Get your own `Spark' at
Follow on www.facebook.com\That.Spark
That Spark in the Snow
`Whatever the mind can conceive, it can achieve' was told to Mitchell
Milverton many times but rarely did he apply it. His fate brings him to a
junction that makes him pay attention to the eternal spirituality and use it for
his own good and others as well.
`That Spark in the Snow' is his tale. He, luckily surviving a plane crash on his
way to China, lands in the place of solitude in Himalayas. An encounter with a
monk teaches him about the human mind and its functioning, and how each
one has the natural ability to conceive and achieve. Rejuvenated, he starts his
life's journey afresh to become and do what he desires by applying the
methods he was taught by the monk.
You should read this book, if
You want to succeed without depending upon others...
You want to manifest your dreams...
You want to change the course of your life...
You want to move from sadness to happiness....
You want more health, wealth, name and fame...
`Is it good?' he asked. He was showing me a painting, he had just bought from his
creative instincts and had finished it with an ease as if he was playing the role of
modern Da Vinci. His skills were a bit random at painting and he would just bring out
anything that would come to his mind. His mind was bit awful, would be a better
notion to explain him. `If you think so. Life is what you make of it.' I said, leaving him
with his own world. Disregarding my reaction, he continued his work, as there was
nothing to argue on a painting he thought was the best.
I started thinking when I reached his door to leave. When I glanced back, he was still
busy with his work. Mitchell Milverton or Mitch was no higher than any other common
man one would see on the streets of city. Due to his economic conditions, he was a
college dropout, son of a mason, and too lazy himself to carry on the legacy of his
father. He looked older than his age, he might be around mid 30s, a divorcee, having
the sluggish look on his face every time, as if he was having a residence in opium den or
the worst incurable hangover. He was irate personality, making people reluctant to
have a conversation with him. He himself was annoyed why his mental surroundings
were that difficult for him. But some paintings of this creative mind made him meager
income to carry on with his living.
My association with him came when I joined the community pharmacy service,
with his place a few steps from there. I had just started with my career when I instantly
found the records were having a common name and a list of psychic disorders. It was
Mitchell. I was really surprised to know that so many mental disorders can dwell
happily in one person, with no improvement even after so many years of the same
drugs refilled again and again. Might be the drugs too got weary. I was interested in
him professionally, and was excited to see him. My senior told me he stays nearby, but
it's no good seeing him and he might be wandering around the main city plaza. I
ignored, and wished if he would himself sometimes drop by. His medical notes told me
that can't be too long a wait.
The next morning was a bright, sunny day with the mist of yesterday's night still
fresh. I had just entered the pharmacy when I saw a dull, weary and no-nonsense person
in front of me, with his hand having the prescription note. I got a faint idea who this
patient was. But I can't say I was happy to see the health of him. He was the same or a
morsel wearier than I imagined. I felt both a sense of pity and curiosity seeing him. He
was a perfect example what not to make of ourselves in bad times. I was so confirmed
that it was Mitch, I called him.
`Hello Mitchell, what has your doc prescribed you this time? Tranquillizer or a
hypnotic?' He was a little amazed the way I addressed him. The look of his face
conveyed me that hardly anyone from this locality had called him in that way. His
astonishment remained for a second or two and again the sleepy, sluggish look
returned. He handed me the prescription and I was sure he wanted either of the two
drugs. He was on a long term hypnotic therapy, which I believe he himself insisted his
doc to prescribe it for him. I tried to talk with him but he went instantly as soon as his
medicines dispensed. I waited for another chance to meet him. This time too I was sure
it won't be long.
The next day I met him at the corner, where he was having a quarrel with the
grocer for not lending him something on credit. His assurance that he would return it
after sometime did not do any good on the grocer. I went to him, asked the grocer to
give him whatever he wanted. He was initially too reluctant to take it but on my forcing
it, he kept it in his torn cotton handbag, in between the bunch of brushes and color
bottles. I paid for him. When I saw back, he was gone. I sighed, and returned home.
The next day he met me at the pharmacy, to return the money he had borrowed.
`I am in no hurry to take it. Give it when you have ample. No problem, even if you
don't return it.' He got a bit irritated with the grand generosity.
