children of the light - by s mukerji

8/9/2019 Children of the Light - By S Mukerji

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Children of The Light

As Dr. Chandan Bhowmick stepped up to the mike, a hush fellover the hall. The Press had been waiting eagerly for this moment for

the last three days of the International Conference on ChildDevelopment. Dr. Bhowmick, they knew, was a controversial figure inthe field, and there is nothing reporters like better than controversy:it is their very bread and butter.

So as he opened his address, their pencils hovered expectantlyover their pads even as voice-activated pocket recorders clicked onautomatically in their pockets. It was well known that this mildmannered, slightly stooped and balding figure was a fierce iconoclastwho had rocked the sedate world of Child Development. Hisrevolutionary hypothesis, that men had failed to become menbecause civilization had intervened, was the target of the most

savage attacks ever launched against any social anthropologist sinceDarwin.

“…and over almost ten years of long and lonely walkabouts inthe Great Australian Outback, in my youth, I collected enoughmaterial to gain a faint insight into the true nature of the Dreamtimelegends of the Australasian aborigines.” The voice was soft, almostapologetic. It was hard to link it with the shattering theories publishedin his recent papers to Science and The Royal Society.

He went on unhurriedly, “I have come to the conclusion, tentativeyet backed by my experiences, research and certainly my intuition,that the Dreamtime is nothing if not a verbal record of a lost age of Man, a Golden Age if you please, when Man was a superman, inpossession of all his faculties.” Dr. Bhowmick paused to take a quickswallow from the glass of water on the rostrum before resuming hisaddress:

“Not just the five basic senses, mind you, but higher senses andsensibilities. He was so perfectly attuned to Nature and to theUniverse itself that he failed to see any difference between himself and the rest of creation. His unfettered, untrained, ‘childish’ andunconditioned mind, uncluttered by the dross of civilized society,possessed of its full potential, roamed the cosmos and mastered iteven as he led a simple, nomadic existence in harmony with the restof the planet. I will try to explain that this Dreamtime, Golden Age—call it what you will—is in the Here and Now, very much a part of ourPresent, and within reach of anyone with a mind so open as to see it .”

A hubbub of dissent arose in the vast hall, but the voice of thePresident, as pleasantly neutral as that of a Wimbledon referee’s,intervened to quell it. Dr. Bhowmick used the brief interval to pull out

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a handkerchief and polish his glasses, a patient twinkle in his eyes.He went on unperturbed:

“Intrigued by the findings of my younger days as a socialanthropologist, I returned to India, my homeland, to see whether thelegends and sagas of ancient India had anything to contribute to my

postulates about the hoary past. I found—in a nutshell—that in the oldmyths of our people, going back to a time out of mind, an antiquity sohoary that western scientists will contest the chronology on thegrounds that the Earth itself had not then been created, I foundfurther evidence of this…this promised land, the Promised Land of theBible.

I speak of a distant time, long before recorded history. It was atime when men, in possession of all their faculties—including thehigher ones, now alas lost, though still dormant within us—were privyto the greater experience that we, as human beings, are rightfulheirs. Which would be ours—if only we could shed the conditioning,

the unnecessary baggage, of a ‘civilised’ way of life. We move as in adream, half awake and unfulfilled, ignoring a vast universe that liesbeyond: The Dreamtime, a long-lost…” Dr. Bhowmick hesitated for amoment, then continued in a strong voice… “a long-lost Atlantis of the Mind !”

Pandemonium broke out in the hall. Several prominent scientistsleapt to their feet, shaking their fists at the man at the lectern,mouthing obscenities. Accusations of ‘charlatan!’ and ‘subvertist!’were yelled at him. Deputies were called in as a small, vocal group of Dr. Bhowmick’s supporters clashed with his hecklers. The sound of furniture breaking and fists thudding into bone resounded in the hall

as the august deliberations degenerated into ugly brawling. Armedguards formed cordons around the distinguished guests and rushedthem to the safety of their vehicles.

Dr. Bhowmick had done it again.Which is what the newspaper headlines screamed the next

morning. Entire columns were devoted to the Outback and legendssurrounding the Great Dreaming of the native Australians. Manyeditorials were devoted to verbal myths of obscure tribes in SouthAmerica, Tibetan lore, the Mahabharata, Elijah’s vision, the saga of Atlantis, the lost Minoan civilization, and to the theory of cyclic humanevolution. Thinkers and savants from Aristotle, Bruno, and St.

Augustine to Lao Tze, Confucius, Sri Aurobindo, Teilhard de Chardinand Paramhansa Yogananda were reviewed and compared. Thewarnings of Max Planck and Oppenheimer were recalled. They hadinsisted that a new age had dawned. The only danger, they claimed,lay in not recognizing it for what it was: an age in which Man had toaccept the fact that he was changing, and must come to terms withhis own evolution. Dr. Chandan Bhowmick was amused to find himself

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in such august company. He would have been stunned if anyone hadtold him that one day he would join their ranks.

As he slowly ate his frugal breakfast of oatmeal porridge, orange juice and coffee, Bhowmick pondered his next move. He had reachedthe stage when he had to take a step further in his research. Money

was always a factor. He could no longer depend on the family estates. The tea plantations were gone, sold to local mafia that made themoffers they dared not refuse. Life had become very cheap in hishomeland, and the law was helpless before constant politicalinterference.

His father, who had so willingly funded his activities, was longdead. The grants promised by the United Nations Committee onResearch into Primal Intelligence had run into opposition from therival lobby that had a strong representation in the Secretariat. He hadfew supporters, mostly mavericks like himself. All he had werepostulates, well explained but lacking the punch of conclusive

evidence. He was stuck, like the last time. His mind went back overthe years, remembering….

*

It was a sleazy little honky-tonk in downtown Sydney. He hadbeen back from one of his excursions into the Outback a week earlier,and was resting up before the next one. If he didn’t locate newsources of funding, it would be his last trip. He hadn’t a clue what theDreamtime was. It was hard to get close enough, both metaphoricallyand literally, to the Australian natives, to try and learn about it. He did

not trust the extant theories, coming as they did from westernscientists, few of whom were willing to explore metaphysical orpsychic avenues of explanation. They were too timid to exposethemselves to ridicule.

He had lived with the Bushmen of the Kalahari. Like theaborigines, they seemed to have little spoken communication and nowritten language. But the keyword was ‘seemed’. What ‘seemed’ wasnot always what ‘was’. Appearances could be deceptive, especiallywhen dealing with shy, primitive peoples who were reclusive andshunned outsiders. The aborigines of the Outback made little morethan a few birdlike sounds—at least in his presence. He wondered

that they managed to communicate at all! Yet, like the Bushmen of Africa, who had no long-distance communication aids, they couldtravel from all directions, covering vast distances, to assemble at onespot. Modern science had never unraveled the mystery.

