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Abu Siddik shared an answer on Quora with you

Are we living a secured and safe life around the world? by Abu Siddik https://www.quora.com/Are-we-living-a-secured-and-safe-life-around-the-world/answer/Abu-Siddik-4?share=5612f81b&srid=u9Qf2

WHY DO I LOVE STEPHEN COVEY’S 7 HABITS

Yes, it takes time to exercise, and takes nothing to spend a whole day or week or month in a doctor’s chamber, nursing home or hospital.

Yes, it takes time to read a good book, than to waste days and weeks preparing a boring and mechanical, and methodical keynote address for international seminars.

And the 7 habits are far far remove from Norman Vincent Peale’s Courage and Confidence. In Peale God is all, and in Covey Woman/ Man alone strives her/ his destiny

 

Answer: Covey lays absolute stress on WO/MAN and not its Creator(S), and that’s the sole reason, friends!

Hi, friends, now let’s briefly describe Covey’s 7 habits:

Habit 1. Be proactive,and not reactive

Don’t shed gallons of tears for something (e. g. inflation, poverty, global warming, etc.) that’s beyond your control. Rather concentrate more on you and what can you do to manage the unforeseen situations in a meaningful way.

Habit 2. Begin with the end in mind

Ask yourself, what I’m doing with my life? Am I doing something that adds some kind of values to society we live in. Or simply we live for hoarding money and all… Shock yourself with questions like, Am I a good parent, a good individual? And think of the end that your beginning oneday leads you to. (e.g. drink and smoke and suffer in old age, or eat good and exercise and pass the old days apeace) Choice is yours!

Habit 3. Put first things first

Ask yourself, What do I love more? family, children, friends, walking, or watching t.v, facebooking, organising papers. And see we always tend to spend more time with the things of our secondary choice, neglecting the primary ones.

Habit 4. Think win win

We don’t need competition. We need cooperation. Do something good, and share your ideas so that other can also benefited. For your win, I must not have to lose. It’s all win win game. Bring a change in your mental landscape, and see the wonders.

Habit 5. First understand, and then to be understood

Who cares for you? Who cares for what you doing? The question is, does it offer value to society. That’s the question. Nobody bothers, and people don’t have time to think about you. First listen and understand, and then you may be understood. In India, everybody from prime minister to peon is shouting and hallooing. Who cares?

Habit 6. Synergy

Simply put, what you cannot achieve alone, can be achieved by a team of dedicated souls. You need help from people around you to succeed in life, and in turn they also need you. Together we can make possible the impossible.

Habit 7. Sharpen the saw

There is the wonderful story. A woodcutter cuts a trees with a blunt saw. He spends hours after hours, but the tree has no desire to fall. Then a passerby asks the woodcutter to sharp his saw. The woodcutter says, “It takes time.”

Yes, it takes time to exercise, and takes nothing to spend a whole day or week or month in a doctor’s chamber, nursing home or hospital.

Yes, it takes time to read a good book, than to waste days and weeks preparing a boring and mechanical, and methodical keynote address for international seminars.

And the 7 habits are far far remove from Norman Vincent Peale’s Courage and Confidence. In Peale God is all, and in Covey Woman/ Man alone strives her/ his destiny

Have happy and nice reading!

@abusid

RHAPSODIES OF A TWILIGHT

A twilight scene at Kadambini Tea Estate planted long long ago by the colonial masters.
Birds sang, the sun sank, and tribal men went hutwards.

Standing on a pot holed street at Kadambini Tea Estate I saw the orange disc sinking on

the horizon.

Bikes whizzed past, and soiled the plants and me,

The green tea leaves shrouded with thick layers of dust

Tribal men paddling hutwards slow, some with dry hays and twigs, a few with wives and

children in colourful dress on their back.

