Mr. Fisherman and Mr. Brown

Mr. Fisherman, HELP!

I am Mr. Brown,

Lend me a hand, quick,

else I will drown.

I swim alone,

in murky waters of hate,

Waves of terror rise,

they do not abate.

Hurry Mr. Fisherman,

The sun sets soon,

And shadows of evil

around the horizon loom.

The terrain is treacherous,

just look around,

fins slice through the seas,

Great whites abound.

Menacing teeth, jaws open wide,

my pores soaked in dread,

I am terrified.

Please Mr. Fisherman, reel me in,

drench me with warmth

make me feel safe within.


WAIT! WAIT! Don’t shoot me,

I am not a shark,

That is my arm, not a fin

though it is just as dark.

(OH, but Mr. Fisherman,

Why did I ever ask for your help?)

Up close, The disgust in your eyes

tells me what is true,

The murk in the waters,

is just a reflection of you.


_Vidya M.


This poem is dedicated to all the victims of hate crimes, the innocent who have dedicated their lives to this country and are frisked, questioned because they are colored, children who have known no other place as their home and have been asked to go back to where they came from. Yet this dedication would also be incomplete if I did not mention all the beautiful people who have welcomed immigrants with open arms, embraced us and our culture and who make want to be an integral part of this great country. We all know not every person of color is a terrorist and not every white person is a supremacist. Every day we come across people from all walks of life, from different backgrounds who are truly wonderful. Doctors, teachers, actors and leaders who fight for what is right.Then why do we hate? Together if we rise we will be able to conquer every evil force in the world.Our leaders need to use words that evoke the Grillot and destroy the Purinton within each of us. Fear is never the key.








Filed under Poetry

The Young Ones

This is an insight into teenage anxiety and depression. I am no expert but do hope this article will throw some light on the illness that plagues many. This is a complex issue and what I have outlined is just a framework that I hope will get people to start difficult conversations and help children and families they know without judgement. I may be wrong and if I am please feel free to correct me and carry on the discussion. We need to take away the stigma that is associated with mental illness as it affects far more children and families than we think and it does not have to be this way.

The Young Ones.

Ah!!! The glorious days of teenage…. Of fun, frolic, first loves and fast friends. Of being footloose and carefree. However old you may be while reading this, does not the sound of the word bring back the image of a young John Travolta swinging to foot tapping music, a beautiful sixteen-year-old Liselle going on seventeen or the boyishly dashing Aamir Khan dreamily singing ‘Pehlaa Nasha’ to the glamorous Pooja Bedi? An age that could completely be described by the stars in Archie’s eyes and ‘BOING’. An age in our timelines when hours idling around with friends filled our lives. When going to college to get an education was expected of us yet it did not consume us.  When we laughed wholeheartedly, not a care in the world, we ate to our heart’s content, not a worry in our hearts. When walks to our school were as important as the learning we did in school and heartfelt conversations with buddies were as important as homework. An idyllic life….

Are you all warm and fuzzy on the inside, friends? Maybe some of you are even humming ‘Summer Holiday’ or ‘Yellow Submarine’. Now that you are all cozied up, let me proceed to tell you the real reason behind penning my thoughts.

Sadly, like the dinosaurs who once roamed the earth, teenage as we knew it is now extinct. Today our children go through a phase of life that could better be described as teenache. A recent article in the Times quotes that there at least 3 million adolescents in the ages of 12 to 17 who have had at least one major depressive order in the past year and 6.3 million teens aged 13 to 18 who have had an anxiety disorder. These numbers maybe representative of the US population but it is a well-known fact that children across the globe are angst ridden. Not knowing how to deal with this agony within, more and more kids now resort to drugs, alcohol, cutting themselves and suicide. Heartbreaking, isn’t it? At an age where our kids need to experience the feeling of ecstasy that stems from living in the moment without any worries, they are infusing themselves with drugs to mimic the joy. What troubles them so? What are they anxious about? What is the root of this sadness? Here is my take on it….

One of the factors is the fact that we place too much emphasis on the analysis and production of geniuses. Children have an innate curiosity and an ability to learn spontaneously from the environment. Give them a blank sheet of paper and a few colored pencils and a child will produce a work of art that’s straight from the heart. A simple stimulus will produce a natural response. Yet these days we give them complex doodling mechanisms that promises us parents that our children will be young Picassos by the age of three. We give them toys that proclaim that if our children just push the right buttons on them, their brains will develop like Einstein or Mozart or Rembrandt or better still all three. We overstimulate and have altered the way they learn. The pressure starts here, my friends. Even as babies we send subtle signals to our children that they need to perform.

