People are to be Loved

Came across this email forward. Felt it suits our times completely... where are people are used more than loved. Genuine love, affection and respect have made way for getting people to get things done for us. Wanted to share this and make a small difference!

While a man was polishing his new car, his 4 yr old son picked up a stone and scratched lines on the side of the car.

In anger, the man took the child's hand and hit it many times not realizing he was using a wrench. At the hospital, the child lost all his fingers due to multiple fractures.

When the child saw his father......
with painful eyes he asked, 'Dad when will my fingers grow back?'

The man was so hurt and speechless; he went back to his car and kicked it a lot of times.
devastated by his own actions...... sitting in front of that car he looked at the scratches... the child had written 'LOVE YOU DAD'.

The next day that man committed suicide...

Anger and Love have no limits; choose the latter to have a beautiful, lovely life & remember this:

Things are to be used and people are to be loved.
The problem in today's world is
that people are used while things are loved.
Let's try always to keep this thought in mind:
Things are to be used,
People are to be loved.

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Have you seen your golden house yet?

Got this story as an email forward. Food for thought I must say!!!

the house with the golden windows

The little girl lived in a small, very simple, poor house on a hill and as she grew she would play in the small garden and as she grew she was able to see over the garden fence and across the valley to a wonderful house high on the hill – and this house had golden windows, so golden and shining that the little girl would dream of how magical it would be to grow up and live in a house with golden windows instead of an ordinary house like hers.

And although she loved her parents and her family, she yearned to live in such a golden house and dreamed all day about how wonderful and exciting it must feel to live there.

When she got to an age where she gained enough skill and sensibility to go outside her garden fence, she asked her mother is she could go for a bike ride outside the gate and down the lane. After pleading with her, her mother finally allowed her to go, insisting that she kept close to the house and didn’t wander too far. The day was beautiful and the little girl knew exactly where she was heading! Down the lane and across the valley, she rode her bike until she got to the gate of the golden house across on the other hill.

As she dismounted her bike and leaned it against the gate post, she focused on the path that lead to the house and then on the house itself…and was so disappointed as she realized all the windows were plain and rather dirty, reflecting nothing other than the sad neglect of the house that stood derelict.

So sad she didn’t go any further and turned, heartbroken as she remounted her bike … As she glanced up she saw a sight to amaze her… there across the way on her side of the valley was a little house and its windows glistened golden… as the sun shone on her little home.

She realized that she had been living in her golden house and all the love and care she found there was what made her home the ‘golden house’. Everything she dreamed was right there in front of her nose!

The little girl's story higlights the fact that we tend to, more often than not, take what we have for granted. We tend to conveniently overlook what we have and how much it matters to us. The grass on the other side of the fence always seems greener. What is not ours appears to be bigger and brighter than what we have just earned.

It pays to be ambitious in life with newer milestones being set everyday. But it pays even more to spare a few moments to celebrate what we have already achieved.

The little girl in the story represents each one of us. I am only hoping each one of us have seen our golden homes... shining back at us with a smile :)

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Thankyou Irena

In May 2008, a 98 year-old Polish lady named Irena Sendler died.

During WWII, she got permission to work in the Warsaw Ghetto, as a Plumbing/Sewer specialist but she had an ulterior motive. She KNEW of the Nazi's plans for the Jews. Irena smuggled infants out in the bottom of the tool box she carried and, in the back of her truck, she had a burlap sack for the larger children. She had a dog in the back of the truck that she trained to bark when the Nazi soldiers let her in and out of the ghetto. The soldiers wanted nothing to do with the dog and the barking covered the noise of the children. She managed to smuggle out and save 2,500 children before she was caught; the Nazis broke both her legs and her arms and beat her severely.

Irena kept a record of the names of all the children that she smuggled out which she kept in a glass jar buried under a tree in herback yard. After the War, she tried to locate any parents that had survived and reunited the families. Most, of course, had been gassed but she helped those children to be placed into foster family homes or adopted.

In 2007, Irena was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize…

She LOST.

Al Gore won for doing a slide show on Global Warming!!!!

***********************************************************

I got this article couple of days back by email. My heart goes out in appreciation for Irena. I'm not sure how much the Nobel Prize would have even meant for a lady as selfless as Irena... but I strongly feel those who take a call about the Nobel Prize need to take a few moments off to think if they'd ever do something as selfless!!!

We may not necessarily get our due credit for the efforts we put in at work or the good we do as humans... does that mean we stop doing well or being good??? Does expecting appreciation and recognition take away the essence of what we're doing???

I'm not sure... I'm confused...

