Raja Bhoj’s Shoes, Shankaracharya’s Borrowed Body, and a Septuagenarian Sleuth
What happens when folklore starts sounding like contemporary headlines? When a king who once saw everything forgets where he stands, and the men whispering in his ear quietly seize the throne? When philosophers borrow bodies, writers resurrect forgotten truths, and a seventy-year-old debutant outpaces the young? India is living through a moment where myth, memory, and power collide—where old stories refuse to stay in the past, and new ones dare to challenge the present.
So who really rules, who truly remembers, and who among us still dares to speak? Senior Journalist and author Nalin Verma asks in his fortnightly column in The AIDEM titled ‘Everything Under The Sun’ continues. This is the 22nd article in the column.
Of Raja Bhoj and Nitish Kumar
Bihar Chief Minister Nitish Kumar’s political journey now bears an uncanny resemblance to a famous folktale about the 11th-century Parmara king of Malwa, Raja Bhoj.
Here is the old tale—still whispered by grandmothers beside the Ganges as the evening diya trembles in the wind: the story of Raja Bhoj aur Mantri ka Joota — “King Bhoj and the Minister’s Shoe.”
Once, the king was supremely agile, razor-sharp, ever-alert, and wise beyond measure. The mere mention of his name made enemies tremble. His eyes could read the direction of the wind; his ears could catch the faintest rustle of grass bending beneath the stealthiest foe. His subjects proudly declared, “Not a leaf stirs without the king’s knowledge.”
Then one day, illness struck — not fever or cough, but the slow, silent kind that devours memory. His legs grew heavy, his tongue stumbled over the next word, and those once-piercing eyes began to gaze blankly into the distance for hours. Two cunning aides — ever-smiling, ever-loyal in appearance — saw their opening.
Every morning, they slipped soft, padded saffron shoes onto the king’s feet and murmured sweetly: “Maharaj, you are the greatest king on earth, the wisest, the most benevolent. You are merely tired. Rest a while; let us handle everything. We shall take every decision in your name.”
The king smiled faintly and nodded. He still loved hearing himself called the greatest, the wisest, the most benevolent. From that day onward, whenever the king appeared on the palace balcony, the two men stood just behind him, holding the royal staff. When the king opened his mouth to speak, their lips moved first — and the king echoed their words like a child reciting a new poem. When courtiers posed a question, the duo answered instantly: “Yahi Maharaj ki ichha hai” (This is the king’s desire). If the king frowned in confusion, they gently patted his shoulder and cooed, “Chinta mat kijiye, Maharaj. Aap hi raja hain; hum aapke sevak hain” (Don’t worry, Your Majesty. You are the king; we are only your servants).
Today, Nitish Kumar has ceded everything to the BJP—the home department, the Speaker’s chair, and, above all, the substance of authority. His deputy from the BJP, Samrat Choudhary, no longer even pretends to act under Nitish’s leadership; instead, he runs a “bulldozer raj” in Bihar modelled on Yogi Adityanath’s Uttar Pradesh.
Yet the duo that takes its orders from Prime Minister Narendra Modi and Union Home Minister Amit Shah still insists, with straight faces: “Saare faisle to Nitish ji hi lete hain” (Every decision is taken by Nitish ji himself).
One wonders whether Nitish Kumar truly knows where he is or what is happening around him. Does he realise that the Bihar assembly election was effectively bought with ₹10,000 cash doles to roughly 1.51 crore women, distributed while the model code of conduct was in force, and on his supposed orders? His Janata Dal (United) won 85 seats against the BJP’s 89. But does he even recognise the faces of those who won in his party’s name?
Pavan K. Varma: A Renaissance Man:
Bihar—land of ancient history and unbroken culture—first claimed Pavan K. Varma as its own in 2015 when Chief Minister Nitish Kumar persuaded him to take voluntary retirement from the Indian Foreign Service (he was then Ambassador to Bhutan) and appointed him Cultural Adviser with cabinet rank.
Yet long before that, Varma was already celebrated across India and the world as a diplomat of rare eloquence, a meticulous researcher, and a scholar of profound insight. From the tormented genius of the 19th-century poet Mirza Ghalib to Krishna, Rama, Adi Shankaracharya, Tulsidas, and the contemporary maestro Gulzar, Varma has illuminated the lives and legacies of India’s greatest minds, showing how their enduring influence still shapes our spiritual, artistic, literary, and political horizons.
