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The Animal Within

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‘Man was born free, and everywhere he is in chains’- Jean-Jacques Rousseau (The Social Contract)

I am sure many of you have experienced this feeling-one of being drawn to certain types of animals, certain wild and ancient places and the yearning to return to a simpler way of life.

I have experienced this ever since I was a very young child. Growing up in big bustling cities where one is surrounded by throngs of nameless and faceless city dwellers, one yearns for simplicity, sincerity, and most of all peace.

In this connected world- we remain disconnected. In a city of millions- the heart is forlorn. We remain clueless and lack inner joy, even though we have it all, we remain ‘poor’. We have reached the pinnacle of success, yet we feel ‘empty’. Something is missing- yet we cannot identify it.

The yearning begins- an ancient calling to connect to the wilderness within and the one that lies beyond.

If you let yourself become calmer, listen to the tiny voice within, you will soon realize that the REAL you has never really emerged. It is dormant, like a seed waiting to germinate. It takes a lot to know your ‘self’. Often a lifetime of searching is required until your reach that sincere spot of self-realization where the REAL you resides.

However, the moment of realization can either be spontaneous, like a flash flood, or one that slowly advances, like a patient glacier. Time is of no relevance, since the soul does not know time. Curiosity is the fuel that keeps the mind wondering and the heart alight. Slowly the soul emerges and starts to walk beside you, like an honest friend, guiding you to connect to your true self.

Native peoples and tribes around the world have never doubted this power- The Power of Nature & Animals. It is the only truthful source of life and learning. It is a pre-historic guide, predating religion, culture and civilization itself. It is one that we fail to accept or recognize either because we cannot understand it, or, we are too immersed in the drudgery of daily life. Often, to learn something, we must first unlearn, only then can true knowledge be attainted.

Perhaps some of you have noticed that when you sit alone by yourself, mind uncluttered and senses released, you start ‘seeing’, ‘feeling’, and ‘absorbing’ more acutely. The same backyard becomes a magical place where anything can happen. When you free your mind of useless clutter, you will attune yourself to the sounds that really matter.

I’m sure many of you will relate to this incident, one of many that I have experienced. An experience no book can ever teach me-one that is pristine, inspiring and mysteriously revealing.

I remember that day vividly. It was a cool September afternoon, as I was sipping herbal tea on my porch, that I heard a swooshing sound behind me.

I did not move, yet my thoughts raced. I could not decipher the nature or source of this sudden shuffling swooshing sound.

Few minutes lapsed.

There in front of me, proudly perched on the branch of a Pine tree, was a majestic Hawk. It eyed me carefully. It wanted to show me something, I did not know what, but it just sat there, looking at me intently. An hour passed and the glorious Hawk just sat there, watching over me and my mountain side house.

A spirit guardian?

The watchful one?

A protector?

It was an inspiring moment. I felt an instant connection to my wild and beautiful feathered friend. It was as if it had come to spend the afternoon with me- comforting me in my quietest hour. A sign to the weary mind that ‘you are not alone’.

Animal totems are an important aspect of our spiritual life and this is where we really start connecting to our REAL selves. ‘Anima’, from which the word Animal is derived, literally means ‘The Breath of Life’ or ‘The Soul’. Therefore connecting to our animal side is pertinent to spiritual progression.

These days one can goggle anything, but I speak from a highly personal perspective. It is these personal experiences that create real time awareness. Every experience is worthy of respect and recognition since every experience is unique.

There are many known types of Animal Totems. Some help you balance your daily life and provide practical answers to more mundane dilemmas. Other Totems are spiritual and mental guides- adding richness and wisdom to your spiritual self.

the animal with pic

There are numerous books on Animal Totems- find one which you feel is right for you.

I have complied these questions, see if you are connected to your animal side:

  • Do you feel drawn to a certain animal?
  • Are there times that you feel you are living an empty and disconnected life and as soon as your pet comes and lays in your lap- these feelings vanish and you feel calm and relaxed?
  • You have vivid dreams of jungles, green pastures, and see creatures and animals congregating around you and providing counsel.
  • You have felt that animals are your friends, or even your mystic teachers.
  • You respect, honor and love wildlife.
  • You feel sad when you see harm come to an animal.
  • There is always a part of you that connects to various animal traits; you can identify yourself with certain animals.
  • You abhor animal cruelty and feel that harming an animal is the greatest sin of all.
  • You revere animals and all life is sacred to you.
  • Wildlife inspires you more than anything else and the allure does not fade.

Have you discovered your animal totem yet?

Jail

By on in Articles & Short Stories

Nameless Faceless - Painting by Ishrath Humairah

I was put in Jail for a crime I did not commit. For no fault of my own, I was imprisoned, tortured and ridiculed ever since I can remember. My only joy rested upon a tiny ray of hope that filtered through the window of my dismal cell. It caressed my cheeks as I lay listlessly in the bare two dimensional room, showing me more tenderness than anything or anyone I had ever known.

It is that very ray of singular hope that sustains me. It is the only meal I need to survive.

As a child, I remember only one emotion animating my existence; it was selfless love. I innately adored, befriended and loved anyone I met. My earliest memory is one of wanting to give gifts to other kids. I was acutely sensitive to my surroundings and sensed things others did not. Would I be considered egotistical or vain if I were to say that I was an intuitive child? Or is that also a part of my condition? After so many years of confinement, reality seems unreal. But, yes, I was a sensitive soul.

I was also a trusting child, never suspecting anyone, only believing in the goodness of humanity. Was I naïve to think so? I wonder.

You are born pure and sincere but this judging world starts to creep upon you, soon enveloping you with poisonous vines. You try and escape from this deadly grasp, but soon, you are helpless, trapped and suffocated by the tight unforgiving grip.

You try to escape- it’s not easy.

Early on in my childhood I realized that I was different. Whilst all the other kids were fooling around, I was memorizing numbers, learning the capitols of the world, solving mathematical puzzles and humming complicated tunes. I felt alienated because whenever I tried to convey these interesting and exciting facts to those around me, they would all make fun of me or call me weird. I was deeply hurt and confused, since to me, these amazing facts and figures engrossed me completely, so I could not understand the premise of this untoward backlash.

Slowly, over time, I became somewhat of a loner. Yet, I still tried to win friends over by giving them my toys, hoping against hope that perhaps they will not make fun of me if I appease them.

This plan of mine worked, but was short lived. Soon they became bored with the toys and the friendships became a facade, where I was the gullible clown who had nothing to offer but my toys. No one really bothered to know the ‘real’ me.

At a time and in a country where there were no schools or institutions for ‘gifted’ or ‘special’ children, I was enrolled into a school that all the other so called ‘normal’ kids attended. Come to think of it, these so called ‘normal’ kids were the ones who displayed an abnormal fascination for putting someone down.

