The Mystery of the Thas Bur Gates

 

. The Mystery of the Thas Bur Gates

Beyond the Misri Nivas, beyond the gatherings and the talk of the past, there were other markers of the home’s (Nivas) history, objects and places that held their own memory. The old gates at the entrance, at the foot of our property, were known in the family as the ‘Thas Bur Gates.’

…

The Mystery of the Thas Bur Gates

In Kashmiri, thas carried the sound of a bang, and bur meant a large door or gate. Together, the name suited them perfectly. They were not gentle gates. If left open and released carelessly, they would swing back with a forceful wooden cry —thas! — a sound so sudden and hollow that even the bravest child would startle.

They were large, weather-beaten gates, fashioned from dark old wood, with rusted iron latches, loose chains, and hinges that groaned like weary elders. They stood at the entrance to the main mansion, marking the point where the family estate began, though to the outside world they were easily overlooked. To most passers-by, they were merely old gates. But to us children, they held a deeper mystery. They seemed to guard more than a house; they stood like a boundary between the familiar and the unknown, between the safety of home and the secrets that lay beyond.

Our father, Janki, was a man of few words, but each word he spoke had weight. He did not waste speech. He allowed silence to do most of his teaching, and when he finally said something, it stayed in the mind like a line carved into stone.

One evening, his son, Bhushan, my elder brother, was sitting with his schoolwork, struggling over a particularly difficult English essay. His brows were drawn together, his pencil paused in mid-air, and the page before him bore the marks of many beginnings and crossings-out. Janki watched him quietly for some time.

Then, in his calm and thoughtful manner, he said,

“Your English has to be given more of a lift.”

That was all.

He did not scold him. He did not lecture. He did not compare him with anyone. Yet the sentence lingered in the room like a challenge and a blessing. Bhushan heard it. I heard it too. At that age, I did not fully understand what it meant, but I knew from Janki’s tone that he had planted something in Bhushan’s mind.

Bhushan nodded silently. A small determination awakened in him.

None of us knew then that this “lift” would come in a way none of us could have imagined.

Every year, Bhushan’s birthday, somewhere, the fifteenth of April, was celebrated with great affection. In our house, it was not treated as an ordinary day. Janki would take leave from school, and the entire household would begin stirring with unusual excitement from the morning itself. Soma, our mother, adored Bhushan with a softness that everyone could see. He was her most favourite born, her pride, and perhaps also the child through whom many of her hopes found expression.

That birthday that I remember clearly was full of warmth and wonder. Janki brought home a tent, and it was pitched in the garden like something from a traveller’s tale. Its canvas sides moved gently in the breeze, and to us children it seemed less like a tent and more like a palace built for one night only.

As evening fell, a bonfire was lit. The flames rose and curled into the darkening air, sending sparks upward like tiny stars escaping the earth. Around it, the family gathered. Relatives laughed, elders talked, and children moved restlessly between the tent, the fire, and the food. Mohan watched from the verandah. Lalita sang, and Sheela danced.   The smell of Rogan Josh, roasted corn, spiced potatoes, warm bread, and smoke filled the garden. It was a feast of sound and smell and light.

Soma had prepared Bhushan’s favourite dishes with special care. Her love was visible in everything — in the way she arranged the food, in the way she called him to eat first, in the way her eyes followed him as he moved through the garden. That day belonged to him completely.

Then, as if the evening had not already given us enough magic, Soma’s brother, Prithvi, our mamma quietly brought out fireworks. His son, Makhan, lit them one by one. The first burst startled us all. Then another rose into the night, and another. The sky bloomed with colour — red, gold, blue, silver — each explosion followed by our cries of delight.

For us children, it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened within the boundaries of our home. Bhushan stood glowing in the firelight and the fireworks, his face lifted, his eyes reflecting the sparks above him. I still remember that look. It was the look of a child who felt, for one evening at least, that the whole universe had gathered to celebrate him.

But the birthday that followed was different.

