One of the photos I took of him in a secret meeting in April, the last time I saw him
Untitled
by S. Nithish
The Beatles needed each other. I need all of you together. Nithish can only take you to the door, but you have to open it.
* * * *
Soaked in pain, guilt. Let alone in the dark. Can’t find a ladder. I hit rock bottom and sink even deeper, laying for the lies that built the world. Where do I find a cure for this virus?
We stepped on a bubblegum. Will stick for life. Can I be forgived for being myself? Now I see how people turn evil and bad. Is it the society or the world or both?
I could almost call myself a homeless dog, but even the dog is happier than me. I saw a kid who can’t speak properly, but even he is happier than me.
The worst part about life for me is that I can’t go live with my daddy, [1] and I’m afraid that I can’t forgive myself till the end of time if I don’t go live with him.
Ever minute of my life spikes of sorrow and guilt. Poke me on the inside and the outside it’s been very long time since I’ve got wet in the rain of love and joy. [2]
Darkness on the corner and light on top of the mountain, it’s easy to run but can’t hide from the radiation of the bed I sleep in, the hole that I’m falling. The mud is soft but the hole is deep, and I’ve gone blind. I can’t see the world or feel the world of what it was.
I’ve never wanted to go to North Korea. [3] All I had to do was follow the damn train, [4] and I am warmed by his smile cause I’m the one who has his mouth stitched. Who am I? Why are we both chained to the pain of the world and suffer from this poison and keep drowning in the bottom?
Where is the divine? Is it a rock? Everybody thinks that I’m evil, bad, greedy, selfish. The one who really love me will really ever know me.
Where is my mother? [5] I don’t see her. Why aren’t you coming to the rescue? This is the story of the universe. Why aren’t you introducing the twist of my motive? My story is not filmed by IMAX. It is filmed by the divine, the universe.
What sin have I done and pay so much and put me in debt? Look into my eyes. See and feel the pain, guilt that is untouched by you.
[1] Me, what he calls me
[2] He lives under almost total control so that he will not make contact with me in any form and so that he will make passing marks in school, and that control entails being called names, being beaten and slapped. In his entire school career, and he’s now in 9th standard, he’s never been able to pass all of his exams. He has learning disabilities, mild dyslexia and severe dyscalculia, but his parents do not believe in learning disabilities nor will allow him to be tested for such. I was there from his birth and informed his mother of his dyslexia when I began trying to teach him the English alphabet when he was three, seeing him write letters backwards and not able to put sound to letters, and when he was not learning to read and write English in school, 2nd standard by this time, I taught him to how. His parents have been told it’s impossible for him to learn to read and write Tamil.
[3] A favorite activity of his growing up in my care was, when it rained, to take off all his clothes and go and play in it, I mean every time it rained and it wasn’t too late, on the roof when we lived in town, simply outside when we lived on the farm. I only made sure he didn’t harm himself or offend anyone.
[4] In our own personal speech between us, this phrase, which comes from a GTA gameplay video that he liked when he was six and watched more times than I liked, came to mean for us the simplicity of just going with the flow if it were taking us in a good direction, and we used it among ourselves to correct one another for going against that flow. The whole phrase is “all you had to do was follow the damn train CJ.”
[5] The Mother, Sri Aurobindo’s spiritual collaborator, who is for him is the divine mother and whom he adored and dreamed about often.
The poem was written by a 13-year-old Tamil boy. If you’ve read his previous poetry, it’s more organized than this and more poetic, but he’s suffered a lot since he was taken from my home a year and some months ago, and his poetry has suffered also. The first verse is classic muse, the inner voice of poetry, in its mode of giving advice and guidance, and so I set it apart from the rest of the poem. I suspect the rest of the poem is not pure muse, is him mostly just pouring his heart out, although still under the rush of inspiration and still in the voice of poetry. The trauma he’s suffered has almost turned off his muse, and, with the exception of a song he wrote upon being able to spend some time with me the first time since he was taken, “Heaven and Hell,” he gets very little muse now.
In the months before the was taken and his ordeal began, he wrote poem after poem, two raps, and a song from the muse, each spoken or sung to him on the inside, and each one a prevision of the future he’s now in, the raw hopelessness and desperation of this present poem so painful to read in the light of those past poems, which are full of confidence, faith, and resilience.
I am very familiar with his handwriting and form of spelling, and so I can make out what he wrote (you can see the dysgraphia) and organize it into lines and verses. I include the pieces of paper that he wrote this on at bottom. They were smuggled to me recently. He wrote this in school, in secret, on the back of exam papers. His muse told him to give it to me, and my muse told me to give it to you.