I excelled in academics, got straight A’s in Science and Arts. It was never proud and I never wanted to be a Mensa kid, but I was intensely curious about life, about the natural world, about the cosmos, about everything. It was simple as that. But they found yet another excuse to poke fun at me. “Oh there goes that weirdo.” The whispers pierced my eardrums.

Wildlife, geography, history, science, there were so many facts I yearned to share with others. But no one cared; they only stared.

My intelligent mind learned to cope with the cruel glances and thoughtless comments. I simply used to smile, shy away and tried hard to completely forget the incident- but how can one forget a cruel remark? It was interesting how I started developing self-coping techniques to block out negativity by constantly repeating the lyrics of my favorite song silently in my head. This was a useful trick that prevented me from being inwardly hurt on a daily basis. It was a part of my survival kit. It worked, for a while at least.

I noticed something odd. I could hear sounds and voices from long distances. At first this startled me, then, I gradually became used to this extra-sensory perception, if one can call it that. I also perceived colors and objects differently. Often, I saw a spectrum of hues in an otherwise apparently barren landscape. I floated upon a grand sea of curiosity and life seemed so beautiful when I was immersed in books. I could enter in and out of this imaginary world where people were kind and the sun shone bright. Actually, until today, I still do not understand why people judged or ridiculed me. I had not hurt a fly in my entire life.

I gave them the benefit of the doubt, thinking to myself that perhaps they perceived life a bit differently than I did. What appeared normal or interesting to me, was inconsequential to them. We are all unique individuals and so we all perceive life differently. I still think that the world is a beautiful place, where every single person is gifted in some way or the other. Labeling or judging someone is simply an act of ignorance and supreme cruelty. One can never fathom the complexities of another mind, therefore it is wrong to judge another indiscriminately.

But then, I’m branded a weirdo, a loner, a derelict of normal society, so who really cares about what I think.

As the years progressed, my boisterous enthusiasm became jaded by intermittent and inexplicable bouts of melancholia and fatigue. At first I thought I was unwell and that there was something wrong with me. I went for a full check-up and was given a clean bill of health.

This was mystifying and highly disturbing. Because now, I had started doubting myself.

Rather insidiously, I noticed that I was unable to concentrate in class. I felt that everyone was staring at me. One day it became so bad, that I ran out of class and sat in the hallway with my head bent down. I tried to figure out what was happening to me, I was dumbfounded and lost at sea.

The new semester ushered in a new me. An introverted and wounded person with no lust for life. Ignorance is a monstrous thing only because it makes an angel look like a demon where there is none. I started to sit at the far back end bench of the classroom, away from crowd, away from the steely eyed looks, away from it all.

Years passed and my energy waned, gradually the spark within me faded, and the ability to hold a normal conversation died.

I was born inexhaustibly happy, but now I am inexhaustibly sad. An unending cloud of darkness hovers above my head, erasing the last speck of hope in me.

Family, friends, acquaintances…..have all become nameless, faceless, hollow masks that I cannot and perhaps do not want to recognize. I’m afraid of what I might find behind the mask. They failed to ‘see’ the real me, so now, I do not care to ‘see’ them. I have become an anonymous shadow – the shadow that is me.

Very soon, I was forgotten by the world.

Mental illness is a jail sentence for the one who suffers.

There is a small window that occasionally allows in brilliant dots of light.

And when those brilliant dots illuminate the dark shadows, they reveal profound depths that are so very beautiful. It’s like walking into a dark dull cave by candle-light. Look up and you will be dazzled by undiscovered uncut diamonds that are waiting to be found.

But how many of us really care or dare to care?

Unfortunately, even now, in our enlightened age, people stigmatize those with mental or other poorly understood illnesses. They fail to understand that this condition can be treated and like any other affliction can be managed by proper intervention.

The most important aspect of this malady is lack of awareness leading to lack of compassion.

Very often, people are misdiagnosed and treated unfairly by the medical community itself leading to mismanagement or to a complete lack of management.

Mental facilities are notorious for treating their patients like inmates.

The result is the wasting of a precious human life.

So folks, my story was not penned to gain sympathy or win approval and certainly not written to gain popularity. I am already serving a life sentence for a crime I did not commit.

But, I penned this story because I wanted other’s to know that they should not judge someone because they look or behave ‘differently’. They should never let go of their humanity and keep the candle of compassion burning. If you notice that someone is sad, alone or perhaps just needing a moment of your time, try to reach out and comfort them, instead of shrugging your shoulders and walking away. It’s so easy to walk away.

We are all beautiful unique individuals. We each have so much to offer.

Keep someone from serving a lifetime of solitary confinement.

Help someone escape from the prison of mental illness.

Most importantly, hold on to your compassion, it’s the only emotion worth anything.

Are you ready to walk into the cave and save a lost diamond?


JAIL
-The Shadow that is Me-
Dedicated to a childhood friend.
By Dr. Ansul Noor

Image Credit: Nameless Faceless – An abstract painting by Ishrath Humairah

The Three Cats

By on in Articles & Short Stories

I was born a Fakir, or perhaps, I might have originated from a race of Tree people, at least that’s what my twelve senses tell me.

Never in my entire life have I ever doubted the mysterious, the unexplained or the invisible. This fascination remains orbiting my soul and I have never lost faith in the ‘mystical’ aspects of life. I was the opposite of a skeptic- I was a believer ever since the day I stepped into the world.

Later, it dawned upon me, that there was something more, something far deeper than my conscience that kept me believing in the unbelievable. I delved into science and philosophy and later religion, desperately trying to connect the dots of this belief system that was not a part of my genome. The more I read the more engrossing the journey became, because in essence, science was also trying to explain the very same forces that bewitched me ever since my childhood. Of course, academia illuminated the curious young mind, but there was little it could offer in way of explaining the complexities of the soul. It also failed to provide satisfying answers to the existence of realms beyond the boundaries of the visible.

There are in life many incidents that cannot be explained. Some dismiss it as coincidence and others simply do not ‘believe’, either because they cannot fathom the reasons behind the shadows or they require some kind of proof. What if something happens in your life, a strange and mysterious incident for which there is no reasonable explanation? What does one do then? Live this life wondering? That incident will never leave you however much you try. It will haunt the mind, and if you happen to be a skeptic, the haunting will become even more persistent. Believing won’t hurt you, it will just open up certain dormant neuronal pathways which will allow you to think ‘differently’. Your perceptions are theresult of the cumulative programming of your grey matter to believe in what you think (or are taught to believe) is possible. What if you deprogram your brain and press the reset button? What will happen? A small example of this is ‘dreaming’. You are relatively ‘free’ when you dream. You are uninhibited. All your senses are truly awakened when you dream- you can literally traverse unimaginable distances in this ‘dream realm’. You can be anyone, be anyplace, and do anything in your dreams. You attain a ‘magical’ status in this dream realm. We all dream. So why can’t we all allow ourselves to believe.

