of a grumpy bum, and a movie

“You mustn’t be like this at this point of time in your life. You are supposed to be happy, and I would like to see you that way”, he said.

I suppose he had a point; most people I have known do seem happy. They seem happy in spite of the fact that in many instances, it is not a matter of choice, but just a consequence; a result of many things, including societal beliefs, the need for the illusive ‘security’, peer pressure and, perhaps, even a matter of routine to some, so to speak. And who knows, and that I believe is possibly the best (and to the rational mind, the most illogical) explanation one can offer – that it may perhaps be just a question of the baggage some people choose, what some people call destiny. Nevertheless, the fact still is that it is not everyday that one makes such decisions in life. And if it ‘all goes well’, as the cliché goes, one probably wouldn’t need to make such a decision again.

There are a few things in life that one is forced to carry the burden of. They may be strange to the others, seemingly harmless, perhaps even silly things. Like the way it baffles the priest when Walt Kowalski, goes to church, to confess.

A little background will perhaps serve good at this juncture. The man is a war veteran, obviously troubled by his past, and has just lost his wife who is apparently supposed to have been a religious woman. The priest from their church is after him, to get him to confess, because that was what his late wife wanted. And our man makes it amply clear that he gives half a dime to the church, or to the priest, whom he calls ‘an over educated 27 year old virgin who holds the hands of old women in the promise of salvation’. And yet, he does confess, for having kissed another woman (“it just happened while the wives were in another room”, he says), for having made a meagre sum sometime in life without paying taxes, and having been unfriendly with his sons. The young priest who has had an unexpected visitor at the church is quite flummoxed, for he had possibly expected a lot more. The violence is obvious, if there was something more violent ever, because this one was real. And yet, there is hardly any violence actually portrayed on screen. I am a bum, not a critique, but to those friends who are reading this (and I would like to think I have indeed been fortunate to have made the most wonderful friends here) and like good cinema, I would certainly recommend this movie. It is about ‘life and death’, and about a grumpy old man.

To me personally though, it was about a dream, or perhaps, an imagination. It was a certain fanciful picture of the future of a much older bum, though not of the pleasantest kind. And it was one reason why I could instantly relate to this movie. It seemed to paint the details of what I had imagined myself to be, as an old man. And something tells me, that despite a lifestyle that has been as close to atrocious as one can think, I am among those not so lucky ones who will bear the burden, and see many long years.

Many long years of resigned acceptance; not of love, but of what it brings along with it. The myriad hues of life, that are sometimes as fascinating as they may initially seem either exceedingly happy or excruciatingly painful.

May be he is right after all, he has been many times, in retrospect, for after all, I am nothing but a tiny little part of him. Appa (father, in the Tamil language) had said that the bum has been unfair (in his comment to this post), and that is how most people seem to think about it.

Fortunately or unfortunately, I am not having it the bum way. It is going to be just another one of those events, those occasions that I have in the past been a part of, and have chosen to forget, for more than one reason. And yet, I did it for the sake of the one person who would hopefully stand by me in thick and thin. I love her, and this was probably one to way to show it to her, however grudgingly. For once, I am putting a picture of mine here, and hers.

I would not have liked to invite anybody. As heartless as it may sound, I believe everybody with a heart (and a sane head) ought to let others live their life, as long as they don’t cause harm or threat to others. It seems to be that this is a miserable belief, or so I am made to believe, in the name of the society. They say that people of the society would be unhappy, and the more I think of it, it pains, and may be even shames me to be a part of such a society.

I had wished to say that you would not be invited for the ceremony that ‘they’ call the wedding, for I had dreamt of something quiet, simple and meaningful. That has for all practical purposes been quashed, for whatever reasons. But I am hoping that there may be some people, specially the people here, for there aren’t too many people I have connected with in such a way, would understand. Because when I had not written for ages, one of my blogger friends, touched me in the most beautiful way, when she said this –

His words flow like butter
spread on a crisp golden toast.

He talks at random
about journeys in the night.

But he talks seldom
When will the Bum write?

And so I invite you – to our home, to our hearts, for you all already have a place in the tiny heart that a bum like me can afford. You are invited to share our joy of looking forward to a new life, for I at least had never thought this would happen, or happen this way. You are invited to the bitter sweet feelings that our hearts will doubtless go through. You are invited to a humble abode, which we hope to jointly make, a place where all would be welcome.

tea and a downpour

About 15 of us were enjoying our tea, during a break from long hours of studying. The past 10 days or so have been spent on listening to discourses and discussions on epistemology, among other things. It has been taxing, not just to the mind, but also to the body because of lack of sleep – indeed, most nights were spent in completing assignments or reading related texts that we were supposed to.

