Yesterday, I shared the scholar’s journey in “PURE CONSCIOUSNESS” Part-1.

Today, I am sharing the other side of that story.

While the scholar was searching for peace in all corners of the world, his family was stunned with the sudden turn of events.

The Scholar’s Wife, educated and beautiful, had a fair inkling of his turbulent mind.

She was so engrossed with her little children that she failed to notice him preparing to leave.

It came as a jolt when she discovered his note “I am sorry” that morning.

A shiver ran down her spine.

Her children were too young to understand his absence.

Tears rolled down her eyes as she grappled with this realisation.

She loved him with all her heart.

She thought her love was strong enough for both to sail through life.

Alas, that was not the case.

The scholar understood the depth of her love, but he had a mind of his own.

His restless mind never allowed him to love her as was expected.

She stumbled with the note in her hand.

Nothing made sense to her.

She felt betrayed.

The shiver in her body subsided and was replaced with rising anger.

Fear gave way to anger.

Her tiny children were playing in the hall.

She looked at them with love and pride.

Her anger turned into determination.

She decided to stay,

Stay she will, but will not wait for him.

He had chosen his path and she hers.

He went in search of peace.

She will find her peace here in this house with her children.

For a fleeting moment she wondered which scripture in the world teaches man to neglect responsibilities and go in quest of attainment.

She had her own philosophy of living life.

Her children are her strength, attainment and peace.

She tore the note and went back to her children, who were playing innocently with their dolls.

Her heart was broken.

But she kept it together for the sake of the innocent buds that he had left behind.

Many years passed which was neither kind nor easy. She shouldered the responsibilities meant for two. Exhaustion silenced her, but her resolve to continue overweighed everything else. She lived for the sake of her children. She buried every fear and hid her tears from one and all. Her children gave her strength and motivation. She endured pain, loss and grief with tremendous fortitude.

The anger in her faded slowly with time. The scholar chose his path and she stopped thinking about him. Her mental peace was more important to her than the thoughts that pervaded her mind. She chose forgiveness and a peaceful life with her children.

The Scholar went in search of peace and truth, the only way he knew and she the only way she could in love, duty and endurance. Neither were wrong for in the end both wanted peace but chose different roads to reach there.

He was a scholar unparalleled.

But never enjoyed his success. Happiness eluded his heart. He knew not what ailed his soul. Worldly pleasures did not interest him. Disgust rose as a painful lump in his throat. He felt he did not belong to the world of materialism. He could not fall into the rat race and compete.

One day he left everything behind and walked away from all bondage.

He walked many miles, slept under trees, starved for days, mingled with mendicants in search of peace.

Nothing touched his heart or awakened his spirit.

He covered the entire breadth of the country.

Yet peace eluded him, the emptiness persisted, he felt unsatisfied and decided there was no such thing as peace in this mortal world.

At long last he reached the end of a remote countryside. Wearily he sat down under a massive tree.

Hunger and thirst besieged him.

There was no stream near about.

He got up to see a small hut on the farther side of the massive tree. Slowly he approached the hut, an old woman was stoking fire to her stove with a large vessel of gruel in it.

He humbly stood at the doorway to ask for a glass of water but stood silently witnessing the woman kindling the fire, he was captivated by the scene.

Suddenly the woman looked up from her task and beckoned him in.

He went in and noticed that the hut was too small to house more than two. An old man was lying on a straw mat. Presently the old lady placed a glass of water before him. He drank it gratefully. He was about to take leave, when the old man fell into a fit of cough. She calmly got up from her corner and lifted him to a sitting position. The cough subsided. She gently rubbed his chest and few seconds later went back to her job.

The gruel was boiling, she stirred it a few times, ladled it into a bowl and placed it before the scholar. She ladled some more in another bowl, took it over to the old man and spooned him the watery gruel. He drank it slowly.

The scholar watched this touching scene from his end and forgot all about his hunger and thirst. The old woman gently laid down the man and came back to the stove to continue her work.

The scholar saw these simple acts as acts of wisdom. He lifted the bowl to his lips and savored every spoon.

Not a single word was exchanged, yet so much transpired between them.

He got up, went near the old man, saw his closed eyes and fragile form. Something in hmi stirred, he experienced a strange kind of emotion bordering on spirituality. The woman did not utter a single word but watched him with compassionate eyes.

When night came, a strange kind of fullness pervaded the modest dwelling. He saw Divinity in the supine form. Cosmic Energy danced the empty space. There was something more pronounced in the emptiness which his eyes could not see, his body could not feel. A Mysterious Energy bigger than anything else sat still in the empty space and he paid attention to the emptiness outside himself and within him.

He stayed on with the couple. Nothing was asked, he was accepted silently without a word.

He did his daily duties, helped the woman in her chores and looked after the old man’s needs.

The days belonged to them and the nights to him.

He sat in a meditative state every single day near the old man.

Gradually he realized, there is no pain, there is no pleasure, attainment nor non-attainment, existence nor nonexistence.

One day without his knowledge he released himself from all sensation, impulse and emotions.

At last he opened his eyes to see the world with pure consciousness.

Share Capry Cains

Not a pair handed down and taken in at the waist, not a pair worn soft by someone else’s knees, but his own. His size. New.

His mother, Mary, had promised him a pair for Christmas, arranged through a friend who knew a friend with a discount. It was a kind promise, the kind mothers make when they are stretching a small budget to cover a large love. But John had already decided, in the quiet stubborn way of boys who are just old enough to want something for themselves, that this particular pair would not be given to him.

It would be earned.

So he went to Mr. Robinson, who ran the soda fountain on the corner, and offered to help after school.

Mary did not like the idea. She wanted evenings for play and nights for rest, the ordinary rhythm of a boy’s life, not the clatter of glasses and the smell of syrup clinging to his shirt. John pleaded his case gently but firmly. In the end, he simply began working, leaving his mother to decide whether she would stop what had already started.

She didn’t.

Every evening he wiped tables, carried trays, washed glasses and swept the floor. At night he studied beneath the small pool of light from his bedside lamp, tired but happy, because somewhere beyond the long days waited a pair of jeans with buttons on the pockets. They had become more than clothing. They were something he had chosen for himself.

One evening Mr. Robinson, cheerful for no particular reason, told John to take the night off.

“Go watch the football match,” he said. “Have some ice cream. You’re a boy, not an old man.”

John smiled and replied. “My throat’s a little sore today. Sir, my favourite team is not playing today.

Mr. Robinson looked at him for a moment. 0He knew the excuse was only half true. Instead of arguing, he asked, “When’s your birthday?”

“Next month.”

“And what would you like?”

John answered without hesitation.

“A pair of Levi’s. My size. With buttons on the pockets.”