As he sipped his beer and planned his next move, the song in thebackground intruded into his thoughts. It was an old favourite of his—‘You Are My Sunshine’—and it was sung so well that he turned tolook at the singer. She was older than her voice suggested. She was

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probably around thirty-three, and looked it. After the number, he senther a note of appreciation. She did not reply. The next night he wasback, and this time he sent her a request for ‘Ma Cherie Amour ’. Shesang it extraordinarily well, he thought, and this time he went up andtold her so as she settled down by herself at her small table.

She looked at him appraisingly, noting the deep mahogany of hisskin, his foreign accent, and his shyness. Something—perhaps hissincerity—made her gesture to the chair opposite, and after amoment’s hesitation, he sat down. Up close, he realized he’d beenwrong. She looked thirty-two but was not more than twenty-eight, justabout his own age. They made small talk as they sized each other up,and she was frankly admiring that he had come all the way from Indiato follow a scientific hunch.

She had grown up in a large family of six brothers, none of whomsupported their aged parents. She scraped together a living singing atbars and smaller restaurants along the southern seaboard, and sent

half her modest income home. He finished his drink and orderedanother round for them, but she refused with a smile; she had to geton with her ‘act’.

Night after night, Bhowmick sat with her as she told him her lifestory, her dreams (she wanted to marry and settle down in eitherSydney or Melbourne), and her problems. He was easy to talk to. Helistened well and said little. It seemed to Bhowmick that he had nevermet a nicer person. She encouraged him to keep searching: ‘Y’know, Ihave a feeling you’ll be famous one day. You just have to keep at it,mate. Only those with faith in themselves ever succeed. I’m going tomake it, too, you can bet on that’.

She looked around at her depressing surroundings and giggled.Bhowmick warmed to her. She was witty, practical, and very talented.Attractive, too, he conceded to himself. She was sure to make it. Hehad a gut feeling about it and told her so. She was surprisingly wellread. Apparently she had nursed an ambition to take a degree in Lawbefore the realities of her situation caught up with her.

For two nights in a row, she did not turn up for work. On the thirdnight of her absence, Bhowmick accosted the manager. He shruggedindifferently. ‘She’s sick, cobber, they tell me. Found a replacement,as you can see.’ Bhowmick got her address. It was on the sixth floor

of a red tenement building in a shabby part of town. At his knock, aweak voice asked him to go away. He had to plead before she wouldlet him in. She tottered back to bed. Her face was flushed and shewas running over 103º temperature. He could see she was in badshape. She needed to see a doctor. Fast . Against her protests, herwrapped her in blankets and bundled her downstairs and into the cab.

The doctor was more suspicious of the slight, brown-skinned manwho had brought the girl than he was concerned about his patient.

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Bhowmick finally lost his patience and put fifty dollars before the GP.‘Look here, doctor, she’s a friend, a fellow human being in pain. AllI’m doing is my duty. If it’s a problem for you, I’ll take her elsewhere.’ The doctor’s fist closed smoothly around the currency notes: ‘No needto get worked up, mate. It’s just that I have to be a little careful

about… er …strangers who bring white girls into my clinic.’He had been about to say ‘blacks’. Bhowmick didn’t mind beingcalled black. The colour of his skin had never bothered him. Heaccepted himself as he was on the outside. Colour was only skindeep. He had always been concerned about what people were likeinside. It had always been a little hobby of his to try and see theperson behind the façade, after stress, provocation or imagined insultpeeled away the layers of carefully programmed urbanity. He wassmarter than he made out to be.

The physician prescribed some medicines, gave her an injection,and told Bhowmick to take her home. ‘A light, low-fat, high protein,

high carbohydrate diet with plenty of fresh fruit juice…and a few daysrest before she goes back to work. No showers, only sponging withwarm water. She’s a strong girl; she’ll be fine in about three or fourdays. Take her to the beach. Bondi is great this time of year. It’s tooearly for tourists, and the kids are studying for their exams. All you’llsee are beachcombers and gulls.’ Bhowmick nodded gratefully. ‘Andcheck with me on the phone daily, d’you hear?’ he shouted asBhowmick lifted her bodily and carried her to the waiting cab. Thoughslight of build, he had the strength and deep reserves of stamina thatoften go with a wiry frame.

She was semi-conscious when he deposited her on her bed. She

was not hungry, but he had bought some provisions from thedrugstore where he’d stopped to buy medicines, so he opened a canand heated some chicken soup. She managed to swallow half of itbefore she fell fast asleep. She had given him the key to her flat, andhe pulled the door to firmly behind him until he heard the mortiselock click soundly into place before going downstairs.

He was back early the next morning. She was coming awake,weak and feverish. He hand-fed her, spoonful by spoonful, thencarried her to the bathroom, peeled off her sweaty clothes andsponged her down. She did not protest, accepting his help withoutdemur. She watched his face steadily all the time he swabbed her

down. Her body was typically ‘Caucasian, Female’: compact, firmbreasts, narrow waist, flat stomach and long, well-muscled legs.

His mind noted all this absently while it grappled with theimmediate crisis. He knew she had no one in Sydney, or anywhereelse for that matter, to care for her. He was worried. Her skin burnedunder his fingers as he scrubbed her down gently but thoroughly withslightly cooler water than what the doctor had recommended. Hetried not to show it, but he was scared. He had never nursed anyone

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before. Instead of merely once a day, as advised, he phoned thedoctor four or five times daily.

*

Bondi beach, Sydney, at seven in the morning is a peaceful place

to be, off-season. Just the odd beach bum, or a couple taking a quickwalk before breakfast. Gentle waves, blue and crested with littlewhite caps, came rolling in steadily from the south. The water lappedat their bare toes as the little sand crabs scurried around siftingthrough the foam for tiny crustaceans. Gulls wheeled overhead withraucous cries, sometimes darting into the water to take a morsel of food. They were masters of the air, silhouetted against a sapphire-blue sky, painted with light.

Light ! There was so much of it. Everywhere. It seemed to be allthere was. Everything seemed to be made of Light. Everything. Itenveloped them in its magic, a happy, uplifting golden radiance, as

they sat together companionably on the sand. Strange, how it wassometimes. When words were unnecessary. When you first metsomeone…and found you had always known her. They had met threeweeks ago. Time was such a riddle…or was it a hoax?

