Alright he will say a child of his when he was a little boy. Do you know what it’s like bein’ in this meat grinder? You don’t have to wait; okay knock on ‘im. Think we can afford it, moms beating health care?— “I just throw you under the wheels of a truck all laughter and sunny breeze.”
Please will you help me with this: get this mother off my back, a certain father? Crushed the sun. I counted the breeze. What I was comin’ to yah to say: I really bother yah. I’m hell in an envelope that you have to read past poetry to put this on.
Well you’re not goin’. Fine. I get angry. You wanna meet some hoodlums? A gang member, he gets all King Richard, the son of like true to killin’ people like my father did.
I axe grow the taxes. You wanna see me do it? Just ignore this plea. Get too far from the ashram, my hat’s killin’ me. Just close your eyes. Ah, it’s gettin’ the footer at the head of the bed, where I go out and kill someone, a little older. You’re yellin’ at me. Cut through door. You know you need to save me.
I hear it. What did it say? The you that you’re getting put that foot down. His mother’s beating him he’s in harm’s way. The building blocks are there in the pit of a gang he murders people when he’s old enough.
That’s what I’m tellin’ yah. Stop this boy from being abused by his parents. Let’s put ‘im his grandfather heals, or are you just too deaf to see that? Get past the poetry and rescue this child. Get behind the verse.
Do you think that’s the only gang with Nazi on it? The fellowship has turned Indian politics into mud puddles. Trace the politician to the gang. Leave ours out of it; get rid of the truth we hear speaking now.
My God you’re deaf. Oh look there’s the BJP. November I’ll show you I’m talk to you years ago how the BJP came from gang member politics.
He rides books sometimes wide open to the divine say. Oh man I put you there, in a poet’s mouth, on a divine seer’s tongue.
Show his father and his family, WhatsApp, see it work in my phone too. I had the finish line. I’m giving frequencies of his house, yes? And now get to the real thing.
They’re not real. They are not real, understand? Not one person is a gift to society. This entire generation being produced by society, the families of society in India and elsewhere, gives us the skill set to journey on as society; it doesn’t change society.
Take my arm here and understand my meaning. Society must change or die. India has brokered this for generations, a spiritual consciousness, a supernal air, a soul arriving on the scene. It doesn’t get past the starting point. This is not gotten out of the bag. A few individuals pretend. Some have had experiences, but none get to the root of the problem: take a child and receive them at the door, a baby born, and change society with that child.
What would we have to do to engineer this with that child? Can I show you? I gave Nithish the principle changes, not quite at the door, but starting very early, and I could do that because I could give him the attention, and I have seen past society myself, and I operate in that mode.
Listen to Nithish where his dream maker meets the ground, and you will see fantastic. You will see the whole world changed just by this boy’s dream. Watch him have vision you will not believe with your own eyes. The Gods talk to him and soul.
This is what he took, that father. This is what she beats, that mother. His light was snuffed out by beatings and brainwashings, and you worship your family or die, and all this wonderful change we were readying the boy to give you has been ground in the dirt and changed into thoughts of suicide and killing, into about getting revenge for what his parents have done to him.
He seethes inside, and you’d have to find it to hear it. He’s afraid to show anybody his feelings for fear of punishment, because I am the crux of the matter; he wants to return to me, and his parents will not let him call my name. “I will shove that name down your throat if you say it again!” his mother says.
He can’t deal with that anger, and all his wonderful gifts get crushed, and in the place of love there is rage, and in the place of change there is hate, and he is mad at society.
Now you must see this in a simple podcast on dreams. I will show you he had the formula to change the world. I will show you what you’ve never seen before, a sadhana watch as the functioning arm of society not the family (but the family’s still warm and not abandoned), a group of people in a dream circle related by soul change and small enough to function together in daily need. We are that prototype, The Dream Company.
His mother at the Child Welfare Committee meetingNithish at the meeting, in-between tears
That’s for grown social media posts. She’s unbelievable. Look at her, a stage in the groundwater. The American field, this is a story of S. Nithish. That’s been the biggest disappointment in my life so far. Will fill you Earth that suffering. Nithish is gone.
Two sizes too small, India to deal with it. I came I went I sorrow. Let’s explode these pleasantries. Demon monsters, can you imagine, rule over kids in Pondicherry? You hear this mother beat her kid with ‘em. No one will help me stop that, and I can’t see my kid. Stuff like this you get away from. You don’t entertain them with your kids. Cruelty is as cruelty does.