As I sat smoking and noticing the fact that the smoke seemed dense, I realized that it was cloudy and very still. In an instant, it started raining. And it rained hard. On impulse, I ran into my living quarter, took my shirt off and sat in the open, soaking in the rain. Some others tried persuading me to come back to the discourse as the break had ended, but for some reason, I just did not feel like moving. For the next half hour or so, I simply sat there, feeling the drops of rain fall hard on my face.

“I can only hope that is so”, I had told her a few days ago.

Hope is a strange human conception. For the poorest man, it is the hope of a better life that provides the drive to exist. For one who has constantly been starved of love, a yearning for the very same thing and in that sense, a certain hope is what could, if at all, hold his mind together. To the ones who are disturbed, in one way or the other by the current state of affairs in our society – and I think any ‘educated’ and rational human being would indeed be disturbed – it is a certain mental image of a better society, and in that sense again hope, that would in all probability spurn them towards working for change.

Yet, I choose to call it strange, for I see an element of irony here. It is by the very same act of hoping, that we also place ourselves at the risk – of our hopes being shattered and hence of facing eventual disappointment. In a way, it seems that hope belongs to the future, and inevitably displaces our existence from the present.

In that brief time that I spent sitting quietly and along in the pouring rain, I was grateful for attempting to just ‘be’, however fleetingly, in that moment.

Change July

Sometimes, it is literally an onslaught, and a relentless one at that. In a purely temporal sense, the change is unimaginably ‘fast’. The mind is racing, or actually, the thoughts are racing past the mind, abducting it with them. As powerful as a tool it is, the very same mind sometimes also seems the cause of doom. Look at the way man has come to look at ‘development’, and the large scale and long term impact he is causing with it. It is incredible, that a species that is considered highly evolved is actually going about self destructing. Interestingly, there is a school of thought that attributes feeling and thinking to different ‘bodies’ or ‘seats’ as one may choose to call them. There is the mind that senses and feels, and there is the intellect that judges and discriminates.
Coming back to the mind that begins to feel lost, it seeks means – some good and others not so, again in very subjective terms - to relieve itself in one way or the other. I wonder if blogging had played that role of a good channel, so to say, where the mind would be busy purging, and in a way, redeeming the self. I say had, because I realize that I haven’t been writing in a while now. Though I am aware of it, and have been for a while now, the initial pangs have gone by now. The thought comes now and then, and then fades away just as fast. I have been told, and also to an extent, have to come believe, that I take interest in too many things and quickly lose interest. On the other hand actually, during the past few years, it has always been too few things. I haven’t been doing much, except working hard and partying hard. And in the recent past, every time I think of writing anything, the thoughts just seem to melt in to others, faster than the mind can capture them. The mind needs, at this time, to slow down and dwell upon things, not esoteric questions, simple day to day events, the physical world of things and people and the mind’s reactions to them all.
I do miss the expressing for the sake of it, for the sake of letting go, for just letting the words tumble and flowing along with it, veering now and then, and yet being aware of the general flow of things. The other bit that troubles me now and then is the connection – indeed, some of the most interesting encounters have happened here, some of the deepest bonds formed. In that sense, I own an apology to those of you who come here and gently and ever so kindly goaded me to write; and also to those of you who keep your little taverns warm and cozy for us bums to visit, and here I am, lost in my own world.
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It has been a while since I let go. Let go of everything; like you do when you ride, on the highway. There is not much else on the mind, except the road, with the wing slapping against the cheeks. At one level, it is mindlessness; indeed, there are times when you don’t know where you are headed – not in the global sense, but in the sense of not being able to see most of the road, or what lies beyond the next swerve.
At another level, it is a certain catharsis; in being there, right then, not knowing of anything but the moment. A friend recently mentioned of how the experience of watching mindless movies actually proves to be such an experience for her. At the first instance, it tickled me, and I almost laughed, yet, when I thought about it later, it hardly seemed strange to me. To every man his way. After all, when I look back at a life that seems to have blurred into oblivion so early, there is hardly anything that the mind remembers, excepting those moments that have sometimes tossed you upside down, at others, made you halt and think, and in every instance, have proven to be cathartic in their own ways, small or big.
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I can feel a gale blowing my way. I can’t see it; only feel its impending impact on me. And with it, the wind blows change. Not one big alteration in life, but a series of small changes that would cumulate to a newer life. How well things will go is only a matter of speculation, but the change seems certain. Painful and sometimes unavoidable as it may seem, speculating about it is in vain. It is sometimes ironical, to know something and yet not be able to avoid it. Like the commodity that is offered free of cost, bundled along in an offer sale, when you know it really isn’t free, yet you succumb to ultimately buying it. Only in this case, the commodity is life – and life is only as valuable as it is valued to be.

