#proving that we can both be thirsty and hygienic at the same time

[valiantstarlights]

[thing-you-do-with-that-thing]

Being Human

Characters: Castiel, Y/N, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester (mentioned), Bobby Singer (mentioned)

Pairing: Human!Cas x Reader

Warnings: Cas being a Grumpy Gus, major canon divergence as in human Cas lives in the Bunker with the boys and Y/N.   

Word Count: 2000ish

A/N: This one is written for @d-s-winchester’s Fall In Love With Fall Challenge and my picture prompt will be under the cut within the fic.

It is also my entry for @cass-trash 1000 follower challenge where my prompt was “Why are you staring at me like that?”

Thanks to the sweet, amazing @bkwrm523 for betaing this

***My fics are not to be saved nor posted on any other sites without my express written permission.***

Being human seemed to make Cas was absolutely miserable. There were so much he had to adjust too and it made him whine about the smallest of things you had never perceived to be a problem before. At first you had found his complaining about about having to pee, being thirsty, being hungry or being tired adorable, but as time progressed his endless complaints had started to annoy you. So much so you actually found yourself avoiding spending time with your formerly angelic boyfriend.

You weren’t doing it on purpose. It was not like you were mad at him or wanted to punish him for how he’d been acting. You understood that it was a big change. Your mind had simply needed a break from his rather constant sulking.  You stood hidden between behind one of the shelves and you froze when you heard Cas’ words.  

“I think I should move out Dean.”

You still loved him more than you had ever loved anyone or anything in your life, which was why if felt as if a dagger had been plunged through your heart, when you accidentally overheard Cas talking to Dean in the library one night as you were returning from a not needed supply run. You had been heading in to to see the boys, as you wanted to ask them if they wanted to do a movie night, but every thought of any movie was now long gone.

“What? Don’t be an idiot Cas. Where would you go?” Dean asked sounded almost as upset as you felt, but how you had been feeling in that moment was nothing compared to the pain his following words brought you.

“I don’t think Y/N wants me here any more,” he sounded so sad it took all your willpower not to run from your hiding and throw your arms around his neck. You wanted to tell him to stay and that you loved him, but you knew you needed to hear him out. You also knew Cas well enough to know, he was always to scared to upset you, to tell you any of what he was telling Dean to your face. Your only option to know how to fix what was hurting him was to stay hidden and learn the truth.

“Why would you say that buddy?” Dean’s voice softened and you could hear him moving, presumably closer to his best friend as he was trying to pick up the pieces of whatever mess you seemed to have created. “Y/N/N loves you. Everyone can see that.”

“Not anymore,” Cas mumbled, almost too low for you to make out the words. “She never want to spent time with me anymore. Ever since I became human, she always seem to be busy. Or maybe she always was and I just never noticed. It doesn’t feel like she loves me.”

The tears were streaming down your cheeks now and your silent crying wasn’t helped by Dean’s loving words. “Cas I’ve known Y/N/N since we were kids. If she didn’t want you here she would have kicked you out,” you could hear the smile in Dean’s voice. He had always been like an older brother to you, but there was no doubt in your mind that he admired you as much as you admired him. You were friends and siblings by choice, in much the same way as you and Sam were. Cas however you had fallen in love with fast. Even when he had been way more of an angel than he had in the recent years, you had loved him. You saw things in him that the brother’s hadn’t at first. He wasn’t just a follower. Cas was brave and believed in right and wrong. He cared for every human he encountered but especially you and the Winchesters. He would do anything to protect you. Even if his actions sometimes had been misguided, he never once had done anything that wasn’t purely done out of love for his human family as well as for his angelic one. No matter how many times they betrayed his trust, Cas kept trying to make amends with his first family. You wished he wouldn’t but you still admired his loyalty and strength.

“You should talk to her buddy,” Dean pushed gently, causing Cas to sigh deeply.

“I’ve tried, but it feels as if she is always running away from me,” Cas muttered, and you quickly dried your eyes as you mentally kicked yourself for making him feel this way. All you really wanted to do was to run to your room and bury your face in the pillow, crying your eyes out. You knew that wouldn’t work though. You knew Cas needed you and to be honest you needed him too. It did feel as the two of you had been drifting apart lately and you never wanted that to happen. You had never loved anyone like you loved your angel. And he would always be that to you. Your angel. No matter if he had powers or not. No matter if he was human or not he was your odd, amazing, loving, loyal angel.

You managed to slip passed the two men. Actually you managed to talk to Sam and ask him for directions to one of Bobby’s old cabins as well as pack a bag for you and Cas before he came looking for you.

“Y/N I was wondering if… Are you leaving?” You turned around feeling a pang to your chest when you saw the devastated look on Cas’ face.