Neither of them noticed the silence between them. They seemedto be in constant conversation with each other. Words wereunnecessary. There was nothing that needed to be said aloud. It wasso deep a communion that conversation would have been anintrusion. It was on that day that Chandan Bhowmick clearly saw thathe was, in essence, soul. Not body. So were they all: all souls.Something in him, inside the outer envelope he called his body,

rejoiced at the knowledge. And this insight came to him because of her , the sheer miracle of her!

It was the last day of her convalescence. She had applied for, andgot, a job as a crooner in the adjoining state, in a suburban towncalled Murphy’s Bend, and would be leaving early tomorrow morning.Bhowmick, on his part, was slightly behind schedule and had to reachAlice Springs by the next evening. His tickets on the afternoon flightwere confirmed. They rose at last and made their way back to themotel, holding hands as if it was the most natural thing in the world todo. The sea air had made her very hungry and she relished thebrunch of freshly grilled lobster, salad, and hot toast with lashings of

golden butter, all of it washed down with limejuice laced withGordon’s.

Bhowmick watched, fascinated, as her body tried frantically toregain all the weight and strength it had lost. The colour was back inher face, and there was a sparkle in her eyes he hadn’t seen before. The tired lines around her lovely recurved lips, free of lipstick, weregone. Her skin glowed with health. Looking at her gave him a full,contented feeling. He ate sparingly, saying little.

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Back in their room, they came together as naturally as the skyand the sea. She was in his arms without either of them being awareof it. It was so perfect, so right . She said goodbye to him the waywomen have always let go of their men: with dignity, acceptance, andlove. It was not her passion but his own that jolted him. He had not

realized how incomplete he was, how badly he needed her.It was evening when they drew apart. He dressed quietly. Therewas little to be said. They were like two ocean liners that passed eachother in mid-Atlantic: a brief experience, deeply stirring. Onlymemories would remain. That… and the warm glow that one humanbeing can light in another, a flame that can last a lifetime, a blazethat always thereafter shows the way, always burns brightly within.He would remember June Holliday. She had become a permanent partof him…forever . A verse from Longfellow’s poem, The Theologian’sTale, ran through his mind:

“Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing;

Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and a

silence.”

*

‘Sir ! Your bill!…..Your bill, Dr. Bhowmick’. The waiter was politelyinsistent. Chandan Bhowmick returned to the present. It was hard to

believe that so many years had passed since all that happened. Itseemed like yesterday. Time was a big fraud. He knew it for the greatillusion that it was. Back then, could he have known what the yearsheld for him? He had set out on what he had presumed was the lastwalkabout he would ever make. But now, the receipt of a hundredthousand Australian dollars from ‘an unknown admirer’ hadmiraculously changed everything. This time, he had decided to carrya small movie camera and adequate photographic equipment.

He traveled alone, a very foolhardy thing to do in the mercilessOutback. His only defence was a Whippet , security agency parlancefor a customised .20 bore single (choke) barrel pump-action shotgun

with a six-round magazine. He had got the barrel sawn down to 15inches and had the stock replaced with a walnut pistol grip. There wasan aluminium skeleton shoulder stock that could be fitted quickly incase he needed it. He could draw from the hip holster and hit a tincan at thirty yards within a second. It was far better than a revolver.Poisonous snakes were the real danger of the Outback, apart fromexposure, hunger and thirst. He wore thick, kangaroo leather bootsbut carried anti-serum, too, as a precaution.

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Chandan Bhowmick, slight, unassuming, scholarly and evenpedantic at times, was, at heart a man of action. He had learnt asmuch from books as he had from nature, and from the Bushmen. Heowed them a debt he could never repay. They had been his earlygurus. They had taught him how to find water even in a desert, the

plants that could be chewed for moisture and food, how to find meatin places where there appeared to be no living thing. He learnt how tosurvive under the merciless overhead sun, and how not to die of hypothermia in the freezing desert nights. He recognised which rootsand tubers were nutritious and which berries could kill in minutes.

The things of the wild, the birds, the reptiles, the bees, the ants…all carried messages to him about life and death in the harsh andforbidding land he was returning to. It was like a ticker tape of information that scrolled away constantly before his eyes. In otherwords, he was cast in the mould of the early explorers, though if anyone had suggested it to him, he would have blushed. Of such

contradictions are often made those who are born under the mysticsign of Pisces. Dreamer he was, but he was also a doer, determined todo what was necessary to make his dreams come true.

He had been a month in the Outback when his luck finallychanged. He had ventured into an area of light scrub cover and rockyoutcrops. Traces of rich mineral deposits were all around him, hurledto the surface by titanic upheavals of past ages. Then he heard them,the trilling, whistling sounds where there were no birds. The People!At last! If only he could manage to connect with them somehow.

Unlike the Bushmen, who were as likely to fade away silently asput a poison dart into you from a blow-gun if they didn’t know you,

the aborigines just looked curiously at him and then moved away at apace he could not maintain. It was rather daunting to be cold-shouldered like this. But he had not succeeded in finding a way of winning them over to his side. They took the gifts—chocolate powder,sweets, tobacco—that he handed them, then moved off, offeringnothing in return.

He topped the rocky outcrop and froze. The tableau before himsaid it all. The reason for the flurry of sounds was clear. A smallaborigine boy lay on the hard earth, surrounded by his kind. He wastwitching and frothing at the mouth. Snakebite! He ran over to them. They gave way to him, but ignored him, keening deep in their throats

as they watched the boy die. They were used to sudden death. Theland supported them for a while, and then reclaimed their flesh andblood at will to enrich the soil. It was an old story.

Bhowmick rummaged in his pack for the anti-venom kit,tightened the tourniquet, made two crisscross cuts with the sterilizedblade, sucked out the poisoned blood near the wound and quicklyspat it out. Then he swabbed the area around the two wicked

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puncture marks in the ankle, loosened the tourniquet and injected theantidote. The People looked on incuriously.

Minutes passed, and the boy did not die. Gradually, his breathingreturned to normal and the faltering heart recovered its normal pace. The circle of onlookers was huddled together, whispering. They ran to

the boy incredulously as his eyes opened and he called weakly to hisfather. Then they crowded around Bhowmick, touching him, seeinghim for the first time, accepting him. When they moved off, theylooked back again and again to ensure he was keeping up.

The ground-eating lope the Bushmen had taught Bhowmick wascoming back to him. A month in the Outback had toughened him,stretching his stamina to a level not far below that of an aborigine. Hekept up with them, pausing occasionally to take a picture or two. Hehad recorded it all on film; the dying boy, the recovery after theantidote had been administered, the smiles of acceptance, themother’s tearful caress, the father’s disbelieving stupefaction. They

were people, human beings—souls—just like everyone else,Bhowmick realised with joy. They reminded him so much of his littleKalahari friends, thousands of miles away, yet so similar in theirculture. One day, he might adopt a line of research to list the closesimilarities between the two peoples and see whether a logicalexplanation could be found for them.

