The Architect's Curse

 Story:

The Architect's Curse

The Thar Desert had a way of swallowing things—cities, sounds, and time itself. For Dr. Arjun Mehta, an archaeologist running from the noise of a failed life in the city, the ruins of Kiradu were a perfect refuge. The complex of five 12th-century temples, built by the vassals of the Solanki monarchs, was a puzzle of stone and silence.

His focus was the Someshvara temple, the best-preserved of the group. Even in its ruin—the main spire collapsed, the mandapa open to the sky—it was a masterpiece. Its walls were a lexicon in sandstone, every block interlocked in the precise Māru-Gurjara style, every column a dense tapestry of carvings. He would trace the figures of dancers, warriors on horseback, and mythical beasts, feeling the ghost of the long-dead artisans in the cool, gritty stone.

The local villagers, who provided him with water and supplies, thought him mad. "The stone-sleep comes at dusk, Sahib," warned old Manvendra, his eyes milky with cataracts. "The master architect, he loved his creation too much. When the king tried to take him to build another city, the architect refused. The king had him killed. With his last breath, the architect cursed this place. Any who remain after sunset will join his work forever, their flesh turned to stone, their souls trapped in the carvings."

Arjun dismissed it as a folktale, a poetic explanation for the site's abandonment. His rational mind saw the real tragedy: shifting trade routes, a water source that failed, the slow, patient siege of the desert.

One evening, engrossed in documenting the unique octagonal layout of the Someshvara's mandapa, he lost track of time. The sun plunged below the horizon, and the desert chill arrived like an unwelcome guest. He packed his tools hastily, but as he turned to leave, a sound froze him—not the wind, but a low, rhythmic chime, like a distant hammer on chisel.

He shone his torch around the courtyard. The beam caught a figure in the Vishnu temple at the far end of the complex. Through the forest of "highly carved columns," he saw a man standing perfectly still, his back to Arjun. He was dressed in simple, homespun cloth, not a local style Arjun recognized.

"Hello?" Arjun called out, his voice swallowed by the vast silence.

The figure did not turn. Arjun approached, his boots crunching on the gravel. As he drew nearer, a cold dread seeped into him. The man was not just still; he was rigid. His skin had the dull, granular texture of the surrounding sandstone. It was a perfect, petrified human statue, its face forever turned towards the ruined sanctum, one hand outstretched as if in a final, desperate plea.

The legend was true.

The rhythmic chiming grew louder, now coming from all around him. He spun, his torch beam slicing through the darkness. The carvings on the Someshvara's walls were moving. The stone apsaras shifted their hips, their frozen smiles now seeming like knowing grins. The elephant riders on the frieze lowered their lances, their mounts taking a ponderous step forward with a sound of grinding rock.

He was no longer in a ruin. He was in a workshop, and the temple was still being built, its art still coming to life, hungry for new models.

He ran, not towards the road, but deeper into the complex, disoriented by terror. He passed the three ruined Shiva temples, their sanctuaries gaping like dark mouths, and stumbled towards the ancient stepwell. There, by the crumbling edge, he saw her. A woman, her form emerging from a half-carved pillar. Only her face and one arm were fully detailed, her expression a haunting mix of serenity and profound sorrow. Her features were too perfect, too lifelike to be mere sculpture. She was another victim, caught mid-transformation.

The numbness hit his feet first, a deep, cold heaviness. He looked down and saw a pale, grey hue creeping up his ankles, his skin hardening, losing sensation. The temple was claiming him. It would immortalize him not as a scholar, but as another terrified figure in its eternal stone narrative.

With a final, agonizing effort, he tore his gaze from the petrified woman and lunged away from the stepwell, towards the desert's open expanse. He fell, rolling down a sandy dune, the numbness receding as the open, curse-free air hit his skin.

He was found at dawn by Manvendra, shivering and babbling. The old man simply nodded, offering no "I told you so."

Arjun left Rajasthan that week, his research abandoned. But he could not escape Kiradu. In his dreams, the chime of the chisel was constant. And on his phone was a photo he did not remember taking—a close-up of a new, small carving near the base of the Someshvara temple. It depicted a man with a modern backpack, his face contorted in a scream, one foot seemingly fused with the temple floor.

The Kiradu complex, he now understood, was not a completed work. It was a living, growing gallery, and Percy Brown's "Solanki mode" was a style that had found a way to perpetuate itself through the ages, one terrified soul at a time. The architect's curse was not one of destruction, but of eternal, horrifying creation.

