Tales of the Ancient Turtle — The Merchant of Dreams

Posted in Short Stories English by Shehryar Khawar

‘I was a boy when the Merchant of Dreams took my future and kept it safe in his kaleidoscope; now I’m a father, and I’ve become the Merchant of Dreams for my children.’

A touching multi-generational story about a mysterious old man with a kaleidoscope who collects and preserves people’s most valuable dreams. Through the eyes of a young boy guided by his wise friend, the ancient Turtle, this magical tale explores the transformative journey from unanswered questions to discovered purpose.

It was a cold December afternoon when I met the strangest of all old men. His bushy and unruly, silver hair, peeked from underneath a bright yellow skull cap, and he wore a bright red pyjama and shirt. He was certainly an old man, but instead of stooping shoulders and shuffling feet, he was walking with a purpose – eyes looking straight ahead and back straight as a bamboo.

There was a wooden, green box, which was mounted on a metallic tripod and carefully balanced on his shoulders. He was truly a spectacle – more than enough spectacle to catch the fancy of a young boy. Children gathered around him and he let each one of them peep inside the box, in exchange for a few coins. I approached him hesitantly once the children moved away and he picked up the wooden box and started to leave.

‘Please wait!’ I requested him politely. ‘I want to see too what’s inside this box.’

‘This box is called a Kaleidoscope.’ He informed me in a serious tone.

‘Okay. I want to see what’s inside the Kaleidoscope?’ I repeated my request.

‘Of course, you do.’ He smiled at me kindly, ‘But it is not yet time for you to look into it.’

‘Oh! But why?’ I felt so dejected, ‘Everyone else has looked into it. Why can’t I do the same?’

‘Because you are not everyone else.’ He was still smiling. ‘You are a friend of the Turtle and therefore, you deserve special treatment.’

‘Wait…what?’ I was startled. ‘How do you know about the Turtle?’

‘We are old friends.’ He patted my head and walked away, while completely ignoring my questions, ‘Run along now! It’s getting late!

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It was a strange afternoon indeed, and it was filled with questions. I love questions especially once I have to search hard for answers. Easy questions do not excite me, but difficult questions fan the fire of my curiosity.

I knew where to find the answers. I had a friend who could answer any question that I had – the ancient Turtle in our backyard. As usual, he was taking a siesta under the Banyan tree, but woke up as soon as he heard my approaching steps.

‘Where were you this afternoon?’ He asked me with his eyes half-closed.

‘I was with someone.’ I said in a mysterious tone, ‘Someone, who is an old friend of yours.’

‘Oh?’ The Turtle looked at me questioningly, ‘And who might be that?’

‘It was a strange, old man carrying a big wooden box. He called it a kaleidoscope.’ I pronounced the word with some difficulty.

‘Ah!’ The Turtle smiled with pleasure, ‘So you have finally met the Merchant of Dreams.’

‘The Merchant of Dreams?’ I asked as the name fascinated me so much. ‘What is a merchant of dreams?’

‘Not ‘a’ merchant, it is ‘the’ Merchant. He is an ever-vigilant sentinel, who jealously guards the threshold between reality and fantasy.’ The Turtle said with closed eyes, ‘His task is to preserve the most valuable of human dreams.’

‘Please use simple words.’ I requested the Turtle. ‘These are too big words for my understanding.’

‘Don’t worry about the words, son.’ The Turtle said, ‘You’ll meet the Merchant again, sooner than you expect. And remember son, once the time comes, hand over the most valuable of your dreams to the Merchant without any worry. He will keep it safe and will make it come true one day.’

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The Turtle was right. I met the Merchant of Dreams again after only a few days.

I was riding my bicycle with my pockets filled with stale bread, and was looking for stray dogs to feed. My attention was so much focused on my quest that I almost missed seeing him. And when I did see him, my first thought was that I was imagining him. He was standing at the same place, I left him that afternoon.

By the time I realized that he was real and not a figment of my over-active imagination, I had nearly passed by him. I applied emergency brakes by firmly planting my sneaker between the tire and the axel and escaped crashing down by a very small margin.

I approached him and his peculiar smell overwhelmed me. It was not an unpleasant smell at all. He smelt of old books, stacked and forgotten forever, and he smelt of memories, painful and sweet, but half-obscured by the fog swirling over the lands of nostalgia. Though I was unaware of the smell of memories back then, I was quite familiar with the smell of old books – courtesy of my late grandfather and his amazing library.

His outfit also looked somewhat different. I looked at him closely and detected a pair of cheap plastic-framed glasses, which were tied around his head with a piece of bright, blue ribbon. The lens were cloudy and thick but still failed to hide his piercing gaze. There was also a small gold earring, dangling from his left ear.

‘Who are you, really?’ I asked and then got embarrassed at the absurdity of my own question.

‘Who am I, really?’ He repeated my question to himself and seemed perplexed at first. But then raised his eyes towards the sky and chuckled softly, ‘I am the Merchant of Dreams, humbly at your service.’

‘I know that.’ I hurriedly replied, ‘The Turtle has already made introductions.’

‘How is my old friend?’ The old man asked with a kind smile. ‘Still fond of his siestas?’

‘Yes!’ I smiled back at first but then mustering up a serious expression, asked, ‘Why are you here?’

‘You are a dreamer.’ He peered at me closely. ‘I am here so that you can give me your most prized dream for safekeeping.’

I looked deep into his eyes and found them quite familiar. They looked just like the eyes of the Turtle.

‘My most prized dream?’ I asked thoughtfully, ‘Oh yes, I have dreams – millions and billions of dreams, each more precious than the last.’ I decided to humor the old man. ‘But what will you give me in return old man? Perhaps, your own dreams?’

‘Nah!’ The old man chuckled, ‘My dreams have been fulfilled since long. Instead, I will give you a promise – the promise of your dream coming true one day.’

‘And where will you keep my dream?’ I knew I was mocking him but I couldn’t control myself.

‘In here of course.’ He lovingly caressed the kaleidoscope, carefully unscrewed the lens cover and waved at me to peep inside.

‘Don’t worry. It won’t cost a dime.’ He smiled at my worried expression.

_________________________________________________

I looked closely at the kaleidoscope. It was a simple box of wood, painted in bright parrot green. The paint was peeling at several places. I looked around. There was nobody. I hesitated but then curiosity assumed control. I took a deep breath, bent down and fixed my right eye firmly to the lens.

At first I saw nothing but mirrors. There was a cacophony of colored mirrors. Small and large, blue and red and green and yellow, oval and rectangular, triangular and round, there were mirrors everywhere. The light from some invisible source reflected off the surface of the mirrors and then entered my eye.

I tried to find some meaningful pattern, but failed. There was nothing but moving jolts of intense, bright and colored light. ‘There is nothing.’ I laughed at my own stupidity and tried to straighten up.

‘Have patience, child.’ The soft pressure of the old man’s hand on my shoulder did not let me get up, ‘Keep on looking. Search within the folds of light. Look for a vision, riding the shoulders of light beams.’

I suppressed the urge to straighten up and looked more closely. At first there was nothing but blinding flashes of light. But then….something – a small figure, visible in the far distance and growing larger by the minute. It was a young man with a head full of dark, unruly hair, quite like my own and he looked very familiar. He was walking tiredly on a rough thorny path. His lips were parched with thirst and his feet shuffled with exhaustion. But yet he walked on, his eyes fixed on a mountain in the far distance.

I felt myself being transformed into light and diffusing inside the kaleidoscope and found myself walking with the man. I could sense that there was a great burden on his soul. It was the burden of unanswered questions: ‘What is life? What is my purpose? What is universal conscience and how do I communicate with it?’ They were all difficult questions and the agony of carrying around the heavy burden of unanswered questions, was burning up his soul.

My heart grew heavy at his plight. I did not know him but somehow I knew he deserved kindness and understanding. I tried to hold his hand but my hand passed through his. He was oblivious of my presence. We walked on and the mountain loomed closer. We walked some more and reached the foot of the mountain. He started climbing up and I climbed up with him.

From time to time, he stopped and looked across the valley, receding under our feet. I looked across the valley too, which was filled with abstract patterns of yellow and green – indistinguishable and intermingling. Somehow, the abstractness of the patterns troubled me greatly. I could feel the same abstractness intensifying the young man’s anguish and frustration.

We climbed up some more and something strange started happening. There was a subtle transformation. With each step up the slope of the mountain, the abstractness of the patterns changed into definite and precise geometrical shapes. Chaos was slowly giving birth to order.

It was a strange place – away from the confines of time and space. In a few moments, we had reached the mountain top. The young man took out a beautifully carved wooden pipe, filled it with tobacco and lit it with a match. Smoke rose out of the pipe’s bowl and was dispersed by the soft breeze. He took a deep puff and once again, looked across the valley.

The patterns had all settled into definite shapes. Each color and every shape had started making sense. The puzzle was finally solved.

‘Ah! So that is what everything really means.’ The man smiled and breathed a sigh of relief.

I looked at him and found him smiling. His eyes were no more troubled and his brow was no more knitted in worry. But strangely, his hair had turned all white and silver. He was no more a young man, but had grown old. Old, but happy and satisfied.

He sucked onto the stem of the pipe and then exhaled thick rings of smoke. The rings swirled and rose up into the air and started forming words. They were simple yet beautiful words. I tried to read them but could not. They were strange words yet familiar in an inexplicable way. The wind grew stronger and tried to blow away the words. They danced but held firm and gradually descended over the valley. I could sense the man’s happiness and my heart was filled with joy.