He spent three years living with The People, three years such asa modern man has rarely lived. He went as they went, hunting, eatingand surviving. Their tongue seeped into his subconscious. He did nottry to divine any grammar in it. He just accepted that he could makehis needs understood, and they could tell him what they were

thinking. It appeared to be very basic and survival-oriented. Therewere no niceties of speech or thought, and, as far as he could judge,no taboos or legends, and especially, nothing to do with theDreamtime. It was just a rumour, he decided. He was wrong.

*

They were moving west. It took time for the fact to sink in. Therewas a purpose in their easy drift now, for a general direction of travelwas now discernible to his compass. It no longer was an aimlesswandering, sometimes this way, sometimes another, following the

kangaroos or the birds. A certain excitement was in the air, a sense of anticipation, like that of a joyous homecoming. As the days passed,the line of direction grew tighter and tighter till the needle heldsteady at west-southwest. Bhowmick consulted his map and foundthey were headed for Ayers Rock, five hundred miles away. At theirpresent pace, they would reach it a month hence.

It dawned on him gradually that they were not the only onesmoving towards Ayers Rock. In some subtle way, it was borne in on

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him that others, too, were converging on it. Some mysteriouscommand, some message from another dimension perhaps, hadcommunicated itself to all The People. Now they moved in unison,following some primordial pattern as old as the stars, possessed of asingle aim, driven by forces they acknowledged but did not

understand. It was not instinct, as in salmon. It was the response to adefinite call…from whom?…from where?…for what purpose? Theywere now only a day’s journey from the huge monolith that toweredup out of the bleak, sun-baked landscape. There were others on thesame trail, and Bhowmick was with them as The People merged,became one large family. He felt their excitement, a growing joy. Itwas obvious in the way they sang as they ran, the little leaps thechildren made as they trotted along beside their parents.

It was a moonless night as they huddled together, a conclave of tribes, before the dark shape that was faintly outlined against thebrilliance of the starry night. Was it just his imagination that the dark

mass was beginning to glow…becoming a luminous formation? It wasnow translucent, with radiance in its depths, and Bhowmick, ascientist crouching on the cold earth among a people who had beenold when these hills were being shaped, felt a sense of superstitiousawe and…yes, a curious reverence. The same sort of reverence hehad felt for June Holliday. What had made him think of her, now of alltimes? He wished she were with him. He missed her desperately.What was the meaning of it all? What was happening? Why was ithappening?

They were in the Light, inside the mountain. That was why The

People had always believed it was a holy place. They were men, but not black or white or brown. Just men. Made of light. Bhowmick accepted it, knew it was no fantasy. They gave their message, theone they gave whenever it was needed. There were no words, just athought-transference better than any language. The Dreamtime wasin the past, they ‘said’. But it was also in the Now, the one they lived in. If they could find it. Ethereal music, as if of Angels, played in thebackground.

The Dreamtime was a beacon to all men who were not yet Men.They still but slept. The Elders simply passed on the wisdom of agesfrom where they were now stationed. They taught them how to

awake from their sleep. To the real Life that was here…and beyond...in the Dreamtime. When they awoke, they would be Men…at last.

*

The bookshop was crowded, but not because of his book launch.He was supposed to autograph the first hundred copies of his maiden

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book, a paperback on Australian lore entitled ‘Images from Yesterday – The Dreamtime on location.’ No seemed particularly interested inhis unpretentious little photo-essay. The crowd was there to see thecelebrated diva and pop icon Judy Holden who was there to promoteher latest album, ‘Mystery Man’. Her last release, ‘Love You So’ had

topped the charts for six straight weeks and raked in a cool $9 millionin the first week itself. She was the toast of Australia and of the worldof pop music. She was said to be worth over $20 billion. A self-madedollar billionaire. Dr. Chandan Bhowmick had never heard of her.

Now, as he stood to one side, feeling a little foolish, he didn’thave the heart to upbraid his publicity consultant, Ron Wickham, forthe gaffé. It would cost him plenty, in time. Poor sales meant he gotlower commission. A ripple ran through the crowd. Judy Holden hadarrived. The jostling crowd was kept at bay by a cordon of police andsecurity men. The world’s TV channels were here. Strobe gunspopped and motor drives chattered at five frames a second as she

entered the store and flashing her dazzling smile, made for thepodium. ‘Mystery Man’ started playing on the house audio hookup,and people were swaying to the beat. It was the sound of the surf, arhythm as old as the sea. The words were simple:

‘Where’d you come from, I don’t know,Where’d you go, my Mystery Man?You’ll never know I miss you so,Can’t carry on like this, just can’t…”

She was even more beautiful than he remembered. She had

filled out ever so slightly. Her sleek, voluptuous figure gave her anenigmatic, timeless appeal. Wealth and fame had brought her happiness. She was fulfilled. Chandan Bhowmick remembered thehalf-dead waif called June Holliday in Sydney, and his chest was tight with joy. She had made it. His vision blurred at the sweet memory of her…just as she turned and spotted him.

Very slowly, as if not to excite attention, she came off thepodium. Reporters bore down on her: ‘Is it true, Miss Holden, thatearly in your career, you were inspired by someone who felt you hadwhat it takes. Where is he now? Why have we never heard from him?’

‘Oh, we’ve all been helped by someone or the other, sometime,’she replied with a laugh, ‘no one ever really makes it on their own.But yes…once, there was a dear, wonderful person, a man who felt…who knew… I would succeed. He accepted it as a foregoneconclusion. I have always treasured the strength and inspiration hegave me. I also owe him my life,’ she added quietly.

‘Is that the reason why, Miss Holli…I mean, Miss Holden…younever married?’ the reporter insisted. He had obviously done his

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homework well, and was preparing to slip the steel between her ribs.She didn’t flinch.

‘Yes, in a way.’ Her disarming frankness took the wind out of thenewshound’s sails. ‘I’ve had my share of…um…friends, but this one—he was really special.’ She giggled, the enchanting giggle he had

never forgotten! It seemed to echo down endless centuries to him ashe stood there, lost in the crowd. She was close to him now; he couldalmost reach out and touch her. He inhaled the warm, tantalisingaroma that came off her like a tender offshore breeze. He was a manof the Outback, and his senses were far keener than those of a cityslicker. But she couldn’t possibly remember he existed, it was all forpublicity. He was happy for her: he wanted nothing from her.

She was almost past him when she stepped smartly sidewaysand put her arm around his shoulders. Ron was grinningconspiratorially from ear to ear. He was the best, no doubt about it!

