Omniscient

By Saisha Jain

Saisha is an avid reader from early childhood and has an interest in fictional works.

She developed a passion researching and writing fictional books. With a passion for

• Language: English
• Publisher: BlueRose Publishers
• Release date: Jun 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9789362611307

Book preview

O

BEAUTIFUL RUIN

I hate prologues.

The Book does not have prologues. Because life doesn’t have prologues.

Prologues are the ducks of the writing world: fun to look at, but ultimately serve no purpose. Prologues belong to the blockbuster movies where an explanation is needed for the audience about the backstory which usually end up being bad, or because generally movie audiences have a collective IQ of 90, especially at that moment and cannot be thrust into the middle of the action.

Stories do not need prologues.

This is not a prologue. This is not the end either, if that’s what you expected. This is the middle and definitely very far away from the climax if there ever is going to be one.

In the light of the night, an angel would rise.

She sighs and switches off her tab, eyes burning as her head gives the drumbeat to accompany the song playing in the vehicle.

‘Do we even know what we’re doing?’

‘You are not in this story.’

They say, speaking to yourself is a sign of insanity. But what if it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Is half of the world mad? Maybe talking to yourself is healthy, grounding.

‘I’m making it up as I go.’

I stare at the human spark now. I have met her before. I should have known she was a problem. She should not be here as the universes glow and crumble and expand and reach their ruin.

She should not be here. It is wrong.

She does not turn her eyes away from the ruin she is admiring. Right and wrong are subjective. I wonder if she is one of those who has learnt magic. She turns to look at me. Everything in this world is subjective, and if something exists beyond it, as I believe they do, those are too. She studies me as I study her. Is it? she asks.

I wait. She turns back to look at the pulsing worlds but does not move.

Existing or subjective?

She frowns but lets out a huff of what seems like laughter. Don’t you already know?

It has been a long time since I have enjoyed a conversation. Ask me.

The human smiles. I don’t know. She shrugs. Both?

I hum. Then both.

Conversations like this never made sense to anyone else, she comments.

I say, It does to you. She does not bother to confirm. She does not need to, either. We watch the pulsing ruin again. The power is beautiful. The eternal and endless powers are beautiful. Always are. In creation and destruction and even in being. Beyond mortals. She should still not be here. Why are you here?

How am I supposed to know? she asks. Maybe I am supposed to be here?

That suggestion might make sense if she was some god or monster, angel or demon or even had their blood. No. This is the final demise.

She laughs and sounds as if she has never laughed so freely before. She looks surprised at herself. She surprises me. I smile as she nods. Yes. But if you thought this before, it would be the demise for you then too.

It is a beauteous theory. It is true. I do admire her insight. But how does that matter?

The matter, she says, is of faith, I think. The truth is there are millions of stories to be told, and I always wanted to tell them, but how could I get through them when I cannot even begin to get through myself. She looks at me. Stories get through. They build faith and become faith. I am sure you have many of them.

I turn to the threads of light, watch as one envelops Dream. Yes. She doesn’t reply. Just hums. It is worth a try, I admit.

She smiles sadly. Pity. It is a beautiful ruin.

I watch as her spark glows as bright as a paradox in the dark. They all are.

This is definitely a prologue.

Genesis

The beginning is the most important part of the work.

— Plato, The Republic

I

COLOURS ETERNAL

The colours

then the life.

That is usually

how I do things.

Or at least, how I try.

Here is a small fact that I present to you; You are going to die.

I am in all truthfulness attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most people find themselves hindered in believing me, no matter my protestations. Please, believe me. I most surely can be cheerful. I am zestful, zippy. And that is only the ‘Z’s. Thinking back, I should have gone with the ‘A’s: Amiable and affable. Agreeable. Yes, they do sound better.

Just…do not ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me. You will surely be disappointed. Going back to the aforementioned fact; does this worry you? I urge you—do not be afraid. My family is nothing if not fair.

—Of course, an introduction. A beginning. Genesis. Where are my manners? I could introduce myself properly, but it is not really necessary. You will know me well enough and soon enough, depending on diverse factors and a range of variables that are most certainly up to you. It suffices to say that at some point in time, when my sibling will be standing over you, as genially as possible, that moment will be decided by me. Your soul will be in their arms. A colour will be perched on their shoulder, that colour will be the colour I set then. They will carry you gently away. At that moment, you will be lying there (they rarely find people standing up; I am kind that way). You will be caked in your own being.

There might be a discovery; a scream will dribble down the air, it often depends on my mood when I spin a tale. The only sound that will be heard then after that will be of my sibling’s own breathing, and the sound of the smell of footsteps.

