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Cricket is a passion for people around the globe. It is played everywhere from test match arenas to village greens, tropical beaches, and dusty backlots. Cricket is the world's second most popular spectator sport after soccer. The origin of cricket can be traced back to the Dark Ages. All research concedes that the game is derived from a very old, popular and uncomplicated pastime by which one player served up an object, be it a small piece of wood or a ball and another hit it with a suitably fashioned club. The game of cricket was recorded in 16th-century England and it was played in grammar schools, farming communities and everywhere in between. But things really took off when 18th-century nobles realised it was a great sport. The oldest surviving set of cricket laws dates to 1744, which was printed on a handkerchief. Naturally, it's now in the MCC Museum at Lord's in London. The first international match was held in 1877 when Australia beat England in Melbourne. The match was dubbed 'Test', since the grueling nature of playing over five days was deemed the ultimate test for any one side. However, it was Australia's first win on the English soil - in 1882 at The Oval in London - that led to matches between the two nations christened as the 'Ashes.' Following the defeat, newspapers published an obituary mourning "the death of English cricket", adding that "the body will be cremated and the ashes taken to Australia."

Cricket is a passion for people around the globe. It is played everywhere from test match arenas to village greens, tropical beaches, and dusty backlots. Cricket is the world's second most popular spectator sport after soccer. The origin of cricket can be traced back to the Dark Ages. All research concedes that the game is derived from a very old, popular and uncomplicated pastime by which one player served up an object, be it a small piece of wood or a ball and another hit it with a suitably fashioned club. The game of cricket was recorded in 16th-century England and it was played in grammar schools, farming communities and everywhere in between. But things really took off when 18th-century nobles realised it was a great sport. The oldest surviving set of cricket laws dates to 1744, which was printed on a handkerchief. Naturally, it's now in the MCC Museum at Lord's in London. The first international match was held in 1877 when Australia beat England in Melbourne. The match was dubbed 'Test', since the grueling nature of playing over five days was deemed the ultimate test for any one side. However, it was Australia's first win on the English soil - in 1882 at The Oval in London - that led to matches between the two nations christened as the 'Ashes.' Following the defeat, newspapers published an obituary mourning "the death of English cricket", adding that "the body will be cremated and the ashes taken to Australia."

The train rolled into the small hill station just as the first flight of dawn brushed the mountains with pale gold. Ananya stepped down, her suitcase bumping against her leg, and inhaled the crisp morning air. It had been ten years since she visited this place – a town wrapped in silence, mist and memories she had spent years trying to forget.

As she walked toward the narrow path leading to her grandmother's cottage, familiar sights tugged at her heart. The old bakery, once bustling with chatter, now stood abandoned. The pine trees still whispered with the wind but their sound felt indifferent -older, almost weary. Ananya wondered whether the town had changed or whether she had.

Her grandmother's cottage appeared exactly as she remembered: small, sturdy and smelling faintly of pine resin and tea leaves. Inside, dust rested on the shelves like a layer of time itself. On the wooden table lay a sealed envelope with her name on it, written in her grandmother's delicate hand writing.

Ananya hesitated. Her grandmother had passed away two months earlier and opening this letter felt like unlocking a door she had kept firmly shut. Finally, she tore it open. The letter carried no dramatic revelations - only a simple request: “Don't fear the life waiting for you. You must stop standing at the edge.”

Ananya sat down slowly. She had left the town because it reminded her too much of her failures - dreams she had abandoned before they could take shape. But now, the stillness of the room felt less like a wound and more like an invitation. For the first time in years, she sensed a quiet determination settling with her. Perhaps, returning was not an escape but the beginning of finally moving forward.

The train rolled into the small hill station just as the first flight of dawn brushed the mountains with pale gold. Ananya stepped down, her suitcase bumping against her leg, and inhaled the crisp morning air. It had been ten years since she visited this place – a town wrapped in silence, mist and memories she had spent years trying to forget.

As she walked toward the narrow path leading to her grandmother's cottage, familiar sights tugged at her heart. The old bakery, once bustling with chatter, now stood abandoned. The pine trees still whispered with the wind but their sound felt indifferent -older, almost weary. Ananya wondered whether the town had changed or whether she had.

Her grandmother's cottage appeared exactly as she remembered: small, sturdy and smelling faintly of pine resin and tea leaves. Inside, dust rested on the shelves like a layer of time itself. On the wooden table lay a sealed envelope with her name on it, written in her grandmother's delicate hand writing.

Ananya hesitated. Her grandmother had passed away two months earlier and opening this letter felt like unlocking a door she had kept firmly shut. Finally, she tore it open. The letter carried no dramatic revelations - only a simple request: “Don't fear the life waiting for you. You must stop standing at the edge.”

Ananya sat down slowly. She had left the town because it reminded her too much of her failures - dreams she had abandoned before they could take shape. But now, the stillness of the room felt less like a wound and more like an invitation. For the first time in years, she sensed a quiet determination settling with her. Perhaps, returning was not an escape but the beginning of finally moving forward.