By the time, they are older and are enrolled in kumon, ballet, karate, art, sports and music, the signals are very clear. Though these classes exist to enhance their lives, in reality they are a fertile ground for breeding competitive parents. It’s not enough that the kids are learning a skill, they need to amount to something.  A child no longer swims just because he likes to or plays the violin because he wants to. He does it to make it into varsity teams or national level orchestras.

This is a brilliant generation of kids, my friends. Their ability to grasp and multitask is remarkable. Doesn’t it awe you when you see a child with tiny fingers deftly navigating a smartphone, a four-year-old effortlessly playing Bach on the piano or a thirteen-year-old teeing off with professionals on the golf course? There is immense talent yet this is a generation caught at the crossroads of cutting edge technology and our traditional ways. They need to excel in traditional academics and the arts while polishing soft skills needed to keep up with social media. They must be confident and know how to present themselves in the real world while being tech savvy and photogenic in the digital. The pressure on them is enormous. Have you noticed how children these days resemble beasts of burden as they carry their gigantic backpacks to school? It’s not the just the size of the books but the enormous content of the various subjects that weigh them down too. From literature to calculus, information is fed to them not only from the textbooks but various online platforms as well.  Could Information explosion be weighing them down?

To top it all, children of first generation immigrants are said to be ‘good’ kids only if they imbibe the culture of the place their parents migrated from. Nothing wrong with staying connected to their roots, but the connection should be natural, not imposed. Countless regional societies have sprouted with the intention of creating a pseudo-environment of the culture parents grew up in. It is truly wonderful to expose the richness and diversity of the fine arts and literature of our ancient cultures, but to think that just by learning the music or a dance form or attending weekend get togethers will make them think like the way we do or ‘desi’fy them is wrong. It will not work because these kids are growing up in an age where the entire world is their playground. The boundaries that define their identities are hazy. We grew up in the pre-internet era, isolated from the rest of the world. Our identities were closely tied to the place we grew up in, the way of life in that region, the kind of food made there and the language spoken. When I was growing up, burgers were food that only symbolized Jughead and America. Now, McDonald’s is a household name in India. You could now live in India and lay tacos on the dinner table or live the US and have paneer tikka for dinner. A high school child of Turkish immigrants watching ‘Anime’ or listening to K-pop does not see himself as any different from his neighbor, a child of Japanese immigrants watching and listening to the same thing and better still, a young girl in the US watching Priyanka Chopra on ‘Quantico’ sees the same role model as does a teen in Asia. Picture a geek and the cast of ‘The Big Bang Theory’ comes foremost to the mind of every kid in any part of the world. There are no borders.

That is also the reason why these kids feel the impact of events happening on the other side of the world. The Iran-Iraq war raged on for much of my childhood but it did not affect me greatly. What your eyes cannot see, your mind does not know. Yet today, the mob molestation in a major city in India evokes fear and rage in the mind of every young woman halfway across the globe. The picture of a little boy battered and bruised in the war in Aleppo stirred sadness in many tender hearts around the world. Every day the world gives our kids a reason to be sad.

Our kids have open minds and open hearts and an ability to accept people as they are. Much of their anguish comes from the duality in today’s world. What they feel in their hearts- a connection to people who are physically distant and what they see- adults fighting over color, race, religion confuses them. The divisive and bitter nature of our politics, the hatred in the words and deeds of adults in the name of God angers them. As if this is not enough, in all the chaos we repeatedly make the point that they need to stand out and carve a niche for themselves. As Time magazine rightly says, ‘If you wanted to create an environment to churn out really angsty people, we’ve done it.’

Well, how do we undo what we’ve done? Technology is here to stay but our mindsets need to change.

