Compare.

 The story  beautiful and deeply symbolic tale from the life of Sant Tukaram, the 17th-century saint-poet of Maharashtra, who was a great devotee of Lord Vitthala (Vithoba) of Pandharpur.

 When God Came to Serve

Sant Tukaram was fully immersed in bhakti (devotion) and composing abhangas (devotional poetry) in praise of Lord Vitthala. Because of his spiritual practices, he often neglected worldly responsibilities, especially household duties. His wife, Jijabai, was pregnant and alone at home, with Tukaram away on pilgrimage or absorbed in divine service.

In her solitude, she found it hard to manage the chores, her health, and the pregnancy. One day, she cried out in pain and frustration:

 "O Lord Vitthala, you care for Tukaram but what about me? I am his wife, carrying his child, and he has left me helpless!"

Hearing her sincere cry and her suffering, Lord Vitthala and his consort Rukmini (Rakhumai) decided to descend to Earth, disguised as a humble couple.

The Lord came disguised as a simple peasant.

Rukmini took the form of his wife, dressed like a village woman.

They came to Tukaram’s home and offered to help Jijabai.

"We are relatives of Tukaram. We heard of your troubles. Let us help you until he returns."

Touched and grateful, Jijabai accepted.

Rakhumai cooked, cleaned, massaged Jijabai’s feet, and took tender care of her like a sister or mother.

Vitthala, in disguise, did all the hard chores—fetching water, collecting firewood, grinding grain, etc.

Jijabai was overwhelmed. These strangers treated her like a queen and served with such humility, devotion, and joy.

One day, as the two women—Jijabai and Rakhumai—were chatting while doing chores, the conversation turned to their husbands.

Jijabai said:

 “My husband is always away, chanting God's name. He forgets the family, forgets food, forgets responsibilities. What kind of husband is this?”

She said this with a mix of complaint and affection, still hurting from being left alone.

Rakhumai gently replied:

“My husband is no different. He is always running to his devotees, forgetting about me entirely. His love is for bhaktas more than his own wife.”

There was quiet understanding in her voice. Though she spoke with a smile, there was also a silent longing.

This moment of sharing created a bond between them, two women who loved their husbands but felt left behind by their divine callings.

When Sant Tukaram finally returned, he was astonished to see his home so well kept, his wife healthy and glowing, and everything in order.

He asked, "Who helped you?"

Jijabai told him about the strange couple, their kindness, and how they served with such love.

Tukaram realized immediately—it was no ordinary couple. He ran out, calling for Vitthala, and had a divine vision where the Lord revealed that He and Rakhumai themselves had come to serve his household.

Tears filled Tukaram’s eyes. He fell at the Lord’s feet and said:

“O Vitthala! What can I offer you? You serve your devotees with such humility, while I am too absorbed in your name to even care for my own family.

God does not ignore the suffering of His devotees or their families.

True divinity lies in seva (service) and love.

Even God takes joy in serving those who love Him.

Women’s sacrifices are honored in heaven, even if not always noticed on Earth.

How "Two Women Speak of Their Gods"

Jijabai speaks:

My husband? Ah, what shall I say?

He is lean, with bones that know no rest,

Cheeks hollow from too many fasts,

Yet eyes—those eyes!—they blaze with light,

As if he drinks the sun each night.

His skin is dark like ripened grain,

His feet are cracked, his clothes are plain,

But when he chants that holy name,

The wind itself forgets to blow,

And every bird falls still in awe.

He walks with nothing in his hand,

Yet carries truths I barely understand.

He is a beggar, yes—but oh,

He makes even kings feel poor, you know.

Rakhumai replies:

And mine?

He stands with hands on hips so wide,

A flute of gold upon His side,

A smile half-play, half-mystery—

That smile has unmade queens like me.

His crown is wild with forest leaves,

His chest the rest for cowherd dreams,

He’s dark as monsoon's first embrace,

With lotus-petals on His face.

His eyes? Like oceans holding time,

They look, and all becomes divine.

He walks not—He glides like song,

And where He steps, no path is wrong.

But he? My husband, Lord of all,

He runs to every devotee's call,

Leaves me waiting, temple cold—

Yet I am proud, though I scold.

Together they say:

O men of ours, so far, so near,

You give us love, then disappear.

But still we wait, and sing your name,

For gods or men, love burns the same.

Easily said than done.

 

Eight virtues.

