"The hall is rented, the orchestra engaged. It's now time to see if you can dance." - Q, Star Trek TNG
Dawn should be moments away. Still deep in trance with rare sprinkles of reality, unsure of the ending of one incident and the beginning of the next, I feel as if I am gliding back and forth through time. In this fleeting moment of silence between the roaring upsurges, I wonder whether I completed the ritual. It wouldn't matter much even if I did not. I started it. I caused whatever happened here tonight. Now, since I feel it is time for me to achieve my goal, I will achieve it.
Beyond those hundreds of eager eyes patiently waiting to gorge on me, I can see, clearer than ever, that she is here. She has always been around, accompanying me everywhere. We are inseparable. But I am not here to feel her presence or enjoy the euphoria of comparing her fabled visual appearance with what my senses are telling me. I've been doing that for as long as I can remember. I have realized that she was actively involved in each of what looked like a coincidence. Whenever I fell and each time I got up, there were invaluable lessons. It's time for a more direct lesson. Even if I failed, she'll wait patiently for my next attempt.
There is a common trait among all things supernatural. They need to be believed in for them to be effective. A ritual based primarily on the hopes of random convergence of incidents usually results in frustration. Whereas the outcome of a ritual formulated with the wisdom of the hyper-conscious is associated firmly with the will of a disciplined mind.
Among the initial steps for tonight, as in any advanced ritual, was creating a protective shield. As a trusted guardian, it has isolated me from whatever might hinder my efforts and prevented unwanted appearances of my doppelganger. I believe as I was taught that this shield is necessary to advance to the next level. Without it, an eternal spiritual oblivion will be my fate.
I love comfort. I worry about the welfare of this body. I despise pain. I fear death. I prefer life. I depend on my shield. I keep longing for her. Therefore, I need to drop my shield. If I survived, I'll reach her. If I died, I'll reach her. A win-win scenario.
I smell something, subtle but strong. A sudden gust of wind carrying unusual odors shouldn't surprise me. A whiff of smoke is normal here but an unexpected onslaught of stench, intensifying with my every breath, is not. I can't bear it. I feel suffocated. I have a headache. It's fluctuating, shifting. Something is wrong, terribly wrong. That sharp pain down my spine is a clear indicator of things going south. Looks like the consequence of my over-confidence finally caught up with me.
I feel weak. I no longer wish to remain in the Shmashan. Surrounded by the inferno of several burning pyres, I can not ignore the rapidly growing sense of dread. I sincerely wish all this to be a hallucination because they simply can not climb down their pyres.
If I ever thought that I am not afraid of anything, this is my opportunity to do away with the wool pulled over my eyes. If I ever implied that I don't regret an iota of my life, I better take a hard look at what's staring right into my eyes. If I ever believed that the power emanating from my Kundalini will never diminish, I may never get to make amends.
The thunderous reverberations of my chakras have come down to a halter. My life's worth of spiritual earnings have splintered doing away with my privilege of being here at this time of night. If the goings are allowed to go through, I'll have an eternity to ponder over the mistake I've just made.
Their patience paid off. What I lost, they gained. They have abandoned the sanctity of their pyres to claim the remainder. If they were larger, I would have sneaked past them. Had they been smaller, I would have stomped them out crushing them like bugs. Can't run, can't hide, I am trapped. I would have considered myself at their mercy if they had any.
They lack substance but they pack a few mean punches; not to mention their bone shattering collisions. Their fangs, sunk into my chest, are sucking my heart dry. Their slithery fingers are wrapped around my throat. I don't know whether they are gagging me, strangling me or trying to decapitate me. Their claws, primarily being used to hold me in place, are efficient at leisurely ripping of my flesh. The pain is undeniably beyond description and yet, it is not the worst thing happening to me.
Apart from a few bits, I don't remember who I am and what I am doing here. My Mooladhar and Swadhishthan have frozen solid. A cold hatred is slowly crawling upwards. If it reaches my Sahasrar, I am sure even in this confusion, I would be transformed into one of them and my redemption would become an eternal impossibility.
Definitely, they are not human. Humans would lurk in the shadows and, after exhausting all options of exploitation, stab me in the back. They are determined, surgically precise and totally in control of the situation. My resistance is too meek to garner their attention let alone earn their respect. They are mocking me, rubbing salt on my wounds and yet, they are following a strict code of honour. I see hidden messages in their insults. I wonder, are they really trying to tell me something or I am seeing things that aren't there? Why else would they waste their effort on the food they are about to finish?
They want me to remember.
In the corporeal world, it is a mere pockmark created by my trident; the Turiya sees it as the zenith of each of the dimensions of my existence; here, my beacon shines brighter than the Sun as goddess Kali's third eye. It enables me to link with the essence of a state that was prevalent at a different time. It allows me to be that person in this situation and reignite the fire of my Mooladhar. No matter how bleak the circumstance may appear, I need to realize that if it's not her, it's an illusion. Along with the hatred I just earned and the pain I endured, it will provide ample fuel for the blaze to rise back to my Sahasrar.
The tunnel I am being sucked into must lead me to a place where there are no illusions.
Like the first drizzle after a harsh summer, the breeze makes me impervious to any suffering. Submerged in darkness, the river feels diligent like linear time. Drifting with the flow, I have the ability to maneuver myself. There are things with a strong tug all around me. I guess, they are whirlpools. Occasionally, while zipping past them or circling them, they pull me inside. Sometimes, I emerge stronger, more resilient; sometimes, I narrowly manage to escape. Some can hasten my journey, few of the remaining can throw me upstream. One day, one of these whirlpools will help me break free forever. I am sure, the next one will take me where I want to be this very instant.
Once again, I've proved myself worthy of her love. Once again, she has embraced me and reaffirmed my right to be called her favorite son.
The world stretching till the horizon is the same. The sun rising above it is also the same. The person walking out of the Shmashan is way different than the person who had walked in last night.