It was quieter at first. Almost too quiet…. To be continued

Sham Misri, New Malden, London, 20-6-2026

1. MISRI NIVAS

 

1.     MISRI NIVAS

A House of Memory, Learning, and Wonder

At the edge of a quiet garden, beside the flowing river Vitasta, and under the watchful gaze of the Ganesha Temple, just across stood Misri Nivas — a home unlike any other.

Within its walls lived Janki, an elderly teacher of rare wisdom, gentle humour, and boundless imagination. To the children who gathered around him, he was more than a grandfatherly figure. He was a storyteller, a guide, and a keeper of hidden doors. Through his strange questions, unforgettable lessons, and magical tales, he opened young minds to science, courage, history, and the deeper mysteries of life.

But Misri Nivas was not only a house. It was a world.

A place where ordinary afternoons could turn into journeys beyond imagination. A place where gardens whispered secrets, books became gateways, and children discovered that knowledge was not something to be memorised, but something to be lived.

Blending family memory, Kashmiri heritage, childhood adventure, and timeless wisdom, this book is a tribute to a man, a home, and a vanished world that still breathes through story.

For every child who has ever wondered what lies beyond the garden gate — and for every adult who still remembers.

Now, sitting in New Malden, London, Sham Misri writes with a heavy heart. He reaches back across oceans and decades to the days when the air was filled with the scent of woodsmoke from the Dhan, when the Thas Bur gates stood silent, and the house was alive with students, laughter, his father’s quiet authority, and his mother’s steady kindness. He tries to set down his memories as a tribute to the quiet strength of a family that bent before storms but did not break.

His father, Janki Nath Misri, became a teacher whose influence stretched far beyond the walls of the school. Thousands of young minds and countless children received their private coaching through him, especially during the long winter months when the snow locked the valley in cold. Hundreds came to him for guidance, and many more were formed in the quiet fireside rooms where lessons turned into confidence, and discipline into hope.

The Misri House is still there. The walls stand. The rooms remain. But it is no longer his. The house has been inhabited by Muslim neighbours. Through their windows, the same light falls on the same walls. The hearth that once warmed Misri children now warms different hands. Yet somewhere, in the silence between the stones, the old life lingers. The laughter of children, the rustle of pages, the soft murmur of lessons, the warmth of a shared lunch. The house remembers, even if it can no longer speak.

Sham writes not to reclaim what is lost, but to honour what remains. Although the Misris are gone from that house, the house itself has not been silenced. It lives in memory, in family, in the thousands of minds his father taught, in the names still spoken, and in the stories that refuse to fade.

A home may be lost, but a family’s story is never truly gone. It passes from one generation to the next, from one heart to another, like a quiet, unbroken flame. And so, though the Misris no longer live in Misri Nivas, the house still lives in them.-Sham Misri, 19-6-2026

 

The Story of Sam Manekshaw and His Driver

 

Field Marshal Sam Manekshaw had a dedicated driver named **Havildar Shyam Singh**, a soldier from Haryana.

As Manekshaw's retirement approached, he noticed Shyam Singh seemed unusually tense and uneasy. When the General asked what was wrong, the driver finally requested a favour: he wanted to take premature retirement from the army.

Manekshaw was surprised and tried to dissuade him, promising to help him get promoted to the rank of Naib Subedar if he continued to serve. However, Shyam Singh was adamant but refused to explain why until his release was approved.

Respecting his driver's wishes, Manekshaw processed his early retirement papers. After the papers came through, the General asked again why he had left service early. Standing at attention, Shyam Singh replied:

"Sir, after being your driver, I cannot drive anyone else in my lifetime. This has been the high point of my life, and I want to go home with this honour."

Manekshaw laughed and called him a "big fool," but the driver's papers had already been finalised.

### The Sealed Envelope

On the day Shyam Singh was leaving, Manekshaw gave him a sealed envelope with strict instructions: **"Shyam Singh, open it only once you reach your home."**

The driver saluted and left. When he reached his village, he got busy with life and forgot about the envelope. He even found a new job driving a freight truck. One day, his wife found the envelope in his old army uniform pocket and asked him to open it. Since he couldn't read or write much, they took it to the village schoolmaster.

