136. The Kingdom of Sikander: A Memoir of Lost Heaven

*An Anecdote from the Valley*

Legend holds that the fair-skinned peoples of Kashmir, Gilgit, the Hunza Valley, and Baltistan are descendants of Alexander the Great’s soldiers. Readers of Rudyard Kipling’s *The Man Who Would Be King* — or viewers of the superb film adaptation — will recall how the local tribes awaited the return of Sikander, Alexander’s son. There may, in fact, be substance to this charming legend.

Alexander fought his way through the Khyber Pass and entered northern India via the Indus Valley in 327 BC. The following year, he won a major battle against the local king at Hydaspes, but his army refused to march any deeper into the subcontinent. Before returning to Persia, he left behind many thousands of his elite Macedonian troops, with orders to marry local women and establish Greek satrapies. In classical times, Macedonians and most Greeks were a fair-skinned, blue-eyed people — revealing their northern, even Germanic, roots. They were a far cry from today’s Hellenes, who are products of centuries of mixing with Ottoman Turks, Slavs, and other Balkan peoples.

Cut off from India and Afghanistan by the ramparts of the Karakoram and the Himalayas, the Greco-Kashmiri gene pool remained relatively isolated until modern times. The result is people who appear strikingly different from their neighbours — like marooned survivors from a lost shipwreck, beached and forgotten long ago on a strange, uncharted island.

Many natives of Hunza, Kashmir, the Swat Valley, and Chitral look distinctly Aryan. The Kafir Kalash — a little-known non-Muslim tribe with the curious custom of selecting the village’s strongest man to mate with all its virgins — appear as though they have followed this practice for centuries, perhaps to preserve their gene pool. Where did these fair-skinned people come from, if not from Alexander’s hoplites?

*The light-skinned peoples of Kashmir, Gilgit, the Hunza Valley, and Baltistan are descendants of the soldiers of Alexander the Great, the legend says. And maybe it is true. Maybe the Macedonians did stay, did marry, did build a kingdom in these impossible mountains. But if Sikander’s soldiers ever return to claim their inheritance, they will find only bones and bunkers — and a people who have forgotten how to live without war.*

*The kingdom in the clouds remains: still beautiful, still scarred. And no one is about to hand over heaven, of all places, to a hated enemy. *

Xxx

Hindu Kush

Hindu Kush 

The name "Hindu Kush" refers to a major mountain range that historically marked the northwestern frontier of the Indian subcontinent. The most cited origin traces to 14th-century traveller Ibn Battuta, who described it as "Hindu-killer" due to the deaths of countless Hindu slaves from India who perished from cold and harsh conditions while being trafficked northward to Central Asia by Muslim traders and invaders. Ibn Battuta, crossing the passes around 1333 CE, noted that the extreme weather claimed so many Hindu captives en route to markets in Turkestan that the range earned its grim cross. This interpretation persists in local Afghan lore and popular accounts, linking it to the medieval slave trade during invasions by figures like Mahmud of Ghazni and Timur.

Some scholars propose "Hindu Koh," meaning "mountains of India" or "Hindu mountains," as a simpler geographic descriptor, with "Kush" as a variant of the Persian "Kuh" for mountain; Mughal emperor Akbar reportedly tried renaming it this way in 1586 to appease Hindu subjects.  The slave-death theory, however, remains the earliest documented and most widely referenced

In shadowed passes where the wild winds wail,
Hindu Kush stands, a graveyard etched in stone,
Where captive souls from India's sunlit vale
Met winter's bite, their final breaths a moan.
Named for the slaughter of the weary throng,
Slaves chained in torment, lost to icy wrong.

From Ibn Battuta's quill, the tale unfolds,
Of merchants marching north through frozen hell,
Where Hindu blood turned peaks to crimson gold,
And countless perished 'neath the mountain's spell.
No mercy in those heights, no gentle call,
Just echoes of the fallen, one and all.

Yet some whisper "Kuh," the mountain's tongue,
A boundary bold 'twixt realms of faith and fire,
Akbar sought to cloak its dirge unsung,
Renaming grief to soothe an empire's pyre.
But history's scar remains, unbowed, severe,
Hindu Kush whispers death through every year.

Ref:

[iranicaonline]

[sanskritimagazine+1youtubewikipedia+1]

[.youtubedharmapedia]

 

# Visa to Paradise

*A satirical short story*

## Part One – The Queue at the End

When Ramesh died—quietly, in his sleep, after a lifetime of cutting queues and fudging tax returns—he expected either eternal silence or the strum of heavenly harps. What he did not expect was a queue.

A long one.

