Such a painful story.. Heart-wrenching but inspiring all the same.
(via Friday Magazine)
It’s almost a year since her daughter, Jyoti Singh, was brutually gang raped on a bus in New Delhi and died of her horrific injuries 13 days later. But Asha Devi, 46, will never be able to forgive Jyoti’s murderers and says she wants to see them hang as justice for her girl. Here she speaks exclusively to Friday…
Badri Singh, parents of Jyoti Singh, cannot forgive their daughter’s killers.
Her voice cut through my thoughts. “I’m off to the cinema,’’ my daughter Jyoti Singh called out. I glanced at the clock. It was 5.45pm. “OK, love,” I smiled. “See you later, don’t be late.”
Jyoti was 23, but I always worried about her. I worried about all of my children – Gaurav 20, and Saurav, 15. My girl loved the cinema and had been talking about going to see Life of Pi for ages. It was good for her to take some time out – she was in the final year of her physiotherapy degree course at a college in Dehradun about four hours’ drive away, and had come to Delhi looking for an internship.
My Jyoti was a clever girl, she always had been. She wanted to become a doctor, but we couldn’t afford to put her through medical college. That’s why she had opted for physiotherapy instead.
She’d been studying hard and she deserved a night out with her friend, Awnindra Pandey. They’d been friends for years and often went to the cinema together.
Jyoti had met Awnindra, 28, an IT specialist, through a friend while she was working part-time at a call centre in the city to help pay for her studies. We had spoken to him on the phone often and he came across as a nice boy.
So after Jyoti left, I got busy in the kitchen preparing a dinner of chappatis and a vegetable curry in our modest two-room house in Dwarka, a semi-rural suburb of Delhi, and didn’t notice time fly by. Around 8pm, my sons Gaurav and Saurav returned home. It was a Sunday, December 16, and they’d been out with their friends. “Are you hungry?” I asked them as they looked to see what I was cooking.
My husband Badri Singh wouldn’t be home for ages. He was as a baggage loader at Delhi Airport and worked shifts. I wasn’t expecting him until 10.30pm so I would dish up the boys’ dinner, then eat later with Badri, 54.
I bustled around the kitchen, ladling out the curry for my sons. It was 9pm, and I sat chatting with them about their days, and before I knew it another hour had gone by.
“Jyoti should have been home by now,” I mumbled, and tried calling her on her mobile.
There was no answer. The phone rang but she didn’t pick up. Worry beat inside me. “Where is she?” I wondered. Why wasn’t she answering the phone. Jyoti had never been this late before and always called if she was delayed.
I couldn’t relax. New Delhi is a dangerous city, everyone knew that, but Jyoti was a sensible girl. She wouldn’t do anything risky. My husband arrived home at 10.30pm, and I ran up to him.
“Jyoti isn’t home yet,’’ I cried, fear taking hold now. I was getting hysterical. “I’ve been calling her phone but there’s been no answer. I just feel something’s happened to her.’’
Instantly he looked as worried as I was. He called Awnindra’s mobile but there was no answer.
Desperate, we started calling some of her friends just in case they knew their whereabouts but no one had heard from them.
“Something’s happened,” I kept saying, dialling Jyoti and Anwindra’s phones over and over again, hoping one of them would pick up and tell us they were safe.”
About 25km away, in a slum called Ravidas colony in South Delhi, Ram Singh and his younger brother Mukesh were wondering how to liven up their Sunday. A widower, Ram, 34, earned a living as a bus driver ferrying school children. Sharing a one-room house with Mukesh, 26, who worked intermittently as a taxi driver, they were notorious in the neighbourhood for their rowdy behaviour and violence.
Together with two friends who worked on and off as assistants on the bus – 17-year-old Raju (name changed) and 28-year-old named Akshay Thakur – they began drinking in the evening. After three hours of hitting the bottle, at around 8pm on Sunday, Ram Singh got a call from the owner of the bus asking him to get him a cylinder of cooking gas.
“Let’s go and have some fun,’’ he reportedly told his friends and all four set off in the bus. On the way they picked up two more friends – Pawan Gupta, 19, a fruit seller, and Vinay Sharma, 20, a cleaner and gym instructor – and together they headed off to the city.
