RAJEEV VERMA

सच की मुस्कान
      कोई मेरे बारे में गलत कहे,
तो उससे बस इतना पूछना।
      क्या तुम मुझे ठीक से जानते हो,
या यूँ ही मन हल्का कर रहे हो।
     मैं वैसा नहीं जैसा सुनाई देता हूँ,
मैं वैसा हूँ जैसा निभाई देता हूँ।
     कुछ लम्हों से फैसला मत करना,
पूरी कहानी सुने बिना मत भरना।
     मैंने रिश्तों को सहेज कर रखा है,
हर अपने को दिल में रखा है।
     अगर कभी गलत समझा गया हूँ,
तो शायद कम समझा गया हूँ।
     मेरा इरादा साफ रहा है,
हर कदम पर दिल साथ रहा है।
     लोग बातें बनाते रहेंगे,
हम मुस्कान सजाते रहेंगे।
     क्योंकि सच को सफाई नहीं चाहिए,
उसे बस थोड़ी समझ चाहिए।
     जो मुझे जानता है, वो मुस्कुराता है,
जो नहीं जानता, वो अफवाहें फैलाता है।
     मैं दिल से जीता हूँ हर पल,
न किसी से द्वेष, न कोई छल।
     इसलिए जो पूछे, उसे प्यार से बताना,
मैं जैसा हूँ, वैसा ही रहना।

In the Sharma family, the youngest son, Chintu, was everyone’s favorite. His grandmother called him “the apple of my eye,” while his father lovingly called him “my pride and joy.” However, the school teacher knew him by another name—“the mischievous little star.”

At home, Chintu acted very innocent. His mother would say, “My son can never do anything wrong.” And at the same time, Chintu would quietly steal a chocolate from the refrigerator and disappear.

One day, a complaint came from school saying that Chintu had placed a balloon under a classroom chair. As soon as the teacher sat down, there was a loud “pop!” The whole class burst into laughter. The teacher asked seriously, “Who did this?” Chintu replied with an innocent face, “Sir, maybe the chair became happy.”

At home, his father scolded him, “You are the apple of our eye. Why do you do such mischief?”
Chintu replied, “If I am a star, I should shine a little.”
His grandmother laughed and supported him, saying, “If children don’t do mischief, then who will?” His father fell silent.

The next week, there was a kite-flying event in the neighborhood. Chintu promised everyone that he would not play any tricks.
But as soon as the competition started, he tied a small bell to his kite. When the wind blew, it made a “ting-ting” sound, distracting the other children.

When his kite won, everyone shouted, “This is cheating!”
Chintu replied, “No, this is creative thinking.”
Gradually, people realized that Chintu truly was the apple of everyone’s eye, but his sparkle came with a touch of harmless mischief.

One day, his father explained, “Mischief is not bad, but it should not hurt anyone.” Chintu nodded and said, “From now on, my mischief will be limited edition.”

The villagers still say that every home should have a child like Chintu—someone who is the apple of everyone’s eye and fills life with laughter through a little harmless mischief.

हँसती हुई माँ से ज्यादा खूबसूरत कुछ नहीं,
उसकी मुस्कान से बढ़कर कोई सूरत नहीं।

     उसके चेहरे की चमक में सवेरा होता है,
     उसकी हँसी में ही मेरा बसेरा होता है।

थकी हुई आँखों में भी उजाला रखती है,
अपने दुखों को हमेशा ताला रखती है।

     मेरी जीत पर जो सबसे पहले खिलती है,
     वो माँ ही है जो दिल से मिलती है।

उसकी हँसी में दुआओं की छाया है,
उसने ही तो जीवन सजाया है।

     रातों की नींदें जो उसने गँवाईं,
     मेरी हर खुशी में वो मुस्कुराईं।

उसके आँचल में सारा जहाँ है,
उसके बिना सब वीरान है।

     जब माँ खुलकर हँसती है,
     तब किस्मत भी सजती है।

उसकी मुस्कान ही मेरी दौलत है,
उसकी खुशी ही मेरी इबादत है।

     माँ की हँसी में रब दिखता है,
     हर दर्द वहीं आकर सिमटता है।

दुनिया की हर चमक फीकी है,
माँ की हँसी ही असली दीखी है।

     हँसती रहे वो यूँ ही हरदम,
     यही है मेरी सबसे बड़ी सरगम।

होशियारपुर सिंह बहुत ही मेहनती लेकिन थोड़ा जिद्दी स्वभाव के व्यक्ति थे। उन्हें लगता था कि सफलता हमेशा सीधे रास्ते से मिलनी चाहिए, लेकिन जीवन ने उन्हें सिखाया कि कई बार लक्ष्य तक पहुँचने के लिए तरीका बदलना पड़ता है।