Xxx

Of course. Here are poetic lines drawn from the rich historical tapestry of Kiradu you provided.

Some Verses

 Some Verses

I. (The Someshvara)
A fallen spire, a roofless hall,
The Someshvara outlasts them all.
On octagon columns, a world is made,
Where light and shadow play in the arcade.

II. (The Vishnu Temple)
At the complex's end, a lonely sight,
Vishnu's carved columns, holding tight to the light.
A century older, they silently plead,
A testament to a forgotten creed.

III. (The Three Shivas)
Three Shivas rest, in ruin and grace,
Their sanctuaries mark this haunted place.
A stepwell's thirst, a silence profound,
On this ancient, consecrated ground.

 1. The Solanki's Stone Song

In Thar's vast, golden hold,
A Solanki story, in sandstone told.
Five temples stand, where time has pressed,
But Someshvara stands, the best-preserved.

Its shikhara fallen, its roof is bare,
But on each column, art beyond compare.
In Māru-Gurjara style, a sacred dream,
Where gods and beasts dance in the sun's hot gleam.

Across the way, where three Shivas reside,
Only sanctuaries, with time, abide.
And Vishnu's mandapa, a columned age,
The sole survivor of a bygone page.

A stone-song silenced, yet the lines persist,
By desert winds and history kissed.

2. Echoes in the Stone

Five ruined prayers in the desert sun,
A Solanki dynasty, undone.
The Someshvara, though scarred and maimed,
By Percy Brown's "Solanki mode" was named.

Its mandapa columns, an octagon,
Where carved stone life is still cast on.
The Vishnu temple, older, stands so stark,
A sentinel of columns in the park.

A stepwell waits, with silence deep,
Guarding the secrets that the ruins keep.
Not just a ruin, but a frozen age,
On Rajasthan's historical stage.

The Birth of Poetry

 

The Birth of Poetry

Later, Valmiki walked along the Tamasa with his disciple Bharadwaja. The river’s pristine waters mirrored the purity of a virtuous mind. Suddenly, a hunter’s arrow struck a male curlew mid-mating, leaving its mate distraught. Overcome with grief, Valmiki cried:

“O hunter! May you never find peace,

For slaying a bird lost in love’s bliss.”

Stunned by his own words, he realised they formed a shloka—a metrical verse born of sorrow. His disciples repeated it, transforming grief into poetry.

Thus, from compassion and pain, the first verse of the Ramayana emerged.

 

 

The Stone-Sleep of Kiradu-A story

 

Story

A story woven from the threads of blending history, art, and legend into a single tapestry.

The Stone-Sleep of Kiradu

The Thar Desert does not give up its secrets easily. It guards them with sun and sand, and with stories that make men turn away. For Dr. Aravind Rao, a historian of rational mind and weary heart, the ruins of Kiradu were not a haunted spot, but a sanctuary. He had come to the complex of five ruined temples, built by Solanki subordinates eight centuries ago, to finish his life's work: a definitive study of its Māru-Gurjara architecture.

His days were spent in the company of ghosts he understood—the master sculptors whose hands had shaped the reddish-yellow sandstone. He traced the interlocking blocks of the Someshvara temple, dedicated to Shiva, marvelling at friezes of horse and elephant riders frozen in eternal charge. He spent hours in the Vishnu temple, sketching the highly carved columns where deities and dancers, musicians and lovers, were locked in a silent, stone symphony. The locals called it the "Khajuraho of Rajasthan," and Aravind saw why; the art was unflinching in its celebration of life, a stark contrast to the desolate silence that now enveloped it.

But every evening, as the sun bled into the sand, the caretaker, an old man named Bhanu, would appear. "Sahib," he would say, his voice as dry as the desert air, "it is time. The curse stirs at dusk."

Aravind would smile, a patronizing gesture he hated but couldn't suppress. "The only curse here, Bhanu, is forgetting our history."

"The history here is not meant to be remembered after dark," Bhanu would insist, his eyes darting towards the intricately carved apsaras. "Long ago, a sage grew angry at the pride of this city. He cursed it. Anyone who remains within its bounds after sunset will be turned to stone, joining the gallery they so admire."

It was a fanciful tale, Aravind thought, a folk explanation for a city abandoned to the desert's slow conquest. He attributed the locals' fear to the sheer, unnerving power of the place. The carvings, especially the erotic ones, were so lifelike, so charged with a palpable energy, that in the failing light, they seemed to breathe.