“I wanted to surprise you,” you quickly explained, stepping up to him placing your hands against his chest. “I thought we needed to get away for a while. I talked to the boys and they are okay with us taking off for a few days.”

Cas stared at you with that stare that you never could read and just like always it made you nervous. You were afraid the damage was done and that he didn’t want anything to do with you anymore. You hated yourself for having pushed him away and the tears were just about to spill down you cheeks. Before they could or before you could start pleading with him to stay with you; to come away with you and find your way back to each other Cas smiled. His smile burned through your skin, warming your smile and you couldn’t help but return in laughing happily as he spoke.

“You want me to come on a vacation with you Y/N?” Cas asked still smiling brightly and you instantly threw your arms around his neck, kissing him deeply. You smiled even brighter against his lips as you felt his arms close around your waist pulling you impossibly closer to his solid frame.

“I want us to be happy with each other without any interruptions for a few days,” you beamed up at him and Cas lowered his face down, hiding in the crook of your neck. He drew a sigh of relief as he felt your fingers running through his messy dark locks and he hesitantly whispered his confession against your skin.

“I know I am not an angel anymore Y/N. I know I have been difficult these past few weeks, but I love you. You’re the one thing I can’t stand to lose,” his words, made the tears you had held back before stream down your cheeks and you gently tugged at his hair forcing him to look at you. You stared deeply into the sea of blue before you as you made the promise you knew you would never break. “I’ll never leave you Cas. I’ll always love you, no matter what you are.”

They next couple of days at Bobby’s old cabin proved to be magical. Cas was less grumpy than he had been ever since he turned human. Well apparently peeing was still the biggest annoyance ever, but he also had the knack of noticing he had to go at the most inconvenient times. Like in the middle of making out or plucking mushrooms in the woods. Who knew a former soldier of God would be so vain he refused to pee behind a tree? Rushing home had made you slightly peeved but when Cas returned from the bathroom with the biggest relieved smile on his face you had broke down laughing. Just like you had, when you noticed his dental hygiene routine, which included toothpaste… lots of toothpaste and no toothbrush.

Actually teasing him things like shaving, brushing his teeth, showering… especially showering was fun. Cooking was another activity which Cas proved to be surprisingly good at rather quickly. He talked about how the wind felt on his skin and described the sensations of everything he hadn’t experienced in that way before, which made you see the world through changed eyes. Cas was different now, but he was still Cas and you didn’t love him any less than you always had. Actually you felt yourself falling even more in love with him, with every passing minute.

You stat closely against him on the couch. Both your feet was resting on the coffee table and your head against his shoulder as he read one of your favorite books out loud to you. He had always read to you. Even when he was an angel, he had stayed in bed with you reading to you until you fell asleep and even back when he needed no rest he had stayed with you until morning came; watching over you and keeping you safe.

Right now you just sat there. Both of you enjoying the warmth from the fire and the burn of the wine coursing through your veins as you shared each other’s body heat. Your eyes wandered from the fire, to his face. Mesmerized by the way the light from the fire danced across his skin, illuminating the softness in his eyes and the slight frown on his forehead as he focused on the words on the page. You had no idea how long you stared at him for, but it was long enough to get lost in him and no longer pay to the words falling from his full lips. You smiled softly as you realized this would be your life now. He would always be with you, in moments like this or hunting. He would age and grow old with you. He would never leave you and you’d never be forced to leave him. You and he were forever now.

“Y/N why are you staring at me like that?” Cas smiled, slowly turning his head to look at you, making you giggle and blush.

“It’s not like you don’t stare at me all the time too,” you sassed. You weren’t a touchy feely person. Admitting to what had just went through your mind wasn’t easy, but you hoped that even without his powers Cas would somehow know.

You smiled when you put down the book, pulling you into his lap, helping you straddle him. “Not as often as I used too. I sleep now too,” Cas answered you seriously, making you burst out laughing, hiding your face in the crook of his neck as he held you.

“Jeez Cas that’s not creepy at all,” you giggled, pulling back looking into his eyes. Your grin widened when you saw the soft serene look in his eyes and the slight smile tugging at his lips.

“What are you thinking Cas?” you asked him, tenderly running your fingertips through his already messy hair.

“That I like being human. I never have to say goodbye to you now,” Cas answered, making your heart skip a beat. He didn’t need the power to read your mind. You were connected. You always would be. Your lips crashed against his in a deep, loving kiss and his arms tightened around you as you whispered against his lips between kisses.

“You don’t need your grace Cas. You’ll always be my angel.”

Castiel Tag Team

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[ghanaspiritualecho]

AFTERLIFE COMMUNICATION, PSYCHICS, MEDIUMS AND SCEPTICS

There are all kinds of ways in which the dead differ from the living, psychology professor Richard Wiseman told me recently. “And one of them,” he said, “is that dead people tend to be rather particular about who they talk to. The dead,” he added, “prefer chatting to people who are imaginative. Creative. Highly sensitive.” The professor gives a barely perceptible nod in my direction. “You know: the credulous, the gullible and the deluded.”