It twisted through a grey, misty corridor lit by fluorescent tubes that buzzed like irritated bees. At the front stood a heavy door with a brass plaque: 

**GATE OF PARADISE – ISSUANCE SECTION** 

*Please have your documents ready. No chai breaks. *

Underneath, in smaller script: 

*“By order of Yamraj, Lord of Death & Immigration.”*

Ramesh patted his pockets. He had no documents. He had died in his pyjamas.

The queue moved forward. Each soul before him was turned away by a bored clerk who looked like a government employee who had been dead for three thousand years and still hadn’t received a promotion.

“Passport?” 

“I… I didn’t know I needed one.” 

“Next.”

When Ramesh’s turn came, he offered his best smile. “Good morning, sir. I was wondering—”

“Passport or return slip to narak?” the clerk said without looking up.

“Neither, but you see, I lived a very decent life. I never stole more than office stationery.”

The clerk stamped a form. “Take this. Go to Counter 2. Bring a passport, visa stamps from each lifetime, proof of good deeds on letterhead from a recognised deity, tax receipts for sins, and a character certificate from your local pundit. If any document is missing, you will be processed to the lower floors.”

Ramesh looked at the stamp. It read: **“INCOMPLETE – RETURN TO SAMSARA.”**

Thus began the satirical truth: in heaven, as on earth, paperwork is the real purgatory.

---

## Part Two – A Vacancy Opens Up

It so happened that just then, a vacancy arose in heaven. A minor angel had retired (burnout from listening to too many bhajans). Yamraj, the Lord of Death, issued an advertisement:

 **“URGENT RECRUITMENT – HEAVEN ADMINISTRATION”** 

*Position: Celestial Gatekeeper (Temporary, may become permanent after 100,000 years probation)* 

*Requirements: Must have performed at least one selfless deed on Earth. Proof required in triplicate. * 

*Interviews to be held in Narak Conference Hall, Room 101. Bring original documents + photocopies (both sides).*

The news spread across the afterlife. Millions applied. The screening committee—three old clerks with ink-stained fingers—reduced the list to four. Only four souls had managed to submit all forms without a single spelling mistake.

Their interview cards arrived by spectral post:

*“You are hereby summoned to appear before the High Throne of Yamraj. Dress code: White (no holes). Be on time. Lateness will result in automatic disqualification and reassignment to the Department of Unanswered Prayers.”*

---

## Part Three – The Four Candidates

### Candidate No. 1 – Atma Ram

Yamraj sat on a throne made of filing cabinets. His face was the colour of a storm cloud, but his reading glasses gave him an oddly bureaucratic air.

“Name?” 

“Atma Ram, my Lord.” 

“Atma Ram,” Yamraj repeated. “Soul of God. Impressive. Residence?” 

“The Cremation Grounds, my Lord.” 

“I see. And during your tenure at the cremation grounds, what was your occupation?”

Atma Ram coughed. “I… facilitated transitions.” 

“You pushed people into the fire before they were dead,” Yamraj said, sliding a report across the desk. “You sold wood from stolen pyres. You mixed ashes of buffalo with the ashes of saints and sold them as holy relics. You even pocketed the teeth of the departed and resold them as ‘Buddha’s molars.’ Am I lying?”

Atma Ram’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish.

“Why do you want to come to heaven?” 

“Because,” Atma Ram whispered, “I am fed up with worldly things.” 

Yamraj removed his glasses. “You *are* worldly things. You are their mouldy residue. You have done nothing but accelerate the arrival of souls to my doorstep—and half of them came without proper paperwork because of you. Return to the cremation grounds. And this time, stay.”

*Candidate No. 1 – Rejected.*

---

### Candidate No. 2 – Neek Ram

 

“Name?” 

“Neek Ram, Lord.” 

“Translation?” 

“‘Good Lord’ or ‘Virtuous God,’” Neek Ram said with a hopeful smile. 

“And your deeds on Earth reflect this noble name?”

The file opened. Yamraj read in silence. Then he looked up.

“You have not done a single good deed in seventy-three years. You did not harm anyone, true—but you also never helped. You never gave a rupee to a beggar, never stopped to lift a fallen scooter, never even held a door open. Your life was a zero. A perfect, inert, useless zero.”

Neek Ram shuffled his feet. “I will improve my activities in heaven, Lord. Once I settle in, I promise I’ll—”

“Heaven is not a training ground,” Yamraj said. “It is a destination. You should have practised goodness on Earth, where it costs something. Here, virtue is mandatory. You cannot *learn* it after arrival. Return.”

“But where will I go?” 

“To the Department of Mild Inconvenience. It is neither heaven nor hell. Just a very long wait for a bus that never comes.”

*Candidate No. 2 – Rejected. *

---

### Candidate No. 3 – Balak Ram

“Name?” 

“Balak Ram, sir.” 

“Child of God. Cute. What was your profession on Earth?” 

“I worked in a hospital, Lord. As a nurse.”

Yamraj’s expression softened—then hardened as he read the file.

