Contents
Imprint 4
1. 5
Smile of God ! 5
2. 13
Star of love 13
3. 19
Star of Destiny! 19
4. 27
The Pole-Star 27
5. 30
A Shooting Star! 30
6. 38
Animals, not Humans! 38
7. 45
The Story Star! 45
8. 49
Arms to Alms! 49
9. 54
A lady bird! 54
10. 60
Garden of Stars 60
11. 69
The Star-Mantra 69
12. 78
A Star-Child! 78
13. 86
Soul of Love! 86
14. 90
Lady of Letters! 90
15. 95
Princess of Stars 95
16. 100
Sea of Love! 100
17. 107
Roots of Love(part one)107
18. 113
Roots of Love(part two)113
19. 122
Soul to Soul 122
Imprint
All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.
© 2021 novum publishing
ISBN print edition: 978-3-99064-344-0
ISBN e-book: 978-3-99064-345-7
Editor: Ashleigh Brassfield, DipEdit
Cover photos: Vivilweb,
Ryhor Bruyeu | Dreamstime.com; Lavanya Maddala
Cover design, layout & typesetting:novum publishing
Internal illustrations: Lavanya Maddala
www.novum-publishing.co.uk
1.
Smile of God !
It was the early sixties of the twentieth century. All the world had been witnessing a realignment of maps, lands and countries. The League of Nations had become a flop. The two great wars of civilisation had taken their toll on all humanity. There was no victor nor vanquished. Acrimonious debates were no longer in fashion. Animosities had died down – almost finished off! The United Nations Organisation was the new hope of a new world.
He was the Head of a world Religion. Not an order, but whole races followed the Religion religiously. He had mastered the scriptures, read the tracts off dimly lit library tables throughout long hours of uncertain times, even as a youth. Soon, Dame Luck propelled him to the highest seat of position in the Religion. He was a Demi-God to his council of advisers and the mammoth administrative system his post demanded him to preside over. To the blind adherents though, he was God in person …
As the huge jumbo jet landed on the soil of an ancient foreign land named India (of whose glorious past in the ages gone by he had read in chronicles written by ancient Mariners, priests and apostles who had sailed the stormy, deep seas), he felt a trepidation come over his Being. Was it fear of unknown snake-charmers? Was it of great royal Bengal tigers reported to be prowling around the deer, dainty peacocks and the prancing hordes of monkeys? Or, was it of some alien culture, which was termed pagan-worship by his kinsmen, but which, in truth, and to his personal knowledge, was an even higher form of worship of Universe, of Life and of Supreme Soul?
He murmured a prayer in an ancient Roman language and the sense of relief returned him to a buoyant present state of mind.
In God We Trust …!
These were the magic words of consolation that always emboldened him in times of trepidation, guilt, sadness, remorse and fear. As they did now …
He, more than anybody else that followed the remarkable religion he was currently the living head of, was aware of his existence as a mere mortal on Earth – susceptible, vulnerable and prone to weaknesses, illness and temptations. Much venerated as he was…
The ‘His Worship’, ‘His Holiness’, ‘His Exalted Highness’ – titles charmed the utterers of the words and the myriad Believers of the myth of the Head of Religion being the carrier of the Spirit of God Almighty! But it merely brought a faint twitch to his facial nerves. The high crown he had to wear, and the long staff, heavily laden with precious stones, were the weighty adornment of his prime status.
There was a motley group of saffron clad Hindu priests, of whom he had only read in the books and translated versions which he had access to, come to life, standing before a string of saree-clad young women holding large rose-garlands in their hands. The protocol officer of his Western headquarters had cautioned him against kissing them or hugging them in warm embrace, but to bow low and let them garland his short neck. He was actually a diminutive frame as a human figure, but the daunting, treasured chapel, cloak, crown, staff and crystal ball held in his palms as a ready weapon against any ferocious tiger who crossed his path lent him the image of a towering figure of majesty!
There were even three huge, black elephants with umbrellas decorated with velvet clothes and silken garments trumpeting a welcome to him. He let the damsels garland him. Resisted an impulse to plant a few blessings on their rosy cheeks. They certainly appeared to be the celestial maidens one read about in ancient Indian folklore. Was it that their well draped and graceful persona added a magical charm to their natural beauty? Well, it wasn’t right to be flirtatious on such a solemn State occasion, in any case.
