Re: The The Last Breath Full Movie Download In Italian
Toccara Delacerda
It was 1949, World War II was just finished, and William Standridge, my grandpa, fresh out of college, was on his way to Italy as a missionary. He was 22 years old and had already decided a few things. If he was going to be giving his life for the Italian people, he needed to adapt as quickly as possible to the Italian culture. He would learn to wear what they wore, eat what they ate, and speak as they spoke.
My grandma went to be with the Lord soon after my visit around three years ago, and though my grandpa was very saddened to live on without her by his side, God used that afternoon to encourage him to keep going and working hard till his very last breath. Although it has been difficult, he has kept on writing, preaching, and pastoring his church. Just last week, while celebrating his birthday with all of his children in the room and most of his grandkids present, as he shared with his family what the Lord had been teaching him lately, he stressed the importance of spending time with the Lord each day, growing in our love for Christ, and being willing to change and repent until the moment you get to see Jesus.
So. Much. Espresso. Molto bene! To be honest, the reputation of Italian espresso was one of my motivations in taking this little adventure with my colleague, Brent, before we attended a trade show in Germany. Classic NEMO: play before work.
At 600 meters, still below the treeline and surrounded by a lush forest, we pedaled up walkways made of slick, round, Roman-era stones, winding our way past tiny cottages built into the mountainside and rambling gardens clinging to the steep earth. We had drained our hydration packs, so we found a cool mountain stream to refill for the first time, delighting in our Katadyn BeFree water filters that guaranteed us clean water as long as we could find a stream.
As we pushed past the forest into the sunlight and watched the number on our altimeter rise with each switchback, we saw the scenery slowly change before our eyes. Villages grew further apart and increasingly ramshackle. Charming little gatherings of homes anchored by a caf gave way to sparse gatherings of two or three stone houses in varying degrees of disrepair. Around 1400 meters, I realized I had kissed my last chance for an espresso goodbye for the foreseeable future.
We had reached what we were looking forward to: the high alpine fields, where the occasional herd of cows made music for our solitary ascent. The faraway clanging of their bells was soundtrack to our climb through the impossibly green pastures in the dimming light.
These were the roads carved into the Alps by the Romans two thousand years ago. For thousands of years before that, the people of this land practiced the seasonal ritual of bringing their herds into the rich grasses above treeline for the summer, and back into the valleys in the winter. Alpiculture, they call it. Mobility. Moving with the seasons.
I felt that movement, as my summertime self (a bit fitter and leaner than my wintertime self) pushed its way up into the Alps, up into the heights of these rolling greens punctuated by steep, craggy cliffs. We passed the occasional stone hut, sometimes stopping to explore the mostly fallen-in structures that once housed shepherds and farmhands who lived their summers at altitude.
As we patted down tall clumps of grass to pitch our tents, I felt a resonance with the people of the past who had traveled this land for fifteen millennia before me. The wolf outcropping felt safe: elevated above the surrounding landscape with visibility of the one lone dirt road that struggled up the remaining pass.
Our dinner, vegetable korma made with cold water (due to a propane stove mishap), tasted like five-star cuisine. We sat quietly and watched the light change, watched the clouds roll in and engulf the bottoms of the mountains, watched the scene go from orange to indigo.
I finally gave in and tucked the phone in my pocket. There was no reception up here. No Instagram stories, no low-light capturing. I settled into the twilight, walking over the lumpy alpine grass to another rock outcropping where I quietly watched the last light disappear.
Bikes packed, we continued our trek upwards toward Truc Muandette, the peak that anchored our pass. We stopped at a few more ruins before taking a zag off the road toward a small cylindric stone memorial sitting alone on a grassy cliff. It was imprinted with a circular map of the surrounding peaks and their heights, so we could identify a few of the giants we had slept among the night before.
I understood why people of the past had worshipped mountains. When a monster of a snow-covered peak would appear through the clouds it would nearly take my breath away, and almost unconsciously I found myself in a state of worship and awe.