Wiseman is an unusual academic: a former professional magician, he is now Professor of the Public Understanding of Psychology at the University of Hertfordshire, and recognised as Britain’s most eminent psychic sceptic. It was possibly an error of judgment to tell him that communication with the dead is an area in which I have had some personal experience. Or – to use a phrase that tends to recur whenever we discuss this subject – so I believe.

It happened six years ago, during an interview with the British medium Sally Morgan: a psychic who, on the strength of having seen both her televised and theatrical shows, I had concluded was not just a strikingly prolific channeller of spirits, but also the biggest charlatan on the block: a title which, in this area of human endeavour, is not easily gained.

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Since then, Psychic Sally, who was unavailable for interview, has established herself as the most popular medium in Britain, playing to capacity audiences at venues across the country. Earlier this month I saw the former dental nurse perform at Brighton’s Grand Theatre. A peaceful demonstration outside the sold-out 950-seat venue, was led by two men carrying placards which read, “Equal Rights For Gay Ghosts.”

This slogan referred to a contretemps with a critic called Mark Tilbrook, who had been handing out leaflets before a performance by Morgan in London this April. Tilbrook only recently released video footage of the encounter, in which Morgan’s husband John, a former greengrocer whose ample physique means that he strikes as imposing a figure on the terrestrial plane as his wife does in the ether, approached Tilbrook. Standing shoulder to shoulder with his son-in-law, Daren Wiltshear, he asked the sceptic: “Are you on drugs? Or has one of your boyfriends shagged you too much? . . . I’m gonna knock you out sooner or later. So fuck off before I do you.”

Morgan is, according to his wife’s 2008 book, My Psychic Life, “the reason the sun rises.” In a statement released shortly after this grotesque footage appeared on YouTube, and just before the Brighton show, Sally Morgan asserted that she was, “utterly ashamed and devastated at the behaviour of my husband John and my son-in-law, and neither will have anything to do with my work . . . right now I have no idea what is going to happen to my marriage."

Meeting Psychic Sally

My own encounter with Morgan, now 63, was less confrontational and yet equally disturbing. In those days the medium, who now occupies a large property outside London, was living in New Malden. Walking up the path to the suburban house, where there were no visible lights, no open windows and no signs of recent occupation, I recalled what Sergeant Bilko says to Rupert Ritzik, in an episode of The Phil Silvers Show, as they approach the apartment of a psychic who, they hope, might enable them to make their fortunes at roulette. “It’s very quiet,” Silvers says. “The blinds are all closed. Nothing is stirring. She must be in.”

The reading that Morgan gave me, though, was far from comic, even if, in the long-standing debate over mediumship, she hardly represents an obvious choice as a witness for the defence.

In one to one readings, Morgan works – or did at that time – from photographs. I’d taken a few along, including one of my father, who died while I was a ­student. A few weeks earlier, in a conversation with my brother, I had raised the possibility that my dad might have been claustrophobic: he was clearly uneasy in crowds, for instance, at packed football stadiums.

Morgan picked up a photo of my parents taken many years ago. “Your father is showing me something in his left hand,” she says, “A chain. Could be a key-ring.” As I recall thinking at the time, this sort of stuff is the classic material of so-called cold-reading, whereby generalities are dispensed until the sitter blurts out precise information. Then: “Your dad would like you to know that he was claustrophobic but he didn’t realise that at the time. They weren’t sure what that condition was called.”

The evening before I met the ­psychic, who ran a small laundry before experiencing an epiphany in her local Wimpy Bar, I had been whining to friends about how ill-at-ease I felt in the flat landscape of the southeast, having grown up within striking distance of the Peak District. Pretentious and absurd as this may sound, I had been advancing the theory that I somehow found it easier to write fiction in a place with a view of mountains. Morgan took a sheet of paper and drew four or five undulating lines on it.

Morgan describes having a psychic experience when she was nine months old, and claims to have seen her first ghost aged four. As an adult, she turned her talent into a career as a professional medium.CORBIS

“You would be very, very happy living in an area which is hilly,” she said. “Or mountainous. Mountains would inspire you. Your work would flow more easily if you had a vista. This knowledge calls to you. And until you relent and accept that . . . well, if you do, that will change your life for ever.”

Years earlier I’d had a ­conversation with the late Lord Soper, the prominent Methodist minister. He described mediumship as “spiritual fascism. ­People are looking for answers outside their known world,” he’d said, “When what they should be doing is taking responsibility for their own life.”

