Grab a cuppa, tell a story or listen to one.

Everyone loves stories. Everyone has a story to tell.


July 2014

My Summer Job

Photo Credit: Soumi Haldar
Some of us are`already in the last quarter of the summer holidays. Summer for most of us is relaxing, spending hours in the pool, summer camps, travelling, trying new activities and for some, like this 9 year old, getting his first summer job!
I have a summer job at my classmate’s house. They are going to be out of town for a couple of weeks and I am feeding their pets for a week. Every morning I walk to their house, the keys secure in my grasp. I go to the refrigerator and get kale for the “bearded dragon”. In my friend’s room, there is a cage with a purple night light. I see the long sharp nails on the dragon’s claws. I switch on the day lights of the cage and slightly pull the top of the cage so that my hand fits through the opening. I reach inside and drop kale inside the food bowl and also refill the water bowl. Then I close the cage and head over to the kitchen to get food for the cat.
Some days I feed her granules, some days I feed her meat. They both smell horrible 😦 ! I walk out of the back door and find the cat waiting for food. She purrs and follows me as I approach the food bowl. I pour the cat food in the metal bowl. She quickly gobbles it all up. She does some stretches and runs away. I wash my hands and exit through the front door. I lock it, then walk back home. I also get paid big bucks! (Awesome!)

A Gateway To Memories

Photo Credit : Amrita Gupta

Such is life. What may appear to be a simple gate to almost everyone, holds a lifetime of memories for others. Related to this gate, there was an entry in my personal journal two decades back, “I wish I have a surprise visitor one day.” I was reminded of it when Amrita Madabushi, one of our storytellers sent me this picture recently. 

She is my fellow schoolmate and happened to visit Pilani, our (her’s and mine) alma mater this summer. She could have taken a picture from any part of the school. She chose this gate perhaps knowing what it had meant to me and many of her other friends 20 years back. This is a gate to a prominent residential school for girl’s in India. This gate taught us the greatest lessons on patience and resilience. 

Inside the gate there exists a world of its own. Classrooms, auditoriums, a huge library, courtyards with water fountains, sprawling gardens, basket ball courts, playgrounds, yoga room, music room, a hospital, a commissary, kitchens, dining rooms the size of auditoriums and then the dorms and the rooms where the girl students reside. There is a certain serenity within the campus that cannot be explained. You need to experience it. The school is nestled within an academic city in the Thar desert. You cannot tell the latter by looking at the campus though. It is surprisingly green with rare patches of dry sand. The quietness of the campus is interrupted only by a few things. The sound of the peacocks, the sound of the school’s prestigious girls marching band and the sound of giggles and chatter from the dorms. 

This gate does not do justice to the description just mentioned. That is because this is the secondary gate to the school. But this gate has a special meaning to everyone who has lived in the campus at any point in their life. 

This is the gate through which you make your way to the hostel for the first time, thus embarking on a journey where you learn to live on your own. A gate where you bid farewell to your loved ones with a lump in your throat knowing you may not see them for many months. A gate that is closed behind you to draw the boundaries between your new world and the world that exists outside it. A gate that you step out of on rare occasions like vacations, guests or parents visiting or field trips. 

It is at this gate that you may get an occasional visitor or meet your local guardian on Sundays. Both come with loads of goodies and sometimes a temporary permit to the world outside. A permit for few hours of breathing in a different air. Sundays are thus the most anticipated days in the life of the hostelers. Most would throng in and around the gate. Some aware of a scheduled visit through a letter (no cell phones and no phone calls other than emergency) and some just hanging around in the hope of a surprise visitor. 

My entry in my journal is from back then. My wish did come true one day. 

The happiest moment would always be when you see your own parent walk in through the gate, more so if it were a surprise. Once on a Sunday, sitting near the gate for no real purpose, I saw some one walk inside the gate in a saree similar to one that my mom had. I remember telling my friend “You know my mom has a similar saree.” As the person came closer to where I could see her clearly, Halleluah ! It was no one else but my Mom. I remember the excitement and the joy of that day even today. I was not expecting my mom and she had no means to inform me about her sudden trip, so she just landed there. That happened to many of us, not very often though. And at times like that the gate became more special for you. The gateway of unexpected happiness. 

