The Ganglion

I entered a room. It was vast. So large. I couldn’t see any end to it. No ceiling. No walls. Probably not a room. Just Space. Colour? There wasn’t any colour. But it wasn’t White either. Nor Black. Just no colour. Sound? There was no sound. Or I think, there was so much of it that I couldn’t feel anything. To describe this place in a few words: Void or the Entirety of Everything.

I walked. Or I floated. Couldn’t tell. There were boxes of different shapes, lumps of every size and shape possible. Some were locked. Some were distended into space. Like puffs of smoke. Without a concrete boundary. Some even mixed into each other. Like a palette of colours that the painter uses so adeptly and untidily. It was an unending labyrinth. But one that doesn’t scare me. I don’t remember the feeling of Being Scared. I don’t even know the origin of the word in this eerie space. A far-away box, I think.

Without another momentary elapse, I was engulfed in a box, or–er–a waft of smoke. However, there neither was a push nor a pull. Just the feeling of penetrating something, without actually feeling it.

“Papa. Higher. This is so much fun, papa. Don’t let me fall.” And she laughed. The little girl with a tiny pink bow laughed, like the ripples in the tranquil waters of the Ganges. Pure and effervescent. This is beautiful. And the draught of smoke, the shapeless box, turned White. I don’t know why I perceived the colour as White.

“A young boy aged 23 was found drowned in the waters of the holy Ganges. On investigating, it has been found to be a case of suicide.” Sad. And Scary, I thought. Black.

Sherlock Holmes. Benedict Cumberbatch. Interesting. Moriarty. Murder. Asocial. The Hounds of Baskerville. The words started erupting like a volcano and caught me in a reverie. Some Colour. No word surfaced.

“What do you think about gender discrimination?” The girl asked. Dark Blue.
“What do you want me to say? Women being discriminated?” He asked, but it seemed like he retorted. Brown.
“No. I know how women fall prey to it. How are men affected by the same?” Pink.
Another image. A girl reading a book.
“Without solitude, Love will not stay long by your side. Because Love needs to rest. Solitude is not the absence of Love, but its complement.” Light Red.
Yet another one.
“Every loneliness is a pinnacle. Every form of happiness is private.” Light Yellow.

The room was lighted with candles. Scented candles. The man held her close. Clasping her hand, he leaned into her. He planted a soft kiss on her beautiful lips. The tension was palpable. Light Red. Red Orange.

I saw a woman watering the plants in her garden. The warmth in her eyes was reflected in the shiny leaves. I think this is how you came to peace with yourself. Not by forced meditation. Not by sitting for hours trying to get a glimpse of your Soul. Light Green.

I saw the image of a girl scribbling on a piece of paper. *The Ganglion*. It was bright. She was one with her soul. The light inside her emanated and extended through her fingers. She escaped the clamour of her surroundings to an interminable halcyon bubble. ORANGE. Like the Sun. Like the Fire. Like the glow of a Candle in the dark. Like the Flame of the Forest. Like Her.

I dissolved. I didn’t feel it.

The buzz of the mosquitoes. The noise from the street, the whistle of a far-away train, the sound of Mozart’s symphony, everything became real and audible. These escapes into the void. You want me to describe it? You could name it whatever. I sometimes call it Sanity. Sometimes, time travel. Nostalgia. Break-through. Peeping. Evading. Invading. Ecstasy. Roller coaster. Mind-slides. Intrepidation. Brain. Like I said, you could call it anything. Even Insanity.