Window Seat

07/12/2025

Amazing

In the spring of 1995, Emma Thompson was filming a heartbreak she was living in real life.

On the set of Sense and Sensibility, she played Elinor Dashwood — a woman holding herself together while her world quietly falls apart.

When the cameras stopped rolling, Thompson was doing the same thing.

Her six-year marriage to Kenneth Branagh was collapsing, and the tabloids were circling. For years they’d been Britain’s golden creative couple, “The Ken & Em Show.” Now that image was shattering — while Thompson absorbed the private devastation of Branagh’s affair with Helena Bonham Carter.

She later said she had been “utterly, utterly blind” to the other relationships Branagh had on film sets. The betrayal detonated her sense of self.

“I was half alive,” she recalled. “Any sense of being a lovable or worthy person had gone completely.”

Depression followed. Just getting dressed or stepping outside felt impossible. And every newspaper headline made the wound deeper.

But the film had already begun.
The cast was hired. The script — which Thompson had spent years writing — was locked. Production couldn’t stop.

So she went to work.

She slipped into the role of Elinor Dashwood: a woman hiding a breaking heart behind perfect composure. Thompson didn’t have to perform that feeling — she was living it.

“I’d had so much bloody practice at crying in a bedroom,” she once said, “then going out and being cheerful.”

Writing the screenplay had kept her going. Filming it kept her afloat.

And then, something unexpected happened.

Greg Wise — the actor playing Willoughby — had been told by a friend he would meet his future partner on the set. He first pursued Kate Winslet (she gently declined). Winslet told him, “Try Emma.”

He did.

And slowly, a small, quiet beginning grew in the ruins of a marriage.

In September 1995, Thompson and Branagh announced their separation. “Busy schedules,” they said. The truth emerged soon after. The tabloids feasted.

But Thompson was already rebuilding.

When Sense and Sensibility premiered in December, critics raved. Her screenplay was hailed as one of the greatest Austen adaptations ever written. Her performance — precise, controlled, devastating — stunned audiences.

Awards season arrived. Thompson earned Oscar nominations for both acting and writing — an astonishing achievement.
She won the Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay, becoming the only person in history to win Oscars for acting and writing.

It was a triumph.
But she knew how much it had cost.

Years later, she channeled her real heartbreak into Love Actually. The scene where she silently cries to Joni Mitchell wasn’t acting — she said she remembered exactly how it felt to realize her marriage was over.

But she refused to let that pain define her.

She wrote complex roles for women. She challenged Hollywood’s s*xism and ageism long before anyone else dared. She worked, raised her daughter, adopted a son, and carried on.

In 2003, she married Greg Wise. They are still together nearly 30 years later.

She even acted alongside Branagh and Bonham Carter in the Harry Potter films — not because she forgot, but because she refused to let old wounds govern her present.

Since 1995, Thompson’s career has only grown bolder:
• Nanny McPhee
• Saving Mr. Banks
• Late Night
• Good Luck to You, Leo Grande

Comedy, drama, vulnerability, strength — she brings all of it, shaped by a heart that once broke and rebuilt itself.

The spring of 1995 nearly crushed her.

But she didn’t disappear.
She didn’t retreat.

She showed up — one page, one performance, one day at a time.

She wrote an Oscar-winning screenplay.
She gave one of her greatest performances.
She met the man she would spend her life with.
She built an extraordinary second act.

Emma Thompson didn’t just survive heartbreak.
She turned it into art — art that still reaches anyone who has ever tried to smile through a shattered heart.

05/12/2025

QUEEN for a reason

In 1994, on a frigid winter evening, Diana made an unscheduled visit to Off the Streets, a London shelter run by Centrepoint, to spend time with 40 homeless individuals, including drug users and s*x workers.

Just before her arrival, a 23-year-old named Ricky expressed a hostile, anti-monarchy view to social worker Paul George: "I don't know about these royals. I think the IRA should shoot them all. She comes in here, we can give her a good one."

When Diana entered the large space, George watched nervously as she walked straight toward the young man. "It's Ricky, isn't it? Didn't I meet you when you were sleeping down in the Strand?" she asked. George remembers the dramatic shift: "And he just melts. 'That's right,' he says, 'I'm getting myself together, now. . . .'"

This brief talk showed her special ability to calm people down. Diana never wanted to judge them. By simply remembering where Ricky had been sleeping, she made him feel truly seen, and her genuine attention melted his anger right away.

