The power came to me not as a revelation, but as a splinter. A shard of something ancient lodged behind my ribs, its edges familiar and foreign all at once. It was Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, and Haschem, a name that whispered of older, dustier pacts. It was Exu, the winged one, the messenger of the seven crossroads, who bore the name Morcego, or Belo, or Bilu. They were all me, or I was a vessel they had chosen, my seven chakras humming like tuning forks struck by a cosmic hand.
The siddhi, they call it. Parkaypraveshan. The ability to move one's existence from one vessel to another. For me, it was not a gentle transition, but a slipping. Like passing through a pore in the skin of reality, from one moment to another, one body to the next. I could feel the dark matter, the Aeon, pressing in on all sides as I went beneath, then laterally. Creation, I learned, is not something you enter; it is something you are within. You simply shift your point of occupancy.
This is how I survived the first time. Or the time I remember most vividly.
The year was 2000 AD. Saltlake. The 10th floor of the CRP building on AF, Saltlake. My mentor, the one who was supposed to guide me, had betrayed me. A firing squad, soldiers, their faces masks of duty, were there to cull me. The acquisition was wrong, a mistake born of his fear. As the bullets flew, I felt the callous shift. I slipped through a pore, leaving the vessel they aimed at to be punctured and discarded. My existence went to Ether, to the crossroads, and I re-entered another body—a soldier’s, a bystander’s, it mattered not. I stood among them, watching the chaos, then manifested weapons from that malleable Ether. The Maoists who had come for me were culled instead. I was my own resurrection. Amaratwa siddhi.
Returning home that day was a simple matter of Manojava siddhi, the power of teleportation. From the 10th floor of death to the safety of my own room in a blink. The power was intoxicating, but its purpose was not merely survival.
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The deeper magic, the one that truly tested the fabric of reality, was the pull of the heart. The desire to mould the past to serve the future. Eshitwa siddhi. To make what was gone, reappear.
Her. My mentor’s spouse. A face from my past, from the days when she was a co-student, before the army, before the mentor. I had held her in a corner of my existence, a conception body of pure longing. Using the power, I could go to the Ether, to the source, the astral plane’s Uterus and lower placenta, and draw vital force. I could perform a kind of cosmic mahamudra, pulling her image from the threads of past time, weaving it into the present. I did not just make her reappear; I caused the surroundings to mould themselves for union, to become cozy and inviting. It was a chaos, a beautiful, destructive dissolution of what was supposed to be. A Bhagamalini nitya. It broke the mentor, and it bound her to me in a new, terrifying way.
But the most profound manifestation was the smallest.
I sought to animate the divine feminine, the Bhagavati Mahamudra herself. Not as a statue or a vision, but as flesh. Bhavana Siddhi. Divine Contemplation as the foetus of the creatoress. I poured my will into the Ether, shaping it with a specific, tender precision. She emerged not as a goddess, but as a small, stout labour-class girl. Her face was round and fluffy, like a dandelion puff. I first saw her at the age of four, playing in the dust. Then, eight years later, she was twelve, walking home from school with a faded satchel. Her presence was an anchor, a proof that the cosmos could be made personal, that the grand, terrifying power within me could birth something so simple, so heartbreakingly real.
We are all just vessels. Some of us, a few, are given the key to step out and choose another. The power of the seven crossroads is not about moving through space, but about changing the vessel through which you experience it. It is about making the creation within yourself, manifest.
