Yesterday is not ours to recover, but tomorrow is ours to win or to lose.
-Lyndon B. Johnson
(YEAR-3-ISSUE-27)
Favourites Forever: Forough Farrokhzad. Poetry Here & Now: David Francis. Story: Amrita Pritam, Kids Corner-.Hans Christian Anderson & an old victorian nursery rhyme.
Birds have a special place in our psyche; fairer sex or shall we say weaker sex often compared to or referred to as ' birds' . We all have often heard phrases like a ' caged bird' ' ' colourful bird' ' fancy a bird' ' soaring high bird' ' ' domesticated bird' etc. and we all know what they mean and to whom they are referred to But it is not all that simple, birds are probably the most mysterious creatures of our planet, with their very restless twitching body, expressive eyes and tongue-tight demeanour. Probably that is why artists, poets, thinker and philosophers all have been mesmerrised by them all the time...by their early morning soulful songs and by their elusive evening flights ...bit like our souls journey through life...knowing it all , yet not knowing it at all! living and dying simultaneously, yet not bothered or drowned in its joys or sorrows ...just travelling though... not understanding, neither really caring for, ...as if two birds live inside us. one very free and fanciful always ready to soar high other very earthbound and wise; exactly how ourscriptures described;. sad & joyous...wise and lost at the same time: after all to love is to fear...fear of lossing ...fear of failing and to fear is to die, so the wise one just watches and the foolish lives on! probably the biggest paradox of life..like life itself! " The ego and the Self dwell as intimate friends in the same body, like two golden birds perched in the same tree. The ego eats the sweet and sour fruits of the tree, while the Self looks on detached. For as long as you identify with the ego, you will feel joy and sorrow. But if you know you are the Self, the Lord of Life, you will be free from suffering; the supreme source of light; the supreme source of love. You will transcend duality and live in a state of Oneness."
-Mundaka Upanishad
Hope you will also enjoy the poetry of Persian poetess as much as I do and other material arranged for you in this warm May issue of Lekhni!
She finally felt the blue sense of instance and space…
The bird, well, was just a bird,
The bird well, was truly free.
Conquest of the Garden
The crow who flew over us
and sank in the confusion of a vagabond cloud;
the crow who flew
and crossed the extent of the sphere
like a short arrow
will tell about us in the town.
Everybody knows,
everybody knows that you and I,
looked trough that callous hole
and saw the garden.
Everybody knows,
everybody knows that you and I,
from that trembling branch
picked the apple.
Everybody is scared,
everybody is scared but you and I
we joined the lights, the mirror and water
and we didn’t scare.
For you and I,
it is not about a frail union of two names,
in the aged pages of a record note.
It is about my fortunate curls
and the burning stroke of your kiss.
And it is about the imminence of our skins
in the sacred shine of the moist streams,
alike slippery smoothness of an oceanic fish.
And it is about the fountain’s song
and its golden, fleeting life.
You and I,
in the core of a darkened night
in the fluid freshness of forest
in a freezing fearful sea
and on the top of that lone victor peak
ask only the birds
asked the birds what we ought to do.
Everybody knows,
everybody knows that we pierced
intothe the silent dream of phoenix.
Everybody knows,
Everybody knows that you and I,
within the prairie and the plain
reached out for the roots of the truth.
Now everybody knows that you and I
in an endless instant
conquered the entirety of eternity.
For you and I
It is not about a shaking whisper in the dark
It is about the day and its invading spark.
It is about a breeze over the fertile side.
It is about birth, evolution and pride.
It is about burning every futile piece
in the garnet core of the flames.
And it is about our hands
which contrived a bridge
concrete and bright
over the tear of night.
The Captive (Asir)
I want you, yet I know that never can I embrace you to my heart's content. you are that clear and bright sky. I, in this corner of the cage, am a captive bird.
from behind the cold and dark bars directing toward you my rueful look of astonishment, I am thinking that a hand might come and I might suddenly spread my wings in your direction.
I am thinking that in a moment of neglect I might fly from this silent prison, laugh in the eyes of the man who is my jailer and beside you begin life anew.