The sound of my breath in my own head fell in rhythm with the pulsing pedals and rapidly advancing clouds through the valley. The mountains and valleys, which had laid stretched before us the night before, were rapidly being engulfed by colossal clouds flying across the landscape, swallowing up peaks and cavities with an appetite and speed that was both awesome and awe-full in the truest sense.
As if orchestrated by a deity with a sense of ironic humor, when I was pedal strokes away from the peak, the clouds engulfed us. Brent watched from behind as I disappeared into a dense forest of water droplets.
We pulled over, snapped a selfie on a white backdrop of clouds that veiled what would have been an incredible panorama. We laughed at the irony, hooted and hollered a bit, put on some rain gear, and hopped back on our bikes to tear down the mountain path in the rain.
Two weeks later, having returned to the states, I flipped through my pictures with some co-workers, enjoying recounting the adventure but fully aware of the futility of communicating very much more than just the facts. But inside, I was different. My bruises had faded, but the experience lived on inside me and left its mark on me. My cultural horizons were wider; my faith in my own strength was reinforced; my appreciation for a good adventure buddy who has your back was deeper; my gratefulness for a job that allows me these opportunities was stronger.
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An angel chose to visit us nearly four years back and make our home his. Today in the early hours of dawn he decided to breathe his last, leaving us indebted with one pointed love, tons of affection and valuable lessons I will never forget.
Imagine being born and brought up in Russia, coming to India and travelling across the country. Now imagine that your guardian exhausts all her money, and you end up in a quaint Ashram, 8000 Kms from the land you were born. Let's add a twist, imagine that your guardian ends up overstaying her Visa, socks a cop on a cursory matter and you end up doing time in prison. And as if this is not strange enough, now imagine that ultimately your guardian abandons you, gets deported. You end up all alone in a strange country with no place to live, no one to call your own.
Realise this is what happened to this petit European Toy Spaniel who could fit in a 1 feet by 1 feet box. Sounds like a movie script but each and every detail is true. This was Chinu's journey before my wife (then girlfriend) decided to adopt him.
When Chinu was born, not one soul on the planet would have guessed that this Russian dog will end up spending half his life living in a village in Karnataka with a Punjabi household relishing paneer-roti .
As Krishna exclaims in the Bhagavad Gita - 'gahanā karmaṇo gatiḥ'. Strange, unfathomable and inexplicable are ways of Karma. The only one thing that is constant is faith that helps you tide across any challenges in life that Chinu had plenty.
When Chinu came home, he had severe trust issues owing to the tumultuous journey he had been through. He would growl and snap at the smallest action (even if was well intentioned). To make matters worse he had been living in unhygienic conditions and nearly his entire rear body was infected. He had constant itching and would open wounds by scratching himself.
My wife ( Aakanksha Yadav ) and friend Shikha Kaushal took good care of him. My other dog Coco was an angel to him - he would simply do nothing on being repeatedly growled or even bitten. My mother and Shahtaj didi ensured that everyday he was taken taken care of and fed with love.
Life gives us all second chances. No matter you are down and out there is always some good waiting around the corner for those willing to believe and fight. If a petit 1 foot dog can fight back we can too.
Through Chinu initial rehab journey I was a reluctant helper only willing to take responsibility because I had committed to, not because I cared. I was in fact even critical of Aakanksha of having adopted him given how busy I was. But, Chinu had decided to change this by simply doing what dogs do best - offering unconditional love.
Don't know what Chinu saw in my demeanour to start doing what he did, but one thing is for sure it is impossible to ignore unconditionality in relationships. If someone is willing to give without asking you cant but give back. So often we get stuck making relationships a mathematical equation, but what Chinu taught me life is brighter and better than that. 'Just give and you shall get'
Slowly, Chinu saw to it that our bond grew. He would make sure if I was home he had to be in the same room as me. He would jump up and down when I would enter home (like all dogs do). He would eat stuff just because I had given it to him.
The epitome of this was his last few days. Being a small dog he was unable to walk as much as Coco and I so he would wait for the two of us like Hachiko ( ). I only thought stuff like this happens in movies but here Chinu was proving me wrong again.
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