One evening, engrossed in translating a worn inscription near the sanctum of the Someshvara temple, Aravind lost track of time. The sun dipped below the horizon with a sudden finality, and the desert cold began to seep from the stones. He looked up from his notebook to a world transformed. The last embers of twilight painted the ruins in hues of violet and deep orange, and the long shadows made the sculptures seem to move.

He packed his bag, a prickle of unease on his neck. It was then he heard it—not a wind, for the air was still, but a sound like a low, collective sigh. It seemed to emanate from the stone itself.

Shaking his head, he started for the gate. But a figure caught his eye. In a niche where he was certain there had been only a carved Yakshi holding a mirror, now stood a different sculpture. It was a man, his face contorted in a silent scream, one hand outstretched as if begging for help. The stone was the same reddish-yellow sandstone, but the style was jarringly realistic, not divine. It looked… new.

Aravind’s rational mind scrambled for an explanation. A prank? A recent addition? He stepped closer, his torch beam trembling. The detail was horrifying—the panic in the eyes, the wrinkles of the dhoti, the veins on the back of the hand. It was a perfect, petrified man.

A low chuckle echoed through the courtyard, a sound of grinding pebbles. He spun around. The temple complex was no longer a ruin. It was alive.

The apsaras on the walls were undulating in a slow, sensual dance, their stone limbs moving with a grace that was both beautiful and monstrous. The gods and demons locked in battle on the friezes were now truly struggling, their movements accompanied by the faint, gritty scrape of stone against stone. The entire temple was breathing, its sacred, sensual energy awakening with the stars.

He saw them then—other figures amongst the ancient carvings. A British officer in a red coat, frozen mid-stride. A local tribesman with a rifle, his face a mask of terror. All turned to stone, all integrated into the temple's narrative, their mortal fear a stark counterpoint to the celestial bliss of the original art. The curse was not a myth. It was a digestive process. The temple consumed the living and made them part of its eternal, stone story.

The sighing grew louder, becoming a whisper that filled his mind. "Stay… join the dance… become eternal…"

Terror seized him. He ran, stumbling over broken pillars, the whispers and grinding stone following him. He felt a creeping numbness in his toes, a stiffness in his legs. He glanced back and saw the stone path, pale and cold, spreading from his own footprints.

With a final, desperate burst of will, he lunged through the complex's ancient gateway and collapsed onto the sand of the open desert. The whispers ceased. The numbness receded, replaced by a pins-and-needles agony.

The next morning, Bhanu found him shivering by the roadside, a mile from the complex. Aravind could not speak of what he had seen, only that he believed.

He left Kiradu that day, his research unfinished. But he took something with him—a single photograph on his phone. It was a close-up of a small, peripheral frieze he had taken days before. It showed a scholarly-looking man, hunched over a notebook, a look of academic curiosity on his face. The stone of his body was the same reddish-yellow as the rest of the temple, but the style was jarringly modern. And it was a perfect likeness of himself.

The temple had already started to claim him. And Aravind knew, with a certainty that chilled him more than any desert night, that the art of Kiradu was not yet complete. It was merely waiting for its next subject to make the mistake of staying after sunset.

 

The Kiradu temples

The Kiradu temples are a group of ruined Hindu temples located in the Barmer district of Rajasthan, India. Kiradu town is located in the Thar Desert, about 35 km from Barmer and 157 km from Jaisalmer. The ruins of at least five temples exist at Kiradu.

Coordinates: 25°45′10″N 71°05′52″E / 25.7528°N 71.0977°E

Thousands of people became statues.

A dead city.

Ancient city- desert and sand everywhere.

During the night, fear is everywhere here.

Nobody stays here for the night.

Different cries of animals are heard here at night. Nobody stays for the night. Carvings depict Samundar manthan. Each pillar of the temple has a story.

I. (The Carving)
The chisel's kiss, a lover's deep design,
On sun-warmed blocks of interlocking red.
A silent, stone and ecstatic divine,
Where every glance a universe has read.

II. (The Curse)
The sun departs, the desert cools its breath,
And shadows weave a curse the locals know.
This "Khajuraho" courted by a death,
Where ruins live, and living dare not go.

III. (The Legacy)
Not just a haunt for spectres of the air,
But for the ghosts of empire, lost and vast,
A Solanki dream in ruins, standing there,
Whose beautiful, stone heart was made to last.

 

The Kiradu temples, weaving together their history, art, and legend.