“You know,” Morgan said, after I mentioned this, “it’s not easy, living with this ability. I am not a bad person. I am not mad. I am not unhinged. I happen to do an extraordinary job as well as I can.”

It was when I handed her a photograph of an ex-girlfriend – again without mentioning whether this person was alive, dead, or a relative – that I felt Morgan really caught fire.

“There is a mental side to this girl.”

“I’ll say.”

“Some people might describe her as a nut. There is a very strong sadness in her, and a sense of having been abandoned. Some people destroy relationships before they have run their course because they think they are going to end anyway. She has that feeling.” Then, informing me that she has my late father at her side, she picks up the family picture again.

“Who is Joan?”

“My mother.”

“And Michael John?”

“My brother.”

“Is your mother in spirit?”

“No, she’s in Manchester.”

“Well,” Morgan says, “your mother’s mother lost a small child.”

“Not so far as I know.”

“You’d have to ask her about that.”

And when I did, as I later tell Wiseman, my mother told me that she had had an older brother who died very shortly after being born.

The Art of Cold-Reading

As I explain to psychic sceptic Professor Wiseman, I had approached Morgan as a sworn unbeliever.

Before her stage shows, two glass orbs are left on display outside the auditorium. Audience members are invited to fill the globes with messages to, and photo­graphs of, loved ones. These vessels appear on stage with her. Does Morgan read them beforehand? She says not, and we trust her. Yet there is famous footage of “Psychic Sally” giving readings on television shows that gave many viewers the definite sense that the spirit of Google was present.

But the internet, both Wiseman and I agreed, was unlikely to have explained any of the observations she made to me. The names she gave were just about retrievable from an obscure site if you knew what they were in advance and had several hours to spare, but even Wiseman said his sense was that Morgan had not accessed the information in that way. She had certainly mentioned details that meant nothing to me, but not with the scattergun approach that is the hallmark of the true fraud.

Professor Richard Wiseman.REX

Before I met Morgan, I had interviewed other mediums, such as the thirsty Liverpudlian motorist Derek Acorah, as a result of which I’d had quite a bit of coaching in avoiding being “cold-read” either by word or by body language.

For a definitive lesson in the ­techniques of cold-reading, watch the first part of the 2010 Channel Four series Derren Brown Investigates entitled, “Talking to the Dead." The episode, posted on Youtube, is an excruciating demolition of the self-professed medium Joe Power.

In the course of the broadcast, Brown’s expert adviser, the same Professor Wiseman, examines in detail the skills involved in cold-reading. The medium begins by persuading the sitter that a dead relative is present: an effect commonly achieved with a statement such as “I have a John . . . Johnny . . . Jack, Jake . . . Jackie, ­Jacqueline . . . could be somebody living in a town that begins with a J.”

At this point many sitters relate detailed information that the psychic relays back to them later in the sitting. Blatant “misses,” such as meaningless names or dates, become the client’s fault. (“Think about it later. It will come to you.”)

Flattery is a big part of the process. A medium will never say: “I have your father here. He’s telling me that you are a feckless little creep with abject personal hygiene. He is saying that he remembers you mainly as having been ‘a waste of food.’ He says he could continue, but since he knows you’ll be dead in six days he’ll carry on this discussion once you join him in hell.”

“The main question about your reading with Sally Morgan,” Wiseman told me when we met again, with a transcript of the session, “relates to how best you can test mediums.”

In controlled experiments, he says, conducted with several sitters facing away from the psychic, subjects have proved to be poor at identifying their own reading. “If you’d had to pick your reading out of six others,” he asks, “would you have been able to?”

“Definitely. Even without the small matter of my brother’s full name.”

“That is interesting,” Wiseman says. “We do, undeniably, have an issue with that. Which is why it would be so interesting if Sally Morgan would agree to be blind tested. As far as I know, she has always refused.”

Bad psychics cheat in two ways: so-called ‘hot reading’ (gathering information on the sitter via friends or, these days, via the internet) and the skill of ‘cold reading’ outlined above.

It is astounding what performers can get away with. Recently I visited a long-established spiritualist church, whose name, out of respect for the other members of the congregation, I will omit. I sat through a 90-minute performance by a psychic, who told me at one point that I had “a close link to the letter P." I was impressed, naturally: but what exact connections from my personal life had he channelled from the spirit world? Peroni? Paula? Prawn dhansak? Pernod? Pamela? Preston North End? Then he entered into the following exchange with a man of about 70, named Harold.

Medium: “I have your mother here.”

Harold: “Good. Thank you.”

Medium: “Yes. She is cooking. A big stew.”

Harold: “My mother never cooked.”

Medium: “It is not your mother. It is your grandmother. She cooked big casseroles. There is a dog here. It’s white.”

Harold: “Black.”

Medium: “And the dog’s name is . . . Stu.”

Harold: “Flossie.”

