WHY WORRY?

Good Morning!!! WHY WORRY? Around the Year with Emmet Fox November 19 Nothing is really worth worrying about. Nothing is really worth getting angry or hurt or bitter about. Positively nothing is worth losing your peace of mind over. These important truths follow logically upon the following fact: You are going to live forever—somewhere. This means that there is plenty of time to get things right again if they have gone wrong. No matter what mistake you may have made, enough prayer will overtake it and cancel it. If those you love seem to be acting foolishly, you can help them with prayer to be wiser, and, meanwhile, if they suffer, it means that kindly nature is teaching them a lesson that they need to learn. But suppose something awful should happen? Well, what then? Suppose you lost everything and landed in the poorhouse. What then? Think what a wonderful demonstration you could make there, and you would probably learn several valuable lessons there, and, anyway, it would be quite interesting. Suppose the whole universe blew up. What then? When the dust settles, God will still be in business and you will be alive somewhere, ready to carry on. “Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and He shall sustain thee: He shall never suffer the righteous to be moved” Psalm 55:22

WHAT KARNA LEARNED FROM PARSHURAMA.

KARNA DID HAVE THE BRAHMASHIRA WEAPON! For a long time. People have debated whether Karna possessed such mahaastras or not. Today I would like to clear those doubts. First! KARNA’S SOURCE FOR THE GREAT BRAHMASHIRA WEAPON. There is only way for Karna to have this weapon. It is to get it from Prabhu Parshurama. Now did Parshurama have this weapon? He did! Source:−[Sarga] 27,Book:Bala Kanda−TheYouthful Majesties, Valmiki Ramayana After saying this, Śaṅkara taught him the Mantra (esoteric formula) that is extremely difficult to obtain and the following weapons etc. viz.—extremely miraculous coat of mail named Trailokyavijaya; the Brahmastra, Nāgapāśa (Serpentine noose), (missiles like) the Pāśupata which is very much inaccessible, Nārāyaṇāstra, the Āgneya (Arrow with the fìregod as deity), the Vāyavya (of the wind god), the Vāruṇa (of Varuṇa the ocean-god), the Gāndharva, the Gāruḍa, the extremely wonderful weapon Jṛmbhaṇāstra, the mace, the Śakti, the Paraśu (Axe) the trident and the excellent Daṇḍa (baton) So he definitely possessed such astras and could have definitely taugh these weapons to Karna. 2) WHAT KARNA LEARNED FROM PARSHURAMA. Karna basically learned all of Parshurama’s astras. Karna, Dronacharya, Bhisma and Ashvathma are stated to have the knowledge of all the Brahma weapons. Point to be noted: Only Vaikartana Karna specifically among these students of Parshurama received the Vijaya Bow and was stated to be Parshurama’s favourite student. Narada himself said that Lord Parashurama taught Karna everything about the Brahmastra which directly proves that Karna did possess Brahmashirsa. 3) KARNA’S OVERALL SKILL LEVEL! He basically was considered to be Parshurama’s best student. He is easily counted among the top Atirathas of the era. 4) BRAHMASTRA AND BRAHMASHIRA ARE VARIANTS OF THE SAME WEAPON! Both Vyasa and Arjuna refered to the Brahmashira weapon as a Brahmashtra. If they are indeed different,then why would the statment Stated that Arjuna knew how to withdraw “Brahmastra”? Now when King Parikshit was hit by the weapon, there are zero mentions of Brahmasira weapon, only Brahmastra. This is mentioned again, how Asvathamma used a “Brahmastra” to kill Parishit.

Kailasa Mansarovar Yatra

https://telanganatrends.com/kailas-mansarovar-yatra-the-sacred-journey-beyond-the-mind

EDGAR'S PARTY*

EDGAR'S PARTY* ================ Edgar, a 96-year-old man, says to his son: - Baby... (the child is 62). - Yes, Dad! Tell me. - I want to have a get-together with my friends and I'd like you to help me organize it. - Sure, Dad. Don't worry, I'll help. - Help me with what? - The party, Dad!!! - Ohhh yes!!! I'd already forgotten! That afternoon, the son calls his father into the kitchen and shows him a sheet of paper stuck to the refrigerator, instructing him. 1st - Serve coffee. 2nd - Serve sandwiches. 3rd - Serve soft drinks and beverages. 4th - Serve the cake. - Excellent. Now I won't have any more problems. - Thank you, my son! That afternoon, the friends arrived. None of them were under 80. Edgar, a good host, shows them the dining room and goes to the kitchen. And reads: 1st - Serve coffee. And he brings coffee to his friends. After a while of talking, Edgar, nervous, goes to the kitchen and reads again: 1st - Serve coffee. And he pours more coffee for them... It went on like this, four times. Finally, the friends leave. One of them whispers to the other as they leave the building: "Tito, did you notice? What a terrible host Edgar is... He didn't even give us coffee!!!" Tito replies: "Edgar? What are you talking about?" That night, Edgar's son returns to his father's house and is surprised to see that the sandwiches, drinks, and cake are untouched. He asks his father: "Dad. What happened?" * Edgar replies: "My son, you won't believe it!" The sons of bitches didn't come... Moral of the story: - *LET'S MEET NOW, WHILE WE STILL REMEMBER AND RECOGNIZE EACH OTHER...* Send this to your friends before you forget who they are. *HAPPY ACCUMULATED YOUTH DAY* A friend just sent it to me, but I don't remember who. 🤭🤣🤣🤣

