Earthly Gods by Siva.

Mr. Graham Hancock, a brilliant historian, dedicated his life to historical excavations. He boldly revealed errors in established narratives, serving as a pressure correction in the field. From his seminal work, "Fingerprints of the Gods," to his most recent book, "America Before," his unwavering perspective permeates his writings and interviews. Our connection with him is personal; his wife, Shanta, hails from Malaysia and is of Tamil descent. Shanta's contributions are evident in the captivating photographs within Graham's books.

When we peer into the annals of our race and language, we unearth concealed betrayals and deliberate attempts to obliterate our antiquity. Researchers, too, find themselves thwarted. Ceasing ethnic and linguistic exploration appears tantamount to treason. This sentiment has, at times, consumed me. Graham Hancock's views and indefatigable efforts remain admirable, despite the scorn he endured from university-endorsed archaeologists unable to refute his compelling evidence, particularly regarding Egypt.

This narrow-mindedness prevails globally. The suppression of alternative perspectives instead of fostering open-minded discussions leaves one feeling powerless. Yet, this is the plight of individuals. Shanta, Graham Hancock's Tamil wife, plays a pivotal role in this narrative. Her research, coupled with her photography, meticulously documents each excavation, contributing significantly to their collective pursuit.

In a world where the righteous person in a corrupt society is coerced into compromise, one's convictions can become ensnared by the relentless march of time.

I Mugunthan, pondered these reflections one Saturday morning as I lazily sipped tea in my garden. My passion for gardening had led me to create four raised beds, "raised beds," where I cultivated various greens and vegetables naturally, free from chemical intervention. The lush expanse of my garden, my children's laughter echoing, made me feel as though I had discovered a slice of heaven.

Amidst this serenity, contemplations stirred within me. Were these musings superfluous, or did they hold relevance?

It was that Saturday when I awoke later than usual, brewed tea, and retreated to my garden. While gardening, my thoughts meandered. This time, they carried a different weight, a discomfort that had been gnawing at me for the past three to four months.

As the sun gently kissed the horizon, I called my clinic. My long-standing family doctor scheduled an appointment, chastising me for neglecting the pain for so long. I obliged, and he swiftly ordered a comprehensive blood test. The urgency was palpable.

At the laboratory, they promptly collected eight vials of blood, far more than I had anticipated. Anxiety crept in. I pondered why they required so much blood, hoping my courage wouldn't waver.

Upon returning home, I reflected on the doctor's choice of tests. If only I had known, I might have sought counsel from a friend in the medical field. But uncertainty shrouded me, and I succumbed to the quiet of my thoughts.

My tranquility was disrupted when my phone rang, and the doctor's voice pierced the silence. He instructed me to head to the emergency department of the nearest government hospital, a directive that heightened my apprehension. I queried his reasoning, to which he explained doubts regarding my condition that the clinic couldn't address. This worry enveloped me as I embarked on the journey to the hospital.

Fifteen minutes later, they called me in, and I nervously entered the examination room. The doctor inquired about my symptoms and prescribed an X-ray, followed by an ultrasound. He reassured me and sent me home, promising to call if necessary. An air of relief washed over me, soothing my anxieties, and I complied with his recommendations.

I didn't bother watching the final overs of the cricket match; instead, I retired to my bed. I grappled with the uncertainty of the situation. The following morning, a call from the hospital urged me to return immediately.

The doctor conveyed that something had been detected in the ultrasound, prompting the need for further MRI and scans. I mustered hope and faced the subsequent tests.

The hospital bed, alien and uncomfortable, compounded my unease. The night shift nurse's inquiries, though well-intentioned, failed to ease my mind. The minutes crawled by, laden with apprehension.

By ten o'clock, they summoned me again, and I received an injection. It was only then I learned it was a contrast injection. Afterward, I inquired about my condition, but the doctor deferred his response until the next morning, pending the reports.

The second night was restless, akin to a student ill-prepared for an impending exam. Around eleven, the duty nurse conveyed my imminent discharge. My heart swelled momentarily with optimism, but when I sought confirmation that the report was clear, she hesitated. The doctor would clarify, she assured me.

My mind whirled with anxiety as I awaited the doctor's arrival. Alone this time, his presence signaled urgency and foreboding.

Sitting beside me, he gravely delivered the news: I had metastatic cancer. A wave of numbness engulfed me as I struggled to comprehend. I must have asked questions, but the shock rendered my recollection fragmented.

The doctor explained that timely action months ago could have yielded different results. However, the cancer had now spread extensively. A vague timeline hung in the air: between three and six months to live.

What followed was a reflex reaction. I left the hospital and stepped into a world now colored by existential questions. A person walking their dog across the street momentarily distracted me. Would I be reincarnated as that dog? Had I been a hero in a past life or one of the rats I recently poisoned?

A heaviness weighed on my chest, as if I were encased in molten iron, or perhaps the trunk itself was trapped in the icy grasp of Antarctica. Each step felt like an elephant's effort. Home felt a world away, but when I finally arrived, the scent of the leather seats in my four-month-old Toyota served as a bitter reminder. The Canon 5D camera, which had captured fewer than a thousand photos, now seemed a cruel irony. Plans to photograph far-off places dissolved into the ether.

My pet dog ‘Tiger’ gently licked my hand, offering a fleeting moment of clarity. My garden, a sanctuary for the birds I nurtured, became a symbol of life's resilience. It had been eight years since that pivotal diagnosis, eight years of navigating life's uncertainty.

In the midst of this unpredictable journey, one truth emerged: there are no definitive answers to life's mysteries.