Awesome lyrics

(I'd nearly forgotten I had a blog!)

I have to record this somewhere. Apparently when Gulzar wrote the lyrics, “Mausam, mausam, lovely mausam”, critics were shocked. How could he use an English word in a Hindi song? Today, we find it perfectly normal. Remember “Rain is falling chhamaa chham chham”? And my personal favourite, “Dekho barish ho rahi hai, it’s raining, it’s raining, it’s raaaiiining”. Kidding. But I do adore “Ankhein bhi kamaal karti hain, personal se sawaal karti hain”. In fact, English words are almost expected at least in one or two songs in every movie.

But I don’t find this one quite so normal – “Mausam yeh awesome bada” which is in a song in Kidnap, which movie they say is sublimely ridiculous. It doesn’t blend in like the first example, it doesn’t sound roguish like the second one, it doesn’t sound downright stupid and hence adorable like the third, and it doesn’t sound quirky like the fourth. Sounds like the lyricist spends too much time with his teenage son or daughter who follows the standard vocabulary that all teenagers follow.

Patience

It’s true what they say. If you wait long enough for something to go away, it will. And I’m talking about a bathroom leak, of all things. I saw water dripping from the hatch in my bathroom ceiling. It opens to all the ventilation ducts and water pipes of the building.

I had no clue why the leak occurred.

For some reason, quite uncharacteristically for me, I decided to wait it out rather than call my landlady straightaway. Wonder of wonders, two days later, today, it has stopped.

I have no clue why the leak stopped.

I’ll try to remember this lesson for use in life whenever required. If you wait for something to go away, eventually it will.

What’s the date today?

I forgot a good friend’s birthday. The past few years, I’ve been forgetting more and more birthdays, anniversaries, and all that. Initially, I used to agonise for months on end if I forgot a date, and felt like I had committed a sin almost. Finally, sometime last year to make it official, I just said aloud to myself that I am not good at remembering dates, and have felt much better ever since. I just remember a handful of dates now, the birthdays of my parents, my bro, and a few friends, and I am quite prepared to face the fact that soon, I may forget those too.

I never was good at dates anyway. In school I hated history only because of the dates. I loved the subject otherwise. I used to have nightmares about facing a history exam consisting solely of date-related questions.

When did the British set up the East India Company? When did Shivaji attack Afzal Khan? When was the prince of whatisname country assassinated that lead to the first world war? When was the third visit of Hitler to a concentration camp? When did Roosevelt first catch a cold during the second world war? When did Churchill raise his finger in glee when he saw his favourite team bowl out the last batsman in a county cricket match, which was noted down as a V sign by historians spying on him in the stands? When did Nehru have his 50th Nehru jacket stitched?

I don’t know!!! Stop tormenting me!

Would it have made a world of difference if King Puru had been defeated a day later than the date I filled in that blank? Would Huan Tsang have not gained much knowledge if he had come a week earlier than what I wrote in the paper? Well, perhaps, yes. But why punish me for not remembering some numbers? To add to it, they clumped history and geography together in school. So even though I was so good in geography (Oh, you should have seen me wielding a globe), I always scored poorly in the combined total. Scarred my tender mind forever. And don’t even get me started on civics.

What are dates anyway? It’s the moments that matter, isn’t it? WHEN Vasco da Gama arrived at the Malabar coast is not important, I think. What’s important is how he FELT. They should ask questions related to those things. What was Churchill’s reaction when he first saw Stalin’s moustache? What about Hitler’s moustache? What lead to the perpetual scowl on his (Churchill’s) hairless face? Did he feel any solidarity with the clean-shaven Roosevelt on matters other than the war? History should give more consideration to these peoples’ feelings. They’d appreciate it.

Oh shit, I missed the due date for payment of my electricity bill!

Go away! Leave me alone.

I’m trying to squeeze a thought out of my mind. An unpleasant thought. But very stubborn, keeps coming back.

Why so? Well, it’s a bit like this I think.

Sometimes you see something perfect. If you’re lucky, you get to see it for a while. If you’re very lucky, you are even allowed to touch it. And if you’re incredibly, ridiculously lucky, you get to actually hold it, feel it, taste it.

