Beyond the Void

(Fiction)

Manu was the weakest of all creatures.
But the day he stood on two feet, his world changed.
Standing upright, he could now see far into the distance. He could watch for threats and prepare for attacks before they arrived.
He began to look toward the sky.

His days passed in adventure, but his nights… his nights dissolved into the mystery of the stars.
The darkness frightened him, yet the moonlight, the glittering stars, and the falling comets filled him with awe.
And so, his days were spent in fear, and his nights in wonder.

Each morning, upon waking, when things became clear once again, Manu would raise his hands in reverence toward the sun and sky.
At night, when the moon shone and bathed the world in silver, he would smile like a victor.
But when the moon disappeared and darkness spread its shroud across fifteen nights, terror gripped him again.
In fear, he began to worship the moon.

Storms, floods, lightning—every catastrophe, he linked to the sky.
Thus, Manu’s attention turned upward, and with it, his fears and hopes.
Whether joy, grief, pain, or peace—whatever the cause, Manu found comfort in looking upward.
Fear replaced faith within him, and in the sky he sought solace.

As time passed, Manu began to worship all that could help or harm him:
the sun, the moon, the stars, the wind, the fire—
everything he could not control, he began to revere.

I ran into Manu on the roadside today.
I was in a hurry, but he seemed unusually calm.
He stopped me and began to chat.

“I’m in a rush, Manu,” I said. “We’ll catch up another time.”

But he took my hand,
“Oh come on, it’s been ages. Just a few minutes won’t hurt.”

Reluctantly, I agreed. He took me to a nearby temple, the shawala, where he went daily.

“You should come here too,” he said.
“It brings peace to the soul. Worries vanish, and joy comes to stay.”

I listened quietly as he went on.

“Why don’t you ever come?” he asked again.

“I just don’t,” I replied.

“There must be a reason. Look at all the people—women, elders, youth, children—they come here every morning and evening. But you don’t. Why?”

“I feel suffocated here. I get restless,” I admitted.

His eyes widened.
He hadn’t expected that answer.

“But we come here for peace,” he said.
“To ease our burdens, to find calm.”

“And do all of them find peace?” I asked.
“Are they free from illness and sorrow?”

“Our suffering,” he said, “is because we’ve strayed from the path of dharma.”

“I don’t agree. All these people—have they all found peace?” I repeated.

Instead of answering, he said,
“Whatever happens, God is above, watching everything. You must believe that.”

“But you didn’t answer me. Are these people free of pain?
Remember the bus full of pilgrims that crashed?
Among the dead were infants and elders alike.
They were good people, on a sacred journey. Why did that happen to them?”

He had no answer.

He turned toward the altar and began to pray.
I quietly left.

Days passed.

One evening, I was watching TV when an old interview with Valentina Tereshkova, the first woman to travel to space, came on.

She said:
“When I returned from my first journey into space,
I was surrounded by elderly women.
One of them asked,
‘My dear child, you flew so high—did you see God there?’

And I replied:
‘No...
I did not see Him in space.’”