How’d we do that, let that happen? The absence of miracle might wanna tell you there’s a mountain. The boy’s in there. Double helper, somebody call Nithish one. He will help me, and there is a fantastic here, and this is Auroville’s: he will tell the story far and wide, help evolution so a kid don’t get beat anywhere on Earth.
But India, he’s gonna show to the world first. She beats her children. Her children get beat there, and not a kid gets saved. It’s normal for parents to beat their children in India the Puducherry Child Welfare Committee told me, and Nithish was sittin’ right there cryin’. You think that’s funny? They were laughin’ with his mother afterwards.
Nowhere left to go. There is not a person that can help me, not anywhere on the planet. You would not believe the list I’ve bade to help me. They’ve all laughed, or if they felt empathy, they just put it down. It amounted to nothing more than a pencil spray.
No one helped while I was crushed under the wheels of this revolving universe. No one even thought they should. I just sat there and died. I’ve unlocked cruelty, like it’s the bowels of the Earth. People just showed it to me. Never see my boy again, like he’d been killed in a car accident. The grief is the same.
A mother and father landed guilt. I was their son’s first choice, and this had been going on for years, until their jealousy came to such a pitch they decided to punish me for it, punish their son too. I would never see my boy again. They knew the bond.
I did nothing wrong, but they made me out to be a monster trying to steal their son. Everybody on the planet believed them. I don’t even talk about the underbelly of hell I went through. Insanity grabbed my clothes. Things I cannot speak about visited me. I’m a seer you see, wide open to the universe.
The divine I looked to to save me abandoned me. Even my soul cried. I was a baby for a moment. I lost everything about me and just became blind reaction. I lost the whole world. Everybody turned their backs to me. This was horrible suffering. I couldn’t get out of it. I just swallowed of hell as each day wore on.
You don’t know the price of suffering when your boy is still alive and you can hold him if but that people could feel your pain. Why wouldn’t anyone let me? The boy was not in a casket. The mother reveled in this. She made me pay for her inadequacies. She shielded her son from me by holding her hand over his face or keeping him behind her when meeting had brought us together. No one questioned this or thought it odd. This was India at its worst.
That mother got her revenge because I was a better mother to that child, and everybody let her do it, the Law, the Child Welfare Committee, the rule of India. No one spoke of reconciliation or healing. Fairness and wisdom were not to be found. It was get that foreigner and make him pay for superior being some question we ask ourselves. Why would you use it? Can we just get to development with our humanity in our hands?
I don’t think you understand the price of cruelty. It sums up our bad day. It haunts us at night in our dreams. It makes us slap our children because we can’t admit it’s there. Can I show it to you? I can’t see my son, and you all agree with that because I give you an opportunity to be cruel.
You can get away with it. I’m not anybody special. You don’t have to defer to me, and I hold the foreigner’s worth. That’s not quite a human being with the locals. Would you just principally see that Tamil Nadu? Hateful right up to say Indian.
Cruel, there’s not a name for it in India they are just so cruel, the Indians I called to help. Have I overlooked you Masil Johnson? You didn’t help. You sure didn’t help. One childhood, did anybody stop that mother from toring it asunder?
I’m gonna have to look after civilians. Madras Dyslexia Association will you come to help? Everybody his mother beats him for dyslexia, not just for loving me. You’re like really stupid. How many people say dyslexia here? No, you won’t mention the abuse. You don’t know how to handle it. Parental rights, even the welfare of the child is small in comparison.
You don’t even see mothers beating their children. Nithish has that in arm. The cruelty of his mother, everybody look at this please. Look halfway around the world. You know America beats her children too.
Okay Nithish you’re up. That’s my emergency. You heard me. Stop my mother from beating me, come on. Soon a major character, where we stop kids from getting hit, my little boy Nithish.
I got no out here to accept. He got no in there to… That’s your final. He makes things right just by bein’ himself. Our soldiers were held by death and many chisels. Put that rocket ship. He better India’d. Can you give me a minute? That’s bro what am I worried about?
He’s the only one that we want to hear. He’s the only one that we want to help. But the foreigner has challenged you.
Liberated me, bright colors, and he helped himself, like a book report, and he helped every kid in the world the new statesman. That’s the formula needed for world change, the child stands up for himself, and he’s Indian. Bravo.
(written for the Facebook groups Friends of Auroville, and Auroville, INDIA but only approved and posted by the latter group, after sending a small poem that appears below this one. It must be noted Friends of Auroville removed me from their group and blocked me.)
