Novels and Stories Series

I have many Sikh friends and they all are wonderful human beings. People try to associate so many funny incidents with them, but I believe that people talk about them because they are definitely different from others and their innocence and sincerity of heart, in general, exceeds all other virtues which the other people from different religious groups possess. It is true that the courage and bravery they possess have no peers in the past history of India and the rest of the world. It is not only surprising but also great to see that in any country and in any part of the world, you can see a Sikh very humbly and proudly performing his duties, without compromising his identity. They have become the living symbols of India. In this book I have Mr. Nihal Singh with me. Nihal means very satisfied and happy. The intention is not to hurt the feelings of any individual or a group. Any resemblance to names or events is quite incidental. Rajasir

Some souls are sprawled on sofas and some on the floor. There is a kind of odour in the room which gives the sense of staleness and the dying scent of the flowers bought last night. Supreme Soul has her own large bed in one corner of the drawing room. She has her own bathroom and a cupboard. Master can share things with her. He lives with her and takes care of all her financial business and arrangement of new souls from other places. In one corner, kept high on a shelf on the wall, there is a television showing an old Hindi movie. It is 1:00 pm and the sun is high. The souls generally get up at midday and do the works like cooking, cleaning, and washing clothes. At about 5:00 pm, they get ready for the real business and wait in the drawing room for the prospective customers.

The world of stories is so enchanting and vast that there is always scope for innumerable new ideas and styles. Some write to give vent to their emotions and it is a kind of catharsis to them, some write to instruct and teach and it is a platform whence they are able to show their superiority over millions, and some write to leave their mark on the posterity, but I write for the sake of writing for I don’t know anything else, and it gives me extreme satisfaction.

This historical novel will tell you the story of love and sacrifice that will overshadow all other stories which you may have already gone through. This book is inspired by true historical incidents which took place during the lifetime of Lord Buddha, before Christ. A lot of research was done before giving the sequence of events a shape of a novel. The care has been taken to keep the language simple, for it was originally written in Sanskrit and Pali language, so that it could be read and enjoyed by even a casual reader. Rajasir

The Indian myths and folklore are very much a part of every Indian’s life. The rich Indian culture is literally based on the foundation of ages old scriptures and writings. The folklore has been an inevitable part of the Indian society. When it comes to Indian folk tales, the country of diverse religions, languages and cultures has a complete range of tales and short stories. Indian folklore has a wide range of stories and mythological legends, which emerge from all walks of life. The interesting stories range from the remarkable ‘Panchatantra’ to ‘Hitopadesha’, from ‘Jataka’ to ‘Akbar-Birbal’. The ancient religious references also suggest that the tales have always been a pivotal part of daily life in India. The great Indian epics like ‘Ramayana’, ‘Mahabharata’ and ‘Bhagvad Gita’ are full of didactic stories inspired from the lives of great souls. Being full of moralistic values, Indian folklore makes perfect stories for children, who are required to be, instilled with right values. All these ancient stories have been passed from generation to generation, creating bondage of traditional values with present-day generation. Raja Sharma In this Book: Preface Wisdom Mean Friend Value of Advice Recognize True Friends Greed is Always Bad Courageous Succeeds Greedy and His Punishment Might is Temporary but Wisdom is Permanent Destiny is Inevitable Mind your Own Business Tit for Tat Wise Judgment Friends Don’t Wait for Rewards Honesty Respect your Present Evaluate what you Hear Be Satisfied with What you Have Will and Determination Everlasting Friendship Conclusion Share with Others Love your Friends Don’t Listen what Others Say Strength is not Always Useful Intelligence The Girl’s Husband Excess is Bad Be Satisfied Common Sense Don’t Judge from Looks Haste is Dangerous Presence of Mind Intelligent Actions Making Castles in Air Wisdom Scores over Force Take Advice Witless Unity is Strength

