🦁Real king🦉- 🐆Jungle story🦄

Once upon a time in a Jungle, not far away, a Jackass decided that he wanted to be the King of the Jungle. 

He hired a bunch of hyenas to groom him for the next elections and in return he promised them as many animals as they could eat. 

The hyenas laughed and agreed, getting down to work. 

"Only a Lion can be the King of the Jungle", a wise old owl said. 

So the hyenas designed a long flowing mane for the Jackass to wear around his face so that he looked a little bit like a lion. 

"He is still a Jackass", said the wise old owl.

So they put up posters of the Jackass everywhere across the jungle, saying he is a Lion, till all the animals were convinced that he is a Lion indeed.

When the Jackass went to give his speech, he brayed.

"He brays, he is a jackass", said the wise old owl.

But the hyenas used voice modulation techniques and made him roar like a lion and all the animals clapped and cheered. 

The Jackass blamed all the previous kings and told the gullible animals how they were all useless and how he was the savior who would "Make Jungle Great Again" 

The strategy of the hyenas worked... The animals, with an overwhelming majority, made the Jackass the King and threw the previous King out of the Jungle, calling him an Accidental Lion King. 

He first cut off all the leaves from the tree saying this would get in more sunlight in the jungle. 

"That's exactly what a jackass would do. No leaves will take away the natural shield we get", said the wise old owl. 

The hyenas banded together and told the wise of owl to #GoToCity

The Jackass then stopped all rivers by piling stones into them, saying this will store water for everyone. 

"That's exactly what a jackass would do. Stopping the natural flow of the river which is important in cleaning it up, just take enough water that we need and let the rest flow", said the wise old owl. 

The hyenas labeled the owl as an Anti-Jungle, called him a Jungle-Naxal and threw him in the jail.

They stuck more posters all over the jungle on the trees bereft of leaves now and all the animals happily accepted that they had got a Visionary Masterstroker as their King. 

Soon, the jungle was struck by a cold wave and the temperatures dropped and the animals begun to freeze. 

The King decided to set the trees on fire to counter the freezing cold. 

"That's exactly what a jackass would do. I had told you cutting off the leaves would take away our natural protection", said the wise old owl. 

But no one listened to him, anymore. 

The King invited everyone in the jungle to celebrate the burning of the trees. 

The King stood with his pack of hyenas as the fires raged and the animals danced around the fires, as the flames got closer and closer to them. 

He turned to the hyenas and said, "I had promised you all the animals you could eat. There, go ahead and take your pick, they would be cooked in sometime". 

"He is a jackass", came the voice from the jail, but the animals were busy celebrating the Jungle Fire Utsav. 

The flames started engulfing the animals, singeing them as the hyenas approached for their promised feast. 

Some of the flames suddenly moved towards the King and his fake mane caught on fire.

The King stood steadfast as his mane slowly started burning away, his real face exposed. 

The animals noticed it and shouted, "Damn it, we did not elect a lion, we made the jackass our King".

The wise old owl said, "You don't have to wait till the mane catches fire. You can figure out a Jackass for what he is, just by his actions. Or atleast listen to the voices of wisdom"

But there were very few animals left to listen to him now......

🤩Real happiness😍 -😛 true story🥳

 

*When Nigerian billionaire Femi Otedola in a telephone interview,  was asked by the radio presenter, "Sir what can you remember made you a happiest man in life?"*

Femi said:

"I have gone through four stages of happiness in life and finally I understood the meaning of true happiness."

The first stage was to accumulate wealth and means. But at this stage I did not get the happiness I wanted.

Then came the second stage of collecting valuables and items. But I realised that the effect of this thing is also temporary and the lustre of valuable things does not last long.

Then came the third stage of getting big projects. That  was when I was holding 95% of diesel supply in Nigeria and Africa. I was also the largest vessel owner in Africa and Asia. But even here I did not get the happiness I had imagined. 

The fourth stage was the time a friend of mine asked me to buy wheelchair for some disabled children. Just about 200 kids. 

At the friend's request, I immediately bought the wheelchairs. 

But the friend insisted that I go with him and hand over the wheelchairs to the children. I got ready and went with him. 

There I gave these wheel chairs to these children with my own hands. I saw the strange glow of happiness on the faces of these children. I saw them all sitting on the wheelchairs, moving around and having fun. 

It was as if they had arrived at a picnic spot where they are sharing a jackpot winning.

