Thursday 19 March 2020

The Vendors and Other Lives- Chennai

Just walked down the beach. A few vendors sitting hopelessly. With pushcarts in place. In a vast empty sandy space.
One middle aged man sitting on a small plastic sack. With glittering earrings spread before him. Looked up at us with faintest hope.
The times are hard. Everybody in the zone of daily wage is toppling down. We know it.
Yet when eyes meet, one cannot walk on. Bought 10 pairs of earrings. He was grateful. For nothing.
I know it means nothing. Just a days meal assured for him today. Just a temporary assauging of guilt for me snd my daughter. That comfortable option of the privileged.
And yet. The next few days we need to reach out to whoever we can. Buy their products. Or give money as a friend. As far as we can. As ling ad we can.
Times are going to be dire for the poor, more than we can imagine.
And the government has to be forced to allocate support for the poorest. In every way.
... The glittering picture here holds within it hard difficult truths.







Already an old woman, white haired and fragile, had spread her plastic sheet on the pavement and was arranging her small plastic items there. Some tea filters, some rattles, some plastic scubbers. The entire outlay, her shop, may have cost a few hundreds.
A little further her two grandchildren were playing. Pretty girls. The elder was a fair child, maybe ten. The curly haired younger child was a dark beautiful three or four.
When we passed by the elder one mechanically held out her palm. I steeled up. Facing my shame. At the world we have created.
CUT
PaalaGuttaPalle. Dalitwada.
Many years ago. Our daughter was three or four. I remember. When another child walked into our home eating a biscuit, she spontaneously held out her hand. An older friend, maybe five years old, gently pulled back her hand, "Chei jaapa koodadhu." (Never put out your hand and ask.).
The same community which taught her this, also taught her this. When she was eating, my neighbour walked in. She stopped by her, knelt, smiled and told her, "Thinnetappudu pilu. 'Raa koorcho, annam thinnu.'" ("While eating, call others. 'Come, sit and eat too.'")
Lessons learnt from babyhood. For a lifetime. By all children. To never beg. And to share what one had. The last meal. Even.
CUT
A city.
Glass walked restaurants. The rich feast. Unheeding of the hunger that stares at them.
The poor watch their poverty juxtaposed with excess. Their pride crumbles.
And when pride and self respect crumbles. Everything crumbles.
And the earth trembles. At the wrongs she has nurtured.



Yesterday I bought two 'mooras' of jasmine flowers from the old lady. She was there at nine at night when I was returning from the clinic. I asked her if she had still not returned home and she said that the flowers had not got sold as people kept whizzing by on cars these days.
An old lady in her seventies, living by herself, and trying hard to earn an honest living ... and failing more and more as the cars that zoom past her get faster and faster.
Do I blame the cars, do I blame the stars, do I blame myself ...



Yesterday when i was returning at 8 p.m., the old flower lady did not have change for 50/- when I bought a cubit of flowers from her as usual. The flowers I buy and which fade away as I usually do not wear flowers. She said this was 'boni', as no one had bought flowers from her this day. The cars whiz by, and they cannot slow, and park and buy. It was Sunday and they were all holidaying and driving to restauraunts.
What could I say. Where do these old women belong in this country. And when they go to sleep hungry, who will pay for that hunger when one day .... when the day of reckoning comes.



Revathi. The young woman with the beauty that seems to be part of those who handle these beautiful flowers.
She called out to me from the shaky wooden table on the footpath beside which she stands. And as she packed the three cubits for me, she said happily, "I have strung these flowers. See how closely I have strung them."
She told me that the merchants bring the flowers from the main market beyond Koyambedu to the colonies. That all the men and women go there and buy flowers, which they then string together and sell along the roadsides.
These are times for us to buy. Daily.
Indiscriminately.
It is a matter of survival.





tJseunSep 12S,honnu r2hhSso0i15redalS 
Shared with Public
Public
As I passed my flower lady on the footpath late at night, she told me a cubit of flowers was 20/-. I hesitated for a fraction of a second - that is how deeply ingrained our selfishness is.
Then I realised that she is not responsible for the flower prices fluctuating, and she only raises the price when the flower prices rise. She needs to sell for that day's meal, and therefore I need to buy. A moment's reflection clarifies simple questions.
I think nowadays people do not have that moment.

