Kali, Kali, Kali

“DARKNESS ALONE FILLED THE BOUNDLESS ALL, FOR FATHER, MOTHER AND SON WERE ONCE MORE ONE, AND THE SON HAD NOT AWAKENED YET FOR THE NEW WHEEL, AND HIS PILGRIMAGE THEREON.” ~~HPB

KALI MANTRA FOR INVOCATION~~

Sarvamaṅgalamāṅgalyē śivē sarvārthasādhikē . śaraṇyē tryambakē gauri nārāyaṇi namō’stu tē. Oṃ jayantī mangala kālī bhadrakālī kapālinī . durgā ksamā śivā dhātrī svāhā svadhā namō’stu‍tē

The DARK GODDESS has been the anchor of my soul in the turbulent seas of samsara. My support system, my provocateur, my muse, my melancholia…I could go on forever, for she or that energy exists in everything, everyone and every experience.

Sometimes, tears stream down my face and I think that WHEN IS ENOUGH ENOUGH! Is there any end to my avaricious wants, desires and needs? After going through so much, so much pain, am I still not done wanting more? Everything dies. Everything vanishes. Everything fades away. Confronted with my own mortality, thoughts cease to function with the same effectiveness.

Kali, listen to me, and stop this torture. Put an end to this 3D illusion, you DARKNESS. And please, by DARK, I DO NOT MEAN EVIL!

HPB discusses DARKNESS “…in the sense of the Unmanifested and the Unknown as the opposite pole to manifestation, and that which falls under the possibility of speculation. … it is not Darkness as absence of Light, but as one incomprehensible primordial Principle, which, being Absoluteness itself, has for our intellectual perceptions neither form, colour, substantiality, nor anything that could be expressed by words.”

Even the BIBLE states, “darkness surrounds the pavilion” of God!

Absolute Light and Absolute Darkness are interchangeable terms, as are Absolute Consciousness and Absolute Unconsciousness. Duality is the very harmonics of this resonance!

Kali’s bosom is my place of retreat and I can feel her embrace as I look at the dark night around me. The night envelops me in her arms and it is none other than my DARK ONE. How can I love the FORCE OF TIME? That random abstract principle? I cannot. I can only think of her as Kali.

Being Bengali, you grow up with a healthy dose of everything Kali. And there I discovered some of the most precious gems in the form of verses written by a Mystical Poet in Bengal. His name was Rajanikanto. Those verses echoed every single thought of my six year old brain. I used to know them by heart at that age.

How could a child grasp, to some extent this LARGENESS OF EMOTION. This gorgeousity of devotional fervour! I mean how? I don’t know. Even today I am perplexed. All I remember is locking myself in the room, listening to the cassette tapes again and again, sobbing my eyes out. It was like every word pricked my consciousness to remind me of WHO I AM.

Who am I? Who is Kali? What is this world? Why are we here?

See I bifurcate again. I was talking about those mystical verses. In one of them, the poet has written…

No one on Earth loves.

In fact, this Earth does not know how to love.

Take me away, to where there is only LOVE.

My heart craves for such a place…

Got me evaluating at a very young age. What does LOVE mean in the 3D realm of duality?

Seriously guys…what the fuck does love mean?

What does it mean to you? What does it mean to your family?

Who do you extend that love to?

The answers to these questions fester like putrid stuff in the quagmire of my mind. There is no resolution for there is no love. LOVE IS LOST.

Kali has taught me how to LOVE. By making sure that I break my conscious paradigm again and again, she has made sure that I AM LEFT WITH NO OPTION TO LOVE.

To be a child of Kāli, Rāmprasād asserts, is to be denied of earthly delights and pleasures. Kāli is said to refrain from giving that which is expected, I quote from Wiki, but trust me I know exactly what this means.

After making sure that nothing goes the way I want, Kali made me see that DESIRE IS INDEED THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL. Does that mean that I have no desires? I still do, the stupid 3D being that I am. Everyday is a lesson learnt. Life is not what I want it to be, because life is just the way it is meant to be.

Didn’t Lao Tsu try to drill this ACCEPTANCE part of existence into our collective consciousness? He failed. Human know nothing about acceptance. And I speak of myself…can I truly JUST BE? Think about it. A state of JUST BEING does not equate to a state of NON BEING.

Of course I will initiate karma in this world as my desires push me to, but then I have to accept that there will be DISAPPOINTMENTS and Kali showed me how to grow from that disappointment. All this pain, resentment and anger inside me, she, the COSMIC MOTHER soothed away. Like only mothers can. Who will stand up for this?

The father can never calm the baby the way a mother can. After all, it is her physiology that creates the child. The father is the seed. The MILKY WAY is a mother BTW. Yes she is feminine.

The Milky Way (feminine) and Andromeda (masculine) are simply a galactic expression of this principal. ~~http://moonbirdblog.com

They are the SHIVA/SHAKTI as galaxies. Whoa! Something to ponder about.

Yet, why is there rampant patriarchy ruling the Earth when indeed, she is feminine, just like her mother, the Milky Way. That is the imbalance.

Kali is the unrestrained, most secretive feminine principle that carries withing it eternal mysteries of fertility, magic, death, birth and regeneration! And that POWER is external as well as internal. Do not believe me? Everyone has an internal Kali. It is true.

AS ABOVE SO BELOW

In those mystical verses, the Poet sings…

Everything happens because you will it so,

You are the Will of the Universe, Oh Tara,

You execute whatever needs to be executed through me.

And the foolish think, it is my feat!

It is your INTERNAL KALI, that PRIMEVAL, CATACLYSMIC, SUPREME POWER that does what you need to do. Your karma or actions all arise from a deep spiritual unconscious that is manifested in 3D from the etheric fields as they SOLIDIFY.

Yes SPIRITUAL UNIVERSES solidify and become dense. That is when Universal forces of SHIVA/KALI come to play. And it is these forces that play through everything. The ETERNAL TWINFLAMES creating Universes to experience, grow, love, hurt, cry and die. Shiva/Shakti as mere mortals. As you and me.

This age is in dire need of Kali’s benevolence…OF HER DARK FORM.

“THE SEVEN SONS WERE NOT YET BORN FROM THE WEB OF LIGHT. DARKNESS ALONE WAS FATHER-MOTHER, SVABHAVAT; AND SVABHAVAT WAS IN DARKNESS.” ~~HPB

Do not be fearful of her wrathful emanation! Nobody understands Kali.

There is so much DISTORTION in her myths, so much SENSATIONAL YELLOW JOURNALISM done on her person(sounds familiar? Like any other woman),, that her story is lost to the world of patriarchy.

People are fearful of her. Even today, in India, I have had people see her image on the wall and comment how it is DANGEROUS to keep an image of her at home. I mean is every single Bengali household doing it wrong? Kali, whether she is worshipped or whether she hangs as a feminist symbol, can be seen pretty much in every house in Calcutta.

She is a part of our History. She is our guide. She is our mother. She is our consciousness.

Kali is ALL-CONQUERING! So whatever it is that you want to win over, there is no better YIDAM or meditation deity than her. So invoke her if you need to work with this SEVERANCE energy.

Kali is not a Vedic Goddess. She is a tantric Goddess and she is MAHAMAYA, the manifested reality. She stands on KALA, or ETERNAL TIME and become SPACE.

Space is dark, Kali is dark.

Kālī is the feminine form of kālam (“black, dark coloured”). Kālī also shares the meaning of “time” or “the fullness of time” with the masculine noun “kāla”—and by extension, time as “changing aspect of nature that bring things to life or death.” Other names include Kālarātri(“the black night”), and Kālikā (“the black one”).

The homonymous kāla, “appointed time”, which depending on context can mean “death”, is distinct from kāla “black”, but became associated through popular etymology. ~~WIKI

Tantra texts call KALI, KALASHAKTI, the REASON OF CAUSATION!

There is no stop to this play, this eternal play that is going on between the masculine and the feminine. They stop not for a moment. For if they stopped their exchange of energy, everything ceases to be. Nothing remains.

This HOLOGRAM, stacked UNIVERSES, Daughter Universes…everything manifests because of SHIVA/SHAKTI. Call them what you like! They are the binary!

The Kalikula (family of Kali) form of Shaktism is most dominant in Nepal, northern and eastern India, and is most widely prevalent in West Bengal, Assam, Bihar and Odisha, as well as parts of Maharashtra, Bangladesh and some parts of Kerala. Kalikula lineages focus upon the Devi as the source of wisdom (vidya) and liberation (moksha). They generally stand “in opposition to the brahmanic tradition,” which they view as “overly conservative and denying the experiential part of religion.” ~~WIKI

Kali is the principle deity. So you see, how she has been up in arms against the patriarchal Vedic religion which even denied women the right to become priests.

