MAUKA LINE

The clouds shimmered like silver silk beneath my feet as I stepped into Heaven—not the version with harps and halos, but one more curious, more alive. There were lines everywhere. Some short and brisk, others stretching into eternity. But one, bathed in the golden hue of dawn, caught my eye:

A marble placard beside it read: “The Mauka Line. For those who still believe the opportunity awaits.”

Something in me stirred. Hope, perhaps. Or the regret of unfulfilled dreams when I was alive. I stepped into place behind a patient soul in a smart business suit, eyes fixed on something far ahead. Around us, there was a hushed reverence—not sombre, but weighted with longing.

After what felt like a quiet eternity, I reached the front.

Before me stood an angel—not with wings, but with eyes like galaxies, full of stories untold. She wore no robe or halo, just a calm authority that made you feel completely seen. She looked like someone you’d meet at a life-coaching retreat or a mountain monastery. Warm, wise, and firm. She offered a gentle smile.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

I hesitated, then spoke. “I’m waiting for a chance to know why I wasn’t able to achieve more in my professional career when I was alive.” She tilted her head. “You had one chance. Do you not remember the meeting room, the pitch, the moment your voice faltered?” It came flooding back. The idea that could have changed everything. The product that would have solved a real problem. The slide I designed at midnight, the passion that fueled it—only to dissolve into silence when the spotlight came on.

CAPTAIN IN YOU - MAUKA LINE

I remembered how I glanced around the table, saw the sceptical expressions, the impatient tapping of pens. I doubted myself. Swallowed my conviction. And nodded along with the louder voice in the room. The moment had passed. I didn't realise then—but that hesitation drew the curtains on a future that might have been.

The angel nodded, reading my silence.

“You weren’t lacking answers,” she said gently. “You were lacking belief.” I tried to object. Peer pressure, maybe. Or the anxiety of judgment. Maybe I didn't know enough, or maybe I wasn’t given enough space. She raised a single finger—silencing my excuses like the wind stills a flame.

“You don’t need to explain. Everyone who stands in this line has their version of why not. But here’s the truth—if you're waiting for a ‘Mauka’ in Heaven, you've already missed it on Earth.”

I stared down at my shoes. The line behind me had grown longer. New souls arrived by the minute—some still wearing traces of ambition in their eyes, others weighed down by the heavy coat of regret.

“But… what happens now?” I whispered.

She smiled and pointed to a narrow path away from the queue that led to quiet corridors where souls moved in silence—ghosts of could-have-beens and should-have-dones. Some clutched briefcases of business plans. Others carried canvases never painted, books never written, children they never dared to adopt, apologies they never made.

It hit me then—not as punishment, but as realisation: life wasn’t meant to be a rehearsal.

That heavenly scene isn’t fiction—it’s a metaphor. A mirror. Every day, we stand at the front of some version of The Mauka Line. A chance to speak up. To start something. To forgive. To lead. To pivot. To risk. But more often than not, we hesitate. We let someone else take the wheel. We say: “Maybe next time.” “Maybe when I feel ready.” “Maybe when things calm down.”

We wait for the captain to arrive. Not realising, it’s us.

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