‘I can see him. I can see him.’ I straightened up and looked at the Merchant. My throat had gone hoarse with tears of excitement.

‘Oh yes child! You saw him, didn’t you?’ He smiled at me kindly and screwed the cap over the lens again.

‘Who was he?’ I wiped my tears and asked the old man.

‘Why child? He was you of course. He is your future and your most valuable dream.’

‘But how can I see my own future? How can I see a dream while being awake? And what did it all mean?’ I had a lot of questions as my young mind was unable to grasp the meaning of the strange vision.

‘With time, will come understanding. For now, it is enough for you that your most valuable dream is safe with me.’

The old man picked up the kaleidoscope and placed the tripod carefully over his shoulder.

‘Run along now. It’s getting late.’ The old man waved a final goodbye and vanished into the swirling fog.

________________________________________

‘I met him again. I met the Merchant of Dreams.’ I announced excitedly.

The afternoon was almost over, when I found the Turtle lounging idly in the sun under the rose bushes. The sunlight, being filtered by the leaves, was drawing interesting patterns across his mottled back.

‘You did eh?’ The Turtle smiled without opening his eyes. ‘And what did he tell you?’

‘He showed me my dream and it was marvelous. But I couldn’t understand it.’ I informed him, expecting a detailed explanation. But the Turtle remained quiet.

‘Dreams! Dreams! For God’s sake, Turtle, tell the boy about the dreams.’ The Raven screeched from atop the Banyan tree. But the Turtle still remained quiet.

‘What are dreams, old friend?’ Getting tired of his silence and closed eyes, I finally asked, while lightly prodding his neck with a twig.

‘Huh! What?’ Startled, he opened up his eyes and looked at me.

‘I am asking you about dreams. What are dreams?’ I chewed my words deliberately.

‘Oh yes! Dreams!’ The Turtle smiled at my impatience, ‘Well dreams can either be the most terrible or the most wonderful of all experiences, God has ever created.’

‘Why terrible?’ I was taken aback at the turtle’s response. I thought he was a dreamer like me.

‘All dreams are questions. Dreams become terrible when the question remains unanswered. The questions try hard to survive by raising their delicate heads and breathing in the air of imagination and wisdom. But a time comes when they fail to find their answers. Then, these dreams become nightmares and turn into the grey dust of regret.’ The turtle said, sadly poking the dry leaves littering the pale grass.

‘But I always thought that dreams are wonderful.’ I felt my legs weakening and I sat down on the pale grass besides the turtle.

‘Yes, sometimes, dreams can be wonderful too. They are wonderful once they evolve into something meaningful. They are wonderful when the question is answered and the answer is cherished and finally becomes a legacy.’ The Turtle tried to console me.

‘So, what about my dream?’ I asked him anxiously, ‘Is it wonderful or terrible?’

‘Well, that choice belongs to you alone.’ The Turtle smiled again, ‘If you do not seek answers, your dreams will become terrible nightmares. But if you do seek answers and find them, your dreams will become a legacy carved in wisdom.’

‘What do you mean?’ I pleaded, ‘You know I don’t like difficult words. I cannot understand what you are saying.’

‘With time, will come understanding. For now, it is enough for you that your dream is safe with the Merchant of Dreams. He won’t let it die.’ The turtle said softly and closed his eyes again.

______________________________________________________________

‘Baba!’ My daughter comes along, running excitedly.

I stop typing and look up. She is growing into a beautiful woman, my little one. I grab her arm softly and gently pull her into my lap. She laughs and hides her face in my neck. I smell her thick luxurious hair and my world turns into a beautiful place.

‘Tell me what’s bothering you?’ I ask while running my fingers through her beautiful hair.

‘I dream of becoming a singer one day but I am afraid my dream won’t come true.’ She growled into my neck frustratingly. ‘Will I ever become a singer?’

‘Hmm!’ I caress her neck. ‘Why don’t you give your dream to me?’

‘Where will you keep it?’ She giggled mischievously, ‘And what will you do with it?’

‘I will keep it safe…here.’ I place her tiny hand on my heart. ‘I will make sure that it never dies. I will ensure that one day it evolves into something meaningful, something which can be cherished and something, which can become a legacy.’

‘Baba! Would you please talk in simple words? I don’t understand what you are saying.’ She asks confusedly. ‘With time, will come understanding. For now, it is enough for you that your dream is safe with the Merchant of Dreams. He won’t let them die.’ I whisper into her ear and see the Turtle wink at me from across the thresholds of time.

23Sep2025

Tales of the Ancient Turtle – Dreaming of God

Posted in Short Stories English by Shehryar Khawar

“I slipped out of my mother’s sleeping arms that summer afternoon and wandered into a backyard full of anacondas, deserts, and a talking turtle who had been waiting centuries to teach me about God.”

Introduction

A tender story capturing the magical world of childhood through the eyes of four-year-old Tipu, who befriends a wise ancient turtle in his backyard. This enchanting tale explores profound spiritual questions through innocent wonder, as the turtle gently guides the child to understand that God can be seen and felt through love, dreams, and the beauty of everyday life. Blending magical realism with philosophical depth, the story celebrates the unique perspective of dreamers who can perceive divine presence in nature’s smallest details - from squirrels and “anaconda” earthworms to warm maternal embraces. A beautiful exploration of how children naturally connect with spirituality and the sacred wisdom found in simple conversations between generations.

___________________________________________________

When I was very young, probably four or five, I was friends with a very ancient turtle. He lived in our backyard and talked to me. He told me many stories of times, long past and people, long dead. He was wise, very wise and the mind of a child was no match to his wisdom. But he talked to me because he loved me. And he loved me because I could listen to him for long with my pupils enlarged in astonishment and my brow knitted in curiosity.

___________________________________________________

It was a quiet summer afternoon when we first met. My mother was fast asleep, and I slipped out of her arms very quietly. I missed her warm, sweet smell, but outside, the adventures were waiting for me. Adventures have always waited for me.

It must have been a large house. But to me, it looked enormous. There were rainforests hidden deep within the rose bushes, and anacondas wriggled freely in the moist soil. My mother called them earthworms, but I knew they were anacondas. There was a desert in one corner of the backyard - my very own Sahara. My mother thought it was just construction sand, which was left behind by the workers. Adults can be so wrong sometimes. To me, it was a desert, complete with dunes, and when I planted some saplings, there was an oasis too.

___________________________________________________

I looked up and peeked at the golden sun from under the shadow of my palm. He was furious with the world but was smiling down at me. His golden rays kissed my cheeks and whispered in my ears, ‘Go ahead, son. The adventure is waiting for you.’

‘But it is so hot and you are ferocious today.’ I replied while readjusting my palm.

‘Not for you. You are a dreamer. For you, I will always be kind.’ The sun crackled a deep-throated laughter.

Reassured, I started looking around for adventure.

Suddenly, a squirrel hiding in the mango tree caught my attention. ‘Come down little one. I want to play with your soft bushy tail.’ I called her down kindly.

‘Always be kind. Kindness goes a long way.’ My grandfather said to me often.

The squirrel came down. I called her Sweetie, and we had always been on friendly terms. She shared her nuts with me, and in return, I brushed her soft tail. It was softer than my father’s shaving brush and was of a most marvelous silver-grey color.

‘Hey, have you heard the news? The turtle has woken up.’ She sat on my shoulder and squeaked into my ear.

‘Huh! Turtle? Which turtle?’ I was surprised.

‘The turtle in the backyard, silly.’ Sweetie informed me while breaking a nut and offering me half of it.

‘There is a turtle in our backyard? Wow!’ It was marvelous news to me.

‘There has always been a turtle in the backyard. But he had been asleep for the last few hundred years or so.’ She chattered on, ‘Go meet him. Pay your respects. He would certainly like that.’

So I ran to the backyard, but I couldn’t see any turtle.

___________________________________________________

‘Mr Turtle! Mr Turtle! Where are you?’ I hesitatingly called.

I could hear nothing in response. All was silent, and the brick floor was shimmering in the bright sunlight.

‘Look closely son. He is having his siesta under the rose bushes.’ The sun whispered to me.

‘Where? I cannot see him.’ I desperately searched under the bushes.

The sun laughed quietly and shifted a little. The shadows changed, and I started to see something that was never there before. There was a mottled, hard, and curved shell - all dark green and grey. I poked at it with a small stick, and it moved.

‘Who disturbs me?’ A strange, low voice inquired.

‘I am sorry, sir. I just wanted to meet you and say hi!’ I said very, very respectfully. Turtles were serious business, and I knew my manners.

‘Hmm! Once you grow old, you will realize something very important.’ The turtle said in a tired voice, gradually opening up his small, deep eyes and looking at me. ‘Nothing in this life is more delicious than a siesta in summer afternoons.’

‘I apologize for disturbing your siesta. I am really sorry. You can go back to sleep. We will chat some other time.’ I tried to withdraw.

‘There is something else you will realize once you grow old. No time is better than now.’ He smiled at me kindly. ‘Sit down and let me have a closer look at you.’

___________________________________________________

I sat down with turtle under the rose bushes. It was very pleasant there. The dark soil was wet, and the anacondas were squirming happily. I prodded one with my finger. It was all moist and soft.