Medium: “Ah. No. The dog is begging for the stew. That’s why I got the name Stu.”

A Dog Named Stu

And that, I suggest to Sue Farrow, editor and managing director of the journal Psychic News, shows just how very bad things can get. Farrow offers something of a contrast with some who work in this field. She is a highly intelligent, articulate woman, who spent 25 years as a ­professional musician before taking up her current post in 2007. The “dog called Stu” inspires a snort of derision.

How on earth did a former conductor from the English National Ballet come to be involved in this field? “My motivation derived from a sense that most people are interested in whether there is life after death,” she replies. “I feel it is a subject of such importance that it deserves all the scrutiny you can give it. Intellectual curiosity drew me to it.”

“So what do you make of Flossie ­begging for the stew?”

“Of the hundreds of mediums operating in this country,” she replies, “there are only three that I would risk recommending to a bereaved person.”

To set yourself up as a medium, there is no requirement equivalent of a driving instructor’s licence or a football coach’s training badge. Anybody can do it.

I travelled to the Arthur Conan Doyle Centre in Edinburgh. Doyle, famously, was a passionate believer in spiritualism and was ridiculed by many, including the magician Houdini, Doyle’s one-time friend, who mutated into his Moriarty.

I am welcomed in to a room where there are 13 other trainee mediums, nine of them women (all of whose names have been changed). The session, hosted by a woman called Yvonne, begins with a 15-minute meditation after which, somewhat to my horror, I realise that I, like others in the room, am required to perform a reading myself.

Having been on the receiving end of a lot of cold readings, I find I’m actually quite good at it. My sitter, who I will call Ellen, is an older woman who, without the benefit of spiritual assistance, I sense might have been the victim of physical challenges, possibly involving a male partner, and strong drink.

“I feel that you have had to be the rock, while bad things have been going on around you,” I venture, with my first flattering generalisation.

“Yes.”

“Bad things done by a man?”

“Sometimes.”

“I see you in a bar.”

“I don’t like alcohol,” Ellen says. But her first husband, it transpires, drank heavily and was physically violent.

“You have some connection to Ireland.” [Who doesn’t?]

“Yes.”

I get away with it purely thanks to the truth that, as Wiseman testifies, faced with a flagrant charlatan such as myself, it’s the subject, not the “medium”, that does the work.

But the Edinburgh class is interesting to observe and not without its merits. These are vulnerable people who visibly draw comfort from this meeting. Their hospitality to outsiders is generous and touching. With the possible exception of a trainee I’ll call Laura, a woman whose appearance (not unlike a younger Chrissie Hynde) and forthright attitude make me wonder if this amiable circle has inadvertently admitted another journalist.

“Just what is the point of connecting with spirits?” she asks Yvonne. “They connect to us, then we die. Then we talk to the ones who are left. Why?” Yvonne replies that “Spirits, like people, evolve. But, of course, if someone was a miserable person on earth, they’re going to be exactly the same on the other side.”

At this point I notice Sheila, a woman on my immediate left, beginning to look emotional. “My father,” she says, “had Parkinson’s disease for the last 12 years of his life. He was in a terrible state. Are you saying that he’s still like that now?”

“No,” Yvonne says. “Because he is in spirit. Earthly pain is left behind.”

The Psychic Barber

When I asked people – both sceptics and enthusiasts interested in this field – about “good” mediums, the same few names recurred. I chose one, Gordon Smith, the so-called Psychic Barber.

Smith, 52, is an improbable medium. An unpretentious Glaswegian who, as his soubriquet would suggest, began life as a hairdresser, has proved (contrary to the belief apparently harboured by Sting) that it is possible to establish an international reputation without changing your name from Gordon. Smith gives public shows, but does not charge for individual readings. His house – comfortable but not ostentatious – is on the coast near Helensburgh, 30 miles north-west of Glasgow.

Gordon's 'gift' was reawakened when the ghost of his friend's brother, who died in a fire, appeared before him one night.REX

“I think there is only a value to mediumship,” Smith says, “if it can help people heal. If somebody dies horrendously, you cannot undo that. Good mediums can help people to move on, by giving them a vision of those individuals in spirit.”

“When you give somebody a reading,” I ask Smith, who has said he will only do so for me if something, in his words, comes through, “what is going on? What are the mechanics?”

“Something happens between me and that person,” he says. “There is a vibration that means there is somebody here. As soon as you walked in the room,” he adds, “I saw a very bright light behind you. I have only had it once or twice in my life before. To me it felt good. But I can’t really say what it means. It was something, but not to do with my mediumship. I can’t say what.”

“When mediums say, ‘I have your grandfather here’ and so on. Are you really communicating through spirits?”