एक दिन होशियारपुर सिंह को ऑफिस में एक मुश्किल काम दिया गया। काम ऐसा था जिसमें उन्हें कई बार असफलता का सामना करना पड़ा। वह बार-बार कोशिश करते, लेकिन हर बार कुछ न कुछ गलती हो जाती। परेशान होकर वे सोचने लगे कि शायद यह काम उनके बस का नहीं है।
उनके एक मित्र ने उनसे कहा, “अगर सीधे तरीके से काम नहीं बन रहा है, तो तरीका बदलकर देखो। कभी-कभी घी टेढ़ी उंगली से ही निकलता है।”

होशियारपुर सिंह ने इस बात पर ध्यान दिया। उन्होंने सोचा कि अगर एक तरीका काम नहीं कर रहा है तो हार मानने के बजाय दूसरा तरीका अपनाना चाहिए। उन्होंने अपने काम को छोटे-छोटे हिस्सों में बाँटना शुरू किया और धैर्यपूर्वक हर चरण पूरा करने लगे।

जहाँ पहले काम बहुत कठिन लगता था, अब वही काम धीरे-धीरे आसान लगने लगा। होशियारपुर सिंह ने महसूस किया कि मेहनत के साथ समझदारी भी उतनी ही जरूरी है।
कुछ दिनों बाद उन्होंने अपना काम सफलतापूर्वक पूरा कर लिया। उनके वरिष्ठ अधिकारी ने उनकी प्रशंसा करते हुए कहा, “आपने धैर्य और समझदारी से काम किया, यही सफलता की असली कुंजी है।”

होशियारपुर सिंह मुस्कुराते हुए बोले, “मुझे समझ आ गया कि अगर सीधे रास्ते से काम न बने, तो प्रयास छोड़ना नहीं चाहिए, बल्कि तरीका बदलना चाहिए।”

उस दिन उन्होंने जीवन की एक महत्वपूर्ण सीख ली कि कई बार सफलता पाने के लिए टेढ़ी उंगली का प्रयोग करना पड़ता है, लेकिन उद्देश्य हमेशा साफ और ईमानदार होना चाहिए।

रमेश महीने की शुरुआत में बड़े जोश में रहता था। वह सोचता था कि इस बार समझदारी से पैसे खर्च करेगा, बचत करेगा और महीने के अंत में मजे करेगा। लेकिन जैसे-जैसे महीने के दिन बीतते गए, उसकी योजना भी हवा में उड़ती चली गई।

महीने के पहले हफ्ते में ही रमेश ने दोस्तों के साथ बाहर खाने का कार्यक्रम बना लिया। उसने कहा, “एक बार खाने में क्या जाता है!” फिर दूसरे हफ्ते में ऑनलाइन शॉपिंग का एक बड़ा ऑफर आ गया। रमेश ने सोचा, “इतनी अच्छी छूट है, मौका नहीं छोड़ना चाहिए।” उसने दो-तीन चीजें ऑर्डर कर दीं, जो उसे सच में जरूरी भी नहीं थीं।

तीसरे हफ्ते तक आते-आते रमेश के खर्चों का ग्राफ ऊपर और जेब का वजन नीचे आने लगा। उसने खुद से वादा किया कि अब वह कोई गैरजरूरी खर्च नहीं करेगा। लेकिन उसी दिन उसका दोस्त जन्मदिन पार्टी का न्योता लेकर आ गया। रमेश ने सोचा, “दोस्ती भी तो निभानी है।” और पार्टी में जाकर जेब हल्की कर आया।

महीने के आखिरी हफ्ते में रमेश ने जब अपने बटुए को देखा तो उसे ऐसा लगा जैसे बटुआ भी दुखी होकर कह रहा हो, “मुझे आराम चाहिए।” अब रमेश का हाथ सचमुच तंग होने लगा था। उसने दूध वाले से कहा, “भाई, कल पैसे दे दूँगा।” किराने वाले से बोला, “अभी उधार लिख लो।”

घर आकर रमेश ने अपनी पत्नी से कहा, “इस महीने थोड़ा संकट है।” पत्नी मुस्कुराकर बोली, “संकट नहीं, यह तुम्हारी योजना का परिणाम है।” रमेश ने सिर पकड़ लिया।
अगले दिन रमेश ने अपने दोस्तों से कहा, “अब मैं महीने की शुरुआत में ही समझदारी से खर्च करूँगा।” दोस्त हँसते हुए बोले, “यह बात तुम हर महीने कहते हो।”