  1. We need to start thinking like our children with open hearts and open minds. Accept people as they are. Do not judge people on their origins, color, race or orientation. Our children don’t.
  2. Love our children for who they are. Let them know that having a perfect 4.0 GPA does not define them, the sparkle in their eyes and the lilt in their laughter does. Let them do things that they love not to add to their resume but because they enjoy it. The Beatles were right when they sang ‘All you need is love.’
  3. Take a vow together to take life less seriously. Let them be goofy and take a few minutes to laugh with them each day. Every day the world gives our kids a reason to be sad. Hold them tight and let them know there are plenty of reasons to be happy too. A mind capable of producing sadness is equally capable of producing happiness.Exercise, meditation(if they are open to it), spending time together or mastering the fine art of doing nothing are great tools to be happy. A teen who feels loved will not resort to harming themselves in any way.
  4. Pursue excellence, not perfection. Each day that you grow as a person and work on stuff you are passionate about, you are excelling. Perfection does not exist.
  5. Do not worry about the richness of our culture getting lost. The Internet has opened its doors as never before. Recently, I saw a video of Dutch children reciting verses from the Bhagvad Gita. It does not get any better than this. Spread the wonder to whoever is willing to learn. Teach your children your language, your art as you would to any other child, to enrich their life and not because you want them to grow up like you did.

Life is beautiful, my friends. Neither you nor your children need to be in pursuit of achievements or fill up your calendars with a must do list to add value to your life. As the wise men say ‘You are enough.’

I leave you with the words of a beautiful song I grew up listening to- ‘The Young ones’ by Cliff Richard.

“The young ones

Darling we’re the young ones

And young ones shouldn’t be afraid.

To live, love

While the flame is strong

For we may not be the young ones very long.


Why wait until tomorrow.

Tomorrow sometimes never comes

So love me,

There’s a song to be sung

And the best time is to sing it while we’re young.”






Filed under Essays

The Gift



Dedicated to my beautiful children Nidhi and Varun, my adorable nieces Aditi and Saatvi and my lovable nephews Adi, Giri and Shashi. Love you guys!


The Gift.

I was overwhelmed. The holidays usually did that to me. There always came a time in the frenzied activity around the planning  for the perfect getaway or a perfect get together, the perfect holiday family picture, buying the right gifts for the right people, putting up the lights and tree and doing our bit for charity when I had had enough. Strangely, this year it was not the feeling of being ‘Queen Bee’ that got to me. Quite the contrary, a feeling of emptiness flooded my heart.

A few events on the personal front (call it life, if you may) over the past few months had usurped my time and sapped my energy. Before I knew it, it was Christmas eve. We had not put up the tree. There were no lights, no gifts, no parties, no picture and there definitely was no vacation. The holidays were going to be a train to Nowhere land for my children. Was I a lousy mother? I had let myself get so preoccupied with the changes in my life that I had forgotten to plan the fun.

My children were teenagers now. I had wanted the few years before they left the nest to be filled with memorable bonding times.Memories of a sparkly, inviting home, days spent on an unforgettable cruise and lavish parties needed to be engraved on their minds. Times they would look back to fondly, when they were older. Of course, since they were teenagers, they would be equally content if they had just their phones around. All the more reason for a mother to plan constructive activities that sealed family ties and grounded them into reality. Yet here we were, faced with the possibility of nothing fun to do in the most happening time of the year.The thought of creating holiday  memories of just watching TV and playing video games irked me.

As I sat in my living room replying to holiday messages, pictures of families with smiling faces in fancy places that flooded social media made sure I  did not disembark at any point while on my guilt trip. To top it all, my daughter had come down with the flu the day before. Last minute shopping or an impromptu get together with friends was out of the question too. My holiday spirit was dead.

I moped around for a bit before I warily (moms with teenagers will relate to the wariness) entered my daughter’s room to check on her. She looked much better than before. She beckoned me in with a smile and handed me the iPad. “Here mom, watch this. This lady is sooo funny.” The lady was Superwoman aka comedian Lily Singh whose YouTube videos had garnered a few million views. Boy, was her take on her Indo-American heritage  hilarious!

Our guffaws drew my son into the room too. He came in carrying a batch of cookies he had just baked. Yum!! I had been so busy moping earlier, I had not paid attention to the pottering sounds that had emanated from the kitchen. As we dug into the crunchy sweetness of the gingerbread cookies, we discussed the vagaries of immigrant parenting, the likes of tiger moms and the absurd success of the arranged marriages of our generation. The conversation that ensued felt open, heartfelt and funny. The laughter eclipsed the emptiness I had felt earlier and reignited my dying spirit. I felt a simple yet strong sense of connection to my children and I know they felt it too. For in the days that followed, they often congregated on my bed to opine about people from Queen Latifah to their elementary school teachers. I learned new age scrabble words from them as we played ‘Words with Friends’ and they learned about some of the games their father and I played as children growing up in the streets of Mumbai.. And fortunately for us, our budding baker continued to bake a few more scrumptious treats.

