10- Dead Sea Scrolls – the Genesis is in the Genetics

 

August 21, 2014 dharmendrabhanj 

Chapter Forty-One: Badrinath Again — The Yogi's Message and the Ancient Scripture

~ ✦ ~

I went back to Badrinath in September.

Not because I had planned to — the November deadline for the manuscript made the timing irrational, and my publisher, when I told her I was going, produced the specific silence of a person who has decided that pointing out the irrationality is less useful than accepting it. But the restlessness had been building since the night on the balcony, a quality of unresolved question that the writing could not address because the writing was the record of what had happened and the question was about what was happening now, still unfolding, still in motion.

The mountain road was autumn-dry, the tourist season over, the sky the particular deep blue of the high Himalayas in September when the monsoon has cleared and the winter has not yet arrived and the air has a quality of absolute transparency that makes the peaks look cut rather than grown, edges so precise they seem architectural.

The temple was quieter. The priests — the Nambudiri Brahmins from Kerala who had maintained the Badrinath temple since Adi Shankaracharya established the lineage twelve hundred years ago — moved through the morning puja with the focused, unhurried devotion of people who understand that the ritual does not require an audience.

I found the head priest after the puja. He was a man of perhaps seventy, with the specific quality of stillness I had come to associate, across this journey, with people who had been doing the same essential thing for a very long time and had moved, through the repetition, beyond technique to something less nameable.

He told me the Yogi had left something for me.

This was said with the matter-of-fact quality of a man relaying a message from a mutual acquaintance who had stopped by last Tuesday, not from a being who appeared and disappeared behind waterfalls and had been doing so for at least two hundred years.

He led me to the temple library — a small room behind the main sanctum, smelling of old paper and camphor and the accumulated centuries of scholarship that had passed through it — and placed before me a bundle of palm leaves, a modern printed text, and a handwritten note in the clean, decisive script I had seen before in the sage's room at the other end of the Manasarovar vision.

The note said, in Sanskrit that I translated with effort and the priest's occasional assistance: The questions you are carrying are already answered. You are simply not yet looking in the correct place. The scripture tells you where to look. The Qumran caves will confirm it. After that: the Dead Sea, the scrolls, and the woman waiting beside the salt water. She has news. Go.

I opened the printed text. It was a translation of a fifteenth-century scripture called the Shri Guru Bhagavat. The passage the Yogi had marked was long, but I want to give you the essential of it, because it is the clearest statement I have found of what this entire journey has been trying to say, and it was written five hundred years ago by a person who had access to an understanding that contemporary science is only beginning to reconstruct:

The earth, inhabited by very many species, is just like a Garden of God.

The seed of these species from other regions became the seed of living species of this earth.

Many genres of subtle species, coming from other regions of the sky,

created human civilization on earth.

 

For the supra-mental beings, this earth is a laboratory.

They gave knowledge to the human race and built numerous civilizations.

The supra-mental beings, at the initial stage gave gross knowledge

and gradually imparted divine knowledge.

 

The gardener nourishes the trees and plants with love and affection,

protects the fruits and flowers.

For creating the best fruits, the gardener is always anxious.

When excellent fruit comes, he sows its seed elsewhere.

 

The 'human seeds' carrying Nara Tattwa remains merged with Praana-Vayu — Vital Air of Life.

This Praana-Vayu moves anywhere and everywhere carrying the human seed along with it.

The supra-mental beings move at warp speed — speed beyond imagination.

Superfast movement of these subtle forces in Space is speedier than the speed of light.

 

The advanced 'Nara-seeds' are born in different places.

In whichever planet they are born, they bring evolution there.

The Universe is therefore full of seen and unseen living entities.

 

The Genesis is not in the scripture. The Genesis is in the Genetics.

I read it twice. Then I sat for a long time in the temple library with the old paper smell and the camphor and the September light coming through the single high window.

The Fakir had said it on the mountain: the crop circles are not an invasion. They are an immigration. The Shri Guru Bhagavat had said it five centuries before the Fakir: the gardener sows the best seeds elsewhere. The Atlas of the universe is populated by the gardened worlds, the ones where the supra-mental beings have brought evolution by arriving, choosing embodiment, and living as the species they have come to cultivate.