Paul George, whose Centrepoint shelter she frequented, noted that private visits were "not about money." He added, "She wanted to know what life was like for people less fortunate than herself. And she wanted to make a difference by showing that she cared."

Her commitment often extended beyond the safety of organized shelters. In the late hours, Diana was known to disguise herself in jeans and a baseball cap to visit London’s "Cardboard City" near Waterloo Station.

On these unsanctioned "midnight runs," she would sit on the cold pavement to speak with rough sleepers, offering them money or a warm coat, but more importantly, looking them in the eye.

One associate noted that she would crouch down to their level, dissolving the barrier between royalty and the street, simply to ask, "Are you cold? Are you hungry?"

Diana frequently went unnoticed to engage with the less fortunate. George recalled her visiting rough sleepers on the streets. She even brought her two sons to his shelter a few months before her death to help prepare and serve a meal.

These private missions often required careful security measures, such as switching cars, to evade the paparazzi.

This story is one of many emerging that suggest Diana’s work with the sick and destitute was far more extensive and perhaps more meaningful than the public knew.

Those involved in her favored causes now believe her true contribution was not the millions she raised through celebrity events, but the unique, personal empathy she delivered directly to those in need.

While she hosted high-profile benefits for organizations like Centrepoint, the English National Ballet, and the Royal Marsden NHS Trust, Diana deliberately kept much of her charitable work private.

The extent of her secret missions became public only after her death.

Other beneficiaries noted that the Princess's openness about her personal suffering made her even more empathetic. Someone suggested, "In a sense at some point, living where she lived, she must have felt homeless herself."

She knew the truth: that even a palace can feel empty and cold. She walked among the lost because she knew what it meant to feel like a stranger in her own life.

She didn't offer them money first; she offered a steady look. She learned that the greatest kindness is seeing someone completely.

For the richest home on earth means nothing if the heart is homeless.

>We Are Human Angels<
Authors
Awakening the Human Spirit
We are the authors of 'We Are Human Angels,' the book that has spread a new vision of the human experience and has been spontaneously translated into 14 languages by readers.
We hope our writing sparks something in you!

02/12/2025

When patience wins!

All four engines died at 37,000 feet—and the captain's announcement became the calmest statement in aviation history.
June 24, 1982. Seven miles above the Indian Ocean.
British Airways Flight 9—a Boeing 747 carrying 263 souls—was cruising peacefully through the night when something impossible began.
First, the crew noticed St. Elmo's fire. An eerie blue glow crackling across the cockpit windows like electricity dancing on glass.
Then shimmering sparks appeared along the wings, as if the aircraft were trailing fire through darkness.
Captain Eric Moody and his crew had thousands of flying hours between them. They'd seen unusual weather. They'd handled emergencies.
But they'd never seen anything like this.
Then came the alarm they dreaded most.
Engine four had failed.
Before they could process it, engine two quit.
Then engine one.
Then engine three.
In less than 90 seconds, all four engines had stopped.
Complete silence.
At seven miles above the ocean.
A commercial jet losing one engine is manageable. Losing two is a serious emergency. Losing three is catastrophic.
Losing all four?
That's not supposed to happen. Ever.
Yet here was Captain Moody, flying a 300-ton glider with 263 people aboard, no engines, no power, and no idea why.
The 747 was descending—losing altitude at an alarming rate. Below them: the dark Indian Ocean and the mountainous Indonesian coastline.
They had minutes to figure out what happened and somehow restart the engines.
In the cabin, passengers saw strange sparks outside their windows. Oxygen masks dropped. Thick, acrid smoke filled the air, smelling like sulfur.
People began writing farewell notes.
Then Captain Moody's voice came over the intercom with what would become one of the most famous announcements in aviation history:
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We have a small problem. All four engines have stopped. We are doing our damnedest to get them going again. I trust you are not in too much distress."
A small problem.
All four engines stopped.
Seven miles in the sky.
That's not just British understatement. That's leadership—keeping 263 people calm while facing catastrophe.
In the cockpit: controlled chaos.
Senior First Officer Roger Greaves' oxygen mask had broken, leaving him gasping in the thin air. Moody immediately descended—trading precious altitude for breathable air.
Flight Engineer Barry Townley-Freeman worked frantically through engine restart procedures while First Officer Barry Fremantle handled communications with Jakarta.
They tried restarting the engines.
Nothing.
Again. Nothing.
Ten attempts. Twelve. Fifteen.
Each failure meant less altitude. Less time. Less sky.
The aircraft descended through 15,000 feet. Then 14,000. Then 13,000.
Below them, somewhere in darkness, were Java's mountains.
They were running out of options.
At 13,500 feet—with terrain looming—engine four suddenly coughed, sputtered, and roared back to life.
Then engine three.
Then engine one.
Finally, engine two.
All four engines—dead for 13 minutes and 13,000 feet of descent—had somehow restarted.
They had power. They had control.
But they still weren't safe.
Whatever had killed the engines had also destroyed the windscreen. The windows were opaque, sandblasted to translucence by millions of tiny particles traveling at 500 mph.
Captain Moody could barely see through them.
They had to land this crippled aircraft essentially flying blind.
They used side windows for glimpses. Relied on instruments. Followed radio guidance from Jakarta, trusting voices from the ground.
And somehow, impossibly, Captain Moody brought the battered 747 down safely at Jakarta's Halim Perdanakusuma Airport.
Not a single person died.
All 263 passengers and crew walked away.
Only after landing did investigators discover the truth.
Mount Galunggung in Java had been erupting. On June 24, it sent a massive ash cloud eight miles high—spreading across flight paths.
Flight 9 had flown directly through it in darkness.
Volcanic ash is pulverized rock—microscopic glass shards suspended in air. Invisible to weather radar. Nearly impossible to see at night.
When jet engines running at over 1,000 degrees ingest it, the ash melts instantly, coating components like molten glass and choking the engines completely.
The engines restarted only because Moody's descent brought them below the ash cloud, where cooler air allowed the melted glass to solidify and break off.
It was luck as much as skill.
But the skill kept them alive long enough for the luck to matter.
British Airways Flight 9 changed aviation forever.
Before June 24, 1982, volcanic ash was considered a minor nuisance.
After Flight 9:

