Lost in the desert and abandoned by my caravan, I stumbled into a village where famine had killed everything except love, and there I witnessed the face of God.
A haunting narrative of a traveler abandoned in the desert who stumbles upon a village devastated by famine, where death and hunger reign supreme. Through stark, unflinching prose, the story follows the protagonist from a night of passion with a gypsy woman to a searing encounter with human suffering at its most extreme.
I had separated from the caravan. When I woke up, the camels were nowhere to be seen. Only the steaming piles of dung and the remnants of smouldering fires remained. The sun had risen in the desert sky - it was already midday. A few vultures sat at a distance, watching me with hungry eyes.
I cursed my luck and silently abused the spicy wine, bought from an equally spicy gypsy woman. That night, I was on my naked back, being caressed by the cool sand, and she rode me with a vengeance. Her head full of dark snakes formed a halo around her oval face. I looked at the glittering galaxy, weaving stars through her Medusan tresses. She moved, and the galaxy moved with her. We left the desert floor and rose into the crisp night air. One supernova of pleasure after another, and I lost myself in both time and space.
I got up and swayed for a while on my unsteady legs. The day was hot around me as the cruel sun beams scorched all that they touched. The scalding wind blew from an unseen burning oven. I filled my leather flask with muddy water from the hole and started walking. I followed the camel tracks with a rapidly fading hope of catching the caravan.
I walked and walked some more. I walked until blisters formed on the soles of my feet. Then the blisters burst and became sores. But still I walked. To stop meant death, and I didn’t want to die.
I walked on and came across a village devastated by famine, comprising a handful of mud huts and burnt fields of corn. I looked around and saw death everywhere. Hunger had sucked the life out of the dying children, and the shrivelled breasts of their mothers oozed blood. The earth was blankly staring at the merciless skies, cracked all over and parched with an eternal thirst.
There were a few stray dogs, and they had their bloody jaws buried in the bellies of the dead, thankful for a mouthful of stringy, rotten flesh. The vultures sat atop the dried-up branches of blackened trees, silently watching the last glimmer of life fading away.
‘This is surely hell…!’, I thought, ‘…and God has abandoned earth!’
A sudden pull on my tunic, and I looked down. It was a woman, rather just the shadow of a woman. Her skeletal hands grasped my ankle tightly - the shrunken eyes screaming a silent plea. A tongue, dry and white with thirst, licked at the dry, clotted blood on her lips. She tried to muster up her leftover energy, but her dried-up throat was unable to produce the word ‘water’.
I offered her the unscrewed flask.
‘Take it!’ I gestured. ‘I am sorry, but only a mouthful is left.’
She held the bottle in her hands, her eyes wide with disbelief. She hesitatingly took a sip but did not swallow.
‘Go on,’ I pushed her silently. ‘Swallow it!’
A ghost of a smile danced on her bloody lips, and I realized that she could swallow, but was saving the water for some other purpose. Bending her head down, she brushed aside her tattered shawl. There was a baby in her lap. She kissed her dying baby on the lips and poured the water into the baby’s mouth.
I looked on, witnessing the miracle of motherly love. She wiped away her dry tears and stared at me. All was dead except the eyes. Then she breathed her last, and the eyes died too.
I saw God smiling from behind the shrunken depths of her dead eyes.
‘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!
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.’
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.
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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.
‘Past was a dream, future is a fantasy, and present is all that ever matters.’
A lyrical philosophical tale spanning ancient Damascus to the desert mountains of Balkh, exploring humanity’s relationship with time through the teachings of a defrocked priest and the mystical wisdom of Maga, an enigmatic desert woman. The story weaves together the concept of the “sacred triangle” - where survival, love, and desire intersect within the singular reality of the present moment.
‘Jawdat, please listen to me, son.’ My old father requested me, while we sat on the dunes, watching the long worms of caravans, leaving and entering Damascus.
‘Jawdat, my darling son, everything in this universe speaks. The mountains, the deserts, the oceans, and the clouds - they all speak. But to understand them, you have to first learn their sacred language.’ My father said in his usual poetic manner.
He was a strange man - my father. He was a priest once, but not anymore. Once he started questioning the power of the gods, he was soon ousted from the ranks of the holy. The other priests thought him mad, and I shared their opinion. But strangely, his unceremonious ousting from the temple did bring us two closer. We started sitting together and eating together, and took long walks in the golden deserts surrounding the ancient city of Damascus.
