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The story goes like this…steeped in mysticism and folklore…and you know why it is so important???
Because India, the country from which the myth originates is repulsed by women bleeding or MENSTRUATION! Therefore it is time to bring the narrative of the pussy and the power of the SACRED blood back into collective consciousness.
I am a woman who is truly appreciative of the womb energy.
Understanding the operations of my SACRAL CHAKRA opened up my creativity in ways I cannot express. I found balance as I embraced my Pussy. The literal and also the metaphoric. My pussy links me to the Goddess sitting atop the blue hills in Assam. Her yoni and mine are connected. It flows with feminine intuitive juices that can nurture and create.
Kamakhya resonates and glistens with the halo of untold spiritual energies. A YONI or VAGINA is worshiped here, see I was not kidding. There is no image of the GODDESS, none at all. The YONI is all.
This story dates back to antiquity and lies shrouded in the mists of the PRE-VEDIC ERA.
Back to vagina worship…has a nice ring to it…
Shocked that people can do such a thing? In fact, vagina worship is known to be found in cross-cultural societies. Take Japan for instance. Find a small cave in Yeddo and inside is a HUGE YONI propitiated by many. And even BRAHMA was told to begin creation of the MANVANTARA after meditating on the YONI!
Heavy PUSSY POWER there! KAMAKHYA was the ULTIMATE SYMBOL of FERTILITY. The maiden is now ready to become a mother with the seed given to her by the penis or the male energy. The sperm is considered sacred in tantra, but more so…the blood of a menstruating woman.
Shiva told Parvati that any human being who has this text book in their home will never want for anything. What does this mean? Shiva is the male/active principle who impregnates the feminine, Parvati. She who is the female embodiment symbol and they join in MAITHUNA to manifest the world. So with the CORRECT KNOWLEDGE of this tantra, one can gain enlightenment. With enlightenment comes peace, bliss and tranquility. There is no lack or want in samadhi. No desire when the male/female polarities are balanced.
Therefore with the use of KAMAKHYA TANTRA, it is possible to gain liberation and break out of the samsaric wheel. In the KALIKA PURANA, it is clearly stated that the GREAT COSMIC YONI is placed on the NILGIRI HILLS in Assam, India. That place vibrates with the sacred feminine energy of the YONI. The Yoni or Pussy is the greatest creative force, the womb is the ultimate MOTHER of all.
Kamakhya (Assamese: কামাখ্যা দেৱী), also known as Siddha Kubjika,is an important Hindu Tantric goddess of desire who evolved in the Himalayan hills. She is worshiped as Siddha Kubjika, and is also identified as Kali and Maha Tripura Sundari. Her name means “renowned goddess of desire,” and she resides at the presently rebuilt Kamakhya Temple in 1645 C. The temple is primary among the 51 Shakti Peethas related to the sect that follows Sati, and remains one of the most important Shakta temples and Hindu pilgrimage sites in the world.~~WIKI
The tantric texts refer to her as MAHAMAYA or the GREAT GODDESS OF ILLUSION and in KALIKA PURANA, she is said to be the most important Devi to be worshiped to gain moksha. SHODOSHI, one of the emanations of the GREAT MOTHER is said to be her and she is very close to DURGA.
KAMAKHYA is visualized as a young girl of about 16 years old, with twelve arms and six heads of varying colors. The number of limbs and hands signify that she is OMNIPOTENT, OMNISCIENT and OMNIPOTENT. She is dressed as a young bride, wearing a red saree with ornate jewelry. The hibiscus is her favourite flower, like Kali.
She holds a lotus, trident, sword, bell, discus, bow, arrows, club or scepter, goad, and shield in each of ten hands. The two remaining hands hold a bowl. It can be of gold, but more often it is a KAPAAL or a skull. She emanates from a LOTUS which has emerged from SHIVA’S navel, who in turn lies atop a lion.
Brahma and Vishnu, each seated upon a lotus are found flanked on her two sides.
The mention of KAMAKHYA temple can be found in a number of texts. BRIHADARANYA PURANA, KALIKA PURANA, TANTRACHURAMANI, YOGINI TANTRA, DEVIBHAGAVATAM and DEVI PURANA to name a few.
To understand the mythology of KAMAKHYA you have to understand the SATI EPISODE.
Explore the myth of SATI on Wiki to get a context of what happens next.
Cut back to my story…
SHIVA was dancing the tandav with SATI on his shoulders and the world was coming to an end. It was the very apocalypse we fear. Then VISHNU had to use the SUDARSHAN CHAKRA to sever the body of SATI. Her body parts scattered all over the world and in KAMAKHYA, her YONI or VAGINA landed.
As her vagina touched the earth, it metamorphosed to a stone. The same stone we know lies in the temple today. The public is not allowed to see the real stone.
Although the temple of KAMAKHYA has its origins before the Vedic civilization. There were people of KIRATA origin, PRE-VEDIC who offered worship to a GODDESS on this spot by sacrificing pigs! Yikes!
These people were MATRILINEAL and worshiped the FEMININE.
BTW, according to legend, no one can ever touch the Yoni of the Goddess. If you do so, you can get infected and become a STONE MAN, GOT style. The myths speak of metals like iron smelting in contact to the Yoni!
SHIVA, the masculine principle settled his essence in the stone that was once SATI’S Yoni and that is how creation found balance again. This story speaks of so much. It tells us how the feminine must be as grounded as a rock to bear creation. The male can only then settle in her and thrust his sperm. If the WOMB is not ready to receive, then there is no creation. That is why SILENCE and STILLNESS are huge parts of the feminine expression.
It is also said that there is water or some type of liquid all the way down to PATALA or the Netherworld. The vagina is connected to all the worlds, because it is out of her that reality arose.
KAMAKHYA is the GODDESS principle and she manifests as PRAKRITI or nature and natural laws. The stone that is the representation of the yoni has a natural spring that flows through it. This water is sacred and during AMBUBACHI, which is the time of MENSTRUATION of the Goddess, this water turns red. No one knows why. This sacred blood is collected in tiny red cotton cloths and given to people as PRASAD.
