English Literature – Short Stories ☆ The Fairy Who Walked With Light… ☆ Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ☆

By Hemant BawankarNo Comments

Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

(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’.

? ~ The Fairy Who Walked with Light… ~ ??

☆ 

They say that once, between a sigh of heaven and a dream of earth, a fairy lost her way among the stars and descended softly into the world of dust and days.

It chose the shape of a wanderer. The world called her Saira. Not because that was her name, but because no mortal tongue could utter the melody from which she was born. She descended from the heavens above.

She belonged to no kingdom. No walls could keep her. No horizon could contain her. She was a wild note in the song of creation—a free spirit woven from moonlight, wonder, and wandering stars.

The wind borrowed its freedom from her. The rivers learned movement by watching her pass. And flowers bloomed instinctively, believing spring itself had arrived. The trees inclined to offer their obeisance.

She wandered through seasons as though they were merely chambers within an endless celestial palace.

 

Autumn draped copper leaves at her feet like offerings. Winter wrapped her in silver silence, yet could never chill the warmth she carried within.

Spring adorned her with blossoms and birdsong, while summer scattered stardust across her laughter. The flowers reinvented new sprightly colours with divine fragrance.There was something else, though no one could name it.

A presence. A radiance. A silent companion that followed her like sunlight follows dawn. Sometimes it appeared as a shimmer of gold at the edge of twilight. Sometimes as a fleeting glow between one heartbeat and the next. Sometimes as nothing more than a feeling of safety arriving before lurking danger.

The old wanderers spoke of it in hushed voices. They called it: “The Light Between Worlds.”

Some believed it was a guardian, a protector. Others said it was merely another light, traveling distant skies beneath the countless stars.

It moved unseen beside her, guarding the fragile miracles that heaven had entrusted to earth.

And Saira, unaware of her own enchantment, continued gathering sunsets, speaking to stars, and teaching lonely hearts how to create wonders.

Children smiled when she passed. Birds altered their songs. Even sorrow, for a fleeting moment, forgot its own name.

Years drifted by like silver leaves upon a moonlit stream. The radiance of youth slowly bloomed with the time, her eyes became mesmerizing

—turquoise blue, fathoms beneath them. These two doe-eyed wonderers of eternity, shone behind her mortal skin, which was fairer than the word fair.

Then one morning, when dawn was still deciding whether to arrive, she stood beneath a sky strangely familiar.

 

The stars seemed closer than they had ever been. The wind spoke softly in a language only her heart had kept.

She smiled. Not a farewell. Not a promise. But a recognition! As though some distant constellation had whispered her name.

Then quietly, with wonder still alive within her eyes, she continued her journey, following a path of stars, visible only to her.

The morning remained resplendent. The earth remained rooted.

And somewhere, far beyond the reach of earthy maps, the fairy walked on.

Still, on certain nights, when moonlight spills like silver wine across sleeping fields, travellers speak of a radiant figure walking the borders of dream and reality. A wayfarer of no single realm. A presence too entire to be contained by one world.

A celestial wanderer. A fairy of forgotten skies. A soul too vast to belong entirely to this world. And the wind, faithful as ever, in its old fidelity continued to follow her, carrying fragments of her fragrant laughter, through valleys of memory and across horizons yet to be defined.

Some say, the Light Between Worlds still moves beside her. Others believe, it rides a celestial creature protecting her under the sky, under its guardianship.

For some stories are not meant to end. They simply continue, beyond the last page, beneath the same eternal sky, ever after.

☆

 © Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

Pune, India
20 June 2026

≈ Founder Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Witful Warmth # 80 – Those Who Never Return… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

By Hemant BawankarNo Comments

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

  1. Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
  2. 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.
  3. Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
  4. Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
  5. Meeting the powerful actor Vicky Kaushal on the occasion of being honoured by Vishva Katha Rangmanch.

