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Story Corner

Blind girl
There was a blind girl who hated herself just because she was blind. She hated everyone, except her loving boyfriend. He was always there for her. She said that if she could only see the world, she would marry her boyfriend.
One day, someone donated a pair of eyes to her and then she could see everything, including her boyfriend.
Her boyfriend asked her, "now that you can see the world, will you marry me?" The girl was shocked when she saw that her boyfriend was blind too, and refused to marry him.

Her boyfriend walked away in tears, and later wrote a letter to her saying..... "Just take care of my eyes dear." I’ll always love you forever..
 



DEATH AND THE WOMAN
Her husband was dying, and she was alone with him. Nothing could exceed the desolation of her surroundings. She and the man who was going from her were in the third-floor-back of a New York boarding-house. It was summer, and the other boarders were in the country; all the servants except the cook had been dismissed, and she, when not working, slept profoundly on the fifth floor. The landlady also was out of town on a brief holiday.
The window was open to admit the thick untiring air; no sound rose from the row of long narrow yards, or from the tall deep houses annexed. The latter deadened the rattle of the streets. At intervals the distant elevated lumbered protesting along, its grunts and screams muffled by the hot suspended ocean.
She sat there plunged in the profoundest grief that can come to the human soul, for in all other agony hope flickers, however forlornly. She gazed dully at the unconscious breathing form of the man who had been friend, and companion, and lover, during five years of youth too vigorous and hopeful to be warped by uneven fortune. It was wasted by disease; the face was shrunken; the night-garment hung loosely about a body which had never been disfigured by flesh, but had been muscular with exercise and full-blooded with health. She was glad that the body was changed; glad that its beauty, too, had gone some other-where than into the coffin. She had loved his hands as apart from himself; loved their strong warm magnetism. They lay limp and yellow on the quilt: she knew that they were already cold, and that moisture was gathering on them. For a moment something convulsed within her. They had gone too. She repeated the words twice, and, after them, "forever." And the while the sweetness of their pressure came back to her.
She leaned suddenly over him. HE was in there still, somewhere. Where? If he had not ceased to breathe, the Ego, the Soul, the Personality was still in the sodden clay which had shaped to give it speech. Why could it not manifest itself to her? Was it still conscious in there, unable to project itself through the disintegrating matter which was the only medium its Creator had vouchsafed it? Did it struggle there, seeing her agony, sharing it, longing for the complete disintegration which should put an end to its torment? She called his name, she even shook him slightly, mad to tear the body apart and find her mate, yet even in that tortured moment realizing that violence would hasten his going.
The dying man took no notice of her, and she opened his gown and put her cheek to his heart, calling him again. There had never been more perfect union; how could the bond still be so strong if he were not at the other end of it? He was there, her other part; until dead he must be living. There was no intermediate state. Why should he be as entombed and not responding as if the screws were in the lid? But the faintly beating heart did not quicken beneath her lips. She extended her arms suddenly, describing eccentric lines, above, about him, rapidly opening and closing her hands as if to clutch some escaping object; then sprang to her feet, and went to the window. She feared insanity. She had asked to be left alone with her dying husband, and she did not wish to lose her reason and shriek a crowd of people about her.
The green plots in the yards were not apparent, she noticed. Something heavy, like a pall, rested upon them. Then she understood that the day was over and that night was coming.
She returned swiftly to the bedside, wondering if she had remained away hours or seconds, and if he were dead. His face was still discernible, and Death had not relaxed it. She laid her own against it, then withdrew it with shuddering flesh, her teeth smiting each other as if an icy wind had passed.
She let herself fall back in the chair, clasping her hands against her heart, watching with expanding eyes the white sculptured face which, in the glittering dark, was becoming less defined of outline. Did she light the gas it would draw mosquitoes, and she could not shut from him the little air he must be mechanically grateful for. And she did not want to see the opening eye—the falling jaw.
Her vision became so fixed that at length she saw nothing, and closed her eyes and waited for the moisture to rise and relieve the strain. When she opened them his face had disappeared; the humid waves above the house-tops put out even the light of the stars, and night was come.
Fearfully, she approached her ear to his lips; he still breathed. She made a motion to kiss him, then threw herself back in a quiver of agony—they were not the lips she had known, and she would have nothing less.
His breathing was so faint that in her half-reclining position she could not hear it, could not be aware of the moment of his death. She extended her arm resolutely and laid her hand on his heart. Not only must she feel his going, but, so strong had been the comradeship between them, it was a matter of loving honor to stand by him to the last.
