‘Where is your real home? Do you believe you have a permanent home?’ an old man asked his grand-son.
‘I believe I have a permanent home, Kaka’, Karma, replied.
‘Where is it?’
‘Because it is where my father is born, where his father owns.’
The grand-father chewed his coalanut for a minute, and asked, ‘Why if your grand-father has nothing, living in a rented house?
Karma confused and scratched his head. Then he replied,
‘That house will remain as a temporary home.’
The old man laughed and chewed his coalanut.
‘If you don’t know something’, he said, ‘just say you don’t know, but don’t show your ignorance by searching for luck.’
The boy nodded.
‘Your people, not only your parents or siblings, even trusted friends are your home. Once you meet them, you are at your real home, because you trust in only them, and feel happy whenever you are with them. But your permanent home is death!’
‘Death? Kaka’ Karma asked frighteningly.
‘Yes, your permanent home is death. Where Osama and Sadam Husein are right now. They will never return.’