30 November 2015 at 12:08 ·
Yesterday as I passed by the glass walled restauraunt with my daughter, we both saw the poor children outside trying to sell small plastic butterflies to the people walking in to eat. The picture was so painful that I just quickened my steps and walked by. I would usually have bought a handful of whatever they were selling to assuage myself. Sometimes the meaningless of even that gesture becomes too sharp.
Later in the bus my daughter told me that I could have taken them in and got them a meal. I said I would not. That the worlds were so different that this would be adding chilly powder to their wounds. She said, 'Maybe once ?'. I asked, 'So that they taste and remember that which is always going to be denied to them by birth?'.
What answers can one give ones children in these times ? What direction ? What hope ?



When I was in classes 10th, I used to study deep into the night. I used to hear the stick of the gorkha pound on the street at midnight and cringe. I used to wonder why we who lived locked safely in good homes slept in peace. And a poor man faced the risk of being beaten by theives who may come for our assets. Because we paid him a pittance.
The gorkha is history, as is my childood. But I still feel bewildered when I think of this situiation.


I saw a young man on the pavement with a clutch of colourful gas balloons and a gas machine. When will he sell those balloons. Which of the speeding cars will stop to buy them. I see rich children with faces buried in smartphones these days, or IPods, and not chasing balloons and soap bubbles and dreams.
How will this young man, standing so still and quiet feed his family. A part of my soul dies each day as I ignore such people and move on with my own life.
So I often buy gas balloons I do not need, and jasmine wreaths I do not wear, knowing the while that it is simply to tired effort to placate my tired conscience.

I went to get my slippers mended by the cobbler today. She was sitting on a peice of cloth on the footpath neatly dressed, with glass bangles on her arms, and anklets on her feet, as also toe rings. She had two nose studs, and two earrings in each ear. They may have been brass and iron, but that really does not matter. She also had three roses in her hair.
She did a neat job, and charged only Rs. 10/-. I was tempted to tell her to 'keep the change' as I gave 20/-, but I realized that it served no purpose. She was dignified, chatting to me as equals, which we are in every fundamental sense except in the criminal disparity of wealth. And here I was the criminal, I knew.
Maybe that I got off a cycle, and also had a simple saree on allowed her to accept the essential equality. Maybe she would talk as simply and levelly to a millionaire also - I think she would.
The changes whereby the cobbler earns as much as the engineer need very basic structural changes, and only that counts. And till that day we are the criminals for hoarding our wealth in the face of hunger. Shamelessly and fearfully.

Chidambaran Subramanian
What sort of structural changes will achieve that?
  • Like
  • Reply
  • 4y
  • Aparna Krishnan
    A revolution. Or a revolution of the hearts. I see neither in the realm of possibilities today.
    3
    • Like
    • Reply
    • 4y
  • Chidambaran Subramanian
    It never has been achieved, never will be. What we are seeing is runaway inequality because of an economic system.
Yesterday walking on the beach. Daughter and I stopped at the cart to get some of the delicious mix. Puffed rice, groundnuts, chopped cabbage, chopped onions, chopped tomatoes, chilly power. A squeeze of lemon. For just 30/-.
He have us two packets. And then I realized I had only a 500/- note. As I was telling my daughter in low tones, aghast, the vendor waved it away friendlily, "Never mind. Give whenever you come next.".
Humbled as always.
But finally we managed to dig out the money in change. And he was chatting as he was also telling us that it did not matter. "I have been selling this from when it was 3/- a packet. Three ruppees ! This was 28 years ago. I had just come from Senchi. And now its 30/-."
"Are you always here ?"
"Usually my wife. I have another cart down the road. There."
"Children ?"
"Yes, 2 dayghters, both married. My son is an AC mechanic. He stays with us. I am Kamraj, my wife is UMa. Kamraj-Uma." A broad friendly smile, with the introduction.
A happy meeting.
Yet sad.
Thirty years of hard work. Building up a life. And after that, still just a cart.
So many Kamrajs. Working so hard. And still lives not really changing. Living on the edge.
While in another world. Our world. Privilege creating greater privilege.


Madhurika Agrawal
That's the reality of life, Aparna. The more we see outside, the more we get to know ourselves. Let our compassion and Empathy help them, if at all but let us not pity them as they are HAPPIER than most of us in their limited life premise. We all seek happiness, which they have in abundance. ðŸ˜Š Our Spiritual Master says ' the lesser the better as it makes you close to your own purest form I.e. Our soul and makes one content too with life.'


