Big Hands!!!

Navtej Kohli tells a beautiful story about a little boy's perspective and how relevant it is for us as humans, to understand and look at things, the way he did.
Once a boy went to a shop with his mother. The shop keeper looked at the small cute child and showed him a bottle with sweets and said "Dear Child..u can take the sweets"… but the child didnt take. The shop keeper was surprised.. such a small child he is and why is he not taking the sweets from the bottle. Again he said take the sweets…
Now mother also heard that and said.."Son! Take the sweets."
yet he didnt take…The shopkeeper seeing the child not taking the sweets…he himself took the sweets and gave to the child. The child was happy to get two hands full of sweets.
When returned to home Mother asked child," Why didnt you take the sweets… when shop keeper told you to take?"
Child replies… "Mom! my hands are very small and if i take the sweets I can only take few.. but now you see when uncle gave with his bighands, how many more sweets i got!"
Moral:When we take we may get little but when God gives… HE gives us morebeyond our expectations. More than what we can hold.

Navtej Kohli's Eclectic Assortment of Poetry

Navtej Kohli brings a poem to stir your senses. I hope you like this poem and the sentiments hidden in the words of 'Contentment' by Oliver Wendell Holmes. For more such touching poems, keep reading Navtej Kohli Blog.

Contentment - a poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Contentment
"Man wants but little here below"
Little I ask; my wants are few;
I only wish a hut of stone,
(A very plain brown stone will do,)
That I may call my own;
And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.
Plain food is quite enough for me;
Three courses are as good as ten;
If Nature can subsist on three,
Thank Heaven for three.
Amen!I always thought cold victual nice;
My choice would be vanilla-ice.
I care not much for gold or land;
Give me a mortgage here and there,
Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,
Or trifling railroad share,
I only ask that Fortune send
A little more than I shall spend.
Honors are silly toys, I know,
And titles are but empty names;
I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,
But only near St. James;
I'm very sure I should not care
To fill our Gubernator's chair.
Jewels are baubles; It is a sin
To care for such unfruitful things;
One good-sized diamond in a pin,
Some, not so large, in rings,
A ruby, and a pearl, or so,
Will do for me; - I laugh at show.
My dame should dress in cheap attire;
(Good, heavy silks are never dear;)
I own perhaps I might desire
Some shawls of true Cashmere,
Some marrowy crapes of China silk,
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.
I would not have the horse I drive
So fast that folks must stop and stare;
An easy gait - two forty-five
Suits me; I do not care;
Perhaps, for just a single spurt,
Some seconds less would do no hurt.
Of pictures, I should like to own
Titians and Raphaels three or four,
I love so much their style and tone,
One Turner, and no more,
(A landscape, - foreground golden dirt,The sunshine painted with a squirt.)
Of books but few,- some fifty scoreFor daily use,
and bound for wear;
The rest upon an upper floor;
Some little luxury there
Of red morocco's gilded gleam
And vellum rich as country cream.
Busts, cameos, gems, such things as these,
Which others often show for pride,
I value for their power to please,
And selfish churls deride;
One Stradivarius, I confess,
Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess.
Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn,
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;
Shall not carved tables serve my turn,
But all must be of buhl?
Give grasping pomp its double share,
I ask but one recumbent chair.
Thus humble let me live and die,
Nor long for Midas' golden touch;
If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
I shall not miss them much,
Too grateful for the blessing lent
Of simple tastes and mind content!

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Navtej Kohli's beautiful spectrum of poetry

Do we ever get to know, who we really are? Lets find out with Navtej Kohli..
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
- by Emily Dickinson
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you -- Nobody -- Too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise -- you know!
How dreary -- to be -- Somebody!
How public -- like a Frog --To tell one's name -- the livelong June --
To an admiring Bog!

THE SCARS OF LIFE - Navtej Kohli

"Love is when God became man."
I just want to share this forwarded email from my friend Navtej Kohli. It's worth pondering upon...
Some years ago, on a hot summer's day in South Florida, a little boy decided to go for a swim in the old swimming hole behind his house.
In a hurry to dive into the cool water, he ran out the back door, leaving behind shoes, socks, and shirt as he went. He flew into the water, not realizing that as he swam toward the middle of the lake, an alligator was swimming toward the shore.
His father, working in the yard, saw the two as they got closer and closer together. In utter fear, he ran toward the water, yelling to his son as loudly as he could.
Hearing his voice, the little boy became alarmed and made a U-turn to swim to his father. It was too late. Just as he reached his father, the alligator reached him.
From the dock, the father grabbed his little boy by the arms just as the alligator snatched his legs. That began an incredible tug-of-war between the two. The alligator was much stronger than the father, but the father was much too passionate to let go.
A farmer happened to drive by, heard his screams, raced from his truck, took aim and shot the alligator.
Remarkably, after weeks and weeks in the hospital, the little boy survived His legs were extremely scarred by the vicious attack of the animal. And, on his arms, were deep scratches where his father's fingernails dug into his flesh in his effort to hang on to the son he loved.
The newspaper reporter who interviewed the boy after the trauma, asked if he would show him his scars. The boy lifted his pant legs. And then, with obvious pride, he said to the reporter, "But look at my arms. I have great scars on my arms, too. I have them because my Dad wouldn 't let go"
You and I can identify with that little boy. We have scars, too. No, not from an alligator, but the scars of a painful past. Some of those scars are unsightly and have caused us deep regret. But some wounds are because God has refused to let you go. In the midst of your struggle, He's been there holding on to you.
Scripture teaches that God loves you. You are a child of God. He wants to protect you and provide for you in every way. But sometimes we foolishly wade into dangerous situations, not knowing what lies ahead. The swimming hole of life is filled with peril - and we forget that the enemy is waiting to attack. That ' s when the tug-of-war begins - and if you have the scars of His love on your arms, be very, very grateful. He did not and will not ever let you go.

