Why did Balram, Vidur, and Rukmi not participate in the Mahabharata War?

Why did Balram, Vidur, and Rukmi not participate in the Mahabharata War? Balarama: Balarama decided to stay neutral and not get involved in the war. Balarama's relationship with Pandavas and Kouravas were equal. He left for pilgrimage a few days later and returned on 18th day of war. “O tiger among men! It is appropriate that you should know everything that I have said earlier in the kingdom of Virata, on the occasion of the wedding. O descendant of the Kuru lineage! It is for your sake that I sought to restrain Hrishikesha. O king! I said repeatedly that my relationship with both of you was equal. But Keshava did not accept the words that I had spoken. I cannot exist for an instant without Krishna. I will come to the aid of neither Partha, nor Duryodhana. After looking towards Vasudeva, this is the decision I have arrived at. You have been born in the Bharata lineage, one that is honoured by all the lords of the earth. O bull among the Bharata lineage! Go and fight in accordance with the dharma of the kshatriyas.” Source: Mahabharata translated by Bibek Debroy Chapter 670(7) Vidur: Vidur is not a trained fighter to participate in war. Vidur was a politician and was giving good advices to Dhritarashtra time to time. Vidur never participated in any war in his life time. Rukmi: Rukmi was rejected by both sides due to his arrogance. First he arrived at the camp of Pandavas and said that if they are afraid of Kouravas then they can take his help. “O Pandava! If you are afraid, I will stand as your aide on the field of battle. In the course of the war, I will help you so that your enemies will not be able to bear it. There is no man on this earth who is equal to me in valour. O Phalguna! When I have killed your enemies in battle, I will hand them over to you.” Arjuna was not happy with arrogant nature of Rukmi and rejected him. After getting rejected by Arjuna, Rukmi went to Duryodhana and boosted about himself in the same manner and again got rejected by Duryodhana. Rukmi then returned with that army, which was like an ocean. O bull among the Bharata lineage! In a similar fashion, he approached Duryodhana. Arriving there, that lord of the earth spoke in the same way. But since he prided himself on his valour, he was rebuffed there too. Source: Mahabharata by Bibek Debroy Udyoga Parva Chapter 818(155)

Hi, I am a Hindu brahman girl

Hi, I am a Hindu brahman girl and since childhood been very religious and did a lot of puja path (might have helped somehow subconsciously) but last year I went to vippassana and since then I am unable to get back on it. And lately everything in my life is falling apart including my mental health but even then I am unable to get back on it? I think it's because I left god. What do you think? What do I do?

Imagine you're in a massive auditorium with 362 million Indians.

🙏🏼 Good Morning 🌞 Imagine you're in a massive auditorium with 362 million Indians. Every age. Every income level. Every social class. And one by one, each person gets to walk on stage and show off ONE thing about their life. The billionaire shows his Rolls Royce. The college student shows her new iPhone. The maid shows her daughter's wedding. The startup founder shows his "unicorn" announcement. The retired uncle shows his Goa vacation. Everyone watching. Everyone comparing. Everyone feeling something. This is Instagram. Here's what makes Instagram different from every social space in history: In real life, you only compare yourself to people in your circle. Your classmates. Your colleagues. Your neighbors. Your relatives. Maybe 50-100 people total. On Instagram, your comparison group just became 1 million people. The delivery guy compares himself to Ranveer Allahbadia. The teacher compares herself to Komal Pandey. The CA compares himself to startup founders. The 25,000/month guy watches: • Millionaire's Maldives trip • Friend's new car • Colleague's promotion • Influencer's brand deal His brain does this: "Everyone's winning except me." "I'm 28 and still here." "What am I doing wrong?" "Maybe I should take that loan for the car." The Most Brutal Part: In real life: Poor people knew they were poor. Rich people knew they were rich. Middle class knew they were middle class. Everyone stayed in their lane because they couldn't see other lanes. On Instagram: Everyone sees everyone. The lanes disappeared. Result: Middle class feels poor (comparing to rich) Rich feel inadequate (comparing to richer) Poor feel invisible (nobody's watching their stage performance) For the first time in history, every social class is forced to watch every other social class perform their best life. And it's making everyone miserable. This is the psychological experiment nobody consented to. But here's where it gets darker. That 25,000/month guy watching everyone else's highlight reel? He doesn't just feel poor. He feels like he's falling behind. And when you feel like you're falling behind, you don't save money. You spend it. To catch up. Result: In 2024, India's personal loan market hit 710 lakh crores Credit card debt is at an all-time high. Buy Now Pay Later is exploding. People aren't spending more because they're earning more. They're spending more because they're comparing more. It's not aspiration. It's desperation. The psychological cost of being "left out" now exceeds the financial cost of the EMI. Instagram made invisibility more expensive than debt. Have a flying day ✈️

BREAKING: Novak Djokovic and his son Stefan have just wiped out $667,000 in school lunch debt across 22 Serbian schools — a gesture Novak called “a victory greater than any Grand Slam I’ve ever held.”

BREAKING: Novak Djokovic and his son Stefan have just wiped out $667,000 in school lunch debt across 22 Serbian schools — a gesture Novak called “a victory greater than any Grand Slam I’ve ever held.” In a quiet act of father-and-son compassion, Novak and seven-year-old Stefan paid off every unpaid lunch bill they could find — ensuring thousands of children from Belgrade to Novi Sad can walk into school each morning with dignity, a full tray, and no fear of being turned away or shamed for being hungry. Speaking through emotion, Novak said: “I’ve lifted trophies in four countries in the same year… but nothing weighs on your heart like knowing a child might sit through class without food. Today is bigger than tennis. Today is about children.” Little Stefan — standing close, fingers wrapped around his father’s hand — added in a trembling voice that melted every heart in the room: “Every kid is somebody’s best friend. I just wanted them to have lunch like I do.” Teachers cried. Parents thanked them. Children clapped and laughed, unaware that their simple lunch — something many take for granted — had just been secured by two people who will never ask for anything in return. This wasn’t about headlines. It wasn’t about image. It was about a father teaching his son that real greatness is measured not in trophies… but in kindness. Two Djokovics. One extraordinary act of love. And thousands of full stomachs — and full hearts — across Serbia..

BREAKING: Novak Djokovic and his son Stefan have just wiped out $667,000 in school lunch debt across 22 Serbian schools — a gesture Novak called “a victory greater than any Grand Slam I’ve ever held.”

BREAKING: Novak Djokovic and his son Stefan have just wiped out $667,000 in school lunch debt across 22 Serbian schools — a gesture Novak called “a victory greater than any Grand Slam I’ve ever held.” In a quiet act of father-and-son compassion, Novak and seven-year-old Stefan paid off every unpaid lunch bill they could find — ensuring thousands of children from Belgrade to Novi Sad can walk into school each morning with dignity, a full tray, and no fear of being turned away or shamed for being hungry. Speaking through emotion, Novak said: “I’ve lifted trophies in four countries in the same year… but nothing weighs on your heart like knowing a child might sit through class without food. Today is bigger than tennis. Today is about children.” Little Stefan — standing close, fingers wrapped around his father’s hand — added in a trembling voice that melted every heart in the room: “Every kid is somebody’s best friend. I just wanted them to have lunch like I do.” Teachers cried. Parents thanked them. Children clapped and laughed, unaware that their simple lunch — something many take for granted — had just been secured by two people who will never ask for anything in return. This wasn’t about headlines. It wasn’t about image. It was about a father teaching his son that real greatness is measured not in trophies… but in kindness. Two Djokovics. One extraordinary act of love. And thousands of full stomachs — and full hearts — across Serbia...

