Burn’s Night

Though this is not the music that was played, I would like you all to play this music and at the same time read the next couple of paragraphs. This is an attempt for you to get the original feel of what I would be describing about.

Today we had an event called Burn’s night. It was an event that is held in memory of a Scottish poet -Robert Burns who had lived 300 years ago and had influenced a lot of people through his eye for the society and affairs.. he was also known for having 14 children from 9 wives. He died when he was 37.


I got to this event with no knowledge of who Robert Burns was or why Burns’ night was celebrated.

I was enjoying myself learning from people who explained who Robert Burns was and his contribution to Scotland’s, Russia’s as well as world history.

I watched with amusement as dish called haggis was brought forward in the manner of a procession. The haggis was a food item that this poet had written about. Well it is made of…. (check link here).

Some of my own classmates were reciting one of Robert Burns’ poems in a Scottish accent that made me grin with laughter and mischief.

The gentlemen toasted the ladies for being for them/with them and despite them.

And the ladies “gracefully” (as always), returned the toast with one of their very own.

After that we had a group of fiddlers who played music on the guitar and violin. I took pictures of them… until then I was having fun….

Until then!!! ( Those of you who came to see pictures please do not read further)

As I was enjoying the music I took for myself a position to the side of the players but away from the eye-line of the group. The music was so good I closed my eyes and let the sound of the violin wash into me. The artist took the beat to a higher and faster level.

It was then that I was transformed to 300 years ago. I imagined myself to be in a Scottish pub and this guy Burns comes to life and is handling a woman in an immoral manner – in a way, his usual manner. The crowd is rowdy and egging him on. They stomp their feet as he goes about molesting the girl…. the tunes go higher and higher and things become worse and worse for the girl when finally the peak is reached… that time the noise of the crowd drowns the shriek of the girl in pain ….

I tried stopping my thoughts desperately… and in an attempt to achieve that, I pressed my eyes even harder hoping that the darkness and the strain could pull me out of the trail of thoughts…. it helped and I was brought back to reality. I opened my eyes, with a guilty look on my face; of one who had seen something he should not have. I felt very bad when the rest of the world around me was having a jolly good time.. my eyes darted around to see if anyone had noticed my queer actions…. thankfully no one did!!

One of my classmates came over and said to me, “it truly was a once in a lifetime experience, wasnt it?” … I replied,”Yes!” and in an undertone, “Once in a lifetime!!!”

Whoever called it a GIFT of thinking???

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Through a father’s eyes

Call it paternal instinct, but he somehow knew that he was in for a shock when his daughter called him up into her room. While he strode up, his mind was dismissing one crazy thought after another of what the news might be. “Had she got a poor rating in office? Had someone misbehaved with my kid? Did she want to do higher studies? Did she want to quit her job? Was she upset about her mother?”

Once he entered the room, he got even more tensed when his daughter asked him to sit down. She then began to talk about some guy she had brought home a good few months back. She was talking about how much she liked him and how much he liked her. She was talking about his future plans with her. But all this was just a blur to him. His mind was elsewhere. Finally, she knelt before him and held his palm between hers. Her eyes shone of expectation and a mild fear.

“Pa, I want you to trust me when I say I love this guy. I want you to give me this chance to follow what my heart says. I want you to really consider this guy and let me go ahead with my plans with him. Pa….. Please!”

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His mind was elsewhere. He closed his eyes. He saw his little girl pushing a cycle that was almost her height and approaching him. She could barely reach the height of the seat, yet she begged him to help her to cycle. What turned out to be a one off event turned out to be a daily affair for dad and daughter. He would run behind his kid holding her lest she fell.

A day later she had cried out in an excited voice, “Pa, please let go.” He could not trust her. He could not let go of the cycle as he knew she would fall. Against his better judgement he let her go.His heart skipped a beat when she fell and bruised herself.

But his daughter’s spirit was far from bruised. She was overjoyed that he trusted her. She was willing to try again. No wonder she learnt balance within a day – She had her dad for support.
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He opened his eyes. The small kid he had known all his life had grew up into a fine young lady. Yet she had the same eagerness in her eyes – The eyes that seemed to demand and plead his trust and approval at the same time. He smiled at her and said, “You are my daughter. I trust you in everything you do. Bring him home soon.”

He knew there were tears in her eyes as she instantly hugged him. For they were present in his too. He had decided to trust her. And by doing so he had given her wings to fly. He felt proud of himself.

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Loneliness

The weather was playing havoc with his life. To him it felt as if nature was conspiring to keep him unhappy. Whenever he looked out the window, all he could see was a grey sky and a wet road. When he stepped out, the chill winds would remind him of how friendless his world was. But today he had work to do. He had to go out and brave the climate.

He knew he was failing in his attempts to keep his cheer. The weather was depressing. His body clock was not accustomed to staying awake long hours in the dark. Out here it got dark very early into the evenings. It was murky in the morning when he left his house and dark again in the evening when he was returning.