I am thinking these things, yet I know that I can not, dare not leave this prison. even if the jailer would wish it, no breath or breeze remains for my flight.
from behind the bars, every bright morning the look of a child smile in my face; when I begin a song of joy, his lips come toward me with a kiss.
O sky, if I want one day to fly from this silent prison, what shall I say to the weeping child's eyes: forget about me, for I am captive bird?
I am that candle which illumines a ruins with the burning of her heart. If I want to choose silent darkness, I will bring a nest to ruin.
The Wedding Band
The girl smiled and said: What is the secret of this gold ring, the secret of this ring that so tightly embraces my finger, the secret of this band that sparkles and shines so? the man was startled and said: it's the ring of good fortune, the ring of life.
Everyone said: Congratulations and best wishes! the girl said: Alas that I still have doubts about its meaning.
The years passed, and one night a downhearted woman looked at that gold band and saw in its gleaming pattern days wasted in hopes of husbandly fidelity, days totally wasted.
The woman grew agitated and cried out: O my, this ring that still sparkles and shines is the band of slavery and servitude.
As evening begins to fade we're still sitting here but there's a feeling it's time to go
we begin to close our eyes like the blind and put fingers in fingers praying and pulling hair at the same time
one cannot hide feelings from one's love any more than one can hide night's fall from evening's avalanche
A MERGER
Two survivors in a room with death shared a moment long and cold that brought them near of which the others were maybe unaware. Another time, in the open air something they noticed simultaneously which the others denied reflected in their humorous eyes. Then once, drunk at a banquet - the lights on - not held for them - the band packing it in - they danced...
SEEDS OF IMAGINATION
When I think of those moldering books, brittle pages returning to leaves as though burned from the outside in until there is print, strangely highlighted, in the center then ashes.... This Live Oak, now fifty years old, has seen nothing better. The seed of my imagination: I am sad these books must perish.
Angoori was the new bride of the old servant of my neighbour's neighbour. Every bride is new, for that matter; but she was new in a different way: the second wife of her husband who could not be called new because he had already drunk once at the conjugal well. As such, the prerogatives of being new went to Angoori only. This realization was further accentuated when one considered the five years that passed before they could consummate their union
About six years ago Prabhati had gone home to cremate his first wife. When this was done, Angoori's father approached him and took his wet towel, wringing it dry, a symbolic gesture of wiping away the tears of grief that had wet the towel. There never was a man, though, who cried enough to wet a yard-and-a-half of calico. It had got wet only after Prabhati's bath. The simple act of drying the tear-stained towel on the part of a person with a nubile daughter was as much as to say, 'I give you my daughter to take the place of the one who died. Don't cry anymore. I've even dried your wet towel'.
This is how Angoori married Prabhati. However, their union was postponed for five years, for two reasons: her tender age, and her mother's paralytic attack. When, at last, Prabhati was invited to take his bride away, it seemed he would not be able to, for his employer was reluctant to feed another mouth from his kitchen. But when Prabhati told him that his new wife could keep her own house, the employer agreed.
At first, Angoori kept purdah from both men and women. But the veil soon started to shrink until it covered only her hair, as was becoming to an orthodox Hindu woman. She was a delight to both ear and eye. A laughter in the tinkling of her hundred ankle-bells, and a thousand bells in her laughter.
'What are you wearing, Angoori?' 'An anklet. Isn't it pretty?' 'And what's on your toe?' 'A ring.' 'And on your arm?' 'A bracelet.' 'What do they call what's on your forehead?' 'They call it aliband.' 'Nothing on your waist today, Angoori?'
'It's too heavy. Tomorrow I'll wear it. Today, no necklace either. See! The clasp is broken. Tomorrow I'll go to the city to get a new clasp... and buy a nose-pin. I had a big nose-ring. But my mother-in-law kept it.'
Angoori was very proud of her silver jewellery, elated by the mere touch of her trinkets. Everything she did seemed to set them off to maximum effect.
The weather became hot with the turn of the season. Angoori too must have felt it in her hut where she passed a good part of the day, for now she stayed out more. There were a few huge neem trees in front of my house; underneath them an old well that nobody used except an occasional construction worker. The spilt water made several puddles, keeping the atmosphere around the well cool. She often sat near the well to relax.
