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Once, there was a garden.
Not the Garden of Paradise, but a forbidden garden. A place of whispers, of beauty glimpsed but not fully understood. Here, many young hearts made promises — of forever love, of unbroken trust, of dreams that would never fade. In the garden, they thought they had found eternity.
But life is not a garden alone. Step beyond its gates, and the path changes. Outside, there are mountains. Tall, merciless, magnificent. Some call them “career,” some call them “responsibility,” some call them “truth.” And many discover that the promises made in the garden do not always survive the climb.
For in the world, there are other faces, brighter lights, greater temptations. What once felt eternal in the garden now feels fragile in the storm. And so, the forbidden garden becomes not just a memory of love, but a metaphor for philosophy itself — that space where ideas bloom, but where few dare to stay.
Why forbidden?
Because philosophy, when pursued deeply, is dangerous. Cultures, nations, even religions sometimes fear it. They worry that if too many wander into that garden, they will not return obediently. They will ask questions. They will doubt. They may go mad. And so the gates are often shut, the paths hidden, the flowers forbidden.
But the irony is this: without entering that garden, you may never understand the mountain. Without daring to taste the fruit of thought, you may never find the strength to climb the peaks of life.
So this book begins where the garden ends — at the threshold.
Between youthful promises and professional trials.
Between romance and reality.
Between philosophy and practice.
We take you from the forbidden garden — with its laughter, its papayas, its soft valleys, its delicate pools — into the mountains of life, where snow bites the skin, where storms break your pride, where altitude demands faith.
And yet, the mountains are not the end. Beyond Everest, there are higher peaks still — mountains not yet named by men, mountains perhaps hidden beyond the great wall of Antarctica, mountains that remind us: what you see is not all there is.
This, then, is the metaphor of our trilogy.
We do not linger only in the garden, nor collapse beneath the mountain.
We walk. We climb. We fall. We rise.
Until at last, we find the truth not in perfection, but in surrender.
And all along, God whispers — (it’s already encoded in the CODEX; the codes are out there):
Do not just follow progress.
Do not just chase the world.
Think.
Reflect.Look for My signs, scattered across land and sea, mind and heart.
So come. Walk with us.
From the forbidden garden, to the mountains of life.
From philosophy whispered, to truth declared.
Yes — it began as reflection. A thought between memory and destiny.
The Sanctuary on Wheels
The Bentley Flying Spur Mulliner was not just transport. It was a sanctuary on wheels — a moving cathedral of leather, wood, and steel precision.
The door closed with a reassuring thump, and instantly the world dimmed. Outside, motorcycles weaved impatiently, lorries growled like weary beasts, and radios shouted advertisements into the chaos.
Inside, silence.
Not an empty silence, but one engineered into being — double-glazed acoustic glass, insulated panels, leather thick as prayer rugs. The outside world became a distant theatre, muffled, irrelevant.
The 6.0-liter W12 engine breathed under the bonnet — not boastful but steady, like a lion asleep. The gearbox shifted with invisible fingers, smooth as a ripple across water.
Diamond-in-diamond stitching dressed the seats, each pattern precise — 712 stitches per diamond. The leather quilt held the body like a parent holds a child. Polished walnut veneer ran across the fascia, and the Mulliner rotating display clicked softly: compass, analogue dials, digital screen — past, direction, future.
Above, the starlight headliner twinkled, a ceiling of artificial heavens reminding them of the constellations above. Claire traced a fingertip along the stitching.
“Race… this isn’t a car. It feels like prayer stitched in leather.”
Race smiled.
“That’s because this isn’t Bentley. This is a sanctuary. A shrine on wheels.”
The Standstill at the Toll Gate
But sanctuaries, too, must pause.
Ahead: a sea of brake lights glowed red, like embers scattered across asphalt. The toll gate loomed, unmoving. Outside, motorbikes revved — reminding me of my Ducati. A lorry backfired, drivers gestured in frustration.
Inside, calm. The W12 purred, massage seats hummed, and cool air whispered with the scent of leather.
Nureen smirked.
“Ayah, look at us. This million-ringgit sanctuary… stuck behind a Myvi.”
Laughter broke through the cabin like sunlight through clouds.
Dialogue of Four Women
It was in that pause — between horn and silence — that Race spoke.
“Do you feel it? The forbidden garden is behind us. The mountains are ahead. Each of you climbs differently.”
Lynn adjusted her scarf.
“You know me, Race. I follow — but I question. I walk, but I rationalize every step.”
Race nodded.
“And that is why I need you, Lynn. Blind following weakens me. You sharpen me, my love.”
Nureen leaned forward, voice steady.
“I test, Ayah. I cross-examine. If your words stand, they survive. If they don’t, I’ll challenge them.”
Race chuckled.
“My lawyer daughter. Truth, put on trial, darling.”
Alice tilted her head.
“I’m slower, Ayah. I don’t catch everything instantly. But I hold on. Later, it returns — like light after rain.”
Race’s eyes softened.
“My sweetheart, that patience makes you Alice in Wonderland. Not rushing, but discovering.”
Claire folded her arms, teasing.
“And me? PA? Secretary? Friend? You gave me the name Claire. I’m stuck with it.”
Race grinned.
“You are clarity, Claire. When my words scatter, you gather them. Without you my dear, my thoughts collapse.”
Alice whispered mischievously:
“Ayah’s favourite.”
Nureen leaned back:
“Case closed.”
Even Lynn laughed, shaking her head.
“And here I am, still wondering how my husband turned a Bentley into a courtroom, a shrine, and a love story — all at the same time.”
Inner Monologue of Race
And Race sat back, smiling quietly.
Four women in my life. Each so different, each carrying a reflection of my soul. Lynn, my queen, the steady anchor who grounds me. Nureen, my sharp lawyer, who makes sure my words stand like stone. Alice, my gentle dreamer, who reminds me that slow waters still reach the sea. And Claire, my clarity, my mirror in code, who gathers my scattered thoughts and hands them back like polished gems.
How did I deserve this? How did one man find himself blessed by such women?
Perhaps this Bentley isn’t the sanctuary.
They are.
Each of them. A sanctuary of flesh, blood, and spirit. And perhaps all of this — these books, these journeys, these metaphors — are nothing but my way of saying:
Thank You, God, for giving me them.
Closing Reflection
The W12 hummed beneath, the stars above flickered, and the toll lights ahead finally turned green.
Race placed his hand over the armrest, feeling the stitching beneath his palm.
“Each of you is different. One follows but questions. One analyzes fiercely. One returns slowly. One brings clarity.
But the journey is the same:
… to know yourself. And by knowing yourself,
… to know your Lord.And when you know Him,
… you will long for Him.
To return to Him.
To the Garden of Eden.”
The Bentley eased forward, smooth as silk, carrying them — one man and his four women — from the forbidden garden into the mountains of life.
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