1

Children of The Light

As Dr. Chandan Bhowmick stepped up to the mike, a hush fell

over the hall. The Press had been waiting eagerly for this moment for
the last three days of the International Conference on Child
Development. Dr. Bhowmick, they knew, was a controversial figure in
the field, and there is nothing reporters like better than controversy:
it is their very bread and butter.
So as he opened his address, their pencils hovered expectantly
over their pads even as voice-activated pocket recorders clicked on
automatically in their pockets. It was well known that this mild
mannered, slightly stooped and balding figure was a fierce iconoclast
who had rocked the sedate world of Child Development. His
revolutionary hypothesis, that men had failed to become men
because civilization had intervened, was the target of the most
savage attacks ever launched against any social anthropologist since
Darwin.
“…and over almost ten years of long and lonely walkabouts in
the Great Australian Outback, in my youth, I collected enough
material to gain a faint insight into the true nature of the Dreamtime
legends of the Australasian aborigines.” The voice was soft, almost
apologetic. It was hard to link it with the shattering theories published
in his recent papers to Science and The Royal Society.
He went on unhurriedly, “I have come to the conclusion, tentative
yet backed by my experiences, research and certainly my intuition,
that the Dreamtime is nothing if not a verbal record of a lost age of
Man, a Golden Age if you please, when Man was a superman, in
possession of all his faculties.” Dr. Bhowmick paused to take a quick
swallow from the glass of water on the rostrum before resuming his
address:
“Not just the five basic senses, mind you, but higher senses and
sensibilities. He was so perfectly attuned to Nature and to the
Universe itself that he failed to see any difference between himself
and the rest of creation. His unfettered, untrained, ‘childish’ and
unconditioned mind, uncluttered by the dross of civilized society,
possessed of its full potential, roamed the cosmos and mastered it
even as he led a simple, nomadic existence in harmony with the rest
of the planet. I will try to explain that this Dreamtime, Golden Age—
call it what you will—is in the Here and Now, very much a part of our
Present, and within reach of anyone with a mind so open as to see it.”
A hubbub of dissent arose in the vast hall, but the voice of the
President, as pleasantly neutral as that of a Wimbledon referee’s,
intervened to quell it. Dr. Bhowmick used the brief interval to pull out
 3

a handkerchief and polish his glasses, a patient twinkle in his eyes.

He went on unperturbed:
“Intrigued by the findings of my younger days as a social
anthropologist, I returned to India, my homeland, to see whether the
legends and sagas of ancient India had anything to contribute to my
postulates about the hoary past. I found—in a nutshell—that in the old
myths of our people, going back to a time out of mind, an antiquity so
hoary that western scientists will contest the chronology on the
grounds that the Earth itself had not then been created, I found
further evidence of this…this promised land, the Promised Land of the
Bible.
I speak of a distant time, long before recorded history. It was a
time when men, in possession of all their faculties—including the
higher ones, now alas lost, though still dormant within us—were privy
to the greater experience that we, as human beings, are rightful
heirs. Which would be ours—if only we could shed the conditioning,
the unnecessary baggage, of a ‘civilised’ way of life. We move as in a
dream, half awake and unfulfilled, ignoring a vast universe that lies
beyond: The Dreamtime, a long-lost…” Dr. Bhowmick hesitated for a
moment, then continued in a strong voice… “a long-lost Atlantis of
the Mind!”
Pandemonium broke out in the hall. Several prominent scientists
leapt to their feet, shaking their fists at the man at the lectern,
mouthing obscenities. Accusations of ‘charlatan!’ and ‘subvertist!’
were yelled at him. Deputies were called in as a small, vocal group of
Dr. Bhowmick’s supporters clashed with his hecklers. The sound of
furniture breaking and fists thudding into bone resounded in the hall
as the august deliberations degenerated into ugly brawling. Armed
guards formed cordons around the distinguished guests and rushed
them to the safety of their vehicles.
Dr. Bhowmick had done it again.
Which is what the newspaper headlines screamed the next
morning. Entire columns were devoted to the Outback and legends
surrounding the Great Dreaming of the native Australians. Many
editorials were devoted to verbal myths of obscure tribes in South
America, Tibetan lore, the Mahabharata, Elijah’s vision, the saga of
Atlantis, the lost Minoan civilization, and to the theory of cyclic human
evolution. Thinkers and savants from Aristotle, Bruno, and St.
Augustine to Lao Tze, Confucius, Sri Aurobindo, Teilhard de Chardin
and Paramhansa Yogananda were reviewed and compared. The
warnings of Max Planck and Oppenheimer were recalled. They had
insisted that a new age had dawned. The only danger, they claimed,
lay in not recognizing it for what it was: an age in which Man had to
accept the fact that he was changing, and must come to terms with
his own evolution. Dr. Chandan Bhowmick was amused to find himself
 4

in such august company. He would have been stunned if anyone had

told him that one day he would join their ranks.
As he slowly ate his frugal breakfast of oatmeal porridge, orange
juice and coffee, Bhowmick pondered his next move. He had reached
the stage when he had to take a step further in his research. Money
was always a factor. He could no longer depend on the family estates.
The tea plantations were gone, sold to local mafia that made them
offers they dared not refuse. Life had become very cheap in his
homeland, and the law was helpless before constant political
interference.
His father, who had so willingly funded his activities, was long
dead. The grants promised by the United Nations Committee on
Research into Primal Intelligence had run into opposition from the
rival lobby that had a strong representation in the Secretariat. He had
few supporters, mostly mavericks like himself. All he had were
postulates, well explained but lacking the punch of conclusive
evidence. He was stuck, like the last time. His mind went back over
the years, remembering….

It was a sleazy little honky-tonk in downtown Sydney. He had

been back from one of his excursions into the Outback a week earlier,
and was resting up before the next one. If he didn’t locate new
sources of funding, it would be his last trip. He hadn’t a clue what the
Dreamtime was. It was hard to get close enough, both metaphorically
and literally, to the Australian natives, to try and learn about it. He did
not trust the extant theories, coming as they did from western
scientists, few of whom were willing to explore metaphysical or
psychic avenues of explanation. They were too timid to expose
themselves to ridicule.
He had lived with the Bushmen of the Kalahari. Like the
aborigines, they seemed to have little spoken communication and no
written language. But the keyword was ‘seemed’. What ‘seemed’ was
not always what ‘was’. Appearances could be deceptive, especially
when dealing with shy, primitive peoples who were reclusive and
shunned outsiders. The aborigines of the Outback made little more
than a few birdlike sounds—at least in his presence. He wondered
that they managed to communicate at all! Yet, like the Bushmen of
Africa, who had no long-distance communication aids, they could
travel from all directions, covering vast distances, to assemble at one
spot. Modern science had never unraveled the mystery.
As he sipped his beer and planned his next move, the song in the
background intruded into his thoughts. It was an old favourite of his
—‘You Are My Sunshine’—and it was sung so well that he turned to
look at the singer. She was older than her voice suggested. She was
 5