“Balak Ram, you swapped newborn babies for profit. When a rich couple delivered a stillborn, you sold them a live child from a poor mother and told her the infant died. You did this seventeen times. You made money from the tears of parents.”

Balak Ram wept. “I was young. I needed the money.” 

“Everyone needs money. Not everyone trades human grief for it. Return.”

“To where?” 

“To the maternity ward of hell. You will deliver screaming receipts for eternity.”

*Candidate No. 3 – Rejected. *

---

### Candidate No. 4 – Sant Ram

Yamraj sighed. The third candidate had left a bad taste. He called the last one.

“Name?” 

“Sant Ram, my Lord.” 

“Saint of God. And where did you reside on Earth?” 

“Lane Number 420, Sector 7, Ganga Nagar.”

Yamraj put down his pen. “Lane 420. The penal code for fraud. Promising.”

He opened the file. “Tell me, Sant Ram—have you ever spoken a lie?”

“Never, my Lord. I have never told a single untruth in my entire life.”

Yamraj smiled thinly. “That itself is a lie, because I see here that as a priest, you recited inauspicious mantras at weddings—the ones meant for funerals—and funeral mantras at weddings. You did it deliberately, because the family that paid more got the ‘auspicious’ version. The rest got curses disguised as blessings.”

Sant Ram turned pale. “I… I was just following market demand.”

“And your reason for wanting heaven?” 

“I wish to learn Sanskrit, my Lord. Properly. So that I can charge higher fees. More *dakshina*.”

Yamraj leaned forward. “Let me understand. You have defrauded the living. You have weaponised holy words. And now you want to come to heaven to *upskill* for better fraud?”

“When you put it that way—”

“I put it exactly that way. Return to the mortal realm. Reincarnate as a form. A tax form. You will be filled out, stamped, and filed in error for seven lifetimes.”

*Candidate No. 4 – Rejected. *

---

## Part Four – The Moral of the Mess

Yamraj closed all four files and turned to his chief clerk, Chitragupta.

“No one,” he said, “wants to come to heaven for heaven itself. They want to escape something, or they want to exploit something, or they want to improve something they should have fixed on Earth. Has no one simply lived well?”

Chitragupta consulted a ledger the size of a small car. “Fourteen people, my Lord, in the last ten thousand years. They went straight to the VIP lounge. No interviews. No paperwork.”

“What did they do?”

“They were kind without recording it. They gave without receiving a receipt. They forgave without witnesses. They did not apply for heaven. They simply arrived, and the door opened.”

Yamraj nodded. “Then put up a new notice.”

Chitragupta took out his quill. “What should it say?”

Yamraj thought for a moment, then dictated:

*“NOTICE: Heaven is not a promotion. It is not a reward for cleverness. It is not a training college. It is the natural resting place of those who forgot to keep score. All others, please form a queue to the left. Tax receipts will be audited. Bring your own pen.”*

**THE END**

*With sincere apologies to R.K. Sharma and All India Radio’s “Hawa Mahal.” Bureaucracy is equally funny in every language. *

Visa to Paradise: The Andhaka Copycat Claim

Visa to Paradise: The Andhaka Copycat Claim

*A Satirical Short Story*

When Andhaka — son of Hiranyaksha, boon-granted by Brahma, conqueror of the three worlds, pursuer of the devas all the way to Mount Mandara — was finally impaled on Shiva's trident, something strange happened.

He didn't die.

Well, he did. But then another Andhaka rose from his blood. And another. And another. The battlefield became a forest of thousand-eyed, thousand-limbed demons, each one identical to the original.

Then Kālī came. And she drank every drop.

The last Andhaka — the original — watched as his copies were devoured. Then Shiva's third eye opened. Andhaka's sins burned away. He fell to his knees.

*"I am sorry,"* he said.

Shiva forgave him. Made him a Gaṇa chief.

Then Andhaka died. For real this time. And woke up in a beige hallway.

---

### Part One: The Intake

The sign read: **AFTERLIFE RECEPTION — GAṆA DIVISION (FORMER ASURAS) — COUNTER 11**.

A cheerful clerk with a single head (refreshingly simple) greeted him. "Welcome! Andhaka, correct? Son of Hiranyaksha? Chief Gaṇa? We have your file. It's... unusual."

"How so?" Andhaka asked, his thousand eyes now reduced to a normal two (the Gaṇa makeover).

"You died multiple times. The Liṅga Purāṇa account alone records: one original death by trident, then approximately twelve thousand copy-deaths by Kālī. Each copy was a distinct entity. We need to determine which one is *you* — the real Andhaka — before we can process your visa."

"I am the original!"

"All twelve thousand copies said that. Right before Kālī ate them. Do you have any proof of originality?"

Andhaka thought. "I... was impaled on Shiva's trident for a while. The copies were destroyed quickly."

