Publishing Jimpify’s Second book : Through the Mist

Through the Mist

We at Jimpify Publishing, are very happy and proud to announce the publishing of our second book, ‘Through the Mist’.

1st of September 2017, we are publishing our first collaborative fiction and our second book, Through the Mist.

It has been a wonderful and exciting journey working with all the talented writers, right from the writing of the book till its publication.

About the Collaboration

‘Through the Mist’ is a collaborative book and an innovative venture to break a common belief and to validate an old saying.

It is a common belief that a story can be spun from only one pen. But ‘Through the Mist’ is a bouquet of stories from a bunch of authors.

The book validates that ‘A picture is worth a thousand words’ because a single photograph is the only common link to all the stories of this book.

Yes, a picture is worth a book!

‘Through the Mist’ is a collaborative fiction book that has brought together five writers from diverse backgrounds. The starting point of the stories is a picture, that has been interpreted by each of the writers differently so that the stories touch many genres and have varied characters.

What is the book About?

Small Stones (4)-Rain

Would you too like to try this style?

Read Write Live

The rain beat a tattoo on the roof of the car… Misty windows… Damp smells… The cry of a baby in sleep… Chubby red hands wiping away the droplets that come stealing in

What are small stones?

A small stone is a short piece of writing (any style) that precisely captures a fully-engaged moment for you. The process of discovering small stones is as significant as the finished creation. Searching for small stones encourages you to keep your senses on the “alive and alert” status. Involve yourself with a new set of eyes, ears, nose, mouth, fingers, feelings and mind. This is Mindful Writing at its best.

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Inviting guest blogs!

I’m on the verge of quitting once again and of course the reasons are anew this time and I still couldn’t let go of my ripples..

If any one is interested in helping me get through another phase of mundane posts, or just feeling generous to write at Ripples, or anyone for any other reason willing to do so, feel free to drop a mail of the post you would like to publish here at aadhirai@live.co.uk

Already published posts are also welcome. Just send across the link of the same.

The beginning

புரிகின்ற தருணத்தில்
தொலைகின்ற காதலாய்
உணர்கின்ற பருவத்தில்
இழந்திடும் பாசமாய்
பார்க்கின்ற நொடியினில்
மறைகின்ற கானலாய்
தொடுகின்ற சமயத்தில்
நெடுகின்ற வானமாய்
பொழிகின்ற வேளையில்
கலைகின்ற மேகமாய்
என் தேடல்களின் முடிவுமே
இன்னொரு தொடக்கமாய்

The love lost
At the moment of understanding;
The parted affection
At the moment of realisation;
The missing mirage
At the moment of looking at it;
The extending horizon
At the moment of almost reaching it;
The dissolving clouds
At the moment of almost drizzle;
Signifies that my end is not an end
But the beginning of the next new adventure!

The Tamil version is written by Mr. Sudalai on his blog over here -> ​தொடக்கம் – http://wp.me/p7RIiY-s

An educative encounter

“What games did you play at school today?” I asked (in Tamil) the sixth standard boy from our neighbouring farm, situated across the river. He goes to a government high school in the next village. He comes over to our place, often, with his younger sister, who is in fourth standard. They are vibrant children, bustling with activity, helping us with planting saplings and watering them, even on days when we couldn’t visit the farm. Our daughter’s first friends at the village.“We didn’t have any PT period today,” he replied glumly.

“Oh, tell me what games did you play during the class hours?”
“I don’t play any games inside the class…I listen to the teachers”

That made my next question, which was the original intention anyway, easier to shoot.
“So, what did you study at school today?”
“An English poem,” he answered.
“I love poetry. Whose poem was it?”
“…”
“Do you remember any line from the poem?”
“No, I have to see the text book,” the boy was getting jittery.
“Ok , tell me any one word from the poem,” I persisted for a bit more.
“…”
“Do you know what the poem was about?”
“…,” the whiteness of his two large front upper teeth flashed through the uncomfortable smile.
“Does your teacher explain the poem in English or Tamil?”
“English”
I was surprised.
“Do you understand English?”
“No,” the answer came promptly.
“Get me your book tomorrow. I will teach the poem in Tamil.”
He seemed happy.
“Did you read the book that I gave you? Did you understand the stories?” We had presented him with a Tamil story book for his ear-piercing ceremony, held last week.
“Yes,” he cheered up.

Now, his sister chipped in, with some strange actions with her hands:”We didn’t have our regular classes today. They taught us words s*ell.”

I heard it as smell. It didn’t make sense, obviously.
“ka-a-tch. Catch,” she droned with the typical phonics sounds. Oh, she meant ‘spell’.
“Did they teach you spelling? How do you spell catch?”
“C-A-T”
I spent sometime guiding her through “t’, ‘tch’ and ‘catch’.
“Anna, what is the meaning of ‘little’?” she spurted out suddenly.
“Little means ‘kutty’.”
“Kutty?”
“Yes. Can you now tell me what is the meaning of little girl?”
“Girl.”
“No, little girl.”
“….”
“Little means kutty. Girl means ponnu. What does a ‘little girl’ mean? You just have to join the two words,” I repeated in a variety of ways to no avail. Her brother also didn’t have an answer.