I like rainbows spoken in the most clear and circular terms. Please, I’d rather have this is gonna turn out. I sit here with my hat in my hands. I’m a big roar on magic. Wanna see my human unity? It’s in your beautiful hands.
The uncompromising villager, the most accounted for where we find human unity, if you’re not on its side, if you wanna freeze it, if it’s not something you can work out because they won’t let it. They just like their tribe.
You can’t get away from Nature’s homegrown, and sometimes you have to swallow them whole. Definitely, that’s our footpath here. That’s our red beer here.
How do I get this off my property? We are not romantic letters. I’m not tryin’ to get yah to buy toothpaste. I don’t have an engineer here doing anything except talking to you. You’re my sweet opening to ride my pages. I don’t fight you. I just stand and sing. We need some heaters to loosen up human unity. I’m not trying to get you to buy land in Florida. I’m going with my function among you as a photographer and a poet to be part of this great experiment.
I’m his poet, the boy we had such a mind to open and facilitate. Did anybody publish? You won’t let a boy and me together in plain sight. You won’t even let him on this page. Human unity bills him to you, that little boy I took care of for so many years. Pay on your buddy my friend.
Where is human unity? I think we have to find our divinity first. It’s like the psychic change can’t be complete until the spiritual transformation. I don’t know what I’m sayin’. The yoga beefs here. We put it in Auroville’s hands. Now that’s a stalk monster. I’m blind to this— the tree hunters. I can’t get it off my chest— the need to see Auroville as human unity. It’s a crash course in nothin’— the battle weary Aurovillian says.
We can’t see it in our feet. We can’t see it on the road. It’s too big for us. It’s a journey inside. I’m sorry most people are not prepared for this. I’m not even close. I’ve been waylaid. An ignorant mother took my child out of spite. You don’t know the dynamics of raising foreign children.
Now I hate that mother and her whole crew, and I had achieved an amalgamated oneness in my mind, realization’s status in mental wears, not in that point of no return. The boy was my apprentice, my give my gifts to, already writing whole poems from the inner voice. He rode samadhi a time or two, approached the Silence, neared the sun. An overhead experience had opened his mind. He talked about the world like it was his brother.
Then he lost it all in one fell swoop. No contact allowed, and the boy’s been sat on for months and abused. I was opening up human unity for him by going inside. I know how to do children, without that stink. My inner consciousness opens theirs.
I can put human unity on a beanpole now that I’m mad at these people and wish them dead. I’m just sayin’. What a drop in flesh. I was showin’ him to you when it happened, when human unity fell from my hands. The irony in being on the other side of child abuse wanting to protect your child.
You have no idea the intricacies of karma on a mountain sink, when you see the world as representation and not as it. I flounder here. I’m mean this world plays for keeps. The vital is in an uproar I’m calming down now. My yoga works. I sit in spiritual vision and confess my soul.
When they’re hurting your child what do you do? When he’s crying and talking of suicide, and he’s only 12? They’ve made him think he’s crazy with all the gaslighting, and do no forget he’s been beat. I can’t find human unity here. Now I understand someone else’s child is dear to you too, and along comes some man who changes their dream, hits them hard with the facts of life.
You’re a bugger aren’t you? No I am now a healed man, feeling what you feel when you look at me. You want them punished. You want the child safe and sound. You want him healed, but the formula for that is not in your hands. I’m a call on that notion. I’ve a vehicle of self-healing’s swirl, and I know how to heal children. I know how to open their consciousness, and I am flabbergasted divine process has ruined me and flattened my child.
This is not fair. It’s not right. My ego blunders. I sit in your stool and say that. I point the finger at other people. I arrange them with my hate, because they’ve killed my child where they hurt him, and they hurt him in his love for God, his trust in the Mother, and they beat him for his love for me, and all the while say they know I was good to him. They’re his parents and they have the right to take and beat that mother told me that in a swaggered brag.
You lift your head up and see me mourning over a child, like I’ve never been healed. That child is still my number one day. Okay what did I do? I made that child’s feelings God. Attracted to him, I gave him God’s eyes. I gave the world a bath when he was little. I tempered him through Dog as a medium for our affection. We loved each other through a Rottweiler’s fur. Healing’s ways visited me like a mountain tribe close to the sun. I was guided. The feelings of God I opened up in me to care for this child.
