#History

1046 posts
  • minion12 3d

    Sapiens

    Fire - Gave Us Power
    Farming - Made us hungry for more
    Money - Gave us purpose
    Science - Made us deadly
    ©minion12

  • maneeshakarattil 3d

    ART IS ALWAYS REMEMBERED…BUT WHAT ABOUT THE ARTIST?

    Kerala is well-known for its folk lore and cultural diversity. Kerala is also called “gods own country”. To an extent it is true, but sometimes I feel like it’s not gods own country. To substantiate this statement there has splendid of examples. We all know Kerala is rich with arts and culture.  But here I am trying to rise a question; the question is do we give importance to artist?

    The historical background of Palakkad is familiar to all the keralites.  The hills of the Rayiranellur near Pattambi, is an enigma to all travellers and nature lovers. Rayiranellur is also prominent for the “parayippetta panthirukulam”, the legendary folk lore of kerala. The hill celebrates the legend of Naranath Branthan and to honour this mythical character, a magnificent statue has been created and installed.  Naranath branthan was one among the 12 offspring of vararuchi and punjami
    Paraya, a lower caste. The couple set out a long pilgrimage. On the way, they were blessed with 12 children. Upon each delivery, Vararuchi enquired whether the baby had a mouth. If the wife said "yes", he would say, "God will appease the one with mouth" and would ask the wife to abandon the baby then and there and proceed. Eleven children were deserted, since they had a mouth. The tale goes that after the 12th birth, when Vararuchi asked whether the child had a mouth, the wife said he didn't have a mouth in the hope that she may get to raise at least that child. But when she looked at child after saying that, the child indeed was seen to have born without a mouth. Vararuchi consecrated the 12th child as a deity on top of a hill, and they proceeded on the pilgrimage. All the children born to vararuchi and punjami are lived in under different caste and religion.

    His chief activity consisted of rolling a big stone up a hill and then letting it fall back down. He was brought up in the Naranathu Mangalathu Mana, situated at Chethallur in Palakkad. Naranthu came to Thiruvegappura for mastering 'Vedas'. Thiruvegappura and the nearby Rayiranelloor Mountain, which is known as 'Branthachalam', became his usual abode. Due to his strange behaviour and odd activities, people perceived him as 'mad'. At Rayiranellor Mountain he had the vision of the Devi (Goddess), and later for the benevolence of the people he enshrined Devi in the Mountain and started his worship there. No clear descriptions have yet been received of Naranath's last days.

     

    The most famous facet of Naranath's life is his apparently eccentric habit of rolling big stones up the hill and letting them roll down back and laughing thunderously on seeing this sight. However, this act has been often considered allegorical and has been applied for social critiquing for myriad contexts.

    These are the myths and real life story of Naranath Branthan. Everywhere the monument of naranath branthan is mentioned. But nowhere the name and effort of the artist is mentioned. The statue was built in 1994 by the artist surendra Krishnan. He is from pattambi, Palakkad district. He took one and half year to complete the statue's works. Lot of fake news has spread over Kerala regarding the monument.  People are believed that the artist has died and the artist of branthan goes mad. It was built in 1994, we are in 2021, and still people believe the fake news.

    Basically he is from Rayiranellur, but after the completion of the work he has abandoned his native place due to mental pressure. This is not his first work. But his life changed after the work. He built the statue as his own wish after completion of his art education. In the initial stage one of his friends helped him. But at last he alone completed the work. No one helped him, instead of that everyone criticised him. He heard all the fake news from people from his own ears. He had faced climate changes during the work of the statue. No one can predict the climate in Rayiranellur. The monument is in 19 feet. Now the statue is a land mark and culture of a district. He had built the monument like Branthan is ready to pull the stone. It is not like blessing others. Surendra Krishnan says the art is the language of the artist. It is true, in his words we can feel the efforts and struggles that had taken by him. To decrease the labour burden he has sung the poems of Madhusudanan nair. He has built the statue with lot of efforts. But all the efforts denied by the people.



     

    The people accepted the statue with full heart but the artist is avoided by everyone like people without heart. Naranath Branthan was not mad. He is surrounded by the selfish people. Through his deeds he shows that everything we achieve in our life time will not be last long. One second is enough for destroy all the achievements. In the present scenario it is important. All are self-centred and greedy.  The statue has given lot of meanings, but the creator behind this has lost his meaning of life. The people know the fact that the statue was built by Surendra Krishnanan. But they are wishing to believe that he has gone mad and he is not alive. I don’t know what the mentality of the people is. Why they still believe and share the fake news. The irony is that neighbours of Surendra Krishnan also wish to believe this.