The train rolled into the small hill station just as the first flight of dawn brushed the mountains with pale gold. Ananya stepped down, her suitcase bumping against her leg, and inhaled the crisp morning air. It had been ten years since she visited this place – a town wrapped in silence, mist and memories she had spent years trying to forget.

As she walked toward the narrow path leading to her grandmother's cottage, familiar sights tugged at her heart. The old bakery, once bustling with chatter, now stood abandoned. The pine trees still whispered with the wind but their sound felt indifferent -older, almost weary. Ananya wondered whether the town had changed or whether she had.

Her grandmother's cottage appeared exactly as she remembered: small, sturdy and smelling faintly of pine resin and tea leaves. Inside, dust rested on the shelves like a layer of time itself. On the wooden table lay a sealed envelope with her name on it, written in her grandmother's delicate hand writing.

Ananya hesitated. Her grandmother had passed away two months earlier and opening this letter felt like unlocking a door she had kept firmly shut. Finally, she tore it open. The letter carried no dramatic revelations - only a simple request: “Don't fear the life waiting for you. You must stop standing at the edge.”

Ananya sat down slowly. She had left the town because it reminded her too much of her failures - dreams she had abandoned before they could take shape. But now, the stillness of the room felt less like a wound and more like an invitation. For the first time in years, she sensed a quiet determination settling with her. Perhaps, returning was not an escape but the beginning of finally moving forward.

The train rolled into the small hill station just as the first flight of dawn brushed the mountains with pale gold. Ananya stepped down, her suitcase bumping against her leg, and inhaled the crisp morning air. It had been ten years since she visited this place – a town wrapped in silence, mist and memories she had spent years trying to forget.

As she walked toward the narrow path leading to her grandmother's cottage, familiar sights tugged at her heart. The old bakery, once bustling with chatter, now stood abandoned. The pine trees still whispered with the wind but their sound felt indifferent -older, almost weary. Ananya wondered whether the town had changed or whether she had.

Her grandmother's cottage appeared exactly as she remembered: small, sturdy and smelling faintly of pine resin and tea leaves. Inside, dust rested on the shelves like a layer of time itself. On the wooden table lay a sealed envelope with her name on it, written in her grandmother's delicate hand writing.

Ananya hesitated. Her grandmother had passed away two months earlier and opening this letter felt like unlocking a door she had kept firmly shut. Finally, she tore it open. The letter carried no dramatic revelations - only a simple request: “Don't fear the life waiting for you. You must stop standing at the edge.”

Ananya sat down slowly. She had left the town because it reminded her too much of her failures - dreams she had abandoned before they could take shape. But now, the stillness of the room felt less like a wound and more like an invitation. For the first time in years, she sensed a quiet determination settling with her. Perhaps, returning was not an escape but the beginning of finally moving forward.

The train rolled into the small hill station just as the first flight of dawn brushed the mountains with pale gold. Ananya stepped down, her suitcase bumping against her leg, and inhaled the crisp morning air. It had been ten years since she visited this place – a town wrapped in silence, mist and memories she had spent years trying to forget.

As she walked toward the narrow path leading to her grandmother's cottage, familiar sights tugged at her heart. The old bakery, once bustling with chatter, now stood abandoned. The pine trees still whispered with the wind but their sound felt indifferent -older, almost weary. Ananya wondered whether the town had changed or whether she had.

Her grandmother's cottage appeared exactly as she remembered: small, sturdy and smelling faintly of pine resin and tea leaves. Inside, dust rested on the shelves like a layer of time itself. On the wooden table lay a sealed envelope with her name on it, written in her grandmother's delicate hand writing.

Ananya hesitated. Her grandmother had passed away two months earlier and opening this letter felt like unlocking a door she had kept firmly shut. Finally, she tore it open. The letter carried no dramatic revelations - only a simple request: “Don't fear the life waiting for you. You must stop standing at the edge.”

Ananya sat down slowly. She had left the town because it reminded her too much of her failures - dreams she had abandoned before they could take shape. But now, the stillness of the room felt less like a wound and more like an invitation. For the first time in years, she sensed a quiet determination settling with her. Perhaps, returning was not an escape but the beginning of finally moving forward.

The old man remained dreaming in the sun. His kite shop was gone. He still made kites for his own amusement and for the benefit of his grandson, Ali. Not many people bought kites these days. Adults disdained them and children preferred to spend their time at the cinema. Moreover, there were not many open spaces left for flying of kites.

But the old man remembered a time when grown men flew kites and great battles were fought, the kites swerving and swooping in the sky, tangling with each other until the string of one was severed. Kite flying was then the sport of the kings, and the old man remembered how the Nawab himself would participate in this noble pastime. There was time, then, to spend an idle hour with a gay dancing strip of paper. Now everyone hurried in a heat of hope and delicate things like kites and daydreams were trampled underfoot.

