THE WHISPER OF MEMORIES

Hakob Makachian

THE WHISPER OF MEMORIES

THE WHISPER OF MEMORIES

Life Hides in the Details

Every person carries a secret that binds him to the world with strong bonds of dependence. Tirelessly it feeds his pride with arrogant emotions and, stirring up a turbulent imagination in the mind, keeps the consciousness in a constant state of expenditure. It seems to us that no one will ever learn of it, yet is it truly possible to hide that which has always been accessible to everyone?

Memory is the one and only source that was able to grant a certain sacred meaning to the path I have walked in coming to know this very secret. Within it I was able to discern the reason for which I undertook this incomparable wandering across the expanses of this world, a journey so saturated with adventures. For the desire to delight in its irresistible beauty and boundless possibilities is granted not to everyone, but only to the one who is able to see, to hear, and to comprehend.

At times — and to be honest, very often — one and the same thought would visit me: the path I have walked does not belong to me, and I am living a life that is not my own. In the end I turned out to be an involuntary observer of the events taking place, as though some invisible hand were so skillfully leading me. This premonition of duality seems natural, given the place in which it was destined for me to manifest, for in a world where the miracles dreamed of by all its inhabitants do indeed have their place. And for that very reason, among others, we are in no hurry to become aware of and to know that very miracle which is revealed in all its grandeur within each of us. Perhaps that is precisely why I occasionally sense the presence of a certain force that long ago became an inseparable part of me.

Now that the many secrets by which my mind was bewitched have become plain, I have allowed myself to draw back the very edge of the veil of deception, behind which my consciousness had been plunged into everyday illusions. It was precisely this that compelled me to turn to my memories, for only in them did it become possible to catch hold of the single thread that led me through the labyrinth of ignorance toward the knowledge of the miracle that is the life of every human being.

And so, sitting in a comfortable armchair upholstered in soft black leather, on the veranda of my house, I gaze into the distance, beyond the horizon, where the border of the ocean glistens like a golden thread beneath the rays of the midday star. Concentrating my attention on the line that divides the water and the sky, I try to recall the images of my bygone years. In my head, as though on display, dozens of memories scurry past one another, each more vivid than the last, but I wish to grasp the foundation, so as to build the chronology of events correctly. Here it is, this one! Or no, perhaps this one? For some reason, the more attempts I make, the less certainty remains in their reliability and in a favorable outcome to my undertaking.

I am certain that such a prologue would undoubtedly please many lovers of fiction. It grants in advance a certain state of satisfaction, preparing the reader to receive beautiful images. And already the imagination is ready to portray that very hero who is occupied with nothing but fighting the negative characters, those who dared to stand in his way. And how this hero, overcoming hardships and obstacles for the sake of that very truth, in the end inevitably attains a happy finale in the embrace of his beloved! But such reveries are needed by those who suffer from shortsightedness, who prefer to remain in the fetters of their own fantasies, just so as not to become who they truly are.

I, however, intend to reveal through my own example the true face of human nature, which will clearly not please many. Yet the worthy will nonetheless behold in this a boundless possibility to conquer that which is invisible and inaccessible to the majority. This will allow them to cast from their eyes that very veil of illusions, bringing to light what each of them has always tried to hide and to forget. And this will undoubtedly give them the chance to become strong and wise, those who will be equal to anything they could desire in this bipolar world of matter. Although, once the essence of this world is revealed to them, they will no longer need anything, for when you begin to perceive the unity of all that exists, then any desires to possess what already belongs to you — and yet, at the same time, cannot belong to you — vanish.

Well then, I shall not keep you waiting in suspense, and I will recount the wondrous story of the "living one," who came to know, perhaps, a little more than a human being is supposed to know. All the more so since the place where my consciousness now abides grants me not only absolute immunity from life's upheavals, but also allows me to do this without any doubt or regret. For the emotions of which human life is woven hold no power here. And that means there can be no consequences from them either. No, this place is not located where every one now living will surely follow in his appointed time. This place is always to be found where the consciousness of a person abides, and it is called the home of the soul.

I am certain that somewhere in a dark little corner of the subconscious, each of you yearns for home. But not for that home where loved ones await you, those without whom your life would have had no meaning to begin with. Rather, for that home where you would wish to find your very self. That self who holds the answers to all questions, and through whom you hope to come to know that mysterious and inexplicable thing for the sake of which you so fervently struggle and live.