Months ago I gave his school a copy of all his poetry and asked that they provide for him a child mental health professional because he had mentioned suicide. I did this with a letter, as the parents have bribed the police near the school to take me to the station if I come there, what Nithish’s mother told him they had done, and what he warned me about. I might add that neither his school recognizes learning disabilities, and of him they have repeated what his mother told them, that he is acting and failing on purpose because he’s a smart boy.
I had complained to the Child Welfare Committee of Puducherry earlier, and they didn’t even know what dyslexia was, and a bribe was paid there also, his mother told him. The school has also complained that he thinks of me a lot, and that interferes with his studies, not able to recognize that he’s suffering the grief and heartbreak of the loss of a parent, a relationship with him they will also not recognize because I have no legals rights to the child.
It took months for the school to respond to the letter, and when they did it wasn’t to me or to provide him with care; they asked him to write a poem about his school, praising it, and they’d publish it in their weekly newsletter. The request that he write a poem came some weeks ago, and he wrote this poem instead, after much deliberation and anguish over the whole thing, but he’s afraid to give it to his school because his parents would see it and punish him for it, and so, I have to open the door, albeit without causing him further harm.
Where autism rides, nobody believes in it, and the vehicles crash. Madness in America gave us this lay: autism comes from television and screen time. I laugh at every little thing. [sing line] This is the public mind. Where do we go with it? We can’t take it anywhere in the fundamentals of ourselves where we’ve encountered the unknown.
I’m dancin’ on thin ice. I think this is the public construction of our ego today, or whatever you call that we are now, how it’s made, where it comes from. Everybody’s ignorant here. Nobody knows what’s goin’ on, and nobody cares. Too many other concerns crowd the show.
How do I introduce you to you? Let’s take your dream last night the closer you are from waking up, when you’re patterning on dreamless sleep. You’ve gotten down that far. This is really weird. The forms bite you. They do not contain waking life in anything recognizable except maybe a sandwich you’re a part of, that you’re being eaten by. They are larger than machine. They swallow you whole. You were merged with that odd substance, weren’t you? The separate self was hanging in thin air. You didn’t recognize it yet. You were the forms you saw, and you are all mixed up. You couldn’t tell yourself, but you were there.
Have you ever woken up from this merged dream content? It’s oddly familiar. You feel basic with it, like you’re on a slab of reality you’ve know before, when you first woke up from sleep, somewhere in womb-time, but I think after we’re born the show begins, when we hold the world tight indistinguishable from it. We are merged in our identity with all around us, but the body localizes us in our surroundings, and we are so bodily there. Mommy and springtime, that’s the season we wear. Her face, her touch, her smell, we know those are safety measures, and we don’t know much else. It depends upon the daddy. Some are right there, and it doesn’t have to be a parent. I can’t give you the lists without breakin’ ‘em up. We’ve got to talk about the thing.
I think slowly we wake to the blows of life, its insistence on its kin, and we separate ourselves from our environment slowly, little by little. You can see this happenin’ if your look’s engaged. That sense of separate self is precious a wee one becomes a person in. Are you three when you’ve balanced life and can give a wink to other people here I am, here I am, how do you do? [sing line, popular nursery rhyme]
I’ve just studied your rabbit. You think you’re localized in space a separate consciousness in time. No, that’s learned. Now put all this in a TV show, some stupid video, and you see what you got. I can’t distinguish myself from time and space to begin with. Now add another layer, the absurd, the inane, the chocolate freeze cake, and some children don’t make the match. They can’t distinguish themselves in time, and spectrum autism makes them their relationship with the world.
One in 36 is it? Anyway it’s huge. I can babysit a two-year-old, and I don’t have consciousness breathin’ down my neck. I make contact with the kid casually. I understand his price. I see him there pullin’ himself out of the world, tryin’ to make himself work in it. I dream about him, have him in vision. We have open lines of communication, and I don’t wanna mess it up, that delicate balance he has with the world as he’s findin’ himself in it.
No extra touches when I wash his penis, no emotions in my hand, and I’m careful with that anus. (I have no sexual desire for the child.) I think these are where he is localized now as the body reaches the sky, right there at the birth of thought. No they are not the majors in the room that determine his life. There’s just so much feeling there, and feeling’s what it’s all about when you’re two.
