Posted in Mysticism

What jest does God enjoy to create such falseness?

What jest does God enjoy to create such falseness?

You know you are the white mouse in the wheel,

The wheel goes round and round

You spin in the wheel while your feet push past the now in the past

You know it’s fake; it’s not there– it never was,

Yet you run, run– round and round.

You tire, yet you run

It’s so tiring… ­“Run yet!

If you stopped, like you did once you will see too much,

Hear too much and sometimes see too much

You know that is madness beyond control

You know no one has answers to your soul.”

It’s all bleak here

I see through the veil

The other side I no longer see

The friend because took my sight

In a manner to help me, the mad madness

No longer lingers.

Yet I see the veil

The thread that weaves it

The pattern

The life in the life we see not, I see

I see all, in a manner that I may not speak of

Round and round, runs the white mouse

Round and round we sway and dance.

Call me to your place again one time

This time I shall not say no to the chimes

Sing I will and smile too, at the cube

I see not, I see not, no more

Yet I see some­– And

It is enough.

The reminder is enough to tug at the madness that sleeps for now

Awake it will be, maybe

Later than sooner, I know– I scare not

Run and run in the wheel you must

Aware of the world without the pretty cage

The pretty cage is pretty but that’s all it is.

Look around dear one!

You are here and not

You are you and not

We are but a paradox

Of the Lord of the lord

The knoweth knows, but if yea speak you shall be stoned.

Speak not the truth O man!

I am Truth; the within and without

Watch the step that you step

It is mine mine, mine

The world is your chess board

Play however you desire.

What you wish shall be done

What you desire you shall receive

This world is yours for the taking, O Greatness!

For you are the truth of the Truth

And we shall enter together the light

As one: Your step and mine, Be one.

Posted in Mysticism

That Which is Not

We all try to make something of this world. We learn and then we unlearn. Then we learn some more. But what is it that we actually know? What is it that we do not know? Do these circles entwine somewhere? Is there a place which is the grey area which covers both, the known and the unknown?

More importantly, can the unachievable be achieved? Is the undoable doable? That which we see, is it all? Or is there more to all this?

There are moments, mere moments, and nothing but, but they existed even if they did fleetingly.

A twirl of a skirt, and the step taken in despair towards the holy, and a moment when you are you and you are everything and everyone, the earth and the sun, the trees with their infinite leaves, and the numerous bodies, small and big that pulsate with life on this orbiting world…one swirl and you are one with each one of these things that make the universe and the world, within and without. And in all of this one moment you feel the earth move in its capacity and somewhere in space, you see the earth rotate on its axis as your science teacher had told you it did. One moment of eternity and you have lived and been alive in everything.

The eternity then being in a moment is then no more linear. It is after much reflection thought that it is spherical in nature when just like anything alive it has a circle of existence. It ends where it begins and it begins where it ends. For that reason it is also felt that anyone who is aware and who additionally can manipulate this circle of time can and may intervene in its course and perhaps go where they will and whenever they please. The concept of déjà vu may then fall into place. It is then not a dream but the feeling that you were already here and that perhaps you may have lived that very moment before in life. For then the existence of the belief that yes, you were here before and you did do all this before as it was a spherical tide that took you from here and brought you back here again.

The fact that memory entails that you were here before curtails that in some remote manner, either in the physical manner or the metaphysical, means that some element within you understands and acknowledges that this was already lived. Hence, what we know we know through the age of the soul and not the age of the mould. For what is mould  but basic elements or in other words, clay and water. But if that is the case and the mould keeps coming together and this world is destroyed and recreated over and over again, then what of the soul?

Does the soul have an age? Or is it ageless like the breather of the breath that breathed into the mould? What is the soul? Where does it come from and where to does it go? Is it, like the Lord, was, is and will be? Then, what is it that the soul knows that the mould is unawares? Or, what is it that the mould is meant to learn from the soul in the brief period that it is here? Perhaps, that was the purpose. The purpose of life was to learn not from without but from within.

The self has many voices, like the self has many selves.  Each self has a voice and each voice has a tone. The voices speak in tongues and more. At times in dreams they make manifest a message, and other times you (if you have not been conditioned to shut them out) can hear them from within the depths of the soul, and then there are moments when you hear it from without the mould. There are conversations too at times. Conversations of the self with the self. Although at times it is hard to make out who is who and what is what but these can be quite interesting just as these can be quite maddening too.