Global volcanic ash detection systems were established
Airlines receive real-time eruption alerts
Flight paths are immediately rerouted around ash clouds
The International Airways Volcano Watch was created

Captain Moody's experience—and his crew's quick thinking—saved not just 263 people that night.
It potentially saved thousands in the decades since.
Captain Moody continued flying until retirement. He's remembered not just for his skill, but for that famous announcement—the calm understatement quoted in aviation training worldwide.
"We have a small problem. All four engines have stopped."
That's leadership. Keeping people calm when the world is falling apart. Refusing to give up when giving up would be understandable.
The lesson:
The impossible sometimes happens. Prepare anyway.
Calm leadership saves lives. Panic kills.
Never give up. Moody's crew tried over 15 times to restart those engines. The 15th attempt worked. If they'd stopped at 14, everyone dies.
June 24, 1982.
All four engines died at 37,000 feet.
The crew had 13 minutes to solve an impossible problem.
They couldn't see why the engines failed.
They couldn't see the ash cloud killing them.
They couldn't see the runway when they landed.
But they could think. They could try. They could refuse to quit.
And 263 people survived because four men in a cockpit refused to accept the impossible.
That's not just an aviation story.
That's a reminder that even when all four engines fail—literally and metaphorically—you keep trying. You stay calm. You don't give up.
Because sometimes, the 15th attempt is the one that works.

