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Hear Heart’s Hymns

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There is a voice within that natters to us. Occasionally it’s a persistent prattle that jars our nerves. At other times, it is the voice that guides us through troubled times.


What is this inner voice? Is it actually the divine talking to us? Or is it the celestial that is within us? Does this voice exist among the terrorists, murderers, and other anti-social elements?


Sigmund Freud called it the Super Ego chatting with us. Some call it the God within. Others say it’s a 'gut feeling'. Sadly, there are plenty in the world today who are hard of hearing their inner voice.


The voice of reason essentially means that every person has some goodness and astuteness in them. Even before committing an act of crime for a split second, the heart stops, the mind recoils, the blood recedes from even those who are deaf to the inner voice. Just like we get habituated to narcotics, alcohol and other substance of dependence, people tend to under-hear the tune within as a habit. Those who are deaf need to overhaul their spiritual self.


Why? Because being hearing-impaired by choice to the power of self-reasoning is preposterous!


Every learned man, all spiritual or religious text requests its readers to look deep within where all the answers rest- the answer to illness, grief, triumph, and harmony. Let's try to take note of that little voice within. I am sure it is whispering the happiest and purest phrases into our spirits, hearts, and intellect.



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Blog Post: The Gift Author: Kleio B'wti ©


Posted on Leave a commentPosted in Blog, Soirée
There is a small anecdote that really got me thinking. Here it goes:

One day the Buddha was walking through a village. A person walked up to him and started shouting invectives at him. The man was a stranger that the Buddha did not know.


Buddha looked at the angry man and asked him a hypothetical question. "If you buy a gift for a friend who refuses to accept it, then to whom will the gift belong?"

The confused villager replied, "If I had bought the gift, it would belong to me!"

The Buddha said with a serene smile, "I do not accept the anger and aspersions you have thrown at me. I guess you know now whom they belong to."


Life throws several stones of negativity at us. Not accepting them as obstacles will allow the situation to not affect us. Considering problems as propellers of self-advancement remodels problems into the catalyst for transformation. Getting cowered by snags; livid at contrary situations, spur the challenges to absorb pessimism in our lives. We live in a free world.


The onus of every decision we take is our own.


Whatever comes our way is for us to acknowledge. We can ignore them; throw them away; keep them in a cupboard, or display them in our life. This can create value in our own lives and others. Every day is a gift. Each present is precious. Any prospect is an invitation of goodness. It’s all a matter of perspective. It is all up to us, how we treat the various stimuli that we collide with.


Self-conviction can confront trouble head-on.


“A little gift of trust is all it takes.” – Kleio B’wti



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1900 Shock Short Story Author: Kleio B'wti ©

1900 Shock!

Posted on 4 CommentsPosted in Fable
It is 1900 hours. Again.


Like every other day, she walks down the stairs, onto platform number 4, to catch the train that leaves at 1909. The platform is crowded. She doesn’t look around. She stares straight through her primrose glasses towards the train line.


In a city where everyone greets anyone upon having an eye contact, she studiously avoids all kind of association with strangers. There is something intriguing about her – and alluring. People gawk at her. Their gazes always follow her as she gracefully saunters down Platform number 4.


Same as many residents of Mumbai, I am a daily commuter too. I take the 1909 train back home from school except on weekends. For the last year since I joined this reputed business school, we have followed the same protocol. I see her- she walks past me, a complete recluse.


Initially, I overlooked her, only concentrating on the ordeal of boarding any crowded compartment.


I confess I have to go through a mental motivation to gather my wind to make my way into the mob of commuters. However, with the passing time, I’m more adept at joining the swarm – shoving everybody away. This allows me to observe my environment. The first thing I notice is this lady. She bewitches me enough to perceive her and her mannerisms.


This interest has morphed into an obsession. I endeavour to pierce her focus of attention. I’m allured by her. I try standing next to her – closer than it is socially permissible for a stranger. Yet, she never acknowledges me. I try to manage the crowd to allow her to alight without hassle. She never notices me.


This is crazy! Even in my dreams, I board the train with her.


Her ritual is to take the fourth compartment from the engine. It doesn’t matter if it was a first class compartment, a women’s compartment, a luggage compartment or a general one. I sometimes take a different compartment, if the fourth one isn’t a general section. Her coolness surprises me! I am confused! She either has a first class pass or she can predict when to purchase a ticket for the luggage compartment. Maybe she is a psychic who specializes in the local train, and their itinerary and arrangements. She even takes the fourth booth when it's for handicaps. I don’t know if she fits the handicap description; I don’t know, and I can’t ask! My attempts at greeting her are a flop! She never responds. It is as if I have been talking to a stone!


