The Astral Architect (eBook, ePUB)
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For two decades, Chunmun had walked a parallel path. While his colleagues at Baba Bank chased promotions, property, and the validation of their peers, he pursued Raja Yoga. His worn, navy-blue mat, smelling faintly of sandalwood from a long-extinguished incense stick and the salt of his own sweat, was his only true possession. It was his escape vehicle. He sought not just enlightenment, but a literal escape from the grinding poverty, from the bone-deep, aching loneliness. A girlfriend was an impossible luxury; no woman could fit into a budget that barely stretched to cover rice, rent, and his ...
For two decades, Chunmun had walked a parallel path. While his colleagues at Baba Bank chased promotions, property, and the validation of their peers, he pursued Raja Yoga. His worn, navy-blue mat, smelling faintly of sandalwood from a long-extinguished incense stick and the salt of his own sweat, was his only true possession. It was his escape vehicle. He sought not just enlightenment, but a literal escape from the grinding poverty, from the bone-deep, aching loneliness. A girlfriend was an impossible luxury; no woman could fit into a budget that barely stretched to cover rice, rent, and his train pass. His poverty was a physical weight, a heavy, damp coat he could never take off. His yoga was the key to shrugging it off, if only for a few hours.
He had achieved a rare siddhi: the ability to consciously, willfully, detach his Manomaya Kosha-the mental and emotional sheath-from the heavy, fleshly Annamaya Kosha (the physical body) and the energetic Pranamaya Kosha (the life-force sheath).
Tonight, he sat. The city's distant roar-a blend of sirens, the growl of buses, and the far-off, thumping bass of music from a car-faded into a dull hum. The scent of synthetic ramen gave way to the clean, cool stillness of his own breath. He focused, inhaling the cool air, exhaling the day's frustrations. He found the point of stillness behind his eyes, a familiar, pulling sensation, like a gentle, internal vortex. Then, the pop. It was not a sound, but a feeling-a cool, silver severing, a sudden, exhilarating release of pressure.
He was light. His physical body, a hollow, breathing shell, slumped on the mat, oblivious. His ethereal form, a shimmering, barely-visible ripple in the air, a distortion in the yellow lamplight, drifted up. He phased through the ceiling, a strange, tingling rush, like plunging his hand into a bowl of static. He shot into the night air. The wind screamed past his astral senses, a soundless symphony, a pure, kinetic joy.
Below, Sydney was a river of white and red headlights, a vast, electric jewel splayed on black velvet. He soared over the dark, sleeping sprawl of the suburbs, a silent god in the altitude. He banked, tasting the cold, thin air of the upper atmosphere, and glided over the Harbour Bridge, a magnificent steel web gleaming under the moonlight. He could slip through walls, a ghost of pure thought, and observe the secret, unguarded lives of others. He could stir the air, a focused needle of his will, creating gusts to rattle windows and spill drinks, a poltergeist with a purpose.
He had achieved a rare siddhi: the ability to consciously, willfully, detach his Manomaya Kosha-the mental and emotional sheath-from the heavy, fleshly Annamaya Kosha (the physical body) and the energetic Pranamaya Kosha (the life-force sheath).
Tonight, he sat. The city's distant roar-a blend of sirens, the growl of buses, and the far-off, thumping bass of music from a car-faded into a dull hum. The scent of synthetic ramen gave way to the clean, cool stillness of his own breath. He focused, inhaling the cool air, exhaling the day's frustrations. He found the point of stillness behind his eyes, a familiar, pulling sensation, like a gentle, internal vortex. Then, the pop. It was not a sound, but a feeling-a cool, silver severing, a sudden, exhilarating release of pressure.
He was light. His physical body, a hollow, breathing shell, slumped on the mat, oblivious. His ethereal form, a shimmering, barely-visible ripple in the air, a distortion in the yellow lamplight, drifted up. He phased through the ceiling, a strange, tingling rush, like plunging his hand into a bowl of static. He shot into the night air. The wind screamed past his astral senses, a soundless symphony, a pure, kinetic joy.
Below, Sydney was a river of white and red headlights, a vast, electric jewel splayed on black velvet. He soared over the dark, sleeping sprawl of the suburbs, a silent god in the altitude. He banked, tasting the cold, thin air of the upper atmosphere, and glided over the Harbour Bridge, a magnificent steel web gleaming under the moonlight. He could slip through walls, a ghost of pure thought, and observe the secret, unguarded lives of others. He could stir the air, a focused needle of his will, creating gusts to rattle windows and spill drinks, a poltergeist with a purpose.
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