Assumption.

Your Understanding Depends on Your Assumptions.

Everything we understand—whether it is a situation, a person, a story, or a problem—comes through the filter of our assumptions.

Assumptions are the invisible beliefs, expectations, or ideas we already hold before we even begin to understand something.

Assumptions act like lenses.

Just as a pair of tinted glasses changes how you see the world, your assumptions change how you interpret information.

Two people with different assumptions can look at the same situation and understand it completely differently.

Their conclusions are not formed only by the facts, but by the assumptions they bring to those facts.

Assumptions can be conscious or unconscious.

Some we know (“I assume this person is honest”).

Some we don’t even realize we carry (“I assume elders are always right,” “I assume silence means anger,” etc.).

Your understanding expands when your assumptions broaden.

If you revise the lens, the view changes.

1. Seeing clouds

Two people look at a dark sky.

One assumes: “Dark clouds mean rain.”

→ They understand it as “A storm is coming.”

Other assumes: “This region often has clouds but no rain.”

→ They understand it as “It will pass.”

Same sky, different understanding because of different assumptions.

2. A friend is silent

If you assume: “Silence means anger,”

→ You think: “He is upset with me.”

If you assume: “He must be tired,”

→ You think: “Let him rest.”

The meaning changes because the assumption changed.

3. Reading a story

Your understanding of a story from the Mahabharata depends on whether you assume:

Dharma is absolute

or

Dharma is situational.

Your conclusion about characters like Bhishma, Karna, or Duryodhana changes.

Most Indian philosophical traditions teach something similar:

Advaita: What you assume to be real shapes your perception of truth.

Nyāya: All knowledge starts with a pramāṇa (means of knowing), but every pramāṇa begins with assumptions.

Buddhism: Suffering arises from mistaken assumptions about permanence and self.

What you understand is only as correct as the assumptions you start with.

You don’t see the world as it is.

You see the world as your assumptions let you see it.

Change your assumptions → change your understanding → change your world.

Not to be solved.

The Mysterious Black Stone of the Himalayas They say the Himalayas keep more secrets than they reveal. Their peaks rise like frozen hymns, but beneath their silence lie stories carried only by the wind and guarded by time. One such tale begins with a black stone, found on a lonely ridge where no pilgrim’s foot had wandered in generations. It was no ordinary stone. Smooth as river-polished basalt, yet untouched by water. Dark as moonless midnight, yet faintly glowing from within. And strangely — impossibly — warm to the touch. The shepherd who discovered it felt the warmth first. The air was cold enough to bite through wool, but that stone pulsed with a quiet, steady heat, like the heartbeat of something living. He picked it up with hesitation, half afraid the warmth would vanish like a dream. But it did not. It settled in his palm as if it belonged there. Word spread, as it always does in the mountains, carried more by wonder than by voices. Soon monks, wanderers, geologists, and dreamers climbed to the shepherd’s village. Each group had its own theory. The Monks’ Whisper The monks said the stone carried the blessing of a forgotten deity — one of the ancient guardians described only in crumbling manuscripts that no longer had names. “Things from the heavens do not always fall as fire,” an elder monk murmured. “Some fall as silence.” The Scientists’ Claim A geologist insisted it must be a rare meteorite, its smoothness caused by centuries of drifting along glacial currents. “But meteors are cold,” another argued. “Dead fragments of the universe. They do not breathe warmth.” Yet the stone remained warm — not hot, not burning, just warm, like a serene pulse. The Villagers’ Belief To the villagers, the stone was simply alive. Not like a creature, but like a memory. They said it brought calm to those who held it. Some swore it changed its temperature depending on the person’s mood — becoming cooler for anger, warmer for sorrow, restful for weary hearts. The Hermit’s Story An old hermit from a nearby cave arrived one dusk and asked to see the stone. When he held it, tears ran down his weathered face. “This,” he said softly, “is a piece of the mountain’s own heart.” He explained that the Himalayas, though made of stone and snow, were ancient beings with their own breath, their own slow, cosmic rhythm. Every thousand years, he claimed, one such fragment separated from the larger mountain — a tear of compassion, sent to comfort any soul brave enough to walk too close to despair. No one believed him. Yet no one could explain the stone either. And the Stone Today To this day, the black stone remains in the village shrine — unclaimed by science, untouched by politics, undefined by the ego of the world. Pilgrims come and go. Scholars argue. Children place their small hands on it and giggle at the warmth. But those who linger, who touch it quietly with a sincere heart, say they feel something strange: A calmness spreading up the arm. A soft humming beneath the silence. A reassurance, like being remembered by the mountain itself. Whatever the stone is — meteor, relic, miracle, or mystery — it remains what all true Himalayan secrets are: Not to be solved, but to be experienced.