“Yes. Although I think everything we do is connected to telepathy. As a medium, if you don’t get a message from spirit then you read the person. I would say that all mediums are psychic. But not all psychics are mediums.”

A pause.

“Alright,” Smith says, “let’s take your mother. She is recently dead [not information I have volunteered] but her spirit is very close. As I speak to you, I get this lady and what I felt was a deep tiredness.” Smith switches to the first person, though does not alter his voice.

“‘My body just gave up. It almost became like a prison to me. This is what I feel.’ But she knew she was loved, and that made it easier for her to die. And now she is at peace.”

Smith embarks on what I would say was an accurate character sketch of my mother, which differs from an orthodox medium’s reading in that it is not uniquely bland.

“Her temperament was not always the best. She hated how she was at the end. She had such sadness in her own life. And a lot of that sadness, she didn’t understand. And now she does. And she doesn’t want there to be any anger or guilt.” He then gives the first name of one of her very few close surviving ­relatives.

Smith fell into mediumship, as many seem to, after attending a spiritualist church. He was 24. “I’d never been to that sort of a place. The medium in the church told the person I was with: that guy sat next to you; he’s a medium too. Has he not told you?”

I tell Smith that I am concerned by psychics who are ­trousering vast sums from never-ending tours. Having dismissed one prominent psychic as “cheesy” and “peddling nonsense,” Smith adds: “I don’t see why this shouldn’t be a living. It just was never in me to take money from the bereaved. I’d always worked. Then I got a publishing deal; I did talks. It just ­escalated.”

Some people might argue that were there any real power in spiritualism, Smith should be living on Mulholland Drive in a mansion with a swimming pool in the shape of a racehorse. “You cannot predict the future,” he says. “Neither can you cold-read the character or name of somebody who has died. No matter how hard you stare at the sitter. When that happens, it’s coming from somewhere else . . . I believe there is a part of you that, after death, somehow endures. I have never thought of the spirit world as heaven as such.”

Wasn’t it Jonathan Miller, I ask Smith, who said he was surprised when he looked at the complexities of the human eye that people could become obsessed with what he called “so suburban a miracle as telepathy." Does being a medium help the medium?

“It does, yes. Hugely. Because I don’t have a fear of dying, I don’t have a fear of living. I believe that is very important. So many people are hindered in their lives by a fear of their own death, or the death of their kids. And that’s why that sense of a spiritual connection is so very significant and rather beautiful. And you know why that’s important? Because if you are not afraid to die,” Smith says, “you are not afraid to live.”

Robert Chalmers's ebook, Talking With the Dead: Psychic Journeys to the Other Side, is available now through Newsweek Insights.

[santanuborgohain]

Unlocked Outdoor—episode II

 In the river island Majuli

 Majuli— the pristine land of peace and serenity ©Getty image

It was an impromptu trip to Majuli, the river island of Assam, where me and my three cronies went on exploring. Majuli is probably the largest river island in the world in the Brahmaputra river, Assam, and also the first island district of the country.The island had a total area of 1,250 square kilometers (483 sq m) at the beginning of the 20th century,but having lost significantly to erosion it had an area of only 352 square kilometers (136 sq mi) in 2014. Majuli has shrunk as the river surrounding it has grown. However it is recognized by Guinness Book of World Records as World's Largest river island.

Having grown up like hippies who roam, wander and travel around the nook and corners Abhi and I share some common interests. Dhrub and Neel are also no less travel-freaks. They will accompany you even if you ask them for company to visit hell.

DAY  1

On January 31st, Dhruba, Abhi, Neel and I set out without any planning and made our voyage to Majuli. It took an hour to reach there, by ferry, . The weather was sunny, yet the breeze picked up and the voyage had become a pleasant one floating over the ocean-like water surface. While reaching Kamalabari, we had had our breakfast at a roadside hotel and started fiddling out with the road map and then decided about tracking. 

Yes! tracking on Majuli and visiting the Satras at the vicinity. The Satra(s), a sort of monastery, is central in the socio-religious life of Assam. The Satras, upto some degree, resemble to those Buddhist monasteries. Yet, the religious practice vary in both cases. Many satras or monasteries constructed by the saint still survive and represent the colourful Assamese culture. At first, we went to The Kamalabari Satra, which was founded by Bedulapadma Ata (a saint), The Kamalabari Satra is a centre of art, cultural, literature and classical studies on the island. Its branch the Uttar Kamalabari Satra has performed cultural programmes of the Satria Art all around the country and abroad. Then we stepped towards the Auniati Satra.

We walked. Halted for a while. Met people and shared smiles with them and then continued.

The sun was bearing down under the skin. Though it was the month of January, we were sweating like the month of July while walking at a fanatic pace.

The trees nearby the roads subsided the sunlight cooperated us in walking. We did not know we were so good in tracking. We became thirsty and there was not even a single shop beside the road. We looked around and opted for hand pumps near the roads to quench the thirst.

