Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra, known for his wit and wisdom, is a prolific writer, renowned satirist, children’s literature author, and poet. He has undertaken the monumental task of writing, editing, and coordinating a total of 55 books for the Telangana government at the primary school, college, and university levels. His editorial endeavors also include online editions of works by Acharya Ramchandra Shukla.
As a celebrated satirist, Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra has carved a niche for himself, with over eight million viewers, readers, and listeners tuning in to his literary musings on the demise of a teacher on the Sahitya AajTak channel. His contributions have earned him prestigious accolades such as the Telangana Hindi Academy’s Shreshtha Navyuva Rachnakaar Samman in 2021, presented by the honorable Chief Minister of Telangana, Mr. Chandrashekhar Rao. He has also been honored with the Vyangya Yatra Ravindranath Tyagi Stairway Award and the Sahitya Srijan Samman, alongside recognition from Prime Minister Narendra Modi and various other esteemed institutions.
Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra’s journey is not merely one of literary accomplishments but also a testament to his unwavering dedication, creativity, and profound impact on society. His story inspires us to strive for excellence, to use our talents for the betterment of others, and to leave an indelible mark on the world.
Some precious moments of life
Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
Honoured with Oscar, Grammy, Jnanpith, Sahitya Akademi, Dadasaheb Phalke, Padma Bhushan and many other awards by the most revered Gulzar sahab (Sampurn Singh Kalra), the lighthouse of the world of literature and cinema, during the Sahitya Suman Samman held in Mumbai.
Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
Meeting the powerful actor Vicky Kaushal on the occasion of being honoured by Vishva Katha Rangmanch.
Today we present his Story – The Curse of the 13th Birthday.
☆ Story # 69 ☆
☆ The Curse of the 13th Birthday… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
Once upon a time, there was a normal human boy named Leo. He was a happy kid who liked cartoons and pizza. But then, on his 13th birthday, a terrible curse hit him. He became a Teenager.
The first sign of the curse was his bedroom. It used to be a place for LEGOs and books. Now, it looked like a trash can had exploded inside a laundry basket. There were crusty socks on the desk and pizza boxes from three weeks ago under the bed. When Leo’s mom opened the door, she didn’t see a room; she saw a biohazard zone. Leo just lay on his bed like a sad potato. “You don’t understand my soul, Mom,” he would groan. “Also, where is my black hoodie? I only have twelve, and I need this specific one to show how dark my life is.”
Teenagers also develop a strange relationship with mirrors. One morning, Leo found a tiny red pimple on his chin. He gasped as if he had been struck by lightning. “It’s over,” he whispered. “I am a monster. I cannot go to school. My life is a tragedy.” He spent two hours trying to hide it using his sister’s makeup and some white toothpaste. By the time he was done, he looked like he had been painted by a confused clown, but he felt “cool.”
Leo’s phone was no longer a gadget; it was a permanent part of his hand. If the Wi-Fi went down for even two minutes, Leo would gasp for air as if the oxygen had been sucked out of the house. He sent five hundred messages a day, and 90% of them were just the word “Bruh.” He would take sixty selfies, delete fifty-nine of them, and then post the last one with the caption: “I look so bad today,” just so people would tell him he looked great.
His stomach also turned into a bottomless black hole. Leo would eat a massive dinner of chicken and rice, walk to his room, and then return to the kitchen five minutes later. “There is zero food in this house!” he would yell while staring directly at a fridge full of groceries. To a teenager, if it isn’t a bag of spicy chips or a frozen pizza, it doesn’t count as “food.”
By the end of the day, Leo was exhausted from the hard work of doing absolutely nothing. He put on his headphones, listened to music that sounded like a blender full of rocks, and sighed. He couldn’t wait to be an adult, because he was sure that grownups totally have their lives together.
Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra, known for his wit and wisdom, is a prolific writer, renowned satirist, children’s literature author, and poet. He has undertaken the monumental task of writing, editing, and coordinating a total of 55 books for the Telangana government at the primary school, college, and university levels. His editorial endeavors also include online editions of works by Acharya Ramchandra Shukla.
As a celebrated satirist, Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra has carved a niche for himself, with over eight million viewers, readers, and listeners tuning in to his literary musings on the demise of a teacher on the Sahitya AajTak channel. His contributions have earned him prestigious accolades such as the Telangana Hindi Academy’s Shreshtha Navyuva Rachnakaar Samman in 2021, presented by the honorable Chief Minister of Telangana, Mr. Chandrashekhar Rao. He has also been honored with the Vyangya Yatra Ravindranath Tyagi Stairway Award and the Sahitya Srijan Samman, alongside recognition from Prime Minister Narendra Modi and various other esteemed institutions.
Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra’s journey is not merely one of literary accomplishments but also a testament to his unwavering dedication, creativity, and profound impact on society. His story inspires us to strive for excellence, to use our talents for the betterment of others, and to leave an indelible mark on the world.
Some precious moments of life
Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
Honoured with Oscar, Grammy, Jnanpith, Sahitya Akademi, Dadasaheb Phalke, Padma Bhushan and many other awards by the most revered Gulzar sahab (Sampurn Singh Kalra), the lighthouse of the world of literature and cinema, during the Sahitya Suman Samman held in Mumbai.
Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
Meeting the powerful actor Vicky Kaushal on the occasion of being honoured by Vishva Katha Rangmanch.
Today we present his Story – The Secret of the Blue Notebook.
☆ Witful Warmth# 68 ☆
☆ Story ☆ The Secret of the Blue Notebook… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
The halls of St. Jude’s Academy were buzzing. For Aryan, a bright but easily distracted 14-year-old, the world had recently narrowed down to one person: Zoya.
Zoya was new, brilliant at math, and had a laugh that made Aryan forget his own name—and more importantly, his upcoming mid-term exams. He spent his history lessons sketching her profile in the margins of his notebook instead of taking notes on the French Revolution. He was convinced this was “the one,” a deep and eternal love that adults just didn’t understand.
One Tuesday, Aryan found a folded slip of paper in his locker. It smelled faintly of jasmine—the same scent as Zoya’s stationery. It read:
“I see how you look at me. I feel the same. But we have a mission first. Meet me at the old banyan tree behind the library at 5:00 PM on Friday. Bring your Physics notes. Don’t tell a soul.”
Aryan’s heart did a somersault. A secret meeting! A mission! For the next three days, he was in a trance. He barely ate, and he definitely didn’t study. He spent hours imagining their future together, convinced that this “love” was the most important thing in the universe. He felt like a hero in a romantic movie.
Friday arrived. Aryan reached the banyan tree, his heart thumping like a drum. The sun was setting, casting long, eerie shadows. Zoya was already there, but she looked serious—almost cold.
“Did you bring the notes?” she whispered, her eyes darting around.
“Yes,” Aryan stammered. “Zoya, I’ve wanted to tell you—”
“Quiet,” she interrupted, looking around. “The ‘Council’ is watching. If we don’t pass the Physics Finals with 90% or above, we fail the mission. Our connection will be severed forever. We must work. Now.”
For the next two hours, they didn’t talk about feelings. They solved circuits, calculated velocity, and memorized Newton’s laws. It was the most intense studying Aryan had ever done. Every time he tried to say something romantic or hold her hand, Zoya would point to a complex formula and say, “Focus, Aryan. The future depends on it.”
The exams came and went. Aryan, fueled by the desire to “save his love” and impress Zoya, performed better than he ever had. He stayed up late, not dreaming of her, but solving the problems she had challenged him with. On the last day of school, he waited for Zoya by the tree, ready to finally confess his feelings now that the “mission” was over.
Zoya arrived, but she wasn’t alone. She was walking with the School Principal, Mr. Khanna.
Aryan froze. Was he in trouble? Had someone found out about their secret meetings?
“Ah, Aryan,” Mr. Khanna smiled, looking quite pleased. “Zoya tells me your Physics paper was the best in the grade. Excellent improvement. I’m impressed.”
Zoya looked at Aryan and handed him a final note. “Read this when you get home,” she said with a mysterious wink, before walking away toward the faculty office with the Principal.
Aryan ran home and tore open the envelope. He expected a love poem or a date invitation. Instead, he found a printed certificate and a short letter:
“Dear Aryan,
I’m not actually a student. My name is Zoya Malhotra, and I am a 22-year-old Child Psychology intern working on a thesis called ‘The Power of Academic Redirection.’
The Principal noticed your grades were dropping because of a ‘crush’ on the new girl (me). He asked me to help you use that ‘attraction’ as a fuel for your studies. That ‘spark’ you felt? It was just biology, a bit of mystery, and a lot of your own imagination. It felt like love, but it was just a distraction. However, the 95% you got in Physics? That’s real, and that’s yours forever.
P.S. Stay focused. Your brain is much more interesting than your heart at fourteen!”
Aryan sat on his bed, mouth agape. He had been “played” by a psychologist! He felt a bit embarrassed, but then he looked at his marksheet. For the first time, he realized that while the crush had faded the moment he knew the truth, the pride of his success felt much, much better.
Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra, known for his wit and wisdom, is a prolific writer, renowned satirist, children’s literature author, and poet. He has undertaken the monumental task of writing, editing, and coordinating a total of 55 books for the Telangana government at the primary school, college, and university levels. His editorial endeavors also include online editions of works by Acharya Ramchandra Shukla.
As a celebrated satirist, Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra has carved a niche for himself, with over eight million viewers, readers, and listeners tuning in to his literary musings on the demise of a teacher on the Sahitya AajTak channel. His contributions have earned him prestigious accolades such as the Telangana Hindi Academy’s Shreshtha Navyuva Rachnakaar Samman in 2021, presented by the honorable Chief Minister of Telangana, Mr. Chandrashekhar Rao. He has also been honored with the Vyangya Yatra Ravindranath Tyagi Stairway Award and the Sahitya Srijan Samman, alongside recognition from Prime Minister Narendra Modi and various other esteemed institutions.
Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra’s journey is not merely one of literary accomplishments but also a testament to his unwavering dedication, creativity, and profound impact on society. His story inspires us to strive for excellence, to use our talents for the betterment of others, and to leave an indelible mark on the world.
Some precious moments of life
Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
Honoured with Oscar, Grammy, Jnanpith, Sahitya Akademi, Dadasaheb Phalke, Padma Bhushan and many other awards by the most revered Gulzar sahab (Sampurn Singh Kalra), the lighthouse of the world of literature and cinema, during the Sahitya Suman Samman held in Mumbai.
Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
Meeting the powerful actor Vicky Kaushal on the occasion of being honoured by Vishva Katha Rangmanch.
Today we present his Heart–Touching Story – The Door is Open.
☆ Heart-Touching Story # 67 ☆
☆ The Door is Open… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
At the very edge of the city, where the “concrete jungle” begins to fade, stood a house called ‘Shanti Villa.’ Perhaps it was named ‘Shanti’ (Peace) because the silence there was deeper than a graveyard. The massive iron gate was covered in layers of rust, looking as if time itself had forgotten to touch it.
Aniruddha brushed off his expensive leather jacket. After six years in the glittering world of Australia, he had returned to this dusty silence. As the taxi driver unloaded the luggage, he looked at the house with a strange expression.
“Sir, does anyone actually live here? There is a very heavy smell coming from inside.”
Aniruddha wrinkled his nose. “My mother lives here. She is old; perhaps she hasn’t been able to get the place cleaned. Take your fare and go.”
As soon as he pushed the door, it swung open without a sound. It wasn’t locked. He expected to hear his mother’s voice— “Oh Anu! You’re back?”—but instead, a thick, heavy darkness crept out. It was a darkness that had been brewing within the walls of the villa for six months.
The dust on the drawing-room floor captured his footprints so clearly it felt like a stain on something sacred. He pressed the light switch, but the electricity had been cut off, likely due to unpaid bills. Aniruddha turned on his iPhone’s flashlight. The beam of light fell upon a figure lying on the sofa.
“Ma? Are you sleeping? Look, I’ve come straight from Sydney. I’m exhausted—please make me a cup of tea.”
For the first time in a long while, a voice echoed in the room. But the figure on the sofa was no longer “Mother.” It was a skeleton draped in the remains of brown skin. Nature had done its work—insects had taken their share, leaving only remains behind. Aniruddha’s scream died in his throat. He wanted to believe it was a prank, but that smell? That smell wasn’t a joke; it was the final, bitter truth.
On the table lay a piece of paper. Buried under layers of dust, it wasn’t a will or a list of jewelry. On it, a single sentence was written thousands of times, like a haunting chant: “Son, the door is open. Just come home.”
Aniruddha’s hand began to shake. He shone the light on the bottom of the paper. There were dark, dried stains of blood and tears. It read: “I am not dying, Anu. I am just sleeping so that when you arrive, you can wake me up. It gets very cold in Australia, doesn’t it? I’ve heard people there forget their own family, but you are my son. Wear a sweater; you catch colds easily.”
Then, Aniruddha noticed the skeleton’s tightly clenched fist. He gathered his courage and pried open those cold, stone-like fingers. Inside was a small, blue woolen sweater. It was half-finished. A knitting needle was still stuck in the ball of yarn. This sweater was for Aniruddha’s son—the one whose picture he had sent on WhatsApp three years ago.
“Ma…” a sob escaped Aniruddha’s throat.
The ‘Shanti Villa’ now felt like a courtroom. He remembered Mother’s last phone call six months ago. He had snapped at her— “Mummy, I have a project deadline! Don’t keep harping on the same ‘when are you coming’ tune every day.”
Perhaps that was the night Mother left the door open. Perhaps that was the night she decided she wouldn’t wake up anymore, because waiting while awake was too painful. She had given death the name of “sleep” so her son wouldn’t feel the guilt of her end.
The cold moonlight from the window filled the empty sockets of the skeleton’s eyes. In those hollow spaces, a terrifying wait still seemed to linger—a wait that hadn’t ended even after crossing the border of death. Aniruddha pressed the half-knitted sweater to his face. The wool was no longer soft; it pricked him like thorns.
In that massive villa, surrounded by millions in property, Aniruddha stood alone. He had Australian PR, a huge bank balance, and a bright future. But he did not have the “sleep” that his mother had been wearing for six months.
Sobbing, he held the skeletal hand and whispered softly, “Ma, wake up… look, I’ve come. Close the door now; I won’t go anywhere.”
But Mother did not wake up. She had kept her promise. She had gone to sleep so her son could wake her. But the son had arrived so late that there was no body to wake—only a lifetime of regret.
A gust of wind blew the paper onto the floor. The final line was now clearly visible: “The door is open, because even if you became a stranger, my love is still waiting for you.”
Aniruddha sat down on the cold floor. Outside, the city lights were sparkling, but in that corner of ‘Shanti Villa,’ a darkness had settled—a darkness that no sun in the world could ever chase away.
(Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi—an ex Naval Officer, possesses a multifaceted personality. He served as a Senior Advisor in prestigious Supercomputer organisation C-DAC, Pune. He was involved in various Artificial Intelligence and High-Performance Computing projects of national and international repute. He has got a long experience in the field of ‘Natural Language Processing’, especially, in the domain of Machine Translation. He has taken the mantle of translating the timeless beauties of Indian literature upon himself so that it reaches across the globe. He has also undertaken translation work for Shri Narendra Modi, the Hon’ble Prime Minister of India, which was highly appreciated by him. He is also a member of ‘Bombay Film Writer Association’.
We present Capt. Pravin Raghuvanshi ji’s amazing Short Story “~ Setting Sun and the Earthen Lamp…~”. We extend our heartiest thanks to the learned author Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi Ji (who is very well conversant with Hindi, Sanskrit, English and Urdu languages) and his artwork.)