Teacher, I’ve read so many books… but I’ve forgotten most of them. So what’s the point of reading?”

Teacher, I’ve read so many books… but I’ve forgotten most of them. So what’s the point of reading?” That was the question of a curious student to his Master. The teacher didn’t answer. He just looked at him in silence. A few days later, they were sitting by a river, suddenly, the old man said: “I’m thirsty. Bring me some water… but use that old strainer lying there on the ground.” The student looked confused. It was a ridiculous request. How could anyone bring water in a strainer full of holes? But he didn’t dare argue. He picked up the strainer and tried. Once. Twice. Over and over again… He ran faster, angled it differently, even tried covering holes with his fingers. Nothing worked. He couldn’t hold a single drop. Exhausted and frustrated, he dropped the strainer at the teacher’s feet and said: “I’m sorry. I failed. It was impossible.” The teacher looked at him kindly and said: “You didn’t fail. Look at the strainer.” The student glanced down… and noticed something. The old, dark, dirty strainer was now shining clean. The water, though it never stayed, had washed it over and over until it gleamed. The teacher continued: “That’s what reading does. It doesn’t matter if you don’t remember every detail. It doesn’t matter if the knowledge seems to slip through, like water through a strainer… Because while you read... Your mind is refreshed. Your spirit is renewed. Your ideas are oxygenated. And even if you don’t notice it right away, you’re being transformed from the inside out.” That’s the true purpose of reading. Not to fill your memory… but to cleanse and enrich your soul. (Source: Teacher Trixie's Corner)