Bharavi.

The Story of Pandit Bhāravi

(Author of the great Sanskrit mahākāvya Kirātārjunīya)

Long ago, in the 6th century, there lived a brilliant Sanskrit poet named Bhāravi. His mind was sharp like a polished diamond, and his words flowed with a power that felt almost divine. Scholars of his time said, “Bhāravi does not merely write poetry—he forges it.”

Bhāravi was born in a scholarly Brahmin family, often believed to be in South India, possibly in the region around modern-day Karnataka or Andhra. From a young age, he had a fascination for sound—not music, but the music inside words.

He would listen to the chanting of the Vedas, repeat each syllable carefully, and try to understand how a slight variation could change the colour of meaning. His father, a learned scholar, would often find the boy scribbling intricate verses on palm leaves.

One day he asked,

“Do you want to be a poet?”

Bhāravi smiled,

“Not a poet, father… a sculptor of language.”

A Poet of Power

Bhāravi grew into a master of expression. His poetry had gravitas—depth, weight, and majesty. While other poets fascinated with sweetness (mādhurya), Bhāravi was known for ojas, the brilliance and strength of speech.

This strength would take its ultimate form in his masterpiece:

Kirātārjunīya – The Crown of His Genius

In the Mahābhārata, there is a short episode where Arjuna performs severe penance to receive the Pāśupata Astra from Lord Shiva, who first appears in the form of a kirāta, a wild hunter.

Bhāravi took this small episode and expanded it into 18 magnificent cantos, transforming it into a mahākāvya filled with:

elaborate descriptions

philosophical reflections

complex play of meanings

powerful imagery

grand rhetorical structures

So great was the work that later poets would say:

“Bhāravi is difficult to imitate. His every verse is a fortress.”

Kalidasa was known for beauty, but Bhāravi was known for strength and scholarship.

In Kirātārjunīya, his language reflects the very inner tension of tapas, the collision of egos, the granting of divine weapons, and the majesty of Shiva.

The Famous Anecdote: The Line Everyone Quoted

One verse from Bhāravi became so famous that even ordinary people began quoting its spirit:

“Even a single verse of Bhāravi is enough to show his mastery.”

This saying came from the fact that his poetry was so compact, so dense with meaning, that one verse contained more insight than entire chapters of lesser poets.

His Devotion and Humility

Despite his fame, Bhāravi remained deeply humble. It is said that he once visited a king who hoped to reward him lavishly for Kirātārjunīya. But Bhāravi did not accept wealth.

He said gently:

“A poet’s greatest wealth is the joy that arises in the reader’s heart.”

He left with only a shawl the king insisted he take.

Bhāravi paved the way for poets like Magha, who wrote Śiśupālavadha in emulation of his style. It became a playful saying in Sanskrit literary circles:

“Bhāravi carries weight, and Māgha adds ice.”

(Strength from Bhāravi, ornamentation from Māgha.)

Even today, his work remains a model in Sanskrit literature for:

heroic grandeur

philosophical richness

masterful linguistic craftsmanship

With time, Bhāravi’s personal story faded, but his verses remained immortal—the true sign of a great poet.

Bhāravi, the sage of words,

Carved mountains from a tale—

A hunter in the forest deep,

A hero strong and pale.

Arjuna stood in silent tapas,

His bow laid gently by,

While Shiva came in hunter’s guise

To test him, not to try.

