“If it’s treason ye’r in for, then may God bless yer soul. First, ye shall be hanged by the neck - but not til’ death! No, noooo. That is much too generous for committing this treachery. The noose shall be wound around yer neck until the peachy white of yer cheeks flush with blue. And then, as the light starts t’ fade and yer eyes roll into yer skull, I sever the rope and bring ye back t’ yer wits.”
The audience didn’t move an inch.
“As ye lay on the ground, gasping for breath, I grasp me axe and chop off yer privates. With my sharp, shiny sickle, I tear yer skin apart, detach yer vital organs, and set them alight right before yer eyes!”
Gasps echoed.
“And after yer corpse has been quartered and yer parts scattered across the land, only then, ONLY THEN will you be sent to the depths of hell. That, good folk, is why ye shall never, ever, sell yer soul to the enemy.”
In Edinburgh Castle, a fortress that had stood for centuries, children, parents, and the elderly gave a standing ovation to an actor who had just grotesquely described one of the most brutal forms of execution. Unlike most history classes where each sentence goes in one ear and out the other, this particular pleasant lesson was etched into everyone’s minds. All it took was a simple costume, a few lines of dialogue, and an audience.
The Scots understand how to market history. India, a land that has been occupied since time began, filled with hordes of undiscovered treasures, monuments that make man feel insignificant, and culture so interwoven and rich, can only achieve a fraction of this.
Scotland is astounding. There is no denying it at all. Rolling emerald hills, sapphire seas, and breathtaking vistas are plentiful, and even a short bus ride from one town to another will expose you to its raw beauty. For such a small country, it packs a real punch.
Pass through any village, and no matter the size, you'll find a few signs pointing to some historic landmark. Back home, we reserve these for only the most important of monuments. Here, a little blue sign directs you to a tiny, seemingly insignificant structure. Some house that an old fogey lived in, or a mill that has been around since 1645. The cornerstone that Robert the Bruce urinated on when his carriage was passing through, or the exact location where William Wallace's pet cat was born. Who cares? one might think.
It's all about identity, though, isn't it? Yeah, maybe your stupid little town only has one grocery store, an antique taxidermy dealership, a postman who is hard of hearing, and a telephone booth that still uses a rotary dial. But what if that town can be connected to something larger than itself? What if your town, a nothing name with nothing people who do nothing, can relate to something?
It makes you feel important. It connects you to the land. I didn't care one bit about Bangalore for many years. It was just another city to me, where I went to school, did my work, came back home, ate food, and slept. Another place where Dushyant existed independently of Bangalore.
But then, I started learning more about it. Discovering the stories it had to offer. One of the oldest substations in India. A village that set the path for the biggest technological advancements in history. An aerospace industry, dating back to the 18th century, that revolutionized space travel. Suddenly, I was a Bangalorean. No more was this 11 million strong city a blip on the map. It became a part of me, and I a part of it. I was proud to write, "Dushyant Naresh, age 16, Bangalore".
India makes it hard for you to love her. It's a wonderful country, but a self-destroying one. Our people have done so much for the world, to the point where without some of these contributions, life would not exist anything like it does today. However, India tries to make you forget about these things. It makes you remember the poverty, the filth, the corruption. The castes, the disparity, the privilege. In some ways, it's a good thing. It makes you face the problems, not hidden behind grey walls like in Beijing.
Scotland is a mirror image. She reminds you that this country of five million, tucked away in some remote corner of the Earth, its only contribution being the riveting, edge-of-your-seat sport of golf, is strong. She tells you- no, she convinces you that to be Scottish is to be Great. Whether you're a bartender in Pittenweem or a financial executive in Glasgow, you are connected to the land, the land of the proud, strong, and brave.
Edinburgh Castle is just a building. An old building, I must say. Its walls have felt centuries of change, witnessed the bloodiest battles, been privy to the most scandalous information, crowned the most glorious kings. At face value, it is just another line in the history books.