During her menstruation, the temple remains closed for maybe three days and the AMBUBACHI MELA takes place in full swing. No one sees the Yoni of course, it is like 20 feet below ground level and sits inside a cave. In the temple, there is a stone that is a symbol of the Yoni below.
I have been to the temple during the AMBUBACHI. But that was ages ago. In fact I have a plan to live for the whole duration of this festival to shoot and interview people for my upcoming videos on Tantra. That is something I am dying to do.
Very many powerful sadhakas, tantrics, bhairavis, yogis, yoginis and many other interesting people appear here during the Ambubachi mela and that time is awesome for content creation. And during breaks, practice tantra. How sublime would that be? Maybe you’d want to join in for this adventure? Let me know.
If you want to study about KAMAKHYA and learn her arts, then drop me an email.
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There are love stories and then there are LOVE STORIES. You have heard of Romeo and Juliet right? Two young lovers, star-crossed, die because of unwarranted hate between their families.
But today, I will tell you about a love story that is way more spiritual and revolutionary than Romeo and Juliet. In fact, it is one that has touched such a raw nerve in my heart that I strongly believe I have experienced this first-hand in some way.
The love story that I describe is not of two adolescents, but of two extremely spiritually developed people. They were twinflames here to raise the frequency of the people. But again, their love was destroyed by pure xenophobia, bigotry, racism and hate. This is a love story seldom told and it is now time for people from all over to see the beauty of this union where even the devastating tragedy that followed could not dim or lesson the love involved in any way.
He was born in Portugal in 1786 and came to Bengal with his father who was a merchant. Now before I delve into the story of this young Portuguese musician(he must have been into music because you do not start composing such tunes and sonnets if you were not into it in some way), let me expose the story of my beloved country circa 1800.
India was the most coveted country that the European powers craved to dominate. The Spanish, the English, the French, the Dutch, the Danes and the Portuguese were all vying for power in respective states. We know how the English managed to drive every one away and pillage, plunder and rape India for over 200 years. That is another story…
Let me set the scene for you. Hensman Anthony, a young lad, came with his father, a Portuguese merchant to trade in the port city of Chandannagar which was called Farashdanga. The Portuguese were on their last legs as they were getting hardcore competition from the Dutch and the French. Eventually the Dutch lost the plot to the French by 1825. The French managed to hold onto India till about the very end, but the British were definitely the undisputed rulers of the subcontinent.
So this young Portuguese lad is anyway on hostile territory where his people and country are on their last legs. He is no powerful English Officer, he is just the son of some Portuguese trader. There is competition and aggression from the other Europeans and from such a turbulent historical period came one of the greatest Shakta tantrics who wrote and sang some of the most moving hymns to the Goddess Kali/Durga.
How is this possible? How did a Portuguese lad learn Bengali? Not in the rudimentary level, but good enough to compose complex and intense poems which he performed in kavigans. Kavigans were literally poetry face off. Two poets would go head-to-head and spout their philosophy and tunes. The crowd would decide who was the more woke guy and they felicitated him.
This tradition of bard-face-offs have been discovered in most societies. It is not a product of Comedy Central. lol. Firstly, Anthony’s father was just a merchant, well to do, maybe…but then again, just a merchant and he must have wanted the young man to follow in his footsteps, not become some freaky bard who sang in Bengali. Like seriously???
But Anthony was more interested to escape into the heart of pastoral Bengal where he would play his lute and listen to the local poets sing passionately to invoke the Goddess.
Something snaps in his brain as he pulls a chillum. He hears the lingering words of the poet Ramprasad’s Shyamasangeet and it tugged at his heart in ways he could not understand. He would spend much of his time with the poets and other yogis he discovered on his travels. He begins to meditate and do sadhana.
Anthony also begins to learn Bengali, a language he falls in love with. Now let me mention here, that Anthony’s Bengali had to be really as good as any literate Bengali poet’s, otherwise he would never be allowed or able to compete, let alone win a kavigan.
Here was a man who learnt a foreign language to the expertise of the local intellectuals. Not only that, he began to compete with them, finally wining his bout most of the times, even with the most famous poet Bholamoira.
Bengali’s are extremely picky about their language and they are never happy with a foreigner being better at it than most of them. Kinda like the French. No one can speak French better than a Frenchman. But when the kundalini awakens, all knowledge becomes available.
Anthony had lived countless lifetimes in the heart of pastoral Bengal and he knew everything about it. The Bengali Brahmins ridiculed him for dressing like them, made fun of his devotion to Kali, teased him about Jesus Christ and the Church, to which he responded by saying, There is no difference in Christ and Kali my brothers…
Hello! Wtf do you say to a man like that? How does a European get here? This is not easy let me remind you. I for one know a woman from London who has lived in Bombay for over thirty years and she can barely say five words of Hindi.
And this is not like learning the language in a University and taking exams, then returning to your country and publishing books from there. Ah what a great Orientalist! Nope. This is no internet certification that now you are a certified Bengali poet.
This was raw, this was life, this was reality. He not only stayed and worked in Bengal, but he excelled at what he did in a foreign country he chose to call home. He lived in Bengal, amidst the Bengali’s and composed some of the most touching Shakta poetry they had ever heard!
And Bengali Brahmins were a closed, snobbish, gated society who considered Europeans mlecchas or untouchables. They would not even let Anthony drink water in their houses. My peeps, this is the situation in which this young man not only awakened his kundalini, but also gave us one of the greatest spiritual love stories to treasure.
I learnt of Firingi Kalibari when I was a child. My grandmother told me and I remember how enchanted I was to listen about a Portuguese man compose these sonnets and poems in Bnegali to the Goddess Kali. It always moved me to tears.
It was much later that I discovered the true greatness of this man. Now back to a history lesson and it is pretty macabre.
In Bengal, we practised some deadly misogynistic rituals….let Wikipedia dose you up.