Mr. Robinson laughed, a warm, unguarded laugh.

“Done,” he said.

From that day onward, the weeks became one long anticipation.

John worked harder than ever. He hurried home each night, ate quickly, sometimes neglected his homework altogether, and fell asleep imagining the crisp weight of new denim, the smell of fresh cloth and those little buttons shining on the pockets.

He counted the days carefully.

When his birthday finally arrived, the house filled with friends, balloons and laughter. Cake was cut. Candles were blown out.

But through it all, John’s eyes kept drifting toward the front door.

Mr. Robinson never came.

One by one the guests left.

The balloons drooped.

The laughter faded.

John sat quietly, staring at the unopened space beside the table where he had imagined the jeans would be.

The next morning he woke early and walked to the soda fountain before school.

Some stubborn part of him still believed they might be there, forgotten behind the counter, waiting for him.

Instead he found Mr. Robinson sitting alone.

His face looked older.

When John asked what had happened, the man lowered his eyes.

His son had been in a terrible accident.

The hospital had called during the birthday party.

He was leaving immediately.

Mr. Philip from the grocery store would look after the soda fountain until he returned.

“John,” he said quietly, “you’ll explain everything to him. You’ll help him run the place.”

John nodded.

Even as he nodded, a small part of him was still standing beside yesterday’s birthday cake.

He wanted to ask about the jeans.

He didn’t.

It didn’t seem right.

Mr. Robinson left that evening and did not return for many weeks. His son recovered slowly in a hospital far away, and every rupee the man had went where it was needed most.

When he finally came back, he seemed different.

Thinner.

Quieter.

There were new lines around his eyes that John couldn’t remember seeing before.

The soda fountain slowly found its old rhythm again. Glasses clinked. Milkshakes were poured. The afternoon crowd returned as though nothing had happened.

John waited.

He thought Mr. Robinson might remember on the first day back.

He didn’t.

The next afternoon John almost mentioned his birthday while they were stacking bottles together. But just then a customer walked in, and the moment disappeared.

The day after that, Mr. Robinson spent half the evening repairing the soda machine. It didn’t seem like the right time then either.

Every night John walked home telling himself,

Tomorrow.

By the weekend, John had decided that the next time Mr. Robinson asked him what he wanted for lunch, or for Christmas, or for anything at all, he would answer exactly the same way.

“Levi’s,” he would say.

“With buttons on the pockets.”

Just in case Mr. Robinson needed a little help remembering.

The thought made John smile all the way home.

Did John eventually get the Jeans?

There is an old idea that we spend our lives searching for the one thing that will finally make us complete. A person. A purpose. A place. A moment. We imagine that happiness waits patiently on the other side of whatever is absent.

Shel Silverstein captured that longing with extraordinary simplicity in The Missing Piece. A small, incomplete circle rolls through the world in search of the piece that will make it whole. It is a story so simple that a child can follow it. Yet beneath its spare words lies a question that has occupied philosophers for centuries.

What if the feeling of incompleteness is not a flaw to be corrected but a condition that keeps us moving?

The incomplete circle rolls slowly. It pauses to admire flowers. It speaks to insects. It notices the changing seasons. Because it cannot move quickly, it becomes acquainted with the world.

Then one day it finds what it has been seeking.

The circle is finally complete.

It rolls so smoothly and so fast that the flowers become a blur. The insects disappear from view. There is no time to stop, no reason to linger. The journey that once filled each day quietly comes to an end.

How often do we imagine that fulfillment will enlarge our lives, when in truth it sometimes narrows them? We hurry toward promotions, possessions, recognition, or certainty, believing each will complete us. Yet once attained, they often demand a pace that leaves little room for wonder.

Nature offers a different lesson.

An acorn is not ashamed of being an acorn. It does not rush to become an oak. The river does not grieve because it has not yet reached the sea. Every living thing accepts that becoming is more meaningful than arrival.

Perhaps we are no different.

The spaces within us are not always signs of failure. They leave room for curiosity, kindness, learning, and change. They remind us that life is not a puzzle to be solved once and for all, but a path that unfolds with every step.

There are days when what feels missing is also what allows us to notice the birdsong at dawn, the shade of an old tree, the unexpected smile of a stranger, or the quiet comfort of our own thoughts.

We often believe that peace begins when nothing is missing.

It may begin instead when we stop treating our incompleteness as an enemy and begin to see it as the gentle shape that keeps us rolling through the world with our eyes still open.

Shel Silverstein

The tree is happy. Shel Silverstein says so, repeatedly, and the reader is never quite sure whether to believe it.

This is a book that fits in an hour and unsettles for a lifetime. On its surface, it is a story about generosity: a tree loves a boy, the boy grows up and returns with his needs, and the tree gives what it has until there is nothing left but a stump. The boy, now old, sits down. And the tree, with nothing left to offer but a place to rest, is happy again.

But happiness, in this book, is a word that requires watching.

There is a version of this story in which the tree is a figure of grace, a being so free from attachment that giving costs it nothing. Each loss is not loss but liberation. The apples go, and the tree is lighter. The branches go, and the tree is still itself. Even the trunk, taken for a boat, leaves behind something rooted and alive. In this reading, the tree models what the great contemplative traditions have always pointed toward: the self that does not cling, the love that does not account.

But there is another version, and it is harder to dismiss.

What the tree wants, at every stage, is the boy’s presence. What it gives is everything except that. The apples bring him money, and he leaves. The branches become a house, and he leaves. The trunk becomes a boat, and he sails away. Each act of generosity is also, quietly, an act of severance. The tree empties itself in pursuit of a closeness that the giving itself prevents. It offers the thing that will carry him away, and calls this love.

This is the book’s buried ache: that the tree never once says stay. It says take this, and this, and this — and watches the boy disappear every time. There is no moment in which the tree asks for anything, names what it needs, refuses. Its love has no edges. And a love with no edges cannot hold anything.

The philosophical traditions that celebrate self-giving tend also to carry a warning. The Bhagavad Gita speaks of action without attachment to outcome, but it also asks that the self remain sovereign, the giver intact. The Stoics honored generosity but distinguished it from the abdication of one’s own nature. Even the great saints of renunciation did not become stumps. They gave from fullness, not from a desire to be needed.

What haunts Silverstein’s tree is not its generosity but the question beneath it: does the tree give because it is full, or because it does not know another way to make the boy stay? Need and love, from the inside, can feel identical. What looks like selflessness sometimes conceals a longing that has never learned to speak directly. The tree cannot say I want you here. So it says take my apples. Take my branches. Take everything. And in the taking, the boy is always already leaving.

