The 3 mistakes of my life – Review

This is the new novel by “Chetan Bhagat”, and those who have already read 5 point someone or one night @ call centre would not need any introduction. For those who haven’t, please grab a copy of 5 point someone and finish it off. It is worth reading. I would not say the same for one night @ call centre though. Anyways, let’s get to the purpose of this blog and that is the review of his latest venture.

There are few things we Indian can not live without. They are
1. Religion
2. Politics
3. Cricket and
4. Emotions

And if the story includes friendship, father-son troubled relationship, mom-son bonding, love angle with your best friend’s sister, urge for success, riots, cricket matches, deaths of beloved one and finally suicide, I think the entire gamut of emotions are covered. Chetan has done exactly the same. He knows what the pulse of an Indian reader is. Everyone can identify with a guy who wants to make it big in his own business, a guy who wanted to be a cricketer but failed badly, a guy who just has no aim in his life and can do anything for his friends, a girl who just wants to be free from the clutches of small town family mindset etc.

The basic plotline is similar to 5 point someone, with three friends and there struggle for success, their mistakes and the outcome of it. The only thing is setup is much bigger and real here to accommodate the entire generation of youth as the audience rather than keeping it to handful which was the case with 5 point someone.

There are few things which are worth mentioning

1. CB wanted to keep the setup as a small town so that to connect to the larger group. The city (Ahmedabad) chosen was perfect as it has all the development and infrastructure a big city would boast of but still it contains the small town mentality.

2. The entire story was given a real feel so that readers feel as one of the protagonists portrayed. CB has brought himself intelligently in the narrative to bring that authentic feel. The timing of the entire setup was chosen such that it could encompass the real events like ‘Bhuj earthquake’, ‘historical match between India and Australia’, ‘godhra kand’ etc which enhances the real feel.

3. He has applied the optimization techniques (might be learned in MBA school) on each emotion and dished out a very perfect balanced and tasty story.

4. “3 mistakes” captures a reality where young people in small town India are less likely to make out in bars and discos than on building terrace. The Indian style love story where ‘true-close-friendship’ can happen while studying maths problems together rather than at a coffee shop – especially in small town India.

5. The feisty of a small town girl where medical entrance exam is just an excuse to escape to an anonymous place. Where your brother won’t be standing by to thrash every guy who gives you a second glance.

There are number of pitfalls as well. There is nothing much in terms of the literary content in the novel and if you are looking for some real good literary work then please keep away. This is pure masala. The climax is bit filmy and the end was predictable. There are some sequences which does not seem believable, like the kid flying to Australia for cricket training etc.

I feel he is more of a script writer rather than a novelist. His language is lucid, fast paced and youthful. Something that we loved in films like “Socha na tha” and “Jab we met” (Both by Imtiaz Ali and recently Chetan Bhagat has teamed up with Imitiaz for a film. Hope it delivers double shot keeping the fact it conjure the efforts of 2 calibre person)

To cut the story short, if you are looking for some light and masala read, pick up a copy.

Abdul, The Cobbler (Part 1)

The big clock of the church at the street end stroked eleven. He was almost late for his daily routine but he showed no interest in making things faster, rather he immersed himself more in his morning prayers, convincing god with his last wish of the day. He had always loved to be in the house of god. A place that he considered to be his own apart from the small shop in the corner of the hustling market where he sit daily on the lacerated rag mending shoes, Abdul was a cobbler by profession.

Abdul wanted the clock to pace up the jangling sound it was making so that he can concentrate again on his arguments with god in the mosque. It still had a few rounds to complete for the count of eleven.

While he was a kid he thought he could be anything but a cobbler. He dreamt of being a cricketer, a film star like dharmendra or in worst case a businessman sitting at his desk giving instruction to his workers. But over his growing years he realized he could do no better than finding new ways of keeping a shoe live longer. He ended up taking his century old family tradition going over for one more generation. Now he feels the same agony for the ruptured leather pieces that any surgeon would have felt for the fleshes he comes across, and Abdul always satisfies his customers by showing surgeon like precision in his job.

