*************************************************** ~*~A.A. Thoughts for the Day~*~

Good Morning!!! God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change; Courage to change the things I can; and Wisdom to know the difference. Thy will, not mine, be done. *~*~*~*~*^Daily Reflections^*~*~*~*~* June 26, 2026 A GIFT THAT GROWS WITH TIME For most normal folks, drinking means conviviality, companionship and colorful imagination. It means release from care, boredom and worry. It is joyous intimacy with friends and a feeling that life is good. ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS, p. 151 The longer I chased these elusive feelings with alcohol, the more out of reach they were. However, by applying this passage to my sobriety, I found that it described the magnificent new life made available to me by the A.A. program. It “truly does get better” one day at a time. The warmth, the love and the joy so simply expressed in these words grow in breadth and depth each time I read it. Sobriety is a gift that grows with time. **************************************************** "….......In All Our Affairs" "The chief purpose of A.A. is sobriety. We all realize that without sobriety we have nothing. "However, it is possible to expand this simple aim into a great deal of nonsense, so far as the individual member is concerned. Sometimes we hear him say, in effect, `Sobriety is my sole responsibility. After all, I'm a pretty fine chap, expect for my drinking. Give me sobriety, and I've got it made!' "As long as our friend clings to this comfortable alibi, he will make so little progress with his real-life problems and responsibilities that he stands in a fair way to get drunk again. This is why A.A.'s Twelfth Step urges that we `practice these principles in all our affairs.' We are not living just to be sober; we are living to learn, to serve, and to love." ~~~~~LETTER, 1966 ***************************************************** SELF-LOVE "Only a person who can live with himself can enjoy the gift of leisure." --Henry Greber As an alcoholic I could not tolerate my own company for long. I was forever telephoning somebody, going over to a friend's house, inviting people in, creating an "occasion" so I did not have to think or, at least, think about myself. Being alone terrified me. I was terrified because I would begin to think about what was happening in my life and I did not want to face it. Spirituality is reality. Some years ago, I decided to encounter the "real" me, painful but necessary. I began to develop an awareness of who I am. Acceptance followed: I am an alcoholic. Today I know me; today I like me; today I can love me – and this awareness brings with it a knowledge of God, self and my neighbor. Today I can be alone without feeling lonely. * In 1938, Inferno – Situated below, the lower regions, hell; a scene so horrible as to resemble hell. ~ The Winston Simplified Dictionary Encyclopedic Edition (1938) "After one of those days of inferno, I wobbled from a hotel bar to a brokerage office. " 4:1 ** You already know what they wrote. Now you know what they meant. ** * AA meetings were designed to establish a friendly venue where a Group of recovered alcoholics could assemble for the purpose of receiving yet unrecovered alcoholics – the unrecovered alcoholics being drawn to the Group members through desperation to get help. The recovered alcoholics in the Group, men, and woman who had a spiritual awakening as the result of the Twelve Steps – would show the un-recovered alcoholic precisely how they recovered, how it happened to them and take the suffering person through the very same process. In about a month’s time the formerly un-recovered alcoholic, now spiritually awakened and practicing the non-religious, Judeo-Christian spiritual principles codified into the Twelve Steps, would in turn “come back” to the venue and receive still more "newer" prospects for the same process— to experience what they had just undergone. The miraculous removal of the desire to drink. It worked so well, the recoveries so dramatic and rapid (a matter of days) that the Fellowship grew in bounds; Groups emerging as spiritual entities unto themselves. Today AA’s “recovered alcoholic” population is no longer growing. The spirituality of meetings has been subjected to a systematically dismantling and dissolved away; the Fellowship is shrinking— the Primary Purpose of most AA Groups no longer to engaging a spiritual protocol but to serve as a "talking cure" clubhouse of 'recovering', meeting, sponsor, and doctrine addicted zombies. From that perspective AA meeting attendance is proving to be a most ineffective method for “treating” alcoholics. “Talking cure” based solutions to addictions and mentally obsessive disorders always fail abysmally. AA isn’t GOING there. It already IS THERE. The secular invasion is complete. If you need to “share” – go to therapy. Call a friend. But do not confuse the relief that sharing” can offer with getting well from alcoholism. But if you need a solution to alcoholism – go to God. And if you haven’t a clue as to how or where to find Him, find someone who has discovered that path; who can point you in the right direction. (Oops I've already done that, haven't I?) Or you could wait to be hit by a bolt of lightning. That may work too. It’s happened before. Daniel J Schwarzhoff *************************************************** ~*~A.A. Thoughts for the Day~*~ ^*^*^*^*^ (\ ~~ /) ( \ (AA)/ ) (_ /AA\ _) /AA\ ^*^*^*^*^ Maturity ^*^*^*^*^ "Many oldsters who have put our AA 'booze cure' to severe but successful tests still find they often lack emotional sobriety. To attain this, we must develop a real maturity and balance (which is to say humility) in our relations with ourselves, with our fellows, and with God." Bill W., Box 1980: The AA Grapevine, January 1958 As Bill Sees It, p. 244

There is no death! The stars go down

Good Morning!!! THERE IS NO DEATH Around the Year with Emmet Fox June 26 There is no death! The stars go down To rise upon some other shore, And bright in heaven's jeweled crown They shine for evermore. Time is no death! The dust we tread Shall change beneath the summer showers To golden grain, or mellow fruit, Or rainbow-tinted flowers. And ever near us, though unseen, The dear immortal spirits tread; For all the boundless universe Is life—there are no dead! —John Luckey McCreery, "There Is No Death" “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? . . . But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ? 1 Corinthians 15:55, 57

The empty womb, the empty bed.