‘Now don’t do that. He doesn’t like it.’ The turtle admonished me softly. I withdrew my finger. But the turtle was wrong. The anaconda didn’t care.

‘What are you doing outside, at this ungodly hour?’ The turtle asked me gently.

‘What is wrong with this hour? This is the hour of adventure.’ I was confused.

‘You should get out at another time. It is hot.’ He looked up at the bright sun.

‘No time is better than now.’ I repeated his words, and the turtle laughed. It was a deep rattling sound, pleasant to hear. It was a warm laughter coming straight from his belly.

‘My mother is asleep and I am free. There are lions to hunt and desert gypsies to dance with.’ I explained politely after his laughter died down.

‘Aha!’ he grinned. ‘We have a dreamer here.’

‘Is it bad being a dreamer?’ I asked him. My grandfather always said it was better to act than dream.

‘Bad? Absolutely not. Being a dreamer is rather marvelous.’ The turtle winked at me, ‘It is the dreamers who change the world.’

‘Change the world? But how?’ I found his comment very strange.

‘Dreamers can see things that others can’t, and dreamers can sense things that others can’t. Dreamers can hear things that others can’,t and dreamers can do things that others can’t.’ The turtle said slowly.

It was more of a song than a statement. I loved songs. They were simple, yet meaningful.

___________________________________________________

‘Can dreamers see God?’ I asked him. It was a very important question, as my father always said that God was invisible.

‘Oh yes! They can. You can.’ The turtle raised an eyebrow.

‘Nope, I cannot see Him. Nobody can.’ I pursed my lips determinedly.

‘Hmm! What do you think God looks like?’ He asked an easy question.

‘He is big - bigger than everything. He must be a giant because He is all mighty and powerful. He moves His finger and the earth moves and the mountains crumble.’ I could go on and on, but the strange expression in the turtle’s eyes halted me.

‘Now who told you that?’ He asked concernedly.

‘My teacher has told me that.’ I said while visualizing my teacher’s deep green eyes and golden hair, which made a halo around her lovely oval face. She was probably my very first crush.

‘But she didn’t say what God looked like. I added the giant part myself.’ I said proudly.

‘Of course, you did because you are a dreamer.’ The turtle laughed again.

‘Can I feel your belly when you laugh?’ I asked the turtle hesitatingly. Touching somebody’s belly was not something I normally did. But I wanted to feel the warm vibrations.

‘Oh yes, you can, my boy. You can do anything that makes you happy.’ He answered with a jolly laugh, and I gently placed my palm against his belly. Those were good vibrations. They traveled up my arm and reached my heart. They tickled my heart, and I laughed too.

‘God is somebody you can easily see and feel.’ The turtle finally said after we both finished laughing.

‘How come?’ I was all ears.

___________________________________________________

‘How do you feel about your mother? I mean, what if she gets up when your eyes are closed? Can you feel her leaving?’ He asked.

The turtle had asked a very strange question. I had never thought about it. So I closed my eyes and imagined myself lying in my mother’s embrace. And then the answer came to me, as clear as sunlight kissing a brilliant red rose.

‘I know, I know.’ I answered excitedly. ‘When she gets up and leaves, her warmth and fragrance leave too.’

‘Exactly!’ The turtle nodded with satisfaction. ‘Now tell me, what makes your mother, your mother?’

He saw the confusion dancing in my eyes and so repeated his question. ‘What special quality makes her your mother?’

‘She gave birth to me. I came out of her tummy.’ I was wise, way beyond my years.

‘Yes, true. That is basic. But what quality makes her your mother?’ He asked again.

‘I guess that would be her love. She loves me no matter what. She loves me even when I break a glass. Of course, she is unhappy for a while and frowns, but she still loves me.’ I answered after really thinking hard.

‘Yes!’ the turtle sounded jubilant. ‘Her love makes her your mother. You see the love in her and sense it.’

‘So? What’s that got to do with God?’ I was a bit perplexed.

‘That’s got to do everything with God.’ He said matter-of-factly. ‘He created you, me, your mother, and everything that exists around us. And He loves us all unconditionally.’

‘So my mother is God too?’ I thought I was finally drawing a connection.

‘Hmm! Let’s just say that God is greater than her and different from her.’ The turtle was alert now. He was very alert and was looking at me with eyes sparkling with ancient wisdom.

‘Different how?’ I was mentally ready to start a comparison.

‘Different because, unlike your mother and mine, He runs through us and through everything around us. He makes you sense your mother’s warmth, and He makes you smell her warm fragrance. He makes you move, and He makes you stop. We are alive when He breathes inside us, and we fall dead when He leaves us. He is the sun, the moon, and the stars, and He is the rain forest, the desert, and the earthworms.’

‘Not earthworms. They are anacondas.’ I rudely interrupted him.

‘Yes, I am sorry. He is the Anacondas and not the earthworms.’ The turtle corrected himself with a kind and affectionate smile. ‘And most importantly, God makes you dream. He makes you dream so that you can see Him and sense Him in all His glory and warmth.’

‘Tipu? Tipu? Where are you?’ My mother’s voice echoed in the distance.

‘Oh shit! She is awake.’ I cursed and then suddenly stopped. Cursing was bad, and it was especially bad in front of a grown-up. You could get spanked for that.

‘No problem. You can always curse in front of me.’ The turtle winked at me knowingly.

‘Will I see you again?’ I asked while brushing off the seat of my shorts.

‘Oh yes. I will always be here. We will talk more and then some more. We will keep on talking till it is your time to move on.’ The turtle said while settling back down comfortably in the moist soil.

___________________________________________________

‘Hey, there you are. How many times have I told you not to play outside at this hour?’ My mother asked with a frown.

I ran to her and hugged her legs. She smiled and hugged me back. We started walking towards the cool shade under the verandah. I looked back and waved at the turtle. I could not see him because the sun had shifted again. But I was sure he could see me.

‘Who are you waving at?’ My mother looked back but couldn’t see anybody.

‘I made a new friend today. I was waving at him.’ I smiled at her.

‘A new friend? Who is he?’ She sounded a bit worried.

‘A turtle!’ I happily informed her.

‘A turtle?’ She looked surprised for a moment. But then she bent down and kissed my sweaty forehead. ‘You are a dreamer, my son. You will always be a dreamer.’ She had seen the happiness in my eyes, and she was happy that I was happy. I was happy because I was a dreamer and I could see God.

27Jul2019

Tales of the Ancient Turtle: Resurrection of the White Chrysanthemums (Previously, the Three White Chrysanthemums)

Posted in Short Stories English by Shehryar Khawar

What if the man in the mental hospital who hears trees screaming isn’t mad—what if he’s the only one sane enough to hear what the rest of us have forgotten how to listen to?

A poignant narrative about a mental health patient who claims to hear everything in nature speak—trees, mountains, rivers, and a childhood friend, the ancient Turtle, who taught him that “everything carries wisdom within.”

‘Tell me, my dear…’ The old Doctor said while peering at me closely from behind his thick pebbled glasses. His kind face resembled a map of rugged terrain, marked with jagged lines and twisting contours. ‘Tell me, what do the voices ask you to do?’

We were both sitting on a concrete bench under the shade of a big banyan tree. A beautiful world, painted with liquid gold by the March sun, surrounded us. It was a small and private mental health facility being run by the good old Doctor, and I was one of its few selected residents.

‘The voices do not ask me to do anything. They just want me to listen.’ I replied.

‘Listen?’ The Doctor asked and scratched his bald head. ‘Listen to what exactly?’

‘Listen to everything — the trees, the mountains, the rivers, and the streams.’ I tried to name all my friends.

‘I see.’ The good Doctor removed his glasses and started polishing the lenses with unusual vigor. ‘And are you able to listen to all those things?’ He asked me when the ritual was complete. ‘The trees, mountains, rivers and……….’

‘…and the streams.’ I completed his sentence.

‘Yes, yes…the streams.’ He eagerly nodded his head.

‘Oh yes, I do!’ I replied with a smile. ‘I like to listen to them. They tell me about life and God, and of His grand system and scheme. They tell me that our universe is just His dream. They tell me of the past, and they tell me of the future. They tell me what is possible and what is not. But the most important thing that they tell me is that happiness is only a momentary lapse of reason and that it is the only wisdom that matters; while sadness is the eternal reality, and is the key to all wisdom.’

‘And when did this all start? This listening to…umm! Well…the things?’ The Doctor asked while getting up and started examining a dried-up chrysanthemum bush very closely.

‘It all started with the Turtle — the ancient Turtle living in our backyard.’ I said while smiling at the warm memory of my long-lost friend.

‘The Turtle is actually right.’ The old Banyan tree told me in his deep, throaty voice. He stood in the exact center of the courtyard and looked all wise and elderly.

‘Everything is alive, my little friend. Everything carries wisdom within, and everything speaks. You just have to learn to listen.’

‘What do you mean? How can everything be alive?’ I asked the tree, growing confused.

‘I am alive. Isn’t this so?’ The Banyan tree asked and chuckled softly. ‘I eat minerals from the soil and sip water through my roots. And we all can speak.’ He said while spreading his rustling branches around. ‘We all can speak — the trees and the flowers, the mountains and the springs, the sky and the moon, and even the stones and the soil.’

‘But why have I never heard them speak?’ I protested.

