Pain is the shadow of joy.
And shadows follow us throughout our life.
Without my shadow I’m a shallow pond,
sans depth, compassion or emotion.
Thanks to the shadows all around, for because of them I learn to survive, give and love.
‘Shadow’
Life
The challenges of life- the only ounce of truth lurking behind a facade of pageantry.
Who is the lucky one, pray tell?
Who has been spared the chilly winds of hardship?
Money cannot buy joy.
Nor can it wipe away the blue canvas of tears.
We each face the darkness of night, alone.
Who accompanies us six feet under?
This life: cruel, unfair, unpredictable, fragile, inflammable, precious, magical and dear.
Let’s not forget this truth, lest we drown in the shallow ponds of indifference:
The challenges of life keep us real.
‘Life’
The Pilgrimage – the mouse and the trees
Visions strolled with the mists of truth. Slow languid steps of an afternoon were left far behind as visions glided effortlessly into the mindscapes of the Mouse. He envisioned a Green Garbed Philosopher, surrounded by creatures great and small. All paying homage and bowing down in reverence to this peaceful giant. The Philosopher spoke a mysterious dialect that very few could decipher. The Mouse overheard the daises and brook, whispering of a secret pilgrimage that had been taking place since primeval times. An ancient journey that all must take. It happened like clockwork; like the switching on of a migrational gene. Ingrained within the very core of existence, dormant; patiently waiting, innately knowing when to release itself. It was a mass movement of a thousand species across all lands. They all had one thing in common- the search for knowledge, perhaps even enlightenment. Many speak of this spiritual migration, but none can provide solid answers as to the nature of it. In shadowy corners of the Forest, there are rock drawings, carefully etched, intentionally detailed, depicting this unusual event. Common elements observed in these cryptograms were gargantuan green objects, glowing with an eerie intensity. The Fae – folk believe them to be the Green Garbed Philosophers – the Trees – primal forces holding time in their lap as a pocket of energy, unchanged and undivided.
Often, instinct swims the sea of consciousness, trying to reach the island of ‘ sense ’ , which is inhabited by ‘ action ’ , but how often it is left unchallenged. We choose to drown rather than swim, only because it is easier.
The Mouse overheard these whispery secrets and was mystified.
But alas ! The Mouse remained trapped in the chamber of ambition. Dreaming of steel and bricks and cityscapes! The Mouse, blinded by ambition, neglected the tiny voice within.
He chose to drown rather than swim, hence the island of ‘ sense ’ was left undiscovered.
Rising up slowly but surely, like a prehistoric phantom waking from slumber, a thick fog swallowed the deepest parts of the Forest – shrouding the secrets, the whispers and the rock drawings with a luminescent darkness.
The Mouse, burning with ambition, continued his journey to the City.
Excerpt from a ‘A Different Kind of Garden ’ by Ansul Noor
The Five Different Kinds of Spiritual Souls
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 good 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.
Hazrat Inayat Khan
Alara – Blue Odyssey
Exile
It did not matter if her world had turned its back on Alara. All she knew was that she was alone, and that was enough to drive anyone insane. Misfortune is a devious creature. It pounces on you when you least expect it. Alara had experienced the profound depths of abandonment from her own kind. Later, she realized that perhaps being amputated was a blessing in disguise because now she was able to appreciate her own infinite beauty, something she had failed to recognize before the exile.
“I will never forget to remember the truth.†were her parting words just before she was banished from her world— known as the Upper Realms.
The dwellers of the Upper Realms were the ‘Blue Ones’. They were created from primordial dust—pre-cosmos and pre-time. They were the keepers of timelines and they ruled absolute. Timelines were sacred dominions that the Blue Ones guarded with their lives. They were able to cross these invisible barriers as easily as sunlight filtering through the frozen leaves – quietly scattering like a million atoms, ultimately being absorbed into the surroundings and becoming one with it.
The Blue Ones were created from cool inextinguishable fire — burning with a glacial warmth and radiating a soft spectrum of color that defied the laws of physics. Not much is known about this race because few living entities have ever seen or touched them. The humans of the Lower Realm only know of their existence as evidenced by stone-chapters that their ancestors had left behind— kept hidden deep in mountainous crystalline caverns. The stone-chapters speak of a race of beings that were created to watch over other species. It is said that the Blue Ones are able to morph into any shape they desire and move like liquid moonlight in and out of timelines without being detected. One cannot define them because they defy all definition yet they define the very core of sentient beings. In rare instances they can assume human form—but this happens very rarely. It is said that when contact between a Blue One and human does happen, the human neuron will ‘burn-out’ due to the extraordinary intensity of the blue fire. Therefore, this enigmatic race of beings remained a myth— that is before the displacement took place.