“Don’t be shy. Tell the answer boldly,” their father said. He is unlettered but has an extensive knowledge about farming. He is the village priest at a local temple and tills the temple lands. When I had asked him, a couple of hours earlier, if he intended to continue with the education of his children, he had replied in a firm affirmative. I looked at him hopefully.

“Payyannu sollumaa (Say, it is a boy),” he said, feigning confidence.

“No, no. Little girl means kutti ponnu. Now tell me, what does a ‘little boy’ mean?”

After a few more errors, they arrived at kutti paiyan. Then we moved on to little dog, little cat. Finally, they seemed to have got a hang of little-something and rushed happily across the river – dry but for a small stream, overflowing from the check dam.

Thankfully, both these kids are still studying in Tamil medium. I shudder to think of the day when their schools will also be converted to English medium. English is certainly compounding the problems but the problem is not merely with English. We are faced with an entire educational system that alienates the rural children from their surroundings and knowledge systems. More needs to be written on this (and done about this).

But, for now, we, the English speaking elite, can go on belaboring about how we want our kids to compete with these children on a so-called ‘equal footing’ in a ‘meritocratic system’.

 Shared from https://tkan.wordpress.com/2016/05/31/the-road-to-hell-is-paved-with-felled-trees/

The Post-mortem report!

On August 9, 2016 I requested for a post-mortem report. The report was worth sharing and requested a post of its own and here it is.

Thanks to Colin (www.meandray.com) for providing the very interesting report. And the report is so good and it needed to see the limelight and here it is for you to dissect further.

The Subject:

I had a thought just a moment ago..
The moment passed and so did the thought..
The thought might return,
Would the moment return too?

But the thought was it the same?
Coz previously it was original,
Now it is mere repetition..

As moments keep flowing,
Thoughts too keep flowing..

Few are ground breaking..
Few just break the head..

Few just stay forever..
Few just disappear like a vapour..

Few eludes the words..
Few eludes from remembrance..

Few are intimate..
Few are despicable..

Few are reverent..
Few are guilty..

Few are forgotten..
Few are immortalised..

Few are stacked away deep within and taken to grave..
While few are publicised and taken for post-mortem..

So what is your post-mortem report of this thought?!

The Report and the discussion!

First report (Colin)

A post-mortem is final
It signifies death
It recaps what has been
And what can never be again
A post-mortem determines
Cause and effect
It simply defines …..
the hows, but never the whys.

Your thoughts are not in this group
For thoughts can be again
They may die, but then they may live
As long as you are alive
Your thoughts are simply dormant
Asleep until that time
When circumstances dictate an awakening
And your thoughts can live again

Perhaps you shared your thoughts
Perhaps that person will nurture them
They may then live a different life
Have slightly different results
And in the event of your passing
Their life is still assured

A post-mortem on your thoughts
Is therefore quite illogical
For they may not have to die
But should they fade with the memories of you
Then we will all be grief stricken
Such beautiful thoughts
Such expressions of awareness
Gone forever
Why?

Second Report (Aadhira)

Is the thought the same
After it transforms into words
And take some shape?
Don’t they attain a finality?
They do die as thought
And be born again as poetry,
action, prose, letter, inspiration
and much much more..

But definitely the thought
as mere thought has died..

And though the deaths are painful,
“After all, to the well-organized mind,
death is but the next great adventure.” (JKR)
So as my thoughts embark on to the next,
Let us not hesitate to post-mortem..

Yes, the post-mortems are about
Cause and Effect..
Let us ponder over
What caused the ripple..
Let us linger over
How far the ripple reaches..

And after all,
“Heard melodies are sweet,
but those unheard are sweeter” (John Keats)
So let us not grieve over lost sweetness,
But just prepare ourselves for more sweetness..

Third Report (Colin)

But if a thought dies
And resurrects in words
Was it really ever dead?
And if a mere thought could die
And caused more thoughts after resurrection
Then its soul surely lives on
Albeit in a different form

The next great adventure pre-supposes death
Which has not (here) been determined
So yes, let us ponder on the ripple
Let us linger over its reach
Let us determine its existence
But unlike a thought
The ripple does die
It is absorbed by its own medium

John Keates was right
That unheard sounds are the sweetest
Unheard sounds
Unspoken thoughts
Unseen ripples
Do they have much much in common?

Unheard sounds are limited by ones imagination
Unspoken thoughts are limited to the creator
Unseen ripples are never realized to their full potential
But let us not forget
This is about post-mortems
A post-mortem on an unheard sound is ludicrous
A post-mortem on an unspoken thought lacks imagination
A post-mortem on an unseen ripple simply cannot be.

The whole post-mortem discussion
Is a very subjective topic as you can no doubt see
With conflicting conditions being established
Quite simply by you…
… and by me!

Fourth Report (Aadhira)

The soul does live on dear..
But are we conducting
the post-mortem for the soul?

Unlike thought,
a ripple doesn’t die!
For the chaos theory states that
a flap of butterfly could cause whirlpools..
So imagine what all might happen
from a single ripple!

Just like a thought,
a Ripple is more powerful..
Yet neither the initial thought,
nor the initial ripple could ever
fathom the depth of its impact
nor the length of extension
it attains in the next form..

Those unheard / unspoken / unseen
are the privilege of the initiator
and are a secret to be guarded..
And it would be ridiculous for
expecting post-mortem on them..

