TELL ME A STORY BOOK BY RAVINDER SINGH PDF
Please visit k3entertainment (k3entertainment), till now the best site to download any book, comics, magazine in pdf for free. No advertisement, no pop up. Tell Me a Story_ Inspiring, Tou - Ravinder Singh - Download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) PENGUIN METRO READS TELL ME A STORY Ravinder Singh is the bestselling But did Ravin's story really end on the last page of that book?. Ravinder Singh is the bestselling author of I Too Had a Love Story, Can Love Happen Twice?, Like It Happened Yesterday and Your Dreams Are Mine Now.
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To download more free e-books visit our website. ravinder singh best books, ravinder singh books pdf free download, ravinder singh contact, ravinder singh latest Touch the Sky: The inspiring stories of women from across India who are . Ravinder Singh is the bestselling author of I Too Had a Love Story, Can Love Happen Download provided by [email protected], join us to get more books without a . Results 1 - 9 of 9 Buy ravinder singh Books at myavr.info Shop amongst 9 popular books, including Will You Still Love Me?, Tell Me a Story and more from.
Uploaded By vreenhart. I Too Had a Love Story , his debut novel, is his own story that has touched millions of hearts.
Can Love Happen Twice? After spending most of his life in Burla, a very small town in western Orissa, Ravinder has finally settled down in Chandigarh. He is an MBA from the renowned India School of Business and is presently working with a prominent multinational company. Ravinder loves playing snooker in his free time. He is crazy about Punjabi music and loves dancing to its beat. The best way to contact Ravinder is through his official fan page on Facebook.
Dedicated to The loving memory of the girl whom I loved, yet could not marry.
A silent girl share hostel with people and in talk with no one and hiding her dark past. That boy filmed her and she lost and depression made her so , and parents stopped talk to her and she tried to suicide but got saved Because building was not so high. And the narrator feel for her. A girl is sad because her father arrogance and violent behaviour, a boy came and changed her , he take her to his escape area and they enjoy , after she got grounded for month, boy and family shifted as father got posted in Leh he have to be in boarding school , and he told her, we will meet soon and till then she will not go to that place as a promise.
A 20 year old writer dream to be author and fulfill it with his conviction. A girl and boy both don't know how to tie shoelaces , and they decide to learn after break but boy never returned as he died in a tsunami of in Sri Lanka and girl never learnt it and some 8 years later her another friend helped her tie her laces.
An acid attack survivor change the outlook of the guy who is cribbing for hot day in a train and she survived with brave attitude. A girl on a guilt trip as she remembers her father death on new years and time when her father supported her with her selfish needs and demands and how time to time her father corrected her but didn't scold her, and she also remember when she yell at him for he want her to write something for him on her computer, but she rudely said no and she feel and on his death bed her father said to be the one you are proud of and she cry.
I looked at him with awe as he brought victories to his hostel, round after round. Throughout these months, I saw a broken warrior fighting with the same spirit I had first seen him display. It reminded me of a few lines from the acclaimed Bengali writer, Saratchandra Chattyopadhyays novel, Pather Dabi.
Apurba, one of the main protagonists had thought in admiration, about the freedom fighter, Sabyasachi : It is perhaps you only who can take the onus upon your shoulders. That is why perhaps God has endowed upon you all the responsibilities and burden of this world. I felt the same about Labdhyo. The final round of the inter-hostel football tournament was an engaging match between Nehru and R.
Both the teams were in no position to give up. With their Messis and Cr7s they attacked but that day celebrated the existence of only one Neuer, whose struggle gifted this team with some stunning saves. Our Neuer, Labdhyo, stood proudly on the ground as his worthy striker, Rupak, managed to score a goal for his team around the seventieth minute. The opponents got into a complete attacking mode after that but Labdhyo had planned his defence well as a captain. He fiercely guarded his post and did not let a single shot enter the net.
Finally, after the ninetieth minute, the stadium broke out in huge applause. Captain Labdhyo! His smile was brighter than his fluorescent jersey. Surrounded by his team mates and friends, he had defeated pain to have the last laugh.
It was his day. He, the captain, had managed to give his team the victory they deserved. I could not help myself from running up to him and giving him a hug. You did it, Labdhyo, I said with tears in my eyes. He smiled. Thank you.
That is a completely different event! Labdhyo exclaimed. How are you sure we will be in the same team? We will buy you back no matter what! Rweeto said with alacrity. This time, we will name our team, Ruud Re-awakening. When did this brat come, aJd? Labdhyo teased.