The displacement of Alara.
Rules of Detachment
Alara had assumed human form because she had to. She was unlike any other Blue One that existed. She had the power of ‘touching’ the emotions of other species and this meant becoming intimately entangled with the lives she came across through various timelines. She had been warned by the elders that this practice would result in her banishment or possibly her ‘extinguishment’, but she could not help it. She was fascinated by the complex simplicity of human beings. They were puzzling creatures that displayed such a vast array of emotions. Some were able to execute random acts of kindness whilst others were capable of unspeakable cruelty. But it was the emotion called ‘kindness’ that pulled her in like a magnet. It was an overwhelming sensation when she had first experienced it. She could feel her ‘fire’ glow brighter until she shivered with joy. For her, this was the birth of ecstasy- a feeling that the other Blue Ones could never fathom because ‘entanglement’ with humans was strictly forbidden. The Blue Ones had to maintain detachment as a ways of survival. Eons ago, when the Blue Ones mingled with humans on an emotional level, the results were catastrophic, where both species precariously dangled on the brink of extinction. Therefore, laws of detachment were passed and if a Blue One strayed- exile or extinguishment was the dire result. Over time, the Blue Ones became a dispassionate race that ruled the timelines. Compassion, kindness and empathy slowly died and the new generation of Blue Ones were devoid of all emotions. They had evolved into a race where only the task mattered—guarding timelines. That’s it.
The elders had set irrevocable rules. The laws stated: Thou shalt not touch, thou shalt not linger, thou shalt not mingle, thou shalt not hunger, thou shalt not feel, thou shalt not reveal. Unfortunately or fortunately, Alara had violated all the tenets. Her royal lineage was her only savior, where she was exiled rather than extinguished.
Alara
Alara, was an anomaly, perhaps because she was a descendent of the original Blue One- Illucida, the first guardian of the Upper Realm. They all despised Alara and considered her a threat to their way of existence. She remained true to herself and found herself drawn to the human race with every passing lifetime. She had lived ten thousand and three lifetimes and had come to understand her strengths and weaknesses. She was in the truest sense ‘an old soul’.
The Blue race of beings were genderless and featureless, although they could assume any physical shape they desired. However, there were distinct original physical (if one can call them that) characteristics that differentiated them from all other sentient beings that inhabited the millions of known and unknown realms. The color that emanated from the core of a Blue One was not of a known Lower Realm spectrum, rather one that sat just at the edge of sound and color- it was more of a palpable aura that calmly hummed like a million snowflakes falling on still waters. The color was composed of the essence of life – invisibly present yet watching over the realms, quietly, like the endless firmament of space. It was rarely possible to catch an unrecorded glimpse of a Blue One. It occurred in a vulnerable split second when they were in the act of crossing timelines. Few have ‘mentally’ survived to tell of what they witnessed. However, there are rumors — rumors of what a Blue One may look like. Their features are liquid, ebbing and flowing like the beating of a human heart. Translucency coupled with a touch of nebulous shimmer almost makes it impossible to define the features clearly, but a striking characteristic is the presence of visions-orbs strung like pearls around a globular bulge proximal to a swirling mass of blue-ish mist that pulsates intermittently. A witness reported that the ‘orbs’ or ‘eyes’ glided around the prominence without blinking — just a trail of eyes looking deep inside the dynamics of the realms. It was proposed that the multiple eyes were an extension of the original third eye. The human who had described this incident had lost all sanity after this startling encounter and was confined to an institution for ‘mind rest’, indefinitely. Therefore an accurate description of the Blue Ones was never officially documented — except for the striking ‘trail of eyes’.
There were many theories surrounding the origins of the Blue Ones. But no one really knew the truth.
One fact remained undebatable – a close encounter would result in a burn-out. That was enough to keep the humans of the Lower Realms wary.