"That's not proof. Copies can claim they were impaled too. We need a *witness*."

---

### Part Two: The Witness Testimony

The court summoned **Vīrabhadra** — the fierce Gaṇa commander who had fought Andhaka's copies.

Vīrabhadra appeared in full armor, scowling. "I killed Andhaka seventy-three times. Each time, a new one rose from the blood. It was exhausting. I do not recommend it."

"Can you identify the original?" the judge asked.

Vīrabhadra squinted at Andhaka. "The original was the one who *begged for forgiveness*. The copies just screamed. So if this one says he's sorry, he's probably the real one."

Andhaka knelt. "I am sorry. For everything. The conquest. The abduction attempt. The mountain-uprooting. The yajña-hindering. The Apsara-napping. All of it."

Vīrabhadra nodded. "That's him."

The judge wrote: *"Original Andhaka identified by Vīrabhadra via sincere apology. Copies are considered deceased and without independent soul status. Their visas are void."*

---

### Part Three: The Son Āḍi

The clerk then pulled up another form. "Andhaka, you have a son. Name: Āḍi. Mother unknown. Please provide parentage details for his inheritance."

Andhaka's thousand heads (now absent) would have argued. Instead, his single head sighed. "I don't remember. There were many years. Many asura women. Āḍi is my son. That is all I know."

The court ruled that Āḍi would be recognized as **Legal Heir of Andhaka (Asura Estate)** . However, since Andhaka had been forgiven and made a Gaṇa, his asura wealth (three worlds, various palaces, a collection of stolen Apsaras) was forfeit to the celestial treasury. Āḍi would receive a small pension of 100 EterniCoins per celestial year — enough to live modestly in Purgatory Annex.

Āḍi later filed an appeal. It is still pending.

---

### Part Four: The Blood Copy Administrative Nightmare

Despite Vīrabhadra's testimony, the court still had to account for the twelve thousand copies. Each copy, while lacking an independent soul, had nevertheless *existed* for a brief period. The Rāmāyaṇa and Mahābhārata accounts differed on who killed the final Andhaka — Shiva's third eye or Kālī — but agreed on the blood copies.

The judge summoned **Kālī** (via celestial deposition). The goddess appeared as a towering, dark figure, her tongue red with symbolic blood.

"Kālī," the judge said, "did you consume the copies?"

"I did. Every single one. They were delicious. Not spiritually, of course. I am a goddess, not a cannibal. But metaphorically."

"Are the copies considered 'alive' before consumption?"

"They were moving, fighting, and bleeding. If it bleeds, it lives. But their lives were not meaningful. They had no memory, no identity, no karma. They were photocopies."

The court ruled: **Blood copies are classified as 'Temporary Combat Entities'** — not eligible for afterlife processing, but requiring a *Bulk Deletion Certificate*. Andhaka was required to sign a single form acknowledging that all copies had been consumed and would not be resurrected.

He signed. His hand did not shake.

---

### Part Five: The Verdict (Forgiveness Final)

The final verdict was, surprisingly, merciful — because Andhaka had genuinely repented, both on the trident and in the courtroom.

- **Parentage**: Son of Hiranyaksha. No spiritual parentage from Shiva-Parvati in this version. (The court noted the inconsistency with earlier Puranas but accepted the Liṅga Purāṇa as the governing text for this case.)

- **Boon**: Upheld. He was killed by Shiva (and/or Kālī, by extension). No violation.

- **Blood copies**: Deleted. No further responsibility.

- **Son Āḍi**: Recognized. Pension granted.

- **Crimes**: Conquest, abduction attempts, yajña-hindering, mountain-uprooting. All pardoned due to sincere repentance and Shiva's forgiveness.

**Outcome**: Andhaka is granted **Paradise Visa Tier 1 (Gaṇa Privileges)** . He will reside on Mount Mandara as a chief of Shiva's attendants. His duties include: guarding the mountain, welcoming pilgrims, and — as penance — cleaning the *Śveta forest* where he was once slain (according to the Rāmāyaṇa account). Once a week, he must attend a *Humility Workshop* led by Prahlada (who tried to warn him).

Additionally, Andhaka is forbidden from ever desiring Parvati again. A *Magical Restraint Order* has been placed on his heart. He has agreed to it.

---

### Epilogue

Andhaka — now a serene Gaṇa with a single head and two calm eyes — stands at the gate of Mount Mandara. Pilgrims arrive. He blesses them. He does not mention his past.

Once a celestial year, Kālī visits. She does not eat him. She pats his head and says, "Good copy."

Shiva passes by occasionally. He does not speak. He simply nods. That is enough.

