Ending.

Everything was like it should be. Today, today. Yesterday  like yesterday, and a million years ago things were like a million years ago.
Yet when every time, time is like that time, there are certain still moments in that time, certain differences. Maybe not everyone thinks so, but then not everyone stops to notice such things.
Whatever the case was, that day was like that day, like it should be, the dust on the ground and the footprints imprinted on it were like every day. The half torn, half chipped off poster-ads on the stems of lamp posts were no less telling a story of a destroyed civilization,  than what a civilizations has to tell after eventually getting destroyed.  The light that was emanating from a far away stree-light seemed to a myopic like me, a golden explosion, like always. The fans slowly rotating dully,  hanging from the ceilings as seen from an empty street, looked as sad and unhappy as always. Vehicles moving away and towards me were just aimlessly moving like always and the half constructed building next to me, near the Vinoba Puri subway,  was looking as beautiful as any semi-constructed building looks when compared to a constructed one. 
All this was like it should be today, but still, this today , with all its peculiarities, which should have been like today, reminded me of a million old passed yesterdays.
I don’t know why, but looked at with a certain perspective, this today and all the things in it, were boring and monotonous, to the point of being ugly. Difference was only of the nature of boredom and monotony which made one yawn for a good five seconds, and the dreadful memory one wants to relate this today to. Standing in a corner of one’s life, outside one’s skin, all this looks really very repulsive and I think we are fortunate to have more than one perspective to look at this today from, to find a beautiful strand, a meaningful stand on it . But sometimes our ability to see things from more than one perspective gets hindered and then we do what people call suicide.
I don’t know why, but this today, which is a mere shadow of many bygone yesterdays, has, along with all the still moments and differences,  something missing as well, something lacking. Something different that wasn’t there yesterday, or day before, or before that. I think it happened because of a lack of perspective, a lack of room to adjust,  K, after living a long and peaceful life of 30 years, was lying dead from a stroke in his room for about five hours...

The Prophet Pt. 2

4.

Kalyani is a calm quiet city on the banks of grey Narmada. Dusty from an evening squall, Kalyani welcomes the caravan of Ravianand with subtle modesty, at the gates the company was awaited by two monks, both bald and clad in saffron, who guides  Ravianand, Ravi and two elderly monks, through tiny trails next to brick walled houses, sometimes next to barren fields, till they reach the outskirts of the city. There in a jungle the monks lead the group to a big abandoned house which is the dwelling of saint Gyanendra. It has been dusk and the sunlight  slowly leaves the country, as the company enters the household.
                               Its a big house and as Ravi notices, well lit and provided for. Each traveler is given a separate room in the innards of the house and a modest welcome dinner awaits them in the hall. Ravi notices how happy and relaxed everybody seemed. The womenfolk, gay and chirpy, while the male population, content and fearless. 
                      It wasn't until then, that he notices the difference in the condition of the peoples and he realizes that he is away from home. Away from familiarity, a familiarity which entailed living in a constant state of fear, unsure of the future, and he  becomes uncertain whether he likes this soothing unfamiliarity or if the feeling of pain more at having left Chalal and Parvati behind.
His mind reels back in time, back to Parvati, when suddenly in his room comes Ravianand. The saint's condition, much better than before, is yet not completely healthy. He walks with a stoop and it is palpable on his face that his whole body, every cell, every molecule, is fighting, fighting a losing battle. 
The saint comes and sits near the monk, who in turn, collecting himself, sits up as well.

' Baba, kaise ho?'

' Pahele se behtar, but I can feel my body losing the battle. But how are YOU Ravi? You look distraught.'
' Baba, I am worried about tomorrow. What if the Marathas and the Deccan Sultans fail to unite against the might of Aurangzeb? Individually they are nothing in front of the northern might, and what shall pass if the emperor takes control of Dakshindesh as well? The same religious bloodshed?'
The saint listens with a grave expression and finally says, "You know, Ravi, jab maine ghar  ,I did not dare tell Ma about it, for I knew she would convince me to stay somehow, but I felt that it was my duty to tell father, I thought he'd understand, but he did not, he couldn`t understand why I had to go, leaving all the comforts behind to search for something I didn`t know anything to begin with. But as he could see that it was impossible to convince me otherwise, kissing me on the forehead, he said, ' Beta Ravianand, remember, always be a good human and whenever you are lost or can't find the path, ask yourself, '' who you are? where you come from? and where are you going?" and you ll surely see light."
Its time for you to do the same Ravi, the time has come to do the thinking, I have a task for you, think about it too.'

               The saint slowly stands up, and with the same stoop goes out of the chamber, leaving Ravi alone, with all color flushed from his face. 
5.