My Ancestors have a special connection to Kali other than just being from Bengal. My grandmother comes from a family which were the main Brahmin Priests and caregivers of Kali and her temple in Calcutta. They were Haldars and there is a street named after my ancestor. Everyone knows the HALDARS even today and our connection to the place is also no secret.

My grandmother’s grandmother used to take a dip in the Ganges first thing in the morning(crack of dawn) and open the temple with the aarthi. I have so many stories from my grandmother that I wish to share. Stuff she heard from her grandmother. And then of course what bonded us was the love we shared for Kali. It stretched across generations and mitochondrial DNA. So standing before you, a Priestess of the hoary past…:)

I will continue my saga of love for my DARK ONE and I suggest to you that if you have not researched her, then please do. See for yourself, if the DARK ONE speaks to you and let me know.

I will speak of Bamakhyapa, Ramnath Aghori, Paramhamsa Vishuddhananda and of course Sarada ma, Vivekananda and much more…but for now I leave you with a profound thought from the Sage Ramakrishna…

Kali is none other than Brahman. That which is called Brahman is really Kali. She is the Primal Energy. When that Energy remains inactive, I call It Brahman, and when It creates, preserves, or destroys, I call It Shakti or Kali. What you call Brahman I call Kali. Brahman and Kali are not different. They are like fire and its power to burn: if one thinks of fire one must think of its power to burn. If one recognises Kali one must also recognise Brahman; again, if one recognises Brahman one must recognise Kali. Brahman and Its Power are identical. It is Brahman whom I address as Shakti or Kali.

 

 

 

Lucid Dream: Twinflames and Mary Magdalene~~

gianluca

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity. ~~ W. B. YEATS

Fragmented pieces swim in the seas of my consciousness. A cacophony of sounds. A kaleidoscope of lights. The moment is crackling with suspense as I know I am about to enter into one of the most prophetic visions I have ever had.

Chiron is retrograde in 29 degrees of Pisces which is my SEVENTH HOUSE. My Moon is here too and “Chiron can be thought of as a boat allowing us to cross the deep ocean providing navigation, direction and a safe passage to being who we are meant to be.” says Erin Frances, an eminent astrologer. Chiron is taking me for these astral journeys. Chiron is making me the wounded healer I am meant to be. Welcome to my LUCID ASTRAL VISION.

A tangled tapestry of sights and sounds.

EXT. WIDE MEADOW. TWILIGHT

A dripping sound, like a leaking tap.  A female voice hums a lullaby. The sound of flapping wings is heard.

Then: A raw and primal, jagged and out of breath panting is heard.

FADE IN:

Tina, a girl of around nine years old is sprawled in the ground.

A HUMMINGBIRD flutters right in front of her.

She stares at it, steadies her breath and then reaches out to touch it.

The HUMMINGBIRD floats close. It approaches the girl and positions itself right in front of her eyes.

She stares at the bird’s pupils.

C.U of her pupils. They dilate.

She lets out a primal scram and touches her nose. A red line of blood runs down.

Slow Motion: The blood trickles to her knees and she looks down.

The HUMMINGBIRD flutters its wings and takes off.

Tina stares at it. Something coils in her stomach.

She begins to run towards the HUMMINGBIRD that is now seen as a dot in the distance.

THUD. Tina falls through the proverbial rabbit hole.

Silhouettes of humans, beasts and hybrids dance in the shadows. Fear gripping her insides, she tries to look down.

She feels sick. The blood has now dried up.

The cacophony of voices swim into her consciousness from time to time.

VOICE 1: There she goes. Look there. Look at her.

VOICE 2: It’s all over. What now? Kaput!

Horrid laughter fills her ears, she falls to the floor, dishevelled and enervated.

 

Suddenly she can hear it. The flapping of the hummingbird. CLOSE ON HER EYES- she looks up with hope.

FADE TO BLACK:

That is how the vision began. I wrote it as a screenplay to give it that visual feel. To start you off with pictures. Can you visualise the little girl Tina around 9?

Let’s move on with the vision. This happened to me in broad daylight. Not while I was meditating. Not while I was dreaming, but while I was writing in front of my computer. The screen just began to fade to black and I could hear static noise. My psychic energy must have been at an all time high, because I had just started bleeding and it was the Capricorn FM next to dear Pluto. And of course I am going through some interesting alignments and aspects in my own life, astrologically speaking.

This has happened to me before. My visions come to me in wave patterns, totally non linear. I blank out and then return. I write about many such visions in my novel, THE PLAN which should be published soon. I have given them the garb of fiction, but they are in fact reality. Sometimes I can hear a piercing sound after these visions. I used to get headaches before, but now with my spiritual practices, I have managed to heal myself from all that left over psychic debris.

The Hummingbird has been visiting me since very long. In my dreams and in my visions. I never realised their connection to Mezoamerican civilisation when I was about twelve.

Now as you can see at the beginning of the lucid astral experience, I felt absolutely paranoid. I felt scared, fearful and abandoned. I felt like a helpless child of nine. But somewhere deep down that hummingbird gave me hope.

It was like a flicker of abject inspiration. My muse of last hours. It’s complicated to describe the way I felt. The Hummingbird flies off into the distance.

My phone rings. I go to answer it, but suddenly a video call comes through. Only this is no ordinary video call. It’s like a hologram popping out from my phone and standing right in front of me. This figure is straight from some computer game and she has a lower body, but three faces. Three distinct faces. They someone reminded me of the Morrigan, the triple Celtic Goddess. Though at that time I thought they were the three hags from Macbeth. I was frantic and out of breath.

There was a track playing in the background. I did not know for the life of me what language it was in. It sounded like it was played through a gramophone. My grandfather had one of those things and I was obsessed with it during my childhood.

The hologram of the Morrigan began to disintegrate. Like fragmented digital bits of information. Do you know I have seen the fragmentation of reality, MATRIX style, even before the film was made. I was very young when I first started to see reality breaking away into digital bits. Made sense to me with the computer revolution. My vision made sense. I had glimpsed into the matrix.

After this the SCREEN goes DARK. FADE TO BLACK:

Suddenly I am in Goa, by the beach, in a place called Small Vagator. I sit on the sands drawing a MANDALA in the sand awkwardly. The wind keeps slapping away my design, but I persist. No matter how hard I try, I am not being able to even draw a circle that will stay in the wind. Nothing stays. IMPERMANENCE. What a way to learn it?

The Monks actually do draw the MANDALAS with sand and then they destroy them after the ritual and meditation. Yes, even in complex initiation ceremonies like the KALACHAKRA TANTRA.

My conscious mind may be learning patience and perseverance by this apparently futile task of painting a mandala in the sand. If the wind doesn’t blow it away, the water will wash it off. Kind of like our lives. No matter how hard we try to hold onto things, they just slip away. The harder we try, the more frustrated we get. NOTHING REMAINS!

Reminds me of this poem of Tagore~~ Nothing lasts forever. Click the link to enjoy~

I look at the Goa seas. They look sunny and happy. But deep down I know there is a dark undertone there. In a second, the skies change. The sea roars and the waves dance ominously. But I sit there. I don’t know why? There is a sense of surrender with this task. Surrender to the force of the Earth who is my mother, my mentor and my guide.

Take me, I whisper. Take me. But no. It is not my time. The Hummingbird is back. Flapping its wings. A rebirth?

Looking up the hummingbird and Mayan connection I found  Huitzilopochtli, the  deity of war, sun, human sacrifice and the patron of the city of Tenochtitlan!

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Huitzilopochtli

According to this legend, he was the smallest son of four—his parents being the creator couple Tonacatecutli and Tonacacihuatl while his brothers were Quetzalcoatl and the 2 Tezcatlipocas. His mother and father instructed both him and Quetzalcoatl to bring order to the world. And so, together they made fire, the first male and female humans, created the Earth, and made a sun. ~~WIKI

This archetypal myth resonates with me on such a deep level. It is the story of DOUBLE TWINFLAMES. Do you see it? The first pair of male, female. The creation myth!

He is a fire God, associated with the Sun(SOLAR DEITY) and I am also burning with this fire energy, so it made sense. My ruler is also the Sun! War? I am still exploring my connection to Mesoamerica by using a method called EVOLUTIONARY ASTROLOGY where you study the NODES OF THE MOON, the 12TH HOUSE, the 8TH HOUSE, SATURN, RETROGRADE PLANETS and INTERCEPTED PLANETS, SIGNS and HOUSES.

My NN is in Virgo and SN in Pisces. My 12th house is jampacked- Mercury, the Sun at 0 degrees, Saturn at 26 degrees in Leo! And I have a bunch of retrograde planets in my natal chart. Our bodies hold much of the old programming and it is the job of this 12th house to DESTROY those patterns once and for all. Losses and deaths! 12th house, the house which makes one a philosopher!

