Half Brother Harry Ranjan 69

Half Brother Harry Ranjan

HNI 0069 (2)

Half Brother Harry Ranjan


Half Brother Harry Ranjan


Half Brother Harry Ranjan

19961518 1325481277549419 7239242544921913146 n (2)

Half Brother Harry Ranjan


Half Brother Harry Ranjan

Half Brother Harry Ranjan

Half Brother Harry Ranjan

19961518 1325481277549419 7239242544921913146 n (3)
Harry Ranjan-0
Harry Ranjan

Name Harry Ranjan

Gender Male

HNI 0072-0

Ranjan Family

Parents Adil Ranjan Jessica Ranjan


Married Cassandra Ranjan

Child(ren) Ronnie Ranjan Lucky Ranjan Sophia Ranjan 

Harry Ranjan - 59 Years Old and 0 Months.

Harry Ranjan Died at AM 6:00 in Morning at Hinchingbrooke Hospital. Harry Ranjan Died in 26.8.2018 because Harry be Eating too much Junk Food every single day. Fat Block Harry Heart to Gift Harry Heart Attack and Bad News is Harry Ranjan Passed away at Hinchingbrooke Hospital. Harry Ranjan is not a life and Harry Ranjan is Dead in Sawtry Graveyard. The Year Harry Ranjan was Born in 3.8.1959 and Harry Ranjan Died Age 59 Nearest 60. Harry Ranjan Wife Cassandra Ranjan Feeling Very Sad Because Harry is Dead. Harry Ranjan Children Sophia Ranjan and Ronnie Ranjan and Lucky Ranjan Feeling Very Sad Because Harry is Dead. Harry Ranjan Parents Adil Ranjan and Jessica Ranjan Feeling Very Sad Because Harry is Dead. 

'I want to tell you something, So there won't be any doubt' You're so wonderful to think of, But so hard to be without.'

We have heard from Wife and Children and Parents that Harry died at Hinchingbrooke Hospital. {Sunday 26 August 2018] Age 59 Years. 0 months,

Our deepest sympathy and condolences from the whole Best Friend go to his Wife and Children and Parents. Cassandra and Sophia and Ronnie and Lucky and Adil and Jessica and all their Ranjan Family.  

The Poor Princess Diaries Edit

A באָרוועסר פּראָפעסאָר with 3 boys and a vagabond life Edit



A month or so ago, I received a call from the kindergarten teacher telling me my five-year-old frat boy, Cool J, took his friend Boychick into the bathroom to teach him the f-word. “The f-word!” says his teacher. “When Boychick told me your son taught him the f-word, I thought there was no way it was what I would call the f-word. In my 30 years of teaching kindergarten, I’ve never heard a child say such a word. So in front of the class, I encouraged him to share it. Was it flower? Or fantasy? Or was it a bad f-word–like frown–or fight?” Pause for dramatic effect. “But no, it was the f-word . . .”

 Cool J: A picture of innocence

I could hardly pretend to exhibit surprise (although I did my best). After all, only a short time before the call, we had been spending Shabbos dinner with my in-laws, Babi and Zaidy Frummy, when my brother-in-law, Master Notfatso, was slow in passing the hummus. Cool J turned to him: “Uncle!” he shouted. “Pass the fucking hummus!” (“Where did you hear such a word?” asked Babi Frummy. “Does your brother use that language?” Abashedly: “No.” “Does your mother use that language?” “No.” “Does your father use that language?” “Yes.” Saved!!!!)

PP and an abashed Cool J

At 5, Cool J is a real chatty cathy, with an answer for everything. Here are some snippets of conversation from this week alone:

Resisting his term of endearment:

Me: “Come here, my little angel.”

Cool J: “I am NOT an angel of death who slays the firstborn of every Egyptian!”


Resisting our (inevitable?) future:

Me: “Hey, since we’re thinking of moving to the UK, do you think we should we practice speaking British?” Cool J: “Mama, I know Yiddish. I can say kiddush. But I DON’T KNOW BRITISH!”


Resisting my demands (and teaching mom a biology lesson):

Me: “Of course you have to listen to me. I am your mama! I made you.”

Cool J: “No, you didn’t.”

Me: “Oh, really? Then who did?”

Cool J: “You and Dada together.”

Me: “Yes, that’s true. Do you know how?”

Cool J: “Yes.”

Me: “How?”

Cool J: “He put it in you.”

Me: “What?”

Cool J: “His DNA!”


Grand birthday plans:

LL: “For my eighth birthday, I want to go back to the Tower of Power and go up the yellow elevator and the red elevator.”

Me: “That’s nice. I’ll consider taking you to the Empire State Building.”

LL: “Aww . . .”

Cool J: “Well, want to go to India for my sixth birthday!!”

Me: “You do?”

Cool J: “Well . . . “

We all look at him.

Cool J: “Nah, I don’t really care where I go. So long as I get to drink alcohol!”


Good habits:

Cool J: “Can I have a bazooka?”

Me: “No.”

Cool J: “Can I have a bazooka?”

Me: “No.”

Cool J: “Can I have a bazooka?”

Me: “No.”

Cool J: “Can I have a bazooka?”

Me: “Ugh . . . fine.” (This is where a tiny part of me admits that Frank Bruni’s obnoxious I-know-better-than-all-you-parents-based-on-nothing-but-my-pomposity and I-am-just-writing-this-as-a-cheppener op-ed has a milligram of truth to it).

Cool J (breaking his teeth on the rock-hard K-for-P gum): “Oooh, I like chewing gum. I am going to do it all the time.” Me: “No, you’re not. It’s a bad habit.”

Cool J (twisting his now softened gum into a cylinder and dangling it from his lips): “OK, Mama. Then I’ll just smoke instead.”

If this is childhood . . . I fear the teenage years



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