    Art and artist have equal importance. Accept it or reject it is our choice. But don’t spread fake news. It may damage people. Appreciating art and artist is good manner.so do appreciate and be the reason for some works. Surendra Krishnan gives up his art life for 20 years. After the hardships he regained his life. He started his new mission; it is built 150 statues of Mahathma Gandhi from the 150th birth anniversary of Gandhi. With this project he is wish to spread the message of ahimsa or non-violence. People can destroy artist with their words but can’t defeat them, because art is the language of artist. Art will not give up the artist.
    ©maneeshakarattil

  • orfayus 1w

    Cicada Sings Sorrow

    Mystic smuldering 
    in miasma of time,
    primed in tomes 
    sequestered with ag'ed
    passing pages 

    Razing around ag'ed
    rhythms singeing soft 
    dy'ng wilting leaves 
    tilted now pass'ed along
    well trodden trail
    swimming in

    Tears

    @orfayus

  • afzalhakim 1w

    Human beings are creatures that interact through complex vocalisations and a mix of audio-visual demonstrations. Why couldn't we just chirp like birds and communicate with sounds and whistles to make everything easy and understandable. Well, before organised languages were formulated, and before you and I could converse with one another through poetry and prose, we humans did talk to each other only using grunts and shrieks and whistles. However, our cognitive functioning is such that we started introducing monosyllables and tongue snaps to make it more distinct and to ensure we were on the same page when we communicated.

    Thus, languages started to emerge and not only did they become a medium of communication, they were being patterned and categorised based upon multiple parameters. These parameters involved where the sound was emanating from, whether it was from the epiglottis or from the upper ends of the trachea, was the use of syllables uniform or was it more erratic. It is believed that the most ancient forms of languages to have developed were in the Mediteranean and Levant region. However, that is debatable because no one really knows when or where did languages originate from due to abstractions in the definition of a language.

    A language in its 21st Century definition refers to a system of communication consisting of sounds, words, and grammar (Cambridge Dictionary). Speaking anachronistically, most languages of the world did eventually emerge in this preset pattern if we look at languages at the advent of civilizations that could read, write and converse. In this regards, it was in the nascent civilizational era of the Sumerians and the Akkadians that language started to gain a distinction. Then, it was further demarcated by the Hittites, the Cretens, the Minoans, and later Greece through Latin, which is one of the oldest surviving languages of the world.

    As people started to migrate from places to places and as civilisations started to clash with one another, the mixture and adulteration of languages became an inevitable reality. From major languages, many regional dialects started to break apart and linguistics became an actual scientific study of languages, their origins and their usage. Syntaxes (principles that dictate the structure of languages) started to appear and syntacticians are now actually studying grammar and sentence formations in languages.

    Now, while many new languages written or otherwise just spoken or both surfaced in every step of the way, many languages of the old also started to wither away gradually and become lost to mankind because we could no longer find people communicating in those languages. One such language that is rather at the verge of extinction is called "Yiddish". A 1000 plus years old languages to have emerged in Central and Eastern Europe, by its virtue and essence, Yiddish is basically Hebrew. But, in terms of its syntax, the vocabulary and the grammar, it's German.

    Yiddish is known to have been spoken by the Ashkenazi Jews or those Jews who travelled to Germany from parts of France, Spain and Eastern Slavic countries either due to the violence caused by the Crusades or because of death looming at large because of the black death plague that is known to have wiped out one-third of the European population. So, immigrants from these countries to Germany started to experiment with linguistics and in that experimentation, the by product was the Yiddish language which as a matter of fact is also referred to as Judeo-German. It is a mix of Hebrew, German, Aramaic and Slavic languages. However, it is written with the same alphabets as Hebrew. Literally, the first piece of Yiddish literature in the 14th Century was a series of epic poems called Shmuel-Bukh, which was a rendition of the Biblical stories of Prophet Samuel turned into European Knightly romance.

