A Dream Immortal

Astika Royal Mason

Description

Seven short stories that show the power of the inner life and how it ultimately shapes of our destiny.
An Hindu prince soon to be a slave, a mysterious stranger with magical powers, a prideful monk abandoned in a deserted monastery, a successful Chinese famer accused of murder, the son of a Zen priest living in rural Kansas, an old man obsessed with trees gradually slipping into dementia, the child star of a local television show who thinks she’s a duck—what could they possibly have in common? A heart, a soul, and a vision of themselves that lead them to a destiny beyond their imagination.

Sujets

• Buddhist
• Buddhism
• Short Stories
• Universal
• Fiction
• Zen

Informations

• Publié par: iUniverse
• Date de parution: 05 février 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781663236326
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

A Dream Immortal
Seven Tales from Seven Realms of The Spirit






ASTIKA ROYAL MASON










A DREAMIMMORTAL
SEVEN TALES FROM SEVEN REALMS OF THE SPIRIT

Copyright © 2023 Astika Royal Mason.

Cover Art: “Peacocks and Pavilions”
By Rageshree Rajmohan

Front Cover Design: Astika
Cover Consultation: Banalata Sundquist

Editor: Mayuri Mandel
Special Thanks to: Stephanie McManus

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.



iUniverse
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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6632-3633-3 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6632-3632-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022920645



iUniverse rev. date: 02/02/2023
















Dedicated to Sri Chinmoy
and the delight that he brought to this world.
(1931 – 2007)



CONTENTS
Foreword

Satyajaya: The Story of a Righteous Man
The Stranger
The Clacker & the Bell
The Cultivator
The True Dharma
The Acorn & The Oak
The Burning House



FOREWORD
A novel will be of a high and noble order
the more it represents of inner, and the less it represents of outer, life;
and the ratio between the two will supply a means of judging any novel…”
~ Arthur Schopenhauer
What applies to novels will, of course, apply to poetry, novellas and short stories as well. Indeed, this quote from the early nineteenth century German philosopher clarifies the value of all literature , as opposed to the mass of pulp fiction one finds in the general marketplace. The real subject of all the arts is Man, and no art is more valuable to mankind than that which opens to our view the hidden source of our motives, thoughts and emotions, and reveals to us an outcome resulting from those inner forces. Certainly, actions speak louder than words, but “loud” does not mean “clear” or “accurate.” Words too fall short in the quest for an ultimate revelation, for no collection of words can match the insights that arise from the deepest realms of consciousness, or those regions beyond mental thought and bodily emotions that I refer to as Spirit.
The subtitle of this book is “Seven Tales from Seven Realms of the Spirit,” rather than from “The Realm of the Spirit,” because the collective consciousness of Man finds for itself a release in the consciousness of each individual psyche, and there a chance to explore an infinite range of possibilities, conditions, actions, and results that are unique to that individual. Though external circumstances will play a role in all our lives, it is how we react to those circumstances that makes our story, and that reaction arises in each of us from the movements of consciousness within us, and are often invisible to us. A war happens. One man runs, another fights. The war is not the cause of their story; it is only the landscape upon, or the backdrop against, which their stories take place. The how and why of what happens, and the intensity or degree to which they act and are acted upon, arise from deep within the spirit of the individual. There is actually no need for an external war. A war rages in each of us at every minute, the battle being over whether we are going to be the person we deeply and truly are, or someone else determined by the conditions we encounter.
If we are to be the person we deeply and truly are, first we must know who that person is. This search within ourselves is also a battle against a host of forces, not the least of which is just plain inertia, that voice constantly whispering to us, “Why bother?” Consciousness, or Spirit, is the one and only protagonist of every story, and there is very little need for an external villain. We have within ourselves our own antagonists, created to oppose our best aspirations, and even the evolutionary aim of consciousness itself, which is to constantly grow wider, deeper and higher in its own awareness.
Astika



Satyajaya

The Story of a Righteous Man



SATYAJAYA
Righteousness
The storm had made the muddy path up the hill treacherously slick and the path was almost impassable. The elderly Kripama finally had to stop and catch his breath. He set his briefcase down on the grass and felt his shirt. The light cotton kurta was wet with sweat, and the white dhoti wrapped around his waist was spattered with mud, its pleats in disarray. The puddles had forced him to leave the trail several times, and each time he’d had to fight his way through the brush. His seventy-five - year - old body was a mass of aches and pains. Not only had the walk been strenuous, but his rheumatism was acting up, as it often did during the rainy season. And then, there was the lack of sleep. All night long, bright blue jets of lightning had flashed across the storm-driven sky, blasting the valley floor with rolling shockwaves of thunder. By dawn the old man’s nerves were shot and he’d risen from his bed utterly exhausted. But he was not one for making excuses, and the thought of taking a day off was never a serious consideration. He just needed to rest for a moment, to allow his heart rate to return to normal. After that, he’d rearrange his dhoti, and be off again for one final push up the difficult incline.
Kripama hated tardiness. He considered it the sign of a defective character. He was determined not to be late, for he knew only one way to teach character — by example. Half marching, half stumbling, he struggled up the slippery slope until he crested the hill and was greeted, at long last, by the mercifully flat surface of the schoolyard. He pulled a silver watch from his shirt pocket and stared at its hands — six minutes late! Despite the fact that he was late, he took a moment to admire the watch. He relished the beauty of its case. Though made of an inexpensive alloy and not real silver, it could not have been more precious to him if it had been made of pure gold. Some former students, some from as far back as thirty years, had given the watch to him as a gift of gratitude. These were common folk: farmers, shop keepers, and local craftsmen, along with two minor civil servants and a mid-ranking army officer. His former students had presented the watch to him on his seventieth birthday to honor his forty years of service in the district. It was a most precious gift, and he wept sometimes to think of the watch’s real value.
As he navigated his way through the puddles in the schoolyard, he cupped a hand over his eyes and squinted skyward. The storm had passed, and the sun was about to burn through the thinning clouds. Soon, the muddy schoolyard would be baked as hard as a clay pot. It was while surveying the sky that he noticed the hole in the schoolhouse roof. His heart sank. The wind hadn’t been particularly violent down in the valley, but here on the ridge, it had ripped yet another hole in the roof, which had been repaired only a month ago. Kripama shook his head in disappointment. “I will have to find better workmen,” he thought to himself.
The local patrolman had already unlocked the schoolhouse, and seeing the door wide open, Kripama quickened his pace. His students would be wondering what happened to him, imagining all sorts of things—that the old man had been arrested by the army, or had finally kicked the bucket! They were a high - strung lot from three different villages and for them the slightest deviation from established routine was an invitation to riot. Knowing this, however, did not prepare Kripama for the scene that greeted his eyes when he stepped through the doorway. The students were jostling with each other for a better look at two boys fighting in the center of the room.
“Stop! Stop this instant!” Kripama shouted as he rushed into the room. The startled students turned and stared at him in disbelief, apparently astonished to see their teacher. Perhaps they thought he really had died, or perhaps they simply could not believe they’d been caught misbehaving yet again, caught in exactly the behavior they’d promised to renounce only a week earlier. The little mob of unruly students parted as Kripama advanced to reveal two fighters still grappling with each other on the dirt floor of the classroom. Kripama stood over them, watching them roll about in the puddle that had formed under the hole in the roof.
“Get up! Get up!” he commanded in his most authoritative voice. The two boys suddenly stopped fighting and looked up wide-eyed at their teacher glaring down at them. Forgetting the fight, they sprang to their feet and stood at attention in front of Kripama. Their anger quickly turned to shame as they stood before their teacher. No longer enemies, t