Months have progressed into years!


I am now a senior manager at an international firm. My house is not very far from where I work. I live in a sky-rise and I take my bicycle to work! It’s been a few years since I took the local train. With the local train out of my life, so is the mystery woman. She actually was the flavour of those despicable journeys. I have forgotten her completely. Or so I thought.


Today is Friday. My office car that is taking me to a meeting has broken down in the middle of the journey. The traffic jam is disastrous. I book three rides one after another on the booking app. Unlucky me! They all get cancelled due to heavy traffic! I’m annoyed. I probably cannot make it to the meeting!


As I look around helplessly, I notice an overhead bridge that leads to the local railway station! Afternoon travel on the local train is pleasant and quick! I make it to the meeting on time. The meeting goes remarkably well! Happily, I walk back to the station. With less traffic, I can enjoy another train ride and, why not? I can afford a first class ticket now!


I had forgotten how much fun travelling on the train can be. Boarding an almost empty train is quite a dream! I am going to go back to the station I boarded the train from, for the meeting. The driver has promised me that he shall be back with the car fixed in about an hour.


A partial déjà vu engulfs me. I am again on platform number 4, waiting. The only difference is that the time of the travel is much earlier and the origin and the destination of the journey quite different. The fourth section from the engine is the First Class! I proudly walk towards a window seat. I sit and the train moves!


This has not been the moment I have been waiting for! An older version of the same lady who had haunted me for years in my college days is sitting opposite me. She looks through me, just like always. A few stations later she gets up to walk up to the door, to leave.


She makes her way and then crashes to the floor –unconscious! The whole incident replays in my mind- in slow motion.


At the hospital, the doctors are trying to revive her. I rummage through her bag to find some ID in the mean time. My good citizen mode had kicked in! I find her PAN card. She looks younger than she is! Officially she is in her early forties. I have never felt her look anything more than 35- ever! Digging in some more, I discover an ancient, dilapidated black diary.


I flip through the first few pages to find a number to contact - I can’t find any! Not giving up, I turn a few more pages and find a map attached to a page. A closer look reveals a route marked from the railway station to a rickety destination by the bay. The next few pages are blank. There is a thick manila envelope. Intrigued, I look through it! There are pictures. All of them are dead men! One has blood oozing from his mouth. The next is that of an older man. His throat is slit! As I flick through the photographs, I feel a trickle of fear percolating through my skin- moving down my spine.


I re-examine the map- the photographs. There are about ten of them!


Now I am surveying some newspaper cuttings of the mishaps that correspond to the images. They date back to twenty-eight years! The oldest is that of an identified man who was found dissipated on the train line near CST! All the newspaper clippings have one thing in common. The investigators have assumed foul play in all the homicide! Her bag is that of Pandora’s. I also find an old wedding card in a makeshift envelope with a wedding picture. I see a sweet and innocent of about fourteen or fifteen. She is staring unhappily at the camera. Standing next to her is a pot bellied, moustached man in his forties!


My hands shake. The legs shiver. I am sitting, yet I feel I’m falling into an abyss. The girl in the picture is her! The husband is the man who was found twenty-eight years ago on the rail track.


A nurse frantically runs to me, to fill up some forms before post mortem. My fingers are unsteady. I fish into my pocket to find my pen. The bulge of my phone distracts my search. Holding the phone in my hand, I'm uncertain. Is it time for the police to know? Or should I bury her past?


After all, her past is her own and that of those victims. It never belonged to me!


Author: Kleio B'wti



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Childlike Humanity Blog Post Author: Kleio B'wti ©

Childlike Humanity

Posted on Posted in Blog, Soirée
The conversation took a turn towards spiritual treasures, while my friend and I were having a conversation.


He said, "We don't need a ruler anymore. Today our world needs a guide to amalgamate mankind, to give them something good." I realized after a ponder. that he was talking about humanity!

Our world is segregated. The great divide separates our race, religion, choice of food and even the choice of dressing! To gain acceptance its compulsory to fit in with the beliefs of the majority. Variably those who flout doctored characteristics are condemned!

Man+Kindness = Mankind

The word 'Mankind' only signifies benevolence. Those who possess great compassion belong to the elite group called Mankind.  