    It is said that at a given point in time in Germany, a Jewish household used to function in three languages, also known as the trilingualism of the Ashkenaz. So, for prayers and reading the Torah, Hebrew was predominantly used. For learning and for enlightenment, the use of the Aramaic language was encouraged. For daily communications and chit-chat, the Yiddish language was used. As all of them use the same alphabet and only sound different, the emerging literature saw a dilution of the gaps, so much so that at one point, the Ashkenazi Jews advocated for Yiddish to be a National language.

    All started to fall apart from thereon, because under Nazi occupation, language became a major bone of contention and also a way to target the Jew community at large. It is believed that 80% of the six million who perished in Nazi Germany were these Ashkenazi Jews who spoke the Yiddish language. This perhaps was the single largest blow to the community in general and this language in particular. After the strong Jewish revivalist movement from 1917 to 1948, Hebrew was promoted as the language of the Jews and in the subsequent Israeli state that sprouted in 1950, the use of Yiddish language in public was penalised.

    As of today, the generation that originally spoke this language is all but fast diminishing and although there have been efforts to promote the use of this language to stop it from getting totally lost, these have been futile. The fact stands that like many languages of the world, which were once proud and important but later got obliterated, Yiddish as a language is also heading towards the same unfortunate end. So, while history has seen civilisations being buried and turned to ruins, the fate of some languages has not been any different. When I was reading about this language, inadvertently my mind was drawn to the scared, sullen and rustic faces of the people ready to be gassed to death.

    Does a language, that is the final reminder of their resilience and their unfortunate plight, deserve the same unlucky end? Should it not be indemnified upon mankind to restore and preserve such a beautiful and romantic language in honour of those whose entire world came crumbling down upon them? If I am asked today what language I want to learn, I'll gladly say Yiddish. But, who is going to teach me when those whose legacy it represents are the very same individuals who are shunning it and burying it deep in the pages of history?

    ©afzalhakim

    Background Picture: Rab­bi Shlo­mo Yosef Scheiner’s mag­nif­i­cent­ly cal­ligraphed cal­en­dar for the Jew­ish year 5703, in Hebrew, Pol­ish, and Yiddish. (Credit - in geveb, a journal of Yiddish studies.)

    #language #loss #history @mirakee @writersnetwork

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    The Lost Language

    This post is about a European language which is on the brink of extinction. It's about how we lose an important piece of human history with the loss of a language.

  • rainstar 2w

    https://shruosphere.wordpress.com/2021/02/14/so-its-v-day-huh/

    #valentine'sday #love #vday #v-day #blog #analysis #history #14Februrary #february #selflove

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    V-day

    If ‘love is in the air’, we should make sure we don’t pollute it with our ignorance, envy, hatred or hypocrisy.

    Let’s remember to love, every single moment that we are alive, every single thing that we have, no matter how big or small–be it someone else or ourselves.

    ©rainstar

  • a_gentilischi 3w

    O Sailor, sweet Sailor so far from home
    In these troubled waters, why do you roam?
    Solitary ship within white sea foam
    Tell me Sailor, do you not feel alone?

    The silver moon kisses the rising tide
    Under the starless sky that gapes so wide
    Your heart's longing has no place to hide
    Come ashore, lie with me, side by side

    This island home, I do love and despise
    Prison and home, solitary paradise
    Let me sing to you, listen to my cries
    Till our skins gleam with the new dawn's rise

    Listen you shall as I empty my heart
    Pain and desolation, a counterpart
    To what you foolishly think is art
    But know that there's no ending once I start

    You came for my voice with your greed and lust
    Look at what you get for abusing trust
    Chained till you rot in to darkness and dust
    With thousands more just like you, isn't it just?



    2021.02. 06
    Written rights : ©a_gentilischi
    PC : Pinterest


    #sailorc #pod
    #mirakee #writersnetwork #writersbay
    @writersnetwork @writersbay
    #life #thoughts #greekmyth #sea #history

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    O Sailor...

    .
    ©a_gentilischi

  • mindreams 3w

    History.

    On empty space it once stood.
    A land of fiery hope and not yet dreams.
    A graveyard of ghost plans.
    Until time washes over with memory cement.
    With first loves and childhood chases on the corridors.
    With a thousand names etched on its solid skin.
    Spoken, whispered, on dewy windows at winter midnights.