Author of more than two dozen books—fiction and non-fiction alike—his most recent, Echoes of Eternity: A Journey Through Indian Thought from the Rigveda to the Present, is only the latest jewel. A mesmerising speaker, a columnist for ten leading Indian publications, a generous mentor who quietly helps young and struggling writers, an ardent dog-lover, a true bibliophile, and now the General Secretary and chief spokesperson of the Jan Suraaj Party—Pavan Varma is, quite simply, many remarkable men rolled into one.
When Shashi Tharoor—himself a polymath and world-class author—endorsed Varma’s acclaimed biography Adi Shankaracharya: Hinduism’s Greatest Thinker, he wrote: “…a valuable addition to contemporary literature on Hinduism, a tribute to its scientific and philosophical basis, and an affirmation that it is much more than today’s political ideologues depict.”
Yet what draws this writer back to Varma is not merely his philosophical mastery but his rare gift for turning complex truths into living folklore.
Here is one unforgettable tale from the Shankaracharya book: During the great shastrartha (philosophical debate) at Mahishmati, Ubhay Bharati, the learned wife of Mandana Mishra, challenged the celibate sannyasi Shankaracharya with questions from the Kama Shastra—the science of love and sensuality. As a married woman, she was versed in its subtleties; as a sannyasi, Shankara was not.
Graciously, he requested a month’s recess to master the subject. Ubhay Bharati agreed. Using his yogic powers, Shankara left his own body in a trance and entered the freshly dead body of King Amaruka, which was being carried to the cremation ground. Moments later, to the astonishment of the royal court, the “dead” king rose and returned to the palace.
Living as Amaruka, Shankara experienced the arts of love with the queen and her companions. When the month ended, he relinquished the borrowed body, returned to his own, and resumed the debate—now armed with experiential knowledge.
He defeated Ubhay Bharati, and both she and Mandana Mishra became his disciples. Varma’s biography of Adi Shankaracharya is filled with such vivid anecdotes and folktales, turning complex Vedantic philosophy into stories that even a child can grasp and a scholar can savour.
Keep writing, Pavan Varma. India still needs your voice—and your stories.
Orange City Literature Festival: Courage and Creativity in Nagpur
It took a certain kind of courage for Ashutosh—author of the unflinching Hindu Rashtra (Context)—to stand in Nagpur, the very city where the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh was born in 1925, and speak without fear.
Over three packed sessions at the Orange City Literature Festival, the former founding member of the Aam Aadmi Party, now happily returned to journalism, dissected a century of the RSS: its hydra-headed growth, its myriad front organisations, and the accelerated drive under a pracharak Prime Minister to reshape India into the Hindu Rashtra dreamed of by Hedgewar, Savarkar, Golwalkar, and, yes, even Godse—a nation where minorities would be second-class citizens and Shudras condemned once more to the servitude prescribed by Manusmriti.
In the heartland of the Sangh, that was no ordinary literary conversation. It was an act of quiet valour.
Yet the festival itself was pure celebration, and the man who made it possible is Sunil Raisoni—philanthropist, educationist, and chairman of the Raisoni Group—whose passion for books is as boundless as his generosity.
The seventh edition of the Orange City Literature Festival (22–24 November) was a joyous three-day carnival of ideas, poetry, theatre, and conversation that drew writers, readers, actors, and thinkers from every corner of India.
Among the stars was Suhail Mathur, the young, energetic CEO of The Book Bakers literary agency, surrounded by his sparkling constellation of authors: Divyaroop Bhatnagar, Rrashima Swaroop Verma, Bhaswar Mukherjee, and many more.
The Book Bakers truly is a home for both debut voices and seasoned ones. Rrashima is already making her mark in historical romance, but it was Divyaroop—affectionately called “Debu” by friends—who stole my heart.
In his seventies, an IIT-IIM alumnus who spent four decades in corporate boardrooms, Debu has now turned his formidable energy to crime fiction. His latest, Mussoorie Murders (Om Books International), is a deliciously crafted whodunit set in the hills. “I lived the corporate life fully,” he told me with a twinkle, “and now I live the writer’s life even more fully.”
Long may you write, Debu da. It is never too late. Frank McCourt was sixty-six when Angela’s Ashes conquered the world. Laura Ingalls Wilder began her Little House series in her sixties. Harriet Doerr won the National Book Award at seventy-three. You walk in illustrious company—and the best chapters, I suspect, are still ahead.
Here’s to literature festivals that dare to host difficult truths, to organisers who believe books can change the world, and to septuagenarian debutants who remind us that creativity has no retirement age.
Orange City Literature Festival, you did Nagpur proud.