It was only when I started listening to him with attention that I realized something. He was not mad. Instead, he was blessed with a miraculous ability to see the invisible and look past the obvious. He had seen the true light, and his wise words vibrated with the rationale of his beliefs.
‘What about the light father?’ I asked him.
‘What about it?’ He looked at me with confusion.
‘Does the light speak too?’ I asked thoughtfully.
‘Yes, it does, and so does the darkness.’ He nodded his head, and his eyes reflected the expanse of the clear blue sky.
‘The darkness?’ I was confused. ‘Darkness is nothing. Even pure darkness is the absolute absence of light.’
‘Not at all, Jawdat.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘Where light is all energy, darkness carries neither matter nor energy. But still it exists. And its independence from energy ensures that darkness travels through time without any transformation. This intactness of darkness makes it wiser than the light.’
‘But what do they say? What do they tell us - the light and the darkness?’ I asked without completely understanding his line of reasoning.
‘The light tells us that life is a sacred triangle.’ He bent down and drew a triangle in the sand with his brass-tipped staff. ‘The first corner of this triangle is survival, the second corner is love, and the third corner is desire.’ He drew the ancient symbols for each of these elements - a smaller baseless triangle within a circle for survival, a crowned heart for love, and a snake for desire.
‘And where does this triangle reside? Does it remain suspended within the confines of the soul?’ I asked him as to me, the soul encompassed all.
‘No, my son!’ My father said, drawing a circle enclosing the sacred triangle and the three symbols within. ‘The scared triangle with all its three elements, exists within a real moment of time.’
‘All moments of time are real, Father.’ I laughed.
‘No, Jawdat!’ he looked at me sternly. ‘The past is obscured in the dust of time, and the future is just a vague possibility. Only the present is real. So it is in the present that the sacred triangle hangs and resides. And that is something that the darkness tells us.’
________________________________________________
I scooped up some sand in my palm and looked at it closely. The grains were all together, yet separate and individual. Some shone with a sparkling brilliance, while others were just grey and black speckles. I clenched my fist, and the sand slipped out. I tried to hold it in, but it all drained out.
I looked up and found the old woman watching me intently.
‘Tell me, O’ Maga, the wise one!’ I asked her, watching her silver hair blowing with the night wind.
‘What is the most significant of the past, the present, and the future?’
‘Hmm!’ She raised both her hands and tied her hair in a loose bun with her ringed fingers. The reds and greens of the rubies and emeralds flashed from within the silver threads. ‘What do you think, child? What do you believe is the most significant of these three?’
I looked up at her. She was silent, but there was a subtle smile dancing at the corners of her mouth.
The old woman was strange. Maga - that’s what she told me her name was. And I was beginning to believe that Maga was the embodiment of the sacred triangle for me.
I found her in the desert. Rather, it was she who found me. My caravan was attacked by the robbers two nights out of Balkh. I was deeply wounded and was left for dead by the other survivors. How many days and nights I spent in the cold mountains, I do not know. Each sunrise brought along a new intensity of misery and thirst, while each night burnt me with her cold, freezing fingers.
Then one evening, something cold and wet was pressed against my blackened and dry lips. Slowly, a few drops of water trickled onto my thorny tongue and down my parched throat. I slowly opened my eyes. My head was resting on her folded thigh, and her kind face was smiling down at me. She had drenched her black scarf in water and was moistening my lips.
Gradually, I came back to life. She had snatched me away from the clutches of death. At first, I thought she was just a vision - an illusion and product of my deranged mind. But the revival of my strength assured me of the reality of her existence.
We were inseparable thereafter, though Maga did not need my company at all. She was old but still wild enough to carry a curved dagger, hidden within the folds of her black robe. She apparently needed neither food nor water. I had never seen her eating anything except that sometimes she chewed on some dried roots and mushrooms.
Maga was my scared triangle - in that there was no doubt. She was my survival when I needed to cling to life. She was my warmth when I was tortured by my loneliness. And one night she became my desire, when my senses were heavy with lust and my body was craving human touch. I expected myself to be disgusted in the morning. But when the sun rose, I found my heart filled with only love for her. So yes, she had become my sacred triangle.
_________________________________________
‘So what do you think, child? Maga asked, breaking my reverie.
