Parveen Kumar

Learning investments

[Benjamin Netanyahu - בנימין נתניהו @netanyahu]

My salute to the Indian pilot Captain Smit Machchhar for his extraordinary bravery.

Despite being stabbed and seriously injured, he fought back, resisted, opened the cockpit door, and enabled passengers and crew to overpower the attacker — preventing a catastrophic mid-air disaster.

He saved the lives of 174 people, including Israeli citizens and other nationals.

I wish Captain Machchhar a speedy and full recovery.

He is a true hero.

[Parveen Kumar @pkb0164]

@piyushchaudhry Why spread false news?

[Parveen Kumar @pkb0164]

@NsNitinsinha Safety is paramount

[Parveen Kumar @pkb0164]

@ChanderBhatia01 Wow, such a well-planned diet and dedication. Thanks for sharing, this is super inspiring!

[Parveen Kumar @pkb0164]

@foodpharmer2 Really unfortunate: companies are concerned only with their profits, and regulators don't care.

[Parveen Kumar @pkb0164]

@rishibagree 🤣

[Parveen Kumar @pkb0164]

@storiesankahi Engaging

[Stories - Bas Kuch Ankahi @storiesankahi]

The sun was already dying when Cole rode into Dusthaven.

The main street stretched empty under a sky the color of old blood. No dogs barked. No doors stood open. The saloon’s batwing doors hung crooked and still. Even the wind had quit, as if the whole town was holding its breath.
Cole’s horse shifted beneath him, nervous. He kept one hand loose near the Colt on his hip and scanned the boarded windows. Curtains twitched in two places and then went still again.

He swung down in front of the only building that still showed a light—the sheriff’s office. The door stood ajar.
Inside, a single oil lamp burned low. A man sat behind the desk with his boots up, hat pulled low over his eyes. He didn’t look up when Cole stepped in.
“You’re late,” the man said.
Cole stopped just inside the threshold. “Didn’t know I was expected.”

The sheriff lifted his head. His face was the color of dried bone, and his eyes were the same flat gray as the dust outside. He smiled without showing teeth.
“Everyone’s expected, mister. Question is whether they ride in… or get dragged.”
Somewhere behind Cole, a floorboard creaked. Then another. Soft, careful steps moving through the dark rooms of the building.

The sheriff’s smile widened a fraction.
“You hear that?” he asked quietly. “That’s them getting ready. They’ve been waiting on you since sundown.”

Cole’s fingers brushed the worn grip of his revolver. Outside, a porch board groaned under a heavy boot.
The lamp flame shivered.
From the blackness at the back of the office, a dry voice whispered—
“Close the door, stranger. You’re the last one.”

Cole turned, gun already half-drawn—
—and froze.

The man who stepped into the lamplight was wearing his own face.
Same scar along the jaw. Same dusty trail clothes. Same empty eyes.

The double smiled the exact smile Cole had seen in every mirror for the last three years.
“Took you long enough to get here,” his own voice said. “We’ve been dying to meet you.”

Behind the double, more figures emerged from the dark—every man Cole had ever put in the ground. They looked exactly as they had in their final moments. Waiting. Patient.

The sheriff (who was no longer the sheriff) leaned forward and blew out the lamp.

In the sudden black, a dozen familiar voices spoke as one:
“Welcome home.”

[Stories - Bas Kuch Ankahi @storiesankahi]

The sun was already dying when Cole rode into Dusthaven.

The main street stretched empty under a sky the color of old blood. No dogs barked. No doors stood open. The saloon’s batwing doors hung crooked and still. Even the wind had quit, as if the whole town was holding its breath.
Cole’s horse shifted beneath him, nervous. He kept one hand loose near the Colt on his hip and scanned the boarded windows. Curtains twitched in two places and then went still again.

He swung down in front of the only building that still showed a light—the sheriff’s office. The door stood ajar.
Inside, a single oil lamp burned low. A man sat behind the desk with his boots up, hat pulled low over his eyes. He didn’t look up when Cole stepped in.
“You’re late,” the man said.
Cole stopped just inside the threshold. “Didn’t know I was expected.”

The sheriff lifted his head. His face was the color of dried bone, and his eyes were the same flat gray as the dust outside. He smiled without showing teeth.
“Everyone’s expected, mister. Question is whether they ride in… or get dragged.”
Somewhere behind Cole, a floorboard creaked. Then another. Soft, careful steps moving through the dark rooms of the building.

The sheriff’s smile widened a fraction.
“You hear that?” he asked quietly. “That’s them getting ready. They’ve been waiting on you since sundown.”

Cole’s fingers brushed the worn grip of his revolver. Outside, a porch board groaned under a heavy boot.
The lamp flame shivered.
From the blackness at the back of the office, a dry voice whispered—
“Close the door, stranger. You’re the last one.”

Cole turned, gun already half-drawn—
—and froze.

The man who stepped into the lamplight was wearing his own face.
Same scar along the jaw. Same dusty trail clothes. Same empty eyes.

The double smiled the exact smile Cole had seen in every mirror for the last three years.
“Took you long enough to get here,” his own voice said. “We’ve been dying to meet you.”

