#washerman

[authenticsolutionss]

Discover the timeless lesson taught by the fable of the Washerman's Donkey. This story reminds us to appreciate our own unique roles and not to imitate others for attention.

[blackknight-100]

Hi dear. Thank you for your lovely answers. May you please write something really angsty on Uttarkand about Sita and Ram along with a short resolution. Thanks again.

Hello! Thank you for the ask, here you go! I hope you like reading this:

1.

He learns it in the morning. It is bare five minutes past breakfast, five minutes since Sita put her arms around his neck and offered him pieces of chopped areca, five minutes of missing the sweetest woman in all the three worlds. Five minutes till his life is uprooted once more, like that fateful day so many years ago.

“Forgive me, My King,” says the messenger. He bows low, shoulders bent close to his hip. He is also quivering, for who would not when given the unenviable task of speaking to the king of the dishonor of a wife so dearly loved?

Rama turns away from the man. He is a god, even unawares, his Queen divine and divine-born. What should the complaints of mortal men mean to them? And yet so it does, as it did to his father, and their fathers before him. And so Rama, well-read in Dharma and the duties of Kings, bends his godly head to the whims of a washerman.

“So be it,” he says.

 

By the end of the night, Ayodhya’s royal family is in tatters. The most loyal of brothers spends his night howling at the king, deeming his orders an injustice. The most virtuous of wives sees the morning sun through the eaves of the forest, and the childing mother weeps.

 

2.

Koushalya has never been anything less than selflessly kind – and Rama has never shied away from making use of it. So he did when Dasharatha sent her only son away, so he did when Sita left her bereft of a daughter in her old age, and so he did when he refused to go with Bharata and dashed her hopes of a loving reunion. And Koushalya, who has never sought any joy for herself, Koushalya, daughter of Kosala – the greed for which kingdom is the root of all ills – bent her head to wills of her son and her daughter and her king, and asked no more.

Perhaps that is why Rama is so surprised when she insists on him remarrying. Why does she not understand that he cannot love another woman the same way she could never love any man other than Dasharatha?

“That is not true,” his mother says. “I learned to love your father out of duty, as he did as well. So too will you.”

“That is a terrible thing to say.”

“It is not, Rama. Not every man has beheld his bride in a fragrant garden, not every woman has walked the length and breadth of Aryavarta for her exiled groom. Most of us wedded in duty, for the king and kingdom that fed us and named us daughter and queen. It makes our love and loss no less. Such is the nature of things. So I have stood beside your late father with two sister-wives, and so I have held my Kosala close and dear, and loved her as I have loved you all. And so you shall now as well, for the kingdom that names you King.”

Rama hears this long speech and hears her interspersed sighs. He is King – by virtue of his birth and his mother’s as well – and a hundred thousand men in Ayodhya alone send him tribute for it. His raiment is ever sparkling and yellow-gold, his table groans under food. All men exalt him, from the foot of the mountains to the tip of seas, more than they even do Indra, King of Gods – is his loss of love not meagre payment?

And Rama, god-king, turns away and bows. “So be it,” he says and bends his head.

By noon, a sculptor is summoned, a hundred ingots of gold collected, and a thousand golden coins offered. By the time the fires of the Ashwamedha Yajna is lit, the Queen’s empty place at Rama’s side is filled by a golden mockery of the greatest woman on Aryavart.

 

3.

Sita of the forest is much changed, and yet she is still the same. Before her hermit’s attire Rama and his silks appear cheap; her garlands of flowers make mockery of his gold and jewels. Even Surya, father of Ikshvaku’s Clan, bends his rays around her curves, shamed by the light in her eyes.

Come back, he wants to say, please, come back with me.

And yet Rama is King where Sita is no longer queen, and will never be unless every man in Ayodhya knows of her innocence. Lanka knew, as did Kishkinda, for Rama would not allow any tarnish upon the name of Raghu’s scions. From his own people he had sought more trust, to his own folly.