But then of course, in keeping with the rules of Murphy et al, it gets taken away from you, just like that. Gone. And like when the light suddenly goes kaput in a dazzlingly bright room, you are left a bit disoriented and blinded, groping in the dark, but with the vision of that light still stamped on your retina like some ghost image.

But then of course, continuing with the Murphy’s law theme, the more you want to know why that happened, the more you are not given an answer. So to pass the time, you start wishing wishes. Keep visiting those painfully few moments of the past where the universe was not too hot, not too cold, just right. It’s a bit like when you are hungry for a snack and you keep going back to the refrigerator in the irrational hope that something will materialise if you opened the fridge door yet again.

So here is this thought, this question, waiting for its companion answer, refusing to believe that some questions are made one-piece, with no answer-half to them. Begone, bothersome thought! I’ve got better thoughts to think about. Like where on earth do all those actors disappear? Like that guy with the curly hair in that serial whose name I forgot, the one where everyone was after a diamond necklace, I think, with Saeed Jaffrey and Kiron Kher and Anu Agrawal and others. And Anu Agrawal for that matter, or Mohan Bhandari who I think was a good actor. Just like there is a sock universe where all the socks disappear into, I wonder if there is an actor universe.

A jet-sized heckle

Why is everything everywhere compared to a 747 jumbo jet?

“This stadium can hold five 747 jumbo jets nose to tail.”

“The machine that this hobbyist is building nearly a quarter of the size of a 747 jumbo jet.”

“The CERN’s ATLAS Detector which is the world’s largest particle accelerator has a weight of a hundred 747 jumbo jets (when empty).”

And today was the limit. In a science program (I was too late to catch its title), the meteorologist speaks about a cloud formation and says, “..so the total water content of such a cloud is equal to a 747 jumbo jet.”

Huh? Why can’t you just say the total volume is n number of litres or the total weight is n number of tonnes, or whatever. He wasn’t even clear if it was the volume or the weight he was talking about. Why do these people assume that everyone knows how long or big or heavy or moody a 747 jumbo jet is?

I have a headache coming on the size of a 747 jumbo jet.

Obit

Yesterday, I found the spider dead, hanging by a silken thread.

Say goodbye to the cruel world, Spiderguy. You probably lived shorter than most spiders of your kind do, but I hope that you enjoyed it much more than most of them.

We didn’t really get to know each other here, but I’m sure we’ll meet again in some other world.

Yours truly

Spiderguy

A wee little spider has made my shower caddy its home. I don’t mind the smaller spiders; in fact I think some are quite cute. It’s the daddy longlegs variety, the ones with mile-long legs and a pinpoint size body that make my flight instincts go on overdrive.

And the gigantic ones.

There was one such goliath, resident in my last but one aunt’s toilet in Udupi. It was huge, and by huge I mean the extended family variety – about 7 feet across. Well, OK, that was the size of it in my nightmares. In actuality, it was as large as my palm and mind you I have a large palm. It was the muscular kind. You know, six-pack abs and beefy biceps and triceps and forceps and…and hairy all over. Going to the loo was an ordeal for me. I complained once or twice to my folks but they said it was no use chasing it away really. It will come back or another eight-legged citizen will occupy the premises. Loo ceilings it seemed, were much in demand among these buggers.

In Udupi you cannot have a spider-less loo. No mater how fast the town is growing, no matter how up-and-coming it is, at heart, Udupi is still a dear little village with all the rural trappings, including un-despiderable bathrooms. For all I know the beefy spider was just as scared of me with my wary eye glued to it all the while I was in the loo unlike others who probably never gave it a passing glance. Eventually, my aunt moved to a brand new house and so far I have not seen any spiders in her toilet, which is not to say there never will be any.

Coming back to my current co-tenant, I really wonder why he has decided to make his home so close to the shower. Every time I turn on the shower which is literally a foot away from him, I can see him holding on to his web, being swung about from the force of the air, being roughed up to within an inch of his life.

What thrill does he get out of this? Does it make his blood race, this living on the edge? Does he have any blood at all? I’m sure his legs are narrower than the width of a blood cell. His body probably has a grand total of ten red blood cells and two white. I wonder if the doctor will diagnose it as leukaemia should a third white cell appear.

