IS THAT YOUR HAT?

Good Morning!!! IS THAT YOUR HAT? Around the Year with Emmet Fox December 14 Why has not your prayer been answered; Perhaps it has. Seemingly enough, it often happens that we receive an answer to our prayer and do not recognize it. Some of us have had demonstrations in our possession for weeks or months and have not known it. This mistake is caused by outlining. We have unconsciously decided that the demonstration must take a particular form, and because that form does not appear, we think we have failed. Actually, we probably have an even better demonstration than we expected, but for the moment we are blind to it. If a boy prayed for a man's hat (because he thought it would look well on him or make him grown up) he would not get it; since divine Wisdom knows that he could not wear it. He would get a good hat of the sort that would be useful to him. We often pray for things for which we are not really prepared; but if we pray scientifically this will not matter, since Creative Intelligence will send us the thing that we really need. Seek God for His own sake, for the joy of being with Him, and demonstrations will take care of themselves. “I will be glad in the Lord” Psalm 104:34

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How was Kartikeya born?

How was Kartikeya born? Once, there was a demon named Tarkasura who had recieved a boon from Lord Shiva that his son could only kill him. Bholenath granted him the boon and Tarkasura wreacked havoc in the three worlds. Lord Shiva recently had just got married to Sati Devi. It was getting obvious that Sati and Shiva would have a son but later Sati immolated herself. Tarkasura rejoiced and again started troubling the Devas. Sati then took rebirth as Mata Parvati and married Shiva. Now, Indra along with the other Devas were getting worried about Tarkasura. Indra went to Mount Kailash and told his agony. Then, Lord Shiva with his third eye gave birth to six children. He sent these children to Ganga. However, Parvati said that she would only raise one child. Then, Parvati mixed these 6 children together and a son named Kartikeya was born. He was given a Vel (spear) by his mother. Kartikeya and Tarkasur engaged in a battle where Tarkasur exhausted all his weapons against the son of Parvati. They both fought for a long time until Kartikeya pierced Tarakasur’s heart with his spear, killing him. The gods got really happy and declared Murugan as the general of Devas and god of war. Kartikeya later got married to Valli and Devasena.

Good morning… you will love this forward… take time to read.

Good morning… you will love this forward… take time to read. My son called the police because he thought I had been kidnapped. He was tracking my phone location, and when he saw the blue dot blinking in the middle of the University District at 2:00 AM on a Tuesday, he panicked. He screamed into the phone, "Dad! Who has you? Are you okay?" I laughed, taking a sip of cheap domestic beer. "Nobody has me, Robert. I’m just waiting for my turn at the microphone. They’re playing John Denver next." My name is Frank. I am 74 years old. And three months ago, I committed the most beautiful act of insanity of my entire life. I sold my four-bedroom suburban house—the one with the manicured lawn and the homeowner’s association fees—and I moved into a run-down, three-bedroom apartment with three college students. My family thought I had lost my mind. We sat down for a "crisis meeting" at a diner. My daughter-in-law, looking at me with that pitying gaze people reserve for toddlers and the senile, said, "Frank, be reasonable. This is a mid-life crisis, just thirty years too late." I looked her in the eye and said, "No, Karen. This isn’t a crisis of age. It’s a crisis of silence." You see, in America, we don’t talk enough about the silence. After my wife, Sarah, passed away two years ago, that big house in the suburbs didn’t feel like an achievement anymore. It felt like a tomb. It was as large as a stadium and as quiet as a library on a Sunday morning. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was heavy. It sat on my chest. I would watch the dust motes dance in the afternoon sun and realize the only voice I’d heard in three days was the news anchor on the television. I was dying. Not from heart disease or diabetes, but from the quiet. So, I put up the "For Sale" sign. I sold the riding mower, the formal dining set nobody sat at, and the china cabinet full of plates we never used. I packed two suitcases and answered an ad on a community board: “Roommate wanted. Must pay rent on time. No drama.” When I showed up at the door, the three kids—Jackson, Mia, and Leo—stared at me like I was a health inspector. Jackson, a tall kid with messy hair and a hoodie, blinked. "Uh, sir? Are you... the landlord?" "No," I said, handing him a six-pack of craft soda. "I’m Frank. I’m the new roommate. And I promise my check clears faster than yours." The first week was a culture shock. It was chaos. There was music thumping through the thin walls at midnight. There were shoes everywhere except the shoe rack. The kitchen sink looked like an archaeological dig site of dirty dishes from the Jurassic period. They were suspicious of me. On the first night, sitting in the living room on a couch that smelled vaguely of corn chips, Leo asked, "So, Frank... you got any... you know, issues? You gonna tell on us if we have people over?" I leaned back. "Kids, I survived the seventies. I’ve seen things that would make your hair curl. Unless you’re building a bomb or hurting someone, I didn't see a thing. But if you leave a milk carton empty in the fridge, we’re going to have words." Slowly, the dynamic shifted. I realized I wasn’t just the "old guy." I was the Keeper of the Order and the Master of the Skillet. These kids... they are so stressed. That’s something older folks don’t get. We think they’re lazy. They aren’t lazy; they are terrified. They are drowning in student loans, working gig jobs, and trying to pass classes. They eat instant noodles not because they love them, but because they cost fifty cents. I decided to intervene. One Tuesday, Jackson came home from a double shift, looking like a ghost. I had a pot roast slow-cooking for six hours. The smell hit him the moment he walked in. Real food. Meat, potatoes, carrots, rosemary. "Sit," I commanded. He ate three plates in silence. When he looked up, he had tears in his eyes. "My mom used to make this," he whispered. That was the breaking point. I became the "House Pop." I wake them up when they sleep through their alarms for 8:00 AM exams. I taught Mia how to negotiate her car repair bill so the mechanic didn't rip her off. I showed Leo that you can actually iron a shirt instead of buying a new one. In exchange, they dragged me into the 21st century. They taught me how to use the "tap to pay" on my phone so I don't hold up the line counting change. They installed a music app for me and made me a playlist called Frank’s Jams. They taught me that "bet" means "yes" and "cap" means "lie." I used to think the younger generation was glued to their screens because they were antisocial. I was wrong. They are glued to them because they are searching for connection in a world that feels incredibly lonely. One Friday night, they told me to put on my best shirt. "We’re going out, Frank. No excuses." They took me to a dive bar near campus. Sticky floors, neon lights, and a crowd of twenty-somethings. When we walked in, Mia shouted to the bouncer, "He’s with us! He’s the OG!" "Don't worry," Jackson said, handing me a drink. "It’s karaoke night." I haven't sung in public since Sarah’s sister’s wedding in 1998. But the energy... it was infectious. The noise wasn't annoying; it was electricity. It was life. When they called my name, I walked up to the stage. I didn't choose a modern song. I chose John Denver, "Take Me Home, Country Roads." I started shaky. But then I looked at the crowd. I saw Jackson, Mia, and Leo holding up their phones, grinning like idiots. I belted it out. “Country roads, take me home...” The whole bar—two hundred college kids—stopped drinking and started singing with me. They wrapped their arms around each other, swaying. For three minutes, there was no generation gap. There was no "Boomer" or "Zoomer." There was just us, singing about belonging. Someone filmed it. Apparently, I am now "viral" on the video app. It has 400,000 likes. The top comment says: “I miss my grandpa so much. This guy is the vibe.” I pay my share of the rent. I do the dishes because I wake up earlier than everyone else. And once a week, I leave a hundred-dollar bill in the jar on the counter. I told them it’s for "Emergency Pizza Funds." They don't know that I know they use it to pay for textbooks. My son still asks me when I’m going to move into a "sensible" senior living community. He talks about safety, about stairs, about blood pressure monitors. I tell him no. "But Dad," he asks, "Don't you miss the house? Don't you miss the memories?" I look around the apartment. There’s a textbook on the floor. There’s a half-eaten bag of chips on the table. Someone is laughing in the other room about a bad date. "No," I tell him. "The house held my memories, Robert. But memories are looking backward. Here, I have the noise. I have the mess. I have the future." I am 74 years old. My joints hurt when it rains, and I take three different pills in the morning. But tonight, we are making tacos, and Mia needs advice on her art project, and Jackson needs to learn how to tie a tie for an interview. I am not busy dying anymore. I am too busy living. If you are sitting in a big, silent house, waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for permission to live... sell it. Find the noise. We aren't meant to fade away in the quiet. We are meant to sing "Country Roads" until our voices crack, surrounded by people who call us by our name, not our age.

Why does my husband love me more after my infidelity?

Why does my husband love me more after my infidelity? He doesn’t. It’s called hysterical bonding. It’s a studied phenomenon between couples after infidelity that lasts up to a couple of years where you’re seemingly having more sex and connecting. When the hormones come crashing back down, and he starts working through his mind, you’ll feel more distance than you did before the affair. It’s a formal drawn-out ending to your relationship. It isn’t healthy or unique and is based on a feeling of loss. This is why most marriages end 2–5 years after affair discovery. Much better for those involved to end it earlier to spare the wasted time. For those who stay, I’ve not met a couple who doesn’t have a permanent wall between them. Their marriage outwardly looks like any other.

A quiet morning in Coonoor.

A quiet morning in Coonoor. President Dr Abdul Kalam walks into the Military Hospital. No entourage. No cameras. Just intent. He’s heard that Field Marshal Sam Manekshaw is admitted there. Sam Bahadur, the man who once led India to victory with unshakable courage. Kalam steps into the room. Sam lies in bed, frail yet dignified. The President asks gently, “Are you comfortable here? Is there anything I can help with? Any complaints?” Sam smiles. “Yes… I have one complaint.” Kalam moves closer, concerned. “What is your complaint?” Sam replies, with the kind of line only legends can deliver, “The most respected President of my country is standing before me, and I cannot rise to salute him.” Silence. Kalam holds Sam’s hand. Their eyes fill. Two giants connected by respect, not rank. As Kalam prepares to leave, Sam quietly mentions something he never demanded, the arrears of a Field Marshal’s pension that had never reached him. Within a week, a Defence Secretary lands in Wellington with a cheque of nearly ₹1.3 crore. Kalam had acted without delay. And in the final frame of this unforgettable story, Sam donates the entire amount to the Army Relief Fund. Real heroes never ask for respect. They simply earn it.

