Long long ago in the times of the shifting sands and whispering desert winds, there lived a majestic king with his four wives in a dazzling ancient city of a bygone era.

He loved his first wife more than his life and lavished her with jewels from the highest mountains, satins and silks from far off lands and other exotic treasures beyond imagination. There was no gem or precious Attar that she did not own. She was also given the most luxurious and ornate castle to live in. She spent her life in decadence and splendor.

He loved his second wife more than anything and could never be without her. He took her with him on all his travels to other lands. She accompanied him everywhere and both were inseparable. She was given a splendid castle adorned with the most breathtaking garden that existed.

He respected and admired his third wife very much, and did not make any decision without consulting her first. She accompanied him to all important meetings, announcements and proclamations. The king did not budge unless he had her approval. She resided in a stately mansion with a fine stable.

Now the fourth wife, well, the king did not love her one bit. He had forgotten she existed. She became his shadow; a nameless, faceless, voiceless speck of existence. She gradually became forlorn, frail, lost her health and sat in the corner of a bleak and cold room that had no windows. Her clothes were tattered, her feet fissured, her limbs skeletal, her face like a pale sheet, the color of a waning moon. She lived in that bleak unforgiving cell all her life. A dark damp room where pockets of musty air hung listlessly.

But she loved the king most of all and she loved him selflessly.

Years swept by and king was now an old sickly man. He knew his time of death approached like a wolf waiting eagerly upon a wounded prey. But he was scared of being alone and unloved. So he declared that when he dies, his body must be buried with one of his wives, so that he won’t be alone and unloved.

He asked his first and most beloved wife if she wanted to be buried with him.

She vehemently denied and said that she can never give up this grand lifestyle and be expected to lie under a pile of dirt! She further added that she will immediately remarry after his departure from this world.

The king was heartbroken beyond words.

He asked his second lovely wife the same. She shook her head disapprovingly and told him that this was impossible as she still has many more lands to see and discover and it would be such a waste of time to lie under that very same spot with him for eternity. She scolded him for suggesting such a vile and selfish thing!

The king sighed and quietly left.

He now approached the third most respected wife and asked her the same. She was sympathetic and for a while, reflected thoughtfully upon his question. After a brief pause she told him that she will agree to be with him and give him company after his death, but only till the edge of the grave, not within it. In a demure and gentle manner, she told him that his idea was highly impractical, one that would result in the premature end of a useful life- namely hers. Also, there must be someone to look after the internal and external affairs of the kingdom once he is gone. But she agreed to do her best, make all the necessary burial arrangements and be by his grave side until the dark earth envelops him.

The poor king said nothing, but looked gaunt and rather hopeless.

He slowly retreated to his castle- and was now a completely broken man.

A tiny, faint voice from far away drifted up and through the marbled hallways and was heard by the king.

“I agree to be buried with you my beloved husband, I cannot imagine this life without you, and it will be my greatest joy to lie eternally beside you.”

The king hurried towards the voice and to his horror saw a skeletal and wasted woman standing in one of the cells in the cold dungeons below.

She was his fourth wife, the queen he never bothered to know or love.

He looked at her and wept a river of tears. How foolish he was. All his life he neglected this sacred and loving woman. How cruel he was to let this kind, generous woman starve away in a cold dark cell. If only once he had looked her way. If only once he had given her a tender touch.

If only…

She was the only one who loved him purely. He wept until inner oceans overflowed, but alas, it was too late.

The king died the next day and his fourth wife was buried next to him.

But she was happy as she lay beside him forever more…

First Wife:Your Body
Second Wife: Your Heart
Third Wife: Your Mind
Fourth Wife: Your Soul

An Adaptation of a Parable

Once upon a time there was an Ant.
And towards the horizon it did stroll.
It never felt the path but simply walked,
blissfully oblivious of the casting shadow.

The Ant did walk,
and the shadow waited.
Now both in silent murmurs talked…..all the while Horizon watched.

Ant cried: “Eeeeee”
Shadow welcomed: “Oooooo”
Ant gasped: “Eeeeeeee”
Shadow smiled: “Oooooooo”
Ant smirked: “Eeeeeeeeeeeee”
Shadow warned : “Ooooooooooooo”

The forest stilled. The mountains slept. The clouds softly peered. The rivers leapt.

Horizon rose and spoke to Ant: “Why must you walk the path in daze, when truths are found right under your nose?”

And now the Ant did wonder why….and saw the shadow that it cast….

Alas, it saw the truer path….

‘Ant Tales’

Reprint from Sedona Times Newspaper , October 29th 2009, originally written in October 1999

There is really no intellect involved in structuring this statement. The illuminating reason for this discussion stems from the total belief in impermanence. It forms a solid foundation for building inner tranquility.