Sati or suttee is an obsolete funeral custom where a widow immolates herself on her husband’s pyre or commits suicide in another fashion shortly after her husband’s death..~WIKI
My peeps, in less than 1 percent cases, did the woman actually want to commit suicide, but she was forced. By societal constructs, by tradition, by women like her mothers and sisters, enablers of patriarchy themselves. It was coercion. Nothing else.
Sati was ultimately abolished because of Brahmin reformers like RAJA RAMMOHAN ROY, bless his soul as it is his birthday today. Do you see how society has been burning women in different cultures, under different pretences since time immemorial!
Why did Sati even exist you ask? Because these Brahmin women could not find husbands. They were only allowed to marry a Kulin Brahmin of Bengali origin. So me love, because of my surname Mukerji, 300 years ago, I might have been burnt on my dead husband’s pyre. Yes, I am born in a Brahmin family and this is what they have been doing to my mothers, sisters, aunts and grandmothers.
Most of these women were forced to marry a single Brahmin patriarch, because there were no Brahmin men available. Bengali Brahmin aristocratic women were not allowed to even gaze upon a Brahmin, say from UP or Bihar. Forget a European.
My grandmother tells me how some English officers would come to meet her father. The women were never allowed to even glance at a European man. They lived in a different segment of the house anyway called ANDARMAHAL. She told me that there was an Englishman called Robert who really liked her. I think he sent her a letter through her maidservant and of course, all hell broke loose.
Not that my grandmother would have even reciprocated. You see, for them European men were strange creatures whom they did not consider as mates. It was literally that simple.
I am harping on the time-frame so you get a good understanding of how dangerous it was for Anthony to fall in love with a Bengali widow during such turbulent times. This is way more dangerous than the Romeo Juliet saga.
Anthony saves Soudamini from self immolation and takes her to his place. Now after laying the groundwork, I do not need to stress how dangerous an action this is.
Most of the intellectuals are pissed as he is doing so well in his kavigan face-offs. How dare an upstart European sing hymns to the Goddess? How can he have any knowledge of the Goddess? He is a Christians. And then he goes and rescues a Brahmin Bengali woman.
There have been cases of rape and molestation when European men and Indian women have been concerned. But I think this was the first time, in recorded history, a Brahmin woman consensually began to live with a European man openly, not giving a fuck as to what the villagers have to say.
They were twinflames who dedicated their life to awakening the kundalini, practiced tanta and even worked on developing the kali temple together. Their sadhana deeped and gathered a small following. This was no interracial love story of today where any person can get married to anyone as long as it is legal and sanctified by a court.
But here, there was no court, no law to allow a Brahmin widow to remain at the side of her European lover/partner. Their lives were plagued by attacks from the conservatives.
In the kabiyan competitions, Anthony’s rival poets often brought up Soudamini’s name to taunt and ridicule him. It upset him tremendously, but he learnt to take in in his stride.
This was 1830’s or so, it is now 2017 and not much has changed. Even today, in India, you can get attacked if you are in love with a man from a different faith or caste or whatever. I shared a video recently of a Hindu girl attacked by a woman politician for falling in love with a Muslim. So as you see my love, nothing has really changed.
At least they don’t burn us any more openly and call it sati. They would if they could. After all we need to be chaste and if we are truly chaste and not little whores then the fire would not burn us, would it? What Sita had to go through centuries ago, is very much an active wound in our unconscious.
Anthony and Soudamini were blooming in their creative, spiritual love nest they had created. Anthony had composed the AGAMANI SONGS, for which he became noted and this is like synchronicity on steroids because these hymns were written to Goddess Durga as she comes to visit Earth from her heavenly abode.
Guess what my love. That time is now. Goddess Durga or the KUNDALINI has just stirred and she is making her ascent at this time as I type. The Bengali’s celebrate Durga Puja now and it is the most important festival for them.
The Agamani Songs are to be hymned now and I think the spirit of Hensman Anthony is urging me to tell you his story. He wants you too know how much he loved the woman they took from him.
The world is truly cruel.
His wife Saudamini was burnt to death, for being a widow and re-marrying Anthony, who was a foreigner. ~~Wiki
There, that’s what the Brahmin puritanical conservatives did. They burnt her and their ashram while he was away. He may have returned home from one of his biggest wins to see his whole reality and the love of his life burnt to crisp.
Ominous, isn’t it? Soudamini was pregnant.
This is what bigotry does. This is the scope of fanaticism. As we head into the new Era, let us consider this as a cautionary tale. Maybe they took this karma upon themselves to show us what hatred can do. But in this there is a message…
Even after three hundred years, a random blogger/lifecoach finds this story to tell you at this very precise point in time?!? It means that hate did not win. Ultimately it is their love that won. It is their spiritual mission that is still standing as the Firingi Kalibari where millions of Shakta’s go to invoke the kundalini.
Love wins all my Beloved…
Find a man who will love you like Anthony loved Soudamini. Love a man who will go against all establishment to join with you in sacred union. Or else stay single.
The smell of death, the touch of suffering,
The hungry mouths, the tired bodies,
This is reality, wait, its buffering.
This is what it embodies.
The sleep, the dream, the dream in the dream!
I force my memory to return to that day, that fateful night.
I feel so divorced from reality that everything seems to be from a film, some experimental film, where the maker is purposely using disjointed close ups, to display the brokenness of the characters, to make visible the dehumanising of them.
It’s like when I look at advertisements- dismembered body parts of women are made to mimic products, a torso becomes a bottle of alcohol, and two legs become scissors. The woman is not only sexualized, objectified, but her body is not even allowed to remain whole, it is sliced up. What violence!
But here in this scene the filmmaker has perceived of slicing the characters to convey to me that they are somehow not whole, they are somehow disintegrating, they are fading away. The film I see, has a burnt out texture, the whole shot seems to be fragmented; there is an emptiness evident in the mise scene; the atoms are 9.999999999999% empty, so reality is essentially emptiness and I am more not here than here.