There is no looking back – for one must go on, and in that sense, the bum plods on, weary of yesterday, reluctantly expectant of tomorrow, and not really aware yet attempting to be so, of the now.
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Writing gives you the illusion of control, and then you realize it's just an illusion, that people are going to bring their own stuff into it.
- David Sedaris

The Mark of Vishnu

The sacred ash on the forehead is something that I have been forced to adorn, ever since I can remember. It wasn’t always pleasant – for the ones who associated with such things were ‘uncool’ and well, I suppose it was a time when I did not want to be left out of the gang. I am not sure if I had questioned the rationale behind the practice, I must have, for such has been my nature. I certainly do not remember having been provided convincing reasoning, yet, I stuck to the rule. I do not know why – sometimes, I feel we are ordained certain things. This is in spite of my having read The Secret, and also having trusted the so called logic in it.

Much later, I grew up to associate with the Lord of 'constructive destruction'. Legend says He is perpetually in a state of trance, and that He lives in the cremation grounds; a place where He would hardly be troubled by anybody. For this was where He would enjoy the greatest of all music; that of silence. And why would anybody want to trouble someone who lives in the midst of burning corpses?

And thus, the sacred ash became more than just a habit. I would be proud to wear it – for it reminded me of what I consider to be a great truth – the end. I would wear it in the morning, and night, and every time I had a wash or visited a temple. To me, it was a constant reminder of sorts. Interestingly, when I had learnt the symbolism, I had started to develop a liking, and to an extent, even a certain pride in sporting it. Strangely, to me, the very same thing had become ‘cool’. And thankfully by then, I had stopped worrying being ‘cool’ and accepted anyways.

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“That is not a smart idea”, he had said.

I looked back to find him stand at the door of the compartment. He sported a clean shaven look, with the mark of Vishnu very neatly done on his broad forehead. I hadn’t had a good look at him yet, but told him that it wasn’t legal to smoke on the train, and so I had chosen so jump out while the train had halted at a signal, to quickly enjoy a couple of drags.

For some reason, I was reminded of this short story that was a part of my English textbook while I was in school. Even though I could identify with the ‘smug scientific minds’ of the youngsters in the story, I had, even then, felt a deep surge of pity for Gunga Ram. And that, for some reason, made me dislike the author then.

“The train will start moving and it is dangerous. You aren’t even on a platform. Get in, and I’ll allow you to smoke from the doorstep”, he retorted. So surprised I was, that by the time I could grasp what he had said and take a good look at him, he was on his way.

It was breezy, and the moving train added to the effect. I stood there for a while, enjoying the force of the wind on my face. It was hard to know if the thoughts whizzing past the mind where any more ferocious in their speed than the wind that was literally piercing my skin.

When I decided to go back to my seat, I found the ticket checker seated, his feet stretched on the vacant seat opposite his own. There was something peaceful about his countenance, and the mark on his forehead only added grace. I walked past, hesitated, and walked back to him. I did not know what to say. I told him my name, stretched out my hand for a shake, and searched for the customary name badge that they wear on the lapel of their coats. When I did spot his name, I smiled, and looked into his eyes. He reciprocated, with the most beatific smile I have seen in recent times, and simply said, “Thank you”, and I know not for what.