‘Huh?’ I looked at her questioningly.
‘What is the most significant of these three, the past, the present, or the future?’
I thought hard before presenting an answer. ‘My past has made me what I am, and my future is pulling me into itself. But I am breathing in the present. So perhaps, the present is the most significant of all.’ I brushed off the dust on my hands and looked up at her.
‘Yes!’ She smiled with her kohl-lined eyes. I peered back into them, and the reflection of the bright moon peered back at me. ‘Past is only a dream and the future is a fantasy. Only the present is real - as real as it can be.’
‘But what if the present is also a dream?’ I asked.
‘That is possible too, of course.’ She smiled at me. ‘But you are living this dream…aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am.’ I confessed.
‘Past is important because it started with your birth, and the future is important because it will end with your death.’ She spread her hands, and the night wind blew her long robe in a trail of grey shadows. ‘But what is enclosed in between these two absolute realities is a series of moments. Each of these moments becomes the future, the present, and then the past, in turn. But it is only when the moment exists in the present that it matters the most. Because it encompasses the entirety of your existence.’ She finished her brief lecture and smiled at me.
‘Maga?’ I asked her, ‘Do the dead regret not living in the moment?’
‘That is something only the dead can tell you, child.’
I sat down on the cold sand, and she rested her head on my shoulder. I smelt the sandalwood smell of her silver hair and closed my eyes peacefully. The night was melting fast around us, and the moon was diving below the horizon. Soon, it became just a yellow shadow in the West.
_________________________________________________
‘Jawdat!’ Maga whispered in my ear, and I opened my eyes.
The night had enveloped us completely, and the desert was all silent. The wind had died down, and the lonely stars were sparkling silently - witnessing our present.
I looked at her, and she directed my gaze towards a few stars lining the horizon. Some of them gradually detached from the others and slowly crept nearer until they became a short trail of moving lanterns. The dead night air sighed again and brought the murmuring of the wavering wails to our ears.
Shadows were hiding behind the lanterns. Slowly, the shadows started assuming human forms. It looked like a funeral procession, creeping along the soft sand with deliberate steps. By then, the wail had become a rich mixture of grief and tears, the heralds of some unspoken tragedy.
I saw the wooden box, solemn in its quiet grace, riding the shoulders of wailing mourners. Though it jerked and rolled with each step, its occupant was very much dead and lifeless.
‘Jawdat!’ Maga again whispered my name and then muttered some words under her breath.
I felt my body dissolving into the darkness. I became the night wind and caressed the wet cheeks of the tired mourners. I tasted the bitterness of tragedy and then stole into the dark coffin. I became the darkness itself and crawled underneath the dead eyelids. And the dead spoke to me:
‘Touch my lips, which have kissed a hundred beauties,
caress my eyes, that have dreamt a million dreams
Feel my heart, that preferred passion over duties,
and run in my veins, that once pulsated with extremes
But no more, my friend, no more, no more,
I breathe no more, I am dead for sure
I am a lonesome traveller, walking a dark path,
my fate is unsure, my end is all vague
There is no light in my eyes, neither joy nor wrath,
my heart silently suffers - loneliness is the deadliest plague
I was a man once, but now I am just a bundle of flesh,
the flesh that is beginning to rot and stink
I wish I could start my whole life afresh,
I wish I had more time to ponder and to think
Look at my wife, beating her chest in grief,
but her tears are drying up really very fast
Tomorrow she will live again, for this tragedy was brief,
I was her joy in the present, but now I am her past
Listen to the shuffling steps that belong to my weary sons,
they are burdened with sorrow, but their hearts are filled with hope
Tomorrow they will rise again, for death only stuns,
for their future is bright, as they will slowly climb the rope
Listen, my friend, and listen carefully,
my time has come, and yours will come soon
Listen, my friend, and listen attentively,
I am now dead, and you too will die soon
Life is a dew drop, vanishing once kissed by the sun,
dust on a moth’s wings, only ash once kissed by a flame
So live your life, live it to the full; have all the joy, have all the fun,
for in the end, there’ll be nothing left but regrets and shame’
__________________________________________
‘Did you hear the dead man’s words?’ Maga asked me.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And what have you understood?’ ‘That past was a dream, future is a fantasy, and present is all that ever matters.’