Over time, the voices may be divided into those that come from quite deep within and those that are superficial. Only you hear them and only you know that they can speak, and only you know that they all speak the truth. Many a times these are ignored and not bothered with, but at other times they appear deafening and you can do nothing but obey.

The eye sees and it sees deeply into the abysses and into the heavens. The heavens are explored when the eyes are closed but there are times, when glimpses, mere glimpses are also visible. It is believed that the elemental particles cannot be seen with the naked eye. So say those who restrict their knowledge to what comes from a theoretical script in a musty book somewhere. But then there are those that can see without the artificial lense of a metallic eye. What we see…ahh that which we see! Between the spaces, between here and there, there is no empty space. The air is not just that, air. It is more, much more.  The globules of energy surround us, enveloping us. They are more evident in the open under the sun in the sun rays. Miniscule, vibrant, on the move. Hours may be spent glazed deep into these.

Then there are sparks. These golden sparks. Over time, one may learn to relate these to the very holy. The flicker in and out of existence like tiny gold flakes that are so light that the still air can carry them in their hearts.

We are not alone for we never were.  Space is not spatial. It never was. There is more to the space around us as there was more to the river of time. What is not there is what we always see and what is there we are unaware of. The veil, and there are many veils, hides most. What they let know, is but the grain of sand that rests on the top of the mound of sand that is above a short hill which is a part of a mountain which is rooted into the earth deep under the sea, which is a part of the molten earth which floats on the core of the world. But what we see is that one grain of sand on the top closest to the eye.

The reality we know was never a reality. What we thought was but a random dream long forgotten was the actual reality. When we thought we were living, we were but sleeping, and when we thought we were sleeping we were but alive. Those that breathe are not the living. Then those that we thought were not the living as they did not breathe, were but alive.

Much was said and then it was unsaid. All was written but mostly it was hidden. Signs are signs, they remain for those who seek the truth. The truth remains solely for those who see. The sight is retained for those who hear. The gift of hearing is only for those who yearn for the spark. The yearning is for those who know that they are incomplete and that this all is but a fading lie.

Posted in Mysticism

Two Doves

The drum beats, and the feet beat too. Each step intermittent to the sound of the stretched leather hit with fervor. The eyes stayed glued to the feet. They are covered in gruesome designs of hena; gruesome for an eye that is not trained to see the beauty more popular amongst the Arabs. The fleshy ankles are adorned with a slight gold chain but without charms or jingles. They turn mesmerizingly, in unison. Who does she dance for? Her body, unseen, her face, unseen, covered – cloaked – in a chaddar that covers everything save her feet.

My glance is then caught by the two doves that reach for the heaven. They are still in the air like a mannequin’s hands carved out of glass, or perhaps ice. They are delicate, almost childlike. You can see her hands and two inches of her wrists. The hands, unlike the feet do not move in unison. Instead they are almost stationary in the air like an eagle content to be at a certain height, not needing to flap its wings. But they also turn, round and round as her frail trunk twists with each step of a three sixty degrees twist.

Posted in Mysticism, Women

The Walk to Heaven

The ride home was dreary. It was dark. Was I feeling the dark? Or was it dark? I was not sure. I stared into the stars that were nothing. The drugs make me see lights. I liked lights. They twinkled. Like a jewel in a ring. Like the light in the eyes of a forgotten smile. They twinkled like the tears on a withering cheek.

I came back. To the car. To the ride. We were going home. From the clinic.

I did not see the point. What is the point? What is the point of it all? I promised myself, didn’t I? I said, if the voice in my head starts talking, I will walk. I don’t like it when the voice in the head talks. You see. There are two voices. The good voice and the bad voice. Good. Bad. Good. Evil. Evil.

That is what it was. The voice was evil. It had its own mind. Its own voice. Its own face. It was alive. In me. And it talked. Talked back. Told me things that I did not want to know. That were there but I did not want to see.

There was hardly any vehicle on the road. Or maybe, I did not see much. The lights were bright. A bit too bright. The driver kept driving as if that was all they ever knew. As if that was all that mattered. As if putting as many miles between themselves and the clinic would refute the proceedings of the past three hours. It never happened. Like it had not so many times before.

The old vehicle trudged on. The inhabitants were quiet. One dwelling on the miles covered. One smiling at the pretty lights. One very confused. It was dark but they kept going. They knew home was near. It had to be near. They needed it to be true. They needed that bit of comfort. So they travelled in silence, towards home, away from madness.