महीने के अंत में रमेश ने तय किया कि अगली बार वह बजट बनाएगा, अनावश्यक खरीदारी से बचेगा और बचत को प्राथमिकता देगा। लेकिन मन ही मन वह जानता था कि अगला महीना आते ही शायद फिर वही कहानी दोहराई जाएगी।

In our office, there was a great personality seated in authority—Mr. Tiwari, the senior manager. His title was professional, but his behavior made it seem as if he had personally been appointed as the guardian of time itself. The ticking of the clock seemed synchronized with his heartbeat. If any employee arrived even a minute late, he would look at them as if the nation’s economy depended entirely on their punctuality.

Mr. Tiwari’s philosophy was simple: “Work first, breathing later.” Even when someone wished him “Good Morning,” he would reply, “Morning will be good only if the report is submitted on time.” His meetings were so disciplined that even the chairs seemed to sit upright, and the ceiling fan rotated slowly as if afraid of breaking office etiquette.

One day, I gathered the courage to ask, “Sir, would you like some tea?”
He adjusted his glasses and replied, “First complete the target, then add sugar to the tea.”
That day I realized that in our office, even tea was performance-based.

The entire team was so afraid of him that even typing “haha” on WhatsApp required serious consideration, just in case it was counted as time-wasting. Once, all of us arrived five minutes late. Mr. Tiwari said nothing—he simply smiled. But that smile was so terrifying that it felt as if our salary slips were trembling.

The story took an unexpected turn one day when his laptop suddenly froze. He kept moving the mouse repeatedly, as if the computer would become frightened and start working again. For the first time, we saw panic on his face. The IT department was called. The technician said, “Sir, just restart the system.”

Mr. Tiwari fell silent. After two minutes, the system started working—and something seemed to restart inside his mind as well.
After that day, he became slightly softer. Sometimes he even asked for tea himself. And us? We started arriving on time—not out of fear, but out of habit.

In the neighborhood, people still say,
“Oh, that Tiwari Ji? The one who used to drive people up the wall… and now believes in the magic of restart!”

In our neighborhood, Pandit Kailashnath Ji was a well-known personality. His fame, however, came less from wisdom and more from boundless confidence. He spoke with such chest-thumping certainty that it seemed as if the universe’s secret files were stored safely with him. Even the simplest statement sounded like a grand prophecy when he delivered it.

One day, Mr. Gupta casually asked, “Pandit Ji, when will it rain?”

Without hesitation, Pandit Ji looked up at the sky, closed his eyes, drew three dramatic lines across his forehead, and declared, “It will definitely rain the day after tomorrow!” The entire neighborhood kept umbrellas ready. But on that day, the sun shone so fiercely that people started drying mango slices on their rooftops. When questioned, Pandit Ji replied gravely, “Nature changed its decision at the last moment.”

A few days later, Mr. Sharma’s cat went missing. Pandit Ji was summoned. After examining Mr. Sharma’s palm, he announced, “The cat is in the north direction.” Half the neighborhood ran north. The cat was eventually found in the south, comfortably sitting near the milk shop. Pandit Ji smiled calmly and said, “Cats are extremely restless creatures—they keep changing direction.”

During election season, his confidence reached its peak. Beating his chest proudly, he predicted the victory of a particular candidate. When the results came, the candidate finished in third place. Without blinking, Pandit Ji explained, “In my spiritual vision, he is still the true winner.”

The real turning point came when his own bicycle was stolen. The neighbors gathered around eagerly. “Now tell us, where is the thief?” they asked. Clearing his throat and thumping his chest, Pandit Ji proclaimed, “The thief is nearby.” Just then, someone called out from behind, “Pandit Ji, your bicycle has fallen into the drain over here.”
Everyone burst into laughter. Pandit Ji looked momentarily embarrassed, then quickly recovered and said, “Didn’t I say it was nearby?”

Even after that, his confidence remained untouched. The only change was the addition of a new line to his predictions: “Astrological outcomes depend on circumstances.” And to this day, the neighborhood continues to enjoy his forecasts—full of sound, fury, and plenty of hot air.

In our town, Lala Badriprasad was famous for his stinginess and strictness. At his grocery shop, he kept a sharp eye on everything—from the weighing scale to the person holding it. He often declared, “Not a single grain should go missing from this shop.” One day, he hired a new servant named Bhola.