So what happens when you ‘believe’ in the unbelievable?

Uncluttering. Freedom. Spiritual progression. New forms of thinking.

It is our involuntary self.

Quite simple.

I will relate one such incident. It connects me irrevocably to the ‘primitive purer’ part of my existence. One, whichperhaps, willcarry me on to the next dimension.

Three months out of the year were spent with my grandmother in my motherland. It was a time when I was completely free. No school, no homework, no assignments, no peer pressure. I was young but my soul was not. I yearned for days when I could truly educate myself without the crutch of ‘traditional schooling’. I needed to find out answers for myself. Here, at my grandparents place, I could pursue my road to enlightenment. The vast gardens, the beautiful Oak trees, the wildlife and the open skies. I was in heaven.

Every day I would take long walks through the cornfields, sit by the riverside, marvel at the ladybugs and take in the fresh air of nature. This was the kind of school that the world needed, I used to think to myself. An outdoor school would mean freedom from tradition. An indoor school meant boxing up your thoughts and compartmentalizing your dreams.

Every evening, when my grandfather returned from court, we would all sit in the veranda and eat corn that had been roasting on an open fire. The fireflies danced and the stars twinkled- they all become my teachers. My grandparents were interesting people and formed an intricate part of the mystical equation. My grandmother was an artist and poet and my grandfather understood the power of numerology. Hence, my outdoor school was certainly a unique one.

It was designed for me. We all have the choice to design our own schools.

Every evening, three beautiful cats, one black, one white and one beige-brown kitten, would come and sit by my feet. Soon they became my wild friends. They emerged from the darkest spot from behind the grand Oak at the edge of the garden and disappeared into the mist when nighttime approached. Soon my new found feline friends started paying me daytime visits. I would keep a nice bowl of warm milk ready for them. They always appeared on time- they were never late and they did not forsake my friendship.

Often as I penned a poem, they sat beside me, purring softly, telling me to never stop writing poetry, because poetry fed the soul. They soon became my mystic teachers- I knew this fact by the way they appeared every time I was engrossed in thought. The three cats stayed with me until the end of summer. My heart was heavy because they had become my spiritual companions.They were always there for me and we had established our very own forms of communication-cross species telepathy. I was sad to leave them but I knew they belonged to the garden, I could never deprive them of this freedom.

And so, I returned to my adopted land, far away from my outdoor school and back to the indoor one. I wonder if one learns anything at all in this indoor school? We are taught to unlearn rather than learn. We are taught to compete, to be ambitious, to prove ourselves and our worth in these indoor schools. I wonder, if what we call a ‘school’ is really that? Or is it a place where our minds are cloned to behave inacertain way, desirable to society and the norm?

One day my mother received a call from my grandmother. I instantly ran towards the phone, I had to ask my grandmother if my three cats were ok.

She informed me that even though she still keeps a bowl of fresh milk out on the porch for them- they have vanished. She specifically told me that they all left the very sameday I did.

At the time, I was rather confused and mystified. This made no sense to me. Why did they stop visiting my grandparent’s house when they could still get fresh milk?

Now, years later, I often wonder that perhaps the nice warm bowl of milk was just an excuse. The real reasons were far more mysterious than our simple human understanding. They were my spiritual teachers and they were part of my outdoor school experience. They taught metaphysics, esoteric studies, meditation, compassion, love, and tolerance. No human teacher ever taught me that. Yes, they were my teachers and when their student left and the school was shut down, they left too.

This tale might seem amusing to many, some of you might be smiling inwardly, but the tale of the three cats remains etched upon my conscience forever more.

Do you believe?

‘The Three Cats’

The Tiny Hand

By on in Articles & Short Stories

The playground that once echoed with sounds of mirth,
Is now a smoldering pyre.
A memory lost,
and no children play,
as innocence feeds this fire.

A gentle sobbing could be heard in the far corner of the hut. Her heart was veiled by the infinite shadows of sorrow- an abyss where everything disappeared except the silence. She renounced the title of ‘Mother’. What do you call a woman who has lost her child? Widows, orphans, – they all have names. But what about a mother who has no one to call her….Ma? No one noticed this invisible rain of infinite sorrow- no one cared, no one understood, no one listened.

The small desert village was once a peaceful and simple place before the wars had begun. Children blissfully played with their glass marbles on the dusty pavements until their mothers summoned them inside for supper. The cherubic laughter, the faces beaming with hope and excitement, the innocent pranks, the twinkling eyes. Childhood is a birthright. No one has the right to take it away. The child is a precious flower that spreads the scent of joy selflessly. A child is the essence of life.

When you look into the eyes of the child- you can easily drown into the depths of humanity. We can learn much from a child- they are the wise folk wearing little cloaks of humility. These precious ones are the peacemakers of our future.

The mother looked on at her happy brood. She knew in her heart, that even though she could never learn to read or write, her little ones would teach her. She had always wanted to spell her name; she had such a beautiful name, if only she could spell it.

‘My little girl will teach me, yes, I know she will.’

The mother made a living by scrubbing pots and pans for the tribal leaders. She would wake up every morning, make bread for her family, get water from the village well, and return with a smile on her face. She was content and happy in these daily chores, because she knew the faces of her children will erase all mortal pain and suffering in an instant.

They were also healers- they could heal her with one smile.

She would dress her children for school. Every little uniform perfectly ironed and washed. The ponytails were tied with matching ribbons, and the shoes shone brilliantly, thanks to the English Boot Polish she purchased from the Bazaar. Faces nice and clean, teeth, ivory white and every hair in place. People talk of religion, of duty, of ritual, but to her, this was her religion. Getting her little ones ready for school was an essential rite of passage, one she never missed. Her heart beat fast, she was so proud of these wise little folk, all standing in line and marching towards a bright future. Nothing gave her more joy than seeing them go to school.

Her hands were rough,wrinkled and swollen in places. The constant scrubbing had aged her hands beyond recognition. She did not care. She lulled an ancient tune as her hands scrubbed away. Actually the work gave her immense satisfaction and nothing could stop her from going to work. So she never complained, she never wept, she only thanked God for giving her hands so she could scrub. She worshipped the pots. For every dirty pot she scrubbed, meant one more book for her child. Smiling inwardly, she resumed her tasks, humming her folk song of peace and love. Time went by fast. With a hunched back and sweat lining her forehead, she looked earnestly at the sky- it was time to go home.Her children will be coming back from school. She placed the last squeaky clean pot on the floor. It was time to prepare a hearty meal for her children.She’d better hurry home quick.

“Ma….look at this. Look what I made for you!”