Another origin story tells of a fierce goddess, Coatlicue, being impregnated as she was sweeping by a ball of feathers on Mount Coatepec. Her other children, who were already fully grown, were the four hundred male Centzonuitznaua and the female deity Coyolxauhqui. These children, angered by the manner by which their mother became impregnated, conspired to kill her. Huitzilopochtli burst forth from his mother’s womb in full armor and fully grown. He attacked his older brothers and sister, defending his mother by beheading his sister and casting her body from the mountain top. He also chased after his brothers, who fled from him and became scattered all over the sky. ~~WIKI

The above story is so rich with symbolism and so pertinent to our times. Why can’t we all be like Huitzilopochtli? Why can’t we all protect the Earth? Isn’t she all our mother? Is that what the Hummingbird was telling me? To join in with my Twinflame and help the ascension process of our beloved Gaia.

The vision gets really complex now as I stand up to receive the HUMMINGBIRD in my hand. She lands perfectly and stares right at me. This time my heart fills with love and there is no fear. Yes the storm looms large. I am scared, but nope, I am not giving into fear or panic. nu-uh!

The Hummingbird kisses my fingers and takes off. The feeling is ethereal! The rain comes crashing down in a silvery sheet. The sound is deafening. I am soaking wet as I run to take shelter in the shack, but there is no one there. It is dark and nothing can be seen. There was a voice telling me, “You weren’t you, you were Tina…”

WTF? I am that person. I am Tina. Or am I? Who am I? Confusion was building inside.

The voice kept asking me, “So you believe? You believe?”

I wanted to scream. YES I BELIEVE. But believe what? I wanted to believe every single thing- life, death, sorrow, pleasure and pain. There is only believe in every fibre of my being!

Suddenly the rain quietened. I walk out to the beach, a wet mess. Not a person in sight. I have never seen that particular beach to look that empty. Not a soul in sight. I sat down as the Sun began to set.

Far away in the distance, I see this cloaked figure. Who is that out in the sea?

For a moment, I felt fear as the candle I light is blown away by the wind, and then a sudden warmth envelops me. The figure floats towards me. It is Mary Magdalene herself. She is the very feminine energy I dote on, my Beloved, my SPIRIT GUIDE. Today I sensed she wanted to be called Magdalene. Not anything else.

I must mention here that patriarchy has labelled Magdalene as a WHORE, because she was not like your common woman who wanted to just be a wife, mother and homemaker. Not that there is anything wrong with wanting any of that. It’s just that some women do not necessarily seek out that role. Like me. I never thought I would be someone’s wife, because marriage is a failed institution to me and the role of a stay at home wife never appealed to me. Motherhood is fantastic, but domesticity is not he be all and end all of my existence. And it never will be. I am forever a WANDERER, an Artist, a dreamer. Some women need to run wild and free. They cannot be chained and society should not try to.

Mary Magdalene is the WILD FEMININE ENERGY that is not meant to be a normal woman. Although she was a TANTRIC HIGH PRIESTESS they called her a prostitute. She was the wealth of the world, but they vilified her and degraded her sacredness to the point where she is forgotten in the world today. She is not one of the original disciples. No. She is a MASTER in her own right and taught Yeshua tantra. She is his yin, his balance. The mystic they called Jesus is her twinflame. On his name they started one of the most bloodiest religions in the world. That is what patriarchy has done for us. Taken sacred teachings from the feminine womb of wisdom and have corrupted and bastardised it to suit their own needs and agendas.

It was Mary Magdalene who initiated me in accepting myself as a sexual being. I fought long and hard against it. At a point I was having sex just to feel nothing. The act of being with someone became an addiction. A reason to stay away from feeling too deeply. Sex was never this magical and open, like so many women out there who hide their sexual feelings. 30% women regularly orgasm and an appalling number fake it. What else can they do? Expressing ourselves sexually would mean that we would be labelled and judged. Slut, bitch, whore etc. I do not care, but most women do, as they continue faking orgasms thinking sex is just a chore. Most women have sex to please their guys, without realising how much good sex would please them. The woman’s body is a pleasure trove. She has endless desires and a much stronger libido than men. Although she has been made to forget it. NEWSFLASH~~ LADIES, PLEASE STOP FAKING ORGASMS. You are spoiling the men. Show then what you like and how its done. Guide them.

Mary Magdalene showed me that not only is it okay to accept my sexual feelings, but to celebrate them, explore them. In fact, opening up to the sexual alchemy without guilt or shame has brought me closer to spirituality. I feel awakened in all ways, more than I have ever been. I feel creatively charged and connected to my twinflame. Ready to accept him inside of me. Makes me hot! I am in the process of making many life changing shifts and hopefully soon I will be in Goa able to connect to his energy. I know that is where I will meet him.

Doing away with old values, patterns can be hard, but it is worth the try. To live more authentically. When we face our inner demons, although sexuality is not a demon, but has been made into one by the fucking bourgeoisie. Societal hypocrisy is what gets me.

Mary Magdalene gave me a few messages for you and she has promised to help all of you heal your sexual wounds. She will also help you come to terms with your sexual desires.

CHANNELLED MESSAGES~~ Jotting them down randomly.

  1. You can never experience twinflame love unless you love yourself.
  2. Twinflame love is NOT ABOUT ROMANCE.
  3. There is a strong sense of purpose.
  4. There is a desire to heal people and the Earth and support the 5D ASCENSION PROCESS taking place.
  5. Strengthen this new LIGHTWORKER ENERGY GRID.
  6. Healing ancestral and familial wounds. Twinflames often incarnate with an imbalance in their early childhood so they can work through these issues and solve the. Although I come from a stable home, my life has been rocked by some hardcore events in my early childhood. I am working everyday to heal these scars. They are deep, but they will heal.
  7. Twinflames, when they are done, will teach all of HUMANITY new things, ideas and concepts about RELATIONSHIPS. They are not jealous in the conventional sense.
  8. Usually a twinflame relationship is female led. Like Shakti is on Shiva’s chest because she is the PRINCIPLE CREATIVE FORCE, similarly the partner with developed yin energy must lead the relationship with compassion and intuition.
  9. All twinflames must go through a stage of SEPARATION. Yes as hard as that sounds, it happens a lot.
  10. Let your INNER CHILD out to play. Heal yourself.
  11. Express all your emotions. Never keep them bottled up. Cry, laugh, chuckle, sing, dance…
  12. Most importantly Mary Magdalene tells me that even if we have not found our TWINFLAME, we must embark on the journey ourselves. In due course he will join.
  13. Although you may be super attracted to your twinflame, this attraction is unlike the usual CONSUME and devour types. Your sexual desires come from a sacred space of love and not of fear and possession.
  14. Twinflames are independent and in their power when they finally join in union.
  15. Lastly, meeting your twinflame will be like the SECOND COMING OF CHRIST. Through sexual energy fusion, you can experience the COMING OF CHRIST CONSCIOUSNESS. The most beautiful sexual alchemy.

I am waiting to hear your twinflame story~~

 

tina@tinaheals.com

http://www.tinaheals.com

Image copyright Gianluca

Explore the Sacred Whore Archetype ~~

“Previously, when I began to write this tale, I set out by saying that Mlle. Claude was a whore. She is a whore, of course, and I’m not trying to deny it, but what I say now is–if Mlle. Claude is a whore then what name shall I find for the other women I know?”
― Henry Miller

That is how patriarchy has been degrading and controlling sexually empowered women. Women who know their bodies and are absolutely comfortable with it. They know that a healthy relationship to her pussy, means a healthy relationship to existence.

But if you are a woman and you openly claim to have had sex with more than three guys, then you are a SLUT/WHORE. This my peeps is the toxic invention of the perverted patriarchs who were WORRIED(yes you heard that right) that if their women were not controlled then they will sleep with other men and not play housekeeping.

Men in their toxic possessiveness brought on monogamy. They made us COMMODITIES. We were denigrated from being a human, instead we began to be classed as SOMEONE’S daughter, sister or wife. We became objects to be owned and the painful saga continues…

In this whole mess of controlling women, they created a certain type of monster. Women who were ENABLERS of this unholy, toxic system perpetrated by the patriarchs. Women who burned and stoned other empowered and bold women.

I am working on a book called PUSSY TALKS, yes you heard that right. It is the story of how a vagina begins to speak to the body it is attached with. Through this metaphor of the Pussy talking, I hope to bring to forefront ideas of feminine sexual explorations. Yes there will be loads of info presented with a dose of entertainment. So watch this space for more on my MOTIVATIONAL BOOK ~~ PUSSY TALKS..

Women turned on women. And the rest as they say is History…not HERSTORY of course. For how can she have a story? Can women even think? Sadly even today a lot of chauvinists believe so.