 "Ashta Pushpam" or "Eight Flowers," a Sanskrit shloka that metaphorically describes eight virtues as offerings to Lord Vishnu. These "flowers" represent qualities that are dear to the deity and are considered essential for spiritual growth. 

अहिंसा प्रथमं पुष्पं

पुष्पं इन्द्रिय-निग्रहः

सर्व-भूत-दया पुष्पं

क्षमा पुष्पं विशेषतः

ज्ञानं पुष्पं तपः पुष्पं

ध्यानं पुष्पं तथैव च

सत्यं अष्टविधं पुष्पं

विष्णोः प्रीतिकरं भवेत्

Ahimsa prathamam pushpam

Pushpam indriya-nigrahah

Sarva-bhuta-daya pushpam

Kshama pushpam visheshatah

Jnanam pushpam tapah pushpam

Dhyanam pushpam tathaiva cha

Satyam ashtavidham pushpam

Vishnoh pritikaram bhavet

1. Ahimsa (Non-violence) – The first flower

2. Indriya Nigrahah (Control of the senses) – The second flower

3. Sarva-bhuta-daya (Compassion towards all beings) – The third flower

4. Kshama (Forgiveness) – The fourth flower

5. Jnana (Knowledge) – The fifth flower

6. Tapah (Austerity) – The sixth flower

7. Dhyanam (Meditation) – The seventh flower

8. Satyam (Truth) – The eighth flower 

These eight virtues are metaphorically referred to as flowers that are pleasing to Lord Vishnu. They emphasize the importance of ethical conduct and spiritual discipline in one's devotion. 

Sleepover.

No sleepover.

The Palitana Temples, located in the Bhavnagar district of Gujarat, are among the most sacred pilgrimage sites for followers of Jainism. Situated on Shatrunjaya Hill near the town of Palitana, these temples are not only remarkable for their spiritual significance but also for their stunning architectural grandeur and historical importance.

The temple complex comprises more than 900 exquisitely carved marble temples, built over centuries by generations of devout Jains. The site is especially sacred because it is believed that Adinath (Rishabhanatha), the first Tirthankara of Jainism, once visited the hill and sanctified it. For Jains, it is considered a must to visit the Palitana temples at least once in a lifetime to attain salvation.

The journey to the temples involves a climb of approximately 3,800 stone steps leading to the summit of Shatrunjaya Hill. Despite the steep ascent, pilgrims—some of whom are elderly or infirm—make the journey with unwavering devotion, often carried by porters known as dolis. The climb itself is symbolic of spiritual elevation and detachment from worldly desires.

The temples are built entirely of marble and adorned with intricate carvings, sculptures, and domes that reflect traditional Jain architectural styles. Among the most significant temples is the main shrine dedicated to Lord Adinath, which is surrounded by smaller temples, shrines, and meditation halls. The layout of the complex, with its maze-like corridors and countless domes, creates a visually mesmerizing and serene atmosphere.

One unique feature of Palitana is that no one is allowed to stay overnight on the hill—not even the priests. This rule emphasizes the sanctity of the site and maintains its spiritual purity. Pilgrims must descend before sunset each day. the Palitana temples are more than a religious destination; they are a testament to Jain devotion, architectural excellence, and the enduring power of faith. Their serene environment and spiritual aura attract not only religious followers but also travelers, historians, and architects from around the world. A visit to Palitana is not just a pilgrimage but an experience of peace, purity, and cultural heritage.

Weaving.

Long ago, in the verdant kingdom of Kalidwan, there ruled a mighty and proud king named Bangushwar Raja. He was a fierce warrior, a master of tactics, and had never known defeat in battle. But his pride was his greatest flaw. He looked down upon women, considering them too delicate and unworthy of positions of power.

One day, while hunting in the sacred forest of Devtaru, Bangushwar accidentally trespassed into the grove of Devi Pramana, a powerful forest goddess known to protect the balance of nature and the feminine spirit. Enraged by his arrogance and disrespect, Devi Pramana appeared before him in a blaze of light.

"You walk with the strength of kings," she said, "but your heart holds no room for understanding. You mock the very force that gave you birth. As punishment, you shall live the life of that which you disdain. You shall become a woman — and not as a queen in a palace, but as a commoner, starting anew."

And with that, Bangushwar was transformed into a young woman named Bhanu, cast far from her kingdom and memory, reborn as a weaver's daughter in a modest village.