She looks at him quietly, clutching at wild children who should have known palaces, with tears in eyes that should have never seen such sorrow.

But Rama has bowed his head to the will of his people, has heard their charges and said, “So be it.”

 

And thus under the eaves of a forest sister to Dandaka, Sita’s chastity is questioned again. And thus, the King strikes the innocent once more, punishing where he should have shielded, being the judge where he should have been the guard, and the ransom for a Queen’s return is named.

 

+1.

Gentle is the land of Mithila, sweet are her songs. Wise is her sagely King, and blessed are her people. And so she has passed these virtues unto her daughter, as all good mothers do, for the land has borne Sita long before any man could lay claim upon her.

To scorn her is to scorn the loyal, the hapless and the earthbound; to forsake her is to forsake the daughter and the mother and the wife. Kosala, the kingdom that called itself Dasharatha’s for all that Koushalya was its child, has done just that – a land of raving men that seeks to destroy those who have borne and raised them.

Sita has been wife for nigh two decades, is even now a mother. And yet she is woman, and her kin are those with curved hips and gentle hands – beautiful features that would be sought and lusted after like leopards lust for calves. And as the farmer bemoans the trembling calf that strayed from the herd, so too would the world bemoan the women who fall into the jaws of men, would say: why did she not run away, why did she not fight; why did she not slay herself, that now one must doubt her husband’s might?

So, Sita lifts her head where it had been bowed, blinks tears away from her eyes.

“That cannot be,” she tells the King, for no longer is Rama husband and lover, and shakes her head.

“Mother!” she calls. Divine she is, and divine-born, and the earth, her mother, rends apart for her. Her children scream, her once-husband howls. But Sita is no longer mother and wife. It is time for her to be a daughter.

(By noon, Lav-Kusha are motherless where they once had no father, and Kosala is orphaned again. The kingdom laments and wails, but Sita is gone. Forgiveness, even from a goddess lasts only so far. And yet centuries later her tale is still told, for it is a woman’s fate to be bloody, but may she ever be unbowed.)

[immissmoralofthestory]

Goddess who walked on earth

"goddess" the old childless couple thought. They had prayed to gods for a child. At last they were given the answer it seemed.

"Goddess" the sisters played. The festival was coming who better than her could play the goddess.

"Goddess" her husband said. He had found his soulmate. The one who was his other half in this world and beyond.

"Goddess" the people of the kingdom cried. Who would accept a exile that wasn't theirs? Difficulty they didn't deserve.

"Goddess" the demon smirked. Someone like you belongs besides me, let me take you to my kingdom.

"Goddess" the army shouted. As she was consumed by fire, still being untouched by it.

"Goddess" the kingdom rejoiced. Their god and goddess had finally returned home.

"Goddess" the washerman taunted. She doesn't deserve the throne.

"Goddess" the Rishi blessed. Offering a shelter, advice, support and Kindness.

"Goddess" everyone apologised. They realised their mistake which was sooner still too late.

"Goddess" she finally understood. Taking her rightful place back blessings everyone who called her name.

[corruptlabyrinth]

aaaagagedsssshgegrgrgrghhhhhjekkekeeeaaaa

drowning mdroening

drowning

Washerman

chat i think this dude's drowning

[allieinarden]

Tagged by @mademoiseli

last song: Burning Down the House - Paramore

favourite colour: 🤷🏻‍♀️

last film/TV show: The Simpsons or Seinfeld, forget

sweet/savoury/spicy: Clearly all of these are for different occasions. Come on, people.

last thing web-searched: “washerman” (wanted to see if it was a word)

current obsession: Literary magazines, The Simpsons

[turnwashingtonsbaddies]

Wait I thought Georgie Washerman’s teeths were made from his enslaved people teeth?? which like is even worse to have near your nethers 😖

his dentures were actually made from a combination of animal teeth, elephant and walrus tusks, and also enslaved people's teeth..... so even more horrifying than one could imagine

[ajnabi57]