The empty womb, the empty bed. I am 35 years old and have been married for 9 years. People around me think I'm "lucky" because my husband earns well, we live in a nice apartment, and I wear gold jewelry at weddings. But nobody knows the pain I carry inside my body every day. I can't be a mother. Doctors have tried, I've taken medication, prayed in temples and mosques, but nothing has worked. And because of this, my husband has slowly begun to hate me. When I look into their eyes, I no longer see love, only disappointment. At every party, my in-laws tease me: "What good is a woman if she can't have children?" Do they think I'm a machine? Do they think my value lies solely in my womb? At night, I cry silently into my pillow while he turns his back. Sometimes I wonder: what is more painful, not having children or being treated as less than human by the man you love? If motherhood is destiny, then why was I chosen for this curse? Some stories deserve to be heard, not just read. If you agree, click "like." And follow us to hear more voices that refuse to be silenced.

The Distance Between Us

The Distance Between Us Chapter One: After the Storm At forty-eight, Meera Kapoor believed that love belonged to her past. Ten years earlier, she had walked out of a bitter marriage. Her husband, Rajiv, had been successful, charming, and emotionally absent. After years of arguments, accusations, and disappointments, their divorce became inevitable. The only good thing to emerge from that marriage was their son, Arjun. Now twenty-four, Arjun was the center of Meera's world. She had sacrificed everything to raise him. Extra work shifts. Sleepless nights. Loneliness. Missed opportunities. She never complained. Arjun was worth it. Or so she told herself. Yet when he moved into his own apartment after graduation, silence settled over her life like dust. For the first time in years, she was alone. Completely alone. The realization frightened her. She tried filling the emptiness with hobbies. Yoga. Painting. Book clubs. Nothing worked. The evenings remained long. The apartment remained quiet. The loneliness remained. Then one evening Arjun brought home a friend. And everything changed. His name was Kabir Malhotra. Twenty-eight years old. Confident. Intelligent. A successful architect. He possessed an easy smile and a calm manner that immediately put people at ease. Unlike most young men, he listened when people spoke. Actually listened. Meera noticed it immediately. During dinner, Kabir asked questions about her paintings. Her favorite books. Her work. No one had shown that level of interest in years. Certainly not her ex-husband. When the evening ended, she felt unexpectedly happy. Then she laughed at herself. Don't be ridiculous, she thought. He's your son's friend. Nothing more. Weeks passed. Kabir became a regular visitor. Sometimes he came with Arjun. Sometimes he dropped by alone to return books or deliver documents. Gradually he and Meera developed a friendship. They discussed literature. Politics. Films. Travel. Life. Conversations flowed effortlessly. She found herself looking forward to them. Then worrying about looking forward to them. One rainy evening Arjun called. "Mom, I'm stuck at work. Kabir is coming over to pick up some files." "Fine." An hour later Kabir arrived. The power suddenly failed during a storm. The apartment plunged into darkness. Candles were lit. Rain battered the windows. Hours passed while they talked. For the first time, silence appeared between them. Not uncomfortable silence. Something else. Something dangerous. Then Kabir spoke. "You know, you're extraordinary." Meera froze. "What?" "I mean it." She looked away. "Kabir..." "I've wanted to say that for months." The room seemed smaller. The air heavier. "Don't." "Why?" "Because this is impossible." Yet her voice lacked conviction. And both of them knew it. Chapter Two: The Shock Meera spent the next week avoiding him. No calls. No messages. No visits. She convinced herself it had been a mistake. A momentary lapse. Nothing more. Then Arjun arrived unexpectedly. "You haven't spoken to Kabir." Her heart skipped. "What makes you say that?" "He seems miserable." Meera forced a smile. "I'm sure he'll survive." Arjun laughed. Then suddenly stopped. A strange expression crossed his face. "You don't... like him, do you?" The question landed like an explosion. She said nothing. Arjun stared. Slowly understanding dawned. His face turned pale. "Oh my God." The argument that followed was inevitable. "He's my friend!" "And I'm your mother." "Exactly!" Neither listened. Both shouted. Years of unspoken emotions erupted. Arjun accused her of selfishness. Meera accused him of treating her as though her life ended when she became a mother. The fight ended with Arjun storming out. For the first time in years, they stopped speaking. Days later Kabir arrived. "I told him." "What?" "That I care about you." Meera closed her eyes. The situation was spiraling out of control. "He hates me now." "He'll come around." "No." Kabir's expression hardened. "Why are we acting as though we've done something wrong?" Because she wasn't sure they hadn't. Chapter Three: The Secret The hostility continued for months. Arjun refused to answer calls. Family members took sides. Friends whispered. Judgments arrived from every direction. The relationship seemed doomed. Then a shocking revelation emerged. One evening Kabir visited carrying an old photograph. "Look at this." Meera stared. The picture showed a young woman she immediately recognized. Her college roommate, Nandini. But why would Kabir have it? "What is this?" Kabir swallowed. "Nandini was my mother." The room