01/12/2025

Some stories are timeless and live with us for ever

He called a stranger from a hijacked plane on 9/11, learned it would be used as a weapon to kill thousands—then organized a revolt with passengers he'd just met, and his final words were: "Let's roll."
On the morning of September 11, 2001, Todd Beamer kissed his pregnant wife Lisa goodbye, hugged his two young sons—David, 3, and Drew, 1—and headed to Newark Airport for a routine business flight to San Francisco.
He was 32 years old, an account manager for Oracle Corporation, traveling for a meeting. He'd deliberately chosen the early Tuesday morning flight so he could spend Monday evening at home with his family.
It was an ordinary decision that would place him at the center of one of the most extraordinary moments in American history.
United Airlines Flight 93 was scheduled to depart at 8:00 AM. But there was a delay—a crucial 42-minute delay that would change everything.
By the time Flight 93 finally took off at 8:42 AM, two planes had already crashed into the World Trade Center towers. The Pentagon would be hit at 9:37 AM.
And Flight 93, with 37 passengers and 7 crew members aboard, was now the fourth hijacked plane in a coordinated terrorist attack.
At 9:28 AM, the hijacking began.
Four al-Qaeda terrorists stormed the cockpit, killed the pilots, and took control of the aircraft. They forced the passengers and crew to the back of the plane, claiming they had a bomb. The plane turned sharply, heading back east toward Washington, D.C.
The passengers didn't know it yet, but this plane was a missile aimed at either the U.S. Capitol or the White House.
Todd Beamer, sitting in seat 10B, picked up the GTE Airfone mounted on the seat in front of him. The call connected to a GTE supervisor named Lisa Jefferson—not his wife, but a stranger who would spend the final 13 minutes of his life on the phone with him.
Todd was remarkably calm. He explained the situation methodically: the plane had been hijacked, the pilots were dead, passengers had been herded to the back, one hijacker claimed to have a bomb strapped to his body.
Then he asked Lisa Jefferson to do something: "If I don't make it, please call my wife and tell her how much I love her and my boys."
Lisa Jefferson promised she would.
But then Todd did something crucial—he asked what was happening on the ground.
Lisa, who'd been watching the news coverage, told him the truth: two planes had hit the World Trade Center. Another had hit the Pentagon.
This wasn't a hostage situation. These hijackers weren't negotiating. They were flying su***de missions.
Todd went silent for a moment, processing what this meant.
His plane wasn't going to land somewhere for ransom negotiations. It was going to be crashed into a building, killing everyone aboard and potentially hundreds or thousands more on the ground.
He relayed this information to the other passengers around him.
And then something remarkable happened: the passengers decided to fight back.
Todd, along with Thomas Burnett Jr., Jeremy Glick, Mark Bingham, and others, began organizing. They called loved ones on airphones and cell phones, gathering information. They took a vote on whether to rush the cockpit.
It was unanimous—they would try to retake the plane.
They had nothing but their bare hands and whatever improvised weapons they could find. The hijackers had knives and claimed to have a bomb. The odds were terrible.
But doing nothing meant certain death for themselves and potentially thousands more.
Todd Beamer stayed on the phone with Lisa Jefferson. She could hear him talking to the other passengers, making plans. He asked her to recite the Lord's Prayer with him. They prayed together—this stranger and this man who knew he was probably about to die.
Then Todd said, "I'm going to have to go out on faith."
Lisa Jefferson heard him put the phone down. The line stayed open.
At 9:57 AM, she heard Todd's voice one final time, speaking to the other passengers:
"Are you guys ready? Okay. Let's roll."
Those three words—"Let's roll"—were the signal. The counterattack began.
The passengers and crew, armed with a food cart as a battering ram, charged the cockpit. The cockpit voice recorder captured the chaos—crashing sounds, shouting in English and Arabic, the hijackers screaming at each other in panic as they realized the passengers were breaking through.
The hijacker-pilot violently pitched the plane up and down, rolling it side to side, trying to throw the passengers off balance. You can hear dishes crashing, people shouting, the sounds of a desperate fight.
The passengers kept coming.
At 10:00 AM, the hijackers realized they were seconds away from losing control of the plane. Rather than let the passengers succeed, the pilot rolled the plane inverted and drove it straight down into an empty field in Stonycreek Township, Pennsylvania.
United Flight 93 crashed at 10:03 AM, traveling upside-down at 563 miles per hour. The impact was so violent that the plane essentially disintegrated.
There were no survivors among the 40 passengers and crew.
But their sacrifice saved countless lives.
The plane was only 20 minutes from Washington, D.C. Had it reached its target—likely the U.S. Capitol, which was in session that morning—hundreds of congresspeople and staffers would have died. The symbolic and governmental heart of American democracy would have been destroyed.
Because of Todd Beamer and 39 other ordinary people who made an extraordinary choice, that didn't happen.
Back in New Jersey, Lisa Beamer was waiting for her husband to call. She'd seen the news about the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. When she learned that a fourth plane had crashed in Pennsylvania, she knew.
She was 31 years old, pregnant with their third child, suddenly a widow with two toddlers.
Four months later, on January 9, 2002, Lisa gave birth to a daughter. She named her Morgan Kay Beamer—Morgan, after Todd's middle name.
A living testament to the future he'd fought to protect.
Morgan would never meet her father. She would only know him through stories, photographs, recordings of his voice, and the words "Let's roll" that became synonymous with courage and defiance.
In the years that followed, Lisa Beamer became a voice for resilience and faith. She wrote a bestselling book, "Let's Roll!: Ordinary People, Extraordinary Courage," sharing Todd's story and their family's journey through grief.
She established the Todd M. Beamer Foundation to support children who'd experienced trauma.
And she raised their three children with Todd's spirit alive in their home. She later shared that even her young sons would use their father's final words as part of everyday life: "C'mon, Mom, let's roll!" when it was time to leave the house.
Todd Beamer's final words weren't carefully crafted or rehearsed. They were simple, direct, American—the kind of thing you'd say before a football game or a road trip.
"Let's roll."
But in that context—33,000 feet in the air, facing armed terrorists, knowing you're probably about to die—those words became something else entirely.
A battle cry. A refusal to surrender. A decision that saving others mattered more than saving yourself.
He was 32 years old. A husband. A father expecting his third child. An ordinary businessman on an ordinary Tuesday morning flight.
And when he learned his plane would be used to kill thousands, he didn't freeze. He didn't give up.
He organized a revolt with strangers, said a prayer with a woman he'd never met, and charged the cockpit.
His final words to the other passengers: "Are you guys ready? Okay. Let's roll."
They didn't save themselves. But they saved everyone the plane was aimed at.
Todd Beamer never met his daughter Morgan. But she grew up knowing her father died a hero, and that his courage saved countless lives.
Sometimes ordinary people, in the worst moments imaginable, do extraordinary things.
And sometimes three simple words—"Let's roll"—become eternal.

