SONE KI LANKA

"Kubera's Dilemma"

The golden paradox

Hell,Heaven or trap.

By Shree Entertainment Official

Directed by

Rohit Shree

In the twilight of creation, when the universe hummed its first notes, desire stirred. It was a primal whisper, echoing through the void—a hunger that transcended mere sustenance. And so, life emerged, clad in stardust and longing.

Money, that elusive enigma, became our currency of existence. It flowed like a river, carving channels through civilizations. For some, it was the bread that silenced gnawing hunger; for others, the nectar that adorned their lives with opulence. Yet, in its pursuit, we often lost sight of the stars.

Across European nations, where history's tapestry bore the weight of empires, scarcity danced with indulgence. Their soil, once fertile, now yielded sparingly. And so, they turned to the flesh of creatures—the non-vegetal bounty—to sustain their bodies. The carnivorous feast, a paradoxical communion of life and death, echoed across their tables.

In the sun-kissed sands of the Arab lands, a different rhythm played. Here, moderation was their mantra. The date palms swayed, whispering secrets of balance. The camels, their eyes like ancient wells, carried sustenance across dunes. They knew that life's tapestry was woven from threads of restraint.

And then, there was India, a kaleidoscope of flavors and fragrances. Here, the culinary palette was an artist's canvas, painted with spices, lentils, and curries. Yet, paradoxically, the sacred cow shared its fate with the sacrificial goat. The taste buds, insatiable seekers, drove the dance of life and death.

In laboratories, tiny rats became cosmic participants. They gorged on abundance, their hearts racing like meteors. But greed, that insatiable hunger, consumed them faster than time itself. They fought for supremacy, their whiskers trembling with desire. And in this microcosm, they mirrored humanity's folly.

Kalki, the harbinger of purification, awaited his cue. His white steed galloped through the celestial mists, sword gleaming. Beside him, Kali, the fierce mother, danced her cosmic dance. Her tongue dripped with blood, a reminder that excess tipped the scales toward destruction.

"Within the gilded embrace of Sone ki Lanka, Vikram's soul bore the dual weight of Kubera's dilemma—a treasure trove that adorned him with golden opulence yet shackled him with the silent suffering of Ravana's cursed riches."

In the twilight of epochs, when the cosmic wheel turned upon its celestial axis, there arose Ravana—the ten-headed sovereign of Lanka. His heart, a tempest of ambition, hungered for dominion over the three worlds. Yet, mere sovereignty could not quench his thirst; he yearned for immortality—the nectar that would render him impervious to time's relentless march.

And so, Ravana, clad in ash-smeared robes, retreated to the sacred forests of Mount Kailash—the abode of Lord Shiva. There, amidst the whispering pines and the icy streams, he kindled the sacrificial fire. His tapasya began—an ordeal that would echo through eternity.

With matted hair and sunken eyes, Ravana invoked the divine presence. His resolve, unyielding as the adamant mountains, drove him to extremes. Each dawn, he unsheathed his sword and severed a head—a crimson offering to the Lord of Destruction. The forest echoed with the thud of blade meeting flesh, and yet, as if woven by celestial hands, another head sprouted forth—a grotesque dance of creation and annihilation.

The gods watched, their brows furrowed. Brahma, the creator, descended from his lotus throne. "Speak, O Ravana," he intoned. "What boon dost thou seek?"

Ravana's voice, hoarse from hymns and hunger, resonated. "Grant me invincibility, O Brahma! Let no god, demon, or mortal defy my might. Let death itself quail before my gaze."

Brahma's eyes bore into Ravana's soul. "So be it," he declared, weaving the threads of fate. "Thy heads shall multiply, but heed this: mortality shall cling to thee still."

And thus, Ravana emerged—a ten-headed titan, his crowns ablaze with cosmic fire. His Lanka, a golden citadel, touched the skies. But immortality, like a double-edged sword, cuts both ways. His head whispered secrets—the weight of existence, the ache of eternity. His heart, once aflame with ambition, now smoldered with discontent.

When Rama, Vishnu's avatar, arrived—a prince with eyes like lotus petals and a bow strung with fate—Ravana's destiny unfurled. The battlefield quaked; arrows sang hymns of vengeance. Ravana's heads fell, one by one, until only the tenth remained—the vulnerable core of his being.

As Rama's arrow pierced his chest, Ravana glimpsed the truth. Immortality had ensnared him—the curse of endless existence. His golden Lanka crumbled, and the cosmic scales balanced. In that final moment, he shed not blood but regret. His severed heads, once symbols of sacrifice, whispered a requiem—a cautionary tale etched in the annals of gods and men.

