You may have read this before..I found it interesting and thought of sharing....

What Equals 100%? What does it mean to give MORE than 100%?

Ever wonder about those people who say they are giving more than 100%?

We have all been in situations where someone wants you to GIVE OVER 100%.

How about ACHIEVING 101%?

What equals 100% in life?

Here's a little mathematical formula that might help answer these questions:

If:

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

Is represented as:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26.


If:


H-A-R-D-W-O- R- K

8+1+18+4+23+ 15+18+11 = 98%


And:

K-N-O-W-L-E- D-G-E

11+14+15+23+ 12+5+4+7+ 5 = 96%


And:

A-T-T-I-T-U- D-E

1+20+20+9+20+ 21+4+5 = 100%



THEN, look how far the love of God will take you:



L-O-V-E-O-F- G-O-D

12+15+22+5+15+ 6+7+15+4 = 101%


Therefore, one can conclude with mathematical certainty that:

While Hard Work and Knowledge will get you close, and Attitude will get you there, It's the Love of God that will put you over the top!

Have a nice day & God bless!!!

By 6:30 A.M. we had crossed the Talegaon toll gate and Nishant stepped up the gas. The speedometer read 140 KMPH. Even though I was in a Ford Ikon and Nishant was on the wheel, I didn’t lose time in strapping the seat belt around me, standard safety procedure.

“Slow it down a bit, we’ll make it comfortably to Mumbai airport comfortably by 9:00 A.M. even at 100 KMPH” I said. I had to take the 10:20 A.M. flight to Vadodara for an important meeting with a customer.

The needle now pointed at 120. I knew Nishant was trying to make up for the time lost in the morning. The night before, he had called me to tell that we’ll start at 5:30, 30 minutes before routine and so when I asked “why”?

“There could be trouble in Mumbai; Raj (he referred to Mr. Raj Thackeray) has been arrested….”

“Okay”

Next morning I was up earlier than usual and ready waiting for the car, which arrived at 6:00 AM. This was enough to piss me off, I would trade my early morning sleep for very few things, definitely not this. Before I could ask, “Sorry Sir, first there was a problem with the Accent (car) which I was to drive today and then in a hurry I lost my way to your place; but we’ll make up” he smiled.

I was asleep and woke up only, when Nishant abruptly braked at a signal. We were in Mumbai city limits, at Sion to be precise. It was 8:30 A.M. and the airport was just 8 Kms from there. Nishant had driven continuously. “How about some tea and Upma at Café Vrindavan” I asked. I was hungry.

To my surprise, he replied “Not today, you know the situation Sir”. I agreed.

As we descended the Santacruz flyover, just about 2 kms. before the Right turn to the airport, I was horrified to see something – arrays of cars, thousands of them, but all of them standing still or just about inching forward. Breakfast now seemed at least half an hour away. I was irritated. Little did I know however, that the next 20 minutes would bring in much more agony.

“Good that you didn’t stop at Vrindavan, Sir, you could never have made it then, this should clear off. Actually, all drivers were advised by the company to not stop at any point, unless the customer insisted. Three cars that came to Mumbai yesterday, did not return to Pune till late night” Nishant said. I nodded in agreement.

As our car stood still he said, ”Dubeyji, the Maharashtra Government has not acted correctly”. I was surprised on his addressing me Dubeyji, he always called me, Sir. But I asked, “In what”?

“In arresting our leader”….some silence and I knew what to expect till I reached the airport.

He continued, “They have fallen prey to the pressures of the Government in the North. MNS, is fighting for us locals. These Bhaiyyas (term generally used to describe anyone from Northern India and specifically from UP, Bihar and MP), North Indians, they come here and flourish….they have nothing back home and are stealing opportunities that rightfully belong to us”

I kept listening. I could make out that Nishant was looking at me from the rear view mirror on the windshield, probably to gauge my reactions. I was cold. “Good these guys were beaten up when they came to take the railway examinations, these posts are for us to fill, only ours….In the 70’s, we drove away the Annas….now Bhaiyyas and North Indians have to leave”

I didn’t know how to react, so I kept quiet. Made sense, I thought. To break what was building up, I dialed the number of my colleague from Chennai, Padmanabhan , who was to join me at the airport. Not reachable, the mobile said. Yes of course, he must be airborne, his flight comes in only at 9:25 A.M. My hunger was getting unbearable anyways and I had this guy and his hatred to bear for some more time.