I’m crowdin’ in on your crash course in reality. I’m tellin’ yah how it’s made, our sexual preference, our sexual alliance with the world. We can become gay or straight, pedophile or necrophiliac, and the list goes on, and we can this and that or just someone who harass women, touch them somewhere they don’t know where it’s at, respect, and if you wanna rapist touch them more momma. An old movie, don’t worry; I’m taking it to see daylight. It won’t take long.
We need good parental hands with everybody who handles them, our genitals. The equations will reach the sky with anybody who touches them, or squeezes them against ourself in diaper rub. Add some kissin’ on top of that, real romantic feelings with some male role model, and if you’re boy you’re gay. Watch and see. I just let the cat out of the bag. Can you see it?
Autism spectrum disorder, it’s not the only thing that comes out of our threes. Every touch counts. Every moment’s involved with us. A screaming parent, two fighting parents, and that’s joined in our identity don’t you see? You got it all wrong. Those years count the most, and they’re the hardest to bear, aren’t they? Hit that child and see you’ve got a child there the world has slapped by, and they’ve been betrayed by everybody. Can’t you see it on their face? Don’t you know it’s in their pain?
I love you Dylan. I really do. Anyway, there, I’ve done it, showed you reality. Can you get my dig? Cryin’ all the time, [sing line, from the song “Hound Dog”] no. We wipe their tears with our love, always addin’ to the world their place in it, and the roles are clear, and that’s heavy, ain’t it?
I can bring understanding to many roles in your life and to horrible times. I can do that. When you even begin to walk, we’re gettin’ some stuff done. We’re gettin’ some stuff done put well on you. Like what can you do if nobody wants to be well? Kid you know travel love, and make that the aim of life the immediacy of this moment.
May all your memories and all your steps, may they be easy. Okay, I’ve tuned you to the ages. That explains it, what went wrong. Daddy, daddy! [vision of Dylan standing and turning to look at me and saying this] Come there even for your own purpose. You know as well as I know the movies, trauma is almost illegal I’m carrying to bring Dylan through this touch and screen of madness, someone experiencing the world his play bubba, his romance, his mastery, and we all look for spiritual change, don’t we? Evolution, it’s what’s you do with a kid. It be like huggin’ sha-la-la, la-la, la-la, la-la, la-la tee-da [sing line, song “Brown Eyed Girl”] and never gettin’ caught in it. You’re free. Why would you want to take a child anywhere else?
Can we reach the delivery of the poem that our being intercepts? I am worried about contradictions and just pissing people off instead of reaching them. Nithish is suffering. I don’t know where to stop that. No one seems to notice because it’s not polio, but it’s heartbreak nonetheless. He misses me, a mother to him for many years, the most important person in his life for many years, and I’m not the only one saying that; his heart does.
He’s in mourning, and that’s not recognized. It’s not even mentioned. He’s not allowed to talk about it. There is no outlet for his pain. His mother knows it’s there, and it makes her very angry, and she punishes him for it. What’s a kid to do?
He cries. He gets angry. He implodes upon himself, but there is no issue from this dilemma. It just keeps getting worse. He cries. He carries on, and the pot boils over. Now he’s desperate, and when you’re 13, adolescence has given you weapons the child you are still can’t handle. It’s a dangerous moment in Nithish’s life. We want what’s best for Nithish, and if we want anything else, we are really playing with fire.
What’s his name, Pride? You wanna let ‘im shoot your kid? It might be a gentleman that gives you honor and social prestige, for a little while, but when you put it above your child’s needs, above goodness and mercy, you wreck your life in the fall you have from Pride, when it’s gotten to the point even you know you’re wrong, and that you’re treating your child badly. But you don’t have to fall. Put down your pride and address your child’s needs, okay Sandiya?
I’ve looked at soul models. I’ve looked at grief, and you’ve heard me on Facebook tellin’ about it and all over the damn place. I don’t come on this platform to insult and offend. I’m much better in the werewolf of time reading you right. You took a bath tonight. Son of a bitch! We are closed. Abolish One on the way. Who do you get to come after you, Mr. Cat Stevens talkin’ about the Peace Train? No you get a me pointing the finger at you for all these abuses.
I respond to my muse. I respond to the image of my boy. I know he’s hurting. Now can I spread this on the table? He’s really hurting. These are deep wounds he has to live with, and they just eat him alive. You don’t know the pain of suffering when you’re just a little boy all mixed up in adolescence, your body a whistleblower, and everybody knows you’re confused. You’re standin’ there with a sense of self no amount of world can resolve, and you can’t grab the world by the tail because it has you so tightly in its grasp you just want to please it, make it go away.