Behind the double, more figures emerged from the dark—every man Cole had ever put in the ground. They looked exactly as they had in their final moments. Waiting. Patient.

The sheriff (who was no longer the sheriff) leaned forward and blew out the lamp.

In the sudden black, a dozen familiar voices spoke as one:
“Welcome home.”

[Stories - Bas Kuch Ankahi @storiesankahi]

@elonmusk

[Stories - Bas Kuch Ankahi @storiesankahi]

In the small coastal town of Harbor’s Edge, where the salt wind carried the scent of pine and the evenings glowed with the soft gold of late summer, lived Emily.

She moved through the world with a pair of well-worn crutches, the result of a spinal injury from a childhood accident. Her legs were weak, but her spirit had never asked permission to shine. She taught art at the local high school, filling classrooms with color and quiet laughter, and spent her free hours sketching by the rocky shoreline—long, flowing lines of waves, weathered driftwood, and the quiet faces of people who thought no one was watching.

James arrived in town one rainy May, a quiet software engineer transferred from the city. He rented the small cottage next door to Emily’s. The first time he saw her, she was struggling with her umbrella in the wind while balancing her crutches on the uneven path. Without thinking, he stepped forward, held the umbrella over her, and walked her the rest of the way home. She thanked him with a smile that made the gray day feel warmer.

They began meeting by accident that became habit. He would find her sketching under the old oak near the beach. She would find him quietly repairing the loose step on her porch without being asked. Conversations started small—about the weather, about the stray cat they both fed—and grew into something deeper. She told him about the days her legs refused to cooperate and the nights she still dreamed of running freely along the sand.

He told her about the loneliness of crowded cities and how silence had become his only companion until now.
One evening, as fireflies flickered along the boardwalk, James finally said what had been growing in his chest.
“I don’t see the crutches when I look at you, Emily. I see the way you make the world brighter just by being in it. I see how you never let anything make you small. And I… I love you.”
Emily’s sketchbook slipped from her lap. For a moment she was silent, eyes shining.
“People have always looked at me and seen what I cannot do,” she whispered. “You’re the first who looked and saw what I still can. I love you too, James. Fully. Without holding back.”

Their love was not dramatic. It was ordinary in the most extraordinary way. He learned the rhythm of her steps and walked beside her, never ahead, never behind. She taught him to notice the small beauties—the way light fell on wet stones, the quiet courage it took simply to keep going. On days her body ached, he made her favorite pasta and sat with her in comfortable silence. On days his work drained him, she sketched his tired face until he smiled again.

They married beneath the same old oak where they had first truly talked, the ocean as their witness. Guests saw a man who held his wife’s hand as if it were the most precious thing he had ever been given, and a woman who stood tall on her crutches, radiant in the soft coastal light.
Years later, when people asked Emily what love felt like, she would smile and say:
“It feels like someone who never tried to fix me, only walked with me—exactly as I am.”
And James, whenever he heard her say it, would simply take her hand and squeeze it, as if to answer: Exactly as you are is more than enough. It is everything.

[Stories - Bas Kuch Ankahi @storiesankahi]

In the small coastal town of Harbor’s Edge, where the salt wind carried the scent of pine and the evenings glowed with the soft gold of late summer, lived Emily.

She moved through the world with a pair of well-worn crutches, the result of a spinal injury from a childhood accident. Her legs were weak, but her spirit had never asked permission to shine. She taught art at the local high school, filling classrooms with color and quiet laughter, and spent her free hours sketching by the rocky shoreline—long, flowing lines of waves, weathered driftwood, and the quiet faces of people who thought no one was watching.

James arrived in town one rainy May, a quiet software engineer transferred from the city. He rented the small cottage next door to Emily’s. The first time he saw her, she was struggling with her umbrella in the wind while balancing her crutches on the uneven path. Without thinking, he stepped forward, held the umbrella over her, and walked her the rest of the way home. She thanked him with a smile that made the gray day feel warmer.

They began meeting by accident that became habit. He would find her sketching under the old oak near the beach. She would find him quietly repairing the loose step on her porch without being asked. Conversations started small—about the weather, about the stray cat they both fed—and grew into something deeper. She told him about the days her legs refused to cooperate and the nights she still dreamed of running freely along the sand.

He told her about the loneliness of crowded cities and how silence had become his only companion until now.
One evening, as fireflies flickered along the boardwalk, James finally said what had been growing in his chest.
“I don’t see the crutches when I look at you, Emily. I see the way you make the world brighter just by being in it. I see how you never let anything make you small. And I… I love you.”
Emily’s sketchbook slipped from her lap. For a moment she was silent, eyes shining.
“People have always looked at me and seen what I cannot do,” she whispered. “You’re the first who looked and saw what I still can. I love you too, James. Fully. Without holding back.”

Their love was not dramatic. It was ordinary in the most extraordinary way. He learned the rhythm of her steps and walked beside her, never ahead, never behind. She taught him to notice the small beauties—the way light fell on wet stones, the quiet courage it took simply to keep going. On days her body ached, he made her favorite pasta and sat with her in comfortable silence. On days his work drained him, she sketched his tired face until he smiled again.