In the afternoon, I replied. He didnt want to miss your game. Labdhyo, like always, ignored the praise. Instead, taking his phone from me, he dialled a number. Hello, this is Labdhyo Mukherjee, he said. I have been diagnosed with several injuries on my leg and a slipped disc, a few months back. I would like to make an appointment with the physiotherapist. And I saw the real Batman in front of me!
Take it from me. That passenger could wind up in the seat next to you.
Tell Me a Story: Inspiring, Touching, Funny and Heartfelt Stories from Life . . .
The longer the flight, the greater the chance of this happening. I boarded a flight after spending four days in the biting cold of Delhi. I settled down in my seat, removed my shoes, and switched on my Kindle.
My toes felt free and began to breathe again. Sighing deeply, I rested my head on the window pane and looked outside.
The fog was descending on the city. The flight was full. It was time to get out of the winter and go home.
The pilot announced, We are waiting for one more passenger, then we will be on our way to Mumbai. After his announcement ended, a lone figure appeared at the front end of the airplane.
A harried girl with a small suitcase and two bags hanging from either side of her thin body. She clutched her mobile phone in her left hand.
Her shawl kept slipping off her shoulder. She walked in, completely unaware of impatient pairs of eyes staring at her. God is my witness, I muttered.
Lo and behold, the steward guided her to the empty seat, next to me! The passengers on the aisle and window seat always silently wish that the middle seat remains unoccupied so that it can be used as a side table to dump books, phones, and so on. But we were not so lucky. She took forever to settle down in her seat. She put her carry-on and a shopping bag on her lap and looked for the seatbelt.
I was getting annoyed as she occupied all the space and her stuff spilled over to my side. Her last-minute shopping must have delayed her, I thought.
You are sitting on your seatbelt, I said. I am sorry. She got up holding all her stuff in both her hands. I retrieved her seatbelt. She fumbled with the belt but couldnt get it right. She was flying for the first time! I fastened her seatbelt and noticed she clutched an additional boarding pass in hand.
Where are you going? I asked. Tiruchirappalli, she said, looking at me. Her narrow eyes behind her glasses were moist and red. What time is that flight? She looked at her boarding pass, 5.
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Will there be a place at the Mumbai airport to charge my mobile phone? Yes, of course. Dont worry, you have six hours to kill, enough time to charge your mobile phone, I smiled. She could have taken a direct flight from Delhi to Trichy. She could have easily avoided spending six sleepless hours at the Mumbai airport. She was really clueless. She didnt catch the sarcasm in my voice. I ended the conversation and returned to my reading. Soon I could hear sobs. She had covered her face with her hands and her body was shaking.
She was crying. What is wrong? She removed her hands and looked at me with teary eyes. Oh dear. Suddenly, the fumbling and clumsy young woman disappeared and a little, sad and vulnerable girl tugged at me, a complete stranger. Such was her helplessness. I am so, so sorry. This is really sad but dont worry.
He will be all right. I let her cry. Her sadness and fear were personal.
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While she cried, I looked at the tiny lights on the ground outside the window. We were gaining altitude as the aircraft made a turn and found its course. Sadness turns strangers into friends. For the next hour she told me her story. Her name was Lisa and she lived in Tiruchirappalli with her older sister, mother and father. Her family had a history of lung disease. In her words Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease.
She was a nurse and worked in one of the hospitals in Delhi. She had been looking forward to her first break to visit her family during the Easter holidays. She had bought a new shirt for her father last Sunday.
Lisa was the baby of the family and her father missed her a lot. He would call her up several times a day. Her father would have his lunch and call her to check if she had had hers. He would do the same after tea and dinner as well. I noticed a sad smile on her face when she talked about her father. This afternoon, I received a call on my mobile phone and saw Daddy calling.
I took the call and said, Daddy, I had lunch. Lisa recalled. But the voice was her neighbours.
And her father was not well. He was waiting for the ambulance to take him to the hospital. Lisa narrated the sequence of the days events, My mother had gone to the market and my father was alone in the house. She cried again. I gently touched the back of her hand with my fingertips. Why didnt you consider working in your hometown? Hospitals in my town dont pay well. I came to Delhi six months ago to earn money so that I could pay for my fathers treatment.
I noticed that she kept taking her mobile phone out of her purse to check if there were any messages from home. She didnt know that mobile phones do not work at 35, feet above the ground. I didnt feel like telling her this fact. Facts sometimes damage hope. The airhostess came by with the food trolley and parked it next to our seat. Lisa declined the supper, but I was hungry. I ate quickly and asked the airhostess for some hot water in my cup.
I added sugar and slipped a tea bag in it. I gently forced Lisa to have the tea. She held the cup in both her hands and looked at me, Are you a Father?
She wanted to know if I was Catholic like her and if I was a priest. It was a perfect after-dinner conversation. The passenger in front of me had reclined his seat and almost put his head on my lap. The cabin lights were turned off.
