The Account of the Book and the Events (Revised)

How do significant life events or the passage of time influence your perspective on life?

“The soul is neither born, nor does it die. It is not slain when the body is slain.” — Bhagavad Gita 2.20

The collection I wrote became a living hell for me. When I began writing, it was never meant to become a book. It was a journal, written during a time when life felt unbearable. Writing was the only way I knew how to survive. I wrote because keeping everything inside felt like it would destroy me.

Each entry came out intensely. I wrote without stopping, without filtering, because the pressure inside me was too strong. At that time, writing felt like a cure. It helped me release what I could not say out loud. Slowly, the journal turned into a book.

That was when the suffering changed shape.Once the book existed publicly, another hell began. The stories carried real names and real relationships as they existed in my mind. Relatives became angry. People felt exposed. Threats followed. Nobody in bookstores wanted to read or promote a book filled with broken relationships and painful history.

What was once private was now being judged and challenged.I realized too late that by writing real names, I had pulled others into my inner world. Untangling these relationships afterward was not easy. My body began to show the strain—severe migraines, exhaustion, insomnia, anxiety, breathlessness, and worsening physical health. Illness seemed to accumulate one after another.

My body carried what my mind could no longer hold.Writing remained the only outlet I understood. I wrote until everything came out. Even then, the fear did not leave.

I contacted the publisher to remove the book from all platforms and to have it unpublished. I knew the book had crossed a boundary and was now harming me instead of healing me. Family members accused me of being manipulative. They compared me to my late father and said I was repeating his patterns. They told me to stop praying and meditating, especially the practices I followed. I could not accept that.

Prayer and chanting were the only moments where I felt steady and protected. They were the only way I knew how to survive my own inner world.During the mourning period for my father, memories and emotions returned with force. One night, while taking food that had been prepared as part of the final rites for my father, something sudden happened.

As I lifted the food with my left hand, I felt a sharp, scorching sensation—like a violent rush of hot air or wind striking my hand. The sensation was intense and immediate. My hand reacted instantly, and my body tensed.I moved quickly to the kitchen, grounding myself and staying there until the sensation eased. My chest felt tight, and my heart began racing uncontrollably.

The fear was overwhelming. My thoughts returned again to the book and the stories written in it. I said clearly to myself that the book would be removed from all platforms and would no longer exist publicly. Only after that did my heartbeat begin to slow.My nights were restless.

Sleep came in fragments. I woke suddenly, jolting myself out of bed to break the spiral of thoughts. In those moments, I relied only on my own awareness to return to the present.

On the 31st day mourning rite, a Ganesha image was meant to be placed to formally close the prayers. It was not placed. The atmosphere in the room felt tense and unresolved. During that time, lights in the chandelier—lights that had previously stopped working—turned on again and glowed brighter than before. The sudden brightness startled everyone present. No one spoke.

By then, my decision was firm. The book had to be unpublished. Writing had once saved me, but this version of it had entangled my life, my health, and my relationships beyond repair.

I wanted closure. I wanted silence. I wanted to return to prayer, chanting, and sadhana, nobody needs to be in dementia like my late father. Why carried all the screwup relationship of other people’s pain in my mind. Their lives are screwed up and I release my pains through writing therapy without being pulled back into the pain recorded in those pages.