This is in continuation from the post: Seeking A Wise Wild Woman.
This is part of a fiction series that is unfolding. All episodes in order so far:
1. Shimmering Blue Water
2. The Grasslands Bristled
3. Like The Sky Itself
4. Something Stirred Inside Her
5. Seeking A Wise Wild Woman
As the morning opened into its full light, she saw a mud hut with colourful paintings on its walls. A short wooden pole had a wooden board nailed to it, which said in rough carving – “Wise Wild Woman”.
A gentle voice was singing inside to the strumming of a string instrument. She bent down to enter through the low door, pulled more by curiosity than anything else. Sitting at a low wooden table, a young girl, seeming sixteen years or so, was singing to her heart’s content, strumming on an Ektaaraa. Somewhat paler than the people of this region, she wore shorts and a loose cotton top with short sleeves. Her short hair was tied up into a bobbing pony-tail.
Seeing someone enter, the girl stopped singing, and gently said, “Come.”
She entered and joined the girl at the table, surprise written all over her face, her eyes locked in staring at the girl.
“It is good that you came,” said the girl.
The kindness in the voice assured her a bit, but she still continued looking at the girl, feeling confused.
“You were looking for me isn’t it?” asked the girl.
“Yes…” she said vaguely.
“So here I am,” said the girl, “Looks like my clothes are tripping you up. Are you interested in me, or are you interested in my clothes?”
“But… I expected you to be much older. Even wrinkled with years of experience,” she said.
“Oh ok, age. Same difference, my friend. Are you interested in me, or are you interested in my clothes?” said the girl. The kind eyes now danced with a naughty playfulness, and she added, “And if it makes it any easier for you, I am a million trillion zillion years old — just as any good Wise Wild Woman should be. Just as you are.”
She broke into laughter. The playfulness, more than the import of those words put her at ease.
“So, what is your name?” asked the Wise Wild Woman.
“Aah… white, pure, resplendent… the confluence of all colours of light,” said the Wild Woman wistfully, and broke into song, “shubhr jyotsnaa pulkit yaaminee…”
She seemed lost in another world, as if connecting to a force.
Coming back a few seconds later, she added, “Shubhr jyotsnaa refers to moonlight. Pulkit yaaminee, the happy night. The full moon, the One Mind, that soaks the sleeping world in caressing light.”
“Sometimes I feel that way — resplendent, gentle and caressing, like the full moon. Sometimes I don’t know where it all vanishes. Everything feels like the dense dark night. There is no moon and I cannot find myself. I am unable to recognize myself. I know I am there somewhere — for I did experience myself,” said Shubhra, her voice tightening up into emotion and desperation.
“Is that what brings you here?” asked the Wise Woman.
“I think I am pregnant. I want to retain you as my midwife,” said Shubhra.
“But you don’t look pregnant,” said the Wild Woman quizzically, her gaze moving to Shubhra’s tummy, and then searching her face.
“Are you interested in me, or are you interested in my clothes?” said Shubhra naughtily.
“Aah… You learn fast! I like that. So what do you think you are pregnant with? A project?”
“Myself? Maybe?” said Shubhra, her eyes seeking support and assurance.
“That is a nice proposition. That, my friend, is called the process of Self actualization — quite an exhilarating and terrifying process, and yes, indeed like a pregnancy. There is a crucial stage in this process, kind-of like the breaking of the water…”
“What is that?” asked Shubhra.
“Kill mother. Kill father,” said the Wise Wild Woman.
Seeing the hint of startle in Shubhra’s eyes, she added, “Mother, is representative of all those things in which we place our sense of security. They can stifle our creativity. Father, is the rules of society. We slay these when we have practiced them long enough and can see that they have outlived their purpose — when we must step-out of the boundaries they set.”
Shubhra thanked the girl and left. All the while, as she was retracing the miles to get back home, the girl’s words percolated in her, “Kill mother, kill father… things in which we place our sense of security… self-expression… rules of society… outlived their purpose…”