"As Vasishtha explains to Rama, the purest desires gradually lead one to a state of lasting welfare in this world (life). And if one has trouble directing one's destiny in such a way, one should exert the force of one's activity to turn one's mind to a profitable course." (Ramayana, Balakanda, Shloka 18)

In life's grand theater, desire and detachment perform a delicate dance. Desire, like a guiding star, propels us toward success and fulfillment. Yet, beware the siren call of lust—the insatiable hunger that blinds us to life's simple joys. Renounce not all desire, but its excess. Ascend toward the sky, but keep your feet grounded in virtue.

In the bygone epochs, when Lanka's golden spires kissed the heavens, Kubera reigned—a half-brother to the formidable Ravana. Their rivalry, like shadows cast by twin suns, simmered beneath the opulence of celestial courts.Ravana, fueled by ambition's fire, cast Kubera from Lanka's gilded gates. The golden city slipped through Kubera's fingers, a cascade of molten wealth.

Exile's chill settled upon him, and bitterness took root.Enter sage Shukracharya, eyes etched with cosmic secrets. His arrival at Kubera's court was no mere chance; it was destiny's whisper—an invitation to transformation. Shukracharya gazed upon Kubera's hoarded treasures and spoke: "Abundance blinds. True joy lies in sharing."Shukracharya bestowed upon Kubera a magical mongoose—a creature that spun pebbles into diamonds. "Use it wisely," the sage cautioned. Kubera tested its powers; wealth multiplied like constellations in the night sky.Yet Kubera's hunger knew no bounds. He hoarded more, deaf to the cries of the needy. The mongoose, its eyes pleading, vanished—a silent protest against insatiable greed.Enter Lord Ganesha, rotund and insatiable. Kubera, devoted to Shiva, sought to impress. A feast unfolded—an opulence of delicacies, fit for celestial tongues.But Ganesha defied reason. He devoured mountains of food, gobbling plates, goblets, and palace walls. Kubera's panic surged—a tempest of desperation. How could he sate the voracious god?Kubera sought Lord Shiva's counsel. The compassionate god smiled. "Feed Ganesha a handful of roasted rice," he advised, "imbued with love and humanity."Kubera obeyed. With trembling hands, he offered the humble rice. Ganesha's hunger abated, and the palace reappeared—its gold now infused with compassion.

"Abundance, a mere illusion, fades before the luminous truth: sharing is the sacred key."

Money Role

As Raghav toiled in his fields, the sun casting long shadows over the ripening crops, a friend came running, breathless and urgent. "Raghav, it's your grandfather. He's in a critical state," he panted. The village's sole government ambulance was already in use, and the cost of a private one was beyond their means. In their desperation, they borrowed a bike from a kind villager and raced to the hospital, the wind whipping past them as they sped through dusty lanes.

Upon arrival, the hospital's chaotic scene greeted them. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptics, and the fluorescent lights cast a harsh glare on the worn-out faces of patients and their families. Nurses moved with practiced efficiency, their expressions a mix of fatigue and resolve. Raghav's heart pounded as they navigated the labyrinthine corridors, each step echoing off the cold, tiled floors.

In the emergency room, the doctor's grave expression was a harbinger of the news to come. "Your grandfather has a rare heart condition called transthyretin amyloidosis," he explained, his voice steady but somber. "The treatment requires a medication named tafamidis. You have two options: the generic version, which costs around ₹7,000 per month, or the private one, which is ₹1,20,000." The weight of the numbers hung heavily in the air. To compound their troubles, the medication was not available at the government hospital due to budget constraints.

Raghav felt a wave of helplessness wash over him. The financial burden was staggering, and the urgency of his grandfather's condition left little room for delay. The stark reality of their situation was a cruel reminder of the disparities in healthcare access, and Raghav knew that the road ahead would be fraught with challenges.

In the labyrinth of existence, our protagonist traversed the disparate corridors of life, each threshold revealing a stark divergence. Hospitals, those sanctuaries of hope and healing, bore distinct imprints across the map. The government's austere halls whispered of frugality—their walls adorned with faded murals, their corridors echoing with the shuffle of weary souls. Yet, the physicians, like spectral guides, remained constant, their eyes etched with empathy, their hands skilled in the art of salvation.

But fate, capricious as a tempest, swept him beyond the sterile confines. To the bank he ventured, where the currency of rules clashed with the clamor of privilege. There, under the unforgiving sun, he stood—a mere mortal astride his humble steed, helmetless. The enforcers, arbiters of order, descended upon him, extracting their toll. Yet, his gaze wandered, tracing the asphalt tapestry. The opulent chariots, their chrome gleaming, sped past unscathed, their riders cocooned in affluence.