So many tools I used, so many make it right. Then the Devil comes in and damns it all, and you dance to this tune. Do you know how much power the Hostile Powers have to turn off our lights? It makes you question the divine. It makes you try to blame God. What do I do what do I do?
I come back to myself of course. I peel off this hate from blocking the psychic’s view. I stand and sing. How far you have to go inside yourself to find human unity. I’m afraid most can’t do that. We have to have developed souls, and we have had to have found oneness inside ourselves. How many go that far?
We’re in the stage of adopting belief. Can we understand a multi-generational project? We want the consciousness open, so our children can grow up wise, a human unity bundle, but you have to get it right with children, so they can make the journey if you can’t, the journey inside our yoga talks about.
I’m a vehicle on that worth, and I’m hamstrung right now for loss of my boy. I am just this landed fish speaking into your microphone. Now I’m supposed to tell yah human unity is a spiritual aim, soul’s quarters.
I believe, I believe, I believe [line heard sung, from It's Too Late To Turn Back Now] don’t bring it through your front door. It comes when you’ve seen the One with its own eyes, a vision in consciousness. You can’t rule it into play. It’s not a textbook model. Can you find spiritual process? Isolate that nigger. This is perfect sin.
The suffering is so explosive. I don’t know how to manage it. I’ve managed art with it, so radiation in purpose, and I die by the public barrier. No one wants to hear this. It’s just spilled upon my paperwork. People would slap me for it instead of help. I just sit here and cry so often. You know I’ve heard from that boy.
The insanity with which his mother has put him, so she can keep him from the slightest contact with a man who raised him, would make you want to put her away if you knew the extent of it. He will tell no one but me, and those around her support her. It’s a living nightmare, and this is what happens when you do right with a child and turn on their lights.
I’m an Auroville side keeper. I’m conducting the experiment in my home. I think you’re too rigid for that in your mainstream rooms. Surely the consciousness will change one day, but you don’t know how. I bring in that formula, and you won’t even look at it. Now it’s been captured by the Hostile Powers, and no community supports me to engage these misguided parents. What do I do?
Stay close to him in inner consciousness and hold him there, wait for him to give me some outer contact, with no satisfaction that will come. You sit there and enjoy this, the child removed from my lair, kept from my clutches. I pity you. You are not the experiment.
I throw you a human unity ball, and I would get into the quick of things, if you let me, in your own rooms, by doing art and making it public so you can see. What are the issues that divide us? The handle of children, I can take you to where we are feet with them, the places that society all sees but gives it permission to be, and I can take you to their God room, and what beauty can come out of a child when their inner doors are open to the God-felt expression of their soul.
A social trigger we do not fathom but persecute, when it’s as deep as this into our children’s honey. When it’s social honey, can you come together on this and extend us your hand? I can give you his song inner hearing wrote. Listen to the boy. You know he’s months away from being taken from his home at the lake and made to feel so alone.
The future folks he’s got in his hands, and he’s blisterin’ himself now with his vision of the future that has failed him now that it’s come to pass. So much spiritual technology he wrote to save himself from a future situation transpiring now. I give you this miracle if you would but look at it. He cannot. He’s not allowed.
The damage is done, and the light’s been put out, and he won’t even save himself but has laid down and died, giving himself up to total dominion, and he’ll lie about it if you ask him, scared of his parents’ wrath.
That’s the hope today, the boy tells you what’s real if you ask him. It’s a hope place to start. It’s a country road. It’s the place we land our feet and give this boy his chance.
The menu, it’s got Gods all over it, and it tells what happened when the boy told his father he wanted to go home, live with the velacara in a permanent song, but that was Sri Aurobindo’s house. The future is in his voice. It’s the future in your hands, if you’ve never seen it before. He gives a prevision of the future his soul wrote.
You’ve not seen nothin’ like it. It’s captured on the journey home to the lake. In one fell swoop, that boy tells you how the cow ate the cabbage, and you’ll just have to sit up and take notice the boy heard this line by line spoken into his inner ear complete and unabridged. We used my voice recorder. Other than that no help given. Now tell me this boy should be shot.
This is a cooperative journey. We can’t leave Nithish there. He’s a prototype of a brand new kid, and boy does he have baggage. What was meant to be: we are consciousness bundles, and by our poetry you see that we can bring you vehicles in consciousness headed for our high change. Eat that in the Menu of the Gods. Can we find Auroville? I’m drivin’ you home.