The life inside was disciplined, organized, scheduled yet free and happy. There is nothing that the outside world could provide that the campus did not offer. Except for family. Friends and teachers somewhat made up for that absence but as a young person between 6 to 16 years of age, the longing for family cannot be ignored. On many evenings, there would be small huddles of girls on the steps of the dorm, within the dorm, on the terrace, in the dining room discussing the heart ache and telling stories about their families. No one comes to a residential school for just better or alternative education. There is always something more to that reason. In understanding the reason lies the maturity of the child. 

And thus the longing to establish connection with the outside world and loved ones. 

As I regale these details over a dinner table conversation, my husband and daughter ask me if anyone has ever escaped out of that gate. “Never thought of that!”, is my reaction. The gate itself is manned by just one guard and I doubt if he is even armed during the day. But that did not matter, no one escaped because the day we had walked in that gate we knew we were there to create something for ourselves and we surely did. All of us in our little ways. If not anything we at least learnt not to escape. 

* The school in reference – Birla Balike Vidyapeeth, Pilani. 

A Tryst with Endurance

If you define adventure by adrenaline rush, then I would definitely not qualify as adventurous. I mean, one look at Kingda Ka at Six Flags and I knew that it was a clear “No” for me. Heck, I didn’t even dare to go near Drop of Doom! But I do have plenty of curiosity that always drives me to explore/ experience/ try out new things that push the boundaries of my perspective and cognizance. And that was exactly what led me to this.
Once in a while life gives us a chance to be a part of something extraordinary.

That day was to be another mundane day in office but next to the elevator I saw this poster, a green poster, announcing Oxfam’s Inaugural Trailwalker in India and six words caught my attention, “100 kms | 48 hours | 4 people”. Instantly, I knew that I had to do this. But where would I find three other just as insane people willing to trek 100 kms through rural India in 48 hours?

Hence began the search for a team. When all my friends dismissed the idea as sheer madness, I turned to FB. Never the one to disappoint, FB found me my first insane team mate, Balaji. I had known Bala since college as he was in the batch junior to mine. Bala never ran out of enthusiasm even in the most hopeless of situations. The Marketing Man of our team, Bala put up our wonderful team pages on Oxfam’s website and FB and spearheaded our fundraising for Oxfam’s charitable work in India.

We found our third team mate, Ajay, through the organizers and a little bit of help from a dear friend. A marathon runner, Ajay was probably the only one of us who exactly knew what we were getting into. Like a silent assassin, Ajay went on conquering kilometer after kilometer with the whole team’s emergency supplies on his back and without shedding a single bead of sweat.

Our search for our fourth team mate, led us to Jyothi. Although we were living in the same apartment complex at that point of time, it was not until I dropped a mail to the colony’s mailing list asking for people interested in participating in this walkathon that I got to know Jyothi. Be it chasing away eve-teasers single handedly or walking 100kms without a blink of an eye in spite of a painful blisters and a sprained knee, Jyothi is one courageous lady.

Hence was born, Team Forrest Gump.

But our team would be incomplete if I did not mention one more person, our crucial one man support team, Ajay’s brother Lucky who sacrificed his weekend, sleep and rest to be our lifeline as we trekked for over two days from Kaveri Sangama in Mekedatu to Eagleton Resort in Bidadi. From getting us food and water, to finding us places to rest along the trail, to ferrying all our essential stuff around, I think I can safely say that we would have found it really difficult to walk the whole way if it were not for Lucky.

I always believed that no matter how much we practice, when the actual time comes, walking a 100 kms will ultimately be a test of endurance and determination, but I think I grossly underestimated the degree. I lost count of the number of times I just wanted to give up and stop, but pushed myself just a little more thinking just a little further before I stop. It was difficult to give up when I saw my team mates too battling pain, fatigue and poor organization to tirelessly trudge towards that golden three- digit number.

For 46 and a half hours, the road was our only home as we trekked through lush fields and dense forests, climbed steep hills and crossed almost dry streams and walked through breathtaking sunrises and beautiful sunsets. As we passed through busy towns and sleepy villages farming silk, ragi and sugarcane, we encountered bunch of eager kids waving at us cheerfully; some even came and offered us flowers; curious villagers who stopped their daily chores to come and ask us a multitude of questions from, ‘Where are you coming from?’, ‘Where are you going?’, ‘Why are all of you walking this way?’ to ‘Have you had food?’. Such warmth and such kindness for complete strangers, in spite of their own very obvious paucity. They would often beg those of us who knew Kannada to stop and chat with them but we had miles to go before we could chat.

