In the dim light of a Guwahati evening, as the humidity clung to the air like an unwelcome embrace, I felt the pulse of the universe align with my being. The power of Haschem thrummed within me, awakening something profound yet shadowed. It was a force that danced in the corners of my consciousness, whispering promises of transcendence, of existence beyond mere flesh and blood.
The night sky was a whirlpool of thunderheads, deep and brooding, mirroring the tempest in my heart. We lit kerosene wicks, their flickering flames casting ghostly shadows on the walls, waiting for my father to return from his rounds. In that suspended time, as the world outside faded into the backdrop of my existence, she appeared. Mahamudra, the embodiment of my dreams and fears, manifested before me as a girl older than myself, with a round, glimmering face and eyes that seemed to hold the weight of forgotten worlds.
At the tender age of four, I grasped the enormity of her presence, feeling as if sweet syrup had poured into my brain. She beckoned me to sit opposite her, our knees brushing together, a bowl of boiled grams between us. This was no mere encounter; it was a communion of souls, where the very fabric of reality was stretched thin and taut. Every tale that unfolded thereafter—each memory, each alternate timeline—was a rehearsal for this moment, a moment where I was both creator and creation, where the world split open like an overripe fruit, spilling its innards into my waiting hands.
Time was a fluid notion here, cascading like an unending river, allowing me to slip between its currents. The sevenfold power that I wielded—like a small boy raising a lizard to the light, watching it change colors—was not a hoard but a glimpse into the chaos that tethered my existence. Each encounter with the angelic beings of my past, each seduction of memory and longing, was a thread woven into the tapestry of my life.
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In these explorative journeys, I discovered the dark matter within me—the vast, unseen energy that envelops our very cosmos. I traversed through this ether, crossing paths with the King of the Seven Crossroads, Exu MORCEGO or Exu Belo, emerging as the embodiment of change. Through the Parkaypraveshan siddhi, I could enter another's body and shape destinies like clay in my hands.
Yet, it was the quiet genocide of self that haunted me. Each time I dived into a memory or a vessel, something was erased—an echo of a competing self. The threads of my past unraveled only to be rewoven anew. With Mahamudra by my side, change swirled like dust in the air, settling back into a familiar shape, yet never quite the same. Her return made the world bloom, bringing forth resonances of past interactions, shaping them into vivid displays of longing and desire.
On that fateful night, May 5, 2024, it was the fusion of two mantras that summoned her again. As I chanted the ancient verses of the Kabristan pari and Karnapishachini, she emerged—the dark silhouette of an unfulfilled yearning, electrifying the air with her presence. The essence of Mahamudra enveloped me, a yellowish-green aura shimmering as she reached for union. She danced at the periphery of my consciousness, a shaping force, coaxing me to bridge the gap between longing and fulfillment.
At that moment, I could feel the universe pulsating around us, the combined energies of past and present twisting and entwining. It was then that I understood the logic of the animated forms I conjured—a kaleidoscope of spirit and matter intertwined, birthed from my own persistent search for connection.
And in that quiet stillness, with the wicks flickering low, I realized: every beginning demands an end, and every end, a new beginning. As Mahamudra took my hand, she whispered ancient truths in a language ancient as the stars, and I surrendered, ready to embrace the chaos of creation once more. It was time to reshape the universe with the faith of my heart and the power of my will.