spun. "What?" Before Meera could process the revelation, he continued. "My mother died when I was ten." Meera remembered. A tragic accident. Years ago. But she had lost contact with Nandini long before that. "I never knew." "Neither did I." According to family records, Kabir discovered the connection only recently. The revelation stunned both of them. The world suddenly seemed much smaller. And far more complicated. The discovery raised questions. How had fate brought them together decades later? Coincidence? Destiny? Or something else? The answers became even stranger. While sorting through his late mother's belongings, Kabir found a diary. Inside were repeated references to Meera. Pages filled with affection. Admiration. Memories. One passage caught his attention. "If anything ever happens to me, I hope Meera knows how much she meant to me." Meera cried while reading it. Not because of romance. Because of loss. Because someone she had once loved as a friend was gone forever. Yet somehow had returned to her life through her son’s friend. Chapter Four: The Return of Rajiv Just when things seemed impossible to complicate further, Rajiv reappeared. After years of distance, Meera's ex-husband suddenly wanted reconciliation. The timing was suspicious. Too suspicious. "You heard about Kabir." Rajiv smiled awkwardly. "Maybe." "What do you want?" "Another chance." She nearly laughed. A decade too late. Yet Rajiv refused to disappear. Flowers arrived. Letters followed. Then apologies. Real apologies. Not excuses. Not manipulations. Actual regret. For the first time, Meera saw genuine remorse. The development unsettled her. Because she had spent years hating him. Hatred was simpler. Forgiveness required thought. Meanwhile Arjun's anger softened unexpectedly. The catalyst came from an unlikely source. His grandmother. Meera's mother. She listened patiently to his complaints. Then asked a simple question. "Do you want your mother to be happy?" "Of course." "Then why are you punishing her for finding happiness?" The question lingered. Days later Arjun called. For the first time in months. Neither apologized immediately. But the wall between them began to crack. Chapter Five: The Twist Nobody Saw Coming Just as reconciliation seemed possible, Kabir vanished. No calls. No messages. No explanation. One day passed. Then two. Then five. Panic grew. Meera feared the worst. Finally, a letter arrived. It contained a single sentence. I need to tell you the truth. And an address. The location was a seaside town hundreds of kilometers away. When Meera arrived, Kabir was waiting. His face looked exhausted. Haunted. "What happened?" He hesitated. Then spoke. "The age difference never bothered me." "Then what?" "My father." The answer made no sense. Until he explained. Years earlier, Kabir's father and Rajiv had secretly been business partners. Not merely partners. Best friends. Their families had known each other. There were even photographs proving it. Somehow those connections disappeared over time. The discovery itself wasn't shocking. The next revelation was. Kabir's father had once wanted Meera and Kabir to meet. Years before either of them knew one another. A bizarre coincidence that never materialized. The strange interconnectedness of their lives felt almost unbelievable. Yet Kabir hadn't disappeared because of old photographs. He had disappeared because he was afraid. Afraid that every new revelation would make their relationship seem increasingly impossible. "What if everyone is right?" he asked. "What if we're forcing something that shouldn't exist?" For a long time neither spoke. Then Meera answered quietly. "Every important thing in my life came with fear." Chapter Six: Choices Months passed. The conflict slowly evolved. Not everyone approved. Many never would. But approval was no longer the issue. The real question became simpler. Could two people build a future despite the complications surrounding them? Then fate intervened one final time. Kabir received a prestigious job offer overseas. A dream opportunity. A chance to lead an international architectural project. The position required immediate relocation. For years. Perhaps permanently. The decision tore him apart. Accept the career opportunity. Or remain. Everyone assumed Meera would ask him to stay. She did the opposite. "You should go." "What?" "You'll resent me if you don't." "I love you." "And because you love me, you should go." It was the hardest thing she had ever said. The night before his departure, they sat together watching the city lights. Neither wanted the evening to end. "What happens now?" Kabir asked. Meera smiled sadly. "I don't know." For once, uncertainty didn't frighten her. Chapter Seven: The Distance Between Us Three years passed. Life changed. Arjun married. Rajiv eventually found peace and moved on. Meera continued painting. Exhibitions followed. Recognition arrived. For the first time, she built an identity independent of being someone's wife or mother. Kabir remained abroad. They spoke occasionally. Then less often. Life intervened. Time intervened. Distance intervened. The relationship gradually transformed into memory. A beautiful one. But memory nonetheless. Then came the final twist. One winter afternoon, Meera attended an international art exhibition in Delhi. As she walked through the gallery, she noticed a familiar building design displayed on a screen. An architectural project. Created by Kabir. She smiled. Then someone spoke behind her. "I wondered if you'd come." She turned. Kabir stood there. Older. Wiser. Still carrying the same smile. "What are you doing here?" "I came home." The answer was simple. Yet years seemed