White magic
results from speaking your truth…but first you will be crucified…
As
a little girl growing up in the vibrant heart of south India, I overheard my
father warn a friend that a certain woman whom he referred to by name—a
stranger to me—was so clever she could even “draw blood out of a stone.”
My
father—a charismatic and handsome fellow gifted with a silver tongue—caught my
attention with his vivid language. How I burned to meet this sorceress who
could coax a crimson stream of blood out of ungiving stone! What other
supernatural gifts must she possess? I wondered dreamily.
Soon
after, the whole family attended a wedding in the community. In the crush of
adults milling about, I heard someone greet a formidable woman—dressed in a
resplendent peacock-blue silk sari bordered with gold—with the name my father
had used for the woman with the magical ability. Greatly excited, I ran up to
this wondrous creature on sturdy little legs and gazed up at her in awe. “Are you the woman my daddy says can
draw blood out of a stone?” I
demanded breathlessly.
The
witch glared down at me in utter shock, her painted mouth worked furiously,
though no words emerged. My mother rushed over and dragged me away, apologizing
profusely, her lovely face flushed with embarrassment. I was scolded, perhaps
given a sharp slap or two, I don’t recall. What I do remember were the rumbles
of delighted male laughter, and the eruptions of female giggles, when the now
highly embellished tale of how I had rendered the witch speechless was
recounted on breezy summer evenings.
Years
later I discovered that the ‘witch’ was actually a wealthy widow who had taken
to lending money out at loan-sharking rates of interest—and, a la Shylock, had
no qualms about extracting her pound of flesh! Out of the mouth of babes,
et cetera…
Most
of the events I recall today with a smorgasbord of mixed emotions were never
told to me straight. Children were to be seen, not heard; certainly we were
never included in serious talk. So I learned to crouch in the shadows,
eavesdropping and interpreting the whispers of adults, even as I fabricated
marvelous tapestries to explain our unusual way of life to my own highly
curious self.
Despite
my mother’s entreaties, and my father’s harsh punishments, this pattern of
compulsively shooting my mouth repeated itself all through my childhood and
adolescence. One evening, strolling back from a friend’s home in twilight with
my mother, she stunned me with this grim announcement: “You’re going to get
into terrible trouble if you keep spilling whatever rubbish jumps into your
head!”
A
teenager at the time, even more precocious than I had been as a child, it came
to me in a flash that it was my inherent nature to speak my mind—and that I
would be compelled to continue to do so all through my life, no matter the
consequences. I blurted out this bizarre insight to my mother and watched her
face grow sad.
Given
our traditional patriarchal Indian society with its double standards for men
and women, my mother must have feared the trouble her irrepressible daughter
would inevitably invite with the passage of time. Perhaps this was why she rarely
spoke her mind, unless it was to do with the large home she ran, assisted by
servants, the welfare of her children, her burgeoning garden brimming with
banks of delicate ivory and sun-yellow lilies and shaded with mango, papaya,
gooseberry, cherry and sapota trees, or her collection of cactii and exotically
hued orchids, which she had taken to displaying around the inner walls of our
spacious home.
As
a grown woman in Manhattan, in the aftermath of a dehumanizing divorce, I sat
defeated before my therapist and humbly admitted that my mother had been
right—had I kept my big mouth shut a little more often, perhaps I might have
diminished the string of crises I had suffered in the intervening decades.
Oozing self-pity, I added that it continued to baffle and frustrate me that so
few in the family agreed with my version of past events, or cared to support me
emotionally in my current depressing situation.
Amy,
a gracious and civilized being of immense kindness, smiled warmly. “Don’t you
worry, Mira,” she said. “Every sibling has a different set of parents. What you experienced is just as valid as
what the others say they did. Now you must forget how the rest of the world
thinks and focus solely on healing your self.”
She
was right—each member of our sprawling clan nursed their own special views. We
had each entered the world at different stages in our parents’ lives and our
natures were crafted by unique personal karmas. Our degrees of rebelliousness
ranged all the way from placid acceptance of the status quo (arranged
endogamous marriages, the usual gender hypocrisies) to extreme reactivity to
what was expected of us as “good” members of our community. Yes, I mused,
though all my siblings had shot into the world through the same parental
channel, our views and perceptions of distant events as well as of the trials
of the day were bound to be different.
Dr.
Brian Weiss—who broke out of the conventional therapist closet by daring to
publish an incredible tale of past lives that emerged during his treatment of a
severely disturbed young woman—once mentioned during a weekend workshop at
Omega in Rhinebeck, New York, that every little thing we sense and experience,
whether others agree with it or not, and whether from “imagination” or from
“real” waking life, is grist for the inner mill.
Today,
though my wildness has been tamed by the deliberate attempt to cultivate the
wisdom of the ancients—as well as by fatigue induced by tilting at an endless
succession of windmills—I am still compelled to speak my truth. The difference
is that now I clearly acknowledge that it is only “my” truth, a subjective and
shifting truth, and that everyone who looks at the same situation or event or
person is bound to see and experience it differently.
Age
has also graced me with a certain maturity; I no longer feel entitled to use my
tongue as a slashing sword—the sacred duty corresponding to the sacred right to
speak one’s truth must accord with the sage’s warning—that under no
circumstances must we inflict needless harm. And
yet there are occasions when tough love seems to be called for, though to
determine when requires discrimination—an art I am still in the process of
refining.
So
instead of letting fly with my big mouth, I write; and writing, I have learned,
never fails to bring me back to some level of sanity. I pour my heart out in a
torrent of words when tormented by doubt and confusion; in the aftermath, I
invariably find myself able to move forward with confidence. And when the urge
to express something huge and critical overwhelms me, I write a novel. Whip of the Wild God,
which I began in the winter of 1993 in Manhattan, and which took twenty years
to complete—is the direct result of a compulsion to express my personal
gratitude for the transforming power of eastern philosophy—in particular, the
richness of tantric philosophy—to a world that seems to have devalued this
ancient treasure. Two other novels are simmering right now on separate burners
in my mind, each connected to a burning issue that must find release in the
magical art of writing.
Today
I also accept that neither shooting my mouth nor writing alone will ever
completely satisfy me—my spirit craves more, for subtle inner truths transcend
the finite reach of even the best crafted language. What I do continue to have
faith in—and history continues to reveal this truth, time after glorious
time—is that it is the power of the written word that endures, long after the
ignorant knife has done its bloody work.
Guest Blogger Bio
I was born in India
and moved to New York in my mid-twenties. It was during my tumultuous residence
in Manhattan that I first became fascinated by eastern philosophy’s power to
transform the genuine seeker. So, during the freezing winter of 1993, I began to
write Whip of the Wild God, a novel of tantra set in an
ancient civilization reminiscent of India’s famous Indus Valley Civilization. I
completed this novel–believe it or not!–twenty years later, in the shadow of
Arunachala, the ancient hill considered by millions to be the God Shiva
incarnate.
Three more novels are
currently simmering in my
consciousness–Copper Moon Over Pataliputra,
set
in the time of the magnificent Mauryan Empire
(300 BCE, India);Krishna’s
Counsel, a
contemporary novel (the genre: metaphysical crime
fiction!),
set both in India and New York, and a
third, untitled, in which I intend to
present the
spiritual “view” necessary for seeking moksha, or
enlightenment–a
unique and perhaps controversial
view I have garnered from my travels and study
all
across the globe–from south India to Manhattan, to
the foothills of the
Himalayas, Europe, and finally
back to south India.
I now live in the deep
south of India, hanging out
with my divine canines, Kali and Aghori,delighting
in my growing garden, and continuing to mine my
own creative and spiritual
potential.
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