1. A Sonnet for the Stone

In Thar's hot breath, where shifting sands now hold
A whispered age of Solanki might,
Five temples rise in sandstone, tinged with gold,
Where day gives way to Rajasthan's deep night.
The Someshvara, for Lord of the Moon, still stands,
A lattice-work of gods and beast and man,
Where loving couples, locked by stone-wrought hands,
Echo the Khajuraho's ancient plan.
But when the sun retreats, a curse takes flight,
A spectral dread the local voices tell—
That any soul who stays to greet the night
Will join the stone, bewitched by its own spell.
So beauty sleeps beneath a haunted sky,
A frozen song that time cannot deny.

2. The Desert's Haunted Gallery

The desert wind, a sculptor, still refines
The curves of dancers on a sun-baked wall.
In Kiradu's court, where silence now befalls,
A petrified world in red-yellow lines.

The Vishnu pillars, where fine stories twine,
Of elephant and horse, in sacred thrall,
Now stand as sentinels, awaiting night's call
To guard the curse of this forgotten shrine.

Oh, do not linger when the dusk descends,
Where passion carved in stone now sleeps, alone.
The legend of a doom the locale sends
Turns living flesh to features like the stone.
A haunted gallery where time suspends,
And ghosts of artistry claim the dark as their own.

O Seeker of Truth-

 O Seeker of Truth-

[Motivated by Lal Ded’s philosophy]

O Seeker of Truth, to gain pure awareness,
Free your mind from thoughts, from all weariness.
A realm will dawn where conflicts cease,
The soul aglow in radiant peace.

With purity shining, wise and all-seeing,
It knows the depths of each living being.
To endless calm, the path is shown,
By mastering senses, self-awareness grown.

In moments of light, enlightenment springs,
The Almighty’s grace, such joy it brings.
Blessed by Shiva, I soared with speed,
Through galaxies vast, to fulfil my need.

To the realm where the Lord resides on high,
In the company of saints beyond the sky.
He placed me aboard a celestial boat,
To heavenly joys, I set afloat.

Across the grandeur of heavens wide,
With ecstasy and grace as my guide.
I saw great souls, in shimmering light,
Particles of wisdom, glowing bright.

They blessed me with nectar from divine bowls,
Filling my being, enriching my soul.
My body shone with a glorious glow,
Spiritual kindness began to flow.

In blissful wonder, I danced with delight,
As saints beheld my spirit’s flight.
In heavenly gardens, joy was mine,
Between Godhood and grace, I intertwine.

Oh, joy unending, I’ve reached my release,
My soul liberated, bathed in peace.
A guiding star, steady and bright,
I shine for others, a beacon of light.

The chains are broken, my essence soars,
A star of my clan, I illuminate shores.
With body intact, I’ve achieved my aim,
Eternal freedom, in the Shiva’s name.

In spirituality, Lal of Kashmir shines bright,

Sham, the Shiv Bhakta, walks in her light. 

The Self-A Shining Star

 The Self-A Shining Star

[Motivated by Lal Ded’s vakh]

To conquer the self, each sense in command,
The mind must reign o'er the body’s land.
To ride the steed of boundless grace,
And sail the boat to the heavenly place.
There, in realms of infinite light,
I found the saints, glowing bright.
They gave me nectar from a divine cup,
I drank, and my spirit lifted up.
I danced with joy in the gardens fair,
The bliss of heaven filled the air.
Now I live in peace, content to die,
A shining star in the endless sky.

Sham Misri (Sundra)

Exodus

 Exodus

Fear gripped us, cold as the wind’s hollow moan,
A family trembling, no shield, not one stone.
We fled the green valley, its orchards, its streams,
With hearts like cracked mirrors, unstitched at the seams.

No farewell was whispered, no glance cast behind,
Just the ghosts of our footsteps, erased by the blind.
The earth where we planted, where love first took root,
Now a scar in the memory, a wound left mute.

Never to return? No—never’s too kind.
The past is a country we’re barred to find.

The cold of December, Nineteen Ninety, bit sharp,
A knife in the ribs of the night, dark and charred.
The air clenched to ice—even the winds seemed to mourn,
As if heaven itself wept for the land we had torn.

Could I withstand this cold? My bones screamed No,
But the road stretched before us, relentless as snow.
No ember of mercy, no sign, not a track—
We walked. We were shadows. No turning back.

"Uprooted"

 "Uprooted"

I was torn from my roots, so deep and so wide,
Like an old mulberry upended by time’s cruel tide.
The land of my fathers, of love and pain,
Now lives in my blood, yet I’m severed in vain.