    Though they scratch with saturated paint.
    Though they replace the walls, the memory halls.
    Block the gaps with black locked doors.
    Everything survives, everything remains.
    The name calls, the lectures, the lifeblood symphony.
    The all encompassing indiscriminate history.
    ©mindreams

  • afzalhakim 4w

    This is the period of 16th and 17th Century Europe and it was the time when the Papal States (States ruled by a single autonomous clergy under Roman Catholicism) were at their absolute zenith. The Holy Roman Papacy had its strongest grip on Italy which wasn't a unified nation and comprised of many different small protectorates like Milano, Sardinia, Roma, Florence, Naples, etc. This was also the time of early Renaissance when everything old and pure was being preserved be it in the form of art, music, literature, customs, etc.

    The Churches were predominantly powerful and the clergy, comprising of pope, bishops, cardinals and priests was a domineering force. The space of the Church was sacrosanct. At least it was for the masses who did not fall into this order in hierarchy and who were oblivious to the happenings deep inside the confines of the churches. Thanks to history, we are now quite aware of the barbarism and predatory practices of the keepers of faith and of the unholy sacrifices and exploitations.

    One such practice that really caught my attention, so much so that it pushed me to write about it is actually the origin story of a formidable style of singing. It has drawn so much popularity in all genres of music, be it pop, reggae, hip-hop, and most distinguishably in opera music. The method of singing is known popularly since the 16th Century as a "falsetto". The term itself has an Italian origin meaning "false voice" and it usually refers to a form singing that requires the singer to change his pitch in such a way that he can skillfully transition into high-pitch that is otherwise not possible to achieve in modal tones.

    A falsetto is when you hear a male singer twist his pitch in such a way that it resonates with the natural high pitch of a female soprano. There is an anatomical explanation to it as well. When we sing, our vocal chords are set into vibration that releases the regular modal voice. These vibrations are uniform across the lining of the vocal chord and thus there is much friction. During a falsetto however, only the ligamentous top of the vocal chords vibrates and thus there is less friction between the two edges of the vocal chords. This produces a sharp pitched voice that doesn't shake too much and allows the singer to reach tones that he would find impossible to reach in his normal voice.

    Sneaking back into history, it is curious to note how this practice used to be only common among female singers. The reason for that is female singers have voices that can naturally tap into a higher pitch without compromising the sur (notes). Until one day when the clergy became dead against women/girls taking stage inside the confines of the Church. Following a dictum of the then Pope, an edict was famously inscribed on the Church of St. Paul entrance that read - "women should be silent in church", and thus ignited the discriminatory patriarchal setup that curtailed the voices of women. Such was the extent of underlying patriarchy in this order that to prevent women from being part of the choir despite their tone being naturally suited for choir singing, young male boys were castrated to prevent puberty from taking away their sweet and pure high pitched voice.

    Thus emerged a line of male singers who were known as "Castrati" or "Castrato". These were half men as they were infamously taunted as. They became a butt of jokes and the other men would often look down upon them, rough them up and even hurt them intentionally. However, such pain and humiliation inspires many to rise above the ranks. So, the most famous among them was Carlo Broschi or as he is famously known in the world of Opera as Farinelli. He was a boy whose body was violated and intruded upon all because the cruel priests wanted him and not a woman to be on the choir.

    Now, you'll be curious to know why sing in that particular tone and why not music in low pitch and deep baritones? The reason is again anatomic in nature. You see, our brains are wired in such a way that the vibrations from the high-pitch falsetto singing actually excite most the part of our brain that controls emotions and feelings. The reason that a choir has to keep their voices in that pitch is so that those who hear feel elated and perceive it as a miracle of the lord while it's purely biological.

    Even if some of us don't understand the lyrics of an opera, we feel it deep inside and it somehow touches us. This is again one of the reasons why falsetto managed to gather such mass appeal. The symphonic high-pitched shrieks sound melodious to us and if anyone of us has heard gospel singers groove into the high-pitches, we have often found ourselves swaying along in joy and shouting Hallelujah! But how many of us knew the historical brutality that went into moulding and promoting this style of music that can touch the heart?

    ©afzalhakim

    Picture: The legend of the Opera world, Carlo Broschi Farnelli, who was a Castrati and could naturally sing the soprano vocal range hitting the high pitched note C6.

    All rights of the picture reserved to the National Portrait Gallery, London.

    #mirakee #music #falsetto #history @writersnetwork @mirakee

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    The Falsities of a Falsetto

    The idea that inspired this post came from a book I was reading titled - "The Supernatural Voice: A History of High Male Singing" by Simon Ravens.

