(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…!
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.”
Authored six books on happiness: Cultivating Happiness, Nirvana – The Highest Happiness, Meditate Like the Buddha, Mission Happiness, A Flourishing Life, and The Little Book of Happiness. He served in a bank for thirty-five years and has been propagating happiness and well-being among people for the past twenty years. He is on a mission – Mission Happiness
A village in Uttarakhand
☆ 🌱The River That Remembers ☆
In the folds of the Himalaya, where terraced fields rise like green steps to the sky, a river flows. The river has no beginning that anyone can name, and no end that anyone can see. It flows like memory itself — carrying voices, footsteps, and laughter through generations.
It is here, in a small hamlet by the river, that the story of one family begins — a story that stretches across more than a century, from the 1880s till today.
🌱The Ancestor
The first name that echoes in the valley is that of Narpat, the sturdy root from which the tree of life would grow. He had four children — Heera, Sher, Bag, and Roop. Each of them carried his strength into their own households, and through them the story began to branch like the mighty oak.
🌱Heera’s Branch
Heera, the daughter, married into another family of the hills. With her husband Roop, she raised three children — Inder, Gopal, and Kunti. Their laughter mingled with the mountain winds, carrying the first echoes of a new generation.
🌱Sher’s Branch — The Heart of the Saga
Among Narpat’s children, Sher stands tall as the central figure of our story. He married Nandi, a woman of grace and quiet strength.
Their household was full of life, with seven children — Jaswant, Jagat, Mahendra, Govindi, Leela, Saraswati, and Dan. Each of them became a stream, flowing outwards, yet always returning in memory to the same hearth.
🌱Jaswant
Jaswant married Shobha, daughter of a respected family of the hills. They had two sons, Nitin and Nitesh.
🌱Jagat
Jagat, the thoughtful one, married Radhika, a woman with eyes like mountain springs. They were blessed with a son, Anurag. Anurag in time married Sneha, daughter of Kamal and Anju. Thus the branches of Sher and Nandi’s tree and the newer lineage came together in union, weaving the past and present into one stream.
🌱Mahendra
Mahendra married Jayshree, and they had a daughter, Ritu.
🌱Govindi
Govindi married Prahlad, and their children were Neeraj, Divas, and Vibha.
🌱Leela
Leela married Anand, and their daughters were Bhagyashree and Tanushree.
🌱Saraswati
Saraswati married Rajat. They had two daughters, Geetika and Yuthika.
🌱Dan
Dan married Bhagavati. They had a son, Virendra.
🌱The Wider Ties of Nandi
Nandi came with her own lineage. Her parents were Diwan and Khimuli, and her brothers and sister carried their own stories into the valley.
Prem married Govindi; their daughters were Maheshi, Uma, and Usha.
Mohan married Saraswati; their children were Godavari, Sukumar, Shiv Narayan, and Harendra.
Chatur married Pratima; they raised Prakash, Devi, Lakshman, Dharam Pal, and Narmada.
Chandan married Madhulika; their home was blessed with Devendra, Indira, Rekha, and Ajay.
Swaroop married Radha; their children were Sanjeev, Manju, and Naresh.
And Chana, the sister, married Kundan; their children were Madhi, Chandan, Govindi, Surendra, and Nandan.
🌱Bag’s Branch
Bag married Khimuli, and together they had five children — Bhopal, Bahadur, Inder, Joguli, and Nandan.
🌱Roop’s Branch
Roop married Debuli. Their home was alive with children — Kaushalya, Chandan, Radha, Shankar, Mahendra, Leela, Kusum, Lakshmi, Pushpa, Rekha, and Gudiya. Theirs was a house where the evenings were filled with songs, and where the next generation learned the old ways.
🌱Radhika’s Lineage
Radhika, wife of Jagat, was the daughter of Bag and Saraswati. She had siblings — Rajani, Kuldeep, Pradeep, and Deepa.
Rajani married Gajendra, and they had two children, Bhanu and Shrishti.
Kuldeep married Jyoti, and they had Priyanka and Gaurav.
Deepa married Mahendra, and their children were Meghna, Abhinav, and Karan.
🌱Sneha’s Family
Sneha, now wife of Anurag, was born to Kamal and Anju, and she had a brother, Rohan. Kamal was the son of Shiwratan and Sita, and he had siblings — Binod, Naresh, Babita, and Dinesh.
Anju, Sneha’s mother, was the daughter of Om and Lakshmi. Her siblings were Pawan, Asha, Ved, and Shashi.
