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, molested, 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.
I have started my journey. I feel like I wanna be dead. But why? Someone have to stop this school before kids die.
I need help please stop these dictators. Kids need power too if kids to live in this world in peace. I ask myself God please help me. Forsake have you?
It takes a power in India. I let me talk of light/God I to the world. I will be in heaven if I am able to be in peace.
I have started my journey. I am gonna see my old mind, and I am gonna write till I see no more. I seen God. I need way to escape from reality. Have they heard God or have they saw a kid talk to God? Well I have a spark of power now.
I am in sea with sea monsters. His eye was bigger than my head. I feel ashamed of myself.
Chapter 2
I have started my journey. Am I really pissed off? I ask you that or do I ask me that maybe? I should ask the world.
I shall be born again in my mind. Please look me in the eye and talk to me. They shot my head off, threw me in fire, stabbed me.
I can only hear the light, but can you go? I am stuck as one. I am three, but people only see one and judge me looking at my face.
I tell them judge me after looking in my inner soul. Are we kids gonna die without living life a little? I am very strong my muse. I have to protect the light from another somebody from stealing it.
I always say goodnight, sweet dreams, but who’s there to that for me? God help I am homeless. I have opened my pen to write me.
This poem is a prevision of the future. Nithish wrote it from spiritual vision some months before the horrible situation he’s describing happened to him, when he was taken from my home by his mother, where he lived during the week, visiting his parents on the weekends. That is the journey he started. They did bad things to him, but the worst has been what they have done to his heart by doing Nazi-like things to him to kill his love for me and keep him from having contact of any kind with me, although for the first two months he called me in secret telling me of the abuse, and of course we have inner contact in spiritual vision, or I do; this also has been killed in him by his parents in their attempts to kill his love for me. He doesn’t write poetry anymore, no longer hears his muse.
I need to mention that school for Nithish was the worst thing in the world. He’s been badly abused for his dyslexia in school, both physically and emotionally, and his parents would never allow me to get him tested for the learning disability. But in this poem, school represents where he gets his life lessons, and that takes place at home too. The muse, the inner voice of poetry, uses the symbols that you know, and, if you have some preconceived idea, it won’t override it but use that in the place of what would more represent the truth. That’s going on here with his use of the word school to describe what is going on in his home with his parents.
He was not just slip in two, having to have one face to his parents and another to me, but there was the Nithish alone to himself he had to try and honor also, and so when he’s speaking of being three people, not just one, that’s what he’s talking about. Since the source of his abuse came from his parents punishing him for continuing to love me and wanting to see me, not to mention betraying their bedroom sins to me, he became completely silent about me with anyone he didn’t trust, did not even mention my name, let alone say want to see me.
On the phone he told me that he had to do that because they were treating him very badly, like he was poison, because he had caused all this trouble for his family and brought shame on it, and so, he told me, he had put on a fake smile, but he was really sad inside. So he was one person to his family and another to me, and still another to himself. I cannot tell you what this does to a child, especially one that is right this very second beginning the body changes into adolescence. Mental illness of some sort will ensue at some point. I believe the boy will become a psychopath like his father, who has murdered four men in cold blood for his gang.
Nithiish has now decided he’s finished with me, to honor his parents, and he did that over them buying him a tab so he could play his video games and surf the net. He got that tab by promising his parents that he wouldn’t contact me through it, and he knows that he can do things to contact me without his parents even knowing, which means he’s not contacting me out of fear of his parents finding out; he not doing so because he would disobey his parents. That in itself is enough to do serious damage to a boy’s heart, but he’s done this in the face of a hunger strike I had just told him I was gong to do, so to see him and to help him.
So, getting that toy is more important than me living, a man that was there the day he was born, doing the Saturday thing with him from the time he was one, beginning to babysit him when he was three, becoming a parent of his starting when he was six, and by the time he was seven, he spent more time with me than his parents, living with me at the lake for the last year and some months before he was taken from there by his mother.
When he called me in secret during those first two months, he wanted me to bring someone in to question him, away from his mother, about the abuse he was suffering from by his parents, particularly from her, and I did everything I could to get someone to that house to question him away from his mother. That never happened, despite even Child Help going to the house; they only spoke to his mother, did not follow protocol and talk to the child away from his parents. Police questioned him about me abusing him and his mother, and he said no on both counts, and she was sitting right next to him, and the cops had said that they’d question him away from his mother in another room. He called me and told me about it afterwards.
The final straw came when I told him I had a new advocate, and he called me soon after I told him that, saying he had a plan. He wanted to speak to him alone, and he wanted the advocate to get him talking by asking him about the incident when his mother beat him with a flat, wooden board for saying he wanted to see. He said to start with that question, and he would take it from there.
The night before the meeting we spoke about the meeting on the phone. I just warned him that when he saw me, come and give me a hug, and not to let his mother prevent him from greeting me. She not only did that, she kept him behind her back and put her hand over his face so he couldn’t see me. This changed everything, and the boy began crying, and I was distraught. They went into the office, and I could hear Nithish crying loudly. Finally I was called in, and there was to be no meeting with alone with Nithish. The mother would not allow that.
So I tried to talk to Nithish, but he could not speak. I was very upset by this time and just began asking him what he’d told me he wanted be asked the night before, in our phone conversation. At the question of his mother beating him with board, he managed a weak yes and shook his head yes, keeping his head down, and when I asked him if his mother was abusing him, he answered the same way. By this time his mother, knowing he was telling on her, stood up to take him out of the office, and I tried to prevent that by asking that family welfare be called. I was physically held while she left with the boy. He never called me again after that, which was three weeks ago.
But I had promised him I would help him, and so to do a hunger strike was my last resort, the only power it seemed I had left to use. I will not use it now. The boy is too far gone. All this trauma has changed him, brought the worst of him to the front, and now his tab is more important than my life, and we have so many years together, so many memories, as much as he has with his biological parents, and he is able keep himself from feeling that in order to get some toy, and that toy makes him happy. His parents do not realize what they have done. They have not only killed his love for me, but they’ve killed his love for humanity. The poem above shows you how they did that.
Harm's End 