Today we present his Short Story – Those Who Never Return.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 80 ☆

☆ Short Stories ☆ Those Who Never Return… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

The stuffy, damp smell in the room was still exactly the same as it used to be when Avinash was alive. The old, half-open door of the wooden cupboard seemed to mock me like a broken jaw. As I sat down on the floor to clear up his scattered world, a thick layer of dust crunched beneath my feet. After Avinash’s sudden death, the silence in this house screamed so loudly that it felt like it would burst my eardrums. The moment I put my hand into the topmost shelf of the cupboard, my fingers touched an old diary with yellowed pages. From inside that very diary, a folded piece of paper fell down. On it, it was written that you will get this only when I am gone far away. For a second, my heart skipped a beat, and the air froze in my lungs. There were a few ink stains on that paper that had spread because tears had fallen on them. I felt as if an invisible hand was squeezing my neck, and even the sunlight coming through the room’s window began to prick me like an icy needle. What a cruel joke of death this was, that a person who had the skill of hiding everything his whole life left behind a clue just as he passed away—a clue that was pulling me toward a burning furnace.

I opened that paper, and Avinash’s familiar, messy handwriting was right in front of me, looking like some mysterious script. He had written, “Rahul, I know you always thought of me as a stone-hearted person because I never answered your expectations. But the truth is that I wanted to save you from the quicksand whose other end connects straight to the secret locker hidden behind this cupboard.” Just then, I heard the sound of footsteps outside in the lobby, and my whole body became soaked with sweat. I turned around in fear, but only the silence stood there, spreading its long fingers. Right then, Mother called out from the kitchen, “Rahul, what are they doing there for so long? Did you find something there?” Controlling my shaking voice, I said, “No, Mother, there is nothing here except old junk and dust.” Mother took a long, cold breath and said, “The sooner his things are taken out of this house, the better it is, because his memories have now started to eat away at this home.” The strange mix of hidden pain and hatred in Mother’s voice deeply shook me, forcing me to think about what terrible sin Avinash had committed that even his own mother could not forgive him.

I sat back down on my knees in front of the cupboard and pushed the heavy wooden frame with all my strength to one side. On that part of the wall, there actually was a small iron door that had rusted over because it had been closed for years. Wondering where the key could be, I suddenly remembered the black thread around Avinash’s neck, which he never took off his body, even while sleeping. That thread was now tied around my hand as his last memory, and a small brass key was hanging from it. When I turned that key in the lock, the small door opened with a sharp squeaking sound, and a velvet box was kept inside it. The moment I opened the box, my eyes widened in shock because it contained someone’s medical reports and some legal documents. Suddenly, the window shutter banged loudly, and I felt as if Avinash was standing right behind me, whispering into my ear. A gust of wind entered that closed room, giving me goosebumps and making me feel scared of my own shadow.

As I read the papers, tears began to flow from my eyes and fall onto the report, blurring the words written there. According to that report, Avinash had blood cancer and was standing at the very last stage of his life, but he had kept this secret hidden from the whole world. The next part of the letter was in my hand, in which he had written, “Rahul, if I had told you that I was going to die, you would have left your studies and wandered from door to door for my treatment. I did not want to see that begging look of pity for me in your eyes, which sick people usually get. I purposely fought with you so that you would start hating me, and you wouldn’t feel too much pain after I was gone.” Reading this broke my heart, and I began to cry like a madman in that empty room where there was no one left to listen. Throwing my hands in the air, I cried out, “Why did you do this to me, Avinash? Was I such a stranger to you that you kept me away from the biggest truth of your life?” The silence of the room swallowed my questions, and his smiling picture hanging on the wall made me cry even more.

Just then, my eyes fell on the very last page of the letter, where something was written that completely pulled the ground out from under my feet. It was written there, “Rahul, you might think that the disease was the cause of my death, but the truth is that the donor the doctor had arranged to save me was none other than the clue to your real parents. The woman in this house whom you think of as your mother is actually my biological mother, but you were never a part of this family. I adopted you when your parents were killed in an accident, and I always kept this a secret so that you would never feel the sadness of being an orphan.” My heart started beating loudly, and my head began to spin because the identity I had considered as my life collapsed like a house of cards in a single moment. I could not understand whether I should cry over Avinash’s death or over my new, empty reality that stood bare in front of me.