‘And here he is, boys!’ she yelled happily to the shoving throng of

reporters and cameramen ‘…Mr. Mystery Man himself. Dr. ChandanBhowmick ! From India! Give him a big hand !’ She waited for thethunderous applause to die down. ‘The real reason I’m here, by theway—surprise, surprise—is to launch his book…the one on Australiannative peoples. Buy it, folks! It’s fantastic! My l’il album will take careof itself, by the looks of things. Right now, this is more important tome.’

Then she was kissing him, right in the media spotlight, as thewhole world watched. The strobe lights were going crazy and the TVcameramen were yelling ‘A bit sideways! Perfect! That’s it! Hold that pose, you two!’ The roar of the crowd drowned out the speakers in

the mall…and Chandan Bhowmick knew instant stardom…and fame.His little favour of long ago had come home to roost.

She smelt the way she always had, warm and sweet, like earlyspring. The expensive Coty perfume didn’t register. He held hergently, as if she was a delicate porcelain doll. The softness andwarmth of her banished all memories of the hardships of the Outback,the ache of the cold, lonely nights. The magic of her still had thepower to intoxicate him and render him speechless. He just stoodthere mutely, holding her hand. The miracle of her ! It was an omen…from the Elders. He was sure of it. It was not coincidence, no chancemeeting. There was a hidden purpose that would reveal itself in due

course. Meanwhile, it was June again!

*

It was such an offbeat book…he didn’t expect miracles. The first print run—a modest 3,000 copies—was sold out within five days. Thenext edition, hastily enhanced with more pictures and text, was gonein a month’s time, all 50,000 copies of it. Orders continued to pour in

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from practically everywhere. The next print was half a million copies.They were gone by Thanksgiving. With Christmas and Easter still tocome! It had the smell of a cult book about it. It debuted in the NewYork Times Bestsellers list at No.5. The next week, it was at No.1!

It was one of those rare publishing phenomena, a ‘first’ book that became a NYT bestseller. It meant instant stardom…and fame. Allover again. Wealth was a by-product. Dr. Bhowmick took it in hisstride. He knew the money was not his to spend. There was a reasonwhy it had come. He waited for the Elders to tell him what to do withit.

He didn’t have to wait long. A large manila envelope from Indiacaught his eye in the mountain of mail. He turned it over and over inhis hands before he opened it. He felt…he just knew…it wasimportant. Too important not to savour the moment of receipt. It was

from the Indian Institute of Himalayan Consciousness, Rishikesh, innorth India. It was typed on an inexpensive letterhead with a manualtypewriter! India was a collector’s paradise! If you wanted an antique,whether a vintage loo, typewriter, or car, you were sure to find one inIndia…in working condition! The Indians never threw anything away. They couldn’t afford to. They repaired and renewed and rejuvenatedand recycled but never trashed anything if they could help it.

It contained an invitation to come to India and participate in ameditation-for-self-realisation program; a variety of courses andworkshops were available to beginners and advanced students alike.As an Indian, Dr. Bhowmick was sure to help (which meant they were

lining him up for a donation as well). In fact, he was welcome to do aphoto-essay on the work of the Institute, a worthy outlet for hisformidable photographic talent.

Since it was established in very charming surroundings, withrunning hot and cold water and all modern conveniences (it continuedpersuasively), it was also a wonderful opportunity to relax and enjoythe breathtaking Himalayan views. He was welcome to bring acompanion (which was a tactful way of telling him that he could bringa lady friend along if he wished). They obviously had television,thought Dr. Bhowmick wryly. Which is what made him think of JuneHolliday, as he still referred to her. Dared he ask her?

He didn’t have to. She dropped in, saw the letter, read it, andsaid ‘Let’s go! It’s obviously what you need to do next.’ Her insightamazed him, as did her ability to make up her mind instantly (as longit had nothing to do with buying a car, a party dress, or a lipstick!).She brushed aside his diffident objections: what about her dates, hermusic recordings?

‘Chandan, I need a break. I’ve been on the road for a long time. The last time I was on holiday was when we… (she blushed, bit her

14



lip) …when we went to Bondi.’ He capitulated, and arranged to send atelegraphic confirmation for arrival three weeks hence, at thecommencement of the new six-week program.

*

The glittering, snow capped mountains with their incredibly jagged outlines seemed to fill the sky, the higher peaks shrouded inmist. It was impossible to imagine their stark, brooding immensitywithout actually seeing them, impossible not to feel humble beforetheir grandeur. Majestic, aloof, they stood like silent sentinels,invulnerable, immutable and eternal, forever guarding a land with asacred mantra from the dawn of Creation.

It was October, with winter just around the corner, and it wasgetting very cold. Rishikesh nestled in the foothills of the world’smightiest chain of mountains, and through it passed the roads that

went up, up to the holy shrines of Badrinath and Kedarnath, shrinesso ancient that they were part of the mythology and vedic lore of Indian civilisation. Standing on the balcony of their suite on the thirdfloor of the Institute for Himalayan Consciousness, looking out at theworld’s highest mountain range, June Holliday shivered slightly. Thosemountains! She had seen them before! When? She’d never been toIndia before. Not in this lifetime, anyway. Chandan Bhowmick sprangto her side and wrapped the shawl a little more tightly around her.

‘That’s enough for now, dear. I’d better take you inside beforeyou catch a chill.’ Dr. Bhowmick put an arm around her protectivelyand led her inside, shutting the doors leading to the terrace behind

him. She looked at him fondly. He hadn’t changed. He was still asdevoted to her as he had always been. Always. It was a powerfulword, not to be used lightly, a word with deep metaphysicalconnotations. Like ‘forever ’.

‘Always have…always will…’ The number by ‘Ace of Base’ playedin her mind, and she hummed it softly under her breath. He was likethat. He had always been with her, life after life, an irrevocable part of the karmic cycle of her soul’s journey. It was inevitable that theirpaths should have crossed, though he had had to come all the way toAustralia to catch up with her. She strongly believed in reincarnation. This man was her destined companion on a long, long trek that would

end, some day, on an unknown shore beyond the stars. The muted chimes of the gong reverberated through the building.

‘Time to go, Chandan. The session is beginning.’ She was simplydressed in a sari and shawl, he in churidars, kurta and a sherwani of homespun wool. They went down in the lift, through the lobby andinto the carpeted hall beyond it. There were already about a dozenpeople in the room, sitting cross-legged on the floor. They sat down. June, like most Occidentals unable to sit cross-legged, sat with her

15



legs tucked under her. At the head of the hall was a low rug-coveredplatform, with flowers in vases and incense burning in two ornamentalbrass holders.

