The devoir of a good son is to break the news of surviving a near-fatal miss to his mother softly. Fortune is on his side as it is dusk preventing her from seeing the numerous bandages stuck to his limbs and jaw, torn jeans flapping and a second chin from stitching together the long cut that neatly cleaved the existing one into two. “Mom, I couldn’t finish my trip.” “What happened?” “My motorcycle got jammed.” “Oh, some engine trouble?” “Yeah, kind of.” Revelation gets progressively tough as my jammed motorcycle
Belgian monk Francis Acharya decided to come to India after he met Gandhi in London. So impressed was he by the Mahatma’s espousal of the tenets of Hinduism that he wanted to work for the ‘encounter between Hinduism and Christianity.’ After several unsuccessful applications for visa he finally approached Vijayalakshmi Pandit who was the Indian High Commissioner in England at that time. The visa was finally granted after Jawaharlal Nehru sought a personal guarantee from Acharya that he wouldn’t proselytise. Acharya then travelled across the country before setting up his
Being the only uncle to a bunch of boys who can fill out a small platoon comes with not just enough responsibilities but a minimum knowledge requirement. Like knowing ‘fast track.’ “Tom mama, let’s get fast track,” said one of my nephews at the entry to the water park. “But didn’t I get you all watches just last year?” I was serious as I had actually gifted them outdoor watches from Casio the previous Christmas. In response the kids took turns looking exasperated and laughed. They glanced over their shoulders