Over the years, shoes have seized to be just a commodity for Abdul. They are the window through which he looked at the world. He was a mute spectator of the changing society through the change in the patterns of the shoe design. He could smell the prosperity of his client in the shoes that they wear. Black shiny soft leather smelt rich and over polished at times. Rugged shoes smelt of sweat and unwashed socks. Rich sandals with thin straps and high heels smelt of powder and cream, always fresh as if it was an extension of the owners own beautiful legs. Others smelt of cheap nail polishes and colours that they apply around the border of their feet. He showed equal interest to all kind of pairs and charged everybody the same. He felt, his service is equally important for the affluent and the needy. A man of principles who did not believed in cheating others for his own gains.

Prosperity for abdul was synonymous with the pair of shoes that anyone owns. He being a cobbler and connoisseur of shoes could not own a decent pair and that used to pain him more than anything else. He looked at his own pairs. It was nothing but a rubber sole with straps sewn over it. Strap for each foot was different. One was black and other brown, but it did not matter as long as it was doing its job.

Abdul once went to the most posh shoe store in the main market of the town, one that housed shoes with exorbitant prices. A shoe called “Clark’s England Code” in the front glass shelve of the shop caught Abdul in his flight of fantasy. He was bowled over by the lushness, the rich texture of the shoe. The leather looked so soft, that it felt like cotton and colour so shiny that could be substituted as mirror. When he knew the name, he believed that even clerks in England could afford such a shoe and for the first time he wished he should have been born in England and not in India.

“Elegance is not a dispensable luxury but a factor that decides between success and failure. (Edsger Dijkstra)”

Abdul measured his success with possession of those pair of shoes. It was not in the league of winning the kite competition or getting married to the love of his life. It was the vanity. His sole purpose of existence now defined success for him. Failure meant he rejected himself worthy of being alive.

Along with the daily visit to the mosque, visiting the shop became the regular ritual for Abdul. He used to stand in front of the shop for hours every evening staring at the pair. At night he would count the notes and keeping half of it aside, recounting them each day.

(Contd. in the below post)

Abdul, The cobbler (Part 2)

It was a Friday morning with blazing sun raised much above the horizon with its glowing radiance. Abdul was climbing down the stairs of the mosque after finishing the daily prayer when he saw the pair of “Clark’s England Code”. A man as affluent as the shoe removed the pair and kept it over the side of the stairs. He was tall, fair with long hairs covering his eyes and a glittering ear ring in his right ear. He was wearing a navy blue trouser and a white starched shirt and looked complete with the pair of “Clark’s England Code”

Abdul could not resist the temptation of trying those valuable pair. As soon as the man climbed up the stairs getting out of Abdul’s sight, he slipped into those pair and it was a perfect fit.

Not necessity, its desire – the love of luxury is the demon of men. Let them have everything – health, food, a place to live, entertainment – they are and remain unhappy and low-spirited. For the demon waits and waits to be satisfied. This is the blessed necessity by which the interest of men is always driving them to satisfy the demon and seizes all crime to be mean and ugly.

He started walking wearing the shoe towards the outer gate of the mosque. Theft seized to be a sin at that moment. Everything else meant less than those prized possession. He felt odd in his stained shirt and checkered lungi and tried to solace his heart with the comfort at his feet. All eyes felt peering at him stripping him naked in the house of god. He tried not to look into eyes of any passerby. It felt everybody is staring at his feet. He felt like running out of the gate, to run as fast as he can. The sun overhead seemed too hot for him and he started sweating profoundly. He tried to control his speed, to walk in more natural manner.

He was out of the gate. He could not guess the time it took him to cross the 50 yards courtyard that lay between the stairs of the mosque and the main gate. He was now a thief. He stole those pair and was now the new owner of the “Clark’s England Code”. He started feeling ashamed for himself, a thief who committed a sin that he considered to be the only sin in this world. Every other sin he felt is a variation of theft.

He broke the shari’a law, became a Haram, and that pained his heart more. He remembered the teachings from his father

“Stealing is the 23rd sin. If you steal something, the shariah obligation is to return the money to its owners. The actual money should always be returned to them; else you will be in hell forever”

Picking the shoe in his hand, Abdul went inside the gate. He crossed the courtyard and kept the shoe in its proper place where the man had left it initially. He went inside the tomb and found the man still in his prayers with bent knees and palm over his face. His eyes closed. Abdul came out of the mosque with a much lighter heart. He was really happy for the first time after he had been to the shoe shop. He felt an emotion of aloofness, no longer felt the urge or temptation in his heart.

Later that evening he went to the shoe shop and found the glass shelve empty as expected. Abdul went inside the shop and asked one of the staff.