There is also the boy to consider. He is not a villain — Silverstein does not write villains — but he is a portrait of how love can be consumed when it asks nothing in return. He takes because taking is what he is invited to do. The tree’s unconditional offering does not teach him reciprocity; it teaches him that some things exist only to be used. By the time he returns as an old man, he is tired and bent, and what he needs is simply a place to sit. The tree provides this too. And in that final image, something true surfaces: stripped of everything, what remains between them is quiet companionship, presence without transaction. Perhaps this is what the tree wanted all along, and could only arrive at by first giving everything else away.

Or perhaps it is what was left when there was nothing left to give.

The book does not choose between these readings. It holds them together in the way that only the simplest stories can, the ones that know how to carry more than they appear to. Children receive it as a story about love. Adults return to it as a story about loss. What it may actually be is a story about the distance between what we offer and what we mean, between the gestures of love and the hunger underneath them.

The tree is happy. Whether that happiness is wisdom, or longing that has finally exhausted itself into peace, is a question each reader must sit with — the way an old man sits on a stump at the end of a long life, grateful for whatever remains.

Every town has its little mysteries. An old bridge that nobody built. A lane that appears shorter going one way than the other. A house that everyone describes as haunted and nobody visits, except, of course, everyone has visited it at least once.

This story is about a different kind of mystery.

A book that simply refused to leave town.

Not an extraordinary book. Not a magical one. Just a rather stubborn storybook that had quietly decided it wasn’t leaving.

Nobody noticed this at first. How could they? Books change hands all the time. People buy them. Read them. Lend them. Forget them. Sell them. Nothing unusual about that.

This particular book was bought one spring afternoon from Mr. Bell’s little second hand bookshop on Market Street by a girl who loved stories more than almost anything else.

She read it in bed. She read it beneath the old oak tree. She read it beside the kitchen window while waiting for the rain to stop. By autumn she knew every chapter so well that she could almost hear the characters speaking before they opened their mouths.

With a sigh she carried it back to Mr. Bell’s shop.

“It deserves another reader,” she said.

Mr. Bell nodded. Books, after all, are happiest when their pages keep turning.

A week later another young reader bought it. He, too, adored it. He had intended to give it to the carpenter’s daughter in the next village, who had a fearsome reputation for finishing books faster than anyone could lend them to her.

He set off on the afternoon bus with the book tucked neatly under his arm.

Unfortunately he met an old school friend.

Now, conversations between old friends have an unfortunate habit of making the rest of the world disappear. When his stop arrived, he jumped off. The bus continued. So did the book.

By evening the bus reached the depot. The driver climbed down, stretched his aching back and noticed the lonely volume resting quietly on the last seat.

“No owner’s name,” he murmured. “My son will enjoy this.”

He was right. The boy disappeared into the story for days. When he finally emerged, he declared it the finest adventure he had ever read. Two months later he announced he knew the ending far too well and handed it to a girl in his class whose satchel always contained at least three novels and one apple.

She loved the story. She disliked the cover.

“It looks exhausted,” she said.

From a cupboard she fetched a roll of leftover wallpaper decorated with tiny blue flowers. Very carefully she covered both boards. The tired old book suddenly looked far grander than it had any right to. She placed it proudly on her bedroom drawer and skipped outside to play.

That same afternoon her mother was baking a birthday cake for the neighbour’s daughter. The cake looked splendid. Still... a birthday ought to include a present.

While searching for something suitable she wandered into her daughter’s room. The wallpapered book caught her eye.

“What a lovely gift.”

Before anyone could protest, it was wrapped in silver paper, tied with a blue ribbon and carried away.

The birthday girl spotted the book shaped parcel almost immediately. She wanted to open it at once. But birthdays are slow affairs. There was cake. There was lemonade. There were games in the garden. There were photographs. There was an elderly uncle who insisted on telling everyone the same joke twice.

Only after the last guest had gone home did she finally carry the parcel upstairs.

She untied the ribbon. Folded away the paper. And laughed.

“Whoever heard of covering a book with wallpaper?”

She opened the cover. On the first page was a tiny blue rabbit. Not printed. Drawn in pencil. Rather badly.

She frowned.

She turned another page. There was a faint splash of blackberry juice near the bottom corner. Another page. A pressed daisy. Another. A folded corner marking her favourite chapter.

She sat down very slowly.

“This...” she whispered, “...can’t be.”

But it could. And it was.

Months earlier she herself had bought that very book from Mr. Bell’s shop. She herself had read it until she could recite whole chapters. She herself had sold it back.

Now, after travelling by bus, living with a driver, entertaining his son, attending another school, acquiring an elegant wallpaper jacket and arriving at a birthday party... the impossible thing had quietly come home again.

The following morning she carried the wallpapered book back to Mr. Bell’s shop. She placed it gently on the counter.

“Has anyone,” she asked, “ever sold the same book twice?”

The old bookseller smiled. “Not usually.” He looked at the familiar wallpaper. “Only that one.”

The girl looked down at it. “So it belongs to me after all?”

Mr. Bell chuckled.

“My dear,” he said, “I don’t believe anybody owns that book.” He closed the cover gently. “I think the book simply allows people to look after it for a little while.”

The girl picked it up again. This time she took it home.

Whether she kept it forever... or whether the book eventually slipped away in search of another reader...

Well... that depends entirely upon the book.

There are people who change the world by discovering something new. And there are people who change the world by teaching us how to see what has always been there.

Carl Linnaeus Belonged to the second kind.

He was born in 1707 in southern Sweden, where the seasons shaped both the land and the imagination. His father was a Lutheran pastor who loved gardens with uncommon devotion. Long before Carl could understand science, he learned the language of leaves. A flower was never just a flower. It had a name, a form, a rhythm, and a place among other living things. In that quiet garden, curiosity was planted before knowledge ever arrived.

As a child, he wandered through fields and forests with the kind of attention that many adults forget they once possessed. While others admired a meadow for its beauty, he wondered why one blossom appeared beside another, why one leaf curved differently from the next, why the smallest details repeated themselves with such quiet consistency. Wonder was becoming observation.

His formal education did not begin with extraordinary promise. His teachers thought he lacked interest in many conventional subjects. Yet one perceptive mentor recognized that the boy’s mind awakened whenever plants entered the conversation. Sometimes education is not about correcting a student’s weaknesses. Sometimes it is about recognizing the direction in which the soul is already growing.

He studied medicine because, in his time, medicine and botany were inseparable. A physician was expected to know the healing properties of plants, and so his medical education became another path leading him back to the forests he had loved as a child. Every lecture seemed to send him outdoors again.

What made Linnaeus remarkable was not that he found countless new species. It was that he found order where others saw abundance. Nature appeared to many as an endless collection of unrelated forms. To him, it resembled a vast conversation whose grammar had not yet been understood.