Moral:
Never judge another person's scars, because you don't know how they got them.

Stone Soup - A Story Told by Navtej Kohli

The Stone Soup is a centuries old European folktale with several variations. Here is one of the versions on this famous tale on Navtej Kohli Blog.

Once upon a time an old lady was on a long journey to reach her home town. She had been walking for many days when she came to a village late one afternoon. At the first house she knocked on the door and asked if they could give her shelter for the night, but the owner said they had no room. Walking further into the village she met a man on the road and asked him where she would be able to buy some food. He said she would need to go to another village for that and hurried on his way. She tried another house and asked if they had any food to spare. The answer was no, this year’s harvest had been very bad and what little food they had they must keep for themselves. Tired and hungry, the old lady went from house to house and got the same response every time. No one could help her. The old woman thought that the bad harvest must have been very bad indeed if it had made the whole village so unhappy that they forgot the traditional custom of welcome and hospitality for travelers.She saw a group of boys playing under a tree by the village square and told them that she was very hungry and wanted to make magic soup, but she couldn’t do it by herself, she needed some help. ‘What kind of soup?’ they asked. ‘Stone soup’ she said. ‘All I need is a big pot of boiling water and I can make the most delicious soup you ever tasted.’ The boys were also very hungry and it was a long time since they had tasted delicious soup. ‘I can bring a pot from my house,’ said one. ‘I’ll get the water from the well,’ said another. The rest set off to get some wood to make the fire.As the boys made the fire and put the pot on it a few villagers stopped to see what was happening. By the time the water was boiling a crowd had gathered around.

The old lady dropped a stone into the water and waited a few minutes. Then she lifted a spoonful of soup to her lips and took a sip. ‘Hmmm’ she said, ‘delicious, but it’s missing something. I know – it needs a little salt.’ ‘I have some salt said a woman’, and she went off to get it. When the salt was in the pot the old woman tried it again. ‘Wonderful’ she said, ‘but it would be even better if it had some herbs in it.’ ‘I have a few in my garden’, said a man, and soon there were herbs in the pot. The old lady tasted again. ‘Delicious’ she said, but it would be just perfect with a few vegetables in it.’ ‘I have a potato’ said one man. ‘I have a bit of cabbage’ said another. Soon the soup had several different kinds of vegetables in it. The old lady tasted it again. ‘You know’ she said, ‘if this soup had some fish in it, it would be fit for a king.’ ‘I caught a fish in the river this morning’ said one of the boys, ‘you can have that.’ By now the whole village was crowding round to see the magic soup being made and gradually they all decided that they wanted to be part of the magic. One woman brought garlic, another some lentils, yet another brought some meat. As the contributions came, the old lady stirred them into the soup. Eventually she declared that the soup was ready, but it was of course far too much for her to eat, so she invited everyone to go and get their bowls so she could give them some.That night the villagers ate the most delicious and most nutritious meal any of them had tasted for a long, long time. They stayed late in the village square talking and laughing around the fire on which the soup had been made.The next morning as the old lady prepared to go on her way the villagers begged her to stay. ‘Please don’t go,’ they said, ‘you made us this wonderful soup and we were happy together for the first time in years. You must stay and help us do it again.’ But the old lady told them that she had to be on her way, and besides they didn’t need her to help them any more. Now they had the recipe they could make stone soup for themselves any time they wanted it.

Poem Written At Morning by Wallace Stevens

A sunny day's complete Poussiniana
Divide it from itself. It is this or that
And it is not.
By metaphor you paint
A thing. Thus, the pineapple was a leather fruit,
A fruit for pewter, thorned and palmed and blue,
To be served by men of ice.
The senses paint
By metaphor. The juice was fragranter
Than wettest cinnamon. It was cribled pears
Dripping a morning sap.
The truth must be
That you do not see, you experience, you feel,
That the buxom eye brings merely its element
To the total thing, a shapeless giant forced
Upward.
Green were the curls upon that head.

- by Wallace Stevens

Read some ponderable content by Navtej Kohli

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud - A William Wordsworth poem on Navtej Kohli blog

Navtej Kohli is fond of poetry. Here is a beautiful poem by William Wordsworth that happened to be one of Navtej Kohli's favorite.

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced,

but theyOut-did the sparkling leaves in glee;

A poet could not be but gay,

In such a jocund company!

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.