Sometimes he felt like he was the Frodo of this world. Right now, his world reminded him of Mordor. He walked out to what he thought would be yet another depressing day.
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She set up her books in the shade of the shop in the city centre. That would ensure they did not get wet. But it was not an option for her own self though. It was part of the process for her. She had to undergo this as it was what she had chosen for herself.

She was there, in the heart of the city, on a mission – a mission to speak about HIM. His glory, his kindness, His love.

But she had no audience. All she could see was a wave of people walking here and there. All of them , held up with their own lives. They had no time for HIM or for her.

She knew that HE was testing her faith. She had to live through the disapprovals to show HIM she believed in HIM. So she picked up her microphone and started on her story. It was one that called them all to HIM. A story that assured them they had HIM for company. It was one that propagated him to be ‘The ultimate cure for all loneliness’.
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As he walked down the street, he saw the girl, a microphone in her right hand and a book in the other. She was shouting her lungs out and waving the book here and there. It was as if she was fighting a battle against a wave of indifferent passers-by. He could see the disappointment in her face and how hard she was trying to get over it.
He smiled at her, and he felt a sense of camaraderie when she returned his smile.

In this busy town, there were the two of them fighting loneliness, and he knew they were not the only ones!

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Yin Yang

Behind every strong girl that rebels against the world, there is a vulnerable one who is curled up and yearning to be protected.

She is everything that the external world perceives her not to be. She is timid, shy, lovelorn and looking for protection. She is always dominated by the strong girl. She is suppressed, overpowered and held to submission. And yet when there is no one around, she springs to the fore.

And with her entry comes all the fears in the world. The fear of loneliness, the fear of falling in love, the fear of being taken for granted, the fear of being a failure. In all her misery, she cries herself to sleep.

And out comes the strong one, ready to take on the world once again.

“True story” – Ask any strong woman about her other self. And you will be surprised by the person you meet!

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EGO!

“I will go down with this ship,
I wont put my hands up and surrender.
There will be no white flag above my door.
I am right.. and always will be”

(Lines tweaked from White Flag by Dido)

The world seemed to go dumb. He had shut his mind off everyone around him. He opened his laptop and engrossed himself into collecting factual information that would back the point he wanted to make.

“They are missing out on an important point. Only I know about it and I will show them I am right.”

An hour passed. The others had arrived at a consensus and almost finished the task. No one had tried to get him back into the conversation. In their eyes, he seemed busy. Besides, they all were pretty buggered by how defensive he had become and how he had taken the rebuttal of his idea personally like a kid would.

“If he was bringing his ego into play and going into silence and expecting us to invite him back into the conversation then our egos would not let us go down to that level and welcome him back!” ,said one of his mates later.

“They have lost out on my wisdom. I have nothing to learn from them. They will all realize that my knowledge is superior to theirs. I still hold my point dear and it is the most sensible one discussed today.” The evil voice of ego whispered into his ears. He left home with the same thought in his head.
That night, a strange thing happened.

Ego could play games and poison the mind only till he was conscious.Though he fell asleep, the mind kept re analysing the events of the day over and over again. This time though it made him realize that though his mates had lost only 1/6 of what they could have learnt through his experience, he had closed himself and had lost all of 5/6 of the total experience.

He woke up the next morning. Ego spoke into his ears “Today we will show them who is right!”.

He believed what he heard!!

Disclaimer: Truly fictional… any resemblance to live persons is purely (un)intentional

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Bed of roses

It was the Buddha who said “All of life’s purpose is suffering”.

I walked into my life, thinking it to be garden of roses. In all its beauty and scent, poor me forgot the thorns!
They hurt my feet, aye, blood I spilled. And yet with every stride I walked deeper into the garden.
The more the thorns i thread, more dense the red.
The splendor of the roses made me forget the sores in my feet.

But I am in the point, when my feet cannot take more. The point when there is no more blood to shed. When the tears of pain flood your eyes and block the passage….
Something tells me, at these moments you cannot turn back.. for far have you come, and the thorns remain behind you too..
You cannot proceed further… for all you see are more and more thorns..
You cannot stay, lest the blood clot and rot.

The tears blind my eyes..
the tears,
they blind my eyes!!

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Time and Space play games!!!

It was a beautiful day. The trees were green and shiny with the glitter of the recent rain. The sky was clear and blue and the air was cool. The sun had finally found its way out once the clouds had gone and the skies had cleared out. The grey of the road seemed to reflect the wetness. The weather was as good as it could get in Bombay.

For a while, she had been doing nothing but listening to the pitter patter of the rain. Her mind was calm. The warmth from the cup of tea in her hands seemed to pass through her being and reflect out through the inward smile on her lips. She was waiting for him to call.

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He was already running late to college. He had woken up late and had to rush to bath. He had to do a quick shave , one that gave him few cuts on his chin. But he had hardly had the time to feel the irritation of it. The wind was blowing the chillness on to him. It must have been a single digit temperature for sure. He regretted not wearing his thermals. But who had the time for that?
He was pacing up to his college when he remembered he had not called her that morning. The current rush he was in, he knew he was susceptible to saying something curt if they spoke to each other. Hurting her would be the last thing he wanted on that particular day. So he tried to calm himself down before he called her.