“Who bought the shoe that was over that rack yesterday?”

“Do not ask man. In the morning a person came in blue trouser and starched white shirt. He was quite tall and also wore a ring in his right ear. He looked so rich. He tried that shoe and taking advantage of the crowd in the morning hours, left the shop without paying. He should be ashamed of himself. He stole our most costly shoe in the shop. He is a thief. He can never be happy and his soul will be in hell forever”

The staff went to attend his other customers leaving Abdul gaping at the empty shelve.

Joyful Ride (Part 1)

Kishore completed its final check of the two big samsonite suitcases, whether they are properly locked or not. Almost after 6 years he is leaving US. Not because he felt any pain for his homeland but his H1 visa got expired and his company was not ready to process his green card. He was ok with that and he felt its better to get back to India and settle down with some good looking girl before his receding hairline moves few inches further in his ever enlarging temple. He was real busy last few days with terminating the house lease, removing the Comcast net connection, disconnecting the phone connection, canceling his credit cards and selling his brand new Audi TT, one thing that gave him immense pain to be parted with. He still had an hour before his cab arrives in front of his Fremont apartment. It should not take more than an hour to San Francisco airport but he still asked his cab, a Limousine to come quite early. He is yet to get over the knack of having some buffer time in his hand lest he get stuck in traffic jam. May be this is ingrained in his middle class brought up in the Baranagar area of Calcutta where unless you call a Taxi before time you have full chances of missing the train or flight. He wondered if anything might have changed in last 6 years. He was not sure. Nor was he sure of his ability to adjust in kolkata. He was left with no other choice. He opened his Sony Vaio and tried connecting to some public domain unsecured connection. It was successful. He sent the confirmation mail to cab Rental Company and got the immediate reply. His Cab will be there in front of his house at the designated time.

He heard the smooth grilling sound of the engine and opened his door. The long slender limousine was trying to make its way through the parking area. He was always in love with high end cars and this was the only one he could not make his way inside till this moment. But in just 5 minute time that is going to change. Although he is quite avert to changes in his life, this one he welcomed without any doubt. The car glittered in twilight and basked in the elegance and splendour of its own, leaving Kishore awestruck.

“At your service sir” The Cab driver smiled at him with bonhomie and gestured to help him with the two 32 inch suitcases. He was a young fellow not more than 28 but with a built that could have got him into any modeling contest, at least in India. He was dressed in blue colored formal shirt coupled with a red tie and a black blazer. His hair well cropped and spiked using gel. Kishore felt himself minuscule in front of him in 5 feet 2 inch; wearing faded jeans and a Tee. He smiled back at him with delusion of grandeur when Mike (he told his name while adjusting the two huge chunk of fiber) opened the door and made way for Kishore to settle down inside. Anyway it’s not everyday that you get a Chauffeur driven limousine to ride.

He got into the car and made himself comfortable in the lush black leather sofa. Bar was left open in front of him and Mike asked him to help himself if required. He took a small amount of 18 years old black label scotch and let his body relax in the soothing taste. He had almost one hour with him to enjoy his joyful ride and he wanted to make most of it.

Just when he was feeling little drowsy, Mike honked at a Toyota Camry which suddenly changed its lane and came in front of the limousine. Honking is not very common in US and the Chinese lady who was driving the car must have felt real guilty for getting a honk. She was a short woman who stooped towards the front glass trying to keep his line of sight aligned with the highway. It was evident that she is not having proper side view due to her short height and that might be reason for the error. When Mike over took her car, she looked really apologetic and gestured at Mike saying something, which Kishore decoded as “Sorry”. Chinese ladies are known to be among the poorest drivers in US and Kishore assumed that this lady must have given multiple trials of driving test before getting her cherished License. License to kill others; especially who is sitting in the Limousine. Kishore smiled at his own thoughts. Three shots can make people think anything.

Apart from this one incident his limousine ride was safe and enjoyable. He enjoyed his entire stay in US. To be true he was in love with this country. He loved the discipline of waiting for his turn to cross the road. He loved to drive and keep driving at 80 Miles an hour which usually left goose bumps when he thought of the speed converting in KMs. He loved the freeways which allowed him to get thrilled. He loved the weekly grocery replenishments from Costco. Those extra cheese Burgers at Denny’s or Lasagna at Cheese cake factory. He loved those nightlife parties of bon tons which was often too raucous. Hitting over some Chinese or if luck permitted American girl used to boost up his otherwise bachelor life. He loved it all. Love doesn’t make the world go round. Love is what makes the ride worthwhile. He was who going the world around and he wanted his ride to be worthwhile. And not to love the love again he wanted to love a different love.