And on the wall of the Celestial Intake Hall — beneath a painting of Kālī drinking the blood of Andhaka's copies, with Shiva watching from his bull — a new plaque reads:

> *"A thousand copies may rise from a single drop. But only one soul can ask for forgiveness — and mean it."*

**OM NAMAH SHIVAYA**

---

**THE END**

ALEXANDER AND HIS HORSE BUCEPHALUS

 ALEXANDER AND HIS HORSE BUCEPHALUS

Bucephalus became calm in Alexander’s presence and allowed himself to be gently handled. Alexander turned the horse’s head so he would not see his own shadow, which had been frightening him. He quietly removed his cloak and smoothly leapt onto the horse’s back. Instead of trying to force or control him harshly, Alexander gave him freedom and encouraged him with his voice. The horse ran swiftly across the plains.

At first, the king and his courtiers watched in fear, but soon their fear turned into admiration and delight. After the horse had run enough, Alexander easily guided him back and returned safely. The courtiers praised him, and King Philip proudly said that Alexander deserved a kingdom greater than Macedon.

Alexander had understood the horse’s nature correctly. Bucephalus became gentle and obedient, always responding to his master. He would even kneel on his front legs so Alexander could mount him more easily. Alexander kept him for many years and made him his favorite war horse. Stories were told about the horse’s intelligence and bravery in battle. When prepared for war, Bucephalus seemed proud and excited, and he would allow no one but Alexander to ride him.

What happened to Bucephalus in the end is not certain. One story says that during a battle, Alexander was surrounded by enemies. Bucephalus, though badly wounded, struggled with all his strength to carry Alexander to safety. Once he had done so, he collapsed and died from exhaustion.

Another story suggests he survived and lived to the age of thirty, which is very old for a horse. When he finally died, Alexander honored him with a grand burial and built a small city in his memory, called Bucephalia.

Bucephalia was an ancient city built by Alexander the Great in memory of his horse Bucephalus. It is believed to have been located near the Jhelum River in present-day Pakistan, close to where the famous Battle of the Hydaspes was fought.

Brave young Alexander, bold and bright,
Tamed a wild horse none could ride.
Bucephalus ran swift and free,
Across the plains with strength and glee.

With gentle hands and fearless heart,
He calmed the horse right from the start.
Together strong in every way,
They rode to glory day by day.

The White Pillar at the End of the World

 The White Pillar at the End of the World

In the lavishly illustrated medieval manuscript of Alexander and Dindimus—a dialogue between Alexander the Great and the Brahmin philosopher Dindimus—one of the final images captures a poignant climax: Alexander erecting a towering white pillar at the farthest edge of the known world. This striking scene serves as a powerful ending to his epic tale. The relentless conqueror, who had devoted his life to pushing beyond every horizon, pauses at last to plant this gleaming monument, a stark testament to the farthest reach of his ambition.

A great white pillar marks the furthest point Alexander had reached.

Whether such a pillar was ever physically raised remains an exciting historical question. Ancient sources like Arrian's Anabasis describe Alexander reaching the Hyphasis River (modern Beas) in 326 BCE, where his weary troops mutinied, forcing a retreat—but no pillar is mentioned there. Later legends, amplified in medieval romances, enhance this with symbolic flourishes drawn from Herodotus's tales of boundary markers set by earlier explorers. Here, the pillar rises above mere history; it represents the uncertain boundary between human aspiration and mortal limitation. With its erection, the outward thrust of conquest yields to the adamant pull homeward, reminding us that even Alexander, son of Zeus, could not outrun the world's confines.

 

When Alexander met gymnosophists (naked philosophers in ancient India)

 

When Alexander met gymnosophists (naked philosophers in ancient India)

When Alexander met some gymnosophists, who were of trouble to him. He learned that their leader was Dandamis, who lived in a jungle, lying naked on leaves, near a water spring.

He then sent Onescratus to bring Dandamis to him. When Onescratus encountered Dandamis in forest, he gave him the message, that Alexander, the Great son of Zeus, has ordered him to come to him. He will give you gold and other rewards but if you refuse, he may behead you. When Dandamis heard that, he did not even raise his head and replied lying in his bed of leaves. God the Great King, is not a source of violence but provider of water, food, light and life. Your king cannot be a God, who loves violence and who is mortal. Even if you take away my head, you cannot take away my soul, which will depart to my God and leave this body like we throw away old garment. We, brahman do not love gold nor fear death. So, your king has nothing to offer, which I may need. Go and tell your King : Dandamis, therefore, will not come to you. If he needs Dandamis, he must come to me.

When Alexander, learned of Dandamis' reply, he went to forest to meet Dandamis. Alexander sat before him in the forest for more than an hour. Dandamis asked why Alexander came to him, saying I have nothing to offer you. Because we have no thought of pleasure or gold, we love God and despise death, whereas you love pleasure, gold and kill people, you fear death and despise God. Alexander stated, I heard your name from Calanus and have come to learn wisdom from you The conversation that followed between them is recorded by Greeks as Alexander-Dandamis conversation.