She looked at her little fairy, her angel, her life. There, in her tiny hands was a paper with a crayon drawing on it. The mother peered closely, and was awed at what she saw. It was a drawing of planet earth. Around the planet were purple rings and hearts. There were children of different kinds and colors, all holding hands, all so peaceful. Something was scribed in the center of the drawing. The mother could not read it- she did not know how.

“My sweet, what is that letter in the center?”

“Will you teach me?”

“Oh Ma…of course I will,” giggled the child.

“Ok precious one, I will learn from you.”

The little girl sensed her mother’s joy, yet detected the anguish she felt for not being able to read.

“I will make a drawing for you every day. Soon you will read better than my teacher!” The little girl gushed as she jubilantly twirled around her mother like a dainty butterfly.

“Alright my love, I have complete faith in you and your drawings.”

An earthen fireplace roared with friendly warmth in the main room of the hut, a straw mat was laid out on the floor and the children and their mother sat down to supper.

Their father had died in the war; a drone attack. He was one of many who had perished without a trace. These mechanical soldiers spared no one- they had a metal heart, were soulless, and merciless.

It was only them now. Yet they smiled, ate their humble meal, thanked God for all the bounty and hugged their Ma every chance they got.

After tucking them in andsending them into the land of dreams by singing alullaby, she got up and went to the main room and picked up the drawing.She looked at it intently; she could swear it almost glistened. There was an aura about it that defied explanation. It was a representation of the world through the eyes of a child. It was pure magic.

Proud of her girl’s achievement, she hung the masterpiece on the main wall of her hut. It was miracle, her daughter was an artist. A miracle indeed. Never in her life had she seen something that beautiful or inspiring. Only if she knew what the letters meant- it would make the experience even more magical.

‘My daughter will teach me.’

It was a wet afternoon. For some inexplicable reason the crows keep crowing until her eardrums almost burst. It was first time in all these years that she did not feel like scrubbing- in fact, it was the only time.

“If only these crows would stop!”

Evening swept across the skies like an angry bull. She felt weak and wanted to run home. For the first time in her life, she left the pots. It was strange. She felt very cold. All she knew was that she wanted to run home to her children- fast.

She patiently waited for her children. She looked at the sky, the sun was orange red, and the horizon was melting into the stars- giving off a bloodied hue.

Nothing but pale silence awaited her. No laughter. No chattering. No smiling faces. Just those crows- and their deafening foreboding cawing emanating from the darkening silhouette of the trees.

She took her stick and hurriedly made her way towards the village center.

They loved to skip after school. She will go fetch them.

‘Naughty angels, worrying your Ma like that.’

Far in the distance she saw a thick plume of smoke rising. She felt that nauseating weakness again. Her limbs felt soft, like she had no bones left in her body.

She started running towards the smoke, nothing else mattered now.

Something was very wrong.

She ran blindly, she ran wildly, only instincts guided her.

There was loud thud and she tumbled down onto the wet muddy ground.

As she struggled to get up, she felt something underneath her body.

It was a tiny hand.

In the charred hand was a crumpled burnt piece of paper with a drawing on it.

The woman recognized it instantly.

It was then that the abyss opened up. It was then that the infinite shadows of sorrow veiled her countenance.

What do you call a mother who has lost her child?

‘The Tiny Hand’- Book of Short Stories
Dedicated to the children who have lost their lives to senseless wars and acts of terror.
Author of Soul Fire – A Mystical Journey through Poetry

The Car

By on in Articles & Short Stories

She was hurt and poor,
And we abandoned her,
Now she sits under the tree,
Singing a sad melody,
In the cold cold night.

She saved our lives a thousand times,
Took the abuse, slander and shame,
with saintly grace,
Gave us a roof when we had none,
Provided a way for us to reach the sun,
Gave us pride, when they shunned us,
Helped our loved ones see sights that they never saw before,
She kept on going until they slashed her,
Even then she retained her dignity, her pride,
Silently moving away when she was wanted no more,
Like a silvery moon lit steed,
Disappearing into the night.

She was alone and poor,
And we abandoned her,
Now she sits under the tree,
Singing a sad melody,
In the cold cold night.

~ANSUL NOOR ~
The Car

Animate, inanimate, when does non-living matter attain a soul-fire or an energetic form?

Can energy released from biomoleculeslatch themselves onto inanimate objects?

I often wonder.

Many times in our life we become fond of particular objects. They hold sentimental value. They represent an important phase or chapter in our life. They are a part of a very special memory. The object of affection can be anything from a small toy, to a sweater your mother knit, a trinket, or even a house or a car. A token that reminds us of someone or something special.

Is it then possible that the object in question can somehow absorb our affection and attain a ‘life’ of itsown?Is this just magical or wishful thinking or can our emotions be transferred to inanimate objects? Can our fondness of something cross the zones of physical laws?

Psychokinesis and telekinesis is an area of much debate and controversy. The ability of a human being to influence an object distantly is looked upon by many skeptics with disdain and frank disregard. There are many well-known historical accounts relating to this type of phenomenon, but science has not been successful in justifying the existence of it. These kinds of phenomenon actually defy the laws of physics and this is when the seeds of doubtare planted. Parapsychology and related subjects remain under heavy debate and there are roughly three schools of thought.

  1. The believers
  2. The non-believers
  3. Undecided

Transference of living energy to inanimate objects, I believe, comes under the umbrella of parapsychology.

As I have mentioned before in my previous articles, there may be times in our life when something inexplicable happens. We are left bewildered and confused and neither science nor the occult can provide rational explanations. Some of us might have experienced an unusual event at some point in our life and are still looking for answers. Most of us tend to dismiss it because it takes us away from our perceptions of ‘normal’ occurrences. Cultural and religious beliefs often restrict our thinking and therefore we stay away from such ‘taboo’ subjects and label an unusual event as an aberration of Nature itself. We all have a right to our own belief systems; therefore whatever you decide is your choice entirely.

But.

What if a certain event or incident happens in your life that defies all the laws of normality?

The human mind is an unexplored universe as is the soul and the invisible world it inhabits. Both are capable of unimaginable feats. There is no limit when we start exploring these primal forces that are contained within the mantle of our bodies. If we can tap even 1% of this inexhaustible source of power, who knows what we can achieve as a human race. Yet, we doubt, we want proof, we want to conduct experiments to explain things that can never be explained. It is this doubt or perhaps the sense of ingrained indoctrinated fear that limits our expansion and hinders our spiritual awareness. We become so involved with facts and figures that we fail to grasp the delicate web of infinite possibilities that encircle our being.

What if we were to let go, just for one moment and peek through this door of infinite possibilities.

The revelations will astound you. And it’s interesting how the cosmic forces will merge with your inner cosmos and vibe together, creating powerful ripples of awareness that you had not experienced before.

Now back to my topic.

Animate, inanimate, when does non-living matter attain a soul-fire, or an energetic form?