28/11/2025

It was a careful whisper

He died on Christmas morning, and only then did the world discover he'd been secretly giving away millions—with one rule: nobody could ever know it was him.
December 25, 2016. George Michael—one of the most celebrated pop stars of his generation—was found dead in his home at age 53.
The world mourned the voice behind "Faith," "Careless Whisper," and "Freedom." Tributes poured in celebrating his music, his talent, his cultural impact.
But then something unexpected started happening.
Strangers began coming forward with stories. Not about concerts or albums, but about kindness. About money that appeared when they needed it most. About a famous man who helped them when no one else would—and swore them to secrecy.
One by one, the stories emerged, painting a picture of a man the public never really knew.
In 2008, a woman named Lynette Gillard appeared on the British game show "Deal or No Deal." During the show, she mentioned her dream of having a child but explained she couldn't afford IVF treatment.
She lost the game and went home empty-handed.
The next day, £15,000 appeared in her bank account. No name. No note. Just the exact amount she needed for IVF.
Years later, after George Michael's death, Lynette finally learned the truth: it was him. He'd been watching the show, heard her story, and decided to make her dream come true—on one condition: she could never know who helped her.
She now has a child because a stranger chose kindness over recognition.
That was just one story.
A homeless charity worker revealed that for years, a man calling himself "Paul" volunteered at their shelter during the holidays, serving meals and talking to people others ignored. No one recognized him. He wore simple clothes, avoided photos, and always left quietly.
It was George Michael, one of the wealthiest men in British music, spending his Christmas serving soup to people who had nothing.
Every Easter for years, £100,000 appeared in the accounts of children's charities across the UK. Anonymous. Untraceable. Regular as clockwork.
After his death, the trail led back to him.
A woman was crying in a bar, overwhelmed by debt she couldn't pay. George was there having a quiet drink. He listened to her story, wrote a check for £25,000, and told the bartender, "Give this to her after I leave. Don't tell her who it's from."
She only learned years later, after he died, when the bartender finally felt able to tell the truth.
George covered strangers' hospital bills. He paid tuition for students who couldn't afford school. He funded HIV/AIDS research and support programs quietly for decades—never seeking credit, never using it for publicity.
When his mother was treated for cancer, the NHS nurses at the hospital cared for her with extraordinary compassion. After she died, George organized a free concert at the hospital exclusively for the nursing staff—his way of saying thank you when words weren't enough.
He didn't announce it. He didn't turn it into a media event. He just did it.
His manager once said George had one ironclad rule about his charitable giving: "Nobody can know it's from me. If the press finds out, I'll stop."
He meant it.
For decades, George Michael lived two lives. One in the spotlight—the pop star, the celebrity, the tabloid target constantly scrutinized for his personal struggles.
And one in the shadows—the man who used his wealth to quietly change lives, one stranger at a time, asking for nothing in return except anonymity.
Why did he hide it?
Because George understood something most people don't: real generosity isn't about recognition. It's about impact.
He didn't want gratitude. He didn't want headlines. He didn't want his charitable giving to become part of his brand or image.
He just wanted people to be okay.
After his death, financial records and testimonies revealed he'd given away tens of millions of pounds over his lifetime—most of it anonymously, most of it to people who had no idea who their benefactor was.
The woman with the IVF money. The homeless shelter volunteer. The stranger in the bar. The nurses at the hospital. The children's charities. The HIV organizations. The students. The families drowning in medical debt.
All of them were helped by a man who chose to be invisible when he could have been celebrated.
George Michael didn't chase fame through his generosity. He chased humanity.
In an era where celebrities announce every charitable donation on social media, where every good deed becomes content, where kindness is currency for attention—George did the opposite.
He gave everything and asked for nothing. Not even acknowledgment.
The ultimate act of humility is helping people who will never know you helped them.
That's not charity for show. That's love without strings.
George Michael died on Christmas morning—a day that meant something to him, a day he spent year after year giving to others without fanfare.
And in death, his secret finally came out: he'd been Santa Claus all along. The real kind. The one who comes in the dark and leaves gifts without ever asking for thanks.
Eight years after his death, thousands of people are still here—with children they couldn't have afforded, educations they thought were impossible, medical treatments that saved their lives, roofs over their heads—because of a man who decided that the quiet part of heroism was the only part that mattered.
The music stopped in 2016.
But the lives he saved keep going.
George Michael (1963-2016): The pop star who taught us that the greatest gift you can give is the one nobody knows you gave.