Short Story ~ Setting Sun and the Earthen Lamp… ~
☆
As the setting sun, draped in fiery splendour, whispered to the world,
‘Who shall now inherit my radiant duty?’
A reverent hush fell upon the universe— mountains bowed in respect, oceans stilled their tides, and even the winds held their breath…
Then, from a solitary threshold, a tremulous voice arose— the gentle flame of a humble diya, an earthen lamp, its glow quivering yet resolute:
‘I shall, my Lord… as much as this small heart can bear!’
And in that moment, the setting sun bestowed a warm smile upon the earth, knowing that light is eternal, merely passing from one beacon to another!
☆
~Pravin Raghuvanshi
~ अस्ताचल का सूर्य और मिट्टी का दीपक…~
☆
जब अस्ताचल का सूर्य अरुणिमा ओढ़े गगन से बोला — “अब मेरे प्रकाश का उत्तराधिकारी कौन होगा?”
क्षण भर को थम गई सारी सृष्टि — पहाड़ झुक गए, सागर शांत हो गए, यहाँ तक कि पवन भी थम गई श्रद्धा में।
तभी किसी दहलीज़ से एक कोमल स्वर उठा — मिट्टी के छोटे से दीपक ने, थरथराती लौ में विनम्रता भरकर कहा — “मैं करूँगा, प्रभु… जितना मुझसे संभव होगा।”
और उस क्षण, डूबते सूर्य ने मुस्कराकर भूमि पर निहारा — जानता था, प्रकाश शाश्वत है, वह तो बस हस्तांतरित होता है…!
~ Mystery of missing bank notes… ~ Shri Vishwas Datye
☆
“Yogesh, this time it is your turn to share some interesting and memorable experience”, Ganapati Chodankar said smilingly.
Ours is a group of school friends. Yogesh Jadhav, Ganapati Chodankar, Rakesh Gupta, K. Shridharan and myself Kali Gogoi. All are retired now. All from different professional carriers. Our friendship stemmed from our days at public school at Dehradun. A friendship that has survived over 5 decades and we still meet over an evening, once a month, at our common sports club, over a glass of beer. Barring some exceptions, this ritual has become part of our life. All of us look forward to these evenings for a wonderful time together.
Yogesh retired from the Investigative branch of the police department. Ganapati retired as senior doctor from government hospital. Rakesh has handed over his small business to his son. KS [ K Shridharan ] worked with a large multinational company. I myself has been a senior officer in central government.
Apart from catching up with the developments during the last months, we enjoy sharing our interesting experiences emanating from our mutually exclusive fields of operation.
In this small group, Yogesh always needed some nudging to speak and Rakesh had to be stopped once his flow of words started. Responding to the request from Ganapati, Yogesh gave a Buddha style smile and looking into the beer glass went into some sort of reverie. “Come on Yogesh”, I prodded.
After a gap of some pregnant silence, Yogesh said, “friends, I was thinking of a case which we could never crack. You may also find it intriguing.”
He took few more seconds to collect his thoughts and started.
“Those days, I was placed in Jabalpur. A young girl had registered a case of some missing cash from her possession. She was very distressed but did not suspect anybody. On preliminary enquiry and investigations our police on the routine jobs had no clue. As such, this case was reported to me for further investigations”
As was my normal practice, I asked for the FIR to get some idea of the complaint. It mentioned that she had kept a sealed envelope containing cash in the drawer of her table. After few months, she noticed that the envelope felt very thin and light. Obviously, the thick wad of currency notes had reduced to very few notes.
She suspected that something was wrong because the seal was intact. She did not open the envelope for fear that nobody would believe her once the envelope was opened. She reported the theft to the police and handed over the envelope to the police for investigation.
After thorough inspection of the seal of the envelope, I too was completely intrigued. A close inspection of the envelope indicated that it was handled often. Like it happens for any used envelope the edges were somewhat worn out and at one end the paper had worn out so much as to show a tiny slit. All seals and signatures were intact. We concluded that this slit on the edge must have occurred due to the wearing out of the envelope during handling and friction inside the drawer of the table. It was so tiny that no one could imagine to remove anything through it from inside the envelope. Prima facie, the whole case was quite inexplicable.
I visited the home of the girl. To my trained eyes, she did not look the crook type. Still, I had to check for the authenticity of her claim. I requested her to share with me the full development right from start.
“Sir, myself and my younger sister live in Jabalpur. We hail from the village Bamhori. Our family is not very well to do. I am Sheetal and my sister is Narmada. We both moved to Jabalpur so that I can do some job for earning and also for supporting my sister who is pursuing her higher education. I am doing a job of a receptionist in the hospital of Dr Chandawar.
Knowing that we two sisters will be on our own in this large city, our uncle Damodar lovingly offered us help in case of any emergency. He handed over to us a wad of Rs 500 currency notes as a loan. We were very nervous to accept such large help. We had never seen such large sum in our life time.
Then he suggested that this amount is only for emergency. He counted the notes to 100 in front of us, put those into a brown paper envelope and sealed the same with staples and gum tape on all four sides. He signed on those tapes to secure the amount properly. He told us clearly that this amount is not for spending but was to be used only if some emergency arose. We were supposed to return the envelope to him after we felt adequately settled in Jabalpur. We gratefully accepted this help in the form of a somewhat bulky envelope. Our father helped us with some cash to start the life in Jabalpur. All this happened about a year back.