Though his name meant “innocent,” there was a clear spark of intelligence in his eyes.
On the very first day, Lala Ji tried to intimidate him. “If even a single penny goes missing in the accounts, I’ll cut off your ears!” he warned sternly. Bhola bowed his head respectfully and replied, “Yes, master,” but smiled quietly to himself. He quickly realized that his employer relied more on fear than fairness.

A few days later, Bhola came up with a plan. He hung a board outside the shop that read: Special Discount Today – Limited Time Only. Customers flocked to the store. Items that had been gathering dust for months suddenly sold like hotcakes. By evening, the cash box was fuller than it had been in a long time.

When Lala Ji returned and saw the crowd, he was stunned. “What is going on here?” he demanded anxiously. Bhola replied confidently, “Master, I’m increasing sales.” That night, when the accounts were tallied, the profit exceeded expectations. Lala Ji felt pleased—but as soon as he remembered the discount sign, his forehead wrinkled with anger.

“Who told you to offer discounts?” he asked sharply.

Calmly, Bhola answered, “Master, you said that if even a penny went missing, you’d cut off my ears. I thought if sales increased, there would be no question of any shortage.”
For a few moments, Lala Ji was speechless. For the first time, he realized that wisdom works better than fear. Soon the story spread through the neighborhood that Bhola had outfoxed his master—without even lifting a finger.

After that day, Lala Ji’s attitude softened a little, and Bhola’s salary received a well-deserved raise.

In our neighborhood, news never traveled in a straight line; it always picked up a generous sprinkle of spice along the way. One morning, all that really happened was that Mr. Sharma placed a new plastic chair outside his house. His intention was simple—sit in the sun, read the newspaper, and ease his back pain.

The first to notice was Verma Aunty. One glance from her window, and she concluded that a special guest must be arriving. Within five minutes, the information reached Gupta Aunty—but by then, it had already evolved. The “special guest” had transformed into “prospective in-laws coming to see the daughter.”

By afternoon, half the neighborhood was convinced that Mr. Sharma’s daughter’s engagement had been finalized. Someone added that the groom worked abroad. Another confidently mentioned that a car had been settled as part of the dowry. The story had become so decorated that the original truth was nowhere to be seen.

That evening, a small crowd gathered at Mr. Sharma’s door. Some brought sweets; others arrived to offer congratulations. Mr. Sharma stood bewildered. “What’s the occasion?” he asked. When informed that they were celebrating his daughter’s engagement, he fell silent for a moment—then burst out laughing.

“My friends,” he explained, “the chair is for straightening my back, not for fixing an engagement!”

There was a brief awkward silence, followed by nervous chuckles as everyone tried to brush it off. But the saga didn’t end there. The very next day, a new rumor began circulating—that Mr. Sharma was upset about the previous day’s gossip.

And so, a simple plastic chair managed to create celebration, confusion, and yet another round of whispers. The truth was small and harmless, but once the neighborhood added its salt and pepper, it turned into a full-blown story—a classic storm in a teacup.

It was the month of March, and a strange tension floated through the house. The reason was Rahul’s board exams. On normal days, Rahul was a calm and composed soul. But the moment exams were mentioned, it was as if he was possessed.

When the alarm rang at five in the morning, he sprang out of bed as though the nation’s economy depended on his result. His mother handed him a cup of tea, and he anxiously asked, “Mom, if I skip three chapters, should I just become a monk?” His father replied dryly, “First take the exam. You can renounce the world afterward.”

Rahul created such an intense study timetable that even he felt intimidated by it. Every hour was assigned a different subject, and each subject had a pen of a different color. On the wall, he had written in bold letters: Now or Never! Yet within five minutes, his hand would automatically drift toward his phone. Then he would scold himself, muttering, “This is worldly distraction!”

The day before the exam was even more dramatic. He suddenly felt he had forgotten everything he had studied. He asked his younger sister, “Do you remember the Pythagorean theorem?” She replied casually, “I don’t even remember my own homework.” Rahul’s confidence wobbled further.

That night, he checked his bag five times—admit card, pens, pencils, ruler. Even while trying to sleep, he would suddenly sit up and ask, “Mom, the admit card hasn’t flown away, right?”

On exam day, when he reached school, he noticed his friends laughing and chatting. None of them looked possessed. When he received the question paper, he realized that half the questions were from topics he had thoroughly prepared. Slowly, the fear began to fade.

