Hudson Valley Quotes

I’m outside. " Oh. "And I can hear you. " Ohhh. "You said my name. " Oh. My. God. "Let me in.

You sure about this, Sugar Snap?”… “I’m all in, Farmer Boy.

He shook his head. “You’re a bit of a train wreck, aren’t you?” I puffed a bit of hair away from my face. “Choo choo?

Love is messy, painful and emotionally draining. It hardly seems worth it.

You didn’t really bring me beets, did you?”… “I did,” he murmured, his thumbs sliding underneath my T-shirt the tiniest bit. “I brought mad beets.” “Oh man,” I snorted … “Did you bring me anything else?” He brought his face back to mine, tinged with the slightest of blush. “I hesitate to say it now.” “What did you bring?” I asked his shaking shoulders. He buried his head once again into my neck. “A really big zucchini…

If you drop a rose in the Hudson River at its mysterious source in the Adiron dacks, think of all the places it journeys by as it goes out to sea forever—think of that wonderful Hudson Valley.

Maybe you’ll show up at my back door with your nuts again.

The eyes and the hair were a package deal, the hair was falling across his eyes in a careless way that said “Hey, girl. I’ve got peas on my shoes, but who cares, because I’ve got these eyes and this hair, and it’s pretty fucking great.

You’re here and I’m here and we’re here and this is so much more than enough because it’s everything.

Oh to the my.

The river was the Hudson. There were carp in there and we saw them. They were as big as atomic submarines. We saw waterfalls, too, streams jumping off cliffs into the valley of the Delaware.

Wherever you set foot—on a street in Manhattan as you dodge traffic; on the soft, freshly turned earth of a Hudson Valley farm; on the kelpy tide line below a Maine cottage; or in the pine woods and palmetto thickets of the Carolina Low Country—do not forget that this was once frontier.

Size-eighteen women weren’t supposed to show off their legs, which I did. They weren’t supposed to show off their cleavage, which I did. Size-eighteen women were supposed to wear trench coats in the winter, long sleeves in the summer, and somebody better cancel Christmas if they wore a dress that showed off some cleavage. Size-eighteen women were supposed to dress like they were apologizing for taking up too much space. Fuck all that noise. I took up space. I

Before I eat your bagel, we should be formally introduced, don't you think?

The main work of haunting is done by the living

If you drop a rose in the Hudson River at its mysterious source in the Adirondacks, think of all the places it journeys by as it goes out to sea forever—think of that wonderful Hudson Valley.

Wasn’t I proud of all we accomplished–the prestigious home in the Hudson Valley, the apartment in Manhattan, the eight phone lines, the friends and the picnics and the parties, the weekends spent roaming the aisles of some box-shaped superstore of our choice, buying ever more appliances on credit? I had actively participated in every moment of the creation of this life–so why did I feel like none of it resembled me? Why did I feel so overwhelmed with duty, tired of being the primary breadwinner and the housekeeper, and the social coordinator and the dog walker and the wife and the soon-to-be mother, and — somewhere in my stolen moments–a writer…?

I looked above the jeans. Vintage Fugazi concert tee. Green flannel shirt. 10. I looked above the flannel. Two weeks’ worth of shaggy blond beard. Mmm. Country hipster. 11. I looked above the beard. Lips. 12. I looked at the lips. 13. I looked at the lips. 14. I looked at the lips. 15. COME ON. 16. I looked above the lips. 17. I was glad I looked above the lips. 18. The eyes and the hair were a package deal, the hair was falling across his eyes in a careless way that said “Hey, girl. I’ve got peas on my shoes, but who cares, because I’ve got these eyes and this hair, and it’s pretty fucking great.” 19. The hair was the color of tabbouleh. 20. His eyes were the color of . . . 21. Pickles? 22. Green beans? 23. No. Broccoli that had been steamed for exactly sixty seconds. Vibrant. Piercing.

The eyes and the hair were a package deal, the hair was falling across his eyes in a careless way that said “Hey, girl. I’ve got peas on my shoes, but who cares, because I’ve got these eyes and this hair, and it’s pretty fucking great.

Did you bring me anything else?” He brought his face back to mine, tinged with the slightest of blush. “I hesitate to say it now.” “What did you bring?” I asked, shaking his shoulders. He buried his head once again into my neck. “A really big zucchini

They say time is elastic. Sometimes an hour passes in an instant while you scratch and cling at every second as they go by, willing them to slow down. Sometimes, an instant stretches out to an hour, when everything runs in super slow-mo, time itself elongated as the edges blue and the colors run.