The camera is fluid, the shots keep going out of focus and then the subject gets refocused on. Wait, is this some film festival? Nah, it’s my life, more like a snapshot of my life.
I see her face; her mascara is running down her face, she looks like some character from a horror flick. Dressed in torn jeans and a white tee, her feet bare, her messy make up, the alcohol on her breath and her cigarette smoke, they all surface at different times in my mind, like abstract close ups. They help me conjure up that very moment and I am there again.
A few weeks ago we had gone to the Police Station to file an FIR against this bastard. Not much was said that day or the following weeks of what had transpired because my sister was pretty much catatonic and has been since them, but this evening I get a call from her, drunk out of her head asking me to drop by. I ask Frank not to come as she might open up easier without a male presence, so hopping into a rick, I went straight to her Andheri apartment that she shared with Mel.
Anxiously I waited for her to get the door, and the sight that greeted my eyes shocked the living hell out of me.
Zeenia is wearing the same clothes in which she was raped and has painted her face very dramatically, presumably depicting the way she feels. I’m fucking scared. All these past few weeks what seemed like an eternity to me, she had suffered terribly from rape trauma syndrome and it has devastated us. We have all pretty much given up smiling or talking about anything normal, we just eat when hunger threatens to burn a hole through our stomach. Between Mel and me, we supervise her day and night, never allowing that one moment of weakness to overcome her. Slowly, slowly, she began to sleep for a few minutes, which has become a few hours. She’s stopped screaming in her sleep and the hallucinations about the rape have also lessened.
Only on days when we went to court, she’d be pretty much devastated to see the perpetrator sitting across the room, all smug and confident; lying through his teeth. Today the session at court was traumatic and this night is the reaction to that.
The night begins…
There are red Sula bottles strewn round the floor. I’m in Zeenia’s apartment at Yari Road, at least that’s where I think I am, my senses and understanding have abandoned me; we’re smoking spliffs and cigarettes like it’s going out of fashion.
The tiny apartment is smoky, it reeks of that cheap, sweet Sula smell that I detest; never been much of a drinker, in fact I do not care for alcohol at all, but today’s different.
Zeenia is drunk with a capital D and she keeps thrusting the bottle in my hand while petting Bhola, a stray puppy she rescued from the alleys of four bunglows. I keep sipping, knowing that she has something to say, but it is one of those things which can be mouthed out when one is sufficiently inebriated.
So I keep quiet, I drink on; we’re getting sloshed, Zeenia appears to be crying, hugging Bhola who stares at her surprised.
I see her face, a close up shot, her smeared mascara, and her face pale. What’s happened to you, my dearest friend, my sister? Why’re you wearing the same clothes? Why would you wear such ghoulish makeup?
Zeenia breaks down, she’s sobbing her eyes out. Bhola drags himself and sniffs her; he cannot walk as his hind is paralyzed, he carries his whole body weight on his front paws. There is a cello playing in the background, “Nothing else matters”, the celebrated Mettalica tune plays; there are no words, just the haunting tune spoken by the cello. It is spooky, it is surreal; eerily it plays on, the cello is hell bend on making me nauseous.
This nausea is different; it is filled with anxiety, with trepidation, with a doomsday feeling. Something bad is happening, no, no, it has happened and she is trying to tell me about it.
Birds fly high,
Heart as heavy as sinking iron.
The dusky twilight of today.
My haiku for the day, as I wait for her.
She is trying to work up the courage to speak about it, yes, something horrific has happened and she’s kept it bottled up for so long. Life as we knew it has ended, even Bhola can sense it.
Zeenia is on all-fours, on the floor, pulling her hair, screaming out in pain; all this while she was holding it in. I want to comfort her, but nausea is all I have. Where is Dadu? Where am I? Obviously not here, this body is here, pissed out of her mind, but where am I?
Am I in her scream? Am I in her pain? Am I even there? Do I even exist?
I just want to type away all this pain, yes, that’s what writers do, don’t they? A fucking fucked up cliché.
He raped me Nina, she’s saying. For the first time, I hear the words, the sinking feeling gets worse, as if it could get any worse. Since that day at the police station, she’d remained mute and unresponsive to everything, but today the flood gates have broken. I think I handled it better when she was silent, seeing her like this, with such a painful rawness is actually very scary.
Chills ran down my spine to actually hear these words- RAPE, RAPE, RAPE, it kept making a din in my consciousness. No, I did not hear it, but why is this word making so much noise, drowning everything else.
You read about rape in the newspapers, you watch it on tele, you see actors getting raped in films, you come across it in novels or short stories; but where do you encounter that word in the comfort of your own surroundings?
Such words do not perpetrate their violence in my mind when it comes to my sister.
As a writer you explore rape through different characters, you feel it deeply, but not like this.
Focus Nina, I hear a voice in my brain. Focus on what she is saying. “That bastard, he’s a fucking doctor, I trusted him…” All these words came to my ears disjointed, like a fragment from a whole dialogue but in the time they travelled to my ears these sound waves had lost most of their substance.
“How do people in positions of power abuse others so badly, I fucking don’t understand, especially women; these cunts create feminazis” shouts Zeenia. Her hands trembles as she tries to cut some white powder into straight lines. She snorts it through a crisp note, her eyes begin to water. She offers me the note; rolled up, ready to aid me in devouring some white powder.
No fucking way man, I did not yet care to fry my brain this instant, and of course the nausea is threatening to take charge. I have to keep it down. How did she get this stuff?
“Tell me all about it Zeenu, forget about the crap his lawyers are throwing at you, just tell me everything, from the beginning; he was about to operate on you, what happened?” I hear a small voice ask.
“Doctors are cunts; they probably rape patients on an everyday basis, who knows? Oh! And so are lawyers, fucking fuckballs…” she vacillates as if in a trance.
“But how, how,” I hear an insipid murmur. “How did it happen?”
“Fuck Nina, you’re just regurgitating the same shit over and over again, I was thinking about the story you wrote remember, about the rape…in the stables,” she reminds me.