(Contd. in the below post)

Joyful Ride (Part 2)

The city was under the aphotic aura of the post dusk aureole when Kishore’s flight landed at Netaji Subhash International Airport in Kolkata. The airport boasted hardly of anything that would lead it termed as international except might the tourist centre which was full of posters of places that looked hardly Indian. A thin aged man with spectacles was sitting below the huge Incredible India poster of elephants. Kishore tried to recollect if West Bengal was ever famous for elephants. He could not. “Where will I get the Taxi” Kishore asked with utmost prudishness. “Baire Jaan” Go outside. The man gestured outside the main gate.

Kishore found himself stranded in a land of ultimate chaos, soon stepping outside the gate. “Kothai jaben” where will you go, “behala? Ballygaunge?”, “Taxi na Auto?”, “eyidikhe aasun sir ekdom notun taxi” come in the brand new taxi sir. A dozen men swarming over him as if he is the nectar, bees are fighting to create honey out of him. He chooses a modest looking guy who was shouting “Metare jabo saar, jaben?” will go in meter, come with me.

“Baranagar Chalo” Kishore got into the yellow and black ambassador trademarked as “the kolkatan Taxi”. As the driver tried to enter the main road from the Airport, Kishore felt the pain of an aged road that is trying to accommodate vehicles much above it carrying capacity. It was a crossing and Kishore could not make out which vehicle wanted to head which way. It looked like a deadlock to him but he could not apply any of his tried and tested algorithms here. It seemed he would be stranded there for eternities to come. He tried to stretch his neck outside the window, if he can manage to see whether the river of cars, buses and autos end or not. He failed to see any.

Gunning the engine with the clutch pressed down, a jaunty driver of some ford icon car raring to break through, entered the gap which might have been suitable for some bajaj scooter, fraying quite a few nerves. “Saala Ba****od, dikhta naahin kya” Kishore’s driver shouted in full rage and eventually that lead to some heated conversation between the two parties “Hamesha itna Jam rehta?” Kishore asked the driver more to divert his attention. “aaffice time saar, full jaam damdam road mein”. Kishore saw the overtly crowded permanent shops over the side of the pavement along with the virtually permanent shops overflowing on the street from pavement making hardly any room for the pedestrians. They were forced to take the street instead. The taxi tried to move a little when a woman came in front of it with two of her kids. “Aashte Dada” Move slowly. She shouted with an authority usually teachers possesses. But she hardly looked like one in her yellow maculated saree with black blouse and big red bindi on her head. Kishore felt the word “slowly” has lost its objectivity as the Taxi would not have been having a speed of more than 5 or 10 KMs per hour. The driver waited for her to cross the road. Taking advantage of this a thin old man in baniyan which was hardly white anymore and a blue checkered lungi wrapped around his mid body pulled the rickshaw with both of his hands making way through the small gap now made between taxi and the mini bus in the front. The back seat of the rickshaw kept dangling in air while the men tried to pull it with full force owing to the limited strength in those old shaky arms. Kishore froze at the thought of sitting on one although long back when he was young, he yearned for that.

One of the conductors of the mini bus got down and started acting as the traffic police trying to apply all permutation combinations to break the deadlock. He kept on shouting at the coming cars gesturing it to stop with his left hand while swaying his right hand to keep the flow on the other side more as if mocking some non existent traffic controller. Slowly every vehicle started moving and finding its own ways. It seemed that every driver can read other driver’s mind and predict where it is heading. The entire situation was chaotic but not without a rhythm. There can be music in pandemonium as well. People of India have learnt being tranquil amidst the banal bedlam. Even most disorderly fashion can have a rule, a rule of its own that may not be blessed with laws written in thick books but that finally leads to ones destiny, ones home. Kishore felt the infatuation for the lost love again in his heart by the time he reached his own home, his own destiny.