GIVE IT TIME

Good Morning!!! GIVE IT TIME Around the Year with Emmet Fox December 11 People sometimes accept the idea that a change of thought, plus turning to God in prayer, will transform their lives into harmony and freedom. The logic of this principle appeals to them, and they set to work upon it in earnest. Then, after a few days, they say, “Nothing has happened after all,” and they drop back into their old negative thinking. That is extremely foolish. The results of many years of general negative thinking are seldom corrected in a few days. No one who goes upon a new physical diet or medical regimen expects to reap the advantages in so short a time. You must keep up the new way of thinking and refuse to be discouraged by seeming failures at first. The right motive for adopting right thinking is that it is right, and wrong thinking is wrong, and we should do right whether it seems to pay dividends – but it usually takes a little perseverance in the face of preliminary slowness. “And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.” Jeremiah 29:13

BREAKING: Novak Djokovic and his son Stefan have just wiped out $667,000 in school lunch debt across 22 Serbian schools — a gesture Novak called “a victory greater than any Grand Slam I’ve ever held.”

BREAKING: Novak Djokovic and his son Stefan have just wiped out $667,000 in school lunch debt across 22 Serbian schools — a gesture Novak called “a victory greater than any Grand Slam I’ve ever held.” In a quiet act of father-and-son compassion, Novak and seven-year-old Stefan paid off every unpaid lunch bill they could find — ensuring thousands of children from Belgrade to Novi Sad can walk into school each morning with dignity, a full tray, and no fear of being turned away or shamed for being hungry. Speaking through emotion, Novak said: “I’ve lifted trophies in four countries in the same year… but nothing weighs on your heart like knowing a child might sit through class without food. Today is bigger than tennis. Today is about children.” Little Stefan — standing close, fingers wrapped around his father’s hand — added in a trembling voice that melted every heart in the room: “Every kid is somebody’s best friend. I just wanted them to have lunch like I do.” Teachers cried. Parents thanked them. Children clapped and laughed, unaware that their simple lunch — something many take for granted — had just been secured by two people who will never ask for anything in return. This wasn’t about headlines. It wasn’t about image. It was about a father teaching his son that real greatness is measured not in trophies… but in kindness. Two Djokovics. One extraordinary act of love. And thousands of full stomachs — and full hearts — across Serbia

If Vishnu himself couldn't defeat Ravana with Sudarshan Chakra, how did his avatar (Lord Rama) do that?

If Vishnu himself couldn't defeat Ravana with Sudarshan Chakra, how did his avatar (Lord Rama) do that? Sudharsana chakra failed the previous time because of Ravana,’ s boon. Ravana had a boon that he could not be killed by gods or demons. He won,’t even be a bug in front of Vishnu if the latter choose to disregard his boons. "Ravana said while seeking boon that, 'I shall not be killed by gandharva-s, yaksha-s, or by gods, or by other demons...' and I also said 'so be it...That demon did not express about humans then with his disrespect to them, and evidently, his death does not occur otherwise." So said Brahma to gods. ~ Valmiki Ramayana, Bala Khanda, Sarga 15. And Adikavi Valimki himself told: Whereby, to whom there is an indemnity against death in war at the hand of gods, demons, gandharva-s, devils, birds, or reptiles, excepting humans, and Shuurpanakha saw such an unimperilled Ravana. ~ Valmiki Ramayana, Aranya Khanda, Sarga 32. Because of this reason Sudharsana chakra fired by Lord Vishnu did not kill him but only managed to cause him injuries. He was struck hundreds of times during the wars with gods with the blows of Visnu’s discus as also with the strokes of other weapons in great conflicts. Valmiki Ramayana Aranya Kanda Sarga 32 On the other hand Lord Rama was born in human form to eliminate Ravana so no such boon restriction upon him hence he was able to kill Ravana. O Conqueror of Your foes, Ravana has long practised austerities, by means of which he has won the favour of the world-revered Brahma. That deity has granted him a boon, by which he is rendered invulnerable to all but man. Considering man of no account, he does not fear him. Before giving Sudharsana chakra to Krishna this is what Agni explained about its power.

Lord Shiva And Lord Vishnu !

Lord Shiva And Lord Vishnu ! Indian man (7): Swamiji, Siva is not another name of God? Prabhupada: Yes. Siva is next to God. Just like yogurt, dahi. What is this dahi? Indian man (7): Curd milk. Prabhupada: Milk, but it is not milk. Dahi is not anything but milk, but it is not milk. Similarly, Lord Siva is nothing but Visnu, but it is not Visnu. Is it clear now? Indian man (7): Yes. Prabhupada: You can say, "Well, dahi is nothing but milk." Yes. But it is not milk. If instead of milk you take dahi, the result will be different. And if you take milk instead of dahi, the result will be different, although the milk and dahi is the same thing, same ingredients. So you have to understand in that way. Lord Siva is nondifferent from the Supreme Lord. Everyone is nondifferent from Supreme Lord, but he's still different. This is the perfect philosophy, acintya-bhedabheda, simultaneously one and different. ----------------- Morning Walk -- October 5, 1975, Mauritius Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare

Whatis the mystery of Kailash?

Whatis the mystery of Kailash? The south face of Kailash Parvat has a scar as if something rolled down from it. When Ravana tried to take Shiva to Lanka, he first tried to lift it and tried to take the whole mountain. But Shiva effortlessly crushed him down with his toe. Then, Ravana climbed Kailash to take Mahadev. When he reached the peak, Mahadev kicked him down from his drum and Ravana fell down the mountain leaving this scar which we see today. There is also a lake near Kailash named Rakshastaal. It is said that Ravana sacrificed his 9 heads here and the lake was made from his blood.

IS IT A LIE?

Sat 6 Dec, 22:24 (3 days ago) to Good Morning!!! IS IT A LIE? Around the Year with Emmet Fox December 7 Thoughtless people sometimes say that our affirmations and meditations are foolish because we state what is not so. “To claim that my body is well or being healed when it is not, is only to tell a lie,” said one distinguished man some years ago. This is to misunderstand the whole principle. We affirm the harmony that we seek in order to provide the subconscious with a blueprint of the work to be done. When you decide to build a house your architect prepares drawings of a complete house. Actually, of course, there is no house on the lot today, but you would not think of saying that the architect was drawing a lie. He is drawing what is to be, in order that it may be. So, we build in thought the conditions that will later come into manifestation on the physical plane. What is your intelligence for if not to be used in building the kind of life that you want? Very primitive men in prehistoric times rejoiced when they found food growing anywhere, and then they waited, perhaps for years, until they happened to find another crop. Today we use our intelligence, and plant in good time the actual crops that we want; and the amount that we consider necessary. We do not sit about hoping that wheat or barley may fortunately come up somewhere. If we did that, civilization would collapse. The time has come when intelligent men and women must understand the laws of Mind, and plant consciously the crops that they desire; and just as carefully pull up the weeds that they do not want. “Then I told them of the hand of my God which was good to me; . . . and they said, Let us rise up and build. So, they strengthened their hands for the good work” Nehemiah 2:18

My name is Ruth, I’m 72 years old, and yesterday, I became a "person of interest" to my own daughter.