At first, Bhanu was angry and ashamed. She struggled with her new life — the restrictions, the dismissals, the quiet expectations. But as time passed, she began to see a different strength: the resilience of mothers, the intelligence of women in the market, the quiet leadership of village matriarchs, and the silent power of those who nurtured and healed.

Bhanu began weaving, not just clothes, but stories and influence. She became a voice for women, a quiet revolutionary who uplifted her entire village. She remembered flashes of her past life as a king, and gradually realized who she had once been. But the pride and anger that had ruled her as Bangushwar faded, replaced by wisdom, compassion, and clarity.

After many years, Devi Pramana appeared again. "Your lesson is complete. You may return to your form and throne, if you wish."

But Bhanu replied calmly, “I have lived the life of a king and of a woman. But in this form, I have become more than I ever was before. Let me remain who I am now.”

The goddess smiled. "Then you are no longer cursed, but blessed."

And so, Bhanu lived on, no longer a king, but a leader nonetheless — revered as a sage, a voice of both strength and grace, and a legend whispered for generations.

Bhanu’s days in the village of Thamaldeep were filled with color and rhythm. From dawn, she worked at her loom, weaving cloth more beautiful than any had ever seen — not because of rare threads or royal dyes, but because every pattern told a story. Stories of struggle, of healing, of silent strength. Women from far villages came to her not just for cloth, but for counsel.

For the first time in all her lives, Bhanu felt truly seen — not for her crown, not for her power, but for her soul. Children laughed around her doorstep. Widows who were once silenced found their voices in her gatherings. Men too began to learn gentleness from her teachings. She was no longer a king commanding from above — she was woven into the very fabric of her community.

But what made her most happy was the freedom of spirit she found in womanhood. As Bangushwar, her life had been glory and conquest — a world of masks and competition. As Bhanu, she discovered a life of connection, creation, and inner peace.

One night, while sitting under the moon with her closest companions — a herbalist named Ganga, an old teacher named Vaidya, and a quiet flute-maker named Omkar — Bhanu said:

"As Bangushwar, I thought power was to conquer. But now I know, true power is to nurture and transform. In this body, I have become more myself than I ever was in a palace."

In time, Bhanu began teaching young girls and boys alike — not just how to weave, but how to listen, heal, and lead with empathy. A small temple was built in her name — not as a goddess, but as a symbol of rebirth and choice.

Years later, when she passed peacefully beneath the same tree where she once remembered her past, the people of Thamaldeep didn’t mourn with despair. They celebrated her life with music, color, and a new custom: each child would be gifted a small loom, so they too could “weave their story into the world.”

And they whispered, through generations:

“Bhanu was once a king, proud and strong. But she became a woman — and chose it — not as punishment, but as the greatest gift of all.

Vulnarable.

 Story.

My son Andrew will never get married. He won’t have children. He won’t drive a car or experience many of the milestones we take for granted.

But he is happy. And he is healthy.

And to me, that’s everything.

When a stranger gives him a smile, it lights up my entire day.

When a girl glances at him kindly, joy rushes through his whole body like a wave of sunshine.

It doesn’t take much to be deeply, profoundly human.

Let me tell you a story.

At a party held at a school for children with special needs, one father stood up to speak.

What he said stayed with everyone who heard it.

After thanking the staff who worked with such devotion, he paused and shared a reflection:

“When nothing disturbs the balance of nature, the natural order reveals itself in perfect harmony.”

Then his voice began to tremble.

“But my son Herbert doesn’t learn like other children. He doesn’t understand like they do.

So tell me… where is the natural order in his life?”

The room fell completely silent.

Then he continued:

“I believe that when a child like Herbert is born—with a physical or cognitive disability—the world is given a rare and sacred opportunity:

To reveal the very core of the human spirit.

And that spirit is revealed not through perfection—but in how we treat those who need us most.”

He shared a moment he would never forget:

One afternoon, he and Herbert were walking past a field where some boys were playing soccer.

Herbert looked longingly at them and asked:

“Dad… do you think they’ll let me play?”

The father’s heart sank. He knew the answer was likely no.

But he also knew—if they said yes—it could give his son something far more valuable than a goal: a sense of belonging.

So he gently approached one of the boys and asked:

“Would it be okay if Herbert joined the game?”

The boy looked over at his teammates, hesitated, then smiled:

“We’re losing 3–0 and there’s ten minutes left… Sure. Let him take a penalty.”

Herbert lit up.