He’s an adolescent, in the most difficult years of his life, the most confused, the most tender where he’s sensitivity it hurts. He is already a well of suffering, and then someone took from him his support and his comfort and his home, in his mind of things, took from him his daddy, and you all know how I mother people, in a way that made it I’d died with no contact allowed ever again in his life. Oh my God that hurts in the very substance of yourself, and it’s a pain that won’t go away, even if you want it to. That boy hurts. Please see that. It’s terrible for him. It’s the end of the world. Oh Sandiya please listen. For God’s sake listen.
Yeah I know I’m studying your attention like I need to end this poem. Not quite. Transact another line. Who has turned over, that’s always a thought. Believe me, we can fix this right. Everyone would have run had he been 13, a teenager in years with their what's up. There’s enough fuel, still childhood left, to remove this pain, to take these scars out of his life, take him to his blue book.
Healing is the first thing I’d do Sandiya. I heard his manhood depending upon this time. Please, open, open up in there, and put down your arms of control that’s squeezing the life out of him, and let him be with me, and let him be with you, so that it doesn’t hurt. I’m the denomination now, and that doesn’t hurt. Do we throw this boy to the wolves or what?
A kid his own age, George, I know very well. I really know kids, like it’s the focus of my life. You know that boy’s in trouble, and you know what has happened, and you know Nithish needs me because I can make it right. Pay him back on the outside what he needs on the inside to heal, and give him me for his birthday, and give him the happiest birthday he’s ever had. Give him what he needs. Let him on his birthday be with his daddy, and here I am.
Video description: Nithish wrote this song in school after finally being able to spend a significant amount of time with me after six months of not seeing me. It came all at once, sung to him line by line by the inner voice. It was sung to the tune of “Daylight” by David Kushner, and I did the best I could to make it sound like that song when I took the wrapper he wrote it on and put it to my guitar. I was able to consult with him during that process.
Losing a child in circumstances where the child also loses you his parent sets up heartbreak on a level of suffering that is simply hell, for the parent and the kid, because your kid isn’t dead; your daddy isn’t dead. Both are in easy seeing distance but cannot even talk on the phone or message each other, and that is a knife that does not stop stabbing as time goes on. As long as that kid’s a kid, and even after, and as long as that daddy’s a daddy, hope assails you in the same place as despair, and all the bad voices are saying bye, all the good voices are saying hi. Now you can hear the song. He loves his daddy.
image by the author, photo of the Earth by NASA (public domain)
Upholder of consciousness, can I call you a name? You just got laid off, and you’ll get laid off again, and there’s nothin’ to get ready for tomorrow. You’re not a big man on campus yet. You’re an embarrassing little thing, and no one will hear you sing. This is not standin’ in the air. This is not wide enough silly in the air. You’ve got tall trees growin’, and you’ve reached the limit of your room. Things get bigger. They envelope in consciousness.
Wow I believed you this time. I thought somethin’ was gonna happen. I don’t even worry about the fish, the fallout from this. Nobody understands my shores. Take ‘im away Bob. The irony in all this, and I have the light that shines on Earth. Foiled again at the book nodes.
Where’s my superman, my help you with it? I’m not just a fly on a coffee table. I’ve actually seen what I saw. Answer your question: your art and poetry put out, look what’s happened. Nobody wants to see you. They’re all put out, and they’re hungry from guess room again. How can you say such things you measly little piece of paper? And we shut you down. You are not making us mediocre; we are.
Now let’s ride to the end of this chapter. You won’t get it, and I will stand by your work. You’ve got a major 2 o’clock comin’. It’s in your show/window now. [two above words heard spoken simultaneously] Don’t sit just there read somethin’.
He hadn’t looked around. He was not just a horse in time courting sincerity. He grafted you upon the tree of life where you mattered and held count. One, they don’t know you play ball with God and life and time, and second, they don’t know there’s more than what they’ve got. This played with you, and it didn’t mean anything a thing you did, and you were not big in that boy’s eyes as you saw him lookin’ at yah. You were not important to him, as you saw him glow. This bothered yah and really made you think. Listen to her, listen to that boy in pain. You alleviate it and he knows it, and he can’t wake up to himself yet. That’ll come soon enough.
Oh wonderful thing hide in Their character, hide on Their tongue. To discover the hidden reasons of the Gods. [vision with the line of my own hand writing this in cursive on a sheet of paper] To come down on student terms and find out why They tick. Why are They a decade ago, never where man is right now? They don’t know people like we do, and They can’t gauge human life in our exact location. They are tall and kind, but They propose to us things we can’t do.