19/11/2025

With Michael Yamash*ta – I just made it onto their weekly engagement list by being one of their top engagers! 🎉

11/11/2025

When the Chinar Wears Autumn !

With every change of season, the world sheds something — leaves fall, colours fade, and the landscape turns quiet. But not in Kashmir. Here, autumn doesn’t whisper an ending; it sings a celebration. When the Chinar trees blaze in hues of crimson, gold, and fire, the valley turns into a festival of change — declaring to the world that transformation is not discomfort, but beauty in motion.

Time moves differently here. It doesn’t rush, it ripens. The air smells of patience, of acceptance. Every fallen leaf feels like a verse of wisdom from the trees themselves — teaching us that to change gracefully is the finest art of all.

For many visitors, these colours are breathtaking postcards — moments to remember.

But for a young Kashmiri like Ubaid Shabir [ our featured Photographer ], the valley’s hues are personal. He told me that he crosses the same road every day, to work and back home, yet each time it feels new — a different shade of the same story.

Whenever the light shifts or the breeze carries a secret, he pauses, takes out his phone, and freezes a moment of his Kashmir as a Madno for his Firdaus.

A Kashmiri poet once wrote,

“Har mausam Kashmir mein jeeta hai — sirf rang badalte hain.”
(Every season lives in Kashmir — only the colours change.)

The black-and-white version of his photograph reminds us what colour truly means — how it changes everything, even in the most complex of times.

This is his story, and the valley’s — a lesson that change, when embraced, becomes art. This is Ubaid’s Kashmir for you .......................

01/11/2025

When the North Calls You - you know it's homecoming!

The word north has always meant home to me. Like a migratory bird, every time the roads, the rains, or the winds take me back to my mountains, the air itself smells familiar — like memory returning. The air of Kashmir carries something ancient — a scent of belonging that never fades, only waits.

An evening walk by the side of Dal Lake in Srinagar felt like an old ritual — something my soul remembered even before my feet did. I saw the lazy shikaras drift aimlessly, as if the day had exhaled its last breath. They seemed to talk to each other in the stillness — sharing tales of their riders, the laughter of tourists, and the quiet rhythm of water.

As dusk deepened, Hazratbal shimmered in the distance, and beyond it, the blue mountains stood timeless — watching, listening, welcoming me home again.

And as the night fell, my mind kept reciting softly while i was walking by the boulevard ........

“Gar firdaus bar roo-e zameen ast, hameen ast-o, hameen ast-o, hameen ast.”- Amir Khusro