Within the bank's marble vestibule, he glimpsed a tableau of inequity. The queue, a serpentine coil of patience, stretched toward eternity. Yet, the well-heeled, those titans of commerce, bypassed the line. Their transactions, swift as the flight of swallows, left him marooned in temporal purgatory. The currency of influence flowed freely, while his own waited, a meager offering at the altar of bureaucracy.

And then, the messenger arrived—an omen of sorrow. His grandfather, that silent sentinel of memories, had departed. The funeral, a desolate affair, echoed with hollow echoes. Friends and kin, estranged by time or indifference, remained absent. Their absence, a testament to the ephemeral nature of bonds, weighed upon his heart. In that hallowed silence, he vowed to forge a different fate—a symphony of sweat and toil, notes of resilience woven into the fabric of his days.

For he knew: Poverty was a birthright, but not a destiny. With each dawn, he chiseled his legacy, inscribing defiance upon the slate of existence. The world may have dealt him a pauper's hand, but he would not fold. His sweat would irrigate barren soil, and his dreams would ascend like kites, defying gravity's cruel pull. Born in scarcity, he aspired to transcend it—to etch his name upon the firmament, a testament to tenacity.

In the cosmic theater, where gods and mortals tread the same hallowed ground, Ravana—the ten-headed sovereign of Lanka—wove his destiny with threads of pride and wrath. His citadel, a fortress of opulence, stood adorned with ivory spires and shadowed by the moon's envious gaze. Yet, it was an intrusion—an audacious trespass—that ignited the flames of his downfall.

Shurpanakha, the disfigured sister, bore her grievance like a crimson lotus upon her heart. A stranger, clad in forest hues, had dared to cross the threshold of her sanctuary. His sin? The severance of her delicate nose—a petal plucked by a callous hand. The affront echoed through Ravana's veins, kindling a tempest of rage. His wrath, a molten forge, shaped his resolve: vengeance, swift and merciless.

But Shurpanakha, too, harbored her own demons—the vanity that danced upon her tongue. Her whispered counsel, like venom, seeped into Ravana's soul. "Ram," she hissed, "a mere mortal, yet favored by the gods. His arrow, a celestial needle, shall pierce your pride." And so, the die was cast—the battlefield awaited, its sands thirsty for blood.

Ram, the exile-prince, bore no illusions. Ravana, a polymath of cosmic knowledge, stood as both adversary and enigma. The rakshasa king, with ten minds and ten desires, was no ordinary foe. Yet, Ram discerned the flaw—the fatal chink in Ravana's celestial armor. Ahankar—the sin of self-aggrandizement—had veiled the demon's eyes. His intellect, a sunken treasure, lay obscured by hubris.

And so, Ram dispatched Lakshman—the loyal brother, the sentinel of wisdom—to glean from Ravana's wellspring. The demon-king, ensconced in his opulent court, welcomed the Kshatriya prince. "Why," Lakshman inquired, "did you falter in the cosmic clash? Your prowess, unmatched; your lineage, divine. Why, then, did victory elude your grasp?"

Ravana, his eyes twin galaxies, unraveled the skein of his defeat. "Ahankar," he confessed, "the serpent that coiled within. I, who bound the gods and tamed the tempests, succumbed to my own tempest—the arrogance that eclipsed reason. I wielded boons like scepters, amassed armies like grains of sand. But Ram—the forest-dweller, the exile—was no ordinary mortal. His arrow, guided by detachment, pierced my armor of pride."

Lakshman listened—a votary at the feet of wisdom. Ravana's lament echoed through the marble halls. "I," the demon intoned, "was vanquished not by valor, but by the shadow within. Ahankar, the silent assassin, wielded its blade. For in the cosmic ledger, humility outweighs empires. Ram, the avatara, knew this truth. I, blinded by my own brilliance, stumbled."

"Strength lies not in muscles, but in the resolve of the mind."

"Within every wrongdoer lies a genesis—a seed sown in the fertile soil of their existence. It sprouts, tendrils reaching toward the sun, fueled by the struggles they bear. Yet, as the tale unfolds, it weaves a tapestry of remorse, threads of regret binding their actions to the loom of fate."

In a quaint village, he observed the torment inflicted upon wrongdoers. Desperate for wealth, he sought legal shortcuts, balancing morality on a fragile edge. The village remained blissfully unaware, while his soul grappled with survival.

Within the labyrinth of his conscience, two opposing forces waged a silent war—the angel, its wings ethereal and luminous, whispered of legality, of paths bathed in the sun's golden glow. It urged him toward the righteous, the arduous climb where virtue stood sentinel.