‘You are hearing me speak.’ The Banyan tree replied and smiled at me kindly. ‘You talk to the old Turtle all the time.’

‘Yes, but…’ I couldn’t find words to express myself.

‘Everything speaks, my friend, but everyone cannot hear the words. There are only a very few who care to make an effort. But anybody who makes an effort can hear the whispers of the universal consciousness.’ The Banyan tree explained.

‘What is that — the universal consciousness?’ The words were too big for my limited childhood understanding.

‘Be silent, you pompous ass! Do not confuse the little one.’ A familiar voice grunted from behind me.

I looked back and there stood my old friend — the ancient Turtle. Half-hidden in the overgrown and moist green grass, he was looking at me affectionately and smiling his kind, toothless smile.

‘Hey, you are finally back.’ I stated the obvious as an excited greeting. He had left for some important task a few days ago, and I missed his company badly.

‘It certainly looks like it, and you look perfectly fine.’ He sounded a bit tired. ‘Anyway, what’s going on here?’

‘I was just telling our little friend that everything is alive and everything speaks.’ The Banyan tree explained politely.

‘Yeah, yeah.’ The Turtle silenced him impatiently with a wave of its arm. ‘I wasn’t here and you thought you could go on and confuse my young friend in my absence.’

‘Oh please, Mr. Turtle, please don’t say anything to the Banyan tree.’ I ran and hugged the tree’s trunk. ‘He is my friend and he didn’t mean any harm.’

It was true. The Banyan tree was one of my many friends. Most of my summer afternoons were spent playing under its cool shade and digging for earthworms. I hugged the old gnarled tree trunk closely and could almost feel a warm and throbbing response, deep under the rough bark.

‘Little one…’ The Turtle admonished me, ‘If you choose to play with the giants, you’ve got to learn their secret little jokes too.’

He sounded pretty serious, but I could see that he was trying his best not to laugh.

‘Yes, I remember the Turtle. He was your childhood friend.’ The good Doctor was trying to flatter me, but I knew the truth.

‘You really don’t believe in the Turtle. Isn’t that so?’ I asked him with a defensive smile.

‘It does not matter what I believe in.’ He smiled back at me. ‘It is your beliefs that we are discussing. So you were saying that the Turtle told you that everything in this universe speaks?’

‘So is it true that everything in this universe speaks?’ I asked the Turtle.

It was the very next afternoon, and I was too curious about what the Banyan tree had told me. Besides, everyone else was busy taking a siesta, while I was free to roam the lonely wilderness of the backyard.

‘Oh yes, certainly, everything speaks.’ The ancient Turtle nodded his head. I could see he very much wanted to take a nap under the shade of the rose bushes, but he loved my company far more than his afternoon naps.

‘And what does everything speak of?’ I asked while tickling his old wrinkled head — a naughty but affectionate gesture.

‘Everything speaks with one voice what the universal consciousness wants it to speak of — wisdom and future.’ The Turtle answered while turning his head and looking at me with his soft, grey eyes, and then started singing:

‘Of wisdom and future and of what the universal conscience has in store for you,

of your life and the life of all others, and also of the flow of the river of time

Of what lies ahead, your life is a rose and optimism — a few drops of dew,

while pain and pleasure and sadness and joy, dance their eternal mime’

‘Hmm!’ I was a bit confused. ‘What does the universal consciousness say about me?’

‘What would you like her to say about you, little one?’ He asked with a twinkle in his eyes.

‘What will I become and what will become of me?’ I asked after thinking for a while.

‘Aha!’ The Turtle breathed a sigh of understanding and then started singing again:

‘She says that you will grow and your heart will grow even more,

and you will be wise and generous and kind to all, that’s for sure

She says that you will learn and evolve, with a light in your core,

you will walk the path and the others’ pains, you will certainly cure

She says you will love and understand all if only you find the door,

the door that opens with patience, and then shuts down no more

And she says this will all happen if you learn not to judge and ignore,

what the others say and what the others do — the pious and the whore’

‘But I don’t understand this at all.’ I said, feeling both confused and flustered.

‘Yes, you do not understand yet.’ The Turtle nodded his head wisely. ‘But you will one day. Till the day of understanding dawns upon you, just be patient and wait for the universal consciousness to work its eternal magic.’

‘But what if I fail to walk the path and what if I get lost?’ Suddenly, the fear of some strange possibility in the future gripped my heart with its cold fingers.

‘It doesn’t matter, little one.’ The Turtle said and closed his eyes drowsily. ‘It doesn’t matter what path we walk or whether we get lost. The only thing that matters is that we see, that we observe, and that we learn, while we are walking the path.’

‘Do you remember why you were brought here?’ The Doctor asked me after taking his due time to understand what I said about the Turtle and the universal conscience.

‘Oh yes, I do.’ I thought with bitterness about that cruel, summer morning.

I was on a trip to the hilly areas of the North, and I saw hundreds of trees being cut down. They were all crying with pain while the electric saws cut them into pieces. Their blood was flowing down the mountain slope, but no one but me could see it.

I sat down on my knees and touched the warm blood with my fingers. I listened to the weeping trees and felt their pain vibrating within each nerve and fiber of my own body. It became personal when the trees recognized me and started shouting my name, asking me for help.

‘You can’t do it.’ I approached the foreman of the woodcutters.

‘I can’t do what?’ He asked me, surprised at the welled-up tears in my eyes.

‘You can’t cut the trees. It’s murder.’ I said while trying to muster up some badly needed courage.

‘Trees? Murder?’ He stood there for a moment, confused by what I was saying. But then he suddenly looked up and started laughing hysterically.

‘It is no laughing matter. You are murdering the trees.’ I pleaded again while trying to ignore his insulting laughter.

‘I carry a permit. I can do whatever I want.’ He stopped laughing and replied to me sternly.

‘But they are screaming with pain and their blood is flowing in the valley.’ I begged him.

‘Who is screaming and what blood?’ He was flabbergasted. ‘Are you mad?’

I couldn’t speak as frustration and helplessness boiled up inside me.

‘Go away, son.’ The old mountain whispered in my ears. ‘They can’t see what you see, and they can’t hear what you hear. You cannot stop them.’

‘I will stop them.’ I told the mountain determinedly and then tried to snatch away the electric saw from the foreman’s hands.

‘Hey!’ The foreman was startled. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

But it was too late. Before he could move, I had already smashed the saw on a stone boulder.

‘Yes, I remember it all.’ I said while bitter tears misted up my eyes. ‘I remember the trees crying with anguish and pain, and I remember the smell of their warm, flowing blood. The memory of that massacre still haunts me.’

‘Have you considered the possibility that the trees were not crying, that there was no blood, and that the mountain was silent as he was supposed to be?’ The Doctor asked me while facing the dried-up chrysanthemum bush.

‘Have you considered the possibility that the trees were really crying, that their blood was staining the slopes, and that the mountain did try to deter me?’ I challenged his assumptions softly, with a sad smile.

‘It was all in your head, son.’ The Doctor said without turning back. ‘It was all your imagination. Only we, us humans, can talk. No one else can and no one else does.’

‘Imagination?’ I chuckled. ‘Why is that so bad? Aren’t we all the product of God’s imagination? Can’t you see that in that context, all imagination is reality?’

The Doctor did not reply and continued with his scrutiny of the almost-dead plant.

‘No, it was not my imagination. I really heard them cry and speak. As I told you earlier, everything speaks — the trees, the mountains, the rivers, and the streams. But not everyone can hear them.’

‘Hmm!’ The Doctor exclaimed and turned towards me with a tired smile. ‘This chrysanthemum plant was planted by my late wife. In her life, the plant gave us such beautiful white chrysanthemums — three flowers each morning and each one perfect in its purity, beauty, and delicacy.’

‘What happened to it?’ I asked while looking at the plant. ‘What went wrong?’

‘I do not know what went wrong. What I only know is that the day my wife died, the white chrysanthemums stopped blooming.’ He said while looking sadly at the plant. ‘But since you claim that you can talk to everything, I want you to ask this plant what went wrong.’

‘Hmm!’ I smiled at the Doctor and then looked at the chrysanthemum plant.

I asked her what went wrong, and she whispered back the truth to me. And the truth made me sad.

‘She says…’ I wiped my tears. ‘She says that your wife loved her and cared for her every day, and her love and care manifested in the beauty of the white chrysanthemums. She says that she is not being loved anymore. Instead, her roots are only watered by your bitter tears of loss and anger. And bitterness can never produce any beauty.’

‘I think it is time for you to go back to your room.’ The Doctor looked at the setting sun and waved at the two white-clad male nurses. ‘It is getting late. We will talk some other time.’

‘Think about it, my good Doctor.’ I smiled at him. ‘Please think about what I have told you.’

After the nurses took away the patient, the Doctor really did think about what the patient had told him. He stood looking at the plant for a while and then smiled and started walking away. But after walking only a few steps, he suddenly turned back. He went to the plant and then sat down cross-legged on the grass.

He thought of his departed wife, and he thought of all the love that she had given him. He also thought of his anger in believing that by dying, she had unjustly betrayed him of her presence. He smiled fondly at her happy memories. He let regret and anger flow out of his heart, and then he started whispering to the plant:

‘I know you miss her because I miss her too,

she had her love for all, not only for me and you

I miss her with longing — a dark and bitter brew,

I miss her for her sweetness, nectar of the morning dew

I treasure you and want to care for you,

but I do not know how, I swear, this is true

I want to love you because she loved you,

but I do not know how — this confession is true too’

The good Doctor sat there for a long time. His tears of sadness and love slipped down his cheeks and fell on the ground, right near the roots of the dried-up chrysanthemum plant. But when his tears dried up, he still did not get up. There was a strange solace in the company of the dead plant. He could almost smell the sweet fragrance of his long-lost wife, and he didn’t want to lose that fragrance ever again.

