Conversations with a Mirror...

The ancient Shri Nathji Temple of Vrindavan glowed like a jewel beneath the moonlit sky. Inside the garbhagriha, the air hummed with devotion. Gopis in saffron and white sarees moved like celestial beings, their hands busy in Krishna’s seva. One adorned the idol’s shringar with fresh mogra garlands, another chanted " Hare Krishna, Hare Rama " in a melodic kirtan , while two others gently swayed the jhula where the Balgopal idol sat, His lotus eyes half-closed in eternal playfulness. The scent of ghee diyas and dhoop mingled with the faint sweetness of prasadam. Amidst them stood Mirabai, her voice weaving verses of " Payoji Maine Ram Ratan Dhan Payo " into the temple’s sacred rhythm. Young Radhika, tasked with fanning Krishna’s idol with a chamara (yak-hair fan), began her seva with quiet focus. But as her eyes lingered on Kanha’s murti—His peacock feather crown, the makar kundala glinting at His ears, the butter-smeared lips curved in mischief—her heart quickened. ...

by Isaac Asimov   Murray Templeton was forty-five years old, in the prime of life, and with all parts of his body in perfect working order except for certain key portions of his coronary arteries, but that was enough. The pain had come suddenly, had mounted to an unbearable peak, and had then ebbed steadily.  He could feel his breath slowing and a kind of gathering peace washing over him. There is no pleasure like the absence of pain – immediately after pain.  Murray felt an almost giddy lightness as though he were lifting in the air and hovering. He opened his eyes and noted with distant amusement that the others in the room were still agitated.  He had been in the laboratory when the pain had struck, quite without warning, and when he had staggered, he had heard surprised outcries from the others before everything vanished into overwhelming agony. Now, with the pain gone, the others were still hovering, still anxious, still gathered about his fallen body –– Which, ...