Despite all this, he felt that something was missing. He had thought words, produced words, arranged words, and created wonderful stories for his millions of readers but the very thing which he wanted to happen in his life was missing. That evening, while he was driving home from the house of his beloved, Madhuri, a beautiful unmarried woman of about forty, he was thinking about his wife and children. Madhuri had written her life in his name, for she had refused to marry, though hundreds of rich and handsome suitors had tried to woo her but she was the one who wanted to remain submerged in the stories written by him. She wanted to see her happiness in his happiness. He had passed two score years of his life and he was nearing fifty, physically tired and almost helpless when it came to doing the works which required physical strength. However, his mind was getting sharper day by day and the stories which he produced gave more delight to his fans and they eagerly waited for his new ones. He Wrote His Way Out Tragic Love He Saw Music Dance Unreasonable Guilt She Ambled into my Life Chapter One Chapter Two Wings of Smiles Back to Social Cage Cursed Existence Unfathomable Unrealized Ambitions World of Little Gods She Lives Among Stars Dilemma Faced by an English Teacher You call it Progress? Mirage Subway Treasure Remove Your Thorns Information

1st Flower Seller: Wreaths are not in demand nowadays. 2nd Flower Seller: Neither people nor security forces are being killed. 3rd Flower Seller: Last week I made 25 wreaths, thinking that the Independence Day of India was approaching. I was sure to sell all of them but, unfortunately, I could not sell even one. Nothing happened that day. They are rotting in my room. I don’t think our good days will return. 2nd Flower Seller: Yes, nothing happened that day. Things have calmed down a bit. 1st Flower Seller: Hindus are also not dying. Even natural deaths have decreased. Not many Hindu marriages are taking place. Garlands are also not being sold. 2nd Flower Seller: I sold two bouquets yesterday, and that is all. A boy came to buy a slip of rose but his girlfriend took him away. 3rd Flower Seller: Even honeymooners go to other places. They don’t come to Kashmir anymore. Big hotel is almost vacant. There is only one couple from Bangalore. 1st Flower Seller: Hoteliers are also not buying flowers. What shall we eat if business does not improve? 2nd Flower Seller: Those days were wonderful. We would hardly find any flowers in the valley of flowers. Now, it is different. You can pluck as many flowers as you want but what will you do with those flowers? 3rd Flower Seller: I am thinking of going to Delhi. I will find a job in a factory. At least there will be a regular income. 1st Flower Seller: Have faith. Good days will come back.

Manak was a smithy, an extraordinary wordsmith who picked the words, evaluated them, polished them, and then arranged them in strings of many types. His words flourished like flowers, endeavouring to understand and reveal the mysteries of nature. His words consoled the afflicted hearts of the poor and infused them with new strength. He did not want any higher reward than that. He had the skill of arousing every known and, perhaps, unknown emotion. The one who read his words could not escape either of the two inevitable emotions: happiness and sorrow. A Muslim could find the voice of Azan and a Hindu could hear the sound of temple bells in his words. Manak held that words were the holiest thing in his possession; he loved his words and he never played with his words, like the politicians who manipulate the world of words to exploit the masses. He would be sad to see how some people misused words. Manak was his pen-name; his real name was Money Ram. This name smelled of greed and selfishness, a very prosaic name. Manak, the poet, was all right. It seemed to be away from all the worldly possessions. It was actually Mani (a gem) but with the passage of time it got transformed into Money Ram.

A thick veil of fog had kept the town of Norebro in Denmark covered for two weeks but it was nothing new. Chilly draughts of wind are the inevitable part of Denmark’s long and lethargic winter. But, when the sun rays succeed in penetrating the cover of clouds to reach the earth, not only the people, but also animals and vegetation welcome the warmth with extreme hospitality. The deserted lanes and roads begin to show the signs of human activity and faces seem to be smiling. Everything is suddenly and magically changed. It looks very pleasing to the eyes and senses. At Last Back to Social Cage Cursed Existence Unfathomable Unrealized Ambitions World of Little Gods She Lives Among Stars Dilemma Faced by an English Teacher You call it Progress? Mirage Subway Treasure Remove Your Thorns

They have been waiting for twenty two days, expecting it to happen any moment. Some of them joke that she is going to take twelve months. My pregnancy has become a topic of discussion for the big family of sixty five members. Though they have their separate kitchens, the mentality of the joint family is still there. They keep on peeping into the lives of others: what is being cooked in the elder brother’s house? Who is visiting them today? What has she brought for her daughter? Why have they not woken up early today? Who, among the daughters-in-law, touched the father-in-law’s feet without covering her head? What did mother-in-law say? No Roses for the Master Hang Your Shadows Overnight Guest Be Homeless Parvati (A True Story of a Prostitute) East and West American English Vs Englishes Learn English My Way Woman for Pleasure Just 10 Minutes The Most Painful Sentence My Reviewer Friend Christ Goes Shopping World of Little Gods She Lives Among Stars Dilemma Faced by an English Teacher You call it Progress? MIRAGE Subway Treasure Remove Your Thorns The Buddha in Me