From Nithish’s YouTube channel
On August 19th, I sent the following small poem to both Facebook group’s admins with a link to the poem here on my blog, asking again that they post the poem, and in my stats I saw that two people in India came here from Facebook, and it’s reasonable to assume that was admin from one or both of those groups. Within a couple of days, Auroville, INDIA posted not only it but also two more posts I had pending, all at once. One can only say thank you when that happens.
Do somethin’ more than just an operator’s opinion. It puts human unity in your lap, and I’m the border they cross. Don’t kill it again. It’s costly. You’re destroyin’ human unity. Can you get a handle on it? Censorship is for what’s wrong and makes us bleed. Is it really for what makes us right? Answer the question, and that’s the ordinary. Let’s cup in our hands the extraordinary. I give you a ride there in this poem.
A Crash Course in Reality: A Poem Tower, Healing Circle, Art Project
Life Curtains
You like that art that puts you in the front yard with our children. So we can gaslight them to death? I’m a chapter on raising them right, and this is a book of love.
So, you’re gonna still feel us out in terms of money? Wow, cultural understanding, let’s put it down on paper. A cultural misunderstanding, I’m all over you.
Baby what’s wrong? Marvel Comic books cannot capture in my life the will of a single day. I’m being thrown against the wall by Titans.
And you expect me to believe such a dramatic intro? The hard part is think on it. Today is the day the world comes to call in your kitchen.
Take a little child and bash them up against the wall, that outta do it. Now put God there. Who hurt the child? Do you sure you know?
You are the principle of the inner fire. You will meet them in the stadium of your room, and a divine poet enters the room. Where is he at? Put down on paper he’s gonna rescue his boy. Put that in your hands, after he opens up for you consciousness.
Right there you find this book is ready for you, holding out a can up here.
Nithish, a Tamil boy 12-years-old, being raised by both his parents and I, an older American man and a spiritual aspirant in India 20 years, I his primary parent since he was seven, has his life upended when his parents suddenly take him from me his ‘grandfather’ and allow no contact whatsoever, and they do this simply out of a growing jealously that reaches its boiling point when, in a meeting with the mother over their wanting Nithish to be with me to only one day a week, I mention to her a video he’d given me that his mother made of his little brother masturbating and what he’d been telling me about his father molesting his little brothers.
There then ensues almost four months of his parents taking revenge upon the boy and upon me, and the boy is beaten, psychologically manipulated, and put under constant supervision and control over those months so that he will renounce me and not tell on his parents for abusing him or his little brothers. The book culminates in a meeting with the Child Welfare Committee of Puducherry, India.
The story is told by the 54 Facebook posts I posted during those months, each post a chapter of the book, and the posts are a mixture of English, Tamil, poetry, prose, photography, and video, my poetry and the boy’s, the videos from the boy’s YouTube channel and from mine. The boy’s material he created months before he was taken from me, and the creative material is a very clear and startling example of prevision, the boy writing poems, raps, and a song to his future self so he will understand what is going on and wake himself up from the brainwashing, as he describes in poignant detail the abuse he will undergo in the future by his parents and his ardent desire to get his life back and return to the lake from which he was taken.
Whether you believe in miracles or not, you will be made to confront unarguable examples of the boundaries of nature being crossed and the future laid bare, in this case by a little boy wanting to stop being hit and controlled constantly, just wanting life to go back to normal and to be a boy again.
Everybody deserves credit, the ebook I’m about to give you. Do you know what’s real? Don’t give me any chances. And why not? Put me in the hospital, be in a hostel. Don’t put me in the world. Thrown out of life paradise with you. But someone he gets mixed up. He gets really missed. Bury your head. Now I can’t be a boy. [two above lines heard sung, from my song “I Never Boy”] https://youtu.be/kvx_uZ9iWKc?si=SbDujgGn4kJrjp_K
I’m in concert. Can you believe it, that I’m deaf? When you first arrived, was that before rise here? You’re here all day with her. Basically I wanted knowledge. She leans down not to help her calm. It’s inevitable we have the victory in the Mother’s hands.
Like lost his faith left and right. He didn’t trust the Mother. She’s real to him, and she’s so present in his life. He speaks to her in vision, always soothing him, always assuring him, making sure he’s on the right track. She is gentle but firm, and there she is in vision again, the Mother’s face looking into mine. She’s there to tell me it’s okay.
The Mother is working on changing the ground of reality. This situation had to play out last. It’s about abusing kids and making them safe in their homes. The fundamental problem in humanity our children we hit and beat, give them spoons to make them unhappy with. We are generally mean with kids, rob them of their wills, want us to be the center and focus of their lives, the family tree, the parent that needs that love. They belong to God not to us.