On the topic of ORGASMS ~~ Listen guys, women can have MULTIPLES, yes they can. If you are a woman and you have no clue as to what I am referring to, you need to email me right now. And please tell me you guys experience FULL BODIES ORGASMS! When your orgasm is not concentrated in your genital area, but spreads across your whole being and rocks the very core of it. Yes my peeps, such orgasms exist and they are possible for all women.

Even for a dude, but the process is ummm…through the backdoor! 😉

Your anus is rich with nerve endings and believe you me, all men enjoy some type of anal play, including Analingus and penetration. Strapon play is a huge thing and can help couples work out through loads of psychological issues. Having to shift roles, makes boundaries dissolve fostering better communication and co-operation between couples.

The men have their G SPOT up their anus, so do not think you are gay if you enjoy Anal Play. IT IS NATURAL!

https://www.buzzfeed.com/caseygueren/so-youre-a-straight-guy-who-wants-to-try-butt-stuff?utm_term=.qr3Q7jvWN#.opL9RAmQg

If you can stimulate your man’s prostate, that is enough to bring him to climax and these orgasms are DEEP, full bodied magick! And it is not necessary that he will eject every time with prostate orgasm. Do not panic. In fact the longer men can hold off from ejecting, the better for them. So you see…men too can experience this wonder that the human body has to offer. Remember your butt has no sexual orientation, it just wants to feel all sorts of sensations.

The WHORE is a very ancient archetype. She is the PRIESTESS ARCHETYPE and asks Carl Jung describes her…

The Priestess archetype is perhaps the least known and most misunderstood, especially in the present patriarchal culture, which has rejected women‘s spirituality and individual spiritual expression throughout history.

The Priestess archetype is the inner domain of intuitive awareness and deep insight. It is the portal to  secret or “occult” (that which is hidden) knowledge of the invisible realms.

The Priestess has a magical connection to the unknown and a guide of souls.  A trans-connector, she facilitates between the material and the spiritual. She is the mediator of the psyche.

Patriarchy has mutilated this PRIESTESS and has called her a WHORE, like Mary Magdalene.  Yes my peeps, we are all carrying these MAGDALENE WOUNDS, collectively, all women. Mary Magdalene was not some common prostitute. No she was Yesua’s equal partner. His Bhairavi, in tantric parlance and look what they did to her legacy, but the future will venerate her.

Look what happens to Sita. She is forced to step into the fire to prove her innocence! After what she has been through! This is our story people…these wounds, these burns…

In my psychic visions, I have “seen” myself being burnt. I have read about stonings and have felt that pain in my own body. As an empath, these wounds are really intense and to top it off, I am a woman and a Priestess!

Women like Mary Magdalene were sexual alchemists, witches, sorceresses and muses. Because come to think about it. In this 3D world, the closest one can come to a concept of SAMADHI will be during a full bodied intense orgasm! Yes nothing quite connects us to the GODLY FIELD of PURE BLISS!

The first time I understood transcendence was during once such orgasm and that actually aided me in my spiritual development. Because it got me thinking that this intense ORGASMIC feeling is so wondrous and what if it could be prolonged. What if we could exist in some sort of orgiastic fever! Ah!

It is this quest that got me looking at meditation. Combining sex and meditation can be a tremendous healing tool and many, many couples have benefited from learning simple basic practices of ancient tantra.

So it is important for us, as a collective of men and women to heal these WOUNDS. To reclaim the power of Mary Magdalene. To reclaim the power of Sita. Draupadi and so many women from the past. We need to awaken the sacred whore archetype for complete healing of all humanity.

Without unleashing the full potential of the DIVINE FEMININE, the world will never rise to its next stage of vibration. We are on a spiral upwards.

That feminine spirit is like a WILD UNTAMED FOREST with so many treasures hidden within. There are so many layers to her that most men will never penetrate even the basics.

Most people hate whores as patriarchy has taught them that whores are bad. When in actuality whores are wise women, Prophetesses, Healers, Priestesses. These women were learned and sophisticated. They were full of mystery and intrigue and through their sexual oeuvres, they inspired the masculine.

Courtesans, Geisha and Whores were muses and healers.

The sexually active urban woman is still vilified daily if she is seen in amorous embrace with too many. She is labelled a slut by her group when in fact most of the guys have slept with her. How is a woman debased because your cock entered her? How? How? That just goes to show your cock is the problem, not the woman.

It is imperative for us all to invoke this COURTESAN in us. Why? To explore FEMININITY in all her aspects. All beautiful aspects. And the wife has much to learn from the courtesan. After all, the courtesan(in most cases) controlled the men.

I am in no way suggesting that you need to control your man. In fact the quicker you understand that NOTHING EVER WILL BE UNDER CONTROL, the quicker you will learn to make peace with what’s happening. So think of awakening the COURTESAN to rekindle lost passion or maybe just to show him who the boss is in bed.

I request all women to forgo the missionary. Try new positions. Yes check out the Kamasutra(as corny as that sounds) and figure out what really works for your guy.

The word Prostitute is from the Latin and means Pro-Stituare; To  Stand In on Behalf of.

The sacred whore stood in behalf of the DIVINE YONI or the COSMIC VAGINA. She channels in the power of the MOTHER MATRIX, or MULAPRAKRITI. You see the original WHORE is an ENERGY WORKER and through the act of sex, she alchemically transforms stagnant energy or base metal into GOLD through touch, copulation and other intimate acts. How profound is that!

She is also known as DAKINI in Buddhist terminology.

“In a balanced viewpoint that includes both masculine and feminine perspective, healing is seen not as a technique, but as a process.”
― Jeanne Achterberg, Woman as Healer

All women want WILD SEXUAL ENCOUNTERS. I know this to be true, just by gathering material for my book Pussy Talks(I have spoken to HUNDREDS of women from all over the world). It is about the lost feminine voice speaking through the metaphor of a pussy, the seat of the womb. The book I spoke about. I plan to do workshops as well to reconnect people to the various feminine archetypes to rebirth creativity and abundance.

The healing of these wounds are ever so important for people who have been abused or raped. The trauma can only be overcome by surrendering to the great cosmic force of ORGASM. It is okay if you do not have a partner, just learn how to pleasure yourself and bring yourself to full bodied multiples; then with intention and meditation, you can totally heal. Just remember, SEX IS NOT DIRTY or CHEAP. It is not only an absolutely natural physiological process, it also harbours potentials to be the most potent creative force in the Universe.

“Sivtatva’ and ‘Saktitatva’ (Lord Shiva and Holy Mother Kali) – Father’s semen in mother’s womb, both combined which CREATES the MULTIPLE UNIVERSES. Male and female polarities create matter/space/time!

Women need to shed off sexual inhibitions. Aren’t we tired of being submissive? Ladies, I suggest you fuck your man tonight like a Goddess, like a Priestess, like Mary Magdelena would have fucked Yesua to transform him into what he became.

The most important thing to imbibe about the courtesan archetype will be FREEDOM. Understand what it means for you. As an individual and in a couple dynamics. What does sexual freedom mean to you? I am not suggesting you sleep with numerous guys and claim to be sexually liberated.

That whole gig is as toxic as it can get. By FREEDOM I mean, ask for what you want in bed and do not be afraid to reverse the dynamics. If you are not used to experimenting, then please do so. Why not look at exploring what tickles both your fantasies??

Few pointers on how to proceed

Gaze into his eyes

Keep the look fixed

Role play(not French maid or Japanese school girl for fuck’s sake! Dig deep into your erotic tastes)

Cultivate INTRIGUE(the main tool of the courtesan) For she knows how to get her men coming back for more…

Be present in the NOW

Breathe deeply

Feel each sensation

Use toys

Talk to him(yes talk dirty) Use a script or plain improvise!

Really feel him while you touch, kiss, spank, spit…whatever works…

Let me really look at you- see you for the GODDESS you are…

Intend to HEAL him with your acts. Yes thoughts are ENERGY!

Turn off from all the noise going on in your head and become the WILD WHORE you are meant to be!

Email me for more… tina@tinaheals.com

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The Plan ~~ A Novel by Tinaheals

MIZPAH

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.

That day!

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?

It looked to me like some scene from a D-grade horror; hospitals sicken me to the core. It’s a bloody phobia-

Nosocomephobia!

I had this phobia all along which is why I had googled it; it was at least a comfort to know I am not alone.

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….

In me…

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The Plan ~~ A Novel by Tinaheals

Notes from the underground
The home of my dreams-

Soft fleeting tears.

Marigolds in bloom.

 

I do not know how I began to tell this story. Why did I begin? It is nothingness, a deformity in my subconscious. It is just a pointless pursuit. It began where I don’t know, but right now, I am sitting in front of a Policeman and a State sponsored Psychiatrist.

