Story of Creation

         The dawn is upon us. The light shinning alongwith. The light of The Truth. And the Truth sets us free. Now the Truth says that God is Love.
        Love speaks, it expresses itself, and Love is in the air. Movement, Voice and Expression are three Omnipresent features of Love. Yet let's not be confused that this Love is the love manifested in the World. Love that is God is Pure.

Mirror in my Mind

What I think is what I see.

There is power in Pure Love, yet it never destroys but simply creates. Now the question is, can Love create anything? Matter can be seen but Love cannot be seen. How can then a thing unseen create Matter which we percieve to exist in real world. But like Love has power it can even create. Only if it created could we exist, for we find Love inside us. And now we do exist proving that the unseen can create that which is seen.

TITLE - JOURNEY TO THE BEGINING OF THE EARTH Peterson loved to hear stories. His favourites were those which involved terrains, valleys and tall steep mountains. He loved the scenes of pictures coming to life, sometimes full of scary beasts and birds and sometimes pretty smiling fairies. He waited the whole day, finishing off his chores in ad hurry, his excitement building up as the night approached. Uncle Sam was in the middle of the street trying to catch up a running bus, which would drop him at his office. He loved his daily office work. Through sometimes it bored him with the routine checks. He had a window side table in his cabin. At Hover vile, ZA. The 10th floor where his firm had a rented occupation was one of the many hundreds of small concerns in the same block. He pressed down the creases of his trousers as he found a seat in the moving bus. Today it was moving slower than the other days. There was more traffic on the roads of his home town, Germania. Even though the sweat troubled him, he was happy; window sides always had their impact on his swoopy mind It was another hectic day for shovely. She brisked on holdng up bits of jobs, trying to finish up each one as the clock ticked on. “How fast the day moved once it was up till noon” whispered shovel as the broom nodded in agreement to hert views. The nickelheads were the soberest family in the cluster of farm houses ingraine to the Zermanian countryside. It was a mixed county with farms of every kind and creep, most of them even having self processing units. Theirs were a smaller one, and so Sam had to do an extra job to make ends meet. Sam had carried his breakfast to office to save time. As the bus timings made him hurry. Well he would be coming back for a much awaited wholesome supper. Shovely smiled wide as she remembered Sam’s Antic’s at the super table. He still had the childish pranks often making her wonder If Sam was younger than Peterson. “Now where was Peterson? Should be off fishing with his friends at the distant lake. Good that she reminded him to pack his snack box as well”. The Den had a different look as Peterson put the finishing touches to the walls. He really looked a professional in his paint stained black sports jacket. “Aunt should not be knowing about this hideout”. Uncle Sam and he had discovered this place in the cleavage of three old banyan trees. Now they had built a small shed at a little height from the ground. The family spent the weekend here, but the shed would be a shocking surprise for Aunt Shovely

SCARY BURDENS Zell is the hottest spot you can ever find on earth. The genes of the soil here were exploited millions of years back. Everything had the Fade Jeans look around here. Water you could find, but just for the name Suhe. A little stream broken down at places with huge brackish stones. Wait a minute, my writing is being disturbed by a fly. How little we care about this near neighbour of ours. God compasses the abandoned ones. When we humans declared them untouchables, God gave them the open soft nature to dwell in their short lives. This daring one comes close to the tip of my pen and dusts of its limbs clean. It does it job well, diligently rubbing off micro dirt particles from its tiny legs and wings. Magnify it a million times and you could see a giant crane moving building materials on the work site. Yet who cares, and so too in Zell. No one cared for the Fauna around. Life is too live and well do the humans. Sometimes I am led to believe that animals fare better than us in common sense and caring. Writing cannot be hot, unless it is news. News of killings, burning and mass destructions or most of the times, exposure of shame. When I began writing twenty years back, my hand used to be driven by limb twisting and entangling episodes that could arouse some readers. God they never came out. Today I fe3el them as if broken twigs with withering scales that have sculptured a new generation with its up heavels of sensual escapades. Zell had a different story. Hundred years back, the women came to the river to fetch water. There were howls, laughter and familiarity in the atmosphere. The children under the sun grew up to make them vanish. Now they have grown old with beards and love telling tales. Scary bits every time and everywhere. You will find in long siren vans coming on the hospital roads. They even turn up under the shadows of concrete forest towers. Utopia is unheard of. People long for safety. Zell had many characters to be jealous of. Fear was to be dealt with fear, and the people had learnt to do it with humour. Dry lives had the best opportunity to put in some fresh leaves of yumours. Daily chores had become excuses of new talk. The shops and fairs were full of them. But the fears never ended but unseen it became the integral part of the common lives. It brought in the sooth Sayers, ghost hunters ad virus killers. The leaves in the trees had turned grimy blackish brown. The fruits and flowers were untimely borne and they had to make kids yearn for them each season. Yet one thing remained the peace in the village life. And that was so, because money had entered to rule the lives of the folk. Every one was happy with their daily essentials met. Yet few had different ventures. They had drifted in the course of time to greener pastures. There was a hillock in the ear dist ace with lot many hills in its back ground, and the daily sun set in the horizon. That was the point where the dreamers had moved out. Few of them returned to take with them the other lot. Soon there was a big gap in thought processing and how, after decades there were two communities in Zell. Zell and Zell Avenue, and fear ruled the borders between the two. Time rolled on and generations changed. Dimon grew up on the streets, doing odd jobs for everyone who was ready to feed him. He had learnt to deal with the stray dogs, many of whom had become his close aids. He fed them the crumbs left over after his meals. He had a wonderful life, although in the eyes of the onlooker he was a poor chap. The early days were harder, when he knew he was hungry, and alone, but time was a good teacher, and he came out of it. Somehow he escaped the bad boys. There was an inner personality which made him different. The gangs of the street shadows kept away from him, except when they were in trouble and seeked an advice. The only foes Dimon had the rich guys who came to play in the open field nearby. He just didn’t like their proud stares. Dimon never went to school but he could read all the labels on the boards and banners. Curiosity taught him, mostly when he was hungry and roamed about the stalls. But one recent thing confused him. That was the placards on gay rights. Things were quite new for the fresher. He had a favourite haut. The well in the outskirts of Zell. Tired of the city din, he used to take off a vacation from the busy hill town towards the plain. But he kept away from the village ways. So he found the well where few folk came, a great place to rest and ready the skies. The country side had more of the birds then the city and he loved to feed them. It seems the birds were distant relatives of the street animals of the town. Wonder why they stayed away from the happening city lights and sights!