When I talk, I express myself,
When I listen, I learn a new perspective..
What if there are just two views?
Still it is better than one right..

Fifth Report (Colin)

My friend, such differences we have
I believe ripples do in fact die
Even though their effect may live on
As for chaos theory?
Theory is all that it is, nothing more

When you talk, you do express yourself
But who are you?
A flower with complex scents
Will we ever know you?

When you listen, you learn new perspectives
But what are they?
A birth of new dreams perhaps
Will you ever tell us?

And as for just two views?
There really must be more
More than talking and listening
More than yours and mine

Does a mute man only listen?
Does a deaf man only talk?
Is the world simply you and I?

Perhaps an autopsy is necessary
For we all need to see
The infinite variables of life
In this wonderful world…
… that includes…
you and me!

Sixth Report (Aadhira)

Without experiencing Summer,
Rain couldn’t be appreciated better..
Still the beauty of Sun and Rain live on
complimenting each other in their own way..
Hence the differences bring out
the uniqueness and nurture the other..

When I talk, I express myself
as what I like you to know me as..
I might be the luring death
with the fragrance of rose
Or the majestic lotus amidst
the stinking mud..
So will I ever let you know..
Maybe, Maybe not..

When I listen, I learn new perspective..
But do I listen what is actually said,
Or do I listen what I want to hear?
Did I really understand your intent?
Or am I just babbling with words
that are spilled and set for dissection?

Will I ever acknowledge even to myself,
This is where a new dream was born?
Or am I that deep in vain,
To daresay that is my dream of ages?

There are indeed so many views,
just as there are many forms of dance..
When the dance of words are in such rhythm,
with its own tune and rhyme,
composed by and for the two,
others enjoy, absorb and cherish..
But would they dare to interfere?
Not, in the fear of messing the beat..

Who knows the colorful dreams of a blind?
Who hears the vocals of the mute?
Let us have little more compaasion
and spare those intellectually challenged..

There is so much wonder in here..
In this little world of you and me..
with open gates for anyone to enter
with no restraints so to leave at will..

So why be distracted by the visitors to come?
Let us explore the wonder and stage the play..
For the play lives on and someday….
Someone might enjoy the play
And even take part in it..

So, for now, the next act goes on
Just with the two of us..

Seventh Report (Colin)

You are right of course
What is black… without the white?
What is a smile… without a frown?
What is a right… without a wrong?
Differences allow us to appreciate
To see the contrasts

Differences give us choices
What to display and what to hide
What to embrace and…
What to push away.

It really is a wonderful world
Although some simply will not see
The clouds, the rainbows, the ripples in the pond
The birds, the flowers, the trees

Mother Nature, unlike us, has nothing desired to hide
She is open, for us all to see and love
Such beauty to behold
But again, some simply will not see
So let us encourage open eyes
For while they be distracting
We should share what we believe

We should share our conscious thoughts
And our appreciation of life
Perhaps it will stay just the two of us
But who knows…. perhaps another poet will call
Then we shall have more thoughts
Then we shall hear more sounds
Then we shall see more words
And then… our perspectives may change yet again!

Eight Report (Aadhira)

Despite the differences,
Black and white are untied as colors,
Smile and frown as emotion,
Right and wrong by moral..

While difference might accentuate beauty,
Being of same flock let’s in the recognition..

Choices are beautiful
Choices are confusing
Choices are conflicting

Beauty is in the eyes of beholder
You could force a person to open the eyes,
But never could push to enjoy the beauty..

Like the birth from the egg,
Let it break from inside..

While we wait for the birth,
Let us strengthen the nest,
Add little more color and cheer
For the young one to cherish and nourish..

And let us keep the hope intact..
’cause, when there is addition to the world,
We might get a new view..
Or be assured of our old ones..

---

We are still waiting for some new facts / thoughts so we could keep building this further.. Anyone?! 😉

I like You!

He: I like you!
Me: WHAT? That is creepy!
We: Just met strangers and the stranger has no prospect of staying on even as an acquaintance.

He: I like you!
Me: Hmm.. Okay..
We: New acquaintance who has not revealed anything creepy so far, yet without having any prospect of anything more than acquaintance.

He: I like you!
Me: Yeah I too kinda like you..
We: Some new friend who has recently got promoted to friend zone.

He: I like you!
Me: Oh really?! I couldn’t have guessed it ever, even with a whole page of notifications of likes and comments of posts from more than year old posts..
We: He really likes me and I don’t hate him, yet..

He: I like you!
Me: He he he.. Me too dear..
We: A good friend where we both like each other platonically.

He: I like you!
Me: [Does a double flip on cloud nine and replies] “Thanks!” with or without a blushing smiley
We: Oh yeah, that’s from crush.

He: I like you!
Me: Shut up dumbo! And just tell where to dig the hole to bury the corpse!
We: That is indeed my partner in crime and shine.

He: I like you!
Me: Is it?! You know it’s the first time you said it? So what should I talk about, to dad for you?!
We: Right guess, that’s my younger sibling!

He: I like you!
Me: (in a panic) What?! Just like? What happened darling? Don’t say ‘we need to talk‘ too!
We: That’s not something I want to hear from my love.. I would rather have ‘I love you bit less today’..