I swear I’m lying

It’s funny how you sometimes see two people sitting side by side and they are a study in contrast. Today I was captioning a Parkinson show and first there was Sharon Osbourne, looking stunningly beautiful and admitting freely that she has had innumerable plastic surgeries done to her body because she is so insecure about her looks. She very honestly admits that she doesn’t seem to be able to respect the body that she has been given, to the extent that she had botox shots just before appearing on the interview. She was remarkably candid about that aspect of her life.

And then came in model Sophie Dahl, young, drop-dead gorgeous and the first thing she says is that she doesn’t think she is beautiful. With a practiced smile, an affected accent and carefully upturned lips, she says she was a deeply ugly child and she doesn’t know that she is beautiful now either. So, here’s a girl who thought she was ugly and so decided to become a model. How much would you lie to seem modest? I wonder what Osbourne was thinking just then.

Beware, you Russians!

There was a program on ABC this morning about poisons used for assassinations. The presenter says, “Poison for assassination is an unfamiliar tool in the West. But in Russia, people have been poisoning each other since the Middle Ages.”

I thought that sounded really funny. Like a scene from ‘Spy vs Spy’ in MAD magazine, with shifty eyed blond Russian spies sneakily dropping poison into each others’ cups, constantly keeling over and up again on their feet with a snigger, putting yet another poison in yet another meal.

Please handle with care

Why does everyone toy around with my heart and toss it into the recycle bin each time? (By everyone, I don’t mean it literally of course.)

Rumi said, Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it. But is it any wonder that I have built massive walls all around my heart if each time I let people in, they very considerately shred it to bits?

I came across a beautiful silence some time back. I knew it from the distant past. So far back that I had forgotten about its existence. It just crept into my evening so quietly, so stealthily. Like the twilight changes into a velvety night even as you watch the moon rising slowly. It does not take you by surprise. Just feels very comforting and familiar, as if it never left you.

And now, it’s gone again. Why did it come back for such a fleeting moment? Where is it gone now?

Too many questions? But I really need some answers. Perhaps the Universe reads my blog.

Loo poem

Speaking of plumbing with personalities, our office ladies’ toilet too is highly individualistic. The flush runs continuously. There is a trick to it. So, the other day, one of the girls in the office put up a notice on the side of the flush which had the following written:

“Toilet water continuously running.

Press button to flush

then once again quickly to stop running.”


Later, someone had scribbled on the top: “Is this haiku?”

I strongly suspected it was Sarah. I asked her and my suspicions were confirmed. She said she found the writing almost peaceful. Sarah Hoskin is one of the funniest girls I have met.

Home is where the showerhead is

Spent a week in lovely Tasmania. It’s a place out of the world.

But was I glad to come back home to my bathroom. I love my bathroom. It’s the best in the world. My shower is a bit temperamental, it’s true. But it was nice to be back fiddling with the knobs all the while. The water has to be just the right pressure or else the flow slows down to a trickle, or else gushes with a force that threatens to peel off your skin. Same with the temperature. Only at a critical pressure is the water a good mix of hot and cold. A degree, nay a second more to the left, and the water scalds you. Similarly in the other direction, and the water is freezing. It is all made even more sublimely complex because there are two knobs to be manipulated. I think I am the only one who loves the whole phenomenon. Showering in my bathroom is probably a daily torture for everyone else.

But as a shayar said,

Kisne jaana hai badalte hue mausam ka misaaj
Usko chaaho to samajh paaoge fitrat uski.

A week later...

“The coffee is nice and hot. The cake is yummy.”

“I am glad you like it.”

“Yes, it is very cosy and warm here. The flowers are so pretty, and look at those little noisy birds!”

“Do you go to cafes often?”

“I used to…”

“Right.”

A very comfortable silence as both drink their coffee. It is very peaceful and feels very safe.

“Stranger, would you like to have another coffee with me?”

“Um…sure. But can you give me a minute? I have to go somewhere. I’ll be right back.”

“OK.”

“See you then. Goodbye.”

“Will you be back?”

“Goodbye.”

..leaving behind someone very confused and bewildered.

So, it is back into the little dark corner now.

I don’t want to go out

“Go outside for a bit. Do you good.”

“No. It’s too cold out there.”

“No, it’s not. I’m sure it’s not.”

“It is. I did try stepping out earlier. And before that. It is always cold.”

“Perhaps it was yesterday. Look now. It might be better.”

“I know it will not be better. I have tried too many times. Let me just stay in my little room and read a book.”