They do not understand the human state. They punish us for our condition, and there’s a discrepancy between time and fate that no amount of mercy can absolve. We are lone here, surrounded by Gods. They know our every thought and deed, climb your mind like it’s Their jukebox, but they don’t know how to understand you in the ways of sin. They say no. They don’t heal. They do not integrate the mountain with the sea. They meet each other and collide.
They are on our backs all the time to ever showcase new lore, to be an instrument for Them, but they cannot reach us with the love we need when we need it, and they will let us go down doing Their work. They will take from us our most beloved just to test us. They will treat us like human souls not like breathing men. They can’t be trusted. They will always put Their work first. In the quarries of the Gods we labor under the breath of death, and we don’t get out of it. We don’t even see it.
We can’t know it’s there, all the labor for the God, least we separate our life from our sanity. You can’t take a God’s force bearin’ down on you, a God’s thoughts. They are too immortality for us. They take on airs we cannot breathe. They give us one commandment: worship Them in time, letting Them be the light of your life. You cannot go astray from Them. They will hound you in life’s deeps, and you cannot stand against a God. You can only pray.
Why am I telling you this? The liberation from the Gods is our aim in how we count human. We don’t need Their scaffold that stops us in midair, that bullies us in time. We don’t burn Their scaffold down. We understand how inadequate it is. We accept Their help but go beyond it. We go to the back of the plan, what started all this universe and show, a whole other order of being testing limits for itself where no limits are, its growth by us into the unimaginable of its see.
We are bringing this order down now in the great upheaval of the Gods. Can you fathom this change? It’s a whole new way of doing things that has harmony as its base for righting wrong and oneness as its lookout for all it sees. It does not shy away from one. It incorporates all into its grand plan. It is the substance of itself it’s planting into the universe. It knows its great self by itself, and it knows itself as all, is not some cosmic God looking down on the riddle of creation.
This way of doing things, this Supermind, knows by identity and never strays from that. It’s a Truth Consciousness. It’s a vast Truth Consciousness, the exact truth consciousness ridin’ everything that is behind its base. It does not lie, knows not error. This is what we’re bringin’ down. This is what we are. It will change the world. It’s what we need to see today. It’s comin’. It’s here, and that’s the master plan. It’s the truth of the universe understandin’ time.
Look at it in the hours, and you are in transformation, God’s glow. I show this to you now with my head half in it. I’m movin’ forward now towards a completeness of my see, towards supramental change I see in my Lake, the figure of Silent Mind flagging me its approach. I stumble and fall and can’t keep up, and it’s an everyday pick me up, but I can see it HD.
So I sing my songs early morning vision brings, so I can look out now on what needs to be done. You’re in my field today. Hello, are you there? Auroville, are you there?
The epicenter of spiritual change, modern life Auroville, it can’t see itself. It’s bigger than the sky no. It grapples with human problems. It grows its children to grow nature in her room, to be the normal round of human being. It has high ideals that are not in the hands of the city in daily worth. Impossible to describe, the mounting towards a change in consciousness that’s Auroville’s aim. Human unity will not field show.
Where is the city goin’? Can you see ordinary where Auroville meets its road? No amount of spiritual-mongering can put it there, the spiritual consciousness. The gap between Auroville and her spiritual aims throws Auroville out the window as a city of spiritual change. It’s a city of proud belief, yoga tags, conferences, spiritual workshops, sound gardens, the green munchies. These move the city along a false bravado. No spiritual revolution seizes its day.
Can somebody tell me what we’re doin’ and why’s not the change? We’re in plans with yesterday, not the new planet in the making now. I ring this to you now. Can you ring with me and not vote me out? What’s the plan? It’s not the issues that divide us today. Are you gonna help?
The drawback for spiritual change to say nothing. We substance where we change. We tell you in the manner befitting our service. We tell you spiritual change, how it’s happening to us, when we can tell it without spillin’ it, the purpose of art and poetry when you’re undergoing spiritual change. You talk about it the inner voice, unprompted by your decision making process. You don’t let out a word, otherwise. Now it dawns on your community.
Got so many minions, so black, speakin’ in the voice of your word. This is not a mere dictation. It is a battle of the spiritual word. Great variety sees that, honed in occasions. We ride versatility to its source. Okay I choir now.
Who inspires me but not the Gods? The runner up open to Supermind. To see this distinction’s life and death for the city. Crucial for the city to go beyond the Gods, the strength of Overmind. I explain to you now. I explain to you how. Lemmie guess, you’re starlight? The advent of Supermind where Overmind opens to it, you know this source, the Mother and Sri Aurobindo, their hills, a few that give us their glad tidings of wide birth. Here we establish things, put them in order. On top of that I show you a weapon master, the rays of the Sun.