He, Mehmood the kite-maker, had in the prime of his life been well-known throughout the city. Some of his kites sold for three or four rupees each! Everyone in the neighbourhood would ask after his health; but now, no one visited him. The children who had bought kites from him 10 years ago, had grown up in a swiftly changing and competitive world and they looked at the old kite-maker and the banyan tree with the same indifference. Both were taken for granted – permanent fixtures that were of no concern to the raucous, sweating mass of humanity that surrounded them.

The old man remained dreaming in the sun. His kite shop was gone. He still made kites for his own amusement and for the benefit of his grandson, Ali. Not many people bought kites these days. Adults disdained them and children preferred to spend their time at the cinema. Moreover, there were not many open spaces left for flying of kites.

But the old man remembered a time when grown men flew kites and great battles were fought, the kites swerving and swooping in the sky, tangling with each other until the string of one was severed. Kite flying was then the sport of the kings, and the old man remembered how the Nawab himself would participate in this noble pastime. There was time, then, to spend an idle hour with a gay dancing strip of paper. Now everyone hurried in a heat of hope and delicate things like kites and daydreams were trampled underfoot.

He, Mehmood the kite-maker, had in the prime of his life been well-known throughout the city. Some of his kites sold for three or four rupees each! Everyone in the neighbourhood would ask after his health; but now, no one visited him. The children who had bought kites from him 10 years ago, had grown up in a swiftly changing and competitive world and they looked at the old kite-maker and the banyan tree with the same indifference. Both were taken for granted – permanent fixtures that were of no concern to the raucous, sweating mass of humanity that surrounded them.

The old man remained dreaming in the sun. His kite shop was gone. He still made kites for his own amusement and for the benefit of his grandson, Ali. Not many people bought kites these days. Adults disdained them and children preferred to spend their time at the cinema. Moreover, there were not many open spaces left for flying of kites.

But the old man remembered a time when grown men flew kites and great battles were fought, the kites swerving and swooping in the sky, tangling with each other until the string of one was severed. Kite flying was then the sport of the kings, and the old man remembered how the Nawab himself would participate in this noble pastime. There was time, then, to spend an idle hour with a gay dancing strip of paper. Now everyone hurried in a heat of hope and delicate things like kites and daydreams were trampled underfoot.

He, Mehmood the kite-maker, had in the prime of his life been well-known throughout the city. Some of his kites sold for three or four rupees each! Everyone in the neighbourhood would ask after his health; but now, no one visited him. The children who had bought kites from him 10 years ago, had grown up in a swiftly changing and competitive world and they looked at the old kite-maker and the banyan tree with the same indifference. Both were taken for granted – permanent fixtures that were of no concern to the raucous, sweating mass of humanity that surrounded them.

The old man remained dreaming in the sun. His kite shop was gone. He still made kites for his own amusement and for the benefit of his grandson, Ali. Not many people bought kites these days. Adults disdained them and children preferred to spend their time at the cinema. Moreover, there were not many open spaces left for flying of kites.

But the old man remembered a time when grown men flew kites and great battles were fought, the kites swerving and swooping in the sky, tangling with each other until the string of one was severed. Kite flying was then the sport of the kings, and the old man remembered how the Nawab himself would participate in this noble pastime. There was time, then, to spend an idle hour with a gay dancing strip of paper. Now everyone hurried in a heat of hope and delicate things like kites and daydreams were trampled underfoot.

He, Mehmood the kite-maker, had in the prime of his life been well-known throughout the city. Some of his kites sold for three or four rupees each! Everyone in the neighbourhood would ask after his health; but now, no one visited him. The children who had bought kites from him 10 years ago, had grown up in a swiftly changing and competitive world and they looked at the old kite-maker and the banyan tree with the same indifference. Both were taken for granted – permanent fixtures that were of no concern to the raucous, sweating mass of humanity that surrounded them.

The old man remained dreaming in the sun. His kite shop was gone. He still made kites for his own amusement and for the benefit of his grandson, Ali. Not many people bought kites these days. Adults disdained them and children preferred to spend their time at the cinema. Moreover, there were not many open spaces left for flying of kites.

But the old man remembered a time when grown men flew kites and great battles were fought, the kites swerving and swooping in the sky, tangling with each other until the string of one was severed. Kite flying was then the sport of the kings, and the old man remembered how the Nawab himself would participate in this noble pastime. There was time, then, to spend an idle hour with a gay dancing strip of paper. Now everyone hurried in a heat of hope and delicate things like kites and daydreams were trampled underfoot.

He, Mehmood the kite-maker, had in the prime of his life been well-known throughout the city. Some of his kites sold for three or four rupees each! Everyone in the neighbourhood would ask after his health; but now, no one visited him. The children who had bought kites from him 10 years ago, had grown up in a swiftly changing and competitive world and they looked at the old kite-maker and the banyan tree with the same indifference. Both were taken for granted – permanent fixtures that were of no concern to the raucous, sweating mass of humanity that surrounded them.

There can be no greater example of a mankind's creative genius than for him to create new abodes of life throughout the solar system. Today, with an increasing population of more than six billion people and the fear of possible disaster, the need for an alternate home for mankind has become urgent. Mars is the only planet in our solar system, besides Earth – that has all the ingredients necessary to support life. Though the average surface temperature on Mars is frigid and it is a desolate lifeless planet, Mars once had an atmosphere thick and warm enough to allow for the flow of liquid on its surface.