Thus, Sneha’s ties extended beyond the valleys, into families with trading and cultural roots.
🌱The River Today
From Narpat to Anurag and Sneha, from Heera to Ritu, from the eldest to the youngest — each is a drop in the flowing river. None is greater, none is lesser. Each carries a piece of the story, and without them the song would be incomplete.
The hills still stand. The river still sings. And the family — in its many names, homes, and branches — flows on like the river that remembers.
A Pathway to Authentic Happiness, Well-Being & A Fulfilling Life! We teach skills to lead a healthy, happy and meaningful life.
The Science of Happiness (Positive Psychology), Meditation, Yoga, Spirituality and Laughter Yoga. We conduct talks, seminars, workshops, retreats and training.
(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.
A Pathway to Authentic Happiness, Well-Being & A Fulfilling Life! We teach skills to lead a healthy, happy and meaningful life.
The Science of Happiness (Positive Psychology), Meditation, Yoga, Spirituality and Laughter Yoga. We conduct talks, seminars, workshops, retreats and training.
(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 story “शाश्वत”. 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.)
श्री संजय भारद्वाज जी की मूल रचना
संजय दृष्टि – लघुकथा – शाश्वत
– क्या चल रहा है इन दिनों?
– कुछ ख़ास नहीं। हाँ पिछले सप्ताह तुम्हारी ‘अतीत के चित्र’ पुस्तक पढ़़ी।
– कैसी लगी?
– बहुत अच्छी। तुमने अपने बचपन से बुढ़ापे तक की घटनाएँ ऐसे लिखी हैं जैसे सामने कोई फिल्म चल रही हो।….अच्छा एक बात बताओ, इसमें हमारे प्रेम पर कुछ क्यों नहीं लिखा?
– प्रेम तो शाश्वत है। प्रेम का देहकाल व्यतीत होता है पर प्रेम कभी अतीत नहीं होता। बस इसलिए न लिखा गया, न लिखा जाएगा कभी।
Publications – 4 books (2 in Hindi, 1 each in English and Bengali) and two are yet to come.
Translations – Books and articles are translated in English, Odiya, Marathi and Gujarati.
Awards – CBT awarded stories and novel, “Kamaleshwar Smriti Katha Award (2013, 2017 and 2019)” by Kathabimb.
Honour – “Hindi Sevi Samman” by Mahatma Gandhi Antarrashtriya Hindi Vishwa Vidyalaya, Wardha (December 2016).
☆ A GHOST स्टोरी – Part -2 ☆ Dr. Amitabh Shanker Roy Choudhury ☆
‘Now it was my turn to weep. And see an act of treachery by a friend. Brajlal said to me smilingly, ‘One must be kind / to a crying child!’ He had already scored four that is four laddus at a time sent to his inner world. The stomach.’
‘And I was clean bowled. Just like the glorious retreat of the British army during The Second World War, I had to accept the tragedy with a smile on my face. I handed over the rest to that unknown villain.’
Mama stopped. Probably reminiscing that past tragic incidence, he was feeling sorry again. Even after so many years.
But I grew restive. What was this? A ghost story? Where was that ghost? When would he appear in the story line? At least this could have happened – when the boy was yelling in the crowded bus, the driver turned his face and asked his mother to keep the child shut up. And then mamaji and his friend just fainted when they saw that the bus driver didn’t have a face. It was a headless body driving the bus. At least something of this sort of an unexpected climax could have occurred. A different story line! But here it was just a tasteless dish of a good for nothing ghost story! Out of frustration I screwed my eyes and murmured, ‘But the ghost? Where is he, mama?’
‘Wait, wait, a test match can’t be played merely in fifty overs? Haven’t you heard the saying – ‘if you can wait, you get the sweet to taste!’
By then ma had already brought tea and two plates of pakoras for three of us. Mama made an immediate capture of a plate and sipped his tea. His face brightened up with satisfaction. He started again …….
‘Rana and Chotku, you won’t believe me but at least in one thing Brajlal was more than one hundred percent correct. Oh, the dishes his dadi prepared that day – were all beyond any description! Pulao, fish curry, then dahi bada and above all her gujhiyas! Oh, even if my mind forgets them my tongue will never! My tongue is salivating again now that I mention it.’
‘But mama, the ghost -?’
‘Will you shut up? Or else I’m going to hang you from that toddy tree, and then and there you yourself will become a real ghost!’