The plane began descent to Mumbai. I love to take a night flight to Mumbai. From above, the city looks like a gorgeously lit-up planet. The plane landed, taxied and parked. I grabbed her suitcase while she carried the shopping bag and other stuff. I had my bag checked in, so we waited for it.
When you are not in a hurry, your bag will arrive in the first lot. My bag was the first to come. I snatched it off the carousel and looked for Lisa. She was standing near a pillar amidst her bags, talking on the phone and crying. She had cupped her mouth. This cry was different. Instantly, I knew. I stood next to her watching her cry.
She looked at me and shook her head. Every relationship, whether its eleven minutes long or seven years old, creates its own language with words, looks, gestures and half-finished sentences. Lisa, I am so sorry. Its really very tragic, I said. I offered to take her home and bring her back on time to catch her flight. She said she was fine and would wait at the airport. I looked for the airline staff to check if there were any flights earlier that she could take. There were none. I talked with two women staff members and shared Lisas situation.
They offered to take her to the departure lounge through a side door meant only for the employees. I went back to Lisa and gave my phone number just in case she needed any help.
I asked if I could pray for her. She nodded her head out of politeness. I prayed and when I opened my eyes I saw two women staff members standing with us with their eyes closed. They escorted Lisa to the door. As she walked away, I noticed her shopping bag. It was a well-known mens clothing brand. Her father needed a new shirt. People were coming to see him.
Why is your hand stretched out? I am waiting for the bombs to fall. Come back in at once. I take one last look at the starlit sky, and follow Ma dutifully into the underground bunker. My dream of seeing bombs falling out of the sky like pretty raindrops, remains unfulfilled. Overhead, one can hear a high-pitched whine. The planes are coming. Ma hurries and quickly pushes me down into the bunker. The year was We lived in Ambala, a town on the PunjabHaryana border. I had just turned three.
My dad was an officer in the Indian Army and our home was a whitewashed army bungalow, situated alongside several others, in a quiet lane in the Ambala Cantonment. A front garden with a large jamun tree dominating the grassy patch and a backyard with a chicken coop was my world then. I spent my days on the makeshift wooden swing tied to the jamun tree, or feeding the little chicks in the coop.
My mother tells me that I would sometimes wander out of the backyard and into the mustard fields beyond, causing much worry; I dont have any recollection of doing so. I do recall my third birthday though. My mother had made a cake in the shape of a doll and we had a small party with my friends from the neighbourhood, under the jamun tree. The memory is one of peace and tranquillity. All that changed in December.
In retaliation for what they called unnecessary interference in our national matters, Pakistan launched air strikes against India.
Our prime minister declared war and a massive operation was launched. Tremors were felt nationwide, and Ambala was in the middle of it all.
It was close to the armys Western Command centre, and chosen by the Pakistanis as a strategic target for air strikes; overnight, the sleepy town became a mystified participant in this juggernaut called war.
Last night, Baba went away. Ma did not know that I was awake, my eyes open as I lay in the baby cot. I saw him wear his uniform and his shoes.
He even stepped up to my cot and looked at me. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep. Then he went away. Ma told us the next morning that Baba had gone to war. Didi and Dada asked her a lot of questions. They were excited but Ma looked worriedlike when Dada does not come home on time. I wondered, why? Baba will fight and win.
Good people always do, like Hansel and Gretel burning the bad witch and living happily ever after with their dad. The next morning the Cantonment was a bed of frenetic activity. Trenches were being dug up in the lane in front of our house, and sandbags and barbed wire was being set in preparation for a sentry post.
A team from our station workshop arrived home to build an underground bunker in the backyard. All the houses were to have bunkers, and we were to immediately retreat to these when the air attack siren went on. The uncles from Babas office came with big spades and other paraphernalia.
They picked up our chicken coops and lined them along the backyard wall. The chicks were cheeping loudly, so I gave them some corn. Then I stood there and watched the uncles dig. Ma had told me not to disturb them. Soon they had dug a big hole in the ground.
Ma told us that they were making a bunker for us to live in. Right now it looked like a big chicken coop.
Then Ma called me in for lunch and a nap. When I went out in the evening, the hole was gone! There was grass there instead.
I asked Didi where the hole was, and she laughed.The Powerful Bond between People and Pets: Her narrow eyes behind her glasses were moist and red. A couple of more families had come down, mutely watching, with lit torches in hands, their nervous faces safely hidden in the dark.
I knew. They picked up our chicken coops and lined them along the backyard wall. I could not control myself. Forgiving myself became even more difficult when I read an excerpt from her journal: I could not stay there any longer.