“The power of love

“The power of love The little girl asked if I could be her daddy until she dies but I refused because of one thing. Those were her exact words. Seven years old, sitting in a hospital bed with tubes in her nose, and she looked up at me—a complete stranger, a scary-looking biker—and asked if I'd pretend to be her father for however long she had left. I'm a 58-year-old biker named Mike. I've got tattoos covering both arms, a beard down to my chest, and I ride with the Defenders Motorcycle Club. I volunteer at Children's Hospital every Thursday reading books to sick kids. It's something our club started doing fifteen years ago after one of our brother's granddaughters spent months in pediatric oncology. Most kids are scared of me at first. I get it. I'm big and loud and look like I should be in a motorcycle gang movie, not a children's hospital. But once I start reading, they forget about how I look. They just hear the story. That's what I thought would happen with Amara. I walked into room 432 on a Thursday afternoon in March. The nurse had warned me this was a new patient. Seven years old. Stage four neuroblastoma. No family visits in the three weeks she'd been admitted. "No family at all?" I'd asked. The nurse's face had gone tight. "Her mother abandoned her here. Dropped her off for treatment and never came back. We've been trying to reach her for weeks. CPS is involved now but Amara doesn't have any other family. She's going into foster care once she's stable enough to leave." "And if she's not stable enough?" The nurse looked away. "Then she'll die here. Alone." I stood outside room 432 for a full minute before I could make myself go in. I've read to dying kids before. It never gets easier. But a kid dying completely alone? That was a new kind of hell. I knocked softly and pushed open the door. "Hey there, I'm Mike. I'm here to read you a story if you'd like." The little girl in the bed turned to look at me. She had the biggest brown eyes I'd ever seen. Her hair was gone from chemo. Her skin had that grayish tone that means the body is struggling. But she smiled when she saw me. "You're really big," she said. Her voice was small and raspy. "Yeah, I get that a lot." I held up the book I'd brought. "I've got a story about a giraffe who learns to dance. Want to hear it?" She nodded. So I sat down in the chair next to her bed and started reading. I was halfway through the book when she interrupted me. "Mr. Mike?" "Yeah, sweetheart?" "Do you have any kids?" The question hit me hard. "I had a daughter. She passed away when she was sixteen. Car accident. That was twenty years ago." Amara was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, "Do you miss being a daddy?" My throat tightened. "Every single day, honey." "My daddy left before I was born," she said matter-of-factly. "And my mama brought me here and never came back. The nurses say she's not coming back ever." I didn't know what to say to that. What do you say to a seven-year-old who's been abandoned while dying? Amara kept talking. "The social worker lady said I'm going to go live with a foster family when I get better. But I heard the doctors talking. They don't think I'm getting better." "Sweetheart—" "It's okay," she said. Her voice was so calm. Too calm for a seven-year-old. "I know I'm dying. Everyone thinks I don't understand but I do. I heard them say the cancer is everywhere now. They said maybe six months. Maybe less." I set the book down. "Amara, I'm so sorry." She looked at me with those huge eyes. "Mr. Mike, can I ask you something?" "Anything, honey." She looked at me with those huge eyes. "Mr. Mike, can I ask you something?" "Anything, honey." "Will you be my daddy… until I die?" The room went still. Even the monitors seemed to hush. I felt every one of my fifty-eight years settle on my shoulders like lead. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out at first. All I could see was my own daughter’s face at sixteen, laughing in the rear-view mirror the last time I ever saw her alive. All I could feel was the hole that had lived in my chest ever since. Amara didn’t blink. She just waited, small and brave and impossibly calm. I wanted to say yes. God help me, I wanted to say yes so badly my bones ached. But I was just a rough old biker who showed up once a week with picture books. I rode loud, drank hard, and still woke up some nights yelling my dead daughter’s name into an empty house. What did I know about being anyone’s father again, even for a little while? I swallowed the rock in my throat. “Honey… I’d be honored. But I gotta be honest with you—I’m not very good at this daddy thing anymore. I might mess it up.” Her whole face lit up like sunrise. “That’s okay. You can practice on me.” And just like that, I had a daughter again. The nurses cried when I told them. The social worker cried harder when I said I wanted temporary custody, medical guardianship, whatever paperwork existed that would let me take her home if she ever got strong enough, or stay by her side every single day if she didn’t. The club showed up in force—twenty-five Harleys rumbling into the hospital parking lot, scaring the security guards half to death until they saw the stuffed animals strapped to every bike. We turned room 432 into something that didn’t look like a hospital room anymore. One of the guys brought a pink bedsheet set his old lady had bought by mistake. Another brought a tiny leather vest with “Daddy’s Girl” stitched on the back. Somebody hung fairy lights. Somebody else smuggled in a puppy that definitely wasn’t allowed (just for ten minutes, but Amara laughed so hard she had to go back on oxygen). Every Thursday became every day. I read her the giraffe book until we both had it memorized, then we moved on to Charlotte’s Web, then Harry Potter. When her hands got too weak to hold the book, I held it for both of us. When the pain got bad, I climbed into that little bed and let her fall asleep on my chest while I hummed old Johnny Cash songs my own daughter used to love. The doctors kept shaking their heads, saying they couldn’t explain it. Her scans weren’t getting better, exactly—but they weren’t getting worse as fast as they should have. Six months became nine. Nine became a year. On the morning of her eighth birthday, Amara woke up and said, clear as day, “Daddy, I dreamed I was running. My legs worked and everything.” I kissed the top of her fuzzy head. “Then we’re gonna make that happen, baby girl.” Two weeks later the oncologist called me into his office, eyes wide, holding films up to the light like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “The tumors in her spine… they’re shrinking. I’ve never—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “We’re seeing significant regression. I don’t know how to explain it.” I knew how. It was love. Plain, stubborn, loud, tattooed love. Eighteen months after the day she asked a scary biker to be her daddy “until she died,” Amara walked out of that hospital on her own two legs, holding my hand, wearing her tiny leather vest and a grin bigger than the sky. The club threw her a welcome-home party that shook the neighborhood. There were ponies. There was a bouncy castle. There was cake the size of a Harley wheel. And when the sun went down and the firepit was roaring, Amara climbed into my lap, looked up at the stars, and whispered, “Daddy?” “Yeah, baby?” “I don’t think I’m gonna die for a long time now.” I held her tight enough to feel both our hearts beating. “Good,” I said, voice cracking like an old man’s should. “Because I’m just getting started being your dad.” She’s fifteen now. Still cancer-free. Still calls me Daddy every single day. Still sleeps in those same pink bedsheets we took from room 432. And every Thursday, rain or shine, we ride back to Children’s Hospital together—me on my Harley, her on the back holding on like she’s been doing it her whole life—and we read stories to the new kids who are scared and hurting. Because some things are worth more than the years you get. Some things are forever!!!!!!

*Happy Morning!* *Happy Vijay Divas!*

*Happy Morning!* *Happy Vijay Divas!* *ये भारत महान मेरी आन बान और शान है,* *इस पावन पुनीत भूमि की रक्षा के लिए,* *मेरा दिल और मेरी जान कुर्बान है।* Today is a momentous day. Fifty Four years ago it was this day when your great Armed Forces brought Pakistan and its Armed Forces to their knees(As was done in Operation Sindoor this May), forced one of the worst laying down of arms by a professional army in the history of warfare. Over 93000 Paki soldiers, led by Lt Gen AAK Niazi, surrendered to Lt Gen JS Aurora, the then GOC-in-C Eastern Command. A history was created, Bangla Desh liberated in just 13 days!!! Sheer grit, determination, valour and professionalism of your Armed Forces. But it is also a time to remember those 3000 plus soldiers who made supreme sacrifice laying down their lives for our great nation. Let us all pay homage and honour their valour. *”कुछ याद उन्हें भी कर लो जो लौट के घर ना आये...”* Ungrateful Bangladeshis have yet again plunged into Radical Islamist tyranny and are surely headed for a disaster. God save them. Happy Vijay Diwas once again to one and all for the finest hour of glory in our history. Have a Sublime Day and a Tremendous Tuesday and *Go On Going On. Jai Hind Jai Bhaarat Bhaarat Maata Ki Jai. *”जय हिन्द की सेना”

https://telanganatrends.com/why-attitude-more-than-knowledge-shapes-human-life/

https://telanganatrends.com/why-attitude-more-than-knowledge-shapes-human-life/

Kakanmath Temple – dedicated to Bhagwan shiv

Kakanmath Temple – dedicated to Bhagwan shiv Defying the Laws of Gravity. Some say it was built by Ghosts and some say it was built by aliens. But why? “Kakanmath Temple” is a temple that even scientists are afraid to touch. This temple was built by placing stones on top of each other and that too without any lime, cement, and thickening. Astonishingly, this temple was built in one night. Just one night. The temple is standing tall defying natural calamities and islamic invasions. Although, invaders did destroy the temple to some extent but could not bring it down completely. The balance of the temple is made on the stones in such a way that not even a single stone moves from it's position. And like you see in the image, it looks like the stones are just hanging. There are so many mysterious facts about this temple that one post is not enough to cover it. But in short, it was built nearly 1300 years ago and is dedicated to Lord Shiva. Do visit the temple if you are around Morena in Madhya Pradesh. And do read more about the temple in detail. There are many more archeological marvel other than the white structure.

Tiny love stories to warm your heart up during the festival season!

Tiny love stories to warm your heart up during the festival season! Today, my dad is the best dad I could ask for. He’s a loving husband to my mom (always making her laugh), he’s been to every one of my soccer games since I was five (I’m 17 now), and he provides for our family as a construction foreman. This morning when I was searching through my dad’s toolbox for a pliers, I found a dirty folded up paper at the bottom. It was an old journal entry in my dad’s handwriting dated exactly one month before the day I was born. It reads, ”I am eighteen years old, an alcoholic who is failing out of college, a past cutter, and a child abuse victim with a criminal record of auto theft. And next month, ‘teen father’ will be added to the list. But I swear I will make things right for my little girl. I will be the dad I never had.” And I don’t know how he did it, but he did it. Today, after two years of separation, my ex-wife and I resolved our differences and met for dinner. We laughed and chatted for almost four hours. Then just before she left, she handed me a large envelope. In it were 20 love letters she wrote me over the last two years. There was a post-it note on the envelope that said, “Letters I was too stubborn to send.” *** Today, I re-read the suicide letter I wrote on the afternoon of September 2nd 1996 about two minutes before my girlfriend showed up at my door and told me, “I’m pregnant.” Suddenly I felt I had a reason to live. Today she’s my wife. We’ve been happily married for 14 years. And my daughter, who is almost 15 now, has two younger brothers. I re-read my suicide letter from time to time as a reminder to be thankful — I am thankful I got a second chance at life and love. Today, I’m a mother of two and a grandmother of four. At 17 I got pregnant with twins. When my boyfriend and friends found out I wasn’t going to abort them, they turned a cold shoulder to me. But I pressed forward, worked full-time while attending school, graduated high school and college, and met a guy in one of my classes who has loved my children like his own for the last 50 years. *** Today, I was sitting on a hotel balcony watching two lovers in the distance walk along the beach. From their body language, I could tell they were laughing and enjoying each other’s company. As they got closer, I realized they were my parents. My parents almost got divorced eight years ago. *** Today, on our 50th wedding anniversary, she smiled at me and said, ”I only wish I had met you sooner." Today, my seventy-five-year-old grandpa who has been blind from cataracts for almost 15 years said to me, “Your grandma is just the most beautiful thing, isn’t she?“ I paused for a second and said, ”Yes she is. I bet you miss seeing that beauty on a daily basis.“ “Sweety,” my grandpa said, ”I still see her beauty every day. In fact, I see it more now than I used to when we were young.“ *** Today, I walked up to the door of my office (I’m a florist) at 7AM to find a uniformed Army soldier standing out front waiting. He was on his way to the airport to go to Afghanistan for a year. He said, ”I usually bring home a bouquet of flowers for my wife every Friday and I don’t want to let her down when I’m away." He then placed an order for 52 Friday afternoon deliveries of flowers to his wife’s office and asked me to schedule one for each week until he returns. I gave him a 50% discount because it made my day to see something so sweet. *** Today, my eight-year-old son hugged me and said, “You are the best mom in the whole entire world!” I smiled and sarcastically replied, “How do you know that? You haven’t met every mom in the whole entire world.“ My son squeezed me tighter and said, ”Yes I have. You are my world.“

If Ramayana belongs to Treta Yuga and Mahabharata belongs to Dwapara Yuga, what happened in Satya Yuga?