I hung my head in disgust. I was in no mood to listen to this story of foodies. Pulao and gujhiyas are the things to be gobbled up. Not merely a thing to be heard about.
‘And the next morning, after the breakfast…’ mama, now full of energy, started batting again, ‘I and Brajlal went out to play cricket in the field, just outside their house. At first, I was bowling and Braj was at the batting end. After five or six deliveries he hit the ball and I ran after it. The ball went behind a big banyan tree. The moment I reached the spot to pick up the ball, I saw there ……’
Mama stopped again. He knew the secret of the art of storytelling. Sometime a silence is much more eloquent than a hundred spoken words. We two brothers jumped on the bed.
‘What mama? What was there?’
‘There was a man lying on the ground behind the tree. He was bleeding profusely. Blood was smeared all over his body. Blood was on the banyan leaves splattered all around him. He was groaning in pain, ‘Oh, is there anybody? Help, save me from this murderer!’
‘And a bearded man, with murder in his eyes, was seated on the chest of that hapless fellow. This second man had a dagger, smeared in blood, held in his raised right hand. He was repeatedly stabbing the poor fellow lying underneath.
‘And I? I didn’t have the power to yell even. Both my legs were as heavy as big black stones, seen in the movie ‘Sholey’, standing on which the villain Gabbar Singh would deliver all his famous dialogues, ‘They were two and you were six. What a mismatch! A gross injustice!’
Mama continued and now we two brothers were transfixed.
‘The man lying on earth yelled his last cry for help, ‘Babuji, please save my life! The killer is butchering me. Won’t you do nothing? Oh god! No brave heart throbs any more on this earth? Ah, ah!’
‘With each stab of the dagger he would let out a cry which could tear anybody’s heart. I stood dumb founded.’ Mama covered his face with both of his hands.
We two were pretty disturbed. Was he crying?
‘Ultimately the man died. And the murderer laughed loudly, ‘Yes, today I’ve done it. O god in heaven, see, I’ve taken my revenge. Ha, ha!’
‘And then I came to my senses. An awful thought suddenly struck me, that I was the sole witness of the murder. I must not be seen or caught. I fled the spot. Who could care to pick that god forsaken cricket ball after all? I rushed to Brajlal, breathless.
‘‘He asked me, ‘Why? What happened? Why your face is white as a sheet?’’
‘I was stammering, ‘B – Brajlal, a m – murder! There – he has killed a man. In front of my eyes. I just witnessed it.’
‘And just then someone laughed behind me. I turned to see. Oh, this time it was not the killer who had taken his revenge, but it was the murdered man himself. The dead man with blood smeared from his head to his toe. A ghost!’
As the event unfolded Chotku and I – both were shaking.
‘Pointing towards me the ghost yelled, ‘You, you a coward! You didn’t help me. You were simply watching the gruesome murder. Oh, I won’t let you go. Now you too will die in my hand. Ha, ha! You can’t escape the wrath of a ghost.
‘I turned to rush home, but he jumped and held my hand and then….
‘There was nothing but darkness all around. I fainted and fell on the ground. The ghost continued with his blast of laughter.’
Chotku whispered into my ears, ‘Bhaiya, I’m scared.’
I tried to assure him, but I too was nervous.
‘After that what followed’, mamaji said, ‘I don’t remember. How I was brought home, I can’t say. When I opened my eyes, I found dadi sitting beside me, waving a fan in her hand. She smiled and said, ‘Good god, I’m relieved that you’ve regained your senses. How are you feeling my boy? Want to drink some water?’
‘I nodded, as my throat was totally dry. She herself poured a little water into my mouth and then turned back her face to reprimand someone. Oh, both of them were standing there in the courtyard! The murderer and the dead man that is the ghost! Dadi said angrily, ‘Just see for yourself Rangnath, what you two have done to this innocent lad. He is from the town. How can he be aware that these sorts of practical jokes are common during the Holi festival in our village? No, no, you’ve not done a correct thing. After all he is our guest. If anything would have happened to him, what answer could we give to his parents? Just think this. It is Shiva who has saved our face from the humiliation.’
‘The ghost and his killer were smiling with their heads down.
‘And see the deception of a friend. Brajlal too was all smiles. It was obvious that he knew everything from the beginning. He simply enjoyed adding fuel to the fire. They all participated in this drama full of lies and deception.
‘Yes, like Shakespeare I too can say, ‘Betrayal of trust, thy name is friendship!’