He began comparing plants with extraordinary patience. The shape of a leaf, the arrangement of petals, the hidden structures within a flower, each became a clue rather than a decoration. Slowly a realization emerged. Every living thing seemed to belong somewhere. Nothing stood entirely alone.

This insight changed biology forever.

He developed a way of naming organisms with two Latin words, one identifying the broader family, the other the individual species. Today this seems so natural that we scarcely notice it. Yet before Linnaeus, naming was often inconsistent and confusing. By giving life a common language, he allowed scientists across continents to speak about the same organism without misunderstanding.

His journeys across Sweden deepened his understanding. He crossed mountains, marshes, and Arctic landscapes, collecting plants, observing animals, and recording the smallest details with unwavering care. He was not merely gathering specimens. He was listening to a world that revealed itself only to those willing to look closely.

There is something profoundly philosophical about his life’s work.

Many people imagine that knowledge begins by finding answers. Linnaeus reminds us that it often begins by learning to notice differences without losing sight of unity. Every flower became unique without ceasing to belong. Every species acquired its own name without becoming separate from the whole living tapestry.

His greatest discovery may not have been a particular plant at all.

It was the realization that attention itself is a form of respect.

To classify was never, at its best, an attempt to imprison nature inside categories. It was an act of careful seeing. Naming became a way of acknowledging existence. Before we can protect the living world, we must first notice it. Before we can understand it, we must learn to distinguish one life from another.

The child who once wandered through his father’s garden eventually gave the world a vocabulary for life itself.

We live in an age overflowing with information yet often starved of attention. Linnaeus quietly suggests that wisdom does not begin by looking farther. It begins by looking more carefully. The ordinary leaf, the unnoticed flower beside the path, the moss covering an old stone, each becomes extraordinary when observed without haste. Slowness, here, is not a limitation. It is the very condition of seeing.

His legacy is not only the science of taxonomy.

It is the reminder that the world has always been speaking. The question is whether we have become still enough to hear the names hidden within its silence.

• The one shift that separates people who find real answers from those who spend a lifetime searching.

• Before you question anyone else, question yourself first.

• It is the foundation most people quietly step over. They walk into conversations eager to understand others while remaining strangers to their own assumptions, blind spots and hidden motives. The person who has never examined his own mind is rarely seeking truth. More often, he is searching for evidence that confirms a verdict he reached long before the conversation began.

• Real questioning is a discipline. Like every discipline, it asks something of the one who practices it before it reveals anything of value.

• There are many kinds of questioners. The investigator searches for what is hidden. The compassionate challenger gently uncovers what another person cannot yet admit. The interviewer creates space for what has been waiting to be spoken. Each requires a different posture, a different silence, a different kind of patience.

• Yet they all share one principle.

• A question must be earned.

• It is earned by knowing why you are asking. It is earned by considering what you will do with the answer. Most of all, it is earned by being willing to hear something that may change you.

• That willingness is rarer than curiosity itself.

• Most people think answers are the destination. They are not.

• Answers are doors.

• Every honest answer opens into another room of understanding. Sometimes the room is spacious and full of light. Sometimes it is narrow and uncomfortable. Occasionally it leads somewhere you were not prepared to go. The journey does not end with an answer. It simply becomes more honest.

• The quality of your answers is inseparable from the quality of your questions.

• Ask shallow questions and you will gather shallow answers. Ask questions rooted in humility, courage and genuine curiosity, and the answers begin to carry weight. They linger long after the conversation has ended. They rearrange the furniture of the mind. They quietly alter the direction of a life.

• Before asking anyone else, pause and ask yourself three questions.

• What am I already assuming?

• What am I afraid the answer might reveal?

• Am I trying to understand, or merely hoping to confirm what I already believe?

• Many questions fail before they are ever spoken because they cannot pass through these three gates. The answers they receive are equally limited, shaped more by the asker’s need for certainty than by any sincere search for truth.

• Wisdom also knows when not to ask.

• Some moments ask for listening instead of questioning. Some silences deserve protection rather than interruption. Not every uncertainty in another person requires your intervention. There are times when a question becomes an intrusion rather than an illumination.

• Perhaps the hardest questions are the ones we ask ourselves.

• They require us to interrupt the momentum of our own lives, to stop moving long enough to discover whether movement itself has become a substitute for understanding.

• Two questions deserve more attention than almost any others.

• Am I in doubt, or am I doubtless?

• And where am I actually heading?

• They are not the same question.

• Doubt belongs to inner clarity.

• Direction belongs to the path we are walking.

• A person may move with unwavering confidence toward the wrong destination. Another may feel uncertain while standing exactly where life is asking them to stand.

• Both questions matter.

• The one who recognises their own doubt is often closer to wisdom than the one who mistakes certainty for truth. Confidence without examination is not strength. It is one of the most elegant forms of sleep.

• Questions and answers exist in a living relationship. A genuine answer changes the person who receives it. A changed person returns to the world asking better questions. Understanding grows in this quiet cycle, deepening with each honest encounter.

• Sometimes a single conversation is enough to alter the course of a life.

• Not because someone gave extraordinary advice, but because one honest question finally reached the place where certainty had been hiding.

• To pause is not weakness.

• In a world that celebrates constant movement, stopping to examine your direction is an act of uncommon courage. The world will always reward speed. It rarely rewards reflection. Yet reflection is often what keeps speed from becoming drift.

• Clarity is seldom comfortable.

• It asks us to surrender cherished assumptions. It exposes convenient stories. It dismantles identities we have spent years constructing.

• Yet clarity remains a form of grace because it offers reality instead of illusion.

• There is, however, one final exception.

• Not every moment invites another question.

• Life occasionally asks us to act before every uncertainty has disappeared. Complete certainty is a luxury that reality rarely provides. Waiting for perfect understanding can become another way of refusing to live.

• The goal is not endless questioning.

• It is to reach a place where action grows from honest examination rather than unconscious assumption.

• Question first.

• Act second.

• And carry with you the quiet willingness to discover that what you believed yesterday may not survive the truth you encounter tomorrow.

• For that willingness is not the end of wisdom.

• It is where wisdom begins.

Once the great Russian thinker and author, Leo Tolstoy asked in one of his famous short stories how much land does a man need? He ended up saying 6x2 – a reference to the fact that the acquisitive protagonist of his story in his desire to have vast land falls dead as he walks through the land as much as possible before the sun set in order to own it. He then dies and is buried in a grave measuring 6’ x 2’.

Similarly, not only land; how much food, clothing, books, houses, cars and money does a man need.

Objects change their forms and names, but needs do not. Generally speaking, having more is called progress. But is it? There comes a time when we seek to get out of this network of illusion, to get out of this endless suffering of being at the mercy of desires.