If Ramayana belongs to Treta Yuga and Mahabharata belongs to Dwapara Yuga, what happened in Satya Yuga? MANY THINGS HAPPENED IN THE SATYA YUG (ALSO KNOWN AS KRITA YUG) 1. SAMUDRA MANTHAN The gods lost all their power and vitality after a curse by the sage Durvasa. To regain their strength and immortality, they sought Lord Vishnu's help. He advised them that the only way to obtain the Amrita was to churn the great cosmic Ocean of Milk (Kshirasagara). 2. DEATH OF HIRANYAKSHIPU AND HIS BROTHER Shri Vishnu took the Narsimha avatar and varaha avatar to kill two powerful Asuras - Hiranyaksha and Hiranyakshipu, who terrorized the gods and were incredibly strong due to the vardaans given to them by Brahma. 3. THE TARAKMAYA WAR This war / Yudh happened after the kidnapping of Brihaspati’s wife Tara by the Moon God Soma. 4. MATSYA AVATAR Lord Vishnu incarnated as a fish to save Manu (King Satyavrata) from a great deluge (flood) and preserve the Vedas and all species for the next cycle of creation.

https://telanganatrends.com/mission-2047-needs-decongested-rail-networks-says-ravi-valluri-at-tv9-infrastructure-conclave/

https://telanganatrends.com/mission-2047-needs-decongested-rail-networks-says-ravi-valluri-at-tv9-infrastructure-conclave/

This post is worth reading million times. To prove that beyond science everything is the God. The real reason of life & beyond is 'God'.

This post is worth reading million times. To prove that beyond science everything is the God. The real reason of life & beyond is 'God'. Those who read & ignore my posts can share it too🤪 ********************* I looked at the MRI scan and felt a chill go down my spine that had nothing to do with the hospital air conditioning. It was a death sentence, printed in black and white. They call me a legend in this hospital. I’m Dr. Saravanan , retired Chief of Vascular Surgery. I’ve spent forty years inside the human body. I know the map of our arteries better than I know the streets of Chennai. I’ve held beating hearts in my palms and clamped bleeders that were spraying the ceiling. But looking at that scan, for the first time in decades, I didn't feel like a surgeon. I felt like a fraud. The patient was Gowri. She was twenty-six years old, a single mother working double shifts at a diner just to keep the lights on. She had collapsed while pouring coffee. The aneurysm in her brain wasn't just big; it was a monster. It was wrapped around the most delicate structures of her brain stem like a constrictor snake. "It’s inoperable, Varadhan," the Chief of Neurology told me, shaking his head. "You go in there, she bleeds out on the table. You leave it, it bursts within 48 hours. She’s dead either way." In the medical system, we are trained to weigh risks. We worry about liability, about success rates. Logic said: Do not touch this. Walk away. Let nature take its course. But then I met Gowri’s eyes. And I saw her little girl, barely four years old, coloring in a book in the waiting room, wearing worn-out sneakers. If Gowri dies, that little girl went into the system. She would be alone. I told the administration to schedule the OR. I told them I was taking the case. They looked at me like I was insane. Maybe I was. The night before the surgery, I sat in my office with the lights off. The city skyline was glowing outside, indifferent to the life hanging in the balance inside. I was terrified. My hands, usually steady as stone, were trembling slightly. I looked at the scans one last time. There was no clear path. No angle of attack. It was a suicide mission. I am a man of science. I believe in scalpels, sutures, and blood pressure. But on my desk, hidden behind piles of medical journals, I keep a small, laminated old laminated card of Lord Vaitheeswara — My grandmother gave it to me when I started med school. She said, " remember medicine treats the body, but God heals the person." I picked up the card. I didn't recite a formal prayer. I just placed my hand on Gowri’s file, looked at the image of the Lord, and spoke into the darkness. "Hey Prabho," I whispered, my voice cracking. "My hands aren't enough for this one. I’m just a mechanic down here. Tomorrow morning, you need to scrub in. I’ll lend you my hands, but you have to bring the wisdom. You have to be the Surgeon." The next morning, the operating room was freezing. The air was thick with tension. The nurses moved quietly; the anesthesiologist wouldn't meet my eyes. Everyone knew we were likely walking into a massacre. We opened. It was worse than the scans showed. The vessel wall was paper-thin, pulsing angrily. One wrong breath, one microscopic tremor, and it would rupture. I reached for the micro-scissors. This was the moment. The "Widowmaker" moment. And then, it happened. The room seemed to go silent. Not just quiet, but a total, vacuum silence. The beeping of the monitors faded into the background. A strange warmth washed over my shoulders, flowing down my arms and into my fingertips. It wasn't adrenaline. I know adrenaline—it’s jagged and fast. This was... peace. Absolute, heavy peace. My hands started moving very fast. I want to be clear: I wasn't moving them. I was watching them move. I performed maneuvers I had never practiced. My fingers danced with a speed and precision that a seventy-year-old man simply does not possess. I was dissecting tissue millimeters from the brain stem without a singular hesitation. I placed clips in blind spots I couldn't even fully see, guided by an instinct that wasn't mine. "BP is stable," the anesthesiologist whispered, sounding shocked. I didn't answer. I couldn't. I was in a trance. It felt like someone was standing directly behind me, guiding my elbows, steadying my wrists. I felt a presence so strong, so commanding, that for a moment, I thought another doctor had actually stepped up to the table. Forty-five minutes later, I dropped the final instrument into the tray. "The aneurysm is gone," I said. My voice sounded far away. "Close her up." The room erupted. Nurses were crying. The residents were staring at the monitors in disbelief. We hadn't lost a drop of blood. It was impossibly perfect. I stripped off my gown and walked out to the scrub sink. I looked in the mirror. Usually, after a surgery like that, I am exhausted, drenched in sweat, my back aching. I was dry. I was calm. I wasn't tired at all. I looked at my hands—my wrinkled, aging hands. They had saved a mother today. They had saved a little girl from becoming an orphan. But I knew the truth. I walked back to my office, picked up the little card of Vaitheeswara, and put it back in my pocket. I signed the discharge papers a week later. Gowri walked out holding her daughter's hand. She thanked me, tears streaming down her face, calling me a hero or Kadavul. I smiled and shook my head. "I didn't do it alone," I told her. She thought I meant the team of nurses. But I knew who the lead surgeon was that day. Science can explain the 'how.' It can explain the blood flow and the nerve endings. But it can never explain the 'why.' It can never explain how a man, facing the impossible, can suddenly find a way where there is no way. Sometimes, you have to admit that you are just the instrument. And on that Tuesday, in operating room 4, the Great Physician was on call. Never lose hope. Even when the scan is dark, even when the world says it’s over. Miracles don't always come with lightning and thunder. Sometimes, they just come with a pair of steady hands and a silent prayer. Jai Vaitheeswara.

He poured cocktails for tourists by day

He poured cocktails for tourists by day. By night, he loaded his T-56 rifle and smuggled refugees past enemy soldiers. For four years, Mossad ran a fake hotel—and nobody suspected a thing. Imagine this: You're on vacation at a luxury beachfront resort on the Red Sea. The hotel manager is charming and attentive. Waiters bring you perfectly mixed drinks. Diving instructors take you to stunning coral reefs. You eat, you swim, you relax under endless blue skies. You never suspect that the waiter serving your breakfast has a pistol hidden under his uniform. You don't know that your diving instructor is one of the world's most lethal commandos. You certainly don't realize that the smiling manager spends his nights driving trucks through the desert, smuggling people across borders. This sounds like Hollywood fiction. It's not. In the 1980s, Israel's Mossad intelligence service pulled off exactly this operation—and it remains one of the most audacious covert missions in espionage history. The operation was called "Brothers." The story begins in the early 1980s. Thousands of Ethiopian Jews were fleeing famine and brutal civil war, walking hundreds of miles to reach refugee camps in neighboring Sudan. They were dying in desperate conditions—disease, starvation, violence. Israel wanted to rescue these people, to bring them home. But there was a catastrophic problem: Sudan was an Arab League member state and one of Israel's most hostile enemies. Any Israeli caught in Sudan faced immediate execution. Any Mossad agent discovered operating there would trigger international crisis. So how do you evacuate thousands of refugees from the heart of enemy territory without anyone noticing? Mossad had an idea so crazy it just might work. Israeli intelligence discovered an abandoned Italian resort complex on Sudan's Red Sea coast—a place called Arous Village. It had been partially built then abandoned, left to decay in the desert sun for years. Nobody used it. Nobody cared about it. Mossad's plan was insane: rent the hotel, renovate it, operate it as a legitimate diving resort, attract real European tourists—and use it as cover to smuggle refugees by night. They would build a rescue network inside a functioning business, right under the noses of Sudanese security forces. The operation began immediately. Mossad created a fake Swiss tourism company with elaborate documentation. They paid Sudanese officials hundreds of thousands of dollars in "licensing fees" (bribes) and secured a three-year lease on Arous Village. Then the real work began. Mossad sent some of its most elite operatives—combat veterans, special forces soldiers, intelligence officers—to Sudan disguised as hotel staff. They renovated the crumbling resort, installed generators for power and water, furnished rooms, stocked bars, hired local staff for basic tasks. They even printed thousands of glossy brochures advertising their "Red Sea diving paradise" and distributed them across Europe. "Experience the untouched beauty of Sudan's coral reefs. Luxury accommodations. Expert diving instruction. Book your adventure today!" And then something completely unexpected happened: people actually came. European tourists—Germans, French, British—started booking vacations at Arous Village. Wealthy travelers looking for exotic diving destinations found this boutique resort and thought it looked perfect. Mossad agents suddenly had a massive new problem: they weren't just running a fake hotel for cover—they were running a real hotel with real guests who expected real service. So Israel's deadliest operatives learned to make beds. To cook European cuisine. To mix cocktails. To teach scuba diving. To smile and chat with tourists about their travels. By day, they were the world's most overqualified hotel staff. By night, they became who they really were. Once tourists fell asleep in their rooms, the "waiters" and "diving instructors" retrieved weapons hidden beneath beds and loose floorboards. They grabbed satellite phones, night-vision equipment, encrypted radios. They loaded into trucks and drove deep into the desert darkness. Miles from the coast, hidden in wilderness camps, Ethiopian Jewish refugees waited in groups of 50-100 people. Mossad agents loaded them into trucks, covered them with tarps, and drove back to Arous Village's deserted beach. There, Israeli Navy commandos arrived in Zodiac inflatable boats, rowing silently through darkness. They ferried refugees out to Israeli military vessels waiting beyond territorial waters. The ships would transport them to Israel. By dawn, the commandos had cleaned up all evidence, changed back into hotel uniforms, and were serving breakfast to tourists who had no idea what happened while they slept. This went on for four years. The operation required nerves of steel. Every night was a tightrope walk between success and catastrophe. One mistake—one suspicious Sudanese patrol, one refugee who panicked and ran, one tourist who woke up and looked out their window at the wrong moment—would expose everything. And it got worse. Sudanese military officers—including generals—sometimes visited Arous Village for parties and recreation. Mossad agents had to serve drinks and make small talk with the very men who would execute them if they discovered the truth. They had to smile and be charming while armed enemies sat three feet away, while radio equipment was hidden in the walls, while refugees waited in the darkness for that night's evacuation. One slip—one accidentally spoken Hebrew word, one revealed tattoo, one moment of nervousness—meant death for everyone involved. They never slipped. Not once in four years. The operation evacuated approximately 6,000-8,000 Ethiopian Jews from Sudan to Israel. Entire families rescued. Children who would have died in refugee camps instead grew up safe. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren who exist today because Mossad agents spent four years living a double life. The end came suddenly in 1985. Sudan's government changed hands in a coup. The new regime grew suspicious of the "European hotel operators" at Arous Village. Intelligence reports suggested questions were being asked. Mossad headquarters sent emergency orders: evacuate immediately. On their final night, the hotel was full of tourists. Agents quietly slipped away after dark, leaving no note, no explanation, no forwarding address. They drove to a remote desert airstrip where Israeli Air Force C-130 Hercules transport planes landed in darkness. By morning, they were gone. Tourists woke up to find the entire hotel staff had vanished overnight. Manager, waiters, diving instructors, maintenance crew—all disappeared. Rooms were clean, breakfast ingredients were stocked, but nobody was there to serve it. The Europeans were baffled. Local Sudanese workers were confused. The government eventually figured out what happened—but far too late to do anything about it. By then, the Mossad agents were back in Israel, thousands of rescued refugees were beginning new lives, and Operation Brothers had entered espionage legend. How did they maintain the deception for four years? Several factors made it possible: First: money. Mossad paid enormous bribes to Sudanese officials. As long as cash flowed, officials looked the other way. The hotel was actually profitable, which generated legitimate payments alongside the bribes. Second: chaos. Sudan's refugee camps held hundreds of thousands of people with virtually no documentation. Small groups of 50-100 people disappearing periodically over four years went completely unnoticed in the larger humanitarian crisis. Third: the hotel genuinely worked. Real tourists generated real business. The resort had actual reviews in European travel publications. Nobody suspected it was a front because it wasn't just a front—it was a functioning business that happened to hide a rescue operation. Fourth: audacity. The plan was so absurd, so impossibly brazen, that nobody imagined it could be real. Who would actually try to run a fake hotel in enemy territory for years? The sheer craziness of the idea provided cover. Today, many Israelis of Ethiopian descent don't even know their parents or grandparents reached Israel through "the hotel." Operation Brothers remained classified for decades. When the story finally emerged, it sounded like fiction. But every word is true. Real Mossad agents really ran a real hotel on a hostile coast. They really served cocktails to tourists while armed. They really made small talk with enemy generals. They really smuggled thousands of refugees to freedom, one boatload at a time, for four years. Espionage history calls it one of the most successful deceptions ever executed—not for military advantage or political leverage, but to save lives. Eight thousand people exist today because hotel staff weren't really hotel staff. Because diving instructors had rifles hidden under their beds. Because a waiter making your cocktail was simultaneously running the most dangerous rescue mission of his life. And because for four years, nobody—not tourists, not Sudanese military, not intelligence services—suspected that paradise on the Red Sea was actually an escape route from hell. Would you have the nerves to live a double life like that? Smiling at enemies who could kill you? Serving breakfast hours after smuggling refugees? Maintaining perfect cover for four years knowing one mistake means death? That's what Mossad agents did at Arous Village. And 8,000 people are alive because they never broke character. Not once. Love it!