His eyes were the color of . . . 21. Pickles? 22. Green beans? 23. No. Broccoli that had been steamed for exactly sixty seconds. Vibrant. Piercing. 24.

I don't want to be married anymore. In daylight hours, I refused that thought, but at night it would consume me. What a catastrophe. How could I be such a criminal jerk as to proceed this deep into a marriage, only to leave it? We'd only just bought this house a year ago. Hadn't I wanted this nice house? Hadn't I loved it? So why was I haunting its halls every night now, howling like Medea? Wasn't I proud of all we'd accumulated—the prestigious home in the Hudson Valley, the apartment in Manhattan, the eight phone lines, the friends and the picnics and the parties, the weekends spent roaming the aisles of some box-shaped superstore of our choice, buying ever some appliances on credit? I had actively participated in every moment of the creation of this life—so why did I feel like none of it resembled me? Why did I feel so overwhelmed with duty, tired of being the primary breadwinner and the housekeeper and the social coordinator and the dog-walker and the wife and the soon-to-be mother, and—somewhere in my stolen moments—a writer...? I don't want to be married anymore.

And, to be honest, my social anxiety was one of the reasons why I had decided to stop frequenting conventions and readings, with finances being another reason, and yet another, the notion that I could prevent the inexorable untethering from Dominick if I remained geographically fixed within the Hudson Valley at all times, like an old stone fence in a forgotten stretch of woods.

When there was pain or hurt, or bad memories crowded in, work could be a literal lifeline, taking your mind away from what you couldn't deal with and channeling it into something good, something tangible.

In Grim’s humble opinion, the people of the Hudson Valley were ill-bred, loud, beer-swilling wife beaters and, worst of all, they lacked the common sense to take full advantage of their geographic location. To the east they had the Hudson to collectively drown themselves in, and to the south they had Bear Mountain State Park, where they could mate unashamedly with beavers and white-tailed deer and effectively implement their own extinction.

You can’t . . . know someone that long and suddenly know how to handle it when they just disappear from your life. You can’t be with someone that long and not still feel the need to step in, to fight for them, to protect them.

Over the next few days, every knowing glance and furtive look reminded me how much small towns loved to gossip. My mother delighted me each day by telling me what she’d heard. I’d pushed Leo behind a snap pea display at the farmers’ market and wrestled him to the ground. I’d offered him my bagel repeatedly, refusing to take no for an answer. I’d been seen out behind the market, helping him load up his vegetables and been caught holding his cucumber. That was my favorite.

It looked as though the leaves of the autumn forest had taken flight, and were pouring down the valley like a waterfall, like a tidal wave, all the leaves of the hardwoods from here to Hudson’s Bay. It was as if the season’s colors were draining away like lifeblood, as if the year were molting and shedding. The year was rolling down, and a vital curve had been reached, the tilt that gives way to headlong rush. And when the monarch butterflies had passed and were gone, the skies were vacant, the air poised. The dark night into which the year was plunging was not a sleep but an awakening, a new and necessary austerity, the sparer climate for which I longed. The shed trees were brittle and still, the creek light and cold, and my spirit holding its breath.

On the morning of what should have been Amelia Ashley's birthday, the river valley that had once housed High Bridge changed for Joshua Mayhew. For the first time in many years, it seemed beautiful to him. For the first time in many years, it was beautiful.

I thought love was meant to be an easy, peaceful thing, Lillias. But it's like life itself. It's maddening. And beautiful. And changeable and funny and passionate. It's...like a Hudson River Valley sunset. Underneath all that fire and glory the sky is ever constant. It's like you. For me, it is you.