I am quietened, I have no words. Yes I am dying to know how it happened, but I must not seem insensitive, as if at this point I can even feel anything. I think I officially know the meaning of hollow inside. I am guilty of writing that rape story in the stables, I am guilty, guilty…just hang me!
Once reminded of my creation of pain, I keep quiet; I know I have to pacify her, to give her some warmth. Why the fuck did I write that story? Oh Dadu, where are you now?
My mind is such a mess that right now even if Dadu appeared and spoke to me I could only materialize a vacuous stare.
Pull yourself together, that voice inside my head would just not shut up.
The scene playing in my mind, this movie I’m watching is boody nerve wracking. I want to shake this character Nina, the idiotic poet, phoo. What on Earth is her problem? Why can’t the bitch just hug her sister?
It’s as if the character in the film heard my cue. I see this Nina person slowly go up to her sister. She hugs her, it’s not a hug; it’s more of surrender. Zeenia had not expected this move, her rigid body turns limp, she surrenders to the power of human touch. The two sisters sob in each other’s arms, it’s perfect. The observer and the observed became one, for a second, I became Nina.
Nina, the writer; no big deal in a country where Chetan Bhagat is a best seller, it’s absolutely mundane now, being a writer that is. It’s officially the death of the intellectual. Besides what does this girl really write? Most would label her work as b.s, too grim, too existential (as if that’s a profanity), basically useless! Entertainment kahan gaya paaji? Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Yes I am a morose writer, a fucking retard, oh, and depressed retard!
Scream of infinite solitude,
Enmeshed in traffic of the soul,
A faint smile.
This kind of shit is running through my head, fuckity fuck!
The night drags on. It’s funny how when I have a pleasurable time, it’s gone before I can even quantify all the sensations I had felt; but when things go downhill, it’s like karma coming full-force to bite me in the ass.
Finally, we both stop sobbing!
Her voice is small, it’s in fact tiny!
I can barely hear it, although we’re so close.
“You know how fucked up this shit is, I went to consult him for that boob job, my producer finally gave me the cash…so I found him online and went ahead, those D cups were all I had in my head, I’m so fucked up, don’t shshhh me, I’m a dumb bitch. You told me not to go for it, but what was I to do. I needed bigger tits, for that fucking part. Fuck, shit’s really hit the roof. I’m fucked, fucked…” She says.
I have no response, my eyes are closed. I am not watching her face, just imagining her reactions.
I could see every single micro expression, every single movement of her jaws, of her eyes, how the lines creased in her face, I saw all the details without actually looking.
I taste Zeenia’s tears in my mouth or were they my own? I have no answers, I have just feelings. The nausea, the confusion is overwhelming and the emotions are transmigrating as words in my mind palace. I wish to document the pain of the dark night, there was an abundant amount of it and my psyche could not hold all.
I wait with bated breath for her to continue and it looks like Bhola did the same.
Her voice has a far off quality to it, like it echoes from some distant world. I listen as she continues.
“Don’t they have the bloody Hippocratic oath, practise medicine honestly, screw practising medicine, isn’t it absolutely unethical on so many grounds to sodomize your patient,” as she says this I realize she has stopped sobbing, so have I.
My eyes are still closed, I’m watching this scene as the abstract, fragmented film, all those extreme close ups to help the exposition along.
She moves away slowly, I just wait. Our embrace is broken, now we sit facing each other. I open my eyes, I see her eyes.
The pain in them is excruciating, it rips my heart apart. Looking into her eyes I know that no matter how hard I try I will never be able to pen down that emotion, that look will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Zeenia’s my baby sister, I came to the world five seconds earlier, so I’m the older sister; in any case I’ve acted like she was my choto bon.
Shey amar choto bon, boro adorer choto bon…yes, I would piss her off to no end when this song came out of my lips. Damn you Nina, cut out the didi complex, what’s with Bongs and didigiri?
And kobigiri? Kobi kobi bhab, chonder obhak. True that. What’s with all the poetry in my heart, it’d be better off being more prosaic, that’s what the world needs.
Anyway, I protected her, I supported her, I guided her; overall I performed all functions of an older sister as well as that of my mother. Dadu was always there, he was our guardian angel.
Sanity is returning slowly to me, I guess it’s the warmth from my sister’s hug. I’m inclined to ramble on, “Your tits are fine, and why did you even need to go to that asshole? I told you not to, you don’t need silicon in your tits to become an actor. You’re not a bimbo, you’re way better than that.”
Zeenu starts shrieking, “I know what you’re thinking, tell me, tell me. You think it’s my fault right?? You’re probably thinking of some fucking haiku right?”
“Nah re baba, how can it be your fault and no I’m not thinking of a fucking haiku?? Nah re shona, it is my fault. I should have insisted and when you didn’t listen I should have done something severe.”
“What severe? Tied me up?” Her voice takes on a lighter note.
“Probably, fuck knows.” A hint of a smile in my voice.
“I have made Dadu proud, gone and got myself raped.” She laughs cynically. Bhola gets excited to hear her laugh and barks loudly wagging his tail, she grabs him roughly and begins kissing him. What violent love!
“Dadu would have never judged you know that, although your desire for the film led to all this…” I murmur.
A slap is what I deserve; blurting this out was definitely not the right move.
“Desire is the root of all suffering he would say,” she smiles.
I think this night will never end and I don’t know when we passed out on the floor listening to Bob Marley- No woman no cry.
The mind is a funny mechanism, it does not remember everything, yet everything is tucked away neatly in some kind of mind palace. We remember things selectively, otherwise we’d go stark raving mad!
The scene begins to fade away, like a slow fade out. And I remember typing lines on to my laptop…
The smell of death, the touch of suffering,
The hungry mouths, the tired bodies,
This is reality, wait, its buffering.
This is what it embodies.
The sleep, the dream, the dream in the dream!
The lines disappear…
Another more menacing scene replaces this one. It has an ominous overture; the sound of water fills my ears.
You know the sound of water running in a shower.