Then, the door of the room slowly opened and Mother came inside, holding a glass of water in her hand. When she saw the papers scattered on the floor and my tearful eyes, the glass slipped from her hand, crashing down and spilling water all over the floor. With trembling lips, Mother said, “So, you finally found out what Avinash wanted to hide until his very last breath.” Holding out that last piece of paper toward Mother, I asked, “Mother, is it true that I am not your son, and Avinash put his own life at stake to save me?” Mother sat down on her knees, hugged me tightly, and said through her tears, “Avinash loved you very much, Rahul. He saved all the money for his illness for your studies abroad and died himself without any treatment so that you could live a wonderful life.” The end of that incomplete letter did not happen with Avinash’s death, but with the death of the identity I had believed to be true. Now, in that lonely room, there were only two helpless people crying for a man who had worn a mask of hatred but had given them the greatest love in the world.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Short Stories ☆ Childhood crush ☆ Shri Jagat Singh Bisht  ☆

By Hemant BawankarNo Comments

Shri Jagat Singh Bisht 

(Master Teacher: Happiness & Well-Being, Laughter Yoga Master Trainer, Author, Blogger, Educator, and Speaker.)

☆ Short Stories ☆ Childhood crush 🌷☆ Shri Jagat Singh Bisht ☆

In the modest corridors of their school, where chalk dust floated like philosophical ideas and love notes travelled faster than homework, four lives quietly began their entanglement—Kavita, Raveena, Amit, and Rajan.

Amit and Kavita had that gentle, unspoken fondness—the kind that survives on shared tiffins and exchanged glances during mathematics period. Rajan, meanwhile, nursed a rather dramatic crush on Raveena, who remained blissfully unaware, being far more interested in her handwriting than in human hearts.

Their school years were a festival of fleeting romances—half-glances, accidental hand touches, and heroic acts like lending a pen.

Everything felt eternal then, as things often do when one has no electricity bills to pay.

But life, as it delights in doing, rearranged the script.

Years later, under the solemn gaze of family expectations and matrimonial negotiations, Amit found himself married to Raveena, while Rajan tied the knot with Kavita. Love, it appeared, had been outsourced to practicality.

Marriage began not with violins, but with comparisons.

Amit, in moments of dangerous nostalgia, would sigh, “Kavita had such a sharp sense of humour…”—which, translated into marital language, meant trouble.

Raveena would retaliate with Olympic precision: “At least Rajan was good at sports. You couldn’t even run for the bus.”

Rajan, poor man, occasionally slipped and revealed his long-preserved admiration for Raveena, usually during arguments—thus ensuring that his nights were colder than necessary.

Kavita, not to be left behind, would remark wistfully, “Amit was so kind… and quite handsome too.”

Their homes became arenas where the past was not just remembered—it was weaponised.

Years rolled on. The fire of youth settled into the slow-burning stove of routine. Children grew, migrated, and left behind echoing homes filled with old furniture and older memories. Life became quieter, but not necessarily wiser.

Then came social media—the great archaeologist of forgotten connections.

One fine day, through friend requests and profile pictures that were at least a decade optimistic, they rediscovered one another. Messages turned into calls, calls into nostalgia, and nostalgia into a grand plan: a reunion at an exotic destination.

Ah, the fantasies they spun!

Amit imagined Kavita as she was—graceful, witty, perhaps a little older, but essentially unchanged. Kavita pictured Amit with the same charm, maybe a touch of silver at the temples. Rajan rehearsed conversations with Raveena in his mind, full of delayed poetry. Raveena, though practical, allowed herself a brief indulgence in “what ifs”.

Reality, however, arrived without warning and without mercy.