Presently, a man came through the curtained door at the side of the hall and bowed low to them before seating himself in the

padmasana yogic pose on the deerskin spread out on the platform.He was Sri Sri ‘Guruji’ Swami Ujjwalananda Giri, the legendary sage-savant whose books on the Bhakti route to Supreme Consciousness—a mystic process intuited rather than explained—for attaining thesoul’s desire, had sold well even in the West. He had been a leadingeconomist, scientist and social worker before taking sanyasa, thetotal renunciation of the world, the fourth and final stage of life asprescribed in the shastras, the Hindu scriptures.

He looked at them, and the love shone in his eyes. ‘My children…it is my great good fortune to address you today. We were fated tomeet. I am blessed to have this opportunity of serving Him by

delivering His Word to you. The way to Him is so hard…and yet soeasy for householders like you. He is attainable by all, if we really,truly want to…if we always fix our minds on Him, if we do everythingwith detachment, doing our best and dedicating our actions to Him.We should never be attached to the fruits of our actions, for that isnot what we are here for. We are here to realize Him. His kingdom iswithin us, as Jesus told us it was. We just have to let go mentally of the world, always doing our best in the physical world but secretlydwelling in His kingdom. He is merciful, He will always respond. Doyour best and leave everything to Him, and He will take over your life.If you call, He will never fail to answer. He will show you the blessed

way to Him. Then what bliss, what joy, what fulfilment!’ The wise old voice went on: ‘There is no single way to Him, I have

come to realize. All paths are different, yet they are the same, aseverything leads to Him. There is only Him, no other. There is nothingbut Him. The rest is illusion, the play of maya. Those who realize thisare well on the way to reaching Him. May you find your own way of reaching Him. I can but help by inspiring you, by telling you of thepaths others took in reaching the goal, in the hope that it will openyour mind to the possibility of finding Him in your own personal way. You shall certainly succeed…if you want it badly enough.’ Guruji wenton to teach them the basic principles of meditation, of breathing

exercises developed by the ancient ages to still the mind and take itto another plane of thought, of action, of receptivity to the Om soundof the universe.

The next day, they learnt the importance of concentration, aconcentration so effortless yet so complete that advanced yogisbecame one with Supreme Consciousness. They could harness all theforces of nature, achieving such harmony with them that they coulddo what was regarded as impossible. Once the mind had grasped the

16



Truth, anything was possible, because the Truth encompassedeverything! Physics and Chemistry became as putty in the hands of the Realised Master, who transcended them to reach the very Sourceof all things. If it was not possible to concentrate without an object,Guruji suggested, then they could meditate on the Himalayas.

Nothing summed up the unity and grandeur of the Supreme betterthan these symbolic representations of purity and power…hence thename of their institute.

*

It was the last day of the program. They felt deeply relaxed,refreshed. Their mental horizons had expanded. Guruji was nohumbug. He was extremely learned in economics, physics,engineering and mathematics. He drew upon these things, things thatbelonged to the world of ordinary men, to deliver his message. He

was a towering intellect who felt he was a little child before theHigher Intelligence that had created Him. His enthusiasm, hisobjectivity, his humility, his sense of humour and his childish sense of wonder were infectious. It was a revelation to them all, a man whocould leave wealth and success and opt for poverty, renouncingeverything for his quest.

Guruji had laughed heartily when someone told him this. ‘Mychild, you’ve got it the wrong way round! I abandoned useless things,mere baubles, for the incalculable wealth and bliss of His kingdom! Iwas the gainer, not the loser. After all, I am basically an economicsman (he was an alumnus of the London School of Economics). I know

a profitable deal when I see one.’ His eyes twinkled merrily. ‘Make nomistake, I got the best of the bargain!’ then he added seriously ‘andso may you. Remember, He always responds when we surrender toHis will. This is my personal experience, mind you, not somethingfrom a textbook, something I’ve seen time and again.’

The last meditation session was under way. Chandan Bhowmicktried hard not to let his mind drift off to the Outback, his mysterious,unfinished quest…for what ? What was the significance of theDreamtime? How could he play a role in revealing, in a way mencould see and understand, what it stood for? A lesson for all men tolearn from, to …’ He felt a light touch on his shoulder. He opened his

eyes. Guruji was sitting next to him! ‘Don’t think of the problem. Itcannot be solved that way. Think of the Supreme Power, pray to it toshow you the way…if you ask it of Him, He will never let you down!’Chandan Bhowmick marveled: Guruji had read his innermostthoughts.

Guruji smiled affectionately. ‘I prayed to Him with all my devotionto help me to help you. He tells me you are looking for a way for allmen to reach a high stage of evolution, something you caught a

17



glimpse of in a faraway land across the ocean. It is a very difficulttask…but not impossible. Nothing is impossible for Him. He will showyou how. It will be a simple solution, but extremely demonstrativeand unchallengeable. You are blessed. Your years of sacrifice andservice to Him are not to go in vain.’

Bhowmick realized with a shock that his life’s quest might looklike that to others. In his saner moments, he’d always felt that hissearch for the answer to the Dreamtime mystery was the over-reaction of the chronic bachelor, the obsession of the rabid socialanthropologist.

‘I know, you think you were just doing your job. But don’t yousee, to do one’s job, to answer the call of the heart, to single-mindedly pursue what your innermost being tells you to…that islistening to one’s soul-voice. That is also worship, a life of DetachedAction: the hallmark of a great karmayogi. I bow before you.’ Gurujibent his head to Chandan’s feet. ‘In bowing to you, I worship Him,

who is in you. Once, long ago, sitting by the sea with your soul mate,you had a rare insight…there was Light everywhere…the convictionthat all are souls overcame you. Is that anthropology?! Drawsustenance from that memory. Build on it…on the Light ! The Light will help you!’

*

The rear-engined jet aircraft trailed twin contrails of vapour as itarced high over the ocean, a tiny silver dart lancing through the thin,frozen air of the stratosphere. It was travelling at just under the speed

of sound, hurling itself at a distant continent towards the sunrise.Inside the cockpit, the co-pilot sat vigilantly at the controls, his

face lit eerily by the green glow of the radar screen. His eyes scannedthe dials constantly, monitoring the plane’s heartbeat and theautopilot’s ghostly movements as his chief lay slumped in his ownchair, snoring softly. The view through the windscreen was a uniformgrey, with the hazy suggestion of a horizon where the starryblackness ended. There was no sensation of speed.

Behind him, one of the airhostesses, napping in the redundantnavigator’s chair, muttered incoherently in her sleep. Aft, in the dim,hushed luxury of the passenger cabin, the occupants slept fitfully,

oblivious of the –30ºC cold outside, their cabin a pressurized haven,its temperature automatically maintained at a soothing 22ºC.