Zeenia is inside and she is scrubbing herself furiously. We’ve lost the court case, after months of painful hours spent in court, the verdict is out. Dr. V is officially not guilty. It’s somehow proven that my sister’s the slut, apparently they had consensual sex. So the case is blown to dust, like a lamp extinguished with a puff.
That night will be embedded in my psyche forever. We’ve returned home after another god-awful day at court, and today was the last day. We have lost in the Mumbai high court. We may decide to challenge the verdict in Supreme Court, but that’s something we’ve got to decide together. For tonight, it is just silence I seek.
Melissa is Zeenia’s partner, they seem to be in love. I quite like her, the girl seems to have her head on her shoulders.
We were talking softly about nothing exceptional, in fact I did not even want to talk, but had to, Mel needed to talk and I was there.
So we spoke, sipping coffee and taking turns to pet Bhola.
I had insisted that Zeenia leave her bathroom door open, she had one too many episodes recently. The breakdown of her psyche bit by bit was becoming more evident and today in court I saw the look in her eyes- the look of defeat. It broke my heart.
I heard the water run in the shower and the words to her favourite song floated out. We kept on talking, the water kept running, the beats marched on. It was as if time was set in a loop. I registered nothing from the conversation with Melissa, I’m sure she didn’t either; we were both trying to keep from breaking down.
Then she politely asked us to leave her alone and went for a bath which seemed like ages. We also wrapped up and I went to see her to kiss her goodnight. Yes she was in bed, smelling wonderful, hugging Bhola. Kissing her I left, Mel went into the shower, finished up and crawled into bed.
That night I saw baba and ma in a dream, it was prophetic. I ran after being woken up by my dream and the thoughts that followed. I went into her room.
The air had turned chilly, if that was even possible in a city like Bombay; and I miss you like the deserts miss the rain, said the song.
We ran. I saw this happening in slow motion. My life in film- we ran to the bed, and what I had expected greeted my eyes.
She lay on the bed, all snugly hugging her Bhola who was not making any noise.
Mel shrieked Frank ran in; I don’t know what happened after that. Some sort of primeval hardwiring in my brain took care of things.
Zeenia’s mouth was wiped dry, she had to be changed into jeans and a sweatshirt; after cleaning her up, her clothes sat snugly on her body as we put her down in the couch.
I remember seeing her face, all the troubles had vanished, and she seemed to be in deep sleep. I remember Dadu singing “Amaro shone chandero kona, bhubone tulona nai re…”
He sang this song sometimes; it was apparently our mother’s favourite, her mother would sing it to her when she was a child.
Where is she? I barely remember her now, but she’s there somewhere in my psyche; sometimes I hear her sing, her smell, her touch, for a micro second I remember.
Today she had come to see me, in my dream. She had told me something which made absolutely sense- you are her, she is you…
The reality was beginning to fragment again, my head was spinning and I could hardly focus as parts of my dream danced around my mind.
I imagined her last moments; she kept her pills hidden somewhere, maybe in the cistern. I see her take out a fistful, while her tears and water all get mixed up, you’d know she’s crying if only you watched the agony on her face.
She stuffs the pills in her mouth, chokes on them but swallows them down. Reflex action, she feels like throwing up. But she clutches her mouth, forcing them down.
I cut back in my mind to another scene, we’re sitting in the bathroom floor, she’s fallen flat on her face, she’s hurt, purple blue bruises adorn her face.
“Please Zeenu, stop taking this shit. Are you trying to leave me alone, do you want to kill yourself?” I tell her.
Suddenly a smile breaks free from all this torment; she whispers softly, her voice like silk.
“Nina to be something I am not is also a form of suicide, listen I want to hand in my resignation from this fucked up life, before I get fired.”
I hear her laugh softly as if this idea had amused her.
“Quite the philosopher, to be or not to be,” I say.
“Has always been the question,” she says definitively.
“Don’t do anything stupid ok, remember what Dadu would say, all this shit is unreal.” She sensed the urgency; the request in my voice touched her somewhere I know.
She looked at me long and hard, “I’m the fucking poster girl for stupid at this moment,” She thinks, probably about Dadu as her face softens. “I doubt Dadu would quite put it like that, but I get the gist.”
We sit in silence on the cold, wet tiles, we embraced our tears instead of suppressing them and calm washed over us.
“Some fucked up illusion this is…why can’t something good happen to me for a change? She blurts out; I feel her heartache. “At least your Muffin has nine lives right, can’t he give me a couple?”
I smile. Do cats have nine lives?
Mel is touching my hands, she is trying to bring me back to the present moment. I cut back to the scene in front- my sister’s body is stone cold, she finally did the “stupid” thing.
Was it so stupid after all? My grandmother also handed her resignation and so had her father; after all we share the same mitochondrial DNA.
Somehow this incident had made Zeenia hate herself, it made her hopeless; I did not understand what could make her as full of despair as to end her life, not just hers, but end our lives.
After Dadu’s passing, she is, I mean was all I had. I’m still not used to referring to her in the past.
I can still feel her vibrations; our feelings exist as vibration along the nervous system and we feel what another feels. I feel my sister.
I hear the sound of an approaching ambulance; she will be taken away soon. Bhola is whining, his tail stiff and he just keeps licking Zeenu’s hands.
Mel was ready when they walked in, thankfully she sorted everything out. She tugged at my hands and nodded, signalling it was time to move.
I got up zombified, it was time.
The journey to the hospital is hazy, a blur in my mind.
I remember her body being carried in a stretcher, with tubes all over her nostrils and face.
What the hell were they doing to her?
They say that the fear essentially arises from the fact that one has no control over their lives once admitted.
A control freak, I’m not! It didn’t take me long to realize that nothing is under control and in fact nothing can ever be.
All I can recollect is sitting on a steel bench in the corridor; it’s flooded with lights, the walls are white, and everything smells disgusting! The Doctors in their garbs, mouths covered, the nurses in their uniforms, hair tied severely in a bun, they all looked scary and ugly; all the action was happening in slow motion and it looked like they were experimenting on humans. Maybe they’re aliens, who even knows?