Believe me, this home is not an illusion, but the most genuine reality there is. It is the place where you were born. But born not in the image of perishable flesh, whose role is, of course, significant and useful, but as an immortal source of life. Where there is not, and cannot be, anything of all that makes you an ordinary member of society. There is nothing there that would contribute to dividing your consciousness into any fragments. There all is one and stable. The biological imagination usually pictures such a state as repose, but that is not so. For it is impossible to describe a state that is formed simultaneously in all the existing sources of being — the Eternal Spirit.

First of all, in order to comprehend reality, one must imagine and then accept a construct that will in the end inevitably lead to the answer to the main question of your life: who am I? For this, it is not enough to bring your consciousness to a new formation, replacing within an already formed worldview the dogmas, images, and meanings accepted by society with those that are inadmissible in the surrounding community. What is needed is will, which, unfortunately, is not granted to everyone. And it makes no difference on what social rung a person stands in the society of consumers. Will may at times reside in the very weakest and most cowardly person, who, by a coincidence of circumstances, is capable in a single instant of turning into a fearless and courageous hero and becoming a splendid example to those around him. And conversely, it happens that the brave ones extolled by the crowd, or, worse still, the authorities acknowledged by the community, snap like the dry branches of a decrepit tree at the very first sign of danger.

All this is because our bodies, being in essence avatars in service to the Universal Consciousness, fully conform to all the criteria of the bipolar material world. Because of which the single source of life is forced, in our imagination, to divide into a multitude of fragments independent of one another. Not because someone or something is thereby trying to establish control over us and to govern us, but because the energy that materializes through direct physical action begins to be generated by us already during the forming of a choice. And at the foundation of this process lies precisely the condition of bipolarity.

Man the creator differs from man the consumer only in his creative qualities. In all else there is no difference whatsoever. It matters not whether you are rich or destitute; if you perform mechanical, formulaic actions solely in order to eat, to dress, and to gratify your self-love at the expense of others, you are a consumer. Although for some the level of comfortable living may indeed be high. Such persons make up the majority in society, and they are also called simply "human bots," who use the entire potential of their mind for the desire to satisfy the needs of the flesh.

They have no idea how joy is born from a thought and an idea that you carry within, develop, and then bring to life. No, not from the thought that you must catch up with your neighbor in his means, that you must spend and acquire. And not from the idea that you must imitate those around you and strive to conform to certain social standards. But from the one that your idea was born in you alone. And when you bring it to fruition, it will change some part of this world. The wings of happiness are acquired and unfurled when your work is able to influence human lives and to change them. In all other cases it is merely a fleeting ecstasy from one's own "grandeur," which, it is worth noting, is of no interest to anyone but yourself.

Our consciousness, more familiar to us under the abbreviation "the soul," is able to abide simultaneously in infinite alternative realities, creating along the way worlds just as factual. The home of which I speak is that very place where the soul was created — the consciousness of each individual person. It is there that the Great Architect of the Universe, in the source of life, the "Holy Spirit," creates souls out of his consciousness, souls that serve not only as generators of life in biological bodies, but through which he also builds and transforms worlds. Indeed, this place is forever awaiting its prodigal son, who, after an exhausting yet beautiful-in-meaning day of labor, always returns once more.

And so I too, having worked to my glory, before stepping across the threshold of immortality, resolved to lift the veil from the secret for the sake of which every person, to the extent of his abilities, does everything to come to know at least some little piece of it. And the place of my confession, where the wondrous union between the worlds of eternity and matter was created, is no accident, for the reason that the concentration of energies differing in their content can be known only within the bounds of this world, which is the planet Earth.

I was born in a country rather progressive by the measure of its time, in the past century, and, like everyone, I felt pride for my people. I must confess that this emotional state, which was able to gratify only my pride, has, strangely enough, remained with me to this day. The country was small in scale, but, as the law of balance presumes, what is small in one thing must be great in another. And so my people were no exception. The world knows them as Armenians, and the country as Armenia — small in size, but historically great. At that time it was part of the largest metropolis by its own measure — the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

I would like to describe the grandeur of the Land of the Soviets in greater detail, but not in this place and not at this time. And so I shall be laconic and say only that many years later, when I became a witness to the inevitable changes that touched every citizen of the once-great empire, I more often recalled the Soviet Union and missed it. No, not the social order that ultimately led to its demise, but the people, who were entirely different. This nostalgia had objective reasons for its existence, for the feelings preserved in the memories of those times were pleasant and bestowed upon the mind languorous vibrations of happiness. Nor could it have been otherwise, since, first, childhood emotions always surpass the later adult ones in the strength and quality of their impact. And second, the system of governance, however imperfect it may have been, nonetheless gave each of its citizens the possibility of stable growth and development.