For the moment I'm all praise for Irena... hats off to you lady!!! May we have more of your type...


PS: this post's for my friend kavitha... thanks for pushing me to make sure I publish something asap :)...

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This time I will remember

(Another poem I came across that once again reflects what we all feel about what happened at Bombay. We want answers. This time we are ready to take that extra step to not forget this incident. To take that extra step to not move ahead in life and call it the 'spirit' of Bombay. To take that extra step and ensure a safer tomorrow for ourselves and our generations to come. I found this poem written by Sanjay Trehan on NDTV.com)

This time I will remember
A mother caressing her dead son's forehead
Preparing him pre-maturely for his final destination

This time I will remember
Innocent diners lined up and shot at point blank
Caught in somebody else's war

This time I will remember
Blood splattered walls with grotesque imagery
Freshly burnt flesh shattered mirrors and broken lives

This time I will remember
A mother and her two young kids charred beyond recognition
While the Dad put public good ahead of the personal

This time I will remember
Gun totting terrorists creating mayhem on the streets
Target practicing at a railway station

This time I will remember
Backpackers at a cafe or receptionists at a hotel
Reduced to pieces for no reason

This time I will remember
How like vultures our politicians encircle dead bodies
And feed on the rotting flesh

This time I will remember
How netas usurp Z class security at our expense
And let us be killed like flies

This time I will remember
How our oily babus clamour for promotions
While a plane for commandos is buried in files

This time I will not forget
I will let my wounds fester
I will continue to rage against these parasites
I will demand accountability
I will not allow countless lives to be broken
I will not allow politicians to divide us

This time I will remember
And I will prevail.

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is baar nahi...

(Lyricist Prasoon Joshi wrote this poem after the Mumbai terror attacks. Says the ad guru and film lyricist, "I believe it should reach as many people as possible because it is our collective pain and voice". I was moved by what he's written... it's truly what every one in Bombay and the rest of India feel... poet or non-poet!!!)

Is baar jab woh choti si bachchi
mere paas apni kharonch le kar aayegi
Main usey phoo phoo kar nahin behlaoonga
Panapney doonga uski tees ko
Is baar nahin

Is baar jab main chehron par dard likha dekhoonga
Nahin gaoonga geet peeda bhula dene wale
Dard ko risney doonga,utarney doonga andar gehrey
Is baar nahin

Is baar main na marham lagaoonga
Na hi uthaoonga rui ke phahey
Aur na hi kahoonga ki tum aankein band karlo,gardan udhar kar lo main dawa lagata hoon
Dekhney doonga sabko hum sabko khuley nangey ghaav
Is baar nahin

Is baar jab uljhaney dekhoonga,chatpatahat dekhoonga
Nahin daudoonga uljhee door lapetney
Uljhaney doonga jab tak ulajh sake
Is baar nahin

Is baar karm ka hawala de kar nahin uthaoonga auzaar
Nahin karoonga phir se ek nayee shuruaat
Nahin banoonga misaal ek karmyogi ki
Nahin aaney doonga zindagi ko aasani se patri par
Utarney doonga usey keechad main,tedhey medhey raston pe
Nahin sookhney doonga deewaron par laga khoon
Halka nahin padney doonga uska rang
Is baar nahin banney doonga usey itna laachaar
Ki paan ki peek aur khoon ka fark hi khatm ho jaye
Is baar nahin

Is baar ghawon ko dekhna hai
Gaur se
Thoda lambe wakt tak
Kuch faisley
Aur uskey baad hausley
Kahin toh shuruat karni hi hogi
Is baar yahi tay kiya hai

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To all our wonderful mums...

(An excellent poem I got by email. It focuses on the greatness of the greatest ever personality Almighty created for human beings and other living creatures : MOTHERS. Hope this poem serves as an eye-opener for all of us...)

I was a just-born and she was thirty-one,

Though we were we, we were one.

I would cry out in Latin and she would respond in Greek,

I would learn nothing but she never got tired to teach.

I was surrounded by monsters eager to pull my cheek,

but they would vanish the moment i was wet and weep.

She would come running and hold me in her arms,

as if i had won the contest of the charms.

Now I was able to walk and chew,

hey, i was two.

I and she could now understand each other,

i was her everything and she needed no other.

I would try to walk and fall down,

But knowing she was with me, the fear of getting hurt was now gone.

We still could not converse that effectively,

But she would understand my needs so easily.

I could now roam about free,

because now i have turned three.

I was ready to join a new world,

my academic life was now gonna mould.

She would dress me as best as a prince,

but when i would come back, she would need at least an hour to rinse.

I was now able to talk,

I was a ferry and she was my dock.