Alexander the king of Macedonia established one of the biggest empires that the ancient world had ever seen. He conquered many parts of the world and some of the great stories are from the time when he went to conquer India.

Aristotle was the teacher of Alexander. He had told him that, there lived great mystical, intellectual, and Spiritual super-beings dwelling in the forest. Aristotle told him that if he ever got the opportunity to meet a yogi and if possible to even bring one back to Greece for Aristotle to meet. Upon inquiry, he came to know about the spiritual yogi called Dandamis who lived and dwelled in the forests of Taxila.

Alexander sent his army with lavish gifts and presents to bring Dandamis to him. When they reached Dandamis, they said, “The king of Macedonia, Alexander who is the sovereign Lord of all men, asks you to go to him. If you obey, he will reward you with great gifts. But if you refuse, he will cut off your head.”

Dandamis looked at the army calmly and replied without even trying to lift his head up from his couch of leaves. “I am also a son of Zeus if Alexander be one. I am content with what I have. I desire nothing that you can give me. I fear no exclusion from any blessings which may perhaps be yours”, said Dandamis.

“This land with the fruits of her soil is enough for me for when I live. And when I die I shall get rid of my body. Go and tell your king.” he continued, “I don’t desire anything that I have to go to the king and ask him.”

“Your king has nothing to offer me. Therefore, go and tell him Dandamis will not come to him and if he needs Dandamis he will have to come to me”, said Dandamis

The army brought back the message to Alexander and he was furious with the reply he got because he was not used to it. But, he also knew that Knowledge and eternal beings can’t be lured.

He then decided to go to the forest with his army. Alexander could not let his men listen to such an embarrassing conversation. So, he ordered his men to stay a few distances apart.

He then dismounted from his horse and walked towards the yogi and stood over him.

“Do you know who I am?” Alexander asked furiously.

“I don’t think you even know who you are,” Dandamis replied.

Alexander was listening to such words for the very first time in his life and he felt deeply insulted. He then furiously took out his sword and swung at Dandamis stopping right before it struck his neck.

“I am Alexander, the world conqueror.” he shouted, “ You are in my land right now. Submit or I will kill you.”

Dandamis laughed and said, “ I don’t fear death. Even if you cut off my head, you can not destroy my soul. My head will be silent leaving the body like a torn garment. But, my spirit will ascend to God who has left us on the earth.”

These words convinced Alexander that Dandamis was indeed a free man.

“And the land, it belongs to no one, O king! Before you, there were others who claimed it. After you, there will be others who will claim it.” he continued, “All creation belongs to the god alone and no one has the right to destroy what he hasn’t created. Your hands are all red with blood. You might have a temporary claim on the land, but you have permanent scars on your soul.”

Alexander after hearing Dandamis lowered his sword and exclaimed, “The whole world is mine, Dandamis. History will remember me as one of the mightiest kings.”

“What will you do with the whole world? All you need is two yards. Dandamis continued, “Two yards deep and two yards long. That’s all you need in the end.”

He was fascinated, sheathed his sword sat under the feet of Dandamis, and told him that he had come to seek wisdom from him. After a long conversation, Alexander bowed his head before Dandamis and left.

 

Crown for the Admiral

Pasitigris River, 324 BC

After Alexander’s army marched through the brutal Gedrosian Desert (losing thousands of men), everyone feared that his admiral, Nearchus, and the fleet had been lost at sea. Months later, on the Pasitigris River (in modern Iraq), Nearchus suddenly appeared—his clothes caked with salt, his body thin as a skeleton from starvation and hardship. He had navigated unknown waters, fought storms, and kept his crew alive. When Alexander saw him, he broke down and wept. He embraced Nearchus and said, "You are worth more to me than all of Asia"—meaning that all the land he had conquered was worth less than this one loyal friend. Alexander placed a golden crown on Nearchus’s head, and the soldiers showered them both with ribbons. The fleet, which had explored the unknown seas from India to the Persian Gulf, sailed home in triumph. 

Moral: Loyalty outshines conquest.

Sham Misri

The Ladies' Pool -[Oreitan Coast, 325 BC]

 

The Ladies' Pool

Oreitan Coast, 325 BC

Once, Alexander’s navy was sailing along the harsh, rocky coast of Oreita (in modern-day Pakistan/Iran border region). The men were exhausted and starving. Suddenly, two cliff walls appeared, so close that the ships’ oars scraped against the stone. But beyond that narrow passage lay a hidden harbour—perfectly circular, like a coin. Local people called it the "Ladies’ Pool" and told a legend that a queen once ruled there. The serious, worried and desperate sailors dragged their nets through the water and found them full of razor clams. For one night, they ate their fill. The sea, which had been so cruel for weeks, suddenly offered a small, unexpected gift. 

