While waiting for you.

It used to fall in the open yard when it was soiled, but for us in March-April At night, when the hands started to move around the body, when the eyes of the dark chahul of sleep were closed, only one message would wake up in the mind, tomorrow, where will the cuckoo be heard? Let's see, that voice would come to the ear early in the morning while in deep sleep and it would be worthwhile to wait for that voice. Waiting for the vacation started from then, but there was no laziness in studying. Liked recitation.The assigned book would be read again and again with interest as much as the books of the subject, but if the study book was left aside, the memory of Mutti would come back. It is Hazari Mogalya tree in the courtyard, Bakuli flower that was picked on Saturday morning, the water that is covered with water on the ground floor, the rush of the papads. Droughts falling all over the yard, curry dal and panham, snowballs to suck when the house is allowed, fresh sugarcane juice and most of all lots of things and new books of poetry how we look forward to the holidays!Although there were many binhads in our great palace, only one fourth of the majta belonging to the whole palace was Mala. While waiting for vacation, the wonderful idea of ​​going to the farm and sitting among the books filled my heart. Waiting for the books was fun. A different world was meeting there. Unseen countries, unseen people, unexperienced events, unfamiliar yet still feeling like our own. If only the world was so amazing, even the things that do not match the threads of identity, I would meet something new and understand the magic of words. The things I was reading, that history, those songs were composed by someone. was written I understood the power of language that these people were able to write what came to their mind and what they wanted to write. Realizing the strength of the author's talent, the pre-summer period was so maddened by waiting to read the books that that was it!
Another wait was a flock of parrots. There was a big umber tree behind our house. The days of their fever came, when their swarms would come and descend. Somehow that leafy, gnarled tree would become so beautiful with ripe umbels and green wings of Ra, I used to wait for those clusters of umbels, those reddish sweet umbels.Then I will hold the finger of poetry well. She became my friend. Sometimes we call our friend, go to her, forget our thoughts and talk with her. There was only one difference. She used to come to me. Anytime even in the middle of the night but sometimes I was made to wait for a long time.When I call, poetry will surely come, then her waiting will be uncomfortable - no matter what, mother, that speech of the moment, even if I remember that waiting today, I will cry again. I used to feel that the green should come down again on the ripe fruits of UmbraWhen our mother used to work in a Marathi school in Urulikanchan, Uruli did not have easy access to vehicles like today. Now she used to leave home at eight o'clock in the morning. He used to catch a bus and go to the railway station. As a passenger returning to Uruli, the train often left late and again boarded from Pune station, sometimes it was nine to nine thirty to return home. We siblings used to stand at the gate of the castle waiting for her. It would have been difficult to wait. When she came, Pakta Bhau would jump and hug her and I would laugh while crying. Getting rid of all the atrophy, being close to her felt peaceful. She had to work and understand that our allocation is inevitable today, but then life was just bursting. What kind of fear used to be felt.Watched a nice foreign movie recently. His name is Bini Cinema Postman in the Mountain. An old postman in the hills falls ill, so his son takes over. The boy is not very keen on that work, but finally leaves with a bag of letters on his back to find out about the work with his father. Small villages without facilities used to wander on foot. It is not as easy as it seems.
When the son comes forward, he sees that the father has a completely blank paper in his hand. Nothing is written on it but the old woman thanks her father again and again. gives blessings. After coming far from there, the father tells the child that the old woman is waiting for her son who has gone away. Awaiting his letter, his arrival. Her son never writes to her. Not interrogating her; But the postman can't bear to wait for the same. To make the old lady happy every time the postman has been reading the core letter with his heart and the old lady and her days are going on happily because of that. Now the drama must continue as his young Mulan takes his place.The letters of the children living in the city are the only support for the old age. The predestined postman has recognized that he is not just a government servant delivering letters. He is a man, a good man, he shows his young son not only the mountain paths and the villages. He shows him the people. It shows the bridge to reach people. He has taught the boy how to wait for an old man. 'Waiting is only a small part of happiness' There are many things like sadness, worry, fear, restlessness, anxiety. Remember the eyes of a farmer waiting for rain. The value of something is known only when one has to wait for it. If we get many valuable things easily, we do not realize the same value. We learn patience while waiting. To be patient learns Learn to believe in something. Faith becomes more and more evident. The obsession grows. All this is easily coming to mind while waiting and thinking that what one wants should not come easily. Have to wait a bit. You may have to suffer a little. Only then will the taste of happiness increase. The taste of success will increase. Ol in love and life.