Birds chirping, ah! heard such cacophonies never–

Some coo, some che che che, ghrur ghrur, tuk tik, kaeak, grurururur, kaek kaek kaek,

chik chik,krur krur, trur trur trurrr rapid, uek uek, ka ka ka, quick quick, chrik chrik

alone, one or two faintly calling,

A new long kieech kieech from a sleepy unknown continued.

Mosquitoes buzzed around ears, and miniscule dot-shaped worms hovered over head

with persistence. such recalcitrant they were.

Kadambini Tea Garden, Alipurduar, West Bengal (Dooars)

Light long gone and darkness thickened

The doleful call of mournful muezzin wafted the neighbourhood yonder.

Car with patients shut blinded the street with dust

Rain trees stood naked, and silent,

Mists laced the yonder trees, and hazied them

A truck lumbered past

I felt cold

No air blew, so calm and quiet all

Broken by the birds distant cries

Alone, a while past

Sun set, a few unseen birds calling still.

Dews fell, and dust softened

Cuckoos cooed , crickets sang

Songs of the birds slowed and rare,

Stray goats bleat and homeward gone with jingling bells

Birds stopped, not all, only a hoarse kae kae kae occasionally heard.

Others fell asleep,

But yonder the cuckoos cooing still

Vision blurred, birds slept

Fire burnt in the yards.

@abusid

AMONG THE CHILDREN

Last week I visited nine or ten school children. The school was in the middle of a Adivasi village. The children sat on the dry grass and dust, and the headmaster on a red plastic chair. I spent a hour with them. The children all were wonderful, and the teacher was so kind. And I loved the place. The school was surrounded three sides by vast farm lands, and only by one side a path went to the interiors of the village. It was late noon, and the weary winter days were in adieu mood. The trees began to shed leaves, but new leaves still not replaced them. And the whimsical wind with fallen leaves and dust whirled and spiralled around us. We were all dusted. And the birds from a nearby bush continued cooing. And cocks crowed loud, and cows mooed long. The sky was crystal and all blue.

20180216_1444071682331666.jpg
me at the back of the students, clicked by the headmaster.

Last week I visited nine or ten school children. The school was in the middle of a Adivasi village. The children sat on the dry grass and dust, and the headmaster on a red plastic chair. I spent a hour with them. The children all were wonderful, and the teacher was so kind. And I loved the place. The school was surrounded three sides by vast farm lands, and only by one side a path went to the interiors of the village. It was late noon, and the weary winter days were in adieu mood. The trees began to shed leaves, but new leaves still not replaced them. And the whimsical wind with fallen leaves and dust whirled and spiralled around us. We were all dusted. And the birds from a nearby bush continued cooing. And cocks crowed loud, and cows mooed long. The sky was crystal and all blue.

The joy thing.

The children were all happy. The teacher too. They sang patriotic songs, and I loved them so much. The children were so lovely and so plain. They brought khatas and I checked their writings, all good. And the master claimed that he taught them parade, gymnastics, singing, dancing too besides the syllabus. And he got his reward–children loved him so much.

The sorrow things.

1. How painful it was to serve a school of merely 30 students, and all were not regular. The children had to help their parents in haat days.

2. Why so poor numbers? I asked, and head teacher said, “The birth rate declined, and mushrooming of English medim nurseries, and parents, poor they were, but still prefered them.”

20180216_1443131653864851.jpg
primary students of a school near Hurkur Haat, Alipurduar, singing and reciting squatting on dry grass.

3. The govt distributed Rs.4.13 on each student for midday meal per day. How could I mange a meal with that? Moreover the price of cooking gas had doubled. So we cooked with lakris. We could not provide them fish, meat or egg. The master continued. And we occasionally brought a box of eggs with our own for them.

4. The master was chewing betel leaf, and his lips were reddish. He offered me gundi, and I distributed chocolates among them. The children were so happy, and full of joy. They began to call me , “oh saar, oh saar” , words of love and proximity and warmth.