I nodded, and quietly walked back, content with having met Mr. Tiruvengadam in a pleasantly surprising encounter.
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PS: my apologies for having disappeared all this while. with work the way it is, my guess is that this may continue to be so for a while. i considered shutting down the blog for not having done justice to it, but shot down the idea when i realized that some of you have indeed been lurking around here, and requesting me to write. my gratitude to such of you - it is indeed gratifying to note that we connect to remote souls in different parts of the world, in different ways, through this medium. i shall endeavour to drop by at your own 'taverns' when time permits, and also to keep this space alive...

learning the hard way

fan⋅tas⋅tic  –adjective
1. conceived or appearing as if conceived by an unrestrained imagination; odd and remarkable; bizarre; grotesque: fantastic rock formations; fantastic designs.
2. fanciful or capricious, as persons or their ideas or actions: We never know what that fantastic creature will say next.
3. imaginary or groundless in not being based on reality; foolish or irrational: fantastic fears.
4. extravagantly fanciful; marvelous.
5. incredibly great or extreme; exorbitant: to spend fantastic sums of money.
6. highly unrealistic or impractical; outlandish: a fantastic scheme to make a million dollars betting on horse races.
7. Informal. extraordinarily good: a fantastic musical

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"you seem to have a lot of 'fantastic' thoughts", i have once been told. i have been wondering about it ever since, and i know for a fact that i can safely assume that the implied connotation of the word could have been anything except Number 7.

i think it is but true. when i find an ideal worth aspiring for, i tend to latch on to it, and i keep reminding myself of it. for a lot many times, every other material pursuit pales out and seems trivial to me, when compared with an ideal that holds me in awe.

last night seemed dark, darker in the inside than the outside. my deepest beliefs were awakening, from within, almost snickering at me, chiding me to walk the talk, and prove to myself that some ideals can indeed be achieved. and the mind wasn't yielding easily, it put up the biggest resistance, as is its wont. it pained, and i knew the pain was real, and before sleep finally descended, i had fallen in my own eyes. almost.

i am learning to love and let go, in the truest sense. and this morning, in the warmth of the rising sun, i felt a bittersweet smile emerge on my face.

chugging along

This sleep, if any, had only been intermittent. The body and the mind were desperately seeking some rest, and that would send me into a slumber again, now being awoken at a stopping, now by a fellow passenger squeezing himself to find a little space and settle down. I felt blessed to have found a seat.
Earlier last night, the auto driver would not stop talking. And when he wasn’t talking, he would chant some ‘mantra’ and tell me how powerful ‘Ayyanar’, the watchman-deity of the countryside was. His faith in the Gods seemed unshakeable. At one level, it was frightening too, for he would keep twirling his moustache, as he described tales of how people had wronged him and how every time he sought revenge by invoking his deities. To me, it was sad – for here was a man, who claimed to have discovered the power of prayer, yet was using the very same power to satiate his baser tendencies, of avenging those who he had perceived to have done in harm in the past. I say perceive because in retrospect, it always seems like everybody only does what they are meant to have done.
Yet there was something compelling about the man, I was being drawn to him by a certain force that I couldn’t fathom. It was probably the honesty, for I do believe it is important, above all, to be honest in prayer.
“The Mother Sakti is with you in your journey”, he said and then added, pointing to the flask of liquor in my hand, “but be good, be careful”.
I rush to the train after one last smoke – it would be a while before I could think of smoking. I run, not thinking much about this relatively small episode, but one that was significant in an eerie sort of a way.
- - - -
By the time I located my train, it had started moving and I had to rush and jump in, just in time, never mind the coach I was supposed to be in. I like boarding that way – there is an excitement in it, every time. No fun being on time. When I finally got to one of the air conditioned coaches in which I was supposed to have a berth reserved, I quickly spotted a ticket checker and flashed my ticket. Indeed, I was looking forward to catching up with the much needed sleep during the 30 hour journey that lay ahead of me, one that would take me to the maximum city. As it turned out, my ticket continued to be waitlisted and I could not be accommodated in the air conditioned coaches. What is more, I was informed by the man that since my ticket was still wait listed, the law did not even permit me to board the train, leave alone a luxury compartment. I was in no mood to go back home, and a plane ticket is something I couldn’t afford.
When I got off, and stepped into the general (unreserved) compartment at the next station, I was questioned by a curious Good Samaritan as to where I was headed. On learning that I had a fairly long journey ahead of me, he directed me to the other half of the coach. And rightly so, at the next stopping, quite a few people got off from my coach. And that is how I ended up feeling blessed, and thanking God for having found a place to sit.
- - -