My name is Ruth, I’m 72 years old, and yesterday, I became a "person of interest" to my own daughter. Not because I’m sick. Not because I’m senile. But because I cashed out my life savings. Every last cent. My daughter, Jessica, a Vice President in Silicon Valley, thinks I’ve lost my mind. She’s flying in tomorrow from California to conduct what she called, on the phone, an "intervention." She doesn’t realize I just performed a "resuscitation." On myself. For forty-five years, I was Ruth, the Head Nurse of the ER at St. Jude’s. My world was the smell of betadine, burnt coffee, and desperation. I held hands, broke ribs during CPR, and delivered more heartbreaking news than I can bear to remember. My world was chaos, and I ran it. Then I retired. Six months later, my husband, Frank, passed. And the silence swallowed me. Jessica is a good person. She’s just… efficient. She manages teams of coders who build apps that "optimize human connection." She can’t handle a problem she can’t solve with a spreadsheet. So, she "fixed" me. She sold my home and moved me into a "Gilded Willow" active senior community. It was all glass and brushed steel. It also felt like a high-tech cage. She gave me a wearable bracelet that tracked my heart rate, steps, and "fall risk." It felt like an ankle monitor. My golden years became a timetable: 10 a.m. Water Aerobics, 2 p.m. "Cognitive Engagement" (Bingo), 5 p.m. Low-Sodium Dinner. I wasn’t living. I was being managed. "Mom, the data shows you’re thriving!" she’d say during video calls, her eyes flicking to another screen. "Jessica, I’ve ‘rested’ for two years," I told her last week. "It’s the most exhausting thing I’ve ever done." The spark lit the next day. I was riding the bus—just to feel movement—when I noticed it. "The Sunrise Grill." Frank took me there on our first date in 1973. We shared a slice of apple pie. Now it had a "For Sale by Owner" sign next to a failing health grade. I went inside. The place was empty except for a young man in his early twenties, hunched over a laptop, pale in its glow. I tapped the counter. "This surface is a health code violation." He startled and snapped his laptop shut. "Uh—ma’am, we’re not… we’re closing. For good." "I can see that," I said, eyeing the stale coffee. "Who’s in charge?" "I am," he said, rubbing his eyes. He looked like many of my old septic patients—clammy, exhausted, running on fumes. "My name’s Alex. It was my grandpa’s diner. He… he passed." "COVID?" I asked. He let out a bitter laugh. "No. He survived COVID. It was the hospital bills that crushed us. I’ve been trying to run the place and pay it all off, but…" He gestured hopelessly. He was trying to erase massive debt with scrambled eggs. My nursing instincts took over. This wasn’t just a failing business. It was a trauma scene. "How much?" I asked. "Ma’am?" "How much to clear the debt and buy this diner?" He told me. It was almost exactly the amount of my life savings. "I’ll be here tomorrow at 6 a.m.," I said, taking out my checkbook. "I’m not your partner. I’m your boss. We’re saving this place. Now go home and sleep eight hours. You’re in adrenal fatigue." Jessica’s phone call afterward was… dramatic. "You WHAT? You liquidated your retirement for a diner? Mom, that’s an unsecured, high-risk asset! It’s unsanitary! I’m calling your doctor for a cognitive evaluation—" "Jessica, you can’t optimize kindness. I have to go. The grill needs scrubbing." I hung up. The first month was brutal. But it was the kind of chaos I knew how to fix. The Sunrise Grill didn’t just need a cook. It needed a Head Nurse. I know how to repair what’s broken. The old regulars trickled back in. Walt, a Vietnam vet, always sat in his corner booth, grumped, and never finished his toast. One morning, I brought him oatmeal instead. "Didn’t order this," he muttered. "I know, Walt," I said, refilling his coffee. "Forty-five years as a nurse taught me when dentures are bothering a man. Eat." He stared at me over the spoon. Then he ate. Then there was Chloe—a young woman, exhausted, trying to breastfeed under a blanket while typing on her laptop. The whole diner was tense. I walked over and gently closed her laptop. "I… I have a deadline," she whispered, voice cracking. "No," I said, switching into Head Nurse mode. "You have a child. And you’re running a fever. You’re dehydrated." I lifted the baby. The crying stopped immediately, soothed by an old nurse’s rhythm. "Alex!" I shouted. "Large orange juice and chicken soup for Chloe. On the house." Chloe collapsed into soft, silent sobs—the kind only an overwhelmed woman cries when she thinks she’s failing everything. The Sunrise Grill wasn’t a diner anymore. It was my station. Jessica arrived on a rainy Friday, iPad in hand, ready to "intervene." "Mom, this ends now. I’ve already talked to a lawyer about conservatorship—" She stopped. The diner was packed. Warm. Alive. "Where," she whispered, "is my mother?" She found me in the back booth. Chloe sat across from me, baby sleeping in a carrier. She was crying quietly. "...and I just feel like I’m failing, Ruth," she whispered. "I’m so tired. I feel like I’m failing my baby, my job…" I didn’t offer fixes. I didn’t give her steps. I just took her hand. My 72-year-old, wrinkled hand holding her trembling 25-year-old one. "No, honey," I said softly. "You’re not failing. You’re drowning. That means you’re still fighting. Now breathe." Jessica froze, watching something her algorithms couldn’t quantify. Something inefficient. Human. Real. She slowly backed away and went to the counter. Alex looked up. "Can I help you, ma’am?" Jessica’s eyes were wet. "I’ll have… the chicken soup. And a slice of the apple pie." In that sterile, “smart” apartment, I was a data point. A "fall risk." A liability. Here, in the chaos of The Sunrise Grill, I am necessary. They tell you to rest when you get old. They tell you to stay safe. But a ship in a harbor is safe, and that’s not what ships are for. My hands are wrinkled, my back aches—yet I am far from obsolete. We are not disposable because we’re gray. We are not "managed care." We *are* the care. We remember how to hold a hand, how to listen, how to make the soup. Don’t let them file you away. Don’t let them "optimize" you into invisibility. Go find your station.

My name is Ruth, I’m 72 years old, and yesterday, I became a "person of interest" to my own daughter.