Contentment: To realise true contentment, we trace back to where it all started, dissect our own actions, emotions, expectations, successes and failures. The source of our mental distress is right in our minds. Its structure, inclinations, thought patterns and areas of pleasure. Thus, a desire is a kind of distraction or diversion from the innate happiness present within. It is only when we turn our attention towards our inner self and discover the source of joy and peace, our real self will be awakened which will eventually lead to contentment.

One needs only that much – as much, as we perceive what our real needs are, and have adequate wisdom to separate our needs from greed. One should develop discernment and a proper sense of proportion. Ultimately, divine nature alone can make us truly content and satisfied.

In the heart of Southern Africa, well over 100 years ago, a young Scottish Missionary/doctor camped among the savages of a village. He made friends with the Chieftain gave medicines to the tribe and preached about a God who was the father of all men. This man was none other than Dr. David Livingstone.

Dr. David Livingstone was born on March 19, 1813 in Lanarkshire, Scotland. As a young lad, he worked in a spinning mill 12 hours a day. Later he studied for the ministry at Edinburgh University. He was a handsome youth, well built, but very shy and ill at ease in public. On his first attempt to preach, words failed him and he stepped down from the pulpit in shame.

He was later encouraged to become a doctor and David Livingstone decided to become a preacher as well as a doctor and a foreign missionary. Soon after, he was sent to Africa for his medical studies.

David Livingstone developed a burning compassion for the people of Africa. The slave traffic shocked and sickened him and he vowed to devote his life in stamping out this evil practice.

He watched the fears and suspicion of the Africans melt when he applied his healing medicines and tried to teach them better ways of living. He saw their joy at learning and they called him’ The Good One’. His plan was to establish a mission point, select some good native converts to lead it and then go on to new tribes and unexplored fields.

With every step forward, this hardy crusader ventured into exciting and dangerous adventures. Leading his caravan, he would fearlessly greet tribesmen who had never before seen a white man. He would bargain cloth, beads and implements for their friendship. Later he would treat the sick with his medicines and when he won their confidence by his treatments, he would work among them for weeks or months.

On Sabbath mornings, he would gather people and preach with stubborn determination. He practiced his gospel messages in those various difficult dialects. At first, the wondering savages did not understand his words, but they knew he was ‘The Good One’ and that the God he talked about must be good too.

Time and again Dr. David Livingstone’s life was saved by divine interventions. At Mabotsa an enraged lion attacked and mauled him, breaking his left arm. A young superintendent of school saved him at the nick of time. Never again was Dr. David Livingstone able to lift that arm above his shoulder without pain. This extraordinary doctor/preacher was known for his endurance and scorn of danger so much so that it became legendary. His work as a doctor was very important to his preaching. He demonstrated the use of quinine in treating malaria. During the first 5 years of his work, he himself had 31 attacks of fever. Without quinine he could not have lived. He saved a whole lot of families and tribes.

Dr. David Livingstone’s feats of exploration ranked with the greatest. He explored 1/3 of the huge continent – from the Cape almost to the equator and from the Atlantic to the Indian Ocean. He opened up a vast unknown area of the earth’s surface than any other single man.

He charted all the regions he visited and sent precise reports to the Royal Geographical Society in London. He discovered some magnificent falls, more than twice as high as Niagara and named it ‘Victoria Falls’ in honour of his Queen. His wife cheerfully shared the perils of her husband’s work, nursed him through numerous illnesses and bore him 4 children. They lived in England.

Once when Dr. David Livingstone was away in England, the Boers raided his station, stole his furniture and burnt his books. They also closed his school and terrified his convert helpers. It was a warning from the South African authorities against his agitation over slave traffic.

But Dr. David Livingstone, fearless that he was, he denounced slavery at every turn. He requested the British Government to help stop the slave trade. He wrote ‘Missionary Travels’ the first of several books and became a famous man. The Queen gave civil authority to Dr. David Livingstone in dealing with the African tribes. She also gave authorization for another expedition and exploration of Eastern and Central Africa. For the next 6 years. Dr. David Livingstone was an explorer rather than a missionary. He explored the Zambezi waterways and discovered Lake Nyasa. He established schools, mission points and trade routes. In the meanwhile, his wife died and in sorrow, he completed his difficult expedition. Wherever he turned, he saw Churches thriving, children being educated and sanitation practice taking root. Yet he was not satisfied, for he had one unfulfilled dream to discover, the sources of the Nile, so that European trade might come from the north to the interior of Africa. So in 1866, he undertook the dangerous task of exploring the watershed between Lake Nyasa and Lake Tanganyika.

From the time he left on this memorable expedition, only one man saw him alive. On this expedition, he met with every possible discouragement. He was ill with pneumonia most of the time. Incessant rains and tsetse flies made travel almost impossible. His supplies were stolen by unfriendly tribesmen. Some of his helpers deserted him. Being very sick, he was carried on a litter to Ujiji on Lake Tanganyika which was a 2-month trek. For more than 2 years there was no word of the missionary explorer. Two relief expeditions were sent out and both of these failed to locate the Good Doctor.

Star reporter of New York Herald, Henry Stanley, sensing the journalistic possibilities of a story on the lost doctor missionary in the heart of Africa, set out in search of him. Henry Stanley assembled a party of 192 members and started westward in February 1871. He had only heard of rumours of Dr. David Livingstone’s possible whereabouts. His search for the Good Doctor was fraught with difficulties from day one. His caravan mutinied, two leaders tried to kill him and heavy rains bogged the trails. He was struck with malaria and dysentery. Physically he was down to nothing, but his spirit was the same as the day he set sail to Africa. For 9 months, he courageously searched for the brave doctor in the dark interiors of Africa. On 10th November he at last arrived at Ujiji to find the doctor/preacher very emaciated, but erect and dignified as ever. For 2 years Dr. David Livingstone had been living outside civilization without medicines or essentials. Henry Stanley came just in time to deliver them. The doctor gratefully accepted the new clothes, supplies, medicines from Stanley and eagerly read letters and heard news of the outside world.

But for all of Stanley’s pleading, Dr. David Livingstone refused to return with him to England. He said “I still have much work to do”. So Henry Stanley turned back disappointed only carrying with him material for dispatches. Dr. David Livingstone was the most talked of man to this day.

With a new caravan and supplies, the courageous preacher marched on searching for the headwaters of Nile. His strength was ebbing, but he continued stubbornly. At an Ilala Village, one evening, he was too exhausted to talk and went to rest on his bed. Just before dawn he passed away.

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Thousands of his disciples came to pay their last respects. They embalmed his body, removed his heart to place it reverently in their own soil where it belonged. Then began the longest funeral march in history, chanting gospel hymns the doctor had taught them, the procession of mourners started their 9-month trek to the coast. From Zanzibar a British vessel brought the body of Dr. David Livingstone home. On 18^th April, 1874, Dr. David Livingstone was laid to rest in honour in West Minister Abbey.

