Some ten years ago,there lived a boy down in the mountains. He had a magical flute. The entire valley would come to a standstill, birds would dance as he played his flute. Cool breeze from other side of the river and boys flute used to create magic. He could play flute in hundred different rhythms. Some treated him as the rebirth of Tansen, the musical great. Unaware of all these, one could find him busy with his flute on the banks of river,completely lost in it. He lost his mother at an early age of three. He was not even able to recall her face now. Whenever his stepmother scolded him and he longed for the love and care of a mother, that flute would be his only companion. People saw him playing flute with his wet eyes help up, looking for his mother in the clouds. Years passed by. With these passing years, he had developed thousands of rhythms. Immense hatred, jealousy, these were the two things that his stepmother developed. She kept complaining of the boys bewildered passion of playing flute all day to his father. None of us can ignore the words of a beautiful lady, good or bad. Boys father was no exception. He promised to send the boy to the towns in the east to earn some money, with his flute in the mountains. Glamorous city light, rich people and poor he. The tiring daily labour in an iron ore factory and tall buildings all around made him forget the flute, his passion and the mountains. He was sent to earn money and was doing the same. Amidst the chorus of people running after money, he forgot the magical rhythm he used to create once. His hands became too tough for the flute. After him numerous people tried with his flute, but none could create magic. Envied, they broke down the magical flute. Poor villagers, none could know it was the boys years of dedication that created magic, that brought delight to the mountains. He spent countless nights playing the flute, recalling his mother in solitude. Perhaps he was born to play flute. None could know. Not even his father. Magic comes with going for what we desire, what we love to. Tell a bird that it has been flying in the sky for a long time and now its time to swim across a river. It will die. The flute player couldnt create the same magic in that iron ore industry. The magician within him died. Magic lies within us. Unfortunately none could know. Not even his father. .
Posted on: Sun, 20 Jul 2014 07:51:51 +0000
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