Netherlands PM tweeted about Hindus,

Netherlands PM tweeted about Hindus, know what he said about Pakistan and Bangladesh After being elected Prime Minister of the Netherlands, right-wing leader Geert Wilders has thanked the leaders around the world who congratulated him. Along with this, he has also given a statement regarding the Hindus of Pakistan and Bangladesh. Far-right and anti-Islam leader Geert Wilders has become the new Prime Minister of the Netherlands. Wilders often remains in the headlines due to his sharp criticism of Islam and harsh immigration policies. After being elected Prime Minister, Wilders thanked all the friends of the world who congratulated him on winning the election. During this time he has also given a statement regarding Hindus.

What is life?

What is life? What is the purpose of my life? Why am I here? What do I want? These questions are vital. Where am I? Are you aware you are on this planet Earth? Have you ever thought "I am on planet Earth and this planet is in the solar system"? So, I am in the solar system. The solar system is just a dot in the Milky Way. So, I am in the Milky Way. This expansion of awareness to the macrocosm and being aware of where you are in this body is important. Just sit with your eyes closed and ask yourself "where am I in this body"? Am I in the head, in the nose, in the heart? Where am I in the body? Then the sharpness of the mind happens, awareness happens. You are able to perceive that you are nowhere ( now-here) and you are everywhere in the body. A shift in the quality of awareness happens instantaneously. And it is this awareness that can eliminate stresses and sorrows from life. This awareness is called wisdom. When we raise our consciousness, we become more aware of the sensation that is happening in the body and we see that the sensations change. An intense sensation that is pain and an intense sensation that is pleasure, both become pleasurable. Love and pain, they are very closely related. The symbol of Jesus on the cross means that the cross is pain and Jesus is love. One is with the other. The transformation of this pain into bliss, the love into bliss is what happens with awareness. Without awareness the mind shrinks. When the mind shrinks, the joy diminishes. Whenever we are happy, we feel that something in us is expanding and the expression of sadness is the contraction of mind. Meditation is a technique where the mind expands and relaxes. And whenever we are relaxed, we are expanding automatically. It is worth knowing this expansion because then nothing can disturb us or take our smile away. Otherwise, small things can throw us off balance. It is not worth letting your mind or your life undergo such suffering and misery .

*This post is worth reading million times*.

*This post is worth reading million times*. To prove that beyond science everything is the God. The real reason of life & beyond is 'God ‘ ********************* I looked at the MRI scan and felt a chill go down my spine that had nothing to do with the hospital air conditioning. It was a death sentence, printed in black and white. They call me a legend in this hospital. I’m Dr. Saravanan , retired Chief of Vascular Surgery. I’ve spent forty years inside the human body. I know the map of our arteries better than I know the streets of Chennai. I’ve held beating hearts in my palms and clamped bleeders that were spraying the ceiling. But looking at that scan, for the first time in decades, I didn't feel like a surgeon. I felt like a fraud. The patient was Gowri. She was twenty-six years old, a single mother working double shifts at a diner just to keep the lights on. She had collapsed while pouring coffee. The aneurysm in her brain wasn't just big; it was a monster. It was wrapped around the most delicate structures of her brain stem like a constrictor snake. "It’s inoperable, Varadhan," the Chief of Neurology told me, shaking his head. "You go in there, she bleeds out on the table. You leave it, it bursts within 48 hours. She’s dead either way." In the medical system, we are trained to weigh risks. We worry about liability, about success rates. Logic said: Do not touch this. Walk away. Let nature take its course. But then I met Gowri’s eyes. And I saw her little girl, barely four years old, coloring in a book in the waiting room, wearing worn-out sneakers. If Gowri dies, that little girl went into the system. She would be alone. I told the administration to schedule the OR. I told them I was taking the case. They looked at me like I was insane. Maybe I was. The night before the surgery, I sat in my office with the lights off. The city skyline was glowing outside, indifferent to the life hanging in the balance inside. I was terrified. My hands, usually steady as stone, were trembling slightly. I looked at the scans one last time. There was no clear path. No angle of attack. It was a suicide mission. I am a man of science. I believe in scalpels, sutures, and blood pressure. But on my desk, hidden behind piles of medical journals, I keep a small, laminated old laminated card of Lord Vaitheeswara — My grandmother gave it to me when I started med school. She said, " remember medicine treats the body, but God heals the person." I picked up the card. I didn't recite a formal prayer. I just placed my hand on Gowri’s file, looked at the image of the Lord, and spoke into the darkness. "Hey Prabho," I whispered, my voice cracking. "My hands aren't enough for this one. I’m just a mechanic down here. Tomorrow morning, you need to scrub in. I’ll lend you my hands, but you have to bring the wisdom. You have to be the Surgeon." The next morning, the operating room was freezing. The air was thick with tension. The nurses moved quietly; the anesthesiologist wouldn't meet my eyes. Everyone knew we were likely walking into a massacre. We opened. It was worse than the scans showed. The vessel wall was paper-thin, pulsing angrily. One wrong breath, one microscopic tremor, and it would rupture. I reached for the micro-scissors. This was the moment. The "Widowmaker" moment. And then, it happened. The room seemed to go silent. Not just quiet, but a total, vacuum silence. The beeping of the monitors faded into the background. A strange warmth washed over my shoulders, flowing down my arms and into my fingertips. It wasn't adrenaline. I know adrenaline—it’s jagged and fast. This was... peace. Absolute, heavy peace. My hands started moving very fast. I want to be clear: I wasn't moving them. I was watching them move. I performed maneuvers I had never practiced. My fingers danced with a speed and precision that a seventy-year-old man simply does not possess. I was dissecting tissue millimeters from the brain stem without a singular hesitation. I placed clips in blind spots I couldn't even fully see, guided by an instinct that wasn't mine. "BP is stable," the anesthesiologist whispered, sounding shocked. I didn't answer. I couldn't. I was in a trance. It felt like someone was standing directly behind me, guiding my elbows, steadying my wrists. I felt a presence so strong, so commanding, that for a moment, I thought another doctor had actually stepped up to the table. Forty-five minutes later, I dropped the final instrument into the tray. "The aneurysm is gone," I said. My voice sounded far away. "Close her up." The room erupted. Nurses were crying. The residents were staring at the monitors in disbelief. We hadn't lost a drop of blood. It was impossibly perfect. I stripped off my gown and walked out to the scrub sink. I looked in the mirror. Usually, after a surgery like that, I am exhausted, drenched in sweat, my back aching. I was dry. I was calm. I wasn't tired at all. I looked at my hands—my wrinkled, aging hands. They had saved a mother today. They had saved a little girl from becoming an orphan. But I knew the truth. I walked back to my office, picked up the little card of Vaitheeswara, and put it back in my pocket. I signed the discharge papers a week later. Gowri walked out holding her daughter's hand. She thanked me, tears streaming down her face, calling me a hero or Kadavul. I smiled and shook my head. "I didn't do it alone," I told her. She thought I meant the team of nurses. But I knew who the lead surgeon was that day. Science can explain the 'how.' It can explain the blood flow and the nerve endings. But it can never explain the 'why.' It can never explain how a man, facing the impossible, can suddenly find a way where there is no way. Sometimes, you have to admit that you are just the instrument. And on that Tuesday, in operating room 4, the Great Physician was on call. Never lose hope. Even when the scan is dark, even when the world says it’s over. Miracles don't always come with lightning and thunder. Sometimes, they just come with a pair of steady hands and a silent prayer. Jai Vaitheeswara.

"Mittar Pyare Nu Hal Mureedan Da Kehna"

The shabad "Mittar Pyare Nu Hal Mureedan Da Kehna" was composed by Guru Gobind Singh Ji in the Jungle of Machhiwara, during one of the most trying and difficult periods of his life. Historical Background The background to this deeply moving hymn is rooted in the events following the Battle of Chamkaur in December 1704. The Battle of Chamkaur: After leaving the fort of Anandpur Sahib, Guru Gobind Singh Ji and his small group of Sikhs were besieged by a massive Mughal army at Chamkaur Sahib. A fierce battle ensued where Guru Ji's two eldest sons, Baba Ajit Singh and Baba Jujhar Singh, and most of his accompanying forty Sikhs (the Chali Mukte) were martyred fighting valiantly against overwhelming odds. Separation and Solitude: After the battle, Guru Gobind Singh Ji, separated from his family and followers, escaped into the dense Machhiwara forest. He was alone, exhausted, and resting under a tree near a well on a cold winter night. Martyrdom of Younger Sons: Around the same time, his two younger sons, Baorawar Singh and Baba Fateh Singh, were captured by the Mughal forces and later brutally bricked alive in Sirhind for refusing to convert to Islam. His mother, Mata Gujri Ji, also passed away in captivity. Essence of the Shabad Despite this immense personal loss and extreme hardship, Guru Gobind Singh Ji recited this shabad, which is an expression of his unwavering love and deep spiritual connection to God (Waheguru. The shabad is a message to his "beloved friend" (God), telling Him of the "plight of His disciples". The core message is that without the divine presence, all worldly comforts are meaningless: Rich blankets are a disease. Living in a comfortable house is like living with snakes. Water pitchers feel like stakes and cups have edges like daggers. The shabad highlights that even in the most severe adversity, the Guru's faith remained constant, and he preferred the simple "bed of straw" (symbolic of hardship) if it meant a continued connection with the Divine. It is a powerful testament to the Guru's Brahm-gyan (divine knowledge) and his complete acceptance of God's will (Hukam) in all circumstances.