A lyrical tale of unexpected reunion set against the atmospheric backdrop of Vienna’s cobblestone streets and the flowing Danube River. This contemplative love story explores the complex emotions between two former lovers who meet again after years apart, weaving together themes of desire, patience, and the transformative power of time. Through poetic prose and philosophical reflections shared with a mystical banyan tree, the narrative delves into the difference between fleeting desire and enduring love. The story captures the Portuguese concept of “saudade” – that bittersweet longing for what was lost – as the protagonists navigate their shared past and uncertain future amid Vienna’s old-world charm and melancholic street music.
‘Tell me why you are here?’ I asked, while softly caressing her delicate ivory palm, ‘Tell me why you are here with me, in this very moment?’
Her palm was soft and cold, but with a subtle warmth pulsating just beneath the fragile skin.
‘That’s a strange question, and I really do not have any answer.’ A tiny smile danced around the corners of her lips. She peered back into my eyes, looking for an answer or perhaps solace. Then she suddenly looked away and the magic was broken.
Vienna was the usual evening chaos. Desires were pursuing desires in an endless cycle. The lights of some old Gothic palace reflected in and danced along the soft waves of the Danube. The river was a cauldron of silence, and the moist evening breeze stirred both its calm surface and also our senses.
Across a cobbled yard stood a couple of street musicians. A tall graceful woman was playing a sad symphony on her old violin; while her companion, an old man, was plucking bits of joy from the keys of his weather-beaten accordion. I listened to their music closely and recognized loss and love, singing their eternal duet.
‘Why don’t you tell me why you are here?’ A challenge flashed briefly in her smiling eyes, ‘Why are you here in Vienna?’
For a single brief moment, she became what she was a half-decade ago – a beautiful golden dragon that breathed fire of unspoken desires. An unpredictable dragon and an independent dragon – free to roam the wide blue skies.
‘Why am I here?’ I asked myself looking down at the lines mapping the palms of my hands. Then I raised my head and looked back at her with an answering smile, ‘Perhaps I am lost or perhaps I am here for the love that remains.’
When I first met her, I was not as young as I once used to be, but I was as restless as the branches of a tall pine tree. She was strong wind, blowing through my branches after a very long time. Slim and charming with soft brown hair, which cascaded boldly around her lovely face, and a taut, sensuous body. Her strange and unnamable seduction, weaved its magic wand and I fell under her spell.
I remembered looking at her for the first time. She reminded me of the dark mysterious forests, smelling heavily of tropical rains. She reminded me of the moist green moss, climbing up and curving along the tree trunks. And she reminded me of the rain-drenched soil, emitting wisps of a fragrant mist. Whenever I try to remember what all I felt on first seeing her, there is a small whisper in my ears – desire.
Though all desires are sensuous, this one spoke more of unconditional love.
She always looked like a goddess and a bright light of brilliance peeked from behind her dark unsmiling eyes. Sometimes, under my worshipping gaze, her chiseled features melted into a soft and malleable kindness. But mostly, she remained a marble statue. She was a goddess who demanded to be loved while hiding behind tradition and humility. I was a humble priest who fell in love with her because the possibility of losing her in the whirling sands of time frightened me.
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‘I think I am in love.’ I excitedly spilled out my secret to the old banyan tree. We were the only two souls in the courtyard of the Tomb of the Lonely Saint. The saint was long dead, but his spirit, as I felt, resided within the tree.
‘And when did you realize this?’ The tree asked in its deep, old, and rusty voice – its texture as rough as his bark.
‘The realization came slowly, almost like the hesitant monsoon rain. But now that it is here, I feel as if struck by a thunderbolt.’ I said, while sitting down with my back to the trunk, ‘I can feel the lightening tingling along my spine and nerves.’
‘Beware, son!’ The old tree whispered back, ‘Love is a banshee disguised as a butterfly. She may be kind to the fools. But to those who recognize and understand her and submit to her power willingly, she is always cruel beyond words.’
‘She is not a banshee.’ I protested. ‘She is a butterfly and her wings reflect all the colours of this world.’
The tree felt silent and thought for a moment.
‘Perhaps it is yet not love. Perhaps it is desire – a desire that does not dissolve with the waning moon. But a desire that is capable of evolving into love one day.’
‘What if it always remains a desire?’ My heart trembled with the fear of possible loss.
