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De Ons in y Ind
De Ons in y Ind
in My
Mind
DeMons
in My
Mind
AASHISH GUPTA
Notion Press
Old No. 38, New No. 6
McNichols Road, Chetpet
Chennai - 600 031
ISBN XXX-XX-XXXXX-XX-X
This book has been published with all reasonable efforts taken to make the
material error-free after the consent of the author. No part of this book shall
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including but not limited to the views, representations, descriptions,
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Contents
Preface����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� vii
Acknowledgements��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� ix
Chapter 16 | Day 8 & 9: ‘I told you Ayeda – he will just watch you die.’��������������������75
Chapter 29 | Transition����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������170
Chapter 31 | Poorvachakra���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������179
Chapter 33 | Antarchakra������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������198
Chapter 36 | Alia���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������217
W
hen I was six, I had this dream every single night - very
ordinary, yet so haunting. I chased a small pebble sliding
along a mountain slope. It was a happy, fun dream to begin
with. And then, it changed. The small pebble snowballed into a giant
rock collecting sand as it rolled down the mountain, and I became the
one being chased. I used to wake up and scream. I screamed because
even though I was awake, I could still see the rock chasing me. Many
years later, I was diagnosed with anxiety disorder. The dream had
become a reality. Every pebble-sized problem in life seemed like a giant
rock. One day I chased the problem. Next day, the problem chased me,
and kept chasing me forever – becoming bigger and bigger, collecting
the sand of time. Small battles with the mind every day turned into big
unceasing wars.
This book is dedicated to those who are fighting similar wars with
the mind. I want to tell them, no one can understand our struggles
better than us. This book is a message that you are not alone.
Acknowledgements
T
hank you, Kanika Bhatt, for giving me the first push into
writing this book and making me believe that I am more than
what my day job makes me.
Himanshu Johari, you deserve a special mention here for you
have always supported me whole-heartedly in everything that I have
ever tried to achieve. I know you have been a part of this book right
from the first word, and read all its versions tirelessly. But hey, it’s
finally out. We made it!
Saumya Sinha, Ketki Pandey and Ajay Kataria, you people
have always been there when I desperately needed a hand to hold. You
have played an important part in completing this book.
Mom and Dad, despite knowing little about my work and
aspirations, you have shown blind faith in my abilities and stood by
my side in the test of times. I know you have been through some real
hardships in raising me and I can’t thank you enough for that.
Anu, my sweet wife, and partner in all crimes: Thank you for
believing in my passion and driving me through all the rejections. I am
lucky to have you.
Thank you, Ayush Saxena, Achint Aggarwal, and Prateek
Bhajanka, for patiently supporting me in the publishing process. I
know you guys will continue to play a big role in taking this book
forward.
Some burnt, others rot, and many fell slaves to this mind,
Never had I faced an enemy of this kind,
The ones who could conquer were very few,
From its wrath…even the Gods won’t save you
Chapter 1
I
n the heart of Sirubari village in Nepal lived Dakshesh and his
family. Dakshesh was an old man known in every house for his
good deeds. Despite having to look after five children, and being
merely a poor farmer, Dakshesh always tried to do his best to help
those less fortunate than him.
Unable to treat him from a rare cancerous growth in his lungs, the
family lamented the unrelenting pain and suffering the old man was
going through. Yielding to such trying times in his last days he begged
for death, but none in the village had the audacity to commit the most
heinous yet godly act of putting his eyes to rest. The old man failed to
see any other avenue of relief and wished he be taken to ‘The Three
Monks.’
The entire village fell in despair from the old man’s wish. No one
knew where the three monks lived or if they even existed. They had
only heard rumours of them, and stories of the miraculous healing
and life transformations they offered. These stories were narrated
in sung poetries by the village octoganarians. Despite the dearth of
believable evidence, the legacy of the three monks had survived the
test of time. People shared stories of them for sheer amusement and
sometimes conjured random witnesses to keep the faith ticking. Some
said they lived under the sea, while others believed they resided deep
2 Demons in My Mind
in the jungle. Those who could not stick to one philosophy propagated
the idea of ‘travelling monks,’ who traversed the globe to help people
facing the most harrowing circumstances. But all the stories agreed on
one thing: the biggest challenge was not figuring out where to reach
them; rather, it was finding out who, if anyone, could. Only the one
who was chosen could meet them.
