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January 24, 2017

The Fire of Timeless Love: Sundar, 802 A.D.

Photo for Sundar and Bibi - 802 AD A barefoot woman dances in India, her magenta skirts swirling around her legs.

In My Inner World, I Hear A Faint Voice Say "Sundar"...

Photo for Sundar and Bibi - 802 AD A barefoot woman dances in India, her magenta skirts swirling around her legs.

As I begin, I notice a feeling of impatience, even frustration. I stop and observe, and see that what is underneath that is a deep sadness. “Okay,” I think, “this must have something to do with the information waiting for me, so donʼt take it personally, breathe, let go and move on.” In my inner world I hear a faint voice say “Sundar”.

When I reach the hallway I am aware that the doors go so far back that I canʼt see where they end from my vantage point. I begin to walk the hallway with Joanneʼs guidance, and as I do I see a door made of whitewashed wood and the number 1791. Then another door, colored red, and I donʼt recognize the material. This one says 1604. Then yet another, made of stone and it says 11 something – I canʼt make out the exact year. I am pulled still further onward, and I wonder how far back Iʼm being taken. Then I stop directly in front of a door that looks to be bronze. The year of birth on this door is 802. This is the one Iʼm meant to open.

I walk in and see a woman of some maturity seated on several artfully woven silk pillows at a low table of teak wood. It is exquisitely carved with intricate designs of dancing elephants, gods and goddesses, and what look to be divine animals. The wood is dark and it feels like an old friend. “The family table”, I think. Watching, I see that this woman is me.

Children squeal and there is a “shoosh shoosh shoosh” from one of the servants. I look over at her as we catch each otherʼs gaze and smile. She is an old friend, her mother was my nurse when I was a child, and now she has been nurse to my children and loves bossing her daughter who now oversees my sonʼs children.

WE CATCH EACH OTHERʼS GAZE AND SMILE

There are two of us at the table. My husband. He is my Krishna, my sun of all suns, the one Krishna Himself has embodied to be with me and show me this Heaven on earth. His name is Sundar, and our love has had time to ripen like the wine being poured into my silver goblet. Sundar is head advisor to the King. He has achieved his status by being adept with the spice trade, and having had a hand in filling up the royal coffers. Ours has filled as well. I think I get part of the name of the city: it sounds like “Kair”. Kerala perhaps?

I walk in and see a woman of some maturity seated on several artfully woven silk pillows at a low table of teak wood. It is exquisitely carved with intricate designs of dancing elephants, gods and goddesses, and what look to be divine animals. The wood is dark and it feels like an old friend. “The family table”, I think. Watching, I see that this woman is me.

Children squeal and there is a “shoosh shoosh shoosh” from one of the servants. I look over at her as we catch each otherʼs gaze and smile. She is an old friend, her mother was my nurse when I was a child, and now she has been nurse to my children and loves bossing her daughter who now oversees my sonʼs children.

There are two of us at the table. My husband. He is my Krishna, my sun of all suns, the one Krishna Himself has embodied to be with me and show me this Heaven on earth. His name is Sundar, and our love has had time to ripen like the wine being poured into my silver goblet. Sundar is head advisor to the King. He has achieved his status by being adept with the spice trade, and having had a hand in filling up the royal coffers. Ours has filled as well. I think I get part of the name of the city: it sounds like “Kair”. Kerala perhaps?

I feel a wrenching surge of profound grief as I watch this scene and Sundarʼs wonderful face.

It doesnʼt make sense – what I am witnessing here is complete in love and abundance in the most marvelous sense of all those qualities most humans hold high regarding family life. I hear my name as Sundar speaks it: “Bibi”.

????? The name Bibi, my given name in this life from my adoptive parents, also means “Beloved One” in Arabic… and “Highborn Lady” in Hindi! In the nineties a woman from Mumbai told me that my name is used as an endearment. Mysteries…

Oh oh Sundar. I believe he is my Twin Flame – one of the rare forms that type of union can take in embodiment, in that our intense passion for each other never wanted to consume as fire does; instead, its flames purified and enhanced this absolutely magical relationship.

PRIMORDIAL EARTHQUAKE

I See The Significant Event. The Ground Shakes In A Terrible Frenzy. I Ride With Sundar On Our Horses, Accompanied By Two Of His Male Servants. It Is Afternoon. The Sounds Of The Earth Movement Itself Are Horrific. We Are Not Far At All, But There Is What I Can Only Describe As Supreme Chaos. This Must Be An Absolutely Massive Earthquake. Nothing But Smoke And Dust. I Hear The Screams Of My Children And Grandchildren Turn Into Moaning, Weeping… And Worse. I Canʼt Get To Them – I Must Get To Them – But Something Is Keeping Me From Moving. Ah: I Am Pinned By Slabs Of Stone An Ancient Temple Threw Off During The Quaking, And My Hands Are Crushed. I Am Able To Free Myself, But Unable To Help Anyone.

THE LAST MEMORY

Terror and grief are everywhere. Sundar is dead.  No sign of the house. Everyone is dead. I am a widow in India with no family. It is a death curse. I have no status, and because there is no family to take me in, I have no options but to take to the streets and beg for food.

THE LESSON

It is less than a decade after the disaster. I am lying in what looks like a road. It is night, and it is cold.  I am dying on the wet and muddy ground, and I see my face in a cinematic closeup. On it is a look of utter desolation and horror. There are many people walking, but no one looks at me, they just step around me. I implore with raised arms and my broken hands for aid, yet the teeming crowds stride past. Broken, with all I have cherished taken from the world, I die of a broken heart.

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Remember my friends, this is a memory. A fragment of somewhere else… all is well… and above all know this: Love is indestructible.

 

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