After moving to Jabalpur, we rented a room, I found the job. Narmada got herself admitted to a college for higher education. We kept this envelope hidden in the drawer of the table in our room. We settled happily into a new routine without much problem.
Soon, we almost forgot about this envelope. Recently, when I was tidying our room, I happened to come across the envelope. To my surprise, it looked less bulky. To my horror, on lifting it I noticed it to be very flat and light. At the same time it looked totally undisturbed and the seal and the signatures were intact. I was aghast.
On showing this development with Narmada, she too was astonished. We had no face to show to our uncle. How could we ever return the large missing amount to him? After spending a sleepless night, we reported this situation to the local police station. Sir, please help us or we are ruined.” She started pitifully crying.
Looking at our curious faces, Yogesh continued, “I had no clue as to how such a thing could happen. After offering her some words of superficial solace and before returning to my office, I told her to send Narmada to my office next day, for meeting me.
Next day, a younger version of Sheetal came to my office. So I had no difficulty in recognizing Narmada. Yet the appearance was quite different. She was smartly dressed, with some makeup, a pair of stylish dark goggles, high heal sandals and oozing confidence.
On asking for the details of this case, she repeated exactly same story. But she appeared to be emotionally less disturbed.
Next, without informing the girls, I drove down to their village to cross check the authenticity of the envelope with the cash, with Damodar uncle and their father. Both were shocked but confirmed the story about the sealed envelope. To me both appeared simple villagers and not some kind of bad elements. I pacified them that we will get to the truth and requested them that they should not raise too much noise about this case. Both showed confidence in my abilities and promised to cooperate.
Assuming the claim of lost currency notes to be true, myself and my colleagues raked our brains a lot to look for possibilities of how anybody could have effected this theft. In the meanwhile, we received the fingerprints report. The envelope had only the clear fingerprints of Sheetal and Narmada with some faint fingerprints of Damodar uncle. So involvement of any forth party became somewhat out of the question.
Finally, my suspicion centered on Narmada. We repeatedly interviewed her without success, to see if she breaks down and somehow explains to us as to how the theft was committed.
At one stage, despite repeated appeals from the girls, we concluded that the whole case was a fake report. This must be some kind of family drama. In truth, there must not have been any theft. Every passing day, this case became colder and soon forgotten due to pressures of routine work.”
Yogesh went silent again. The others in the room were looking at him with some expectation. KS broke the silence, “Is that all?”
“No friends ! Once in a while, the honest face of Sheetal used to haunt me. I came to knew that Sheetal had to work a lot for next few years to payback her uncle. I watched helplessly. In due course, I retired from the department.”
“After a few years, I came across Narmada again. By now she must have completed her education. By the looks, she looked settled and well to do. She too recognized me immediately. Without showing any malice or offense to her, I politely requested her for a meeting over lunch. To my surprise, she agreed. “
“Narmada, I am now retired. Your case too is closed long back. We had no evidence against you. But somehow, I am convinced that only you were involved in that theft. I am just curious about how anybody could beat our investigations. Let the past bury itself. Would you now share your secret to put my mind at peace? I will be obliged.”
“Sir, your guess is right! I will not tell you as to why I needed the money. But since you request me so sincerely without a threat, I will share my secret with you only. May be I too will feel a bit relieved by sharing.
Right from childhood, I have always been interested in reading detective stories. These detectives always solved the mystery at the end. They were always too smart for the criminal. My young mind decided that I will one day prove to be smarter than the detectives. After the envelope with large cash came into our possession, my mind started working feverishly. And one day, an idea struck me.
When alone in our room, I used to rub the edges of the envelope so that they started looking worn out. After that, on the top edge on one side of the envelope, I made a small slit with the help of a razor blade. It was less than half an inch. For opening the mouth of the slit a bit more I applied lateral pressure. Then I applied small quantity of fast drying glue to a long needle. I carefully inserted the needle through the slit to rest it over one end of the uppermost note in the stack. Let it dry. Then very carefully, I rolled the needle such that that note wound around the needle to form a tight roll. Rest was easy. Carefully I withdrew the tight bundle through the opened up slit and the note was mine. Once I had this confidence, all I had to do was to often repeat this performance. I used to feel guilty but the kick I got from this daring act was too strong for my young mind.
Sir, I knew that Sheetal didi suffered for few years due to my foolhardy act. But I could not collect the courage to confide in her. In due course, I completed my education and started earning well. My guilt finally became unbearable. I confided the truth with Sheetal, returned the entire money plus something more and asked for her forgiveness. She too lovingly forgave me for my youthful blunder. Now the whole issues has become our sisterly secret.”
She smilingly added, “Sir, but you will agree that I fulfilled my foolish desire to beat a detective at his game. After sharing this truth with you, I am feeling really relieved. Thank you for asking.”
Yogesh finally added, “Friends, I am now convinced that for the sake of showing off his cunning, a criminal is not at peace till he shares his daring act with somebody.”
A German law professor once gave his class a written exam.