to collapse between them. They spent hours talking. Not about the past. Not about missed opportunities. About the present. The people they had become. The lives they had built separately. The mistakes they had survived. At sunset Kabir led her to a rooftop overlooking the city. The skyline glowed gold. For several moments neither spoke. Then he asked quietly, "Do you remember what I told you years ago during that storm?" She laughed. "That I was extraordinary?" "Yes." "You were very dramatic." "I still mean it." Meera looked at the horizon. At the life behind her. The uncertain future ahead. She realized something surprising. The greatest love story of her life wasn't about romance. It was about rediscovering herself. Kabir had been part of that journey. An important part. But not the whole story. And that was why, when he finally took her hand and asked whether they should stop letting time make decisions for them, she answered without fear. Without hesitation. Without seeking anyone's permission. "Yes." Not because she needed saving. Not because she feared loneliness. But because, after years of loss, judgment, conflict, and impossible choices, she had finally learned the difference between living for others and living honestly. Below them, the city lights flickered to life. Above them, the evening sky deepened into blue. And between them remained a distance once thought impossible to cross. A distance that, at last, had disappeared.

Chapter One: The City of Hills and Sea

Chapter One: The City of Hills and Sea The rain arrived over Chittagong like a familiar song. For forty-two years, Anindita Roy had loved the city. She loved the green hills that rolled toward the horizon. She loved the smell of salt carried inland from the Bay of Bengal. She loved the chaos of the markets, the tea stalls crowded with students, the old bookstores where forgotten novels gathered dust. Most of all, she loved its people. To Anindita, people were simply people. Not Hindus. Not Muslims. Not Buddhists. Not Christians. Just human beings trying to survive another day. Her father had taught her that. A history teacher, he often said, "The moment you begin seeing labels before faces, you've already lost your humanity." Anindita carried that philosophy into adulthood. She became a journalist. Her husband, Dr. Arup Roy, became a physician. Together they built a modest but happy life. They had no children. Instead, they adopted causes. Education. Healthcare. Women's rights. Interfaith harmony. Their apartment walls were covered with photographs of friends from every community imaginable. Anindita often joked that if extremists from all sides saw her guest list, they would unite in hating her. The joke became less funny as years passed. The atmosphere around them slowly changed. Conversations became sharper. People began asking questions they never used to ask. "What religion is your neighbor?" "Whose side are you on?" "Why aren't you speaking for your own community?" The divisions deepened. Anindita wrote article after article warning against hatred. Few listened. Hatred, she discovered, was easier to sell than peace. One evening she returned home from work and found Arup unusually silent. "What happened?" she asked. He hesitated. Then he handed her a note. It had been slipped under the clinic door. A threat. Anonymous. Crude. Violent. It accused him of treating patients from the "wrong" community. Anindita stared at it. Then laughed. "Idiots." Arup did not laugh. "There's more." He showed her three additional notes. Each worse than the previous one. For the first time in years, she felt fear. Not for herself. For him. Weeks later violence erupted in several parts of the city. Rumors spread faster than facts. Buildings burned. Shops were attacked. People disappeared. Nobody seemed certain what was true. Yet everyone was angry. Anindita covered the unrest as a journalist. The things she witnessed haunted her. A mosque damaged. A temple vandalized. Families fleeing. Children crying. Everyone blaming everyone else. Everyone convinced they were the victims. Nobody willing to acknowledge the suffering of others. One night she returned home exhausted. "I don't recognize this country anymore." Arup placed a hand on hers. "We may have to leave." The words stunned her. Leave? Leave Chittagong? Leave the city where generations of her family had lived? Impossible. Unthinkable. Yet as the months passed, the possibility became increasingly real. The attack came on a humid summer night. A mob gathered outside the clinic. Windows shattered. Stones flew. Someone set fire to a storage room. Arup and his staff escaped through a rear exit. The clinic burned for hours. The next morning little remained. Anindita stood before the ruins. She felt something break inside her. Not faith. Not courage. Belonging. For the first time, Chittagong no longer felt like home. Three months later they crossed the border into India carrying two suitcases and a lifetime of memories. Or so Anindita believed. She had no idea how quickly those memories would disappear. Chapter Two: The Accident The road to Kolkata was crowded. Refugees. Migrants. Workers. Dreamers. People chasing better futures. People escaping worse pasts. Anindita watched the landscape blur outside the window. She felt numb. Arup squeezed her hand. "We'll start again." She nodded. Then a truck appeared. A horn screamed. Metal crashed. Glass exploded. Darkness swallowed everything. When Anindita opened her eyes, she was in a hospital. Machines beeped. Voices murmured. Pain throbbed through her skull. A stranger sat beside her bed. He looked exhausted. Relieved. Terrified. "Anu?" he whispered. She frowned. "Who are you?" The man's face drained of color. "My God." Doctors rushed in. Questions followed. Name? Age? Address? Family? She had no answers. Nothing. The accident had stolen nearly every autobiographical memory she possessed. She remembered language. She remembered facts. She remembered how to read. How to write. How to eat. How to walk. But she could not remember herself. Not even her own name. Arup was devastated. Doctors called it retrograde amnesia. Recovery was uncertain. Some memories might return. Others might never come back. Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Anindita learned her identity from photographs and documents. She studied herself like a detective examining evidence. A wedding photograph. Travel pictures. News articles carrying her byline. Letters from friends. Yet the woman in those images felt like a stranger. One evening she asked Arup a question. "How do I know you're telling me the truth?" The question struck him like a bullet. "What?" "What if you're not my husband?" Silence filled the room. She immediately regretted it. Yet the doubt remained. How could she trust memories that belonged to someone else? Chapter Three: The Woman in Blue Six months later they settled in Kolkata. Life slowly regained structure. Arup found work at a private hospital. Anindita attended therapy. Some fragments returned. A school playground. The smell of mangoes. A rainy afternoon. Nothing substantial. Nothing coherent. Then the letters started arriving. No sender. No address. Each contained only one sentence. "You were never supposed to remember." At first she dismissed them as a prank. Then a second letter arrived. Then a third. Then a fourth. Always the same sentence. Always typed. Never handwritten. Fear returned. Who was sending them? And what wasn't she supposed to remember? One afternoon she noticed something strange. A woman in blue clothing appeared repeatedly near their apartment. At the market. Outside a pharmacy. Near a bus stop. Watching. Always watching. Whenever Anindita approached, the woman disappeared. The sightings became frequent. She told Arup. He dismissed it. "You're under stress." Maybe he was right. Maybe. Yet the feeling persisted. Someone was following her. Someone knew something. The breakthrough came unexpectedly. While visiting a library, Anindita stumbled upon an old newspaper archive. Absentmindedly she searched her own name. Dozens of articles appeared. Most were familiar. Then she found one she had never seen. Published three weeks before they fled. The headline froze her blood. JOURNALIST CLAIMS TO POSSESS EVIDENCE OF SECRET EXTREMIST NETWORK. The article quoted her extensively. It described a major investigation. One she could not remember conducting. According to the report, she had uncovered a network responsible for orchestrating violence while pretending to represent opposing groups. The article ended abruptly. No follow-up existed. No conclusions. No arrests. Nothing. The story simply vanished. So did her memory of it. Chapter Four: Shadows from the Past That night Anindita confronted Arup. "Why didn't you tell me about this investigation?" His expression changed. A brief flicker. Fear. Then it vanished. "I thought the doctors said not to pressure your memory." "That's not an answer." He looked away. For the first time since the accident, she suspected he was hiding something. The next day she secretly hired a private investigator. Retired police officer Subhash Sen. Gruff. Observant. Persistent. Within weeks he uncovered troubling information. Before fleeing Chittagong, Anindita had met several confidential sources. Most were now dead. Two had disappeared. One was reportedly murdered days after speaking with her. Subhash leaned back in his chair. "Someone wanted that investigation buried." Anindita felt a chill. "What did I discover?" "I don't know." "But somebody thinks you still know." Three nights later Subhash was killed in a hit-and-run. Police called it an accident. Anindita did not believe them. Neither would anyone who saw the fear frozen on his face during their final meeting. Now she knew one thing with certainty. Her missing memories were dangerous. The woman in blue finally approached her. It happened during a thunderstorm. The stranger appeared beneath a railway bridge. "Don't scream," she said. Anindita stared. "Who are you?" "My name is Farzana." The woman handed her a flash drive. "You trusted me once." "How do you know me?" "Because we worked together." Farzana hesitated. Then delivered a shocking revelation. The investigation had exposed a criminal syndicate that profited from communal violence. Weapons. Extortion. Political manipulation. Disinformation. They deliberately fueled hatred because chaos generated money and influence. "They didn't care which religion people belonged to," Farzana said. "They only cared about power." Anindita's heart pounded. "What happened next?" Farzana's eyes filled with sorrow. "You disappeared." Chapter Five: The Greatest Lie The flash drive contained encrypted files. Videos. Photographs. Financial records. Names. Enough evidence to destroy powerful people. But one file changed everything. It was a video recorded by Anindita herself. The timestamp showed it was made two days before the accident. The screen flickered. Then her own face appeared. Tired. Anxious. Determined. The recorded Anindita spoke directly into the camera. "If you're watching this, memory loss may have already occurred." Present-day Anindita froze. The woman on screen continued. "I discovered something terrible. The violence wasn't entirely spontaneous. Influential people from multiple factions