Still about one and half kilometers to do to reach the destination.

We reached the definite satra after about an hour of walking. Auniati Satra was founded by Niranjan Pathakdeva, the satra is famous for the "Paalnaam" and Apsara Dances and also its extensive assortment of ancient Assamese artefacts, utensils, jewellery and handicrafts. It also has a hundred and twenty five disciples and over seven hundred thousand followers worldwide. Abhi was one amongst them. He is a kind of devoted guy. He bowed down his head and prayed for a while inside.

The sun made its way down towards the horizon. The dusk has fallen and we went back to the place from where we had started. We came back to Kamalabari chariali by foot. It was near about 10km of up & down walking distance. Now the muscles of the legs were getting strained. A crippling pain subsided the hamstrings. Getting tired, sweaty, yet happy we had had our lunch(?) at 6PM in the evening in a roadside hotel. Then we started searching for a guest house. 

A taxi driver, merely of late 30s’, came to us and willingly wanted to help us to find a guest house at a reasonable price. We were like it’s okay. How kind of him! We said we were thinking of staying at Gormur Satra’s guest house that night in search of some eternal peace and serenity. In return he almost shrieked in terror. He said “There is no use of going there guys, I have just came from there and it’s totally booked out there. Better you do one thing, I have a number of a lodge, you guys can stay for tonight at a reasonable price.” He gave the number. Abhi called and talked to the owner of the lodge.

“What about the guest house in Uttar Kamalabai satra?” I asked the man if there was any vacancy in other Satra. We had never been in the Satra’s guest house and we desperately wanted to experience it. “No use, guys. Same case in that Satra, too. You guys just book the lodge I’m referring you otherwise tonight you won’t get any.“ he said as if the answer was already in his mouth. Now I doubted a little. The man added “In case you want to have dinner in the lodge, there is a hotel near the bridge next to the Uttar kamalabari Satra. You need to order for food and pay in advanced.“ We thanked him and made our way to the lodge. It was near about one and half kilometer of walking distance. “Daal mein kuch kaala hai“ I whispered to Abhi. he also felt that something was not right. There was a hanky panky afoot. The man was more worried about us where as we were tottttaly not!

We kept walking and made our way to the Uttar Kamalabari Satra. It was 7PM. “Majuli aahi private lodgot nu thake ne? No matter what, aami Satra guest housote thakim!” Neel snarled with a tough determined voice. “Well then let’s see.” We said

That worked actually! We walked to the Uttar Kamalabari Satra. This satra has performed cultural programmes of the ‘Satria Art’ all around the country and abroad.We entered the Satra and a priest welcomed us. Upon asking about the satra and the guest house as well he let us know that there was enough guest houses there. But at this time he was not sure about the vacancy. He took us to the Satradhikaar (The supreme authority of the Satra) and he asked about us, where did we come from. We talked to him and answered everything with some necessary politeness, even though politeness doesn’t suit us. No. Never.

The satradhikaar made a phone call and arranged a guest house for four of us. The taxi driver was a thug who wanted to misguide us but did not succeed. We thanked the humble Satradhikaar and moved out. A dark and tall man named Krishna took us to the guest house and showed us our room. It was quite okay with four single beds that we could spend our nights. Don’t know what do you guys think but for us, at that particular moment, we found heaven. It was more comfortable than a five-star hotel room. We were hell tired. But at the same time we were profusely happy!

Neel Jumped into the bed and started stretching his arms. Dhruba and I were feeling tired and we needed some rest. On the contrary, Abhi was still as energetic as he was before; before the tracking. It was proved that he was the humanized version of mitochondria. The power house! And, for that the award of Stamina of the year went to... none other than Abhijit Mech! Yay!

“Huh!! Boring!” Neel snarled in his nightmare at the stroke midnight. I woke up and slept again.

“Sleep, sugar, let your dreams flood in Like waves of sweet fire, you're safe within Sleep, let your floods come rushing in And carry you over to a new morning.”

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Next day we woke up at 5. It was February 1st. Abhi dared to bath so early and made me do the same after him though I was reluctant to do so. The birds started chirruping. The sun was up and lots of devotee arrived by bus by the morning from various places of the lower Assam. Abhi and I came out of our room while the rest two of us were sleeping, feeling the warmth of the cozy blankets. Abhi bought some earthen lamps and went for praying inside the satra. I am not a religious person. Still, there was something in the air. The amenities of the peaceful vibe and serenity lingering the campus of the satra gave a different level of amusement. In satras, you find a state of ease. Probably,that is why people cherish devotion, go for praying and practice devotional music. 

The satra was the metaphor of pristine beauty, hygiene and peace. The contentment had filled our heart to the brim. We moved out of the Satras and moved back to our room to check whether if the two cronies had even woken up or not?