A dear friend of mine was going some personal tough times. My friend had lost everything. His home, his family, his job, his health.

With the little money he had left he bought a small car that would help him get around the city in hopes of finding work and eventually getting back on track. This car was the only friend he had left through the darkest period of his life.

Years passed, the car remained a steady mate. It saved this man multiple times from potentially horrific life threatening accidents. It provided this man with a roof when he was homeless. It saved this man from financial ruin, not once, but three times by allowing the bank to lend him money against it. It took him across countries and states, thousands upon thousands of miles when the man needed to find a new place to call home. When the man broke down and wept in a lonely hour, the car started to make strange sounds, almost sympathizing with the man and consoling him.The car showed more humanity than any human he had known. When everyone, including his family abandoned this man, only this humble little automobile remained by his side, comforting him, telling him that all will be ok, only if he hangs on and has faith in himself. This inanimate object seemed to take on a life of its own. It saved this dying man from ultimate destruction.

Years later, the very same car, now old with thousands of miles on it, took this man to a sunny place by the ocean, where finally he would find peace.

It was as if the car ‘knew’ that its time was near and staying with this man would mean draining his wallet. The old car needed repairs and repairs cost money. The car possessed unnatural sensitivities. The man’s brother was taken ill so he wanted to move closer to his ailing brother. He had no money to move. He was broke, again.

One sunny day as hope was emerging from the sky, a young lady appeared in the parking lot where the old car stood. She inquired around the block and knocked on the man’s door. To his surprise, she wanted to buy his car in cash no questions asked.

This was the final good deed the car could do for its friend. The man had a tear in his eye and inhis heart he knew that the ‘car’ was trying to gracefully bid farewell.

And so, it was on a sunny yet fateful day that the car and the man parted ways.

It was a parting token of friendship from one inanimate being to a living one.

Often in life, objects display more compassion and steadfastness than the living. People act cruelly, abandon you in a time of need, take away your pride, may judge and label you. People, in effect, act like robots, like machines, behave insensitively and lack empathy.

Even though we live in a highly connected world, we remain disconnected. The social media has actually alienated us from our emotional ‘selves’ and we swim in this sea of connectedness like a phantom looking for recognition in a room full of partygoers.

Perhaps the world has become so indifferent that we are forced to find companionship and friendship in inanimate objects. Perhaps the memories linked to that object sustain us when we are alone or need comforting. Memories can be a powerful element in the process of healing.

I don’t know what to make of this car story. Did it attain a soul, drawing lively energy from the occupant so it could become a friend when the man had no one left? Or was it the human condition trying to grasp the ropes of sanity in this detached and indifferent world?

One can draw a deep and profound lessen from the story of the car. Believers might like to think that the car did have a soul. Non-believers will say that the lonely man was projecting his grief onto an object and finding relief. His psychological instability stemming from trauma bonded him to his car like a Bedouin becomes bonded to his Camel.

I wonder.

Just one thing though. Just when the man started weeping as he sat in his car, a little prayer book that sat on the dashboard of the car suddenly fell onto his lap. Page number eleven of the book lay open. The message behind the passage on page number eleven was this:

In your darkest hour, the stars will shine, showing you the way to peace. Your friends will come in all shapes and sizes. Respect EVERYTHING.

Coincidence I suppose. What do you think?

‘The Car’

The Plastic Bottle (Based on a dream)

By on in Articles & Short Stories

It was amazing.

The adrenalin rush, the hypnotic lull, the mesmerizing splendor, all at once I was thrown into the vortex of Nature!

I was riding the passionate rivers, meandering through cities, small villages and virgin forests. It was the race of a lifetime. While I was swimming against time, others were on hover boats, rafts…anything that could let them brave the unknown surprise of these dangerous yet beckoning waters. We all had one thing in common;we wanted to experience the primal force-the ever evolving, the ever giving,and theever inspiring source of unbridled joy- the‘River’.

Once in every one hundred years the City let humanity experience this marvel of Nature. So yes, for me it was a chance of a lifetime when I could feel the touch of this ancient force. It was the only chance I had. I did not waste any time and swam as if the spirit of the Salmon had possessed me.

The world was drying out. The soul of the Earth was parched and the mantle crackled and moaned. The cities had to conserve every drop of water they could.The Earth was dotted with metallic reservoir tanks holding billions of gallons of waterthat had been sourced from the last remaining rivers, lakes and oceans. It was survival. It was our last breath. The metallic tanks were also our meditation spots. When we pined for the cool hues of the water, we would gather around these tanks and meditate for hours, imagining the ocean waves caressing and easing our weary thoughts.

My eyes were lost in a dizzy of emotionsas I swam the river, because I knew that this would be my last swim. Reveling in the sensations of Nature, of wilderness, of purity, for one delirious split second, I lost myself. I could have died at that very moment and not have regretted it.

In the midst of this stormy burst of sensations, I heard a loud banging sound and in one heart stopping moment we were all sitting on a bed of pebbles. The river had vanished. The race was over. All traces of magic were gone. Our bodies became motionless as did our thoughts.

This was all the City could afford. I soaked in every millisecond, locking the memory in a subconscious bubble of joy, where only seconds ago the memory was a reality, alive and throbbing. I could see the young faces of the children who were observing us intently from their assigned look out posts- confused and disappointed that their short lived adventure was over. In another hundred years, they will hopefully get their chance to take this journey. I sincerely pray they get to experience the purity and wild caress of the river. I will not be around to see their bewilderment, their enchantment and the bliss on their faces.

I had my chance today and this was enough to carry me into the next world. I was at peace now, or was I?

Hurriedly we gathered our gear and started heading towards the transport capsules located on the riverbanks that would take us back to the City. Life returns to normal but not our souls. They have been altered irrevocably by a single humbling and overpowering touch of Mother Nature. In hindsight, this transformational emotion could have saved us from destruction.

Alas, how soon does mankind forget!

Alas, how much we take for granted.

As I headed towards the tunnel leading to the landing of the transport capsules, I heard an imperceptible whisper. A pencil outline of a door appeared on the side wall of the tunnel. Burning with curiosity, I moved towards the papery thin door. Within the misty realms on the other side of the door, I saw a shadowy translucent figure that beckoned me to follow. Paralyzed with horror, I knew that this was insanity, anyone else would have run for their life, but curiosity is a brave thing, so I followed this watery shape-shifting figure, completely entranced.I was startled and frightened, but the watery figureemanated a sense of familiarity and nobleness.

How quickly does the human mind pass judgment out of ignorance and fear. If one were to give tangible features to nobleness, it would be in the form of this watery figure.

I think that I have died and this is my Angel of Death which is carrying me into the next world. I followed this glistening noblephantom through endless, cold, dark and damp tunnels on the other side of the papery door.