I know him- Rustom Mistry, yes, that’s his name, I can see the Faravahar glittering in the light. “It’s to remind me of my true purpose, at least that’s what my mom hopes.” He’d told her when she’d asked about it. The winged disk and the bearded human motif looked very appealing to me, but today it seems scary. The purpose of my life, it’s fucking over! Not even the Faravar can save me!

He is asking me all these questions, with a very stern face. But believe me; I cannot understand what he says. For the life of me, his words are a jumble. I am trying to answer, but nothing. My jaw muscles have gone on strike. It’s like I never knew the powers of speech. I am unable to communicate and totally enervated. Have you ever heard a singing bowl? The sound of it keeps reverberating in my mind, suddenly out pops the Tom and Jerry tune in my mind, some heavy programming by Disney!

I have been forced to shut down, just like when you hold the power switch of a computer and just manually shut it down, you do not take the trouble of performing a proper shut down. My consciousness is the black screen, the product of a forced shut down.

My wretched eyes see everything. Rustam’s impassive face. Yet, the trace of anxiety makes itself known, which he suppresses with dutiful vigour. I sense that I’m watching him as different Ninas. Complicated emotions are tormenting me.
Ting tong! The bell rang. I was dressed in this gorgeous little black number from Yves Saint Laurent, also boasted of wedged heels from the same make- black luxurious suede. I was waiting for him.
I opened the door. Dr. Misty stood there. Ah yes, he was complete with the clichéd bunch of roses in his hands-blood red ones. He was speaking as clear as a bell, trying to implore me with his eyes. He also said something to the effect that he had wanted me for very long, but never had the guts to speak up. He told me he thought about me and was becoming obsessive, like I was under his skin. A chance is what he wanted. He throws caution to the winds and hugs me. The next minute I am in his arms, his lips are on mine, trying to get inside my mouth, as if snaking in to touch my soul.
One of the Nina’s (I have many Nina’s inside of me, fuck!) look at his lips, those same one who were trying to part her lips, to explore her very being. Those lips were now moving, creating geometric shapes, like the shapes formed when a kid blows bubbles from that god-awful soapy liquid.
Evanescent worlds,

Like dews of dawn.

Ghosts in time.

So the shapes his mouth is now making also disintegrates like the transient bubbles. Nothing elucidates impermanence as this act of blowing spherical shapes in the air which disintegrate in a few seconds. Poof! They are gone. New worlds created and destroyed, at the blink of an eye-lid. The bubbles form words. He’s asking me why I am here.

Why is anybody here? There is seriousness to his voice as he asks me why I had gone to Lilavati last night? Obviously I did not reply. I could not. I was physically unable to. Trauma I think is what did it. “Can you tell me why you stabbed this man repeatedly?? You killed him…” he was shoving a picture of a smiling face in my hands.
I have on tight mini-skirts and leather boots that are a few inches above my knees, very dark and Gothic make-up and I have on a wig, a short trendy wig. I try to touch it. Someone watching me from afar would notice a shaky hand moving to touch the hairline with no definitive purpose. But the purpose was known to this man- Rustam. “Why do you have that on?” He asks pointing to the wig.
I sit silently, looking down at the blood drying on this super expensive pair of boots that I bought online from some German fantasy leather footwear company, as a gift for my sister. They were splendid in their craftsmanship- the Germans definitely know how to design and make things. Other words from his mouth also manage to surface briefly in my consciousness. Word association! I normally think of a word when I hear a word. One word brings about the memory of another and so on so forth. The story is never ending. This has been a most fascinating way to tend to burgeoning ideas. Words like “life-support system” made its way to my subconscious. A sting of incredible pain jolted me into nausea. I’m throwing up all over the table, my clothes my shoes, my heart rate through the ceiling, my body drenched in sweat.
Rustam signals to the police behind the mirror to send in lady constables. Two stout Marathi female cops burst into the scene with some medical aid. “Kai zala?” They lift me up, try to stuff water down my throat, wipe me up and revive me. But I almost faint, the pain is too oppressive. I would have preferred to be Mary Antoinette, marching to the guillotine.

Muffin, your softness is what I seek; where are you baby? Come to me, there’s nothing I need more than your purrs and rubs.
And then I saw his face.

 

The face of cobwebs,

Disintegrating like the quarks in an atom,

Of nothingness.
Rustam is looking at me and I think I know what’s going through his head. My beaming face, obviously enamoured by his intellect and sophistication, sitting in the first bench, listening to him talk about Jungian Collective Unconscious, yes that memory is surfacing in his mind. It was a less complicated time. We were infatuated with each other.
But now, everything has changed. Today he stands in front of me as an inquisitor and it’s a witch hunt. A murder! He is supposed to uncover the darkest depths of my mind to know how I could commit such a hideous crime. No sorry- Hideous crimes and now I sit as dead as a doornail.
Dr. Rustam Mistry will be questioned about his diagnosis. He will go with the catatonic stupor characterized by motoric immobility, mutism and catalepsy, followed by the rare bout of nausea, blah fucking bloo.
Frank came to meet me and my mind kept repeating, A hope which is now forever past…A love so sweet it could not last,
Was Time long past…it just broke my already broken heart.

The police officer informed Rustam about his arrival and was asked his professional advice on whether Frank and I could meet. He did consent to our meeting and was there right behind the mirror to observe every subtle emotion that was there or wasn’t there or the ones he just thought existed.
Jail or any form of detention centre is hardly the place for lovers to meet. But Frank just held my hands, kissed them so very tenderly and whispered something about star stuff contemplating the stars…it was a Sagan expression we both loved. Gorgeousity! Star stuff, contemplating star stuff…Malana cream and Sagan. Ah!
When I hear these words I am reminded of another life, in another world where

I remember saying that we are made up of star stuff and he took my chain of thought and elaborated on it. “We’re star stuff, contemplating star stuff…” “As above”, said I and before I could complete my sentence, he covered my mouth and completed, “So below”…for me. We kissed, long and deep, like a Russian Kiss which explored not just my physical body but ignited a fire in my soul, it lasted the whole night. That night was like an eternity!
Frank sobs softly. “I will not give up on you or us…” My heart sobs with him, but I am catatonic. I want to ask him about my cat, Muffin, a majestic British Blue male, two years old and my baby. I want to hold him in my arms, his purring body close to my heart as he nibbles my nose with affection. He is missing me. Two most important males in my life, both from the Great Britain. An irony? The Angrez have not lost their hold on us. Anglophiles formed the part of Bengali society I called my family.

The vilayat, complete with toilet papers to wipe your arse. Who cleans their arse with water? What savages? Don’t forget the knives and forks, eat with your hand and in a jiffy you’re the outcast, chi chi, eating with your hand, as if somehow the toxicity of the hands were confirmed and verified by science.

I’d seen this documentary on Satyajit Ray, where he speaks of how the Western world took to Pather Panchali. He spoke of how some American women had been forced to throw up after watching Indir Thakrun eating with her hands on screen. What a bunch of barbarians, thought the pretty, sophisticated mems.

Okay I might have even fought super hard to be this sexy, sophisticated Angrezi lassie, if so many people around me had not made it their lives’ mission.

They are everywhere, singing Psalms in Convents at the crack of dawn, wearing micro mini, chote chote mini skirts with tank tops, as if showing skin is a sign of emancipation from old oppressive customs; these creatures were allergic to anything that screamed desi, like vampires to sunlight.

Imported goods, imported bathroom fittings, imported brains?
It’s not that I refuse to answer Frank. Believe me, I want to. But my mouth just refuses to speak, my eyes just sank deep into their crevices, my tongue just hangs there like a limp rag; I feel my brain is losing control, like a general who loses his soldiers due to some internal mutiny. The general, my brain has lost power, its reign is over and each of the organs has taken control. But this time, they are not working in harmonious synchronization, they have developed individuality. Screw individuality! Each behaved in the way it wanted to. All they seem to want is to not respond. So there you go, there was no response to Frank’s entreaties. Was this real??? Frank’s face, his tears, Rustam’s face, his stern look- it feels like cardboard scenery, in fact I have the taste of saw dust in my mouth.

