The Seeker

By Rajiv Agarwal

As a child, Adrian has vibrant dreams and luminous visions of a mysterious sage. The quest to find the sage takes him on an amazing journey from Paris to the Himalayas, full of incredible experiences and transformations. But the path to enlightenment is fraught with temptations, desires and deceptions. Can Adrian be true to himself and stay on the path? The luminous sage, does he really exist or is it just his imagination? To know the truth, Adrian has to piece together events as far back as three lifetimes and solve the mystery of "the rainbow of eight colours".

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rajiv Agarwal
• Release date: Apr 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780473261665

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The Seeker

By Rajiv Agarwal

The Seeker

Rajiv Agarwal

Copyright Rajiv Agarwal 2013

Published by Mystical Publishings at Smashwords

Email: [e-mail]

The right of Rajiv Agarwal to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter 1

In the far reaches of the Himalayas near Gangotri, from where the river Ganga originates, a small fire flickered in a cave. Icy winds howled outside, while the moon shone down on the freshly fallen snow. Inside the cave, an old man with long hair and a white beard was distributing sweets to two of his disciples. His body was stout and seemed well crafted for his age.

He smiled, like the little drops of rain glittering on a lotus.

What is the celebration about Master? The first disciple asked, respectfully accepting the sweet.

I finally contacted him today, the old man said in a joyous tone.

Did he recognise you?

Oh he is too young for that yet. But I fear the tough times ahead of him. It is difficult to break free from the unending cycle of birth and death. The chains of desire and pleasure bind a soul helplessly to the mortal plane. The deathless realm is not every mortal’s destiny.

But Master, can't your grace help him attain enlightenment?

Grace is always there. In each and every heart it shines. It is up to the individual to recognise and follow it. Everybody looks at the heavens for answers, but all the answers are already there, buried deep within our own selves. The light of consciousness ever shines, and those who have their hearts open will be flooded with grace.

The old man’s face shone with an inner radiance and certainty. The disciple bowed down at his feet out of respect, sat up and chewed happily at the orange sweet.

*********

After a week of agony and pain, Cherelle slept peacefully in the La Isabel hospital, one of the biggest hospitals in Paris. The doctors had expected the worst, but to their amazement, the delivery was normal and smooth. When Cherelle saw the deep blue eyes and angelic smile of her baby boy, she forgot the years of sorrow and pain. Life had given her a second chance, and she was determined to set things right this time. But it wasn’t as simple as she thought. The mysterious web of karma did not end with her mother’s death. To her horror, strange things began manifesting themselves in her life again.

Throughout her pregnancy she had recurrent dreams of an old man with long hair and a white beard. He would appear within a halo of light and place a beautiful golden child in her lap. The child had the most beautiful face and innocent deep blue eyes. The old man would smile at Cherelle and slowly dissolve into a mist of light. The dream would recur with variations, but with the same theme. The dreams bought no comfort to Cherelle. Infact they terrorized her. She would wake up in a cold sweat, mumbling Hail Mary and Jesus save us.

With the birth of Gatsby, the old man stopped visiting her dreams. As time passed, she forgot about the dreams and dedicated herself wholeheartedly to motherhood.

But when Gatsby turned five, something even more disturbing began to unfold.

One sunny afternoon Cherelle saw him sitting on his red Mickey Mouse bed, his legs crossed in the yoga style, his hands outstretched and resting on his knees. The index finger touched the thumb, while the other three fingers were stiff straight. His eyes were shut and an other-worldly smile played on his face. Cherelle almost had a heart attack. The image of her father sitting in the attic, in the same posture flashed and dissolved in her horrified mind. She sat by his side and called out in a trembling voice.

Gatsby ……Gatsby. She gently shook him.

Mummy! He slowly opened his eyes and smiled at her.

Who taught you to sit like this? Are you copying someone from the TV? She unlocked his legs and hugged him.

No Mummy. He broke free from her and started joyously jumping on the bed. More joyous than usual.

Jump with me, Mummy, he bobbed up and down like a blithe butterfly in spring, his voice mixed with a crackling laughter that only children can manage.

Then why were you sitting like that?

Because uncle told me to.

The answer almost choked her. Her brain squeezed inside her head, her jaws tightened.

Now who is this uncle of yours?

She mumbled the name of Jesus silently, dreading his answer.

He comes in the night after I sleep.

An icy chill ran down her spine. Gatsby stopped his jumping and looked at Cherelle with his large blue eyes.

Uncle is old and has looong white hair and a loooong white beard.

Merde! She cried out in utter dismay. Terror shook her being, mingling with the throbbing veins in her head. She reached for her blue handbag, opened it with trembling hands and took out her white pills of peace, swallowing a few with a glass of water.

*********

Tell me Gatsby, what happens when you close your eyes and sit silently? Alfred asked, his eyes fixed on Gatsby’s face.