Hoping to make a quick buck, they stopped their vehicle at several designated bus stops calling out for anyone who wanted a ride to Nehru Place, a shopping centre. They managed to get one fare. The man who got in, a carpenter, was promptly beaten, robbed of his phone and Rs1,400 (Dh82) and dumped from the vehicle. He didn’t bother telling the police.
The six continued their inebriated revelry driving across the city looking for more victims. According to police reports, to entice people into the bus, three of the men sat on different seats pretending to be passengers.
Meanwhile, at around 9pm, Jyoti and Awnindra left the cinema in Select City Mall, in Saket, after watching Life of Pi.
Because it was Sunday, there were no official Delhi Metropolitan Corporation buses to take the duo back to Dwarka, a distance of around 24km. They tried hailing taxis and waving down auto rickshaws but no one wanted to travel that distance.
The pair persuaded one to take them two miles to another bus stop where they hoped to catch a bus home. As they stood on the road, a bus with blacked-out windows stopped near the duo. Mukesh was at the wheel.
Raju, the youngest, leaned out from the open door and asked if the duo wanted a lift. Jyoti and Awnindra said yes and jumped on the bus, paying Rs20 fare each as the bus headed off towards Dwarka.
“With each passing minute Badri and I were growing increasingly desperate. Jyoti and Awnindra had not called and for some reason I kept thinking something had happened to my daughter. Then at 11.15pm, the phone rang.
“Are you the parent of Jyoti Singh?’’ a man who identified himself as a police officer asked my husband. “Your daughter has been in an accident and has been admitted to the Safdarjung Hospital in Delhi. You need to come here immediately.’’
I saw Badri’s face go pale even as he was listening to the man.
“What’s wrong?” I asked and when he told me I almost collapsed. “I knew something was wrong with my girl,’’ I cried.
Badri meanwhile dashed out. Since we don’t have a car, he ran to ask a neighbour with a motorbike to give him a lift to the hospital 17km away. “Go, please go,” I yelled. “Me and the boys will take a cab.’’
Everything was a blur and I was crying, thinking the worst. Had she been in a car accident? Had she been attacked? I was trembling and crying as I waited for a taxi. None came and it was an hour later before another neighbour finally gave us a lift.
My mind was racing, and I just wanted to see Jyoti. So as soon as the car stopped outside the hospital, I started running through the corridors.
A nurse told me Jyoti had been admitted to the intensive care section and a knot of fear twisted inside. What had happened to my girl?
I entered the room and saw my daughter lying on a bed. Her eyes were closed and she was covered with a hospital regulation green blanket. There were a few nurses hovering around my child. I ran up to her and held her hand, then touched her forehead gently.
“Jyoti,’’ I called out. “I’m here.’’
Her eyelids fluttered open partially, then she started crying. “Don’t worry, you’ll be alright, beta (child),’’ I said, trying to calm her.
“Ma,’’ she said softly. “Ma, I’m in so much pain, please make the pain go away.’’ She started sobbing and I had to bite my lip, to stop my own tears falling. I had no idea what had happened yet, but my girl was obviously in agony, and I just wanted to take her pain away.
She was flitting in and out of consciousness.
“My darling girl,’’ I whispered, kissing her forehead, not knowing how I could help her.
She appeared too weak to talk but was making an effort to tell me how she was.
Eventually a doctor came up to talk to us.
“I’m afraid there’s very little we can do for her,’’ the doctor said. I almost fainted when I heard his words. Then I began shouting. “No!” I cried, fury mingling with my fear. “You have to save her, you have to save my Jyoti.”
I was sobbing now, my entire chest heaving. Badri held me, moving me away from the bed so the nurses could look after Jyoti. But I wouldn’t be quiet.
“What happened to my baby?’’ I asked him. He was stroking my face and telling me not to worry, but how could I not? “She’ll be alright,’’ he kept consoling me.
It was 1am, and the police came to the ICU to take Jyoti’s statement. Although extremely feeble, she gestured with her hand for me to come to her side. “Ma, please stay by my side,’’ she said, crying.
“I will, darling. I will be here with you,’’ I promised, taking her hand.
Then she began to tell the police what had happened – and I realised she hadn’t been in an accident. She had been brutally assaulted on a bus and raped.
As difficult as it was to listen to it all, I didn’t want to leave her bedside even for a second. Badri couldn’t sit in. He just couldn’t bring himself to hear any details, but I broke my heart listening to everything my Jyoti had endured. It was an horrific story but my daughter, even though in obvious pain, was determined to tell it.”