probably around thirty-three, and looked it. After the number, he sent
her a note of appreciation. She did not reply. The next night he was
back, and this time he sent her a request for ‘Ma Cherie Amour’. She
sang it extraordinarily well, he thought, and this time he went up and
told her so as she settled down by herself at her small table.
She looked at him appraisingly, noting the deep mahogany of his
skin, his foreign accent, and his shyness. Something—perhaps his
sincerity—made her gesture to the chair opposite, and after a
moment’s hesitation, he sat down. Up close, he realized he’d been
wrong. She looked thirty-two but was not more than twenty-eight, just
about his own age. They made small talk as they sized each other up,
and she was frankly admiring that he had come all the way from India
to follow a scientific hunch.
She had grown up in a large family of six brothers, none of whom
supported their aged parents. She scraped together a living singing at
bars and smaller restaurants along the southern seaboard, and sent
half her modest income home. He finished his drink and ordered
another round for them, but she refused with a smile; she had to get
on with her ‘act’.
Night after night, Bhowmick sat with her as she told him her life
story, her dreams (she wanted to marry and settle down in either
Sydney or Melbourne), and her problems. He was easy to talk to. He
listened well and said little. It seemed to Bhowmick that he had never
met a nicer person. She encouraged him to keep searching: ‘Y’know, I
have a feeling you’ll be famous one day. You just have to keep at it,
mate. Only those with faith in themselves ever succeed. I’m going to
make it, too, you can bet on that’.
She looked around at her depressing surroundings and giggled.
Bhowmick warmed to her. She was witty, practical, and very talented.
Attractive, too, he conceded to himself. She was sure to make it. He
had a gut feeling about it and told her so. She was surprisingly well
read. Apparently she had nursed an ambition to take a degree in Law
before the realities of her situation caught up with her.

For two nights in a row, she did not turn up for work. On the third
night of her absence, Bhowmick accosted the manager. He shrugged
indifferently. ‘She’s sick, cobber, they tell me. Found a replacement,
as you can see.’ Bhowmick got her address. It was on the sixth floor
of a red tenement building in a shabby part of town. At his knock, a
weak voice asked him to go away. He had to plead before she would
let him in. She tottered back to bed. Her face was flushed and she
was running over 103º temperature. He could see she was in bad
shape. She needed to see a doctor. Fast. Against her protests, her
wrapped her in blankets and bundled her downstairs and into the cab.
The doctor was more suspicious of the slight, brown-skinned man
who had brought the girl than he was concerned about his patient.
 6

Bhowmick finally lost his patience and put fifty dollars before the GP.
‘Look here, doctor, she’s a friend, a fellow human being in pain. All
I’m doing is my duty. If it’s a problem for you, I’ll take her elsewhere.’
The doctor’s fist closed smoothly around the currency notes: ‘No need
to get worked up, mate. It’s just that I have to be a little careful
about… er…strangers who bring white girls into my clinic.’
He had been about to say ‘blacks’. Bhowmick didn’t mind being
called black. The colour of his skin had never bothered him. He
accepted himself as he was on the outside. Colour was only skin
deep. He had always been concerned about what people were like
inside. It had always been a little hobby of his to try and see the
person behind the façade, after stress, provocation or imagined insult
peeled away the layers of carefully programmed urbanity. He was
smarter than he made out to be.
The physician prescribed some medicines, gave her an injection,
and told Bhowmick to take her home. ‘A light, low-fat, high protein,
high carbohydrate diet with plenty of fresh fruit juice…and a few days
rest before she goes back to work. No showers, only sponging with
warm water. She’s a strong girl; she’ll be fine in about three or four
days. Take her to the beach. Bondi is great this time of year. It’s too
early for tourists, and the kids are studying for their exams. All you’ll
see are beachcombers and gulls.’ Bhowmick nodded gratefully. ‘And
check with me on the phone daily, d’you hear?’ he shouted as
Bhowmick lifted her bodily and carried her to the waiting cab. Though
slight of build, he had the strength and deep reserves of stamina that
often go with a wiry frame.
She was semi-conscious when he deposited her on her bed. She
was not hungry, but he had bought some provisions from the
drugstore where he’d stopped to buy medicines, so he opened a can
and heated some chicken soup. She managed to swallow half of it
before she fell fast asleep. She had given him the key to her flat, and
he pulled the door to firmly behind him until he heard the mortise
lock click soundly into place before going downstairs.
He was back early the next morning. She was coming awake,
weak and feverish. He hand-fed her, spoonful by spoonful, then
carried her to the bathroom, peeled off her sweaty clothes and
sponged her down. She did not protest, accepting his help without
demur. She watched his face steadily all the time he swabbed her
down. Her body was typically ‘Caucasian, Female’: compact, firm
breasts, narrow waist, flat stomach and long, well-muscled legs.
His mind noted all this absently while it grappled with the
immediate crisis. He knew she had no one in Sydney, or anywhere
else for that matter, to care for her. He was worried. Her skin burned
under his fingers as he scrubbed her down gently but thoroughly with
slightly cooler water than what the doctor had recommended. He
tried not to show it, but he was scared. He had never nursed anyone
 7

before. Instead of merely once a day, as advised, he phoned the

doctor four or five times daily.
*

Bondi beach, Sydney, at seven in the morning is a peaceful place

to be, off-season. Just the odd beach bum, or a couple taking a quick
walk before breakfast. Gentle waves, blue and crested with little
white caps, came rolling in steadily from the south. The water lapped
at their bare toes as the little sand crabs scurried around sifting
through the foam for tiny crustaceans. Gulls wheeled overhead with
raucous cries, sometimes darting into the water to take a morsel of
food. They were masters of the air, silhouetted against a sapphire-
blue sky, painted with light.
Light! There was so much of it. Everywhere. It seemed to be all
there was. Everything seemed to be made of Light. Everything. It
enveloped them in its magic, a happy, uplifting golden radiance, as
they sat together companionably on the sand. Strange, how it was
sometimes. When words were unnecessary. When you first met
someone…and found you had always known her. They had met three
weeks ago. Time was such a riddle…or was it a hoax?
Neither of them noticed the silence between them. They seemed
to be in constant conversation with each other. Words were
unnecessary. There was nothing that needed to be said aloud. It was
so deep a communion that conversation would have been an
intrusion. It was on that day that Chandan Bhowmick clearly saw that
he was, in essence, soul. Not body. So were they all: all souls.
Something in him, inside the outer envelope he called his body,
rejoiced at the knowledge. And this insight came to him because of
her, the sheer miracle of her!
It was the last day of her convalescence. She had applied for, and
got, a job as a crooner in the adjoining state, in a suburban town
called Murphy’s Bend, and would be leaving early tomorrow morning.
Bhowmick, on his part, was slightly behind schedule and had to reach
Alice Springs by the next evening. His tickets on the afternoon flight
were confirmed. They rose at last and made their way back to the
motel, holding hands as if it was the most natural thing in the world to
do. The sea air had made her very hungry and she relished the
brunch of freshly grilled lobster, salad, and hot toast with lashings of
golden butter, all of it washed down with limejuice laced with
Gordon’s.
Bhowmick watched, fascinated, as her body tried frantically to
regain all the weight and strength it had lost. The colour was back in
her face, and there was a sparkle in her eyes he hadn’t seen before.
The tired lines around her lovely recurved lips, free of lipstick, were
gone. Her skin glowed with health. Looking at her gave him a full,
contented feeling. He ate sparingly, saying little.
 8

