Codex Fragment: The Brutality of Nature and the Mercy of Existence

  "Nature, in its essence, is brutal—

  it does not spare, it does not yield.

  Yet, in the understanding of one's place,

  or the carving of one's path,

  this brutality becomes a force of necessity,

  and mercy flows not from restraint but from purpose.

  For it is not hatred or jealousy that drives the hand,

  but the will to survive, to live another day

  beneath the same sky shared by all."

  —Transcribed from the Whispers of Khor Vess, lost teachings of the Wild Orders

  ***

  Arin dreamed of Ganga—the holiest of rivers—flowing not just through earth, but from the celestial mountains above. She descended in silver strands, weaving her way through the tapobans, the meditative forests, winding past grasslands and vales, flowing like grace itself across the land. The earth did not resist her. It welcomed her as a sister long lost and now returned, letting her go with a touch of reverence.

  In his dream, Arin saw himself kneeling at her bank beneath the rising sun. The air was cool, kissed with mist, alive with birdsong. He cupped his hands in the crystal water and raised it to his face, letting it purify him. Then he drank—sweet, cold, and ancient. The water carried the wisdom of a thousand births. He felt himself dissolve in her current, not as a man, but as a breath in the lungs of the world.

  Around him, life gathered. Deer drank beside tigers without fear. Peacocks perched on the shoulders of resting elephants. Fish darted through shadows and sunlight, unhurried. Above, even the crows did not quarrel. The world was in harmony.

  As the morning ripened, Arin completed his Surya Namaskar. With folded hands, he bowed to the radiant god, Ravi, who rose steadily above the horizon like a promise fulfilled. Then he stepped out of the river, water dripping from his bare frame, and found his dhoti waiting on the riverbank. He clothed himself in silence, not out of shame, but as a ritual of returning—body, mind, and spirit made whole.

  He walked barefoot along a sun-warmed path through dewy grass, toward the meadow where the Shiva Lingam stood—unshaped, infinite, encompassing all energies of creation and dissolution. A quiet place, yet alive with presence. The air shimmered faintly. Wildflowers bowed in the breeze.

  Before he could speak a word, he saw a mother cow approach. She knelt before the lingam and, with divine grace, offered her milk. Some flowed down upon the stone as a libation. Then, to Arin’s wonder, she turned to him and offered the rest. Humbled, he accepted the sacred gift and drank. It was like taking in the earth’s own blessing.

  And in that moment, the lingam pulsed with light. Shiva, the destroyer, took shape in silence—only to dissolve and become Brahma, the Creator. Then Brahma became Vishnu, the Protector. Their forms flickered in rhythm with existence itself, cycling like breath—birth, life, death, rebirth.

  Around him, the gathered animals bowed. Not in submission, but in knowing. Each being saw the divine in their own image. A tiger saw the fierce grace of Shiva. A fish saw the fluid wisdom of Vishnu. The birds, the antelope, the serpent in the grass—they all bore witness.

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  And Arin understood.

  The truth spoken by the Brahmins was a part of the whole, not the whole itself. The rituals were a doorway—but beyond them lay the wide field of resonance, where all things sang their own dharma. There was more than what eyes could see, more than what lips could chant.

  He felt warmth fill him—not as fire, but as the gentle radiance of inclusion. For once, he did not feel apart from the world. He felt a part of it.

  Unlike many of his fellow humans who sought to conquer nature, to reshape the wild in their own image, Arin embraced it as it was. Death, when it came, was part of the balance—not for pride, not for trophies, not for the vanity of dominance, but to sustain life. No skins, no teeth, no needless violence. Only breath. Only gratitude.

  He saw Samsara clearly—the ever-turning wheel of desire, joy, suffering, and liberation. It made sense now. What was life, if not this rising and falling? What was the divine, if not the mirror of the ego shaped into faith? What was dharma, if not the courage to give up what one does not need, to live with compassion, and to walk gently?

  Words began to fall away.

  His breath slowed.

  Each inhale was the sky. Each exhale was the earth. And in between—Om.

  Not the sound, but the state.

  Not the chant, but the truth.

  In that stillness, Arin felt it—not just peace, but bliss.

  For the first time in all his waking and dreaming, he felt truly blessed.

  ***

  And then, he sang:

  “Hare Hare Shiva, Brahma, Vishnu…”

  The names left his lips like petals in the wind, not memorized, not taught, but remembered—as if they had always lived somewhere deep within him, waiting for the breath to bring them back.

  His feet found grace.

  Each step was no longer burdened by hunger or cold.

  No more angry storms inside.

  No more loneliness in the vastness of earth.

  He danced, barefoot and barefooted in spirit.

  Around him, the animals gathered—not in fear, but in kinship.

  The birds turned their gaze toward him,

  their tiny eyes filled with something ancient,

  and their winged rhythms became his.

  Each hop, each flutter, each leap and pause

  felt like a lesson gifted by gods disguised as the living.

  He let himself go.

  His body followed the curve of the wind, the hush of leaves, the pulse of the soil.

  The trust he placed in nature—in the beasts, the heavens, the rivers, and the roots—was not misplaced.

  The flow of Ganga carried not only water but memory, grace, and songs that had long waited to be heard again.

  He danced in bedanā, the aching sorrow of farewells and the soft mourning that comes with knowing impermanence.

  He sang with tears in his eyes—not from despair, but from the fullness of feeling.

  He tasted the salt of his own release and found in it the flavor of truth.

  In that moment,

  when the sweet water of Ganga cooled his throat,

  when warm milk from the mother cow softened the growl of his belly,

  when his restless mind quieted and found the path of dharma,

  he was no longer apart from the world—he was a note in its song.

  Every atom around him embraced his existence

  as though he were a long-lost brother returned from a distant yuga.

  There was welcome in each ray of morning light,

  in the fragrant sigh of the breeze,

  in the chorus of the trees and the whisper of the stones.

  Vedanā receded—not erased, but softened,

  like a wound that chose to remain so it could teach.

  To feel the wonder, he had to feel the ache.

  Both were truths. Both were sacred.

  And all was, as it should be.

  Memories flickered like fireflies in a twilight that knew no end.

  Beauty—fleeting, fragile, subjective—would wither,

  but the memory of this moment

  would echo through the wheel of Samsara,

  etched like song into the skin of time.

  The yugas will turn.

  The stars will change their patterns.

  But this song, this dance, this life—

  it will awaken again with every spark of consciousness,

  with every soul that chooses to feel.

  All is well.

  ***