Saran English literature

Short Story: The Miraculous Cottage By Saran Rai Far above the miraculous cottage, many people like me have gathered to witness the spectacle. All eyes are fixated on the miraculous cottage. The miraculous cottage is at the center. It is not very large—barely capable of holding fifty people at most. However, its decorations are dazzling. Precious diamonds, gems, and rubies studded on its golden walls shimmer brilliantly. The more one looks at it, the more mesmerizing it becomes. Nobody knows when it was built. A town has grown around it, and this town has its own unique charm. Expensive hotels, jewelry and clothing stores, and photo and video studios surround the miraculous cottage. The miraculous cottage, for a hefty fee, transforms people aged over 80 into youthful men or women for an hour. Thousands of wealthy people from all over the world come to await their turn. The continuous influx of tourists and aged visitors waiting in line has significantly boosted the local economy. From ...

  Short Story Respect By: Saran Rai I have come to Kathmandu for some work. I frequently meet a former student I taught many years ago. As soon as he sees me, he greets me with a bow from afar. Seeing his respect for his teacher fills me with immense joy. Today, I meet him again. As I am about to leave, he almost blocks my path and says, “Congratulations in advance, Sir!” “Congratulations for what?” I ask, surprised. “I’ve heard your name is on the list of future ministers. You’ve already become a Member of Parliament; once you become a minister, don’t forget this old student Ramprasad, Sir.” It turns out he was mistaken. Another professor who works with me has become an MP. The respect and affection he showed were meant for that MP and prospective minister. He had already forgotten me (and even my name).

  (Short Story) My Own Home By: Saran Rai Just like the house I built, I too have become old and frail. Now, a question has begun to arise—do I even have the right to live in that house anymore? My successors have started to say, "This house belongs to them." And indeed, they have made significant contributions to keeping the house beautiful—repairing, maintaining, and cleaning it diligently. Even if I don’t live there, they will continue to reside in the house. If the house collapses, they would suffer more loss than I would. They would become homeless. Therefore, they believe, “The house must remain.” But there’s a dispute: whose house is it? Mine, because I built it, or theirs, because they live in it? Like all living beings, my time to reside in the house—or on this Earth—is limited. A house belongs to the one who resides in it. While they live there, they call it "their home," but in the end, the house doesn’t belong to anyone. And now, even though I built it,...

  The Legend of the Yeti Glacier   By Saran Rai At a corner of a busy road, a woman sits with a baby in her lap, begging from passersby. Only a few pay attention to her. Moved by her pitiable condition, I ask, “Sister, the baby is crying. Shouldn't you feed him milk?” “This baby in my lap isn’t my child; he’s my husband,” she replies. Stunned by her response, I start wondering if she’s mentally unwell. “How can the baby in your lap be your husband?” I ask. For a moment, she gazes far into the distance, and then she looks at me. “This baby in my lap is my husband,” she begins. “We were a married couple living thousands of kilometers away at the foothills of the Himalayas. Farming and sheep herding were our livelihoods. We lived together for over forty years and raised our children. When they grew up, they flew away like young birds leaving the nest. Where did they go? They never returned.” “Where is your husband now?” I inquire. “Here, in my lap.” “No, what are you saying? How ...

  (Poem ) Re: Sketch   Poem Re: Sketch    Saran Rai   Bewildered, perplexed and in utter dilemma How to move up and above Laughing or bearing pain and pathema? Closing a story fleeting and sombre. Letters written and erased, blackboard, chalk and duster There's no one else to write but the Supreme Master. Human world, last dimension and the final acceptance. What, how, when ,how many will there be - was there. Drama, essay, story, poem - by no means are man However it's sketched ,dumped as vain No sketch is the same because of variance in seeing and feeling - because each man's journey is his own share. The light keeps on burning and spreading of its own nature. When it goes off, even in the darkness, those who remember, say there was light before. Now what to be - prickly thorns or inspiring flowers that teaches how to smile? Make no mistake, for life is short and fragile.   Translated By Madhukar Suvedi    

 Poetry We Shall Meet Again By: Saran Rai The end is where it all began, From the infinite, we come, To the infinite, we must return. Once here, we must thunder on earth, Resounding the drumbeats of life, Blossoming life through smiles, And then, back to the infinite. Bear the pain of separation, beloved, For after an endless separation, In the timeless flow of eternity, We shall meet again.

  The Crown   Saran Rai He faced failure and was financially troubled. He had no job, business, or farming. When he reached the brink of starvation, he came up with an idea—he would make a crown and honor the greatest person in society by placing it on their head. “In the era of a republic, what’s the need for a crown?” people asked. “It’s not for crowning a king but a noble way to honor the greatest individual,” he explained. Crowning meant it had to be grand and expensive. Fearing their community’s reputation might be tarnished, he collected a hefty donation from everyone. Leaders, industrialists, merchants, writers, social workers, and others—all the prominent figures in the society—considered themselves the greatest person there. Each thought they would be the one to wear the crown. As a result, everyone supported his idea. They even began to curry favor with him for the crown. “If I get the crown, winning elections will be easier,” thought the politicians. “I’ll become a ...