The characters and events in this novel are work of fiction and there is no relation with anyone living or dead by the same names. Any relation to the real life characters and events is merely coincidental and it is not meant to harm any individual, any sect, or any religion. This work of fiction is definitely inspired by a number of real life incidents. Raja Sharma Foreword Chapter One New Delhi Chapter Two Departure from Lahore Chapter Three Journey Chapter Four Lala Moolchand Chapter Five A New Leaf to Life Chapter Six Emerging India Chapter Seven Arjun Chapter Eight Bangalore Connection Chapter Nine Angela Chapter Ten Komal Singh Chapter Eleven Monika Chapter Twelve Happiness Chapter Thirteen Militancy Chapter Fourteen Bangalore Again Chapter Fifteen Back in Delhi Chapter Sixteen Bliss Departs Chapter Seventeen Brothers Together Chapter Eighteen Expectations Chapter Nineteen Gurbachan Singh Chapter Twenty Father’s Discontent Chapter Twenty-One Disclosure Chapter Twenty-Two Affliction Chapter Twenty-Three Baroda Chapter Twenty-Four Power of Time Chapter Twenty-Five Daughter’s Separation Chapter Twenty-Six Mother

In the present book: All is Well A Wet Evening Hello, this is Sonu Inevitable Bonds Image on Ripples Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Overnight Guest

It is an unbiased account and there is nothing that has been deliberately mentioned to hurt the feelings of any individual, community, and religion. It is a work of fiction and there is no particular motive behind writing this story. The writer has mostly concentrated on the stylistic features of writing because this story stands somewhere between drama and novel, for the narration and dialogue seem to be competing with each other. The writer has experimented with the style of story writing and well-informed readers will be able to find the uniqueness of syntax which is rather unconventional. The flow of the events is spontaneous and the pace is quick to keep the readers totally absorbed in the story. With Best Wishes Professor Divan (Delhi University) Preface Chapter One-Kashmir Ordeal Chapter Two-Michael & Mumtaz Chapter Three-Taliban Connection Chapter Four-Indian Experience Chapter Five-Pious Muslim Chapter Six-First Interrogation Chapter Seven-In the Prison Chapter Eight-The Prison Inmates Chapter Nine-Ordeal Continues Chapter Ten-The Afghans Chapter Eleven-The Court Order Chapter Twelve-Back in US Chapter Thirteen-9/11 and Shabir Chapter Fourteen-FBI Style Chapter Fifteen-Srinagar Chapter Fifteen-Interrogation Continues Chapter Sixteen-Terrorist Connection Chapter Seventeen-Master’s Justice Chapter Eighteen-New Delhi Chapter Nineteen-Tracing the Clues Chapter Twenty-Michael at Last Chapter Twenty-One-All Smiles

This is the Only Truth Mockery The Artist This is my Last Message Relations Sir, I won’t Send Milk from Tomorrow Wings of Time My Village is Lost! A Wet Evening Illegitimate Moments of Love

I could feel the eyes piercing through my back and shoulders but I remained still in front of the book-case. Something was forcing me to turn but I was not turning. I had searched hundreds of shelves and I had only been able to find two books, though they were not in my course of study. If Pooja saw me, she would be furious. I flipped the pages of a book and then kept it back. The staring eyes were increasing the strain.

Death can disturb anyone but an emotion goes with the death,-the age of the deceased. A child’s death arouses pity and affliction because it has not seen anything yet. An old person’s death produces sorrow and relief that the tired body has got salvation. But if a young person dies, we are shocked; we are not ready to accept it; we generally don’t easily believe it.