Life isn’t about social adherence, financial abundance, and superfluous beliefs! 


We have the caliber to not judge. Receptiveness to varied choices made by others is what tolerance is all about. Who are we to judge right from wrong? Why do we consider people with different choices unloved by the Almighty? Who are we to boycott them as the residents of hell after they die?


Without the blessings of the Great one, would they have had the courage to stand up? Children are innocent mudpies. They have the potential to take their own beautiful shape, provided they are not cramped with the potter's expectations. Every individual likewise has the capability to be their own self and succeed.

The Bible quotes, "Do not judge, or you too will be judged." Matthew 7:1


Life is actually about recognition of diversity and admiration of each entity. People who follow this mantra are the guides. They integrate mankind into a striking tapestry of cohesiveness. Why can't we live like children, carefree? Can’t we have the childlike wonder for multifariousness? Why can't we view a naive life- an extravagant assortment of heterogeneity?

Yes, we can. It's effortless- just a sprinkle of unwavering warmth, for the living kind- the humankind- the humane kind.


Author: Kleio B'wti

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Blog Post: Hail Headache Author: Kleio B'wti ©

Hail Headache

Posted on Leave a commentPosted in Blog, Emotion
I am not sure who devised the most elusive, surreptitious, disruptive and the possessor of all the negative adjectives in the world -'Headache'.


Strange as it may seem, my literary journey began at 13 years of age. After weeks of that strong ache hammering my head, I felt so emotionally and physically drained one morning, that I uncharacteristically picked up my diary and pencil and composed my first serious poetry: 'My head is a headache.' Phew!


My love and hate relationship with my aching head still continues.

There are different types of annoyances of the cranium. Some are constant, some intermittent. Some feel as if a huge mountain is strategically placed on my skull. A little tilt of the head and the neck sinks under the weight of the heavy object while the skull tries its best to adjust the weight and the twinge associated with it. Then there is that throbbing that occupies only a part of my head, it aches so much that I feel that one side of my cranial area is someone else’s, not mine. I guess my intellect tries to balance out the negatives from my positives and my deficiencies overpower my goodnesses, hence the hurt.

Yes, someone will say that medicines will work. No! 'Mind' has a mind of its own.


It works only the way it wants to. When it decides to be stubborn and unrelenting, you resign to it. This makes me think of the number of times I have said no to any reasonable advice imparted by my loved ones to me. Similar to the cephalic ignoring the plea of the sting-alleviating balm, I made it a point to turn a deaf ear to their counsels. The outcome of that wilfulness has always been my eye-opener.


My wilful head, its refusal to heed to the medicines', balm; therefore leads to my eyelids drooping in pain like a leaf succumbs to torrential rain.

A living being except some strange ones like ameba cannot exist without the cranium. Thus, a balance between the body and mind is crucial. While it is easy to train the body, it is impossible to sway a mind. Sometimes I end up accepting this pest of discomfort as a part of me, and sometimes I try my best to disown it. When nothing works, jadedly I forfeit.

I guess it is sometimes better to acknowledge weakness. It is the only door to self-improvement and development. My headaches although menacing and upsetting do fill me with astuteness. Every time it aches, it teaches me fortitude, leniency and most of all it makes me strong to fight – to have a clearer vision of life when the torment ceases.

To sum it all, let me share my first ever poem with you:


My Head is a Headache


My Head is a headache, As it always aches;

It makes my life miserable, Night and day.

It doesn’t happen once, It doesn’t happen twice;

It happens every day, Whether day or night.

I am always in a worry, That it will visit again;

But it is such a scurry, It will show up with pain.


The main problem is, The medicine doesn't work;

My head is too adapted, To the med and its dose.

I could’ve been happy If it would’ve been mild;

But it isn’t so friendly, As it wants me to die,

It's always been acute, Sure to drive me mad;

But now I find it cute; ‘Coz I don’t care a damn!


Author: Kleio B'wti

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Mighty Kites_Blog

Mighty Kites

Posted on Leave a commentPosted in Blog, Motley
Who doesn't like them? I see you all shake your heads to negate. I know you all love it, and so do I.


The universal appeal is heart-warming. Every one of us can narrate at least one happy moment with it, if not more. This flying wonder has been a fascination for one-n- all ever since it was invented. 


China in the 5th Century BC did not really know that the readily available silk, silk yarn, and bamboo could give the world a universal getaway when it soars.


