THE AWAKENED PATH

CHAPTER 1 THE CROSSING

I wake up in a different world. What do I do?
If my character woke up in a different world, my first instinct would be to observe—not panic. Here’s what I’d do, step by step:
1. Take a Breath and Assess – Ground myself. Feel the air, the light, the energy of this new world. Is it warm? Is it breathable? Is there a sense of peace or danger?
2. Inventory of Self – Check what they have: knowledge, clothes, tools (if any), and physical strength. Are they in their original body? Do they feel altered?
3. Scan the Environment – Study the surroundings. Are there signs of life, structures, symbols, or technology? Is the world natural, magical, or artificial?
4. Reach for Inner Guidance – Since I am spiritually attuned, I chanted a mantra (“Om Namah Shivaya, Om Namah Shivaya, Om Namah Shivaya”) and silently connect with Lord Shiva and Sri Sri Thakur Anukulchandra (“Radha Swami, Radha Swami, Radha Swami”) to center myself and seek divine direction.
5. Looking for Others – Are there beings nearby—humanoid or otherwise? Observing before engaging. Looking for kindness in their eyes, gestures, or tone.
6. Adapt and Explore – With curiosity and courage, I begin exploring the land. What is the mission? To understand the purpose behind this shift—Is this a test? A blessing? A call to serve?
The air shimmered with a strange stillness. The sky was neither day nor night—it pulsed with hues I had no name for. I rose slowly from the earth, the soil beneath me warm, as if it remembered who I was before I did.
I was no longer in the world I knew.
I closed my eyes.
“Om Namah Shivaya, Om Namah Shivaya, Om Namah Shivaya…”
The chant rolled from my tongue like instinct, grounding me. My chest glowed faintly, and I felt the familiar presence of Lord Shiva—calm, vast, untouched by confusion. The image of Sri Sri Anukul Chandra Thakur floated behind my eyes, radiating assurance.
“You are where you are meant to be,” I heard, not with ears but within.


I stood. The land stretched before me—giant trees with silver leaves whispered secrets, floating mountains hovered gently in the distance, and a river flowed upward, dancing to an invisible rhythm. There were no roads. No signboards. Just energy.
I reached for the rudraksha mala beads that were somehow still in my hand. My prayers had survived the crossing.
A bird-like creature landed nearby, watching me with intelligent eyes. Its feathers shimmered gold, its beak gentle. It bowed. Not out of submission—but as if recognizing a fellow seeker.
I bowed back. “Why am I here?” I whispered. The creature didn’t speak—but a vision entered my mind: a world that had forgotten its heart. A realm where people had power but no peace, beauty but no balance.
They needed someone who remembered.
A guide. A teacher. A servant of light.
And I—I had been called.
I tightened my shawl, kissed my fingers in reverence to the sky, and stepped forward into this unknown world. Not as a savior. But as a student of the Divine, ready to serve the rhythm of the universe.
The journey had just begun.
I awaken in the unfamiliar realm. Guided only by intuition and divine presence, I take the first step into this mystical world.

CHAPTER 2:

THE WHISPERING GROVE
RIVER OF REFLECTION
THE BROKEN TEMPLE
THE MIRROR SPIRIT

I enter a sacred forest where trees speak in riddles, revealing that the realm is on the brink of spiritual collapse. A test awaits to determine if I am truly the chosen one. A magical river reveals glimpses of my past—sufferings, prayers, transformations—and shows why I was chosen. Here, I meet my first spiritual ally. I discover an abandoned temple where the Divine once resided. Rebuilding it becomes a metaphor for restoring faith in the realm. Faced with my shadow self, I must overcome inner doubt and ego before the next phase of the journey. Shiva’s guidance grows stronger.