If it is ever done, transforming a dry, desert-like Mars into a lush environment that can support the flora and fauna of the Earth, will be a mammoth task requiring decades or maybe centuries! Two methods have been proposed to make this a reality. One is placing large orbital mirrors that will reflect sunlight and heat onto the polar caps of Mars, which would melt the ice there. Gradually, the rise in temperature would release the greenhouse gases and heat the planet.

Another option would be to set-up solar-powered, greenhouse gas producing factories. Imitating the process of photosynthesis, the atmosphere of Mars would be oxygenated to the extent that people would survive on Mars with only a breathing apparatus.

While we may reach Mars this century, it would take several millennia for transforming it into a planet wherein plants and animals can flourish.

There can be no greater example of a mankind's creative genius than for him to create new abodes of life throughout the solar system. Today, with an increasing population of more than six billion people and the fear of possible disaster, the need for an alternate home for mankind has become urgent. Mars is the only planet in our solar system, besides Earth – that has all the ingredients necessary to support life. Though the average surface temperature on Mars is frigid and it is a desolate lifeless planet, Mars once had an atmosphere thick and warm enough to allow for the flow of liquid on its surface.

If it is ever done, transforming a dry, desert-like Mars into a lush environment that can support the flora and fauna of the Earth, will be a mammoth task requiring decades or maybe centuries! Two methods have been proposed to make this a reality. One is placing large orbital mirrors that will reflect sunlight and heat onto the polar caps of Mars, which would melt the ice there. Gradually, the rise in temperature would release the greenhouse gases and heat the planet.

Another option would be to set-up solar-powered, greenhouse gas producing factories. Imitating the process of photosynthesis, the atmosphere of Mars would be oxygenated to the extent that people would survive on Mars with only a breathing apparatus.

While we may reach Mars this century, it would take several millennia for transforming it into a planet wherein plants and animals can flourish.

There can be no greater example of a mankind's creative genius than for him to create new abodes of life throughout the solar system. Today, with an increasing population of more than six billion people and the fear of possible disaster, the need for an alternate home for mankind has become urgent. Mars is the only planet in our solar system, besides Earth – that has all the ingredients necessary to support life. Though the average surface temperature on Mars is frigid and it is a desolate lifeless planet, Mars once had an atmosphere thick and warm enough to allow for the flow of liquid on its surface.

If it is ever done, transforming a dry, desert-like Mars into a lush environment that can support the flora and fauna of the Earth, will be a mammoth task requiring decades or maybe centuries! Two methods have been proposed to make this a reality. One is placing large orbital mirrors that will reflect sunlight and heat onto the polar caps of Mars, which would melt the ice there. Gradually, the rise in temperature would release the greenhouse gases and heat the planet.

Another option would be to set-up solar-powered, greenhouse gas producing factories. Imitating the process of photosynthesis, the atmosphere of Mars would be oxygenated to the extent that people would survive on Mars with only a breathing apparatus.

While we may reach Mars this century, it would take several millennia for transforming it into a planet wherein plants and animals can flourish.

There can be no greater example of a mankind's creative genius than for him to create new abodes of life throughout the solar system. Today, with an increasing population of more than six billion people and the fear of possible disaster, the need for an alternate home for mankind has become urgent. Mars is the only planet in our solar system, besides Earth – that has all the ingredients necessary to support life. Though the average surface temperature on Mars is frigid and it is a desolate lifeless planet, Mars once had an atmosphere thick and warm enough to allow for the flow of liquid on its surface.

If it is ever done, transforming a dry, desert-like Mars into a lush environment that can support the flora and fauna of the Earth, will be a mammoth task requiring decades or maybe centuries! Two methods have been proposed to make this a reality. One is placing large orbital mirrors that will reflect sunlight and heat onto the polar caps of Mars, which would melt the ice there. Gradually, the rise in temperature would release the greenhouse gases and heat the planet.

Another option would be to set-up solar-powered, greenhouse gas producing factories. Imitating the process of photosynthesis, the atmosphere of Mars would be oxygenated to the extent that people would survive on Mars with only a breathing apparatus.

While we may reach Mars this century, it would take several millennia for transforming it into a planet wherein plants and animals can flourish.

There can be no greater example of a mankind's creative genius than for him to create new abodes of life throughout the solar system. Today, with an increasing population of more than six billion people and the fear of possible disaster, the need for an alternate home for mankind has become urgent. Mars is the only planet in our solar system, besides Earth – that has all the ingredients necessary to support life. Though the average surface temperature on Mars is frigid and it is a desolate lifeless planet, Mars once had an atmosphere thick and warm enough to allow for the flow of liquid on its surface.

If it is ever done, transforming a dry, desert-like Mars into a lush environment that can support the flora and fauna of the Earth, will be a mammoth task requiring decades or maybe centuries! Two methods have been proposed to make this a reality. One is placing large orbital mirrors that will reflect sunlight and heat onto the polar caps of Mars, which would melt the ice there. Gradually, the rise in temperature would release the greenhouse gases and heat the planet.