She sat there in the hot heavy night, pressing her hand hard against the ebbing heart of the unseen, and awaited Death. Suddenly an odd fancy possessed her. Where was Death? Why was he tarrying? Who was detaining him? From what quarter would he come? He was taking his leisure, drawing near with footsteps as measured as those of men keeping time to a funeral march. By a wayward deflection she thought of the slow music that was always turned on in the theatre when the heroine was about to appear, or something eventful to happen. She had always thought that sort of thing ridiculous and inartistic. So had He.
She drew her brows together angrily, wondering at her levity, and pressed her relaxed palm against the heart it kept guard over. For a moment the sweat stood on her face; then the pent-up breath burst from her lungs. He still lived.
Once more the fancy wan toned above the stunned heart. Death—where was he? What a curious experience: to be sitting alone in a big house—she knew that the cook had stolen out—waiting for Death to come and snatch her husband from her. No; he would not snatch, he would steal upon his prey as noiselessly as the approach of Sin to Innocence—an invisible, unfair, sneaking enemy, with whom no man's strength could grapple. If he would only come like a man, and take his chances like a man! Women had been known to reach the hearts of giants with the dagger's point. But he would creep upon her.
She gave an exclamation of horror. Something was creeping over the window-sill. Her limbs palsied, but she struggled to her feet and looked back, her eyes dragged about against her own volition. Two small green stars glared menacingly at her just above the sill; then the cat possessing them leaped downward, and the stars disappeared.
She realized that she was horribly frightened. "Is it possible?" she thought. "Am I afraid of Death, and of Death that has not yet come? I have always been rather a brave woman; He used to call me heroic; but then with him it was impossible to fear anything. And I begged them to leave me alone with him as the last of earthly boons. Oh, shame!"
But she was still quaking as she resumed her seat, and laid her hand again on his heart. She wished that she had asked Mary to sit outside the door; there was no bell in the room. To call would be worse than desecrating the house of God, and she would not leave him for one moment. To return and find him dead—gone alone!
Her knees smote each other. It was idle to deny it; she was in a state of unreasoning terror. Her eyes rolled apprehensively about; she wondered if she should see it when It came; wondered how far off It was now. Not very far; the heart was barely pulsing. She had heard of the power of the corpse to drive brave men to frenzy, and had wondered, having no morbid horror of the dead. But this! To wait—and wait—and wait—perhaps for hours—past the midnight—on to the small hours—while that awful, determined, leisurely Something stole nearer and nearer.
She bent to him who had been her protector with a spasm of anger. Where was the indomitable spirit that had held her all these years with such strong and loving clasp? How could he leave her? How could he desert her? Her head fell back and moved restlessly against the cushion; moaning with the agony of loss, she recalled him as he had been. Then fear once more took possession of her, and she sat erect, rigid, breathless, awaiting the approach of Death.
Suddenly, far down in the house, on the first floor, her strained hearing took note of a sound—a wary, muffled sound, as if some one were creeping up the stair, fearful of being heard. Slowly! It seemed to count a hundred between the laying down of each foot. She gave a hysterical gasp. Where was the slow music?
Her face, her body, was wet—as if a wave of death-sweat had broken over them. There was a stiff feeling at the roots of her hair; she wondered if it were really standing erect. But she could not raise her hand to ascertain. Possibly it was only the coloring matter freezing and bleaching. Her muscles were flabby, her nerves twitched helplessly.
She knew that it was Death who was coming to her through the silent deserted house; knew that it was the sensitive ear of her intelligence that heard him, not the dull, coarse-grained ear of the body.
He toiled up the stair painfully, as if he were old and tired with much work. But how could he afford to loiter, with all the work he had to do? Every minute, every second, he must be in demand to hook his cold, hard finger about a soul struggling to escape from its putrefying tenement. But probably he had his emissaries, his minions: for only those worthy of the honor did he come in person.
He reached the first landing and crept like a cat down the hall to the next stair, then crawled slowly up as before. Light as the footfalls were, they were squarely planted, unfaltering; slow, they never halted.
Mechanically she pressed her jerking hand closer against the heart; its beats were almost done. They would finish, she calculated, just as those footfalls paused beside the bed.
She was no longer a human being; she was an Intelligence and an EAR. Not a sound came from without, even the Elevated appeared to be temporarily off duty; but inside the big quiet house that footfall was waxing louder, louder, until iron feet crashed on iron stairs and echo thundered.
She had counted the steps—one—two—three—irritated beyond endurance at the long deliberate pauses between. As they climbed and clanged with slow precision she continued to count, audibly and with equal precision, noting their hollow reverberation. How many steps had the stair? She wished she knew. No need! The colossal trampling announced the lessening distance in an increasing volume of sound not to be misunderstood. It turned the curve; it reached the landing; it advanced—slowly—down the hall; it paused before her door. Then knuckles of iron shook the frail panels. Her nerveless tongue gave no invitation. The knocking became more imperious; the very walls vibrated. The handle turned, swiftly and firmly. With a wild instinctive movement she flung herself into the arms of her husband.
* * * * *
When Mary opened the door and entered the room she found a dead woman lying across a dead man.