We two protested, ‘But mama, it was not a real ghost at all. You just tricked us.’
‘Shh! What else do you want my dear nephews? Here too the dead became alive again. A real Resurrection. Then? Was it not a real ghost story?’
Publications – 4 books (2 in Hindi, 1 each in English and Bengali) and two are yet to come.
Translations – Books and articles are translated in English, Odiya, Marathi and Gujarati.
Awards – CBT awarded stories and novel, “Kamaleshwar Smriti Katha Award (2013, 2017 and 2019)” by Kathabimb.
Honour – “Hindi Sevi Samman” by Mahatma Gandhi Antarrashtriya Hindi Vishwa Vidyalaya, Wardha (December 2016).
☆ A GHOST STORY – Part -1 ☆ Dr. Amitabh Shanker Roy Choudhury ☆
‘Tell me first, do you believe in ghosts?’ asked mamaji.
We two brothers looked at him with startled eyes. Such was the atmosphere in the room and outside. Nervously I stuttered, ‘M – mama, have you ever seen a ghost?’
Immediately a philosopher’s mask hung from his face, mama looked out of the window. As if lost in a supernatural question!
Outside it was drizzling since evening. Twice or thrice power supply of our house was gone.
‘Yes.’ just a word of affirmation, after a long silence. Mama was an expert narrator. He knew how to create an air of suspense. How to pump an air of interest in the heart of the listener. So, again he stopped.
A yellow white dagger appeared in heaven and it split the dark bosom of the night sky into two. Followed by an outcry of roar in the sky. A thunder.
We two were brimming with fear and eagerness. Naturally for a ghost story to be effective this fear factor is of utmost importance. A gulabjamun must be sweet and tasty, a golgappa or panipuri must be sweet and sour, and so should a ghost story be full of anxiety and the element of suspense and horror.
‘Yes, I had once seen it. The ghost of a murdered man! To believe it or not, is up to you.’ his words came out at last.
We got worried, ‘Oh, would he stop telling us the story?’ I said, ‘Oh mama, why do you say so? We certainly believe you. B… but the murdered man became alive or what? Started moving?’
‘Do you little boys know, there is word – Resurrection? That is when the life comes back to his dead body. Probably by the same mechanism of nature that murdered man was – oh, should I say – raised from the dead again?’
‘Bhaiya!’ Chotku, my younger brother, clutched my hand tightly.
And I, Chotku’s elder brother, who he depended so much on, started sweating. I was in a dilemma. Should we let mamaji continue with this horror film? Or was it better to pull the curtain down?
But curiosity never sits idle. It’s always restless to run and relish. Naturally we asked in unison at last, ‘Oh mama, come on. Enough of this beating about the bushes. Now begin the main story please.’
‘Didi!’ mama called out to ma, who was busy in the kitchen, preparing special dishes for her brother, that is our mama, ‘Send a cup of tea, please. And if you wish you can send a plate of pakoras too. I don’t mind.’
We two glanced at each other’s eyes.
‘Now listen patiently and don’t disturb when I’m in full flow of the narration.’ mama began.
Pointing towards me he said, ‘I was just as young as you, Rana. There was one Brajlal in our friends’ circle. He lived with his parents in our town but his dada dadi were in their village, Mithunpura. One day, just before Holi, he told me, ‘My father wants me to go to the village and spend the festival days with my dada dadi. But I’m not in a mood to go. Tell me what charm will be there during Holi?’
‘At first, I didn’t say anything. See, in those days it was not a fashion to go for a holiday trip to Shimla or Kerala. I, myself, had visited my maternal uncle’s home only a couple of times. Either during Durga puja holidays or in summer vacation. So, I thought why he was not visiting his grandpa and gran. At least the old man and woman would be glad.
‘After a brief silence he suddenly asked me, ‘Well, my dear friend, would you come along?’
‘I?’ I was totally taken a back at the suddenness of the proposal.
‘‘Yes, why not? Babuji is quite insisting. I feel it’ll be impossible to escape. It’s very hard to ignore what he dictates. But if you accompany me, it’ll be a nice journey and a beautiful stay over there.’ Then he tried to tempt me, ‘And for your kind information my dadi is an excellent cook. If you ever taste the gujhiya made by her only once in your life, you can never forget it. Your mouth will be wet the moment you’ll think of it.’
‘But Rana and Chotku, as you’re aware, though I’m not a glutton, I’m very much fond of tasty things. Naturally I was in a dilemma. Finally, I said, ‘I must ask my mother. And I’ve to take my father’s permission too.’
