Conversations with a Mirror...

 जीने की आदत पड़ गयी है जीवन को जीने की ऐसी आदत में बरसात के दिन हैं यदि तो जीने की आदत में बरसात हो रही होती है छाता भूल गया तो जीवन जीने की आदत में छाता भूल जाता हूँ और भींग जाता हूँ जब बिजली कौंध जाती है तब बिजली कौंध जाती है   आदतन जीना, उठना, बैठना, काम करना थोड़े थोड़े भविष्य से ढेर सारे अतीत इकट्ठा करना बचा हुवा तब भी ढेर सारा भविष्य होता है ऐसे में ईश्वर है कि नहीं की शंका में कहता हूँ मुझे अच्छा मनुष्य बना दो और सबको सुखी कर दो तदानुसार अपनी कोशिश में पता नहीं कहाँ से आदत से अधिक दुः ख की बाढ़ आती है   जैसे पड़ोस में ही दुःख का बांध टूटा हो और सुख का जो एक तिनका नहीं डूबता दुःख से भरे चेहरे के भाव में मुस्कुराहट सा तैर जाता है   न मुझे डूबने देता है, न पड़ोस को और जब बिजली कौंध जाती है तब बिजली कौंध जाती है   अंधेरे में बिजली कौंध जाने के उजाले में सम्हलकर एक कदम आगे रख देता हूँ जीवन जीने की ऐसी आदत में जब मैं मर जाऊँगा तो कोई कहेगा शायद मैं मरा नहीं तब भी मैं मरा रहूँगा बरसात हो रही होगी तो जीवन जीने की आदत में बरसात हो रही होगी और मैं मरने के बाद जीवन जीने ...

The mountain stood veiled in clouds, its summit unseen. Yet it called, and people answered. One by one, they set their feet upon the path, each carrying something on their back. Some bore sacks of stone, fragments of mistakes they could not abandon. Others carried iron, their duties and rigid vows forged into unbending bars. Some glittered with gold and diamonds, convinced that wealth and brilliance would prove their worth. Others carried baskets of food and comforts, tokens of their desire to nurture joy along the way. Some staggered beneath bags of old letters and regrets, hoping only to cast them away when they reached the heights. And there were those who carried heavy stacks of books—knowledge, teachings, and wisdom gathered through the years—believing that every truth written on a page must be taken to the summit. The burdens were different, but the weight was the same: heavy. The mountain offered many paths. Some trails were steep, others bright, some winding and gentle. Peop...

 Long ago, in the ancient kingdom of Mithila, there ruled a just and wise king named Ila . His palace was filled with glittering jewels, his garden bloomed with celestial flowers, and the finest music of Gandharvas echoed in his court. Yet, amidst all this splendor, Ila's heart felt hollow. One evening, while walking alone by the riverbanks where sages once meditated, Ila saw an old hermit bathing in the twilight. His robes were torn, his body frail, yet his face radiated a peace Ila had never known. The king approached him and asked, “O Rishi, you have nothing, yet you seem richer than all my wealth can offer. What is this magic?” The sage smiled and said, “It is no magic, O King. It is Vairagya —the fire that burns the illusion of pleasure. And it is Tyaga —the offering of the ego into the flames of truth.” Intrigued, the king invited the sage to the palace. There, the sage told him a story—not of gods or demons, but of Prince Harita , Ila’s own ancestor. The Story Within th...

 In the twilight of Dvāpara Yuga, when dharma still flickered like an oil lamp in a temple buffeted by wind, nestled on the edge of the Vindhya forest was a hermitage where Sage Vashistha once meditated. The ashram had long fallen silent, overtaken by time, yet echoes of wisdom still lingered in the trees and stones. There, a wandering brahmachari named Aniruddha came seeking truth. He had studied the Vedas, mastered the śāstras, and even engaged in tapas for twelve years. His intellect was sharp, his words truer than steel, but his gaze was cold and his heart untouched by karuṇā —compassion. One morning, as Surya Dev’s golden rays pierced the canopy, Aniruddha stumbled upon a weeping woman by the river Mandākinī. She was draped in tattered clothes, her hair matted, and her eyes filled with desperation. A small deer lay wounded beside her. “Why do you weep?” Aniruddha asked, his voice firm. “This fawn,” she sobbed, “was struck by a hunter’s arrow. I tried to help, but I have n...