Three hours later, he walked out smiling. “It wasn’t that difficult!” he declared. His father laughed and asked, “Has the ghost left?” Rahul grinned, “Yes—but now the ghost of the result is on its way.”

The moment he returned home, he announced, “One week of rest!” But by evening, after glancing at the syllabus for the next exam, the same haunted look returned. Once again, Rahul was under the spell—haunted by exams all over again.

In our neighborhood lived a unique personality—Uncle Trilokinath. His greatest talent was interfering in everything. Whether it was a household issue, a neighborhood matter, or even national affairs, Uncle’s opinion would arrive uninvited. People often joked that if a task was going too smoothly, they should call him over—he would make sure there was a complication.

Once, Mr. Sharma began painting his house. The walls were only half done when Uncle appeared. Examining the color thoughtfully, he declared, “This blue won’t do. Mix a little parrot green into it—the house will glow!” Poor Mr. Sharma got confused. The painter changed the shade, and the final result made the house look less elegant and more like an over-dressed parrot.

A few days later, Mr. Gupta bought a new scooter. Uncle instantly advised, “Don’t ride it long distances on the first day—the engine will get tired.” Mr. Gupta obediently followed the advice. The scooter remained parked for a week, and the battery died. Uncle nodded seriously and said, “See? Machines must be understood properly.”

His habit became so well-known that neighborhood children posted a lookout before starting a game. “Make sure Uncle isn’t coming!” they would whisper. One day during a cricket match, just as a batsman hit a six, Uncle shouted, “Keep your front foot forward! Your technique is wrong!” On the very next ball, the player was bowled out. Uncle nodded in satisfaction, as if his prediction had come true.

The funniest incident happened when Uncle himself was getting his rooftop repaired. A neighbor teased, “Uncle, don’t let anyone interfere!” Uncle smiled—but at that very moment, his foot slipped, and he narrowly escaped a fall.

After that day, he became slightly more cautious, though the habit never completely disappeared. Even now, he remains present in every discussion. The only difference is that people smile and say, “Uncle, feel free to interfere—but from a safe distance.”

One fine day, Rambharose Ji suddenly announced that he, too, would become rich. After years of warming a chair in a government office, he concluded that the world runs on hard work. Determined and dramatic, he declared that he would “sweat blood” to achieve success. The family couldn’t quite tell whether this burst of motivation was caused by strong tea or an inspirational video.

His transformation began at 5 a.m. sharp. The moment the alarm rang, he jumped out of bed as if training for the Olympics. Half an hour of yoga followed by a morning run became his new routine. However, barely five minutes into jogging, he would be reminded that enthusiasm and age require proper coordination. Returning home drenched in sweat, he would proudly announce, “See? Hard work has begun!” His wife would simply smile and hand him a towel.

Next, he launched a rooftop vegetable garden. He bought seeds, arranged pots neatly, and absorbed farming wisdom from online videos. In the first week, he watered the plants so generously that they practically floated. In the second week, he forgot them entirely, and they nearly dried out. Shaking his head, he admitted, “Being a farmer isn’t easy. You truly have to sweat blood.”

Not ready to give up, he ventured into the online business. He spent nights designing a website. The next morning, he realized he had forgotten his own password. A call from the bank informed him that there had been three failed login attempts. In a serious tone, Rambharose Ji declared, “Success never comes easy.”

Three months later, he was neither a millionaire, nor a successful farmer, nor a thriving entrepreneur. But something had definitely changed. He now genuinely respected hard work. From the office peon to the vegetable vendor, he began treating everyone with newfound appreciation.

One evening, exhausted and resting on the sofa, he sighed, “Whether I become rich or not, at least I’ve learned the value of effort.” His wife laughed and replied, “Well, at least the sweat was real.”

Rambharose Ji is still trying. The only difference now is that before attempting to sweat blood, he consults his doctor first.

In our neighborhood, Pinky’s wedding became the grandest event of the year. Her father went around telling everyone, “I’ll host such a wedding that people will be left speechless.” And to be fair, he spared no effort in putting on a spectacular show.

Even before the wedding day, the house was decorated with so many lights that the electricity department practically needed prior notice. Every evening, children from the lane gathered outside as if a fair were about to open. Pinky’s mother proudly displayed her jewelry to every visitor, smiling and saying, “Why ask for proof when the bangles are right here on my wrists!”

On the day of the procession, the scene was even more entertaining. The band played so energetically that even the horse seemed to nod in rhythm. The groom, hidden behind his floral veil, looked as serious as if he were about to sit for a board exam. Meanwhile, Pinky sat on the stage smiling gracefully while her friends kept clicking photos nonstop—ensuring social media would not miss a single angle.