Yet, lurking in the shadowed alcoves of his mind, the golden side—the one tarnished by grief and loss—whispered seductively. It spoke of shortcuts, of clandestine deeds that promised wealth in the moon's silver embrace. The angel's feathers rustled, but the darkness persisted, weaving its web of allure.

The death of his grandfather, a sepia-tinted memory etched in sepulchral silence, cast its pall over his heart. The village, too, bore witness—the mango trees sagging under the weight of ancestral wisdom. And there, at the crossroads of morality, he stood—a mere mortal, torn between the celestial and the earthly.

Darkness, like ink spilled upon parchment, sought to cover him—the stains of compromise, the blurred lines where right and wrong danced their age-old waltz. The sun, indifferent to his plight, traced its arc, casting elongated shadows upon the path he chose. Would he ascend toward the light or descend into the abyss? Only the soil beneath his feet knew the answer—a secret whispered through roots and rhizomes, echoing the eternal struggle of humankind.

Money, that elusive chalice, bestowed upon humanity—a double-edged boon. Its alchemical touch transmuted the mundane into the coveted, yet its shadow stretched across the verdant tapestry of existence. Nature, once a benevolent host, yielded her treasures freely—sunlight, air, and the whispered secrets of leaves. But now, the ledger balanced: profit extracted, abundance commodified.

Behold the Kalyug, where the scales tipped toward avarice. The art of accumulation, once a mere brushstroke in the grand mural of survival, now painted the world's canvas with hues of ambition and cunning. Prayers echoed—a litany of desires—each syllable a plea for prosperity. Popularity, the currency of souls, exchanged hands like coins in a bustling marketplace.

Yet, when the sun kissed their brows, when bread graced their tables twice daily, the faithful turned their gaze not to the heavens but inward. Blame, that fickle companion, danced upon their tongues—directed at celestial architects, yet withheld when life coursed through their veins. Food and shelter, the silent miracles of existence, were taken for granted—a cosmic contract fulfilled.

And money—the chameleon—wove its spell. Some, like Midas, felt its touch turn flesh to gold, hearts to stone. Evil sprouted from coffers, and morality crumbled like ancient manuscripts. Yet others, bathed in its glow, found solace—a prayerful dance with abundance. Positivity, a fragile bloom, cast its petals upon the wind, but even its fragrance carried the whisper of consequence—the shadow side of joy.

In this symphony of paradox, the orchestra played on. Money, the conductor, wielded its baton—a crescendo of choices, each note echoing through time. And humanity, ever the audience, leaned forward, breath held, awaiting the final movement—a revelation of balance or discord.

In the annals of antiquity, when the sun's rays danced upon the earth's ancient visage, our forebears—those custodians of wisdom—sought solace in the simplest of tools: charcoal. This inky substance, born of fire and time, held secrets whispered by the ancients—a paradox of abrasion and purification.

Colgate, that modern oracle, wagged its finger—the chemical pastes, it proclaimed, were the true elixirs. Yet, as the masses bowed before the altar of minty promises, addiction crept like ivy upon their tongues. The ritual of brushing, once mundane, now danced with the fervor of devotion. And so, Colgate, in its wisdom, unveiled a new icon: Colgate Charcoal—a paradox within a paradox.

Charcoal, the alchemist's gift, knew no borders. From the United Kingdom's fog-kissed streets to Italy's sun-drenched piazzas, from Cameroon's equatorial embrace to Nigeria's red earth, it graced the mouths of the faithful. Tanzania, Republic of Senegal, Bangladesh, and Malaysia—all bore witness to its quiet efficacy. The world, like a cosmic bazaar, traded in whispers of stain removal and oral sanctity.

And our ancestors, those weavers of survival, wielded their datoons—neem, babool, and the sacred bael—each twig a bridge between epochs. They chewed, scrubbed, and spat, their teeth polished by the hands of time. The soil, rich with memory, cradled their secrets—their smiles, their laughter, their silent gratitude for nature's bounty.

In the grand theater of commerce, where the curtain rises upon the world's stage, corporations—those masked players—dance their intricate masquerade. Nestlé, a master of alchemy, stirs its cauldron, infusing morsels with crystalline sweetness. The forbidden nectar, once reserved for gods, now drips into children's bowls—a potion of allure and peril.

The World Health Organization (WHO), that silent oracle, raises its scepter: "Beware!" it intones. "These saccharine snares, these sugar-laden spells, shall sow the seeds of maladies." But the merchants, eyes fixed on balance sheets, scoff. Disease? Mortality? Mere footnot.