The stones bore the weight of my ancestors’ hands,
Their sweat built these walls that no longer stand.
Each brick held a story, each step had a prayer,
Now dust on the wind—gone, as if never there.

The hearth where we gathered, where embers would glow,
Now whispers are ashes, the breezes will blow.
The laughter, the weeping, the songs left unsung,
Are ghosts in the echoes of a tongue now unstrung?

I walk with the shadows of all left behind,
A relic of ruins no stranger would find.
What’s lost can’t return, yet it clings to my soul—
A home now just memory, half-mended, half-whole.

So, I bear the weight of a name without ground,
A seed without soil, yet still longing for sound.
For though I was taken, though all seems erased,
The land lives within me—unbroken, though displaced.

"The wind whispered secrets the trees dared not keep,
Their silence too heavy, their roots dug too deep.
I reached for the echoes—so faint, yet so true—
But the past, like a storm, tore the world that I knew."

Sham Misri

(Sundra)

"The Camel’s Odyssey: From Ancient Toes to Distant Roads"

 

"The Camel’s Odyssey: From Ancient Toes to Distant Roads"

I. Ancestral Shadows

No child of dunes, yet king of sand,

Your lineage walks a stranger land—

Once, fox-small feet with fourfold tread

Pressed forests where the west wind fled.

Giraffe-camels browsed the dawn,

Their necks like creaking masts withdrawn,

Till fate’s tide turned: some eastward crept,

Some south where Andean glaciers wept.

North’s last sons sank into stone,

Their bones the only markers known.

II. South American Kin

Now vicuñas, light as mist,

Dance where freezing summits twist—

Soft as camel-pads they go,

Grazing slopes where thin winds blow.

Sentinel and swift retreat,

Their fleece more dear than kings’ conceit.

While guanacos, broad and dour,

Mass like storms on Patagonia’s floor—

Wild kin tamed to llama’s load,

The Inca’s weight on mountain road.

Alpaca’s coat, though fine it gleams,

Ne’er matches vicuña’s moonlit dreams.

III. The Bridge of Service

When Columbus breached the sea,

No hoofbeat shook the land—save thee,

O llama! Sole beast bowed to bear

Gold and corn through thinning air.

Still today your patient frame

Climbs where engines fear to claim.

IV. Global Steed

From Australia’s rabbit-warred plain

To Zanzibar’s monsoon-slung chain,

You hump the wire, you haul the bale,

A nomad still, though leased to sail.

Canary isles or Tuscan hill,

You bend—but never to man’s will.

V. Epilogue: The Eternal Stranger

Melancholy architect,

Building roads none could erect—

Your toes pared down by time’s harsh hand,

Yet still you walk each demanded land.

Sundra

The Blind Experts

 The Blind Experts

A noble king on Andhak’s throne heard every subject’s plea,

When came an old man, bowed with need, from shackles of poverty.

“A loan,” he begged, “of gold, a sum, a thousand coins to hold,

I leave my sons, both blind, as pledge—a tale will soon unfold.”

The king, intrigued, then asked him how such sons could serve his hand,

The old man swore on skill and sense they’d faithfully command.

“The elder smells the soul of steeds, the younger gems can tell,

By touch and scent, their judgment’s pure—they read what truths compel.”

The gold was paid, and the sons remained within the royal keep,

Till traders came with goods to sell—with promises so deep.

A horse was brought, of noble breed, or so the seller swore,

But when the blind boy touched its flank, truth rose from folklore.

“This horse will throw its rider down—it knows a milkman’s hand!

It drank from buffalo’s own milk and grew on that man’s land.”

The trader shamed, confessed the lie, and left within the hour,

The king now knew the blind boy’s gift—a rare and potent power.

Then came a jeweller, gems in hand, with diamonds bright and clear,

The younger son held one and sensed a presence dark and near.

“This stone has blood,” the blind boy said, “and sorrow clings within,

It stole the lives of two who held—a cursed and tragic sin.”

The jeweller fled in silent dread—his secret had been told,

The king sat stunned by truths unearthed more precious than the gold.

Then came the father, gold repaid, to take his sons and go,

The king then asked, “And what of you? What special skill do you show?”

“I see the truth in any soul,” the old man spoke outright,

“Then tell me mine,” the king demanded, standing in his light.

“You are the son,” the old man said, “of one who lived by theft.”