Ela, online for one evening, calling Angel mata. The binary code: THE CHILD CHOOSES HER PARENTS.

The fifth race does not arrive as invaders. It arrives as infants. Chosen. Loved. Raised by the people they have selected for the specific qualities — the curiosity, the courage, the capacity to go into waterfalls and say what if — that the next step of the civilisation requires.

I booked a flight to Tel Aviv.

The Yogi's note had said: Go.

~ ✦ ~

Chapter Forty-Two: The Dead Sea — Scrolls, Salt, and the News by the Water

~ ✦ ~

The Dead Sea is the lowest point on the surface of the earth.

This is not merely a geographical fact. In the way that all the significant sites of this journey have been both physical places and something more — the cave behind the waterfall, the zero point at the pyramid's apex, the electromagnetic node at Konark — the lowest point on the earth's surface carries its own quality. Everything descends to it. The salt accumulates because there is no outflow — the Jordan River brings its water and the water evaporates and the minerals remain, concentration increasing with each cycle until the water is ten times saltier than the ocean and you cannot sink in it, which is a strange and specific gift: a body of water in which the human body is irreducibly buoyant. You cannot go under. You can only float.

Angel was there when I arrived.

Of course she was.

The synchronicity of our movements had, by this point in the journey, stopped surprising me — we had been running on the same track, from our own separate starting points, since the moment on the mountain road above Badrinath when I had pulled over. The universe's logistical efficiency in arranging our encounters was something I had learned to receive with gratitude rather than astonishment.

She was at the shore of the Dead Sea in the late afternoon, floating on her back in the impossibly dense water with the quality of complete surrender that the Dead Sea induces — the body held against its will, the anxiety of sinking simply unavailable as an option, the only possible relationship with the water being trust. She was looking at the sky. Her eyes were closed.

I waded in.

She heard me and opened her eyes and turned her head and looked at me with the expression that had become, over the months of this journey, the expression I would carry into every subsequent age: unhurried, direct, the grey-green eyes without guard, the look of someone who has fully arrived at where they are.

"You got the note," she said.

"From the Yogi. Yes."

"I got one too. Mine was left with the curator at the Dead Sea Scrolls exhibition in Jerusalem. In an envelope. With my name on it." She paused. "My name and my address in Venice. Which the Yogi — "

"Could not possibly have known through ordinary means," I said.

"No," she agreed.

We floated for a while in the salt-thick water of the world's lowest point, looking at the same sky, which was the particular amber of the Judean desert late afternoon, the Moab mountains across the water wearing their sunset in the colours of old iron.

Then she said: "Arjun. I have something to tell you."

Her voice had the quality it took when she was saying something true that required the full weight of its truth — not dressed, not softened, simply placed.

"Tell me," I said.

She turned her head to look at me.

"I am pregnant," she said.

The salt water held me. The sky was amber and iron. The Moab mountains were very old and very still.

I looked at her face — the quality of what was in it: not anxiety, not the complicated social accounting of unexpected news, but something simpler and deeper. The look of someone who has known something for a few days and has been sitting with it, letting it become real, and has arrived at an understanding of it that is larger than the circumstance and smaller than the cosmos and exactly the right size for what it is.

"The child chooses her parents," I said.

"Yes," Angel said.

"A daughter."

"I don't know yet. But — " she paused. "Yes. A daughter."

I thought of Ela. Of the single evening of extraordinary contact and then the silence. Of the Facebook profile that existed without history, the IP address that traced to a satellite that was not in any database, the email symbol that resolved to a geostationary orbit above a planet that the being using it was preparing to leave for a different kind of existence. Of the binary message: THE CHILD CHOOSES HER PARENTS. Of the Fakir's words: she will be born into a family that knows how to receive her. She chose well.

I reached through the salt water and took Angel's hand.

She held it — not the grip of Manasarovar, not the formal grasp of the decision-making moment, but the simple, complete hold of two people who are on the same side of something and know it.

"Venice in July was a long time ago," she said.

"We kept the appointment," I said.

"We kept all of them."

Above us, the first star appeared in the amber sky — a single point of light in the last of the day, the same morning star that had been above the pyramid at dawn, the same star that had hung over the cave behind Vasundhara Falls on the first night the temple bells rang.