He lifted one bottle into the light. " 'GREEN DUSK FOR DREAMING BRAND PUREE NORTHERN AIR,' " he read. " 'Derived from the atmosphere of the white Arctic in the spring of 1900, and mixed with the wind from the upper Hudson Valley in the month of April, 1910, and containing particles of dust seen shining in the sunset of one day in the meadows around Grinnell, Iowa, when a cool air rose to be captured from a lake and a little creek and a natural spring.' "Now the small print," he said. He squinted. " 'Also containing molecules of vapor from menthol, lime, papaya, and watermelon and all other water-smelling, cool-savored fruits and trees like camphor and herbs like wintergreen and the breath of a rising wind from the Des Plaines River itself. Guaranteed most refreshing and cool. To be taken on summer nights when the heat passes ninety.' " He picked up the other bottle. "This one the same, save I've collected a wind from the Aran Isles and one from off Dublin Bay with salt on it and a strip of flannel fog from the coast of Iceland." He put the two bottles on the bed. "One last direction." He stood by the cot and leaned over and spoke quietly. "When you're drinking these, remember: It was bottled by a friend. The S.J. Jonas Bottling Company, Green Town, Illinois- August, 1928. A vintage year, boy... a vintage year.

He was reaching his Tao decisions in the simplest direct way. ‘What’s your road, man? – holyboy road, madman road, rainbow road, guppy road, any road. It’s an anywhere road for anybody anyhow. Where body how?’ We nodded in the rain. ‘Sheeit, and you’ve got to look out for your boy. He ain’t a man ’less he’s a jumpin man – do what the doctor say. I’ll tell you, Sal, straight, no matter where I live, my trunk’s always sticking out from under the bed, I’m ready to leave or get thrown out. I’ve decided to leave everything out of my hands. You’ve seen me try and break my ass to make it and you know that it doesn’t matter and we know time – how to slow it up and walk and dig and just old-fashioned spade kicks, what other kicks are there? We know.’ We sighed in the rain. It was falling all up and down the Hudson Valley that night.

I forgot a detail I read in your file. Won’t happen again.” “My file?” “You don’t think I’d let my father hire someone to turn our entire world upside down and not do my due diligence to make sure she’s qualified, do you?” My eyes boggled. “A file. You’ve got a file on me. Wow.” “Wow?” “Wow as in, dude, that’s weird.” Now his eyes boggled. “Dude? Did you just call me dude?” “Dude, I also called you weird. How did you miss that part?

Oh, look at that—tomatoes. Harvested by hand, from plants nurtured in perfectly tilled soil by perfectly bearded hipsters, in the land of organic milk and asshole honey, where everyone was happy and in tune with the earth, and the entire world narrowed down to slow, sustainable, and the concept du jour—local. Fuck local. I’d fucked local, and look where it got me. Angry/not angry, listening/not listening for a phone call or text, feeling/not feeling overwhelmed, confused, betrayed, and slightly . . . used?

The beginning, when everything is new and exciting, and everything in the entire world boils down to sweet feathering lips and quiet sighs. When the stars fade and the earth ceases to turn, its axis forgotten in the wake of things like: which way will you lean and which way will my neck naturally turn, and is it possible that I can actually detect your fingerprints, because my skin seems so alive right now and my nose just brushed yours and the tiny groan that just rumbled from deep in your chest is the most erotic sound imaginable, and gee your hair smells terrific. I

And he kissed me . . . slow. Agonizingly, maddeningly, painfully slow. I loved kissing. I also loved what it usually led to, but I was especially loving this part with Leo. The beginning, when everything is new and exciting, and everything in the entire world boils down to sweet feathering lips and quiet sighs. When the stars fade and the earth ceases to turn, its axis forgotten in the wake of things like: which way will you lean and which way will my neck naturally turn, and is it possible that I can actually detect your fingerprints, because my skin seems so alive right now and my nose just brushed yours and the tiny groan that just rumbled from deep in your chest is the most erotic sound imaginable, and gee your hair smells terrific

For four hours, Andrew and I were presented with course after course of delightful creations, imaginative pairings, and, always, dramatic presentations. Little fillets of sturgeon arrived under a glass dome, after which it was lifted, applewood smoke billowed out across the table. Pretzel bread, cheese, and ale, meant to evoke a picnic in Central Park, was delivered in a picnic basket. But my favorite dish was the carrot tartare. The idea came, along with many of the menu's other courses, while researching reflecting upon New York's classic restaurants. From 21 Club to Four Seasons, once upon a time, every establishment offered a signature steak tartare. "What's our tartare?" Will and Daniel wondered. They kept playing with formulas and recipes and coming close to something special, but it never quite had the wow factor they were looking for. One day after Daniel returned from Paffenroth Gardens, a farm in the Hudson Valley with the rich muck soil that yields incredibly flavorful root vegetables, they had a moment. In his perfect Swiss accent, he said, "What if we used carrots?" Will remembers. And so carrot tartare, a sublime ode to the humble vegetable, was added to the Eleven Madison Park tasting course. "I love that moment when you clamp a meat grinder onto the table and people expect it to be meat, and it's not," Will gushes of the theatrical table side presentation. After the vibrant carrots are ground by the server, they're turned over to you along with a palette of ingredients with which to mix and play: pickled mustard seeds, quail egg yolk, pea mustard, smoked bluefish, spicy vinaigrette. It was one of the most enlightening yet simple dishes I've ever had. I didn't know exactly which combination of ingredients I mixed, adding a little of this and a little of that, but every bite I created was fresh, bright, and ringing with flavor. Carrots- who knew?