I felt REAL joy inside me. When I decided to leave one of the kids grabbed my legs. I tried to free my legs gently but the child stared at my face and held my legs tightly.

I bent down and asked the child: Do you need something else?

The answer this child gave me not only made me happy but also changed my attitude to life completely. This child said: 

"I want to remember your face so that when I meet you in heaven, I will be able to recognise you and thank you once again."

What would you be remembered for after you leave that office or place?

Will anyone desire to see your face again where it all matters?

*This is a must read piece* .

*It got me thinking. I pray it does same to everyone.*

 *God bless you all.*

🐦He not only forgives, but He forgets- 🦆Duck story🦢

 

A little boy was visiting his grandparents on their farm. And he was given a slingshot to play with, out in the woods. He practiced in the woods but he could never hit the target. And getting a little discouraged; he headed back to dinner.

As he was walking back he saw Grandma’s pet duck. Just out of impulse, he let it fly, hit the duck soiree in the head, and killed it. He was shocked and grieved.

In a panic, he hid the dead duck in the woodpile, only to see his sister watching. Sally had seen it all, but she said nothing.

After lunch that day Grandma said, “Sally, let’s wash the dishes.” But Sally said, “Grandma, Johnny told me he wanted to help in the kitchen today, didn’t you Johnny?” And then she whispered to him, “Remember, the duck?”

So Johnny did the dishes.

Later, Grandpa asked if the children wanted to go fishing, and Grandma said, “I am sorry but I need Sally to help make supper.” But Sally smiled and said, “Well, that’s all right, because Johnny told me he wanted to help.” And she whispered again, “Remember, the duck?”

So Sally went fishing and Johnny stayed.

After several days of Johnny doing both his chores and Sally’s, he finally couldn’t stand it any longer. He came to Grandma and confessed that he killed the duck. She knelt, hugged him, and said, “Sweetheart, I know. You see, I was standing at the window and I saw the whole thing. But because I love you, I forgave you.

But I was just wondering how long you would let Sally make you a slave.”

I don’t know what’s in your past.

I don’t know what one sin the enemy keeps throwing up in your face. But whatever it is, I want you to know something.

The Lord Jesus Christ was standing at the window. And He saw the whole thing. But because He loves you, He has forgiven you. Perhaps He’s wondering how long you’ll let the enemy make a slave out of you. The great thing about God is that He not only forgives, but He forgets.

🛠The fence story🔩-🤯 controlling Anger🥵

There once was a young boy with a very bad temper. The boy's father wanted to teach him a lesson, so he gave him a bag of nails and told him that every time he lost his temper he must hammer a nail into their wooden fence.

On the first day of this lesson, the little boy had driven 37 nails into the fence. He was really mad!

Over the course of the next few weeks, the little boy began to control his anger, so the number of nails that were hammered into the fence dramatically decreased.

It wasn't long before the little boy discovered it was easier to hold his temper than to drive those nails into the fence.

Then, the day finally came when the little boy didn't lose his temper even once, and he became so proud of himself, he couldn't wait to tell his father.

Pleased, his father suggested that he now pull out one nail for each day that he could hold his temper.

Several weeks went by and the day finally came when the young boy was able to tell his father that all the nails were gone.

Very gently, the father took his son by the hand and led him to the fence.

"You have done very well, my son," he smiled, "but look at the holes in the fence. The fence will never be the same."

The little boy listened carefully as his father continued to speak.

"When you say things in anger, they leave permanent scars just like these. And no matter how many times you say you're sorry, the wounds will still be there."

True story- 👳‍♂️India took revenge 🇮🇳

 

A story by Manish Nandi

How India took revenge on a person

who hated India. Will gladden cockles your heart!

.

She hated almost everything in the country India, and I guess she needed to find something to like in Calcutta . I was that person

Our quiet and reserved neighbours in Calcutta, the Thorntons, New Zealanders who referred to themselves as Kiwi people, had just moved out. ¹My father said his next colleague, an American, would move in shortly with his family.

Ten days later I was struggling with my high school homework when the doorbell rang. A pleasant-faced but brusque-mannered woman in her 30s asked if I understood English and, when I nodded, wanted to speak with my mother. I explained, in English, that my mother worked and was never home during the day. Surprised that an Indian housewife worked outside her home and an Indian boy spoke English, she asked for a favour. If I could please come and explain something to her two domestic employees that she hadn’t been able to convey.