What a blessing the days with nothing to do had turned out to be! This year would forever be etched in our memories as the year where I learnt the art of just being, our prodigal teenagers crawled back into our bed and my son discovered his passion for baking. I was grateful for these spontaneous joyful times that entailed no meticulous planning.

This past week, in a home devoid of the frills of traditional holiday rituals and festivities the spirit of the holiday-of gratitude and togetherness, throbbed in our hearts stronger than ever.


Wishing all my readers a very Happy New Year. Deeply thankful for the opportunity to reach out to a few hearts and make loving connections.




Filed under Essays


I dedicate this post to all my lovely friends in Charlotte. When we moved here four years ago, I was naive enough to think my heart was full with strong friendships… I did not need any more. You guys have woven your way into my heart. Truly grateful for your presence in my life. Happy Thanksgiving all…..



I imagine this world, ours,

a golden globe of bliss,

classy, opulent,



No tears of sorrow flow

no wounds of heartache fester,

no bullets of hatred stream

no shrapnel of deceit remains.

no sadness…

Maybe this is what Heaven feels like?


Heaven just replaced Northern lights

on the bucket list, of

places I wish to see.

I pick up the knife.

In that dark moment

I hear a whisper

“Would you know joy if there was no grief?”

I would not.


Only an imperfection can give birth

to the idea of perfection.

In lack, do we value abundance

Only in the angst of loneliness

do I appreciate the laughter of company?

In moments of pain I am vulnerable.

It is in that vulnerability

I value the beauty of my lover’s touch,

my friend’s words,

a stranger’s smile,

my child’s hug.

a pet’s nuzzle.


In the barren winter land

I value the summer when

rose bushes are in bloom.

In the blaze of the summer heat

I find comfort in the nip

of winter air.

Just like one would appreciate

an oasis only in the desert.

In fleeting times of pain

countless blessing do I find.

Blessings that matter to the heart,

that are otherwise dim specks

overshadowed by the sheen of opulence.


My Heaven is right here.

I pick up the knife

to cut a slice of the apple

crisp, succulent.







Filed under Poetry

Election 2016

We are at the finish line of this historic race, my friends. With agonizing impatience I watch the gap narrow between the two front runners as they both gain momentum. It’s unreal I say yet ‘In Godspeed’ I wish for the one I hope will make a difference.  The sad truth is I root for one not because they embody every value I stand for but because they are a little less likely to destroy the vision of hope I have created for our children. In unison with the crowd, my heart cries ‘CHANGE’ though in the very same breath and in unison again with the throngs, my mind wonders ‘What have we come to?’

I stop cheering and glance at the young lady standing next to me. She smiles nervously and through the nervousness gives me a glimpse of the heaviness her heart carries. She is a young mother of three and for reasons beyond her control, she must abort her unborn fetus. Her heart knows this is what is best but she is afraid, in turmoil as she hears constant screams of ‘Murderer’ from people who do not live her life. She wishes they could just leave her be. I reach out my hand to hold hers.

To my other side, I see a frail old man. His eyes tell me the story of a hardworking man of color who has had to battle prejudice and racism in his young days. He is proud of the way he has built his life. The battles did not scar his integrity at all but fears for his future dent his pride. His integrity cannot pay off his medical bills. Rising premiums and deductibles have weakened this once strong man. I give him my other hand and he responds by tightly holding mine.

I watch as this respectable senior in turn offers his hand to the young boy next to him. A young spirited soul who cares deeply about the world. He struggles to his place here though because of his orientation.

‘Do not judge’ he pleads repeatedly. ‘I feel pain and joy just as everyone else. I am just like you.’

The strength of my hand gives the young woman next to me the courage to reach out to another- a war hero and seeker of the Islamic faith. ‘I love this country just as much as you do’ his convincing eyes say. ‘I have fought to keep its’ beautiful people safe and its’ ideals high. At the battlegrounds, I have prayed to Allah to infuse me with the strength to make this great country proud of me. My faith makes me a better soldier.’