The next morning, the nursing staff and the gardeners found the Doctor, all curled up beside the chrysanthemum plant. At first, they thought he was just asleep, but when they tried to wake him up, he didn’t respond. He had already left.

Unlike the departed Doctor, the plant was very much alive once again, and there were three white chrysanthemums, smiling and gently swaying in the morning breeze.

10Oct2018

Tales of the Ancient Turtle – The Witch of Ghoragali

Posted in Short Stories English by Shehryar Khawar

The Witch offered him the gift of understanding all living things - but warned that it came with the darkest curse: the sadness that follows those who truly see and feel everything.

A haunting narrative about a thirteen-year-old boy’s encounter with the Mother, an ancient, beautiful witch living in the pine forests of Ghoragali in the Himalayas. Guided by a mysterious dog named Shaggy and the cryptic Keeper of Secrets, the protagonist discovers a primordial force who reveals herself as Gaia, Terra, the source of all life, who remembers when God was female and witches were healers, not evil.

___________________________________________________

‘Why is it…’, I asked the Turtle, ‘….that the more I understand life and the more I write, the more I grow sad? I don’t dislike being sad, but it overburdens me sometimes.’

‘Hmm!’ the Turtle closed his grey, clouded eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were, as usual, shining with the golden light of ancient wisdom. ‘Understanding is a gift, child. This gift comes to a few, but this gift always comes with a curse. And that’s what the Witch told you. That was the deal you made with her.’

‘The Witch?’ I was surprised. ‘What witch and what deal?’

‘The Witch whom you met when you were a little boy.’ The Turtle reminded me with a smile.

‘I don’t remember any such witch. And anyway, there are no real witches, and I am too old to believe in myth and magic, and make any deals with make-believe entities.’ I stood up suddenly. My own anger surprised me.

‘Tsk, tsk!’ The Turtle was unaffected by my annoyed reaction. He was always as cool as a cucumber, and his skin was as smooth as it was thick. My emotions and feelings slid over it like water slides over round, smooth stones.

‘There once was a witch, and you met her and she gave you a gift - the Witch of Ghoragali.’

I kept quiet. Of course, I remembered the Witch. I thought I had forgotten her musky presence, but no. She had always occupied a very spacious chamber in my memory palace.

___________________________________________________

It was the summer of 1986, and I was on a scouting trip to Ghoragali. It was a hill station in the Himalayas. I was about thirteen, and the trip was not an adventure, but an escape. People often believe that the lives of children are easy and trouble-free. But certain childhoods are complex and difficult, and come with their very own brands of trouble. To me, discipline has always been synonymous with torture. The trip was, therefore, my way out of the dungeon of discipline.

___________________________________________________

I discovered something wonderful during that particular trip by virtue of my love for nature. The discovery was that nature was there to listen to and to talk to, provided one had patience.

I looked at the grand majestic mountains surrounding the campsite. They first awed me and then talked to me as a friend, telling me stories of the days gone by and the people who lived in the caves, free of any complex or material desires.

I loved the graceful and slender pine trees with their fragrant needles and cones. The wind through the trees gradually became secret whispers, narrating accounts of clandestine trysts and stolen kisses, as the dry leaves fell all around the obscured lovers.

The place was full of waterfalls and fresh water springs. They all sang songs of longing and desire, their sweet melodies reaching crescendos with the wild rains.

And when I looked up, I saw clouds - great silver and grey, billowing giants. They bowed down to murmur in my ears of their silent, majestic journeys over the parched lands, their murmurs gradually transforming into echoing thunder.

I cultivated a deep bond of friendship with nature that summer. This bond is still going strong, and our communication is becoming more meaningful with each passing day.

___________________________________________________

To me, scouting lessons were boring - mindless hours spent earning badges for apparently useless skills, like, for instance, knots. Then there were group activities, which I hated with a vengeance. I didn’t crave anyone’s company but my own and wanted to converse with nobody but myself.

I wanted to know what I thought, and I wanted to know what and how I felt. That required solitude. It is when all is silent around you that you learn to listen to your own heart and soul. The other boys bored me. I failed to understand their mindless and constant obsession with their video games and toys.

It became far easier to get rid of my age mates and miss the boring scouting classes once I learnt that feigning sickness could work magic. A short complaint of a stomachache and a grimace were enough to convince everyone around me that a day off from classes was the only solution.

When the other boys left, that was when I sat up and looked around for hours on end. In particular, I stared for long at a lonesome mountain track, disappearing amongst the swirling fog and tall pine trees.

I had noticed the path as soon as I had arrived at the camp. It looked like a part of an untold fairy story - a path to the mysteries. I never saw anyone treading that path, but I felt that it beckoned me in a very strange way. I was somehow drawn to it. I wanted to be the first one in my camp to explore that path and therefore, discussed it with no one. Well, no one but the old cleaner.

___________________________________________________

The old man was responsible for cleaning the camp. He was as silent as an old oak tree, but a subtle smile always kept dancing on his dry lips. It was like he knew the answer to some great riddle.

Sometimes, one could see him sitting high up on a ledge overlooking the camp. From a distance, I could hear his chanting and see his shaggy head moving to and fro like he was in a trance. The other boys pointed at him behind his back and made signs to show that something was seriously wrong with his head. But to me, despite his apparent craziness, he looked like someone who could know something about the path.

The old man knew I liked him and was curious about him. I knew this because his subtle smile acquired an added shade of warmth, and his eyes glowed when he looked at me. One day, armed with the confidence of this small piece of knowledge, I decided to approach him while he was busy cleaning the camp.

‘Hey!’ I greeted him, but he did not look back and kept on sweeping with his broom. So I cleared my throat and tried it again a bit loudly, ‘HEY!’

Unfortunately, my attempt to be louder turned out to be a half-scream, and the old man almost threw down his broom and jumped up with fright. He looked back as if expecting a ghost in the otherwise silent camp. But he smiled when he saw me.

‘Hey, little one!’ His voice was rough, as if he rubbed his throat with sandpaper each morning.

I looked at him closely. He was dressed in an old and tattered, grey, long shirt, and also what was definitely a pair of blue denim jeans, in their good old days. His deep, grey eyes peered at me from beneath bushy eyebrows, and they were as penetrating as icicles. He had great big silver whiskers and a long shaggy beard of the same color. The hair had turned yellow just around his mouth, probably due to smoking. And around his neck, he wore a most splendid necklace of pine cones.

‘What are you doing here alone in the camp? Don’t you have classes to attend, child?’ He smiled and asked me kindly.

‘Well yeah…’ I scratched my head and thought for a moment. ‘But I am sick.’

‘You don’t look sick to me at all.’ He observed with a chuckle.

‘I am not sick in the normal way. I am just sick of the other people around me.’ I don’t know what came over me, and I confided in him, somehow having a belief that he would keep my secret safe.

‘Hmm!’ He peered closely at my face, and his penetrating gaze made me feel slightly uncomfortable. But then he probably found what he was looking for because he suddenly looked away with a smile.

He picked up his broom and then, taking its support with one hand, started searching the pockets of his woolen shirt. My heart skipped a beat.

In the stories I used to read, whenever old men searched their pockets, they always took out the most marvelous gifts for their young disciples. But to my utter disappointment, what he took out was only a misshapen and filter-less cigarette.

‘What’s your name, old man?’ I asked him, while hiding my disappointment.

‘Hmm!’ he grunted and tried to light the cigarette with a burning match. He cupped his hands and the flame from the match and the red glow of the burning cigarette, reflected in his grey eyes for a brief moment. ‘I go by many names, but you can call me the Keeper.’

‘The Keeper?’ I was surprised. ‘The Keeper of what exactly?’

‘The Keeper of Secrets, of course - all the secrets of this world.’ He said and took a deep drag, and the bitter smoke floated up to join the clouds.

I shook my head. His answers were too cryptic for my young age.

‘And what about this necklace?’ I pointed at his neck. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘This…’ he caressed the cones lovingly. ‘The Mother gave it to me.’

‘Is she alive…your mother?’ I expected his answer to be ‘no’ and was ready to come out with the appropriate condolences.

‘Not my mother, little one…’ he laughed. ‘The Mother!’

‘The Mother?’ I almost chewed my question.

‘Yes, the Mother. The Mother of us all. The Mother of the mountains and the Mother of the springs that sprout from beneath the rocks. The Mother of the clouds and the Mother of the trees receiving the rain.’

‘And where does she live?’ I was beginning to have serious apprehensions about his sanity.

‘There…’ the old man pointed towards the path. ‘She lives at a special place somewhere along that path.’

‘Let’s go, let’s go meet her then.’ I tried taking a step in the direction of the path, but the old man firmly grabbed my shoulder.

‘No, we don’t just go and meet her. We only go when she calls for us. And you will know if and when she calls for you. Wait for that time.’

___________________________________________________

In my opinion, the meeting with the old man was almost fruitless. He was crazy and his head was full of strange dreams. But so was I and my own head. The path still beckoned me, and it was my firm decision to tread that path at least once during that trip.