Both the employees, a cleaner and a cook, said they understood the Thorntons’ English but were befuddled by her American accent. I explained the instructions in both Hindi and English, and then suggested to Edna, who had meanwhile told me her name, that she needed to speak to them slowly and perhaps with a clipped accent. She appreciated my help, but felt that, as a true New Yorker, she would have a tough time altering her speaking style.

Then, in a friendly gesture, she offered me a glass of Coca-Cola and watched wide-eyed as I drank it unhesitatingly. 

Then she said she would like to teach me a game that she loved before but hadn’t been able to play in Calcutta, not knowing who knew English well enough. The game was Scrabble. She warned me that she was a skilled player, and I shouldn’t mind losing a duel with her. “You will get better as you play with me,” she added encouragingly. We started. She was a little amazed that I used words she hadn’t expected me to know and one time had to consult a dictionary when I applied a longer word she didn’t know. Edna didn’t know that words and their structure interested me, and she was struck dumb when I won the match.

She needed a friend. She said that her husband, with his soft-spoken style and self-effacing demeanor, had become quickly popular in India, but she hadn’t a person to talk to. Frankly, she said, she disliked spicy Indian food, impenetrable Indian languages, messy Indian clothes, noisy Indian cities and the smelly Indians she had so far encountered. They seemed shifty and unreliable to her. I somehow appeared to her somewhat different. She detested almost everything in India, and I guess she needed to find something to like in Calcutta. I was that person. We became friends.

In the ensuing months she called me often. She needed my help to understand other people, doctors or servants, to explain her intent to other people, dress or furniture makers, to guide her about mangoes and markets, taxis and textiles. I met and liked her husband, Desmond, and saw immediately why he would be easily adaptable to Indian people and their ways. For Edna, Calcutta, in fact anything Indian, remained an enduring and execrable enigma. None of my interpretations or explanations worked. She loathed it all.

Our friendship ended when my parents moved out to another home in a different part of the city. 

Thirty years later, I was working in the World Bank in the US and talking to a New Yorker colleague who had been in India. He mentioned Desmond, saying that he had died and his wife had settled in a town near Washington. He gave me Edna’s phone number.

When I called her Friday, Edna recognised me in a second and warmly insisted that we talk face-to-face. She suggested that I come over to her place after office, stay the night and return the following morning. She said she would get me the pyjamas and a toothbrush. Such insistence was not customary in the US, but it sounded affectionate and well-meant and I agreed.

I took the hour-long bus trip and, as we approached the bus terminal, wondered how I would identify her after all these years. But I was the only non-white person in the bus in formal clothes, and Edna came forward in a second and hugged me.

When we arrived at her place, I had a shock. It could have been an Indian home. Every piece of furniture, every artifact, even every curtain or cushion was Indian. The rug on the floor was Indian, so were the framed pictures on the wall of the Red Fort and Dal Lake and an antique colonial-era map of India.

She served me Makaibari tea with some pakoras, and, when I offered to take her out for dinner, countermanded it promptly by saying that she has already cooked Basmati rice and chicken butter-masala for me.

I was speechless for minutes. When I recovered my tongue, I made bold to ask what had happened to change her view, since, the last I knew, she detested much of India – “with passion,” she added. What she then told me was a remarkable tale. 

It was not literature, philosophy or culture that turned her mind around. It was simply the ordinary people of India, the street folk and bazaar vendors and domestic employees who altered her perspective.

“I began with endless distrust,” said Edna, “I assumed they were out to cheat me and take advantage of a naïve foreigner. Day by day the exact opposite happened. I would buy bananas, and the poor vendor would choose the best for me, return the excessive amount I had paid. The cleaner would find and give me the cash I had carelessly dropped in the kitchen. The cook gave me and my husband the best pieces of meat, to keep only the bones for himself. Day by day, they taught me a lesson I couldn’t overlook.

“Every time I went out, a fruit seller would pester me to buy his stuff. I refused, for I wanted to buy from the market next door where I would have more choice. One day, out on the street, the heel of my shoe came off. I didn’t know how to walk back home. The fruit seller came running, made me sit on his empty fruit basket, left with the broken shoe and came back in ten minutes with it repaired, put it on my foot and would not take a cent. I insisted, he refused. I doubt anybody would have done that for me in New York.”

Edna smiled, “Yes, I hated India with passion. And India took revenge. It just made me into an Indian.”