After all, this State visit was aimed at nurturing, adopting and gaining control over a vast territory of the world, stretching from the grand Himalayas down south to where the three seas – the Indian Ocean, Bay of Bengal and the Arabian Sea – met…
As local bigwigs escorted by turbaned, giant looking moustached soldiers and representatives of his own religion began to come to where he was seated, on a replica of his throne back home, and kissed the back of his outstretched palm, he let a mysterious smile play on his lips.
Inwardly, he mused to himself at the ingenuity exhibited by his chief caretaker, a widowed aristocratic lady who forced him to wear a pair of translucent gloves in order that germs passing from those who came in contact with His Worship’s hand did not harm him, as they do all other normal human beings…
Irreverent am I? He looked askance at himself as the huge diamond ring presented to him by the Sheriff of Bombay reflected his face, as though from a movie projector.
No, the love and adulation exhibited by this country’s people was of an order he had not seen anywhere before, in all his travels around the civilised globe…
Just as he was getting up to say a mass prayer, a little, fair-skinned boy of seven walked up to him, holding the finger of the Sheriff, and gifted the world’s most powerful leader of thought and religion a beautiful, red rose!
The fragrance was mesmerisingly pleasant, fresh, and transported him, as other aphrodisiacs always did to people. He condescendingly whispered aloud, “God bless you little one!”
At once, the lad looked him in the eyes and spoke in pure English: “Have you seen God?”
The non-plussed Head of Religion, simply amazed, smiled dazedly and gave a few furtive glances at the child, even as the Sheriff turned pale and white in fear. The latter mumbled that the boy was his youngest son and that he be forgiven for whatever offensive words he might have said.
The Head simply gaped, doubly surprised at the apologies being rendered by the father of one who had actually given him the words of Enlightenment!
After the brief three-day, whirlwind tour, as he was to depart for his homeland, the Police Commissioner informed the Sheriff of the City that his little son was asked to be brought immediately under strictly guarded, secret escort. The Family members were shocked and frightened, for theirs was the oldest Brahmin family of the region and held in greatest respect by one and all. It was a slur on the dignity of an entire dynasty if one chit of a child could recklessly hurt or insult a visiting dignitary, and that too of none other than the revered Head of the world’s most powerful, reigning religion!
But they had to honour the request.
The child was sent in his finest linen to meet the Head of Religion, an honoured guest of the whole country!
What transpired then was a beautiful moment for all who were privy to it: The Head kneeled down as the little young boy approached him, took his little palm and kissed it as though it was a holy grail, and placed his hand above the child’s head and said a prayer lasting a few minutes, which none present there could understand nor remember.
The boy was sent back to his house along with an inspector of police. The visiting dignitary was given a ceremonial send-off, this time with a contingent of finest horsemen doing an equestrian display. Music bands played live.
The atmosphere was one of merriment.
Nirvana!
Moksha!
Salvation!
All were words. God bless you, we all say, some more often than others; many more choose not to acknowledge the presence of God, or any superpower of the mighty Universe.
But, to those who do keep saying as they breathe – “God bless you!”
Have you ever seen God?
Or, felt the presence of an unseen, Almighty, super-natural God?
Yes, to the curious ones, that young man in this tale grew up in the six decades since, and I had the chance to meet him in person and explain to him of the presence of God, godliness and goodness of God in being as vividness: seen yet unseen; untouched but felt; worshipped but evasive in a sceptical environment of scientific temper, short tempers and haughty attitudinal behaviour of lesser mortals that abound in our societies, today…
It takes a lot of understanding to grasp the essence of presence of God in one and all animate as well as inanimate objects of Mother Nature!
Self-realisation comes as a shock. Numbing all vanity. Invoking good conscience. Peace, serenity and bliss only follow such a defining moment of our lives.
Praise the Lord!
AUM…
Love and Peace…
Have you seen God present in your actions, thoughts, neighbourhood? As the Head of yore, let enlightenment dawn upon us instantly: love alone merits a life.
2.
Star of love
She was as energetic at eighty-five years of age as when she was eight years old. All the wrinkles added grace and light to her beautifully chiselled features. A smile played perennially on her face, and the glint in her marble-like blue eyes added to the aura she projected around herself!
