भारतेंदु हरिश्चंद्र

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A-TULA

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Once, there was a family that lived together and grew together. Two sons were raised under the same roof, loved equally—but measured constantly. Skin tone, height, marks, abilities—nothing escaped comparison. Marriage did not end it. It only changed shape. Gold, beauty, status, respect—quiet questions replaced loud ones: Are we less? Are we enough? Believing he was behind, one son chased “ahead.” The joint family thinned into a nuclear one. Open spaces shrank into an apartment. Many plates became four. Husband and wife worked—not out of greed, but to support each other. They stretched their wings together. Money came. Stability came. A maid came. A nanny came. Then something else arrived. The children ran first to the nanny’s arms. She knew their fears, their habits, their favourite colours. The parents did not. The father was no longer the man of the house—only a partner in a system. The home felt less like a family and more like a workplace. Conversations needed appointme...
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Nirala the Man who Questioned Gandhi

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Nirale Smritiyon's English translation:  Those were the days when Gandhiji walked with the support of a stick, and the longing to see the tricolour flutter in the sky was clearly visible in every heart. Each word that emerged from Bapu’s mouth was woven into a sentence whose eloquence was no less than Vedantic wisdom. In this context, it is aptly said in English, “The pen is mightier than the sword” — Edward Bulwer-Lytton, 1839. Whether today or in those times, every single word written in a newspaper carried its own distinctive style and offered abundant substance. Gandhiji’s words had reached a stage where they seemed to determine the future of the nation. The country called him by many names. One day, a tall, six-foot-tall man arrived, speaking in a grave tone. His lotus-like eyes from West Bengal added a distinct radiance to his presence. From his attire, it appeared that he was a lover of art, someone who did not bow before pretence or show. In his speech, pain fil...
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Room no. 906 English Version

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Room No. 906 The sound of the door opening was heard. I quickly turned around; the speed of the light struck my eyes sharply. A dark shadow entered, and soon after, a doctor appeared in a white coat, a stethoscope hanging around his neck like a garland. Had I been promoted to a new room, or transferred from the ICU? Was this good news, or something to be understood or explained? It was beyond comprehension. The doctor held my hand, and I came fully back to my senses. “Why is your palm blue?” the doctor asked. At once, I looked at my mother’s face, then turned my pale face toward the doctor. He glanced at my clothes and said softly, “First, wash your hands.” My mother, holding the IV bottle, walked with me to the washbasin. The entire blue color washed away with water. The doctor laughed and said, “This is just the effect of your blue kurti.” Hearing this, everyone’s breath eased. Just then, I noticed a new face peeking at us from behind the curtain. Parvati! On the patients’ chart past...
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