Therese, MT



In this time and age of crisis, success is touch and go, its stifling, common practice.

I am China, a unique land, once fragile as a plant. This dream is what I nourished: to impress, adding to what I am and own instead of holding on to what I have accumulated over the years.

In other words, shaping my own future. This, and a knack of when to tarry or to act, stopping the ripe hour from turning overripe, decaying.


Hard feat, but not impossible. Rolling up my sleeves, I went around running the errands of a dreamer. Seeking inspiration. Ways. Means. Too dumb to know the impossible, I never forfeit dreams. I challenge them with ability, enlisting gut: an energy that bursts its corners and its seams, feeling the weight, the pressure, yet never going down. Engage in spin and bustle, wit, backbone, their yielding priceless. My trick was to be wise, invest in resilience and determination, in the advantageous resource that is the West’s allegiance. To design. Shape. Share and reinforce by teaching. Teaching my children about the world they form part of, preparing them for the challenges it provides, the joys and friendships it can yield. My buds were stimulated. Moving in the right direction, I have already stretched my limbs far and wide, searching for new depths, always seeking new horizons.


My roots are interspersed from Asia down to Europe, sniffing the scene, exploring territories and possibilities, exploiting other markets and opportunities. Plied my trade through thick and thin away from the home soil that has fed me with the necessary food of knowledge: from the realms of electronics to the skills of trade and commerce, mechanics, arts and self defence; from the renaissance of science to the threats of climate change and terrorism, of the financial crisis; from the lures of innovation to the economic market with the maturity, political and otherwise, of an adult that has seen the ups and downs of time and situation and weathered them all with flying colours. Used to the maximum my highly adept sensory antennas.


Pitkin said life begins at forty, as by this time one is knowledgeable enough not to suffer any longer from the perplexities of life. Standing out, now, let me tie the fortieth knot on my bumper harvest of acquests and agreements, realized dreams and cancelled frictions.The world lies in my grasp, yet it still tickles my fingertips. My drive knows few hiccups. My deftness knows no bounds. Nurtured by Hermes’ light, by the warmth of good investment, and fortified by the vitamin drink of valuable information, I have grown into a giant tree, third largest in the world’s economy. Along the way, gale force winds hurled their whips at me. I built them into bridges.   And yet, I do not believe in sitting on my laurels, although, admittedly, I am entitled to bask a little in my glory. What I achieved, was gotten through arduous sweat and toil, through thrift and braving the rough waters of risk management. I branched in all directions, growing arms I barely can control the way they leaf and multiply. They perform one quantum leap after another, brimming with satisfaction and success. Under the aegis of true friendship, mutual, I go everywhere I fancy, linking myself to big names, big economic markets. I have seen an outpour of good business: the sweet tasting fruit of my labour of love. I have developed an overflow of strength few others can surpass. Yet I move on. There is always space and scope for learning.


Along with success comes responsibility, and I’m conscious of mine. I always give and take. The environment- natural, social and political- and me, we need each other for sustenance. In partnership, we trade, cooperate, in solitude we drown. This is no time to frown upon or bicker, but to barter and grow richer.


So, here I stand, now, like a funambulist, slick, balancing a combination of confidence and daring, fast on the right track, the apple of intrigue mantained between my teeth, there but not enough, walking the magnate tightrope, not stopping to look back, for looking back is suicide.




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20 thoughts on “THE ROAD TO GANESHA

  1. This is what I call an essay! Some entries are not essays either poems or stories.