The schoolmaster opened the envelope and was stunned. It wasn't a letter of appreciation—it was a **transfer deed for 25 acres of agricultural land**. The Haryana Government had given Manekshaw a "war jagir" (a land grant) for his victory in the 1971 war, and he had gifted it to his driver.

### Aftermath

Shyam Singh's wife was furious with him for almost burning the envelope, but they were now the owners of 25 acres of land. The story is often shared as a testament to Manekshaw's greatness, not just as a military leader, but as an exceptionally generous and humane person.

Poetic stanzas capturing the essence of that beautiful story:

The driver held the wheel with pride, 

For decades, side by side, 

He served the great Sam Bahadur's call, 

The finest general of them all. 

 

But when the day of leave drew near, 

The driver's heart was choked with fear— 

"Forgive me, sir, I must resign, 

No other master's car is mine." 

The old Field Marshal smiled and sighed, 

And let his loyal man abide, 

Then gave a seal—"Don't break this fast, 

Not till your home is reached at last." 

 

At home, the village master read 

The gift that left the driver's head 

In awe—not words, but fertile ground, 

A hero's heart, so vast, unbound.

The Birth of Dakshayani

 # The Birth of Dakshayani

## A Story of Gods, Boons, and Destiny

 

### The Characters

- **Lord Brahma** - The creator god

- **Lord Shiva** - The destroyer god 

- **Goddess Adi Shakti** - The first woman, the divine mother

- **Daksha Prajapati** - A powerful king, father of many children

- **Prasuti** - Daksha's wife

- **Lord Vishnu** - The preserver god

---

### A Problem in Heaven

Lord Brahma, the creator of the universe, had a big problem. The world needed balance. Creation needed a mother's touch—something soft, caring, and powerful all at once.

 

Meanwhile, Daksha Prajapati was performing a great fire sacrifice called a *yagna*. He was a very important king who had created many beings: sages, angels, musicians, and mystical creatures. His first wife, Asikni, gave him 5,000 sons. His second wife, Vairuni, gave him 1,000 more sons and 60 daughters. His third wife, Prasuti, gave him daughters named Lajja, Kriya, Pushti, Tushti, Dhriti, Lakshmi, and Shraddha.

But Daksha was not satisfied. He wanted a special daughter—one who would bring glory to his name forever.

 

### The Boon

Daksha Prajapati prayed to Lord Brahma with great devotion. Pleased by his prayers, Brahma appeared before him.

"Ask for a blessing, Daksha," Brahma said.

"I want a daughter who will be the most powerful woman in all creation," Daksha replied.

Brahma thought carefully. He knew exactly who should be born as Daksha's daughter: Goddess Adi Shakti herself—the first woman, the divine mother of all.

But there was one problem.

Lord Shiva, the destroyer god, was Adi Shakti's eternal companion. They were inseparable. Brahma knew he should ask Shiva's permission first, but in his excitement, he didn't.

"I grant your wish!" Brahma declared. "Adi Shakti herself will be born as your 245th daughter. But there is one condition: you must give her in marriage to Lord Shiva."

Daksha agreed. He was so happy to think about the consequences.

 

### Shiva's Anger

When Lord Shiva learned what Brahma had done, he became furious. His eyes blazed like fire.

"How dare you give away my Adi Shakti without my consent?" Shiva roared.

Brahma trembled. "O Great Lord, please understand! The world needs her. She must take birth as a human to bring balance to creation. You will marry her, and she will become your Sati."

"I will NOT give her up to that arrogant Daksha!" Shiva shouted. "Daksha is proud, selfish, and cruel. He has no compassion. This is no place for Adi Shakti to be born!"

 

### The Argument

Lord Shiva and Lord Brahma argued for a long time.

"The world needs her!" Brahma insisted.

"Daksha is not worth it!" Shiva replied.

"Please understand, O Shiva," Brahma pleaded. "Once Adi Shakti is born, she will marry you and return to your side. This is just a temporary separation."

Shiva was not convinced. His anger grew stronger and stronger.

 

### A Solution Appears

 

Seeing the two gods fighting, Goddess Adi Shakti herself spoke up.