The food pavilion was a feast beyond imagination. From street-style chaat to pasta, and an entire army of desserts, there were at least fifty varieties. Guests wandered around with loaded plates, constantly asking, “Did I miss anything?” Pinky’s father beamed with pride, repeating, “See for yourselves—no proof needed when everything is on display!”
The real twist came when the photographer grabbed the microphone and jokingly announced, “Anyone coming to the stage must first show their gift envelope!” A few guests suddenly looked slightly uneasy.

At the farewell ceremony, emotions ran high and eyes grew moist. But Pinky’s younger brother quietly whispered, “Dad, soon even the loan will be visible—no need for proof then.” The family struggled to suppress their laughter.

The wedding was magnificent, the arrangements flawless, and the display of grandeur impossible to ignore. For months afterward, the neighborhood kept talking about it. Truly, it was the kind of celebration where nothing needed explanation—the proof was right there for everyone to see.

Our neighborhood was usually peaceful, but the moment an unusual sound echoed through the lane, everyone’s ears would instantly perk up. One Sunday morning, a large, shiny car pulled into the street—far fancier than anything the residents had seen outside of television. And just like that, curtains twitched, windows slid open, and curiosity spread like wildfire.

Verma Aunty was the first to peek from her balcony. Within seconds, she concluded that a high-ranking government officer must have arrived. Five minutes later, by the time the information reached Gupta Aunty, the “officer” had transformed into a “film star.” The children quickly decided they wouldn’t miss the chance to collect an autograph.

Meanwhile, Mr. Sharma adjusted his glasses and gravely announced, “Looks like an income tax raid.” At once, anyone who had cash tucked away in drawers began mentally reviewing their hiding spots. A subtle wave of anxiety floated through the lane.

Just then, a simple-looking young man stepped out of the car. He glanced around and asked on his phone, “Brother, which way is house number 78?” By now, at least ten neighbors stood ready, each eager to give directions, each convinced they possessed the most accurate information.

Within minutes, the truth came out. The young man was merely a food delivery worker who had entered the wrong lane by mistake. The luxurious car didn’t even belong to him—it belonged to the customer, who had driven over to pick up the order.

As reality settled in, expressions changed instantly. Verma Aunty quickly remarked, “Oh, I knew it all along.” Mr. Sharma coughed and buried himself in his newspaper as if he had never said a word. The children were visibly disappointed—no film hero, no dramatic raid.

Soon, the car drove away and the lane returned to its usual calm. But that day, everyone realized something: in our neighborhood, ears stand up long before facts arrive. And by the time the truth appears, imagination has already staged its full performance.

In our home, guests are treated like gods. But the year Mr. Mishra came to stay, we placed him on a pedestal even higher than that. He was a distant relative who had said he would stay “just for two days.” Mom prepared enthusiastically, Dad took leave from work, and we children were firmly instructed: “No mischief in front of the guest.”

The first day went smoothly. On arrival, Mr. Mishra modestly said, “Oh, you shouldn’t have taken so much trouble,” and then helped himself to eight fritters. That night, he mentioned he preferred simple food, so from the next day onward, Mom began cooking a separate dish just for him.

On the second day, he suggested the TV volume be lowered because he wanted to listen to the news carefully. On the third day, he remarked that the mattress was a bit too soft. On the fourth day, he advised that his tea should have half a spoon less sugar. Gradually, the remote control, the kitchen, and even the sofa seemed to fall under his command.

We children soon realized that our bedroom had quietly turned into his personal resting suite. Our study sessions shifted to the dining table. Dad would whisper to Mom, “When exactly will the two days be over?” Mom would smile and say, “We’ll ask him tomorrow.”

A week passed. Quite comfortably, Mr. Mishra announced, “It feels just like my own home here.” Dad’s expression at that moment resembled someone staring at an unexpectedly high electricity bill.

Finally, Dad gathered the courage and politely asked, “When is your return ticket?” Mr. Mishra looked surprised. “Oh! I thought you would insist I stay longer.”

The very next day, his ticket was booked. At departure, he said warmly, “You’ve taken such wonderful care of me.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, a collective sigh of relief echoed through the house.

Mom laughed and said, “Guests may be like gods, but even gods shouldn’t be carried on our heads.”

That day, we learned an important lesson: hospitality is a virtue—but only when it comes with healthy boundaries. Otherwise, give someone an inch, and they’ll take a mile.