Acknowledging the late crusader’s mission against African slavery, Queen Victoria announced in 1880, the treaties had been signed with the Sultan of Zanzibar and other sovereigns prohibiting slave traffic by land or sea.

Dr. David Livingstone carried the light of faith and freedom to the world’s most backward area. Largely because of his efforts, Africa became a charted land open to settlement and trade. He led a ceaseless crusade against slavery, superstition and illiteracy. He was indeed one of the world’s greatest doctors/missionary of all times.

The Girl Who Borrowed Books From Life

She was born into a home where love existed, but time did not.

The little house was always busy, always noisy, always hungry for the next meal. Her parents were good people, yet life had turned them into workers before it allowed them to be parents. From dawn until dusk, they broke their backs so their children could eat. They did not neglect her out of cruelty, but out of exhaustion. Survival took up all the space where tenderness should have been.

And so, at twelve years old, the girl became more than a child.

She became hands that cooked. A voice that calmed. A pair of feet that ran endlessly. A heart that carried everyone else first.

Her siblings were not just her brothers and sisters. They were her responsibility.

Her shoulders were thin, almost frail, and yet the weight of the household rested on them as if she had been born to carry burdens. While other children her age played in the sunlight, she measured rice, fetched water, mended torn clothes, and shooed away tears before they could fall.

But inside her lived something that refused to shrink.

A hunger, not for food, but for knowledge.

Even when her days were filled with chores and errands, her mind stayed restless. She wanted school, wanted learning, wanted pages filled with words that could take her far away from her small room and her heavy duties.

Yet books were a luxury her home could not afford.

So she did what bright children often do when life tells them no. She found another way.

Whenever she ran errands for neighbors, shopkeepers, and wealthier families, she politely asked for old books. Sometimes she was laughed at. Sometimes she was ignored. But often, she was lucky. A book would be handed to her like an afterthought, as if it were nothing.

To her, it was everything.

She would read in stolen minutes, between boiling water and rocking a crying sibling to sleep, between folding clothes and sweeping floors. Her life was tough, but her determination was tougher.

One day, fate stepped into her path wearing the face of a kind woman.

The woman lived in a large house that seemed like another world, quiet, orderly, lined with shelves the girl could not stop staring at. The woman was a writer, working on a novel, always surrounded by paper and ink and thoughts that needed silence.

But the woman also had an infant son.

And she had no time.

The girl’s eyes were bright, her posture humble, and her manners unusually steady for someone so young. When the woman noticed her lingering gaze toward the books, she asked gently, “Do you love reading?”

The girl nodded, almost afraid her desire would be seen as greed.

The woman studied her carefully and then made her an offer that changed everything.

“If you take care of my baby while I write, I will educate you.”

The girl could hardly breathe.

Education was not a gift she had ever expected life to hand her.

From that day on, her routine doubled, but her spirit soared.

She finished her work at home, gathered her younger siblings, and hurried to the big house. While the writer disappeared into her study, the young girl became the child’s nanny, feeding him, soothing him, singing him to sleep, and walking him under the shade of a wide garden.

And when the baby finally rested, the woman placed books into the girl’s hands.

Not scraps. Not leftovers. Real books. Good books.

The girl held them like sacred objects.

She promised herself she would read them all.

Her siblings, brought along each day, stayed surprisingly quiet, well behaved, respectful, gentle. The writer noticed this too. She realized the girl had not only been forced to become a caretaker, but she had become a caretaker with dignity. The child was raising children, and raising them well.

“What strength,” the woman thought. “What integrity.”

And she kept her promise.

Slowly, steadily, she taught the girl. Letters became words. Words became sentences. Sentences became ideas. And ideas became a world the girl could finally step into.

Time passed the way it always does, swiftly, without asking permission.

The infant grew into a fine young boy. The girl grew into a fine young lady.

Her siblings too grew into young men and women, grounded in good character, molded by the quiet discipline of the sister who had been their first mother.

And the girl, once a child running errands, began to shine in classrooms.

She studied like someone who knew the cost of ignorance. Like someone who had earned every page.

When she graduated, she did not merely pass.

She excelled.

She had always wanted to teach. And deep within her, another dream took root, one she had carried ever since she watched her mentor write.

She wanted to write, too.

Her mentor was older now, slower in her steps, softer in her voice. But her pride was loud in her eyes when she looked at the young woman she had helped shape.

“You did it,” she would say, not as praise, but as certainty. “I knew you would.”

And then came the day the girl wrote her first novel.

She poured into it every hardship she had survived, every lesson she had learned, every quiet moment where books had saved her from despair.

When she held the printed copy in her hands, her fingers trembled.

The book did not become a grand success.

It did not flood the world with applause.

But it did something even more powerful.

It brought recognition.

It opened doors.

And it gave her the courage to keep going.

She wrote again. And again. And again.

Each book stronger than the last. Each story braver, sharper, deeper.

Years passed.

Her parents eventually left the world, not having fully witnessed the height their daughter would reach. Her siblings built their own lives, branching out like trees that had finally found open sky.

And the girl, now a woman, did something she had dreamed of since childhood.

She bought a house of her own.

Not a mansion. Not a palace.

But a home earned through effort and determination, built not from privilege, but from perseverance.

And when her mentor’s age grew heavy and her hands trembled too much to hold the pen for long, the woman who had once been a book starved child became her caretaker.

She looked after her mentor as her own.

Not because she had to.

But because she wanted to.

Because gratitude is not a debt that feels painful. It is love that feels honored.

People often believe family is only blood.

But some bonds are forged in something stronger than blood.

Love. Affection. Admiration. And the quiet miracle of someone choosing to lift you when they did not have to.

So what's the key Takeaway?

Never forget your Mentors. They may not give you a fortune, but they give you direction. And when someone lights a lamp in your darkness, honor them, not only with your success, but with your loyalty.

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How is that to be achieved? By letting go of everything.

First and foremost, let go of those who disturb our mental equilibrium to preserve our peace of mind.

Why is that necessary?

Because our mind and heart are the seats of peace and not places to house someone or something that disturbs our peace.

Nothing is worth achieving at the cost of our peace.

But everything is worth achieving that gives us peace.

We all should learn to let go; not in the physical sense but in an emotional sense.

Let go whatever that troubles us.

Let go whoever troubles us.

Freeing the mind and heart of all disturbing elements should be our priority.

We have to put our peace of mind, above everything.

How do we do that?

By letting go of all unsavoury elements that plague our mind.

Yes, it is easier said than done. But then all good things have never been achieved easily. Peace of mind is so very important for our well being.