As the human chain grows, the cheers fade. A realization dawns that in the warmth of another’s heart we have already found what we were looking for. It does not matter who wins the race. Change does not happen when the people we elect wish it. It only happens when each of our hearts make space to accept another very different from us. When we cease to blame and judge and choose to live and let live we choose cohesiveness over divisiveness. It truly does not matter whom we vote for unless we make the shift within. Tomorrow morning when we wake up dear friends, if we ignite the candle of acceptance in our hearts we have already chosen hope.








Filed under Short Stories

The Language of the Heart

Dedicated to a generation of moms whose babies know the letter ‘ i ‘ before they understand the alphabet.


Every heart speaks a language and the heart of every mother understands and speaks the language of every heart in the family. The needs of the heart- its language change in every stage in life yet a woman quickly adapts and becomes adept at what her loved ones seek. Her heart knows and provides. That is why a woman’s  heart feels joy and  pain even before her loved ones do. It beats in sync with theirs.Yet a woman’s journey is always lonely. None can understand the beautiful amalgamation of turmoil her heart carries.


The  Language of the Heart

A solitary tear glistened on the screen of the iPad Rumi held in her hands. She gently put the iPad away on her night stand for she knew the swollen clouds of sadness that swept her heart would not be easily quelled. It was a good thing she did for pretty soon, the torrent of tears that streamed down her cheek matched the heavy downpour of rain outside the window of her bedroom.

Rumi was tough, not one to be disheartened or ruffled easily. She was seasoned to handle stormy times. After all, she lived in a house where teenage, middle age and old age co existed.

‘Why do you weep, my heart?’, she searched for answers within. The response she received was muffled under a thick blanket of gloomy silence. Her mind embarrassed at this display of weakness went back to the proceedings of the evening. It was after dinner that she had begun to feel her spirit sag. Yet, she could not recall anything that anyone in her family- her children, husband or in-laws had said to hurt her.

In fact she had been quite pleased that every member of the family had been present for dinner that day, for a change.  All activities and games for the kids had been cancelled due to the storm, the cable TV service was disrupted and the internet was down. They even sat down for dinner at the dining table today instead of in front of the television. As Rumi eagerly chatted about the interesting facts she had learned on the online courses she was taking, she soon realized that neither her teenage children, nor the adults were interested. They seemed distant. They would much rather listen to iTunes, Cam Newton, Anderson Cooper or Penny she thought begrudgingly. Well, at least no one’s arguing she consoled herself. Though her heart knew this was not the way it was supposed to be. There was no connect, the togetherness seemed awkward, forced.

Rumi reflected on the times, not too long ago, when smart phones, Netflix and wireless technology had not yet made its way into their house. Dinner times were much more noisy and also much more work. She had to feed the kids, cut their rotis into little pieces, distract them into eating their veggies as she sung for them, clean up their spills and wipe down the little munchkins as sometimes they ate with all their limbs. It was then- when their questions never ended and with wide eyes and curious minds as they learnt their numbers while counting their peas or learnt the sounds that animals make as she mooed and bleated her way into making them eat their carrots – that her heart felt alive. Simply because they were present in the moment with her.

Rumi had always known these delightful baby days would not last, that their growing up years were bound to be a frenzy with school, sports, activities, homework and social commitments, that the teenage years were bound to be turbulent with the raging hormones. That she was prepared for. What she did not realize was how soon technology would consume their lives. She had always thought that dinner time would continue, maybe they would argue more and listen less yet they would always gather around the table where she would learn about their lives,their newfound dreams and their zest to make a mark in the world. Hopefully the children would clean up after themselves and in fact help clean up with her. What she didn’t realize was dinner time as she had imagined it to be, would be non existent. Between their homework schedule, prime time television, Pokemon, texting and Netflix members would eat as and when it suited them or even if they did eat together, their minds would be elsewhere. What they heard would be sounds of the television, not the voices of each other’s hearts.