Within minutes of Jyoti and Awnindra getting on the bus, the men began to antagonise him.
“What are you doing with a girl so late?’’ one of them reportedly asked.
Ram Singh began to verbally abuse the IT professional as the bus headed for the outskirts of the city. Then he got physical and he threw a punch.
Within minutes a fight had broken out.
Jyoti began screaming, but one of the men grabbed a metal bar and began hitting Awnindra with it.
Overpowered, Awnindra lay helpless on the floor of the bus covered in blood and reeling from his injuries. He was stripped.
Crying for help, Jyoti banged on the darkened windows as Mukesh drove the bus through the Delhi evening traffic.
Two of the men dragged her to the rear of the bus and began beating her. Then one by one, all of the men raped her. Although she fought back, biting and scratching, the petite woman was no match for the men.
All the while, Mukesh continued driving the white bus, passing through three police checkpoints before he turned around at some point and began heading back into the city.
Eventually, the men stopped the bus on the side of a main road and dragging the semi-conscious Jyoti and Awnindra by the hair, threw them onto the road naked and bleeding. Some reports say that the driver of the bus made an attempt to run over the duo, but Awnindra managed to drag them both away from the road. The bus then disappeared.
Amazingly, despite their appalling injuries, the two tried standing up and waving down a vehicle for help. No one stopped. Vehicles would slow down to look at them, hoot their horn then speed off, Awnindra would later tell the police.
For close to 40 minutes, the couple lay on the slip road of the highway before a small crowd gathered around them.
Nobody was willing to make the first move or take responsibility for helping the two lying on the ground.
Eventually, someone called the police and officers turned up.
“My child was unbelievably brave as she gave her statement. During some parts she cried, but I held her hand throughout, willing her on. I can’t describe some of the things they did to my Jyoti… I can’t believe there are human beings alive who can be so evil.
She was determined to use all her remaining strength to make sure that the police had the details about the crime.
I felt like breaking down and crying but I had to hold her hand and listen. I wanted to be strong for Jyoti.
I was aghast when I heard that while my baby girl was lying on the road naked and in agony and Awnindra was covered in blood, the officers were arguing over which police station should claim the case. Even as Awnindra was begging them to rush them to hospital they were continuing to argue.
By the time they brought my girl to the hospital, she had lost a lot of blood.
Awnindra was also in the hospital being treated and giving his statement.
Badri, who had left the room, was shellshocked and horrified when I later told him the nightmare our daughter endured. He could only listen and cry.”
Jyoti’s external and internal injuries were horrifying. Parts of her intestines were severely damaged and even as doctors attempted to remove the most affected parts to prevent infection, they knew they were fighting a losing battle.
One doctor reportedly told Badri that his daughter was unlikely to survive more than a few hours. She was put on a ventilator as news of the rape hit the headlines. Protests began in Delhi and across the country.
Marches, demonstrations and night long vigils were being organised on a scale never before seen in India. Dubbed in the media as ‘Delhi’s daughter’, ‘Nirbhaya’ and ‘Braveheart’, Jyoti was fighting for her life in the hospital even as the police managed to zero in on the culprits – from CCTV footage of the routes through which the bus passed – and soon began making arrests. Ram Singh was the first to be caught. The others followed.
“We were all very hopeful our Jyoti would survive. We really believed she would come through. Even she was sure she’d recover. I never left her side and I talked to her.
I told her stories of when she was little, about what was happening outside the hospital, events in our family, about her friends…. I was doing all I could to keep her mind occupied.
She continued to slip in and out of consciousness. One time when she opened her eyes, she told me, “Ma, I’ll be fine. When I get out of here, we’ll start again.’’
Another time she said, “I want those men found and hanged.’’
She would cry just remembering what had happened, and I’d try to calm her.
“Don’t think about them,’’ I’d say, wiping her forehead with a damp cloth.
On some occasions when she regained consciousness, she signed that she wanted to write something. She was unable to speak because of the feeding tube in her mouth so she scribbled notes.
One afternoon five days after the horrifying incident, she wrote, “I want to live, I want to survive and stay with you all.’’
I couldn’t stop crying.
Then I learned the whole of India was coming out in support of our Jyoti. When I heard about the protests on the street I was overwhelmed with pride – pride that my daughter had had such an effect on people.”