secretly cooperated behind the scenes. They needed conflict." The room spun. But the greatest shock came next. "If anything happens to me, do not trust everyone around you." The recording paused. Then resumed. "Especially Arup." Anindita stopped breathing. "No..." She replayed it. Again. And again. The words remained unchanged. Especially Arup. Impossible. The man had cared for her. Protected her. Stayed beside her through everything. Hadn't he? That evening she searched his study while he was at work. Hidden inside a locked drawer she discovered passports. Bank records. False identities. Encrypted correspondence. The evidence was overwhelming. Arup had been lying. About many things. But why? When confronted, he did not deny it. Instead he sat quietly. As though he had anticipated the moment. "You're finally remembering." "Tell me the truth." He closed his eyes. Then began. Years earlier he had infiltrated the criminal network as an informant. His role was to gather evidence. Eventually he met Anindita. They fell in love. Neither initially knew the other's secret investigations. When they realized the truth, they joined forces. Together they collected enough evidence to expose the entire operation. Then the syndicate discovered them. "They wanted you dead," Arup said softly. "The accident wasn't an accident." The words hung in the air. "They tried to kill us?" "Yes." "And my memory?" "The head injury was real." Anindita struggled to absorb everything. Then another question emerged. "If all this is true, why did you hide it?" His voice broke. "Because after the accident, they believed you remembered nothing. The moment they learned otherwise, they'd come for you again." Chapter Six: Remembering The final pieces returned gradually. A warehouse. Hidden meetings. Secret recordings. Threats. Fear. Then one memory struck with overwhelming force. The night before the accident. She and Arup had arranged to transfer evidence to international journalists. Someone betrayed them. That betrayal led directly to the attack. But who? Not Arup. He had been targeted too. The answer arrived unexpectedly. Farzana. The woman in blue. The realization hit like lightning. Farzana had always appeared exactly when needed. Too conveniently. Too perfectly. Anindita reviewed the flash drive. Subtle inconsistencies emerged. Altered timestamps. Edited documents. Manipulated evidence. Farzana wasn't helping. She was controlling the narrative. A trap was arranged. Anindita agreed to meet Farzana alone. The location: an abandoned riverside warehouse. Rain hammered the roof. Farzana arrived smiling. Then she noticed police emerging from the shadows. Her smile vanished. "You remembered." "Enough." Farzana laughed bitterly. "You always were stubborn." The truth spilled out. Farzana had indeed worked with them. Then greed intervened. Rather than expose the syndicate, she chose to profit from it. She betrayed everyone. The attack. The deaths. The years of fear. Everything traced back to her. Yet another twist remained. Farzana revealed the final secret before her arrest. The syndicate's leaders had never cared about ideology. They secretly financed multiple opposing groups simultaneously. Communities fought. Families suffered. Ordinary people died. Meanwhile the architects grew rich. Hatred was simply their business model. Chapter Seven: The River Remembers Months later the trials began. Politicians. Criminals. Financiers. Propagandists. Many were convicted. Others escaped. Justice, Anindita learned, was rarely complete. But it mattered. One evening she stood beside the Hooghly River. The sun painted the water gold. Arup joined her. "How much do you remember now?" She smiled. "Not everything." "Enough?" She considered the question. The answer surprised her. "Yes." Because memory wasn't only about the past. It was also about understanding. Understanding who she was. What she believed. Why she had fought. She remembered Chittagong. The hills. The sea. The markets. The friends she had lost. The home she could never fully return to. She remembered the violence. But she also remembered the countless people who had protected one another despite fear. Muslims sheltering Hindu families. Hindus protecting Muslim neighbors. Ordinary people refusing to surrender their humanity. Those memories mattered too. Perhaps more. A year later Anindita published a book. Its title was The River That Forgot Her Name. In the final chapter she wrote: "I lost my memory, but I found a truth larger than memory itself. Fanatics often speak as though communities are eternal enemies. Yet the people who saved me belonged to every faith imaginable. The people who endangered me did too. Goodness and cruelty do not recognize religious boundaries. They recognize only human choices." The book became widely read. Not because it offered easy answers. But because it refused easy hatred. On a monsoon evening, she received one final anonymous letter. Her hands trembled as she opened it. Inside was a single line. This time different from before. "Now you remember enough." There was no signature. No clue. No explanation. Perhaps one mystery would always remain unsolved. Anindita smiled and tossed the letter into the river. The paper drifted away. For years she had chased memories. Now she understood that memory alone was not identity. Identity was the choices one made after remembering. And she had finally chosen. Not fear. Not vengeance. Not division. But the difficult, stubborn belief that people could still see one another as human beings. The river carried the letter into darkness. The woman who had once forgotten her name watched it disappear. Then she turned toward home.