Enraged, the king cried, “Off with heads! You leave me all bereft!”

Then Betal paused upon the path, mid-air and darkly hung,

“O Vikram, was this judgment just? Speak—hold or loose your tongue!”

The king replied, “The truth cuts deep, but spoken out of place,

The old man’s pride brought doom to all—a blind and reckless grace.”

Then Betal laughed—a chilling sound—and flew back to the tree,

And Vikram drew his sword and sighed… the quest still yet to be.

 

WHO WAS KING VIKRAMADITYA?

 WHO WAS KING VIKRAMADITYA?

There have been at least four Vikramaditya in history. 

Chandragupta II Vikramaditya had 'nine gems' in his court. They were –

1. Kalidas, 2. Dhanwantari, 3. Kshapanak, 4. Amar Simha, 5. Shanku, 6. Ghatkarpar, 7. Varahmihir, 8. Vararuchi and 9. Vaital Bhatt.

The name 'Vaital Bhatt', one of the nine gems of Chandragupta II Vikramaditya, has nothing to do with Betal 'The Vampire' of 'Vaital Panchavimshati'; because 'Bar Kaha' had been written a few centuries before Christ and 'Vaital Bhatt' was born a few centuries after Christ. Similarly, the Vikramaditya of 'Vaital Panchavimshati' does not have to do anything with Chandragupta II Vikramaditya. But a logical conclusion can be drawn that those who assumed the title of 'Vikramaditya' did it only to give recognition to their success and emulate his greatness by suffixing 'Vikramaditya' to their names. This means that these kings were greatly impressed by him, and this also means that King Vikramaditya, who has been depicted as a hero in Vikram and Betal, was born much earlier and has nothing to do with Chandragupta II Vikramaditya, who was the son of Samudragupta. But even though his historicity cannot be established, he remains a historical figure in a work of fiction.

'Katha Sarit Sagar' is a famous book in the Sanskrit language written by 'Somdeva'. In fact, it would be more correct to say that it was rewritten by 'Somdeva' from the book 'Vrihad Katha', which was a translation of the book 'Bar Kaha'. 'Bar Kaha' was written by 'Gunadhya' in Paishachi Prakrit language. 'Gunadhya' was a minister at the court of King Satvahan of Andhra dynasty around the period 495 B.C. It is said of 'Gunadhya' that he composed seven lakh couplets in a period of seven years and named it 'Bar Kaha'. First this book was translated into Sanskrit language by King Durvineet as 'Vrihad Katha'; but unfortunately neither 'Bar Kaha' nor Vrihad Katha' is available now.

'Somadeva' who was contemporary of King Awant of Kashmir (1029-1064 AD), rewrote 'Vrihad Katha' in the Sanskrit language and named it 'Katha Sarit Sagar', which consists of 21,388 couplets. 'Vaital Panchavimshati' or 'Betal Pachchisi' and 'Vaital Panchavimshati or 'Betal Pachchisi' and 'Simhasan Dwatrinshika' or 'Simhasan Battisi' are parts of 'Katha Sarit Sagar'. In 'Betal Pachchisi' the poet has made Betal tell twenty-five meaningful stories to King Vikramaditya and in 'Simhasan Battisi', the poet has used the thirty-two puppets to give a detailed introduction of King Vikramaditya one by one.

Then much later, as the stories in 'Katha Sarit Sagar' aroused interest and curiosity in the minds of people, Mohammad Shah, a Mughal Emperor, got it translated into Braj language by 'Sorath', a poet at the court of Sawai Raja Jai Singh. Next, it was Captain Mart who got it made more comprehensible and intelligible by Tarinicharan Mishra and introduced it in the schools of Bengal during the British period in India.

This book consists of twenty-five stories told by Vaital to King Vikramaditya. But who was King Vikramaditya and what place he held in the history of India is a matter of debate. There is no historical evidence; there is nothing that can establish the historicity of King Vikramaditya mentioned in the book Vaital Panchavimshati. But it seems he played an important role in the historical process, because, as is evident from the history of ancient India, there had been about twelve Vikramadityas and each one embraced this title after having achieved some kind of great success as a title of honour. Even Chandragupta II Vikramaditya, who ruled from 375 AD to 415 AD, assumed this title only after having conquered Gujarat and Kathiawad which was indeed a great success.