Back in their room, they came together as naturally as the sky

and the sea. She was in his arms without either of them being aware
of it. It was so perfect, so right. She said goodbye to him the way
women have always let go of their men: with dignity, acceptance, and
love. It was not her passion but his own that jolted him. He had not
realized how incomplete he was, how badly he needed her.
It was evening when they drew apart. He dressed quietly. There
was little to be said. They were like two ocean liners that passed each
other in mid-Atlantic: a brief experience, deeply stirring. Only
memories would remain. That… and the warm glow that one human
being can light in another, a flame that can last a lifetime, a blaze
that always thereafter shows the way, always burns brightly within.
He would remember June Holliday. She had become a permanent part
of him…forever. A verse from Longfellow’s poem, The Theologian’s
Tale, ran through his mind:

“Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in

passing;
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and a
silence.”

‘Sir! Your bill!…..Your bill, Dr. Bhowmick’. The waiter was politely
insistent. Chandan Bhowmick returned to the present. It was hard to
believe that so many years had passed since all that happened. It
seemed like yesterday. Time was a big fraud. He knew it for the great
illusion that it was. Back then, could he have known what the years
held for him? He had set out on what he had presumed was the last
walkabout he would ever make. But now, the receipt of a hundred
thousand Australian dollars from ‘an unknown admirer’ had
miraculously changed everything. This time, he had decided to carry
a small movie camera and adequate photographic equipment.
He traveled alone, a very foolhardy thing to do in the merciless
Outback. His only defence was a Whippet, security agency parlance
for a customised .20 bore single (choke) barrel pump-action shotgun
with a six-round magazine. He had got the barrel sawn down to 15
inches and had the stock replaced with a walnut pistol grip. There was
an aluminium skeleton shoulder stock that could be fitted quickly in
case he needed it. He could draw from the hip holster and hit a tin
can at thirty yards within a second. It was far better than a revolver.
Poisonous snakes were the real danger of the Outback, apart from
exposure, hunger and thirst. He wore thick, kangaroo leather boots
but carried anti-serum, too, as a precaution.
 9

Chandan Bhowmick, slight, unassuming, scholarly and even

pedantic at times, was, at heart a man of action. He had learnt as
much from books as he had from nature, and from the Bushmen. He
owed them a debt he could never repay. They had been his early
gurus. They had taught him how to find water even in a desert, the
plants that could be chewed for moisture and food, how to find meat
in places where there appeared to be no living thing. He learnt how to
survive under the merciless overhead sun, and how not to die of
hypothermia in the freezing desert nights. He recognised which roots
and tubers were nutritious and which berries could kill in minutes.
The things of the wild, the birds, the reptiles, the bees, the ants…
all carried messages to him about life and death in the harsh and
forbidding land he was returning to. It was like a ticker tape of
information that scrolled away constantly before his eyes. In other
words, he was cast in the mould of the early explorers, though if
anyone had suggested it to him, he would have blushed. Of such
contradictions are often made those who are born under the mystic
sign of Pisces. Dreamer he was, but he was also a doer, determined to
do what was necessary to make his dreams come true.
He had been a month in the Outback when his luck finally
changed. He had ventured into an area of light scrub cover and rocky
outcrops. Traces of rich mineral deposits were all around him, hurled
to the surface by titanic upheavals of past ages. Then he heard them,
the trilling, whistling sounds where there were no birds. The People!
At last! If only he could manage to connect with them somehow.
Unlike the Bushmen, who were as likely to fade away silently as
put a poison dart into you from a blow-gun if they didn’t know you,
the aborigines just looked curiously at him and then moved away at a
pace he could not maintain. It was rather daunting to be cold-
shouldered like this. But he had not succeeded in finding a way of
winning them over to his side. They took the gifts—chocolate powder,
sweets, tobacco—that he handed them, then moved off, offering
nothing in return.
He topped the rocky outcrop and froze. The tableau before him
said it all. The reason for the flurry of sounds was clear. A small
aborigine boy lay on the hard earth, surrounded by his kind. He was
twitching and frothing at the mouth. Snakebite! He ran over to them.
They gave way to him, but ignored him, keening deep in their throats
as they watched the boy die. They were used to sudden death. The
land supported them for a while, and then reclaimed their flesh and
blood at will to enrich the soil. It was an old story.
Bhowmick rummaged in his pack for the anti-venom kit,
tightened the tourniquet, made two crisscross cuts with the sterilized
blade, sucked out the poisoned blood near the wound and quickly
spat it out. Then he swabbed the area around the two wicked
 10

puncture marks in the ankle, loosened the tourniquet and injected the
antidote. The People looked on incuriously.
Minutes passed, and the boy did not die. Gradually, his breathing
returned to normal and the faltering heart recovered its normal pace.
The circle of onlookers was huddled together, whispering. They ran to
the boy incredulously as his eyes opened and he called weakly to his
father. Then they crowded around Bhowmick, touching him, seeing
him for the first time, accepting him. When they moved off, they
looked back again and again to ensure he was keeping up.
The ground-eating lope the Bushmen had taught Bhowmick was
coming back to him. A month in the Outback had toughened him,
stretching his stamina to a level not far below that of an aborigine. He
kept up with them, pausing occasionally to take a picture or two. He
had recorded it all on film; the dying boy, the recovery after the
antidote had been administered, the smiles of acceptance, the
mother’s tearful caress, the father’s disbelieving stupefaction. They
were people, human beings—souls—just like everyone else,
Bhowmick realised with joy. They reminded him so much of his little
Kalahari friends, thousands of miles away, yet so similar in their
culture. One day, he might adopt a line of research to list the close
similarities between the two peoples and see whether a logical
explanation could be found for them.
He spent three years living with The People, three years such as
a modern man has rarely lived. He went as they went, hunting, eating
and surviving. Their tongue seeped into his subconscious. He did not
try to divine any grammar in it. He just accepted that he could make
his needs understood, and they could tell him what they were
thinking. It appeared to be very basic and survival-oriented. There
were no niceties of speech or thought, and, as far as he could judge,
no taboos or legends, and especially, nothing to do with the
Dreamtime. It was just a rumour, he decided. He was wrong.