I want to thank Frank for caring after my boy Muffin; in a sense he is the be all and end all of my existence when it comes to matters of the heart, and the only male in my life for so long. Thousands of years ago, the Egyptians worshipped the cat in the form of Bastet, killing a cat was punished by death and if a cat died, it’s family would shave off their eyebrows; well, seems like cats have not forgotten that and my Muffin certainly deserves worship.
Anyway Rustam is watching!
Little does he know that a woman is looking to meet me, her name SAPNA VERMA, the wife of the man I had brutally stabbed to death. He had multiple lacerations, a punctured abdomen and his testicles were chopped off. Such gruesome acts were only seen on telly in serials, where you get to see how evidence is collected which ultimately points to the guilty, no matter how much camouflaged the identity of the killer is. My DNA was everywhere in the crime scene, the CSI guys would not break a sweat in proving that it was I who did it.
Anyway Sapna has walked up the Police Officer who’s called Rustam. I have to meet her, she said. Rustam’s apprehensive, but then he sees Frank exit my cell. Sapna follows his glance and instantly approaches Frank demanding to see me, this bloody witch who she would have gladly burnt at the stake.
She enters my cell. Her eyes confront the pale corpse in front, my practically lifeless body. I must say, a shocked expression registers on her face as she looks at me from head to toe. What is this phantasmal entity, she must be thinking. How did this weakling kill my husband? Little did she know that when your mind is set, you can achieve anything- nothing is out of reach? I could have killed him over and over again, a hundred, fuck it, a billion times if I had to. It was like the most important exam I had to take, an exam which would ensure my demotion in the karmic law.

Lines from my poem are swimming in my consciousness; as a writer, one has the ability to randomly switch off and travel to other realms. Yes, it’s officially true, we have super powers.
Dadu would not approve. He was the type of man who would not take a shot at the enemy even if his range was clear and the bullet would definitely find its mark. He was an obsolete man in this world, an outdated DOS operating system. He was more interested in questions like who am I? Where did I come from? He preferred to ponder on such things. Self enquiry, he called it. Dadu I was screaming, who am I? The answer rang loud and clear- a killer. I had killed a man.
Sapna is pale-faced looking at me. “Are you her friend?” She asks Frank hesitantly. Frank nods. I’m not looking at them, but I know exactly what’s happening. At that precise moment I’m observing a spider spin its web. Is it spinning the web to catch a prey? All webs are not spun only for nutritious titbits; some webs are spun as hobbies, as works of art. To create something without any utilitarian purpose, but to create just for the sake of creation! What’s the point of that?? Some common-sense lover would say. Nothing honestly. Right? Wait, I think I see a tiny movement in the web. Is there an insect? Or is it the wind? Or is it my fucking imagination.

Ah! Imagination! It’s what always got me in trouble at school.
I was reprimanded for having too much imagination! My skin crawls to think of the parent’s-teacher’s meetings that Dadu had been subjected to over the years. Sheer torture for both of us and of course for the teachers!

They were just trying to help me through life and look what happened! I went ahead and killed a man. How horrified they would be. I imagine my Algebra teacher, Miss. Kalpana, a hard martinet in her late 50’s on the witness box, telling the judge how she knew I will be in trouble some day. It’s her fault, it’s her imagination.
Imagination is the culprit.

Lines from my poems kept ringing in my ears. STOP!

Back from these lines assaulting my consciousness, poetry is truly my life breath. Only if reality could be poetry, then I might have had a chance to do it differently.
Anyway, by now the shock has transformed into anger. It’s quite amazing to note how humans can translate any emotion into a show of anger. I think it’s a shield they hide behind- ANGER! Anytime you are unsure of how to express yourself, just display anger. It’s safe and effective! You can block off the more painful introspective thought processes.
So Sapna Verma takes the easy way out, she opts for anger. She musters all her strength and strides up to me. After a stare at my impassive, immobile face for a few minutes, she can control herself no longer. The oppressive silence envelopes the room like a thick cloak as all wait with bated breath. Then a slap almost knocks me off balance, but somehow my body refuses to be floored. I have no clue how and why. I just sit there. The sound of the slap is unnerving to Frank and Rustam behind the supposed glass, watching everything. But I feel nothing. Then funnily enough I hear the chorus, “I feel numb,” yes U2, and I understood what numb means.
You go through life, learning new words, understanding their meanings, but actually you understand nothing. The words are nothing but words unless you have the pertinent experience stored away in the depths of your being, which leave permanent imprints on your brain and yes, then you understand the word. Not till then.

Rape, murder, death- all these are words which are very much a part of our regular vocabulary. But how far do we understand them? We honestly don’t. Ask the young college student what rape means; presuming she has never been violated, she will have only a vague understanding of the term, maybe from movies or books.

Mine was from Monika Belluci’s incredible performance in Irreversible. But ask a rape victim what that word means and you will be shocked at the difference of understanding. The same word, but completely different levels of comprehension! Experience is what makes us learn new words, not just simply by glancing at a Thesaurus, but by learning through life. I understand the words Death, rape and murder, they have closely associated themselves with me, like the hanger-on friend you simply want to avoid.
Sapna is breaking down, her anger dissipating as quickly as it had arrived. She comes really close to me; I can smell her Chanel 5 perfume and minty breath. “Why did you kill him?” She asks. Very predictable question! You already knew that was coming right? But get this; she then murmurs something totally unexpected. After a moment’s hesitation, she whispers, “I’m sorry…I know what happened…with your sister…” now this should have definitely instigated some reaction from me, she thinks. It did, in the subconscious. But consciously I’m fucked up, incapable of any expression. I sat like a chopped up tree log, destroyed and cut down. If you apply the crescograph on a chopped up log, it’ll be interesting to see what level of consciousness remains.
I felt like writing but my physical body was pretty much worthless.

Poetry will not erase this woman’s troubles and nor will it answer her questions. Will it? Is poetry even useful? Or is it as worthless as me?

Sapna is troubled about an image that plagued her mind. Her thoughts travel to a certain day when she had looked through a crack on the door panelling. She’d seen her husband on the floor, howling with immense pain. A newspaper lay crumpled by his side, which displayed a beautiful girl. But creases had formed on her face as the newspaper sat wrinkled, but the smile was infectious.

It’s bewildering for her to see the physical similarly between the haggard girl in front and the face in the newspaper, but there was a slight difference. Not to mention that the girl in the newspaper was smiling, brimming with life and this girl in front was as lifeless as a cadaver. Still that was not it. There’s something else and I might have been able to help her, if not for the mutiny of my organs. Ridiculous!
I think the stark imagery of her husband’s painful explosion that night is a bit too much for Sapna to handle. Her head begins to swim and she’s about to collapse. But Frank provides support, the rock solid man that he is. Sapna is thankful for this support and the warmth his huge frame provides that she just holds onto him, his aftershave wafting in the air, tinkling her nose. For a moment she forgets where she is, holding onto him seemed the most natural thing. And then the tears came, they breake the floodgates and storm in like huge tsunamis. Sapna’s outcry sounds like a hurt animal and then she says these words. “But why kill him??? You can’t take what you can’t give…only God can take a life…”
Naive humanity! Who is this anthropomorphized God? What kind of a God will intervene- he will create and then destroy! This idea never agreed with me, in fact it nauseated me, every time people spoke about God like “He” was their personal problem solver. Of course I indulged in that odd prayer or two before my results; they were like placebo. And remember God has to always be referred to as HE!
Dadu used to say that Bengalis are a matri-bhakta culture; to them the mother figure is as important as the father, if not more. God to me could not be a He or a She. This was crystal clear in my mind even as a child. I gave it a lot of thought, but nothing made sense.

Gradually I began to avoid the word God. God in the sense society spoke of the idea. Man cheapened this transcendental concept. It is beyond human understanding. With our dwarfed intellects we can never grasp this idea; it’s a waste to try. “Nothing in life is a waste,” another one of Dadu’s lines! Dadu, Dadu where are you? How come our times together ended? You would say, “Nothing ever ends and similarly nothing begins, it’s just your perception which keeps you chained to such ideas of beginnings and ends. You are eternity in yourself…”. I would do anything to lie in Dadu’s lap or cuddle Muffin.

I hear Dadu’s voice- it’s crystal clear, his smell wafts in my consciousness- Asatoma sadgamaya, tamo soma yotir gamaya, mrityrma amritam gamaya!!

These words they play with my consciousness, Dadu enunciates them so well, so crisp, and so effortless, it sounds divine. He said that Sanskrit was the language of the Gods and there was never a doubt in my mind when he spoke it. He made the language godly.

He spent much time explaining this shloka to me- from Unreal take me to the Real, from darkness take me to light, from death take me to immortality!

Everything about this situation my friend is unreal. No you do not understand, a murder, by my hands? It is unreal. I respect life; harming even a fly hurts me. It’s no charlatanism! I do not care if you don’t believe me, it’s not important, not trying to get you to come to my side, I’m just telling you of how things are, no embellishments, no B.S.

It was basenter dupur bela, a spring afternoon; we sat near Dadu, in our living room. It was a Sunday, a lazy Sunday. Dadu had a ritual with us; he’d read to us, from the Vedas, from the Tantra texts, the Upanishads and the Bhagavadgita and explained certain parts. Zeenia was less open to this idea as she grew older; she preferred to be on her phone or laptop.