'What are you reading, bibi?' Angoori asked me one day when I sat under a neem tree reading.
'Want to read it?' 'I don't know reading.' 'Want to learn?' 'Oh, no!' 'Why not? What's wrong with it?' 'It's a sin for women to read!' 'And what about men?' 'For them, it's not a sin'. 'Who told you this nonsense? ''I just know it.' 'I read. I must be sinning.' 'For city women, it's no sin. It is for village women.'
We both laughed at this remark. She had not learned to question all that she was told to believe. I thought that if she found peace in her convictions, who was I to question them?
Her body redeemed her dark complexion, an intense sense of ecstasy always radiating from it, a resilient sweetness. They say a woman's body is like a lump of dough, some women have the looseness of under-kneaded dough while others have the clinging plasticity of leavened dough. Rarely does a woman have a body that can be equated to rightly-kneaded dough, a baker's pride. Angoori's body belonged to this category, her rippling muscles impregnated with the metallic resilience of a coiled spring. I felt her face, arms, breasts, legs with my eyes and experienced a profound languor. I thought of Prabhati : old, short, loose-jawed, a man whose stature and angularity would be the death of Euclid. Suddenly a funny idea struck me: Angoori was the dough covered by Prabhati. He was her napkin, not her taster. I felt a laugh welling up inside me, but I checked it for fear that Angoori would sense what I was laughing about. I asked her how marriages are arranged where she came from.
'A girl, when she's five or six, adores someone's feet. He is the husband.' 'How does she know it?' 'Her father takes money and flowers and puts them at his feet.' 'That's the father adoring, not the girl.' 'He does it for the girl. So it's the girl herself.' 'But the girl has never seen him before!' 'Yes, girls don't see.' 'Not a single girl ever sees her future husband!' 'No...,' she hesitated. After a long, pensive pause, she added, 'Those in love..... they see them.' 'Do girls in your village have love-affairs?' 'A few'. 'Those in love, they don't sin?' I remembered her observation regarding education for women. 'They don't. See, what happens is that a man makes the girl eat the weed and then she starts loving him.' 'Which weed?' 'The wild one.' 'Doesn't the girl know that she has been given the weed?' 'No, he gives it to her in a paan. After that, nothing satisfies her but to be with him, her man. I know. I've seen it with my own eyes.' 'Whom did you see?' 'A friend; she was older than me.' 'And what happened?' 'She went crazy. Ran away with him to the city.' 'How do you know it was because of the weed?' 'What else could it be? Why would she leave her parents. He brought her many things from the city: clothes, trinkets, sweets.' 'Where does this weed come in?' 'In the sweets : otherwise how could she love him?' 'Love can come in other ways. No other way here?' 'No other way. What her parents hated was that she was that way.' 'Have you seen the weed?' 'No, they bring it from a far country. My mother warned me not to take paan or sweets from anyone. Men put the weed in them.' 'You were very wise. How come your friend ate it?' 'To make herself suffer,' she said sternly. The next moment her face clouded, perhaps in remembering her friend. 'Crazy. She went crazy, the poor thing,' she said sadly. 'Never combed her hair, singing all night....' 'What did she sing?’ 'I don't know. They all sing when they eat the weed. Cry too.'
The conversation was becoming a little too much to take, so I retired.
I found her sitting under the neem tree one day in a profoundly abstracted mood. Usually one could hear Angoori coming to the well; her ankle-bells would announce her approach. They were silent that day.
'What's the matter, Angoori?' She gave me a blank look and then, recovering a little, said, 'Teach me reading, bibi.' 'What has happened?' 'Teach me to write my name.' 'Why do you want to write? To write letters? To whom?' She did not answer, but was once again lost in her thoughts.
'Won't you be sinning?' I asked, trying to draw her out of her mood. She would not respond. I went in for an afternoon nap. When I came out again in the evening, she was still there singing sadly to herself. When she heard me approaching, she turned around and stopped abruptly. She sat with hunched shoulders because of the chill in the evening breeze.
'You sing well, Angoori'. I watched her great effort to turn back the tears and spread a pale smile across her lips.