On Christmas day, nine days after the attack, the young woman’s condition began to worsen. She had serious internal bleeding and her vital signs were failing.
It was December 26, and I wondered whether Jyoti would be able to eat some food like dhal, vegetable and chappatis. I knew it would help her to build her strength. But she was almost constantly on the ventilator and was clearly in a lot of pain whenever she regained consciousness.
Whenever she came to, she would gesture for me to sit next to her bed and hold her hand.
Then late that afternoon, she took a turn for the worse. She suffered a heart attack and the doctors began making arrangements to rush her to Mount Elizabeth Hospital, in Singapore. We were told there were better facilities there. I was with her as she was airlifted to Singapore. I refused to leave her side. I did not want to let her out of my sight. There she underwent a series of operations.
Badri and I waited, hoping and praying as she underwent each one that she would come back to us. That went on for three days.
But on December 29, Jyoti died. I don’t remember how I found out or who told me the terrible news. The details of those days are still a blur. I have no idea how I coped. I don’t even know how I or Badri returned to India.
The only thing I remember is focusing on ensuring the culprits were convicted.
Thanks to the public reaction and the world’s media the Government had to act fast in this case. We knew that it can sometimes take years for a case to reach court but some senior members of the Government assured us that Jyoti’s case would go through a fast-track court and a trial would be quick. Our only hope of any peace and closure was to see that the culprits were found guilty and sentenced to death. Like Jyoti had wanted.”
Jyoti’s body was brought back to India and cremated in Dwarka according to Hindu rites. Later, her ashes were scattered on the River Ganga by her father.
As soon as the news of her death spread, angry protests erupted across India.
Demonstrations and marches erupted across India with protestors seeking stringent laws andspeedy trials for rape cases.
Large crowds began holding vigils with placards reading, “You inspired us all” and, “No to violence against women”, which continued for several days after her death. Earlier, while Jyoti was in hospital, the prime minister made a televised speech expressing concern and sympathy. Now, after her death, celebrities and senior members of society spoke out against the slow judicial system arguing for quicker trials and stiffer punishments. One of the accused ended his life in jail.
“We were able to give Jyoti a traditional Hindu funeral but it was as if I was behind glass, not really there. I couldn’t focus. It was all blurred. I couldn’t imagine saying goodbye to my darling daughter.
“Our girl will get justice,’’ Badri kept telling me. It was all that helped us through every second of every day since she died. We couldn’t sleep or eat. I had no interest in anything but making sure her killers got the death sentence.
There hasn’t been a single moment when I have not missed her. We had a wonderful mother-daughter relationship. Jyoti was a loving and caring daughter, she never brought any troubles to our door.
She was a tough young woman and had dreams of making a better life for herself. She believed that her studies would give her the opportunity to help all the family live a better life. She was kind and thoughtful, always helping me cook and clear the dishes after dinner even if she had lots of college work.
We used to giggle a lot talking about some movie or soap on TV as I prepared dinner. I missed her when she was away at college in Dehradun and used to look forward to having her back.
She carried a great burden on her shoulders. She felt very responsible for her family’s future and she wanted to play a role in changing our fortunes by getting a well-paid job and affording things we had never dreamed of.
She was our oldest, so parents always have high hopes for their first child, and she never disappointed.
Badri and I lost our very first child – a son – soon after he was born. When Jyoti was born she was rushed to intensive care because she was premature. The first month of her life was touch and go because she was very weak but she fought to go on and live. She was born a fighter and was always a fighter. She fought the men during the rape and she fought to stay alive. I guess that’s why we too became fighters – from the moment she was taken from us, we have been fighting the case. It was our reason to get up in the morning and the reason to leave the house.
And on September 13, when her killers were finally found guilty at Saket Court, in New Delhi, I was relieved.
I was in court. I wanted to see them sentenced to death. They deserved it. When the judge announced the death penalty I stared right at the killers and I saw the fear in their eyes. Two of them were crying. But I didn’t care about their pain and I had no sympathy.
I will never forgive or forget what they did to my daughter.
Gaurav misses his sister every day. He often tells me, “Life is going to be so difficult without her. Without her guidance I don’t know what to do or how to go about life again. I miss her so much especially in the evenings because that’s the time we used to be together at home. Even when she was away from home doing her studies we would speak to each other everyday on the phone.’’
But now, only emptiness is left. When I wake up in the morning there’s nothing to do, nothing to fight for and I’m reminded more than ever that my daughter is not here; she is not with us.