"My lords, please calm down," she said gently. "I know what is happening. I am willing to take birth as Daksha's daughter. But I have one condition: my marriage to Lord Shiva must be preserved. I will always be his Sati."

Shiva looked at her with love in his eyes. "But Daksha is arrogant and cruel. What if he harms you?"

"I will be strong enough to handle him," Adi Shakti replied. "Besides, this is my destiny. The world needs me."

 

Lord Vishnu, who had been watching everything, finally spoke up. "Lord Brahma, you made a mistake by not consulting Shiva first. Lord Shiva, you must trust the divine plan. Let us all agree to this for the good of creation."

 

### The Agreement

 

Slowly, Lord Shiva calmed down. He looked at Adi Shakti, then at Brahma.

"Fine," he said at last. "Adi Shakti will be born as Daksha's daughter. But mark my words: if Daksha ever disrespects her, I will not forgive him. And Brahma, never again make such a decision without asking me first."

 

"I promise, my lord," Brahma said, bowing his head. "I was wrong. Please forgive me."

 

So, the gods agreed. Goddess Adi Shakti would be born as Dakshayani, the 245th daughter of King Daksha Prajapati and Queen Prasuti. And one day, she would marry Lord Shiva and become his beloved Sati.

---

### What Happened Next?

 

Dakshayani was born and grew up to be a beautiful and powerful woman. She always felt connected to Lord Shiva, and when she grew older, she chose to marry him—just as Lord Brahma had promised.

But Daksha never liked Shiva. He thought the god was wild and strange. This led to many problems between father and daughter, and eventually, to the tragic story of Sati's sacrifice.

But that is a story for another day.

---

 

## A Simple Summary

King Daksha wanted a special daughter, so Lord Brahma promised that Goddess Adi Shakti would be born as his child. But Brahma made this promise without asking Lord Shiva, who was Adi Shakti's true partner. Shiva became very angry. After much arguing, they agreed that Adi Shakti would be born as Dakshayani and later marry Shiva. This was all part of a divine plan to bring balance to the world.

The Great Smokeout

The Great Smokeout: How Janki’s Calligraphy Saved Koul (and the School’s Air Quality)

Koul, the school secretary, wasn’t just a chain-smoker—he was a one-man pollution index. The staff joked that if you stood too close to him, your clothes would smell like a bonfire for weeks. Even the school’s pet parrot, after one accidental perch on his shoulder, coughed up a smoke ring and demanded a transfer to the library.

No one dared confront Koul about his habit. The last teacher who tried was last seen fleeing the staff room with Koul chasing him, waving a lit cigarette like a tiny fiery sword.

Enter Janki: The Calligraphy Ninja

Janki, a quiet head master with a flair for dramatic handwriting, decided to wage a stealth war. He spent weeks crafting the most beautiful, guilt-tripping anti-smoking letter ever inked. It included:

• A graph of Koul’s lifespan shrinking with every puff (drawn in gold ink for maximum shame).
• A heartfelt plea: "Sir, every cigarette you smoke kills a classroom plant. The ficus in the corridor is on life support."
• A fake testimonial from Koul’s future self: "Hi, it’s you from 2030. I sound like a creaky door hinge. Quit now."

He sealed it in an envelope labelled "TOP SECRET: For Koul Sir’s Eyes Only (and maybe his lungs’)."

The Plot Twist No One Saw Coming

Janki handed the letter to Koul with the grace of a spy delivering classified intel. Koul, suspicious, held it up to the light—then tried to light it with his cigarette. (Janki had anticipated this and used flame-resistant paper.) Defeated, Koul stuffed it into his pocket, grumbling.

That night, Koul opened the letter… and gasped. Not at the health warnings—but because Janki had also included a fake lottery ticket with the words: "Congratulations! You’ve won a smoke-free life! (Prize: Not dying.)"

Koul was furious. But then… he couldn’t stop reading. The letter was too well-written. The guilt sank in. The next day, he smoked one less cigarette. Then two. Then—disaster struck.