The question is, what colour will everything be at that moment when he comes for you? Or perhaps when you are given to the world by my sister?

It is significant every time when you reach somewhat of a milestone. What will the sky be saying? Personally, I like a navy-coloured sky. Dark, dark navy, one that has almost left its family of blue and eloped with the black. People say it suits my sibling, but they prefer chocolate. While not being quite as fond of gold (it is beautiful, alright) as the rest of the world relates to me with, I suppose it does make sense. Solidifies things. Immortalises them for eternity.

I do, however, try to enjoy every colour I see, everyone I paint—the whole spectrum. A billion or so flavours, none of them quite the same, and a sky to slowly suck on. It takes the edge off the stress. It helps me relax.

I have this theory:

People observe the colours of a day only at its beginnings and ends, just as they always see everything at the start and finish. But to me it is quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations, with each passing moment, I decide what happens under them after all. There are a lot of in betweens a person can—and does–lose, simply because they could not bring themselves to care in the middle.

Did you know a single hour can consist of thousands of different colours. Waxy yellows, cloud-spat blues. A variety of murky darkness. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them. As I have been alluding to, my one saving grace is distraction. It keeps me sane. It helps me cope, considering the length of time I have been performing this job. The trouble is, who could ever replace me? Who could step in while I take a break?

The answer, of course, is nobody, which has prompted me to make a conscious, deliberate decision —to make distractions my vacation. Needless to say, I vacation in increments. In colours.

Still, it is possible that you might be asking, why does she even need a vacation? What does she need distraction from? Which brings me to my next point. It is the leftovers from a script. The survivors and their curses. The tears. They are the ones I cannot stand to look at, although on many occasions, I still fail. After an act is played, after a war is over, there are people carrying their own personal wars in their hearts. Carrying old wounds on their bodies. And all of those are my makings. So, as I get the blame, I deliberately seek out the colours to keep my mind off them, but now and then, I witness the things that are left behind, crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair, and surprise. They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs. Which in turn brings me to the subject I am telling you about tonight, or today, or whatever the hour and colour. It is a series of stories about one of those perpetual survivors—an expert at being left behind.

Individually, they are just small stories really, containing, among other things:

Mortals

My family

Some words on pages of books

Some fanatical fools

Some blood and pain

Some stories that you know

Others that you don’t

Keep an open mind.

That’s all I ask.

II

HOW IT BEGAN

Humans disagree about everything

Everyone in your human world has opposing views on how it began. So let me provide you with some clarification. Well, as much as I can give. And perhaps you will not understand it but do not be disappointed in yourself, if you don’t. I know you might not and I am still explaining, aren’t I? So, even though it is possible that you won’t agree or understand the point of view that I am putting forth, I would like you to have an open mind.

See you build barriers around your mind, consciously or subconsciously that prevent you from understanding things that we then claim as beyond your comprehension. Perhaps you believe too much in whatever you believe and so you wouldn’t allow yourself to understand.

Sometimes I do not understand why you do not understand and I am literally your final destination. I am Destiny and sometimes you evade my understanding.

Funnily, I thought I understood everything. Till you were there.

Now, back to the point: It started with you, but you claimed it started with us, so it started with us because you created us. You see?

For those of you who do not believe in a god, for the atheists, about fourteen billion years ago, matter, energy, time and space came together in a chaotic form you know of as the Big Bang. The story of these fundamental features of your universe and the next is known as physics. A few hundred thousand years after their appearance, matter and energy coalesced into more intricate structures you call atoms and these atoms further combined into molecules. The story of their interaction is called chemistry. About four billion years ago, on this tiny, insignificant planet called earth, some molecules came together to form large, complex structures called organisms. Their story is called biology. One of these organisms from the genus homo who very immodestly decided to name themselves homo sapiens (the wise man) started to form elaborate structures called cultures about 70,000 years ago. The story of these cultures is called history. Yes, I do know there are more. But this background is enough for the explanation I am going to give. You see, the foundation of history made you curious as to how it all began. How were you created? And so, you looked at what you knew to be physics, chemistry and biology and came to a reasonable conclusion that did not defy your logic and you created the Big Bang theory. And therefore, the Big Bang existed.

For those of you who believe in polytheistic religions (forgive me but there are far too many, you should see the family reunions) it began due to your gods—or one of them, and their story is called theology. We had our family dramas and our forms and stories changed according to the religion you believe in while some newer gods were created when not in concern to what you consider the fundamental truths in life. Then one of us went rogue and created you and you thought, how do we exist? Someone must have created us, you thought, and they would have a history too. and so you created us to create you.