Accumulated hurt or anger in our heart is compared to a vessel of acid. It corrodes the being.

We can always turn the vessel into a basket of flowers by letting go of our hurt. That is how our inner being blooms into a sweet-smelling flower.

Disturbances do happen in life but that should not enter our heart and destroy our peace.

We should not give in, to disturbances.

Let us give more importance to peace.

We all go through several turbulences while sailing the ship of life.

If something goes wrong, let the disturbance exist outside us and not allow it to enter the inner core of our heart.

By doing so we are letting go of hurt and letting in peace within us. That is a holistic approach towards life.

As the old saying goes “A peaceful you is a beautiful you”

A peaceful mind is a beautiful mind.

Wishing all my Substack friends a life full of peace and happiness.

Go for it..............peacefully.

Every day he would watch an eagle that soared high in the sky. He envied the eagle’s freedom to fly anywhere that it wanted to. The eagle would dive and swoop as fast as a bullet and that act inspired him endlessly to fly high in this world and experience freedom. He desperately wanted to emulate the eagle. But in order to live like an eagle, he has to learn the techniques of an eagle sprout wings and have sharp nails and teeth to tear the prey into pieces. The little big boy sharpened his nails and teeth regularly and practised archery to increase his long-distance vision. He tried rock climbing so that he could live on top of a mountain. He did everything he could to become like an eagle. But alas, after practising sincerely for months he did not see any sign of sprouting wings. How could he? He is not a bird; he is just a human being. The boy could not understand this. He became sad and discouraged.

Disillusioned, the boy went to a noble man to find out the reason. Upon recounting the tale, the noble man smiled at the little boy with tall ambitions and said, “Son, I know you had big dreams of becoming an eagle and you tried very hard to become one. But you did not succeed. By dreaming of becoming an eagle, you have learnt the art of purpose in your life. You are now a good hard-working boy with dreams in your eyes. I am proud of you, but remember, you were brought into this world with a special set of talent and strength. You will one day find your passion and purpose in life. Just like a bird can never become a human being, a human being can never become a bird. We all come into this world with some definite purpose. Soaring high is not sitting on top of a mountain; it is reaching our goals sincerely with hard work and dedication. Experiencing freedom is not flying high. It is our thought that enables us to experience freedom. Stop feeling sad and reflect upon the amazing gift you have of dreaming big. Go home little young man and concentrate on your studies and other responsibilities. Till then be patient. You will be ready to fly high in your life and career very soon.

Life has its own queer twists and turns. Pain, suffering, sorrow and sadness play a major part in bringing forth triumph in our lives. The courage and endurance to face the ‘ODDS’ at its face and learn from the struggle will surely deposit us at the doorstep of triumph. Fight back. The will to live and succeed should be more urgent than hunger and thirst. The rough and tumble that we experience during the course of our journey should act as an impetus to fight till the end.

Triumph is born out of sorrow and misery. A wounded spirit will never fight against human violence and deprivation. One should posses the mental strength to keep the spirit alive for the belly fire to burn for survival. Mental survival supported by nothing but our own intensity to make it against all odds, ultimately see us through. It will pass (Misery). Nothing stays for long. The fleeting glance of sorrow and misery should never overpower our determination to see victory. Failure is the stepping stone to success.

To succumb is to give up. To lose the spirit of ‘fight’ is to allow the elements of sorrow and misery to overwhelm our existence.

The lowest pit in hell is occupied by the coward who does not fight for his survival.

To hope that triumph succeeds all, will keep us alive to face the challenges of morrow.

A rigid self-control will enable us to sustain misfortune with inner steeliness and outward calmness.

Those who have not faced crisis have not lived their life completely.

One need not be rich to feel rich and of course, only by feeling rich, we can actually become rich.

When we are made aware of that rich feeling, it will eventually attract all great things in life.

This is the simple principle of feeling rich.

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1. Darkness is a space not occupied by light. Dark is an interesting word.

   Generally, darkness is associated with fear, negativity, villainy, pessimism and danger. It is also perceived as mysterious.

2. Dark and light are two separate entities which are diametrically opposite to each other. As opposed to darkness, light is associated with brightness and hope. Darkness is understood as an act of opposing action brought forward by light.

3. Darkness in its unseen world is imposed by black – the night. Metaphorically speaking, darkness has no meaning. Just as in happiness, darkness is a state of mind. A mind which is not shed with light.

4. Anger, jealousy, ill feelings and grudges are residents of dark space. These black emotions while occupying the dingy corners of man’s mind force him to commit dark deeds which means he is yet to be suffused with light – the light of knowledge and wisdom.

5. We attribute our pessimistic moods to circumstances. But that is not the case. We create these circumstances through wrong actions and negative thinking.

6. We need to illuminate our lives with positive thoughts and dispel the darkness with good thinking. Darkness of mind halts our progress. The creation and sustenance of darkness is to make way for light.

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Man is a responsible creature. The most important ingredients in his life are discipline and willpower through which he takes his first step towards a disciplined life.

Discipline and mental toughness allow him to develop his character and recognise the potential in him to achieve the goals that he has set for himself. Qualities like discipline and willpower ensure that his time is well spent. Physical fitness, mental conditioning, character building and professional pursuits can be achieved through consistent efforts. Success in any endeavour requires a focussed mind and a disciplined application. Without willpower your dream cannot be realised with discipline alone. Both these qualities are largely acquired and can take you to the highest level. Though seemingly difficult at the outset, once developed into a habit, these qualities can provide stunning results that can change your personality and character. Difficult tasks become easy. Your mind is in your control and you can definitely tap into the dormant, unexplored reserves of knowledge lying within you. Your confidence level is increased, thus leading to productivity. A systematic positive approach towards your goal produces good reward. This is attained only through discipline and willpower. Without these qualities, negative thoughts creep into your mind, redirecting your attention from worthwhile goals to useless activities. You cannot do great things unless you feel great. What we become depends on what we are. First and foremost, your greatness lies in your self-discipline and later in your great deeds. Awaken your will to pursue your goal. With disciplined energy, your dream will never abandon you. The will to succeed against all odds can take you to any lengths. Condition your mind to discipline, willpower will automatically follow. Every successful man will endorse it. Although there is no substitute for hard work, hard work when combined with discipline and willpower will explode into an unstoppable current. Your world will change when these qualities are channelized properly.

Develop the habit of disciplining your mind, control your thoughts and eliminate all mental fatigue. Make sure every thought of yours is a positive thought because you are the master of your mind.

Stick to the task that you have in hand and not abandon it if you find it dull and unpleasant. The ‘discipline’ in you will look after the rest. Your willpower will give birth to confidence and mental strength. Armed with these arsenals, you are sure to reach your goal today or tomorrow. Your happiness lies in your achievements. Not to forget, happiness also lies in well-developed spiritual life, where discipline and mental toughness play an important part. Cultivate it.