Another option would be to set-up solar-powered, greenhouse gas producing factories. Imitating the process of photosynthesis, the atmosphere of Mars would be oxygenated to the extent that people would survive on Mars with only a breathing apparatus.

While we may reach Mars this century, it would take several millennia for transforming it into a planet wherein plants and animals can flourish.

In the film The Postino, the village postman gives the girl he loves a poem he passes off as his own though it has been written by Pablo Neruda, living in exile in a small Italian community. When Neruda berates the postman, the young man replies: "Just because you wrote the poem, that doesn't mean it belongs to you. Poetry belongs to those who need it."

Patent attorneys may be scandalised by such a laissez-faire interpretation of copyright laws. But by his response, the postman reveals that he might have a greater insight into the nature and ownership of poetry than the poet himself. Who does 'own' poetry? The person who creates it? Or those who make it a part of a common legacy with which to give utterance to voiceless longings? To whom does the fragrance of the rose belong? The flower, or the passing traveller enraptured by its scent?

As a struggling writer in Buenos Aires, Borges would enter workingmen's bars and slip unsigned copies of his writings into the pockets of jackets hanging by the door. Nor would he hang about outside, to see what fate befell his clandestine literary offerings. Borges had realised that what a writer writes lives on the sheet of silence that is another's mind.

If this is true of poets and writers, who must deal with the clumsy pen-and-ink limitations of their craft, how much more so for the spiritual masters? "Please go from here. Go away and don't listen to me," J Krishnamurti would exhort the disciples who flocked to hear him speak.

Like Borges, or the Italian postman, Krishnamurti knew that what he had to say had no meaning unless others took it away from him and made it into their own, each according to their individual needs. Truth is subjectivity. To the extent you absorbed, or internalised someone else's teachings, you expropriated what was taught, taking from it what you needed.

In the film The Postino, the village postman gives the girl he loves a poem he passes off as his own though it has been written by Pablo Neruda, living in exile in a small Italian community. When Neruda berates the postman, the young man replies: "Just because you wrote the poem, that doesn't mean it belongs to you. Poetry belongs to those who need it."

Patent attorneys may be scandalised by such a laissez-faire interpretation of copyright laws. But by his response, the postman reveals that he might have a greater insight into the nature and ownership of poetry than the poet himself. Who does 'own' poetry? The person who creates it? Or those who make it a part of a common legacy with which to give utterance to voiceless longings? To whom does the fragrance of the rose belong? The flower, or the passing traveller enraptured by its scent?

As a struggling writer in Buenos Aires, Borges would enter workingmen's bars and slip unsigned copies of his writings into the pockets of jackets hanging by the door. Nor would he hang about outside, to see what fate befell his clandestine literary offerings. Borges had realised that what a writer writes lives on the sheet of silence that is another's mind.

If this is true of poets and writers, who must deal with the clumsy pen-and-ink limitations of their craft, how much more so for the spiritual masters? "Please go from here. Go away and don't listen to me," J Krishnamurti would exhort the disciples who flocked to hear him speak.

Like Borges, or the Italian postman, Krishnamurti knew that what he had to say had no meaning unless others took it away from him and made it into their own, each according to their individual needs. Truth is subjectivity. To the extent you absorbed, or internalised someone else's teachings, you expropriated what was taught, taking from it what you needed.

In the film The Postino, the village postman gives the girl he loves a poem he passes off as his own though it has been written by Pablo Neruda, living in exile in a small Italian community. When Neruda berates the postman, the young man replies: "Just because you wrote the poem, that doesn't mean it belongs to you. Poetry belongs to those who need it."

Patent attorneys may be scandalised by such a laissez-faire interpretation of copyright laws. But by his response, the postman reveals that he might have a greater insight into the nature and ownership of poetry than the poet himself. Who does 'own' poetry? The person who creates it? Or those who make it a part of a common legacy with which to give utterance to voiceless longings? To whom does the fragrance of the rose belong? The flower, or the passing traveller enraptured by its scent?

As a struggling writer in Buenos Aires, Borges would enter workingmen's bars and slip unsigned copies of his writings into the pockets of jackets hanging by the door. Nor would he hang about outside, to see what fate befell his clandestine literary offerings. Borges had realised that what a writer writes lives on the sheet of silence that is another's mind.

If this is true of poets and writers, who must deal with the clumsy pen-and-ink limitations of their craft, how much more so for the spiritual masters? "Please go from here. Go away and don't listen to me," J Krishnamurti would exhort the disciples who flocked to hear him speak.

Like Borges, or the Italian postman, Krishnamurti knew that what he had to say had no meaning unless others took it away from him and made it into their own, each according to their individual needs. Truth is subjectivity. To the extent you absorbed, or internalised someone else's teachings, you expropriated what was taught, taking from it what you needed.