  • nirmalya_panigrahi 4w

    Dear readers,
    The following is a sarcastic take on facts that history presents to us about the Cleopatra II. I must admit that I have chosen only the instances that are disputed, but then, why not give her, the benefit of glory. There are so many of women, deserted by our history, that Cleopatra is an exception

    Hope you like this.
    #mirakee #writersnetwork #pod #ceesreposts
    #writersbay #history #deserted #cleopatra

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    Cleopatra in Rome.

    Now that the Queen of Egypt,
    Has more admirers in Rome,
    I have given myself, the honour,
    Of being her advocate, since,
    The dead can't speak for themselves.

    I perhaps have been misguided,
    Through ages of art and tales,
    To what seems veracious.
    Her highness, was indeed desired.
    By the best, and revered of men.

    And how could she not be,
    For there was no skill she wasn't adept.
    Even with a fragment of her parlence
    Cesar, was the bravest general.
    Brutus, an honourable man.

    She, you see, was not betrayed,
    Rather declared dead, from venom,
    From a wasp, in the arms of her lover.
    Well, what a scandal it would have been,
    To reveal, what war she fought at her door.

    When, Augustus marched to the Nile,
    To seize, his friend, Anthony,
    The last days, of Rome as a republic.
    For never has a Roman general,
    Found a friend, bad at back-stab.

    But Alexandria, did not succumb,
    To the fate of other hinter lands,
    For they had a queen, who could rule,
    Better than best men, and war,
    When her country was called to test.

    Well, trust not history, when they
    Speak of leaders, for often,
    Legacies of the triumphant is
    Built on the ashes of their rivals.
    And Cleopatra, did lose the war.

    The annals, I seek are buried,
    Or burnt, in a medieval pillage,
    Heroines erased with ease, but one.
    What a queen, She must have been,
    That, history couldn't write off, her affairs.

    ©nirmalya_panigrahi

  • yashvibansal 4w

    THE NEW VILLAIN
    I echo slowly
    I repeat things when I can't remember them.
    Like History.
    There's power, there's prestige
    But I have forgotten that there's pride, and tyranny, and an ultimate downfall.
    And since I have forgotten these crucial parts,
    I take the class again,
    This time with me being the central character
    Rather than Robespierre or Hitler.
    They were only one
    I am many
    They were glib speakers
    And I a silent screamer.
    They ruled humans
    I ride them.
    But there's a similarity too
    We believe ourselves to be unlikely heroes
    Despite appearing as villains through and through.
    COPYRIGHT YASHVI BANSAL
    27 January 2021

    This is the perspective of the new villain,
    Covid 19.


    #covid #covid19 #coronavirus #corona #terror #villain #history #pandemic #lockdown #power #prestige #pride #tyranny #downfall #center #character #control #fear #human #scream #speaker #hero #unlikely

    Image credit to rightful owner. I picked it up from Google.

    @writersnetwork

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    The New Villain

    (Read Caption)
    ©yashvibansal

  • sarahrachelea 5w

    This is a story
    About a little fairy with her big heart
    Against the world, conquered her destiny

    She whispered in her singing
    She's screamed in her song
    With her shaking, angelic and mystical voice
    She's so fragile yet so strong

    She dances in her own subtle harmonies
    Composed so many magnificent art
    Creating with her six strings and broken wings
    What a magical nymph from the land of Irish

    Listen carefully to the melodies in her sigh
    Freedom is what she made of
    And liberty is what her soul is
    Another universe is where she belonged now

    Rest in love, Irish Queen
    Keep on dancing in serene

    ©sarahrachelea

  • sarahrachelea 5w

    There is no the old me or the new me
    It's just me
    With all of my growth, expansion
    Scars, smiles, tears and sweats
    Improvement, development
    Redemption, high hopes, chaotic mess, silliness
    All the complexity of personal stories and journey

    ~ his story, history
    ©sarahrachelea

  • kriti_dinesh_shukla 5w

    Historic

  • bhavti 6w

    Dinkar ji rightly said...
    " ...
    है कौन विघ्न ऐसा जग में,
    टिक सके आदमी के मग में,

    खम ठोंक ठेलता है जब नर,
    पर्वत के जाते पांव उखड़,

    मानव जब ज़ोर लगाता है,
    पत्थर पानी बन जाता है।
    ..."
    #indvsaus #Gabbatest #victory #recordsbroken #history #cricket

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    "खम ठोंक ठेलता है जब नर,
    पर्वत के जाते पांव उखड़.."