Life, so Cool and so Hot

At around 9 in the morning I was trying to start my bike in a hurry so that I do not get late for the office. Although my mind was propelling me to start for office as soon as possible, my body was at its lethargic best. I wanted to enjoy the morning bliss after a long time. It indeed was a beautiful sunny morning after the night long heavy downpour. I did not want to miss the lingering fragrance of the wet sand for the air spray that they use in my office. The morning dew was still dripping from the extra green leaves. This was the perfect morning I had experienced in a long time. More so after joining the IT industry where only thing we remember in the name of natural beauty is the regular Good Morning forwards that carry one or other scenic beauty. But nothing can compare the ecstatic feeling brought by the cool breeze. Suddenly something caught my eyes. It looked like some brown gunny bag lying in the side of the road. It was a cute puppy with pigtail, sleeping on the wet road. Its golden brown skin was shining in the bright sun light. To be true I am not an animal lover, neither do I hate them. I just had a “no care” attitude towards them. But recently I developed particular hatred against these street dogs more so ever after my accident (due to one street dog jumping in front of my bike) and the recent menace by street dogs taking lives of the young kids. But it was different this time. I felt affectionate toward it. I wanted to lie down beside that puppy enjoying the wet ground and the hot sun at the same time. Savouring the moment to its full extent, it envisioned itself as life to me. Cool and Hot at the same time. I felt jealous about the freedom the puppy was enjoying. Freedom to live a life on its own terms. I wondered if there will be any dog bossing him around, whether he will also be reporting to some dogs of higher echelon. Not sure of that but I was sure that I wanted to take its place for that cool morning. A grueling sound came to my ears. A fat man was starting his red Tata Sierra. This was the sound made by the cold engine trying to come back to life after the night long hibernation. It started coming this way slowly. I wondered how I missed an object as big as a jeep while engrossed in such a small puppy. May be size does not matter always. The car was coming towards me. The sound had already waked me up from my pipe dream and I also kicked my bike to start another hectic day. Suddenly I realized something and looked toward the ground where the puppy was sleeping. STO…O…O…P…..IT. I tried to shout but somehow I could not hear my own words. The puppy was in the air and came back to the ground with a thud after few seconds. It again appeared to me like a gunny bag, a lifeless mass. It started trembling soon. Its soft stomach is now visible which was going up and down, up and down. The 6 inch MRF tyre mark was clearly visible on it. It opened its mouth to breathe but what came out was a spit of blood soaked with saliva. Only white patch was visible where sometime back I saw bright glittering brown eyes. I had not even realized but I had already started my bike. I tried concentrating on driving my bike, tried not to look back. I now felt the hot sun on my body for the first time since this morning. So hot that a stream of sweat trickled my forehead. The sun was no more beautiful. I wanted to reach office. I wanted to sit in my cubicle and start the daily dose of emails as early as possible, truly in contrast with what I was feeling just few minutes back. I was surprised with the hostility of the events. May be I never realized that death can come in such unannounced fashion. May be this is what is called life.

Cool and Hot at the same time.

Burning Tip and the Burning Mind

We stepped inside the Coffee Day, not being able to resists the invigorating aroma of the brewing coffee. The waiter in Black trouser and Red shirt greeted us with a smile so polite, so friendly and of course so fake. I wonder how much effort he has put in, practicing that smile to perfection. “Please get us a seat for two”. I also tried to fake a smile but somehow it did not come up properly. He sounded apologetic for not being able to provide us a seat in one of those dark corners where I could have easily hid myself. I don’t know why but somehow I did not like the feeling of seating at the middle of the cafe. That place felt so safe and tempting. He took us upstairs and I took one sofa seat not because it was comfortable but sitting at that place gave me an easy view of three pretty girls in low waist jeans and spaghetti tops. Two of them were smoking. One of them had a long slender brown cigarette in her hand which I later came to know that it is a brand called “More” generally consumed by females. My friend also took out one from his pocket and lit it. “Abe mujhe bhi ek de” It was the last thing that I would have imagined doing at that moment. But I actually asked him to give me one cigarette. Somehow I felt, releasing my vexation with the smoke would be much easier to carry it home. I had a very bad day at work.
He gave a look of astonishment as if asking “you smoke?” or may be more subtle “when did you start smoking?” But he did not ask anything and handed me one. “Abe jala ke dena” I asked him childishly as if smoking is something that every child should do and please help me learn the nitty-gritty of it. I could not afford to make a mistake while showing my machismo to the girl with “More” in her hand. And of course not after the few glances that she gave me in between her periodic sips and puffs. My friend took the cigarette from my hand, turned it upside down and touched it to the burning end of his cigarette. It felt like they are kissing each other and it was the destiny of my cigarette to burn passionately in the kiss of his cigarette. He handed it to me. It was now my turn to kiss her. I wanted to held that fire in my hand. I wanted to tame her at my fingertips. I tried to take a long puff. I felt chocked. It started burning my throat and the sensation went till deep inside the lungs. A cough came up suddenly and tears almost rolled down my eyes trying to swig the smoke back inside me. I tried to assuage myself and look more relaxed. Then I released the smoke that I had hold in my lungs may be for a few seconds but it seemed like eternity. The smoke engulfed me. My eyes started burning and I was not able to breathe. Everything looked bleary as I am in some island trying to look through some dark mist. I felt relaxed. I felt protected. I tried to intensify the self created mist by kissing the new found love hard and long. And she was protecting me with the haze by destroying herself. I forgot my argument with my TL. I forgot that girl with “More” in her hand. I forgot I was in Coffee Day. I was in my own island of thoughts and I gave a damn about anybody else at that time.

