Last Dance of the Golden Butterflies

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            The sky was intermittently dark. Each period of darkness ended in a lightening flash. Each flash was succeeded by a deep growl up above in the belly of the clouds. The light breeze smelt of a subtle promise of rain.

            The old man with a head full of bushy silver hair stood quietly in the veranda. He was looking towards the western skies. His cloudy brown eyes were open but looked at nothing in particular. Instead they were filled with the grey shadows of memories.

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THE WOMAN IN THE PORCELAIN MASK

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     Once I was Ashastû, son of Darsha and the resident of the ancient city of Nishapur. Once I was the bird, imprisoned by a gilded cage. I was the follower of Mazdayasna and the worshipper of Ahura Mazda.

      Like a butterfly, which once is a caterpillar, I was all that but no more. I have become the bearer of the most ancient of all legacies – the legacy of the forgotten wisdom. This is the story of my transformation and my transition, from a caterpillar to a butterfly; and from the path of dark ignorance to the path of bright wisdom.

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اظہار کرو، انتظار نا کرو

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دیکھئے صاحب! میں بالکل بھی پاگل نہیں ہوں. ہاں میرے الفاظ سننے میں پاگل پن ضرور لگتے ہیں مگر حقیقت میں ایسا نہیں ہے

دیکھئے آپ میری بات پر دھیان ضرور دیجئے. بیشک پاگل سمجھ کر پتھر مار دیں مگر ایک لمحے کو میری بات پر دھیان ضرور دیں

ایک بار میری کہانی سن لیں، یقین مانیں اس میں آپ کا ہی فائدہ ہے

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