'I don't know singing'. 'But you do, Angoori!' 'This was the ...' 'The song your friend used to sing.' I completed the sentence for her. 'I heard it from her.' 'Sing it for me.'
She started to recite the words. 'Oh, it's just about the time of year for change. Four months winter, four months summer, four months rain!....'
'Not like that. Sing it for me,' I asked. She wouldn't, but continued with the words :
Four months of winter reign in my heart; My heart shivers, O my love. Four months of summer, wind shimmers in the sun. Four months come the rains; clouds tremble in the sky.
'Angoori!' I said loudly. She looked as if in a trance, as if she had eaten the weed. I felt like shaking her by the shoulders. Instead, I took her by the shoulders and asked if she had been eating regularly. She had not; she cooked for herself only, since Prabhati ate at his master's. 'Did you cook today?' I asked.
'Not yet.' 'Did you have tea in the morning?' 'Tea? No milk today.' 'Why no milk today?' 'I didn't get any. Ram Tara......' 'Fetches the milk for you?' I added. She nodded.
Ram Tara was the night-watchman. Before Angoori married Prabhati, Ram Tara used to get a cup of tea at our place at the end of his watch before retiring on his cot near the well. After Angoori's arrival, he made his tea at Prabhati's. He, Angoori and Prabhati would all have tea together sitting around the fire. Three days ago Ram Tara went to his village for a visit.
'You haven't had tea for three days?' I asked. She nodded again. 'And you haven't eaten, I suppose?' She did not speak. Apparently, if she had been eating, it was as good as not eating at all.
I remembered Ram Tara : good-looking, quick-limbed, full of jokes. He had a way of talking with smiles trembling faintly at the corner of his lips.
'Angoori?' 'Yes, bibi'. 'Could it be weed?'
Tears flowed down her face in two rivulets, gathering into two tiny puddles at the corners of her mouth.
Curse on me!' she started in a voice trembling with tears, 'I never took sweets from him... not a betel even.... but tea ...' She could not finish. Her words were drowned in a fast stream of tears.
There was once a prince, and he wanted a princess, but then she must be a real Princess. He travelled right round the world to find one, but there was always something wrong. There were plenty of princesses, but whether they were real princesses he had great difficulty in discovering; there was always something which was not quite right about them. So at last he had to come home again, and he was very sad because he wanted a real princess so badly.
One evening there was a terrible storm; it thundered and lightened and the rain poured down in torrents; indeed it was a fearful night.
In the middle of the storm somebody knocked at the town gate, and the old King himself went to open it.
It was a princess who stood outside, but she was in a terrible state from the rain and the storm. The water streamed out of her hair and her clothes; it ran in at the top of her shoes and out at the heel, but she said that she was a real princess.
'Well we shall soon see if that is true,' thought the old Queen, but she said nothing. She went into the bedroom, took all the bedclothes off and laid a pea on the bedstead: then she took twenty mattresses and piled them on the top of the pea, and then twenty feather beds on the top of the mattresses. This was where the princess was to sleep that night. In the morning they asked her how she had slept.
'Oh terribly badly!' said the princess. 'I have hardly closed my eyes the whole night! Heaven knows what was in the bed. I seemed to be lying upon some hard thing, and my whole body is black and blue this morning. It is terrible!'
They saw at once that she must be a real princess when she had felt the pea through twenty mattresses and twenty feather beds. Nobody but a real princess could have such a delicate skin. So the prince took her to be his wife, for now he was sure that he had found a real princess, and the pea was put into the Museum, where it may still be seen if no one has stolen it.
Now this is a true story.
An early ninteenth century nursery rhyme
What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of? Snips and snails, and puppy dogs tails That's what little boys are made of !" What are little girls made of? "Sugar and spice and all things nice That's what little girls are made of!"
Dr. V.P. Vaidik, Chairman, Council for Indian Foreign Policy and an Expert on Afghanistan met most of the top leaders of Afghanistan during his brief sojourn to Kabul.