They were moving west. It took time for the fact to sink in. There
was a purpose in their easy drift now, for a general direction of travel
was now discernible to his compass. It no longer was an aimless
wandering, sometimes this way, sometimes another, following the
kangaroos or the birds. A certain excitement was in the air, a sense of
anticipation, like that of a joyous homecoming. As the days passed,
the line of direction grew tighter and tighter till the needle held
steady at west-southwest. Bhowmick consulted his map and found
they were headed for Ayers Rock, five hundred miles away. At their
present pace, they would reach it a month hence.
It dawned on him gradually that they were not the only ones
moving towards Ayers Rock. In some subtle way, it was borne in on
 11

him that others, too, were converging on it. Some mysterious

command, some message from another dimension perhaps, had
communicated itself to all The People. Now they moved in unison,
following some primordial pattern as old as the stars, possessed of a
single aim, driven by forces they acknowledged but did not
understand. It was not instinct, as in salmon. It was the response to a
definite call…from whom?…from where?…for what purpose? They
were now only a day’s journey from the huge monolith that towered
up out of the bleak, sun-baked landscape. There were others on the
same trail, and Bhowmick was with them as The People merged,
became one large family. He felt their excitement, a growing joy. It
was obvious in the way they sang as they ran, the little leaps the
children made as they trotted along beside their parents.
It was a moonless night as they huddled together, a conclave of
tribes, before the dark shape that was faintly outlined against the
brilliance of the starry night. Was it just his imagination that the dark
mass was beginning to glow…becoming a luminous formation? It was
now translucent, with radiance in its depths, and Bhowmick, a
scientist crouching on the cold earth among a people who had been
old when these hills were being shaped, felt a sense of superstitious
awe and…yes, a curious reverence. The same sort of reverence he
had felt for June Holliday. What had made him think of her, now of all
times? He wished she were with him. He missed her desperately.
What was the meaning of it all? What was happening? Why was it
happening?

They were in the Light, inside the mountain. That was why The
People had always believed it was a holy place. They were men, but
not black or white or brown. Just men. Made of light. Bhowmick
accepted it, knew it was no fantasy. They gave their message, the
one they gave whenever it was needed. There were no words, just a
thought-transference better than any language. The Dreamtime was
in the past, they ‘said’. But it was also in the Now, the one they lived
in. If they could find it. Ethereal music, as if of Angels, played in the
background.
The Dreamtime was a beacon to all men who were not yet Men.
They still but slept. The Elders simply passed on the wisdom of ages
from where they were now stationed. They taught them how to
awake from their sleep. To the real Life that was here…and
beyond...in the Dreamtime. When they awoke, they would be Men…at
last.

The bookshop was crowded, but not because of his book launch.
He was supposed to autograph the first hundred copies of his maiden
 12

book, a paperback on Australian lore entitled ‘Images from Yesterday

– The Dreamtime on location.’ No seemed particularly interested in
his unpretentious little photo-essay. The crowd was there to see the
celebrated diva and pop icon Judy Holden who was there to promote
her latest album, ‘Mystery Man’. Her last release, ‘Love You So’ had
topped the charts for six straight weeks and raked in a cool $9 million
in the first week itself. She was the toast of Australia and of the world
of pop music. She was said to be worth over $20 billion. A self-made
dollar billionaire. Dr. Chandan Bhowmick had never heard of her.
Now, as he stood to one side, feeling a little foolish, he didn’t
have the heart to upbraid his publicity consultant, Ron Wickham, for
the gaffé. It would cost him plenty, in time. Poor sales meant he got
lower commission. A ripple ran through the crowd. Judy Holden had
arrived. The jostling crowd was kept at bay by a cordon of police and
security men. The world’s TV channels were here. Strobe guns
popped and motor drives chattered at five frames a second as she
entered the store and flashing her dazzling smile, made for the
podium. ‘Mystery Man’ started playing on the house audio hookup,
and people were swaying to the beat. It was the sound of the surf, a
rhythm as old as the sea. The words were simple:

‘Where’d you come from, I don’t know,

Where’d you go, my Mystery Man?
You’ll never know I miss you so,
Can’t carry on like this, just can’t…”

She was even more beautiful than he remembered. She had

filled out ever so slightly. Her sleek, voluptuous figure gave her an
enigmatic, timeless appeal. Wealth and fame had brought her
happiness. She was fulfilled. Chandan Bhowmick remembered the
half-dead waif called June Holliday in Sydney, and his chest was tight
with joy. She had made it. His vision blurred at the sweet memory of
her…just as she turned and spotted him.

Very slowly, as if not to excite attention, she came off the

podium. Reporters bore down on her: ‘Is it true, Miss Holden, that
early in your career, you were inspired by someone who felt you had
what it takes. Where is he now? Why have we never heard from him?’
‘Oh, we’ve all been helped by someone or the other, sometime,’
she replied with a laugh, ‘no one ever really makes it on their own.
But yes…once, there was a dear, wonderful person, a man who felt…
who knew… I would succeed. He accepted it as a foregone
conclusion. I have always treasured the strength and inspiration he
gave me. I also owe him my life,’ she added quietly.
‘Is that the reason why, Miss Holli…I mean, Miss Holden…you
never married?’ the reporter insisted. He had obviously done his
 13

