Raman stared at his palm in stunned disbelief. It’s disappeared! He mused. Angira’s symbolic palmistry was a highly favoured subject of introspective thought. The thousand petalled amalgamation of lines that he willed on his hand had faded beyond recognition. He inhaled and screamed momentarily immersing himself in the rainbow sprinkling of colour thought; a musical conversation of colours he experienced with the eucalyptus bonsai in his hands. Today was going to be a predominantly violet day for Raman in floating staccatos of E minor straining to B flat with strokes of saffron and magenta.
It was then that he stumbled upon the face in the cloud he was floating on…
He stood on his hands entranced into summoning devotion as he made eye contact with
The hologram. The sage penetrated his karmic whirlpool with a mani glint.
A stentorian explosion of omkar echoed in Raman’s consciousness remember when the lotus radiates blue, three galaxies would have passed.
Raman’s last astral flight spanned 400 chandrik years, the crystal form he donned after metamorphosis, spiraled through planets Ruparanga and Hiranyaloka.
As he recuperated in spatial levitation his eyes wandered to the tiny dots of black that he saw on the planets surface. Antique inhabitants who would rather be occupied in the boorish act of watching synthesized third hand dreamscape on a tube than experimenting with form, time and space through transient introspection.
Why even 5000 years ago, Rishi’s recorded their picturesque breakthrough from illusory dimensions.
As the wind whispered in through the window, khushi remembered how her father would say " when people die, they speak through the wind" she looked up at the moon, teasingly distant and then she saw it; a brilliant flash of golden, shaped like a lotus masquerading in the violet night sky.
She shut her eyes, moist with the glimpses of her late father, Raman.
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