They married beneath the same old oak where they had first truly talked, the ocean as their witness. Guests saw a man who held his wife’s hand as if it were the most precious thing he had ever been given, and a woman who stood tall on her crutches, radiant in the soft coastal light.
Years later, when people asked Emily what love felt like, she would smile and say:
“It feels like someone who never tried to fix me, only walked with me—exactly as I am.”
And James, whenever he heard her say it, would simply take her hand and squeeze it, as if to answer: Exactly as you are is more than enough. It is everything.

[Stories - Bas Kuch Ankahi @storiesankahi]

In the small coastal town of Harbor’s Edge, where the salt wind carried the scent of pine and the evenings glowed with the soft gold of late summer, lived Emily.

She moved through the world with a pair of well-worn crutches, the result of a spinal injury from a childhood accident. Her legs were weak, but her spirit had never asked permission to shine. She taught art at the local high school, filling classrooms with color and quiet laughter, and spent her free hours sketching by the rocky shoreline—long, flowing lines of waves, weathered driftwood, and the quiet faces of people who thought no one was watching.

James arrived in town one rainy May, a quiet software engineer transferred from the city. He rented the small cottage next door to Emily’s. The first time he saw her, she was struggling with her umbrella in the wind while balancing her crutches on the uneven path. Without thinking, he stepped forward, held the umbrella over her, and walked her the rest of the way home. She thanked him with a smile that made the gray day feel warmer.

They began meeting by accident that became habit. He would find her sketching under the old oak near the beach. She would find him quietly repairing the loose step on her porch without being asked. Conversations started small—about the weather, about the stray cat they both fed—and grew into something deeper. She told him about the days her legs refused to cooperate and the nights she still dreamed of running freely along the sand.

He told her about the loneliness of crowded cities and how silence had become his only companion until now.
One evening, as fireflies flickered along the boardwalk, James finally said what had been growing in his chest.
“I don’t see the crutches when I look at you, Emily. I see the way you make the world brighter just by being in it. I see how you never let anything make you small. And I… I love you.”
Emily’s sketchbook slipped from her lap. For a moment she was silent, eyes shining.
“People have always looked at me and seen what I cannot do,” she whispered. “You’re the first who looked and saw what I still can. I love you too, James. Fully. Without holding back.”

Their love was not dramatic. It was ordinary in the most extraordinary way. He learned the rhythm of her steps and walked beside her, never ahead, never behind. She taught him to notice the small beauties—the way light fell on wet stones, the quiet courage it took simply to keep going. On days her body ached, he made her favorite pasta and sat with her in comfortable silence. On days his work drained him, she sketched his tired face until he smiled again.

They married beneath the same old oak where they had first truly talked, the ocean as their witness. Guests saw a man who held his wife’s hand as if it were the most precious thing he had ever been given, and a woman who stood tall on her crutches, radiant in the soft coastal light.
Years later, when people asked Emily what love felt like, she would smile and say:
“It feels like someone who never tried to fix me, only walked with me—exactly as I am.”
And James, whenever he heard her say it, would simply take her hand and squeeze it, as if to answer: Exactly as you are is more than enough. It is everything.

[Stories - Bas Kuch Ankahi @storiesankahi]

@elonmusk

[Stories - Bas Kuch Ankahi @storiesankahi]

The Last Lantern Keeper
In the fog-shrouded village of Eldermoor, where the sea swallowed the sun each evening, lived Mira, the lantern keeper. Every night at dusk she climbed the crumbling lighthouse steps, lit the great brass lamp, and sent its beam sweeping across the black water like a promise no one remembered making.

The villagers said the light kept the old things away—shadows with too many joints and voices that sounded like drowning men. Mira never believed the stories until the night the lamp refused to light.

She struck the flint again and again. Nothing. The wick stayed cold and black. Outside, the fog thickened into something solid, pressing against the glass. Then she heard it: a soft scrape, like claws on stone, climbing the spiral stairs.

Mira’s hands shook, but she was stubborn. She poured the last of the whale oil into the bowl, whispered an old prayer her grandmother had taught her, and struck the flint one final time. A single spark leapt.
The flame caught—small, defiant, the color of molten gold. The lighthouse beam blazed to life, cutting through the fog like a knife. But this time the light did not sweep out to sea. It turned inward, bathing Mira in warmth.

In that golden circle she saw them: the old things. Dozens of them, hunched and dripping, eyes like broken lanterns. They did not lunge. They simply watched her, waiting.
Mira understood then. The light had never been meant to keep them away. It had been meant to guide them home.

[Stories - Bas Kuch Ankahi @storiesankahi]

@sssirxn

[Parveen Kumar @pkb0164]

@storiesankahi @sssirxn Wow

[Parveen Kumar @pkb0164]

@GabbbarSingh True - bang on the point.

[Parveen Kumar @pkb0164]

@storiesankahi 🤔

[Parveen Kumar @pkb0164]

@storiesankahi Thought provoking.