Some anecdotalists have made available a little of anecdotal material which will, we are sure, make interesting reading. Thus goes the story-

There was a shepherd lad in a village. He used to take his sheep out for grazing, and some other village boys would also accompany him. After having shepherded his sheep towards a pasture, he used to start playing with his friends. And every day, while playing, he would go and sit on a mound of earth and call himself a king. His friends, too, enjoyed this game and posing themselves to be his subjects, they would come with their grievances, which were, of course, not real, and the shepherd lad would pronounce his judgment like a just king. Gradually, the villagers too came to know about his great sense of justice. Whenever there was a problem among them and they could not solve and settle the matter, they would come to the shepherd lad, and this boy would go and sit on that particular mound of earth, listen to both the parties patiently and pronounce his judgement; and both the parties would go back satisfied.

It took no time for the story to spread like wildfire and the then ruling king Raja Bhoja Dev also came to know about it. He called the boy at his court and tried to test his sense of justice, but to his astonishment, he found him to be a most ordinary boy.

"I have heard a lot about your sense of justice, but now I find you are a most ordinary boy," said Raja Bhoj Dev.

To this, the shepherd lad said, "Sir, I have never had education and am indeed a very ordinary boy. But sir, there is a mound of earth in the hilly region in the north-west province of your kingdom. When I sit on that mound, sense of justice starts flowing automatically from above; I begin to feel that I am a great king."

Raja Bhoj Dev sensed some meaning in what the shepherd lad said. He asked him to lead him to the mound of earth. After reaching there Raja Bhoj Dev made the boy sit on the mound and posed a very complicated problem before him. This was a case to which he himself had given several hearings in his court and had not yet been able to solve it, owing to its complicatedness. But to his utter bewilderment, the boy, after giving a patient hearing, solved the case as if it was a very simple one.

The Third Suiter

  

The Third Suiter

[Tale from Vikram and Betal]

Betal spoke from the corpse’s hold, as Vikram walked the night,

“Another tale of choices bold, of wisdom, love, and might.

In Magadh lived a princess fair, with beauty like the moon,

Who turned away each prince’s prayer, and every splendid groom.

‘What gift have you?’ she asked each one, ‘to win me as your wife?’

The first could read fate’s course begun—the prophecies of life.

The next, a chariot that could soar o’er mountain, stream, and vale,

The third, a sword that rocks would tear—a warrior without fail.

But fate then played a cruel hand—the princess disappeared,

Abducted by a giant’s hand, to all, her loss was feared.

The seer prince divined the place where she was held in dread,

The charioteer flew through the space to where the foe was spread.

The warrior prince, with blade held high, did face the monstrous brute,

And struck the giant so he died—one swift and fatal cut.

The palace vanished with the blow—the princess stood there, free,

But then the princes claimed her hand—each one for all to see.

The seer said, ‘I found the way!’ The charioteer, ‘I flew!’

The warrior cried, ‘I won the day! The giant, I overthrew!’

So tell me, Vikram, wise and true, beneath this starry dome—

Which prince deserved the hand he drew? Speak, king, and bear me home.”

Then Vikram thought and gave a reply, “Though all played their own part,

The one who dared to fight and die—the warrior, strong of heart.

For might makes right when darkness falls—his sword brought freedom’s breath,

Without that blow, the giant’s halls had been the princess’s death.”

“You judge with truth,” Betal declared, “but still, you spoke—you failed!”

And so, the ghost, no longer shared, to the distant treetop sailed.

And Vikram, with a determined sigh, held his sword in the air,

Set out once more to fetch the fly—to conquer and ensnare.

King Vikram and Betal

 King Vikram and Betal

A hermit came to Vikram’s court, a king of fearless might,

And offered him a simple fruit, a humble, daily sight.

The just king, thinking of his realm and all beneath his care,

Declared the gift belonged to all and placed it with great care.

Day after day, the sage returned, this ritual to repeat,
Until he asked to see the fruits, now rotting and complete.

The king then cut one open, and a brilliant gem was found,
A priceless, gleaming treasure from within the earthly mound.

The hermit spoke of occult arts and promised greater wealth,
If Vikram would perform a task to bolster kingdom’s health.

To fetch a corpse from distant woods where Krishna’s waters flow,
From a lonely Peepal tree where darkest shadows grow.

And so the king on a moonless night did venture to the wood,
And found the body hanging where the haunted tree once stood.
He placed it on his shoulder to begin the lengthy trek,
When from the corpse a voice did speak, the ghostly soul of Betal.

“I’ll tell a tale to pass the time,” the clever ghost then said,
“But you must not utter a word until our path is sped.
And within my story’s fold, a puzzle you must solve,
Or else your royal head, O King, I promise will dissolve.”