Dr. Vaidik met President Hamid Karzai, Former President and the leader of National Front Mr. B. Rabbani, Speakar Mr. Younis Qanooni, the Presidential candidates Dr. Abdullah, Dr. Ahadi, Mr. Sultanzoy, Mr. Ali Siraz and others, Peer Gailani, Prince Mustafa Zaher, Mr. Arif Noorzai, Mr. Majidi and several other Politicians, Professors, diplomats and journalists.
He discussed with them the latest situation in Afghanistan and the impending election for the post of the President.
Dr. Vaidik is leaving for the US to participate in a debate on Afghanistan organized by APA and the NewYork University. He will also take part in the meeting of the Steering Committee of the UN decade for Inter religious Dialoge. He may meet some officials of the Obama Administration in Washington, DC.
बाल साहित्यकारों ने की महामहिम राष्ट्रपति जी से भेंट
विगत 4 अप्रैल को महामहिम राष्ट्रपति जी से देश भर के विभिन्न भाषाओं के बाल- साहित्य से जुड़े रचनाकारों ने एंव बाल पत्रिकाओं के संपादकों ने भेंट की। इन भेंट करने वाले वरिष्ठ सहित्य कारों में जहाँ डॉ. श्याम सिंह शशि , डॉ. राष्ट्रबंधु, सूर्य कुमार पाण्डेय, शमशेर अहमद खान, ज़ाकिर अली रजनीश, नागेश पाण्डेय संजय, नीलम राकेश, डॉ. निर्मला सिंह, संजीव कुमार जायसवाल संजय, डॉ. रामनिवास मानव, डॉ. शकुन्तला कालरा, मो. फहोम बरार, रमेश चन्द पंत आदि प्रमुख थे, वहीं भारत सरकार प्रकाशन विभाग से प्रकाशित पत्रिका बाल भारती के संपादक श्री वेद पाल, उ.प्र. हिन्दी संस्थान से प्रकाशित बालपत्रिका के संपादक अनिल मिश्र यंग वर्ड (द हिन्दु) के संपादक जियाउसल्लाम, बाल प्रहरी के संपादक श्री उदय किरौला, लोटपोट के संपादक श्री पी. के.बजाज, आकाशवाणी के बाल विभाग के श्री रंजन गुप्ता के अतिरिक्त बाल कल्याण से जुड़े अनेक संस्थाओं के सुधी जन भी थे। इस अवसर पर सम्मिलित प्रतिभागियों ने अपनी स्व रचित पुष्तकें, स्मृति चिन्ह, व अपनी संस्थाओं से प्रकाशित पत्रिकाएँ महामहिम को भेंट कीं। महामहिम से इस भेंटवार्ता में कानपुर की संस्था बाल कल्याण संस्थान व दिल्ली स्थित वरिष्ठ बाल साहित्यकार श्री शमशेर अहमद खान व माननीय गृहराज्य मंत्री श्री प्रकाश जायसवाल का सकारात्मक योगदान था।
तेजेन्द्र शर्मा की कहानियां मण्टो की तरह हमें झकझोर देती हैं : कृष्णा सोबती
“तेजेन्द्र शर्मा की कहानियों से गुज़रते हुए हम यह शिद्दत से महसूस करते हैं कि लेखक अपने वजूद का टेक्स्ट होता है। तेजेन्द्र के पात्र ज़िन्दगी की मुश्किलों से गुज़रते हैं और अपने लिये नया रास्ता तलाशते हैं। वह नया रास्ता जहां उम्मीद है। तेजेन्द्र की कहानियों के ज़रिये हिन्दी के मुख्यधारा के साहित्य को प्रवासी साहित्य से साझेपन का रिश्ता विकसित करना चाहिये। हम उनकी जटिलताएं, उनके नज़िरये और उनके माहौल के हिसाब से समझें।” ये बातें मूर्धन्य उपन्यासकार एवं कथाकार कृष्णा सोबती ने आज चर्चित कथाकार तेजेन्द्र शर्मा के लेखन और जीवन पर केन्द्रित पुस्तक ‘तेजेन्द्र शर्माः वक़्त के आइने में’के राजेन्द्र भवन सभागार में आयोजित लोकार्पण समारोह में कहीं।