The Haunted Mansion is modeled after houses where the Headless Horseman story was set. Houses built in the 18th century in the picturesque Hudson River Valley, now a National Heritage area and home to well-preserved dwellings from several different epochs in American history, provided the thematic inspiration for the general look of the Haunted Mansion. The Hudson River Valley is also the setting for the legend of Sleepy Hollow and the Headless Horseman—a perfect thematic fit for the Haunted Mansion.

Cheese. Cheeeeeese. What a thin, flat, nasal-sounding word for such a luscious, rich, gorgeous thing. Hard. Soft. Ripe. Grainy. Creamy. Often stinky. I’d yet to find a cheese I didn’t adore.

We merely looked...at giant diamonds.

Compared to northern woods, which Leeda had seen on a trip up the Hudson River Valley, the Georgia forest felt primeval. Northern trees seemed picturesque and petite to Leeda, their leaves small in soft, bright greens. Georgia forests were loaded with tall, drooping trees covered in kudzu and smothered in deep greens that seemed like they could swallow someone up. Leeda had never noticed it before.

Mohunk is a huge, stately manor in the Hudson Valley that reminded me of a cruise ship inside a mansion. As I checked in at the reservation desk, I looked around and noticed that the average age there was the day before death. It was like a place where Wilford Brimley and Bea Arthur would go to rent a paddleboat….

there’s only one or two nights we can

I packed our bags and headed to the Hudson Valley to escape the tourists and browse all of the delightful little bookstores nestled in quaint towns, and we returned just as the city emptied again, and life spun on.

The morning was beautiful. The whole Hudson River Valley was beautiful. I thought of the last page of The Great Gatsby, the green land flowering before the Dutch sailors’ eyes, that last moment, Fitzgerald wrote, when man was face to face with something commensurate with his capacity for wonder. I thought of Dirk’s inadvertent similarity to Gatsby—the unused rooms of his house, the twenty-two televisions, which were maybe the convenient, modern stand-in for glittering parties, and I wondered what part of the past he was trying to recapture. I wondered if it was similar to the feeling of community my parents were trying to recapture every time they drove through Newburgh. And I wondered if it was similar to what I was trying to recapture by living in the woods, just in my own solitary way.

When colleges, both within the Hudson Valley and throughout the country, encouraged women to do little beyond attaining their Mrs. degree in Husbandry, Annandale offered rigorous and prestigious degrees irrespective of gender.

rang out from the kitchen, and I grinned in relief.

Three stages of that work are strikingly set forth by Hudson Taylor when he says: “Commonly there are three stages in work for God: Impossible, Difficult, Done!” Said General William Booth, “God loves with a special love the man who has a passion for the impossible.” Are you confronting today the impossible in work for God? Praise Him for that, because you are in a way to discover the blessing of finding that work difficult, and then to experience the deep joy of finding it done, by the same Lord who started you on the furrow.

You don’t even want to know what scrapple is; it’s about three rungs below Spam on the evolutionary scale. But

I wasn’t sure I’d even want to do this, after she was gone.” “Listen, Archie, we don’t have to--” “Until you, Clara,” he interrupted, his eyes flashing open and searing into mine. “I want you I fucking want you more than I ever thought possible.

I’ll have to go away one day. And I don’t know what will happen then, which makes me so fucking selfish for saying this, but I’m going to say it anyway. I want you. For as long as I can have you.

Looking back now, how fucking stupid was I not to see what was going on? But when you were in it, you didn’t know it, and when your life had finally started to happen, it didn’t matter what else you were giving up for that life. It only mattered that you were special—to someone—and that you were very lucky indeed to have that someone. And everything else should just fade away and become background noise.