Moral: Even hostile coasts offer moments of grace.

Sham Misri

 

Throne of the Damned

Babylon, 323 BC

After conquering a vast empire, Alexander the Great entered Babylon. In a strange, gloomy and worrying moment, he stepped back from his own golden throne. Immediately, a ragged beggar climbed onto it and sat down. The Persian guards panicked—tearing their clothes and weeping, crying and screaming because, in their tradition, seeing someone else on the king’s throne was a sign of coming death. They tortured the beggar to see if he was part of a conspiracy, but he was just a lost, simple man. Yet the court diviners whispered a chilling interpretation: *It wasn’t the beggar wearing the crown—it was death itself, claiming the throne for another. * That very night, Alexander fell ill with a fever. The man who had ruled from Greece to India grew weak and silent. Days later, he was dead. 

Moral: Fate sits where kings fear to look.

Sham Misri

Sham Misri

Sham Misri-Author 

Sham Misri is a writer drawn to the meeting place of history, poetry, and reflection. His work is shaped by a deep interest in the lives of great figures, not only as historical personalities, but as mirrors of human ambition, struggle, longing, and inner transformation. Through a style that blends lyrical expression with thoughtful prose, he seeks to explore the emotional and symbolic meaning that lives beneath recorded events.

In Lyrical Alexander: Between Man and Myth, Sham Misri brings this vision fully to life. Rather than treating Alexander the Great as only a conqueror of lands and empires, he approaches him as a figure standing between humanity and legend — a man of immense will, brilliance, contradiction, and burden. This approach reflects the author’s wider literary interest: to move beyond surface storytelling and enter the deeper questions of identity, destiny, power, and the soul.

Sham Misri’s writing is marked by a strong appreciation for both the beauty of language and the depth of thought. He is especially interested in the way poetic form can illuminate history, giving voice not only to what happened, but to what it may have felt like, meant, or revealed. His work often invites readers to pause, reflect, and see familiar stories in a new light.

As a writer, he is drawn to themes of greatness and cost, aspiration and isolation, memory and mortality. His voice is at once literary and searching, aiming to create works that are not only read, but felt. In doing so, he offers readers more than narrative alone: he offers a meditative encounter with the human condition through the lives of extraordinary figures.

Sham Misri writes for those who love history, but also for those who seek meaning within history — readers who are interested not only in events, but in the inward journey that often lies hidden beneath them. His work reflects a belief that literature can serve as both remembrance and inquiry, preserving the past while also opening it to deeper reflection.

With Lyrical Alexander, Sham Misri presents himself as a distinctive voice — one committed to bringing together poetic imagination, philosophical sensitivity, and historical inspiration in a way that is both accessible and memorable.

 

Defeat of Porus

 Defeat of Porus

Eratosthenes, you’d shake your head:
“This slaughter reads too smooth,” you said,
“Too neat, too shaped, too fit for song—
Another victor’s version strong.”

But hear what followed on that sand:
Coenus struck from the rearward hand.
The Indian cavalry turned in strain,
Forced to face both front and rear at once again.

Alexander saw their staggered line
And drove his Companions through the sign.
The left wing broke, the horsemen fled
Toward the elephants in rising dread.

Then terror turned upon its own.
The gray beasts, wounded, overthrown,
Trumpeted, wheeled, and maddened fast,
Till friend and foe were crushed at last.

Drivers fell from bleeding height.
The beasts grew wild beneath the fight.
The Macedonians slipped aside,
Then stabbed and struck at flank and hide.

By afternoon the monsters slowed,
Exhausted in the blood-soaked road.
Then came the signal: shields locked near,
The infantry advanced with spear.

The cavalry swept the edges bare;
No ordered refuge remained there.
The Indian line, encircled, torn,
Collapsed beneath the weight of war.

So doubt the cave, Eratosthenes.
Doubt the griffins and old decrees.
But battle won by flank and fear,
By patient stroke and timing clear,
By enemy strength turned back in pain—
That is no fiction dressed as gain.

The Hydaspes ran dark and wide,
And Porus stood where kingdoms died.

Prose:
Once Coenus came in behind, the Indian cavalry was forced into fatal confusion. Alexander pressed hard from the front, and the wings collapsed back toward the elephants. There the battle turned savage. Wounded elephants panicked and trampled their own men as much as the enemy. Macedonian discipline held. They avoided the beasts when they charged wildly, then struck back as they tired. At last the infantry advanced in close order, the cavalry enclosed the field, and Porus’s army was broken almost beyond recovery.

Alexander’s Tactics

 Alexander’s Tactics

Eratosthenes, you’d lean and squint:
“No man outruns an elephant’s hint.
This is only praise in battle dress—
A king made wise by scribal excess.”