कृष्णा सोबती ने तेजेन्द्र शर्मा की कहानियों के शिल्प विधान पर चर्चा करते हुए कहा कि उनकी कहानी ‘टेलिफ़ोन लाइन’ का अन्त हमें मण्टो की कहानियों की तरह झकझोर देता है। जहां एक ओर निर्मल वर्मा की कहानियां अंतर्यात्रा की कहानियां होती हैं जिनमें मोनोलॉग का इस्तेमाल होता है, वहीं तेजेन्द्र शर्मा बाहरी दुनियां की कहानियां लिखते हैं जिनमें चरित्र होते हैं और डॉयलॉग का ख़ूबसूरत प्रयोग किया जाता है।
इस अवसर पर प्रख्यात आलोचक प्रो. नामवर सिंह ने कहा कि “मुर्दाफ़रोश लोग हर जमात में होते हैं। और पूंजीबाद में तो ऐसे शख़्सों की इंतेहा है। वे मज़हब बेच सकते हैं, रस्मो-रिवाज़ बेच सकते हैं। तेजेन्द्र शर्मा ने अपनी लाजवाब कहानी ‘क़ब्र का मुनाफ़ा’ में वैश्विक परिदृश्य में पूंजीवाद की इस प्रवृत्ति को यादगार कलात्मक अभिव्यक्ति दी है।” उन्होंने इस आयोजन के आत्मीय रुझान की चर्चा करते हुए कहा - यह बेहद आत्मीयतापूर्ण आयोजन है जहां लोग अपने प्रिय कथाकार से मिलने दूर दूर से आए हैं। यह समारोह प्यार मुहब्बत और ख़ुलूस की मिसाल है।”
इस पुस्तक का संपादन सुपरिचित कथाकार व रचना समय के संपादक हरि भटनागर और ब्रजनारायण शर्मा ने किया है।
इससे पूर्व नामवर सिंह, राजेन्द्र यादव और कृष्णा सोबती ने इस पुस्तक का लोकार्पण किया। राजेन्द्र यादव ने तेजेन्द्र शर्मा की कथावाचन शैली की सराहना करते हुए कहा कि तेजेन्द्र को आर्ट ऑफ़ नैरेशन की गहरी समझ है। तेजेन्द्र बख़ूबी समझते हैं कि स्थितियों को, व्यक्ति के अन्तर्द्ववों, सम्बन्धों की जटिलताओं को कैसे कहानियों में रूपान्तरित किया जाता है। प्रवासी लेखन के समूचे परिदृश्य में तेजेन्द्र की कहानियां परिपक्व दिमाग़ की कहानियां हैं।
हरि भटनागर ने पुस्तक में लिखी अपनी भूमिका का पाठ करते हुए बताया कि तेजेन्द्र आदमी की पीड़ा को रोकर और बिलख कर नहीं बल्कि हंस-हंस कर कहने के आदी है। उनकी कहानियां दो संस्कृतियों के संगम की कहानियां हैं।
वरिष्ठ कथाकार नूर ज़हीर ने पुस्तक में शामिल अमरीका की सुधा ओम ढींगरा का एक ख़त पढ़ते हुए कहा कि तेजेन्द्र शर्मा की कहानियों का असर एक प्रबुद्ध पाठक पर कैसा हो सकता है, इस ख़त से साफ़ पता चलता है।
इससे पूर्व बीज वक्तव्य देते हुए अजय नावरिया ने कहा कि यह पुस्तक अभिनंदन ग्रन्थ नहीं है क्योंकि यहां अन्धी प्रशंसा की जगह तार्किक्ता है। मोहाविष्ट स्थिति की जगह मूल्यांकन है। अजय ने तेजेन्द्र शर्मा की कहानियों के बहाने हिन्दी कथा साहित्य पर चर्चा करते हुए कहा कि इन कहानियों के मूल्यांकन के लिये हमे नई आलोचना प्रविधि की दरकार है।”
कार्यक्रम का संचालन अजित राय ने किया। समारोह में राजेन्द्र प्रसाद अकादमी के निदेशक बिमल प्रसाद, मैथिली भोजपुरी अकादमी के उपाध्यक्ष अनिल मिश्र, असग़र वजाहत, कन्हैया लाल नन्दन, गंगा प्रसाद विमल, लीलाधर मण्डलोई, प्रेम जनमेजय, प्रताप सहगल, मुंबई से सूरज प्रकाश, सुधीर मिश्रा, राकेश तिवारी, रूप सिंह चन्देल, सुभाष नीरव, अविनाश वाचस्पति, अजन्ता शर्मा, अनिल जोशी, अल्का सिन्हा, मरिया नगेशी (हंगरी), चंचल जैन (यू.के.), रंगकर्मी अनूप लाथर (कुरुक्षेत्र), शंभु गुप्त (अलवर), विजय शर्मा (जमशेदपुर), तेजेन्द्र शर्मा के परिवार के सदस्यों सहित भारी संख्या में साहित्य-रसिक श्रोता मौजूद थे।
World prepares itself for a massive outbeak of the Swine flue; a virus first dedected in Mexico, now spreading rapidly all over the world. It has already claimed more than 200 lives & World Health Organization has declared it an epedemic ; putting it at the highest security alert.