My name is Ruth, I’m 72 years old, and yesterday, I became a "person of interest" to my own daughter. Not because I’m sick. Not because I’m senile. But because I cashed out my life savings. Every last cent. My daughter, Jessica, a Vice President in Silicon Valley, thinks I’ve lost my mind. She’s flying in tomorrow from California to conduct what she called, on the phone, an "intervention." She doesn’t realize I just performed a "resuscitation." On myself. For forty-five years, I was Ruth, the Head Nurse of the ER at St. Jude’s. My world was the smell of betadine, burnt coffee, and desperation. I held hands, broke ribs during CPR, and delivered more heartbreaking news than I can bear to remember. My world was chaos, and I ran it. Then I retired. Six months later, my husband, Frank, passed. And the silence swallowed me. Jessica is a good person. She’s just… efficient. She manages teams of coders who build apps that "optimize human connection." She can’t handle a problem she can’t solve with a spreadsheet. So, she "fixed" me. She sold my home and moved me into a "Gilded Willow" active senior community. It was all glass and brushed steel. It also felt like a high-tech cage. She gave me a wearable bracelet that tracked my heart rate, steps, and "fall risk." It felt like an ankle monitor. My golden years became a timetable: 10 a.m. Water Aerobics, 2 p.m. "Cognitive Engagement" (Bingo), 5 p.m. Low-Sodium Dinner. I wasn’t living. I was being managed. "Mom, the data shows you’re thriving!" she’d say during video calls, her eyes flicking to another screen. "Jessica, I’ve ‘rested’ for two years," I told her last week. "It’s the most exhausting thing I’ve ever done." The spark lit the next day. I was riding the bus—just to feel movement—when I noticed it. "The Sunrise Grill." Frank took me there on our first date in 1973. We shared a slice of apple pie. Now it had a "For Sale by Owner" sign next to a failing health grade. I went inside. The place was empty except for a young man in his early twenties, hunched over a laptop, pale in its glow. I tapped the counter. "This surface is a health code violation." He startled and snapped his laptop shut. "Uh—ma’am, we’re not… we’re closing. For good." "I can see that," I said, eyeing the stale coffee. "Who’s in charge?" "I am," he said, rubbing his eyes. He looked like many of my old septic patients—clammy, exhausted, running on fumes. "My name’s Alex. It was my grandpa’s diner. He… he passed." "COVID?" I asked. He let out a bitter laugh. "No. He survived COVID. It was the hospital bills that crushed us. I’ve been trying to run the place and pay it all off, but…" He gestured hopelessly. He was trying to erase massive debt with scrambled eggs. My nursing instincts took over. This wasn’t just a failing business. It was a trauma scene. "How much?" I asked. "Ma’am?" "How much to clear the debt and buy this diner?" He told me. It was almost exactly the amount of my life savings. "I’ll be here tomorrow at 6 a.m.," I said, taking out my checkbook. "I’m not your partner. I’m your boss. We’re saving this place. Now go home and sleep eight hours. You’re in adrenal fatigue." Jessica’s phone call afterward was… dramatic. "You WHAT? You liquidated your retirement for a diner? Mom, that’s an unsecured, high-risk asset! It’s unsanitary! I’m calling your doctor for a cognitive evaluation—" "Jessica, you can’t optimize kindness. I have to go. The grill needs scrubbing." I hung up. The first month was brutal. But it was the kind of chaos I knew how to fix. The Sunrise Grill didn’t just need a cook. It needed a Head Nurse. I know how to repair what’s broken. The old regulars trickled back in. Walt, a Vietnam vet, always sat in his corner booth, grumped, and never finished his toast. One morning, I brought him oatmeal instead. "Didn’t order this," he muttered. "I know, Walt," I said, refilling his coffee. "Forty-five years as a nurse taught me when dentures are bothering a man. Eat." He stared at me over the spoon. Then he ate. Then there was Chloe—a young woman, exhausted, trying to breastfeed under a blanket while typing on her laptop. The whole diner was tense. I walked over and gently closed her laptop. "I… I have a deadline," she whispered, voice cracking. "No," I said, switching into Head Nurse mode. "You have a child. And you’re running a fever. You’re dehydrated." I lifted the baby. The crying stopped immediately, soothed by an old nurse’s rhythm. "Alex!" I shouted. "Large orange juice and chicken soup for Chloe. On the house." Chloe collapsed into soft, silent sobs—the kind only an overwhelmed woman cries when she thinks she’s failing everything. The Sunrise Grill wasn’t a diner anymore. It was my station. Jessica arrived on a rainy Friday, iPad in hand, ready to "intervene." "Mom, this ends now. I’ve already talked to a lawyer about conservatorship—" She stopped. The diner was packed. Warm. Alive. "Where," she whispered, "is my mother?" She found me in the back booth. Chloe sat across from me, baby sleeping in a carrier. She was crying quietly. "...and I just feel like I’m failing, Ruth," she whispered. "I’m so tired. I feel like I’m failing my baby, my job…" I didn’t offer fixes. I didn’t give her steps. I just took her hand. My 72-year-old, wrinkled hand holding her trembling 25-year-old one. "No, honey," I said softly. "You’re not failing. You’re drowning. That means you’re still fighting. Now breathe." Jessica froze, watching something her algorithms couldn’t quantify. Something inefficient. Human. Real. She slowly backed away and went to the counter. Alex looked up. "Can I help you, ma’am?" Jessica’s eyes were wet. "I’ll have… the chicken soup. And a slice of the apple pie." In that sterile, “smart” apartment, I was a data point. A "fall risk." A liability. Here, in the chaos of The Sunrise Grill, I am necessary. They tell you to rest when you get old. They tell you to stay safe. But a ship in a harbor is safe, and that’s not what ships are for. My hands are wrinkled, my back aches—yet I am far from obsolete. We are not disposable because we’re gray. We are not "managed care." We *are* the care. We remember how to hold a hand, how to listen, how to make the soup. Don’t let them file you away. Don’t let them "optimize" you into invisibility. Go find your station.

Why did Lord Vishnu have children with Mata Sita and even her mother Bhudevi (mother Earth)?

Why did Lord Vishnu have children with Mata Sita and even her mother Bhudevi (mother Earth)? Bhagvān Viṣṇu incarnated as Rāma and his consort Bhagvatī Lakṣmī incarnated as Sītā. The mother of all the worlds, Lakṣmī appeared as Sītā from the earth hence earth is considered the mother of the Sītā incarnation of Lakṣmī. This doesn't make Bhudevī the mother of Sītā in the way you are interpreting things. Rāma didn't have any other wife except Sītā so there's no question of children. On the other hand Bhūdevī is Viṣṇu's consort too, because she's an aspect of Lakṣmī. In his incarnation as Varāha, Bhagvān Viṣṇu becomes the father of his and Bhūdevī's offspring. Bhagvatī Lakṣmī divides herself into 3 aspects- Śrīdevī, Bhūdevī and Nīlādevī. This is mentioned in the scriptures. “The Goddess Śrī/Lakṣmī assumes a threefold form in conformity with the Lord’s will for the protection of the world. That she (Lakṣmī) is styled as Śrī and is known as such. The Goddess Bhū is the Earth comprising the seven islands and the seas; the container and the contents of the fourteen worlds such as bhū, etc.; and her essence is Praṇava. Nīlā is festooned with lightnings. To nourish all herbs and living beings, She assumes all forms." ~ Sītā Upaniṣad. “That Lakṣmī is the Earth only, well-known as goddess Nīlā. Being the support of the world, she has resorted to the form of the earth. She herself would be of the form of Nīlā due to her liquid form of the nature of water etc. She has obtained the form of Lakṣmī (Śrī). She is of the nature of wealth and speech.” ~ Padma Purāṇa. “As the consort of Viṣṇu, Śrī — the presiding deity of sattva-guṇa. As the presiding deity of tamo-guṇa, She is Durgā (Nīlā) or Kanyākā. As the goddess of earth, the presiding deity of rajo-guṇa, She is the consort of the Boar (Varāha). ~ Garuḍa Purāṇa. Thus Lakṣmī in the forms of Śrī, Bhū and Nīlā is the consort of Viṣṇu. As Sītā she's the consort of his incarnation Rāma and specifically in the form of Bhūdevī, she's the consort of his incarnation Varāha. Sītā's birth from the earth doesn't make Bhudevī her biological mother when the true self of Sītā, Lakṣmī herself is Bhūdevī. Thus Lakṣmī's incarnation appeared from one of her own aspects.

Why did Lord Vishnu have children with Mata Sita and even her mother Bhudevi (mother Earth)?

