“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 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.
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.
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.
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.’
‘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.
Shehryar khawar 