Twelve kilometers below, the smooth, airbrushed blue-black thatwas the Indian Ocean gleamed dully in the weak light of a new moon. The plane’s shadow startled a shark cruising at the surface. It crash-dived in a flurry of foam, momentarily diverted from its relentlesssearch for food, a sleepless, tireless torpedo. It was the ultimatepredator, faultlessly designed 200 million years ago. It had not

18



survived practically unchanged all this time for nothing. It waitedpatiently. One day, the planet would belong to it…again.

In the First Class section, next to June Holliday, ChandanBhowmick was dreaming. He dreamt he was slogging through deep,powdery snow. His heavy clothing, the crampons on his boots, the

snow goggles, they all made it tough going for him, ice axe or no iceaxe. Around him towered majestic mountains, their snowy peakssharply defined against a cobalt blue sky. He was not alone. Theywere with him…the children.

The children? Even in his dream, he was taken aback. What children? Where had children come from? What were they doing here,with him, at 18,000 feet? Why were they in their play-clothes in thisbitter Himalayan cold? They laughed gaily at his confusion, amusedby the silly grown-up who didn’t understand. They were pointingahead, drawing his attention to something.

Chandan Bhowmick turned to see a sight that transfixed him. A

conical monolith of solid ice, a dazzling pyramid of perfectproportions, an epitome of purity, towered above him. Its dagger-likepeak seemed to stab deep into the very heart of the cosmos. He wentdown on his knees before it, for even in his dream he realized he wasat the base of Mount Kailash, the holy abode of Shiva. He knelt therein awe and wonder at the glory before him…and all around him, thechildren danced and sang, bathed in ethereal light. Then he awoke.

That he had been blest by a vision never occurred to him. Stillless could he have imagined that it held the key to the mystery of theDreamtime.

* They checked into a hotel incognito. Sydney was a big place, but

not that big if it meant evading media scrutiny. Fame had itsdrawbacks, the most irksome being the constant glare of publicity. June had worn a gaily-coloured silk scarf she had bought in Delhi, andcovered her eyes with dark glasses, something she usually neverwore. Her beautiful blue eyes were one of her greatest assets. Rightnow, they were a sure giveaway.

They now lived together. There was no guilt, because there wasno sin…and vice versa. When two people wanted each other, lovedeach other this much, how could it be sin? They were so deeply

committed to each other that the question of it being wrong did notarise. No amount of vows could evoke or consolidate the love andreverence they had for each other. They could hardly bear to let eachother out of sight. They just wanted a few more days together, tosavour their Himalayan experience before the world intervened andtore them ruthlessly apart. In any case, even going by conventionalmorality, no one really bothered about such things any more.

19



They discussed what they had learnt from Guruji…and from themountains. Faith, patience, surrender, humility, gratitude, actionwithout laying claim to the fruits, love, humour, charity, forgiveness…it was a long list. They had done just those very things in their livesunconsciously, things prescribed by all the scriptures, and the

universe had repaid them. The formula worked! They analysed,argued, and agreed, the best of mates, the best of friends. They werethe lucky ones of the earth and they knew it.

They looked at each other and wondered at it all. At the sheerimmensity of the scale of things, the interconnectivity of everything…and the underlying pattern, woven long ago by the hand of the MasterWeaver, was revealed to them. In that moment, the whole tapestry of Creation seemed to glow before their eyes…a glow that grewbrighter, flared up, became a brilliance that dazzled them so that theycowered before its glory and clung to each other in terror. And deepat the heart of the flame, the children ran and leaped and laughed

and sang, as they seemed to beckon to them to hurry up and jointhem. She remembered another time, years ago. Bondi beach. ‘Light !

There was so much of it. Everywhere. It seemed to be all there was.Everything seemed to be made of Light. Everything. It enveloped them in its magic, a happy, uplifting golden radiance, as they sat together companionably on the sand. Strange, how it was sometimes.When words were unnecessary. When you first met someone…and found you had always known him. They had met three weeks ago.Time was such a riddle…or was it a hoax?’

Goosebumps came up all over her forearms, and her eyesbrimmed with happy tears, remembering,

*

‘You see it, of course, Chandan? Don’t you?’ June asked himimpatiently. Bhowmick shook his head, puzzled. ‘This is the secondtime with the children business, June’’ he said. ‘The first was on theplane, on the way back. I told you about it. What can it possiblymean?’ he asked, shaken by self-doubt at his inability to pierce thefog.

‘But it’s clear as crystal, darling!’ June was ecstatic. ‘The

children! They are the key…the way to the Light, the road to theDreamtime for all others to follow.’ She sprang off the bed andfetched her bible, and opening it to Mark 10.14 she read aloud:‘Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of God.’ Then she looked up John 1.1: ‘In him waslife; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth indarkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.’

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She looked at him in exasperation, as every woman who everlived has looked ruefully at her woolly-witted man. ‘Don’t youunderstand ? C’mon, let’s add two and two together, and see what weget. The Kingdom of God, i.e., a world of enlightened, spirituallyadvanced beings, is the Light…and the children are as the kingdom of

God. So the children are the Light, or at least the way to it. We startwith the children…when we get hold of some! Q.E.D.!’She skipped around the room in her exhilaration, clapping her

hands. ‘Jesus stresses on the simplicity, the sheer innocence of children. That’s the key! Apply todayspeak to ‘innocence’—and itreads as total quarantine from ‘teachers’, parental conditioning,indeed from civilisation itself—and what do we get? Natural Man…inall his pristine glory, Chandan. Imagine! Rousseau’s ‘Noble Savage’! Alpha Man! Untutored, his brain unfettered, uncramped byextraneous influences that block the Light—which we accept here asa metaphor for the Hindu ‘Third Eye of Shiva’. That explains your

blessing from Shiva at Kailash. Right at his doorstep!‘ Alpha Man’, she continued, inspired, ‘is in tune with the cosmos,has the ability to pierce the veil of maya, sees Nature as his parents,is above false illusion, possessed of all the higher senses: intuition,telepathy…what have you. The Dawn of the New Men is coming,Chandan! Alpha Man and Sri Aurobindo’s Omega Man…two sides of the same coin!’

Beside herself with excitement, she clutched the lapels of his jacket in her fists, furious at herself for not having seen the answerbefore. ‘The Dreamtime, Chandan. Your life’s work! It’s yours for thetaking. You’ve done it .’