And she carried herself with the demeanour befitting the head of a living family tree of fifty members, ranging from tiny toddlers, to youths, to middle-aged people, to ‘senior citizens’. In a way, she was a union of several wills, to a single, whole and undivided will. They all adored her strong presence, celebrated life in her jovial, bubbly company.
And today was a very special day for her. Every Christmas day brought with it memories of her own Santa Claus.
***
The old man still had the striking features of the handsome soldier who had joined the armed forces as a reluctant youth, on the insistence of his grandfather, who had fought in the Great War of Civilisation but had, over the years, risen to become a Field Marshal and honourably retired from service of the Motherland. The price of fame, though, in changed times, has been the acquisition of fabulous wealth by his kith and kin, but each of his children and grandchildren were so caught up in their own worldly pursuits that they had to cross the oceans to meet one another once every few years. The widower loved his glass of rum and stack of books; a round of golf with the old boys or the odd game of tennis at the Club helped him stay fit as a fiddle. What cost was all the Wealth and Prosperity attained in the name of a fragile Peace after all those bitter Wars? This was the nagging question which plagued his mind every waking hour in recent times.
And so, he was now flying out to spend the Christmas with the men of the Fifth Regiment, from which he had graduated to become a superior Officer, winning his first Sword of Valour. Even as he looked across the aisle from his window seat on the flight taking him to Madras, he espied a little girl with blinking eyes, clutching on to her Barbie handbag, taking a seat in the other row. No one seemed to escort the little child, who appeared to be no older than seven years. The airhostesses were fluttering about like butterflies but as mechanical as worker bees. They did not bother to answer the child’s repeated pleas for a glass of water; nor were they attending to his buzzer-call.
He winced aloud: was this the era of carelessness he and thousands of other soldiers had sacrificed their lives for? Sending out a prayer to the souls of all his men who were martyred in the call of duty, the old gentleman officer soon found his musings interrupted by the pilot’s in-flight announcement that they would be landing in a short while.
As expected, during deplaning, he and the little girl were overtaken by all their co-passengers, who appeared in a greater hurry to get off the plane. Still holding the Barbie-doll handbag, she tentatively ambled towards the exit gate. Noticing that a painting-box had dropped out of her hands, the pink-faced old man bent down to pick it up and hand it to her. She gave a smile of surprise and gratitude at the same time. And, in a sing-song voice, she said, “Thank you, Uncle!”
He turned beetroot red at the courteous little greeting. The gratitude for old-world manners rang loud and clear. As they both ambled towards the baggage-claim area, the two chatted like two long lost friends. She was visiting her auntie’s place alone for Christmas because her father was a very busy surgeon who could not afford a holiday, and her mother had to stay back to cook his meals and keep house. This was her first trip alone. She was a topper in her class and aimed to become a police officer when she grew up. There were so many problems with law & order in society, she declared. She also informed him that he resembled the picture of the Field-Marshal whose portrait adorned the Hall of Fame in her school library, and giggled long and loudly.
The old man joined in the merriment.
Just as they were parting ways on her sighting her Aunt, Uncle & cousins, who had come to welcome her home, on an impulse the old man with the pink smile thrust his long hands into a corner of his briefcase, took out a small golden cover and, along with a box of Swiss chocolates, handed it over to the sweet little creature, planting a peck on her forehead.
With a mock-harsh tone, he said: “Officer, you shall not open this box before Good Old Santa Claus visits you tonight!”
The conspiratorial tone excited the child no end, and she held up a palm and said, “I promise you, Uncle!”
He felt a lump in his throat as their car disappeared into the traffic.
***
The clock struck twelve.
It was Christmas day again!
A solitary tear ran down her cheek.
She opened the golden box with her entire family of fifty gathered in the huge drawing room, seated by the fireplace and the beautiful Christmas Tree decorated with little bulbs of different colours. A bright photograph smiled at them all from beside the Christmas Tree.
“Oh, I am imprisoned in this world even eighty years from that date, Uncle!” she whispered. And, moved to tears, she gently opened the box which was presented to her by the Uncle who had endeared himself to all of her being and family; out popped a glistening Gold Medal with the inscription: “The Honoured First Field Marshal”! A golden star glistened, as the solitary star which directed the Three Magi on that fateful night, all those years ago on their way to the manger-crib of the son of God!