homework well, and was preparing to slip the steel between her ribs.
She didn’t flinch.
‘Yes, in a way.’ Her disarming frankness took the wind out of the
newshound’s sails. ‘I’ve had my share of…um…friends, but this one—
he was really special.’ She giggled, the enchanting giggle he had
never forgotten! It seemed to echo down endless centuries to him as
he stood there, lost in the crowd. She was close to him now; he could
almost reach out and touch her. He inhaled the warm, tantalising
aroma that came off her like a tender offshore breeze. He was a man
of the Outback, and his senses were far keener than those of a city
slicker. But she couldn’t possibly remember he existed, it was all for
publicity. He was happy for her: he wanted nothing from her.
She was almost past him when she stepped smartly sideways
and put her arm around his shoulders. Ron was grinning
conspiratorially from ear to ear. He was the best, no doubt about it!
‘And here he is, boys!’ she yelled happily to the shoving throng of
reporters and cameramen ‘…Mr. Mystery Man himself. Dr. Chandan
Bhowmick! From India! Give him a big hand!’ She waited for the
thunderous applause to die down. ‘The real reason I’m here, by the
way—surprise, surprise—is to launch his book…the one on Australian
native peoples. Buy it, folks! It’s fantastic! My l’il album will take care
of itself, by the looks of things. Right now, this is more important to
me.’
Then she was kissing him, right in the media spotlight, as the
whole world watched. The strobe lights were going crazy and the TV
cameramen were yelling ‘A bit sideways! Perfect! That’s it! Hold that
pose, you two!’ The roar of the crowd drowned out the speakers in
the mall…and Chandan Bhowmick knew instant stardom…and fame.
His little favour of long ago had come home to roost.
She smelt the way she always had, warm and sweet, like early
spring. The expensive Coty perfume didn’t register. He held her
gently, as if she was a delicate porcelain doll. The softness and
warmth of her banished all memories of the hardships of the Outback,
the ache of the cold, lonely nights. The magic of her still had the
power to intoxicate him and render him speechless. He just stood
there mutely, holding her hand. The miracle of her! It was an omen…
from the Elders. He was sure of it. It was not coincidence, no chance
meeting. There was a hidden purpose that would reveal itself in due
course. Meanwhile, it was June again!

It was such an offbeat book…he didn’t expect miracles. The first

print run—a modest 3,000 copies—was sold out within five days. The
next edition, hastily enhanced with more pictures and text, was gone
in a month’s time, all 50,000 copies of it. Orders continued to pour in
 14

from practically everywhere. The next print was half a million copies.
They were gone by Thanksgiving. With Christmas and Easter still to
come! It had the smell of a cult book about it. It debuted in the New
York Times Bestsellers list at No.5. The next week, it was at No.1!

It was one of those rare publishing phenomena, a ‘first’ book that

became a NYT bestseller. It meant instant stardom…and fame. All
over again. Wealth was a by-product. Dr. Bhowmick took it in his
stride. He knew the money was not his to spend. There was a reason
why it had come. He waited for the Elders to tell him what to do with
it.

He didn’t have to wait long. A large manila envelope from India

caught his eye in the mountain of mail. He turned it over and over in
his hands before he opened it. He felt…he just knew…it was
important. Too important not to savour the moment of receipt. It was
from the Indian Institute of Himalayan Consciousness, Rishikesh, in
north India. It was typed on an inexpensive letterhead with a manual
typewriter! India was a collector’s paradise! If you wanted an antique,
whether a vintage loo, typewriter, or car, you were sure to find one in
India…in working condition! The Indians never threw anything away.
They couldn’t afford to. They repaired and renewed and rejuvenated
and recycled but never trashed anything if they could help it.
It contained an invitation to come to India and participate in a
meditation-for-self-realisation program; a variety of courses and
workshops were available to beginners and advanced students alike.
As an Indian, Dr. Bhowmick was sure to help (which meant they were
lining him up for a donation as well). In fact, he was welcome to do a
photo-essay on the work of the Institute, a worthy outlet for his
formidable photographic talent.
Since it was established in very charming surroundings, with
running hot and cold water and all modern conveniences (it continued
persuasively), it was also a wonderful opportunity to relax and enjoy
the breathtaking Himalayan views. He was welcome to bring a
companion (which was a tactful way of telling him that he could bring
a lady friend along if he wished). They obviously had television,
thought Dr. Bhowmick wryly. Which is what made him think of June
Holliday, as he still referred to her. Dared he ask her?
He didn’t have to. She dropped in, saw the letter, read it, and
said ‘Let’s go! It’s obviously what you need to do next.’ Her insight
amazed him, as did her ability to make up her mind instantly (as long
it had nothing to do with buying a car, a party dress, or a lipstick!).
She brushed aside his diffident objections: what about her dates, her
music recordings?
‘Chandan, I need a break. I’ve been on the road for a long time.
The last time I was on holiday was when we… (she blushed, bit her
 15

lip) …when we went to Bondi.’ He capitulated, and arranged to send a

telegraphic confirmation for arrival three weeks hence, at the
commencement of the new six-week program.

The glittering, snow capped mountains with their incredibly

jagged outlines seemed to fill the sky, the higher peaks shrouded in
mist. It was impossible to imagine their stark, brooding immensity
without actually seeing them, impossible not to feel humble before
their grandeur. Majestic, aloof, they stood like silent sentinels,
invulnerable, immutable and eternal, forever guarding a land with a
sacred mantra from the dawn of Creation.
It was October, with winter just around the corner, and it was
getting very cold. Rishikesh nestled in the foothills of the world’s
mightiest chain of mountains, and through it passed the roads that
went up, up to the holy shrines of Badrinath and Kedarnath, shrines
so ancient that they were part of the mythology and vedic lore of
Indian civilisation. Standing on the balcony of their suite on the third
floor of the Institute for Himalayan Consciousness, looking out at the
world’s highest mountain range, June Holliday shivered slightly. Those
mountains! She had seen them before! When? She’d never been to
India before. Not in this lifetime, anyway. Chandan Bhowmick sprang
to her side and wrapped the shawl a little more tightly around her.
‘That’s enough for now, dear. I’d better take you inside before
you catch a chill.’ Dr. Bhowmick put an arm around her protectively
and led her inside, shutting the doors leading to the terrace behind
him. She looked at him fondly. He hadn’t changed. He was still as
devoted to her as he had always been. Always. It was a powerful
word, not to be used lightly, a word with deep metaphysical
connotations. Like ‘forever’.
‘Always have…always will…’ The number by ‘Ace of Base’ played
in her mind, and she hummed it softly under her breath. He was like
that. He had always been with her, life after life, an irrevocable part of
the karmic cycle of her soul’s journey. It was inevitable that their
paths should have crossed, though he had had to come all the way to
Australia to catch up with her. She strongly believed in reincarnation.
This man was her destined companion on a long, long trek that would
end, some day, on an unknown shore beyond the stars.
The muted chimes of the gong reverberated through the building.
‘Time to go, Chandan. The session is beginning.’ She was simply
dressed in a sari and shawl, he in churidars, kurta and a sherwani of
homespun wool. They went down in the lift, through the lobby and
into the carpeted hall beyond it. There were already about a dozen
people in the room, sitting cross-legged on the floor. They sat down.
June, like most Occidentals unable to sit cross-legged, sat with her
 16