He: I like you!
Me: OMG!!!! You at last found out that you LIKE me huh? After putting up with me for decades and being part of all my fun moments and also part of the ruin party of all my over-the-top joys?! Btw, I just hate you sweety for just liking me..
We: That’s my bestie!!

---

This is one of my favourite post from the past.. Just wanted to get a tiny boost to the stats of this post.. 😛 And of course, I like you too.. 😉 😛 Now let me know your reaction to my ‘I like you‘ to you.. 😉

Caught in a lightning!

Mr. Vinayak at Zero Creativity is the one behind the lens for this beautiful photograph as well as the one behind the process of coming up with these Photetry (Please don’t bother searching it yet.. I just came up with it by merging Photo and Poetry). He posts a simple and beautiful photograph as a prompt for six line verses. Then he adds those verses over his photograph and makes a flipbook!

Thanks for getting us published so easily and in a beautiful way! 🙂

Check out his previous published books and the other entries for this photograph here > https://zerocreativity0.wordpress.com/2016/07/21/lightning-photography/

Will you be my messenger?!

எழுதிவிட்டேன்
உனக்கான என்
காதல் கவிதைகளை..

மூண்டது
உள்ளே
சிறு யுத்தம்..

நேரில் சொல்லவோ
தூதில் சொல்லவோ
என்ற குழப்பத்தில்..

வெட்கம் முந்தி
தூது சொல்ல
ஆணையிட்டது..

மீண்டும்
மூண்டது
ஒரு போர்..

தூது சொல்ல
அன்னப்பட்சி தேடவோ
அலைப்பேசி தேடவோ என..

விரைந்து செல்ல
அலைப் பேசி என
மனம் மதிக்கு சொல்ல..

மடிந்தே விட்டதாக
எண்ணிய அறிவு
மையலின் மடி நீங்கி

அன்னப்பட்சிகளால் மட்டுமே
தூது சொல்ல முடியுமென
இடித்துறைத்தது ..

மையலின் பிடியில்
சிக்கிய மனது
போருக்குப் புறப்பட..

அலைப் பேசி இணைப்பு
கனவுலகிலும் உண்டோ என
கொக்கரித்தது அறிவு..

என் க’ன’வனுக்கு
அவசரமாக
தூது செல்ல

கடனாகவது
கிடைக்குமா
அன்னப்பட்சி??

She’s not you!

I am falling in love! With words and with collaborations! The first part was introduced to me as scribble and was advised to forget after reading.. But in line with breaking rules, these lines have travelled deeper and I couldn’t forget it that easily and inversely it has prompted me to add my scribble (which is the second part) to those lines.

An addon
to collaborate;
to cremate;
to celebrate;
to cherish!

Now you are presented the graffiti and you are welcome to add your two cents.. (We could use more than two cents.. So please be generous.. 😛 )

And before I could leave you to enjoy the poetry (and / or to prepare lengthy curses) I request your attention for few more seconds..

The inspiring-heart warming-touché-brilliant piece of poetry (of course, I am talking only about the first part) is penned down by the cool star, Mr. Karthik, the co-author of the blog “Powerful Overflow” Do contact him when in need of touch of liveliness to your life and you would get assured results! (You might watch out the comments section to know more about him.. 😉 But please do stalk him and share your views on his works! 🙂

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She might love me..
More than you ever did.
And shelter my tattered soul
And feed it hope.

But..
Her eyes won’t glint
With the slightest of mischief,
To make me want to live more,
To breathe more.

Her laughter won’t resonate with me,
Like yours did.

Her fleeting glance
Won’t make me feel
The way my heart yearns to.

She won’t be imperfect
In the beautiful way you are.

Because..
She’s not you.
She can never be.

And,
When I say
I love her,
She will look into my eyes
And feel the void in my words.

And, she will know..
That the whole of my heart
Can never be hers.

Because
Beyond the closed doors are
The scribbles and graffiti
You left behind.

The remnants of a past
That you will remember
not for long.

So, go on..
Live your life
To the fullest,
As you’ve always done.

Meanwhile,
Let me pull up a chair
And grab a book.