The opportunity came knocking at my door, only a few days later. The instructors got bored with teaching us knots and ordered an unsupervised field trip. I heard the two phrases: ‘no supervision’ and ‘field trip,’ and I knew my prayers had been answered.

I waited patiently while the other boys formed small groups and went in search of secret spots and snacks. Then I filled my water bottle and started walking towards the path.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was playing a constant game of hide and seek with the black and silver clouds. But as soon as I started walking, the clouds thundered angrily, and it started raining. God swirled His big paintbrush, and the sky and the mountains merged and faded into each other.

Though my clothes were soon soaked, rain did not worry me. It blanketed every sound and hid me from the world. Rain was my friend, and I welcomed its arrival with open arms.

But while crossing the campsite, a commotion drew my attention.

___________________________________________________

‘It was the Dog, wasn’t it?’ I asked the Turtle. ‘It was the Dog who took me to the Witch.’

‘I don’t think so at all.’ He replied while shaking his mottled, grey head. ‘I think it was your kindness to the Dog, which took you to the Witch. Rather, I believe that the Dog was your test. You passed the test with flying colors, and the Witch called you.’

‘Oh yes, I agree.’ I smiled and thought of the Dog fondly.

___________________________________________________

Right at the fringes of our camp, a small group of boys from some other school was standing. They were screaming and shouting with delight and throwing rocks at something. I approached them, and the object of their delight turned out to be a poor dog.

He was a great big dog - all wet, shaggy, and soiled hair, and bleeding from one leg. He was desperately trying to escape the boys, but they were not letting him. Each time he tried to run away, he was met with a heavy rock. The poor creature was miserable, and the boys were cruel beyond words. Their cruelty filled my heart with dark anger.

‘Hey!’ I shouted at them, oblivious of all consequences. ‘What do you think you are doing? Leave the poor creature alone.’

‘Who do you think you are?’ The gang leader asked me with his fists firmly placed at his waist.

‘I am just someone who wants you to stop throwing rocks at the dog. He will die for God’s sake.’ I could feel tears welling up in my throat.

‘And how will you stop us?’ The boy asked with a very cruel smile dancing on his thin lips.

‘He will not stop you, I will.’ A rough voice snarled from my rear. I looked back and there stood the Keeper of Secrets, holding his broom as menacingly as if it were a sword. ‘Now run along, or I will complain to your teachers.’

The boys took one look at the Keeper and his formidable broom and ran away. The poor dog, finally free of his tormentors, sat down and started licking his wound.

‘Come, child, the poor old Shaggy needs us.’ The Keeper patted my shoulder, but I stood rooted to the spot.

‘What?’ His grey eyes silently questioned me.

‘I am…I am afraid of dogs.’ I confessed sheepishly.

‘What? You are afraid of the old Shaggy?’ He laughed aloud but then saw my red face, and his laughter transformed into a kind smile.

‘Let me tell you a great trick, child.’ He placed his hand on my shoulder. ‘Whenever you want to help someone but are afraid of their reaction, always let kindness take over. Kindness almost always conquers fear.’

I looked up at his reassuring smile and decided to try the trick. We approached the dog, who was watching me guardedly. I sat down on my haunches and hesitantly extended my hand. The dog gave it a quick lick. Soon, his bushy tail started wagging, and he let me caress his forehead.

With the help of the Keeper and water from my bottle, I washed its wound. It wasn’t deep, and the bleeding had already stopped. So I took out my handkerchief and tied it firmly over the wound.

After a while, the dog got up and again licked my hand. Then he turned and started walking towards the path. I watched him limp away silently. Right where the path started and beside a big rock, he stopped and looked back at me. He seemed to be waiting for some response from me. I waved at him, but he kept on looking back at me.

‘Go on, he wants you to follow him.’ The Keeper said while gently nudging me.

‘Follow him?’ I asked confusedly. ‘But you said I can’t go tread the path until the Mother calls me.’

‘Old Shaggy is one of the Mother’s many companions. If he wants you to follow him, it is at the Mother’s behest. Now go before the Mother changes her mind.’

___________________________________________________

Old Shaggy started walking on the path, and I started following him. After every few steps, he turned and looked at me as if to make sure I was following him. Each time, on seeing me close behind, he wagged his tail and started walking again.

It was a strange but peaceful walk. The path was as beautiful as I had imagined it to be. It wound along seven great mountains. The locals called them the Seven Sisters. Though they looked similar, each sister had her own unique beauty.

The air was filled with the smell of wet pine trees. I believe this is how curiosity smells - the smell of wet pine trees.

A thick carpet of pine needles muffled my footsteps. Due to rain, the path was occasionally crisscrossed by tiny rivulets and streams. But the dog knew where he was going. He always chose the safest of all routes.

But then, when I turned a corner, I could not see the dog anymore. He had vanished without any warning or sound.

___________________________________________________

‘It was indeed a strange day.’ I muttered to myself.

‘Let’s just say it was indeed a great day. Not many people have a chance to meet the Mother.’ The Turtle said and slowly stepped into the warm sunlight. ‘And even those few who ever happen to meet her, not all are given the gift.’

‘Why do you think she chose me?’ I sat beside the Turtle and started scratching his mottled back. He loved it.

‘Well, she is the Mother. Who knows how her liking or disliking works?’ The Turtle answered.

‘By the way…’ I suddenly stopped scratching him. ‘How do you know about the Witch? I don’t think I ever told you about her.’

The Turtle chose to remain quiet. His eyes were closed, but I could see a faint hint of a knowing smile.

___________________________________________________

‘Hey!’ I looked around and called, ‘Shaggy?’

There was no barking response. There was only silence. I decided to wait and sat on a stone ledge. The mountain forest was gently whispering around me. The moist smell of the pines was growing stronger by the minute.

Suddenly, great swirls of fog rolled down the gentle mountain slope and engulfed me. The fog was so thick I could not see the pine needles at my feet. It was like I was sitting alone in a pine forest, up above the clouds. But strangely, there was no fear. There was only peace.

‘Welcome, child!’ A lovely voice called, and I jumped to my feet and looked back.

There she stood - the Mother. She didn’t look like any mother I had ever seen. Rather, she looked more like an elder sister.

She was tall and young - very young and very beautiful. Beautiful, auburn hair filled her head, which was crowned by a lovely and simple tiara, made out of odd twigs and wild flowers. Beneath a fair brow and two lush eyebrows, a pair of dark brown eyes was looking at me with kindness and warmth.

She was wearing a forest-green woolen shirt with a long-sleeved jacket of the same color, while her long skirt was brown like the soil. And yes, she wore a necklace of pine cones around her lovely neck, just like the one worn by the Keeper. Beside her stood Shaggy, his tail wagging happily.

‘Who are you?’ I managed to blurt out.

Hearing my question, she laughed, and her laughter was as warm and kind as her eyes.

‘I am the Witch of the forest, for I know all the secrets, and how the magic works. I am the Mother for I made all the secrets, and I made all the magic.’

‘But witches are evil, and you look anything but evil.’ I was perplexed.

‘Oh, not at all, child. Witches were my first true descendants. They are the worshippers of nature, and not evil. Evil resided in the hearts of men who couldn’t respect a woman’s ability to reproduce and be one with nature.’ She corrected me in a sing-song voice.

‘And what is your name?’ I didn’t realize at the time, but I had already fallen in love for the first time in my life.

‘I carry many names, as everyone sees me in a different light.’ She replied while raising her lovely arms above her head, and the fog seemed to shift at her command. ‘The Greeks called me Gaia, for they saw me as the primordial life force and the ancestral source of all life. The Romans called me Terra, for I sprang from the earth, and I am a part of it. People weaved stories about me, and they enveloped me in myth. People wrote songs about me, and they shrouded me in magic.’

‘Myth and magic?’ I scratched my head and asked, ‘But what are you truly?’

‘Ah, truth, the most challenging of all perceptions.’ She sighed. ‘Come walk with me.’

She held my hand in her own and started walking. She was warm, as warm as the sun that comes out after a long and freezing winter night. Her warmth ran down my hand and touched my heart. I felt there was a light glowing in my heart. And she smelled wonderful. She smelt of all the wonderful things in the world.

She smelt of a mother’s lap, and warm milk and honey. She smelt of the rain and the clouds, and the black wet soil giving birth to life. She smelt of the wild flowers, green grass, and moss. She smelt of musk, and the desire that springs forth. And she smelt of the burning fire, and the glowing comfort that it provides.

We walked, and the shifting fog made me feel as if we were walking on the clouds. The rain had long stopped, but the drops falling from the trees played their own symphony of silence.

‘I was the first one on earth, and I will be the last. I gave birth to everything, and everything comes back to me.’ Her beautiful voice softly broke the silence. ‘I am the life force and I reside in everything. I even reside in you, child. I was the voice behind the Oracle at Delphi, and I am the end of all quests.’

‘You don’t look that old.’ It was hard for me to believe that she was as ancient as she claimed.

‘I am not part of the flow of time, child.’ She smiled and said, ‘Instead, time flows from the tips of my fingers.’

‘Are you…?’ I stopped and looked up at her kind face. ‘Are you God?’

‘Oh no, child. Not at all.’ She seemed surprised. ‘I am only a small part of God, as you are a small part of me. I am part of Her system.’