The car moved ahead and just about when it was to turn Right and head into the road that led to the domestic terminal, the Paandu (Traffic COP) signaled us to wait. “What shit man”, I screamed. Nishant was unmoved. I knew he was preparing to fire some more salvos. He did. Bhaiyya, North Indians, Oriyans, and every one who he could think of. God and the Paandu must have realized how much I had taken from the driver, so the cars in our lane were allowed to take a Right. At the airport, I signed the trip sheet. Nishant gave me a feedback form. I felt like writing all the expletives I had learned in my lifetime, but I wrote good words.

Hurriedly, I collected the boarding pass and the lounge invitation from the Jet airways counter. Into the lounge and a good seat taken (I usually prefer one near a TV screen), I rushed for the spread. It was good. I took bread, some cheese, cookies and the very tempting strawberry milk shake. I got most of it down to my guts in no time. I had forgotten Nishant completely. Another glass full of the strawberry thing and I exulted “what a relief man”. I had to regain composure immediately, when I realized, I had disturbed an elderly woman whose eyes were glued to the TV screen showing the violence following THE ARREST.

This sent me back 30 minutes and into an analyzing mode.

Why did Nishant call me Dubeyji. He always addressed me, Sir.

Why did he rake up this discussion at all? Haven’t I been good and kind to him always?

Why was there so much hatred for the Bhaiyyas and North Indians?

Why was he even looking at me in the mirror?

Was he intimidating me? Yes sure he was….

Then why was I quiet? Was I diffusing a potential detonator or was I simply scared of one?

The first one surely. Why should I be scared, I thought.

-          Am I not a law abiding citizen? Yes, I am

-          Don’t I display enough civic sense always? Yes, I do

-          Don’t I honestly pay up my taxes on time? Sure, I do

-          Haven’t I by working in Maharshtra, contributed in my own way, however small, to the development of the state? Yes, again.

Then why should I be scared of anyone.

A kid, I reckon, all of 5 years ran past my chair and his mother chased him. “Cute guy” I said. I almost instantly remembered my school days. I would stand in morning prayer assembly with my right arm stretched forward, as I would recite the pledge along with my classmates-

India is my country.
All Indians are my brothers and sisters.
I love my country, and I am proud of its rich and varied heritage.
I shall always strive to be worthy of it.
I shall give my parents, teachers and all elders respect and treat everyone with courtesy.
To my country and my people, I pledge my devotion.
In their well being and prosperity alone lies my happiness.

So Beautiful, so Defining. Didn’t I live by the principles and philosophies embodied in the pledge all my life. Yes. Sure I did.

Then why did I receive so much shit, so much hatred from Nishant today?

Insn’t Maharashta also India?

Then why did I and so many, much more unfortunate ones had this discrimination to contend with in recent times.?

Is it a temporary phenomenon, or a deep rooted thing that would erupt time and again?

Why was I an alien in my own country?

Was I secure within my own country?

Wasn’t my country already terribly bruised with the communal divide, the divide of castes, the rich-poor chasm. What was the need for some to ring another DIVISION BELL. Where are we heading to?

Padmanabhan called, “I am here”.

“Five minutes and I’ll join you at the security check”. I collected my laptop and as I headed to the sec check point, down, using the elevator, all I could think was – when would we learn to appreciate ‘UNITED WE STAND, DIVIDED WE FALL……………’

People paint / stick all kinds of things on the rear of the vehicles.

The flick, Singh is King surely owes its title to one such thing that I read some years back behind a truck.

Two of them caught my attention recently.

1. Painted on the Backlight of a Ford Mustang (Chennai) -

RELATED TO THE MAFIA, YOU HIT ME, WE HIT YOU BACK

I thought, some Lee Iaccoca connection, atleast in part....

2. Behind an Autorickshaw (Delhi) -

AMLI JATT.

NO BODY REMAINS VERGIN

LIFE F.... EVERY ONE

Statutory header

1. What follows is not my ORIGINAL….read on to find out why!!
2. All names and characters that appear are fictitious (I sincerely hope). Resemblance to the Living, dead, sperm or unpublished material is a definite possibility and therefore this piece comes with Zero Liability.
3. Ape at your will (and peril)
4. Finally, I am not ringing the Division Bell….

Go on, laugh on....

Sardar to his servant: Go and water the plants.
Servant: It's already raining.
Sardar: So what take an umbrella and go.

Sardar found the answer to the most difficult question ever - What will come first, Chicken or egg?
O Yaar, what ever you order first, will come first.

A teacher told all students in a class to write an essay on a cricket match. All were busy writing except one Sardarji.
He wrote "DUE TO RAIN, NO MATCH!"