As night fell, the teams would walk together in clusters guided only by the light of our torches and moonlight since we were passing through elephant country. Night time was the ideal time to cover maximum distance since the harsh sun of Southern India was far-far away on the other side of the world.

Sleep was an alien concept as we only stopped to rest for a couple of hours on the front porches of schools or houses of villagers and on the terrace of houses under construction. At every check point, the necessary fluids and fuel was consumed, aching muscles and joints were stretched, blisters and sprained knees and ankles were re-bandaged before we continued towards our goal.

The “Fast and Fit” never left the Slow behind to rush to the finish on their own and the “Slow and Unfit” always strived to speed up and keep going so as that the Fast didn’t have to compromise too much on their speed.

At long last when we reached Eagleton Resorts, the end point of the trail walk after trekking a 100 kms early in the morning of the third day, it was almost an unbelievable feeling to set sight on that yellow milestone sign that we had been counting down all the way saying “100KM, 0KM TO GO”. It was overwhelming to say the least and the fact that we were the last team to make it to the finish line was a cause of zero remorse to us. We were just glad to have made it there together.

Looking back, Trailwalker didn’t just bring me face to face with my own physical and mental endurance; it also taught me a great deal about putting one’s team and the commitment ahead of personal gains, shortcomings and disappointments.
Cheers to Team Forrest Gump!!!

City Of Joy

Victoria Memorial (Photo Credit: Sonali Banerji)

Kolkata, the City Of Joy as it is also called, is a beautiful city. Swapna Haldar regales her experience coming back to the city after three decades and how much of it has changed. While adjusting to the city, she witnesses an incident that provides a meaningful insight into the definition of joy / happiness. 
We close this week with this simple story from the City Of Joy, the city of Kolkata. 

Returning to Kolkata, after staying away for 30 years, creates a bit of confusion in life. In our youth, the city was different, people were different, the whole environment was different. It is a mega city now and is extremely crowded and chaotic. We are no longer familiar with it.

One very sultry summer evening, we were out for our usual evening walk. We had some work so were walking on the highway (which is not an offense in this part of the world). In some areas there were no street lights. Heavy, light, all kinds of vehicles were traveling at high speed. A few laborers riding their bicycles were returning home. We saw an electric tram with all the lights blazing and bells clanging coming our way. In that darkness the moving tram was mesmerizing. I was looking at it enthralled. The tram suddenly stopped.

I can read upside down! (Photo Credit : Swapan Haldar)

I could see from the other side of the road the pilot getting down and very carefully inspecting something on the track. One man who was passing by me on his cycle stopped, uttered something under his breath, put his cycle on his shoulder and crossed the road. Since we were new to the area and not accustomed to such happenings, we were very surprised. We could see this man who had just crossed us, poking something with a stick. In the meantime, the signal turned red and the rest of the traffic stopped. Lo and behold! What do we see! A man sleeping on the tram track. This man on the cycle was trying to wake him up from his dream. After sometime the man sat up looking puzzled. 
The tram pilot’s alertness had saved his life. He was unaware of that .

The big question in my mind that day was – who is more happy in life? The man who can have a good sleep on the tram track or those who have a comfortable bed but no sleep?

Can one think of any thing like this happening in any other part of the world.
Incredible India!

Ambassador – “The definitive Indian Car”

Do I Really Need It??

Photo Credit : Shruti Srivastava

Our new author on the block, Shruti Srivastava, in her own words,I strongly believe that everyone is sent on earth with some purpose in life.I am grateful to many who have been significant in my journey of life. My educational background of Psychology keeps the yearning in me alive to understand human behavior and relationships, inclination towards spirituality gives me direction and painting a sense of achievement and pleasure! Chatoveracuppa real life stories inspired me to write one….and  discovered that I could do a decent job of story telling!”

Brought up in a humble yet fun filled environment, the emphasis had always been on education and values of life. I have been blessed with a great set of parents and a lovely family. We had limited options in the late seventies; but I got enormous happiness from doing or possessing simple things, unpretentious in nature.