 

 

 

I will be With YOU( LOVE STORY )

It was autumn again. Sucking in the warm morning breeze, Mary smiled as she stretched her arms wide, as though embracing the beauty of nature. Jumping up and down in glee, she swirled around in the garden, with her long silky jet-black hair dancing behind her. By anyone’s standards, she was beautiful. Her cherry lips often gave way to smiles and laughter and her eyes a beautiful shade of blue.


She let the wind sting her cheeks as she ran around the garden, shrieking in joy, when she skidded on the fallen leaves only to find herself resting on the strong grasp of a hand. Opening her eyes, her heart momentarily stopped beating as she came face to face with a freckled-faced man. He grinned, revealing a row of yellowish teeth, and then opened his mouth, sending out a weave of nasty stench which smelled like a thousand rotten apples. Mary widened her eyes in horror, shocking the man as he lost grip of her and she fell on the floor.

Moaning miserably, she got up slowly from her supine position and grunted, flinging expletives at the bewildered man. But he only looked down without a word. “Are you mute? Can’t you even say sorry?” Mary cried out in frustration and stomped off. The man sighed and shook his head, picking up his broom to continue sweeping the fallen leaves.

The next day, Mary sat under a tree in the same garden, burying her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Suddenly, she felt her nose twitch as an unbearable stench gushed into her nostrils and she looked up, only to see a white handkerchief.
“You again” she folded her arms, obviously annoyed. The man lifted his right hand to the side of his forehead, an indication that he was sorry. He then pointed to the handkerchief, motioning her to wipe her tears. “A-Are you really… mute?” Mary stammered, afraid to know the answer. Instead, the man smiled, and distorted his face using his hands so he looked hilariously frightful. Mary laughed, and he whipped out a piece of paper from his back pocket and started scribbling. Like this, a few hours passed.
“If only my boyfriend was as understanding as you, John…” She mused sadly and continued, “But it doesn’t matter anymore.” And they sat in silence in the middle of the garden where brown leaves scattered, and where a beautiful friendship was already blossoming.
Day after day, Mary would look for John in the garden, where he would be sweeping the leaves. They enjoyed each other’s company immensely, even if it meant communicating through scraps of paper. Many a time, Mary did the talking and John, the listening, always ready with a handkerchief to chase away her sorrows. Whenever Mary was feeling down, John would bring her to the fields in the outskirts of the city where sunflowers bloomed its prettiest and hatred never existed. He would urge her to tell her unhappiness to a tree and then carve a tiny happy face at that portion of the trunk. Months soon passed, and this humble tree was soon filled with many happy faces. This was their paradise.
Unfortunately, their love was soon put to the test. It was past midnight. Mary was returning home from work and had taken the short cut through a deserted alley when two big burly men appeared before her. They had similar nasty stench drifting out of their mouths and snorted furiously like demented bulls.
“Leave John alone! He’s better off without women! He belongs with us to the underworld!” One of them boomed. Mary, frightened, shrieked and closed her eyes, muttering a short prayer as she anticipated her life to end at this juncture. Seconds passed, and she gingerly opened her eyes, to see an outline of a familiar figure wrestling with the two burly men. John was punched and kicked about like a rag doll. Blood trickling from his nose and forehead, he was sprawled on the ground, defenseless. “That’s what you get for betraying us,” they smirked in satisfaction and swaggered away.
“John!” Mary cried out, lifting him up and hugging him tightly. Examining his face carefully, she realized that like those burly men, he was filthy and smelly, but unlike them, he had the kindest and most beautiful eyes ever. She had come to love this man for who he was. It was a love that needed no words. Garnering the last ounce of strength in him, he took out the white handkerchief he always carried and held it out to her. She received the handkerchief with trembling hands. Inhaling sharply, she let Niagara Falls come.