The inequal thing

I was hurt, and saddened. The scene in every vernacular school more or less was the same. Eductionists, social reformers, activists, netas, knew it all. And they were silent, as they had alternative– big private schools were for them, and they sent sons and daughters America–a land of orgies and guns, shootings and killings and racist rhetorics. For them no value education based on ancient Vedas and the Quran, it was solely meant for the ill fed, ill clad, poverty stricken poor unsaid children of unsung remote villages.

copyright@abusid

A Visit to Mundapara

Between the forest and the village lay an acre of land, cultivated, furrowed, unweeded. Yards had patches of all sorts of vegetables, maize, and tall lean betel nut trees. Men and women still working on their fields. Children were all barefoot and some of them had running nose. Elderly men and women sat on their haunches on the dusty path, and gossiped.

It was winter. The day was chill and icy. The sun for the whole day hid his face under the veil of smoky clouds. And a mild breeze blew. It added more bitterness to the cold. Still the villagers braved it. They hardly had the luxury of any woollen clothes.

The evening began to descend tip toe. Birds flew over our heads, and sat on a bamboo bush. They chattered and chattered till darkness enveloped the earth.

In a late January afternoon I went to Mundapara. It was a small village by the western outskirts of Jaldapara forest under Moiradanga Gram Panchyat. The tin huts and sheds were scattered. A dry rivulet cut through it and ran zigzag. From the village one could see the tree tops of the forest swaying and singing. The village just stopped touching the edge of the forest.

20180127_170525343265039.jpg
a betel nut garden of a peasant, a reliable source of yearly income.

Between the forest and the village lay an acre of land, cultivated, furrowed, unweeded. Yards had patches of all sorts of vegetables, maize, and tall lean betel nut trees. Men and women still working on their fields. Children were all barefoot and some of them had running nose. Elderly men and women sat on their haunches on the dusty path, and gossiped.

It was winter. The day was chill and icy. The sun for the whole day hid his face under the veil of smoky clouds. And a mild breeze blew. It added more bitterness to the cold. Still the villagers braved it. They hardly had the luxury of any woollen clothes.

The evening began to descend tip toe. Birds flew over our heads, and sat on a bamboo bush. They chattered and chattered till darkness enveloped the earth.

the deserted huts of the village with a non-functional tube well.

I saw the scattered huts. They lived here years on. On my way to the village I was barred by a drunken man. He was close to 50. A lean, tall man, clothed in a shabby sweater. I stopped my bike. The man walked unstable to me. He threw his hands in a way typical of a drunken man. He spoke loud, but his words all got blurred. His pants loosened down his waist, and he tried to hold it up by his left hand. When he spoke, his mouth all watery, and spit sprinkled out of his stained lips. Seeing the scene men from the fields and women and elderly from the nearby huts crowded me. They pushed him and tried hard to take him out of my path. But every time he was pushed, he automatically like an elastic came before me. I then requested the peasants not to mind him. They all enquired my whereabouts. I made my point and laughed. I did so to lighten the awkwardness of the scene. They were not happy with my designation. They thought me as a timber agent.

If it was not, I perhaps came in search of stolen pure logs of the forest, needed for furniture of a newly built house. They all badly needed money, and the only way to easily have it was to sell some logs, hidden under bushes at the backwards of huts. But when my words touched nothing in which they were interested, they immediately lost interest in me. And perhaps the crowd muttered ‘a good for nothing fellow,’ as my education and cultural baggage had nothing to soften the rough hedges of dried, poverty ridden, unfed, mal-formed, illiterate, sullied life of adivasis.

