigs that I loved the best?

O Murli Dhar, is this Thy way?

Is this Thy blessing, this strange display?)

 

Who bore this malice, this envy inside?

Who tore my hut on Jhelum’s side?

My debris of twigs, my kangri’s glow—

Who left me with tears in the Vitasta’s flow?

Dead-tired Sudama reached home that night,

In his eyes, Dal Lake’s tears took flight.

“Who is this king in my weak old frame?

Whose shadow of grace has written my name?”

 

Where is my family? Where did they go?

Why do I stand alone where saffrons grow?

Hunger and thirst on my lips still lie,

Where is my Susheela, beneath this sky?

 

Where have these flowers, these blossoms, come?

Where has this green field, this meadow, sprung?

What wondrous field from Thy hands now streams,

What grace has fulfilled my autumn dreams?

Sham Misri

An old student Nancy and teacher Sham Ji

 Sham JI reminds Nancy with a joke-

Two famous scientists, Heisenberg and Schrödinger, are driving in a car. A police officer pulls them over for speeding.

The officer asks Heisenberg, "Do you know how fast you were going?"
Heisenberg says, "No, but we know exactly where we are!"

Confused, the officer says, "Well, you were going 200 kilometres an hour!"
Heisenberg throws his arms up and shouts, "Great! Now we have no idea where we are!"

The officer gets suspicious and looks at the car. He asks Schrödinger, "What do you have in the trunk?"
Schrödinger answers, "A cat."

The officer opens the trunk and yells, "Hey! This cat is dead."
Schrödinger gets angry and replies, "Well, he is now!"

…

Well, when I had posted this joke on my blogs, you, as a critic, had said, "Well, he is now!"

What did it mean?

I took it easy that time, thinking it was useless to explain everything to this unknown ‘CRITIC.’

Now that the Critic is known as Nancy, my old student, let me explain, "Well, he is now!"

Dear Nancy, That’s a great question. That line is the punchline of the joke, and to get it, you must know a little bit about the scientist Schrödinger.

He's famous for a thought experiment called "Schrödinger's Cat." Here’s the simple idea:

He imagined a cat in a sealed box with a poisonous gas that might or might not be released. Until you open the box to check, the cat is thought of as both alive and dead at the same time.

So, back to the joke:

1.     Before the officer opened the trunk, according to Schrödinger's famous idea, the cat was both alive and dead.

2.     The officer opened the trunk and saw that the cat was dead.

3.     Schrödinger gets angry and says, "Well, he is now!"

He's blaming the officer! He's saying that the act of opening the trunk and looking is what actually made the cat dead. Before the officer opened it, the cat was in that strange "both" state.

…

The Joke continues-

And, when I had written-"Heisenberg and Schrödinger Walk into a Traffic Stop"

 

You Critic, now my student Nancy had written: Please explain in simple English the meaning of. "Heisenberg and Schrödinger Walk into a Traffic Stop"

 

Well, it sets up the main punchline.

Here is the meaning of that title in simple English:

That title tells you what the joke will be about, but it also uses a smart play on words to get you ready to laugh.

Let's break it down:

• "Heisenberg and Schrödinger" : These are the names of the two famous scientists in the joke. If you know who they are, you already have a clue that the joke will be about their famous ideas.
• "Walk Into a Traffic Stop" : This is a twist on the classic "walk into a bar" joke setup (like "A guy walks into a bar..."). It tells you the two scientists are the main characters and that the situation will be them getting pulled over by a police officer.

So, the title means: "Here is a joke starring Heisenberg and Schrödinger, and the funny situation is a traffic stop."

But why is it a "punchline"?

The title is clever because it combines the two scientists' most famous ideas into one sentence:

1. The Heisenberg part: Heisenberg is known for the "Uncertainty Principle." It's a complex idea, but it basically means you can't know both the exact speed and the exact position of a tiny particle at the same time.
2. The Schrödinger part: Schrödinger is known for "Schrödinger's Cat." This is the idea that a cat in a box could be thought of as both alive and dead at the same time until you open the box to check.

By putting their names in a title about a traffic stop, the joke is already hinting at the funny mix-up:

• The traffic stop will involve Heisenberg getting confused about his speed and position.
• The traffic stop will involve a cat in the trunk that is in a strange, alive-and-dead state.

So, the title sets you up to see how these two scientific ideas will get hilariously mixed up with a regular, everyday situation like getting a speeding ticket.

Sham Ji, how nicely you have explained. Though I am mature now, and aged as well, you have cleared all my doubts in my advanced age. Thank you. I love you.

…

Hello, Nancy, the Great Critic! Welcome back. It is always a pleasure to be summoned by you. And what a delightful memory to revisit. Here is Sham, who tries to give it the humour it deserves, shall we? Here is a touch of levity.

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! 🥂✨