BLESSING AND CURSING

Good Morning!!! BLESSING AND CURSING Around the Year with Emmet Fox December 25 Life is a reflex of mental states. As far as you are concerned, the character that things will bear will be the character that you first impress upon them. Bless a thing and it will bless you. Curse it and it will curse you. If you put your condemnation upon anything in life, it will hit back at you and hurt you. If you bless any situation, it has no power to hurt you, and even if it is troublesome for a time it will gradually fadeout. Bless your body. If there is anything wrong with a particular organ, bless that organ. Bless your home. Bless your business. Bless your associates. Turn any seeming enemies into friends by blessing them. Bless the climate. Bless the town, and the state, and the country. Bless a thing and it will bless you. “So shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth: it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it” Isaiah 55-11

*Who Am I?*

*Who Am I?* After retirement, with no job, no routine, and a quiet house echoing with silence… I finally began to discover my true self. Who am I? I built bungalows, raised farmhouses, invested in ventures big and small, yet now, I find myself bound within four simple walls. From bicycle to moped, bike to car, I chased speed and style — but now, I walk slowly, alone, inside my room. Nature smiled and asked, “Who are you, dear friend?” And I replied, “I am... just me.” I’ve seen states, countries, continents, but today, my journeys stretch only from the drawing room to the kitchen. I learned about cultures and traditions, but now, I simply long to understand my own family. Nature smiled again, “Who are you, dear friend?” And I said, “I am... just me.” Once I celebrated birthdays, engagements, weddings in grand style — but today, look forward to having slept well and feel hungry Nature asked once more, “Who are you, dear friend?” And I answered, “I am... just me.” Gold, silver, diamonds, pearls — sleep quietly in lockers. Suits and blazers — hang untouched in wardrobes. But now, I live in soft cotton, simple and free. I once mastered English, French, Hindi — but now, I find comfort in talking in my mother tongue. I travelled endlessly for work, and now, I reflect on those profits and losses — measured in memories. I ran businesses, nurtured a family, built many connections, but now, my dearest companion is the kind neighbour next door. I once followed every rule, strived in education — but now I finally see what truly matters. After all of life’s highs and lows, in a quiet moment, my soul whispered back to me. Enough now… Get ready, O Traveller… It’s time to prepare for the final journey… Nature smiled gently, “Who are you, dear friend?” And I replied: “O Nature, You are me… And I am you. Once I soared in the skies, Now I touch the earth with grace. Forgive me… Give me one more chance to live… Not as a money-making machine, But as a true human being — With values, With family, With love.” 🍀 To all ‘Seniors' out there...

MADRAS AND MY GREAT GRANDFATHER

Here’s a historical overview of the area you asked about — Mylapore, Kutchery (Kuctheri) Road, and the place known locally (and historically) as Farhat Bagh — with context from colonial Madras’s layered past: ⸻ 📍 Mylapore — Ancient Roots of Madras/Chennai Mylapore is one of the oldest continuously inhabited parts of what became Madras (today’s Chennai). Historically it was an ancient port and settlement with mentions going as far back as the 1st century BCE. It had maritime connections with Romans and other Western traders and figures prominently in early Tamil and Christian traditions — including links with the poet Thiruvalluvar and the Apostle St. Thomas. Later it became a destination for Portuguese, Dutch, Golconda Sultans, and British colonial administration, before being incorporated into the Madras Presidency in 1749.  Mylapore evolved into a commercial and cultural hub in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, especially noted for its community of lawyers, intellectuals, and professionals during the British era.  ⸻ 🛣️ Kutchery Road (also seen as Kutcheri/Kuctheri Road) 📌 The name Kutchery comes from the Tamil/Urdu word “kutchery” (court / administrative office) — referring originally to nearby colonial courts or judicial administrative offices in the area.  • Function & character: Historically and still today, Kutchery Road is a lively thoroughfare in Mylapore, lined with shops, old establishments, commercial and residential buildings, and numerous heritage structures.  • Heritage and commerce: Walking tours and heritage walks often highlight this stretch as reflective of Mylapore’s mercantile past, with traditional shops (like country drug stores, shorthand institutes, ayurvedic dispensaries, and legacy businesses) still operating or in memory.  ⸻ 🌳 Farhat Bagh — Local Legacy on Kutchery Road Farhat Bagh is not a formal historic landmark commonly featured in most city histories, but it does appear in local recollections and heritage accounts as a named residence on Kutchery Road. Here’s what’s known from local sources: • Farhat Bagh appears on an old manse/gatepost along Kutchery Road with the name inscribed on it.  • It was associated with V. Ramadas, identified as Vemavarapu Ramdas Pantulu — a vakil (a lawyer) specializing in real estate and land rights during the early 20th century.  • He was involved in regional politics, speaking at the First Andhra Conference (1913) and supporting a resolution for a separate province for Telugu-speaking areas within the Madras Presidency — foreshadowing later movements like Madras Manade.  • He went on to be active in the cooperative movement, holding leadership roles in the Indian Co-operative Banks Association and founding editor of the Indian Cooperative Review in 1935.  • Local memory suggests that part of his residence/library may have been donated to the Institute of Co-operative Research and Service, though it is unclear if that was at Farhat Bagh itself.  👉 In short: Farhat Bagh seems to have been a named private residence of a prominent early-20th-century lawyer and community figure in Mylapore, whose name endures mainly through architectural remnants and recollections, rather than through formal historical records. ⸻ 🧠 Why the Name Matters The existence of a name like Farhat Bagh reflects: • Cultural blend: Gardens and residences with Persian/Urdu-influenced names (e.g., “Bagh” means garden) in colonial Madras hint at the cultural and linguistic diversity of elites in the city — often incorporating Hindustani, Urdu, and other influences. • Local prestige: Naming a property — Bagh suggests not just a home but a garden estate or compound, a mark of status during the colonial era. ⸻ 🗺️ Mylapore’s Broader Heritage While Farhat Bagh itself is a small part of Mylapore’s fabric, the neighbourhood around it includes: • Kapaleeshwarar Temple — a major ancient Dravidian temple around which much of old Mylapore evolved.  • Historic mosques and community traces pointing to Muslim influences and mixed heritage in Mylapore.  • Other heritage buildings, clubs, parks, and old institutes reflecting the long and layered colonial and pre-colonial history. ⸻ If you’d like, I can map nearby heritage landmarks or give you a walking tour guide for Kutchery Road and surrounding Mylapore!

Christmas

This is the season of miracles, Christmas miracles. This is the story of a miracle when Christmas came early on that day, 29th april, 2025. Just a day before I had set out with a few Mumbai based fellow bike riders for Sikkim, which was the venue for this year's Kawasaki Versys annual get together. After a night halt in Bhopal we set out for Varanasi, the second night halt enroute Sikkim. Due to a difference in settings on the GPS, I was guided through the city of Bhopal early morning while others took the by pass. Riding past the lake, clicking pictures, no traffic, it seemed like the perfect day, till I hit the highway. The bike wobbled. Puncture. I inflated the tyre, reached a roadside puncture guy and got the puncture fixed. Or so I thought. Within a kilometer the tyre gave way again, fortunately close to another puncture repair shop. I was told that the puncture was too big and will have to be patched from inside. Got it done. I was about 120 kms from Jabalpur and that seemed to be the nearest big city that would keep the big sized tyres that my 1000 cc bike needed. The other bikers were way ahead and kept calling. I discouraged them to turn back as they could not have helped in this situation. I reached Jabalpur by 12.45 pm. Right outside the entry of Jabalpur the tyre burst with a loud whoosh! Dragging the bike to a side I put it on a stand and approached a hardware shop right there. The helpful owner sourced the number of most of the big tyre dealers in Jabalpur and I started dialling numbers. Within half an hour I had discovered that the tyre size required for my bike was not available there. Riders approaching Varanasi called up ahead to see if it can be sourced there. Nothing. Ditto in Indore. The only options now available were to put the bike in a truck and send it back to Mumbai and proceed to Gangtok by other means or go back to Mumbai with the bike terminating the trip right there. As usual, in impossible situations, I smile, look up and hand the problem to God. Did the same now. I had called up a major tyre deal of Jabalpur called Mr. Vinamra Bhatia. He didn't have the tyre but was asking around. He called up in a while and put me on to another gentleman called Romy Saluja, another tyre dealer. Same problem, no tyre. A third gentleman called Mr. Parvinder Singh alias Bobby joined the party, he was also a rider and suggested that he will talk to a second hand tyre dealer who may have a tyre in good condition. Another half an hour of suspense and I got on to a conference call with all three of them. I was told that the second hand tyre dealer's shop has been shut for last 12 days as his father has expired and he being a staunch hindu, was supposed to remain bare foot, sleep on the ground, head shaved and not get out of the house till the 13th day. Back to square one! Bobby promised to call him up and explain the situation once. Fifteen minutes later I got a call from an unknown number. Sunny Shrivastav, the second hand tyre dealer entered the picture, asked for specifications, pictures of the tyre and minimal money. I gave him whatever he needed on phone. In the sweltering heat, at 3.15pm, a car with 4 people came and stopped outside the hardware store. Out stepped a man, clad in white dhoti, barefoot, head shaven. Sunny Shrivastav. I was taken aback knowing he was breaking all norms just to assist me. Why? I asked. 'Papa would have wanted me to...' He said simply and proceeded to show me a tyre lying in the boot of his car. 'Good for another 5000kms. You have nothing to worry' I was dumbstruck. Sunny and his boys got the bike to a work shop 3 kms away, replaced the burst tyre, got the wheel balancing done, treated me to a local thandai and got the bike ready after a road test of the tyre by 5.15pm. I thanked him profusely for not letting my Sikkim trip die out. I reached Varanasi at 1am in the night, after being in the riding suit and on the saddle for an incredible 21 hours non stop! Except for Sunny all the three other benefactors were just voices on the phone. Still are. Yet their warmth, their collective efforts to solve my problem will forever be etched on my heart. Jabalpur, was just the name of a town for me, just like any other town that you have heard of in a geographical context. Today it feels like home. A big shout out to all the four gentlemen and everyone else in Jabalpur... You have my love and respect for ever. Will never forget that hot, sweltering day in April... When Christmas came early🌹🌹🌹

Why did Balram, Vidur, and Rukmi not participate in the Mahabharata War?