‘Her?’ I was flabbergasted. ‘I thought God was a Him.’

‘Is that so?’ Her eyes sparkled mockingly. ‘Anyway, let’s go inside before you catch a cold.’

___________________________________________________

‘Who was she truly?’ I asked the Turtle.

‘She was as she told you herself. She was and she is the Mother. And She is a part of all of us - you, me, the trees and the mountains, and even the oceans and the rivers. But don’t listen to me. I am just an old turtle.’ My old friend was always ready with strange answers.

‘She was…’ I said while thinking of that strange summer afternoon far away in my past. ‘She was strange, that’s for sure. And a voice in my heart confirmed whatever she said. But was that the truth?’

‘Remember what she told you?’ The Turtle looked up at me and asked. ‘She told you that truth is the most challenging of all perceptions.’

‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘And that was strange. Truth is not a perception, but a statement of facts.’

‘No, child!’ The Turtle corrected me. ‘Truth is our own individual perspective on life. It is when we treat truth as a statement of facts that we commit the gravest of all follies, for it makes us judge others. The only fact is that truth is never objective but only subjective.’

___________________________________________________

I looked up and there was a most marvelous wooden hut, right in the middle of the pine forest. It was just like the fairy stories, small with a high and sloping roof, and grey smoke rising from a small chimney. If any doubts remained in my mind about her being a witch, they vanished at that particular moment.

She took me inside, and the inside was as wonderful as the outside. There was a bright fire burning under a steaming cauldron, and the smell of broth made my stomach growl with hunger. She made me sit on a small wooden stool right next to the fire, and then inspected Shaggy’s leg very carefully.

‘Ah!’ She exhaled a satisfied sigh. ‘You did a wonderful job, child. With kindness in your heart, you are a born healer. Never forget that.’

I blushed and started looking around to hide my uneasy and shy happiness. But that compliment was magical. I believe that even if, at that moment, I was cruel, that compliment transformed my true nature, and I became kind. Words of those whom we love carry a strange power of transformation.

Overcoming my embarrassment, I looked around and was fascinated by what I saw.

The walls were covered with strange roots and aromatic herbs, while all sorts of strange-looking devices and instruments lay placed on small, wooden stools. I thought I could identify a few.

There was a silver, sand-filled hourglass, but the trickle of sand was frozen mid-air.

There was a golden globe with indigo oceans, slowly rotating on a small and delicate silver pivot.

There were gleaming sextants and a Mariner’s Compass, and there were crystals of all sizes and hues, each pulsating with hidden lights.

‘Have some.’ I looked up and there she was, standing close to me, holding a bowl of steaming broth with a small wooden spoon. ‘It will warm you up.’

‘You were telling me about God being not a Him, but a Her.’ I asked her amidst hungry gulps.

‘Oh yes.’ She turned, and at a subtle gesture of her hand, the flames sprang up and the fire started burning more brightly.

‘Tell me, child…’ She asked while facing me again. ‘What does God do that others cannot?’

‘He…’ I looked up at her and thought hard. ‘He can create life.’

‘Very good.’ She smiled. ‘And who creates life? A man or a woman?’

‘A woman.’ I had understood her point.

‘In the beginning of time, everyone acknowledged God as a female entity. God was a Goddess.’ She said with her eyes shining with happiness at my answer. ‘Women were not viewed as objects back then. Instead, they were revered and respected as life-creating entities. The ancient women were healers as they understood nature intimately.’ She closed her eyes for a moment and grew quiet.

‘Then what happened?’ I asked impatiently. ‘What changed?’

‘Then…’ She opened her eyes, and they were moist with tears. ‘Then man looked at himself and perceived his own physical superiority over women. He looked at his own muscles and anatomy and refused to revere and respect a physically inferior female. Patriarchy was the evil that corrupted the soul of man. He first tried to dominate her by sheer will and force. But when he failed, he looked for other ways. He devised religion and its complicated rituals and invented a cruel God, who only worked in his favor. Religion taught him to brand the healers as witches and burn them at the stake.’

‘Hmm!’ I was too young to understand how patriarchy worked. ‘You also told me that you are the life force and you reside in every living thing?’

‘No, I reside in everything - living or non-living, as you see things. But everything is alive, the mountains and the rivers and the trees and the stones. Everything sees and everything feels. But only those who truly understand life and nature can feel that.’ She said while placing her warm hand on my shoulder.

‘And how do you understand and feel all these things?’ I asked while inhaling her musky fragrance.

‘Kindness is the key to the door of understanding.’ She bent her head and peered deep into my eyes. ‘Kindness makes you sensitive and kindness makes you feel.’

‘I want to understand and I want to be kind.’ I whispered back with a dry throat. Her nearness was overwhelming my senses.

‘So be it.’ She said softly and bent her head as if she wanted to kiss my forehead. But then she suddenly stopped. ‘I can give you the gift of kindness, but remember, child, this gift comes with a dark curse.’

‘Curse?’ I was curious, but for that one kiss of hers, I was ready to accept a host of all the curses in the world.

‘Yes, a curse.’ She smiled sadly, and her dark brown eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘Sadness is the darkest of all curses, and it always comes along with kindness and understanding. So think very carefully before you accept this gift of mine.’

‘I am ready to accept your gift and the curse that comes along with it.’ I bravely declared and almost got lost in her lovely, moist eyes.

‘So be it.’ She whispered again and kissed my forehead. Two warm tears slid down her cheeks and fell onto my lips.

She removed her own necklace of pine cones and put it around my neck. She kissed my eyes one by one and peered into them again. I saw a strange light burning in the depths of her eyes. I looked closely, and the light was alive with images. I tried to focus and found myself becoming a part of those strange images.

I saw myself running after butterflies, and I saw those butterflies embracing the rose thorns. Their delicate hearts were instantly pierced, and purple blood flowed out and stained the rose petals.

I saw myself standing on top of a hill, while death and chaos reigned all around me. Armed men were fighting each other in the name of land and religion. Gradually, their victorious cries changed into cries of pain and misery, and their blood stained the soil.

And I saw myself loving with innocence and purity, my eyes alight with feelings. But then I saw my innocence being conquered by desire, and I saw myself losing the ability to love purely.

I saw all and I wept hard, tears streaming down my cheeks. I wept until darkness took me over and I was lost in nothingness.

___________________________________________________

When I opened my eyes again, I saw the worried faces of all my friends surrounding me. I looked around. I was back at the camp and was lying on my own bed.

‘What happened?’ I asked while trying to sit up.

‘Please don’t get up.’ A friend of mine said in a kind voice. ‘You are running a high fever.’

‘But how did I reach back? How am I here?’ I asked him.

‘The old cleaner found you lying unconscious in the forest. He brought you here.’ He replied.

‘Oh!’ I couldn’t speak anymore. Fever made my whole body ache.

‘What is this around your neck?’ My friend asked.

I opened my eyes and saw that he was fiddling with a necklace of pine cones around my neck.

‘This…’ My eyes filled with tears at the memory of the Mother. ‘This is a gift.’

___________________________________________________

‘Maybe it was all a dream and my feverish imagination.’ I said to no one in particular, and the Turtle chuckled with amusement.

‘Yes, maybe the necklace was put around your neck by the Keeper. Maybe he wanted to gift it to you.’ He was scuttling back into the shade.

‘No.’ I said after thinking hard. ‘I saw the Keeper again the day we were leaving the camp. He was wearing his own necklace.’

‘Maybe he made another, eh?’ The Turtle was still smiling.

‘Maybe.’ I nodded and stood up to leave.

‘So what is the truth?’ He looked up at me. ‘Did you or did you not meet the Mother?’

‘The fact is that I did not. And the truth is that I did.’

We kept on looking into each other’s eyes for a second or two, and then we both laughed.

— So my friends, what is the truth? Did I or did I not meet the Witch of Ghoragali? That is not for you to decide or judge, for that is my truth and mine alone. But you are welcome to go to Ghoragali and try your own luck. Maybe you are fortunate enough to meet Her. But if you do, and by any chance She offers you a gift, think very hard before accepting it because dark curses are hard to carry.

10Mar2017

Tales of the Ancient Turtle – Prophets of Sadness

Posted in Short Stories English by Shehryar Khawar

‘If strangers confess their fears to you, if friends share their deepest sorrows, the ancient Turtle would say you’re not cursed with sadness - you’re chosen for it.’

A reflective narrative about a writer who specializes in sadness, reuniting with his childhood friend, the ancient Turtle, who reveals a profound truth: some souls are chosen to be “Prophets of Sadness” - those gifted with the ability to understand and carry others’ burdens. Through the Turtle’s wisdom, the protagonist learns that God kissed certain souls to give them the power to see beyond happiness’s seductive blindness and witness the pain that others overlook.

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‘Do you know the problem with your writing?’ My filmmaker friend asked me.

He and I are old friends. He knows me well. I write, and sometimes he is kind enough to give life to my words.

‘Please enlighten me.’ I said, while smiling at him.

‘The world needs to be a happier place.’ His voice resonated with exasperation, ‘The world needs to hear happy words. People need to forget the dark side. They need a light at the end of their personal tunnels. But you, my friend, write only of heartbreak and sadness.’

‘Yeah! I guess you are right.’ I nodded. ‘But this is what I am. I can write of happiness and joy and laughter. But most of the time, I don’t want to.’