I still remember the child, whose shirt I had tore,

Hey buddy, i have turned four.

I now came home a little late,

Nevertheless finding her waiting at the gate.

She would hug me and carry me in her arms,

it felt like flying through the farms.

We now did the homework together,

i would spoil the home and she used to work.

Years passed and now i was fifteen,

and with each year i would forget to lean.

I wouldn't care for what she said,

because now i had become mean.

She would ask me to study for a good future,

but i was busy in a different culture.

Now i had many shes in my life,

i dreamed of having one of them as my wife.

I changed a lot which she did not teach,

She would try to hug me but i was out of reach.

She still waited for me at the gate,

but i would look at her with utmost hate.

She would be awake till late in the night,

because i wasn't home, i was in a fight.

She had so much to scold, but she never did say,

hoping to find me better the next day.

Time went on and now i am grown,

lost in the world of my own.
I and she, between us have a river,

I have left her for my career.

When i was young, for me, she sacrificed her ambitions,

but i don't care, i now have my own mission.

I am not with her now, i am in a different city,

she is so old now but i don't even pity.

She needs me now but i am nowhere to find,

in the race for appraisal, i have become blind.

In a few years from now, i will be two,

there will be in my life someone new.

Then i'll forget even to bother,

I am her son and she my Mother.

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Daddy Prize

(a touching tale by Robert Fulghum)

The Cardboard box is marked "The Good Stuff." As I write, I can see the box where it is stored on a high shelf in my studio. I like beingable to see it when I look up. The box contains those odds and ends of personal treasures that have survived many bouts ofclean-it-out-and-throw-it-away that seize me from time to time. Thebox has passed through the screening done as I've moved from house tohouse and hauled stuff from attic to attic. A thief looking into the box would not take anything – he couldn't get a dime for any of it.But if the house ever catches on fire, the box goes with me when Irun.One of the keepsakes in the box is a small paper bag. Lunch size.Though the top is sealed with duct tape, staples, and several paperclips, there is a ragged rip in one side through which the contentsmay be seen.

This particular lunch sack has been in my care for maybe fourteenyears. But it really belongs to my daughter, Molly. Soon after shecame of school age, she became an enthusiastic participant in packingthe morning lunches for herself, her brothers, and me. Each bag got a share of sandwiches, apples, milk money, and sometimes a note or atreat. One morning Molly handed me two bags as I was about to leave.One regular lunch sack. And the one with the duct tape and staples andpaper clips. "Why two bags?" "The other one is something else." "What's in it?" "Just some stuff – take it with you." Not wanting tohold court over the matter, I stuffed both sacks into my briefcase,kissed the child, and rushed off.

At midday, while hurriedly scarfing down my real lunch, I tore openMolly's bag and shook out the contents. Two hair ribbons, three smallstones, a plastic dinosaur, a pencil stub, a tiny seashell, two animalcrackers, a marble, a used lipstick, a small doll, two chocolatekisses, and thirteen pennies.

I smile. How charming. Rising to hustle off to all the importantbusiness of the afternoon, I swept the desk clean – into thewastebasket – leftover lunch, Molly's junk, and all. There wasn'tanything in there I needed.

That evening Molly came to stand beside me while I was reading thepaper. "Where's the bag?" "What bag?" "You know, the one I gave youthis morning." "I left it at the office, why?" "I forgot to put this not in it." She hands over the note. "Besides, I want it back?" "Why?""Those are my things in the sack, Daddy, the ones I really like – Ithought you might like to play with them, but now I want them back. You didn't loose the bag, did you, Daddy?" Tears puddled in her eyes."Oh no, I just forgot to bring it home." I lied. "Bring it tomorrow,okay?" "Sure thing – don't worry." AS she hugged my neck with relief, I unfolded the note that had not got into the sack: "I love youDaddy."

Oh

And also – uh-oh.

I looked long at the face of my child.

She was right- what was in the sack was "something else."

Molly had given me her treasures. All that a seven-year-old held dear.Love in a paper sack. And I had missed it. Not only missed it, but hadthrown it in the wastebasket because "there wasn't anything in there I needed." Dear God.

It was a long trip back to the office. But there was nothing else tobe done. So I went. The pilgrimage of a penitent. Just ahead of thejanitor, I picked up the wastebasket and poured the contents on mydesk. I was sorting it all out when the janitor came in to do his chores. "Lose something?" "Yeah, my mind." "It's probably in there,all right. What's it look like and I'll help you find it?" I startednot to tell him. But I couldn't feel any more of a fool than I was already in fact, so I told him. He didn't laugh. He smiled. "I gotkids, too." So the brotherhood of fools searched the t rash and foundthe jewels and he smiled at me and I smiled at him. You are never alone in these things. Never.