Insulated against it, the Auroville that makes its bed, that Auroville that goes international. I have this title goin’ international, The Writing on the Wall Dummy’s Paradise. You don’t know you’re Belushi’d out a poet in Auroville on comic stops. It’s behavioral 9, and it’s comin’ soon to where you can see it in Auroville’s front page. It doesn’t suck they way they’re doin’ it either. This latest poem is his Red Cross, a fix it paper. You know how it ends. They’ve made their decision. Just throw it out but keep the paper. You too much for them, and they Riviera the day. Donny this looks terrible. Thank you.
Finish the job. I want a divine crossword puzzle. You’ve got branches on it. You’ve got the cookies stuff. It’s delicious. What do I do with the title? Tell God to show up a whole little ice cream. We get our pieces together. Larry Seidlitz, empathy? identity? Ah here, declined.
Do you know what spirituality is? To feel right at the zombies zone. Donny draws the neach of us. Speak a following a fluid law and love from your mistakes. It’s Auroville’s paper we need in Auroville’s hands, true points of the consciousness of God. Round house to an extraordinary boat on the sea, we can lift the consciousness of God up to new heights and stay there. Can you count Auroville’s aim here, her mission in words?
You climbed to the top of her mission with children. I know; it’s that background girl. Nithisha not there. He’s missing from action. He reads his own music a sad story, and I’m mentionin’ firecrackers, indo in human hearts. How is the school? You’re gonna help us out then admire how beautiful it is. This is his nanny, Earthen Pull.
Now we met each other in consciousness. I’m about the boy’s height, and I’ve got a poem to show yah, where we live, talkin’ about consciousness one night sharin’ pizza. Open the door. Watch how that decline button does things. You miss the table with that. You miss everything. Can we call you Auroville International, giver of gifts, provider of boons?
You will delete me for this, if I don’t hurry up. I would like to stairway your mind. Why is pretentious the first word that comes to mind? How do you talk about facts you know? Hurry, you gotta see this. I have, saw it with my own eyes in just a seconds’ grab up out the top of my head to that nice familiar form you know Yourself perpetratin’ all these lives without involvement in them, like remains untouched by the whole show.
Anyway I was up there. Let’s go. I am at the period in this poem you hear me, like really bold perfume that talks about the important stuff. Meanwhile on the ground I have reactions and do my duties. I don’t react half as much as I used to. I’m gettin’ round that. Calmness is a commodity that comes in long waves, and then it goes out again. I’m waitin’ for my boy to come home so’s I can see it. He’s safe and sound, and that removes the ants on my consciousness floor. Children come first in the scheme of things, and I’m holdin’ mine to safety. Bear with me here. You don’t know the half of it.
Okay now start your poem. Can you leave me alone? Come here mountain climber. Okay do it, behind the scenes you weren’t lookin’ for in her gala. Where you goin’? The party’s just gettin’ started. Patience man patience. You’re not gonna trip over wires. Alright put your feet on. We’re walkin’ to background love. It’s an emergency. Auroville’s dyin’ all over again. It’s not the first time. God gave her a bulletproof vest. Bet you didn’t know that. It doesn’t work sometimes, as you can see now. Roll a joint and pass the ammunition. There’s a fight goin’ on in Auroville over spiritual aim. No worries, many efforts bless this mess.
And now you think I smoke pot. It’s just a figure of speech to unhand you. It’s a flashpoint in Auroville, and people don’t like it there. The Mother said so inflexibly no. And you got her lists. Not all of them work, and she never got down to business with the master plan. I’ll tiny tiger this in myself, somebody that listens to her quickly in tales of the inner voice. I don’t believe it’s me either, but there you go.
My little boy was complainin’ the heaviness of the knowledge of God, oh for example, did you know daddy the world’s in pain? He calls me grandpa. I’m his spiritual teacher, and he’s woken up to world pain, bein’ yanked so hard by his own. You got to know consciousness as a spiritual aim.
Now let’s go to district 9 and give this poem some perspective of the deepness of the knowledge of God. He calls me master. You know the relationship, and they lesson there. Wow, kangaroos, and he really matures in that pouch. That’s been keeping me here. [heard spoken in Nithish’s voice] Gonna go soon, back to daddy and our spiritual endeavor, the node of our relationship. Where is it? In that field of love.