“Oh, don’t worry yaar.’ he thumped on my back and declared, ‘I’ll come with you to ask for permission. I hope I can convince uncle.’
‘When father asked him how far the place was. He answered by bus it was a three-hour ride. He ended every sentence with a sweet ‘please’ while talking to your nana. Well, somehow father was moved and said he would let me go with him.
‘That day father gave me twenty-five rupees for bus fare and other expenses. Don’t laugh. Those days that was a big pocket money. Babuji said to me, ‘You’ll be staying in an unknown family. Should not mess around and should behave properly.’ Ma packed my things and -’
I was getting quite restless, so I protested, ‘Mama, you promised to tell a ghost story and not a travelogue. What’s this? Where is the ghost?’
‘Then let me stop here.’ mama was upset, ‘You fool, what do you know about the art of storytelling? Do you think you’re more knowledgeable than Valmiki or Vedvyasa? What happened in Ramayana? Ravana or his sister Surpanakha didn’t come to play a part unless Ram, Sita and Lakshmana were exiled to Chitrakoot. And in Mahabharata? Only when Pandavas were banished, Bhim could meet Hidimba in the forest. What do you think of a ghost? A cheap incarnation? After living a long and eventful life, they come to this existence. Understand?’
He stopped and shouted again, ‘Didi, where is my tea? Have the tea leaves yet started from Assam?’
Now we two brothers were scared more of mama than the ghost.
‘Okay, now let me finish. Brajlal and I rode on the bus. It was spring season and a gentle breeze was wafting all around. But gradually on the way the bus became so jam packed with the commuters that it became difficult for us to breathe even. And there was a total chaos. Someone talking politics, some child crying at the pitch of his voice, some lady talking loudly about her mother-in-law and sister-in-law and so on.
‘Ma had given me some coconut laddus for two of us as refreshments. We two were sitting, sandwiched between the back of the seat and the standing passengers falling on us off and on. Yet somehow, I managed to open my bag and took out the laddus.
‘Brajlal, eyeing all my efforts quite attentively, asked, ‘What treasure you’re getting your hands on?’
‘The moment he saw the laddus he exclaimed, ‘O my goodness! A real treasure they are!’
‘In less than a second eight laddus were gone. Four into his hands and four on my lap.
‘But the cruel fate had its own game plan. The moment I went for a bite, a child from the front row, sitting in his mother’s lap, looked back and shrieked his demand, ‘Mamma, those laddus! I want them.’
‘I was thunder struck. Whole of the commuters were looking at me. One gentleman even showed his benevolence, ‘See young man, he is but a child. Just like your younger brother. Don’t forget how much Ram loved Lakshman. So, shouldn’t you share with him?’
‘Quite unwillingly I gave one to that little devil. Immediately it was gone through his mouth to his belly. And he again let out a scream with his fingers directed towards me, ‘Mamma, those laddus. I want more!’
(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 story “~ या क्रियावान..~”. 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.)
श्री संजय भारद्वाज जी की मूल रचना
संजय दृष्टि – या क्रियावान..
बंजर भूमि में उत्पादकता विकसित करने पर सेमिनार हुए, चर्चाएँ हुईं। जिस भूमि पर खेती की जानी थी, तंबू लगाकर वहाँ कैम्प फायर और ‘अ नाइट इन टैंट’ का लुत्फ लिया गया। बड़ी राशि खर्च कर विशेषज्ञों से रिपोर्ट बनवायी गयी। फिर उसकी समीक्षा और नये साधन जुटाने के लिए समिति बनी। फिर उपसमितियों का दौर चलता रहा।
उधर केंचुओं का समूह, उसी भूमि के गर्भ में उतरकर एक हिस्से को उपजाऊ करने के प्रयासों में दिन-रात जुटा रहा। उस हिस्से पर आज लहलहाती फसल खड़ी है।
Seminars and discussions were held on developing productivity in barren land. Campfires and ‘A Night in a Tent’ were enjoyed by pitching tents on the land to be cultivated. A huge amount of money was spent and a report was made by the experts. Then a committee was formed to review it and collect the new resources. Then the cycle of sub-committees and the teams formation continued.
On the other hand, a group of earthworms, descending into the womb of the same land, engaged day and night in efforts to make that part fertile.
Today, that part of land has a flourishing crop on it..!
Short Story ~ Setting Sun and the Earthen Lamp… ~ 