We’ve got to get it right with our children. This has to happen in a big way. It has to be seen by many people, and then change could come. We will tear the house down mocked kid and other crimes. We have to learn with our children all the ways of the world that come into blossom/blessing with our children. [above words heard spoken simultaneously] We need them to be kings and queens in how we respect them with our attention. They are the center of the room, not our pastime. They are not a sidelight we’re handlin’. Sacrifice a parent does to put that child’s needs above their own.
We’re not here for enjoyment, though we can enjoy. We are raising God in our rooms, big monumental change, and we will love our children to that door. How is this done? With the patience that master plan. We give them our very lives and correct their misbehavior with love that does not hurt them, but knows how to employ their own will to overcome their blunders. Patience and kindness, it’s our children we’re holdin’ you see.
Who can live up to this plan? It is a model we use every day to come into the kingship with our children, and we start with they are not hit or beat or have their pants pulled down for our enjoyment. We leave their genitals alone, but we do not make them put shame there or keep them from their own file. We are liberal with our children, and we give them their natural development and do not stand in the way when they have a soul purpose different from ours. They may not stay in your home once they’re grown.
This change is coming, and it’s gonna change the Earth. It will heal all our problems that we make upon ourselves. It’s the number one duty in humanity, pickin’ up God growin’ up, making our children safe with us, allowing them to be free, allowing them to follow their own path, allowing them to be who they are, not put our trails on them and force them to follow. Can you see this change?
It’s how we raise our children. It will be the talk of humanity soon, and we will standardize this with love, and abusers will be punished— according to the old rule. The new rule does not punish children, who are also parents or some other person that has damaged a child. We see the child in the adult who grew up on the receiving end of what they’re dishing out today.
Change forms it’s still the same nature, but we do not just let it ride. We engage that parent, that adult, in terms of love that knows how to handle people, that that man that woman puts on to find their way out of meanness, to find their way out of abuse. A separation model must needs to be truly called for. This is integral care. This is holistic healing.
We will protect children, but not from monsters, from erring adults. I cannot spell out to you this plan in one sentence. I can show you the way. You hear the Mother, and this is her master plan. We touch our children with all systems go. We’re climbin’ love.
Nithish at the meeting of the Child Welfare Committee, photo by the author
He has the robot, the eye of the robot. Entryway to the death of this child from his own soul. Child Welfare could not grasp the situation, and they did not listen to his tears as he gave his mother what she wanted, the rule to hurt me.
He was distraught. He openly sobbed. He held my hand from across the table and squeezed it as he shook his head no he didn’t even want to see me one day a week. He couldn’t even speak. His emotions had his tongue. This was blamed on me, not his unwillingness to betray his love for me. That red flag was not seen.
I’m left with this picture. Is that a rule boy? It’s not a boy in love with life. I can measure ‘im, but you’d have to listen to the song “I Never Boy”. I can’t reach him. I can’t do anything about this. I can only go home to America and try to restart my life, knowing God doesn’t care. The divine doesn’t help, and Sri Aurobindo and the Mother are either liars or have not the power to save. I have lost my faith, and where does a man go who has lost his faith?
My life is over as far as hope goes. I just want to die, but I will not do that until my time has come. Thank you for listening to me, giving the space in your lives for one such as me.
I tried. I did my very best, but lies and deceit carry the day, the boy’s lies too. There is nothing else I can do. If I do not have this boy’s will to see me, the will that he declares in public, not his hidden will, I can do nothing to help him, and I must leave. You understand. It will take some time to leave. We want to take our dogs, but the wheels are in motion. Goodbye.
Let’s move forward Nithish.
It’s time to move forward Nithish.
The camera pushes in,
immediately replaces your silence with sound.
It seemed to have the heart glow of eternity.
Some price is right.
Making sense out of a horrible situation, okay?
I can be the whole thing now, forever.
Now I can’t be a boy. [line heard sung as though Nithish is singing it]
I can’t cover good for you when he knows you won’t say my name in proper. You won’t say how you feel.
What do I need to save you? I need you to call my name in public, say how you really feel, to whomever asks. Be honest about it: you want to live with your daddy; you are not happy with your parents.
If you don’t do this you will die to all of your dreams and aspirations, to a happy childhood, to being a teenager in America, to being an adult who’s a poet, who loves the world and protects children. You will die to yourself Nithish.