The life is yours,
The graffiti, mine.

~~~~~~

And with that last line,
I have finished my graffiti
In her heart..

And now she could
Neither open up the graffiti
Just like me,
Nor let life hold her
In the infinite swirl
Of locking up the graffiti,
Just like me..

Hence, she broke open
My closed doors
By sheer persistence
And the faith in her heart and art..

When she broke in,
She tidied the mess of break up,
And started her art,
Which wrapped around
The whole graffiti..

Now my heart is open
For what lingers inside is
The brilliance of art of two hearts!

Yes, She’s not you!
But, she is mine!

Saving the savior..

This was the post I posted exactly a year back..

Would I say the same now?

Right now, I’m not being helpful to anyone or even being a very good friend in the past month..

Yet, when I read what I wrote, I feel a surge of pride..

Though I would prefer to be a victim and let others help me to drag, reading back my own words, gives me the push I need to move my lazy self to stand back on my own feet..

And this reminds me of Harry Potter producing his first patronus, to save himself, just with the knowledge that he would be able to do so..

I ask the potterheads to excuse me, when I’m bragging that my blog is indeed a time-turner.. 😛

And it helps me save myself and let me be the victim and savior of myself.. 😉

Now do visit the original post and let me know of your views over comments or owl-post.. 😛

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Whom do you really help when you help someone?

Source: Saving the savior..

My Words – Are they really mine?

When words were never mine to begin with.  I was only their carrier upon transport- both serving time together- holding some- mere milliseconds- while others cellmates serving a life sentence.  Each letter and word- wound within my dna- and- transcribed by my process of knowing- has arrived from the hands of someone else.

Who am I to say- I own these words?

Yes- they may empower- even set you free- but to own them- is to put them in a zoo.  To cut out their lungs- give them hugs for legs- and tell them to run- then send them on their way to have a nice life- and a breath of fresh air- from the inside- out.

If I copyright words- Van Gogh copyrights Starry Nights- Aristotle copyrights thought- Harper Lee and  Maya Angelou know why the caged mockingbird can’t sing- if their teachers own all the words.  Does Shakespeare care if Hamlet is performed at the Globe – a renowned performing arts high school in New York- or the streets of El Salvador?  Or is it about sharing in our words- living through his words- copy what was- homage to the author.

And…

What if my thought- was first a song lyric written on the back of a napkin- tossed aside- blurred- by someone who was playing the drinking game.  Was my thought already prefabricated- plain as day- in the light of moon- beyond the wonder of a five year old Nigerian girl.  Or in the dreams of an addict to spun to remember what was said- when morning is four days later- and still hasn’t come.  Maybe it was the taxi driver in Karachi who first said, “poets can be any color- they just want to be read…” way before it entered my head.  He just didn’t have access to a pen- or- when he got home- had trouble remembering again.

Or…

Maybe this was all confiscated- stolen- copy unwritten- from a man who has ALS. Everyone baby talks- the man- like a toddler- and pats him on the head.  Like sticking a finger in the soup to see if it is warm.  Somewhere he is reading my words- his words- unspoken- on a screen- screaming so loud.  But no one gives a fuck- because they think he doesn’t have words.  These are my copyrighted- hijacked- borrowed from another source- all the source- is the same source- words- just a different kind of sauce.

Understanding- I only carry these words- all thoughts that have been conjured- inflicted- and finely tuned- have come from the fingers- tongues- brushstrokes- madness of others. Screamed in splinters- whispered in born against- washed into the sand’s stone- are all words- for consideration.

My search in writing- is for a comfort- for the words- and the people to be as free as possible.  Knowing- nothing is free- especially as a Dad- to three- all girls.

What about the tree- when were they going to see a royalty- for all the copies they have written?

Like a tree roots in- I am rooted in my children.  For them- and my family- I have to remain a true artist- a true contradiction- like any human- that varies on a multitude of spectrums.  To a take stand- show my copy rights as author and carrier of words- would only be for them- so their walk is a little lighter.

Their Father’s hands which have borne the scars and marked calluses of time- that comes when the sun shines so bright in life- you have to squint- and trust that you’re walking- but- not off the edge- because you can still feel the sun radiating through your face- and trust can be easier- when you can’t see in the first place.

I will chase- these words all copied from the same source- just a different sauce- tasting- and holding on to what I can- understanding what was already written…

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This is a post written by Anthony in his blog “Symbols between Spacebars” under the title “Do I have a right to copyright words- call them mine?“

As Close as it Comes!

Isn’t it enough that I let you see
Isn’t it enough that that I have let you see me bleed
As long as I allow you to share

Isn’t it enough for you to just care
I will not ask you to dwell inside my life’s shell
Nor ask you to share my personal hell

It is mine and mine alone
Perhaps the only thing I possess
The only thing that I own.

Isn’t it enough that I bare my soul
Isn’t it enough that you know I’m not whole