Bhajans and Abhangs: O.S. Arun

Many years ago I purchased a CD of Kabir bhajans in Chennai by a then unknown to me south Indian singer named O.S. Arun. Several more years passed. I started a blog called Washerman’s Dog and posted the kabir bhajans album there. Shri Arun sahib has become a family favorite even with my teenage son. And so today, many years too late, I post another collection of bhajans and abhangs in which he…

[stlhandyman]

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[leanstooneside]

SNOOP DOGG (SHARKFINN)

• MONTH

• MEN

• WAY

• BABHRAVYA

• FAILURE OF

• ATTENTION

• DIFFERENCE

• CAUSES

• WISH

• WAY THE SUPERINTENDENTS

• AUTHORS

• TRACT OF THE COUNTRY

• HEAD MAN OF THE VILLAGE

• WASHERMAN

• LOVERS OF THE DAUGHTERS

• INDECISION

• DOINGS

• QUEENS

• TRANSACTIONS

• DESCRIPTION

• EVENING

• MARKS OF THE NAILS

• NEIGHBOURS

• TOWNS

• GOOD QUALITIES

• TEMPER

• VICINITY

• VALUES

[blackknight-100]

May I request another prompt, this time Ramayana??

Where after Sita's bhumi pravesh, Luv -Kush live at Ayodhya's palace. They are merely 8, feel scared at this new place and battle resentments against their father for abandoning their mother. Who love their mother but are angry at her for forsaking them. Grappling with loss of their familiar forest and pleasures of simple lives, find the city walls strangling them.

Hi there, and sorry, this is a little late. This is also a little depressing, and I do not apologise for it.

Prev ask: Karna and Arjuna character swap is here

 

1.

 This day Luv is eight years old, and the world is gray.

“You may play here if you wish to, you will be safe,” the King, their father, says, gesturing at the gardens. The trees are trimmed and gray, the walls are high and soot.

Their father leads them to the throne room; he doesn’t know it is their birthday.

“This is where we talk about... er, important affairs,” Rama explains, stilted and awkward.

High on the dias, a sculpture sits hard and cold upon the Queen's seat. It looks to him an ashen thing, but Luv has learnt it is a golden memorial to Sita's enduring place at Rama's side.

There is gold of the coin, and the gold of the wheat, and then there is the gold of Sita's smile. He thinks of his mother at the aashram, bent over the flour mill with calloused hands and crinkled eyes, and pities the statue that seeks to compare.

“Your eyes deceive you, Your Majesty,” he tells Rama. “That is not my mother.”

The King looks stricken, and Luv turns away. Perhaps this is what the King needs, a statue that is silent and chaste and dear.

“I know,” Rama whispers, kneeling by his side. There are tears in his royal eyes, and Luv has never loathed anyone more.

 

2.

Angada's mother is tall and beautiful, and the quietest of all his aunts. She sits on the steps to her husband’s room, and beckons them closer.

“Greetings,” Kush bows, and Luv follows.

“Sit by me, my dears,” she says. Her hair is coiffed up in a high bun, and Luv imagines the pins in them gleaming with gems.

Urmila notices him watching, and plucks one from her head. It is gray in her palm as she holds it out to him, like all other things, and he takes it in silence.

“May I help you?” Kush asks, ever polite and well-mannered, and she laughs.

“I am not doing anything,” she says. “Do you want-”

The door opens, and Lakshmana appears at the end of the hallway. He rubs a hand over his haggard face, spots them, and staggers.

Kush jumps up, bows. “Greetings, uncle.”

Luv remains seated, staring at the soft gray carpet and the forbidding gray walls, and thinks of Lakshmana swooning at his arrow's end.

“Forgive me,” he says abruptly, “I have to go.”

He holds out the pin, a flower atop a long straight needle, and bows. Kush touches his arm in concern.

“Keep it,” aunt Urmila says. “It was your mother’s.”

Luv looks down at the little trinket in his palm, turns it over. Kush peers over his shoulder with hungering eyes.