legs tucked under her. At the head of the hall was a low rug-covered
platform, with flowers in vases and incense burning in two ornamental
brass holders.
Presently, a man came through the curtained door at the side of
the hall and bowed low to them before seating himself in the
padmasana yogic pose on the deerskin spread out on the platform.
He was Sri Sri ‘Guruji’ Swami Ujjwalananda Giri, the legendary sage-
savant whose books on the Bhakti route to Supreme Consciousness—
a mystic process intuited rather than explained—for attaining the
soul’s desire, had sold well even in the West. He had been a leading
economist, scientist and social worker before taking sanyasa, the
total renunciation of the world, the fourth and final stage of life as
prescribed in the shastras, the Hindu scriptures.
He looked at them, and the love shone in his eyes. ‘My children…
it is my great good fortune to address you today. We were fated to
meet. I am blessed to have this opportunity of serving Him by
delivering His Word to you. The way to Him is so hard…and yet so
easy for householders like you. He is attainable by all, if we really,
truly want to…if we always fix our minds on Him, if we do everything
with detachment, doing our best and dedicating our actions to Him.
We should never be attached to the fruits of our actions, for that is
not what we are here for. We are here to realize Him. His kingdom is
within us, as Jesus told us it was. We just have to let go mentally of
the world, always doing our best in the physical world but secretly
dwelling in His kingdom. He is merciful, He will always respond. Do
your best and leave everything to Him, and He will take over your life.
If you call, He will never fail to answer. He will show you the blessed
way to Him. Then what bliss, what joy, what fulfilment!’
The wise old voice went on: ‘There is no single way to Him, I have
come to realize. All paths are different, yet they are the same, as
everything leads to Him. There is only Him, no other. There is nothing
but Him. The rest is illusion, the play of maya. Those who realize this
are well on the way to reaching Him. May you find your own way of
reaching Him. I can but help by inspiring you, by telling you of the
paths others took in reaching the goal, in the hope that it will open
your mind to the possibility of finding Him in your own personal way.
You shall certainly succeed…if you want it badly enough.’ Guruji went
on to teach them the basic principles of meditation, of breathing
exercises developed by the ancient ages to still the mind and take it
to another plane of thought, of action, of receptivity to the Om sound
of the universe.
The next day, they learnt the importance of concentration, a
concentration so effortless yet so complete that advanced yogis
became one with Supreme Consciousness. They could harness all the
forces of nature, achieving such harmony with them that they could
do what was regarded as impossible. Once the mind had grasped the
 17

Truth, anything was possible, because the Truth encompassed

everything! Physics and Chemistry became as putty in the hands of
the Realised Master, who transcended them to reach the very Source
of all things. If it was not possible to concentrate without an object,
Guruji suggested, then they could meditate on the Himalayas.
Nothing summed up the unity and grandeur of the Supreme better
than these symbolic representations of purity and power…hence the
name of their institute.

It was the last day of the program. They felt deeply relaxed,
refreshed. Their mental horizons had expanded. Guruji was no
humbug. He was extremely learned in economics, physics,
engineering and mathematics. He drew upon these things, things that
belonged to the world of ordinary men, to deliver his message. He
was a towering intellect who felt he was a little child before the
Higher Intelligence that had created Him. His enthusiasm, his
objectivity, his humility, his sense of humour and his childish sense of
wonder were infectious. It was a revelation to them all, a man who
could leave wealth and success and opt for poverty, renouncing
everything for his quest.
Guruji had laughed heartily when someone told him this. ‘My
child, you’ve got it the wrong way round! I abandoned useless things,
mere baubles, for the incalculable wealth and bliss of His kingdom! I
was the gainer, not the loser. After all, I am basically an economics
man (he was an alumnus of the London School of Economics). I know
a profitable deal when I see one.’ His eyes twinkled merrily. ‘Make no
mistake, I got the best of the bargain!’ then he added seriously ‘and
so may you. Remember, He always responds when we surrender to
His will. This is my personal experience, mind you, not something
from a textbook, something I’ve seen time and again.’
The last meditation session was under way. Chandan Bhowmick
tried hard not to let his mind drift off to the Outback, his mysterious,
unfinished quest…for what? What was the significance of the
Dreamtime? How could he play a role in revealing, in a way men
could see and understand, what it stood for? A lesson for all men to
learn from, to …’ He felt a light touch on his shoulder. He opened his
eyes. Guruji was sitting next to him! ‘Don’t think of the problem. It
cannot be solved that way. Think of the Supreme Power, pray to it to
show you the way…if you ask it of Him, He will never let you down!’
Chandan Bhowmick marveled: Guruji had read his innermost
thoughts.
Guruji smiled affectionately. ‘I prayed to Him with all my devotion
to help me to help you. He tells me you are looking for a way for all
men to reach a high stage of evolution, something you caught a
 18

glimpse of in a faraway land across the ocean. It is a very difficult

task…but not impossible. Nothing is impossible for Him. He will show
you how. It will be a simple solution, but extremely demonstrative
and unchallengeable. You are blessed. Your years of sacrifice and
service to Him are not to go in vain.’
Bhowmick realized with a shock that his life’s quest might look
like that to others. In his saner moments, he’d always felt that his
search for the answer to the Dreamtime mystery was the over-
reaction of the chronic bachelor, the obsession of the rabid social
anthropologist.
‘I know, you think you were just doing your job. But don’t you
see, to do one’s job, to answer the call of the heart, to single-
mindedly pursue what your innermost being tells you to…that is
listening to one’s soul-voice. That is also worship, a life of Detached
Action: the hallmark of a great karmayogi. I bow before you.’ Guruji
bent his head to Chandan’s feet. ‘In bowing to you, I worship Him,
who is in you. Once, long ago, sitting by the sea with your soul mate,
you had a rare insight…there was Light everywhere…the conviction
that all are souls overcame you. Is that anthropology?! Draw
sustenance from that memory. Build on it…on the Light! The Light
will help you!’

The rear-engined jet aircraft trailed twin contrails of vapour as it

arced high over the ocean, a tiny silver dart lancing through the thin,
frozen air of the stratosphere. It was travelling at just under the speed
of sound, hurling itself at a distant continent towards the sunrise.
Inside the cockpit, the co-pilot sat vigilantly at the controls, his
face lit eerily by the green glow of the radar screen. His eyes scanned
the dials constantly, monitoring the plane’s heartbeat and the
autopilot’s ghostly movements as his chief lay slumped in his own
chair, snoring softly. The view through the windscreen was a uniform
grey, with the hazy suggestion of a horizon where the starry
blackness ended. There was no sensation of speed.
Behind him, one of the airhostesses, napping in the redundant
navigator’s chair, muttered incoherently in her sleep. Aft, in the dim,
hushed luxury of the passenger cabin, the occupants slept fitfully,
oblivious of the –30ºC cold outside, their cabin a pressurized haven,
its temperature automatically maintained at a soothing 22ºC.
Twelve kilometers below, the smooth, airbrushed blue-black that
was the Indian Ocean gleamed dully in the weak light of a new moon.
The plane’s shadow startled a shark cruising at the surface. It crash-
dived in a flurry of foam, momentarily diverted from its relentless
search for food, a sleepless, tireless torpedo. It was the ultimate
predator, faultlessly designed 200 million years ago. It had not
 19