Why did Balram, Vidur, and Rukmi not participate in the Mahabharata War? Balarama: Balarama decided to stay neutral and not get involved in the war. Balarama's relationship with Pandavas and Kouravas were equal. He left for pilgrimage a few days later and returned on 18th day of war. “O tiger among men! It is appropriate that you should know everything that I have said earlier in the kingdom of Virata, on the occasion of the wedding. O descendant of the Kuru lineage! It is for your sake that I sought to restrain Hrishikesha. O king! I said repeatedly that my relationship with both of you was equal. But Keshava did not accept the words that I had spoken. I cannot exist for an instant without Krishna. I will come to the aid of neither Partha, nor Duryodhana. After looking towards Vasudeva, this is the decision I have arrived at. You have been born in the Bharata lineage, one that is honoured by all the lords of the earth. O bull among the Bharata lineage! Go and fight in accordance with the dharma of the kshatriyas.” Source: Mahabharata translated by Bibek Debroy Chapter 670(7) Vidur: Vidur is not a trained fighter to participate in war. Vidur was a politician and was giving good advices to Dhritarashtra time to time. Vidur never participated in any war in his life time. Rukmi: Rukmi was rejected by both sides due to his arrogance. First he arrived at the camp of Pandavas and said that if they are afraid of Kouravas then they can take his help. “O Pandava! If you are afraid, I will stand as your aide on the field of battle. In the course of the war, I will help you so that your enemies will not be able to bear it. There is no man on this earth who is equal to me in valour. O Phalguna! When I have killed your enemies in battle, I will hand them over to you.” Arjuna was not happy with arrogant nature of Rukmi and rejected him. After getting rejected by Arjuna, Rukmi went to Duryodhana and boosted about himself in the same manner and again got rejected by Duryodhana. Rukmi then returned with that army, which was like an ocean. O bull among the Bharata lineage! In a similar fashion, he approached Duryodhana. Arriving there, that lord of the earth spoke in the same way. But since he prided himself on his valour, he was rebuffed there too. Source: Mahabharata by Bibek Debroy Udyoga Parva Chapter 818(155)

Hi, I am a Hindu brahman girl

Hi, I am a Hindu brahman girl and since childhood been very religious and did a lot of puja path (might have helped somehow subconsciously) but last year I went to vippassana and since then I am unable to get back on it. And lately everything in my life is falling apart including my mental health but even then I am unable to get back on it? I think it's because I left god. What do you think? What do I do?

Imagine you're in a massive auditorium with 362 million Indians.

🙏🏼 Good Morning 🌞 Imagine you're in a massive auditorium with 362 million Indians. Every age. Every income level. Every social class. And one by one, each person gets to walk on stage and show off ONE thing about their life. The billionaire shows his Rolls Royce. The college student shows her new iPhone. The maid shows her daughter's wedding. The startup founder shows his "unicorn" announcement. The retired uncle shows his Goa vacation. Everyone watching. Everyone comparing. Everyone feeling something. This is Instagram. Here's what makes Instagram different from every social space in history: In real life, you only compare yourself to people in your circle. Your classmates. Your colleagues. Your neighbors. Your relatives. Maybe 50-100 people total. On Instagram, your comparison group just became 1 million people. The delivery guy compares himself to Ranveer Allahbadia. The teacher compares herself to Komal Pandey. The CA compares himself to startup founders. The 25,000/month guy watches: • Millionaire's Maldives trip • Friend's new car • Colleague's promotion • Influencer's brand deal His brain does this: "Everyone's winning except me." "I'm 28 and still here." "What am I doing wrong?" "Maybe I should take that loan for the car." The Most Brutal Part: In real life: Poor people knew they were poor. Rich people knew they were rich. Middle class knew they were middle class. Everyone stayed in their lane because they couldn't see other lanes. On Instagram: Everyone sees everyone. The lanes disappeared. Result: Middle class feels poor (comparing to rich) Rich feel inadequate (comparing to richer) Poor feel invisible (nobody's watching their stage performance) For the first time in history, every social class is forced to watch every other social class perform their best life. And it's making everyone miserable. This is the psychological experiment nobody consented to. But here's where it gets darker. That 25,000/month guy watching everyone else's highlight reel? He doesn't just feel poor. He feels like he's falling behind. And when you feel like you're falling behind, you don't save money. You spend it. To catch up. Result: In 2024, India's personal loan market hit 710 lakh crores Credit card debt is at an all-time high. Buy Now Pay Later is exploding. People aren't spending more because they're earning more. They're spending more because they're comparing more. It's not aspiration. It's desperation. The psychological cost of being "left out" now exceeds the financial cost of the EMI. Instagram made invisibility more expensive than debt. Have a flying day ✈️

BREAKING: Novak Djokovic and his son Stefan have just wiped out $667,000 in school lunch debt across 22 Serbian schools — a gesture Novak called “a victory greater than any Grand Slam I’ve ever held.”

BREAKING: Novak Djokovic and his son Stefan have just wiped out $667,000 in school lunch debt across 22 Serbian schools — a gesture Novak called “a victory greater than any Grand Slam I’ve ever held.” In a quiet act of father-and-son compassion, Novak and seven-year-old Stefan paid off every unpaid lunch bill they could find — ensuring thousands of children from Belgrade to Novi Sad can walk into school each morning with dignity, a full tray, and no fear of being turned away or shamed for being hungry. Speaking through emotion, Novak said: “I’ve lifted trophies in four countries in the same year… but nothing weighs on your heart like knowing a child might sit through class without food. Today is bigger than tennis. Today is about children.” Little Stefan — standing close, fingers wrapped around his father’s hand — added in a trembling voice that melted every heart in the room: “Every kid is somebody’s best friend. I just wanted them to have lunch like I do.” Teachers cried. Parents thanked them. Children clapped and laughed, unaware that their simple lunch — something many take for granted — had just been secured by two people who will never ask for anything in return. This wasn’t about headlines. It wasn’t about image. It was about a father teaching his son that real greatness is measured not in trophies… but in kindness. Two Djokovics. One extraordinary act of love. And thousands of full stomachs — and full hearts — across Serbia..

BREAKING: Novak Djokovic and his son Stefan have just wiped out $667,000 in school lunch debt across 22 Serbian schools — a gesture Novak called “a victory greater than any Grand Slam I’ve ever held.”

BREAKING: Novak Djokovic and his son Stefan have just wiped out $667,000 in school lunch debt across 22 Serbian schools — a gesture Novak called “a victory greater than any Grand Slam I’ve ever held.” In a quiet act of father-and-son compassion, Novak and seven-year-old Stefan paid off every unpaid lunch bill they could find — ensuring thousands of children from Belgrade to Novi Sad can walk into school each morning with dignity, a full tray, and no fear of being turned away or shamed for being hungry. Speaking through emotion, Novak said: “I’ve lifted trophies in four countries in the same year… but nothing weighs on your heart like knowing a child might sit through class without food. Today is bigger than tennis. Today is about children.” Little Stefan — standing close, fingers wrapped around his father’s hand — added in a trembling voice that melted every heart in the room: “Every kid is somebody’s best friend. I just wanted them to have lunch like I do.” Teachers cried. Parents thanked them. Children clapped and laughed, unaware that their simple lunch — something many take for granted — had just been secured by two people who will never ask for anything in return. This wasn’t about headlines. It wasn’t about image. It was about a father teaching his son that real greatness is measured not in trophies… but in kindness. Two Djokovics. One extraordinary act of love. And thousands of full stomachs — and full hearts — across Serbia...

GIVE IT TIME

Good Morning!!! GIVE IT TIME Around the Year with Emmet Fox December 11 People sometimes accept the idea that a change of thought, plus turning to God in prayer, will transform their lives into harmony and freedom. The logic of this principle appeals to them, and they set to work upon it in earnest. Then, after a few days, they say, “Nothing has happened after all,” and they drop back into their old negative thinking. That is extremely foolish. The results of many years of general negative thinking are seldom corrected in a few days. No one who goes upon a new physical diet or medical regimen expects to reap the advantages in so short a time. You must keep up the new way of thinking and refuse to be discouraged by seeming failures at first. The right motive for adopting right thinking is that it is right, and wrong thinking is wrong, and we should do right whether it seems to pay dividends – but it usually takes a little perseverance in the face of preliminary slowness. “And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.” Jeremiah 29:13

BREAKING: Novak Djokovic and his son Stefan have just wiped out $667,000 in school lunch debt across 22 Serbian schools — a gesture Novak called “a victory greater than any Grand Slam I’ve ever held.”

BREAKING: Novak Djokovic and his son Stefan have just wiped out $667,000 in school lunch debt across 22 Serbian schools — a gesture Novak called “a victory greater than any Grand Slam I’ve ever held.” In a quiet act of father-and-son compassion, Novak and seven-year-old Stefan paid off every unpaid lunch bill they could find — ensuring thousands of children from Belgrade to Novi Sad can walk into school each morning with dignity, a full tray, and no fear of being turned away or shamed for being hungry. Speaking through emotion, Novak said: “I’ve lifted trophies in four countries in the same year… but nothing weighs on your heart like knowing a child might sit through class without food. Today is bigger than tennis. Today is about children.” Little Stefan — standing close, fingers wrapped around his father’s hand — added in a trembling voice that melted every heart in the room: “Every kid is somebody’s best friend. I just wanted them to have lunch like I do.” Teachers cried. Parents thanked them. Children clapped and laughed, unaware that their simple lunch — something many take for granted — had just been secured by two people who will never ask for anything in return. This wasn’t about headlines. It wasn’t about image. It was about a father teaching his son that real greatness is measured not in trophies… but in kindness. Two Djokovics. One extraordinary act of love. And thousands of full stomachs — and full hearts — across Serbia

If Vishnu himself couldn't defeat Ravana with Sudarshan Chakra, how did his avatar (Lord Rama) do that?

If Vishnu himself couldn't defeat Ravana with Sudarshan Chakra, how did his avatar (Lord Rama) do that? Sudharsana chakra failed the previous time because of Ravana,’ s boon. Ravana had a boon that he could not be killed by gods or demons. He won,’t even be a bug in front of Vishnu if the latter choose to disregard his boons. "Ravana said while seeking boon that, 'I shall not be killed by gandharva-s, yaksha-s, or by gods, or by other demons...' and I also said 'so be it...That demon did not express about humans then with his disrespect to them, and evidently, his death does not occur otherwise." So said Brahma to gods. ~ Valmiki Ramayana, Bala Khanda, Sarga 15. And Adikavi Valimki himself told: Whereby, to whom there is an indemnity against death in war at the hand of gods, demons, gandharva-s, devils, birds, or reptiles, excepting humans, and Shuurpanakha saw such an unimperilled Ravana. ~ Valmiki Ramayana, Aranya Khanda, Sarga 32. Because of this reason Sudharsana chakra fired by Lord Vishnu did not kill him but only managed to cause him injuries. He was struck hundreds of times during the wars with gods with the blows of Visnu’s discus as also with the strokes of other weapons in great conflicts. Valmiki Ramayana Aranya Kanda Sarga 32 On the other hand Lord Rama was born in human form to eliminate Ravana so no such boon restriction upon him hence he was able to kill Ravana. O Conqueror of Your foes, Ravana has long practised austerities, by means of which he has won the favour of the world-revered Brahma. That deity has granted him a boon, by which he is rendered invulnerable to all but man. Considering man of no account, he does not fear him. Before giving Sudharsana chakra to Krishna this is what Agni explained about its power.

Lord Shiva And Lord Vishnu !

Lord Shiva And Lord Vishnu ! Indian man (7): Swamiji, Siva is not another name of God? Prabhupada: Yes. Siva is next to God. Just like yogurt, dahi. What is this dahi? Indian man (7): Curd milk. Prabhupada: Milk, but it is not milk. Dahi is not anything but milk, but it is not milk. Similarly, Lord Siva is nothing but Visnu, but it is not Visnu. Is it clear now? Indian man (7): Yes. Prabhupada: You can say, "Well, dahi is nothing but milk." Yes. But it is not milk. If instead of milk you take dahi, the result will be different. And if you take milk instead of dahi, the result will be different, although the milk and dahi is the same thing, same ingredients. So you have to understand in that way. Lord Siva is nondifferent from the Supreme Lord. Everyone is nondifferent from Supreme Lord, but he's still different. This is the perfect philosophy, acintya-bhedabheda, simultaneously one and different. ----------------- Morning Walk -- October 5, 1975, Mauritius Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare

Whatis the mystery of Kailash?