Postman: - I Have To Come 5 Miles to Deliver you this Packet
Sardar: - why did you come so far. Instead you could Have posted it....                                                     

A Sardar & his wife filed an application for Divorce.
Judge asked: How'll you divide your kids, You've 3 children?
Sardar replied: Ok! We'll apply NEXT YEAR

Sardar's wish: when I die, I wana die like my Grandpa who died peacefully in his sleep, not Screaming like all the passengers in the car he was Driving..

A Teacher lecturing on population:
"In India after every 10 secs a women gives birth to a kid. "
A Sardar stands up- "We must find & stop her!. "

A man: "Sardarji, tell me, why Manmohan Singh goes for a walk in the evening not in the morning?"
Sardarji: ''Arey bhai Manmohan is PM not AM''.

Sardar visits Chinese friend dying in hospital.
The Chinese friend just says "CHIN YU YAN" and dies.
Sardarji goes to China to find the meaning of his friend's last Words.
And finds It means "You are STANDNG ON the OXYGEN TUBE!"

Sardarji was standing in front of the mirror with his eyes closed.
His wife asked what you are doing.
He said-I am seeing how I look while sleeping.

After finishing his MBBS, Dr. Santa Singh starts his Own practice.
He checked his first patient's Eyes, then the tongue, and finally the Ears using a torch.
Finally he said Battery is Ok !!!

A sardar was drawing money from ATM,
The sardar behind him in the line said, "Ha! Ha! Haaa! I've seen ur password. Its 4 asterisks (****). "
The first sardar replies, "Ha! Ha! Haaa! U R wrong, Its 1258"

And the Footer : Abhi khattam nahin hua hai Khufiye..............

5:00 P.M., 27^th October, 2008, the evening preceding Diwali.

I had just wound up a call with Nikhil, production head at our Pune plant. It was a holiday at our plant, but Nikhil told me that they produced full swing to meet the requirements of a customer down South – technicians paid an unprecedented overtime, equivalent to 4 days salary.

Just home after a busy day, a day off he lost to work, he probably didn’t want to lose time and wanted to know about a decent hotel at Nashik, where he could stay with his family for a day or two and visit the holy Trayambakeshwar, Vani and other near by places. I suggested two hotels. To the Wine Capital of India and back with out sampling some spirit, did this Bevda lose his brains at the plant, I thought ? So, I eagerly awaited ‘the inevitable question’, it had to come and it did.

“Wine” ? He asked.

“Sula” I replied and added “Visit their wine yard. You can sample different varieties for a meager 200 Bucks. These guys export wines to France. I added, “The Tiger Hills, you could check them out too. They vend exquisite stuff, that they make at Château Indage their winery near Narayangaon”

Till two months back when my earlier H.O.D. was around in India, we were an awesome five some who had legendary sittings at taverns. 7 Tequila shots each between the regular spirits, one night at Not just jazz by the bay, then six bottles of wine at Château Indage, Narayangaon between four of us (Nikhil rued missing this one) were tales of envy on the circuit. I knew Nikhil was waiting for a reason, so I hid no information that I had. So much so for Nikhil.

The door bell rang and the high I attained in my conversation with Nikhil suddenly struck ground zero. Crest and a Trough.

Maa told me to check out the visitor. I thought it should have been the maid for her evening round of duties. I wasn’t wrong. In she came and straight into the kitchen.

As I swung the door back, there was a nice sounding “Hi”. Almost instinctively, I threw the door open again. My parents’ neighbour was drawing the lines of the Rangoli. Her hardware included White powder, different hues and a book with different designs.

She’s a pretty woman, innocence strewn all over her fair complexioned baby face. I’d always wanted to talk to her when ever we came across during my visits to my parents’, but never could muster courage enough to say even a hello. So, this Hi from her, to me meant no less then a ticket to paradise.

“Hi”, I replied softly looking at her and at the Rangoli she was setting up. I remained silent, her sheer presence mesmerized me now, as it always did.

“How are you doing”? She asked.

“I am fine, Thank you”.

“You”? I asked, trying to limit the words to avoid a shaky start.

She smiled silently and mixed the white powder with the green hue and started filling the empty frame she had by then created.

My father who just came from within to the living room, wondered who I was talking to. As he came close to me, the neighbour greeted my father “Hello Uncle, we haven’t seen you and aunty for many days now. We thought you were in Pune”.

“No, we didn’t go there, he (pointing his finger at me) came here.” He left to attend a telephone call.