survived practically unchanged all this time for nothing. It waited

patiently. One day, the planet would belong to it…again.
In the First Class section, next to June Holliday, Chandan
Bhowmick was dreaming. He dreamt he was slogging through deep,
powdery snow. His heavy clothing, the crampons on his boots, the
snow goggles, they all made it tough going for him, ice axe or no ice
axe. Around him towered majestic mountains, their snowy peaks
sharply defined against a cobalt blue sky. He was not alone. They
were with him…the children.
The children? Even in his dream, he was taken aback. What
children? Where had children come from? What were they doing here,
with him, at 18,000 feet? Why were they in their play-clothes in this
bitter Himalayan cold? They laughed gaily at his confusion, amused
by the silly grown-up who didn’t understand. They were pointing
ahead, drawing his attention to something.
Chandan Bhowmick turned to see a sight that transfixed him. A
conical monolith of solid ice, a dazzling pyramid of perfect
proportions, an epitome of purity, towered above him. Its dagger-like
peak seemed to stab deep into the very heart of the cosmos. He went
down on his knees before it, for even in his dream he realized he was
at the base of Mount Kailash, the holy abode of Shiva. He knelt there
in awe and wonder at the glory before him…and all around him, the
children danced and sang, bathed in ethereal light. Then he awoke.
That he had been blest by a vision never occurred to him. Still
less could he have imagined that it held the key to the mystery of the
Dreamtime.

*
They checked into a hotel incognito. Sydney was a big place, but
not that big if it meant evading media scrutiny. Fame had its
drawbacks, the most irksome being the constant glare of publicity.
June had worn a gaily-coloured silk scarf she had bought in Delhi, and
covered her eyes with dark glasses, something she usually never
wore. Her beautiful blue eyes were one of her greatest assets. Right
now, they were a sure giveaway.
They now lived together. There was no guilt, because there was
no sin…and vice versa. When two people wanted each other, loved
each other this much, how could it be sin? They were so deeply
committed to each other that the question of it being wrong did not
arise. No amount of vows could evoke or consolidate the love and
reverence they had for each other. They could hardly bear to let each
other out of sight. They just wanted a few more days together, to
savour their Himalayan experience before the world intervened and
tore them ruthlessly apart. In any case, even going by conventional
morality, no one really bothered about such things any more.
 20

They discussed what they had learnt from Guruji…and from the
mountains. Faith, patience, surrender, humility, gratitude, action
without laying claim to the fruits, love, humour, charity, forgiveness…
it was a long list. They had done just those very things in their lives
unconsciously, things prescribed by all the scriptures, and the
universe had repaid them. The formula worked! They analysed,
argued, and agreed, the best of mates, the best of friends. They were
the lucky ones of the earth and they knew it.
They looked at each other and wondered at it all. At the sheer
immensity of the scale of things, the interconnectivity of everything…
and the underlying pattern, woven long ago by the hand of the Master
Weaver, was revealed to them. In that moment, the whole tapestry of
Creation seemed to glow before their eyes…a glow that grew
brighter, flared up, became a brilliance that dazzled them so that they
cowered before its glory and clung to each other in terror. And deep
at the heart of the flame, the children ran and leaped and laughed
and sang, as they seemed to beckon to them to hurry up and join
them.

She remembered another time, years ago. Bondi beach. ‘Light!

There was so much of it. Everywhere. It seemed to be all there was.
Everything seemed to be made of Light. Everything. It enveloped
them in its magic, a happy, uplifting golden radiance, as they sat
together companionably on the sand. Strange, how it was sometimes.
When words were unnecessary. When you first met someone…and
found you had always known him. They had met three weeks ago.
Time was such a riddle…or was it a hoax?’
Goosebumps came up all over her forearms, and her eyes
brimmed with happy tears, remembering,
*

‘You see it, of course, Chandan? Don’t you?’ June asked him
impatiently. Bhowmick shook his head, puzzled. ‘This is the second
time with the children business, June’’ he said. ‘The first was on the
plane, on the way back. I told you about it. What can it possibly
mean?’ he asked, shaken by self-doubt at his inability to pierce the
fog.
‘But it’s clear as crystal, darling!’ June was ecstatic. ‘The
children! They are the key…the way to the Light, the road to the
Dreamtime for all others to follow.’ She sprang off the bed and
fetched her bible, and opening it to Mark 10.14 she read aloud:
‘Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of
such is the kingdom of God.’ Then she looked up John 1.1: ‘In him was
life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in
darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.’
 21

She looked at him in exasperation, as every woman who ever

lived has looked ruefully at her woolly-witted man. ‘Don’t you
understand? C’mon, let’s add two and two together, and see what we
get. The Kingdom of God, i.e., a world of enlightened, spiritually
advanced beings, is the Light…and the children are as the kingdom of
God. So the children are the Light, or at least the way to it. We start
with the children…when we get hold of some! Q.E.D.!’
She skipped around the room in her exhilaration, clapping her
hands. ‘Jesus stresses on the simplicity, the sheer innocence of
children. That’s the key! Apply todayspeak to ‘innocence’—and it
reads as total quarantine from ‘teachers’, parental conditioning,
indeed from civilisation itself—and what do we get? Natural Man…in
all his pristine glory, Chandan. Imagine! Rousseau’s ‘Noble Savage’!
Alpha Man! Untutored, his brain unfettered, uncramped by
extraneous influences that block the Light—which we accept here as
a metaphor for the Hindu ‘Third Eye of Shiva’. That explains your
blessing from Shiva at Kailash. Right at his doorstep!
‘Alpha Man’, she continued, inspired, ‘is in tune with the cosmos,
has the ability to pierce the veil of maya, sees Nature as his parents,
is above false illusion, possessed of all the higher senses: intuition,
telepathy…what have you. The Dawn of the New Men is coming,
Chandan! Alpha Man and Sri Aurobindo’s Omega Man…two sides of
the same coin!’
Beside herself with excitement, she clutched the lapels of his
jacket in her fists, furious at herself for not having seen the answer
before. ‘The Dreamtime, Chandan. Your life’s work! It’s yours for the
taking. You’ve done it.’