Gatsby felt uneasy in the oversized office. The office was furnished with an oval desk, plush black chairs and a luxurious couch. The cream walls were heavy with certificates and awards. The expensive mahogany shelves contained endless books. Books about psychology written by the gods of the mind. Books on all kinds of gods and their ungodly creations (Satan, devils, vampires, fast-food). Books by idiots who had never met God but knew exactly his mind and his whereabouts. Books which described and transcribed reality within the narrow confines of conditioning and perception. Books telling you how to sleep, how to have sex, how to get over your horrendous ex-wife. Books defining each and every human emotion as clinical and medical conditions.

Endless books.

Gatsby looked at the huge shelves with disbelief. There were more books to tear and play with than he could have imagined. In his mind he was already tearing off and collecting the covers of all the books and presenting them to his teddy bear as a birthday present. His eyes widened as he dreamily looked at the shelf-loads of books.

Rain lashed the large glass windows, while the deep rumble of thunder shook the wooden floor. It had been raining continuously for two weeks, and there were concerns that the river Seine could burst its banks. He vaguely felt someone standing beside him and heard a cough. Jarred from his reverie, he looked up at the towering figure. Alfred hovered over him and repeated his question. Alfred was an ex-priest turned psychologist. He was around 40, clean shaven, with short curly hair. He looked thin and mean, his face reflecting his conformist approach to life and divinity. He adjusted his glasses over his small beady eyes and spoke in a cold, controlled voice,

You know, it is bad to make up stories and tell your Mum.

Mum…….?Gatsby wiped his nose with the sleeve of his orange hoodie. His rosy cheeks deepened their color, his lips gathered into a pout. A small frown appeared on his angelic face.

I am not making up stories.

I know honey, we believe what you say; go on tell uncle what you see, Cherelle tried to sound as reassuring as she could.

I see a statue of ……..Bhu…..Bhu. he stuttered with the foreign word and looked at Cherelle for help.

Buddha, Cherelle helped him with the pronunciation.

The previous day they had been passing through a Tibetan antique shop. Gatsby had excitedly peered at a colorful painting of Gautam Buddha, sitting serenely under a tree. He stood rooted at the glass window, his face beaming with a euphoric smile.

Mum this is the statue I see, he bubbled forth, reliving his visions.

Cherelle felt an uneasy fear. Alien gods always made her nervous. From childhood she was taught that all gods and religion besides Christ and Christianity were devil traps. Her father’s life confirmed it.

She mentally prayed for Gatsby’s safety. Is he possessed by……

Mum, what is his name?

Buddha she replied, trying to think of a solution. Well, here they were in the solution’s office. The solution’s name was Alfred.

Alfred had been highly recommended by her colleague at work. He supposedly talked to angels and had ‘cured’ many people of their blasphemous lives and satanic visitations.

But Cherelle did not know that sometimes, the solution can be more dangerous than the problems themselves. Deciding what is right for someone else is the most dangerous solution of all. The politician knows what is right for the nation, the priest knows how to find God’s favour and our parents know the perfect recipe for a perfect life. Everyone seemed to have the answers. Even Hitler supposedly had all the answers.

Buddha? Now Alfred had a frown on his not so angelic face.

After a pause he brought his face close to Gatsby’s and said slowly, emphasising every word, Next time he comes, tell him to go away. He is a bad person. He is a demon. Alfred narrowed his eyes, trying to recreate an evil dead expression.

But I feel so good when I see him…..like.. like…….., Gatsby fumbled for words. Like I feel when I sleep near Mummy. Is Mummy a demon too then?

He looked at Cherelle. A tear rolled down his dimpled cheek, his questioning eyes shifted from her to Alfred.

No, no, Alfred mumbled. This was not the answer he was expecting.

Cherelle glowered at Alfred. Her hands were getting cold, and a slight tremor had set in. ‘Calm and relaxed’, she repeated mentally, remembering that she had to see her own therapist in an hour.

How can Mummy be a demon Gatsby? She loves you so much doesn’t she? It is the old man and the Buddha who are demons. They are trying to possess you. If they succeed, he brought his face closer and closer to Gatsby’s till their cheeks almost touched, and whispered slowly, "then, you too will become a demon." He again recreated the evil dead expression.

Gatsby crouched in fear, hugging Cherelle tightly.

Excuse me Alfred, Cherelle said angrily, her head beginning to throb, I brought him for a cure, not for a scare!

Alfred looked scornfully at her. He gave her an I-know-all-and-you–know-nothing-you-moron smile.

Look madam, I have dealt with two hundred cases of possession in my life. You have to put the fear of God or else…

"My son is not possessed," her voice became louder and angrier.

Gatsby started howling with fright, his small nose going red and his eyes watering.

Look I am trying to help you! The demons…

That will be all Alfred. Thanks.

She picked up Gatsby in her arms and headed for the door.

Wait! You don’t know how serious this is. That devil will kill you both. The boy needs help!