Alara did not understand the premise of this fear. She was incapable of hurting any living being. All she knew that she wanted to live in the Lower Realms, amongst the humans and creatures that roamed the sparkling world beneath. And to do this she needed to shape shift. She had assumed several shapes over lifetimes, but she had never dared to linger or mingle for fear of exile. It was a momentary transition that was part of her duty. She was after all, a keeper of timelines which meant she had to wear new skin as required by the task at hand. But she had never ‘stayed’ in one skin for long. The Upper Realms had changed- change is good unless it is dangerous. The Blue Ones had become indifferent. Alara could not stay any longer.
And so she decided to transition permanently — although this required a few shape shifts before she could finally attain her true desired form — human.
Hence, began her lone journey, exiled from the Upper Realms until eternity. However, she did retain traces of her powers, and she was going to use them wisely.
The Cat
The street where she woke up was darkly lit and littered with garbage. She leapt up from behind the dumpster and headed towards the illuminated corner of the street. Excitement darted from every pore of her newly found existence as a cat. She had encountered this enigmatic creature a few centuries ago and had been fascinated ever since. They were marvelous creatures, so sensitive, daring and mysterious. Everything seemed possible when you were a cat. They knew things others did not. The saw things others did not. She remembered her first encounter with a cat with utmost fondness. The cat could somehow see Alara—it was remarkable. It followed her everywhere and Alara felt a strong bond with this feline species. And so, Alara honored her strange beautiful friend by assuming its shape.
Hunger. What an agonizing experience. It burned deep within her belly like a dagger running through her heart. She explored the streets of this strange new city until her paws were raw. For the first time in her lifetime, she felt helpless, and scared. What if this hunger was unending? Where could she find a morsel to eat?
“Aww, little creature, come here.†a tired voice steadily wafted from the alley. “Drink this my poor little friend.â€
Alara saw a frail hand placing a bowl of milk on the ground next to her. She drank furiously, slurping every last drop of the sweet delicious liquid, her tongue swept the bottom of the bowl dry.
“What’s wrong with you hungry one?†once again the tired voice floated into her ears.
Alara was now being carried off into the foggy unknown by a pair of wrinkled dirt stained hands. Later she realized that her gentle friend was a homeless human who lived on the brink of society. Shunned by fellow Lower Realm dwellers, this generous human had a heart of gold and in her eyes needed no acknowledgment by the others. They both rested in a cardboard palace, as raindrops fell mercilessly in the cold weary night. She noticed that this human looked peaceful even though he had nothing left but his pride. A copper bowl, a stale piece of bread and some meagre belongings was all he had. What a great soul indeed Alara thought to herself and felt happy about her fateful decision of leaving the Upper Realms. This is what she loved about the human race – acts of kindness. Such rare illuminating stars in the vast universe of emotion.
The sun kissed the damp streets making them glimmer like an ethereal river. This was her first day in her new realm and already she had made a friend. She snuggled in his lap, gently purring, urging him to wake up. Oddly, the warm cozy feeling seemed to vanish. The old man had died in his sleep. She had lost her only friend in the Lower Realm as quickly and quietly as she had come to love him.
Pain. The excruciating pain of loss. Never in her life had she experienced this sort of emotion. It tore her core apart, a profound aching that could not be eased. The old man lay listlessly is his temporary cardboard palace as his copper bowl sparkled in the sun. Hope. The bowl signified hope. Alara had to move on from this compassionate haven and hope that this kind human, who had saved her from starvation last night, would reemerge in the next life as a nightingale — singing a song for the hopeless.
She had lost him but not his memory.
The paths became wider with every step. She was about to enter the gates of the main city. Everywhere she looked, there was splendor and decadence. Humans were immaculately dressed and drove gilded automobiles. Yet they looked anxious. It was as if they were all hurtling through life without even sensing it. Supposedly trying to maintain material ‘goals’, yet utterly oblivious of the ‘true’ one. She strained to see an ounce of peace on their faces but there was none. They had everything yet they were devoid of peace? She felt confused and bewildered as she continued towards the city gates.
“Ungrateful creature!†someone screamed from behind Alara and kicked her hard in the stomach, hurtling Alara into a ditch. “You’ve ruined my new dress. Why don’t they exterminate all the filthy cats of this city once and for all!†again that shrill scream.
Alara winced, her stomach hurt badly. She saw the human get into a shiny automobile, the edge of her fine dress muddied. Alara had accidentally muddied her dress as she was trying to run across the street towards the city gates, but did this unintentional mistake committed by a voiceless and innocent creature justify such cruel behavior? Writhing with pain, Alara tried to get out of the ditch, but she was bleeding.
