Freitag, 8. Februar 2013


I am the guy, who plays that weird instrument, when you walk buy in the market on your afternoon shopping trip. My father taught me how to play it and now he died. I try and stick to my family tradition, but not many people stop to hand me a rupee or two. It doesn't make me sad to live with the minimum, it makes me sad to see you living below the minimum. No time for music, no time for a smile or a light conversation. I understand you though. It is your holiday. Your life must be hard. Repeating brain numbing chores in front of a computer, being intimidated by the broad range of choices you actually have to make your life more meaningful. Every now and then, somebody asks me – not what I want – but how I am. Actually, I am good. I have a brother, who is working, too. Therefore, the two of us manage to support his wife and her four children. We live in a tent outside the city. Nothing belongs to us, but the land is ours by heart. We are Sudra. Our caste “serves” the society. We are not known to become holy men or rich man. We are known to accept our living conditions and therefore built the backbone of the indian spirit, if you like so. Once one stops to chase happiness and learns to accept misery into one's life, light and shadow start fading into one. Being content, not merely indifferent. But why would I say, I got more than you? Maybe, you solved the riddle, too. I don't know myself enough to judge somebody else's heart. Have compassion for my life. It is challenging. When I ask you, maybe now you will give, but more importantly: Have compassion for yourself. It's your struggle and I got mine.

All our love,


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