DAY 2

“and miles to go before I sleep...”

Today was our last day. We had exactly six hours in our hand. We had to move back to the ghat nearly at 2 O’ clock in the afternoon. Doing something is fun exiting when you have a limited time in your hand. I’m not talking about the time that governs us, the time that we are always curious about. I am talking about the ordinary, every day time that the swinging needles of a clock determines for us: Tick-tock-tick!

We packed our bags, and made our early-morning tour to the Garmur Satra. The weather was calm and pleasant. We kept on walking. It was near about 8Km of walking distance. “Hurry up boys! We have only six hours in hand.” Abhi commanded. We followed.

“Yeah, I’ll be getting bored in case of a long term stay, right here.” Neel said

“You were already getting bored last night in your dreams.” I said

“Oh yeah! He was blabbering in his dream last night ” Abhi said mimicking Neel’s voice.

“It’s quite okay to be here in Majuli unless you’re not in a long holiday.” Dhruba said while we were walking. “and I will start taking ‘drugs’...” Dhruba said and I laughed in between.

 “...Again” he added, emphasizing on this word and we all laughed aloud. 

“Yeah, it was found while doing a research upon some mice that when they were provided a dumb, boring place to live, usually they started depending on drugs. They set two different environment for two colonies of mice. In first the provided sufficient facility of light,  space to run, play, swim and to reproduce where as in other it was darker and stingy. In both cases two different tubes were provided each filled with water and cocaine each. In first case, the mice intook only the provided food and water where as in the second one, which was a dark and dingy cell, the mice started taking cocaine. Which proved the the environment you live in causes the affinity to the drugs.” Dhruba gave us a walking lesson.

“Oh!” We said

They say, sometimes journey is way more beautiful than the destination. Very well said!!

We crossed the Bamboo Cottage as given in the map and now our destination was not so far. There was a tractor going to the same direction as we were. We asked for lift and the driver did not refuge us. We four climbed up next to the driver’s seat and enjoyed the ride. “Roller coaster ride baby!” I yelled. “Yeah! It is.” they laughed. The tractor did not carry us to the Satra though, we got down and thanked the driver for lift.

Meanwhile we reached Garmur and then we made our way to the Satra which was near about half kilometer from Garmur.

I took out my notebook, and scribbled down some note regarding the Satra. We went into the Naamghar and asked the priest about the history of the same. One thing is common in every Satra you visit: they ask you from where are you coming? and then give you every single info you want. We moved around the satra like we always did in each cases and went to the museum. Photography or Videography was strictly prohibited inside the museum. The supervisor showed us many precious and unique stuff inside the museum. Wooops! No photographs.  

  There were two hog deers, which were being tamed by the authority of the Satra. Both of them were too coy and precautions and sensitive to camera.

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We  came out of Garmur satra and had had our breakfast at a roadside dhaba. Now it was time for visiting the last Satra of our list—Shamaguri satra. We hired an Alto and made our way to the Satra. The satra is famous for the mask making in India. We went to know more about the masks were being made of the natural stuff like clay, bamboo and cotton cloths. No inorganic component is used in making the masks. The masks are used in Vaonas to portray the definite character in the play. Art enthusiasts and travelers come from different places of the world to see this unique art which the only Shamaguri Satra pursues. People especially from England and Germany visits to see their art. A book named ‘Krishna in the garden of Assam‘ of a foreign author depicts the nook and corner of this art. The masks are also available in the British museum which they borrowed and brought there. 

Amidst of the good time, we had to leave. We talked for so long to the  Satradhikaar about the history and origin of the satra, the art that the craved and about the politics and diplomacy that now a days runs inside the Satras. He revealed almost everything to us without slight sign of hesitation and we listened to him with our mouthsall opened. He bid us adieu and we moved back.

In our way back we entered the Bengenaati Satra. It is a reliquary of antiques of cultural importance and an advance centre of performing art. Muraridev, the grandson of Sankaradeva's stepmother was the founder of the Satra. The royal raiment belongs to the Ahom king Swargadeo Godadhar Singha, is made of gold. Also preserved is the royal umbrella made in gold.

It was 1 O’ clock in the afternoon. We went to the fruits and vegetable market to have some household shopping and then returned to the ghat. At half past one, we had our ferry to Nimati ghat—the another voyage, a return journey. The engine started drifting back the waters of the river Brahmaputra.  the sun was up and the breeze picked up again. The ferry sailed through the tides of the Brahmaputra. The breeze started blowing across my ruffle hair. I closed my notebook and join with the gossip Abhi, Dhruba and Neel were making siting on the top of the ferry. “So, successful trip, yes?” Neel asked. We nodded ‘yes’ inter exchanging smiles.

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