Compassion and cruelty all in a day. This experience was only possible in the Lower Realms, where often, a day was enough to last you a lifetime. The art was how to figure out which was what and what was right. Something many Lower Realm dwellers had difficulty in figuring out.
‘Puzzling creatures’ Alara mused.
Gasping her last breathe as she lay dying in the ditch, just like the homeless man with a heart of gold in his cardboard palace, Alara caught a glimpse of the great city beyond the glimmering gates…….
The Crow
Perched high atop an ancient Saguaro cactus, Alara was confident that she was finally beyond bodily hurt. She had the advantage of flight and cunning. This life would be different. She had learnt her lessons as Alara-the-Cat. Humans were able to wear various types of masks to disguise their true intensions, but her transformation was part of the learning-evolution, one that would hopefully yield positive results.
“Get rid of them! Go back home! Never come back†hundreds of protestors shouted as they furiously waved hate filled banners.
“Stop this invasion!†the haters roared again, unleashing a wave of hysteria.
Alara noticed humans of a different color on the other side of the bridge. They looked terrified as they tried to avoid the constant barrage of stones hurtling towards them. She was confused as she saw this bizarre spectacle unfold before her very eyes.Humans against humans!
Why?
Could it be that phenotypic pigmentation had the ability to determine your fate?
Soul-fire remains unchanged, whatever garb you wear. Alara-the-Cat, Alara-the-Crow or Alara-the-Blue One…..her essence had remained unaltered, nothing had changed except her outer garments. Yet, in humans, so much importance was given to these temporary garbs. This was a concept that had her completely dumbfounded. It suddenly dawned on her — she had underestimated the power of hate.
It would require an entire lifetime of contemplation to understand the dynamics of this flammable force. Love was easy for her, but hate was an entirely new beast, it was an emotion that was surrounded by an unpleasant color. She did not like this color at all, because when near it, her soul-fire flickered low.
“STOP your protests at once!†tear gas blasted the crowds, pacifying the haters temporarily. Uniformed humans stepped out of great vans like ants pouring out of flooded anthills.
Alara momentarily sighed with relief as this timely intervention would surely keep the protestors at bay. But it was a short lived moment of imagined peace. If only it were that easy.
Alara noticed something unexpected and alarming. The uniformed battalion went to the other side of the bridge, where the victims were huddling together timidly. Brutally, they started to grab them one by one and thrust them into hot metal vans, like cattle to the slaughter. Alara could hear pleas for help. The whimpering scorched her soul. Soon, the frightened ones all disappeared into gaping mouth of the metallic monster.
A deathly silence prevailed.
Alara could hear the sounds of injustice prevailing. It was a deathly sound that rose from the belly of ignorance.
The haters rejoiced and joined hands in uninhibited revelry. They were left untouched, uneaten by the giant metal van. They were allowed to hate and remain free, whereas the helpless ones were thrown into a cell of confinement and subjugation.
Victorious, the crowd slowly retreated and left the grounds, taking the unpleasant color of hate with them.
As the smog of terror slowly lifted, Alara could feel her soul-fire rekindling.
Was it a polished diamond glistening under the blazing sun? Slumped listlessly by the roadside, a child wept quietly. Fate had spared this innocent human. Everything that happens in life has a purpose. Matter cannot disappear; it will always reappear as something or someone new. Light flows into the river of sound, sound echoes through the valleys of emotion and emotions are the sparks that animate life itself.
This child had been abandoned for a reason- a grand reason.
But does one know where the shadows dwell when they sleep? No one knows the grand reason, yet if we close our eyes and open our hearts, the shadows will reveal the true nature of the grand purpose.
The sobs of the abandoned child echoed far across the desert, alerting the eidolons of fate.
Alara-the-Crow swooped down from her high perch and snatched a hat from an unsuspecting human who stood not far from the weeping child. She then quickly dropped the hat next to the child and flew away….undetected.
“You poor child, who could have done this to you?†the human picked up the child and gave it refuge, hopefully saving the child from a terrible end. Alara had used pieces of her leftover powers, now called bravery, to change the course of fate.
Not all humans judge you by the color of your skin. It was a heartening discovery. Her thoughts swelled with joy.
Her soul-fire glowed brighter than the desert sun, yet remained as cool as moon-rays caressing the undulating sand dunes of destiny.
The child had been saved by this compassionate human, just by a trick of the hat… and a watchful crow with keen intuition and a pinch of bravery.
