My first violin

As young children, we never heard western instruments, because in those days there were no radios in the home, and even gramophones were most exceptionally rare items.
But our Father did instruct us in the science of Indian music, and he also made us sing the various ragas, together with the beating of the Talas, while accompanying us on the piano. Our Father also taught us western scales, besides the basis principles of music in general.
One day, when returning form the first concert of western music which I had ever heard, I rushed back home and begged my Father to let me have a violin, so that I could learn to play the concerto of Beethoven as well as Mica Elm did at that concert at Sale Pulley in Paris, to which I had just been, together with our Uncle «Tea».
After days and days of practice, I finally decided to play some notes on the violin to my Father, convinced as I was that he could not compete with me. But suddenly he picked up my violin and started to play so beautifully on it that I was absolutely spellbound in deepest admiration, and of course all my silent feelings of pride concerning my own accomplishments on the violin were wiped away in one moment, leaving only place for a firm determination to try to come up some day to my Father’s expectations.
At that same occasion, my Father also gave me a «Wazifa», which he specially wrote on the lines of music paper, symbolising a magic link of music and mysticism in one and the same meditation, «The cry of the heart, the cry of the soul...».

Bowl of saki

15 Nov Wisdom is not in words, it is in understanding.


Woman is woman, whether in the East or in the West.


How few realize that the heart is like a dome, within which all, whether good or bad, re-echoes, creating thereby either uplifting or disturbing influences that become in time the characteristics of one's own personality. The finer the go, the less disturbing it is to others, although life's trials become much harder to endure. A thorn does not harm its likeness, but it can destroy the frailty of a delicate rose. Nevertheless, life is better lived as a rose, with its inspiring colour and fragrance, than as a thorn among other thorns. This is what is understood as the art of personality.

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