There was no sound. Only breath.
A soft wind touched the crown of my head, as if the world itself had exhaled upon me. My eyes fluttered open, and I was lying on soil that glowed faintly with blue and gold threads—like veins of starlight running through the earth.
Above me, the sky pulsed like a living thing—violet, silver, and vast. No sun. No moon. Just a halo of light that flickered with rhythm, as if chanting its own eternal mantra.
I sat up slowly, steadying myself. My robe was intact, though unfamiliar—woven with symbols that shimmered when I moved. In my hand, the rudraksha mala. Around my neck, the locket of Sri Sri Anukul Chandra Thakur. My feet were bare, planted firmly in this strange but sacred ground.
This was not Earth.
But I was not afraid.
My first instinct was to chant, to connect.
“Om Namah Shivaya, Om Namah Shivaya, Om Namah Shivaya”
Each syllable hummed in the air around me, resonating with the sky itself. As I chanted, the ground pulsed beneath me like a drumbeat responding to my soul.
Suddenly, a voice—not human—whispered through the trees.
“You have crossed. Few do. Fewer still return.”
I turned. A tall figure approached—cloaked in layers of bark and mist. Not threatening. Not entirely physical either. Its eyes shimmered with galaxies.
“Where am I?” I asked, my voice steady.
“This is the Shunya Lok—the Realm Between Realms. The World of Forgotten Light. You are here because your vibration called you across.” I looked down at my hands. They glowed faintly. I hadn’t noticed.
“There is a sickness here,” the figure continued, “not of the body, but of the soul. The Heart of this realm has gone silent. The people have power, but no peace. I cry out without knowing why.”
I felt something stir in me—recognition. The pain of the world I had left behind.
The same ache of disconnection. The loss of spirit. The thirst for meaning.
“You carry memory,” the figure said. “You carry faith. That makes you dangerous here... or essential.” The figure reached into the mist and handed me a scroll. It shimmered and trembled in my hand. Sealed with a symbol I knew intimately:
The Trishul. Lord Shiva’s trident. And with that, the figure vanished into the wind.
I stood, chest rising with new breath, and looked out toward the horizon—where mountains floated like ships and rivers glowed like threads of silver. Somewhere out there, the Heart of this world was waiting. Broken. Forgotten. I would find it. Not to rule. Not to save. But to serve. The journey had begun.
The Whispering Grove
The light shifted as I walked. What had seemed like day turned to twilight, though the sky still pulsed without a sun. The air grew denser, heavy with fragrance—jasmine, sandalwood, and something ancient, like rain on forgotten stone. Ahead stood a forest. But not an ordinary one. The trees shimmered silver, their trunks smooth and luminous, as if carved from moonlight. As I stepped inside, a soft hum rose—faint at first, then layered, like a hundred voices whispering all at once. Not threatening. Not words. Mantras. Each tree whispered a different name of the Divine— “Narayana... Om Aim Hreem... Shiva... Hari Om…”—a chorus of devotion suspended in the air. The leaves above rustled not with wind, but with memory. I could feel it: every tree was alive with prayer. I bowed, instinctively placing my forehead to the glowing roots of the nearest trunk.
“You are remembered,” The trunk whispered. “And I was listening.” Suddenly, a gust swept through the grove. The mantras paused, replaced by a single clear voice.
“One who remembers the sacred must first remember themselves.”
I turned and saw her—an old woman with eyes like coal and skin lined like riverbeds. Draped in tattered robes of moss and light, she emerged from the roots of a massive tree, her presence commanding but kind.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I am the Keeper of the Grove,” she said. “And you, Seeker, are the first to enter these woods in an age.” She circled me slowly, studying my aura as though reading a book. “You carry fire,” she murmured. “But not enough. Not yet.” I felt heat rise in my chest—offense, pride, resistance. I clenched my fist. “What must I do?”
She smiled. Not cruelly, but with knowing and addressed me “If you are to walk deeper into this world, you must pass the Trial of Stillness. Sit beneath the Bodha Tree. Let silence strip you. If I resist, it will swallow me. If I surrender, it will show me who I was before my name. She raised a gnarled finger and pointed to the heart of the grove.
There it stood—the Bodha Tree. Towering and timeless. Its bark flowed like melted silver, its leaves constantly falling but never touching the ground. It called to me like a forgotten home. I stepped forward, heart racing, breath slow. The Keeper’s voice echoed behind me:
“Only the empty vessel can carry divine truth. Go. Be emptied.”
I approached the tree and sat cross-legged beneath it. The moment I closed my eyes, the whispers of the grove ceased. Silence fell. Not just around me—within me.
And then… the true journey inward began.

