Mars in Cancer~ Female-led relationships

If you look at FLR it looks like the safest relationship a woman can have. She makes the rules, she sets the boundaries, she has final say and he both loves her and supports her in her role. In any other relationship, women do not enjoy that kind of freedom or safety. This is a functional model for any woman who wants more control and less strife. There should be zero downside to female led relationships when entered into with open eyes and a whole heart between two people who love each other.” — A BBS entry from Asserting leadership

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=female-led%20relationship

With Mars in Cancer, Venus in Taurus, so many planets in the water signs, the energy is very feminine and that makes the ALPHA MALE archetype redundant. Boys, step aside and let the women take the lead. Do not feed into the male are superior bullshit, because they are not.

A female-led relationship, also known as wife-led marriage or loving female authority by its advocates, is where the woman is the married head of the household and makes all the decisions. It is not a thing of whips and chains and leather (though sometimes it does become that!) – it is just a different power arrangement.

Once made equal to man, woman becomes his superior.

—Socrates

It’s  inevitable!

Your man’s inner-voice speaks to him about his ultimate desire to support, protect and please his Goddess. He wants you to BE-come that Goddess! There is nothing like sweet, sweet surrender. Society used to be a matriarchy and a woman could freely choose who she wanted to copulate with. Marriage as we know it and even monogamy did not exist.

Sexual union was spiritual and liberal. There was no slut shaming or name calling. No rumours, no lies. Just pure sacredness of the Union between man and woman.

FEMDOM, the most type of Female led relationships is where a man becomes in a slave to serve his Goddess. He is her toy. This definitely has a tantric oeuvre. In Tantra, the Goddess or Shakti is revered and worshipped. Femdom is sorta like that. Does that excite you as much as it excites me?

Level 3 Female-led relationship

The couple is likely to develop a servant/master type relationship with the woman in charge. The woman takes much greater control of the man, telling him where he can go and when he can go there, who he can talk to, what he can wear, what he can eat, what he can say and when he can speak. She will take control of his money and decide where they are going as a couple. The man forfeits say in just about everything and in most relationships at this level, that’s exactly the way he wants it.

A lot of men are now taking this seriously…and surrendering to the yoni/vagina~

Do you want to?

Women who seek to be equal with men lack ambition.

—Timothy Leary

The next level mostly moves to fetish and BDSM and now she wants pets and slaves.

Do you know some of the most powerful men in the world are subs and slaves. Not being in control in bed is such a huge turn on for these men. Having his woman play such games with him will drive your man nuts. Believe me.

If your man likes to dress up in your clothes. Dress him up for fuck’s sake, or else he will do it with someone else. Most men fantasise about being dominated by a gorgeous diva. They love it.

Punish him if he has been a bad boy. In fact, female led relationships have been known to make men feel more secure and safe.

A short musing~~

No one had ever squeezed his dick so hard.

And called it a clit.

Humiliated him.

Made him crawl on all fours.

No one had done all those things.

All he wanted to do, was wear her panties.

He was afraid to look in her eyes.

His phone rings again and his heart skips a beat.

She is his top and he, her bottom.

 

She uses and abuses him, she plays with him.

And she never kisses him.

Just that once.

She kissed him, just that once.

His cock hurts and his balls are blue.

But she has now thrown the keys away.

Sometimes taking control in the bedroom becomes very therapeutic for your man. Remember, he is as much a victim of toxic patriarchy as you are. Give him the chance to reveal his most tender side. Try it and become the dominant.

Chastity devise~

Forced chastity is the best part of all this. When your man is full of pent up sexual energy and dependent upon you for its release he is truly at his best. Part of it is chemical/hormonal. Part of it is psychological. Built up sexual energy is exactly that, energy! A normally lazy man who has not had an orgasm in a long time is full of energy. He wants to do things. He needs some way to either express or sublimate that sexual energy. All you have to do is tell him the things he needs to do. He’ll do them!

Let him be all fluffy and express himself. Let his BE HIMSELF. Let his drop all the masks he wears. Please discuss it with him.

Embrace him with all your heart.

Introduce him to anal play if you haven’t already. A man can only have a full bodied orgasm, if his Gspot is activated and that is up the anus. You have to finger his through the backdoor. lol! So to speak. Unsure? Email me.

Playing the Top in bed can be challenging for you if you are a sub. Then by all means ignore this. But if you are like me, then read on.

Showing your man that you are the very embodiment of Black Moon Lilith will initiate a new relationship dynamics between you both. Remember that. I for one have been studying the art of Japanese bondage or Shibari for the last five years. Love it! BTW I am not the one tied up, I do the tying up! Lol!

Men like to be mothered. Haha! Don’t be sick, read on.

Men like women to be in control, whether they are ready to face it or not.

Take control tonight as Mars is still in Cancer. He will be sensitive and open. More connected to his feminine side. Overpower him, but do it convincingly.