He ran to the bench, put on a jersey that nearly swallowed him whole, and beamed with pride. His father stood at the sidelines, tears in his eyes.

He didn’t play much. He just stood nearby, watching. But something in the boys shifted.

They began to see him—not as a distraction, but as one of them.

And then, in the final minute, a miracle happened.

Herbert’s team was awarded a penalty kick.

The same boy turned to the father and gave a knowing nod:

“It’s his shot.”

Herbert walked slowly to the ball, nervous but radiant.

The goalkeeper caught on. He made a show of diving to the side, giving the boy a clear shot.

Herbert nudged the ball gently forward.

It rolled across the goal line.

Goal.

The boys erupted in cheers. They hoisted Herbert into the air like he’d won the World Cup.

They didn’t just let him play.

They let him belong.

The father closed his speech with tears falling freely:

“That day, a group of boys made a decision… not to win, but to be human.

To show the world what kindness, dignity, and love really look like.”

Herbert passed away that winter.

He never saw another summer.

But he never forgot the day he was a hero.

And his father never forgot the night he came home, telling the story as his wife held Herbert close, weeping—not from sorrow, but from joy.

A final thought:

Every day, we scroll past distractions—memes, jokes, quick laughs.

But when something truly meaningful crosses our path, we hesitate.

We wonder: Who would understand this?

Who should I send this to?

If someone sent you this story, it’s because they believe you’re one of those people.

That you see the heart in others.

That you understand what really matters.

Because each day, the world gives us countless chances to choose decency over indifference.

As one wise man said:

“A society is judged by how it treats its most vulnerable.”

Sorcery.

Shashi Tharoor’s letter to PM Modi after he was invited to lead an all-party delegation as part of India’s diplomatic outreach following Operation Sindoor:

Dear Prime Minister,

In reciprocation to your recent epistolary overture, I am impelled, indeed epistemologically coerced into articulating my gratitude via a prolix palimpsest of sesquipedalian syntax, lest a pedestrian expression be deemed a lexical misdemeanor unbecoming of this magnanimous interlude.

The conspicuous concatenation of your executive discretion with my rhetorical propensities precipitates an ontological juxtaposition that, while perplexing to the cynically disenchanted, is axiomatic to the Platonic ideal of governance transcending ideological parallax.

Your solicitation of my dialectical faculties to represent India’s post-kinetic strategic imperatives on multilateral podiums is not merely an act of bipartisan politesse. It's a semiotic calibration in favour of para-institutional intellect, wrapped in the velveteen glove of realpolitik.

Let me, therefore, not insult the grandeur of your gesture by responding with jejune platitudes. Rather, I proffer this peroration: That I shall, with alacritous gravitas and polyglottic finesse, transmute India’s heterogenous anxieties into diplomatically palatable phonemes, calibrated for variegated epistemic receptors across hemispheric constellations.

Should this venture culminate in epistemological transcendence or geopolitical vertigo, I remain, as ever, your loquacious interlocutor in the theatre of national exigency.

With obsequious syntactic humility,

Dr. Shashi Tharoor😯🤔😀

 Prime Minister, Modi’s reply is here: 

Dear Dr. Tharoor,

Your letter, a veritable tapestry of linguistic acrobatics, has left my office both dazzled and slightly dizzy, as if caught in a whirlwind of Webster’s finest. I must confess, my team briefly considered hiring a lexicographer to decode your epistolary exuberance, but we settled for a strong cup of chai and a thesaurus instead.8

Your enthusiasm for leading the all-party delegation post-Operation Sindoor is noted with the same delight one feels when untangling a particularly knotty Diwali light string. Rest assured, your sesquipedalian flair will be the perfect garnish to our diplomatic curry, adding just the right zest to soothe global palates. We trust you’ll wield your polyglottic prowess to transform any geopolitical vertigo into a harmonious waltz of words, leaving international audiences charmed, if mildly bewildered.

As for your fear of jejune platitudes, worry not—your response is about as jejune as a peacock in a monsoon. I look forward to your oratorical fireworks, confident that you’ll represent India with the gravitas of a statesman and the sparkle of a literary rockstar. Just one small request: perhaps keep a pocket dictionary handy for our friends abroad. Not everyone has your… vocabulary verve.

With a chuckle and a nod to your syntactic sorcery,

Narendra Modi
Prime Minister of India


(P.S. My speechwriter wants to know if you’re available for lessons!)