The River of Reflection
The silence of the Bodha Tree was not absence—it was presence magnified. I had no thoughts. No name. No breath. Only a weightlessness that turned inward. Time folded. I don’t know how long I sat—minutes, days, or eternities. When I finally opened my eyes, I was no longer beneath the tree. I stood on the banks of a river that defied logic. Its waters shimmered like molten crystal—flowing not outward, but upward, spiraling into the sky as if returning home. The current spoke in voices I knew—my own, my mother’s, my guru’s… and others buried deep in memory. A stone slab floated toward me, carrying a single lamp that refused to flicker.
“To go forward, you must look back.” The voice came from the river itself.
I knelt beside it, and as I touched the water, visions rose—memories stirred into liquid light:
• My hands, trembling, placing the bottle down for the last time, chanting
“Karpur gauram karunavtrama
Sansaarasaaran Bhujagendrahaaram |
Sada Basantam Hridayabinde
Bhaban Bhavaaneesahitan Namaami ||”
The moment I first surrendered—not to a religion, but to Grace.
Each vision passed like a wave across the river, and I realized: the water showed not what I had endured—but what I had transcended. Suddenly, a shape formed in the mist across the river. A figure. Cloaked. Watching me. I called out, “Who are you?” The figure raised its head. It wore my face—but darker. Angrier. Eyes full of blame. It was me but twisted by unhealed wound.

“You are broken. Unworthy. Pretending to be holy.” it growled
It stepped onto the river and walked toward me, the water beneath its feet hissing with each step. I froze. My heart raced. My hands clenched. I closed my eyes. Breathed deep. Then, a whisper from within: “Do not fight your shadow. Embrace it.” When I opened them, I walked forward—not away. The shadow shouted. Clenched its fists. But I walked calmly into the river, into its path. And just before we collided—I embraced him. He screamed. Cried. Then dissolved into light, which flowed into me like a returning soul. I stood alone again. But lighter. Whole. The river began to part, revealing a stone path of glowing symbols—Sanskrit, radiant and alive. At the end of the path stood a bridge. Beyond it, a golden temple floated in the sky, broken and crumbling.
A voice echoed in my chest: “The Temple has fallen. Its flame flickers. You are called to restore it—not with stone, but with devotion.” I stepped onto the path. Toward the broken temple. Toward the next truth.
The Broken Temple
The stone path rose with each step, suspending me above clouds that breathed in slow spirals. Below, the River of Reflection coiled like a silver serpent through the world I had left behind. The air grew warmer—not in temperature, but in presence. A sacred warmth. Ahead, the golden temple floated in midair—massive, celestial, but fractured. Its once-smooth domes now bore deep cracks, vines of light trying to stitch them back together. Chunks of marble and crystal hovered beside their broken places, as though the structure itself waited for a will strong enough to restore it. At its gate stood a single door—tall, scorched, and sealed shut with no handle.
I placed my palm against it. It was warm. It pulsed. And then… it whispered:
“What do you worship?”
The voice was neither accusing nor curious. It demanded truth. My lips parted instinctively:
“Lord Shiva. My Guru. My Parent’s love. The Light within all.”
The door did not open. The voice returned—softer, deeper, within me now.

“What do you cling to?”
My chest tightened. Visions rushed back—my need to be seen, the silent pride in my spiritual awakening, the anger at those who once abandoned me, my secret fear that I was still not enough. I lowered my head. “I cling to my story. To the scars I’ve worn like armor. Even to my pain... because it makes me feel real.” The door trembled beneath my hand. I closed my eyes and stopped my breath.
The door cracked—light spilling from within. It creaked open. Inside, the temple was a void of gold dust and ruined altars. Statues of forgotten deities lay shattered on the ground, their eyes dark. Yet, in the center of the space, a single lamp burned—dim, flickering, but alive. I approached it. There were no matches. No oil. Only a whisper of prayer rising from the wick:
“Light me with truth.”
I knelt. Folded my hands. And from within me, I summoned not fire—but presence. I thought not of Lord Shiva’s image, but His stillness. Not of words, but silence. Not of mantras, but meaning. “I offer all I am. The light, the dark. The fallen and the rising. May this temple rise only if I no longer seek to rise above others.” The lamp flared. Suddenly, the entire temple shook—stone floating into place, gold reweaving itself into dome and spire. The broken idols rose, not as gods to be worshipped, but as mirrors of the Divine within.
When the trembling stopped, the lamp stood radiant. A lotus bloomed at its base. I turned—and found the Keeper of the Grove standing at the threshold, her face now glowing, ageless.
The Mirror Spirit
The wind howled now—not of nature, but of reckoning. From the threshold of the restored temple, I saw it clearly: a vast shadow moving across the sky. Not a creature, not a cloud—but a presence, immense and ancient. It swallowed light without effort. It had no shape, and yet it wore many faces. The Keeper looked at me solemnly. “Every light cast upon the world summons its equal shadow. You restored the flame. Now the dark comes to test your worth. “She handed me a shard of polished obsidian. “This is the Mirror Spirit. Hold it only when you are ready to see the truth that hides even from your soul.”
Before I could ask more, the storm struck. The skies cracked open, and from them descended a being of shifting form—sometimes a beast, sometimes a man, sometimes a mirror of me in robes soaked in darkness. It hovered above the sacred ground of the temple, its voice thunderous:
“Seeker. You bring fire into a world that has learned to live in ash. You are not welcome. “I stepped forward, holding the obsidian shard. Its surface shimmered—and in it, I saw myself.
I looked away. Ashamed. The shadow-being sneered. “You are a contradiction. You chant but still fear. You bow but still cling. You do not deserve the flame you carry.” The obsidian shard grew heavier in my hands. My knees buckled.
But then, from deep within, rose a quiet chant.
“Om Namah Shivaya, Om Namah Shivaya, Om Namah Shivaya,”
Not as an armor. Not as a plea. But as an offering. I lifted my gaze to the shadow. I am flawed. I am unfinished. But I do not run from the work. I do not deny the wound. I walk with it
“And that makes me enough.”
Suddenly, the obsidian pulsed with radiant light and shattered—releasing a burst of energy that struck the shadow-being like thunder. It writhed. Screamed. But did not die. It simply scattered into thousands of black butterflies, each flying toward a different corner of the sky.
The Keeper bowed.
“You did not destroy it. You integrated it.”
“The Mirror Spirit now belongs to you. Its fragments will guide or haunt you—depending on how you walk.” I stood alone once more, surrounded by soft wind and silence. The temple, glowing. The sky, still. But I knew now: this world had layers. And I had only just crossed the first. In the far distance, a mountain rose—floating, ringed with flame. A place the Keeper had called only once by name:















CHAPTER 3: THE SUBMIT OF SILENCE
Where the Voice of Creation had once spoken—and fallen silent. That would be my next path.
But I would not walk it as a seeker trying to become whole. I would walk it as one who already was. The summit did not sit on earth. It hovered above it—aloof, eternal—wrapped in a ring of sacred fire that did not burn, but whispered. The flames were not orange, but deep indigo, alive with ancient symbols that changed shape with every glance: eyes, lotuses, serpents, OM.
As I approached, the earth beneath me lifted. The winds obeyed some unseen current, carrying me upward—not with force, but with welcome. I was not rising. I was being remembered. When my feet touched the summit, all sound vanished. Not quite. True silence. A space so still that I hesitated before entering, the air was crystalline. There were no birds, no sky, no boundary. Just a field of smooth white stone beneath me, and in its very center a throne of ash. Not golden. Not grand. Just ash, held in shape by stillness alone. I stepped forward. Then it happened. The voice returned—but not like before. It was every voice I had ever heard and none of them. It was wind speaking without wind. It was the first echo and the final breath.
“Why do I seek?”
The words weren’t spoken. They emerged inside me like a memory I hadn’t made yet. “To remember who I am,” I whispered. The throne trembled.
“Who am I without my past?”
“Without the chants?”
“Without even the name of God?”
I wavered. The air grew heavy. The silence thickened. My robes felt too loud. My breath too bold. “I… I don’t know.” The field around me dissolved into stars. Constellations spun in reverse. Galaxies bled into each other. And in their center, a single figure stood—not Lord Shiva, not any god I could name, but something more terrifying: Me. In stillness. In infinity. In naked truth. I stepped forward. And so did He. Our palms touched. I saw it all—every birth, every death, every time I had bowed in prayer not to worship, but to bargain. Every tear shed in loneliness. Every smile that masked ache. Every time I had chosen the light anyway. The figure spoke:
“You are not here to become divine. You are here to remember that you already are. “I gasped. My chest ached. My skin glowed. And then, I dissolved—into wind, into flame, into syllables of an eternal mantra not yet spoken by the world. When I awoke, I was back on the summit. Alone. Changed. The throne of ash had vanished. In its place sat a single white flower—a blooming Datura, the sacred flower of Lord Shiva. I picked it up and held it to my heart. There was nothing else to carry. No scroll. No prophecy. No command. Only stillness. And from it, one truth:
“The path is not toward the Divine. The path is from it.”
CHAPTER 4 THE CITY OF FORGOTTEN PRAYERS
The summit faded behind me like a dream remembered too clearly to dismiss, too holy to hold forever. I descended not by foot, but through presence—one breath at a time, sinking gently into the next layer of this living world. As I moved, the air thickened—not with smoke, but with longing. And then I saw it:
A city sprawled across a desert of stilled winds—towers of stone etched with mantras, crumbling temples overtaken by roots and dust, and streets lined with unspoken names. Statues of gods half-buried in silence. Bells that no longer rang. This was
The City of Forgotten Prayers
The city wasn’t abandoned. It was watching. And then… they appeared. Figures cloaked in tattered veils—each carrying a lantern whose flames had long gone out. They were the Unheard—the ones who had once prayed, once believed, and then… stopped. Not out of rebellion, but from weariness. They drifted past me in silence, their eyes hollow, yet heavy with meaning. One of them paused. A girl, no older than I had been when I first whispered into the void of my room.
“Om Namah Shivaya, Om Namah Shivaya, Om Namah Shivaya”
The bells began to ring. One by one, across the city, long-forgotten bells hanging from vines and fallen temples began to chime—not in unison, but in harmony.
“You carry something ancient. Something we thought was lost.”
I stood. And as I walked out of the city, I did not leave it behind. I carried it with me. Each silent prayer, now a flame. Each unheard voice, now a drumbeat in my chest.