In our city, there was a well-known politician named Brijmohan Babu. People fondly nicknamed him “the rolling eggplant,” because he had a remarkable talent for switching sides depending on the situation. Wherever opportunity appeared, he would smoothly roll in that direction.

As the election season approached, his energy multiplied. In the morning, he would sit among farmers and declare, “I am a farmer by birth.” By afternoon, at a business conference, he would proclaim, “Trade is the backbone of the nation.” In the evening, clicking selfies with youngsters, he would announce, “You are the future of this country.”

One day he truly outdid himself. In the morning press conference, he stated firmly that he supported strict regulations. By noon, when public opinion shifted on social media, he released a statement saying, “I have always stood with the people’s sentiments.” That evening on a TV debate, he insisted, “My words have been twisted and misrepresented.”

Even his supporters were often confused. Before printing campaign posters, they would cautiously ask, “Sir, what’s our slogan this time?” Brijmohan Babu would smile and reply, “Whatever the public wants.”

At a public meeting about the city’s water crisis, he stepped onto the stage and boldly promised, “We will conserve water.” Someone quickly reminded him that last year he had opposed the new water plant project.

Without missing a beat, he clarified, “I wasn’t opposing it—I was in favor of improvements.”
Even the neighborhood children began teasing him. While playing cricket, they would say, “We’ll join whichever team wins!” and then laugh, adding, “Just like our leader!”
When the election results were announced, he won. A journalist asked, “What’s the secret of your success?” Thumping his chest, he replied proudly, “I always stand with the people.”

From the crowd, someone muttered softly, “Stand? You roll more than you stand.”

Brijmohan Babu pretended not to hear. After all, there’s one advantage to blowing hot and cold—wherever the benefit lies, that’s where you settle. And our leader had mastered that art perfectly.

In our neighborhood, Ratna Aunty was famous for her strict moral image. She lectured everyone about values and discipline as if handing out character certificates was her birthright. Every morning, she stood on her terrace, carefully observing the activities of the entire locality, and by afternoon she would have completed her “analysis.”

The amusing part? The very things she criticized in others were habits she practiced comfortably herself. If laughter from someone’s house grew a little too loud, she would remark, “People these days have no sense of decency.” Yet in the evening, the noise from her kitty party echoed across three lanes.

Once, she gave a long speech about how wasteful spending was a terrible habit. That very week, a new sofa, new curtains, and a brand-new mobile phone appeared in her living room. When asked about it, she casually replied, “Oh, those were necessities.”
The situation reached its peak when she publicly announced that she was embracing a completely spiritual life. She declared she would go on a pilgrimage and return to guide everyone toward simplicity and self-control. The neighbors exchanged knowing smiles but said nothing.

Even before her trip, old stories resurfaced—how she would escalate minor disagreements, pass along private conversations, and sometimes add a pinch of spice to make the gossip more interesting. Everyone was reminded of the saying about those who preach virtue after a lifetime of mischief.

After returning from her pilgrimage, Ratna Aunty became even more serious. Every sentence began with, “When I was at the holy place…” But one day, she slipped back into her old habit and turned a neighbor’s small comment into sensational news.

That’s when someone responded with a grin, “Aunty, did the pilgrimage reduce your habits, or are they still intact?”

There was a brief silence—and then laughter burst out. Even Ratna Aunty smiled. Perhaps she, too, realized that true change comes not from speeches, but from actions.

Every Sunday, cricket in Lane Number Five of our neighborhood was nothing short of an international showdown—at least in the players’ minds. The “stadium” was a narrow street, the “crowd” perched on terraces and balconies, and the commentary came free from enthusiastic neighbors. This week’s clash was between Young Star Eleven and Veteran Tigers. The tension was obvious just from the names.

Pappu, captain of Young Star Eleven, declared confidently before the match, “Today we’ll make them eat humble pie!”

On the other side, the calm and seasoned captain of Veteran Tigers—fondly called Chacha—just smiled and replied, “Son, first learn to face the ball.”

Young Star Eleven won the toss and chose to bat. The start was energetic—too energetic. On the very first ball, Pappu was clean bowled. A loud “Ohhh!” echoed through the lane. Pappu quickly defended himself, “The ball kept low!”

The next batsman walked in aiming for glory, swung hard for a six—and sent the ball straight into Mrs. Sharma’s balcony. The match paused while apologies were offered and the ball was retrieved.

Somehow, the team completed their twenty overs and posted a decent score. Now it was Veteran Tigers’ turn. Chacha began steadily—no flashy shots, no panic, just calm cricket.