So, Vikram walked in silent thought, beneath the starless dome,
As Betal wove a tangled web of love and terror home.
A test of wisdom, will, and truth on that dark path began,
The legendary dialogue of the king and the ghost, Betal.

Kashmir-My Birthplace

 Kashmir-My Birthplace

The Flight from Kashmir
In the chill of December 1990’s frost,
A Kashmiri Pandit Sham’s heart was lost.
Forced to flee, his homeland betrayed,
Leaving behind the life his ancestors made.

The Abandoned Home
Lifelong treasures, gathered with care,
Left behind in despair.
Eyes welled up, tears like rain,
A heart in anguish, screaming in pain.

It felt as if, without a plea,
Someone tore my soul from me.
“O,” I cry, “I feed my veins,
With my own blood, in endless chains.”

The Burning House
Like running from a house aflame,
I left my home, in sorrow and shame.
Doors ajar, windows wide,
Unbolted, open, nowhere to hide.

I don’t recall who holds the keys,
To my home, now lost in the breeze.
Hands folded, I stepped inside,
The pooja room, where gods reside.

The Ancestral Shiv Linga
The Shiv Linga, ancient and divine,
I poured milk, one last time.
A fleeting prayer, a hurried plea,
“Protect this home, though I must flee.”

The Beloved Cows
I garlanded the cows with marigold,
Fed them dry brawn, my heart so cold.
A newborn calf, in the shed I placed,
Kissed its forehead, my tears embraced.

“O,” I whispered, “forget me not,
Though I leave, this sacred spot.”
With a heavy heart, I turned away,
From the life I loved, now in decay.

The Kangar’s Warmth
The freezing cold, it bit my skin,
I feared the night would do me in.
Quickly, I grabbed the Kangar old,
Filled with charcoal, its warmth to hold.

The Last Glimpse
I walked the lane, my steps so slow,
Turned for a glimpse, my heart aglow.
Tears streamed down, my soul bereft,
One last look, and then I left.

The Eternal Farewell
With family in tow, in fear and fright,
We left the valley, that fateful night.
Kashmir, my home, forever gone,
A shattered dream, from dusk to dawn.

Sham Misri (Sundra)

Story:

The Flight from Kashmir
In the icy grip of December 1990, a Kashmiri Pandit stood at the crossroads of his life. The land of his ancestors, the valley of Kashmir, was no longer his sanctuary. Forced to flee, he left behind a lifetime of memories, treasures, and the sacred soil that had nurtured his family for generations.

The Abandoned Home
His home, once filled with laughter and love, now stood silent and forsaken. Lifelong possessions, painstakingly collected by him and his forebears, were left behind. His eyes, swollen with tears, mirrored the rain that fell from the heavens. His heartbeat with a rhythm of sorrow, each thud a cry of anguish, a scream of despair. It felt as though his very soul was being ripped from his body, a pain so raw, so visceral, that no anaesthesia could dull it.

“O,” he cried, “I feed my own veins with my blood, and still, I must leave.”

The Burning House
He fled as one would from a burning house, leaving doors ajar, windows open, and the unbolted entrance a silent testament to his haste. In his panic, he couldn’t recall to whom he had handed the keys. With trembling hands, he entered the pooja room, taking one last step into the sanctum of his faith.

The Ancestral Shiv Linga
Before the ancient Shiv Linga, worshipped by his family for generations, he poured a streak of pure milk. It was a hurried offering, a desperate plea for protection. “Guard this home,” he whispered, though he knew he might never return.

The Beloved Cows
In the courtyard, his cows stood, their gentle eyes filled with confusion. He garlanded them with marigold, fed them dry brawn, and kissed the forehead of a newborn calf. “Forgive me,” he murmured, his tears mingling with the calf’s soft fur.

The Kangar’s Warmth
The biting cold of December gnawed at his bones. Fearing he might not survive the freezing night, he hastily filled an old Kangar with live charcoal, clutching its warmth as he stepped into the unknown.

The Last Glimpse
As he walked down the lane, he turned for one last glimpse of his home. Tears streamed down his face, each drop a memory, a piece of his heart left behind.

The Eternal Farewell
With his family by his side, their faces etched with fear and panic, he left the valley forever. Kashmir, his homeland, was now a distant dream, a chapter closed too soon.

This is my story, which delves deeper into the emotions and details of the Kashmiri Pandit’s heartbreaking farewell.