“It is red,” his aunt says, as if she knows about the gray, “and there is a ruby at its heart.”

Luv clutches it to his breast, watches the colour spill across it like the red sun bleeding on a newborn dawn. The world is gray and he is a colourless blot, and Sita sits at the centre of it, burning in the fire's test, bright red and lost.

 

3.

 In his dreams, Luv is a weevil in the flour. Someone is shifting through it, running vivid gold fingers through the dusted grains. He bites at the right and bites at the left, lets the starchy sweetness flood his tongue.

Then there are great gold walls closing upon him, and it is his mother who hauls him out, who throws him to the grass to starve and die.

“Maa!” he calls, clinging to her hands, but he is weak, and he is lost, and he falls, and then he wakes up.

The walls are gray, but no less imposing, and he clutches at Kush's arm. His brother is draped in a blanket as black as a washerman's heart, and Luv crumples the fabric in his fist.

Kush sits up beside him, an ashen smear against an ashen world. “Did you have a bad dream?”

Luv twists the dark cloth between his fingers, contemplates on how to answer. Their uncles claim Kush takes after Sita; Luv knows he needs a little brother to lean on, just like Rama.

“You had a bad dream too, didn’t you?” he asks.

“Mhmm,” Kush hums, and Luv takes his hand.

“You first, then me,” he says.

Kush taps his lips and stares at the dark ceiling. “In my dream...” he recounts thoughtfully, “I was a weevil in the flour.”

Luv tugs on the blanket, wraps himself in their shared sorrow. The world is gray, his mother’s love is a flame, and his brother’s blanket is night.

 

4.

At the furthermost wing of Ayodha’s palace sits a sunroom of dramatic proportions. The windows here are wide and open, facing the east, so mornings are warm and evenings cool, and Luv could stay here forever.

Uncle Bharata, who leads him with a hand on his back, settles on one of the footstools before a large canvas. Luv watches as aunt Shrutakeerti follows, and their spouses settle on the big couch to the side, pretending to be annoyed at having their portraits done.

“I feel like I should have Luv with me,” aunt Mandvi says, swinging her legs. “And Shatru can have Kush. The heights match that way.”

Luv does not want a portrait done, not when he would never know the colours again. Uncle Bharata beckons him to get another stool and says, “Next time perhaps, darling. Let him observe first.”

Luv plops on the stool with a thump, and studies his uncles and aunts. Shrutakeerti is sketching rough outlines, unlike Bharata, who meticulously draws one eye, then the other.

“Do you want to try?” she murmurs quietly. “You can say ‘no’.”

Luv twists his fingers, feeling warm and shy. He can say no, even though he has no mother and knows none of his family.

“I can try,” he mutters.

Shrutakeerti gives him a conspiratorial smile. “Let’s use brown for the walls,” she says conversationally, as if she knows the grays.

Luv takes the brush and swipes at the corner. It is the colour of earth and mud, of dates and cows and a potter’s clay. The world is gray, but his mother’s love is red and his sorrow is black, and his family is reliable and brown.

 

5.

Rama wears a yellow dhoti – Luv knows this because the washermen mutter about it all the time. He keeps a close eye on them – they hate how easily the cloth stains, and they hate his mother.

Kush’s condemnation of this practice falls on unheeding ears. His brother is too sweet and too trusting, and Luv must protect what their mother could not.

Brinda, who is some washerman’s wife, brings them lunch at the river everyday. She bows when she sees him, all flustered with shame, and walks faster.

That day he returns from the river with quick steps, excited to see the browns on the barks and the black of Kush’s hair. He has found a pebble on the banks, a pale, smooth rock, and uncle Bharata, he knows, will tell him the colour.

Outside, the gardener burns a heap of fallen leaves, dried by the passing of the rains, and dead with the sorrow of oncoming winter. Some of them are red like his mother’s flower, stark amid the grays. They crumple in the flames and burn, and for a moment he sees Sita engulfed in heat, smiling.