Now the brass of Auroville don’t stomach these waters. You have to admit a little Reagan post. Carrying a seditious act, no I’m not. You must be mistaken. You must have me confused me with the wrong Donny. The scaffoldin’, it’s too much. Find it on paper, consciousness poem.
Huntin’ to see you again, your big-eyed boy. He lays in bed at night sleepless worry, and he can’t soothe himself. Headaches and dizziness spell his day. This is suffering. Glued to him from the inner consciousness, you manage to hold him and speak into his mind where his heart meets the road. He knows you’re there.
I’m sorry sweetheart this is burnin’. Warn title, will you lie to me? A terrible story that come in the place of him? Another body than pain he had to be aroused, another program: he loves the Mother. She was something down where you lost God.
You know what I mean: you were born in my commitment. Now I need yah to look up and sound off the important test, a poem in your stadium write that helps us all to be feet to the Mystery who cares, balancin’ time on a rainbow, the supramental transformation in children, what is on your tops, I kid you not, waiting for Hollywood to get with the lesson plan and surpass Disney there’s a child in need of imagination. Get it ate at the light of the new world you’re figurin’ in the verse you’ve already written. Hold on I’m comin’, my sweet, beautiful boy.
Town’s end, and miracle show up, wonderful ridin’ spiritual love. Honestly, this is brand new eyes on God.
The above poem too was declined by the admin of the private Facebook group Auroville International. My muse wrote a short poem in response, suggesting what picture of go with it, “A picture of a rainbow,” before I even found that out, which I posted on their page and which will, no doubt, also be declined. Postscript: it was declined.
In Sudden Splendor Facin' Rainbows
No one has ever done this before. I'm a threat to everybody's system of order. I want a new world see, and I want it to work, and I want it to plan. You delete that in Auroville, too ordinary to let the world happen there, oh you bunch of men and women blocking the Sun. I'll tell everybody. [a link I left to this post]
Auroville International
Auroville International (AVI) is a worldwide network aiming at the support of the development of Auroville in all its aspects. Founded in 1983 it is legally registered in the Netherlands, with a representation in 34 countries around the world – nine national centres, which are registered associations in their respective countries, and twenty-five liaisons, which may be smaller groups or single individuals.
It must be said that the Facebook group Auroville INDIA approved and posted this poem, as they have several others everyone else has declined.
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.
Now I can’t be a boy. Now I can’t be a boy. A bitter thing that I’ve gone through. Now I can’t be a boy. Now I can’t be a boy, and the play plays strong in your strong eyes. Bury your head. Now I can’t be a boy.
Verse 1
What I’m goin’ through. I never boy. Years of file I wore my grandfather. Try to overcome the world in some fear. Well I’ll be damned, there’s gotta be another way. Come and hurt me, tearing at the edges of my mind.
Verse 2
Put hands together. Maybe I’m wrong, I’m goin’ where Christ the energy. Call your boss and forgive her, your mother. Even if I restart my family, now I can’t be a boy. Hopefully it will happen this time, gonna knock on doors again, have a beautiful time.
Verse 3
Marco, Polo. She stand him file, his mother. Too over, it’s over. He walks along disaster in English. He was alone. Where my mother put me so sad and alone. It’s gonna take some time I’m not the right person. You gotta figure it out. A 93 It doesn’t take anything. There may be a fall.
Verse 4
I spoke to the cinema. I’ve come up with another way, respect and honor to the people that I love, my grandfather. Yes I’ve opened to you, Yes you love me, yes you do. You mouse, big changes ahead. I will father the way, overcome the world.
Verse 5
His life is basically over, that’s what I’m goin’ through. Real men would not do this to Nithish. Years put everything onto the child. It’s a child made to feel all alone. It’s a child made to dump on. You won’t hear the child. Changed my life. Now I can’t be a boy. Now I can’t be a boy.
I wanna be a boy. Everybody sound impatient. Sunlight I’m gonna be. I’m gonna be a hero.
He just wants the people he love to be fair to. (vision of Nithish standing in the forest at a microphone stand and speaking into the mic) Life is a very changed little boy. He’s not gonna control. Will see everything eight thousand, which means he doesn’t see it as himself.
You gotta take the phone out of his hands and let him listen to you. You got a therapy. You can help it. In the interest of therapy you will go. Okay then, a PowerPoint presentation, you spend the night with me in the phone.
He had just been through a hard time for any conversation at all with him. I let him throw the other people in jail. A file said that. Boy’s not gonna go crazy and do anything rough to his daddy.
Just bury your head and see now’s not a good time. I vintage. We’re tired. It’s been my dream to have a mountain visit with daddy. I can’t get up.