Alara took in a deep sigh of relief, soared high, as high as she could until she retreated to her usual spot on the tallest Saguaro – her lookout post, for now.
Stay tuned for more adventures of Alara……
Stay tuned to this page as the exiled Alara continues her Lower Realm life-adventures, assuming various shapes and making new friends. Paperback book coming soon.
Youtube channel: Mysticpeacepoet
THE TITLE
Long long ago there was a very noble man. He wanted to reach the peak of his order and be called a Sufi Master. This was a daunting, intense and difficult task. In order to achieve this superior rank of holiness he had to prove his unflinching and complete commitment to God and of course to his deeper unconscious faith.
This meant, fasting for days on end, retreating from society, family and friends, living for months and months in complete solitude only praying to Him and loving Him with all his might and celibate devotion.
He continued this lonely reclusive life for years to come.
One day a group of young apprentices and eager followers came to him and asked him for guidance, more importantly they wanted to know the secrets to his divine calling.
He replied that this required great patience and one must give up everything for God in order to gain a holy title from Him. This meant years of fasting, praying, solitude and devotion.
Many years passed.
Alas, the man was now older, more impatient since the voice of the Angels did not speak to him, nor did he gain his title of Holy Man from God.
He grew disheartened, forlorn and disappointed. He had spent years meditating, praying on hard cold ground, fasting, staying true to Him with unwavering strength and devout loyalty, not leaving his place of devotion for even a second.
Why did God not listen?
Why were his millions of prayers going unanswered?
Why could he not attain the level of spirituality he yearned for?
Was this all a waste of his precious time?
His mind grew weary now. Exhausted, tired, at a loss, he slumped onto the unforgiving cement and closed his eyes.
It felt like forever.
Was it a dream he had, or a vision?
A very soothing yet powerful voice spoke to him.
The voice said that to be close to God, you have to be close to the people.
You have to serve humanity unselfishly, without asking for anything in return.
Your duty on this planet is to serve humanity and protect all creatures that inhabit it. In doing so, you will have served the higher purpose.
In helping others you will have attained the highest grounds in the space of divine consciousness in this world and in the after-life.
In being there for those in need, you soul will be freed.
With a jolt, the man woke up — startled and shocked.
How could he have overlooked this!
He was so consumed in gaining his ‘title’, his ‘glory’, his ‘rank’, and his place amongst the saints, that he completely ignored the sufferings of those around him.
The beggars, the homeless, the orphans, the abused women, the lonely parents, the ailing siblings.
All forgotten in his quest for holiness.
He wiped his tears, which seemed to sting his very soul.
He wrapped his prayer mat, put away the rosary beads, ate a small meal, and locked the dark room which had been his place of worship all these years.
He finally saw the PLIGHT & LIGHT. Felt the hunger of the homeless, the helplessness of the orphan, the sadness in the eyes of a woman who lay on the street and the pain of an injured animal. Most of all, he saw the longing gaze of his frail parents.
He was overwhelmed with compassion.
It was at this very beautifully naked moment of truth that he realized that no title, no rank, or any amount of devotion will ever equal this intense feeling that had bloomed within him.
Compassion was a ‘gift’, a ‘title’, a ‘glory’, a beautiful thing that cannot be named, yet has a million names.
Most importantly compassion has no religion but is a ‘religion’.
It was then he truly became a worker for humanity.
Without wanting anything in return, he kept on helping the needy until the end.
Just like the murmuring of a warm secret breeze that brushes your cheeks during a bone hard winter— someone high above was smiling invisibly.
The ‘Title’ was granted.
Story Adaptation by Ansul Noor
Beyond Duty
I turn and look back, what do I see?
The book of life lying on the table of truth.
The cover is dusty with abandoned hope,
and the pages crumble from lack of trust.
The binding glue has lost its strength.
And fragmented pages fall upon the floor of dreams:
Dreams that in half-flight were shot from above,
now all that is left is the wish to ‘be’.
Words and sentences hide behind lost chapters.
And the writing slants then droops with age.
The midnight blue of the ink,
is now the palest shade of rain;
how beautifully the stories fade.
Excerpt from ‘Sacred Hauntings’
Poem ‘The Book’
By Ansul
1 am.
The witching hour had passed. But for us ER doctors, the hours have no name. It was a chilly October night and a Twilight-Zone calmness gripped the steely corridors of the General ER of the hospital where I worked. The fog of silence languidly crept through every examination room lending an almost dream- like air of solitude to the usually jam packed and chaotic world of trauma and emergencies.