It seemed a lifetime until we reached our final destination, if one can call it that. Bright glowing vividness within a web of misty shades, colors never imagined or seen by any living creature, waterfalls suspended from the clouds, vines climbing into nowhere and sparkling gems floating in mid-air. The landscape was surreal, magnificent, a painting that knows no canvas and that has never been touched by a brush- it felt like the womb of a mother. It was silent and the space was filled with circles of liquid comfort. An alien though relaxing feeling overcame my senses. A feeling you have always known existed, yet never believed it to be true.

Alien yet relaxing. That’s how it felt.

Lost in this orbit of phantasmagoria time had no meaning anymore. There was only the perception of multiple dimensions and a feeling of final calm. Strange as it may sound I was not the visitant anymore, rather an inhabitant that had left this place eons ago, only to return to a place that was always mine.

The watery figure dressed in moss like robes asked me to follow once again. I did. After walking for a long time along what seemed like ancient rivers, the figure halted and pointed down towards the ethereal waters. The water was teeming with snowflake-like beings. Planktonic, amorphic, globular cells that shimmered and shone with polychromatic light that defied all lawsof physics. Suspended in complete thoughtful animation, they exuded a feeling of ultimate compassion.

Alien yet relaxing.

The watery figure and these snowflake creatures began to communicate. I could understand every word. It was like being in the middle of a telepathic marathon. Their mutual tone was that of concern and pity. The creatures then spoke to me in the same telepathic tongue. They told me that I must now observe everything that is to come and not lose sight of my watery companion as we embark on a winding journey along the rivers and streams. They added that once my journey was complete, they will resume their conversation.

I heeded their advice and followed my watery companion. Winding our way through this luminescent landscape, I noticed an array of mystical wildlife in complete harmony with the surroundings. Candy colored dragonflies flitted about me as if giving me company. The waters became bluer and bluer and the snowflake creatures multiplied in numbers. The river was now a flowing stream of snowflakes. The air was humming some unknown tune. Somehow it was known to me, an ancient lullaby. I continued my walk and soon realized that I became one with the ‘spirit’ of nature- it was pre-conception, the ultimate of joy born of purity.

If only joy could last forever.

The water slowly became darker, murkier, slimier and sluggish. My watery friend, now a dried shell of a thing, motioned me to stop. The snowflake creatures told us that this was where my journey ended. The waters were dying. They told me that there had been a race of beings that was responsible for this heinous act. Their cruelty, recklessness and utter lack of responsibility had killed the river and all things belonging to it. A wave of mourning struck me. The air hummed no more. Instead of the magical mist, plumes of smog floated down and lingered above the sad murky remnants of the river. The smog morphed into human faces. Mortified, I knew that my end was near.

The gentle snowflake creatures warned me that if this was to continue my present world will perish. They revealed to me that for billions of years they had been the guardians of the ‘Water’. Tirelessly devoting their life to maintaining the rivers of the world. Unyielding was their love for regeneration, purification and ecological stability. Feelings of gloom overtook me and my soul was weeping uncontrollably.

I knew about this cruel and reckless race they spoke of. They were called humans.

This intelligent race was originally created to be the true caretakers of the planet, the lovers of life, the keepers of Mother Nature and all creatures great and small. This was their ONLY duty. They failed. They turned against the very same planet that sustained them, fed them and gave them life.

The snowflake creatures glowed with a red hue…and vanished.

I was standing once again in a glassy man-made tunnel surrounded by my fellow thrill seekers, all waiting in line to board the transport capsules.

I wonder if they understood what had happened to our Mother Earth? Did they understand that every drop of water they thoughtlesslydrank from their plastic bottles is more precious than life itself? Do they know that without water life will be extinct? How did we accomplish this task? Every single human being is responsible for committing this final crime. Final, because after this, our race will only be a memory in the annals of cosmic history. We will leave behind a legacy of dishonor. We are the traitors of ‘life’.

My heart was drying, just like rivers. The room of my conscience was filled with doom.

I too, was a perpetrator and therefore in my simple head, I had to pen down this vision or premonition and leave it in a plastic bottle for future races (if any) to read and be warned. Perhaps this note might become my redemption.

At least I tried.

‘The Plastic Bottle’

The Five Different Kinds Of Spiritual Souls

By on in Articles & Short Stories

THOSE who live the inner life have to adopt a certain outer form of living in the world amidst people of all kinds. There are five principle ways known which the spiritual souls adopt to live life in the world, although there are many more ways. Very often these souls are found in such forms of life that one could never imagine for one moment that they were living the inner life. It is for this reason that the wise of all ages have taught respect for every human being, whatever his/her outward character, and have advised man to think who is beneath that garb, and what it is.

Among the five principle characteristics of the spiritual being the first is the religious character. This is he who lives the religious life, the life of an orthodox person, like everybody else, showing no outward trace of a deeper knowledge or wider view, though he realizes it within himself. Outwardly he goes to his temple or his church, like everybody else. He offers his prayers to the Deity in the same form as everybody, reads the scriptures in the same way that everybody else does, receives the sacraments and asks for the benediction of the church in the same way that everybody does. He shows no difference, no special characteristics outwardly showing him to be spiritually advanced; but at the same time, while others are doing all their religious actions outwardly, he realizes them in his life in reality. Every religious action to him is a symbolical revelation; prayer to him is a meditation; the scripture to him is his reminder, for the holy Book refers him to that which he reads in life and in nature. And therefore, while outwardly he is only a religious man like everybody in the world, inwardly he is a spiritual man.

Another aspect of a spiritual man is to be found in the philosophical mind. He may show no trace at all of orthodoxy or piety; he may seem to be quite a man of the world in business, or in the affairs of the worldly life. He takes all things smoothly, he tolerates all things, endures all things. He takes life easily with his understanding. He understands all things inwardly; outwardly he acts according to life’s demand. No one may ever think that he is living the inner life. He may be settling a business affair, and yet he may have the realization of God and truth at the same time. He may not appear at all meditative or contemplative, and yet every moment of his life may be devoted to contemplation. He may take his occupation in everyday life as a means of spiritual realizations. No one outwardly may consider for one moment that he is spiritually so highly evolved, except that those who come in contact with him may in time be convinced that he is an honest person; that he is fair and just in his principles and life; that he is sincere. That is all the religion he needs. In this way his outward life becomes his inner realization his spirituality.