Some of the holiest places on Earth were considered to be a part
of a spiritual network transmitting messages and prayers of those
suffering to the three monks. There was one such spot on the banks of
Bagmati in the eastern part of Kathmandu, a tree in the shelter of the
Pashupatinath temple. Thousands of people came with their woes, but
none in decades was ever heard of meeting the three monks.
One day, the villagers decided to take a leap of faith and carried
the old man on his cot to the holy tree. Hoping that Lord Shiva will
take care of his salvation if their attempt turns out to be just another
travesty, they left the place with a heavy heart. They agreed that they
would come back to see him after two days. Until then, he would be
left in total isolation. Any breach of the order would have attracted an
eternal damnation.
In the full moon night, the shrieking silence of Himalayas was
punctuated by frequent cries of Dakshesh. The only human caricatures
in sight were the shadows of chanting aghori sadhus who blithely
smoked in the name of Shiva, unperturbed by the old man’s presence.
Chapter 2
The Unthinkable
W
hen Dakshesh opened his eyes, he discovered that he was
in a monastery. It was built amidst the glaciers of the
Himalayas. The place was in ruins, but a small part of it
had been mended to make it habitable. The monastery had beautifully
crafted windows to keep it sufficiently bright and airy. Scented oil
sticks pervaded the hall with a heavenly fragrance.
The old man wondered where he was and how had he reached there.
As he cleared his vision, he was awestruck by the sight of two monks
sitting on a porch in a pensive state. They had their bodies wrapped
in long robes dampened with freezing lake water. Dakshesh had never
witnessed such a suicidal way of practicing meditation before. Soon
enough he felt a sharp pain in his chest making him cognizant of his
pitiful condition.
‘How can I be of service, sir?’ said a third monk seated beside him.
The old man opened his mouth but only to exhale air.
‘Are you the three monks our forefathers spoke of?’ asked the old
man with great effort. His words were barely comprehensible.
‘When we brought you here we were afraid you might not see the
light again. The frigid mountains can engulf even the brawniest of us.’
‘But are you the same...’ the old man tried to ask again but was
interrupted by the monk.
4 Demons in My Mind
‘But they are right to say that one never chooses how to die but
only how to live.’
As Dakshesh screeched in pain, the monk reached out and
massaged his chest with his warm hands. The warmth provided him a
transient relief.
‘What is it that you come for?’ asked the monk.
‘I have…’ the old man began to cough incessantly. The monk gave
him some water and herbs to clear his throat. Dakshesh continued. ‘I
have sacrificed my whole life to bring joy to other people, but…’
‘But? But what?’
‘I have had only one wish in return.’
‘And what is that?’
‘I wanted to die the sweetest death possible.’
‘You must know what that would be like.’
The old man nodded. ‘My whole life I imagined closing my eyes
gently with a smile on my lips as my soul leaves my body.’ Tears trickle
down his wrinkled cheeks as words start coming out.
‘Then what stops you from enjoying that death?’
‘I feel a thousand spiders spitting venom in my body with every
breath. My agony has crippled my very soul.’ There was a brief pause
as Dakshesh sobbed. The monk spoke again only when he thought the
time was right.
‘Sir, no matter how much I try to empathize with you, the truth
remains that pain is physical, and suffering is only mental. And you…
suffer.’
Aashish Gupta 5
‘Sir, you think too highly of us. I am afraid there is nothing we can
do for you. We are a bunch of disgraced people.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘We are in this inaccessible corner of the world because we want to
hide from our own people.’
‘Why? What did you do?’
‘We have committed some of the most abominable crimes mankind
has ever witnessed.’
‘What kind of crimes?’ asked the old man. His heart thumped in
fear.
‘A story like ours is not easy to tell,’ said the monk.
‘I would like to hear it,’ Dakshesh insisted.
The (first) monk looked him in the eyes and drew himself closer
to Dakshesh. He moved his mouth closer to his ears and whispered –
‘Your tender state is incapable of handling it, and once you
do hear it, there is no looking back.’
‘There is little left in my life. Maybe this is how it ends,’ said the old
man. There was a long silence.
The monk closed his eyes, deep in thought. His fellows looked at
him, worried. Finally, he opened his eyes and nodded, assured.
The old man was made comfortable on his cot. The monk began
the tale – ‘I still remember that drizzly afternoon in school…’
The
Murderer