“But you need fresh air and sunshine.”

“Yes. But there is a bitter draught blowing outside and the sun is too weak. I’d rather just stay here in my bed.”

It went on like this for a long time.

Then one day…

“Um…hello, stranger.”

“Hello. Nice day out here.”

“Perhaps. But I think I’ll stay here in my room and talk to you from my window, if you don’t mind.”

“As you wish. Did you sleep well?”

“Not really. The doctor says I should go outside and get some exercise and build up an appetite. That will help me eat and sleep better. But it is very cold outside.”

“It is not too bad, actually. In fact I passed a fine and cosy café at the last bend. Very quaint, with colourful flowers in window boxes and a little fountain in the courtyard. There are some yummy cakes too.”

“Really?”

Pause.

“Is it too far down the road?”

“Oh no. Just round the bend that you can see if you lean out a bit.”

“Uh, yes. I think I see it.”

…

“If you came to your doorstep I think you’ll even be able to see the fountain.”

“Alright. I can come up to the door.”

“See the mass of blue? Those are the flowers in the first window box. The others you can’t see are a lovely yellow, red and white.”

“Oh… Well, I think I’ll grab my jacket and come and have a look. You will not take my jacket away from me, will you?”

“Of course not. Would you like to have some coffee?”

“Yes, that sounds good. In fact, I think I can vaguely remember having been to that café once a long, long time ago.”

“It hasn’t changed much all these years, you know. I do like going there all the time. Very warm and quiet and peaceful. Here, let me help you with your jacket.”

”Ouch, I think I am getting a shoe bite. You see, I have not walked in these shoes for a long, long time.”

“It will bite a bit and then stop. Don’t worry. And the café is not far anyway.”

Small, unsure steps.

“You look a little bothered with the breeze whipping your hair about. Here, wear my cap.”

The fear subsides a bit. The ache in the heels ease a little.

“Roll down the sleeves of your jacket. That way you won’t feel too cold. And walk slowly so that your shoes don’t hurt you too much. We’re in no hurry.”

And so they walked down to the café for the much needed nourishment of body and soul.

Sorry, I didn’t catch your name…

Samuel Goldwyn (He of the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer fame among other things) is supposed to have said to a friend once, "Why did you name your son John? Every Tom, Dick, and Harry is named John".

I would like to play the friend’s advocate here.

A few months ago, I was at the birthday party of my friend’s little girl. It was a bachcha party consisting solely of mothers and their children, and I was the only one with no child of her own. Young mums all over the place with their little kids screaming and shouting and fighting, and generally keeping the atmosphere lively and ripe for an economy-size headache. Being the ultra-polite girl that I was, I spoke to the proud mums, asking about their kids and trying to look wondrously surprised and pleased as the mum pointed at her little one in the brood. So in this manner, I was wading along the sea of mothers and stopped at yet another one.

“That is my girl there, in the pink frock.”

There were about 3-4 girls in pink, including the birthday girl. For some reason, all little girls in this country seem to wear only pink, I know not why. Anyway, I made the usual gushing sounds along the lines of, “Oh, she is sooo cute!” and so on.

Then I asked, “What’s her name?”

“Noosa.”

“Sorry? Noosa?”

“Yes.” The smile on the proud mum’s face hitched up a notch or two. “We conceived her when we went to Noosa for our honeymoon. So, we named her Noosa.”

I wasn’t very sure if I was supposed to say “Oh, what a lovely name!” I let the silence hang in the air like a dangling sword rather than lie so blatantly.

Now, for those who are not familiar with the geography of Australia, Noosa is a popular sea-side holiday town in Queensland. All I can say is, thank goodness the girl wasn’t conceived in Kalgoorlie or Dubbo. When I was in Perth, I always used to say that when I have kids, I will name them after two suburbs of Perth – Mirrabooka and Kalamunda. Who knew that my little joke would travel along the ethereal machinations of fate and crystallize into cruel reality for a little girl many miles away?

Noosa Chakrapani.

Why do parents give such names to their kids? What are they thinking when they do it? Is it just another way of living your life through your child’s?

“Oh, I could not become a doctor. So I want my child to be one when she grows up. I don’t care that her music teacher says she is gifted.”

“Oh, my parents gave me such a boring old name like Shanta. So let me give my child an exotic name. I think Miami sounds good.”