Men love a naked woman. But more than that, they love a confident naked woman. Now, everyone has a type, of course, and preferences about how tall or short, athletic or voluptuous, and there’s no discounting that. But a woman who loves her body, and knows what she wants? There’s nothing sexier than that. To a real man.

...confidence went much further than a small ass in tight jeans.

Size-eighteen women were supposed to be timid. Size-eighteen women were supposed to be shy. Size-eighteen women were supposed to be grateful for any male attention, and to feel especially honored if a good-looking man paid attention to them. Fuck all that noise. I took the best looking guy home with me whenever and however I pleased. Confidence went a long way. You walk into a room armed with the knowledge that you can have anyone you want, you can literally have anyone you want.

In the end, everybody gay in Albany knows everybody gay in Albany. Eventually you always end up in the bed you started out in. I mean, this is the Hudson Valley, Newell, not West Hollywood. You can do it.

I hate the Hudson Valley. Everyone loves it now, the artsy shops and rambling farmhouses occupied by Brooklynites making their own artisanal beer, jam, and pickles. That would have been Harry if he were alive, not in Brooklyn but in some run-down upstate town, making the cider vinegar he was so excited about. There’s a particular sadness lurking beneath the surface of those towns. Take a step back from the charming renovated main streets with their cafés and knitting shops and you’re in the heart of meth-land, of derelict textile mills and workers’ housing, sagging porches and weeds as tall as children. The shiny artisanal present is nothing more than a hasty coat of paint. And the past is heavy with decayed trappings of an American dream, textile fortunes made and lost, middle-class towns established and extinguished in only a few generations. I had a friend who studied Native American history and she wouldn’t set foot in that part of the world. “You can still smell the slaughter,” she’d said.

You know the artists?” “I certainly know Thomas Cole and Asher Durand. They’re well-known Hudson River Valley painters.” “Yeah, it does look like the Valley,” Radar said. “What are the paintings worth?” “How big are they?” “Small. Eight by ten . . . a few a bit bigger.” “Okay, so probably not major works. They’re still worth in the thousands. More like four figures rather than five although Thomas Cole can be pricey. But that’s usually the big canvases.

on September 16, near Warren Tavern, twenty miles from Philadelphia, just as the armies met for another full-scale battle, a massive cloudburst ruined Washington’s chance, overwhelming both sides and making firing impossible. The ferocious gale continued for a day and a half.

By January 2021, in the Hudson Valley, there was no Jewish or Episcopal or Catholic community anymore. There was no home. Whoever had hated our belief, and the strength it gave us — whoever had wanted our faith communities to die out — had won.

the ice-cap had spread from centres near Hudson Bay to enshroud all of eastern Canada, New England and much of the Midwest down to the 37th parallel – well to the south of Cincinnati in the Mississippi Valley and more than halfway to the equator.41

The Union army's southward march-especially in the Mississippi Valley-stretched supply lines, brought thousands of defenseless ex-slaves under Union protection, and exposed large expanses of occupied territory to Confederate raiders, further multiplying the army's demand for soldiers. On the home front, these new demands sparked violent opposition to federal manpower policies. The Enrollment Act of March 1863 allowed wealthy conscripts to buy their way out of military service by either paying a $300 commutation fee or employing a substitute. Others received hardship exemptions as specified in the act, though political influence rather than genuine need too often determined an applicant's success. Those without money or political influence found the draft especially burdensome. In July, hundreds of New Yorkers, many of the Irish immigrants, angered by the inequities of the draft, lashed out at the most visible and vulnerable symbols of the war: their black neighbors. The riot raised serious questions about the enrollment system and sent Northern politicians scurrying for an alternative to conscription. To even the most politically naive Northerners, the enlistment of black men provided a means to defuse draft resistance at a time when the federal army's need for soldiers was increasing. At the same time, well-publicized battle achievements by black regiments at Port Hudson and Milliken's Bend, Louisiana, and at Fort Wagner, South Carolina, eased popular fears that black men could not fight, mitigated white opposition within army ranks, and stoked the enthusiasm of both recruiters and black volunteers.

From water removal and extraction to complete restoration, we can handle your; broken or leaky pipes, sink overflow, toilet overflow, bathtub overflow, refrigerator, washing machine, water heater, or dishwasher overflow, air conditioner leaks, sump pump failure, or hardwood floor water damage. our water damage restoration specialists in Hudson Valley, NY are highly trained and certified in the latest home restoration and remediation techniques and technology.