But watch him now. He sees the line:
The tusked front, the fatal spine,
The gaps where infantry waits to kill—
And says at once, “Not there. Be still.

The center’s death. I take the side.
I’ll make them turn before they ride.”
He counts his horse, he marks their own,
And sees where speed may break the stone.

“Coenus,” he says, “take your band.
Circle wide by the farther hand.
When they are drawn to meet my blow,
Strike from behind and overturn the flow.”

Then still he keeps the foot in place,
Unloosed as yet from battle’s pace.
First come the horse-archers, a thousand bows,
Whose arrows darken where the left wing goes.

They sting, they scatter, they test, they wound;
They make confusion on the ground.
Then Alexander’s Companions ride
Into the shaken, opening side.

Before the Indians can fully form,
The hooves come down like sudden storm.
No tusked front, no center’s snare—
He strikes where strength is thinnest there.

So doubt the cave, Eratosthenes.
Doubt the mountain and old stories.
But a general who knows what not to fight,
Who shuns the center’s waiting night,
Who wounds the flank, then drives it through—
Needs no myth to make it true.

The plain itself became his page,
And tactics wrote the opening stage.

Prose:
Porus had made the center of his army deadly with elephants and supporting infantry. Alexander saw immediately that to charge there head-on would be ruin. So he used his cavalry superiority instead. He threatened the Indian left, sent Coenus wide to work behind the other wing, held his infantry back until disorder began, and first loosed horse-archers to weaken the line. Only then did he launch the Companion cavalry. His plan was not blunt force, but controlled disruption.

Arrangements of Porus

 Arrangements of Porus

Eratosthenes, you’d raise an eyebrow:
“Two hundred elephants? I ask you how
Any man could face that wall
And live to write of it at all.”

But Porus drew his line in sand—
Not mud, not marsh, but riding land,
Where horses wheeled and chariots ran,
And battle might be shaped by plan.

First stood the elephants, gray and vast,
A measured interval between them cast.
A living wall of trunk and face,
Set there to break the charging pace.

Behind them stood the infantry,
Ready to fill each opening swiftly.
If horsemen slipped between the line,
Spears would answer their design.

Upon the wings the cavalry stayed,
And before them the chariot brigades.
Three hundred rolling frames of war,
Prepared to cut and scatter more.

A few great beasts he left behind
To hold back Craterus by fear of kind.
Then eastward marched the Indian king
Where sand would best sustain the ring.

So doubt the cave, Eratosthenes.
Doubt the eagles and old decrees.
But a king who spaces his elephants well,
Who reads the ground where horsemen dwell,
Who makes of terror a measured wall—
That is no child’s dream at all.

The plain lay bare. The tusks held still.
And there the meeting of wills would fill
The open earth with death and fame,
Where one king waited and one king came.

Prose:
When Porus learned that Alexander had crossed and that his son had fallen, he resolved to march out with most of his army rather than remain fixed in place. He drew up his forces on firm, sandy ground. The elephants stood in front, evenly spaced to terrify horses and break attack. Infantry waited behind them to fill the gaps, while cavalry and chariots guarded the wings. It was a deliberate and formidable formation, built not only on numbers, but on intelligent use of terrain and fear.

 The Battle at the Hydaspes Begins

Eratosthenes, you’d cast your scroll—
“Which tale is true? Who played what role?
First mountains shift, then horses die—
Is this not praise dressed up as lie?”

Listen, skeptic. Here’s the knot:
Alexander landed, wet and hot,
With horse and foot in ordered might,
And all the river at his back.

“Charge,” he said. “Do not delay.
We break them now, or hold the way.
If they run, we ride them down;
If they stand, we seize the crown.”

But what of Porus’ son? Some say
He came with chariots in poor array,
Too late, too weak, too rash to bind
The crossing won by sharper mind.

Others say a stronger band
Came hard upon the river strand,
And blows were traded, wounds were dealt,
And Bucephalas himself was felled.

Yet Ptolemy, steadier than song,
Tells it plainer, spare and strong:
The prince arrived when all was done—
Too late to break what had been won.

Three stories drift upon one tide.
Which is truth? The river hides.
Yet this is certain: the king got through.
This too is certain: the danger grew.

So doubt the cave, Eratosthenes.
Doubt the mountain and fantasies.
But battle begun beyond that flood,
On a shore won first by rain and mud—
That is no tale that flattery weaves.
It is what remains when the river recedes.

Prose:
Alexander had crossed with roughly 5,000 cavalry and nearly 6,000 infantry and chose to act at once, trusting speed before the enemy could fully gather. Ancient accounts differ over the role of Porus’s son and the size of the force he brought forward, but the clearest tradition holds that he arrived too late to prevent the crossing. Whatever the details, the essential fact remains: Alexander had secured the far bank and now moved quickly to turn a successful passage into the opening advantage of battle.