In the film The Postino, the village postman gives the girl he loves a poem he passes off as his own though it has been written by Pablo Neruda, living in exile in a small Italian community. When Neruda berates the postman, the young man replies: "Just because you wrote the poem, that doesn't mean it belongs to you. Poetry belongs to those who need it."

Patent attorneys may be scandalised by such a laissez-faire interpretation of copyright laws. But by his response, the postman reveals that he might have a greater insight into the nature and ownership of poetry than the poet himself. Who does 'own' poetry? The person who creates it? Or those who make it a part of a common legacy with which to give utterance to voiceless longings? To whom does the fragrance of the rose belong? The flower, or the passing traveller enraptured by its scent?

As a struggling writer in Buenos Aires, Borges would enter workingmen's bars and slip unsigned copies of his writings into the pockets of jackets hanging by the door. Nor would he hang about outside, to see what fate befell his clandestine literary offerings. Borges had realised that what a writer writes lives on the sheet of silence that is another's mind.

If this is true of poets and writers, who must deal with the clumsy pen-and-ink limitations of their craft, how much more so for the spiritual masters? "Please go from here. Go away and don't listen to me," J Krishnamurti would exhort the disciples who flocked to hear him speak.

Like Borges, or the Italian postman, Krishnamurti knew that what he had to say had no meaning unless others took it away from him and made it into their own, each according to their individual needs. Truth is subjectivity. To the extent you absorbed, or internalised someone else's teachings, you expropriated what was taught, taking from it what you needed.

In the film The Postino, the village postman gives the girl he loves a poem he passes off as his own though it has been written by Pablo Neruda, living in exile in a small Italian community. When Neruda berates the postman, the young man replies: "Just because you wrote the poem, that doesn't mean it belongs to you. Poetry belongs to those who need it."

Patent attorneys may be scandalised by such a laissez-faire interpretation of copyright laws. But by his response, the postman reveals that he might have a greater insight into the nature and ownership of poetry than the poet himself. Who does 'own' poetry? The person who creates it? Or those who make it a part of a common legacy with which to give utterance to voiceless longings? To whom does the fragrance of the rose belong? The flower, or the passing traveller enraptured by its scent?

As a struggling writer in Buenos Aires, Borges would enter workingmen's bars and slip unsigned copies of his writings into the pockets of jackets hanging by the door. Nor would he hang about outside, to see what fate befell his clandestine literary offerings. Borges had realised that what a writer writes lives on the sheet of silence that is another's mind.

If this is true of poets and writers, who must deal with the clumsy pen-and-ink limitations of their craft, how much more so for the spiritual masters? "Please go from here. Go away and don't listen to me," J Krishnamurti would exhort the disciples who flocked to hear him speak.

Like Borges, or the Italian postman, Krishnamurti knew that what he had to say had no meaning unless others took it away from him and made it into their own, each according to their individual needs. Truth is subjectivity. To the extent you absorbed, or internalised someone else's teachings, you expropriated what was taught, taking from it what you needed.

Today, tea can be found in the remotest Indian village, and the Indians drink more tea than the rest of the world combined. Even as they gave us tea, the British were destroying something else. They ruthlessly exploited the land for profit, while ruining and decimating the wildlife it sheltered. The destruction of Indian forests and wildlife occurred at a galloping pace under colonialism. The forests were destroyed for three main reasons: to convert the land into commercial plantations, especially to grow tea; to make railway sleepers; and to export timber to England for the construction of English houses and furniture.

The British cut down the forests of the Nilgiris and Assam to grow tea, and ravaged the forests of Coorg to grow coffee. Tea was not the only villain in the ecological devastation of the Nilgiris; the British also brought several exotic species like eucalyptus, pine and wattle to produce viscose, which was sent to the UK to be made into fabric. Unfortunately, these plants thirstily drink up the groundwater. Thus, the British converted the once lush tropical rain forests into a water-shortage area.

The same phenomenon occurred when they forced Indian farmers to grow poppy in order to extract opium, which involved cutting down vast areas of forests in some parts of north India, like Assam. This practice of slashing trees to protect the poppy indirectly wiped out some of India's most magnificent predators. They wanted more land to be used for commercial crops, which would bring them revenue, so they put a bounty on the head of each predator, successfully eliminating them from vast parts of India. The tiger and leopard survived, albeit in reduced numbers, because they hid in the jungles, but the lion needed vast open spaces and could not survive -- except in Gujarat, where an Indian prince, the Nawab of Junagarh, maintained a private lion sanctuary where hunting was permitted for his invitees only.

Today, tea can be found in the remotest Indian village, and the Indians drink more tea than the rest of the world combined. Even as they gave us tea, the British were destroying something else. They ruthlessly exploited the land for profit, while ruining and decimating the wildlife it sheltered. The destruction of Indian forests and wildlife occurred at a galloping pace under colonialism. The forests were destroyed for three main reasons: to convert the land into commercial plantations, especially to grow tea; to make railway sleepers; and to export timber to England for the construction of English houses and furniture.