The world of stories is so enchanting and vast that there is always scope for innumerable new ideas and styles. Some write to give vent to their emotions and it is a kind of catharsis to them, some write to instruct and teach and it is a platform whence they are able to show their superiority over millions, and some write to leave their mark on the posterity, but I write for the sake of writing for I don’t know anything else, and it gives me extreme satisfaction. In this book, I have a few stories which will acquaint you with the contemporary life which the Western World is mostly ignorant about. Raja Sharma Chapter 1: Preface3 Chapter 2: Unborn Expectations4 Chapter 3: An Instant Feeling17 Chapter 4: Related Lives27 Chapter 5: New Year Eve35 Chapter 6: Arena43 Chapter 8: Finally63 Chapter 9: Back to Prison74 Chapter 10: Unfavoured97 Chapter 11: Beyond Reach111 Chapter 12: Sleeping Desires119 Chapter 13: No Place for God132 Chapter 14: My Mother138 Chapter 15: English Teacher141 Chapter 16: West sans Heart145 Chapter 17: Love if it Was151 Chapter 18: Dream Treasure158 Chapter 19: Understanding Life162

Changing Perspectives Contemporary Relations She did Come to Him Worried about You On Her Grave Gift of Love Pleasant Agonies Pickpockets Way of Life Just Words and Words Daffodils of Death Characters Scene I Scene II Scene III Scene IV Scene V Scene VI Scene VII Scene VIII Scene IX Scene X Scene XI Scene XII Scene XIII Scene XIV Parvati (A True Story of a Prostitute) Information

Though I have taught Literature for more than two decades, I had never given importance to the fact how much others can benefit from my experience. It happened one day that I met Mr. Walter Jones, a poet from US, online and requested him to read some of my works. He obliged me and since that day there has been no pause. A huge majority of the writers are often trapped by an illusion that structure is their ultimate goal while writing a story. Structure is a kind of God to them. Undoubtedly, structure is an inevitably important part of your story but it might as well destroy story if excessive attention is paid to it. Aspiring writers and students should read this book very slowly and carefully. I am sure that it is going to prove a goldmine to them, a definite way to their success as a story writer.

In a computerized hall like laboratory, two eyes were fixed on a screen in front of them. The power of that super computer was examining a globe shaped machine next to it. That globe, about eight feet in radius, was iridescent and had many hidden possibilities in its womb. The super computer was trying to get to the bottom of those hidden marvels. Preface I don’t Want Time-Machine Sunshine The Journey Within The River has Disappeared Hell Camp-Your Loving Taliban Overnight Guest

“What is your name?” “Woman.” “Age?” “Four hours, twenty minutes, and eleven seconds,” said Dolly looking at the wall clock behind the doctor. “Have you come alone?” The doctor gave her first-aid and wrote something on a piece of paper. He called a peon and sent Dolly with him. She was referred to a psychiatrist. It was obvious that they thought she was insane. Outside the doctor’s cabin, many patients were sitting in a row of chairs. Dolly occupied a seat and began to hum.

The entire town was stunned when his friend’s pictures were flashed on the TV screens, and then newspapers wrote all sorts of adverse things against him. They were trying their best to prove him a terrorist. People were talking everywhere and everyone had his own surmises and arguments. Generally, people love adding details from their side and in no time a minor incident becomes a major event. This is the power of crowd mentality. “It is unbelievable. Isa’s son Musa was a terrorist!” Isa was a very simple weaver from the middle class locality of the town. Thank God the old man had passed away long before his happened. “All these Muslims are terrorists!” said Mishraji, thus blaming the entire Muslim community. He did not realize what he had said and what its consequences could be.

Vasantasena was an extremely beautiful courtesan in the ancient town of Ujjaini. This story is the story of her love and struggles. To find her love and proper place in the society, she has to go through many ordeals in life. Originally, the story was written in Sanskrit language but in this English version all details have been provided.

The world of stories is so enchanting and vast that there is always scope for innumerable new ideas and styles. Some write to give vent to their emotions and it is a kind of catharsis to them, some write to instruct and teach and it is a platform whence they are able to show their superiority over millions, and some write to leave their mark on the posterity, but I write for the sake of writing for I don’t know anything else, and it gives me extreme satisfaction. In this book, I have a few stories which will acquaint you with the contemporary life which the Western World is mostly ignorant about. Raja Sharma

"He, who finds happiness within, his joy within, and likewise his light within, is the Yogi who becomes divine and attains to the beatitude of God “(Brahma nirvana). "That's enough, Florence!" shouted John, trying to control the pitch of his tone. "Why do you come back? Go! Get out!" she was not herself, and before John could realize what was going to happen, she hurled the glass tumbler, which she had in her hand, at John. He had no chance to avoid that throw, and it struck him on his forehead. The glass dropped onto the floor and shattered. The hit was quite powerful enough to make a wide gaping cut on his forehead. Before long his shirt was drenched in his own blood.