Bollywood bids farewell to Feroz khan, who died on 26'th of April at his farmhouse in Banglore , after a brave battle against Cancer.
In the end: a concluding gift to appreciate & cherish 'Her' sent by an e.mail by Mrityunjay Prabhakar
The woman in your life...
Tomorrow you may get a working woman, but you should marry her with these facts as well.
Here is a girl, who is as much educated as you are; Who is earning almost as much as you do;
One, who has dreams and aspirations just as you have because she is as human as you are;
One, who has never entered the kitchen in her life just like you or your Sister haven't, as she was busy in studies and competing in a system that gives no special concession to girls for their culinary achievements
One, who has lived and loved her parents & brothers & sisters, almost as much as you do for 20-25 years of her life;
One, who has bravely agreed to leave behind all that, her home, people who love her, to adopt your home, your family, your ways and even your family ,name
One, who is somehow expected to be a master-chef from day #1, while you sleep oblivious to her predicament in her new circumstances, environment and that kitchen
One, who is expected to make the tea, first thing in the morning and cook food at the end of the day, even if she is as tired as you are, maybe more, and yet never ever expected to complain; to be a servant, a cook, a mother, a wife, even if she doesn't want to; and is learning just like you are as to what you want from her; and is clumsy and sloppy at times and knows that you won't like it if she is too demanding, or if she learns faster than you;
One, who has her own set of friends, and that includes boys and even men at her workplace too, those, who she knows from school days and yet is willing to put all that on the back-burners to avoid your irrational jealousy, unnecessary competition and your inherent insecurities;
Yes, she can drink and dance just as well as you can, but won't, simply Because you won't like it, even though you say otherwise
One, who can be late from work once in a while when deadlines, just like yours, are to be met;
One, who is doing her level best and wants to make this most important, relationship in her entire life a grand success, if you just help her some and trust her;
One, who just wants one thing from you, as you are the only one she knows in your entire house - your unstinted support, your sensitivities and most importantly - your understanding, or love, if you may call it.
Birds have a special place in our psyche; fairer sex or shall we say weaker sex often compared to or referred to as ' birds' . We all have often heard phrases like a ' caged bird' ' ' colourful bird' ' fancy a bird' ' soaring high bird' ' ' domesticated bird' etc. and we all know what they mean and to whom they are referred to But it is not all that simple, birds are probably the most mysterious creatures of our planet, with their very restless twitching body, expressive eyes and tongue-tight demeanour. Probably that is why artists, poets, thinker and philosophers all have been mesmerrised by them all the time...by their early morning soulful songs and by their elusive evening flights ...bit like our souls journey through life...knowing it all , yet not knowing it at all! living and dying simultaneously, yet not bothered or drowned in its joys or sorrows ...just travelling though... not understanding, neither really caring for, ...as if two birds live inside us. one very free and fanciful always ready to soar high other very earthbound and wise; exactly how ourscriptures described;. sad & joyous...wise and lost at the same time: after all to love is to fear...fear of lossing ...fear of failing and to fear is to die, so the wise one just watches and the foolish lives on! probably the biggest paradox of life..like life itself! 