Stand with Kamarajar. Celebrate Life, not Death. Cycling down the road I passed this cart. And turned back. And he welcomed me with a cheerful smile, that this was the boni. He apologized for the packet of rice and samber on his cart, saying he had got his food in the hotel, that he hadnt eaten last night. When i asked why he said there was a fight at home with his wife and she didnt cook. He said all that is now solved happily and shes cooking a nice meal, but he had to come with the cart. And as was preparing this wonderful mix, he introduced me to his family. His name is Kamarajar. Four daughters, the youngest is Manimekalai. When I told him it was a beautiful name, he beamed and told he had selected her name. He pulled out his small phone book and showd me his picture with his wife and Manimekalai. He told me the names of all his children and grandchildren with pride. He told me he used to sell this on the cart on the beach, and his wife used to on another cart. That life was good and business was good. But now the beach is closed. Becuse of Corona. His tone grew sombre. That now things were very difficult. They started selling vegetables. But everyone is selling vegetables. There were only losses. So now today he took out his cart, and is selling this. The elite will stay locked in their fears. Destroying themselves and others. I am hoping the poor buy this deliciousness and sustain him and themselves. I got a lot. Ate it all. Pure heaven ! Got more for home.






Yesterday.
Daughter, "Amma, the lady I buy flowers from every morning. The policeman was telling her that in a week she has to move off the pavement. That its not allowed. And that the big shops behing them are complaining.
She said they she wont move, and asked where she can go to !
The policeman then told them all to go to a corner at the end of the street and sit there.
Who will go there and buy from her ?? What will she do."
Silence.
I said, " We, the privileged dont want to see the poor. Somewhere deep within we know that our privilege, in the reality of their poverty, is a crime. Not legally maybe. But in that deepest sense, beyond all law.
We dont want to see them. It reminds us of very disturbing facts. That we try to evade.
We simply want to banish them. And think that then we will be able sleep in peace."
Silence.



eJtuindeo 2S7, an2opoa0ggoh1onsor9eld 
Shared with Public
Public
The cycle chain got stuck. I dragged the cycle to the cycle shop on the footpath, a distance away. The one legged man there, whose shop is a small wooden box under the tree, pulled up the tyre which serves as his stool, sat on it, and in some deft moves freed the chain in five minutes. And waved me away. When I took out my purse.
It was only right to accept the gift he made so casually. And I took it.
The number if times I have received grace at the hands of those we consider poor ...

Simple lives. Simple spaces.
Important livlihoods. Sustaining other simple lives.
The tyres hanging on the branch of the tree on the footpath. The mark of a cycle repair shop.
Visible from afar to those who need these. Invisible to lives which zoom by in air-conditioned comfort.
Night 8pm. My rattling chain guard was fixed. Neatly, competently. With a sure hand. Every bend neatly straightened with the hammer. Each vscrew in perfect position.
A Master at work.





The lady who does the sweeping at the clinic, sat on a chair to talk to me.
"The bus fares are now 23/- one way. Doubled. Unless one has 50/- one cannot come to work.
My father never taught me cycling. I have 4 brothers and two sisters. My brothers all learnt cycling, not we. My father thought girls did not need the skill. I feel so angry now. I could have cycled for half an hour and reached.
Now if I try to learn and fall and break my bones it will be too much of a disaster. You come cycling. Your father taught you."
I asked her quietly, "You have daughters ?"
She brightened up, "Yes, two. They cycle everywhere. I made sure they learnt, and have cycles."


Gold is Old
Along the road last evening, a young man was roasting groundnuts on his cart. The flavour wafted in the air. We succumbed. A neat little paper cone of groundnuts, perfectly roasted on a sand bath for 10/-. After finishing that in 10 minutes, between us we rushed back to the cart which had moved away, for 4 more cones.
"Its really delicious thambi." I told him.
"Yes, yes. This is the old way of frying. Gold is Old, as they say. Now no one has time ...", he said. In Tamil. Except the phrase 'Gold is Old'. Which was delivered in English.
A young man, with that cheer I associate with his class. Living on the edge, trying to earn an honest living, taking each day as it comes
... a timely reminder to me to stop frowning over many real and imaged trifles. And work more focussedly on things that matter.