However, like any seven year old, I too would get attracted to what my friends would have or do. There was a friend of mine who had got a special matt cloth to do some embroidery on. I was quite intrigued by the weave and finish of the fabric and immediately wanted to possess one. It was playing on my mind and I expressed my desire to my Mom to get a similar one for myself. My mother asked, “What will you do with it?” My answer was, “My friend has got one, so I too want it”. It was a reason that did not go down well with my youngest uncle, who happened to be there; causing him to ask, “Do you really need it?” I was a bit surprised by his question. He further added, “Do you want it just because your friend has it or do you find it useful and therefore it is worth getting?” He continued, “You must never indulge in something just because some other person is having/doing it.” 

I pondered over it and then asked myself, “Do I really need it?” Here, the answer was a ‘yes’; and so, my Mom got me a matty cloth the next day, taught me some basic stitches and then used it as a table-cover for a long time.

That episode was over in a jiffy, but that brief conversation with my uncle taught me a lesson that always stayed with me.  I am not sure if my uncle remembers it, but imprinted as it was on my impressionable mind, I will have this with me forever. Luckily, I am able to follow this advice with conviction and ease. In turn, it gives me immense happiness and satisfaction. Today, it holds even greater importance as the attractions and distractions in life are beyond imagination.

As a mother, it would be good to see my twelve year old daughter try and apply this lesson of life in every possible area and ask herself, “Do I really need it?” A justified and honest answer will guide her to go ahead.

A Mother’s Cause

On a parents forum in Facebook, I noticed regular posts that talked about childhood cancer awareness. The statistics shared were sometimes shocking. The deadly disease is on the rise, we all know that. But the fact that it does not spare little children is difficult to read through, specially when you are parent. Each post emphasized the need to overcome the notion, “It cannot happen to me” and let the light come in. Awareness does not hurt, ignorance does. 

I also noticed that these posts always came from one person. When someone is so driven for a cause, there is always a reason behind it. 

I traced the person to their Facebook profile and that is when I discovered the story of Asma Pasha, the very brave and determined mother of 11 year old Amaan Shah, who lost his fight against cancer in as little as a few months. The disease took Amaan away before much could be done.  He was diagnosed at a fairly late stage. Today the parents feel, had they been more aware they would have fought for Amaan a little differently. Nevertheless, I can sense from Asma’s emails that they fought for him ferociously. Unfortunately, they lost the battle. 

Devastating for a mother, a parent, to lose their own child. A 11 year old child who had no health issues previously whatsoever. 

Amaan’s story is on the website that his parents have started for him. They have started a foundation in his memory. The Amaan Shah Foundation For Child Cancer

This foundation is geared towards a simple goal of educating other parents and raising awareness. The foundation does that through Facebook, the website, numerous parent forums, educational talks at schools and distributing awareness brochures. A humble beginning to an important task. I must add that it has not been very long since Amaan made his last journey. Not long enough for Asma to heal. I ask Asma what she would say to other parents. Her advice is to shed the mindset that “It cannot happen to me”. Educate yourself regardless. It will help you fight your battle if you have to. But most importantly it will help you act on things you could do to prevent childhood cancer. 

We share this story with you today because being mothers, we know it must take Asma a lot of courage to go out into the world and do what she is doing. Her spirit of “I cannot let this happen to others” is overwhelming. Her resources are very limited but she is making the most of it. In her own words “Presently I just have emotions, dedication, commitment and some sources. I need a slow and steady head right direction.”

We salute her to have found her mission, her goal and a new meaning in life in the face of such adversities. 

If you can help Asma in any way – Designing/Creating content for her website, channeling her information better, improving her reach, providing her more resources for her cause, please email at

The Gift

Anamika Mukherji is a brand new mom and an avid old time blogger. She tells us this beautiful story about human relationships, about a little boy and his “sister”.

He woke up and smiled as he stretched his long legs – they almost hit the bedpost. Not long before he was nearly as tall as Baba (father). He saw his sister sleeping beside him and remembered it was Bhai Phonta*, and it was Sunday. He must ask Ma for an envelope in which he could put the stickers he’d been saving to give her.

It was starting to get chilly. He shivered as he waited for his water bucket to fill up; his mother insisted on cold water baths, only relenting in December to allow hot water up from the kitchen. Hurrying through his bath he ran down, gulped down the tall glass of milk that sat in an ancient brass tumbler waiting for him. Before his mother could see him, he sneaked out of the house.