“Promise me you’ll never leave me no matter what happens” She whispered. With quivering hands, he took out a scrap of paper and pen. “I’ll always be with you” He assured her. “I swear”. Smiling, she held out her last finger in which he hooked against his and they hugged.
Although belonging to different worlds, one a law graduate from Harvard and the other from the underworld, they never mentioned about their difference in status. Instead, their love only grew stronger after that fateful incident.
One day, Mary was on her way to the garden when a gush of fluid was flung at her face. Instantly, she felt a burning sensation in her eyes and the flash of light was soaked up by the spreading dark patches before her eyes. Her ear splitting screaming reverberated to John’s ears as he sallied forward towards the sound, only to see Mary already unconscious on the ground, and he knew it was the work of the two burly men.
Mary was rushed to the hospital forthwith but it was too late. She was to lose her sight. Her family was devastated and wailed in pain and anguish. Guilt-ridden to have caused misfortune to befall Mary and her family, John made up his mind. He knew what he had to do.
Packing the essentials, he decided to leave and quitted his job as a sweeper in the garden. Looking at the blissful pictures of Mary and himself, he sighed and threw them away.
“Mary! Can you see me?” Aunts jostled towards the weary girl and waved before her. The image she saw was a blur and she felt groggy. However, it was a great blessing that Mary had regained her sight. Looking into the mirror, she was startled to find that her eyes looked somewhat different. They were the same shade of blue, but now they exuberated great warmth and compassion.
Unfortunately, Mary soon realized that John had left her and was devastated. She bawled her heart out and pinned for him day and night. Thinking back on the promise he made to her, she hated him all the more.
One day, she decided to visit their place of paradise to relieve their happy days together. She walked to the tree where she used to pour out her unhappiness and leaned close to the trunk and touched its rough surface filled with happy faces. She wept uncontrollably as she ran her fingers down the trunk. Unexpectedly, she saw the words ‘I’ll be with you’ engraved on the foot of the tree trunk. Glimmers of hope began to light the darkness as she looked earnestly around, but what she saw left her dumbfounded.
On the bench sat a man with a pair of sunglasses and a walking stick. Under the scorching sun, he was sweating profusely and fished out a white handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe the perspiration. Coincidentally, a photo fell out from the pocket as well. With manifold feelings, Mary picked up the photo and looked at herself in the picture and was shocked. The man groped his back pocket for the photo and became flustered when it was no longer there. Slowly, Mary walked over and placed the photo in the man’s hands. It was only then that she tasted the warm salty wetness of her own tears and realized how hard she was crying.
The man bowed in gratitude and flashed his yellowish teeth which glistened in the morning sun.
“I’ll always be with you… “
Looking at the man who loved her so deeply, she smiled. Touching her eyes which were once his, tears streaked down her cheeks. His eyes brimming with her tears.

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Buli Tulku Biography

A brief Biography of Buli Tulku: the Linage of 
Terton Dorji Lingpa... Taken from Kinga 
Jigdrel Singye Chholling Monastery
page .

From the time of the historical Buddha to the present day, unbroken succession of great beings have achieved enlightenment and have dedicated themselves to teaching others the path that leads to awakening. Buddhism was brought from India to Tibet over several generations, starting with King Songtsen Gampo in the 6th century, and was finally established as the state religion under the King Trisong Detsen in the 8th century. In Tibetan Buddhism, there is a widespread tradition of recognizing the reincarnations of highly realized teachers. Such incarnations are known as Tulkus. They take rebirth out of compassion, and to carry on the responsibilities of their previous incarnations. Thus, Buli Tulku is one of such reincarnated Tulkus and had passed several lineages. 

1. Phagpa Magapa: Buli Tulku, Lama Sonam Loday was born as a Legdrup at Tsang Nenmo in Kham, China …