I had to explain, “My parents were to visit me in Pune during Dusehra, but unfortunately, I had to request them to stay back at Mumbai” I paused for a few seconds, as she seemed bewildered at my reply. “I had been traveling a lot during that period and it made no sense to have them there with I not around”

This discussion was gaining momentum and every second seemed a million dollars in worth.

Then Maa showed up. “Kaisi ho Kshitija”? She asked.

Okay, she’s Kshitija, I smiled and thought, the name as beautiful the woman herself.

“Where’s Samay”? My mother referred to her daughter.

“She’s at our maid’s house” Kshitija said.

Maid’s house? I almost asked her. “Our maid’s children took her to their home. She likes playing with those kids. Almost the same age group and she’s kinda grown with them”. Period. She looked at me, smiled in a manner that suggested, she had answered a question that I wanted to pose, but didn’t .Quite a mind reader….

The Rangoli, much like our conversation, was gaining good shape and colour.

As I ran my fingers through my ruffled hair to straighten them, she quipped,“Your hair looks longer than ever, especially those strands on you’re your forehead, just like your sister’s” Kshitija referred to my sister who lived a few miles away and would visit my parents frequently.

So!!!!  I had been noticed and wasn’t even aware. And I thought I possessed divine powers of observation. Taken by surprise, a pleasant one at that I answered, “Yeah, the traveling, you see….didn’t find time to grace the barber’s shop”. I couldn’t find any other logical reason. Just the previous night I showed displeasure when my father commanded me to get a trim – I fancy long hair. I’d agree to all of my parents’ wishes, but not this one or at least not without some rebellion.

I was there, standing, arms akimbo, looking admiringly at the coloured design that was coming up. She asked me a few more questions. I was lost in thought and in time and so can’t recall those questions, even vaguely, but I guess I should been spot on in my replies, for she didn’t look surprised.

I said, as she filled the Blue powder mix into Rangoli frame. “Please wait, I want to take a picture”.

Wait she did. I brought out my digicam and as I set to train lens on the Rangoli, she asked “can you hold on ? I want to fill in the orange powder in middle. You can then have picture of the finished Rangoli”

She does not want to feature in the frame, I immediately figured out. A strange sadness crept in, like a small boy would feel, when his Momma wouldn’t buy him the candy floss he’d requested her, on the way back home after school.

The Orange Square and the small light Blue square in it at the centre done, the Rangoli was up. A small, but a pretty one, just like Kshitija herself.

She stepped aside. “Now, you can click”, She caught my attention, as my fingers and my mind were still busy fiddling with the several options on the picture taking device, to get the best frame possible.

So, I wasn’t wrong in my postulation after all. She wants just the Rangoli to be captured by the lens, I sadly thought again. A deep breath and ‘Not bad’ is what I heard myself murmur; after all, the Rangoli is the product, its the star, isn’t it. Consolation enough.

A bevdaa (Mumbai slang for a drunkard) would in his semi-concious state, fold his hands and bow at the Lord Shiva idol, from outside a temple each day.

The priest at the temple, who noticed this daily ritual would wonder, is this guy really praying or was the act plain bevdagiri.

So, one morning he replaces Lord Shiva's idol with one of Lord Ganesh.

The bevdaa comes and in his usual state gazes at the idol, but strangely doesn't bow. He then waves his hand at the idol and says "Chotu, Papa ko bolna mai aaya tha"

An Arab was admitted in the Lilavati Hospital at Mumbai for a heart transplant, but prior to the surgery the doctors needed to store his blood in case need arises. As the gentleman had a rare type of blood, it couldn't be found locally. So the call went out to the neighboring states.

Finally a Gujarati was located, whose bolld gorup mathced to taht of the Arab had a similar bood type. The Gujarati willingly donated his blood for the Arab and the surgery went through.

After the surgery, the Arab sent the Gujarati as appreciation for giving his blood, a new BMW, diamonds, jewelry, and half a million US dollars.

Once again the Arab had to go through a corrective surgery. His doctor telephoned the Gujarati who was more than happy to donate his blood again.

After the second surgery, the Arab sent the Gujarati a thank you card and a box of almond halwa. The Gujarati was shocked to see that the Arab this time did not reciprocate the Gujarati's kind gesture as he had anticipated.

He phoned the Arab and asked him "This time also I thought that you would give me some thing like a Toyota Prado, Diamonds and Jewelry. But you gave only a card and a box of almond sweets.

To this the Arab replied "Can't help it, Bapu..... Now I have Gujju blood in my veins!!"

The line up read:

Ian Gillian – Lead Vocals

John Lord – Key Boards

Ian Paice – Drums<