But we will attempt to continue with our lives. I think that is the only way forward.
A sand sculpture in memory of Jyoti by award winning sand artist Sudarshan Pattnaik on a beach in Odisha, Eastern India.
Jyoti has left a legacy and she has given hope of change to India. I feel her life has been sacrificed to teach the world that rapes and this kind of brutality cannot go on.
Her death has been a message to the world and an inspiration to women from all walks of life.
We have no idea what our future holds now, but I am proud of my daughter and her lasting legacy.”
(via Converge Magazine)
By Nina Concepcion
It’s a real thing. People may scoff at you and say, “You’re so young!” But truly, it is a real thing to have a quarter-life crisis.
And I think I’m going through one. Right now. Because the other night I freaked out, grabbed my roommate’s construction scissors and chopped bangs thinking I’d look like Zooey Deschanel and start wearing Peter Pan collars and listening to vinyls. Instead I just look like a girl who tried to cut bangs and still needs to lose like 30 pounds before she’s anywhere close to trying to be Zooey Deschanel.
People may roll their eyes and say, “You have the rest of your life to worry! Your 20s are there for you to mess up, travel, make mistakes, have FUN!”
Oh REALLY? Have you ever tried to have fun while this jerk named Sallie Mae is glaring over your shoulder, watching every single penny while you are like, “GOSH Sallie Mae I just want to buy that pumpkin candle at Target” and Sallie Mae is all like, “Girl, put it back!” And then you put it back and glare at all your friends who have apartments that smell like autumn.
SIDENOTE: If you aren’t aware of Sallie Mae she is the worst of American student loans and her only goal is to suck out your soul.
The thing is, it’s so easy to throw pity parties for myself. Oh boohoo. I’m 24. I’m single. I’m not wealthy. I live in Los Angeles and don’t have to answer to anyone and have a car and an apartment and a job and….waaaait….
Pause and breathe and think.
Be thankful be thankful be thankful, I have to remind myself. I walk to the beach and I watch the sunset and it’s cheesy and sometimes it’s absolutely necessary. It’s necessary to sit on the damp sand, feeling it fall over my hands and feet and between my toes and I feel the wind running through my hair. I hear the pitter-patter of the little seagulls’ feet and I hear the voices of strangers around me and I think, “It is OK.” It is OK.
I grew up Catholic. I grew up Catholic and guilty and confused as to why I had to kneel every five seconds and why I had to be an altar server and why I had to pick a confirmation name because none of it made sense. But this morning I woke up and was just in my daily, boring routine of getting ready for work and the morning anxiety began to settle in. Panicking about money and life — I’m 24 and still share a room and I should have moved somewhere else besides Los Angeles and WHAT AM I DOING?
And for some bizarre reason, something we used to say in Catholic mass came into my mind and wouldn’t leave.
“Thanks be to God,” the priest would say.
“It is right to give Him thanks and praise,” we would reply.
I would say the words without any feeling, repeating them disconnected. But now, 11 years later, I feel them resonate deep within me.
It is RIGHT to give Him thanks and praise.
I hear the words, but everything feels far away and fuzzy because the distractions start to seep into my brain. The distractions of my phone buzzing, of traffic outside, of work and friendships and life. I feel overwhelmed and then I breathe and speak aloud because it’s not enough to wrestle with my thoughts inside.
“But God, I’m not always happy. I’m stressed and sad sometimes,” I say, pulling my knees up to my chin like a five-year-old, seconds away from a tantrum.
“I am with you,” is His answer.
I groan, rolling my eyes.
“You sound far away and that doesn’t help me pay my bills and feel better,” I snap, acting like a brat.
“I’m literally not going anywhere,” I hear God say. He doesn’t pat my head condescendingly. He doesn’t send me to time out. He takes me by surprise and pulls me in.
But all I want to be is alone.
But this doesn’t happen. I feel God in this moment. He’s here, in my room.
My annoyance reveals itself as anger and that turns into shame and that turns into tears and then I weep and weep until it feels like nothing is left. And there’s snot and hiccups.
“I’m sorry,” I say to God. “I’m sorry and I love you and thank you.”
And I feel lighter and better; I feel peace. I still feel afraid and nervous but I know I’m not alone. And I think that’s what I need to remember.