It took me a while to settle down, I had done quite a bit of running to find a place, and not sooner than I did indeed settle, I was the subject of a curious fellow traveler. Harmless curiosity, I had told myself, for it is in the blood of this race to befriend, to ask for more details than one might be willing to share.
His name was Ram, as I happened to learn later. He seemed very upset when he discovered a patch of chewing gum stuck on his shirt. He kept cursing the unknown body that had chewed it and left it astray, saying it was some ‘meat eater’. He was from a village near Gorakhpur in Uttar Pradesh, and my guess was that caste, creed, religion and other such considerations where of significant importance in his world. Ram is a migrant labourer of sorts. I am not able to understand what he does, as all he is able to describe is ‘Aluminium Company’, and I don’t bother to ask him anymore. He seemed visibly upset, because he had been sent to Pune, from Madras, without prior notice. He would lose the 400 rupees worth of groceries he had bought in Madras, and it was but obvious that losing such a sum of money was a significant loss for him. He did decide to move though, with a small bag that contained his possessions – minimal clothing, and a blanket to protect him from the winter. The travails of a man who keeps moving in order to make some money and survive, I think to myself. He kept asking me what I was, and I could only tell him that I was a bum, that I had no family, no religion, no belonging. All of which was a lie, of course, but I was in no mood to entertain more curiosity, no matter how harmless. I was beginning to lose out on the last bits of energy, and when the train stopped next, I found myself blessed, again. This time around, for having found a vendor who was selling tea. I offered Ram a cup, which he gratefully accepted. It suddenly occurred to me that in all the hurry, I had forgotten the sandwich that was lying in my bag. I had learnt then that Ram had not eaten anything himself, because he had to leave in a hurry. Though there wasn’t much to eat, we split the sandwich, and he ate his bit gratefully, mouthing the word ‘bread’ repeatedly. Very soon, I found him dozing off, and then sleeping quite sound. I sat there a while, smoking – indeed, it was not allowed, and I just decided to relish the kick of breaking the law. Not much later, I decided to rest myself, for it was almost dawn – and well past 5 in the morning.
When I did come to my senses again – though I kept being woken up by one thing or the other – it was broad daylight. The sun was shining brightly on my face just then, and I realized it was not yet 8. The train had stopped in a nondescript place, and the first thing that came to my mind was food. Ram was still sleeping, and I jumped off, found the first vendor, and ate quickly. I hadn’t yet finished when I heard the whistle, washed, gulped some water quickly, and jumped back into the running train. I smoked a cigarette, with much pleasure, feeling the smoke clear the fog in the nose and the head simultaneously, while the outside was still foggy, in spite of the warm winter sunshine. There was that pleasant buzz in the head, as I inhaled deeply, and watched the world around me slowly come back to life, soaking in the warmth of the sunshine and the cool wind brushing against my face.
I did not realize how tired I was but I had indeed dozed off again, and when I next awoke, this time, for good, I noticed Ram was wide awake, reading the Sundar Kanda of the Tulsi Ramayana.
“None, not even the powerful shani, can harm you if you seek refuge in just the Sundar Kanda, let alone the rest of the epic”, he was saying. I rubbed my eyes, looked around, and on impulse, found some more tea to get me awake. I drank it and then settled down for more talk. I had learnt that his family of 2 sons and 2 daughters lived back in the village. I was surprised, for he didn’t seem like he was beyond the later is thirties. And to me, that was a lot of reproduction. Personally, I wouldn’t want to populate this world with more of my species, but it is every man to himself.
I was reminded of the time when I had travelled ticketless, between Delhi and Allahabad, my destination then not being far from where Ram lived now. It was a General Coach too, and I was huddled in a corner, with not an inch to move. Quite literally, for even if anybody had wanted to scratch their back, it was impossible for such was the crowd. We were packed, literally like a bunch of sardines in that coach, and I remember the relief, when we had arrived, after 12 hours of standing, in the January chill in those parts of northern India. My thoughts drifted back to the present, as I found Ram probing into my marital status and finding it amusing that i was yet to have tied the proverbial knot.
Ram was the typical rustic from the north. His faced looked jaded in the sun, and his half shaven cheeks gave him a beaten sort of a look. Those lines running dark and deep across his forehead, almost accentuating his personality, the typical smell of sesame oil, the simplicity of his life and his world was but obvious from the little that I had known of him.
“Ten thousand”, he had repeated a couple of times, with fascination. His eyebrows had gone up briefly, and I thought I saw a brief but a very lively twinkle in his graying, tired looking eyes. I had quoted that figure, when he wanted to know how much I earned. I knew I had lied, for in reality, I was earning much more. But the difference between our lives was so blatantly obvious to me, that I had somehow felt compelled to lie. May be it was the guilt, of being perfectly cognizant of this ever widening chasm between the so called haves and the have nots, and yet being content with the complacence of doing absolutely nothing about it, in spite of all the learning and education that I had had.
Somewhere around afternoon, the coach started getting more and more crowded. This was a mail train, and had several stoppings, and most people who got in were traveling shorter distances. There was a young woman with two children; she had the most beautiful nose ring and kohl shaded eyes. Ram was chivalrous enough to offer her a seat. I felt a tad jealous, for she would hardly look at me. I went on with my reading, and intermittent sleeping, and a few hours later, realized that Ram was still standing. I decided to walk around a while, and offered Ram my place.
“I did not realize she would be traveling so long – my seat is gone”, he said, as he gratefully accepted my seat for a while. Very soon, there were too many people and too much noise for us to engage in any sane conversation. I found myself picking up my pen and the little oriental notebook that was gifted to me, in order to write something. It was dark now, but there wasn’t any hope of sleeping. I wanted to be fully present there, in that coach packed with scores of travelers – young and old, mostly not so blessed as myself with the luxury of being able to travel in reserved coaches, air conditioned or otherwise. In spite of all the guilt I felt about being a mute witness to the sufferings of my countrymen, I felt a strange kind of peace descend upon me – if only for the span of the journey, I was one with with my countrymen, representatives of the real India.
Around midnight, Ram bid me farewell, he got off the train, came around to the window where I was seated – he had a kind smile on his face. He held out his hand, and when I offered mine, he grabbed mine with both his hands tightly.
“There are not too many people who bother to talk, to get to know others, specially these days. I am glad to have met you”, he said, and added “if you ever happen to be in Uttar Pradesh, please visit my home, my family would be happy to have you”, he said. I knew he had meant every word of it.
I smiled to myself, content with everything at that moment in time. In a few hours, by the crack of dawn, I would be in Bombay, eager in anticipation of what the famous city had to offer a bum during the short vacation to celebrate the advent of yet another year.
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PS: Sorry if this was particularly long – it was written on the train during a journey, a few weeks ago. To those of you who got along reading until this point, my humble gratitude. To the bum, it is these little sojourns – journeys within the so called journey of life – that make life worth living.