`I am not here to certify your help but to return what I had taken from you. You helped
me, and I thank you.' He went with a rueful face, as he came.
Days went by. I was busy making a career in pharmacy. But we both met often. Now he
met me at some other places. Sometimes I saw him looking at the new car catalogues,
sometimes trying out any new cafeteria opened nearby. He was content but still the
restless mind that he had, forced him into dubious things. I understood the variety he
problems he talked about. About poverty, stocks, inflations and wars and the people
killed. He had a deep intellectuality, and a natural tendency to over analyze problems.
Every time he talked, it would be long discussion on a new kind of crisis. I was a little
irritated, but the way he presented the crisis made me think that, might be a good brain
got lost somewhere in the hassles of the modern world. He had his genuine humbleness
concealed from those who didn't know him. When he crossed my limits of irritation, I
would put him a question as how would he solve this very crisis? At this he would stop
and drift to other things. He strived in looking at the problem, he would rather beautify
it, but he never looked for solution, if any. He would behave as a wise person,
sometimes he was a maniac and total sardonic. His mental diseases and the drugs he
took augmented this very nature.
My days changed but his did not. I married, and was happy to enter a new phase
of life. Just after two weeks of my marriage, he came, to ask for some money for his
colors and new brushes. I had tried to deny him, but his paintings were a little crux to
me as well, so I gave him what was sufficient. My wife too was forced to comment on
the state of his. `I didn't know you had such great going friends', she said, shrugging
her shoulders. I made her know about the special relations between me and Mitch and
that a certain handful of money won't bring lack to us, for there is enough in this world
for everyone. It's just that we both were too lucky to have God's blessings on us and he
was not. She didn't ever then ask me about it again. Months went by, but Mitch was the
same as he always was. A bored, restless character on the stage of the streets and
perfectly playing the role in a single act play. We met often, for I lent him more often
now and he was also that responsible to return it. His paintings were bought only by
those people who were on same mental planes as he. I was temporarily satisfied with
A day he came to pharmacy, with a huge file of all his medical papers and
handed over to me. His doc didn't fear to write that since the way Mitch was
augmenting his current mental traumas, he would be getting new mental disorders in
coming years. Possibly he arranged those papers for me so as to translate him the tough
medical language in easy terms. The problem was bit complicated. Mitch was a bundle
of negative thoughts, with no energy in his life. Neither was he happy nor contented by
what he was and his awry past had helped him enough to lose his self confidence. His
constant talking of his diseases and stresses was synergistic for this state. The doc
suggested he be taken to a short holiday which can act for his mental rehabilitation. Yes,
he needs it badly, I thought.
We both sat over a coffee to discuss his problem. Now the new problem was to where
must he go to have that rehabilitating trip? Initially, he had problems meeting his ends,
from where was he going to have all that dollars for leisure trip. I was a bit scared as
now he would ask me too financially `co-operate' in his trip. I blamed that foolish doc for
suggesting such a thing for this fellow.
`The doc himself is in more need of a leisure trip, he is the one who has lost his mental
senses. Suggesting a trip to a person in such pitiable situations?' I said, rudely. I didn't
mind what was in his mind. He was quite, calm. Someone unlike the usual Mitch.
He didn't say anything till we finished the coffee. When I got up to pay, he asked if he
can have one more. He smoked for little while, till the coffee came. He was busy
watching people standing on the pavement of plaza. It had rained, and that coffee was
extremely pleasing for our nerves.
`Joe, I have made my arrangements for that trip we are talking', he said, with his eyelids
too heavy to see my astonished look. I was utterly taken aback. How could he? And
whom had he approached for his money?
`What? You have what....?'
`I said I have already made my arrangements for my trip.'
`I am extremely happy and surprised Mitch, but where from have you...?'
`I never told you anything about my earlier life, except that I was a mason's son and my
beloved wife left me for someone else. I will bet you will be surprised to know about
my elder brother, David.'
`No, never have you....'