Why did Lord Vishnu have children with Mata Sita and even her mother Bhudevi (mother Earth)? Bhagvān Viṣṇu incarnated as Rāma and his consort Bhagvatī Lakṣmī incarnated as Sītā. The mother of all the worlds, Lakṣmī appeared as Sītā from the earth hence earth is considered the mother of the Sītā incarnation of Lakṣmī. This doesn't make Bhudevī the mother of Sītā in the way you are interpreting things. Rāma didn't have any other wife except Sītā so there's no question of children. On the other hand Bhūdevī is Viṣṇu's consort too, because she's an aspect of Lakṣmī. In his incarnation as Varāha, Bhagvān Viṣṇu becomes the father of his and Bhūdevī's offspring. Bhagvatī Lakṣmī divides herself into 3 aspects- Śrīdevī, Bhūdevī and Nīlādevī. This is mentioned in the scriptures. “The Goddess Śrī/Lakṣmī assumes a threefold form in conformity with the Lord’s will for the protection of the world. That she (Lakṣmī) is styled as Śrī and is known as such. The Goddess Bhū is the Earth comprising the seven islands and the seas; the container and the contents of the fourteen worlds such as bhū, etc.; and her essence is Praṇava. Nīlā is festooned with lightnings. To nourish all herbs and living beings, She assumes all forms." ~ Sītā Upaniṣad. “That Lakṣmī is the Earth only, well-known as goddess Nīlā. Being the support of the world, she has resorted to the form of the earth. She herself would be of the form of Nīlā due to her liquid form of the nature of water etc. She has obtained the form of Lakṣmī (Śrī). She is of the nature of wealth and speech.” ~ Padma Purāṇa. “As the consort of Viṣṇu, Śrī — the presiding deity of sattva-guṇa. As the presiding deity of tamo-guṇa, She is Durgā (Nīlā) or Kanyākā. As the goddess of earth, the presiding deity of rajo-guṇa, She is the consort of the Boar (Varāha). ~ Garuḍa Purāṇa. Thus Lakṣmī in the forms of Śrī, Bhū and Nīlā is the consort of Viṣṇu. As Sītā she's the consort of his incarnation Rāma and specifically in the form of Bhūdevī, she's the consort of his incarnation Varāha. Sītā's birth from the earth doesn't make Bhudevī her biological mother when the true self of Sītā, Lakṣmī herself is Bhūdevī. Thus Lakṣmī's incarnation appeared from one of her own aspects

Hell on Earth? It is here, it is here

Hell on Earth? It is here, it is here Today, our cities seem united not only by the bland superficiality of globalised commerce, but by broken civic systems and an unending string of environmental catastrophes. Santwana Bhattacharya I write this with a head heavy from pollutants and a lung capacity that feels like a modest deal arrived at after tough negotiations. Delhi NCR has always tested its residents, but this winter has felled even the hardiest among us. The air has gone beyond foul. It is an outright assault. You experience a peculiar kind of helplessness when the very act of breathing becomes a privilege. Maybe something magical is waiting on the other side of this, because we are holding our breath! What’s worse than this physical grey zone is the growing mental realisation that there is nowhere else to go. No alternative urban life to aspire to within this country. For generations, we spoke lovingly of cities with distinct moods and personalities—Kolkata’s warm intellectual hum, Mumbai’s chaotic efficiency, Bengaluru’s easy vibes, Chennai’s stately poise, Hyderabad’s old-world grace. One could lose oneself differently in each. Today, they seem united not only by the bland superficiality of globalised commerce, but by broken civic systems and an unending string of environmental catastrophes. Flooding is the new seasonal—and out-of-season—anthem. Summers feel like a product of some evil genius in a genetic engineering laboratory. Water in many cities is a cocktail whose ingredients health authorities daren’t list. Every second road is a jam, every fourth building is built on a lake bed, and every skyline appears dipped in a uniform murky grey. Even our great escapes are collapsing. Quite literally. Once the refuge of out-of-breath Delhiites, the lower Himalayas are sinking under the weight of reckless ‘development’ and real estate rapacity. The tall guardians of the Gangetic plains are crumbling like cookies. Now it’s not just buses that fall off slopes. In the new nursery rhyme, Jack falls down, and the hill comes tumbling after! The mountains where we once went for a whiff of the eternal now themselves look mortal. Four-laned highways to hell—at least we are going down in style. Goa, the other beloved escapade, has turned into a Punjabi shaadi banquet hall. Fish curry and bebinca are retreating in the face of butter chicken and tandoori platters, while reels helpfully explain how to get a Portuguese passport in six easy steps. As for Europe—well, half the Swiss villages seem to be staffed, fed, or caffeinated by our own. We run the pizzerias and the Pilatus Bahnen. Sardars have perfected French cheese, Bangladeshi chefs rustle up an arabbiata sauce as well as an Italian grandma. Meanwhile, Suvendu Adhikari continues to believe Bangladeshis are migrating upriver like swarms of hilsa, just to add political nutrition to Didi’s plate. If only he’d look up from his script and see where the actual migration is happening. The exodus is outward—anywhere with breathable air, potable water, functional civic sense. If you drive to any of Delhi’s clogged arteries, you can smell the burnt air. I could take bagfuls of it at ITO and print a newspaper with it. This is what a passing truck used to feel like, with your windows down. Now it comes through the cracks like a truth no government vanity ad can erase. It sits in your throat long after you’ve returned home. Your lungs do not have the power even to voice your angst. Priyanka Gandhi says there is nothing enjoyable about Delhi’s winter any more. This winter feels tailor-made to prove her right. With Parliament in session, the air inside and outside is equally thick—with local intrigue, the global mystery about what Putin’s Christmas gift may contain, and plenty of PM2.5. The LG and CM have met for a ritual exchange of concern. That gave us a few sprinklers, strung up helplessly on dusty dividers like sultanate-era convicts. Condemned to spew foamy water into Pandemonium. Of course, someone might gently remind the Wayanad MP that she could nudge Siddaramaiah and D K Shivakumar keep an eye on Bengaluru’s air too while they tuck into their idli-vada. Our once-envied city of mild sunshine and green sighs now competes with Delhi on the pollution charts, as though toxic air were the new startup boom. Chennai, dear Chennai, once celebrated for its rasa-bhava as much as for its rasam, is drowning on a quarterly basis. Entire neighbourhoods turn into urban archipelagos with the punctuality of 4 pm filter coffee. Hyderabad, with its Jubilee Hills sheen, is fast joining the smog club. Some mornings, I see cityscape photographs from different metros and genuinely struggle to tell them apart. I nearly reprimanded a colleague for reusing images—until I realised it was not the content creator who had turned lazy. It was the cities that had become indistinguishable. So where does one migrate? Nowhere, it seems. As the pub artiste sings to the smog outside, for the nth time, you can check out but you can never leave.

Who told Duryodhana not to go in front of his mother without clothes?