The case seemed simple:
Two neighbors were in a dispute. One owned apple trees whose branches hung over the fence, dropping apples onto the other’s tulip garden. The falling apples supposedly broke the fragile flower stems.
Half the students defended the tulip owner.
The rest supported the orchard owner.
Everyone quoted laws, cited sections, and displayed deep knowledge of German property law.
When the papers were turned in, the professor made one quiet observation:
“Apples fall in autumn. Tulips bloom in spring.”
The scenario they had analyzed so brilliantly could never actually occur.
As students began to protest, the professor simply said:
“Before you start quoting the law, try using common sense.”
(Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi—an ex Naval Officer, possesses a multifaceted personality. He served as a Senior Advisor in prestigious Supercomputer organisation C-DAC, Pune. He was involved in various Artificial Intelligence and High-Performance Computing projects of national and international repute. He has got a long experience in the field of ‘Natural Language Processing’, especially, in the domain of Machine Translation. He has taken the mantle of translating the timeless beauties of Indian literature upon himself so that it reaches across the globe. He has also undertaken translation work for Shri Narendra Modi, the Hon’ble Prime Minister of India, which was highly appreciated by him. He is also a member of ‘Bombay Film Writer Association’.
We present an English Version of Shri Sanjay Bhardwaj’s Hindi Short Stories “चाय”. We extend our heartiest thanks to the learned author Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi Ji (who is very well conversant with Hindi, Sanskrit, English and Urdu languages) for this beautiful translation and his artwork.)
English Version by – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi
~ The rituals of life go on, but the companion is gone... ~
☆
Diehard Tea Drinker…
“Papa ji,” the daughter-in-law said with soft firmness, “four cups of tea a day is not good for your health. I can’t imagine how Mom ever let this habit continue. From tomorrow, only one in the morning and one in the evening. Agreed?”
“Yes, beta… agreed,” Manohar ji replied. His words were steady, but his gaze drifted to the photograph on the bedside table—Gayatri, smiling faintly from behind the glass frame.
She, too, had never approved of his endless cups of tea. She needed no words to know when the craving stirred in him; a flicker in his eyes, the twitch of his fingers, was enough. With mock sternness she would chide, “Too much tea will harm you. When I’m gone, you will find it hard to manage. Drink today if you must, but from tomorrow—never more than two cups.”
But that tomorrow had never arrived in their forty-five years of togetherness.
And now, it had been barely forty-five days since she had gone, and yet…
“You were right, Gayatri,” Manohar whispered, his voice breaking into silence. “What you could never make me do, your daughter-in-law has done—in a moment.”
He lifted the frame gently, as though it might shatter at the touch. And in that fragile stillness, he felt the glass turn moist beneath his fingers— as if she communicated herself through the language of tears!
~ Pravin Raghuvanshi
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
श्री संजय भारद्वाज जी की मूल रचना
संजय दृष्टि – लघुकथा – चाय
…पापा जी, ये चार-चार बार चाय पीना सेहत के लिए ठीक नहीं है। पता नहीं मम्मी ने कैसे आपकी यह आदत चलने दी? कल से एक बार सुबह और एक बार शाम को चाय मिलेगी। ठीक है..?
..हाँ बेटा ठीक है.., कहते-कहते मनोहर जी बेडसाइड टेबल पर फ्रेम में सजी गायत्री को निहारने लगे। गायत्री को भी उनका यों चार-पाँच बार चाय पीना कभी अच्छा नहीं लगता था। जब कभी उन्हें चाय की तलब उठती, उनके हाव-भाव और चेहरे से गायत्री समझ जाती। टोकती, ..इतनी चाय मत पिया करो। मैं नहीं रहूँगी तो बहुत मुश्किल होगी। आज पी लो लेकिन कल से नहीं बनेगी दो से ज़्यादा बार चाय।
….पैंतालीस साल के साथ में कल कभी नहीं आया पर गायत्री को गये अभी पैंतालीस दिन भी नहीं हुए थे कि..! …तुम सच कहती थी गायत्री, देखो जो तुम नहीं कर सकी, तुम्हारी बहू ने कर दिखाया.., कहते-कहते मनोहर जी का गला भर आया। जाने क्यों उन्हें हाथ में थामी फ्रेम भी भीगी-भीगी सी लगी।
(Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi—an ex Naval Officer, possesses a multifaceted personality. He served as a Senior Advisor in prestigious Supercomputer organisation C-DAC, Pune. He was involved in various Artificial Intelligence and High-Performance Computing projects of national and international repute. He has got a long experience in the field of ‘Natural Language Processing’, especially, in the domain of Machine Translation. He has taken the mantle of translating the timeless beauties of Indian literature upon himself so that it reaches across the globe. He has also undertaken translation work for Shri Narendra Modi, the Hon’ble Prime Minister of India, which was highly appreciated by him. He is also a member of ‘Bombay Film Writer Association’.
We present an English Version of Shri Sanjay Bhardwaj’s Hindi Short Stories “एकदा नैमिषारण्ये”. We extend our heartiest thanks to the learned author Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi Ji (who is very well conversant with Hindi, Sanskrit, English and Urdu languages) for this beautiful translation and his artwork.)
English Version by – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi
~ Naimisharanya — The Forest… ~
☆
In the revered land of Naimisharanya, a sage once recounted a tale that held the devotees spellbound.