One could argue here whether this was good or not, but that is not the point. For the socialist construct of governance, for objective reasons, still remains inaccessible to our "developed collective mind." For example: the people never came to appreciate the fact that the socialist system of governance, in order to form a healthy community, had at its foundation a construct of free education, free medicine, and fair conditions for the advancement of citizens up the social vertical. It was precisely this stability that allowed the ordinary representative of the working class to be emotionally balanced, which directly reflected upon the raising of a mentally healthy generation. And this is already a direct sign that the children of that time were happier than they are at present.

I cannot recall ever, as a child, having to want for anything. I do not remember there being any homeless people, nor any adult in my circle being in financial need. I remember only that people were cheerful and merciful, and also that everyone considered himself free and at liberty to do and to have, within the bounds of the law, anything he wished, because he could afford it. No one worried about the future of his family. The state system, however much it may have rotted from within over time, was answerable for every citizen and for every child. And we, the children, sensed this on a subconscious, energetic level.

Well now, I promised that I would not touch upon the political and social aspects of the former "empire of free citizens," but I did not succeed. The memories of that time proved all too vivid. Especially the fact that my parents did not have the habit of worrying about their children, who, from early morning until dark, roamed about the courtyard and the nearby surroundings. We preferred to delight in communing with one another, rather than abiding in a self-isolated state, as our children do with their technologically advanced gadgets. For we, in essence, were thereby coming to know our very own selves in the images of our friends.

My parents were endowed with a certain amount of free time, and they gladly devoted it to me. Which in the end was reflected in the quality of my upbringing up to a certain age. Until about the age of five, I was the happiest child in the world. I remember the tenderness of my mother and the warmth of my father. My mother was affectionate, attentive, and sensitive; she loved my father and was an exemplary wife to him. She would meet her husband after work with embraces and a wonderful supper on the table. But most importantly, she spent whole days at my side. And this provided my imagined safety, certainty, and pleasant disposition.

Our courtyard was small. On one side ran a busy automobile road, some fifty meters from the house. On the other was a little yard and a summer gazebo, beyond which the private homesteads began. The house was two stories and had two main entrances. On each floor there were two apartments. There were not many children, and there was nowhere in particular to roam. But it was precisely this time that was imprinted in my memory as the most beautiful and happy, because I felt the love and unity of my family.

This delightful state I fixed in my memory through one rather emotional image from a certain winter evening. After my father and I had spent practically the entire day playing snowballs with the children from all over the courtyard and had grown thoroughly tired, upon returning home we noticed that snow had begun to fall outside the window. My father took me in his arms and set me on the windowsill, embracing me from behind. I was about three or four years old. I literally felt his warmth and his protection. I had the impression that nothing in this world could disturb my inner peace. In the embrace of a beloved person, I watched the most beautiful snowfall I have managed to behold in all my life. To a little boy, the snowflakes were the size of a palm, and they, as if upon a stage, performed a beautiful dance of life. With their mesmerizing movements they seemed to be trying to reveal to me my whole destiny, which was about to unfold in the near future. And this became that sacred prophecy about me which I, warming it with my heart, carried through my entire life. It seems to me that I truly became a witness to a kind of screen adaptation of my future battles with that part of the world which had always been kept within me.

Before my father met my mother, he had been an actor, and then a director, in a theater of dramatic art that was popular among the people. With aristocratic manners, well-read, erudite, and, on top of that, ruggedly handsome to the envy of many men, he conquered more than one theatrical stage and more than one heart of actresses and his admirers. But owing to a romantic relationship — first formed and then ruined — with the daughter of the theater's director, he had to leave the work he loved. After which he found himself an occupation in another field, one that resembled a hobby more than anything: as a photographer, he supplied the city with large outdoor slides. The wages were a little lower than the previous ones, but they were quite enough for the worthy life of a Soviet citizen.

By about the age of five, disappointment crept imperceptibly into my life. By that time my little sister had just been born into our family. She was sweet and pliable, and I often abused her trust. I loved her and was attentive to her, until the time when we moved into the house of my mother's parents. Our family relations turned upside down, taking shape within a different, new paradigm. One of the factors turned out to be that the influence of my cousins, who also lived under one large roof at our elders' home, had a negative effect on my relationship with my sister. And this was a natural process. In my unripe mind, everything gradually became muddled, thereby swapping my priorities around.

