An American decided to write a book about famous churches and temples around the world.
So he bought a plane ticket and took a trip to China. On his first day he was inside a church taking photographs when he noticed a golden telephone mounted on the wall with a sign that read "$10,000 per call".
The American, being intrigued, asked a priest who was strolling by what the telephone was used for. The priest replied that it was a direct line to heaven and that for $10,000 you could talk to God. The American thanked the priest and went along his way.
Next stop was in Japan. There, at a very large cathedral, he saw the same golden telephone with the same sign under it. He wondered if this was the same kind of telephone he saw in China and he asked a nearby nun what its purpose was. She told him that it was a direct line to heaven and that for $10,000 he could talk to God.
"O.K., thank you," said the American.
He then traveled to Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Russia, Germany and France. There in every church he saw the same golden telephone with the same "$10,000 per call" sign under it.
The American decided to travel to India to see if Indians had the same phone. He arrived in India, and again, in the first church he entered, there was the same golden telephone, but this time the sign under it read "One Rupee per call." The American was surprised so he asked the priest about the sign.
"Father, I've traveled all over World and I've seen this same golden telephone in many churches. I'm told that it is a direct line to Heaven, but in the US the price was $10,000 per call. Why is it so cheap here?"
The priest smiled and answered, "You're in India now, son - it's a local call".
A sardarji comes up to the Pakistan border on his bike. He's got two large bags over his shoulders.
The guard Iqbal stops him and says, 'What's in the bags?' 'Sand,' answered the Sardarji.
Iqbal says, 'We'll just see about that. Get off the bike.'
Iqbal's guard takes the bags and rips them apart, he empties them out and finds nothing in them but sand. He detains the sardarji all night and has the sand analyzed, only to discover that there is nothing but pure sand in the bags. Iqbal releases the sardaji, puts the sand into new bags, hefts
them onto the sardarji's shoulders, and lets him cross the border.
A week later, the same thing happens. Iqbal asks, 'What have you got?'
'Sand,' says the Sardarji.
Iqbal does his thorough examination and discovers that the bags contain nothing but sand. He gives the sand back to the Sardar, and crosses the border on his bike. This sequence of events is repeated every day for three years.
Finally, the Sardarji doesn't show up one day and the guard, Iqbal, meets him in a 'Dhaba' in Islamabad .
'Hey, Buddy,' says Iqbal, 'I know you are smuggling something. It's driving me crazy. It's all I think about…I can't sleep. Just between you and me, what are you smuggling?'
"Somebody has said there are only two kinds of people in the world.
There are those who wake up in the morning and say, "Good morning, Lord," and there are those who wake up in the morning and say, "Good Lord, it's morning."