  • afzalhakim 6w

    Before I get to explaining who and what a personal historian is, it is important to indulge the readers into understanding the critical difference between traditional/classical history and oral history. Like any other subject of study, history has its own epistemological framework, wherein the source of knowledge is varied and the methods of obtaining knowledge from its source are multifarious.

    In such regards, oral histories have been regarded as 'the first kind of history.' This is because oral histories are accounts or narratives that have passed on from its source by word of mouth. So, imagine me telling you of a story about my experience as a child, those are first person oral accounts. Now imagine me telling you about something that my grandfather told me about his experiences as a child, those are third person oral accounts. Therefore, oral histories are knowledge, experiences or stories passed on from one person to another through word of mouth.

    This makes documenting oral histories intriguing because these are not just some stories or some tales from the past. A lot of these end up as common knowledge or common beliefs, giving them the status of folktales or folklores. A lot of these oral accounts are also narrations of real time events as they happened in first person or third person accounts which gives a unique opportunity to a person documenting them to tap into the authentic timeline of things as they happened. For example, if any one amongst you has read Anne Frank's diary, it gives harrowing details of the Jewish holocaust as it happened under Hitler's Nazi Germany. Had a diary of such nature not been found, a lot would never get revealed about the barbarity of a fascist regime.

    This highlights the importance of recording and archiving oral history. Many of the elderly people around us who witnessed first hand the events that unfolded in the mid twentieth century are now in their 80s or 90s. Many of them do not possess a memory sharp enough to recall in vivid details the scenes that unfolded in that era long gone. Whatever we get from books written about these times is our only source of information and more often than not, it's dry and lacks a humane and personal touch to it. Not many have the patience to read through a history textbook and not fall asleep on the table. I understand that, but if I were to come across a story being narrated by my grandfather, I will sit through it and finish reading, maybe also read it a multiple times. That is the attractive capability of personal accounts.

    This generation of elderly people is now fading away and with them the stories that lie untold deep inside their memories. The subsequent generations anyway remember these stories just in bits and pieces and the generation after that do not even know what happened. It is for this reason, to preserve and to save these data-banks of knowledge that the services of a personal historian are sought. The responsibility that lies at the centre of providing these services is not just to capture memories but to contextualise them in the settings that they were a part of. So, if it's an account about the British rule in India, it is also inclusive of people's reaction towards an occupying force. It's also about resistance and about fighting for ones freedom.

    So, a personal historian is like the family butler who gets to know more about the family than many family members themselves. (S)he is like the family doctor but only that he doesn't treat the illness of health but the illness of memory. (S)he enables individuals and empowers them to share their personal stories, sometimes so tormenting that even the family members are unaware of it. A personal historian therefore documents individual, family and institutional history through personalised interviews with all those people who are identified to be a part of "the story". Apart from this, (s)he archives and catalogues old letters, photographs, important documents, family heirlooms, etc.

    Another very important task of a personal historian is to track family genealogies and construct a family tree. For this purpose, we do not just rely on family sources alone. In fact documenting personal history is not just about compiling these stories, but, it's also about finding out more from secondary sources and adding to the larger social, cultural, political, economic and anthropological milieu. So, while we spend a lot of our time with the family or the individual or the firm, we also spend a prolonged time in libraries, archives, and museums looking for relevant information and find the remaining pieces of the massive jigsaw puzzles we're putting together.

    So, in crisp words, I'd say a personal historian is a crossover between Sherlock Holmes and Professor Langdon. In the subsequent parts to this post, I will explain what gets into documenting personal history and what methods are employed at various different phases. So, stay tuned for more and drop in the comment sections any questions that you would want me to address.

    I would like to take this opportunity and thank @a_gentilischi for her kind suggestion, which inspired me to write this post. Thank you so much for your constant support.

    Background Picture: This is a picture of the logo of the firm I am working with, Family Fables Co. The picture is subject to strict copyright policies and should not be copied or reproduced without prior permission of the firm.

    Visit us at www.familyfablescompany.com to read more about what we do and also to get a preview of our work. You can follow us on instagram as well.

