Tomorrow is a mystery...!!!

Student by profession, Photographer by passion and Writer by accident. Being punjabi n desi makes me cool..!!!


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Fake people don’t surprise me anymore, loyal people do.
Unknown (via lulu-a)

(via is-this-love-or-lunacy)

Nanak naam mile ta jeevantan man theeve hariya

Nanak naam mile ta jeevan
tan man theeve hariya

(via mypunjabistory)

To women with daughters
hoping to raise subservient
domestic slaves:

Hand your daughter
a hammer
before you give her
a kitchen knife.

Or better yet,
let her choose
her own weapon.

Teach her how to
manage a bank account
before you enlist her
to domestic service.


Equip her
with a strong voice,
so that she may
speak over
those who may feel
they know
her place better
than she does.

So no one
can make her
decisions for her.

Allow her to choose:
her own colours,
her own way,
her own likings.

She may not like
dresses after all,
what’s the harm?

Encourage her
to be independent,
to pursue her dreams.

You were not born
believing that your
body is a factory,
so why would
you impose the idea
on one of your own?

If you tell your daughter
that she is
in any way
less than a man,
the problem is that
she will eventually
believe you.

I don’t usually discuss the story behind a piece of writing, but this one stands out.

My parents had a few families over for dinner recently and I wanted to help in the kitchen to the best of my ability. So I was putting clean dishes away, clearing out the ones from inside the sink, etc.

As I did this, one of the ladies said to me from behind me: “It’s wonderful that you’re helping your mother out, but don’t you dare do this when you’re married, or else your wife will never do any work! ”

It could have been a joke, but it wasn’t. Because she proceeded to cite examples of wives who did not do “what they were supposed to do.” Essentially, she was telling me that it’s perfectly fine to help my mother in the kitchen, but unacceptable to do the same for my wife when I’m married.

The problem with this is that she has two young daughters of her own, and she is raising them with this backwards mentality that men should be excluded from domestic work simply on the basis of biology, which is completely unacceptable.

Boys aren’t princes and girls aren’t slaves. There is nothing more special about a man which puts him above a woman. There is something incredibly wrong with this mentality, the fact that it persists and is being instilled into children from a young age.

— Nav K

(via navk)

(via iwitnessmyself)

The Stranger

A few years after I was born, my Dad met a stranger Who was new to our small town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer And soon invited him to live with our family. The Stranger was quickly accepted and was around From then on.

As I grew up, I never questioned his place in my Family. In my young mind, he had a special niche. My parents were complementary instructors: Mom Taught me good from evil, and Dad taught me to obey. But the stranger… He was our storyteller. He would Keep us spellbound for hours on end with adventures, Mysteries and comedies.

If I wanted to know anything about politics, history Or science, he always knew the answers about the past, Understood the present and even seemed able to predict The future! He took my family to the first major league Ball game. He made me laugh, and he made me cry. The Stranger never stopped talking, but Dad didn’t seem To mind.

Sometimes, Mom would get up quietly while the rest of Us were shushing each other to listen to what he had to Say, and she would go to the kitchen for peace and quiet. (I wonder now if she ever prayed for the stranger to leave.) Dad ruled our household with certain moral convictions, But the stranger never felt obligated to honor them. Profanity, for example, was not allowed in our home - not From us, our friends or any visitors. Our long time visitor, However, got away with four-letter words that burned my Ears and made my dad squirm and my mother blush. My Dad didn’t permit the liberal use of alcohol but the Stranger encouraged us to try it on a regular basis. He made Cigarettes look cool, cigars manly, and pipes distinguished. He talked freely (much too freely!) about sex. His comments Were sometimes blatant, sometimes suggestive, and generally Embarrassing.

I now know that my early concepts about relationships were Influenced strongly by the stranger. Time after time, he Opposed the values of my parents, yet he was seldom rebuked … And NEVER asked to leave.

More than fifty years have passed since the stranger moved In with our family. He has blended right in and is not nearly As fascinating as he was at first. Still, if you could walk into My parents’ den today, you would still find him sitting over In his corner, waiting for someone to listen to him talk and Watch him draw his pictures. His name?…. We just call him ‘TV.’

He has a wife now….we call her ‘Computer.’ Their first child is “Cell Phone”. Second child “I Pod ” And a Grandchild: IPAD
Unknown (via wordsnquotes)

(via wordsnquotes)

Asker Anonymous Asks:
Check out 1revolutionary1 for some amazing Sikh art
jiddi-kaur jiddi-kaur Said:


Loki canada nu baharla mulak kehnde…australia nu serious hi ni lainde…
Asi tan sharratan di padi e kitab vai…sanu na sudharo asi tan vigde behisaab vai…
One two three (romeo ranjha)




Kehna sokha…sehna aoukha…:(

Childhood memories…^_^

Reblog if you are human…not a Sikh, hindu, christian, muslim or from any other religion or faith…reblog even if u belong to low minority…reblog even if u r white, black or brown…reblog not because you are happy or sad reblog because you are human…
Here’s to the security guards who maybe had a degree in another land. Here’s to the manicurist who had to leave her family to come here, painting the nails, scrubbing the feet of strangers. Here’s to the janitors who don’t even fucking understand English yet work hard despite it all. Here’s to the fast food workers who work hard to see their family smile. Here’s to the laundry man at the Marriott who told me with the sparkle in his eyes how he was an engineer in Peru. Here’s to the bus driver, the Turkish Sufi who almost danced when I quoted Rumi. Here’s to the harvesters who live in fear of being deported for coming here to open the road for their future generation. Here’s to the taxi drivers from Nigeria, Ghana, Egypt and India who gossip amongst themselves. Here is to them waking up at 4am, calling home to hear the voices of their loved ones. Here is to their children, to the children who despite it all become artists, writers, teachers, doctors, lawyers, activists and rebels. Here’s to Western Union and Money Gram. For never forgetting home. Here’s to their children who carry the heartbeats of their motherland and even in sleep, speak with pride about their fathers. Keep on.

Immigrants. First generation.

Ijeoma Umebinyuo.

(via theijeoma)

(via spero-hope)