The Last Judgment

The Last Judgment Michael D'Souza had never believed that a human heart could contain so much rage. For twelve years, his life had revolved around one person—his wife, Sarah. They lived modestly in a small town, sharing dreams of growing old together. Sarah possessed a kindness that softened every rough edge in Michael's personality. Where he was impulsive, she was patient. Where he was stubborn, she was understanding. Then came the diagnosis. A rare neurological disease. The doctors spoke carefully, but Michael heard only fragments. "Progressive." "No known cure." "Months, perhaps a year." The world collapsed in that sterile hospital room. Michael spent every rupee he had. He sold his car. Mortgaged the house. Borrowed money from friends. Consulted specialists in different cities. He prayed in temples, churches, mosques—anywhere that offered hope. Nothing worked. Sarah deteriorated day by day. The woman who once danced in the kitchen struggled to lift a spoon. One rainy evening, she squeezed his hand. "Promise me something." Michael fought tears. "Anything." "When I'm gone... don't become angry at the world." He nodded. But it was a promise he would not keep. Sarah died three days later. And something inside Michael died with her. At first, his grief appeared normal. Funeral. Condolences. Sympathy. People brought flowers. People offered prayers. People moved on. Michael didn't. The anger grew. He blamed doctors. He blamed pharmaceutical companies. He blamed politicians. He blamed God. Most of all, he blamed people for continuing to live as though nothing had happened. The sight of laughter became unbearable. A month later, he entered a bar. A drunken man accidentally spilled beer on his shirt. The man laughed. "Sorry, buddy." Michael stabbed him in the neck with a broken bottle. The entire room froze. Blood sprayed across the counter. Michael stared at the dying stranger. And felt nothing. No guilt. No fear. Only silence. He walked away before police arrived. The newspapers called it a senseless murder. The police found no motive. No connection. No robbery. Nothing. The victim simply happened to be there. Michael watched the news from his apartment. A strange realization formed. The world had taken Sarah. Now the world would suffer. The killings became more frequent. A businessman shot in a parking lot. A gang member stabbed in an alley. A corrupt moneylender beaten to death. Then innocent victims. A taxi driver. A teacher. A college student. The pattern made no sense. Police profilers struggled. Some believed multiple killers were involved. Others suspected terrorism. Michael became a ghost. He moved constantly. Changed appearances. Used fake identities. Every murder made headlines. The public gave him a nickname. The Mourner. A man who left a single white rose beside every body. The same flower Sarah had loved. The nationwide manhunt intensified. Leading the investigation was Inspector Daniel Fernandes. A brilliant detective. Patient. Methodical. Relentless. For eight months Daniel chased shadows. Then finally, a breakthrough emerged. A traffic camera captured Michael near a crime scene. The image was blurry but usable. Police distributed it nationwide. Michael's face appeared everywhere. Television. Newspapers. Billboards. Social media. The hunter had become the hunted. One night, police surrounded a warehouse where Michael was hiding. Floodlights illuminated the building. Sirens echoed. Daniel stood outside with a loudspeaker. "Michael D'Souza! Come out with your hands up!" Silence. Then gunfire erupted. A fierce battle followed. Bullets shattered windows. Officers took cover. Three policemen were injured. Amid the chaos, Michael escaped through underground drainage tunnels. When police entered the warehouse, they found only a white rose. Daniel punched a wall in frustration. The killer had vanished again. Winter arrived. Michael's appearance became increasingly disheveled. His beard grew long. His eyes seemed permanently exhausted. The killings slowed. Not because he felt remorse. Because he felt empty. Revenge had failed. Nothing eased the pain. Every victim died. Yet Sarah remained gone. One evening, while wandering through heavy rain, he collapsed near an old church on the outskirts of the city. The church bells rang softly. The building was ancient. Weathered. Forgotten. A place called St. Matthew's Church. An elderly priest discovered him unconscious on the steps. The priest recognized him immediately. Everyone knew the face of The Mourner. Yet he carried Michael inside. Fed him. Treated his wounds. Asked no questions. For several days Michael remained there. Hidden. Safe. The priest never contacted police. That puzzled him. Finally, he asked. "Why haven't you turned me in?" The priest smiled. "Because God hasn't finished with you." Michael laughed bitterly. "God took my wife." The priest said nothing. That night Michael experienced a dream. Or perhaps something else. He found himself standing in endless darkness. Then light appeared. A figure emerged. Radiant. Peaceful. Wearing white. Michael immediately knew who it was. Jesus Christ. The figure looked at him without anger. Without condemnation. Only sorrow. Michael fell to his knees. "Why?" he shouted. "Why did she die?" No answer came. Instead, Jesus extended a hand. Suddenly Michael saw every victim. Every face. Every family destroyed. Every tear. Every funeral. The suffering he had created stretched endlessly before him. Michael screamed. The vision ended. The dreams continued. Night after night. He saw Sarah. Smiling sadly. Standing beside Jesus. Neither spoke. Yet somehow he understood. His pain did not justify the pain he inflicted on others. The realization shattered him. For the first time since Sarah's death, he cried. Not from grief. From guilt. Hours passed. Then days. The church became a prison of