Who told Duryodhana not to go in front of his mother without clothes? Nobody. Additionally, he was not even told to go naked before his mother to turn his body into a vajra. Such an event never happened in Vyasa Mahabharat. This story is widely popularized by TV serials, where, Gandhari instructs Duryodhana to appear naked before her. She is said to have acquired power in her eyes, considering her having kept it closed for years. When she opens her blind fold, Duryodhana's body turns into vajra, by which he turns invincible to be defeated by Bhima during the mace fight. However, his lower body around the waist remains weak, as it is kept covered. When he was heading to the tent to meet Gandhari, Shri Krishna meets sees him walking naked and shames him stating it inappropriate to go before one's mother in this form. However, the above story popularized by TV series is complete fallacy. Here are facts: Gandhari never asked Duryodhana to appear naked before her, so she can turn his body like a vajra. Gandhari was in Hastinapur and nowhere near the Kurukshetra battlefield or in any camp. Duryodhana had practiced 13 years and turned his body into a vajra. It was never pre-decided that Bhima and Duryodhana will indulged in mace fight. Duryodhana had run away from the battlefield and hid under the river. To bring him out, Yudhishthira asks him to come out and fight with any one of his choice. The mace fight was decided spontaneously and not predetermined. Thus, the entire story of Gandhari turning Duryodhana's body into a vajra is false and does not exist in any version of Vyasa Mahabharat

V. Shantaram: The Master Who Built Indian Cinema — And the Hidden World That Built Him

V. Shantaram: The Master Who Built Indian Cinema — And the Hidden World That Built Him To speak of V. Shantaram is to speak of one of Indian cinema’s tallest mountains. His films were not merely stories—they were visions carved with engineering precision and artistic daring. He gave India: the poetic splendour of Navrang, the dance and colour revolution of Jhanak Jhanak Payal Baaje, the socially transformative power of Do Aankhen Barah Haath, and the international humanist appeal of Dr. Kotnis Ki Amar Kahani. These were not ordinary films. They were crafted by a man obsessed with detail, innovation, and emotion— a man whose camera moved with purpose long before such techniques were taught in India. He was called a “technician’s director”, a perfectionist, an innovator far ahead of his time. But few ever asked: Where did this man learn such breathtaking control over craft? Who taught him precision? Who trained his eyes, his hands, his discipline? The answer does not lie in a film school, nor in any artistic lineage. It lies in a world no one would expect. Let us peel back the layers. The Enigma Behind the Excellence Every time Shantaram built a magnificent set or planned a technically complex shot, it came from a mind trained to respect machinery and mechanics. Every time he created a seamless scene that demanded timing and accuracy, he leaned on a discipline acquired long before the world knew his name. But how? Where? As admiration for his success grew, the origin remained a mystery—until one looks at the early years he rarely spoke about. The Door That Opened a Universe Before he stood behind the camera, Shantaram stood behind a different door— the entrance of a small Hubli movie theatre: New Deccan Cinema. He was not a projectionist. Not an assistant. Not even a paid employee. He was a doorkeeper. A teenage boy letting people in while sneaking glances at flickering images on the screen. No salary. No perks. Only one privilege: He could stand by the door and watch every film. It was here that he first encountered the magic of storytellers like Dadasaheb Phalke. Night after night, he absorbed cinema not as entertainment, but as an education—frame by frame. Still, that was only half the secret. --- The Workshop That Forged a Filmmaker The full answer lies elsewhere. When the morning sun rose over Hubli in 1917, the same boy who watched films by night walked into a world of fire, steel, and sweat. At just sixteen, Shantaram worked as a fitter apprentice at the Hubli Railway Workshop of the Madras & Southern Mahratta Railway. In this industrial universe: one mistake could crush a hand, one miscalculation could break an engine, every bolt, wheel, gauge, and joint demanded precision. Here he learned: discipline, measurement, problem-solving, mechanical empathy, respect for time and coordination. The very skills that later made him a pioneering director were forged not in a studio, but in the smoke-filled belly of a railway workshop. This was the real training ground of a future genius. --- The Final Reveal: Craftsmanship Before Creativity When we finally connect the threads, the mystery dissolves: His sense of timing? Learnt from machines that punished mistakes. His technical innovation? Born from engineering instincts honed on the railway floor. His perfectionism? Forged in a world where precision meant survival. His understanding of emotion and drama? Awakened through countless unpaid nights at a cinema door. V. Shantaram became a cinematic legend because life trained him before cinema did. His brilliance was not an accident. It was built—by the railway, by a movie hall, and by a young man who saw art in everything around him.