When we are young and our thoughts are just a seed, we remain in a state of care-free oblivion. We don’t even feel the need to germinate. But, as time walks forward, the saplings reach upward. The more they reach upward, the deeper the roots gain grip of the deep earth beneath.

Therefore, awareness grows bidirectionally- and this is how the buds of realization begin.

The plant of self-realization follows an individually random growth pattern. It may take months, years or a lifetime to blossom into the petals of wisdom. Many variables are involved in this self-evolutionary process. Some variables can be controlled such as our ability as human beings to learn, adapt, rationalize, make conscious decisions, evaluate and analyze. These remarkable innate forces enable our species to maintain internal homeostasis under enormous emotional, physical and spiritual challenges.

Slowly, over time, we develop the ability to bend destiny and fate. Yes, it can be done, and don’t let the critics tell you otherwise.

We all make mistakes, we are not perfect and we are certainly not completely ever sane. But with time, we learn to categorize and classify our mistakes. We learn to transform negative experiences into positive feelings and elevate our ‘self’ by setting new standards of belief, by letting in change. We take practical steps by evaluating the situation at hand and letting our inner voice become our strongest guide. It’s a constant evolution- no one ever said it would be easy. Instead of letting our emotions run haywire, we are now able to mold our actions and show them a productive and constructive path.

We are the custodians of our emotions, our reactions and decisions. Only we can ‘tame’ ourselves. One untamed human being devoid of a conscience can wreak havoc on millions.

We must strive to evolve.

Wisdom brings change.

Acceptance of the inevitable is one such change. Dealing with loss, sorrow, illness, pain, poverty and daily life events in a positive manner is another whisper of wisdom.

When dealing with life-threatening or life altering situations, we are now able to deal with it- something which we were unable to do before.

We now view life as a natural progression of events with impermanent consequences. Death is the only permanent fact, or is it?

I have noticed these subtle changes. The slow metamorphosis. I don’t fight it anymore, or deny impermanence. I accept it. Perhaps now I am the plant, reaching upward, up into the sky where my true home lies. I am growing outwardly and inwardly. Without self-realization we will perish in the fires of confusion, ignorance and enter into the viscous cycle of regression.

We must never allow ourselves to regress. Whatever the obstacle, the handicap, or the level of difficulty, we must never allow ourselves to fall into the static trap of self-pity. Life is precious because it is fragile.

If we allow ourselves to remain in a loop of unchangeability, we will definitely shrivel and wither away. The roots will dry out, the stems will weaken, the blooming will never occur.

As soon as you start feeling the inner universe vibrating; tune in, listen, release yourself from all worldly preoccupations and let the leaves soak in the buds of wisdom. Don’t fight the change, rather welcome it. At first it might seem that you are entering a new realm, an unknown dimension, it might seem apocalyptic;but in actuality it is the opposite. It is peace trying to sustain your conscience and your unconscious world. Embrace the change humbly for true wisdom is remarkably humble. We cannot be wise unless we are tolerant to change.

Suddenly, I feel that this life has shrunken and fits neatly into the palm of my hand. The inner eye is now open. The flower blooms and the petals disperse themselves into the air like wisps of incandescent joy.

Birth, death, death-birth, after-life, all beautifully impermanent.

Why spend our days living in a spiritual drought when we can spend it watering the plant of self-awareness.

Why let this plant die and wither away only because we are bound by ego, consumed by negativity, or chained to conventional thinking?

Nothing is permanent- this is what makes life, this moment, this magnanimous second so precious.

Oh…..I can see it……the plant is now about to bloom.

Author of Soul-Fire A Mystical Journey through Poetry

How easily we communicate our thoughts through writing or art. We just pick up a pen or a brush and we are on our way.

What about the days when the human race could not write or paint?

***

Clouds billowed above me and the skies were tinted a purplish blue as winds picked up from the North – it seemed like a brittle wintery wind from New Mexico was sweeping over the Northern Arizona landscape. The mountains and rivers beckoned and enticed me. The air wore the scent of an approaching storm. The landscape blossomed and gleamed. Despite the warnings, I headed out to seek magic, because one never knows what marvels lay in wait for those who seek.

I put on my hiking shoes and loaded my knapsack with goodies and water. I was ready to brave the unknown. It was a good one hour drive from my place to the Petroglyph Heritage site in Sedona, Arizona. I had heard of this mysterious place from friends who were members of the local archaeological society.