As long as I trust you enough to let you see me

Isn’t that enough for you to let me be me
I can not allow anyone else to live in my shell
Nor allow any to share my personal hell

It is mine and mine alone
Perhaps its the only thing I possess
That No one  can lay a claim on

Isn’t it enough that I see your needs
Isn’t it enough that I see your deeds
Isn’t it enough to show you I care

Without crawling in and sharing your lair
One we are
One we will be

It is the only thing we own
Let it be enough that I allow you inside to see
How I decorate my own home

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This is another re-blog post. I re-blog when I like the thought and the way it is presented. But this re-blog is purely for the following reason – The moment I read, I started wondering why didn’t I write out this thought.. But I wonder whether I could ever write it this good. Hence, instead of using it as inspiration, here is the same post..

I should be mentioning the author right.. The author is my longest follower and my initial followers are only through him. He keeps wondering why in his blog, and I keep wondering why am I blessed with such good people. Must be some good deed I have inadvertently done in the past.. 😉

I would be requiring more than a footnote to describe this oxymoronic-sharp-witted brother of mine, William. I would rather suggest that you follow him and ponder over his thought-provoking posts.. 🙂

(I have taken the liberty to format the post as I would like to see it Bro.. Sorry if it is not to your liking)

Autobiography of a Plagiarist

Disclaimer – This blog post is a work of fiction.

Some say truth triumphs! I had never experienced it until last winter! This change cleansed me and transformed me into a good individual. Some say that there is no difference between people who steal others things  and those who snatch others ideas. I had been doing that for my material gains.  Google turned out to be my best friend for it provided me everything that I desired. Being a blogger and an amateur writer, my mind constantly required to produce and reproduce several ideas. Most of the blogging sites that came up with  different blogging contests often came up with attractive and lucrative prizes  – iPad, iPhone, Kindle, Mac Books and various electronic gadgets. I seemed to have been blinded and smitten  by these prizes that I resort to snatching ideas.

5^th November 2013 – was the day when blogger.com came up with a PAN level blogger contest. The winner of that contest was to be awarded an iPhone. ‘Human Heart Vs Human Brain – Measuring conflicts. What does the heart say when the brain says no?’ It was a  topic that had to be dealt with utmost sensitivity. I usually suck at writing such articles.  The prizes attracted my eyeballs. Gluttony hurts, it  kills!

I started thinking over the topic and my brain couldn’t conceive constructive ideas relevant to the theme of the contest. I was disappointed at the fact that I was turning creativity handicap. It was indeed challenging. Any writer wouldn’t succumb to an act that I did! I typed – Heart Vs Brain on the Google Search bar and I received numerous web links. I went through the websites one by one and accumulated points.  I jotted down the points and tried to put it on my own words.  While exploring few of those websites, my eyes grabbed the attention of a blog written by an American Teenager – Brenda Anderson.

“Heart is symbolic of emotions, feelings; attachments. It has its own reasoning which the mind may not approve of, probably because it lacks the evidence or arguments that prove it to be right. But has an understanding that assures it of not being wrong.
At times, the high EQ (emotional quotient) may overshadow the strong IQ.
The reason for it is simple when faced with a situation; our heart pulls us to one direction and the mind to the other. We don’t know which way to go this gives rise to a conflict that interferes with our ability to think rationally. There is no direction, just a dead point. We feel lost and our mind stops working, stops thinking and then we become totally dependent on what our heart tells us, after all, it’s our last resort.”

This was something that I was looking for! Spot it! I copied the entire post on my document and started working on it. I meticulously made good use of the thesaurus and changed meanings of certain complex words. I made its vocabulary easy to understand. I optimized it for an Indian audience.  The deadline for the blogger contest was approaching. Brenda Anderson was indeed a blessed girl. I explored her blog and it was the repository of literature work. Her works dealt with the highest level of art and literature. I envied her for some reason. She would have won several blogger contests if she were in India. Perhaps, at that moment, I never felt guilty publishing someone else’s article under my name and that too under PAN India level. I was feeling jubilant when I posted the link to the blogger page. I was quite sure that I would win. I had no traces of guilt in my heart. Weeks passed and even months!  The contest results were about to be announced.  Many people had appreciated that article that I had lifted from Brenda Anderson’s blog and no one had even the slightest doubt that it was a stolen one. I had received over 100 comments for that single blog post. People enjoyed reading it and they had scribbled genuine comments for that. It did make me smile!