The power of love

The power of love The little girl asked if I could be her daddy until she dies but I refused because of one thing. Those were her exact words. Seven years old, sitting in a hospital bed with tubes in her nose, and she looked up at me—a complete stranger, a scary-looking biker—and asked if I'd pretend to be her father for however long she had left. I'm a 58-year-old biker named Mike. I've got tattoos covering both arms, a beard down to my chest, and I ride with the Defenders Motorcycle Club. I volunteer at Children's Hospital every Thursday reading books to sick kids. It's something our club started doing fifteen years ago after one of our brother's granddaughters spent months in pediatric oncology. Most kids are scared of me at first. I get it. I'm big and loud and look like I should be in a motorcycle gang movie, not a children's hospital. But once I start reading, they forget about how I look. They just hear the story. That's what I thought would happen with Amara. I walked into room 432 on a Thursday afternoon in March. The nurse had warned me this was a new patient. Seven years old. Stage four neuroblastoma. No family visits in the three weeks she'd been admitted. "No family at all?" I'd asked. The nurse's face had gone tight. "Her mother abandoned her here. Dropped her off for treatment and never came back. We've been trying to reach her for weeks. CPS is involved now but Amara doesn't have any other family. She's going into foster care once she's stable enough to leave." "And if she's not stable enough?" The nurse looked away. "Then she'll die here. Alone." I stood outside room 432 for a full minute before I could make myself go in. I've read to dying kids before. It never gets easier. But a kid dying completely alone? That was a new kind of hell. I knocked softly and pushed open the door. "Hey there, I'm Mike. I'm here to read you a story if you'd like." The little girl in the bed turned to look at me. She had the biggest brown eyes I'd ever seen. Her hair was gone from chemo. Her skin had that grayish tone that means the body is struggling. But she smiled when she saw me. "You're really big," she said. Her voice was small and raspy. "Yeah, I get that a lot." I held up the book I'd brought. "I've got a story about a giraffe who learns to dance. Want to hear it?" She nodded. So I sat down in the chair next to her bed and started reading. I was halfway through the book when she interrupted me. "Mr. Mike?" "Yeah, sweetheart?" "Do you have any kids?" The question hit me hard. "I had a daughter. She passed away when she was sixteen. Car accident. That was twenty years ago." Amara was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, "Do you miss being a daddy?" My throat tightened. "Every single day, honey." "My daddy left before I was born," she said matter-of-factly. "And my mama brought me here and never came back. The nurses say she's not coming back ever." I didn't know what to say to that. What do you say to a seven-year-old who's been abandoned while dying? Amara kept talking. "The social worker lady said I'm going to go live with a foster family when I get better. But I heard the doctors talking. They don't think I'm getting better." "Sweetheart—" "It's okay," she said. Her voice was so calm. Too calm for a seven-year-old. "I know I'm dying. Everyone thinks I don't understand but I do. I heard them say the cancer is everywhere now. They said maybe six months. Maybe less." I set the book down. "Amara, I'm so sorry." She looked at me with those huge eyes. "Mr. Mike, can I ask you something?" "Anything, honey." She looked at me with those huge eyes. "Mr. Mike, can I ask you something?" "Anything, honey." "Will you be my daddy… until I die?" The room went still. Even the monitors seemed to hush. I felt every one of my fifty-eight years settle on my shoulders like lead. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out at first. All I could see was my own daughter’s face at sixteen, laughing in the rear-view mirror the last time I ever saw her alive. All I could feel was the hole that had lived in my chest ever since. Amara didn’t blink. She just waited, small and brave and impossibly calm. I wanted to say yes. God help me, I wanted to say yes so badly my bones ached. But I was just a rough old biker who showed up once a week with picture books. I rode loud, drank hard, and still woke up some nights yelling my dead daughter’s name into an empty house. What did I know about being anyone’s father again, even for a little while? I swallowed the rock in my throat. “Honey… I’d be honored. But I gotta be honest with you—I’m not very good at this daddy thing anymore. I might mess it up.” Her whole face lit up like sunrise. “That’s okay. You can practice on me.” And just like that, I had a daughter again. The nurses cried when I told them. The social worker cried harder when I said I wanted temporary custody, medical guardianship, whatever paperwork existed that would let me take her home if she ever got strong enough, or stay by her side every single day if she didn’t. The club showed up in force—twenty-five Harleys rumbling into the hospital parking lot, scaring the security guards half to death until they saw the stuffed animals strapped to every bike. We turned room 432 into something that didn’t look like a hospital room anymore. One of the guys brought a pink bedsheet set his old lady had bought by mistake. Another brought a tiny leather vest with “Daddy’s Girl” stitched on the back. Somebody hung fairy lights. Somebody else smuggled in a puppy that definitely wasn’t allowed (just for ten minutes, but Amara laughed so hard she had to go back on oxygen). Every Thursday became every day. I read her the giraffe book until we both had it memorized, then we moved on to Charlotte’s Web, then Harry Potter. When her hands got too weak to hold the book, I held it for both of us. When the pain got bad, I climbed into that little bed and let her fall asleep on my chest while I hummed old Johnny Cash songs my own daughter used to love. The doctors kept shaking their heads, saying they couldn’t explain it. Her scans weren’t getting better, exactly—but they weren’t getting worse as fast as they should have. Six months became nine. Nine became a year. On the morning of her eighth birthday, Amara woke up and said, clear as day, “Daddy, I dreamed I was running. My legs worked and everything.” I kissed the top of her fuzzy head. “Then we’re gonna make that happen, baby girl.” Two weeks later the oncologist called me into his office, eyes wide, holding films up to the light like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “The tumors in her spine… they’re shrinking. I’ve never—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “We’re seeing significant regression. I don’t know how to explain it.” I knew how. It was love. Plain, stubborn, loud, tattooed love. Eighteen months after the day she asked a scary biker to be her daddy “until she died,” Amara walked out of that hospital on her own two legs, holding my hand, wearing her tiny leather vest and a grin bigger than the sky. The club threw her a welcome-home party that shook the neighborhood. There were ponies. There was a bouncy castle. There was cake the size of a Harley wheel. And when the sun went down and the firepit was roaring, Amara climbed into my lap, looked up at the stars, and whispered, “Daddy?” “Yeah, baby?” “I don’t think I’m gonna die for a long time now.” I held her tight enough to feel both our hearts beating. “Good,” I said, voice cracking like an old man’s should. “Because I’m just getting started being your dad.” She’s fifteen now. Still cancer-free. Still calls me Daddy every single day. Still sleeps in those same pink bedsheets we took from room 432. And every Thursday, rain or shine, we ride back to Children’s Hospital together—me on my Harley, her on the back holding on like she’s been doing it her whole life—and we read stories to the new kids who are scared and hurting. Because some things are worth more than the years you get. Some things are forever.

A nice read By Lt Gen Syed Ata Hasnain in Indian Express.

A nice read By Lt Gen Syed Ata Hasnain in Indian Express. The Supreme Court judgment in the case of Lieutenant Samuel Kamalesan has stirred a sensitive and essential debate about the relationship between personal faith and professional duty in the Armed Forces. The officer, a Christian, was dismissed from service after allegedly repeatedly refusing to participate in religious parades or enter regimental places of worship — temples and gurdwaras — because doing so conflicted with his monotheistic beliefs. His refusal, the Court held, was not simply a religious stance, but a breakdown in leadership and regimental cohesion. The Court upheld his dismissal in strong terms, concluding that his actions constituted “the grossest form of indiscipline”. This judgment should not be construed as a critique of any individual faith or faiths, but rather as an affirmation of a foundational military truth: In uniform, personal belief cannot be allowed to overshadow institutional duty. The Indian Army, perhaps more than any other institution, is built on a unique model of secularism — one that is not of indifference, but of inclusion. Regimental mandirs, gurdwaras, sarv dharm sthals, and unit churches are not places for religious conversion or compulsion. They are symbols of regimental identity, tradition, morale, and shared purpose. They nurture a sense of belonging, not just worship. More than faith, they represent fraternity. I write this not as a legal analyst, but as someone shaped by similar crossroads of faith and profession. I was educated in Roman Catholic and then Protestant institutions, while my father — also an Army officer — and my mother moved in and out of regimental mandirs, gurdwaras, and unit churches with equal ease. I was raised in Islam, while also absorbing from an early age how every other faith in the Army becomes a unifying rather than dividing force. I practised this for 40 years of my career. However, most importantly, as a young company commander and a Commanding Officer (CO), I would ensure every operation began and ended with a short gathering at a small makeshift temple constructed by the troops. Not because it was my ritual — but because it was ours. This is the essence of military ethos: One does not abandon one’s faith, but one learns to wear it differently. It becomes internal, private, resilient, and dignified — never used to separate, always used to strengthen. The officer’s role is not to pass judgment on his troops’ rituals, but to stand alongside them in solidarity. His mere presence, not prayer, not participation in specific rituals, is often what sustains morale. At that moment, he is not Christian, Sikh, Muslim, Hindu, Parsi, or Jain — he is the leader that soldiers pine for and rally around. The Court rightly observed that while the Constitution protects religious freedom, that freedom does not extend to the refusal of a lawful command that is central to military culture and discipline. Article 25, the Court held, protects faith, but not individual preferences. In the Armed Forces, especially, discipline and cohesion are not merely desirable; they are existential necessities. An officer cannot afford to be selectively present — absent during what the troops consider sacred, or detached during times that shape collective identity. There is deep historical precedent for this ethos. Brigadier Desmond Hayde, a Christian CO of 3 Jat, led his Jat troops into the fierce Battle of Dograi in 1965, earning both the Maha Vir Chakra and his men’s eternal devotion. He could sing their bhajans better than any of them. Lt Col Ardeshir Tarapore, PVC, a Parsi officer of The Poona Horse, is remembered not for his religious identity but as a legend of the Armoured Corps. The Sikh Regiment has seen Christian and Muslim officers lead with distinction. The Garhwal Rifles, my regiment, has been commanded by officers from every faith under the Indian sun. Some of our finest military leaders did not merely accommodate the religious practices of their troops — they embraced them as part of their leadership creed. This is not about religion—it is about trust. A soldier does not follow an officer because of his rank alone. He follows because he believes the officer stands with him — in danger, in uncertainty, and yes, even in prayer. Presence is leadership, and leadership is presence. That is why the Supreme Court’s ruling matters. It is not a rejection of faith, but a reaffirmation of military integrity. It reminds us that the Indian Army’s way of secularism is not that of abstraction or avoidance — it is one of lived, shared symbolism. It is not about private belief — it is about public cohesion. Yet, the broader point goes beyond the courtroom. This judgment could serve as an opportunity to educate the public about why soldiers go to mandirs or stand in sarv dharm sthals, not as religious followers, but as members of one fraternity. It could help India understand why a soldier is ready to walk deliberately towards danger — and sometimes to death — not because of a singular faith, but because of a faith in each other. Military service is perhaps the only profession where the individual does not just work for the institution; he becomes the institution. Faith, identity, ego, and preference all become subordinate to one collective purpose. That is why, in uniform, one’s faith is never lost. It is transformed. It is not abandoned, it is honoured. In the end, the Court’s decision is legally correct and institutionally vital. It preserves not only discipline but the integrity of the officer-soldier relationship. It reminds us that in the Armed Forces, faith is respected, but duty commands, and duty always leads. Because when one wears the uniform of India’s Armed Forces, the question is no longer “what is my faith?” The question becomes: What is my duty and whom do I lead?