Listen to me good. I have more to say but that’s the main thing: you must call my name now, in front of your parents, in front of Kuruchikuppam, in front of the city of Pondicherry.
When a random stranger asks, when your parents ask, when anybody asks: you love your daddy; you want to live with him; your parents have been very mean to you.
Go to type. Type good news, fast car, your heart’s desire. I need you to listen to me Nithish. To mask truth so people can rob you of your identity, take from you who you are, you’re destroying your own dreams; you’re kissing the feet of those who abuse you; you are not getting your heart’s desire; you are getting nightmares.
Don’t worry. I am here. Let me help you, but you need to also help yourself. You are not helpless. You are not a baby. You are scared to death.
Do you know how many social workers are watching what’s happening to you right now? You have an audience of concerned people, and your mother knows that. If they try to put you into a boy’s hostel, if you even get beat again, they will stop all that, but you need to speak up so they can.
They are going by what your mother tells them and everyone else: you are happy with her; you do not want to see me; you are perfectly normal now.
This is Nithish, not who my mother says I am. Call my name. Call your own name, else you will not come out of this water, and you cannot be a boy.
They are going by what your mother tells them and everyone else: you are happy with her; you do not want to see me; you are perfectly normal now.
This is Nithish, not who my mother says I am. Call my name. Call your own name, else you will not come out of this water, and you cannot be a boy.
How many thousands of books have failed, books to help humanity, and they never made to public eyes? Do you want yours to fail Nithish? You have to be the hero your dreams show you are. You have to vanquish the demons like you say you do in your poetry. You have to stand up for yourself. You have to stand up for every kid in the world.
That’s what’s going on: you have to be the poet of a sunrise, that sunrise a better humanity with our children.
I made a religious issue. He’s not allowed to love the Mother and Sri Aurobindo. He’s not allowed to write his poetry from the divine, that give you face to miracle. He’s not even allowed to read his poetry or see his YouTube videos the poet takes shape.
He’s being beaten and bruised to renounce me and these things, and no one’s here to help him but me, and they’re threatening me with jail if I go anywhere near him, but will admit I did not abuse him, was good to that boy. They just don’t want him with me because they have abused him, and they don’t him to tell me that so that I tell you.
We cannot have one second together his mother brags. Where do we put this on the shelf? A child’s suicide? A child runs away? A child has a heart attack nervous breakdown? Or a child who’s dead to the world, lost his humanity because his parents killed it? What kind of man will that make?
Pondicherry, those are you options. I can do nothing else but warn you somethin’s terrible comin’ from that boy if you deny his right to see me and be the daddy I am to him, aka his poetry guide and spiritual teacher.
We need your help. This boy’s extraordinary in his reaches of soul. You could do well to have a poet of this stature. Poetry the boy? Imagine poetry the man. He’s here for you, and you do not see that.
You think a foreigner raised him, and now a foreigner wants him back. Do you every listen to your scripture? It’s not about being Indian it’s about being human. It addresses the world. It takes the hand of oneness and confronts the world with it. I have that vision constant in my worldview. You hate me for it. I can love unconditionally, and I can love this boy to safety, despite your hatred of the foreigner.
In oneness there is no foreigners. We are each human being, and I ride your town with that identity, and I was giving it to this little boy, a worldview based on oneness, based on who we are. We are That you see. What made India’s past great? Godmen and Godwomen, seers that brought down civilization from the Gods, Rishis that reveal to us the godly life.
I am not an American I am not a foreigner. I am a human being through and through, but I have chosen India as my home because here the Gods can still communicate with us, and God had more room to act, because He is alive in so many hearts, however narrow they put Him, however blindly they may see Him. It’s a devotion in every shop, in every home, and even the atheists have their banner, but this great spirituality that India carries in her inner waters, cannot come to the surface a wellspring for all to drink. You do not allow that. You are orthodox Hindu, orthodox Muslim, orthodox Christian, orthodox Buddhist, orthodox Sikh, orthodox Jain, and by orthodox you wear a religion and do not have concrete inner contact with the God you adore, where you view him or her real in consciousness, or your spiritual ideal, and through signs and wonders let it guide you through your day.
This was India of old. “The ancient minds were better,” Nithish says in one of his poems. But you just see that as political turmoil. I’ve given you a boy, who still needs further development by me, but who already is a poet, through his pain, giving us high glimpses of India’s rise to her humanity.