As i was getting the vegetables back in the cycle carrier today, two motorcycles slowed down, "Madam, bagu". I turned back and saw that the big white cloth bag was on the dust on the other side of the busy road. As I kicked down the cycle stand to set back, an auto driver slowed down near the bag, and pulled it in. He waved to me to wait. After crossing the road, he slowed down near me, and handed the bag across.
He proceeded without a thought about the the help he had rendered. My India !



Todays breakfast on the streets of Chennai. Was out early, and needed some food. This


was delicious, filling and cost 20/-. And in the shade of a tree, served in clean shining sombus.
Raagi koozhu (porrige), served with a ladle of buttermilk, a handful of raw onions mixed in, and a mor molaga (dried chilly) and a spoon on coriander chutney on the side.
Who needs those air conditioned glass walled restaraunts with bills running into 1000s. This is 20/-.
Heaven on a wooden cart. A feast fit for the gods.
These simple services, honest livlihoods, is what keeps this country ticking.






















I go to the flour mill to get wheat ground. I again hear the deafening sound the young man faces as he grinds my wheat. And remember my unrepayable debt to him. As he comes to help me tie the bag to the cycle, it is another help I take.
Today I go late with the shikai, he is downing the shutters, and I come away to go again tomorrow. The customer and the propriter meet as equals, each needing the other.
These very small daily meetings remind us of our place in the web of relationships which sustain us. Going to the nearby small provision shop, the vegetable seller on his cart with vegetables mercilessly shrivilling in the sun, the old lady selling jasmines on the footpath, waiting endlessly for the elusive customer. . Or the small cloth shop on the narrow street, to pick up sarees for friends in the village. Where the man and wife greet us like old friends.
Online shopping breaks this real and last link between supplier and consumer, be it clothes or electronic goods. And with that the last bit or understanding also dies.



There was a post saying that India is rude. Which India ? The man who repairs my cycle punctures is very friendly. Also the old lady on the footpath who sells me jasmine flowers. She always gives me an extra rose gratis. The young man who grinds my wheat will always carry it down and put it on my cycle carrier. That the deafening noise of the machines has partly deafened him, has not affected his million watt smile that I wait to see every month. The bank staff at SBI despite vast crowds maintain efficiency and politeness. The P.O. has one grouchy lady and I wonder what she must be facing at home. The rest are helpful.
And on stepping into a village, it is genuine warmth. 'Come and eat' is said and one is seated and fed. In every home.
The India I know is warm and civilized.

2 Comments

  • Louis George
    "Rude" probably meant inquisitive. As in strangers wanting to know everything about you, and offering unsolicited advice. Westerners consider that, "rude".
    That is also why living in a first world country is one of the most lonesome and pointless endeavors one can undertake.
    • Like
    • Reply
    • 5y
  • Raj Jog Singh
    Yes Aparna, the one even I saw in my childhood in villages & small town is too civilized in its actions... Words may be crude, language unpolished... They may still refer with words "Tanne Kahi thi", but there is much wamth even in those words... Rustic charm still lives but maybe something is lost in the cities.. Neither could they retain tradition nor adapt to the civility of words imported...

ifAptuSfurnipoehla 7o,nsho cr2se0d19o 
Shared with Public
Public
The jasmine plant at home is in bloom. My daughter and Roopa collect the flowers and weave them and wear them. Heady perfume that only home grown flowers have these days.
We passed by the lady on the footpath selling flowers on her rickety table. From whom we always buy flowers. She called out waving to us. Gave my daughter a length and as usual insisted on taking the 20/- only from her. "Papa kaiyaala kudukanum. Nalla boni." Meaning, that if my daugter gives the money the sales are good that day. Auspiciousness.
So the extra length of flowers were bought. And will continue to be bought daily. Even if we have enough flowers at home this season.
Our own need or desire can never be the only reason for our purchases.
There are always more important reasons. Which have to decide what we buy and when and where from.





An elderly itinerent sadhu asked my old flowerseller the way to the temple. She explained and then he joined his hands and did a namaste to her and thanked her. She did a deeper namaste and said, "Swami, I should be the one bowing to you.
A simple and genuinely respectful exchange, but which soothed the soul of the observer.





And when i cycle back tired at 9:30 i see my flower seller old lady sitting erect, motionless as a statue, and still waiting for the elusive buyer of jasmine.
People of my country, simply trying to work hard and earn an honest living. And failing to. And I feel i have failed.