“There existed a land of unparalleled beauty,” he began, “where lush greenery stretched as far as the eye could see.”
Curiosity sparkled on every face, and in unison, they implored,
“Guru ji, tell us more of this enchanting land!”
The sage smiled, his words weaving a tapestry of wonder.
“This land was alive with gardens blooming in radiant hues, and rivers flowing with waters as pure as nectar. Its inhabitants revered these rivers as nurturing mothers, offering aarti with heartfelt devotion. They cherished cows as their own mothers, and tended the land with care. Only half of it was cultivated; the rest remained untamed, a sanctuary for grazing animals. Trees were protected with reverence, and the five elements of nature were honored in all their glory. In every leaf, every gust of wind, they perceived the divine. Such was the land’s splendor that even the gods looked upon it with envy.”
Generations passed, and the story was retold, filling hearts with longing and wonder.
Years later, a new generation—familiar with the tale only through hearsay—gathered around the sage. Seated in air-conditioned rooms, sipping mineral water from plastic bottles, they asked,
“Tell us once more of that wondrous land!”
The sage’s eyes twinkled as he began anew,
“There once was a land in Naimisharanya…”
~ Pravin Raghuvanshi
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
श्री संजय भारद्वाज जी की मूल रचना
संजय दृष्टि – एकदा नैमिषारण्ये
सूत जी बोले, ‘नैमिषारण्य में एक सुंदर भूखंड हुआ करता है..।’ श्रद्धालुओं के चेहरे पर उस सौंदर्य का वर्णन सुनने की उत्सुकता जगी।
‘उस भूखंड के बारे में बताइए न प्रभु!’, सामूहिक स्वर में मनुहार थी।
‘इस भूखंड में हर तरफ हरीतिमा है। भूखंड का प्रत्येक नगर आकर्षक उद्यानों से सुशोभित है। यहाँ की नदियों में प्रवाहित होता सलिल अमृत-सा निर्मल और प्राणों को पुष्ट करने वाला है। यहाँ के निवासी नदियों को माता के रूप में पूजते हैं। उनकी आरती उतारते हैं। गौ को वे अपनी जननी के समान मान देते हैं। अपने स्वामित्व की आधी भूमि पर ही वे अलट-पलट कर कृषि करते हैं, शेष भूमि पशुओं के चरने के लिए छोड़ दी जाती है। यहाँ हरे वृक्षों की कटाई प्रतिबंधित है, उनकी रक्षा करने और महात्म्य सुनने का भी विधान है। पंचमहाभूतों की प्रतिष्ठा है। प्रकृति के घटकों में ही ईश्वर के दर्शन किये जाते हैं। स्वर्ग के सुख और देवता भी ईर्ष्या करें, ऐसा मनोरम है ये भूखंड!’
कथा सुनाई जाती रही, पीढ़ियों तक श्रोता तृप्त होते रहे। कालांतर में अपने पूर्वजों से इस भूखंड का वर्णन सुनने वाली नई पीढ़ी को भी पुरानी कथा में उत्सुकता जगी।
खेत और पेड़ रौंद कर खड़ी की गई चमचमाती गगनचुम्बी इमारत के एअर कंडीशंड कक्ष में प्लास्टिक की बोतल से मिनरल पानी पीते हुए नई पीढ़ी ने सूत जी से कहा, ‘उस सुंदर भूखंड की कथा सुनाइए न!’
सूत जी बोले, ‘नैमिषारण्य में एक समय ऐसा सुंदर भूखंड हुआ करता था..!’
(Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi—an ex Naval Officer, possesses a multifaceted personality. He served as a Senior Advisor in prestigious Supercomputer organisation C-DAC, Pune. He was involved in various Artificial Intelligence and High-Performance Computing projects of national and international repute. He has got a long experience in the field of ‘Natural Language Processing’, especially, in the domain of Machine Translation. He has taken the mantle of translating the timeless beauties of Indian literature upon himself so that it reaches across the globe. He has also undertaken translation work for Shri Narendra Modi, the Hon’ble Prime Minister of India, which was highly appreciated by him. He is also a member of ‘Bombay Film Writer Association’.
We present an English Version of Shri Sanjay Bhardwaj’s Hindi Short Stories “सर्व धर्म प्रार्थना ”. We extend our heartiest thanks to the learned author Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi Ji (who is very well conversant with Hindi, Sanskrit, English and Urdu languages) for this beautiful translation and his artwork.)
English Version by – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi
~ Universal Prayer… ~
☆
A solemn “Universal Prayer” was planned near a remote glacier. Delegates of many religions from across the world gathered there. As the journey began, the ice cracked open, and the group plunged into a deep crevasse.
Those who stood above started shouting—
“How many Hindus have fallen?”
“How many Muslims, Christians, Sikhs, Parsis, Jews?”
Soon the counting stretched further—Buddhists, Jains, Taoists, Shintoists, Confucians.
Yet even that was not enough. They began dividing further—upper caste, lower caste, backward, tribal, even Aryan versus non-Aryan.
Above the crevasse, people kept counting divisions and widening the gulf of humanity.
Meanwhile, inside the crevasse, the climbers clasped each other’s hands.
They formed a human chain—
and together, they climbed out to freedom.