Little Miami grows up and as soon as she turns 18, a declaration appears in the local newspapers, “I, Miami Arvind Patil, do hereby declare that I change my name to Kanta Arvind Patil.” So much for Shanta’s dreams.

How many children have to go through the torment of odd names, not only at the hands of bullying school mates, but even more mercilessly, though more subtly, in adult life too? A distant cousin of mine was named Vamana. Sure it is one of the names of Vishnu, but everyone knows it to be a synonym for a dwarf. Thankfully, he was given two names and now he goes by his second name, Trivikram. His first cousins were named Kshitisha and Kritartha. Even the doctor couldn’t help but wonder aloud why they were labeled with such tongue-twisters.

And thusly I rest my case, Mr Goldwyn.

I am going to give my kids the safest, most boring names on earth. Something on the lines of all my cousins and I - Rohit, Ravi, Sarita, Rekha, Shrikant, Kanti, Jyoti. Kailash. I’d rather have my children be mildly annoyed with me than hate me downright.

Can you kiss an accent?

A good thing about my job is, I get to hear a lot of different world accents. And Australia itself has people from all parts of the world.

Most people find the Italian accent very sexy. But I have had quite a few Italian guys trying to hit on me and so I have now come to associate it with unwanted advances. I hear a guy speaking to me with an Italian accent, I am immediately on my guard.

I personally love the Irish accent. I could listen to a guy talking with a broad Irish accent forever. Only thing is, I wouldn’t understand anything of what he said. Yes, even when he is talking in English. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t want him to stop talking. Please note that I keep saying ‘he’. The exact same accent in a woman, I wouldn’t care much for. Oh, and one of my fantasies is to kiss a handsome Irish guy while he is talking ;)

I just heard the Welsh accent for the first time today. (Where do all the Welsh people hide? Even in British programs, you find the English, the Scots, the Irish, but almost never a Welshperson) It is a bit like an understandable version of the Irish accent. The Scottish accent is kind of sweet but after a while, the sing-song tone gets on my nerves.

And I love the accent of educated Indians who do not communicate primarily in English. Like most of our parents and uncles and aunts. A beautiful example is Shri S N Goenkaji. Irony is that the average foreign person will understand them much better than our cosmopolitan accents simply because they speak more slowly and clearly.

The Aussie accent? Love it, mate! Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! Oi, oi, oi!

Afternoons...

Remember we used to be asked to write essays in school titled, ‘If I was the prime minister of the country’?

Well, if I were the leader of this world, I would ban the time of the day between 1pm and 4pm.

All afternoons with their morphia-like lethargy and stupor-inducing, meaningless existences with the time passing like warm tar crawling uphill, and when the mind just refuses to acknowledge even the spark of a hope of activity and it is so hard to believe that there can be such things as the bright and cheery mornings or the vivacious nights issued to us alongside the afternoons.

Thank the good Lord for coffee. Even instant coffee.

And yes, this was written in the afternoon.

The next train to arrive on platform 1 goes to...

My friend asked me, “What are you reading currently?”

I said, “The train timetable.”

“Ah. What do you think of it?”

“Well, I am not able to decide which category it falls in - fiction or mythology.”

“If you ask me, it is just false propaganda.”

Really, why do the trains behave like they have a different agenda altogether? It is with great reluctance that they carry us to our desired destinations. Every now and then I hear the disjointed computer announcements saying with an air of supreme indifference (Understandable. After all, even computers are entitled to some apathy), “The 8:23 service to Gordon is delayed by approximately 45 minutes” (Hooray! I’ll not be more than an hour late to work today!) or, “The 7:18 service to Mcarthur has been cancelled” (That means I will have to miss tonight’s dinner party. I will spend the rest of the day trying to find the bright side of this.)

A few Sundays back I was waiting at one of the smaller train stations for a train to town. It was too small to be blessed with regular arrival announcements or indicators. There was only an extremely complicated timetable with a system of colour coding and numbering, which, if you knew advanced calculus, told you which train came on what platform at what time. After about 15 minutes of figuring out the timetable, I concluded that my train was due at 10 minutes past the hour. Well alright, I was exaggerating. Maybe not 15 minutes. 13 at the outside.

A train had passed by already while I was calculating, but I tried to believe that it was not mine.