*

They adopted them from all over the world, the abandoned waifsno one wanted. Black, brown, white, yellow, yet all children, and theybrought them up in a hermitage they established in eastern Australia,far from civilisation. They had enormous wealth between them, andthey bought a huge estate and cordoned it off with an electrifiedfence, barbed wire and deep moats. Even an army would have foundit difficult getting in. They grew their own food, and had their ownlivestock and poultry. They just fed the children, told them they were

their parents, and let them run free, letting Nature be their teacher. There was no radio, no television, and no books. The sun and the

moon and the stars were all they had. They learned to depend onthemselves and the elements for answers to satisfy their endlesscuriosity. Their parents never professed to know anything. They couldonly be relied upon to teach them to love each other; they nevertaught anything else. They had to discover everything on their own. They had the best facilities at their disposal, the best that modern

21



science could offer, but there was nobody to tell them what they werefor or how they worked. They had no telephone, no musicalinstruments. They had to depend on their own minds and heads andhearts to fill the empty spaces.

They learnt speech, but by the time they were seven they had

dispensed with it. They never seemed to be separate units. One of them would think of a joke…and they all laughed. They started toteach their parents how things worked, with the patience normallyreserved for the stumbling, inadequate children outside. They lovinglyexplained to them the nuances of calculus, trigonometry, and thestructure of the atom. They doted on their parents, but to them theywere dear, under-developed oddities. Never did they make fun of them. They knew that their parents’ sacrifice had made it possible forthem to become what they had become.

They made their minds their laboratories and solved theproblems they kept encountering. They strove and vanquished. Soon,

their minds had overcome the weak test of the physical world andencountered another reality beyond it that was far more exciting. They leapt to the new challenge with glee, full of wonder and curiosityand love for everything.

*

Twenty years had passed. They were old and grey and tired…but few on earth were as happy as they were. They sat hand in hand under the eucalyptus trees and talked about what blessings the yearshad brought them. This was the real pay-off, to look back on life and

feel it had been a great privilege to receive such a grand gift. To havemade a success of it, in material as well as non-material terms. Tohave achieved something, helped others.

They were still as deeply in love as they had ever been, but they never had to say it…it was obvious from their faces. The Children…they were the crowning glory of their brief lives. The Children were of the Light, immortal, the first of the New Men that would henceforthwalk the planet, cruise the universe. Their Children! It was a matter of great pride and joy for them.

The Light was ever with them, with this contented pair whosework was done. It was with them now, expanding, dissolving

everything in its golden, soothing radiance. It was such a comfort tolet go, to return to the Light, to allow oneself to be sucked back intoit, to the End…and to the Beginning…of it All.

*

They buried their parents where they slept, hand in hand underthe eucalyptus trees, at the spot that was bathed in sunshine. They

22



wept for them; they were, after all, their children. They had not beenimmortal like them, but they had sacrificed themselves so that theirchildren could be Things of Light, be Men. But they rejoiced also. Theywould meet again. Then they prepared themselves for the nextupheaval that was sure to come.

They themselves were in the first flush of their youth. Time wasnothing to them. They were immortal. Not for a long time had theearth seen men and women such as these. They were the gods theoutside world only talked about. They were the perfect men all couldone day become. They no longer had to be bodies. They werefundamentally agglomerations of Light, clad in bodies by choice, allknowing, all seeing.

One day they conferred amongst themselves. The term is usedbecause it makes sense to Old Men like you and I. They were One,totally and completely integrated with each other. They had come toknow that the outside world would not allow them to live if they could

help it. The men outside were unenlightened: they had no knowledgeof the Light! Once before, long ago, they had crucified one of themwhen He had tried to show them the Way. They looked with deepdistaste and hostility at anything and everyone they did notunderstand. Men with weapons were coming to forcibly enter theirretreat.

The children did not regard the hermitage as their home anymore. There was nowhere that was not home to them. They wereMasters of the Universe. Their ‘parents’ were gone, the only Old Menand Women they had ever known and whom they had loved sodearly. The time had come to break with the Past. There was no other

way. It was time to spread their wings.*

‘Yes, Sir! I’ll take another look. But it’s no use. We can’t doanything with Nothing, Sir! No, Sir! That’s not what I meant. Yes, Sir!Quite. Absolutely , Sir. I fully agree with you. Sorry, Sir, I was not beingimpertinent, just telling it like it is, Sir!’ He put down the fieldtelephone and mopped his face with his handkerchief. The PrimeMinister had been in a foul mood over his report. Maj. General RogerWilloughby was a confused man. He was a soldier who followedorders to a T. His Action Force had followed the coordinates to the

place they had marked on the charts. They found…emptiness! There was nothing there. Nothing. Just a grey, indistinct

nothingness that was impervious to tanks, shells, mortars: anythinghe could throw at it. He had failed in his mission. But he didn’t have totake this kind of talk from any man. He sat down at the green baizetable in his field headquarters and carefully drafted out hisresignation. Let the old man find some other sucker to solve this one.

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*

The electromagnetic spectrum stretches, theoretically, fromInfinity to Infinity. An item existing in infrared can only be seen ininfrared. So it was with Ultraviolet, and all the other wavelengths

within the incomplete comprehension of the Old Men. All matter wasvibration, vibrations of light in its avatar as particle. Make a particle awave, which light also was, take it beyond that, to another frequency,and it ‘disappeared’, as far as other waves not within or adjacent to itwere concerned. It was the magic of the Old Men. It was their everyday, commonplace reality.

They had avoided confrontation by removing themselves a fewfrequencies away. They were still there…but not to those at their oldfrequency. To them, they did not exist. There was nothing there at all! The Light was all there ever really was; it was the Word of the oldreligion, and it was true…only incompletely explained. They were

children of the Light, and well they knew it. They were themselvesLight, illuminated, radiant beings who had mastered the cosmos andhad identified themselves with the Greater Light. Now they wouldreshape the world, on its behalf, since they were part and parcel of The Source. New worlds waited to be born, like the New Men whowere coming. The Children of the Light braced themselves to meetthe future.

*

Half way across the globe, at the foot of the Himalayas, an old

man sat alone, lost in deep meditation. He was seated on a deerskinin the lotus pose of the ancient sages, smiling happily to himself. Thelamps had been extinguished, but his form was ablaze with light.

He was in communion with The Elders, the Old Ones. And withthe New Ones he knew were coming, the long awaited New Men. Hiswork here was over. He left his physical body for good and became asphere of luminous energy that beamed itself to the giant monolith inthe wastelands to the east.

A new age was in the offing, and further labours awaited him…asthey did the two orbs even now waiting for him in the golden dawn,companionably together as always, the two whom he knew were

called The Keepers of the Flame. It had been a privilege working withthem.

*

Shadow of the New Men fallingOn the screen of future climes,

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Hearing other voices callingFrom beyond the veil of Time!

~*~

© Subroto Mukerji

‘The voyage is not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes’.

~ Marcel Proust

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children of the light - by s mukerji

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