... and now every time I see a flower seller lady on the side, I buy good measure of flowers without bargaining, and this now I extend to the coconut sellers, fruit sellers, etc on the village roads I travel by.
Thiagarajan Venkatesan
23 April 2016 at 10:29 ·
Happy weekend! Flower seller!
In that city, there is this young girl, excels in studies, goes to top university and then to US to pursue her studies and a top career. In her heart, the urge to come back home and serve the poor people of villages become overwhelming and she comes back home and settles in a poor village and is still serving that villagers through drought, education, medicine, pickles making, small means of income, community lunch, etc. for years.
One day she writes an update on that poor village old flower lady who plucks fresh excellent smelling malligai (mogra or jasmine) flowers, and sells them to the passers by. Many days this old lady waits through the hot days on the side of road, for the passing cars to stop to buy her fresh flowers and she does not even sell one yard for a full day. Those who stop their cars bargain on five rupees and ten rupees also.
This story from my friend touched me, and now every time I see a flower seller lady on the side, I buy good measure of flowers without bargaining, and this now I extend to the coconut sellers, fruit sellers, etc on the village roads I travel by.
Familiar? Please show you humanity by buying from them without bargaining. And encourage such hard working people who choose not to beg but work with dignity.
Happy weekend!



MfrtlgSaelaacpyoh 1a5n,s orc201g5eed 
Shared with Public
Public
I have two colouring books now, and a teenaged daughter. When i was cycling back, two small children stopped me on the road and pushed the 20/- books at me. I looked into their eyes, and they looked into mine.
Seven year olds, not begging, but trying to earn an honest living. I bought their books, knowing the while that it was simply tokenism on my part.
A third boy came running, and the first boy, in full decency as per his understanding, dissuaded him. 'She has already bought two, dont ask her to buy more.' He also realised maybe that I did not look young enough to have a small daughter, and had bought it because he had a need to sell it.
Where do we hang our heads ?



MtuSponaayuS d18dmssm,sor e201d5hd 
Shared with Public
Public
Yesterday as I bought flowers from the old lady at the corner - who is now a friend - she told me 'I saw you cycle past lest evening.' She did not say it accusingly, but I squirmed. I was in a hurry, and preoccupied, and did not stop. I knew I was at fault.
She needs to sell everyday as she sits patiently under the lamppost. And it is my duty to buy everyday.
Each of us default when we do not buy from those who need to sell to earn for that day's meal. Every vendor on the footpath.


Evening walk. Assorted purchases.
A vendor of plastic items was there on the street with his cart. All the dwellers on that street were enconsed safely inside. They could afford to stay in. He could not.
I have now
1. A plastic tray
2. A playset of plastic tea cups
3. Some safety pins.
4. A wooden dal masher
5. A wooden roti belan.
I needed none of these. But I needed to buy them. This often happens. It makes perfect sense.
I usually avoid plastic. But today I collected plastic.
Survival of the poor comes first. Everything else later.
The tray was useful for the flowers purchased later on.
None of all this counts I know. It's too little. But this way I seek some forgiveness for myself from myself for a short while.
Btw, I don't care to know if they have Corona or not. There are more important things than endless discussions around a virus.
There is the sheer survival of the poorest.











Air low in the cycle. Flat. I was pushing it to the cycle shop, a kn away. Getting late, and rushing.
A man on the footpath came walking fast to me and called out, "Shall I repair your puncture ?" I asked, "Can you pump air for me ?" He said, "Yes.". Then I saw the small wooden box, the mark of every footpath cycle repair man. And two tires that stood up against the wall.
"Do you always have a shop here ?", i asked.
"Yes, its always here."
"Oh, I have never known. Why dont you hang the tires on the walls ? So people get to know."
Hanging cycle tyres are the commonly understood mark of a cycle repair shop.
"The house owners object. they say it makes their house look ugly. So I just stand it against the eall on the footpath, and hope people will see it."
Silence. Sometimes the heart cannot find the words it needs.
The pumped air into the tyres with his small foot pump. He checked to see if the valve tune needed changeing, "No, it is good.", he said/
"Thank you. If its a puncture, on my way back I will look for you. Will you do it for me then ?"
"Yes, come anytime."
"Till when are you here."
"I am always here. I live here."
He lives on the footpath. With his wooden box.
He smiled at me, A kind friendly smile. It felt like a slap on my face.
My privilege and his homelessness. Juxtaposed. Making for strange passing friendships.
My country.