For you Catholics, you had God who created angels and then created humans because he could not be satisfied and to have a scapegoat you condemned Lucifer to become the Devil. And then came Jesus who was the son of God. And then you thought, now we have proof. There is God who created angels to watch over us and to fight against evil to protect us. So God existed and created. Meanwhile the Baptists thought that Jesus was their God and so he became. The Sikhs believe in their God, Waheguru and thus he created you as the Muslims do in Allah.

Take pantheism as seen in Taoism or Hinduism. In the latter, the only reality and supreme unity are Brahman. Brahman is the total of all that has ever or will exist. It can never be separated from the universe. And so, it became.

I like the deistic ones. They are the perfect balance between faith, a higher power, laws of the universe and free will.

So prophets came and kept on coming and with them stories and beliefs kept on building.

You see, it is a cycle, you believe in us, you create us and then we create you. And so it goes on and on and on.

Monotheism has made you humans forget that you have the ability to create.

Reality is what you believe and what you know to exist. Reality is in your head. So if you think, in a way, you created yourself.

There is a subjectivity to truth. You should read Nietzsche, he was one of the wise ones.

As for us; how we came to be?

Well, when it all began, we popped into being as concepts. Form came a bit later, with the onset of humanity, as did understanding and nuance and the gritty in-between.

We began, ostensibly, as adults.

But adults begin as children, who are presumably human, and the Eternal are not human.

Early on, a child rose with a geas laid upon him. He dreamt of slaying dragons and I, Destiny guided with red strings and blind eyes, and the boy grew into a legend because little seeds of hope have a tendency to grow if planted right.

By the seashore children built castles with buckets of sand and stones and little bits of seaweed flag, and then they destroyed them with equal carelessness while a booming laugh grins in their hearts. Everything’s better with explosions.

There is no desire as deep as those of children, and there is no despair more poignant than theirs. Frenzy took them off to meet the fairies and back again, though the back sometimes is not the same back, but that’s alright because no one remains the same after being off with the fairies.

And finally—

Well, about them, it wasn’t long before they told the children they did not exist, so it was really no surprise they grew up first.

Everyone has got to grow up sometime.

But for that time, it’s okay to be as we are.

III

HUMANS & PRETENDING

Pretending is easy. Or so they say.

They also say that it does not hold and tires you.

How people can say two such contradictory but true things is a mystery. But still the truth.

Pretending is something I did not decide. But it fascinates me. What is this habit that is not of Destiny?

Pretending is easy. Easier than an illusion-less face. Maybe because it terrifies people, because you are scared it will terrify them. Or maybe it is just that you are more scared of reality than others might be.

It is easier to pretend.

Till it chokes you and suffocates you but you hold on because it is the only thing that keeps you safe. And then you feel like a slut with a kink and a fiend using manipulation. But can a person manipulate themselves? Maybe. Probably. Who knows.

It is easier for others to pretend too. Or maybe they just do not care.

It is easier for them to pretend that you are all ‘like the others.’ That there is not something completely wrong with you. Something going haywire.

People tend to ignore those things. It makes it easier, the pretending.

And so, all humans collectively pretend along, as if you have not talked about it before. Talked after insistence and prodding. But in the end you are all not the same.

And there are a million reasons you do not speak about it.

Maybe you are not protected enough, you do not know what you feel. Or maybe you do not want to look into it till you are sure, because then thinking there is something so wrong with you also makes you feel like a fraud.

Humans are complicated.

You are not normal. There is no normal, that is a zone you created. You are freaks in yourselves. And that is okay. Because the standard of ‘ordinary’ was created by someone clearly unimaginative.

You are different from the neurotypical and possibly the neurodivergent way, and there is nothing that helps. Because when you find ground and anchor to it, you start feeling like an obsessed person with a-not-so-crush-more-like-fangirl-stalker vibes, as one of you so eloquently expressed (did you really think those were my words?).

But who decides what brain is normal? The more common one—the majority? I protest. The matter of the brain is not a democracy.

You humans are odd. I will tell you why. You are indecisive.

Let me give you an example;

You want uniqueness

but too much of it

surpasses ordinary.

You want normal

but too much of it

becomes very ordinary.

What do you want?

Abundance or rarity?

Because this is one thing

with no in between.

Chronicles

"It’s like Tolstoy said. Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story."

— Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

Part 1: Behold Death the Feared

To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.

— J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone

1.1

DEATH & THE BOY

Designing the world

is a time-taking task.

But what keeps me occupied

is watching the rest of my family

go about their own.

Don’t you know it’s not Halloween, Mister? asked the little boy who swung one of his legs and stared at him with brown eyes.