“Maa!” he screams, throws himself at the soaring column of fire.

“Put that out! Now!” someone says, hard and commanding. A hand snatches his shoulder, draws him close and away. He can see no higher than their waist, but their dhoti is the yellow of sunshine and an oriole’s breast, a hundredfold more vibrant than the paltry fires.

Luv lifts his head and finds himself swung up in the air, to where his father’s cheek presses against his. Rama’s face is the brown and black of alluvial earth, and he smells of lotuses and rain.

 “It will be okay, little one,” he murmurs, voice quivering. “I am here.”

The world is gray, but it recedes bit by bit, like hope rising from sleep; it is red with his mother’s love and black with his grief, brown with his family’s presence, and bright with his father’s refuge.

 

+1

His cousins play in the royal gardens all day, unbothered by walls that choke him, unafraid of a parent dying. Luv sits in the shade with his bright red flower and dark black blanket, stroking a brown bark. The world is gray, and Luv’s dhoti is hay, and does not care.

Uncle Lakshmana comes to sit beside him with a huff, ruffles his hair distractedly.

“Will you not join them?” he asks, blunt as ever, and Luv sighs.

“Everything is gray,” he says, as if that makes any sense, but uncle Lakshmana shakes his head as if he understands.

“That is not,” his uncle says, pointing at a lonely little sapling poking out of the earth.

The ash leaches from it like rain clouds fleeing from sequestered plains, and it is the green that defies the winter’s chill.

“It is a weed,” he says weakly. "I have seen the forest."

Uncle Lakshmana scoffs. “Weeds, weeds, weeds,” he grumbles. “All arrogant words made by men who think to tame who grows where. There are no weeds, dear one, and no season either. You grow where and when you will, like all things in this world.”

It is too great a thing to hope for, but the gray is fading like dust blown off an old painting, and it is true. There is green on the leaf and green on the grass, green on the bower and green on the bough. The barks are brown and the flowers are red, and the sun of the Raghu clan shines bright yellow.

“Will you wait till the gray goes away?” he asks Lakshmana.

His sorrow is black, and Sita is gold; when he looks up, his uncle kisses his forehead with a smile. “Always,” he says. “Always.”

[jobustad]

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[lordgodjehovahsway]

2 Kings 18: Hezekia Become The New King Of Judah

1 In the third year of Hoshea son of Elah king of Israel, Hezekiah son of Ahaz king of Judah began to reign. 

2 He was twenty-five years old when he became king, and he reigned in Jerusalem twenty-nine years. His mother’s name was Abijah daughter of Zechariah. 

3 He did what was right in the eyes of the Lord, just as his father David had done. 

4 He removed the high places, smashed the sacred stones and cut down the Asherah poles. He broke into pieces the bronze snake Moses had made, for up to that time the Israelites had been burning incense to it. (It was called Nehushtan.)

5 Hezekiah trusted in the Lord, the God of Israel. There was no one like him among all the kings of Judah, either before him or after him. 

6 He held fast to the Lord and did not stop following him; he kept the commands the Lord had given Moses. 

7 And the Lord was with him; he was successful in whatever he undertook. He rebelled against the king of Assyria and did not serve him. 

8 From watchtower to fortified city, he defeated the Philistines, as far as Gaza and its territory.

9 In King Hezekiah’s fourth year, which was the seventh year of Hoshea son of Elah king of Israel, Shalmaneser king of Assyria marched against Samaria and laid siege to it. 

10 At the end of three years the Assyrians took it. So Samaria was captured in Hezekiah’s sixth year, which was the ninth year of Hoshea king of Israel. 

11 The king of Assyria deported Israel to Assyria and settled them in Halah, in Gozan on the Habor River and in towns of the Medes. 

12 This happened because they had not obeyed the Lord their God, but had violated his covenant—all that Moses the servant of the Lord commanded. They neither listened to the commands nor carried them out.