But that night, I couldn’t sleep peacefully. My conscience knocked me hard to make me feel that I had done the biggest mistake of my life. It indicated me that this was a big shame. How could a person fall down to this level? It wanted to correct my mistake. I contemplated and thought over my act! But it seemed that the results were already announced. I was declared as the winner. I was entitled to get an iPhone. I was feeling guilty and my greed for material products had to be reprimanded. I was feeling low and disappointed.  Finally, I listened to what my heart said to me and contacted the organizers. I spilled the beans! I informed them that I had lifted the article from an American girl’s blog and modified it as per my needs. But that was an honest confession. I had tears in my eyes when I spoke all that to the organizers. The organizers discussed and decided to go with the results as announced. They had awarded me the prize for my honesty. I could have simply opted to conceal the truth, but my conscience didn’t let me sleep peacefully. For years to come, my heart would have been heavy with the guilt that would often remind me of the scar that it had left! But I acknowledged my conscience by doing something that it desired.  But it would have been inappropriate if I had accepted the prize. The organizers didn’t budge and I had to accept the prize.

Image is taken from here

All the 100 plus comments that the blog post received belonged to that girl. It was the efforts of that American girl who deserved so many appreciations. I had just been a channel. I quickly added the link of her post to my blog post and added a line that my post had been inspired from Brenda’s blog post.

I quickly inspected her blog for her contact details. “You may want to let me know how you feel about my blog posts 🙂 How?  Write me at brenda.anderson7@live.com” It was mentioned at the right sidebar of the blog.

“Dear Brenda,

You might be wondering who this is. I would like to call myself as the greatest fan of Miss Brenda Anderson. Yes, I am a huge fan of your writing. I bumped across your blog through Google and I’m glad that I found it. Your articles have touched me deep! I would like to say something important. Last month I took part in a PAN India level contest and I had won it.  Please don’t get me wrong when I say that I had stolen ideas and points from your blog. I had lifted it. I’m feeling ashamed because of my act. Check this link – virtualstroller.blogspot.com/heartvsmind. All the comments on this blog post are meant for you.  Kindly forgive me. Please provide me your address.

Yours Truly,
Sankit”

I waited for her reply. Finally, two days later she replied me.

“Dear Sankit,

I’m so happy that you won the blogging contest. I’m indeed very happy for you. Thank you for all the kind words in the last email. That was sweet of you :). You don’t need to be sorry. You had taken my blog post and I’m glad you won it. It was nice going through the various comments in the blog post in the link that you had sent me. You are a nice soul, Sankit! Please do not say that you had stolen my blog post. : )  I have blog rolled you and consider me as a regular reader of your blog. You too do the same and yes whenever you read my post do leave some nice comments 😛 And my address is –

2411, Andersons Avenue, AV, Green Park, GA, Atlanta 30301, USA

Stay in touch, Sankit! Xoxox

Take Care,
Brenda ”

I was so happy to read all that. I quickly parceled the iPhone to her. I was not the right owner to that Apple product.  Initially, she refused to accept it. But after insisting she accepted it. We soon turned out to be good friends.  Yes, Truth indeed Triumphs! Sometimes you just need to be true to yourself. Sometimes you just need to listen to your heart. It’s an offense to steal others creativity!

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Friends, many times we knock Google’s door for ideas when our brain refuses to produce adequate necessary desired ideas. I feel disheartened to see and hear such things. My heart hurts when I read my blogger friends writing statuses on Facebook citing their plagiarized blog posts. Trust me that it is something that hurts any blogger. Who would like their blog post to be snatched? Remember that a plagiarist is no different than a thief. The difference is that a plagiarist steals others ideas while a thief steals products.  A plagiarist could steal someone’s blog post, but they can never steal someone’s creativity! Dear Plagiarists – Please do not hurt creative souls here. Your conscience will hurt you and you would live a life of guilt! If you go on to get inspired by someone’s work then do let the article owner know about this and you could link their blog post to yours. That would be a kind gesture. While using an image from Google, do give credits to the  image owner. This blog post might be a work of fiction, but this might be true for many of you out here! Stay blessed my creative people!

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There are two ways to present a thought of others. You could get inspired and just spin the thought in your own unique wrap and present it to others. Or just share the post as is, just like I am doing here! This is a post written by my friend Stephen in his blog The Solitary Writer. He has been blogging for the past decade on various topics. His range of writings include fiction, political satire, Cricket Commentary, Social Issues, Reviews and many more. Do check out his blog for a perfect potpourri and you would surely find something to your taste, irrespective of your taste.

Pillaiyar And Peter Jones

Kalaiselvan and Peter Jones were studying together in the same class since first standard. So when they shifted Peter Jones to another section of fifth standard, Kalaiselvan couldn’t stop his crying and he cried so hard and got himself sick.

Peter consoled Kalai, saying that, though we are in different sections, we are still in same school and so we could still go and come back from school together. Yet, Peter felt something amiss when he had to go to school alone on that day.