DIP Water; water everywhere not a drop to drink. Man cannot drink saline water, but the ocean holds a lot of mysteries. Mysteries of untold riches and of men _____ by it. Long forgotten tales and story tellers more in numbers. The east and the west knows about the water lying south and north. The land reveals and the waters hide and hence the perception of deep waters. No one knows but we feel water is like a mirror, reflecting the stars in the sky, sensing encoded signals up the clouds and by. When does the story of a drop of water build up? In the chemical universe, water has a totally different appearance. There is nothing wrong when we assume water as H2O for the formula is perfectly right. But is it two inflammable gases which constitute this cool liquid or is there something else to it. When the sun evaporates a drop of water, does it have to delve into its molecular nature? It is for us, humans, who have to search for atoms of water to give it a size, shape or alter it. Yet till date we have not been able to make even a single glass of water which would quench someone’s thirst. Water in the real sense has to give life. Life to the thirsting soul and life that can reproduce fullness and satisfaction. A major part of the Earth’s water body is salty. Salty water cannot be drunk, but the salt is it can have many uses. The uses of salt are yet to be disarmed as more and more research is being carried out. What could be the relation between salt, water and sand? Are they three things coming out of the same rock? In the views of any research student, this may be totally unconceivable. Yet if we do a little bit of human experience reviews, we may arrive at a conclusion that they are from a single source. After all our earth has been classified to be a planet from a bang. The earliest forms have been traced to the forms as that of gaseous matter which cooled down the ages. Cooling in this way had to produce 90% plus liquid matter and only a little portion of solid and gas form. Gas can be presumed to tilt forms now and then. But from all these vast complicacies one thing was required the most. Pure filtered edible water having the powers even to cool the tired eyes. TWO TYPES OF CREATIONS Does the universe have two types of creations? One which is already found as fully formed and just continuing a line of similarities. Another which are hidden in the many floppy layers of different atmospheric elements. Very recently we had the recycling of a virus which comes to life often 30,000 years of frozen dormancy. Good it was just a ting harmless virus. Scientists even hold on the belief that the hearing up of atmospheric levels may trigger back many such forms, back to life. Just after the first light showers of rain in the monsoons, we come to see little creatures back in life, crawling the dust. Many of them don’t live much time, some just disappear but the main topic to consider is, are they just coming out of the soil or do they form themselves in the instant. We can even say they were hiding in hibernation under the event of earth, but there is another serious point of thinking that if they could survive underneath our feet, why would they just die out in the open. We also have a common belief which comes alive often times that. Aliens are a reality. Now leaving the aliens alone to do their little bit of research around us, we have to find out how these little living creatur4es come to appear and disappear all of a sudden. Is there a dual system of life in our planet? And if it is, then can it be useful for our future study of the mysteries of life. We know that unlike humans and animals, plants need Carbon Dioxide to make their food. And the cycle of breaking up of synthesis and metabolic processes we gain in the purification of air and mineral sources. Yet the cycling of tiny organises touch can be studied, cannot be certainly reached till the roots. Even they help a lot in fertilization process, but to decipher, their roots and moult mechanics when they don’t even exist is very much off the track. Still we can arrive at certain conclusions from all these observations that will help us to restructure life sciences.