Parvati,

I think finally the time has come to tell you this, or maybe its too late and I shouldn`t tell you this at all. I was torn between the desire to tell and the fear of its outcome and I have waited a long time, been patient, introspective about my feelings, doubting them, feeling guilty about them, but now, right now in this moment, I am free of all the burden of good or bad, right or wrong, for I am one with the moment. 
Parvati, I have always respected you, since the day I first saw you in the ashram, when we were but little kids, I have respected you as a fellow human of higher emotional and intellectual content and whenever I have talked to you, I have felt a pull towards you, like I am being drawn towards you, by your dark, deep-set eyes, by your short thick black hair and Parvati, today I am telling you something which maybe I wouldn't have told you if baba hadn't given me this task. This particular thing which baba wants me to do is the reason I have been able to muster enough courage to tell you this.
I cannot reveal the details of this task assigned to me but I see it as an opportunity to turn all the respect and gratitude I feel for baba, into action, and maybe put all the wrongs today, right. This I believe is the only opportunity I can get in this life time to repay my debt to baba. 
But, the real reason for writing you this letter Parvati, is that I want you to know that I love you.  My life Parvati has not been a comfortable one, but whatever comfort I experienced I experienced by looking into your deep dark eyes, which have given me strength and courage in my darkest hours and Parvati, right now, I need the comfort of your eyes more than ever, I feel like a tired man, hopeless, the sun is setting on my horizon and I need you. Sometimes I wonder if we are really better off than these eagles flying in the sky, these dogs roaming in the streets, these cats that seem so satisfied? Is our consciousness a gift or a curse? But all these questions go away as soon as I think of you Parvati, you are the shining star in my night sky, you are my guiding light. 
I have come to a conclusion, I have made the decision. I believe in baba and I will do as he wills. Having said this I must tell you that I feel very hollow and empty, in a very positive way. I am ready to do what I have to do.
I leave for Agra tomorrow, and at Shangri La, I`ll wait for you.

6. 
The art of history writing is a tricky one, the reader has to gauge the intention of the author, sift through the sources and read between the lines. But what if there are contradictory stories about the same event, what if the sources are fuzzy.
                               According to some lesser known medieval Bhakti sources, the morning of 16th December 1707 was a cold and wet one. It was too cold for even that cold winter morning in Agra. The sixth Mughal ruler of the Indian Subcontinent, Muhi-ud-din-Mohhmad Aurangzeb, was stepping into his 47th regnal year and a big feast was organized in the Red fort of Agra, inviting all the local rajas and chiefs along with many monks and saints. Although the whole royal entourage had a calm composed facade, and a festive gaiety was maintained, those who were associated with the state affairs knew that things were far from either festive or gay. A tension was slowly building, with each passing hour. All the rajas and chiefs were seated in a big hall in the innards of the fort, which was well provided with food, drinks, and light music, away from the increasing activity in the fort, while discussions raged on in Ibadat Khana various religio- philosophical discourses took place amongst the monks and the saints. Once, all the guests had arrived, the gates of the fort were closed and it was not until Aurangzeb had made his appearance in the hall, with his compelling company of royal body guards, that the invited ruler elite, began to sense the tension in the surroundings. But by then it was too late, they were helplessly trapped in the fort with their horses and carriages somewhere hidden from them in the huge Agra fort. 
While all this was happening in the hall, the Ibatat Khana was having its own riot, scholars and monks were engaged in furious debates over issues of higher mental facility. 
Although, no one noticed him, there in the congregation of the learned there was a bright, bald emaciated monk too, clad in bluish white, who looked around for something with shifty eyes, not at all interested in the happenings around. In the mughal royal hall, Aurangzeb, to a highly nervous and anxious gathering, officially announced his plans for a Deccan campaign and without standing any ceremony, asked them for their support, without which he declared they couldn`t not leave. 
                              The narrative of the record is fuzzy about the incidents that followed during that cold day of December. The emperor left the local elite to discuss his proposition and come to a conclusion, locked in the royal hall. From there he went to preside over the happenings at Ibadat Khana, which became hushed like a graveyard upon his entrance. All monks gathered around the Emperor to greet him, who had spared the scholars the overpowering presence of his royal body guards and there was quite a free interaction as the Emperor wanted to project himself as a salvation of his subjects, requiring a good report with them. While the interaction was happening, the emaciated monk too made his way to the Emperor, with a sleek sharp steel blade hidden in the folds of his clothes and when, close enough, on the pretext of hugging the Emperor, stabbed him, once, neatly through his heart, killing him instantly.