For an ER doctor, lack of chaos can be distracting and I battled to keep my wits about me and stay busy in my head since the quiet had started to creep inside my soul as well.
Before 1 am.
I set about applying the finishing touches to a few admission notes; a man in his 50’s with liver cirrhosis, a child with febrile convulsions, and finally, a lady who had presented with an acute abdomen and anemia. With little gap between patient intakes, I scurried from one room to the other, preparing all the initial lab/diagnostic work-up and subsequent paperwork after I had decided to admit them to the ward.
Approaching 1 am.
After stabilizing my patients and sending them to their respective wards, I steadied myself and headed to the vending machine to get myself a hot cup of cocoa. It was a habit of mine — to remain on my toes until I knew that my patients were safe and secure in their beds, ready for the morning rounds. Mentally, I followed them up on their journey to recovery, and often found myself wandering into the wards the next day, checking up on how they were doing. I had been told by my superiors that this was not required of me, but I just had to know. I couldn’t break the ‘habit’ and I’m happy I didn’t.
Few minutes to 1 am.
Calmness. An eerie stillness. My fingers played with the cocoa stained cup, as I wished for answers at the bottom of it—it was tassology but without the tea leaves, just those intense spilt seconds of contemplation where everything freezes but your thought process. The ER can be an enlightening place. It teaches us about the fragility of life. It teaches us to tame our innermost fears and apprehensions so we can channel them into constructive critical thinking and hopefully save lives. It teaches us to have compassion in a mechanical setting, yet remain strong enough to handle the chaos with composure. But often, the robot of routine can seduce your mind and you can fall victim to indifference. How to retain compassion without falling apart or becoming a robot is a daily battle for the ER staff.
It’s easy being a robot, shutting it all out, moving from one case to the next and never looking back.
Therefore, we must strive to find balance.
Post 1 am
Still in a thought daze, I was jolted when my pager went off. A young lady had presented with shortness of breath and tachycardia.
Room 103 at the far end of the oddly quiet ER.
She waited for me.
I greeted her and sat down beside her. I extracted relevant medical/past history, examined her and ordered some initial bloodwork.
She mentioned that she had trouble sleeping these past few weeks and that she had lost her appetite. Other than that there were no remarkable history/findings except that she appeared anxious and afraid. I sensed it as she talked. Her eyes were blood shot from lack of sleep perhaps?
Or was it was from constant weeping?
She was well dressed and spoke eloquently, yet her voice seemed to be filled with a deep sadness that could be heard if you listened carefully.
My initial diagnosis: Depression coupled with GAD.
I held her hands and we talked about life. She told me that since her parents had passed away, she was in charge of the family business. The stress of daily life was too much bear, but most of all she was terribly lonely. She was a single local woman who was trying to survive in a male dominated society. She struggled daily to overcome sad thoughts and everyone around her had started to label her and chastise her.
No one understood this ‘invisible’ ailment. All she received were awkward stares and her so called friends seemed to disappear.
It is then I saw two glistening tears stain her cheeks.
“Doctora, I wish I had met you before.â€
“You are the only one who really wanted to know how I felt, I feel much better now.â€
What she required was the medicine of compassion.
I explained the benefits of psychotherapy and that she must follow-up with a psychiatrist. I referred her to a good friend of mine who would be able to help her through the struggles of life.
To which she responded:
“Will that doctor have the gift of kindness?â€
“I only need that.â€
The Next Day
As with most ER tales — I never saw that lady again. But she left an impression on my mind for years to come. Often, the only action required of a doctor is a kind word, a genuine interest in the ‘invisible pains’ of another. If you forget your humanness, you forget your oath, and soon you will forget your ‘self’.
Might have I behaved in a similar fashion if I were swamped with patients?
Only my conscience can be the judge of that.
Nothing in this profession is beyond the call of duty. Every encounter is special and requires a unique protocol tailor designed to the situation.
Depression and mental illness is greatly misunderstood even today. Core principals of treatment should include patience, care and empathy, and of course medication as needed. It can be challenging to devote time and effort to such issues in an ER or busy OPD setting, but all you have to do is administer generous doses of genuineness to cure that moment of anguish and loneliness.
Mental illness is a hard thing and there is no greater medicine than knowing that there is someone out there who cares.