They adopted them from all over the world, the abandoned waifs
no one wanted. Black, brown, white, yellow, yet all children, and they
brought them up in a hermitage they established in eastern Australia,
far from civilisation. They had enormous wealth between them, and
they bought a huge estate and cordoned it off with an electrified
fence, barbed wire and deep moats. Even an army would have found
it difficult getting in. They grew their own food, and had their own
livestock and poultry. They just fed the children, told them they were
their parents, and let them run free, letting Nature be their teacher.
There was no radio, no television, and no books. The sun and the
moon and the stars were all they had. They learned to depend on
themselves and the elements for answers to satisfy their endless
curiosity. Their parents never professed to know anything. They could
only be relied upon to teach them to love each other; they never
taught anything else. They had to discover everything on their own.
They had the best facilities at their disposal, the best that modern
 22

science could offer, but there was nobody to tell them what they were
for or how they worked. They had no telephone, no musical
instruments. They had to depend on their own minds and heads and
hearts to fill the empty spaces.
They learnt speech, but by the time they were seven they had
dispensed with it. They never seemed to be separate units. One of
them would think of a joke…and they all laughed. They started to
teach their parents how things worked, with the patience normally
reserved for the stumbling, inadequate children outside. They lovingly
explained to them the nuances of calculus, trigonometry, and the
structure of the atom. They doted on their parents, but to them they
were dear, under-developed oddities. Never did they make fun of
them. They knew that their parents’ sacrifice had made it possible for
them to become what they had become.
They made their minds their laboratories and solved the
problems they kept encountering. They strove and vanquished. Soon,
their minds had overcome the weak test of the physical world and
encountered another reality beyond it that was far more exciting.
They leapt to the new challenge with glee, full of wonder and curiosity
and love for everything.

Twenty years had passed. They were old and grey and tired…but
few on earth were as happy as they were. They sat hand in hand
under the eucalyptus trees and talked about what blessings the years
had brought them. This was the real pay-off, to look back on life and
feel it had been a great privilege to receive such a grand gift. To have
made a success of it, in material as well as non-material terms. To
have achieved something, helped others.
They were still as deeply in love as they had ever been, but they
never had to say it…it was obvious from their faces. The Children…
they were the crowning glory of their brief lives. The Children were of
the Light, immortal, the first of the New Men that would henceforth
walk the planet, cruise the universe. Their Children! It was a matter of
great pride and joy for them.
The Light was ever with them, with this contented pair whose
work was done. It was with them now, expanding, dissolving
everything in its golden, soothing radiance. It was such a comfort to
let go, to return to the Light, to allow oneself to be sucked back into
it, to the End…and to the Beginning…of it All.

They buried their parents where they slept, hand in hand under
the eucalyptus trees, at the spot that was bathed in sunshine. They
 23

wept for them; they were, after all, their children. They had not been
immortal like them, but they had sacrificed themselves so that their
children could be Things of Light, be Men. But they rejoiced also. They
would meet again. Then they prepared themselves for the next
upheaval that was sure to come.
They themselves were in the first flush of their youth. Time was
nothing to them. They were immortal. Not for a long time had the
earth seen men and women such as these. They were the gods the
outside world only talked about. They were the perfect men all could
one day become. They no longer had to be bodies. They were
fundamentally agglomerations of Light, clad in bodies by choice, all
knowing, all seeing.
One day they conferred amongst themselves. The term is used
because it makes sense to Old Men like you and I. They were One,
totally and completely integrated with each other. They had come to
know that the outside world would not allow them to live if they could
help it. The men outside were unenlightened: they had no knowledge
of the Light! Once before, long ago, they had crucified one of them
when He had tried to show them the Way. They looked with deep
distaste and hostility at anything and everyone they did not
understand. Men with weapons were coming to forcibly enter their
retreat.
The children did not regard the hermitage as their home any
more. There was nowhere that was not home to them. They were
Masters of the Universe. Their ‘parents’ were gone, the only Old Men
and Women they had ever known and whom they had loved so
dearly. The time had come to break with the Past. There was no other
way. It was time to spread their wings.
*

‘Yes, Sir! I’ll take another look. But it’s no use. We can’t do
anything with Nothing, Sir! No, Sir! That’s not what I meant. Yes, Sir!
Quite. Absolutely, Sir. I fully agree with you. Sorry, Sir, I was not being
impertinent, just telling it like it is, Sir!’ He put down the field
telephone and mopped his face with his handkerchief. The Prime
Minister had been in a foul mood over his report. Maj. General Roger
Willoughby was a confused man. He was a soldier who followed
orders to a T. His Action Force had followed the coordinates to the
place they had marked on the charts. They found…emptiness!
There was nothing there. Nothing. Just a grey, indistinct
nothingness that was impervious to tanks, shells, mortars: anything
he could throw at it. He had failed in his mission. But he didn’t have to
take this kind of talk from any man. He sat down at the green baize
table in his field headquarters and carefully drafted out his
resignation. Let the old man find some other sucker to solve this one.
 24

The electromagnetic spectrum stretches, theoretically, from

Infinity to Infinity. An item existing in infrared can only be seen in
infrared. So it was with Ultraviolet, and all the other wavelengths
within the incomplete comprehension of the Old Men. All matter was
vibration, vibrations of light in its avatar as particle. Make a particle a
wave, which light also was, take it beyond that, to another frequency,
and it ‘disappeared’, as far as other waves not within or adjacent to it
were concerned. It was the magic of the Old Men. It was their
everyday, commonplace reality.
They had avoided confrontation by removing themselves a few
frequencies away. They were still there…but not to those at their old
frequency. To them, they did not exist. There was nothing there at all!
The Light was all there ever really was; it was the Word of the old
religion, and it was true…only incompletely explained. They were
children of the Light, and well they knew it. They were themselves
Light, illuminated, radiant beings who had mastered the cosmos and
had identified themselves with the Greater Light. Now they would
reshape the world, on its behalf, since they were part and parcel of
The Source. New worlds waited to be born, like the New Men who
were coming. The Children of the Light braced themselves to meet
the future.

Half way across the globe, at the foot of the Himalayas, an old
man sat alone, lost in deep meditation. He was seated on a deerskin
in the lotus pose of the ancient sages, smiling happily to himself. The
lamps had been extinguished, but his form was ablaze with light.
He was in communion with The Elders, the Old Ones. And with
the New Ones he knew were coming, the long awaited New Men. His
work here was over. He left his physical body for good and became a
sphere of luminous energy that beamed itself to the giant monolith in
the wastelands to the east.
A new age was in the offing, and further labours awaited him…as
they did the two orbs even now waiting for him in the golden dawn,
companionably together as always, the two whom he knew were
called The Keepers of the Flame. It had been a privilege working with
them.

Shadow of the New Men falling

On the screen of future climes,
 25

Hearing other voices calling

From beyond the veil of Time!

~*~

© Subroto Mukerji

‘The voyage is not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes’.

~ Marcel Proust