13 In the fourteenth year of King Hezekiah’s reign, Sennacherib king of Assyria attacked all the fortified cities of Judah and captured them. 

14 So Hezekiah king of Judah sent this message to the king of Assyria at Lachish: “I have done wrong. Withdraw from me, and I will pay whatever you demand of me.” The king of Assyria exacted from Hezekiah king of Judah three hundred talents of silver and thirty talents of gold. 

15 So Hezekiah gave him all the silver that was found in the temple of the Lord and in the treasuries of the royal palace.

16 At this time Hezekiah king of Judah stripped off the gold with which he had covered the doors and doorposts of the temple of the Lord, and gave it to the king of Assyria.

Sennacherib Threatens Jerusalem

17 The king of Assyria sent his supreme commander, his chief officer and his field commander with a large army, from Lachish to King Hezekiah at Jerusalem. They came up to Jerusalem and stopped at the aqueduct of the Upper Pool, on the road to the Washerman’s Field. 

18 They called for the king; and Eliakim son of Hilkiah the palace administrator, Shebna the secretary, and Joah son of Asaph the recorder went out to them.

19 The field commander said to them, “Tell Hezekiah:

“‘This is what the great king, the king of Assyria, says: On what are you basing this confidence of yours? 

20 You say you have the counsel and the might for war—but you speak only empty words. On whom are you depending, that you rebel against me? 

21 Look, I know you are depending on Egypt, that splintered reed of a staff, which pierces the hand of anyone who leans on it! Such is Pharaoh king of Egypt to all who depend on him. 

22 But if you say to me, “We are depending on the Lord our God”—isn’t he the one whose high places and altars Hezekiah removed, saying to Judah and Jerusalem, “You must worship before this altar in Jerusalem”?

23 “‘Come now, make a bargain with my master, the king of Assyria: I will give you two thousand horses—if you can put riders on them! 

24 How can you repulse one officer of the least of my master’s officials, even though you are depending on Egypt for chariots and horsemen? 

25 Furthermore, have I come to attack and destroy this place without word from the Lord? The Lord himself told me to march against this country and destroy it.’”

26 Then Eliakim son of Hilkiah, and Shebna and Joah said to the field commander, “Please speak to your servants in Aramaic, since we understand it. Don’t speak to us in Hebrew in the hearing of the people on the wall.”

27 But the commander replied, “Was it only to your master and you that my master sent me to say these things, and not to the people sitting on the wall—who, like you, will have to eat their own excrement and drink their own urine?”

28 Then the commander stood and called out in Hebrew, “Hear the word of the great king, the king of Assyria! 

29 This is what the king says: Do not let Hezekiah deceive you. He cannot deliver you from my hand. 

30 Do not let Hezekiah persuade you to trust in the Lord when he says, ‘The Lord will surely deliver us; this city will not be given into the hand of the king of Assyria.’

31 “Do not listen to Hezekiah. This is what the king of Assyria says: Make peace with me and come out to me. Then each of you will eat fruit from your own vine and fig tree and drink water from your own cistern, 

32 until I come and take you to a land like your own—a land of grain and new wine, a land of bread and vineyards, a land of olive trees and honey. Choose life and not death!

“Do not listen to Hezekiah, for he is misleading you when he says, ‘The Lord will deliver us.’ 

33 Has the god of any nation ever delivered his land from the hand of the king of Assyria? 

34 Where are the gods of Hamath and Arpad? Where are the gods of Sepharvaim, Hena and Ivvah? Have they rescued Samaria from my hand? 

35 Who of all the gods of these countries has been able to save his land from me? How then can the Lord deliver Jerusalem from my hand?”

36 But the people remained silent and said nothing in reply, because the king had commanded, “Do not answer him.”

37 Then Eliakim son of Hilkiah the palace administrator, Shebna the secretary, and Joah son of Asaph the recorder went to Hezekiah, with their clothes torn, and told him what the field commander had said.

[realtor101]

Madiwala: An area analysis.