“Excuse me”…….. “Excuse me” I heard somebody shouting from a distant island. The waiter was standing beside me with his usual bonhomie. “Excuse me sir…….what will you like to have” “Ice tea”. I said almost instantaneously. I never cease to surprise myself. I never used to have ice tea at least in Coffee Day. But somehow it felt good to go with my cigarette. The cool, mystic flavor of ice tea only complemented my new found passion of smoking. I felt so aloof there that I wanted to return to my island. Suddenly I felt my tongue going acerbic and a burning sensation on my fingers. “Abe khatam ho gaya hai…doosra jala le”. My savior was dying in my hand and with that just one thought solidified. “Every relationship comes with an expiry date”. Mine ended just too soon.

My First Blog

From a long time, I wanted to write a blog, but somehow I was not able to start it. After a long persuasion which came within myself, I decided to write one. But now when I have started writing, I am not able to decide any topic. What shall I write on? Some socially relevant topic, coming world cup, how bad the IT field is or just about any other day to day boring life. But let me first think why I waited for so long to write my first blog. Is it just laziness? I don’t think so. Actually I was scared. Yes I was scared. And I covered my fear with my laziness. I think that is most easy thing to do. Don’t do anything and just tell that I am lazy. But actually laziness is nothing but our attempt to cover up our fear. Our fear of starting something new. To do something for the first time. I also feared that my vocabulary is not good, I do not know proper grammar to write a good stuff or people wont like what I wrote. I don’t know exactly but I am sure it was fear. Might be just the fear to waste some time writing junk that nobody will understand. But while I write I feel a sense of joy. Sense of creation. Sense of doing something different something which might not be good but atleast different. While I write this I can say one thing that we all fear to start new things. The fear of change. Because change brings uncertainty, and uncertainty brings a sense of discomfort which we are not comfortable with. We just hold us back. Hold us back from some changes which might be good might not be good, but at least it will be a change. And we cover our fear of change with a very sluggish word called laziness. One of my very close friend who never speaks to any girl. If you ask him why is he so? He will answer in his truly impeccable manner. “Abe chhod na…kya karenge ladki se baat karke…aukat nahin hai be mera ladkiyon se baat karne ka”
But he longs for a girlfriend as any other guy will do. When he speak those words, he will make it sound that talking to girls are most tedious job and he is very lazy to change himself. But is he only lazy?? I don’t think. It is the fear of change. Fear of changing his already lazy image.
I asked one person, who is also a very good friend of mine. Why is she vegetarian? She gave me all reasons ranging from religion to family to taste. But I felt it is the fear of trying something new. Fear that may bring some changes. Some changes that might not be good for her. Changes that might not be approved by her family or her lover or whatever.
I asked one person who did not loved her boyfriend. Why are you not leaving him when you don’t love him? She tried to answer me something which she could not finish. What I sensed an unease of fear. What will happen to her after he goes of. She told me that “known demon is better than unknown god”. She treated her boyfriend as Demon?? But that is not important. What is important is she did not want a change.
Now when I am writing I am recalling so many conversations where they wanted a change but they are so afraid of the change oops just lazy to change to something new.
But here I am overcoming my one fear. I wrote my first blog…..

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