The third form of a spiritual being is that of a server, one who does well to others. In this form there maybe saints hidden. They never speak about spirituality, nor much about the philosophy of life. Their philosophy and religion are in their action. There is love gushing forth from their heart every moment of their life, and they are occupied in doing good to others. They consider everyone who comes near them as their brother or their sister, as their child; they take an interest in the joy and the sorrow of all people, and do all they can to guide them, to instruct them, to advise them through their lives. In this form the spiritual person maybe teacher, a preacher, or a philanthropist. But in whatever form he may appear, the chief thing in his life is the service of mankind: doing good to another, bringing happiness to someone in some form. The joy that rises from this is high spiritual ecstasy, for every act of goodness and kindness has a particular joy, which brings the air of Heaven. When a person is all the time occupied doing good to others, there is a constant joy arising; and that joy creates a heavenly atmosphere, creating within him that heaven which is his inner life. This world is so full of thorns, so full of troubles, pain and sorrows. In this same world he lives; but by the very fact of his trying to remove the thorns from the path of another, although they prick his own hands, he rises and this gives him that inner joy which is his spiritual realization.

There is the fourth form of a spiritual person, which is the mystic form; and that form is difficult to understand, because the mystic is born. Mysticism is not a thing, which is learned; it is a temperament. A mystic may have his face turned towards the north while he is looking towards the south. A mystic may have his head bent low and yet he may be looking up. His eyes may be open outwardly while he may be looking inwardly; his eyes may be closed and yet he may be looking outwardly. The average man cannot understand the mystic; and therefore people are always at a loss when dealing with him. His ‘yes’ is not the same ‘yes’that everybody says; his ‘no’ has not the same meaning as that which everybody understands. In almost every phrase he says there is some symbolical meaning. His every outward action has an inner significance. A man who does not understand his symbolical meaning may be bewildered by hearing a phrase, which is nothing but confusion to him.

A mystic may take one step outwardly, inwardly he has taken a thousand; he may be in one city, and may be working in another place at the same time. A mystic is a phenomenon in himself and confusion to those around him. He himself cannot tell them what he is doing, nor will they understand the real secret of the mystic. For it is someone who is living the inner life, and at the same time covering that inner life by outer action; his word or movement is nothing but the cover of some inner action. Therefore, those who understand the mystic never dispute with him. When he says ‘Go’, they go. When he says ‘Come’, they come. When he comes to them they do not say, ‘Do not come’; they understand that it is the time when he must come; and when he goes from them they do not ask him to stay, for they know it is the time when he must go.

Neither the laughter of a mystic nor his tears are to be taken as any outward expression, which means something. His tears may perhaps be a cover for very great joy, his smile; his laughter may be a cover for a very deep sentiment. His open eyes, his closed eyes, the turning of his face, his glance, his silence, his conversation, none of these has the meaning one is accustomed to attribute to them. Yet it does not mean that the mystic does this purposely; he is made thus; no one could purposely do it even if he wished, no one has the power to do it. The truth is that the soul of the mystic is a dancing soul. It has realized that inner law. It has fathomed that mystery for which souls long and in the joy of that mystery the whole life of the mystic becomes a mystery. You may see the mystic twenty times a day, and twenty times he will have a different expression. Every time his mood is different; and yet his outward mood may not at all be his inner mood. The mystic is an example of God’s mystery in the form of man.

The fifth form in which a person who lives the inner life appears is a strange form, a form which very few people can understand. He puts on the mask of innocence outwardly to such an extent that those who do not understand may easily consider him unbalanced, peculiar, or strange. He does not mind about it, for the reason that it is only his shield. If he were to admit before humanity the power that he has, thousands of people would go after him, and he would not have one moment to live his inner life. The enormous power that he possesses governs inwardly lands and countries, controlling them and keeping them safe from disasters such as floods and plagues, and also wars; keeping harmony in the country or in the place in which he lives. All this is done by his silence, by his constant realization of the inner life. To a person who lacks deep insight he will seem a strange being. In the language of the East he is called Madzub. That same idea was known to the ancient Greeks and traces of it are still in existence in some places, but mostly in the East. There are souls to be found today in the East, living in this garb of a self-realized man who shows no trace outwardly of philosophy or mysticism or religion, or any particular morals. And yet, his presence is a battery of power, his glance most inspiring, there is a commanding expression in his God. What he says is truth; but he rarely speaks a word, it is difficult to get a word out of him; but once he has spoken, what he says is done.
There is no end to the variety of the outward appearance of spiritual souls in life; but at the same time there is no better way of living in this world and yet living the inner life than being oneself, outwardly and inwardly. Whatever be one’s profession, work,or part in the outer life, to perform it sincerely and truthfully, to fulfill one’s mission in the outer life thoroughly; at the same time keeping the inner realization that the outer life, whatever be one’s occupation, should reflect the inner realization of truth.

HazratInayat Khan

The Journey Within- Part 1 (Interactive Stories)

By on in Articles & Short Stories

Rain was playing with its childhood friend, Earth. Sprightly airy dances in reflective hues caught the attention of the Caterpillar. It had awoken from slumber and feasted on heavenly elfish drip-drops. The games of nature are always not meant to be won and losing is a type of solace for the pure-hearted who seek medals in the unknown courts of truth. Aerial thought in earthbound dreams caressed by cool breeze from distant stars, that is the trophy the caterpillar yearned for, and yearning is just a wish passion made to the horizons of hope. The caterpillar yearned…

Muses were tempted and joined in the gentle yet often tempest games. With light-footed magic and dainty tendril touch, they weaved enchanted flower garlands and showered them with tears of joy to sustain each bloom. Slowly the forest was in ecstatic flow and the river foamed with acknowledgement. A forest mouse sleepily raised an eyelid in agitation and ignored the ongoing festivities. It was a dreaming of a greater game. It wanted to go to the city and scurry among the lanes and walkways and learn the ways of the street. Ah! The mouse knew not about world he abided in. What one wants most is usually in front of us, if we want to look, that is. Pastures of lofty aspiration are the ones most frequented. How the Fairies cajoled the mouse into joining the ‘nature’ games, but he did not budge and drifted into his lofty dream-world of steel and bricks. They sighed and shed a golden tear that lay upon the soft supple foliage; a good luck pendant for the mouse. Leaves in confetti bright bursts twinkled in a psychedelic sunlit display of cheery applaud.

Freedom is sweet when mixed with innocence.

And dreams are often almost simple in their innocent charm. The mouse yearned…

Clouds in free spirited happiness clapped and heaved. Sparking jolts of laughter forked the azure skies in bouts of joy. Angels halted and floated down to gaze at nature’s laughter. They were inspired by this gleeful display of freedom and wild rapture. An orchestra of emotions, all drumming and humming in the vast pandemonium. Echoes of a life unlived whispering as low notes, and a life lived as high notes. An unsung song of what always was and always will be- the right to freedom. Nature is the philosopher and the disciple. And springing forth from its bosom is the core of the soul. The center of the highest order. The chaos of peace.

The Angels know well, what appears most chaotic is the most peaceful from higher planes.

They listen to the tumultuous rhythms and find the stillness. The unsung song is sung. And the clouds and skies are tuned but the music is heard only to those that listen to the untuned. The Angels smile. The river watches and sometimes yearns to become a dewdrop when the song is played once more.