Sedona is a rugged ancient city that is circled by giant Red Rocks (sandstone and limestone) that are rich in iron deposits. You can always expect the unexpected in this sleepy little Western city that is tucked away in the far corner of Northern Arizona. Hundreds of secret canyons, unexplored trails, desert forests and caves form the heart of this strange and mystical city which is also a haven for New Agers, Peace Seekers and Mystics. It’s interesting how the Cedar and Mesquite trees gravitate towards the Vortex hot spots of the Red Rocks; the trunks are twisted and gnarled as if struck by some unseen force. Locals say that the powerful Vortexes are the reason why the tree trunks are twisted in such a bizarre fashion. There is much speculation about the so called Vortexes of Sedona. It is indeed one of the most beautiful places in the world mainly because of its untouched, unique and diverse landscape. They say that a Vortex can be felt and never seen. Many theories and legends surround the mystery of the Vortexes. The most accepted theory is that a Vortex is a circling of spiritual energy that radiates from the core of the earth itself. There is a masculine and feminine component to the energy that reflects the masculine and feminine sides of human existence. The energy is said to have different effects on different people. Every experience is unique, which is what lends this place an enchanting Camelot-like feel. There is vibrational stillness to this place. When you stand in a hot spot you will know it. There is ultimate tranquillity. The shape-changing vistas might startle you at first. The Red Rocks seem to change many times a day. They never look the same. They are alive. They all have faces. It is an incredibly humbling experience. As a friend of mine once said, “Here, I and the Raven become one.”

Here in the pristine solitude of Nature you will be reborn.

And so I arrived at the V-Bar-V, Petroglyph site in Sedona.

I was speechless. Tall ancient trees, dark clouds looming above and winding paths leading to nowhere. I started the hike by emptying my mind of all thoughts thus allowing the spirit guides to show me the way.

I was now walking with the spirit guides of the Hopi and Sinagua tribes that inhabited this area thousands of years ago. I felt unusually energized and joyful – like I was going home. Strange. There was a sense of wild abandon as you hiked this ancient trail. I felt rejuvenated. As me and a few other fellow hikers climbed towards a steadily narrowing path the trees canopied above us and a gentle stream gave us company.

After about an hour of moderate level hiking we arrived at a dead end – abruptly.

There in full view were layers of red rock, angularly cut, hidden deep within the canopy of trees. For a few moments we just stood there – mesmerized. The rich golden-red-ochre colors against the canvas of green was like we were all standing in a living breathing painting. The surreal landscape was painted by an invisible hand. But, the real journey had just begun.

At first I thought it was an extension of Red Rock country, until you peered closely. In a few moments the initial surprise was tamed by curiosity. Slowly but surely I saw it. An ancient canvas of rock. Shapes, figures and symbols started dancing around me and after a while I was encircled by a symphony of symbols. I was here. This was it. This was the site where the ancients painted their dreams onto the natural canvas. I took out my camera and started clicking away, trying my best to capture every bit of this natural wonder. After the first few clicks, I realized that I should stop and pay homage to these ancient artists who had taken great pains to record their lives for us to see. It is then that the symbols started to talk. Every inch of this rock canvas had a story to tell and every story was nothing like the other. They were almost one thousand petroglyphs divided onto thirteen rock panels (almost like chapters of a book).

It became clear that the ancient tribes that dwelled here were ‘dry farmers’ and ‘gatherers’. Geometric symbols were a dominant part of the pictographs and petroglyphs. One could almost envision an ancient irrigation system of some sort that connected a river source to the rest of the farmland. Ploughs, fork like objects were another prominent feature, indicating the existence of farming practices.

I then noticed a whorl-like symbol that either could be indicative of a Vortex or as many experts say, it is the representation of the Winter Solstice, an important event in the lives of these peoples who depended on the crops for sustenance.

Another interesting feature of these petroglyphs was the abundance of animal symbols. In every rock chapter I noticed figures of coyotes, deer, antelope, rabbits, lizards, snakes, mountain lions and other wildlife scattered in or around the geometric motifs. Yellow-ochre, sky-blue and deep brown pigments had been used to accentuate certain features, whilst other drawings were simply chiselled into the rock using specific implements.

Rock drawings can be found in various sites all over the globe – perhaps your region has one?

This was their life story that they painstakingly wrote for us to see. This was the book of their life and these symbols were their letters through which they could mark important events and record history as they knew it. This was a story ‘before’ writing and every word was a powerful reminder that the human race is a creative one that itches to tell their tale.

Every story is worthy of respect and every story is worthy of being told. One does not have to be an expert, or a bestselling author or a celebrated painter, all one needs is a burning passion and the deep desire to tell a story.

Pictographs and petroglyphs are considered primitive forms of art, but to me they hold profound messages from a race of people who lived purely, bravely and truly. They respected Mother Earth, ate from the bounty provided, were not greedy and listened to their inner voices. They were the original storytellers who pined to tell their tales even if it be in the form of rock drawings. They saw magic in everyday life. To me, this ‘rock’ book was a bestseller.

I learned so much in just those few hours. The ancient ones unknowingly inspired me forever.

What story will this generation of humans leave behind?

‘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.

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?

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

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 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