History:

Madiwala, an old and prior locality, is said possibly to have been the city's center in ancient times, as indicated by archaeological proof. Tamil Nadu is the site of the era's most remarkable temples: a cavernous sanctum, a monumental gopura, and Someshwara Temple with inscriptions referencing Chola kings.

They all epitomize its glorious past. The word "Madiwala" is derived from "Kannada," which revolves around the "washerman" term; a washerman was a person who specialized in doing laundry.

The fact that the area was once filled with washermen and washerwomen brought their presence to society.

About

Neighborhoods.

Madiwala, sheltered behind the many sub-urban neighborhoods of Bangalore, is indeed the major pass through between Koramangala, Bommanahalli, B.T.M. Layout, H.S.R. Layout, Arekere M.C.O. Layout, Bannerghatta Road, Jayanagar, and J.P. Nagar.

Being at the junction where the countryside and the main town meet, this junction functions as a gateway that connects all residents and visitors who are on the journey from the countryside to the main city, provides convenient access, and provides affordable plots for sale in Madiwala.

Mobility.

Residents of Madiwala have the ease of commuting to work and study because Bangalore City railway station, which is 8 kilometers away, is the first railway station to be built in Bangalore; consequently, this means that the train is a reliable transport option for people living here.

The area is celebrated by the residents in part as a form of recognition for their enduring lives and existence and for the foundation of St. John’s Medical College, an eminent healthcare and medical education center.

Additionally, Place offers a range of residential options to potential homeowners, including flats for sale in Madiwala, providing diverse housing choices amidst its vibrant surroundings.

Madiwala Lake.

Madiwala is next door to many notable places, including a beautiful lake inside BCD layouts.

There is no doubt that this is the largest pocket of water among all the reservoirs in Bangalore. Apart from the gorgeous look, it also gives the residents a good place to unwind and have a moment of peace free from any urban stress.

Residential Options.

With a variety of dwellings available in the midst of the nature and charm of the culture, Madiwala brings in people and locaters who are diversified and, at the same time, have vast business opportunities.

The area provides flats, plots, and villas for sale in Madiwala that are tailor-made to different preferences.

The flora surrounds Madiwala and makes it a desired destination for property investing. Every home buyer has anything they'd wish for in this particular area.

Students and Professionals.

Madiwala is a matter of concern since it's a melting pot of diverse backgrounds and thus acts as a catalyst for social harmony among middle- and upper-middle-class residents.

Educational institutions and hospitals of high reputation boost the rush of office workers as well as the field of trade in a dynamic and prosperous environment.

The collaboration of different cultures in the Madiwala leads to cross-cultural communication and cultural emergence, and ultimately, a community is born that is dynamic and heterogeneous.

Madiwala is urbanized, but a relaxed environment suitable for working and living is under way, with convenience and connections at its core, making it a fully functional town where residents can freely enjoy a leisurely urban lifestyle.

Conclusion.

Madiwala is of enormous significance in its contributions to Bangalore's continued exquisite past and snapshots of the present. It is ancient, and today Madiwala keeps growing in dynamism. It acts as a center of activities and a multiethnic communion.

Its historical landmarks, including the Someshwara Temple and the tranquil Madiwala Lake, besides its excellent connectivity with its residential areas, which vary greatly, have made Madiwala a blend of heritage community, convenience, and spirit.

As a great melting pot of cultures and different beliefs, Madiwala is the town where you will find social harmony, with citizens of most backgrounds and a flourishing economy, making it not only the hometown of many people but also a prosperous urban center where everyone can find themselves amidst the bustle of city life.

[ajnabi57]

This is the end of the road.

Thank you everyone who has visited and followed this blog and its predecessor (Washerman’s Dog) since 2010! I have run out of steam and will be taking time off to think of how and whether should continue to share my love of South Asian music. Of all types. But as of today, Harmonium is closed and there will be no further posts. Dhanyawaad. Shukriya. Thank you.