After washing the mustard off the dinosaurs and spraying the wholething with breath-freshener to kill the smell of onions, I carefullysmoothed out the wadded ball of brown paper into a semifunctional bagand put the treasures inside and carried the whole thing home gingerly, like and injured kitten. The next evening I returned it toMolly, no questions asked, no explanations offered. The bag didn'tlook so good but the stuff was all there and that's what counted.After dinner I asked her to tell me about the stuff in the sack, and so she took it all out a piece at a time and placed the objects in arow on the dinning room table. It took a long time to tell. Everythinghad a story a memory, or was attached to dreams and imaginary friends.Fairies had brought some of the things. And I had given her thechocolate kisses, and she had kept them for when she needed them. Imanaged to say, "I see" very wisely several times in the telling. Andas a matter of fact, I did see.

To my surprise, Molly gave the bag to me once again several dayslater. Same ratty bag. Same stuff inside. I felt forgiven. Andtrusted. And loved. And a little more comfortable wearing the title ofFather. Over several months the bag went with me from time to time. It was never clear to me why I did or did not get it on a given day. Ibegan to think of it as the Daddy Prize and tried to be good the nightbefore so I might be given it the next morning.

In time Molly turned her attention to other things...found othertreasures…lost interest in the game.. grew up. Something. Me? I wasleft holding the bag. She gave it to me one morning and never askedfor its return. And so I have it still.

Sometimes I think of all the times in this sweet life when I must havemissed the affection I was being given. A friend calls this "standingknee-deep in the river and dying of thirst."

So the worn paper sack is there in the box. Left over from a time whena child said. "Here- this is the best I've got. Take it – it's yours.Such as I have, give I to thee."

I missed it the first time. But it's my bag now.

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A carrot, an egg and a cup of coffee...

(a beautiful article I got as an email)

You will never look at a cup of coffee the same way again........

A young woman went to her mother and told her about her life and how things were so hard for her. She did not know how she was going to make it and wanted to give up. She was tired of fighting and struggling. It seemed as one problem was solved, a new one arose.

Her mother took her to the kitchen. She filled three pots with water and placed each on a high fire. Soon the pots came to boil. In the first placed carrots, in the second she placed eggs, and in the last she placed ground coffee beans. She let them sit and boil, without saying a word.

In about twenty minutes she turned off the burners. She fished the carrots out and placed them in a bowl. She pulled the eggs out and placed them in a bowl. Then she ladled the coffee out and placed it in a bowl.

Turning to her daughter, she asked, "Tell me what you see." Carrots, eggs, and coffee," she replied.

Her mother brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. She did and noted that they were soft. The mother then asked the daughter to take an egg and break it. After pulling off the shell, she observed the hard boiled egg.

Finally, the mother asked the daughter to sip the coffee. The daughter smiled as she tasted its rich aroma. The daughter then asked, "What does it mean?"

Her mother explained that each of these objects had faced the same adversity..boiling water. Each reacted differently. The carrot went in strong, hard, and unrelenting. However, after being subjected to the boiling water, it softened and became weak.

The egg had been fragile. Its thin outer shell had protected its liquid interior, but after sitting through the boiling water, its inside became hardened.

The ground coffee beans were unique, however. After they were in the boiling water, they had changed the water.

Which are you?" she asked her daughter. "When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?"

Think of this: Which am I?
Am I the carrot that seems strong, but with pain and adversity do I wilt and become soft and lose my strength?

Am I the egg that starts with a malleable heart, but changes with the heat? Did I have a fluid spirit, but after a death, a breakup, a financial hardship or some other trial, have I become hardened and stiff? Does my shell look the same, but on the inside am I bitter and tough with a stiff spirit and hardened heart?

Or am I like the coffee bean? The bean actually changes the hot water, the very circumstance that brings the pain. When the water gets hot, it releases the fragrance and flavor. If you are like the bean, when things are at their worst, you get better and change the situation around you.
When the hour is the darkest and trials are their greatest, do you elevate yourself to another level? How do you handle adversity?

Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?
May you have enough happiness to make you sweet, enough trials to make you strong, enough sorrow to keep you human and enough hope to make you happy.

The happiest of people don't necessarily have the best of everything; they just make the most of everything that comes along their way. The brightest future will always be based on a forgotten past; you can't go forward in life until you let go of your past failures and heartaches.
When you were born, you were crying and everyone around you was smiling. Live your life so at the end, you're the one who is smiling and everyone around you is crying.

May we all be COFFEE.

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