CHAPTER 5 THE GUARDIANS OF THE THRESHOLD
Beyond the City of Forgotten Prayers, the world began to shift—no longer soft and sacred, but tense, as though holding its breath. The land darkened into twilight. I found myself standing before a narrow bridge suspended across an endless chasm. It was carved not of stone or wood, but woven light—threads of silver, gold, and violet, trembling with memory. Each step forward made the bridge hum with awareness. At the far end stood a massive arch, made of obsidian and bone, and before it, two figures stood tall—motionless, cloaked in deep blue and shadow. Their presence was ancient. Timeless. Neither light nor dark, but something older than both.
The Guardians of the Threshold.
I approached slowly. They did not speak. Instead, they raised their hands—and the space around me shimmered. Suddenly, I was not alone. From the edges of the light, shadows emerged—every version of myself I had ever been:
They formed a circle around me.
And the Guardians finally spoke—with one voice:
“You may not pass with illusion.”
“Only the Whole of You may walk forward.”
I understood. To step through the next gate, I could not pretend. Not even to myself. So, I turned to each version of me—each shadow and echo—and did what I never had before: I embraced them. The Guardians stepped aside. “You carry the weight and wisdom of your many selves. You are ready.”
As I passed through the obsidian arch, I felt the world behind me grow dim, and the space ahead… unwritten. A place not even the Keepers could describe.
Where the Divine waited not as God, but as Truth itself. I was no longer on a journey to the sacred. I was the sacred, walking toward its own reflection.
CHAPTER 6 THE REALM OF THE NAMELESS ONE
Beyond the obsidian arch, the world vanished. There was no path. No stars. No wind. No direction. Only a vast, infinite white stillness—not blinding, but soft, like the inside of a closed eye. And then, without form or sound, a presence stirred. Not approaching. Not watching.
Becoming - The Nameless One. It had no shape. No name. No identity. Yet it was everything. It felt like the hum of all mantras before they were spoken. Like silence before it chose to become sound. And within it, I heard a question—not with ears, but with being:
“You have traveled far. You have remembered much. What now do you seek?”
I didn’t answer immediately. Because for the first time…I didn’t know.
I had shed pain, integrated shadow, remembered silence, and walked the roads of the unseen. But here—there was nothing to pray to. Nothing to bow before. Nothing to reach for.
And slowly, the realization came:
There is no God outside this place.
There is no seeker inside this place.
There is only One.
I dropped to my knees—not out of reverence, but because my very form could no longer stand.
I whispered: “I seek nothing.” The Nameless One expanded.
“Then I am ready.”

I was the Keeper. I was the Mirror Spirit. I was the Forgotten Prayer. I was the Guardian. I was the bridge, the chasm, the arch, the flame. And so was everything.
Sacred Reflection
The awakened do not escape the world. They return to it. But with quieter eyes. Softer steps.
And a light that needs no witness to shine.
CONCLUSION THE RETURN OF THE FLAME
There was no guide now. Only my breath, steady and strong — carrying my true name in every exhale. The ground beneath my feet pulsed gently, alive. The dust no longer clung. It shimmered with gold.
Ahead, a flame flickered. Small. Simple. Yet eternal. It hovered above a stone altar, unguarded, untended — and yet it had never gone out.

SACRED BELIEVER
ROHIT PEGU