Meanwhile, Pappu’s team kept shouting, “Build the pressure!” Ironically, the pressure began mounting on them instead.

With smart singles and well-timed boundaries, Chacha slowly took control. In the final over, only five runs were needed. Determined to change history, Pappu grabbed the ball himself.
First delivery—four runs.
Second ball—two runs.

Match over.
Silence filled the lane.
Chacha smiled and said gently, “Weren’t you going to make us eat humble pie?” The entire team burst into laughter. Scratching his head, Pappu admitted, “Looks like we’re the ones who got a taste of our own medicine.”

After that day, Pappu toned down his tall claims. And the match became legendary in the neighborhood—a perfect reminder that experience often proves that pride truly comes before a fall.

It was exactly midnight when Rohan suddenly woke up. The reason wasn’t a nightmare—it was the strange growling coming from his stomach. He instantly realized that he was as hungry as a wolf. His stomach wasn’t just rumbling; it sounded like a full marathon was underway inside.

Earlier that evening, he had proudly announced that he was starting a strict diet. He ate nothing but salad and even delivered a motivational speech on fitness in front of his friends. Now, that very salad had vanished without a trace, and the empty space in his stomach felt like a playground where invisible creatures were playing cricket.
Quietly, Rohan tiptoed toward the kitchen. The house was silent, yet every step he took seemed amplified like it was being broadcast on loudspeakers. He opened the refrigerator, and along with a wave of cold air came a spark of hope. Inside, a leftover slice of pizza from the previous night seemed to glow like treasure.

Just as he reached for the plate, a voice behind him asked, “What are you doing?” He nearly jumped out of his skin, as if his hunger had been caught red-handed. His mother stood at the door, arms crossed.
“I… I just came for some water,” he stammered.
His mother pointed toward the fridge. “Is the water kept inside the pizza box?”

The situation was serious. Rohan made one last attempt. “Cheat days are allowed in a diet,” he argued weakly.
His mother smiled. “Your diet hasn’t even completed six hours.”
Finally, a compromise was reached. He was given a glass of warm milk and two biscuits. Rohan accepted them reluctantly, though the “wolves” in his stomach didn’t seem fully satisfied.

Back in his room, he decided that next time he would announce his diet plan in the morning—not at night. The memory of that pizza slice still lingered in his mind.

The next day, in front of his friends, he appeared just as confident. “My diet is going great!” he declared proudly.

His stomach let out a faint growl, almost like silent laughter. And Rohan realized that while fitness is important, midnight hunger can be the toughest opponent of all.

In our neighborhood, Ram Lal the sweet-maker was famous far and wide—especially for his piping hot jalebis. Every morning, as the oil bubbled in the large pan and thin streams of batter swirled into perfect golden spirals, a heavenly aroma filled the air. The fragrance alone was enough to make mouths water instantly.

One day, Mohan Lal received strict instructions from his doctor: “No more sweets!” His blood sugar levels were too high. Returning home, he proudly announced that from now on, health would be his top priority. His family applauded his determination, but the neighbors were not entirely convinced.

The very next morning, Mohan Lal stepped out for his regular walk. The road to the park was straight ahead—but the irresistible smell of fresh jalebis gently pulled his feet in another direction. Before he knew it, he was standing in front of Ram Lal’s shop. He reassured himself, “I’ll just look, not eat.”
There he stood, gazing at the jalebis as if meeting a long-lost love after years. Ram Lal smiled knowingly and asked, “How much should I pack today?” Mohan Lal panicked. “N-no, I was just passing by…”

At that exact moment, Mr. Sharma appeared behind him. “Aren’t you on a diet?” he teased. Without missing a beat, Mohan Lal replied, “Of course! I’m just checking the quality so I can warn others.”

Meanwhile, Ram Lal lifted a fresh batch of jalebis from the oil and dipped them into warm sugar syrup. The sight was so mesmerizing that Mohan Lal’s resolve began to melt like sugar itself. Finally, in a soft voice, he said, “Just half a kilo… I mean, for the family.”

When he reached home, his wife spotted the packet immediately. “What’s this?” she asked suspiciously. Mohan Lal replied confidently, “Oh, I was taking it for a neighbor. It just ended up here by mistake.”

Just then, his young son innocently announced, “Papa already ate two on the way!”
The truth was out, and laughter filled the house.

After that day, Mohan Lal revised his diet plan. The new rule was simple: jalebis once a week—preferably without the doctor finding out.

And to this day, Ram Lal’s shop continues its noble mission of making mouths water every single morning.