Dadu did not scold her, forcing his opinions on people was not what he sought to do when he read to us from these ancient texts; he wanted us to be connected to our roots, discover what our ancestors had left behind.

I enjoyed his company immensely, his stories interested me on many levels and he brought out the different characters so vividly; this led me to form a fascination for the human psyche. Come to think of it, it shaped my future; I decided to take up psychology honours. My parents has both studied English in college; when I was a kid, I knew that I would probably end up studying it too, but eventually studying the human mind became an obsession.

Anyway, that afternoon it was the Bhagavadgita.

The lines ring loudly in my ears, but in it the concept of Arjuna having to kill all his relatives is what bothered me. But dadu, how can Arjuna kill all these people? Especially Bhishm, his gurudeva, and all his cousins? The thing that plays in my mind today is a question little Nina asked him, Dadu but how can anyone kill?

This question, it’s mocking me, this question’s alluring me, and it begins to take many forms, grotesque, grave, gruesome, until it begins to drive me crazy. All this angst in my mind, but if you look at me from afar, I’m carved in stone, an effigy created to be burned.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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For Mothers and Grandmothers and all our Ancestors~~How Astrology connected me back to you~~

Nothing in life ever made sense, everything was too arbitrary, too random, too chaotic. There was a larger pattern somewhere there, I knew it, I sensed it. But how could I find that design? I knew somethings were connected and sometimes events and scenarios repeated themselves. Why? I’d ask myself. What on Earth was the connection?

But the connection was not just on Earth you see! The connection is quantum, the connection is everything. Looking up at the sky, I knew that there were stories there. There was a pattern up there I realised, but did that pattern somehow relate to the one below.

Then I discovered astrology. I think I was sixteen and it changed the way I looked at life. The planets above spiralled through the highways in space and entered different signs. Sometimes they appeared to go retrograde. No they are not moving backwards, they just appear thus to us.

The situations and scenarios that led me here have to do with the veil lifting slowly. Yes the pattern exists. I was ecstatic. Kinda EUREKA moment there! AS ABOVE SO BELOW. The natal chart became a fascination for me- mine, my mom and dad’s, my baby brother’s. I became obsessed reading all kinds of astrology books.

II used to go to the National Library, which is the largest library in Asia to study up on the occult. Astrology was a favourite. Things started to fall into place and in fact this perusal of this ancient subject got me more and more interested in spirituality.

By then Blavatsky had happened to me. Bailey opened my mind to ESOTERIC ASTROLOGY and till today I have not stopped learning from them. HPB has made herself known to me through many meditations, channellings and writings which I will share with you as and when she asks me to.

Her first instructions came when I was asked to open this group on FB around nine years ago I think.

https://www.facebook.com/groups/hpblavatsky/

Again I divert. Back to how astrology not only made me connect to the COSMOS in an abstract way, it also directly connected me to my ANCESTORS. Developing my psychic gifts have opened up so many portals, so many narratives and meta-narratives, so many visions and illusions, so many worlds and Universes. Every human being is gifted with this psychic capability and BECOMING AWARE and BE-NESS(state of just being) are steps to come closer to these powers. They will manifest in everyone in due time.

My mom left today. She was with me for the past month and a half and today she is gone.  sit on my WC and howl my lungs out. The cry is primal, it is raw and it is NORMAL(especially under a Pisces Moon, ah, it is also the last Moon to conjunct Chiron, in Pisces as well). Crying and letting go of emotions is very healthy. Do not stop anyone from crying, let them CRY for fuck’s sake, there is too much Pisces going on here. ha! Their tears are cosmic healers. The tears will not only cool your breasts as they fall on your chest, they are the balm the Universe is sending you. Let them come, let the floodgates break. This primal feeling took me back to the Scorpio full moon we just went through. Boy! Was that heavy!!!

The Gemini season is lighter, less intense, but it is intense when the Moon in Pisces squares Saturn in Saggy.

But still I cry…I cry for all the time lost, the useless harsh words uttered by me in moments of rebellion(very strong Uranian energy), the intense events that I afflicted on her(Moon in the 7th can do that for you, especially if it happens to be your SEVENTH HOUSE).

I cried for my lost childhood and I cried for my daughter. Her granny is her whole world you see. I cried for all the lost hugs and kisses, all the sweet stories and tea-parties, all the lullabies and playing dressing up.

I cry for the LOSS OF INNOCENCE, I cry for IMPERMANENCE! Because as a mortal, nothing scares me more that these shifts. I know not that everything is a vibration, pure mathematics. I only know of emotions and raw feelings- of pain, loss, suffering(Pluto aspects in the natal chart do this) and of course of love and bliss. But every feeling, every sensation is TEMPORARY.

No matter how strongly I try to hold on to it, they just disappear, like evanescent bubbles, each bubble a Universe unto itself. So many Universes coming into being and then dissipating while new ones appear.

Dear Ma,

As you are well aware, I have been doing these special RELEASE and FORGIVE meditations since February. It is done to FORGIVE ones parents. We have to forgive our parents for every thing we may blame them for consciously or unconsciously. You know that as we have spoken in-depth about this.

You know how everyday I have created this sacred spot for you where you and baba have visited. I have surrendered all my anger and resentment maa, you know that. With each meditation, I have released you from any known or unknown karmic ties of suffering that I might have unleashed on you. In turn all I ask is your forgiveness. I know you have always, already forgiven me. The Dasein has anticipated your forgiveness ahead of time.

This meditation that I created to forgive you made me overcome so many psychological repressed issues that I finally let go. I wrote about it, I meditated on it and cut the toxic chords forever. I have grown maa, ready to take flight on my wings and be the butterfly you wanted me to be.

This overwhelming crushing sense of loss at you leaving has left me so vulnerable, that today I understand that the meditation has opened up this block and today I experience FORGIVENESS as I have never done before. The intensity was rapturous. A rush of endorphin, Release of serotonin. Oxytocin.

Maa today I cry as I know that our story must end one day and that breaks my heart. I know we have had a complicated herstory. I know ma. Lilith in Cancer can do that you know. See this placement of Lilith means that the mother will sooner or later, through her action, words or deeds hurt the person!

Yes maa I was hurt and I hurt you. I took your protective love to be oppressive when I should have looked at the scenarios with less selfishness and more compassion. Today I know what it means to be a mom as I cuddle my daughter in my arms, as I smell her hair, as I listen to her sing to me or when she kisses me. I know how mothers feel. I know how you felt.

Maa you have a sensitive artist’s soul and no one can hold a candle to your illumination. Your heart always so full of live and wonder! You are a gift! To me from the Universe. Maa you have been my first Guru, my first spiritual guide.

From teaching me Shiv Puja to Adyastotram, from taking me to yoga classes since I was ten, to making sure I meditate daily during my school and college life. Maa today I see how important you have been in my spiritual journey. You are irreplaceable in every way.

You know maa, as a child I had this inexplicable fear of losing you. It was my worst fear and you know what as I explore this spiritual vibe, I can tell you that although I know how interconnected life and death are, it still makes my heart skip a beat when I think that one day you might not be there.

As the North Node has entered Leo, everyday I am becoming more of me and today I forgive you for every bloody thing. And maa, today I am sending spirals of love vibration to all the women I have shared my mitochondrial DNA with. I love you all.

Thank you ~~tintin

Dear Gita,

I want you to know that you are a part of my soul tribe and you are truly a remarkable woman. You lost two children and still continued to spread your love and light to the world. Your contribution will never be forgotten while me and my daughter are alive.

Your stories will live on through the mouths of my descendants I promise you that for you may have ended just this life, not the IN-finite fractals of narratives and meta narratives we have created through incarnations.

I met you in one of my most intense regression sessions last week. You are a part of my 144! Gita, I release you from all stigma, shame and guilt that society may have thrust upon you. I also release you from every karmic pain and attachment I might have inflicted on you knowingly or unknowingly.

I ask for your forgiveness and readily forgive anything and everything for LOVE is all I feel. You see nothing matters except the huge samsaric seas of consciousness where we have forayed together since infinity.

Gita I love you and always will.

Thanking you deeply~~ tina

Dear Namita,

You left leaving me hollow from inside. Your stories, your songs, your spiritual side, left a profound impact on me. There is so much to say today and I wish you could see the work I am doing. I know you knew where I was headed.

Your fascination for books and literature amazes me today. What depth of knowledge you had about Bengali literature and culture. What insights and you never shied away from providing me with guidance.

The paternal grandfather is the 10th from the 10th = 7th house and the Moon sits in my seventh house. The Moon(SUBJECTIVE MIND) has to do with INTUITION and you have helped me immensely to develop that gift.

You have meditated with me as a child. You have shown me the details of havan and puja. Namita I know you have suffered, but each time you have opened your heart and let the light shine through the crack and you have taught me the same.