Amit was now gloriously bald, with a stomach that had clearly enjoyed life more than necessary. Kavita had acquired both weight and a reluctant gait. Rajan looked as though time had personally taken offence at him—pale and worn. And Raveena, armed with thick spectacles and a catalogue of ailments, seemed permanently at war with her own health.

They looked at each other.

And then, very carefully, they looked away.

The air, once thick with imagined romance, now felt like a waiting room in a hospital.

Conversations stumbled. Compliments sounded like condolences. Laughter came out cautiously, like a guest unsure of its welcome.

Within hours, urgent “family matters” began to emerge—ailing relatives, forgotten commitments, mysterious obligations. The grand reunion quietly dissolved, each one retreating with polite smiles and immense relief.

Back in their respective homes, something unexpected happened.

The quibbling returned—but this time, it had softened.

Amit chuckled, “I used to think Kavita was the most graceful girl in school!”

Raveena burst into laughter, “And you thought you were handsome!”

Rajan joked about his “epic crush”, and Kavita teased him mercilessly. They laughed—not with bitterness, but with a strange, liberating honesty.

The past, once a source of comparison, had now become comedy.

And somewhere in that laughter lay a quiet wisdom:

Childhood crushes are like old report cards—precious to keep, amusing to revisit, but utterly unnecessary to live by.

Life, after all, is less about what might have been—and far more about learning to smile at what is.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

© Jagat Singh Bisht

Master Teacher: Happiness & Well-Being, Laughter Yoga Master Trainer, Author, Blogger, Educator, and Speaker

FounderLifeSkills

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.

≈ Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

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English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Story # 69 – The Curse of the 13th Birthday… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

By Hemant BawankarNo Comments

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

  1. Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
  2. 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.
  3. Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
  4. Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
  5. 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 ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Story # 68 – The Secret of the Blue Notebook… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

By Hemant BawankarNo Comments

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

  1. Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
  2. 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.
  3. Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
  4. Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
  5. 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 ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Heart-Touching Story # 67 – The Door is Open… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

By Hemant BawankarNo Comments

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

  1. Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
  2. 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.
  3. Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
  4. Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
  5. 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.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Short Story ☆ ~ Setting Sun and the Earthen Lamp… ~ / अस्ताचल का सूर्य और मिट्टी का दीपक (भावानुवाद) ☆ Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ☆

By Hemant BawankarNo Comments

Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

(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…!

☆

 ~प्रवीन रघुवंशी ‘आफ़ताब’

☆

 © Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

Pune

 © Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

Pune

≈ Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Short Stories ☆ Commonsense… ☆ Shri Vishwas Datye ☆

By Hemant BawankarNo Comments

Shri Vishwas Datye

? ~ Commonsense… ~ ? Shri Vishwas Datye?

(Read and liked. – Shri Vishwas Datye)

☆

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.”

☆

 © Shri Vishwas Datye

Chinmay Apartment, 54, Mayur Colony, Kothrud, Pune 411038 Mo 985 0035362   vishwasdatye@gmail.com

≈ Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Articles ☆ The River That Remembers ☆ Shri Jagat Singh Bisht ☆

By Hemant BawankarNo Comments


Shri Jagat Singh Bisht

(Master Teacher: Happiness & Well-Being, Laughter Yoga Master Trainer, Author, Blogger, Educator, and Speaker.)

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.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

© Jagat Singh Bisht

Master Teacher: Happiness & Well-Being, Laughter Yoga Master Trainer, Author, Blogger, Educator, and Speaker

FounderLifeSkills

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.

≈ Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

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English Literature – Short Stories ☆ “एकदा नैमिषारण्ये ” श्री संजय भारद्वाज (भावानुवाद) – ‘Naimisharanya — The Forest…’ ☆ Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ☆

By Hemant BawankarNo Comments

Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

(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..!’

?

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

© संजय भारद्वाज  

मोबाइल– 9890122603, संजयउवाच@डाटामेल.भारत, writersanjay@gmail.com

☆☆☆☆☆

© Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

Pune

≈ Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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