She was home. It was over. The relief should come any time now. If the taste of gun powder in your mouth can not help you bring relief, then only home should be that relief. She was home. It was dark. The lights still twinkled. She smiled.

She got herself out of the vehicle waiting for the relief to flood in any moment. She waited. She halted. Her breath came out in rasps. Where is the comfort? Why don’t I feel it? I am home. Home. Lights.

She turned. She had to walk. Walk to a place that would bring her comfort. It was home. The lights blinded her. Had the stars fallen to welcome her on her journey? Or did the angels fly down from heaven to encourage her to find her peace? Peace. Heaven. Lights.

She walked. The dead of the night did not scare her. She was safe. Unaware of where she was headed, but aware somehow nonetheless, she walked in the dark while the lights smiled at her. Down the hill, then up the other hill. Across the rough patch of mud and up the gravel steps, into a marble enclosure.


An old chandelier with cobs hung from the ceiling. Tiny lights twinkled in a mesh of green on the walls. There was more to smell than there was to see. Incense. Cheap but strong incense. So strong that you could swallow it. But she had little care for that. She was home. This was her home.

She gazed at the stately marble enveloping the tomb of the man who slept peacefully below. She saw him. She knew him. She was home.

She put her head on the dusty, red carpet littered with straw and closed her eyes. The last thing she saw was the green twinkle that filled her eye.

Posted in Being Someone, Mysticism, Theology


The driving force. Obsession. A man is no man if he has no obsession and if he is not obsessed. Just like a man is no man if he is not possessed by the soul that he carries in his vessel. Obsession is the heat of the soul. Anything other than that is but, death.


Obsession. Dead is all that which does not have a soul. And the soul is dead that which has no passion for obsession.

God. The Higher Power was obsessed. He wanted to be known. Hidden like a well-guarded, highly secretive treasure…he was obsessed to be known. So. He created man- that man may come looking for the secrets that come after the guard. No man can find God, if he is not obsessed like his Maker.

Our Lord was so obsessed with being found out, which alas only few took that road, that he created not just man, but a mankind and everything around it which may support it. He surrounded his creation with all the signs that he may understand and know.

Man does not know. He does not walk further than the cradle. Once he crawls out of it, he stands there looking around. Then, for the remainder of his life, he rocks it.

Obsessed. Obsession. Be possessed with obsession that you may learn that there is a spark. The spark that only alights for half a second in the air before it goes out. Beautiful, magnificent, glory. For half a second. Obsession lights the way to glory.

No man has ever lived who has not had an obsession. No obsession has ever failed to breathe life into a soul and make it whole.


Posted in Mysticism

Keep up the Tread

And they say that once the journey has been completed, you come to the place from where you first started. Having completed a circle, you once again embark on a new voyage. The scenes might recall a distant memory, long gone, colours of water and air- though nothing, yet it was something. The warrior starts over, afresh for he never quite learnt to ‘give in’ nor did he ever ‘gave up’.

Posted in Mysticism

Conversations with Self

As children we had imaginary friends. As we grow older, we talk to ourselves. Usually in reclusion out of ear shot, we say to ourselves exactly what we wish too. This we do with zero sugar coating and the words unspoken within are a true reflection of the ‘real’ us.

I’m not talking about how we bad mouth people in their absence. I’m talking about the conscience within, which is very much alive. Some of us wish to refute it, put it on ignore. I on the other hand have developed myself more from these private conversations with self, than any other self help book.

Conversations with self are highly entertaining. The inner voice, most say it is the voice of God, is an ever guide. But what I want to point out to you is that that such conversations with self, when nurtured can be an excellent barometer, and surprisingly, a mirror to our own emotions and feelings which we otherwise turn a blind eye towards.

I like to keep notes to some of these interesting conversations with self. Most noteworthy of which was while I rinsed my face with water in the bathroom over a sink at my office, I thought to myself, ”Are you okay?” While I started at myself in the mirror, the inner voice replied, “I’m fine, I’m just dying inside.”‘ Needless to say, I listened to myself, acknowledged how unhappy I was and how far away I had strayed from whom I wanted to be. There was a major lifestyle change as a consequent.

For the first time in my life I startled myself. I was so busy trying to do great things that I pretty much forgot what the inner me wanted and if it was even happy.

Sometimes I feel that my best companion is me. One of the greatest mystic secret is that man, an ordinary man, is a mini God. God lives not only above or around us, but within us too. Sadly, Dan Brown gave away this secret is his famous book The Lost Symbol. But I think most readers took it as a myth and did not give it a second thought.