I’m sure we have all had such moments-in-practice that may have influenced the way we conduct ourselves with our patients and that allowed us to explore the metaphysical meaning of being a ‘true healer’.
A medical degree does not make you a healer— The journey does.
Discharge Summary
Genuine words can change or save a life. It’s a much needed soulful resuscitation, for both, the sufferer and the healer.
By Ansul Noor
‘Beyond Duty’
Wild Flowers
They say thou art Wild,
How blind can mankind be.
Flowing gently with the breeze,
Your beauty never fades.
And in a dark and dismal hour,
You provide a sweet escape.
You give of yourself so selflessly,
Never asking for much, just there.
By the road sides, by the walkways,
In places where no one cares.
We ignore your subtle beauty,
We trample upon your grace,
We pull you apart and poison you,
Just because thou art untamed?
They say thou art Wild,
How blind can mankind be.
Flowing gently with the breeze,
Your beauty never fades.
And in a dark and dismal hour,
You provide a sweet escape.
‘Wild Flowers’
Completely Baffled
Far-reaching and far-seeing is our soul. The only truth that exists. The invisible core.
We swim the oceans of confusion, skepticism and worldly distraction. We are addicted to pleasuring our ego. We are deafened by constant states of meaningless noise. In this noise we forget to see, to reach, and to touch. Yet the soul does this for us with such clarity, even though our rational minds may deny its existence. It makes us dance, write, sing, and paint involuntarily. We call these talents gifts or attribute them to active cortical grey matter. But what about those individuals who lack so called intelligence, have an organic brain disease or an underdeveloped brain and do not display normal patterns of behavior, yet are profoundly talented artists, writers, visionaries, musicians or acutely sensitive empaths? There is something inside of us that is far more intelligent that our mere organic existence. A throbbing pulsating energy that is not alien to us, but closer to us than the jugular. We are proudly ignorant and we claim to be an enlightened race?
These arms are far-reaching and far-seeing. We cannot begin to understand their visions unless we begin to let go of two dimensional thinking. Let us think in 5D or even in 7D….what is stopping us but the fear of the unknown. Let us envision parallel dimensions and multi-dimensional realms where anything is possible, where we can overcome any obstacle, where we live our dream self and integrate it into our daily material lives. Let us try and let our soul walk beside us, rather than remain that tiny inconspicuous inner voice.
Let it all be silent. Hear nothing but your heart beat and follow the patterns. Flow with these songs, dances and rhythms till you are completely baffled. Paint like a blind man paints his dreams. The soul communicates to us strangely but honestly. Be not fearful, be not agitated when it speaks but simply follow the ancient rhythms until you are completely baffled.
Only then will you become completely aware.
Ansul Noor
Letters to my Soul
1998
Author of Soul-Fire, A Different Kind of Garden, Sacred Hauntings and The Invisible Rose (coming soon)
The House
There is a house upon a hill.
Solitary does it stand and no bird sings.
No one knows the time and age of its darkened wood,
and the lane in which it stays forlorn has no name.
Aging vines of yesteryear climb with encroaching stealth,
and weeping willows shed tears upon the ashen grass.
The garden of neglect is quiet now and unkind weeds hiss.
The spirit of life in cobwebs is trapped,
and smiles in shadows of a past are seen.
Footsteps slight and voices frail,
are the dust that on the floor form,
a thin layer of antique thought.
The house throbs even though ages have gone by.
It still lives to see the light of joy.
It is alive with a soul and heart,
and carries the heavy burden of memories,
in those splintered dusty arms.
Houses starve and cry and slowly die.
They feel and pray and hurt and fall.
In every grain of damp old wood,
there is a foreboding tale or secret love, entrapped.
The creaking doors in pensive moods lie awake,
and musty words in corners wait,
as unwary wanderer in this forest dim,
raps on the door in uneasy state.
Whispers from all places within do call!
The dust in clouds of welcome move;
Come in dear wanderer on path unknown,
And I shall light a fire for thee,
Years have passed since I have lived,
And weary I have grown for speech.
The wanderer with pale white face,
trembling hands and unsteady gaze,
with wild flight the path does take,
never to return to the lane with no name.
And so the house forlorn retreats yet again,
to the realm of loneliness.
In dying breath it wishfully hopes,
that wanderer true with pure intent,
will sooth its waning hopes to rest.
Ansul Noor
Book- Sacred Hauntings – A Supernatural Book of Poetry
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