Two arrows met in forest gloom,

Two wills refused to bend—

Till spark of truth revealed the Lord

Who comes as foe and friend.

From clash was born a blessing rare,

A weapon fierce and bright,

And Bhāravi in measured verse

Unveiled that inner light.

Each line a fortress, bold and pure,

Each word a sculptor’s art—

He taught that strength is born of peace

And God lives in the heart.

Guru Tegh Bahadur:dharma, for human dignity

9Guru Tegh Bahadur: The Saintly Shield of India

Guru Tegh Bahadur, the ninth Guru of the Sikhs, stands in history as a luminous symbol of moral courage, compassion, and spiritual strength. Born in 1621 in Amritsar to Guru Hargobind and Mata Nanaki, he was named Tyag Mal as a child, for he showed extraordinary detachment and inner calm. His father later gave him the title Tegh Bahadur—“Hero of the Sword”—after witnessing his fearlessness and mastery in battle.

Yet beyond the sword, it was his quiet, contemplative spirit that defined him. Guru Tegh Bahadur lived with deep humility, spending years in meditation. He taught that true bravery is not in conquering others but in conquering one’s own ego. His hymns in the Guru Granth Sahib reflect this radiant inner vision—verses of non-attachment, devotion, and surrender to the Divine.

A Protector of Dharma

The defining chapter of Guru Tegh Bahadur’s life came during the oppressive rule of Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb. Forced conversions and religious persecution had spread across northern India. A group of Kashmiri Pandits—scholars and householders—travelled to Anandpur seeking refuge and guidance. Guru Tegh Bahadur assured them that righteousness must be defended, and he declared calmly:

“If the tyranny is to end, a pure soul must sacrifice himself.”

His young son, the nine-year-old Gobind Rai (later Guru Gobind Singh), spoke the immortal words:

“Who is greater than you, O Father?”

With full awareness of what awaited him, Guru Tegh Bahadur travelled to Delhi. He refused to convert, refused to bow, refused to abandon the right of every human being to worship freely. He stood firm not only for his own faith but for the faith of others—a unique act in world history.

On 11 November 1675, he was publicly executed at Chandni Chowk. His martyrdom shook the nation and lit a lamp of freedom that would not be extinguished.

A Legacy of Light

Guru Tegh Bahadur’s sacrifice was not for land, throne, or power—it was for dharma, for human dignity, for the right to conscience. His life reminds us that spiritual strength can withstand political might, and that compassion is a greater force than cruelty.

Two lines capture his essence:

“The one who frightens none, and fears none—

Such a one is truly wise.”

Guru Tegh Bahadur taught India that courage is born from truth, and truth is protected by sacrifice. His legacy continues to inspire seekers, leaders, and humble devotees across the world.

He is remembered as:

Hind di Chadar — The Shield of India

A warrior-saint

A poet of divine detachment

A martyr for universal freedom of faith

His life remains a shining example of how one serene, steadfast soul can change the course of history through the power of righteousness.

In quiet dawns of Amritsar, a gentle soul was born,

A child with eyes of stillness, like lotus in the morn.

Named Tyag Mal for his calm, yet forged in fearless fire—

He grew to be Tegh Bahadur, the saint the ages admire.

He walked the path of silence, where hearts to truth incline,

He spoke in hymns of detachment, of the endless, the divine.

No throne he sought, no glory—just the freedom to be true,

And the courage that his soul held shone radiant through and through.

When tyranny rose darkly, across Kashmir’s fair land,

And frightened seekers gathered with tears and folded hands,

He listened like a father, then stood serene and tall:

“To save the right of worship, one life must answer the call.”

His little son beside him, with wisdom deep and rare,

Said softly, “O my father, none nobler than you is there.”

Then to Delhi walked the Guru, with steady, saintly grace—

No fear could touch his spirit, no shadow dimmed his face.

They tried to bend his will; he stood like a mountain high,

For truth is not for sale, and freedom cannot die.

In Chandni Chowk they struck him, yet failed to understand—

His blood became a blessing that sanctified the land.

O Hind di Chadar, Master! Your sacrifice sublime

Still lights the lamp of courage in every passing time.