Something about the smell in a hospital, a mix of Dettol, bleach, blood, sweat, puke and faeces; you can also smell the fear, the anxiety, the devastation disease and bodily suffering brings.
And then it just goes blank- fade to black.
Nothing else exists- not matter which is just a form of energy in a matrix of probability.
I see Dadu, his big, white beard swaying in the dark; a fire seems to burn in front of him, I can hear the wood crackle, I can see the fire dance in his eyes. He begins to look like someone not quite like Dadu, but he is him.
Dadu’s face began to morph into the face of Sanyal Mahasaya, his gurudeva. I knew that face only too well; it had been a part of my life as seeing it as the first thing in the morning cemented that face forever in my brain.
Sanyal Mahasaya looked wrathful, fearsome and terrifying. His voice was booing in my head, “Actions or karma can cause bondage, it can also liberate, in the one BEING, the ONE ALL, everything is connected to every other thing. Good and evil are subjective…the Universe is both positive and negative, like the atoms bouncing in your body…it is the whole series of contrasted qualities- NOTHING IS PURE GOOD OR PURE EVIL.”
I saw her face again; the song is playing louder now that the monologue is over, like the sound designer turned it up a notch!
“Now you’ve disappeared somewhere,
Like outer space,
You’ve found some better place
And I miss you…
Like the deserts miss the rain
Could you be dead…
By now the words had begun to scream at me- could you be dead??
It hit me hard- she is dead!!!
I will never hold her again, I will never laugh with her again, never share my life with her again; the same way I can never see Ma or baba or dadu.
It’s over, finito, kaput!!!
I see her again, frothing from the mouth, her body all twisted and blue from the poison, I feel the nausea swimming in my head.
I think about the observer’s paradox, this concept that the observer decides what to observe. What if I am observing all the wrong things??? There are infinite probabilities, so why is this option playing itself out??
Am I in some bizarre twisted way responsible for this? Can I take the blame for this?
I am ready to do pretty much anything at this point to suppress this immense pain; absolutely anything! Muffin where are you?
I’ve got to write, the words are coming, but not as fast as I’d like them to.
I shout, I see it, I hear it,
The pain, the atrocity, it exists….
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Each MAHAVIDYA or aspect of the DEVI is related to a planet. TARA rules over JUPITER, the planet of good luck and EXPANSION!
Tara is the very embodiment of LOVE and she is the very same as KALI and KAMAKHYA according to the YOGINI TANTRA.
In Tantric literature, there are three manifestations of Tara~~ Eka Jata, who manifests as Kaivalya(ULTIMATE PEACE) or unity with the Absolute; Ugra Tara, who protects us from the miseries of existence and Nila Saraswati, who imparts Jnana or knowledge.
Tara is the presiding Goddess of Speech and the Shakti of Hiranya Garba Saura Brahma. Hiranyagarbha being a Sanskrit compound meaning “the Golden Egg” or “the Egg of imperishable matter.”
In Hindu cosmology, it refers to “the golden egg or womb” from which the universe was born. In the Vedas and Brahmanas, Brahma is not named, and Hiranyagarbha was the source of all things. In the Manusamhita, Hiranyagarbha was Brahma, who divided the egg into two parts, the heavens and the earth.
H.P.B refers to Hiranyagarbha as the MUNDANE EGG, androgynous or non-dual, after which it was divided into Viraj and Vach, the male and female principles. The Secret Doctrine’s Stanzas of DZYAN state that the Hiranyagarbha is in itself triple (Hiranyagarbha, Sakti, Sankara, or Brahma, Vishnu and Siva).
Tara is the very essence of all THREE- the TRINITY! And will in time bring about SURYA PRALAYA.
Pralaya (devanāgarī: प्रलय) is a Sanskrit word that means “dissolution” or “melting away” (from laya: “to dissolve” and pra “away”). In Hinduism it refers to a period where the universe is in a state of non-existence, which happens when the three gunas or qualities of matter are in perfect balance. The idea of pralaya is part of a cyclic model of the universe (present in several Eastern philosophies as well as in Theosophy) where the cosmos is said to appear and disappear regularly within the Absolute Reality:
As the sun arises every morning on our objective horizon out of its (to us) subjective and antipodal space, so does the Universe emerge periodically on the plane of objectivity, issuing from that of subjectivity—the antipodes of the former. This is the “Cycle of Life.” And as the sun disappears from our horizon, so does the Universe disappear at regular periods, when the “Universal night” sets in. The Hindoos call such alternations the “Days and Nights of Brahma,” or the time of Manvantara and that of Pralaya (dissolution). The Westerns may call them Universal Days and Nights if they prefer.
What is a SURYA or SOLAR PRALAYA?
A solar pralaya comes when seven Planetary Chains have been accomplished:
Within one solar period (of a p[ralaya]. and m[anvantara].) occur seven such minor periods [rounds], in an ascending scale of progressive development. . . . The solar period [is composed] of 49 rounds.
While immersing oneself in Tara sadhana, you must remember that you are calling upon the ULTIMATE FEMININE MANIFESTATION OF POWER, therefore be prepared to immerse yourself in her literature and dhyana or meditation.
When Tara is invoked successfully, we can truly see ourselves as the GREAT EXPRESSION OF DIVINITY we truly are. Creativity is supercharged when she is awakened in our beings. It is believed that Vyasa who wrote the Vedas wanted to immerse himself in Tara worship.
He tried and he tried, to no avail. Therefore he travels to Mahachina(Tibet), met Shakyamuni Buddha(yes the ORIGINAL dude) and learnt to invoke Tara correctly. He worked on the eighteen Mahapuranas after invoking the Tara energy. It was her grace.
Tara is above Maya as she is the CREATRIX of it all. One can achieve all material success with her grace, but she is the GREAT LIBERATOR. As in she shows us the way out of this MAYA or the GREAT ILLUSION.