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
~ Pravin Raghuvanshi
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
श्री संजय भारद्वाज जी की मूल रचना
संजय दृष्टि – सर्व धर्म प्रार्थना
सर्व धर्म प्रार्थना का एक अनूठा आयोजन एक दुर्गम ग्लेशियर के निकट रखा गया था। विभिन्न धर्मों के देश-विदेश में बसे चुनिंदा अनुयायियों को इसमें सम्मिलित किया गया था। इन यात्रियों का दल दुर्गम हिमनद की ओर बढ़ रहा था। एकाएक हिम की सतह दरक गई और खाईनुमा गहरा गढ्ढा बन गया। दल गढ्ढे में गिर पड़ा।
हाहाकार मच गया। फिर कुछ समय के लिए यात्रियों के गढ्ढे में गिरने पर चर्चा चली। तत्पश्चात पर्वतारोहियों में हिंदू, मुसलमान, ईसाई, सिख, पारसी, यहूदी, बौद्ध, जैन, ताओ, शिंटो, कन्फ्यूशियिस्ट गिने जाने लगे।
फिर भी मन ना भरा तो विभिन्न धर्मों के यात्रियों के संप्रदाय, जातिगत वर्ग गिने जाने लगे। कुछ ने सवर्ण, दलित, अगड़ा, पिछड़ा, आदिवासी की माइक्रो काउंटिंग शुरू की तो कुछ ने मूल निवासी, आक्रमणकारी, आर्य-अनार्य की गणना भी कर डाली।
अपनी-अपनी जगह बैठे लोग मनुष्य और मनुष्य के बीच की खाई को चौड़ा करते रहे। उधर खाई में पड़े पर्वतारोहियों ने मानव शृंखला बनाई, एक दूसरे का हाथ पकड़ा और बाहर निकल आए।
☆ Short Stories☆ The Last Echo ☆ Shri Jagat Singh Bisht ☆
On the old, cracked wall of my study hangs a photograph. Faded, yellowed with time, it captures two boys in school uniforms, sitting cross-legged on a classroom floor, elbows touching, laughter mid-flight, a half-eaten guava between them. The boy to the right is me. The one to the left is my closest friend. My dearest.
We met on the very first day of kindergarten. I still remember his torn satchel, his shy glance, and the way we reached for the same crayon. That crayon was never returned to the box. It drew out a friendship that spanned five decades.
From childhood to youth, we were inseparable, like twin kites soaring under the same sky. We went to the same school, played in the same band—He with the clarinet, I with the trumpet—and even got stitched by the same half-blind tailor, who never remembered our measurements. At times, we laughed so hard we forgot why we began laughing in the first place. At others, we sat silently watching the monsoon rain, saying nothing and understanding everything.
He hailed from Kerala, the land of coconut palms and backwaters, while I came from the Himalayan foothills, where pine trees whispered old secrets to the wind. Yet, when we were together, no difference seemed to exist. India stretched far and wide, north to south, but our world was stitched together with stories, pranks, and shared pickles from each other’s kitchens.
We grew up, awkwardly, as all boys do—trying to grow moustaches, falling in and out of love, failing exams, tasting our first drink and pretending we liked it. He confessed his first heartbreak to me under a peepal tree. I told him mine the same evening, on the bus ride home. The tree’s leaves fluttered as if they, too, understood.
Then, as life often dictates, jobs called us in different directions. He moved to Chennai, I to Dehradun. The calls came less frequently but with the same warmth. Whenever we met, usually once a year, the magic returned. We laughed like schoolboys again, chewing over the same old stories like pieces of sugarcane—fibrous, familiar, and sweet.
But time, that silent thief, began to rob us of moments. After retirement, he stayed on in the south; I came back to my hill town. Our calls dwindled, not out of lack of love, but perhaps due to the slowness that age brings. Then, even that slowness turned to silence.
At first, I assumed he was busy. Then came the missed calls, the unanswered messages. A few mutual friends, stopping by his home, brought vague words—he wasn’t well, they said. Perhaps some age-related ailment. No one knew for sure.
The last time I wrote to him, I poured my heart into it. I spoke of the laughter we once shared, of the dreams, of the school band and our youthful bravado. I prayed for his health, his peace, and above all, his joy. Days later, a terse reply came: “Thank you for your kind words. Grateful.” There was no signature. I do not know if it was him, or someone from his family.
Now, I sit often in silence, watching the clouds gather over the hills. Sometimes, I hear his laughter in the rustling of dry leaves. Sometimes, in a dream, I see us chasing a runaway football down the schoolyard, panting and carefree.
But then I wake up, and the silence returns. It wraps itself around me like a winter shawl. Soft, but heavy.
There is no bitterness. Only sadness. This quiet, inevitable distancing—of hands once held, of voices once heard—is the cruel poetry of old age. We grow old not only in body, but in relationships. They too grey, falter, and sometimes, fade.
I do not know if he remembers our guava lunches, or the time we were caught mimicking the principal. But I pray for him every morning, with trembling fingers and a bowed head.
And in the evenings, when dusk settles, I light a small lamp by the photograph on the wall. Just in case he passes by. Just in case he remembers.
In the end, there is no other way out of this gloom but to accept it. Like an old friend at the door, whom we cannot stop from leaving. We only bow, and say goodbye.
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Short Story ~ Setting Sun and the Earthen Lamp… ~ 