The Betrayal of the Nicotine Goblins

Koul’s cigarettes started mysteriously disappearing. He’d reach for his pack—only to find carrots. His lighter? Replaced with a kazoo. The final straw? His favourite smoke spot by the window now had a sign: "Reserved for people who can climb stairs without wheezing."

The culprit? The school’s Anti-Smoking Underground—a secret coalition of students led by Janki’s ghost (he wasn’t actually dead, just very committed to the bit). They’d been sabotaging Koul for months.

The Emotional Confession

At Janki’s "bereavement" (he was actually on vacation, but the students needed drama), Koul stood before the crowd, clutching the letter. Tears in his eyes—or maybe just smoke irritation—he confessed:

"Because of this letter… I cut down 70% of my smoking!"

The room erupted in applause. Then Janki walked in, tan and confused. "Wait, you thought I died? I just went to Goa?"

Koul stared. Then slowly lit a cigarette. One last time.

(Moral of the story: Peer pressure works best with fancy stationery and psychological tricks. Also, fake your death for maximum impact.)

xxx

The Story of Janki

The Story of Janki-a bookbinder

Janki is a fictional character created in one story. The writer has imagined her as a young bookbinder in London to show how ordinary people, especially poor and hardworking ones, might have connected with Dickens’s writing. So, Janki represents many real people of that time, even though she herself is not from Dickens’s books.

 Janki was sixteen, and the dust of the bookbindery clung to her lashes and settled in the fine lines of her hands. She worked from dawn till dusk, folding and stitching the paper instalments that held the city in thrall. Her fingers, nimble and quick, were among the first in all of England to touch the pages of Oliver Twist, to feel the crisp promise of Nicholas Nickleby. She knew the author’s name, of course—Mr. Charles Dickens—but to her, he was less a man and more a force of nature, like the fog that rolled in from the Thames, a disembodied voice that spoke of injustice and hope.

One evening, as the gaslights hissed to life outside, the foreman brought in a fresh batch of manuscript pages. "A new one," he grunted, dropping the stack on her workbench. "Dombey and Son." Janki, bone-tired, picked up the first sheet. But as her eyes scanned the words, her weariness fell away. It was not the story of a wealthy merchant that captivated her; it was a single, fleeting description of a side character, a young girl with a faint scar above her brow, sold into a miserable apprenticeship.

Janki’s hand flew to her own forehead, to the small, silvery line she had carried since a childhood fall. It was a coincidence, surely. Yet, the description felt like a whisper in the dark, a secret shared between the famous author and the unknown bookbinder. A wild, impossible thought bloomed in her mind: What if Mr. Dickens had seen her? What if, in one of his countless walks through the city, observing its people like a magpie collecting shiny trinkets, he had glimpsed her face in a crowd?

From that night on, her work transformed. She was no longer just binding stories; she was searching for herself within them. In the grim determination of Amy Dorrit, she saw her own mother’s quiet resilience. In the desperate poverty of Jo the crossing-sweeper, she recognized the faces of the children who shared her alley. Dickens’s London was her London, his characters her neighbours. The bridge between their worlds was built of paper and ink, and Janki crossed it every day.

The climax of her private drama came with the instalments of David Copperfield. As she read of the young boy toiling in the blacking factory, his humiliation and loneliness so vividly etched, Janki felt a pain sharper than any paper cut. This was not a fictionalised account; this was a memory, raw and exposed. She saw the author not as a distant celebrity, but as a man who had once been a scared, abandoned boy. He had not just seen her; he had seen everyone who had ever been overlooked. He was their scribe, their champion.

One day, a notice circulated through the bindery: Mr. Dickens himself would be visiting, to observe the process that delivered his words to the public. A fever of excitement gripped the workers. When the day arrived, Janki kept her head down, her heart hammering against her ribs. She felt, rather than saw, his presence—a well-dressed gentleman with a keen, intelligent gaze.

He paused by her station. "And what do you think of young David's fortunes?" he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

Janki looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time. She saw not the Queen’s favourite author, but the ghost of the 12-year-old boy from the factory. She saw the observer, the collector of scars.

"They will improve, sir," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Because he has your pen."