    ©afzalhakim

    #history #personalhistory #mirakee @mirakee @writersnetwork

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    Who is a personal historian?

    This is part of a series of posts I will be writing to explain the nature of my work as a personal historian.

  • manuhere 6w

    Ladies and Ladies and Gentlemen ��
    As the famous meme says"As you can see I'm not dead ��"

    On the serious note.


    What makes me a man
    You a man of honour
    We decease and leave the mark
    We live and mark legacies

    #poetry #hindi #mirakeeworld #majesty #history
    @riyashi @rangkarmi_anuj @hindiwriters @writerstolli @deepajoshidhawan

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    सौरभ से विग्रह ,मतवाली लता टूटकर ,प्यालों की आस।
    वैसे पुरषोत्तम की बाँह थाम पल पल पुलकित इतिहास।।

    मनु मिश्रा

    ©manuhere

  • afzalhakim 6w

    Bhimber, a small restive town, and now a district in Azad Kashmir, Pakistan was once a land of great importance. During the Mughal Era, it was right at the base of the fabled Mughal Road which connected the Indian subcontinent to Central Asia. It was once the most popular trade route after the famous Silk Route and it is said that caravans after caravans would arrive and lodge in this town. In that century, the town of Bhimber acquired the status of Baab-e-Kashmir or "the gateway to Kashmir" and it was used by Gulab Singh, the then Dogra ruler to launch a conquest on Kashmir.

    The independent rulers of this district were from the Chibal dynasty and ruled this region from the year 1400 up until 1856. It was then annexed by the Sikh rulers from Punjab and later fell into the Dogra ruled suzerainty of the British Empire. There is an intriguing tale around this conquest because many believe that a young Gulab Singh was an important Jagirdar under the Chibal dynasts. Chibals were Katoch Rajputs of Kangra, but later at the behest of Emperor Ibrahim Lodi converted to Islam when Raja Bhoop Singh Chib was invited to his court in Delhi. It is said that while serving them, Gulab Singh was left humiliated and disgraced in public by Khatun Begum who was the Queen and wife of Raja Sultan Khan.

    Gulab Singh, in a conspiracy took over the reins of the kingdom from Ranjit Singh and had Sultan Khan arrested and thrown into the notorious Gajpat prison on a hillock overseeing the Chenab river where he passed away. Later an agreement was signed between Gulab Singh and the son of Raja Sultan Khan and they were allowed to keep the district of Bhimber in their dynasty. The dialect spoken in this region is called Chibal and the people here continue to support a proud legacy of the Chibs.

    During the Mughal rule, a Sarai (staging camp) was constructed in this town as a resting place for travellers and their caravans who were travelling to and fro between Kashmir and Lahore. It is said that people have built their residences and marketplaces around this popular Sarai and a major chunk of the trade happened here in its taverns and marketplaces. Another popular event associated with this Sarai was that the fourth Mughal Emperor Jehangir or known by his birth name as Saleem, the son of Emperor Akbar died in this very Sarai in the year 1626 and then his body was embalmed and escorted to Lahore where he was later buried.

    The real reason behind writing this particular post was to highlight the unfortunate burdens that history had to carry on its already bent back after the events of Partition in 1947. Such remarkable sites, where a plenitude of history traversed have been lost and forgotten. Over shadowed by the murky and violent details of the Partition, such historical places have been buried in old manuscripts which no one cares to read any longer. This little district in the Pakistan Administered Territory of Azad Kashmir is no longer remembered as Baab-e-Kashmir because everything has gotten fragmented and divided.

    Picture: I got this picture from Pinterest and it has been clicked by a person Alee who is all but unknown to me. Never would he know that there is some crazy person sitting across the border, using his picture on a writers' app to contextualise the history of this long forgotten place.

    ©afzalhakim

    #history #chib #chibal #bhimber #mughalhistory #partition #mirakee @mirakee @writersnetwork

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    Forgotten Heritage

  • vasubandhu 6w

    ©Vasubandhu

  • afzalhakim 7w

    Let me set the backdrop for this piece of poetry. I was reading a book titled "The Map of Love" earlier, which has been authored by Ahdaf Soueif. Ms. Soueif is an Egyptian novelist and the sister of famous Human Rights activist Laila Soueif. This book she wrote was nominated for the Man Booker Prize, when it was published back in 1999. The story of the book revolves around the items of an old briefcase/trunk that is brought to the protagonist's notice by an American Journalist who is trying to find out more about the life of the lady who was the former owner of this trunk. This lady in question happens to be the protagonist's ancestor and perhaps she is the only one who can decipher the contents of this trunk.

