The Book
When I was a kid---13-odd years old-- I found a book in a forgotten corner of my home. It had a thick film of dust planted in its hardbound cover and the pages had adopted a tinge of pale yellowness. The book looked old by all means and I gathered that no one had turned its pages for a long time. The book was voluminous and so it dented whatever desire I had to read it. Nevertheless, I took a look into its pages. There were innumerable phrases of virtue in it written in a very soothing manner. The book was a modern English translation of some another popular book that was written in ancient English centuries ago. Though I can’t recall the exact words that I laid my eyes upon, one of those phrases read something like this:
The only way a man can be perpetually happy is by not handing over all the sources of his happiness to others.I liked what I read and I have always tried to follow those providential words very passionately since then. I do concede that I have failed miserably few times while translating those words into action but the number of times I have succeeded ridiculously outnumbers those when I have conked out. By the way, when I got rid of dust that veiled the face of the book, it read “The Bible”.