You taught the world a lesson the heavens proudly keep:

The one who fears none and frightens none is the soul awake, not asleep.

Your name is sung in temples, in gurdwaras’ glowing flame,

In hearts that crave for justice, in children who learn your name.

Guru Tegh Bahadur—protector, poet, guide—

A shield of light eternal, by India’s grateful side.

Divine friend.

Even to this day the descents of Bhandu Mohanty get prasadam from the temple. Indeed what ancestry what clan. Truly blessed.

The Story of Bandhu Mohanty and Lord Jagannath

A Tale of Poverty, Devotion, and Divine Friendship

In the holy land of Puri, there once lived a noble-hearted but extremely poor Brahmin named Bandhu Mohanty. His name “Bandhu” means friend, and truly, he lived like a friend to the world—kind, honest, and full of devotion toward Lord Jagannath.

Bandhu Mohanty lived with his wife and children. Poverty tightened its grip day by day.

Sometimes they had food, sometimes they slept hungry.

But every night, before sleeping, Bandhu would fold his hands and pray:

“Jagannath, you are the Lord of the universe.

You know my troubles.

Give me strength to endure.”

He never asked for wealth. Only for faith.

But one day, the suffering grew unbearable. His children lay crying from hunger. His wife, with tears in her eyes, whispered:

“Why don’t we go to Puri, the Lord’s own home?

Our Jagannath will not let His devotees starve.”

Bandhu Mohanty agreed.

The journey to the Lord’s home

The family walked for days, with barely anything to eat.

When they reached Puri, it was late at night.

The temple was closed.

The streets were asleep.

The children were exhausted and faint with hunger.

In despair, Bandhu clasped his hands and prayed:

“Jagannath! They say you are ‘Dina-bandhu’—

Friend of the helpless.

Today, your friend is standing at your door.

Please take care of my children.”

And then… the miracle happened.

The Divine Bowl — ‘Mahalaxmi’s Bhoga’

That very night, in the sanctum of the temple, the Lord spoke softly to Maa Lakshmi:

“My devotee has arrived hungry.

Give him the food you prepared today.”

Lakshmi smiled, filled a golden bowl with warm, fragrant rice and ghee, and placed it near the gate.

Outside, Bandhu heard a soft sound—like a bowl being set down.

He opened the door to find:

A shining golden vessel, filled to the brim with mahaprasad

The divine fragrance of Jagannath’s kitchen

Warm rice, glowing as though it held the light of compassion itself

The family ate to their hearts’ content.

For the first time in weeks, the children fell asleep with full stomachs and peaceful smiles.

The Missing Bowl and the Temple Inquiry

Next morning, the temple priests saw that a golden bowl from Lord’s treasury was missing.

Shocked, they searched everywhere but found nothing.

The matter reached the King of Puri. The king ordered:

“Whoever has taken the Lord’s vessel must return it immediately.”

Meanwhile, Bandhu Mohanty sat in a corner of the street with the same golden bowl beside him, unaware of its value.

When the guards found the bowl with him, they accused him of stealing.

Bandhu cried:

“I am a poor man, my Lords.

But I did not steal.

This bowl appeared outside the door last night.

We thought some kind soul left it for us.”

The king, wise and humble, decided to take Bandhu to the temple and place him before Lord Jagannath.

As Bandhu stood trembling before the Lord, the king asked:

“Did you give your golden bowl to this man?”

And then… a divine voice echoed in the temple:

“Yes.

The bowl was given by Me.

Bandhu Mohanty is My true devotee.

Let no one doubt him.”

All present fell to their knees.

The king bowed and said:

“From today, you are the Lord’s own guest.

You shall never know hunger again.”

He arranged a home, food, and daily offerings for Bandhu Mohanty and his family.

God never abandons a sincere devotee.

The heart’s purity is more important than wealth.

Even in deepest poverty, devotion shines the brightest.

Jagannath is truly ‘Dina-bandhu’ — Friend of the helpless.

Fading beauty.

 

 A beautiful metaphor, and the image does invite that kind of reflection.

