There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart. - Jane Austen
Amidst the lofty high-rises and mundane offices is the offing. A simple retreat, missed a number of times for no reasons of particular merits. It is the unfinished business and it lingers on. The itch that persists past its usual date. And they say you rid the itch by satisfying it.
The ideas of ridding the itch bring you that little gleam. But the key to it stands lost in sands of times. Another layer is burying it down every passing second and thus is becoming remote - the idea of finishing the long standing business.
Often the venue is half the detail, the true worth being much more intangible. Just picture that winter sunshine, mild breeze, that mug of coffee or the wet sand on the beach, a nightly ghost story and certainly that silky bed sheet on a cold morning... You crave not the 32nd milestone, but the golden-black locks that blow in your face, certain sea of calm to paraphrase...
Do you know the
difference between a beautiful woman and a charming one? A beauty is a
woman you notice, a charmer is one who notices you.
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/a/adlaieste114102.html?src=t_beautiful
Do you know the
difference between a beautiful woman and a charming one? A beauty is a
woman you notice, a charmer is one who notices you.
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/a/adlaieste114102.html?src=t_beautiful
If the path be beautiful, let us not ask where it leads. - Anatole France
The cheapest property on a standard Monopoly board is incidentally the most practical one. It often is available for free and it yields good returns. It is an easy and workable investment, low-maintenance and promises good and safe growth. It might very well enrich your pockets.
The life lesson it gives is that while the high price and desire for Mayfair and Park Lane are attractive and charming, being over-invested in these lofty goals beyond reasonable risks is not worth the pursuit. The chase is addictive and might turn tumultuous, irrational as most passions.
Measuring pros and cons is very business-like; unemotional. But, so is most modern life. It is but bland and high ideals are often butt of jokes. You seek and chase the big dreams, often ignoring numerous small and benign opportunities.
Old Kent Road is the escape you seek and the bargain is, often, not bad, but essentially heart-breaking. The beginnings are often humble. And the high prizes come in due course... So is the never-dying hope for Mayfair...
With Love To The Monopoly Board (metaphorical and philosophical one)...
Old man pours him milk, breadcrumbs dipped in it. Early morning pedigree.. 7:20 am north-bound mail just departed 15 minutes ago. Peeling oranges, he instructs Chotu to arrange bread on display and sprinkle water to settle the dust on the street. A red Coca-Cola truck parks in front, laden with bottles - black, orange, green and white. Marigolds plucked fresh being sewn into garlands...
An hour later, sun has risen up in the sky. Old wrinkly hands carefully oil his young body, working oil deep in his skin. Sun has started burning their skin, but towering old figure commands him to finish the exercises. Flesh of his young bony figure yearns for touch of water. Burnished he sweats hard - the regular Sunday routine. It is now that he doesn't mind those silent moments of being drowned into water, mornings that he would wake up underwater. The magic touch of water comes in due course, followed religiously by buttered Paranthas.
By afternoon, the old man is dwelling on a bed, clad in his trademark white attire - a shirt and a lungi. His moustache glorious and charming. Turban sitting pretty on his perennially bald head. Young lad adores the crisp touch of his white shirt and bony body, looking forward to the stories from eternity. Stories of Mughals, Marathas, Rajputs, but mostly stories from Lahore, stories from lost Punjab and stories of adoring English masters.
He would hear of classrooms full of Musalmans and Sikhs, reading Urdu and Sanskrit, together. Sikh villages surrounded by Muslim populations and vice-versa. Memories of a rickety truck distributing ice in Lahore and 20 miles around, leaving dust trails along the Grand Trunk Road. He would tell him, "Musalman aurataan dudh vargiyan chittiya si" (Muslim women were white as milk). Long tales of his pursuits and how he managed to please Maulwis (teachers in Madrasa) with intellect unusual of a Jatt. The boy was particularly amazed to hear of Mughal lineage, stories of Harems and how Aurangzeb taxed Hindus and imprisoned his own father, viciously with a clear view of Taj. These were not stories from text books, these were oral stories generations told each other.
Out of curiosity, he would ask him to write "Delhi" in Urdu. The result was pure art, a calligraphic imprint. Sifar, he learnt, was how zero is called in Urdu. So much more seductive than any pronunciation in any other language. Amazingly, he didn't hear much negative about English, people or language, from old man's Punjabi mouth. Cheerful mentions of English madam wishing to take him to England and tears she had when India was being left behind. Little guy had often wondered how England would have been... While English dream was never fulfilled, Fortunes and toils left behind in the land of Five Waters. But, little could anyone complain, it was but shared fate of everyone they knew.
Delhi to begin was a refugee camp. Societies having little choice, but to flourish. Coming together in honeycombs spread across city, the beginnings were needy and benign. Fortunes were founded on qualities of perseverance, collaboration, spirit and vigour. We could say it was a Phoenix...