He was only 10, but this was Allahabad in the 1960s, and children were safe to run around on their own. They did know to be careful of the fake sadhus, of course, the ones who dressed like holy men but actually kidnapped little children and sold them as beggars in big cities. He followed the familiar route to his didi’s (sister’s) house. The young widow lived a spare life in a spare room at a relative’s house. He felt the rumblings of hunger as he reached her lane, knowing the feast that awaited him, and the gift.

He covered the last few metres with a hop, skip and jump, narrowly missing the drain running parallel to the row of houses. He leapt over the slab that served as a small bridge, and entered, unannounced. The doors were open. They always were back then. Her relatives were huddled around cups of tea. The patriarch was reading the newspaper and had his back to the entrance. He lightly ran up the stairs to her room, his nose filling with the smell of hot, frying luchis (deep fried flatbread).

She had been up since dawn. Folding up her thin mattress and sheet, she had swept the floor. Now there was a small aashon, or mat, waiting for a skinny little boy to sit on it. For the last few weeks, she had skimped on a potato here, an onion there, while cooking her own meals. Last evening, she’d bought fresh maida (flour) for the luchis. And there she sat. Bathed, draped in white, her back straight, the maida dough ready for frying. On a massive brass plate with upturned edges sat various bhajas – deep-fried potatoes, deep-fried onions, a dollop of mango chutney, and a growing pile of luchis. She heard the footsteps and turned with a smile. She knew it was him; no one else came to her door.

He smiled, and held out the flowers he had picked along the way from the park. She placed them in front of her frowning gods. He knew the drill and sat down on the aashon. She reached for the small silver dish with incense and some sandalwood paste. She dipped her ring finger in the paste and held it to his forehead, mumbling the lines about immortality. Done three times, the ritual was over, and he just had to touch her feet in thanks for all the worlds she had just wished him. He sat back more easily, waiting for the next bit.

She turned to her little stove, the blue flame sprang to life and she got to work, smoothly rolling out the luchis, small white moons that slithered into the oil and puffed up immediately in indignation. The pile on his plate grew. The ones that failed to puff up were rejected, landing on a tiny plate instead, which was her share for later. It was a treat for her, too. Right now he was the bhai, the king. It was his day.

He looked around at the room as she cooked, taking in the bare shelves with a few religious books on them. Kali glared at him from a giant calendar where the dates formed just one-tenth of the whole page. He quickly looked away. A small trunk had all her clothes. No cupboard. This woman had no jewellery, nothing that needed to be locked away.

When she had fried enough luchis to keep a healthy young boy busy for a while, she handed the plate to him with a smile, and sat back. He ate fast, talking the whole time. Who he was trading stamps with at school, imitations of school-teachers, things happening at home, arguments in the cricket team. She listened with a smile, drinking in the stories of a busy world packed with characters and the great big outdoors. A life lived outside the house.

When he was done, he rinsed his hands on to the plate with his glass, and looked up. She knew what he was thinking. He had to go back to get his own sister’s phonta as well. Her time with him was up. As he wiped his hands on his shorts, she stood on tip-toe and took the gift off the top-shelf, saved over the last year when she went up to the terrace each evening at dusk.

They slipped from her hands and cascaded onto the floor in a rainbow of colours. And he gathered them up with delight. As he picked them up with a wide smile, the sunshine caught the colours on the thin paper and created colourful patterns all over the small room. The chaand tara, the dabalia, the dugga, multi-coloured kites that had been cut and landed on the roof and never retrieved. He would take them home and change the string and they would fly like new, carefully preserved as they were. He stacked them neatly, touched her feet once again, and slipped out of the room, until next year.