The Last Day on Earth - A scientist who lived before he died

https://telanganatrends.com/the-last-day-on-earth-a-scientist-who-lived-before-he-died/

ABIDING IN HIS PRESENCE

Good Morning!!! ABIDING IN HIS PRESENCE Around the Year with Emmet Fox December 4 Read Psalm 27 “When the wicked, even mine enemies and my foes, came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell.” “The wicked” and “mine enemies” stand for our own thoughts, for our fears and doubts of every kind; and truly indeed do they sometimes come upon us as though “to eat up our flesh.” “Though a host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear: though war should rise against me, in this will I be confident.” The Psalmist reiterates his confidence and makes us, his readers, reiterate that our hearts, too, shall not fear. When you can say quietly and truthfully at any hour of the day or night “my heart shall not fear,” the world has no more power over you. You are free. War of various kinds may rise up against you, but you will be confident, and therefore, you will be victorious. “One thing have I desired of the Lord, that will I seek after; that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in his temple.” “For in the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion: in the secret of his tabernacle shall he hide me; he shall set me up upon a rock.” These two verses constitute a remarkable expression of what is often called the second birth. When you have reached that stage you do not allow any external happening really to grieve you, or frighten you, or hurt you, because you know that external things are but passing shadows of no permanent importance. This steadfast determination to dwell in the house of the Lord, to behold His beauty and to learn His secrets, means that you are set upon a rock and there your house of life is secure.

Who is "Akka Mahadevi"? Why is she famous?

Who is "Akka Mahadevi"? Why is she famous? Around nine hundred years ago in southern India, there lived a female mystic called Akka Mahadevi. Akka was a devotee of Shiva. Ever since her childhood, she has regarded Shiva as her beloved , her husband .It was not not just a belief;for her it was a living reality. A King saw this beautiful young woman one day, and decided he wanted her as his wife. She refused . But the king was adamant and threatened her parents, so she yielded. She married the man, but she kept him at a physical distance. He tries to woo her,but her constant refrain was, “Shiva is my husband”. Time passes and the King’s patience wore thin. Infuriated,he tried to lay his hands upon her. She refused. “I have another husband. His name is Shiva. He visits me, and I am with him. I cannot be with you.” Because she claimed to have another husband, she was brought to court for prosecution. Akka is said to have announced to all present, “Being a Queen doesn’t mean a thing to me. I will leave.” When the king saw the ease with which she was walking away from everything, he made a last futile effort to salvage his dignity. He said, “Everything on your person— your jewels, your garments— belongs to me. Leave it all here and go.” So, in the full assembly, Akka just dropped her jewelery, all her clothes, and walked away naked. From that day on, she refused to wear clothes even though many tried to convince her. It was unbelievable for a woman to be walking naked on the streets of India at that time — and this was a beautiful young woman. She lived out her life as a wandering mendicant and composed some exquisite poetry that lives on to this very day. In a poem(translated by A.k Ramanujan), she says: People, male and female, blush when a cloth covering their shame comes loose. When the lord of lives live drowned without a face in the world, how can you be modest? When all the world is the eye of the lord, onlooking everywhere, what can you cover and conceal? Devotees of this kind may be in this world but not of it. The power and passion with which they lived their lives make them inspirations for generations of humanity. Akka continues to be a living presence in the Indian collective consciousness, and her lyrical poems remain among the most prized works of South Indian literature to this very day.

Why do Shiva has moon on his head?

Why do Shiva has moon on his head? As per mythology, Bholenath started getting a fever because of the poison, and to cool him down, gods like Chandra asked him to wear the moon on his head so that his body temperature remained normal.

SERENITY

Good Morning!!! God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change; Courage to change the things I can; and Wisdom to know the difference. Thy will, not mine, be done *~*~*~*~*^Daily Reflections^*~*~*~*~* December 2, 2025 SERENITY Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, … TWELVE STEPS AND TWELVE TRADITIONS, p. 106 As I continued to go to meetings and work the Steps, something began to happen to me. I felt confused because I wasn’t sure what it was that I was feeling, and then I realized I was experiencing serenity. It was a good feeling, but where had it come from? Then I realized it had come “. . .as the result of these steps.” The program may not always be easy to practice, but I had to acknowledge that my serenity had come to me after working the Steps. As I work the Steps in everything I do, practicing these principles in all my affairs, now I find that I am awake to God, to others, and to myself. The spiritual awakening, I have enjoyed as the result of working the Steps is the awareness that I am no longer alone.

Who is greater, Vishnu, Shiv, or Bramha?

Who is greater, Vishnu, Shiv, or Bramha? Well, if we go by Mahabharata all these three deities are said to be the same and there is no difference between them. But according to Vedas, it is only Sri Rudra who is superior to Sri Vishnu and Brahma Ji. The Shiva Sankalpa Suktam clearly state it. Vedas always will have more authority than Itihasa and Puranas. Hence Vedas clearly state that Sri Rudra is superior to Sri Vishnu and Hiranyagarbha. Sri Rudra is also said to have none equal to him (TS 1.8.6.2). परा᳚त् परत॑रो ब्र॒ह्मा॒ त॒त्परा᳚त् पर॒तो ह॑रिः । त॒त्परा᳚त् पर॑तो ऽधी॒श॒स्तन्मे॒ मनः॑ शि॒वस॑ङ्क॒ल्पम॑स्तु ॥ 18 Greater than the great is Brahma, greater than the great Brahma is Vishnu. Greater than the greater Vishnu is Isha (Shiva). May my thoughts be filled with Shiva. - Rig Veda Khila, Shiva Sankalpa Suktam, 18th Mantra. Regarding the authenticity of Sri Shiva Sankalpa Suktam:

Gurudev Sri Sri Ravi Shankar

You know what repenting is? This is what it is: "Oh! You made a mistake! Repent!" Repenting is not the right attitude. Instead, Prayaschitta - "I have to make little corrections. A little correction needs to be done." Now, how do you correct? You say, "Okay, let me sit and do more meditation," or “Let me watch my food, go on a liquid diet, and fast for a day or two." Hmm? All this changes the chemistry in the system. Your action is only a projection of the system. Just correcting an action, cannot correct you! You have to correct the system - the nature in the system. How does one do this? Sing! Sit and sing! Sing some bhajans! Do some meditation! Do the pranayamas! All these are called "tapas" "Tap" means heating; "tapas" really means toasting! Turning the fire on! Fire purifies! There is no greater tapas than the pranayamas! The pranayamas burn out all the unwanted things in the system. They bring a balance amongst the gunas and they raise the level of sattva.