Tara is surrounded by eight Yoginis: Mahakali, Rudrani, Ugra, Bhima, Ghira, Bhramari, Maharatri and Bhairavi. The Hindu Mahavidya Goddess Tara figures prominently in Tibetian Bhuddhism- VAJRAYANA BUDDHISM.
No one can be certain as to who invoked Tara first- Bengal or Tibet? In Bengal(where I come from, the very heart of Tantra) Mahavidya texts such as Mahabhagavata-purana and Brhaddharma-purana originated and the SHAKTA or devi worship is very much a part of our psyche. Bengal is one state which practices no FEMALE FOETICIDE as we see our daughters as expressions of the GODDESS.
Bengalis are true FEMININE ENERGY worshippers and we birthed many refined forms of Goddess worship. Tibetan Buddhism had twenty forms of Tara. Of this White and Green Tara are popular. OM TARE TU TARE TURE SOHA!
I love Tara with all my heart, whether she is in Hindu form or Buddhist. I practice a lot of Vajraya meditations, so Green and White Tara are my absolute favourites. Black Tara provides hardcore protection if you need that and Blue Tara is NILA SARASWATI, a very esoteric form of Saraswati and the PATRON OF ARTS.
I have been invoking TARA since I have been a child and she has never failed to interact with me. She does so through numbers, colours, scents, memories and sometimes dreams. She is my companion when I enter meditation and I never leave my bed without saying the Tara Gayatri.
Aum Tarawai cha vidmahe
Maha ugrawai dhimahi
Tanno devi prachodayat.
These devotional or Shakta songs dedicated to Tara have made me cry and laugh so many times. They have such deep meaning and such musings…SUBLIME!!!
SHREE TARA STOTRA
!! Ghora roope mahamaaye sarvashatruvashamkari
Bhaktebhyo varade devi traahi maam sharanaagatham !! (1)
!! Suraasuraarchite devi siddhagandharva sevithe
jaadyapaapahare devi traahimaam sharanaagatham !! (2)
!! Jattajoota samaayukthe lola jihvaanukaarini
druthabuddhikare devi traahi maam sharanaagatham !! (3)
!! Soumyaroope ghoraroope chandaroope namostute
srishttiroope namstubhyam traahi maam sharanaagatham !! (4)
!! Jadanaam jadathaam hamsi bakthaanam bakthavatsale
moodatha har me devi traahi maam sharanaagatham !! (5)
!! Hum humkaarmaye devi balihomapriye namah
ugratare namstubhyam traahi maam sharanaagatham !! (6)
!! Ashttamyaam cha chaturdashyaam navamyaam chaikamanasa
shannmaasaei siddhimaapnoti naatra kaarya vichaaranaa !! (7)
!! Budhim dehi yasho dehi kavitvam dehi dehi me
kubudhi har me devi traahi maam sharanaagatham !! (8)
!! Indraadi devisha vrindavandite karunaamayi
tare taradhinaadhaasye traahi maam sharanaagatham !! (9)
!! Mokshaarthim labathe moksham dhanaarthim danamaapnuyaat
vidhyaarthim labhate vidhyaam tarkavyaakaranaadikaam !! (10)
!! Idam stotram padedhyasthu saubhaghyam labhate nara
tasya shatru kshayam yaati mahapragya cha jaayate !! (`11)
!! Peedaayaam vaapi samgraame japye daane tadhaa bhaye
ya idam padathi stotram shubham tasya na samshaya !! (12)
!! Stotrennanena deveshi stutva devim sureshvareem
sarvaan kaamanavapnoti sarvavidyaanidhirbhavet !! (13)
!! Iti te kadhitam divyam stotram saarasvathapradam
asmaat parataram naasthim stotra tantre maheshvari !! (14)
What a sight you are!
A true Goddess of your own creation.
The holy red gushes down your legs.
You stand naked, bare breasted.
The defiance in your eyes.
The slight smile on your lips.
They magnetic sway of your hips.
They ridicule you and laugh at you.
Your raw power scares them.
You know how to CONNECT.
You know how to join together.
You are a natural leader.
And that scares them.
They call you a sinner.
Never will you be a saint.
Even if you have fed the last morsel to them.
They have burnt you over and over.
But from those ashes have you arisen…
Again and again.
With different names.
In different countries and cultures.
The guilt they have bred in us,
Is not to be found in you.
The palpable fear is also absent.
For you seek no validation from them.
You don’t care to play by their rules.
Holiness in every ounce of your blood.
Every Goddess of every culture,
They reside in your body.
You are holy, the Creatrix!
You are not afraid of pleasure.
You know what to do with pain.
You are here to liberate other sisters.
You are not looking for personal gain.
Never have you controlled the urges,
That women have been taught to do.
Instead you have transmuted them into alchemy.
You have transformed them into divine inspiration.
You have ignited the fires of passion.
And made magic with the man you held.
For a God he was when you made love to him.
You are his Goddess.
You are our Goddess.
Your mission is to tell the others.
To activate the powers of the Womb.
This FEM-FORCE will steer us into a new awareness.
Let them worship the sacred blood of your menstruation.
For that is the only atonement from their end.
To have defiled and demonised the sacred life force of the menstrual blood.
They say you are a whore.
What does it matter if you are Madonna or a whore?
They have raped, pillaged and tortured,
The mother, maiden and the crone.
No one is safe.
They will find the Wild Ones.
Silenced they must be.
But how can they be shut for life?
In their voices is the fem-force of life and death.
We will be told we are evil.
We will be told our magick is for the devil.
The Devil is but Lucifer, the bringer of Truth.
The apple is the process of initiation.
It is you, yes you as Eve,
Who initiated Adam.
It is you Sita, who burned Rama’s sins,
In the fire of your sacrifice.
Wild Woman you will make us eat time and again,
From that sweet apple of knowledge and passion.
Run like a She-wolf and howl at the moon.
You are the Matriarch, the very crux of civilisation.
Tonight under the Full Moon, you will rub the damp earth on your body.
And make love to the Earth.
She is as wild as you are.
Soul lovers through infinities.
Image by Alexandra Banti