And now the river yearned…

The grass was bejeweled with the aftermath of frivolous games, and scattered gems of freedom that sparkled with renewed hope, all senses uplifted. Baby grass had begun weaning on bits of weed.

The weeds teach the baby grass about reality and hardship. About sacrifice and death. The grass learns these lessons imparted by weed and becomes the protecting sheet of earth as green blades that shield unwary creatures from the clutches of calamity. But nothing is invincible and the footprints of time ravage the grass. The tiny ants emerge from their protection to propagate the seeds of the waning grass into newer planes. Nothing perishes without committing itself to a reason. And the reason is always pure when the passing over was true and passionate. A tiny ant wanders out of its territory and as the dragonfly calls out to it in teasing love, it looks up with anguish and yearning and wish it could fly as does the graceful dragonfly. Homeless, lonely and missing its loved ones it runs across the wooded glades in earnest scamper. Why did the grass wane? Why did I loose my way? Why didn’t the dragonfly help me? Why? Why? Why? Tiny why’s, boggling the tiny mind. But nature knew the magnanimity of this tiny upheaval. The tiniest are always the giants of thought. Nature knew well what the why’s meant. The river bubbled in quiet protest, it wanted to help, but the owl on its unseen perch silenced it. The small ant had to find its own answers, and what it sought was in the seeds that lay upon the moist earth, the waning grass and the dark prickly weeds. Time was just a wink away. All watched.

The ant yearned…

A wood Gnome was gathering crimson mushrooms at the brink of twilight truth. Firefly lanterns swayed with the breath of the leaves in soundless motion, and sketched the woods with amber light. Silence is so loud. The Gnome listened to the pitter-patter of feet in fearful walk. Armies of confusion with a battalion of questions, all marching and making the woods tremble with hidden quakes. Those that hear not, hear the best. And the third eye was blinking with anticipation. The Gnome knew the nature of these unheard earthquakes. And with honest kindness, moved towards the approaching army of noise. The ant looks up again and peers into the eyes of the Gnome with pleading moments. While the River, Owl and Mother Nature watch, the Gnome speaks in a language only known to a parallel world. The language of silence and faith. The tiny ant understood, was grateful and walked on with newfound courage.

It could finally find Home. Home was just a faith away, only if one believes. And believing is never easy when faith is void. The ant dreamed now, and dreams are the insignias of believers.

The ant yearned no more.

Look out for more continuing journeys, or better still, add some of your own….. we each must share worlds, to understand life better. This journey began through friendship, common goals, and love for nature. Always be sure to visit www.treesouls.com and protect our greatest gift, Earth.

Ansul/Soul-Fire 2000

Fun in the Sun

Fun in the Sun by Ansul

The Mouse Story

By on in Articles & Short Stories

A City of Colour

A City of Colour by Ansul 2004

Visions strolled with the mists of truth. Slow languid steps of afternoon were left far behind as the visions glided effortlessly into the mindscapes of the mouse. It envisioned a green garbed Philosopher, surrounded by creature’s great and small. All paying homage and bowing down in reverence. The Philosopher spoke some unknown tongue only souls could decipher. The mouse overheard the Daises and Brook whispering of a secret pilgrimage that has been taking place even before the seed of the forest had been sown. An ancient journey that all must take. The green garbed Philosopher awaits in the lap of time like a pocket of energy unchanged and undivided. Instinct swims the sea of consciousness to reach the island of sense, which is inhabited by action.

The mouse was mystified and spellbound by these secrets. But alas! It remained trapped.

The worst traps are those that are the most easily avoidable. The mouse yearned for the city. Instinct drowned and the island was left undiscovered.

The vision drifted further and further into the realm of pure dream-wishes and the manifestation was manifested no more.

The owl on its unseen perch wept. As a vision unsensed is a sad matter indeed. The Owl gave a coy-wise fatalistic smile and secured it’s place amongst the books left unread in the dusty library of ignornance.

The mouse lay trapped. And the sad thing was that it knew how to free itself. Yearning became a burden of knowing but not sensing, looking but not seeing. And the vision, a willow-o-wisp in a silvery enchanted lake of pure solace; vanished.

Only the phosphorescence of memory lingered. And memory lingers when instincts drown. Just conscience unsensed, alone.

Soul-Fire 2000

The Walk

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There was a house on a hill with no name. It stood not far from a road that many walked but never saw the narrow path that lead to it, because the path was covered with Nettles, Poison Ivy and many other nameless dangers. Therefore no one dared cross the path and hence, no one came to know of the house that lay abandoned for ages.

One day a crippled, starving and destitute man in tattered clothes, with scars of a painful past staining his countenance, came upon the road not far from the house on a hill with no name.

He soon saw the path.

He thought for a while and walked across. His feet, legs and crippled body bled till the ground below was crimson. He saw this blood, felt the stinging reality of fate, yet smiled; thanked Him and walked on.

After walking on this unknown path, he soon came upon a wild dog. The dog pranced upon him and bit his leg. The man bled more; thanked Him and walked on.

After a little while he saw a fast and rapid river. He crossed the river. Leeches clung to his body, suffering insurmountably; he thanked Him and walked on.

Later he saw that the ground below was crawling with red ants that were eating at his wounds. He wept; thanked Him and walked on.

He saw a house in the distance. But the house was surrounded by a pack of wolves. They were getting ready to advance on his wounded form. While they were coming towards him, he looked up to the sky and said…”My Friend, my Creator, my only Protector; You have given me this gift of life and now that I face death, I feel as if death will be Your welcoming hands blessing me with eternity”. When he said this prayer in his heart…the wolves stopped in their tracks.

The fiercest of the wolves came up to him and started licking the wounds on his body. Once he was cleansed, the wolves left him alone and went away into the woods.

As he walked towards the doorstep of the house, he felt a gentle lulling breeze healing his pain, touching his eyes, easing the thoughts. He fell asleep at the doorstep of the house. A long blissful sleep that he had never experienced before.

He woke up to find that he was wearing freshly scented new clothes, was sitting on a soft velvet couch, eating the most delectable food, sipping sweet nectar from goblets of gold while rivers of milk flowed nearby and birds sang notes of joy.

Magnificent trees glittered with delicious mangoes and exotic fruits.

A dream-like peace overcame his senses.

In the corner behind a tree, he saw a child with torn clothes who was dying from hunger. He gave away all his food and clothes to him and said ” Oh Almighty, Most Gracious, Most Merciful, I thank you for giving me sight so I could see this child who is hungry and without clothes, so I may feed and clothe him”.

God sent this man to heaven.

The path he walked was the test of life. The child he fed was a vision of all his good deeds and his unfathomable courage, so that the gates of heaven could finally reveal themselves.

This life is a short walk towards our real Home.

SoulFire
2005