Antipatriot sentiments were shared by a wide variety of people across a broad social spectrum. In New York, ironically, some of those who opposed the Revolution were poor tenant farmers from the 160,000-acre Livingston Manor in the Hudson Valley. Robert Livingston, Jr., lord of the manor, was a Whig Revolutionary—not because of deep philosophical convictions, but because his opponents in New York politics were all Tories. Livingston’s tenants, according to historian Staughton Lynd, saw in the Revolution a chance to oppose their Lord and possibly take possession of the land they worked.

The air was alive and unwinding. Time itself was a scroll unraveled, curved and still quivering on a altar stone. The monarchs clattered in the air, burnished like throngs of pennies, here’s one, and more, and more. They flapped and floundered; they thrust, splitting the air like the keels of canoes, quickened and fleet. It looked as though the leaves of the autumn forest had taken flight, and were pouring down the valley like a waterfall, like a tidal wave, all the leaves of hardwoods from here to Hudson’s Bay. It was as if the season’s color were draining away like lifeblood, as if the year were molting and shedding. The year was rolling down, and a vital curve had been reached, the tilt that gives way to headlong rush. And when the monarchs had passed and were gone, the skies were vacant, the air poised. The dark night into which the year was plunging was not a sleep but an awakening, a new and necessary austerity, the sparer climate for which I longed. The shed trees were brittle and still, the creek light and cold, and my spirit holding its breath.

The New York City Water Supply System consists of nineteen reservoirs, three lakes, three main aqueducts and over six thousand miles of water mains to deliver water throughout the city. This system was built at the cost of more than thirty towns and villages. Some of these towns were relocated, while others were flooded or razed to create the reservoirs and the buffer lands that surrounded them.

For example, the patroon system in New York State’s Hudson Valley, under which wealthy oligarchs such as the Rensselaer family extracted feudal rents from their tenants, lasted until the mid-1840s.

Yet, as always, he remained controversial and divisive, his accomplishments appreciated more by the British than by many of his compatriots. Richard Henry Lee called him “fiery, hot, and impetuous”—true enough, but Lee’s words were uttered in derision rather than admiration. No sooner had the smoke blown free of Champlain than Arnold was accused of sacrificing his squadron without purpose. “General Arnold, our evil genius to the north,” a New Jersey colonel charged, “… was much the strongest, but he suffered himself to be surrounded.” It mattered little to his detractors that he had been grievously wounded and then badly injured at Quebec, lost his wife while serving the cause, helped save the army in Canada, preserved Ticonderoga, and upended British strategy for 1776. More slanders spread, including claims that he had betrayed the sinking Washington to save his own skin and then abandoned wounded crewmen to the flames in Ferris Bay. Small wonder that as he made his limping way down the Hudson valley, he carried grievance and resentment within that unquiet soul.

love marriage specialist ﹀➭﹀ +91-9672983115 fast Love problem solution in Amritsar Kala jadu is the other name given to the black magic. There are many people those who get scared with the name kala jadu. It means dark magic, this magic is mostly used to create blunder into the life of a person. There are many those who use black magic to harm others by sitting away from them. But there is nothing good in performing kala jadu in a bad way. Kala jadu specialist use this magic in a good manner there are many problems of the people which he can solve with the help of his kala jadu skills. Today there are many people who come to him to get kala jadu services. +91-+91-9672983115 kala jadu specialist Kala jadu specialist solves New Zealand Auckland , Christchurch , Dunedin , Wellington Vashikaran Specialist IN New York :- AMERICA Albany , Binghamton , Bronx , Brooklyn , Buffalo , Catskills , Chautauqua , Elmira , Fairfield , Finger Lakes , Glens Falls , Hudson Valley , Ithaca , Long Island , Manhattan , Oneonta, Plattsburgh, Potsdam, Queens, Rochester, Staten Island, Syracuse, Twin Tiers, Utica, Watertown && +91 9672983115 Vashikaran specialist asatrologer baba molvi ji Vashikaran expert baba love vashikaran expert molvi ji Famous Astrologer For Love Vashikaran Vashikaran Specialist Astrologer Black Magic Expert 24 Available. Call Now. 30+ Years Experience. Love Life Call Today, Call Now For Love, Relationship, Breakup & Marriage.