They don’t go. They don’t leave him out. They guard him all the time. It’s impossible to see him wherever they visit. I can’t hear a car.
Did you make yourself useful? Not yet. See you soon Nithish. Goin’ to Kuru you’re not fondu, over? I don’t think so. I stay away from that plan.
Why is the son not supporting seeing me? What is that? (two visions of ugly, insane pictures of some horrible place) Hell my mother makes me imagine, my mother messages me. There is a want to see you gotten in.
Could not believe it, we are right where we see each other weird, but I belong to him. In a child’s mind three and a half months is a long time not bein’ with his daddy. He forgets the report. He forgets the love and attention.
Christ look ahead. Don’t overlook your eves. Does it take all day? I’m with you so much right now, watch your glow. (vision of Ramya, a young woman I’m a daddy to. She’s looking at me and smiling) You give everybody kindness. Give me your love and support.
On Monday the child never woke back. Come here. I told him tomorrow’s thinking about that does not measure our true love. Have a good day. I love you.
Go into the Earth tower, I have to maintain. I cannot see Nithish and that kills me. I watch his moods change from day to day. I’m inside his consciousness you see. He toys with me like a rabbit and then just puts me down and forgets about me for a while.
We achieved union together, and this is the price I pay for it. A child does not know your worth. They only see themselves. I can’t take this child anymore. I carry his pain all day. He just wants to be happy and forget about me. I’m too much trouble for him right now.
What evil is this a mother does to her child? No one questions the mother’s insanity to forbid any contact whatsoever, when she herself will admit I was good to the boy and did not abuse him.
This is killing his character, but this is India, and we don’t protect our children, and we do not know the damage the heart can do to a child that’s been made to kill his love for one of his parents. This boy will not be kind.
I can only sit here and watch it all and cry. I so want to help my boy. I am with him every minute of every day, and the sleepless nights just tear me apart, and it’s all I can do to maintain, and I must maintain.
Do you consider me? I’m a value in consciousness, and the same you hear from me I opened up in this boy, but that has been killed too, and no one seems to mind.
I love you Nithish, and I will not give up on you, and I understand your pain and your need to be a boy. I am a parent and I can take sacrifice. I just wish you could see me as I am and not in the stench of gaslight you mother has put you through.
It’s inevitable that one day you will. A demon can only hold the field for so long before the divine forces prevail. Do you see me Nithish? I am here, and I’m not going anywhere.
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.
I have the flower in my head. I just want to get it in the light. Can I just be in my life? Can I just get my life back?
I am running to the light again. Pull me up so I can join you. For next level it’s coming up.
I am crying I need sleep. They call me poison. That’s not my name I am Nithish. Why do you care will show my name to the world going down the road?
Ha! can you see that coming? That’s the new world formed. Pass it can you hear me out? Let me get back home. I am very loud if you know— your smartass come from the divine.
I am blinded from the light. Is that it that’s the start of the border? Wanna go beyond? Let’s go to the spark of soul that’s a frost fire running out of school. Run with me hear the bird. Run with me for good.
They judge me by any downfall. Well see my poem from God. Have you met my birds? To the surface we can go to New York, get the jet ski fly away from ground.
If you have been reading these posts of Nithish’s poetry, then you know he’s writing this from spiritual vision, meaning he’s not making it up; it’s spoken into his inner ear and he writes it down. This a poem he wrote while at school some months before he was taken from his home at the lake. In one fell swoop he lost his whole life, me, Douglas, his dogs, his own room, his new computer, the farm, the lake, all of it, and he has not been allowed to return or visit me since, anywhere, call me on the phone, have anyone give him message of me, or view his YouTube channel. Read the last post to see why his parents have done this, and you will suspect, as I do, that they have abuse they are hiding, and they know the boy will tell me if he sees me alone long enough, and they are preventing that.
I don’t think I need to interpret this poem line by line. It’s obvious what he’s talking about, but what’s extraordinary about it, miraculous, is that he wrote this months before the he would be in the situation he’s speaking about, so his future self could read it and understand what is going on. His ‘wokeness’ to his situation comes and goes, more goes than comes actually, if my spiritual vision of him is correct, but I do know from others telling me that he is silent about me and the life that was taken from him, does not even mention me or it. That sure does make me think, and the purpose of his poetry, why he wrote it to his future self, was to make him think, understand what has happened to him, and stand up for himself. I do not understand spiritual process, all this miracle just to go to the garbage can of his mind, be deleted. He has as yet no interest in reading it.
Harm's End 