Open up to him and tell him your fantasies. Hear his out too. Speaking honestly is the best way you can preserve your relationship.

Email me for more on this and how FLRs can help you harness the energy of the Goddess.

http://www.tinaheals.com

tina@tinaheals.com

Men’s minds are raised to the level of the women with whom they associate.

—Alexandre Dumas Pere

 

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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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Bagalamukhi Invocation and Prayer

“The symbol of Goddess gives us permission. She teaches us to embrace the holiness of every natural, ordinary, sensual dying moment. Patriarchy may try to negate body and flee earth with its constant heartbeat of death, but Goddess forces us back to embrace them, to take our human life in our arms and clasp it for the divine life it is – the nice, sanitary, harmonious moment as well as the painful, dark, splintered ones.

If such a consciousness truly is set loose in the world, nothing will be the same. It will free us to be in a sacred body, on a sacred planet, in sacred communion with all of it. It will infect the universe with holiness. We will discover the Divine deep within the earth and the cells of our bodies, and we will lover her there with all our hearts and all our souls and all our minds.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter

What powerful words! How true they ring to my ears.

I have always been a worshipper of the Dasamahavidya and have used these ten archetypes to meditate on and gain clarity and wisdom. Invoking the Devis have changed my life completely every time, with every prayer and every invocation. In fact my latest obsession is to create a tarot deck on the Mahavidyas, the great Tantric Goddesses.

Yes I speak to my Goddesses who come to me in different forms. They play with me, teach me, love me and are a HUGE part of my life. But then so is Mary Magdalene whom I meditate upon and invoke as well, like Ishtar, Diana, Freya and many more.

I have been lucky to have performed many Bagalamukhi homas, Mahakala and Chinnamasta homa as well with Dhumavati beej. Ok this is probably sounding gibberish to you. But please don’t flake off.

Hang on! There is much to be gained today when we invoke the Goddess archetype into our lives. And I introduce to you Maa Bagalamukhi who is one of my favourites. In fact I have been initiated into her sadhana for a few years now by one of the most eminent sadhaks alive today.

I am going to simplify her Sanskrit long prayer, give you her beeja and explain her worship. But I have adapted her worship and it might seem totally different from Bagala sadhana practised conventionally.

Some of you may be aware that the occult Navaratri is taking place now. Nine when when ten aspects of the DIVINE MOTHER are venerated. These “aspects” are Kali, Tara, Shodoshi, Bhubaneshwari, Bharavi, Chinnamasta, Dhumavati, Bagala, Matangi and Kamala. Don’t worry about the names, you can google them up in your leisure, but just concentrate on Bagala for now.

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

That is the Wiki article. Peruse through it and get to know her.

You can sage your house and create your sacred space. You may use her image on your altar or you might use any golden stone like Pyrite. You can also use her Yantra which is the representation of this energy in a sacred geometry pattern.

After you have created your space and brought your psychic energy to full focus on whatever object you are using to invoke this energy. Start by invoking Ganapati by saying Om Vakratundaya Hum!

Then keep reciting Ling as many times as you like. Ling is her sacred beeja or seed sound. Ling! Keep saying it and notice how you feel. Close you eyes and say it. Say it loud and feel the vibrations inside your body. Whisper it and feel the resonance and also chant it silently. Try to feel the vibrations deep inside.

After a certain time, you will begin to vibrate with energy. The Goddess would have entered your consciousness through the symbol you are choosing to activate. Just remember to observe the feelings inside as you keep saying ling.

You may or may not use vermillion and til seeds, sandal wood powder and flowers to offer while you keep chanting ling. Once the ling is vibrating inside, then sit in silence. You can close your eyes and call the Goddess. You may have an internal dialogue with her.

After you have bathed in the Goddes energy, begin to sing hymns. You can do it as a recitation or just say it mentally.

Start by saying- Om Ling Bagalamukhing divyayi svaha!

That is her moola mantra as in her invocation phrase.

Om Hleem Bagalaamukhi Sarvadushtaanaam Vaacham Mukham Padam Stambhay Jihvaam Keelay keelay Buddhim nashaaya ling Om Swaha ।

Now say the following prayer…

Goddess Bagala I invoke you to protect me from all obstacles.

May all negative words about me stop, may all negative actions against me be stopped, May I never sway towards negative ways and may all negative attention on me cease.

May all negatives be reversed into positives.

May all my DIS-eases be ended.

May I serve the Earth and all her denizens with a selfless heart.

Chant ling again, as many times as you want.

Then sit in silence after lighting a yellow candle. Carve Ling in it if possible.

Sit and watch the candle burn. Feel the presence of the Goddess with you.

May she bless you and all of the Universe!

Email me if you have any questions…

tina@tinaheals.com

http://www.tinaheals.com

Bagalamukhi by Mattias Fahlberg

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