Whispers of the Unseen

Maya cradled her newborn son, Kiran, under the dim glow of a single bulb. The saffron marigolds from the puja still lay scattered on the floor, a stark contrast to the storm brewing outside. As the first monsoon rains lashed against their tin roof, a deep, primal fear gnawed at her. Kiran wasn't crying. He hadn't cried at all since his birth.

The village midwife, a wizened woman with calloused hands, had dismissed Maya's concerns. "He's just quiet, a good one," she'd mumbled, pocketing her fee. But Maya knew, with a mother's intuition as sharp as a monsoon wind, that this quietude ran deeper.

Days turned into weeks, and Kiran remained an enigma. His eyes, the color of deep brown earth, seemed to see but not register. He rarely responded to touch or sound. Despair settled on Maya's heart, heavy as the monsoon rains. Her husband, Ashok, a kind but simple man, tried to comfort her, but his own silence spoke volumes.

One day, a wandering Sadhu arrived in the village, his weathered face etched with tales from faraway lands. Maya, desperate for answers, approached him. With a hesitant voice, she described Kiran. The Sadhu, his eyes deep pools of knowledge, listened intently. "Perhaps," he said, "your son exists on a different plane. Paravidya," he continued, a word that hung heavy in the air, "speaks of the spiritual nature of man, and how some may be more connected to the unseen realms."

His words sparked a fire within Maya. Though unfamiliar, Paravidya, offered a path. Maya devoured every book she could find on the subject, learning about the connection between the physical, soul, and spiritual worlds. Nights were spent studying by the dim bulb, days practicing gentle exercises and rhythmic songs with Kiran. Slowly, a connection bloomed. Kiran, stimulated by the music and movement, began to respond. A faint glimmer appeared in his eyes, a smile played on his lips for the first time.

Life, however, remained a relentless struggle. Ashok, unable to find work that fit his simple ways in the bustling city, succumbed to illness. Maya, burdened by medical bills and the sole provider for her family, felt the weight of the world on her shoulders. But Kiran's hesitant steps, his growing vocabulary of sounds and gestures, fueled her spirit.

One afternoon, while selling hand-woven scarves at the local market, Maya overheard snippets of a conversation. Two mothers, their faces etched with worry, spoke of their children with special needs. Maya, her heart swelling with empathy, approached them. Sharing her experiences and newfound knowledge of Paravidya, she offered a glimmer of hope.

News of Maya's gentle approach and Kiran's progress spread like wildfire. Soon, mothers with similar challenges started seeking her out. Maya, her own home becoming too small, began holding gatherings under the shade of a large banyan tree. They shared stories, tears, and laughter. Maya, drawing on her studies and experience with Kiran, taught them simple exercises and songs based on Paravidya. Slowly, a community bloomed – a haven of understanding and acceptance in a world that often ostracized them.

Word of their gatherings reached the ears of a local social worker, a woman named Rani. Rani, touched by their plight, offered a small, abandoned building as a temporary space for their meetings. Together, Maya and the other mothers cleaned and decorated the space, transforming it into a vibrant haven with natural materials and soft colors, echoing the principles of Paravidya.

As their community grew, Maya realized the need for a more formal space. With Rani's help, they secured funding from a local NGO. Together, they built a small school – a space designed with the needs of special children in mind. Maya, drawing on her Paravidya knowledge, incorporated elements of rhythmic movement, music therapy, and nature walks into the curriculum. The school became a beacon of hope, not just for the children but for their families as well.

Years later, under a sky ablaze with a million stars, Maya stood on the stage of a grand auditorium. The occasion – the inauguration of a national institute for Paravidya education for children with special needs. The institute, her brainchild, was a culmination of years of struggle and triumph. Her journey, from a lonely mother under a dim bulb to a national figure, had paved the way for countless others.

As Kiran, now a young man with a gentle smile and an ethereal aura, played a hauntingly beautiful melody on his homemade instrument, Maya looked around at the sea of faces – the mothers, fathers, and children whose lives had been touched by her courage and the power of Paravidya. In their eyes, she saw not just gratitude but a reflection of her own journey – a testament to the unyielding love of a mother and the boundless potential of a child who saw the world differently.

-Satrangi Gurukul