Curse on me!' she started in a voice trembling with tears, 'I never took sweets from him... not a betel even.... but tea ...' She could not finish. Her words were drowned in a fast stream of tears.
They saw at once that she must be a real princess when she had felt the pea through twenty mattresses and twenty feather beds. Nobody but a real princess could have such a delicate skin.
What are little boys made of?
विविधा News & Views 
Dr. V.P. Vaidik, Chairman, Council for Indian Foreign Policy and an Expert on Afghanistan met most of the top leaders of Afghanistan during his brief sojourn to Kabul.
विगत 4 अप्रैल को महामहिम राष्ट्रपति जी से देश भर के विभिन्न भाषाओं के बाल- साहित्य से जुड़े रचनाकारों ने एंव बाल पत्रिकाओं के संपादकों ने भेंट की। इन भेंट करने वाले वरिष्ठ सहित्य कारों में जहाँ डॉ. श्याम सिंह शशि , डॉ. राष्ट्रबंधु, सूर्य कुमार पाण्डेय, शमशेर अहमद खान, ज़ाकिर अली रजनीश, नागेश पाण्डेय संजय, नीलम राकेश, डॉ. निर्मला सिंह, संजीव कुमार जायसवाल संजय, डॉ. रामनिवास मानव, डॉ. शकुन्तला कालरा, मो. फहोम बरार, रमेश चन्द पंत आदि प्रमुख थे, वहीं भारत सरकार प्रकाशन विभाग से प्रकाशित पत्रिका बाल भारती के संपादक श्री वेद पाल, उ.प्र. हिन्दी संस्थान से प्रकाशित बालपत्रिका के संपादक अनिल मिश्र यंग वर्ड (द हिन्दु) के संपादक जियाउसल्लाम, बाल प्रहरी के संपादक श्री उदय किरौला, लोटपोट के संपादक श्री पी. के.बजाज, आकाशवाणी के बाल विभाग के श्री रंजन गुप्ता के अतिरिक्त बाल कल्याण से जुड़े अनेक संस्थाओं के सुधी जन भी थे। इस अवसर पर सम्मिलित प्रतिभागियों ने अपनी स्व रचित पुष्तकें, स्मृति चिन्ह, व अपनी संस्थाओं से प्रकाशित पत्रिकाएँ महामहिम को भेंट कीं। महामहिम से इस भेंटवार्ता में कानपुर की संस्था बाल कल्याण संस्थान व दिल्ली स्थित वरिष्ठ बाल साहित्यकार श्री शमशेर अहमद खान व माननीय गृहराज्य मंत्री श्री प्रकाश जायसवाल का सकारात्मक योगदान था।
“तेजेन्द्र शर्मा की कहानियों से गुज़रते हुए हम यह शिद्दत से महसूस करते हैं कि लेखक अपने वजूद का टेक्स्ट होता है। तेजेन्द्र के पात्र ज़िन्दगी की मुश्किलों से गुज़रते हैं और अपने लिये नया रास्ता तलाशते हैं। वह नया रास्ता जहां उम्मीद है। तेजेन्द्र की कहानियों के ज़रिये हिन्दी के मुख्यधारा के साहित्य को प्रवासी साहित्य से साझेपन का रिश्ता विकसित करना चाहिये। हम उनकी जटिलताएं, उनके नज़िरये और उनके माहौल के हिसाब से समझें।” ये बातें मूर्धन्य उपन्यासकार एवं कथाकार कृष्णा सोबती ने आज चर्चित कथाकार तेजेन्द्र शर्मा के लेखन और जीवन पर केन्द्रित पुस्तक ‘तेजेन्द्र शर्माः वक़्त के आइने में’ के राजेन्द्र भवन सभागार में आयोजित लोकार्पण समारोह में कहीं।
World prepares itself for a massive outbeak of the Swine flue; a virus first dedected in Mexico, now spreading rapidly all over the world. It has already claimed more than 200 lives & World Health Organization has declared it an epedemic ; putting it at the highest security alert. 
Bollywood bids farewell to Feroz khan, who died on 26'th of April at his farmhouse in Banglore , after a brave battle against Cancer.
The woman in your life...
Please appreciate "HER" 