The British cut down the forests of the Nilgiris and Assam to grow tea, and ravaged the forests of Coorg to grow coffee. Tea was not the only villain in the ecological devastation of the Nilgiris; the British also brought several exotic species like eucalyptus, pine and wattle to produce viscose, which was sent to the UK to be made into fabric. Unfortunately, these plants thirstily drink up the groundwater. Thus, the British converted the once lush tropical rain forests into a water-shortage area.

The same phenomenon occurred when they forced Indian farmers to grow poppy in order to extract opium, which involved cutting down vast areas of forests in some parts of north India, like Assam. This practice of slashing trees to protect the poppy indirectly wiped out some of India's most magnificent predators. They wanted more land to be used for commercial crops, which would bring them revenue, so they put a bounty on the head of each predator, successfully eliminating them from vast parts of India. The tiger and leopard survived, albeit in reduced numbers, because they hid in the jungles, but the lion needed vast open spaces and could not survive -- except in Gujarat, where an Indian prince, the Nawab of Junagarh, maintained a private lion sanctuary where hunting was permitted for his invitees only.

Today, tea can be found in the remotest Indian village, and the Indians drink more tea than the rest of the world combined. Even as they gave us tea, the British were destroying something else. They ruthlessly exploited the land for profit, while ruining and decimating the wildlife it sheltered. The destruction of Indian forests and wildlife occurred at a galloping pace under colonialism. The forests were destroyed for three main reasons: to convert the land into commercial plantations, especially to grow tea; to make railway sleepers; and to export timber to England for the construction of English houses and furniture.

The British cut down the forests of the Nilgiris and Assam to grow tea, and ravaged the forests of Coorg to grow coffee. Tea was not the only villain in the ecological devastation of the Nilgiris; the British also brought several exotic species like eucalyptus, pine and wattle to produce viscose, which was sent to the UK to be made into fabric. Unfortunately, these plants thirstily drink up the groundwater. Thus, the British converted the once lush tropical rain forests into a water-shortage area.

The same phenomenon occurred when they forced Indian farmers to grow poppy in order to extract opium, which involved cutting down vast areas of forests in some parts of north India, like Assam. This practice of slashing trees to protect the poppy indirectly wiped out some of India's most magnificent predators. They wanted more land to be used for commercial crops, which would bring them revenue, so they put a bounty on the head of each predator, successfully eliminating them from vast parts of India. The tiger and leopard survived, albeit in reduced numbers, because they hid in the jungles, but the lion needed vast open spaces and could not survive -- except in Gujarat, where an Indian prince, the Nawab of Junagarh, maintained a private lion sanctuary where hunting was permitted for his invitees only.

Today, tea can be found in the remotest Indian village, and the Indians drink more tea than the rest of the world combined. Even as they gave us tea, the British were destroying something else. They ruthlessly exploited the land for profit, while ruining and decimating the wildlife it sheltered. The destruction of Indian forests and wildlife occurred at a galloping pace under colonialism. The forests were destroyed for three main reasons: to convert the land into commercial plantations, especially to grow tea; to make railway sleepers; and to export timber to England for the construction of English houses and furniture.

The British cut down the forests of the Nilgiris and Assam to grow tea, and ravaged the forests of Coorg to grow coffee. Tea was not the only villain in the ecological devastation of the Nilgiris; the British also brought several exotic species like eucalyptus, pine and wattle to produce viscose, which was sent to the UK to be made into fabric. Unfortunately, these plants thirstily drink up the groundwater. Thus, the British converted the once lush tropical rain forests into a water-shortage area.

The same phenomenon occurred when they forced Indian farmers to grow poppy in order to extract opium, which involved cutting down vast areas of forests in some parts of north India, like Assam. This practice of slashing trees to protect the poppy indirectly wiped out some of India's most magnificent predators. They wanted more land to be used for commercial crops, which would bring them revenue, so they put a bounty on the head of each predator, successfully eliminating them from vast parts of India. The tiger and leopard survived, albeit in reduced numbers, because they hid in the jungles, but the lion needed vast open spaces and could not survive -- except in Gujarat, where an Indian prince, the Nawab of Junagarh, maintained a private lion sanctuary where hunting was permitted for his invitees only.

Today, tea can be found in the remotest Indian village, and the Indians drink more tea than the rest of the world combined. Even as they gave us tea, the British were destroying something else. They ruthlessly exploited the land for profit, while ruining and decimating the wildlife it sheltered. The destruction of Indian forests and wildlife occurred at a galloping pace under colonialism. The forests were destroyed for three main reasons: to convert the land into commercial plantations, especially to grow tea; to make railway sleepers; and to export timber to England for the construction of English houses and furniture.

The British cut down the forests of the Nilgiris and Assam to grow tea, and ravaged the forests of Coorg to grow coffee. Tea was not the only villain in the ecological devastation of the Nilgiris; the British also brought several exotic species like eucalyptus, pine and wattle to produce viscose, which was sent to the UK to be made into fabric. Unfortunately, these plants thirstily drink up the groundwater. Thus, the British converted the once lush tropical rain forests into a water-shortage area.