But you start to weave a narrative, and things change. No longer was I walking through an empty hall where kings and queens once feasted, jesters played, and trumpets blared. The location - a two dimensional set of coordinates - was transformed into a memory. I was watching an engrossing tale of treason, torture, and fear. I was standing there, aching legs, heavy camera, and frozen fingers, immobile, as a stranger transported me to another era. Edinburgh Castle, from that moment onwards, was not another castle struck off my bucket list - it had become a living memory, breaking the boundaries of space-time, hitching me to this land they call Scotland.
In that second, I was Scottish.
The audience didn’t move an inch.
“As ye lay on the ground, gasping for breath, I grasp me axe and chop off yer privates. With my sharp, shiny sickle, I tear yer skin apart, detach yer vital organs, and set them alight right before yer eyes!”
Gasps echoed.
“And after yer corpse has been quartered and yer parts scattered across the land, only then, ONLY THEN will you be sent to the depths of hell. That, good folk, is why ye shall never, ever, sell yer soul to the enemy.”
 |
| Traitors, beware! |
The Scots understand how to market history. India, a land that has been occupied since time began, filled with hordes of undiscovered treasures, monuments that make man feel insignificant, and culture so interwoven and rich, can only achieve a fraction of this.
Scotland is astounding. There is no denying it at all. Rolling emerald hills, sapphire seas, and breathtaking vistas are plentiful, and even a short bus ride from one town to another will expose you to its raw beauty. For such a small country, it packs a real punch.
 |
| Edinburgh is an stunning combination of old and new, manmade and natural |
It's all about identity, though, isn't it? Yeah, maybe your stupid little town only has one grocery store, an antique taxidermy dealership, a postman who is hard of hearing, and a telephone booth that still uses a rotary dial. But what if that town can be connected to something larger than itself? What if your town, a nothing name with nothing people who do nothing, can relate to something?
It makes you feel important. It connects you to the land. I didn't care one bit about Bangalore for many years. It was just another city to me, where I went to school, did my work, came back home, ate food, and slept. Another place where Dushyant existed independently of Bangalore.
But then, I started learning more about it. Discovering the stories it had to offer. One of the oldest substations in India. A village that set the path for the biggest technological advancements in history. An aerospace industry, dating back to the 18th century, that revolutionized space travel. Suddenly, I was a Bangalorean. No more was this 11 million strong city a blip on the map. It became a part of me, and I a part of it. I was proud to write, "Dushyant Naresh, age 16, Bangalore".
India makes it hard for you to love her. It's a wonderful country, but a self-destroying one. Our people have done so much for the world, to the point where without some of these contributions, life would not exist anything like it does today. However, India tries to make you forget about these things. It makes you remember the poverty, the filth, the corruption. The castes, the disparity, the privilege. In some ways, it's a good thing. It makes you face the problems, not hidden behind grey walls like in Beijing.
Scotland is a mirror image. She reminds you that this country of five million, tucked away in some remote corner of the Earth, its only contribution being the riveting, edge-of-your-seat sport of golf, is strong. She tells you- no, she convinces you that to be Scottish is to be Great. Whether you're a bartender in Pittenweem or a financial executive in Glasgow, you are connected to the land, the land of the proud, strong, and brave.
 |
| The view from Wallace Monument, a national symbol of pride |
But you start to weave a narrative, and things change. No longer was I walking through an empty hall where kings and queens once feasted, jesters played, and trumpets blared. The location - a two dimensional set of coordinates - was transformed into a memory. I was watching an engrossing tale of treason, torture, and fear. I was standing there, aching legs, heavy camera, and frozen fingers, immobile, as a stranger transported me to another era. Edinburgh Castle, from that moment onwards, was not another castle struck off my bucket list - it had become a living memory, breaking the boundaries of space-time, hitching me to this land they call Scotland.
In that second, I was Scottish.