I waited. And waited. The 10 past was long past. A goods train rumbled by. An express train zipped past. Well, not zipped, exactly. Sydney trains go at a majestic pace. Bloody waste of precious time, but bloody majestic.

Every two minutes, the station master would play the message: “Please stand behind the yellow lines. Please mind the gap when boarding or alighting from a train.” Fine, but where is the train to board or alight from? Perhaps that express train was actually a regular train and the driver just forgot to stop. It has happened once, I swear.

I was in a western line train when I noticed that some passengers at the door got a bit flustered and then came the announcement, “Ladies and gentlemen, the driver forgot to stop at Auburn station. We regret the mistake. But he WILL be stopping at Lidcombe station.” Thank God for small mercies. Everyone was too aghast to say anything.

Anyway, the train did come eventually. Perhaps the timetable is fiction loosely based on actual fact.

Did I forget something?

I haven’t used my credit card in ages and ages. Last month for the first time, I was shown an outstanding amount of $20 which was the annual fees for the card.

I forgot to pay because most of the times I don’t even remember that I own a credit card. Finally today I remembered and logged on only to find that the bank charged me $35 as late fees yesterday. How frustrating is that? Paying 175% (or whatever…do the maths) interest on the annual fees of a card I have not used more than 5 times in five years. All because I forgot about it one day more than I was allowed to.

When I got to thinking about it, I realized that I have been putting too many reminders in my phone of late. And most of the times I forget the task in spite of that.

That got me thinking about absent-mindedness. Now Mother is constantly reminding me how my memory is worse than that of a 90-year-old. But why? Then I remembered, a lot of the folks on my father’s side are that way. Does it run in the family? Can absent-mindedness be hereditary? I googled it. One of the search results was a site that said that absent-mindedness can be a cute trait. Obviously not the site I am looking for. Cute! Tell that to my mother and my aunts who have to deal with a bunch of forgetful men and children (I think it is hereditary).

Opened up a couple of websites (University websites, no less). Not helpful.

Then there was a US government website of medicine and health. Looked more promising. Opened the page and it listed a number of research articles. Did a ctrl-F to look for absent-mindedness. Ah, there it was!

The title read: “Absent-mindedness and shop-lifting - a case study”.

Umm…next.

The next one was: “Alleged shoplifters and psychiatric outpatients: drugs, absent-mindedness and mental state compared”.

Right…

If you think about it, I don’t think absent-mindedness is such a big deal anyway. I mean, if it was, surely there would be counselling centres for abused family members of affected people, or Absents Anonymous and things like that, isn’t it?

More thoughts on coffee

Opening the coffee tin in my office pantry today brought to mind a little event of my life from long back.

My aunt, Shashi chikki brought a jar of granulated coffee from Bahrain. Nescafe Gold, I think it was. The description said those were “coffee crystals”. Now every science student knows the difference between crystalline and amorphous substances, right? Who were they fooling? But this thing was so…nice, that I forgave them that mistake. The “crystals” were beautiful, with a matte finish, like miniature asteroids. I would place a few on my tongue and feel them melting. People in the past have witnessed the dawn of new eras, like the industrial era, or the Hippies era. I witnessed the granulated coffee era. The internet phenomenon was nothing compared to it.

This must have been, what, 8-10 years ago. It was the first time I had seen granulated coffee. Up until then, I had only seen powdered instant coffee. Well, to begin with I hardly ever saw instant coffee in any form, as none of our families had it. The only memories I have of instant coffee in my childhood are occasional glimpses of a little bottle of Bru, the contents inevitably turned into a solid block because powdered coffee hardens so easily, and the jar was hardly used anyway. Just kept there for “emergencies” that never came because the trusty filter coffee never let us down.

The coffee filter always has its own place on the kitchen platform, usually in a corner. Invariably, it is a battered and bruised thing, which means it is a well-loved instrument. I don’t remember seeing a shiny new one in any kitchen. I think a coffee filter is born bruised and battered, just like some people seem to be born old. I think my South Indian traits assert themselves strongest when it comes to coffee. Even now, I can’t help but be taken aback, and even feel a slight sense of betrayal when I encounter a South Indian household without a coffee filter or any other form of brewing apparatus.

There are some things you just don’t give up, no matter what.

Never.

Ever.