The same phenomenon occurred when they forced Indian farmers to grow poppy in order to extract opium, which involved cutting down vast areas of forests in some parts of north India, like Assam. This practice of slashing trees to protect the poppy indirectly wiped out some of India's most magnificent predators. They wanted more land to be used for commercial crops, which would bring them revenue, so they put a bounty on the head of each predator, successfully eliminating them from vast parts of India. The tiger and leopard survived, albeit in reduced numbers, because they hid in the jungles, but the lion needed vast open spaces and could not survive -- except in Gujarat, where an Indian prince, the Nawab of Junagarh, maintained a private lion sanctuary where hunting was permitted for his invitees only.

The accomplished tradition of painting at Bundi gave rise to one of the most outstanding Rajasthani Schools of miniature painting, Kota, which excels in the depiction of hunting scenes and reflects an exceptional excitement and obsession for animal chases. Bundi and Kota were parts of the same kingdom till 1625, when Jahangir divided the Bundi empire and awarded one part to Madhu Singh, the younger son of Rao Ratan Singh, for his bravery in defending him against his son Prince Khurram's (Shah Jahan) rebellion in Deccan.

After its separation from Bundi, Kota had its own School, commencing in the reign of Jagat Singh (1658-1683). In the early period, the paintings of Bundi and Kota couldn't be distinguished for several decades as Kota painters borrowed from the Bundi repertoire. Some compositions were taken verbatim from Bundi pictures. However, there is an attitude of non-conformity apparent in figural and architectural exaggerations. With a flair for drawing superseding in the following decades, the Kota style of painting became strikingly individual. By the reign of Ram Singh (1686-1708), artists had passionately enlarged their inventory to a large variety of subjects. Kota artists seem to have been the first to render landscapes as the real subject of compositions. Umed Singh (1770-1819) acceded to the throne at the age of ten years, but his regent arranged for the young king to be amused with hunting and gaming from an early age. Paintings served as flattering records of his exploits and the obsession with the chase, which became a social ritual in which even women of the court participated. Kota artists excelled in rendering animals and combat, and paintings thus reflect a characteristically spontaneous and calligraphic execution.

The accomplished tradition of painting at Bundi gave rise to one of the most outstanding Rajasthani Schools of miniature painting, Kota, which excels in the depiction of hunting scenes and reflects an exceptional excitement and obsession for animal chases. Bundi and Kota were parts of the same kingdom till 1625, when Jahangir divided the Bundi empire and awarded one part to Madhu Singh, the younger son of Rao Ratan Singh, for his bravery in defending him against his son Prince Khurram's (Shah Jahan) rebellion in Deccan.

After its separation from Bundi, Kota had its own School, commencing in the reign of Jagat Singh (1658-1683). In the early period, the paintings of Bundi and Kota couldn't be distinguished for several decades as Kota painters borrowed from the Bundi repertoire. Some compositions were taken verbatim from Bundi pictures. However, there is an attitude of non-conformity apparent in figural and architectural exaggerations. With a flair for drawing superseding in the following decades, the Kota style of painting became strikingly individual. By the reign of Ram Singh (1686-1708), artists had passionately enlarged their inventory to a large variety of subjects. Kota artists seem to have been the first to render landscapes as the real subject of compositions. Umed Singh (1770-1819) acceded to the throne at the age of ten years, but his regent arranged for the young king to be amused with hunting and gaming from an early age. Paintings served as flattering records of his exploits and the obsession with the chase, which became a social ritual in which even women of the court participated. Kota artists excelled in rendering animals and combat, and paintings thus reflect a characteristically spontaneous and calligraphic execution.

The accomplished tradition of painting at Bundi gave rise to one of the most outstanding Rajasthani Schools of miniature painting, Kota, which excels in the depiction of hunting scenes and reflects an exceptional excitement and obsession for animal chases. Bundi and Kota were parts of the same kingdom till 1625, when Jahangir divided the Bundi empire and awarded one part to Madhu Singh, the younger son of Rao Ratan Singh, for his bravery in defending him against his son Prince Khurram's (Shah Jahan) rebellion in Deccan.

After its separation from Bundi, Kota had its own School, commencing in the reign of Jagat Singh (1658-1683). In the early period, the paintings of Bundi and Kota couldn't be distinguished for several decades as Kota painters borrowed from the Bundi repertoire. Some compositions were taken verbatim from Bundi pictures. However, there is an attitude of non-conformity apparent in figural and architectural exaggerations. With a flair for drawing superseding in the following decades, the Kota style of painting became strikingly individual. By the reign of Ram Singh (1686-1708), artists had passionately enlarged their inventory to a large variety of subjects. Kota artists seem to have been the first to render landscapes as the real subject of compositions. Umed Singh (1770-1819) acceded to the throne at the age of ten years, but his regent arranged for the young king to be amused with hunting and gaming from an early age. Paintings served as flattering records of his exploits and the obsession with the chase, which became a social ritual in which even women of the court participated. Kota artists excelled in rendering animals and combat, and paintings thus reflect a characteristically spontaneous and calligraphic execution.