If we look at it botanically:

The “golden” frond on the palm/fern-like plant is simply an older leaf that has reached the end of its cycle. Palms regularly shed their older fronds—they turn yellow or brown while the newer ones remain lush and green. It’s natural and healthy.

If we look at it poetically,  a plant as a nuclear family:

The green fronds are like the younger, active members of a family—full of energy, supporting growth.

The golden frond is like an elder—once strong, now stepping back, allowing new leaves to take the sunlight.

The plant as a whole thrives because every leaf, at every stage, contributed to its strength.

In that sense, the plant becomes a symbol of family life:

each leaf different, each with its own time, yet all belonging to the same rooted unity.

Family in a Pot 

In a quiet corner of the courtyard,

A single plant stands tall,

Its fronds like folded arms

Gathered close, a family of leaves.

Some shine in bright young green,

Stretching upward to greet the sun,

Full of tomorrow’s promise,

Full of unspent spring.

And then—one golden frond,

Softly fading into amber light,

Not weak, not withered,

Just completing its circle with grace.

It has held the sun before,

Sheltered the tender shoots,

Borne the winds, the rains, the heat—

And now it glows with memory.

Together they stand,

Roots drinking from the same earth,

Each leaf different in its moment,

Yet all part of one breathing whole.

A plant, a family—

Growing, glowing, giving—

Reminding us that even in fading,

There is beauty,

And in staying together,

There is strength.

Choice so important.

The Story of Rishi Markandeya

Long ago, in ancient India, there lived a noble couple — Rishi Mrikandu and his wife Marudvati. They were devoted to Lord Shiva but remained childless for many years. With deep faith, they performed intense penance to please the Lord.

Pleased with their devotion, Lord Shiva appeared before them and offered a boon.

He said:

“You may choose either a son who will be brilliant and virtuous but will live only sixteen years,

or a son who will live a long life but will not be wise.”

The parents chose the first — a child full of brilliance and virtue, even if his life was short.

Thus, Markandeya was born, a radiant boy with immense devotion.

Markandeya’s Devotion

As Markandeya grew, he excelled in learning and became deeply spiritual.

He was blessed, polite, pure-hearted, and fully devoted to Lord Shiva.

But as his sixteenth birthday approached, his parents were grief-stricken.

When Markandeya learned of his destined short life, he remained calm and said:

“I will pray to Lord Shiva. He will protect me.”

The Day of Destiny

On the day his life was destined to end, Markandeya went to the temple and embraced the Shiva Linga with total devotion.

He began chanting:

“Om Namah Shivaya… Om Namah Shivaya…”

At that moment, Yama, the god of death, arrived to take his soul.

But Markandeya refused to leave the linga.

Seeing the boy’s devotion, Yama threw his noose—it landed around Markandeya, but it also tightened around the Shiva Linga.

Shiva Appears in Anger

The moment the noose touched the linga, Lord Shiva emerged from it in fierce form, his eyes blazing with anger.

He roared:

“How dare you cast your noose on my devotee!”

Shiva struck Yama with his Trishul, defeating him instantly.

The entire universe trembled, for death itself had been subdued.

Granting of the Boon

The gods rushed to Shiva and pleaded for Yama’s revival, for without Yama the cosmos cannot function.

Shiva revived Yama but warned him never to approach true devotees without permission.

Then, turning to Markandeya, Shiva blessed him:

“You shall live forever.

You will remain a Chiranjivi, untouched by death.

You will be a symbol of devotion and purity.”

Thus, Rishi Markandeya became immortal.

Markandeya Darshan of the Cosmic Deluge

Later, Lord Vishnu also blessed Markandeya.

During the cosmic dissolution, Markandeya once saw:

the entire universe submerged in water,

a divine infant lying on a banyan leaf,

sucking his toe, smiling peacefully.

This was Baby Narayana, who granted him the darshan of the Mahapralaya (cosmic flood).

This vision is described in the Markandeya Purana, the scripture attributed to him.

True devotion can conquer even death.

God protects those who surrender completely with love.

Faith, purity, and courage make the impossible possible.