a typical tribal/ peasant/ village haat

Suddenly a man, aged almost fifty five, clad in a napkin and a much weather beaten T-shirt, face dull and eyes sank deep under scarred cheeks, came to me, and followed me. He saw a nylon bag stuck to my bike. He peeped into the empty bag, snatched it, and rushed to his field of brinjals. The brinjals were long , and light black. He soon tied the heavy bag to the bike. I protested, but his cosy stubbornness defeated me. He laughed, and greeted me again. The adivasi with his abysmal poverty, unfed children, and tiny hut was a symbol of pure heart and grace of everlasting humanity. Such a man kept my heart warm, and glowed . The arts of life we learnt from learned spiritual gurus, and enlightened intellectuals. Our media, print, virtual were agog with such gurus. But such a plain heart was rare. The cramming education had derailed lakhs of youths to unknown, and unknowable. Let the elderly be not talked, as they had been sinners for their lifetime. The heroes of our day, were not the enlightened derelicts, not the political humbugs, nor the pious religious men, neither the fortune tellers, and palmists, nor the poor chauvinists. But the real hero was the Kaloo Munda. We were suckers, not the nourishers of our earth. But he was.

After a while, a red monkey capped youth in black sweater and pant, faced me. He was chewing vaaga, and because of the juice of raw betel nut, his lips, and mouth became bright reddish. And the filtered remains of the grinded nuts showcased his lower and upper gums with a thick layer. The young man, not gloom, but he had a cheerful disposition. He had a nubile daughter,reading in class x. A groom, a daily labourer, was found after much afflictions. He didn’t let the chance go. Rs.50000 and a bike, gold , and bedding for the would-be couple for mating would have to be given as dowry. Otherwise, marriage would not see the light of the day. He begged me some rupees. I promised and on my later visit I paid him some rupees, and a sari for his daughter.

Next, I heard from them stories of elephants’ attacks, and damages they caused. They lived in constant fear of the elephants. Earlier they seldom encroached human habitats. But now because of scarcity of food in the jungle, they frequented the villages, and left a trail of ravages. They ate paddy, banana, and other crops and vegetables. They destroyed huts. But we were not afraid of them. We had nothing to do, only to go to bed by the mercy of gods. And the Beat babus helped us. They supplied torches, crackers, patkas, and we lighted fires and beat drums. ” Dada,” a youth called my attention, “you couldn’t believe! When they came, they came in a group of hundreds.” Another man said, ” We came to know their arrival by the chill air. When they came, the air became cold.” An elderly woman pointed me to an abandoned hut destroyed by the mahakaals. She thumped her forehead for the loss, and accused the forest officials for not being compensated.

Her man was aged , eyesight too poor. You couldn’t think that he was blind. And you can’t be blamed either. Because his eyes were liquid, and the pupils all broad, and bare. He looked at me, and I thought he was discovering something in my face. But the old woman told me that his vision was all blurred. And the man also lost his voice a few years back. He sat on a broken plastic chair. His hands trembling, and his eyes hovering around me. His bare legs smeared with dust, and lines of scratching were imprinted on them. It seemed he admired me, as the tan of his wrinkles brightened a bit. In front of his hut was an old tea garden. Plants were all made bare by clipping their leaves and twigs. And men and women were busy in collecting the dried twigs used to be fuels at huts. Now to collect lakhris from the forest is strictly forbidden, and if caught one has to pay huge sum as fine.

a tea garden at the outskirts of Jaldapara forest

The evening descended on earth a while ago, and I left the village soon. It was not completely dark, and the layers of mists already blurred the horizons. I biked to the dry bed of the stream, and stayed there. It was all silent, occasionally broken by the mooing of a cow, long pitched crowing of a cock , and barking of dogs. Birds still chirping, but were unseen. The air was heavy, and sands and dusts forgot to fly. And then through the green vegetation of tomatoes, potatoes, and ploughed fields, yards of betel nuts and pumpkins, gourds sheds, sleepy cottages I came to Kunjnagar haat, and sat for tea at Volu’s. He greeted me with such warmth and joy, and his word “Saaar” made me think that after all my life was not futile. Money, fame and name I didn’t get. But who can hear the sugary “Saaar” in a nameless haat of a nameless village by a nameless man.

Thanks for happy reading!

@abusid