ENDING THE STORY Like it would never end, the essence of everything that occurred in the story of Zell was a representation of the entire human race. In the gap of many generations, our blood has never changed. It’s the same as it was thousand of years before. Zell has an unending story. It would be similar to stories written prior to mine, yet there are many bends in the lane which would seem totally off stage and out of track. Yet that is where the story is different. Like a conscious child growing up, it falls and rises, breaks and races, tills and straightens and repeat every little activity in a quest way. Peterson did reach the end of his story. For that he had to take a tour of the beginning of the world. His den was revealed to many, but they kept revisiting it, because every time there was a new surprise. Uncle Sam got his corner of his like, but that’s another big tale, and the tale grew as did his dreams. Shortly made up a new avatar and everyone liked it because he was going to achieve more heights with that get up. The strangest part of this episode is the mixture of a tinch of eastern spice with the short entry of Mr. Singh’s family. But it was a strange but true twist that took place in this special piece of earth. The village of Zell had few other families including the headman who was different. They had emerged from their own dwellings of a dream to represent themselves. In fact this story had characters who lived in different, for off lands but in their dreams had come to this land and then they become an internal part of it. The eagle soared high with some of its mates while the rest covered the pinnacles. There were lanes even in the open skies and followed the brooks in the valleys. And as they followed, they took a crooked form like the fossil imprints of our ancient ancestors. Thoughts inclined to motion and motion further developed instruments. Yet unlike the rest of the world the special characters formed here, helped positively in the formation of the most peculiar tailings of a trail. DOES DIMON GET LEFT OUT? No, never, he has the best piece of the cake. He grows up with tales on his wing. The finest creature you can call. He was there together with the homo-sapiens as well as with the feline and the fauna and he also has a love tale behind him. But the best of his works include making a bridge between the circumstances prevailing in the two lands. Though it was not, for Dimon, life in Zell Avenue and the village Zell were two different respective. One decode up from the head to the toes but with arrogant features, the other ignorable yet catchy in its humble yet effective life styles. He saw in person, two things forming at the same time. When the tragic event struck the area, he was all there to witness and to address many urgent issues. Dimon rose from the dust, lived among the thorny thickets of life, yet delivered a fascinating and dramatic piece of act, whenever time required. By the time the story came to the climax, time itself stood strong and besides Dimon, so that only he had something real to do and say. When the times were good for others, Dimon might have blanked out in the night sky with hunger, yet when the citizens needed him, he was always there. The end did not have to come as this has been kept for the future. But in all cascading tenses, Dimon lead and the heroes of the country and the countryside followed. There were shields and swords of all sizes and sharpness, yet the blood never asked for it. For love was in the blood of the people. Love earned with the yearnings the heart of even the hardest of foes for which time rewarded the region a realm of calm in the end. It was a brisk night of wailing walls but the pillars of faith and unity won the war to receive a great morning of deliverance. A RECYCLING TALE So you see the wheels turning. Moving in every direction and as the wheels move you find the machines are lifted up. The instruments here are not static. Even the thing particles of dust move about. The bigger blots of moisture evaporates and rotates the water cycle. What you can see is the dust, even that is moved to a new place by steps of feet. The grains that’s bigger is also taken up. The kids playing around won’t leave the stones untouched. The bigger rocks resist for a while but can’t do it for the newer constructions in every lane. There is unseen value for ignorable hands full of earth. The plants, trees and grass are vied upon by passers by seeking for an excuse to utility. Every bit of resource is useful, and if not, then termed as scrap for recycling. “Dust thou art, and thou shall return to dust only”. Dust that can be easily driven about in every direction. So we see the life of the living, in a small spin of a wheel. So is the cycle that teaches us all these in its own fancy way. Making man move till the last rim is rusted and the spokes lost its joints. Yet all these were things secondary to Mr. Singh, for he for knew every thing. In a way he talked to his cycle every day about this and lot move. Nothing could stop him from taking out his well. Nothing could stop him from taking out his well lubricated bicycle. Off to the market, away to the riverside, well by the children’s park, swift on an errand, swaying, swinging, playing and enjoying every movement they made. Heroes on the silver screen come and varnish after a while. But Singh had the alibi___to be always present. He was the hero, he was as he wanted. Down the lane, up the mounds the hero moved on. The more he saw, the more he kept and shared with his companion. And what do you think his companion did? Spin it in the wheels. Just as the wool spinning charkha made more balls of wool the pretty simple bicycle spinned new and newer tales. Who cared about any reads? It’s a mind which speaks and speaks then off in the air. The breezes round the bushes catch it and turn it up and away. The tales dash around the poles and pillars and grow up all the way. For this is life and never quite, it will just be on the way.

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