Life and Spirituality

Mystic and the Blossoms, http://www.amazon.com/Mystic-Blossoms-Ashok-Malhotra/dp/1411648579 W hile there are many beautiful gardens created by humans, none can match beauty of nature and some of the gardens that mother earth has planted on the planet but if there is one that fits best the title of God’s own garden, it is the valley of flowers and surrounding hills in the Himalayas. I visited this in early eighties and was immensely inspired by it. On my return from the trek, I passed through hugely dirty and poor villages and wondered if there was a message in this valley that could help these villages improve. The thoughts that emerged were put down in a brief novella called the Mystic and the Blossoms. I do believe the novella has a message of love and beauty for every village especially if it is situated in the poorer and developing parts of our world. The novella is available both  in print and electronic versions that can be downloaded in minutes, for example here:

  The first edition, 1992, of Mystic and the Blossoms I f one went about trying to define beauty, it would be very difficult to do so with precision. It is something like love that can be felt but not described. We know that birds and a variety of animals express tender love. It is heart breaking to see birds scream when their young ones are in danger, but it seems that they may be oblivious to beauty. Appreciation of  beauty is something that appears to need  evolution into a human or a godly being. Therefore an appreciation of beauty may be a mark of evolution. It is difficult to imagine gorillas and donkeys appreciating the beauty of a flower or a butterfly.  It is tragic to see that there are humans too on the planet that are quite oblivious of beauty. As a professor of engineering and a faculty member in three leading universities of our planet, my profession was to make scientific contributions and educate students of engineering. Some remarked that I was making a v

O n a forested hill side, at a point where there is a little level clearing, sits the mystic yogi. He sits still on soft ground, under the shade of an ancient oak, by the side of a stream of clear water that runs down the hill. He is oblivious to the dance of butterflies that dance about on wild flowers around him. He is oblivious to the sounds of the gurgling stream as it rushes over pebbles and rocks rounded through the ages, or of the chirping of birds that hop from branch to branch. He is free of fear or any desire, completely at peace. His eyes are closed and he breathes slowly, evenly. A single word repeats endlessly in his mind – Allah, broken into two syllables – Al with his inward breath and lah with the outward one. He is not a Muslim. He believes in the mystic truth of all religions and that the Almighty has an infinite number of names, Allah being one of the easiest to chant because it synchronizes with the cycles of breathing with such wonderful ease. His mind is