I have learnt to open my heart from you. I pay homage to you and your mother Namita and all the great women who created you and me in turn. I send you spirals of love energy.

Thank You~~tintin

I bow down to all the mothers and grandmothers of my lineage going back to 14 generations and beyond. I salute you and your femininity.

I bow down to all the mothers and grandmothers out there, through all of space and time.

I bow down to the original FEMALE who is all our ancestor.

I bow down to the MOTHER MATRIX or DEVI energy.

I bow down to you in reverence as I am a vibration of you, as you are of me. We are FRACTALS of that ONE CONSCIOUSNESS swimming through SPACE. We are the Universe watching itself.

Blessed by the Sun in Gemini, this is my offering….I don’t know why but I compelled to urge you to CONNECT with your MOTHERS and GRANDMOTHERS~~Please call them…please…astro

The Plan~~A Novel by Tinaheals

 

Help me Publish!!! Email ~ tina@tinaheals.com

http://www.tinaheals.com

Rajani and the twins moved from their gigantic ancestral home to a modest apartment,

He continued working, but had lost interest. Only two clients remained with him, the rest hired his son who now also usurped his office. So with a very modest salary he began to educate and care for his granddaughters. He became father and mother, friend and teacher; he became their anchor in the stormy sea of life.

It would be time for weekly nail cutting, ear cleaning, hair oiling sessions; amidst squeals and protests, he would pacify them singing, shohe na, shohe na, kande poranooo with dramatic eye movements and wild gestures, especially when they tried to tell him to stop, that had them rolling on the floor laughing.

Slowly but surely, the trio began to put the past behind them and move on. The girls taught him to laugh again, to live again; life had given him a second chance to bring up his two girls again, he just wished Sita could experience this life with him.
He took them to Benaras, BodhGaya, Hrishikesh and Haridwar; they went to so many places in their country, even remote ones where tourists don’t usually set foot.
They’d be lost in the world of Hanuman as he destroyed Lanka, they’d be crying as Ravana abducted Sita, they’d be deeply moved when Karna would be going to battle against Arjuna knowing he’d lose, they’d be fuming with anger when Duryodhana insulted Panchali and time would fly as dadu would read to them the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, the Bhagvadgita and other sacred texts. The way he could tell the story, the simplicity, yet, the profundity in them, deeply touched the girls. Even while imparting knowledge from the Upanishads, he tried to make it as palatable as possible for the children, tell me how do you explain Tat Tvam Asi to seven year olds, yet not only did he try, it’d be fair to say, he succeeded too.

He could see his daughter Mita in the girls, different attributes of her visible in each girl.

He loved Nina’s poetry, she had rawness to her emotions, something primordial to the way she described reality even in that young age; surely poetry was to be her meditation and so it was.

The chotto ektakar shingara and the radhaballi,

Breathing furiously.

Inhabiting my Sundays, my frenemies.

She’d written this haiku, barely aged seven and it made him laugh. She’d captured something of Kolkata in those lines; she’d grabbed a slice of their times together as they strolled down Sarat Bose Road on sultry lazy Sundays.

It’s absolutely true that nowhere except Kolkata do you get that tiny shingara or samosa for one rupee, it has peas in it and the Bongs cannot have enough of it. And what of the Radhabollobi? Try it, you’ll see. You may get acidity, but it’ll be worth it, vouches every Bengali.

Rajani loved these girls like he had loved their mother, but being a very enlightened soul he treated them all alike, even Arunava, but at times he was left wondering as to where he went wrong with that one. But Mita was his pet; he had a special soft corner in his heart for his eldest.

None had his spiritual depth except Mita and this bonded them immensely, every time he saw her, his heart wanted to embrace her. Khuku, he called her, his little girl and she was so much like him.

“Aye khuku aye…” he would play this song in the gramophone and Hemanta’s voice would flood the house.

She had his striking peaches and cream skin and almond shaped eyes like the goddess Durga, with abundant tresses swimming down to her knees and an hour-glass body which was as ageless as Time itself and looked like some Kumartuli’s sculptor was sculpting Maa Durga from clay. Shakkhat Maa Durga, people would comment.

Yes, she was breathtaking! Her intellect was sharp; she was thoughtful, critically questioning and deeply analytical. Many an afternoon was spent in discussing literature, philosophy, poetry and the scriptures of all religions. Her father enjoyed immensely the display of perspicacity while she explained some particular issue, idea or philosophy, her face shining red with passion and emotion. What radiance! Then she fell in love with Shubho at Scottish Church English honours class.
It was an exam. John Osborne’s play, “Look Back in Anger”, was the monster in question and 100 marks were at stake. Mita had not studied this play and her paper sat blank. She spotted Shubho in front scribbling away with immense concentration. She poked him a few times. He looked back and couldn’t take his eyes off her. In a state of suspended bliss, he handed her the paper. She took it with a squeal of laughter which thrilled him to the bone, and began to rewrite it in her words.
Now let’s fast forward, SHUBHO and MITA are married in Kartik purnima, the full moon beckoned a life of abundance and plenitude for them.

As Mita adorns Shubho’s neck with the baramala and the shubhodristi happens where they gaze into each other’s eyes, it’s like a dejavu. The breeze outside caresses his hair while he stands there looking at her, she’s carried on a piri by her brothers, uncles and cousins and her eyes are between two paan leaves and in that moment they both knew that no matter what life would bring it would be worth nothing without the other.

Mita gets pregnant which turns out to be pretty complicated with twins sharing the same amniotic sac and placenta, throughout the seven and a half months, she’s under strict supervision and spends much of her time reading, writing and talking to her daughters. During the course of her seven month pregnancy she almost dies twice and the lives of the twins are threatened, but she manages to trick fate into submission.

These girls, they had to see the sky wearing the bright blue cloak of a spring day, they had to experience the rain on their faces, caressing sometimes or slapping away, soft some days and as pokey as thorns on others. They had to see the cheetah run, they had to eat tangra macher jhol, oh, life in its complexity and multitudes had to be experienced by them, she thought.
Karma my dear friends had other plans. Mita and Shubho die tragically young, leaving behind only Rajani to take care of the twins. Their disappearance happened in Kedarnath temple during an annual pilgrimage they always undertook.
Rajani had to don the parent costume once again, this time for Nina and Zeenia and he was determined to play the role to perfection this time. As perfect as it could be! So now to get back to the story. Dadu is what Nina calls Rajani, the Bengali appellation for grandfather.
As she sits in front of this dead body, she thinks of her dadu. He would know what to do; he always knew what to do. Such were Nina’s thoughts. Delusion arises from anger, Dadu told her one day as she was furious with Joida, the Oriya driver who had not given her a minute to stand and chat with her friends after her Rabindra-sangeet class at Dakshini, to top it off he had the gall to speak rudely in front of them.

The dominoes fell,

The words like torrents

It was inevitable.

She’d written this haiku she remembered for the occasion.

Joida loved her as his own daughter and that was the excuse for the harsh treatment. She had almost wanted to slap Joida. But Dadu intervened. “Little one your mind is bewildered by delusion. You think that Joi is being pushy, but actually he is just trying to protect you. See, you lost your reasoning as your mind was bewildered…and one falls down, when reasoning is destroyed.” Dadu fell on the floor dramatically.
That made Nina smile even in her malaise as she sat in limbo, with dried blood on her hands. She deliberated with the thought of saying, “Out, damned spot,” but then decided against it. The dead body just lay there. Her hallucinations where he wakes up as some terrible ZOMBIE in a B-Grade film and chews her down bone by bone is funny, she observes. I can have funny thoughts, even in this scenario.
Then she notices that there were many parts of her, or no, there are many Nina’s inside of her, ambiguous and confused, each thinking that random thought while observing the others and then she notices that there is a Nina who’s also observing, but she has no thought as the others did, no opinion. She just watches. Not for the first time Nina could distinctly hear the separate voices- how diverge, how contradictory, how ironic were they, but this time there was a force to them that was lacking in the past. She tries to swallow, but her tongue sticks to her insides, parched and dry, it desperately needs some water.
The young housekeeping attendant is right outside Nina’s room and would have turned away, but a trickle of blood manages to seep outside. The attendant examines it carefully, and then thinks of what to do. Should he go and inform his supervisor? No he decides against it and taking a master key from his supply trolley, he puts it in the key hole and turns it.

The scene which greets his eyes chills him to the bone and a blood curdling scream escapes his lips shattering the quiet of the early morn. He looks ridiculous, scared out of his wits, barely coherent in his thoughts, he looked like a two year old who had seen a ghost in a Paranormal series on telly.
It’s Nina who surprises me. She didn’t even bat an eyelid at the shrill shriek. She just sits there, stares at her abyss. What did she see?? The abyss staring back??

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Image is not mine. Not my copyright.