the gift

it was getting late. the bottles had almost been emptied, and the guests had settled comfortably in their places, with random conversations flowing. since we were finding it hard to actually make a sane conversation involving all 5 of us, we decided to play a game where one person asks a question, and each member has to take turns to answer it.

"when was the last time you loved yourself?"
"i don't think i ever did, and if i did, it was probably so long ago that i don't remember now"

"what is the one thing you like about yourself?"
"the madness"

i found myself drifting away, at one level, and at another, i found myself making a concerted effort to remain civil and participate in the conversation. i left the room for a smoke, and on impulse, i picked up a notebook, and decided to write. really write, for a change, rather than employing the set of keys and going tap-tap-tap.
i was pleasantly surprised, for the purple pen that i thought i had lost, i was now holding in my hand, and writing with it too. it seemed to have found me, just the way it had first found me, and then i had lost sight of it for a while.
she had given it to me. she said she had known me as a little boy, and was quite surprised to meet me after a decade, may be more. sometimes, people tend to forget that everybody grows old, including kids. the truth be told, i had sought the purple pen from her, on impulse, when she offered me a nice looking metallic pen as a parting gift, from her bag. it looked like she was preparing to leave, when father had called out for me to meet to her. she had spontaneously opened her bag, and picked up the pen from within, as if her bag was a treasure trove of those little things, just to be given away to the people she might have bumped across.
i reached across, to receive the purple pen that was hers, that i had wanted, instead of the gift she had intended to give me. she handed it to me, and then gave me a hug. her tiny gait was almost covered by me, though i am no big guy myself.
i have always considered it a privilege to give, no matter what and how much you have, but to give it like you're giving away all you had. indeed, such givers as this lady, would give all they had, if it came to that. something about her told me that.
i received the gift, and the hug a little tentatively, feeling smaller than i usually do, and thanked her, as i felt a ghost of a smile pass by my lips. a genuine one.