*The Silence of the Bombs*

*The Silence of the Bombs* The poster was small, no bigger than a lunch menu, taped crookedly to the bulletin board outside the pathology lab. “Join the Caravan of Martyrs – JeM,” it read in green Urdu, a pixelated rifle printed underneath. October 27, 2025. 7:14 a.m. A third-year resident named Farooq noticed it while hunting for the duty roster. He peeled it off, folded it into his pocket, and forgot about it—until the CCTV footage landed on Inspector Vikram Rathore’s desk in Srinagar’s Rajbagh police station. Vikram was forty-one, divorced, and allergic to daylight. He watched the grainy clip on loop: a tall boy in a white coat, face half-hidden by a surgical mask, pressing the poster up with two fingers. The timestamp read 02:11 a.m. “Run facial,” Vikram told the constable. By noon they had a name: Dr. Adil Ahmad Rather, twenty-seven, Anantnag, topper in surgery, currently interning at Government Medical College. By dusk they had a locker key. Inside locker 214: one AK-47 wrapped in a blood-stained bedsheet, three magazines, and a Samsung phone sealed in a ziplock. The phone woke up with a single encrypted message still glowing: “Assets for Delhi. Prepare the doctor.” --- Saharanpur, Uttar Pradesh – November 6, 11:47 p.m. Adil was finishing rounds at Famous Medicare when the lights went out. Not a power cut—something deliberate. The corridor plunged into engineered darkness. Two CRPF men in plainclothes stepped from the stairwell. “Doctor sahab, aapka phone,” one said softly. Adil’s hand trembled. The phone was already in evidence. He earned four lakh a month saving lives. Tonight, he would learn how much a life cost to take. --- Adalaj Toll Plaza, Gujarat – November 7, 3:12 a.m. A white Innova cut across three lanes and braked hard. Gujarat ATS surrounded it in seconds. Dr. Ahmed Mohiyuddin Saiyed, thirty-five, Hyderabad, MBBS plus a diploma in toxicology from a university in Wuhan, stepped out with his hands already raised. In the boot: four litres of castor oil, a hot plate, and a notebook titled “Ricin – Yield Calculations.” He had underlined the line: *One gram aerosolized = 8,000 casualties.* He never got to the gram. --- Faridabad, Haryana – November 9, 4:05 a.m. The apartment in Dhauj village smelled of wet cement and fear. Haryana STF kicked the door. Inside: 350 kilograms of ammonium nitrate in rice sacks, thirty-one digital timers blinking 00:00, twenty-three detonators labeled *Made in Turkey.* And Dr. Muzammil Shakil, assistant professor of community medicine, Al Falah University, sitting cross-legged on a prayer mat, reciting the plan like a bedtime story. “Red Fort first. Then the temples—Hindu, Sikh, Jain. RSS shakhas. Sarojini Market on Sunday. Metro at rush hour. Twenty-five soft targets. Like Bombay ’93, but bigger.” His voice cracked only once, when he said the date: 26/11/2025. Seventeen years to the day Mumbai bled. --- Lucknow – November 10, 10:00 a.m. Dr. Shaheen Shahid opened her clinic late. Patients waited for the gynaecologist who once lectured at GSVM Kanpur, who delivered triplets at 2 a.m. and still found time to pray five times. NIA women officers waited too. They found fifteen lakh rupees in cash inside a baby-diaper box, an AK-47 under the ultrasound bed, and a voice note on her phone: “Jamaat-ul-Mominat is ready, sister. The girls will drive the cars.” Shaheen did not resist. She only asked, “Can I finish my chai?” They let her. It was cold anyway. --- Delhi – November 10, 6:30 p.m. The Red Fort Metro station smelled of fried momos and panic. Commuters surged toward the yellow line. A white Hyundai i20 crawled through the chaos, hazard lights blinking like a dying heartbeat. Inside, Dr. Umar Mohammad—MBBS, Al Falah, thirty—one hand on the wheel, the other clutching a Nokia burner. The last text he sent: “They’re inside the net. Allah forgive me.” 6:52 p.m. The i20 became light. Thirteen people became memory. Twenty-three more learned what shrapnel feels like in the lungs. --- Shopian, Kashmir – November 11, 2:14 a.m. Maulvi Irfan Ahmad was folding his janamaz when the IB team breached the mosque compound. Thirty-one years old, former paramedic at GMC Srinagar, now the voice that turned stethoscopes into detonators. His Telegram channel—“Medicos for Khilafah”—had 312 members. All doctors. All silent. He looked up at the rifles and smiled like a man who had already won. “Count the bodies you saved,” he whispered. “Then count the ones you didn’t.” --- Epilogue – November 13, 2025 In a quiet room with no windows, Inspector Vikram Rathore finally slept. Fourteen hours straight. He dreamed of a notice board in Srinagar, clean and bare. No posters. No blood. Just a small handwritten note in black ink: “Thank you for noticing.” *Outside, Delhi woke to headlines that screamed failure. Inside the files, the count was different: 2,900 kilograms of explosives that never left the ground. Thirty-one timers that never ticked. Twenty-three detonators that never sparked. And thirteen graves that could have been fifty thousand.* The city argued on television. The city never heard the silence of the bombs that stayed asleep.

Why does goddess Laxmi sit near the feet of Lord Vishnu and press his legs? Is this not anti-feminism?

Why does goddess Laxmi sit near the feet of Lord Vishnu and press his legs? Is this not anti-feminism? This is a beautiful symbolic message from Hinduism. Goddess Lakshmi is in 8 forms. Dhana, dhanya, santana, Vijaya, dhairya (Veera), vidya, gaja, Adi lakshmi. In this, people are more towards only ‘Dhana lakshmi form'. Money. They become slaves to that. This is a symbolic way to show however rich, wealthy one is, how humble they should be infront of God. Sharanagathi. It doesn't matter you are a male or female. Then what is anti feminism? Lakshmi born in ‘kshirabdhi’. Has all the wealth of this world. Still, she shows how humble she is. Goddess Lakshmi is the deity of wealth, which brings ego into any soul. Lakshmi represents matter or material wealth of this world. Still, she doesn't feel ego. Remains humble. Lakshmi is also the power of embodiment of Sattvam, which is for the knowledge and submissiveness before the Lord, Moksha pradata. It is not the question of male or female and husband or wife. It is the question of God and soul. Parabrahama and soul. Any soul irrespective of it's gender is considered as female form. Surrender to God. Purusha, prakriti. Two different forms of energy. We know ‘a leaf on which all dishes are served remains grounded '. An empty leaf flies away. They don't represent our normal male and female forms. Then what about other forms of lakshmi? Aggressive feminism? Mis guided feminism? Anti males? lord Vishnu doesn't have any role at all? If anyone thinks it's about feminism. A big Pranam to them.🙏 If at all it's anti feminism, they can be happy because Vishnu stays in his inlaws place. Ksheera sagaram.Her parents house. She is samudra Raja tanaya