Right after the Kumbh Mela, I decided to make a side trip to Afghanistan to attend to my business projects. The flight was delayed by seven hours, and I arrived in Kabul at 3 a.m., dead tired.
In those days, there were only two hotels in the city. My fatigue drove me to choose the closest one. When we arrived at the hotel, the cab driver informed me the fare would be $3. I told him “Hey, I am a regular coming to Kabul quite often, practically a native. I am not an American tourist. I know the fare.” I offered him the standard fare of $1. We argued and I became hot under the collar.
As I was getting ready for bed, I was angry with myself for being sucked into an argument with the taxi driver. What was within me that caused me to be triggered by this interaction? Why didn’t I handle this gracefully? It was an inauspicious start to this leg of my journey.
Despite my irritation, I was bushed, and I fell asleep immediately. A dream fell upon me.
A cool breeze is touching my face. I am inside misty clouds. The grass under my feet is sparse and yellow. I move to my right and realize I am almost on the top of a mountain. I look down. I see some people, far below and very small, just like the plastic toy people that my son uses when he plays with his miniature train. I continue looking at these people; they are not inanimate toys but rather my kith and kin. I know that we are connected. I wonder, “What is the use of being in this magical setting when part of me is down below?” A touch of discontent brushes me, and I sense that I must bring them up to the top of the mountain with me.
The scene changes.
I see a large group of young, energetic people rushing up the narrow path toward me. The crowd, oblivious to all else, races by like a herd of buffalo and, in order to allow them to pass, I find my back pressed against the wall of a mountain. The herd of people is a mile long. The very thought of getting down the mountain to bring my people up is daunting. I am exhausted by the thought of the effort that is required.
The scene changes.
The light starts to fade and, suddenly, I find myself in intense darkness, the likes of which I have never experienced before. I cannot tell if I am in the midst of darkness or complete, rejuvenating peace. Then, a faintly iridescent light appears. I cannot tell if my eyes are adjusting, or if the light appears in response to my presence. The light is vapor-like and starts to appear as mini-clouds. I focus on the clouds and it seems as if they have a roughly human shape. I know these people, but I cannot remember how I know them. After quite some time, one of the figures stops near me. He is mounted on a large horse or other mount. I recognize the figure as my grandfather’s younger brother. Soon, another figure stops, and I can see clearly that it is my grandfather, though he is a younger man than when I knew him. These were two people that I loved and admired very much for their wisdom. I am so happy to see them and I want to be able to speak to them, but I cannot formulate words, only a sound that grows very loud. I am embarrassed by the sound, which disrupts the peaceful environment. The sound continues and suddenly I sense a bright light and I am no longer in the dark peace.
It takes me a moment to realize that I was now awake and the sound I was hearing in my dream was actually the Azaan, the Mullah’s call from the mosque next door for the people to wake up and pray. I woke up and realized that my nightshirt was soaking wet. I was horrified. Did I have an accident? I touched my forehead and the top of my head, which were wet with sweat. My palms were sweating. My whole body was soaked in sweat.
I lay there motionless, wondering what took place. I gasped as I realized that I had been amongst my dead ancestors. The Mullah’s voice had jerked me down to earth. This return was so intense and powerful that my body was struggling to cope with it. I resented the Mullah’s Azaan because it had interrupted the calm and peace I was experiencing.
Would I have returned willingly? Impossible! Without the forceps of the Mullah’s voice, I would have continued in that other reality. But then immediately I thought, “No!” It would have been a disaster to have died in my sleep in Afghanistan. I had a wife and young children who depended on me and many business projects to attend to.
“I need to put my affairs in order. Give me one more year and then I am all yours,” I pleaded.
A powerful current started to run from my head to my toes. It was very pleasant. I was in tune with my universe. The vibrations stopped as if we had just signed and sealed a contract.
balbirmathur.com 
I am going through much the same bargaining process saying I need 2-3 more years to put my affairs in order and spend time with my grandchildren. I know they are listening.