The Polynesians used it to send prayers to the Gods. A kite according to their customs symbolizes the Rising of Jesus. Homage waits for it on Easter annually in many countries. Vietnam modified it, making it sing a whistling note.


The Indian subcontinent uses it for almost any special occasion, be it the celebration of harvest, Independence Day or any other rather special occasion. Sometimes the citizens of the subcontinent use it to settle animosities too- in a most dexterous, harmonious and creative manner. The biggest personal wars usually end with one bout of competition. Not only this, team spirit; leadership also develops while we interact with it.


In Afghanistan, kite fights are common. No, don't take it like that! It’s a non-violent one! I bet there are no casualties of life, maybe of hopes and sometimes ego. Sadly, Europe didn't get to join in the fun as long as the Asians and Polynesians did. However, when they did, it led to the golden age of knowledge.


Wherever this invention went, it brought hope. It brought creativity and enlightenment. Humanity owes a big thank you to the land of the Great Wall. This object has demolished all worldly barricades in the craving to fly- the mighty- kite.


Kites have let to social harmony and development of scientific theories. The Wright Brothers became the first to fly, inspired by the Kite. Then, Kites have served well in military espionage and message delivery and something as mundane as fishing as well.


A kite for me, symbolizes the freedom to express, of fearlessly exploring my horizons and opportunities; a direct communication with the vast universe through its most popular medium- the sky. Through the kite, I send my wishes to the spirits above;  blessing and love shower upon me. I meet a stranger flying a kite; we become friends by the time my kite makes its route. Not everyone can afford to commute on a plane, yet a free ride of desire on a kite is always welcome.


The biggest lesson of life that this positive object- the Kite, teaches us is that we control the strings of our glories and stumbles, of joys and miseries. Hold the string too tight, and the flight never materializes; keep it too loose and it crashes mid-flight; maintain it just right, tactically strategize your personal skills and self-beliefs; then the sky will be yours.


Let’s all enjoy this euphoria. Let's all do some kite flying.


Author: Kleio B'wti



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Daze Short Story Author: Kleio B'wti ©


Posted on Leave a commentPosted in Fable

Jay's adventures knew no bound. He moved from one end to the next in the stratosphere, riding his Harley, whistling a song. He traveled through the Steppes, the Andes, the Yosemite- and he progressed more. Jane too was an adventurer of her own kind. She let her mind escape to a vast expanse of imagination. Her canvas was limitless. With each stroke, she created a magical world for herself. Some days with her eyes shut she would travel every nook and corner of her world and many more worlds of others.


Unknowingly she one day got up and started physically walking while she was traveling through her mind's eyes. She moved through the cobbled street, onto the highway, moved on further until a certain tune captivated her attention! She opened her eyes, still unknowing that she wasn't dreaming anymore!


What she saw was a huge Carousel with the brightest lights of stars blinking an invite. Fairies, Goblins, Elves along with laughing children rode through their merriment- an aria to the melody that the Merry-go-round played. Jane wanted to pinch herself to confirm if it was only a dream but a fantastic reality! Apprehensive that the beautiful moment would end, she refrained from breaking the dreamy bubble.


As the Whirligig rotated, she saw a Harley, on the bike a handsome man with cowboy hat, those patent cowboy boots waving at her- his bike on a burnout! As a shocked Jane looked, a laughing Jay tugged at her hand, enchanting her onto the Carousel- Jane jumped in surprise! Jay laughed a little more as he compelled Jane to pillion on his Harley! Before Jane could ask him for an introduction, Jay cracked the accelerators into a throttle and raced away with Jane towards the moonlit sky!


Author: Kleio B'wti

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Creepy Flash Story Author: Kleio B'wti ©

Bloody Rock

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The sun was blazing green hues, the earth was sprouting blood like dust. The wind was icy and heavy- almost suffocating!


Sunburnt, twisted limbs dug. They fissured the serum of earth with violence. They tickled the tarnished soil with their sickles and spades. Each brutal sweat evaporated into miasm. The wailing frenzy swallowed the filth, the trauma.


Violence sniffled into abjectness.


The arid restrictive atmosphere was burning through the hides of those slimy creatures that were wriggling on the scarlet soil. They were like veins that had burst in a body and found a different path- away from the nervous system.