पुल पार करने से पुल पार होता है नदी पार नहीं होती नदी पार नहीं होती नदी में धँसे बिना नदी में धँसे बिना पुल का अर्थ भी समझ में नहीं आता नदी में धँसे बिना पुल पार करने से पुल पार नहीं होता सिर्फ़ लोहा-लंगड़ पार होता है कुछ भी नहीं होता पार नदी में धँसे बिना न पुल पार होता है न नदी पार होती है। : नरेश सक्सेना

 Deep in the Dandaka forest, where sunlight spilled through ancient trees like liquid gold and the Godavari River hummed a gentle lullaby, a small hut stood as a haven of love and sacrifice. Here lived Rama, the exiled prince of Ayodhya, a man whose quiet strength seemed to calm the wild heart of the woods. He was Vishnu in human form, but to those who knew him, he was simply Rama—kind, steady, and deeply human. Beside him was Sita, his wife, her beauty soft as moonlight, her heart fierce with devotion. And there was Lakshmana, Rama’s younger brother, whose loyalty burned like a steady flame, unwavering through every trial. Their exile wasn’t just a punishment; it was a journey, a chance to live simply and face the truths of life head-on. One lazy afternoon, as the forest buzzed with the chatter of birds and the rustle of leaves, Sita stepped outside to gather flowers for their evening prayers. The air smelled of jasmine and earth, and the world felt peaceful, like it was holding i...

"Dharma without Karma stands crippled, Karma without Dharma walks blind, And without Faith to light the path, Both are lost in space and time." Chapter 1: The Ascent to Wisdom In the ancient realm of Bharat, where the sacred silhouette of Girnar mountain pierced the heavens, King Dharmapala reigned over a land once vibrant with emerald fields and shimmering rivers. A noble descendant of Lord Shri Krishna, he carried the weight of his lineage with grace, yet his heart was heavy. The dawn of Kali Yug had unleashed a relentless drought, turning fertile plains to cracked dust and silencing the laughter of his people with the gnawing ache of famine. Tormented by their suffering, the king resolved to seek divine counsel, his spirit restless beneath the golden crown. At the mountain’s rugged base, where gnarled trees stood like sentinels of forgotten eras, dwelt Rishi Durvasa, a sage whose wisdom was as vast as the sky and whose temper could flare like a sudden storm. His presence c...

The ancient Shri Nathji Temple of Vrindavan glowed like a jewel beneath the moonlit sky. Inside the garbhagriha, the air hummed with devotion. Gopis in saffron and white sarees moved like celestial beings, their hands busy in Krishna’s seva. One adorned the idol’s shringar with fresh mogra garlands, another chanted " Hare Krishna, Hare Rama " in a melodic kirtan , while two others gently swayed the jhula where the Balgopal idol sat, His lotus eyes half-closed in eternal playfulness. The scent of ghee diyas and dhoop mingled with the faint sweetness of prasadam. Amidst them stood Mirabai, her voice weaving verses of " Payoji Maine Ram Ratan Dhan Payo " into the temple’s sacred rhythm. Young Radhika, tasked with fanning Krishna’s idol with a chamara (yak-hair fan), began her seva with quiet focus. But as her eyes lingered on Kanha’s murti—His peacock feather crown, the makar kundala glinting at His ears, the butter-smeared lips curved in mischief—her heart quickened. ...

by Isaac Asimov   Murray Templeton was forty-five years old, in the prime of life, and with all parts of his body in perfect working order except for certain key portions of his coronary arteries, but that was enough. The pain had come suddenly, had mounted to an unbearable peak, and had then ebbed steadily.  He could feel his breath slowing and a kind of gathering peace washing over him. There is no pleasure like the absence of pain – immediately after pain.  Murray felt an almost giddy lightness as though he were lifting in the air and hovering. He opened his eyes and noted with distant amusement that the others in the room were still agitated.  He had been in the laboratory when the pain had struck, quite without warning, and when he had staggered, he had heard surprised outcries from the others before everything vanished into overwhelming agony. Now, with the pain gone, the others were still hovering, still anxious, still gathered about his fallen body –– Which, ...