‘Hmm…!’ The tree rustled its many branches, and legions of tired pigeons flew out, scared of the sudden movement. ‘Remember, son! Desire is one of the most powerful of all forces of nature. It is the force that makes the world go around in circles. Desire takes birth, deep within the warm recesses of our ever-hungry hearts. It climbs our souls like a vine climbs up a tree, entrapping and teasing the branches. It starts with an almost erotic touch and then embeds its tentacles deep within our lonely hearts. And then it starts sucking. It hungrily sucks in our soul and our ego and our character and our self-control, and it leaves us empty and dry.’
The tree said it all deliberately and in his usual sing song style. His wisdom was like an old wine – each sip to be savoured and treasured.
‘How do I ensure that this doesn’t just remain a desire?’ My fear was growing stronger.
‘Whenever two souls come across each other, floating along the river of time, it is always for a higher purpose. And that purpose is always love.’ The tree said.
‘Don’t worry, son!’ A few dry leaves floated down and caressed my shoulders kindly. ‘If it is meant to be, it will be.’
‘You have always had the habit of talking in riddles.’ She took a sip and her soft eyelids covered her dark beautiful eyes for a moment.
‘Well that is just me.’ I smiled at her, ‘Anyway, why are you here in Vienna?’
‘New York troubles my soul sometimes.’ She said while searching my eyes, ‘The chaos disturbs my quest for inner peace. And Vienna always attracts me with its old architecture and good music.’
We grew quiet for a moment. The musicians had stopped but the notes of their strange sad-happy symphony, were still echoing beyond the edge of silence.
I looked at her face. I was wrong. She did not look as young as I had initially thought. There were lines on her face – very fine lines. I peered at them closely. Under my careful gaze, each line became a crack and the crack widened into a gorge and within that gorge, there flowed the river of time.
‘Why are you here?’ She suddenly broke the fragile silence hovering around and between us.
‘I curate a small museum of antiquities along the Bräunerstraße. And in the evening I come here. I listen to the music and I write.’
‘Do you find it strange?’ She hesitated – her delicate mouth quivering like a bow stretched in full. ‘Do you find it strange – us meeting here in Vienna?’
‘I haven’t been able to understand something.’ I tried to change the subject.
‘And what is that, my son?’ The Banyan tree asked kindly.
‘Why doesn’t she ever smile?’ I asked.
‘And why do you want her to smile?’ He chucked softly.
‘I want to see her face breaking into a smile, and I want to see the light of happiness shining through. I want to see the smiling lines appear around the corners of her mouth and eyes; and I want those lines to become an intricate treasure map. And then I want to trace those lines with my lips and find the treasure.’
‘It is definitely desire.’ The tree chuckled, ‘But don’t worry, she will smile one day.’
‘And when will that be?’ I was growing sceptical.
‘Remember, son!’ The Banyan tree answered, ‘An oyster lies deep within the ocean and awaits the arrival of a single grain of sand. Once that grain enters the oyster, it takes years and years to coat that grain with nacre. With patience and with time, that grain of sand becomes a lustrous pearl. The oyster remains patient. It keeps that pearl secure within its shell – hiding it from greedy eyes. But one day, when and if a true seeker of the pearl arrives, the oyster willingly opens up and offers the pearl.’
‘So she is the oyster, and one day she may offer love with a smile if I remain patient.’ I had understood what the tree wanted to tell me.
‘I would like an answer to my question.’ Her voice broke my reverie.
‘Huh! What question is that?’ I looked at her while still thinking fondly of my old friend – the old Banyan tree.
‘I asked you if you find it strange – us meeting here in Vienna out of the blue?’ She reposed her question, deliberately.
‘Nothing is ever out of the blue.’ I smiled at her, ‘Whenever two souls come across each other, floating along the river of time, it is always for a higher purpose.’
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We didn’t speak any more words. We just sat there beside the Danube – two silent shadows lost in their own thoughts. Then her hand moved and covered mine. It was warm and soft. I looked up into her eyes and witnessed a slow and subtle transformation. Her eyes crinkled a little, and the lines around the corners of her lips, formed a smile. It was the loveliest of all the smiles in the whole world. We slowly reached across the table for each other, and my lips found hers. I traced the lines around her mouth delicately and carefully, and finally found my treasure.
“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.
Shehryar khawar 