    What follows is a wild goose chase many hundred miles away in Egypt. This story is based on impossible love in the backdrop of war and turmoil between two total strangers standing on the diametrically opposite sides of history. It is a falling in love of an alleged occupier and the one "her forces" are trying to occupy. The trails of this mysterious chase lead through the secretive alleyways of resistance and how two individuals caught in the centre of a terrifying whirlwind find the calm eye of the storm in each others embrace.

    The real point however is to direct your attention towards something seemingly ordinary yet how it has the power to take your life for a roller coaster ride. I am talking about finding a trunk like that full of remnants from the past. Fragments that were once intricate threads in the fabric of someone's life. The other day I happened to stumble upon one such trunk forgotten in a dark corner of the attic, covered in heaps of dust. I thought I had discovered a pile of books but as I lifted the steel lid of the trunk, what I saw left me flabbergasted. It was an old phonograph or what was popularly known as a gramophone. An old record player lay dismantled before my eyes and on the sides were these large black disks covered in plastic sheets which were record disks.

    I immediately picked the trunk with a gallop in my heart hoping that it would still work. Albeit I had no idea how to even play it. As I was stepping down the stairs, I cross paths with Mum and like all South Asian mums she did not like this idea one bit. I will spare you the details of the scoldings but I had to abandon the package and run after mum to convince her to let me try it. Hearing the commotion, my father comes out of his study and demands to know the reason behind this ruckus. I just take him straight to my discovery and I immediately see his eyes lit up. That look on his face tells me I have a story and so I ask him to let me in on the tale of this long forsaken heirloom.

    Apparently this antique set was gifted to my great grandfather by the Maharaja when he was serving under him as a Tehsildar (tax officer). In those days, the position of a Tehsildar was one of the highest civilian ranks among locals and was a matter of prestige. My great grandfather did not know what to make of it since he was a simple man and so he had it packed and kept aside. It was only when my grandfather was a young man himself that he developed a keen interest in music and so he ceased the opportunity, his carpe diem, and he set it down in the corner of his room. He would purchase the latest records from an old music shop in the Regal lane in Lalchowk (central market in Srinagar city) and the shopkeeper now recognised him.

    My father tells me that -
    "Whenever the shopkeeper would see him in the market, he would always urge him to visit the shop and surf through the new records. He recognised me as well and during my days as a medical graduate, whenever I found myself strolling through Regal lane, he would call out for me, make me sit in that old record shop and offer me tea."

    The discovery of this little treasure led me to a realisation. How many such articles lie around in a house, articles that speak volumes of our shared and collective history? All it needs is for us is to find them and unravel the stories behind them.

    #heirloom #olditems #history #stories @mirakee @writersnetwork

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    Uncovering old Heirlooms

    Lying in a silent place
    A large and bulky case
    Begging to find its space
    In a world that is set apace
    A mad jostle, a rapid race
    With its dust laden face
    And a quivering grimace
    It calls out for your grace
    Hoping for you to trace
    Its origins and its birthplace
    Pick it up in a warm embrace
    Find out the answers you chase

    ©afzalhakim

  • arya_ballal 7w

    I wish to be remembered in someone's eyes,
    Taking a path through a historical channel,
    Slowly drifting towards the time's highs,
    Sinking into time's memorials,
    Not all can be remembered with the passing time,
    Few get a possibility of staying there forever,
    I want to be one of the few,
    So that time can bow down to history in fear,
    Yet within all those mythical lies,
    Lies one of my greatest fears,
    Which is to be remembered for the lies,
    And not for truth or heavenly layers,
    What would a good soul be afraid of,
    Maybe being portrayed as a betrayer,
    Instead the soul would wish for,
    Staying quiet without any remembrance for the sayers,
    Look into that soul,
    That aura of pure light,
    It does not fight to be right,
    But only to be judged right......

    #remember#time#possibility#memorial#channel#soul#truth#lies#betrayer#right#layers#history#mythical#remembrance#fears

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    Look into that soul,
    That aura of pure light,
    It does not fight to be right,
    But only to be judged right........

    ©arya_ballal