Whatis the mystery of Kailash? The south face of Kailash Parvat has a scar as if something rolled down from it. When Ravana tried to take Shiva to Lanka, he first tried to lift it and tried to take the whole mountain. But Shiva effortlessly crushed him down with his toe. Then, Ravana climbed Kailash to take Mahadev. When he reached the peak, Mahadev kicked him down from his drum and Ravana fell down the mountain leaving this scar which we see today. There is also a lake near Kailash named Rakshastaal. It is said that Ravana sacrificed his 9 heads here and the lake was made from his blood.

IS IT A LIE?

Sat 6 Dec, 22:24 (3 days ago) to Good Morning!!! IS IT A LIE? Around the Year with Emmet Fox December 7 Thoughtless people sometimes say that our affirmations and meditations are foolish because we state what is not so. “To claim that my body is well or being healed when it is not, is only to tell a lie,” said one distinguished man some years ago. This is to misunderstand the whole principle. We affirm the harmony that we seek in order to provide the subconscious with a blueprint of the work to be done. When you decide to build a house your architect prepares drawings of a complete house. Actually, of course, there is no house on the lot today, but you would not think of saying that the architect was drawing a lie. He is drawing what is to be, in order that it may be. So, we build in thought the conditions that will later come into manifestation on the physical plane. What is your intelligence for if not to be used in building the kind of life that you want? Very primitive men in prehistoric times rejoiced when they found food growing anywhere, and then they waited, perhaps for years, until they happened to find another crop. Today we use our intelligence, and plant in good time the actual crops that we want; and the amount that we consider necessary. We do not sit about hoping that wheat or barley may fortunately come up somewhere. If we did that, civilization would collapse. The time has come when intelligent men and women must understand the laws of Mind, and plant consciously the crops that they desire; and just as carefully pull up the weeds that they do not want. “Then I told them of the hand of my God which was good to me; . . . and they said, Let us rise up and build. So, they strengthened their hands for the good work” Nehemiah 2:18

My name is Ruth, I’m 72 years old, and yesterday, I became a "person of interest" to my own daughter.

My name is Ruth, I’m 72 years old, and yesterday, I became a "person of interest" to my own daughter. Not because I’m sick. Not because I’m senile. But because I cashed out my life savings. Every last cent. My daughter, Jessica, a Vice President in Silicon Valley, thinks I’ve lost my mind. She’s flying in tomorrow from California to conduct what she called, on the phone, an "intervention." She doesn’t realize I just performed a "resuscitation." On myself. For forty-five years, I was Ruth, the Head Nurse of the ER at St. Jude’s. My world was the smell of betadine, burnt coffee, and desperation. I held hands, broke ribs during CPR, and delivered more heartbreaking news than I can bear to remember. My world was chaos, and I ran it. Then I retired. Six months later, my husband, Frank, passed. And the silence swallowed me. Jessica is a good person. She’s just… efficient. She manages teams of coders who build apps that "optimize human connection." She can’t handle a problem she can’t solve with a spreadsheet. So, she "fixed" me. She sold my home and moved me into a "Gilded Willow" active senior community. It was all glass and brushed steel. It also felt like a high-tech cage. She gave me a wearable bracelet that tracked my heart rate, steps, and "fall risk." It felt like an ankle monitor. My golden years became a timetable: 10 a.m. Water Aerobics, 2 p.m. "Cognitive Engagement" (Bingo), 5 p.m. Low-Sodium Dinner. I wasn’t living. I was being managed. "Mom, the data shows you’re thriving!" she’d say during video calls, her eyes flicking to another screen. "Jessica, I’ve ‘rested’ for two years," I told her last week. "It’s the most exhausting thing I’ve ever done." The spark lit the next day. I was riding the bus—just to feel movement—when I noticed it. "The Sunrise Grill." Frank took me there on our first date in 1973. We shared a slice of apple pie. Now it had a "For Sale by Owner" sign next to a failing health grade. I went inside. The place was empty except for a young man in his early twenties, hunched over a laptop, pale in its glow. I tapped the counter. "This surface is a health code violation." He startled and snapped his laptop shut. "Uh—ma’am, we’re not… we’re closing. For good." "I can see that," I said, eyeing the stale coffee. "Who’s in charge?" "I am," he said, rubbing his eyes. He looked like many of my old septic patients—clammy, exhausted, running on fumes. "My name’s Alex. It was my grandpa’s diner. He… he passed." "COVID?" I asked. He let out a bitter laugh. "No. He survived COVID. It was the hospital bills that crushed us. I’ve been trying to run the place and pay it all off, but…" He gestured hopelessly. He was trying to erase massive debt with scrambled eggs. My nursing instincts took over. This wasn’t just a failing business. It was a trauma scene. "How much?" I asked. "Ma’am?" "How much to clear the debt and buy this diner?" He told me. It was almost exactly the amount of my life savings. "I’ll be here tomorrow at 6 a.m.," I said, taking out my checkbook. "I’m not your partner. I’m your boss. We’re saving this place. Now go home and sleep eight hours. You’re in adrenal fatigue." Jessica’s phone call afterward was… dramatic. "You WHAT? You liquidated your retirement for a diner? Mom, that’s an unsecured, high-risk asset! It’s unsanitary! I’m calling your doctor for a cognitive evaluation—" "Jessica, you can’t optimize kindness. I have to go. The grill needs scrubbing." I hung up. The first month was brutal. But it was the kind of chaos I knew how to fix. The Sunrise Grill didn’t just need a cook. It needed a Head Nurse. I know how to repair what’s broken. The old regulars trickled back in. Walt, a Vietnam vet, always sat in his corner booth, grumped, and never finished his toast. One morning, I brought him oatmeal instead. "Didn’t order this," he muttered. "I know, Walt," I said, refilling his coffee. "Forty-five years as a nurse taught me when dentures are bothering a man. Eat." He stared at me over the spoon. Then he ate. Then there was Chloe—a young woman, exhausted, trying to breastfeed under a blanket while typing on her laptop. The whole diner was tense. I walked over and gently closed her laptop. "I… I have a deadline," she whispered, voice cracking. "No," I said, switching into Head Nurse mode. "You have a child. And you’re running a fever. You’re dehydrated." I lifted the baby. The crying stopped immediately, soothed by an old nurse’s rhythm. "Alex!" I shouted. "Large orange juice and chicken soup for Chloe. On the house." Chloe collapsed into soft, silent sobs—the kind only an overwhelmed woman cries when she thinks she’s failing everything. The Sunrise Grill wasn’t a diner anymore. It was my station. Jessica arrived on a rainy Friday, iPad in hand, ready to "intervene." "Mom, this ends now. I’ve already talked to a lawyer about conservatorship—" She stopped. The diner was packed. Warm. Alive. "Where," she whispered, "is my mother?" She found me in the back booth. Chloe sat across from me, baby sleeping in a carrier. She was crying quietly. "...and I just feel like I’m failing, Ruth," she whispered. "I’m so tired. I feel like I’m failing my baby, my job…" I didn’t offer fixes. I didn’t give her steps. I just took her hand. My 72-year-old, wrinkled hand holding her trembling 25-year-old one. "No, honey," I said softly. "You’re not failing. You’re drowning. That means you’re still fighting. Now breathe." Jessica froze, watching something her algorithms couldn’t quantify. Something inefficient. Human. Real. She slowly backed away and went to the counter. Alex looked up. "Can I help you, ma’am?" Jessica’s eyes were wet. "I’ll have… the chicken soup. And a slice of the apple pie." In that sterile, “smart” apartment, I was a data point. A "fall risk." A liability. Here, in the chaos of The Sunrise Grill, I am necessary. They tell you to rest when you get old. They tell you to stay safe. But a ship in a harbor is safe, and that’s not what ships are for. My hands are wrinkled, my back aches—yet I am far from obsolete. We are not disposable because we’re gray. We are not "managed care." We *are* the care. We remember how to hold a hand, how to listen, how to make the soup. Don’t let them file you away. Don’t let them "optimize" you into invisibility. Go find your station.

My name is Ruth, I’m 72 years old, and yesterday, I became a "person of interest" to my own daughter.

My name is Ruth, I’m 72 years old, and yesterday, I became a "person of interest" to my own daughter. Not because I’m sick. Not because I’m senile. But because I cashed out my life savings. Every last cent. My daughter, Jessica, a Vice President in Silicon Valley, thinks I’ve lost my mind. She’s flying in tomorrow from California to conduct what she called, on the phone, an "intervention." She doesn’t realize I just performed a "resuscitation." On myself. For forty-five years, I was Ruth, the Head Nurse of the ER at St. Jude’s. My world was the smell of betadine, burnt coffee, and desperation. I held hands, broke ribs during CPR, and delivered more heartbreaking news than I can bear to remember. My world was chaos, and I ran it. Then I retired. Six months later, my husband, Frank, passed. And the silence swallowed me. Jessica is a good person. She’s just… efficient. She manages teams of coders who build apps that "optimize human connection." She can’t handle a problem she can’t solve with a spreadsheet. So, she "fixed" me. She sold my home and moved me into a "Gilded Willow" active senior community. It was all glass and brushed steel. It also felt like a high-tech cage. She gave me a wearable bracelet that tracked my heart rate, steps, and "fall risk." It felt like an ankle monitor. My golden years became a timetable: 10 a.m. Water Aerobics, 2 p.m. "Cognitive Engagement" (Bingo), 5 p.m. Low-Sodium Dinner. I wasn’t living. I was being managed. "Mom, the data shows you’re thriving!" she’d say during video calls, her eyes flicking to another screen. "Jessica, I’ve ‘rested’ for two years," I told her last week. "It’s the most exhausting thing I’ve ever done." The spark lit the next day. I was riding the bus—just to feel movement—when I noticed it. "The Sunrise Grill." Frank took me there on our first date in 1973. We shared a slice of apple pie. Now it had a "For Sale by Owner" sign next to a failing health grade. I went inside. The place was empty except for a young man in his early twenties, hunched over a laptop, pale in its glow. I tapped the counter. "This surface is a health code violation." He startled and snapped his laptop shut. "Uh—ma’am, we’re not… we’re closing. For good." "I can see that," I said, eyeing the stale coffee. "Who’s in charge?" "I am," he said, rubbing his eyes. He looked like many of my old septic patients—clammy, exhausted, running on fumes. "My name’s Alex. It was my grandpa’s diner. He… he passed." "COVID?" I asked. He let out a bitter laugh. "No. He survived COVID. It was the hospital bills that crushed us. I’ve been trying to run the place and pay it all off, but…" He gestured hopelessly. He was trying to erase massive debt with scrambled eggs. My nursing instincts took over. This wasn’t just a failing business. It was a trauma scene. "How much?" I asked. "Ma’am?" "How much to clear the debt and buy this diner?" He told me. It was almost exactly the amount of my life savings. "I’ll be here tomorrow at 6 a.m.," I said, taking out my checkbook. "I’m not your partner. I’m your boss. We’re saving this place. Now go home and sleep eight hours. You’re in adrenal fatigue." Jessica’s phone call afterward was… dramatic. "You WHAT? You liquidated your retirement for a diner? Mom, that’s an unsecured, high-risk asset! It’s unsanitary! I’m calling your doctor for a cognitive evaluation—" "Jessica, you can’t optimize kindness. I have to go. The grill needs scrubbing." I hung up. The first month was brutal. But it was the kind of chaos I knew how to fix. The Sunrise Grill didn’t just need a cook. It needed a Head Nurse. I know how to repair what’s broken. The old regulars trickled back in. Walt, a Vietnam vet, always sat in his corner booth, grumped, and never finished his toast. One morning, I brought him oatmeal instead. "Didn’t order this," he muttered. "I know, Walt," I said, refilling his coffee. "Forty-five years as a nurse taught me when dentures are bothering a man. Eat." He stared at me over the spoon. Then he ate. Then there was Chloe—a young woman, exhausted, trying to breastfeed under a blanket while typing on her laptop. The whole diner was tense. I walked over and gently closed her laptop. "I… I have a deadline," she whispered, voice cracking. "No," I said, switching into Head Nurse mode. "You have a child. And you’re running a fever. You’re dehydrated." I lifted the baby. The crying stopped immediately, soothed by an old nurse’s rhythm. "Alex!" I shouted. "Large orange juice and chicken soup for Chloe. On the house." Chloe collapsed into soft, silent sobs—the kind only an overwhelmed woman cries when she thinks she’s failing everything. The Sunrise Grill wasn’t a diner anymore. It was my station. Jessica arrived on a rainy Friday, iPad in hand, ready to "intervene." "Mom, this ends now. I’ve already talked to a lawyer about conservatorship—" She stopped. The diner was packed. Warm. Alive. "Where," she whispered, "is my mother?" She found me in the back booth. Chloe sat across from me, baby sleeping in a carrier. She was crying quietly. "...and I just feel like I’m failing, Ruth," she whispered. "I’m so tired. I feel like I’m failing my baby, my job…" I didn’t offer fixes. I didn’t give her steps. I just took her hand. My 72-year-old, wrinkled hand holding her trembling 25-year-old one. "No, honey," I said softly. "You’re not failing. You’re drowning. That means you’re still fighting. Now breathe." Jessica froze, watching something her algorithms couldn’t quantify. Something inefficient. Human. Real. She slowly backed away and went to the counter. Alex looked up. "Can I help you, ma’am?" Jessica’s eyes were wet. "I’ll have… the chicken soup. And a slice of the apple pie." In that sterile, “smart” apartment, I was a data point. A "fall risk." A liability. Here, in the chaos of The Sunrise Grill, I am necessary. They tell you to rest when you get old. They tell you to stay safe. But a ship in a harbor is safe, and that’s not what ships are for. My hands are wrinkled, my back aches—yet I am far from obsolete. We are not disposable because we’re gray. We are not "managed care." We *are* the care. We remember how to hold a hand, how to listen, how to make the soup. Don’t let them file you away. Don’t let them "optimize" you into invisibility. Go find your station.

