Today I was upset.
It wasn't the reason why I pulled the hood of my coat over my head, stuck my freezing hands into my warm pockets and trudged through knee-deep snow towards a path I had come to know so well.
It wasn't what I felt as I let my feet free to wander the pah that bore so many of their prints, and allowed my mind to ponder on the little easter eggs of life.
It wasn't because I was walking alone on a cold Christmas morning, or the thought that if I had ventured off the well-worn path and vanished, no one would ever guess why, where, or how.
Yet what was I doing, plunging my feet and legs through snow thick enough to engulf my calves at every step? What was I thinking, hands deep in pockets, head lowered against that cold, yet still marching mechanically forward?
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A friend of mine, a devout Buddhist, once tried to explain "Karma" to me, that relationships formed with people, that things you did - good or bad, was a result of karma from your past life, all of which, after influencing on your relationships with people and consequences of actions in this life, will be brought forward to your next. It's a never-ending cycle.

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What usually took 20 minutes of jogging to reach took me 40 today. Except for a red-faced old lady who ernestly refused and profusely thanked my offer to help with her humongous bag, I didn't meet anyone else on that path.
Cold does isolate all.
The route belonged to me, and as my mind wandered my feet kept walking.

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From 8th September,1941 to 18th January,1943 , S Petersburg (then known as Leningrad) ravaged by war, was a prisoner in Her own home as the Nazis held the city under siege for a gruelling 900 days -- The Siege of Leningrad.
Through the freezing Russian winters, cut electricity and water supply, pitiful rations of 250grams of bread a day, and rampaging diseases of those 900 days, up to 1500000 civilians and soldiers lost their lives.
Bodies were collected from the streets all over St Petersburg and carted over to the Piskarevskoye Cemetary for mass burials.
The cemetary grounds, home to more than a million souls sacrificed to war, is guarded at the entrance of two small buildings, two timeless sentries holding the memories of those loved and lost.
"Here lay Leningraders
Here are citydwellers - men, women, and children
And next to them, Red Army soldiers.
They defended you, Leningrad,
The cradle of the Revolution
With all their lives.
We cannot list their noble names here,
There are so many of them under the eternal protection of granite.
But know this, those who regard these stones:
No one is forgotten, nothing is forgotten. "

Здесь лежат ленинградцы.
Здесь горожане — мужчины, женщины, дети.
Рядом с ними солдаты-красноармейцы.
Всею жизнью своею
Они защищали тебя, Ленинград,
Колыбель революции.
Их имён благородных мы здесь перечислить не сможем,
Так их много под вечной охраной гранита.
Но знай, внимающий этим камням:
Никто не забыт и ничто не забыто.
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My feet had taken me to the Piskarevskoye Memorial Grounds. I stared at the two lone sentries from across the road. Inside the building on the right side is a small museum. Among photos still reeking of war and death, there are inspiratory images that whispered of hope and courage amidst the ringing screams of anguish.
There was also an old, mould-covered specimen of a piece of bread - all 250 grams of it - a day's meal.

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The grunt of a heavy truck blocking my view snapped me out of my reverie.
What was I doing in front of the Memorial Grounds on a Christmas morning, in between classes?
My phone was ringing. Friends were calling me to go back for the next lecture.
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The bus I boarded was crowded. There was a guy my age in full black leather cowboy gear - hat, jacket, boots , the works.
A few old ladies sat together chattering. A man reeking of cigarettes and vodka coughed nonstop. A heavily made-up woman yelled at someone irritably over the phone.
I looked out the window at the peaceful, snow-covered cemetary.
"Merry Christmas", I whispered.
The Orthodox Russians didn't even celebrate Christmas on the 25th of December.
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On the bus I remembered what my friend told me about karma.
I wonder now, whether the remains of my past life lay, among others, somewhere beneath the blanket of earth and snow, forgotten but never forsaken, behind a single tombstone bearing a number. "1941, 1942, 1943"
Perhaps this is why I have come, of all places, to study in this city. This beautiful, sad city that stirs so much emotion in me.