A slow, genuine smile spread across Charles Dickens’s face. It was a smile of understanding, of shared secrets. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, as if acknowledging not just her words, but the unspoken story that connected them. He moved on, but the moment lingered.

Janki returned to her work, the printed words now alive with a new meaning. She understood that the true magic was not that she had found herself in his story, but that he had poured the story of everyone—the poor, the forgotten, the Jennys and the Jankis of the world—onto the page for all to see. And as her hands folded and stitched, she wove herself, and thousands like her, into the immortal tapestry of his work, forever a part of the great, bustling, heartbreaking, and hopeful world of Charles Dickens.

Why Prime Minister- Nehru Cried?

 

1.     The Unforgettable Evening

On **January 27, 1963**, at Delhi's Ramlila Maidan, Lata Mangeshkar sang "Ae Mere Watan Ke Logon" for the first time in public. The audience included Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, President S. Radhakrishnan, and a host of film industry dignitaries like Raj Kapoor, Dilip Kumar, and Mohammed Rafi.

As her voice filled the air, the entire audience, including Prime Minister Nehru, sat in rapt attention. Later, after her performance, Lata Mangeshkar was called to meet Nehru. She recalled going to him with great fear and unease, worried she had made a mistake. But when she reached him, she saw tears in his eyes. He told her, "**Lata, tumne aaj mujhe rula diya**" (Lata, you have made me cry today). In a deeply personal gesture, he later invited her for tea at his home, where she was introduced to his grandsons, Rajiv and Sanjay Gandhi, whom Indira Gandhi described as her 'admirers'.

---

2.     Lata Mangeshkar's Nervous First Take

The song was set to music by the legendary composer C. Ramchandra. However, the process was far from smooth. Lata Mangeshkar, then 33, was approached at the very last minute with just a day's notice to perform at a major Republic Day event. Feeling she had insufficient time to rehearse, she initially refused to sing it. It was only after Poet, Kavi Pradeep himself sang the lyrics to her—a performance so powerful that it moved her to tears—that she finally agreed. With only a single rehearsal and by listening to a tape of the song on her flight to Delhi, she prepared for what would become a historic performance.

…

3.     An Unforgettable Moment: Why Nehru Cried

The story of that evening is now part of Indian history. As Lata Mangeshkar sang the heart-wrenching tribute, she reportedly saw that Prime Minister Nehru was moved to tears. After the song, he called her backstage and said, **"Lata, tumne aaj mujhe rula diya"** (Lata, you have made me cry today). He later is said to have remarked that anyone who doesn't feel inspired by this song doesn't deserve to be called an Indian. The entire audience was reportedly moved, sharing in the collective grief, pride, and patriotism evoked by the song.

…

4.. The Night the Nation Wept

The winter sky hung low, a grieving shroud, 

Over the field where fifty thousand bowed. 

The war was lost, the brave had fallen deep, 

And Delhi's heart had yet to learn to sleep.

 

Then to the dais, wrapped in simple white, 

A voice arose to pierce the fading light. 

Not for applause, nor for a victor's crown— 

But to lift the broken pieces of the town.

 

*"Ae mere watan ke logon,"* soft she sang— 

And every pillar of the old hall rang. 

She sang of mothers who would wait in vain, 

Of blood that soaked the Himalayan rain.

 

She did not shout, she did not raise a fist— 

She kissed the names of those the earth had kissed. 

And in her trembling note, a soldier's face, 

A wife's last letter, an abandoned place.

Then, from the front, a silence deeper fell— 

Where sat the man who bore the nation's hell. 

Nehru, the architect of modern days, 

Sat still, unmasked, beneath the radiant blaze.

 

No speech, no slogan, no defiant word— 

For once, the leader's fortress heart was stirred. 

The glasses fogged, the famous composure broke, 

And down his cheek a silent teardrop spoke.

 

Around him, thousands—generals, clerks, and wives— 

Forgot the ways they'd learned to hide their lives. 

The businessman, the beggar, and the peer— 

All wept as one, for one long, bitter year.

 

That night, no victor raised a bloody hand; 

A singer stood, and grief united land. 

For in each drop that fell on Ramlila's ground, 

A broken nation found its healing sound.