She hugged Gatsby close and walked out of the office, the voice of Alfred trailing behind. He watched her disappear in the faintly lit passage, which echoed with Gatsby’s screams.

Ignorant fools, he said scornfully. Satan loves ignorant fools!!" he yelled the words through the doorway, nodding his head.

It would take Gatsby some years before he could spell the word Buddha and even longer to understand that both Buddha and Christ were the expression of the one light of consciousness. The same light sparkled in every heart on the planet, made every heart beat with joy. It was the source of the sun and the stars, the very core of existence itself. Only a fortunate few were destined to realize this infinite light in all its glory. But before a Gatsby reached that ultimate state, all debts had to be paid; all actions had to be accounted for.

*********

Oceans of peace descended on him. Uncalled for. Without reason. The mind merged into the soft radiance, the radiance dissolved into the ever-increasing circles of peace and contentment. His months of agony dissolved like a whiff of smoke under the great blue sky. Gatsby felt like a cloud in the sky, floating away without any will, following the winds of life.

He was not peaceful.

He was peace itself.

Suddenly a shot of white light coursed through his spinal column, reached the crown of his head and bloomed into a shower of scintillating sparks. Simultaneously, his entire being exploded and embraced the sky. A strange feeling welled up within him, a feeling which defied all logic. He was no longer confined to his body but felt an identity with everything. The entire sky was his body, and every thing which lived and breathed under the sky was himself. He was the little sparrow flying high above. The eagle which pounced on it was also him. The clouds in which the eagle flew were also him, and above it, transcending all and upholding all, the space was he. It was a euphoric feeling, a freedom beyond expression, which thrilled his entire being. As he watched with amazement, the feeling started spreading and engulfing the entire earth, and then spread even more, embracing the sun and the far off stars. The luminous solar winds, the bright nebulas and long tailed comets emerged and dissolved inside him. Every point of space contained him, every glittering comet reflected him. Life emerged from the shadows of deep space as whirls of scintillating lights, merging and dissolving into an everlasting play. Stars exploded and new ones formed, life ceased and sprung up again, all from one indivisible sea of consciousness. The sun, the planets and his body, all were made of that same scintillating light. Somewhere the light took on the form of colossal comets, somewhere it was as small as an ant, but all belonged to that one throbbing light.

The entire creation melted into a luminous wave of consciousness. His body receded into the luminosity until it was just a speck; one amongst the millions of floating specks. To his utter amazement, he was free from the bondage of individuality, from being a mere puppet of nature and the elements. Life and death lost their meaning, everywhere was life only. Death was just a transformation of the light into another form. Everything formed and dissolved into the one shining light, getting its life from the source, but seemingly separated by a thin veil of ego. The timeless sea of life throbbed on eternally, transcending the dualities of time and space, life and death.

He had finally come home.

He sat still on the small bed, his legs crossed in the ancient lotus posture.

A wave of light flared up from the luminous sea and started condensing into a gigantic red structure. The top of it formed into long yellow Stupa, while the bottom part turned into a red monastery. The ethereal monastery floated silently on the sea of luminosity, enveloped in a rainbow of lights. The huge red doors, carved with golden figures of deities and demigods opened slowly, revealing a statue of Gautam Buddha. The face of the enlightened one was serene and compassionate, shining like the full moon. Ever so slowly, the face and the body started changing. The Buddha merged into a living breathing figure of an old man, with long hair and a white beard. His body was stout and seemed well crafted for his age.

He smiled, like the little drops of rain glittering on a lotus.

Gatsby had known him for ages, maybe centuries. He was a part of his own flesh, his very own breath. The old man looked compassionately at Gatsby for a few moments, then spoke in a deep resonant voice.

I am always by your side Gatsby. Unseen, my eyes ever rest on you, like the mother’s on her child. Though the dance of life and death continues, you and I ever remain the same, the deathless light. On this mortal plane we shall meet again and once again the play of karma and destiny will roll on.

Please don’t go, Gatsby cried, on the verge of a sob. Not again. I have no one besides you. Please…please….. He tried unsuccessfully to grasp the radiant figure.

Always remember Gatsby, peace and happiness cannot be found in objects, which by their very nature, change and decay, which are momentary and limited. Only that which is imperishable and beyond time can fulfill you; release you from the endless torment of repeated having and losing, seeking and yearning, fear and sorrow. Only the immensity can assuage the thirst of the soul. Everything is transient, except for that which shines eternally. Once you understand this, you will no longer be a second-hand person.

From a hazy distance he heard someone softly calling out his name.

Gatsby ……

Gatsby …….

The sage started merging into the luminous sea of consciousness.

Don’t go. I am all alone without you. I love you, don’t leave me… he kept calling out to the old man, trying desperately to hold on to his dissolving figure.

The undulating luminous sea which extended to the far reaches of infinity started contracting, while his body, which was a small speck, started expanding. The light rolled back from far off nebulae and stars, loosing its lustre.

Gatsby…… the hazy voice called