Why did Lord Vishnu have children with Mata Sita and even her mother Bhudevi (mother Earth)?

Why did Lord Vishnu have children with Mata Sita and even her mother Bhudevi (mother Earth)? Bhagvān Viṣṇu incarnated as Rāma and his consort Bhagvatī Lakṣmī incarnated as Sītā. The mother of all the worlds, Lakṣmī appeared as Sītā from the earth hence earth is considered the mother of the Sītā incarnation of Lakṣmī. This doesn't make Bhudevī the mother of Sītā in the way you are interpreting things. Rāma didn't have any other wife except Sītā so there's no question of children. On the other hand Bhūdevī is Viṣṇu's consort too, because she's an aspect of Lakṣmī. In his incarnation as Varāha, Bhagvān Viṣṇu becomes the father of his and Bhūdevī's offspring. Bhagvatī Lakṣmī divides herself into 3 aspects- Śrīdevī, Bhūdevī and Nīlādevī. This is mentioned in the scriptures. “The Goddess Śrī/Lakṣmī assumes a threefold form in conformity with the Lord’s will for the protection of the world. That she (Lakṣmī) is styled as Śrī and is known as such. The Goddess Bhū is the Earth comprising the seven islands and the seas; the container and the contents of the fourteen worlds such as bhū, etc.; and her essence is Praṇava. Nīlā is festooned with lightnings. To nourish all herbs and living beings, She assumes all forms." ~ Sītā Upaniṣad. “That Lakṣmī is the Earth only, well-known as goddess Nīlā. Being the support of the world, she has resorted to the form of the earth. She herself would be of the form of Nīlā due to her liquid form of the nature of water etc. She has obtained the form of Lakṣmī (Śrī). She is of the nature of wealth and speech.” ~ Padma Purāṇa. “As the consort of Viṣṇu, Śrī — the presiding deity of sattva-guṇa. As the presiding deity of tamo-guṇa, She is Durgā (Nīlā) or Kanyākā. As the goddess of earth, the presiding deity of rajo-guṇa, She is the consort of the Boar (Varāha). ~ Garuḍa Purāṇa. Thus Lakṣmī in the forms of Śrī, Bhū and Nīlā is the consort of Viṣṇu. As Sītā she's the consort of his incarnation Rāma and specifically in the form of Bhūdevī, she's the consort of his incarnation Varāha. Sītā's birth from the earth doesn't make Bhudevī her biological mother when the true self of Sītā, Lakṣmī herself is Bhūdevī. Thus Lakṣmī's incarnation appeared from one of her own aspects.

Why did Lord Vishnu have children with Mata Sita and even her mother Bhudevi (mother Earth)?

Why did Lord Vishnu have children with Mata Sita and even her mother Bhudevi (mother Earth)? Bhagvān Viṣṇu incarnated as Rāma and his consort Bhagvatī Lakṣmī incarnated as Sītā. The mother of all the worlds, Lakṣmī appeared as Sītā from the earth hence earth is considered the mother of the Sītā incarnation of Lakṣmī. This doesn't make Bhudevī the mother of Sītā in the way you are interpreting things. Rāma didn't have any other wife except Sītā so there's no question of children. On the other hand Bhūdevī is Viṣṇu's consort too, because she's an aspect of Lakṣmī. In his incarnation as Varāha, Bhagvān Viṣṇu becomes the father of his and Bhūdevī's offspring. Bhagvatī Lakṣmī divides herself into 3 aspects- Śrīdevī, Bhūdevī and Nīlādevī. This is mentioned in the scriptures. “The Goddess Śrī/Lakṣmī assumes a threefold form in conformity with the Lord’s will for the protection of the world. That she (Lakṣmī) is styled as Śrī and is known as such. The Goddess Bhū is the Earth comprising the seven islands and the seas; the container and the contents of the fourteen worlds such as bhū, etc.; and her essence is Praṇava. Nīlā is festooned with lightnings. To nourish all herbs and living beings, She assumes all forms." ~ Sītā Upaniṣad. “That Lakṣmī is the Earth only, well-known as goddess Nīlā. Being the support of the world, she has resorted to the form of the earth. She herself would be of the form of Nīlā due to her liquid form of the nature of water etc. She has obtained the form of Lakṣmī (Śrī). She is of the nature of wealth and speech.” ~ Padma Purāṇa. “As the consort of Viṣṇu, Śrī — the presiding deity of sattva-guṇa. As the presiding deity of tamo-guṇa, She is Durgā (Nīlā) or Kanyākā. As the goddess of earth, the presiding deity of rajo-guṇa, She is the consort of the Boar (Varāha). ~ Garuḍa Purāṇa. Thus Lakṣmī in the forms of Śrī, Bhū and Nīlā is the consort of Viṣṇu. As Sītā she's the consort of his incarnation Rāma and specifically in the form of Bhūdevī, she's the consort of his incarnation Varāha. Sītā's birth from the earth doesn't make Bhudevī her biological mother when the true self of Sītā, Lakṣmī herself is Bhūdevī. Thus Lakṣmī's incarnation appeared from one of her own aspects

Hell on Earth? It is here, it is here

Hell on Earth? It is here, it is here Today, our cities seem united not only by the bland superficiality of globalised commerce, but by broken civic systems and an unending string of environmental catastrophes. Santwana Bhattacharya I write this with a head heavy from pollutants and a lung capacity that feels like a modest deal arrived at after tough negotiations. Delhi NCR has always tested its residents, but this winter has felled even the hardiest among us. The air has gone beyond foul. It is an outright assault. You experience a peculiar kind of helplessness when the very act of breathing becomes a privilege. Maybe something magical is waiting on the other side of this, because we are holding our breath! What’s worse than this physical grey zone is the growing mental realisation that there is nowhere else to go. No alternative urban life to aspire to within this country. For generations, we spoke lovingly of cities with distinct moods and personalities—Kolkata’s warm intellectual hum, Mumbai’s chaotic efficiency, Bengaluru’s easy vibes, Chennai’s stately poise, Hyderabad’s old-world grace. One could lose oneself differently in each. Today, they seem united not only by the bland superficiality of globalised commerce, but by broken civic systems and an unending string of environmental catastrophes. Flooding is the new seasonal—and out-of-season—anthem. Summers feel like a product of some evil genius in a genetic engineering laboratory. Water in many cities is a cocktail whose ingredients health authorities daren’t list. Every second road is a jam, every fourth building is built on a lake bed, and every skyline appears dipped in a uniform murky grey. Even our great escapes are collapsing. Quite literally. Once the refuge of out-of-breath Delhiites, the lower Himalayas are sinking under the weight of reckless ‘development’ and real estate rapacity. The tall guardians of the Gangetic plains are crumbling like cookies. Now it’s not just buses that fall off slopes. In the new nursery rhyme, Jack falls down, and the hill comes tumbling after! The mountains where we once went for a whiff of the eternal now themselves look mortal. Four-laned highways to hell—at least we are going down in style. Goa, the other beloved escapade, has turned into a Punjabi shaadi banquet hall. Fish curry and bebinca are retreating in the face of butter chicken and tandoori platters, while reels helpfully explain how to get a Portuguese passport in six easy steps. As for Europe—well, half the Swiss villages seem to be staffed, fed, or caffeinated by our own. We run the pizzerias and the Pilatus Bahnen. Sardars have perfected French cheese, Bangladeshi chefs rustle up an arabbiata sauce as well as an Italian grandma. Meanwhile, Suvendu Adhikari continues to believe Bangladeshis are migrating upriver like swarms of hilsa, just to add political nutrition to Didi’s plate. If only he’d look up from his script and see where the actual migration is happening. The exodus is outward—anywhere with breathable air, potable water, functional civic sense. If you drive to any of Delhi’s clogged arteries, you can smell the burnt air. I could take bagfuls of it at ITO and print a newspaper with it. This is what a passing truck used to feel like, with your windows down. Now it comes through the cracks like a truth no government vanity ad can erase. It sits in your throat long after you’ve returned home. Your lungs do not have the power even to voice your angst. Priyanka Gandhi says there is nothing enjoyable about Delhi’s winter any more. This winter feels tailor-made to prove her right. With Parliament in session, the air inside and outside is equally thick—with local intrigue, the global mystery about what Putin’s Christmas gift may contain, and plenty of PM2.5. The LG and CM have met for a ritual exchange of concern. That gave us a few sprinklers, strung up helplessly on dusty dividers like sultanate-era convicts. Condemned to spew foamy water into Pandemonium. Of course, someone might gently remind the Wayanad MP that she could nudge Siddaramaiah and D K Shivakumar keep an eye on Bengaluru’s air too while they tuck into their idli-vada. Our once-envied city of mild sunshine and green sighs now competes with Delhi on the pollution charts, as though toxic air were the new startup boom. Chennai, dear Chennai, once celebrated for its rasa-bhava as much as for its rasam, is drowning on a quarterly basis. Entire neighbourhoods turn into urban archipelagos with the punctuality of 4 pm filter coffee. Hyderabad, with its Jubilee Hills sheen, is fast joining the smog club. Some mornings, I see cityscape photographs from different metros and genuinely struggle to tell them apart. I nearly reprimanded a colleague for reusing images—until I realised it was not the content creator who had turned lazy. It was the cities that had become indistinguishable. So where does one migrate? Nowhere, it seems. As the pub artiste sings to the smog outside, for the nth time, you can check out but you can never leave.