Especially the next time I try to cut my bangs because I certainly wouldn’t try that in front of anyone and God was probably all like WHAT are you doing my child!? That’s beside the point.
The point is —
Thank you is what I want my heart to say.
Because it is right to give Him thanks and praise.
Flickr photo (cc) by The World According To Marty
Exactly how I feel now, except I’m temporarily a lot more emotionally disabled and out of control.
By Allison Vesterfelt
Recently I was on a plane, reading a book, and I started crying.
I’m not much of a crier most of the time. I have my moments, of course, like anyone; usually in private. But I’m typically not the girl who cries in movie theaters or over hallmark commercials or even (in public) over well-written books. So of course it came as a huge surprise on the plane when the tears began to come and I realized, no matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t going to be able to will them away.
Oh no, not this now, I thought to myself.
But even as the thought entered my brain, I felt the first hot drop of salty water make a break for it and come streaming down my face. I put my head down, blinked a few times, hoping that would be it and I could move on — but no such luck.
In fact, the harder I tried to blink them back, the more persistently they pushed their way out of my eyelids and spilled down my cheeks.
You can imagine the awkward throat-clearing that followed from the man to my right, in 38C.
I hung my head in shame. He must think I’m crazy, I thought to myself. I pictured myself turning toward him, holding up the cover of the book and saying, between stilted breaths, and with my squeaky, crying voice:
“I’m sorry sir, it’s just a really good book!”
But I didn’t say anything. Instead, I just leaned my head back against the seat and let the tears flow. And you know what I decided while I was crying? I decided it’s okay. It’s okay if he thinks I’m crazy; and it’s okay if you think I’m crazy.
I’d rather be crazy.
I’d rather be crazy and vulnerable than to be the kind of person who can’t cry when the situation calls for it, or who won’t let herself feel anything at all.
I’ve been that girl. And I don’t miss her.
I’d rather be crazy enough to quit my job and go on a 50 state road trip than to spend years of my life doing work that is less than satisfying, than to grow up wondering “what if” I would have taken the leap. I was that girl for many years. The obedient girl. The rebellious girl. The angry girl.
They were all the same girl in different ways.
And to that girl I say: Good riddance.
• • •
I’d rather be crazy enough to move twice in one year — first from Florida to Minneapolis; then from Minneapolis to Nashville — when the pull is so strong in a certain direction, and when I’m sure it’s right, than to be the girl who sits on her hands, waiting for “perfect timing” that never seems to come.
I’ve spent so much time waiting, wasted so many years wishing for life to happen to me, instead of taking responsibility to make it happen myself.
I don’t want to be that girl anymore — that bored girl, that sad girl.
I’d rather be this girl, the girl who is committed to forgive, and love, and move, and act, and let go, push forward and believe even when it doesn’t make sense to believe; even if it means being disappointed, even if it means being hurt, again and again.
I’d rather set audacious goals, than to set mediocre ones I know I can meet, or not set goals at all, to maintain my fragile ego. I know that girl too well, and I don’t want to be her anymore.
I’d rather swing for the fences.
I’d rather be crazy.
I’d rather risk my whole life for something that matters than to get to the end and realized I played it safe so I could drive a nice car and own a leather couch. I’d rather hold to things loosely, feeling grateful for gifts as they come, and giving them away as they are needed by others.
I’d rather give to much than too little —
Too much love, too much money, too much of my time.
I’d rather be crazy.
I’ve spent most of my life trying to make sure people didn’t think I was crazy. But recently everything is changing. Recently I think to myself, while crying over a book on an airplane, who cares what the guy in 38C thinks anyway?
After all, crazy might not be so bad after all.
Quotes to live by:
1. “The great pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do. – Walter Bagehot”
2. “Be gentle to all and stern with yourself.” – Saint Teresa of Avila
3. “If you fell down yesterday, stand up today.” – H.G. Wells
4. “A successful man is one who can lay a firm foundation with the bricks others have thrown at him.” – David Brinkley
5. “A person with a new idea is crank until the idea succeeds.” – Mark Twain
6. “Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.” – Confucius
7. “By working faithfully eight hours a day, you may get to be a boss and work twelve hours a day.” – Robert Frost
8. “Be nice to people on your way up because you meet them on your way down.” – Jimmy Durante
9. “Your attitude, not your aptitude, will determine your altitude.” – Zig Ziglar
10. “Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time and it annoys the pig.” – George Bernard Shaw