He tilted his head to peer more closely at the details of the boy. He was young, perhaps seven or so, with bright eyes and a cheerful smile. He would die of cancer when he was thirty-three. Nothing to do now then.

He couldn’t answer the boy’s question, merely tilt his head and wave his skeletal hand.

Oh! You’re what Mom calls a mute aren’t you Mister? The boy scrambled onto the bench, pulling his legs up and into a criss-cross pattern that was recognized as popular amongst the little ones, Do you know sign language?

He considered the boy a second, feeling the bones of his body warm with mirth before he made the yes sign with his hands.

The boy giggled and clapped with delight, That’s so cool! I bet you have super awesome hearing and can hear anything within a mile!

Not true, he could hear any person around the globe. He made the sign for yes with his hands again, not wanting to correct the boy. The boy giggled with delight.

James! He heard the mother cry a street away, James, get back here,

He didn’t have an eyebrow to raise, but he asked the question of the boy with his hands.

Oh that’s just my mom! The little boy waved it off as unimportant, before excitement stole over his features once more, Does that mean you can hear her from that far away?

He tilted his head as a yes, obviously he could if he was able to mention it to the boy.

The woman, who was the boy’s adopted mother, ran around the corner and smacked into a man on the street. One who would kill her after stalking her for two years. No job there.

The boy watched the scene with him.

The woman’s brown curls strayed into her eyes as she bounced off the man’s chest and fell on her rump. She cursed profusely as she stood up with the help of the proffered hand, apologizing once she was on her feet again. The man just brushed it off with a toothy smile, waving his free hand in an absent manner. She pulled her hand away from his and gently stepped around him, her eyes finding James.

James groaned, Sorry Mister, I hafta go now,

He merely nodded, knowing full well that he would never have company for long. It just wasn’t in his nature, he was alone for reasons.

James! How could you run off like that? I thought I’d taught you better, The woman scolded the boy, she squatted in front of him and sighed, And now your pants are dirty! We don’t have time to go home and change either,

The boy took his moms spit laden fingers and shoved them away from his face, I’m not that dirty! I was just talking to that man over there! James pointed.

The woman stood up, her eyes searching the park bench where he sat. He knew she saw nothing, There’s no one there James,

James looked back, the boy’s eyes connecting with the black cloak that enshrouded him, Mom! The boy’s whine hurt his ears, The guys right there! He’s in black and the bench is white so you can’t not see him!

The woman sighed and rolled her eyes, Alright, there’s a man there. Can we go now James? We’re going to be late!

The boy grumbled something that he couldn’t refuse a smile at, he felt his bones shake with laughter as the boy took his mom’s hand and was led off.

The clock nearby struck three.

Finally, he had a job to do. He always conducted mass deaths on site, one never knew what would happen if he tried to direct that many souls halfway across the world.

Death strode towards the library with a quick pace, the bones of his body jiggling and bouncing from his exuberance.

Sometimes I swear

They love their job.

But in truth,

it is only sometimes

that they love it.

1.2

BERLIN

The corpses’ mouths

and the survivors’ hearts

remained stubborn and silent.

And the souls swirled and trembled.

The world is ceaseless, and so is she.

There are a multitude of emotions ever present in the ever-changing world and she has experienced it all. Selfishness. Hero complex. Stupidity and bravery morphed into one (they often go hand in hand, whether they are actually one or not). Entitlement. Prejudice. There’s no limit to the phenomena she experienced as she walked through the lengths of the earth with a stoic look on her face.

People are malleable. They conform, but they never defy. There is always one set of principles that you go by to the point where you are all just collective in your mindsets. Your kind did not impress her anymore. She had been walking the earth long enough to see that humans were not beautiful. They were fools and they were all shallow. You rotten—waking up each day without noticing that you are decaying.

She pitied you,

yet she was envious

at the same time.

We all are.

Your short time

gives you more purpose.

It was one in the morning and she was walking through the streets of Berlin with a faraway look on her face. The night was cold, but she had become stoic and indifferent to it. Physical feelings did not matter to her, not anymore.

A reassurance (announcement?):

Be calm,

despite all threats;

She is all bluster—

My sibling is not violent.

They are not malicious.

They, she, we are a result.

The wind whispered in her ears and she felt the earth rumble just a little under the soles of her shoes. There was a ghost of a smile present on her rose painted lips and she looked up at the sky just enough to see one distant star wink in her direction.

It should not have been solemn—not for her, not when she bled loneliness and despair, but she relished it anyway.

A face of a boy surfaced in the night, and there was something she couldn’t pinpoint about him. There was such familiarity with the way he walked, and the way he hastily looked back into the night that she found herself curious about the