"What do we call her?" Angel said.

I thought about this. About rivers. About the Saraswati, the ancient river of wisdom that runs underground from the Himalayan source to its confluence with the Ganga and the Yamuna — invisible, essential, the river that the Vedic poets called the mother of all rivers and that geologists have now confirmed exists, flowing unseen beneath the Thar Desert, sustaining life that has no visible source of water.

About Angel's documentary and the thread of knowledge that had run, underground and persistent, through every civilisation from Atlantis to the present — surfacing here in a cave painting, there in a palm leaf, here in the geometry of a temple wheel, there in the crop circle pattern on five small coins in an inner jacket pocket.

About the river that goes underground and does not stop.

"Saraswati," I said. "Sara."

Angel was quiet for a moment.

Then: "Yes," she said. Simply, entirely. "That is her name."

~ ✦ ~

The Qumran Caves — What the Essenes Preserved

We visited the Qumran caves the following morning — the limestone caves above the Dead Sea shore where, in 1947, a Bedouin shepherd threw a stone into a dark opening looking for a lost goat and heard the sound of it striking clay pots and changed the archaeological history of the world.

The Dead Sea Scrolls — two thousand years old, preserved in the dry desert air of the caves in ceramic jars sealed by the same knowledge of airtight preservation that the Atlantean scientists had used for the containers beneath the Sphinx — contained the library of the Essenes: the mystical Jewish community that had lived in the desert above the Dead Sea in the centuries around the time of Jesus, practicing a discipline of meditation, shared living, and the careful transcription of ancient knowledge that had remarkable parallels with the Vedic ashram traditions of India.

The Essenes were not recording their own ideas. They were preserving older ones — much older, pre-flood records that had been transmitted through the lineages of the initiates since the time before the cataclysm, the same knowledge that the Yogi's scripture described: the supra-mental beings, the human seeds, the garden of God, the cycle of cosmic time.

The copper scroll found in Cave Three was the most extraordinary — a list of sixty-four locations across the land where gold, silver, and manuscripts had been hidden. Not the treasure of the Temple of Jerusalem alone, as the archaeologists initially assumed. The locations, when mapped, formed a geometric pattern — the same radial symmetry as the Yantra, the Konark wheel, the coins from Bhrigu Lake. The copper scroll was a map, but it was also a Yantra. The hiding places were also nodes in a sacred geometry laid across the landscape.

A Buddhist monk was sitting inside Cave Three when we arrived.

He had the quality of eyes I now recognised immediately. He looked at Angel and me with the expression of a meeting expected.

"The scrolls say what the other scrolls say," he told us, without preamble. "The Vedas and the Bible and the Mahabharata and the Qumran texts — they are the same understanding in different languages. The language changes with the culture. The understanding does not change." He looked at Angel. "You are well?"

"Yes," she said. The slight emphasis that carried more than the word.

He nodded, with the specific warmth of someone receiving news they already knew but are genuinely pleased to have confirmed. "The Essenes knew about the cycle of births," he said. "The Dead Sea Scrolls include texts on reincarnation that the conventional translations have not made prominent. The soul's journey — from the subtle planes, through the elements, into embodiment — it is here, in these caves, in jars, preserved. Evidence for the centuries that came after, when the understanding had been largely forgotten and would need to be reconstructed from fragments."

He stood, with the ease of someone for whom altitude and stone are not obstacles.

"The other end of this cave comes out in Jerusalem," he said. "As it has always come out in Jerusalem. The tunnel is old — volcanic, as you know. The same network." He smiled. "The whole land is connected underground. As the whole world is connected underground. As all of us are connected — " he glanced at Angel's hands, one of which I was still holding, "— in ways that the surface rarely shows."

He was gone with the discretion that all significant beings in this story had exercised — not vanishing dramatically, simply no longer there in the way that presences sometimes simply cease, leaving the quality of what they were behind them in the air.

Angel looked at me.

"The Genesis is not in the scrolls," she said, quoting the note the Yogi's scripture had ended with. "The Genesis is in the Genetics."

"Yes," I said.

She looked at the cave wall — the limestone, pale and ancient, holding its two-thousand-year silence with the patience of stone.

"She's already begun," Angel said softly.

"Yes," I said. "She has."