conscience. Finally, Michael approached the priest. "I'm ready." The priest nodded. "Ready for what?" "To surrender." The nation was stunned. After nearly a year of terror, The Mourner walked into a police station accompanied by an elderly priest. Television crews gathered instantly. Crowds shouted. Some demanded execution. Others demanded answers. Michael offered no resistance. He confessed to every murder. Forty-three victims. The number horrified the country. Inspector Daniel couldn't believe it. The nightmare was finally over. The trial became one of the most publicized in national history. Every day the courtroom overflowed. Families of victims attended. Reporters filled every seat. Michael pleaded guilty. No excuses. No insanity defense. No attempts to reduce punishment. When the judge asked if he wished to make a statement, Michael stood. "I cannot return the lives I stole." The courtroom remained silent. "I spent months blaming the world for my suffering. Then I became the very thing I hated." Some family members cried. Others stared with hatred. Michael continued. "I deserve whatever judgment comes." The sentencing was scheduled for the following week. No one doubted the outcome. Life imprisonment. Possibly death. Justice seemed inevitable. But fate had one final twist. On sentencing day, security was tighter than ever. Metal detectors. Armed officers. Snipers positioned on nearby rooftops. Authorities feared retaliation or disruption. The courtroom filled early. Judge. Lawyers. Victims' families. Journalists. Police. Everyone awaited the final chapter. Michael entered wearing handcuffs. For the first time in years, he appeared calm. Almost peaceful. The judge began reading the sentence. Then a loud crack echoed through the room. At first people thought it was equipment malfunctioning. Then Michael staggered. Blood blossomed across his chest. A sniper shot. Panic exploded. People screamed. Officers rushed forward. Another shot shattered a window. Michael collapsed. Chaos consumed the courtroom. Investigators initially assumed an assassin had targeted him. But the truth proved far stranger. The sniper wasn't an accomplice. Wasn't a victim's relative. Wasn't a vigilante. The shooter was Inspector Daniel Fernandes. The very man who had hunted Michael. The revelation shocked the nation. Daniel surrendered immediately. He offered no resistance. Only one explanation. Months earlier, Daniel's younger sister had become one of Michael's victims. The information had never been made public. Daniel concealed the relationship to remain on the case. He wanted justice. Or so he believed. But seeing Michael escape punishment through legal procedures wasn't enough. The grief he carried finally overwhelmed him. So he smuggled a rifle component by component into a nearby building over several weeks. And when sentencing began... He executed Michael himself. As paramedics worked desperately, Michael drifted in and out of consciousness. The courtroom noises faded. The ceiling blurred. Then something extraordinary happened. At least according to the priest who stood beside him. Michael smiled. A genuine smile. The first anyone had seen. He whispered three words. "I see her." Then he died. The story should have ended there. But another twist awaited. Weeks later investigators discovered a sealed envelope among Michael's possessions. The letter was addressed to Inspector Daniel Fernandes. Inside was a handwritten confession. Michael had learned months earlier that Daniel's sister was among his victims. He wrote: "If you're reading this, then grief has probably consumed you as it consumed me. I pray you make a better choice than I did." The letter ended with one sentence. "The moment you kill me for revenge, you become my reflection." When Daniel read those words, he broke down. Because they were true. The hunter had become the hunted. The avenger had become the murderer. The cycle had repeated itself. Exactly as Michael had warned. Years later, people still debated the meaning of the case. Some believed Michael found redemption. Others believed his crimes were unforgivable. Some viewed Daniel as a hero. Others called him a criminal. But Father Thomas, the old priest who sheltered Michael, offered a different perspective. During an interview he said: "Two men lost someone they loved. One answered grief with violence. The other answered grief with violence as well. The tragedy wasn't that Michael died. The tragedy was that hatred claimed two souls instead of one." The priest paused. Looking toward the church window where sunlight streamed through colored glass. Then he added: "Mercy arrived for both men. One accepted it. One rejected it." And that became the final mystery. Not who killed Michael D'Souza. Not how he escaped police. Not whether his visions were real. But whether redemption can still exist for a man who has walked so far into darkness. The answer, perhaps, belonged to a Judge far beyond any earthly court.

SELF-DESTRUCTION

Good Morning!!! SELF-DESTRUCTION Around the Year with Emmet Fox June 23 Some thought should be given to the fate of those who commit suicide. The majority of those who take their own lives are so terrorized at the time that they are not entirely responsible for the act. Such people fare on the other side like anyone else. Conscious and intentional self-destruction is a refusal to meet the problems of life, and obviously it cannot be possible to do that successfully. These persons are apt to find themselves in a confused mental state. Of course, they can be greatly helped by prayer, as can all others. Ultimately, they have to face all over again precisely the kind of problem they have run away from. "Like a father pitieth his children, so, the Lord pitieth them that fear Him, For He knoweth our frame; he remembereth that we are dust" Psalm 103:13-14 "the goodness of God endureth . . ." Psalm 5:1