A small void. A tiny inconvenience. Peter felt as if he forgot something. So he stopped on the way, by a neem tree and checked his bag. His maths note, geometry box and everything else was in his bag. The only thing missing was his friend Kalai. He resumed walking with his bag till he reached the temple pond.

He stopped at the temple pond for some reason. That’s where his friend Kalai performs his morning prayer ritual of Thoppukaranam (Sit ups as a form of prayer) before the statute of the big bellied Elephant Lord Pillaiyaar. Peter dropped his bag nearby and went to kneel down before Pillaiyaar.

Shenbagam, who was fetching water from the pond noticed this and gently smiled. She said, ‘Dear Peter, this is not Christ, this is Pillaiyaar. Here the form of prayer is with Thoppukaranam and not by kneeling down.’ Peter hadn’t noticed her till then. But he just threw a glimpse at her and continued looking at the statute.

He said sternly that, he hasn’t come here to pray, as he opened his lunch box. He slowly opened it with bit of struggle and took few grains of rice from the lunch and kept it near the small ant hills next to the statute of Pillaiyaar.

Peter continued saying to her, ‘Kalai keeps food daily for these ants. If he doesn’t keep, the ants will be hungry right? To keep food for them only I came here.’

In the next few seconds, neither Peter, who had been walking back gloriously, covering all the void, nor Shenbagam, who had gone speechless and stood like a statute with his reply, or even the ants, which were busily dragging the grains to their homes, did not notice, that the statute of Pillaiyaar was kneeling down in the sand there!

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பிள்ளையாரும் பீட்டர் ஜோன்சும்…

ஒன்றாம் வகுப்பிலிருந்து ஒன்றாகவே படித்த உயிர்த்தோழன் பீட்டர் ஜோன்சை தன்னிடமிருந்து பிரித்து ஐந்தாம் வகுப்பு ‘B’ செக்‌ஷனில் போட்டுவிட்டதைச் சொல்லி அழுது அழுது காய்ச்சலே வந்துவிட்டது கலைச்செல்வனுக்கு.”செக்‌ஷன் மாத்திட்டாங்கதான் ஆனாலும் நாம சேர்ந்தே தானே ஸ்கூலுக்கு போகப்போறோம் ? மறுபடியும் வீட்டுக்கு வரும்போதும் சேர்ந்தே வருவோம்” என்று சிரித்துக்கொண்டே சொன்ன பீட்டருக்கும் இன்று தனியாக நடந்து பள்ளிக்கூடம் செல்வது கொஞ்சம் வருத்தமாகவே இருந்தது, ஏதோ… ஒரு வெற்றிடம்,மனதிற்குள் ஒரு சின்ன உறுத்தல்.எதையோ மறந்துவிட்டதைப்போன்ற ஒரு உள்ளுணர்வு.பக்கத்து வேப்பமரத்தடியில் பையை இறக்கி வைத்து கணக்கு நோட்டு,ஜாமெண்டரி பாக்ஸ் எல்லாவற்றையும் எடுத்தாகிவிட்டதா என்று சரிபார்த்தான் பீட்டர், எல்லாமே இருந்தது இல்லாதது அவன் நண்பன் கலை மட்டும்தான்.மீண்டும் பையை மாட்டிக்கொண்டு நடக்க ஆரம்பித்தவன் ஏனோ அந்த கோவில் குளத்தைக் கடக்காமல் நின்றுவிட்டான்.

அங்கே தினமும் கலைச்செல்வன் தோப்புக்கரணம் போட்டு கும்பிடும் தொப்பை கணபதி சிலைவரை வேகமாக ஓடிப்போய் பையை கழற்றிவைத்துவிட்டு மரத்தடி பிள்ளையார் சிலைக்கு முன் முட்டி போட்டுக்கொண்டான்.இதை பார்த்ததும் கோவில் குளத்தில் தண்ணீர் எடுத்துக்கொண்டிருந்த செண்பகம் மாமிக்கு இதழோரமாய் கசிந்தது ஒரு சின்ன புன்னகை“ஏண்டாப்பா பீட்டர் இது கர்த்தர் சிலை இல்லடா கணபதி சிலை,இங்க் தோப்புக்கரணம்தான் போடணும் முட்டி போட்டு கும்பிட வேண்டாம் ” என்றார் மாமி.அவரை அதுவரை கவனிக்காத பீட்டர் இப்பொழுதுதான் கவனித்தான் ஆனாலும் ஒரு நொடியில் மீண்டும் சிலையை நோக்கி திரும்பிக்கொண்டான்.வேகமாக தன் சாப்பாட்டுக்கூடைக்குள் கையை விட்டு துழாவிக்கொண்டே “நான் இங்க ப்ரேயர் பண்ண வரல” என்று தீர்க்கமாக சொன்னவன் டிபன் பாக்சை வெளியிலெடுத்து மெதுவாக தன் பல் இடுக்கில் வைத்து நெம்பி அதிலிருந்து சில பருக்கைகளைக் கையிலெடுத்து அந்த பிள்ளையார் சிலையைச் சுற்றி இருந்த சின்னச் சின்ன எறும்புப் புற்றுகளுக்கு முன் வைத்துவிட்டு மீண்டும் மாமியிடம் சொன்னான் “கலை இங்க தினமும் சாப்பாடு வைப்பான், இன்னைக்கு வைக்காம விட்டா எறும்பு பாவம்தான? பசிக்குமே,..அதுக்குதான் வந்தேன்”.அடுத்த ஐந்தாவது நொடி வெற்றிடங்களையெல்லாம் நிறப்பிக்கொண்டவனாய் எழுந்து நடந்துகொண்டிருந்த பீட்டரோ ,என்ன சொல்வதென்று தெரியாமல் குடத்தோடு குளத்தருகில் சிலையாகிப்போன மாமியோ,அவ்வளவு ஏன் ஒரு சோற்றுப்பருக்கையை கூட்டுக்குள் இழுக்க பிரம்ம ப்ரயத்தனப்பட்டுக் கொண்டிருந்த அந்த எறும்போ கூட கவனிக்கவே இல்லை இப்பொழுது மண் திட்டின் மேல் முட்டி போட்டிருந்த அந்த பிள்ளையார் சிலையை !

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This is a story written by my friend Kavi Ilaval Tamil and posted as Facebook Update. He writes amazing Tamil verses and has a published book “Yaathumaagi ninren” to his credit.

I liked the story and I couldn’t resist sharing it. Hope you too enjoyed the story. Do post your views in the comments.

Seasons.

“Spring passes and one remembers one’s innocence.
Summer passes and one remembers one’s exuberance.
Autumn passes and one remembers one’s reverence.
Winter passes and one remembers one’s perseverance.

Foamy Flakes,

Frost over Blue lakes.

Mittens and Flannels,

Icicles on window panels.

Thermos teemed with hot chocolate,

As winter glossed the nature’s slate.

 

Blush Blooms,

Dew over grass looms.

Kites and merry lights,

Bright moon nights.

Jars jammed with cherry marmalade,

As spring glossed the nature’s slate.

 

Scorching Sun,

Dandelions over green lawn.

Glow worms and fire flies,

Sun- kissed skies.

Bottles of sweet lemonades,

As summer glossed the nature’s slate.

 

Tanned Turf,

Leaf-strewn over soil base.

Red landscapes and cobwebs,

Gloom going with the ebbs.

Fluffs of cotton candy mates,

As autumn glossed the nature’s slate.

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The contrast of seasons stringed into harmony by a cute Glass-wearing-Cheshire-cat-grinning-little-nerdy doll named as Adhithya and called as Adhi with a ‘h’.. 😀

She writes so beautifully and she is indeed a very nice person to have a cool chit chat and would be a great friend.. Just make sure she reaches back earth after she reaches her cloud nine, so we all can have the warmth Adhithya’s (The name means Sun) sunshine..

Now go follow Adhi, drop few comments and enjoy this sunshine’s cute rays.. 🙂