Discipline and willpower are like two peas in a pod, they cannot do without the other.

Every morning I wake up with the thought that I am born again.

I express my gratitude to every single thing that contributes to this ‘Wonderful Life’.

My daily routine contributes to my existence.

My family is my support system.

I take care of their well-being first, and they do the same without expectations.

My experiences fulfill my self worth.

Every small thing however inconsequential it may be, is instrumental in “Making this Life Worth Living.”

The pain, those sorrows, that bitterness and the eventual lessons have now become an integral part of my Life.

I Accept it with Grace and Dignity, as they shine a light & guide me in the ‘Hope of a better Tomorrow.’

‘Constant whispers of Happiness’ tells me to stay grounded and be kind to all, As in the light of the mighty Sun, we are all One and Worthy.

My journey through this “Maze or Riddle called as Life” has taught me to Experience and Cherish these Tiny joys and Celebrate the Smaller wins, One Moment at a Time.

Nothing is Small or Big.

Respect each day, admire it’s beauty, and Feel it while it lasts.

My Life is not Mine ,

It is my Altar.

And YOU, My Friends are my Sacred Ground

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CARE TO BUY A ROMANTIC BOOK?

In a prim Victorian era (1840s), “Two Beautiful Souls” expressed their deep emotions for each other solely through letters every single day; 573 love letters in all. The letters reveal the development of one of the rarest and most complete relationships ever recorded.

Robert Browning

Robert Browning as we all know, is the most original and representative poet of the 19^th century. He was the beacon of Victorian individualism. His great discovery was the dramatic lyric and monolog. His famous poems, the Last Ride together, Rabbi Ben Ezra Prospice, My Last Duchess, and One Word More were some of his best works.

Their Love Story:

As a child, Elizabeth B. Barrett was a lively girl, the eldest of a large and prosperous family in Herefordshire. Her father, Edward Moulton Barrett though well educated was a stern father. His wife died early and the children never dared to oppose his wishes. Despite the strict atmosphere, Elizabeth’s childhood was happy. She studied well, learned Greek, French and wrote poetic tragedies. But at the age of 15, she was laid low with an injury to her back and a bad nagging cough kept her ill most of the time. She fell sick very often and her spine and lungs were thereafter blamed for her growing ill health. Her father sold their house and they drifted from one place to another, until he bought a house in Wimpole Street from where she conducted her famous love story with Robert Browning.

At Wimpole Street, her health grew worse and she lived in silence. She had very little to look forward to in life, except her work which kept her occupied in the silence of her closed room. By now she had gained a reputation as a poet, but the world was shut away from her by walls of ill health. For six whole years Elizabeth B. Barrett had remained thus a prisoner in her room, where the loudest sound was her own breathing.

Then one day, the postman delivered the famous fan letter of Robert Browning along with her numerous fan mails. Elizabeth B. Barrett normally would throw away the fan mails into the fire without ever going through it as she lacked the physical strength to read and reply, but not on that day. She picked up the letter written by Robert Browning and started reading it. Though she did not know it then, this letter was the key that turned softly in the lock of her prison – the first step in the transformation of a fragile young woman into the heroine of a romance immortalized in Literary History.

Robert Browning, the great poet was as free as Elizabeth was suppressed. He lived with indulgent parents and a devoted only sister in a pleasant house in Camberwell. He devoted his time and energy writing poetry. He spoke French, Italian, Greek and Spanish. He was a fashionable man and travelled to Russia as a secretary to diplomat. He felt at home in Italy. On one of his trips, he picked up 2 volumes of Elizabeth B. Barrett’s poems. While going through them, he was taken in by the poetess’ affluent language, the exquisite pathos, and the true new brave thought that was depicted in her work.

Robert Browning was a man who thought himself incapable of loving any woman till he met his match in Elizabeth Barrett. He had fallen in love with the pure spirit and intellect of Madam Elizabeth B. Barrett. He could not contain himself anymore and he drew his pen and paper to write her thus. “I do, as I say, love these books with all my heart – and I love you too”.

It was a letter that brought Elizabeth B. Barrett a strange rush of real happiness. She had never seen the man, but she knew his work, though it was not yet as renowned as her own, and now she felt that she knew him personally too. So began the correspondence of 2 giants of the literary world. They could always make themselves understood in their writings. Between themselves they wrote 575 letters that expressed their deep love for each other.

Finally Robert Browning met her at her house on one May afternoon and was now in love not merely with the spirit of this poetess but the woman herself. Thereafter, he visited her regularly once a week in the absence of her strict father. Bedridden always, his presence endowed her with strength. She began to feel the power to leave her sofa and walk about. By midsummer, she ventured out to take the air. Her paramount fear was that with her ill health, she might come to ruin his life. By now she was in her 40^th year and was shackled by her invalidism and by her deep devotion to her father.

As summer ended, her doctors urged her to escape the rigours of English winter and Elizabeth B. Barrett decided to go to Italy. Her father vehemently opposed this idea. Although her heart was given wholly to Robert Browning, she did not have the strength or courage to oppose her father. She always worried that her father may find out about her relationship with Robert Browning. Everyday brought its own tension and she struggled with this dilemma. By spring, she had enough of this mental tussle that she once for all decided to leave the house for Italy to marry Robert Browning.

On Saturday morning September 12, 1846, Elizabeth B. Barrett quietly slipped from the house and reached the Church where Robert Browning was waiting for her with a cousin. There in that Church, they took their vows and were married at last. After the marriage, Elizabeth B. Barrett returned to her house as silently as she left. Since the house was in a state of upheaval, as they were moving out, she had the opportunity to pack her trunks swiftly and secretly. With no time for further delay, her boxes had been smuggled out of the house and sent on ahead. A week after her wedding, Elizabeth B. Barrett and her trusted servant slipped out of the house for the last time and met Robert Browning outside a bookshop not very far from her house. She left her parental home never to return. They left for the first stage of their journey to sunshine and joy.

The years that followed were idyllic. The couple travelled all over Europe and Elizabeth B. Barrett grew in strength. Their happiness was redoubled when she gave birth to a baby boy in 1849. However, her father never forgave her and did not see her till the end. Her letters were sent back unopened. She died in the year 1861 after a sudden attack of bronchitis in the arms of Robert Browning. They were inseparable in life, only death could have snatched her away from Robert Browning. Together the husband and wife team set the literary world afire with their extraordinary poetry.

Elizabeth B. Barrett left behind an enduring testimony of her great pure love. One poem from ‘Sonnets from the Portuguese’ is dedicated to Robert Browning.

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