Manak was a smithy, an extraordinary wordsmith who picked the words, evaluated them, polished them, an d then arranged them in strings of many types. His words flourished like flowers, endeavouring to understand and reveal the mysteries of nature. His words consoled the afflicted hearts of the poor and infused them with new strength. He did not want any higher reward than that. He had the skill of arousing every known and, perhaps, unknown emotion. The one who read his words could not escape either of the two inevitable emotions: happiness and sorrow. A Muslim could find the voice of Azan and a Hindu could hear the sound of temple bells in his words. Manak held that words were the holiest thing in his possession; he loved his words and he never played with his words, like the politicians who manipulate the world of words to exploit the masses. He would be sad to see how some people misused words.

The area was almost deserted. Having kept his suitcase in front of the door, Raman pressed the button of the bell. No response came, and nobody stirred. For a second, he thought that he was standing in front of an unoccupied house. Sweat began to appear on his forehead. Using his handkerchief, he wiped the perspiration and kept his airbag on top of the suitcase. He pressed the button again and brought his ear close to the door, as if to listen to any response emanating from the house. In the back side of the house, an open window was swaying on its hinges and the sound was audible. He stepped back and looked at the building, two-story house. Like the other houses in the lane, the house had a V shaped top with a firm stone wall between, serving as the facade. The number of the house in the center, near the point of the V was like a dot on the forehead of a woman. The windows on top floor were shut and the curtains were drawn. He whispered," Where could they go at this time?" He moved toward the back of the house- the same lawn, the hedge, and the bushes; everything was same as he had seen two years before. The willow in the center, as if, seemed to be dozing like an old grizzly. But the garage was open and empty. They may have gone out, having waited for him in the morning. But they could have, at least, left a chit at the door.

I am a kind of scavenger who picks shreds and pieces to give them an entertaining form, along with some points which could arouse thoughts in my readers’ minds. One thing is for sure that I never write to impress or to impose my ideas, on the contrary I write to inform about the happenings which are so common in the Eastern world that they might sound unbelievable to a Western reader. Almost all of my stories are inspired by real life incidents and they are very close to being realistic stories. I hope you will like the stories in this book. Regards Raja Sharma Juliana East and West I Still Fear Woman for Pleasure Scattered Poems Join the Choir Had I known...? Sell what you Will What Heart Says...? Stage

They had already performed postmortem examination. When they removed his eyes, kidneys, lungs, and other organs, he had his eyes shut. Being a male nurse and a helping hand in the operation theatre, he had seen the repetition of this scene many times but this time it was different. He did not want to see the dead body which was being dissected and he knew that they would sell the organs to the private institutions who forwarded them to the students who were ready to pay the good price. Dead Bodies The Love Story of a Moment This is the Only Truth Blessed Fruit Mockery The Artist This is my Last Message Relations Sir, I won’t Send Milk from Tomorrow Wings of Time My Village is Lost! Dry Leaves

इस अंक में श्री राजा शर्मा जी द्वारा रचित कुछ प्रसिद्ध कविताएँ प्रस्तुत की जा रही हैं । आप यदि इन कविताओं का वाचन सुनना चाहें तो आप यू ट्यूब पर सुन सकते हैं. धन्यवाद काव्य सरिता: प्रथम भाग कौपी राइट भूमिका आ छन्द बनाते हैं आज इज्ज़त की खातिर बच्चे भी मार देते हैं आज जी भर हँस हँस के रोयी हूँ इक पृष्ठ फिर बदल गया इन चलती फिरती लाशों को इन्सान बनाजा तू इन्सान नहीं बस मेरा नाम कविता लिखना कहीं अब भी दुनिया रह्ती है कुछ घट गया कुछ बोल ले लो प्यार के कोई गीत सुनाते हैं क्या पाया जीवन रीत में गीत तो लिखे पर साजों की कमी है घडे की सोहनी को पुकार