Unknown Books and Texts

As I read and write on history and historical themes, I am always amazed and in awe of the people of the past, who did so much, gained some recognition in their lifetime, and now are hardly remembered. Perhaps they were as brilliant as those who remain famous today, but for some reason, they are not known to the same extent.

There are artists, musicians, leaders, prophets, and of course, writers. And there are books. I will be writing on some of these books from India to make them better known.

Right now I am writing something more on the Manimekhalai, an epic in Tamil. It has a Buddhist theme, but also tells us a lot about women in early south India. There is already a partial summary of it in this blog, but I am improving on it, and analysing some aspects of the book.

Sri Aurobindo--The hidden forces of life

The hidden forces of life is another selection by A.S. Dalal. Here Sri Aurobindo and The Mother discuss universal forces that can be accessed if one knows how. There are also discussions on astrology, karma, forces within the individual, and occult forces, as well as on hidden worlds, evolutionary forces, and helpful spiritual forces.
It is certainly a book worth studying.
A few quotes:
'The only free will in the world is the one divine will, of which nature is the executrix.' [p.21]
'As the evolution proceeds, nature begins slowly and tentatively to manifest our occult parts.' [p.46]
'The forces and beings of the vital world have a great influence on human beings.'[p.142]

Short Stories

Six of my short stories now available on Kindle. If you don't have a kindle, the Kindle app can be downloaded on any device.

www.amazon.com/dp/B016GQVNOS

The first paragraphs are given below:

The Library

A thousand years later they will excavate a mound and as they dig, slowly, carefully, lifting the bricks of crumbled buildings, they will find the skeletons of six people who seem to have died sitting, covered in dust; and when they take some of this dust in a test tube and analyse it in their laboratories, they will learn it is the dust of books. To make the excavation report factual and interesting they will attempt to reconstruct the situation but they will not quite succeed.
This is how it was, every day, for many years, before it all ended, in those days before computers, before photo-copiers.
There is a heavy table in the room, piled high with books. Some of the books are two hundred years old or more. There are thirteen chairs around the table. Six are always occupied, the remaining seven only now and then. The six are permanent ---the seven transitory.
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As Below So Above

My story begins with a nightmare. One night I dreamt I went to heaven.
It was like this. I had died in my sleep, and I was happy. After all, the life I had was not worth living. I did have a few momentary regrets about my young wife and two-year-old son, but as I rode upwards, light as a cloud, I soon forgot them. I was eager to start my new life.
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Paper Toys

Last evening I visited Ward Number 28 again, the Orthopaedic Ward for women, in Janvadi Hospital. More than thirty years have passed, though I had planned so often to go there. Life somehow takes one in different directions, one becomes abstracted, self-absorbed. As I stood in the doorway, and looked into the dimly lit room, the women groaning, legs strung up in traction, the years fell away, and I realised why I had come. It was all long ago, but what I had seen then in Ward Number 28, had touched my heart, the memories had never faded. I looked back into the distance, reliving the days and nights I had spent there.
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Jahanara
Jahanara was the most beautiful name she could think of. It wasn’t her real name, but she had chosen it for herself. Its the name she wanted to die with. In about three months Jahanara aimed to be dead, covered in flowers, her face pale and beautiful, her hair washed and straight. Yes, she will be dead, she thought, Jahanara will be dead. She had planned her death and looked forward to it, as much as she looked forward to life. For she was not sick. She was thin and tanned, brown from sitting in the sun so much. When she woke every morning she felt a strength flowing through her. She would let that feeling travel through her body as she stretched and moved. She felt so well, so full of health.
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The Frogs
Once again, I was alotted a new place to stay. It had two small rooms with low, ill-fitting asbestos ceilings under tin roofs, and a bathroom and kitchen without the ceilings, the tin roofs propped up by shaky, termite-ridden rafters. The floor was perpetually damp with seepage from the ground, and there were cracks everywhere, which let in a wide variety of insects and creatures.
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The beautiful one
It was a magical afternoon, a gentle sunlight filtered through the clouds, the grass so green. What was that ahead? A bunch of crows cawing loudly and diving at something on the grass. As I moved closer, I saw it was a young cobra, so lithe, so fresh, almost shining with newness, though it was already a foot-and-a-half long. Its head was raised, protecting itself against the crows, who swooped and then darted out of reach. It was so beautiful, the marks on its small head so perfect, that instinctively I went up to it and shooed the crows away as I stood over its head. Above my feet the raised head turned and looked at me, as a protective, almost motherly feeling rose in me, and we gazed at each other. And then she moved onwards, the beautiful snake, and I stood guard till she had found shelter in a heap of stones. The crows cawed angrily.
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To read more:

www.amazon.com/dp/B016GQVNOS

Extracts from Snow Fu by Hsieh Hui-Lien

Many years ago while doing research I found this poem in a journal, and wrote down part of it. Today it must be available on the net, but I reproduce what I noted down at the time.

‘The year approaching its close,
The season getting dark
Cold winds gathering
Gloomy clouds clustering.

The Prince of Liang was not cheerful
As he strolled in Rabbit garden—
So he set out fine wine,
Called for his friends to come…’

……………………..

‘How could integrity be my name,
How could purity be my virtue?
With the clouds I ascend and descend,
On the wind I flutter and fall.
Encountering objects I diffuse over their images,
On the earth I spread over its form.
Blank according to what I meet,
Foul following another’s sullying,
My hear is wild and free—
Whay should I worry, why hustle and bustle?’