The seams spreading like vile branches covered the scorching ground, never succumbing to the underground lava that knocked on the earth's soil for release! Small ants preying on the mounting limb like veins, sucking in the plasma of the soil, grew to dinosaur-like heights. They scurried on the ground, thumping, crushing the wounded vegetation into fountains of red!

Gradually, crystal dews fell in torrents like angels falling from the sky. Sadly, as they fell they melted into puddles of a well-cut pink rhombus of blood diamonds.

Author: Kleio B'wti

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Cry for Help Blog Post Author: Kleio B'wti ©

Cry for Help!

Posted on Leave a commentPosted in Soirée
Artists are artists because they have a knack of feeling ‘more’.


How human mind dissects a situation may differ (even for artists). But because their threshold is much higher than normal, they feel more, emote more, express more and sometimes cry more.


A normal news to us or an ever so worldly tv show is very evocative. It makes us cry, laugh, depressed, or rejuvenated. It’s difficult to understand us. Being one like him, I heard his plea for help when he wrote a message on one of the online community that we are both a part of.


He wrote, "Help me!"


Hope he is alright. As all you other artists are. We have a very short life. There is a story in each one of us. The more we live and suffer, better we are at storytelling.


I feel that Jhon Keats, Sylvia Plath, Robin Williams, Freddy Mercury, Ernest Hemmingway or Perry Moore would have been able to do more had they not been gone. They had mysteries to discover. Many stories to reveal. Infinite beauty to create. Yet, the sudden stroke of death took them away. With them gone, their talents vanished.


Left behind are crumbs of possibilities- the genius of their talent in shards. 


Dear, fellow artists fight this hopelessness. Fight this pain. We are a community. Technology has made our world smaller and you will find a compatriot.


Don’t give up. We will make this world better. Let's strive to stay alive. We have to fight with our swords of creativity for as long as we can. Let's stand together and as one.


We are the soldiers with no ammunition or arms. Fortified with a simple pen, ink, and imagination we fight on and on.

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Blog Post: Delhi Author: Kleio B'wti ©, 2017.


Posted on Leave a commentPosted in Motley

The white beauty of CP to the red stone and marble power of Qutub Minar, the serpentine tracks of Delhi Metro or the greenery that adorned the streets every few blocks was marvelous. I could just walk from one park to another and feel happy about life.


Historical monuments were like neighbors.


I would find a dilapidated wall dating back to olden times, or a brick house, with an ancient dust of loneliness very conveniently. There were those ancient water reservoirs or burial places with extensive gardens that I could just walk down to in about 10 minutes from my house. No, I did not live in any affluent area. In Delhi history walks with you.


Most of us take it for granted and seldom notice but when we do, it teaches a new lesson of life on every interaction.


I am not sure how I can elucidate my feelings for the place - I really do not know. I can surely tell you though that I will miss the winters of Delhi, the unpredictable rains, the traffic signals that would go kaput on a slight drizzle, the auto rickshaw drivers who often refused to turn on the meter of the vehicle.  The few who stunned me by turning it on even before I boarded the vehicle are equally dear.


The broad roads where I would accelerate my two-wheeler to its maximum speed, the greens, the pretty newlyweds with even prettier red bangles or ‘Chuda’,  the ‘Momos’, the ‘Chole –Kulche’, the serenity of Lotus Temple, Delhi Haat, Select City Walk, North Campus, Jor Bagh, Safdurjung Place (my chosen historical structure), the street dogs who were my best friends and also some people who made Delhi such a dreamy place for me to stay.


Although there is a sense of longing, there is no regret in moving away from the 'Dil'. I did not shed a tear, I smiled and forgot to bid adieu to the land of Delhi. Yet I know a goodbye was not required, coz my heart, I carry with me and in my heart,  I carry my Delhi.


To all those who have ever loved a land mass more than life itself, all those who will discover such love someday. To all those who do not believe such a love exists, be prepared to get swooned by Delhi. You will find a home away from home; a friend among the green trees; a journey in a metro compartment; a delicacy on the streets of Chandni Chowk; a story behind every structure; a 'you' among its every iota of existence.


You don't live in Delhi; you have a love affair with the place.


Some take a pause. Others continue their relationship with Delhi until their dying breath. Then there are some like me who settle for a long distance relationship as breaking away from the place would mean killing a part of the soul.

I will continue walking this one-way street of love, holding hands, sharing a laughter, wiping a tear, screaming a blasphemy, walking, jogging, running, sprinting: Just Delhi and me and that's about it.

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