You can read more of Anamika Mukherji’s blogs at

Never Give Up

Continuing with our adventure stories, Barbara Stanifer shares with us her experience hiking up Mt.Whitney. An observation during her regular walk through the neighborhood reminds her of the hike that she did, not once but twice. 
On a walk through my neighborhood the other day, I passed a mom, a dad and 4, count em’ 4 little girls between 10 and maybe 6. They had stopped at the steep concrete “hill” under the overpass. The girls had climbed up the hill and all but one had made it back down. The little one was stuck at the top, lacking confidence in her ability to get down. They all waited as she squirmed and turned this way and that, trying to muster some courage. The dad stood at the bottom and kept calmly telling her she could do it, and reassuring her when she made a move in the right direction.
Watching all this reminded me of a trip I took up Mt. Whitney several years ago.  Mt. Whitney is the tallest mountain in the lower 48 states.  If you make it to the top you’re standing at 14,505 feet!  There are people who actually run up this mountain and might say it’s just another walk in the park. One man probably twice my age, in dolphin shorts and tennis shoes, ran right past me as I huffed and puffed.  And there are other people like myself who were never athletic or necessarily adventurous, who take 3 days to do the whole thing and feel quite proud of themselves for even considering it.  I made the trip with my brother and his wife who fall more into the athletic, adventurer category.
On that particular trip there was quite a bit of snow on the trail starting a little above 12,000 feet. Which meant you had to ascend by digging your feet deep into the snow and ice (ideally wearing crampons) and to descend you’d have to slide down a 1,000-foot snow chute (ideally with an ice ax – or at minimum a hiking pole – to self arrest if necessary). The evening before we were supposed to summit, a guy got “stuck” at the top of that chute. Very similar to the little girl on the concrete hill, he was terrified. He sat up there for hours, with everyone at base camp watching him from below. His friends yelling words of encouragement… He didn’t come down until late that night, not sure if he slid down or painstakingly dug a million footsteps into the snow.  A ranger told us the next day that it was indeed dangerous and that someone just the week before had died when they slid down and piled into one of the giant boulders sticking out of the snow.  I felt pretty sure that I would be that guy – sitting for hours at the top of that 1,000 foot slide, analyzing, terrified, freezing… I made the decision to turn back, vowing to return again and make it to the top.  I felt like I had failed. 
This father of 4 girls was still standing patiently at the bottom of the cement hill guiding his daughter.  The oldest one clearly tired of waiting said, “Dad you know you could just go up there and get her”. The dad said “I know I could, but I also know she can do this on her own.”
I so admired this man’s approach and confidence in his daughter.  If I, or the guy sitting at the top of that 1,000-foot snow slide had a dad like that would things have been different?  Would I have grown up the kind of person who gleefully laughs in the face of giant boulders whizzing past me as I uncontrollably slide like a greased pig down a mountain of ice?  Maybe…  Here’s what I do know.  I have a mom, who didn’t just preach tenacity, but modeled it at every turn.  An equally valuable lesson I think is that when you do fall or fail, dust yourself off and get back up again.  Keep on keeping on!  The following year I did go back and I did make it to the top.  And I think that summit may have actually been sweeter. 

We all hope that the little girl made it down on her own.  But maybe we should also celebrate the simple fact that she was willing to boldly follow her sisters up that concrete hill.  Maybe we should respect that she didn’t just sit down and cry, but she tenaciously kept trying to figure it out.  Maybe we should honor the next 5 times she climbs up that hill whether she makes it down on her own or not…  We should celebrate all kinds of victories in others and in ourselves, the “try”, the “get back up again” not just the obvious win. They all count and sometimes the ones that are hardest fought, through fear and self-doubt make us more triumphant.  

Going Green – Green Represents Life

Going Green ! A simple act that we are all striving to do in our little ways. What going green means to one person we met recently, left us humbled and astounded. 

We were having car issues that morning. Our own way of going green, our electric car, had not charged through the night as much as it was expected to do. We summoned help and a person showed up shortly at our door. As he did his thing to put the car back on charge, he spoke about his own car accident from many years back. He talked about it because by then he had probably noticed the questions on our face. The curiosity about his physical appearance. He must be getting it a lot, all the time. 

So he told us about the accident when another car had hit his and his car had gone up in flames. He was caught inside. A burn victim who fought, who survived, who triumphed and sprang back to life, just like before. Only this time, he decided he would move away from his regular auto parts and car servicing business to servicing green cars. The conventional cars have a tank full of gasoline, a substance that can potentially catch fire and explode. The electric cars, though not 100% safe, are comparatively safer. 

Before this story gets lost in the debate of what is really safe, I must mention I share this story because it is unimaginable for us the pain of a burn victim, the disfigurement, the change in physical appearances, the social acceptance of it all and the long road to recovery and rehabilitation. Finding a meaning in life and finding it while being inspired by your own personal tragedy is immensely commendable. 

It is not everyday that we meet such people with extraordinary stories, courage, spirit and love for life. Every time I look at my green car now, I am always reminded of this inspiring story and going green has a different significance to it all. 

Green inspires. Green motivates. Green represents life. 

Story and Photo Credit : Vipin Kalra 

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