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It was his call. He was talking about his daily antics. It was so good to hear him laugh out and pass comments on everyone he ever knew. There was a charm in his laughter that made her fall in love with him over and over and over again. She smiled openly and listened quietly to everything he was narrating to her.
She gazed into the distance before her. She was at peace. She loved her life.

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The cold winds were freezing his hands. Holding the cell phone and talking to her was becoming increasingly difficult because of the pain. He had to remain cheerful and so had to keep making some silly joke or another. But she was not replying to anything he was saying. He tried one joke and all he heard was “hmm” from her. Another joke, and another “hmm”.
This was so irritating. Maybe she was preoccupied with something else. If so why would she not tell him? That is the problem with her. She never says things out and if he guessed right also she would be upset he felt about her that way. He decided not to make an issue of it. He hung up telling her that he loved her. The “me too” he received seemed as if she had said it as a custom rather than from her heart.
He gazed into the open space before him. He was so confused and irritated. He hated his life.

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Timidity.

I am the little boy who hid behind the cylinder.

Meeting new people freaked him out. Whenever he heard the creak of the gate being open he would stealthily look out of his window for who was entering. His face would begin to sweat when he did not recognize the face of the person who came in. He would run into the kitchen and occasionally peep out the door as his father spoke to the stranger. The louder the persons voice, scarier it seemed for to meet the new person.

The back of the gas cylinder was his favourite spot. It was not too dark , with ample light being allowed to sneak in through the cracks of the kitchen tiles; And the warmth of the place always made him feel secure. He would close his eyes as he crouched beside the cylinder and his fear would become manageable.
His father always felt ashamed to show him to his friends. For, every time he called his son, his voice would be suspended in space for (sometimes) long moments in time before his timid son could muster up his courage to walk up to the guest. The times when the kid never showed up used to be embarrassing for the dad.

The kid was who I was back then. I was timid. I was scared. I was shy. I did not like meeting people. A few years later, I grew older and changed. I learnt many new things, some that condemned my past behaviour as being introverted, not being confident, not being outgoing, as being aloof.

Looking back, I never really had a good or bad opinion about my past. Even these days I see the kid in me. He arises from within me when I walk up to deliver presentations. I feel his presence when I meet someone for the first time in my life. I still am disturbed by people with loud voices.

I have grown to acknowledge the presence within me. It gives me a strong root to my inner core personality. It is what I have built my life on.

All that the poor kid needed was an assuring word or a hug from his dad; not his ‘you failed me once again’ looks. My dad was more obsessed with his own image and saw me to be a failure. In his indifference, he let the kid be. I stand before him as I am now, and I let it to him and the outside world to judge me for what I am.

PS: Completely fictional, though some blatant similarities to who I am could not be helped

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RHYTHM DIVINE.

So how do you adapt to change? How can man survive in any new environment that he is thrown into? How does a new player get himself to be a part of a team?
Every system has its own set of rules and regulations. Every country has way of getting things done. Every team has its philosophies and style of play. It is this established system that I call as rhythm. Think of oneself as entering a musical concert. The sooner you get yourself tuned to the ambiance of the room the quicker you stop to stand out and ruin the music.

The simplest way to get yourself into the system is to understand the underlying rhythm in it. Be it a football team or a new country, if one can get himself acclimatized to how things work and become a part of it he can settle into the new group with so much ease. Your individuality comes later once you have totally understood the rhythm and know which strings to pull and which ones not to.

The beauty of tuning oneself into the rhythm is the advantages it brings. You now know the quickest way to get things done for you. You also get to project your talents in the language that everyone around you understands and appreciates. You no longer feel alone and part of a world outside. As a matter of fact you act as a repository of information to the others around about how to deal with situations in your experienced way.

So find the rhythm and sync up soon…. There is so much music for us to play!

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The curse of the writer

Oh but you are a writer,

And that is but your curse.

 

You prowl the bookstore

Fearing your own thoughts that are haunted,

Will your book lie untouched

And lay aside with hundred others to rust?

 

Oh but you are a writer,

And that is but your curse.

 

Never in life read a proper novel

Coz you don’t like the author’s plots,

While you marvel your own,

You read his and can hardly stifle a groan.

 

Oh but you are a writer,

And that is but your curse.

 

You are a jealous reader.

Coz new words coined give you the high,

Like those of ‘spurious origin’ and ‘enemies to grace’

you wonder which of your lexis, etch your own face

Oh but you are a writer,

And that is but your curse.

 

You look into the eye of people

And you weep at the stories they yearn to say.

Some that affects your short and sorry life,

Coz you are attracted but to their misery and strife.

 

Oh but you are a writer,

Millions your accolades and praise

Yet never are you at peace.

 

Always searching for a new verse

…………………….

…………………….And that is but your curse.

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