These days her kids would rather ask google than ask her. Her husband  would probably be more aware of a friend’s emotions than hers because the friend chose to announce it on social media. Sadly though, that this was the state in every house. Wherever she went, restaurants, malls or airports people spent all the spare time checking their messages and emails. They were more in tune with people 5000 miles away rather than with the person next to them. How could there ever be togetherness when everyone was so distant and lost in their own smart phone worlds. Every one with a smart phone knew it the minute Hillary stumbled at the 9/11 ceremony that she had. What value did that mundane fact add to the quality of one’s life? Yet people continued to fill up their lives with these such frivolous details. How often did people these days notice their neighbors in the community stumble or take time out to find out how they were doing?  Why, her kids didn’t even know many of the neighbors around.  We have reached a time when free wi-fi is one of the most endearing features of a place. When dinner for two also includes the 572 friends on your Facebook profile. The only time one stepped out of this world of internet ‘Maya’ was when on a day like today the technology was totally down. And then when they did, they didn’t know how to enjoy it. For unfortunately, the human heart can connect and speak another’s language only when it is in the present moment. The language of technology has muted the language of the human heart.That is why in an ever so populous world people feel lonely, anxious and depressed.

That night  Rumi cried as the clouds of loneliness engulfed her heart. She realized her heart yearned to hear the familiar voice of a loved one’s heart yet in a house full of people, all it heard was deafening silence.













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Dear Mr. Bachchan

Dear Mr.Bachchan,

On behalf of all the daughters in India- Thank you for your beautiful and inspirational message. Though I do deeply feel, Sir, our ability to empower our daughters would be incomplete unless we address the other side of the issue our society faces. Are we doing enough to raise our sons so that we can extend the privileges of following their heart to our daughter-in-laws’ too?

You see we have reached a delicate state of affairs at present. Most parents now do raise their daughters to be the powerful forces they were meant to be. That is why we find successful women in all walks of life even in arenas that until recently were dominated only by men. Yet do we teach our sons to accept these forces as equal partners in their life?

While we dream with our daughters and teach them to reach for the stars why is it that as soon as they are wives and mothers we tweak the rules. We then expect them to expertly balance the home with their careers single handed. We have great pride in our daughters who have broken barriers and reached great heights yet the image of a good daughter-in-law deeply ingrained in our mindsets is of one who serves her family. Do we teach our sons that they need to share the burden on the domestic front, that it is not right to drop their bags and lounge on the couch when they come home from work? That their children’s success also depends on their own involvement in the kids’ lives? It does not matter if she has made excruciatingly difficult decisions at work, as soon she’s home, a woman is usually the one who has to deal with the decision of what is for dinner. The heart of every single woman who works outside her home throbs with pangs of guilt because she wonders if she is doing enough to nurture her family and kids. At the same time stay at home mothers, do question themselves as to whether they contribute enough to the family. Either way they beat themselves up because though we have taught our daughters to walk in a world of men, we haven’t done enough to relieve the enormous pressure on our daughter-in-laws’ to be the perfect caregivers.

It’s time we also teach our sons to be nurturers, to be women. It’s time we teach them that if dinner is not ready on time they are responsible too. That a pile of dirty laundry lying around the house does not reflect on the woman’s incapability but on the incapability of every one at home who does not share the burden with her.

If our daughters have learnt that they need to make choices in the light of their own wisdom, then our sons need to learn to accept and respect these choices. Every woman has the innate wisdom to know what works best for her family, her situation so she deserves to be respected for her choice whether she chooses to work outside the home or stay home to be with her children.

Our sons need to know that to exert control over the people you love is not what makes a man but to loosen those reins of control and create a space where the family can express itself without fear is what makes a truly great man. If we teach our daughters to marry for love, then we need to teach our sons and daughters what is love. It is a shared space where each person can be who they truly want to be.

You are right Mr. Bachchan when you say that the length of the skirt does not define a person’s character. After all, clothes are just a covering for the beautiful temples that house our spirit. But as a mother I do worry that if the clothes my children wore had necklines that plunged too low, hems that rode up high or were low waisted rather no waisted pants that revealed a crack, then what society would see when they looked them would probably be just a size, a figure, a body type not the budding talents or gentle souls that they are. It would take away from the magnificence they hold within. Jab tak puri duniya apni soch nahi badalti ,“log kya kahenge” is easier said than done.

And lastly whether they are sons or daughters we need to teach them to each take responsibility of their own health, well-being and happiness. They need to know that their life is a creation of their own thoughts, that unless they are happy with themselves they will never be happy with another.

Maybe,Sir,  you could in your beautiful words write a letter to all the grand sons too.

Thank you,



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