__________________________________________________________

Yeah, you have guessed right. I am a writer. And yes, as my well-meaning friend mentioned, I mostly write about sadness and tragedies. In fact, I write when sadness resonates inside me and my eyes are filled with tears. Each tear gives birth to a sentence. Sometimes, the stories are about my own life. But mostly these are just figments of my imagination.

Writing enables me to wear the skin of my characters. I live the life they live, and I breathe the air they breathe. Their sorrows vibrate in my soul, and their tears cloud my eyes.

I see the smiling face of an old and poor woman. I am not fascinated by her smile. Instead, I walk along the deep lines creasing her skin. I peer into the cloudy pools of her eyes. I feel the roughness of her hands. I taste the bitterness of her broken heart, and I feel the tiredness of her exhausted soul.

I see a child playing in the park. I am not charmed by his excitement and joy. Instead, I see the burdensome life ahead of him. I feel the sting of thorns lining his path to adulthood, and I see the grey clouds of worry circling his head. I hear the thunder of disappointments, still distant and far away, and I fear for his sanity.

I see a couple romancing in the rain. I notice the magic of love, but I choose to ignore it. Instead, I see the fading colors of passion. I taste the sourness that comes with possessiveness. I sense the growing distance between the souls, and I hear the tinkling of breaking hearts.

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‘Well, I guess my friend is right. Maybe the world does need to be happy. Maybe it does want to live in the light and deny the existence of darkness.’ I thought and walked into the open arms of the tired evening. The dipping sun is painting everything a pale-yellow shade of gold.

I looked around. Autumn was gently receding, making way for the blissful winters. I heard the crunch of dry brown leaves under my feet. And I felt the rustling of a dry breeze amongst the leafless branches of the old Banyan tree.

‘Hello? Who goes there?’ An old, raspy, and deep voice called out of the rose bushes.

‘Who is there?’ I asked and was surprised as the bushes were too small to hide anyone.

‘My! My! If it isn’t my old friend?’ The voice was warm and affectionate this time. ‘How have you been, son?’

I peered closely and there he was, my childhood friend, the ancient Turtle. For those of you not familiar with him, I had been friends with an ancient Turtle since I was very young, probably four or five. He lived in our backyard and had always acted as my mentor and an intimate friend.

__________________________________________________________

‘Hey! You are still alive?’ I was amazed. I never knew turtles could live this long. He was at least a few hundred years old when I last met him. And I was just a four-year-old kid back then.

‘Yes, still alive and apparently in quite good shape.’ He winked at me with a warm smile and asked, ‘What about you, son? How have you been?’

‘I am fine. Just a little grownup, I guess.’ I answered.

‘Well, being grown-up doesn’t matter as long as you keep on believing in talking turtles. Eh?’ He cocked his gnarled head and inspected me in detail, ‘Fine, you say? You don’t look so good to me.’

‘I am just a bit sad, I guess.’ I smiled at him.

‘Oh! But, you will always be a bit sad.’ The Turtle chuckled softly and said, ‘You were sad when you were a child. You are sad now, and you will always be sad.’

‘Why do you say that?’ He always had a knack for saying the most shocking of things in the simplest of manners.

‘Please scratch my back a little. I have an itch that refuses to leave me in peace.’ Instead of answering my question, he requested me.

I just laughed, bent down, and started scratching his mottled grey-green back with a small twig.

‘Are you hungry? Can I bring you something? A carrot perhaps?’ I offered.

‘Nope. I have had my fill. The brown leaves tasted just fine this afternoon.’ He burped a little to confirm the fullness of his stomach.

__________________________________________________________

Several minutes passed without either him or me saying anything. I just kept on scratching his back, while he closed his eyes in contentment. I looked at him closely. There was no change. He looked the same and smelt the same - the pleasant smell of dried up moss and ancient magic.

‘Why did you say that I have always been, and will always be sad?’ I asked him when he reopened his eyes.

‘Hmm! You see, son, when God created the souls, He first created a big shimmering blob of conscience.’ He said while shifting a little to catch the last rays of the dying sun. ‘Then He took that blob into His old, wise hands, and molded souls out of it. He sat back and took pleasure in what He had created. But something was wrong somewhere. God could feel it.’

‘Did He make a mistake?’ I asked the Turtle, unbelievingly.

‘No, not a mistake.’ The Turtle shook his wise head, ‘Once you can guess something is missing from your work, it is not a mistake. It just means you want your work to be perfect. And God is the ultimate perfectionist.’

‘And why have you stopped scratching?’ He asked annoyingly.

‘I apologize. I got lost in your words.’ I started scratching his mottled back again with a sheepish smile.

__________________________________________________________

The sky had turned orange. There were a few stray clouds with purple edges. It was a beautiful evening - full of marvelous colors. The birds flew over my head - flying back to their hungry children and little warm nests. They looked down on us with amazement - a grown-up man and an ancient turtle - but had no time to stop and exchange gossip.

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‘So, what was I saying?’ I was brought back to reality by the Turtle’s question.

‘You were saying that God thought something was missing in the souls He had created.’ I reminded him.

‘Yes, something was indeed missing.’ The turtle agreed with me while relaxing his body in pleasure. Apparently, my scratching was doing wonders for his itch. ‘God knew what was missing. He picked up a handful of souls and kissed them softly. With that kiss, His creation was complete.’

‘Why? Why did that last kiss matter?’ I said while looking at the Turtle in confusion.

‘You see, son, God being the creator of all, knew very well that life would bring sadness to the souls.’ The Turtle explained, ‘In fact, as life brings more sadness than joy, God wanted at least a few souls to understand the essence of sadness. This handful of souls, God made them the Prophets of Sadness.’

‘So the last kiss was the kiss of understanding?’ I was beginning to grasp what the old Turtle really meant.

‘Yes! The last kiss brought understanding and also a special power - the power to lighten the burden of sorrow and the power that could heal.’ The Turtle confirmed with a proud smile. ‘Happiness is a drug, which keeps you human beings sedated and oblivious. Joys make you unmindful of the sufferings around you. But pain and suffering live on, feeding on your blissful oblivion. There must be a few souls capable of rejecting the drug of happiness. These few souls are the Prophets of Sadness.’

__________________________________________________________

‘So that is why some people come to me and confess their fears, and share their sadness?’ I asked the Turtle, while thinking of so many of my strange encounters.

I thought of the middle-aged friend of mine who held my hand and wept over a wasted life, and I thought of the old man who whispered of his fear of death in my ears.

I thought of a friend sharing his desperation for a love he was never going to find, and I thought of the woman who told me she was afraid nobody was ever going to love her.

I thought of the little girl who was sad because nobody liked to be her friend at school, and I thought of the little boy who was bitter about the bullies making fun of his short height.

I thought of all those familiar and vague faces, and I relived their pains, sorrows, and fears within a mere moment.

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‘I listened to them. I felt their pain. I shared the burden of their sorrows. And I felt threatened by their fears. But I never healed them.’ I said while looking at the Turtle through the misty curtain of my disappointed tears.

‘No, my son. This is where you are wrong.’ The Turtle patted my hand reassuringly. ‘A tree never talks to the people resting under its shade. But still, it provides them with something they need. The tree provides them a place to shed off their tiredness and a place to rest awhile.

‘I would like to think I am a shady tree. But I am really not.’ I knew myself and my shortcomings far better than the old Turtle.

‘No? Not yet?’ He asked with a naughty smile. ‘Okay, no issues.’

But then, seeing my long face, he took pity and said, ‘Remember, son, ego is a poison that stunts the growth of the mightiest of shady trees. Ego climbs up their massive trunks and wraps itself around the delicate branches. It sucks the life force and keeps on sucking it until the tree dies. You get rid of your ego, and you will reach your true destiny. You will become the Prophet of Sadness.’

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‘Baba! Baba! Where are you?’ We were interrupted by the voice of my young son.

I looked at my friend, and he was beginning to gradually fade away.

‘What are you doing here, sitting on your knees?’ My son asked, finding me kneeling beside the rose bushes.

‘Nothing, my love. Just chatting with an old friend.’ I stood up and held his tiny hand in mine.

‘Which old friend?’ He was surprised and looked here and there, but could not find anyone. The Turtle had long gone.

‘Don’t worry, he has already left.’ I smiled at him.

‘So tell me…had any troubles lately?’ I asked him as we started walking towards the house.

‘Why? What will you do with my troubles?’ He asked while looking at me strangely.

‘I will listen to your troubles and understand them. I will put them all in a small box and bury that box within my heart forever. Your troubles will trouble you no more.’ I said while drawing him close.

‘You know what, Baba?’ He smiled his peculiar smile, which was growing wider by the minute.

‘What?’ I asked while peering back into his mischievous, dark eyes.

‘You are becoming strange.’ He announced.

I stopped, looked back at the rose bushes, and took a deep breath. The Turtle had already left, but the air still smelled of moss and magic. ‘No, my love, I am not becoming strange. Rather, I am becoming a Prophet of Sadness.’

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Tag Archives: magical realism

Tales of the Ancient Turtle — The Merchant of Dreams

Tales of the Ancient Turtle – Dreaming of God

Tales of the Ancient Turtle: Resurrection of the White Chrysanthemums (Previously, the Three White Chrysanthemums)

Tales of the Ancient Turtle – The Witch of Ghoragali

Tales of the Ancient Turtle – Prophets of Sadness