You let his parents throw that away. You just want the foreigner gone. How do I speak to you emergency? My child needs me you see to bring him back to good and God. You are hurting him with your silence, validating his mother’s abuse of him, his father’s, validating the worldview to hurt children, and I just don’t understand your reasoning. You are not the boss here, and this is not a hell world, although in this situation, it sure seems like it.
Can it get any worse? This boy could die, if not his body, then his heart and mind to humanity. This boy’s gonna die, and you’re being warned before that happens. Pondicherry, save your child.
Yesterday night he gave us a poem, last time his poetry, and inner dawn. People were around to see it. Where is the sensation? His poetry record gives us something to think about, the paradox of time travel. You can’t put it down as a hoax. You can’t even say it’s terrible poetry, but it’s useless today because it hits society where she can’t figure out stuff, and no one will get alarmed that this poet’s being killed, brainwashed, sat on, abused.
No one will believe me, and no one will question the boy. We have his mother on record saying, “You will not tell on me you will tell what I tell you to say.” Having just been beaten for talking to me through a window, he said mother I will do that, and then he went to someone he trusted and cried his eyes out, wanting me, wanting the abuse to stop, and I can even tell you who it is to prove my story, because he’ll lose the only shoulder he has to cry on.
He will have to be questioned with me, or he will tell no one nothing, and I’m the foreigner everybody keeps outside. You do not know what fairness is, nor do you care Pondicherry. You just want to beat your children, play with their little dinghies, make them do what you didn’t want to do as a child, force them to revolve their life around school and homework, as though there is no soul purpose, as though we are just animals aggrandizing our gain.
I call on you Pondicherry to give this boy his chance at poetic greatness, but we can at least liberate him from his parents’ abuse of him and constant control, and give him his heart’s desire, his soul’s choice, at least some days in the week with me, so I can cure him help him heal him, and prevent his parents from abusing him more.
Why is that an impossibility? We go right to the roots of what’s wrong with Indian society: how you raise children, and make them subservient to parental abuse, dominance and control. You slap your children Pondicherry, and you tell me it’s normal.
Here’s a fish out of the water of the entire gamut of abuse, Nithish’s story, big so you can see it. I’m askin’ you to take a look, that look that brings change, not because you are angry for what you have seen, but because you have been hit in your very heart center for the love of a child, and you see yourself that child when you went around the house in underpants, and you see yourself those parents diddling with his dolittle, and slapping him because he doesn’t measure up.
I am not accusing you. I have learned these lessons as one abused and as an abuser, larger than life like this kid shows. He got the benefit of all that wisdom, all that handle with care. I know how to treat children, like they are the God in the room, and they just simply love it there, and this boy misses his daddy and wants me to protect him, but I can nothing except tell you the story and get down on my knees and ask you for help. Please help my boy Pondicherry.
Father I can’t take this pain any longer. It’s an illness to slam you. I am not responsible at this, but I know what I’m talking about. Open mind comes with smartness. With an open heart comes the father. It has shaken my whole world, changed my eyes. My path is on a unicorn, a big one.
I look out my widow every day and ask for freedom from this barrier. It’s a block. You just got to take another way. You can’t go through it can you? What if my path is highlighted from the others? I have my own dreams to chase.
I just found this poem in my carry bag two days ago. I had forgotten about it. Nithish gave it to me some days before he was taken from my home on March 12th. He had been telling me he wanted his muse to give him another poem to his father to explain things. He wanted me to tell his parents these things so that they did not put him to one day a week with me. At that moment, he was living with me during the weekdays and with his parents on the weekends. He wanted to continue the arrangement.
He wrote this poem while at school from spiritual vision, meaning that he heard each line spoken into his inner ear, and he copied it down. He does not record the lines like a poem, just writes them down, as he is dyslexic and has a lot of trouble writing. If you have read his other poems posted here, you can see he has developed more as a poet and a writer, and you can hear his feelings and thoughts spoken very clearly, what he wants his father to know, but the poem never got to his father. He was taken just a few days after he wrote it. Below is the poem in his handwriting.
I am Nithish a growing poet. I will write for the world and me, and I will take big steps anywhere, anytime. I am opening (muse) my marker a bag with development. If the bag doesn’t get bigger I will fly away.
Oh I am high on poetry. Get me a ride home. Hey god, how tall are you? Ha h aha I’m going to my job.
2nd Part
Exchange the world for some divine, and my marker call the muse. Will you listen to the paper it’s right. Why are the poets here for?
Harm's End 