`Well, I was not the only son, I had an elder brother, David, who was quite the opposite
what I am. A scholar, studious guy, he strived to get the best of education and secured
his place at realms where the touch of poverty or lack were never felt. Being younger, I
was spoilt brat, due to my parents love for me, but David guided me to know what are
the best and worst. I ill-treated him, but still he took the deepest interests in my painting
and supported me for a long time. He was an engineer, and with his work, he won a
place somewhere in China. He called me a number of times to stay with him, but I was
very jealous of what he had achieved, and never went to him. The last I met him was
during my parents funeral, who died in an accident on this same lane. I used to convey
my health problems to him, from time to time; he too replied and conveyed all best that
he can wish for me. The way I lived my life, you have seen, but now Joe, I can't stand
this mental trauma. I have decided to go to my brother in China, where he has
promised that he would look for some good returns for my paintings and my work.'
I was amazed to hear all this things, also was quite impressed about his brother. I
nodded and smiled; satisfied to see that finally something went good for Mitch.
His departure was a week later. I helped him to pack all his things, there were just his
canvas, his colors and his brushes. He sold all that could not take and paid his overdue
No one came with us to airport, people had already forgotten him. We both had a
heavy heart, so didn't care about them.
`I will always remember you Joseph.' He said, his voice creaking.
`I will too, Mitch. I sincerely wish you make a good life there.'
`And I am sure you will make a very eternal life here.'
`Without you, it will surely be eternal.' I chuckled, and we both laughed heartily.
Half hour later, he went towards the flying machine, for Beijing. I waved him. With his
hand waving, for a moment, I thought, if this is the last time I was seeing him. But
somewhere my heart said `No, it isn't'. I dint know how can heart sometimes speak in
human languages, but I clearly heard the voice. I felt a white, watery gathering in front
of my vision. I got rid of it with my little finger.
The next two days were little difficult for me to come up with the absence of Mitch. My
wife even made it out to me. I was in a state of mysterious melancholy, for reasons I
was myself unaware of. Still, I carried on with my work and tried to get busy with it.
During supper, my wife turned on the TV. There was a flash of news of some plane
going astray. It was possibly said to be missing and had suffered aerial mishap, making
it to crash in the mountains near the India-China international border, in Himalayan
mountain ranges. It was reported that all of the passengers were either killed or may be
missing. Safety and help groups had taken their charge to search for them but it was
highly difficult to guarantee anyone coming out alive from those unhealthy weather
conditions in the mountains. Even if someone was alive, he would either die of hunger
or cold nights till the search team secured him. I didn't have any interest in watching it,
but I turned my attention when I heard it saying it was the same flight that Mitch had
taken. My heart sank. I felt a big bulge in my stomach. I rang a few numbers of the
newspapers, and they confirmed the news, that it was the same plane. I was hugely
disappointed. I was praying from the heart to hear that it was not the same. I reviewed
the same news flash again and again, to see if I get Mitch's name in `missing' list and not
those who were dead. But there were no developments till midnight, and I went to
sleep, with the words of my heart ringing in my ears `Is it the last time I am seeing
Mitch? Surely it isn't.' Then how can my own heart lie to me. I have always believed in
its wordings and I was sure it had never done any treachery to me. But did it cheat me
this time? I was sadder by this impression. Till dawn, I just disturbed my wife enough
to make her rudely yell at me to go to sleep. I got up, and again switched on the TV, to
see no progress in the news.
By the end of the next week, I reluctantly agreed that Mitch was no more. Either he was
already dead in the mountains, or might have continued his tale of bad luck, to find
being alive but with no search team reaching him in mean time, and succumbed to
Months and years went on. His memory was fading in the mist of time. I was surprised
to find my entry of that day in my diary, which I had a habit to write, that already three
years had passed. It's really a miracle how life changes from time to time. We tend to be
the same person, apart from a little self development. We laugh at what we cried and
cry at what we laughed at. I tried to dismiss Mitch's sad memories with the good
incidents we had together. Whenever a bad thought about him would come to me, I
would replace it with a positive thought or thing of his. I would sometimes think what
if he was still alive, but that was impossible now, as no one knew anything about him
now, nor was he traced alive from those ill-fated mountains. I would remember his
paintings, and imagined if he had reached China safely, he would have been a really
happy man. There is a lot of happiness around, and everyone has his share.