Cycling back. 8pm. Tired. Air low in the tires. Suddenly the cycle screeches to a halt. The saree hem is caught in the chain. Again !
Tried the usual process. Pushing the cycle with one hand, and pulling the hem with the other hand. Up and down. Again and gain. No use. And then the cycle tottered over, pulling me. And the bags fell from the basket.
Anyway levered up and continued trying.
Some cars whizzed by. Some slowed and honked for space. As usual, reluctant to ask strangers, I stayed wishing someone kind would lend a hand. A lady with a child stopped and put the bags back in the basket. And she waited with me. She will not know how much it meant. I find it hard to tell people that.
Then a man came running across the road with a pair of scissors. From a tailor shop some distance away. "Let me cut the saree hem, Its too tightly caught." Three firm cuts, and he nodded with half attention to my profuse thanks as he rushed back to work.
As I cycled back, the tiredness was gone. Just a glow. At the simple goodness I had encountered.
If I had to bless a child would I wish it a car and paraphernalia, and no time or heart to stop and help. Or a simple livlihood which gives the space to retain a simple living humanity ? I think I know.




eJune 1rcutacShph5o,gnofso rude2t0d16 
Shared with Public
Public
Yesterday we had gone to a friends home for dinner. When we was returning at 10pm there was the flower seller drooping over the unsold flowers, still waiting for sales. She says that as people go in cars these days, no one can stop and buy.
I go to two different cycle shops for repairs. One is a small shopkeeper, who is educating his sons thro' college. He and his wife work hard and cheerfully. The other person is a lame man who hops on a wooden leg and pumps air into my tyres. He has his wooden box under a tree and works from there. He charges a standard small sum for a service, but the service is always given with a smile.
I go to the mill to get my wheat and rice ground. The young man will always go the extra mile amd carry the bags to my cycle. He smiles his brilliant smile as he does that, a smile that lights up my day. But he is now a little deaf, with years of working in the deafening motor noise in that small closed room.
Something breaks within me each day. And yet something heals.




Those sparkling details of a footpath shop.
Glittering baubles. That I collected for the village children.
It was late at night. Close to 10 pm.
And the shop owner talked as he attached the hooks to the dozen earrings I bought. He wanted to talk. About his children.
He has four children he said, three sons and a daughter. The daughter is the youngest, his pet, in Class 6. The sons are studying too. The eldest has finished college. Is looking for a job. He said proudly that they will make sure all their children are educated, and will not have to struggle like him.
He stays on till 10 pm so as to not miss the last customers who straggle by. By the time he secures his cart and worldly possessions it is 11 pm. He reaches home by midnight.
His wife stays preparing the necklaces and earrings for the next day. They have their dinner then together.
He says by the grace of God he managed.
His name is Gangadharan he told me.
Simple stories. Difficult to hear. And yet hear one must.
The dreams are not so different. From ours.
But.
The infinitude of our privilege, juxtaposed with the utter paucity in their lives.
Makes the burden of our privilege feel so heavy.
And one waits for the day.
When our privilege reduces, and also their paucity.
And we enter together into a better place.



Sfgteptefmeggbesr c13, 2s0iuroud1l8 
Shared with Public
Public
Vinayaka Chaturthi Greetings
An early morning call. A greeting. From the footpath vendor we source our kalamkari prints for our bags. He has a wooden bench he places his wares on. Colourful rolls of kalamkari prints.
The corporation one day swooped on his 'illegal bench', and he has had to fold up his bench. He cannot afford rent in the neighborhood. But he still supplies us our wares over phone calls. He sends Whatsap greetings on festival days.
Today.
"Madam, I called up for a help. My daughter wrote NEET. She passed, and in yesterdays counselling got BDS. She says she wants to work and write NEET again next year and get a better choice.
I want your advice on which coaching centre I should put her in. She has studied in state board, and so NEET, based on CBSE was hard for her. I need a good coaching for her."
That was all he seeked. A simple advice. I promised to ask around.
Simple lives. Quiet lives. Working hard. Seeking only work and reasonable returns.
A happy Vinayaka Chaturthi to all.












Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)