We had to move because my mother decided that she lacked the means for a beautiful and carefree life, and with these intentions she sent her husband off chasing "the long ruble" to earn money in the country's resort regions. Of course, the reason was banal — we had to conform to the fashionable standards of her circle and be in no way different from her relatives, some of whom in just this manner had a little more than the rest. The sorrowful decision in the end led to divorce. It could not have been otherwise. In just such a form the shared life ended for practically everyone who longed to earn a few rubles more far from home. And usually, in every case, the guilty parties turned out to be the wives, who longed not to fall behind in the competitive struggle among rivals from their nearest circle. This fate did not spare our family either.

It became hard for my mother to cope alone with two children, and she begged her way into her parents' home, whose house was rather large by Soviet standards. The thing is that in the northern regions of the empire, citizens were forbidden to own two-story houses if they were not members of the party. But this rule did not extend to the southern regions, where one was permitted to build up to three stories. And so my grandfather had a spacious two-story house, where two of his sons lived together with him along with their families. And now we, too, were to live there, while my father went off to earn money.

Earning money meant that he was absent for roughly eight to eleven months out of the year. There could be no talk of any healthy family relations, where the wife begins to grow jealous over every trifle and where the children cannot delight in the love of one of their parents. This is the collapse of any family and a catastrophe for any child. My little sister and I began to vent our anger born of disappointment and pain upon each other, which could not but affect both our characters and our relationship. All the more so since there were always alternative opportunities close at hand to spend a merry time with my cousins, ignoring the person dear to me.

This went on for quite a long time, until about the age of ten. We gained the chance to make more purchases and lost the chance to be happy. The misunderstanding between people who had once loved one another grew to an extreme level. I did not wish to understand for what reason my mother had become different — nervous and anxious. Which sooner or later was bound to lead to a certain sorrowful outcome.

Later, already as a grown man, I always experienced a certain inner discomfort whenever I became a witness to a child's suffering. Even when I saw a child crying, it meant that I, too, might shed a tear in my soul. For this reason, toward my own children I was always lenient and left the choice up to them, in return trying from the earliest years to spend more time with them, offering them various life situations as examples. Through these I tried to convey to them life's priorities and meanings, so that it might be easier for them to pass through the stretch of growing up. But here, too, not everything turned out smoothly. At times, as it happens, they took my leniency for weakness. Then I had to remind them of each person's role in the family, resorting to harsher forms of explanation. Though I ought to be grateful to fate that I turned to such a method very, very rarely, for the reason that my children proved far more quick-witted than their parents.

For example, it will be interesting to examine the stalemate situation with parents who rely on the matrix of the system of public education and upbringing. It is enough for any parent simply to observe more attentively the time spent with his children in order to realize the hopeless state in which the majority find themselves. How much time does each parent spend with a child once the child begins to attend kindergarten or school? About forty minutes in the morning and at most two hours in the evening? Or even less. At times even twenty minutes is enough to discuss the most important matters with one's child, matters that mainly concern his duties. And the older the child grows, the less time remains for him.

And in this situation, all that remains for the parent is to rely completely on the system, which offers all sorts of attractive services in order to ease the burden of the working parent. It seems to the parent that society is concerned with giving them more free time. But in reality the system does everything to ensure that the parent has as much time as possible for work. And so the sleepy parent hurries off to their job every morning, in order to provide their offspring with all the necessary goods that this very society imposes. And in the evening this exhausted parent has no strength left to give their child the most important thing of all — their tenderness, understanding, and love. What is truly sad, and grows even sadder, is that in the end not a single parent understands the cause of the misunderstanding on the part of their own child — the very child for whose sake, as it seems to them, they sacrifice their whole life and all of their time.

But what, in reality, are they sacrificing, and to whom? First of all, it is worth ceasing to feed ourselves the illusion that public education, which in fact is what makes us into who we are, is aimed at imparting the right knowledge. This is not true. The knowledge it shares is incapable of making anyone happy. To understand this, one must recall the reason public schools came into being in the first place.

It all began in the era of economic industrialization. The caste of untouchables suddenly found it necessary that qualified workers labor at their newly erected enterprises. And so as not to search the world over for such specialists and pay through the nose, a brilliant idea came to them: to educate the children of the workers and peasants, who were in fact their bondservants, without kith or kin. This did not mean that these children thereby acquired the status of free citizens, nor did it mean that in the future they would be permitted to make decisions of state importance.