Anyways, so perhaps, speaking to yourself should not be a sign of weakness of the upper storey. Conversations with self shows how attune you are with the God within. The only problem is that He speaks; we just tend to nudge away the thought that comes considering it rather petty.

Being able to converse with yourself is an epitome of morality, only if you heed to what it has to say. Conversations with self no longer keep the lonely summer alone, nor does it leave dreary nights morbid. There is plenty to learn about yourself, and so why not start with yourself.

Posted in Mysticism

Dances with Lord

Dancing and the lord have a long history together. From ancient times, dance and ecstasy have been linked to achieving the higher consciousness within a man. From Dionysius in Greek times to dhamals at the holy shrines, man has learnt to be with the Absolute through moments of ecstasy and trances initiated through steps of joy and dance.

Muslim history especially, contains some of the great legends that have writ their name in history by owning the dance. These saints through moments of raptures have learnt something of the higher self that words fail to explain.

But then one of the not mystic aptitude wonders how this comes to happen. In our society, and not religion, dancing is a form of mirth ascertained by only the most frivolous of nature. But this sentiment can be thwarted altogether. When a mystic swirls to the eyes of the one witnessing, he is not just moving the air around him, but his whole self is lifted and he finds himself in a rapture with the Great one.

In swirls of the frock, and the rhythmic beat of the soles, a mystic is able to diverge into a psychological world where one and one does not equal to two. But in fact, the mystic is able to remove the shackles of this world, break bondages with logic and soar his spirit to the heavens where everything is divine.

Once in the heavenly robes, the mystic wants to stay in that trance like ecstatic phase. Here, he alone enjoys the bounties of the Lord, and thus he wishes to stay. He sees pure bright golden light, all around him that engulfs him wholly till the time not a particle is left in the dark. Round and round in ecstasy he moves and here he knows the Lord as if he knows his own hand. Here he wishes to stay forever, and thus he wants to spend eternity in the light of the Lord- the Absolute.

But alas, the mould the mystic comes in, the body yet so perfect but with remnants of flaws, has a bigger flaw. It can not retain the light of the great one. The body does not help in keeping him away from the unreal for long, for it is only here that it feels at home, unlike the spark that came from the divine.

The body returns so does the gaze, once again focused, and the mystic is but left exhausted and flabbergasted. Thus he returns to the plane where everyone drinks from the same well. And to his anguish, he once again returns from home to the temporary maze, where everything speaks of facade that is but unreal.

There are remnants of so many saints, in all religions found under the sun, who being a mystic found God but in a dance. The rythym that moves a mystic is a sweet melody that transports him to the world beyond. The great saint who swirled in circles in wait of his master, achieved a greater name than his successor, by a twirl and a song that got him famous.

What man fails to understand is that there is knowledge besides the holy sacraments that can take a man beyond his imagination to a world unimagined. The Absolute but just waits in eagerness for his disciple to come make an encounter that would leave any man desperate for more of the elixir of life.

The rhythm which has been deemed as flawed, and vulgar, made into a gay frenzy for only the merry, is but a holy attribute if one beats their foot to be with the Lord. Then alone is he dancing with the Lord in the reality that is unreal for most of us. To dance in the Joy of the great one, everything living plays a part in. The trees, birds, insects, even the wind is attuned to the God who is great and they all rejoice in his being.

Posted in Mysticism

The Yogi

Sometime ago there was a phase in my life when I was stretched to the limits. I was living a dark age and I could not find my way out. That was when like a saint, someone advised me to start practicing yoga. So far, I thought yoga was for fitness gurus and health obsessed individuals, but I learnt otherwise. I started reading on yoga and ended up finishing two books on it.

What I gained from the literature was the elixir of life. Yoga is a very profound and systematic manner of achieving fitness. Yet it is more than that. It is a process to unite the three trios; mind, body and spirit through a rhythmic stretch-out routine and making these into a one whole, and by thus gaining a higher consciousness of self and more so; a sense of alienated peace.

Through yoga, the mind is calmed and there are manners even to learn to stop it from its ramblings. Stress and tension are killed by performing the simple techniques like the neck exercise, body is calmed by performing the cobra, back is strengthened by the back stretch, mind is soothed with the breathing exercise, and complexion is made better by the head stand!

So, a higher level of fitness is reached not by a huffing and puffing work-out but by the graceful techniques of yoga. I know kids of today are not so excited by age old traditions as yoga, but trust me, once you get the hang of it; three days a week for yoga seem less!